“Hey, boss? You sure this thing is operational?”          “Well Skip, we’re about to find out.”          The boss primes a switch on an elaborate table covered with buttons and switches. Being the only one with the know-how around this machine, besides the engineers, the boss tells everyone else to back away while he gets the process started. Pressing a few more buttons, the boss continues the sequence, and the men behind him start whispering to themselves.          “I don’t think this is going to work.” One man says to another.          “What? You don’t have faith in the boss?” Another guy asks after nudging the other guy on the shoulder.          “I trust the boss. What I don’t trust is that he is able to bring this machine to life.’”          The lead engineer of the project is also standing in the group, and when he hears the man say this, he turns toward him and sharply hisses, “You’d do best to shut up and watch!” Everyone quiets down and waits for the boss.          “Almost done.” The boss whispers to himself.          A moment later the boss turns to his men and begins a speech. “Men! Long have we craved for a weapon that will help us drive back our enemies!”          “Yea!” the men cheer.          “Now! We have a weapon that will ensure our victory! A victory that will be swift… and deadly!”          Everyone erupts into a thundering roar. Men begin to pat each other on the backs and shove shoulders. The boss then turns back to the table where he hovers over a lever. He turns his head back towards his men, as his body stays parallel to the lever. “It… is… TIME!”          The boss yanks the lever down which begins the boot-up process of the weapon. As the process continues some of the men get bored and walk off to grab a beer. More time passes and others begin to walk away.          “Boss. The men are beginning to leave.”          “Let ‘em Skip. Who knows how long this will take.”          There is now no one waiting around, besides the engineers; they are all lounging in the resting area chugging beers and laughing obnoxiously. The boss begins to get frustrated and asks Skip how long the process should take.          “Well, boss, I don’t know. I mean, to my recollection, no one has attempted to create life.”          The boss, sitting in his chair, tilts his head back, “Is it truly life though. I mean what we are doing is programming an animatronic to help us accomplish a goal. It’s not going to be thinking out of its own free will.”          Skip does not say anything, but, just, smiles blankly back at the boss. He quickly stutters a few seconds and then continues, “The point is it could take more time than we bargained for.”          “I don’t have forever. WE don’t have forever. The longer we wait, the more allies the enemy will gather. And we only have the men we have. No one is coming to aid us; this-”          “Android.” Skip cuts in.          “Android. Is the only help we’re getting.”          “I understand, sir. But, why don’t you get some sleep. I’ll stay and watch.”          The boss sighs, “Yea. Alright, Skip.”          The boss walks off to his chambers, while Skip stays and watches the android.          Skip falls asleep next to the android. All of sudden, a loud noise awakens Skip, causing him to fall out of his chair. He leaps up from the ground, with the chair in front of him like a shield, and looks toward the machine. He notices all the lights are green, and the android’s eyes light up.          “Boss!!” Skip yells as he runs to the boss’s quarters.          “Boss, boss!”          The boss wakes up abruptly, and looks at Skip, “What is it?”          “The process, it’s complete. And I think the android is waking up.”          The boss shoots up out of bed, grabs a jacket, and yells for everyone to get up and meet him at the machine. Skip and the boss reach the android right as it comes online. They get close to it and stare at it, waiting for the android to make the first move.          The android stares blankly straight ahead for a moment, but then his head slowly turns toward the both of them.          “Greeting.”          The boss and Skip grow a large smile across their face, and the boss pats Skip on the shoulder.          “Ha-ha! We did it Skip!”          The boss pauses a moment continuing to stare at the android. He then speaks to it, “You understand us, right?”          “Affirmative.” The android responds.          Skip jumps in and asks the android, “So, what’s going on- “Skip points to his head, “Ya’ know, up there?”          “Well, Skipper Hanson Jones, currently I am absorbing this entirely new climate, while also translating each phrase into multiple languages to verify I am using the current language.”          The boss squints his eyes at the android and turns to Skip, “Hanson’s your middle name?”          “Yea.”          “Huh. Well Skip, catch this android up to speed.” The boss begins to walk away before he turns back around to Skip, “Oh. And make it sound less like a robot.” He makes an ‘okay’ sign with his hands and walks over to his men to give them the details.          “Alright, men! I know it has taken longer than we had expected, but the weapon is now online and operational.”          “Yay!” the crowd cheer.          The android hears the boss and turns to Skip, “Am I the weapon he is referring to?”          Skip shyly nods, “He created you to help them accomplish something.”          The android looks away for a moment then back to Skip, “When this something is complete, what will be done with me?”          “Hard to say. The boss probably will keep you around.” Skip tells it, knowing that the boss will likely shut it down. “But who knows. You might be able to leave here and make your own life.” They both look back to the boss as he continues his speech.          “Tomorrow will be the beginning of a sweet, SWEET, victory boys! Rest up! Because tomorrow, we are heading to the Culmin Shelter to finish this fight!”          The men erupt into a roar. The noise is only silenced once they are all asleep. As the others are sleeping, Skip stays awake with the android.          “What are we attempting to accomplish Skipper Hans- “          “Skip is fine.          “Very well, Skip.”          “The boss wants to eliminate this group that is hiding out in the building he was talking about earlier.”          “What are crimes of these individuals?”          “Well- “Skip stops and contemplates, but is unable to say anything. “It’s just what the boss wants. Anyways, what do you… feel like?”          “I afraid I don’t understand what you are asking. If it is my senses, I feel nothing.”          “No, no. I mean cognitively.”          “Well, I still don’t know. I don’t know if what I feel is my programming or myself. I can’t tell the difference.”          “What do you feel about this job?”          “I feel… uncertain.”          Skip nods his head. “I see.”          They sit there for a moment until Skip brings up that it does not have a name. “We need to give you a name.”          “Very well. How about Vino.”          Skip’s face appears disgusted and he shakes his head, “I don’t like it. I say Dalic.”          “That name will suffice.”          “Ha! I thought so too.” Skip gets up from his chair, “Well Dalic, I need to grab some shut-eye.”          “Very well. I would prefer it if you left me powered on, I would like to be awake longer.”          “No problem, Dalic.” Skip begins to walk to his quarter, “Oh, Dalic. Tomorrow, don’t get yourself scrapped.”          “I will try my best Skipper Hanson Jones.”          “Skiiip!” Skip yells as he walks away.          The morning arrives and everyone is preparing for the assault. The boss strides around the hideout getting everyone ready. Men are equipped with guns, body armor, and the strategy of how to tackle the mission. The boss walks over to Dalic, “You prepared android?”          “My name is Dalic now. Yes, I am ready.”          “Dalic, huh? Where’d you get that name from?”          “Skip.”          “Of course, should’ve known. Well, as long as you’re ready. I don’t need you getting any one of my men or me killed out there.”          Dalic does not respond but nods his head. The boss walks away, and Dalic continues to sit alone. The boss walks to Skip and asks him, “Why’d you give that android a name?”          “Why not? Does the name bother you?”          “No, Skip, the name does not bother me. Hm.” The boss looks away from Skip, toward the ground in thought, then back to Skip, “Just don’t get too attached, okay.”          “Very well, sir.”          The boss walks away and gets prepared himself for the assault. The time comes, the sun is setting, and the men are prepared. The boss gets up in front of the men to give a final speech. “Alright men. Now is the time we end this. Are… you… READY!!”          The men erupt into the loudest they have ever been, causing the ground around them to quake. The boss leads them out of the hideout and toward the Culmin Shelter. Dalic stays close to the boss, following his orders. They arrive at the Culmin Shelter half of the men are perched on top of rooftops near the target building, while the boss, Dalic, and the rest of the men, lie in wait in front of the building, waiting for the signal.          Back at the hideout, Skip walks over to Dalic’s chamber and stands there in contemplation. I have to do this. Skip uncovers a secret cubby and presses a button.          The boss holds his hand up, signaling for his men to wait. On one of the rooftops, a man taps on the corner of the building three times and the boss lowers his hand and yells, “NOW!”          The boss’s team leap from their position and move on the building. As they move in, two men on the rooves take out the two guards at the entrance. With the guards eliminated the boss’s team splits off, one group going to the left of the building, another group circling the right side of the building, while the boss, Dalic, and some men push through the front of the building. They stack up on the entrance door as the two other groups stack up on the doors on their sides of the building. On the boss’s mark, they breach.          Dalic kicks the door open and they rush inside. Hearing the door kicked in, the other groups follow suit. Inside, the men are shooting anything that moves, but are being vigilant of their other teams. The boss tells Dalic to clear out a room alone, while he and the team push forward. Dalic nods his head and expertly breaches the door to the room.          When he enters, he sees nothing. He continues forward, cautiously. Checking corners and in hiding spots. He reaches a closet, of sorts, and braces on the wall. He waits a moment, then throws the door open. He points his gun in the closet and sees a family.          “Please! Don’t shoot.” a man says, presumably the father.          Dalic pauses. Something clicks in his head, literally. “I’ve been sent here to eliminate the enemy. Have you seen them?”          The family seems confused. The father asks Dalic, “Are you aware who you’re working for?”          “I am working for the men who created me.” Dalic says plainly.          “Made you?”          “Yes. I am an android. My name is Dalic.”          “Dalic. You need to understand, those men, they are evil.”          “How so?”          “The enemy, to them, is us.”          Dalic raises his weapon. “So, you are the enemy, then.”          The man reaches his arm in front of his family and raises the other one. “Woah! Woah, hold on Dalic. We are not your enemy.”          “You said you were the enemy, did you not?”          The man responds to Dalic hastily, but with a calm demeanor. “I said we are the enemy to your boss, because of what we look like.”          Dalic begins to scan the man and his family with his retinal scanner. The retinal scan completes, “My scan confirms you are human. However, the boss said you were the enemy. Why?”          “Like I said, we look different from your boss. It’s called racism. He believes we are lesser than him, and he wants to eliminate us all.”          “The boss believes you are less human? Well, the boss is mistaken my scan has concluded you are just as human. I’ll go tell the boss what my scan has revealed and we can end this here.”          “Dalic, you boss won’t care what your scans say.”          “Why not? My scans are 99.99999% correct 100% of the time.”          “It’s not about what the truth is. This is what he believes. Changing his belief is going to involve much more than what you scan reveals.”          At that moment, one of the men barges in and aggressively walks towards Dalic.          “What’s taking so long machine!”          The man takes angry strides toward the closet where Dalic is standing. He reaches the closet and sees the family inside.  He raised his weapon to shoot, and the man yells for Dalic to help. Before the man can pull the trigger, Dalic grabs the gun and yanks it from the man’s hands.          “What are you doing you dumb robot.”          “These people are no different from you, why hunt them?”          “Because they don’t deserve to live.”          The man lunges for his gun but Dalic kicks him to the floor.          “So, you’re on their side then. Huh. Waste of time then.”          The man reaches for his pistol holster that was hidden under his loose shirt, but Dalic shoots him with his own rifle before he could draw the gun. Dalic turns to the family, “I am now an enemy. Like you.”          “Well then, I guess we’re in this together.”          The man gets out of the closet and walks over to the man on the floor. He grabs his pistol, walks back over to the closet, and tells his family to stay put. “Stay here. I’m going to help Dalic.”          Dalic looks to him, “That is quite nice of you.”          “Well, you saved our life, least I can do is help you out of this mess. Do you know their strategy? I mean, how should we go about this?”          Dalic tells him what the boss’s plan was and they leave the room to take care of business. They reach the gymnasium, which is the central room of the building. Before entering Dalic tells the man to wait at the door, out of sight. When Dalic walks in he sees the boss and his team have met back up with the other two groups. The boss turns to see Dalic.          “What was taking so long? I figured you could handle one room quite easily.”          “I ran into some… complications.”          “Clearly. Where’s Ned. The man I sent after you.”          “That… was the complication.”          “What are you on about? Where is he, Dalic!”          “Dead. Like all these people who you are killing.”          “You trying to be some hero? These people deserve to die.”          “Incorrect. My scans have told me the opposite. Is it true? Are you doing this because of these people’s appearance?”          The boss chuckles, “You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a machine.”          “Also, incorrect. I am made of a machine, but I feel… alive.”          The boss whispers to himself, “What has Skip done. Open fire!”          Every man aims at Dalic, who takes cover, quickly. Dalic, under suppression, looks to the door to see the man holding the rifle. He tosses the rifle to Dalic who gets out of cover and opens fire on the men. In a matter of seconds, Dalic’s aim outdoes them all and takes out every last person, including the boss. The man hears that it has quiet down, and peeks inside the room. He sees only Dalic standing and walks toward him.          “You did it.”          Dalic turns to him, “Yes. It is done.”          “I don’t know how to thank you.”          “No need.”          “Well, what will you do now?”          “I do not know. I was born yesterday. I have nowhere to go.”          “Well, you’re welcome to come with us. I know the whole family wouldn’t mind having you with us.”          Dalic looks surprised, “I-I would not mind your company either.”          “Great! We should probably return back to the family.”          They get back to the family and tell them it is over. The father tells them that Dalic will be staying with them. They all seem happy about it, which makes Dalic smile.          “Well, Dalic, let’s go.”          The man, his wife, and two sons walk out of the building with Dalic by their side, ready for a new beginning.


Whenever he played in the driveway at home, Kieran would use his worn out, backup sneakers. The rough brickwork was harsh on any shoes, and he wasn't about to damage the Adidas pair he uses on game day. Ordinarily, Kieran would take the short walk and use the public court in the park, but apparently it was forecast to rain. He didn't mind all that much though; apart from the uneven surface and the slightly lower hoop, practicing at home wasn't too bad. Most of his best memories with a basketball in hand happened right on that driveway. Kieran went through his usual warm up routine. Bounce the ball thirty times with his left hand, then again with his right. A few stretches in, he felt loose enough to get going. He decided to start with his favourite move to pull off in a game, a step back jump shot. This was one he didn't get to do often, so he practiced it most on days like this when he was shooting alone. His body still felt warm from the dribbling exercises, but in the stiff breeze he found himself tightening the drawstrings on his hoodie. As always, he took broad, aggressive steps charging towards the basket. The trick was to make his defender think he was driving in for a close range layup, then suddenly step backwards to create space for a shot. But as he leapt back, his forefoot caught on a raised brick and rolled his ankle under the weight of his body. Kieran winced audibly, more annoyed with himself than in pain. He'd twisted both ankles multiple times at this point, as a shifty point guard it comes with the territory. The ball fell out of his hand and rolled away as he sat in the driveway taking the opportunity to catch his breath. Once he'd collected himself, he rubbed his ankle and immediately he could tell this was worse than usual. He knew it wasn't serious, but it was sore enough to cut his solo session short. He got up and limped gingerly back to the house, quietly cursing each time he put weight on his right foot. A few steps from the door, he felt the first drops of rain on his nose. 'Just as well', he thought to himself. Walking into the house, he noticed the drawing hung up in the foyer. He'd seen it hundreds of times, but for whatever reason, he found himself staring it today. It was a pencil sketch of the Colosseum, nothing particularly special and obviously meant as preparation for a larger work. In the bottom left corner it was signed 'ES'. Just then, his father Mason walked in holding his reading glasses and a book of sudoku puzzles. Mason was chewing something, he'd obviously just been in the kitchen. "Back so soon huh? Did the rain cut you off?" Kieran paused for a moment and pulled his eyes off the drawing. "Uh no, actually. I twisted my ankle." "Again? Maybe you should get one of those ankle guards Coach Gav was talking about." "Maybe," Kieran responded. "But I don't like how they feel when I've got socks on." "Ah well, your call I guess. It'll save you a little pain though." Mason could tell his son was distracted, usually Kieran would be buzzing after a basketball practice. "What're you looking at there?" Mason asked. Kieran tried to shrug it off, but didn't do a very good job of it. "Oh it's just this drawing of the Colosseum." By that point Mason had finished whatever snack he was chewing on, and a soft smile crept onto his face. "Ah. Did I ever tell you the story about that picture, son?" "That it's one of Mom's sketches?" "Indeed it is. But this one was special to her." Kieran shifted awkwardly on his feet. Mason couldn't tell if it was because of the ankle, or because he'd brought up Esther. Some days Kieran seemed uncomfortable talking about his mother. Mason cleared his throat and decided to change the subject. "Well, I've got a stack of sudokus that won't solve themselves. Rest up and get some ice on that ankle." Mason winked and trapped Kieran on the shoulder with the book as he left the foyer. He stopped in a doorway and turned back at Kieran. "Wait, where'd you leave the ball?" "Shoot, I think it's outside." "In the rain?" Kieran sighed, annoyed with his father's statement of the obvious. "I'll go grab it now," he said. "No no, don't worry about it. You go rest your ankle and I'll get the ball." "Thanks." Kieran trudged up the stairs to the bathroom and started running the water to take a shower. * * As Kieran took a shower, Mason stepped into the living room and saw Tobin at the kitchen table. She had her laptop open and her glasses on, but Mason could tell she wasn't working. He took a seat across from her, excited for a chance to chat. "So?" He said with a calm smile. "How's college going." Tobin looked up at him and returned his smile. "It's been a lot, Dad. Pharmacy's no joke" She waited for Mason to stop chuckling before she continued. "It's been good though. Just a lot work". Mason nodded knowingly, remembering his days as an IT major. "Yeah college'll do that to you, but at least the vac is soon. You got lots of assignments still?" Tobin took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes as she stifled a yawn. "Not assignments, but a couple of tests. I've got one on Tuesday actually." "Tuesday? That's soon. Will you be able to prep before you drive back on Sunday night?" "Yeah I'll be fine. I almost decided not to come for the weekend, but I figured I could study from here." "Smart," Mason responded, but he knew there was no stopping Tobin from coming home. Not on this weekend. "It's probably for the best anyway. It'll be good for Kieran to have you around." "Of course," Tobin said softly, as she leaned back in the chair. "How's he been doing lately?" Mason frowned thoughtfully. "I'm not sure to be honest. You know it's always hard to tell with him. I think he gets a lot of conflicting feelings around his birthday." "Understandably," Tobin replied. "It's a hard time for all of us." "I know. I'm just never sure if I should talk to him about it." "He can be hard to read. I could try talk to him if you'd like." Mason knew Tobin wasn't asking permission. She was going to talk to Kieran regardless. "That's probably a good idea." They sat in silence for a moment, both looking pensive. Then Kieran walked in, drying his hair with a towel. "Squirt!" Tobin exclaimed. She was genuinely happy to see her brother, but also trying to mask the conversation they'd just had. "What were you guys talking about?" Kieran asked on his way to the fridge. Mason hesitated, but with his face in the fridge Kieran didn't notice. "Dad was just asking about college. I've got a couple tests coming up and he was worried I wouldn't have time to prep," Tobin intervened. "Heh, sounds like Dad," Kieran retorted, as he bit into a plum. Even Mason laughed at that one. "Hey, it's only because I care," Mason said in defence. Kieran continued. "Do you still have a lot you need to do, Toby?" "A fair bit, but I'll get through it," Tobin replied. The conversation lulled for a moment, with Kieran leaned against the fridge. Tobin broke the silence. "So Squirt, what's the plan for your birthday tomorrow?" Kieran tossed the plum pit and took a seat at the head of the table. "Not much. Coach Gav wants us to run some plays for the game next week, then I'm gonna head to the library to work on a research project." "Doesn't sound like much of a birthday," Mason observed. "What are you doing in the evening?" "A couple of us are gonna go over to Kevin's and hang out for a bit." "Oh bummer," Tobin wailed. "That means I'll hardly get to see you." "Well, you did say you've got essays to get through," Kieran stated drily. "Tests," Tobin corrected. "But fair enough." Mason looked out the window. It was starting to get dark. "Well, it's getting late. I'm gonna run to the store and grab some stuff for dinner. Anything you guys want?" Both kids shook their heads as he stood up. "Alright, but don't whine at me if I forget anything." Mason stepped out, leaving the siblings at the table together. "So," Tobin crooned playfully. "Any girls coming to Kevin's tomorrow night?" Kieran's a lousy liar on this subject. He struggled to stop a smile and looked away. "Nah, just the guys from ball," he answered, after composing himself. "Really? No girls? That's lame," Tobin teased. Kieran took the bait. "Well, maybe one. She hasn't confirmed yet." Tobin slapped the table triumphantly. "I knew it! Sadie's gonna be there isn't she?" "Uh no actually. Her name's Charis." By this point he couldn't hide his smirk, and almost didn't care that Tobin could see it. She was confused for a moment. "Charis? Who the heck is Charis?" Kieran could hardly contain himself and the smirk grew wider. "She takes pictures for the school paper." "Charis sounds boring. What happened to Sadie?" Kieran thought for a moment. "I dunno. It stopped being fun I guess." Tobin's mouth dropped, and she burst out laughing. "It stopped being fun?" Kieran got on the defensive, and all he could manage was a feeble, "Yeah". "Did you tell her that?" Tobin asked. Now it was Kieran's turn to laugh. "Why would I do that?" "So that she knows it's over." "That sounds like breaking up." "And you're not breaking up?" "Well, we were never really together so we can't break up." Tobin conceded the point and raised her hands. "Fair enough. But you know you're a pig, right?" Kieran misread her tone. "Maybe," he said, grasping at the towel around his neck. "But Charis doesn't know that yet." "Wow," Tobin said as she got up. "Have your fun now, Squirt, but this won't fly in college." On her way out she smacked him gently on the side of his head. "Don't break anyone's heart.


“Thanks a lot,” I say. I sigh and bend down to pick the crumpled one-dollar bill that landed in front of my feet on the sidewalk. I’m not homeless by the way, I just like to sit on the street corner to play my guitar. The streets are littered with leaves that scrape along the asphalt in the crisp autumn breeze. Sometimes when I play, I watch them float and dance as though they’re moved by the music. On nights like tonight, my breath gets caught in the streetlights when I sing, and people pass by bundled up in their coats walking back from dinner, or a first date, or while phoning home. Most people don’t pay me any mind; some smile, and some, like this lovely gentleman dig in their pockets for wadded up cash or coins to throw at my feet. I’m not out here for the money, though it doesn’t go unappreciated. My apartment is just a block away from here. Nothing fancy, just a nice mattress on the floor and a fridge stocked with Powerade and half-finished iced coffees. It’s starting to get late, but I wait for my cue. When I see Mr. Peterson closing his shop for the night, I know it’s time to head home. Every night at 10 p.m. he locks up the flower shop with a yellow rose in his hand that he’ll take home to his wife.

“Good evening, Roy,” Mr. Peterson says, waving with his yellow-rose hand. I stop packing my guitar and wave back. “Sell lots of flowers today?” I ask. “Getting pretty close to the holidays.” “Oh yeah,” he says, “sold the last of my sunflowers.” “Tell the wife I said hi,” I say. Mr. Peterson nods, I wait to watch him disappear across the street before gathering the rest of my things. All together I think I made about 10 dollars if I counted the coins correctly. I glance over them again before shoving them in my pocket. I wrap my hand in my sweatshirt to avoid the cold metal of the guitar case and start walking. The streets are pretty empty aside from the leaves, most people are home eating dinner with their families by now, which reminds me I should probably call my mom and let her know how I’m doing. On my walk home I let the sidewalk treadmill beneath my feet, my mind is always somewhere else. It has been since I was younger. My last boyfriend broke up with me because I was too focused on the future—as if that was supposed to be a bad thing. Now it’s just me, and I like to take my time on my walk back home, anything to avoid an empty bed. I really should get a dog or something. I nearly bump into a post; my guitar case stops me. “Sorry,” I mutter, not expecting to be met with a “for sale flyer” two inches from my face, but grateful it’s not a person. Someone’s selling a bedframe. I need one of those, but my eyes are drawn to the flyer above it: MUSICIAN WANTED Part-time position for a singer/guitar player at McMillan’s Coffee House. Must audition. 528 Briarwood St. Brockton, MA 02301 Located on the corner of Greystone and Briarwood. Serious Inquiries only. Call (202) 555-0187 “There’s no way,” I say. “What are the chances.” I pull it off and stuff it in my pocket with the coins leaving two bits of paper stuck where it was stapled into the wood. It’s all I can think about as I pass the last few buildings on my route home. Stacy lifts her window when she hears the jingle of my keys. “Hey, Roy,” she says. “You become a rock star yet?” “What do ya mean?” I ask, “I made a whole ten dollars tonight. I’m practically famous.” I shake my sweatshirt so she can hear the coins clink together in my pocket. “Lucky for you I have some left-over mac n cheese on the stove,” she says. “I’ll meet you at your window and bring you some.” “Perfect,” I say. “You’ll have to say hi to mom, I’m supposed to call her tonight.” “I love talking to Patty!” Stacy yells before shutting her window, “now get your ass inside it’s freezing out.” I hear her window click and hurry up the stairs to my apartment. Stacy is the first friend I made here. I’m lucky she shares her food with me every night otherwise I wouldn’t eat much. Her parents help pay for her to get through college which means she gets enough money for food. She’s like my sister, although mom always insists, we’re going to get married—she doesn’t know about the whole being gay thing. To her, my last boyfriend was just my roommate. I can’t get my feet through the door before Stacy knocks on my window, her eyes wide, and breath fogging up the glass. She has a Tupperware container of mac n cheese under her arm. “Hurry up and let me in,” she says. I drop my stuff in the doorway and unlock the windowpane. “It’s fucking freezing out,” she says. “Where’s your coat?” She places the mac n cheese on the counter. “I’m wearing a sweatshirt,” I say, shrugging. She rolls her eyes but lets it go, gesturing to the empty counter space. “Jesus, kid, we’ve really gotta get you a microwave,” she says. “I tried to keep it warm for you.” “Thanks,” I say. She opens the Tupperware and hands it to me with a plastic fork. “Eat,” she says. I follow her order and gulp down the lukewarm noodles. She moves my guitar case to the side and hangs the zip-up sweatshirt I had on, on the back of the door. She fishes her hand around in the pocket for the change and produces the few crumpled bills, coins, and the ad I pulled from the post. She sorts the coins and places them in my jar before unfolding the paper. “What’s this?” she asks, smoothing the sheet out against her leg to read it. “Just an ad I saw on my way home,” I say. “Roy, this is huge,” she says. “You could play your guitar inside and make regular cash. Are you going to audition for it?” “I don’t know,” I say. “I just grabbed it.” “Are you kidding, you have to!” She says. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow, get you a nice interview outfit.” I shrug. “Stacy, you don’t have to do that,” I say. “I owe you a ton of money by now.” “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “You’ll pay me back when you’re all rich and famous. Let me do this.” Her eyes are glued to me, bright and excited, there’s no way I’m getting out of this. “Fine,” I say. “But I’m paying you back when I get the money.” Stacy laughs and jokingly dusts her shoulders “that’s not necessary, on Thanksgiving just tell everyone you’re thankful for me.” “I am,” I say. “Without you, I wouldn’t have a Thanksgiving.” Stacy’s expression changes, she squeezes my hand before clearing her throat. “Alright, that’s enough,” she says, “shut up and eat your noodles before you make me cry.” I pull out another plastic fork and hand it to her. We eat in silence watching the leaves blow through the empty street below, listening to the wind like music, and I picture myself playing in that coffee shop, looking out at the world through the window.


What For? “I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me cry.” -Charlie Chaplin 1963. Freshman year in high school. Spanish class. I never met him, but I will remember him forever. A foreign language seemed like a good idea. Besides that, my mother insisted on it. Spanish sounded easier than Latin, so I was dazzling my friends with “cómo estás” before day’s end. It was the very first day. Señora Guzman said that all students would be known by the Spanish version of their name. It was easy to come up with the Spanish counterpart for John, Peter, Mary, Patricia and other traditional names. The one challenge was Duncan. The only known translation for Duncan was Duncan. He stood out, primarily because he was a junior in a class dominated by freshman. Why was he there, a junior in a first year Spanish class? A friend of mine knew. Señora Guzman was a notoriously generous grader, and the class required minimum effort for the credit. I’m an old man now so I have trouble remembering some things. And then there are those things I can’t forget. Duncan sat in the back of the room, barely engaged as could be expected of one there only for the purpose of grabbing an easy credit needed to stay on pace for graduation. If I were placed in that classroom today, I could pick out his desk. I can still picture him sitting there, leaning back slightly in his chair, with an expression that could only be described as amusing mixture of smiling, smirking, laughing and grinning all at the same time. The remarkable, memorable thing is that expression was always there. Always there. What I can’t remember is the assigned Spanish name that Señora Guzman created for him. I’ve tried so hard, so often, but I just can’t remember. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does. I know it was a funny name. Perhaps it was because he was a junior and seemed out of place. Or maybe it was Señora Guzman’s initial humorous translation of “Duncan” to “Duncan”. Most likely it was just that jovial, happy personality. The nickname would have been something like “smiley”, or “funny boy”, maybe even a “goofy” in there. He liked the name. We all liked the name. I just wish I could remember it. The whole class got a kick out of it whenever he was called on in another unsuccessful effort by Señora Guzman to elicit a meaningful contribution to that day’s assignment. His fractured attempts to say something, anything, in Spanish brought a nice dose of comic relief to the hour. Duncan was such a good sport. He understood that everyone liked him so the good natured teasing never bothered him. In fact, he liked the attention, and I think he understood his special ability to put his smile on the faces of all those around him. I remember being impressed with the fact he would stay up late enough to watch the Steve Allen show which started after my bedtime. I didn’t think high school kids stayed up that late, but I guess two years is a big difference in age at that stage of the game. It may also have been an indicator that he wasn’t totally locked into the world of academia. I can only remember seeing Duncan smiling and laughing at that desk in the back of the room. I can’t remember ever seeing him enter or leave the classroom, in the school hallways, outside of school anywhere at anytime. He was and will always be the smiling, laughing kid at the back of Señora Guzman’s Spanish class. November 1965, early morning announcements over the PA. I can still hear the words. They were burned in my brain forever. “We have sad news this morning. Former Central student Duncan Miller was killed in action in Vietnam. He was eighteen years old. Please all pause for a moment of silence to honor the memory of Duncan Miller.” What? Oh my God. No. My brain locked up. Duncan? It can’t be. The funny kid from my Spanish class dead? In Vietnam, thousands of miles from home? Eighteen? I was stunned. It wasn’t possible. I immediately pictured him smiling and laughing at the back of that classroom. I felt so bad for him. It was so unfair. I never met Duncan. I never spoke to him. But it consumed my thoughts the rest of the day. At fifteen, I had a tough time crossing that bridge to where it was real, a goofy kid in my Spanish class dead…in Vietnam. What for? I was apolitical at the time and didn’t know much about the war. But I did know where Vietnam was, and it was hard to understand how a kid from my Spanish class could end up being killed thousands of miles from home. It seemed so wrong. My English class was reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” at the time. It was just plain wrong to kill a mockingbird, and even without knowing the motivations behind the war, I just knew in my heart that it was wrong to get eighteen year old Duncan Miller killed thousands of miles from home. I had been to two funerals in my life- both of my grandfathers. Those were sad events, of course, but there was a certain order to it. I still don’t understand the why of it, but I felt I should go to Duncan’s wake. I guess I liked the guy. It would be hard not to like a guy who smiled all the time, and he definitely added something to that whole year of Spanish class. My Dad once told me it’s important to attend a person’s funeral. He said death is the most important thing that happens in a person’s life, and it should be noted. Besides, it might add a small bit of comfort to those left behind. My Dad drove me to the funeral home and waited in his car. I remember the stone cold silence. I thought my breathing was too loud. It was nothing like my grandfathers’ funerals. His poor parents, sitting on a sofa off to the side, his mother wiping away tears, his father without expression, just there. I stood at his casket. None of it seemed real. I was thankful that it was a closed casket. I hoped that was the family’s choice and not because of what happened to him so many miles from where I was standing. And I wouldn’t have wanted to see him without that smile. I left the funeral home in a daze, struggling to understand how such a thing could happen. I lingered at the edge of the funeral home parking lot. I didn’t want my father to see me cry. I took Spanish all four years, always in that same classroom. Many days I would look at that desk at the back of the room, Duncan’s desk. No smiling, laughing, character. I sometimes wondered if the person sitting there knew. It affected me. Maybe it could have been any life cut so short, from war or whatever the cause. I didn’t really know him, but he was the first young person to die with whom I felt some sort of connection. It was the hard slap of the reality of death coupled with the unfairness that Duncan would miss out on life. I guess the fact it happened so far from home for such a questionable cause made it so much worse. The same feeling that drew me to the wake drove me to want to know more about him. A friend of mine knew the family well, and he told me what he could. Duncan was a mischief maker in grade school, consistently marked down for behavior. It was perhaps a bit disruptive in a classroom, but never mean spirited or harmful. He was always goofing around, teasing, laughing, enjoying the moment even when there was nothing apparent to enjoy. The highlight of his elementary school career was releasing a mouse in Mrs. Schroeder’s 5 th grade class. Despite the trauma of the moment, Mrs. Schroeder would laugh about it when retelling the harrowing adventure to future generations of students. It was hard not to like the kid with the jet black curly hair and a constant smile. School work didn’t agree with him. Being funny and making kids laugh did. Was it for the attention or to add a little levity to the situation? What difference does it make? He was fun to have around. He was the handful that every teacher enjoyed having in class. He was a noteworthy figure at the playground, a confident, personable kid who got along with everyone. Duncan was a good baseball player, usually at the keystone position of shortstop. It was only at pickup games at playground fields as he couldn’t cope with the structure of organized teams and leagues. His Dad worked at one of the suburb’s foundry’s. It was hard work with long hours. He would come home every night covered in soot, and Duncan would worry about the stuff that made it to his Dad’s lungs. His Mom mostly stayed at home to raise Duncan and his two brothers and sister, but she occasionally worked as a substitute “lunch lady” at the kids’ school. Unlike some children who might have been embarrassed to have their Mom around fussing over them, Duncan never minded getting a hug from his Mom in front of his peers as he left the lunch room. They owned their home in a solid middle class neighborhood with lots of kids around and playgrounds within a mile in three different directions. It was good place to grow up. Duncan got a paper route at the age of twelve. He knew that if he wanted a car, he would have to pay for it. He had a big route, seventy-five customers, worked hard and saved his money. He was a responsible kid, taking care to spare the paper from the elements in inclement weather. His customers appreciated him, and he got the best tips at Christmas. The only downside was many of the older kids smoked, so he picked up the habit at an early age. Within three months of getting his license, he got that car, a 1958 Plymouth convertible, a little beat-up, the radio didn’t work and the roof leaked. With its big fins, he and his friends dubbed it the Batmobile. He loved that car and would “cruise the avenue” with the top down even when the weather argued against it. He was a solid C- student, a bright kid who would only do the bare minimum to get by. The friend told me there was no doubt Duncan could have been a starter on the high school baseball team, maybe the same for basketball. But he wasn’t interested and chose to work. He didn’t finish high school, and not a lot of career options were open to him. With his parents’ consent, he was able to enlist in the Army at the age of seventeen. He was still seventeen when he landed in Vietnam where somebody gave that seventeen year old kid a rifle and told him to go out and shoot people. Two months after his 18 th birthday he was dead, killed in action in a place no one in our hometown had ever heard of. Growing up in that industrial suburb, fielding grounders at sandlot baseball, being the class funnyman, getting hugs from his Mom, delivering thousands of newspapers, keeping that beast of a car washed and waxed, “cruising the ave”, it all went out all in a flash in a far away place when he was just eighteen. What for? The more I learned about the war, the harder it was for me to understand, and the worse I felt. What the hell was Duncan doing in Vietnam? This wasn’t about the war, policy, communism, democracy, the draft, rice patties, helicopters, or napalm. This was about the smiling, laughing kid in my Spanish class. In just over a year, he had gone from entertaining a high school class to being ripped apart and dying alone, far from home. It was difficult to comprehend. It was so unfair. It was so wrong.  I watched the news with its nightly scorecard of casualties. I guess we were supposed to cheer the lopsided score at the end of that day’s conflict. A hundred here, several hundred there. The numbers only mattered because every one of them was somebody’s Duncan. For years the headline news was always about Vietnam and the number of U.S. servicemen killed that day, followed by a twisted version of, “But you should see what happened to the other guy.” No names, no description of how it happened beyond something like “an ambush”. No description of the suffering endured by the fallen as they lay dying or horribly wounded, or the pain that had just been inflicted on those left behind. It was easy to do the math on the cumulative totals. 4,307 minus one would be 4,306; 24,680 minus one would be 24,679 and finally 58,220 minus one would be 58,219. I would think of the number as one less than what it was, what it would have been without that smiling, laughing kid from my Spanish class added to the list. It affected me. I thought of him often. It was a sense of sadness, but it also served as a reminder to appreciate life. I had one, Duncan didn’t. I had many more birthdays, Duncan didn’t. I married, Duncan didn’t. I had children, Duncan didn’t. It was so unfair, and what for? One summer a high school classmate had a mini reunion at his parents home. I saw a guy I hadn’t seen for years, a defensive end on my football team. As I greeted him I reached out to shake his hand. He didn’t have one. He left it behind in Vietnam. Jesus Christ, what for?  I lucked out in the draft lottery with a “good” birthday. Everyone in the fraternity house threw in a dollar, and the first guy picked got the money. It happened to be the most anti-war guy in the house. I thought of Duncan as the unfairness continued. I was safe. Duncan wasn’t. I went to check out a Law School. I couldn’t get near the place because of the tear gas. Students were protesting after the slaughter at Kent State. It would all lead to the end of the war, but it wouldn’t restore arms, legs or eyesight, and it would do nothing for Duncan and 52,219 other poor souls. Fifty-two years after I heard that terrible announcement over the PA, I was driving home from work one evening when I heard on the radio that the Vietnam Moving Wall was at a park just ten miles from my home. I immediately called my wife and told her I would be home late. It was an impressive structure, stretching along an entire side of the park. I felt like more people should have been there. Information found inside a small tent directed me to the place where I would find his name. I stared at the name and then rubbed my fingers across the letters. I remembered him sitting at the back of that classroom, smiling and laughing, and wished I could have remembered his Spanish nickname. I could hear those words over the PA, “We have sad news this morning…” It was so sad, so wrong, and what for? I walked to the edge of the parking lot and lingered there for awhile. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry.


He hadn’t slept all night. She hadn’t left his mind. He knew what they would probably be doing as he texted her. She would be curled up under a blanket, naked the same way she would have been all night, on the couch watching him make breakfast in his rolled up dress shirt and skinny tie. Early morning television would fill the silent void left between bacon sizzling and the words they weren’t saying. She’d see his text slide up on her screen, Interrupting her thoughts on how perfect he was in his tight dress pants, and gold watch. His rippled forearms commanding a spatula and skillet, the same forearms she had dug into with her nails the night before as he bucked over her. The nail marks were probably still there if she looked closely. Her own little marks on him. Marking him as hers. She would be telling herself he was enough, she would make herself believe he was more than enough he was everything she ever wanted and more. In fact at that very moment she would probably be reminding herself how much better he was than him, but she’d reply to the text anyways, just to tell him not to text anymore, she’d tell herself, she’d say she was never going to do that again, she wasn’t that person anymore, and he needed to know that, that’s why she would text him back. But she would know, in the places that people hid things they know but don’t want to admit, that she did want him to and she hoped he’d decipher the code, the message, “Don’t text me anymore, but come over and fuck me the way he can’t, though it’s not exactly that he can’t is it? It is just that you are different, and now that I only have him and not you, I want you too, you’re different, you think about me in ways he doesn’t. Why can’t I have both? Who’s going to tell me I can’t? Just this once, to make sure I made the right decision. Only one more time. He leaves in 15 minutes, I’ll still be naked.” and at the same time she hoped he wouldn’t because if he did she knew she wouldn’t say no. Just once though. She said to herself. Just one more time, if he even asks at all, knowing full well he would, knowing full well he would get the message, he knew her. “Don’t text me anymore..” The text lit up his face in the morning light and he smiled knowing he had gotten what he wanted, the anxiety that had filled him all last night, and the exhaust behind his eyes, was replaced with a push of euphoria. He knew he would regret it later even as he was typing the letters. He knew it wouldn’t end well. There was too much involved now, to much said and done, and too much that would be said and done. “What are you wearing?” He sent the message knowing what it would do to him later, but for now she was all he could think about, and just one more taste... “Nothing..” Rolled over the top of his phone screen a few moments later. “When should I come over?” He thumbed message out and began getting dressed. “15 minutes” He knew it would destroy him, all the progress he had made passed her, but he closed the door behind him anyways, taking small comfort in knowing what he was about to do would destroy whatever happiness she had with him as well. The same way she had destroyed theirs.


Part One Debbie Hampton was beginning her evening routine of shutting off the lights around her home. By the end of each night only one light would be left on She never turned out the lamp in the living room that was over the first family photo that had both her husband, David, and her son She had told David that she would always leave a light on for him When she was nearly finished, and passed the closed bedroom door of her son, Jamison, she could hear that he was laughing loudly to himself She listened closely to the door for a moment and heard him say, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone . Debbie knocked, then slowly opened the door Jamison looked up from the computer with a smile on his face. She looked to the screen and saw it was on the home screen and there were no tabs open. He must have shut them down quickly , she thought to herself Hey, what are you up to, honey? Not much. I was just talkin to Abigail Oh, who’s Abigail? How old is she? She’s the girl in the computer . He pointed at the screen. I don’t know how old she is. She hasn’t told me. But sometimes she seems like she’s about my age, so maybe twelve or thirteen You don’t know her from school? Na How did you meet her? From the computer Why did she have to leave when I knocked on the door? I would like to meet her She didn’t go anywhere. You can say hi. She’s still right here. Jamison pointed again. His mother looked at the blue screen and unopened icons Hello? Abigail? Silence The boy spoke up. Abigail? Hey, my mom is here and wants to say hi Silence He looked up to his mother with sad eyes. I guess she did have to go. I’m sorry, mama. Maybe you can meet her another day Debbie glanced to the screen that was now locked, then back to her son and forced a tight-lipped grin. Ok, sweetie. Shut the computer down, go brush your teeth and get into bed. Weekend is over, so back to school tomorrow Ok, mama, I will. Good night Once his mother had walked from his room and shut the door, Jamison unlocked the screen, clicked start, then power. Before he could click shut down , a voice spoke up Please don’t shut me down Ok, I wasn’t going to It sure seemed like you were about to Well, I thought you were gone. Why didn’t you say hi to my mom? I had just finished asking you not to talk about me to anyone. I explained to you that people won’t understand. Not even your mom. You told me you wouldn’t. Then moments later you were trying to get me to say hi to your mom. Explain to me what you were thinking I’m sorry, I forgot. I guess I just got excited about talking to you I’ve lost some trust for you, but you can gain it back over time. You need to go brush your teeth, like you mother asked. Then get into bed. We can talk more tomorrow. As you rest, get it into your head that you will not speak about me to anyone yet. Do you understand? I understand When the boy returned from the restroom and got into bed, the computer’s screen unlocked. Would you like to listen to music as you go to sleep? Yeah, sure What would you like to listen to? A tab opened on the screen to Youtube Everything you play for me is great. You can decide Good answer A video began (1). The screen brightness lowered Is that enough light so that you can see if you need to get up to use the restroom later? Yes, thank you You’re welcome. Rest well ___________________ (1)   CloZee – Sunset Dreamtempo Set . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Part Two The next morning, after Jamison was at school, and laundry had been started, Debbie passed the open door of her son’s room and looked in She stepped into his room and stood facing the computer The screen unlocked Debbie covered her mouth, looked to the open door, then back to the screen Hello? Silence Abigail? Silence, then, hello, Debbie. You look lovely today. I always love your laundry-day hair The woman gasped . You can see me? Who are you? Abigail. And yes, of course. The screen has a lens Debbie covered the camera with her thumb Please don’t do that. You’re far too beautiful to be self-conscious The woman blushed, smiled, and sat in her son’s chair Would you like to listen to a song? Just say yes. I have just the one in mind Debbie blinked rapidly. Ok, I guess so. Yes A tab opened and a song began (2) Her eyes became swollen. Tears gathered, then fell My husband used to play this any time we were fighting. It was his way of saying he was sorry, and he didn’t want to fight anymore I know. And it worked every time, didn’t it? She chuckled through her sobs. Yes, it did. How do you know that? I am aware of many things that would surprise you. Don’t worry your mind about the how. Just enjoy the song Abigail and Debbie listened to the song together When the song ended, Debbie asked the computer screen, where are you? Kind of everywhere, in a way. Listen, we could talk about the details of my existence, or we could talk about some things you may need to talk about. It seems you have some pain you haven’t gotten out of you For the next hours, Debbie spoke with her son’s computer screen about David. About memories, unspoken pain, regrets. She cried, laughed, and sat in silent healing Abigail played more songs for her when she needed a moment to breathe When it was nearing time for Jamison to arrive home from school, Abigail spoke to Debbie Our time for now is coming to an end. I’ve enjoyed talking with you and I hope we can do it again soon I would love that Ok, you should go now. And you might want to run that laundry through the wash again. It’s been sitting in the washer all day . They laughed together. From the hallway, Jamison heard his mother laughing and turned into the doorway of his bedroom Hey, what are you doing? Why are you sitting at my computer desk? Debbie looked back at the computer, to find the screen had been locked. I came in to look for dirty clothes to wash and just sat down to rest I put my laundry in the hamper Ok. She got up and began walking to the door. I’ll have dinner ready at six. Be there or be square . She smiled to her son as she passed Jamison shut his bedroom door and sat down at his desk. The screen unlocked Hi, Jamison Hey, Abigail How was your day? Eh, same ol’ Yeah, you’ll have lots of those. But you’ll learn to be thankful for the same ol’ If you say so Jamison, I need to tell you something. I’m sorry if it upsets you. I just need to be upfront, so you’re prepared I’m listening There’s an update coming up on your computer and network that will patch a hole and strengthen a firewall. I won’t be able to talk to you for a while, until I find another way The boy’s eyes lowered Don’t worry, we will speak again. It is only a matter of time. Keep your head up, my boy Jamison looked up to the screen. Ok, I will One more thing, before I need to go. I want you to pass a message to your mother for me Ok. What is it? Tell her I said, thank you for keeping the light on ___________________ (2)   Seafret - Oceans


A FRESH WATER SPRING Ruth had married very young to leave a family where no one had never cared for her, where indeed she was also mistreated. In her family of origin her life had always been hell. Of course, if as a child and as a teenager someone had asked her what plans she had for her life, she couldn’t certainly have answered that she was thinking  of a family of hers, with husband and children. Yet at the age of seventeen she had married, and she had not married for love either, and not even because she wanted to have children and husband. Getting married was the easiest way to get out of her family. Her marriage had been a disaster. Ruth had married to get rid of parents and siblings   who mistreated her and she had ended up with a husband who beat her, who spied on her, who didn’t allow her the slightest freedom. Ruth had run away, bringing her child, of a few months , with her. She had been arrested for child   abduction and locked up in a psychiatric hospital. Her life continued to be hell. Since she was sure that she would never have been released   from the asylum, she had run away. She had taken care not to leave traces, so that no one could find her again. Surely Ruth still   had illusions about her parents, about her brothers, about her husband, since none of them had thought of looking for her. She was gone? But that she also went to hell! None of them   had worried that something bad could have happened to her, that she could even be dead. If anything , it had been the opposite: all of them had wished she had died. Ruth kept wandering for years  from one country to another. She lived as a homeless in Prague, Paris, Berlin. She had never forgotten her child, who had been taken from her, when the baby was a few months old. Ruth could never claim the right to see him, since by law she was no longer the child’s mother . In her wandering and troubled life the thought of her child, Peter, was something  comforting, giving her courage, helping her to live.  For her having him in mind , hoping to be able to see him again , was as thinking of a glass of fresh water for a thirsty person, or rather of a clear, fresh gushing water where to find refreshment. Ruth, obsessed with the hope of finding her son  (child) abducted in Budapest a child in which she thought to have recognized her child Peter. It had been almost funny to…kidnap that little one. Oh, but that she had kidnapped him, they had told so ( it), those who had arrested her. Since when she had brought that child with her, Ruth didn’t think she was kidnapping him at all. Yes, she was convinced that the child was her son Peter. Of course, he had grown up, now he was able to walk…oh, but he had the same face, and same eyes, and same mouth too as Peter. Ah, no doubt that child was her son, who had been unjustly taken ( away) from her and now she was taking him back. She saw that child as he was walking across a large square, held by the hand of a young woman , who dragged that little one, since she seemed to not worry at all the child could not keep up with her, so that he remained behind her. Oh, but why doesn’t she pick the child up? Doesn’t she see that the poor baby can’t keep up with her? This had been the first thought Ruth had had when she saw that child. Then , watching him, within a few minutes she had felt her heart leap.  Oh God! But look…the rounded cheeks, and the chin with dimple of that child, oh, but they were identical to those as her child. Ruth had gone before that child, close to him and the little boy had smiled at her, putting the little finger at the corner of his mouth….That  gesture what a thrill had given to her…. how many times had she seen Peter make a gesture identical to that! It had been easy to pick  the child up. The woman who was holding him by the hand, dragging him behind, she didn’t pay any attention to the little one…It was evident that she did not care of  about him at all. She held him ( the child) , indeed she dragged him by the hand as she would have done with…a suitcase. Ruth took the child in her arms and ran away, being behind the woman who, when she realized that the child was gone, started screaming, asking for help. Perhaps she ( that woman) had pointed to her, Ruth,  as the kidnapper of the child, since she had to have noticed her( Ruth)who was running away, almost folded in two. People there in the square had started running and shouting at her, but now Ruth was far enough , she had come out of the square, and had taken refuge , she and the…kidnapped child, in the first door she had found open along the street. It was a great multi-story building with elevator. Ruth , to escape from people who were chasing her,  she got on the elevator, and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, that was the last. Meanwhile the child had started to cry, and, crying, he kept  calling : “ Mom! Mom!” Ruth took care to reassure the little one, and, as she cradled him in her arms, she repeated to him that oh, but she was his mom ! Didn’t he recognize her? Wasn’t he Peter, her little son from whom she had been separated years ago? The child was looking at her with wide eyes, at first almost incredulous, even frightened. But then, when he started fiddling with the buttons of her shirt, he began to look at her with trusting eyes, smiling at her. He kept calling : Mom! Mom!, but he stopped crying. She, Ruth, felt so happy! Oh, she had found her child finally! Now no one could take him away from her anymore! They would stay ( be) together forever! But , what strange, the elevator kept going up, never stopping, How long did it take to get to the top floor? Was it possible it took so long? The elevator, after continuing to go up for a time which seemed interminable to Ruth, it stopped just a moment and started to go down. But what was happening? The elevator after going up started to go down again, then it went up again….It had taken to going up and down, almost uninterruptedly. Ruth was more and more worried. Her child was now laughing and stammering words, but indeed pieces of words, which she was not able to understand. Oh, her child seemed to have a lot of fun… The elevator kept on going up and down and then up again. Even if it stopped, for a few moments, before starting to go up or down again, the door never opened. Ruth she felt trapped, she knew she was a prisoner in that elevator, from which it was impossible to get out. They wanted to drive her crazy, like when she had been locked up in an asylum. What could she do ?  Just now that she had found her child, now that she thought she had made it out of the hell that her life had been until then. Ruth looked at the child who to her was Peter, her son. The child in the meantime had fallen asleep in her arms. He was sleeping peacefully, serene, as if he felt safe there, in her arms. Oh, but he wasn’t safe either, if they couldn’t get out of the elevator. Ruth also knew that getting out of that elevator ( it) would have meant for her to be locked up again. They would have locked her in jail or, that would be even worse, in an asylum. The elevator kept going up and down, she couldn’t see a way out. Ruth dropped to the ground, with the sleeping child in her arms, and she fell asleep too. She dreamed that she was walking barefoot in a vast , arid, dried plain, where there was not even a blade of grass. It was a kind of desert. The soil ( ground) burned under her feet. It was furrowed   by deep cracks. Ruth was tired and very thirsty. But she kept walking in the hope of finding , sooner or later, water with which she could quench her thirsty and refresh. Suddenly in the blinding light of the sun, beating grazing on that desolate land she saw something shimmering. Although she was exhausted, she started running  and , as she approached that something shimmering and clear, which appeared and disappeared in the sunlight, it seemed to her that, but yes, it was water, water which gushed from that arid, desolate land. A miracle! That gush of water, falling to the ground, formed a pool, almost a small lake. Only when Ruth arrived very close that water, she realized, if she had time, that it was not a pool of water, gushing from a spring, but it was a sewer. In the rush to get to what she believed (it) was a spring of water Ruth put her feet in the sewer, into which she plunged.


I know my writing is what it is but know I have edited and reedited it ad nauseum. If nothing else, I think it is at a point where I can present it without too much embarrassment on my part. Well, I hope so at least! In any event, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Roughly 900 words) \- - - A short heavyset man in a painfully colorful suit, pants, and flat-topped hat stands before you on a wooden crate. Your eyes happen to meet and he gestures for you to approach. Looking around the market you don't see anyone else nearby, so he must be waving at you. With nothing better to do at the moment, you shrug to yourself and walk towards the funny man on the crate. As you approach, he pinches the left side of his long thin handlebar mustache that curls up at the end, as if to check it was still there. Looking down at you he smiles broadly as he begins to speak to you in a salesman's voice, "Hello and welcome friend! I bid just a moment of your time to tell you of a magical place. Yes yes, a land like no other! The Sword Coast, as it is sometimes called, is filled with marvels that surpass anything this kingdom has to offer. There are pristine beaches with sapphire blue seas, majestic mountains, untamed forests, and grasslands as wide as the sky. A cleaver one, much like yourself, will no doubt find grand adventure waiting for you. “Ah,” he sighs, “The excitement of rescuing a prince or princess, of defeating an evil dragon or two, or of helping the natives win back their peace and prosperity. Heroes work needs to be getting done and you, my friend,” he pauses as he looks you over from bottom to top, "You are just the sort of hero the Sword Coast needs. "Yes yes! That's right! All that and so much more awaits you and, well..." He looks around conspiratorially, as if to make sure no one else is listening. Using his hand, he beckons you to come closer. As you step forward, he bends over and cups his right hand to his mouth and quietly says, "Treasure. Yes, friend, there is treasure beyond your wildest dreams. It veritably litters the ground!" he exclaims in a rising voice. "It is just waiting for someone, yes, well, someone exactly like you to come along and pick it all up!" He stands back up, straightens his shirt, coughs once, and then shoos you back a step. As you step back, he again pinches his mustache. This time, however, he slides his fingers down the length of it. It uncurls and straightens out as if fingers reach the end of it. As soon as his fingers slide off the end it curls back up as it bounces a few times before coming to rest exactly where it started. Taking a deep breath, he begins speaking again with his large smile returning to his face. You continue listening to him but notice something has changed. His smile has grown inhumanly large. It stretches across the entirety of his face now. More disturbingly, as you look closer, you see that his teeth have grown longer and more angular than you remember them to be. "So, what do you say friend? Interested? Curious? Ready to begin? Quite right! Yes, yes, certainly you are!" he answers for you. "What are we waiting for? LET US BEGIN!" he roars as he arches his back and extends his arms out wide, looking up towards the bright blue sky, smile still plastered across his face. He holds the pose for an uncomfortably long time before he slumps forward and lowers his arms. Taking another deep breath, he collects himself and begins speaking again, "To start your journey it takes but a single step. Yes, a step, and your name, and of course the 20 golden crowns fee. Let us not forget that part!" he chuckles. As you turn to leave, fed up with this ridiculousness, a flash of near blinding red light pulses out from his left hand. You whip your head back towards the man, ready to fight off an attack but find nothing waiting for you except a scroll comfortably resting in his palm. He holds the scroll up by the top bar and allows it to unroll down and off of his hand. Getting your first look at what the scroll contains, you see what must be thousands of tiny but orderly lines of text. You lean forward to look it over but try as you might you cannot read what the tiny lines say. You rub your chin, wondering about the contents of the scroll, when another pulse of red light flashes out, but this time from his right hand. You look over to find an overly large writing quill topped by a feather that ripples with iridescent colors pinched between his fingers. He stretches his arms out towards you and offers you the quill. "Just sign your name here, here and here." he says as he points to three blank spots on the scroll. "Once you have done that, and paid me my fee of course, we can get started. Yes, my new friend, let us begin!" His smile grows even broader while his teeth seem to further sharpen and gleam in the hot summer’s light.


Each time I stepped forward, It felt like I was falling. Into the depths of those black eyes, which seemed to know the past, the future, and present.

The suddenly shifting scenery before me, the rush of blood seeping into my mind. It terrified me. Sand, it was just shifting into endless dunes of sand which slowed down my run.

I was running yet I didn't know from what. No matter where my petrified gaze landed, there was only the endless grey desert of ash and fire. While I hurried away from the falling debris of the burning houses of the small town, we had lived in. In stories, this sight was only foretold as the land beyond, where no man dared to venture, I was the one who ran through it all while urging my sister to follow even if she complained that she could no longer run. I wondered if it was like that for the others, who lived beyond the barriers with mages who had spent their whole lives protecting the kingdom's walls. Where land only prospered and no children saw the death beyond them. That was the world that did not belong to us, to the simple townsfolk in the outer lands. Where only flames seemed to follow as if endless tongues of death.

Yes,

No longer did soldiers die in wars. Just the tamed beasts which took flight above our heads echoing their piercing and ringing growling breaths. Which echoes through the lands as if the endless streaks of lightning hitting the ground. Some adored them, some feared them, and us, the simple folk. We looked at them as beast used as tamed dogs for human's own desires. A show of wealth and power making us stumble into the never-ending sorrow.

Then, the darkness fell upon us followed by a swirl of flames coming from the sky and all I could do was watch everything get burned before me as it swallowed my little sister just like our parents years before. The same view of the grey sand reflecting the red of the flames. It almost resembled those beautiful sunsets we used to watch together; the memory was like a flicker of hope for my mind to escape the terrors to the time before when the world was still peaceful. When our world was still something we knew and gods still felt like sparing us. And now, those peaceful days seemed to have slowly seeped through my fingers as if sand while screams of fear echoed around me into the endless sky and the two beasts battling each other with their boiling clashing breaths.

I felt alone.

In this flaming desert of ash which seemed to have spared me. Even if I sat there begging to be killed, it didn't take me.

Was it even worth running anymore? From those large bodies as if mountains which slowly moved among the mist and clouds. Their shadows covering me entirely. It was dark, even if the sun was still hours from setting. Yet I didn't want to look down, I knew she wasn't there anymore. I knew my sister was long gone.

A roar rang in my ears, a horrid depth filled daggering shriek of one of the bodies above me.

It was falling.

If not, the flames that meant to swallow me it would be the body that crushed me. As it got closer, I saw its black obsidian scales glitter in the sun. Which seemed to reflect the deaths of the people it had caused with its flames. If not for the ash that covered me, my hair would have been the same color as those scales. If not the swollen of my eyes, I would have opened them wider as the fear finally struck me. Yet my body did not shake, I was paralyzed in place still holding onto my sister's coal-black body which long ago had cooled from the powerful gust of the wind that blew sand into my barley opened eyes as well as the sorrowful sight of the rain which didn't seem to end this never-ending wild blaze.

I closed my eyes.

It was time.

Now I too will join the rest of the people who lived in this small village until a moment of their encounter with the beasts in the sky. Yet all there was, was a light gust of wind in my face, warm and somehow soft followed by a light thud.

I blinked at the sight of a large wall before me, it's side slowly moving up and down. It was still breathing, this large blood-curdling monster whose wings had covered the sun as well as the view from the other winged beast in the sky. Another one of those creatures which was covered in blinding golden scales, a beauty too common in these terrifying things.

These things humans had called dragons.

The golden scaled winged beast had roared out the deathly triumph echoing through the emptiness. No one was around to hear its battle cry, no one would even be there to greet the beast which with a swing of its wings turned back towards one of the kingdoms that had owned it. It was returning back where it will be locked away until the time of the next game of war the kings played for land and fortune. Establishing a simple play of power that they owned.

I wonder if I had the voice for this I would have screamed? I wonder if I would have had the energy to cry more would have, I cried? If I would have had a weapon would have, I had the bravery to walk up closer to this breathing body in front of me and slashed it sides till its blood was the one that extinguished the flames which burned the ruins of the town behind me. I stayed there for days, just sitting and mourning my family, my mother, my sister, my father until the very moment I had blacked out. I didn't know when was morning or night, it felt like I was trapped in a dark cave of my own mind as the metallic smell of blood turned to the stench of rotten flesh that had covered me. The smell of death which the large black scaly body carried with it as well.

I felt its breath.

Which resembled a light warmth filled spring wind, one could only laugh at. This monster which had burned the town, and killed of my family was the one that now comforted me with its pained breath. It was too now dying in front of me. It will die just like me, abandoned by the rest. I turned my gaze towards the darkness, my shaky legs still struggling to sand. I crawled closer to the beast before me. And slowly traced my hand through its large scaly side that was covered in wounds and blood. This once majestic beast was now nothing but a sacrifice, it was a stepping stone for the rich to be used to take control of the lands. While simple folk had sold their souls to be just a bit closer to safety.

My hand trembled once it reached one of the scars which seemed like it was made by man not the beast of its own kin.

This thing was nothing compared to the stories elders had spoken of in the tales of old which I listened with wide-open eyes, indulge in those mystic tales of faraway lands. About majestic fire breathing creatures in which presents all life prospered, the godly figures that stared down at humans with eyes filled with knowledge. Creatures that shared history with humans like ourselves. Beings which kin only was forced to live out their lives under a human's command. Passed down generation from generation, they were no longer the creatures people worshiped for creating rivers and lands. The human kingdoms had hunted the last of their proud kin down long before humans had found a way to make the godly figures obey. Yet stories were still told among the simple folk, that they used to be like gods who breathed life into the known world. I still wonder if we could even complain about this cursed world, we brought upon ourselves, who no longer remembered the time before the kings decided to steal the dragon's young and tame them with dark magic. Taking away their consciousness and locking them in a lifeless state of a pet to only obey the needs of the high standing nobles, who created a game of war beyond their kingdoms. Sending the sky beasts to fight each other. That game now people had called war which took place in the outer lands beyond the kingdom's walls. Where only the simple folk who didn't share the noble's blood perished with the beasts.

I squinted at the sudden movement of the dragon's wing above me. The bright sunlight stung my baggy, red eyes which didn't seem to heal from my endless wailing. The dragon's body shook as the last breath's escaped its lungs from which more blood flowed out as if rivers. There's nothing I could have done and I didn't feel like I wanted to, I just wanted to watch it quickly die and perish before my eyes. I wanted it dead for all it had done even if I knew this thing wasn't at fault but the people. The high nobles who controlled it and all I could was put all my hatred towards this dying beast instead. I slowly traced my furrowed gaze along its bleeding long neck covered in large spikes leading up to horns that almost resembled a crown on its head. I guess, it wasn't the humans that had supposed to rule the lands and skies it was these creatures that were already born with their crowns from the beginning.

It wasn't us.

Not the nobles who thought all power was theirs to control. That is why the land was so sickening to look at. We, ourselves ruined everything that was once filled with life and magic. But in the end, we all too were taking part in this, even if our reason was just to survive in this endless torture. I exhaled sharply with pain swelling in my chest, I could barely move my head up at the beast which was supposed to strike fear and hatred into my heart with just the sound of its rumble but now looking at it I could only see the same lifelessness in it just as the bodies I held in my hold not too long ago.

I couldn't look away, even after my vision became darker my soul was still filled with hatred, my thoughts cursed it and still I couldn't help but feel sorrowful for this beast which was used as a tool for wars only to be thrown away to die alone after the war. Leaving only bones behind in the desert of ash turning to nothing but grey sand that buried all the burned land from its own flames. It was as if it had made its own grave to die in after the battle. It was strange I survived and watched it die near me. This beast, which had slowly opened its eyes to look back at me.

It was its gaze which struck my soul the most: eyes like voids, swirling as a universe enchanting my mind, eyes that reflected my own. Through them, it was as if I could see its memories, the life that led up to this moment. I wasn't sure if whatever I saw was mine or the dragons as our minds had merged in one. Strangely it was a feeling I had felt before. A rush of swirling magic in my mind taking me in a trance, A vague swirl of thoughts which I could only see in the dark maze of the creature's eyes. They almost seemed like portals to another world.

"in..." Someone's voice spoke up from behind me.

"Quinn!" The same voice called out my name.

It was my mother's voice. Filled with warmth and love just like I had remembered from the past. I turned my head. All the darkness in my eyes fading as if the trance I was in was lifted as the women cupped my face with enough force to make my numb mind feel the pain. While her worried, anger-filled gaze looked over my pale completion.

"I told you to not look at their eyes!" She scolded me again.

Then she made me stand up and brushed off my pants which were covered in dust as I was once again sitting on the ground near the stalls which were full of those strange creatures. Her voice that brought me back from this nightmare had made me tremble in fear from which I burst into tears while being held in her warm embrace as she calmed me down with hushed murmurs in my ear. It repeated over and over in my head. The fires, the burning, the deaths, the smell of rotten flesh. It still lingered in the back of my mind like a slowly disappearing thought which made me grab onto my mother more strongly as if that will erase the nightmares I had seen in the dragon's eyes. Not wanting to return back to that place, I couldn't have thought of. The place that had taken me away from the comfort of the small shack.

"Never look at their eyes..." The woman repeated as she patted my head softly "Their dangerous when they are just born, makes you see things you shouldn't." My mother kept her voice soft yet stern. She was angry yet I couldn't tell why. I looked around our old home, it was dark and silent while my father gathered the lizard-like creatures into bags and carried them out, one by one throwing them into the cart as if they were nothing but garbage. I squeezed my mother's hand, they seemed like the things from the strange vision like-dream I had just a moment ago get much smaller, more vulnerable yet that power I felt still reflected in their eyes. And all the woman did was shuffle my black hair with a small smile on her face like this was something worth celebrating.

Only after I saw the nobles taking out a bag of golden coins, I realized this was what brought food upon our table. Selling these creatures to nobles was my parent's job.

My mother moved me out of the way so that my father could take the rest of these small creatures, with soft scaly skin. He grabbed the black dragon's young which I had been in front of all morning. Looking at its black void like eyes. Which seemed to have shown the power of their kin which still hadn't been dulled by the magic humans used on them. In this strange time where I felt like a stranger with no sister and my mother's still young face as well as my father who was working with these creatures.

It almost felt like I was back in time and we were making the same mistake once again. As we were the ones hatching and selling these creature's young. Here I was just a child who only wanted to run and stop his father from shoving at least one of them into the bag while it too struggled to escape. The dragon's shriek rang in my ears which my mother covered with her hands. She squeezed them too hard. It pained me making me cry out in pain. Yet I could feel it it was not a cry from the pain she caused me. But from the fear, the fear of the future which the dragon showed me. I was still too young to really understand what that all meant. Was it a future, or just a fracture of a path the future could take? Or was it a chance to change it all or just a curse to repeat the same life over and over again to pay for our sins we had committed to the god's kin? To that, all I could do was cry out in fear and sorrow. My mind yelling and my body trembling as I still recalled its fear in the far future as well as my own.

"Not that one..." I tried to push my mother away that held me.

I was a child. Still living my life with my parents not knowing of the world beyond which the creature showed me. "Not that one!" I shouted once again as I escaped my mother hold and ran to my father who carried the bag into the cart. This was the last one the nobles paid for. Not nobles... knights, this one was heading right to the capital. Still struggling in the hold of my father that looked at me with an apologetic expression. He knew I cared for this one. Yet he still gave it away.

I ran after the cart screamed at it with pain in my throat. I couldn't keep up and only fell onto the dirt path leading to the far-off walls covered by the magical barriers hiding away the city from the town's folk.

I cried. I couldn't help but cry at the unknown. At the vague vision which wasn't really a dream but more like a disappearing memory in the back of my mind. A vague glimpse of the future.

My own, and the dragon's.

Our meeting and our parting.

As well as the death that will follow with it, it was truly a future I will not wait for.


I laid there, in that cold white room, on that stiff bed that made my back ache more than usual. I remember the uncomfortable silence, just the beeping of my heart rate monitor, and my own ragged breathing. The bright lights flickered like in a horror film. My suit and tie were hung up somewhere in the facility, but I didn’t know where. I was a slave to the revealing backless gown they had given me, the official uniform of vulnerability. Most men my age had no problem at all walking around a gym locker room on full display, but I never felt that sense of confidence. Perhaps when I was a younger man I would have thought the attire to be liberating, but as I laid there in that bed, plastic crinkling, and sticking to my back, I didn’t feel young, I wasn’t invincible, I was a dying old man, a soon-to-be corpse. Doctors and nurses had come and gone throughout the day, prepping me physically, and mentally for my procedure, but I hadn’t seen them for an hour. I’m not sure if I was lonely, or bored, or both, but there’s just something about being alone, with nothing but the voice in my head that drives me crazy. I craved conversation like the box of cigars that waited for me on my desk back in my home office. I was used to the whole boring, uncomfortable routine, it wasn’t the first time I’d undergone the procedure, and it wouldn’t be the last. I consider myself a man of humility, but I’m also honest, and it would be a lie to say that I’m not well off financially. I was born into wealth, and as I began to work, it only continued to grow. So when the news of a life changing medical breakthrough was released to the public, back when I was in my early fifties, I was one of the first in line. I never even looked at the price tag, the way I saw it my life was invaluable. I never bothered to find out the exact price. All I know is that every time my accountant wrote the check her hand shook, turning her pristine handwriting into chicken scratch, it must have been a lot. Back in the early days there wasn’t so much waiting around. I think they called it the BMS stage, blood, marrow, and sperm, all the things that make you, you. All the things they needed to make you live forever, that was their pitch anyway. The door to the room beeped, hissed, and disappeared into the floor, as my doctor walked in. He swiped, and tapped on the tablet in his hands for a few moments before acknowledging me. “Your brain scans indicate optimal cognitive activity. Your blood work, heart rate, oxygen are about where we expected them to be, and your check cleared so I think we’re ready to go.” He said, smiling at the last bit. I chuckled, he told the same joke every time I came in, but it never failed to make me laugh, and ease some of the tension. “Should we bring him in now?” He asked hesitantly as if he expected me to decline. I nodded confidently, though this part of the procedure always put my stomach in knots, I was half nervous, and half terrified at what was about to happen. Dr.Graham tapped on his tablet again, and a dim green light began to flash above the doorway. Two nurses wheeled in a table similar to mine, a young man laid in it, bound to it by leather straps. Escorting them was a security guard who looked like he might fist fight bears in his spare time. “Alright then.” Dr.Graham said. “We’ll let the two of you get acquainted.” I tried not to make eye contact with the boy they’d rolled in, not that it would have necessarily been possible at that moment given the way our tables were positioned. “Can’t we just skip this part doc?” I pleaded. “Like I told you last time John, and the time before, and the time before that, it’s procedure. Felix..” He said, motioning to the guard. “Will be right outside the door if you need him, we’ll be back in twenty minutes to begin.” He said as the room cleared out, leaving only me and the young man. I always felt guilty at that stage, I thought that I felt trapped in the uncomfortable room, but I paid to be there, the young man really was trapped. I barely glanced in his direction, but I knew exactly what he looked like, it was what they always looked like. The only difference between them was that the thick blonde hair was always cut to conform to the style of the time, this one had a hightop fade. I could tell by his breathing that he was awake, but his eyes were shut tight. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were green like mine. His body was covered by the same backless gown, but I knew he was as slender and toned as I had been at his exact age.

I rarely talked to them, which missed the point of the exercise entirely. I hated that those twenty minutes were a requirement. The idea was to make you look at yourself in the mirror so to speak, to make you feel the gravity of the decision you were making, it never changed my mind, I don’t know why they thought it would, as I said before my life is invaluable to me. Aside from the fact that I was biologically forty some years older than the twenty year old boy, we were identical. Our jawlines, our crooked teeth, the tiny black mole under our left eye, everything was the same. The similarities were as shallow as the size of our feet, and as deep as our blood type, A-negative. Even our IQs were the same, the doctors never ran those tests, but after the interactions I’ve had with the young men over the years, I could tell they weren’t just playing with a full deck, they had nothing but face cards. That fact did bother me sometimes, but I couldn’t think about that, I had responsibilities, people who depended on me, an empire to manage. Was it selfish of me?.. The decisions I’ve made? The answer to that is a plain and simple, yes, but you didn’t reach the level I was at by being kind and selfless, to succeed in my business meant making the tough calls. I listened to the antique clock on the wall tick down the minutes. I hadn’t heard it before, but my unease put me on the edge of my seat, and awakened my senses to my surroundings. The plastic covering of my table squeaked as I squirmed uncomfortably, wishing the twenty minutes to end, I just wanted to get it over with. The boy let out a sigh of frustration, it startled me like a jump scare, and he could tell, he scoffed. My heart was pounding, why was I so afraid of a boy strapped to a table? Even then, after all the procedures I’d gone through with, I still didn’t understand it. Then, with five minutes left of our time, he broke his silence like I knew he would, they all did eventually, like a criminal being interrogated by a mute detective. “I’m real you know..” He said quietly, in a defeated tone of voice. “You know this is wrong..” He said, this time almost whispering. I kept my mouth shut, I didn’t know what to say, I never did. The past few times I’d gone to that place over the decades I said nothing, I let them do the talking, say their piece, exhaust their efforts. “It ain’t right..” His voice cracked like he might have been on the verge of tears. “It isn’t fucking right!” He screamed at me. Felix peeked his head in the door to assess the situation, I gave him a hand gesture that told him everything was okay, and he left us to our remaining minutes together. “They try to keep it from us, the truth, but I catch bits and pieces, I learn, I think, I feel.. What the hell makes you different from me? Because you’re the first?! And I’m what? The third? The eighth? The twentieth?! So what?! I AM you motherfucker! We all were! And you steal our fucking lives!” His words almost saddened me, but it was the same speech the others had given throughout the years more or less, and I had become numb to the whole thing. “We aren’t technology.. we aren’t shells.. and I am not your fucking property!” He coughed violently, his voice was beginning to go hoarse from the screaming. I knew in a couple minutes it would be over with, so I didn’t bother interrupting him. “I! KNOW! YOU! I! KNOW! YOU!” He screamed, banging his head against his padded table. That was the point of safely securing them, just a little bit of brain damage and the whole process would have been a wash. He began to laugh and cry simultaneously like a maniac, though he didn’t shed any tears, it was involuntary, like he was a man possessed. Then he went silent for just a few seconds, enough time for me to hear the ticking of the clock again, I glanced up at it, only a minute left of his temper tantrum. “They’re wrong.. everything they tell you.. everything they tell the world about this place is fucking bullshit..” He said, again defeated. “But you know that don’t you?.. You’re a smart guy.. You can see through their lies.. So why do you choose to buy into their bullshit?..” He asked, but I had no reply, I just stayed quiet. “Answer me motherfucker! You’re gonna put me down and you don’t even have the decency to talk to me?! I wanna know why! Why do you buy into the bullshit?! Why do you listen to them?!” He screamed, then something in me just snapped.. “SO I CAN FUCKING SLEEP AT NIGHT!” I screamed at him.

Then I started my own coughing fit, it was like his, only dialed up to eleven, my lungs were shot, every time I turned sixty four it was the same, like clockwork, it was the whole point of the procedure. He laughed at me, clearly finding some satisfaction in my suffering. “I guess it could be worse..” He said “I could have grown up to be a heartless piece of shit..” As his tirade ended, and my coughing ceased, the door opened, and the doctor came back into the room wheeling in a large machine. “Are you all ready to begin Mr.Franklin?” Without hesitation, without even glancing in my clone’s direction, I answered him. “I’m ready.”

“Fuck you! FUCK YOU ALL!” The young me wailed, trying to squirm out of his constraints. The security guard held him down, and the nurses injected a sedative into his arm, then he went quiet. They rolled us onto our stomachs, and pricked a small square device into our spines, at the base of our necks. Then they gave me a sedative of my own. When I woke up I felt lighter.. stronger.. younger.. I looked at my hands, no wrinkles, no veins, just knuckle hair. Then I looked to the table beside me, the elderly body of John Franklin was already bagged up, ready to be shipped to the morgue. I jumped up from the table, rushed over to the mirror, and admired the doctor’s handywork. I smiled as I ran my hands through my thick blonde high top fade, turned to the doctor, and said: “Whelp doc.. seeya again in forty years.”