She walked past her room and to his. Standing at the doorway, she leaned against it and smiled, crossing her arms over her chest. She watched as he rolled around in bed, whining for her to come over and give him the cuddles that he was promised for doing such a good job with chores. She watched as his face lit up when he saw her and reached his arms out for her. She couldn't help but let out a chuckle but that stopped when she was brought back to reality by the unusually loud rain droplets hitting the window. It was windy that night. The coldness settled quite well with the silence, giving her the eerie sense of loneliness. She sighed and walked into the kitchen. Going to the fridge, she got herself a bottle of water. Opening the cap, she felt a chill run down her spine. She stopped and looked towards the entrance of the kitchen and she saw him again. She just gave in and decided to enjoy these little..... Moments of flashbacks that she was having. It was all bright and happy now with him right there. She couldn't even hear the rain. She smiled with tears brimming her eyes, seeing him in the memory. He walked to her from behind and scared her once before holding her close. Giving her kisses on her cheeks, he told her how much he loved her and how much he missed her while he was at work. She watched herself (in the memory) turn to him and give him a tight hug. She always did that whenever he had a long day and just needed to relax. She played with his soft hair, whispering to him how grateful she was to have him and how proud she was of him. Perhaps, she didn't notice it then but she definitely did now. The little falter in his smile. She placed the water bottle back inside the fridge and went to the study room. Their work room. She sat down at her desk and looked to the side where she saw him working. Another memory. He always looked attractive when he worked. It was no denying that him focusing was definitely something she could admire for days. Giving her a sweet smile, he reached out and held her hand with one of his own as he continued to work with the other. He was just caring like that. She leaned over to take a peak at what he was doing and he covered her eyes. Whenever he told her that peeking was bad, she would just pout. This always sent him into a mini panic. He would stop whatever he was doing and just go hold her. He knew it comforted her and it really did. A lone tear rolled down her cheek. She wanted to be in those arms again. She wanted to feel the comfort and warmth again. But she couldn't. She had lost it. Forever. Going into the living room, she could almost hear the words slipping past her lips with no control. She wished and hoped that she could take very single one of those words back but she couldn't. She regretted it and she still does. She remembered how he just had a small smile on his face as he listened to her yell at him for not switching off the lights and fans when they were not in use. Of course, this had ticked her off at the time but now, she knew why. He probably loved it. He probably loved the fact that he would get to hear her yell at him one last time before he would be gone. Regardless, she was mad at him now too. She was mad at him for not telling her and for hiding it from her that he would be gone soon. Very soon. She felt her knees buckle aa she fell onto the ground, sobbing. One of her hands covered her eyes as she let out a heart broken yell into the void. There was no one to tell her that everything would be alright. She didn't even get to say her goodbye. She didn't get to tell him how much he meant to her and how much he did to save her. From the world and herself. She didn't get to tell him how grateful she was that she had met him. She didn't get to tell him that he was the sunshine in her life. He probably didn't wish for it to happen on her birthday. He probably felt so sad and angry at himself too. She felt so useless for not being able to comfort him at that moment of time. She felt worthless for not being able to see it or even sense it. Her nails dug into the wooden floors as she felt the pain coursing through her. One of her hands came up to clutch at her chest. She could feel the heaviness in her heart. It brought her down. She remembered the times he told her to not lose hope but now that he was gone, she had no hope left. He took it with him. Her smile, her laughter, her joy, her happiness, her entire life was gone with him. He was gone. She was not prepared for this farewell.


It was 2am when Pot presented himself at Owen’s bed. It was a queen-size bed, which is rather a large bed for a 7-year-old boy. However, it did not look out of place in Owen’s considerable bedroom. The bed was decorated with a Harry Potter duvet, which complimented Owen’s Harry Potter pyjamas. Pot is a sprite. He is 2 feet tall with the same anatomy as a human. A constant grin stretched across his sharp facial features. His whole being appeared to be made of an icy translucent white light. It was as though he was being projected. “Wakey wakey,” whispered Pot directly into Owen’s ear. Most children would scream at the sight of a ghostly sprite within face-biting distance, but not Owen. Here is a child that has spent the entirety of his seven years within his own head. A head that contains magic, mythical creatures and all manner of fantasy. This is a child who needs to be called at least three times by his mother before his focus leaves the world of fantasy. A child who received the magic set he had craved for Christmas. As an only child of affluent parents, he got most of the presents he wanted. This wasn’t some high-street rubbish, this was the best magic set that a father, desperate to please, could find after several weeks of searching. He went on to perform the magic. Of course, such a child has no interest in instructions so his parents were required to look away as Owen made the coin ‘magically’ disappear. “Child, I’m looking for a skilled warrior to help me in my quest to uphold the good and vanquish the bad. Do you know of such a warrior?” said Pot. Owen managed to lift an eye lid. “Aye. I could be a warrior. I know kung fu.” The grin across Pot’s face stretched implausibly further. “You’re amazing. I could tell from the moment I saw you that you have the potential to be a great hero.” Owen lifted his head. His cheek was connected to his pillow by a string of saliva. He managed to lift the second eyelid. “Who are you?” “Great question. I am Pot. The Sprite. I fight on the side of goodness but I cannot do it on my own. I need the help of a great hero such as yourself.” Owen managed to get himself completely upright. He started to feel the chill and so stretched for his comfy grey dressing gown. When Owen pulled the hood over his head it made him look like a wizard with long grey locks, which covered his own shaggy tussled blonde hair. Owen started life with blonde hair. If he was like the other men in his family, Owen was around a year away from his hair darkening and settling into mousy maturity. He turned on the light, which illuminated his loft-converted bedroom. It was the largest bedroom in the house. It was situated on the other side of the house to his parents, which was beneficial for his mother and father as they couldn’t hear his yells as he played with his toys, of which there were many in all areas of the room. The walls were decorated with space-themed wallpaper but you couldn’t see much of it as it was covered with movie posters. Owen had a good look at Pot. He stretched out to shake Pot’s hand. Pot moved backwards just as Owen’s hand reached Pot’s fingers. Owen’s fingers passed straight through Pot’s fingertips as if they were a hologram. “Are you magic?” asked Owen. “Another great question, young adventurer. I am indeed magic. I believe you are magic too. In a way. And I believe you have the necessary characteristics required to defeat the agents of evil. There is one such monster present here tonight. Are you brave enough to help me defeat this beast?” Owen straightened himself and tied the belt on his dressing gown before saying, “Let’s do it.” “The creature we must defeat is a grizzly bear. Each monster has a weak point that we must exploit. This monster is particularly fierce…” Pot noticed that Owen was fidgeting and wiping his clammy palms on his dressing gown. “You’re not scared, are you?” “No. I want to fight. It’s my destiny!” “Wow! You’re a natural. I’m very impressed. The grizzly’s weak point is being confronted by his own reflection.” Without hesitation, Owen said, “I know what we can use! There’s a mirror on my wall.” “Fantastic idea, but do you think it will work?” “Yes,” said Owen and without having a clue, “it will absolutely work.” Owen dangerously climbed on top of three toy boxes that he had stacked and gently removed the mirror from the picture hooks that were embedded in the wall. He was doing so well. He reverse stepped down from the boxes but just as he was going to place the mirror against the wall it slipped from his grasp. The frame hit the floor. Cracks spread up the mirror on impact. To stop it from clattering on the floor and waking his parents, Owen dived at the falling mirror and cushioned the fall with his hands. Large shards of mirror fell out of the frame. Owen carefully withdrew his left hand. It was unhurt. He then withdrew his right hand to discover it was spurting out blood. Shock started at his feet and raised like a wave throughout his body. “Let me look at that brave lad,” said Pot. Owen stretched out his arm and pointed his bloody fingers towards Pot. He turned his head away. Tears surfaced in his eyes as he suppressed his wails. Owen felt a sensation like no other he had felt before. His hand felt moist and warm, hot even, but not painfully so. Owen managed to turn his head and face his outstretched arm. In disbelief, he brought his hand close to his face. The blood had gone. “Not so bad after all. Warrior,” said Pot. Owen took his focus away from his formerly injured hand and squinted his eyes in the direction of Pot. He looked different. It was as if he was a whiter white. As if he had gone up on the scale of whites at a fancy paint manufacturer. Farrow and Ball would say he had gone from “strong white” to “Wimborne white”. “Get the mirror ready. Hold it out in front of you,” said Pot as he placed his hands on the bedding. Owen did as he was told. He placed one of his socks over his hand and picked up a shard. He began to feel nerves. “In 3, 2…” Owen noticed that Pot was somehow now able to clutch the material of the bedding. He also began to wonder how a grizzly bear could fit under the bed. “1!” Pot drew back the bedding. Owen winced with his sight partly obscured by the shard of mirror that he held outstretched in front of him as if it were a shield. He glanced with one eye but couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was his Winnie-the-Pooh soft toy, which he hadn’t seen for so long that he had forgotten that he ever had it. Owen looked at Pot to see if this was some sort of joke. For the first time Pot’s face was not adorned with a grin. He looked serious. Scared even. He started to realise that this was some sort of game that Pot had set up. He had a choice: confront Pot and say that this was just an old Winnie-the-Pooh toy; or play along and battle Winnie as if he was a real grizzly. Only one of those choices would lead to fun. “Charge,” whispered Owen as he lunged towards the stuffed toy bear. He wrestled with the bear. Rolling around on the carpet with the toy animal clutched in his arms. He rolled this way and that while trying to keep an eye on the sprite to gauge if he was impressed. “Careful, stay away from his jaws,” advised Pot. Owen wrestled some more before kicking away Winnie. The bear landed in a seated position. Owen brought the shard of broken mirror up to the bear’s eyes. “Shield your eyes,” said Pot. Both Owen and Pot covered their eyes with their arms. They froze in that position for a few seconds and then in unison looked up at the bear. Winnie remained unanimated. Pot’s enormous grin had returned. “That was amazing.” Owen crawled over to Winnie. He carefully lifted the bear’s right arm. He let go. It flopped down by his side. “He’s dead.” “You truly are fulfilling your potential as a great soldier. You did it.” “Is that it? Have we defeated evil?” “Well… we have defeated that one evil monster.” “There’s more?” asked Owen. “You have probably had enough adventures for one evening.” “No. I can battle on. I have stamina.” “Well there is one more monster nearby but we would need to lasso it like a cowboy capturing a wild stallion. And in order to create a lasso we need rope and I just don’t think a 7-year-old boy would have a rope in his bedroom.” Owen scanned the bedroom in the hope of seeing some rope. He couldn’t. “Perhaps we fashion a lasso,” said Pot. Owen looked around. “Could we cut up the curtain and use the fabric?” asked Owen. “Although, it is of course a great idea, we just don’t have the time. We need something that is already a long rope type piece of fabric.” Pot looked towards Owen midriff. “I’ve got it. Let’s use my dressing gown belt.” “Warrior lad, you are a genius. I’m very impressed.” Pot explained to Owen how to make the lasso in great detail. He told Owen how to place into an ‘s’ shape and then pinch and wrap the rope into shape. He pulled it tight as instructed. “Tell me about the monster,” said Owen. “Look over there. He is on top of the wardrobe.” Owen looked over and knew straight away that the sprite was gesturing to the Buckaroo mule. Owen did not have an inkling where the mule’s box was, or indeed any of the other contents of the box such as the saddle or the small plastic lamp that you dangled from the saddle while avoiding the buck. “He is a violent and very powerful beast. Although you have shown great strength, it is going to be very difficult for a boy of your age to out-muscle the monster. I suggest you secure one end of the lasso.” Doing as he was told, Owen placed a chair atop his bed, which he proceeded to climb. He precariously bobbed around on top of the chair as he unscrewed the star-decorated light shade and attached the belt loop, which he had been instructed to make, to the light fitting. He pulled it tight. Pot was clearly pleased with Owen’s effort. “Now, we only have one attempt to capture the awful beast, so you must test the lasso. Put the loop over your head and down around your neck.” Owen obliged. “Pull it tighter… Tighter still… Tighter...” As the boy had been tricked to tie the noose tight enough around his neck, the malevolent sprite mustered all his might to push the chair off the bed, leaving the boy dangling and helpless. As Owen kicked out his legs in all directions, Pot assumed the lotus position beneath the child. Pot began chanting. Owen tried to scream for help but he couldn’t force any sounds out of his mouth. He was confused and couldn’t understand. At the moment of Owen’s demise, the light that filled Pot’s being drifted upwards leaving his small remains in a heap, a bit like the leftovers from a snake when it sheds its skin. The cool white light entered the boy’s deceased body. The boy’s eyes opened. He lifted his arms and grabbed the light fitting. He was able to exert enough strength to lift his body in the air to stop the strangulation. He unscrewed the light fitting and fell backwards onto the bed. The boy mostly had the same appearance as he did before his untimely death. Except he now had a slight ungodly glow about him and a grin that seemed unhealthily large. The boy sat up. He loosened and then took the belt from around his neck. He chuckled as he threw the belt towards the inanimate plastic Buckaroo mule. He stood, took off his dressing gown and straightened his pyjamas. He put on a pair slippers. He bent down and picked up the pointiest bit of broken mirror that he could see. He walked over to the bedroom door and opened it. In a perfect imitation of Owen, he shouted as if in distress.


Charlie sat on the annoyingly uncomfortable fancy sofa, failing to loosen his tie. “Carter, do you know why my mother drags me around to all of these gatherings?” He leaned his head back onto the couch and turned to look at Carter, his hired bodyguard, who was standing against the wall of the right side of the couch, keeping Charlie and the nearest door in his line of view the way he always did. “Still following the rules, huh? Y’know, I’m sure you’re a lovely, hilarious, person underneath all that brooding.” He paused, but Carter just blinked at him. “Why is that a rule, anyway? I mean, my mother is paying you to keep us safe, in my opinion she just needed someone else to babysit her untrustable son, but anyway, I basically just annoy you all day, so why don’t you get to annoy me? You should at least be allowed to tell me to shut up sometimes.”

Carter did start to laugh at that, and Charlie got excited because he looked like he was finally going to break that rule and say something to him. “My goodness that took forever. So sorry to keep you waiting, boys.” His mother, the Lacy Charis, announced as she burst into the room.

The tall woman paused in front of a mirror behind the couch to straighten her hair, and as Charlie stood up he muttered one more thing to his friendly body guard, “I am going to get you to talk one of these days. When do you think it’ll happen?”

 Carter just smiled back at him, “Shall we?” his mother called.

Charlie hid his disappointment well, but not before letting out another defeated sigh. He stood up and walked around the couch to his mother’s side, failing to swat her hands away as she tried to fix his tie. Then, finally, she took his arm and they glided out the door together. Lacy never seemed to walk, she simply glided across the floor, letting her dress or skirt flit around her ankles like leaves in a gentle summer breeze. Carter walked behind them with his boss, Mr. Hartmann, silently watching the pair complain about the obligatory fancy luncheon they were hosting.

Mr. Hartmann

jabbed at him with an elbow. Focus! His eyes seemed to scream.

The event wasn’t meant to be a big spectacle, simply a meeting of friends and investors, but there were too many significant people present for it to not be a public spectacle. There were cameras and reporters clogging the driveways, attempting to force their way through the crowds and police keeping them at bay. Carter kept his distance as he followed Charlie around the room, but as soon as he noticed the silhouette in the window he was sprinting to his side. Carter got to Charlie not a second too soon, as the boy began to turn to see what the problem was, the window where the silhouette was moments before was shattered, and debris flew inside like it had been shot from a gun.

Carter pulled Charlie out of immediate danger, dragging him away from the fray before the initial screams had stopped. It didn’t take long for Charlie to follow without question, he knew it would be better for everyone if he did. As they rushed down the hallway, another explosion rang out, knocking them both to the ground. Carter recovered first, being used to similar situations, and carefully pulled Charlie with him in a swift change of direction. Instead of heading towards the “panic room,” or as Charlie liked to refer to it, the “oh shit room,” they darted for the garage.

They avoided another explosion father down the hallway in a section they would have run through, and once they got to the garage Carter flung open the door to the least flashy and conspicuous vehicle in sight. He didn’t check for keys, and instead hot wired the car then and there. Charlie silently watched from the passenger seat, processing each of the events from moments ago, and the one currently happening. It wasn’t until Carter started driving that either one of them spoke.

“What… the… FUCK!” Charlie exclaimed, turning his head on Carter, who drove away from the mansion like it was his job, “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

The car is what he’s freaking out about? Dammit Charlie, someone just tried to blow you up! Repeatedly! Carter thought, “I can hot wire more than a car.” Was all he replied with for the time being. Charlie blinked in shock again, Carter’s voice was definitely not what he was expecting. He wasn’t what Charlie was expecting. It’s… kinda hot. He thought, looking straight out the windshield. “Not gonna ask about what just happened?” Carter cautiously asked, glancing at his passenger a few times.

Charlie shook his head, “If you knew you would have let me get blown up.”

Carter’s brow furrowed, “Well… not necessarily...” Charlie stared at him with a deadpan expression and Carter turned back to the road, pursing his lips.

If I do tell him... Once they were a few miles away from the mansion and it was confirmed that they weren’t being followed, Carter let himself not drive like a crackhead. Charlie had leaned his seat back slightly and appeared to be trying to get some sleep. Smart. Carter thought. He drove them into the next town over, parking in the driveway of a small diner.

“In the mood for lunch?” He asked.

Charlie shrugged, “I could use some food.” He was getting his usual playful air back, but there was definitely more intensity his reactions to everything, as if he were analyzing everything that everyone did.

Before they got out of the car looking too disheveled and recognizable as out-of-place, they took of their ties and sport coats, leaving them in the backseat and unbuttoning the top few buttons of their shirts at an attempt to look more natural. With an exchanged nod they got out of the car and walked inside, seating themselves in a small, two-person, booth.

“So. What’s the plan?” Charlie asked calmly, picking up his menu a few inches off the table.

Carter watched him for a second before responding, “Well we don’t really know what that whole ordeal was about, so I figured we could head to my buddy Nick's house. It’ll be safer to try and contact your mother from there, and no one will know where we’re going, so we can lay low for a little while if we have to.”

Charlie nodded, “Sounds good.”

“Hello, what can I get for you today?” the waitress politely asked when she walked up.

“Small stack of pancakes and a glass of water, please.” Charlie smiled, handing her his menu.

Carter did the same, and when the waitress walked away he began speaking again, “Charlie, there is something else you should know if you’re going to blindly trust me again.”

“I’m not blindly trusting you,” Charlie replied, “but go on.”

He swallowed, “I can manipulate certain forms of natural matter.” A moment of awkward silence passed, “There are others who can, too, and I’m pretty sure one or more of them just tried to kill one or both of us.”

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, “Okay… why do you say that? And can you give an example, or something?”

Carter wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not, “Uh, yeah sure.” He focused on his water glass, forcing warmth into the liquid it and causing it to steam. Then he drew the heat back out and let the glass condense.

“Oh,” Charlie sat back, any and all of his doubts diminished, replaced with a large variety of other questions.

Carter offered a weak smile, “I think it might be part of the reason you - we - were attacked. It’s kind of like an underground society that’s at war with itself. Those of us that know each other either get along or don’t, and sometimes conflicts arise.”

“But?”

“But I’ve never heard of anything quite like this before. It’s too risky, if someone discovers one of us then we’re all damned, and attacking with that many cameras around, on top of all the people who were there? I don’t know, something just seems off.” Carter responded.

It made sense. There was no fire or gas or anything like that during the explosions, it was more like the debris was being expelled from its initial place by sheer force, which, Charlie realized, it was. “How long has this been a secret?” He asked.

Carter looked nervous to respond to the question, “I don’t really know. I’m 26, and the oldest person I know with the ability is 40-something I think, so I guess at least 40 years.”

“Uh-huh, and, um, what exactly is it that you and these other people can do?”

“Oh, it’s actually pretty simple. We can control different natural elements on a molecular level. The most useful and therefore dangerous is earth, plants and shit, because you can use basic iron ore molecules to pick just about any important lock.” he explained, “The fire element is a little more complicated. Rather than being able to manipulate molecules, we can alter the heat levels, temperatures, of most things, excluding most inanimate solids. It’s what I can do.”

Charlie nodded, then the waitress came back with their food and asked if they needed anything else with a very polite smile. Carter declined, watching Charlie’s body language as he thought about everything he had just been told. After all, it’s not every day your body guard comes out as a superhuman and reveals that you’re a potential target for other superhumans. Why did I tell him all of that? WHY DID I TELL HIM ALL OF THAT?! Carter thought, What happens if he decides I’m insane? How can I keep him safe then? Then it hit him, Oh no. I told him just about everything… they’ll want me to kill him!

“Well, now that that’s been cleared up. Tell me something about you.” Charlie said, trying to change the subject.

Carter narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “...Why?”

“Well, you already know just about everything about me from following me around for two years. And you’re allowed to talk to me now.” Charlie replied. Carter blinked, “Maybe start with your first name, Mr. Logan .” Charlie tried, leaning forward playfully.

He smiled, “Carter.”

Charlie smiled back, God I love his smile. “Carter Logan? Huh, well Carter, tell me about yourself. Likes, dislikes, family. Anything.”

His smile fell, “Ah, well, I was stuck in the system until I was 15, so there’s not much to say for family.” Charlie cringed, “Um… what else do you want to know?”

“High school?”

“_ public school for almost two years.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah, when I was almost 16 I may or may not have gone to juvy.”

Charlie nodded once, raising both of his eyebrows, “ Oh. ”

“I didn’t do anything bad, just pissed someone off enough to throw a punch, then pleaded guilty in court so I wouldn’t have to go back to another foster home.”

Charlie nodded again, “That’s justified.” The next few minutes passed in intense awkward silence, until the bell at the door dinged as someone walked in. It was a relatively tall man wearing jeans and a flannel t-shirt. He had a small symbolic tattoo on the side his neck, just under the jaw line.

“Shit.” Carter mumbled, “Keep your head down and don’t say anything.” He instructed. Charlie did as he was told, listening to the TV that the waitress turned up as the man walked by.

“And now we will hear from Mr. Hartmann, the head of security at the Charis Luncheon.” The news reporter said, looking to the side while the cameras switched.

“Thank you. Unfortunately, we were not able to defend against this attack because it was caused by several large external explosives. The only currently disclosable information we can offer is a casualty count. There has been 2 deaths and several injuries. The deaths include one of my employees, Carter Logan,” a photo of Carter was then displayed on screen next to Mr. Hartmann.

“Welp, time to go.” Carter said, leaving a twenty on the table and beginning to stand up. Charlie followed suit, still carefully listening to the TV.

“-died on duty and for that we are ever in his debt. Despite this loss Charles has disappeared from the scene, and our best assumption is that he was kidnapped by the unidentified attackers. The second death-” The door bell chimed as they rushed out.

“So you’re dead now and I’m-”

“Shit, shit, shit! Get in the car!” Carter interrupted him.

Charlie jogged to the driver side with a mischievous smirk, yelling back when Carter paused, stunned. “Well get in the car!”

There was barely time for Carter to close the door as they drove out of the parking lot. “Holy shit!” A black sedan followed them onto the street, picking up speed in an attempt to catch up with Charlie’s driving.

“I know I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me, but I thought you’d have a bigger vocabulary.”He smiled, breaking just about every rule about driving as he sped down the road. He drifted onto a sudden side street and vanished on another turn, “Did I lose him?”

“Uh,” Carter clutched the door handle as he looked over his shoulder and out the back window. “Yea, I don’t see anyone. You can slow down now.” He said anxiously, “I said you can slOW DOWN NOW THERE’S AN INTERSECTION RIGHT THERE!” Charlie smiled wider, dodging a turning car in an intersection and laughing at the chorus of horns that followed. “I said you can slow down! We lost him!”

“What are you talking about? She’s right there!” Charlie took a hand off the steering wheel to gesture at a woman with long black hair pulling into a pony tail in the front of an SUV that had just drifted out of a side street and stopped facing them.

“SHIT!”

Time seemed to slow so that Carter could watch Charlie’s hands move, shifting gears repeatedly to cause a controlled spin-off that he used to drive backwards down the other lane. Still driving backwards, Charlie turned them onto a different side street and into a bank parking lot, turning of the SUV right next to an identical vehicle.

“Holy Shit!” Carter yelled again, still clutching the door with one hand and the center console with the other.

“You’ve said that already.”

“Y-you just… we’re like a mile away from the diner already!”

“Mhm.” Charlie nodded once, wondering if he should apologize for all the spinning.

Carter swallowed, prying his fingers off the center console. “Now I know why you’re not allowed to drive.” He let go of the door and looked back at Charlie, “Where did you learn to do that?”

His smile fell, “Had to get creative to get away from my dad when I was still in high school. Before he went to prison.” Carter winced, he hadn’t meant to bring that up. “Anyway, I’m sure that changes the plan, so where to now?”

“You’re right about having to change the plan, after that, especially, Nick won’t be home. We’ll have to go directly to the Nova.”

He replied.

“What’s the Nova?”Charlie questioned.

“Oh, it’s like a base, the location changes randomly every few days. Nick and I are a part of a coalition of sorts, the ‘leader’ is Lita Rogue. It’s a little sketchy, but the current location is the old middle school at the edge of the town.”

“Oh, okay. So my old school is now a secret base for illegal superhuman affairs.” Charlie chuckled.

“You’re freaking out less than I expected.” Carter commented, dragging out the ‘ou’ in ‘you.’

Charlie shrugged,“Meh, not exactly time to panic about it. Might as well just go with it.”

About half an hour later they pulled into the middle school back lot, parking next to a cherry red mustang. “Just saying, I could’ve gotten us here in less than 15 minutes.” Charlie teased, closing the car door.

Carter laughed a little as they walked to the door, “I was speeding the whole way here, and it terrifies me to imagine you driving all the way here.”

Charlie smiled at him again, holding the door open. The pair made their way to the old conference room, where a table and spinny office chairs were still set up. There was a thin boy with messy black hair sitting in one of the chairs facing away from the door. He was talking to a tall, thin woman with long silver hair in a braided bun on. She was standing on the other side of the room looking out the window. When she turned around she did a double take, “Carter!”

The boy spun around, “Dude, I thought you were dead!”

“Sure you did, and I thought you were the mayor.” Carter walked over to another chair and made himself comfortable. Charlie followed, unsure of whether or not to introduce himself. “Charlie, this is Lita Rogue and my friend Nick.”

“Yo,” Nick waved across the table with one hand.

“Hi.” Charlie smiled, “Wait, you call me Charlie?”

Carter shrugged, “In my head sometimes.”

Lita was amused, “You know, when you were stationed at the _ house I didn’t expect you to actually follow the ‘no talking to the client’ rule.”

“HAH!” Charlie pointed excessively at Carter who spun around in his chair.

Lita chuckled and Nick laughed, “All joking aside, we need to think. When and where do they think we’ll be?”

“Dunno, hard to get in their heads, but it won’t be easy for them to get into ours, either, especially after Charlie’s driving.” Carter answered his real boss.

Nick was about to add something before the door flew open, as if being pulled by the copper door knob. “They’re here.” He whispered dramatically, spinning a little and looking out the door.

Lita straightened up, walking over to the door with deadly silence. “Nick, go kill the power. Carter, Charlie is your responsibility. Keep him safe, try to see what their infantry looks like.”

“Got it.” Nick replied, standing up and darting out the door, relatively quiet for someone wearing denim jeans.

Carter stood up, nodding once as Lita walked out the door. Charlie got up too, following Carter out the door as quietly as he could. “Carter, wait.” He put a hand on the other’s arm.

“What is it Charlie? This isn’t exactly the best time.”

“Where are you planning to go?”

Carter’s eyes darted down the hallway once before looking back to Charlie, “I don’t know, main office?”

Charlie cringed, “Follow me, library.” He urged his new friend in the opposite direction. It was just down the hallway and to the left, and was one of the largest rooms in the building. Since the schools closing, it had been full of towering empty bookcases and had 2 common exits, not including the shortcut to the gymnasium.

Carter carefully closed the door behind them, but a perfectly timed bang sounded with it. Then the PA system pinged on with it, and a resounding voice came through the intercom. “Oh boys~” A woman’s voice said, tauntingly. “I know you’re here, I saw the car. Meet me in the auditorium in 5 minutes or I’ll come find you. And darlings, you do not want me to find you.”

Carter gulped, “Shit, alright, what’s the layout? What are out best routes out?”

“This way.” Charlie said confidently, walking down two aisles of bookcases before picking the right one. “Hold the bookcase up.” Carter did as he was told, confused the whole time. Charlie scrambled up the 10 foot bookcase and moved one of the ceiling tiles.

Both of the doors to the library flung open, and they could hear the woman in the halls. “Come out, come out, wherever you are~ time’s up!” Her voice was increasingly menacing, and got louder as she got closer.

“I got it!” Charlie whisper yelled, pushing open an awkward hatch and climbing through it. He poked his head back out through the opening and held the bookcase up for Carter. Once he was through, the woman stepped under the hatch. She held out a hand, and Charlie couldn’t close the trapdoor.

Carter flashed a hand and her hand darted to her head. Charlie slammed the door closed and latched it, “What did you do?” He said, standing up and rushing across the roof.

“Relax, it was just a hot flash. She’ll be fine.” Carter followed, “Where’s the parking lot, we have to get out of here.”

“Why, so they can follow us across town again?”

“No, out of the state. The country. Your mother has a house in London, right? We’ll get a message to her and she’ll take a holiday.” Carter proposed.

Charlie offered a weak smile from the edge of the roof. “If you think it’s the best plan.” He accepted, jumping.

Carter shrugged, jumping with him. “In all honesty, it could be worse there. Probably is, but all that’s left of the Nova Coalition in the US is me, Lita, Nick and Lita’s husband. I’m not the one with something to lose.”

Charlie picked a car, “Y’know, when I said I’d get you to talk one of these days I didn’t expect it to be today. Or because someone tried to kill you - us - or because you’re a superhuman.”

Carter rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to ignore the guilt tearing apart his subconscious. “I, uh, I’m sorry. You were never meant to get pulled into this mess.” He chose the passenger seat.

Charlie sat down in the driver seat of the bright red mustang, “Shit happens.”

“The End.” I love you.


Rebecca swung her legs out of bed and blindly stumbled through what she could have sworn to be a sea of dirty clothing. She used her arms as if they were the sweeping canes of a blind person crossing a street, if that street was a bedroom and if blindness meant the light was turned off. It occurred to Rebecca as the heavy fog of sleep loosened it's grip on her brain that this was a lot of work just to use the bathroom. Finally reaching the hallway, she groped the wall in the general vicinity of which she knew the light switch to be. It took almost a full two minutes for her eyes to adjust to the new arrangement she had made with the bulb hanging from the ceiling. The lack of casing around the fixture wasn't making the adjustment any smoother. Rebecca wasn't materialistic, she didn't take much interest in the appearance of non-sentient, inanimate objects. When she finally opened her eyes all the way, Rebecca, still laden with sleep-brain, was taken aback by the two doors. *Only* because there's only ever been one door across the hall from her bedroom. The first time Rebecca had seen the Black Door, she had been rushing to get ready for work just as the sun was creeping up in it's early-morning way, and it had been half the size it was now, stationed at the end of the hallway on a blank wall. The apartment next door had been on the other side of that specific wall, so she thought it was quite an odd choice of the door to make. She thought this, of course, after she had finished having a panic attack that caused her to run to her bedroom and slam the door. She did *that*, of course, after having stared at the door for several minutes, wondering if she was having a psychotic break. There stood the brown bathroom door she knew and loved, in all of it's warped and cracked glory. Standing in contrast to the Black Door on its left, the *modesty* of it made it fit right in with the yellowed, peeling wallpaper it made it's home in. The bathroom door knew it's place, it didn't try to be something it's wasn't. It was subtle. It was dependable. It was for functionality, not for show. It didn't vie for Rebecca's attention like this-this-this *intruder*. The shiny Black Door was silently screaming to her, it's frame mere inches away from the bathroom door's frame and a full foot taller. It was desperate. It was begging to be opened. Rebecca could feel it's longing in the depths of her chest. She could feel the weight pressing down on her lungs, quickening her breathing, her heart beating faster in turn. She was fully awake now. She didn't know if this Door was real, and if it was, she didn't know what it's intentions were. Could Doors have intentions? She didn't know. There were a lot of things regarding the Door that she didn't quite understand, most of all it's very existence. Rebecca came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was ignore it. This is the second time she'd seen the door, albeit the first time being several months ago. Now she was absolutely sure that this was an issue that needed to be brought to the attention of a trained professional. She didn't feel any shame admitting that she needed help, there's nothing wrong with trying to improve one's self. This was the sort of mantra she repeated to herself as she nervously edged right, around to the left side of the bathroom door. If anything, this whole exchange with the Door only made her have to pee more. Once finished, she washed her hands and crossed the hall without turning around to look at the Black Door. Despite the rise in temperature it would cause, she decided to close the bedroom door. Once through the threshold, her bedroom opened left and her bed sat in the opposite corner. If she left it opened, the angle would be perfect for her to stare at the Door all night. Adversely, the Door would have a perfect view of her as well. However, all of these preemptive strikes didn't matter, Rebecca found. As she closed the bedroom door she snuck a peek and much to her surprise, the Black Door had vanished. ... After several weeks of cheap therapy, dwindling nightmares and no appearances from the Black Door, Rebecca was starting to believe the prognosis that she was simply 'over-worked and over-stressed.' It was almost laughable that she had been so frazzled by a *DOOR*. It didn't even *do anything*, she reminded herself. Which some might argue, is the most sinister bit about the whole business. She arrived back at her building thinking it all behind her, but something was making her arm and neck hair stand at attention as she walked through the first floor towards the stairs. The hallway seemed... off. Rebecca couldn't quite put her finger on it and she slowed her pace.. She furrowed her brow. The hallway was longer. She realized the hallway was longer and her breath stopped short, because it wasn't longer by much, there was only one...extra...door. Her ears rang as she sprinted past the door, shoulder grinding along the wall opposite so she could be as far out of reach as possible, her footsteps echoed like thunder off of the twisting metal staircase, her eyes scanned every door she passed as she ran down her hall to her apartment. She used shaking hands to desperately fumble with her keys and she looked back and forth, not knowing why she was so afraid, not knowing what she was watching out for, only thinking of getting inside and calling her therapist. After what to Rebecca like 10 minutes she finally got inside, slammed the door and fell against it with eyes closed. After a moment, she thought about what she was going to say to Dr. Werren. She knew how many apartments are in her building, of course she did, they're all numbered. *This* door, this door didn't have a number on it. What she couldn't understand, however, is why the door wasn't black. It was a gray metal door just like the rest of the doors. She wondered if it was even a Door at all, if maybe she hadn't just made a mistake and jumped to an irrational conclusion. Perhaps the number had fallen off. She thought that maybe she should go back and look at the door, she thought she owed it to herself to follow through on her therapists suggestion to rationalize fear. Rebecca stood, still leaning her weight against the door. She ran her hand through her hair, she took a few deep breaths. She wasn't so proud that she couldn't admit that a few nervous, relieved laughs escaped. She probably looked like a crazy lady. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sharp rapping on the very door she leaned on. This startled her but she knew the human interaction would re-ground her in reality. As she simultaneously asked who it was and turned around, she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that erupted not a second after her eyes fell upon the Black Door. The front door to Rebecca's apartment was gone. In it's place stood the Black Door, holding the same dimensions as the space's previous occupant. Hand still over her mouth, Rebecca slowly backed away while tears formed in her eyes. It dawned on her that every time she had seen the Black Door, the hinges were visible. When one enters a room, the door swings away from them, into the room. She realized this means that whatever the Black Door separates, she was on the inside of it. It appeared that the Door had grown tired of waiting. The Door was no longer trying to catch Rebecca's attention, the Door was no longer giving Rebecca the luxury of ignorance. Rebecca lived on the 5th floor, the bottom panes of the tall windows were purposely painted shut. For the first time since moving in, she cursed herself for not spending the extra money on a nicer place. She didn't know when it had happened, but she now saw that the outside of the windows were pitch black despite it being the middle of the day. She whipped her head back and forth looking for any way out. Another quick rapping. Harder this time. Something wanted to be let in. It was running out of patience. Rebecca ran down the hallway to the opposite end of her apartment, which suddenly felt very, very small to her. She pounded on the wall with her palm, yelling for help, yelling for the police to be called. Ironically, this was the very same space that the Door sat in the first time she saw it. She yelled that there was a fire, she yelled that she was suicidal, she yelled that she was going to fucking blow all of you fuckers to hell, she'd kill you all. No matter what she claimed there was no response. No matter how long she yelled, nobody came to her aid. The Black Door sat quietly in place of her old front door, whom she missed dearly. She walked back and stood before it, almost in defeat. She wiped the tears from her face and considered sitting on the floor and staying there until she starved to death. Slow. Deliberate. *Knock.* *Knock.* *KNOCK.* Without having much of a choice in the matter, Rebecca strode to the door and twisted the knob.


Ruth O’Hearn thought her situation through before going on air: "I've been the moon's resident manager for the past year."  She was pumping herself up now.  "People love me." She announced through live-stream that her replacement's name had been drawn.  "Every year humanity partners with AI to oversee our global energy solution," her speech began from the moon base. *	*	* “The things I do for freedom.” Aaron Norton said to himself, rubbing the tattooed numbers 66653090010 on the back of his hand. He grimaced as he thought about these two layers of identification the government required now: a tattoo with microchip underneath. “It’s colder than I thought it would be out here.” Aaron stood up from his make-shift shelter deep within Allegheny National Forest. He could hear drones flying nearby, hunting him.

Darkness fell on his final day in hiding. An old verse popped into Aaron’s mind. He said it out loud: “evening and morning were the sixth day.” But he thought to himself that these days weren’t very good. Tomorrow would be no time for rest. Tomorrow he would turn himself in. Covering up under his jacket, Aaron tried to sleep. In his dreams, Aaron was taken on a tour of nearby Pittsburgh. He flew through the streets that no one drove on anymore. He flew over Homewood-West, once one of the worst neighborhoods in town. Now it was a sea of manufactured homes. His tour guide made no sound but managed to ensure Aaron saw into a few homes. They were all the same. All walls were made of video screens. Robots created food and delivered it to sedentary adults and children lounging on hover-beds. One bald man looked like Professor X from the X-Men, albeit one who lost his sparkle of willpower and life from his eyes. On the back of the professor’s hand, Aaron saw another of the tattooed numbers: 66618632020.

He flew to one of the old elite neighborhoods: Squirrel Hill North. Built-up in every space around the old mansions were more of the manufactured homes just like in Homewood-West. People in every building all behaved similarly. They relaxed in entertainment while being served by (what Aaron hated knowing were) centrally controlled robot servant-masters. One home had a man and woman watching themselves on the video wall in front of them. Their chairs were configured with lap coverings rolling around like those back massage chairs you used to see in airports or shopping malls. Aaron could see they were deeply enjoying themselves and their robotic personal servants. In that state between dreaming and waking, Aaron regained enough consciousness to remember when those video walls went up. He lamented how virtual reality was never good enough for people so they just kept making TV’s bigger. The present was surprisingly low tech except for a few things that provided comfort while making the population docile. He thought of video walls, hover-chairs, those damned power plants pumping free unlimited energy to every home in the world.

"How could free energy damn the world? How did we get this far off?" He thought of the Artificial Intelligence-driven manufacturing system provided all these houses for every family, for free. Money became obsolete. The machines were powered by unlimited free energy from nuclear power plants on the moon. They could give humanity everything humans always wanted, for free. Government by AI gave the world peace, safety, and enjoyment. Aaron woke, calmly. He turned on his cell phone for the first time since he went into hiding. The sound of drones became louder. His phone’s position was triangulated by the data systems those drones had access to. Standing to his full 5’10 height, proud and confident, Aaron walked toward the main trail using Google maps to help guide his way. He itched his scruffy, week-old beard. It was reddish-brown and somewhat uneven now around the cheeks. He looked over his shoulder at his backpack leaning against his shelter. He smiled, reluctantly, and walked on. Red and Yellow, a drone branded with the McDonald's logo floated ghostly toward Aaron on the Minister Creek Trail. A green one and another, black followed in tow. “Probably Starbucks and Northrop Grumman drones,” Aaron guessed. Emotions of fear and cowardice spread across his face as he turned to run. A week’s delay had General Jon Raymund on edge. Space Force’s commanding officer needed to deliver Aaron Norton to the launch pad today. “About time” was all he said when his surveillance monitor showed the boy through his drones’ optics. General Raymund watched from his war room at the Pentagon in Arlington Virginia, 300 miles away. Drones hovered near the boy’s hand. Their RF sensors scanned his microchip from a distance: 66653090010 (just like his barcode read). With surprisingly human, warm mechanical voices, they spoke to Aaron. “Every year, one person is sent to the moon. This year, though you hid in terror, it is your turn to enter the rocket. Everything will be all right now though. Please, hop in and have an Egg McMuffin.” Aaron rolled his eyes at their strange artificial intelligence. “Don’t take me; get away from me!” The black drone opened its door and swooped towards the boy. Even Aaron had to admit “That was the most graceful capture I’ve ever seen.” The robotic voice thanked him. The black drone, higher in technical sophistication and twice as large as the McD’s and Starbucks drones closed its door and elevated. It had enclosed Aaron in a pod the size of a motorcycle and flew off. There was nothing he could do to stop them. Flying south, they passed over a charging station. Aaron shook his head in disgust. The technology wasn’t what bothered him, it was how the tech changed the world. It all happened so fast. “20 years ago we were human, now we’re so much less.” The charging station emitted a violet-colored beam directly at Aaron’s pod, then another of the drones, and then the other. This transferred energy and allowed their battery-powered turbine engines to continue. All gas engines were gone now, which Aaron thought was a very nice and green accomplishment by the world government. They flew over Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, PA. “Wish me luck,” Aaron said. He smiled, sardonically, remembering that it all started right there. They continued for hours over West Virginia, a little bit of Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, the Atlantic Ocean, and finally to Florida’s space coast. Space force personnel were in position at the Falcon 9 launch complex at Cape Canaveral, Florida. Elon Musk was there too, with the media, as he did every year when they sent a new person to the moon. The drones took Aaron in. *	*	* The space agency outfitted Aaron in a very fine space suit. They had stripped him of all his personal items, which included his clothes and phone. His astronaut gear was more like a fashion model’s attire than the old white bags worn in the 20th-century space missions.

The media met Aaron with NASA and SpaceX leaders. To keep Aaron’s hysterical unwillingness to go to the moon in check, they had given him a mild sedative. He could barely understand the gist of the news briefing. Aaron was another in a long line chosen for the task of maintaining the moon power base. “We will always keep a human presence in space,” they said. “No matter how advanced our AI gets, mankind will always partner in ruling the universe.” Aaron felt a tug at his spacesuit. Someone asked him: “Are you ready to ensure another year of energy for the Earth, Aaron?” He smiled and nodded. Then he was off to the capsule. Three days after launch, Aaron would be on the moon. On day 2 his consciousness fully returned to him after being drugged on Earth. “Those jerks.” He said as he scrolled through the videos available for him to watch in the space shuttle. “Let's see, option 1: watch space fly by the actual window. Option 2: watch my press conference in which I was a drugged idiot on stage with NASA. Option 3: Netflix. Oh hell, I’ll just watch the news conference.”

Upon landing, a robotic greeting crew welcomed him. “Welcome to the lunar south pole.” Aaron’s expression was neutral. He could see, however, that the prior manager of the moon was being loaded for transport back to Earth. A woman was waving. They did not get to speak, but through a glass window, the lady chosen for this mission last year seemed ecstatic. "Ruth," he mouthed to her. She was taken to the light side and Aaron was taken the opposite direction to the dark side of the moon. Aaron asked his driver and another robot in the transport vehicle: “So what do you think of your situation up here, robots?” The driver, Moxy, answered in perfect English. It was like they were best friends just having a normal conversation. “It’s great, there really isn’t much difference from being on earth. My first job was actually in the Heinz College of Information Systems and Public Policy. Even then in the ’20s, we communicated through virtual means. Zoom meetings! Do you remember those?” Aaron nodded yes, but more or less tuned out Moxy and the other robots in the welcome crew as they went on and on about their past experiences. Aaron was searching through the transport with his eyes for any communication ports. He looked over the bodies of the robots and saw no way to sabotage them. The robots would be stronger than he was, so using force was out of the question. Arriving at the base, Aaron was introduced to several new robots. They prepped him for a news conference. Sophie, the robotic news anchor on the moon met with him. “Ok, we’re going to set you up in a fake work cell so we can show your old friends back home how useful you are on the base up here! You don’t really need to worry about anything up here, we have it all under control, but we need to put on a good show for our bosses!” Aaron objected, but she was very kind and persuasive. Eventually, he gave in to let them put him into a glorified photo shoot. He played along, this time, in part just to enable him to search the base. After making some friends by playing nice at the news conference, Aaron asked for a tour of the mission control center. A robot by the name of Salvador accepted the task. “I cycle the beam generators as the world turns. Have a look here: see how the USA is about to spin out of view?” Aaron was shown a video monitor that projected the view as seen on the side of the moon that always faces Earth. “So as the USA spins out of view we can no longer beam to their receiver and we have to switch to the next continent. North America, South America, Africa, Europe, Asia, Australia. We don’t use the poles; don’t want to melt Antarctica, as they say!” Aaron asked: “Why don’t you just program the beam generators to do this automatically? Why are all the robots needed?” Salvador looked hurt. His optics had the functionality of eyebrows and they looked furrowed now. “Well, in truth it's just because we want to humanize the moon. This is why we look like you instead of an octopus or spider, for example. I mean when we started all this, people were very skeptical of AI and robotic assistance in general.” “Yes, I get it, that makes sense. It’s all a big show; you and I are both actors.” Aaron consented. The machines never slept. Some countries always needed a news conference, it seemed. Fake work was always being done and streamed to wall TVs around the world. This made it very hard for Aaron to search the base, but he managed. He could never see any physical computer ports or ways for him to access the AI.

He asked Salvador in his 2nd week on the moon if there were any other facilities he hadn’t seen yet. Salvador said that outside of their mission control room there were the beam generators. “Yes, yes, but you already showed me a video of those.” Aaron hastily replied. Salvador said: “There’s also the nuclear plants themselves and then the embassies. “What do you mean embassies?” Aaron asked.

“Well, along with the two beam generators in use to power Earth, there are also spares, And each of the old “super-power” countries, for a few years, held one beam generator, each. They didn’t trust each other then. So they each wanted their own. They aren’t used anymore.” Excited, Aaron pressed him on these. “Really? Can I see the USA’s embassy?” Salvador agreed. “Moxy, please get the transport ready and take the welcoming crew with you.” Moxy, the original driver who brought Aaron from the landing site, was thrilled. She had been on low power mode since then. *	*	* On the way, they drove past one other embassy. Its red flag with yellow stars hung limp, but brilliant in contrast to the gray lunar surface. Then, driving up to the USA’s embassy, Aaron saw an American flag in the ground and another hanging like China’s on the side of their embassy. Red, white and blue memories of a time and national pride were so quickly forgotten. Pride was replaced by a safe, easy, comfortable life under the global government of AI. Moxy and her crew hopped out of the rover and powered up the USA embassy. They unlocked all the doors and showed Aaron around. The tech here seemed older. There were tiny (20-inch) monitors for individual human use at computer workstations. There were arrays of small mission control screens (60-inch) hung overhead in front of the workstations.

Walking past one of these workstations, as Moxy was explaining space command of the 20th century, Aaron peeled off the fake tattooed skin on the back of his hand. Hidden underneath was a tiny pocket between his real skin and the overlay. There was no tattoo on his real skin. There was, however, a tiny USB-C drive hidden between two metacarpal bones. In its hiding spot, it was impossible to see or even feel this USB drive, as small as it was. Aaron pulled the tiny, fingernail-sized drive out and inserted it into the workstation’s USB port. Then he showed those machines of pure programmed willpower what Will really was. The computer screen danced for a moment with scrolling computer code. Then everything went black, all the lights went out. Even the LEDs on the robots wend out.

When the embassy rebooted, Aaron was standing with a devilish smile on his face. His brow was furrowed in concentration. “Activate voice control,” Aaron said. “Moxy, fire up the rover. Disable power to China, Russia and every other embassy. Physically destroy everything you can.” He said it and it was done. “Computer, connect me with Space Force.” An app like Zoom popped up on the main screen in front of the US embassy. General Jon Raymund answered. “What the hell is this, Aaron?” Jon asked. “My name isn’t Aaron Norton, it’s Roger Kint. I took Aaron’s number 66653090010 and turned myself over to your drones.” “Impossible,” Jon said.

“It’s not impossible, this was inevitable,” Aaron, aka Roger, said back. “You had to know someone would stand. There were too many of us at Carnegie Mellon’s AI institute. You turned steel city and one of the greatest AI research centers in the world into a city of sleepy fools. “I did nothing of the sort,” the General said. “You’re right, you did nothing. You let it happen. I’m going to make it stop. End Call.”

“Computer, Disable communications with Earth. Connect me with Salvador at lunar mission control.” “Hello, this is Salvador speaking. Who may I have the pleasure of speaking with from the US embassy?” Salvador cluelessly asked.

“Salvador, thanks for answering.” His LED went out, along with all the lights in mission control. As Roger’s virus spread through the connection, the entire moon rebooted. “Salvador, disable all nuclear power generators, then take everyone and go physically disassemble all of them.” Salvador did and the power transfer from generators to beams stopped. The beam from the moon to earth went dark. Earth used all its power-up, and also went dark. Roger couldn’t see it, but the bald man from his dream back on Earth got out of his hover-chair when it fell powerless to the floor of his home. He struggled to get up, having very little strength left in his legs. He hobbled to his door, turned the knob, and went outside. “What is happening?” Drones were still flying by, but some were now falling out of the sky without their charging capabilities. Down the street, a couple of his neighbors were making their way back to using their legs. Front doors opened. People walked into the streets, looking up. Aaron wondered if he’d ever get back to Earth himself. He thought not, but knew it was worth it. “Now we can be human again,” Aaron said aloud. Then he got back into communication with Moxy: “Hey Moxie, can you go back to mission control and get me a sandwich and a drink?” She replied in the affirmative. There was at least enough food for one more year.


As I woke up, fragments of the same story I had been following for a while pieced together in my head. Or, in simple words, I slowly remembered the dream I had. I was a little kid who went exploring into the forest a little too far and got attacked by a group of angry, grey versions of the villagers. They seemed to be outcasts of the villager society. They were the ones who dived a bit too far into the realm of magic and sorcery. I shook my head to try to get the thoughts out of my head. I had stuff to do today, mostly chores but that didn’t matter. I got up grudgingly as I had woken up early and gone to sleep late. I slowly crept to my basement and got on my armor. I then thought of what I had to do today and wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. I first had to go to my farm and harvest some plants. I harvested the plants and put them in their respective chests. I then had to care for my animals in the pens behind the farm. I fed them and checked on the pregnant ones to make sure they were okay. I then had to work on my basement. I got some logs and placed them to make the walls of the basement. I also put some chests with signs for organization purposes. Once I was done, and officially dead on my feet, I walked up the stairs to my bedroom, and as soon as I hit the bed, I was asleep. I woke up as the fairy lights above my bed blinded me. *‘Dang it, I was so tired that I forgot to turn off the lights.’* I thought to myself while rubbing my eyes. I went through most of my morning routine before I remembered the dream I was recording. But, thinking back, I didn’t have a dream that night. Maybe if you’re tired enough, you don’t have dreams. I don’t really know how this vision stuff works. As I went on with my day, my thoughts were running a mile a minute. I kept speculating about why and how these visions kept appearing in my dreams. After a while, I noticed I wasn’t getting anything properly done and went to the village for new info. I searched through their book collection. I could only find stuff about magic and teleportation. I then had an idea, wasn’t that religious monument thing a teleportation device? I could use the device to travel to the other village and see their book collection. I quickly ran over to the device and touched it. As my hand collided with the warm stone, I shut my eyes as tightly as I could. I counted to 5 in my head and opened my eyes. I was in another village. I was in the middle of the forest, right next to the village. I said hi to the villagers even though I never got any response. I then hastily jogged over to the village’s library of sorts. I opened the door and started scanning the shelves for books. As I read the titles, I found that they were sorted in alphabetical order. I looked for the books that started with the letter ‘V’. I scanned the shelves some more to realize that there was no letter ‘V’ section. I frowned and went on my way back to the other village. In my sadness, I didn’t realize that it was nighttime and monsters were appearing everywhere around me. I pulled my shield out of my bag and equipped it. I ran back home and into my bed as quickly as I could. Before I fell asleep, I remember looking at my arms and seeing a few scratches from skeletons' arrows. I fell asleep like I was slowly sinking into the mattress. My eyes slowly opened to see my small bedroom with only enough room for a bed. I sighed. *‘I should have made a bigger bedroom.’* I thought, reprimanding myself for not thinking that far. I slowly slid out of my bed and put some clothes on. I walked over to my desk in the hallway and sat down. I wrote down my dream. Last night, I had dreamt of being a builder. In the dream, I had helped a huge group of builders build a religious temple that looked like a prismarine pyramid. After me and my group had finished building, we went home. My builder self overheard our leaders speak of rising waters. After I had heard this, my dream turned into flashbacks of the future. Flashbacks of rising waters and most of the buildings being underwater because of it. I wrote this all down and went on my day. The rest of the day was very uneventful and all I did was finish some chores until the sun set and pondered my dream. By the time I went to bed, my muscles were sore from working in the fields all day. I peacefully fell asleep, drifting off into dreamland.


Mack closed her eyes and rubbed her fingertips to her temples. She leaned back in her chair, inhaled deeply and exhaled, just like the yoga teacher had taught her. She was so mad at Ethan and he was furious with her. Even still, she knew he was taking things too far. She heard the front door creak open, flinching as it slammed shut a few seconds later. She knew he was back home, but from the sound of the door, he hadn’t cooled off. And neither had she. He walked past her, hands clenched at his side. She glanced at him as he walked past her into the kitchen, but didn’t dare make eye contact. She didn’t have to look at him closely to know that his jaw was clenched and the tiny veins were popping out of his forehead. She was surprised his veins hadn’t popped completely and stated bleeding by now, if that was even possible. How could he not understand her position? What could she do, what could she say, to make him understand? Nothing, she already knew. She’d spent five years married to the man and she knew that once they disagreed so strongly, there was no seeing eye to eye. She couldn’t understand why he couldn’t compromise like she could. She’d done it plenty of times in the past and he barely seemed to acknowledge her sacrifice. She blew out another heated breath and rose from her chair, grasping the arms for support as she realized her legs felt weak, like jelly. She didn’t know whether it was anger or stress, or possibly both, that made her feel like she couldn’t get a full breath into her lungs. She walked into the kitchen slowly, glancing around her to see what she could grab onto if needed. A wooden chair from the table would do. Her voice shook with fear as she spoke. She didn’t usually fear confronting Ethan, but somehow this time was different. “Ethan, I…can we talk about it?” He didn’t turn around from his place at the sink, but continued to stare out the window as he said, “We’ve already talked about it and we can’t agree. Why do we have to keep hashing it out?” “Because there has to be a solution. Or at least a decision.” “We’ve already made the decision.” She suddenly found her voice and she knew her anger would come through perfectly clear. “No, you’ve made the decision. We haven’t.” At this he turned, his blue eyes morphing into steel grey. “Every time we have this discussion it turns into an argument and we always come to the same conclusion. I can’t believe we’re arguing over this. For the billionth time.” “We’re arguing over it because we can never come to a compromise.” “I don’t want your mother her, Mack.” “Well I do! She’s my mother, Ethan, and we have to treat her with respect.” “No, you do, I don’t.” “You should, she’s your mother-in-law!” Mack screamed at him. His eyes flickered with uncertainty as he said, “I don’t know why you’d want her here, especially after the way she treated me at the wedding.” “Why can’t you just forgive her?” “Why can’t you see my side?” “I do see your side! Why do you think I didn’t talk to her for the first 6 months of our marriage? Do you think I did it for fun? I did it to support you.” “You’re not supporting me now. You’re catering to her every need.” “I am not! I’m trying to make it easier for her to come visit us. You know hotels in the area are expensive, and the ones she can afford are in dangerous parts of town. You can’t expect me to ask her to stay somewhere dangerous, and unless you’re going to pay for her hotel, she can’t stay in any of the ones around here. The only solution is for her to stay with us.” “The other solution is for her to stay home. She doesn’t have to come.” “You’re right, she doesn’t. But she wants to see us.” “No, she wants to see you.” Mack threw her hands up and smacked them down to her sides. “She wants to see both of us. She likes you! You should hear how she talks about you when I have those three way calls with her and Aunt Tracey. She really does like you, Ethan. You’re family, and she wants to come visit both of us. Please, see my side in this, too.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “I’m trying, Mack. I really am. But every time I think of her coming here, I remember what she said to me at the wedding. You didn’t even hear it all, and I’m glad. It would have really hurt you.” Her voice softened. “I was already really hurt, Ethan. Don’t you know that?” She barely saw him nod as he dropped his chin. For the first time, she realized he was hurt too, not just angry. She realized that maybe hurt was the first emotion that he was feeling, and anger was the only one he could express. Just like her. “I want you to be happy, but I don’t want her to walk all over us.” “She’s not, Ethan. And I’m already happy with you. It’s just that I see my mother once a year, and every time she comes it leads to fights, stress and anxiety. It makes the time she’s here less enjoyable. I just want her to stay with us and have a good time. It’s only for a week and then she’ll be gone. Please, Ethan. Please.” He ran a hand through his hair like he did when he was thinking really hard about something. Mack shifted her weight from one foot to the other and gripped the back of the chair closest to her. “Why do you want her around so much, Mack? That’s the question that plagues me every time this issue comes up. What makes you cling to her so much? Why do you let her so close to you, to us, after the way she treated us at our wedding?” Mack took a deep breath and with a voice barely audible to Ethan, she said, “Because she came to the wedding. She showed up and my dad didn’t. Everyone that was invited came except for him. Everyone on your side, your parents, grandparents, cousins you hadn’t seen in 10 years. They all came. And so did my mom. You had everyone that’s important to you there on the best day of our lives. I had everyone except my dad, who could have, if he’d wanted, had one of the most important roles in our wedding.” “I know that hurt you, but what does that have to do with your mom? They barely talk since the divorce.” Tears pooled in her eyes as she continued, “Because my dad wasn’t there to tell me how beautiful I looked. He wasn’t there to walk me down the aisle or place my hand in yours. To give over the protection, the care, the love, to transfer my safety from his arms into yours. He wasn’t there to hear me declare how much I love you and will always be there for you. To hear my vow of obedience, love and support to the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. He missed it all and that was his choice. But my mother, despite her objections to our marriage, despite her dislike of you, she came. She saw it all. And yes, she said some horrible things to us. But she stayed. And she has proven that she can change. One day, I’ll look and she won’t be there, just like my dad. I don’t want her to walk away from me because we don’t treat her well. Because you shun her. I don’t want her to be pushed away. You have your whole family to support you. Most of my family doesn’t even call to check on us, or ask to visit. My dad isn’t in my life and my mom is. Please, let her stay, Ethan. ” He walked over to Mack and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and whispered, “Of course she can stay. I’m so sorry, Mack.” “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize you felt like I wasn’t supporting you.” “I didn’t think about all that. Of course, I wanted your dad there and I was angry that he didn’t show up. I just wasn’t thinking about that being the reason you cling to your mom so much. I’m sorry, honey. And I know I should have told you how I was feeling.” “So should I. We’ll both do better from now on.” “Yes, we will. I promise, from here on out, your mother can stay with us any time she wants. I promise to be a lot nicer to her. I didn’t even realize I was shunning her, I was just trying to avoid causing a fight.” “I can see that now. But by ignoring her and fighting me tooth and nail on where she stays, you were shunning her.” “I understand that now, and I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. We’ll both be better at talking and listening to each other. And next time we have a disagreement, can we at least agree to talk it out like this first so it won’t become another five year fight?” “Of course, I completely agree.” Mack rested her head against Ethan’s chest and they stood there in silence for a minute. He rested his chin on the top of her head and rubbed her back. She looked up at him and grinned. “So, now that we’ve agreed she can stay, can I go call her and tell her to start packing?” Ethan shook his head. “No.” He said plainly. Brows knit together, Mack opened her mouth to object when Ethan put a finger to her lips and continued, “ We can go call her and tell her to start packing. If I’m on the call with you, she’ll know that I really am okay with her staying this time. You won’t have to try and convince her I’m okay with it, because I actually am now.” Mack smiled and stretched on her tip toes to land a kiss on Ethan’s mouth. “I love you.” “And I love you.” Together, for the first time in five years, they called her mother and invited her to stay with them for the week. They’d turned their argument into a conversation and turned their marriage around in the process.


Logline: A man tracks down his mother's painting, which is worth millions of dollars because of its beauty, when he finally finds it, it may be worth even more than that. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Mike Swanson's mother, Sophie Swanson, was a renowned painter, a living legend at the time of her death, her artwork hung in art galleries and museums. A few weeks after her funeral, Walter Jessup, a billionaire and art collector visited him at his house. They had a long talk about Sophie's life, and Walter brought up a painting named Lola. Walter shows Mike a picture of Lola on his phone, "there it is, isn't she beautiful," Walter says. Mike agrees, he can't take his eyes off it, "That's probably the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," Mike admits. The painting is a realistic portrait of a young girl, couldn't be older than 18, singing into a microphone with yellow feathers in her hair. "I don't think any person could come close to the beauty of this painting; the person who posed for this is probably the most beautiful woman in the world," Mike says. "Keep in mind, the painting is over thirty years old," Walter says. "Still, I can't look away; it's love at first sight," Mike says. "It's the earliest painting ever discovered that your mom made. It's from before she was famous, living out in Las Vegas, trying to make a living as a lounge singer," Walter says. "That's crazy; I didn't even know my mom could sing," Mike says. "In good condition, I've had it appraised at 3.8 million dollars, but no one knows where it is," Walter says. "It's lost?" Mike asks. "I guess so, you see, the girl in the painting is a real person, her name is Lola, she was a showgirl at the Copa thirty years ago, now she's a singer in a Las Vegas night club, people have asked her about the painting, but she won't reveal where it is," Walter says. "Maybe she doesn't have it; maybe it's truly lost," Mike says. "I don't believe that. That woman knows where the painting is. If you went to Las Vegas and asked her for it, she would feel compelled to give it to you; it is your mother's painting. Think of it like this; it technically belongs to you anyway. If you return with the painting, I'll give you eight million dollars, that's double what the painting is worth," Walter says. "Eight million dollars! I'll get that painting for you," Mike says. "The girl does four shows a week, at a joint called The Troubadour, a dinky lounge with slot machines in the lobby. Good luck, kid," Walter says. Mike flies out to Las Vegas, he settles in, and the first night he's there, he goes to The Troubadour to see Lola. He sits in the back; the place is dead, the club has seen better days. A woman, looking to be in her mid-to-late fifties, comes onto the stage with yellow feathers in her hair, it's the woman from the painting, her eyes haven't changed, but life has taken its toll. She's introduced as Lola and performs a version of Unchained Melody; it's beautiful and flawless. When she starts singing, the few people left in the lounge, can't take their eyes off of her, she has a hypnotic presence. Mike found her, Lola, from the painting. When the song concludes, Mike tries to make his way backstage but is not allowed. He waits two hours for Lola at the exit, he sees her and tracks her down. "Hi, Lola?" Mike asks. "Yes, what do you want an autograph or something? A little young for my fan club but whatever," Lola says. "No, my mom was Sophie Swanson, I think you knew her," Mike says. Lola stops in her tracks. "Sophie, yes, I had heard the news, I'm sorry for your loss," Lola says. "Well, I was wondering if you had a few minutes to chat?" Mike asks. "Sure, let's grab a drink at the bar," Lola suggests. They walk over to the Troubadour bar; the bartender is very familiar with Lola, "Hey, Lola, your regular?" The bartender asks. "Yes," Lola replies. "Alright, ma'am, a bottle of vodka coming right up," the bartender replies. "A bottle? I don't drink much, will I like the taste?" Mike asks. "Don't be silly, the bottle is for me," Lola replies. Mike turns to the bartender, "Oh, just a coke for me then," Mike says. "So, Sophie's boy, what brings you out to sin city," Lola asks. "Actually, you," Mike says. "I'm flattered, but you're a little young," Lola says. "No, my mom painted a portrait of you, I've seen a picture of it, it's beautiful," Mike says. Lola pours a glass of vodka and immediately drinks half a glass. "Your mother was always a talented painter, you know we were showgirls, right? Those were the days, youth, enjoy it while you have it," Lola says as she downs the other half of the vodka. "Do you still have the painting?" Mike asks. "Have you ever been in love?" Lola asks. "Love? What does that have to do with the painting?" Mike says. "Love is everything, do anything you can to keep it, because it can leave in a blink of an eye," Lola says cryptically. "But what about the painting, do you have it?" Mike asks again. Lola pours another glass of vodka and immediately downs half of the glass as the bartender brings Mike his coke. "Did your mother ever tell you why she made that painting in the first place?" Lola asks. "No, in fact, I didn't even know about the painting until a couple of days ago," Mike said. "They say you shouldn't fall in love at the Copa, but I was young, and I thought I was immune. His name was Tony; he tended bar on most of my shifts; he was the love of my life. The sweetest man you'll ever meet," Lola says as she drinks another half-glass of vodka. "Being a showgirl at the Copa was a tough business, but I was going to be a star, and into the club walked, Rico, mafia goon famous for his diamond pinky ring. He would always call the showgirls over to his table, show off, and try to get them to come back to his room with him. I was working that night," Lola says as she pours another glass of vodka." Rico had a reputation for getting a little handsy, but I had it under control. Unfortunately, Tony, filled with rage and jealousy, sailed across the bar and got into a fight with Rico, punches thrown, chairs smashed, and eventually, Rico pulled his gun and shot Tony," Lola finishes. "That's tragic; I'm so sorry you had to experience that," Mike says. Lola shrugs and drinks another half a glass of vodka. "So, what do you want with this painting?" Lola asks. "I'm being offered eight million dollars for it," Mike says. "Money, you're going to trade that painting for money?" Lola asks. "Yeah, believe it or not, that painting alone will bring in more than all the rest of her paintings did," Mike responds. Lola shakes her head. "Some things can't be bought, kid, I learned that a long time ago. You can't put a price tag on that painting; it's priceless," Lola says. "I know it's beautiful, but why is it so special?" Mike asked. "Your mom got me through a lot after Tony died, I drank a bunch, and I was sad, your mom got me through that phase of my life. That's actually why she made the painting. I had a difficult time; a few nights prior, I tried to commit suicide, so to cheer me up, your mom painted my portrait. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen; it made me want to live. I never tried to commit suicide again," Lola said. "Wow, I never thought that painting would have such a special significance for anyone," Mike says, as Lola throws back another half a glass of vodka. "Look, your mom was a special person to me, if you want the painting, I'll show you where it is, you can have it if you want it," Lola says. "Well, if you're willing to let me have it, I'll take it," Mike says as Lola finishes her vodka and throws down fifty bucks, "Thanks, George, Victor's got to pull the car around, the kid and I have a trip to make," Lola says to the bartender. Lola is taking Mike to Las Vegas General Hospital; they go straight to the top floor. When they step off the elevator, Mike sees a sign that reads, "The Sophie Swanson Psychiatric Wing." When they reach the ward, his mother's painting of Lola is straight ahead. It's the highlight of the entrance to the wing, that was a multi-million-dollar artwork just hanging there at the entryway to the psychiatric ward, hidden in plain sight. As they continued throughout the wing, some of the patients were still up in the middle of the night. Most of them thanked Mike for letting them keep the painting for this long. Over the years, the art has done so much for so many. The beauty had almost a magical presence; it made people forget their problems; it helped so many to get better. By the end of his journey to Las Vegas, Mike didn't have the heart to take the painting away from the psychiatric unit. He figured it would be better if his mom's legacy had been remembered for something good, rather than hanging up in some guy's collection. And though Lola was a shell of her former self, unable to move on from her one true love, the painting of Lola, stood as a symbol of young love, of what life could be, of a beauty that would stand the test of time.


It was dark. But the darkness was peaceful, wrapped in a blanket of the stars, and the beautiful glow of the moon. That earthly aroma hit, as the rain came down. Beautiful rainy days are angelic in a way that suits this personality most. My mother once gave me some advice that I had been turning over and over in my mind, ever since. “Not everyone deserves to know the real you,” she had said, “Let people criticize who they think you are, as long as you know who you really are it doesn't matter, what they think of you .” My mother had not said anything else after that, we’ve always been communicative but in a more reserved way, I was quiet most of the time, and my mother didn’t like loud noises so we had a way of understanding the other, in a more introverted way. I had always understood that she had meant more than what she had said, although I never questioned it myself. I walked the streets of London, near my favorite library, The National Art Library. The library was filled with thousands upon thousands of books, stories, poems, scriptures, it was truly a writer's paradise, a place of creativity, and magic, I sat down on the velvety soft chairs, as I leaned back, that old book scent, that I enjoy so much filled my senses, and I began to get lost, ounce more in the pages of the book. The book was interesting to say the least, it reminded me of the simplest of times, the times where worries were not around, and I could be me without a care in the world, always with my noes in a book. I had always been in my own little world, ever since I was only but a child, never really paying attention to the outside world, nor to people, I was an outcast, and people generally hated me, maybe it was because I was blunt, or maybe it was because I was too truthful, but whatever the case it didn't change the fact that people just did not like me. I had but only one friend, and her name was Lilith, she was nothing like me, she was more outgoing, and she was loud, in a good way, she had porcelain skin, and beautiful golden locks, she was the beauty of our school, and everyone liked her, including me although I think it was more envy than me liking her. I remembered the last conversation we had she had come up to my like usual, we ate lunch and the she had asked me, “doesn't it get lonely being by yourself all the time?”, to which I then replied, “doesn't it get lonely being with fake people all the time?”. After I gave my response I could see that she was offended deeply, she never spoke to me again, and slowly we drifted apart and I was again all alone, in an unforgiving world, although not completely I still had my books, and that was enough for me, I truly believe that I will be an outcast forever, but I don’t really mind it,or at least that’s what I tell myself, In truth it hurt a lot when Lilith had left me behind, I have thought about it and even asked myself why am I like this, I wish I could fit in, I wish I wasn’t alone, although it can't be helped this is me “I don’t want to be me anymore…” I whispered to myself, I felt something cold and wet coming down my face. I was crying. I tried to make it stop but it wouldn't, the tears just kept coming down on my light rugged inflamed face, and my heart felt heavy, sort of like a weight that was weighing down on my chest. I suppose it is true what they say about me, I am a freak, a nobody, but I want to be somebody. I wanted to make myself matter. I looked out the window, my tears still flowing, much like how the rain kept coming down, at least I knew I wasn’t crying all alone, at leas the clouds were crying with me, my tears stained the pages of the book which I held closely to my chest. The ironic part was that the story that the book was about, was much like mine, a girl that was left behind, who people hated, simply because she was different than everyone else. And the girl n the story reminded me of me. This girl had scars both physical and mental, she was a knight of sorts, and was stronger than any man or women, she always spoke the truth, she was blunt, and because she only spoke the truth and because of her strength people had forgotten that she still felt, that she was still human, and so she was made out to be a monster, a horrible terrible monster. she was ridiculed, made fun of, and laughed at. She was a total outcast, nobody like her, and so the girl, left and never came back she closed herself off of humanity and only went out when she had to. This girl, this story, is a sad and terrifying one, "I don't want to end up alone, I just want to fit in is that too much to ask" I asked myself, I looked around the library, it was completely empty, as if it was abandoned. I walked toward's the window, and pressed my hand on the cold smooth glass, I saw couples together sharing umbrellas and laughing, children playing in the puddles of which the rain created. I want to be like that, I looked at my reflection, my dark brown hair, my scared skin, and my dark chocolate brown eyes, I hated what I saw, I had gotten skinnier I looked sick, I quickly looked away, and ran my fingers through the spines of books on the wooden shelves. I grabbed my thing and left. The rain pouring down, crying with me the whole way, me and the rain, the two forever alone outcasts.


Other people’s garbage. That’s what I deal with every day. They come into the Job Center and offload their personal share of the pitiful detritus of a creaking society into my brain-pan and leave feeling a little bit better. I, on the other hand, feel worse. There isn’t a single uplifting thing that floats past my eyes and ears in any working day. I get abused at least once a day, but the security guy Hamid is huge, so problems usually disappear quickly. Stamp, arrange, re-arrange, stamp. Next! A few nights a week I help clean the Roundhouse after the band audiences leave. I took on the job so I could save for a new guitar. All the dirty secrets, all the couldn’t-give-a-damn-about-the-planet plastic beer containers, all the condoms both unused and (retch) used. How they manage to have sex in public is beyond me, but it seems to happen. All the sweet wrappers and dropped knickers, lost wallets and phones, single shoes, wigs, hats, shirts, teeth, belts, iPods, charger cables…  That night it had been a grinding goth metal-fest from Estonia. There wasn’t a single color aside from black in the entire crowd. The spotlights shone into the audience would have shown ghoulish white faces that hardly ever saw the sun floating among a blackness of black leather, lace, extravagant black hair, corsets and the heaviest of thick-soled shoes. They left the venue and disappeared into the night as if they were the night and the sun never shone. I put my headphones on and joined my miserable late-night compadrés in lifting the hundredweight of garbage and sluicing the dried beer and Jägermeister off the floor. Goths, it seems, are just like everyone else. They couldn’t give a damn. The trick is to sweep it all into a pile in the center of the floor and then shovel it into big bin bags. I had the edge route. Around the outer wall, the stairs, the front of the stage, back up to the main doors. As I went, Jude the rude Australian and Bingo the Croatian gambler would turn and turn about take a pile from me and sweep a radius of garbage into the center. It was a well-choreographed process, almost a dance. They could have made a musical with our elegance and sophisticated banter if we weren’t so clumsy and incoherent from over-work and lack of sleep. Every now and then one of us would pick up something out of the ordinary and say what it was. “Wallet.” “Tenner.” “iPod.” “Ear-ring.” “Dental plate.” That sort of thing. It was worth keeping your eyes open. My broom bumped a skirting board that had been loose for months, ever since I started the late night job. On the next sweep the hairs of the broom caught under the board. “Ach!” I yanked the broom. Anything that disturbed the pattern of sweeping, sweeping, sweeping was a frustration too far unless it was worthwhile loot. I yanked again. The broom came free but the end of the board also snapped out a few inches from the wall and didn’t snap back. I was about to kick it back into place when I saw the edge of a piece of paper lodged behind it. I reached down and pulled it out. An envelope. Addressed on the outside in a young hand to ‘Mark Peterleigh Farnish, Lower Sunningdale, Melton Mowbray’. “Letter,” I said and waved it. “Letter?” Jude said and leant on his broom. “Letter?” Bingo said too. Letters aren’t all that common in the 2020s. I opened it and started reading the letter written in the same young hand. “Read it out meathead,” Jude said with his inimitable light-hearted cheeriness. So I did. “Dear Mark I love you so much." "Aaah," my workmates chorused. I read on. "You have taken my heart and made it your own, even though I know your mother disapproves of me. You have also taken another part of me, and this letter is to tell you that I am pregnant with our child. My heart is so full of love for you and the baby that I cannot tell you how happy I am. I know this will be a surprise but I know you love me and that you will also be very happy, whatever your mother thinks. Please call me on the phone number on this envelope after 5pm tonight.” I looked at the envelope. There was a phone number written on it, but it looked like an old number – Oxford 0092 865 377. Under the phone number she had also written her full name – Elizabeth Marjorie Fulmingham. I held up the envelope and pointed to the number. The lads nodded.  “I am staying with my Aunt and Uncle. My parents have thrown me out of the house – you know what my old man is like! To hell with them – we can make our own way in the world together. Love will conquer all!” “She’s drawn a little smiling elephant thing there,” I said. They nodded. It’s what young girls do, or at least used to do a few decades back. “I am giving this letter to my buddy Jane Parsons – she is going to a concert tonight but she promised she would give it to you in the morning as she has a lecture with you. I am catching a train to Oxford now. When you call we will make our plans. We will get a small flat somewhere and I will get a job. You must finish your university of course and in a few years we’ll be able to buy a place of our own. “I am so excited for the next chapter of our lives together. I know you’ve said you are not one for marrying but maybe one day… My body aches for you and my soul flies on wings of love and adoration to your arms until we meet again. All my love Lizzie

17 June 1968” “All right you lot, move those brooms!” the foreman yelled from the mezzanine. I jammed the letter in my pocket. We left at 1am, heads down, collars up against another drizzling London night. At home the next evening I thought it would be interesting to find out what happened to the young lovers. The internet is a wonderful thing for the inquisitive and downright nosey. I found a Mark P. Farnish living in Harnhill outside Cheltenham. Couldn’t find his wife’s name though. I searched for the loving and pregnant Elizabeth…and found a death notice for someone of that name who had died in August 1968. “Sadly missed, greatly loved, Elizabeth Fulmingham. Gone but never forgotten. From her loving aunt and uncle James and Meredith Fulmingham.” I had a sickly feeling in my stomach. I searched further for Mark Farnish and found a picture of a smiling couple at a Cirencester business event in 2010. ‘Local hotelier Mark Farnish and his wife Jane, daughter of renowned trainer Harry Parsons celebrate their 40 th wedding anniversary…’ I stared at the PC screen for a while. Did Jane lose the letter? But it was so completely shoved behind the skirting board! Did Jane hide the letter to ensure Mark was free for her to pursue? Was there another explanation? ... Did I burn the letter and wish I had never found it? Or did I mail it to M and J Farnish, Upper Street Farm, Harnhill, Cirencester with a copy of Lizzie’s death notice?


Apples and Figs A wizened and gnarled apple tree, ages old, towers towards the sun. In this field trees of all varieties coexisted, with a smattering of tall grasses and flowers dotting the expanse. For as long as anyone can remember it grew. The apples it produced were not especially juicy nor crunchy, they weren’t perfect for pies, no one sought them out specifically for juicing. It simply was, it had been, and it would be for a while longer. Many trees such as this exist across the world, they were nothing noticed. Many greater trees, visited yearly for harvesting, existed as well. Below this tree in question, a statue had been placed. A young woman reaching both arms above her head in a futile effort. Years of neglect had caused moss and lichen to clamber randomly across the surface. Originally grey, her skin and clothes had become tinted brownish green as if someone had dumped mouldy syrup on her. The tips of her fingers strained against her hands to stretch just a millimeter more. She stood on her toes, barely making contact with the ground as they pushed her calves to their limit. Blank eyes, her mouth a thin line, only flared nostrils betrayed any emotion. If not for the location, it would appear as though she were straining to touch the stars. Unfortunately now the statue only looked to a limb of a mediocre tree, the sky blocked by its wilting canopy. Every year as the apples ripened, she reached towards the bowing branches. Bright green turning to bright red as they grow. But the height of the branches would never allow her to grab any, even the lowest hanging fruits. Even if she were to reach she would never be able to grab one, only graze it. The only hope for the stony maiden was for an overripened apple to fall into her outstretched palms. If one happened to be skipped by the hungry animals, it would become too heavy for it’s weakening stem to hold on to the branch. She had no choice in the matter, she was given whatever happened to be above her. When this happened, the bruised globe would slowly dissolve, birds coming to peck it, squirrels ripping bits off, maggots and flies crawling across it. Eventually what was left of the skin would slip through her fingers, drop to the ground, and mould back into the dirt. If someone had been around to observe these events, they would have seen the expression on her rocky face. Unchanged. Unbothered. She was used to the routine by now, each year the same thing. Perhaps in the beginning she would have wept with hunger. The seasons wearing at her resolve, causing her to question *why* she was still striving for something she would never enjoy. She may have wanted to leave, see what else there was to reach for. Of course, in the end, she was a statue. And statues do not stretch, grab, want, need, strain, look. She could not consider why it was that her arms would never rest at her sides, or why the expression on her face would never change.