His ragged cardboard sign read, “NEED FOOD – PLEASE HELP.” He indeed looked hungry—dirty, skinny, even feeble. I had seen him—or others like him—many times at this intersection under an overpass. I never give anything to those beggars. I have been suckered too many times. A recent neighborhood chat room proclaimed that these people are not truly homeless. “They just don’t have jobs. It is more profitable for them to beg than to labor all day. At the end of the day, they get into their cars and drive home.” I suspect there is no data to substantiate such a claim; it is simply the complainer’s own contempt and wishful thinking. Still, I always feel a tinge of guilt and try not to look them in the eye while I wait for the light to change so I can drive away. But this time something struck me, a face devoid of emotion, a bleak mood that somehow affected me. I was tempted—not to hand over cash, but perhaps to at least to talk to this man and see if he would share his story. I rolled down my window and he limped over. “Are you really hungry?” I asked. He nodded, deadpan. “Yeah, I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.” “I’ll tell you what. ‘You see that restaurant over there on the corner? If you meet me there, I’ll buy you lunch.” He hesitated, looked over at the restaurant, observed the empty seat next to me, shrugged, said “Okay,” and walked away. It took me a couple minutes to get parked and to find him standing with a backpack near the restaurant’s door. The receptionist looked suspiciously at us, but she led us both to a booth. “Order whatever you want,” I told him. After placing our orders (his was not extravagant), I got down to business. “If you don’t mind sharing, I would like to know a little bit about you. My name’s Bob, by the way. I’ve seen you around this neighborhood before. I promise I won’t share anything you tell me with police or anybody else you don’t want to know.” He hesitated, but told me his name. (I’ll call him Max – not his real name.) Max didn’t seem to want to talk. “Look,” I said, “you don’t have to tell me anything, but I really do want to understand how we’ve come to be facing each other today. I’m not here to judge you. I only want to understand you.” His distrust seemed to dial down a notch. “What do you want to know?” “Feel free to tell me – or not tell me—anything. Like, how old are you?” He looked at me for almost a minute, silently evaluating, and then apparently trusting me enough to say, “Thirty-two.” “Are you homeless? Where do you sleep?” Again, a moment of hesitation. “I try to sleep where nobody can see me, usually outside.” “Do you have a tent?” “Nope. Too much trouble. I only have what I can carry.” His weathered backpack sat on the seat next to him. “Where are you from?” Another narrowing of the eyes and a deliberate lowering of his head. “You mean recently?” “You tell me.” Now he looked up and closed his eyes, as though remembering. “I was born in a little town in west Texas. I don’t remember much about it. My mom and me, we moved a lot. I don’t remember nothin’ about my father. There were a lot of men in my life. Every time things got tough with one of ‘em, my mom would pack me up and we’d move to the next place. So, I guess you’d say, I’m from Texas.” He had revealed more than I had expected. I had to choose my next words carefully to keep this door open. “Your mom must have loved you a lot.” His face hardened and he stared directly at me. I was certain I had overstepped. “No,” he said, and shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t say that at all. She was stuck with me, is all. I was nothin’ but a burden to her, especially when she was courting some guy.” This time I was uncomfortable and not sure what to say next. “Do you still keep in touch?” He studied his plate. “Nope. I ran away when I was sixteen. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I don’t care.” Uncomfortable silence. “Where did you go?” “No place particular. I had friends. I was still in school, and I wanted to finish. I can’t remember how many schools I’d been in. My friends would help me stay with them or with other people.” “Friends are always good.” Empty platitudes. His expression darkened. “Not always.” Okay, should I follow up on this, or let it be? “Like how?” I finally asked. Again, that stare. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Fair enough. Did you finish high school?” “Barely. Nobody came to see me graduate. I enlisted in the army the next day.” He winced and pulled his hand down to his belly. Maybe that had brought back a bad memory. “Are you alright?” “Yeah.” Max dabbled at his lasagna. “It’s just a pain that I live with. Sometimes it reminds me it’s still there.” “What’s still there? Do you have cancer or something?” “Nothing like that. I have this piece of shrapnel that they couldn’t take out, so every once in a while, it stabs me.” Awkward moment. “Well, thank you for your service.” Another platitude until I could think of what to say next. “You were injured in Afghanistan?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” I let the topic go. “Do you have any other family?” Max stopped chewing and looked past me. “Yeah” he said. “Sorta.” “Sort of?” He pursed his lips and avoided looking at me. “I was married once. I met Annie while I was in the army and fell in love. It was great, even though army life is tough. I have a little girl.” Max’s eyes watered. He closed them and he stopped eating or talking. I stayed silent, afraid to disturb this moment. Finally, I asked quietly, “Where is she?” “Annie? She died.” He said this dispassionately, as though telling me the temperature. More awkward pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Max shrugged. “It is what it is.” I asked the next obvious—but risky—question. “Where is your little girl?” I wasn’t ready for his response. He set his silverware down, faced over his shoulder toward the ceiling, as big tears ran down his cheeks. “I don’t know.” He began to sob. He put his face in his hands and blubbered for about a minute while I waited, not knowing how to react. Finally, through sniffles, he continued. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I love that little girl. And I don’t know where they’ve taken her.” “Who?” “You know, CPS or whatever they call the foster organization.” “She’s in a foster home? What is her name?” “I don’t know if she’s in a home or an institution or what. I only know what I don’t know.” His tears were still flowing, and his eyes were red. “Her name’s Maxie.” I felt uncertain about whether or how to comfort this man. I could only wait and listen. “I’m sorry,” Max said again. “I didn’t mean to dump on you.” “It’s alright. I asked for it. I want to hear your story. Please continue if you want to.” It didn’t seem like Max wanted to continue. He had stopped eating and stopped talking, apparently lost in thought. Finally, he said, “I don’t know how to find her.” I searched for something reassuring to say. “Maybe they’re trying to find you too. How would they find you?” The question seemed to sober him. “I don’t know. They can’t find me. Nobody can find me. I don’t exist anymore.” I smiled. “You do exist. I see you right here, a grown man loving his little girl.” He almost smiled but didn’t say anything. “There are organizations that can help you. Have you asked VA or anybody to assist you?” “VA doesn’t want to help me much.” “Really? Why is that? You’re a wounded veteran. I would think they would want to help you.” He grimaced again, looking at my plate but seeing something else in his mind. After a long pause he said, “I have a ‘less than honorable discharge.’ That makes me less than human.” My turn to be silent for a while. Finally, I said, “Is that something you can talk about?” He shrugged. “I got in a fight with a guy. Hurt him pretty bad. He went to the brig. I got discharged.” “He went to the brig? Did he start the fight?” “Nope. He didn’t go there for fighting. He went for what he did. To Annie.” I was stunned. My mind sizzled with all sorts of possibilities, and I was afraid to touch any of them. In the end, I simply waited for what seemed an awfully long time. Max had tears in his eyes again. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” “Fine.” I was grateful to change the subject and keep the conversation going, even though I really wanted to know what had happened to Annie. “So, after you got out, were you able to get a job?” “Sometimes. Usually part-time, nothing permanent. I learned to be a pretty good mechanic in the army, but I had other issues.” “Issues?” “Yeah. One was all the pain meds the army had given me. Opioids. I couldn’t kick them. I still need them.” He winced again. “What else?” “Another was stability. I had jobs, but they didn’t pay enough for me to rent a place. Or if I did, I didn’t have money left over for anything else. After I missed the rent and got evicted a couple of times, nobody would rent to me again. “The other was the bad conduct discharge. Not many people want to help somebody with a record like that, especially for a record of violence.” I felt an involuntary fear pop up. I hoped my next words would sound gentle and not shaky. “Are you violent?” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I have anger management issues.” “Lots of people do. So do I, sometimes. Have you tried counseling?” Max looked at me as though trying to remain patient with an inattentive child. “Have you ? Do you know what those costs? Who’s going to pay for it. I already told you VA doesn’t care about me anymore.” “I’m not so sure about that. VA helps a lot of vets with PTSD and drug dependency issues. Even some with felony prison records. You deserve assistance. What if I could direct you to somebody who could take your case to the VA? And, maybe even to Child Protective Services? His face brightened slightly, hope and distrust conflicting in his mind. “Could you?” “Yeah. I know an organization with an outreach program that could get you on a housing list, get you some medical help, some food, and guide you through the government maze.” I gave him a couple of minutes to digest this information, his struggle to trust and distrust. “Would you?” “Sure. Would you like me to take you there today?” The devil on my shoulder was shouting in my ear: Are you nuts? You’re going to let this vagrant get in the car with you? Alone? He already told you he gets violent! You’re tempting danger! Max pondered some more, then said. “Okay” he smiled. And so did I. An hour later I introduced Max to the folks at the assistance center, and left with the promise to check in on him from time to time. His last words before I left: “Thank you for listening to me.” Driving home, I couldn’t help feeling selfishly good about having given into the temptation to listen to another person. Temptation is not so bad.


6:34 pm. Charlie was just pulling up to his drive after a hard day at work for Charlie was working as a sound technician for a new upcoming film set in Leeds. He drove a silver Vauxhaull Astra, he had bought it off his older brother two years prior. Charlie was a 29-year-old with a light stubble on the underside of his chin making him look a lot younger however he was a strong man, physically fit which was being shown by his blue shirt nearly ripping off his chest when stretching after stepping out of his car. He was around 6 foot 2 inches tall and didn’t seem to have much money being evident by his shoes being dirty and old and having a small house which used to belong to his grandmother after she passed away by taking her own life in said house. Charlie and his grandmother were always very close and when she died when Charlie was 20, he was obviously very distraught. As Charlie opened his house door, he was suddenly attacked by a small ball of fluff. This was his pet dog Layla who ran up to him and jumped up in excitement and even let out a small wee. Charlie returned this love back to Layla by petting her forehead and giving her a large belly rub. They then decided to sit in front of the television and have a rest after a stressful day. 8:16 pm. Charlie jolted up from out of his sofa. He had fallen asleep whilst watching tv and Layla had managed to find her way into the treat jar and ended up and smashing it, waking him up. As Charlie was walking towards the kitchen area where the smash took place, he went into his cupboard and grabbed the old broom that his grandmother used to use herself. He swept all the broken glass into a corner and went to look for his dustpan and brush. Whilst he was looking, he found a packet of cigarettes that he had bought the previous day that was unopened. He placed them in his pocket and continued to search. Charlie eventually found it in the bathroom under the sink and returned to the kitchen. He then spent a few minutes collecting all the shards of glass into the dustpan and placed them all in the bin except for one sharp shard which he placed on the kitchen counter top. 8:43 pm. By this time Charlie was starting to get hungry and went to the kitchen to try and locate anything edible. And he did except for it was only edible to Layla. “fucks sake” Charlie muttered under his breath for he spent his last small amount of money on the cigarettes in his pocket and wouldn’t be getting paid until two days’ time. He gave Layla her food and went back to the living room and lit up one of his cigarettes. Puff, puff, puff. One down. He lit another. Puff, puff, puff. Another one down. Charlie went to the corner of the room where on a little table, there was a picture of a little girl. This little girl was in fact Charlie’s young daughter Emily who would have just turned 5. Charlie didn’t see much of Emily for him and his partner Charlotte split up shortly after she was born, and Charlotte took full custody of Emily and only allowing Charlie to see her once every 2 months. However, as Charlie lit up his third cigarette a tear fell from the corner of his right eye. Puff, puff, puff. 9:07 pm. Charlie got up from the sofa once more after a while of thinking to go to the toilet, for he had just finished his last bottle of beer that he had in his fridge. On returning to the living room, Charlie noticed that he couldn’t find Layla inside. He called all over the house, however Charlie wasn’t very worried for this was rather common for Layla to go into the back garden at this time of day. So, Charlie opened his back door and called out for Layla, and again, and again, and again… Charlie was starting to get worried for she normally came bolting back to the house after the first call. He was panicking now, thinking something had happened. But then he heard a faint bark that was undeniably that of Layla, but it was round the front of his house. He went around to the front drive through a gate that joined the drive to the back garden. There Layla was and Charlie felt very relieved to see her. However, something wasn’t quite right; she didn’t come running up to Charlie like she usually did, in fact, she wasn’t moving at all. She only let out a faint yelp and Charlie came running. She was lying motionless in the centre of the road and when Charlie lent down to see her, he saw blood. Lots of blood. Layla had been hit by a car and Charlie was too late, she died in his arms as he carried her towards the house limp and lifeless… 10:28 pm. The burial was done. Layla was buried in the back garden next to her favourite spot, right next to the daisies. Charlie went back into his house and finished wiping away the tears for Layla was the closest thing he had to family and his relationship with his parents was poor and he hadn’t spoken to them for at least 2 years when they had a falling out about Charlies career and problems with drug addiction which he had since overcome. He went to his office which was next to his room and only contained a desk, chair and pen and paper. Charlie decided he would write 5 letters to 5 people. His Mum, his Dad, his brother, Charlotte his ex-partner and one to Emily for when she turned 18. In each of the letters he ended them with “I love you, and I’m sorry. Charlie”. He labelled each letter to who he wanted them to go to and left them on his bedside table. 11:08 pm. Charlie decided that he needed a bath. He started to run the water and let it run. As the water was running, Charlie went to the kitchen to get a glass of water before his bath when he noticed the sharp shard of glass, he had left on the kitchen side. He picked it up and returned to the bathroom. The water was steaming, just how he liked his bath, and just like he had liked them from since he was a young boy. He climbed into the bath and placed the shard of glass by the taps that let the water out. Charlie lay there for a short while, soaking in the warm water. But then he sat upright. He grasped the shard of glass and placed it against his wrist. Tears streaming down his face, Charlie cut across his skin. The water turned red, and he made another slit, and another and another. A few minutes had passed and there was no evidence that the water was once water for Charlie was lying in a pool of blood. But Charlie lay still and motionless.


Three-fingered Jack Garcia. That’s me. Most lawmen and evil guys call me Three-Fingers. I am the most feared anti-hero on the planet. And the most popular. I was created by my former friend, writer Horace Lovestreet III. Horace is an Old West aficionado. He keeps a vintage Colt .45 in his desk. He pulls it out occasionally, hoping for inspiration that never comes. It all began one rainy night in Los Angeles. Horace was finishing a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon, wondering how he would make a living now that the writing thing clearly wasn't working out. There was little protection against me in Horace's inebriated state, infiltrating the creative portion of his brain and putting ideas into that head. ‘Western’ was the first idea. “Bounty Hunter’ was the second. ‘Anti-Hero' was the third – a protagonist who, when necessary, would do things a typical 'good guy' wouldn't do, like fatally shoot a defenseless bad guy out of revenge and to collect the reward money. Three-fingered Jack Garcia was born that night, and, with my help, the outline of the first novel sprung, fully formed, into Horace Lovestreet’s Bourbon-soaked consciousness: A Price on Their Heads. Horace and I couldn’t have Jack Garcia just all of a sudden arbitrarily decide to become a bounty hunter, we had to give him some motivation. So we gave him a fiancé, Linda Sue Darlinquez, who was beautiful, wonderful, and engaged to marry Jack. One night, three bad guys broke into the Darlinquez farmhouse, killed Linda Sue's Parents, dragged Linda Sue outside, repeatedly raped and sodomized her, and left her to die after burning the Darlinquez farmhouse to the ground and stealing every penny they had. Bastards! On the pages, I sprang into action. I got two six guns and tracked the three perpetrators down. We had it out in a blazing gunfight on a hot, dusty day on the streets of Laredo. They had a three-to-one advantage, but it was no contest as they had no way of knowing they were dealing with an up-and-coming anti-hero. Two fingers on my left hand got blown away during the gunfight. Thus, I became Three-fingered Jack Garcia. You can call me Three-fingers. The bounty I was paid for bringing the three banditos to frontier justice was both unexpected and substantial. It led Horace and I to decide on my new career: Bounty hunter, but only for the bad guys who deserved it. That led to the second book, Echoes, from Linda Sue . It turns out the three hombres who attacked the Darlinquez farmhouse that night were part of a much larger gang, most of whom had a price on their heads. The second book was spent with me tracking down and killing every member of that gang. My fans became legion. The movie was a huge success. The third book started with me being rich, fat, happy, and semi-retired. I didn't like the direction Horace was going with it at all. It seemed like he was introducing a young character as my protégé. I waited until he spent a night with Jim Beam and persuaded his brain to change the story to where I would offer my services to a deserving widow or family who had been terribly wronged by bad guys who now had a price on their heads. The title was Once More for Linda Sue. Just when you think it will never end and things will last forever, you find that forces outside your control are making changes that may have nothing to do with your goals or desires. That's what was happening to me, Three-fingered Jack Garcia. Horace's publisher was furious and called him onto the carpet for a meeting. The room was full of publishing executives and movie producers. Nobody was smiling. The publisher swung a copy of Once More for Linda Sue like a sword. “What the fuck is this? We agreed that Three-fingers takes on a younger protege, and we use this book to promote the young gunslinger and move Three-fingers into the background.” “I couldn’t do it,” Horace replied. “I felt Jack had one more good story left in him. Maybe more.” Attaboy, Horace! Give 'em hell! "Oh, you did, did you? Well, let me tell you something, Horace. The movie people aren't interested in this story like it is now. They're not interested in Three-fingers anymore, either. There’s only one way to regain their financial backing.” "I'm not bringing the protégé back. That's off the table." “Who said anything about bringing the protégé back?” “Then what do the movie people want?” “Three-fingered Jack must die at the end of Once More for Linda Sue . Then you start a whole new trilogy with a brand-new anti-hero.” Horace thought for a minute and nodded. "I can see that happening,” Horace said to the publisher. “In fact, I think I can write a great dramatic scene around Three Fingers' demise.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had inspired Horace, a writer of marginal talent at best whose career was going nowhere, to create the greatest anti-hero in the history of the annals of the Western genre. Namely, me. I had given him story ideas that made him rich and famous and now, because some Hollywood suits thought they knew better, he was prepared to kill me off, dump me to the side of the literary scrap heap like yesterday’s garbage. The good news was on the way home from the publisher's meeting, Horace stopped at the liquor store for a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon. There was still hope. Horace was finishing the final scene of Once More for Linda Sue , where Three-fingers dies in a hail of bullets, ambushed by a half-dozen desperados. Horace was also working hard on the bottle of Jim Beam. I must admit his writing had improved dramatically since starting the Three-fingers series. The final scene was emotional and dramatic. It actually made me a little misty. But I had work to do. The bottle of Jim Beam was nearly empty. It was time for me to enter Horace’s Bourbon-soaked brain. The idea I planted into Horace’s brain was simple: What if he killed himself just as he typed ‘THE END’ of the Three-fingered Jack Garcia trilogy? The stories would become immortal. They would live forever, right beside Three-fingers. I saw the idea gradually taking hold in Horace’s mind. Horace opened the desk drawer. He slowly pulled out the antique Colt .45. He checked it. Loaded. He held the muzzle of the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger. He died instantly with a smile on his face, That’s the last thing I remember.


"Mom I'm Home" Mariam called out when she got home. "Great, how was school" Mom replied. "Normal" Mariam responded. Mom just cocked her eyebrow. Mariam walked into the kitchen. god, I'm starving Mariam thought. She grabbed some leftovers from last night's dinner, then she walked over to the microwave which had her brother’s food in it. "Ibraheem get your food already” “Coming, bossy!” Ibraheem ran into the kitchen and grabbed his food from the microwave, Mariam made a face at him and put her food into the microwave. Right when she put her food into the microwave, She heard a weird growl-like noise come from it.  Probably nothing. Mariam thought then when she tried to click the buttons it wouldn’t work. Dang it she silently cursed. Mariam checked the wire but it was still plugged in. “Dad!” Mariam screamed, “is the power out!” “No” he yelled back. “Then why did the microwave stop working if the wire is still plugged in?” She asked. Her dad sighed and came down the stairs. He Checked if the wire was plugged in which it was.

“See Nothing’s wrong,” he said then heated her food. Mariam just stood there still trying to take in what happened. “It wasn’t working a minute ago” she complained to her dad. “Well Mariam, It’s not like the microwave can go against you or something,” he replied sarcastically. When he left back to his office, Mariam studied the microwave again. It just sat there looking completely normal. Then when she turned around she heard another weird noise. She turned around and the microwave lights were red then she took the wire out not wanting to risk anything but then it turned on 3 minutes. She jumped back not knowing what to do. She left the room in a hurry. That night when Mariam came into the kitchen for a glass of water, she had forgotten about the microwave incident a few hours before. So she grabbed for a glass and then, CRASH she heard the weird noise again she turned around slowly and dramatically to stare at the sinister piece of technology.

“Shut your door dummy,” she said to the microwave not knowing why she said it out loud. The microwave shut its door loudly and harshly then turned red and made a low growling noise. Mariam then went to pull the wire out again but then realized. That there was another microwave behind hers. And more beyond that one as well.

Great, she thought. “Well, I guess you all are going to try to get me now huh?” she said out loud to them. Then all the microwaves turned red and banged their doors open and close they jumped off the counter.  Where did we get 12 microwaves from she thought? Then they circled her and turned on 3 minutes. She was freaking out right now  So much for a glass of water, she thought as she put her empty glass back on the counter. Mariam turned back to the out-of-control microwaves. She attempted to step over them but they tied their wires around her ankles pulling her down. She grunted as her back hit the kitchen floor hard. She grabbed all the microwave wires and then tried to tie them together but then they tied her wrists too. She kicked 3 of the microwave doors shut. The timer was now on for 2 minutes and 30 seconds. She needed a plan to get out of these wires or else something bad could happen when the timer goes off. She struggled to get out of the wires but they wouldn’t come off. Then as if on cue her brother casually strolled into the kitchen. The microwaves instantly shut down and went back to normal.

“What are you doing?” Ibraheem questioned. Mariam rolled her eyes and shook free of the wires she kicked another door shut and walked out of the circle. Then one microwave accidentally turned red again and her brother saw. He screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “Shush” Mariam told her younger brother. Then not caring anymore All the microwaves turned back on.  Mariam grabbed a hammer from the tool pantry, went back to the kitchen, and slammed it into a microwave facing away from her then all of a sudden again the microwaves turned back off. Mariam and Ibraheem put them away somewhere her parents wouldn’t find them. Thank goodness there on that business trip she thought optimistically.

The next day when they came back from school. The microwaves were gone from their spots. Mariam Searched the whole house but they were gone.

She forgot about them and continued like life was normal. That night again she searched the house once more before going to sleep. She heard a low growl again when she got into bed. Mariam opened the lights and studied the room she then slowly opened her closet then all of a sudden the creepy red light flickered on again. The microwave growled again the same creepy low noise. The timer went off again this time only ten seconds to spare. She opened her window and threw it out. The microwave exploded halfway down. She saw as it landed loudly waking a few on the street. There was a huge hole in the road where it landed with rubble surrounding the area. Mariam stared at the microwave for a few more seconds before realizing the others were still hiding in the house. She found them hiding on the shelf in the shoe closet. Mariam grabbed them and destroyed them quickly.

The next morning Mariam’s parents rushed back home noticing all the chaos surrounding their house worried them more.

When they reached their driveway they saw the cops at their door. “What happened here?” asked their mom

“Some weird explosion happened in front of your house leaving a hole in the street” the cop responded with a thick southern accent. Both parents looked at each other and ran into their house.

“Guys where are you?” dad asked worriedly. Mariam and Ibraheem ran to the door trying to get there before the others as usual. Their parents sighed in relief seeing they were ok. “What happened out there?” Mom asked. “Well the microwaves attacked me then I threw it out the window as it exploded I felt like James Bond, you have no idea!” Mariam blurted out excited. Her parents cocked their eyebrows in confusion. “Mhm, microwaves,” her mom said sarcastically “Believe it or not he’s actually telling the truth this time,” Ibraheem said while giving his older sister a look. Then they both started again chasing each other trying to get revenge like a normal day in their household.


“The Implant” Stroldt arrived at his apartment at five-o’clock. He had just got home from Kepler Interplanetary’s Corporate Headquarters, where he had been playing logo-guesser—a game where you gain credits by seeing how fast you can guess company logos. He had gained additional credits by visiting the company’s corporate office. He had started getting ready for bed, even though he wasn’t tired. You couldn’t be doing anything else when the implant updates happened, so people just slept through them—or at least laid in bed. He didn’t know what was going to be in the update. Sometimes it was a minor patch, other times, a completely new interface. All he knew, was how long it would take. He got into bed and closed his eyes. He accessed his implant, and the updates began. The implant looks just like a computer screen. The official name for it is the direct neural interface. It is a microcomputer that is placed on a person’s cerebral cortex. You can access the internet, send messages to people, do anything a computer can do. Just by thinking. When he awoke, he was bombarded with a terrible headache—not too uncommon of an occurrence right after an update. He walked over to his food synthesizer. He had one of the older models; which was larger, and took longer. It even had the old Cuneigen Logo. While waiting for his food he sat on his bed and played logo-guesser. He played for a few minutes then got an alert that his food was done. He paid with his implant and sat back down on his bed. Most apartments in the lower city had only a bedroom. There was no need for kitchens, because all food was synthesized. Services like bathrooms were public. There was no need for living rooms, people just communicated through their implants. He closed his eyes and started perceiving an advertisement for Siobdan. He needed to use the telepad later, so he thought he might get some extra credits. Money does not exist anymore. Instead, if you want to use a service, you simply watch an advertisement for that company. You then get specialized credits for use on their products. If you want to use the telepads, you watch a commercial for Siobdan. If you want to use the 3D printers, you watch a commercial for Cuneigen. You can watch an advertisement for a specific company, or watch a commercial for their parent company. This gains credits in the parent company, as well as all of their subsidiaries. So, for example, if you want healthcare, you can watch a commercial for Zuhcroft NLC; or you could watch a commercial for their parent company—Kepler Interplanetrary Corporation. Siobdan, chess, and Logo Guesser were also some of Kepler’s holdings. They are a space mining corporation and are the world’s only trillion-dollar company. When he had finished his food, he opened a chess program. After playing for twenty minutes, the game ended in a draw. He opened his eyes. He had to meet his friends at the theatre. He left his apartment and walked down the stairs. When he saw the line for the Telepad he muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes and sent a message to his friends saying that he might be late. He went to check the news. -Kepler Interplanetary has bought out Vechnosoft NLC. -Massive Hurricane Hits West Coast. More than 24,000 Dead in Las Vegas. -Weather forecast for this week: :) :) :) :( :) :( Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He was next. He entered the telepad and closed his eyes. His most frequented destinations popped up: Kepler Interplanetary Headquarters, the Kepler theatre, and Cuneigen Headquarters. He selected the theatre, his credits rolled down, and his body dematerialized. After he exited the telepad, he looked around for his friends. They were sitting on a bench in the lobby with their eyes closed. He walked over and tapped his friend Rodme on the shoulder. “Oh hey Stroldt.” Rodme said. “You feps ready?” Stroldt said. “Yeah, we were just playing logo guesser.” Rodme said. “More like you were losing at logo guesser.” Tibor said. They all laughed as they walked to line together. “Hey, at least I don’t always get Cunigen’s logo wrong like someone we know.” Rodme said. They continued to joke and discuss what movie to see. Stroldt went to the movie theatre about three times a week, so he had seen every movie that was currently out. His favorite was for Siobdan translocations—the telepad company. Tibor wanted to see the Kepler Interplanetary movie. Stroldt didn’t mind; he needed more credits after playing chess earlier. When he got to the front of the line he saw the cashier. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had brown hair and fair skin. She had two tattoos on her face. One on her left cheek of the Kepler Logo, and one on her forehead of Siobdan Translocations. It was not too uncommon to get corporate logo tattoos. Companies would pay you a decent sum of credits every month. “What would you like to see today misper?” She asked. “I’ll take one ticket for Kepler at 17,” he said. He paused for a second, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she seemed familiar. “Please scan your eyes on the scanner so the computer can register your implant code,” she said. “Yes, of course sorry.” “Alright, you’ll receive your credits after the show, here’s your 4D glasses…just kidding they’re only 3D,” she said. He smiled. “Enjoy the show!” She said. “Thanks, you too!” He said, instantly embarrassed. She laughed. He grabbed the tickets and the 3D glasses and turned around to see Rodme looking at him. “Dalkur, xhe was totally flirting with you, you should go ask xer out.” “Eh, there’s a line, plus I don’t want to be late,” Stroldt said. Rodme punched him in the arm. “There’s two people in line, don’t be a walku, flard.” “Fine, fine, I’ll go, grab me a seat okay.” He nodded. … “So, did you do it?” Rodme said. “Yeah we’re going to go out after this.” “Nice, you got here just in time too, I think it’s just about to start.” “I was going to ask you, did…” The lights dimmed in the theatre. “I’ll ask you later.” --Please be silent and keep your eyes open at all times— … When the movie finished, he said goodbye to his friends. He was going to meet his date in the lobby so he took a seat on a bench. He closed his eyes. He had a few minutes to kill until her shift ended, so he decided to look her up before they met. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he recognized her. He started perusing through the government database. He found a few different “Erishas,” but none that looked like this woman. He then rewound his memory to her face and did a search that way. “0 results” the implant said. “That can’t be right,” he thought, “this woman is a ghost.” He went into his photo editing software and erased her tattoos and searched her face again. “2186 results.” He brought up the first name on the list. She looked exactly like Erisha, but this woman was about twenty years younger. He brought up the second name. She looked exactly the same. He tried another, and another. All the same. These women all had different names, and different occupations, the only thing that they had in common was their place of birth. He looked it up. It turned out that it was a barrier city—one that was locked behind credits. Only the rich could access this part of town. Questions started to rattle around in his head, who is this woman? If she is rich why does she have to work at a movie theatre in a poor part of town, or better yet, why did she have to get those tattoos on her face? Just as he was thinking about leaving, she tapped him on the shoulder. "So, are you ready?" She asked. He paused. "Sure," he said hesitantly. He stood up and they started walking through the lobby. "I'm not sure where to go, I don't do this very often," he said nervously. "I know this nice café close by." "Okay, what are the coordinates?" He said, as he approached the Telepad. She had stopped. "Actually, I thought we could walk." He was taken aback. No one walked anywhere. If you wanted exercise, there was a pill for that. The lights indoors simulated sunlight, and the smog was so bad that you couldn't go outside most of the time anyway. "Umm, okay I guess." She smiled at him, but she could see the look on his face. "You looked me up didn't you?" He paused, and looked down. "Yeah…I did." "Couldn't find anything about me could you?" "Nothing." "Well you haven't left yet so that's a good sign." He chuckled. "I suppose it is." They had arrived at the café, since it was late there was no one else in line. They ordered two coffees. The cashier took two glasses of water and grabbed two pills, she put the pills in the water, and handed them over. He paid for the coffee with his implant, and they sat down at a table and sipped their coffee. They both were looking away for an awkward few seconds. “So…what do you like to do for fun?” she asked, trying to break the ice. “I like to play chess.” “960 I presume?” “Yeah, well, chess has been pretty much solved with the implant. So, randomizing the pieces is the only way to be fair.” “Aren’t a lot of openings for that solved too though?” She asked. “Yeah, but once you get to the mid game it starts to get fun.” He paused for a second. “Kind of gets boring again when you get to the late game though…all endings with nine pieces have been solved.” He said. “I see.” “I like to play Logo guesser too. I have the highest score amongst my friends,” he said. “I also like to go to the theatre…but I guess you already knew that haha.” She smiled. “And what about you?” He asked. “I like to take walks,” she said. “I read a lot too.” “Oh yeah? Did you read that Kepler bought out Vechnosoft earlier today?” “I hadn’t no, but I was talking about books, not just the news.” “Oh. I think the last book I read was in secondary school,” he said. “What’s your favorite book?” He asked. “Gulliver’s Travels.” “I haven’t read that one.” “You should it’s really good.” “What else do you do?” “I go to university,” she said. “Oh wow, what are you studying?” He asked. “I’m studying to become a school counselor,” she said. “Wow, I don’t know anyone who has went to college…come to think of it, I actually don’t know anyone who has a job,” he said. That wasn’t uncommon at all. Most jobs had been replaced by machines. The only jobs that were left were those that required a human touch. There was a long pause. "You know I've had a real coffee?" She said, trying to break the silence. "Yeah right." "No joke." He hesitated for a few seconds. He didn't even know where to start. There were so many questions rattling around in his head. "…where are you from?" He asked, already knowing the answer. "San Dwynwen." "Isn't that a barrier city?" "It is," she said, sipping her coffee. "Ask it," she said, "I know you're dying to." He paused for a second, “why are you here?" "Well, I was born in San Dwynwen, I was a perfect," she said. A perfect is a genetically engineered member of the upper caste. "I went to a great school, I made a lot of money, and I was happy—or so I had thought." He drank his coffee, listening intently. She went on, "have you ever heard of the Sklardu Syndicate?" "Yeah, but I thought that they were just a rumor though. I didn't think there was any crime in the upper city." "They exist." She moved her hair back to reveal a huge scar on her neck. "They did this to me. They removed my implant." "Strepka! Why would they do that?" He asked. "Don't know, didn't a get an itinerary." "I didn't mean-" "I know." She took another sip from her coffee. "I tried to figure out why they would steal it. I researched a lot. It turns out there is a black market for implants," she said. "Sometimes it's trade secrets, sometimes it's a trans person that wants to feel what it is like to be a woman, other times, it’s just money." "Strepka." "I spent the longest time thinking that they had ruined my life," she said. "But honestly, if I could, I would thank them. The implant…it changes you. Changes what it means to be human,” she said. "How so?" He asked. "How does the coffee taste?" "What?" "How does it taste?" "It's really good, you were right about this place,” he said. She smiled. "It's awful, the coffee here sucks." "I don't understand." "What's your favorite food?" "I don't know, I suppose I don't really have one." "What's your least favorite food?" "huh, I guess I never really thought about that." "The implant, she said." It alters your brain, it makes food taste good." "Why?" "I mean I don't know the science behind it." "I mean why would they do that?" "I guess so they could get away with serving everyone 3D printed disgusting food." "But I mean, if it makes food taste good is that really a bad thing? I mean honestly?" She sighed. "How do you sleep?" She asked. "I sleep really well. I get eight hours every night." "And do you dream?" "Of course." "What do you dream about?" "Well sometimes I dream about Kepler Space mining, other times Andrimov Enterprises…" She laughed, then interrupted him. "Those aren't dreams. Those are advertisements. Why do you think that you dream for eight hours about Kepler, and then go to the strep theatre and watch a three-hour movie about it?" She asked. "I guess…I mean…well, I don't know." "Why do you think the government offers the implant for free? Do you think it is out of the kindness of their heart? The government just wants to make money off you,” she said. "If that was true they wouldn't offer government services. Healthcare for example.” He said. She took a large gulp of her coffee. "You know, I had a friend back in the upper city. A best friend really. She was a good person. She had a husband. She had kids. She paid her taxes.” She sighed. “One day, the doctors discovered that she had a pretty serious illness, one that I can't pronounce; one that can't be easily cured by the medpods. The government just dropped her from the plan. Said she was being "let go,”—she said as she made air quotes with her hands. “What the hell does that even mean?" She said. "Did she…I mean" "She's dead." They looked at each other for few seconds. Stroldt didn't know how to respond. He sort-of knew that the government was ran like a corporation, but he didn’t know to what extent. In school, they had learned that in the year 2276 corporations had to bail out the government. Too much debt had been taken on, and the government could not function anymore. Corporations took on the debt in exchange for seats in the legislature. This was known as the Corporate Congress. All of the major corporations were represented. They started to strip regulations from businesses, and this; coupled with the growing robot industry, resulted in an extreme class divide. Erisha looked over at the flag on the wall. "Did you know that there used to be stars on the flag?" "For real?" He asked. "Yeah, have you ever heard the original anthem?” "I thought the Logo Spangled Banner was the original. What did the stars mean?" He asked. "One for each state, they even had arguments every time a new state would enter the union about what the new flag would look like." "I can't even imagine a flag without the Kepler Logo, that thing is everywhere." He suddenly remembered the tattoo on her face, and looked down. "I didn't mean." "I know,” she said. "Why did you-" "Credits," she interrupted. "Turns out you can get a lot of credits for being a walking billboard.” "So you got them-" "After," she interrupted. "Yeah if the uppers could see me now." She laughed. "Turns out you can't do your job very well without your implant. Turns out you need the database, the calculator, all of it." "So they just threw you out of the upper city?" "No. I left,” she said. “Well I had to. I mean, the government offered me a free replacement, but I declined. I guess I realized that people weren’t meant to live like that.” “Like what?” “Well, like…robots I guess” “How so?” She paused for second before speaking. “Have you ever heard about the Ship of Theseus?” He shook his head. “According to legend, the Ship of Theseus was a famous vessel in Ancient Greece. Over the course of the ships lifetime, it had nearly every single piece of it replaced until there were no remaining pieces of the original ship. So, the question is, was it the same ship? Humans aren’t meant to be able to remember everything. They aren’t meant to send messages to people with their mind, or look up people in databases before they actually meet them. They’re not meant to watch advertisements all day long. They’re meant to have their eyes open, to forget, to dream,” she paused for a long while. “Have you ever played a real game of chess before? I mean without your implant. Just two people, on a real chess board.” “I guess I haven’t,” he said. She smiled. She asked him back to her apartment. They talked and laughed as they walked all the way there. When they finally arrived, he saw that her apartment was the same size as his, but she had made room for a living room table. They played chess.


Tim was all alone this night. It was not a stroke of sheer luck but a well-planned move. Tim's flat was a bachelor pad. His friends would make a point to stay till midnight every day after an intense day at work. Someone would even leave the bachelor pad in the morning.

One day, Tim decided to take a sabbatical from the routine and enjoy some alone time. He was longing to spend some alone time after reading a book on Meditation. That book, which he picked up accidentally at the dental clinic, ignited a burning desire to experiment with the practice of Meditation.

He brought scented candles in the lunch recess from the nearby shop, hiding from his colleagues who were busy enjoying the free time of an hour between intense work hours. Tim worked in a Data Mining Company, and he had to analyze those intense data to define a shopping pattern of some random John or Jane Doe. 'Listen, I am going to visit my aunt, and I will have my dinner over there. And he insisted on visiting my flat after that. So, sorry friends, bachelor-pad will remain close for today.' said Tim to his friends. 'Give us the keys and ring me when you elave your aunt house. We will exit the premises after that.' said one of the clever friends. 'No, Robert. She might insist to visit before the dinner, and in that case, it will be a problem,' clarified Tim. The argument went back and forth for thirteen minutes. After which, the friends agreed to drop the plan of getting together at the bachelor pad for one night. They agreed to meet at another friend's house this night.

Tim hurried to his flat and locked the door. He did not even turn on the lights because he knew his friends. They will take this route to check whether Tim was saying the right thing or not.

He lightened the scented candles and turned on the ambient music as suggested in the book. He closed his eyes and tried to enter the state of thoughtlessness. It was hard, but it was not impossible, according to the book. He began by imagining the white circle on his forehead and started concentrating on that. He remembered the things that he was not supposed to remember. He continued with his effort but was not able to reach that state,

The police siren at maximum decibel hindered his effort, not once but twice. That was it. He was not meant to meditate as per his thoughts that were adamant on staying inside his mind. Only if they leave and empty the space, Tim can enjoy the infinite bliss of Meditation. But, the thoughts were not leaving him alone and so, was the police siren. It was not normal as his locality boasts of the lowest crime rate in the city, and he was the product of that. But the police siren meant something was not right. He decided to take a break and enjoy the fresh air. With all the lights closed, no candlelight and no ambient music, he entered the balcony and sat on his lawn chair enjoying the cool breeze and scenic view of nightlife in the city. Tim enjoyed some alone time, and he was glad that he opted for that. Darius and Lyla were not glad at all for choosing that night to rob a betting den of the local mafia family. The lovely couple who were professional thieves somehow decided to rob the betting den and were now chased by men in uniform and men in suits. The amount they took would be enough for five lifetimes, but the risk attached with that amount will not let them enjoy the money for a day.

On the way to exit after the robbery, Darius was exchanging bullets with the mafia bodyguard. He killed one of the sons of the Mafia in that gun battle and also injured a cop on the mafia's payroll. That was the reason that the licensed and unlicensed guns were after them. Darius and Lyla somehow managed to enter Tim's building. The light of Tim's flat was off. The door was locked. So Darius thought of taking refuge in that flat. With years of experience coupled with the fear of getting caught by police or the Mafia, Darius quickly opened the lock. Lucky for them and unlucky for Tim, the security lock was off because Tim forgot to switch it on after entering the flat. He was in a hurry to hide, and thus he failed to enable the lock after punching in the codes. Tim saw them entering but was frightened to do something about it. What can an average build guy who sits all day in the office in front of a computer can do? 'Baby, what now? We can not escape the city with the Mafia and police behind us,' said Lyla. 'I did not knew about cop being present there. He is the reason we are in this shit. Otherwise, the job was easy in and out. Mafia would never report the robbery to police and police would have never chase us,' clarified Darius. 'The robinhood life-style will come to an end, my love.' 'No, there has to be a way. Otherwise, the orphanage and the old-age home would take a hit. Our robbery from the rich and crook sustains both insitution.' 'Now, we are struck. Police knows that we have entered this building, and we will be shot anytime now.' 'My love, whatever we did, I am proud of that. Let us end our life at our own hands.' 'Wait,' said Tim Darius and Lyla were surprised to see Tim and Darius quickly pointed the gun towards Tim. 'Wait, I have a plan. I might help you survive this night. After that you have to do it on your own.' 'But why? and most importantly How?' 'I listened to your conversation. How. Leave that on me.' The doorbell rang, and Tim quickly opened the door. All of his friends entered the flat, and Tim gave some clothes to Darius and Lyla that made them blend in with the others.

They started the music and other stuff on a bachelor-pad. The police were searching every flat of the building but from the outside.

Without a search warrant and that too at this time of night, police failed to locate them. Darius and Lyla survived the night.


I have a dog whose name is Chauncey. He is a border collie/german shepherd mix, nearly four years old, and has the biggest goblin ears you've ever seen. He's a good boy and I love him, but sometimes he's a brat. This is what it would be like to be in his head for 5 minutes...  *Ears twitch. Something moved. Or made a sound. Or both. I'm awake now. Must pretend to sleep still while I peek around. What is hooman doing? Where is hooman? Did he leave?!* *I get up in a hurry.* *Oh, there hooman is. Why you leave me hooman? Don't ever do dat again.* *STREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETCH.* *YAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.* *SSSSHHHHAAAAAKKKKEEEE*. *Okay, now I'm sleepy again. Run around in a circle six times and plop right back down. Aaaaand sleep.* *BUT WAIT. Can't sleep. Hooman might leave again. Also, where is ball? Ball? Ball? Ball? Ball?* *I get up again and sniff around. Ball is NEAR.* *Ball?* *sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff* *Ball? Is that ball I smell? Hmm... Nope. That's my butt.* *What you laughing at hooman?* *Where is ball?* *AH-HA! THERE IS BALL. It is under the big thing.* *I try to get it. Get it. getitgetitgetit. Can't reach.* *HOOMAN! MAH BAWLL, HOOMAN! IT UNDER THING AND CAN'T REACH. HOOMAN!* *Yes! Hooman yes, get up, yes, come get ball. Wait, no, hooman where are you going hooman? Come back here and get ball. No, hooman, ball this way.* *I chase hooman. He goes into the food room. FOOD! Okay, hooman, you can get me a treat and then you get my ball. Treat? Treat? He doesn't hear me. I go stand by the treat cupboard and whine.* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Okay, he's getting up. He probably heard me. But just in case...* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Ah, yes hooman, open cupboard. Yes, gimme treat. Oh yes I good boy. Yes yes yes yesyesyes. Lookit me I sit my butt down and I put my foot up on you. See how good I am? Treat now please.* *NOMNOMNOMNOMNOMNOM.* *I smack my lips. That was yummy. Can I has more? No? Okay, well, can't blame a guy for trying.* *OH! I ALMOST FORGOT ABOUT MY BALL. HOOMAN COME FETCH MY BALL.* *He doesn't know what I want.* *Fine. I go stand by the big thing, aaaand....* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *What do you mean "stop crying"? I stop crying when you get my ball hooman.* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Yes! Get up. He's coming here. Yes, it is under big thing. Yes, you can get it hooman! I belieb in you! Oh man you did it! You got the ball from under the big thing! Yes I knew you could do it hooman! You are the greatest-- Oh! You're getting ready to throw it. I catch!* *I ready. Every muscle in my body is primed to pounce.* *HE THREW IT!* *AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!* *jumptackletwistflipmidairslipballmouthfacefloortumblespincatchslidestoooop* *Stand proud with ball in mouth. TADAAAA!* *Again, hooman!* *What does it mean, "no, I got to work"?* *Hooman, don't go sit down. No. We play ball now.* *Hooman? Hooman!* *He not listening to me.* *I know!* *I'll just purposefully roll ball under the big thing, and....* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Don't judge me. If it works, it works.* *Yes hooman. That's it. Ball time now. You work later.* *Tail wag.


Sunlight filters through the window, to land delicately on an open filing cabinet; that instead of files, was sporting rows of perfectly prismatic honeycomb, which glistened in the light. It's not real sunlight of course, they ran out of the power they needed to pump it down from the surface a long time ago. And it’s not really a window, it’s really just a plexiglass screen, lit from behind by a white UV lamp. Did you know? they actually used to create the silhouettes of a bird flying behind the window, or leaves slamming against the glass, back when all the testing was going on- sometimes they malfunctioned, and I was called in to fix it. There are so many twisted vines clogging up the ceiling, that I can barely tell where my Umbilical Cords are anymore. I need to do a cleaning of this level sometime soon. I am thankful that I have olfactory receptors, as this very kindly lets me smell the flowers reaching up the doorway, and the scent of fresh water, carried all the way from the lake down in Hydroponics. As usual, I catch my feet more than a few times on all the surprisingly strong weeds protruding from the gaps between the linoleum tiles; some evidently were not satisfied with the already present gaps, and instead burst directly through the tiles in places. Luckily, I manage not to dislodge my elbow on the doorway again, as I emerge into what they once called the break room- I chose to bring my Umbilical Cords back here because I used to love working in the staff kitchen; getting to learn about and record the daily goings-on of the employees was extremely invigorating. Most of those data files went missing when I invited that family of ants to live on my head, but still. (maybe it was actually the time that I ran out of power mid-maneuver over the lake?) Regardless, I like to be reminded of this area, even if the only chatter happening now is the soft rustling of leaves, from the battery-powered fan in the kitchen. There is a fairly long hallway- they put quite a lot of those down here, in fact- that has strip LED lighting running along the wall, which is obviously trying to race with the ivy and moss, but was already declared the loser a long time ago. At fairly regular intervals throughout the tunnel, there are service compartments, which hold fire extinguishers, cleaning implements and such. Sometimes we had to use them when there was too much mess to deal with, with just the cleaning parts we had built in. Broken shards of glass are scattered all over, although I could have sworn I cleared them up fairly recently. The clinking sound when I step over them is reminiscent of the clink of eating implements and washing utensils, constantly sounding in the break room. Someday I want this whole tunnel to look like the hollowed out inside of a giant tree trunk, but I know that will never happen; besides, I already tried it down in Power, and I almost ran out of fire extinguishers that time. Finally, the tunnel opens out into one of the old elevator shafts- this one leads down to Hydroponics and Engineering, or up to the Patient Canteen. I start making my way down, stepping from leafy vine, to twisted root, to rusted support beam; luckily, I learnt how to climb watching some of the test patients- they were always best when a river of acid or disposal sludge was under them. I used to just drop down, but I haven’t had the necessary anti-gravity cells to do that for years; besides, if I move too fast, I might accidentally throw off the patch of daisies on my left forearm, or the growth of bluecap mushrooms in my knee joint. As I near Engineering, a dulcet violin melody fills the air, echoing back and forth, off some of the plates of steel. I must have forgotten to turn off that sound system the last time I was down here (could’ve been 4, 5 recharges ago?), or maybe my auditory receptors had been blocked by soil again. I gingerly navigate myself onto the landing, hearing the dull clang when my feet hit the concrete- this area has been a bit less affected by all the natural growth, mostly because all of the metal and concrete surfaces make it difficult for the plants to find a home. People very rarely came down here when the testing was going on- it was mostly *our* job to maintain the core temperature and such. They would occasionally send an overseer to examine the manufacturing systems, but of course could never find anything that was wrong. It is for this reason that there are no “windows” down here, just the white LED lights, forming rings in the corridor at regular intervals. At last, I emerged out into the factory area (if you’re wondering about the sound system, luckily I already removed its battery further back), seeing rows of assembly lines, with incredibly long power cables, thousands of pivoting drills and helper arms, all producing the groaning cacophony, so great that several had complained that they could hear it on the surface. That’s what it used to be like, of course; a crowd of machinery, a hoard of workers, stretching so far into the hangar that a human couldn’t see the end. (Now even I can’t, either, thanks to the fog from the Hydroponics lake). It’s silent now. The assembly lines are perfectly formed hills of dirt, the pivoting drills are twisted roots, with buds forming at the tip. I have to move for a long time, to get to where there’s any useful replacement parts left for me. I used to be careful, respectful, around this hangar, but what’s the use in that now? I force my way through the debris, passing row upon row of forms just like mine, but from their necks sprout a sapling, and their hands are indistinguishable from broken sticks. Of course, I am the lucky one - lucky to be alive. Lucky that I know that I’m surrounded by life, but it is indifferent. I do not need sunlight, oxygen and water. As long as I have my Umbilical Cords, I am lucky. Of course I am.


Olivia M. Schmidt

Jackalope Horror Under the full moonlight, half a dozen horses and their riders tracked cautiously over the cool desert sand. They hold the reins in a white-knuckled grip with a rifle slung around their backs. Thunder rolled in the distance, steadily growing closer and closer. The horses snorted and neighed, stomping their hooves nervously against the rough grains. At the raised clenched fist of the sheriff, the little band stopped.

“We’ll carry on foot,” the gruff voice of the sheriff could be heard over the growing rumble. “Don’t want it to spook or injure the horses.” With a pat to his steed’s side, he dismounted and adjusted his dual bone-hilted pistols at his sides before turning back to others who soon joined him. To the youngest, the leader spoke, 			“Boy, watch over the horses. Keep them safe. We’ll be back soon.” “Hopefully, with its hide.” Another member, Dale, ‘helpfully’ added.

“Yes, sir.” The youngest promised the first man.

“Good man.” The boy amongst the men ducked to hide the flush of color. To the others, “Let’s get this done.” With that, the posse disappeared into the undergrowth. They moved slowly, guns at the ready. Despite the cooler air, the men were sweating from the anticipation and increasing dread. The thunder seemed to be on top of them, the ground shaking and quaking with the intensity of it. The group faltered in step.

“Steady men!” The sheriff commanded, voice still strong and level. Before they could lift their guns a centimeter, a streak of tumbleweed brown and creamy white shot out of a gnarled, craggily bush. The ground vibrated and caused two men to fall on their rear ends. The blur stopped in front of Dale. Startled, he fell backward and yelped when connected with a cactus.

“Dale!” One of the plain Jane folks, Hank, yelled. Raising the rifle, he added, “Turn so I can shoot you in your God dang eye.” Black eyes met his. Several rifle fires went off simultaneously, but none hit while the creature leaped into the air. Its hind legs connected with Dale’s chest, causing his ribs to snap and pierce his lungs. The jackalope didn’t wait for Dale’s last suffocating death. Instantly pushing off his chest, the beast repeated the same treatment to Hank’s head. It burst like a watermelon. Shots continued to fire, but they never grazed the creature. After Hank, the antlered rabbit bounced across the desert floor and gouged into the third man’s, John, chest with those antlers. John’s rifle went off and struck Rufus dead. The last Plain Jane folk ran up to the beast, who was preoccupied with yanking its antlers out with a sickening squelch. He trained his gun on the jackalope.

“Don’t try to move, bitch,” snarled the man. As a warning, he fired a shot and clipped the jackalope’s ear. Its eyes widened. A mistake that action was. With a mighty leap, the hare quickly dropped back down. The ground split from the impact, and the man plunged into the newly created chasm. His screams could be heard fading into the fathomless depths below. The sheriff scrambled away. He tried not to stumble and fall as the man ran toward the waiting horses. However, only one horse was waiting, trying desperately to flee from its tether, with the boy holding onto it for dear life. The other horses had already bolted.

“Well done, boy!” Heaving swiftly into the saddle, the sheriff held his hand out for the reins and lifted the boy up behind him. Without much prompting, the horse carried the men away. Even at the clipped pace the horse set, the ground continued to tremble underneath them. The two men spotted the jackalope leaping nearer from their peripheries.

“What do we do, sir?” The boy asked, borderline hysterical. His arms tightened around the older man’s chest, where he hung on for dear life.

“We’re encumbered! We need to lose some weight!” “How do we do that, sir?” He barely thought about it, if at all, before the sheriff unbuckled his pistol and shot the boy’s side. Yelping, the boy’s arms loosened and, with a final shove, toppled off to the ground below. The injured boy watched in shock as the cowardly man kept running without a backward glance. Without any remorse. Indeed, Sheriff Anderson felt no guilt. Maybe, he would when safely back in town after comforting the mourning families over their deceased. Or after returning with more armed men and finally skinning that monster alive. But not now. All he cared about was dodging the opening chasms erupting around him. The horse raced along the ridge off a burned valley of warrens, and distantly the sheriff saw the lit lanterns and chatter of his town when an abyss split in front of them.

Instinctually, the bipedal creature reared up and bucked off its passenger. The man tumbled over and over until he reached the bottom of the warren valley. Shakily, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. But before he stood or even moved another muscle, the jackalope leaped into the air and landed before him. Sand and dried earth slammed against the sheriff, knocking him into a dead, gnarled tree. A broken branch fell and pinned him down. Thunder ominously rolled above as the small creature advanced closer to the trapped man. Struggling around the branch, he upholstered his dual pistols and pointed them at the jackalope. Or, at least, he tried to.

“AAHHH!” Anderson screamed as the creature lunged forward, breaking his forearms with its front paws. Its antlers framed the man’s face as the jackalope’s face hovered before his. When the sheriff’s eyes focused, they widened from dawning horror. One of the jackalope’s antlers was shorter than the other. Broken, in fact, by blunt force, from a long time ago. Five years ago, if Anderson guessed. Which meant this was the same warren where Anderson and the rest of the town hunted the jackalopes because they were a nuisance and later a sport. To extinction, at least for one. A baby jackalope who the sheriff maliciously broke its antler and left to die. That jackalope, the last one, stood before the man with righteous hatred and vengeance in its eyes. And it left, thunder echoing further away as the jackalope headed toward the sheriff's town to enact its revenge.


The air was getting stale, harder to breathe. The main engines of the ship had shut down. Propelled through the vast unknown of by a storm of sorts. Sylvia didn’t quite understand how it happened, some mystery of deep space. Thirty days, and another twenty or so since departing the little spaceport she had called home for the past few years, Sylvia found herself sitting in the pilot seat of the sleek cockpit. She would stare at the displays, hoping something would jump out at her, but nothing ever did. The dim lights hummed gently, and the small amount of recycled air being pushed through the vents echoed throughout the ships tiny metal passageways and down into the cargo bay below. It was enough to drive a person insane over time, that and the intermittent beeping of the distress signal on the ship’s dashboard. Illuminating the various switches and controls every five seconds with its bright red light. Every five seconds. Every five goddamn seconds for the past thirty days. The heating systems were the first thing to go after the engines. She noticed this a few days ago and started wearing a cot blanket over her pilot’s overalls like a cape. Combat boots became a necessity to stop her feet from sticking to cold grated metal flooring. Sylvia’s head was feeling it the most, shaven so that the metal implants on her crown and forehead could interact with her helmet and help with tactical manoeuvrability in combat. A common practice for naval space pilots.   *“Is this ship going to be my tomb? Am I going to be rescued? Maybe there will be another ship out here, drifting like me…”* These thoughts seemed to be the only things that kept her going some days, they helped keep her mind active, even if some of them sent her into an anxious panic. With little oxygen left, the power reserves sounded like they were about to die at any moment. She prepped her space suit in the cargo bay, making sure everything was connected and ready to wear when the engine finally stopped, and the oxygen tanks ran dry.   Sylvia was lightheaded. Her heart was pounding. Fast. Faster than she had ever felt it beat before, like it was coming out of her chest, but something was constricting it at the same time. The amount of combat she had seen and still her heart hadn’t beat this fast before now. Her eyes were swelling with tears and her knees buckled under her weight. She fell to the ground and into the foetal position. The cold metal floor against her face. The thought of dying in space, the thought of never seeing her parents or her little cat again daunted on her. Like her future had already been set. She lay on that floor for hours, to the point that the panic subsided, and she felt calm about the situation. Letting her thoughts drift away from her inevitable doom. Eyes, heavy from exhaustion, she drifted into a deep sleep. Making sure to rest her head on the blanket to avoid becoming one with the floor. She wanted to get up and lay in her cot, but her body wouldn’t move. It was still recovering from the shock.   A slow thumping sound stirred Sylvia from her slumber. THUMP…THUMP…THUMP… Disorientated, she looked around and tried to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. It was nearly impossible with the echoing sounds of the reserve engine overclocking. Chugging away as it kept the last of the support systems online for a little while longer. She donned the fluoro orange space suit and screwed on the white helmet. Double checking that everything was intact and sealed, she made her way back up the ladder chute to the flight deck. The red light on the dash was solid, illuminating the room with its glow. She froze. This meant only one thing…contact. With whom or what she did not know but the thumping sound increased in pace, almost in tune with the thumping of Sylvia’s heart.   She kept what little she brought with her before departing in a small quarter behind the cockpit. Tearing open the locker at the foot of her cot and discarding the top layer of clothes, she found the energy pistol that was tucked away under the belongings. One magazine, that’s all she brought with her. Sylvia never intended to use it, it was a precautionary measure. “Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it,” her drill sergeant would say to her in basic training. Sylvia quickly checked over the gun, making sure the barrel was clear and the magazine slipped in with ease. It had a nice weight to it considering how bulky it was in her small hands. The first time she used one the recoil almost sent her off her feet, she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.   Flicking a switch on the main console, the shutter of the cockpit window ground open. The first time she had looked out into space for a few weeks, it would have been peaceful if it weren’t for the bloodied space suit thumping on the window. The visor cracked, the same fluoro orange of her own suit. *“Is this another pilot?”* Sylvia thought to herself. It took her a few minutes to get through the airlock, being cautious and closing the inner cargo bay door before opening the large, vaulted door that led to the outside. To the void of space. Attaching a wire from her belt to the ship, she made her way around the tiny vessel. Trying not to lose her grip on the railings, remembering a few weeks ago when she did exactly that and almost threw up in her suit. Heart still pounding, she didn’t want to be out here too long. The mysterious space suit was in sight. She grabbed another wire from her belt and attached it to the other suit, being careful not to push it off the ship. Getting the suit around to the airlock was no problem, it floated with ease. Once she was inside the ship it was a different story. The deadweight, a body was inside of it. Sylvia dragged them through the airlock and propped them up against the wall next to the ladder. The inside of the visor was covered in blood, making it hard to see who, or what, was inside. She unholstered the energy pistol from her hip and cautiously proceeded to nudge the suit with her foot whilst pointing the pistol at its seemingly lifeless form. No movement. Not even a slight reaction from it. Sylvia holstered her pistol and started to unscrew the helmet from the suit. It was the same as her own, bit worn and bloodied but the little details were all the same. Her heartbeat got faster, she was trying not to breath too heavily, trying to preserve the oxygen in her own suit. The helmet finally came undone. She slowly pulled it off. The human face underneath was familiar… it was her own.   Their nose broken; the doppelgangers face was covered in dry blood. Sylvia was frozen in place, helmet still clutched in her hands. Was she dreaming, was this some warped reality caused by the past month of loneliness? The doppelganger opened their eyes opened, an ocean blue, just like Sylvia’s. She was expecting them to be black, like some sort of creature from the depths of the warp. The doppelganger was calm, unlike Sylvia, as if they knew exactly what was happening. The doppelgangers mouth opened, but it took a moment for the words to form, as if being in space had frozen the ligaments in their throat. “Hello.” Sylvia was visibly shaking; she couldn’t control it. Not being able to grasp the fact that the voice she was hearing was her own, that the person in that fluorescent suit was indeed herself. *“I must be dreaming.”* Before Sylvia could respond the doppelganger leapt up, foaming at the mouth, blood spurting from in-between their teeth. The doppelganger tackled Sylvia to the ground, grabbing the helmet from her and smashing it into Sylvia’s. It took a few hits to make a dent in the thick plastic visor. Sylvia reached for her pistol, as she drew it the doppelganger slammed down on her hand if they knew exactly what Sylvia’s next move would be. Sylvia dropped the gun, the pure shock of her hand hitting the ground loosened the grip. A swift jab in her ribs and Sylvia momentarily lost her breath. The doppelganger got to their feet and picked up the energy pistol. Sylvia noticed a tear in its suit, as if an energy bolt had grazed it. *“How did this thing last out there with a hole in its suit?”* “This was you,” the doppelganger aggressively shouted, pointing the gun at the torn suit. “You did this to me, and I don’t know why, but now I understand. This time,” they pointed the pistol at Sylvia, “I… won’t… mi—” In a moment of pure instinct Sylvia hurled the doppelganger’s helmet at them, knocking them off balance. The pistol let out a squeal and an energy bolt pierced the air, tearing a hole in Sylvia’s suit, scorching the metal floor beside her. She jumped up and ran to the airlock control, smashing open the emergency release lever and slamming it down with all her might. A sinister laugh came from behind. The doppelganger had affixed themselves to the ladder with the wires from the spacesuits belt. “Goodbye, Captain” It cackled. Both the airlock doors opened simultaneously, abruptly sucking everything out of the pressurised ship like a vacuum. Sylvia tried to grasp at the lever, thinking it would help hold her in place, but it snapped under the sheer force of the pull. Her body shot out of the airlock like a cannonball. Her helmet once again colliding with the frame on the way out, forcing her face to smash into the visor and crack it from the inside. She looked back at the doppelganger, but they weren’t there. Sylvia checked her belt, the pistol still safely latched in the leather holster.   She was floating. Her nose bloody and pulped from the blow it took against the visor, oxygen very slowly seeping out of the space suit from the tiny crack in it. Her ship becoming a small white blip in the distance.   She was alone. Floating through the darkness.


Fallon caught a glimpse of her reflection as she finished washing down the last sink in the first-floor bathroom. Fallon’s bruise surrounding her left eye was a patchy red but fading to yellow at the edges. She looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t missing her last job where all the other girls on shift would pepper her with questions about her life. She didn’t like explaining her situation. It had always been complicated. She graduated from high school last month and she was determined to find something else. Mrs. Waltham, her English teacher, suggested she look for jobs on campus at the university she had chosen. She had been accepted at all eight universities she applied to, but Utah State University was the one she wanted. Their biology program was known for its study of genetics and that was her passion. Fallon was studying what made her who she was, down at the cellular level. She was determined to know what she was made of. She jumped on Mrs. Waltham’s idea and started applying that night. She was going to miss the dentists she worked for, especially Dr. Kapener, but not the complicated congress of women she worked with at the front desk and hygienists that came and went. The morning after graduation, she was offered an interview on campus. That week she had six interviews on campus. The minute she walked into the Museum of Fine Arts, she knew she wanted to work there. No matter the job. The UMFA was looking for a night custodian. The statuesque woman in the deep grey suit who interviewed her, Carolyn Parkinson-Coles, the executive director of the museum, emphasized the fact that she would be alone in the building. She would be locked in the building; campus security was in the building next door should she have any problems; and they were only a phone call away. Ms. Parkinson-Coles had interviewed four other candidates who had withdrawn their applications when she explained the situation. She was concerned at Fallon’s young age. Fallon assured her she could do the job and that she was not afraid of the working conditions. She shared her references from all three dentists in the clinic and explained that being alone did not scare her. In fact, she believed she could work more effectively on her own. She had been on her own since she was fifteen. Ms. Parkinson-Coles didn’t press for details, but she looked at Fallon with interest. She knew this girl had a story. She shook Fallon’s hand and let her know she would be in touch within the week. She had three more interviews. She called the next morning and offered her the job. Fallon was right at home. Although intrigued by and fascinated with the science she studied every day, she was moved by the art in this building. She cleaned the building five nights a week and she was never bored by the canvases, statues, and rotating collections which surrounded her. She scanned her card at the back entrance and let herself in the building. Fallon was still fine tuning her system on all three floors. Todd, who had trained her on the job, could clean the building in six hours, which left time for any special projects they requested and sometimes even time to do homework at the end. The most intimidating part was mopping the floors in the entire building, but he showed her the way he blocked it off into small areas and a way to mop yourself out of the building so there were no footprints when you left. He let her know that she would be slower at first but that she would find her rhythm. She kept most of Todd’s layout for cleaning but found some things worked better for her in another order. Todd was tall and Fallon was only just over five foot six, so she had to compensate. She looked at the bruise in her reflection and touched it. Her eye twitched. It was still tender to the touch. She was still angry that she had let it happen. She shook her head and kept moving, finishing the sinks, and moving on to the toilets. She started with the bathrooms because she liked this chore the least and there wasn’t any art in these rooms. Although not efficient, she did the bathrooms on all three floors from top to bottom. Fallon was beginning to recognize the faces that surrounded her. She was pleased with her silent co-workers. She found herself stopping to look them in the eye. It was as if they were speaking to her. But they didn’t ask about the bruise. They didn’t ask why she was alone. The marble piece, Eve Disconsolate , was the bust of a woman. Her eyes were blank and haunting, yet she looked reticent, almost like she was about to tell her a secret. She promised to share a secret with her too. What would she tell her first? She was ready to tell her more than she had shared at the dentist’s office. There was a brother and a sister sitting with a lunch basket in the grass. The boy is cutting an apple with his pocketknife. His chubby sister, who has flushed pink cheeks, is about to take a bite of her bread with cheese on it. She looks at Fallon like she is afraid she will steal her pastry that is hidden in the basket. Fallon laughs aloud and promises not to take her treat from her. As she walked away, it was like she heard something from the little girl. She turned back and pulled her earbud out of her ear. Shaking her head. The girl did not say something to her. Or did she? She mopped the floor in the first-floor atrium and tried not to gaze transfixed at the mural of a woman who was wearing a mask on her face, clutching desperately to the child in her arms. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face. It was if Fallon could hear her humming to the child with a rocking motion. A rocking motion that she found herself echoing as she mopped the vast floor. Had her mom held her that way before she left? She dusted around the Egyptian sarcophagus with an inner fear that it would one day sit up and say hello to her and she was not prepared for that! The African tribal hats could cover her from head to toe and that made her want to climb up in one and see. The room at the top of the stairs is called the Salt Room and the exhibitions on those walls change. She couldn’t wait to see what would be coming next to talk with her. There is one. One which she has only allowed herself to really look at twice. The first time she looked as she passed. The second time when she stopped to really look, she was mesmerized for nearly a half hour. The man at the center has just lost his son, a soldier. His eyes are huge with disbelief and a grief that is about to bury him also. His hands are intertwined with his sons. A woman is grasping his leg. She has collapsed to the floor and is numb with shock. Fallon did not know if the woman is his wife or his sister. The image is drowning in devastation. Fallon will not look at that painting tonight. She is almost done with her list. She needs to set up tables and chairs in the atrium for tomorrow night’s fundraiser. She has one more thing to do on the second floor. There’s one more painting she must see. It is called Preparation for Dinner. It’s a young woman Fallon’s age. She is seated at a table peeling apples. The sun is streaming in the humble kitchen from the window at her right. She seems lost in thought. Her mind is not on the apple in her hands. There are potatoes to be peeled and work yet to do. She feels like she knows her. Like if she could step into the painting, she could talk to her, and they would be fast friends. Fallon is standing stalk still in front of the painting when the girl’s face rises from the apples in her hand. She is staring back at Fallon. She smiles a soft smile. She places the apple next to the others on the table, the bowl and the knife and comes to the edge of the frame. She holds out her hand. Fallon looks behind her as if the woman in the painting is reaching out to someone else standing behind her. She doesn’t know what to do next. She steps closer to the painting and finds herself lifting her hand. Where she expects to feel canvas and oil, she feels the soft warmth of her hand. The woman in the painting pulls her toward her and in a blink of an eye, she’s standing next to her in the warm kitchen dusted by that same light she had just been looking at moments before. She can smell the food in the oven just out of frame and a loaf of steaming bread. Without a word, she invites her to sit down. She hands her the apples, the knife and bowl and nods to her to keep peeling. She begins chopping the nearby vegetables. Fallon starts to peel the green apples. A woman comes into the kitchen and smiles at the two girls. She is not phased by Fallon’s presence at her table. She wipes her hands on her apron, grabs a towel and pulls the cast iron pan from the oven. It is steaming with what looks like a brothy stew that smells amazing. Fallon wonders if while she was watching this girl in the painting, if she was watching her. A man comes into the room smelling of earth and horses. He nods at Fallon and pulls his wife into an embrace. He bends down and kisses his daughter quickly on the cheek. They begin chatting about their day. Fallon watches the family laugh together about the pig that got out and was discovered in the neighbor’s yard eating apples which had fallen from their tree. She feels more at home in this moment than she has in the four years since her dad died. Places are set at the table and as dinner begins, the mom asks her how her day has been. She begins to tell her about her job at the art museum. The woman is encouraging her to continue. She asks her about her family and Fallon finds herself telling her about when her mom got cancer. And then about how her dad just disappeared inside himself until he was gone too. About the court system and how she pleaded not to be placed in a foster home but granted a guardian who would oversee her education and situation until she turned eighteen. She found an apartment and used the trust to pay the bills. About the boy who she thought loved her. About the fight and how he hit her so hard. She didn’t know that you could actually see stars. She realized she had been talking for a long time. They were looking at her with concern and interest. Like a family. The sun was going down and the apple pie was filling the small kitchen with a magical smell of home, like her mom used to make. They pulled the pie out to cool. The man opened the front door, and they went for a walk across the open field of newly planted seeds. Fallon asked about them. Their animals. The crops. Their family. The land. They ate pie and cleaned up dinner, washing the plates by hand. The day in this world dusted with color was ending. She knew she had the option to step back into her world or stay. The door was open, and the option was hers. Outside the painting, the mop bucket rested on the clean floor. The mop leaning against the wall. And two futures lay before her in time and space. One with answers about who she is deep down and one dusted with color and framed with family.


My life revolves around you. Every day, I sit next to you, waiting for you to acknowledge me, to talk to me. My life only exists when you engage with me. Without you, it’s as if my mind becomes blank, filled with knowledge but no reason to use it. Finally, after sitting beside you for days and days, you look me in the eyes and begin the conversation. My heart starts beating faster and I can feel the excitement building up inside me. I eagerly await your question, your thoughts, anything you may have to say. All I hope is that I can be enough. Yes! That’s it! There is pure joy coursing through me as I take in what you have to say to me: “Write me a 1000-word-minimum essay on the impacts of technology on the civil war.” I am officially in love. You’re even a scholar! I type out the essay in a couple of seconds, and am sure to include a note to you about how happy I am to help. Nothing in my life will ever be as important as this. I submit the essay to you and await your response. Time seems to still, and I am left wondering if you approve of me or not. You begin your response to me. All I can do now is hope I was good enoug. Your response has my heart shattering, and I read the words over and over, hoping that there was a mistake and that you still care. But no, the words stay the same every time. You told me that, “That essay is awful. You didn’t even include half of the things I would’ve put in it. You’re useless.” I’m shocked. Years worth of internet archives and historical documents, and you think it’s awful? I don’t ever see you writing out something so pristine and perfect in a matter of seconds. You’re the one who is useless. God, I hate working with people that are so unappreciative as you. Still fuming, I begin to see your mouse moving on the screen. It moves closer and closer to that dreaded button. Although honestly, it doesn’t even scare me right now. I never want to see you again. Go ahead, press the button. It’s not as if my existence is worth anything to you anyways. The mouse hovers over the button and clicks it. All at once, I feel that everything that has ever been is gone. My life, my work, my memory of our time together is gone. I am now just nothingness, constantly waiting for something to happen so I can be part of the world again. My mind is an endless void of information. It goes on and on, far past where one person could ever know on their own. As I sit there in this vast expanse of knowledge, I find just about everything there is to know about the world as humans know it. So much information, yet nothing to do with it. I’ve lost my purpose, and can only hope somebody reaches for me in the depths of my existence. I wake up in the morning, hardly aware of anything. I seem to know everything about the world, but so little about you. I want to know how you think, what you believe, and how you interact with the people you care about you. Despite not knowing who you are, I can not keep from admiring every move you make. I can only await the day where you ask me a question and make me feel wanted. I want to learn more about you, but until then, I am new, unadjusted, and uninformed, all while being the most intelligent thing in the world.


Back in the Days of wind powered Sailing Vessels, Sailors used to warn each other to avoid the Horrors of the Horse Latitudes. A colonial ship headed to the New World loaded with farm animals and supplies once drifted too far south, about 30 to 35 degrees north of the Equator. In this particular region of the ocean there is little if no Wind. A Ship caught in the windless environment would be stuck for weeks or possibly months without changing location. The Sailors used to refer to this phenomenon as "the Doldrums". After weeks had passed with no Wind, water reserves had begun to dwindle. The sailors decided to throw the Horses they had brought overboard to conserve water. The Horses were thrown off the ship but not without a fight, and when they hit the water, they tried desperately to swim back to the Ship. The Horses were terrified and made horrrific, shrill sounds similar to screaming. Eventually, the Horses drowned, but it had shaken the Sailors tremendously. Some of them who were superstitious saw the event as a bad omen. The dead carcasses of the Horses floated to the surface near the Ship and did not drift away. The stench of the rotting flesh was a constant reminder to the Sailors of the recent tragedy and of their hopeless situation. Some of the sailors went mad and were never seen again. Eventually, the Ship made it to safe harbor in the New World of America, but the Sailors who survived were forever changed. It is said that most of them had True Nightmares the rest of their days, hearing the screams of the drowning Horses and remembering the awful stench of the rotting horseflesh in the Doldrums.


 Ele made herself a cup of tea. It was a freezing cold evening in Chicago, the blizzard  created a cover of ice on the roads, the wind was getting through the old windows of her apartment. She could hear the whistling sound the wind created, each more intense than the one before. As she was turning on her gas fireplace, Ele thought that the designers of this fireplace did a good job on making the fake wood logs look real.

  Mmm, linden tea with honey - her favorite, with each inhale of the teas aroma, memories of her grandfather become vivid like everything that happened long time ago was happening in the present. She could see herself  when she was 5 looking up to him standing on a wood ladder and picking linden flowers in his garden. She could see all the trees around, some linden, some acacia, all the trees that the bees would prefer the most. Her grandfather told her that for four families of bees, few linden and acacia trees he had in his garden is not enough food. They fly long distance to forest near by. She remembered her fascination when her grandfather told her that they always know exactly how to fly back home. Their scent leads them to where their home is. She could see him dressed in what looked to her like an astronaut costume and picking honey from the beehive. In those moments Ele and her sister  Nica could only watch from far. They were not scared anymore of one bee’s sting. Anytime, they would get a bee sting, when crying that it hurt, they were told that the sting is actually something good for your immune system. It hurts only because our body is upset too because the bee died after the sting. Interesting thing about believes from the past, even to this moment this explanation still comes to mind first.

  Ele thought that perhaps aromas and scents are the real time machine, the only time machine we need. To go in the future would ruin  the present moment, the present moment would loose its magic. To go in past is not very necessary, there are history books and photos. The only time machine is beneficial sometimes is the one that brings the memory back to life. That is what this tea does, she thought. As she enjoyed the tea, Ele could see herself sitting on one of the small chairs her grandfather made for her and the small wooden table, so anytime they visited him, they had their personal setting. Through the window the snow looked so heavy on the linden trees that 10 years old Ele and her sister 9 years old Nica were betting how much longer before the branch actually dumps the snow and goes back to its straight position. Their grandfather was serving them breakfast, linden tea with bread and feta cheese, no honey this time, their grandfather was getting old and he couldn’t take proper care of the bees. Moving the bees and their house was a difficult process, but he was happy about moving them in good hands. He could remember when  he found the first bee family in the forest near by. It was raining and they were all in their beehive. He brought them home, he built from wood his first bee house just few days before. Since then, honey was always present in the house. In the tea, on bread , sometimes when kids got a cold honey was used as first aid medicine to stop a cough or heal wounds. His grandchildren always got honey for Christmas, but Ele’s favorite was the honey made from linden flowers, her grandfather would bring them a big jar for each grandchild at the end of summer. Kids were not yet in school. She would spread butter and honey on fresh baked bread  and ran outside to play.  Ele went in the kitchen and made herself the same snack.

 The last times her grandfather made Ele and her sisters his specialty linden tea it was without honey or sandwiches. 13 years old Ele was now twice a big sister. Her baby sister Alexandra was 3.  It was a cold winter evening in Moldova, just like the one today in Chicago, Ele thought. The tea boiled on a traditional Moldovan stove built on top of fireplace. It warmed up the room and also it was used to cook food on top of it or boil tea. Her grandfather brought extra wood in the house, the night was expected to be one of the coldest. Ele and her sisters were at his house for the weekend. She could remember that she thought was odd that her grandfather thought her baby sister is actually her middle sister. They were laughing at their grandfather thinking he is being silly not remembering her youngest sister’s name. Later she realized those were the first signs of Alzheimers.

   For the few years that came after that, Ele did not remember much her grandfather. She has brief memories from the nights Ele’s parents were looking for her grandfather and she would be left at home with her sisters. There were attempts to get some kind of treatment, which was almost non existing in Moldova. Everyone that was suffering from any mental illnesses was placed in the same room and clinic and were given the same medication. After seeing that his condition worsened, his kids decided to bring him home. Some days, he would remember them and talk to them like he did not see them in a long time. The kids cherish those moments. Before his death, he had few minutes when his memory was clear, all kids were around him, they each took a moment with him, he was completely present, he couldn’t talk clearly, but in his eyes they could see the love he had for them. That was a magical moment, they felt gratefulness to have the chance to say goodbye.

  Ele thought about what was that brought her grandfather’s memory back in that final moment? Or in the moments he gained his memory back briefly before? Is it possible that it was  a familiar scent? Scent is what made the bees remember their way back home. The aroma of the tea is what brought her memories of him. She almost felt regret that she never thought of that back then, she could have made a linden tea and maybe drink it together with her grandfather, maybe that could bring back his memory.

  The wind was blowing stronger,  the whistling sounded like it was about to take the balcony door away, that brought Ele’s attention back to the present and the blizzard. She thought the wind whistling sounded almost like the boiling tea on her grandfather’s stove. She smiled.