At first, nothing happened. Then, nothing happened again. Then, without warning or any indication that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened. It was really quite unexciting. Nobody had been waiting for nothing to happen, and when nothing happened, several times in a row, nobody expected it. In fact, nobody didn't expect it either. It is not often that anyone ever wonders about nothing happening. This particular nothing did happen, however, and technically, nothing shouldn't have happened. The nothing which never should have occurred happened on an unremarkable day in January, but that is not important. Nobody was expecting nothing to happen, least of all an average scientist, who worked in a nondescript building on a street whose name is not a relevant detail. This average scientist, a man of no noteworthy achievements, was researching a project on the nature of the universe. Using some gadget he had created, whose purpose had something to do with the fluidity of time, the average scientist caused absolutely nothing to happen. And it was truly absolutely nothing. For the brief fraction of time that he turned on the device, the world became frozen; for that brief second, or perhaps it was a moment, nothing happened whatsoever. The average scientist, somehow, noticed this nothing after it was over, and, to test his strange device, turned it on again. Again, a brief moment of nothing filled the entire universe. Then without warning, or any indication at all that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened again. This time, the nothing lasted for a little while. Similar to absolute zero in terms of temperature, the average scientist had achieved the same with time: absolute nothing. The nothing that was happening stopped happening after several minutes of nothing, and the average scientist, thrilled with his strange discovery, published an average paper. His paper, being of average quality and written about nothing, was widely disregarded. Later that week, the average scientist, thinking deeply about nothing, decided that perhaps the world would be better off if he made nothing happen. Without considering the ramifications, he closed his eyes and turned on the device. And absolutely nothing happened.


The sun had set by then and the world had drawn its curtains as the rain cloaked the darkening sky. The cold descending upon the earth, painting the streets in wet lights. And it all seemed silent; like a town about to pull the covers and drift into dreams, goodnight. But somewhere, near the town plaza where the fountain stands still for night, red lights glowed and grew in the dark, twinkling over the puddles and the wet asphalt about the roundabout. The shops around had closed up and there were no other people around, no pedestrians, no shop-keeper. The place felt abnormally quiet. One could almost feel the bated breaths and the secretive eyes of those hiding out of sight, wondering what happens next as if the world had spun into some dystopia overnight. The plaza had been taped off, and every shop was ordered to close, the owners told to return home. Every shop, except the one bakery where all the police cars gathered before. Something had happened, something enough to require the attention of every cop in town. Something severe: murder? Akane walked into the store, passing through the dark shadows hanging like curtains all around. The lights were too bright, everything seeming to blaze in the windows left and right. She pulled out her notepad, her heart thumping, as she readied herself, wondering: what’s the case? She had been called without a word about what the case really was. All she knew was that the crime scene happened to be the town’s favorite bakery. She’d bought a strawberry shortcake here once… Everything seemed just the way it was, only now draped in darkness, giving the place an eerie feel. Haunting, even. Places really do seem different in the dark… She reached the back, walking behind the counter and passing the large cabinet of cupcakes along the left side, making it through the door into the back. There were policemen near the door, interrogating a middle-aged woman at a distance; the woman at the table, sitting down, the moonlight lighting her back, but leaving her face and front in shadows. Everything really did seem haunted… The woman— it was the owner. When the woman noticed Akane’s arrival, she told the policemen to give them a moment. Without questioning, they left the room, passing through saying, “Excuse me,” their voices tired. Or maybe carrying a weight. Just then, with Akane looking behind, watching the men walk out the store to the front against the blaring lights, the owner called her over, telling her to sit down at the seat across of her. “Why did you call me, Mrs. Yoshioka?” “Something happened,” the woman replied, her words simple but vague. Akane could see the woman’s face now; seeing it, the familiar sight, Akane felt herself calm. She put her notepad down on the table, turning herself so she could see what she wrote in the pale moonlight. But just as she wrote down the title and the date, Mrs. Yoshioka spoke again. “A secret ingredient was stolen.” Akane looked up. “Eh?” Akane’s mind seemed to freeze for a moment, as if the thing the woman said were too quick to catch. “Stolen?” “Yes, darling. Stolen.” Her mind froze again, trying to wrap her head around the idea: was this a joke? It couldn’t be. The police were all out, the whole station probably out for this one case; this one case requiring the need for the whole plaza to shut down. All this couldn’t be some prank. Besides, who would they be pranking? The town? “Um, Mrs. Yoshioka,” Akane started, confused still. “What is this secret ingredient?” “It is in every recipe.” Eh? “But… what is it?” “It is a secret. No one must know.” Akane withdrew into her thoughts again. If it really was a secret, then how would the police, let alone her, solve the case? If solvable at all? People would only report if something valuable were stolen. But couldn’t an ingredient be bought again? If it were some sort of flour, then couldn’t she just buy a new stock? And, now that she thought about it, why were the police here if they didn’t know what the ingredient was? If they heard that some ingredient was stolen, then wouldn’t they’ve simply dismissed it as a joke? Why were they all here? Why was everyone so serious about this? It didn’t make sense. It only would if the police knew what the secret ingredient was— but even then, how would that have made any sense? What was this ingredient? Just then, Mrs. Yoshioka spoke again. “Where do you, Miss Minami?” Why was she asking? “At the Harukawa neighborhood… why?” “Do you have a husband?” “No,” she replied, suspicious; but, feeling like her answer were inadequate, she added, “My boyfriend and I broke up last month.” “I see.” Akane started feeling an odd sensation in her chest, as if some dark, animated slime were moving around within her, swirling around her heart like some slug, some obsessive hand. “You bought a cake here earlier this week, right? Or am I mistaken?” “Yes. I did, Mrs. Yoshioka…” She didn’t feel comfortable anymore— it was making her feel the exact way when she visited the family murder case last year. Something just felt off about everything— it’s as if a person had broken into her room and replaced all her things while she was asleep. “May the police investigate your house, Miss?” “E-Eh? Why?” What’s with this woman? “The secret ingredient.” Akane couldn’t think— how did her home have anything relating to the case? And how did her last statement fit into any of this? “What are you saying, Mrs. Yoshioka?” “Have you eaten the cake?” “Half of it. But-” “Did you like it?” “Y-Yes?” The woman fell silent for a moment. Just then, she asked, her tone changed, the air changing with it, as some dark feeling seemed to float up and linger around her: “Do you want to know what the secret ingredient is?” This is crazy… “What is it?” A moment of silence passed. But when Mrs. Yoshioka opened her mouth and spoke— Akane couldn’t hear anything. “E-Eh?” “You now know the secret of this place,” the woman said; she could finally hear. But just then… “Mr. Koizumi. Do it.” Akane felt her heart skip. “Do it?” “You now know.” “But—” Just then— “ Agh-?!? ” Something caught her throat— her vision faded, her hearing disappeared. All she could feel was a numb feeling as she crashed to the floor behind her. Before everything went dark. What did you say…?


Out of the Frying Pan “Give me your hand.”

“Fire!” the words slipping from my dream, leaving one eternity for another. I don’t know what I was thinking, perhaps I wasn’t. Sometimes we do things with no concern for our own safety. Most often though, we recognize the danger involved in an act, and take a few minutes to weigh the consequences. It is that time, that few seconds, minutes, hours, sometimes days, even weeks, that we place our internal debate, where anyone walking down the street, can see it. They can see both sides, our rebuttals, our feints, our disastrous insinuations about what might, could, should not happen, but do. That is the way I feel this morning as the sirens sound, the phone rings, the tornadic voices start screaming, as I look out the window. The morning is nice. I don’t usually pay much attention to the sky, or the sunrise, mainly because I am normally in a different world at that time of day. The sun is usually getting ready to retire about the time I return to my world. This morning for some reason I get up with just a few hours of being absent, walk out on the balcony and notice how blue the sky is. How white the few clouds are. How soft the wind feels. How bad the mosquitoes are at 7:00 AM.

I feel as if I have been awakened by the gentle sensation of a hand from the future. I can see it reaching from out there and with the beckoning gesture of an index finger, luring me to view a future, I could never have imagined.

I drink my usual two, three, cups of coffee, turn on the news, a bad habit I have developed over the years. The news is boring as usual. “The world is coming to an end, people are idiots, life will end on Armageddon Day, December 13 th , at noon.” I look up at the sky to make sure I haven’t missed some preliminary event that might tip me off to the possibility, that I will quit my job, buy an orange robe, shave my head, learn a few chants, and head for the airport. By then the hours have slowly drifted by. I look at the skyline, or what I can see of it. I live in Brooklyn in a high rise, so I have a view of Manhattan, the bridge, and the sky, broken only by a few doves that are permanent fixtures in my world. Something about doves that make me think of eternity.

After wandering around in my mind, looking at the trees just beginning to get ready to shed their dignity and prepare for the nakedness of winter, I walk back into the building, climb the stairs, and stop to contemplate the chance that one day, they’ll find me dead on the steps, from heart failure. I go into the kitchen, and that’s when it begins. It is like a crank handle being turned, a dial being twisted, music fills the world, and then the plane that hits the towers jumps from the tube, and freezes my heart. Something happens in that time, when you die before you die. It allows you the opportunity to appreciate, what is left. Not surprisingly what is gone, but what remains to discover. Perhaps it is because we are at the bottom, and there is no place to look but up. But perhaps it is just a nudge that awakens us from the comatose state of apathy, that comes from living and attempting to do little more than survive. You no longer have time to notice happiness has taken the bus for the coast, the other coast, and we are left standing on the street eating a chemically laden hot dog and wondering why. It dawns on me. I’ve been a sliver of a moon, not even my moon. Somebody is out there pretending to be someone like me, pretending to be someone like them. I decided it is time to buy a ticket and follow a road, not that road, because at that time you don’t know there is a, that road. But you are bored, the burr under your saddle turns out to be hemorrhoids, and the moon is doing little more than catching contemporary wishes and providing the faint glow of a night light. It is easy to look back on life. It is what we do. We have learned what baggage to leave behind and which to take. But looking forward is frightening, we might just find something we are hoping for, and not even remember we’ve been looking for it. It is in that time of surprise, watching that hand reach from the smoke, that it begins to make sense. You see the flames, and all they do is make you laugh.  You are frightened, so you consider crying to relieve the possibility of it all being impossible, and yet you feel yourself capable of being you, for the first time. Fear and hate, are what they are.  Love is a different kind of emotion.  We are conditioned to accept all other emotions because they are related to things we experience. We begin by crying because of the pain, or as a way to illicit a response to a need, or simply to be annoying. We laugh, we think, we try not to think, we perform as a circus performer for ourselves, and others, as a way of testing our responses. But love, there is no way to test it. It is mysterious, illusive. It has been spoken about, sung about, and chiseled into tree trunks and spray painted on the subway walls. It lives in the alleys, it lives on the roof tops, but it lives only, because we need it to. Unlike fear, it does not come naturally. We do not expose ourselves to injury or death, just to feel the emotion of sadness or grief. We do however realize we have no way to solicit love, as it must be built like one builds a wall, a brick at a time. Many experiences combine to produce what we have been unable to adequately put in words, because we don’t understand love as an emotion. Falling down and skinning your knees elicits anger, fear, or pain, but it does not conjure the notion of love, because love is not rooted in physicality. It is the ether that looms on a horizon, invisible but we know it is there. That fall day, as the smoke rolled from the buildings that were no more, now only apparitions of a bad dream I am forced to confront, a part of me dies. My chore, being the building of a mechanism that will transport time to a level of acceptance, even after I realize, time is irrelevant.

Birds singing in the trees, the sky void of planes, yet the ocean continues to be courted by the moon, and the sun cajoled the night to remain, for just a minute more. The stars cry and planets turn their backs on the madness, leaving me alone with my thoughts of life, and the possibility it could continue as it once was, before the maniac showed up screaming that he is murdering people, so that his God can live. It was the insanity of love, hate, and misconstrued idealism that made the light seem less bright, the darkness even darker than the view from the hole in the ground. The power of hate challenging love, that seems lost. It stands alone, watching, pretending it is still necessary, because without it there can be nothing worthwhile. It finally stands, opens its arms and ushers in the souls that need to leave, to make room for the ones that have arrived. They nod to each other in recognition that time is passing, and things change in some ways, but not in others. They walk, some crawl, some do not move at all, but the ash continues to rain on our new world. We look to the sky for strength and find only blue sky, which is a surprise, but actually it is refreshing knowing not everything has died. They come in red trucks, spouting ladders and hope, as they climb into buildings that are no longer there, now, just a picture on a wall in an office across town, the new sky line void of… and yet we find that our memories are better at remembering than we could have imagined, just a lifetime ago.

Someday when the birds find the sky again, the oceans caress the beaches, and a child puts a penny in the machine and the gum balls keep falling from its world despite all the pockets being full, I hope we can forgive one another for not caring, until it was too late.

I have found something in being lost, lost something, in being found, and no matter the skinned knees and bruised ego, life goes on, like I never existed. All I can do as a means of redemption, is to say, I love being here with you.


It had been twenty four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. A wrought iron table, graced by two swirled iron chairs. Even the kiss of the sunlight filtering through the flowering hedge was inarguably a mirror image of the one she’d seen years prior.

However, most paintings tended to stay the same, no matter how many years they stayed in a museum, so that wasn’t of much notice. What made this painting exquisite, irreplaceable, was not just the level of details and brilliant paint colors; but the people. Lounging upon the chairs were two women, a ghost of a smile hiding on one’s lips behind her raised teacup as she met eyes with the other. Her gown, cascading to the ground, was the most arguably phenomenal piece of clothed artistry ever painted. Tiered, each layer was a shining golden, painted with real crushed flakes that sparkled in the light and sewn with dark blue strokes almost tangible through the canvas. Her pale skin, framed by curls of pinned white hair, flushed with life. Opposite her sat a woman made almost entirely of plants. Her dress appeared stitched together with flowers, and she glowed with light from her dark exotic skin to the moonlight lacing of her silver sandals. “Persephone’s Tea Garden with the Sun”, ~Alexandra M. M. Halen. Mariah Abernathy pressed her heels together, peering over her short spectacles at the art. It had faded slightly between the hundred years spanning its lifetime, but the color was so captured it felt like a portal into the other world.

Well. Mariah had little time or need for feelings. “Jadyn,” she said, not moving her eyes from the painting. A girl at her right stiffened, jolted to attention, and glanced back at her. “I want this museum upon the highest level of security possible for this week’s duration.”

Jade noted in her clipboard, slowly returning her gaze to the painting. “Ma’am, how much exactly is this piece worth?” Mariah didn’t move. “More than our entire wing of ‘Charletomones’. I have seen this painting only once before at a gallery, when I was a young girl. And while our brother museum makes their renovations-” Mariah clasped her hands behind her back- “they have entrusted us with its protection.” She turned her head, her eyes falling onto a clock ticking over the doorway. 6:07 P.M., or approximately 18:00 hours. “Shall I call for your driver-?” “No.” Mariah pursed her lips, breathing in the colors cast across the canvas like smears of liquid gemstones. “I stay here, for the entire duration of this painting’s stay.” She clenched her jaw, raising her chin with a fierce glint in her eyes. “And if needed, I will protect it with my life.” * Mariah De Bronx sat at her desk, dark eyes firmly set on the screens flickering before them. A dark hallway stretched across a small patch of her cams, the historical armour winging the corridor glinting in the low light. On another camera, the art pieces pinned against the walls became reduced to mere shadows.

For the past four nights, the painting had sat firmly on the wall, protected by bulletproof glass, safe and sound. The Alexandra M. M. Halen section of the brother museum had almost finished construction, and the borrowed painting would return to them at the end of tomorrow’s work day. If anyone could attempt to steal the famed painting, tonight would be their last night to do so before it was placed into the highest security museum in North America. Mariah hadn’t blinked in two minutes. Sitting tall, her perfectly pressed pantsuit and coat matching her dark rimmed glasses, her graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, she appeared to be a very proper statue.

Her office glowed in the bright lights from the screens, a table lamp the only other lighting in the small room. While her office had a small refrigerator and a circling fan overhead, Mariah gave no notice to anything except the screens in front of her, pursing her lips. * Jadyn Abernathy watched her through the security cameras, frowning. “Is- is she breathing?”

“Mariah doesn’t need to breathe.” Jade tipped her head towards the security guard in begrudging agreement, distracted. The guard said nothing else, sighing to himself in a bored, regretful way.

Jade pushed back from the table. “I’m going to get some food. Just to get out of here for a couple minutes and try to wake up. Call me if anything happens, okay?”

Godric didn’t look back at her.

“Jade. It’s a painting no one even knows is here, nor cares that it is. The only reason I’m here is but because Mariah is paying me overtime. It will be fine .” Jade held in a sigh, clenching her jingling keys in her palm as she headed for her car. * Mariah sat tall, and as much as she hated it with a burning passion, her back was starting to burn as well. She adjusted her position, not taking her eyes from the screen. The long, slow ticking of the clock dragged to grow even slower. She glanced down at the few digits glowing from her screen, snapping up her gaze. 11:37. Twelve more hours until the museum’s opening, when the extra day-officers would arrive. Twelve more hours was a mere blink. Mariah widened her eyes, forcing them to remain open. Tiredness pressed heavy hands on her shoulders, dragging her down in its grasp.

Jadyn and Godric are watching the security cameras, just as diligently as I am. If I falter, there will not be a blind spot. Slowly, Mariah raised her head, taking a breath for the first time in minutes. Multiple guards are posted along the walls; and even if they should fail Godric will see. Jadyn won’t fail me.

Mariah tensed her shoulders, leaning back as she finally let out a long breath. She could use the restroom, at least. She started to rise, turning- The barest flicker of a shadow made her stop.

Mariah’s head whipped, looking at the screen just in time to see a black flutter vanish out of the corner of her screen.

Mariah’s hands clenched on the edge of the desk. Furiously clicking, she switched to the next camera, catching the last glimpse of a black shape melting into the blind spot.

Her blood went cold.

Following the glimpsing path of the cameras, it was headed right for- Mariah snatched up the walkie-talkie, manicured fingers slamming for buttons as she jerked it to her mouth. “On floor two there is a figure. I have seen it on multiple cameras, it is headed for the painting. Jadyn, phone the police immediately- Godric I need your team sent to this floor post haste!” She slammed down the device, stepping back, eyes flicking to the wall where hung a decorative, painted machete.

“I- I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” A crackle of silence. “Mariah, Jadyn’s gone, half my team went on a break five minutes ago-” A single, terrible headline filtered through her head. A flutter of darkness flicked through the cameras, and Mariah’s heart seized. They were on this floor. They were after the Alexandra M. M. Halen. “Send in your team!” Mariah ordered, then hurled the walkie talkie to the desk, snatching the machete off the wall. Before Godric could manage to sputter a single other word, she charged out the door. * Jade’s car smelled of cold, bundled sandwiches and artificial air conditioning. The rain dripping onto her windshield was less-than-adequately being wiped away, smearing the traffic lights into colored blurs.

She let out a long sigh, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Steaming coffee settled in the cupholder, but she doubted it would do anything to wake her. She hadn’t been this tired since college. Jade took a single glance down at her phone and nearly swerved off the road. * Mariah sprinted down the hall, the click of her heels shrouded in the muffling walls. Clenched fast in her fist was the machete, held fast in her palm as she ran down the hall. Mariah De Bronx did not in any way know how to use a machete. But nothing, not even logic, could stop her from saving that painting.

She stopped against a wall, muffling her heaving breaths. Mariah raised her knife, ducking around the corner to see an empty corridor. Her heart hammered, adrenaline drowned out from the ferocity of her anger. It had been well over three minutes. The painting’s temporary exhibit was right through the next room. She ran for the arched doorway. Minutes before, she had only glimpsed the dark shape flitting through the cameras, but it settled deep in her heart like a spike of fear. Mariah screeched to a halt, stepping onto a glass floor that showed the main lobby two floors below. Her eyes fell onto the painting. Set into the wall, hidden behind a veil of bullet proof glass, was Persephone’s Garden Tea With The Sun. Multitudes of emotion tumbled through her. She let out a long, long breath. They had not made it here yet. Mariah brandished her weapon, taking a stance. Most prim, petite late middle aged museum directors would have a hard time looking dangerous, but Mariah De Bronx was not someone you typically chose to cross. Seconds ticked by, even slower than before, the only sound echoing through the corridor her own controlled breathing.

Suddenly, a swash of colors burst through the lower room below her, the glass tiled floor glowing with red and blues beaming from the tall windows. “Exit the building with your hands up!”

The police had arrived. The thief had no way to know they were onto him; he wouldn’t have had time to escape. He was still here. Mariah took a shuddering breath. Judging by her calculations, if the robber continued at the same pace it had been going on the cams, he would appear in few seconds- She gripped the machete with all her might as an army of footsteps burst into the lobby three floors below- A single, low sound came from the shadows around the corner, and out stalked a cat .

Mariah stared, the black feline shamelessly rubbing against the muralled walls, casting her a glare.

Her heart faltered.

No. That shape on the cameras- She had only looked at this floor, assuming it had been an intruder and acting accordingly.

No. More sirens built outside the museum, a slam of a door joining them with another loud call- Mariah heard none of this. Her eyes stayed trained on the cat, machete frozen in her hands. “A cat?” Mariah’s knife dipped, and she leaned back. The heart inside of her chest fell from her lungs. Thundering footsteps filled the room below, police filing into the entrance hall. Her eyes flitted to the doorway to her right, her reputation and everything she had worked for going with them.

Hurried footsteps stumbled into view. Godric Mason loomed far in front of her, leading a squadron of vested officers, his eyes wide with panic. “Mariah-” She sheathed her machete, locking eyes with the head of police beside him. She allowed herself one long, deep breath before speaking.

“I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”

“SIR!” Both of them turned, seeing a young man muscle his way through the ranks.

“We found two suspicious characters hiding on the first floor. Two late adolescents. They said they had heard of the painting, eluding the final sweep and staying after the day hours to take it at night." He tensed his jaw. "We are still working out the details, but they confirmed they were attempting to steal it. They have been taken into custody. We are in the process of contacting parents to come get them at the station.” Mariah’s eyebrow quirked, but no one noticed her. “Thank you, Jonas. I will be down in a second.” The young man nodded, raising his radio to his mouth as he moved back to the stairs.

“We are going to sweep the entire building and around it, to make sure there are no more accomplices.” Mariah barely heard him, the wheels spinning through her head. She had only watched the cameras on the third floor, solely focused on the prized painting. If they had not moved from the first floor, then that meant.... the single form she had glimpsed through the security cams would have been the cat. She would never have caught sight of the would-be thieves before it was too late. If not for this unknowingly heroic feline who had appeared.

The officer moved a hand on the radio strapped over his bullet proof vest, frowning with sharp gray eyes. He tilted his head. “I am wondering, why didn’t your security apprehend them in the first place?” Mariah inclined her head at Godric, who had the good graces to look very, very uncomfortable. “That is a valid question.”

She looked away from him, back to the officer, who was actually smiling. “It’s still under investigation, director, but I believe you’ve caught us some art thieves. Thank you.”

Mariah glanced down at the cat rubbing against her leg, knowing someone else had played a very valid part.

* Mariah De Bronx sat in her office, clicking through her computer. A small buzz, a message from her assistant Jade, lit up her phone, but she ignored it.

Her fingers danced across the keys, and she paused, eyes flicking over her work. She allowed herself one exhale before submitting the email.

Mariah cast a look around her office, settling her eyes on a small cat bed laying beside her desk. The dark cat was gone at the moment, mousing around the museum, but she knew he would be back.

He always was, scarcely leaving her side since that fateful day. Although she had mistaken his small, stolen form for an intruder when they were first introduced, he had assisted in the apprehension of two genuine would-be art thieves, who were now serving time in community service.

After that, Tyler the cat had well earned a place in her museum. The celebratory plaque settled on the wall above her desk, congratulating Mariah’s capture of the intruders, belonged just as much to him as it did her. Mariah stood, resting her eyes upon the plaque with a small, rare smile. In its original museum, the newest exhibit for the Alexandra M. M. Halen painting would be unveiled soon. Mariah and Jadyn were invited to the first viewing. While it had been an honor to care for it in the little time she had, the stress that had come with it was more than enough for her lifetime.

The painting was safe; and that was all that mattered.


Joe stood in front of the vending machine pondering his selection. The candy occupied the fourth and fifth rows, between the savory snacks and the Grandma’s Cookies. It struck him that, considering this was a hospital, there was a distinct lack of healthy options available. It also struck him that, despite not knowing who he was or where he was from, he knew how to operate a vending machine. And, although he didn't know his own name (Joe, a derivation of John Doe, was the name given to him by the nurses until he could remember his own), he knew the names of all the candy bars. Another thing he did know, was that he wasn’t in search of a healthy snack. He had been craving the rich and heady combination of sweet, creamy, milk chocolate and soft caramel for days. As soon as he'd been allowed out of bed, he'd wheeled his IV stand down the corridor to the elevator lobby, in search of his sugar fix. Now, he was torn between the chewy nougat and the promise of a peanut or two in the Snickers bar, and the crisp snap of the finger biscuits in the Twix. Twix or Snickers? Snickers or Twix? 42 or 46? 46 or 42? He couldn’t decide. A small, but restless, queue was forming behind him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His palms were slick with moisture. He wiped them on the front of his hospital gown. Twix! No, Snickers! No, Twix. No! It had to be Snickers! He punched in the first number. Four … His finger hovered over the six. But his gaze drifted to the seven. His finger followed. What was wrong with him? Push the six! Get the Snickers. SIX! SIX! SIX! He pushed the seven. "Shit!" He punched the six. Jabbed it again and again! Hammered it furiously in a sudden frenzy of rage as the bright yellow packet of M&Ms began to move jerkily towards him. "Damn it!" he yelled as the packet dropped into the tray with a soft rattle. He slammed his palm against the glass. The machine shuddered. "Hey, Buddy! Are you ok?" the man behind him asked. "OF COURSE, IM NOT OK! DO I LOOK LIKE I'M OK? I WANTED THE SNICKERS!" The man's mouth dropped open. He looked as if he was going to speak, then appeared to think better of it. Instead, he cleared his throat and shuffled back a couple of paces, examining his finger nails. Joe turned and headed back down the corridor. He'd had to borrow the 95 cents from the guy in the next room. He wasn’t going to be defeated. He had to get more money. "Hey!" the man shouted after him. "You forgot your candy!" Joe turned, about to unleash a torrent of abuse. The man was waving the yellow packet of M&Ms at him. Then the flashback hit. It wasn’t the first one. That had happened the day he'd woken up. They had just taken out his breathing tube and helped him to sit up and take a few sips of iced water through a straw. He’d had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten there. Couldn't remember a thing. His name. Where he lived. What he did. Whether he was married or had a family. Nothing. His mind was just one big, black hole. They were telling him not to worry. That he'd had a nasty bang on the head. That it was normal at this stage. That it would all come back in time. Then, one of the nurses smoothed the bedspread over his body. His eyes were drawn to her hands. They were small and soft and pink against the blue woven fabric. Her nails were short and clean. The hands looked familiar. Like some he'd seen before. Somewhere … else … The colors around the edges of his vision began to blur and distort. It was as if he was looking down a watery tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, caught in a circle of light, the nurse's hands moved quietly. Every detail of them was bright and intense. Every skin crease, every tiny golden hair, every blemish was illuminated and magnified. Then, the blue of the bedspread faded to a dull grey. Its uniform, linear surface became rough and uneven. The hands stopped moving and lay, palms up, pale and still. The warm pink nailbeds faded to a cold blue, and the skin took on a waxy, sallow appearance. Joe realised it was a memory pushing through. If he let it, he knew the picture would widen and he would see who the hands belonged to. But he didn’t want to. A deep, dark dread washed over him. His skin crawled and his gut clenched. He closed his eyes and pushed back against the pillows, away from the image. "No. No! NO!" he screamed. "Joe! Joe!" The nurse with the small hands was touching his cheek. Gently. He opened his eyes. "It's alright, Joe. You're safe. We've got you. Don't worry. It'll all come back. It'll all come back with time." But Joe didn’t want it to come back. From that moment, Joe took great comfort in not knowing who he was, where he had come from and … what he had done. He didn’t want it all to come back with time. He didn’t want it to come back at all. After that, there were others. One or two a day. All the same. All triggered by a simple sight, sound or smell. A glossy, swinging, auburn ponytail, a peal of girlish laughter, a waft of familiar perfume. Each one would send him spiraling back down the watery tunnel. Each time, more details were revealed. A once swinging ponytail, now limp and still. A once laughing mouth, now silent, its blue lips parted and breathless. A once fresh and vibrant perfume, now stale and faded under the scent of death and decay. It was as if he was completing a terrible jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece. Other things were happening, too. The nurses spent less and less time with him, their warm and friendly smiles and touches replaced by wary expressions and minimal physical contact. Men in suits came to talk to him, asking him questions about what he could remember (which of course was nothing). Over the past couple of days, a uniformed police officer had been stationed at either end of the corridor. He didn’t know if they were there for him. Until today, he'd been confined to bed. Nevertheless, he'd waited for the one posted near the vending machine to go to the bathroom before he had left his room. And now it was the M&Ms at the end of the tunnel. Small hands with short clean fingernails picking them out of the packet one by one. Popping them between smiling pink lips. The bobbing ponytail. The laughter. The perfume. Then, the M&M packet was lying on the rough, uneven surface. Its contents rolled across the floor. Blue, yellow, green … red. Red on red. Red smears on the pale, cold hands. Wet, red strands in the limp, auburn pony tail.  Frothy, red bubbles between the blue parted lips. Joe closed his eyes. He shut out the image. He turned away. When he opened them again, one of the police officers was walking down the corridor towards him. A hand gripped his shoulder firmly from behind. "I think you'd better come back to your room now, sir. We have a few more questions we'd like to ask you."


(I'm writing a science fiction book, and was thinking of making this the first chapter. Let me know what you think. Thanks) A man sat in an empty storefront. There were large windows along the front of the store which allowed a clear view inside. The store appeared to be vacant except for the man, who was sitting in the middle of the hardwood floor. Once in a while someone would walk in asking for directions. The man, of course, knew that there are no accidents. He would persuade anyone who entered to either stay and speak with him or promise to return. A young man walked beside the pathway in front of the store. He reappeared moments later, walking the other direction. Again, a few moments later he passed by. This time he noticed the man sitting inside the storefront. The young man pulled on the door and leaned his head inside. “Excuse me, can you give me directions to Mesay Insurance?” “Yes, yes, of course. It’s around the corner. Just walk around and keep going. It’s at the end.” “Thanks. I’ve been looking for like twenty minutes now.” The young man started to leave, but turned back to ask, “What is this place?” “What do you think it is?” The young man opened the door further, and took a step inside. “Well, there’s nothing here. Are you still getting things setup?” “Yes.” “What type of business is this going to be?” “What do you think?” “Well, again, I don’t know. There aint nothing in here,” the young man said as he pushed on the door, taking a step back. “What would you put here if you had the chance?” The young man took a step forward. “Hmm, I always wanted to run a restaurant. I think I would do that. I would be an involved owner. I’d treat the staff with dignity, you know. I wouldn’t give them absurd and unnecessary quotas to fill. But I wouldn’t let them push me around either. It would be a place where people would want to work.” “What kind of food?” “See, I’ve thought about this before, you know, a guy can dream. I’d ask the customers about their favorite foods and their, their favorite restaurants. Then, I’d take note of all that information and customize the menu. I’d make it a place that people would actually enjoy. I’d make an effort to have customers feel like I wanted them to be there not just because I wanted there money, but because I wanted them to have a pleasant experience.” “And how would you get people interested in going to your restaurant in the first place?” ‘I’m not sure. I mean, this is a fantasy, and I don’t know that it would work... If I had the money to start a restaurant, I’d have money for other things too, right?” “I suppose.” “Ah man, now you’ve got me talking. Don’t tell anyone this idea. Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter. So, I’d pay twenty or thirty people to sit at the restaurant for a week or a month. I’m not sure, I guess until the locals start coming in. See, I'm thinking, when you drive by and see it packed all the time, you’re going to think there’s some kick ass food inside, right?” “It’s possible.” “Hey, you know, you look familiar. Have I seen you somewhere?” The man on the floor did not moving a muscle. The young man waited for a moment, and then said, “So that would be my plan, in a dream world at least. Like, if I won the lottery, I’d do this or that, whatever. Everyone has those fantasies, right?” A smile appeared on the man’s face. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled and stared. He was making eye contact with the lost young man, but it appeared that he was spacing out. “Well, goodbye. Thanks for the directions.” The young man whispered to himself as he opened the door. “That guy’s gotta be crazy. Who does that?” “But you did.” The man on the floor said. The young man turned around, a little confused. “I did what?” “In a sense, you did win the lottery.” “Yeah, how’s that?” “For one, you were lost, but now you know where you’re going. Is that not worth something?” “It is,” the young man said as he pushed the door open further. “And two, well, I think you’ll like two. I have, in the room to the side, over five hundred thousand dollars.” The young man let go of the door and turn back towards the man on the floor. Then he looked to where the man pointed. There was a closed door. “You’ve got over half a mil sitting in that room?” “It is there.” “It sounds like… why did you say that I would like that? It’s not my money.” “But it is, if...” The young man took a step towards the man on the floor. “If? Okay, go on.” “If you listen to my story.” The young man said, “Is that right?” as he walked closer to the man on the floor. “There are conditions.” “Okay, let's hear them.” “One, you shall not leave until the story is complete. Two, you must not look inside the room until the story is complete. Three, you must follow along... until the story is complete. And try not to interrupt. That is not a rule, just common decency. Agreed?” The young man stood there dumbfounded. “I’d clean the floors with my tongue for half a mil. So, yeah, yeah I’ll hear you’re story. My name is Thomas.” “Good. And good to meet you. I am Mallone.


Once upon a time, 200 some-odd years ago, a bunch of Maws decided that there was a thing called "Mod" that made everything they did right because they did it. They took credit for the efforts of the people they enslaved, and, because they were chosen by Mod, they lost the ability to see right from wrong and instead their understanding of good and bad were defined only by profit. The Maws kept this up and built weapons that not only killed people but vaporized life and all existence. They used these weapons to extort and and project their way of life around the world. They called it "saving the world" but in truth, the Maws gave the people of foreign lands a choice "either live under the Maw or be consumed by it". In those moments, true bravery and humanity stood up to an unstoppable force and said "not only no, but FUCK NO" and were instantly slaughtered. Their silenced rebellion was another victory for Mod, and more resources to send home. This was the real story of the Maw; not who they were, but who stood up to them and decided they'd rather return to the living earth than be party to its destruction. Men, women, boys, girls, animals of all species, and even plants and trees, stood their ground against something too big to stop and decided that preserving their integrity was worth more than their lives. This cycle continued endlessly and these stories will never be known, let alone told, but every life the Maw thoughtlessly erased as an imposition was beautiful in a way the Maw couldn't appreciate. The individual Maws, being chosen by Mod and only living for themselves, experienced all this as blissful affirmation of their position as the center of the universe. Their shelves were fully stocked, more variety than ever, and somehow, they had more than any generation before them. Instead of asking questions of where that excess came from and who really paid for it, they reveled in the gifts that Mod had bestowed upon them for living so fruitfully and in Mod's image. Of course, by this time, the lessons that came from Mod had been ignored and the only thing that the Maws kept with them was that Mod chose them so their actions were always justified. The rules were the Maw's to write, and they wrote them to reward themselves and punish every other way of existing with violence and slavery. And with that, humanity was wiped out by a parasitic and destructive self-importance. The Maw consumed at an increasing pace. At every possible step where the Maws could have looked at their lives and realized they were accessorizing their bodies and lives with the pain of others, the original idea was instead reinforced because the admission of the brutality of their existence would be an indictment of Mod, and even worse, a total bummer. Self reflection wasn't the way of the "successful" Maw. The wheels of time continued to turn and the appetite of the Maw only grew. Around the world, brave and beautiful humans stood their ground "Not only NO, BUT FUCK NO!" and were slaughtered into silence, and the few too frightened and weak to fight back accepted Mod as a master and thief to be feared. To them, Mod wasn't about love it was about control and fear. It was about dominance and a hierarchy. All they needed to do to prove Mod's power was to stand in defiance against the Maws and be erased from the earth. The choice of being a human was no longer in the cards. You could either be a Maw or die at their hand. One of the biggest losses in all of this are the beautiful human moments where the truly good and brave stood up to the Maw. They knew it meant death but what was life if it meant belonging to a beast that rapes and murders its way into power and wealth? They died as humans, defending the forest that had given them and their ancestors everything they needed. The Maws recorded this behaviour as an insult that was corrected. There was never any plan, just a cycle of abuse and subjugation, with its pace increasing, which the Maw sickeningly named "progress". Beauty, honor, bravery sacrificed at the alter of greed. The protest of "Not only NO, BUT FUCK NO!" was now only heard by the machines that dealt with pestilent humans that stood in the way of the maw. The machines distanced the maw so much from the consequences of their actions they didn't notice when they'd run out of beauty and life to steal. When every last human had been purged or converted, and all the trees and animals processed, the Maw watched, confused as everything around them started to fall apart. They had no plans for this because Mod had a plan and planning wasn't their responsibility. They'd long forgotten they'd invented Mod and that all the splendor and luxury in their lives was at the expense of everything else in the world, so they couldn't process what they were seeing, and decided it was a sign from Mod they weren't taking and punishing enough, rather than realizing that it was the thievery and imposition that was the problem. With nothing to subjugate, there was nothing to eat. And, like any beast convinced of its own importance above all else, in the name of Mod, the Maw turned on itself in acts only such a beast could accept or comprehend. The pollution of hundreds of years of 'letting Mod sort it out' poisoned every attempt life made at coming back. The entire paradigm of life was forced to surrender to Mod. An idea formed in the heads of a few members of one species that fueled the brutal rape and murder of a four billion year old miracle. The injustice ran so deep that the Maws were seen marching on behalf of humanity in the last days, entirely unaware that they were protesting their own existence. They would chant the right words, but when it came to giving up what separated the Maw from the humans, they dismissed it as an insanity. And then there was silence.


We left the club hours ago and I can still feel the wave of the beat. The perfectly synchronized rush to explosive electronica heaven is building in the sound system of my mind - again. And again. The chemicals are slightly wearing off so as I tip out of the cab, I fumble in my back pocket for the crushed pack of cigarettes, find the next hapless victim, cradle her in my lips and light up. I have no idea how I'm even standing but I skillfully negotiate against the refrigerated wind and as the relieving foul tasting heat crackles from the suction into my lungs, my head begins to spin - or spin faster really - and I take off again helplessly laughing at the non-existent idiosyncrasies of everyone around me. Is there anyone around me? The burning rum purchased at the airport lounge is nauseatingly dancing its way through my digestive system. Sunglasses on and sleepless, I sidle past the smiling strangers in row 31 and slump into seat A. The moment my forehead touches the cold glass, my fever subsides. Soon the chill becomes unbearable but I can't move. I'm too high to sleep. All I want to do is tap my feet to the quiet roar of the engine, wedge my face against the window. And stare. It's a 3 hour flight from New York to Chicago and beaming through the thin haze - how many feet below us? 20,000? 30,000? - lies god's ice tray. Neatly separated by the fences of past disputes and lawsuits yet to be settled, last night's snowfall purposefully shimmers in random and infinite directions. Naturally vying for the attention of the other passengers - a standard fair of middle aged business travellers, pretend writers and holiday makers - the world outside cannot compete with the opportunity of a guilt free break from the kids. Or with the - soon to be discarded forever - typing. Or even with the Adam Sandler movie being shown for the 50th first time. Most of the shades are down. As we chase the sun, stalling its escape behind the horizon, I see another plane frozen in the sky slightly ahead of us, beating us, indifferently flaunting the majesty of the parallel streams in its trail. Like a yawning peacock, fanning its tail at cooing tourists, it casually gives permission to stare at how effortless it is to be graceful and humble and beautiful. "Why don't you be beautiful too? Can't you see how easy I make it look? Now eat my dust." This is not a race. There are no television cameras or radio commentators or photographers secretly hoping for a career making collision. No one is cheering along for victory. Well.... Not on my flight anyway. But I reckon that's because we're losing.


"Everyone dies, son." We were at Wendy's. "But, why?" I asked. "God, son, I wish I could tell you. I really wish I could. But I can't." Then he thought for a second and repeated "Nope, I can't." Then he made a farting sound and we got in the car. *Your Mother* "Son, I will never say a bad word about your mother. But! I will say that you are half whore." *Religion* "Look, I was never a religious man. I was raised Catholic or - well, something. I think it was one of the ones with Jesus. God. What the hell am I? Shit...this is going to bug me. K, I went to a church or temple or - there was that lady, you know, the one that went to your mother's birthday last year with the drinking problem." He sat silently thinking. Finally he yelled "Carol!" *Fighting* "Son, you may never get in a fight in your entire life. Like you'll come close. You'll piss some people off, but no one will ever draw you out for a fight. Or, maybe you'll get swung at and you'll duck and then someone will stop the fight. Or, maybe you'll swing at someone and they won't fight back. Point is - you may never get in a fight in your entire life. It's something to think about." Then he punched me. *Get a Job* "Son, I don't want to be one of those parents that makes you go out and get a job when you turn sixteen, but I do want to offer you a job. Take a look at these." They were war bonds. It was 1992. *Drugs* "Have a seat. Your mother told me you've been taking drugs." "Yeah, I have asthma. I have an -" "I don't want to hear it!" *Women* "Son, it's time we talked about women." "OK, Dad." I said. "Women are like men, but they have purses." "OK, Dad." "Did you do your homework?" "Yeah, Dad. Can I have some money to see Last Boy Scout this weekend?" "Sure. You wanna know something else about women?" "What's that, Dad?" "They ask for money to go see movies." "OK, Dad." "I'm calling you a woman, boy!" Then he started laughing and then crying. "OK, Dad. Where's your wallet?" "A woman's got it!" He snarled. But it was on the counter. *Sandwich* "Come here, son. Look at this. That's MY sandwich. Do not touch it. OK?" I nodded. He had spent the better part of the morning making it. "It means everything to me." I nodded. He started crying "Everything." *Being a Man* "Come over here. Take a knee. Now, son, being a man doesn't just mean going out and getting loaded and hooting at women, it means eating cheeseburgers and nacho cheese, it means throwing beer cans at people and much, much more. Now blow into this tube so I can start the car." *The War* "I don't like to talk about the war." He said as I passed by him sitting alone in the living room, playing Doors records with the lights out. "That's just something I won't talk about." "OK, Dad." I said, and grabbed my backpack to go do homework. "Wait, son. There's something I never told you about the war." "What, Dad?" "Oh, now you want to know - well, I don't talk about the war." "OK, Dad." "OK, just this once. What do you want to know about the war?" "Which war?" "I don't even know. That's the main reason I don't like to talk about it." Then he started crying. Then I went and played Mario Cart. *Computers* "Son, this is a computer. I have no idea what it does. Let's go." *Oil Change* "The thing you need to know about changing oil is that you're gonna need some new oil. And an oil filter. And some beer (grabs me by the back of the neck and starts laughing to the point he's shaking, then he starts crying, then we change the oil)!" *Geology* "Son, see this here? That's shale. You know how shale is formed?" "No." "You know how rocks are formed?" "No." "Jesus, I guess I haven't been that great of a father." "You've been fine, Dad." "No. No. Look, so, let's start with subduction zones." "What are those?" "You see, the Earth - is that old Bill Cabot!" And then he just kinda ran back into the house and hid. I'm pretty sure he didn't know about Geology, but I was glad that he gave it a shot. *Babs* "You remember Babs?" "No, Dad." "God, I loved Babs. C'mon! Blond hair? Had that muffler on her car?" I still didn't know who Babs was.


Maria takes off her gloves and smells her hands, immersing herself her favourite fragrance. She then looks at the reflection in the mirror; the old lady with a permed white hair, with the reading glasses on top of the nose bridge that is unable to hide the wrinkles on her face. Maria then washes her hands and dries them, then walks out of the public restroom that is freshly painted with her favourite colour, flashing the biggest smile on her face after sixty years. Despite my old age, I am glad that I can continue my passion. --- At Maria’s seventieth birthday, she put on an act. Surrounded by young people, she instantly got the title of “Old Sister”. The title that let people came to her room for the sake of pursuing advice.

“Old Sister Maria, how do I get rid of my regret?” a newcomer asked with glossy eyes, desperately looking for an answer to dismiss guilt from her heart.

“Old Sister Maria, what should I do to be grateful for little things like you?” the women in her forties often asked. “Old Sister Maria, how should I carry on with my life?” the youngest of the bunch asked as bullets of tear streams down her cheek. Old age brought patience in her heart, so Maria answered all the queries from those young women. Maria felt joy when the young ladies honestly spoke their minds, but also pressured since every single word that she let out as the answer was monitored.

But truth to be told, Maria realized that giving advice was required for her to be set free. And she needed to be free to continue with her passion. And so, she continued to put the kindest expression on her face, lent her ears, spoke beautiful words to the women who came to her. --- At Maria’s sixtieth birthday, she was drowned in worries. The joints on her knees were starting to hurt. During the morning sports session, she realized that she ran slower and slower each day. To the point that she got to be the last one finishing the run around the field when she used to be the first during her youth. From thereon, Maria noticed other changes in her body.

The countless white hair that grew way too quick, took over the black in no time. The wrinkles on her forehead and below her eyes, as well as the sagged skin that happened all over her arms.

The monthly bloody guest that no longer appeared, entirely rendered her ability to conceive and give birth. Not that she ever wanted to, though. The eyes that started to become blurry, especially when she was reading.

The numbness of her ears, that she could not hear the youngsters’ question unless they speak loudly.

She thought to herself: Would this old body able to carry out the burning passion inside my heart? And anxiety filled her heart, made her tear up every night to sleep. --- At Maria’s fiftieth birthday, she succumbed to quietness. Maria was put to work in the library. It was a completely different working environment from what she had previously. No one included her in the little talk while working, as no one else but her who was there.

She took some time to adjust herself to the tranquillity, a thing that she always hated when she was young. Because, from her understanding, the devil would always knock on her mind and gave the various ideas that haunted her whenever silence fell. And the devil truly came when she worked in the library.

With all her might, she tried to fight the devil off from her minds by being immersed in the journey of the fictional world. The books helped her to escape from the devil’s whispers for a while, but the devil became louder than ever before, made it harder to resist. Surrounded in silence, she put her book unto the shelves and gave up to the voice in her head that strengthened her youthful passion once again. --- At Maria’s fortieth birthday, she distracted herself. Those four people that Maria used to call friends made up a story and sent her to another building to live. Those ladies whom she had fun with were now separated; she heard the rumour that one of them was set free. Those women who used to spent time with her broke their pinky promises to be always together. Angered with the fact that she had been left behind, paired up with her hate towards loneliness, Maria put all her mind and energy into work. She gladly accepts any job that came her way; be it manual labour in the field under the burning summer sun, cleaning dirty toilets, making pottery to be sold to the commercial market, even sewing clothes. Through these works, she got to meet other workers, who chatted with her about trivial matters. And that was enough to keep the devil from entering her minds. Through the busy working schedule, her body was too tired to listen to the devil’s suggestion when she laid herself in bed. And that was enough to keep her passion at bay, enough to keep her sane. --- At Maria’s thirtieth birthday, she made friends. When Maria arrived at the building, she immediately gathered a bunch of women around her age and spent most of her time with them. The group was to help her be distracted from the devil’s voice that kept reminding her of her passion but also to enjoy her youth to the fullest. The group was of seven women, who often sat at the corner and enjoyed gossiping other residents of the building during lunchtime.

The group laughed as they bullied the newcomers. The group stripped the newbies off of their clothes and toyed around with them. None of the residents could fight their behaviour, not when the group was led by Maria. The group moved further and smuggled cigarette for their use, which they obtained by selling their body to the men in uniform who guarded the building. The group also shared complaints about the tight daily schedule made for them and discussed how can they ditch their work. And they did carry it out, laughed their ass off when they managed to sneak out. The seven women promised to always be together, until one day Maria threw a suggestion. “Let’s sneak out from the building.” The suggestion that was opposed strongly by the group members, yet Maria pushed it off. The suggestion that led them to plan their step carefully. The suggestion that ended up killing three people and added ten years to Maria’s freedom. --- At Maria’s twentieth birthday, she found her passion in life. Maria was walking outside on one summer night, wandered around thinking about what she should do with her life when a guy suddenly pinned her to the bush. Filled with uncontrollable lust, the guy groped all over her.

Felt violated, a sound in her head told her to grab the small folded knife that her late father gave her. And Maria followed the voice, who instructed her to stab the guy in the nape of his neck before he could do anything further. Then, blood splatters filled the view with a shade of red that Maria had never seen. The prettiest red, easily her new favourite colour. The guy screamed in pain as he retreated on his bum; a pleasant tone that Maria had never heard. In between the scream, the devil told her to reach out to the guy, to land another blow on his chest. As she followed the devil, Maria uncovered a new smell that made her fell in love with instantly. The smell that made her hands to move faster than she had ever done. When Maria noticed the last breath had left the guy in front of her, she smiled her biggest smile as she felt fulfilled. The feeling that answered her question about life. The feeling that was so great that Maria did not notice two men in uniform held up their handgun towards her, handcuffed her, brought her away from the area. And that moment was where it all began. Where Maria realized her immoral passion. Where Maria started to hate loneliness. Where Maria started to resist the devil's temptation. Where Maria’s life in prison began.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **”The door crept open.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Last Week A smaller group of stories this week, but wonderful still. Thank you to everyone who left feedback for another writer on the thread this week. I hope to see more feedback exchanged this week. Now for spotlights! - - Submitted by u/pathetic_optimist - A story about the sacrifices we make for our children. - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A tale of love. #Two Weeks Ago Thank you everyone for being so patient. The holiday weekend was a very busy one! Great stories on the thread though, as usual. - - Submitted by u/GammaGammes - A short tale about a galactic boogeyman who can wipe out a planet with a single bullet. - - Submitted by u/LuvAPup - A fun, futuristic story about a man deciding when he’s put in his time.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Janus pinched the pill between two fingers. There was nothing striking about its appearance, it looked like your standard oblong. One half blood red, the other half a sharp white. Janus was a little surprised not to see a warning label for something so allegedly life-changing. Ingest it once and your world would never be the same, you could never go back to living the way you did before. Supposedly it was a crime to even offer Euphorium to anyone who couldn’t afford a lifetime supply. The pull of the drug was so powerful that knowing what it felt like and not being able to take it was tantamount to torture. The salesman, Maurice, was watching his evaluation of the pill with interest. “You can feel free to take one now, if you like. It’s a mild dose, the effects wear off in an hour. We have relaxation rooms if you’d like to settle in with the effects, then you can come back and review the rest of our collection.” Troy had already set his pill down. He gave Janus a wary look, before turning back to Maurice. “And how many of your customers choose a drug other than Euphorium once they’ve sampled it?” Maurice smiled. “It hasn’t happened yet. It’s our bestseller for a reason. The effects are said to be magnificent. It dials the brain’s pleasure centers up to their limits. Eternal bliss, within your grasp.” “Have you ever sampled your own product?” Janus asked. Maurice shook his head regretfully. “No, it wouldn’t be wise to start yet. I’m fifteen years away from retirement still. But once I do make it, it’ll be Euphorium all the way.” “I’ve seen the pictures.” Troy commented dryly. “Rows of bodies resting in hospital beds, their faces smiling masks, completely disengaged from reality. Living off IVs like coma patients. It’s hard to believe that could be paradise.” “Reality is created by the mind, paradise can be whatever the brain experiences.” Maurice replied smoothly. “If you have any concerns about the long nap, some of our clientele start off by switching off the drug at weekly or monthly intervals, taking the occasional breather to check in on the status of the outside world before deciding if they want to continue. But eventually, everyone seems to decide there’s no reason to walk away from heaven.” “Walk me through how it works again.” Troy interrupted. Janus groaned inwardly. He could tell from Troy's tone that his friend had already made up his mind. He was taking this time just to prove his point. Maurice launched into his spiel. “True to its name, Euphorium delivers pure ecstasy to the brain, filling it with a serene joy. There’s really no way to understand it without experiencing it. I could show you some poetry written by some of our users…” “But won’t the brain eventually become de-sensitized to the stimuli?” Janus interrupted. “Shouldn’t the effect get duller over time?” Maurice smiled. “We very delicately suppress the tolerance response in the brain to take you off of the hedonic treadmill. Your first moment with Euphorium will be as good as your last.” “My last moment is part of what concerns me.” Troy was tapping his finger on the counter. “If you’re no longer engaging with the world, how does that affect your life expectancy?” “All our evidence shows that Euphorium is actually healthier for the brain than non-assisted living.” Maurice replied. “You can expect to add ten years to your life, and if any complications do arise, you’ll have access to the best doctors in the world.” “What if we go broke, and you have to cut the drug off?” Troy asked. “Impossible. If you sign over your assets for the long nap, we’ll continue investing them on your behalf. In the unlikely event that your capital should evaporate, you’ll still be guaranteed a lifetime supply of Euphorium. Our company assumes all the risk.” “And what if your company goes bankrupt?” Janus asked. “Spoken like a businessman.” Maurice gave Janus an appreciative look. “I don’t normally do this, but I can share with you our entire business plan if you’re interested. We’re insured for a global financial meltdown, and we have enough assets on hand to continue operating for a hundred years with no additional revenue.” “It just doesn’t seem sustainable.” Janus shook his head. “If the entire population would rather live in a mentally altered state, someone still has to do the work to keep the world running. What do you do when everyone is under your care?” “Supply and demand, my friends.” Maurice said. “Our fees have been rising every year. As the supply of available labor shrinks, the price to live on Euphorium rises as a result. You’re lucky to be able to get in now. Not everyone gets to retire in their thirties.” Troy sat back and crossed his arms. “All the more reason not to throw it all away. How do you know if being on Euphorium is really a better way to live, or if the drug just makes you think it is?” “I’d argue those two are the same thing.” Maurice said. “What’s ‘better’ or ‘worse’ is entirely a function of the mind. What we know for sure is that no one ever wants to go back. All of our clients say it’s the most amazing thing they’ve ever experienced. Heaven on earth.” “Or you’ve manufactured the perfect addictive drug.” Janus spoke the words he guessed Troy was thinking. “A drug that makes you never want to stop taking it.” Maurice’s smile began to strain. “All forms of pleasure are inherently addictive. Euphorium has no chemical withdrawal markers. It’s simply a better way to live.” Maurice reached into a cupboard. “Anxiety around self-modification is perfectly understandable. The ego excels at self-defense, often to its detriment. A man who’s angry at the world would often rather stay mad than give up that identity and lose a part of himself. Luckily, we have a pill for that.” Maurice set a pair of purple oblong pills on the table. “Modicum. It disengages the ego to allow you to be more open to change. It’s like being born again, you’ll look back on your life with a fresh set of eyes, able to see your own experiences and possibilities as objectively as you would a stranger.” “A pill that makes you want to take your other pill.” Troy could hardly have seemed more repulsed if the salesman had told them the pill was stuffed with elephant dung. “Is there a pill that makes you want to take Modicum?” Maurice tried to re-assure them. “It’s nothing as sinister as that. Mental processing is simply prone to getting stuck in ruts. A person who’s used to feeling angry all the time lets that anger become a part of what they perceive to be their core identity, and they’re naturally afraid to give it up. Modicum reduces that defensiveness, and lets the user evaluate objectively whether they’d be happier if their personality was different. Some of our clients take Modicum even without an eye to evaluating other treatment options, saying it broadens their perspective, making them more open to change.” “Wouldn’t it always lead to the same conclusion?” Janus flicked one of the purple pills and set it spinning. “It sounds like Euophorium is an attractor state for the mind. If you no longer feel the need to preserve your old identity, what could be better than bliss, and taking Euphorium?” Maurice scooped both sets of pills off the counter. “From my point of view, nothing. But it’s worth noting that not all of our clients end up choosing Euphorium. We have a wealth of other options. However you want your brain to work, we can arrange it.” Maurice set a new pill on the table, a dull grey oblong pill. “Victorium. Quite popular with our results-driven individuals. It amplifies the brain’s reward mechanism for success. Every triumph is that much more sweet, every minor victory feels that much better. It's simply allowing your brain to celebrate how amazing you are. Even simply solving a crossword or finishing a Sudoku feels like the crowning achievement of a lifetime with Victorium.” “Which would presumably make you less effective at accomplishing any given task.” Troy didn’t seem to think the pill deserved a first glance. “And leave you out of touch with everyone who wasn’t as impressed by your mediocre success.” “All true.” Maurice acknowledged gamely. “You have to consider though, that being effective stops being a concern once you’ve made enough money to live as you please forever. And if you’re interested in the respect of your peers, we have a product that can deliver that sensation…” “So long as you’re fine living in a delusion.” Janus finished the salesman’s sentence for him. “That just sounds like a lesser form of Euphorium, cheating your brain into thinking it’s happier than nature thinks it should be.” “In which case why not try the real thing?” Maurice offered up the question, despite the looks on their faces suggesting he was gaining little traction. “Once you’ve transcended the need to fight for survival, there’s no reason to keep your brain from being as happy as it can be. Some philosophers claim ascending to a state of pure pleasure and joy is the natural evolution for the species. Once you break your evolutionary shackles compelling you to survive and reproduce, there’s nothing left to do but ascend to a care-free existence where you can engage in unbridled hedonism.” “So all the time we spent working up until now was pointless?” Troy asked. Maurice shook his head. “Not at all. But you’ve worked hard enough and added enough value to society that you’ve earned your way into paradise.” “What else have you got?” Janus jumped in before Troy could resume arguing. This was clearly getting them nowhere. Maurice slid open another drawer. “Some of our clients prefer to maintain an active social life, rather than leaving behind the connections they’ve made up until now. We have a number of enhancements you might consider.” Two pink pills slid onto the counter. “Empathium. This treatment super-charges the mirror neurons in your brain. If you’ve ever felt bored at a party or unable to relate to someone, this is the cure for all of that. Your brain will become more empathetic than you would have thought possible, our clients say they can instantly understand how someone is feeling, relate to them as intensely as a parent to a newborn, and have an intuitive sense for how to make them happy. We have reports of withdrawn, awkward individuals turning into the life of the party. It supercharges your social awareness, making you more exciting and more excitable. We can flip you from an introvert to an extrovert, or dial up your extraversion even higher.” “And what if you’re fine not being the life of the party?” Janus asked. “What if you don’t want to care about the things you don’t currently care about?” “We keep returning to the paradox of identity, there really is no answer.” Maurice smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with introversion or extraversion, we’re simply offering the choice. Some of our clients take Empathium on as-needed basis, for large social events and corporate functions. Some even report the curious experience of not knowing which version of themselves is superior. When on Empathium, they’re fully convinced that they are a creature of superior social awareness, and their previous self is dull and uninteresting. Off Empathium, they experience a similar disdain for their previous self that was using the drug, as an easily distracted social butterfly.” “Then who’s right?” Janus asked. “Neither. Both.” Maurice said. “One version finds social engagement the most fascinating thing in the world. Another regards it as far less interesting than leading a rich inner life. Both are simply a question of what the brain prefers. And it’s perfectly consistent to toggle between two sets of preferences.” “Surely there’s a right answer though. One has to have a greater survival value…” Janus felt like he was grasping at straws. “It’s entirely possible that the greatest survival value comes from adapting your values to your situation.” Maurice said. “Empathium may be perfect for the saleswoman needing to close a big client, but being off the drug might be better when she’s filling out expense reports or doing her own accounting. She would simply get used to switching between multiple versions of herself, each of whom finds whatever she’s currently doing to be the most fulfilling thing in the world, allowing her to put her entire focus into it.” “That’s mildly terrifying.” Troy muttered. “If modifying your values and preferences is as easy as you say, why does no one ever leave Euphorium?” “Well, some people do settle on a mode of functioning as being superior.” Maurice said. “Even if their values are different, if our hypothetical saleswoman remembered being substantially happier on or off the drug, she could eventually settle on staying that way. Euphorium is simply the global optimum for brain states. Although…” Maurice lowered his voice to a whisper. “I shouldn’t be saying this at all, but we’re working on a version with chemical inhibitors to long-term memory formation. You’d be able to experience Euphorium, and leave yourself a message describing how you felt at the time. You might even be able to sample it, and return to normal functioning without the same sense of loss.” Janus blinked in disbelief. “Are people really going to pay for a pleasant experience they don’t get to remember?” “What’s more important, the memory or the experience?” Maurice asked. “You could consider it a chance to hear from the version of yourself who has experienced the other side.” “I’m not taking Euphorium, memories or no memories.” Troy said firmly, then glanced at Janus who also nodded his head. “What are your other options?” Maurice slid two orange pills onto the counter. “Imaginarium. What Empathium is for relating to other people, Imaginarium is for being immersed in the world of ideas. Are either of you avid readers?” “Haven’t had the time.” Janus said. It was partly a lie, which Maurice’s knowing look suggested he understood. “Been awhile since you’ve been able to lose yourself in a good book?” Maurice pointed at the orange pill. “Imaginarium can change that for you. It enhances your brain’s creative faculty. You’ll find yourself abile to visualize alternate realities in vivid detail, feel other worlds come alive in your head physically, emotionally. Depending upon how strong we prepare the dose and the strength of the stimuli, you might feel like you are literally immersed in another world when reading a book, or engage in a video game as if you were actually living the life of the protagonist, your brain filling the gaps with smells and sounds. You can allow a piece of music to directly translate your emotional state, letting you feel love, joy, or serenity. With each mental journey under your complete control. It’s the Euphorium you can steer…” “But what would the point be?” Troy interrupted. “None of it’s real.” Janus couldn’t help but agree. Neither of them had kept up with TV, movies, or any of the endless entertainment distractions that were available. Janus couldn’t say why, but each option felt too much like a drug to him already, another way to dull the passage of time and enter a false reality that left you craving your next fix. “It provides the brain with enjoyment, stimulation.” Maurice faltered. “Immersing yourself in another world is also a way to study new ideas, gain new perspective. Watching a film on the Titanic for example...” “If I want to study the Titanic, I’ll study the Titanic, I don’t need some drug so I can lie to myself and feel like I’m there.” Troy shook his head. “I take a certain amount of pride that I don’t spend time zoning out in front of a screen, accomplishing nothing. I’m not sure why taking a pill to start doing that will make my life better.” “The mental journeys you take don’t have to be fake.” Maurice said, looking back and forth between both of them hoping to catch a sympathetic eye. “You can re-live old memories as if they were happening to you for the first time.” “I’ve never been one to dwell on the past.” Troy gave a knowing look to Janus. “I can understand you might say that now, but if it changing that about yourself would make you happier…” Maurice’s voice trailed off. “If the point is to be happier, why not just take Euphorium?” Troy threw his hands up in the air. “You have a pill that gives you emotional highs based on how other people feel. A pill that gives you a rush from losing yourself in imaginary worlds. They all just seem like gateway drugs to Euphorium, one step closer to disengaging from reality to feel better about yourself. How is that not a worse way to live?” “There is no definition of better or worse that exists outside the mind.” Maurice seemed on the verge of snapping. “If you’re not willing to try Modicum to broaden your perspective, I don’t know what I can tell you. It’s clear you’re locked into a neurophobic mindset, unwilling to step outside the cage you’ve built for your own mind. If you’re not interested in being happy, then there’s nothing I can do for you.” Troy was already standing up to leave. “I don’t know if I want to be happy, but I can definitely say I don’t want this.” Janus stood up, a little more reluctantly. Maurice tossed them both a packet with a brochure. “In case either of you come to your senses. A sampler pack. Only one more we haven’t discussed. Medium. A low-intensity mix of Empathium and Imaginarium. You can read about it on your own time.” Maurice was already shuffling them towards the door. Janus waited until they had left the building before speaking to Troy. “You’re just giving him a hard time, right? To get them to come back and engineer something bespoke for us?” Troy shook his head. “Sorry if I made it worse for you in there. But I’m not going back. This isn’t for me.” “But…” Janus struggled to find the words. “You’ve made more than enough money to retire. What are you going to do with yourself?” “Go back to work.” Troy said dryly. “Why?” “Because I don’t want to just turn into a worse version of myself.” Troy’s eyes were clear and focused as he stared back at Janus. “I like what we do, I feel like our work matters in a way nothing in there does. It keeps the world going. Even if I don’t need to do it anymore, I’d rather have a job and something to live for than spend the rest of my life feeling useless. Or turn myself into a vegetable, taking a pill so I don’t feel useless, taking a pill so I don’t feel guilty about taking the first pill, and eventually just taking the pill to become a mindlessly happy drone.” “I thought this was the whole point though.” Janus felt like he’d been cheated somehow, although he couldn’t articulate why. “Isn’t retirement all we were looking forward to for all these years?” “If it was, then we were wrong. You can go back in and be happy, if you want.” Troy gave one last look at the packet Maurice had handed him, then tossed it into the trash. “I’d rather be me.” \ Janus lay in his bed that night, staring at the packet. Euphorium. Modicum. Victorium. Empathium. Imaginarium. Medium. Six pills. Each of which would make him into a different person. A person who would presumably like who they were, with no desire to ever change back. It would be like stepping into a teleporter, having every atom in your body disintegrated and recreated at the other end. The original you would be gone forever, with a clone standing in your place. It would be like getting a complete brain transplant, under the logic that your new self would be happier than your old one. He would be letting his identity die. So someone else could live a better life. He should just throw the whole set of pills away. Janus lifted the packet to toss it into the trash, before changing his mind at the last second. He opened it up once more to look at its contents. Maurice’s point about the saleswoman switching between two states until she found the one that made her happier had left an impression on him. If he genuinely would be happier with a medically induced personality change, he’d never know unless he tried. And if he had the option to switch back, he could at least make the choice with his eyes open. Janus swallowed the saliva in his throat. Was he really considering this? He took a moment to examine each of the pills. Euphorium terrified him. It seemed like a mental dead end, a gilded cage for the mind. Modicum seemed like the next logical step if he was going down this road… but that also seemed like it would be making the choice for him, committing to detaching himself from his identity and letting a stranger take over. Victorium, Empathium, Imaginarium… Janus’s fingers finally settled on the small red pill. Medium. It seemed like the mildest, safest treatment they had. If he was going to try any of the pills, it might as well be this one. A few new sensations, maybe. Nothing irreversible. Janus gulped down the pill in a single swallow, setting the other pills on his bedside table. He gave it a few seconds. He didn’t feel that different yet. How long before the pills were supposed to take effect? Janus flipped open the pamphlet that came with the packet. Janus suddenly cried out in pain as a burning sensation filled the back of his head. His brain felt like it was on fire, surging and firing in unexpected ways. A swirl of emotions coursed through him. Anger, surprise, fear, each experienced more intensely than he had felt them in years. Janus bit his lip and tried to hold on. He must have gotten a bad dose. The drug’s effects couldn’t last for that long, he just had to weather the storm. Janus closed his eyes and willed the torrent raging within him to stop. When he opened his eyes again, Janus saw a sight he hadn’t seen in ages. He was in Troy’s old apartment, years ago. He could barely remember how long it had been, it felt like another lifetime. Janus blinked again, and he was back in his bedroom. The image of the apartment had seemed completely real to him. If he looked for it, he could still see it in the back of his mind. “You have to see this.” It was Troy’s voice, as audible as if he were in the room. In a panic, Janus reached for his phone on the bedside table, almost knocking it to the ground before grabbing it and dialing the number on the pamphlet. The scene of Troy’s old apartment was beginning to cement itself in his vision. Maurice answered in a bored tone. “Hello?” “I think something’s wrong with the pill I took.” Janus spoke as quickly as he could. “You have to help me. My brain feels like it’s on fire.” “Neural readjustment can be an intense process the first few times, I assure you it’s nothing to worry about.” Maurice began to perk up. “Which one of our products did you try?” “Medium. Listen, I’m hallucinating.” “Hmm. That’s rare for new users, although there can sometimes be some side effects if you have anything else in your system. This was all mentioned in the waiver you signed this morning. Experiencing emotions you haven’t felt in a while can awaken associated memories, and the recall grows more intense as your brain’s imaginative faculties expand. It’ll all pass soon enough. If you examine the pamphlet…” Janus let his phone slip onto the floor and collapsed back into his bed. The scene playing out in front of him was already too vivid to ignore. Troy was standing in front of him with a grin on his face. “This is going to change our lives.” Troy was smiling, his long hair had been cut short, the shortest Janus had ever seen. His guitar was resting underneath a pile of books. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. That was odd. Troy never went a day without playing his guitar. “What is it?” Janus heard himself say the words with a curiosity he sincerely felt. He remembered this conversation on some level. But he hadn’t thought about it in years. There had been no need. “It’s a new drug.” Troy was shaking a pill bottle in front of him. “They call it Optimum. It enhances everything you do. Makes you smarter, more effective, more focused. I taught myself Mandarin in a week. Learned quantitative finance yesterday. We could rule the world with this stuff.” “So why isn’t anyone else?” Janus mouthed the words in bed as he heard himself say them. Troy shook his head. “It’s years away from clinical trials. Rumor has it, some of the big names in Wall Street are already using it. The world will turn into a rat race once this stuff goes public, but we can get in early. Get to the top of the heap before anyone else.” Troy seemed overcharged and amped up, his mind working so fast the words could barely keep up. “I got my hands on a supplier. The best part is, this batch is non-addictive. It changes your brain chemistry each time you use it until eventually, the pill has no effect. After a month, you’re just on Optimum all the time, even without the drug.” “What else does it change?” Janus’s gaze turned to the unused guitar. Troy grimaced. “Some minor stuff. It dials down empathy, imagination, anything that’s not strictly achievement oriented. Music is much worse. I can’t even watch TV anymore. Anything that doesn’t help you get ahead simply gets filtered out as noise.” “So you’re far more efficient, but less happy. Only dialed into reality.” Janus said dryly. “It sounds like the opposite of that drug Euphorium.” “Yeah, but the effects are reversible.” Troy pointed to another bottle on the wall. “They already have the cure for it.” “Have you taken it yet?” Janus studied him curiously. Troy shook his head. “I will. But only when I’ve made enough money to retire. I’ll stay in the game for as long as it takes, then get out.” “And be a soulless monster in between.” Troy looked a little guilty he glanced at the guitar lying idle, then shrugged. “It’s not so bad. It makes it so you enjoy solving even the most repetitive problems. Your brain trains itself to do whatever it takes to succeed.” “As much as you enjoyed writing music? Going to festivals?” “No.” Troy shook his head. “But I’m not going to have the time for that until I retire anyway. Would you rather spend 40 years working shit jobs and hating your life, or spend 10 years, loving your job until the moment you leave it, then get out? If we get in on this early, we could retire in our thirties. Our twenties, even.” “I don’t know…” Troy had already handed him a pill. A white and red generic. “You should at least try it.” Troy’s voice sounded sincere. “If you hate how it feels, it’s easy to go back. Ask yourself who you want to be ten years from now. You could be rich, and able to live however you want, or you could be dirt poor, with nothing to show for it.” With more than a handful of misgivings, Janus swallowed the pill. It burned down his throat, filling his head with a white-hot fire. Seconds later, the vision had been wiped clean. He was back in his apartment, lying alone in his bed. His eyes felt like they must be bloodshot. Moisture was dripping out of them, the words he had wanted to say left unspoken.


Once upon a time there was a dog. The dogs name was Rover, and the story is over. Be glad that is not our story, for you see, our story also starts with a dog. A little dog and a little girl. Ever since he could remember he was on the streets. He didn't remember much from his puppy years- only faint impressions of family and warmth remained in the deepest recesses of his memory. Cold winds and frigid rain devoured everything in their path- but he was safe... in a ramshackle cardboard box. He was safe in his little corner of alley, ignored by the hurried people with sharp voices and pounding footsteps. He didn't like people. Not those people anyway. When all he could see were their dangerous shoes and loping limbs, ignorant of an entire world of street dogs and cats that are eating street rats. They rushed away from the rain, business suits, raggedy coats and anything in between, empty streets they said- blind to life in between. In between meals, homes and danger, the only things as constant to him as his tail, the promise of a meal with the little girl and his name. "See you tomorrow!" Echoes in his ears again. He had just gotten a good meal, a soft pet and lots of love. The girl- a title which he thinks with all the adoration possible, because she's The Girl. The only human he thinks of as something other that 'giant', a generic title that stuck. The small dog scarcely remembers a time when he didn't come to The Girl everyday, didn't have a guaranteed meal and companionship for some time. She was always so nice, he tried to show her as much love as he could in return. Her soft voice was a melody in a world of screeches and anger. The only time he had ever heard her stern was when he nudged a cylinder of metal next of her- or the weird tubes that connected it to her face. She had gasped- shoving him away in her panic. But more than that, she was scared- and hurt, when he did that. He never did it again. Snapping back to reality on a gloomy day- a tad warmer than yesterday, he finished scarfing down his meal. A blend of something that tasted amazing and The Girl had gotten just for him. She looked back at him smiling softly. A voice called from her house. "I'll see you tomorrow." The way she said tomorrow- said it everyday was inflicted with so much emotion that even normal human hearing would be able to sense the difference. The terrier may not notice the small contortions of her expression of even emotions in her eyes, but what he did notice, sharper than any human- and more insightful was his own language. The slight tensing of muscles to form a 'fist' (Aggression? Determination?); A slight tilt of the head towards the tank; and a hopeful inflection on her tone. Naturally, he assumed she would say nothing else but his name with such emotion. The small terrier knew, like the sky is blue, that his name was Tomorrow. To him that was that. His little world summed up by noisy streets and summer heat, by little girls and cats that made him hurl, that even in the scary snow, devoid the chirp of a sparrow, his name was Tomorrow. There was a routine never broken. Bent in places, a little dented, but whole and unbroken. Until today. The little girl wasn't there. He always found her, always knew her, she had a distinct smell- that made some of his instincts think she was weak, but the rest to comfort her. But she, along with her strange tubes and tanks and half-smiles was gone. The last thing he remembered seeing yesterday, while he was halfway across the street, was a blaring alarm and a screeching van,(red? white?). She had said she'd see him. See Tomorrow. See him Tomorrow. He waited for hours. Sitting. Waiting. A car pulled up. He jumped up, tail wagging, ready to greet her. Two giants came out- the ones who sometimes called for her and watched her, one in tears and one shell shocked. Two giants, but no little Girl. A ramshackle cardboard box. That was where he sat. Despite the icy, frigid rain- the harsh unforgiving footsteps of the people, Tomorrow curled protectively around his memories of The Girl, her half hazy forgotten face, and the way she said his name. Determined to meet him. Determined to meet Tomorrow. Cold whispers brushed past him; Tomorrow felt warm.