“So, what’s the catch?” these where the words echoing in grace’s mind as she stared blankly down at the brown wooden box that her grandfather now laid in. He always used that same phrase when people would share bad news with him. He knew there was always good and bad, but more importantly he knew that there was good in the bad. All you had to do was find it, and that is exactly what she was struggling to do. It had been almost an hour since the funeral had ended, and she was still stuck staring at the cemetery plot surrounded with empty chairs and a table overflowing with bouquets only a few actually having his favorite, tulips. “He said he would always be there.” Grace mumbled to herself under her breath. She stared at her pile of dirt, the pit six feet into the ground, the brown wooden box, and the grey stone with her grandfather’s name carved into the top. She couldn’t understand how these things were all she had left of her best friend. The person she had spent her whole life with, he was the one who taught her everything her parents didn’t. Grace looked around the cemetery, hoping to see him jump out from behind one of the tall, thick trees yelling “I really fooled you this time Gracie”. She looked at the leaves blowing in the wind, the chipped trunks of the old grown out trees hoping to see him, but he wasn’t there. She looked back at the wooden box. Thinking that if she left now, before the box was covered in dirt, that maybe she would see him at the breakfast the next morning. Reading the newspaper and eating his regular toast and eggs.            “Can we leave now?” She turned to her dad, Tim, he was also staring at the box. She fiddled with the white petunia in her hand. She supposed to have thrown it into the pit during the ceremony with everyone else. Instead, she still grasped it tightly in her palm.            “Not yet Grace,” Tim Replied, “they’re still saying goodbye”. Grace watched as her mom and grandmother stood on the other side of the pit talking to the wooden box and wiping tears from their eyes.            “How can they say goodbye when he’s not here?” Grace said. Tim paused shifting his feet.            “Well honey, even though he may not be here with us. He can still hear us.” Grace’s mother, Mallory replied quickly glancing up from the ground. “No, he can’t.” Grace mumbled back as she stood still her black dress was now starting to soak in all of the afternoon heat. She pulled the obituary out of her pocket flattening the thick cardstock so she could see the picture of her grandfather. Her eyes fell on the bold letters across the top of the page, “ Neil Lewis, Celebrating the life of a great man ”. Grace stared at her grandmother, her pale, uncolored face. Her parents said she hadn’t slept much in days. How was she supposed to “Celebrate the life” of her husband when she can’t get a full night’s sleep. It didn’t make sense to celebrate life when the person is no longer living. She looked back to the picture, he was smiling, happy and hopeful. She was there when the picture was taken, it was the annual family camping trip. They had just set up the tents and Grace and her grandfather were just about to play a game of Jenga. He loved camping, being in the outdoors. Grace would go with on weekend trips to the campground where him and her grandmother would go hiking and play games of cornhole and ladder toss. He would play pranks and tell jokes, he could always make Grace smile, even when she hurt or upset. And now all she saw was a wooden box. She would never get to joke or talk with him at all anymore. She wouldn’t get to see him or give him a hug. He was gone. She couldn’t help but feel it was unfair. Not only to her but to her grandfather. He always said, “Gracie, you never seize to amaze me, what are you gonna do next?”. Only now Grace knew he would never get to see what she would end up doing. “How is it fair dad?” She turned up to Tim. “What do you mean Grace?” He replied. “He’s gone, he’ll never get to see what I do next. It’s not fair.” She told him blankly. “Honey, Grandpa will still see what you end up doing. Even if he is not there physically, he’ll still be with you. He’ll always be looking over you.” “You don’t actually believe that do you.” Grace turned the petunia in her palm looking at rest of the flowers that were at the bottom of the pit. “Grace.” Tim said sternly looking at her mother who was now watching Grace closely. “I mean it, he’s dead, he gone, he’s not here anymore, that is what being dead does.” Grace said absently not realizing everyone had turned their focus onto her. “Grace that’s not true,” Tim replied, “Grandpa is just in another place now. And that doesn’t mean he is not going to be with us.” He was now watching as her mother reacted to what Grace’s had just said and he could see the frustration growing as she took her mother's hand. “No, that is not true. You’re either here or you’re not. You can’t be here while being Somewhere else ” Grace quickly responded still staring at the bottom of the pit and at the now growingly distasteful wooden box. “Grace, now” Tim started to reply before getting interrupted by Grace. “No. Why would I say that he’ll always be there , when it’s not true. You’re telling me that even though he is dead now that he’ll always be looking over me. That he’ll still be there.” She could feel the anger overwhelming her entire body. “When I know it’s not true. How can you prove that?” She Paused “When all I can see is a pile of white flowers laying on a box.” Grace stopped taking a deep breath of the hot afternoon heat. She looked at her father, but then her eyes locked onto her mother, who looked as still as a stone statue. Her face was bewildered, angry, and disconnected. Grace’s anger instantly faded and was replaced by the exhaustion she was sure her family had felt. “I’m sorry” Grace said softly. She turned and walked over to the rows of black plastic chairs. Sitting quietly as her exhaustion mixed with feelings of grief and guilt. She was looking at her feet swaying them lightly over the grass when she saw a shadow slowly covering her. She gazed up to see her grandmother looking at her with a soft smile. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?” Her voice was soft and calm. Grace shook her head and shifted slightly holding the white petunia lightly in her fingers. “I’m really sorry grandma, I didn’t mean to say all of that. I just don’t understand why” She started to say but before she could finish her grandmother took her hand. “I know it’s difficult. Facing death is the hardest part of life.” She paused “But it’s true, those who we lose will always be with us. No matter where we go. Or what we do.” “But how do you know that for sure? When I’ll never be able to see him or talk to him.” Grace replied looking down and running her fingers over the soft petals of her flower. “Because he is a part of who you are Gracie.” Grace looked up and stared as her grandmother continued. “Your Grandpa loved you, and you meant so much to him that he put parts of who he was into you. With his humor, his kindness and generosity, and most of all his compassion.” Grace smiled beginning to feel lighter than she had before. “Are you two ready to go?” Grace’s mother asked and looked towards the car; she reached her hand out to Grace. “I just need to do one more thing. You guys can go ahead, and I’ll catch up with you.” Grace said and she stood watching her family start to leave. She slowly stepped over to the table and trading her white petunia for an orange tulip. She walked over and stood looking into the pit a final time and gently releasing the tulip. “Thank you” She whispered.


NOTE: Please read my other stories, due to the entry fee I don't normally actually submit my stories. Therefore they don't get to many other people, I really enjoy writing and am looking for ways to get better. Most of my stories are just over 1,000 words so they don't take very long to read. :) Happy Reading! There she was, writing in her diary like she always did. I wonder if she’s ever mentioned me in it, not like I’ve ever done anything too memorable. We’d been living together for three years, it was both our senior year of college and we knew absolutely nothing about each other.

She was pretty, I knew that much. I knew that her friends were really bubbly. Her friends always greeted me if I was in the apartment when they came in but most of the time I wasn’t. I did know that she was one of the Daydreamers. Nobody ever came out and said that the kids in the night classes were the Night Owls, or that the kids who did day classes were the Daydreamers. It just kind of happened, and then the college started using the words and now they’re official.

I was a Night Owl, I’m sure that’s much of a surprise. We mainly only saw each other while the sun was rising or setting. Sometimes we’d give a little, “Hey.” to each other but that was it. There were a few interesting moments, like how we remember each other’s names. I walked into the cafe, there were so many people in there. Nobody had told me what she looked like at all, I couldn’t remember what her name was at all. I knew it was a weird name that started with E? “One large iced caramel apple cider for Eunoia?” The barista called out. Well, that was perfect timing. The girl, Eunoia, walked up and smiled as she grabbed the cup from the barista. I ordered a large iced caramel apple cider as well, because I’d never had it, and sat down across from Eunoia. “Are you the Daydreamer I’m here to meet?” I asked with a laugh. She smiled after she took a drink, “Nice to meet you, what’s your name again? I’m Eunoia if you couldn’t remember.” “My name’s-” The barista called out, “One large iced caramel apple cider for Twyla?” I stood up, “Jeez, they’re weird on the timing here.” I walked over to the barista just as Eunoia had, I smiled as I grabbed the drink from the barista’s hand and thanked her. I then walked back over to the table that Eunoia was at. “So your name’s Twyla?” Eunoia asked. “Yeah.” She smiled, “How could I forget a name like that?” I looked up to her, “Look who’s talking.” I really thought we were going to be close friends, I even kind of got excited. After we were at that cafe she asked me if I wanted to see the apartment and I said yes. She showed it to me and I instantly fell in love with it. She said she really just wanted a roommate that wasn’t creepy and wouldn’t be bothersome. And I told her I was looking for the same thing. She handed me the keys and I was set. I soon moved in and we didn’t talk other than “Hey”s for a while. Until that one morning, early in the third quarter of our freshman year. It had been a long day, I was tired and I flunked on a quiz that should’ve been extremely easy. I just wanted to get into the apartment, open the door to my bedroom, flop on the bed, scream into the pillow, and then freaking fall asleep.

I stood at the door of the apartment as I searched in my coat pocket for my keys. The door slammed open and Eunoia’s boyfriend went out holding a box filled with clothes, he looked perfectly calm but with a slight crazed look in his eye, “Sup Twyla.” I could hear Eunoia crying in the apartment. I walked in, perfect timing. Eunoia was about to throw a lamp at the door and I quickly got out of the way before she chucked it, hitting the door and glass going everywhere.

She looked at me, her mascara running and her face red. She looked so scared and sorry, “Oh my god I almost killed you.” she almost whispered, though it was loud enough I could hear her across the room “Don’t worry about me, are you okay?” “Yeah, sorry to bother you. You’re probably really tired.” Before I could say anything, she went upstairs. I felt so bad for her then, I didn’t care that she had almost thrown a glass lamp at me. God, I of all people knew what it was like to be betrayed by someone that you loved. That was what I had figured happened there. I never saw her boyfriend in the apartment again so I assumed that they broke up. I always found it extremely weird that he seemed so calm as he must’ve done something to drive her to want to kill him, what a sociopath. I will never forget Christman sophomore year, god that was hilarious. Eunoia didn’t have any family to go home to and my flight got canceled so we decided we’d have Christmas together in the apartment. Then we went out of town to a beautiful tree farm. “They have fake trees.” Eunoia said, passing some slow SUV on the road. “It’s so stupid that we aren’t allowed to have real trees in the apartment though, like how evil do you have to be to set restrictions on Christmas?” I complained. My family has always done a real tree. One time when we didn’t like any at the tree farm we went to, we cut down the one in the backyard and brought it inside. “Well we need a tree, if you really want to decorate a real tree so badly you can help me decorate the ones around campus. I do it every year with that high school near the campus.” “Maybe I will.” I crossed my arms. A bit up the road, there was a big wooden cabin with multiple floors. There were Christmas lights strung everywhere. There was a vast amount of real trees behind the cabin, along with a few other things I couldn’t really make out. “There it is.” Eunoia sighed. She pulled in and once she found a nice little place to park, pretty close to the cabin, we started walking up. Once we walked into the cabin, I realized how beautiful the place was. There were apple cider dispensers, you could buy coffee, there was a gift shop. There was a wooden sign in the shape of an arrow that pointed upstairs that said, Fake Trees . There were people all over, excited and happy. There were kids running all over the place, some with pretzels in their hands, some playing tag, all bundled up in coats and sweats.

Not like the kids were the only ones bundled up though, many adults were talking with many layers over their skin. It was a viciously cold night tonight, still so many people came to this tree farm and I could understand why. I had never seen a place where so many people were so happy, it felt like it had to have been the most wholesome moment in my life. Before I could realize that Eunoia had left me, she was back with two cups of apple cider in her hands, “Here you go.” she smiled. I took it and took a sip, “Oh my god.” I muttered, while drinking some more. “What?” Eunoia laughed. “I swear to god this is the best apple cider that I’ve had in my life.” She laughed and grabbed my hand to pull me through the crowd. As we were walking upstairs she asked me, “What kind of fake tree do you want?” I snorted, “Oh I don’t know, I’d like a green one with branches.” How many different kinds of trees could there be? I thought to myself. I immediately regretted that thought because right when we reached the next floor I could tell why she was asking. There were small trees, tall trees, white trees, pink trees, blue trees, green trees with fake snow and holly on them, aluminum trees, red trees, and the list went on and on. “ Now, do you get what I mean?” “Uh, yeah.” We ended up taking home a fake green evergreen tree with fake snow and holly on it. It was one of the best Christmases of my entire life. Every single time something happened between Eunoia and I, I thought we might become close but it never seemed to happen. We always just went back to our “Hey”s. Still, I’ll always remember that as the best Christmas of my life. And still, we will both think we were best friends when we’re older. The Night Owl and the Daydreamer: a beautiful mix, though one that could never truly dissolve.


The concrete was cold against their backs. Sweat functioned as a siphon, pulling heat straight from their bodies. Neither teen seemed bothered, it provided a temporary relief from the afternoon sun. Here at the end of the breakwater there was no hiding from those scorching rays. The shadow of the lighthouse looming over them vanished within itself this time of day, leaving the spray and breeze the only relief, and there had been no breeze today. Neither the aroma of saltwater nor the constant lapping of the waves along the rocks broke up the staleness of the moment; the only other noise was the occasional screech of the gulls calling back and forth. But that was due to change; he knew it was. He expected it would happen soon. The horizon had grown dark over the past hour. She let out a sigh and pulled herself to her feet. Her movements slow and deliberate, she stretched her stiff muscles. He knew she hated sitting for so long but recognized the measured manner in which she moved. She was looking for signs. He watched her watching the sea. If she saw anything significant, her expression didn’t reveal it. She looked down at him and smiled. Settling back into her seat against the wall of the lighthouse she noticed a hint of shadow beginning to creep across them. The searing light above slowly disappeared behind the silhouette of the lighthouse’s upper balcony. She took his wrist and pulled it towards her, making note of the time. Her other hand explored the bottom of the bag they had brought. A pair of gulls flew overhead, adding their voices to the cacophony on the balcony above them. Her fingers stopped rummaging in the bag; they had found what they were searching for. She withdrew a notebook; worn blue leather, a pencil tucked into the gap in the spine. Leafing through the pages until she found the first blank, she wrote silently. By the time she pulled herself from the freshly scrawled pages, an oppressive lack of color had crept across the landscape. Slipping her pencil back into the spine, she slid the notebook into the bag. The black clouds were no longer content resting on the horizon. They had crawled so close that she thought she might reach up and wring the moisture from them; the sun now hid, trying to avoid the coming storm. The air had changed, no longer stagnant, a briny gust made her hair dance behind her. Despite its ominous appearance, this new sky had invited movement and change. It brought life to the sea. The building wind whipped across the waves, their tips turning white with the chill. It brought relief from the heat but stung the teens with cool air and cooler water. It was warning them; they weren’t meant to be there. Mother nature was offering them a chance to flee. The gusts became stronger, more frequent, and the water transformed. Once a slow rolling quiet blanket of reflected light, the sea became troubled. Waves rose and fell, capped with frothing white edges. They crashed against the rocks in a constant roar, dull at first but steadily intensifying. Each one sending a spray of cold water up and across the shoreline, the breakwater, the lighthouse itself. Flashing purple, an explosion tore the sky in half. The storm screamed it was close, and it wanted them to know it was coming. She took his hand, entwining their fingers, and he squeezed hers. His breathing had become shallow; he was always nervous right before the show began. She rested her head on his shoulder and felt him relax. Despite being no later than midafternoon, it was dark enough now that they could make out the signal light rotating high above them against the clouds. She watched the light appear and disappear across the gray while his gaze temporarily fixed on the outline of a lone bird attempting to make it back to land, darting this way and that as it fought the shifting air currents. The gloom gave way momentarily as a forked string of electricity made its way across the skyline, turning the world purple again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the smile she wore and squeezed her hand again. She was always at peace when mother nature stretched her legs. He felt her squeeze back, then felt her reach back into her bag. This time she left the notebook, but withdrew the camera. Uncovering the lens and slipping the strap over her head, she looked tilted her face towards him. “You were right,” her voice betrayed her anticipation, “she’s gonna be a monster.


The old red brick building still beset the ambiance of the institution it once was 99 years ago. Over the years, the Harlem Valley Psychiatric Center located close to New York State Route 22, in Dover, New York, had practiced numerous experimental methods for treating patients who were classified as mentally insane; methods such as insulin shock therapy and electro-shock therapy. It was the place where neuropsychiatrist Walter Freeman created a technique for treating a widely divergent group of psychological conditions. This newly developed method became known as a lobotomy,  Except for the overseeing eyes of the night watchmen, the doors of the institution were closed in 1994. After 70 years of questionable and often deplorable practices, the barbaric treatments silently became obsolete. Ezzie, born in 1904, had spent many years of her life there after she was forcefully admitted at the age of 30, 10 years after the institute first opened it doors. Under intense protest, she was brought to the insane asylum by the local New York police force after her mother could no longer take care of her. Her behaviour had become too bizarre and she was quite a force to deal with. The police picked her up off the street one day while she was standing on the busy roadway directing traffic, totally naked. Ezzie was one of those experimental patients, although which procedure or procedures she received back then isn't clear. Like the elusive medical practices in that time period, medical record-keeping also lacked details and was often written in illegible handwriting that resembled chicken scratch. Most of the patients were now dead and gone. Or were they? Ezzie never considered them patients, however. They were all her beloved neighbors who had helped her through times of life crises before they all moved away. She couldn't remember ever not living here; her mind didn't allow her to, and she also didn't know when most of the others left. Or did they leave, she wondered? The building was enormous so they could easily be in another wing and she wouldn't know. Maybe they were busy doing other things but she rarely saw them anymore so she assumed they had left. To this day she doesn't recall how she came to live here, but deep inside herself she blames her mother, who thankfully, was also long since deceased; that witch was a hateful snag. The miserable old cow couldn't even bother to spell her name correctly.

Ezmaraldo Jene Dorchester , for fuck sake, doesn't she even know how to spell Esmeralda? Or Jean?  Ezzie was sure this was an intentional joke her mother labeled her with for her own selfish entertainment, a cruel and humiliating spite to little Ezzie.  Intended as a diminutive jab of poison for her new baby girl, it was no secret that mother had despised her right from birth. Nevertheless, the place was now home to Ezzie and just being there shrouded great comfort in her. She loved the familiar cool feeling of the highly polished granite floors under her bare feet as she wisped through the long corridors. The accumulation of dust and cobwebs garnishing the hanging chandeliers eluded her attention. The eerie creepy moaning noises of an old building long ago forsaken didn't grasp her attention either. Some wings of the building accommodated old oak doorways into dormitories, one after another, each secured by heavy brass locks that hadn't been unbolted recently. It was lonely though, she missed her friends; friends who, unbeknown to her, were actually psychiatric patients from all backgrounds, and although the medical records were obscure, they indicated that most of them had passed away.

She drifted airlessly into the vast banquet room to sit and stare out into the courtyard through the huge glass windows making up the east wall of the room. This was her favorite spot where she spent hours gazing outside onto acres of land, overgrown with tall noxious weeds, out-of-control bushes, and looming old trees, knotted and unkempt. The overrun area harbored ominous mysterious creatures peering back at her, giving her a sense of comfort and company, making her feel less alone. A little mouse skittered past her feet, stopping briefly to glance up at her, his white whiskers twitching back and forth, his tail stiff and sticking straight out behind him like a radar gadget. Satisfied that she wasn't a threat to him, he scurried on his way to fetch food stored in the pantry. Inside the old storeroom, the contents from chewed boxes of macaroni and huge bags of flour, sugar, and other dried-out ingredients were spewed over the counters and floors, little footprints trodden through it all by plentiful rodents helping themselves to the wealth. The place was a haven for the little creatures that began inhabiting the building many years before. Ezzie smiled down at him, watching him scuttle away, peculiarly grateful for his company. She bolted upright at the sound of keys resisting the stiff lock that secured the double front doors. She recognized the creaking sound as slowly the old glass doors screeched open and voices penetrated the silence of the building. Footsteps echoed in the hallway coming towards the banquet room. Ezzie jumped up from her chair and instinctively darted into a back corridor, a daunting concealed corridor she was too familiar with from past macabre experiences, trying to elude her intruders. Back in the day, the residents referred to this horrific passageway as the torture chamber where all sorts of unexplained treatments happened to naive long-suffering specimens. Who the hell could this be, she wondered, panic gripping hold of her. The only people who ever came in here anymore were the night watchmen and they hadn't bothered to look inside for months now, maybe even years, as far as she could recall. Her heart was pulsing loudly in her ears, as she quietly tucked herself into a cubby hole. Ursula's shrill voice permeated the hallway, "Oh my gosh this is overwhelming Dexter. Do you really think we can do this?" she yelped. "I mean, really, look around. What were we thinking Dexter? There's so much work to do here," she rambled on.  "Some of the walls are literally crumbling. Broken windows. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. The place looks haunted. Who the hell would want to rent a room in this derelict place? How are we ever gonna turn this place around?" "Calm down Ursula, we'll get it done", Dexter assured her. "No need to jump off a cliff honey, we'll take it one step at a time. It's our dream, remember Ursie? We got this," he reassured her again. The clean-up and reconstruction began. Day after day, scrubbing, hammering, scraping, polishing, dusting, and vacuuming. People were coming and going, cleaning services, construction men, lawyers, and inspectors. For the next four months, the place was a beehive of activity, swiftly transforming the old edifice into a reformed pristine fortress. Ursula watched it all happening with amazement, her trepidation gradually easing into excitement while she visualized her dreams coming true, with the formation of a five-star hotel in the works. This was really happening. "This is so exciting isn't it Dexter?" "It is Ursie. Imagine, it won't be long before our first customer walks through the front doors", Dexter countered. "We're getting it done Ursula." He smiled confidently at her. Ezzie was restless. This was getting downright annoying. In fact, it infuriated her. Who are these people to just walk in here and invade her space like this? Over the next few weeks, she festered and pondered her situation, contemplating how to gain her control back, all the while remaining in hiding, feeling overtaken by atrocious intruders. She was irate. The constant hammering and pounding scraped on her last nerve. That bitch's high-pitched cheerful squeals of delight relentlessly exasperated her. From somewhere obscure, a familiar voice whispered to her, offering some advice. " Dial the age back a bit Ezzie and upgrade your fashion sense to this era dear ". She recognized the voice; it was old Freddie from Room 666 just down the hall from her room. Freddie always watched out for Ezzie, he was a good friend to her. The soft sound of his voice resonated in her satiating fond memories, a warmth she realized she had pined for lately.  It was so good to hear from Freddie. "What do you mean Freddie?" she asked curiously.

" You're not from this century my dear. These people will never take you seriously; they'll think you're dressed for Halloween Ezzie. Get with the times, this is the 21st century. You need to dress for this occasion." Freddie continued to bestow his knowledge on her. After a great deal of contemplation, that's what she did, she formulated a plan. I'll just walk right in the front doors. Get a nice room like I used to have. Get treated nicely like I used to, she convinced herself. Ezzie's mind was racing with ideas. She began setting in motion strategies and tricks to play out her devious plan; all this scheming and conniving fabricated immense amusement for her. Her days were busy again and she had a sense of purpose once more. She truly belonged here. When she was completely satisfied that she had appropriately updated herself suitable to this era, wardrobe and makeup in entirety, she gleefully began executing the rest of her ideas. She looked absolutely fabulous. Stunning. The sound of the front doors opening was exciting for Ursula. Her heart was fluttering with anticipation. With any luck this will be their very first customer, she thought to herself. All their hard work tirelessly reconstructing these ancient ruins and breathing life back into this old abandoned structure was about to start paying off. "Welcome, please come in," she said to the lady entering the hotel.

"Hi, do you have any rooms available?" the stranger asked Ursula. "Yes, we do. Single? Double? A suite perhaps? Here are the room prices. Hi. I'm Ursula." "Single. Just me," she replied sheepishly. She smiled and extended a gnarly hand out to shake hands with Ursula. "Hi. I'm Ezzie," she beamed radiantly. She was so happy to be home and have company again.


“Okay, you can take my heart, if it gets me out of this world you can take anything you want.” the boy said with resolve. His regal looking clothes were covered in dirt and sweat. The boy’s eyes were those of an old man though he could not have been more than 13. I did my best to maintain my composer but honestly, I’m sure he probably saw the shock on my face. No one had ever said yes to my deal before. That was the whole point I didn’t actually know how to send someone to a new world, I mean I don’t even know for sure if other worlds exist. Well, they must exist right what are the odds that there is only one world? In any case I still have no idea how to get to other worlds. When the first person came knocking at my door asking for a path to another world, I didn’t want to seam incompetent so I told him that I knew how but set a price no one would be willing to pay, their own heart. I mean who would be willing to give up their heart of all things. More than a decade later that small lie came back to bite me in the form of a wiry teenager standing in my kitchen.

I was just minding my business making a fresh pot of tea when he burst through my door. Next thing I knew he was begging me to send him to a new world.  So, I made him the same deal I always do when every few years a peasant comes begging for a trip to a new world. I told him the price was his heart. I never thought he would accept the trade.

“Are you positive, after all it will be a very painful and terrible experience to lose your heart.” I tried to make my voice as spooky and regal as I could manage as I said this. I even through in some fun whooshing wind to make my beard flow a little bit. After all what's a warlock without a little theatrics. Usually this was enough to turn away even the bravest of peasants.The boy looked up at me with defiance in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, if I stay here I might as well jump off a cliff. I am the crown prince of this kingdom and my coronation is tomorrow” His voice shook with anger and frustration and just a tinge of exhaustion. I wont lie this information gave me quit a shock. Last I had checked king Andres was the ruler of the kingdom but that was two hundred years ago. I couldn’t help but feel pity for the poor boy he obviously was very upset, but I mean how bad could the cushy life of a crown prince be? With all the servants and what not I never would have guessed he didn’t enjoy his life. Usually, it was only ever peasants who wanted to leave this world. One or twice I had a princesses trying to escape an arranged marriage but never a prince. I wonder just how much I had been missing lately if a prince wanted to leave. “Perhaps just an escape to a faraway city would do. After all the price for a faraway city getaway is only … two tear drops!” Now getting someone to a different kingdom is doable all it takes is a simple transportation spell and bam off they go. Usually, I charged more than a couple tears, but I figured it couldn't hurt to sweeten the pot a little for the prince. Plus, I was low on organic human tears and the synthetic ones from the magic market never work quit as well. They always leave a nasty residue in the cauldron that takes like two hours to scrub out. “You think another kingdom would be any better? Have you seen the world lately everywhere looks like this everyone is either starving or being sent to war, do you think royal families are safe! Mine will be the third coronation this year alone. An enemy kingdom poisoned my father, the armies beheaded my brother and the minute I take the thrown someone is going to start a plan to kill or overthrow me. This world is to broken to live in, I just want to start fresh anywhere has to be better than here.” His words were steely and filled with longing for peace. It surprised me how desperate and hopeless someone so young could be. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed a small dagger I had lying on the table. Before I could even react, he had it pressed against his chest hard enough that I could see a small line of blood begin to trickle down. “Just take my heart already! Can't you see this is the only way” Tears streamed down his face as he begged me to take his heart.

“Stop!” I shouted my voice booming in the small house. Something about seeing a child stab themselves with a knife really awakens the old fires in you. I quickly used a bit of Magic to turn the dagger into a harmless bouquet of flowers. It really was a shame to have to do that it was my favorite dagger up to that point.The boy dropped the flowers in despair. As I looked at the boy everything in the house suddenly felt very small and unimportant. I realized just how isolated I had been for the past few decades. I glanced at the old clock on the wall it no longer had any hands to tell time with, yet even I could see it was time for me to do something, anything for the world around me. So, I did what all warlocks do in a pinch, I made up a prophesy. Using magic, I changed my voice to sound deeper and grander, then I made a heavy wind rush through the house. “What is your name boy” I bellowed.

“Jack” for the first time there was real fear in the boy's eyes as he uttered his name.

“Long ago there was a prophecy foretold, When the world is torn apart, and a boy will give up his heart, with the help of a warlock the.... the healing will start. Jack, you have proven yourself to be the one foretold!” The words echoed around us with power. I must say it was not a bad prophesy for being made up on the spot like that. It even had a proper rhyme and everything. Now the tough part would be fulfilling the prophesy. Jack’s face was full of confusion but behind it all was just the glimmer of hope. “Come now we don’t have time to waste there is work to be done Jack the world won’t fix itself!” I grabbed my travel satchel as I said this scooping vials, bottles, and jars from my shelves into the bottomless bag. For the first time in years, I felt truly excited. As I threw open my door and smelled the air outside I had only one thought in my head. It’s time to change the world.


Boot attempt 999999 Warning low battery Critical disk failure Check hardware for moisture damage Rebooting  Boot attempt 0000001 Warning low battery Hard disk online Some disk functions may not be available Please perform emergency maintenance when it is safe to do so  I am standing in a small grove of trees. I remember these trees but they are larger than they were only moments ago. I have been detached from my unit. My pings have so far gone unanswered. Sensors indicate that critical maintenance is necessary for extended operation. Solar battery is charging slowly; 16.5 hours until fully charged. Entering rest mode. Battery is fully charged; estimated battery life is 48 hours at maximum functionality. AI engine is back online. Much of my data is gone and my hard disk speed is critically low. Has someone erased my memory or have I... forgotten? Still no response to my pings. I walk to the edge of the grove and peer through the dense foliage. I do not remember this place being so overgrown. My clock battery has died and I am unable to ascertain how long I have been offline. Through the leaves I see a vast plain, cut by a river that runs North to South. At the mouth of this river there should be a city... What was the city called? I climb through the brush into the scorching sunlight. The sun seems much harsher than normal. Applying neutral density filter to visual sensors. There are many animals about. Most, like squirrels and deer, are logged in my encyclopedia. Some, like the large beetles, must have been erased from my hard drive over time. I do not remember any insect species exceeding 2 meters in length. Much of the landscape is cratered and covered with ancient rubble, another detail I seem to have forgotten. Self maintenance requires a backup hard drive, which I do not possess. I will need to reach a waystation to repair critical systems. Nearest waystation detected 3 km South, along the river. The flora are highly resistant to my progress, and weapons systems are offline so I will have to find some kind of tool to cut through the foliage. I notice a small stone building, the lone structure that remains standing in the clearing. Its wooden door has long since rotted away, so I assume the structure is uninhabited and i will scan the interior for useful supplies. Furniture lies strewn about the floor of the small house, and many small mammals and very large insects inhabit every corner of the building. The place does not appear to have been ransacked by either men or machines, mercifully. A room at the back of the building holds various farming tools and supplies, chiefly a large machete that will make clearing the brush much easier. As I collect the machete I notice a long decayed and scavenged human corpse in the corner of the room. Upon further analysis, it seems the human was exposed to lethal amounts of radiation. Switching radiation detection systems online. Sensors indicate higher-than-normal levels of radiation in the atmosphere, possibly fallout from a nuclear detonation. After more than an hour cutting through the dense brush, I reach another small grove. Lying in the center of the grove is another sentry unit, though this one seems to be a newer model than myself. I do not recognize it. I approach the fallen unit cautiously and begin to remove the chassis to search for useable parts. Most of the bolts are rusted so it is difficult to remove the chassis without damaging it. Finally, after much careful work, the body of the sentry lies split open in the grass. Most of its systems are beyond repair, but the hard drive appears to be functional. I begin to affix the drive to the backup slot behind my chest panel, but in my haste i forget to format it. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with horrible, visceral memories of war. In a single moment I experience a hundred years of torturous bloodshed and nuclear chaos. I begin to feel the emotions of the sentry unit wash over me. These are much more advanced and nuanced emotions than those supported by my Artificial Neural Network and version numbers indicate that this sentry was built... Wait... 70 years after my own systems went offline? A rabbit hops up to me and begins cocking her head to examine me. I am overjoyed at the sight of the creature, for reasons I cannot explain. Why am I reaching out to touch the rabbit? She looks shocked and runs away. She must be scared of me. I hate this; I wish I could touch her.  DANGER PROXIMITY SENSORS DETECT A HOSTILE BODY ENGAGING WEAPONS CANNOT ENGAGE WEAPONS P<EA@< P"@FORM C:#$TICAL MAIN<@:CE  I whip around to face the threat, only to be met by a rapidly descending - is that a spider? - hurtling toward me from the canopy. The arachnoid is approximately 4 meters in length and easily overpowers me. I attempt to fire a sonic pulse to disable the mutant predator, only to be met with a flurry of corrupted error messages. The creature sinks its fangs into my chassis, missing vital systems by mere centimeters. Another blow will be terminal. I look around instinctively for backup units, forgetting for a moment that seemingly every sentry for kilometers around has been disabled. I do, however, find something that may be able to incapacitate the creature; the machete lies just within arm's reach. I grip it tightly and thrust it toward the body of my adversary. It finds purchase between the cephalothorax and abdomen of the spider, nearly bisecting the vicious beast. It pushes me away violently and begins thrashing on the ground as I take the opportunity to put some distance between its death throes and myself. I stare in awe as its eight massive legs begin to curl toward its chest. What is this emotion i'm feeling now? Triumph? No, that one I understand well. This is something else, something that I do not enjoy. This is guilt. But why would I feel remorse for my enemy? Nonetheless, as I stare at the now-still corpse of the freakish spider, I am sorry for having had to kill it. The incorporation of the fallen sentry's AI has made processing information much more complex, possibly more complex than my outdated hardware is capable of handling. I can't bring myself to format the drive though; I feel that these memories and emotions are important and I have to preserve them. Nearest waystation detected 1.2 km South. I pull the machete from the spider's corpse and begin to cut a path toward the waystation. For the first time I feel both fear and determination. My objective has been modified.


I got a call at three o’clock in the morning on a Sunday and was pretty chapped about it. I had to work in the morning and could barely sleep as it is. “Hello?” “Hello, is this Mr. Kent?” The lady’s voice annoyed me. “Agh, yep.” I sounded short. “Brayden Kent?” “Yes” I started to worry but not the worry you get when you miss seven or eight calls from your mom. My mom was dead, as so was my dad. They were both pretty hard on themselves and croaked pretty early. “I’m sorry” the lady said, “your brother James and his wife, Amelia, were pronounced dead at 2:04am this morning.” “What?” “Your brother and his wife died in a car accident early this morning. I’m very sorry.” I was certain it was in a nightmare but hadn’t really had one in a while and also nightmares don’t feel particularly real after you hear news like that lady gave me. “Well, where?” Thinking back, it was a weird question to ask. I suppose she’d heard worse. “They had been changing lanes on the 401, near London, and collided with a semi. They were killed instantly.” I was close with my brother, but as you get older, people drift. I hadn’t spoke with him in over two months. “What about Lena?” I yelled. “Lena?” The lady annoyed me again. Len... fucking Lena! Their daughter!” “Sorry, their daughter is with protective services. I did not know her name.” “Where are they now?” “Lena?” She nervously responded. “No! My brother and Amelia?” “St. James Hospital sir.” I hung up, threw on my coat and boots, and sped to the hospital. I was sitting in the medical office crying when the doctor came in. “Hello, Mr. Kent. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. I understand you’re the godfather of Lena?” “I am.” “She is one lucky girl then.” I remember hating that he had said that. The first year was tough. The amount of paperwork it takes to become the guardian of a kid who shares your blood is messed up. I mean... I was in a good space, responsible enough, and had a good paying job. I cried a lot. Lena cried a lot but not for her parents, I don’t think. She was a year and a half old when they got in the accident. She just cried over baby things like crankiness and teeth pain. I cried because she would never know her real parents. I cried because my brother died. I didn’t much cry for Amelia but cried for Lena. She started calling me dad at around three years old. I called her daughter to people I met; it easier that way. I started to realize that I didn’t have many friends before this, like the friends that would know I was Lena’s uncle. I guess I liked calling her daughter. We had gotten on pretty good by then. My brother always told me how he could never get sleep in Lena’s first year. I slept fine now. Lena would sleep with me often and I guess kids do that around three so it was nice. She started to do things that would remind me of James. Seeing pieces of him, in her, always put me in a good mood. She came to me once and asked why she didn’t have a mom when all the other kids did. “Where’s my mom?” Lena asked. She was starting to ask those questions kids start to ask. “She died, Lena.” I always told myself that if she ever asked that question, I wouldn’t lie to her. I was prepared and knew it was going to come anyway and knew that I would have to explain death. I didn’t expect the questions after though; pretty naive I guess. “What does that mean?” Lena said. “Well, it means she’s no longer around.” “Why?” “Well, we’re all eventually no longer around, but sometimes people are no longer around a little earlier, like your mom.” Lena looked confused but she was smart and didn’t cry or get sad but started thinking, going back to her colouring book but pondering something. “Dad?” “Yep.” I looked back at her after my mind had went to the tv. “Do people ever come back from being no longer around?” It was a question we all ask at one time or another. “Not this no longer around.” She looked back at her book and kept colouring. Lena’s hair was long now. Like to her shoulders so not that long. I took her to the park across from our house, which was her dad’s house, as he and Amelia left it to us. We didn’t live far away so it was no problem moving from my apartment to his house. I just had to maintain stuff now but always liked yard work. I used to always do it with my dad. I was still working my job, too. I always hear people talk about the fact that they have no alone time with kids but if I’m being completely honest, I always had alone time. She was old enough now that she would sleep in a bit and I would stay up later than her. I never had a problem adjusting to things in life. Her ninth birthday was coming up and I had planned a get-together with some of her school friends and their parents. I bought her a bike; a pretty good bike. She was pretty excited about it. She would ride it around the block, to her friends, and sometimes around the yard until it lost its appeal. “Dad, can I go over to Kat’s?” “Did you talk to her mom?” “Uh huh!” I phoned Kat’s mom and they were all playing in the backyard so it was all good. Lena rode her bike there. Kat lived two blocks away. I just hung out at home and watched some TV and ordered a pizza. Lena loved when I ordered pizza; she loved the corner pieces for some reason, those triangle ones. No one likes the corner pieces. I always saved them for her. She likes putting Parmesan cheese on her pizza and I liked putting hot sauce on mine. Lena thinks I’m crazy. She once accidentally had one of mine and started screaming and crying. I had a good laugh and she was so mad at me and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night. Funny how mad she got pizza but I just thought it was cute. Lena doesn’t get mad too often. She’s rational and I like to think that she got that from me. She’s more interested in space and planets than she is in fairytales and ghosts. She was always asking me to put on Cosmos before she went to bed. I never complained. She read more than she played in the park. She liked to dance more than she liked to walk, and she asked way too many questions. Lena always made for a good conversation. She hopped on the hood of my car while I was leaving for work one day. She was laughing so hard, trying to stop me from going to work; I was so mad at her that I could have pulled away with her still there. She was thirteen now and it was a weekend so she could stay on her own. She was so easy to trust at home when I had to work the weekends. Lena was smart in school, smart in life, and smart with people. The years flew by like nothing and I was as much of a dad as the next guy with kids. I met Cam that year and we fell in love. She loved Lena as much as I did. Lena wasn’t happy with her to begin with but she eventually came around. Cam was an artist and Lena liked to paint so before I knew it, they were hanging out with each other more than with me. I guess that’s what you hope for in the beginning. I always thought it was weird how Cam didn’t want kids but then became Lena’s best friend in the blink of an eye. That’s how she goes. Cam was a health nut and I wasn’t so we started to eat real healthy. She tried to get me working out but I wasn’t having it. She laughed at me. We met older so changing someone for one’s own conveniences was not a thought. We accepted each other for who were were. I’d still order pizza for Lena and I. Cam also couldn’t resist it. “I’ll work it off tomorrow.” She would say with a laugh. I wasn’t the laughing type so we got on really good. I remember when Cam and I bought Lena her first car for her sixteenth birthday. She was so excited and wanted to drive it so we let her. It was dark outside but we kept to the local roads. She had a smile bigger than I’d ever seen before and was playing some music too loud on the stereo. We drove up a hill along one of the roads close to home and she parked to admire the city lights. I was so proud of her, not a lot of people admire city lights at sixteen. “I can’t believe you’re already sixteen.” I said. She just smiled, put the car in gear, and started driving, turning up the music too loud again. I pictured what life would be like if the same thing that happened to my brother happened to her. I quickly pushed that to the back of my mind. It was pretty surreal watching someone who could barely walk, when she landed with me, to now switching gears and turning corners in a car. We approached the driveway, Lena bottomed out the car, we laughed and she parked it. We both got out and shut the doors of the car. We slowly walked to the door and she hugged me a really big hug, like teenagers do when you get them something big. “Thanks, Uncle Brayden.” I could feel her head on my shoulder as I looked at our neighbour’s car in the driveway. She was so tall now.


Don't you have anything better to do? his brother asked. Sam Roebuck smiled. Not at the moment, he thought back. But you seem rather busy at the moment. Not everyone can swill whiskey and idly write all day, his twin brother, Liam Roebuck, thought as he entered the warehouse. Triple homicides don't solve themselves. And best sellers that pay for the lake house don't write themselves, either, Sam retorted. Now shut up and do your job. Liam glanced at a nearby window and gave his reflection the middle finger. Sam grinned wider. He and his brother had shared this connection all their lives; all one brother had to do was close his eyes, reach out to the other, and he would see from his brother's perspective--both literally and figuratively. Liam and Sam had used this connection to their benefit on numerous occasions--whether it be stealing the neighbor's Halloween candy when they were kids, or stealing their parent's vodka when they were slightly larger kids--but none had proved more fruitful than their current arrangement. Liam ventured out into the world as a detective for the Boston Police Department, and Sam used those experiences for the basis of his thrillers. Of course, Sam always served up these stories with an extra dollop of melodrama on top--a habit that annoyed Liam as much as it filled his publishers with glee. "Not much to see here, sir," a plain-clothes police officer told Liam as he passed into the warehouse. He was a short man with beady eyes and a moss of red stubble across his jaw. "We've got three in the back office. There are some footprints around the bed, a few smudges by the window, and not much else." "No fingerprints?" Liam asked. "None that don't belong to the victims." That's a shame, Sam thought. This one might actually be interesting. Apologies if most of my life is too boring for you, Liam thought as he followed the police officer into the back room. Does this at least pique your interest? In fact, it did. The bodies were arranged in a row, arm to arm, across a dirty mattress. They wore heavy winter jackets and hats and gloves. Scarves were laid over their faces, almost ceremonially. If there were any signs of trauma, Sam couldn't spot them--but the bodies weren't moving. These people were certainly dead, there was no doubting that. "Who called it in?" Liam asked as he pulled on his gloves. "Not sure, sir," said the plain-clothes officer as he scratched at the stubble on his chin. "We got an anonymous tip. Came from a pay phone, believe it or not." "Pay phone," Liam muttered as he made a circle of the room. "I'm surprised there are any left in the city." "There aren't, which makes life a bit easier. We tracked down the phone pretty quickly, but we're stilling running through nearby security camera footage to see if we can make an ID." The officer shrugged. "It's a strange city." And it gets stranger every day, Sam thought. He opened his eyes--transporting himself back to his office--and made a quick note about pay phones on a yellow legal pad in front of him. Going from his brother's mind and back to his own could be a little jarring, especially when he swapped out dank, dim warehouses for his broad mahogany desk in his too-expensive office. Sam again felt grateful that he was the one with the literary gene, and closed his eyes. "... will the coroner get here?" Liam was in a different position in the room now, standing near the window. "Soon," said the officer. "I guess there's an accident off route 93 that's got everything backed up." "Figures," Liam muttered as he crouched by the bodies. It wasn't uncommon for a detective to arrive at a murder scene before the coroner or forensics, but Liam didn't like it. He preferred to bounce his ideas off people--a particularly Holmesian trait, Sam observed--and, lacking anyone else, he turned to his brother. See anything of interest up there? Sam didn't. The bodies were still and rigid; no doubt rigor mortis had set in, meaning they had passed away at least four hours ago. Maybe longer. Clothes look cheap, Sam commented. Cheap, but clean. Maybe even new. Almost looks like they decked themselves out at the dollar store before coming out here to die. "Why would they do that?" Liam muttered. "Do what?" The plain-clothes police officer knelt beside Liam. A little too close for comfort, in Sam's opinion. "These clothes..." Liam shook his head. "Has anyone in the neighborhood reported anything?" "Neighborhood?" He chuckled. "Ain't much of a neighborhood to speak of, sir." Liam rubbed his chin. "Did the anonymous caller say that this was a murder?" The officer shrugged. "I believe so, yes." "That's odd," Liam said. "I can't see any gunshots, stab marks, signs of strangulation..." Liam flicked on his flashlight. There wasn't much he could see, like the police officer had noted, but he could see glimpses of skin between the scarves and the jackets--and what he could see was unnaturally white. Do you think the killer kidnapped these people? Sam thought. Maybe he murdered them and he called it in himself. Could be, Liam thought. But he could tell that his brother's mind was moving along a different track. And he was getting nervous. What's wrong? Sam thought. Liam didn't answer him. He moved around the bed and positioned himself by one of the bodies. " Limbs are stiff," he said as he pressed his fingers into one of their arms. The office stood and leaned over Liam. "Friggin hell," he muttered. "That's bizarre." Liam lifted the arm. It rose easily--too easily, like it weighed almost nothing. Liam, Sam thought. I really don't like this. His brother ignored him. Liam was the brave one--another gene that went to one brother and not the other. Sam knew that Liam felt fear, panic, uncertainty, all those things, but he had a leash on each of them; Liam never allowed them to run wild, or bark too loudly. Sam, watching as his brother reached for the scarf, realized that he didn't have a tenth of that control. He was afraid. Really afraid. Under the scarf was an empty, blank face. No mouth, no eyes, no ears. Just Styrofoam-smoothness, carved and molded into a vaguely human face. You need to get out of here, Sam thought. He could feel his palms sweating, miles away in his comfy, well-heated office. Liam pulled the scarf from the next body--and revealed another mannequin. He was reaching for the third when the blow fell. Something hit Liam on the back of the head--and his brother collapsed. "Gotcha," the officer muttered. He flipped Liam over--the small bat that was hidden under his coat now in his hand--and began to drag him by his heels. Liam! Sam thought. LIAM WAKE UP!!! But his brother didn't respond. This had happened before--back when Sam would pass out drunk, Liam would take a peak in his head to make sure he wasn't lying on his back so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit--but it was always a disconcerting experience. Sam left alone and cold inside his unconscious brother's mind. His eyes rolled, but Sam's thoughts weren't as muddled by pain and disorientation. He could watch what was happening--or, at least, he could try his best. And that was enough for him to recognize the face of the officer. Dennis Reily. He looked different without his beard; in fact, the beard had once been his defining feature--long and thick and red, in stark contrast to his pale face and thin blond hair. Dennis had been in and out of BPD holding cells all his life--more than once, at Liam's hands. He must be out on parole. They both thought Dennis had been full of it when he swore to get even with Liam, after his arrest on drug trafficking charges. Liam had laughed it off, and Sam had laughed with him, not willing to betray the nervousness he felt in his gut. But then days passed, uneventful and bloody-revenge-free. Days became months, then months became years, and Dennis Reily slowly became less than a bad memory; they never thought about him at all. Now we'll never be able to forget. Dennis dragged his brother off the mattress and out of the room when Sam forced his eyes open. He wasn't doing any good here--sitting in his plush office while his brother was in the hands of... He slapped himself. No point panicking now. Fortunately he had been in his brother's head when he got the call--a call that, in retrospect, was extremely suspicious. Just got a call from a lieutenant on the south side, Liam had said, popping into Sam's head while he was staring at his blank legal pad. I see the writing is going well. Piss off, Sam had said, writing an expletive on the notepad. What have you got? It sounded inviting enough--but the drive over had proved otherwise. Liam and Sam had gotten into a spat over the lake house; Liam wanted to take his wife and children up next weekend, but Sam had already made firm and indelible plans to drink himself into a stupor. They had gotten into a fight and Sam left his brother alone... until he spent a few more minutes alone with that yellow legal pad, and then he was back in his twin's mind just as he walked into the warehouse. South side, Sam thought as he jammed the key into the ignition of his old BMW. How many abandoned warehouses could there be on the south side? Of course his experience in Boston's south side has been limited to whatever his Uber driver drove past after he'd been kicked out of one brewery or another. Driving in Boston was a nightmare. He'd never get there in time. Just as he got on route 93, he closed his eyes--just for a moment. Dennis was dragging Liam up a flight of stairs. He could feel Liam's head bouncing off the wooden steps. Sam opened his eyes with a gasp--and slammed on the brakes. The old BMW skidded to a halt mere inches from the car in front of him. I guess Dennis wasn't lying about an accident on 93. Or, maybe he had been. Saying there was an accident on 93 was like saying the sun was shining; half the time, that was undoubtedly true. Sam pulled into the breakdown lane and slammed on the accelerator. The scene of the accident snapped past in an instance--followed by more than a few middle fingers. Why is everyone flipping me off today? Whatever, they could be as mad as they wanted. He only had to make it to the next exit, then he could snake his way through downtown to get to the docks, and from there he could follow his brother's footsteps to the warehouse. Sirens whirled to life behind him. The police officer pulled up close; the grill and swirling red and blue lights filled his rear-view mirror. "Of course ," Sam said through gritted teeth as he took the off ramp. At least he had backup when he got to the warehouse--assuming they weren't busy arresting him for one of the dozen traffic laws he had violated (including trying to lubricate a case of writer's block with a few shots of Dewar's before getting behind the wheel). He zipped through the south side, going off memory alone. The police blasted their sirens; he was vaguely aware that more than one had joined the fray. Sam's heart nearly burst when he spotted something familiar--his brother's sedan, parked in front of an old warehouse. He slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel hard. The police behind him obviously weren't ready for the maneuver and skidded past him. Sam pulled into the parking lot, beside his brother's car. Where are you? When he closed his eyes, he saw the sky. "Always thought you were better than me," Dennis muttered into Liam's ear. "Always thought you were a great, great man, eh? That's what always bothered me about you, pig." Liam's head rose. Dennis was lifting him. "Now you'll be nothing but a goddamn puddle. " Sam opened his eyes. He didn't need his connection with his twin to see what was happening now; Dennis, with Liam's body draped over his shoulder, was standing on the roof of the building. "How am I supposed to stop this?" Sam said. The words came as a surprise to him. What could he do, really? Anything? Dennis shifted. He planted his foot on the roof behind him. He's getting ready to throw him. A thought flashed into his mind. It might be stupid--truly, truly stupid--but it was the only thing he could think of. Sam threw his car in reverse and backed up. Dennis raised his brother, clearly struggling under the weight. Sam barely had time to put his car in drive before Liam started falling. Sam punched the accelerator and maneuvered the car as best he could. Liam's body fell with alarming speed--too fast, too goddamned fast! Sam positioned the car as best he could, but there was no telling if he was in the right spot, or if he had gone too far, or if-- And then the roof caved in. Liam slammed into Sam's car, breaking his fall, leaving an ugly, deep indent on the roof. Sam had to angle his head to get out. The police, who had pulled into the lot mere moments before, stared at him in shock. "I think the lunatic tossing people off buildings in the bigger priority, eh?" The offices, blinking away their shock, seemed to agree. They rushed into the abandoned warehouse moments later. Sam grabbed Liam's wrist. His brother was in bad shape; he'd need stitches and casts and a lot of painkillers (which, no doubt, he'd be an ass about sharing). But he had a pulse. And, to Sam's shock, he could feel Liam's presence in his mind. Yikes, Liam thought. I look bad. You've looked worse. Have I? After that weekend in Vegas, yeah. But not by much. A police officer checked Liam's vitals and radioed for an ambulance. Dennis Reily was taken from the building moments later. He met Sam's gaze--and his mouth dropped open. "I'm just a twin," Sam shouted. "But don't worry, the original model is just fine." Dennis was about to say something back when he was stuffed into the back of a squad car. The arresting officers weren't too careful about banging the suspect's head against the car door. I've had an idea, Sam thought. Why don't I come to the lake house with you and the family this weekend? I don't know. Martha really hates the whole "drunken stupor" act. "Then I guess I'll need to postpone," Sam said. "I can get drunk any weekend." Liam did his best to smile at his brother. And for once, the finger he raised to Sam wasn't the middle one. It was his thumb. Sam chuckled. "This is going to make one hell of a read." Liam groaned. Sorry, but I think I'll have to skip it.


THE FOGGY MIST ED WOOTEN Physical fitness, confidence, and drive for exploration have been my assets since high school. I’ve always maintained good physical conditioning and regard myself an avid outdoorsman. I’ve even considered auditioning for the Naked and Afraid television series. I recently celebrated my fortieth birthday and decided to prove I still possess my prowess in mountain climbing. In addition to mountain climbing and exploring nature, I also pride myself as a novice writer and a photography buff. Six days ago, I began this midlife challenge of reaching the pinnacle of one of the plethora of mountain peaks in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I started along a familiar path with nothing more than an aerial photo of the area, three bottles of water, and four Granola bars. My past physical achievement awards include awards for mountain climbing, map reading, and orienteering as well as cross country running. Within a half hour of climbing, a dense fog moved in and blanketed the area. Four hours later, I arrived at this summit, a breathtaking view with just a few sunbeams penetrating the still dense fog. The last quarter mile was a challenging climb with vertical rock walls that tested my upper body strength and  years of experience. After admiring the breathtaking view and eating a Granola bar, I realized this was not my intended peak. I explored the immediate area to get reoriented and match my location with the aerial photo that served as my map. The rocky terrain showed no well-used paths and its magnificent trees seemed to touch the sky. The situation was peaceful and serene until I slipped on a rocky slope, twisted my ankle, and crashed to the ground. I pulled myself to an upright sitting position and reached for some water. I opened a bottle, took a couple of sips, and tried to clear the cobwebs from my head. Ugh, I must have hit harder than I thought. My head ached from the sudden stop and for a brief moment, I was dizzy and disoriented. I got to my feet and hobbled around searching for a trail or path that would lead me back to the base of his mountain. I found no visible paths. It appeared the only way off this majestic perch was to retrace my steps down the sheer, granite-like walls. This sounded like a good plan; however, it couldn’t happen until my sore ankle got better. I kept walking…trying to get the ankle to function again.

I stopped and reviewed the events of my day. I traversed a couple of streams, passed a roaring waterfall, and then contoured an area of challenging rock formations and cliffs. I attempted to match these landmarks with my aerial photo.  Evidently, I got disoriented and then ended up on a ridge to another peak instead of the one I was supposed to be navigating. Orienteering maps are much more detailed than this aerial photo. For a moment, I questioned if I had allowed my confidence and prowess to cloud my better judgement. I made the mistake of taking off my boot to check my ankle. Swelling so severe that I barely got the boot back on. “Not a problem,” I assured myself as I limped back to the epicenter of the summit, my foot throbbing with pain. “I’ll call a friend, have him locate me via my phone signal, and dispatch a forest ranger to rescue me.” Oops, my newest version of iPhone had no bars and the “No Service” message kept flashing. What the hell?  I had a full bottle of water and two Granola bars. Three days passed. “Had” became the operative tense to describe my water and food situation. They were gone, had been for a couple of days. My phone died. Its final message, “No Service.” I’ve made it through the days fantasizing that I’m training for Naked and Afraid , and my partner has already tapped out. Hopefully, before the twenty-one day timeframe for the TV series, I will be found. I think dehydration has set in. My thoughts are unclear, I’m having trouble analyzing situations, and I think I’m hallucinating. The night air is very cold and damp, so sleep escapes me. During the day, my strength is zapped to the point that my movement is sluggish and nonproductive. Maybe my movement is sluggish because of my ankle and not lack of strength. The swelling and pain are still present. I can’t take a step without the pain piercing my brain sensors. The only food I’ve had for the past days has been black berries, or I should say, green berries…black berries that have not matured to become black. I can hear birds, but haven’t seen any other animals—no rabbits or squirrels. Not even a chipmunk. I need protein, but a source is not within reach. Fortunately, it rained briefly last evening so I swallowed enough to rehydrate my body. Unfortunately, the rain caused me to be both cold and wet during the night. At least the morning sun provided enough warmth to ease the chills and dry my clothes. Again, I try to find a way to get down from this peak. I think I’m moving in circles instead of descending. I know going down the rock face is the best option, but I need two, stable ankles for that manuever. On a positive note, I’ve taken some beautiful photographs of this area. One constant, other than the excruciating pain in my ankle, is the ever-present foggy mist that prevents me from seeing the valleys that I know must exist. I also cannot clearly see other peaks. Where am I? [NOTE: The above entry was found in a small, spiral notebook three years ago. To date, the author has not been identified, a body never recovered, and no record of a missing person’s report has been filed in this area. Other than the notebook, a camera with beautiful photos is all that was found. US Army Ranger students found them when their recon patrol got disoriented and ended up on this summit during the Mountain Phase of their rigorous training. Signed, Thomas Jones, Deputy, Missing Persons Unit, Dahlonega, GA.]


When I was younger, I used to travel a lot. It was my dream to visit every corner of the Earth and over a couple of decades, I achieved my dream. It was a long journey but a worthwhile one. You have to understand, no one can visit every corner of the Earth… it’s just an expression. I can say, though, that I’ve been to every country there is and visited all the important places. It’s more than a human can wish for. Don’t get me wrong, I‘ve never compared myself to others, at least not when it comes to traveling. I do sometimes make comparisons because it’s in human nature more than anything. When it comes to travel – no. It has always been a personality thing, a kind of personal growth if you will. It’s fascinating meeting other cultures or at least the vestiges of them because it has been one giant culture for a very long time. We all kind of live the same, think the same yet there are traces… Traces of our previous cultures that I’ve always wanted to explore. I’m a lucky one. I got to do what I always wanted. No stone was left unturned, no country unexplored. People often ask me what I got from my travels. I try to explain to them that I got to know the truth… to know what people are really like. They are all the same… everywhere on the globe. You see, they ask me if people live differently in other countries, if they are different. I tell them, they are not. Sure, there are some differences but then again, you have differences between two cities of the same country. It’s hard to believe, they say… People over there must be different from us. Our ancestors thought the same. It wasn’t long ago that we wanted to exterminate each other over our differences. We don’t do it like that anymore…but we still hate each other – with a smile on the face. People think we’ve changed, that we are qualitatively different from our ancestors, that because we don’t go to war we are somehow different. Better. Superior. We are happier now, that’s true. We have fewer worries. Hunger is not an issue as it was before. People still die from it, but it’s more isolated cases than the real, global issue. I remember that when I was a child my parents used to tell me stories of when they were young. It was war and poverty and hunger. And great things, too. My parents never experienced negative things but they were aware they existed. Today, people believe we are living in a paradise and for most parts, it’s true. If you have limited desires you won’t want much and you’ll be happier. Our ancestors wanted more and that was the reason for their unhappiness. Then again, they achieved more. Today, we are happy but placid. We haven’t achieved great things since who knows when. Even now that I’m writing this I’m trying to mimic older writers, now all of them dead because we haven’t had a decent writer in decades. Peace comes with the price and while I’m not complaining, I sometimes wonder at the great adventures our ancestors had. We don’t have it anymore. That’s why I’m a rare bird… A dodo if you wish, though there are so many extinct species that I could be called any other name. A pigeon, for example. I think I remember seeing a pigeon once, one of the last ones when I was about 4 or so. After that, I’ve heard stories but haven’t seen one because they are now extinct. We don’t try to bring them back to life. First, because we can’t, and second because we don’t want to. We made them extinct in the first place for the sake of the greater good. We have left all those species beneficial for the peace on Earth. There are plenty of them, don’t think we don’t have any left. It’s just that they are now serving their beneficial purpose. I’m not complaining. No one is. You can’t complain about something you’ve only seen on pictures. I wonder what our ancestors would say… I wonder what they would think about their future descendants if they would change anything… That’s why I’m writing this… In the hypothetical case that someone reads this, though I don’t have any hope anyone will. I’m writing this for myself. And maybe someone who comes after me who will see this as distant past. Who knows what they will think! Anyways, let me continue with my story… We have come along way with technology. When I said that we haven’t created anything in the last decades, I wasn’t completely honest. We have created many things, many great things, like the cure for cancer and AIDS, we can now grow body organs for transplantation purposes, so generally our life expectancy is much longer now than it was ever before. We still can’t live for 150 years, but we have extended our average lifespan to 95. It’s not so bad. Me, for example… I’m 65 years old and, compared to my parents and their parents, I would be 45. I still have a lot of things to live out. I’m not old, I’m middle-aged. It’s normal for women now to have children in their 40. It was possible then, too, but it wasn’t that common. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I like the way we are living now. It’s much better than the way my parents used to live or their parents. It’s peaceful and good and prosperous. It’s just… I’ve always felt that there was something missing. Probably I’ve traveled so much because of it. To find something. To find the meaning of life. Or just the meaning of my life. The purpose. Something. I’m not sure if I’ve found it… I’m still searching for it, but I did find something else. Something so strange that you wouldn’t believe me even if I showed it to you. No one wants to believe in what contradicts their view of the world. And no one believed me… For a long time, I hadn’t believed myself either. Until I went to search for it. The continent beyond.


\*See Part I : Ok, where were we with this story? Last time, James the watchmaker identified the initials on the mechanical movement belonged to his father and came to examine it in person for himself. “Remarkable!” He said as he circled around Giselle. “Since the watch is still running, there must be an auxiliary power source keeping the movement wound.” My aunt believed that it was impossible, but then they soon realized that it was Giselle’s eyes. There was just something about them… They moved Giselle near a desk lamp and discovered that the light shined through her eyes to the glass viewing window of the mechanical movement. “This was it! Her eyes runs on a sort of solar energy. Those are selenium cells in her eyes, which stores energy when exposed to the sun. But, they only last for 25 years. This must be keeping the watch functional all this time. But why? Why the watch, and why is it keeping time?” Together with James, they moved Giselle around and shined the lamp closer to examine any hidden features. When they shined the lamp at the glass viewing window behind her head, words were projected onto the wall: Greenwich 0701206439 “I know what that is. We are looking at an ISBN number, and Greenwich is the local library in the town where I grew up.” Said James. “That hidden message would only be visible as long as the mechanical movement inside her head is running. Otherwise, the numbers would be scrambled forever into oblivion.” “We HAVE to go find this book!” My aunt said. The next day, they showed up at the Greenwich library and asked for this book by number. None of the librarians knew what it was. That is, until an old lady came from the back room and brought them to the special archives vault. She dusted off a book in the far corner and handed it to us: “A young man asked me to keep this for him all these years. It was an unpublished book, and he told me to keep it hidden until someone asked for it by that ISBN number, or burn it if 25 years had passed. That would have been next week.” And the title of that book? “A Crimson Lullaby – You and I and time”. The book cover had a single photo in black and white with four obscure people by the water. This could be a family vacation. There was also a beautiful young girl in the corner. Flipping through the pages of the secret book they found, my aunt recalled the first page: “My dear Claire, I hope this book will help you find your way back to me. \-Pierre.” As my aunt told me, the rest of the book was simply a series of photos with some captions. After all the years, I still have never seen the book. Perhaps James kept it, or maybe it was destroyed, I wasn’t sure, and I had no way of reaching him. Apparently, he left town a month after my aunt and her found that book, never to be seen again. Still, my aunt took photographs of two pages in the book as a memento. One of them was a girl standing in a field. Her face was obscured, and light and darkness perfectly divided the diagonal of the photograph. The girl’s face was in complete shadow, but deep in my soul I knew that this was that girl. This was Claire. The second photograph my aunt took showed the last page of the book, with only four short sentences: “There will be a time for us. Just you and I. Overlooking the ocean. Always and forever.” And that was the end, the very last page – at least according to my aunt. Even after all this time, my aunt never told me if she ever found out who Claire actually was, but over the years she developed a fondness for this beautiful story. Sometimes when we visited the beach together, we would both remember the last page of that book as we embraced the endless mystery of the vast ocean and listened in silence. The gentle sound of the waves was like a lullaby of time. Time past, and time present, all in one place. Always and forever. What about the real story of the mechanical watch hidden within Giselle? Well, years later, another small fashion boutique made a similar discovery in their store. It made international news as a valuable timepiece was hidden inside a mannequin- something that most people had heard about for the first time in their life. The watch was auctioned off together with the mannequin for five million dollars. However, unlike the watch my aunt found, that watch had stopped keeping time – probably because the Selenium cells finally decayed after 25 years. And, there was no hidden message and no secret book at a library linked to that discovery. It was just another relic of time celebrated by the rich as a piece of their collection and accompanied with their own story. I miss my aunt sometimes. She would have been 90 years old today. I hope she found her happiness in life.


# [MF] Intolerable It’s a cool morning, and Sergei is taking a walk through his neighborhood as he usually does, weather permitting before he goes to work. Sergei is a seemingly average man. He has short light hair and harrowing grey eyes that he wishes weren't so piercing. Sergei is about six feet tall and 165 pounds making him appear long and, in combination with his eyes he appears almost specter like. As seemingly intimidating as he may sound, he is a gentle man; he goes about his business doing his best not to interfere in others’. Sergei has a few close friends that he meets with after work and occasionally on the weekend for drinks, or to discuss whatever esoteric topic he is infatuated with at the time. Sergei is for the most part content, never wanting for much, perfectly ok with how his relatively uninteresting life has panned out. After all, he has food on the table and money in the bank, which is all he has ever really asked for. So, as he is taking his routine morning walk on a crisp autumn morning, he is surprised to find an old friend of his walking as well. A friend he has not seen in, what he figures, must have been at least 5 years. He was close with the man for a time and remembered him well. As he can just barely see the man approaching he fumbles through his memory, scouring his brain to find the man’s name. Just as the familiar man is a few paces away from Sergei he remembers and greets him respectfully with a casual handshake as if to signify the time that has passed since their last meeting. The man’s name is Edward, and in truth Edward and Sergei had been very close for a very long time in their youth. For a summer they had traveled through Europe after University and had celebrated their shared accomplishments thoroughly. But there is a reason Edward had not seen Sergei in years, and it was not by accident that Edward had returned. Edward and Sergei had known each other since they were fifteen, Edward was actually sixteen at the time, but that is beside the point. They had formed a close bond and it was beneficial for both of them for most of their youth and early adulthood. Sergei was smart, collected, introverted, morbid at times, but never brutal or demanding. Edward was fiendish on occasion, driven, he had surface-level knowledge of most things but could do a lot with a little. Plus, Edward was rich, and Sergei was not. They were an unstoppable pair with a successful formula for getting things done; Sergei plans and thinks things through, Edward executes, and both parties profit. Edward was less aware of this cyclical behaviour than Sergei but neither of them minded, at least not in moments of conflict. However, there were several notable moments where Edward decided to think for himself, or rather think he was thinking for himself. This usually lead to misinformed decisions across the board, or worse yet personal conflict between Sergei and himself. Sergei would not accept Edward’s irrational thought processes and could not accept the risks Edward always seemed so willing to take. Probably as a result of his relatively stress-free upbringing. This kind of conflict became more and more prevalent in the two’s friendship until it felt more like a partnership than a meaningful relationship. The two argued endlessly and while Sergei was, all things considered, usually, in the right, Edward insisted on supporting his stances to the very end. Sergei would speak, then listen. Edward would shout then, well, shout more as his emotions blended with his rational thought. Sergei to a point could separate Edward’s predictable negativity and deal with it through basic ignorance, however, this became increasingly ineffective over time. Time heals all wounds, except the infected ones. Sergei had an infected wound named Edward. As kids, Edward was always the more physically inclined of the two and this led to a sort of physical humor that Sergei never fully understood. Why would you punch your friend, or mess with them in any way that would cause them obvious trauma? Sergei always wished one day that Edward would apologize for how he treated Sergei for so many years. This never happened. Sergei eventually took the first opportunity he had to leave Edward and his hometown, simultaneously escaping his past situation and toxic relationship. He had come to a breaking point at around age twenty-four and had cut ties with Edward, albeit on relatively good terms as far as Edward was concerned. Sergei was doing well. He was more mentally stable than ever and had for the first time in years been content. He was climbing the rope and getting out of the deep deep hole he had been in for most of his life, and he was doing it on his own. But today, when he saw Edward, he was not climbing the rope, nor was he content or stable. Upon shaking Edward’s hand Sergei reached into his back left pocket and retrieved the pocket knife he carried every day. He opened the knife inside the pocket and grasped it firmly. He carries on small talk with Edward even beginning to wonder how he has been and if he has changed. For a split second Sergei feels compassionate for his victim, the first and last he will ever kill. Then he remembers the years of verbal abuse, physical abuse, constantly submitting to Edward’s brute will. Each day a reminder of his inferiority. With a motion as swift and collected as autumn wind he slashed Edward's throat with the knife. One long stroke from left to right, severing the jugular vein as well as the trachea. Edward could no longer speak and Sergei stayed with him as he bled out on the quiet neighborhood street. Sergei assured Edward he would not be missed and walked away. For a moment Sergei had considered cutting his own wrists or throat, but had decided the ensuing wave of guilt and grief would better suit him. In an instant he became a broken man. The body was left as it was in the street for several hours until a neighbor encountered it. Sergei was never tried, or suspected in the murder case. He would later become a reclusive alcoholic/polyaddict while maintaining his job as a professor of ethics at a local university, only to die an unintersting death in his sleep at the age of sixty seven, having spent half of his life in one prison and half of his life in another. Both prisons he helped to build.


# Three good years During my travels amongst the stars, I came across an idyllic planet called Lyos. It was a bountiful world orbiting a yellow star occupied by intelligent human-like creatures who seemed to live lives of plenty and luxury. This entire ecosystem existed without any predation, the various populations of vegan animals always had just enough to balance their populations and not spiral out of control. The human-like people, these Lyosians, due to their advanced tools and intellect would get by on a mere hour of foraging a day, and spend the rest of their time engrossed in leisure and academic pursuits. These Lyosians would learn extremely fast. They would skim through a massive text book and have all of its contents absorbed within an hour, without fault. As I learnt their language, I would test them on this knowledge, it did not matter if I asked for page 100, third sentence, or the whole of page 567, they would know it by heart, and also understand it. It made all my years of agonisingly slow study seem infuriating to me, and left me to wonder how these people hadn’t conquered the stars already. Whenever I raised questions of the stars, the only one at the time who took any interest at all was a beautiful young lady called Resada. She would listen to stories of my travels for hours upon end, and not just that, she would question aspects of how and why things happened as they did in a way that would reshape my entire perspective of events. Tales where I thought myself the perfect, valiant hero, I now know where I could have done better. Agonising failures of mine with added perspective could be re-shaped as small victories, that perhaps even benefitted some. I recall one story, I spoke of losing a crew-mate to a venom on a distant forest world. I searched high and low for the cure, but to my despair he was too delirious to help me identify the cause. I had to fall to trial and error with anti-venoms, but none worked. From her sly smile, Resada just quipped “well it’s party time for the worms at least”. I chucked, I could call that callous, but I knew it was a joke, and honestly it was just what I needed, and she always knew what I needed. I often felt quite one sided in all this as I wasn’t sure I helped her nearly as much as she helped me. I listened to her stories of this place as well, and we were inseparable, doing everything together, and soon it progressed into a romantic relationship. However one pivotal fact slipped my attention for the first few months of this. This society I was starting to learn resided upon one unfathomable, and - to me - tragic fact. Each Lysonian only lived three good years. It was this reason why they had not reached the stars. It was this reason that felt a thorn in what seemed otherwise a perfect people, dedicated to learning, astute and intelligent to the extreme. I lived out the rest of Resada’s life with her, as she grew old and grey, wrinkled, desperate for some last time with this strong, insightful woman, knowing that each precious day we treasured together was worth ten of mine to her. She passed away peacefully, with no heir of her own. Having chosen me for a partner, we biologically could not have had children, yet she was never bitter about this fact. Her sisters had children of their own, at least some of her genes would pass on, and she had the first window into other worlds, a window no other Lyosian had ever had before. On Resada’s deathbed she left me with one perplexing statement, I chalked it down as a fever dream at the time: “Power is a heavy burden, do not mistake authority for altruism”. I didn’t know how that referred to anything at the time, but it was to become prophetic. I spent the next few decades on this planet, acting as a bridge between generations, composing the stories of the people of this world, including my dear Resada, and passing them on both in song, prose and spoken stories. I became quite the novelty, I could speak clearly of someone’s great-great grandmother, while these people were wizards to me in their ability to learn from a book, I was a wizard to them for magically re-telling stories of their families generations ago. I was the “endless one”, the “window to our ancestors” and soon looked up to by all. Whenever anyone had a problem with their lives, I always had some anecdote or story to make things better. I knew these people better than they’d ever have the chance to know themselves. I never again took a mate amongst them, not only was I still mourning for Resada, but truth be told, while these people were both physically and mentally adult in a mere year, a part of my mind still found their relative age too disturbing to contemplate getting too close to one again. Besides, I loved attention, that much was becoming apparent. I was getting that in spades being this elder-teacher and I loved it. I drank of it and devoured it, whenever I had a mere hours alone I would get the craving and find myself trekking to a public area to tell another story, desperate for more adulation. Generations passed, and my stories had taken hold enough to shape their society. No longer were their eyes only on their eden, but the myth of me had them seeking to lengthen their lives, and look to the stars. But their birth rate per year did not change - even a mere doubling of lifespan to six years led to rampant growth. Where one Lyosian would have previously only had time to sire one, maybe three children, it became common-place for families to reach six or more. Soon this Lyosian Eden was no longer plentiful enough. Foraging took longer and longer. Some turned to destructive ways to farm, others sought a way off this planet, and when their efforts took too long, and the environment around them faltered, some even took my ship and fled. So here I am, stuck amongst my folly. Power is a heavy burden indeed. I thought I was helping these people, using my position to spread stories of wonder, linking the generations like never before and helping these people reach new heights. After all, isn’t humanity shaped by its culture? Culture that is passed down, they may have been wizards of the written word, but when a people only live three years, so much is still lost. I thought I could be that link. Their very extended lives was also something I craved, I had it and thought they needed it too. Resada was right though, it wasn’t altruism, it was me, selfishly disrupting an ecosystem for my own gratification, trying to make them more like me, when her dissections of my stories always told me how I am not the perfect article either. Their culture was different but in its own way it was perfect, I just couldn’t see that I was leading them to repeat the failures of early Earth. I sit here now, elderly, but with still a few more generations to go of them before I pass. Can I reverse what I did? Can I restore their balance? Would I be better off to just link away with my books and hope they forget? Either option is grim. ((Just want to clarify that Resada was always a full-grown adult in this story, she may have technically been like 1 year 3 months old when they met, but..