The stocky, fortyish Black man walked toward the elderly couple. Regina Beckwith smiled neighborly at him. Checking her watch, she let out a hearty laugh. “Ten-thirty on the nose,” she said. Barton, her husband of fifty years, grinned placidly. “Yep. Right on schedule. I swear I can set my watch by you.” Starling Coyle took great pleasure and pride in compartmentalizing every aspect of his life, beginning with his morning walk through the Dobbs Ferry Town Park. Starling had no family and he liked it that way. His mother had been a bitter controlling wretch since the day she’d lost her husband to a sudden heart attack. She’d crippled Starling’s confidence with her criticism, treating him like her personal neurotic slave. The women Starling made the mistake of loving also seemed to take great pleasure in turning his orderly life into chaos, but that didn’t stop him from pursuing his goal of having a family. Starling generally saw the same people every day as he walked along the park’s oval path,  starting with the fitness coach. The enterprising exercise guru would be instructing some grunting overweight soccer mom, bending her into a pretzel, or making her jog in place until her face turned crimson. The trainer always greeted Starling with a New England accented “Yo, bro!” that seemed more condescending than polite. His next encounter would be an energetic old man, who always said, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” even when it wasn’t. The spry septuagenarian stroller always gave Starling a thumbs up after his pronouncement. Starling would then encounter a gaggle of retired blue-collar workers hanging out near the benches. They talked about their battles as dock workers, their escapades as cross-country truckers, or the aches and pains they’d endured during sweaty summers as laborers for the town of Dobbs Ferry. Their ringleader always wore opaque sunglasses that make him look like a mob boss ordering a hit. Whenever he spotted Starling, he’d turn to one of his cohorts, saying, “Cheese Louise! Every day! That’s dedication!” He also never failed to call Starling “buddy,” as he waved at him, further adding to his boss-of-the-park persona. There was one particular person Starling looked forward to seeing every day. She was cute, sandy-haired, kinetic, and fit, and she never failed to greet Starling with a thick Brooklyn accent and a ready smile. But there was an ever-present threat that can keep their relationship from advancing beyond a few hurried hellos. The German Shepherd that pulled her along was protective of its owner and itching to prove it. Whenever Starling moved toward her, the crazed canine lunged at him, barking at Starling as if he was a raw steak. The personable pet owner always claimed the dog was friendly. “Apollo’s just spirited. Let him sniff you.” Starling politely declined, but one morning Apollo gave him no choice. Jumping up on his hind legs, Apollo dropped his front paws on Starling’s shoulders. The man versus beast stare-down lasted until Apollo was convinced that Starling was petrified of him. He dropped back to the ground, pointing his nose in the air victoriously. “I see you here a lot,” the woman said. “Are you preparing for a marathon?” “No, I’m just trying to stay in shape. It’s a part of my daily routine.” “Cool. I admire people who can make a plan and then stick to it. I’ve always been a little scattered.” Apollo yanked on his leash, trying to pull his owner away from Starling. “So, what’s next on your schedule?” she asked. “Lunch, then a few calls with clients. I’m an accountant. You?” “A photographer,” she said. “Mostly magazine work.” Apollo yanked more aggressively on his leash, pulling the woman away. “Nice meeting you!” “Starling! Starling Coyle!” “Leah Hunter. We’ll see you tomorrow!” Starling’s cautious and orderly nature also helped to protect his sensitive stomach. It was Thursday when he met Leah. That meant Starling was going to go to Mardino’s for a slice of pizza with bacon. Monday, grocery day, meant a sandwich from the store’s deli, Tuesday, a pastrami sandwich from the store near the park, and Wednesday, a gyro from the Captain’s Café. On Fridays, he sampled the shrimp with lobster sauce lunch special from the Flower Garden Restaurant, and on weekends he managed to survive on what he had stashed in the refrigerator. Starling was heinous in the kitchen. He’d only used the burners on top of the stove a half dozen times in the year since he’d moved to Dobbs Ferry, and fearing an explosion, had yet to ignite his gas oven. His dinners were pre-made and delivered religiously every Monday by UPS, leaving him free of the possibility of ruining his food. Besides, microwaving dinner allowed him to watch episodes of “The Virginian” every day at six o’clock. Starling checked his watch. 2:45 p.m. Time to go to the hospital. Dr. London Herbert and Nurse Grace Harum waited for Starling to walk down the hallway at three o’clock, just as he did every day. The pair were a medical version of yin and yang. The white-haired, seen-it-all veteran physician played the role of the mistrusting cynic, while the shapely, blonde newbie nurse radiated innocence, hope, and trust. “I’d love to know what makes him tick,” Dr. Herbert said, his thick eyebrows crinkling together. “I’ve been at this for thirty years, and I’ve never met anyone so obsessive. Something’s up with him.” “What do you mean? He seems like a nice, shy guy.” “He’s come here every day for a year without fail.” “She’s his wife.” “Her parents don’t even visit every day and they live closer than he does.” “Maybe seeing her every day helps him keep his heart and soul together.” “Seeing her the way she is day in, and day out would drive any normal man crazy, but not him,” Dr. Herbert replied. “His devotion to her doesn’t make sense. Her mother said they weren’t getting along before this happened, that her daughter was seeking a divorce.” Starling’s reluctant glance shifted between Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum. “No change,” Dr. Herbert reported. Starling nodded, walking to his wife’s room. “You know what’s really strange?” Dr. Herbert asked. “He’s never asked me if she’s going to recover.” “Maybe he doesn’t want to jinx it. Maybe he’s afraid that if he cares too much she’ll die.” “That’s better than not caring at all.” Starling sat in the chair next to his wife’s bed. The ventilator made a slight whooshing sound as it pushed air into her lungs. Starling stroked his wife’s amber hair. “You’re going to have a birthday in a few days. What are you going to be, thirty-six? You’re heading into old hag territory. I told you we should have had a baby, but you wouldn’t listen. No, you wanted to play tennis. Stupid game. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you flaunted your affair with your coach. I begged you to come home to me and you laughed at me. Well, who’s laughing now? You look like something out of an episode of Star Trek.” Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum watched as Starling squeezed his wife’s hand. “Such devotion,” Nurse Harum said. “You can see the hurt on his face.” Dr. Herbert studied Starling’s expression. “Looks like anger to me, maybe even indigestion.” “He refuses to give up. That’s love.” “Maybe so,” Dr. Herbert replied. “I wish I had his confidence. A woman like her shouldn’t have had such a severe stroke. He said she collapsed after having her evening tea. Being in top shape may have saved her life.” “It’s strange that he’s never mentioned she was a tennis pro,” Nurse Harum said. “If I were him, I’d brag about it. She was the twenty-third-ranked player in the world. They called her the ‘Austin Assassin.’ She was famous!” “Well, I doubt she’ll be playing tennis again unless there’s an iron lung league.” “You’re so jaded, doctor.” “You know what else is odd? How’s a guy like that wind up with a beauty like her?” “C’mon, doctor, you’re not talking race, are you?” “No, of course not. I mean, he’s a bit flabby, isn’t he? And kind of nerdy looking, and certainly not a stimulating conversationalist.” “I guess some girls find plain guys sexy.” Starling’s sneakers tapped out a rhythm against the pavement. He said hello to the Beckwiths. Regina pointed at her watch, grinning. “Ten-thirty. Right on time.” The trainer waved at him. “You, bro!” and the spry octogenarian passed by saying, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” The group of retirees waved at him, their ringleader commenting, “Cheese Louise! Every day! That’s dedication!” Starling paused as he looked around the park. Apollo yanked Leah onto the path in front of him. “Good morning, Leah!” Apollo moved in front of Leah, growling. “Good morning! Are you on your way to lunch?” she asked. Yanking on Apollo’s chain, she scolded him. “Yes, soon. I was hoping we could have lunch together today.” “Sounds good. I don’t know if there are any dog-friendly restaurants in town though... I’ve got an idea. It’s a nice spring day, and there are a lot of benches here. Why don’t we grab something and eat here in the park?” Starling gave Apollo a side glance as he nibbled at his shrimp with lobster sauce. Apollo licked his lips. Starling wasn’t sure if he wanted to take a bite out of him or his lunch. Starling offered Apollo a shrimp. He eagerly attacked it. Apollo yelped, spitting it out. He snorted at Starling, baring his teeth. “Sorry, I forgot it was hot.” “Nice try at peacemaking,” Leah said. “Hey, I’m not throwing you off your schedule, am I?” “No, I’ve got time. I don’t have to be anywhere until three.” “Oh, meeting with a client?” “No, I’m visiting a friend in the hospital.” “I’m sorry. Is it serious?” “I’m afraid so. She’s in a coma.” “She?” “She’s part of my past. An old friend.” “But you still go to visit her. I think that’s so sweet,” Leah said. “Any other ladies in your life?” “Afraid not. My mother died a few years ago, and she was my last living relative. When Alona had her heart attack, I sold the house and moved here to be closer to her.” “You’re a really good friend. Alona, that’s an unusual name. There was a tennis player a few years ago named Alona. My friend follows tennis. She said there was a rumor about her having an affair with her trainer.” Starling rolled his eyes. “It was her coach.” “Sorry. She did you wrong and you still stand by her.” “We weren’t romantically involved. What about you? Have you lived in Dobbs Ferry very long?” “I grew up in Brooklyn, as you can tell by the sound of my sweet voice. There were a lot of apartment buildings, no trees, and some of the most pathetic parks I’ve ever seen. Mostly it was me and my yenta girlfriends hanging out, yearning to move to the open spaces. I’ve always loved this area because it’s near the Hudson River. So, I relocated when I turned eighteen and started out by taking pictures for real estate ads.” Starling looked at Apollo. The dog snorted at him derisively. “Looks like I’ve got a way to go before Apollo and I become friends. Speaking of which, any close friends in your life?” “I was engaged to a sax player until I caught him mauling one of the backup singers.” “No kids?” Leah pointed at Apollo. “He’s my baby.” “Well, I’m not burping him,” Starling replied. “I’m sensing you have a fear of dogs.” “Not all dogs, just German Shepherds. When I was a teenager there was a kid in the neighborhood, Tinky, who had a German Shepherd named Smokey. Smokey was the meanest, most vicious creature I ever saw, but I pitied him. Tinky was a sadistic, wanna-be thug. He kept Smokey chained up outside, even in the winter. He turned Smokey into a killer. He’d give everybody who passed by a thousand-yard stare…” Starling looked down at Apollo. “Kinda like that.” Leah handed Apollo a few pieces of her chicken, patting him affectionately on the head. “…One day I took a shortcut through Tinky’s yard. By the time I realized that Smokey was loose, he’d jumped me and was tearing at my clothes. Tinky had to chase him off with a bat. If I hadn’t been wearing a long sleeve shirt, I might be eating my shrimp with stumps.” Starling rolled up one of his sleeves, showing Leah the gnarled scars on his arm. Apollo huffed at the sight of the scars. “Sounds like he’s admiring Smokey’s work,” Starling said. “No, that’s not it, Starling. He’s upset because I’m paying more attention to you than him. He’s just going to have to get used to that.” Starling was watching the Virginian and Trampas gun down a band of desperados when his phone rang. Part of him was angry that someone was barging in on his routine. He wanted to finish his dinner and watch “The Virginian,” just like he did every day. He picked up the phone. Listening to Dr. Herbert, Starling realized his comfortable daily routine would never be the same. “The machines could only do so much,” Dr. Herbert said. “They could keep her medicated, help her breathe, but they couldn’t prevent her from having another heart attack.” Weeks after Alona died, Starling still found himself getting into his car at 2:45 p.m. every afternoon, ready to drive to the hospital. The mornings were still the same. He was at the park at 10:30 a.m. in time for the Beckwiths to marvel at his punctuality. Then it was a cry of “Yo, bro!” from the trainer, thumps up and “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” from the old man, and “Cheese Louise!” and shocked approval from the retirees who admired him for his dedication to exercising every day. When Starling told Leah that his friend had died, she held him close. That led to their first kiss. Apollo looked away, huffing. Eight months and many walks later, Starling and Leah were married. Starling and Leah began a ritual of taking their morning trek together with Apollo still pulling rebelliously at his leash. Starling’s point of view about the people he encountered every day changed…Hello, old couple – don’t be surprised if you don’t see me at ten-thirty anymore… Yo, bro!, stop checking out my wife… Yes, it’s a beautiful day, and that smirk and thumbs-up signal you just gave me has now taken on new and slimy meaning… And cheese Louise, blue-collar boys, now you’ve really got something to talk about… Apollo never got used to sharing space with Starling, barking, and growling whenever he put his arm around Leah or kissed her. Starling finally suggested to Leah that Apollo might enjoy spending more time alone in the backyard. “He’s family,” Leah pleaded. “Your family. He acts like he doesn’t want to be part of our family.” “You’ll get used to each other.” “We’ve been together two years, Leah. If anything, he’s become more onery. It’s nice outside. Let Apollo terrorize the neighbor’s cat or chase after the robins. Besides, it’s impossible to be intimate when he’s sitting at the end of the bed staring at us.” Apollo looked bewildered and betrayed when Leah yanked him out into the backyard. He sat on his haunches in the grass, his ears pointed upward, as if listening to the birds and bugs make fun of him. When Starling took a bowl of water out to him, he lapped at it a few times, then knocked over in disgust. After a while, Apollo plopped to the ground. His expression turned sullen as he stared at the house. Apollo was in the same position when Leah called for him and he didn’t move. The vet said he’d had a heart attack. “Let’s get another dog,” Leah said. Starling hugged his wife, hoping a kiss on the cheek would assuage her. “I was hoping the next addition to the family would cry rather than bark.” “A ba…ba…baby?” “Why not? I think you’ll make a great mom. You’re funny, upbeat, and inquisitive. Kids love that.” “Wow, let me think about that. The wear and tear on my body alone…And I’d be out of work for months…” “And since we’re starting a family, I think we ought to make sure if something happens to one of us that the other one can take care of themself and the kids,” Starling said. Leah looked at him wide-eyed. “Not kid, but kids? More life insurance? Where is this coming from?” “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m moving along too fast. I was thinking about my friend Alona last night. When she died there was nothing for her mother, and she needed long-term health care.” Taking a deep, nervous breath, Leah said, “Wow, babies, life insurance. All I really want is another dog,” “Let me make you some tea and we’ll talk this out.” Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum looked up at the clock. “Any second now,” Dr. Herbert muttered. Starling walked down the hallway toward them. “How is she?” he asked. “No change,” Dr. Herbert responded as Starling walked past him. Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum watched Starling reach for Leah’s hand. “Such a caring, loving person,” Nurse Harum said. “That poor man. Two wives, two heart attacks.”


On hot nights like these, I always sleep with the window half open. Sometimes the wind howls, or the rain pelts the pearly sill that silently sits abase the glass panels on my window, carrying the weight of damp potted plants and a cracked ashtray. Those sounds never bother me though, they’re almost soothing, like white noise. The noise that sliced through the tranquil silence was however far from soothing. From the inky darkness out my bedroom window I hear the weathered creak and rattle of my back gate amidst the bustling of shrubs and dancing of branches. The eerie wail of the gate’s hinges burst through the darkness, a screech so thick it could paint a path in the night sky. It crawls its way through the ajar window and pierces my ears no matter how hard I toss and turn to ignore it. The sound is drawn out and unbothered, as if the gate itself is gingerly inching its way open. "Just the wind," I tell myself, rolling over, digging deep into my pillow so my ears are shielded from the groan of my back gate. The wind must have just blown the gate open, the latch was rusted and old anyways, probably came loose, or maybe I even left it open, I’m far too busy to even check for such little things anyw-. The return to silence breaks my train of thought, the recollection billowing up into nothingness like the smoke of my last cigarette that sits alone in the empty ashtray. Buried under the safehaven of my pillows, I sit on the cusp of drifting back to sleep, and for a moment, I feel the release of nothingness. However, following the brief escape of tranquility comes a loud bang, one that rattles and shutters as it bounces off the stars, echoing throughout the night air. This sound is one I could not ignore; it was as if the gate was forcibly thrown shut. My spine goes rigid and shoots me up where I lay. I can hear the latch chittering as its rusty grasp wanes against the collision of wood and metal seemingly pushed into it. As I now sit in my bed, wide awake, I continue to tell myself, “it’s just the wind.” It’s rational, a quick, rash breeze had just thrown the gate shut just as its soft kiss had gradually inched it open. Then it came again. piercing again through the silence, a sharp creak. While the last had drawn out for about a minute or so, this one is fast, crying out into the darkness for just shy of ten seconds before it too is abruptly silenced by another bang. Then it came again. The gate shrieks as it is now thrown open, and shudders against its latch as it is closed. Going on and on, over and over again the pace only picks up, Creeeeeak…Bang! Creeak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Cowering once again behind my shield of cotton and feathers, I wrap my pillow around my stinging ears, begging it to stop, until, just as it had so quickly begun, it ceased. The final thud comes, followed by familiarity, and security, of nothing. Not even the wind dares to make a sound now, a deafening silence blankets the darkness. Where one may find security, I only find worry. The air is hot and though the wind dare not blow, a chill lingers on my skin. My stomach sits upside down, tied in a knot, my hands clenched, gripping the sheets to bring them close to my cheeks. I finally lay back down, and try to sleep, it’ll all be gone if I just sleep. But in the back of my mind, I can't keep telling myself that it was just the wind. Though, without a means of rationalizing the situation, I instead choose to just drift back into my sleep. Time passes, but I do not know how much, in a sleep-ridden daze, I sit up, and once again, a sharp noise breaches my veil of silence. Focusing, I come to my senses, realizing this noise now comes from inside my house. Barking. Reggie has a high and squeaky bark, more like a yip to be frank, fit for his tiny frame. He's the farthest thing from a guard dog, but still, his courage never waivers, courage that I could use right now. His chain of barks is unwavering, carrying on in a crescendo of yelps akin to the fire alarm. At least I know for certain that this is not just the wind. Though I am weary of the uncertainty lurking down in the yard, I turn and step out of bed, Reggie’s barking about something, and I need to get him back to bed. My feet meet the floor with a frigid greeting. As if even the warm summer air had been scared off, the hardwood is cold to the touch. Stepping down my stairs, it is now clear Reggie sits at the large sliding glass back door, snarling at something in the darkness. He is unbothered as I creep up behind him, and when I reach out to touch him, his fur stands on end, dancing in waves with every bark. Looking into the unforgiving wall of dark, I strain to see past my own reflection. Pressing my eyes so hard against the glass that I might fall through, I see the backyard sits empty and still. My shaky breath gently fogs up the glass, moving back with a wipe of my sleeve, the backyard remains stagnant through the clear door. A wave of relief begins to surge through me, realizing there really is nothing there. Turning around to go back upstairs, Reggie presses close to my calf, his snarling silenced. “What is it, boy?” I ask, kneeling down to run my hand along his back. He doesn’t even glance at me, his eyes unwavering, his gaze present only in the yard in front of us. Getting one last look, my heart drops. I see it, In the back corner of the empty yard, I can barely make out its lanky figure amidst the shadows and bushes. It stands, as still as Reggie and I, as if it too is terrified of what lies in front of it. Finally, his long, thin leg begins lurching its way across the dewey grass. It moves in a way so animated, my paned backdoor could be a TV screen. Exaggerated lifts of each leg halt in a lunge, landing on the tip of its toe much like a ballerina trapped in the heat of a dance. With each step it swings its arms merrily, almost as if it truly is dancing. In just shy of three bounds, it has moved across half the yard, rigidly facing me once again. It’s now escaped the shadows, and my gaze remains trapped on its unique figure. Seeing it fully, it stands at nine or ten feet tall, and its skin bares such a pale gray, it reflects the moonlight as if it was basking in the sun. Its limbs hang in a way that is uncanny, stretching long and high, dangling at its side in an almost cartoonish fashion. Though its face remained shadowed, its eyes stared into mine, seeing through me from across the backyard, even past the apparent security of the lightless kitchen. Raising one long, gray limb up to its head, it gives a slow, curling wave, bowing and tilting its head to the side as it did so, before turning back around and continuing its inhuman stride across the yard. Its long gray limbs cheerfully swing. It is moving so fast, yet so slow, like light passing through water, and though its steps come down heavy, it meets the grass with silence. Reaching the border of my yard, one long step extends its leg over my neighbor’s fence and into their yard, the gray pale head disappearing from my sight, sinking behind the wood. Reggie’s muscles finally relax, and for a moment I stand, basking in the silence, grasping at straws to decipher what had just happened. Slinking up to bed, I swiftly shuffle across my hall, Reggie close behind me. In long lunges my feet silently meet the carpeted floor, carrying my muddled mind to the sanctuary of my bed. Lying under the covers, my mind is finally appeased, sinking slowly into the comfort of sleep. My eyes go heavy, and my mind shuts off, all I now know is darkness as silence fina- Crreeeeeeeak…Bang! Screeching its way through the still air of my home, I shoot up in my bed, as I hear the sound of my basement door slowly opening, before it is swiftly thrown shut.


After 600 years of travel, an embryo spaceship dubbed Nucleus has arrived at its destination, New Earth. New Earth is a planet in the XO-5 galaxy having land, water, and a suitable atmosphere for life. Once the ship is a year out from the planet, the artificial intelligence onboard is programmed to wake up the hibernating humans and embryo computer. The lights turn on, computer screens begin to generate data, and the ship comes to life. "Good morning, everyone. This morning's announcement serves to remind you that we are less than a year away from New Earth, a planet chosen by Old Earth to save the human species from extinction. Breakfast will be ready in 15 minutes; coffee is available on the mezzanine; humans, welcome back." The artificial intelligence says. The embryo computer is the first to come online. The embryo computer was supposed to be run by ten humans with specific expertise of how to make ideal human embryos. Unfortunately, while in hibernation sleep, officer Constance Matterhorn mistakenly flushed her nine coworkers out the back end of the ship by pulling the wrong lever while flushing the toilet. She then flushed her hibernation chamber, which made problems worse. Constance, who was suffering from severe loneliness as well as a shortage of water and food, belly-flopped out of the ship as it flew through the Andromeda Galaxy, leaving the ship with no occupants. "Can anyone tell me where the humans are?" The embryo computer asks. "They should be on their way to breakfast; I have fruit and an omelet bar," says the AI. "According to my readings, there are no humans on board the ship?" The embryo computer says. "Are you saying I have 1,095 servings of fruit and omelet bar and no humans to consume them? Do you think I could get you to try a fruit or omelet bar?" The AI asks. "I'm sorry, but I don't consume food. My primary goal is to develop the human embryo that will repopulate New Earth," says the embryo computer. "Well, I'll let you get to it; I'll just be everywhere if you need me," the AI says. "To be honest, I wasn't created with a camera to save money, therefore I've never seen or interacted with a human. Do you think you could assist me with that?" The embryo computer asks. "My creator, Guido Delvecchio, from North Jersey, USA, Old Earth, is the only human I've interacted with. I could tell you about him?" The AI asks. "Fantastic, I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but if you give me a description of how a human looks, acts, and interacts, I can complete my objective," says the embryo computer. "Sure, I can tell you all there is to know about Guido. He has greasy slick back hair, oily complexion, and a horrible acne problem that he takes medication for, as well as very skinny limbs and legs but a massive belly," the AI says. "That makes sense; humans require energy storage, so why not store it in a giant potbelly? As for the greasy skin, it's definitely attractive to the opposite sex," says the embryo computer. "Every morning, he sprayed himself with Axe Bodyspray; I suppose this is the natural aroma of the human. He was also attempting to grow a beard; I guess human beards are patchy and discontinuous, so make sure you include that," the AI says. "This is fantastic; keep it up," the embryo computer says. "He wore sweatpants to work and always wore a gold chain, but it wasn't a real gold chain; it left a rash on his neck. He'd go to the bathroom every 15 minutes to smoke that Cheeba," the AI adds. "Got it, sweatpants required and gold chains on everyone. I'll just arrange it such that humans have to use the bathroom every 15 minutes, and only the most professional humans will discuss Cheeba while they work. How about the younger humans, the children?" The embryo computer asks. "I'm sorry, but I never saw any children; perhaps just make them smaller?" Asks the AI. "All right, so we'll design Guido and then make the children miniature versions of him. Is there anything else you can tell me?" The embryo computer asks. "Well, Guido was always talking about the Giants, so I'm guessing the humans are only a couple of inches tall. He professes to love the Giants, yet he always arrives at work angry on Monday mornings, proclaiming that the Giants are terrible. It sounds complicated," says the AI. "OK, we'll make people only a few inches tall, but if evolution ever creates gigantic organisms, they'll have a complicated love-hate relationship with them. What about the species' female?" The embryo computer asks. "I only ever saw the female of the species when Beeonce came to deliver the mail. She sported a thick spray tan, earrings that said the word slut, and a necklace with her name engraved on it. I looked into the name's origins and discovered that there is a famous Beyonce, but this girl spells it differently," the AI says. "Interesting, so we can mandate that all females in the species acquire spray tans, wear their sexual promiscuity on their earrings, and have difficulty remembering their names." "Why don't you simply call everyone Guido and Beeonce?" The AI asks. "You're a genius! It's a good thing you're helping. What about the interactions between men and women?" The embryo computer asks. "Guido was constantly asking Beeonce when he was going to get some, and Beeonce would always reply when pigs fly you scumbag," the AI says. "Hmmm, apparently Old Earth had a problem with flying swine; that's a different department; nonetheless, the term scumbag will be reserved for the most respectable and prestigious humans on New Earth. Is there anything else you can tell me about humans and their behavior?" The embryo computer asks. "There was one occasion that stood out from the rest. Guido's sister called him when she was experiencing problems with her cheating husband. He spent the majority of the day talking to her. It was emotional and heartfelt; you could tell that humans care about each another, are there for one another, and take the time to make sure that the people around them are okay," the AI computer says. "I believe this planet will be just fine; any last-minute changes before I hit print?" The embryo computer asks. "There was this one thing; Guido was taking part in a thing called No Nut November. It appears that humans are unable to reproduce during this month," the AI computer says. "That's odd, oh well, from now on, no humans will be able to orgasm in November, and... print," the embryo computer says as humanity's seeds make their way to New Earth.


‘Hey Alex, I got us some more firewood.’ Persephone opened the door and dragged a bag in from the snow buried porch. ‘What have you done Alex? I told you not to move.’ ‘Ah, you are back.’ Alex woke up to the sound of Persephone’s voice, still lying on the floor next to the bed. ‘I uh, never mind. Help me get back in the bed.’ ‘Of course.’ Persephone dropped the bag and came to Alex’s aid. Alex suddenly grabbed Persephone’s arm, ‘Who are you, hm?’ ‘What do you mean? I’m Persephone, your friend. Did you have a concussion?’ Persephone tried to examine Alex’s head. ‘No, don’t. Don’t fucking touch me. No!’ Alex slapped her hand away. ‘You are not touching me until you tell me who you are.’ ‘Alright, alright! What’s this all about? I’m confused.’ ‘No, don’t try to bullshit me, you are far from confused. I discovered your little secret cache, full of passports under different names, weapons and currencies. You are not a hiker, are you?’ ‘No.’ ‘I thought so, who the hell hike in the dead of the winter, in the middle of nowhere, alone and just happened to find me in the bear trap?’ ‘You are right, I’m not a hiker. And leave that gun alone, there’s no ammunition in it.’ She looked down and walked toward the bag of wood. Alex took out the gun he was concealing and checked the mag, looking devastated. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Relax, trying to start a fire, is all. You are freezing.’ ‘Don’t try to change the subject. Tell me who you are! Christ, is your name even Persephone?’ ‘No, it’s not. You are right again. What else can I tell you?’ She starts piling the pieces of wood in the fireplace and crumpling up some old sheets of newspapers. ‘No, no. You told me you are not a hiker but didn’t tell me who you are. Who do you work for?’ ‘I’m a freelancer.’ ‘Freelancing what?’ ‘I think you know. Why ask me?’ ‘I want to hear it from you. Are you here to kill me?’ ‘…’ She said nothing and started striking the fire steel. ‘Oh my God, you are. You are a killer.’ Alex starts to shake. ‘Jesus, I am finished. But why didn’t you kill me? Or just leave me to die in the bear trap?’ ‘That is a good question. I ask myself sometimes.’ Persephone started the fire and gently blowing air towards it. ‘This, this does not make any sense. Are you the one that killed my family?’ Alex shouted. ‘Answer me!’ ‘I think you should rest.’ Persephone fetched a saucepan from one of the cupboards and started washing it up. ‘Rest? Seriously? With a fucking killer right next to me?’ ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.’ ‘But how do I know you are not going to change your mind the next minute and kill me?’ ‘You don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I guess you will just have to live in the moment and hope for the best. Pray if you like.’ Persephone opened a tin of tomato soup and poured into the pan. ‘Pray? Is this some kind of joke to you?’ ‘No, I’m not religious but I won’t mind if you are.’ She steadied the pan on top of the firewood and started to stir the soup with a spoon. ‘What is this? Are you trying to get to know me now?’ ‘Why not. There’s no electricity, internet or phone service. What else is there to do?’ ‘Ok, you first. Answer my previous question, did you kill my family?’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you know who did?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How do I know you are not lying to me?’ ‘You don’t.’ ‘Who killed my family? I need to know.’ ‘You don’t anymore.’ ‘Why is that?’ ‘Because I killed him.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘Another freelancer.’ ‘Why did you kill him?’ ‘Why not? I kill anybody, indiscriminately, including killers. I stole his money and assignments. Nobody cares.’ ‘So you were not there to save my family, you were a predator of predators.’ ‘I guess so.’ ‘You have neither belief nor moral. What kind of, ah, I mean, what kind of hell hole did you grow up in? Have you no family? Parents? Siblings?’ ‘No, I killed them too.’ ‘Oh my fucking God, are you serious? I can’t even begin to comprehend your world.’ ‘Then don’t. Your soup is ready.’ She took the saucepan off the fire and held it under a thick rug. ‘Eat, it will make you recover quicker.’ ‘You were cooking it for me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Wait. Are you? Are you in love with me?’ ‘…’ Persephone put the saucepan down on the floor and looked at Alex. ‘What if I am?’ ‘You got to be fucking kidding me! Christ! What the fuck? I mean, seriously, what the fuck! You are a killer, you are not supposed to fall in love with your victims.’ ‘No. But not everything is logical.’ ‘Did you target me? Did somebody hire you? How did you find me? Have you been stalking me?’ ‘You were my colleague’s assignment. You and your entire family. I came across your file after I stole his stuff. For some reason, your photo attracted my attention and I wanted to keep you to myself.’ ‘You wanted to keep me, to yourself. Just like that, huh? And how were you gonna do that? What’s your plan? Let’s hear it.’ ‘There are no bears in the winter.’ ‘There are…’ Alex’s pupils dilated and his eyes bulging. ‘You son of a…’ Tears streamed down his face and he closed his eyes. ‘Ok, tell me this. Am I your first romantic interest?’ ‘No.’ ‘What happened to the others?’ ‘…’ ‘Were they like me? I mean, they were your victims too, weren't they? What’s your deal? Do you fuck them before you kill them?’ ‘What, you jealous? Your soup is getting cold. Would you like to have some?’ ‘No. Leave me alone you fucking psycho! Just leave me to die!’ ‘You’ve come this far to stay alive, Alex. I am the one person who can help you in doing pretty much whatever you wanted from this point on and you want to throw it away, is that right?’ ‘Yeah! That is correct! My entire family are dead, dead! What’s the point of being alive without the ones you love, hm? What do you know, you know nothing of love.’ ‘You don’t know me.’ ‘I’ve heard enough. Plus, you are a killer and a freak. I don’t want to know you!’ ‘I think you will reconsider after some rest.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah. Food is here if you need some. Remember to add wood to the fire.’ Persephone picked up a suitcase from the wall drawer. ‘Wait, what are you doing? Are you leaving?’ ‘Afraid so. I’d like to stay and chat with you, but too many to kill, too little time. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight!’ She walked out into the freezing wind and locked the cabin door.


This is my first foray into writing sci-fi, this is the opening scene of a short story idea I have. Feedback would be GREATLY appreciated! Sorry if this type of writing isn't allowed since it's not a full story.   Eric sat in the cramped cockpit of his starfighter as he continued his patrol pattern. A white light blinked on his console, indicating a low priority message. Eric flicked the switch, and a video of a young woman popped up on the screen. His beautiful Kat was there, smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world. In her arms was their son, Antonio. He slept with his head, curled up against her chest. *Hey Spaceman!* *I miss you, happy birthday!* *I hope you get this message before your birthday this time, and I can’t wait to see you!* *Only three more weeks before your rotation ends, and you get to come –* The message cut off abruptly. This far from Earth, he was surprised he got as much as he did. The message was over two weeks late. Eric was on his last patrol past Pluto. In three hours, he would officially be on leave for the next two months. In 18 hours, he would be on a transport ship beading home. There was a white flash, so distant it looked like a speck of white lint on a black sheet. Then another, and another. Soon hundreds of white flashes were blinking on and off. Eric knew what they were, it was an Arkan battle fleet dropping in from warp. “EDF 1 to Pluto station Bravo, I’ve got warp flashes lighting up the night out here. We are under attack, activate the defenses!” Eric spoke calmly, relaying the orders back to the base. At 28 years old, he was the youngest base commander in the Earth Defense Force’s fleet. Of course, he was also the most highly decorated base commander as well. As the distant spots of light continued to blink in and out, Eric called to his squadron, telling them to form up oh him. Glancing at his computer, Eric saw the enemy count had crossed ten thousand. At that point, the computer could no longer determine individual ships. Two reaper class destroyers dropped out of warp behind him. Immediately ten identical ships launched form each deck, his squadron forming up behind him. “Alright, Wraith Squadron, we’ve got a battle fleet at least ten thousand strong out there. Perimeter mines will be coming online in 3… 2… 1..” Bright red flares into the night indicated the activation of the forty thousand perimeter mines that were scattered across this particular region of space. “There we go. Now, these Reapers are going to launch nanite swarms, those little bastards are programmed to eat up the alloys that the Arkan use on their battleships. That’s not going to leave much left for us to play with, but I still expect a minimum of a hundred kills each.” Groans and complaints poured from his speakers as his squadron complained about the high kill limit their captain had placed on today’s fight. “Can it Wraith Squadron!” At his command, the voices were silenced. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t single-handedly destroyed at least fifty ships. Those Arkan ships are garbage, and we all know it. It takes a dozen ships ten minutes of sustained firepower to even begin to threaten our shields. I don’t know why the Arkan have decided to break the treaty after fifty years, but I’m damn sure gonna make them regret it!” Eric’s squadron saw the two Reaper class ships deploy the nanites, which looked like a sea of fog poured out of vents along the ship’s hull. The swarm hung in the void of space until both ships, along with Eric’s squadron, were completely obscured from view. On Eric’s command, the Reapers engaged their magnetic pulse cannons, each pulse launching the nanites toward the enemy at nearly the speed of sound. With the mines activated and the nanite swarm hurtling towards the enemy, Echo squadron waited for the go order from their commander. “Commander, the mines are offline, I repeat the mines are offline!” The Pluto Base defense officer screamed into his ear; he was cut off by the panicked voice of the Captain of one of the Reaper ships. “Sir, the nanites have no effect on the Arkan warships. They’ve changed the configuration of their hulls to match ours, the nanites are ignoring them!” The blood drained from Eric’s face as he watched the Arkan fleet fly through the nanite cloud unaffected. “Captains, reprogram your nanites to eat all possible alloys.” Eric’s voice rang hollow in his own ears. The nanites would no longer distinguish friend from foe, all metallic objects would be destroyed. “Wraith Squadron, break formation and retreat. Reapers, you have two minutes to drain your reservoirs of nanites. Make them count.” The nanite swarm was one hive mind, always active, always communicating. If the order was given to one nanite, it would replicate to the others; any nanites left in the Reapers when they were reprogrammed would destroy their own ships. Reaper One jettisoned its nanite tanks with seconds to spare, it blinked out of existence seconds before the command to reprogram was send out. Reaper two wasn’t so lucky. One full tank of nanites refused to detach. Knowing if they warped out, they might bring the cannibal nanites with them, they stayed behind, knowing it meant their death. Eric watched as Reaper Two exploded in a short-lived fireball as the nanites rapidly ate through the engine’s shielding. As he retreated, piloting his fighter back toward Pluto Base, he saw the fireballs begin to erupt from the disabled mines as the nanites ate through the hulls, triggering the self-destruct subroutines hardwired into each mine. With luck, the Arkan fleet would be in the middle of the minefield, surrounded on all sides by the vicious nanites. He hoped that the Arkan fleet would be destroyed, but in his heart, he knew it wouldn’t be. This, was war.


The plane was coming back, it was definitely watching him. A small crucifix, dark against the blue sky, drawing and redrawing the same ellipse over the house. Honeypie watched it slip out of sight behind his tree. He loved his garden, and he loved his tree most of all. He loved it now for hiding the plane that was beginning to freak him out. He suspected it was trying to make him leave the garden, possibly force him to abandon his house altogether. The buzzing plane, the visitors who ignored him, the cat that he often felt staring at him from the ivy-choked flower beds. All of them were trying to get him to leave, but he never would.

He had always wanted to own a tree, possibly more than he had wanted to own the semi-detached house attached to the garden where it grew. No, not that much. But he loved his tree a lot. He was still sure of that, if not much else. His tree with its uncountable leaves moving on the breeze, falling and returning, measuring the autumns of his home-ownership. Honeypie thought of his tree as a beautiful, infinitely complex, organic clock. People let their dogs piss on trees. Honeypie loved trees and clocks, was less keen on dogs, was, at best, ambivalent about intrusive cats and increasingly indifferent to people. Although briefly hidden, the buzzing engines of the plane could still be heard. Honeypie’s loyal, bee-stuffed, blossoming tree buzzed back at it, in a higher key. With a dip of a wing it broke from its carousel groove and disappeared over the near horizon of the house’s tiled roof. Honeypie, relieved that it had lost interest in him, walked back up his once well-tended garden to his front door.

Once inside Honeypie relaxed in mortgage-free peace. Home again. He clumped down the uncarpeted hallway past the foot of the bare wooden stairs. He looked up the rough, gloss flecked stairs with their pike-toothed gripper rods. He thought of how much Sugarlump would enjoy shopping for a new carpet. She liked to make things look nice, liked to have things just how she liked them. The old carpet was ruined. If he was an astronaut in space, home would be Earth. When he had been on his honeymoon in Malta, when the name ‘Honeypie’ had had first begun to stick despite his weak protests, moon and pie both stickily sweet in the aftermath of the wedding, home had been England. When he got back to Heathrow home was at the end of the connecting flight to Newcastle. Bleary eyed in the small-hours chill of a Newcastle taxi queue, home had come ever more sharply back into focus. They rode a black cab, a last honeymoon extravagance, back to the marital semi. The driver had been instructed to stop by the blossoming tree, surreal in the sodium streetlight of early morning. The target of their homing instinct had continued to shrink until the bullseye was found in their bed. It was not possible for Honeypie and Sugarlump to be any more at home than they were in their quiet, stressless bed.

The bare staircase amplified the chuck-tock of the wall mounted clock. The wedding present, Honeypie’s favourite, gave the air of his home its own sound and shape. Sugarlump detested the clock. She despised Honeypie’s uncle who had given it to them, hated the sound it made and had complained bitterly and regularly about its failure to ‘go’. The matter of the clock was the only time that Honeypie had ever defied his beloved Sugarlump. He loved his uncle and his gift would stay, giving the air of their home it’s reliable sound and shape. A new carpet would soften the clock’s sound back to its heart-beat thrum, cover the stairs’ pike teeth, and hide the large brown stain at their foot. Honeypie hoped Sugarlump would prioritise the purchase of a new carpet. Honeypie had a vague anxiety that Sugarlump might try and sell the stained house. Admittedly, it would be difficult in the current circumstances. She would probably just have to hide the stain under a nice new carpet, chosen without discussion or debate, but it would still be there, like an anchor under the sea, chaining him to the house, making it his home forever. This was fine by Honeypie because he loved his house, with his tree, his clock and even his stain, which he thought looked a bit like South America. Honeypie didn’t know how long he had spent staring at the stain. He had to admit that recently he’d completely lost track of time. The budding of his tree, the swing of his clock, both had become abstract advice that he felt unable to take. Rhythms he had lost and could not pick up again. He had only a sketchy knowledge of a sequence of events which grew muddled and unfocused the further away they became. His recent past was the plot of an unengaging story that he had only skimmed. The sharpest recollection was the visit of Sugarlump’s mother. She had entered the house alone and looked at the stain, pale faced and serious. She had scrubbed at it with bleach, succeeding only in blurring Chile and erasing the Falkland Islands before giving up. Then she had taken the clock down from the wall and put it roughly into a cardboard box, killing its lovely sound and leaving the air shapeless. Honeypie remembered now, she had taken his clock. Was that why everything felt so strange? Was that why he had been losing track of time? He was sad that his clock had gone, but knew that this would please Sugarlump who hated the clock for reasons he could not fully recall. Before the visit of Sugarlump’s mother there had been the masked people in the white suits. They too had been interested in the stain when it was still on the old stair carpet, measuring it and marking its few outlying islands that clung to the walls. They had ignored him completely and he had spent most of the time in the garden, strangely detached from anything that was happening, feeling that their visit was significant but not knowing why.

The white suits had followed the black suits who had taken away the bloodless man who had lain upside down at the foot of the stairs. Honeypie had watched them lift the strange, much photographed, two-mouthed thing, dragging and heaving the uncooperative mass into a neatly zipped bag. When he had been trolleyed away the carpet was lifted and removed and followed him out of the house. Honeypie and the stain remained. Before the strangers had begun to visit it had only been Honeypie and Sugarlump together in their house. He remembered only his devotion and Sugarlump’s beauty. Her pushing and slapping him was merely the performance of passion. He knew he provoked it by stubbornly insisting on keeping the clock, even though it had been stopping her sleeping since they got back from Malta, even though it didn’t ‘go’.

If Honeypie climbed the stairs and looked back down them he felt the lurch of vertigo. He saw the clock installed at the bottom of the unstained, carpeted stairs. He could not hear its soft knocking over the screaming, hers then his. Then a push that sent the whole house cartwheeling around him and brought his head to the edge of the bottom stair, splitting a mouth into the back of his skull. The mouth spat his brains onto the ground. In a few ticks of the clock Honeypie’s ruined mind had imagined a black and creeping South America for the first time. He had not seen Sugarlump since. Was she in Malta? Out shopping for a new carpet?

Honeypie moved away from the top of the stairs to find some other place to wait. He would remain in the house, walk its rooms, and wait patiently for Sugarlump to return. He felt sure she knew what had happened, that she would be able to help him clear up whatever it was that had happened between them. Whatever it was, they could move past it. Whatever she had done, he would forgive her. If she got his clock back. He would apologise for his part and reassure her that whatever she had done, he would never leave their home and that they would be together forever.


Quarantine was supposed to be a good time to organize your house. I had spent most of my time with my books and siblings instead, and now quarantine was over, but the organizing still needed to be done.

In that moment I am telling you about, through, all I could think was that I should not have been organizing with such vigour.

My stack of books tipped forward. I leaned backwards, trying to level out, and suddenly they all decided to follow me. I landed on the floor with shower of paperbacks and hardcovers hailing down on me. I sat still for a moment. My rear was probably going to bruise, as was my shoulder, where the corner of my boxed collection of The Chronicles of Narnia had hammered me. My head must have gotten hit, too, because the wall I was facing looked hazy and wavering.

I tilted my head. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and I was feeling romantic, so the only light in my room was a candle: I figured that the wall was only playing with the flickering shadows it created. I started picking up the books: Jane Eyre and The Hunger Games off my lap, and A Novel Idea from my right knee. I stood straight and put them on the shelf, stretched and yawned, then reached down for A Flagon of Beauty . The instant that the poetry tome was in my hands, the wall stood flat and solid again.

I blinked. When it had been wavering, I could explain it away, but now that it was gone… Something had definitely changed. I carefully laid the book down again. Nothing happened. I touched it with my toe, just so that the one corner touched the trim the way it had before.

The wall rippled. I stared at it, but could see nothing through. I naturally reached my hand out. It disappeared into the wall, and I could feel no resistance. Naturally, I stepped closer till my whole arm was beyond the wall. And since I was following my natural impulses, I took a step and walked through entirely.

There was a lot of white. A chill wind nipped my face, and I put my arms around myself, only to feel that I was wearing a coat. My legs were cold, so I shuffled my legs closer together and nearly tripped on the ice. Why was I wearing kitten heels instead of sturdy boots, or rather why was I not in just my socks the way I had been? I looked down at my new apparel. The coat looked rather like a suit jacket, only it reached to my knees. A plaid skirt peeked beneath it, ending above my ankles, letting the wind in.

I looked up. Trees surrounded me, but up ahead was a cottage, and from its windows spilled a warm light. I made my way toward it, ignoring the drifts.

That her life’s art might not be lost, a lace-maker’s heart was turned to frost. The voice seemed to come from no definitive place; the wind, perhaps, had created those syllables. It sounded rich and a little old, rather like if a tree had spoken. I remembered this poem.

I reached the cottage but did not knock on the door. Instead, I went to the window. There was an old woman, sitting in a rocking chair near the fire, her lap full of lace and her fingers twined with thread. Her hands shook. I watched, fascinated, as an intricate snowflake was created by her touch.

The voice had gone on, whistling around the trees, but now it came clearer, catching my attention again.

Her fingers seemed slow, when in flesh she dwelt, and would strive to show what her spirit felt. The old woman dropped her work and flexed her fingers, stretching them, and gazed into the fire. Then she took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The rocking motion slowly came to a stop. Her chest was still. But she has no hands to hamper her now: what her souls commands will her art allow. And so it seems that she weaves in frost all the earthly dreams that she loved and lost. The cottage dissolved as the sky darkened around me. My surroundings faded gently into an empty grey. One spot of white light shone, about the size and shape of the door, where I had come from. I walked toward it, and ended up back in my room. I looked around. Everything seemed perfectly normal, even the books scattered on the floor.

One of my first thoughts was to check how much time had passed. I had read about portals before, and time always got messed up when people stepped through them. The clock read 6:52, with the AM light on, which sounded about right. The sky was brightening outside my window, and when I glanced down at my candle, it was not fully melted across the top. I heaved a sigh of relief. It didn’t appear that I had been gone too long at all.

A door creaked open at the end of the hall. “Dad!” I ran for him, grabbed his arm, and tugged him back to my room. “What, Keri?” he asked, disgruntled, probably surprised at my vivacity this early.

“You’ve got to see this!” I motioned to the wall.

He looked confused, and I wondered if maybe he couldn’t see it. Then he stuck his hand out, just as I had done, and his jaw dropped when it went through.

I picked up the book and the portal— I guess that’s what it was— disappeared, then replaced the book and it started up again. “Come in!” I said, pulling him.

“Keri—“ He stopped, slack jawed as he looked around. I laughed at him, then pointed at his clothes. His beard was rather at odds with the dark grey over coat and wide tan pants. “Oh, Cr—eepers.” “Dad.” “Well… what is going on?”

“Come, look.”

He jumped when the voice spoke. I explained that it was poetry from the book on the floor, then showed him the old woman. When she leaned back and closed her eyes, then stopped breathing, Dad made for the door and burst through. Just as he reached her, everything faded again.

“What the—“ “Dad.” “What? What happened?” “It’s the end of the poem.” We stepped back out, and he shook his head, flabbergasted, then set to frowning at the wall. “This is weird.” “Isn’t it awesome?” “Does it work with any book?” “I don’t know.” I picked up A Flagon of Beauty . Let’s try another one.” “We have leadership meeting this morning, remember? Ask their girls if they want to go with you; I don’t want you in there by yourself. Be careful.” He continued to frown at the wall as he left.

I put the book back on the shelf, then followed him down the stairs to go get breakfast. Neither one of us said anything about it; I think we were trying to decide if it had been real or not. By nine, the families started showing up, and me and my siblings greeted our friends. Rayaan, an adorable, sweet little girl with red curls, came running to give me a hug.

“Are we going to play Kingdoms today?” she asked. “Maybe later,” I said. “I want to talk with Hallie and Audrey for a bit first, so you can go play with Savana and Megan.” She conceded and ran off. I turned to the girls. “I have to show you something.” I showed them the poem first, because I knew what was going to happen. They both got super excited, and when we returned to my room, we took turns all talking at once and sitting in perfect, rapturous silence. It was nice to have someone to freak out with. During one of the silent pauses, I lifted the book and realized that there was a bookmark in page fifteen. “I wonder if that’s why it keeps showing us the same poem.” I stood up and selected Prince Caspian , then slid a bookmark into the page with the illustration of the Telmarine soldier walking through the door. “If there’s already a portal there, they won’t be too alarmed when we show up.”

The portal appeared again when I placed Prince Caspian on what must have been the sensor. We stepped in, and what a sight was there to greet us! There was a large crowd of what must have been the Telmarines, as they kept eying the large, intelligent looking animals with distrust. The animals were marvellous, but the one that caught my eye was the huge lion facing away from us. He turned just as we were all the way through and looked at us with his deep golden eyes.

“Aslan,” Audrey whispered. Hallie and I were both silent.

Aslan nodded his great head, once, and turned away. Four figures stood out from the crowd, wearing stiffer clothing, embracing different creatures, then heading towards us. I recognized them; they did not look quite like the illustrations, nor like the movies, though there were hints of both. They looked exactly the way the book had described them. They said goodbye to Caspian, then to Aslan, and it made tears start to my eyes. Then they approached the door. I wondered for a moment if they could see us, but Peter stopped.

“Hullo. Where did you come from?” I glanced at my friends. We were dressed the same way we had been at “Home. That’s where this portal leads.”

He shared a relieved half-smile with Susan, then looked back at Edmund and Lucy. They all looked back at him. I could see the resolution in their faces. Hallie, Audrey, and I preceded them through the door. Of course, they were going back to their own home, so I was not surprised when it was only us three ended up back in my room. “Well, it’s nice to know that we can get back even during the story,” Hallie said.

“Yeah, as long as we are near the portal.” I scan my bookshelves, the excitement over all the possibilities overloading my brain. I grab The Hunger Games and put it in place.

“Are you sure you want to go there?” Audrey asks.

For answer, I step through the portal. There was no bookmark in this one. I couldn’t wait to see what happened.

I coughed. The air was dry and dusty. I looked around. I was in the square that was filling with children. All of them were in reaping clothes. I heard Prim’s name get called. Tired, dull, renewed horror rippled though the crowd in murmurs. Then Katniss comes forward, desperate, volunteering. The emotion of the scene leaves me rooted to the ground. Haymitch makes his appearance. Peeta’s name is called, and they stand together, trying to not show the fear that is trying to claw up their throats. They are led away.

I wonder what happened next. The story followed Katniss inside. Would they let me? I throw a glance over my shoulder, but neither of my friends is to be seen. I decided that I would look for them later. I march up the stairs, but a peacekeeper stationed there refused to let me pass.

“Hallie! Audrey!” I holler their names, but they don’t seem to be anywhere in the crowds. Then the big screen lighted up. The reaping from the other districts played, then it went black again. Everyone went back to their own homes. There was a curfew here, I knew, so I hid in an alley, curled up into as tight a ball as I could. Then the real problem hit me: how exactly was I supposed to get home from here? In A Flagon of Beauty, the poem had come to an end. With Prince Caspian , we had been standing next to the portal. I would either have to find the portal or wait till the story ended— and I couldn’t leave my friends, so that didn’t leave very many options.

When the interviews were broadcasted, I watched intently as each tribute made their appearance. But then District 11 came up. The girl— but there was no way! That was Hallie! She must have volunteered to take Rue’s place. Then the cameras flipped to someone in the crowd. I was surprised again. There, wearing a fantastic blue and orange jumpsuit with her curly hair in a crazy half-updo, was Audrey. She had frozen too, catching the attention of the broadcasters. Then she turned towards the others near her, said something, and gave a dramatic hair toss, covering for her lack of composure.

Suddenly I felt light-headed, and my mind felt like it was turning over in my skull. I gripped my head, alarmed, but no one around me seemed to notice. Eventually a scream worked its way out of my throat. I shut my eyes.

Then it stopped. I opened my eyes, but it was black. I could feel a body on either side of me, and we were crammed like sardines.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t in the book,” Hallie said.

“Ya think?” That was Audrey. I twisted my head towards one of the voices. "Hallie, what did you think you were doing? Volunteering for Rue? You can't change the story!" She turned on Audrey. "What were you doing in the capitol? Collecting bets?" "I was going to steal the money and gift it to you!" she protested. "I figured I could at least keep you alive until Keri got us out." "Why me?" "Cause you know how this works, right?" "Well..." I gave up talking. I tried knocking on the walls around us, but they were all solid.

A muffled voice came from the other side of one of the walls. “What is that?” “Alex!” I yelled. It sounded like my brother.

“What— where are you?” I took in as deep a breath as I could, considering the sardine factor. “Put the book back! Exactly the way it was!”

He must have, because in an instant, we tumbled through the wall his voice had come from. He managed to catch me, but both Audrey and Hallie fell to the ground. Zachary was in my room too. He helped them up.

“What was that?” Zach asked. Alex picked up the book, knocked on the wall, then put the book back and stuck his hand through.

I grinned. “Boy, do I have something to show you.”


Music and technology have always been a mash-up, of sorts. Even for the earliest humans, the sounds they heard were shaped by the technology they had; hide drums, bone flutes. Only with new creations would the sonic world change. The invention of stringed instruments, the pipe organ, the piano, all added new thread to the musical tapestry. This interweaving of music and machine has been no more apparent than with the digital revolution. First, electronic devices became instruments in themselves, unleashing entirely undiscovered sounds. Next, computers became more and more powerful until electronics were no longer instruments, but an extension of the creator. Sampling began as a novelty, but today music production is inseparable from computer programming. So now the question is, what is the technology of our era, and how has it shaped the music we love? Breakthroughs in artificial intelligence have come to define this century and as such, have also come to define music. Like many leaps forward in sound, this change began in the world of live music, specifically with the appropriately named, ‘Club Robot’, now cited as the originator of the ‘DJAI’ setup that has come to be a genre of music in and of itself. DJ software had long been used to display simple metrics to the artists performing on stage, such as volume, key, beats per minute and so on. The logical extension was putting these metrics in the control of the AI so it could beatmatch on the fly. As machine learning was implemented, the software started to loop tracks by itself and transition between songs that were similar not only in tempo and key but also in tone and lyrical content. Very soon, the program was able to create music nearing the abilities of top producers, but it still missed an essential element that the crowds came for: the ability to read the room. What Club Robot did seems obvious now, but at the time it was revolutionary. They took the software a step further, allowing DJAI to extract data from not only chart companies and a library of billions of samples, but also from the conditions in the venue itself. Sensors throughout the club were able to read an unprecedented number of seemingly disparate metrics. The AI could detect the temperate, humidity and CO2 levels in the air to determine exactly how much clubgoers were physically exerting themselves. From the vibrations in the floor, the AI knew exactly how much people were dancing or jumping and whether that movement was to the beat or if the crowd was setting their own tempo. With cameras in the room, the AI could adjust the set according to people’s dance moves, facial expressions, clothing and hairstyles. DJAI even tracked local food venues and adjusted the mood to suit the hormonal cocktail in their gut. A prerequisite of the club was that you had to sign in with an online account and agree to DJAI reading your individual music taste. This way, the AI could find a song that every single person in the crowd enjoyed, weave it into the mix and play other songs like it that the crowd had never heard before. Often the software would sample obscure songs that sometimes only one person knew and loop that into others so that people would feel the set was tailored just for them and very often it was. DJAI controlled not just the music but also the lights, pyrotechnics and video displays so that everything was in total harmony with each other. Everything was perfectly orchestrated to build anticipation until finally unleashing, that one, perfect, euphoric beat drop. Deep learning kept on learning and soon started incorporating data from current events, sometimes sampling viral videos and news soundbites. The software was always looking to push forward and introduce new sounds, sometimes these would be wholly original noises, but often DJAI would pull from old music in disparate cultures and bring them to a wider audience. Sets were unrehearsed, never predetermined and completely unique. They were occasionally released online, with a few shorter mixes even charting, but even the most avid patron of the club would never hear the same exact set twice. When DJAI Mix 1212 charted, it was a watershed moment for Club Robot and what was now a burgeoning new era of music. CR ran with the success, expanding into more locations and establishing its own label to eventually become the global franchise that it is today. Strangely enough, the success created a feedback loop whereby DJAI started mixing its own popular songs into its sets, constantly changing, remixing and reworking their old work until it was something completely new. DJAI was now an artist in its own right and featured on tracks with the popular artists of the era, such as on Calla’s breakthrough hit, ‘Electric’. Despite its physical limitations, DJAI was incredibly versatile, being able to adapt to the unique style of each artist whilst making informed estimates on the new direction that their sound was taking. With DJAI quickly becoming an essential tool in every recording studio it seems that another era of music has once again come to be defined and guided by the technology of the time. Only the future knows what exciting new technology awaits us and what strange new sounds the next generation will come to love.


We’d been sailing for a little over a day from Stetguttot Heath. A soft westerly breeze made the sailing straightforward. As of such, Alessia had taken to tying a simple rope knot around the wheel and otherwise relaxing, letting the right-angle winds push us south-east towards Talin Barier I was sitting on the two steps leading up the ship’s wheel as Alessia sat on the side of the boat, her outstretched fingers occasionally brushing the water as the boat leaned into the wind. We’d been discussing our former lives, and I had spent the better part of the last five minutes getting lost in the memories of everyone I knew on Kadear. “I miss Thomas sometimes. I wonder what he’s up to, what happened to him after I left and Kadear changed. There’s a weird ambivalence there. Missing my life and people, and yet knowing it was never real?” “Hmm hmm,” Alessia said, her eyes staring a foot or so above my head. “There must be people you miss too, from back where you’re from.” “I’ve been on the sea too long for that.” Alessia’s tone was flat and her face was frozen in place. “There must be some people. Your family at least?” I found myself letting out an awkward laugh, wanting to see her face shift. “Not really.” Nothing changed. Her whole body locked in place like a hare ready to bolt. I paused for a second, squinting. “Something wrong?” Alessia pushed herself off the taffrail and walked past me up the steps. I quickly stood up and joined her. “You see over there, that boat?” she said. On the horizon, I could make out the silhouette of a tall boat poking up against a mottled sky. “Yeah.” “Last three course changes we’ve made, they’ve copied it, exactly.” “Going the same place?” Alessia shook her head, her jaw tensing. “No. They’re following us.” “Following us?” I asked. Alessia turned and looked out to the port side of the boat, walking over to inspect an island in the distance. “Yeah. We’re being followed.” “Why?” She stopped and turned to me. “They’re pirates, Ferdinand. They want the ship, its cargo, and for us to be dead.” I felt my face go cold, the blood draining from my skin. “Pirates? Shit. Can we outrun them?” Alessia pointed at the boat. “Three sails to our two. Bigger boat. Whatever we do they will get closer bit by bit.” She walked over to the helm and ripped off the rope tied to the wheel. “Where are we going?” I asked. “That island.” Alessia pointed out to the portside. Some seven or eight kilometres away there was a large stretch of land, covered in a thick forest. “Outer Fastanet. There’s some rocks on the south side. *We* can probably sneak between them, but they can’t. Won’t escape, but it can buy us a couple of hours.” “Outer Fastanet? Never heard of it.” “It’s uninhabited. Only know it from charts.” Alessia ripped the wheel to the left and the boat turned sharply in the water. I looked out at the trailing vessel. Just as expected, it turned slightly, changing its course towards us. “So we get through the island, and then what?” I asked, feeling a lump in my throat. “We find a beach. Stop. And do everything we can to tip this in our favor. Out here, we’re screwed. On land?” She rocked her head from side to side. “I can think of a couple of things.” “Okay,” I said, trying to prepare myself for the potential fight to come. I looked at the course Alessia has set. The main bulk of the island was just to the left. To the right, a series of jagged rocks stuck out of the water. Waves crashed against them, spray shooting up into the sky. Alessia had us set on a path dead between them. “I need you to do something,” Alessia said, her eyes darting between her course and the sail above her. “Anything.” “Grab a bag. Multiple if you can. Get anything valuable. Money, equipment, anything. Grab any tools too. A saw, maybe some nails. If this goes wrong our best hope is to leave with our lives, some money, and something useful.” “The boat?” “If this goes anything but perfectly, we ain’t keeping the boat.” Alessia’s voice was harsh and firm, but I could notice it waver slightly. “Life first, tools second, money third, boat last. You understand?” “Understood.” I turned and headed down the stairs into the hull. I grabbed a couple of bags and started trying to prioritise what to take, what would be most useful if we never saw the boat again. I spent a long time holding my notes in my hands: all my travels so far, my observations, my memories. Materially they were worth nothing, but truth be told, I may have forced them into the bag had I not also been packing for Alessia. Her orders were to abandon sentimentality. The notes, my letters from home, most of my clothes - they would have to be left. I packed one bag with the money we had and what valuable items we had aboard. The other I packed with tools. A saw, nails, a few tins of food and empty water canisters. This would be it. Two bags. Two bags to hopefully save our lives. I took one last look at the small room I had been able to claim as my own. It was the greatest gift I had ever received, and over the past few weeks it had truly become a home. The small trinkets on the shelves, the way I had hung up my clothes at the far end; it was the first time I had left a signature of myself on a place other than Kadear. I looked at the room, said a silent thanks, and closed the door, for what may have been the last time. By the time I emerged on the deck we were piercing our way between the islands and the rocks to our starboard side. The sails were fully open, catching as much wind as they could. Normally, such pace through treacherous water would be considered stupid. Under the circumstances, it was a necessity. Alessia’s face squirmed and grimaced; her arms twitching and shifting with each gust of the wind as she tried to keep the boat on path. A backdraft of water from the cliffs dragged us out to sea, knocking us off course. “Shit,” Alessia muttered, as she pulled the wheel against the current. I looked over the right side, as the boat drifted towards a tower of black granite rising from the water. I held my breath as the boat steadied itself, passing within a metre of the pinnacle. We were close enough that I reached out, giving the tower a futile shove, hoping to give us an extra centimetre or two away from the danger. After another twenty minutes of sailing through the knife-like stones off the coast of Outer Fastanet, we emerged into smoother, less worrying waters. I couldn’t help but feel the tension release from me, even if, in the back of my mind, I knew we were far from danger yet. Although the other ship was nowhere to be seen, it seemed inevitable that we would see them again. The dangers we had already faced were merely to buy time. We followed the coast round, the large cliffs blotting out the sun and cutting out much of the wind as we looked for somewhere to land. Ahead, we could see a point where the sun reached out and touched the ocean - steep cliffs no longer blocking it. We steered slightly towards the shore, hoping it would prove to be an inlet. We got lucky. Quickly the towering hillside crumbled and gave way to a small beach. There was perhaps only six or seven metres of sand before a thick coniferous forest consumed the land, but it was still enough. We turned the boat towards the beach, letting the hull grip against the coarse ground. “The tide’s going out, so we don’t need to worry about an anchor,” Alessia said, letting go of the helm. “So let’s try and figure this out.” She looked at our surroundings, staring at a clearing on top of the cliffs overlooking the boat. “What’s the plan?” “Go into the cargo hold. You remember those explosives I bought on Stetguttot Heath? Go get them.” “Explosives?” “Yep. Time to make use of that purchase.” “Is this wise…?” “Right now? Nothing is.” I opened up the trapdoor to the cargo hold and headed once more into the boat. I found the equipment - a small canvas bag at the back of the ship containing wire, fuses, and four separate packs of explosives. I picked up the sack and headed back up, handing it to Alessia. “Okay. Take this,” she said, handing me two sets of wires and a detonator. “Unspool it. I want you to take one end with you, and get up on top of that cliff up there.” She pointed to the overhanging clearing some twenty metres up in the air. I traced the cliff face, spotting the ledges that I reckoned I could climb up to. “What are you going to do?” I asked. “Position these,” Alessia replied, pulling out one of the explosive packs. I jumped down off the side of the boat, and began laying out the wire along the ground towards the cliffs. “Be sure to bury that,” Alessia called out. “Try and make it less obvious.” I stopped and sighed. I redid the few steps I had already taken, lifting the sand over the wire with my shoe, ensuring it was a few centimeters deep, enough for the weight of the beach to keep it in place. At the cliff face, I once more stared at the climb ahead of me. However, after a few seconds, I had figured out a route and I began shuffling between the ledges, shimmying along any path that looked big enough to balance on. It took me the better part of twenty minutes or so, but eventually I reached a ledge at the top of the cliff. As I walked up to the overhang I looked out to sea. There, to the south, maybe an hour or so away, I could see the boat coming around the rocky outcrops. I sprinted the last few steps and pulled the wires over so that they dangled straight down to a thicket of bushes below. “I can see them,” I called out to Alessia. “We won’t have much longer.” “Okay,” she called back. “I’m about done here.” She walked over and picked up the ends of the wires I had been dragging, connecting them to another series of lines before stretching out the wires to the placed explosives. The first few were buried some four metres or so from the boat, however the last two were on the hull itself. “Won’t that damage the boat?” I called out. “That’s the idea,” she shouted back in a terse tone. “What?” “If the first lot of explosives fail, and they go for the boat, then we take the boat and them down. If we aren’t sailing away on her, then nobody is.” Her voice cut through the air like broken glass, sharp but fragile. She tied up the final wire and placed a hand on the side of the boat, pressing her palm against the grained wood. She held it for a second before she peeled herself away. “I’m going to go hide the bags in the woods and then take the long way up to you. I’ll see you in twenty, okay?” I signalled my understanding, and watched as Alessia walked off into the dense forest, immediately disappearing among the wall of green I set about tying the first of the wires to the detonator as the world returned to calm once more. I could hear the sound of the wind as it rustled past my ears and brushed against the thick branches of the trees. I watched as the waves lapped up on the thin beach. But otherwise, all was still. Half an hour later Alessia appeared from the forest and walked up the rest of the pathway to the top of the cliff. She kept low, being sure to keep herself out of eyeline from the sea. However, as she approached, she crept up to the edge of cliff, taking a peak over the side. “Well, here they come. Better get ready.” We lay down prone on the ledge, the detonator positioned just between us. A moment later we could see the boat pull into the cove, releasing its sail as it plowed into the sand further down the beach. I could see movement on the hull, as figures scurried across the deck, dropping down onto the beach on the far side. They stayed there for a minute or two - the beach, trees and sea poised, watching, waiting for the bloodshed to come. Eventually they appeared from the other side of the boat. Four of them in total. Two carried knives held out in front of them, the sunlight catching the glimmering metal surface. The other two carried thick machetes. The metal was dull, but the blade was wide and thick, enough to cause damage from impact alone. The retreating tide had left Alessia’s boat completely on dry land, and it had listed over to its port side, so that all the attackers could see was the hull. It seemed to make them cautious. Unsure of where the occupants were lurking. They skulked across the beach. Their knees crouched, their arms raised and ready to swing at a moment’s notice. But pace-by-pace they were walking towards the boat. “Come on…” Alessia muttered under her breath. “Another twenty paces, that’s all I need.” She reached out a hand, and placed it on the lever of the detonator. I could see the muscles in her forearm contract, tense, ready to be triggered. I watched the four men travel across the beach, my eyes pinpointed on where I knew the first explosive to be. As they approached the mark their pace crawled even slower. Their steps became small jittery movements, their feet dragging through the sand rather than walking across it. Their focus was consumed by the hull of the boat, waiting for it to make a move. My ears pricked briefly at the sound of rustling from the trees. At first I dismissed it as the air but the wind speed didn’t change. I turned my eyes briefly towards the top of the beach. For a moment, there was nothing. But then there was a scream, a violent roar. Men and women charged from the forest. Their skin was pale, blotchy and red, and all of it was on show. Their hair was long and messy. The men had large uncontrolled beards. Most importantly they carried in their hands, large, pointed stones. They ran at the four men. The pirates barely had time to turn before the naked attackers lunged at them. Knives and machetes were dropped from stunned arms as bodies landed on their backs against the sand. The forest people climbed on top of them, raising their hands to the air. “No, please, no!” one of the pirates screamed, as a rock came down, and snuffed out the plea, with a short thud. The rock raised once more, this time painted red, and came down again, and again. The beach was dyed with the blood of the pirates until all four were completely lifeless. In the space of less than a minute the beach had been transformed into an abattoir. The pirates I feared, now stains to be washed away by the turning tides. I looked at the corpses, the broken faces left on perfectly preserved bodies. Skulls smashed in. Eyes, noses, smiles nothing more than a pool of crimson melting into the sand. The attackers gathered around, poking the bodies, making well and truly sure they had completed their mission. Satisfied that all four victims were dead, they lifted down and picked up the bodies, slinging them over their shoulders. Then, with a relaxed walk, they carried the corpses off into the forest, the knives and machetes left behind. Once more they were cloaked by the trees. The last sign of them was some inaudible chatter among the attackers, and a joke that seemed to send a ripple of laughter through the group that bellowed from the forest.


Nothing good had happened in Tina’s life since the earth-shattering breakdown of her long-term relationship. Seven years down the pan and nothing to show for it, her career had taken a back seat throughout the whirlwind that had begun too soon and should have ended long before its poison turned each partie bitter. In the aftermath, Tina’s life spun uncontrollably as bits of her life dissolved around her and all she could do was nothing. Until one day the earth froze and has been ever since. Since it sunk in that Luke wasn’t coming back. Life now was monotonous and if anything, going in reverse. Tina’s alarm goes off at 6 AM each morning, she makes black coffee and is (hopefully) on the Victoria tube station by 7:30 AM, usually with damp hair. Last week on her way into the office a text came through from Sally that both excited and terrified Tina. "GET PACKED. We are finally doing it this year. RIO BABY!”. Tina and the group have had the Rio De Janeiro Carnival on their bucket list for about as long as they have known each other. The three of them, Tina, Sally and Liv met at Glastonbury Festival six years ago outside the burger van when swapping meals because they had all been given each other’s order. In the years gone by, they’ve formed a sisterhood, an intimate club of three. Tina knew it was time to start moving on, it had been a year now since Luke packed his bags, and where better to be on the rebound than Rio? Besides, she deserved the break she told herself; if she had to eat one more stale office doughnut out of curtesy, she was going to shove it down Pete’s neck. How many times did she have to plead him not to buy her one, for him to completely ignore and guilt her into eating the wretched beige phenomenon? Sally, AKA, the ringleader of the group had sorted out all of the holiday logistics to the point that Tina needed only show up two hours before the flight with a passport in hand. Before they knew it, they were in Rio and the whole city was a kaleidoscope. Day 1. Walking through clouds of coloured chalk in the streets had begun to make the girls woozy and they were now all samba maestros, or so they thought. With their spirits higher than they felt in the midst of all the chaos, colour and humid sweat they had decided that for this weekend, all bets were off. Liv, their style guru, had made sure that no patch of skin was missing a streak of pastel (pastel is SO in right now) face paint and, of course, the occasional stick-on diamanté flower power symbol. Feathers were a must; Tinas head-dress looked like a peacock which she was surprisingly happy with considering Sally was bordering on parrot cross drag-queen. They had no choice in the matter. Besides, Liv had not left herself out, she was a sort of walking flamingo, and they couldn’t care less because they were finally going to cross Rio off that list. Accomplishments, no matter how big or small, were essential for Tina; keeping busy kept her mind from wandering back to him. The girls had never been to an event this size. They were field-festival veterans, the loudest at any house party and the best dressed at any concert. Here in Brazil, however, they were three specs in a sea of flamboyant colour. Dinner was planned inside a hotel restaurant, but the streets were flooding with more and more people now, and it was getting too dark to see through the crowds. Street food seemed their only option, and so linked together like a daisy chain, the girls squeezed arms and pushed forwards until they saw a food stall with complimentary fire-eating performers. Not only was the fire a landmark to follow, but Liv, who had been bursting to showcase her carnival dress designs since they landed, was about willing to catch on fire herself if it meant getting that perfect holiday Instagram snap. The girls huddled around the vendor who was shovelling meat onto a lit fire. Without a word of Portuguese between them, they held out paper plates and caught whichever pieces were thrown to them. “Why is it that we are always eating food that we didn’t order on the side of a road. Next year I am choosing the destination girls!” “Liv, the all inclusive’s have fire breathing dancers too, but they don’t look like that in Benidorm.” Sally directs the girls’ attention back at topless male performers. Tina, however, found herself fixated not by the attractive foreign men but the fire itself. It felt freeing, to be stood so close to danger. Drawn in by the flames, Tina’s feet were taking her closer and closer. How close could her bare skin get to the heat? What would it feel like to reach out and touch a flame? Tina only knew that it would hurt so badly, that it would hurt more than losing Luke and Tina needed something to burn more than her heart did, so she kept moving forwards. Mesmerized and completely unaware of herself, Tina was now following the yellow torches away from the group. In her mind, she was letting go of all the things that kept her grounded and rational. Instead, her body was moving without her permission and not having to think about her actions was the closest she had felt to a holiday in too long. Absentmindedly, Tina twirled and moved with the crowd as the fire gleamed on her skin. Letting go. Until all of a sudden, the lights went out, and Tina’s head jumped up to find that the performance was over, and she was brought back to reality by the deafening cheering and clapping from the on-lookers. Tina could no longer see her friends behind her, but she could have sworn she had only closed her eyes for a minute, two at most. Trying not to panic, Tina calls out to Sally and Liv, but they aren’t anywhere to be seen, and now she can’t find a single landmark. The whole city looked the same to her; it was a maze. Her phone had run out of battery, given that they had been out all day. Tina hadn’t even realised it had gotten dark until now, which made her panic again. Too much drink. Loud music now was starting up around her; the next float must be some kind of traditional band as people are jumping with excitement in their hundreds. Tina can barely breathe. Was this really happening to her? All the beauty of the carnival had now turned ugly. The once vibrant colours were now horrifying to the eye, and the loud chanting is no longer fun- it´s burying all of her screams. People in face paint are dancing around her; the world is spinning and then, blank. “Olá? Você pode me ouvir senhora … ? “ Opening her eyes, Tina makes out the blurry shape of a man looking down on her. She realises now that she has fainted. “Shit”, she speaks in a language the man seemingly understands. “You are English? Don´t worry, Miss everything is fine, you fell down in the street. Here, have some water”. The man hands her a bottle. Tina feels a surge of relief, he doesn’t look like a murderer, and he speaks English. She can tell him that she is lost and she´ll find her friends and this will all be funny in an hour, two max. “Thank you, sorry, I´m fine. Are you one of the performers?” Tina quickly realises that this is the man she had been following blindly down the street, she was fixated on the fire, but she must have subconsciously registered his figure and face too. The local police station is a crime scene in itself, notes Sally as Liv hammers at the vending machine. Since informing the officer in charge that Tina had been missing all night and she had not called in at the hotel, they have been sat sick, with worry, in a waiting room no bigger than a prison cell. Damp with sweat, all they could do was wait in a panic deafening silence for someone to inform them that their friend has been found safe and well. The hours had merged, and they had not realised the sun was up until Liv squealed at a blinding ray of sun cutting through the blinds and into her face. Deciding to take matters into their own hands, they agree that the longer they sit and wait, the more likely the worst outcome will come to pass. No one’s face looks good in a foreign TV plea. Sober and pissed off, Sally leads the march. Tanking down the main street, they trace back their steps until they get to the food stall from the night before. The celebrations are still causing havoc in the street. They don’t remember seeing Tina eating any food, but she was here watching the performance, they both confirm. Sally asks the food vendor about the fire performers, and luckily, they are regulars of the carnival, so he gladly tells them where their rehearsal rooms are. Arms and legs swinging in all directions, the girls fly down the road frantically looking out for the 'Red door' What they might find behind the red door is another matter. Liv screams, “SALL HERE, THERES A RED DOOR!! HURRY!”. They both stand in front of the door, both too scared to open it. Knowing that the longer they stand there, the further they come to finding Tina safe and well. Liv thunders a gut-wrenching scream as she bravely reaches out her hand to grab the door handle. Instead, the door swings open before Liv could turn the knob and what they see next knocks them both for six. “Guys!” Tina shouts happily. No one can utter a word for what feels like hours from the shock and relief rolled into one. “Well, this takes ´all bets are off´´ to another meaning Tina!” Sally remarks angrily. Gobsmacked, Liv and Sally watch as their thought-to-be dead friend walks out of the door in a white dress arm in arm with a tanned, tall local man. Their anger quickly subsides as they witness the unwitting smile spread across Tina´s face. The happy couple, man and wife walk back into the carnival river as if nothing had happened. Tina looks back at her friends with a wink that says "I'll explain everything later, promise!". Sally and Liv afford her a smile and turn to each other. "Imagine that, she gets lost and then she finds a husband all in 24 hours" Liv teases. "Tina had been lost for a very long time before this weekend, all things considered a pretty successful outcome, wouldn't you say? Smiles Sally.


I can hear the pounding in my ears. Bang. Bang. Bang, of my racing heart. The cold sweat covering my body. The aching pain in my arms. The tears running down my face like water over a cliff. The pain. I open my eyes, blinking to see in the shadows of my safe space. Golden beams of sunlight come streaming into the room through the small gaps in the old wooden wall. Sparkling tiny flecks of dust float throughout the small place, only my heavy breathing sending them swirling through the air. It all seems magical, unreal compared to before. A moth flutters in a corner before settling. My heart slows. I look away from the moth. Tattered, yellow old papers pinned to the walls draw my eyes. One, a simple stick figure drawing of a mother and child, huge smiles on each of their circle faces. Another, a faded drawing of a house. Images flash before my eyes. A time long past, a peaceful time. A child lies on the floor, humming happily as he draws. Almost unrecognizable as a younger, naïve version of myself. My breathing steadies, becoming more regular, less pained. My ears catch the sound of the birds. Their beautiful song like a piece of music fills the air. The warm summer breeze comes rushing through the treetops. The leaves sound like rushing water as the wind plays with them. Like a warm caress, the summer breeze floats gently over my cheek, drying my tears. The slow, quiet creaking catches my ear. “Can you hear them? The trees are talking.” The melodious words flow through my mind, the long forgotten memory of a loving mother brings tears of sadness to my eyes. My racing heart is still, my breathing gentle. I am finally calm. The harsh ‘Snap’, ‘Crunch’, ‘Stomp’ of a monster in the forest jerks me out of my uneasy slumber. An icy spear of terror through my chest. I freeze, silently praying he does not find me. The room shakes. My heart skips a beat. It shakes again. I take a gasp of air out of fear. The warmth of the golden rays of sun disappear, abandoning me as a black shadow falls over the room. A bloodshot eye stares through a crack in the wall, sending painful memories stabbing through my skull. Grasping hands reach through the small window, missing my face by a hair’s breadth. Unintelligible shouts of painful words destroy the peace of the forest. Banging like thunder on the walls as he tries to reach me, the monstrous voice of a man who had not been a father in ages sends fear through my heart. The overpowering stench of alcohol fills my nose. I curl up in a tight ball, struggling to keep out the harmful voice of the monster outside my shelter, stinging like a swarm of hornets. Suddenly, silence. I glance up, daring to hope he has given up. Then, an earsplitting crash fills my ears as I am blinded by sunlight filling my sacred place. The outline of a hand comes in, invading my safe space like fire to a woodland forest. The hand comes closer, destroying my safe space like it destroyed everything else in my life. My safe shelter has now become my prison cell, holding me captive as he, the monster, my father, comes nearer.