For the nth time, she crumpled the piece of paper and aimed to throw it in to the bin at the far end of the room. It wasn’t just a dream, she knew it. It was real. As real as her whole existence.

When it happened for the first time, she had to pinch herself thrice in order to wake herself up. And then the same dream again. And again. It kept happening for a week until she realized the figure she saw wasn’t a dream and pinching herself or shouting for help wasn’t going to work. She would snap back to reality only when this figure disappeared just as suddenly as it showed up.

Every time in the dream, or what felt like a dream, she would see a small girl who looked a lot like her. Every time she would say the same thing, ‘tell me, Maisah. Tell me what to do’.

Maisah didn’t know what she was supposed to tell her or what the little girl wanted to know so badly that she reached out to her every night. All she knew was that she had to tell her something only she knew.

So, she took out a piece of paper and started writing down everything that was known to her, only. Several weeks had passed in attempts to figure out what this little girl wanted to know from her. Every night she would give her a letter and the little girl would read it thoroughly, look up at her and shake her head.

Sometimes, Maisah thought that maybe she’s hallucinating or maybe she was going crazy. How could any of it be possible? But it had been several years now that she had been safely off her pills and her psychiatrist had told her she no longer needed to see him as her mental health had progressed over the years of therapy and medications. So why was this happening now?

She opened a fresh paper of the notebook, picked up a pen and started writing everything she was trying to avoid going through for all these weeks. Maybe or most certainly, this was it. This was all the little girl in her dreams wanted to know. And once she gave it her, it would set both of them free.

***

Dear young Maisah,

    I had almost forgotten what it was like to be you. The young version of myself. After all, it has been many years since I was in the same shoes as you. I don’t know if this is real, if you are actually real. But I haven’t felt anything as real as I have these past couple of weeks since I started seeing you. You always say the exact same words to me. Nothing more, nothing less. And this whole time I’ve been reluctant to find out the right thing to say to you, to help you figure out whatever it is you are desperate to know. But each time you shake your head with a despondent look, letting me know that I am failing at my attempts.

 Over the past couple of years, I have been to therapy. I have visited many places around the country, worked triple shifts, and I have tried everything I could to keep myself busy. Some days I would be successful in distracting myself and other days I would find myself having a mental breakdown at three in the morning. Life has been very tough on me but more than that I have been very tough on myself. And I don’t want you to make the same mistakes that I have. I want you to live the life I had only dreamed of living when I was in your place.

 I know that it has already happened to you which is why you are here. And even though your future self has healed from it, she still doesn’t have the courage to talk about it with anyone. So even when a part of me knew why you were here in the first place, I didn’t want to accept it and I tried giving you other things hoping you will be satisfied and leave.

 I know in your story, father is already dead. I can never forget that day. How I stood there beside his body, feeling like the culprit, feeling like a murderer. I was only thirteen years old, with a dead mother, a brother who had long run away leaving me alone with a drunk father who used to abuse my mother, not just mentally but physically as well. And when she had committed suicide after all the years of torture and suffering, I was left alone with the same man who made her do that. And so, he started torturing me in the same ways.

 I remember standing there by his body, for what felt like hours, not knowing what to do or where to go. I know the guilt you are feeling right now, for I have felt it for years and somewhere deep inside, still do. But I need you to know that whatever happened is not your fault. He made his choices and he ought to have a death like that, but you didn’t deserve to be the one who had to do it. Even if it was unintended. Unintentional.

 You want to know what I would’ve done if I was in your place again? I would’ve turn around and run. As fast as I could without turning back even once. I would’ve run and I’m telling you that you need to get away from that scene as fast and as far away as you can. No one is to be trusted around you. I know you feel like turning yourself in, just as I had done. Because for the first time, you retaliated and pushed him. Pushed him so hard he fell on the broken piece of the bottle of wine and bled to death.

 I need you to suppress those thoughts, pick up your important belongings and run. Far away.

 And when you reach a safe place, just look at yourself in the mirror or anything you could use to see your reflection and tell yourself that you are not a murderer. You are not the culprit of this story. None of it is your fault and you don’t deserve to suffer everything that I have.

From there onward, you choose your own path, your own direction. I know you are alone and scared and you have never seen so much blood in your life before. But you weren’t the one who pushed him. He did this to himself. You were just defending yourself just like you should have a long time ago.

And if you are having any second thoughts, remember that I have lived the life you are only thinking about right now and I know the better choice. You will lose everything you still have if you choose to stay there and turn yourself in for a crime you didn’t commit, for a place that was never your home and a man who couldn’t be a father to you for a single day of your life.

 I hope this letter changes things not just for you, but for me as well. I’ll be right here, on the other side of it all, waiting for you to, someday, show up and tell me about the life that I could never have.

                                                                              With love                                                                                Maisah ***

It had been several months now since she had seen the little Maisah. The night she wrote the letter and gave it to her was the last she had ever seen her. But something happened that night, something extraordinary.

As soon as young Maisah finished reading the letter she looked up to her older self. There was an exchange in glances between the two for a moment and in each other's eyes, they saw the same agony, the same aching for a lifelong of love they could never receive even though, they had decades of time zone between them. And it connected them and built a strong intuition within them that they were going to see each other, yet again. Young Maisah nodded with teary eyes and disappeared, leaving her old self crying herself to sleep the whole night, but this time not out of pain or sorrow. But because she could feel that she had set herself free, twice.


“Hi” “hi.” “What’s up?” “nothin really. u?” “Eh you know. Netflix lol.” “niccceeee. what you watching?” “Just The Office. I freaking love Dwight lmao” “nah. michael is the best character.” “Oh don’t get me wrong, I love them all haha.” “You still there?” “yeah sorry.” “Lol it’s cool.” “So you come on here often?” “not really. something about “dating” apps just kinda freaks me out, it’s weird to just hook up with someone when you only talk to them via texting.” “Yet here you are” “i said it was weird. it can still be fun.” “I suppose.” “and now you probably think i’m a slut.” “Oh stop. I do not.” “whatever.” “I’m sorry? Do you want me to think that you are or something?” “idk.” “Well I don’t think you are. Your profile picture is too... idk, just too nice or whatever.” “yeah. because nice is what I was going for. ” “do u ever feel like ur having a heart attack but like, you know you’re not?” “What?” “nothing.” “ugh im so bored.” “Lol me too. Wanna chill or something?” “not tonight. i have plans.” “Oh okay.” “Watcha doing?” “its kinda hard to explain.” “Do you have a boyfriend or something?” “if i had a boyfriend i certainly wouldnt be here.” “no offense or anything.” “but like, what are we even doing here? whats the point of swiping on pictures just to talk to strangers for a short amount of time searching for something to quell our loneliness” “u there?” “Yeah I’m here.” “did i scare u away yet?” “No not yet.” “good.” “It’s getting late though, it’s like 11:30 and I have to be up at 5:00 for work.” “stop being lame. u will get plenty of sleep.” “Are you not letting me go to bed?” “im not letting myself be alone, and ur the only one talking to me right now.” “Why don’t you want to be alone...?” “Hello?” “Hello???” “hi. sorry, what up?” “Okay I’m not playing these games anymore haha, what’s going on? You’re being hella sketchy” “hahahahaha im sorry. im here now though” “This is the first time you laughed since we started talking.” “i wasn’t actually laughing. just because i typed hahaha doesn’t mean i was actually over here laughing or anything.” “Okay.” “have u ever drowned?” “No...” “it’s extremely painful. u feel as if ur entire world is breaking down beside u, as if u can save urself but the fact that ur panicking stops u from actually simply pulling ur head above water. people try to save u, they jump in and try to pull u out. but u end up pulling them under with u. not because ur trying to hurt them or anything, just because u are panicking and are willing to grab onto anything to help u stay afloat. u dont realize what u are doing. u dont care. all u care about is getting another breath of air. but eventually people stop running in to save u, so u are forced to drown alone in a cold, silent hell. u can scream all u want but nobody hears it. nobody cares, or if they do care they simply dont hear you screaming for help.” “Jesus. Did this happen at the beach or something.” “its been happening for a couple years now.” “I don’t think I understand.” “ok” “u still up?” “It’s 2 in the morning lol I have to get to sleep.” “can u stay up a little bit longer?” “im tired of drowning.” “I mean I can stay up for a little longer I guess. What are you doing?” “ill send u a pic.” “did u get it?” “Yeah that’s a beautiful view, do you have like a top floor apartment or something? I love the city skyline.” “no. i go to the roof sometimes just to hangout or whatever.” “That’s pretty cool. Plus it’s an amazing view.” “yeah i know.” “i like sitting on the edge. just letting my feet dangle off while i stare out into the vast number of windows.” “That sounds kinda risky...” “whats the worst that could happen? i fall and the drowning ends? i fall and nobody has to save me anymore?” “Please don’t talk like this.” “go to bed, dear. u have to work and i think im okay with being alone right now.” “Yeah, but I’m not okay with you being alone right now.” “my phones about to die though.” “Bullshit.” “JUST LET ME GO.” “No.” “Hello?” “Hello???” “HELLO?!?!?” “hi.” “What the hell. Where did you go?” “funny how u can miss someone u didnt even meet.


Today the phone won’t ring. She checked as soon as she woke up. Dead breath in her mouth. The guy next to her--an aberration. He should have gone home. She made it explicitly clear to him that under no circumstances could he stay the night. He said he just wanted to rest his eyes while he waited for his Lyft. Now here he is. He’s upset the balance. She should beat him to death with the coffeepot, but that would only derail the morning further. Once he’s up and out ( “I’ll call you when I’m back from Fiji. Big things going on there. Really big. Can’t even talk about them.” ) she checks her email. She checks it every morning at nine oh three. It’s nine twenty-seven. There are no emails. She is going to have a bad morning. She is going to have the worst morning. Her habits are simple: Wake up at nine. Email at nine oh three. The phone call comes at nine thirty. Today the phone call will not come at nine thirty. In fact, there will be no phone call at all. She will check several times while knowing the entire time that she has royally destroyed the routine with her carelessness. All because she went out to a Peruvian restaurant and brought home one of the waiters. He gave her extra bread sticks. On a cloth napkin, he’d written his number in sharpie. The audacity of ruining a napkin had aroused her. She called him as soon as she got in the door and promised herself that she’d have him out before two or three at the latest. The trust that she puts in herself after several glasses of wine is laughable. A message from her mother came through and she promptly responded that she did not care who was getting a divorce, because men failed to excite or even intrigue her these days. The Peruvian waiter was an exception in a long line of exceptions, but she’d been damned if she let her mother foist another crying divorcee on her all because she was always coming home for the holidays with perfectly wrapped gifts and no boyfriend. When receiving the phone call, she was supposed to dictate a series of words over the phone. Once that was done, she could go about her day, which usually consisted of Tim Burton films-- one or two, but always Beetlejuice --and takeout from whichever menu had squirrels its way to the top of the drawer next to the stove. No phone call meant no movies, no Winona Ryder, and a skipped lunch. A disruption of her routine meant that she wouldn’t be hungry--not for days. That would help with the bathing suit she’d purchased online that had come in three sizes too small, but it meant that she was going to be angry all the time unless she forced herself to eat one of the stale bagels that are always sitting on her kitchen table. There was no point in getting dressed. She paced back and forth in her apartment wearing only her Panic! At the Disco t-shirt and the gym shorts she bought back when she thought she might at least begin a flirtation with the gym. The phone buzzes. Her excitement is cut short when she recognizes that the buzz is not the buzz of a text message, which would still not be a phone call, but would be better than the reminder that she only has two free articles left to read this month from the New York Times. She only reads the New York Times when there’s a piece about unrest, because unrest is the subject of her daily phone calls, but today there could be a thousand words on every page of the paper about revolutions and assassinations, and she would only be able to get the edited version of the history she’s meant to be enacting. Her words were good today--Sandstorm, Throw Pillow, Angst. She would have delivered them with a crisp articulation that would have made her contact recommend her for a promotion. Something to take her out of the suburbs where she has to eat Peruvian on Friday’s just to feel metropolitan. Other than the place with the cloth napkins, it’s all fast food and nail salons. She doesn’t get her nails done in case she gets a call to come into the field. You can’t have long nails in the field. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows you can’t screw up your morning with an unwanted guest either, but here she is. It’s a quarter to twelve--no phone call. No text. No email from the contact--not that they ever would email anyway. She might be removed from the program for this. They don’t hand out demerits. No warnings. No one strike, two strikes, and the third means you’re out. One miss and you’ve jeopardized yourself and the dissidents in Romania or wherever else there was turmoil. The bagels fill up her mouth with such density she expects to choke. It would be a reprieve for whatever is coming next. Her apartment smells like the air fryer she used days ago in a misguided attempt at making healthy curly fries. She should have known better. Sucking the toxins out of anything will render it inedible. At least to her. A birthday cake candle is lit. She brings up YouTube on her television and puts on Nina Simone. It’ll steady her nerves. Her mother messages with more information on the divorcee. It was a nasty separation, but no kids, which means the marriage practically never happened. One quick search of the guy through her database reveals that he once hit a man with his car and kept going. Her mother has good intentions, but she’s a horrible judge of character. That or she just wants her daughter married off as soon as possible no matter the risks. The car he was driving was brand new. It had to have needed work after that, and once you bring a car into the shop you never stop bringing it in. Today the phone won’t ring. She sits on her couch and listens to “Feeling Good.” The volume on the television is far too loud, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to hear the crack or the sound of the bullet hitting the back of the couch. They’ll miss her the first time, but not the second. Even then, it’ll be just the shoulder. That’ll give her time to get a few shots in before they realize that they should have just left her in the program. Six years and she’s never missed a phone call, but one mistake means you have to be removed. To hell with them. Everybody’s entitled to one bad day.


“Your boy ain’t right, Jane. You know it and we know it. It’s becoming more obvious by the minute but let’s be honest with ourselves here. He weren’t right in the head, even before he was bit by one of them rabid things roaming the woods. He’s always been a tad on the wild side but this, this is somethin’ else. It’s dangerous.” “Alright Martha. I’ll reluctantly agree with that, but he was always a good boy! He always minded me. Now, not so much. He’s become a lil’ monster I can’t control. I don’t know what to do about the situation!” “Oh, hon. No one’s disputin’ he’s a good little feller. We all like him. We do. He’s a real joy and blessing to you, and brought huge smiles to our faces when he was around. I’m just saying what the rest of us are thinking. There’s very bad things lurking out there. You know what I’m talking about, and you understand what happens after they get ahold of somethin’. The madness is irreversible, right? Something’s gotta be done about your little man, and ideally it should come from you. You’re his family. Even though it’s not his fault, you know what needs to happen. We’ve all seen the tear-jerker ‘Old Yeller’. We remember how that sad story ends and we know how this one is gonna end too. It’s ugly as sin. No doubt about it and there’s no cure. You just gotta… ‘put him down’, real quick like. I’ll be easier. The decent thing to do is to put him out of his misery and end his sufferin’.” “That’s simple for you to say, Mar. He ain’t your’n. You didn’t raise him from a little ‘pup’. It’s.. just so hard to let go. I love him to pieces and had so many hopes and dreams for him. He depends on me for everything. He’s gonna be sad when I…” “No, no. It ain’t simple for any of us to say! No one ever said doing the right thing was easy but it’s the only thing to do, in this case. It’s not fair. We all know that. We’ve approached you about it because we know how hard it’s going to be to take care of, and we want to support you in this terrible time. Your little ray of sunshine is depending on you now to do what’s best for him, and in the end we know you will. No one wants to deal with something so heart-wrenching but in times like this, it has to be done swiftly. Good folks stick together to help each other in times like this.” “Thank you Martha! I appreciate it. I really do. You guys are so good to me. I just don’t have the strength to pull the trigger. How do we know he’s really suffering? Like you said, he was already a little wild hellion child. Maybe he doesn’t feel any pain anymore. Surely being like this is still better than being… dea…” “No Jane. Noooo. He’s infected. He’s frothing at the mouth for heaven’s sake. Just look at him! He has spasms and violent mood swings. He’d tear you to pieces if you got any closer. Your boy is not himself. It’s highly contagious and he’s in immense pain. You can see that when you look into his dilated pupils. Plus, what if he bites you? One of us will have to put you down too, and none of us wants to have to do that. It would’ve been totally unnecessary and preventable. There’s no saving him, but we can help support you. Take care of your boy.” “Would you please, pretty please do it for me, Martha? You just said you are all here to help. I can’t do it. That would help me immensely if you or Earl would….” “We would take care of you because we had no choice. There would be no one else left to do it but that’s not even close to the same situation, and it’s not fair of you to ask us. Frankly, we’re worried your sick little feller will bite you, and then you could spread it to all of us. Doing this will make you a much stronger woman! Every person should take care of their own ‘mess’. I’m sorry to be harsh but this is yours, Jane. You must clean it up.” Jane Weaver looked around the room with a deepening level of realization. The real truth slowly slid out of their forked tongues. They weren’t nearly as supportive as they pretended to be. It was a more of a pushy confrontation than ‘loving support’. Resentment was building rapidly in her heart. She wanted to lash out at them but the problem of what to do about her infected hellion still remained. The thought of having to blow his brains out was unbearable. Meanwhile, they stood there with their cold, calculating eyes. “If any of you had been more diligent about eliminating those infected creatures lurking in the woods, none of this would be an issue! Then he would still be himself! You knew rabid skunks and foxes were dangerous, and yet you did nothing about them. That is YOUR mess, and you need to clean THAT up! Perhaps I’ll just let Ol’ Blue out of his containment pen, and then you’ll be forced to take care of my good little boy, yourselves.


Alexander ran into the bookshop with fear in his heart. "Howdy, there" said the proprietor. Alexander let out a scream. "Not you too! Not you, Tommy". "I'd thank you kindly not to shout in my store. You can just giddy on up outta here if you don't lower your voice" Tommy replied, not recognizing his long-time friend. Alexander ran over but stopped in his tracks as Tommy pulled a shotgun from behind the counter. "I think you'd better leave now, partner." "Tommy, please!" Alexander pleaded. Tommy spit tobacco juice into a spittoon. "Tommy, you don't even chew tobacco! You hate guns! Listen!" Alexander begged an indifferent Tommy. "Partner. I said. Giddy. On. Up." with that Tommy shot a shell into the air hitting the lamp above his head. As the glass finished falling onto and off of his hat, Tommy spit and stared. Alexander felt his heart drop. He was resigned to leave and slunk out of the front door. His sadness was suddenly replaced by a burst of fear as gun shots rang out directly in front of him. In disbelief, he watched a man collapse in the middle of the empty street. Alexander nearly fainted. A man standing in full western gear blew the tip of his pistol as women in impractically oversized dresses ran up to celebrate his victory. Alexander sat down and reached for his phone. He called his wife. "Hello?" her voice sent a rush of calm over Alexander. "Babe. I've tried to call a hundred times. I was worried it got you too." Alexander said in a desperate breath. "What? Hardly any reception out here. I took Sam for a day at the beach. I'll be home in about thirty." before Alexander could reply, the line disconnected. He called back but it went straight to voicemail. He rushed toward the train station but found no-one tending the counter. He went up to the machine but it was out of order. He was going to have to jump on without paying. He'd never stolen a thing in his life but, felt he had no choice. He prepared himself but, the train never came. After a few minutes, he began to run home. He burst through the in a pool of sweat. "Baby!" he yelled "Pack your things, we have to get out of here! Everyone's turned into Americans from the old west! We have to go! Now!" "What are you talking about hon?" to Alexander's horror, his wife came around the corner in a cowboy hat. He fell backwards into the wall. "Steady there, big fella." his wife said "You're gonna wake youngin'" Alexander rushed into the baby's room and picked up Sam who awoke immediately. "Great! Now how am I gonna clean up with this little cowpoke running around?" His wife asked from the doorway. "Yeehaw" said the little voice. Alexander would have dropped Sam if not for his wife's quick reaction. Alexander stumbled out the door to find his neighbor standing on his lawn. "Alexander!" the man yelled "You've let your dog sully my lawn for the last time! The insult will not be tolerated! Pistols! Now!" "Jon... I don't have a pistol!" Alexander said back, overwhelmed in confusion. "You yellow-bellied coward! What's that on your hip?" Alexander looked down and saw a pistol he didn't recognize. He felt himself walking to the middle of the street. He turned his back to his neighbor. Alexander began to walk ten paces but, his neighbor only walked three. Alex felt the bullet whistle by his ear. Instinctively, he spun, drew, and laid down the cheater. "Yeehaw!" a little voice from the porch yelled. Alexander paused for a moment before smiling back "Yeehaw" Alexander said "Yeehaw, indeed".


A man named Ned sat in his arm chair and read printed words on a collection of paper. He enjoyed his books and his slow secluded life. He lived in a small house out in the country and watched the sunrise every morning and took walks through the woods at sunset. He wrote long, well thought out letters to his loved ones and cultivated friendships like the the crops in his garden. Since he didn't have many visitors he occupied his free time with the books from his parents collection. Hundreds of times he had read these stories and he cherished every one. When he didn't feel like reading he would often go somewhere quiet and reflect on his life and the things around him. When Ned did have to go into town he avoided gossip and mostly made polite small talk with his distant neighbors. Ned didn't dislike people, he merely disliked their habits of creating problems. His world was small but it was beautiful and Ned wouldn't have traded it for anything. But then one day Aptus, the vengeful god of the Net and lord of the cats appeared at his door. "NED LUDD!" howled Aptus. "FOR TOO LONG HAVE YOU ALLUDED ME!" "YOU REMAIN INDEPENDENT OF MY WIDE WORLD OF WEBS. NEVER HAS A COMMENT BEEN POSTED NOR A MEME BEEN SPREAD BY YOUR ABSENT USERNAME. I AM APTUS, NED LUDD, AND I DEMAND SACRIFICE! I DEMAND PARTICIPATION! DID YOU EVEN SEE MILEY CYRUS AT THE VMA's?" "Huh?" answered Ned. "FOR YOUR HUBRIS I DAMN YOU NED LUDD, TO AN ETERNITY OF SURFING. YOU HAVE LIVED YOUR LIFE OFFLINE AND NOW I CURSE YOU TO A LIFE OF CONNECTIVITY!" And with a wild laugh Aptus touched Ned's forehead. He heard a horrible noise and suddenly Ned was lifted off his feet and sucked into a series of tubes. Ned flew through into this horrible new world, bombarded by noise, words, pornography and pictures of cute animals. Suddenly it all stopped and Ned found himself lying in a landscape devoid of anything but a single play button. Cautiously Ned approached it, fearing what it might do. Tentatively he pushed the button and before him appeared a dancing, singing Korean man wearing glasses and a suit. "I don't understand!" cried Ned. "Oppa Gangnam Style" replied the man. Ned turned to run but everywhere he fled he was haunted by this horrible man and his terrible song. "Forgive me Aptus!" Ned pleaded to the heavens. But Aptus merely laughed at the man and retweeted his suffering.


The Cheeky Chair Here she comes. It’s old Annie McGoogan. The deadliest domestic in town. Ouch! She plumps me up with a couple of quick punches to my cushion and squirts her cheap polish on my poor wooden wings and arms. She rubs her yellow cloth, full of dust, with great vigour, no regard for the fact that I’m the oldest piece of furniture in Doctor Davidson’s waiting room. The patients called him young Doctor Davidson when I arrived as a brand-new chair with brown velour upholstery and a smooth, shining mahogany veneer. I had strong legs and a firm seat. I’ve been reupholstered many times. My favourite was the blue and yellow daisy pattern in the seventies. Now I’m a stripy grey and cream pattern, but my legs are cracked and wobbly – a bit like Milly McPherson’s mind – she’s the oldest patient to visit the surgery. She once turned up with her cat in her handbag. Another time she sat on me for three hours before realising she wasn’t in the library. You’d think the lack of books would be a give-away with only two Reader's Digests and a Take-a-Break magazine on display. Now Annie’s got the vacuum out and they’re roaring around the room. Henry Hoover is nearly as ancient as me and picks up nothing. In fact, there’s more fluff on the carpet after he’s rattled around. If you don’t suffer from asthma when you come into the surgery, you’ll sure as hell go home unable to get a breath from the dust in here. The coffee table cringes as Annie scrapes a sticky sweet off the scratched surface. Then she’s off with a flourish to torment the furniture in the Doctor’s own room.  The chairs in there will be trembling and the sink stinging with the amount of disinfectant used, by the time Annie's finished. At nine o’clock on the dot the Doc comes in and prepares for the day ahead, followed by Letty McIvor, the receptionist, who is plump and kindly and slips the kids a wee treat when their mums aren’t looking. First patient in is Frannie Flynn, with her varicose veins and three chins. She gives her name and please God don’t let her sit on me. Nooooo! Jesus, Mary and Jehosafat, I swear she’s put on three stone since last week. She has to lose some weight for her operation. Stomach stapling’s what she’s hoping for. She’s kidding herself. If you look in her massive handbag you’ll see three packets of Wotsits, a family sized bar of chocolate and a cheese and pickle sandwich. That’s just her mid-morning snack. The rolls of doughy blubber on her arms pour over my poor arms and she feels wedged right into my seat. Letty will need to prise her out when she’s called.  Wiggy Weatherall appears next and sits on one of the modern metal and purple chairs, fit only for skinny people. I remember when he came to the surgery asking for a hair transplant but had to make do with an NHS wig. It sits askew due to the high wind today. He throws a toothy grimace Frannie’s way and she proceeds to regale him with tales of her veins, stomach and wayward daughter. 2 Oh, Lord save us! Here’s Veronica Slattery who should be named sluttery due to the number of children she’s had with different fathers. At the last count there was Dennis the Menace, Pat the Rat, Dodgy Dan, Clatty Clayton and twins Spike and Semolina! The twins’ dad registered them and misheard his daughter’s name which was meant to be Selena. Veronica has two of her brats in tow. One is picking his nose and flicks a bogie onto my back as he passes and the other sneezes onto Frannie, who shifts her considerable weight around my creaking seat. The boys fight over the toys in the corner of the room, while Veronica puffs on her vape, then bites her nails.

Thank the Saints in heaven! Frannie’s called first, managing to squeeze herself out of me and waddle off. Oh, the relief. But not for long, as Spike takes a runner at my comfy seat and dives right on. He then proceeds to kick my legs with his wellies and pummel my arms with his sticky little fingers. It’s torture as Dennis joins him and they climb all over me, pretending to be wild Indians. Everyone tries to ignore them, until Veronica bawls, “Get off that chair you wee buggers!” Then she mutters to herself, “That new boyfriend of mine’ll be getting the snip and no mistake.” You don’t half see all the town’s misfits in here. You wouldn’t believe the number of hypochondriacs. Harry O`Donnell thought he had gout or at least an ingrown toenail. What he needed was his eyesight tested. He’d been wearing his son’s shoes by mistake and they’re two sizes too small. The eejit! Mary McPherson came in three times last week thinking she had pneumonia as she was wheezy and sneezy. Turns out she’s allergic to her daughter’s new kitten. Then there’s young Heaven-Lee Brown who just started training as a nursing assistant. She’s had a heart attack, appendicitis, encephalitis, and prostate trouble – all in her teeny, tiny mind of course. Heaven help her patients.

Anyway, I’m hoping to get out of here some day soon. I dream that one of our patients will be an Antiques Roadshow presenter and discover that I’m really a chair from the bygone days of the Arts and Crafts movement. He will whisk me away for a valuation on TV. Doc Davidson will sell me for great wads of cash, and I will spend the rest of my days being admired in a museum. I’ll never be sat upon by pregnant women with their waters breaking over me, puking babies or teenagers talking tripe on their phones. Someone will softly brush my cushion, polish my wings and legs with beeswax while looking at me lovingly. But who am I kidding? I’ll have to put up with this lot for a long time yet.

Here comes the worst patient in the world. It’s Wally Watson. His windy problem is silent but violent, he has a dodgy bladder and is deaf as a post. Please don’t sit here, please go to a purple chair. If there is a God, keep off me, Wally. Oh well, it’s a God-damned Godless world.


By the time I was outside, the leaves were on fire. Usually, I’m not a stickler for rules, but standing there, watching the leaves; only the leaves light up in flames, it reminded me of you. I would’ve said the leaves shouldn’t have been alight like that; it was against the laws of science, but this isn’t my story, it’s yours.

If you were here you wouldn’t have bothered with the fire extinguisher, so I don’t either, only watching the leaves smolder in the fire, from a safe distance of course. You might’ve confronted the leaves themselves, stomping on them with those ugly boots you always insisted on wearing. Now, as I watch the leaves burn to a crisp leaving not a trace of flame, I think of those ugly boots. I never did get around to throwing them away.

On the first couple of days, I didn’t believe you were truly gone. People came to my house and gave me their condolences, but what could they know? Every day felt like a blur of routine, forcing myself every day to look outside and remember. Isn’t it weird; that I had already known and didn’t cry? After the leaves stopped burning, I felt the cool damp grass under my fingers. On lucky days, you and I would have enough time to visit the mall, drink our favorite bubble teas and collect dandelions in the parking lot where small mounds of weeds grew between the cement. We’d set our shopping bags down and gingerly place the dandelions into your grandmother’s vase. Your grandmother baked the best cookies when she was alive.

“Doesn’t everyone have a grandmother’s vase in their home?” You had exclaimed, snorting in that special way that meant you were joking and dead serious at the same time. That day, I had calculated the probability of having a vase in a house, and though I searched day after day, my long-lost grandma’s precious vase was nowhere to be found.

“Calista, Calista, don’t be so rigid!” You used to tell me, bumping your elbow into my shoulder. I wished some of your creativity would rub off on me eventually, but she was always the cool college student, and I was the geeky kid nobody wanted to be seen with. Maybe that’s why nothing can surprise me now. Not rabid squirrels, or dancing donkeys for all I care! Not even leaves burning brightly in the mid-afternoon sun.

“Hey, Cally! You wanna catch Starbucks with me?” June always wanted to help me, to be my friend, but you were the only one who I would truly want. I wrapped my almost threadbare fleece over myself protectively, not looking into June’s eyes. She persisted, tugging on my shoulder. “We’ve missed you, Cally. Please re-join the program.” I felt myself moving up to get my bike from the garage. It had been sitting there, my own Vespa, collecting dust, missing its glory days. Maybe I did need to take a break.

The wind blowing through my hair felt like freedom. June and I swept through the inner roads, watching unfamiliar houses covered in Halloween decorations fly by. Leaves littered the roads, and when we drove past them, they blew higher and higher into the sky. We were nearing the intersection to the only Starbucks in town when a familiar brownstone caught my eye. Without stopping to tell June, I made a frantic U-turn, sending my loosely clipped helmet flying onto the road. My Vespa skidded onto the sidewalk, almost crashing into the rickety mailbox dangling from a thin post. It had been a while since I’d been to the McAllister house.

Your brownstone used to be the fanciest on the block. As I walked up to the door, I saw your family’s initials carved into the brick. Where lush flowers hanging from the roof once lay, a brown clipper dangled instead. Your once-proudly boasted tulips now hung limply over the sides of the pot. I almost forgot that your family had moved away once you were gone. Somewhere in Arizona, they said. Somewhere they could find themselves.

I didn’t bother finding the hidden key you always kept in the gutter. The door was termite infested and the house looked all set for Halloween though there were no decorations. I bet I could find all your old belongings, every last one. It felt like intruding, breaking, and entering in your home, but I needed this. Needed your comfort echoing within these walls.

Inside, the walls are thinned out, and paint chips off of the walls in slow, deliberate motions. Tiny drawings of stick figures decorate some of the walls, and I suppress a small smile as I run my fingers over them all the way to your room.

You told me you were leaving a long while before. We had set up a small game of cards when the complaining started, you telling me we were meant for more. You ran your fingers down that silky smooth hair of yours and told me you were leaving. It was all so simple, so well crafted, the old Ford flipped upside down over the cliffside. Broken glass everywhere. You were always crafty, I'll give you that, but I couldn’t believe you had left me for bigger things, bigger dreams than your best friend.

I neared the garage, pausing to check if my thoughts were confirmed. Sure enough, your mini cooper wasn’t there anymore either.

Perhaps it was because you donated it or your family took it with them, but I would for once like to believe, confide in something I wasn't sure about.

Suddenly, the door opened and I knew it was June. She joined me in the backyard on top of a large stone, both of us turning to look at the glowing bright stars. Your story might end here, on this quiet, peaceful night, but I’m not sure I would like my own to end right now. I turned and stared at June square in the eyes. “Starbucks, tomorrow?” “I wouldn’t be happier.”


Authors Note: So this was originally a small story I wrote for a writing prompt, but I felt like posting it here because its a way to force myself to take my writing seriously, as I'm just starting out and can't seem to silence the voice in my head that tells me to stop trying. Regardless, no one's here to read an authors note, so enjoy the story. Prompt: A lost traveler who works with locals in the villages they pass by to help solve their problems, becoming a reluctant hero in the process, but all they want to do is to find their way home. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ It was well into the evening, with the sun still in the sky, chasing away the brisk chill that clung to the air, but quickly fading over the horizon. After exiting the village far later than planned, Jackson Veeres walked into the forest to escape whatever other responsibilities the villagers would thrust upon him without warning. Exhaustion wrapped itself around his limbs, making them heavier and more sluggish as he trudged into brush. Healing took far more out of him than any of his other gifts, but it seemed the one everyone always needed the most. He arrived at the clearing where he had been sleeping these past few weeks, with his tent pitched and fire pit cold but ready for use. This village was another dead end it seemed. Jack was hardly optimistic that he would find what he was looking for in a village this small, only holding about six dozen people, but he looked regardless, because where there were people, there was always a chance. It always came with expectations though. The villagers took one look at him and immediately knew who he was. The slightly tanned skin, the neat blonde hair and the nearly luminous golden eyes always set him apart before he even spoke to anyone, and by now enough stories have spread about the fabled “golden hero” that recognition was always inevitable in a town this small, no matter how much he tried to disguise himself. Jack supposed this wasn’t the worst village he’d been asked to help. Those were usually the ones that wanted him to slay the local wolf or bear populations, to which he adamantly refused whenever possible, and carried out regretfully when the villagers “motivated” him. That was probably the worst part. You’re either a noble hero or a dangerous outsider. They’re always so quick to shuffle the title if you do what they want. He thought bitterly, as he began to make a fire by snapping his fingers, causing sparks to leap from his fingertips and onto the kindling. Jack would be lying if he claimed it was all bad though. He still did enjoy helping people, especially those who were earnest and kind. Another reason he still assisted in the villages he found seemed to be tearing through the brush behind him at that very moment. A small boy who appeared to be around eight years old wearing clothing that had seen better days, entered the clearing with a bundle in his arms and quick, excited steps. “Jack!” he called, sprinting over and thrusting the large bundle forwards into Jack's lap, before placing himself on the ground beside him. “Mom made extra dinner earlier, and she wanted to thank you for fixing her hand. She hadn’t been able to properly sew for a while now, so we haven’t had a lot of clothes, and with winter approaching she was getting really worried. But now she can sew again, and she’s already making me a new cloak! I wanted a black and gold cloak like yours, but Mom says that it would be really expensive so I'm getting a green one instead. She also sai-” “Woah Max slow down.” Jackson said with a smile. He unwrapped the bundle and discovered a whole salmon, already cut and still warm. He dug in gratefully before turning to Max again after a few bites. “So what are you doing out here Max? Does your mom know you’re in the woods right now?” “Yeah she does,” He answered excitedly “When I told her I was coming to see you she said it was ok because I’d always be safe with you. She also asked me to bring you food because she saw you healed a lot of people today and thought you might be tired.” This was one of the reasons Jackson continued to help wherever he went. When others would take it upon themselves to help others as well, not because they were obligated to, but because they wanted to make others around them happier. Because they wanted to see the best in others first. It reminded Jack of home. “Tell Anna that I said thanks then. The fish is excellent.” he said through a mouthful. He offered a piece to Max, who accepted and began to nibble slowly on it. “But you didn’t answer my first question. Why’d you want to run out here?” Max looked up and seemed sadder as he met Jackson's eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re leaving soon, and I wanted to be able to say goodbye before you did,” He explained sadly. “You had a look in your eye after the baron asked for another favor again. I didn’t hear what it was, but I know you’re a traveler and you didn’t seem like you wanted to stay much longer. You’ve been one of my only friends since you came here a few weeks ago, and I wanted to spend more time with you before you left. But it’s ok if you’re leaving, because Mom is better now that you fixed her hand! She was dancing with my sister when I left so I’m happy,” He said, face split by a smile. It would have been convincing if there weren’t tears threatening to fall from his eyes. Jackson adjusted his seat until he was right beside Max and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. The tears fell freely by now but Jack didn’t mind. “It’s ok to be sad too. One of the hardest things about making friends is saying goodbye. But every goodbye is a gift, because not everyone has the chance to say it.” he said sadly “So you are leaving,” Max said through sniffles. “Tha- that's ok. Mom is better now because of you.” He collected himself and spoke again” So where are you trying to go now?” “Home.” Jack said resolutely. “Where’s that?” “Well I wouldn’t be traveling very far if I knew.” Jackson answered with a sigh, “It definitely doesn’t help that I think my home is on the move as well.” Max tilted his head towards him with creased brows. “That doesn’t make much sense,” Max said “How can your house be moving? Houses don’t move.” “Well that’s probably because we’re talking about different things. I don’t have a house or a village, but I used to have a home, before Fate got in the way at least,” Jack said. “Then what was your home like?” Max asked tentatively Jack began by taking a deep breath. “Well, he was always up early for starters. Would rise right as the sun came up, and usually drag me with him, regardless of my protests. He was an absolute mess as well. He would always lose anything he put down unless it was tied to him. He also loved animals and was crazy good with them. One time he made friends with a bear and I nearly had a heart attack seeing him show up with seven hundred pounds of fur.” Jack said with a smile “We would travel together, never anywhere specific but always some kind of town, and he would brighten the whole place as soon as he showed up. He’d help anyone he thought needed it, never asking for anything in return and was always being far too generous just because he wanted to be. He was always better than me at that.” It was true. Jack never got the hang of wanting to be generous. Even while completing feats of wonder for those around him, he did so because it was what he would have done. Jack wanted to be like him, but could never fully grasp how he did it. At this point, Jack could feel the tears well up in his eyes, but he pressed on despite them. “He was always kind. It's funny, no one ever really knows what that means until they see it. He only ever wanted to help others because he thought the best version of himself was helping others find the best version of themself. And the best part,” He paused, ”He was always right about that.” After a long pause, Max finally asked “So your home is a person? “Yes,” Jack said, “It doesn’t matter where I live or where I go, he will always be home.” “So why aren’t you with him?” Max asked hesitantly. “Because Fate likes to play tricks on those who are born that special,” Jackson answered, “It was a while ago, but we were forced to go different directions. We each had a job to do, and we couldn’t do it together. We just didn’t know where either of us would be going, or when we would be done. So I don’t know where he is, but I’m going to keep going till I find him.


Every time I feel peaceful and calm I see myself die. I don’t actively search for death but I seem to find it everywhere I turn. Today as I looked off the balcony I saw my body bent into unnatural shapes on the concrete. The soft lull of the rain quietly created red pools drifting from my head into the corner of the lot. I stared at it and felt peace. Everything felt serene. The brokenness of my limbs and the cracks in my skull seeping into the cool water seemed a perfect fit for an otherwise colourless day. Something to break up the monotony of summer rain without being a cacophonous and grandiose drama. A way to erase myself gently and calmly. But my feet never tried to reach the ledge even when my brain started calculating the likelihood that such a fall would cause death. Then the daydream ended and the concrete was just concrete again and my hair was wet with raindrops, not the ruby elixir still stirring about inside of me. When I went to the lake last summer to lay underneath the full moon I saw myself in the water. The moonlight illuminated my motionless body under the waves, my dress simultaneously clinging to me and drifting in time with the tide. I had been laid out in my grave with no headstone or sign of who I was beyond the residual bubbles that occasionally floated up to the surface. The rocks tied around my limbs held me in place like paperweights as the soft blanket of the lake enveloped me, and the beautiful glow from the sky highlighted what looked like a smile on my face. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. I was no longer in the lake and any trace of a smile was nowhere to be found. Just a week ago in my hotel room I stood at the floor to ceiling window looking out at the skyline and admiring the architecture. A small city that was quiet by midnight and lit up only by a few streetlights and brought to life by a few people staggering home from the bar. In the reflection of the window I saw my body hanging limply from the ceiling fan. My feet were bare and my long hair cascaded across my face and down my chest. The air felt thick and heavy and I wondered how long I had been hanging there. The scarf tied around my neck was a gift for my birthday; a beautiful piece of fabric meant to celebrate my life now represented its abrupt and painless end. The reflection wavered and as I focused my eyes harder, it faded. When I turned to look at the room it was empty. As my mind relaxes I observe my body as though it belonged to someone else. Someone I happened to stumble across after it was too late to change the outcome. It doesn’t scare me. It never has. The only thing I find disturbing is that in each vision, something about me is different. When I was broken on the concrete my skin was a beautiful olive tone. When I was stuck to the sandy floor of the lake my body was thinner and the fabric of the dress highlighted protruding bones in my hips and ribcage. When I swung from the ceiling in the hotel my hair was a vibrant blonde. I am never the same in any of my visions, but I always recognize the girl as being me. I always recognize her as though I were looking in a mirror and when the memory of a life with different hair, different skin, or a different body starts to set in I lose the image. A life that might have existed somewhere in time is always just outside my grasp. I can’t help but wonder when the day will come that the body is truly mine.


Bracelets chinking, Shirleen popped a slice of bread into the toaster. “Mum, why do we still have this kind of bread? Couldn’t we make some chapattis?” Bronwyn looked at her daughter as if she had just fallen out of the sky. With a puzzled frown, she said, “Shirleen, I don’t mind if you want to make chapattis, but we are a normal English family living in Dorset. Why would we be making chapattis instead of bread for toast?” She had to admit her daughter dressed more like an Indian girl every day. From the moment she got back from school, the metamorphosis took place. School uniform off and into a long floating skirt, a row of bracelets up her arms and an unusual gold pendant strung around her neck with a bright yellow cord. Once dressed like an off-duty Indian princess, she took her plate of toast up to her room. Soon the plaintive sounds of the sitar echoed around her room. The door to the kitchen slammed open, and two tousled headed boys popped their heads around. “Mum, please can you ask Shirleen to turn down the volume on her music?” Their Mum looked at them bemused. They looked so ordinary and so English. “Boys, don’t be so difficult. The volume of the music on your days is so loud. I’m sure the neighbours can hear it.” In the typical habit of twins, they looked at each other and both spoke simultaneously. “Mum, our music is normal, that wailing music of Shirleen’s is weird. Anyone would think we had an Indian living in the house.” Their Mum nodded her head. “I know what you mean, but she has as much right to express herself as you do. You agreed to the arrangement. She has her music on Mondays and Wednesdays, and you guys on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You have to put up with it, I’m afraid. Anyway, why aren’t you at football practice? It’s your day, isn’t it?” The boys clumped up to their room and the kitchen was quiet. Bronwyn sat looking out the window watching the birds as they swooped onto the birdfeeder and argued whose turn it was to peck at the fat balls. She thought, even birds have to put up with offspring fighting and squabbling. That’s not the soothing birdsong we all love so much. More chinking sounds alerted her to the arrival of her daughter, who slid onto a stool and looked earnestly at her Mother. “Mum, you know it’s getting close to the time you should consider suitable young men for me to marry.” Taken aback, Bronwyn looked at her daughter. She always drew her thick dark brown hair into a plait hanging down her back. Her lovely green eyes were her most striking feature. Her face was Caucasoid. What was this obsession with India and Indian? “Tell me, Shirleen, why do you identify as Indian rather than English? I gave birth to you. I know you are my child. There’s no chance of you being mixed up at birth. You were the only girl born that whole week.” The girls’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, “I don’t know, Mum, I feel so mixed up it’s as if there are two sides to me. Does that make me schizophrenic?”

“No, darling, I’m sure you do not have schizophrenia, but I don’t understand what you are feeling. I’m fine with you wanting to dress as you do and play music. I’ll try to cook at least some things you want, but you have to consider the rest of the family too. I'll speak to a psychologist friend of mine and see if she can throw any light on how you feel.” Later, when her husband came home, Bronwyn had a word with him. He said, “I don’t want you talking to all these funny people and putting ideas in her head. She’s a typical teenager. I expect she has a crush on some Indian looking celebrity or other.” Bronwyn knew she would have to help her daughter sort out this strange situation without the support of her husband. Shirleen's room did not look like any of the other girls in her class. They had posters of pop stars and masses of cuddly toys all over the bed. In contrast, Shirleen had a plainer looking bed with a cotton duvet cover decorated with elephants. Her desk was unadorned, but she had turned her dressing table into an altar. A white cloth, bought at a charity shop, covered the surface. There were carvings of a strange elephant-headed human and always a scattering of flowers. She recently took to burning an incense stick by the open window so as not to set off the smoke alarm.

Her brothers complained about the smell in the house, which they had to retract when their Mother reminded them of the chemistry experiments they had undertaken during the summer lockdown.

Upset, Shirleen arrived home one day early in Autumn. She went and changed into her ‘proper’ clothes before slumping onto a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Her Mother was busy cutting bread for the ever-hungry boys. She knew they had appetites like swarming locusts. Then she looked up at her daughter. “What’s the matter, love?” Shirleen was rocking backwards and forward, her arms curling over her head and in an emotion-chocked voice said, “I can feel the despair of the wife after her husband has died. Soon, like her, I will have to walk to the burning pyre and lie beside my dead husband.” Bronwyn was shocked at her daughter’s identification with a culture alien to their middle-class English one. “Darling, pull back. You will not burn on the pyre.” The phone rang. “Hello, Bronwyn? It’s me, Angela. After our last conversation, I spoke to some of my colleagues. We wondered if Shirleen would be interested in talking to us about her identification with an ancient Indian culture. It won't be treatment, but after talking to her, if she is willing, we might try some hypnosis. Do you think she would be interested?” “She is here, let me see if she will speak to you.” Shirleen took the phone and listened to Angela. After a while, she wandered into the lounge with the phone for quiet and privacy. Sometime later, she returned looking a lot happier, “Mum, I’m going to meet Angela and her colleagues next week on Friday after school. Will that be alright?” On the following Friday, Shirleen took the bus to the University and wandered along various corridors until she found the Psychology Department. A brief tap on the door and it was flung open by a small woman with bright eyes which put you in mind of a bird, a Robin maybe. “Ah, you must be Shirleen.” Putting her hand out, she shook the young woman's hand then guided her down a short corridor into a room. It was the staff room. Three other lecturers were sitting in comfortable chairs reading. They looked up and smiled as she walked in. “Shirleen, these are my colleagues.” Pointing to a youngish-looking redhead. “This is Vanessa” to an elderly gentleman “this is Prof Fielding and there in the corner is Amy. Take a seat. Would you like a coffee? As it’s Friday, it will have to be black as I doubt the milk will be useable.” Shirleen smiled, they were a friendly lot and her fears of an academic inquisition evaporated. “Black coffee is fine with me, thanks.” She left hours later. They had talked to her about school and also about her identifying with an ancient Indian culture. She had agreed to go into hypnosis where they visited her unconscious mind, then they did a past life regression. Their surprising revelations showed Shirleen had lived in India about two hundred years ago. Like now, she was a young woman, unlike now that girl was married to a much older man who had died before she had a child. As was the custom, she had ascended the burning pyre and lay beside her dead husband as the flames licked around her. They felt that young life, snuffed out too soon, was leaking into this one. She agreed to attend more sessions to allow that other aspect of her to accept its fate and she to get on with this life. It worked. She still wore the floaty skirts, the bangles and burnt the incense sticks but did not feel the disturbing emotions from the past. Now she felt comfortable being a little different from her peers but could easily enter this life and go out in jeans and tee shirts.


About two years ago, things started going south between my wife and me. It started with one little argument that turned into a big problem, which only grew into resentment. All the writing was there, on the wall, in plain English, and no matter how hard we tried to ignore it, it kept getting bigger and bolder and more colorful. We only made that last-ditch attempt to avoid the embarrassment of divorce, but counseling only made us resent each other more. Safe space, my ass. I couldn’t say one word without triggering her, even though I would let her speak every bit of BS about me, most of which was petty and some of it straight up lies. I don’t know why she would make up stories for a counselor, but she did, and it only made the counseling meaningless, a complete waste of time and money. I tried calling her out on a couple occasions, but the counselor would stop me every time, “safe space,” BS. But if I was saying something and she cut me off, the counselor would just let her go on some tangential rant. We went for all of a half-dozen sessions before I refused to continue, claiming it was all one-sided, which made her even more angry. Not that she wanted to keep going in an attempt to save our marriage, but because it was cathartic for her. Her, able to bitch and moan about how awful I was, meanwhile, I’m sitting there getting literally abused and being forced to take it. Nope. I gave her an ultimatum: give me a divorce immediately and swiftly, or I would drag her through the mud for abusing me. Those sessions were all recorded, so I had plenty of evidence to prove I was being verbally and emotionally abused. Which way do you think it went? After a year of battles, we had a final trial set. My lawyer was not cheap and I was getting to the point of desperation financially. My parents had “loaned” me a chunk of their retirement, and I quote, “only to be paid back if you’re ever able to.” I had also begged a couple friends for some money, the most embarrassing part of the whole thing. Fortunately, I had friends who were on my side, understanding how bad things were for me and how nasty she had become. The final trial was almost a joke, as her lawyer was akin to the one guy from My Cousin Vinny, you know, the one who stuttered a lot. He tried pulling stunts to delay the trial, called for a mistrial within the first five minutes, and even had the judge questioning his bar certification more than once. It was an open and shut case once my lawyer played the clips from our counseling sessions. The judge called the counselor to the stand herself and she went down a whole path of questions against the counselor, questioning her certifications. It was great. I won, was awarded access to all of our money, which was frozen for months, and my now-ex-wife was handed an order of protection, disallowing her to be within 100 yards of me, which sent me into a laughing fit as the bailiffs dragged her out of the courtroom. Now we get to more recently. I was walking from my office downtown to a little Greek café for lunch a few weeks ago when this guy bumped into me. Guy – “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Me – “Maybe try using those things below your eyebrows.” Guy – “I really am sorry. I’ve been really anxious lately and wasn’t paying attention. I’ll watch out more, I promise.” Me – “Hey, sometimes things happen. No biggie.” Guy – “No, really, I apologize.” The guy stuck out his hand, like he wanted to shake hands with me, so I did so and walked away, going into the café. I got my food at the counter and grabbed a seat at the little bar top in the front window. As I was eating, I saw that same guy peeking out from behind a bush, seemingly watching me. I don’t think he had a clue that I could easily see him hiding there, but it was so obvious. I finished my food and cleaned up my little space at the bar top. I walked out and went straight to the bush, nearly scaring the guy half to death. He jumped up and yelped. Me – “Whatcha doin down there?” Guy – “Oh, I dropped a cufflink down here. It’s from my grandfather, and I would be devastated to lose it.” He was wearing a polo shirt, so it was obvious he was lying. Me – “Oh, that sucks. Let me help you find it.” Guy – “No, no. You don’t need to do that. I already inconvenienced you enough today.” The guy blushed and crouched back down, acting as if he were searching the dirt for something. Me – “Well, you’ve been looking for more than thirty minutes. I don’t think you’re going to find it if you haven’t by now.” Guy – “What? Oh, you’re still here?” He acted like he wasn’t peeking back at my feet every few seconds to see which direction I went, if I did walk away. Me – “So, are you going to tell me why you’re watching me?” Guy – “Because…wait, I’m not watching you. Why would I do that?” Me (laughing) – “You’re not good at this.” Guy – “Sorry. I mean, sorry?” I laughed again and started walking back to my office. As I turned the corner to go around to the lobby door, I stopped and looked back the way I came from to see the same guy standing there, seemingly frozen, about fifty yards back. Now, there were other people walking the same sidewalk, but he just stood there, blocking foot traffic, apparently hoping I wouldn’t see him. I went around the corner and stood there, a few feet in, waiting to see if the guy would pop around. It was only thirty seconds or so before he did indeed pop around the corner. Me – “Boo!” Guy – “Whoa, what the?” Me – “Gotcha. You really do suck at this, whatever you’re trying to do.” Guy – “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just going to my office.” Me – “That happens to be the same path I go every day and I’ve never seen you before?” Guy – “I’m new around here.” Me – “Okay, sure. Well, be more careful.” I told a few of my colleagues about my interactions with that guy and they all thought it was funny but strange. So, I kept an eye out for him, not that I had to watch hard. He was so clumsy and stupid, never hiding well, always doing something to fumble it. I saw him every day for two weeks straight, even on the weekends while running errands and doing stuff around the house. I went out for drinks with a couple friends on Saturday night and that guy came in, sitting at the opposite end of the bar, like I wouldn’t notice him. I just waved at him, which caused him to become frantic and he tried to hide behind a pillar at the end of the bar. I was laughing so hard at how bad he was at stalking me, I even had my friends laughing at him after telling them about all the antics. So, we walked over to him and as the three of us stood there surrounding him on his stool, we probed him. Me – “How’s it going, guy who works by me and keeps following me?” Guy – “I’m just new in the area and I thought if I followed you around, I would find some cool places to hang out.” Me – “Oh, like my back yard?” Guy – “I…uh…no, but…” Friend 1 – “Watcha drinking there?” He picks up the guy’s glass and sniffs it. “Iced tea in a rocks glass…interesting choice for someone trying to be ‘cool’.” Guy – “I don’t drink.” Friend 2 – “Huh, why come into a bar then? Why not the diner next door, or the juice bar across the street?” Guy – “I…” Me – “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re stalking me, poorly, I might add, but you need to stop.” Guy – “Yes, sir. Sorry.” He got up and left a few dollar bills on the bar before walking out. We laughed for several minutes about that whole situation, considering none of us were particularly threating looking, let alone the fighting types, so to deal with the guy the way we did seemed so funny to us. It wasn’t until I was walking home that the whole thing changed. I was about a block from my house when the guy popped out from an alley with a gun in his hand, which was shaking like a leaf. Guy – “You’re going to walk with me to your house and you’re going to take me in with you, please.” Me – “Or what, you’re going to shoot the tree next to me?” He looked down at his hand to see the gun pointed nearly sideways and corrected it. Guy – “Sorry, but I’m not messing around this time.” I acted like he wasn’t even there walking around him and going the rest of the way home. As I stepped into the front door, throwing it shut behind me, he stopped the door with his foot. I turned and almost knocked him over, sending him back a few steps with his gun toting arm flailing around. Guy – “Man, you almost made me trip and who knows what would have happened. Please be more careful.” Me (laughing) – “You are the weirdest stalker…I’ve never even read about anyone being as bad at this as you or seen any movies or shows. How did you get into this?” Guy – “Your wi….sorry, uh...” Me – “Seriously? How did she find you? Facebook marketplace? Wish?” Guy – “Never mind that, just let me in.” Me – “Nah, I don’t feel like doing this tonight. Can we try again another time?” Guy – “Well, I suppose…wait, no. I’m supposed to be in charge here!” Me (again laughing) – “Wish Assassin. That’s your new nickname.” Guy – “Please, stop. I’m just trying to do my job. I’m sorry I suck at it. I’m pretty new.” Me – “You seem like a nice, decent person. Why on Earth are you letting that ugly-ass shrew get you into this mess?” Guy – “I need the money and she promised me $3000 if I did this......whoops.” Me – “THAT’S IT?!” Guy – “I really need the money.” Me – “If I give you half of that right now, will you go away and leave me alone?” Guy – “Well, I suppose that could work. What am I supposed to tell her?” Me – “Tell her exactly this: the conditions weren’t right and as a professional, you couldn’t risk it.” Guy – “Wow, you’d be good at this.” Me – “No, you’re just REALLY bad at it. You should quit now, before you do something stupid and end up in prison, or dead. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it, trust me.” Guy – “Please don’t put me down. I’m having a really hard time right now.” Me (laughing) – “Man, you’re pathetic. Wait right here, do not try to come in. I’ll be back with $1500 for you to leave me alone.” I went to my safe and pulled out $1450 from the envelope of money, which had several thousand in it, and walked back to the front door. Me – “Here’s $1450. It’s all I can bare to give you now.” Guy – “Oh wow, that’s the most cash I’ve ever seen! Thanks!” He didn’t blink twice about me stiffing him by $50. Me – “So, we’re done, right?” Guy – “Yeah, this is great!” Me (shaking my head) – “Seriously, pathetic.” Guy – “See you later!” As he turned and walked away from my house, I said, “I hope not, but if you do, I’ll see you first. That’s for sure.” I laughed heartily as I slammed the door and locked it. I couldn’t believe my horrible ex-wife hired some discount ass-assin to kill me, someone who had no balls and couldn’t even defend himself when he had a gun in his hand. I mean, I could believe that if she did hire someone, they would be that bad, but I didn’t think she would stoop to that level. Needless to say, today while leaving for lunch, I saw him standing behind a bush outside my office. I immediately walked in front of him and said hi, which threw him into a panic. Guy – “No, you weren’t supposed to see me!” Me (laughing) – “I told you I would see you first. Truly terrible at this.” So he’s still stalking me, and I don’t know if he’s going to try to pull it off again, but I have a feeling he will, at least once he needs more money. But he’s so bad at it, we’ll probably play this game for months before I turn him in. I just want to have some fun and really piss of my ex. The longer this goes on, the more annoyed she’ll be…I know her. She’ll get to the point where she’ll start threatening and abusing this poor guy, if she hasn’t already. Me – “See you tomorrow.” Guy – “Yep…I mean, no, you won’t.


Screaming sirens forced his eyes open. Unable to fall back asleep, he pulled his aching body out of bed and trudged to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. Specks of rust dotted the chromium walls of his tiny apartment, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city. The bed stood alone in the center of the room, the single piece of furniture he had been able to bring himself to purchase, trying to avoid another tether to this space. Outside, a blazing neon blimp floated by, blaring its ad for spotless luxury condos in Uptown. The models’ unlined magazine-beautiful faces sneered at the decrepit landscape as they passed through. He gulped the mixture down, an oily, gritty substance that burned his throat as he forced it into his body. A slow warmth started blooming in his belly as he took a pull from his narco-pen and waited for the combination to creep through his system and exact its familiar anesthetizing effects in his frontal lobe. Long pulses of light brightened the room at random intervals, and the insistent screech of sirens burst through the haunting silence that smothered the inhabitants below. Dust floated like ash between the tall honeycombed towers that stood like aging sentinels, disused and uncared for. A rising tide of prosperity had left the majority of denizens strewn about like so much driftwood in its wake. Unlit corners of the street below buzzed with an angry activity, hooded figures scurrying to and from the pockets of darkness, cigarette burned pockets filled with grams of various balms to soothe the pain of poverty. He sat heavily on the bed’s edge, running his fingers through a thinning underbrush of weedy growth. Thoughts buzzed by, honeybees floating on the updrafts of a warm summer breeze, as the drink started to envelope his mind in a pleasant haze. His mind began to wander into the space between consciousness and oblivion, waves of mild pleasure bringing him back to a narcotic sluiced wakefulness and releasing him as they rolled by. The harsh ringing of the phone wrenched him from his pillowy half-sleep. “‘Lo?” A familiar toneless robotic voice. “312 new avenue. Apartment 457. Instructions will be coming shortly.” The line went dead. Duty calling, always at the most inopportune time. But he needed the money and you never knew these days how much time would stretch between calls. Two years ago, when everything went bust and people started defaulting on their payments, he’d have a backlog of jobs piled up, work enough for the next month. Now he was lucky to get a job every other week. A glance in the cracked, grease coated mirror revealed a sagging face darkened by lack of sleep, and he quickly looked away. The digital display flickered past 4am as he pulled on his uniform, a matte black armored bodysuit. The final touch was the helmet. That helmet changed him in the eyes of those he passed in the poor quarters. He could see it in the way they stiffened and gave him a wide berth, the hate brimming in their eyes and the curses muttered under their breaths. Few were so bold as to engage him, but he’d seen and heard it all. Always through the thick screen of the helmet, which muffled their hoarse screams and flailing limbs as they flung their anger at him, as though he were watching an old film. The sound of the door snapping shut bounced around from wall to wall in his skull, each reverberation a muffled thump that shook his head. His brain was still swimming in the fog that had settled in during the early morning session as he mounted the rusty company issued hoverbike and set off. Few people were out this time of night, and those were the dregs that had blossomed like maggots in a festering wound. Onto new avenue, which had infused the area with a brief glimmer of hope, a sliver of incandescent joy at its width and richness. Strolling couples and babies in carriages. Then a rapid decline as shops closed up and businesses moved uptown, unscrupulous characters haunting the corners and alleyways, little by little the shiny veneer wore down until it cracked and sagged. Two minutes out he started to get that familiar dread, like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel that now churned in his guts, burning. A rancid stench hit him like a wave as he dismounted and entered the building, scanning his company badge to unlock the door. No lifts in this part of town worked, so he lugged it up the stairs, battening down the hatches and preparing his mind for what was to come. The sounds of his knocks echoed down the hallway, soliciting cracked doors and curious eyes that he could feel like targets on his back as he came face to face with a dirty, wan face. “Please, just a few more days. Just a few more days, I’m begging you.” “You’ve failed to make the requisite payments to The Cintall, Underwood, Newman, and Twit Company who has graciously extended you an extra day to make good on your contract. I will now escort you from the premises.” “Please, please, I have two children, where are we supposed to go? I have nowhere, I’m begging you please.” “The system has determined you be removed, and it is my duty to remove you. Gather what you can carry and exit the space.” His foot prevented the door from closing and shouldered the door the rest of the way open. Two round faces stared at him, peeking above the couch, eyes wide. One hand tightened white around the crumpled edge of a frayed blanket. The other latched on to that of the older sister. The woman continued to beg and plead, mewling at his feet before quickly turning to rage. It always went like this, the belief that they could talk their way out, then the shift to begging, changing to explosive rage as they realized they could do nothing. The outcome had been decided, and he was just the human cog designed to make sure it was carried out in accordance with the laws set down in lines of code. The waves of the woman’s rage continued to break against the wall of his calculated indifference. He glanced at the children and quickly away again. Tears splashed down their faces, brought on by the outpouring of emotion from their mother. He grabbed her and pulled her roughly to her feet, beckoning the children over. “Tell them to come. Make this easier on yourself” He smacked the hand that was clutching, the thick padding of the glove rendering the impact nonexistent. Her desperate, guttural yells bounced back and forth through the apartment. “Take off the mask, you fucking coward. You can’t even look me in my face. Look at my kids, you’re killing them is what you’re doing. You put us out there and we’re dead.” Her face was twisted into a snarl, bloodshot eyes wide with a potent combination of fear and rage, strands of spittle flying off as she raged. “Let’s go.” he said. “Now, before you end up with some broken bones that I know you don’t have money to fix.” The two children shuffled from the couch to their mother’s arm, tears streaming down their face, tinny sobs wrenching their shoulders. A triumvirate of misery, salty streams running in rivulets and splashing onto their worn clothes, bleary eyes resigned to the slow march of death in missed meals and harsh weather, a bleak future of indeterminate length stretching out in front of them. Innocence that would be grounded out like a boot crushing a spent cigarette. They fanned out like a thin human flag as he dragged the mother from the apartment, the steel door snapping shut. Possessions trailed them like breadcrumbs, to be gobbled up by the vultures in the neighboring apartments as soon as they passed out of sight, erasing the trail home. Again he could feel the eyes, equal parts hate, fear, and relief, boring into his back. Down the stairs they went, the children frightened into silence and mother resigned a fate that was unescable. The ragged tune of their steps echoed throughout the metal stairwell. His frame took on more and more of her weight with every stair, as if the journey was robbing her body of the strength it needed to stand on its own. By the last stair, she was draped over him, silently sobbing against his shoulder. As the door shut behind them and the air outside hit them, autumn-cool with an undercurrent of the winter to come, the woman slipped off and lay on the ground, a puddle of misery, arms wrapped tightly around the children. He mounted the aging bike, started it, and drove away, forcing his eyes away from the scene but drawn back for a last glance in the rearview mirror. The three figures were tiny, diminished against the rising background of steel greys and flashing broken neon signs. Two sets of small wide eyes followed him as he left. As soon as he entered his apartment he collapsed against the doorway, slid to the floor, and wept. Huge, shoulder heaving sobs, gobs of snot and slime mixing with the salt of the tears running down his face. Thirty minutes passed like this until he inhabited an empty shell of a body, exhausted and spent from the outpouring of emotion. Occasional sniffs punctuated the relative calm until the only sounds were the muffled shouts of advertising jingles from the blimps that floated by. Then, silence. A heavy stillness thickened the air until it was pierced by the shrill call of the company phone.


Black and red glinted across the darkened town. Sirens wailed through the night quiet, and as more joined the fray, it was apparent that something terrible had happened. In the span of an hour, the small beams of flashlights broke through alley-mouths and glided along the outskirts of town like the workings of a bee-colony. François lit a cigarette. He was seated on a bench beneath a tree overlooking Vanquios. The warm smoke steadied his trembling fingers and calmed his heart. He leaned against the bench and closed his eyes. Even in the autumn wind the distinct smell of blood lanced through that of his cigarette. The pain in his abdomen flared up again and he pressed a hand to where the bullet was lodged inside. He could not find the courage to close his eyes. What had been a simple act turned scary knowing it may be the last time he ever would. It seemed even here, well past his breaking point, he feared death. Dread filled him realizing that even madness would not free him of the fear. A car pulled curbside, its tires screeching against the asphalt. The door opened and then slammed shut. He knew she was crying before she even came into view. She rounded the bench and stood in front of him, sniffling. For a moment there was only silence. “Why?” The hand holding the cigarette drooped in his lap but there was just enough strength left in his fingers to keep it from falling. His chuckle turned to a grimace as the pain in his abdomen flared up again. The air was thick with burning tobacco. “You were scared I would come back. You were scared what it would mean, hm?” The word rested at the tip of his tongue, but he lingered, scared that he would break as soon as he said it. He took a drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves, but as he mustered the courage to look his sister in the eye, the brittle wall he had built came tumbling down. He buried his face in his hands and cried. She took a step forward. “Run!” Hissed François. "There's nothing you can do for me!" She begrudgingly hurried back the way she had come as the police-sirens grew louder and red and blue lights flashed in his peripherals. The last thing he ever heard was the screeching of his car’s tires as his sister pulled out of the parking spot. --- Marie speed further down the road built into the mountainside, away from the approaching police, but more importantly, the only one in the world whom had ever cared about her. The radio station was tuned to a dead channel, the volume turned all the way up to disrupt the terrible thoughts that would have otherwise paralyzed her behind the wheel. She would not fail after the lengths François had gone to keep her safe. A tunnel had been carved through the mountain like the mouth of a beast, unlit because of François’ blackout. They had not discussed it, but it was apparent enough that she would have to make herself scarce before the lights came back on. Terrible things were stirring in the town of Vanquois. Their parents had only been the beginning. Thankfully, the tunnel walls were made of ceramic tile so she could see them glint in the headlights well before crashing into them and steer the around the bend accordingly. But she did not rely on it for long. As the tunnel straightened out again it was lit with flashing blue and red lights. Marie squeezed the steering wheel with frustration, unable to get a better grip because of her palms, slick with sweat. The dim echo of the car’s engine along the tunnel walls, mingled with the radio static made everything feel like some vivid nightmare. The fluorescent panels built into the ceiling of the tunnel flickered on and off as François’ blackout neared its end. The afterimages bloomed across her vision in purple blotches, but she kept her foot pressed firmly against the pedal as the speedometer hand ticked at maximum acceleration. She emerged out of the tunnel and sped past the streetlights built into the face of the mountain, showering the colour of gold through the dark. The sea glimmered off to her right, a pair of helicopters flying low over its surface and their taillights blinking red. Marie raised a sore arm and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She lowered the radio-static, too deep into the chase to worry that her mind may stray elsewhere. Glancing at the rear-view mirror, she found that the police lights that had been following her had disappeared and so had their sirens. Returning her attention to the road, she drove for a few minutes in eerie silence before her car jerked to a stop. Marie looked about frantically, light-headed from breathing so rapidly. She turned the car-key, but the engine made no sound. She tried again and again, but nothing. The streetlights flickered like the lights in the tunnel, and went out. It was pitch black. The only sound was the distant crash of waves against the cliff face to her right. Minutes passed, the stillness jarring after the chase, turning terrifying as the irrational fear that something would nab her from the dark festered. Suddenly, the radio switched on and bathed the dark, dim-yellow. Its red dial quivered at the end of the printed frequencies, and from that unlisted station came gentle, measured notes of violin bleeding through the silence from what felt more like the air around her than the car speakers. The notes held long and wavered in a way that felt distinctly human, but despite its beauty, part of her wanted to crawl out of her skin and run as far away from it as she could. It was magical in the way a Siren-Song was: alluring, yet steeped in foreboding. She reckoned that unlike the stories, she at least had the advantage of knowing something was off. But what good would it do her? The streetlight just above the car switched on as the final note of the violin’s melody tapered with vibrato into silence. Her breath fogged against the air, and the car switched back on without a sound. It rolled slowly down the road as the radio-dial swerved to the opposite end of the frequency listing. Static crackled momentarily before heavy breathing filled the quiet. Pinpricks of warmth beat against her neck, heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke. “Too late,” came the voice of static, shaking the entire car. Marie felt a hand close around her throat just as the first tear dropped, and no more…


Aaryas' palms rushed to his ears as the humongous bus rammed into the jewelry store. It seemed as if diamonds rained from the sky, metal pieces, glass shards, and gold crumbs reflecting sunlight in myriad angles as they flew and fell, skittering across the street. Aarya and Maya looked at each other for a brief second, their postures straightening, and that was all they needed. He clumsily attempted to place the comic he was holding back into its rack and Maya simply dropped the bottle of what he assumed was some botanical chemical. They dashed out the multipurpose store, Aarya wincing as he adjusted his glasses to view the scene clearly. He was fazed. His lips slightly apart he stared at the bus, his mind blocking out the muffled screams of the passengers. Time seemed to slow as he digested the accident. Passerbys walked in meandering paths to avoid the shards, slowly crowding around the scene.

Maya was quick to act. She pushed past the throng of people that had now formed a clumsy semicircle. She shut her almond eyes and lifted her arms, concentrating like never before. Her lush brown locks raised in every direction around her scalp, her pink lips muttering mantras of sorts. The trees that lined the streets twisted and bent at her will, their branches like ripped arms encircled the store's doorframe, peeling them open. Looking at Maya, Aarya came to his senses and ran to her aid. He gritted his teeth, crossed his noticeably long fingers, and directed both his palms towards the back of the bus, tearing its rear enclosure apart. With one swift rotation of his wrists, the gravel, metal, and glass obeyingly formed three neat steps leading to the vehicle's rear end. He hastily climbed up the makeshift stairs into the bus but wasn't prepared for what he saw. A woman was cradling her husband's bleeding head in her arms, too shocked to weep or cry. A boy who probably came up to Aarya's waist was crying loudly, his ankle crushed under a pole. A group of girls, friends, Aarya thought, were frantically looking for who, he didn't know. He adjusted his specs that were riding down the bridge of his nose, wincing, thinking where to act first. His crossed fingers moved in smooth motions as the pole slowly lifted off the boy's ankle, its chipping yellow paint stained red and brown. With a sweep of his palm, all shards of glass cleared the way for him and another gentleman to carry the woman's husband out the bus. The sight of the man's limp, bloody head made Aarya feel queasy. As the gentleman carried the husband's rangy frame away after assuring Aarya he would take care of him, Aarya felt a void appear in the depths of his stomach. He could sense death in the air, and the fact that truly anything can happen anytime hit him like never before, now that he was witnessing himself, the man's skinny arms limply dangling from the gentleman's firm hold. Meanwhile, roots shot up from the road to the surface, braiding and knotting together to form a semicircular fence around the scene. There were now a hundred or so spectators, and Maya had to reinforce her fence every now and then. Shrubs and climbers with their tender leaves and tendrils tended to the store's injured customers and employees that needed the most attention. The store workers that weren't injured ran in all directions, making available all possible supplies from every level in the building. One of them looked skeptically at a branch that lent itself out as if asking the man for the many first aid kits he held. He simply stared at it, hesitating to trust a mere branch with life-saving deeds. The branch now moved towards him more aggressively, and the worker submittingly handed over the kits, throwing his hands in the air after, slightly intimidated. Women wept, children screamed, and life slipped out of men's eyes, gifting them soulless stares as they left. There were no casualties, but the image of the husband never left Aarya's mind one moment. He felt sick and guilty, for what he couldn't point a finger at. After what felt like hours, the bus was empty and clear. Multiple sirens wailed from various angles and distances, their sounds overlapping, weaving into a song of chaos. He looked at Maya, her lips moving fast and lashes beating ferociously, sweat trickling down her temple. He walked up to her and placed his palm on her shoulder. The branches, leaves, and twigs fell lifelessly to the ground.

"It's okay, you can rest, Maya. Our job here is done." Maya looked around, scanning the scene that spilled sorrow and blood. She sighed deeply, nodded, and walked with Aarya to the police. They have questions to answer. -------------------- The scene collapsed as quickly as it appeared, and it took Aarya a second to come back to where he really was. Broken bus, a shower of diamonds, and him standing behind yellow barricades with a hundred other people, dully spectating the accident and the men clad in bright orange vests. Maya stood a couple of people away, pulling her coat closer to herself over and over again. Her eyes, those almond eyes, they were squinted with sheer worry and fright, like many other eyes in the crowd. Aarya's slender fingers pushed up his specs, wincing, feeling as if his fantasy fired him up with love and courage in magnitudes he never knew were possible. Amidst his racing mind, racing with worry and love and courage, a small part of him felt ever so guilty to have thought this way in this godawful circumstance. He was, after all just another bespectacled boy with just another crush, just another comic reader who visited just another multipurpose store weekly and felt ever so ecstatically about just another girl. She was, after all just another almond-eyed girl with just another heart that was oh so soft, just another botanist who visited just another multipurpose store weekly and loved botany ever so passionately like nothing she's ever loved. It could stay that way if he let it. He didn't. The sky was now dark, with grey clouds strewn across the navy blue canvas as if thrown recklessly by a child after playing with them. It drizzled ever so slightly that you could feel it, but couldn't see it. Aarya didn't think twice before he walked up to her, eyes searching for anything but hers to look at, his index pushing up his evidently oversized specs, his left cheek twitching. "Maya, I really like you." It sounded nothing like he intended it to, nothing like the thousand times he said it in his head. Aarya wasn't just another boy. He was a superhero that had the power to confess, to love, and to be loved. After all, his favorite superhero was without a doubt, 'Maya: Mistress of Love' .


Not too distant in the future, artificial intelligence and robots will begin to invade many facets of human life. Many people were initially unconcerned about the invasion because the robots made their lives easier; they worked less and spent more time doing things they enjoyed. The first jobs to be taken over were those paying the minimum wage, such as fast-food cooks, customer service representatives, and men's restroom attendants. Robots eventually took over more challenging occupations; businesses discovered that robot middle managers were better at keeping the bottom line, and factory floors had never operated more efficiently. During this second stage, the government had to intervene; they offered stipends to unemployed workers to keep the economy from collapsing. Most people were unconcerned about losing jobs that they had never enjoyed in the first place. The more advanced professions, such as doctors, teachers, and lawyers, were the last to be overtaken. Once artificial intelligence had taken over the judicial system, a quick trial was no longer a humorous remark but rather an actual instantaneous verdict. When the prosecutor, defense, and judge are all robots with access to all cameras on the planet, a decision that would have taken six months now takes only six seconds. The truth was that the human race had never been happier, healthcare errors were at an all-time low, crime was non-existent because no one could get away with anything anymore, and people could still do what they enjoyed, such as hobbies, creative arts, and be entertained. Many people sought to exceed their government stipend; if a person had an idea, artificial intelligence might be constructed to assist them in carrying it out. Those with goals may still become billionaires, while those content to make do with what they had could enjoy the time. It was, indeed, the golden age of the robot revolution. Humans were hesitant to hand over their children to robots; education was one of the last professions to be overtaken. However, given the success of the robot revolution, it was only a matter of time before this occurred. At first, robots and teachers coexisted, but teachers, like all other professions, were looking to cash in on their early retirement. Robots first failed miserably; students could easily fool them, much like a substitute teacher with a deer in the headlights. "Teacher 56739, I need to use the lav," a student asks. "You used the lavatory 5 minutes, 36 seconds ago; according to my research, human renal function cannot fill a teenage bladder in that amount of time; request declined." The robot says. "But I really have to go; it's an emergency! I'm about to pee my pants. You wouldn't want me to pee my pants and be bullied, would you?" The student asks. "Anti-bullying protocol has been implemented. I've just emailed you a lavatory pass," the robot says. As the robot issued the student with an electronic pass, 15 more students raised their hands to ask permission to the lav. The robot short circuits and all of the students are given lavatory passes. The class is ended when all of the students have exited the room. Like with other professions, the robots learned the student tricks and steadily improved. The creative arts were the last bastion of student liberty. The arts were a big disadvantage for the robots; they didn't know how to be creative, and students would include dirty jokes and inappropriate content in their work. The robots didn't notice, and everyone laughed at the display of student work at the exhibition. Parents were angry and forced the robots to fix the problem. The robots used the summer break to revise the curriculum and remove the creative arts from the list of classes students could take. The removal of creative arts worked; the following school year, students had no more opportunities to get into trouble; all they did was read instructional manuals, write historical nonfiction essays, and do math. Finally, the robots got it right, and they began to generate high-performing students who were ready to contribute to society. The parents were happy, other adults were happy too, but the students were miserable. Thirty years had passed, and the robots had continually produced high-quality students who could all read instructions, write about historical events, and do math; everyone could do math. On the other hand, society had noticed one problem in the plan to streamline education, and that was that their television shows sucked! Everyone was now forced to watch what the younger generation had created instead of the great comedies, dramas, and thrillers they had become accustomed to. Documentaries about the number pi, a race to find which fertilizer grew grass faster, and the number one show in 2044, an hour-long show dedicated to the 1040 tax form; the finale of which was a man filling out the form in pen! The first indication that things were deteriorating was when a woman in Kalamazoo, Michigan, died of boredom when her television became stuck on a stoichiometry drama. A group of students worked all season balancing chemical equations sent in by other viewers. Slowly and surely, Broadway had no new plays, movie theaters had been abandoned, and stand-up comedy had been reduced to pressing play on a 40-year-old comedy special. Philosophers of the time began to wonder, "What's the use of having a no-stress life if you have nothing to enjoy it with?" As a result, the robot revolution came to a halt, and the human revolution began; humans rose up, desperate to reclaim their jobs. It began in schools, when teachers in their 60s, 70s, and 80s returned to the classroom to educate the next generation on how to be creative. Doctors had returned to the operating room, so what; they occasionally left surgical devices in bodies; to error is to be human. They ultimately brought back some of the robots to assist the surgeons, but the humans had returned! As humanity began to recognize that without the suffering and pain of life, you cannot enjoy the comedy of living, it became normal to see sophisticated robots out in the trash and a human on their way to work, with a smile on their face.