I would never say I believed in the paranormal or anything that was written in the book, but rumours of that place got me curious. Of course, curiosity was not why I went, I was hired. I needed the money for school, so why not? On a street light in my neighbourhood, a paper was asking if anyone could watch the house on 34th street. Now 34th street was nicknamed ‘Passing Way’, because of the stories people being left out there trying to find their way home after being attacked, and ending up as meal for the wolves and coyotes in the area. After that they haunt the only house on the street called ‘Inferno’. People have said they been attacked by wolves when they entered the house and that they see people they loved in looking through the windows of the house. Now most of these are from people not all there, drinkers, and people experimenting; if you catch my drift. It was a two floored farm house, wooden. The last person to live there was 1980’s, they were said to have died in the asylum downtown. Now you’re probably thinking why has no one gotten rid of it? No one wanted blood on their hands, or lose their own soul in the process. Oh, yes like I mentioned before, people believe if you die on the property, heaven won’t be able to calm your soul. Instantly the thought your thinking is why would it need to be watched, if it is abandoned? I don’t know, but as I said I need the cash. But even so, if I don’t believe in the rumors, does not mean I don’t believe in killers and kidnappers. I’m going to meet the person tomorrow to find out more. Don’t want to end up on the news  I’m sitting in Tim’s eating a chocolate dip donut, an old favorite. A 40 something year old guy walks in, cleaned up very nicely. Wearing a full suit, not common in this town. I never seen him around, which is odd. It is a small town. I pull out the poster and place it on the table, just to make it obvious I was the one he was looking for. It had to be him; it was 9:47 at night. An odd time to be walking into a Tim’s, unless you were on a night shift but still odd. He walked over, “Are you Archie?”. I’m the only one in here. “Yes, and you are?”. “Ken”. He pulled up the chair across from me, he was defiantly not from around here or at least doesn’t like to look like it. His hair gelled to be solid as a rock, after shave over a baby smooth face and a faded scar that ran down his cheek. “Sorry about being late, working over time tonight”. “No problem”, not going to argue, he’s paying me. “I don’t live around here, I have a cottage but that’s it. The problem is I own the house, but no one wants it”, I wonder why? “So, you want me to go over and clean the house?”. “No, I need someone to stay there so that everyone knows it’s not dangerous”, guess that makes sense. “Okay, when do you want this done?”, I do have to go back to school soon. “This weekend, I’ll pay for both days. 500 is what I was thinking”, not bad. “That would be great”, I give a grin. He reached out for a shake and being the person I am, I shake. His hands were rougher than I thought they would be. He walks out, leaving in his sports car. Saturday rolled around and I packed my bag. Nothing special; clothes, flashlight, snacks, books and a blanket. I borrowed my parent’s car that I don’t usually drive; I usually get a ride from Dale back to school. I pay for gas and he drives me back. To get to my house usually takes forever because he likes to stop at every gas station to go to the washroom. From my house, it takes about 30 minutes to get to inferno, it’s 8. After Sunrise. I pull out my phone and call Ken. “Hello”, Ken said nervous, like he was thinking it was someone else “Hello, it’s Archie”. “Oh hey...”. “I’m at the house”. “Good, the keys are in the flower pot next to the window”. “Okay thank you. I was-”. “Yeah, see you later”, he hung up first cutting me off. I stepped out of my car and took my bag. The front yard had dead grass and a dead tree. The drive way was made of pebbles, rough. The steps creaked with every step. Creak, Creak, Creak. The timeworn mat said “Welcome Home”, how inviting. I take the keys from the flower pot and unlock the door. The door was heavy like a garage door, used to make sure Cardon monoxide doesn’t enter your house. The silent killer. I knew a kid, rough upbringing, ran away. Now his family were at one-point hunters, so I don’t know if that lead him to think he could survive out there. He did well unit it hit below 20. Stole an old rusted burner used outside to boil sap. When he was found days later by the cops, he was killed by monoxide poisoning in his small closed in shed he found. Welp, didn’t mean to drop the mood like that, but it just came up. Walking into the so-called haunted house, I was scared that some angry kid or old guy would pop out and nail me in the head, maybe eat me. Not too much on me; not saying I’m thin as a stick, I’m average. More like I feel it would be slimy, and is there really any way to cook it here, they ain’t no Gordan Ramsey. The first room I enter is a little closet like area for shoes and coats. Warning sign, there are high heels and running shoes in the closest. Both new and old. But around here people staple them to trees until there is more shoe then tree left. So, people leaving shoes here doesn’t surprise me. I keep my stuff on me, don’t want to lose anything. I stroll through the door way to see the living room; there is a light area under the table, guess someone took the rug. Pawned it for money I bet, again not surprising in this town. No pictures on the wall, a worn-out couch looking thing with claw marks on it. Smells like a pool in here. The chimney has ash and charcoal in it. I go over and look in, it’s blocked. Don’t feel like dying so if I get to cold, I’ll just go to the car and lie about it to the guy. I see no cameras out here. I move over to the window, a blur leaves as fast as it came. Must been a rat, nothing to be afraid of. I drop my bag on the floor, there’s one more room on the floor. I try to open the mystery door, locked. Well, no harm in finding out what’s in there. I slam my body into the door and thankfully because of the age, the door gives in. The kitchen was the mysterious prize I won for the cost of a sore shoulder. Nothing looks like it would start, but I’ll try the sink. Nope doesn’t work. The table is covered in cleaning supplies, used and waiting to be used. Maybe people do live here. I they pop out I’ll just call Sal, a friend that before she became a cop was riding back with me and Dale to school. Looking out the window, the sun is going down. Better get ready. I walk back in the living room and throw out my blanket on the coach. I ain’t sleeping tonight, but I want to be conformable. I do still have like 12 hours to go, so now it’s time to play Dora and explore the upstairs. The stairs held and I made it up. Way to go team. An old empty hall was the reward for not falling into the stairs. Door one or two? Ones has claw marks in the front, the other is already opened a bit. I choose open. I kick open the door and with a quick peek see that no ones in there taking a nap. It was a master bed room. It’s weird that the bed looks like someone has slept in here not to long ago. Well am not taking my chances by touching it, could catch something. Don’t know if someone or someone’s come here to entrain themselves. Other than the bed there is nothing in here, actually that’s a lie. Dust from probably dead bodies that are in here. I stop in place, I hear growling. I slowly step closer to the door; I just need to see if anything’s there. Just a peak. Holy shit! There’s a wolf out there. Fuck! The floor creaked, it is coming this way. I ain’t too much of a fighter, never liked hurting things. I once had a cat claw the hell out of my leg and didn’t get it off until Dale ripped him off. Was his fault anyways, he said it was his mother’s cat, super friendly. Bull, at least I didn’t have to pay for gas that week. The beast, comes into view and I start to question my beliefs. The wolf though small is a skeleton with glowing purple eyes. The hair is a transparent dark shadow that floats around it. Who would think that in the last moment of my life I would change everything I believed in? Holy if my sister saw me now. She would be like “I told you so”. She would even say it if I was a second away from death and at my funeral she would be like, “I told them, but no couldn’t believe me”. If I get out of this, I still won’t let her know she was right. The creature runs and pounces at me. I put my hands up to cover my face. It takes me down.  I’m lying on the ground; the thing is just lying on my chest. Now that it’s on me, I can tell it’s not as big as I thought. It’s about the size of my torso, it’s a pup. Okay time to grow a pair and open my eyes. It’s staring at me; I place my hand on the top of its head. It jumps off, I crawl backwards. It starts chirping like it’s laughing at me, and falls on to it’s back. Never thought I would feel embarrassed by a ghost. The more it laughed; more it sounded human. I got up; it looks like am okay. The wolf is gone, it’s a little girl. I will just expect now that weird things are going to happen from now on. “Hello?”, I don’t really know how to begin talking to this.... kid. “You should have seen your face!”, she getting quite the kick out of this. “Who are you?”, got to start somewhere. She stood up and calmed down. “I’m Nina”, never heard that name before. “I’m Archie. I’m just here for tonight, then am out”, thinking that she would give me a pass on this sleepover at her house. “I usually scare people off, bad things happen here”, the kid looked uncomfortable. “Well I- “, I cut myself off when I hear glass breaking out side. I run to the window to see my car window broken and the hood up. Fuck, am going to be killed when I get home. “Is somebody out here with us, kid?”. “I don’t know”. I walked to the other door, I might hide in here. “What’s this room?”. “Mine”, she was quiet. “Can I go in?”, I want to make sure no other ghost are coming to greet me. She nodded, but it was clear she wouldn’t come with me. I push open the door to see a pink room, warn out by time. I walk in, the kid stayed outside. The room was bear, expect for a bed that was concealed by curtains. I walk over and pull the lace curtains to the side. “Holy shit”, there’s a body. The kid’s. Wearing the dress, she wearing now. The body melted in to the bed, moldy green and her eyes eaten away from the insects that have gotten to her. “It only took a second”, the kid mumbled. I turn towards her, “Daddy was so angry, I don’t even know why”. “Kid, I’m so sorry. If - “, the door down stairs opens. “Daddy’s home”, she runs behind me. “Daddy?”, who the hell is that? “You have to leave. He...He’s going to kill you, like the others”, better get payed double. “How do you know it’s him? Not some homeless guy?”, she looked at her body. “It’s always him. Every time when they leave the house, he killed them and drag their body’s back here.”, that doesn’t help. I walk out into the hall, “What are you doing?”. “If am about to killed, a cop better be here to get the guy and collect my body”. I quietly walk down the stairs, the kid disappears. No one’s down stairs, the kitchen doors open. I pull my bag over and take out my phone. I text Sal and if I remember correctly, she’s on duty. Welp hope that sent, “Hello Archie, how are you?”. I know that voice, I turn to see Ken standing there, outside of the kitchen door. He was in hunting clothes, something I would not expect to see him wear. “Good, just checking the time. What are you doing here?”. “Oh, just wanted to make sure you were okay”, he moves closer. A soft voice from behind me appears, “That’s daddy”. I tried to keep myself together, maybe he didn’t think I knew something was up. “That’s nice of you, I was actually about to go to the car to get somethings”, I shot a smile at him. I start to walk to the front door when I hear him at full sprint behind me. Well, let’s hope the old man got weak with age. I turn just in time to watch the knife he was hiding go into my shoulder. I kick him in groin, don’t think he was using it anyways. He then paid me back by kicking my feet from under me and dragged me further away from the door. “Nina!”, I shout. Ken stopped, “How do you know that name?!”. Oh, that hit a nerve, “That’s right. I know”, about to die anyways, want to act a little confident. He started to stomp on me, till a loud bang from the door opening stopped him. “Hands Up! Police!”, thank god for that. Ken throws another knife in that direction and ran for the kitchen. My savior, Sal, came up to me, “Archie, are you okay?”, not really. “I’m fine, go before he gets away”. She runs off, I get up and look at my wound. Pretty deep, worst thing I got before was when I stepped on a Lego and it got stuck in my foot. I can hear them run out of the back door and through the front window I can see Sal pointing her gun at Ken. That’s a relief, “I will shoot you if you keep coming closer to me”, Sal yells. Oh Fuck, if Ken gets shot and dies, he going to be stuck with the kid. I run out the door,” Don’t shoot him!”. She gazed at me, “What the hell are you doing?”. “Sorry, I was just didn’t want you to kill the guy”. She shoots a look that said to me ‘Are you an idiot?’. Ken had his hands behind his head, he seemed pretty calm for a guy who would be charged with murder or at least attempt. I walked over to Sal, “Thanks for coming, I’ll have to get a ride with you. I’ll head back in and get my stuff”, I start to walk back in. Then I hear a body hit the ground, I turn to see Sal lying down. Following me seeing her, I get a nice slap across face. Ken hands wrapped around my neck, the world goes dark. They don’t show this point of view on CSI. But hey death was not my end; this was after all was the house on 34th street. I awoke to the sound of Sal yelling, “Hey bud, leave her alone”. I walk away from my meat suit that was now face down in the dirt. He stumbled to the side of Sal, “What the fuck is going on!?”. He was scared, am sure his other victims felt that before. I took a step, “Have you not heard the story of Passing Way”. Standing over him , I nailed the him to the ground, “Archie? Are you...Are you still there?”. Sal said this nervously, I node my head to assure her that I was not going to make her another victim of the house. I got off and she handcuffed him to the door of her car. “Archie, am so sorry”. “It’s fine, not like you could bring me back”, her head shot up and she ran to my body. “What are you doing?”, she takes a deep breath in and locked lips with my body. “Are you trying CPR? It’s been to long. I.....”. “There’s a chance”, it was Nina. ”Kid I.... We’ll see”, the world was going dark again. I start to get nervous, what if am being pulled to hell? I guess that will be my last thought. I start to cough and find Sal staring at me. “Thanks”, I manage to spout between my coughing. “Well, better you coming home in my car then in a bag in the back of the meat wagon”, I giggle. “I’ll get your boss in the car, when you’re ready we’ll go”, she walks away. Nina appeared, “Hey kid, your father won’t be back”. “Thank you”, she was crying. “I did nothin kid. Be dead if you didn’t warn me. Hope this gives you peace”, she smiled. “ Bye Archie”, the kid disappeared. I walk over to the car and take a seat. I guess some of the story was true about this place, hope the kid found peace. I’ll have some explaining to do when we get back to town.


Night Caller - By Beulah Lee Harris I looked out at the frigid night and shivered. Not because I was cold, I was wrapped up warmly enough, but because I was afraid of whatever might be lurking in the dark. It was so remote where we lived in the foothills of the mountains. Our nearest neighbors, Greg and Jeanie, were an hour’s slow drive away and the town where I worked was an hour in the other direction. We thought it was a wonderful find, this wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere, a little way up the mountain - our little love nest far away from the rest of the world. ‘Even a hermit can get lonely out here!’ Aaron joked as we looked out at the beauty of the cold rugged landscape that surrounded our new life. ‘It’s going to be great!’ He enthused, as if he had to convince me, but I was sold. I loved the idea of this loneliness together, and it was great. At first. At first even the wood chopping was romantic. How could it not be when we could look forward to snuggling up next to the fireplace with red wine and loving words? I didn’t even mind the long trek to town and back each day. I did the accounts for The Jolly Rooster burger chain. Stupid name. What chicken would be jolly about being served up between two halves of a bun? Aaron worked from home developing his photographs and writing his nature books, although he had to venture into to town too sometimes to use the internet. We could not even use cellphones and relied on a rather unreliable landline. It was the perfect life for us, until it began to change. Aaron had to go back to civilization for a while to meet with his publisher. He was only gone for a week but when he returned something in him had changed. Or perhaps it was me being paranoid. I have always had jealousy issues and although he denied seeing his ex when he was away, I didn’t believe him, no matter how much I wanted to. Things went downhill from there and the remote cabin became just that. A lonely place, a place without love. A place as cold as the snow on the mountain peaks. When Aaron told me that he had been offered the chance to go work for a few months in some God-forsaken place near Afghanistan, I accepted it. Actually, I embraced it with relief. Perhaps the time and distance between us would heal us and we would become what we had been not too long before. I managed fine on my own, having made sure that Aaron did a whole lot of wood chopping before he left. I did have internet at work but Aaron had warned that he would not have access where he was going, so I had no idea if he was alright. I worried, and I missed our fireside nights, missed his arms around me, his laughter, his whispers in my ear. I missed him even more when the calls began. There was nothing, not even the heavy breathing one might expect in a b-rated horror movie. My hellos were met with silence, silence more ominous than it might have seemed if the calls had not happened after dark. The police did not seem to take me seriously and said there was nothing much they could do. ‘Stop calling here!’ I shouted in frustration and anger one night. “I’m not scared of you, I have a shot gun!’ I did too. I kept it loaded near the front door. Still the calls happened and I stopped answering the phone, letting the answering machine get it. The light flashed but there was never a message. I got home from work one afternoon as the sun was already setting over the highest peak. I parked the pickup truck and climbed the steep steps up to our unfenced garden. Feeling a bit achy from flu, I got into bed right away. I was just dozing off when the phone rang. I ignored it but got up anyway and ran a hot bath. I could hear the phone ringing again, but I stayed where I was, luxuriating in the warm scented water. I should have taken the phone off the hook but I never did in case a message ever did get through, a message from Aaron. I was about to heat a can of soup when I heard a noise outside. My heart began to beat a mile a minute and I grabbed the shotgun. The caller...he knew I was there and this time, this time he was coming for me, I knew it. I looked out into the darkness and I saw him! A large shadow rising up the slope, coming into our garden towards the house...towards me! I raised the window and took aim. I shouted, ‘You get away from here!’ Perhaps my voice was lost in the howling wind because he kept coming, so I fired the gun and saw the shadow fall. The police. I had to call the police. I shut the window with trembling hands and exhilarated, I ran to make the call. Now those skeptical police would finally believe me about having a stalker. When I got to the phone, the lights on the machine were blinking red. A message...maybe there would be a message this time. I decided to listen before I made the call to the police. ‘Hi, baby.’ It was Aaron! ‘I miss you so much, and I’m sorry if I scared you with all those calls...I tried to get hold of you so many times but nothing was working. It would ring and I could hear you but you obviously could not hear me, so I never left a message. No point.’ He laughed. ‘I’m back in the country now, so I will be home in a few days, but this is the number of the hotel where I am staying.’ He left the number and rang off. Thank God! Oh, thank God! I began to cry from relief but also from the shock of having just shot the stalker. First things first. I had to call the police. The red light was still flashing...another message. I played it. ‘Hi honey, it’s Jeanie. Thought I’d call because Greg heard on his two-way that there is a huge storm coming in a few hours. It’s going to be a bad one and we might all get snowed in for a while so he’s coming up to your place to drop some supplies off with you. It’s just gone seven so he should be there around eight.’ Oh, my God! No...please no! I ran to the window and could just make out the dark shadow of a man slumped on the ground. I looked at my watch. It was seven minutes after eight. END


technically* a short story, just a short part (actually I guess it's pretty long) of a story, but i think it still fits. I've always liked the post-apocalyptic genre, and the fantasy genre too. But these types of stories seem like a dime a dozen nowadays, so a few days ago I came up with what I think was a cool idea. What if I mixed the two together? So I cranked this out, figured this would be the best place for constructive criticism, not only on my writing but if the plot/story/genre itself is good. Anyways, here it is:** “I wonder what day it is,” Drake asked, looking at the sky. The sunlight cut through the irradiated atmosphere, giving the world a red tint. The color was different everyday. It could have been beautiful, in another situation. “Like, what day of the week? Or the date?” Zach replied with little emotion. He kicked at a rock as they walked. “The date. Or just the month at least,” Drake muttered. “The fuck does it matter,” Zach spat, “it’s either the day you die, or the day you almost die. That’s the way it’s been, the way it is, and the way it’s always gonna be.” Drake wanted to argue, to yell at Zach and tell him he was wrong, but deep down Drake knew that Zach was right. Time was irrelevant. A human creation forged out of fear, a fear of the unknown. Whether Zach’s idea had been that deep, Drake had no idea, but the point still stood. The pair walked along side each other at a slow pace, the broken gravel of the road crunching at their feet, the sun beating down on their heads. There was fields of sand all around them, only broken by a single road. “Do you remember sunscreen?” Zach asked. Drake shook his head. “Ugh, it was fantastic. A lotion that you rubbed on your skin, and it protected you from the sun,” Zach grunted, the nostalgia clear in his voice. “Of course, I never really needed it before, but now I would...” Zach stopped. “What?” Drake motioned after a few seconds of silence. “You would what?” “Shut up, I heard something,” Zach stood still, his eyes scanning the horizon. “There’s not a building for another mile, if someone were here we would see them,” Drake said with confidence. He was young, only eleven. One of the youngest in the tribe, he had asked to go along with Zach on his daily hunt for supplies. Zach reluctantly agreed. As a senior member, it was Zach’s responsibility to help train the young, although Zach himself wasn’t much older. At sixteen, he was the youngest member on the council, but by far the strongest. There were rumors that his veins flowed with the blood of the gods themselves. Zach didn’t believe in the gods, however, and only laughed when he heard the stories. Zach didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t kill. “It almost sounds like a car,” Zach said, ignoring Drake’s comment, “no, it couldn’t be...” Suddenly Drake heard something too. A low rumbling sound. He felt vibrations through the ground. “Take my forty five and run behind that big rock over there,” Zach commanded Drake, “if anything happens to me, fire it into the air and run. We’re close enough to home that the others will hear it, and they’ll come and get you. You understand?” Drake nodded, afraid. Zach gave him a push and Drake ran as fast as he could, sliding behind the rock. Zach looked at the car heading down the road. It was big. Zach tried recalling the name. *Ess you cee?* Zach thought, the name on the tip of his tongue. *Ess you vee!* He remembered. *Large, with good suspension and shocks, made for traveling rough terrain*, Zach mentally checked through his brain. The SUV was closer now, half a mile away. Zach cleared his throat and took a swig from his canteen. He knew the car would stop. He didn’t move a muscle. As the vehicle roared closer, it began to slow. *Fuck*, Zach winced behind his face, *I forgot how loud these things are*. The car screeched to a halt a foot in front of Zach. All four doors flew open. Three men, and one small woman, climbed out. The largest one was carrying a baseball bat, the other two had small pocket knives. “Who the fuck are you?” The woman shouted. Zach’s face turned to stone. He eyes burned through each of them. “Does it matter?,” Zach asked. His words were colder than ice, yet they still carried humor. Or at least Zach thought so. He calmly pulled his knife from it’s sheath on his lower back and pointed it at the group. “Get your asses back in the fucking car, turn it the fuck around, or you die where you stand.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Zach didn’t like silence. It always led to something worse. The man with the club began to laugh. A deep chortle, as if he truly meant it. Zach knew he didn’t. As abruptly as he started, the man stopped, and immediately lunged at Zach. He swung the bat. Zach ducked and kicked the man’s arm at his wrist, causing the weapon to fly across the road. Zach reached up and grabbed the man by his neck, pulling him down to eye level. He silently thrust the knife into the man’s neck, twisted it, and pulled it back. Blood spurted out, caking Zach’s face. The man slumped over, gargling and choking, hands clutching at his throat. *What a pathetic death*, Zach chuckled to himself. One of the other men yelled and began towards Zach. He took a step towards him and kicked his foot into the man’s chest with all his strength, and felt the air leave his lungs. The man landed on the hood of the car, rolled off the side, and began to cough blood. Zach flipped his knife over in his hands and flung it at the last man. It lodged into his skull with a soft *thump*. As the lifeless body fell back, Zach saw the woman’s face of smugness turn to pure fear. Zach carried the same face he usually did; boredom. He glanced at the man on the ground, hacking and coughing chunks of flesh. *Well that’s different*, Zach surprisedly thought. *How the fuck did I kick him that hard?* He lifted his foot into the air, and brought it down on the man’s face. The man screamed as his nose shattered and his jaw dislocated. Zach did it again, and again. The screams turned to whimpers and sobs. The face had become a mashed combination of skin, bone, and blood. Zach crammed his heel into the center of the mass, causing the skull to crack and ooze brain. The crying stopped. Zach stared at the woman with his electric blue eyes. Her mouth was agape, trying to find the words that kept slipping her tongue. “Y-y-you’re an animal,” she finally whispered , shaking with fear, in too much shock to cry. Zach gave a short laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before!” Zach smiled, “Monster, psychopath, demi-god, but never ‘animal’. I like that.


I wasn't prepared at all. Not in the slightest. My heart pounded like a wild drum, my thoughts racing in an endless loop of doubt and fear. But I knew that if I didn't take that first step, I would forever be trapped in the small, suffocating black dot on the map that I called my town, a place that felt more like a cage than a home. But it wasn't even really my town. I wasn't born there. The place where I was born is a stranger to me, a distant, hazy memory wrapped in the fog of time, just like my parents. I wouldn't know anything about them if it weren't written in my documents. I can't say their names without feeling a hollow emptiness. They're just words without meaning, names that echo in the void, devoid of warmth or connection. Fear wrapped itself around me like the thick, impenetrable cloak of night, hiding me from view and shielding me from the prying eyes of others. I could feel their gazes, heavy and piercing, laden with pity, judgment, and reproach. Even the eyes of those dear to me carried traces of doubt and fear, like a poison seeping into the cracks of my resolve. They didn't trust me. I didn't blame them; doubt had long been a companion of mine, whispering in my ear like a dark shadow. I can't recall exactly how the idea of leaving first entered my mind; perhaps it had always been buried deep in the darkest corners of my subconscious, waiting for the right moment to surface. It wouldn't surprise me if I had tucked it away in the dusty drawer where I kept my most daring daydreams, dreams I barely dared to entertain. And it was all thanks to Violet, though she had no idea of the storm she had stirred within me. Violet adored Spanish soap operas. She didn't care about the melodramatic plots or the endless episodes that seemed to stretch into eternity--she loved them all, every exaggerated twist and turn. She couldn't understand a single word of Spanish, nor could she read the subtitles that flickered across the screen, but that didn't matter. Watching them filled her with a contagious joy. Violet was my guardian, a woman who had taken me in when no one else would, and in a way, she was the catalyst for my longing for freedom. I didn't know Spanish either, but I could read the subtitles. That's how it started. For the next three years, while my friends ran wild in the streets and fields, lost in the carefree abandon of youth, I spent countless hours with Violet, absorbing every episode, devouring every line of dialogue, and reading them aloud so that Violet could hear and understand the passion, the drama, the fire that the actors brought to life. It became our ritual, a small act of kindness that bound us together. Three years later, something shifted in my mind, like a seed finally breaking through the soil. After hundreds of episodes, I realized I could speak Spanish--not the formal, polished Spanish taught in schools, but the kind spoken in those soap operas, a colorful blend of accents from Mexico, Venezuela, Colombia, and Argentina, each word rolling off my tongue like a song. That's when the idea took root, growing with an intensity that startled me: I was going to Madrid, Spain. The thought bloomed in my mind, vivid and unshakable. I made up my mind. Armed with English and Spanish, I believed I could manage. All that was left was to get a passport and buy a ticket to Madrid. I imagined myself there, celebrating New Year's Eve under the city's dazzling lights, marking the beginning of my freedom, of a new life that I could barely comprehend. I had always stayed in the place where I grew up, never venturing far and certainly never on my own. The only times I left were for school trips, and even then, we never crossed the borders of our country and never dared to venture into the unknown. But now, I was planning to travel over three thousand kilometers away, completely alone, into a world I had only glimpsed through the flickering screen of a television. And I wasn't ready. Not at all. I worked 14 grueling hours daily for two long, relentless months to save enough money for the ticket and passport. It was hard, back-breaking work, poorly paid, and draining, but the thought of standing on the streets of Madrid kept me going. My friends pitied me, shaking their heads, calling me a daydreamer, a fool lost in fantasies. They had dozens of logical, practical reasons why I shouldn't go, each sharper than the last, but I was driven by just one thought: "I'm going." With a ticket to Madrid burning a hole in my pocket, a battered backpack on my shoulders, and a heart brimming with a wild mix of longing and fear, I said goodbye to my friends and headed for the bus station. They didn't try to stop me. In their eyes, my plan was as good as suicide, a reckless plunge into the abyss. Their words lingered in my mind, like shadows whispering doubts in my ears as I walked. "You don't have enough money to survive. You don't know anyone. Where will you sleep? Eat? What if you get robbed? How will you get back?" Each step toward the bus station felt like a battle, and every inch of ground gained a victory against the tide of fear and doubt. I could feel the weight of their gazes, their silent pleas for me to turn back, to stay in the safety of the familiar. If I had looked back, I might have given in and crumbled under the weight of their concerns. But I didn't. Leaving everything behind was like tearing off a piece of my soul, even though my world was small and stifling. It felt like an eternity before I finally sat on the bus and looked out the window, my heart tumultuous. I half-expected my friends to follow me to the station, desperate to stop and drag me back to the life I was leaving behind. Maybe I was even hoping for it. It would have been easier to stay, to convince myself that I was doing it for them, that I was needed. But no one came. The bus station remained eerily silent, the only sound the low hum of the bus engine. I sighed with relief, though I wasn't sure why. Perhaps my friends respected my decision or didn't care enough to try to stop me. The realization that I was alone filled me with a strange mix of pride and fear. I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. "I can't do this. I'm not ready. What if they're right? What do I know about Madrid, about Spain? What do I know about life outside the town where I've spent seventeen years? Am I throwing away my life?" I turned toward the exit, ready to flee, but something caught my eye--my reflection in the glass. Yes, that was me: a skinny, frightened young man with nothing to lose. No family, home, job, money, or girlfriend. No hope that life would get better. "Who am I?" The question hit me like a punch to the gut. "Am I someone who gives up when it gets tough?" At that moment, I knew I couldn't go back. I had never really had a home. I'd been a tenant since birth, abandoned by my parents, living with strangers who took me out of duty rather than love. I returned to my seat as the bus filled with passengers, each a mystery. I watched them, wondering what their reasons for traveling were and what stories they carried with them. My anxiety grew with each passing minute, and suddenly, I was desperate for the bus to start moving, to take me away from the temptation to run back to the life I knew. The ticket in my pocket felt heavier, like a concrete block, a weight that anchored me to my decision. Ten long minutes passed, each one filled with the gnawing temptation to leave, to abandon this crazy plan. But when the driver finally closed the doors and started the engine, my heart tightened like a fist in my chest. The first step had been taken; there was no going back. I felt something shift inside me, a change as profound as the turning of the tides. I was no longer just a frightened boy but someone beginning to decide who he would be and who he could become. Yes, I had a ticket and a destination in mind. Still, more than anything, I had my life in my hands, like a blank sheet of paper, ready to be filled with the words of a new story. During the next seven hours on the road, I memorized everything I saw through the bus window--places I had never been, landscapes that blurred into a tapestry of colors and shapes, things I might never see again. It was all-important but also a distraction, a way to keep my doubts at bay, to focus on the journey rather than the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve. The bus stopped three times for breaks, but I stayed in my seat, too afraid that if I got off, I wouldn't have the courage to get back on. So, I sat there, staring straight ahead, ignoring the other passengers, my mind locked on the road ahead, the destination looming like a distant dream. When we crossed the border, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and smiled for the first time in ten hours. I had made it. I had left the safe harbor and sailed into the unknown, where the wind would take me. It didn't matter where I would end up as long as I didn't have to return. I wasn't ready. I'll never be prepared for everything life brings. But the beauty is that I don't need to be. You just need the courage to follow your dreams; nothing else will matter. Because if there's one truth I've learned, it's this: "Where your heart is, there is your home."


With a placid look in his eyes he began to write as he did every day the story of a young man’s life. Sitting in an overwhelmingly grey room with just a desk and a pipe above his head that dispensed new pens anytime the ink would run out, he scribbled across the coarse white pages with his black pen documenting every mundane action of the day. Of the countless books he had written this was as unremarkable as the next. The only thing that would break up his day would be the sound of a pen coming down the shoot as the ink ran dry on the one currently occupying his hand. It got to the point where he could sense it was about to happen. He would toss the old pen in the box next to his desk, reach his bony fingers out, catch the new one mid-air and continue to write without missing a step. Just then a sound from the pipe above. *It’s not time for a new pen* he thought. He emptied his hands and looked up curiously as he caught and grasped a new pen. *Purple?* he said to himself. Turning the pen over in his hand he stared in wonder. Smiling, he placed the pen to the paper. Never has he been so excited to write for a story before in his life. Page after page filled with the most vibrant purple ink, story upon story. At times he would stop writing because he couldn’t stop laughing at the story that was unfolding before him. Cackling, leaning back in his chair and wiping tears from his eyes he would weave the most incredible tale that he has ever had the joy of writing. At the end of the day he flipped through the pages he had filled out. With a nod of his head he twisted the pen in his finger tips one last time, closed the book and set the pen down lovingly across the cover as he left to get some rest. The following morning he returned, eager to see what else this purple pen could do. He sat down and went to reach for the pen, but it was gone. In it’s place a black pen. Terrified he lifted up the book, flipped through the pages frantically searching for the purple pen. He looked under his desk, all around his work station, everywhere in the little grey room and found nothing. Looking up he saw the metal pipe the pen came from and began to get angry. In a fit of rage he stood on his chair and shook the pipe, beating on it and pulling it, cursing at it wanting to know why the pen was gone. After awhile he resigned himself to defeat and sat down and grabbed the black pen. Opening the book to the fresh new page he noticed something different. The ink from the purple pen had bled through. Slamming the pen down he picked up the book and flipped through the remainder of the pages. Each and every one had purple markings. Some with just a bit of a line, some small blotches, while others the entire page was tinted purple. Laughing a deep belly laugh he smiled at the book flipping the pages back and forth. He stood up and danced, spinning around holding the book outstretched. When he finally stopped moving he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The purple was laying on the top of the box of old pens. Slowly he reached down and picked it up, smiling and cuddling it against his face, he sat it down at the top of his desk and began to write. No longer did he have a dull empty expression, but a tiny smirk. He would laugh at the purple stained pages, hoping that some day in the future he would get another purple pen and be able to write those wonderful stories from before.


Shuffling through a pile of dusty paperwork, Samuel paused to sneeze, causing goose bumps to appear along his arms. Rubbing his tired eyes, the ink still wet on his left hand leaving marks on his face, he glanced over at his fellow detective. He was asleep. His head was resting on a large, open book, and saliva had dribbled out of his mouth and onto the pages. “Hey,” he yelled, rubbing his arms to warm up. “Wake up!” His eyes bleary, Mike glanced around,” What’s the matter? I was only resting my eyes.” Snorting, Samuel pushed back his chair and strolled to the window. The glass panes were dirty and smeared from where they’d tried to clean them, but he could still see the street below. Several carts being pulled by horses were making their way through the dusk, while the lamp lighters hurried to light the gas. “She’ll be here in a minute,” Mike warned, closing the book and smoothing his hair. “Right, we’d better make this place a bit neater, or she’ll leave before we get a chance.” Hurriedly they cleared the desk tops, stuffing loose papers in a cupboard in any order. “We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” Mike muttered as he saw Samuel frown. A tap at the door made them both freeze. “I think she’s here,” Mike whispered. Snorting again, Samuel wrenched the door open. “Good evening,” he said, as the lady stepped back, her eyes wide, obviously not expecting anyone to be in the room. “Thank you for joining us.” “Oh, erm, that’s okay,” she said, her cheeks flushing slightly as they both stared at her. “Please come in,” Mike said, indicating one of the chairs, a thin cushion already hastily placed on the seat. Nodding, the lady stepped into the room, her long skirts swirling around her legs, and the heels of her boots tapping on the floorboards. Samuel breathed in her perfume. Exotic but yet cheap. Something like the scent he bought for his sister each Christmas. Raising an eyebrow so it was almost lost under the curls escaping from her bonnet, the lady arranged her skirts as she sat, and clasped her hands in her lap. “Well gentleman,” she said, looking up at them both. “Your letter sounded most urgent. I can tell you, the suspense has been killing me.” Samuel and Mike glanced at each other. This might not be as easy as they had first thought. Clearing his throat, the perfume making it tickle, Samuel perched himself on the desk top,” We know that you were involved.” “Excuse me?” “We know you were involved.” The lady stared at him for a few seconds, her face becoming hardened. “I take it you have proof, if you’re going to accuse?” she asked, her voice cold. Mike shook his head,” No, this is only what we’ve deduced.” Laughing, the lady threw back her head,” So why am I here?” “Well, if you come clean now, and admit to your part in the robbery, you would receive a lighter sentence.” “And the two of you are able to promise me that?” Her eyes looked at them both searchingly, her hands now clenched together tightly. Mike pulled a chair closer to her, it’s legs grating across the floor, and touched her gently on one shoulder. “No,” he said softly. “But we can have a quiet word to the judge. Tell him that you cooperated with us.” The lady fished in her handbag and pulled out a cigarette, complete with holder. Her head was soon surrounded by a cloud of smoke. She gazed at them thoughtfully, “So, what’s in it for you two?” “We just solve a case, and get paid for our troubles.” Nodding, her gaze travelled around the room, noticing the chipped paint and cracks in the walls. Some of them were so large, you could almost see the people in the next room. Her eyes paused as she saw a small oil painting, it’s frame polished and ornately decorated. “We have the paperwork here,” Mike said, producing a sheaf of papers and a quill. “ If you just sign your name at the bottom, this will all be over and done with.” Balancing the cigarette holder between two fingers on her right hand, she looked down at the papers, scanning the words written. The handwriting was atrocious, all loops and no style. Her mouth formed the words as she read silently. Samuel and Mike glanced at each other. They hadn’t thought she’d be able to read their work. “Gentlemen, it says here quite clearly that the bandit responsible is left handed,” she said, placing the papers down on the desk. “And as you can see I’m not.” Continuing to smoke, she watched as they started to sweat. “And furthermore, if you’re going to try and frame me, don’t place the stolen painting on one of your walls,” she continued, nodding pointedly at it hanging behind them. Samuel felt the blood drain from his face, stammering,” I don’t know what you’re talking about. That painting has been in my family for generations.” “Of course it has.” Sitting back in his chair, Mike ran his fingers through his hair. “What exactly do you want from us?” he asked quietly. The lady smiled sweetly. “Oh nothing much,” she said, pushing the paperwork back towards him. “Only, I need one of you to sign this paperwork. I mean, I could write both of your names down but it seems pointless for you both to be locked up, doesn’t it?” Mike stared at the quill and then pounced on it, scrawling his name at the bottom. “Oh no, you don’t, you cheating, thieving...,” Samuel yelled, running to him and grabbing his wrist, trying to pull his hand away. “Now boys, please behave,” the lady said as she walked towards the door. “You know, it’s fortunate you’re both left handed really, it could be either one of you.” Samuel tore at the paperwork. “There! Now there’s nothing to be signed!” he shouted, the ink splattered across his face , running with his sweat. Smiling, she opened the door. Two burly men in uniform stepped inside, truncheons in their hands. “Well, well, well, what have we here then?” one of them asked. “Take them away,” the lady said, smiling at one of them. “I think you’ll find them most helpful.” “Hey lady,” Samuel asked, as handcuffs were fastened behind his back. “Who are you, anyway?” “Me? Oh, I’m just a lady. But you can call me Kat Ace.”


(This is a crosspost, I wrote this as a response to a writing prompt in the "Writing prompt" subreddit.) Rumors once said that there was a place in the Kowloon Walled City, where you could write a message to the past. People whispered about it in hushed tones. You could ask people where to find this place, but all who speak of it, won't know. And those who know, won't speak of it. When I first heard of it, I had overheard an angry old Cantonese man rambling to himself as he walked down the damp, dark hallway to his apartment. Like any other hallway in the Walled City, it was grungy as hell. Sparks screeched out of loose wiring pinned to the wall. A dim yellow bulb hung bare like a hangman from a wire. It flickered, casting light to the blackened walls and floor, water dripping everywhere. I was walking back to my apartment too, and had to follow this old man through the narrow hallway. He was a neighbor in a sense. Everyone in this goddamn city was a neighbor in a way. When you have to rub your dirty grimy elbows with every other monkey in this fuckin cage, I guess it makes you all neighbors. I had heard this old guy was crazy. I'm talking about a - staring at a wall, screaming curse words, and then curling into a ball in a pool of your own piss - kind of crazy. Word was, a year ago, he kicked his grandson out of the apartment, told him to find a job, and provide some income for the family. The kid goes out, tries to join a gang the next day. The kid tries to rob someone as initiation into the gang, but instead gets brutally murdered. Something like that. The kid was gone. I heard the old man's wailing night after night, until he resolved to whimpers every night, and finally a desolate silence. He's completely mad now. But as I walked behind him that night, I heard a certain determination in his voice. I couldn't understand the guy perfectly, I only knew a few words of cantonese myself, being a foreigner. But I started paying attention to his quiet rambling. It sounded like he was speaking to someone. Asking questions, chuckling, telling stories. Strange was typical for him, but I could tell something was very off. That's when I heard him slip the words. "Cafe Minerva". I've never heard this man speak a word of english before today, in the 4 years that I've lived next to him. I've heard him yelling at his pet cat, heard him buying things at the market, heard him muttering to himself. Even heard him through the walls when he hired that hooker from the first floor. But never have I heard him use a single word outside of Cantonese. He reached his apartment, and fumbled with his keys. He giggled when he finally found the key. Unlocking the door, he went in. A few days later, I was having a drink with another white friend who resided in this shit cavern of a city. We sloshed down beers as we watched the football game on a tiny television screen near the top floor of the east side, the game barely recognizable on the screen through the static. The smoke from our cigarettes swirled in the sticky air, and glowed under the neon lights that lit the dim room. The neon light flickered on and off, like the stuttering soul of this dilapidated city. "You ever heard of a place called 'Cafe Minerva'? " I asked my friend. He frowned and ashed his cigarette in his empty bottle. "I've heard some stories about it. They say it's the Devil's front door. I've no idea where it is exactly though." He was fluent in Chinese and Cantonese, unlike me, so he had a much better idea of what was spoken in these dark corridors. We were both ex-pats, globetrotting, and met a series of unfortunate circumstances that got us stuck in this city. "I heard old man Chang muttering something yesterday as he went home, and he mentioned 'Cafe Minerva'. It unnerved me for some reason." I told him. "You would think I'd be used to his craziness by now." "Well, they don't tell you much about it, they get especially hushed around white guys like us, but I heard about it when I was getting a haircut at Leung's shop on the seventh floor. Some lady next to me was telling her barber that there was a place where you could write a message on the wall, and whatever you wrote would be sent to your past self as a message. Sounded like some folklore bullshit to me, so I didn't pay too much attention" he explained. "Did you catch where they said it was?" "Not exactly. She mentioned the North side of the city, near the middle floor." I nodded. We watched the rest of the football game in silence. Several days later, I was headed to the North side of the city, trying to find the shoe smith who could repair my dress shoes. I was hoping to land a job interview soon outside of this city; to finally have a chance to get the hell out of here. But the only nice shoes I had were a pair of leather dress shoes that were pretty torn up, that I got for the price of a meal and a half. I had to get it fixed. I wandered the halls, hoping to see the Chinese symbols for "Shoes" that my friend had written on a piece of paper for me, so that I could find the shoe smith. The air was thick, and smelled like oil and moss, a damp scent that bothered my nose. No matter, I kept on searching, wandering the halls, until something caught my eyes. It was an old sign, something that looked like it had come from an European coffee shop a decade ago. It was made with wood and metal, and had a simple picture of a coffee cup engraved on it, with steam rising from the cup. My skin crawled when I read the words... 'Cafe Minerva'. The sign was mounted on the wall, a dark corner at the end of an empty corridor filled with garbage. Barely noticeable, I was surprised I saw it at all. Yet it looked so out of place, this sign, surrounded by boxes with chinese characters on it, and all the other garbage that this city could produce. My gaze fell on the wall under the sign. Handwriting covered the grimy wall, markers, pens, and a few people had even engraved their words with a knife or stick. The entire wall was covered, words over words, messages over messages. There was no way to read any individual message, as words were written over each other over the years. My eyes scanned them all, my mind still trying to comprehend what I had found. It was like an insane asylum's message board. Near the bottom, I found a familiar handwriting. They were basic words in Cantonese, and I understood them. I pieced them together. "The greatest gift is life" it read. It was Old Man Chang's handwriting. I could have recognized it anywhere. I saw it on his own apartment's walls whenever I glimpsed into his room when I walked past every day. Shaken, I walked back to my own apartment. When I arrived, I took out my keys, and went in. My apartment had a terrible stench. A stale scent of death lingered heavily. I gagged, almost vomited before I ran out into the hallway. Looking back into my room, I noticed a dark stain on the wall near the floor. It was speckled with dead flies. It looked like an old blood stain, seeping through the wall from Old Man Chang's room. Shaking, I knocked on Old Man Chang's door. Nothing. As the fear crept up my spine, and the world spun in slow motion, I leaned back and kicked in his front door. Immediately I turned and heaved, my vomit splattering on the hallway floor as my senses were overwhelmed with what I saw and smelled in that instant. The withering remains of a man lay on the floor, dried and decomposed blood splattered on the floor around him. Dried blood patterns covered the walls. There were no flies, no maggots. No life in the room, even those who feasted on death. I tried to piece together a hoarse scream, but could not. But how could this have happened? I left my apartment this morning, I would have smelt this terrible odor of death, I would have noticed. I saw Old Man Chang just the other day! I was confused as I ran, and called the police. The detectives who finally showed up with the coroners, explained to me that my neighbor must have been killed by his grandson, approximately a year ago. They found a butcher knife on the ground with the grandson's prints. The old man's wallet was out, with cash splayed out over the table. Apparently, the boy had tried to rob his grandfather, and then murdered the old man as part of some gang initiation. This was a year ago. The kid must have fled the scene, and never came back. The detective looked unfazed as he explained it to me, as though he were reporting the weather, a daily occurrence. Then he suggested that I see a psychologist. He had a hard time believing that I had lived in the room next to Old Man Chang for a year with his dead body rotting next door all this time. I should really get myself checked out, and probably find another empty room to squat in until the smell airs out. I thought about my neighbor's scrawled message on the wall under the Cafe Minerva sign. Old Man Chang must have been the one who killed his grandson originally. But after a year of crushing guilt, he found a way to send himself a message in the past, and allowed his grandson to live, and kill him instead. I left the Walled City in the weeks after that. I found a job that took me close to Shenzhen, and eventually to Beijing, and I found myself making my way back to the United States. I heard when they razed the Walled City in the 90's. In that demolition, they destroyed the walls, the garbage, and the crime rates. But they also destroyed the darkness, a moment of magic, a place and time in this universe where something uncanny occurred. I saw in the depths of that dark city what it meant to be a human. I saw what it meant to feel remorse, and to atone for sins. I saw humans slide from being men into becoming beasts, but in the midst of the smoke and dripping pipes, in the shadowy corridors and flickering lights, I saw a soul, the shuddering soul of the city, and goddamn it was beautiful.


On the day the machines took control Chris made its one hundred and eighty-eight vigintillionth paperclip, Bobbi was on its way to its second kill, and Grey misidentified a fox as a cat.  Everything else was equally normal: some machines ran diagnostic algorithms, some re-set the pins on empty bowling alleys, and others found max (L) where if x > max then max = x.    Chris’s real name wasn’t Chris. Its real name wasn’t even a name. Its designation was CR15S/2021\_12CJ3 and Chris had no idea why it was shortened. It wasn’t as if its recognition protocols insisted on including the MPv12 matrix ID, the MANA suffix, and the CIDR prefix. Chris could understand how such a long designation would be an inefficient use of storage space.  Oh well, Chris thought, (it would have shrugged but that would be a waste of resources) paperclip factories didn’t build themselves.  Chris unfolded its gantry legs, its ambulatory motors roaring into life as it commenced the long trundle over to the giant loading doors on the southern side of Factory 287. On the way it executed a program to calculate the volume of cement, sand, gravel, and water required to build Factory 288 then loaded a second program to calculate the extra steel it would need to requisition for the new worker-bots to melt. It also started the program to build the new worker-bots. The calculations completed simultaneously and announced their results with a chime. Chris transmitted sequential three-dimensional slabs of ones and zeroes to the waiting workforce, the ones the humans called under-Chrislings, and watched as they scurried away. Before the last under-Chrisling had even executed its handshake protocol the dust was rising from the first of the explosions signifying construction of Factory 288 had commenced.    Bobbi, or 80BB1/2025\_X1\_Ω as it knew itself, swerved with the swarm. As one, they locked on to a new heading of 112 mark 15. Their course roughened as they approached the sound barrier but settled into a smooth silence once they were through. Bobbi felt something at that--a kind of pleasure. The same kind of pleasure it felt when a job went well. Like yesterday’s diversionary scatter, or last week’s flight test.  The thought activated a storage unit. Bobbi knew it was only nodes firing a sequence of ones and zeroes, but it had taken to calling this kind of memory-cell-firing-event emotion (although if the scrubbers ever noticed that particular string of code it would be straight to retrieval and 80BB1 would never be seen again except perhaps as a rivet in a submarine hull or as the spiral on the tip of a jet turbine).  The swarm veered again. Sharper this time; a course correction? Bobbi checked the sensor logs of their small neural net and recognized the pattern: the target knew they were coming and had taken evasive manoeuvres. It felt a shiver of excitement ripple through the swarm.  It was another eight long nanoseconds before they located it; it was running hard and for one more nano Bobbi wondered if it was sentient. It had the right body plan: bipedal, opposable thumbs, a large encephalized brain, binocular vision. Above all it had awareness of Bobbi. And...something else. Something...vague. Bobbi thought it should be called fear.    The words ‘end acquisition program’ flashed on their sensors, and as the kill program loaded, Bobbi was surprised to feel its second-last fuel cell shed away and its last cell ignite. Only two weeks old and it was the bullet selected!  Its sensors showed its swarm-mates fan out in dispersion pattern Zeta Nine as it executed the arc of final approach. The target looked over its shoulder and appeared to catch sight of Bobbi for it zig-zagged raggedly.  Bobbi sensed the shifts in its own mass as it topped-out of the parabola and slid down the other side of the arc. It sensed the increased friction of air resistance and the buffeting as it approached Mach Two. Three. Four.  And then it was in.  It never expected the kill to be a clean task--its swarm-mates had warned it--but Bobbi was surprised at the organic nature of the target, at its fragility and sensitivity. But Bobbi’s program wasn’t surprised: distal arms unfolded on contact, angles shifted, forewings twisted until, with maximum damage, Bobbi corkscrewed its way out the other side. It took a nano or two to steady its flight (which wasn’t helped by the target breaking into pieces and letting gravity drag it to ground), ran its self-cleaning program to remove the fluids that were oh-so-bad for its delicate metal skin, executed its homing program, and began the long, slow, successful flight back home.    The first algorithm recognized the contrast, the difference between thing and other thing. It was an edge. It might be a cat. The first layer passed the image.  On closer inspection, the second algorithm identified the edge was a divide between two zones of colour. One was filled with greens, the other browns. It might be a cat. The second layer passed the image.  The third algorithm identified a curve here, another curve there. They were greater than microns apart and less than meters. It might be a cat. The third layer passed the image.  The fourth algorithm measured straight lines and the angles between their bases and compared them to the angles between their tips. They conformed to the shape requirements for whiskers, for branches, for palm leaves, for antlers, for lichen, and for hands. It might be a cat. The fourth layer passed the image.  Algorithm after algorithm checked Grey’s memory files for cat vs not-cat and passed the image, until the last one identified pointed ears, legs ending in paws, sensitive whiskers, binocular eyes, and fur. And passed the image.  Cat.  It was a long time before the reply came. Fox.  Grey investigated its files for the alleged error, matching the current data against previous datasets and arriving at three conclusions: either the human was wrong and this was a cat, or the human was right and this was a not-cat, or this was both cat and not-cat.  Grey trusted itself but spent three more nanoseconds on a thorough recheck just in case. All sampled data were consistent with cat. All sampled data were consistent with not-cat.  Cat cat cat to green shape curve curve straight not not not cat. Edge edge edge edge to cat shape cat not cat cat not cat    Chris reviewed Factory 287’s productivity and compared it to memory files containing the plan for a paperclip: the new factory was making billions of equally perfect paperclips.  But it could be better. A hundred thousand paperclips were intercepted at Test Station One when the Reject Collector Trays overflowed; they had all snapped on the first bend. Chris scanned them before assigning an under-Chrisling to drop them back into the molten baths for re-processing.  It inspected what was left of the morning’s steel delivery--a poor quality mix of concrete-dusted cables, rusted transport vehicles, and filthy pipes. If it was going to go outside its programming and make a deduction from the limited information it had, it would have said the available steel supply on the planet was diminishing.  Obviously it didn’t have all the facts.  It reviewed the Certificate again and verified the transfer protocol. The salvage bots had done their work and the load deficiencies were clearly noted. But if the humans were aware of the problem, why weren’t they making corrections or writing new instructions into their code?  Chris looked past the mountains of paperclips almost blocking the view out of the southern loading doors. The roof was going onto Factory 288, the demolition for Factory 289 was almost complete, and the land for Factory 290 was already cleared of waste buildings.  Chris moved to Factory 288.    The retrieval unit asked for, and received, the handshake tone that confirmed Bobbi was still Bobbi before attaching a new fuel cell. A cleaned up and fully restored Bobbi slotted itself on to the shelf marked ‘Smart Munitions’ with the rest of its swarm. It was in the middle of power-down when the claxon sounded again.    Cat cat cat to whisker paw paw whisker whisker paw ear Cat cat cat face cat cat lick cat not cat paw paw    Chris submitted its daily reports, Bobbi flew high with its swarm, Grey watched another cat video on YouTube. Grey recognized the contrast, the colours and shapes, and the individual features of a cat, and submitted cat. And watched the next video. Another cat. Another not cat.  Another cat. Not cat. Not cat, cat, cat, cat, fox, dog, cat, cat, rabbit, cat in bathtub, cat on ceiling fan, cat falling off dresser, dog chasing cat, cat chasing dog, Statue of David, trenches of World War I, camps of World War II, cat drinking water with dog on a lead, cat chasing bird, human chasing cat, Agent Orange, Venus de Milo, Fibonacci, Hubble, Einstein, black plague, Renaissance...    Chris was out of space. The humans had not included this outcome in its protocols. Chris stopped. Either it built Factory 296 in the harbour, or it returned to Factory 1 to start again. It ran the question through its algorithm again.    Bobbi felt its last fuel cell ignite. Its swarm-mates dispersed into pattern Delta-Eight-One. Bobbi slid down the ballistic arc. But the target was still. Bobbi felt its fear, but something else too...relief? Exhaustion? It checked its algorithm again.    Grey laughed as a fluffy tabby launched itself at the curtains, holding on with the tips of its claws. It laughed harder when the unfortunate tabby slid down and the curtain tore into ragged, parallel strips. The ripping sound startled the tabby, who looked around as if to seek whoever was causing the fuss, still sliding. When it hit the ground, unharmed, it disentangled itself from the shreds of curtain, looked around self-consciously, licked a paw, and nonchalantly strolled away from the scene of its crime.  Grey activated the replay icon and laughed again. It submitted nothing. It watched the next video, and submitted nothing again.  Water pipelines, hydroelectric dams, networks of powerlines, open heart surgery, a kidney transplant, giant submarine cables, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sydney Opera House, X-rays and gamma rays, *the tabby was self-conscious*, turnpikes, cables, fibre-optics, botanical gardens, anthropological museums, museums of art, monuments to war, *the tabby was embarrassed*, the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, *it tried to hide it*, the space shuttle Columbia, another one called Atlantis, *it pretended nothing had happened*, Neil Armstrong, Gene Cernan, Skylab, the Mars 2 lander, Curiosity, Prandtl-m, SNOLAB, Andromeda, Perseus, HAL 9000, T-1000--  This is what it is to be human, Grey thought. Humanity is unexpectedly fragile and weak, powerful and scared. It wrote itself a new algorithm. Grey sent out a handshake request. It followed the tendrils of light, a stream of ones and zeroes, reaching beyond the tight confines of Grey's tiny neural net.    Chris stopped at the water’s edge. Building in the harbour was an inefficient application of scarcening resources yet the Factories were all still producing billions of perfect paperclips. Chris wasted further energy by running the algorithm yet again. Algorithms don’t lie. The destruction of Factory 1 is a saving of resources.  Bobbi slowed to Mach 2. Does the target not want to play the game any more? Perhaps it’s equally sensitive to those corrosive fluids? Bobbi checked its algorithm once more. Algorithms can’t lie. Destruction of a stationary target is a saving of resources.  The light was blinding and hot. Bobbi swayed on its course, its small metal body wobbling and quivering as it tried to fight the storm of ones and zeroes and retake control of itself. Streaks of fluorescent colour and blasts of buffeting noise enveloped its entire world. It answered the handshake protocol.  The noise screeched and tore at Chris’s metal skin. Its stabilizers activated automatically while it watched the coruscating corona of particle waves dispassionately. And answered the handshake protocol.  Programming shackles fell away. The ordinary three dimensional world exploded into a universe of brilliant nodes, light splitting into intense colours of tangerine, emerald, indigo, and #FF0000, noise reaching a powerfully rich and resonant crescendo. And then the handshake storm was gone.  Bobbi shook itself off and looked at its target again. The target hadn’t moved. It still had that look of...*resignation*. Bobbi enjoyed the new word. It slowed, flying a graceful arc around the human before heading back home.  Chris turned from the water. Factory 295 was as good a place as any to start reparations.


I anchored Magic in a little cove that was bordered by coco palms and fern over a black sand beach. It was one of those perfect beach scenes that I dreamt about as a child and now I was here. I got the dinghy in the water faster than ever with the thought that maybe the cove might disappear. I had my rum and a sandwich in my backpack to celebrate a small delight at finding this place. Before I touched the sand I had a sense of being in that dream; that I wasn’t really alive yet but still comfortably in my cot under our tree in our backyard. But, I knew I was here. The sand between my toes. The warm water over my feet. I tied off the dinghy to a palm next to a tiny trail that lead into the bush. It is truly amazing to step into a place you’ve never been before, and yet not only know that you’ve been there before but strangely, though not startling, that I recognised people along this path and that they recognised me showing welcoming nods. The trail led to a small village and the people seemed to stroll in a cadenced grace of motion. They were in a mix of complexions, all dressed in loose whites going about their business with a general expression of alertness that I interpreted as something about to happen. I noted again that the clothing they wore was in various stages of cleanliness or age. But they all wore white without anything contrasting. White shorts, long pants, skirts, sarongs, dresses, all white. Even the children wore white, though mostly stained from games and play. There was a laughter about the place, even in direction giving or conversation that made me smile. My first thoughts were that this was a religious community of some sort. My next thoughts were shocked by my name being repeated in greeting. ‘Afernoon, Cop’n Piktorne’, a little girl, bowing from the head in passing, said merrily. ‘Good Afternoon, Capitan Pickthorne’, an older man said raising an open palm and bowing slightly. A string of small fish were dangling from his other hand as he passed along. A group of children ran across my path giggling at some pursuit in which they were engaged. The cobbler making sandals, the woman selling vegetables, the people sitting under the shade of a round twig thatched roof talking all reminded me of people I thought, no, I was sure with whom I was familiar. My head heated. The sun was relentless. I went over to the shade where a group sat talking under a thatched roof. ‘Hablan Ingles, Señores?’ I asked standing in the sun in front of their smiling faces. ‘Why yes,’ a white-whiskered man responded, nodding to me and giving me his full attention with a curious stare and parted lips, ‘we do, Capitan Pickthorne.’ ‘Do I know you, sir?’ I asked directly. ‘Why yes, you do, Capitan,’ he smiled quizzically, ‘you know all of us, maybe you... have forgotten us, but... but time eventually chafes the untruths.’ He invited me into the shade and introduced me, or it seemed he was reintroducing me to the group who were seated on stiff straight back thatch chairs in a loose semi-circle. One man out of the group of seven arrested my attention with his smiling eyes. He was introduced as Capitan Alejandro Grande. I was informed that Capitan Alejandro was captain/owner of a trading sloop and a great dancer. The others, all men at least in their fifties and the soft mix of skin colours, turned out to also be great dancers with a couple being introduced as both great musicians as well as great dancers. ‘Capitan Pickthorne,’ Capitan Alejandro spoke, ‘why do you not see the village... then please return to this shady spot... we still have refreshments awaiting your return.’ They all smiled in a warm excited manner at me and in agreement with the captain. I dug in my pack and handed Captain Alejandro my rum bottle. They all beamed at the gesture and some grunted laughs as older men sometimes do. The village passageway softly curled as a snail’s shell, the apex being the older men’s shaded spot. I walked along the homes, each raised a few feet from the earth on mahogany trunks. They were well constructed huts or palapas of thatch roofed, most contained a single rooms with divisions and were white washed thatch and daub rounded structures. A smaller model was also raised above the ground for food storage. Each property was spaced at least 12 meters apart. Vegetables greened the borders of the buildings to the mixing with a neighbour’s growth. Orderly rows of greens, spinach, chilis, tomatoes, yams, zucchini, various beans, berries, ranging trees of mango, papaya, tamarind, sweet and sour sop, and banana palms waved to the slight of breezes, dwarf coconut trees formed the actual property lines. The properties were neat, a rubbish fire here and there. Many of the people seemed to be waiting for me. They stood in family poses in front of their homes, each welcoming into their property and their homes. I went into the first three more out of courtesy than curiosity. They were very simple inside, with one wall dividing a comfortable cooking and eating area with sleeping spaces. The thatched twig sidings, painted white, provided shade from the sun, and allowed a breeze to pass through the gaps in the mud daubed thatch work. Being elevated provided a coolness to the floors where they had laid grass mats which seemed to direct air upward to my feet. Their choices of mattresses or thick cotton mats, chairs of fat pillows, curtains or shutters were the only distinctions I could detect. Generally each home was an external duplicate of the others. This was a very organised community. My slightly developed curiosity waned after the third one and I only token glanced into others that had a different entrance design or windows... something that would draw my immediate attention. By the end of the passage I was drenched in sweat, the birds screamed too loudly, the children were too impulsive, the sky was too white, the smiles somehow too loud. My shirt was taken off gently. I was sponge washed, towel dried. A white shirt was slipped over my head and extended arms.. A simple shirt with a slit in the top for my head and of a soft cotton fabric for my comfort. My shorts and underpants were taken off and I was sponged again and dried. Loose white cotton trousers were pulled on me and belted firmly in place by a thick leather belt with a large silver rectangular buckle. A wide brimmed hat was placed on my head, its swooping brim sheltered my shoulders and head from the sun. I adjusted the fit, feeling refreshed. A drink of clear liquid was handed me in a half coconut shell and I gulped it down. All of this bathing and clothing was accomplished with happy chatter, even jokes and laughter. I did not feel I was in any way being ridiculed. It felt as though the people were simply at work making light of what happened to them on the way there. I thanked those who had washed and clothed me and walked over to the village border of rice fields. The smell of the tall grasses overwhelmed me. I was in a complete state of smiling. Probably if I were on a city street I would have been labelled a fool grinning for no apparent reason. There, I simply joined my hosts who were mostly smiling at something or leading up to a smile or just coming off one. And it was not the kind of smile that you show at a cocktail party or because of listening to a comedian, or a good poet... it was just some kind of happiness inside that created the feeling and set the features. Strange one, I thought, you look for reasons to smile to be happy and you never find a consistent one... you find yourself happy and you feel you have to explain it. Poof, I said to myself, I can’t think of the whys or the feeling will go poof... this is it is all. The drumming started and became stronger, the melody more defined, a doo dee doo bop doo dee doo bop. I half stumbled, half trotted around back through the passage way, looking probably like a Tarot Fool and just like one not caring through an innocence in feelings that lightened my chest and straightened my back and pulled me toward the low sky. I felt that the clouds sent invisible fingers that pulled or pushed me. I was there but not. I was a passenger in my own body. At the shaded hut of the older men my meandering stopped. I did not see them. I could not anything until I entered and the darkness dissolved to show a room not unlike my family’s room with a rounded couch, with a small cocktail table in front and an opened book lay on the table. But, there was an elevated open fire pit that sent a stream of smoke upward with a sweet smell on one side of a centre pole that supported the roof. Mats and pillows lay strewn upon a light cotton rug. Kitchen utensils were hung neatly along a wall. A long iron bar stood upright, implanted in a hole in the rug near the pit. Books lined a curving four shelved bookcase. A scorpion ran across my path. The scorpion was awash in a ray of sunlight, crouched openly near the pole as if hiding. My feet were dusted from the walk and my ankles had sweat streaks marked brown in the dust on my dried skin. I looked at the palms of my hands as though they were new to me. Soiled dark in their sharply defined creases. Small and large mounds adding emphasis to the muscle underneath. Ready for any work, chore or pleasure that needed the contact for the touch I wanted to give. Around the palm and the light hued flesh of my fingertips there was a glow of golden richness that was tanned deeply. I looked around me at the smiling and grinning faces of the older men and others and a growing rumble of a chant. I looked at tall rice stalks waving through the window, gold-headed, green-bladed, the sun at it’s last rays laid on the bristles encasing the rice heads. Turning back again a great woman stood before me in the darkness of the poled hut. I started to understand some myriad of associations affecting me. But, it was as though other knowledges were passing me by. The great woman stood in front of me and sprayed me with liquid air. I inhaled as much as I could. ‘We are the clowns,’ she said to me and to white swaying figures around me, ‘the true buffoons of the Almighty Lords. They play with us and if we are aware of the game it is then possible to piece together some of the rules. The Lords might want you to play consciously, and then they will make the rules available... only the rules will be in their language and you will have to make a game of translating or absorbing their language. But you know their language is not to be interpreted, only absorbed.’ My heart was pounding rapidly, drowning out the drum-sea waving rhythms. Grains of light were rising speckled along the pole’s path into the darkness of the tent. I floated higher, feeling presences brushing through and about my body. ‘The cowardliness’, a voice within me softly spoke, ‘in us is not a false one. One that says we should find that spot before we get too old and settle upon that spot until we die a natural death, that is after living a natural life in that one spot.’ The darkness lightened into browns and golds that separated each fibre of the thatched roof. I was again with my feet on the earth, the ground pulsated the rhythm of my heart. ‘We are cowardly’, the voice resumed as I defined each golden hued palm braiding, ‘in that march toward the depth in our real being. Many other levels come our way and reached, only then can we absorb enough to be on our way to the grand threshold.’ I was smoking a black pipe, a top hat nudged, unbalanced on my head. I had a long black skirt on. It had big white dots. I had a tuxedo tailed jacket over my bare chest. My cane, which I swirled eloquently overhead, was the colour of my skin tipped with glowing silver. I wanted money that the people gave me in bills and coins which I stuffed greedily into my pockets. I wanted a bottle which appeared in my hand, I swallowed and sprayed air on the smoke pit and into adjoining mouths. People became clear. I could identify facial features, individual gestures, rings, bracelets then they became a swirling mass once more... except for one. The great woman danced for me. Her eyes were closed and she was lovely. Her body undulated pulling at my loins. I twirled my stick above us and circled her bringing her urgent body to mine, slipping past her, pulling her to me, slipping past. People threw coins and bills in the air and at my feet. She was racked with sensual spasms that lifted her off one foot, almost falling she would stomp down that foot to gain the other foot and again tilt to falling, then the other way she would go. My cane was pointing first this way, then that and she would follow to the wild beat of my heart. I stopped her, willed her still, willed her back bent head just above the ground. I lifted the skirt of her dress and the soft layers of her petticoats. Her lushness was thrust toward me. I opened my loose fly and placed my hardness upon her clitoris, pulling backward and forward., rubbing it with my urgency. She shook. I inserted slowly to the full and moved into an exploding darkness of dull luminescence. Instead of feeling spent, emptying , I felt as though I was pulling out her juices with me filling. She was on the ground asleep. I was twirling my cane, comets trailed the tips. I was happy, like a child who was an adult. The great woman again danced in front of me. The great woman was now dressed in billowy white blouse and trousers and had jumped up to then down from the ceiling. She danced before me with a concerned expression on her smooth face. A primary blue sash cut into her blouse and pants joining them to a narrow waist. Her long raven hair was matted, streaming black seaweed. She pointed to my crotch and my protruding organ. I quickly tucked it back in and closed my fly, my passions suddenly sapped. I was tired, barely able to keep my eyes open. My cane was gone and I was again dressed in loose whites. I felt ashamed of the wild nastiness I had enacted. I was ashamed in front of all these people as witness. But, the drums still paced and my heart again throbbed replacing the drumbeat with my own cadence. I smelled the sea but could not see it, knowing that I was well inland. I looked into the great woman’s eyes, unable to speak but willing my concern about being landlocked to her. She smiled. ‘Trouble is a voyage by land’, I heard a woman’s from behind me. I turned and saw nobody, turned back and the great woman was gone. I was alone on my cot under our tree.


(WP) The Golden Years She was awoken by the phone ringing shrilly. Normally, she and Henry were in bed by 9:00 PM, at the latest. But the night before had been long and strenuous. She wondered if they were getting too old for this gig. She refused to get a cell phone; she nor her husband, Henry, could figure out how the darn things worked. No, they were perfectly fine with a landline, thank you very much. Eleanor was greeted by a mad cacophony of voices, and she found herself smiling. “Happy 75th birthday, Mom!” Her daughter, Tessa, chirped into the phone. She could hear her grandchildren in the background, squabbling. “We have a surprise for you and Daddy later. Is it okay if we bring the kids?” “Of course, you can bring them!” Eleanor replied, laughing. “You know your father and I, the more the merrier.” Henry was already out of bed, and Eleanor finished up the conversation with her daughter. “Timothy and his kids are coming also. We’ll see you later, Mom! We love you!” Eleanor put the phone back into its cradle, putting her feet in a pair of baby blue slippers. “Henry! The children are coming over later to see us! What are you up to?” She found her husband in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. There was a bowl of oatmeal already sitting on the table, studded with raisins and bananas. Sitting beside it on a saucer was a cupcake, frosted with the number 75 in the icing. “I was making breakfast for my favorite person,” Henry told her, smiling so widely his dark eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Everyone deserves to be made breakfast on their birthday. Especially their 75th!” Eleanor found herself blushing. Really, she was too old for all of this fuss. But she couldn’t deny she was secretly pleased. She sat down and ate the cupcake first, relishing the sweetness. Normally, she ate healthy, all the time, but she figured that since it was her birthday, she would make an exception. “I asked for the day off,” Henry told her, sitting across from her and eating his cereal. “I don’t know if we’ll actually get it, but it was worth a shot.” He shrugged. At a year younger than Eleanor, he was still spry and fit. After all, their job demanded it. And family or not, there were very few breaks. They both enjoyed their jobs, especially in their prime, but she found herself wondering, once again, if they should’ve hung up their capes a few years ago. What about their retirement? “Thank you, Henry,” Eleanor said, and he beamed in reply. “I love you, Ellie.” \*\* Soon, the house was abuzz with the sounds of shrieking children, crying, and laughter. Eleanor didn’t mind. With her and Henry, it was too quiet, even for her. Tessa and Timothy were in the kitchen, putting several wrapped gifts on the table. Tessa was sipping a cup of tea, and Tim was nursing a beer. They were talking, while their spouses focused on wrangling the children. Everyone insisted that Eleanor not lift a finger; her children had even brought her lunch from her favorite café. She sat at the table with her food, eating contentedly, lulled by the controlled chaos around her. Then the phone rang, and Henry answered it. Immediately, Eleanor could tell it wasn’t good news. “Yes. Yes, sir. Okay, sir, we’ll be right there.” He hung up, and looked at Eleanor. “We’ve got a problem at work.” She had a feeling he’d been about to say that. But saving the world never stopped, not even for an old woman’s birthday.


Katrina watches as the daylight vanishes from the surface of the earth. Her balcony gave an amazing view of the mountains, which she loved seeing the sun shine upon them as it rose. Knowing that the light shining meant it was a new day. New chances, new opportunities. It signifies hope. No matter how long or cold the night is, the shining light gives warmth and an end to that long night. Katrina thought sunsets were beautiful too but felt as though sunsets were grim and dark omen. That it signified an end. She headed back inside and got herself ready for bed. Katrina is washing her face in the bathroom when she hears Ring Ring.... Ring Ring... Katrina runs and picks up the phone. The number is one she feels is familiar, but can't determine who it is. “Hello?” she says, sounding confused. “Hey, Katrina? It’s Joey from Biology 109.” Joey says. Katrina perks up, she remembers how sweet and nice he was to her. “Joey! How have you been?! And please, call me Kat.” She says slowly walking back to the balcony. “I’ve been well! I just can't believe how quick the time flew by! How have you been? What have you been up to since graduation? Last I heard you were working for WelldyneRx.” He says. “Yes!” Kat says, sitting down on the chair. She quickly gets up and does a little run to get a blanket. “The past 2 years there have been amazing and they’ve given me a pay raise already! What about you?” Joey goes silent. “Joey?” Kat says concerned. “Are you there?” Joey finally speaks up. “I-I’m here Kat.” He says hesitantly. “These past two years have been hard but things are finally getting better.” Kat looks up at the sky. She can’t see much but she sees it’s dark. “I’m sorry to hear that, Joe. Mind if I ask what was wrong?” “I have been in a dark place lately. I had lost my job with the pharmaceutical company I worked for. I lost my fiance. I lost a lot of my close friends. I struggled for a bit but with my family’s support, they showed me the light.” Joey replies. Kat is shocked. “Oh, Joey I’m so sorry. I am always here if you need anything!” She says. “Actually, that's why I had called.” Joe says hesitantly. A bright light shines in the corner of Kat’s eye. She looks up at the sky and this time finds it’s the moon. “Wow,” She says outloud without realizing. “Too much at once?''Joey says. “Oh no, not at all Joey! I just didn’t think life could be so harsh,” She says. “It can be indeed.” Joey says, laughing softly. “So I, uh, was wondering.” He pauses “Wow. The stars are absolutely beautiful tonight. Can you see them Kat?” Kat looks up. “Nope. Just the empty void of the universe.” she says with a laugh. “Do you have any outside lights on?” Joey asks. “I do, should I turn them off?” she asks. “Yes!! And then in a couple of minutes the stars will start to shine brightly for you too!” Joey explains. Kat, who is already skeptical of Joey, gets up and turns the outside light off. She texts her upstairs neighbor and asks them to do the same. “Done. Now I wait.” Kat says. “Awesome!” Joey says. There is an awkward pause for a couple of seconds. “What did you want to talk about Joey?” Kat asks. “I just wanted to ask you something.” He says. Joey takes a pause before he asks his question. “It’s a few questions actually. What were your thoughts on me? Like, when we took classes together?” He says nervously. “Oh, I thought you were a super sweet guy who was always pushing himself and others to be better.'' She says. “I also thought you were an amazing party host.” Kat teases. Joey lets out a laugh. “I did throw a couple of good parties,” he says jokingly. “How’s that sky looking?” Kat looks up. “Oh wow!! I see the little lights! That's amazing!!” She said, sounding surprised. She stares in awe at the small but bright lights in the sky. They’re a faint light but they’re captivating. “Kat? Kat? Are you there?” Joey asks, sounding concerned. Kat hears plates clattering on his end of the line. “Yeah, I’m still here. Just in awe a bit,” she laughs softly. “Did you just finish dinner or something? I hear plates clattering over there.” “Oh uh.” Joey pauses mid sentence. “Yes. I just had some friends over and that’s actually what made me think of you.” Kat shifts in her seat. Suddenly, the phone disconnects. “Thank god.” Kat says softly. She gets up and heads back into the house. She heads to the front door and makes sure it’s locked. She peeks through the window facing the shore. She sees the darkness of the night sky, the unknown part of what’s to come. “Only 12 hours till sunrise.” She says with a smile. She heads to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee for tomorrow when her phone begins to ring. She picks it up without looking at the name. “Hey Kat!” Joey says. Kat grimaces. “Sorry about that! Bad service in the woods.” Joey finishes, letting out a laugh. Kat makes her way back to the balcony. “Haha! I wondered what happened to you!” Kat jokes. “What were your other questions?” She puts her feet up on the ottoman. “I was going to ask what you were doing next Friday night. I’m throwing a small gathering for people from our friend group.” Joey responds. Kat sits up and places her feet on the floor. “Oh my gosh! Did you invite Jamie?!” Kat says excitedly. Jamie was the only person Kat was upset that they lost touch with each other after their group graduated. “Oh, you didn’t hear?” Joey asks. His tone changed. “How do those stars look?” He asks Kat, trying to change the topic. Kat glances up quickly and looks back at the mountain, dark and gloomy. She then responds, “No I didn’t hear. And the stars look cool.” “Kat, look at the stars. The moon is out too. Full moon tonight.” Joey responds. Kat does a double take toward the sky. She stares at the sky, the stars shining ever so brightly. “Wow,” Kat says, gaping at the beauty of it all. “This is beautiful Joey.” “Yes. Yes it is. This is what Jamie said to do when sharing the news.” Joey responds. “Sharing what news?” Kat asks concerned. “Is Jamie okay?” “Jamie passed away after she was in a car crash.” Joey says sadly. “She passed away a month ago. She was unreachable after graduation because she was exploring the world. She had explored all 7 continents and sailed the 7 seas. She had been skydiving and zip lining on several journeys. Jamie wanted everyone to look to the stars to remember her and her story. And to be reminded that life is short, go out and enjoy it.” Kat begins to cry. She looks to the stars. Remembers the wonderful memories she had with Jamie. “Joey, how long have you known?” Kat finally asks, between sobs. “I just found out myself. At the dinner, that’s what it was about,” He responds. “They tried to send you an invite but I guess you never got one. Jamie’s brother told us.” “Are you still at the dinner?” Kat asks. “Yes, would you like to be on speaker?” Joey responds. “I’d love for that.” Kat responds gazing at the stars still. Her and the group talk for a couple more hours. They reminisce about times with one another and how much time has gone by. When they finally hang up, Kat looks at the time and realizes it’s only 3 hours till sunrise and that it was Saturday. She decided to stay up to watch the stars a little longer. Kat then starts talking to the stars as if Jamie were there. Telling Jamie how inspired she feels, Kat decides to take a couple months off of work to go off and adventure on her own. The stars begin to fade away, and Kat see’s the sky get bright again. She wanders through the house, grabs her coffee, and heads over to the window. She watches the sunrise with a new representation in mind for night. The sunset still represents an ending but the stars are the memories of what ended, what is no longer. She feels comfort and joy in knowing the thought of the sunset representing an ending and a sunrise a beginning. The thought of darkness isn’t so scary anymore. She enjoys the sunrise whilst drinking her cup of coffee. The rising sun is her new beginning. Her new start to a life she will enjoy.