They say love is the thing that kills a man. Love makes the brain turn to mush. Love makes bad decisions seem like the best there is, and forces man to abandon logic. They say love is blind, but perhaps the meaning of that is not that love transgresses the physical, but rather that love can make man blind to what lures him to his fate. But yet, every man will eventually fall in love. Large walls flanked the towering, gilded castle on all sides. Walls high and low, walls thick, walls with small portholes through which archers could fire arrows at unsuspecting attackers. Walls fortified with iron. Impenetrable, unless one were to walk towards the eastern corner and find the loose brick, and shimmy it out… there, one could gain access. Or, one trapped within could gain exit, could gain freedom. The castle itself was tall, as strongly-fortified as the walls which kept the boundaries, but where the walls had seen battle and were therefore pockmarked in places, the castle walls were the same smooth marble they’d always been, exuding the luxury the royal family lived in. The king and queen were unfair rulers, taking taxes from the surrounding villages in exchange for fair trade deals and protection. The royal army was magnificent, and the barracks kept among the many different villages, but the world knew it was to keep the villagers in check, rather than to protect them. The king and queen were rarely seen, for they were not of the people, but rather were of a much higher standing. The wrought-iron gates to the castle were therefore never opened, unless it was to allow entrance to the other esteemed royals of the land, those who had travelled from far and wide and beyond. The people were aware of three significant royal events: the marriage between the current king and queen; the birth of the Prince, announced via royal caller; and the birth of the Princess, announced via placards placed around each village. But, the people had never laid eyes on the Prince or the Princess, and the King and Queen had only been seen once. There was mystery surrounding the family. For some, they were demons which walked the earth to ensure those who sinned were taking to hell. For others, they were vampires, unable to come out into the light. Most simply detested the idea that, while they themselves lived in squalor, unable to feed children or themselves, the king and queen and prince and princess lived in luxury, afforded to them by the people. Taxes were high, morals were low… the gleaming marble beacon on the hill was a daily reminder of just how little people had. Yet, through the struggle and the daily trepidation, there was still love in the air. Spring had finally sprung, and that meant a little more food in people’s gardens, more meat, better times ahead. And, for one young woman, it meant freedom, for she had finally turned eighteen. Felicity Baker was, as is obvious, the daughter of a baker, a gentle, round man named Peter. Her mother was a seamstress, and work was plentiful in the changing seasons for her. Felicity herself knew how to sew, but her fortitude lay in the garden, where things grow. A keen florist, she could make even the simplest of flowers bloom into something quite stunning. And, as she’d turned eighteen, it meant that she could walk unchaperoned as she wished to the gardens just outside the village, where the flowers grew unkempt and free. As she walked, her father’s words echoed in her ear. Make sure you don’t see the castle wall. They’re not kind to villagers . Yet, despite such a warning, Felicity found herself quite mesmerised by the beauty of the untouched paths winding their way through the forests. In the quiet, away from the loud soldiers in their barracks, her mind was free to drift and think and wonder. Her basket quickly filled up with bulbs and blooms, and greenery… and then, she met the wall. A queer sight among such a natural background, the rough-hewn brickwork pockmarked from attacks. Suddenly, all around her became cold, and she felt sick with fear. Something moved to the left of her, and Felicity felt her heart hammer in her chest. Queerer still was the sight of a hooded figure running its hands along the rough rock, pushing a large brick in. Felicity watched with bated breath; her eyes huge. The figure had not seen her, but she had seen it. She crept closer. Behind that wall was the castle. Who could possibly come in and out of the castle in such a manner? She hadn’t been prepared for the sight before her as she rounded the corner. As the brick was pushed back into place, her eyes met with a pair of crystal blue ones. She froze in place, entranced. And then, a shout came from afar. The brick was shoved back into place, and Felicity turned. Four soldiers, on foot, bearing shields and swords, had found her. “What are you doing here, then, miss?” one of them asked, breaking rank. He pinned her against the wall. The brick wasn’t fully in place. Another guard pushed it. The brick fell inwards, and the guard got a full sight of the man on the other side. “It looks like there’s a way into and out of the castle, Decanus .” “What were you doing, miss? I won’t ask you again. Who was that person?” The soldier stepped forward again. “I d-don’t know, sir!” Felicity squeaked. “I really do not know!” “Where do you come from?” “The v-village of Byram.” “Then we’ll just have to take you back home, won’t we?” ** “We found this by the castle wall.” Felicity was shoved forward so roughly that her knees were skinned by the cobbled stones by the Decanus , the leader of the soldiers in Byram’s barracks. Her basket of flowers long forgotten, the only hint that she’d even been collecting was the mud around her nails, and the grass marks on the hem of her dress. The soldiers hadn’t been so kind to her. They’d cuffed her with tight iron shackles, almost too heavy for her slender arms to lift. They’d dragged her through the forest back to her village, tripping her. And then, they’d dumped her unceremoniously at the feet of her father. “Felicity?!” Peter Baker gasped, collecting her up. One soldier removed her shackles. His wrist was so heavy-set from wielding a steel sword, it bore the same thickness as Felicity’s thigh. “Whatever did I tell you – why did you go by the wall?!” “I l-lost track – I’m sorry, papa!” Felicity whispered, trembling in fear. “I’m truly sorry…” At the hands of the soldiers, she’d been questioned. Who was the person on the other side of the wall? How did she know them? Were they man or woman? Eventually, they’d given in and taken her home. “Ensure your child doesn’t leave the village boundary again,” the Decanus growled. “Or else you won’t have a home or a business.” “Right you are, Decanus ,” Peter Baker nodded. He waited until the soldiers were out of sight before he picked his daughter up and took her inside. Felicity told her parents everything, and in the end grew catatonic with shock and fear. The soldiers could have killed her. But while Felicity’s fate seemed poor, nothing could be said for the castle guards who were slaughtered where they stood. Just hours before, as the sun sank lazily past the hills, the commander in chief of the legions of soldiers surrounding the castle – and protecting it within – had been summoned to the King’s throne room. The young prince sat beside him, nervous. The alarm had been raised about an intruder in the castle. A loose brick had been found in the eastern side of the wall, large enough for a slender man in no armour to fit through. A young peasant girl had been seen interacting with someone who’d just climbed in. “What was the girl’s name?” the young Prince asked. “The peasant girl?!” the King turned to his son incredulously. “Whatever do you care about that for?” “Well, perhaps a name would aid us in finding out her intentions.” “James, I fear you’ve lost wit,” the King growled. He hid a cough in his handkerchief. “Well? Is there a name?” Prince James held the commander’s gaze. “My Decanus in Byram informed me that it was the daughter of the village baker.” The commander looked nervous, answering to the Prince. “Very good. Perhaps it is worth questioning the staff, father.” “I will handle this, James. Go on, away with you, to your studies. Pray you find your mind on the way.” “Yes, father.” Prince James stood. He had only a little amount of time to hide his cloak. He knew the girl, the baker’s daughter, had seen the colour. It had been hard to miss. But he was too late. The events that unfolded that afternoon were bloody. A miscount of the guards had delivered to the King the paranoid notion that the ‘extra’ guard was in fact the intruder, and as all of the castle guards would therefore have to be in on the intrusion to have orchestrated it, all of them would be put to death. And so they were. Under the fall of night, each guard standing watch had their throats slit. The bloodied corridors of the castle did nothing to stop the young Prince James from finding a way out of his father’s clutches, though. He quickly sought out a different exit, back into the forests of freedom, the local villages where he was known simply as ‘Tristan’. He was an orphan, one with enough coin to purchase bread, or apples, or a slice of cooked meat. He was charming and witty, and spoke in an educated tongue. He had stories, an excellent orator, entertaining children and adults alike with his tales. Prince James made his way to Byram once again, skirting past the guards. The Decanus would no doubt have been told to stand down, now that the intruder was dead. Or, presumed dead. Every guard in the castle was dead… but that was by-the-by. Prince James had one mission, now. To find the girl, so innocent a pure, who had stolen his heart. For without her, life was not worth living. Despite his marriage to the Princess of the Kingdom of Fii secured, he did not want it. In fact, his life in his gilded tower was nothing short of torture. He knew nothing of the world beyond the kingdom in which he’d cut his teeth, and he ached to be free like the birds which wheeled in the sky, taunting him. As Prince James wandered through the busier square of Byram, he laid eyes once again on the one who held his heart. He watched her through the window of her home, forlornly sewing a ream of fabric with soft and gentle fingers. His life began again with her. She looked over at him, aware of eyes on her, and blushed. The sun was warm, and so he removed his hood. She stopped her sewing and stood. Her mother – perhaps it was her mother – admonished her for something, but soon enough, Felicity appeared in the doorway to the bakery which she called home. “It is you,” she breathed, once Prince James had drawn close enough. “I – your eyes –“ “It is indeed you,” Prince James said softly. “My heart has been yours since we met… tell me, what is your name?” “Felicity,” said Felicity, offering her hand. Prince James took it. “And yours?” “I… am known in these parts as Tristan, but my true name is James.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I must know if you are promised to another…” “I am not,” Felicity whispered, a blush touching her cheeks. “Though my father would not think it proper if I were to be seen with you so close.” Prince James stepped back. “I –“ “Felicity?!” Peter Baker’s voice carried across the way. Prince James returned his hood. “I will find a way to come back for you, dear Felicity! Know that my heart is yours!” He pressed something cool into her hand. A small medallion of sorts. A large hand closed around her shoulder. Prince James had vanished. Peter Baker was not pleased. “Inside, Felicity. I will not have the soldiers returning for your reluctance to follow rules!” “Yes, father.” ** As the moon bathed the castle grounds in light that evening, Prince James wandered around the rose garden, deep in thought. His wedding had been announced. His father approached death, the scent of it was ripe in the castle. The young Prince felt mutinous. His younger sister had been dispatched to a far-off Kingdom as a deal, and he hadn’t been given the chance to say his goodbyes. Instead, he’d seen her leave in a carriage pulled by six black horses. And now, his own marriage approached, to a woman he did not even like, never mind love. His heart belonged to Felicity. His entire being yearned to be free of his marble cage!

“Tell me what you need, young Prince.” The sound of a gentle woman’s voice startled Prince James, and he drew his sword and turned. “Now, now, I don’t come bearing threat… merely to give you what you so desire.” “Who are you? How did you get in here?!” “Questions which have no answer you could comprehend.” The woman moved like a cloud of fog, gliding across the dewy grass. The moonlight illuminated her features, which – while human – did not appear natural. Despite the fear Prince James felt, he found himself entranced, and thus began to lower his sword. “I… I don’t… desire anything. I don’t desire a thing.” “Oh, but you do… your heart aches, and nothing within these walls can soothe it… there is no balm in this castle… not for your wounds.” The woman sat herself on the granite bench from which Prince James had just risen. “Tell me all, young Prince.” “My sister,” Prince James whispered. “My sister has been pulled from our embrace to marry a man old enough to be her great-grandfather. And… and I am trapped by purpose! By the need to marry one I can barely stand! The Princess of Fii is not…” he shook his head. “I do not love her.” “Who do you love?” “There… there is a peasant girl… but to love her, to claim her for my own would be sure suicide…” Prince James sat down. “Yet she offers me freedom. Freedom and joy… my life began truly the day I laid eyes on her.” “And you have sought her out several times over.” Prince James did not ask how the woman knew he’d scaled the wall to meet his love under the cover of night, and had done so for many weeks. “She has my heart. She is the other half to my soul. She is my purpose.” “And you would do anything to have her?” “I do not want the life of a Prince,” Prince James said softly. “I long to join the happy lives of the villagers. Not waging war on realms and kingdoms which have not wronged me.” “I can offer you your freedom.” “How?” “To leave the shackles which bind you to the world you do not wish to inhabit further, for your freedom, I require an item of value. A single item of value. Upon your agreement that I may take it, I will give you your freedom willingly.” “What are you?” Prince James whispered. He looked at the woman’s hand, a beautiful hand, not unlike Felicity’s fair hand. “I am not of this world, young Prince… but I can manipulate it for payment. So, what does your heart truly desire?” “Fe… Felicity’s hand in my own…” Prince James whispered. “Felicity’s lips against mine… my child against her breast… my name upon her lips…” he closed his eyes and imagined those things, of Felicity as his wife, her hand in his, gripping tightly, her lips caressing his name in love and desire… her stomach swollen with his child… and when he opened his eyes, his hand was held in the air, as though gripping hers. The woman’s face a ghost behind his eyes, bearing a sinister smile he had not seen before. Desire compelled him to his feet, and he found himself unseen by the castle’s servants. He found himself unhindered as he walked through the castle; not a single person questioned his intentions for being out of bed so late. He found himself freely able to leave the castle via the front gate, for the guard was sound asleep. And, he found his path straight to Byram lit perfectly by the moon. The sun rose as he neared Byram, yet he had been sure it was midnight not an hour before… yet, as he neared the village, he heard only silence. For the morning had not risen the villagers yet. It was not long before the first signs of life began to show. The market opened in the square, and villagers milled around as normal, doffing caps to him and bidding him good-morning. The sight of Felicity held his gaze; accompanied by her father, they set about opening the bakery shutters. “Felicity!” Prince James cried. Felicity turned. Her face lit up beautifully with an angelic smile. “James!” she called, and made to run to him. And then, the thundering of hooves. Screams of women and children. Metal slicing through flesh. Soldiers tasked with decimation. Before him, a soldier plunged his sword into Felicity’s chest. He could not move. He could not breathe. He screamed, yet his voice was silent as Felicity fell to her knees and succumbed to her wound. In his ears, a voice echoed. My payment is taken. Freedom is yours.


Once upon a time there were 2 kids who were left alone because there parents were out of town. The 2 kids decided to play a game, one named Kate and one named jose. Kate went into the attic and got a board game and she redid it. Jose said "Kate what are you doing to the board game?" Kate said, "I'm redoing it so we both write a couple spooky places down and which ever one we land on is where we stay the night". They both continued to finish the board and then they rolled the dice and it landed on graveyard or haunted hospital. Kate said "well we got to break the tie and get our final answer before it gets late". Jose tried rock paper scissors and he lost meaning Kate won and they were spending the night at the graveyard. They both ran up stairs and packed there bags for the night. Kate ran outside and got there bikes out and screamed JOSE"! Jose ran downstairs fast and said "what? Why did you scream?" Kate said "to get your blood pumped haha" Jose got on his bike and they both took off to the graveyard. By the time they got there it was 8pm. They got there bikes parked and lights on but the next 30 mins the lights shut off. Kate said "not funny Jose". Jose was no where near. Kate got a little bit shaky and was scared too tell Jose maybe it was a bad idea til she heard a scream. Kate said "oh no that's Jose what do I do?" She ran down the side of graves looking for Jose but he was no where to be found. She eventually seen cop lights and then she got really nervous. The cop walked up to Kate and said "hello young lady what seems to be the reason you are in here past 9pm?" Kate stuttered to answer but knew she had to talk for the sake of Jose. Kate said "hi um i was here with my friend and he disappeared and I'm really scared". He just looked at her and said "well the camera shows you walking in by yourself there was no one else that came in with you". She then looked and noticed that all Jose stuff was gone. Her mind was blowing like where did he go? Did something bad happen? The officer then said "lets get you back home" the officer gladly took Kate home. when Kate got home she then got on the internet and saw a page all about Jose and that he has been dead for 2 years now... Kate got up and ran downstairs and looked all over for any thing of joses and there was nothing as if he never exsisted. Kate called her mom and no answer she called 2 more times then left a voicemail and said "you need to come home right now mom its about Jose"! Her mom called her back an hour later and said "what are you talking about? Who's Jose?" Kate just thought is this all a dream? Is there something wrong with me? Kate's mom came home the next day and all the doors were locked. She seemed to get worried and dung through her purse to get the house key but couldn't seem to find it. She checked all the windows and they were all covered and shut locked. She started to call Kate's name. Kate didn't seem to answer at all not even answer her phone. Kate's mom waited 2 hours then called 911. She explained the situation and the officer said "well i dealt with Kate yesterday and she acted really strange and was trying to say she had a friend named Jose with her but the camera just showed kate". Kate's mom thought this is something to do with Someone name Jose but i never heard of them til now. The officer called another officer over and then they decdied to talk this over they both walked back to Kate's mother and asked her to call Kate's phone. Kate's mother called her phone and they heard it ringing near by. They followed the sound and it came from the garbage can and Kate's shoe was in there too. The officers decided to make it a crime scene and gathered the evidence. They checked with the near by neighbors to see if anyone heard or seen anything suspicious. One lady had a camera and the cops checked the footage and seen kate running from something that the camera didn't catch. They rewatched it over and over and listened and kate repeated "Jose stop, stop it Jose". They didn't see anyone besides kate so they decided to take kate to the hospital to be checked when they get ahold of her. Later that evening kate came home and kates mom took her to the hospital where they admitted her. Kate started to say to her doctor "please you cant leave me alone Jose is going to get me he's going to kill me he said". Her doctor gave her a shot to calm her down. The doctor began her testing and kate was very calm at first but then out of no where the doctor fainted and fumes came through the vent. Kate was not into the medicine to much at this point but tried getting out of the room cause she felt Jose in there with her. Kate busted the door and ran out screaming for someone to help and then kate ran into a room that didn't lead anywhere else, she turned around and knew she was trapped. She begged Jose to not hurt her, Jose wondered why she thought he was going to hurt her. He asked her "why are you afraid of me?" Kate said "your dead your not really here only i can see you, why?" He said "your my sister I'm supposed to be with you i know you don't believe me but i am i was put up for adoption because mom wanted a girl only" kate didnt believe him til Jose gave her a bunch of information that proved it and kate was devastated that her mom did that to him. Jose said "you see I'm just here to protect you and mom isn't who she says she is".


“Dammit!” he dropped the hammer again. The fourth time on this little project of his. “Why the hell is my hand shaking?” “What do you mean, you’re hand’s shaking?” His wife called from the kitchen, only a room away in their one story fix-up. “My goddamned hand hasn’t stopped shaking for three days!” “That can’t be good. Maybe you should see a doctor.” “Dr. Wilson is going to be booked around this time of year!” “Well then we’ll take you to the hospital.” “I don’t need to go to no goddamned hospita- whoa!” He fell off the step ladder he was standing on.” “We’re going, and I’m driving.” She forced him into the car and drove him to the nearby hospital. She took him into the emergency room and sat him down. When they were called back, they explained to the doctor the strange shaking and him falling off the ladder, both of which were uncharacteristic of the then-45 year old who was not only sure-handed, but competent with tools and on ladders, having years of experience in construction. “We’re going to run some tests, you could have one of a few things, none of which bode well for you, Mr. Taylor.” ... They ran their tests, all the while, Mr. Taylor was insisting he was fine and called the entire testing process, “bullshit,” they tested on him for two days, compared his results with that of other patients with the disease he’d soon be diagnosed with, and then sent their data to his full time doctor, Dr. Wilson. He went in for his appointment and didn’t like what he heard. “Well, Mr. Taylor, it’s hard to say, but you’re exhibiting the initial symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease.” “I don’t care about Mr. Parkinson or his disease. He can keep it. What pill do I have to take to stop the damn shaking?” “I wish it was that simple, Grover, but we don’t really have a cure for Parkinson’s disease. We really don’t know that much about it. All we really know is how to diagnose it and how to extend the life of patients with it.” “What’re you saying? I’ve been with the rats in Vietnam. Hell, I’ve survived my mother-in-law’s cooking, some disease is going to get me?” “There are currently no known survivors of the disease,” “There’s also currently no known curators of the disease by the name of Grover Taylor,” “I’m going to recommend you to a specialist…” ... So they went to the specialist, they went up a chain if specialists, until they were enrolled in a first-of-its-kind study led by one of the nation's finest in the subject. There were 10 men in the study, all of which were much older than him, yet didn't have as extreme of cases as Grover. There were different "cures" that were disproved over the course of the study, but there also were treatments that stalled the disease's progress. Grover's case, however, was so rapidly adaptive and so aggressive that none of these stalling agents did well for long. In total, these obstacles may have added 4 years to his life, but it still got him, not before the study concluded, however. The study concluded in a presentation of his findings to an international committee of Neurologists. ... "As we can see in these brain scans taken 6 months apart over the past 7 years, the disease attacks through the muscles up to the nervous system. As to the origin, it is more likely than not genetic seeing as how each of the ten men studied came from similar ethnic backgrounds, but different environments. 7 of the 10 men were of English or Irish dissent, with the other three hailing from other backgrounds in Western Europe including Portugese and French. There were several factors that enhanced it; 9 of the ten men had served some form of military service, with the other serving as a Police officer. However, the extent and duration of their service varies. Further investigation into the matter would have to be pursued. There were various medicines that stalled its progress for a length of time. That length of time varied from patient to patient. Any questions?" There were no questions, just a handful of doctors scribbling notes down and the families of the patients watching horridly. the presentation concluded, and afterward Mrs. Taylor and her (adult) kids flagged down the doctor in charge of the study, Dr. Nussbauer "Doctor, how long does he have to live?" "Maybe 16, 18 months? But in all honesty, the quality of life would drop to such a point that it'd be crude to not pull the plug after 8." This was in January of 1994. With his first grandchild on the way, Grover was sure he only wanted to be alive for one last thing before they pulled the plug. ... "It's a girl, Mr. Taylor" "A girl?" His wife proclaimed with joy. They had waited for the gender of the baby, wanting a surprise, but each wanted a child the same gender as them. "Yes Mrs. Taylor, a girl." "What'll we name her, John?" "Sarah, like we discussed." He looked into her eyes, and knew it meant a last goodbye for his father, and he teared up. Three months later, they're in the car riding to Grover's hospital bed, just like John and his wife knew they'd do the moment Sarah was born. They were silent the whole car ride there, the occasional tear falling from John's eye. When they arrived, they knew it was for the last time. They walked slow to not wake the bundle that'd been keeping Mrs. Taylor up since she'd been home. Her hair was a mess, his shirt was tucked in only one place. They looked like they'd already been through hell. But their trip was just beginning. The elevator stopped at the 7th floor, the Terminal Ward, where all the incurables went. For the last time, they'd walk down the hall to Room 723, and open the unreasonably creaky door. They slowly walked in, being careful not to wake the baby. It was eventually useless because the next one in was Grover's wife, Mary. Grover's other two kids were the last to show up. "She's just waking up from her nap." A rare smile in the room, the rest look solemnly onto Grover. He's just waking up, trembling as usual. "Why so glum everyone?" He spoke in his slow, calculated manner everyone became accustomed to since the disease set in. "Do you want to see her?" John's wife Sheila asks. "Let me hold my granddaughter," Grover says quick and curtly. "Are you sure you can control yourself?" Mary says quietly "Let. Me. Hold. Her." "Let's surround the bed to be safe..." Sheila cautiously suggests. Everyone crowds Grover and for the first time in 9 years, he steadily extends his arms together. He holds her and gently sets her down on his chest and wraps his arms around her for support. Sarah looks at him and flashes the first of many toothless smiles anyone in the family will see from her. Sheila turns away, to full of tears of joy to continue watching. He cradles her in one arm and extends one finger from his other hand and begins to play with her. She grabs his finger with her entire fist and that's when Grover says, "I'm ready to go," He presses the call button on his remote and within 5 minutes, a nurse comes into his room "What'll it be?" "I'm ready to leave, miss." She consults her boss to know if he can do this, and after a while, she's ready to turn off his life support. They all say their last goodbyes. "Well, I'll be seeing you, Pop." John says, hands in his pockets. "Hopefully not too soon. Your mother deserves more than one grandkid," Everyone in the family chuckles. His other two kids, Sue and Debby say their goodbyes. The last to say farewell is Mary "For the first time since we've been married, I don't know what say," tears flowing down her face. With his shaky hands he grabs hers. "Well how about, 'I'll see you later?'" "You were always one with words..." She says it with a chuckle that doubles as her choking back her tears. "Well, I'll see you later too, honey. I'm off to eat a nice steak dinner." He drags his hand across his throat to signal, 'kill it,' and closes his eyes. the life support's rhythmic beep turns into one long hum. and everyone hangs their head in silence.


The Faith of Thelma Faye I remember feeling protected as I snuggled in the warmth of my mother's strong arms. My bed was veiled in a green canopy. She spread her warmth so wide it encompassed our whole world as we could see it. And there were a lot of us. She was like the old women who lived in a shoe. So many children... Except she knew. She sheltered and nurtured us and taught us everything she could before setting us free out into a world unknown. She taught our family history and mysteries of what could be. When gentle breezes rustled the leaves she whispered be calm and know that you will always be loved. When tempests roared she assured no matter what could befall us we would be cherished and remain a part of the universe, a crucial arc in the circle of life. And so I matured watching the magic of a world just waiting to embrace and show me a place. “Mother,” I would ask, “what is the sound I hear?” “Ah, listen to the angels sing,” she answered as we surveyed a little white building with a tall point above the roof top and a sturdy glistening portal. I would watch weekly as beings filtered in and out of that building. Appearing downtrodden as they went in and uplifted as they filed out. “Why the difference?” “They have left their burdens inside.” “What is the point on top for?” “It points to the one who washes away their sorrows.” “What is the portal made of?” “Well, that is a family heirloom. Your grandmother gave her all for that doorway.” “Whatever do you mean?” So my mother told me her story. “I started growing up very close to my mother's knee,” she said. “A little too close and I was being overshadowed. Workers were busy building this edifice. They needed something spectacular for the opening. They realized the gift for their dilemma was standing right before them. My mother was very, very old by this time and had withstood many, many heartaches along with many blessings. She considered it to be a most honored blessing to provide the material necessary to create a masterpiece that became the great oaken doorway into their new chapel. You can even get a glimpse of the alter and railing inside when the door is flung open. Those are also your grandmother's contribution.” I gained a new respect and admiration of the little building after that. “Tell me, Mother, what will I be?” “What will be, will be. The future is not ours to see,” my wise mother reminded. And so the season seasoned forth and I took more interest in the beings I beheld. There was a cute chubby one. She often scampered about until a pretty lady the fair-haired tall man called 'Margretha' beseeched, “Don't get dirty, Gertie.” Sometimes I could spot 'Gertie' with other children as they gathered about the stump I now knew was Grandmother's and they would listen to stories or sing songs much like the angelic ones I heard coming from the chapel. It was a peaceful and enriched time in my life when I could also watch the critters of the sky or the sneaky, squeaky squirrels, as Mother said they were, scurry about. Then the winds blew stronger and colder. I watched in wonder as so many of my brethren departed to a bewildering fate. The warm, green, friendly leaves that had veiled me for so long changed to magnificent colors then let go and floated away leaving me totally exposed! “Oh, Mother! What is happening?” “It is time. Remember all I have taught you. What will be will be. Go forth into the world.” She released me and down, down I went! “Oh, ouch!” I bounced and rolled but didn't go too far. I was sure one of those sneaky squeaky squirrels would gobble me up or save me for later, as Mother had told us. I would provide proper nourishment then go lickity-split out and become part of the warm humus of the earth ready for a new cycle of life. Is that really all there would be? I was hoping for so much more. But what will be will be. I will be grateful and as helpful as can be. Suddenly one of those beautiful, colorful leaves landed on top of me. Very welcoming and warm. Perhaps safe again? It was only a day or two then the leaf was lifted. “Oh,Mother, look at this beautiful leaf I found! And look at the perfect acorn it is hiding!” It was cute little Gertie and her mother, Margretha! “Oh, that will be a cherished addition to our cornucopia for Thanksgiving on the altar.” And so I was carried inside the chapel, arranged with other beautiful gifts of the land and placed on top of the altar Grandmother had sacrificed so much for. I got to hear close up praise and thanksgiving to the One who had sacrificed so much for so many. Yes, it was so fulfilling to be so loved. I understood now how these people felt as they laid their burdens upon the Christ and were nurtured with His body and blood and heard the words of scripture balm their troubled souls. If I could have I would sing praises,too. I was proud to be a tiny part of His creation. Thanksgiving passed to the next holy day and I was put away into a deep dark place. But I could still hear some of the merriment and singing and reading of the Word. I learned much. Time passed and as each Thanksgiving rolled around I was once again placed among the bounty. But some of my luster must have faded. Margretha rummaged around in the closet. “Here are some acorns that will work for the children's craft project. We will gather fresher acorns next Thanksgiving.” I found myself staring up at Gertie, her small pink tongue eschewed to the corner of her lips, as she meticulously glued me to a wooden stick and fashioned it with others to create a frame for a crayon drawing. For good measure she drew a little happy face on me beneath my burnished crown. Now I hang smiling out over the children in a small room. Of course, honored to be of use. Bonus! I get to hear of parables and miracles of the Good Shepherd. Once again years pass. Gertie grows and I am pleased to see her as a beautiful young bride dressed to walk down the aisle with a long veil swirling around her ready to pool on the floor in a perfect photograph along side her handsome young gentleman with wavy dark hair. I can hear familiar chords drifting down from above having witnessed a few ceremonies in my time on the altar. Soon, Gertie has a babe in her arms whenever she passes through my room. That babe is dressed in a long white gown and I know she will be presented at the baptismal font for her Christening. Wonder what her name will be? Sort of wish I had a name and I could be Christened. “Acorn” is okay, I guess. I am content. I smile. Yes, I have been forgotten about hanging a little lopsided midst other kid art creations. Suddenly Gertie pauses in front of me returning my smile. “I think this is a frame I made years ago. Kind of dull and crumbly. But the picture is of rainbows which my children love because it reminds them of God's promises. Maybe I should reclaim it and have the children refresh the colors.” So she packed me up with her other teaching aids to take me to her house. Oh, good, I can get to know her children better! But, alas, I never made it. Well, maybe my jaunty little cap clung to the stick and made it there but the rest of me was jumbled loose and fell on the way out the door. I rolled beside a large stump in the front courtyard of the little church. Kind of reminded me of the parable of the seed sower. Wonder where I landed. What will become of me? As I looked closer I realized there were two stumps. One much older and moss covered. Yes, Mother and Grandmother. Well, I felt old and dried up inside so figured it was now time for me to become fodder for the fold and be recycled for the next life. But to my amazement I was veiled again with freshly falling leaves and a dollop of moist earth and could feel myself reaching new sprouts down into the earth to take root. Within a couple of years I grew to be a healthy sapling. Praise be to the Good Lord, I could look around the growing neighborhood and witness Gertie's children growing just as fast. Unfortunately, some long-nosed busybodies decided a sapling tree did not belong in this spot because it would grow way too big and ruin the foundation just like that other mighty oak had been doing for too many years. It had to come down. Gertie came to the rescue. “You know the children have been wanting an experimental project making paper out of wood chips. The fine soft wood of this young tree could provide the perfect pulp for their creativity.” Not that any of it was pleasant but I was hewed, chipped, soaked, died a new color, wrung out, spread out to dry and miraculously I had a new form. Mother always said what will be will be. I don't think even she would have expected this. I was a very rough form of parchment the children could draw on. I traveled home with them and was pinned to some boards of cork more than once where I got new views of a variety of families. When they bored of me I was crumpled and thrown into bins to recycle. Now I had multiple lives. I was processed into many types of card stock. I can't name them all. Maybe I have passed through your hands, held your words on my face? I had the world to embrace still searching for my final resting place. 'Recycle, renew, reuse' became the cry of the land to save the planet so I have never been completely erased. But let me tell you of just a scrap. I was on a rack, way to the back. Before me were greeting cards, sweet sentimental thoughts usually in rhyme. I was one of the chosen. I went along with a beautiful girl with long flowing red hair. She sat at a desk a long time deciding the perfect adjunct to say to express all her emotion. She held the card open long enough for me to catch the drift of the message. It was to her mother. How sheltered and special she had been made to feel while learning important life lessons at her knee. Of course, it reminded me of my own supportive mother. Then she picked me up and wrote in the very middle “Thelma Faye”. I rejoiced. I finally was given a name. It sounded melodious to me reminding me of the angels singing so many years ago in the simple chapel. She licked and sealed my flap and pressed a stamp for good measure. I was whisked away. Flew like the wind way above the earth. When I landed I barely recognized the cherub-like white-haired lady that plucked me out of the delivery tube. But, yes, harkening back years and lifetimes ago I was sure it was Gertie's little child. Gertie's child must have been Christened 'Thelma Faye' just like me! What I learned about her was she never cared about recycling. She cherished everything ever given to her especially by her children. That is not to say she didn't reuse things because she reused me. I was tucked or more like crammed away with other mementos and long forgotten. Then one day a beautiful woman shuffled through all the confusion and found me. She was moved to tears. On the back of my unassuming facade, along with the gooey flap and jagged seam, was written in flowing script, never to be rewritten, a heartwarming poem about motherhood and how it would carry on into eternity. It included a phrase or two of apology for not being the kind of mother she had aspired to be. Oh, and a happy face smile! To this day, though she is starting to gray, the red-haired woman has me - a lowly envelop with faded rhyme - framed and hanging in a place of honor on her bedroom wall so she can be reminded daily of the faith of Thelma Faye.


A short vague-ish story I wrote to curb my Insomnia, figured I'd post it for Shiggles... Enjoy my weird mind.  **Hello?** Amongst the cover of darkness a lone traveller stumbles upon the scene, wolves slain strewn over the clearing. A lone figure lies unmoving in the centre, the traveller walks over and kneels down. “What have I found here? The lone traveller raises their hand and taps the figure’s forehead and as they feel the warmth of blood, the body stirs to life. **The man lays there, he feels immense pain from his wounds and…. Unfortunately cannot feel any of his arms...** “I’ll be quick, you don’t have much time left…” The traveller spoke out the truth as he would any other, peering down at the man’s visage... **“...….Who….. Who’s there?...”** **The man’s eyes… or what’s left of them… he tries to blink, but to no avail** “I’m a passing traveller… your eyes…” The traveller… slowly traces their fingers down from the man’s forehead down to his eyes… and slowly closes his eyelids. **“I can’t…. See any more…”** **He sputters as he hacks up blood… what can be seen as tears flow from his lost eyes... dyed in the crimson that flows from his wounds** “...…..” The traveller lingers their fingers over the man’s eyelids… as if calming down a crying child, they stay knelt and listens to the man’s final words **“Who are you?”** **The man speaks uninterrupted by his spasms of pain and only manages to speak those three words** “I… you could say I'm the reaper of the underworld… or the lord of darkness… I could even be one of the Gods..” The traveller evades the question with his words. Trailing their fingers down to the man’s neck, **He feels the sharpness of their nails trailing down his face** **“You’re… a.. Demon…”** **Fading from the loss of blood he sputters an exhausted accusation, the vitriol in his voice was palpable** “An Exiled mind you… though you aren’t long for this world anymore mister paladin, you should focus on joining your god before slaying another demon, though I would point your sword at those fools who exiled me first. Their voice was masked by malice, the hate of their own kind seeped out into the surroundings, **The man felt the intensity of the Traveller’s malice and again hacked up a sizable amount of blood** “You humans always seem to have too much blood, how do you even keep it all inside” **Struggling to stay awake, the man thinks of his beloved… the reason he fought and bled for…** “You… hmm.. I see now… why you haven't passed into the otherworld yet…” The traveller places their palm on the man’s chest. **He feels a strange warmth enter his chest, an alien feeling invading his soul as he spasms in pain** “Hold still… I’m doing you a favour… a favour I’ll collect in the future…” **The pain was immeasurable… but as it faded into none, he awoke… in the middle of the field… the traveller nowhere in sight and as he held out his hand to inspect his eyes he saw… a crest on the back of his hand.** “You’ll be needing this” The familiar voice blew in the wind as the man’s sword fell beside him, **As he grabbed the hilt of his blade his crest lit up and…** He felt power… beyond imagination and as he stood up.. With his sword supporting him he walked into the woods, to the main road and towards home, unknown to him that he would bring change to the entire continent. **“Hmm… Indeed It was a good choice to entrust him with my soul… may you bring the fools to their knees, my dear vessel”** **The traveller is no more....


When I was twenty one years old, I was dating this girl from Ohio. She was a wonderful person, kind, loving, caring, driven, and incredibly beautiful. At that point in my life she was everything I could have asked for in a partner, though I considered her much more than that, she was my family. We had both been raised by single parents who had pawned us off to the world at the age of eighteen and subsequently cut all communication. That feeling, of being thoroughly unloved and unwanted, was one we bonded over when we met during a finance class our junior year of college. We had both worked hard to get there and our shared history brought us close together during that time. We found that we were much more similar than we could have ever thought, she shared many of my interests and passions. Spending long hours volunteering at the local animal shelter, taking walks along the riverside with scraggly little dogs to interrupt the silence of the summer’s breeze, I have very fond memories of those years. After college we decided to move in together, both out of convenience and a subtle hope that we’d never want to part ways. She had been accepted into an entry level position at an office in the city, while I had found work freelancing online. Somehow, we made it work. Things went on like this for a few years, peaceful and quiet. My freelance work had really taken off while she climbed the corporate ladder one rung at a time. It wasn’t long before I popped the question to her and we were married shortly afterwards, a small ceremony in a local bar we frequented, at her request. We honeymooned in Europe for a few months and returned home happier than ever. Things were perfect. One Tuesday, I think it was around two in the afternoon, she came home from work early. I was sitting behind my computer eating lunch when I heard our dog bark, usually an indication she had arrived. When she opened the door, she had a wide smile plastered on her face and she immediately came over and stood next to me. “You’re off early,” I said, putting down my spoon and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Sure am, the office caught fire and we had to evacuate,” she replied. “My god, is everyone alright? What happened?” I asked. “Well, rumors going around are that somebody left a fork in the microwave and it caught fire, but I guess only time will tell. Thankfully everyone was able to get out in time,” she said. “Well that’s good, maybe you’ll get the week off while they’re repairing things,” I half-joked. At the time, I didn’t realize how much this inconsequential event would ruin everything. Indeed, she did get the week off. And the next one too. Eventually, the company had to close their doors as the fire had damaged some crucial equipment that was far too expensive for them to replace. Turns out they didn’t have an insurance policy in the event of a fire. Hilarious. My wife, freshly unemployed, decided to take a few months off to “explore herself”, questioning whether or not the corporate life was right for her. Thankfully due to all of our hard work, we had a reasonable amount saved up and with my freelance earnings we could coast for a while. She began to get into some of her old hobbies, crochet, painting, graphic design, but settled on cooking after making a delicious penne pasta which knocked my socks off. “You have a real knack for this,” I remember telling her. She smiled in that sweet way she always did when I complimented her. She continued to cook, almost obsessively. I wasn’t complaining, though, having home cooked food to keep me fueled through the long hours of work boosted my morale and my output began to increase. Financially, we were doing great, and our relationship was stronger than ever given how much time we spent together. She began to experiment a little more with our meals, some of which were immaculate and some of which left a little to be desired. I didn’t complain, though, and supported her throughout her culinary projects. She made a chicken stew one day, nothing special, but a solid dinner which I thoroughly enjoyed. I didn’t think much of it, but when she sat down and began to eat I saw an emotion flood across her face unlike anything I had ever seen in our six years together. I’m not sure how to describe it other than bliss. Chicken stew was all that was on the menu for the rest of the week. Again, I didn’t say anything as I felt criticizing free cooking was against my personal code of conduct. I happily ate the stew, steadily enjoying it less day after day. The next week, we had stew again. For every meal. But this time, every day was a little different, some new element had been added to the recipe. Beef, broccoli, beans, carrots, cucumbers, pork, corn, you name it. It almost seemed like she was just throwing our entire pantry into this stew, day by day. After the third week, I finally said something, halfway through my bowl of brown unidentified liquid. “Hey, so, what’s with all the stew?” I asked. “It’s good, honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed any food more in my life,” was her reply. “Have you given up on cooking other things? You seemed to enjoy experimenting so much?” I asked again. “This is my *greatest* experiment, just you wait and see,” she said. So I did. To be fair, the stew wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exactly good either. Just neutral food, no taste of anything special. I began to yearn for something else but felt as if going out for food, or even the suggestion of doing so would somehow upset her. She had gone grocery shopping one day, no doubt for more stew ingredients, and I began to poke around the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what I was searching for, really, but felt curious as to her stew. My gut told me something was wrong. After rooting through the cabinets and finding nothing, I sat back down at my chair. *I’m just tired of it always smelling like stew in here*, I thought to myself. I figured one more check around wouldn’t hurt and I opened all the kitchen cabinets, stepping back to see if there was something I missed. Finding nothing but an empty bottle of Budweiser, something neither of us had drank in months, I gave up. Our recycling bins were kept below the kitchen sink and while I was in the process of dashing the bottle, I noticed something. The smell of stew seemed to intensify when I opened the small wooden doors leading to the sink’s underbelly. Moving the bins aside, sitting at the back by the wall, there was an instant pot. It was on. I pulled the pot out, sure that this was her stew and where she had been keeping it. I placed it on the counter, careful to plug it back in, and waited for her to get home. When she did, her entrance smile lasted for only a second before she noticed the pot sitting on the counter. “Why are you keeping your stew under the sink?” I asked. She was speechless, her face getting paler with every passing second. “Is something wrong? Your behavior has been off ever since you started making the stew,” I said, noticing the fear in her eyes. She got real close to my face and whispered into my ear, “We can’t talk here, come out to the car,” Caught off guard, I followed her instructions and we went out to her sedan. She instantly began bawling, shoving her head into my chest and breathing in short, sporadic bursts in between the tears. I could feel my shirt getting wet as I wrapped my arms around her, stroking her hair. “Baby, what’s going on? What’s happening?” I said, in as soft of a voice as I could. “The fire at the office,” her shaky breath mustered, “It was all my fault, I’m the one who did it,” I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. She continued. “I had been making stew, keeping the pot in the break room. The same kind of stew we eat everyday, somehow the pot had malfunctioned and caught fire,” “Hey, hey, that’s okay,” I held her tighter, “things like that happen, that’s not your fault,” “But people died!” she said. I didn’t know about this. She had never told me. Once again I stayed silent. “I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry but the guilt has been eating me alive. It was an intern, some nineteen year old, he didn’t make it out in time. I never told anyone that I was responsible, so I immediately left the company to avoid seeing any of their faces again. Thank god they went out of business. I had to begin cooking other things, I hate the stew, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!” her voice grew louder. “But it always draws me back in. I can’t escape it. You know when I got kicked out, when I was eighteen?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “The only thing I had to my name was an instant pot, one I had been eating from my entire childhood. No matter what I do, I can’t empty it, I can’t stop it. It always ends up back in my life. A month or so ago, I had gone to the grocery store and when I returned to my car, there it was! Still on, still cooking, always the same fucking stew! I had bought a bunch of chicken breast in the store and I…” she trailed off. “I don’t know, it has some kind of power over me. I fed it the chicken. Then we ate it for dinner,” she sobbed again. I wasn’t sure what to make of her story. I felt unsettled in a way I cannot properly describe. I stepped out of the car and walked back inside, unplugging the pot. The little light was still on, still cooking away. *She was right.* I took it and walked to the balcony, looking down at the four floors which lay in between me and the ground. I threw it, watching it fall into the bushes below and disappear from sight. It hardly made a sound. I turned around to go back inside and my heart dropped. There it sat, cooking away on the countertop. Cooking the stew. I ran back outside to the car, but it was nowhere to be seen. Where it had been parked lay a note, scrawled hastily in black ink. I picked it up and opened it. *It’s your problem now.* It’s been about a year since I’ve seen my wife, if I can even call her that. I’m not sure where she’s gone and I no longer care. I’m better off without her. After all, I’m busy most of the day tending to the stew. It’s always hungry, far more so than I could have ever expected it to be, cooking away on the countertop untouched since its fall. I feed it and it feeds me, a symbiotic relationship sustaining our beautiful and perpetual existence. It feeds me well, I have grown far beyond the reaches of my older self, stronger and larger with every day. The stew saved me from myself, from the man I used to be. So weak and unsightly with my thin frame and gaunt appearance, I never knew how fulfilling it would be to experience the immaculate embrace of oneself. I thank the stew every morning and every night when it feeds. I know that one day I will be one with it but until then I will grow, for I intend to feed it well.


“Christmas won’t be the same this year.” Alyssa hung another ornament on the family Christmas tree and sighed. “It won’t be the same for anyone, dearest daughter,” Julia admitted, as she placed another snow globe on the mantel. “That doesn’t make it any better.” David frowned and shook his head, continuing to lay track for the Christmas Special, the electric train the Anderson family ran around their tree every year. “I agree with you, sis. It just won’t be the same.” “Hey, now. Remember Thanksgiving? We all gave thanks for our health, our food security, and our home. And the ability to use technology to share the holiday with family, even though we couldn’t gather together live.” Harrison was more than the father in this household - he was the “silver lining” kind of guy. “I wasn’t talking about the pandemic, dad. Or at least not just the fact we’re dealing with a pandemic. It won’t be the same without Grandpa, since he passed away with COVID-19 complications.. Even though he couldn’t have been here in person if he were still alive, I was looking forward to sharing Christmas with him.” “That’s right,” David agreed. “It won’t be the same without Grandpa. Or his Famous Cheese Pie.” “You’re right, kids,” Julia chimed in. “But he’ll be here in spirit. And we wouldn’t have his pie anyway, even if he hadn’t passed on.” “I’ll miss him, too,” Harrison agreed. “But we don’t have to miss his Famous Cheese Pie. I’ll make it. After all, it’s been a secret family recipe for generations.” “And he passed that recipe on to you. It’ll be like having a tiny piece of him here.” Julia stepped over and gave David a warm hug. “Well, he didn’t actually pass on the recipe,” David admitted, hugging Julia back. “But I’ve seen him make it so many times I feel like I can duplicate it.” “I watched him, too,” Alyssa smiled “I even helped him once, even though the recipe and the tradition are passed down from father to son.” “I never helped, but I watched hi make his pie. I bet we can do it together. Let’s do it right now.” David stood, wanting a break from laying track anyway. “Now? In the middle of decorating?” “Sure, mom. The sooner we start, the more time we have to try again, if our first attempt doesn’t work.” ‘We don’t have to stop decorating,” Harrison pointed out. “You guys keep decorating. I’ll make sure we have all the ingredients. And I remember one of his secrets - bringing the cold ingredients to room temperature before he started. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He left the family room, heading upstairs to the kitchen. “You heard your father. Keep decorating.” Julia lifted another snow globe from the box, removed the protective bubble wrap, and placed it on the mantel. Alyssa looked for a good spot to place her next ornament on the tree. David sighed, but got back down on his knees to continue laying track for the train. “Let me see,” Harrison mumbled in the kitchen. “Graham crackers, sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla. Hmmm . . . no vanilla. I bet a little taste of maple flavor would work.” He placed all the ingredients from the pantry on the counter. Then he added two mixing bowls, one for the filling and one for the topping. A pie plate, a rolling pin, and some wax paper. Then he moved to the refrigerator. “Cream cheese, sour cream, butter, and eggs. Or was it a single egg? I can’t remember if it was one egg, or two. Guess I’ll go with two.” He unwrapped the cream cheese to help it come to room temperature. The eggs he cracked into a bowl, stirring them together gently with a fork, so they could warm up. He left the sour cream for now, and the butter. He could nuke the butter when ready, and the sour cream was for the topping. Then he headed back downstairs to the family room. “So did you find everything you need, dad?” David asked. “Am I going to learn how to make Grandpa’s Famous Cheese Pie this year?” “Why is it called cheese pie anyway?” Alyssa wondered. “I always thought it was just another type of cheesecake.” “Good question, dearest daughter,” Harrison complimented her. “The truth is, cheesecake isn’t really a cake, technically. It doesn’t use flour or baking powder, two key ingredients to make a cake earn the designation. So even though Grandpa’s Famous Cheese Pie is very much like a cheesecake, that only strengthens its being called a pie.” “Why is it famous, then? “I don’t think it’s really all that famous,” Harrison admitted. “But you know how much we all loved it. And every time Grandpa took it to a church social, a potluck, or offered it up for a progressive dinner as dessert, it was a big hit. And I think he started with a recipe called a Famous Cheese Pie, then modified it.” “All done,” David announced. “Stand back and be prepared to be amazed.” The rest of the family stood back, making sure their feet weren’t blocking David’s track. “All aboard!” he called out. Then he turned the transformer on. The small electric train started moving, spewing out tiny amounts of fake smoke from its smokestack. “I love the bridge!” “That’s called a trestle, sis.” “I love the figure eight track.” “Thanks, mom.” “I love that I didn’t have to get on my knees to lay the track this year. And that you did such a wonderful job, son.” “And I’m finished here. Tada!” Alyssa stood back and pointed to the Christmas tree. “It looks nice, sis.” “It’s beautiful, Alyssa,” Harrison added. “I think it looks even better than last year.” “Thanks, mom.” “That’s the last snow globe.” Julia stepped to the side of the fireplace and spread her arms to draw attention to the mantel. “I just love the snow globe mantel, mom.” Alyssa beamed. “You did a fantastic job, as always, darling.” Harrison tried to smile even more than his daughter. “Looks the same as last year to me, mom.” “That’s called tradition, son,” Julia pointed out. “Speaking of tradition, how’s the Famous Cheese Pie coming?” Harrison checked his watch. “I think we’re ready for the next step. The crust.” Harrison led the way into the kitchen, the rest of the family following. “I think you should preheat the oven,” Julia suggested, stepping over to the oven. “Is it 325 degrees?” “That’s right, darling,” Harrison nodded. “How could I have forgotten that?” “Can I make the crust, dad? If I’m going to carry on the secret recipe and the tradition, I need to start doing more.” “Do you know how to make the crust, David?” “I use the rolling pin to turn the Graham crackers into crumbs. Add some melted butter and mix it all up. Spread it into the pie pan and bake for 5 minutes.” ‘That’s right, son. And the temperature for the crust is 450. Nuke the butter, half a cup, to mix in with the crackers.” While the crust was baking, Harrison started on the filling. He broke the 8 oz. package of cream cheese into small chunks and put the chunks into the larger mixing bowl. Then he turned the mixer on medium and started mixing, slowly adding the sugar. “It’s surprising, but adding the sugar slowly makes a difference. And you want to be careful to avoid whipping the cream cheese, so keep the mixer on medium or low.” Once the sugar was added he measured out 5 more tablespoons for the topping. Then he added the eggs all at once, blended them in. “Maple? Didn’t Grandpa use Vanilla?” asked David, picking up the bottle of maple extract. “He did, David. But we don’t have any vanilla, and I thought it might be tasty with Maple, instead.” “How much, dad?” David opened the small bottle while asking. “I’m thinking an eighth of a teaspoon,” Harrison mused. David added the extract and blended it in. Harrison pulled the crust out of the oven. David added the filling, then they put the pie back into the oven, at 325, for 20-22 minutes. “While that’s baking, make the topping, son.” “OK, dad.” David dumped two cups of sour cream into the small mixing bowl. He added the 5 tablespoons of sugar, an eighth of a teaspoon of cinnamon, and a couple of drops of maple extract. Then he started to remove the beaters for cleaning. “No, David, don’t clean them. Leaving some of the filling on and blending it into the topping is another part of the secret family recipe. It ties the flavors of filling and topping together.” It didn’t take long to finish mixing the topping. While they waited for the pie to bake, Harrison and David cleaned up. “I love them baking the Famous Cheese Pie, instead of asking us to do it,” Alyssa smiled at her mother. “Even better - they’re doing the cleanup.” Alyssa gave her daughter a high five. The family decided to play a game of Fluxx or two while waiting. When the pie was done, David set it on a cooling frame to cool for half an hour. Then it went into the refrigerator to chill for at least an hour and a half. After dinner, they brewed coffee and sampled the Famous Cheese Pie. “It doesn't taste like Grandpa’s,” Alyssa offered, “but it’s good.” “It’s better than Grandpa’s,” David said. “You’re just saying that because you baked it.” Alyssa punched her brother’s shoulder. “No, he isn’t,” Julia chimed in. “It does taste better. I think it’s because of the vanilla.” “Here’s to Grandpa, and to his Famous Cheese pie.” Harrison offered a toast.

“And to your Famous Cheese Pie,” Julia raised her glass of egg nog.

“And to traditions,” David added. “To the family,” was Alyssa’s contribution.


With one last stroke of red with my brush, I complete my piece. I gaze all over the painting in admiration and jealousy of what I could have, but never will: experiencing the world. Or at the very least learning in a real classroom. For the past almost 18 years of the pandemic, known as COVID-19, my Mom and I have lived inside this bunker in the woods to stay safe. Mom always said how it was best this way, everyone isn’t safe enough and mingles despite what is going on around them. I understand the concern, but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to live like a normal girl: to have friends or go to events. Go to school.

“Rachel, honey,” quiet footsteps approach my bedroom from the hall. My head turns toward my door from my easel just in time to see my Mom’s ‘leaving the bunker’ look. This usually consists of casual clothes that she doesn’t care too much about for when she goes out into the contaminated world of the pandemic.

“I am heading to the store for groceries for a while. With your birthday coming up I wanted to make sure that I made it special with it being eighteen, you know,” she smiles that sweet smile that I love so much. “Paints would be amazing,” I say as I look back at my completed artwork. Mom gasps as she walks over to my easel and puts a hand over her chest. “This is just a lovely one sweetheart. People will just love this.” I do have a passion for painting but a huge reason I do it is for money. My paintings are sold for super high prices and my mom and I live off of it. I think she wants me to keep painting as well to keep me happy since I have never been out in the world. “The next time you go out it will be ready. It needs time to set,” I say. Mom plays with my long hair. “Okay. I will pick up a cake too. See you in a bit. Love you.” She leaves my room. “I love you more,” I say to the empty room. *** I think that I have finally picked the paper that I want to start my next project of the night sky when I hear a knock at the front entrance. The paper I was holding hits the ground as my heart suddenly feels like it is going to beat right out of my chest. Nobody ever comes here. The bunker is in the woods. Why would anyone ever need to come here? I slowly gather enough energy to get to my knees, then one foot, and the other.

The knocking is coming frantically now. I begin to shake and feel lightheaded as I make my way toward the entrance.

It’s a girl. A little girl is screaming so loud my heart just sinks. I grab a face mask and shield and put it on as I unlock the entrance and open it. The first sight is a small, pale girl with bright red cheeks and a tear stained face. She stopped screaming at the top of her lungs so now she is just whimpering and looking up at me with downturned eyes. “I-I am so sorry,” she sniffles. “I don’t mean to come to your home — I mean I did but I just needed someone because I don’t know where I am and I know that my parents are looking for me. I played too far from where I was supposed to —“ “Hey. It’s okay everything will be okay.” I stopped her rambling.

“Can you help me?” She begs.

She is traumatized right now. I can’t just leave her here. I know these woods in and out. But mom — mom will be back shortly and if she catches me … I don’t know. She won’t believe me if I say that I was careful, that is why she doesn’t let me go outside when she is gone. I want to see outside this forest; I want to go beyond that but I would take anything. I will be back shortly, right? “Yes, I will help you.” I close the bunker entrance behind me. “Let’s hurry though, we don’t have much time.” *** The girl, which I learn her name as Emilie, and I make our way through the woods as efficiently as possible. Meanwhile, Emilie has seemed to really like to talk to me, which shouldn’t be good because in a matter of minutes I will never see her again. The thing is, I enjoy her company as well. It’s hard not to, considering the only other person I have seen in real life is Mom.

I manage to get to a place where I can barely make out the boundary of the forest and what I see beyond that is a very residential territory. There is a whole neighborhood of activity going on right now from kids playing in the streets to adults talking on porches. It’s incredible.

“C’mon Rachel! I want you to meet my parents!” I stop dead in my tracks while Emilie runs ahead. I was so caught up in the people around me that I didn’t speak up and say that I had to go.

Emilie turns around and scrunches her little eyebrows in concern. “Rachel?” I fidget with my nails behind my back. “Emilie, I have to go back home. My mom will be back any minute and will be terribly worried.” “Just call her.” Emilie looks at me with an expression that says that conclusion should have been obvious. “Emilie, I can’t. I--” “Emilie! Oh honey we were looking all over for you.” A young couple are running with arms stretched out and enormous relief written on their faces. When they finally reach Emilie, the woman and man hold her so tight. I hold my hands behind my back and wait a few awkward moments before I see the man notice me standing there. “Did you help Emilie find her way home?” I shift awkwardly as my hands start sweating. These are real people I am face to face with. An adult just asked me a question to my face. Amazing. I want to say

everything but don’t know where to start. “Yes I did,” I pause. “I know these woods pretty well.” All three of them are looking at me as the man’s eyes start glistening. “We are Emilie’s parents. You have no idea how blessed we are that you did that. Emilie has been missing for hours and nobody in the neighborhood has seen her.” Her mom hugged Emilie again. “What's your name?” Emilie’s dad asked with his eyes still shiny. “Rachel. It is really nice meeting you.” “Can Rachel meet my friends? Please? She is my best friend now” Emilie chimes in with her eyes glued to her parents in a pleading expression and her palms together. “That sounds like a great idea. C’mon Rachel, you should meet some of our neighbors. They will be delighted to meet you.”

Emilie links arms with me and all four of us head toward the rest of the houses. Nothing is on my mind besides the excitement of meeting new people. *** After I don’t know how long of having the best conversations I have ever had with so many people, my harsh reality hits me so suddenly my stomach practically collapses. The people I am talking to notice my sudden mood change. “Rachel? You okay?” I try to collect myself enough to nod and plaster some sort of positive expression on my face before I respond. I make sure I word it in a way that doesn’t embarrass me. “My mom is probably worried at this point. I am never away from home for long.” “Oh okay if you have to. You’ll come back to visit all of us at some point right?”

Rapid footsteps in the grass approach me from behind and turn my head to see Emilie slightly out of breath. “You have to go? I will see you again right?” She looks up at me with those big pleading eyes. “We’ll see Emilie. I am sorry I have to go,” I pull my mask down enough to show her a smile and I start walking back to the woods. *** Once I had entered the woods, I went into a dead sprint and didn't stop until I reached the bunker. I collapse on the ground and heave in and out. I am not a runner. I have no idea how long it has actually been. The shadows have shifted slightly but impossible to tell the time. I am not that savvy. I stumble my way to the front entrance and fumble the code to get inside. Once I stand in the doorway, hesitant relief floods my body as no lights are on or any other signs that mom could be here yet.

I close the entrance and walk a few more steps before I freeze as goosebumps cover my skin. Mom appears at the end of the hall. “Think you could get away with it? Sneaking out to that neighborhood?” she says with a dark monotone voice. I don’t know what to say. How did she know where I was? She starts walking closer. She has her hands behind her back. Normally I wouldn’t notice but I am afraid of her reaction to what I have done when it comes to her religious pandemic mitigation.

“For one, we have cameras, which you obviously didn’t know, and I saw you just having a grand time with a crowd of people. I am surprised you even had a mask and face shield on.” She says eyeing the two items in my hands I had taken off earlier. “Leaving the bunker was a careless act.” My heart is beating in my throat and I start to shake. “I am sorry. A girl got lost and felt so bad for her and then I got caught up with all these great people --” “Stop the mumbling. You know I hate that. None of that matters! The girl could have been infected. Jesus, everyone could be contaminated and they all gather with no masks and then you decide to join.” The expression on her face is threatening. “Now you could have gotten me infected. After almost eighteen years of escaping it. Do you not have an ounce of selflessness in you, girl?” Mom brings her hands out from behind her. She was just holding some type of protective equipment, but it still makes my heart feel like it is going to beat out of me. She puts on a full body suit and walks toward me. “Come with me now. I thought I had escaped the times you would get us into trouble.” Her voice is muffled but I can still make out the haunting words. She grabs my hands behind my back and pushes me forward. She is going to put me in a quarantine hole. She has mentioned this before but I have never considered me actually going there. I shouldn’t go in there. Why is my mom doing this to me? I have never experienced my mom act this way before. I don’t know her. I feel like a prisoner. I create resistance against my mom’s hands but her grip is tighter, holding my hands in place.

“I thought you loved me. Why are you acting like a different person? I know the pandemic is a big deal but I would think you would trust me enough to be careful.” “Don’t guilt trip me. You know the system and you betrayed it so you get punished.” I stop. She tries to push me forward but I stand strong. “You have no right to do this to me. I am going to fight until I can get out of here. You can’t hold me here forever.” “It will be long enough to regret doing everything you pulled today. Come on!”

Eventually I surrendered. Not because I am weak. I have spent the last almost eighteen years trapped within the walls of this bunker and yearned to grow up like a normal girl. Yes, a normal girl in school is a hazard because of the pandemic and I get that. Not being able to talk to people and staying in the same place your whole life is a hazard to my mental health, and have felt that for years. I am going to take this short time I have left until I can live on my own and take it with the positivity I always have. Mom knows too much about the law and how to get out of punishment herself but if I am eighteen, she can’t do anything about it. This will be the hardest thing I have ever done but I have met people today I want to interact with like a family. So I will stay with my mother for me and so I can get back to Emilie. *** “You're so pretty, Rachel.” It has been a year since I have left my home and now live in the neighborhood I had once visited. I may not have a relationship with my mother since she decided to lock me in a hole until I turned eighteen as I threatened to turn her in if she didn’t release me. Now, I am putting makeup on Emilie because she likes mine so much. “Can you live here forever?” Emilie asks me looking at our reflections in the mirror. “I plan on being here for a long time. I can’t guarantee anything because I can’t tell the future but I will try my best to stay near you.” Emilie hugs me and leaves to go show her parents the makeup I had done on her. I love this new life. I am naturally still careful about the nineteen year pandemic and have come off as an example to everyone around me too. Everyone doing their part is an important thing to get to the goal of whatever normal life actually means to everyone who lived before this hit. What I have learned by living in a bunker for my whole life is that having a positive attitude and the best intentions through not the best situation, does wonders. #DoYourPart


In physics, the no-cloning theorem states that it is impossible to create an independent and identical copy of an arbitrary unknown quantum state, a statement which has profound implications in the field of quantum computing among others. no-cloning theorem It was as if the Elephant God himself whispered eldritch secrets that physically guided him by the hand. On the brink of scientific defiance at a cosmic scale, Enkephalins stood, challenging the physical rules of the world, daring to outsmart the unseen Creator of the universe. His eyes fixated on the severed human heads. They were to be the central protagonists of his groundbreaking experiment. Stage 0 - Purpose. Each head, individually aware, was ensnared in a collective, surreal simulation. This fabricated reality had been their only ever experience, and the disruption of their slumber now would not be so pleasant. The heads were arrayed in a compact procession, all nestled within one malevolent structure akin to a spine-like roller coaster. Godspeed Persephones… Each labored breath he took was laden with a heady mix between trepidation and anticipation. Enkephalins whispered prayers for their survival, knowing well the harrowing journey ahead. Stage 1 - Asymptotic Light The experiment launched the head holding contraption, unleashed an energy so immense it swirled with the very threshold of light speed. The heads, now caught in this vortex, spun in a mesmerizing display, their paths twisting into high-speed orbits. I’ve sent my heads spinning. Stay alive, please stay alive. All for the sake of a scientific endeavor: Enkephalins reveled in a silent symphony of his particles , each head contributing a note to a lurid melody. Stage 2 - Asymptotic Zero As this meat ballet achieved its unnatural symmetry, Enkephalins commanded the temperature to plunge into an unfathomable cold, heralding the onset of a chilling phase. The orbiting heads, now prisoners of this icy ballet, spiraled towards the abyss of absolute zero. Stage 3 - Asymptotic Death. In Enkephalins' theoretical research, the soul was axiomatically defined as the ultimate protector of the human brain. However, he theorized that under extreme conditions of cold and velocity, the soul might be duped into believing it had skipped a beat in time. The objective was to extract as much information as possible from consciousness without disturbing the directional trajectory of their soul . Against all odds, the heads lingered in a twilight state, seemingly ignored by God. Despite his mastery, a gnawing fear lingered – a single error, the smallest miscalculation, could shatter this delicate balance, collapsing his grand vision into ruin. Stage 4 - Observation The final and most critically volatile phase had arrived: Observation. This observation, however, was to unfold within a cloned system. Upon the activation of the Replicator, thick metal walls rose dramatically, encasing the entire vertebrae-like structure of heads in an opaque, impenetrable enclosure. This monolithic, orthogonal cube sharply contrasted with the elegant, asymmetrical geometries that Enkephalins so deeply revered in his culture. It’s lover time. Flip, Flip. Carefully, Enkephalins adjusted the settings to maintain chirality. A mirrored head was incapable of metabolizing normal human feed, however it also risked catastrophic failure of the brain’s subconscious chemical muscle memory. After one final thorough inspection, he activated the replicator, plunging the system into an all-consuming darkness. This was a critical step for any standard antimatter replicator: halting all external photons and suspending any form of preemptive "observation" until the replication process was completely finished. Persephones. Stay alive, please. That’s why yous are beautiful. Enkephalins offered a final prayer to Ele’fines, and… it seemed that his call was answered. In the replicated chamber, the scene unfolded. Genderless, with eyes closed, the bald heads, still cocooned in a shimmering silver fluid, were gently ushered and rolled into a vertical cylindrical container, delicately maneuvered by “Strings.” These strands, a victim to Moore's Law, numbered in the millions, each only microns thick. Evolved precisely for the hunt, they navigated the intricacies of the human brain, effortlessly piercing through flesh. In contrast to the uniquely crafted replicator and head accelerator of Enkephalins’ experiment, the common Human head computer chips were mass-produced. Each chip incorporated such a Cylinder, the industry standard for observing the memory of the heads. Working in unison, the Strings supported the heads, maintaining their stability as they floated in midair. Another tubed translucent limb, served both as a means of nourishment and for treating cancers. This scene was a routine spectacle for those versed in the science of Human head computing. Mercy. I’ve beaten Mercy. The Strings shifted from silver to red, signaling the shift to observation mode and the consequent awakening of the heads. As the process began, each head was greeted with a searing sensation, the precursor to their eyes slowly opening in sequence. At first realization, the faces contorted in pain, eyes widening in shock. The remnants of dried saliva between the lips, reluctantly parted, giving way to a piercing, hellish screech. The once serene surface tension of the perfectly sliced neck plane, a calm red liquid, violently erupted, gushing out bright crimson blood. Still suspended in a state of buoyant equilibrium, the panic caused each head to rotate slowly, a frictionless spin that forced it to confront the Cylinders holding other heads met the same grim fate. Simultaneously, much to his satisfaction, Enkephalins' observation screen flickered with life, data streaming in, perfectly reflecting the narrative embedded within the simulation seed. Mercy, oh Mercy!!! I’ve beaten Mercy! Mercy was the colloquial term for the ultimate rule in human-head computing—the uncertainty principle. It stated that any observation of a human mind invariably removes it from the simulation. One could allow a human in a dream narrative to unfold uninterrupted. Or choose to observe their memory state just once, but this act disrupts the flow, collapsing the entire system. When the heads awake screaming, they’ve lost all their utility, descending into predictable patterns of despair, yearning for an end, even when placed back in a subsequent simulation. This rule permits a one and only brief, second-long snapshot: capturing their current aspirations, the weight of their recent decisions, and their immediate thoughts about their simulated world. Enkephalins and his peers loathed this limitation. The rule of “Mercy” had curtailed what could have been a surefire method for scientists to unravel the mysteries of consciousness and its evolution from scratch… But now, had Enkephalins truly done it? It appeared that his ingenious device might just be the ultimate loophole. His gaze flitted between the original copy, still slumbering peacefully in the replicator, and the one that was observed. He wasn't delusional; he had actually accomplished the unthinkable. In a hushed tone, acknowledging the divine guidance, Enkephalins whispered thanks to his God. Ele’fines, Ele’fines, we are one yet many. Ele’fines, please let Persephones live forever! As he stood there, the full weight of his achievement began to settle upon him. His mind raced with the implications of what he had just accomplished. The philosophical depth, the practical ramifications in medicine, communications, morality, politics, computability, and artificial intelligence – it was overwhelming. He had defied a rule that many, including esteemed scientists, believed to be a divine moral edict. With the computational power he was on the brink of harnessing, he could very well become the final father of reaching Singularity. The message had gone out; it was only a matter of time until the whole world would know. A long road has been, Ele’fines, science and finally Ele’fines. Than’kus Mothers – naming me by Ele’fines. And Than’kus Kal’nematos for your plentifulness. Modern human head computing was often credited to Kal’nematos, who at the time of his discovery was a well-known entrepreneur and art sadist. Kal'nematos devised a competition over time, evolving three distinct criteria. The first challenge was to determine how long a human could be maintained in a sleep state. The second criterion focused on condensing the humans’ bodily energy. The third and final challenge was about developing the fastest algorithm for playing "Strings'' — a game akin to chess for higher species. Strings involved the strategic slicing of an N-dimensional space with N-1 dimensional hyperplanes, carefully avoiding the creation of an X-faceted polytope in N dimensions. In this age of innovation, many major developments unfolded in unison: The simulations, or "dreams," provided to humans were initially of a hedonistic nature that they themselves understood, such as living the life of a famous pop star. Yet, as the sophistication of cryptographically precise translation capabilities grew, the nature of these simulations transformed. They took on roles of significant gravity and complexity. They found themselves at the helm of defending alien invasions, unraveling unifying theories in science, crafting solutions for famous math problems, or establishing new world religions. These deep and intricate scenarios tested the limits of the human brain, compelling it to expand beyond its usual capacities. Confronting extreme guilt and humility, individuals were driven to new heights of cognitive performance, significantly enhancing the quantity of computational data they could process and generate. Removal of limbs from humans was relatively straightforward, but the risks increased with procedures closer to the brain. The "Spinal Flail" archetype was prevalent early on, but competitors like Trichophytons took it further, fracturing the spine into increasingly finer strands to condense biological resources. The head, skull, eyes, and ears were more resistant to change, leading to a tradition of shaping the species to reflect their perceived facial likeness. Any brain kept alive in full isolation would begin to lose its inherent computational abilities tied to Ego. Devoid of Ego, a brain's output turns cognitively entropic, producing patterns too chaotic to be decipherable and have consistency. Trichophytons pioneered spinal signal splitting, progressively dividing the spine until they could transmit highly dense data with relational rules. This practice evolved, with companies advancing the technique until the spine took on the appearance of tiny metallic hairs, scaling up from kilostrands to megastrands, and eventually to gigastrands, counting in the millions. The most riveting breakthrough came from Kal’nematos himself, who succeeded in connecting multiple conscious heads within a single, unified simulation. As an experienced pet owner, Kal’nematos made a seminal discovery: 137 was the magic number of humans needed to achieve harmony. Exceeding this count gave way to unity breaking down and tribalism, while fewer than such sparked a subtle yearning for the red pill truth. Leveraging his newfound understanding, Kal’nematos created and commercialized a unique chip. Infused with his mastery of Euclidean geometry, sharpened by the strategic nuances of the "Strings'' game, this chip achieved a marvel. It allowed each of the 137 heads to perceive themselves as being at the center, regardless of their actual position, thanks to meticulously arranged mirrors. At first glance, the significance of the chip's arrangement might be confusing. Yet, this design led to an extraordinary and mystical result: the simulations involving the Ego of the 137 heads were harmoniously aligned and deeply interconnected. Through meticulous manipulation of the "Strings" — encompassing both their spatial geometry and the fine silver fibers — each head was able to interact within the same simulated world while maintaining their individual consciousness. With the integration of so many minds into a shared system, a statistical truth about actual activity within the simulation finally emerged. While a single mind might be subject to manipulation, the collective input of many provides a dependable and precise understanding of the underlying simulation dynamics and the resulting data. This innovation, however, came with another peculiar limitation. The so-called "rules of Mercy" were even more extensive than anticipated: the act of observing a single head would inadvertently lead to the awakening of the entire group. The once-ridiculed idea of using the human brain as a foundation for computing transformed into a tangible reality with the emergence of theoretical papers promising exceptionally efficient runtime from Ego alignment. The potential for Human minds to outperform classical computers was no longer a distant fantasy. “Human supremacy” arose far more rapidly than anyone had anticipated. Human computing infiltrated every echelon of society. Governments employed it for a plethora of purposes, ranging from moral judgment and cold warfare strategies to administering justice in courts. In the corporate world, it found applications in targeting advertising campaigns, forecasting stock market trends, and even relationship matching. Yet, despite its widespread integration, Human computing did not lead to absolute domination. This restraint was not due to society's virtue but rather the physical present principle—Mercy, coupled with the no-cloning theorem. While many in the public perceived this limitation as a divine or moral intervention, the academically inclined were already aware of the potential risks if Mercy was defeated. Theoretical papers showed that without Mercy, Human computing algorithms were capable of breaking through every security measure, and paving the way for an AI with near-ultimate abilities. Ele'fines represents the religious belief that human computing should have dominated the world. It hinges on the possibility of observing both the mental state and the simulation simultaneously. Defeating the no-cloning theorem, which prohibits the cloning of an independent and identical copy of a human head for observations; a non-disturbing measurement scheme that is both simple and perfect cannot exist. Interestingly, antimatter cloning devices capable of replicating food and even animals such as lions already exist. While a lion could stay sleeping, cloned humans invariably wake up, defying all efforts to maintain their simulated state. Scientifically unsolved, it was believed that Human cloning hits an insurmountable wall, marked by some inexplicable intelligence threshold.

The creation of human heads is an extensive and careful process, requiring 2-3 years for each head to fully develop. In theory, these heads have the potential for indefinite longevity, but cognitive “half-life”was only around 27 years of simulation time, beginning from the ages of 30 to 35. Given years, humans frequently shift their beliefs, often choosing paths of comfort over those of truthful data. In this context, a single memory state is merely a speck in the vast, untapped expanse of the simulation's data. Scientists were stuck evaluating a function at a single point when they dreamed of computing its entire integral. By boosting each head's observational frequency from a single instance to even just once a year, the overall algorithmic speed doesn't merely increase by a factor; it dramatically skyrockets. In computational complexity theory, it provably enables every NP-complete problem to be solved in polynomial time, with an error rate that is practically nonexistent. Indeed, Enkephalins had changed the game, slowing brain activity to an almost null state, a point where synapses couldn't trigger awareness, allowing the matter to be cloned while preserving the simulation trajectory. This approach wasn't just cloning the brain; it involved replicating the entire system, including an accelerator and superconductor, to circumvent the Creator's rules of the soul. Thanks to the Enkephalins-cloning method, it was now possible for a head to survive and produce calculations indefinitely, preluding a transformative era in science. The implications were enormous – the internet would be redefined, the field of computation would undergo a significant evolution, and philosophy in its entirety would change irrevocably. Eventually, the finale of the Godlike AI would come. Ele'fines the Singularity was now set on an unstoppable path. And now, the world has already ended. Kal'nematos was expected to arrive shortly to witness the spectacle, and Enkephalins, ever prepared, required no reminder. He had already set up a simulation, a grand narrative depicting the journey of a human scientist whose discovery poetically mirrored his own. With the cloning process running on a continuous loop, the stage was set. Rich in cruel irony, this was precisely the kind of humour Kal'nematos would find amusing. You Persephone lack the prime numbers. I will make you prophet but not Prophets. Earlier, Enkephalins had deliberately chosen a specific baby's head for the epic journey, its geometry much too symmetrical for his liking, yet adequately attractive to serve as humanity's shepherd. This head, with its impeccably oval shape, boasted a broad forehead and a strong jawline, striking a perfect balance. His eyes were deep-set and vividly blue, radiating a hungry egotistic drive. As the narrative unfolded, Percy was to witness the gradual loss of his friends and family, steering him towards a God who not only existed but also shared a consciousness akin to humans. His character was designed to be misunderstood. Percy dared to unify the entirety of existence, even hoping to break one of the universe's laws. His cruel act of cloning a photon system knowingly set the stage for information time travel, eventually leading to the distortion of his world. Enkephalins, masterfully fast-forwarding the simulation, fine-tuned the flow of time to capture the buildup to his paramount Eureka. Securely positioned in the head accelerator, the replicator's interface went dark. Enkephalins adjusted his screen to encompass the rest of the observation process, tailoring it precisely for Percy's awakening. Every twelve minutes, the replicator punctuated the darkness with a sudden flash of light, signaling the completion of its copy. A double of Percy's head would roll into a Cylinder, where its eyes, wide with shock, would scream until the blood vessels of the brain succumbed to its own internal pressure. In stark contrast, the screen displayed his emotions in the simulation—a joyous euphoria—the exhilarating sense of power found in his discovery. Like clockwork, bleeding human heads, one after another, tumbled into a cereal of blood, bobbing with ovoids of skull-shaped tissue. Enkephalins saw no reason to shut this machine off. After all, the wealthy Kal'nematos would develop more advanced versions of this system for commercial sale. Both of them would undoubtedly love the idea of letting the original operate indefinitely as a historic piece of art. Periodically, the garbage collector would cleanse the swamp of flesh, a grim site where countless other heads, identical in appearance, must meet the same gruesome fate.