The turkey didn’t have a shot when Elizabeth went to pick him up for Thanksgiving. He was already meant for the table of a pack of hungry children. Little did this poor turkey know that his life would be sacrificed in vain. As Elizabeth proudly marched into the home with a turkey that was bound for the table for her seven children she would have no idea if the outcome later. When she arrived home her children excitedly exclaimed “mom is that really for supper?” In which Elizabeth replied “ this lovely bird will be for supper and we will be having a grand pumpkin pie as well”. There were six girls and a miracle little boy in this family so the girls were old enough to help with cooking this great feast. Grandpa would be joining them later along with their father once their hunting adventure was done. The pies got started first by the children while Elizabeth got the bird freshly cleaned in the sink. Every effort would go into preparing this bird for Grandpa who only visited once a year. The children were always hungry as growing children are so this bird would go a long way. The idea excited Elizabeth to have meat long after the celebration was over. The 20 pound bird was what could be afforded .only when on special ,and it was quite a treat to imagine all the meals it would serve her hungry brood. The turkey had to be completely washed in salt as she had been throughly taught by her mother. Once the bird was salted the butter was melted and drizzled in healing amounts so as to cover the bird. A light seasoning was out on top to decorate what would soon be the crispy skin that would melt in one’s mouth. Elizabeth was proud of the giant bird in the pan, put the foil on top and put the lovely creature in the oven. The pies were sitting ready to be baked when the bird was 2/3 done so there was nothing left to do but wait. While waiting Elizabeth got creative in making some homemade biscuits and involved her tiny son to use the circle cookie cutters to help. He enjoyed making more of a mess with the flour than anything. When the biscuits were complete it was time to wait to put them in and the pies for a few more hours. The directions on the turkey for cooking time had been done so off for some family monopoly time. Playing monopoly is usually intent at the Stice house so the game goes on and on. No worries because the turkey had plenty of time. The kids were very bossy about which game piece they would play but Elizabeth always chose the golden pup. Her daughter Cassie was always insisting on being banker and no one caught on to her schemes as to why. Seems there was a cheat in the house. Nothing was normal in a monopoly game . If it wasn’t arguments over the new rules then it was about unfair swapping of properties. The time was flying by as the game was getting pretty fierce. What seemed like an eternity and the timer has not yet gone off so no one had checked on the bountiful bird. Then the nightmare happened for which for which no one would ever forget. Elizabeth would certainly not be soon to forget as the smoke started to curl in fluffy billows of black from the oven. All the smoke alarms went off in unison and if that were not bad enough that’s the precise moment when Grandpa made his  entrance. Followed of course by the children’s father. The piercing noise of the alarms were sure to send the neighbors running as they valued their lives when intense cooking took place. No one wants to see their neighbors home billowing with smoke. The look on Grandpa’s face was priceless And Elizabeth was mortified. She tried to make light as she turned off the oven and set about turning off all the alarms and opening the windows and doors. As she took the poor bird out of the oven it was not just overcooked but to her horror it was black as night. The bird literally burned up on the heavy butter. So, it looked like a shallow crispy critter and was not meant for any kind of human consumption. The bird clung to its lifeless body as if to protest life in vain. No longer would it go to feed hungry children. It was so shriveled that it was evident the heat had torched it from the inside out. She tried to pull the bird apart but realized it was indeed charred all the way through. Elizabeth was getting a rude stare from Grandpa who also usually clicked his tongue when he was mad. She tried to make light of the situation and said “ we can find something else to eat “. She tried to suggest the ever-baked tuna casserole but all the kids started grumbling and whining. The younger girls who were just 7 and 9 started to say “ we want turkey“ “ we want turkey“ in a kind of chant. It was as if they couldn’t grasp that the turkey had gone south and there was nothing to be done.  Grandpa grunted and then started to order pizza. Then he proceeded to loudly complained at the high cost and he shouldn’t have to afford this as a guest. It was all Elizabeth could do to not burst into tears. She was mortified at all the drama this has caused. Although the bird was burned and Grandpa would be mad forever life would go on.  Inside she was determined not let it ruin the Holiday. She was a positive person but knew when it was time to get some air. She directly marched to the kitchen with pride and grabs the bird and her camera. She remembered the changing colors of the leaves that had wisped their way up by the trellis of grape vines. It was the perfect setting for a photo shoot. The evidence of the day that a lovely bird met its maker. She put the crispy blackened turkey in the golden fall leaves to have a photo shoot while everyone else was whining and waiting for pizza. The art that was created that day in the photo session was done with love and creativity. When she was done she left the bird intact in its charred art form exactly where the last photo was taken. If anyone dared question her sanity at that point it would have not mattered one bit. The memory to her would not be sad day in which dinner was ruined with a bird burnt to a literal blackened crisp.  She has a positive mindset that it would all be okay. No one let’s Elizabeth live this Thanksgiving day down but she holds her head high and shows her photo to all with pride and laughter.


Newspapers are very handy. You can do a lot with such a humble item: 1. Reading: Of course, you can read them – if you’re that way inclined. Personally, I've never found the appeal of sitting on your backside all day and shuffling through just to make unsolicited commentary especially about people’s lives, and things that aren’t your business or in your control. But I digress... 2. Pack delicate items: I may not read the paper for news, but I do watch the local news channel every day at every interval. I don’t read the paper because these days, most of the content is unnecessary, and by the time I’ve purchased one, everything inside is irrelevant. Things and news move fast. And if you don’t keep up or even get ahead, you’ll be left in the dust. I can’t afford to not be “in the know”. I also don’t have time to read – I need to be moving, I need to be quick. So, I flick on the set instead and allow the newscasters to relay so that if I need to pivot, I can without wasting time and energy trying to find the right information for myself. It is 6.03pm and I am scoffing half a frozen bagel, whilst knotting another stuffed black bag. I need the extra calories; I’ve been packing since the early morning news bulletin. I kick the bag underneath the table to collect later. Trip hazard – never a good thing, I can’t endanger myself. Last time I tripped over a box I’d foolishly left in the hallway and woken up hours later in a panic that I’d been foiled. But it was pure luck we’d both been in the basement at the time of the raid. I cannot and will not make that mistake again. There’s a loud crash behind me, which snuffs out the weather woman - heavily pregnant in a dress that makes her boobs look like water balloons – reporting that tonight’s weather will be dry but cold. I take a mental note before turning towards where the noise came from. I can guess that the culprit is one of two beings – the inherited but unwanted cat or my housemate. It’s the housemate. I should have known. As I slide through the doorway, she makes haste to drop forward and gather the items rolling around on the vinyl floor. Thankfully, they are only replicas of my Polish Grandmother's china babushka. I would never entrust such precious items to a careless individual. She is terribly clumsy, my housemate. Even without trying, she manages to create more mess and bother than she means to. I’ve just learned I must make extra provisions to keep her clumsiness in check. Which is why she occupies this contained box room, where the only things she can disturb have no real value. I watch her and fold my arms disappointedly. She works faster, shaky fingers clawing at the numerous cups of brightly decorated women. She doesn’t look at me as she attempts to rebuild the babushka, but she is clumsy and hopeless with dexterity. I wonder why I thought it was a good idea to get her involved in the packing. I sigh loudly and step into the tiny space to take over. This is why I normally work alone. Less stress, less hassle, less clean up. Too many hands, too many delays, too many mistakes. She cowers immediately as I reach down and pluck the baby babushka from the floor. The object must have bounced furthest because it’s the lightest. In all fairness, she can’t reach it, it has landed outside of her permitted boundary. She dares to glance at me as I slowly stand. “Is it broken?” she stutters. I inspect the baby knowingly. The baby is fine because it’s not real china. “How would you pay for it if it was?” I tease her, “I don’t think you have anything to exchange that’s of any value to me if it were broken. And so, what do you think that would mean for you, huh?” Her eyes grow wide and her face white. “I was careful,” She insists and shakes her hands at the other women, gathered in a heap at her scabby knees. I notice a new patch of wounds, which means she’s still crawling around in here. Even after I told her to stretch her legs because weak legs are useless if we need to move fast. You see, she creates mess and is beginning to be mess than her worth… She apologises repeatedly when I indicate for her to hand me the other little women. She scoops them up and tries to pass them from where she is kneeling, but I am still outside of her boundary. “Stand up”, I say. But her face immediately starts to crumble. “Use your legs.” “I can’t”, her whine is pathetic. I scoff. She is just lazy. “You can. I told you to get up and walk. Why are you still scratching around on this floor? I gave you slack, like you wanted, and for what?” “I tried, but it’s -it’s been so long,” she moans and rubs her exposed thighs and kneecaps “It hurts to stand. I can’t, can’t feel my feet anymore”. “So how did you reach the babushka?” I question her suspiciously. The stacked ladies live on a level on the wall. “That’s what I mean,” she says to her shaking hands, “I tried to stand just now but I couldn’t. I think I hit them off the shelf when I fell.” Plausible, I think. The explanation is plausible for now. The women were placed on the level initially because I knew she wouldn’t be able to reach them whilst her chain kept her movements small and low-level. But now, after her whining drove me insane, I have granted her a wider range and she can at least pace in an arc. “Then you are lucky they are still intact,” I tell her spitefully, “You better start getting those legs working, girl. I haven’t got time for your excuses, especially not today. We gotta move.” I scan the room for a random black bag, but seeing none, push my useless housemate aside. I see she has made a bed with the pile of old newspapers I left out for her waste. I can’t help sneering as I destroy the abode by grabbing a handful of sheets. She only slaps at her legs whimpering as though willing them to suddenly work so she can defend her property. But it seems she was telling the truth. I press the babushka into the sheets, roll, and twist the ends with ease. “There, you see, “I shake the mummified women at her, “It’s easy. Pick and pack. Done and dusted. Can’t you even do that without making a scene?”. She is smart to stay silent as she sinks away. I re-enter the main room and toss the wrapped replica into an empty black sack. Truthfully, though it is not broken, it belongs in the trash. Along with all the other dead weight accumulating around me. “You need to pack lighter,” I tell myself just as the news roundup flashes across the TV screen. It ends with the final mention of the story I am most interested in; their developing breaking news story: Police are investigating a new lead into the disappearance of a 24-year-old woman who has been missing for more than a year. They believe she is still alive and may be held against her will. The search will move to the Kelvingrove area of Glasgow after an anonymous tip. Police are urging the locals to be cooperative, vigilant, and wary as they explore the possibilities… I must leave this house tonight. It’s time to relocate. 3.  Wrap up broken items The car is packed with all the essentials. The clutter, the non-essentials, and the dead weight will have to stay, including that blessed cat (no apologies to my Polish Grandma).  There’s nothing really to incriminate me. All the evidence has been or will be disposed of discreetly. I find her in the same position I left her in; kneeling back on her shins, head down, defeated. This time, she does not respond as I stride towards her. Her head is hanging down against her chest. “Come on,” I give her a nudge, hard enough to wake her from her slumber. - She’s been sleeping a lot lately. The first three months after I brought her home, she was like a newborn baby. She cried incessantly for everything; attention, feeding, more blankets, interaction – anything she could squeeze out of me. The newborn phase was traumatising for her and exhausting for me. I was no rookie, but she wasn’t like the others. I wrongly assumed they’d all act and respond identically to the situation. The others quickly got through the newborn phase and became more feisty as the days passed by (One of them, whom I called “Jaws”, tried to bite me). But this one is different. She’s a load alright – a load of emotions. I can handle the fighters - they’ll always be physically disadvantaged, no matter how hard they try to overpower me. But this one, I call her “Mood”, to her own credit has made this past year insightful. I’ve learned more about the womankind through her than through any of the others. She has proven to be a worthy specimen for my study. But I must admit, I think I have observed and extracted all I can from her, the sudden changes in her are becoming undesirable. Her incredible sleeping habits are the reason I no longer bother to lock her in. I can turn my back, get on with things, and live comfortably without being concerned that she’ll escape. I only keep an eye open when she is awake – more so because of her clumsiness rather than her alertness. But now that she’s sleeping most of the time, why continue to allow her to be a drain on my resources? Death is inevitable here anyway. - The initial nudge has no effect. So, I try again, this time jabbing my fingers into her shoulder with force. Nothing. Honestly, I have not fed her for some time, preoccupied with boxing everything up and figuring out the best route to take to avoid any unnecessary stops. Perhaps she has passed out with hunger. In an uncharacteristic haste, I reach down, press her face between my hands, and jerk it up towards me. Suddenly there’s a loud cracking sound and her stretched neck renders loose in my grasp. I almost let go in shock as her upturned face, eyes closed and mouth parted, becomes a bowling ball between my hands. I’m surprised by the gurgle of my stomach and the tingle of nausea bubbling inside of me. I am no rookie, but this has never happened before. I told you “Mood” is different. I told you “Mood” is messy. Or should I say was …. I will remember you for certain now; I think. I literally shiver at her face fixated forever in its lifeless expression. She has somehow affected me more than I realised. She has somehow managed to infiltrate me and pass on her messiness. I am careful. But for the first time, though death was inevitable for “Mood”, my meticulous hands have performed an accidental demise. She dives like an anchor when I release her. I stand over her fragmented frame and marvel at the impact that such an impulsive moment has on the rest of my thoughtful plan. The car is packed tight, with space only for two vertical objects. The driver and his housemate. I had not foreseen carrying a body this early in the move. I hear the familiar jingle of the 10pm news from the living room and realise I am now behind schedule. I need to move fast. The box room is void of any clutter and non-essentials, void of anything useful to clear this dead weight. Apart, of course, from the newspaper bed dismantled in the corner. So, I wrap her in her own wastepaper, I have no choice. I cocoon her broken body, in preparation for the trash. It is a great shame. I had wonderful plans for her body, to keep it, memorialise it like the others. But I don’t accommodate dead weight, I don’t keep broken things. My cadavers are my pride and joy. My cadavers are only valuable to me when they are perfect, when they are whole and intact. It’s no different to receiving a faulty gift at Christmas. Who can treasure, take pride in, or be happy with a misshapen or deformed prize?


Let me be honest. I am disabled. I am missing an eye, a foot, and my mind. My mind, I debate with myself if I am missing or not. But I am assured by the Shrink I was taken to that I am dead. And? He wanted for me to pay him money for my visits. So? I took him some place. How? Shh. I am what I am. Afterwards, instead of visits costing me money. He prescribed pills, and that was that. I did not have to go to his office. What did I show him? I showed him the truth about reality. Scary? Sure, I suppose if you were him. Makes you realize you are in a game called life and someone else might be playing you. And you are not winning the game. Which is awkward. And me? Oh, I am a Non playing avatar these days. Why? When I play, I expect things to happen. And now? I doubt if two people will read this. And? One will ignore the sh. And the other will yawn and not realize the truths I am writing about. Truth one. According to a very smart man. The secret of light is a secret. Meaning? Read the book. If you can understand the poetry. You can walk away with this as truth. You eat plants, plants eat light. Wola, you are nothing more than a stabilized energy or avatar playing in this game. Truth two? Anything you see is dead. Sh.. That is a secret you have to live with the rest of your life if you got this far into the story. Don’t believe me. Read the Zombie galaxy or is our Milky Way galaxy a zombie? Then ask yourself one question. And realize the answer. If you can not find the question to ask. The question is if all I see is dead or stabilized. Does that mean I too am dead? The realization from that answer is awkward and absurd. But I assure you the answer is what it is. When did I start talking to the dead? I think when I was four or younger. I spoke to a lot of dead people. If you want, you too can do that. Go to an old folks’ home and talk with a person. They are all dying to get out of here nowadays. However, a very long time ago. In galaxy not like this one. But in another reality, they had wonderful stories to tell a youngster. Tales of working on New Deal writing project. Tales of writing the real-life story of Butch Cassidy. Tales of a train bound to Saint Peters burg to save the Czar. Tales that would blow your mind. And? Well, I listened I was a kid. What else was I to do? And? I wonder. Those tales got me through some rough realities. Now I talk to the dead a bit more or less because they want to escape their hell. Which is not nice, I suppose. But they are in hell. I can tell you hell is real. It is not a nice place to live in. Nor vacation in. Or anything else, for that matter. So, paranormal? Well, that is a matter of opinion. If you died, say when you were born and somehow ended up in someone else’s body. Who is to blame for that? I am not sure anymore. To be honest, I am not sure. Oh, how old am I? In this body 50. According to the internet and my writings since 2016? Something like 4.5 billion years old. Laugh with me. You see, I wrote a lot. I write a lot. I journal even more. According to journals, I awoke in Sagittarius 2016. And Well, I lost 1.2 billion people in my reality. I am quite sure deagel.com had 8.5 billion people and US had 365 million US citizens and numerous illegals. Now? Who knows? I am, after all, just writing what I wrote then repeating things with memories? Or data? Am I real or just data that is the sad question, is it not? Paranormal? Sure, I guess that is what I am talking about. What did I learn in a billion years? That everything is possible and those opposing the will or Fate of God should stop what they are doing and pray forgiveness. Outside of that? Who knows? I don’t. Am I talking about Mandala effect? In a sense, the wheel of time. Which way is the galaxy turning? Clockwise or counter clockwise? Which way does a soul spin when moving from a dead reality into the day of judgment? That is the awkward part of this story, is it not? For me being 4.5 billion years old or talking to the dead? Either case is absurd and wildly illogical. In yet? Here I am and here you are. And? Tomorrow you might be hell and I need to say. Pray repent. Beyond that. Believe in Jesus? Who else can save you. Let me tell you about hell. People won’t like you there. It is awful in a sense like Wheel of Thrones book where in alternative reality Rand finds people have changed from good to evil. Sadness. You can not trust people. And those trustworthy? Well, usually end up in jail, dead, suicide, or in AA if they are lucky. Meaning? The world has lost hope, faith, and trust. Not a very nice place to live. I assure you. And? Beyond that? I can tell you Hillary Clinton did not lie about Abe Lincoln being a senator. For I am sure he was a senator in my reality, too. What does that mean to us here and now? I suppose this is one day in reality when a paranormal person passes through saying HI and Goodbye. And you might catch a glimpse of the idea. But the knowledge that this life is already all dead and gone? I am not sure. I don’t know. Fate is real, so saving you is beyond my scope of this story. And my soul? Judgment day or? Well, that is the kicker the bible has changed here too and? Who knows what is possible with God or Adonai? I sure did not expect to be on Orion's arm nor Orion Nebula after all for years I assure I was told was on Sagittarius.


“Names have great power, Sunny dear,” Grandmother’s voice echoes in my head. Grandmother, who had been christened Alexandrina at birth, but had donned the name Victoria on her coronation. It is only fitting, I think, that I take my first steps into my new life taking a name reminiscent of Grandmama and Nicky’s adored ancestor, too. Alexandra. I still struggle to think of myself with such a weighty, regal name, a name suited to authority, a Tsaritsa’s name, so used I am to being Alix. The silk of my gown clings to my skin, softly rustling with every movement. It is a heavy gown, the train difficult to bear. The Court Dress here, especially a wedding gown, is much more detailed and intricate than it is back home at Hesse. Truth be told, I hardly feel like I am standing at a wedding, my own wedding. It feels naught more than a continuation of Father’s funeral rituals. Nicky would hate it if he knew I think this. He wanted this wedding so much, so ardently. Truthfully, I can understand why Nicky felt so. He is hardly ready to be Tsar, he feels. Perhaps that is true, I do not know. From our long conversations into the night, I understand that he wants someone with him. Someone who will support him, be his mate in truth. It is my great honor that he has chosen me to be that person, I shall definitely do my best to be worthy of his trust, his heart. “Daughter,” The Empress Maria. I sink into a curtsy. “Mother,” She helps me raise. “Mama, Alicky,” she says gently. I smile at her. “Mama,” She nods at a page. “Keep it here.” The page duly deposits a large box on which Russian words are written. Of course, I do not understand one word of it. I need to learn the language, the people of this country are going to my people. One of my ladies enter. She has a veil in her hands, one that brings tears to my eyes. Mama’s veil. I have seen it so many times in photographs, yearned to touch it for years after Mama’s death, today, it will finally be mine. Nicky’s mama, my mama, smiles at me again. She opens the box carefully. Inside sits a crown of splendor, accompanied by a glittering necklace and similar earrings. “Tsaritsa Catherine’s, Alexandra,” she says quietly. Just like that, the two of us were distant again, no longer Alicky and mama, but Alexandra and the Dowager Tsaritsa. I am not used to changing like this in an instant, but it is part of life, whether I like it or not, and I shall try. I do not have a choice. I sit down as she gently balances the nuptial crown on my head. The necklace hangs heavily on my throat, its weight almost reassuring, but also a reminder, much like the sash tied across my dress, heavy with meaning. “Come,” says she. I take her hand as we walk out. Nicky is standing outside. He looks resplendent, the light of the chandeliers hitting his medals at exactly the right places. My eyes are drawn to the sash of the Order of Hesse Und Bei Rhein that cuts across his uniform, same as his take in the sash of the Order of St. Andrei across mine. We bear each other’s symbols, it is clear to see.  We barely have the time to exchange smiles (even his smile is brilliant, glowing), when his mother leads me to the front of the procession. Nicky obediently falls in line behind her. I hold back a frown. Nicky is the Tsar now, he should be given importance! I and Nicky have discussed this at length. Until Nicky is crowned, he does not have precedence. I think it is most unfair. He is expected to do all the duties, should he not get the precedence too? I know that Nicky would not want anything to ruin this special day, so I remain quiet. I cast around for a distraction. The ostentatious decoration of the way to the chapel is good enough, the rococo designs, as clear as though it is life itself and not a painting. There is a murmur of conversation. I can feel eyes on me, the familiar painful shyness instinctively curling me into myself. I fight it, straightening my shoulders, smiling slightly. Alexandra, not Alix. I keep my eyes trained ahead, at my destination. The altar. Where the intangible yet so real bond that I and Nicky share will have a new meaning, finally tying spiritual to the earthly. After I catch sight of the altar, I cannot remember much else of details. Individual moments stand out of the ordered ceremony, moments forever dear to my heart. Nicky standing at the altar, light flooding through the windows, limning him in a halo. The heady mixture of uncertainty, the tug of fear and yet hope. The priest handing us the rings. The feeling of my heart filling more than it ever has before. Nicky’s beatific smile as he slid the ring on my finger. Our voices melding, almost, into the vows. At the end, there is but a single thought. I am his, he is mine. I am his, he is mine. Forever. “Sunny? Sunny? Alicky?” I blink, so lost am I in memories. That day, I wed the man who belonged first and foremost to his country. My husband, standing in front of me, his face creased in a worried frown. My dear, darling Nicky. “You’re back? I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” The council work usually takes longer than this. Nicky laughs. “No one wants a tired Tsar dropping off at his coronation, do they? So they let me off early.” I laugh back. “I see.” “What happened? Are you missing Olga? You looked lost.” “I can’t stop missing her, Nicky, but no, that’s not what I was thinking of.” “Then what is it, Alicky?” “I…” “Alicky?” “I was thinking of our wedding.” “Oh! Yes, a wonderful day. By far more wonderful than the day to come.” “Nicky…I know the coronation reminds you of papa. I know you feel that you are taking his place too soon. But, dearest, God above has a place for everyone. This is yours. As the Father of all Russia.” Nicky bows his head silently. I continue on, “Did you see the splendor all around? When we entered Moscow?” Nicky smiles at me. “I did,” he says. So did I. More than anything else, I remember Nicky on his horse, his right hand raised in salute, straight-backed and proud, set apart from the lavishly dressed army officers in his simple but neat tunic. I remember the cheers, the people spilling across the barriers, reaching out to touch Nicky. His name and mine, chanted over and over again. And hers. It is an insidious thought, something that has been haunting my mind. I shake my head. She is Nicky’s mama. My mama. She deserves her place. But that voice is not quieting down, it isn’t. I am his wife. I am his Tsaritsa. Should I not be at his side? How long will she keep him under her thumb?  Rationally, I know that I will be at his side, it will be I who will become the Matushka, the Mother of the people, tomorrow, not the Dowager Empress. But these deep seated fears…I shake my head. God has a place for everyone. Tomorrow, I take my place. “Sunny?” “Oh, Nicky. Tomorrow…it will change us, won’t it?” Nicky looks solemn. “It will,” he says slowly “and it won’t. Tomorrow, you and I will be anointed, yet, in private, we’ll still be Nicky and Sunny. Besides,” he gives me a boyish, disarming shrug, “you’ll be at my side. I can weather all the changes to come,” I take his hand. “We will weather them together, dearest,” I say. For all my brave words, when the day dawns and the furor begins, it is Nicky at my side bolstering my strength. As his valets help him into his regimental uniform, he keeps up a steady stream of reassurance. I smile weakly at him. Part of my fear and anxiety stems from the feeling of being so tangibly close to divine. Will I be enough for that role? I am no Goddess, I cannot fail this, it means so much to me, this country… “Sunny.” I look at Nicky, the coronation mantle wrapped around him. He smiles at me. “This is the place God has ordained for you,” he says quietly. “Remember that.” I smile at him. “Using my own words on me, Nicky?” He shrugs, holding up his hands. “Guilty.” We laugh together. My own mantle is at my side, my maids helping me into it. There are so many buttons on it! My hands clasp and unclasp them, over and over. When the time comes, nothing should go amiss. Not even buttons. There is controlled chaos in our apartments. Servants are bustling here and there, my hairdresser styling my hair so that the crown can be safely positioned. Nicky stands above me, the heavy crown in his hands. The crown that will give me authority and yet take away Alix forever, relinquishing itself in the Tsaritsa, not the girl who yearned to love, to laugh, to live. I take a deep breath. I do not need to lose that part of myself, I can still retain it being the Tsaritsa. The crown lands on my head, finishing that internal debate. The connection I feel is powerful. It feels like a marriage of its own, a marriage ethereal yet so easily felt. It feels like the hand of Fate itself. The hairpin goes in too deep, scouring my scalp. “Ah!” Nicky immediately removes the crown from where it was, his hand reaching to my head. “Sunny! What is it?” “Nothing, Nicky. Just a hairpin gone in too deep.” I smile at him. He looks relieved. Relief is the last thing I feel. Stop seeing omens and portents everywhere. Sometimes, a hairpin is just a hairpin. The doubts submerge, but stay where they are. I watch the procession start, standing in my place, holding Nicky’s hand tight. Nicky is tense, I can see it in the way he holds himself, but his face shows none of it. The priests lead, with the Dowager Tsaritsa following. The city is sparkling, the skies clear. The bugle blows the traditional three times. Nicky and I slowly walk down the stairway, hindered by my heavy train. At the end of the stairway, we bow our heads. It is a solemn moment, a prelude for what is to come. The priests anoint us with holy water, marking us apart forevermore. As we enter, walking towards the altar, soaring music plays. It almost feels like I am floating far above the cathedral, touching Heaven itself, and yet I have never felt so grounded and immersed in my entire life. The walls of the church is lavishly decorated with art I don’t pay attention to, my eyes are riveted on the screen of icons, of God and the saints. The altar is crowded with the high and mighty of the clergy, the light striking the jewels on their regalia lending this moment even more of an unearthly air. In front of us are the coronation thrones. Nicky sits on the throne of Mikhail Feodorovich, the Dowager Empress on the throne of Alexei Mikhailovich and I on Ivan’s throne. The services begin. I have never felt so positively energetic in my entire life before. The hymns and the liturgies float in the air, elevating us above common man, above our own selves, tying us to a calling that is sacred, a command from God. Time seems pointless, our earthly bodies mere shells when compared to the sacrament we are receiving, so wholeheartedly from the people of this country. The ceremony swirls around us, the notes of the Mass lilting and beautiful. We stand as one when the Mass ends, the robing taking place, for Nicky first and then for me. The robe moulds itself to my body, my soul. I sink to my knees, praying with the Metropolitan for God to preserve the Tsar, to prove myself worthy of the great responsibility vested in me, to give me the power to serve Russia and her people. In a way, this ceremony cements my marriage with Nicky, ties me as irrevocably to his country as he is tied by virtue of birth. It marries me to Russia, to the man who bears Russia on his shoulders. I know now that Alix is needed no more, that Alexandra is who I shall be. Not for me anymore the ease of life I had at Hesse, the lack of responsibility; the woman who shall rise will a Tsaritsa in truth, wed to the country and the Tsar. I stand, armed with my conviction. For once in my life, my heart is certain. Nicky kneels then, the entire congregation standing, to pray for our country and her people. I cannot see his face, but I know Nicky. He is wholehearted in whatever his endeavors are, he will serve the nation well, lead its people to heights untouched before. He stands as the Metropolitan anoints him with holy oil. His voice echoes in the vaults of the cathedral, clear with conviction, as he takes his oath. As he ascends the stairs to the altar, the chain of the Order of St. Andrew slips from his shoulders to the floor. Time stops then. Is it an ill omen? Nicky’s steps are unfaltering as he smoothly picks the chain and sets it back on his shoulders. I smile. No. It is no ill omen. It is an omen of hope. A sign that says Nicky shall hold strong, come what may. He takes the Imperial crown from the Metropolitan’s giving hands with practiced ease, setting it firmly on his own head. After a charged moment, he removes it from his head and places it on mine. I force myself not to bow my head at the weight of the crown, instead draw strength from it. My strength is Nicky’s, his is mine. We belong to each other, the coronation a more sacrosanct validation to our wedding. At the wedding, Nicky and Alicky swore to uphold each other. Today, we, the Tsar and the Tsaritsa, Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov and Alexandra Feodronova Romanov, give ourselves to our nation together, shoulder the burden of the people together, to have and hold not only each other, but this sacred tie as well.

Nicky lifts the crown off my head and places it back on his. What is his is mine. What is mine is his. A lighter, softer crown rests on my head, symbol of my lighter and softer duties in an official manner. But I remember the weight of the Imperial Crown, the weight that Nicky bears, the weight that makes him the Tsar. You will not bear it alone, Nicky. I shall always be with you. He bends slightly, flashing me a smile that’s mine alone, as he seals the ceremony with a kiss. The spirit of the nation, now embodied by Nikolai, by my Nicky, enters my soul as well, making me Matushka, the mother of the Russian people in truth, the consort to my husband for all my years to come.


“Tell me again why living in Florida during the summer is a good thing,” I said, turning on the garden hose. “It's nothing but nonstop heatwaves.” Sitting nearby on a lawn chair, my roommate and best friend Crystal let out an exaggerated sigh. “I would but I’m suffering from heatstroke so hurry up and hand over the water.” “You don’t think this is a bit pathetic?” I adjusted the flow to an easy stream before handing the hose to her. “Sitting in our backyard, dressed in hot pants and tank tops while soaking each other with a garden hose?” “You got a better idea on how to keep cool with the AC on the fritz?” she said, letting the water pour down her head and shoulders. “We could get a pool.” Crystal flicked the hose in my direction, cool water splashing me across my face. “I think you’re the one suffering from sunstroke. There’s no way we can afford a pool.” “I didn’t mean we get a big one,” I said, wiping the water from my eyes. “They do sell above ground pools. They only cost a few hundred.” “I don’t know. Putting together a pool sounds like a lot of work.”

I took the hose from her and drenched my chest and the back of my neck. “It’ll be worth it though. We’re going to be hot no matter what we do. At least with a pool we get rewarded for it.” Crystal shook her head. “I’m not interested in doing it. Too much money, too much work just to use it one or twice. You have to maintain a pool and neither one of us will put in the effort.” I was too hot to argue and she actually had a good point so I let that idea go. “Alright, then what do you want to do? The AC won’t get fixed until sometime tomorrow and it’s only 12:45 now.” “Let's go for a drive. The car has air conditioning so even if we just cruise around for an hour it’ll be worth it.” “Just aimlessly drive around? Won’t that just burn gas?” “Again, the car has working air conditioning so it’ll be worth it.” I tossed the hose on the ground and turned it off. “Fine. You’re driving.” We both retired to our rooms to clean up and dry up. The temperature in the house felt like the inside of an oven set for 350. If it didn’t cool down by bedtime I was going to sleep naked in the bathtub and I didn’t care if Crystal put me on blast for it. She was waiting for me in the living room, fanning herself with a magazine. “Why don’t we fill the car with as much stuff that will fit and move to Vermont. I hear the hottest it gets is 80 and it snows there.”

“If we hadn’t just renewed our lease for another year I would agree,” I said, following her to the garage. “Though driving in snow sounds rough.” “So we’ll either use Uber or hibernate during the winter months,” she said, hitting the garage door opener on the wall. “A few snow days has to be better than being cooked alive in your own home.” Inside the car felt like the bowels of Hell and I nearly broke the air conditioning dial twisting it to max as soon as Crystal turned the key. Thankfully we have a good car and the temperature soon went from death to heavenly cool. It felt so good that I leaned against the dashboard, face next to the vent and stayed there until my skin became stiff and numb. We drove in silence for some time before Crystal said. “I’m thinking about going back to school.” I was too caught up in the joy of breathable air that her words didn’t fully register. When they did sink in I sat up and looked at her. “You’re going back to where?” She wouldn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the road. “School. Cosmetology to be exact. I want to be a beautician.” “Why? I mean it’s great that you want to do it and all but what made you decide?” She shrugged. “Lots of things. I’m sick of working two dead end jobs that don’t excite me anymore. I’ve been working at Pax Boutique for almost 5 years, it’s given me retail burnout. I love doing hair and makeup so being a beautician should be fun.” “Are you going to be able to work and do school at the same time?” “I’d keep working at Pax for as long as I can since I’ve been there the longest and I like it better than working as a Pizza delivery driver. I haven’t applied yet or anything, I was just thinking about it.” I pushed back my seat in a reclining position and angled the air to blow over me. “Well, if you want my opinion I say go for it. Apply for financial aid and see what happens. You’re 25 so it’s not like this is your one shot at college.” “You think so? It’ll be a lot of money. I don’t want to screw you up because I blow all this money and we end up not being able to pay rent and our friendship gets wrecked over this.” I reached over and poked her arm. “Don’t worry about that. We’ve been friends for how many years? Since grade school, right? Between the two of us we’ve blown money on many boneheaded ideas and get rich schemes. Going back to school isn’t a boneheaded idea.I hate school so if I went back it would be throwing money away. You on the other hand seemed to love schoolwork. I used to get so pissed and jealous when we got our report cards and you got top grades and I was down around the middle. You’ll do great so go for it.” Crystal smiled. “Thanks. I’ll start looking into my financial aid options tonight. There’s a school about an hour’s drive from here. I think the course is 8 months, give or take, after which I’ll have to pass the state licensing examination before I can find work.” “One thing at a time,” I glanced out the window at our surroundings and perked up.”Hey, we’re near Bruster’s ice cream. Let’s stop there.” “You buying?” I brought my seat back up and reached underneath where the emergency money was kept. We try to keep $100 there at all themes though it never lasts, it’s constantly replaced at least once a month. Luck was on my side and I pulled out a $20, more than enough for two cones or shakes. “This is our last splurge so lets make it count,” I said, handing the money to her. “Once you become a big shot hairdresser you’re buying me dinner at Sky.” “Keep dreaming.” I laughed, found a good song on the radio and cranked up the volume.


Being the smallest in the gang, my hunting position was clear: stay on the lookout. I was to travel in the trees and warn of prey. There was that one time, though, where curiosity got the better of me. The Fighters below launched at full speed. Meanwhile, I hopped branches with the fluidity of a monkey. I aligned with our leader and avoided rain-greased leaves like my life depended on it. Then, the pounding began. In the corner of my eye, a red-feathered beast smashed its beak against oak. I froze on sight. What the hell is that thing? And more importantly, how long until it gets brain damage? By the time I gave out the signal, the ground unit was far gone. Catching up in these conditions was like running a marathon in a blizzard. I slipped to the floor and hurried my legs beyond capacity. The caw and the squeal still resonate in my head. Sam’s death-by-owl scarred the crew so badly, they hired a sewer dweller to replace me. Tonight, this would be my first mission alone. The log cabin glowed in the blackness of the night. Clanging plates and drunken laughs boomed throughout the forest. An invisible wave of burnt chicken infiltrated my snout and turned my paws on shuffle-mode. I scurried through the snow blanket, leaving the imprints of an amateur thief. There would be food. That, I knew for sure. A leap and a squeeze later, I was in. I followed the scent, jumping across beams like an acrobat. The voices on the other side of the wall grew louder as I approached the sliver of light. I peeked through the crack. Humans were feasting at the table a safe distance away, so I rushed for the door. A tsunami of regret flooded over me as a woman’s scream deafened everyone inside. With every foot stomp heading my way, I panicked. I never thought I’d die like this. The giant surveyed the bathroom. He let out a guttural bellow and whacked a broom on the cupboards. Clearly, no intruders were allowed in the home scott-free. As the shower curtains were pulled, I zoomed from behind the toilet bowl. Left. Right. Left. I zigzagged the attacks. The silly sprint successfully led me back to the crevice unharmed. From down here, it’d be near-impossible to reach the plank. Drained of my energy, I was a rubber ball, getting closer to the ground with every bounce. My better judgment told me to stop. I was safe. For now. I could pause and figure it all out later. There was silence as I woke up. The party had died, and it was my time to go. I muscled another futile spring. My only options now were to starve in silence or find an exit. I crept into the danger zone and scanned the area. Coast is clear. That’s when I saw it. Like a trophy on display, a beach in the desert, a princess in the tower...cheese. I salivated at the thought of a full belly. Without a second to lose, I journeyed to my prize. Halt. It seems the fine cuisine rests on some sort of contraption. I grazed my finger on the block. Nothing to worry about here! I stepped on the plate and snapped my neck. Death released her grip as quickly as she arrived.


5. I miss you. He is a silhouette sitting on the railing of the balcony overlooking an island. His island. He takes another sip from the half empty bottle of wine then shouts: "At least I own an island!" He is an island of grief in a sea of happiness, resilience, normalcy. That one thought, "I miss you" is an island in his mind, surrounded by the tepid waters made up of all the other mundane thoughts he has; thoughts of beats and lyrics and female fans, so many female fans, so many willing female fans... His fingers drum an impatient beat onto the balcony railing. He wishes he could turn back time. 4. “Enjoy the little things." That's what she used to tell him. One of her favourite quotes was by Galileo Galileo, the one about how even though the sun has planets depending on it, it still has time to ripen grapes, as though it had nothing else in the universe to do. He lifts the bottle of wine up to the sky. “Happy anniversary.” He takes the first sip and swallows the wine and the overwhelming urge to weep. It takes him a while to get back control. The sun is setting as he leans on the railing of the balcony and takes another sip; then he takes the hundredth, thousandth, millionth sip of the wine that is his memories of her. He misses the little things about her. Her smile. Her laugh. Her voice. He misses the big things about her. The way her smile anchored him. The way her laugh threw him overboard, making him get lost in her sea of laughter. The way her voice could both make him feel small and insignificant in the presence of her brilliance and also make him feel like the king of the world and more importantly, the king of her world. She was the sun, brightening up the whole world, yet shining on him as though she had nothing else in the universe to do. The solar-powered garden lights come on. 3. No man is an island? Alone again. The refrigerator light illuminates the darkening kitchen. He grabs the bottle of wine and removes the foil from the top of the bottle. He swallows down a sudden urge to weep. He inserts the corkscrew into the center of the cork and twists the top handle to insert the corkscrew farther into the cork. He blinks back tears. He uses both hands to press down on the levers of the opener, downwards towards the center of the bottle. A rogue tear makes a break and runs down his cheek. The levers go down, the cork goes up. He impatiently wipes the tear, grabs the bottom of the opener with one hand and the bottle with the other and wiggles out the rest of the cork. He takes one deep breath, lets it out, takes another deep breath, lets it out and regains a modicum of control. He walks past one of his many drum kits and out onto the balcony. The view is spectacular. Sun, sea, windmills, trees for days. He can’t see the forest for the trees he planted in memory of her. Mango trees and avocado trees and orange trees. She had always been a nature person, always concerned about the environment and Mother Earth in general. She used to say: "We are all connected. No man is an island." Today, at this moment, he feels that she was wrong. He is an island that lets the many, willing female fans surround him, drown him, like a Tsunami. Yet he never connects with them where it really matters. He makes sure of it. He lets the movement of the windmills hypnotize him for a few moments. She was like a windmill. Tall, majestic, powerful - the quiet, gentle, pure kind of power. She taught him a lot of the important things he now knows and also some things that he did not want to know. She thrived during storms… but even the strongest windmill cannot withstand the blast wave of a toxic workplace nuclear explosion. 2. After the fireworks This one is talking to him. He can’t hear her. He doesn’t want to hear her. He wants wine and her gone. She is making the bed, destroying the evidence of what transpired. If only life were an unmade bed that could be straightened out in a few moves. She shyly asks for his autograph. He can’t remember her name so he writes: "To my favourite fan". She squeals in delight, goes into full fan-girl mode. Another happy customer. His heart hurts. She wants more of him, more from him. He just wants wine and this one gone. She persists, pouts, begs, seduces, threatens, blackmails. He pretends to give in, convinces her to start the shower running and he would join her shortly. He glares at her silhouette as she chats incessantly while showering. She is mapping out a detailed future of their lives together, complete with twins, dogs, cats and a horse. He switches on his phone. Several missed calls from the band’s publicist. He sends him a message assuring him that he is okay so that he doesn’t have a meltdown. The shower stops running; her mouth doesn’t. He calls security and organizes for her to be flown back to the main land. A few minutes later, she is carried away, kicking and screaming, yelling at him her invitation to call her any time he wants. He just wants wine. 1. Another notch on the bedpost He misses her . He hides that feeling, that time-bomb, in the beautiful body of this one who isn’t her. He uses experience from his previous job to convince himself that it's no big deal, that it's just skin and bones and hormones and blood rushing where it's needed. His current job ensures that there is a steady stream of no-strings Someones. They get their fifteen minutes of intimacy with a famous person. He gets fifteen seconds of forgetting her.

Her  shadow paints every touch, every kiss, every sound, every memory, every…thing.


My childhood is a far away memory, abstract and serene. Green trees and mountain hikes are what I remember best. Such a jarring divorce from today. Now, everything happens on our smartphones, but this is not the smartphones of old. Smartphones on which we happily shared pics and vids of our happy lives on Instagram or Tic Tok. The smartphone is now your life, literally. No smartphone, no money. No, smartphone, no freedom, that is if freedom is what you want to call it anymore. Covid 19 came and went, then it was the climate crisis overlaid with a bunch of foreign forever wars, then Covid 25 and the first real lockdowns and forced injections, then Covid 27, 28,... and then we stopped counting. Just a merry-go-round of lockdowns, medications and ever more censorship. When the fight went out of us, we were gradually herded into oppressive slums. Now drones constantly scan our smartphones from above, checking vaccine status and of course our precious social scores. To add to the insult, CBDC wallets capriciously choose what you can or cannot have and how much, where you can go or what you can do. A single litre of synthetic milk (cows are banned or extinct, we are not sure anymore which) is all a family of four is allowed each day. Bread was more like a thick cracker. Then there were ‘matties’. A patty of fake meat. Cost: virtually free. It’s the only thing that we can eat without limit. We had long given up speculating what it really was, so the popular debate was, how close to real meat it in fact tasted? *** Your social score is everything today. Those that fall below 8 vanish. Theories as to where they go are whispered in hushed and paranoid tones. Discussing it is taboo on MetaX, the only social media platform that exists. Though strategies on how to improve your score abound and are easily the most discussed topic online, though bitter experience, raising your points was akin to blitzing a snap test in a subject you never studied. But losing points, now that's as easy as breathing. I had 9.2 and John, my brother, had 9.3. Clive, from next door showed me with mock rebellious bravado that he had only 8.1. That was a few weeks ago. I have not seen him since. I wonder how brave he feels now, or indeed where he is. This was the other eternal topic, where did the sub 8’s go. Nobody I know had ever witnessed any abductions, or arrests, but nobody dared to discuss this on MetaX. *** Clive had a sister that I liked, but I was sure she didn't even know I existed, until today. I was coming back to our apartment with whatever I could find at the market for us to eat when she suddenly grabbed my arm in the crowd. What I remember was the look in her mesmerising blue eyes: manic fright, as a bizarre counterpoint was that pink tight cardigan she wore, with the top button undone, hugging her inviting breasts. I could not help but smile to myself for the sudden attention. She grabbed my hand and sharply led me to one side out of the crowd, behind a large dumpster. She pulled my head close to hers and in a raspy whisper said: “Clive, they took him!” Before I could ask where , my smartphone chimed. I looked at it and saw the screen: bright red and in the middle -1 flashing in large bold yellow characters. My knees went weak! A -0.1 was chilling enough, and the rare -0.2, was always accompanied by a colourful story, but -1! I tore out of her grip and boldly reentered the crowded lane. Looking up for a drone, I loudly proclaimed “What have I done wrong, why a minus one”. The crowd gave me immediate space. “What did I do?” I hollered into the air. I looked back at the dumpster and Clive's sister had melted away. I was alone in the crowd. My smartphone chimed again. Another -0.1 gone! “What's going on?” I yelped into the air in desperation. A drone silently approached overhead. Then a second. I was looking up at them questioningly when I felt a yank on the plastic bag in my hand. A grubby child, face hidden in a hoodie, was tearing at it. The strength was unexpected. I lost interest in the drones and began convincingly losing a tug-o-war over the bag down the darker lane behind the dumpster. Only a handful of metres away from the thongs of people, the urchin turned and stabbed my hand with a needle, then everything went dark. *** I woke up lying on warm concrete surrounded by a crowd, all ignoring me. Knots of people stood at concrete tables toiling at some strange tasks. Others just stood or milled around whispering to each other. Everyone was naked except for black boxer briefs. All ages except the very young were there, but no women at all. Everyone's faces: grave and serious, and the smell! An intense mix of faeces, urine, sweat and vomit scorched my nose.

An older gaunt man slowly approached me and gave me a hand standing up. “Your headache will pass” he said in a quiet voice. “Whats going on? Where am I?” “Block 9” “What is block 9?” I asked “Everyone has the same questions when they get here. Sorry but it's too dangerous to answer some questions. All I can tell you is where you are,... or else”, the man said, ending with ominous foreboding. Before I could get another question out, a loud siren wailed. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing and began to head in one direction. The old man clapped me lightly on the shoulder and said, “Chow time” It took me about half an hour pushing and shoving in the crowd to get to the ‘feed trough’ filled with matties. I managed to grab 2 of them in the melee of hands. They were cold and definitely tasted inferior to those I was used to. There were bits in them that did not feel like food at all which I spat out. As I was retreating through the crowd, the man from before came up next to me and led me away to a quieter spot. “I am A3F49r-9, but you can call me Alex” I gave him a stunned look. “Your ankle tag…”, he added. I looked down to notice the red ankle bracelet fixed to my own right leg with a large bold white number V8h8R2-9 written. “We are the sub 8’s” Alex added while wolfing down his food. A lingering question about Clive was now finally answered. “How long do we need to be in here?” I asked. Alex shrugged, then added, “I only know of people going down.” “Down?” “Yes, down. None of us really know for sure, but we know there are levels below us” The stunned look on my face triggered Alex to stand and grab my arm and lead me off through the crowds. The entire place was a single open space with concrete floor and ceiling interspersed with imposing columns, like an ancient car park of old. As we walked on, the smell in the air freshened and a new quality to the light grew. We finally reached a low concrete barrier above which was the outside. A wide brown featureless desert vista yawned open topped with an intensely bright blue sky. The barren landscape was dotted with enormous cubic structures emblazoned with huge numbers: 8, 7, and 6 barely legible in the distance, with many more blocks stretching to the horizon. Block 8 was close enough to make out some detail. The bleached concrete block was ringed with black bands in which I could just make out small figures moving around. There were dozens of layers, which became more tightly bunched toward the ground. The only interruption to the minimal form was a circumnavigating upward facing angled wall protruding beyond the cube’s footprint. I guessed it was to catch rainwater, but that sounded ridiculous. The only other movement was from large drones flying back and forth between the blocks. “Well maybe down is out?” I suggested, but Alex’s jaded look did not boost my optimism. “The only rules I can tell you about are that if you work at the tables, you are rewarded with a few minutes advance notice of feeding time. And if your collar continuously vibrates, that means you are going down. The tubes to take you down are in the corners.” Alex said in a flat voice. I ventured with naive hope: “And out perhaps” Alex just shrugged and cocked his head with mock optimism, then shuffled away. *** Over the next few days, I caught sight of Alex a few times but otherwise I kept to myself like most of us did. I tried to get to the work tables but they were popular. But to my delight I ran into Clive. “Hey neighbour” I said gaily, siding up to him in the crowd. Clive looked at me with shock, then glee. I hugged him despite us not really being much of friends. But then a second later, the mirth vanished from his face and a tear began to roll down his cheek. “Hey man, it will be OK, we will get out of here sooner or later” I said in a vain attempt at levity. His face did not brighten. “I was so stupid. A stupid fool full of bravado, showing off how low my score was. Well now I am here and I don't see how I will ever get out. I don't even know where here is. None of us do.” “Come on Clive, do…” Clive clamped his palm over my mouth with force before I could say anymore. He whispered close to my ear, “I am not Clive. Never use my name. Never tell anyone your name, I mean your outside name. NEVER!” “Ah, OK” I said, trying to fit this new fact into my understanding of Block 9. “How did they get you, aah…” I looked down at his ankle. ‘D2Jf76-9’, “…David?”. He shook his head in short jerky movements, then said: “Have you seen Claire?” I understood his signal and change of subject, and casually answered “Yeah, she’s fine” and I tried to add as much context with my eyes as I dared. “Ahh, she’s a great kid, everything I am not. Beautiful, smart,...” Clive wanted to continue but was unsure what he could safely add. A relief washed over his face. “I feel better knowing she is OK”. He leaned in to me and said in a whisper, “I only have this one thing to remind me of her”, and he stuck out his tongue. On it, in the dim light I could see a pearly pink button glistening. The memory came flooding back. This was the missing top button from her cardigan. One of the last endearing memories I had from the outside. Now it was my turn to shed a tear, at which Clive, no David, gave me a glance with as much concern as he could. I simply nodded and gave a thumbs up to dispel his anxiety. *** If you stay near the edge, then you enjoy the change of day and night. Inmates' jealousy held onto these positions, but the troughs were nearer the middle where the work tables were so migrations around the floor were constant and holding onto any territory was almost pointless. Despite this, bullies still persisted in vain territorialism. I managed to get a few sessions at the tables but this earned me no advantages so I stopped bothering. I was hanging out near the perimeter one day when my bracelet buzzed and would not stop. A few guys nearby gave me looks of trepidation mixed with hope. In the very corner of the level was a group of round disks. One of them was lit showing my number, I stood on it and a metal tube came down around me, then came the sensation of descent. The tube retracted and I found myself on a new level, much the same as the old one, except the ceiling was noticeably lower and the light dimmer. *** And so the next few weeks progressed and I moved down the levels. I ran into Alex one more time but only in passing. An oppressive unspoken resistance seemed to be associated with any kind of bonding between inmates. Like an infection of the mind, but I could not say what it was and I was not keen to discuss it either. Nobody seemed to know each other well, nor cared to become friendly in any way. It was very lonely being in such a densely crowded space without anyone to really talk to. The days were very long and tiring, shuffling around the huge featureless space. I developed some painful sores on my hip from sleeping on the filthy hard floor, but there was no one to complain to. One day I found a spot close to the elevator tubes. They were constantly busy with people vanishing and appearing from the tubes. At least it was something vaguely interesting to watch. A disc lit up with a number. A tall man approached with trepidation and stopped just short of it. He was hesitating. This began to attract attention. The buzzing grew louder and more urgent and he was experiencing increasing obvious discomfort from the bracelet. The disc began to flash along with his bracelet. His head was just shy of the concrete ceiling and I empathised with his plight. The flashing and buzzing intensified, then the ankle bracelet suddenly exploded with a dull thud. The man fell to the ground, his right foot blown off up to the shin. A large bloody stain spread out on the floor with pieces of meat and bone strewn for a metre or so. His scream was not what I expected. It was not one of shock and pain, but a cry of pathetic defeat. A sound I will never forget. Nobody came to his aid, instead many just turned and left the scene. Three discs which I assumed to be lifts raised out of the floor and disgorged three drones. Two came to either side of the man and lifted him bodily into the air. He made a feeble attempt at resistance as they moved to the low wall and threw him over. The third busied itself cleaning up the mess while playing a kind of pacifying elevator music as it worked. An AI’s demented idea of a ‘human touch’. It was completely surreal and horrifying. The whole episode took under 20 seconds. *** The inventor of this abomination must have had a macabre sense of humour, or was an especially bitter midget indeed. The lowering ceiling over the next 2 levels brought almost everyone to a permanent slouch or hunch, with the tall reduced to sitting or crawling. Defeated and broken would sum up the collective mood perfectly. Few bothered with the work tables any more. The hymn of droids as they carried out their grim work was heard more down here. The only highlight I can share is spotting Clive. I tried to approach him but paused when I got up closer in the dim light. Sallow and gaunt, he was blindly shuffling about with his chin buried in his chest. I had to admit that I was not far behind him, but I am an stoic optimist by nature and was probably proving harder for this prison to break. I found stupid trivialities funny and broke out in manic laughter at the slightest prompt. Others would look at me like I had succumbed to insanity. Perhase I have in my own way. Everyone had to dig deep into their souls to find a way to cope. Staying near the edge was popular down here. The light hardly filtered to the centre of the floors anymore. I was scared to even venture into that darkness fearing what I may find. Around the edge, the air was somewhat more bearable, but the price was steep: being a witness to the stream of human tragedies. I watched as inmates would take their own lives over the edge. The regular monotony of it destroyed our souls. Some prayed beforehand, some just lept, and others hollered their epitaphs. I began to guess that this was the only way out. *** I just got sent down this morning, but where I landed can only be described as abominable. As the tube retracted, it stopped at my waist. I squatted down on rickety knees and froze at the scene I beheld. A dim light filtered past figures crawling on hands and knees. The ceiling was so low even standing on your knees was impossible here. The moaning and despair filled the air along with the heavy smell of death. Inmates now uncaring about their fate ranted and raved. Their echoes tormented those still clinging to sanity. I crawled away from the lift, but not far. I don't think anyone gets far down here. I lay down the first chance I got and stayed till the siren howled for meal time. It took an enormous effort to crawl to the trough. I grabbed a mattie and shuffled away to eat it in peace. As I chewed it, I bit down painfully on a pebble or a rock. I spat the piece out into my palm. This was no rock, it was a broken piece of plastic. Not just any plastic either, this was a broken piece from a pearly pink button. Claire’s button.

That was the moment I died inside.


I can’t even remember the Sun. ...... It had been the strangest thing when the aliens had landed, because very little actually changed. We felt them in the vibrations of the earth long before we heard them. We heard them as a low thrumming drill deep in our skulls long before we saw them. They flew in in their great grey spaceships by the thousand. Each as large as a city and perfectly cuboid, their steely surfaces glinted evilly in the sunlight as they hovered, before descending as vast metallic falcons upon their prey. Their perfectly straight edges fit against each other like roofing tiles until they seemed to create a sheet around the whole world. For the briefest moment of sheer terror, there was almost utter darkness, but it was short-lived. The soft blue-white underlights of the craft turned on, bathing the earth in their artificial glow, as great pylons extended out of the base of each ship, settling underneath them. Ramps began to filter gradually out amongst the pylons, and the aliens began to descend to their new home. There was some initial alarm on account of how similar to us they looked. As they descended from their craft in their droves, the resemblance to your average subway escalator at rush hour was uncanny. They were, on the whole, just slightly too pale to be human. Slightly too slim and slightly too tall. They all looked different from each other, as we do, but just slightly too different. Like each face was a brand new face, with no components shared. As they milled around the crowds gathered in awe, they would incline their heads and say “We come in peace” to each human they passed in turn. It took several days, probably, though they seemed tireless. Their tone would never falter nor the incline of their bow, and they left no one out. The Earth shook with the fervent refrain of “We come in peace” echoed by a billion slightly-too-human voices.

The vast majority of them had returned up their ramps into their craft when the greeting was over, and the ramps had shot up behind them. The scattered few that remained on Earth had clearly done so for a reason, and they went off their separate ways, blending in just a little too well to our way of life. The easiest way to be sure if you passed one on the street was to say “Hello” and see if you got a “We come in peace” in response, or at least it was until humans started saying that to each other for a laugh. But aside from that, nothing was any different about the way we lived our lives. We ate, we shat, and we went to work. We kissed our loved ones and grumbled about our co-workers and scoffed at the idiocy of contestants on game shows. Except there wasn't any sun. There wasn't any moon. There wasn't any night or day at all, just the same incessant ambient blue-white glare from the aliens' ships. They had completely blocked out the sky. Flags across the globe hung limp and useless, flowers wilted in their arid patches. Animals began to behave very oddly, confused by the endless light. We hardly fared any better. How do you sleep when the sky has become like a giant computer screen staring you in the face? We had become like guinea pigs in a lab, trapped under the shining lights, waiting in ignorance of what experiments lay in store for us. But nothing happened. It seemed no experiments were in store for us. Three months on, and apart from wrecking my sleep cycle and once or twice startling me in the street with a "We come in peace", the aliens have done me no harm, nor anyone else as far as I can tell. They are nothing but pleasant and courteous, if they interact with you at all. Our lives have continued just as ever they did, only now under a spotlight. It's driving me insane. They must have come here for a reason, whether "in peace" or not. Why are they parked on our planet, blocking out our sun? Most of them have stayed in their ships anyway. What business have the ones who came down here, filtering into our offices and communities? What does the sun look like? What does rain feel like on my face? A slight breeze? They've rendered our existence sterile. These are the thoughts that assail me as I come wearily into the office today. I know I look like shit, but fortunately, so does everyone else. A good night's sleep has become a long-forgotten thing. I see Bob heading towards me. He's worked here for years, almost as long as I have, but we've never been particularly chummy. He looks a little clammy, which is no big surprise. "Hi Bob." I say as I pass him, "Good weekend?" "We come in peace." I barely pause. "Haha. Good one Bob!" I laugh, adding under my breath "You freak." He's always had an odd sense of humour I could never really gel with. Shaking my head to myself, I head to my cubicle and get set for a day of mind-numbing dullness. Bob's hysterical prank proves to be by far the most interesting event of the day, and I sign off in no worse a mood than I ever am. This is obviously too good to last, however, as on the walk home I see ahead of me one of them, walking right towards me. By now, I can occasionally spot them from a mile away. The paleness is no longer such a factor as it used to be, since we're all living in the same vacuum now, but their eyes... their eyes give them away. Every human I know has the look of someone who hasn't slept properly in three months, because that's what they all are. They have black bags that leave them looking like a handless boxer. But the aliens look as pristine as the day they landed. The fuckers. "Hello!" I greet it with exaggerated exuberance, taking some petty delight in mocking it without it realising. "How fare you today, good sir?" "We came in peace". The response comes hollow and dull in the breezeless air, and hits me like a cannonball. For the first time in months, I feel something real. "Pardon me?" I stutter, sure I've misheard him, although I know that I haven't. "We came in peace". "I'm sorry?" I say incredulously. It looks up at that, and meets my eye perfectly. "We forgive you." ...... A couple of days later, the ramps come back again. The noise is unbelievable, and people are flocking out of their houses to see what all the commotion is about. As the ramps touch down, the aliens start to descend them in their billions, and I'm reminded of the day they came. They flit around us with the same dogged efficiency as before, inclining their head perfectly the same each time, and greeting each human in turn: "We came in peace". The earth shakes with the chorus, "We came in peace", and I see the other humans looking around at each other, perplexed, startled, horrified. The whole affair takes, I imagine, a few days again, although without the visible cycle of day of night, it's hard to judge, and time has become a very loosely real concept to me now. The moment each in turn is done, without ceremony, they start to return to their ships, flooding up their ramps into their cuboid metal ships like busy commuters with a place to be. As the tumultuous crowd around me gradually begins to thin, I see Bob, standing opposite me, looking me directly in the eye. Against the tin-tin-tin of their feet rapping against their ramps, the flustered muttering of the bewildered humans around me, and the ongoing mantra of "We came in peace", I hear him like a gunshot into the void, clear and crisp as bone snapping: "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." He turns to make his long way up the nearest ramp, into the daunting vessel above us. The chorus changes around me. "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." They all begin to chant as they take their leave. Soon the last few stragglers are making their farewells, "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." and we are left looking around at each other, bereft. I feel no relief, only confusion and fear. The earth feels suddenly empty. The lights on the undersides of their ships go out, and we are left in perfect darkness. After the eternal ungodly sunlight of their tenure, it's the most terrifying thing I've ever known, to be suddenly robbed of my sight. But just as when they arrived, the darkness is short-lived. The lights begin to glow a deep red, and the earth is in hellish gloom. The very air looks drenched in blood. Their engines turn on in unison, and the noise is literally deafening. A monumental crash of sound and then I can't hear anything at all, only the ringing that is always in my ears, and I can't see anything, only blurry red. The earth begins to shake, and shake, incredibly. I am thrown to the ground like a ragdoll, and feel the people around me tumble too, limbless and weak. I stumble around blindly, groping at the ground as it quakes beneath me, feeling the tremors surge up my arm and seem to rattle my organs from within. My heart stutters and my head swims in protest, and I vomit spectacularly, retching my guts all over my hands. The heat begins to swell dramatically. Of course, I realise, their engines are about to propel them off the planet. And we are trapped in here, like guinea pigs in a lab. And it seems the experiment we never realised we were in is finally coming to an end. Sweltering, blind and deaf and powerless in a gloomy red inferno, I know that I am in Hell. This is where it all ends for me. And I can't even remember the Sun.


A God and a Girl in a Pool  The whole night was a fever dream. My God was even there. She wore a tight black t-shirt and three necklaces—a lock, a key, and a crystal. You could see the top of Her pineapple tattoo in between her breasts and all four piercings in each ear. We swam in our underwear underneath pink and purple pool lights. We kissed underneath the moon. Touched elbows underneath the stars. I love the feeling you get when you swim at the bottom of a pool. When you look up, you see the world in a screaming color. But when you look forward, all you see is crystal clear. I stopped holding my weight and let my body sink. She swam toward me. I reached out to grab Her hand and swam back to the top. We stared at each other above the water, Her back towards the side of the pool. My God looked so beautiful with her wet hair and Her tight black shirt all wet and Her three necklaces dangling. Water droplets dripped from Her chin. It was easiest for me to make the next move since I already grabbed Her hand first and I could easily push Her against the wall so we have something to lean on.  Like a shooting star suddenly deciding to soar in the sky, I moved to Her body and grabbed her waist. I felt my breasts against Hers and kissed Her mouth softly. I tasted the chlorine on our lips. She bit my lip and I bit Hers back and She bot mine again, harder. My God is so soft. I still kicked my feet softly underneath the water to hold my body up when She pulled my body towards the cement. Now I don’t have to kick anymore because She is holding me up. I wrapped my legs around Her body and took in the moment. *A God and a girl in a pool.* The colors pink, purple, and blue. The smell of chlorine. The sliminess of shaven legs underwater. The softness of Her lips. I used to think I was going to hell for loving the salt on Her lips. Now I know I was wrong. I know I’m saved. *This* is heaven. My legs are still wrapped around Hers as I snap back into reality. We kiss against as if we were breathing for air and needed it out each other’s lungs. Eventually, she swims towards the ladder.  She grabbed my hand and led me into her studio apartment. Plants. Plaid tablecloth. Christmas lights. No couch. Just floor cushions. A painting of Buddha. A messy bed with a white comforter. Small kitchen area. Salt lamp.  I told her I loved her place and she said thank you and we went on her bed to watch cartoons on her laptop and she opened a bottle of red wine and we smelled of chlorine and the night was perfect. But just like the wine, the night slowly seeped away, like pool water drying on my skin.


I leaned back on the chair facing the backyard garden upon which I had squandered half of my savings. My father bought that extra half-acre land with the last penny of his fortune, just so I could dig it up for nothing. I looked around, envisaging the blossoming flowers and the fragrant aroma of ripe fruits stagnating in the air. It would’ve been a reminiscence of those summers I grew up in. I used to spend the vacations at my grandpa’s place. I’d wait all year for the summer, to spend a couple of months at his place. My grandpa was too old to get his hands soiled, thus he used to stand behind and guide me as I dug up the flower beds, added the right amount of compost, and planted the seeds. We’d learn to grow different fruits every year. We’d sit in the shed and I’d listen amazedly as he told his stories. After storytime, I’d spend the rest of the evening looking at all my efforts ripening into lushly green fruit-laden plants growing taller than me. Sometimes I'd roam around the garden with my father. My father was more into flowering plants; his favorite was the

Buddleia  or the

butterfly bush . Buddleia is known for attracting butterflies. He used to say, “Flowers are pleasant to look at but butterflies are the real

amazeballs .” Once he made me look closely at the butterflies that hovered over the Buddleia flowers. I was in awe of the varied patterns on their vibrantly colored wings. He told me to gently touch a butterfly resting on a bud. As I approached, it spread out its wings and flew off, showcasing its magnificent asymmetric patterns. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen up close.

I was brought back to reality when my gaze came upon the tomato plants lined up in front of me in ten pots. Those were the first and only ones in the garden. The plan was to start with tomatoes and gradually progress to other varieties. I staked half the money in setting up the garden and preparing the soil, forecasting a diminished profit in the first time but steadily working its way up. Things all went south when my father got diagnosed with

Stage IV Leukaemia . Medical bills slowly began to pile up. I took out a mortgage loan against the half-acre land. Most of my time went by in the hospital; I only came home to water the plants. This went on for two weeks and before the tomatoes began turning into crimson red, my father took his last breath.

I had ordered twenty medium-sized pots for the garden before the chaos. They were for radish, spinach, potatoes, and some flowering plants. The delivery service didn’t bother to ask to keep them inside. Neither did I. I’d already paid them upfront so they kept those pots outside the wooden fence surrounding the backyard, rang the bell for signature, and left. I went inside to make myself some coffee. I wondered what to do with those pots. They had been outside for around three weeks by then, and creepers had climbed on them. I couldn't fathom the point in bringing them in when there wouldn’t be any place to keep them. I decided to leave them outside. I wanted to sleep for a month straight. If I woke anytime in between, I might go and water the pots. But then I found it a better solution to sell the tomatoes after one or two days when they fully ripen and then bury the plants. I’d buy some Buddelia seeds and add some extra compost when planting them. Buddleias can grow well of their own. After that, I will go for that sleep. “Gracie… Gracie…” I heard someone shout in the backyard so I rushed outside. I saw a German Shepherd rummaging through the tomato plants, half-chewing each tomato then leaving it for a new one. I wondered how the dog got inside. I saw a ball lying at a distance and a kid’s voice coming from outside the fence. I opened the fence door and let the kid in. He rushed to get hold of his dog by the collar. The dog was too distracted by the tomatoes to pay any heed to his master. After a little tussle, the dog backed off the plants. “I’m sorry about this. I was playing fetch and accidentally threw it inside,” the kid apologized. “It’s all right buddy. Don’t throw it inside a property next time.” After they were gone, I went outside to have a look at the reason behind the dog crossing a five-foot-high fence. I saw the pile of pots lying on the ground, some of them broken. The dog had stepped on them to cross the fence. I went inside to take note of the mess that lay in the middle of the garden. I felt relieved that I was getting that sleep sooner. *** I looked at the flower vases kept on display at the storefront. They were undeniably eye-catching, especially the pots and the vases. I’d never seen such beautiful ones. I felt an urge to buy a few of those; the vases. The pride in growing a plant is incomparable to the one you bought from a store. I went inside the plant shop and the perfumed fragrance residing in the air made me want to throw up. I went to the seeds section, picked up a packet of Buddleia seeds, and walked straight to the payment counter. A girl stood beside me at the counter. She was signing five-six papers hurriedly without reading them. I presumed that she was buying the shop. Anyway, it wasn’t my concern. I wanted to reach home. I made my payment after the girl left. I was too tired to take a bus ride because then I had to walk half a mile from the bus stop to my house. I wondered why I was so impatient to buy those seeds. Maybe I was just missing my dad or maybe I was getting too impulsive. I put my thoughts aside and stopped a cab passing by. As the cab halted in front of me, I heard someone call out for it. I turned around to see that girl from the shop rushing towards us. Our eyes met for half a second before the cabbie asked us our destinations. The girl was going four blocks ahead of my place. We agreed to split the fare and got in. “Thank you. I’m Alice.” “I’m Austin.” She saw the packet of seeds in my hand and asked me if I was a breeder. I replied that it was for my garden. I told her that I saw her inside the shop, signing off the papers at the counter. It turned out that she was signing off the payment slips for the pots and vases they supplied to the shop. She was a craftswoman of some sorts and ran a local business along with her four other friends who made things for decorations and recreations. I ended up telling my whole story when she asked about me. When I stopped, it made no sense why I blurted out everything. Luckily I didn’t break down. It’s like the

dam  burst, but there wasn’t any

flood . “What are you going to do now?” “I have a degree in graphics design. So I might just make something of it.” “But your heart is in farming. That’s why you weren’t doing graphics designing in the first place, right?” “I have some plans. Let’s see what lies ahead.” She nodded and we stayed quiet for a while. I thought about how this goes on in movies. Someone tells a sad story, the other person is moved to tears and their pity turns into love. It felt creepy when I thought about it. I looked sideways at her. She was busy with her phone, reading comments on

Facebook . I let out a quiet sigh.

The cab suddenly screeched and I grasped the seat tightly as the driver slammed the brakes. A dog had come out of nowhere and was sniffing the road.

“Get hold of your fricking dog!” he shouted at a man who rushed in and pulled the dog out of the road.

“Poor soul. They are so naïve.” I looked at her and then the driver, who looked at her then me through the rear-view mirror. “Sometimes not in an innocent way,” I smirked. “I have come across a lot of dog messes today,” she chuckled. “Do you like dogs?” “I’m more of a cat person but yeah, I do like dogs. It’s pretty evident that you love dogs, right?” “Yes, I do. I neither like nor hate cats. I’m just very scared of them.” She continued, “Um, I wanted to tell you that we are looking for a designer to handle our advertising and brochure designs. As it happens, I’m sitting beside one, and if you’re interested, we will like to see your work.” “Okay, sure. It’s fine with me.” I cursed myself for my over-enthusiastic response. We exchanged numbers and she gave me her address. We set up a meeting at her place the next evening. I asked her if it was their office. She said that she grew up there with her parents and the Barnhouse then served the purpose of their office. When I told her, we both were astonished to know that we had lived our entire lives a few blocks away and still never met each other before. The cab stopped by my place. I paid my share and got off. “See you tomorrow,” she said, getting her face close to the window. “Yeah, see you.” It was the shortest twenty minutes of my life. A part of me wanted to crash on the bed and get up before the next evening, and another part of me wasn’t sleepy anymore. *** Six years have passed since that day. A half-an acre of bleak land has expanded into an acre of farmland. I sit under the shed in the middle of the farm, looking at the saplings sprouting and basking in the sun. I hear Alice calling. “Missy, come to mommy… Honey, come inside and bring along Missy.” Missy is our cat who is chasing the butterflies hovering over the Buddleia in our backyard. A cat’s life is the best; sleep eighteen hours a day, get food anytime you wake up, beat the dog, and cry to be let out in the evening to play with the butterflies.

Alice and I married after dating for two years. We adopted an adorable pup and named him Jesse. We found Missy near the Buddleia one day and decided to take her in. Jesse got a playmate so now Alice and I are finally getting some privacy. We are planning on having kids now. Alice completely backed me with the funds to set up the farm. I started making generous profits in no time and now two-thirds of our income comes from our

YouTube channel . She has always supported me through the risky choices I made and it’s quite rare to find someone who trusts you like that. I never knew about the

Butterfly Effect  before; ' one thing affects another’ . I came across it online a few days back. I asked Alice if she knew about it. She did. I was quite fascinated by it and ever since it’s been living in my head. I always wonder what would’ve happened that day, if I had decided to bring inside the pots kept outside the fence, or if the dog didn’t destroy the tomatoes, or if I didn’t go to that plant shop, or Alice and I didn’t share the cab. One different move and life could’ve ended up differently. It’s amazing how our decisions can affect not just our lives but also those around us. I love Alice a lot. She and the pets are the only family I have. Sometimes I wish I had met her earlier in my life. Damn, I should have spent a vacation or two playing around in my neighborhood. It's funny how everything we want is already nearby, veiled from us by destiny. Blink once at the wrong time and you miss it forever. Even it’s surprising how Alice chose me. How incompetent I sounded that day in the cab and yet she hired me for the job, which I also left within a year. I won’t even choose myself for the job if I had other options. Maybe the sob story worked on her. Occasionally I ask Alice what she feels about that day and the cab ride we shared. She still calls it ‘the most expensive cab ride she ever took’.