Franklin pushed through the revolving door of the Social Revenue Service Annuity Center at 7:50am just as he had every morning for the last twelve years. Even though it was morning, it was dark outside except for the flashes of lightning. He was relieved to be out of the driving rain. Shrugging the rain off his shoulders, he walked past the empty guard desk and waved his right hand over the turnstile, pausing briefly for the green LED flash after the chip scanner had logged him into the building. Hearing the ding of system approval he pushed through the chrome bar and shuffled toward to bank of elevators. He shifted from one foot to the other waiting for one of the lights above the doors to identify the door to the rest of his life. Another ping and he stepped into the elevator alone. Like the turnstile, the elevator recognized his RFID sig and took him directly to the fourteenth floor. Without looking up of acknowledging any of the others in the office Franklin moves down the center of the cubicle farm to the third row, made a left and arrived at N-1436. He removed his still dripping coat and threw it over the hard plastic “guest chair” not minding the remaining drips of rainwater that sprinkle the fabric of the cube. It is the only weather his workday world ever sees. Someone years ago had taken to calling this section of the office Murderer’s Row. The guy even made copy paper street sign and hung it outside the entrance to Franklin’s cubicle cul-de-sac. It got him fired for misuse of government funds. At least that is what the form said. The truth was calling the bureaucrats on this row murders was considered insensitive given the nature of their work. Franklin always thought it was funny. He dropped his cell on the charging pad and the projected image of the SRA logo blinks into existence on the silver white panel in front of him. Smiling he remembers the days of passwords, two factor and other biometric. Now his implant tells the cube who he is and diisplays his first task for the day. Franklin’s official designation was Social Revenue Administration Case Analyst, though his email signature read Annuity Counselor. The SRA had created by an Act of Congress in 2032, soon after the Social Security Trust Fund was determined to be hopelessly insolvent. The austerity riots across the EU inspired the terrified politicians to actually work together on a bipartisan solution. In a brilliant and rare moment of insight, some Congressman decided it would be a good idea just to combine Internal Revenue with Social Security and Social Revenue was born. With a wave the agenda paged to the first case. The first of sixteen names he thought. Sixteen stories. Sixteen recommendations. Every day. Three thousand days. Always sixteen. \ Case#A203317308B Date of Maturation: 2044-9-30 Name: William Arthur McKinley DOB: 1982-10-1 City: Fayetteville, Arkansas Diagnosis: Senile Dementia, early stage Alzheimer’s Prognosis: Degenerative Remaining Residual Social Value: $13,527 Estimated Social Economic Impact: -$1,325,425 Accelerated Benefit: $42,000 \ Franklin checked “APPROVED: No review required” on the screen and hit submit. He then sat flipping through news stories on the internet for the remaining twenty eight minutes of the mandated half hour review each case received. \ Case: #A203317308B Date of Maturation: 2044-9-30 Name: Mary Louise Horton-Miller DOB: 2002-10-1 City: Fayetteville, Arkansas Diagnosis: Melanoma Prognosis: N-Stage Remaining Residual Social Value: $5,242 Estimated Social Economic Impact: -$2,425,000 Accelerated Benefit: $65,000 Again “APPROVED: No review required” \ And so Franklin’s day progressed. Case after case of elderly or terminally ill people being approved for accelerated benefits. \ The most innovative part of the Social Security Solvency Act of 2032 was the establishment of the option for accelerated benefits. The idea of paying pensioners every month until they expire had proved too costly so there must be a better solution. Everyone, the authors reasoned, has some intrinsic value to society. That value can be expressed in monetary terms. At any point in life, or so the accountants argued, you can determine how much value you have left to contribute to society. Not only does every life have a value, society also incurs a cost for supporting that individual. This can also be reduced to a monetary value. There naturally comes a point when the cost of sustaining a citizen exceeds the value of their contribution. If one were to compare it to a mortgage, that citizen would be upside down in their value to society. When this occurs it obviously makes good fiscal sense, or so the politicians concluded, to consider liquidation. Unfortunately they were unable to just arbitrarily order such things with pesky things like civil rights in the way. There was however just too much money to ignore. One suggestion had been to exercise the concept of eminent domain on the lives of burdensome people. This was a little to far but once again money was the answer. People needed an incentive to liquidate. An annuity as it were. The regulators developed a complex algorithm that determines what percentage of an individual’s remaining social benefit they will be offered, plus a reasonable uplift, that they would receive immediately. These funds could be used anyway they like. Settling debt (a mandatory prerequisite) A child’s education. Philanthropy (highly encouraged). Donated to the state.(Very highly encouraged) After payment the citizen would then be liquidated, saving society untold billions. After two hours reviewing the first four cases, exactly thirty minutes for each, Franklin pushed back his ergonomic desk chair and shuffled toward the elevator for union mandated fifteen-minute break. Standing on the observation deck of the thirty-ninth floor he watched the movement of the tiny insect like people and cars in the streets below. It reminded him of videos of the blood stream and cells moving through the body carrying nutrients to and waste away from all of the important organs. He liked to think of the city as an organism and that was his job. Helping to move the old and dying out of the way of the new and growing. After fifteen minutes exactly he was back at his desk. Franklin waved to the next appointment and for the first time in twelve years something new happened. \ 10:15 End of Assignments 10:30 - 11:00 Counseling Center 2 \ Nothing for the rest of the day. This was exceptionally odd. Every other day, Franklin would spend the afternoon sessions with candidates. That is what he called them. The algorithm did not just evaluate people who had recent diagnoses or reached a certain age. Those were usually processed automatically and informed through the mail or by field offices of their options. The algorithm evaluates every one. All 1.2 billion citizens in the country. It does not simply look at one’s health but also takes into account education, performance, skills, social media profile and personal relationships. To be honest no human is really certain how the value is calculated. That is the thing about self-learning artificial intelligence. It is sort of a black box. The AI sets the value and from that moment forward the amount you can receive ticks down. For the good of society and your loved ones, of course you would want to liquidate as soon as possible. The usual term was thirty days. Enough time to settle affairs, take a final vacation, tell off that rude neighbor that has been putting his garbage can in front of your condo instead of his own. One could always request more or less time but it was the counselor’s job to make sure the length of term was equitable. And by equitable that meant best for society. There were even bonus programs for the counselors who met targets for minimal accumulated term during a review period. Franklin had never received one. Troubled by what this could mean Franklin shifted in his chair. Perhaps there was a meeting and procedures were changing. It could be a new head of the department. That must be it. The director had changed every four years and he had only known about it through email. Franklin had never seen them before but that must be it. He felt odd too. A tightness in his chest. Sweat beading up on his forehead. Still he sat. Five minute walk to the counseling center. Five minutes before I should leave. What to do? He spun in his chair to ask the man in the cube across from him, forgetting that this desk had been empty since the sign incident. What was his name? Franklin had never even known. He just learned about the dismissal from an inter office memo and paid no attention to it. Come to think of it there weren’t any other occupied cubes on Murder’s row. One by one they stopped showing up but Franklin had never taken notice before. They must be letting me go he concluded. He’d experienced this before. Knew what it looked like. Questions flooded his otherwise unencumbered consciousness. Should I take my coat? No I’ll come back for it. Will they let me? How can they do this? Will there be a severance? Surely the union will have a say. Franklin looked around for someone to ask, but realized he didn’t know anyone of the dozen or so people he saw scattered in the mostly empty cube farm. He took a breathe and resigned himself to keep his composure. His dignity. Yes that was important for a man.  His hands trembled as he pushed the elevator call button. He stepped in and the system again recognized his sig, checked his calendar and chimed “Destination 2nd Floor.” In the enclosed space he found it even harder to breathe. His chest felt like a huge weight was on top of it.  Surely this is just anxiety and nothing more. Should I go to a doctor he thought? No. Maintain my dignity. Take the news like a man. Make a plan. Move on. That is what you do.  Franklin stepped off the elevator, turned right and through the frosted glass double doors of Counseling Center 2. He had never been in here. His sessions had always been in Center 1. A left turn off the elevator. So many new things.  There was no one at the reception desk. There never is anymore. Just a screen that read “Franklin Moss – Room C “and an arrow pointing to the left. He walked down the stark white hall to the third door on the left. Another screen inviting Fanklin Moss inside.  A white plastic chair sat in front of a simple conference table. At the other end of the table was a large plush office chair. It is the kind of “executive” chair Franklin had in his office all those years ago when he had been an insurance adjuster. In the chair “sat” a hologram of a blonde woman in a blue suit. Another person would have found the image attractive but Franklin had stopped noticing those things a long time ago.  “Mr. Moss, thank you for joining me. Please sit down”  “I don’t understand what is going on. Am I in some sort of trouble?”  “Not at all, Mr. Moss. Please sit down and we will review your case”  He recognized the script and fear seized him. He felt the sweat now pouring down his neck and pulled unconsciously at his collar. He steadied himself and tried to take deep breath. His chest felt like someone was slowly squeezing it in a vice. He felt cold.  The holographic counselor seemed unaffected by his state as he squirmed in the hard plastic chair.  “Mr. Moss, I am required to inform you that this conversation is being recorded for quality assurance as well as compliance purposes. The Social Revenue Service has determined that your residual social value will shortly cross the threshold for solvency. Were you to receive medical attention for the coronary event the system has predicted you will experience at 10:38AM, society would incur a cost of $852,138.98. As your position is being eliminated, to be replaced by interactive counseling systems such as myself, your remaining social value if you were to find other employment would be $128,175 for a period of one year when a second coronary event would occur with 78% certainty resulting in a further burden on society totaling $1,327,886.42.“  A lightning bolt of pain shot down Frankin’s arm. He clinched his teeth and struggled to inhale. Barely aware of the sound from the counselor across the room.  She continued, “In an effort to optimize the benefit to society, the system elected to allow you to continue your role as “ a brief pause and the voice changed to a male tenor that said “Case Analyst” – returning to the female voice – “ until this time. It is now my privilege to offer you this annuity of $17.38 as incentive for voluntary liquidation for the good of society. I realize you may have many questions and I am here to assist you in any way. Mr. Moss, do you have any thing to ask?”  Franklin’s eyes and teeth clenched, his right armed gripped his left shoulder digging into the skin but he never felt it. Then a release as Franklin’s body relaxed, slumped over the arm of the chair and the last air in his lungs escaped.  “Mr. Moss. You may ask me anything at all.”  The minutes ticked by. The long lashes of the hologram blinking every 7 seconds.  At 10:58 she spoke again. " Thank you Mr. Moss for your contribution to the solvency of the Social Revenue Safety Net. The funds from your annuity will be delivered to your beneficiary of record."  The hologram winked out of existence. A door in the back of the room slid open and two orderly bots rolled in, collected Franklin and carried him to yet another new place.  At 11:00am in room B, the hallway door opened and a lovely blonde hologram in a blue suit said “Ms. Anderson, thank you for joining me.


The old button was finally laid to rest. Put in the Jar with the other old soldiers to rest and relax. Relax, but always be ready to replace a fallen or broken button. A blue button's duty was never done. Be it at parade or on the field. If the buttons didn't hold up, the army would never hold together.  The Blue Button couldn't help but remember the old times. It had seen a lot. Three wars, three men. All returned home safe. A button was normally so overlooked. But this button, this Blue Button knew it's duty. It would stand strong. Like men, this button had a lineage to make proud. A lineage of generals, of heroes and saviors. Of martyrs and men of unyielding will. A lineage of buttons that held all those men up upon their backs, even if the men didn't realize it.  The Blue Button remembered it's first man. He was general. The Blue Button was commissioned just for this man. A sigil carved into its very body and soul. It was a hard war. The man lead thousands upon thousands of men to their death, and it tore the man apart. He stood on the frontlines, chest held high, with the Blue Button on the top rung, sigil shown proudly to the world. A sniper took the shot at the man. But the button knew it's duty. It threw itself in front of the bullet, ready to do it's a duty. It managed to deflect the bullet and save the man's life but took great damage in the prosses.  After that battle, the Blue Button was put in the Jar. It thought its job was done, duty complete. But that was only the start of its journey. The sigil carved upon the Blue Button was still visible, shining in the firelight like gold polished to perfection.  There was a second war. Much like the first, yet so different. The second man didn't wear the button. The Blue button was too broken for that. Instead, it served a different purpose. The sigil carved upon it's body and soul shone like the sun after walking in darkness for eternity. Its duty was to guard letters, given from one man to another. The homeland had fallen, but it's people had not. The Blue Button repressed that will. The unbroken, unyielding will of that Button inspired men. They looked upon the sigil carved upon the Blue Button and remembered who they were. They whispered of the General who stood upon the hill, who charged with his men. Who gave his life for them.  The button didn't know the man had died. The Blue button had saved him from one war, only for the man to die in a second. But now, he had another man to protect. The Generals son. One time, the son was caught. They tried to take the letter, but the son had thrown it away moments before he was caught. But he couldn't throw the Blue Button. The Button thought the son was a fool, but he wouldn't allow the boy to be caught here. Through sheer force of will, the button changed. It lost its luster, it became dull and rusted. The boy was amazed, but the enemy nearly thought it an old memento. The sigil never shone as brightly as before during that war. To shine too brightly was a danger in itself.  Finally, after what seemed like ages to a small Blue Button, the war ended. The Button was returned to the Jar. This time, the Jar moved. It traveled long and far, without seeing anything. The other Buttons made a ruckus, being thrown about like a toddler playing with toys. But the Blue Button held it's proverbial tongue. It was a soldier. It had seen and been though worse.  Finally, one last time, the button was pulled out of the jar. This time, the man was different. He looked so much like the General. So much like the Son. Though the hold the bullet made, a string was sown. Around the neck of this man the button laid. As the third man went through training, he was made fun of. He kept and old Blue Button, but the Blue Button lent the man his strength. A will of iron, just like what the Blue Button was made of.  The battlefield this time was different. Forrest surrounded everywhere. Enemies hid in trees and bushes. Traps were behind every rock. The button didn't know how to help, but every time the man ran his hand over it, the Blue Button gave him the iron will of the two men before him. Even if it was just this, the Blue Button knew it's duty.  That was when it finally happened. Everyone was looking left. The enemy were to the right. The button saw, but no one else did. With the last of its will, the button shone. It shone like it was new. It shone like it had just gotten the best polishing in the world. The light filtering through the leaves reflected off this shine and blinded the man. That small tilt of his head from being blinded saved his life as a bullet took off his ear.  The Blue Button knew it's duty. It was the Button of a General, leading thousands of men. It was the Button of a freedom-fighter, protecting his home in the only way he knew how. It was the Button of a man fighting for the freedom of others. For now, this button was to be put back in the Jar. But it knew it's time had yet to finish. There would be more young men that needed protection. The sigil still stood strong.


He’d had four tries at this before, all ending before Phase II. One hadn’t even gotten off the ground, if he was honest with himself, because it wasn’t even ten minutes into Iron Man before she had turned to him - maybe she thought she was being sexy? - and had asked if he \*really\* wanted to be watching this movie? Yes, in fact, he did. It was even in his profile! “Must be willing to work your way through the MU movies with me while we decide if we’re a match.” The Marvel Measure, he privately named it. After the years of solo nerd enjoyment he was determined that the right girl would pass the test and make it through all of the movies. Fifty hours to prove compatibility...excessive? Maybe. Effective? Undoubtedly. The fourth try had gotten the furthest, admittedly, but they had heated arguments after Captain America. Oh, she liked the movie just fine, but that date was when she revealed she was still sleeping with her ex-boyfriend, and that was ok right? After all, they had never said they were exclusive. And this, he thought, was why he would never kiss before the third date. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The ding of the app notification started sounding like a warning, but she opened it up to find that the tall ginger she had swiped on - oh yes, the Marvel movie guy - had apparently liked her profile enough to swipe back. And now, to formulate the opening line. Not for the first time she cursed the “girl writes first!” conceit, but it did have a way of weeding out the dick pics (eight received, three declined, and one she wasn’t sure \*what\* it was.) Without thinking too much, she shot off: “I’ve never seen the Marvel movies before, but I’m willing to try! Hot take: I think they should be watched in chronological order.” She was done with the first dates. There had been ‘Too Much Tongue’ Guy, ‘Too Enlightened for Me’ Guy, and then the one whose wife had cheated on him four years prior and….well. She knew more details about \*that\* encounter than she did about her best friends sex life. How many times was she going to trot out the same stories, swipe on the makeup she barely knew how to apply, and sit listening interestedly to men who managed to make it clear by the second date that a night at home on the couch was going to result in more fun? And this, she thought, was why she would never kiss before the third date. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The first date was a surprise. His spur-of-the-moment offer of drinks (after 9pm? Even if it was a Saturday, it was a ballsy move.) was only accepted because she was having a good hair day. The conversation flowed through the usual first date stories, and ended close to midnight with a hug and wave goodbye. He thought she was cute and wondered if she’d want to go out again; she thought he was funny and figured the next date would be more revealing. The second date was dinner and more hours of conversation. They walked slowly by a small river and she wondered if there would be a kiss. He enjoyed the goodbye hug and didn’t waste any time the next morning asking for a third date. She guessed this one would make it or break it. The third date ended with three bottles of wine, kissing that didn’t stop, and clear signals that the game, as they say, was afoot. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The fifth date was where it all really began. They ordered Thai food and got ready to watch Iron Man. “It’s a labor of love,” he said. “It’s going to take almost 50 hours to watch all of these.” She settled in gamely though, and told him any excuse to sit on the couch and snuggle for hours was fine by her. By the end of the movie she was hooked and already making plot predictions. By Iron Man 2 it was clear that there was more than just casual movie watching happening. By Thor they were spending the night together. By Iron Man 3 they were pretty sure, but kept it quiet from each other. He said it first, after Thor 2. She couldn’t hold it back either. By Guardians of the Galaxy they both knew that they were falling. Really, truly, frighteningly in love. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* Life interfered, as it often does. They saw each each other almost every day for dinners, walks, stolen kisses and any time they could muster - even if it wasn’t to watch movies curled up on the couch together. In a way, neither of them was quite ready for it to be over. The quiet darkness of the bedroom took the place of the tv-glow in the living room and they spent hours exploring, learning the most intimate places and secrets they could find. The brightness of that spring saw them walking hand-in-hand around the local lake; sometimes unable to keep the words from flowing out like a fountain, sometimes in amicable silence as they kept their own counsel. He brought her roses and she cooked him dinner, and all along they could be seen smiling at each other in amazement, still unable to believe their luck at this match they had found. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* Late one night they finished Avengers: Endgame. They sat quietly through the credits, lost in their own thoughts and the feel of their fingers intertwined. Finally, she asked, “Only one left, right?” Yes, he confirmed, only one left. She felt an odd emptiness, after the weeks of watching, that they were this close to the end. “Tomorrow night?” she asked, wondering if he felt it too. They agreed to end the way they began - with Thai food and the final movie in the experiment. When she got to his house she could hear the music coming from the kitchen and the scent of something she couldn’t quite place. She smiled and opened the door - he’d long ago told her to just walk in - and stopped in her tracks as she took in the scene before her. The roses caught her eye first: bunches just placed everywhere she could see, in all the colors he’d brought her before. Candles lit and glowing, and in the center of the kitchen he waited on one knee. That night they finished what they had started.


Three months. That’s how long they say it takes to know someone, to fall in love with someone. Personally, I think that’s nonsense. I think you can know someone in an hour – but they have to be the right person. It took me less than three months to know Serendipity. After one night, I felt I knew her better than I knew myself, and that scared me more than I cared to admit. How can you fall for someone so deeply that their every word is carved into your brain like initials in wood, how can you feel so intensely that the colours of the world seem brighter than ever – in a single night? I regret going to that bar, I think. It was a Saturday afternoon and I felt horrible, because I’d just found out that my backpacking would be cut short – that I’d have to leave Italy in three days to return to my regularly scheduled life and the monotony that accompanied it in an inseparable duet. The reason was simple – I’d run out of money far sooner than I’d calculated, on account of the fact I enjoyed a lavish lifestyle I hadn’t predicted. It could have been prevented, of course, and god do I wish it had. I sat in that bar over the cheapest beer I could afford, having offended the waiter with my abhorrent Italian – because lazy and arrogant as I was, back then, I hadn’t bothered to learn properly – and I simply took in the atmosphere, the open air, the water, the cliffs and the beach, so stunningly unreachable from up there. I was about to order my second drink when I saw her, leaning against the wooden bar alone, impatiently waiting for the bartender to leave his conversation with another sorry patron and notice her. She was stunning, was Serendipity, and I was not blind. She was tall, with legs that reached to the end of the world, brown skin, and perfectly curled dark hair tumbling to her waist. Her eyes were dark and cloaked by long lashes, touched only slightly by the magic of makeup. And her cheekbones were sharp – shaped so perfectly that any model would be jealous. She wore white that night, a dress that clung to her like a scorned lover, the back plunging almost to her hips and the neckline only a little shallower. When she turned her head, glancing around for another bartender, I smiled at her, shrugging as if to say, “Well, what can you do?”. I was not a handsome man, but I wouldn’t say that I was ugly – however it stuns me to this day that the beautiful woman at the bar came up to me and asked me my name. I told her it was Alexander, but only when I was in trouble, so she could call me Alex. “And you are…?” I said after her giggle, sitting up a little straighter on the rusted metal stool. “Serendipity,” she replied, and her voice was red and gold and silver and chocolate – and I realised then that you can fall in love with a voice, even before you love its owner. “That’s unusual. What does it mean?” “It means a happy accident – something you weren’t searching for, but that you found in a lucky coincidence.” And perhaps it was fate, that Serendipity was in fact my serendipity – my beautiful lucky coincidence. We spoke for hours that night – walking through that small Italian town in the cool heat of an autumn evening. It was that night, in that small town, where I realised that all they tell you about love is true. The sounds of the town create a heavenly chorus, the people seem to have stars in their eyes, and the colours of the world are brighter and deeper than what I thought was possible. She spent the night with me in my too-expensive hotel room, and we fell asleep to the sounds of music from the street below echoing up the six stories between earth and my new heaven. It was beautiful. *She* was beautiful. My Serendipity, my lucky coincidence. But nothing lasts forever. I woke up alone, the sheets folded over, the bedding cold, and the widow closed. The world was dull again – the sun shone over the greys and blues of the hotel room, once again an earthly realm that much closer to the ground. It was as if Serendipity was never there at all. I remember the dismay that crashed over me – the fear and panic that maybe it was all a dream, and maybe I’d never met a beautiful girl in an open-air bar, but then I saw it, on the bedside table. A note. I scrambled to the other side of the bed, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline rushing through me. Her handwriting was neat cursive, flowing over the page like water. It was a simple note, but my heart leapt nonetheless. *To lucky coincidences, and nights to remember.* \- *S* And carved into the wood of the dressing table just out of sight from anywhere in the room save that side of the bed, was our initials. *S+A* I never forgot Serendipity. I treasured her note, and the memories of the night we spent together more than I treasured anything in the world. When I lay down to sleep, my dreams were filled with her anecdotes and the colours and sounds of the night. When I woke in the mornings, I saw her face. Perhaps it was more infatuation than love, but those memories were what sustained me through the years. They kept me going, she kept me going, even when I felt alone and despairing. And years later, against my better judgement, I went back to that small town in Italy, with a full wallet and a hopeful heart. I knew, yes, I knew that she wouldn’t be there, but I looked anyway. I stood in that bar and looked around wildly, as though I was chasing after her. She wasn’t there. I’d expected it, but the disappointment was immense and all-consuming, and I nearly cried. Once again, I sat at the bar drinking the cheapest beer – for memory’s sake – and dwelt in my sorrows. Until I saw it. Carved into the wood, among the many scratches and water stains that spoke of many years of use, was a name in perfect, flowing script. *Serendipity.


Beware the Dark Laura Holt The carnival was a kaleidoscope of lights and sound around them as Ingren and Lucian walked hand in hand through the press of bodies lined up to ride the carousel. A freak show stood nearby. Its MC dared passersby to “come in and see the eighth wonder of the world!” Brightly colored posters lined the wall behind him: pictures of a girl with a fishtail, a girl with the body and hair of a snake, a man with hair growing out of every part of his body, fangs, and pointed ears, and a man with a nose like an elephant. A small, plum-colored tent sat beside it. A crude, hand-carved wooden sign advertised Madame Corissa’s Fortune Telling: Palm Reading, Tarot Cards, Crystal Balls, Tea Leaves, and More in painted gold script. “Let us go in there.” Ingren followed the line of his finger, her brows arching. “In the fortune-telling booth? You do know that stuff is fake, right?” “Perhaps not as fake as you think.” His voice held an odd note she’d never heard before. His hair glowed as if from a halo thanks to the sun shining behind it. Despite her common sense telling her that she shouldn’t waste her money or her time on something so silly, she gave in. “Okay, we’ll do it if you want to.” “Thank you.” A genuine, excited look lit his cheeks with a pinkish flush, and she followed him as he half ran, half walked across the trash-littered midway. His love of magic, it seemed, didn’t extend to books alone. He held the door flap open, gesturing for her to go ahead of him. Obediently, she stepped over a dropped funnel cake and walked inside. The first thing she thought was that she had never seen so many candles in her life. They were everywhere—filling the shelves that lined the thick, velvet walls of the tent, dripping white, red, purple, black, and navy wax onto the mismatched colorful rugs on the floor. The air smelled like vanilla and cherries, violets, licorice, and midnight, with an underlying hint of powerful incense. The latter smoldered in trays situated among the forest of candles, creating a dense cloud of smoke that filled the space near the ceiling. It burned her nose, making it tickle. Fighting the urge to sneeze, Ingren peered through the haze at the woman seated behind the small, round tea table in the middle of the room. She looked like something straight out of a novel, like Esmerelda in Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame , with a full, sensuous, red-lipped mouth and round, dark brown eyes. Her skin was the color of bronze, and her hair gleamed in the candlelight, black as a starless night sky. It rested in a loose knot at the base of her neck beneath a tall jeweled turban that’d been wrapped around her head. Layer upon layer of shawls in different shades of purple covered her body, making it impossible to tell her size. But her arms, their wrists covered in gold cuff bracelets and their fingers glittering with large stoned rings, were slender. And when she sat up straight, she looked tall. She smiled, the movement pushing up high cheekbones and forming deep dimples at the sides of her mouth. “Sastipe. Good luck and good health, strangers. I am Madame Corissa, seer of the future. Have you come to hear your fortunes this fine autumn day?” Her accent was strange, and Ingren fought the urge to roll her eyes at the mystical tone in her voice . This whole thing was ridiculous. Why had she agreed to it again? Oh yeah, she remembered as Lucian stepped forward. Because a hot guy wanted her to. “Yes. We would both like to hear our futures if you please.” “Of course,” Madame Corissa agreed. “However, I only do individual readings, so one of you will have to wait your turn outside.” “I’ll go,” Ingren volunteered, grateful for the easy escape as she took a step toward the door. Already she was planning to say she’d changed her mind or didn’t have the money for a reading after the blonde boy had his turn. Lucian stopped her, his hand on her arm. “No, I will go. Ladies first.” He pushed her toward the chair gently. His voice clearly said she was not going to get out of this so easily. Without giving her a chance to reply otherwise, he went back outside, leaving her alone with the madame. The latter gestured to the plush, tasseled ottoman seat across from her. “Please, sit.” “Fine.” Giving in to the inevitable, she did as she was told. The soft cushion sank beneath her, sending up a thick puff of dust. Coughing, she fanned it away as she tried to get comfortable. It took her almost a full minute to straighten enough that she wouldn’t fall over before returning her attention to the woman across the table. She was watching her with a small smile, her odd gaze alight with something like amusement. Her candlelit expression clearly said she got girls like this in here all the time. Ingren blushed. “Look, I know it’s probably obvious, but I don’t believe in stuff like this. So would you mind just doing a quick reading to appease my friend, nothing fancy or elaborate?” “As you wish.” Her voice was mild, with no sound of offense. “Give me your palm.” Ingren laid her hand face-up atop the table, and the madame took it in her hands. Her touch was surprisingly warm and firm. Leaning over, she studied the lines etched into her pale skin with a glittering intensity. “Hmm, I see a long life. That is good, with one child, a daughter, who you will have at a young age. You have an extremely thick bravery line, as well as a stubborn streak that is interwoven. You should watch that lest it get you into unnecessary trouble.” She paused, her finger resting against one, a small m shape, near the center of her palm, and looked up at her in slight surprise. “You have the sight.” “I’m sorry, the sight?” Ingren repeated. The woman tapped her hand for emphasis. “Yes, the ability to see the future.” Her heart skipped a beat. Was it possible that the woman could mean her dreams? She’d never told anyone besides her friends that they sometimes came true. Then remembering where she was, she dismissed it as simply another part of the fan fair and shrugged. “Everyone has déjà vu at some point or another. Could you just finish the reading as I asked? Tell me about my love life, or something.” “Very well,” Corissa replied, not sounding entirely pleased at her disbelief but reluctant to talk back to a paying customer. She lowered her gaze to her hand again and traced several more lines. “Your love lines are very rare. You have six, whereas most people only have one or two. One of them will be your child.” She pointed to an upside-down v below Ingren’s thumb. “Two of them are friends.” She indicated two sideways triangles on her middle finger. “And three of them will vie for your heart.” “Three?” Ingren frowned in confusion because the first two had to be Buck and Lucian, but… “Who’s the third?” “It does not tell me that.” Madame Corissa shook her head. The gold hoop earrings in her ears flickered in the dim lighting. She traced the three side-by-side lines down the bottom of her palm to where they ended in an x and her forehead furrowed. “I see death.” “What?” She blinked at the older woman, her heart skipping a beat. Yet it was as if the seer didn’t hear her. Her voice took on a strange, deep note. Her eyes rolled back in her head, leaving only the whites visible, and she gasped in a rattling breath. Her grip on Ingren’s hand tightened without warning, squeezing her fingers so hard it hurt, and trepidation flooded the younger girl’s veins against her will. Okay, that’s it. This whole thing just went from The Hunchback of Notre Dame to The Exorcist, and that’s far enough for me. She tried to pull her hand free, to get up and leave. Only she may as well have not moved at all. Corissa held on with seemingly no effort, her knuckles pale and her expression intent. “There will be a great battle. Many will die. I see so much death, so much sorrow. Oh.” She moaned, head rolling on her neck. Ingren could hear the bones pop. “It hurts .” “L…!” She turned toward the door, started to call his name, and bring him running to stop this whole stupid charade. With shocking speed, the madame leaned across the table and clapped a hand over her mouth. Ingren’s heart leaped into her throat as her eyes widened above the fingers touching her skin. “Beware the Dark!” she hissed insistently, her tongue pushing against the backs of her teeth as she stared unseeing at Ingren. Her pupils were no longer visible. Her eyes had gone completely black. Not brown-black like Ingren’s hair but true black, like crude oil. “It comes for you. It comes for your power. It will kill you if you let it!” Kill me? “That’s enough!” Wrenching away from the woman with all her strength, Ingren leaped to her feet, knocking her chair to the dirt floor with a crash . Chest heaving, she stared down at her angrily, breathing hard. “You can’t tell people this stuff. It’s crazy! And if you don’t let me go, I’m-I’m going to tell my teacher!” She shouted the last, her hands in fists at her sides, fully aware that she sounded like a petulant kid who hadn’t gotten their way but not particularly caring at the moment. Her heart was still racing like an out-of-control race car, threatening to suffocate her. She didn’t have to see her face to know it was a bright shade of red. For a minute, Madame Corissa stayed where she was, immobile as if she hadn’t heard the other girl’s words. Then she sat back with a sigh, her eyes returning to normal. She blinked up at her, looking bewildered at her less than happy appearance. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I must have dozed off. It happens sometimes, from the incense, you know.” “What?” Ingren’s voice came out in a high pitch of disbelief, ending with a squeak. “You mean you don’t remember what you just told me? But…” That’s impossible! Unless it was a real vision. Immediately, she scoffed at the thought, trying to regain her earlier skepticism. Yeah, right. This isn’t The Wolfman, and this lady is simply trying to make sure I don’t sue her for malpractice by covering her butt. “No, I’m afraid not.” Madame Corissa’s earrings jangled when she shook her head, dark eyebrows arching. “Why, did something happen?” “No.” Ingren said the word slowly, recognizing the futility of arguing further. Besides, she probably wasn’t even close to being the first unsuspecting person the woman had pulled this spooky, dark future crap on to make them come back for more readings. The charlatan. “Nothing happened.” “I see. Well then, if there is nothing else you wish for me to read, that will be five dollars.” “Fine.” Throwing the folded bill onto the table, Ingren crossed to the door as quickly as she could without running and stepped outside. The scent of fresh, popcorn-flavored air hit her lungs, and she took a deep breath, realizing she was shaking. Fake or not, her experience in the tent had been too freaky for words. The way the madame’s eyes had rolled back and her voice got lower. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she was having a seizure or something. Plus, beware the dark? Who said things like that outside of books? If she’d stayed any longer, the lady probably would have started drawing a pentagram on her hand while telling her she was a werewolf, and it wasn’t even a full moon. It was like the woman had been intentionally trying to scare her. Which, she realized belatedly, had probably been her fault for telling her that she was a skeptic. Still, there had been something about the whole experience that made her wonder if there hadn’t been a kernel of truth to the seer’s prophecy. Although how that was possible, she didn’t know. Mental note to self: never visit another fortune teller, not even the mechanical ones in the glass boxes at the stores. Lucian rose from where he was waiting on a nearby bench when she approached. “That didn’t take long. What did she say?” “Oh, you know, the usual junk that fortune-tellers tell girls.” She gave an awkward laugh, not sure why she was lying, only that she didn’t want to try and explain what had just happened when she wasn’t even sure she understood it fully. “That I’m going to marry a lawyer and live in a house with a white picket fence, two and a half kids, and a dog.” “Tell me something I do not know.” She punched him on the arm, earning her a rare laugh. “Hey!” “Forgive me, Ingren, I was only joking.” “Yeah, well, you better be. That lady’s a hoax anyway. Come on, forget about having your fortune told. Let’s go find the others so we can ride the roller coaster.” “All right,” he replied, and she gave him a grateful smile for not arguing. Still, she couldn’t help but shoot one last glance over her shoulder at the tent as they made their way back into the midway throng. Madame Corissa stood in the doorway watching them go, wearing an expression she couldn’t quite place. Scared? Menacing? Concerned? Her eyes darted from Ingren’s to Lucian’s retreating form. Pressing her lips tightly together, she flipped the small wooden sign advertising her talents around to read closed before disappearing back inside.


*Notice/Caution - I don’t want to seem like I am spoon-feeding anything, but I want to explain my tense and dialogue choice (in case my future self reads this and cringes at me for using bad technique). Please forgive me (and brace yourselves) for the confusing shifts between past and present tense that will occur. Everything is written from a retrospective perspective, but I just wanted to experiment with the contrasting effects the past and present tense can have on a story. When she remembers seeing and interacting with the character and having that epiphany, I wanted her to be so present in the past that the tense shifts. As for the reported speech: I cannot replicate Donna Tartt’s bone-chilling dialogue in the prologue of The Secret History , and what I wrote is far from perfect. But I wanted to highlight the subjectivity and unreliability involved in the retrospective narrator. So future me, take note and please don’t get mad. Plus, I welcome any feedback! — He slumps on one foot while the other rocks back and forth like a pendulum, sending ripples through the fuzzy maroon rope which fenced up the paintings. I doubt that he is remotely aware that he is leaning dangerously close to the artwork, or that the security staff grimaces rhythmically at every forward swing of his foot, ready to pounce if he moves any closer. To his relief, the leg brushes against the fence one last time, steps away, and curls itself around an oak bench, a smoothed-out seat glistening from years of acquaintance with the rough, sandpaper texture of jeans.

From my nearsighted eyes, it becomes all but a pointillist painting: the pixelated effect I imagine you’d arrive to if you take a transparent picture of the

Earth from space,

zoom in on this very art museum,

ground floor,

gallery 3,

and circle to the wall opposite the man-sized boy mannequin that gives me the creeps. Trace the last bend of the waves reverberating down the fence; catch the dull, mustard-colored frame of the painting; glimpse the rings of halos from the light above his head; and finally him, camouflaged in the mundanity of it all. The soft curve of his curls distort into mosaic tiles; a rosy flush smears across his cheeks from blurred out pimples; shadows pool into the nook of his collarbone. Him, elbows on knees, frozen in the act of leaning forward

like a trembling swimmer on the diving board seconds before exploding through the surface of the water. Looking into this blur, I feel an intolerable urge to sit by him and religiously echo his posture as he studies the painting. But with it follows the second wave of despair, dread, and terror from haunting clarity that even then, I might as well be hypnotised by the spin of a yo-yo and he rolling his eyes at a chemistry experiment. Nor is there any use following his thoughts—all the words in the world could not articulate the honesty of a silent stir in the mind. — He stood up, and the momentary painting erupted into action. Time hurried to catch up with this accidental lapse as crowds swarmed around the paintings like flies around a rotting banana peel. Their headless movements interrupted my gaze, and he was engulfed by the humming wave of motion and crowds. It took me a while to find my footing—art museum, ground floor, gallery 3, behind that creepy statue. Absent-mindedly, I drifted over to the Landscape with the Fall of Icarus painting and glanced at the artist and description underneath. How could they still call an art theirs if it is reborn, repainted in a new mind every time an eye flickers upon them? If an artist knew all the meanings and interpretations their painting evoked in different people, they would probably be horrified enough to never pick up a paintbrush again, let alone hang it in a national gallery. I suppose Basil Howard had some sense hoarding his best art. The original meaning that he created behind it would not be watered down and diluted among the various interpretations of others. Only then, the artist can truly call an art their own, as it would exist in an universe where there is only one objective meaning behind the art, which is defined solely by the artist. Overwhelmed and slightly repulsed by this discovery, I stumbled through the entrance and sat on the top of the staircase. The last mechanical cool of the AC radiating off the marble tiles left me. Stranded among the heat and the croaking cicadas, I began to debate whether to go inside or not. But I suppose I liked it out here, on the edge of the stairs, surrounded by blurred leather shoes and swinging handbags, people-watching. People are most beautiful when they are not looking at me, which is why I hate Instagram pictures, whoever’s in it. They always lock eyes with you through the screen, deliberate, aware, tight-up, on their tip-toes, with their fight-or-flight mode on or whatever. But looking through the tinted windows in a car, or an ignored corner in a room, or a busy street, there’s always the protection of invisibility, and then you start to overromancise the mundane. A matching two piece. Ashes falling off a cigarette from a flickering hand hanging outside the driver seat window. The curve of her calf muscles when she sits cross legged. A fading pedicure. This is what I feel like now, on the edge of the staircase, dissolving into oblivion. — A familiar voice pulls me back into existence—art gallery, top of the stairs. My heart throbs once, twice. Cooling down after seeing that Icarus painting? he says. Tendrils of smoke from his cigarette cradles his jaw, disturbed by his sudden motion of sitting down beside me.

Hope you don’t mind it? he says, waving the tendrils of smoke that played with his hair away like an insect. I shake my head. The dull glow of his cigarette almost kisses his lips. A subdued grimace flashes across his face as he tries to bend his fractured finger to smudge the cigarette to ash. From my peripheral view, I became exceedingly aware that he was watching me. He had a pair of the most intense eyes, studded with a hot shimmer, like sunlight striking off the hood of a hearse. Dimmed by the soft curves of his eyelashes, the pupil often dissolved into the muddy darkness of the iris. Seeing my gaze fixed on the finger splint, he responds: Parkour. Always end up trying too hard. It’s not like I can help it.

No. Didn’t think I would see you here, Dion. Neither did I, but I’ve already been surprised twice and it’s only late morning. Once by myself, and the other by seeing you. What brings you here? The paintings, I shrug. Do you draw? No, I say. Good. Why, so then I could be as ignorant as you are? No, so then you could be as privileged as I am. Never used to believe it, but this is where ignorance is bliss finally applies. Studying a painting from the perspective of an artist distracts you from seeking the truth of it. And when I say seeking, it’s not like there is an objective one. It’s something you have to create. When you draw, you analyse the techniques of the painting headfirst. The golden rule, parallelism, or whatever. And then get to the core, the emotional quality of it, or never even that part. By that time, you’ve already lost on the starting line. And as our parents say, never 输在起跑线上。So I say, we’re not bad art connoisseurs after all. I suppose so. The language of art is universal, because it is felt, not understood. You don’t get that much from STEM subjects.

Exactly, though I might be wrong, because I don’t paint. My dad does, so I’m only explaining his thought process. Anyway, no worries, it’s just that I think we’re fine, as non-artists. It doesn’t make our opinion any less valid than an artist or in fact the artist of the painting. Your dad’s an artist? Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t really say—but yeah, I guess. He sketches, paints, although it’s not very precise, like those ancient Greek statues. Right. Rather abstract. He follows a visual arts textbook and explains his paintings in technical terms, though he can’t really articulate the meaning behind them. I think he missed the whole point of creating art. Can’t articulate it, or doesn’t want to? Well, I-uh, you know… — As he rambled on, he looked up to the sun, but did not actually see it, for his eyes were lost in remembrance and confusion. A cloud shifted, and his jet black eyes and hair were set alight the same way in the sun. To this day, I still remember that striking image of him, scorched to the back of my eyelids. It’s the kind you get when you stare at a bright object for too long in the dark and it imprints onto your retina and haunts your vision for a while, but this time it’s temporary, eternal, immortal amongst the erratic shifts of my memory.

水急不流月。The still reflection of the moon upon the waters is undisturbed by the choppy waves.

Remember when we gave the moon credit for its silky, ivory glow, when it was in fact only a reflection of the sun’s light? The composed countenance when he glanced towards the sun—no wrinkles rippling through his eyes, nor a hand shielding his face—probably succeeded to pull off the same illusion that the warm, gold sunlight radiated from him. It thrashed through his tumbling curls, swelling in the halo of the glow, and seeped into the dormant black eyes; the colors of amber and late autumn exploded like a volcano inside a snow globe. — But I wished I could do something more than looking, like I was Nick Carraway or a writer of a biography: passive, distant, helplessly obsessed with a life I don’t lead. Somehow, this reminded me that we never really touched. I don’t mean in any sensual way—I curse my mind for even going there—, but the mere brush of a shoulder, an accidental step on a shoe, or my hair getting stuck on his coat buttons. I suppose it was one way to tear apart the shallow mirage I build for the people I think about excessively, and another way to be more involved in the lives of others. I looked down at his fingers, at the whites on his roughly clipped nails and hair sprouting out behind the silver ring. Then at his other hand, which stroked the accessory: the shadows they reflected, the pink spots on his open palm, and the three curves slicing through them. I traced the parabola of the longest one down to the copper green veins on his wrist—which disappeared into a darkened scar on his forearm, probably from some fall while playing sports. I remembered that I forgot what the first touch of anyone felt like, even my childhood crush. It was trivial, but why should it be? It suggested a new level of intimacy and comfort to be familiar with the touch of someone. The hard calluses on his fingers from playing guitar, the bounciness of his hair, the way my temple will probably line up with his collarbone when we hug and how comfortable or disagreeable that will be. He sat beside me but seemed so distant, and I couldn’t break the reserved, friendly, just-getting-to-know-you comfort that we slipped into, or risk putting ourselves in an awkward situation. In retrospect, I think it would surprise both of us if we touched, then. I would be surprised about how I managed to manifest any fantasy into action and reality, and both of us would be confused about why I did it. Even now, I don’t know why I had the sudden urge to do so then. But thankfully, I don’t act on my impulses.


SISTERS OF THE HARVEST by J. T. WHITE Down in the valley, where the vineyards grew their succulent grapes basked in the light of the midsummer morning. A wooden caravan, the colour of wine, gilded with golden features, pulled by two identical white horses wearing peacock feather plumes made its way gracefully down the dusty dirt road. Sitting at the front of the caravan was an old man with a long, pointed, white beard and eyebrows wearing a bright blue tailcoat with a white rose placed in the breast pocket. Insects chirped in rhythm with the foot falls of the horses hooves and grinding of pebbles against dirt under the wooden wheels. The caravan gently rocked from side to side over the uneven terrain before coming to a crossroads and stopping in the centre. Stepping down from his seat the coachman walked around the caravan and pulled down on an engraved golden handle and opened the door before pulling down a set of wooden steps. Holding up his rough, calloused hand, palm facing upwards. A dainty, white gloved hand and wrist emerged from inside and gently placed itself in the old coachmens. Out of the caravan stepped a woman in a ruffled yellow dress and white heeled boots stepped down, lifting a white lace parasol above her head, shading her porcelain like skin and large honeycomb styled chestnut hair from the sun. A few seconds passed and out of the caravan stepped a second woman, this time wearing a similarly styled dress but in a pale pink, with the addition of large purple flowers attached to the bottom of the dress running up and diagonally across her chest, her hair was bright blonde and was much more uncontrolled and frizzy than the other woman's. It was decorated with a large blue bow on the left side and she wore small gold framed oval sunglasses which hid her eyes behind dark black lenses. Standing out in the crossroads the two women looked around studying the valley, the woman in yellow gazed up at the snow peaked mountains and smiled while the woman in pink skipped over to the grape vines and plucked a perfectly ripe, red grape, popping it into her mouth and admiring the sweet, juicy succulent flavour of the fruit; closing her eyes and lulling her head as she lost herself in the satisfaction of her work. "This is the place" The woman in yellow said, resting the parasol on her shoulder and spinning it with her fingers, she stepped towards the woman in pink and stood a mere two feet behind her and watched as the woman came down from her ecstacy. "How is your fruit sister?" "Delectable my dear sol, although I suppose I should be thanking you. Without your help, they would never even reach this stage" The woman in pink turned around and smiled at her sister before looking past her towards the old coachman. "Driver would you mind bringing me the little vial with the blue liquid please. It should be in the bag next to my seat" "Of course Lady Fauna" The old coachman stepped into the caravan and Fauna began to walk around her sister, whistling an upbeat melodic tune. "Don't you think it is strange that we do all of this without receiving any thanks?" Sol said staring ahead, voice monotone as her sister passed in front of her, standing still and lifeless. "Are you tired dear sister? Tired of providing life to those who need us?" Fauna said with an inquisitive yet melodic tone, she stopped walking and instead appeared to start dancing to the tune of the breeze blowing by just like a flower would. She looked at her sister trying to read her expression, it was however useless as always; she found that Sol only ever had one mood and it didn't give anything away. "Not that no, merely disappointed that they hold us in such low regard despite the fact their entire survival is reliant entirely upon us, and unfortunately… We Shall also be the death of them" Fauna stopped moving and considered what her sister had just said and stared back. "No… Not we, you dear sister. They are killing me and in return you are killing them" Sol stared at her sister, the parasol no longer spinning on her shoulder, instead she was now looking through the dark lenses of the sunglasses resting upon her sisters cute button nose. Footsteps grew closer behind her until the coachman stepped between them and handed Fauna a small crystal bottle filled with a brightly glistening pale blue liquid, Fauna took it in her gloved hand and pulled off the top before breathing its scent in deep. "Mmm thank you coachman, we shouldn't be too long" The coachman bowed his head and headed back to the caravan. Fauna stepped back over to the vines, giving her sister a sly smile as she turned. Tipping the crystal bottle she poured the liquid onto the ground at the base of one of the vines, watching as the soil absorbed the liquid and was taken up by the vines as the leaves became greener and the branches grew thicker. "We are the cycle of life dear sister, soon enough it works itself out, we just have to wait. We've already been patient enough, billions of years with you has been a test of that, you're not exactly the most fun" Fauna turned back around smiling at her sister, she stared into her sisters' eyes and could feel the heat coming off her. Sol stared back, she wanted to smile but couldn't, her face was unmoving, everything around would change but her face would always stay the same. "My dear sister, it breaks my heart that I am not only older, but also knowing that I will outlive you and everyone here, brings me sadness that I can't even explain" Fauna stepped closer to her sister and wrapped her arms around her and held her close. "I love you Sol, do not worry of the burden of the end, as long as you shine bright enough I will be by your side. The harvest season is nearly over and we can both rest for a while" Sol stood motionless as her free hand moved up and rested on her sisters back pulling Fauna closer to her, it was then she felt a hot tear run down her face before sizzling and evaporating, she could only imagine how much it hurt her sister to hold her like this, but she knew it wouldn't stop her. Faunas love for Sol was eternal, she needed her big sister and though she could not hold her for long she embraced every second before she had to pull away but not fast, she took her time and enjoyed the warmth of her sister. Not saying a word the two walked back to the caravan, dirt and gravel grinding beneath their footsteps as the two sisters stepped up into the caravan before the door was closed by the old coachman who walked around and returned to his seat as the caravan of the harvest set off once again.


Amelie Brekhart's nose wrinkled, disgusted with the rickety staging ramp leading up to the pipe's 4 foot wide black hole. "I knew the Starfleet 679 airships were ghetto, but this is ridiculous." She said to herself. The 679 looked like a giant ocean cruise ship with wings. The top levels still had windows for cabins but doubled in a collision reduction frame. That way the ship could handle the pressures of outer space. She was in dock at the Centra space station for minor repairs and maintenance. From the cabin levels to the machinery rooms, and the recreated atmospheric City, the 679 was in overhaul. Amelie worked on the 23rd floor where the engines were surrounded by monstrous steam pipes, pumps and valves. The engine room pipes were painted red but topped with gray dust from long exposure to failed ventilation shafts and floating skin debris. Gross. She thought, as she climbed down the ladder into the space. Her black pony tail swung from the gap between her hardhat and the head strap that ratcheted tight. The incandescent lighting in the space was accentuated by a flood lamp pointed at the black hole at the end of the open pipe. David Arnand came around from behind the 20 foot steam plant. He walked over the air propulsion piping that snaked its way around the ship. His hardhat was tilted because it was too big for his head. He was a weasel of a man, all skin and bone with beady eyes. "What's wrong, Amelie? Can't get your big behind up to the main steam cover?" He heard what she said. It was written all over his slimy sinister smile. She glared at him. She hated this guy from a previous job they did together. "It's sloppy, like you set it up in a rush. The blue cleanliness tarp is sagging, not to mention the gangway is 1 foot 10 inches wide. That's too narrow to stand side by side. We can't line up the cover with the bolt holes." "Yeah yeah. Stop your belly-aching. You got fall protection gear on anyway." He spat. Amelie was a fair skinned, black haired woman. Standing 5'9" and not a frail thing but not rotund either, she could hold her own in a fight. Let's just say, her biceps were strong but her hips could kill. When David spoke so arrogantly, so, so, machismo- all she could see was red . "I still need to stand on something, Dumbass! The staging is only good for 130lbs per square foot. How heavy do you think that cover plate is, Arnand? " She didn't wait for a reply. "Its 350lbs and I am 160lbs, which makes the 4 foot by 4 foot plate maxed out. It's resting on the staging that I can't stand on. If I fall through because of your poor communication skills, I'm going to ring your neck! Now, I have to straddle the staging, just to get the cover plate in the air." She yelled. Her red face made Arnand pause but didn't stop him from talking back. She tuned him out. It was hard working for the Starfleet as a female. They only want the strongest, fastest men. Sadly, the fastest talkers weasel in too. Amelie had to show them what she's made of. With no delay, she got to work, even while Arnand continued to berate her. She skipped the ramp and climbed into the overhead piping to set her pick points. "So, you complain about the ramp and then don't even use it?" David's squeezed his hands into balled fists. "If I stand up by the hole, I can receive the cover plate while you do, whatever it is you're doing." Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall, dark haired man come down the ladder and stand next to Arnand. Oh great. Another boy scout to hate on me. She scooped up her gear over her shoulder. "If you stand there like an idiot, you'll be under the load. By the time it's lined up for your part, I'll have to stand there and hold it for you." "And?" He spat. She deftly clipped her harness around a square stock of metal framing and stepped onto the ledge of the 4x4 foot main propulsion steam pipe. "And- if I'm gunna stand in front of the hole, I should do the whole thing and not put you in a dangerous position." She said. Amelie swung a hydraulic cylinder hoist off her shoulder and clipped the hook onto her shackled anchor pad she made. "Terry- you hear this crap?" Arnand asked his buddy. Amelie grimaced. Yeah Terry. You hear your boy mouthing off? What a couple of jackasses. She thought. Terry stood at 6 foot with his legs wide, feet splayed apart, and with his beefy arms across his chest. His deep baritone voice rang louder in her ears than the hiss of the hydraulic hoist. "She's got a point even if it's a stupid one. You screwed the setup, David. Improvise." Uncoiling the 20 feet of chain, she gently lowered it smack-dab centered in front of the pipe. David Arnand, always playing the victim, said, "She's more of an asshole than you are, Terry!" Her second pick was directly over the cover plate on the gangway. The transition from deck to pipe would happen as it drifted in the air between the two hoists. "So she outsmarted you. And you gave up." Terry retorted. "No! She wants to do everything her way. So I let her." Amelie stopped the hoists. The silence was palpable. The guys watched her as she rappelled down the side of the steam pipe to the gangway, and straddled the section with the cover. She could rest her left foot on a secondary pipe and her right foot balanced on top of a hand wheel. "He's lying." She said. "I can see that. What's your point?" Terry said. The hoist chain's hook was attached to the anchor pad on the cover plate. She pulled the long ropes connected to the hoist trigger to pick up the plate, from lying flat, to a vertical. Slowly, she lifted the plate into the air. With one hand, she held the cover steady from spinning, and the other pulled the hoist's trigger rope. "So David," Terry said, "she's aligning your steam plant cover plate without any prior inspections. What are you going to do about it?" He had a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "I tried!" He whined. She bit her lip to stop herself from screaming in rage. Deep breath...two...three. She stopped drifting the plate. Her head snapped around to stare down her accuser. Terry was a tall, workman's muscular Spaniard with a goatee. Her long black bangs slipped loose from her ponytail and feathered across her vision but nothing could stop her piercing gold eyes. She was laser focused. "David ordered staging that was too small for more than one person at a time and too low capacity for the work to be done correctly. He..." "So!-" Terry's voice boomed in the empty space. "You took charge, knowing exactly how to rig the cover. But do you also know how to attach guide rods and gaskets before bolting it in place?" He echoed across the engine room. When he flexed his chest muscles and swung his arms, she couldn't think straight. "Are you qualified to do steam-plant cleanliness? Do you know the process for inspections? What's your name, Miss?" He thinks he's so damn smart. I'll make him wait. She thought. Amelie finished her drift and tied off her hoists, now that the cover plate was in front of the 4 foot black hole. She climbed down to sit on the staging, before her right foot could give out on the loose hand wheel. His green hazel eyes were gorgeous and never left her face. She locked eyes with him while walking halfway down the staging. She wondered where his eyes were when her ass was in the air climbing over the piping? My, how confident he is!

Let's see if he's a good leader or just a name with a sexy face. She sat down and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder then fixed him with a glare. "No, I'm not steam plant qualified, but I know the process. The name's Amelie Brekhart and don't forget it." She said. "Oh, I don't forget anything , Miss Brekhart." He said. Did he have a twinkle in his eye when he said that? What did he mean by 'anything'? She thought. He was talking about my ass! He crossed his arms again. Flexing his biceps. "My name is Terry Jones. I am the lead mechanic for the Starfleet's machinists, and if you mind your P's and Q's, I'll instruct you how to install that cover plate." Even if he's right, he's such an ass. She thought. "This is so stupid!" David whined. "That's my job!" Terry stared him down until David looked physically ill and hung his head low. "I'm taking charge of this job, and since it requires a strong rigger to move that plate, I suggest you try not to stand in her way. You already fucked up on the setup, so how can I expect you to finish the job safely?" David puffed up his chest and grabbed his bag, handing it off to Terry. "Whatever. I'm out." He tried to stomp off, out of the space, but got turned around. And, 10 seconds later, David had to come back and trudge up the ladder. Totally embarrassing. "What a mess." Amelie said, as David left. "Are you done gloating, so we can get back to work?" Terry asked. She got up and dusted herself off. "I knew old men had to sleep more but they still need to get here on time." She said. She knew he was smart enough to pick up that her meaning was about him. Terry stared her down with those smoking green hazel eyes. If he was trying to intimidate her, it only made her horny. He must of seen something because suddenly he ran over and jumped 5 feet up onto the staging behind her. That was hot. "Did you hear what I said?" "Hmm? Nope, I was waiting for your Ego to sit on the back burner. You were saying?" She asked with a false innocence. She still didn't hear him because she was taking in all the details of his face. He had very Spaniard features almost Mediterranean with dark brown almost black hair, cropped shorter on the sides and longer on top. She could tell because the bangs poked out from underneath his hard hat. He had a heavy brow and strong nose with a thinner top lip to his thicker bottom lip. He had a neatly trimmed goatee, with his square jaw accentuated by his cleanly shaven cheeks. Those glowing green eyes were outlined by a shadowy halo either from ancestry or lack of sleep. He looked wild, dominant and masculine. She blinked and lurched back as she felt his hand gently on her cheek. "Sorry! You surprised me." She said. He smiled a wicked grin that made his eyes shine like emeralds. "Gotcha. Are you ready for me to show you how this works?" He asked. "Yes, Sir." She said. Wait, why did I say Sir?!? "Okay. Head up to the plate and hold it steady. I'll come around you with the gasket and hold it in place." She got up to the plate and held it firmly with both hands. She heard his heavy boots drop to the deck and he grab something with metallic scraping. Then he walked back up the gangway to stand right behind her. She could feel his warmth, he was standing so close. "Crouch down Amelie, so I can reach over you and slide this gasket between the pipe and the cover." He said. Oh. She crouched down. He leaned over her and clicked on a pocket flashlight. His body blocked the flood light with his massive shoulders as he slid some kind of metal ring down the gap between the cover and the hole. He took two metal guide rods and twisted them into the bolt holes at the ten and two o-clock. "Okay, now push the plate onto the rods so I can get a nut on the face of it." Alright now he's messing with me. She thought to herself. I'll show him. Two can play at this game. She pushed the 350 lb plate by hand and as it swung on the hoist chains, she carefully lined up the holes with the guide rods he put in. "Okay, nut in the face." She said. He dropped two metal nuts right after she said that. They rang on the pipes as they fell into the belly of the ship. "Ahem, I got more for that exact reason." He said, as he dug for more in his bag. "For what reason, exactly?" She asked. "Being a klutz, Mr. Mechanic?" Amelie looked up at him with a smile. She was glad she wore red lipstick today. It always made her feel sexier and her lips seemed bigger. He looked down at her with a straight deadpan expression. "No, for having slippery fingers, my dear. They're so fast, they sweat." "Ahuh. Well, Badass, can you put your nuts on already? My arms are getting tired." She said. Which was true, she was getting tired and she didn't want to be seen panting in front of this guy. Already he knows she thinks he's hot. Which means she lost two advantages: knowing more about the job, and staying a step ahead on controlling the flirting. She didn't mind flirting at work but when they know you're into them; they expect more than words. Terry put the nuts on the rods and she was able to relax her tension on the plate. They were almost done with the job, and in good time. He added more rods and nuts to the bottom and as he was screwing them on, she felt something hard pressing against her back. She slipped backwards, out from between his spread legs. He paused his wrenches when she moved. "You good?" He asked. "Yep. Just getting out of a tightening situation." She said. Gawd, I've resorted to puns. Ugh! He chuckled and continued tightening down the bolts. "I guess my screwing around got you all tied up." She smirked and grabbed a section of the slack chain and pulled it around his waist. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear with a sultry voice. "Speaking of, I'm going to take back my rigging." "Yes, Miss Amelie. Anytime you want to crawl over me is A-okay by me."


“Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been able to see through the eyes of birds. It works on any bird I’m close to--there’s some power in me that reaches out to their brains, and I can see what they’re looking at through their eyes for as long as I want. The only problem is that I can’t feel what they feel, or control them at all, or take on their bodies as my own. That problem seems small when you consider how incredible the power still is--but I assure you it has completely and thoroughly ruined my life. Maybe it only did that because I let it. Maybe if I had been a more positive or mentally strong person, I would have used my power for good and not cared about the limitations. I would have been some sort of elite sniper who could spot any target, or a magician, or a cartographer, or some other useful type of person. As it turns out, though, it appears I used my power to become a depressed loser. I don’t remember exactly when I learned what I could do, but the way I used it started out real simple--as a little girl, on summer days when my mom was at work, I would wander through the forest and connect to the eyes of sparrows and robins. I would sit my heavy body on a stump or lay it on a patch of moss and watch for hours through their eyes, swooping through the leafy canopies of trees, catching worms, building nests, feeding babies. For a while that was all it was--just a fun distraction, a way to spend a summer day. As I got older though, life started happening to me, and along with that came some nastier things. I began to get into a habit--whenever anything really bad happened to me--when my mom would throw shit at me or when I fell off my bike and exploded my leg into a thousand pieces, or when I got laughed at for being fat or...when a bear stumbled across me lying motionless on the forest floor--I would watch whatever happened not through my own eyes, but through the eyes of the birds. Everything looked so poetic through their eyes--people were reduced to tiny specks, atoms colliding and bouncing off one another, just a biological and inevitable process. Most of the times the birds would only watch what was happening to me for a few seconds--then they would look elsewhere, to a bug or a rabbit or the wide open sky, and I would focus hard on being the bird and forget what was happening to my human body down below. How wonderful it was to see my own life as an outsider, put into what I felt was proper perspective--no matter how much pain I was in or how much I wanted to kill the person who was hurting me, I would close my eyes and open the bird’s, and look at myself through from high above--and feel that I knew that nothing really mattered. As time went on I became more and more detached from my own eyes and my own body and I did nothing but watch the world through the birds, and I lay inside all day in the dark and I longed. I longed for my bones to be hollow, for my head to be empty, for the currents and updrafts of wind to push me upwards high above the earth rather than throwing me backwards and fucking up my umbrellas. I started to feel like the world had been built for birds and not for me. Why else would so much of it be sky and open air? Why did I have to spend my life confined to the ground? I gave being human a shot. I promise I did. I did middle school and high school and tried to date and tried to play sports and tried to care and tried to love my mom and tried to love myself, and yet every day I would find myself returning to the eyes of the birds. I began to feel overwhelmingly that nothing could compare to what I couldn’t have--to fully be a bird and to leave all of the stupid squabbles and entanglements of human life behind. When I graduated high school and summer came I locked my door, turned off my lights, and I committed myself, beyond anything, to forgetting that I was human. My mom worked so much she didn’t have enough time to care and no one else was around to notice. I barely ate, I barely slept. At night instead of sleeping I would watch through the eyes of owls, relishing their night vision, praying to every God I could that somehow the psychic connection would short out and my consciousness would be flipped with the owl’s, and my mom would do one of her nightly checks and find a girl with an owl’s brain flapping around the room while I soared and smiled and hunted for mice in my forest. It never happened, of course, and every time I fell asleep against my will, I would wake up for a few painful seconds as the species I hated in a body I despised that I made no effort to upkeep, with my mother pounding on my door to offer me food that made me want to vomit just from the sight of it. I would close my human eyes and connect to the eyes of a bird as fast as I could before I could fully remember who I really was. My weight dropped so, so low, until my bones felt hollow and my head felt empty, and after a few months of focusing on nothing but being a bird, I felt as if the wind might finally treat me like one. So late one August night, looking through my own eyes, I climbed up to the very peak of the roof of my two-story house, and I thought about trying to fly--not in some clunky stupid cartoon way with cardboard wings where I drop like a stone and splat on the pavement--but for real, using all the techniques I’ve learned from the birds, using my new body. I thought that maybe watching the world through their eyes for more hours than I’ve watched it through my own has given me some special--relationship. With the air. I thought maybe the wind would think I’m one of them and carry me. And then you saw me standing up here, and you got off your bike and climbed up the tree and onto the roof and you asked me to tell you what was going on, and for some reason I broke down and told you all of this and I’ve been talking for so long and you haven’t been saying anything, and I think I feel stupider and more embarrassed than I’ve ever felt in my entire fucking life.” A thick August wind blew softly through the trees, and Serena wiped tears from under her dark, sunken eyes. She was winded from speaking for so long. She usually tried not to speak--it was more effort than she remembered. She suddenly felt very, very cold, and she wrapped her bony arms tightly around herself and looked at Tim. Tim was scrawny, and a little sweaty, and a little drunk, and he swayed slightly on the roof six feet from Serena. He had big eyes that took up too much of his face and no idea what to say. He stared at Serena for a while, trying to process everything she had just said, trying to imagine the life of the translucently-pale, shivering, tiny girl who stood before him, one foot on either side of the roof’s spine. They had gone to high school together but he had never spoken a single word to her or about her. He thought about how weirdly pretty she looked and then spent a much longer time thinking about how that wasn’t really an acceptable thought to have when she was in such distress. It occurred to him that what he said next might be one of the most important things he had ever said in his entire life, because he was pretty sure this girl had never told any of this to anyone and if he said something wrong he was basically going to shit on her whole life and destroy it. He wasn’t fully sure why he believed her. But he did. Serena took a slow step towards him, feeling suddenly that she *needed* something from this kind of goofy-looking guy who had interrupted what she now realized was almost 100% a suicide attempt. Although there had been some part of her that thought she was going to fly, there was a much larger, more realistic part that knew what was going to happen. Tim and Serena stood still, looking at each other, five feet apart on the roof. The August wind blew again, taunting her, feeling so full-bodied and strong that she felt *surely* it could carry her, and she thought about how she had not looked through her own eyes for this long in months. The burden of being in her own body felt unbearable again. She took a step back towards the edge of the roof. Tim, still having said absolutely nothing, stepped forward, one step, keeping his distance exactly the same as before. She took one more step back, and he one forward. Again. This time her bare heels kissed the very edge of the roof, which flexed under her weight. She swayed in the wind, and Tim swayed from the beers in his bloodstream, and then he finally spoke, abandoning the hundreds of sentence rough-drafts he had been accumulating during the silence and going with his gut. “You really think the wind’s good enough?” “What?” “To fly. You think the wind’s good enough to fly?” Tim smiled at her with an expression that he figured was close to his idea of coy. She looked away from him. “No. Not really.” “Not *really.* So you kinda do.” Serena stayed quiet. She felt like she was being mocked. “Cause--I’m a pretty skinny guy. I don’t know much about birds, but--if you’re saying it’s doable, I trust your judgement. It feels strong tonight.” Tim suddenly strode to the edge of the roof right next to Serena, and dangled his toes over the edge, and grinned at her with the biggest, stupidest grin he could put on. Slowly she turned around and put her toes over the edge, too. His smile grew even wider, and he began to feel a pressure in his chest and a strange magnet-like pull to this tiny, bony girl on the edge of the roof, shivering and trying not to return his smile. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing or what character he was playing but the alcohol felt warm in his stomach and the wind was cool and he couldn’t stop staring into Serena’s eyes, and he felt like everything he said was smoother than he could have possibly hoped for. “Hey. Are you looking at me with the birds’ eyes? Or yours?” Serena looked into his eyes with hers, and imagined what it would be like to see herself through his. She wondered how different his sight was from a bird’s. She wondered what she looked like to him. She realized it was taking her way too long to answer. “Mine.” “Isn’t it so much better this way? To be in your body, to have control over what you’re doing--to feel the wind on your face?” The wind, as if in harmony with Tim, rose up and passed over them both. Serena blushed a little. “Yeah. It does.” “I don’t really know you, but--I don’t think you should be a bird. I think you should be you. Maybe what you have isn’t perfect. But at least it’s yours.” Serena smiled as she hadn’t in years, and Tim smiled too. Against all of the cowardice he had known in his life, he obeyed his chest and leaned in to kiss her, and against all of her desires to be a bird, she closed her eyes and leaned towards him and allowed herself to be human, and their lips touched, and then the wind blew hard and Tim stumbled off the roof into the shadowy blackness below. Before she had time to think, Serena went off the roof after him, and her fingers stretched as wide as they could, reaching for his. She was too late. She heard the great harmonious whoosh of the wind and the bone-rattling smack of Tim against the hard asphalt of the driveway simultaneously. She braced for her own smack, but it didn’t come. When she opened her eyes she saw a vast vista, her entire town stretching out underneath her, orange lights twinkling in the summer night. She thought she had done what she always did when something terrible happened and switched to a bird’s eyes--until she looked down and saw her own pale, fragile body, being carried by the wind, high above the town. She realized the eyes she saw through were her own, and she could look around wherever she wanted, and then she realized she was truly flying, as herself. She felt the August wind on her face. Just for a second, to indulge herself, she connected to the birds all around. She could see herself through the eyes of every one of them, the wind carrying her higher and higher above the town, looking bold and majestic and finally like she belonged. Then she watched through the birds’ eyes as she began to descend, first ever so slightly, then very unslightly, and she felt the tender hands of the wind that had raised her so high slip away. She was falling fast now. She switched back into her own eyes and watched the red-stained asphalt of her driveway fast approaching, and for a second she was grateful that she was at least watching this through her own eyes. It *was* nicer to be in her own body, to feel the wind on her face, although this wind was very harsh and loud and nothing like the wind that had carried her just a few seconds ago. She briefly hoped that Tim was alive, and then she thought about how funny it was that her last thought was going to be about a person she had only really known for ten minutes. Then she looked down. She reached out towards the ground, and she felt her fingers brush Tim ever so slightly, and then she felt the smallest gust of August wind push against her chest and carry her for just a second. Then she hit, and she felt her legs shatter and explode, and she felt herself screaming. Tears streamed down her face--then a weak, bloody hand grabbed hers and squeezed, just a little. She looked to her left, writhing in pain. Tim smiled at her from a pool of his own blood on the asphalt. She smiled back, just a little bit, and the two of them closed their eyes together and listened to the sound of sirens in the distance.


I was suddenly aware of my consciousness, though something stopped me from opening my eyes. It wasn't that a physical obstacle prevented me; the slow build of dread rising in my chest at what might meet my gaze was enough to keep my eyes shut tight. I had woken up with no recollection of how I’d gotten here... wherever “here” was. The soft undergrowth cushioning my body felt cool against my burning skin, but it remained the only clue of my whereabouts until I could manage the strength to open my eyes. Perhaps I should take inventory of my surroundings. I forced myself to lift my lids, a hiss escaping as the bright orb singed my eyes. I instinctively winced at the brilliant rays, lifting a hand to my face to block them from paining my eyes. As I finally let my eyes adjust, I glanced around at my surroundings to get my bearings. Vivid colors met my gaze, still too brilliant to quite make out as the sun had dazed my eyes, but even their blurred, dancing vibrancy enchanted me. I tried to lift myself to get a better view of what was around me but immediately felt a throbbing pain building in my head as a whimper escaped my throat. Perhaps that wasn't a good idea yet, though the reason as to why only elusively fluttered around my mind. Soon, however, I pursued my original goal of getting up, much more carefully this time, though my body seemed to refuse to cooperate. Ever-persistent curiosity, however, soon got the better of me. I finally managed to struggle into an upright position, trying to ignore the pain as I felt my eyes hungrily sweeping the landscape. The otherworldly view swam before me; it was like nothing I had ever seen before, though I wasn't sure how I knew that... Funny, now that I thought about it, I couldn't seem to recall that much at all. My brow furrowed in confusion as the mesmerizing color of the surrounding nature entranced my eyes. Swirling reds and purples of floral vegetation curled around sturdy hazel shoots reaching for the sky, though the shoots eventually got lost and tangled together with their neighbors in a net of green arches. The ground below me seemed to slightly shimmer from the glistening droplets upon its sleek surface. Suddenly, the hypnotic lull was broken as a large object caught my attention, one that had wings and a gaping wound in its side. I crawled towards it, a muffled, nagging voice in the back of my mind trying to tell me its significance. Though as I edged closer to the mystery, the voice fell silent. There were bodies strewn around the beast. They were mostly mangled and a few half-eaten; however, none were left alive. It was sickening. The world suddenly began to sway as the feeling of dread started roaring again in my chest with panic clawing alongside it. My eyes continued trailing from one corpse to the next, flitting between bloodied injury after bloodied injury. I collapsed to the ground again, curling up and trying to sift through the pain in order to figure out what the hell was going on. A few thoughts began bubbling up, though they twisted the knife of pain further into my skull and prevented me from focusing on them. Finally, I was unable to withstand it all and let out a guttural howl before my vision faded once more. As I came to for the second time, I realized that my overworked brain had managed to wring out a few details as I lay unconscious: the winged beast that had appeared to have consumed the then-animated corpses was instead the airplane that I had arrived here in, and the unfortunate beings surrounding it had been my fellows on the journey. Something had gone terribly wrong during the travel, causing the vessel to crash in this strange place, killing most of the travelers. The rest, perhaps, had gotten lost in the phantasmagorical jungle surrounding the site. I didn't want to have to think of what else could have occurred. In fact, I refused to pursue that thought further as the indistinct growling, purring, screeching, and other noises of the area did not sound the least bit welcoming. But the noise only grew. The brilliant radiance of day was beginning to tuck away her sleepy head, and night began his prowl, bringing all manner of foreign beasts with him, as evidenced by the unwelcoming sounds. I had somehow managed to force myself into a standing position, nervously scanning the area. I needed somewhere safe. I finally found and locked my eyes on the prize, grateful for anything as I headed towards the only source of shelter I could find: the vessel. Alas, even such a simple plan was destined to fail. As I staggered off towards the gaping maw of my to-be home, I felt an uncomfortable prickle on the back of my neck, my muscles beginning to tense. A glance backward told me the shadow of something much more limber and stealthy than I had started its hunt with me as its prize. Panic started to take over as I registered the danger, causing me to blindly stumble faster towards the hope of safety. I barely heard my pursuer, as it likely had much more practice at the art of silence, though I knew it was there as I trudged forward. Was it a doomed endeavor? Panic and logic tussled in my mind as my legs blindly stepped forward to create distance from the unknown threat. The crunch of leaves beneath my feet was amplified to a deafening roar in the pursuit, though was it much of a pursuit if there was no chase? I could feel the unresolved tension of the unknown prickling at my neck as I got closer and closer to my destination. A moment of relief was on the cusp of flowing through me, as I had almost reached the center. Just a few more steps and I would be safe. My outstretched hand reached for the chipped white surface of the vehicle to begin my climb into its shelter, but it was a false hope. The creature (being much faster than I) had finally decided to pounce. It was midnight black and sleek, seeming to blend in with the very air itself. I barely had time to register its attack before it clamped down on my leg, earning a stifled cry from me, its unfortunate prey. It seems the beast had been toying with me, allowing me to feel a glimmer of safety before it assured me that I wasn't out of the woods yet. I began to struggle for my life, wildly kicking out and scrambling for some sort of hold or weapon or anything that could save me. Though initially slender in appearance, thick muscles bulged as the creature yanked at my leg. It was a cruel game of tug-of-war as I fought to hold on to the edge of the plane. The feral foe bared its teeth and pulled at my leg to dislodge me, its unforgiving emerald green eyes locked on me as I struggled. It seemed to be telling me that my time was up, and maybe it was right. But I wasn’t going down without a fight. A growl was all that came of my efforts, then a roar as my foot connected with something hard; playtime was over. Claws raked at my sides, and I felt a sticky warmth trickle down after, a gurgling sickness rising in my throat. My pursuer sunk its teeth in my neck, and a metallic tang was all that was left before my life whisked itself from my body. ... All I could see was black, and a strange language surrounded me as the cold air hit my body. I struggled to open my eyes, soon scrunching them back up as a small wail escaped my throat at the unfamiliarity. Someone shushed me and gently picked me up, slowly rocking me and comforting me. I continued to cry, though I soon tired myself out and clung to the person, still whimpering slightly as I wasn't sure what else to do.

It seemed that I had been given another chance at life, though I didn't know it yet at the time. I was but a newborn child, fresh and reborn to the world with infinite possibilities; I was blessed with a new start. A new beginning.