Terry Sinclair boarded his private jet alongside his security team. He sat down and poured himself a glass of Domaine Leroy Les Beaux Monts. “Ahh,” he sighed, savoring a large sip of the wine. “Where to now?” His bodyguard Lance confirmed the itinerary. “Heading to Paris, then London. We’ll be there in less than two hours, sir.” “Great, I can get some sleep,” Terry yawned and rubbed his hands over his neatly combed, auburn hair. His young face was handsomely impassive as he stared blankly out the window at Berlin’s twinkling lights. A small amount of stubble grazed his upper lip and chin. After take-off, Terry went to his bedroom on the plane, and passed out in his fine suit on the plush duvet.

*** Landing in Paris was somewhat of an issue. Terry needed to be in a meeting in less than 20 minutes. He exhaled deeply, why was landing a private jet always such a hassle? He told his PA, Sarah, to pay the hanger an extra few thousand to land immediately. He looked through the window as he sipped his wine. They were scrambling to remove a plane from the landing strip below. “Come on, Sarah! I won’t be late for this meeting, tell them to get a move on!” He shouted from his seat. “Of course, sir.” Sarah frantically dialed on her mobile and shouted at someone. After five more minutes, the plane below was moved off to the side, and Sarah announced they were clear to land.

*** After another lengthy meeting in London, Terry double—no, triple checked with Sarah that his itinerary was now open. She kept repeating “yes sir, yes sir,” bobbing her head like one of those silly figurines people stuck to their car dashboards. Terry wasn’t convinced. Just last month, he'd arrived at his mansion outside Toronto when he got a call saying he was supposed to be in Sante Fe that night! He couldn’t believe Sarah had botched his schedule so badly. He’d almost fired her. But sadly, it was hard to find good PAs.

Terry spent almost the whole flight home on the phone. Business calls assaulted him for hours, until finally, Sarah announced they were done for the day. “Great, I’m going to sleep. What time will it be when we get home?” Terry asked the nervous-looking PA. “Um, 3 pm sir. But Mr. Sinclair, sir… Laurel is trying to get hold of you.” “Can’t it wait till we’re there?” Terry groaned. “Well, we did say we’d call her on the way home.” “Fine, dial her,” Terry grumbled. The last thing he wanted was an irritating woman in his ear, but he couldn't really avoid it. Between Sarah and Laurel, he was never going to get a quiet moment. Sarah handed Terry the mobile, “Hey baby, yes I’m on my way home now. We’ll be there around 3 pm. Everything’s fine, I want to sleep before I get there. Okay, yep. Bye-bye.” *** Terry arrived at the country mansion at 6 pm. He immediately went to the kitchen and fixed himself a drink. His mobile was ringing. Damn Laurel, he thought, irritated. “Are you home yet, honey?” his girlfriend asked when he picked up the phone. “Hi, yes, I just got in the door.” “Oh! Okay… you said three, so I was going to surprise you, but no one answered the gate.” “Yeah, you know what.... I'm beat. Can we just cancel today and I’ll call you tomorrow?” “Oh! Yes, of course… I understand…” Laurel’s voice trailed off. He could tell she was disappointed.

“Look, y’know I want to see you. But I’m so jet-lagged, I need some time to myself.” “Okay… but you’ll call tomorrow, right?” “Yep.” *** Laurel sat in her tiny apartment in Burlington, scrolling through Netflix on the TV. She understood Terry had been travelling a lot lately, and really, she did feel for him. He must be exhausted, with all the commuting and meetings. She couldn’t understand why he had to be there in person so often. Didn’t they invent video conferences for a reason? She opened her computer and googled the distances Terry had travelled the past week, out of curiosity. Laurel didn’t understand anything about the corporate world, so she tried not to question things. Who knew why he had to be there in person so often, but he did, and she had to deal with it. Truly, she tried to be understanding. She wouldn't be aggravated now if he hadn’t cancelled the last ten plans they’d made together. Ten. In a row! Although, with Terry being a CEO, cancelled plans were inevitable. Things came up, she understood. But how was she supposed to have a relationship with a man, if he couldn’t even keep one appointment with her? She hadn’t seen him in-person for about three months… and now he was home—a mere 30 minute drive away, and he didn’t want to see her… Tears threatened to sting at her eyes. She decided maybe a new lingerie would be a nice surprise for Terry, so she grabbed her purse and headed for the mall. Two days later…

Laurel was crying. She sat in her empty apartment, her dark hair done up in curls. She was wearing a pretty, red bodycon dress, which complimented her curvy figure. Her mascara and eyeshadow were smudged, and she kept dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, vainly trying to preserve the rest of her makeup. Her apartment was neat and tidy, apart from the shopping bags piled in a corner. A large lacy bra, a Gucci clutch, and some elegant clothes spilled onto the floor. Laurel dabbed at her eyes again, picked up her cell, and texted: Terry, are you still busy? i’m off work today i could drop by now?? haven’t seen you in months, baby i miss you! 😘 Four hours later, Terry texted back: Sorry babe come over now if you want!

“Now?!” Laurel screeched. She was in the middle of making pasta for her lunch tomorrow, and she had to be up at 6 am the next morning for work.

Laurel bit her lip and texted: Ok! be right there. She then rapidly turned off the stove, placed her half-cooked pasta in the fridge, fixed her makeup, and threw on her new lingerie and the red dress she’d been wearing earlier. She was getting good at getting ready fast.

*** Terry got the text from Laurel as he came out of the shower. Awesome, Laurel was coming over! He would convince her to spend the night. He knew she typically didn’t stay up late because of her ridiculously early shifts at the café, but she could call in sick if she had to. Terry ruffled his hair with a towel, threw on a t-shirt and shorts, then waited for Laurel in his massive living room. He put on YouTube and set a bottle of whiskey on the table. Hey, why not do shots once Laurel gets here? Terry opened the bottle of 18 year Macallan Scotch and set out glasses and ice.

Not long after her text, Terry got a call from his front gate. He buzzed Laurel through and, slightly tipsy, opened the door. She came in looking like she was ready for the club, and threw her arms around him.

“It’s so good to see you, finally,” she gushed. “Yeah, sorry, but… y'know, I have business in town to deal with too,” Terry replied. Finally? It hadn’t been that long since he’d seen her, had it? “Your hair is longer,” he commented. “Well, it’s been three months,” she replied.

“Really? Well, hey—time flies, let’s drink.”

“I have to work tomorrow morning, I can’t drink.” “Oh, c’mon,” Terry teased and wheedled until she took one shot with him. One shot led to a couple more, which led to the bedroom.

After a while, they stumbled back downstairs and put on a movie. Laurel was in a silk nightgown and Terry in his boxers. After a few minutes, their conversation began to turn a little sour. It started with Laurel asking when they could spend more time together, which irked Terry.

“Laurel, I’m spending as much time with you as I possibly can,” he said, a little aggressively.

“Okay, I understand, I do. But… the thing is you say one thing and then you do another… or another thing happens. Like, you didn’t call or text me for two days after you got back! What am I supposed to think?” Laurel stated, trying not to get upset. “You’re supposed to think I’m busy and I’ll call when I can .” “Okay, okay! But, don’t get mad—” “I’m not mad, you’re mad for things that aren’t my fault!” Terry shouted. At some point he'd stood up. Laurel stayed seated on the couch and nodded, “No, no. Just… you say I’m your girlfriend, and you say you want a committed relationship with me—but you also say we’re going out this night or meeting at this time… then you never show up! Half the time you stand me up and you don’t even call to explain!” Terry grabbed the whiskey and poured himself more than a shot’s worth. He downed it and looked at her, “You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under. I don’t need you giving me crap.” He walked out through the sliding door onto the deck.

Laurel followed him and noticed he’d taken the bottle of whiskey along. “Hang on! I’m not giving you crap. I’m just saying maybe there are things we need to work on, especially if we want this relationship to continue.” “So you’re not happy?” Terry countered, sitting on a patio chair. “Not happy spending my money? Not happy with the clothes, the makeup… I can see every shop you go to, y’know. It’s all there on the credit card bill.” “What?” Laurel said, taken aback. Terry had never raised this as an issue before. “I— Terry, if you don’t want me to use the credit card, I won’t! I don’t use it for food or bills… I pay those myself, I—” He cut her off, “That’s what it’s about, eh?” He chuckled. “You want me to pay your rent? I will, I’ll pay for everything. You don’t have to work at that stupid coffee shop anymore…” “It’s a book café, not a coffee shop! And I like working there! I don’t want to quit. Why does my job mean nothing to you?” Terry laughed, “Because it’s a frickin’ joke!” Laurel started to cry… why was he being such an asshole? She tried to calm herself and wipe her tears, as Terry took another swig from his whiskey bottle.

“Look, Laurel,” Terry stated, “If you’re not happy, buy another purse, or y’know what? Another one of those lingerie things like you wore tonight. Buy whatever you want, okay? I don’t care, I’ll pay your rent—or you can live here. Whatever will make you happy…” And how could she argue with that? Terry thought smugly, as he lit up a smoke. He tried to stand, but was a little wobbly, so he sat again. When he looked back up at her face, Laurel seemed angry, hurt, sad… anything but happy.

“ What is your problem?!” Terry said, or maybe he shouted it. He didn’t mean to shout. But this was frustrating, damn it. He offered to provide for her, offered as much time as he had for her… he was stretched thin as it was. What more did she expect from him? “You… you jerk,” Laurel whispered.

“Sorry, what?” Terry asked. Then suddenly, Laurel erupted with tears and angry words, “You jerk! I don’t want you money, I don’t want you to pay my bills, I don’t want to quit my job! Why are you treating me like I’m some kind of gold digger? I didn’t ask you for anything. You offered me the credit card, and I only use it to buy clothes and stuff, to look good for you! Asshole !” “Jesus, Laurel, I didn’t mean it like that… what do you want then?” “You! I just want to spend time with you… I want a relationship. I want to do things together, and not be stood up for months on end with lame excuses!” “Excuses!” Terry stood now and shouted back. “I’m working! I’m not screwing around or cheating if that’s what you think… like I’d have time even if I wanted to!” “No, I never thought that! But why did you make a commitment to me, why do you promise me things if you know you can’t deliver?” “Promise you things?” Terry was confused. Did she want an engagement ring or something? “Whatever you want, just buy it. I don’t care, you can have whatever you want —” “I’m not talking about material things, Terry! Damn it, you missed my birthday, you stood me up dozens and dozens of times— I’ve lost count! If you won’t make time for this relationship, then why did you commit to it? Why promise you’ll be there for me… when I need you, I can’t even get a hold of your PA!” “I’m busy—” “I’m sick of waiting around, being understanding, and never having any support from you. Can’t we at least talk about changing things? That’s all I’m asking.” Laurel began to calm down. These thoughts had been silently consuming her for months. It felt good to let it out.

But Terry, who found this conundrum more difficult to solve than his itinerary, business meetings, or his private jet maintenance, was done being patient with the situation.

“You know what Laurel,” he said coldly, “Get your things. Lance will drive you home now.” *** Several days after things went south with Laurel, Terry remembered something important. He sat on a stool at the marble counter of his home bar, staring at a paper bill in his hand. He’d registered the MasterCard he gave Laurel under her name. It was to help build her credit score, it was under her social insurance number…

Knowing full well that she couldn’t pay off the bill, he sent a text to Sarah: Send the Platinum MasterCard bill to Laurel.

He received a text back immediately: Are you sure? I thought we promised to pay it each month? Terry stared at the word that both Sarah and Laurel had used: promised . Laurel’s voice echoed in his mind for the hundredth time. Why do you promise me things if you know you can’t deliver…

With a rush of anger and spite, he texted his PA back: it’s under her name, it’s her bill i’m not paying it. SEND IT. Three dots indicated Sarah was typing. The dots stopped. After a minute, the dots were back, and Sarah’s response appeared: Of course, Mr. Sinclair.


“Order up! Twenty-three! Do we have a number twenty-three?” A woman walked up to the counter in front of me. Her stomach pushed tighter against her gray sweatshirt than her breasts, and her hair was matted against her forehead sticky with sweat. I was looking into eyes that bore the intensity of a hunger not fed for days. She reached out her bloated hands. The double-double with extra crispy fries sat there steaming. *Fuck, I hate this part.* She was about to grab hold of the tray, and I flipped the switch located under the counter. The contents burst into flame. Burger, fries, and vanilla milkshake were incinerated. Little heaps of ashen coal now smoldered in front of her. “*No*!” She turned away dejected, and began her trek back to the end of the line. I turned to my fellow cashier. “Paul. I’m gonna take a lunch break. You want to come?” “Yeah, okay. Let me call for some replacements.” Paul walked over to the landline affixed to the wall next to the register. “Yeah, could we get two down here? Just for twenty minutes or so. Yeah? Thanks.” I walked over to the elevator next to the fridge where the meat is stored. *Ding.* “Hey, you’re the two?” I was looking at the pair of men dressed in civilian attire now coming out of the sliding metal doors. Neither looked much older than me. “Yeah, we’re it. Are you Paul?” The one with the beard and gray flannel shirt had spoken. “No. His co-worker. Michael. So, have you guys done this before?” “Yeah. More than either of us would like to.” His friend stood without talking, staring vacantly into the packed waiting area. *Good. Teaching some newly departed how to cook and scorch food is not how I want to spend my lunch break.* “Well then, I guess you know where the uniforms are. Paul and I’ll be back in a little while.” “Sounds good, man. Take your time, we’ll make sure not to burn the place down.” He said this with a little laugh. I walked away and told Paul our replacements were here. “Good. So, what’ll it be today?” he said. “This lovely *In-N-Out*, serving only the freshest in the underworld’s fast-food cuisine? Or maybe *Burger King*, where you can ‘have it your way,’ so long as your way is charcoaled.” “I don’t care. Let’s just grab something from here and sit outside.” We forked two sizzling patties off the stainless steel grill and slapped them on the buns that lay open on our plates. I followed Paul out of the shop to one of the stark white tables. We sat underneath its red and yellow umbrella, even there was no need under the gray, sunless sky. The foot-worn pavement surrounding the establishment had no discernable boundaries. Countless starving faces that filled the lot stared at us as we took our seats. *What they would give for just one bite.* I clamped my teeth down around the bun and a collective groan issued from the mass. The first time I’d heard it I nearly jumped out of my seat. Now it’s just part of the job. I swallowed my first bite. “Hey, Paul. Do you ever feel like an asshole?” “What?” “Just sitting out here, eating. Some of these people haven’t eaten in weeks. Others, months or even years.” Paul was washing down a handful of salt covered fries with a *Dr. Pepper*. “I don’t know, man. Of all the shit they go through? Us out here eating is just one, very, very small contributor, you know?” “I guess. It’s just the whole situation seems kinda fucked up. Like, when you died, is this what you expected?” “Hell fuckin’—*shit*. I mean, *hell fuckin’ no*.” Paul had caught himself speaking too loudly. Not that whispering makes a difference—we know that He hears everything. I kept my voice down too. “I read *The Divine Comedy* in college, and I thought ‘bull-fuckin’ shit.’ No way any of that ecclesiastical crap could be real.” “True…but this isn’t really anything like what Dante described.” “I didn’t mean in terms of exact content, man. Just the idea in general. The whole ‘circles of hell’ thing? I mean, come on.” I took another mouthful of my burger. “Yeah, well, times change. Maybe it *was* like that for him. Maybe we—we as in, like, humans—are making improvement. Now? Yes, it’s shitty. No, it’s not as bad as it could be.” “As bad as it could be? No, definitely not. I agree. But, God’s sort of a Dick, you know?” I took a look around the third circle. Restaurant, after restaurant, after restaurant. *Burger King, McDonalds, Jack In the Box, Applebees, Denny’s, P.F. Chang’s*—the list goes on. And what surrounds these restaurants? Fat people. Fat people as far as the eye could see, standing in line to get into the establishment of their choosing. Fat people of both genders. Fat people of all races. The only unifying factor among the customers is their obesity. I took a gulp of my vanilla milkshake. “When I read it—and other stuff about Hell—I thought, ‘something must be wrong.’ God is all-powerful and all-knowing and all-loving, and yet He holds this petty of a fucking grudge? He has an entire circle of Hell devoted to gluttony? Seems like a waste of energy if you ask me.” Paul had finished with his fries and was moving on to the burger. Through a full mouth he said, “Maybe he just needed somewhere for us to go. Fill in our hours. How many more do you have left anyway?” “2,733.” We all know our number. “Well see, that’s something. Over halfway done. And at least you can eat, right?” “I guess. But I mean, *this* for not going to church on Sundays? Stuck in fucking Purgatory? Working here?” “Hey, man, I don’t think anyone likes it anymore than you do. But what’re you gonna do about it?” “What can you do? I see these people shuffle in line for hours upon hours. They finally get their turn to taste what got them here in the first place. The meal of their dreams sits there on a platter, the scent dancing around their noses. They reach down and *poof*. Up in smoke. Back to the end of line. If they’re stuck here, then I guess we are too.” I was almost finished with my burger. “And for what? Because they had one, two, maybe two hundred too many fucking Happy Meals, they have to wait in line until their bodies have eaten away the excess fat so that they meet Heaven’s standards? It just seems kind of…sadistic.” Paul was licking the salt and grease from his fingers. “I hear you. But like I said, what’s there to do?” “Nothing, I guess. Nothing.” I had finished eating.


TW: Swearing, brief references to the beast with two backs. I woke up with a headache that could crack a god’s skull. It panged for the pure blackness of deep space. Dusty floorboards kissed my cheek as I grumbled to my feet. Dancing in the air, particles of dust were keeping the party going. Throbbing agony pulsed with the beat of my heart. The ache extended far beyond the confines of my head into the air beyond.             Curtains that didn’t deserve the name were letting in most of the sun from outside despite being drawn. I gave them a middle finger to let the bastards know what I thought of them.             It wasn’t my home. I was sure of little, but I was sure of that. The familiar scent of grass was absent.             I’d been drinking the night before. And presumably some of the morning. A look at my phone might answer some questions. I patted my pockets. They were closer to the rest of me than usual. I’d clearly had too many wheatgrass shots. No phone.

Glasses?  Where had I put my glasses? The living room where I’d woken was minimalist. Posters of mountain ranges and the moon clung feebly to tape that had become emotionally attached to the wall. Someone was going to lose their deposit when that didn’t come off.             Where had I been? The bar called Ram Ewe? A vague memory of two guys headbutting each other flickered with the indecision of a streetlight in a dodgy neighbourhood.             Jessie lay in his own drool in the hallway. A sheet shrunk away from me as he turned. Only a collar and a sheet? I didn’t need to see that. Tail wagging as his lip curved with a smile. I guessed that someone in his dream was scratching behind his ear.             A bathroom towel pouring from the tiles of its home onto the carpet of the hall assured me I didn’t have to worry about making a mess.             My stomach grumbled as I staggered. I didn’t know what my tummy was saying and for that reason it kept talking, nagging at me. Running water made me think of the stream at the bottom of the garden.             Scents of cooking meat tickled my nose. It should have turned my stomach, not turned it on.

That’s what you need , it said.

Eat that .             I splashed the running water on my face and let it drip down my snout. Instead of dripping down my overbite into my mouth it fell with a splash into the sink. I felt my face. My hoof was too dextrous. My eyes confirmed it wasn’t cloven or hoofish. It was a paw. I had an underbite.             “What the fuck?” I murmured.             An image in the mirror looked up just as I did.             A reflection of a wolf.             I fell back, slipping on toilet roll and banging into the toilet. The seat slapped the porcelain with a clang.             Jessie barked in the hallway. Scrabbling sounds said he was disgracing the poor bedsheet further to cover himself.             “You alright in there?” The voice was female, vulpine and warm. Warm the way a predator’s heart is warm as it chases down prey through the fields. Warm like the trickle of sweat down your back as you run for your life.             “I’m fine,” I growled through teeth that were triangular instead of rectangular. It was wrong. It was all wrong.             “I’m making breakfast,” said the voice from the kitchen. “You must be ravenous after last night. I know I am.”             My paw, that should have been a hoof, opened the bathroom door. She tilted her head. Grey ears twitched. A wet black nose twitched.             “You smell like grass. Did you roll out of my bed through a field?” Her unnaturally round pupils focused on me. My heart began to beat a drumroll. “Never had it like that before. Was it your first time?” A smile that would have been reassuring if it wasn’t attached to the animals who eat my kind showed the bottom of a few teeth.             “First time yeah,” I nodded. I was trying hard not to wet myself.             “Aww. You’re a changed man now. There’s nothing like the first time.”

I’ve definitely changed.             “Where am I?” Asked Jessie, rubbing his head.             “Shouldn’t a sheepdog know that?” Asked the she wolf.             “I’d like to know where I am as well,” I said, sheepishly. “And what I did last night.”             “The answer to question two is not what, but who, me.” She pointed to herself, looking hurt. Perhaps insulted was a better word. I felt like I was about to be the only one who was hurting. “You’re in Lunaburg.”             “I went drinking with my buddy Barry,” said Jessie. “Then I was with you. Now I’m here.” He winced. “I’m sure I was wearing clothes for most of it.” He stood with a long protrusion from the sheet at the back.             “It’s me, Jessie,” I said to my friend. He was one of those friends who was a friend to everyone but not close friends with anyone. He went to all the parties. He knew sheep, foxes and apparently wolves. He got in trouble and had wild stories, corroborated by wildly blurry photos on his beleaguered phone. “I’m still Barry, despite whatever happened last night.”             “Barry,” snorted the she wolf. “Sounds like a sheep’s name to me.”             “I get told that a lot,” I said.

Mostly by sheep who think it’s an excellent name.              “Barry?” Jessie asked. “Barry Ra-”             “Ready to go, yeah.” I cut him off before he could tell her my name was Ramstein. It was a sheep’s name without a doubt. “Thank you for the offer of breakfast,” I hesitated, not knowing her name.             “Blevine,” she said. Her hackles were up. Every impulse I had was telling me to run. Another opposing set of impulses were telling me to bite and rut with her.             “Wonderful to lose my virginity to you, and know you, in that order, I guess. I need to go. I’ve lost my phone.”

And my body.  “I really think me, and Jessie, need to find our things and work out what happened last night.”             “I don’t suppose you have any clothes?” Jessie asked. He used his friendly voice. It was the voice that had people calling him a good boy and rubbing his belly.             “No,” said Blevine. Her steely eyes sent a signal to my legs to shake. My feet sent a signal to my bladder that it was time to relax a bit. My bladder agreed, sending an ambassador downhill.             “Did you just piss yourself?” Blevine asked, throwing up her paws.             “A little bit,” I winced.             “This isn’t your territory, get out.” She pointed to the door. “Urgh, boys.”             “Clothes?” Jessie asked, his puppy dog eyes pleaded. His unwilling toga begged for mercy.             “Out!” We were shuffled out into a hallway that stank of urine. In my new body I knew too much from the smell of those markings. I knew what the neighbours had been eating, drinking. Too much.

I’m a sheep .             “I’m naked,” moaned Jessie.             “You’re wearing a sheet,” I said.             “But it’s just a sheet and I’ve lost my phone and my wallet.”             I grabbed him by the scruff and growled in his face. “Who cares? You can get all of that back. I’m a sheep. At least I was. I’ve lost my body Jessie. What do I do about that? I’ve lost my body and my memory.” We padded down the staircase from Blevine’s flat.             “And your virginity.” He gave me a thumbs up. “And your phone, and clothes,” said the party animal. “And you’re covered in piss.” He opened a door into the street.             “That’s not helpful.”             “It was a night to remember though,” he smiled.             “BUT I DON’T REMEMBER,” I yelled. My voice was a growl that would have scared my whole flock to death. I scared myself.             “Memory’s a bit woolly, is it?” He smiled the same smile everyone has when they’ve just told a shit pun.             I punched him. It felt good. I had a newborn lust for violence. “What do I do? I just had sex with a wolf. What if she gets pregnant? Would the kid be half wolf, half sheep? What would you even call that?”             “A weep?” Jessie rubbed his chest where I’d thumped him. His tail had sagged between his legs. “Maybe you’re just dreaming.” He shrugged. “Have you tried pinching yourself.”             “When I dream, I count family members,” I said. “This isn’t a dream or a nightmare.”             “How can you be sure?” Asked the sheepdog.             “Because I would have woken up by now in a cold sweat.”             “I usually wake up in cold drool,” he scratched behind his ears, tongue lolling. “Come on. You can come to my place until we get this sorted out.”             “Really?”             “Sure. Come-bye.”             “Thank you.”             “Ewe are welcome,” he said.             “Good boy.” I patted his head. The tail emerged from the back of the toga, wagging.


“I’ll love you forever.” The heart monitor says otherwise. Her eyes crease at the corners, and tears have traced her face so many times that their pathways leave marks on her cheeks. Each ragged breath seems to take life rather than giving it to her. My mother, once so strong, trembles underneath the weight of air. Perhaps I’m shaking too, for she sees my fear and attempts a smile.

“It will all be ok honey; please, be brave for me.” I can’t fight a sudden spark of anger. She’s wrong. Her lips craft sugar-coated lies, promising love that will not be there for me. With one look at the defeated expressions of the nurses, her words become meaningless. We both realize this is the end, yet neither of us can voice a farewell.

How can I leave her soft laughter, the kisses she would plant on my knees after I scraped them? Where will I find the courage to say goodbye to her unrelenting confidence, to the stunningly bizarre outfits she wore just to make me laugh? I cannot recognize her death, for the acceptance would kill us both.

“Hey, hey…” Her voice trails off, grasping for any words of comfort.

“I’ll always be here for you. Never ever forget that for me, ok? ” I fight every urge to scream, for her reassurance does nothing to quell my pain.

“I know… I know.” I am just as guilty as her. We both realize the tragedy to come, but our farewells have yet to escape us.

She coughs, staining her gown with blood. Her frail figure shakes with the effort. Doctors halfheartedly rush to her side; I can see the hopelessness in their actions. She brushes their gloved fingers away from her mouth.

“Don’t worry about me, it’s nothing but a cough.” I almost smile. In her last moments, my mother is fussing over the very people that are meant to assist her. It seems like an eternity has passed since the days where she could care for me.

She had fought the monsters beneath my bed, telling me to gaze at the stars rather than trembling in the dark. As surgeries drew constellations of scars on her ribs, we sat beneath the quiet sky and held each other.

Years of hope meet their demise tonight. Each beep from the heart monitor is cruel, feeling like the countdown until New Years'. Time is of the essence, and yet, neither of us speaks.

I’ll take care of your aquarium. I’ll even water your plants. Don’t worry about dad; I won’t let him relapse. Everything will be ok. I promise. I’ll miss our witty bantering and the jokes you made to lift a heavy situation. No one will ever make meals or sing me to sleep as well as you. I cherished your love, and could never replace it. I love you. I love you so much.

Everything that she needs to know cannot escape my mind. The words refuse to move, stuck in my throat. I desperately scour her eyes for a final message. Will my mother’s life end in silence?

My daughter stands above my deathbed. She’s soaked in loneliness and exhaustion; I almost feel guilty for not dying sooner. I notice her quietly humming a lullaby, and manage a weak smile.

At another time, I had used the melody to calm her to sleep. She feared night with a passion, as the unknown darkness held unlimited possibilities of evil. Her imagination conjured ghosts and monsters, giving me the task of banishing them. I became her warrior, and we had traversed the unknown with courage and a soothing lullaby. I taught her to read the sky as well; the stars spoke a language long forgotten in the modern world. Constellations became her protectors, and she found comfort in the mystical shapes of the universe.

On a night so long ago, I woke up to her wails and fear-ridden screams. The shadows had painted her walls with claws and blood, and the clouds had stolen her safety. Abandoned by the stars above her, the child had the first of her encounters with loss.

“Mommy,” she paused, her lips trembled slightly.

“Shh… you don’t need to say anything. Watch.” I drew a lopsided star on her arm and showed it to her. Immediately, her eyes brightened as she reunited with a lost friend.

“You see, you’ll never be alone. The stars can leave you, but darkness is nothing to fear if I’m with you. I’ll be with you forever; don’t you forget that.”

Perhaps it was my carelessness with words that destroy me now. I’ve given her forever, and refuse to acknowledge that I must take it back. The farewell that I cannot bear to say eats at my insides, churning my stomach and making my heartache. Have I become so fragile that I crumble underneath the weight of my own words?

“Honey… the sun is rising.” My voice is hoarse and my words are weak, but the fog in her eyes seems to lift a bit. Together, we watch the stars fade into the rosy-hued sky. All is silent save for the beep of the heart monitor.

“I’ll miss…the stars…” Each word is drenched in sorrow; I long for the courage to say what I truly mean, but it is all I can manage. Part of me is foolish enough to believe it is enough.

“I’ll miss looking at them with you,” she whispers faintly. Behind her eyes, I can see the goodbye I will never hear. I find solace in knowing she will care for her father, as she protects her loved ones with the ferocity I once harnessed for her.

I blink slowly, as my vision is blurred and the fluorescent lights begin to burn. With a sinking feeling, I realize my time has arrived. I will never be able to bring closure to my love for her. She couldn’t do the same for me. We believed in forever, but even the stars will die eventually.


When my father asked me if she would be okay, I said yes - because really, there was nothing else to say. Because I could intuit that he wasn’t so much as asking for medical updates, as he was a reassurance of faith, our faith, that she would be okay. That she would sit up from that bed, any day now, and would pull out the long transparent tubes that now sustained her breath. Her voice would be croaky at first, hoarse from the months of unuse, and then she would try again, and ask for water, which I would rush to bring to her, and after she’d had a sip or two, she would look up at us both, like no time had passed, and say, “mes chéris,” in her usual way, smiling with that bright efficacy to which we were once accustomed, and hold us tight. But this was fantasy because she’d been in that bed for months now, because the doctors who used to say, “any day now,” with the confidence of gods now avoided our eyes and gave the tight-lipped smile people who weren’t sure how to talk about a tragedy did, and this was a tragedy - that my mother, 45 years of age, with bouncy curls, a wide smile, and skin that used to glow with the vibrancy of the sun, should be lying down here, pale, almost blue, breathing with big ugly machines that creaked on every inhalation. I am 17 years old, I’ve had friends who’ve suffered tragedies - an aunt dying from an accident, a parent who battled with cancer, and I know from their experience that if my mother were to die, it would be an enormous tragedy, like a loss that I would never fully recover from - monumental, and life-defining. I know this theoretically as I know it deep in my bones, but what I’m more afraid of is that if she were to die now, I would lose my father too. It won’t be long, the next day, two weeks, two months, maybe six at best, and he would be gone too. In biology class, they explain the concept of symbiosis - two organisms of different species who depend on each other to live. But lately, I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s not so much physical dependence on the other specie for some kind of protection or benefit, as it is about the reliance for identity. Like the symbiont goby fish whose whole identity lies in informing the blind shrimp that predators lurk - take it away from that, and he’d probably survive, but who was it without the identity of protector? How would it navigate this world with no blind shrimp to forewarn? Who would my father be without my mother? My father still? But I'm not so sure about that, at best he would be a robot, not the cool talking ones, but one of those robot vacuum cleaners that move around the room cleaning until they hit a wall, and then course-correct in the other direction, not that they want to be there, cleaning and loving it, but that the wall had nudged them and they had no choice but to move and clean until their battery dies. I have this fear that my father had only been my father because he loved my mother so, with any other woman, he might not have tried at all. Perhaps love is not even the right word, as I’m not sure if he fell in love like my friends do - seeing someone in their element, liking them because they were good at football, or they were pretty, or funny, and you wanted to be around them all the time, even though they made your heart flutter and your speech stutter. My parents didn’t fall in love like that, in fact, that version of events would seem so silly to them that I’m not sure they would recognise it at all.

They’d met when they were twelve, on a boat of all places. Even I still find it hard to comprehend, that two orphans displaced by a war that had razed down their homes and their parents along with it, should serendipitiously find themselves together on the same boat. But there were many orphans on that boat, my mother had once clarified, the only serendipity, if there was any at all, was that she had sat next to my father for days on a small rocky boat with stretches of sea, and sea ahead, with no land in sight. And when they’d finally gotten rescued and found themselves on solid ground, she hadn’t known how to walk the new land without him by her side.

There was no fluttering heart, if there was, it was purely physiological, and not hormonal. It was as if all those days lumped together at sea - the darkness and unkindness of it, the uncertainty of the journey ahead and the slowness of it, the numbness of children who now had no one but themselves in this world - had merged them together, or perhaps melded their souls, and had their bodies feeling what the other felt, that it was hard to distinguish where my mother stopped and where my father began. It was a synchronicity they hadn’t learned, but somehow acquired, and perfected over time as they survived numerous refugee camps and hard winters of a strange land. Most times I’d hear my mother say, “Yes, that’s right,” and nod to a question my father had asked but somehow forgotten to voice, and I would say, “Use words for those who don’t speak Elvish, please”, and they’d laugh. I was in middle school before I realised that they perhaps didn’t need words, and they only used them for my benefit.

When Mother slumped six months ago, we were all together at the bakery, cleaning before we closed for the night. The plan had been to work with them there before I go to Uni the next year. Father had made a joke about something, (as he used to, he was a big jester, and Mother was too) about one of the customers asking for a particular bread type, something, I can’t recall now. I had been looking at Father and laughing, and I think I must have seen Mother slumping on his face before I saw her hit the ground - because his face was frozen midway, his eyes in shock and lifeless like he’d had a mini-stroke even before her own body had registered it. He’s a shell of the person I used to know now - his typical dad jokes are gone; he spends all hours by her side punctuated only by the nurses' insistence that he take a break, but he wouldn’t leave until I got there. I still go to the bakery and bake bread for some hours because we need the money, and at night I’d take over the shift for him, and while he’s gone, I would lean in and whisper to Mother, “If you can hear me, please come back to us. He’s not doing well without you. You know he won’t survive without you.” Like a plea, and a prayer rolled into one, I would whisper it into her ears, desperate for her to hear me and accept it. I’m five years older than they were when they lost their parents and were brutally tossed into a raging, stormy world. I have five years on them now, maybe this was evolutionary progress - that they’d given me five more years than they ever got with their parents. And I wasn’t being shoved on a boat bound for a strange land with nothing but a bottle of fresh water and a morsel of bread. They’d given me a great life here, an ordinary safe childhood, which was in itself extraordinary, and they’d made me laugh, which used to amaze me, that people who had suffered so much tragedy should have the ability to be so blasé with life and laugh and laugh till their belly hurt. They’d also worked night and day and built something of their own here - a bakery they were proud of, kneading dough and taking pride in customers loving something they made with their hands. I have inherited that pride, and perhaps all of this is enough. Around 2 am, like clockwork, my father tapped me - he was back from home, where I knew he barely slept, and I shook my head before he asked as if to say no changes, nothing had changed since the three hours he’d been gone. And he nodded, sat beside me, and took her hand in his, “do you think she will be okay?” he asked, like he always asked, his gaze fixed on her pale face. I nodded, vibrantly, with the confidence of gods, and said, "Yes, of course, she will be", and he gave me his rueful smile, and for a second I thought he believed me, and I convinced myself that this symbiosis, however weak, was safe for today, and today would not be the day I lose them.


Intuitivity When I received the notice, I set it on the desk with all the others. Applying for jobs has gotten to be an exercise in futility, but one I can’t afford to abandon. Not a joke, not a last-ditch effort to procrastinate my way to a better world. I needed to find work. Not just for the money, which I needed desperately, but I was turning into a bowl of Jell-O fruit salad. I was that grape suspended in the green shimmering coagulated mess of what Auntie had insisted I take home with me after our, “old fashioned,” holiday dinner. She said, “You look thin.” Only one way to respond to that. I took the Jell-O, thanked her, kissed her goodbye, and left before she decided I needed more substantial. Being bored is not difficult when your life seems to belong to someone else. I began to debate the possibility of finding that umbrella that would allow me to feel, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” if even for just a day. It was during this internal struggle between deciding whether chocolate would be better given my present state, or perhaps Tootie-Fruitie given the chance I would be abducted by any foreign entity that would have me, and for no other reason than, they could.  So, as I have learned to do when experiencing stress, and no immediate remedies are in sight, I go to sleep. Not going to bed, not that kind of sleep.  More like hibernation, where you are awake, but it is as if you are watching yourself dream. The most imaginative way of escaping, while remaining, as it is at the moment, the only thing I can afford. The notice I received, although it looked like just another nebulous attempt at redefining my employment status, changed my perception of what could be mind-altering, if I remained in my self-induced limbo. #

“Go down the hall. On the left, the last door, go in, fill out the application form. An electronic screen will appear, once you have scanned the completed form, it will advise you how to continue. Please proceed as instructed.” The voice, much like the automated voice of any call center reassured me by its non-committal tone, that I was safe, we were safe. Nothing out of the ordinary would or could occur within the confines of this concrete building. Its interior complicit with its structural systems, floors, walls, ceilings, all a glazed white.

Walking towards the last door required concentration, as I began to become disoriented. The lights on the ceiling appeared to be on the floor and the wall on the left, mirrored the walls on the right, making my entombment more satisfying than I expected it would be, but then I knew, they knew that. The last door was not really a door, more a suggestion of what a door could be. I passed through to find a monitor situated on a concrete pedestal. Next to it was a folder which I didn’t see at first, because it blended so efficiently into its surroundings. The form was three-dimensional print on a single dimension paper. It took a few minutes to relate to its purpose. The questions were precise; there were only two. The first question confusingly simple: Do you believe? The second question appropriately following the first and related to its need, asked: If so, why? and If not, why not? My natural tendency when asked a definitive question, is to give a non-definitive answer, which I knew they were expecting, and therefore considered giving the answer I believed they were looking for, but didn’t expect. Upon further deliberation, I realized they weren’t as devious as I had presupposed, and answered as I would under normal conditions; I left the question blank. The why question was a bit more difficult because, it supposed I had answered the preceding question, which I had not. The conundrum I faced was not unusual, given the circumstances. Deviance I had been trained to both respect and expect. It was the way civility was ordained and order maintained. One for all, and all for one, that sort of thing. But then one never could be sure because there were no rules. Rules would have been against the rules, as Intuitivity was the only subject, or I should say, the only subject, subject to intuitive scrutiny, should one not adhere to intuitive principles. As I pondered my responses before submitting them to the scanning apparatus, a red light appeared, like that on an English Bobbies vehicle, began to spin, and the piercing sound of a siren ricocheted off the walls making concentration extremely difficult. I could only assume my reaction was being captured and recorded, for examination at a later time.  It was fortunate I had been trained to expect the unexpected. As suddenly as it had begun, the lights and noise subsided into the nothingness that surrounded me. The monitor blinked to life. A black screen with iridescent green letters, floating in a random sequence appeared. I realized, that what I was intended to do, or what they would assume I would do, was find  direction by combining the letters, to provide the answer I knew I was destined to find, and then relay that answer to the machine for confirmation.  It was all so predictable, I knew there had to be a hidden agenda buried somewhere in the façade of the disorganized colliding letters that complained loudly as they bumped into one another. Our accepted civil responses, “sorry and excuse me,” were being abdicated for more perverse and derogatory examples of the language, “Watch it buddy,” and, “try that again and I’ll,” and on and on. I had never experience such uncivility in my entire existence, which is what I realized I was expected to feel, so I pretended to be titillated by the unique situation, and the jargon that accompanied it. One thing I have learned and retained over the terms of my existence, is to always do the opposite of what Intuitivity expects of you. It is not only required, but in some corners of our universe,  is the only way to get and keep a means of employment, that is commensurate with the limitations of your programmed existence.

My predictable behavior, no matter its unpredictability, was apparently not what was predictably required. The room turned from its majestic, glazed white, to the used tire blackness and bleakness of a Monday here on Creptillian. My future had been shortened proportionately by my irreconcilable responses to our yearly assimilation test, which determines whether you are considered compromiseable because of opinions developed on your own, and with no consideration to the unpredictability of un-intuitiveness, or whether you had been paying attention at all. I was found to be in the top 1% of all those that failed the likelihood of becoming compatible, when it came to believing that hope was possible, after being confirmed by the best intuitive minds in the galaxy that it may be irreconcilable with Intuitivity.  And all because I didn’t believe in the old adage, “You can’t teach an old dog, new tricks.”


If you knew where to look, you could see the curtain slightly move as Cleo jogged by the house. Anxiously sitting by the window with her morning coffee, notepad ready to take down any observations, Madison leaned forward to catch her first glimpse of Cleo that day. Mornings were only a fraction of the daily routine that Madison had built around her neighbor. There was just something about Cleo that had her enthralled. Two months ago, the movers had just closed the moving van’s door when Cleo had bounded over to greet her new neighbor. What a first impression she made with her vibrant green eyes and jet-black hair with pink tips. She was the person that everyone liked after a few moments in her company. Her smile was honest, holding nothing back. She exuded confidence and gained trust without any effort or guile. With a flash of inspiration, Madison decided she needed to be more like Cleo. She yearned to be a better version of herself, and Cleo would be the guideposts she would follow. Being shy and withdrawn was all that Madison knew, so watching from afar was how their friendship would have to be for now. The more she watched Cleo, the more she slowly morphed into her, but not around the neighborhood. No one should get the impression that Madison was trying to copy Cleo. She was taking charge and trying to improve her life. Once she was away from the neighborhood, things were different. Cleo’s walk was now Madison’s walk. Effortlessly she could imitate Cleo’s mannerisms and even had her tinkering giggle down. She couldn’t help but notice the difference when around other people. Finally, people in her office would wave at her, and invitations trickled in for lunch and drinks after work. As a reformed loner, she couldn’t believe how her luck had turned. Madison wished she had met Cleo earlier so her life could have been different. Madison walked by her hall mirror and admired herself. Her eyes popped with the green contact lenses she had started wearing. Mostly they were worn out to bars or nightclubs where she could sense glances and looks coming her way. Once the contact lenses were in an innate sense of peace and confidence came over her. She liked to think of it as the Cleo effect. Spending the afternoon going through her recent clothing purchases, Madison tried to decide what to wear for tonight. She matched up the outfits to the photos she had taken of Cleo as she left her house. The clothes were easy to find online, but the accessories were turning out to be a problem. She just had to focus and spend more time on this part of her endeavor if she wanted to be successful. She had zoomed in on the photos and sent some along to the jeweler to see if she could have duplicates made. Daily she checked her inbox to see if an estimate for the work had arrived.

After half an hour of indecisiveness, Madison went online to see what Cleo wore out last night. There was sure to be a shot of her on social media. Madison had started to follow a large group of Cleo’s friends, so she always had snippets of her life to review ardently. She was amazed at the number of friends Cleo had, but why should she be when Cleo was the perfect woman. Madison was confident that soon she would be in a similar situation, surrounded by admirers and friends.

The day progressed quickly as she took the final steps of her transformation. Last night she had styled and dyed her hair from mousy brown to stunning jet-black. Her skin wasn’t as pale and flawless as Cleo’s, but she had the foundations and powders to tone down her blotchy skin. Now she just had to add the pink tips. As she started swirling the dye mixture, she heard a high-pitched scream. She ran to the front of the house to look out. Her head swiveled up and down the road, but she didn’t see anything. Across the street the light went out at Cleo’s house. It didn’t appear anything was amiss. It was probably the teenagers a couple of houses down fooling around again. She called out for her device to start playing her Cleo playlist. It was all the songs she had heard while walking by Cleo’s place over the past few months. Madison hadn’t liked some of the songs at first, but they had grown on her. She turned the music up loud enough to hear in the bathroom, and back to her pink tips she went, practicing her responses to all the compliments she was sure she would be getting soon.

It didn’t take long before her timer went off, and it was time to wash and blow dry her hair to see how it turned out. Madison gawked at herself in the mirror, knowing her metamorphosis was complete. She excitedly put on her new outfit and stood in front of the full-length mirror with her hand on her hip like she had seen Cleo do so many times. Madison’s phone rang, and she answered to hear her mother hysterically saying, “Thank God you answered Madison. I was so worried!” “Calm down, Mama. What were you so worried about?” With a harsh whisper, her mother responded, “It’s all over the news about the serial killer striking again.” Madison shook her head in confusion, “What serial killer?” With exasperation evident in her voice, “The man going around killing the young ladies. Darling, I keep telling you to follow the news, but I swear you never listen. Put on the television. Another innocent girl was murdered right on your street.” “Ok, Mama. I’ll call you back.”

Madison hurried over to the TV and put on her local station. Breaking news was coming on, and the anchor started with, “New details have just emerged on the women who have been victims of the recent killings. All victims, including the one found earlier this evening, have been green-eyed women in their early twenties with black hair and pint tips. The killer is being referred to as the “Pink Tip Chopper.” Let’s go to Matthew Greaney on scene at the most recent crime scene. Matthew, what more can you tell us?” The reporter grimly stared into the camera, “This is a somber day as another woman is brutalized at the hands of the Pink Tip Chopper.” Madison stood up when she recognized the homes in the background of the broadcast. She slowly walked to the window to push aside the curtain and pull up the shade to see the police cars across the street and crime-scene tape which cordoned off Cleo’s house. Madison screamed and dropped the curtain before running to the bathroom to vomit. She slowly got up from the floor, and the green contact lenses came out. With shaking hands, she reached for the scissors and hacked off her newly added pint tips. She started the shower and scrubbed her face with boiling water to remove all the traces of her transformative makeup. She washed her jet-black hair over and over again, trying to get the color out and back to her natural brown.

When she emerged into the steamy bathroom, she wiped the condensation from the mirror and looked at herself. She had never been so happy to see plain, boring Madison staring back.


Our story begins, in small town, in late November. Where a bakery opened up, down the street from another one. In a small town like this, that was big news and everybody knew and talked about it, and what it meant. Competition. The bakery, that had been there for generations, had just been handed down, to the daughter, of the former owners, who had retired. Her name was Amethyst Thompson, Amy for short. She was 29 years old. Her parents had her, when they were quite old, having only found one another, later in life. Amy had worked in the bakery, all her life, as it was, and always had been, the family business.

The bakery, had originally been opened, by Amy’s great grandparents, then passed down, through the generations and now it was hers. She was proud and happy, but she also felt the pressure. What if she couldn’t do it. What if she failed. If she lost the bakery, that had survived, for three generations, before her... but that wasn't an option. Amy had been running the bakery, for just under a year, when the new bakery, was opened, near by. This had never happened before, there were, and had always been, just two bakery’s, in the town, and they were at either ends of it, so they didn’t really compete, for customers. Luckily, people tend to be loyal, in small towns, like this one was, so Amy wasn’t too concerned, for the immediate future, but further down the line, it could turn into, a real problem. With the holidays coming up, and the annual bake-off, along with it, Amy’s bakery, was busy as ever, so she didn’t have, a lot of time to worry, about the new bakery. There was simply, too much to do and too little time, to get it done. Though she was busy, Amy noticed, that there were less customers, then there had been, in the years before, during this time. She didn’t think too much of it, and even found herself grateful, for there not being so many. Leaving her more time, to deal with the rest. Like preparing for the towns bake-off.

Her bakery, her family, had won the last three years, and she didn’t want, to be the one, to lose their streak. So she was working hard, to come up with something, that would get her that win. One evening, she was closing up early, locking up and going home, to get some rest, when Amy saw, some of her usual customers, in line, at the new bakery. Wishing it didn’t, she felt her heart sink, to the pit of her stomach. So this was why, she hadn’t been, as busy as usual. She wasn’t angry, but a small part of her, felt like those people, had, in some way, betrayed her. Knowing that she was overreacting, she pulled herself together, and continued home, where she went straight into the kitchen, more determined than ever, to win the town bake-off.

She would prove to them all, that she was the best, even without her parents help and that hers, was still the best bakery in town. The bake-off, was a three part and three day, competition. The first day, was bread, second day, small baked goods and the third day, was basically your chance, to create a masterpiece. You could make what ever you wanted, though most people made cakes, with many layers and colors. It was always worth seeing, even for those, who didn’t care much, about baking. The one with the highest score, at the end of those three days, win. They win ten bags of free flour and a thousand dollars. With her eye on the prize, Amy worked all night, perfecting her bread and small baked goods, and trying to come up, with something great, for the third days challenge, something, that would make sure, she would win. Amy continued like this for days. Barely sleeping, and always working. She had decided on, what she would make, in the third challenge, now she just had to perfect it. She worked, night and day.

10 days left, until the bake-off. It was December now.

One week left. She was getting close, but it still wasn’t there. Five days left. She was barely working in her bakery anymore, leaving the most of it, to the other employees. This had the be perfect. With only two days left, she finally got it. It was perfect and she was ready. Ready to win and to beat the other bakery, and show the people in town, that she was the best and show those, who had started going to the other bakery, that they should have never stopped, coming to hers. Feeling confident, she worked in her bakery again, like nothing had happened. She was ready. As she closed the store, the night before the first day, of the competition, she smiled to herself, before locking the doors and walking home, to get a good nights sleep. When she got home and into bed, it suddenly hit her, that she didn’t even know, what the person, who ran the other bakery, looked like. She didn’t even know, if it was a man or a woman. Laughing to herself, over the absurdity of this fact, she closed her eyes and went to sleep, ready for the day to come. Waking up the next morning, to the sound of her alarm clock, Amy stretched and sighed, before getting out of bed. She stood up and pulled on her slippers, before going to the bathroom, to get ready for the day. Having showered, dressed and eaten, Amy started packing up the things, that she would need, at the bake-off and double checking, to make sure, she had everything. She wasn’t going to lose, because she forgot something at home. After having checked for the sixth time, she finally put on her overcoat and boots, and then she left. Walking through the town, to where the bake-off was being held, she met many of the other people, who lived in town.

Smiling and waving to everyone, she made her way there and put her basket full of things, on the table, that she would be using, for the next three days and started to unpack her things. After a while, some of the other contestants, began showing up, with their own baskets full of their own things, and placing them, on what would be their table, for the next three days. Looking around, Amy only saw one person, whom she didn’t know and knew, that that must be, the owner of the new bakery. Amy was shocked, as the person before her, didn’t look anything like, what she had been picturing. Standing before her, was a tall, young and beautiful woman. She looked kind, sweet and caring. Amy had been picturing a mean face and a cold heart, but, unless she was very much mistaken, the woman before hers heart, had never known a chilly day, in its whole life. The woman, having spotted Amy, walked over to her, put out a hand and said, with a sweet and mild voice, “Hi, you must be Amy. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. I’m Abigale, but you can call me Abbey, if you want.” And she smiled at Amy, who came to her senses and took the extended hand and shook it. Finding herself unable to speak, Amy simply nodded and returned Abbeys smile, then returned back, to unpacking her things, not knowing what else to do. While, she unpacked the last of her things, Amy thought to herself: people don’t look like that in real life. And usually, they didn’t, Abbey was an exceptionally beautiful woman, who looked like she belonged, in a Hollywood movie, or somewhere similar. About an hour later, the judges showed up and day one, of the bake-off had begun. The bread, was the easiest job for Amy, her great grandparents, had perfected a recipe, while they ran the bakery. A recipe that had won their family, the highest score, in the bread category, every year they had entered, the bake-off. Amy could bake it, in her sleep, if she wanted to. The competition officially started, Amy tried to get in the zone, but for some reason, she couldn’t focus properly. No matter how hard she tried, her mind kept wondering and she kept thinking about Abbey. Why was she stuck in her head? Amy didn’t know her, she only just met her, yet there was something about her. While Amy was thinking about Abbey, trying her best, to keep from looking at her, her hands and arms, were going through the motions, making the bread for her. Then all of the sudden, she felt a hand, on her shoulder and the touch of it, sent electricity down her spine, and she knew, without having to look, that it was Abbey and she jumped. “Hey, I dropped my flour bag and...” Abbey gestured at the ground behind her and when Amy looked, she saw the flour bag, spilt on the ground and the white flour, laying all over the ground, slowly blowing away, in the wind. “Oh yeah, no sure, have the rest of mine, I’m done with it.” Amy responded nervously, feeling her blood, rush to her cheeks and trying not to look her in the eye, and wondering why this stranger, made her so nervous. Abbey smiled and grabbed the open bag of flour, on Amys table, said “thank you.” And left, to walk back, to her own table. The time was almost up, on the first day, and all the bread, was in the ovens, so everyone were standing around, talking to each other. Amy was talking to an older woman, about her parents and how they were, when she, once again, felt a hand on her shoulder and knew, that it belonged to Abbey. Amy turned around, to see the smiling face, to whom the hand belonged and sure enough, it was Abbey. Returning the smile, nervously and felling herself begin to blush again, Amy forgot all about the conversation, she had been having and the woman, whom she had been having it with, left the two of them, looking slightly offended. “How do you think you’ve done?” Abbey asked Amy, still smiling at her. “I did fine. I’m not worried, how about you?” Returned Amy, trying not to sound too nervous, but failing. A grin appeared on Abbeys face, most likely because of Amys nervous tone, as she said: “You don’t sound too sure. I think I did well, I’ve always had a way, with bread.” With these words, Abbey put her hand, over Amys, which was laying on her table and Amy froze, not knowing, what to make of it, she didn’t move nor speak, hoping that she wasn’t imagining it and, that the moment would last forever. Never having felt this way before, Amy didn’t recognize the emotion, for what it was. Or maybe she did, but didn’t want to openly admit to herself, that she was falling, for a complete stranger. Thinking, in the back of her head, that things like that, didn’t happen in real life, only in movies and fairytales, and that this was neither, no matter how much Abbey looked like a movie star. Still standing there, it felt like they were the only two people in the world and that nothing else mattered and never would again, when suddenly, Abbeys hand closed tightly over Amys, and she pulled her away from the crowd. Amy felt powerless and that, even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to fight back, against the pull. Stopping in a corner, out of sight from anyone, with one last pull, Abbey was holding Amy, in her arms and for a moment, time stood still. And then Abbey kissed Amy. It was magical and it was perfect, Amy felt weightless and in that moment, anything was possible. Pulling away from Amy, Abbey began to apologize “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I swear, it was like I lost control over my body. I am SO sorry...” She was rambling and Amy, was staring at her, not sure of what just happened, and then, throwing caution to the wind, she grabbed Abbey and kissed her. They stood there, in each other’s arms for what felt like hours, neither of them wanting it to end. When they finally emerged from each other, they went back to the bake-off, laughing to themselves, until Amy spotted smoke, coming from her oven. She ran over there and opened it. When she pulled out her bread, she discovered that it was black. Burnt all over and completely ruined. But she didn’t care, after the initial shock, had worn off, she began to laugh again and, spotting Abbey, she began to laugh as well. Amy dropped out of the competition, because she simply didn’t care, about some silly prize anymore. She had something way better now. She had a partner and she had finally found something, other than her bakery, that meant something to her, and that made her happier, than she had ever been. After the last two days of the competition, Abbey won the prize, having blown everyone away, with her masterpiece on the final day. A year later, Abbey closed her own bakery and came to work, with Amy in hers, and they were more successful together, than Amys parents, grandparents and great grandparents had ever been. Six months after that, Abbey proposed and Amy said yes. They got married, on their second year anniversary, as a couple. They even got the town, to push the bake-off, to one day later, so they could have their wedding there. Abbey and Amy were happy, and they loved each other, until the day, they died...


My past is something that constantly lives in the very back of my mind. A tale that I never dare utter out loud. Even now, 15 years later, I start shaking at the bare thought of what had happened. However, I can not remain silent forever, and I need my voice to be heard, for the sake of younger me. I remember it being a cold, bitter night, as expected from the merciless winter in the desolate state of California. I had just arrived at my local convenience store, for my night shift, and I distinctively recall having a gut wrenching feeling almost as if something totally unexpected was about to occur. The air felt thick, and I could smell the damp earth after a long winter rain and I took it all in, slowly breathing, as if it was going to be my last time smelling it. I’m known for being a rational person, and for that reason alone, I ignored said feeling. In that dark, silent night, only my thoughts were keeping me company. Working from 2a.m-8a.m was usually uneventful, and I only needed to interact with the occasional smoker or drunkard. After dropping out of college, I was doing my best balancing work as a babysitter in the evenings and being a convenience store clerk at dawn. I quite cherished that job, as the pay was generous and the workload was light, despite the shady owner, Jeff. An old guy who has probably seen too much in his lifetime. I’ve heard rumours regarding him as a pedophile and a pervert who has supposedly taken advantage of dozens of middle-school girls and female part-timers. However, I have yet to see evidence of these claims first-hand and I was satisfied with how things were going. The buzzing from the artificial ceiling lights was greatly contributing to my pulsating headache. The door bell jingled a lovely melody and a cold breeze hugged me, forcibly pulling me out of my meaningless thoughts. The first customer of the night walked in and paid for an overpriced pack of Marlboro. The interaction was brief and straightforward, as expected. I will never understand the concept of smoking. I honestly don’t see the appeal of spending money for the purpose of shortening my life expectancy, not as if its any of my business. Sighing a long breath, I looked out of the window to take in the very familiar, yet comforting sight of the empty streets. I directed my gaze towards a parked car that I’ve failed to notice up until now. I guessed it was a sixth generation Honda Civic, although the limited amount of light outside made it hard to tell. The small parking area in front of the store was always empty at that time of the day, so to me, that was unusual. I observed the car for a couple of minutes, waiting for something to happen. Slowly growing impatient, I grabbed my SwissTech keychain (not the prettiest out there, but definitely the most useful in terms of keeping me safe) and I headed outside, walking in a straight line towards the suspicious car. I’m still not sure what I was expecting, but I thought that whatever would happen will most definitely quench my thirst of curiosity. Only a few inches away from the intriguing vehicle, I noticed that it is empty, and that the trunk is slightly open. Despite fully knowing that I am not allowed to touch somebody else’s property, I jerked the trunk open. I immediately knew I had just made a terrible mistake. A mistake that will never be undone. My eyes widened in pure terror and my heart was a train pounding down the tracks. I broke out in a cold sweat, and I could not take my vision away from the tied down stranger in front of me. Their casual clothes were drenched with blood, and they did not move a single inch. I did not want to assume the worst, but frankly, I was definitely looking at nothing other than a fresh corpse. I winced, feeling sick and pained and winded all at once. I could not breath. My mind was foggy. Leave. I knew I had to leave. Before I even had the chance to process what I had just witnessed, rushed footsteps combined with the freezing rain to produce music. Terrifying music that almost sounded like a warning.


Oh, you’re here already.’ ‘You took your time, I’ve been here nearly an hour.’ ‘Sorry Abe, I got distracted playing with the little ones, they are so into fighting with each other that I have to make it a game otherwise it might get nasty.’ ‘Yeah, tell me about it! Anyway, let's just go over the plan, okay?’ ‘Sure, sorry again.’ Chip surveyed the compound. ‘What do you think our chances are tonight?’ Abe was scanning the buildings. ‘Okay so far, I’ve been scrutinising the whole place since I got here and there’s been no activity at all. I’ve a feeling tonight may be our night.’ ‘Gosh I sure hope so, the little ones are only just about surviving as it is, and herself won’t let up “More food, more food” is all I seem to hear these days.’ Chip flicked his eyes up and sighed. ‘The Plan! Chip; The Plan! Focus!’ ‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’ Chip tilted his head and looked at Abe who was concentrating on the buildings inside the compound. ‘Sure does not seem right to get shot for stealing a bit of food to feed your family, does it?’ Chip didn’t expect a reply but Abe was never one to let a question hang about waiting. ‘That’s the way it is now I’m afraid. Ever since the new regime came in it’s zero tolerance with any law breakers. If they don’t catch you in the act, they will try and hunt you down.’ Abe shook his head. ‘Makes for an easy life for those that have, and a tough one for the rest of us.’ Abe paused and looked thoughtfully through the fence. ‘Anyway, time’s getting on, let’s get down to business.’ Abe nodded towards a secreted gap under the fence, ‘I’ll sneak in through there and you stay here and as soon as you see a light, either go on or off, you holler as loud as you can to let me know.’ ‘Sure Abe, I might need to cough to clear my throat, is that okay?’ ‘Don’t you dare. We have to be as quiet as the growing grass until we get clear. You got that?’ ‘Okay, got it. I’ll not take my eyes off the windows and doors and if I see any changes at all, they’ll hear me in the next town over.’ Abe continued, ‘I’ll be using the first three buildings as cover to get to the foodstore, so I should get through without any problems. The foodstore has a grill at the side which has a gap between it and the floor and that’s my way in. Once I get the goods I’m back out the gap and straight to the hole under the fence, no hiding or staying in the shadows. As soon as I’m through the fence, we belt it for home. You got all that Chip?’ ‘Yeah, I got it. Slow and stealthy on the way in and fast and furious on the way back.’ Abe stared into Chip’s eyes, ‘Look, I know you were the lookout for Brad when he copped it but I’m trusting you learned your lesson that night, right Chip?’ Chip looked away and then despondently down at the ground. ‘I couldn’t help it Abe, I was frozen with fear. It seemed the whole place just lit up and next thing there were bullets flying everywhere. I never even got a chance to warn Brad, it was like they were waiting for him.’ He looked droopy eyed at Abe, ‘But I know the drill now Abe; the instant the windows or doors lights change, that's the signal for me to sound the alarm, not a second later. You can trust me Abe, I’ve got your back.’ ‘I don’t blame you for Brad, Chip, it was early days back then and we really didn’t know the consequences of getting things wrong. So let’s just stick to the plan and we can all eat heartily tonight. Okay?’ Chip nodded, ‘I won’t let you down Abe and I appreciate everything you are doing for me and my family, I really do.’ ‘We all have mouths to feed Chip, let’s make sure we can feed them tonight, okay?’ ‘Sure Abe, I’ll be on my toes, no problem’ ‘Okay, wish me luck then.’ ‘Good luck Abe, I’ve got your back.


“Memory is more indelible than ink.” Her name is forgotten by time, and she writes letters.

She is the ink to the quill, the paper to the typewriter. She is the words one speaks, and the silence between them. She is outdated, but she is new and fresh to those who have not come by her before.

She writes letters in ink, for in her opinion that is the only true way to write. She writes from dusk to dawn, penning new phrases and words no one has heard. She writes voices for those in her mind who are voiceless, and she writes songs of sorrow for those who cannot sing.

She writes in her tiny cottage by the sea, her windows always open. She enjoys the breeze of the wind, as it brings voice to her quill. She loves the whispers of the sea, the energy of the wind. It brings her own voice and energy, so she has never moved away. Her dying grey hair splits at the bottom, her old, fragile bones taking longer to write. She is old, but she has knowledge, knowledge the world would die for.

She looks down at her quill, noting the intricate curves on the bottom that hold onto the ink before she presses it down once more. She had used the same quill for many years, but now she uses a new one, one that holds more ink and therefore can tell more stories. Still, she misses the old quill's grip in her hand, the ease of pressing it down to make a simple mark.

It is morning, and she has not written anything yet. Yet, she does not want to write today. She wants to go to the sea like she used to as a child. She wants to dip her toes into the water just like she dips her pen into her ink, and drag them out, writing words in the sand. She wants to meet new people, and experience new things.

She tugs at her white hair, once ebony, now ivory. Slowly, she stands, putting her hands on her desk to balance herself. She has not stood up in a long time, and not left the small cottage she lives in even in longer.

She looks down at her work, at the letters she has written. They are short, but she is still not proud of them. She filled the pages with little doodles of flowers and pupils of eyes in her usual black ink.

She frowns, and puts them in the drawer under her desk. Today’s will be better, she promises herself. Today’s letters will reflect the ocean air.

The door creaks as she stumbles towards it, fresh air illuminating the room as she swings it open. The windows only bring so much, she realizes, thoughtfully. It is the true outside that brings the most brightness.

Somewhere in her mind, she saves that line for a letter.

She manages to bring herself farther forward towards the sea, down the hill her little cottage is located atop of. She breathes the air fresher than before, with it’s salty ocean scent. She loves it. It’s like a good dessert - sweet and savory. The perfect balance.

She used to cook, but she does not anymore. Now, she simply writes, writes letters and writes stories.

The wind blows her dress to the side, its color the same pearly off-white as her hair. She wears a pearl around her neck, too, but it is different, as it is a darker color. A black baroque pearl, one of the rarest kinds. Irregular in shape and in color.

It’s chain is thin and long, made from the same material as her old quill. She turns her head towards the sea, thinking about how the waves touch the sandy shores, when the necklace comes off with the wind, one great wave taking it away into the water.

She runs towards the sea, letting her feet touch the ocean.

She runs and she runs. “Give it back!” she cries out, screaming at the ocean. She has not spoken in years, so her voice is old and tired. “Give me back my pearl!” The ocean grins in response, its waves stretching left and right. “Oh, no,” a voice says, calling it from the distance. “We cannot do that, letter-writer. It was ours, and it always will be.” She looks forward, trying to find the voice. She knows not every person has a voice, which is why she writes them, but she has not yet met a voice with no speaker. Finally, she sees her, a child, perhaps a teenager, wearing a flowing blue dress with matching blue eyes. Her hair is a light auburn, with streaks of the orange sunlight. She smiles with the waves, letting her eyes crinkle in the light. “Oh, letter-writer,” she says with a grin. “So, we meet again.” “Who are you?” Our protagonist replies, her own eyes still locked on the pearl. The child smiles, clutching the necklace in her hand. “Do you not remember?” she says, her voice lowering. “You once wrote a letter for me.” “But I haven’t written a letter in many years,” the letter-writer replies, her eyes drifting their gaze from the child’s hands to her own steady glare forward. “At least, not for anyone else. I just write letters for myself and for the people in my mind who cannot tell their own stories.” “The people in your mind?” “Yes,” she says, nodding to herself. “The characters, you may call them. They come through me, and I let them tell their own stories on the paper.” “Is that really a letter?” Her head tilts backwards as she speaks.

“I suppose you could call it a story, if you preferred. But I call it a letter, as I am the one writing it.” She pauses, thinking of her writing. “But I write letters, too. I write letters to the people I have spoken to, to the people I know I will eventually forget. I write so that I can remember.” The girl laughs, more of a cackle than a grin like before. “And yet,” she says, tightening her grasp on the pearl. “And yet, you have failed, as you have forgotten me.” “It seems I have,” she replies, letting her own voice waver. “What is your name, child?” “I would tell you,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “If you did not steal from me any more.” “But I do not steal from you.” She glances up in confusion, the wind blowing her to and fro. “You say I stole my pearl from you, but I did not. It was a gift, from someone long ago.” “Precisely.” She frowns again, her hair being ruffled by the wind. “You seem to know more about me than I know,” she says, her voice rising with the wind in confusion. “If that is the case, then what have I stolen?” “I do,” the child replies once more. “And you write in ink, do you not? Ink is from the ocean, you know, from the bodies of the octopus and the squid. You steal from us every day, and you have never seemed to care.” Her own blue dress ruffles up with her maple red hair. She forcefully stands her ground against the wind, Perhaps it is her age that makes her so strong, or perhaps it is the sheer amount of power she holds.

“Letter-writer,” she begins once again. “Have you nothing to say?” “No,” says the letter-writer. “No, I do remember you. I just never wrote you, I always drew you.” The child frowns. “You drew me?” She asks, her face growing pale. “You drew me with the ink you have stolen from my ocean, simply to preserve my memory, a memory others will be able to see? How dare you draw me.” But the letter-writer frowns, her voice still wavering. “Iris,” she whispers out, tracing the outline of a flower in the air. A flower identical to the ones on her cream colored paper in her room. “You are Iris. Iris of the Ocean. You came to me, asking for a letter to the sky. I remember laughing, for Iris was the messenger of the sky and of all letters in the old tales, but you said you were not named for the rainbow or for the skies, simply for the flowers in the ground and the center of one’s eye. You said you would be the messenger, however, for you must deliver a letter one could never hear about.” The girl smiles, her own irises glinting in the sunlight. “Well done,” she says. “But still, have you no remorse for the ink you have stolen?” “I wrote you a letter,” the letter-writer continued. “A letter to the sky from the seas. And, in return, you gave me a pearl as my payment, a small black pearl, irregular in shape. A gift, you said. A gift from the ocean.” “Also true,” says Iris of the Ocean. “But technology has long replaced ink. You could use typewriters, if you truly needed to write. But you insist on ink, ink made from my seas.” “Do you,” the letter-writer starts, her voice fading out into the oblivion of the seas and wind. “Do you - do you know my name?” She pauses, thinking about how to explain her question. “Iris of the Ocean, do you know who I am? All I know is that I write letters. I do not know whether they are stories or letters anymore. I do not know if you were one I made up from my mind or remembered. All I know is the paper and the quill, all I know is the past I was given, a past I now forget. I use the ink of the seas because I remember the seas, I use ink because I know it well. I could use a typewriter, but the letters wouldn’t have my touch to them. No one would ever be able to read them and know they were mine.” Iris sighs, her shoulders dropping. She leans down to the sea, reaching to pick up a dollop of the ocean. A sphere of water. Slowly, she inserts the necklace inside of the sphere, letting it float in her own makeshift briny, blue sea.

“I know your name, letter-writer,” she says. “I know who you are, and I know who you could be. You have not come to the seas in years, letter-writer. You live right here, and yet only now you can explain why you use my ink. Here is your pearl. A gift from the sea, something for you to hold onto. But you must promise to no longer write in ink.

If you can make this promise, I will tell you your name, as well, for the ocean knows you well. The wind will remember you from now on, and the seas will continue your legacy. You did not tell me your name before when we met, but I have learned it over time.” The letter-writer smiles, reaching her hand forward. “That’s a deal,” she says, her eyes wide with happiness. “Thank you, Iris of the Ocean.” “Thank you, Runa.” “Runa?” She asks, her eyes growing wider. “That’s my name?” “Yes.” She frowns, looking back up to see Iris’s auburn hair and blue eyes, but they are gone, replaced with the wind and the seas. She is gone, gone back to her home. To the ocean. The letter-writer begins to climb up the hill once more to her cottage by the seas, ready to go into town for a typewriter. Her name is Runa, and she writes letters.


2020. The year that wouldn’t end. Or so we thought. It started off in December 2019, as a news story about some city in China where a lot of people were being hospitalized with some mysterious respiratory illness. Headlines spewed fear and the nightly news paraded a horror show of sick and dying people; all while asking how long would it be until it showed up in the United States, Russia and other parts of the globe. It didn’t take long. In March of 2020, the world changed. Italy was in a nationwide lockdown, due to an overwhelming number of Covid infections. In the United States, there were several hot spots for the Virus. New York City was hit particularly hard by it, as were Los Angeles and Seattle. Just as we started to think the worst was behind us, hurricane season hit us with a record number of named storms; nearly all of which hit the gulf coast of the United States. Economically, we were falling apart because no one could work. Socially, we were ripping ourselves apart over old, new, and long lasting hatreds; all while our political leaders fought over the reigns of power in an election year. Yeah, we thought 2020 was a bad year. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, along with fresh news of a second wave of the virus, everyone was looking forward to enjoying the winter holidays and then celebrating the new year. 2021 *had* to be a better year than 2020. It couldn’t get any worse. We were all wrong. The first strain of Covid that spread around the globe was just that, the first wave. It changed people for life, *physically.* Shortness of breath, muscle aches, headaches. It was baffling to our doctors. By the end of November 2020, over two million American citizens had been infected with the first strain. The second strain would move much faster. The second strain hit the northern hemisphere particularly hard. The mortality rate was higher by ten percent than the first and the changes were more obvious. The shortness of breath was still present, but light sensitivity and aural distortions were new. The third strain hit in April 2021. Six months before the visitation. The Third Strain wiped out nearly half of the uninfected population of the planet. Those who didn’t die seemed to recover to better health than before their illness. They were stronger, more energetic and had more efficient cognitive function. Hospitals were overwhelmed as people either died on ventilators or recovered within days of reporting symptoms. Just before the visitation, humanity had just about given up fighting the virus. Nothing we did seemed to work. At one point there was even talk of a vaccination...which proved to be far less effective than it had been touted to be. October 2021. Visitation. They didn’t come down in their ships in the middle of the night or anything overly dramatic. They simply took control of our social media feeds and announced their presence. In a moment we learned many truths. The first was that we were not only, *not alone,* but that there were many sentient life forms in the universe! We also learned some pretty horrible truths as well. The most horrible was that these other species did not consider us to be sentient beings. Instead, we were considered livestock. Easily configurable livestock. Genetically engineered to breed beyond the capacity of our environment to sustain our population. We were made with enough intelligence to become the dominant species on our planet, thus ensuring our ability to overpopulate our planet. The virus, it seemed, had been engineered to alter our physiology in ways that would be beneficial to inhabiting other planets designated as agricultural planets. The plan was to seed these other planets with altered humans as breed stock. Their new homes were pre-selected based upon the mutations caused by the corona virus they had unleashed on our planet. Those who became stronger would be allowed to stay on earth to start rebuilding the population. They urged us to stay calm through the transition, but would use coercion if they had to. No one would be hurt unless necessary. Of course, our military tried to fight the first ships that entered our atmosphere. They didn’t even last a week. Every military installation on the planet was targeted and destroyed systematically. It was efficiently done. Then they set up the broadcasting stations. These monstrous machines were mounted at the tops of two hundred foot long spikes delivered from low earth orbit. Hundreds of them dropped at a time from orbit spread out as they fell towards each of our inhabited continents. Once they embedded deeply into the earth they began emitting specific pheromones into the surrounding countryside. The pheromones induced a zombie like state in the infected population. Powerless to defend themselves, the affected people would follow specific pheromones to specific gathering points where they were collected in large, automated transport vessels. The pheromones didn’t have the same effect on those of staying on Earth. To us, it seemed to all be a dream. We went about our daily lives, watching our friends, neighbors and even our family members simply walk into one of the transports like it was something they had done everyday of their lives. It all seemed normal until one of us snuck onto one of the ships and disabled it in flight. She survived, no one else did. That was the first sign of resistance. Little Izzy, who was only looking for her mom. She was only fifteen and she found a way to break free of the dream and actually see the horror going on around her. Her next act brought them down in person. She managed to climb to the top of a broadcasting station and disable it with a military grade explosive. Suddenly everyone within its influence radius was awake, confused and horrified by what was happening around them. The strongest of us decided to fight back. Using chemical defense gear from a nearby surplus store, we disabled several Broadcasting Stations before the hunters caught up to us. They really tried not to hurt us. They hit us with optical stunners first. These are like flash grenades but they emit the light in a pattern of flashes that induce a trancelike state in anyone caught in its brilliance. At first it was easy for them to round us up. I couldn’t really see them, because of the armor they were wearing. It seemed to shift and blur in a way that resembled a waters pot on a camera lens. I was on the fringe of the Stunner’s effectiveness and closed my eyes as a reflex. I was ready when the first of them got to me. I could feel an unnatural heat growing around me as the figure came closer and closer to me. Just as the heat became unbearable, I heard a voice in my head encouraging me to be calm. That everything was going to be fine and that I was simply frightened because I didn’t understand. I was reminded of a cowboy talking to a wild horse before touching it for the first time. I forced myself to be calm and grabbed the handle of my knife in anticipation of being touched by a creature I could only discern as a blurry entity. The skin on my leg began to crawl as the approaching heat surrounded my ankle and spread to my calf. The heat was replaced by a clammy, cold grasping sensation on my ankle. I felt the grasp become more firm and I recoiled in revulsion and disgust. I lashed out with my knife, not at my leg, but the air above my leg. Fortune was on my side as the grasping sensation vanished, as did the voice in my head. I felt resistance as my blade struck a solid, fleshy mass and bit deep. I lost my knife when the alien pulled away in shock and pain. His comrades immediately forgot about the other humans and rushed to his aid. To me it appeared as if several water droplets coalesced into one. The optical stunner stopped emitting the terrible light and those of us who were capable of it, ran away. We formed the core of the resistance. Ten of us, including little Izzy. We woke up hundreds and started to fight the forced relocation of humanity. We live here in the Rocky Mountains because we know the land, and we can live off of it. It’s hard for them to find us here. It’s here that humanity will make its stand.