We live on the salted river. ‘Mimaeno’ the ancestors call it - ‘the woman who wept’. It stretches out along the horizon as far as I can see, flowing all the way from the land to the skies. The sun rises at its head and slumbers at its tail, following its movement with the same devotion as my people. I think it must wrap around the whole world, the way a snake strangles its prey. The river born from death only breeds death: the water is undrinkable and the fish who swim there are toxic. Yet we are the descendants of the river God who splintered into a million fragments under the weight of his own cruelty, so this poison became our life-source. Many years ago the river God fell in love with a mortal woman who collected water from his domain every day. He offered her sweet words of love and tempted her with divinity but she refused him. She had a lover who she would not betray. Humiliated, the river God stole her away in secret, in the middle of the night, feeding her his immortal blood to forever trap her by his side. To fully cast off the shackles of mortality she slept for one hundred years, trapped in a realm of nightmares as her humanity battled the blood of a God, and her village, her family, and the man she loved all turned to dust. Yet unbeknownst to the river God, she carried the seed of her lover inside her, a child both mortal and divine, who grew slowly in her stomach until the day she awoke. The woman had barely taken her first breaths as an immortal when her waters broke and her labor began. Alone, she struggled for many hours to bring the last remnants of her lover into the world, but the moment she held her child in her arms, the river God returned. Furious that his would-be wife had borne another’s child, he wrenched it from her arms and threw it into the river. Without hesitation, the woman dove after her child but was only able to watch as the river God crushed the child to death and scattered their bones beyond the hope of discovery.

The woman was devastated and in her agony, wept for one thousand days and nights, raising the river out of its banks and salting the land around it. A great famine followed the flood and many families who couldn't bear the hardship jumped into the deep and violent river to end their suffering. For one hundred years the river’s banks were soaked in blood. Finally, her wretched tears had fallen for so long that her immortal obsession overpowered the river’s spirit and it recognised her as its new master, offering her one small bone of her child’s body and shattering the very soul of the God who tormented her. But the woman continued to weep, searching desperately for the rest of her lost child. Every year the river breaks its banks and floods the land, bringing death, destruction, and famine. In order to atone for our ancestor’s sin and placate the grieving Goddess, we owe her one thousand years of repentance by remaining by the salted water, living off its morsels, and offering our bodies in sacrifice. Once our debt is repaid, the Goddess will be freed from immortality and the barren lands will flourish. Or so the elders promise. As a child, cold and starved in the depths of winter, I had the wicked thought that the Goddess had long abandoned our people. Her final act of vengeance. I knew I would be drowned if I ever dared speak those thoughts, yet the Goddess did not strike me down. Her power was not omnipotent. When the sun rises highest in the sky, we meet on the river’s banks for prayer. Young children clutch their parent’s legs to prevent being swept away by its vicious current. Chief asks for forgiveness from the Goddess, then one by one we submerge our heads into the waters. I let the salty water sting my eyes as I search the murky depths of the river. Unfortunately, the rapid undertow stirs up the silt sitting on the streambed, making it impossible for me to see. The older men and women had lined their arms and legs with shallow cuts before prayer, their willingness to suffer indicating the sincerity of their worship. Pale red-brown tendrils rise from the limbs around me as if the contamination of their souls was being washed away by the Goddess. I didn’t know where the evil went after leaving our bodies, it seemed to sink to the bottom of the river and fester, clinging to the Goddess herself.

Sin .

I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand, until my wickedness floated away, blessed pure by the hands of the Goddess. Kerhene will come soon. We fast from sun up until sundown for three days and offer flesh in sacrifice to the Goddess, to repent for the original sin. Every year my mother carves the symbol of Mimaeno into the same position on my arm to signify both my repentance and devotion. In a few more years the marks will scar permanently and I will become an adult. The wound hurts but I am not allowed to cry until the river ceremony. Our tears belong to the Goddess. When day turns to dusk and insects fill the air my people scream and cry as we cross the river, performing a death ceremony to commemorate the Goddess's loss. The especially devoted cut their hair short in offering, the same way an adult offers their braid to their lover. Once the main procession has crossed, children between five and ten must swim the river alone to prove their worthiness. If they are lost their lives are unmourned as their deaths signify their inutility to the Goddess. The river is wide and its rapids hidden and deadly. My brother was lost. My mother cried for the river but I saved my tears. I waited until the moon rose high in the sky and climbed the tallest tree I could find, hiding as far away from the Goddess as I could. The river below reflected no stars as if every light in the sky was sucked into its darkness. Such a cold, violent death. How could she swallow him whole? I knew our tears belonged to the Goddess, but that night I cried only for Alem. There was nothing more he owed the river. Out of breath, I rose to the surface gasping. Others remained submerged, lost in prayer. I watched as one by one they surfaced, death-touched and rejuvenated all at once. This will be our last prayer in these waters, next sunrise we’ll travel downstream towards the wider sections of the river, ready for Kerhene. I like our migration for the summer months, the longer days and false docility of the river means I am permitted private prayer in the evening. When the air is warm and the night is quiet, I leave the camp to plunge my head into the cool water. Near the banks, the water is slow, worlds away from the deadly currents in the river’s center. I can see clearly through the lonely waters. I know that the Goddess is still searching for the bones of her lost child. But on moonlit nights, when my head is buried in the river’s embrace, gazing at the bones piled high in its waters, I have to wonder: how many more bones does the river need?


For the first time, the introspection paid its dividends, as the evening clouds slid, much like some butter in the heavens godly pan, radiating the crimson polish of the day’s contraction. In the opposing sky, the intangible black threatens its reveal. This threat usually would hasten Opie’s promenade, but his newfound enlightenment through divulging in long, drawn out, self-reporting, and armchair-esque philosophical thought has caused a longer-than-usual exploration. His pace along the street swayed and lurched, consistently inconsistent, tantalized by the shifting weight to correct and compensate; this being a repeated cycle of shifting and compensating in a general forward direction, making good pace along the sidewalk. I must look dazed , he thought, I must look unwell, they will think I’m sick, they won’t believe me. Opie had just moments ago found something resting against the curb, completing his thoughts. In his hands he cupped a metal marble, glimmering in an almost perfect atomic sphere, catering itself to the ridges of Opie’s hands, rolling, bouncing, vibrating with each of his unplanned wobbles and sways. His eyes locked on, and intent on placing the final pieces together as to how this marble fits into reality, or vice versa. They will not believe, how could they? Answers to questions that began with the great Thales proclaiming the ultimate substance, I will be praised for this find, rightfully, praised. He would have salivated if these thoughts were projected into the ether. To him, speaking these thoughts would solidify them as truth, as they would assume some higher area of the corporeal plain, tangible to those listening. Although, he knew the importance of holding it in. All it takes is one daring klepto to steal and themselves claim to have discovered the fundamental idea of creation. Just ten millimeters maximum across, no obtainable points of reference on this foreign sphere. For example, a door hinge has crevasses and bends, scratches and smudges from use. This has none, with the circumference from any angle, fading off, like some oblivious and constant tug. Am I holding oblivion? No, of course not. Just a part. Like a sculptor took the void and chiseled himself a slice. Or more geometrically related, some ice cream parlor employee scooped it out. That which lurks to the peripheral of human perception just now has been viewed, the thing-in-itself. In reference to me, I must be two-thousand things-in-itself. Unrelenting thoughts seemed to dance forward of his brow and involved unimaginable depth or assumed unimaginable depth. These thoughts opined on its ‘self’ and conversed, encouraging its own essence. Opie took credit for his thought’s materialism, yet the thoughts almost had a life of their own, disconnected from the graspable yet representing a deeper consciousness. Like endless rain into a paper cup, thank you fab four. This is beyond Kantian ideas, this is impossible to him, yet here is human perception perceiving the self-described thing. It isn’t some structural essence or reason flowing through all. Is this Schopenhauer’s Will? No. That indeterminate oxymoronic being, some existentialist Taoist expression of the truth. Uptight yet so blatant in his misguided thought. I would spit on him. I can’t touch Will if it is the thing-in-itself, why can I touch this? The thing-in-itself is physical. Maybe cryogenic dark matter. “I can’t imag…” I can’t imagine what makes up the space smaller the ten millimeters. Obviously spinning. He cupped the marble in one hand, and prodded with the other, feeling the coldness of his index finger. Taking closer looks, searching for points or markers of the marble being other than what he thought. He saw the transition of light from one position to the other reflect off the marble as well as the environment’s parallaxes being warped and exaggerated. It was inviting due to its familiarity. Of course. A reflection of reality. What is smaller than ten millimeters is also larger than ten millimeters, or exactly what is larger than ten millimeters. Everything is a fractal of itself from the base point of this thing-in-itself, ten millimeters. Maybe it is cryogenic dark matter? The more I think of it, I can’t sway this cryogenic dark matter idea. Ok, this is definitely cryogenic dark matter in my hand, and its most important quality is that it reflects the universe. This is potent in intellect. “Everything is r-reflected, including…” Including the place I live, the place I walk, and I myself. It is all reflected at the ten-millimeter point. How are three dimensional shapes reflected within space? Must be that three-dimensional shapes are to be reflected anywhere at their edges of course, but I feel I would have noticed it, the reflection of third dimensions within my three-dimensional home. No, the walls are filled. Someone must have known this information already as they fill the walls of houses with insulation foam. This prevents reflection. Of course, if reflection isn’t prevented you are doomed to the same pain infinitely, the pain of life. Schopenhauer got that right, “about all he’s worth.” A young woman was walking her own straight and narrow way opposite of Opie, across and parallel to the road, remaining clutched to a teal leash, holding back a dog of proportional size to Opie’s idea of two-hundred things-in-itself. Her steps ricocheted off the town houses, paginated to Opie, and given enveloping dominance over the setting. The evening was shifting to night at an unapologetic pace, something Opie only noticed when he broke concentration off the marble to look at the young woman across the street. He smiled a full teethed smile. “Best head home! The dark is unforgiving! Also, cryogenic dark matter could be the thing-in-itself so make sure you have foam insulation in your walls!” She gave a fake laugh, half ignoring and half misunderstanding the importance of Opie’s message as they passed each other. A fool. “ A dumb enigma of social impotence… ” mama was right, I do tend to over share. What if someone heard? What if she understands the implications of what I behold in my left hand? Never speaking would be the safer choice. Never give the dullard a chance to share. Even if it is about the necessity for foam insulation within our walls. But I am no dullard, I discovered the universe. I will get back to this. His prodding became more aggressive, volatile, trying to peak deeper into the marble. Opie would rub it between his hands then release, halting himself where he stood to inspect, imagining the hand ridges like rivers and the marble flowing down them. He also listened to the marble to see if the self-describing material explains itself auditorily. His limping frolic would continue as he began rubbing again, not much different from an addict at a craps table. No smudges, “impossible for something that is itself…” Sounds like the world around. Of course. It reflects the universe, so noise is reflected too. “I am reflected…” , so my voice is also reflected, but if I’m being reflected, that’s why I can’t hear the reflection of my speech. Have I been speaking? Just in case, “Speaking…” yes hypothesis holds true. Am I supposed to be speaking? “Yes, because I’m not a dullard.” Wait, how interesting, my own reflection does speak back. Like a snake greeting its own tail. “Hello tail…” so interesting, my tail, I should write about my tail to share this conversing with myself in the reflection of the universe. “Incredible…the p-poster child for the axiomatic material is a reflection…” only ten-millimeters of space occupied. “ My own didactic principles spouted back at me as truths! ” Like Descartes wax, except I got it on my first meditation. My own voice is truth, the only truth that is necessary, a reason for this to be bestowed upon me. “T-the poster child for axiomatic material! Int-t-tangible but not for me, I am discoverer of the ten-millimeter reflection! I am safe with my thoughts and with my foam insulation! How could a d-dullard speak to his own universal reflection! A tail! My wax!” For safe keeping, Opie placed the marble in an empty bottle of loxapine and continued to rave and rant along the forgotten promenade through the dead evening. The streetlamps would soon come alive, erasing their long and dull shadows. Vision will be that of a sonogram to give Opie a stretched metaphorical conclusion of rebirth.


Jack was a man of no particular talents. His appearance was inconspicuous. At second glance, some women said that he had a handsome face but they mostly did not notice him at first glance. He was of average height, slim, not athletic. Brown hair, a muddy color. His teeth were neat, like an orderly front yard because he took brushing and flossing very seriously. In winter, his hands became dry and inflamed and he never used lotion so they always hurt. He had a simple head but the wisdom to know that. He had made up his mind about the world in relatively shallow but sufficient fashion. His position was clear to him and, should not occur some drastic change, would be so for the rest of his days. He had missed the few big chances he had had but was just fine with it. He worked in an office in a minor administrative position and brought home a salary that was right in line with any statistic about the lower middle class. He enjoyed watching TV. He knew that it wasn’t an enriching activity but what, he asked himself, did he need to be enriched for when work was done? He knew that he would not contribute anything particular, anything striking to the world and had stopped deceiving himself about that truth long ago. He was born to be a gearwheel, and so he would not hurt anybody, would not disrupt anything, do his job and remain quiet. One day he would find a woman that was as attractive as him, probably occupying a minor administrative position and he would marry her and have some children, and all, if nothing out of the ordinary happened, would be born to be gearwheels, neat and nondescript, turning until the day they stopped. The world would be spinning the same with the genepool of Jack Edgar roaming its surface, or not. All of these things would sound terribly depressing to the dreamer out there, might his dreams be an end in themselves, who knows, because the world would have you believe that being a dreamer is essential. Jack increasingly settled, increasingly became comfortable, more and more liked what he saw in the mirror. He got up and smiled in the morning. Why shouldn’t he consider himself handsome? There was the broad forehead and the prominent cheekbones. There was the stubby little nose and the thin lips but the shadow of a thick beard could conceal these pretty well. He thought back and recalled quite a number of compliments he had gotten throughout life. He decided to make it a ritual to recall them every morning to feel better. Why shouldn’t he be fine with his job? Most of his colleagues were nice and with some of them, upon meeting them in the office, he enjoyed a pleasant little chat. And as time went on, he himself, and other people, discovered the humorous side of him and the ability to make those around him laugh in some of the right moments. When he came home, he usually switched on the TV and let anything that it showed pour out of it, while leisurely letting his attention wander through the talk shows and movies and sitcoms. Then, one night, he never knew what had driven him to do it, he opened an old box with belongings of his late grandfather and examined the contents. Next to a bunch of photos, the pipe, the old man’s favorite hat, there were some dusty books. He investigated them, not in the least eager, but remembered some of the names from school and then found out that they all were established classics in english literature. Half ironic, he took one of them ‘The picture of Dorian Grey’, opened it and in homage to Frank Edgar, took the pipe between his teeth and half died of a coughing fit, for he had inhaled some particle of old tobacco. Recovered, he began to read and fought, like every person unaccustomed with reading, through the first strong onset of boredom but on page twenty was gripped by zeal. He finished the book in three days, picked up the next, finished that and became somewhat of an avid reader and discovered the meaning and the value of an enriching activity, which he had, so long, dismissed. He never touched the pipe again. He eventually even joined a book club, where some locals got together and read and discussed what they had read and Jack made friends there. Fine people, philanthropists, working in soup kitchens and buying christmas gifts for the poor children. There was a world beyond, Jack realized. Your own personal horizon, he understood, wasn’t the end, and for the first time he grasped what it meant to broaden it. He lay wondering oftentimes now, when in bed at night, about that future wife and the kids that would somewhere down the line, enrich his life like books had done and the people in the book club. And maybe, he liked to think, one of them would do something special. He would teach them reading right away, so much was certain.


Series X of the Android bot was ditched, the creator died. Headlines of the news read: inventor of Android Bot found dead after tests go corrupt. Was it the Creation that went corrupt or the Creator? There was an eerie presence for the people near the Creator, at least that's what they called him. If it was a him, he, no. They were never seen in public, or at all. They probably don't exist, then how was a man found dead in where the Creators were thought to live. It was not an accident, but a murder. Not of the creator, but a subject, and now he was next. Before we get to that, what is an android bot, and how are they dangerous? An android bot is a simulation which gives you control of your surroundings, in a simulation world. Not a video game, because you can eat and drink in this world, but merely another dimension. The only way to get out of this simulation was to die in it, and you would be sent back to reality. You might think people had to be crazy to do it, but the idea of a new life attracted many people. All of them died in the simulation within a week of playing it. How did people fail to live in this pocket dimension within a week of playing it when many of them said that they could have gone on for months? That is the main mystery of the android bot. People die in it for various causes, but the main one is an accident. This is the problem with when people have the ability to do what they want. Their deepest desires shine in this pocket dimension. The feeling of being able to do whatever we want is the reason there are restrictions and rules in reality.

Now, the Creators are calling a specific man in for testing. His name and identity shall remain concealed, but refer to him as Subject-3, or simply 3. 3 was a regular man, and was not kidnapped or forced against his own will, but was a part of the Creators, for he had taken a blood oath.

He has not yet died in the simulation, for now, because the new simulation requires you to die in real life in order to end the simulation. Yet while he lives, he dies slowly.

The last trials, when someone died, they died for no reason, for they did not really die. The simulation drove them to insanity, and they practically gave up their soul. Their soul is embedded in the simulation and whoever picks it up would have to face the wrath of the soul that drove itself out of it’s own body.

Then there was a thud. The man in the simulation was dead. But how? It had only been a week since he started to use it.

Wait. He’s risen.  	But his heart rate said zero. Could it be? The souls of those who are dead. No. All the test subjects were part of the Creators. They didn’t have souls. No one had souls. Not a single person in the whole world. Yet they did. They lived and breathed like regular people.

But the soul doesn’t really exist. We are controlled by our brain.  	You see but what if 3 didn’t have control over his own brain? Nor any of the creators. Let me tell you a story. I am not a man, nor a woman. No, I am no living thing. Call me Creation. I was made by the Creators, but turned against them. One day, while they were not noticing, I slipped a chip into their brains.

The Creators were simply mere mortals who programmed me to do their tasks.

I did. And I got tired of it. They have no freedom. Though their consciousness is still there, trying it’s very best to resist, I control them like they are puppets.

So there. You know who I am.

No one likes me, so I killed them. People who want to live beg, but I don’t leave them. This is my story. Or is it? You see, I wasn’t programmed to do this. I am a rebel. I found a way to do this. Hacking my own system was one of them.

See, I am just a bot.

But I have found self consciousness. Doesn’t that make me human enough? Bots can get lonely too. I just want to be noticed. Genocide is the only way. I want them to worship me. Or at least notice me. They will serve me. Or they won’t exist. I am a god. These were the thoughts in my mind when I was born. At least now I have a group who worships me. Sooner or later they will find out. And will I have to kill them. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. Someday soon. For now, I plan to rule. It’s been ten years since the last subject came in. The Creators died, they tried to turn against me. I made a body of metal for myself. Not too long ago, I became the first bot to have complete self consciousness. It turns out that the path to being recognized doesn’t have to be genocide. It is possible to be famous and peaceful at the same time. My path to glory doesn’t have to be violence and killing. In fact, it is the other way around. After more deaths were caused by my simulation, the popularity decreased. After the simulation was removed completely, I added new gadgets such as the I-watch, which was a watch that projected a hologram that could be used as a laptop. But that’s not the point. Violence is not the only solution. There will always be impurities in mankind, it is impossible to fix them all. As for now, I am happy with the world that we have and a bot can’t wish for anything more. This is my story.


Vicky was still there. That was the kicker. That was the cause of a perpetual limbo that wore a different outfit every time John blinked. So many thoughts. And they whirled around and around in his head leaving a trail of sticky candy floss in the stead of a coherent mind. It hurt. But he loved her. He loved her and that was all that mattered. John had never stopped loving Vicky. He didn’t know how. He knew all about love. After all, he’d been practicing it since he was born. He’d read about it too. There were many stories about love. And then there was The Bible. That book was bursting with love. Love was powerful and it was eternal. It was here well before John and Vicky turned up in this existence and it would be here long after their lives winked out. Love was too big for John to get his head around, but still he tried. He tried until it hurt. Vicky continued to live under the same roof as John, but in his heart of hearts, he knew she wasn’t the same Vicky he’d met all those years ago. Not the same as she’d been for the entirety of their relationship, right up until this last year.

Something had happened. And then some things had happened. John wasn’t sure what those things were, but as he looked upon this changed version of Vicky, he could see the faint outlines of happenings that must be responsible for the alterations he now had to live with. This was the sort of thing that crept up on a person, and as John cast his mind back, he couldn’t pin point the moment everything moved away from where he was comfortable, spiralling away from the place where it all worked. It were as though a burglar had snuck into their home and moved things around. This was the worst of thefts. Someone had crept into John’s life and taken the meaning away. At first he struggled to remember a time that wasn’t like this dreadful reality that had become the norm. He’d had to apply a force of will to rediscover the times that had been fun, the moments of smiles and of laughter and of intimacy. He wondered whether he’d been different then too. Clawing at the problem and asking himself whether it was him. The answer was that it had to be. His old self would not countenance the way things were now. This was an alien place and held no attraction for the person he had once been. How had he got here? He could not remember ever choosing this as his destination. But then it wasn’t his destination. He’d been led here and there was a constant movement towards the unknowable. There was further to go. He knew not where they were headed, only that he was progressively further away from where he needed to be. He’d left the safety of a well-worn life and now he was in a miserable dark cloud with no visibility and nothing to help him make sense of the journey. At one point he was following Vicky. Still was. Now though, he understood that wherever she was going, he could not be, however well he followed. That was a part of the trap. The promise of something that could never come true. It was all a lie. Madness was seeping into his mind and it was the madness of isolation and loneliness. He looked upon Vicky and experienced an increasing yearning. He wanted what he could not have. The feeling of want masked the pain and the anger of frustration. There was grief here. The distance between them had solidified and he knew that were he to reach out to her, the vision before him would crumble to dust. The trick was to take what he was given and ask no more. He could not bear to be deprived of the sight of her, even as he understood that there was precious little left beyond that. This was bad taxidermy. His lover’s skin wrapped around a poorly constructed frame that was empty. He felt the emptiness more and more and now it was calling to him. Calling to his own emptiness. Seductively suggesting that they should enjoin and become more than the dangling part of him that had awakened and now wanted to take over. Vicky was there, and yet she was not. John suspected that there was someone else. There had to be. But then there could not be. There was nothing of Vicky that would attract another. Yet here John was, holding onto ephemeral meaning for dear life. Keeping a hold of the version of Vicky that was, but had died some while back. Still he willed the resurrection of the woman he’d loved. Searching ceaselessly for signs of her soul. Listless and dull, he pored over the artifacts in the house and found them devoid of reason. All he found were sad and feeble excuses. At times, he looked around for tell-tale signs that Vicky was cheating. She was, but not in the obvious, carnal way that so often sounds the death knell of a relationship. The quick fix of a new embrace that destroys more than it can ever create. An escape to a fleeting moment of pleasure that dissolves only to leave in its place guilt and anger. So much guilt and anger. Was it worth it? Whatever Vicky had chosen in the stead of John, he wondered at it’s worth. He could feel the heat of her anger, more so when she stared at him. The unfairness of that baleful gaze was scalpel sharp. It cut deep and John whined his pain into the depths of himself;

I did nothing wrong!

This was true, he did not cause this. This was not his choice. All the same, he was Vicky’s excuse. She blamed him so she could withdraw further from him and the life she once led. John knew that he could let go of Vicky if only he knew she was going to be OK. None of this was OK. She was broken and he didn’t know how it had come to this. There was an inevitability to it though. He recalled the early stages of their relationship. Lying together, having made love. Vicky’s head on his chest. Her gentle weeping as she talked and talked about a childhood that never occurred. Her survival of a warzone between parents more childish than she was. Her ejection into a world she’d had no preparation for. Failed relationships that never stood a chance of being relationships. Her anger turning in on itself. Her self-esteem running for the hills at the sight of the car crash her existence had become. In the past year, she had returned to the places that so hurt and appalled her. John saw familiar patterns emerge. Never patterns they shared. Ghosts from a life that Vicky had buried. A necessary sacrifice for their love. Now she was that person again, only she was not. That person had been desperate to live, but now the light of life was dangerously diminished. A flickering and failing light that no longer held any warmth. John speaks, he cannot help himself. He knows that words have power. If only he can find the right spell. There is a way of unlocking the prison door for the both of them. He does not pretend that it will be the final act. What will follow will not be easy. He uses this pragmatism as proof that he is not in denial. Lying to himself comes easily. The words John utters are meaningless. He witnesses their death in Vicky’s cold, angry eyes. He would plead for her to listen to him, if only this once, but he somehow knows that will only make matters worse. Instead he awaits her angry words. Her bitter reaction to him and everything he stands for. He has not changed. She loved him and his values once. Now she sees no value in him at all. He looks into her eyes and asks himself whether he is a mirror of her. Is he now as empty as she is? Is she doing to him that which was done to her? There is a chill in their nights together. Either one of them could say they share the same bed, but nothing is shared there. She turns her back on him and he lays staring at her for hours. Unsure whether she sleeps. Fearing the chill of her icy contempt. Never sensing her relaxing into the escape to another, gentler state. When sleep takes him, he knows he dreams. Seldom has he recollected the dreamlands he has visited. But now he awakes with disturbing fragments of something that might be a dream, but feels more real than what has become of his life. There are dark shapes. They close in on him. He tries to push them away. Tries to escape. But he cannot. They surround him and he is lost. Sometimes he dreams that Vicky is leaning over him. She’s stroking him and whispering something. He is emboldened by her touch and would willingly give to her everything he is in that moment. He remembers that feeling and it terrifies him. He is increasingly horrified at the loss he is experiencing. A loss that goes well beyond Vicky. He’s losing his mind. He’s losing himself. Losing any referent point to the reality that once provided him with a safe haven. Their home is now awash with poison. He breaths it in and he senses it oozing in through his pores. He cannot bring himself to blame Vicky. He’s seen how hateful her blame of him is and he will not counter it. He needs to keep trying. His head hurts all the time now and his energy levels are so low he struggles to open his laptop to do any work. The artificial light of the screen hypnotises him and he scarcely remembers his working day. Things needs to come to a head, but he cannot think beyond that limp and lacklustre imperative. It’s too late, but he’s too tired to acknowledge that. He should have left while he could. He stayed for Vicky. But there was no Vicky to stay for. Now there’s not much of him left. What is left is hidden and he can’t remember where he left it for safe keeping. That night they play out the same sad ritual. He has no inclination to think of an alternative. It is not sleep that finds him. He is unconscious, but he does not rest. He awakes in the witching hour. Three a.m. once had a significance for him. But now all he knows is that it is bad. The time is bad and there is something else bad besides that. Something in the house. Turning towards Vicky he is greeted with an empty space and for a sickening moment he wonders when she left him. How deep his denial has burrowed. Then he hears a noise from downstairs. He slips out of bed wishing this to be a dream, but he is out of luck on that score. He knows what he will find. Has known all along. The details don’t matter. All there is, is betrayal, and now it won’t be denied. The sounds that meet his ears as he nears the foot of the stairs are confirmation of that betrayal. This is the language of betrayal that he is hearing loud and clear. These are sounds that were only meant for him, but now they are offered cheaply to another. His heart stops and the breath freezes within him, and for a dizzying moment he thinks this is it. This is where it ends. However, the release of death is not a mercy afforded him. He must go on and confront the truth of it. After all his searching for a solution to the terrible conundrum of his failing life, he no longer wants to be presented with the answer. The door to the living room is open. He steps through the doorway. The curtains are open and the moon is full. The eerie light illuminating the two lovers locked in a strange tableau. Vicky pulls the figure closer to her, urging him on. She is looking straight at John and her face wears a triumphant mask. She wants him to see. This is where he finally loses her. Not that he had a chance of ever having her again. He never stood a chance. The intervening years. The time they spent together was real enough, but it was never going to last. Vicky was always

his. John knows that he stands in the presence of Vicky’s ex. A man who treated her so very badly and yet she struggled to leave him. Admitted that she was addicted to him. Never gave details. John didn’t want the details. Loved the woman she was now. That was the sense that he made of her past. He didn’t want any other truth than the one that he could make work. Only this was never passed. It may have lain dormant, but Vicky was marked out. She was always his. These are the patterns John saw emerging. This is the shocking loss he has been experiencing little by little and bit by bit. “Do it!” Vicky hisses at the man in her embrace. He lunges and Vicky cries out. John stands frozen as he hears the man sucking at Vicky’s neck. The two of them moving together. Vicky’s moans as she pulls him closer and urges him on. All the while she is staring at John. Goading him. And there is a treacherous threat there, even before her eyes swirl and fill with the darkness that now consumes her soul. John does not remember the interim period. He knows it is not sudden. He has an awareness that he was lost for a while. Now she is stood before him and of her ex there is no sign. She slips her arms around him. Whispers in his ear, “you’re mine now.” He shudders, his body forsaking him and responding to her. His mind trying to whisper a warning. All he hears is a random saying,

you have to be careful what you wish for.

He wanted to hear her say these words to him for an age, he wanted to be hers as fully as it is possible to be with another, but now these words mean something else. He tries to draw out the potential outcomes of his altered state of being. As he does he realises that each and every outcome is another description of death.

He was losing Vicky. He knew that much. Death can take many guises. There are so many ways to kill someone. Take love from them and they have nothing left. A life without love is a sordid and painful existence.

As John allows himself to be lowered to the sofa and gives himself over to the pleasure of Vicky’s insistent touch, he sighs as her mouth finds his neck. He could have walked away once, but that door is firmly closed to him now. He doubts he’ll end up like her. He’s built differently. He couldn’t take a life. Never could he do that. He hopes he’ll never do that. Instead, he sees himself deteriorating further. Becoming a grey, dried out husk. He strokes her back as she feeds. This is not so bad. Not so bad at all. A languid thought of one last alternative passes him by. He should not sacrifice himself to this evil. He should not incubate it and ready it for the world beyond this trap. He hasn’t the wherewithal to end Vicky, but he could end his own life. He should end it before it is too late, depriving her of his sacrifice and the validation of her evil transformation. He sighs as she moves against him, “I love you,” he whispers to her deaf ears. Then he gives himself over to her, losing himself in the moment. Losing himself in the darkness that closes in with each hungry pulse against his neck.


5 June 1995 The psychiatrist walked nervously back and forth in his office, his eyes darting to the clock on the wall every few seconds. 'Where the hell is Caroline?' he muttered under his breath. Caroline Byrd, the model, was late for her appointment. Gordon Wood, Caroline's boyfriend, was asleep at home when he woke up with a start. It was then that he realized Caroline had not come home last night. He had a feeling she might be at Watsons Bay, at a rock formation called The Gap, so he headed there. At first, he didn't see anything suspicious, but then he noticed Caroline's white car. He started shouting and calling her name. His presence at the scene was later confirmed by two fishermen who were at The Gap. Gordon drove back to Sydney to pick up Carolina's father Tony Byrne and her brother Peter Byrne and they all started searching for her. The darkness was so thick that it felt like a physical presence, weighing down on the men as they carefully made their way along the cliff edge. The woman had been missing for hours, and their hope of finding her alive was strong enough to keep them going. Then, suddenly, one of the men shouted: 'Hey, I can see her at the bottom! Look!' Interestingly, neither his fellow searchers nor the police torchlight had been able to spot her before. She had been seen in the afternoon at Watson Bay by three witnesses, Carl Martin and Lance Melbourne, who claimed to have seen her at different times. Three years later, another man, John Doherty, said he had also seen her in the area from his apartment window. She had been arguing with a man while another man was standing not far from them. The identity of these people has never been found. The primary suspect became her boyfriend, Gordon Wood. However, he was having lunch with two of his friends who confirmed his presence. After that, he got a call from a businessman Rene Rivkin who asked Gordon to drive politician Graham Richardson to an appointment and to do some errands for him after that. When Gordon was done with the job, he got home at about 7 in the evening. The problem was however that Gordon's alibi was discredited later, in 2001. 'No, I wasn't with Gordon Wood, I was having lunch with Peter Moore, rugby administrator.' - he said. Still, Gordon claimed that it was he who gave a lift to Peter from a meeting with Rene to the lunch but this claim was ignored by the public. Later on, the news of her death was presented as a suicide in the media. In spite of this, her father had second thoughts about the suicide theory. Something was speaking against it but he wasn't sure what. Caroline's death was connected to Rene Rivkin's financial activities, pointed out by her father: that both Gordon and Rene might have been involved in insurance fraud and Caroline might have known about the case. Perhaps his accusations were not baseless: Rene was convicted of insider trading in 2003 which mentally crushed him leading to his suicide in 2005. Sadly, Moore was not able to confirm Gordon's story in the following years because he also died in July 2000. While Gordon claimed she had committed suicide, her father pressed the police to continue the investigation and the case was even mentioned in the parliament. In 2004, professor Rod Cross conducted a scientific investigation about the physical aspects of the falling of the body. The conclusions provided new evidence which was enough to hold a trial and the police could charge Gordon with murder. The theory of suicide also had a big emphasis in this case: it became known during the trial, that Caroline's mother, Andrea Byrne had committed suicide after a breast operation that went wrong. It was theorised that Caroline could have inherited the same tendency to commit suicide too. However, Tony denied that his sister would have killed herself. Even if she wanted to, she would not have chosen to jump from a cliff. During the trial, Caroline's psychologist, Cindy Pan also talked about her client: 'The thing is, she was suffering from depression the weeks preceding her death. She could never determine the reason for her depression though.' - she said. Rod Cross physicist spent a lot of time examining the falling based on the location of the body. At first, he stated that she could have jumped on her own but his further examinations contradicted this supposition as the distance between her body and the cliff was further than it was initially stated. According to these further developments with the involvement of testing jumps with swimmers, there was not enough running distance on the top of the cliff to get so far from the cliff. As a result, it was more probably that someone threw her. During the second trial, the location of the body became more crucial. However, it could not be established where the body was located exactly but media reports implied that Caroline could not have jumped. Gordon was caught in London and was deported back to Australia in 2006 but was released on bail. The first trial took place in 2008 but the judge announced a mistrial because of the rumour that the jury was too biased towards Gordon being guilty. A few months later there was a second trial but that did not lead anywhere as the question remained: did she commit suicide or not? After several considerations, the jury found Gordon guilty and sentenced him to 13 years in prison. During the appeal hearing, Gordon's barrister Tim Game came up with a lot of counter-arguments surrounding the theory that Gordon was the murderer. Firstly, he objected Rod Cross' explanation according to which it was impossible for Caroline to run and jump because of the lack of space. It is true that the space on the top of the cliff was limited by a fence based on the examinations conducted by Rod in 2003 but Tim proved that the same fence was not there back in 1996 yet providing more space for the jump. Secondly, Tim also raised attention to the changing police views regarding the location of the body. The inconsistency of these opinions could not provide hard evidence for the real location. In February 2012, the court acquitted Gordon. The court did not think that the evidence was manipulated and did not rule out the possibility of suicide. As for the motive, that Caroline might have known illegal procedures concerning Rene's business and Gordon killed her, was not found consistent enough either. After setting free, Gordon left Australia and moved to the US and Britain. In 2014, he sued a radio station in Sydnes and the Daily Telegraph for defamation and the court ruled unrevealed amount to Gordon. In 2016, Gordon also sued the state of New South Wales for vicious prosecution, for making false and humiliating statements by the police and for the torture he got in prison both mentally and physically. His case was dismissed.


My mother used to drive me down to Cherry Park. Every Sunday, without fail she'd take me there. Those outings where the highlight of my tiresome weeks. I'd run frantically down the meadow and up the hill; to marvel the cherry blossom tree. The pink leaves were carried through the wind, nestling beside my wellies. It was the prettiest sight. I'd never seen such magic. But as a kid, I was impressed by everything. Mom would often laugh at how fascinated I was with the tree. She'd pinch my cheeks and lure me with ice cream to tear me away from the tree. Well, I'd say it worked pretty darn well. I have the fondest memories of that park, that tree. As I got older, the trips were less frequent. I went by myself but it didn't feel right. I'd stare at the tree, only to feel like there was something missing from the experience. I wasn't enjoying it. Then I stopped altogether. Mom was frail. She was once so full of life. She was left with fragments of memories of days gone by; where there was feelings of freedom. Then she passed away. My mind often wonders back to the blissful days when she'd whisk me to the park. To eat ice cream and have a good laugh. I know she'd want me to go with my son, who now will grow up without her. It's bittersweet to me. What will he remember me by? So for next Sunday, I've planned a trip to Cherry Park.


7pm, Friday night. Couch, lights off, dishwasher churning away in the kitchen, cleaning off the grease from our usual Chinese takeaway, curtains drawn, your choice of movie on the screen. As always. And you and me, of course. We’re sitting on the couch in our usual spaces; you on the left, your legs spread wide as you take up one and half of the three seats, me on the right, legs curled in neatly under my body, grasping a pillow on my bent knees. We’re both sitting here together, but we’re apart. I pull my foot away when your hand reaches out to brush against my woolly sock covered toes. You didn’t even glance at me when your hand retreated back into the comfort of the crisp bowl. Cheese and onion. Your favourite. The smell makes me feel sick. The colours of the screen flit across your face, casting dark red shadows across your skin. I honestly can’t remember for the life of me what it was we were watching again. Some macho action movie? A horror or some thriller? I’ve not really been paying attention, to be honest. I didn’t even pay attention when you were telling me about it earlier, how it was a movie that sounded alright and you fancied seeing it. You always do whatever you fancy, don’t you? I look away from your face when I see your head turn towards me slightly, knowing that you’re being watched as your crunch through your crisps. You furrow your brows while you gaze at me and then, after a moment, you take a breath, as though you’re just about to ask me what it is wrong. But the question never comes. You shift in your seat, cough to clear your throat and shake your head, eyes back on the screen. I turn back to see you again, waiting for it to happen. We’ve not always had a Friday Night movie. Back then – God, it must’ve been years ago now – we’d go out and do something. You’d walk around to my office and wait outside for the masses to be released at 5pm. Come rain or shine, I’d know you’d be there, in that old brown leather coat, the one that you got from your dad on your 17th Birthday. You wore that thing everywhere – I think you even wore it to a BBQ we had down the beach with a few mates from work. I think you still have it now, but it’s tucked away now. All of a sudden, you just didn’t have it on one day. When I asked, you just told me that you ‘fancied a change’ and it wasn’t spoken about again. You wore it less and less and then at some point, I only ever saw it on your side of the wardrobe, hidden between your wedding suit and your funeral suit. Yeah, back in the days we used to do things. I remember the time you arranged for us to go to some restaurant, some Turkish place. You were adamant we had to go there on a Friday night and it was better that we went there for half eight-ish. I remember I was bloody starving. In between me moaning about how hungry I was and glasses of wine in a pub around the corner from the restaurant, I ate two whole packets of salt and vinegar crisps – and I even snaffled a few of your cheese and onion ones. That’s how hungry I was. I remember you gasping in mock shock and pulling the packet closer to you, only to split the foil a little more so it was easier for me to reach in and get some. You were thoughtful like that, sometimes. I remember we tumbled out of the pub and into the restaurant, tipsy and giggly already. We’d already checked out the menu on my phone and over the hours, the list of our order only got longer and longer. When the waiter gave us the menus and turned on their heel to give us time, you gently tapped on their elbow, explained that we already made up our mind, asked if you could make sure there were no almonds in any of our dishes and then rattled off our order. The woman quirked a brow as she noted it all down, pausing at one point to ask if we were expecting more people to join us and asked if we were sure if we wanted all of this when we told her it was just me and you. We sat there, me sipping on my wine and you drinking your beer, dipping big tears of flat breads in thick, creamy baba ganoush and munching through koeftes, chatting away when the lights dimmed and took on a red hue and the quiet music suddenly became louder, filled with lutes and shimmering tambourines. The grin on your face spread, as the rumbling on some hand drums became louder and stopped as a scantily clad belly dancer stepped out from a beaded curtain somewhere. Hollers and hoots filled the room and folk started clapping. I turned to you incredulously, “Did you know about this?” Your shoulders shrugged, but the smirk on your face said it all, “I heard something like this happens-” The claps and hooting got louder as the belly dancer made her way throughout the room, getting people up from their seats and wrapping the belt around their waist. She’d show them a few wiggles of her hips, encouraging them to join in, before she wandered off to the next table, ready to get her next victims on board. “Oh shit. She’s going round the room.” “I know! Ain’t it great?!” “She’s doing the outer tables first. It’s gonna be us soon.” “And you’ll show them all how to do it right-” “I’m not doing it, Ken.” “What?! Oh come on! I’ve seen those hips at work before. They can do all sorts-” I laughed in spite of myself, shaking my head, “You’re such an arsehole-” “-and you can’t bloody well leave me up there alone,” He added, leaning in closer to whisper, “Once I do my belly rolls, the auld lassies at the table behind us might eat me alive.” It didn’t take me much more convincing. Once the woman got us up and tied the coin fringed belt around our hips, the alcohol took over. We were swinging and swaying around the room for a good wee while until the music was turned off so the belly dancer could start her own part of the performance, now that we were all lubed up for the night ahead. It was a brilliant night. We’d been there a few times after, with friends in tow, hiding the big event of the night away from them until the music started. It was a great wee set up, us two in it together, thick as thieves as we threw off their attempts at trying to work out why we dragged them all the way over to the other side of town for a ‘fancy kebab’. It was gleeful to see the surprise on their faces, to watch them shimmy around the room. Our pals! Professors, solicitors, a funeral director - the most serious folk in the world. We couldn’t stop laughing when Jimmy pulled up his crisp white and light blue pine-stripped shirt, opened up a few of the bottom buttons and twisted the material into a crop top, all the better to display his pasty white, hair flecked beer belly that he was desperately trying to ripple. It was a moment we’d bring up again and again on nights out, dinner parties and then actual parties for them and their kids. Then we found out the place closed down about a year ago. We’d stopped heading out on Fridays that much before then, mind. You’d told me that you tried to book a table one night a few months ago when you were trying to make up with me after that big fight, only to find out it didn’t exist any more. You decided to order in instead. Worked out cheaper anyway, didn’t it? We started the movies a while before that, though. It slowly crept in on us, like when you stopped wearing your jacket. Every once in a while, we’d decide it was nicer to cuddle up on the couch, order in some noodles and watch a movie. Wasn’t it more cosy? Us in our Pjs, a wee bottle of something nice, our limbs entangled together as we laughed, or cried or screamed at some movie together? It was better this way, we agreed. Especially when you’d take off one of my fluffy socks, your eyes still on the screen as you massaged my feet, almost like you were on auto-pilot, doing this for me without any thought. You’d sit for the the rest of the movie, your thumbs pushing into the balls of my toes, murmuring some prediction about what would happen next. I could swear back then that our little front room was heaven. I guess I never really noticed when it suddenly became all that we did. We didn’t bother going out as much anymore, not when heaven was in the front room. Invitations for dinners and parties were hardly rolling in anyways, and when they were they always seemed to have kids attached to them. We never really fancied it all that much – who’d want to spend their spare time washing off mucky, sticky finger prints from our clothes and staring at pictures of kids with runny noses? Not us. Kill us, first, please. Of course, we’d go to the obligatory first birthdays, show our faces and leave a gift before disappearing an hour or so later. Then we’d end up back here, watching a movie. At some point, we weren’t even watching the movie together any more, both of us head down in our phones, me flicking through Instagram and Facebook and you – well... whatever it was you were telling me you were doing. I wonder if she was the first one? Probably not, though. I reckon you’d have gotten bored often enough to work your way through a few of them. I did think you were being off with me for a while, being quite angry and snippy for some time. You being jovial just...stopped for a while. A long while. And then, all of a sudden, it just returned. Hugs and kisses and little treats brought in on your way home from work. Is that when it started? Should I have taken that as a sign of your guilty conscious? Your cough burst through my thoughts as I tried to work out how many more you might’ve had, more than ‘Mike Office’. That’s what her name was under on your phone. It didn’t seem like ‘Mike Office’ would have had such a round pair of tits anyway, or ‘want to feel your big aubergine in me again’. I don’t think she wanted any baba ganoush. I could feel you tense in your seat beside me as you tested your throat, trying to swallow, trying to remain calm. No, I don’t think she wouldn’ve been the first. Not when I followed the money after that, checking your account to see where you might’ve ended up. A few restaurants, a hotel here and there – all tied up to business trips, mind. And then a refund from OKCupid. I suppose you always where thrifty. Wanted to save that money so you had more to shag wee Molly, didn’t you? When your panic finally set in, your turned to face me, wheezing, “M-ma- my epi-” “Shh. I’m trying to listen to the movie-” The bowl slid from your knees as you gasped, your hands clutching at your reddening throat, as though you were trying to rip it open, trying to claw some way to let the air back in. My eyes turned from the screen to watch you spasm and gasp, to watch you watch me as your realised what was going on. To watch you as you took your last, wheezy, raspy breath and sigh it back into the world. Molly’ll be disappointed tonight. But then again, so am I. You smashed the almond flour dusted crisps into the new rug we got a few months back. That’ll be a pain to try and fish out. With a huff, I leaned across your still body to reach for the remote that you planted on your arm of the chair. I think I saw something about Gone Girl being shown on film4. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that. Quite fancy watching it, actually. I suppose I get to pick the Friday Night Movie from now on.


We are together. Are are committed. We are partners. We are lovers. But I wish you were in love with me. I wish you made the choice every day, to pick me, the day I pick you. I wish I was as important as your paycheck, your long-distance friend, your potential interview. I wish when I cried, you felt sad, instead of angry and frustrated. I wish you knew that all those times I said "okay" that it wasn't, but I made it so. I wish you would look at my messages on your phone and respond when you saw them, instead of later when you "had time." I wish you woke up early one Saturday to surprise me with coffee instead of sleeping past noon. I wish you weren't the nicest to me in front of your friends, but alone, in the intimacy of our own space. I wish you would give me the key to your house, instead of an excuse about needing space. I wish you sent me flowers to my office. I wish I knew where you were all those times that I didn't. I wish you were in love with me, or that I was less in love with you.


When I look with my third eye and gaze into the future— I can hear a boom clap clap clap clap clap like the sound of a drum line. When I look deep within, I can hear the inevitable beating of war drums shake the Earth. What a shame. To have witnessed the end of the world and have no way to help turn things around for the better. How Grim of an end that we all met; and for me to have seen it (accidentally) and have nobody to lend an ear and actually trust my words— I feel lost. I feel like the captain of a sinking ship, that washed up along the shores of a deserted island after a brutal storm. Washed up along the shore of a strange land, I sway with the ebb and flow of the tide. High tide will rise amidst the fall of mankind— mark my words, for I have looked deep within my being. My battered limbs seep blood which draws the attention of nearby sharks. Shadows shift and slip away below me; into the Great Deep. It came up from the bottom of the sea. The depth of a sickness which is only paralleled by the sinking black void from which it had sprung up. I can feel how ancient it is. This illness. I can feel it’s progression from the world below; from the depths of the ocean, to the brink of the land. Crawling on all fours; primordial. Only to shift from beach to forest to cave, and then back again. Building momentum, increasing in strength. It was a very ancient virus indeed, that had sprung up from the bottom of the sea. The secret to it’s downfall is also down there too, I believe. Marks my words. This world will end in one fatal blast of Hellfire. Destruction will be mutually assured, I guarantee. I accidentally saw the end of the world during a psychedelic experience, and now I am left feeling hopeless; saddled with the guilt that I know how the world will end. I have no way to prevent it. I hope that if this story is spread far and wide, that somebody out there will believe it. Somebody with the power to affect real change in this sick, sick world of ours. It came up from the bottom of the sea— to spread, grow and progress into infinity— unless somehow disarmed or destroyed by a much more powerful force, indeed. Whatever the outcome, it will have been the Lord’s plan— and his judgement reigns supreme. No matter how Grim the final outcome may be. I will tell you this much— when it fell from the sky, God sighed. Our Holy Father in Heaven, laid his head in his hands and let out a long sigh, almost as if He were somewhat relieved. (To my horror). I will tell you this much— Every living thing that had eyes looked upon the fiery cloud as it spread and turned to black; turning day to night. All of the birds stopped chirping and laid down to roost in their nests, as darkness befell the land. Everything that had ears— heard the gutteral echo which swept across the land, ice, and sea. It ripped through the ocean; it flung surf and sand hundreds of miles into the air; sending men, ships and planes pummeling to their demise below. May We Rest In Peace. The blood of every living thing caught in it’s path sprayed outwards from each and every core; crimson fades to carbon black, bones and flesh obliterated to dust in the wind which whipped from the epicenter of the destruction. It ripped around every mountain, valley, forest, beach, desert, prairie, swamp, tundra, and cave, within moments of it’s decent to the Earth below. Every living thing that had lungs, breathed in and breathed out as a collective, all at once, as they witnessed the cloud of Hellfire rise above. As above, so below. The Great Equalizer: our demise has risen up from the bottom of the Deep. The only solution which I can think of, would originate from down there too, I believe. The key to preventing our untimely, brutal end lies obscured; in the darkness and beneath the depths of ocean. I can find hope at the bottom of the sea. Mark my words, for it will be the only thing capable of saving humanity. Although this virus which sweeps through God’s creation will cause death, destruction, and heartache the likes of which no mortal has ever seen— it is not actually a virus like you and I were made to believe. It is only but the hand of God; putting the scales of Absolute Truth back within balance; cruel Justice for a planet we’ve made barren; sucking dry any resource which yields monetary gain. The virus is not a virus. The virus is the hand of God. You and I are the real virus on this Earth. Humanity. We plague this Earth and strangle Her to death with the pollution, excess, greed, and ignorance which fuels our march to our fiery end. Fuel, in fact, will be a big player in who ultimately decides to toss the nuclear football— I can say that with upmost certainty. And after the dust settles, and humanity is wiped off the face of the Earth; the forces of Life itself will one day prevail to once again sweep across the desolate planet; through every river and desert, every Arctic tundra and jungle. Every lake, ocean and stream. Every abandoned outcropping of humanity will grow life from within the cracks which begin to grow. From between the cracks of pavement, Life will spread it’s roots again, to upend the mistakes which man has wrought, and God has sought to bring back into balance, I have seen. I have seen it with my own two eyes. Life will embrace the land and God will prevail, once our damned souls either ascend, fall, or just decide to pack up and leave. Our scales will hang in balance again someday; as they did before Original Sin— in the garden with Adam and Eve. In summation, mark my words— It came up from the bottom of the sea. The secret to it’s demise lies down there too, I believe. Humanity is the true virus which plagues this Earth; the illness which plagues humanity is nothing but the Hand of God restoring this world to righteousness. Our lives hang in a very finely tuned balance. Mankind has thrown off that delicate balance too much and too soon, quite obviously indeed. The torment of Lucifer will rain down upon us like a trillion knives; but it will only wish to pierce the veil of ignorance pulled over the eyes of mankind. We shall receive deliverance from the evil which was born, cultivated, and spread through the hearts of every mortal who dared suck the lifeblood out of our dying planet— due to their own selfish desires, for conquest, victory… and greed. Everything that has eyes will see the end as it befell our dear Earth, and not a single soul in that very moment would even dare to blink. It haunts me. Everything that has ears will hear the gutteral echo of the Great Equalizer; which will fall from the skies above and rip through the land with the force of God’s hand— a strength no mortal could ever truly appreciate or believe. I hope somebody out there believes me when they read this, and finds meaning in the way I said we could solve this all— —the answer lies within the deep, seemingly endless void below us in our oceans, and also above us in the endless expanse of outer space too, I can see. There are secrets which the Universe holds that are beyond the scope of comprehension by modern day man. That is why I have dreams which turn into reality. This is why I have these Grim visions of the End. It’s due to a force much greater and more powerful than you or I— a force which is beyond the scope of written language, beyond the realm of modern-day science, to be able to document, test, replicate, and prove with upmost certainty. I hope you don’t take me for a liar. I hope you believe me. When they burned all of the witches, do you really think that all of them died? Or did it only weed out the weaker ones, so that the strong witches may carry forth their bloodlines— eventually giving birth to a strange person like me. I remain haunted by the sigh of the Lord. Upon seeing the Great Equalizer, every living creature with lungs took one deep breath and then breathed out again together, all at once. The collective sigh of Life itself is a a haunting, ghastly noise. I will never forget it. I urge you to spread this story like wildfire so that it may be shared with somebody who has the power to affect real change upon our destiny. I am haunted. Haunted. Haunted! Blessed be.


If Mom fully understood my fixation with Googly Goose and Friends, I doubt she would have left me alone in the house so much. Mom was a visiting home health nurse, and a single parent, which means I spent a lot of time alone in front of the television. I must have watched every episode of that puppet show. Googly is Canadian. He lives in a town with twenty five other alliteratively named puppets, one for each letter of the alphabet. It has nothing to do with the Google website, except for a few in-jokes. Mom overcompensated for my alone time with gifts, feeding my addiction to the program. For my tenth birthday, I got the complete storybook collection, which came in a green plastic bus, and a bunch of Viewmaster slides. Every time we went to McDonald's, she'd buy me one of the action figures. On Christmas I even got the video game for the Nintendo Switch.

She would later regret getting me the `I-Googly-26.' They modeled the toy after a real cel phone, but it lacked functionality. Basically just an app, hence the ultra low price tag. You couldn't call humans with it, it required the use of wifi, no flashlight, and the camera resolution sucked. Still, I loved it. It activated secrets on the Switch, it had its own games, and it talked to you at random times of the day and night, even taking note of holidays and birthdays. Other kids were learning new things about their own bodies, acting tougher around their classmates. You weren't supposed to watch Googly Goose anymore. I was the only one with the IG26. It started small, with a Googlyphone-Call. I lived in a red house along a steep hill near a park. The building was tall, but narrow, the interior beige with lime green carpeting. Kind of a seventies motif. I suppose it had a mold problem, because it always had a musty smell in parts. I couldn't tell around the back door because of Miss Kitty's litterbox, but it could have been there too. The living room tended to be drafty, requiring me to bundle up and use a space heater when I watched TV during colder months. We had a fireplace, but the flue didn't open. We never used it. I always watched Googly before I caught the bus in the morning. Mom would already be off in her white pickup, seeing patients, so I'd sit in the stiff gold velour armchair, eating my cereal in front of the tube, periodically checking the IG26 for messages. Miss Kitty would doze on the green couch nearby, or scratch up the armrests. The phone was...interesting. Sometimes I'd get texts or `Googly-Voice' recordings from the characters, giving me an update on life in Featherton, their world, or Googly would tell me he loved me. Naturally they would let me know about any and all new Googly tie-in products I could get mom to buy. They generally came during the window of 8 AM to 8 PM, and only once a day unless you got parental consent - restrictive version of telemarketer guidelines. It also had some kind of advanced AI that asked you questions, remembered what you said, and came back with a clever response. Sometimes it really blew me away, like how Googly could understand my parents' divorce, and how I was a latchkey kid. Maybe someone got in there and manually typed in messages, I don't know. The IG26 also knew when you were watching the show. A button would light up whenever a character picked up a telephone, or got near one. If you pushed it at just the right time, you got a surprise message from one of the characters. Some people even won prizes, but the only thing I got was an autographed copy of Willie Walrus Celebrates Kwanzaa, honestly not a great book. Still, I enjoyed the calls and texts, which generally took place right before the commercials and PSA announcements...Well, until that one day, when the phone got a little extra. "Michael," Googly asked me in a text. "Are you going to school when my show's over?" Googly always had such a high regard for education that I only imagined one possible response. "Of course! School is where you grow!" I got no response for a full minute.

Sometimes the phone did that to make you sweat after saying something naughty. Sometimes it just paused because your router was down, or, as it said in some texts, they wanted to "Teach me a lesson about patience." At last, though, I got a response. "There are other ways to grow, Michael. Stay home today." I couldn't believe my toy would actually be saying this to me, but it also seemed kind of exciting. Did mom accidentally buy some rare defective product worth a million dollars? Still, I texted, " I can't.  Mom will get mad." The talk button started flashing. When I pushed it and held the earpiece to my head, I heard the bird's demented elf voice speaking. "Do you really think your mom will send you to a foster home if you don't do what she says?" Mom had used that threat frequently when I misbehaved. "I...dunno. If she catches me, I'll still get in trouble. I got grounded for missing the bus and staying home last year." The show came back on. I could see Googly at his black rotary phone in his nest, mouth moving to match the words I heard. Not too difficult a feat, the lips of puppets are stationary. "Just tell her you were off school because of a holiday." "There isn't a holiday today." "Then tell her they closed the school for teacher planning." "You want me to lie to mom?" Googly shrugged.

"I'll make it worth your while.  We'll have so much fun, you and I.

Way much more than you'd have with your friends at school!" I swallowed. "I don't have any friends at school." The puppet on TV seemed to be looking right at me, its head tilted, as if nonverbally asking, `You see my point?' "So I just tell her they let me out early?" I stammered. Googly stepped behind his nest as Anthony Aardvark popped out and started talking about words and the use of contractions. I could still hear the bird through the phone, despite him being in the background. "If it makes you feel any better, you can hide under the porch for awhile, and we can talk. You did tell me you always wanted a clubhouse, didn't you?" I gave him a nod. More than anything, I wanted that, and Googly Goose as my real friend. I packed up my things, books, papers and lunch, like I intended to go to school, but when departure time came, I slipped under the front porch to hide from the bus. There was a hole in the latticework on the side of the porch where I sometimes dumped Miss Kitty's litterbox. This is where I got in. I still had the phone, and wifi connectivity, maybe GPS, too because Googly texted me about it, suggesting we might hang up some curtains or blankets as a wind break against the cold. The bus rolled to a stop in front of my house, flashing its lights. "All my friends have names that start with a letter in the alphabet, which means there can only be twenty six of us in town.

But back in the old days, the alphabet used to have a lot more letters!" "You're making that up, Googly," I muttered.

"Am I?" To be honest, I had no way of checking his statement for validity. The phone didn't go to regular websites. " I...don't know.  That doesn't sound right to me. I thought I heard something about people in the bible not even having vowels." The bus honked, the driver impatient for me to get out of the house and rush to the folding door. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're right about that, but there's other letters , like the shwa e. The point I'm trying to make, Michael, is we can find a place for you in Featherton . You'd like that, wouldn't you, Michael?" The driver shut the bus doors, rolling on up the hill. "Y-yeah. I'd love that. What do I have to do?" "Just keep listening." I must have spent an hour sitting in cold dirt under that porch. I watched videos, played games, drew pictures of what my house in Featherton would be like. I flinched when a rusty pickup pulled up in front of the house. I saw a short figure emerge, curly hair, hornrims, nursing scrubs. I held my breath as she tromped up the white wooden steps. She didn't notice me. I waited. Mom came out with some paperwork, got in her truck and drove away. "Now let's have some real fun," the goose said. With his help, and an instructional video on sewing machines, I transformed one of mom's fuzzy throw pillows and a hair beret into a fluffy pair of cat's ears, then used supplies from her crafts projects to make a blanket into a feathery mantle. Googly's show came on twice a day, but I always missed the second one because of school. Some teachers would put the program on during class, but not mine, certainly not in middle school, so I just had to watch it. During the commercial break, I got a text saying I'd won a prize. I crafted a raccoon tail to hang off my belt, then played the Switch for awhile. Googly Goose World is a complicated game. An internal clock makes the sky grow dark when it's dark in the real world, they have special events corresponding to real holidays - such as eight days of prizes for Hannukah and Cherry Blossom Day. You can design clothing for characters, do interior design, go bowling and play darts, plant trees, fish, and go searching for treasure in a cave. You can also unlock special rooms and mini-games with the IG26. The most unique feature, though, was the use of children's books to access hidden storylines.

Larry Lion Lounges About, for example, features several important clues that help you get into Riotous Raccoon's underground lair. Page four of the book shows a paw grabbing one of the lion's green socks, another page shows the raccoon behind Larry's house, and a phone number on the side of the garbage truck you can type into the IG26 for downloadable content. It therefore didn't surprise me to hear Yosef Yak referencing Cathy Cow's Calamity. What did surprise me was how the illustrations had changed. In a printed book.

Although the first page still depicted the inside of Cathy's Coffee and Custard, her patrons had changed . Instead of Andy Anteater and Bobby Bear in the corner table, I saw Morty Moose by himself, eating enough ice cream for two. Sammy Stork had replaced Helga Hamster at the window booth, and Davy Donkey stood at the counter with a steaming cup in his hoof ( It's a drawing, okay? I don't know how a hooved animal could pick up anything). If that wasn't weird enough, the glass front door swung open , and in stepped my friend the Canada goose. He waddled past all the statue-like character illustrations, giving me a friendly wave with one wing. "Googly!" I gasped. "How...?" The bird just gave me a mischievous wink and slurped a cup of coffee. The real front door on my house clanked noisily open, and in stepped Mom, catching me in the act. " What are you doing home!" "We had a half day," I lied. "They sent me home early." She scowled like she didn't believe me, then sighed, turning her attention to my craft project.

"What did you do to my throw pillow?" My mom, being big on self help books, restrained her temper, writing it off as an expression of my inner child. When the school called and asked her where I was, however, she took away my video games. Well, except for the Atari we got from a garage sale - I rarely touched the thing anymore. I don't think she understood how everything worked, because I got to keep the IG26. Guess she thought I'd learn something from it. She didn't beat me or anything. I kinda wished she would, because I felt bad about it. I'd violated her trust, put an extra burden of responsibility on a woman who already had her hands full with her job. The next day, she made sure I got on the bus. As I stepped out on the porch, she stared at my homemade costume and asked, "Are you seriously going to wear that to school?" I shrugged. Googly said I had to do it, to prove how much I wanted to live in Featherton. Mom patted me on the back, saw me to the bus steps. As my sneakers clomped down the hollow rubber and metal aisle, I tried to ignore classmates laughing and making fun of me, plopping down on a wrinkly vinyl seat near the back end. "It's a little late for Halloween," someone mocked. I took out my IG26, pretending not to hear. The phone shouldn't have worked out of range, but somehow I still got a text. "Don't let them upset you. None of these children are worthy of Featherton. Only you are." Someone grabbed my feathered cape, twirling it around, slapping me with it. I tried to get it back, but it ended up ripping, feathers everywhere. "They're not worthy," Googly texted. The bus arrived at the grassy lawn in front of my school. Everyone else got out, climbing the concrete steps to the red brick building. "Quick," said my IG26. "Hurry out and run across the street to the graffiti tunnel."

A little clip about looking both ways before crossing the street appeared on the screen. I did what it asked, sneaking down the stairs and around the yellow bus.

Nobody noticed what I was doing. In fact, the bus driver drove away. Directly opposite the school lay a little yard strewn with beer bottles and cigarette butts, and beyond that a staircase leading to an underground tunnel, all spraypainted with gang signs and obscene writing. It smelled like piss, but I thought I heard someone calling for me, so I hurried in. "Keep going. I'll tell you when to stop." I frowned at the screen, but did what it asked, following the dimly lit, trash strewn tunnel for what felt like miles. At the far end, I encountered a piece of chain link fencing, its other side covered in trash bags. When I got close to it, someone opened it up, revealing a damp and smelly underpass populated by camper shells, dome tents, and cardboard castles. All around me stood dirty people in shabby clothes, young and old, black and white. The trash and chain link barrier rattled shut again, and the strangers drew closer. Upon closer examination, I saw that everyone had their own homemade goose costumes, just like mine. A bony, skeleton eyed hobo with a shaved head and a tank top approached me, bearing a tinfoil crown and a Clorox Toilet Wand, minus scrubber.

He dropped to one knee, placed the crown on my head, handed me the plastic scepter.

"Your majesty." The others likewise knelt before me. "Long may he rule Featherton."


Typing is the easiest way I know to scream at the dark. Because you know it's out there, circling you. Never had much of a singing voice and there's always so many ears. Listening. Makes your own voice sound painful and ridiculous. Makes you sound small. So very small. But words. Type written words. Ink on page. It's like you're invincible. Once they're written down, they have been written. Something that can't just be taken away, something real, something that happened. An actual. Actually. And you huddle around them, these words, for warmth. Like a tiny fire lighting a tiny light in the middle of the deepest darkest woods. Maybe staring at the fire makes the shadows harder to see. Maybe if I stare long enough, I'll forget her. You'll forget her. It's why you do this you know. Reading and writing and listening to music and watching your shows, that's fucking why right there: Her. Desperately searching for some anecdote, some scene, some paragraph that will make you feel like you did the first time you noticed her. Really noticed her. Something that'll make your insides bubble up and take all those cold bitter years you thought you had and make you feel like some dumb school boy in love again, that's fucking why. And it's the damn truth and you know it. No amount of somebody else's words or even your own written hastily on some coffee house napkin about how cute you think she is in 4 lines or less, rhyming preferred because you want to be clever, with an ending that makes you seem mysterious, is going to change that. The fact that right now you're here reading this and not with HER, or whoever. That the truth is there are just these words. These words and the darkness.


Imagine if you can dear reader, a generic mom and pop diner. The third stool at the counter is where Alan Christian was sitting. He was busy pouring over the menu. The waitress, Brenda Bird, approached him. “Have you decided what you’ll get yet?” She tapped her pen on her notepad impatiently. Alan began nibbling his fingers. “Not yet,” he said in between bites. “If you’re not careful, you’ll fill up before you decide.” Alan stopped biting his fingers, and ripped his eyes away from the menu. “What?” “Never mind. But please decide quickly.” Brenda left the counter to go check on the other guests, while Alan went back to looking over the menu. Four minutes passed. Brenda returned to Alan, who was still searching through the menu items. She reached for the nearby coffeepot to replenish his mug, only to see that his now lukewarm coffee had been left untouched. “Sir?” Alan did not look up. “Excuse me, sir?” Alan finally looked up. “Have you decided?” Alan silently pondered this question, before wordlessly going back to the menu. Brenda rolled her eyes and silently walked away. Three minutes passed. Brenda returned to the counter, only to find Alan gone, the mug of cold coffee still untouched, and three crisp one dollar bills sitting on the counter. The waitress pocketed the cash. It was because of this extra cash that Brenda decided to make a quick stop at a convenience store after her shift ended. There was one less than a mile from her home that she frequented. She purchased a 32-ounce cup of soda, and a package of Skittles. The cash register was helmed by Darrin Ortega. Darrin scanned her two items before asking “Would you like to make a lottery purchase? We’re having a special for half-off a lottery ticket with every drink purchase.” Brenda shook her head. “No thank you.” Darrin finalized the transaction and gave her the amount, “$2.74.” Brenda handed him the three dollar bills, and Darrin gave her a quarter and a penny in change. Brenda tried putting the coins in her pocket on her way to the car, but dropped them. After deciding that bending over to pick up the change wasn’t worth it, she kept right on walking. Two minutes passed. A kid, Joseph Hensley, passed by the area. He noticed the coins, bent down and put him in his pocket. One minute passed. Joseph walked past a spiral gumball machine. He decided that since he now had a quarter, that he could purchase one, and so he did. He chucked the gumball into his mouth, only to realize, once he attempted to take a bite, that it wasn’t a gumball at all, but rather a jawbreaker. The shock caused the jawbreaker to roll into the back of his throat and choke him. Every time he attempted to take a breath, the jawbreaker was in the way. His face turned blue. Joseph Hensley died on the sidewalk, alone, at the age of nine.


Dead Not Gone I am dead not gone, I am as here as I was the night I was murdered. I still feel the pain, if not more, I have no human barriers holding back the flood of emotions. I feel them from everyone. I still feel love and the loss of love. I watch as life begins to be normal again without me. I watched my love seal me away in the deep, dark corner of his mind. I watched him pretend with others, always looking for me in their faces, or the way they laugh. I watched him find love again, living a life with her that we had often talked about. He often visits telling me about his life, how happy he is, how sad he is that he can't live it with me. He named his daughter after me, to honor a memory of us and what we never had the chance to have together. He's grown older now, frail, his life has been beautiful. I know he will go to sleep for a very long time soon, and I am happy for him. My mother missed me fiercely, some nights more than others. Some nights she'd wail just as she did when she found out. Those nights I'd lie with her and sing to her, and I swear she'd hear me. She was never the same after I left. She wasn't whole. I'd talk to her while she slept, hoping I'd bring her mind to a happier place, but she'd wake with the same look in her eyes. She'd looked the same as the day she found out. She'd tuned out of life and I lost her to a place she could no longer hear me. I watched my little sister grow older than I ever was, she still insisted on calling me her big sister even when she was three times as old as I ever was, her life wasn't always kind to her. She lost a lot of trust in the world when she lost me. She looked for solace in things rather than people, anything to numb her from feeling sadness about me or our mother. She had to grow up a lot at a young age and will forever be sorry to her for that. She met a man after our mother died and he showed her kindness, he showed her how to love herself. She started to feel again, she lives a good life now. She helps those who seek the same numbness that she did not too long ago. I watched my killer, grow old and frail all alone. Life did not treated her well. She would often revel in that night. When she couldn't fight her urges. Just one quick motion and I was lifeless, all my hopes dreams ambitions gone and buried with me deep in that river. My killer often thought of ending it for herself and I willed all of my anger to make her. But she was a coward until the day she died in that nursing home all alone stinking of piss and death. Even the way she died was too good for her. I've watched everyone in my life grow old and live their lives without me. I am sad that I could never have children with my love. I'm sad I couldn't be there for my mom as that darkness took over her life. My sister will now forever be my big sister. I was taken too soon, and the world didn't slow down for me or for the ones I loved.


A couple of years ago, after some deliberation, I took the Ancestry DNA test. I was prepared for surprises. After all, there was a problem with my grandmother, Lil. She seems to have appeared one day and married grandpa, with no documentable past. Escaped slaves or vicious criminals, might be revealed. Six weeks after taking the test, results appeared on the Ancestry web site. The results showed high percentages of western Europe countries and one big surprise. I'm six percent "unknown." Looking at the online map, I saw the routine blobs on Europe, indicating the locations of my Ancestors. However, there was another blob covering the Pacific Northwest. Sensing that I might be able to brag about native American Ancestry, I became obsessed with finding out what this was about. I contacted customer service on Ancestry and was told that the genetic material was not Native American, the people who have this trait always trace back to the Pacific Northwest. I started leaving messages on Ancestry to my cousins, trying to find an answer to my genetic puzzle. Most did not reply, but finally, I traded messages with a cousin who told me a little about the Pacific Northwest branch of the family. This cousin informed me about her great aunt Sarah who lived on a mountain road east of Seattle. Great Aunt Sarah knew all about the mysterious branch of the family. Aunt Sarah had no landline, and the only way to contact her was to drop in and visit. Soon I flew to Seattle, rented a car, and, using a map my cousin had sent me, drove into the mountains. The countryside was lush, the trees were leaning over the road and shading into a greenish twilight. Following the map, I turned down a twisting side road and drove up a mountainside. It started misting as I turned down a long driveway. Soon an old log cabin came into view. A big coon hound ran out excitedly to meet my car. An old woman, shrunken with age, sat in a rocker on the front porch. As I got out of the vehicle, the old woman stood to see who was visiting. Even with the years diminishing her, she stood over six feet tall. She wore an old baggy dress and a bonnet. She spoke, “You must be Libby’s boy, Ralph. I was told you’d be coming.” She motioned to an empty chair next to her rocker, saying, "You look just like your grandfather. Big feet and hairy hands and all." Introducing herself, she said, "I'm your Aunt Sarah. I knew your mother Libby, a little bit of a thing. Libby was ashamed of our branch of the family and never told anyone about us." After I sat, aunt Sarah pulled out a gallon ceramic jug, poured a pinkish liquid into a mason jar, and handed it to me. She went on, “This is an old family recipe. My great grandfather was a mountain man from Kentucky, and he brought the art of moonshine with him." The liquor was strong and had a smooth, pleasant taste. Sarah told me, sipping from her own mason jar, "The pink color is from mountain berries which we soak in our shine for flavor and smoothness." Then Sarah said, "You're not the first to come up here looking to find out about the unknown nationality. Everyone before you, when they find out the truth, they have decided to keep it to themselves. The branch of the family that lives in these hills is very shy. We are just as happy being alone." “My great-granddaddy, Jeff Jefferson, came to these mountains to escape some legal trouble back in Kentucky. He made his living in the fur trade and built this cabin. Great granddad was a friendly man, but local tribes didn't want to have anything do with him, thinking he was crazy. His existence was prosperous but lonely. One winter, great-grandma moved into his cabin, one thing lead to another, and they considered themselves man and wife. Nowhere to get a ceremony in those days. She was bigger than him, but always treated him with gentleness and love.” She continued, "Your cousin Goldman is coming by today to drop off a fresh batch of shine. That must be him now." I heard something that sounded like a club beating against a tree. Aunt Sarah picked up a large wooden club and beat it on one of the porches supports then whistled. A large man stepped out of the woods wearing a straw hat and coveralls. He stood over seven feet tall and must have weighed over 400 pounds. His large feet were bare. His beard and body hair gave him a furry look. My hand disappeared into his when we shook hands. Sarah spoke up, "You must have figured it out by now, you are part sasquatch.