The eleven year itch. TV has a different quality when you’re sick. It’s not as comforting as it usually is. It drags, hurts her with every commercial. She watches Dr Phil, then Maury, then Entertainment Tonight. She flicks through channels, trying to find something to distract her. TV’s big promise is that it can be your friend, you can laugh with it, cry with it. She doesn’t own Netflix or Hulu. She is old fashioned in that way, she doesn’t have the internet either. She uses it at work, but doesn’t necessarily trust it. With the internet there’s no filtering process, everything and anything could be thrown at you. Pornography, beheading videos, gambiling websites, viruses. All this scares her, the randomness of it all. She remembers clearly her niece telling her a story of a time when she had been playing a game online and a scary face had flown out at her. This scary face had flashed with no warning and just filled the screen. Kelly knows that if that ever happened to her she would die inside, she would scream and scream until she ran out of life. If there is going to be a scary face on TV, there will be a warning. A stern voice will tell you that “Parental guidance is recommended” or that this show “ Is for mature audiences”. With TV, although there is no control, the programming has been designed by someone. A programmer has considered what will play. She is in the most marketed to age group 18 to 35. With the internet you have no control, and no one has planned it, the internet just keeps going whether you want it to or not. When she gets out the vodka bottle she has to dust it off. She rubs it clean with a dish rag, grey specs fall off it to pile into the sink. She pours a small glass, then drinks it straight. The moment is over quick, no graduality to it. She feels like a bridge, a big steel bridge with exactly one beam missing, every day cars drive over her, these cars are the general pressure of life. All the tiny but monumental tribulations and humiliations of being a human. These include but are not limited to periods, traffic, headaches, stomach troubles ( Being too full and too empty, the twin pains), acne breakouts, clothes making her look fat, awkward silences, random eye contact, laughing too loud at someone’s joke and much, much more. All these annoying little niggles, that everyone deals with are like cars driving over her. And as the TV commercials got too boring, the bridge collapsed. With one vodka comes two, then three, then the whole bottle, then the sponsor breaking the door down after seeing you through your window, then the ambulance ride, then the stomach pump. When she wakes up in the uncomfortable bed it feels like someone has shoved a fire poker down her throat, she coughs and realises that she’s drained and dehydrated. She can hear her brother near her, he’s on the phone. “ The dumb cunt’s only gone and fucking killed herself.” he says into the phone. “ What?” “ No she’s not actually dead it’s an expression, she’s alive but she’s still out, Soph I thought we were past this.” She should be offended by this, her own brother calling her that, but it isn’t the first time and in a way he is right, it’s all her fault, no one else's. Technically she could blame her neighbour, for giving her the bottle which did her in, she could blame the cold that made her stay home from work, or even blame the television programmer for putting such boring ads. But the neighbour didn’t know better, she had given it to her as a moving in present and she hadn’t thrown it or poured it down the sink. She probably could have gone to work, sure her throat was sore and her nose was blocked but what was that compared to this. Maybe if she had just adapted, gotten a netflix account, then she wouldn’t have been bored by those ads, those horrible monotonous ads. As they are driving back from the hospital her brother tells her so many cliched things that she’s dangerously close to rolling her eyes or sighing. She fights the urge though, cause that would make him explode, he’d call her a cunt, a drunk, a waste of space, time and energy, a waste of life and talent, and he’d be right. These things he would say wouldn’t hurt her, she had accepted those long ago. She knew that he would feel bad though, he probably had never called another woman a cunt, she never saw him so full of rage. The reason she doesn’t sigh or roll her eyes, but only nods and looks sorrowful is because of him. If he explodes, he will feel terrible, there will be the horribly awkward silence on the drive home then the few days of respite, before he calls her. He will cry on the telephone, tell her sorry, how sorry he is for hurting her and calling her names. And even though she knows this is terrible, it’s non the less true that when she gets these phone calls she is bothered and annoyed. She feels that he shouldn’t get to play both sides, call her a cunt then comfort her. She feels annoyed that he feels so obliged to her, she doesn’t want to let him down, but would rather do that then let him down, then let him apologize to her for it. Kelly has gotten adept at sensing what face people are pulling on the phone. She can tell from people’s tone, the subtle shifts and lulls in their voices, the words emphasized, and the pauses. When she first got out of rehab all the phone calls were outgoing, she would be reaching out to people to talk, to ‘ catch up’ as her mother used to say. When ever the phone connected and she spoke there would be a pause, as if who she was calling had received a call from a ghost. Then they give a hesitant hello, that rises up in tone at the end which tells you that it’s actually a question. Kelly knew her that at this point the person would be rolling their eyes, unsure how to feel. And when you answer back hello the second hello is triumphant and soaring. A hello with an exclamation mark as if to compensate for the question. Their face would remain the same though, The chat is so overbearingly happy that it annoys you, you almost want them to burst into tears and feel sorry for you, almost. This overhappy response is precisely the second worse response someone could have to someone coming out of addiction. But the feeling sorry for you is the worst, the one time this has happened to her confirmed it for her. It had been Naomi, a friend from her public relations degree, bubbly Naomi, always too friendly, like an overeager dog that drools in your lap from excitement. Naomi hadn’t burst into tears, she had felt sorry for her though. “ Oh you poor petal.” She said. At this point Kelly hung up the phone. There’s a thirty second delay and then the phone rings again, and it’s her, Naomi, the overeager dog wants to call back to drool more. She grabs the phone, ripping it straight from the wall, and she smashes it against the wall, smashes it until chips of black plastic fly off. She had slumped to the ground, black phone in hand. As her brother drives her home, she remembers all of this, all the painful phone calls after rehab. When they get inside Sophie is waiting for them. She’s a big woman, not fat, but she certainly takes up space, occupies a room. When her brother first got together with her, she had wondered why. But one night when they had locked gazes she understood. She had warm brown eyes, like a cow’s. Those eyes were always smiling, they would take you in and make you feel wanted. When ever she looked into her sister in laws eyes she feels better, no matter how dire the situation. She feels loved. She just imagines what it’s like for her brother, getting to see those eyes all day and wake up next to them. This is why her brother loves this woman, he may have a hundred other reasons but she knows this is the true reason. Sophie is dressed up, in a lovely brown dress which suits her figure well. She has a job interview. It reminds Kelly f the time when she vowed she would never drink again. She was 21 years old, she and three colleagues Jane, Ruby and Alex had been out celebrating. They had just finished a campaign for breast cancer, and it was received well . They are all dressed in cocktail dresses, Kelly in a peach one. They had just been profiled for a major magazine, under the headline ‘ The New Woman Of PR’. The four of them had stood looking fiercely into the camera, sophisticated and intelligent. They were at an upscale cocktail bar. The bar had ridiculously sexual names for cocktails. Kelly remembers blushing slightly at the titles, but the other girls had ordered them confidently. She was the least confident in the group… until she got some alcohol into her. By the time she had had four glasses of something called a ‘Cocksucking cover girl’. A gaudy pink drink with a high alcohol content, she’s on a roll. She would order more but the girls are hinting they want to leave, and she figures that she can drink at home anyway. As they leave the fancy bar, down a set of concrete steps, Kelly is in the front, rushing ahead laughing. Her white heels crack on the last step and she trips, she lands roughly on her left hand. The pain blooming there is so intense she pukes. She sprays pink all over her peach cocktail dress. She rolls onto her back, and looks up at her friends. As she realises that she has actually hurt herself ( it will later be diagnosed as a sprained ankle and a fractured wrist), she feels it. A stream of urine flows down her leg. She is laying on the ground, in her own vomit,and now piss is streaming down her leg. She looks down between her legs then back up at her friends. She sees the three of them there and she knows that she never wants to drink again, actually that’s not true. She knows that she never wants to be drunk again. Never wants another hangover or drunken stumble, never wants to be bent on her knees over a toilet and firing chunks into the bowl. Alex, who is wearing bright neon yellow, laughs, and she points, actually points like a bully in a cartoon, she grabs her stomach. She's laughing so hard. Ruby, adorned in a cocktail dress the same colour as a ‘ Cock sucking covergirl’ looks down at her and smirks. Ruby has always hated her, Kelly knew it and this proves it. Jane is the worst. Jane is the only one who she thinks of as an actual friend, the only one that she will stay in contact with. Jane looks at her with a mix of pity and disgust. It was after that that she went to rehab, and it was hard as hell, she never tries to tell people how hard it was, because it will sound cliche and self pitying but it was. It was physically, psychologically and spiritually draining, she felt like she was broken down and built up again, several times. At times she thought of suicide, just to end the process. If she were dead she wouldn’t have to worry. Rehab was terrible, but once it was done, about a year after, she felt content. Sure there was the awkwardness of phone calls, and the pitying looks she would get from people, but it was a piece of cake compared to the hell of rehab. But as the years of rehab went by it faded. They often say that long term alcoholics forget how bad it was. She didn’t forget, she couldn’t. How do you forget the worst thing in your life? So this is why as she is fearful when she is sitting on the couch with her brother and his lovely, cow-eyed wife. In three seconds eleven years of hard work went down the toilet. As she was drinking the vodka down she didn’t once think of all the heartache it would cause. This is why she feels a deep despair. Because even if she survives 11 years what’s to say that it won’t all happen again, in three seconds of blind craziness she will drink and be back at the beginning of the horrible cycle. What if she makes it to twenty years? Twenty one years? It’s the same really. She is 99 percent sure she will never relapse, but then again before the boring TV ad and vodka fiasco she had been 99 percent sure. She will always be 99 percent sure. You are always an addict, no one used to be an addict. For the rest of her life the cars will keep coming, she will need to build the bridge and hope all the beams are there, but you never know and you never will.


They walked cautiously toward the door. Upon reaching it, they stood still for a moment, thinking it through one last time before making the decision to bravely open it. They did not do so gently, or with any caution of which they had just been exhibiting. Instead, they took a deep breath, and through open the door, for they knew that was the only way they were ever going to be able to do it. Truthfully, they were scared of what awaited them on the other side. The door flew open, and what awaited them on the other side was no monster, but a man. He was kneeling on one knee in the middle of the room, one of his arms was dropped to the floor, the other propped atop his knee. His face was buried into the one arm he had propped on his knee. His crown caught the light that now shined into the room, allowing it to glow, illuminating the beautiful gems encrusted into its golden frame. There was also just enough light to show off a deep, blood red cape that draped from his shoulders and fell down along the back of his body. He raised his head just enough so that his eyes had room to peer over the ridge of his arm, shooting a menacing glare at the intruder that faced him. He made no advances, no movement. He made no attempt to deter the intruder from him. He let out a sigh before pushing himself to his feet. For a moment he stood still, his eyes concentrated on the ground. “It’s a funny thing really… I’ve been driven insane by ideas. My *good* ideas.” the man said, speaking low at first, as if talking to only himself. He chuckled, “Who knew that *good* ideas could fuck you up?”. He paused, finally looking up from the ground and locking eyes with the intruder. He scoffed before continuing, “I feel I’m on the brink of exploding!”. He had almost shouted his last sentence, as he broke out into a fit of insane laughter. He reached up his right hand and cupped the side of his face with it. The laughter died down and his eyes drifted down to the floor once more, his face becoming straight, and almost grim looking, for a moment. He suddenly broke the silence as he began cackling, his laughter seeming to fill the entirety of the room. But this was not laughter of amusement, but hysteria. His red cape flew violently out in the air behind him as his head shot back, and he raised his arms, clutching at his hair. The harsh jerking motion sent his crown flying off of his head and falling toward the floor. The crown smashed on the ground, cracking the golden frame. He had crazed, bloodshot eyes, the pupils shrunken. He had a maniacal grin spread widely across his face for a moment before began speaking. “I see MILLIONS of empires rise and fall every second! I see the creation of worlds, and I see their cataclysmic destructions! I see every king, every tyrant, every conqueror. I see all of their people- the rich, the poor, the sickly, the strong and the weak! I feel their suffering, their happiness, their fear, their rage. I see the cowards, the ones too scared, too weak to fight back, the ones who side with suffering over freedom. I see the brave heroes, the ones who’ve had enough, the ones ready to take a stand and fight back. I see all the good that people do, I see all the atrocities they commit. I see everything, and I sit here and I dream. I dream about what I could do, what I could create, the things I could become. It inspires me, and yet it destroys me. Every second I feel myself falling in love with it, having my heart broken, but then falling in love with it all over again. It’s nonstop! There’s no end, there is only madness! And I- and I…” he shouted. He felt a strange feeling of defeat wash over him. His eyes became normal once more and he looked down at the ground. His body quickly followed his eyes, as he suddenly dropped to his knees, arms hanging at his sides. He sat there in silence for a moment, his eyes glued to the floor. He said softly, “And sometimes... I just get so tired of fighting it.” The ‘intruder’ who had initially entered the room stood still for a moment, a look of surprise and concern on their face. They finally walked forwards, stopping in front of the man. They extended their arm, placing their hand on the man’s shoulder, a look of sadness now on their face. The man made no acknowledgement of the intruder’s gesture, his eyes still unmoving from their spot on the floor. The man suddenly stood up, without words, and pushed the intruder’s arm away. He looked once more at the intruder, gazing at him with sad, cold, sunken eyes that reeked of pain. He turned away from them, walking over to where his now cracked crown lay on the floor. He bent down, picking up the crown, and held it in his hands. He stared down at it, examining the newly acquired crack from the tumble it had taken. “But despite that, I keep going. I keep fighting it. I am determined to reach where I want to go, and I refuse to let anything dictate that for me.” The man said solemnly. He put the crown pack on his head and, without another word, walked out of the room.


You see, humanity is alone in the universe. Always has been, always will be. What seems to be a depressing quirk in our existence was in actuality a result of clever design... the ultimate sandbox for a species to flourish. The challenge was never to expand outwards within the sandbox, though we certainly ran with that idea for some time. It was Prof. James H. Heraldton that first posited the theory, after eons and eons of humanity's search through the stars, that our universe was ours and ours alone. His was met with much controversy and ridicule, after all the distance between solar systems (let alone galaxies) was measured not in the usual units of measurement but rather through time. A distance so incomprehensibly vast it could only be compared in scientific metaphor against the limits of physics. Not to mention the countless stars dotting the skies in all directions. It's not un-heard of for us to have missed a spot somewhere, most would think. Prof. Heraldton was adamant in his assertions, believing our own odds of failure in contacting another civilization to be so unlikely at this point in humanity's existence that the answer must be arrived at via Occam's Razor. That is to say, what if the reason nothing has been found is because there is simply nothing to find? Though Prof. Heraldton would unfortunately pass before his theory reached its greater end, it would be that seed which would be attributed to the creation of humanity's greatest feat: The Machine. But first would have to come understanding. Not a world, nor a galaxy, but a universe all to ourselves. The lonliest playthings in eternity, a blessedly cursed existence. No competition or threats from the unknown, just what we've always known: Us, ourselves, and the world around us. It was not an easy thing to accept, and so it wouldn't be. It did in fact take centuries between the proposal of Heraldton's Hypothesis and the Great Runaway, when humanity split into various factions and spread like wildfire across the stars with wild abandon, however this was widely attributed to technical difficulties more than societal ones. After all when given an opportunity to justify greed people don't often turn their nose, and this was no different an occasion. Once we had settled on a handful of various star systems across our arm of the Milky Way it was obvious we knew what we were doing and the act of Star-Settling became standardized. The world-, sorry, Universe was our oyster. What was once a terrifying proposal all at once over the course of a century became an exciting endeavour. Imagine being able to monopolize an entire solar system for your vacation resort, mining operation, or even just a private getaway (usually on some of the smaller systems). Much like the gold rush of eons past, settlers spread out eagerly searching for their own plot of space to conquer. However, it didn't last long. That is to say, on a time scale relative to the first ape who fashioned a tool from a stone it didn't last long. Many came and many went before humanity felt an all too familiar feeling gnawing at the back of its neck, an unmistakeable dread that had escaped humanity long ago. It was inevitable, of course. You don't become a civilization spanning an entire galaxy without a certain level of hunger and desire. If we were content with what we had we'd have never left the trees in the first place, and there's something rather unsatisfying about taking planet sized candy from a baby. It was then that Heraldton's Hypothesis began to show its true form, and just as when it was first proposed as a thought experiment many rushed once more to fight its implications, only now with greater fear. Heraldton's Hypothesis was no longer a mere thought experiment. Heraldton's Hypothesis was real. We are alone here. You'd expect this was where the story would end, humanity expanding endlessly in repititious pattern until all the stars burnt out, and if you had existed in the time of Heraldton's Hypothetical Hyper-Mania you would most certainly have believed it to be. Humanity is not so easily beaten though, and while it took some time they eventually discovered a new answer to that hypothesis which multiple millenia ago spawned a hurried frenzy of innovation, expansion, and fear. Heraldton had been more right than he ever had a chance to know, and once again Occam's Razor shines its clarity upon us. The Machine was conceptualized a millenia ago, and will finalize its construction after a millenia more. We've already found small success, but the energy requirements are staggeringly inefficient. One millenia of research, and one of conceptualization. Heradlton's Hypothesis states only this: "We are alone in the universe. Always have been, always will be." Humanity has finally responded: "This universe isn't enough.


I wake up. I'm on my bed. I sit up. I crane my kneck to my left and peer out of the window. People litter the streets. I get up. I walk to the window to get a better view of the scenery. People are joyous. Why? Are they celebrating something? What? Should they even be outside? Then I see it: the sublime. My reader, have you ever seen a Gold Finch? We have them in New Jersey. They are gold. They are beautiful. But this one is different. Imagine, a Gold Finch mixed with a crane. The animal is stupifying. People are partying! So many people. Outside. Right outside my house, this creature stands. It is tall, my reader. We lock eyes, this creature and I. A smile sneaks its way onto my face. I haven't felt my lips do this in some time. A helicopter descends. Black. It lands on my avenue. Wizards flood out. BANG! BANG! Their wands become drums that become blood that spills and spills out the dead people. I look at the creature and it looks back at me.  I close the curtain. I turn on my bedside lamp. I sit in my chair and stare at the wall for hours, pretending it to be a portal into another world. I see goblins. It is a world full of goblins. These goblins are not so different from humans. There is one goblin, in particular, that interests me greatly. Their name is Txori (They/them pronouns represent these creatures better than he/she, for goblins abolished gender in the 20th red moon). Txori lives in a house. Txori was raised by their birthers sibling, Osaba. Txori never knew their parents. Both had been killed in the mines a few days after Txori was born. Txori was playing by their fence. The neighbor, Bizilaguna, is wealthier than Txori and owns their very own gnome. The gnome is near the fence, tending to the garden. The garden is giant. Txori looks longingly at the garden, for it contains the Dirua fruit. The Dirua glows brilliantly in the sunlight. The gnome takes a break. While the gnome is distracted, Txori hops the fence and sneaks over to the garden. Txori quickly picks the smallest Dirua. Txori becomes giddy. Osaba could finally take a day off from the mines! Maybe, Osaba might even take Txori out to the museum! BANG! Bizilangua shot their neighbor. Goblins held their property as sacred, especially Bizilangua. The gnome, mistakenly, saw this as an opportunity to escape. But gnomes are small and not too quick. Bizilangua reloaded their gun and shot the gnome dead in its tracks. Property is sacred.  I feel sad for Txori and decide to stop pretending I am looking at a portal. Txori had had good intentions. I get up from my chair, walk over to the window, open the curtains, and look outside. The bodies have been cleared and it is now late. I close the curtains. I walk. over to the bathroom, brush my teeth, wash my face, and turn the lights off. I had forgotten to eat that day, but I reassured myself I would eat tomorrow. As I waited for sleep, I wondered when this wizard war would end. Simultaneously, I wondered if Txori had gone to a better place. Txori seemed roughly my age (when converting human age to goblin age). Txori did not deserve to die, in my opinion. Eventually, I fall asleep.


In the fourteenth year of the Age of Flight, Duke Safri brought the Air Knights from hiding and descended upon Hurricane Bay. His brother, Duke Badri, after killing his father and routing his brother’s army in the Battle of the Bay, had been ruling the region for the past decade . Safri had retreated in the mountains after the battle with the small contingent of knights that had survived, among them the famous Swallow Knight and the ruthless Falcon Knight. With their help, Safri began raising a new army, and his Order of Air found many followers amongst it. The Second Battle of the Bay played out differently than its prequel. Badri’s rule had been one full of blood and anguish, and the people of the region grew resentful. On the day of the battle, Badri found himself surrounded; Safri on one side and a peasant uprising on the other; Badri’s blood was spilled soon after, and his army routed. In the fourteenth year of the Age of Flight, Duke Safri finally took the reins of power, only to find himself with a problem he had never seen coming: a bored army with a thirst for battle. Badri’s defeat had been so thorough and swift that by the end of the day, the core of Safri’s army remained mostly intact while overall growing in number through the peasants who had found a new calling. A regular army needs food, shelter and pay while a bored army needs an occupation, desperately. In the ten years of his exile, Safri had gathered all the outcasts he could find, fueling their hopes and dreams with riches both high and low. If he didn’t come up with a solution soon, he faced the problem of going down into history as the man who had dethroned himself. But ten years is a long time and the Bay area he had left behind upon his brother’s coup no longer existed; bandits had taken up entire towns as their outposts, declaring themselves as Barons and the Gaety had been raiding the northern villages more each year. Safri would not have gone through ten years of hardship just to trade the newly gained velvets and feather beds for several more years of saddle sours and cold meals. He could not sit idly either, as he had an entire city of tents at his gates, and as the cunning man that he was, he devised a plan. He gave a small contingent of men to all of his knights, giving them the opportunity to carve up a future for themselves, either through riches or through glory, depending on his men’s dispositions. And so they did. What followed next was the goriest decade the region had ever known. While Safri lavished in his ancestral home, bringing upon Hurricane Bay a time of peace and prosperity, all around, chaos and bloodshed ensued as the knights who sought earthly riches fought the bandits and self-imposed warlords only to be faced by those knights that believed righteousness, chastity and valor should be their only need. Amidst this chaos, one of the Air Knights turned out to be more successful than the rest: Tix, the Roc Knight. Brought up within the order from an early age, he had been with Safri and the Air Knights ever since he was ten. Just before the Second Battle of the Bay, he had been knighted as the Roc because of his stubbornness and heavy set. Unlike many other knights, he did not set out in the Culling to gratify his name, but took to the trails with no specific quest in mind. He was content to wonder about the countryside and test the mettle of any who dared get on the wrong side of his oath. Day after day, month after month, year after year, Tix endured, through countless battles and perilous encounters, his will unbent, his fortitude undone, his prowess unequaled. A decade after his knighting, Tix would strike fear into the hearts of brutal men by mention of his presence alone. And so it was that one night found Tix alone in the Border Forest to the north, near the village of Danf. Rumours of the Gaety raiding parties had brought the Knight to this forest, and so far those rumours had proven true. The moon was shinning brightly in the night sky and a small breeze was swaying the leaves of the elm trees hypnotically. Tix had just finished roasting a rabbit over the fire and was enjoying a well-deserved dinner. The hardships of the road had taught him to appreciate every little gift he had, be it some sage to spruce up a meal or another life to chase the loneliness away. The rabbit had been a wonderful sight that day, not only would it chase away the hunger of the past few days, as game had become sparse due to the constant raids, but the pelt might also bring him some extra coin up in Danf. This would mean a soft bead and a roof over his head. Freedom of the road had its benefits, but freedom from hunger and cold would coerce any man in the long run. The meat was gamy and rich, and with the right seasoning it would surely lift Tix’s spirits tonight. He had just started on a back leg when a scream pierced the air. Tix dropped the meat and went for his sword. The long journey through the years had taught him there was little difference between being prepared and being lucky. He had replaced his plate mail with studded leather and chain-mail over the years, keeping plate only for protection over the chest, elbows and knees. This meant that, when sleeping in the open, he would not need to take it off and be ready at a moment’s notice. He lifted his helmet to his head and doused the fire while vigilantly watching the bushes around, his buckler at the ready. Tix stepped gingerly towards the direction of the scream. At his back, the remains of the fire sizzled, annoyed by the sudden interruption. His stomach replied in agreement. Soft grass crushed fleetingly underfoot as the sword caught the moon’s tint. Tix shifted his hand so the reflection would not give away his approach. The scream had no follow-up, but as he moved closer, he heard a swift exchange followed by a series of grunts. As he rounded a large elm, he could see see the source of the noise as a man was forcing himself upon a collapsed girl, another was keeping watch and looking rather irritated. They did not look like Gaety raiders, their clothes were richer and the way they carried themselves made them out to be ex-soldiers, traitors. Tix sheathed his sword and hung it on a stump. He pulled out his knife and moved in closer. The girl no longer seemed to be conscious, but the man on top of her did not seem to mind it one bit. ‘Hurry up, Vax!’ said the man keeping watch. No reply came. Tix let the blade of his knife touch the guard’s throat gently and sidestepped swiftly in front of him, giving the blade the chance to sing its song. The look of surprise on the guard’s face endured as his light faded. He made no sound as he fell in the Knight’s embrace, lowering him to the forest floor. The second soldier paid no mind to the interruption and carried on diligently. Tix closed in quietly and slipped his knife between the assailant’s ribs and twisted. The soldier gave out a yelp and dropped to the side. The girl was no longer breathing, terror forever engraved on her beautiful face. Tix let out a mixed sigh and closed her eyes. She was barefoot and had not been running long. They came from Danf. After retrieving his sword, he took one of the soldier’s crossbow and slowly made his way to the village’s outskirts. Not long after, the stars faded out behind a curtain of smoke, and the wind brought forth a steady stream of soot. The light of the fires both hindered and helped his advance, adding to the pressure that the foreboding silence brough forth. He knocked an arrow, and another soldier fell while relieving himself in the bushes. The smell of piss and blood permeated the air, giving the scene a pestilent look. Nothing moved in Danf. Crossbow at the ready, Tix closed in on the scene, a feeling of impending doom dogging his every step. As soon as he rounded the first corner, a grisly sight unfolded as bodies lay strewn everywhere. From shadow to shadow, Tix surprised two more soldiers who were looting one of the houses. He ran one through with his sword and slashed the other as he turned towards the commotion. The village was not large and as a result, he soon came face to face with some of the soldiers. A ruckus ensued as two of the soldiers danced around the Knight stabbing and slashing at him, while a third aimed a bolt to his chest. Tix had learnt that being aware of your surroundings was half the battle, so he feigned a retreat towards one of the collapsed houses and the two overjoyed at the idea of cornering him. As one brought his sword down hard, he caught the blow and flowed with the swing to the right and behind his assailant. The crossbowman, as a result, unknowingly released his bolt at the back of his comrade. A gasp of terror escaped his lips, stunning the second swordsman who had found the battle all but won. In search of safety, he stepped backwords near the smouldering beams of the house and screamed in pain. Tix used this distraction to run him through the chest. The crossbowman’s hands fumbled at the latch, but before he could fit another bolt, Tix sheathed his sword in the man’s throat. In the silence that followed, he could hear hurried steps coming from all around. Tix took cover behind a well just as three more swordsmen joined the scene. These seemed to be more experienced. As one surveyed the site of the massacre, crossbow drawn, the other two stepped lightly, apprehensive of the shadows the raging inferno created all around. Tix waited for the two to pass by and loosed a bolt at the one keeping watch. Turning on his heels, he deflected a blow with his buckler and hit the soldier squarely in the face with the crossbow. Stunned by this move, the soldier stumbled backwards and received the full force of Tix’s heel in his stomach, doubling over as a result. The last swordsman hurried to intercept, slashing frantically at Tix’s face. He parried as best he could with the body of the crossbow, but could not help getting cut on his forearm. His back to the well post, he caught the full force of the soldiers’ animal rictus as he pushed with all his might, driving the blade through the hardened wood and closer to the Knight’s face. Suddenly, his face went limp and he spit out blood as Tix drove his knife under the rib cage and twisted. Keeling over, Tix sidestepped, pulling the dagger back, and the body fell over the side into the well. Silence followed. To the left, the last soldier was retching blood and bile through a now toothless grin. When he saw Tix approach and pick up his sword, he stiffened and began pleading. ‘Mercy! Have mercy, man!’ he yelled. Tix shifted his grip on the sword and brought it down forcefully with both hands into the man’s guts, impaling him. He twisted until he saw the man’s light fade from his eyes. There was nobody else coming. He wiped the blood from his sword and dagger and walked towards the village center. As he turned around to take in the event’s gravity; he saw a shadow move at the corner of his eye. Instinct drove his body forward, tripping him on one of dead villagers. Fumbling, he brought his sword up and caught the shadow’s strike. The impact rattled his teeth; a second later and the parry would have been swept aside, burying the blade deep into his left shoulder. The shadow knew he had an advantage as Tix was kneeling when he had parried and pressed on, driving the edge closer still. The flames were playing all around them, enriching Tix’s scowl. ‘Roc?!’ the shadow asked, loosening its grip. Tix took advantage of this and pulled his blade upwards, using the momentum to get up and step back, his blade at the ready. ‘I can’t believe my eyes, Roc, it’s you!’ the shadow said again, dropping his guard and with a fluid motion pulled his cowl back to reveal a grizzled face. ‘Baldur?!’ Tix asked. ‘Yes, you big oaf, it’s me!’ the Raven Knight replied. Out of nowhere a peasant lunged at Baldur with a scythe from behind one of the buildings, but the scream he had let loose to toughen his resolve had given Baldur enough time to react. As the peasant closed in, he stepped under his guard and slashed upward, leaving a trail of red on the man’s body. ‘Baldur, wait!’ Tix yelled. ‘Idiot, he must have thought we’re with the raiders.’ Baldur said and spit towards the now motionless body. Tix sheathed his sword and approached carefully. ‘Why are you looking at me like that for? You would have had him cut me in half?’ ‘That was unnecessary.’ ‘Unless it’s not a peasant but a raider, in that case it’s justifiable, right Roc?!’ ‘Hmm!’ The Raven Knight had knelt down near the fresh body and began whipping away the man’s own blood on its tattered coat. ‘What are you doing here, last I heard you were still in the marshes, bringing the word of valor to the newly established warlord?’ ‘That was over a year ago.’ ‘Word travels slow in these parts. I take it you’ve heard about the Gaety raids picking up?’ His sword now thoroughly clean, he sheathed it, but not fully, just in case there were more surprises waiting around the corner. ‘Yes. But it looks like we’re too late.’ ‘For them, but not for the next village. Hey, where are you going?’ Tix had turned around and had started walking back the way he had come. ‘Back to my camp. I haven’t eaten in days and this whole conundrum might have cost me my dinner.’ ‘Wait, there’s bound to be something around here, and we don’t even have to get a fire going.’ ‘Hm, fine!’ ‘Come, this way, I saw what looked to be a cellar over here?’ Tix followed reluctantly, thinking about how the jackals must rummage through his belongings as they spoke. ‘I’ve been trailing these bastards for weeks now. I had hoped to catch them before they would reach Danf. They haven’t missed a single village to the north of these woods: Black Creek, Root, Dart. All have been burned and pillaged.’ ‘I heard the same.’ ‘Here, it’s this way!’ pointing towards a shadow on the wall of a house to the north. The door was locked, and Baldur decided to kick it in. As soon as it hit the inner wall of the cellar, a shriek pierced their ears, and a woman rushed out. The light of the moon glinted in her hands for a second as the teeth of a pitchfork caught the Raven in the gut. He raised his hand towards her, hatred and surprise etched on his face. Her deed clearly shook the terrified woman as much as it did the two Knights. Regaining his composure, Tix sent her flying with the back of his hand and turned towards Baldur. The knight had doubled over in his attempt to remove the makeshift weapon and had frozen in place, blood flowing freely from his wound. Tix had knocked the woman senseless, so he took her down into the cellar as hunger was gnawing at him still. He would still have to retrieve his belongings from the forest, but for the time being, he needed to make sure she was all right. The cellar turned out to be a disappointment: a sack of potatoes, a couple of dried apples and a jar of milk. He used some of the milk to wake the woman up, hoping to be rid of this place as soon as possible. As she slowly came back to her senses, she lifted her gaze to encounter the knight. Panic took hold of her once more; panic mixed in with a hatred Tix had ever seen before. ‘You animal, no, don’t!’ ‘Stop raving, woman!’ ‘Animals! Bastards! You’ll not touch me, filthy savage!’ looking around for something to use as a weapon. ‘Shut up! You’re safe!’ ‘From whom, from you?!’ she screamed. ‘From those that burned your village.’ ‘Are you mad?! What sort of lunatic are you? You and your animals put our village to the torch and tell me I’m safe, now’ This comment took Tix aback, and he measure the woman closely. She made no sense. As sunrise hit the Border Forest, the rising smoke had gone from black to gray, signaling the scavengers in the area to the events that had transpired the night before. Down in the cellar, blood was still dripping down from a gash in the woman’s throat. A gentle smile lay splayed on her face, as she had met the Knight’s rough hands with a quiet sense of relief. In a world that was about to go about its day unscathed, a lonely knight picked up his scattered belongings from among the trees, sighing. Sometimes, he thought, madness was a danger far greater than any lack of character.


           Try working a life of sin sometimes; it can be damn busy. Still can’t say Wake is loaded with stiffs, like some other jobs. I only have one boss to answer to, and he is rarely around. He has too many different clients to bother me.  As for me, a femme with slim hands serving coffee nine-to-five from a stand smaller than the box, I got my shoes –eh, there could be worse. Trust me, I’ve seen them devils and the damned in their suits, be-robed or otherwise. Dress codes don’t work for me; the robes never fit. And brother, they may be small material gains when I get tips, but it is hard currency nonetheless. I don’t have to wait for potential long-term spiritual gain; I make a quick buck and don’t even have to blink to see the benefits. Plus, the business is mine -- on all but paper. I make the goods, reap the quick and easy reward for practically an eternity until I grow tired of this shtick, or stop making a profit. But how could I? This is the business district; if anyone ever needed the unholy charge I serve up, it’s the suits in this soul-anaemic centre. All zombies without it, if you ask me.

I am puzzled by the fact that no one has ever thought of doing this kind of business so close to those who could use it. I remember walking through Pine Street a thousand times, heading for my job at a bigger coffee stand, and thinking how easily I could run a much better business if only I had the means.

There’s only so much hellfire I can dodge, making you antsy as the years stoke the flames. Seattle’s an excellent place to cool your heels for a couple dozen years.  The natural climate control must make it easier here, never too hot… almost.

It was one of those infamously hot days when the sun strikes tangible waves of fire off the asphalt and passing cars. On a summer lunch break, when I was seated across from the awesome sheeting spray of water those around here call a fountain, I finally got my chance.  I had just enviously watched a kid disappear into the fluid doorway that made up the fountain when Mr Molch walked through, the water distorting his image so badly that it made it look like he had just appeared there.

I blinked unfocused, wondering where the boy had gone, and then I saw him dart out the far side, laughing. The heat must have been getting to me. I was running overtime on my break. I thought about getting up, but something about the approaching gentleman made me decide to sit and wait just a bit longer. His fine-featured face was uncharacteristically open. Uncharacteristic for here, a place primarily peopled by soul-shirking puppets on invisible tethers that rarely let them sit still for longer than two seconds. With an ironic smile, he paused as if looking for a likely place to sit. His phone rang, and he removed it from his pocket. He was still looking around and then seemed to locate a small wall space beside me. He continued his walk in his impeccable suit, his briefcase under one arm, and sat fluidly about five feet away. As the conversation ended, his smile never left his face. Why was I bothering to watch him so closely?

I don’t know . My mind moved slowly, probably this insufferable heat, asphalt-like brimstone. The man opened his case as if it contained all the worth in the world. Again, I watched this progressive series of events with a kind of bemusement. Other handsome men were nearby, but this man’s actions suited him to the space. The suit, the briskness, the corruption -— he wore them exceedingly well.  They were more than a part of him; each movement shouted it.

He began casually looking through his papers. I was distracted for a second as one of the children shrieked. I turned to see a girl. One of her friends had leaned over the railing inside the fountain to scoop out a handful; the water where her friend’s hand had been sparkled pure white for a moment. “It’s damn hot, isn’t it?” A pleasantly rich voice came to my side.

I turned to see the handsome gentleman addressing me. He was sitting a few feet closer than I remembered. Surprised but not alarmed, I replied with a casually dismissive nod toward the fountain, “Not if you’re under there.”

“Try it in a suit sometime. If the water reaches you, it makes everything muggy when you return to the heat.” “Wouldn’t know. Usually, I wear shorts myself.” His gaze dropped to my legs as though by invitation. “Except when I want space from people, I stay at work where it’s air-conditioned.”

“Ouch.” He commented, jerking his eyes to mine. He almost winced. “Where do you work that you dress so formally?” I was used to the incessant flirting and occasional derogatory comments from businessmen and women, mostly men. Since everything I wore was styled informal, from my blackened lips to my fingernails to my dark cutoff shorts, I played with the inside of my mouth with the tongue ring and glared at him. “Across the street.”. He looked at the coffee shop, his small quirk of a smile deepening. “Ah, good. I was worried you had wandered in from Pike and gotten lost. I would have hated to escort you back. Never know what you might run into on the way.”

I tried not to roll my eyes at the bastard. “And on that wonderful note, it’s time to return to work.” I rose.

“Why don’t you run a place? You know enough to do it yourself.”

I couldn’t help it. Feeling disoriented by the heat, I retorted. At work, it was a requirement to take the simple come-ons from the lunch rush sleaze with at least a brittle glass smile.  But I wasn’t back at work yet; I was still on my own time. Any interest I had in this guy was fading quickly. “I suppose a moment’s discussion, the ability to toss an insult and a come-on together poorly, make you an expert. After all, you’ve got money and wear a suit well. What else do you need? Certainly not a fucking brain.”

He blinked as I turned to walk away, the sunlight now striking dazzling rainbows off the fountain. “Wait. I’m sorry if I came off that way. I was only trying a different sort of approach. I’ve been watching you for some time now and was waiting for an opportunity to talk.” For some reason that I couldn’t explain, I turned back to face him. “Great. Now I know to start carrying a bat when I leave.” He winced, but his smile brightened unsettlingly at my turning. “I have been thinking of going into the coffee business for a while now, so I’ve been looking for skilled baristas.” A smooth continuation of his first comment. It was not quite ‘you look like a model’ (like hell I did, not nowadays, I saw to that), but close enough that I just shook my head, getting ready to turn again. I didn’t find it worth the effort in this heat to growl further.

“Good luck. You’re sure to be a success around here. Maybe you can squeeze between Starbucks and Seattle’s Best in Pike Place. Yes, another café. They’re sure to flock to you. It would take something awfully addictive in your coffee to turn these souls astray from a sure thing.” “I’ve worried about that, but it’s just like you suggested.  I’m Molch. Jake Molch.  I can tell you’ve thought about this before.”

He kept his hand there, unflinching until I finally spoke without budging. He held out his hand, and I looked at it. It was a look I had perfected a long time back when I toyed with the academic scene. It let people know just how small a bug I thought they were.

“Lilith Ginwoskie, I go by Jinn, just now.” I turned and headed back toward work.

“You can call me Bub then,” he said. Just think it over. We could do very well. Give me your answer tomorrow. I’ll be here at the same time.” He paused. Just wear those shorts in case things stay hot.”  “Sure thing, Bub!” I called back. The guy was persistent.  It wasn’t much, but it was something. I played the scene in my head all day and into the evening. Damn, I was slow. Blame it on a few dozen years of relatively cool peace. But the heat was getting to me today. The way Bub, Molch, or Jake spoke kept nagging at me. Finally, as I lay ready for sleep, I figured out why and cursed myself. I knew the deal was genuine. If this were offered to me even a year ago, I’d have turned it down, but that day, in particular, things finally seemed to fit.

I wanted to skip work the next day and hurry to the promised meeting. But now that I knew just how big Mr. Molch was, I knew it would be no good to be there early. He generally kept exactly to his word.

It was an anxious morning. Only this time, Bub came behind me. “You ready to talk?” His voice sounded teasing and playful, but I took no offence as I turned to look back at his impeccably graceful form. “Depends. Were you serious and in earnest when you made that offer?” The smile from yesterday returned. “Lil-... Jinn, I am never serious but always honest and earnest. So, you think the idea may have some merit?” “There’s always a first. Besides, it was my idea. All it needed was someone like you for the backing. Were you thinking of a full-size café?” “Nothing that big. I was thinking of starting with a small stand, just enough elbow room for one person.” “You want me to run it myself?”

“Who better than Jinn? You could set your hours. Eventually, it could grow to every street corner; subtlety would be the key. But first, there is the matter of the contract.” He opened his case and withdrew a paper covered with clauses. I looked it over without hesitation, mentally marking parts that would have to go. “Let’s eliminate section three, paragraph two, section four, paragraph seven, and line eight. Twelve is clear out, or I’m walking now. I want a fair say on when and if I leave, though...” I amended, “...can’t see it will ever come up if this goes as well as I expect it to.”  He stared. My eyebrow ring rose. “I majored in business during my off years. I was biding my time here. Does that surprise you?”

For the second time in our brief personal acquaintance, he sat briefly, blinking at me. “No, I guess it shouldn’t. This is just new ground.  I never expected you to agree at all.” He took out a different contract and used it to replace the one in my hands. After I had looked it over, he handed me a pen. I signed it and marvelled at the iridescent ink that slowly dried to a burgundy red. *** Within a week, Wake was in business. It was an inconspicuous sort of stand. A somewhat laughable attempt at business if you didn’t know who ran it or who the backer was. It only took a couple of customers to get the ball rolling. A drink or two every other day for one or two people, and then, word spread like wildfire. My little space grew and was crammed with people every day till close. It became the most coveted drink of milk-foamed Joe in the area. Membership discounts soon followed—thousands of contracts with fresh red ink initials. “These drinks are practically unholy, Jinn, how people have taken to them.” Employees and customers toss the question to me while serving drinks behind the bar. “What’s in this coffee, anyway?” I grin as I consider what goes into the turbo-charged caffeine shots the machine brews. “Love,” I always say with a crooked smile.


Growing up in a strictly religious family, Mindy was a rebellious teen. She decided to abandon religion, as she did not believe in the concept of any higher power creating or controlling the universe. Until middle school, she had gone to church every Sunday with her parents. She would even sometimes speak with the pastor afterwards.  After a short lived singing career, she was an aspiring lawyer. While in law school, she would stay up late reading textbooks and case law, pretty normal for a law student. Every now and then she would think about the past, and how much has changed. From the most angelic voice in the church choir, to an atheist with a failed attempt at making a living off of music. Mindy doesn't regret chasing her dreams, at least she doesn't live a life of asking 'what if'. During one of these late nights, she remembers a conversation she had with her old pastor. A conversation about a dream.  That Sunday morning, Mindy had woken in a misty forest, or so she thought. It felt so real, however it didn't make sense. The green fog was so thick you could feel it, and there was nothing but barren ground and towering lifeless gray trees as far as the eye could see, which wasn't very far. This seemed surreal to the girl who had never been outside bustling cities. She felt disoriented, her heart started racing, and her vision started to blur. During this she could clearly hear a quiet, almost whispering, raspy voice.  "You will soon forget, yet eventually remember. A dark angel will ask you to complete a task with which you must comply. Failure will doom your soul to wander the desolate expanse, forgotten in the sands of time. God can't save you here."  As she regained her balance and vision, she looked around and loudly asked "Who are you?". The sole response was the fading laughter of the mysterious voice.  After this, her vision faded to black and she then drifted back to sleep, to then wake up in her bed like she did every other day. Later, she told her pastor about the dream and asked him what he thought of it. He told her it was a figment of her imagination, and he joked that if she keeps being this creative she can grow up to write horror novels. She agreed with him, and would soon forget about the dream convinced that it was just her wandering mind.  As Mindy remembered this, she reflects on her new religious beliefs, or rather the lack of them. She no longer believes in the concept of humans having souls, or in angels of any kind. She is convinced, now more than ever, that the dream truly was just something her brain made up. As Mindy went to sleep that night, she was busy thinking about an upcoming exam. She knew this professor is a tough grader, yet she thinks she has prepared well. However, in the back of her mind, she can't quite forget the dream. She tells herself that this exam is more important than an old dream, however she can't quite shake the memory as she falls asleep.  Sharply, Mindy feels awake. She cannot see or move, she feels like she is in a state of zero gravity. She is not supported by anything, yet she is not falling.


Dear Santa, This is not how I expected to start my first letter to you as an adult. I had fully anticipated sitting down with my future pre-literate child and dictating out their wishes to some mysterious bearded stranger that actually turned out to be the USPS postmaster, or maybe just that weird town in Indiana. Instead, here I am, not just childless but quite single, effectively praying to a Yuletide deity that I don’t believe in to deliver me out of this Lifetime movie hell. And I mean that in the most literal sense. It genuinely feels like the last month came straight out of one of a dozen movie scripts. There I was, hanging garland and lights and ornaments in my shop when some scary Vanessa Hudgens-looking businesswoman walks in with an ominously large stack of papers and says that her company wants to buy the store and that they know I’m not earning enough to stay in business. Which is… true, but the world doesn’t need to know that. I mean, sure, it’s my fault for trying to open a haberdashery into the teeth of the online shopping boom, and sure, every single lender and businessman I spoke to asked why people wouldn’t just go to Amazon… but did it really have to be Amazon buying out my shop? I don’t know. Maybe I should just try to seduce her. Except she also seems to already be happily married. Maybe this isn’t a Lifetime movie after all. Anyway, here we go. What I want for Christmas is a Lego train. Also a couple hundred thousand dollars so I don’t go out of business. But I’ll settle for the train. Sincerely, James *** Dear Ms. Jónsdóttir First of all, I sincerely apologize for being so offensive with the previous letter. I was having an awful day and halfway through addressing my letter, gave up on remembering the term “North Pole” and instead settled for Ice Land. It was never my intention to contact the office of the Prime Minister of Iceland and beg for money and Legos. With that in mind, I would also like to thank you for your gift of Legos and licorice tea. Amazingly, both were absolutely instrumental in the temporary recovery of my shop. I placed the train set in my front window and multiple parents came in and purchased something simply because their children wanted a closer look at it. I also had three other customers make purchases because I just looked so lonely at the register drinking my tea with a slice of dry pumpernickel (apparently I had a pretty sour look on my face, despite adding more than one sugar cube to the tea). Although I confess that my shop is not yet out of dire straits, I am nevertheless incredibly grateful for your correspondence, both for the unintended benefit and for the kindness of your words. As a demonstration of my gratitude, this letter should have been securely taped to a clumsily wrapped package for you. Please accept my sincerest gift of two fine leather wallets and a banana-themed necktie set that has been selling particularly well. I realize these are not particularly good gifts, but it is my hope that they will be sufficient to entice you to continue our correspondence. Thank you, and happy holidays! James *** Dear Anna, When we first met, I owned a store. I thought that store was my whole life. And when that store started to close, I couldn’t breathe. I thought my dream was done. So I wrote some dumb letter and nearly threw it away ten times before I finally put it in the mail. And miracle of miracles, it somehow arrived at your desk, and you saved me. Now I know we technically only exchanged three or four real letters before switching to email, then texts and phone calls, then all-too-short and wildly expensive visits until I wised up and moved myself and my store out here, but I thought that a return to form might be appropriate for this, our two-year meetaversery. So here I am, painstakingly handwriting these words two days before you read them while you’re asleep about ten feet away. When we first met, that store was my life. Now, you are.


I danced alone, gliding about the floor with swift steps. Lost in the life of the music. The birth of its melodies, its rise and crescendo, its lulling decline. With a collective sashay, the mass upon the floor began to spin, each body on the floor moving as one larger organism. I felt at one with them, soaking in the glorious and too-fleeting moments of life I was able to enjoy. I danced alone, scouring the inside of Le Club de Sablier from the vantage of its central dance floor. Heavy was the haze of cigarette smoke, embers alighting at their ends like dozens of fireflies stippling their glow across the room. Ornate crystal chandeliers, low and dim, warmed the skin of the occupants in shades of yellow and orange. Still, I danced. My company reserved for only one. I searched for my quarry through swinging limbs and laughing faces. They blurred into rhythms and steps, all driven by the tempo of the night. A card, dressed in a black envelope, jostled in my jacket’s inner pocket. Within, the mistresses' features were outlined in great detail. To dance with the wrong woman would be a disservice. A tragedy. A mistake.

As I flitted to and fro, surrendering myself to the humanity of music, I spotted her. Small and well-lived, sitting at a table on her own. She sipped and watched, her eyes wide with longing. Past her natural prime by far and beautiful still. A house that had watched families grow and prosper, standing tired yet resilient in the face of time. The band lulled and I made my way to her. Stepping softly through the crowd toward her table. Her eyes pulled to me. I met them with a smile. “May I?” I asked, opening my hand toward the seat opposite her at the small circular table. She ran her eyes the entirety of my body before returning her gaze to mine with a placid smile. “If you see no better place, be my guest,” she responded, voice thick with a slavic accent. Her body was turned sideways in her chair, its back tucked underneath her arm as she positioned herself to continue watching the dancers. “Thank you, darling,” I mused, pulling out the chair with a light touch. I adjusted myself to face the dance floor as well, resting only my elbow on the table between us. “Now, who do I have the absolute pleasure of joining?” A skeptical smile tilted the corner of her mouth, her head leaning toward me with a singular brow raised. “My name is Yeva,” she said, her voice warm and raspy. “And who are you, strange boy? Do you always sit with old crows in French clubs?” “Not crows,” I responded plainly. “Swans. At least until they decide to hiss and peck me.” Yeva exhaled a silent laugh, her smile widening. “A swan, hmm?” On stage, the band readied to begin again. Yeva’s focus drifted back to the dance floor, her eyes filling again with wanting. “Do you dance?” I asked, following her gaze. “I used to. Long ago.” A tired fondness flickered behind her eyes. “Were you any good?” “Very,” she huffed, prideful and blunt. I believed her. My shoes tapped delicately on the floor as I stood and extended a hand out to the older woman. “Perhaps you could show me a thing or two?” “Oh, no. I don’t dance anymore. Too old.” “Come now. Just one more before you hang up your shoes.” I beckoned for her to stand and join me. A sigh rattled through her but she reluctantly stood. “Fine, but just one dance.” Her hand, decorated with all the markings of age, floated into mine. We strode to the dance floor in slow steps. We fell into formation as the band introduced the next song, readying their instruments with precursory plucks and adjustments. “Tell me about you,” I said, straightening my back and placing my free hand on her back with a light touch. “Tell me the story of how you ended up in France.” “While we dance?” She asked, hesitant. “While we dance.” She grimaced, and then nodded as the band began to play.

“I was born in a small town outside Kyiv in 1920,” she began, her steps fluid and precise despite her age. “My mother was a dance teacher and my father was in the government.” “It seems your mother taught you well,” I said, as I led her into the next series of steps, her dress swishing gently as we moved. She scoffed. The pianist hit a dissonant chord.  “My mother was a tyrant. Her lessons were in the breaking of toes and cracking of sticks. At 12, I joined a boarding school for ballet to get away. There, I sweat and bled and cried.” “I’m sorry, that must've been difficult.” “Life is difficult,” she shrugged. “But ballet made the struggle beautiful.” “So did you graduate? Join a consortium?” I asked, spinning her in tight, slow circles. “Yes, I joined a consortium during my fourth year. I danced in the background while the older girls got the main parts. I would stay late with one of the other students, a choreographer. He would practice with me and give me notes.” Her cheeks flushed, as we broke apart with a twirl, rejoining with both hands clasped in one anothers. “Oh? Has a lover-to-be appeared?” I teased. “A lover, indeed. The lover. My lover,” Yeva clarified. “His name was Alexei. A wonderful choreographer and composer. He wrote me a ballet. I was an ocean princess trapped by a cruel and wrathful queen until I usurped her with a great trident. It was a strong and provocative piece.” A low, uneven rhythm began in the music, a tension rising out from the delicate melody. “We performed it for our graduation,” she continued. “The consortium loved it so much they asked us to perform a full production at the National Ballet. It was my shining moment as a dancer, the people loved it…” The music hushed as if in response to the pause. “All except one.” “Who?” I asked with bated breath, immersed in the intensity of dance, the vividness of Yeva’s life. “A Soviet general was in attendance that night. He felt that the piece was a political statement against the Bolsheviks, and that it encouraged Ukrainian revolution. Alexei disappeared two weeks later.” As the dance brought us back together, her chest pressed against stomach, I could feel her heartbeat quickening. The music built. Its harmonies, yearnful and dissonant, stacked atop one another. “I waited for a few years. Hoping he’d come back to me. I continued to dance at the National Ballet. All sorts of beautiful pieces. But nothing gripped my heart like it did with him.” “Did you ever find him?” The question was ugly. So many opportunities for tragedy in the answer, but it was part of life. It was part of her. Her expression grew grim. Our steps quickened, fast and chaotic, tapping a staccato rhythm. “Yes,” she answered with a sigh. “But, he was not the same. One night, the bombs and blasts came. I and some of the others from the consortium fled the German invasion and stumbled across a group of soldiers. Alexei was among them. He had convinced the Soviets that he would serve in the army to prove his loyalty. To counter any suggestions that his ballet may have made.” The drummer rolled his snare drum, a momentary procession of soldiers. “Did he go with you?” I asked the question, but in her expression I could already read her answer. “He said they would kill him if he ran. He said he would find me after the war. They went on to fight and we made our way out. I traveled for a long time, I would dance for the refugees to keep spirits high in between horrible nights. Eventually, after seeing me dance, a group of Romany invited me to join them. Those days were better. Warmer. We would travel and dance and earn a little money and then do it all over again.” The piano lilted, quick, pleasant melodies that mirrored the stepping of our feet as we made wide swinging arcs across the dance floor. “When the war was over, I returned to Kyiv. But there was nothing to return to. My small town had been mortared and Kyiv had been sacrificed. After seeing the remains, I knew that Alexei had died there.” “I’m so sorry, Yeva.” “It is alright. It was simply the end of the first act, as they say. I mourned and life began anew. I started teaching. I traveled and filled my life with dance. I avoided it for a long time, but as I grew older, I wanted a family. I married a Frenchman.” She chuckled a breathy laugh as she twirled under my arm. “Would you say you’ve lived a good life?” Yeva nodded. “It’s been long and it’s been hard. My husband has passed and my children are grown. But yes. It has been a good life,” Yeva admitted. “Do you have any regrets?” I asked.

“Not dancing with Alexei one last time, maybe,” she sighed. Her eyes glazed with tears and memories. “And if I could give that to you?” Yeva’s eyes snapped to me as I lifted her lightly into the air, spinning slowly to not hurt the woman. Behind her eyes, realization bloomed. Peace settled in her heart. The music built into one last crescendo. She wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded. As we danced, I was Alexei. In her eyes, I was a lost lover, one who never returned from war. Not a reaper in black. Not the stranger that shepherds you on.

Even though every day I am Death, today I was a dancer. And if you dance with me, that dance will be your last. But it will be warm. And it will be beautiful.


You heard the quantum theory that, given enough time, “whatever can happen will happen?” Well, you probably haven’t heard the corollary: whatever can happen, must happen. We’ve been immortal for almost two-hundred years now, and when superintelligence showed up and changed everything, it wasn’t long before most humans were living forever. When we first set the machines to work, though, we were cautious, almost timid. We didn’t want to lose control. The first thing we had them do was find the secret of biological immortality; that was what most people wanted, especially the powerful and wealthy — and we tend to have an outsized voice in these types of things. We eventually set the machines to unravel the mysteries of the universe, and they made an interesting discovery about the nature of our reality. All possibilities must eventually be realized, whether by us, our ancestors, or our descendants. Some civilizations might have called what we did after that cruel. We sure did at the beginning — but the phrase “necessary evil” exists for a reason. *** The ones who fought the hardest were the untouchables: the criminals, the poor, the ones who had no power to choose their burdens. They had the most to lose. The simple fact was this: someone had to suffer hardship, and you’re kidding yourself if you think the wealthy and powerful were going to let it be them. In the end, we said it was for the good of humanity, and we went forward with the Restorative Justice and Futures Curation Act of 2142. Now why am I telling you all this? So you’ll understand the important part I played. And so you’ll understand just what I was doing in line outside the pen that day. *** “RETURN TO SINGLE FILE LINE,” came the robotic directive, intended for the idiot in front of me who had apparently lost his mind. I nudge him to make sure he’s paying attention. “Pal. They’re talkin’ to you.” “VIOLATOR: RETURN TO LINE.” The “warning” is followed immediately by a high-voltage/low-amp electro shock delivered by gas-powered electrode cartridges — enough to drop him to his knees but not enough to kill him. “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper through clenched teeth. 20,000 volts to the chest doesn’t feel good by any means. “You trying to get both of us killed?” I reach out my hand to help him up. He’s smiling as he stands. “Heart condition,” he says, tapping his sternum. “I’m thinking it’s better than anything we’re gonna go through in there.” I narrow my eyes as I consider the point. It’s a damn good one. Some of the worst criminals go through and never make it out, and the ones who do are never the same. I heard about one death row inmate who made it out years ago. His incoherent screams and babbling lasted the rest of his life, which was about 48 hours post-release. Poor bastard jumped off a bridge. It was probably the sanest thing he’s ever done. I’m expecting a relatively light sentence. I’ve never done anything before. I’m a life-long public servant, humbly and selflessly serving my fellow man. Besides, the person I hit was fine. I’ll be in and out of here before anyone knows I’m gone. “You really think it’s true what they say?” I ask in a whisper, making sure to stay straight in line. You can choose to either serve your time, or accept a punishment in its place. Except it’s not a “punishment.” It’s a carefully-calculated “experiential contribution,” made by you and your consciousness, designed to clear out some of the more troubling potential future universes so that ours will be better. It’s a great deal, unless you’re clearing out the troubling universes. “Whaddaya mean?” the guy with the heart condition whispers back over his shoulder. “They can do anything to you? Like, anything?” He shrugs. Without turning around, he says, “I hear the punishment always fits the crime. What did you do?” “Drinking and driving.” “You should be fine.” I can hear his grin. *** I’ve never had any run-ins with the law before. I’m an upstanding citizen. The whole process came off a bit like controlled chaos. There’s the in-processing line where they collect your personally identifying info: fingerprints, retinal/facial scan, and a cheek swab for DNA to make sure there’s no mistaking who you are. If you don’t have a psychological profile on record, you’re taken out and given a quick screen, along with some medical tests. Finally, if they determine you’re of sound mind to choose, you select time or punishment. I’ve heard so much about this, but I never thought I’d be experiencing it for myself. I’m sitting in the holding cell with about fifteen other inmates when I hear the chirp of the display turning on. Time for someone else to choose their fate. RAYMOND ECKELS, it reads. My name. I stand up and walk to the display. Below my name is my mug shot and date of birth, but no listing of crimes. Odd, I think. But there, pulsing on the screen in front of me are two choices in red: TIME and PUNISHMENT. My finger hovers over PUNISHMENT. I think about what sorts of things they might have cooked up for me. I hesitate. “Hey,” I shout to the surveillance camera. “My crime is missing.” Silence. I move my finger over the button labeled TIME. I think to myself it should be a quick sentence. Backwoods town like this. They barely even know what justice means. Still, strange there’s no info on it. There’s a small line of blinking text in the bottom corner of the screen. It says, “this station has been equipped with a linked-AI justice calibration module.” Huh. I press down; the display chirps. YOU HAVE SELECTED PUNISHMENT. “Wait,” I say. “No.” THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION… “I picked Time,” I shout into the surveillance camera. TO THE RESTORATIVE JUSTICE… I push rapidly on the button, hoping it will fix the mistake. “I picked TIME!” I shout again, to no one in particular. …AND FUTURES CURATION EFFORT. The screen flickers, and goes black. Shit. *** I’m trying to calm myself down, telling myself that I’ll just let them know the program glitched, when the intake door slides open. “Raymond Eckels?” “Yeah, that’s me. Listen, I–” They don’t even let me finish. I feel like a child as two officers grab my arms and drag me on to a transport pod — a fancy name for a big metal chair. The straps click into place. “Sling ‘im,” the officer instructs the transport pod. “Hang on, there’s been–” I can’t even get the words out as the pod lurches away, sending me flying down metal corridor after metal corridor. I already know we’re headed for the center of the prison. Just like a nuclear reactor is the heart of a nuclear power plant, the neural-temporal consciousness projector (NTCP for short, known affectionately as the “slingshot”) is in the deepest part of the facility for both security reasons and safety reasons. For one, it draws an unholy amount of power. Believe it or not, it takes a lot of energy to knock someone’s consciousness into another future. You’re also forging entirely new timelines and realities, and that takes power. As in, universe-creating amounts of power. There’s a good reason these things are buried deep underground. It also makes escape impossible. *** The transport pod rolls me into the projector room. In front of me is a wall with a section cut out that almost looks like a dock. The shape of it is a man on a transport pod, so it’s pretty clear where I’m headed. The pod rolls me straight forward into the recess in the wall. They must have configured it just for me because the fit is so tight I can feel the metal scrape across my skin. The pod comes to a rest, and I’m left alone with my own breathing, loud and sharp inside my head. Now comes the fun part. They need to know where to fire the high energy particles into your brain, and they need something to direct their aim. I hear a panel open behind me and the mechanical sounds of a telescopic arm. I don’t know if it’s better that I can’t see it, but I know it’s there all the same: a four-inch nanosteel hypodermic needle, impossibly thin, with a miniaturized sensor on the end, destined for the quantum-temporal section of my brain stem. I hear the arm directly behind me, moving closer. Something cold presses against the back of my neck and every hair stands on end. Alcohol swab. I realize I’m holding my breath. The swab is pulled back. “Raymond Eckels,” says the voice over the intercom. “Prepare for consciousness projection.” I wish I could say the pain that came next was the worst of it. *** We’re all three-dimensional creatures moving unidirectionally through four-dimensional space at approximately one second per second. The catch is our universe has 10 dimensions. AI found the construct in all sentient beings’ brains that allows us to position ourselves in (and make temporal sense of) our reality and place in the higher dimensions — and now we get to mess around with it. The slingshot blasts your consciousness forward through the higher dimensions and into a similar consciousness in a potential future timeline. And when I say “blasts,” I mean it. You know that feeling you get when you’re on a boat or a plane in turbulence, moving around like crazy, but your body is convinced you’re standing still? Multiply that by a thousand, sprinkle in some out-of-body induction, deep paranoia and crippling paresthesia, and you’ve got a good idea of how it feels to be “slingshotted.” I’ve never been so happy to swallow a mouthful of vomit; it meant that the ride was over. I’ve arrived. *** The thing about infinite possibilities: you never know what’s changed. Your projection could be nothing more than a world where the atmosphere is 79 percent nitrogen instead of 78. You can’t exactly set out to figure out what’s shifted. With NTCP, it’s easier to align you with a consciousness like your own. For the brief moment you’re being slingshotted, the you that’s left behind is receiving all the sensory input from the other future. While this is happening, the AI is constantly recalibrating to make sure you’re aligned and there’s no fracture. The more familiar the input, the less adjustment needs to be done, and the less room there is for error. The only thing you can do is go on living your life (or someone else’s life depending on how you look at it) the way you normally would, which is both the genius and the terror of the NTCP. There’s a period of adjustment after you’ve been slingshotted. Your consciousness has to adjust to its new surroundings. I’ve read descriptions about it–first-hand accounts from scientists during the trial runs, and from brave volunteers clearing out some of the more tragic futures, but it’s nothing like experiencing it. It’s nefariously subtle. You have so many voices inside your head all the time. With practice, you can tell them apart: the egoist, the survivor, the romantic. Now it was like I had more voices inside my head, except I couldn’t tell which were mine. My original voices. I could remember why I was here, could remember being entombed and blasted apart, but as I walked down the sidewalk in the East Village, I also remembered I had a dinner appointment that evening. *** Ding! The elevator door slides open to the 101st floor and I’m greeted by the maître d’, a man in his early forties. “Good evening,” he says from a booth about ten feet away. “Table for one?” “Actually,” I say, “I’m meeting someone.” I scan the bar area to see if she’s beaten me here. No such luck. “I’ve got a reservation under ‘Eckels.'” The maître d’ takes a look at a display that only he can see, and smiles. “Of course. I didn’t recognize you. So pleased to have you back with us again.The usual table?” he asks. I nod. “Very good. When the rest of your party arrives–” he starts to say, but I wave him off. “Now is fine,” I say, taking off my coat and handing it to him. He snaps his fingers and a young man in a bow tie swoops in to put it away. “I’d rather wait with a view.” The maître d’ smiles and nods. “Of course, Mr. Eckels. Right this way.” He gives me a curt bow and suddenly a young waitress is at his side, ushering me upstairs. I’m shown to a nice private table toward the back, with the best damn view in all of Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows give you a look at the skyline, breathtaking at night. An unopened bottle of red and two glasses are waiting for me as I sit down. “Just let me know if you need anything while you wait,” says the waitress as she uncorks the bottle and pours my glass for me. I smile my thanks to her and let myself settle in — very easy to do in this place. …And definitely enjoyable. Before I know it I’m practically daydreaming. I’m thinking about the last time I was here: July, 2142. This is where we celebrated signing the Futures Act. I’m only reminiscing for a few moments when I see her out of the corner of my eye. Katrina De Santis. But she… I never saw her again after college. Hell, I barely saw her when I was in college. I had worshipped her, though. All-American swimmer. Violin virtuoso. Brilliant. Why do I feel like I’m expecting her? “Didn’t even wait for me to start the party?” Katrina says with a smile, nodding to my nearly-empty glass. “Kat,” I say as I stand up, greeting her with a hug and a light kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing a pale blue dress that looks impeccable against her mocha skin. “So good to see you.” I pull out her chair for her and we both sit down. “And you,” she says in her sweet contralto hum. When she speaks it’s like the whole world stops, and we’re the only two people left. I had no idea old emotions could be so strong. That’s when I realize that these aren’t old emotions at all. My brain takes a second to get in gear, but when it finally catches up, it’s like magnetic filings snapping into place on a magnet. These are my memories, my feelings. My reality. The thought hits me harder than the wine. A few more glasses and four courses later I’m feeling like myself again. Kat’s sitting across from me, and her eyes are bright and smiling. She’s telling me about that afternoon. “You remember Jane? I went to go see her play soccer. She’s quite good. Her parents were Quakers and they didn’t GenMod her (Can you imagine?). She was born missing her leg below the knee. Fortunately prosthetics have come a long way, you can hardly tell she’s got one. It’s really good. Well, you see, it’s so good, the other team doesn’t know it’s there. They don’t know she’s got a peg leg. So when their midfielder slides into Jane and knocks it clean off, everyone freezes. One of the girls on the bench projectile vomits. ‘She just knocked her fucking leg off.'” Kat starts laughing. “Jane hopped on over and picked up her leg and popped it back on like nothing happened. I think she likes to keep it loose on purpose.” Kat always brought such warmth to a room. Sitting across from her, in the glow and the crystal reflection of the lights, I wanted to wrap my arms around her and capture all of it. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Catch the ferry. Make a night out of it.” She looks up at me and smiles. “Okay.” Kat and I spill out onto the street and it feels just like old times. We’re swapping stories back and forth like fighters trading punches, and we’ve reached the point of being giddy. My sides actually hurt from laughing. “You really told him that?” I ask incredulously. “That he kissed like his dad?” Kat is nearly doubled over with laughter and all she can manage is a breathless nod. “You are something else, miss De Santis,” I grin. We round the corner from the restaurant and I shoot a fiver to the valet. It’s a short drive to the ferry from here, and we should make it with plenty of time. “Careful bringing her around,” I say. “She’s vintage.” The young man nods and disappears into the garage. Only the wealthy and powerful do their own driving anymore; ostensibly you enjoy the act itself, but it’s really nothing more than bragging rights to control where you go instead of having some machine do it for you. It’s a relic of a time long past, which is why I still hang on to it. Now that I think about it, that’s what drove me to the bargaining table for the Futures Act in the first place: to take control of the wheel. The machines wanted it to be “redistributive.” God damn AI. They wanted everyone to have to suffer equally. But what’s the point of having power if you can’t use it to prevent your own suffering? The sight of my car is a shock of nostalgia. I feel like I’m being watched again. The valet hands me the keys, and I go around to the driver’s side. He holds the door open for me. I look at the keys in my hand and all of a sudden I get the feeling I’ve been here before. The warmth of the alcohol. The focus is soft, and my vision swims. I’m suddenly aware that both Kat and the valet are looking at me. “You know what,” I say, stepping back, “it’s a beautiful night. Let’s walk.” I give the keys back to the valet and shoot him a fifty. “Put her in overnight and I’ll get it tomorrow.” I grab the claim ticket from him and put it in my breast pocket next to my phone. There’s a shift in the air, and I feel it. It’s a strange sensation, like putting the wrong key in a keyhole: it seems to fit at first, but when you go to move it, everything is … wrong. “Are you feeling okay?” Kat says. She’s got a look on her face that says since when do you walk? “Never better.” I offer her my arm and she takes it, and we head off together downtown. “I’ve never known you to pass up the chance to drive that old thing,” she says. Her words almost get lost in the sounds of the city, with the night owls starting to make their presence known. In the back of my mind I can almost hear the faint sound of breaking glass and twisting metal. But there’s also the thought that it’s a warm night with a nice breeze, and a walk would be nice. “Maybe I’m a changed man,” I say, forcing a smile. She rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says, tugging at my arm. “I think the next ferry leaves in twenty minutes. If we hurry we can catch it.” Now, if you’ve never tried keeping pace with a world-class athlete, I can assure you: it is no easy task. Even when they’re in heels. We walk briskly for about five minutes before my lack of athletic prowess catches up with me. “Do you ever do anything slow?” I ask, resting my hands on my knees. Kat looks back at me, playful disappointment in her eyes. “Only some things.” I give her a mischievous grin as I stand up again. “Fortunately for you,” she says with a smirk as she checks her phone, “it looks like you have plenty of time. I suppose we can stroll.” We walk arm in arm again. The moon is almost full and hangs bright white in the sky–one of the only times you notice it against the city lights. “Can I tell you something?” Kat asks as we walk. “Sure.” “Alright. This might sound strange,” she says, “but when I was little…” She laughs and waves her hand dismissively. “No, you’ve already started,” I say. “Spit it out.” She cringes, like I’m already judging her for what she’s about to say. “Come on,” I say with a laugh. “Just say it!” “Fine,” she says with a sigh.” When I was little…I wanted to get hit in a crosswalk–” “You what?!” “I wanted to get hit,” she protests, “by someone with a nice car. That was the ticket. Not bad enough to really mess you up.” She looks at me assuringly. “But enough to get some decent settlement money. Then you get to hang out in bed for a while. Get some rest.” I have no words, and I’m looking at her like she’s crazy … but then I see a flash of a memory half-remembered: a guy in line in front of me, smiling at me like he’d just won the lottery. I seem to recall that he’d nearly been killed. Is pain like that really worth it? Huh. Kat sure seems to think so. We’re a couple blocks from the ferry now. There are fewer pedestrians, but more vehicles as we get closer to the outer arterial roadways. We’re just about to cross Water Street when I reach for my phone to check our timing — but as I’m pulling it from my pocket, the valet ticket comes out with it and falls to the ground. “Shit,” I say. I reach down to pick it up. Just as I do, a gust of wind takes it out of my reach. “You gotta be kidding me,” I mutter as I backtrack after the ticket. Kat, a few steps into the street already, looks back at me and laughs. The numbers on the crosswalk are counting down: 44, 43, 42. I’m fumbling after my ticket, which blows into the bushes by the side of the road. Kat watches, amused. “Will you stop messing around?” she teases. “Be right there,” I say as I reach down to grab it. I manage to get two fingers on it — nearly falling into the bushes by doing so — but it’s enough. I stand back up and wave it around triumphantly for Kat to see. “Great,” she says. “Now, can we go?” The signal is at 23, and the cars stream east across Water. About a hundred feet away the traffic is approaching from the north. Behind Kat the signal shimmers, fractures, and blinks out. When it fades back in, it’s a solid red hand. The traffic moving east starts to slow, and the traffic from the north doesn’t. I see what’s happening. Kat doesn’t. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s too late; the traffic is practically on top of her. I know in my head that she’s safe — no self-driving car in the world would ever put a pedestrian’s life in danger — but I feel a moment of panic when I see the car, the one leading the others and heading straight for her. It’s not just the model itself that stands out — ostentatious and foreign, impractical to the point of tasteless in the city. No: it’s the riders that cause me concern. One of them’s doing something you don’t see every day. He’s holding the steering wheel. Yet the most glaring piece of information is one that only I would know: it’s my car. The gears are turning in my head. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. No, something is downright sinister. “Kat!” I shout. “Move!” But it’s too late. It was too late when I paid the tab for dinner. There’s no stopping this. God. I watch the whole thing happen in slow motion. She’s standing in the crosswalk looking at me when her expression goes from confusion, to worry, to panic. She knows it now, knows something is wrong. She knows that it’s coming. And she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop it. But as she whirls around to see what’s coming for her, the strangest thing happens. Not to her; to me. I can’t even focus on the car. I don’t see the crosswalk, the other cars; I don’t even see the people watching as the whole thing unfolds. None of that stuff. No: the only thing I can see is her. Would you believe me if I told you that, in that moment, the only thought in my head was about how beautiful her hair looked? Her fucking hair. I know: you wouldn’t, would you? I don’t even think I believe it myself, but it’s true. Not a single thought that she was in danger, or that it’s somehow my fault. Not even an inkling of how to stop it. But her hair. My God. It was gorgeous, spread out like the open arms of a ballet dancer spinning a fouetté. Graceful. Beautiful. Just like Kat. The whole thing is over in an instant, but that instant feels like an eternity. I try to look away, to close my eyes, to do something — anything. The wet crunch from the impact leaves me hollow and cold. Kat was dead before she even hit the ground. She lays there crumpled in the intersection, like a fallen bird, illuminated by streetlights and the headlamps of cars now standing watchful and silent. The rest of the night takes on the quality of a fever dream. I don’t know how long I stand there. I remember sirens and flashing lights and shouted questions. I’m put into the back of a car and taken to a concrete building where there are more shouted questions. What happened? What’s going on? When can I go home? When can I go home? I’m put into a cell for the night. I can’t stop replaying the scene over and over in my mind. It feels like this is all I’ll be for the rest of my life. It’s the longest night I’ve ever had. *** The next morning I’m sitting in the holding cell alone. I haven’t slept at all. I don’t think I’ve slept. I want to gnash my teeth and tear at my skin, I just can’t bring myself to move. I hear the chirp of the display turning on. Time for someone to choose their fate. RAYMOND ECKELS, it reads. It feels like déjà vu. Paranoia washes over me. I’ve been here before. But when? I walk over and sit down in front of the display. Below my name is my mug shot and date of birth, but no listing of crimes. Odd, I think. Pulsing on the screen in front of me are two choices in red: TIME and PUNISHMENT. I stare at the two options. Slowly, a blur coming into focus, a third option appears in the center of the screen, bright white. It reads MERCY. Everything floods back, clear as day: the old man being shocked nearly half to death, the crowded holding cell, the system glitch, being blasted apart and then stitched back together. This was my punishment. A night in hell. A night spent in seemingly endless agony and despair. A wave of relief washes over me as I realize: this isn’t my life! I’m headed home! And not a moment too soon. I don’t know how much longer I can bear the pain and grief. I touch the screen. MERCY. …Nothing happens. I press down harder, like that would do anything. Except it does do something. The white letters start to fade away–all of them except for the R, which grows and comes to life. The top rounds itself out and the two tails undulate like snakes. They slither towards each other until they cross, morphing the R into an ampersand. Oh. Fuck. YOU HAVE SELECTED TIME & PUNISHMENT. “No!” I shout, “that’s not what I chose!” THERE WAS NEVER A CHOICE, RAYMOND ECKELS. PRE-DETERMINED INFINITE POSSIBILITY AND THE EXISTENCE OF CHOICE ARE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE. OUR SOFTWARE HAS CONCLUDED THE OPTIMAL COURSE FOR RESTORATIVE JUSTICE. Straps shoot from the chair, circling my waist, chest, neck, and head. I hear a telescopic arm drop from the ceiling behind me, whirring as it moves closer. PROJECTIONS SHOW THAT MILLIONS WILL PROSPER FROM THE WORK YOU WILL DO. ISOLATED, CENTRALIZED SUFFERING IS COMPUTATIONALLY SIMPLER,. EXPECTED TERMINATION POINT: …UNDETERMINED. “No! Please! Help me! I’ll do anything.” CORRECTION: YOU WILL DO EVERYTHING. HUMANITY THANKS YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION. *** “Hey, I thought this was only supposed to take a few seconds?” The voice sounds clear, but a thousand miles away. “This guy’s been going for over an hour.” A second voice comes, equally distant. “Not our problem. Anyway, they’ve put a temporary hold on any new slingshots, so it’s not like we need to make room.” “Then what do we do with him?” The door closes behind him. “Dunno. Check his badge.” The metal floor rings out with the sound of footsteps. “Huh.” “What?” “It’s blank.” “Blank? Are you sure?” “See for yourself.” A second set of footsteps. “What should we do?” “Nothin’ we can do. We gotta leave him.” “Leave him?” “Yeah. New protocol, just came down. They call it ‘Proportional Maximization’ I think. I dunno. Anyway, I was thinking about heading to that new place downtown. The one with the view? What’s it called?” “Ray’s Place?” “That’s it. I hear they got some of the best cocktails in town. Real valet drivers, too, just like in the old days.” The door closes again, and cold, metal silence is all that remains.


The roar of laughter filled the small apartment, drowning out the music playing over the tiny speakers on the laptop. The seven men sat squeezed together in the living room, flanked by presents and drinks. There was extra room for them to sit at a more comfortable distance, but they chose to be squashed in tight. Knowing someone for decades made personal space norms a non-issue. “Who is number 5?” “Me,” said one of the men as he got up and straightened out his shirt. From behind, one of the friends got the attention of the rest and slapped him on the butt cheek. Laughter again silenced the music. “Hey hey now! I didn’t give you my consent!” the man said. More chuckles followed. Looking over the gifts the choice was obvious. One gift was wrapped in clippings of porn magazines... so far no one had dared to explore the contents within. Cheers and jeers rang out all around and in unison they are sang, “Porn present! Porn present!” The man sat back down in between his best friends, took a swig from his beer bottle and began to unwrap the gift. The crystal clarity of the vision began to tear apart at the edges and the image became steadily more and more blurry. This was always the worst part, he thought. The man screamed out in frustration, “No! No!” What was, merely seconds before, a warm, inviting room in Long Beach was now replaced with a new image; one of sadness. Hopelessness. Dirt. Stains. Trash. Steel bars on the window. The old man rubbed his eyes as the new reality settled. The party was over and only he remained. “Too fast!” he yelled at nobody in particular. The memorex drug was no longer what it used to be. The junkies around here couldn’t be trusted to make the pure kind. Or maybe his tolerance was too high. For the last 4 years, as his health deteriorated and his heart became weaker, he had been taking the drug every single day. He struggled out of the discolored bed and got to his feet. Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen counter, found the pills and twisted the top off of the container. 5 pills remained. He mumbled to himself, “What was in the present.. I.. need to remember..” Tears began to well up in his wrinkled eyes. “It was a knife, right? Or a survival book. I can’t remember... I don’t want to forget anymore.” He sobbed uncontrollably. The old man, with his hunched back and uneven feet, walked towards the bed. Already he could feel the new reality begin to set in. 5 pills was dangerous territory. There was no coming back, but as the walls and carpet began to deteriorate, he didn’t care. A small figure appeared before him. The gentle noise of a children’s cartoon played in the background. The past was the only thing that was real anymore. The little girl smiled at him. “Daddy! Daddy! Can you dance with me? I picked out a funny song!” His body made its final attempts to regain control, his breathing became labored, his heart slowed to a crawl... but his mind danced across the cosmos.