Hi all, I am new to this. I am not sure at how well I did at this so please bear with me. This will probably be in 3rd person or basically not 1st person so if that makes it hard to read please let me know and I can easily make changes, any and all feedback is helpful. I am not trying to make anything of this other than it just seems interesting to me and I felt like I had to write it down. Intro After centuries of being divided and at a constant state of war with each other, the nations of Earth finally decided to unite themselves. This came following several world war scares that would have resulted in the destruction of the entire planet. In the year 2046, the United States, Russia, China, UK and France all send members from their countries to begin the colonization of Mars, this comes after almost a decade of preparing the planet for colonization. After several decades of unforeseen advancements in technology, no doubt due to the never before seen world wide cooperation, Earth makes its first space craft capable of battle in space. Dreadnoughts, cruisers, battleships, all each with their unique purpose begin being developed, as if Earth knew there was a foe out there that would threaten them at some point. The year is 2112, after almost 60 years of colonization, the planet of Mars is being terraformed. The native colonists of Mars declare their independence from Earth and establish themselves as the first independent human nation not from Earth. 2118 - After over 100 years of sending signals into deep space in hopes of hearing a response from an alien species, the people of Earth hear back from a group of alien specie's who call themselves the Agel Empire. They briefly share some information about each other and their history, before the Agel write them off as too weak to join them, claiming the human race is too weak and not advanced enough to serve our cause. Fueled by blunt comments the people of Earth and Mars go into another state of extreme technological advancement. Their advancement, as well as the booming population of the human race on Earth, causes Earth to seek out other countries for resources. One of the best candidates is a planet called Thesulia, a baren planet, but rich in resources. After many years of testing, Earth sends research drones to investigate the planet. Their suspicions about the planet being rich in resources they need are confirmed, but they find out that the planet is actually suitable for life. Although not an ideal place for colonization, Earth determines that the planet is more suitable than Mars was during the early stages of its colonization phase. 2134 - The planet of Thesulia has been successfully colonized and has been flourishing. The capital of Thesulia, Minona, flourishes as the mining industry brings in millions upon millions of revenue to the city. A few decades go by, the year is now 2152, A distress beacon gets activated from Minona, the capital of Thesulia. The military of earth dispatches a cruiser and two battleships as a response team to respond to the distress beacon. They do not think much of the distress beacon, Afterall there wasn't much information relayed to them back on Earth. Earth sends the small fleet, under the command of a young up and coming captain, Audie Lancaster. Captain Audie Lancaster is one of the youngest and brightest Captains in Earth's Navy. Having just been promoted to the position of Captain, this mission will serve as his first true test of his abilities as a leader, his first mission as captain.  If you guys like this I will make this a regular thing, please keep in mind this is the Intro I haven't really done much with this yet, I am just seeing how this will do and will go from there. I will make another post soon, hope you guys enjoyed.


First of all i made this in 4th grade i'm in 10th now if this gets ten upvotes i'll upload the second part too his story PANDEMIC Made in the 4th-grade chill BY: Lack Hoppmann John Rockwell ran down the sidewalk. Earbuds in his ears, listening to his favorite playlist on Spotify. He is getting ready to play in his part of the Olympic Games. he is an American pole vaulter. It looks exactly like what it sounds like. Why did John want to be an Olympic pole vaulter? How would I know? I’m just the narrator! Well, let’s get back to the story now… John soon decides to head to his apartment room soon with his 4 very annoying yet humorous colleagues. He takes a seat on a bench and reaches for his bag. He leans over to a nearby bench where a man wearing a suit is sitting. “You got knives?,'' John said in his strong Texan accent. The man shrugged his shoulders and walked off. John decided he did not like Rio. It was almost too wet and sticky. Yet it still had a sort of charm to it that old Texas sure didn't have. So John ate his lunch calm and quietly. Then off he went to his apartment. ……………………………. Screaming. All you could hear was screaming. It wasn't happy screaming, angry screaming, or even just the crazy screams of the Brazilian people. It was competitive screaming. Like how your mom would yell at you at your first baseball game. No matter how many people were there it felt like it was Johns moment. His alone. He had many thoughts of what was going to happen. Suddenly his impulses told him to not go into the bottom rows. Though he wanted to see his longtime friend Marco. Marco was the flag holder. aka the most exciting job until it's over and then you're fired. John had chills in his body. He was amazed by what he saw on TV before the bus came to get him and his team. About 2 weeks ago the world was dumbfounded with the discovery of a sort of base in Moscow. Apparently, that was supposedly created just 28 years before now. …………………………... As John was watching the Venezuelan team came out and started to celebrate. Then John let out a gasp, as one of the Olympians started collapsing and coughing up blood. The startlingness of the moment caused John to faint. …………………. As John awoke from the short coma he couldn't feel his body. Even though there was running and shouting he could not hear. It was as if he had been shot with a dart. As he got up and started wobbling like a Russian doll. He could then start to faintly hear what sounded like a siren. When John saw a Brazilian couple holding the emergency door open he darted towards them like a bullet and he got through just in time. When he reached outside it seemed as if the world was ending. Helicopters landing with little to no carefulness when it came to the landing. women and children screaming. John recognized one of his acquaintances, a nice track runner named Alex. He ran over to Alex and was wondering why he had a blanket wrapped around him and it seemed like he was screaming. John ran over to him and was going to ask what was going on but as he was walking over Alex turned to John. John stumbled back and yelled,¨ Woah Woah! Back away!¨ Alex was looking like a zombie. Yellow eyes, bloody mouth, pale skin. It all seemed too real to John. Alex started stumbling toward John and as Alex yelled out, black liquid splashed from his mouth. John faintly heard the giant boom of a bus and started running towards it. Dodging Gooers as he started to call them. When he got on it was chaos. People accusing and aggravated by the situation. As he sat down the bus went into full power as the driver screamed,¨ We are heading to the Airport!!¨ John now felt as if he was safe. He relaxed thinking if he would ever see his family again. ………………………….. The traffic in the streets was horrible as Atlanta. As John looked out the window he saw planes landing and helicopters flying overhead as they stopped at the airport entrance. They soon got out and ran to the nearest station to buy tickets. As we got inside the siren started. It meant pandemic. The airport employees were soon telling us to go into where the men with biohazard suits were. We walked over and we were sprayed with white spray. We were escorted to an airplane and we boarded it. I looked outside as we initiated liftoff and the city looked as if it had just had a parade. People running everywhere and what I could only assume was the Gooers walking around either asking for help or dying from what I could only assume was a deadly disease. Later once I had landed and gotten back to Austin I rested and composed myself. When I got back I was surprised to learn that my wife, Hannah had become pregnant. On the news, it was said that the situation is under control but half of the population of Rio was killed and hopefully it will never happen again. John soon got back into pole jumping as he was so very scared by the moment that he couldn't go outside for 2 weeks. Now the world is in Peace. The End....


The train to Oliver Junction is never late. Not once has it ever been late. Something to be proud of if you’re a train. Or a conductor. Whoever is in charge of all that. You can set your watch by it. We put your grandfather on that train. When we did, he was in much worse shape than you are now. They say some things skip a generation. I suppose that could be so. I thought I got lucky. Anytime you think you’re lucky, you’re blind. That’s how life goes for people like us. We live by the water and the shine from the sun gets in our eyes. Hurts us when the time comes to see what we got to contend with in this world. You wear the hat your mother made you? She was worried you’d be cold. I told her it doesn’t get cold where you’re going. Nice and warm there. She still wanted you to have it. I want you to know that we forgive you for all the things you said when you were angry. Until I was ten-years-old, I thought they poured hatred right into those brown bottles, because every time my father would drink from them, out would come the vitriol. Nastiness and pettiness and all things he’d beg to be forgiven for later. Most of the time I could forgive him, but on a certain occasion, he slapped my little sister across the face. Even when he was on his deathbed begging, I had a hard time absolving him of that. Or the memory of that. By then, your aunt was long gone. She inherited all the family demons. They wanted nothing to do with me. Just lucky I guess. Lucky and blind. That’s how it goes. I see you wanting to shake. You just go ahead and do it. Do what you need to do. No hiding anything now. The first time I found that bottle in your room, I thought about locking you in the basement until you were so scared, you’d never touch another drop again. Your mother told me “Boys will be boys.” She wasn’t wrong. It’s just that nobody in her family was a drinker. On that side, they gamble. Your mother’s mother would bet on whether or not the toast would come out burnt, but gambling is an acceptable addiction provided it doesn’t land you in the poorhouse. Luckily for your mother’s side, all that linseed oil money made sure they could burn up cash to their heart’s content. On my side, we were too poor for the finer addictions. It was alcohol for my father and shooting up for your aunt. Your grandmother and I spent all our lives praying and waiting. Waiting for a midnight knock. Waiting to be told somebody wasn’t coming home. And when they did, it was its own kind of Hell. In another year, you’ll be eighteen. Then you’ll have every right to kill yourself if that’s what you want to do. That’s why we had to send you away before it gets to that. I know you hate me right now and that’s fine. I’d rather a live son hating me than a dead one who loved me. You’re the blue pearl of my life. The gem and the jewel. Without you, I’m nothing but an oyster shell, my boy. Your mother feels the same. We have each other, but the loss of you would turn us into strangers. I don’t doubt that one bit. Something in your posture tells me you might consider running. You should know that I’ve called up every friend I’ve ever made to form a circle around this station. Should you choose to take off, they have been instructed to do anything and everything short of a felony to keep you from escaping. I know the wisdom states that you have to want to help yourself and nobody can force you into it, but the wisdom can suck a peach as far as I’m concerned, because you’re going to Oliver Junction if I have to ship you there in a packing crate. Once you’re on the train, the staff knows what to do. They’ll turn you over to the staff at the facility. You’ll be there for as long as you need to be there. Your mother and I have worked it out financially so that you can take all the time you need. When they feel you’re in a better spot, they’ll put you back on a train and you’ll come home. If you need to postpone college, you’ll postpone it. I’m not worried about that at the moment. I’m just worried that this is deeper in your blood than any of us realize even though saying that makes me sound like some kind of kook. I know there are things that reside so deeply in us there’s no getting them out. I simply have to have faith that you’re not beyond saving. It won’t be like this always. In the midst of turmoil, we sometimes believe everything from alpha to omega has been corrupted. We see no path to light. I’m not speaking religiously as you know I’m not exactly a man of the church. I’m speaking as a father. I’m speaking to my son. I hope you hear me as a son and as someone who has wrestled with loss and grief his entire life. When you tire of the fight, you give it over to me. Doesn’t matter if I’m a thousand miles away. You close your eyes and ask your father to take it from you, and somewhere, somehow--I will. I’ll feel it fall upon me and I will fight until my last breath so you can rest. That’s what you must tell yourself whenever it begins to be too much for you. I hear the train arriving. Always on time--just as I said. It’s nice to know there are still things you can count on in life, isn’t it? Nice to know certain trains will always be on time.


Since the beginning of time, humans have been the only creatures to roam the earth. Well besides animals of course. Except humanity has never been that accepting of new things. They're afraid of things that are different. And god forbid you're something that they've been taught to hate. So when Alex learned that there was more to the multiverse than just earth she had to take the chance to escape. She had already known since the time that she came out that she wouldn't be accepted. And considering that she's already African American she was already doing pretty bad on earth. Humankind could never accept people for what they were, and so the best thing for her to do was leave. Now when she learned of the multiverse theory she didn't know for sure it was possible. Heck, she knew that people on earth hadn't even figured that science out yet. Until she found a portal already open that is. And who was she to decline such an amazing opportunity to explore a new place and make new discovery's? But who was she kidding she just really wanted to leave Earth behind. So she did. She gathered all of the strength and energy she had and she took that leap. Yep, she took that leap alright, and on the other side of the portal was a small cliff. Okay, it was a pretty big cliff. And when she took that leap it took her right over the edge of that cliff. Her vision was blinking in and out and she was trying to keep her eyes open. With blurry vision, she looked up to see a human-sized green blob with a tail. And that's all she saw before she passed out. When she awoke she noticed two things. One was that she was most definitely in the forest or a wooded area of some kind. And two was that she was surrounded by different well, for the loss of a better term, furry's. Now in her mind, she knew that wasn't what they were but that's the only way she could explain it when she had just woken up. It was obvious to her that they hadn't seen anything like her. And if it weren't for the people that looked like humans but with long pointy ear's she wouldn't have thought people knew anything about a species like hers. "Um hello?" She said to the people staring at her. For some weird reason, she thought that her tongue was moving in weird ways. And this was probably because she was not speaking in her native tongue; not that she knew that. Not long after she spoke a beautiful woman when with long blonde hair and 2 braids gong around her head stepped forward. She gave a kind smile a held out her hand to Alex. For Alex, this was something that she didn't expect. This woman was smiling so kindly that it shocked her. On Earth, no one would ever do such a thing. As a matter of fact, if someone saw her lying asleep injured, some people would have just ignored her. And even worse some people may have taken advantage of her in that state. She knew that she was different from these people and she was sure they knew she was different too. So why were they being so kind to her? She smiled at the thought of a society that wasn't so judgemental. It was clear to see if you looked around at the different species gathered around. There were so many different kinds and yet none of them were being judged and yelling at each other or arguing. And none of them were judging her either. She slowly reached out her hand to the elf's (an educated guess based on the woman's ears) and grabbed onto her hand. The woman gently pulled her up and once again sent her a kind smile. "Welcome to Asunaa. The place where dreams come true." She said calmly with her smooth and soothing voice. And for some reason, I understood why she said this. The place where being different is good. The place where everyone is accepted with their flaws and all. I think It'll be nice here. "Thank you. It's nice to meet you all." I smiled back. This is going to be my new home and I know that they'll accept me for who I am. Or will they? I mean yes they don't really care about what species you are but that doesn't mean anything If they find out I'm gay. Oh gosh, I'm definitely about to start panicking now. The elf, who I'm assuming is the leader of the people, pulled my hand that she was still holding closer to her as she started walking. Not wanting my arm to be pulled I followed along. The people that were surrounding us moved out of the way as she pulled me along towards what looked like a large hut. Once inside the hut she pulled out a seat from the side of the room for me to sit on and then sat on her own. "What happened to you? Where did you come from? What are you here?" She demanded from me. Okay wow, that's a big change in personality from how she was outside. "I'm sorry if I scared you. I just want what's best for my people. Someone who just falls from the sky out of nowhere isn't exactly what we would call the norm." She explained, and I could tell that she meant it by the expression on her face. "I don't really know how to explain this so If you get confused please tell me. I come from a place called Earth. The people on earth are generally okay but there are a lot of bad people there. Too many for a lot of people to feel safe. I wanted to leave Earth but I didn't really have a way to. That is, until I saw this colorful swirl that I concluded was a portal. And so me, wanting to leave earth an any way that I could took the chance and leaped through it." "And that is how you fell through the sky I assume?" She questioned me. "Yep!" I exclaimed feeling happy that I got the point across correctly. "Well in that case you're basically a runaway. A refugee if you will. And we'll help take care of you like you're one of our own. No one deserves to be left behind." I started to tear up after she finished speaking. No one has made me feel as safe as she has already. "Come along we need to announce you to the village. Camile, you can come out now and go ring the bell." I was confused about who she was talking to until a girl in a red hoodie stepped away from the wall. "She's a chameleon. And yes she looks a lot like your species but she has special abilities. Take for instance the camaflouge that you just saw." Okay wow, that's so cool. We both stood up and I followed her out the door as Camile went to ring the bell. It was a large golden-brown bell in the middle of the town/village. Once the bell had rung everyone started to gather around. "Listen up folks, we've got a new kid in town. Make her feel welcome and at home." She stated making sure everyone understood to take care of Alex. Everyone smiled and then started cheering. One person even yelled out "Welcome home new kid". It felt great to finally be appreciated. Oh yes, this is definitely the start of a new adventure.


A young man decides life is no longer worth living and climbs to the roof of the municipal hospital with a calm mind. This causes traffic. I, luckily, am not a car so traffic has little effect on my comings and goings. I tend to walk on two legs and, when this is impractical, I am carried by kind-hearted muscular men in the fashion of pallbearers sans coffin. I detest crowds but am magnetically drawn towards all things suicidal. I once spent six months in Barcelona following Joselito Montalbán, the renowned matador, until his death at the horns of an unnamed half blind bull. I sometimes convince myself it was the most important thing I have ever done. So, it will come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that at the sight of this young man on that horrible ledge I canceled my afternoon appointments and sat patiently at the Café Almirante across the street. A proper Café is a difficult thing to establish. There must be enough space to move about yet not so much so that it, even when empty, feels empty. The men amongst the patrons must be haggard and seated alone while the women are required to have a minimum of one (1) child at their hip or stored in carriage. Breastfeeding is, of course, permitted. The server’s gender is unimportant, yet it is imperative that they are unattractive and rude—to keep away the hobbyists and weekenders. Espresso is to be served at one hundred degrees centigrade and be entirely unpalatable. I believe one needs to earn the right to comfort. Back to the dying boy. Blonde hair stuck against his sweated brow. A true blue horror show. The police begin with their song and dance. Tourists crowd. Some are weeping into the breasts of their lovers while others take photographs with their telescopic lenses. I order a pastry and the server spits in my face. Perfect. I cross one leg over the other and breathe in the dead summer air. The blonde boy says something for some reason. He might as well have been God. And me, here watching, might as well have been nothing. A dog urinates on a police car and continues about his business; not even thinking to look up. I am sure this all serves a purpose. An old man sits at the table beside me and rolls a cigarette. The server lights his beard on fire. The old man and I share a laugh. He tells me he is one-hundred and sixteen years old and has seen it all. I ask him how the years have been. Hard. I ask him what he treasures most. Automobile accidents. The police play Sinatra over the bullhorn and the boy takes a step forward. My pastry arrives. Peach strudel burnt to a crisp with a saucer of crème fraiche. I crush it between my hands and feed it to the pigeons. The old man tells me someone ought to get a gun and shoot that damned fool up there. I disagree. We do not laugh. The ants take what the pigeons leave behind.


(Content Warning: Domestic abuse, grief, and algebra homework.) “Homework,” Aunt Lorraine says, slamming a thick packet of off-white, grainy pages of mathematics onto the kitchen table; the grids and functions burrow into my brain. I feel dizzy just looking at it. “You have to do your homework,” she says, cold and pleading. Her eyes lock onto my hand as I slowly shift a dull number two pencil over the first page. I quickly scribble my name and the date. Suddenly, I feel a muted slap to the back of my skull. “You spelled your name wrong, Jesse,” she says. “Skipped an ‘s.’” I wince and rub the back of my head. Aunt Lorraine sighs and leaves to smoke a cigarette, her third in the last hour. I try to erase my mistake, but the eraser on my pencil is too worn. The metal casing around what remains of it tears through the soft page before me. Frustrated, I take the metal end of the pencil and use it to shred the page apart. My blood boils as I stab and drag it through the pages until the packet is unrecognizable. I stare into the shambles. It makes as much sense to me now as it did before. The screen door slams open and shut, and I choke on the smell of a freshly burned cigarette. “What. The. HELL . Did. You. DO. ” I shut my eyes as tightly as I can. All I want to do is disappear. I messed up. I know. I messed up. Aunt Lorraine lunges at me, but I bolt from my chair before she can grab me. Panicking, I run through the screen door. Whether I broke through the screen or managed to slide it open before falling through, I can’t recall. My skin is burning all the same. I don’t know where I am running, but I don’t stop. My bare feet ache against the rocks and the grass. I run until my chest hurts. I taste the blood pumping through my tongue. Eventually, the chill of the autumn evening cools my breath as it leaves me, and a fog forms in front of my face. As my strength dwindles, I lie on a grassy hill. The pointed edges of the blades tickle my skin. Above me, I watch pale pink clouds drifting across an orange sky. The clouds are bulbous, their broad and rounded edges making intriguing shapes. One cloud looks like a heart; another looks like a dog floating across the sky. My chest flutters as I notice a large cloud hovering just over the setting sun. Vaguely shaped as an angelic figure with auburn hair and a pale, pink face: this cloud glows in front of me. It looks just like you, Mom . Overwhelmed with what I think is grief, I start to cry. I wish she could be here. I wish she could rescue me. The cloud’s arms stretch towards me. She doesn’t understand me like you did. I breathe out heavily, causing the fog of my breath to combine with the clouds above me. Blurred by the tears, I can almost feel your touch. Held by breath and grass, I drift to sleep on the hill as the evening grows darker. I dream of the days before my mom got sick. I dream of the days when she still had color in her face and auburn in her hair, the days when she would laugh at my bad jokes and make me laugh with hers. She was the only person on the planet who understood me. She made learning fun. She made learning comprehensible . (She taught me that word.) When she got sick, things stopped making sense. Other people had to take over my home-schooling. Her death was so slow and so sudden all the same; I hate that you had to watch the world replace you. I hate that you can’t see how miserably that failed. The cold autumn night eases me awake. A full and luminous moon overhead casts light onto the hill. My arms and legs itch and ache with mosquito bites. My back contorts through a spasm. My stomach growls. Perhaps running away was not the brightest idea. I sigh as I start walking in what I hope is the direction home. My memory serves correctly for once, and soon I am stumbling towards the stocky one-floor house. I stop just short of the backyard to assess the battlefield from behind a shrub. All of the lights in the house are on. I can see Aunt Lorraine in the kitchen. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look angry. She seems… worried. She is pacing around the kitchen table, running a nervous hand through her auburn hair. She is frantically speaking into the phone. I see her mouth my name over and over. She slams the phone onto its hook, shaking her head. She walks towards the unbroken screen door, steps outside, and lights a cigarette. Closer now, I can see her shaking. I can’t tell if it is from frustration or the cold night air. About halfway through her cigarette, I step forward. When she sees me, she drops the cigarette into her ashtray and runs towards me. She lunges at me, and I flinch, but this time she wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace. She holds me closely and begins to sob over my shoulder. Awkwardly, I rub her on the back. She sobs harder. “I just…” she starts. She pushes me away by the shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she sobs, whiplashing me back into a hug. “I can’t lose you, too,” she cries. Suddenly, I feel tears streaming down my face as well. I lost a mother, but she lost a sister, too. Am I just the personification of a bad replacement for you? The warmth of her body lulls me into drowsiness, and I start to fall limp into her arms. She helps me to the couch. I drift in and out of consciousness as she roams around the house. She makes calls, calling off the search for me. She starts a pot of water on the stove. She digs through a cabinet to find some calamine lotion. I sleepily raise my arms and legs, and she dabs on the cool pink liquid. She blows on it to speed the drying, and I shiver. When the lotion has dried, she covers me in a soft throw blanket and returns to the stove. I close my eyes as I hear the shifting and shaking of macaroni and cheese being made. In one long blink, a bowl of warm, gooey, golden sustenance is placed on the side table. As I sit up to eat, I see Aunt Lorraine staring at me from across the living room. The rising sun pouring in through the windows illuminates the red in her hair.


This is the latest in a series of 4 stories so far that feature a couple in a Post-Apocalyptic setting.  They start with "Just another day" and are chronological.   They all have "Day" in the title.  I enjoy any feedback. She looked over at him and gave a silent look of reproach. He saw the look; he always saw the look. He asked her “What?” And she told him, “I can’t find that can of candied fruit.” “Excuse me?” he asked. And continued with “can of what?” She told him “candied fruit; it’s kind of like jujubes or jelly beans, or maybe licorice”. “I like black licorice” he told her. He watched the love of his life make a face that clearly conveyed one feeling; and that feeling was YUCK! “I don’t see how you can like black licorice” she told him; “that stuff is Nasty!” “One of the best things about black licorice” he told her; “is that you can offer someone a piece of licorice and they see that it’s black licorice and they make that face that you just made, and I get to eat all of my licorice” She nodded her head slowly back and forth and he told her; “I even hold a piece of the black licorice near their face and ask – are you sure?” He grinned as he told her; “I’m generous like that” She smiled at him and said “YUCK!” “So what was it about a can of fruit” he asked? “Candied fruit” she said.

“Why do you want some candied fruit my Love?” She told him “I want to make my Nana’s Fruit Cake”. “I think I have most of the ingredients I need, but I really need that candied fruit” She put her hand on his arm and said “I seem to recall you bringing home a can of candied fruit on your first supply run after our Apple pie.” He looked away when she mentioned the Apple Pie. That was several months ago; and he still wasn’t fully recovered from catching on fire and inhaling more smoke than a man should. He didn’t want her to worry so he didn’t tell her that he still couldn’t take a really deep breath without a bit of discomfort. He turned away because he didn’t want her to see his face when she brought up that pie, and the memories of what happened after their day of apple picking. But when he thought of her fruit cake; he did actually perk up and he knew there was a smile on his face. So he turned back to her and said “I do like your Nana’s Fruit Cake”.

“Is that why you were up at the break of day, rummaging around the pantry?” He asked. He remembered years ago when they were first dating that she had made a big deal of giving him a Fruit Cake for Christmas. He; like so many others, did not have a high opinion of fruit cake, no matter what time of year. So many reasons not to like Fruit Cake. It is so dense; and why do those candied fruits have to look radioactive. And Fruit Cake is aged. But dammit : Nana’s fruit cake was awesome. “Let me check the pantry” he told her, as he made his way to the back of their future house where the large pantry was. He took his time searching through their extensive pantry. One of the first things he noticed when he entered the pantry was that she had put up a whiteboard and had written “Nana’s Fruit Cake” across the top of it. Figs, Dates, Raisins, Pineapple, Flour, Cinnamon, Cloves, Baking soda, Brown sugar, Milk, Eggs Brandy or Rum, Candied fruit He looked over the list on the whiteboard and saw that Eggs had a little sad face next to it. He thought that the recipe looked pretty complete but he had never been involved in actually making the holiday baked good. He knew they had more than half of the ingredients on the white board and saw that she had actually started a stack of ingredients on one of the shelves in their pantry. He understood why there was a sad face next to the Eggs. They hadn’t seen a live chicken for several years. Although he did suppose that they could find some wild bird nests for their eggs. It probably didn’t matter if the eggs came from chickens or pigeons, or quail or some other bird. “My love” he called out; “I don’t see the candied fruit”. She startled him by calling out “I know; I spent most of the morning looking and didn’t see it” “I think maybe we should check that Piggly Wiggly store we saw last week” she offered to him. “I think maybe it was a Winn Dixie” he countered, “but either way we can check it out.” “Worst case scenario we find more supplies; even if we don’t find the candied stuff” he continued.

“Fruit” she said to him; “candied fruit”. “I think I have most of the recipe” she said, “but for some reason I’m thinking I need turmeric”.

He didn’t think that sounded right. He did most of the cooking and had occasionally used turmeric in some meals but never for a dessert. They spent the next half hour gathering gear to go out for a supply run and to search for the elusive candied fruit. She was getting ready to follow him out to their solar car and she noticed that he had left the gun in its’ holster across the back of one of their kitchen chairs. That made her stop: until recently he had never left their future house without his father’s gun belted about his waist. She had made a habit of asking him why he carried it every where just to hear his off the wall reasons as to why his father’s gun was a constant companion. Her favorite response from him about it was probably that he needed it for bunnies; because what’s with all those carrots? Why do they need such good eyesight anyway? She knew it was probably because he was forced to use it when a crazy man popped out of their bushes with a flaming bottle (Molotov Cocktail) in one hand and an honest to god Samurai sword in the other. The crazy guy had tossed the bottle into their shed; catching her husband on fire and then came at her with the aforementioned sword.

He had put three bullets in the crazy guys back and then collapsed in the flaming shed. She had grown up with a father who was a gun enthusiast and she was very familiar and proficient with pistols and had been hunting many times with her father, a long time ago. She belted the heavy weapon about her slender waist and followed out to their solar car. She was up again at the break of day and made him breakfast: Spam and eggs. His most common comment about the processed tinned meat product was “don’t knock it, it’s got its’ own key”.

They had spent a large part of the previous day at that little grocery store that she remembered; it had in fact been a Winn Dixie market. He had actually discovered a cache of candied fruit in the back store room of the market and she had hit the jackpot and found a stockpile of powdered eggs. She did wish that they had actual real chicken eggs or any kind of bird eggs; but she would make do with powdered eggs because that’s what they had. They spent most of the day working in their future kitchen. She wasn’t entirely certain that she had captured Nana’s recipe for the fruit cake but she thought she had come pretty darn close. She laughed out loud when at the end of the day he had exclaimed “what do you mean I gotta wait six weeks to eat Nana’s fruit cake?” “Babe; fruit cake has to age for six to eight weeks before you can eat it” she explained to him. “Well my love” he said, “I know you’re not certain that you got the recipe right; so I think I can wait six weeks to eat Our fruit cake”. “Six to eight weeks” she said.

He looked over at her and gave a silent look of reproach. She saw the look; it was one she had given him many a time before and asked him “What?”. He told her with a determined look, “I will wait exactly six weeks to eat Our Fruit Cake”


The Wolf will come for me. The Wolf came for my Father. The Wolf came for my Grandfather. The wolf came for his father, and his father. The Wolf will come for me. My father tried to keep The Wolf away from me. As soon as he learned that my Mother was pregnant, he sold everything he owned, including his treasured car, and hauled us across the country to North Wales. I was born at home, in the small country cottage which my father had bought using everything he’d raised. Father wouldn’t allow a Doctor or Midwife to be present. My mother passed not long afterwards. Leukaemia. I always believed Father resented me, for our having to leave, for the loss of his possessions, and for the loss of Mother. Now I know he resented me for a very different reason. Father never let me outside without supervision. My earliest memories were of stuffy rooms, yellow walls, and the never-ending smell of tobacco. I didn’t attend school. Father taught me everything I needed to know about being alive; cooking, cleaning, fire-making, and growing vegetables in our garden. Father was a strict vegetarian. Never any meat allowed in the house, raw or cooked. This included pet food, so dogs and cats were out of the question. I asked Father once about getting a rabbit, or some hamsters. I’d knocked on the door of his office and waited for him to answer. When he emerged, his torn and stained shirt barely concealing his scarred torso, I posed the question as sweetly as I could. He hacked a huge gobbet of phlegm into his mouth, swallowed, and looked at me. “And how do you plan to take care of it, boy?” he asked. Father never used my name, except for matters of discipline. “It’s weak and defenceless. Will you protect it when predators come, blood and foam dripping from their gaping maws? Will you stand forward as their claws rake at flesh?” I stammered. “I thought not, boy. Now, where did you get the idea for such things?” “In the book, Sir. All about animals. In the library.” He grunted and slammed the door. That night, when he stoked the fire to warm us as we ate, I saw the cover of the book as it was devoured by the flames. Father saw me looking and fixed me with his good eye. “You’re better rid of such fancies, boy.” Those were the only words he spoke that evening. I always found Father’s single eye frightening. Its missing counterpart seemed to lend the remaining globe an air of madness. I darted around the room constantly, always watching Father’s peripherals. He never focused on one thing for long. One of my first lessons was not to ask Father about his missing eye, or any of the scars which patchworked his body. He’d taught me that with my full name, and with his belt. Whenever we weren’t doing garden work, Father would remain locked in his office. I later learned that he had good reason. I would spend time running about the house, testing my time by the grandfather clock which sat in the small living-room-cum-dining-area. Sometimes, I would race against the only friends I had, those I had found in the few books which Father didn’t burn. I was faster than Bilbo Baggins and the twisted Long John Silver but was often left in the dust by Captain Ahab. Father would come down at tea time and eat whatever I had made. Then he would sit by the fire and watch the flames until morning. I never saw him sleep. On my sixth birthday, Father took me outside to the garden and threw the wood axe at my feet. “Pick it up, boy.” I dutifully obliged and began making my way to the woodpile. “Where are you going?” “To cut the wood, Sir.” “We’re not cutting wood, boy.” I returned to him. “What are we doing then, Sir?” His fist was like lightning, landing on my cheek like a blacksmith’s hammer. I don’t even remember hitting the floor. I woke up a few seconds later, pain screaming across my face. I tried to speak, but my jaw refused to move. Father spoke. “If you can’t defend yourself, then you’ll be swallowed. Swing the axe, boy. Keep me away.” I swung the axe. Father stepped around it and fetched me another blow, less forceful this time and with an open palm, across the side of my head. My head rang like a thousand bells. The afternoon passed like this, my paltry attempts to swing the axe met with Father’s derision and pain. When my arms could no longer heft the heavy weapon, Father took it from me. “Getting close to tea,” was all he said. And that was how our days continued. Wake before the rising of the sun, chores, gardening with Father, lunchtime (in which I could steal a few minutes of reading), practice with the axe, make tea, and then to bed. Every day the same. The morning of my sixteenth birthday was different. Bleary-eyed, I made my way down the cold wood stairs. Through the window, I noticed Father in the garden. He was seated on a homemade chair, axe across his lap, staring out towards the horizon. The dying embers of a fire smoked beside him. I walked out into the crisp air, breath fogging before me. “Father?” He didn’t turn his head. “Boy.” “Would you like breakfast?” “Not today, boy.” He puffed on his cigarette and threw the butt into the fire. He reached into the pocket of his threadbare corduroys, pulled out another, and lit it. “What are you doing out here, Father?” I said and took a step back. He didn’t reach for his belt. Instead, a single hand extended outwards and beckoned me forward. I stepped up beside him. He indicated out over the windswept hills. “Something’s coming, boy. From out there. I have to be ready.” “What is it, Father?” He grunted. “You’ll see, boy. Wait here with me,” he reached out and grabbed me by the front of the shirt, “but when I tell you, you go inside, and you bolt the door. Do you hear me?” “Yes, Sir.” He rounded his eye on me. Despite the empty bottle of Jack Daniels which leaned against his foot, he was remarkably focused. “Do you hear me, boy?” “Yes, Sir, I do, Sir.” “Mhm. Grab that stump and sit with me.” He released his grip. I did as ordered. Nothing happened. After what must have been several minutes, and at least three cigarettes, Father coughed loudly and reached down. He produced another bottle of Jack and pulled the top off. He handed it to me. I took it. He looked at me again and nodded. I put the bottle to my lips and took an ambitious swig. It burned. I coughed, retched, and leaned forward. The burn on the way up was worse than on the way down. Father laughed. “You’ll get used to it, boy. You won’t have a choice. Try again.” I sat myself up, resolved not to look weak in front of Father again. I swallowed another mouthful. I retched again, but this time it stayed down. Father snorted. “Getting there already.” We sat in silence while the sun rose across the blue-grey sky. A shape caught my eye. It was black and moved fast, standing out against the green of the grass-covered hills. “Father.” “I see it, boy.” His knuckles had tightened around the axe. “When it reaches those stones there, I want you to go inside. Understand me?” “Yes, Father.” “Good.” He took the bottle from me and drank deeply. “What is it, Father?” “Don’t ask questions, boy. You don’t need to know.” “But Father-” He silenced me with a vicious glance of that single, manic eye. Then he sighed. He handed the bottle back to me and rose from his seat. “You remember what I told you about my father, boy?” “Yes, Sir. He died when you were still young.” “He died on my sixteenth birthday, boy. I didn’t listen to him. That’s how I lost this.” He turned, knelt in front of me, and indicated his missing eye. “It wasn’t an accident that took him, boy. It was that. That out there took your grandfather, took his father, and took all the men in our family as far back as any of us have ever known.” He paused, and looked away at that black shape, drawing ever nearer. “I’ve been hard on you, boy. I know it. But you need to understand that I had good reason. You need to understand that… After today this might be your responsibility. I’m sorry. Now go inside boy. Go to my office and lock the door. Don’t open it until I do.” I felt something heavy inside of me. “Father-“ He shoved me, hard, and I hit the ground. “You gave me your word, boy. Don’t make yourself a liar.” I stared at him in silence. He stood and turned towards the black shape, hefting his axe in his hand. I scrabbled to my feet. As I approached the door, the sound of my feet hitting the floor was accompanied by a growl. The deep, low sound was all malice and hatred. I was filled with ice, reaching from the base of my spine to the tips of my fingers. I glanced backwards. The shape was bounding over the last crest, all matted fur, and gnashing teeth. A pair of eyes, black pits full of the same mania I could see in Father’s eyes, caught the sun as they turned on me. They spurred my steps, and I hammered into the door. It gave way, and I staggered wildly to keep my feet. Pain sparked in my shoulder. The growling exploded into a long howl, followed by a series of barks. Father screamed a thousand curses, words I’d never heard before, and though I didn’t understand them their meaning was not lost. I reached his office and slammed the door, bolting it shut. Both Father and the beast fell silent. I pressed my ear against the heavy wood of the door. I heard a snarl, though from Father or the beast I did not know, and then a yelp. I realised that I had held the breath in my lungs and let it out in a soft exhale. Father had won. I looked around the room and my breath caught in my throat. Pinned to every wall in the dingy room were drawings. Hundreds and hundreds of charcoal drawings, all depicting the same thing. A black shape, slavering jaws, evil eyes. Notebooks lay open upon the desk, scrawlings across every page detailed times and dates. I picked up the first one. *‘November 22nd, 1745, Master William, 36. August 3rd, 1780, Master Edgar, 35. The Wolf came. The Wolf always comes. The Wolf always comes. The Wolf always comes.’* There was a scream, which raced through my soul. I knew my father’s voice, though it was rent out of shape, like the bonnet of a car after a head-on collision. I threw up again. The scream, cold and agonised, cut off suddenly. I pulled away from the door, dragging myself across the bare wood with numb hands. I curled up into the foetal position and wept until I was dry. I don’t know how long passed, but by the time I found the strength to stand, the sun was rising again. The next day. I felt as though I had a rope taught around my stomach, and my lungs had deflated. My throat burned from the vomit. I went back down the stairs and, holding my breath, pressed my face to the window. The burned-out firepit, pawprints in the mud, whiskey bottles, and Father’s chair in splinters. No other sign of the fight which had taken Father from me. I moved into the garden. The air stabbed the inside of my lungs. I spread my gaze out, frost clinging to the grass. My Father’s axe lay in the grass, tooth marks drilled deep into the woods. It’s the only thing of his I still own. I was taken into care, and my Father’s estate waited for me until I turned eighteen. I sold everything as soon as I could, everything I couldn’t sell went to landfill. I moved to Cardiff and rented a flat. I got a job. There was a woman there, I fell for her. She fell for me. Then she got pregnant. And my eyes went manic. My son turns sixteen in one week. He doesn’t know about The Wolf, and as I bring Father’s axe out from storage, I swear to myself he’ll never need to. The Wolf will come for me.


God gave the sea monkeys (aka as brine shrimps, or simply shrimp) 3 gifts which allowed them to prosper; On the first day he poured water at room temperature (27º C.) into the sea monkey tank. he then gave them GIFT #1: he poured the water purifier into the water and stirred. On the second day, he gave them GIFT #2, and added life into the tank. He kept the aquarium in a shaded area away from direct sunlight. In the following 5 days the sea monkeys started slowly filling up the tank, and swam around gracefully. On the seventh day the sea monkeys watched in awe as God gave them GIFT #3. Growth food was falling from the sky, it was an amazing sight. Not one sea monkey was left deprived of growth food. The aquarium prospered. Since then, the seventh day of the week has become known as Fooday. There was a fourth gift, GIFT #4. But God gave it to only one sea monkey. On the eighth day, Jo swam out of the tank into the air. It was unheard of. Despite being out of purified water, jo had no trouble breathing. He was floating through space, and with God’s direction he evaded every space giant who swatted at him. He did so effortlessly. He was not phased at all by the sights of space that would scare any other shrimp. Eventually, against all odds, he found another sea monkey settlement. He landed there and introduced himself to the shrimp of the tank who all gathered around him and listened to his preaching. He told them of the settlement he was born in, of the 3 gifts. Turns out, their aquarium was created the same way. God gave them the same three gifts and they too, are blessed with food every Fooday. The shrimp of the tank were happy about their guest. He stayed there for the next few weeks to get to know the tank and those living in it. He was treated very hospitably. Finally, Jo’s visit came to an end; he said his goodbyes to everyone and left. They all watched as he departed. Jo flew in space like a shining comet, leaving behind him a trail of colorful particles. It was a great sight to behold. Jo was very satisfied with his finding, and couldn’t wait to tell everything he saw to his old shrimp friends. But the shrimp in his tank didn’t receive the news very well. You see, Jo was venturing through space for a long time, And each week that passed the sea monkeys of his tank became greedier and greedier, wanting more and more food. They were no longer satisfied by what could last them for a week. Now, when food rained on Fooday, they started eating each other. They believed that when they eat someone, they also eat all the growth food that person ate. Instead of being a day about peace and rest, it became a feared day where everyone had to tussle for their own survival. Jo told his friends about the new world he found, about how food rains from the sky there too. They were excited. But not for the finding of another sea monkey settlement. They were excited for the prospect of more food. They demanded he would take them there, so they could wage war and get their food. But Jo refused, he could not betray those people, who treated him so courteously. He tried to explain but his fellow shrimps didn’t want to listen. They got mad. “He must be going there on his own and getting as much food as he wants, eh?” one said. They thought he was using his god given GIFT selfishly. The crowd rallied, shouting and screaming. Jo tried to calm them down in a futile attempt, because now they wanted one thing more than food. The fourth GIFT. So they did what they knew and started eating Jo. Everyone fought to get a bite out of him, until eventually nothing remained. Sea monkeys who got a bite out of Jo believed they got the GIFT, and tried jumping out of the aquarium in hopes of floating in space just like Jo did. But each one who tried ended up dead. The next Fooday never came. When Friday ended, Sunday rolled around. The sea monkeys never got their food again, and without food they lived with no purpose.


The fire crackled, releasing embers into the air. The breeze was biting, but mother and daughter didn’t notice as they huddled close together. The daughter, a seven-year-old, dark-haired with black eyes, like that of an eagle, huddled even closer to her mother. Her mother wrapped her even tighter. A fly could not survive, had it gotten in their middle. “The mosquitos are biting, mom”, the child complained, looking up to her mother.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. It will soon be over, don’t worry”, the mother crooned, stroking her daughter’s back.
“I don’t know why we had to come on this trip anyway. We could have gone anywhere else, literally, but we had to come to the woods! THE WOODS! Who still does that anyway?!”, the child exclaimed, rolling her eyes at the absurdity.
Her mother smiled. Teenagers, she thought, always so dramatic. “Well, your Dad, apparently”, she paused, “what if I read you a story? That’d be entertaining, and we could pass the time that way”
Her daughter looked at her mom like she had grown two heads, “First, no story is entertaining, EVER, and second, I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t want to hear a story!”, she said the last part with utter disbelief. It was like she couldn’t believe her mom still taught her a kid that liked stories.
The child’s mother smiled, “Fine, since you’re all grown up, how about I tell you about a Legacy?”
“A legacy. What is that? Like a really old way of saying story?”
Her mother chuckled, “No, I’m talking about a legacy of one of our greatest ancestors. My great-aunt”
Her daughter rolled her eyes, sighed heavily, like she had just been tasked to carry the weight of the world, “Sure, why not. It’s not like I have much to do around here”, she replied, looking dejected.
“Okay, but I’m actually not going to tell you. I’m going to read it you”, the mother said. She stood up, to take the book in which the Legacy was written.
The little girl looked even more chagrined at the thought of a reading. Her mother came back beside her, holding an old, very frail-looking book. Her shoulders dropped, “Great”, she muttered sarcastically. ***
I have done mother’s bidding for long enough
I will do no more.
I have done so much for her,
I do not remember what it is like to do for me.
I do not know if it is my responsibility I fulfill.
I do not know if it is respect I give.
I do not know if it is obligation I delegate.
I do not know if I am just a pawn.
I do not know anymore.
And perhaps, it is her Legacy I build.
I do not know.
What I know is,
I will do it no more.
What I will do now,
Is write my own Legacy.
After all, it is said,
What is written down shall come to pass.
So, I shall write my own down,
And it shall come to pass.
This is my Legacy.

My Legacy is of three parts.
The first I want.
The second I love.
The third I long for.
All these I pray for,
Every night, after the last of my candle flickers out,
I pray for.
The first; that which I want,
Is Love.

Love is many things.
It has been called different names.
For the believers; it is a light.
For the subjects; it is a god.
For the broken; it is a curse.
For the autonomous; it is a choice.
For the non -believers; it is a myth.
Love, a small word,
Yet a thousand names.
For me, it is a want.
I have never had it.
As such, I do not know what to call it.
All it has ever been to me, is a want.
Now either be it a light or a curse,
I want it.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it in my heart.
I want to feel its light, hence, a believer.
I want to feel its power, subject to its sovereignty.
I want to feel its poison, and know it is a curse indeed.
I want to make the choice, if I could.
I want to know its truth, for I do not believe it is a myth.
This way, I could give it a name.
I want love.
I want that feeling of belonging to another.
And another belonging to me.
I want the companionship, the warmth.
The laughter, the burdens.
The healing that can only be found in a lover’s touch.
The conversations, gathering with friends.
The knowledge of knowing you are loved.
I want to feel this love.
And tell of it to my children.
And the children born of them. ***
The second; of which I love,
Is Passion.

In this, lies my art;
Poetry, in which I bleed.
Music, in which I heal.
Dance, in which I come alive.
Photography, in which I picture.
Movie, in which I create.
These are all I have passion for.
These are all that represent me.
These are all that lives in me.
These are all I love.
These are my art.
These are the moon and stars to me.
These things, I dream of,
I dream of living them,
I dream of a world where all I know is them
I dream of a place where time exists only for them.
I dream of a time when all I would do is live them.
And it is of them, I wish to tell to my children.
And the children born of them. ***
The third; to which I long for,
Is Freedom.

It is of this I wish,
For that weightless feeling that I think of when I see a bird.
I do not speak of freedom to do as I wish, as most of my age mates do,
I speak of freedom to be.
Freedom to realize, know, and therefore, love myself.
Freedom to look in the mirror, and recognize myself.
Freedom to be.
I speak of freedom to wake up,
Drink my coffee; because that is what I wish to do,
Play loud music; because I feel like it, and no one is around,
Write poetry, because I want to convey the lightness in my heart onto paper.
And then after I have written till I have cramps in my hand,
I want the freedom to do what I wish,
Even after a day of doing what I wish.
That is the freedom I speak of.
The freedom that absolves me of the responsibility I never seem to put down.
The freedom that allows me the chance to think of myself, and not bloody others.
The freedom that gives no thought to what society deems girls ought to do.
The freedom that is locked out, far away from the world, in a little corner of a haven.
The freedom that just lets me be.
The freedom that gives me peace,
Because, in this freedom, I do all that I love.
It’s all I do.
And in this freedom, I find peace.
It is of this freedom I wish to tell my children,
And the children born of them.

At the center of these all,
I write.
Though it may seem a waste, but,
I write of that which I want.
I write of that which I love.
I write of that which I long for.
I write of them all,
So that they can be done.
I write them,
So they we may write them as wishes.
So that they may be told as stories,
And that they may be read of as my Legacy.
To the children to be born,
Even light years away.
This is my Legacy. *** The mother flipped the book shut. The fire, having reduced to smoke, now polluted the air. There was silence, as mother and daughter sat, each basking in the aftermath of the reading.
And then, “Wow, that has to be the longest poem I have ever heard”, the daughter exclaimed. There was a sparkle in her eyes, one that had not been there before the reading.
“Yeah? Well, that’s what I thought too, the first time I read it”, her mother replied.
“But, wow, that was so…”, the little girl paused, searching for the word to use.
“Powerful”, her mother supplied.
“Yes. Yes, powerful. Her legacy was so....”, at a loss for words again, the little girl trailed off, “wow”, she ended on a breath.
As her mother stood up, meaning to put the book back, her necklace dangled. Recognition lit in her daughter’s eyes, “Is that what you wear on your necklace?”, she asked, leaning forward to touch the pendant attached to the necklace lying around her mother’s neck.
Her mother looked down, “Yes. It is her Legacy”, she traced the pendant.
It was a dreamcatcher, but not like any other. On the dreamcatcher, the attachments were neither feathers nor beads. Instead, they were, the symbol of a heart, a half-moon with a star resting in its curve, a bird in flight, all woven and then attached to the hoop. And at the center of this hoop, a pen was woven.
She pointed to each one after the other, “This is her want, her love and her longing”, she said, respectively, “and at the center of it all, she writes”
The little girl looked awestruck, “Wow.”
“She was the first ever writer in our family. Which was why she dedicating that last part to her writing, it was a very big part of her and she had to honor it”, the mother said, “You see, writing was sort of considered a waste of time during her time. She was the first to break that cycle. And ever since then, there has always been a writer in each generation. I’m mine. Your sister is hers. There have always been musicians, photographers, dancers, movie directors or producers too. Your Aunt is a dancer, as you know. You have always felt connected whenever you’re recording, haven’t you?”, her mother asked, a knowing light in her eyes.
“Yes. I’ve never known why I always felt that way whenever I was singing. Like…….”
“Like you were born to sing”, her mother completed.
“It is her Legacy; to break grounds, to love, be passionate and be free”, the daughter said.
“Damn good Legacy, if you ask me.”


"May God have mercy on our souls"  Were the last written words of Jeremiah Watts. "There is an approaching storm!" The ethereal voiced preacher said over the static filled radio. "Something the likes the world has ever known! You all that can hear my voice, you better repent!" His voice crackled with intensity as the rain outside the car continued to beat against the car, as if were trying to get at the occupant inside. The man did his best to stay on the road. He hadn't seen another car in miles, and he wasn't concerned with seeing one. He had other, more pressing matters on his mind. "Please God, forgive me." The man in the driver's seat whispered softly. He drove for a few moments before deciding to stop the car. He closed his eyes and said a quiet prayer to himself in an attempt to calm his wrecked nerves. When the prayer didn't work he opened his eyes turned his attention to his bible laying in the passenger seat. As he reached for it he took care not to pay attention to the barrel of a shotgun sticking out from the passenger's side well. Or the vague smell of sulfur that emanated from it. As he grabbed his bible he opened it and began reading, until the sound of thunder made him jump and drop the bible at his feet. He began to weep at that moment. "God, why?" He sobbed, "Why? Why have you made me carry this burden?" He cried into his hands. "They weren't, right, Lord. I just..." The preacher's hollow, forlorn voice crackled through the car radio again, causing the man to pause momentarily in his suffering. "You know you have sinned. You all have!" The preacher said before pausing. The rain outside coming down so hard that the man could not see out any of the car windows. "When the almighty makes his return, he will wipe all the filth from the land! But before he comes, before he comes, a wicked evil will appear, In fact, I would say it has already appeared. Which is why, the storm is approaching." The man looked up from his hands and stared into his own bloodshot eyes. The man he saw before him was not the man he saw just 48 hours ago in a laboratory bathroom. That man was a confident man, a man who thought he knew the world and everything in it. But after last night. He became the broken, hollow shell of a man he is now. Part of him believed he was still sane, so much so that he decided to park the car in this downfall. But the greater part of him knew, that something, fundamentally deep down on a base level, he was no longer sane.

The rain and thunder outside the car picked up, so much so that the man turned up the volume on the car radio to hear the preacher. The man quickly jerked his hand back from the radio as if it were a viper when he began to hear the preacher's gravely voice laughing. "But you know what you have done. I'm not talking to those in my flow before me. No, I'm talking to the ones out there. The ones out in the godforsaken world. They know not what will befall you! Repent! Or your damned souls will forever burn in the lake of fire!" Even over the preacher and the rain, the man sitting in the driver's seat, began to hear the sound of scratching coming his backseat. When he slowly turned to look, he saw nothing, but he knew there was nothing in the backseat. Tiny sobs began to leak from the man, like a rusted pipe. He knew the scratching sounds were coming from "behind" the backseat. He knew something was in the trunk. "Why." The man sobbed. "Why have you placed this...this, curse upon me lord? Why?" the man said as he began to beat the steering wheel in frustration. The static of the radio and the intense sound of the rain began to drown out his own thoughts. He took a glance over at the shotgun, took a deep breath and grabbed it by the barrel. He felt the warm metal against his palm as he pulled it out. He opened his car door to the pouring rain, and slowly walked toward the trunk, not caring that he was getting soaked to the bone. As he reached the trunk, he could hear the sound of scratching even over the sound of rain all around him. As he reached for the handle of the trunk, he mentally prepared himself for what he knew he was going to see. As he opened the trunk, the man sobbed again as the body of a woman in a lab coat with a gunshot wound to her stomach laid there. Next to the woman was a silver case the size of a small shipping box. On the box and on the woman's lab coat were the letters A.R.C. The woman's lifeless eyes stared upward at the man in confused agony. "It made me do it!" The man screamed as he raised his shotgun "It got into my head and it made me do it! It got into you too!" He pointed the shotgun at the woman in the trunk and stood there for a few moments, letting the rain completely soak his body. His finger hovered inches away from the trigger. His mind flashed back to the moment he used this gun before. He remembers the flash, the recoil of the gun, and the being in front of him being hit But when he ran over to whatever it was to finish it off, to his horror, the was woman lying there, looking up at him with those sorrowful eyes. "I don't even know, what I am seeing anymore." The man said in a shaky voice. "I know, what I saw, and it wasn't....it wasn't you. It wasn't you! That thing got into my head, you knew it got in yours too!" The man lowered the shotgun, as his will began to drain from him. "Lord forgive me" He said in a pitiful voice, as he closed the trunk on the rain soaked woman. The man slowly headed back to the drivers seat and he sat back down, completely soaking the seat. The radio just continued to spew static the entire time as he reached over and opened the glove department box. Many papers spewed out and covered the seat and the floor, but he picked up a single sheet, grabbed a pen, and began to write: "My name, is Jeremiah Watts, this note is for anyone that find it. The woman in the trunk of the car was a colleague of mine. If the police find this first, and I pray you do, you will be able to piece together the scene. Yes, I shot the woman, Helena Goe, in a fit of insanity. I cannot tell you what I saw when I pulled the trigger, killing her. I know I didn't see a woman, it was something beyond the horrors. Something truly and utterly so imposturous, that you would dismiss this entire, note, as the ramblings of a mad man. So I will live on with what I have seen, and I will live with what I have done. The container next to the woman should be put into a highly secured vault. It is with the utmost importance that this is achieved and once this happens, call this number 418-267-0978." As he continued to write, he began to feel the dread he felt a few moments ago began to melt away. With each word, he felt the weight of the world gradually lessen from his soul, as he felt as if this were penance for killing his co-worker. When he was finished writing, he placed the note right in the seat next to him and laid the shotgun across the backseat. He started up the car again and began to drive, this time in silence. While on the road, a passerby noticed a car was involved in a car accident. The car crashed sideways into a pole and was completely wrapped around it. Knowing that if anyone was in that crash they would surely be dead, the citizen called the police and they arrived on the scene. The two officers that arrived accessed the scene as the fire department began to use the jaws of life on the car in an attempt to unwrap it from around the pole and help tow it away. One officer was already on the scene as the other pulled up. "This is a rough one." One officer said joining the other officer watching the scene. "Yeah, a real rough one, How fast do you think he was going?" The other officer asked "Hmm. Probably 75, or more." He replied. "Yeah, I was thinkin the same." He said, he took a look over at the officer before continuing, "You know they found a body in the trunk, she was completely mangled. As well as a damaged shotgun." "The two related?" "More than likely since she had a hole the size of a cantaloupe where her midsection should have been." "Where's the driver?" "That poor guy." The officer said taking off his hat and brushing his short hair before replacing it. The sun overhead began to hide behind a few incoming clouds casting an ominous shadow over the scene as the two officers watched as the firefighters continued to work. "He was found a few feet away. Clearly he died on the spot due to his landing. It wasn't a particularly good one." "Ah." The officer replied "That's not even the crazy part. There was this note found in this bible not too far from here." The officer pulled out the note and handed it to the officer. "The bible was soaking wet along with the guy, but as you can see, there ain't a reason why he would be wet."

"He was wet?" "Like soaked to the bone. Even the car showed signs of water damage." "What? How?" The officer asked "Don't know. Read the note." His eyes scanned the entire thing as he mouthed the last words: "May God have mercy on our souls." "Spooky ain't it?" The other officer said "You really want to raise some hairs, turn it over." As the officer did, he noticed there was a second note on the back, this one was written in a state of madness. Words were scrawled in a writing that the officer struggled to read. When he did, he looked confused. The note read as follows: P.S: The container in the trunk of the car must be thrown in the nearest incinerator, preferably at its highest setting. I was going to do it myself, but it prevents me. Since it has, been inside and it knows me, but its sleeping now. And im doing this. Throw the container into the hottest fires you can find. If you come across this container, and it is damaged in, even the slightest way, then I truly pray for us, You will know when you are near it, the weather patterns around will be completely erratic like extreme rai The letter stops abruptly. "What in the world? What container is he talking about?" The officer asked "That's the thing. We don't know what he is talking about. We are still looking for the thing and- "Hey! I think I found it!" One of the firefighters called out. He was in the field a few feet from the crash. He reached down and picked up what appeared to be a shiny object. As he approached the officers he held it out to the officer that was already on the scene. "Here you go sir. We found it." As the officer held the damaged container in his hands, the one thing he took note of was the damaged letters A and R. Where the C would have been was a long, jagged gash, exposing the inside of the container, which was empty. "What do you think was inside it?" The officer holding the note asked "I don't know." The officer said turning over the container in his hands. "But for some reason I have this feeling of..I don't know...dread? Like something being wrong, but you cant figure it out? I get that feeling when I hold this thing. Here wanna hold it?" The officer said, holding it out to the other officer "Nah, I'll pass on that one. Uh, look. I'll go and check out the two bodies so i can make a better report, and uh, you okay there?" The officer noticed his colleague wasn't paying attention to him, but was staring intently at the container in his hands. "You should put that thing in the car or something. "Yeah, I'll do that." The officer said as they both separated. As the officer put the container in the backseat of his car, he took notice of the city skyline in the distance. He noticed a great storm was rolling in. And something deep inside him felt something he had never felt before. A simple, but primal fear of the coming storm.


"That's how you get near boiling water dumped over your head." My beautiful wife said as I wrapped my arms around her from behind. She had been fiddling with the coffee pot when I snuck up on her. "You take such good care of me." "I expect you to finish the basement today." I'd been putting off the last bits of sheet rock for weeks. We finally had our perfect home and I was still slacking off. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it off to me and then got started on her own. I'd grown accustomed to her having providence over much of the house. She was 10 years my junior, but she ran a tight ship. One of the things I adored about her is she would call me on my BS. "Sam stop leaving your socks on the floor, Sam put the toilet seat down." Living alone for your 20's leaves bad habits deeply engrained. She turned to me with a smirk on her face. " I'll shower, you get to work!" "As you wish." Quoting one of the greatest movies of all times. I want to complain about having to work on household improvements on my time off from work, but my heart wouldn't be in it. In fact I'm thrilled that my wife encourages me to not lay around and read all day. The sheet rock went faster than I had anticipated. A few screws, a bit of mudding and our basement no longer looked like a dungeon. Just as I had capped the bucket of mud I heard feet rushing down the stairs. I looked up to see my wife in all her naked glory running full boar at me. She jumped at the last second, into my arms almost toppling me over. She was planting kisses all over my face doing her best to smother me. "We did it! We freaking did it!" Her joy was infectious. In between giggles I asked " What did we do? Finish the basement? I know, I'm here." "No you big dumb idiot! We did it!" She had been waving something in my face that I had been all too distracted to see. I craned my neck back to try to get a lock on the stick she was waving around haphazardly. Shock took over my limps. I couldn't figure out if I needed to collapse or drop her. Luckily she had a death grip on me so she wouldn't be falling out of my arms. "Hold the phone! Are you telling me you're pregnant?" She bore holes into me with her eyes before attempting to once again end me with a make out session. " Yes!Yes!Yes!Yes! Finally! Do you have any idea how many of these damn tests I've been taking?" "I didn't even know we had them." "Of course you didn't. I take out the bathroom trash every time I use one." She finally extended her legs to floor and with a final kiss on the lips she turned away from me. "It's finally happening. I'm going to be a mother." The lights flickered and her voice took on a low growl. She ever so slowly turned back around. The timely flicker of the lights made it seem like she was skipping portions of the turn. After ending her turn and staring straight at me she opened her mouth to speak. "Beep!" "Beep!" "Beep!" "Beep!" I opened my eyes and I was once again in bed alone. I lay there feeling the depths of my love for my wife and my unborn child. Knowing that they weren't real. Just something my brain created to pass the time. In the early dawn light, I could recall our wedding, our first kiss, and signing the paperwork for our house. Now all that was left of her was a seemly bottomless pit left in the center of my chest.


The Captain was far away. Sailing between the stars was, when it came down to it, mostly a tedious and repetitive affair. Out here in the uncharted territories, his crew hadn’t encountered anything notable in months. Staring idly out the port at the twinkling stars, it had been a long day of nothing. This reverie was broken by the navigator on watch. “Captain?” she said. “Yes, Jenks?” he replied, taking a breath to centre himself as if resurfacing from a dream. “Long-range scanners are picking up something… strange, Sir.” “Define ‘strange’, Ms. Jenks,” as the edge of the Captain’s mouth started to twitch. “Well, Sir,” she ventured tentatively, “something’s out there.” “‘Something’, Ms. Jenks,” the Captain twitted her now, “Asteroid? Alien civilization? Pirates?” He was smiling now as he warmed up to the idea that something interesting might happen for the first time in too long. “No, Sir. It’s a solid, but porous. Very low mass readings. I can’t get a handle on it.” The Captain turned to the helmsman, a wiry man with creases at the eyes and a completely shaven head. “Care for a detour, Mr. Calverts?” “Aye to that, and about damn time, skipper,” Calverts replied. “Alright,” he suppressed the chortle, turning back to Jenks, “Where are we going?” He could see her across the bridge, concentrating on her displays with a furrowed brow. “33,000km - we should be there in a few minutes. If we pitch 11 points up, negative 25 points yaw that should bring us on a rough heading.” “Lock that in, please Mr Calverts.” “Aye Captain, pitch 11, yaw negative 25 locked.” “Get us close enough for visual range if you can, but try not to scratch the paint.” “Aye-aye Sir” Calverts grinned back. Jenks piped in with, “12 minutes to rendezvous, Sir.” He acknowledged. After so long in the abyss, these few moments felt like a lifetime in anticipation. He started to fidget before slipping out of his chair quietly. “I’m going to grab a coffee from the mess. Back in a tick.” He could have asked the ship’s messenger on duty to get the coffee – but he needed something to do. A few moments later he re-emerged on the bridge cup in hand, and imbibed the strong but delicate brew. “We should be within visual range now, Captain,” Jenks said with a strange catch in her voice. “Thank you. Helm, engage reverse thrusters to zero delta V.” “Reverse thrusters, aye Sir,” Calverts replied, as the inertial dampeners kicked in to cover the sharp deceleration. “Coming to zero delta… now.” “45.8 km away,” Jenks chipped in, and with a smile to Calverts added, “Great job, Joe.” The Captain stood and walked to the forward port, with what he thought was his most purposeful yet calm air. He focused on breathing and tried to slow the thunderous beating inside his chest. He looked into the black for a moment, but saw only his reflection in the glass. He got closer to the armoured port and squinted out, frowning slightly. “I’m not seeing it,” he said after a few heartbeats, before turning his head over his shoulder. There, on the bridge, the entire crew was assembled. They wore stupid grins, and even stupider hats. Party poppers exploded streamers across the equipment. “Gotcha” beamed Jenks, holding a cake in front of her. 'Happy Birthday', it said in a scrawling script. There was nothing to do but laugh – he’d been got. Good. Embarrassed, proud and if he was honest, a little misty about the eyes, he scrubbed his face with his hands and started walking back to the fold with a sheepish look. How did they even know? A few steps later, the distinctive 'ping-pong' of the proximity warning cut their laughter short.


“When you find yourself clutched in the talons of a spiteful god, the way I see it you’ve got two choices. On the one hand, you could moan about it to anyone who’ll listen. And on the other hand, you can get on with your life. Now, look. Am I saying it’s right that our crops failed again this year due to the blood rains? Certainly. Our lord is as wise in delivering the blood rains as he is wrathful against those who question the blood rains. *Acceptance.* That’s the real lesson here. Picture a predator hunting its prey. The prey is caught and dragged to the ground, the predator’s jaws tightening. It spends its last moments kicking and screaming. This is the way of animals, the natural way of things. But we are *not* animals. We need to talk about Sally Mayfeeld, Ancel’s little girl. We all saw that she got swooped up by that huge serpent-headed bat. And I know we’ve all had time to reflect on what happened that morning. Sorry, Ancel. I know it was just a few days ago. But it needs to be said. Anways, Sally got swooped up. And did she make a spectacle of herself! All the kicking and screaming. Like an animal! Such a ruckus. It must have been most of the morning. I know because I was outside painting the church fence. Looks nice, doesn’t it? That bat got so darned tired, it dropped Sally right onto the grain mill and broke it. She died before that during the, erm, that is. I mean to say… during the eye gouging. Well, I don’t need to tell you. We were all standing around watching, waiting for it to finally be done with so we can get on with our morning. At one point, near the end, she clutched Mrs. Pelter’s coat, begging for help. As though Mrs. Pelter would defy the will of our great and terrible destroyer. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mrs. Pelter. Ancel, I believe you owe Mrs. Pelter a new coat. Her old one is totally ruined with Sally’s blood. What’s that? Ah, yes. New shoes as well. I’m sure if Sally were here she’d apologize for ruining everyone’s morning. Since, that’s not possible… No, Ancel. Since that’s not possible, perhaps Ancel could bring some cakes next week. That would be nice. Ancel. Ancel, please sob more quietly. I’m can’t bring back to life every loved one ripped violently away from us. I’d never get anything done. And besides, without consequences, life has no meaning. Our blessed tormentor wouldn’t just murder and abduct the lifeless corpse of another of our children before our eyes unless it was meant to teach us *something.* And that something is acceptance. Some of you may think I’ve been too harsh on Sally. So, I’d like to conclude her memorial service with a reading from the *Third Book of Loath*: *‘Meaning cannot be found in this life or the next, least of all by someone as nonthreatening and forgettable as you. When your final heirs gasp their final breaths in some few, short generations, will your meaning be revealed?’* Thank you for attending the midnight memorial service for Sally Mayfeeld. I hope when you think back on her memory, you will remember to calculate the monetary value of the damage caused by her demise so we can properly hold Ancel accountable. The service is now over. The last 10 people to leave the building will submit to a brief yet painful blood draining.


Where do you see yourself standing in the future, they ask? To them, I say, What are we doing to make a future? Everyone is caught up wondering what the future will look like, but have you ever stopped for a minute to think about what is being done in the present? If calling today a gift is why we call it the present and yesterday changes to history, what becomes of tomorrow? We live in a world of constant fear, wondering if we will live to see the light of tomorrow. No, not you. You aren't born into the families who are left to suffer the pain of corrupt politicians who fled from justice and let their country slip into the hands of terrorism and destruction. You aren't one of those who are forced to choose between family and freedom because here you are lavishly enjoying the presence of both. You don't have to beg on the streets to feed your family for just one meal. You aren't forced to eat dirt or leaves just to stay alive. All you have to do is drive to the nearest fast food venue and casually eat a meal worth someone's monthly income after sleepless nights and fatiguing days. You don't have to watch your daughters being raped by militants or sold as sex slaves. You don't have to watch your sons being murdered in cold blood right in front of your eyes or see their bodies amputated to gain sympathy on the streets for the sake of money. Have you ever really thought about how someone who grew up living in an unstable, life-threatening, always on the run, financially weak household would feel if he or she could live your lifestyle for just one day? For them, it would be a miracle sent from God. Ask them what you see in the future and then ask yourself the same question, will we continue like this until we reach the end? You are the ones who are delusional. The big promises and sanguine words to bring revolutionary change are just ways of claiming power, an old tactic to create illusionary pictures in people's minds. This is what is happening, and you expect me to be hopeful for the future? For so long, we've worried about climate change, and I realize it's still there. How can we help Earth? We can do this by halting the pollution that harms air quality, oceans, groundwater, and soils. We can do this by protecting creation - protecting the forests and natural wildlife populations. The vandalism of Earth is everyone's business, and we need to preserve our ecosystems. Money is manmade, creation is God-given, life is sacred. Our environment determines our social evolution; our social development determines our biological evolution. The need to develop a loving and kind environment that supports populations enables our brains to develop in healthy ways, promoting our empathy, logic, self-control, and ability to be a member of a socially complex species has never been more urgent. Nature has programmed us to nurture for a good reason. Without the richness of the forests, we'd all be broke. We need their leaves to stay, for their roots to hold firm the very ground we walk. Yet this relationship with the trees is so much more than need. For in the company of trees, embedded into the ecology is the soul's coziness, a sense of home, a pure sense of loving joy, instead of sudden changes that could easily be undone, developed methods in every arena that produced a better, more ethical, more wholesome result with each cycle. Whether it was education or medical care, industrial processes, or agriculture, every system was designed to become less polluting and give better results yearly. I've been waiting for, praying for, some kind of top-down change, but now I know it won't happen that way. We're fooling ourselves if we think it will. We'll be watching some stupid reality show or playing computer games the moment the Earth goes past the tipping point and into an unstoppable greenhouse effect. We'll still be frightened by the news and placating ourselves with chemical-laden junk food in pretty boxes, wrapped in plastic, of course. We'll still be chasing that lifestyle we've been groomed for from childhood to crave, that life equals consumption, success equals consumption. We'll admire a system with no more morals than "rich is good," and you can do "whatever you can get away with" to accumulate more money than you can ever spend - while others starve. With no change, we'll continue to sacrifice our own children to the "daycare" system and then feel stressed when our damaged kids "act out." We won't even stop to dwell on the fact that our minors' number one cause of death is suicide - yes, children killing themselves. And for the record, that means our culture - the one we accept so passively - killed them. I can't live with that, not anymore, and if you're being honest with yourself instead of swallowing the "I don't care," "I'm too busy to care" party line, then you'll know you can't either. Changing the world was never going to be a task for one person or one type of mind; we are born different for a reason. The creative minds dreamed up new possibilities, new futures, new technologies. The technological minds made many of the dreams and visions into realities. Humanity put a man on the moon in 1969, makes computers tiny enough to go in a pocket, and has mapped the human genome. Still, we can't think of more than two flawed and extremist political systems to run the world? Why don't we fight hard to stop starvation and inequity? Why don't we innovate? Why don't we think? We have everything to gain, our planet to save. Why do we perpetually stagnate on the issues that really matter? There's an inner angel in us all, and finding it was the key to fixing our global mess. Change is always a leap of faith, and it takes an iron will combined with a heart of pure love to do it. Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward. We can't expect to live in a future with new advanced high-tech innovations, flying cars, or robots when we have real crises to deal with in the present. The future is now. The future is us and how we chose to write it. Everyone has their own story of how they want to see the future, but mine is live the present to get a glimpse of how you would like to see your future growth. The time is now. Because once upon a time, I believed in a hopeful future. Don't let Earth slip into doom. Don't waste a day, spend each wisely.


This story is about a man from the future going back in time and trying to get a job. **A Man From The Future** A man is sent back in time, and is set to work a job as a receptionist. His job is to accept calls, and book appointments for the business owner to work. She, the business owner, says she will pay him $12.50 an hour. For 8 hours of work, that’s $100. The man, having been well educated in the future, is curious about how the business works, and whether he is being paid fairly. He asks, "how many appointments will I be setting a day?" The business owner replies, "about one an hour, on average. And it will take you about 15 minutes to book each one." "And, what will I do with the other 45 minutes?" He asks, wanting to make the most of his time. "You will wait at your desk, and make sure you do not miss any calls," she responds. "Why don’t I make calls to others, and try to book them when I’m not on the phone?" The man asks. "Because you might miss an incoming call while you are on the phone with someone else." She responds. "What if someone calls in while I am already talking to someone else who has called in?" The man then asks. "You will call them back, but hopefully that does not happen too often. If it does, we will hire another person to answer the phones alongside you." The business owner responds. The man can tell she is frustrated by his line of questioning. Her tone suggests that his questions are so simple that he should already know the answers. He decides to change to a different line of questioning. He is still curious about whether his pay is fair, but he has concluded that the $12.50 must cover the opportunity cost of waiting for most of the day at his desk. The man asks, "do appointments always turn up?" "Almost always, yes," the business owner replies. "And, how much money does the company make from each booked appointment?" The owner smiles, "we make $125 for every appointment, and I always do 8 appointments, that’s $1000 a day," she says, sounding very proud. The man frowns, then asks, "and you are busy all day taking those appointments?" The owner nods. "Yes. While I’m in appointments, I cannot take calls." The man nods at this, "that makes sense," he says, and the owner smiles again. The man then asks another question. "Before you hired me, did you have another person setting appointments?" The owner nods. "Yes. She is the salesperson now at a different company. She worked as a receptionist for 2 years, and now she makes $10 an hour, plus $20 for every appointment that she sets for them. She left in order to make more money." The man frowns again. "And, before you had any employees, how many appointments could you do in a day?" The owner cocks her head and thinks, "Well, I was only doing about half the appointments. I missed most of the calls coming in, and then I had to call people back and leave a voicemail. Sometimes they never called back, or I had to call them a few times to get them to set an appointment and come in to see me." The man nodded. "So, if you are charging $125 per appointment, and are able to do twice as many appointments because of me answering the phone… Why are you only paying me one tenth of the value of the appointments I set?" The woman is shocked. "Well, I am the one actually doing the procedure, that’s why," she says indignantly. The man from the future is confused. "But, you would not be able to do half of the procedures if I wasn’t answering the phone. The company would make $500 less dollars a day if I wasn’t doing this job. So why am I only being paid $100 a day, when you make $1000?" The business owner is angry now. "If I wasn’t doing the procedures, the company would make $0 dollars, that’s why!" She says, her voice is raised now. The man scratches his head, trying to understand. Then he says, "if you were working alone you’d be making $500 a day. With us working together we’d be making $500 more. Why don’t I get half of that? It wouldn’t happen without me." The business owner is shaking her head. "You aren’t using any skills. You are just answering phone calls and setting appointments. I went to school for years to do these procedures." The man nods. "Yes, that is why you are making the $500 for the appointments you can work on your own. You're hiring me because you wanted to make more money right?" The owner nods, "yes of course I'm hiring you to make more money. But I'd be working twice as hard for that extra $500 if I had to give you half of it." The mans brow is furrowed in concentration, "You said, it takes you half the day and a lot of calling to get even half the customers you get when I’m answering the phone." "Yeah, but that work is easy to do." The owner says, becoming increasingly irate. The man from the future does not think he will get the job anymore, but he continues, curious to understand the past. He says, "Yes, answering phones is less work than doing the procedure, but our time is very valuable, it is the only thing we can’t get back. You aren’t just paying me to answer the phones, you are paying me* not* to do anything else with my time *except* for answering the phones. I could do a lot with that time, so I should be compensated accordingly. You have said the company makes an additional $500 a day due to my time." The business owner stands up. "It is not going to happen *due* to you at all. I am not hiring you! You think you should be paid…" she pauses a moment, dividing $125 by 2… then she continues, "$62.5 an hour to answer phones!" The man shakes his head. "Well, without me, you will have to go back to only making $500 a day, and still working 8 hours a day. You’d be working twice as hard for that $250, but you’d be making less money too. Without me you make $62.50." "No, I’ll just hire someone who will work for $12.50. I have lots of applications from people. Now get out!" And the man from the future left. He realized that there must be many people from the past who do not value their time. He wonders how that happened.