Alexander's ride from the rideshare app turned out to be a young woman in her mid-20s driving a tan, beaten down Ford Taurus. She wore a tank top, bleached jean shorts, and a face - curtained by wavy, shoulder length blonde hair - that was deadened and lifeless, like a house that had been boarded up. They met on a clear July day at a Chevron near the interstate in North Salt Lake. The sun was just peeking over the valley's mountain peaks, casting its rays through the light morning smog. "I'm Annabel, you can call me Bel," she introduced herself. "Alexander," he said, nodding.

They slung his backpack into a tight space behind the driver's seat as the entire trunk and most of the backseat was filled with piles of her belongings. As they started off, she explained she was heading home after a college summer quarter, and Alexander acknowledged he was a recent graduate moving for a new job. During this exchange he noticed that his seat was not reclined at all, but in a ramrod-straight, vertical position. He reached for the recline lever. "Oh don't, please, sorry Alex, there's a fish tank behind you, it's glass."

Alexander pushed back a few millimeters, as far as he dared, until he felt significant resistance from the object behind his seat. She glared at him.

"It's Alexander," said Alexander somewhat shortly, who disliked nicknames for their brevity and informality. She ignored this. They drove past squat glass and concrete office buildings, supermarkets, and sprawling RV lots as the sun rose steadily higher. Its rays skirmished the car, and, even though it was still early, it became obvious the car's weak air conditioner was losing the battle. Alexander began to sweat a little. His back started to ache from being held perpendicular for so long and he shifted in his seat to try and relieve the pressure.

"Man, it's like ten times hotter than when I drove home this time last year," she said.

"Did you know, relative to the sun, we are in the same spot we were this day a year ago? Despite traveling at terrific speeds through space, we have effectively gone nowhere in an entire year."

She blinked at this unsolicited fact. "Oh," she replied. "My father was an astrophysicist," he explained proudly, oblivious to the awkward pause.

"You must be really smart."

"Fairly, yes," he wiped some sweat from his brows.

She stared at him for a bit, registered that his arrogance was genuine and completely unperturbed by her incredulity, and promptly cranked up her music. Alexander could feel each beat drilled into his spine as Nicki Minaj, Lil' Wayne and others rapped relentlessly through the morning. He made to say something, but she surreptitiously turned it louder. The windows thrummed. Alexander could feel air puff at the back of his head every time the bass thudded. He folded his arms and resigned himself to staring out the window.

The suburbs dropped away, and they climbed Soldier summit, swimming through rolling oceans of sagebrush and cheat grass. Mid-morning she pulled into a rest stop. Alexander, who believed that any stop on a road trip besides refueling was a criminal waste of time, scowled at the dashboard and refused to enjoy the brief silence. They rolled through the wastelands of southern Idaho next, with huge flat swaths of brown grass stretching out on either side of them that were broken only at the horizon by distant mountain ranges. There was a brief respite from the sun as huge purple thunderclouds crawled across the plains, but near Mountain Home, the sun returned in full glory. Bel stopped at a rest stop there, and then again forty minutes later near Boise. When they got back on the road, Alexander, with his back aching from his cramped position, sweating profusely, and dizzy from the deafening roar of her music, reached over and swatted the radio off.

"I cannot stand that stuff," he sniffed. "It's my car, Alex," she said, flipping it back on.

Alexander flipped it off again. She switched it on. For a few moments they struggled with the knob as she swerved through Boise traffic. Bel gave in and threw up her hands.

“Ok! OK! It's off," she snarled. Then she abruptly pulled into the next rest stop. Alexander breathed a low sigh of frustration.

"Oh good, I did not really want to get there anytime soon," he growled. "I have to pee." Alexander paced around the car while he waited, trying to cool his thoughts. The dazzling sun, baking black top, and endless traffic buzzing nearby on the freeway did not help. Bel took a full twenty minutes. Alexander was ready to do battle when she returned, but was surprised when she said, "I'm sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Can we try again?" This sudden reversal disarmed Alexander, and he agreed with a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry I've got so much junk, maybe I could rearrange it a bit?"

"No, that is ok," said Alexander, eager to get back on the road. "I am sorry I turned your radio off. I do not really mind your music, however I do not like losing my hearing." "It's alright, we'll compromise," she said cheerily as she turned the radio on low. "So what's this new job you got?" "Software engineer. I actually graduated a year ago, and this will be my third new job in the last six months." "Oh?" she raised her eyebrows.

"My coworkers at my last two jobs, they... we did not agree much, and they carried grudges - they actively tried to force me out. I am hoping this one will be different." "Oh man, sorry." "It is alright," Alexander shrugged. "You know what my father does - what about you, what do your parents do?" "Nothing. My dad used to grow hay. One year a competitor forced him out. We were going to move, but while he was carrying a couple boxes out our door, he twisted funny and broke his back. Now he's a paraplegic in a wheelchair." She explained this in a detached manner. Alexander felt slightly horrified that such a terrible reversal of fortunes was even possible, and stammeringly tried to offer condolences. "He loves aquariums now, he sits and watches the fish for hours, every day. He has all kinds, iridescent blues and reds, hues of green and orange. He gives them all names and personalities." Alexander suddenly understood the tank behind him. "That is nice of you, to get him another one." "Some of them got broken," she shrugged, then shook her head, "That's not really true, I broke some of them. Seeing him there every day, stuck, so trapped, spiraling around his limited routine, and all the while he could have been out doing things if something so simple hadn't..." she broke off and took a deep breath, "it's just, he could have gone places, done things, you know? Now he goes nowhere." Alexander didn't know what to say. She continued. "Before his accident, in the summers my dad would use spare bales to make huge forts for us. We'd spend days camping out in them, sleeping under the stars, running our hands over their prickly walls and breathing in the smell of the fresh cut grass. We looked forward to it every year." Alexander smiled pleasantly at this. "I used to love days like this,” he said. “My grandmother had a pool with a kind of astro turf around it. It was unusual, most people have concrete you know, but I loved to lay on that soft, bright green turf, dip my feet in the cool water, and count the cirrus clouds whipping by way above." The small peace that had settled between them helped Alexander relax slightly. They gassed up in Ontario, but when they got on the road again the air conditioning seemed noticeably more pitiful.

Soon Alexander's back began to ache with sharper pains, and sweat dripped off him in earnest as the afternoon sun shot through the windshield. He regretted declining her offer to rearrange the fish tank. As the silence stretched on she turned up her music a bit more to fill it. Alexander pushed back on his seat, desperate to gain an inch, until they heard a faint crackling.

"Seriously?" she said. She pulled off on the side of the road to inspect it. Alexander drummed his fingers in impatience.

"Lucky," she said, "it's just the plastic rim." She rearranged some items, and got the tank farther back, so that he could lay back a couple inches. It took her nearly fifteen minutes to carefully replace her stuff, and Alexander sighed loudly more than a few times. When they got going again she increased the volume again. Alexander complained but she pretended not to hear. Oregon, punctuated by small towns with large green trees, slipped by as the afternoon wore down.

Alexander remembered something. "I misspoke earlier," he had to talk loudly over the music. "I said we had gone nowhere in the past year - just around and around. But really, our galaxy has been moving this entire time. From that perspective, we have travelled great distances." "Don't care," she fumed.

"As time goes on we move farther and farther away from center, light from other galaxies gets dimmer and dimmer. We get further and further into empty space." They were in pine forests, nearing Meacham.

"Is that me? Is that what you're trying to say? Petering out into nothing?" "No I -" "At least I'm not you, going nowhere in circles. Third job is the charm? Ask yourself what the common denominator is sometime." She had snapped before she could stop herself.

"Oh man, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean -" but it was too late - Alexander rammed his seat back as hard as he could. The fish tank shattered and glass splattered over the seat and onto the floor. Bel slammed her car to a stop on the shoulder.

"Out," she said, shaking. Alexander snatched his backpack, hurled the door shut, and stepped out into the sunset. He stood on the side of the interstate, and watched Bel drive away as the tree tops projected black silhouettes against the burning orange sky. Bel looped around and found him later walking in the dimming light. He got in and hugged his backpack to his chest. She had shut the music off, and as they drove they listened together to the hum of the world flying past, hurtling along lines and arcs, never still, lapping up mile after mile.

"Are we there yet?" he asked. "I don't know," she sighed.


Blanket Party Vickie Riggan 2895 words “Is no one going to say it?” I asked looking around the room at the curious faces of three of my best friends. “You know you’re all thinking it. Am I the only one willing to state the obvious? Roberta took a long draw on her cigarette hiding her face behind the exhaled smoke. Rhonda focused on the fingernail she had been diligently tending with a worn-out emery board. Mary Jo looked me square in the face and started to giggle. “Sorry about that, but you know I always giggle when I’m nervous.” “You also giggle when you’re drunk,” Roberta chimed in. Rhonda stops grinding down her nail to add, “And when you’re sober. When don’t you giggle?” Now everyone is laughing especially when Roberta admits she’s glad to be wearing peepee pads, the mere mention of which sets Mary Jo off again and the whole room is roaring with laughter. Even I have joined now because this is my tribe. These “sisters” that I have bonded with since moving to The Glades. The Glades is our carefree final home for an active senior lifestyle to enjoy our golden years.  Or so the brochure wants you to believe. Don’t get me wrong, I have come to love it here. At first, I missed my big house and perennial garden but my knees and hips don’t miss climbing the stairs to the second floor bedroom and I’ve come to love container gardening. Bob is off most days playing golf with his new friends or at home sleeping in his recliner. But the best part for me has been finding my tribe; girls who think like me.

Yes, I said girls. There might be a wrinkled old lady in my mirror in the morning but she’s hiding a wild and dangerous 21-year-old underneath. Even more dangerous now than when I was 21. If I get crazy now and get caught what can they do to me? I wear bifocal contact lenses, my teeth are implants, my boobs are fake (rebuilt after the originals were sliced off with the cancer). I mean, I’ve survived so much bad shit that I didn’t ask for, why not take a chance on surviving shit I plan for. “Ladies,” I raised my voice and my glass, “a salute to sisterhood.” Glasses clinked as the girls chimed in. “I’ll drink to that. Me too. Me three!” Then I set my glass down and began to speak in a serious tone. “Back to my original statement. If no one else will say it, I will. We have to give a sister a hand.” The others looked around confused looks on their faces. “Who are you talking about, Terri?” asked Rhonda. Other voices started to chime in, but I silenced them. “It’s Sally Wright, the cute redhead at 316 Rose Lane. They bought June’s place after Carl died and she had to move in with her kids back in Indiana. Poor June, taking care of Carl through his cancer nearly killed her.  After the funeral and the medical bills, she had to sell out to dig out of debt,” and with that, I raised my glass again and offered a toast to keeping the life insurance paid up. Mary Jo giggled so hard she choked on her gin and tonic. Roberta raised her hand like we were back in school. “So may I ask what Sally Wright needs our help with?” “Is it cancer?”  Rhonda asked with a tired look. Her first two husbands died from the dreadful disease – one lungs, one brain. Fortunately, her third husband only has heart trouble she reminds us of often. “Not dementia. I hope you’re not suggesting we all jump in to help her with that. I went through it with my mom. In the end, we had to put her in a home. It’s a 24/7 job,” added Roberta. “No, it’s worse, I’m afraid,” I added as I sat down my glass. “He’s a bully,” I admitted seriously. All the girls nodded. “There is nothing worse.” “Wait a minute,” Mary Jo interrupted, “maybe she’s ok with being bullied. I mean if they’ve been married a long time and she hasn’t done anything about it before, why should we get involved?” The other girls looked to me for a response. “That’s why I called you all over here. I ran into Sally at the grocery and invited her to happy hour. She got this panicked look in her eyes and said “No, her husband wouldn’t allow her to.”  A loud groan erupted in the group. Roberta stood up rattling the ice in her empty glass. “Anyone else ready for a refill?” Everyone held their glass out. Once the refills were done and everyone returned to their seats, Rhonda said, “Mary Jo’s right. Why should we get involved if she’s used to it?” “That’s just it. She’s not.” I could see I was confusing everyone. “After I got home and put away groceries I took some snickerdoodles down to the office for Marge, the girl on the front counter.” “You mean information central? “Roberta snapped. “It’s true. She knows all. She sees all, and she tells all.” “Exactly,” I said. “So, I explained that I ran into the new girl Sally Wright at the bakery department and she seemed really nervous for some reason. After that, I just nibbled on a cookie and listened. Seems that Sally and her husband, Gary have only been married 2 years. She was married to her high school sweetheart for over 40 years. Then one day he steps out of the shower, walks into the bedroom where she was laying out his clothes for a party they were getting ready for, and he just dropped dead from a massive heart attack right in front of her.” “Ooooh, damn,” Roberta cried.

“Better than cancer,” Rhonda added matter-of-factly.

“So, then,” I continued, “according to Marge she knew Gary from church and his wife had died the month before. Sally was lost without a man to take care of.” This elicited a groan from the group.

“I could draw her a map. Too bad she didn’t come to see me,” Roberta added snarkily. “Oh, Bert, don’t be so cynical,” remarked the ever-romantic Mary Jo, “maybe it was meant to be.” “More likely he just needed another victim,” I stated. “Bullies don’t just become bullies overnight. It’s in their DNA or something. He probably bullied his first wife to death.” “So, what else did Marge tell you,” Rhonda said trying to get back on topic. I continued with the Marge report about how he told her which activities she was allowed to participate in – no water aerobics because she didn’t need to be in a pool hunching and spreading her legs in public where anyone can see.  This one really bothered me because my doctor prescribed the aerobics to help me with my balance issues. Then I went on about the “marching orders” as he calls them. “Three meals a day always at the same time. She has to prepare a menu a week ahead and he approves it then gives her an allowance for the groceries, plus he takes her to the grocery store and waits in the car for her. If she’s not done in what he thinks is the right amount of time he goes in looking for her.” Roberta stopped me there. “That’s enough. I’m convinced. He’s a bully. I’ve seen it before, but what do you, what does she expect us to do?” “Is he type 1? If he’s a diabetic, I can help get rid of him. I know a few things she can do,” Rhonda offered. From her years as a nurse, I imagine she does have a trick up her sleeve. “No, I don’t want to kill him. Then Sally will be all alone again. That’s not what she wants. Marge says Sally told her about how kind he was the first few months of their marriage. She just wants that Gary back.” “Oh well, why didn’t you say so before now? Let me run home and get my magic wand and we can run over to their place and I’ll clunk him on the head and be done with this,” Roberta added with a laugh. That started Mary Jo giggling again. Rhonda applauded and smiled. “Well, since I know your magic wand is a Louisville slugger, I think we should veto that plan,” I said trying to bring everyone back to a serious tone. “I was thinking more along the lines of a blanket party.” Blank faces looked back at me over the highball glasses. “Okay, let me explain. In boot camp, we had a girl with long hair who refused to cut it and never got it put up right to pass inspection. Every inspection she would fail which meant the company failed, which meant we didn’t get liberty that weekend. The first time it happened we offered to help her, but she refused. The second time we warned her we would be helping her in our way if she didn’t do something. The third time we gave her a blanket party – after she went to sleep in the barracks, we threw a blanket over her head and took her to the showers where a couple of girls took scissors to her hair while the rest of us held her down.” I stopped to take a swallow of my sangria while the others thought about my explanation. Mary Jo spoke first. “So, you think we should sneak in to their bedroom, wrap Gary in a blanket and cut his hair to make him treat Sally better?” “No,” Rhonda’s voice rose excitedly, “we drug him, we beat the crap out of him and tell him he’ll get more of the same if he doesn’t start treating his woman right.” Her eyes gleamed and I could see she was thinking about what supplies we would need to get him in a state we could handle. I almost choked at seeing how easily she came up with that plan. One of these days I need to ask her exactly what kind of nursing she practiced. “I have something in mind along those lines without the assault and battery charges. Marge also told me that Sally is going back to Tennessee to help with the birth of her new grandbaby. We strike while Sally is away, so that she has no involvement. In fact, if we do it right she will never know what happened to change him back to sweet, adorable Gary.” Roberta groaned, “Just let me whack him a few times with my magic wand, please.” “No,” I answered, “we aren’t going to lay a hand on him. Rhonda I’m leaving the key part of the plan up to you. We need him out enough to be able to walk and maybe look a little drunk, but we don’t want to harm him other than maybe a heck of hangover the next day.” “And then we beat him?” Mary Jo asked with a giggle. “No then we load him into his own truck and take him out to that strip club on the edge of town and make sure he has a good time with several of the girls there, with our help of course,” I explained. “So this blanket is wrapped in blackmail, I see,” exclaimed Roberta. “Count me in but make sure I have copies of the pictures!” After all the laughter settled down, we set to work on our plan. I didn’t ask Rhonda what GHB was or how she knew where to get it. I just trust her knowledge that it’s what we need to make our victim, let’s say, pliable.

Six days later, while Sally was 3 states away Rhonda and I arrived at 316 Rose Lane with a plate of cookies and mugs of coffee. Gary was surprisingly hospitable and invited us in accepting the housewarming gifts and answering our questions about the new grandchild. He finished off a third cookie and washed it down with the coffee we brought and tried to get up from his chair. Rhonda grinned at me. Let the party begin! I found his truck keys on a hook by the door and the two of us walked him out the kitchen door into the garage carefully loading our “guest” into the back seat of his own truck. The drive out to the “Boobie Hut” (good grief what a name) took only twenty minutes. We pulled into the lot and parked next to Roberta and Mary Jo in Steve’s SUV.

It took all four of us to get him out of the truck and stand him against the side. He kept sliding down and crawling back to his feet, with help. “How much of that stuff did you give him, Rhonda.” Mary Jo asked with a nervous giggle. “It’s not an exact science you know. He might have had a beer or something stronger before we drugged him, but I gave him enough to make him feel really bad tomorrow,” she said proudly. Finally we had him standing and started to formulate a plan on how to get him in the club to get the incriminating photos and whether to take him back home of leave him in the parking lot to add further insult when a siren whooped behind us. We froze. “This was not part of any blanket parties I’ve been to in my past,” I whispered to the others. “I got this,” Roberta spoke up confidently. “Just follow my lead.” “Good evening, ladies. It looks like you might be having some trouble with this gentleman here. Are one of you ladies married to him?” the deputy asked eyeing the situation with great curiosity. “No,” Roberta answered with the sweetest southern drawl I’d ever heard, especially for a California girl. “You see, he’s actually my friend Sally’s husband but she’s back home in Tennessee helping with the birth of their new grandchild. And well, as you can see, he decided to come out here and celebrate in his own, I guess you would say “manly” way. We were just heading home from Bible Study and Mary Jo said, “Isn’t that Sally’s husband stumbling around out there in that parking lot?” Mary Jo held back her giggles for this most important part of the sudden new plan. “That’s right, officer, I recognized the truck and then we saw him all drunk and trying to find his keys so we had to stop for dear Sally’s sake. I mean what would it do to her to get a call that her bullying, old husband was out drunk and watching hoochie dancers to celebrate becoming a grandpa?” I had to turn my head so the deputy wouldn’t see me roll my eyes. I’m not sure which was harder to believe, Mary Jo’s sudden ad lib to the story or Roberta’s sudden change of heritage. “Yes, sir, I even tried pouring some of my coffee down his throat to sober him up. He didn’t want to give us his keys or let one of us take him home. He said something about a woman knowing her place….” At that I let my voice drop off and looked the deputy square in the face. “What can we do?” “Well, ladies, you did a fine thing but why don’t you let me handle it from here. This man is obviously too drunk to drive tonight but we’ve got a cot downtown where he can sleep it off. While he’s a guest of the city we might just need to have a discussion with him about treating that wife better. I mean, really, out drunk at a strip club while she’s back home helping.  Maybe it’s time he did some thinking about how he treats his lady.” The deputy was clearly taking over our plan. It was almost too good. “Do you need our help getting him to your car, officer?” Rhonda asked politely.

The deputy beamed a knowing smile at the four of us obviously proud of himself for getting us out of a difficult situation. “Don’t worry yourselves. I’ve handled worse, Maam. You ladies should be getting home. It’s getting late.”

We thanked him and began to walk away. I glanced inside the truck as we passed by to make sure we left no trace of our presence, then we all piled into Steve’s SUV , but Mary Jo was too nervous to drive. “Bert, you get us home. I need to sit in the back and collect myself.” Five minutes later Mary Jo started giggling loudly and pretty soon we all joined in. “Bible Study? Really? I can’t believe he bought that!” I said. Rhonda had an answer,” He was all of 30 years old if that. To him all old ladies drink iced tea and go to Bible Study. But I want to know when Roberta  became a Southern belle?” As we pulled up to a red stoplight she smiled behind the wheel,” It just popped into my head, and well, it worked, didn’t it?” The light changed to green and we made the turn toward The Glades.

“Yes,” I thought to myself, “it worked better than we had planned. Is no one  going to say it?”


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Theme:** **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** Story includes an LGBTQIA+ character. **(You must include if/how you used it at end of your story to receive credit.)** Happy Pride Month! In honor of that, this week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘identity’. You may interpret the theme however you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. **Please treat these topics & constraints with respect and care.** *(Artwork created by on Deviantart.)* **For some extra fun:** Use the stickied comment on this post to tell me who your favorite fictional LGBTQIA+ character is! It can be any medium: tv, movies, literature, games. etc.! *** # Last Week: - Winner: by u/katherine_c You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


My mother always tells us stories about her mother, my grandmother. My grandmother grew up in a beautiful house by the shore. My mum's fondest memory is the one of her whole family sitting around this big chair, listening to her mother’s stories of the sea, gentle wind, and raindrops that tickle your cheeks while hiding from the extreme heat they were suffering outside. She would talk about herself as a little child, spending entire mornings running across the beach, bothering tourists that didn’t understand the real beauty of what they were living, and whole nights jumping as high as they could to prevent getting absolutely soaked by the waves. She told them about their father, my grandfather, who she met during one of the weekly beach cleanings that the youth organization of their town organized. With a childish smile on her face, she’d tell her children how, one day, she accidentally stepped on a broken crystal bottle some uncaring person had left there, despite the continuous warnings that were shown at all times on social media and television, and cut her foot. The group coordinator saw her sitting on the sand, absorbing all the blood with a paper towel she luckily found in her pocket and quickly ran to help her. He picked her up, bridal style, to the nearest first aid refuge, while she complained relentlessly. She wanted to continue her work, to continue doing something good to save the world as much as she could.

Sometimes people would ask her what her big motivation was, and she always answered with the same story: “When I was seven, my brother and I found a turtle whose mouth was completely shut by a plastic that had wrapped itself around it. It was dead. That day I vowed that I would do anything in my power to keep that from happening to any other animal.” And so she did. Or at least, she tried. When she was eighteen years old, instead of moving far away to study some posh degree in the best university, she chose to stay home and enroll in the local university, where she studied marine biology and environmental sciences. When she was about to finish college, an international youth social movement started to demand solutions for the impending disaster, and she didn’t hesitate and joined the scientific committee. She would tell people the same things over and over again: this is a crisis, if we don’t act now, it’s going to be too late. It is technically too late now. Whenever she told these stories, you could see the sadness and rage rushing through her, because she always thought she could have done more. My grandfather a lawyer, 10 years older than her. He helped her out countless times. Being a young, driven, educated, energetic and intelligent woman like she was, she received death threats, she was sued by multiple international companies that she outed as the main contributors to pollution, she was insulted by media and she was even arrested once. As a young farmer’s son, he knew he had to take special care of the world, it was in his genes. He moved to go to university and became a volunteer in many organizations. When he finally finished his degree, he founded Legal Team for Climate, an organization of lawyers who worked along with experts to find a legal solution to the disaster. He even tried to improve the situation via politics, but people never understood the urgency of the matter, and, well, he couldn’t make them. People would always say he did it out of love for my grandmother, for his family, and his planet. That he believed that young people deserved a livable world. I have never actually met my grandfather, as he died when my mother was only one year old. All the memories I have of him come from pictures, newspaper cuttings, videos, his old diaries, and the countless stories everybody who knew him tells. When the Great Catastrophe of 2039 happened, everybody who lived by the water had to move to safer places. The water took everything in its way as its own, not sparing anything it found, not even human lives. Many people didn’t survive the Great Catastrophe, neither the floods that started it nor the mass migration that started because of it. My grandfather didn’t die there, though. Months after they settled in Bolivia, my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. The few pictures that were taken during my mum’s first life year show an incredibly aged young man with an oxygen mask, watching his daughter from a distance. Nevertheless, even the best doctors (that they could afford) couldn’t save his life. This is to show that even wealth can’t save people from certain situations.

Money didn’t save my family from losing their house in the floods. Grandmother always said that she knew it was coming, though, so she actually had everything packed months in advance. She remembered how every day, the waves would get a little closer to the streets, and then a little further into the yards, till it finally burst in and took everything they hadn’t secured.

Sometimes, I’ll look outside the window and see the dry ground, the lack of green, and I wonder where it went wrong. I’m not going to lie. I get angry often. Not at my grandparents: they did everything they could to prevent this. I get angry at all those people who knew this would happen and still didn’t do anything. Sometimes, those days when the heat is so severe that you can’t move to prevent the body to collapse, I kind of wish that all those people who called the scientists liars, who pretended like there wasn’t a crisis going on, have descendants who are alive today, who suffer as much as we do. Because, just like I said, status and money aren’t going to keep those rotten children from the impending death. Other days, I simply feel hopeless, like when I watch the seasons change from extreme summer to extreme winter (it kind of makes me laugh that people still listen to The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. Or at least, chuckle sadly). Or when we have to start tying ropes to all our belongings because a new flood is coming.

I think of all the architects who have made a living off of all these people’s (in which group I realize I’m included) misfortunes. Of all the politicians, children of politicians, who try to justify their parents’ actions, avoid blaming them. They spend millions on trying to solve something unsolvable for decades, but they like to pretend they’re doing something useful.

Even though I never lived in my grandmother’s childhood town (and I couldn’t, because now it’s, as we call it, New Atlantis), I feel like I’m there when I open my window. The air is thick with salt, a little humid, and hot. According to the last reports that I read for class this morning, the last measure of the polar ice revealed that there was enough water to cover the entire continent except for five mountains in Argentina. I know this means the end of us. We aren’t high enough to survive this one. It may seem dramatic, but I know, just by smelling the air, that a big storm is coming, and I don’t know if our community will get out of it alive.

I quickly take my phone to contact my brother, who is staying at a friend’s house, making his assignment that he might never have the chance to turn in. This is our life now. We live as if we had unlimited time, while we know we don’t. We read the weekly reports with fear, dreading to find out if our friend who lives 20 meters lower has lost his house. Dreading to find out how much time there is left. It isn’t until the moment when I hear the thunder that I realize that the cable has been dead for weeks, since the last storm, and that the technicians haven’t gotten around to fix it.

A drumroll pierces the silent air. It almost feels like the whole planet it holding its breath, like it is preparing for a counterattack. The big one. The few who’ll be left after this will call this

The Great Catastrophe of 2056 . As I hear the storm coming closer and closer, a sudden calmness invades me. I know that, whatever happens, humans have been asking for this for centuries. As much as I know that it’s not just our extinction we’ve caused, I do know that the Earth is paying back big. The calmness is just mental, though. My heart beats to the rhythm of the thunder, my breath has become shallow and quick. It’s fear, a primal response. Why didn’t the generations before us trust their primal response? It had to be telling them the same thing, didn’t it? That they were causing their own deaths?

It is as if the Earth is really alive because an enormous amount of water begins to fall down. I hear windows breaking somewhere, and I can only pray that it isn’t inside the house, just in case. Looking outside, I see how the baby blue sky from before is now almost black with clouds.

I hear screaming from the streets. Or what used to be streets but now seem rivers. I have to close my eyes, mentally asking my brother and his friend to stay inside. Drowning must be such a sad death, I realize. How many people have died already because of this? I don’t know how much time I spend talking inside my head, but when I open my eyes, I see that the sky is blue again. But I do notice that there is, about a meter and a half high, a change of shade. Water. In the minutes it must have rained, so much water has fallen down that I’m locked in my own house.

I hear a loud noise from upstairs, and suddenly, a sound that reminds me of the waterfalls that always appear in movies. I know this is it. If I open any door or window, I’ll be dead from the impact of the water, but if I don’t, I’ll probably drown.

I see the water arriving fiercely. I can see my brother’s football distinctly, as well as my big pen collection. A sea of color and plastics is coming towards me. I decide to give in. I can’t fight this, nor do I want to do this for the rest of my life. I let the water surround me, getting closer to my chest, closer to my neck. It’s filling my mouth, and my instinct tells me to drink. The water doesn’t taste like water should taste like. It’s a mixture of sand, earth, and God-knows-what other polluting particles. I spit it out immediately. It’s getting to my nose. I know I can only hold my breath for about 20 seconds, so I start to count.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15… 16… 17… 18.... 19… 20.


I died a long time ago. In a room that has no name, no space left to occupy. But that isn’t quite the truth. No. The space is ever changing, ever full. My footsteps are only loud enough to echo at night, when the sound of the caffeinated night nurses and the beeping heart monitors sing to the stuffy supply closets. The walls and the floors are the same. Can only be the same. Visiting hours are quiet, because there are no visitors. The difference is everyone is a little farther apart. In their shared looks, and the distance between their itching fingers. Where did all the visitors go? They talk and screech from the phones and the computers wheeled in on the carts with meals and Jell-o cups. I think it’s the worst decision I ever made, to have died in a place with no sleep. What sleep there is is fitful and interrupted by all the blue and shuffling of fabric. The nurses mean well in the rooms but not the halls. All the white boards with their scribbled shifts are fun to mess with. The children with the good fortune of a parent or two slumped in the stiff scratchy bedside chairs watch me with eyes like moons. I can tell from the look alone that they’re close, closer than their parents or the doctors or the janitors. Their insides are hollowing out, soul weeping its fluttered experience by the teardrop. I had to have looked the same, at home, at school. Difference was I could breathe. Not every death is soaked in blood or even regret. The kid with the big flashing eyes talks to me. “The granny down the hall died today, didn’t she?” I nod, and it’s enough. “Where is she now?” “Not here.” “I could hear her wheezing.” The kid wraps his arms around himself and shakes. It makes the IV bag swing and slosh. “Bad way to go.” I stand next to his bed, and I take in his round cheeks and the wisps of his brown hair covering his ears and forehead. “Maybe she went home.” “Maybe.” “Will I go home, too?” Lying tastes like the mish-mash of rainbow on a white background, swirling and sparkling. “Maybe.” “Why didn’t you?” I stare up at the ceiling, the way I did when I died, the way everyone does one way or another. I wonder just how many people have terrible memories they can’t escape in the form of a blank ceiling. It’s mute and flat and unforgiving. By the time I look down the kid is gone, and his father puts a hole into the wall next to the white board with the name of the nurse on shift. He’s a man that buried his love too deep, I can see it spilling from his shoulders and his chest in rivers. A death without blood can in fact have regret. I don’t go far from my room. I can’t. I’m not chained to it, or even held in by invisible force fields. It just feels wrong to wander too far down the hall, and see the faces that have nothing to do with me. I have no purpose, no secrets hidden under the easily wiped clean linoleum. Instead I watch from the corner of the room as they wheel the beds in and out. I wonder absentmindedly if this is my punishment. The endless stream of people fighting for a life they want. It’s less a punishment and more like a slap. The old TV across from the bed hums and fizzes like blood and hydrogen peroxide. All 3 channels play at once and I hide the remote around the room so I don’t have to deal with its noise. I try not to stand at the end of the bed or anywhere someone other than a kid can see me. Something about the young makes them far more courageous than the adults. Or maybe I just died too young. While they’re in my room I’m their big sibling and I wonder in the haze of morphine and breathing machines if I had siblings. I wonder if I hurt them. The table by the window has purple hyacinths in a sleek vase, and the moon wilts it’s flowers. I sit at the table while the newest patient attempts to sleep, attempts to dream, attempts to breathe. I get lost in the monotonous wail of the flatlined heart rate monitor.


“ You had the whole week off and you couldn’t even spend five minutes with her yet you take the other two for days at a time. You wonder why she doesn’t run to you or scream your name when she sees you. She doesn’t really know you anymore nor you her. You use to come over every weekend or every other weekend and spend the day with just her. You use to pay attention to her and play with her now it seems like your phone is more important. She asks for your attention but you give it to the other two more and she sees it. It not only hurts her but it hurts me as well. I want you to be close with her to have the bond again that y’all use to have. However it seems like you just want to drop in when its convenient for you, when you can make a big show about how great you are. I’m use to it. I’m use to being the outcast, the outsider, the mistake but she isn’t. I see how you treat the other two, how you take them places and have fun sleepovers yet with her you don’t and you always make excuses why instead of just trying. That’s what you need to do is try but I know you won’t. No matter how many times I ask or beg or plead you will still ignore us. You will still choose everyone else. ” Rebecca looked at the letter over and over again making sure it said what she wanted it to. Satisfied she saved the document and closed her laptop. Rebecca wouldn’t send the letter or even print it out. It was more of a way to coop to express herself without getting more hurt in the process. So she wrote letters whenever she needed to vent. Mind cleared and feeling more relaxed she walked to her bedroom window and watched her daughter outside playing with her best friend. It had been a long difficult year for them all but Rebecca was determined to make this new year better. She wasn’t going to let things bother her. “Mom, mom! Look what we found!” Her daughter Lily yelled running through the front door with her best friend, Madi, right behind her. “What is it?” She asked as both girls held out their hands. “Flowers!” They giggled in unison. “Oh those are beautiful. I love the purple ones” Rebecca smiled at the girls. “Can we press them for my mom to use?” Madi asked. “Sure we can. I’ll go get a big book.” Rebecca said as she went and got a book that already had some flowers pressing in it. Madi’s mom, Destiny, was a resin artist and used flowers and plants in her art she also was Rebecca’s best friend. They put the flowers in the book then the girls asked for a snack. Rebecca was cutting up the apples and bananas when her phone rang. “Hello.” “Hey Beck it’s me. Sorry it’s taking so long but the store lines are crazy.” Destiny said. “Yeah figured they might be with it being New Year’s Eve and all. This is what we get for deciding to have a party at the last minute.” “haha yeah your right but we deserve it and so do the girls. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” “Ok girl. Be safe.” Rebecca hung up the phone and gave the girls their snack. She then cleaned up the kitchen and started making some brownies. Yes, she thought, they deserved to have a little party even if it’s just them. The year had been long and tiring each one experiencing some kind of hardship or heartbreak. The girls might not make it to midnight but they could still celebrate with them. “Aunt Becks can we paint?” Madi asked. “Sure. Lily knows where the stuff is.” Rebecca put the brownies in the oven and went to check on the girls. They were laughing loudly as they painted and Rebecca couldn’t help but smile. Children’s laughter really did help make people happier. Thinking back to what this year was she was glad for everything that happened because it made her stronger and it made her friend stronger… The beginning of the year started good everyone was happy and healthy. Then Destiny’s husband was gone, not in a way most people think. He left, decided he didn’t want to be a father anymore. Destiny of course was devastated; she had no warning and no income to provide for her and her child. So she had to get a job which wasn’t too bad because she wanted to get one anyway. If it wasn’t for Rebecca babysitting Madi and being Destiny’s shoulder to cry on Destiny feels she wouldn’t have made it through. It was hard on Madi though; she loved her father and missed him. Madi didn’t understand why he would choose to leave and not want her. Lily did her best to be there for her friend but she too is a child and Lily’s father left when she was a baby so she doesn’t remember him. So they just play and not talk about it. Destiny and Madi are stronger and Destiny has a great job that she loves. Rebecca’s year was mainly about helping Destiny although she struggled too. Her struggle was mostly mental and emotional though. She felt like she couldn’t talk to anyone and felt like her family didn’t want her around. She felt like a failure and a bad mother but then she realized it was just voices that didn’t speak the truth. People telling her these things to get under her skin and make her feel bad about herself. So she started writing the letters and they help a lot. Rebecca found something she loved doing and started working on it. So even though the year had some bad times it made them all stronger and taught them to believe in themselves. So here Rebecca sat listening to the girls laughing while brownies are baking and prepare for movies and popcorn. Just then the front door opened and Destiny walked in with pizza and drinks. “Hey, hey, I’m back” Destiny said. “Mommy!” Madi yelled and ran into her mother’s arms. “Ohh pizza! Aunt Des you’re the best!” Lily exclaimed grabbing the box and carrying it to the counter. The girls got a slice then picked out a movie to watch. “What’s in the oven?” Destiny asked Rebecca. “Brownies. Felt like baking so I did.” “Ohh yum, works for me! How was Madi?” “An angel like always. They picked some flower for you to use. I already have them pressed.” “You are the bestest” They ate pizza then stuffed their faces with brownies. The girls crashed right before midnight so Destiny and Rebecca cracked open a bottle of whine and had a glass to toast to the new year. “Here’s too living our best lives.” “Here’s too not caring what people say or being bothered by others.” “Happy New Year!” They shouted in unison while clinking their glasses together.


I will be back, I said. I know you will, she said back. I winced as she smiled her beautiful smile and I smiled back, but my smile was not beautiful like hers. After a hug and a playful push of the wheelchair, I left her; and I told myself that she would be fine. I dreamt up scenarios of her being fed, bathed, told stories and put to bed with care. I convinced myself that she would be loved and that she would know that I would never forget her. She would have a wonderful journey with others like her. With the same journey. And then I checked the address for my own wonderful journey. The image of a picture-perfect campus was etched in my mind and I held onto it like one would hold onto a rope whilst hanging off a cliff. After all, the things that I left for my other half was walls, a bed and people around to make sure that she was able to speak, breathe and not wet her own bed. She hated wetting her bed with a passion and I hoped that they would comfort her whenever she did - because it was unavoidable a lot of the time. After leaving her, the campus was all I had now. The only thing to hold onto, besides the fond memories of her. Even though I loved her, I had to acknowledge the fact that there was also nothing to keep me from succeeding. And if I failed, then I would have left her alone for nothing. And so failing was not an option. Because I had abandoned a prime hindrance. There was no more checking ventilators, or vitals or blood pressure. There was no more carrying her up and down the stairs, because I couldn't afford anything other than a small apartment. There wouldn't be any more need to digress through tantrums and rainy days. I wouldn't need to glare at people when they stared in the supermarket and then calm her down when she noticed. I didn't have to spend all of my days reading and scrolling through Tinder even though I never accepted requests when nice guys asked me on dates; I didn't have to constantly decline going out with my friends because everyone that we loved was dead and there was no chance of finding someone to care for her when I wasn't; I never had to bring an entire backpack everywhere we went so that I was prepared in case of an accident again. And it was freeing just as it was heart crushing. *** I felt horrible at first. I felt like I had lost something so essential in my life that I would never be able to live without it - without her - and still serve a legitimate purpose. I thought that I'd never find something so exhausting and yet so fulfilling to do ever again. I worried that the other people in my life would judge me for it, too, perhaps even shun me. God knows, it was what I deserved. And really, I wanted people to treat me that way; so that I would never have peace and be punished for what I had done. For leaving her and believing that she would be fine. However, I was not shunned by the other people whom I loved. Instead, they saw my pain and my reluctance. They told me that I was doing the right thing to take care of myself; and that I should not feel guilty. A friend from my days of volunteering even helped me fill in my application form and that small action eased my mind and convinced me that I was doing the right thing. My friend even went as far as telling me that the institution was a good thing and that my other half would be happy that I thought of myself after all the years of tending to her needs. And I believed her. Surely, it was my time to live, grow and become something other than an attachment. I had to get an opportunity to be fully happy and free. It was something that I really looked forward to. People wouldn't see me as the 'strong nanny' anymore. Perhaps then they'd see me as something else; something that didn't involve another person. And I got it. After a few years of studying engineering, I was finally becoming something more. I became a singular being who made her own choices and suffered her own consequences. I mustered the courage to find someone else that was really special to me, and his name was Eric. I made new friends who saw me as something more than what I had previously perceived myself to be. My image of the perfect life was just within my reach when Eric sought for marriage, and I believed that everything was going to be perfect, like I was hoping it would be. Everything that I had sacrificed for this life that made me happy was worth it. It was worth her. It had to be; and I never stopped trying to improve that life and myself to make sure that I didn’t abandon my other half for something that she would not be proud of. And I never forgot about her. I called every week with no exceptions, I made sure that she still got fed, bathed and told stories. I paid for everything that she would possibly need before I made any unnecessary splurges for myself and the institution updated me every few months and told me that she was okay. But, they lied. And I was naive to think that they were on the same self-improving journey as I was. Because she didn't want me to become my own person or live my own best life. After a few years, I was informed that when I had previously left her, she kicked and screamed. She did it everyday. When I asked why I wasn't informed, they didn't answer. And when I told them that I would be paying a visit, they told me not to bother. And after the natural question of why , I learned that she was now nothing more than a sack of bones drained of her blood. Because all of it coloured the warm bath water that she had killed herself in. And just like that, my own life and success meant nothing.


Cold Air There he sat, sinking slowly into the cushioned leather, letting the comfort of the armchair stand in for the comfort of humanity. He was not shy by any means, though, always commenting on the football game or telling some joke that he knew would bring laughter to his friends. Brett wondered if they really did like him, or if it was all just pretend. Sometimes he felt like he had nobody to really talk to, even though he was well-liked. Brett had always been a logical person, but sometimes he just gave into these irrational, depressive thoughts, unable to overpower his heart with his mind. Nevertheless, he floated on, caught somewhere between popularity and paranoia; lonely, yet not alone. Brett sat in that armchair for over an hour, slowly dissociating from his environment as he buried himself under a thick wool blanket. It was the dead of February, and the heat of the burning fire was not quite enough to keep him warm. “You look cold, Brett.” “I am.” He looked up to see his friend, Nick, who was now perched on the sturdy left arm of his seat. His dusty brown hair flowed down his forehead and stopped just short of his pale blue eyes, which now met Brett’s with simple joy. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way the white of the snow and the black of the night balance each other out. Lighter than the night yet darker than the day, and with that inimitable quaintness, too.” He smiled. “It really is beautiful.” Brett fixed his eyes on the window opposite him, peering at the heavy snowflakes falling on the back lawn, already carpeted by a thin sheet of white. “I’d love to live a day in your head, Nick, I really would. I’d love to know what it’s like to find beauty in such simple things. When I look outside, I see snow. I see how wet my shoes will get when I leave to walk to my car. I see the darkness, and I see how late it already is and how mad my parents will be if they catch me sneaking back in. What you call quaint, I call desolate. What you see as glamour, I see as despair.” “You think too much, my friend,” he chuckled. “Come with me.” Nick walked across the room as Brett traipsed behind him. They moved slowly and lazily at first, but once they were out of the public view Nick reached out his hand and took Brett by the wrist. He led his friend up the stairs, up to the living room and through the kitchen and outside into the backyard like a child leading his mother around the house. When they got to the sliding door, Nick let go of Brett’s wrist which fell meekly back to his side. Now, for the first time, Nick turned around and saw the hesitance on Brett’s face. Nick’s perpetual smile seemed to falter, only for a second, but as he opened the door and smelled the crisp winter air, he was happy again, and the two walked outside together. “It’s cold,” Brett said, standing now with his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jeans. “No, Brett. You just feel cold. I feel no discomfort out here, not when I’m face to face with such beauty. There’s something uniquely romantic about forbidden love, don’t you think? Some strange, distinct comfort in sinning together.” “It’s getting late, Nick, and I *feel* cold. I already told you that I’m not ashamed of what happened, but we both know it can’t happen again. And to answer your question, no. There is no beauty in forbidden love because it’s always just a lose-lose. You either face the judgment of society or the wrath of your own conscience.” “It doesn’t need to happen again. I just miss you, Brett. I know you think that the world is a terrible place, but at least we’re here together, right? You’re cold, I’ll give you that. Then let me be your warmth. Let me prove to you that life is so much more than sorrow and indignation.” “I’m not a nihilist, Nick. I’m a realist. And realistically, we can never be happy, at least not together. You seem to have this idea in your head that we can actually be something, and it kills me to know that we can’t. I want it too, and you know that. I want to live in a world where we could be one force, one bright light in the summer sky. But when you look up, what do you see? Clouds and darkness, and maybe the occasional ice crystal right above your eye. And even when the sky is clear, you can only count so many stars. They say that there are billions of them. Wouldn’t that be beautiful? A night sky just as bright as the day, dense with starlight shining down onto the world. But the night is dark, and that’s just the way it is. So please, Nick, use your head instead of your heart, just this once. You know the way I live my life. You know how I surround myself with people who at least pretend to love me. You know I live to make my parents proud and to make my friends happy and to prove my worthiness to God. Do you really expect me to throw all of that away for some faggot? How selfish do you think I am?” Nick was silent. He watched Brett as the snowflakes dotted his dark brown hair and his black bomber jacket. He wanted to be mad, but he could see the anguish in Brett’s pale blue eyes, so he said nothing, and resorted to his mind to keep him company. To him, Brett was the darkness. He was the contrast with the light of the world that made everything that much more beautiful. But now, the cold tears forming in his own eyes blurred the line between black and white, and the backyard was just a gray blur of emotional ambiguity. They stood there for a while, silent. They faced each other, yet neither was brave enough to meet the other’s eyes. Eventually, Brett turned to head back inside. They were both cold. “I love you, Nick. You need to know that. I love you more than I can explain. I never asked for this. I never wanted to hurt you. But I do love you. Please believe me, Nick. You have to believe me.” “I know you love me, Brett.” He paused. “I just wish you actually could.” With blurry eyes, Brett turned around and walked back into the house, through the sliding door, around the kitchen, into the living room, down the stairs and back into the basement. He walked across the room, past the leather armchair, past the keg and the television and the dartboard and past everything else until he was so close to the window that he could feel the coldness from outside phasing through the glass and caressing his face. He watched the snow falling down on the back lawn, focusing on a small figure that he could barely make out in the distance. Nick knelt in the snow, head tucked under his crossed arms. As he held back tears, Brett realized that cold air was cold air; that there could be no beauty in pain. So he turned from the window, walked back to that armchair, and sank once more into the false comfort of an unloving world.


I jerk awake at 8:45 and fall out of bed, crack my head on the side-table on the way down and collapse onto the floor. ‘Ngggg,’ I groan, then force myself up. I’m late. I can barely afford this hovel of an apartment. Regardless of my feeble mental state I’ve got to go. I dress and exit and I’m at work in ten minutes. Breathing heavily, I clock in and head upstairs. As I enter the office, there’s no bored murmur, just the whir of the air-con and heavy silence. Lucy, the office manager is stood addressing the room. ‘He was a great guy to work with, full of banter, such a lad, but a great worker,’ she says then stops awkwardly. I hear myself laughing. Our eyes meet across the room. A hundred heads turn to follow her gaze. The laughter dies in my throat. ‘Is something about Phil’s death amusing to you, Mr?’ Lucy says. ‘Philip Coast?’ I say. ‘Yes, yes, died, dead, Mr, who are you anyway?’ she says. I point at the photo on the lanyard round my neck then peer closely at the writing beside my face. ‘Paul,’ I say, uncertainly and start laughing again. I try to hold it back but I can’t and it bursts out of my mouth. ‘And what is funny, Paul?’ she says, shrilly. I flee the room, still cackling. ‘Who are you?’ she yells after me but I’m already legging it down the stairs. I buzz myself out at reception and jog home at a more manageable pace, unable to remove the smile from my face. I enter the block take the lift up to the thirteenth floor, open my door and shut it behind me. I go straight through to the bathroom and fish in the medicine cabinet beside the shower cubicle. There they are, sleeping pills leftover from that little manic episode last summer. I grab a glass of water from the kitchen and sink down onto the couch in the lounge. I pop the pill bottle and swallow a couple then stare blankly at my reflection in the TV for fifteen minutes before my legs turn to jelly. A wave of tiredness washes over me but I resist, even if unconscious is my purpose. This warmth. It fills me up. My eyes snap open and adjust to the low light. I’m on a metal walkway, suspended high above some kind of huge, empty hangar. I’m face to face with a grey man. The same grey man, with a new face. ‘Who am I?’ I say. ‘See for yourself,’ he says, slips a makeup mirror from the top pocket of his grey jacket and flips it open. ‘Oh, a girl,’ I say, surprised, looking down at myself. ‘Indeed.’ ‘Who, are, you?’ I say, jerkily, feeling out my new mouth. ‘That doesn’t concern you. What is concerning, son, is that you’re only one man. Only one.’ ‘This just won’t do,’ a grey lady says, emerging from the shadows. The same grey lady, with a new face. ‘Agreed, agreed, it just won’t do,’ the grey man says. They embrace then release and, still clasping their hands together, they turn to face me. ‘Where are you?’ they say in unison. ‘I don’t know,’ I say, looking around. ‘No, where are you, really?’ the grey lady says. ‘Son, you’re better off, off this course, see?’ the grey man says. ‘Where are you?’ they say, in unison. ‘Where are you, now?’ ‘Now? I’m at home… on the couch?’ I say, blurrily. ‘Where are you though? Where are you, really?’ they say together, their voices overlapping one another. What the fuck is this? ‘I’m home, I’m home at the…’ I trail off. I can’t think straight. ‘But where are you now, really, inside, in you, where are you, really?’ they say in unison. A flicker in my brain catches light. ‘I’m home, I’m on the couch, thirteenth floor, thirty-three years old, 2:37pm, light through the blinds, tired, really, tired.’ ‘Where are you now?’ they say. ‘No, please,’ I say, the repetition hurts. ‘Where are you, really?’ ‘Only answers. Only answers will suffice,’ my mind says and my mouth opens. ‘Room one two seven, thirteenth floor, Hadfield Heights, N7 6BB.’ My mouth snaps shut and the pain in my brain ceases. ‘Good,’ the grey man says. ‘Good,’ the grey lady agrees. ‘OK?’ I say, hopefully. ‘Did I do good mummy and daddy?’ in the back of my head. ‘Oh yes, dear,’ the grey lady says as I watch my legs walk towards her and sink to their knees. She sits down beside me and ruffles my hair then pats her lap, and I crawl forward and lay my head down. ‘There, there, dear, everything’s going to be fine,’ the grey lady says. My lids are heavy, the blond ringlets of my female-self fall across my face and my breathing slows. Wait. I hear something. My heart quickens and my eyes open. I’m lying alone on the cold metal of the walkway. The greys are gone. Noises all around me, echoing in the hangar. Amplified scraping and scrabbling, a door creaking open, quiet mutterings and footsteps. Something is wrong. I pick up the discarded makeup mirror on the walkway, flip it open and look at myself. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, and dive off the walkway. The world rushes up to meet me. Crunch.


"You are beautiful," my reflection whispers to me. I twirl around in my black sheath dress, which goes well with my tan skin and blond curls, wondering how long I can keep it hidden. "Are you ready, darling? ", calls Karl from the terrace. While I quickly powder my nose and put on a little lipstick, I think today is the right day to tell him. I step outside to my beloved, who is sitting by our pool high above the soft blue Pacific with a highball. The thermometer still reads 88 degrees Celsius. I kiss Karl on his black hair. His tangy scent mixes with the fragrance of the bougainvillea and Jacaranda bushes to form a one-breathtaking cocktail. On the pool, hibiscus blossoms sway like little Inflatable boats. "Time for a sundowner", I say and pull my beloved out of the deck chair. With the jeep that belongs to our bungalow at Hotel Las Torres, we drive through the steep mountain paths of the flamingo-colored casita town on the slopes of the Sierra Madre Occidental. A table is already reserved for us on the terrace at the Bella Vista restaurant. "Ten more minutes and then it's time, my darling," Karl says. I lose myself in his velvet eyes. The light breeze that gave this hotel its name above the bay of Acapulco dances a Foxtrot with the palm fronds. "The usual?", the waiter asks. "I want champagne today", I say, putting on my most seductive smile. "Champagne it is", says Karl. The sun, hovering like a yellow ball on the west side of the bay, is getting ready for its grand entrance. White yachts bob in the bay, they say Onassis will come today. The high-rise buildings on the beach and the casitas on the mountains surrounding the bay sparkle like crystal chandeliers. The waiter brings a silver cooler with a bottle of Dom Perignon, which he skillfully opens with a soft plop. "Bello", "Stunning", resounds from the surrounding tables as the yellow ball dips into the horizon, turning the sky into a fire-breathing volcano. "Ordered especially for you," says Karl. Now, I think, is the right moment. We toast ourselves and order a menu of shrimp salad, coconut sorbet, steamed red snapper and guava cream. Chablis is served with it. Down in the bay, a riva circles between the red glowing mountain slopes. "We're having a baby," I say, holding my breath. Now it all depends on how he reacts. Karl still looks affectionate. The second stretches into days, and then he smiles. "Oh Ella, that's wonderful, darling, that's fantastic!". I exhale. The wind plays a hymn to our love with the palm leaves. "And you're really not mad?", I ask, my mouth dry as the Mexican desert despite the champagne. "Ella, I love you so much. Let's drink to that, to our future." I down the champagne like spring water. "Oh God, darling, now I actually forgot my wallet in the bungalow". "So what, we can have the food written on the room," I say, by now quite a lady of the world, of a world that I got to know through him. "I should get it anyway, not that it will still be stolen," says Karl. "And then we'll celebrate, I promise." I nod and Karl heads for the exit. Another sip of champagne, my hand shaking so much I almost spill it. In a moment he's going to propose to me, I think, I hope, no, I know it. What a fool I was to think he wouldn't be happy. Just because we've been together for three years and still not engaged. Because he was always "paying attention." No, I shake my head, he really was happy. What's taking him so long? It doesn't take longer than ten minutes to get there. The waiter comes with the shrimp. I look around on the terrace. At the next table sits an older American couple, she wears rhinestone-studded glasses with butterfly wings and so much jewelry that you could decorate a Christmas tree with it. Further back, two men are talking spiritedly in Spanish. My eyes meet those of a young woman holding hands with a man who could be her grandfather. She smiles. I smile back and start poking around in the shrimp. Where is Karl? "Don't be stupid," my inner voice whispers to me, "he's trying to find an engagement present for you somewhere." What if he's had an accident? Or been mugged? Passed out? I wave to the waiter and ask if I can make a phone call somewhere. He leads me to the counter. No one answers the phone in the bungalow. I try the reception desk. I ask if there has been an accident. Who I am looking for. "Kaarel Schmidt from Germany," I say. The answer in Mexican-colored English tells me that Karl left the hotel in the Jeep ten minutes ago. And I am reassured. Nothing has happened to him. He's just going to jet quickly to Acapulco and try to find an engagement present. Karl, Karl, I love you so much. In the meantime, I dig into the sorbet, which cools my heated mood down to normal. The Chablis does the rest. When the Chablis is already half empty, the waiter comes with the fish. I look at the clock, Karl has been gone for more than an hour now. No, I don't want any fish now, I've lost my appetite. Typical man, instead of celebrating with me, he's hanging out in Acapulco. Another glass of Chablis. That's enough now. I ask the waiter for the bill and sign it. Since Karl has the jeep, I have to walk. Of course, the high heel of my right shoe promptly breaks off on the stony hillside. It doesn't matter, I take the shoes in my hand and move as if on smoldering coke. Finally, behind the hibiscus hedge is our casita. Oh God, I'm so drunk. The door to the bungalow is open. And behind it is - nothing. No Karl, no luggage, no purse, not even my own things anymore. I feel sick, I stagger into the bathroom and throw up. The guy didn't even leave me the toothpaste. There is a knock. "Come in", I say, and think, why are you only coming now? "Well, Ella, are we really hungry tonight?" This stupid turkey of a nurse always talks about we. Besides, my name is Schuster. In the retirement home you even lose the right to your last name. "What's for dinner?", I ask. "Delicious cooked fish", says Nurse Bexley, so much for the right to one's own name. "Ew!" "But Ella, honey, it's from the Pacific. "Ugh." She releases the brakes on my wheelchair and I smell her sweat. "Before we go to dinner, let's have a little nip of this." "Ew!" "But Ella, this is our sundowner!" What's too much is too much. With my blue-veined hand, I swipe the sippy cup with the effervescent tablet from her fingers.


The liquid inside the bottle glowed in azure. "Thank you", Ahia mouthed to Tiapin. That was all she could think of when she finally held the bottle with the cauldron-warm potion in her hand. "Remember to not let your friend drink all of it at once. Sip by sip is the ideal way", Tiapin repeated. Only now did Ahia realize that Tiapin didn't look like a wizard at all. He looked like a totally normal human man in his fourties, except he actually was 173 years old. Her mental image of a wizard had been a crazy old man with a long white beard who stood on his green glowing cauldron all day. "Alright. Sip by sip", Ahia confirmed and left the cabin. This potion was supposed to heal one of the most dangerous wounds a person could have. The arrow had barely missed Kagros's heart and Ahia had no idea when Kagros would wake up. He had lost a great amount of blood and if anything else happened additionally, the silk string his life was hanging on would break once and for all. No, she couldn't think about death. Kagros wouldn't die. He had survived worse things - or had he? Ahia's eyes slowly filled with tears. What if someone had wanted to get Kagros out of their way? Had he found out about a truth he wasn't supposed to know? Was it about the liquid he had brought to Meriman? Or did they want Kagros's death for a totally simple reason? The street Meriman lived on came into view. Her house was just half a mile away, and yet, Ahia felt as though she wasted her time on this dreadfully long walk. She sped up her pace - every second counted. Purna was awaiting her in front of Meriman's door. Ahia began to run as fast as she could, ready to hand the blue glowing potion to Purna to heal Kagros's wounds. Suddenly, as she took another step, she wasn't able to complete it. Instead of moving forward, her foot hit a big and heavy stone lying on the road. Ahia grabbed the bottle with the potion as tight as she could and tried to keep it as far away from the road as possible while she fell to the ground. Not even a second after, an arrow crashed down from above and landed inches beside her. Purna immediately realized that by tripping over the stone, Ahia had dodged an arrow. Now there wasn't any doubt left for her: an ominous sniper was trying to get both Kagros and Ahia out of their way. She rushed over to Ahia and quickly created a bright flashing light in order to blind the sniper. "See him?", she asked. "Where?" Ahia was too confused to know what had happened. "You've been about to get shot an arrow at too." On the roof of the house two houses from Meriman's, a few clapping of clothes could be heard as the person the clothes belonged to disappeared into the darkness. After a few seconds of realizing, gratefulness took over Ahia. "Well, thank you for saving my life." "You're welcome. Your death would have been a huge loss for us." Purna's usual personality didn't leave many other conclusions than that she was kidding, but she reacted to Ahia's suspicious facial expression with bare seriousness. "I mean it. We can't bear to lose another life." Another life? Ahia's heart contracted.


It had been 15 years since the beginning of the climate apocalypse. Today, there are few human beings living on planet Earth. The world had changed drastically over the 15 years. It hadn’t changed technologically, and instead, it’s now almost uninhabitable. The increase in temperature, the rise of sea levels, and the damage in the ozone layer was all but small parts of this change. It all started with global warming. People knew about it. But it was left unattended for far too long. Politicians denied global warming, saying we won’t have to worry about it for many years to come. But they were wrong. Storms worsened over time. Floods became the new normal. The evidence against their statements was overwhelming. But they continued to deny, and people believed them. It was only when cities started to fall under oceans when people started to take action. But by then, it was the point of no return. Cities continued to flood and many people were forced to relocate inland. The first of the deaths were simply caused by the heat. Everyone was used to living in a colder climate. Everyone was just trying to do their normal routine. However, it was hard to maintain cool. Hyperthermia cases became common. The price of air conditioning skyrocketed. Only the rich could afford one now. Riots occurred every day, just to find any air conditioning. Factories shut down as the heat damaged machinery and buildings. Water supplies started to dry up. But now, something about the air was different. It had the smell of rotten eggs. Soon, hydrogen sulfide gas filled the atmosphere. The increase in temperature caused gas-producing bacteria to thrive. The toxicity of hydrogen sulfide increased with temperature. It was only a matter of time before plant and animal life would go extinct. Nothing could stop the production of hydrogen sulfide gas. No existing technology can lower temperatures back down. Humans who could survive the heat now had to survive the deadly gas. A damaged ozone layer became a part of everybody’s lives. It had happened before in the past – from the 1930s to 1960s – but back then, humans took action. This time, nothing can slow the damage of the ozone layer. The hydrogen sulfide gas produced by the bacteria has taken its toll. UV radiation had killed many humans and animals over the years. But nobody could hide from it. As the floods continued, many scientific instruments were destroyed. Soon, scientists couldn’t collect data and the warnings stopped coming. But these weren’t the only consequences. Starvation became common even in the most unlikely places. As crops flooded and animals died, sources of food became rare. Canned food could last for a few weeks, but everything was limited. Soon, people ate animals we normally wouldn’t consider eating. Some even turned to cannibalism. In the United States alone, millions starved. But nothing could be done. Fish were almost extinct from the acidification of oceans. The UV light, higher temperatures, and hydrogen sulfide gas made growing crops near impossible. Without crops, animals starved. Without the crops or animals, so did humans. However, starvation would’ve been the least of the worries of many. Diseases were being transmitted like wildfire. Dormant diseases in permafrost were released during global warming. Diseases like Ebola spread and infected entire continents. Many medicines required to fight them were lost from the rise of sea levels. Doctors tried to help their patients, but the heat and gas proved too much. Many lives were lost to these diseases.

Humans are not extinct, however. Those who are still alive are living in bunkers. The bunkers that were made were one of the most secure areas on Earth. The environment outside would not affect those living inside. Air filtration systems filter out hydrogen sulfide gas. Indoor farms feed fish which feeds humans. They can survive even in this climate apocalypse. However, many weren’t as lucky. Only the rich who could afford a spot in these bunkers live in them. Everybody else died from the heat, or starvation, or diseases. But one place is not a place for the rich. It’s a place for research. This bunker specializes in research. They have all the things a bunker would normally have: their stereotypical thick walls, self-sustaining food supplies, and water filtration systems. But they also have scientific equipment for all fields. They are researching ways to fix the ozone layer and decrease the temperature. It will take time, but it’s progress. They will eventually develop technologies to solve this climate apocalypse. Maybe new machines to kill diseases or scaled up ozone generators to repair the ozone layer. But, not all of these bunkers were for survival. Several contain missiles and nuclear warheads, as well as other weaponry. The lower food production and damaged economies will cause global conflict. These bunkers won’t be used for survival. Rather, they will be used to attack other survivors. Unfortunately, nothing will prevent war from happening. The world has already been damaged. All of this could’ve been prevented if humans acted. If humanity acted 15 years ago, none of this would’ve happened now. Humanity would’ve been able to develop new technologies to slow or even prevent such a climate apocalypse from occurring. Alas, humanity did not act. Billions died. Only handfuls of humans can survive by living in bunkers, protecting them from UV light, intense heat, and toxic gas. But others will want to fight. They will blame others for this problem. They will launch nuclear weapons and missiles, furthering damage on Earth. All of this resulted from one simple mistake: not acting as the problem arose.

All hope is not lost, however. Humans do prevail in the most hostile environments, even these. They build bunkers with self-sustaining food supplies and water filtration systems. They build luxurious rooms and swimming pools. Humanity can adapt to these environments. Humanity will find ways to solve this climate apocalypse. The world will definitely be a different place after the climate apocalypse, but life will continue.


Ayanda wakes to the buzzing at her left ear. She attempts to swat in that direction, and her hand hits a bed-fellow. Retrieving the empty bottle from between the sheets, she stretches and cautiously open both eyes. The angry sounds of the wind of the previous night made way for high-rising clouds. The sun peeking below, is burning the tips of her toes. The buzzing returns, and this time her aim is spot-on. She angrily tosses the stained pillow to the side and swing her legs from the bed. She reaches for her gown, and silently hopes she did not take nude selfies again. Opening the blinds, she can see the valley is covered in yellow and orange ribbons. After one month in this place, this is only the second time nature is in a flamboyant mood. She is scanning the landscape as the coffee starts to brew. Looking through the kitchen window, a very different scene intrigues her. Tree roots are overturned. Branches are strewn over the pathway to the garden. And the wall of the fishpond gave way under the pressure. The front driveway is covered in debris and dead fish. The sight of two old lizards on top of the garage roof, signals the temperature. She is definitely changing her plan for the day. After a quick shower, and a few responses to emails, she locates her camera. Scrolling through the last pictures, she smiles. As she deletes the evidence of her one-woman party, she calculates the days left on this journey. The only time she feels excited about this mission, is when she adjusts her lens on this camera, and is witness to the creation of unfading memories. Lying on her stomach, the cool of the floor was soothing. The light from the wide window is too bright, but then suddenly she is able to capture the flight of a mosquito. It is flying dangerously close to the spider web, but safely reaches the side of the television set. Instantly adjusting the lens, she is able to see the bent body and wide tentacles, which are moving around the surface. The taste of disappointment results in a quick flight towards the roof. Looking at the image, she sees that she only captured parts of the back legs. Her position is making her nauseous. She steps out onto the balcony. The air chokes her with force. She runs to the bathroom as the convulsions shakes her and drained the fluids from her body. Closing all the blinds, she curses her decision not to pack a fan. She feels the bite of the mosquito on her left foot and lazily makes a motion. And then darkness surrounds her. Ayanda jumps up in fear. Looking at the clock, she can see that she was asleep for about three hours. Her back aches, as she lifts herself from the damp floor. The cool of the water glass reminds her that the heat is receding. Then a loud bang! The glass falls to the floor. Then another loud bang! She read about the ‘The loud voice of God’ in the Valley Magazine. But this thunder is definitely a shout from God! It is the most awesome phenomenon, and one she knows everyone in her profession always wanted to capture. But unlike the other elements of nature, thunder cannot be captured through sight, or its effect on other matter. She grabs a left-over sandwich from the fridge and reclaim her spot on the floor. She hears the wind picking up speed outside, and opens the blinds. Dark clouds are climbing over the East View mountains. Their approach is fast and heavy. She grabs her camera, and as if to sense her joy, they change direction. They start to move to the north and as the grey mountain is released, it appears to take a breath and then swell out again, and shake off the effects of the choking clouds. The sound of another thunderstorm is a big surprise. In her sight she still has clearing skies. And then she turns to the left. A huge cloud is forming on top of Riverview Mountain. And as it is gathering wind and speed, it soon deposits loud icy drops of hail against the windows. Just before it passes, it releases water so clear, that she feels as if she is inside a waterfall. Her camera cannot click fast enough. And then it decides to move on. The silence is almost ominous. She waits there in front of the window until she hears the sound of the black-billed magpie signalling that the storm has passed. Reaching for the switch, she is instantly irritated. The storm caused a power outage. Luckily, the geyser is still working. Running a bath, she lights some candles. She found a battery-operated radio when she arrived. She retrieves it now from the bedroom. Slipping into the lavender foam, the sounds of The Crusaders caress her tense body. She wakes to a beautiful, calm and sunny day. Adding salt to a boiled egg, she decides that it is safe to take a walk towards the stream she so adores. It is an underground stream, and only reveals itself for ten metres at the base of the vineyard. When it reaches the last line of vines, it goes underground again, to moisturize the roots which produce the rich Chardonnay. She is mesmerized by the view which stretches all the way to the peninsula. She is focusing so hard on getting the perfect angle, that she does not see the newly exposed root. As the ground reaches up to meet her face, she closes her eyes. This is not the first time that she will return to the cottage in such a condition. And then she sees the crack on the side of her camera. Crawling to where it landed, she investigates the damage. Nothing else is loose or appears to be damaged. But the crack on the tube adapter is worrying her. Suddenly darkness surrounds her. A mist crept up on her. Looking around, she realizes that she cannot see her path back to the cottage. If she goes in the wrong direction, she may end up quite far down the mountain. She is also not sure if it is a passing mist or the prelude to a storm. Ayanda read many books about the weather in these mountains. She remembers that the mist is always described as something which normally passes quickly. The advice given is to remain in one position, preferably seated, until it has passed. It is never safe to move, especially if you are unfamiliar with the terrain. She also knows that she is not the waiting type. Securing the camera in its bag, she takes a sip from her water bottle and sits down. Perhaps it is a good idea to stay put. The mist is thicker now. She is not even able to see the stream, or the root which caused her fall. The cold travels through her clothes. It moves over her scalp. Then it caresses her fingers, leaving them stiff and swollen. She closes her eyes. The wet which rises from the ground is numbing her feet. And then her patience is gone! She puts both hands on the muddy ground and lift herself to a standing position. And, what do you know? The mist is gone. The shine of the peninsula in the distance is brighter, and the stream is continuing its journey undeterred. The path to the cottage is clear, and the walk back has never been faster. Ayanda is uploading the images, when her eye catches one sent to her by the helicopter crew. She missed the trip to the mountain earlier in the month. What she sees now in front of her, is almost unbelievable. In the picture, the crew is facing the camera. They are standing with their back to the valley, covered by dark clouds. The same picture is on their website’s home page, with the caption ‘ We fly above the storm’ . Something in the background holds her attention. There, in the distance she can make out the roof of the cottage. If this picture is authentic, it means that, if she can get to the top of that mountain, she will be able to take pictures of a storm, as it crosses over the valley. And she will be on top of the storm! She browses the website for more pictures and finds further confirmation that being on the outside of the storm, is indeed possible. She runs to the balcony, and looks up at the sky. All is quiet, and the sky is the brightest blue. She packs the camera, loads extra batteries and slips on a pair of sneakers. The hike should take an hour, but if she jogs, she can certainly make it in half that time. She reaches the top forty minutes later. With sweat running down her arms and legs, and her chest threatening to explode, she turns around. And there it is. She is standing on the highest peak, on the top of this valley, lush with life. In the distance, the cottage looks forlorn. Taking off her backpack, she stretches her arms, and screams as loud as she can. And then she sees it. From the East View mountain, a dangerous-looking cloud formation is approaching the valley. She steadies the tripod, adjusts the lens, and click the ‘Record’ button. She sits down. Here on this majestic mountain, high above the valley, almost touching the sky, she is witness to a most amazing experience. This storm which can rattle windows, roofs and the weakest of human minds is about to be humbled. This raging energy is about to be subdued by nature’s very own laws. The wind is picking up. Even from this distance, she can feel the wind strengthening with every distance captured. Within minutes the valley is covered in a grey blanket. She can see the sparks of lightning speeding up the pace of the storm. She is holding onto the tripod as the wind declares its power over the trees. Rain starts to pour down. In this moment she realizes that she, Ayanda Gaul, is sitting on the highest mountain peak, the sole witness of an experience others can only imagine. She feels exhilaration, and so completely part of the abundance of nature’s power and strength. And as the storm refuses to follow a familiar path, and chooses to focus on her, she raises her arms, and fully accept the deadly embrace.