Hey Fancy Pants. It’s me and it’s what I still call you. Why not? I spend so much time thinking about the past. My marriage, my divorce, my daughter. It is so easy to think about all that has occurred and then focus on all the ways, the many many ways, that decisions were poor and moments were not super happy. The what ifs, the why, the what could I have done. Then the natural progression of could of, should of, would of. Really, what in the hell. I hate that almost as much as I hate, it is what it is. No. Absolutely not. It is NOT what it is. That’s weak acceptable of what can be different. Well now I am thinking about the future. What should I know? Well, all of this is a moment in time that has lots of choices for lots of different moments, future moments. I was recently told that I should be an observe in my life to allow for some opportunities to not be so worried regularly. Interesting concept and maybe applicable for thinking about the future. At times in work, I will back into a challenge so that the end is the beginning and the decisions may or may not be different based on what is hopefully the outcome. So future self, what do I want? Let’s start at the most granular. Happiness. When I say I want happiness my husband says, “ha-penis”. It makes me laugh every time and I can no longer say the word without a normal thought. Okay - clearly, I’ll find a different way to express that sentiment - which I actually want. Contentment? Not sure. I think so but in what way. In a complicit way - without fight, without drive? Not sure. Peace - oh yeah, that’s the good stuff! But can peace be completely fulfilled without some conflict? Now that is the interesting ying and yang question. Can it? Can any of these things occur without a polarizing opposite moment? Let’s take this in a different direction. Future self, tell me a day in the life of you. Well, I think that I wake up and have few aches. I stumble for coffee. I go outside and check my plants in my greenhouse. I text a good morning to my daughter as she is successful and happy elsewhere but not too far so I can see her. I feed my cats and chickens and then what? I work? I volunteer? I’m not sure. I am not my future self yet so I don’t know what the day in the life looks like. This is getting me nowhere. How about my life with friends? This one I absolutely know. My future self wants to have the friends I have now who are like the most beautiful snuggly blankets. I am constantly protected and kept safe. My heart remains intact and constantly filled with affection from them, and I towards them. So this one is clear. People who show up for me. But when I think future self, future self, how am I viewing my friends. How have they changed? How have a changed? Has there been a need to reevaluate and rediscover or has the relationships with each one been a never ending healthy intertwining of like minded thoughtfulness? Has anyone been removed from the fold by choice, by death, by request. Future self, there is no way to predict the future of other selves who are not you. Hold on, hold on. There has to be something of value that I can offer my future self. But I don’t know. My whole life has been a mishmash of different dedications. I was dedicated to a career. I was dedicated to being an alternative person - minded and in dress. I was dedicated to finding what was going to be my romantic person. I was dedicated to surrounding myself with the people who made me more “real” and “authentic”. That means, in the simplest and most ridiculousness, cool. I was dedicated to leaving my home state for another because in another I would find me. I was dedicated to returning home to see my family. I was dedicated to being a mom. I was dedicated to surviving divorce. I was dedicated to making money and doing whatever needed to be done on my terms. Now, I am dedicated to ensuring my daughter is the successful version of herself. This means wanting for her what she wants for her. A job, to not feel terrible with her chronic illnesses, a home of her own, maybe even a relationship with someone. In the past, my future self never could have predicted that wish. What is becoming very clear, future self, is that the only message that can be given is to stay open to all experiences good and bad. It is all of the experiences that are expected and more so, unexpected, that will provide the best version and guidance and advice to the future self. I have nothing to offer because all I know is the moment of now. I am content. I visit my plants everyday. I have a job that I am good at and am well respected. My daughter loves me and actually tells me - HUGE! My step daughter is in progress of acceptance and I suppose that could be considered a win. Who’s to say. My husband and I are communicating a great deal better and finally settling into a world in which we share our moments and upsets with security and without emotional landmines. Future self - enjoy the ride. Enjoy the ability to move easily with strength. Enjoy working. Enjoy books and movies. Laugh with friends. Talk to friends. Be ok with the moment in front of you. Happy, sad, angry, complete distress, overjoyed. All of these things put pits in my stomach because they are really big feelings. Try to breathe and focus on something that gives peace. The wind blowing through the bamboo. The birds. The running of the cats when they see me. The chickens following me around the coop. All of these may not be in the life of my future self but maybe they are or maybe they are something new. Future self - have FUN!


Everything was ready for the ritual. Elijah had been up all morning checking and double checking the preparations they made for this night. It was just after sundown when he woke her up. " Are you sure about this?” Elijah asks his wife. " I’m sure” Miriam yawns, still waking up. She searches her husband’s face in the failing candlelight. He looks afraid even though he’s trying not to. She reaches a hand up to caress his worried face. He responds by kissing her hand and then her forehead. He pulls her into an embrace and says. " Well I’m not sure. I’m not sure if it’s worth it. ” His eyes glowing white with his confession as his wife pulls back to look at him. " Save it, we’ll need all of our magic tonight,” she says in reference to his glowing eyes. Her expression softens while still looking at him. " I am sure.” She begins, her hands going to her pregnant belly. " We are the last two left Elijah. We have to raise another one before our time is up.” He knows that his wife is right but the risk is too great. The strain it puts not only on Miriam’s body. But on their relationship. He wasn’t sure they could survive another heartbreak. Elijah helps Miriam to the bath he prepared. Twelve gallons of moon water, boiled on a wood fire stove. The water was full of rose petals, lavender oil, and pink salt. The couple worked in near silence. The only sounds were the light splashing of water as they bathed Miriam’s pregnant body. They finished her bath by scenting her hair with rose flower oil. Elijah dried his wife off as she braided her locs up and off her shoulders. Placing flowers along the braid created a crown. Bracelets made from strips of animal leather and seashells played the tambourine at her wrists and ankles. She wore two diamond shaped veils made from countless rows of beaded sea glass. One that covered her face just below her eyes and another that draped over her shoulders and spilled down her back and over her breasts. Their frostiness matched the overcast night sky. Elijah escorts Miriam to the birthing site they prepared. A six-foot wide path leading to the sacred mirror. The path is marked on either side by twelve large stones spread a foot apart, with a one foot deep trench below it. On the outside of the stones marking the path were two more skinny shallow trenches filled with oil. Elijah leaves Miriam to walk to the end of the path. Using his magic he lights the oil in the smaller trenches. Sending brilliant blue and purple flames racing towards his wife. Once the flames reach the head of the path. Elijah takes his seat at the drum and begins to play. Bum-ba-dum-bum-bum… Bum-ba-dum-bum-bum… With his eyes closed he lends his voice to the night. Miriam locks eyes with her reflection in the mirror in the distance and begins her procession down the dirt path. Each step she takes is music. The beads and seashells clinking together with her movements. Still focused on her reflection, her voice cries out. Joining that of her husband. Helping to set the atmosphere for the ushering in of the last of them. Memories flash behind Elijah’s fluttering eyelids. A day ago when he stumbled upon Miriam in the meadow behind their house, picking flowers for her hair. He’d just returned from fishing. She looked so beautiful, like Gaia herself. With the sun at her back and her feet dug into the earth. Carefully selecting flowers while speaking to the baby in her belly. He stooped down behind some tall grass to observe his love from a distance. She was telling the baby about the work she was doing and about what it meant to be one of their kind. Elijah felt so proud watching her. He was falling in love with her all over again. Then she broke his heart by saying. “I might not make it out of the delivery. This might be the only way you get to know me. As, the vessel that carried you, nurtured you, and loved you until your arrival. I’m not a young woman anymore. I haven’t been for quite some time. That’s why my pregnancies haven’t… You are different. I know it. You are special. If I don’t make it, it’s alright as long as you do. Your daddy loves you and he’ll take good care of you. He’ll be sad for a long time after I’m gone. Don’t give him too hard a time about it. He’ll do the best he can…” Elijah couldn’t listen anymore. His chest had seized up as hot tears slipped from his eyes and down his face. How could she say those things? Part of him knew that she could be right. But to hear her say it out loud felt like she was speaking it into existence. He stopped himself from continuing that train of thought. Miriam wasn’t going to die. The baby wasn’t going to die. No matter what happened, everyone was making it out of this birth alive! That memory fueled his drumming and reinforced his intent. By this time Miriam had reached the birthing trench at the end of the path. Elijah stopped his drumming to assist his wife and continue with the ritual. Two tiny coffins carved out of psyche tree wood; held the remains of their two stillborn daughters. They are prepared in such a way; they look as if they are to be taken up from the altar by the ancestors. A lamb and a kid are tied to a tree just a few feet away from the altar. Elijah sacrifices both animals. Spilling their blood into a large wooden bowl. Dipping his fingers in the blood he draws a rune on Miriam’s forehead and then on his own. He then carries the bowl of blood to the mirror. Setting it down before the hunk of polished, flat, obsidian. Elijah returns to Miriam, standing behind her. The two of them face the mirror and Elijah speaks some words over his wife. " La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe- There is no fear within the light” As those words finish on Elijah’s lips Miriam naturally starts going into labor. Her water breaks, spilling into the trench at her feet. Elijah helps his wife get into position. Feet dug into the ground with a firm grip on the oar like appendages sticking up out of the ground on either side of the trench. He moves around in front so that he can deliver the baby when it’s time. The baby hasn’t moved into the correct position. Instead its turned sideways. Elijah tries his best to coax it into the right position but it won’t budge. There so much blood and he keeps having flashbacks of the two previous failed deliveries. They were very similar to this. Everything is going wrong! So much so that he cannot regain his composure. He looks down at himself covered in his wife’s blood. Hysteria begins with a pleading look in his eyes that turns to helplessness when he looks into his wife’s strained face. His movements are frantic and his speech is a jumble of whimpering gibberish. Seeing her husband losing the fight with his sanity; Miriam grabs him by the collar of his shirt. Bringing his face to hers, she kisses him on his third eye. Using her magic to send calm into his mind, which makes him sleep. As his body falls into the trench beside her, she begins her prayer. “I call upon the Mirror Keepers of old. Those of heaven, earth, and the places in between. The guardians of sacred spaces and the demigods of secret passages. Deliver your child into this world. The last of our kind. The last keeper of the sacred mirror. The door to all places known and unknown. Usher him, in all of his cosmic glory. He is a child of the heavens. Born out of the place which gave life to life itself. Hear me! Lords of the universe. This is your child! Deliver him into this world! Deliver him!” Miriam’s voice rings out with strident desperation. The heavy child, like a warm stone in her womb. She fears that she is once again carrying death inside of her. Refusing to lose another child. Miriam focuses her energy. Calling up all of the magic she can. White light begins to glow from her hands. Placing them on her belly she begins a chant. The same words Elijah spoke before she went into labor. “La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe! La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe! There is no fear within the light!” Her womb contracts as a spill of crimson splats from between her legs. Her body is weak and she’s lost too much blood. Miriam’s eyes roll to the back of her head. The burning fever, the pain, and sheer exhaustion knock her out. Elijah wakes up right at that moment. Having been released from his wife’s magic. " NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!” Seeing Miriam passed out, he springs into action. Scrambling to pick himself up off the wet and bloodied ground. With a flash of lightening and the sound of thunder, rain begins to pour and the wind starts to pick up. Elijah climbs out of the trench and walks against the wind to the mirror. Eyeing the gruesome looking scene of his wife’s unconscious body, laying in the mud with their unborn child trapped inside of her. He releases a yell to the heavens out of frustration. A primal clarity takes over his mind as Elijah grabs hold to the mirror. Calling up his magic, his entire body begins to glow white. Transforming the mirror into a rippling portal of time and space. A large crack of thunder close by speaks to the urgency of the situation. Over the whipping sound of branches in the wind. Elijah speaks to his unborn child. " Yuriel! The light, the flame of god. That is your name my son. La mieto she´ nah reolkajghe- There is no fear within the light. You do not have to be afraid because you are the light. You are the last of us. The one to bring our kind into this new era. It is time for you to wake up son. Be born of your mother. Live!” Elijah weeps into the last of his words. His voice breaking hoarse over the sound of the wind and the rain. Thunder cracks again and an arc of lightning surges through Elijah, into the mirror, and into Miriam’s belly. The celestial electricity shocks Miriam back to consciousness. Through half opened lids she can see white light pouring into her from the mirror. Looking down at her belly she can see the baby moving into the proper birthing position. Still trapped in place by the intense arc, Elijah is stuck holding the mirror. Wearily, Miriam grabs hold of the oars on either side of the trench. She takes a couple of deep breaths and then screams at the top of her lungs. Several pushes and she can feel that the child is coming but, she needs help. For the first time since this began, sobs of fear arrest Miriam’s resolve. In an effort to regain her composure. Miriam searches for her reflection in the obsidian disk. Her search is met with a familiar set of eyes. That of her mother. More familiar faces emerge from the mirrors portal. A procession of ancestors come streaming from the other side to aid their daughter. Ancient hands filled with skill and magic lay upon Miriam; helping to guide the baby into this world. Each ancestor that passes through the portal adds weight to the mirror in Elijah’s grasp. The intensity of all the magic being spent combined with the lighting that was drawn to it; causes the mirror to dematerialize, being absorbed by the baby in Miriam’s belly. With the mirror gone. Elijah rushes back to his wife. His magic is still active as he delivers his son. Loud, hiccuping cries replace the sounds of the storm in the nights sky. After three-hundred years. They finally did it! They delivered their baby. The last mirror keeper.


Mr.X was a man who felt he had no luck. Though he was qualified and experienced he couldn’t get a decent job. He had advertised in the matrimonial columns to find a bride. It was a peculiar ad and still he got responses. He had shortlisted those to talk to and excerpts from the matrimonial interviews he faced are reproduced below: Candidate 1 SHE: Though you’re well qualified, how is it you’ve no job? X: They asked me questions which were difficult to answer: For instance after I had passed written tests I was called for interview. The question was if you’re[i] selected and posted and if a close friend wanted something to be officially done in his favour, how would you answer? I said I would help him. SHE: That was wrong. You should’ve said I’ll never compromise my official position. I’ve told you I’m elder to you by 6 months. Did it cause you to hesitate in taking a decision? X: No. Age is only a number as far as I’m concerned. SHE: You say marriage can take place only after you’ve found a job. That means the bride would’ve to wait endlessly. X: I’m hoping for a change in luck. SHE: You say you’ll consider marriage only with a woman who is earning. Does it mean you’re going to depend on her? X: No. I’m hoping to get a paying job myself. SHE: You’ve said caste, religion no bar. Only she has to be employed. That shows you’re desperate for money. X: I’m not desperate. It only shows I’m broadminded. SHE: You seem to have no interest in sports or indoor games or any hobby. X: That’s the truth. SHE: I’ll think it over. Thank you for coming to meet me. CANDIDATE 2 SHE: I’ve said I’m of mixed parentage. X: It matters not. SHE: You want a woman who is having a steady income. That means you want to only rely on her earnings. X: Also. Remember the wedding can take place only after I have got a job. That means I’ll also have an income. SHE: I’ve told you my job and my salary. Suppose you accept a job with a lesser salary will you still consider me? X: If that happens I’ll leave it to you. SHE: Let me think it over. Thank you for coming over and talking to me. CANDIDATE 3 SHE: You have no job and say you are living on a small capital left to you by your grandpa. How long will it last?” X: I’m optimistic about finding a job before my capital dries up. SHE: You can’t rely on that. And you say you’ve no luck. X: Optimism and luck need not mix. SHE: Let me think it over. Thanks. CANDIDATE: 4 SHE: I have seen you and have studied your requirements. Suppose you get a job in a different geographical location? X: I’ll expect my wife to go with me. SHE: Suppose she has a job only here. X: I would’ve to think it over. Further I can only decide based on circumstances. SHE: Thank you. CANDIDATE 5 SHE: You’ve said widow no bar. I am a widow. X: That’s why I’m talking to you. SHE: True I’m earning a big salary but spend a big percentage of it on cosmetics and in visiting beauty salons. That means you must have the means to run the family. X: I expect the wife to be careful about spending money. If your appearance satisfies me you won’t need to visit those salons. SHE: I’m female and take pride in my looks. If I find it necessary to spend money on beauty products and in visiting beauty salons nobody can prevent me. X: I don’t think you will fit me. Thanks. CANDIDATE 6 SHE: I’ve a sister who has to be married. I’m putting by a part of my earnings to be used for her marriage. X: I’ve clearly said I want an unencumbered woman. It means she should earn and keep the money for herself. You don’t fit my expectations. Thank you. CANDIDATE 7 SHE: You’re jobless and it looks like you may take a lot longer to find one. X: You’re right. I don’t know when I’ll land a job. SHE: My parents are getting old and they would like to see me married soon. You don’t meet my expectations. Thank you. CANDIDATE 8 SHE: You need a job as well as a wife. X: That is like it. SHE: My dad is in movie production. He can offer you a job. X: I can’t act. SHE: No need. He can place you as private secretary to a superstar. The pay will be good and if you do well she can reward you further.  X: Would you approve of it? SHE: Why not? She is an ex-star and is now fat and unattractive. She has made her money and is now in need of a private secretary who takes care of her investments and income from India and the world. X: I’m tempted to accept and wed you. SHE: There’s another point you must note. Your ad said you were prepared to accept even if the woman has minor flaws. As you can see my left arm is slightly shorter than the right. That’s because my mom it seems took some medication prior to my birth. X: That is no problem. I’m satisfied with your looks and with you overall. SHE: You have stated you have no luck. X: I see it coming now. SHE: Don’t be in a hurry and accept. The job of private secretary is not permanent. If she finds you wanting somewhere she could fire you. Remember you get the fat salary only by performing to her satisfaction. And one more thing: The star is getting older and you don’t know how long she will live. X: I see your point. I would’ve to dance to her tune and satisfy her fully or she will shut the door on me. In other words you’re warning me to be on the lookout for better placements. However there is one consolation. You’ve a good job working for an international software company. It isn’t a routine job. You write software. Even if I’m fired by the star I can look to you. SHE: I see you’re not confident in working for the star and are looking to me as a source of financial support. X: I suppose what you said is true. SHE: And there’s further uncertainty: Suppose I decide to start a family I may have to quit my job. Now do you think your luck is changing?  I see you have no comment. You’ve no self-confidence. Still due to my handicap if you accept me I know I would’ve a tough task to bolster your self-confidence. Despite your failings I propose to accept you. I’ll make you live up to my expectations. Give me your nod on that point and your search for a wife has ended but you still have to look for a permanent job. X: I fully agree. SHE: I’ll go ahead with wedding plans on that assurance. X : (to himself} Your luck is changing. Live up to her expectations or you will be a laughing stock! END


Malls weren’t designed with escapee-androids in mind.            At least, this one wasn’t. There’s a metal-detector blocking every exit, and the exits are all being watched by guards with grim expressions that don’t quite match the cheerful, holiday songs echoing through the mall. I duck into a random store and pretend to be interested in their array of holiday-themed soaps. The sharp, spicy scent of gingerbread is overpowering. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as two technicians from the lab rush past the store without even looking inside. I recognize both of them. My fingers clench tightly around a bar of emerald-green soap sprinkled with fake, crimson cranberries. “Did you need help finding anything, sir?” The saleswoman materialized out of thin-air, wearing a garish, red-striped-white sweater and a lopsided Santa hat. I blink. “Looking for a gift for someone?” she asks, electric-green eyes glittering with amusement. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to come in today looking a little lost.” “Oh no,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I’m not… I don’t need any help. Thank you.” “Of course! Just let me know if you change your mind,” she sings, cheerfully. “My name’s Holly.” I wonder if that’s some holiday-themed humor or if Holly’s her real name. Maybe the store asks their employees to go by seasonal names around this time of year. There’s no way for me to know; I’ve never been in a store before. “Nice to meet you, Holly,” I say, glancing towards the doorway. The technicians have yet to reappear. “I’m, uh…” I don’t have a name; they never gave me one. How do I introduce myself? My eyes flicker over to a nearby display and search the bubble-bath labels for a name. “Sage,” I say. “My name’s Sage.” “Nice to meet you, Sage! Let me know if you need anything, okay?” “I will. Thanks.”            As soon as she’s gone, I toss the bar of soap back onto the counter and leave; my hands are now covered in pastel-green powder, and I grimace, trying to wipe the residue off on my pants. There has to be a way out of here that doesn’t involve a metal-detector. I scan the map of the mall, in my mind, finding a fire-escape on the far side of the food-court. That’s one of the most crowded places in the mall. How can I make it through without being seen? Another store catches my eye.            There are a lot of people in here, but none from the lab. Groups of humans, young and old, sorting through racks of clothes. There’s more music in here, but it’s mostly drowned out by bell-like laughter and loud chattering. I look for something to wear that’s not the bleak, hospital-white outfit from the lab. I decide on a pair of black jeans, a light-gray sweater, and a scarf, purple and interwoven with shining, silver threads. The scarf is soft, like cool water, against my skin. I cover my bare feet with a pair of comfy, black sneakers. My old clothes go into a nearby trash can. “Hello,” I say quietly, approaching the register. “I’d like to, uh… wear these out. If that’s okay?” “That’s fine,” the man says, nodding. He doesn’t look up from his phone to meet my eyes until the last possible second. “Let me ring you up.” While he’s scanning the tag on my sleeve, my eyes drift over to a long, black coat. It looks warm and comfortable, like the blankets they kept in the lab’s medical-wing probably were. “This too.” He raises his eyebrows, but nods. He scans the coat and asks me how I want to pay; his tone is bored, I decide, after I’ve compared it to millions of sound-recordings in my head. I pull some bills out of the wallet I swiped from one of the techs. “Keep the change,” I say quickly. “Happy holidays.” Slipping the long coat on, I head for the food court.            Time to make my escape. If I can manage to wind my way through this sea of plastic tables and spindly chairs with metal legs without being caught, I am free. More or less. I recognize some of the scents around me. Cinnamon, because of the day some of the techs brought cinnamon-buns, glazed with frosting, into the office. I recognize the bitter scent of coffee for similar reasons.            Most people don’t look up as I slip across the court. Their eyes are glued to one of the countless screens suspended above them, on which they’re watching sports or the news or never-ending sequences of ads. When I see my face on one of the screens, my mouth falls open. “Oh no…” I breathe. Could I make it, if I ran, to the fire-escape? I’m only about a fourth of the way across the food court, and there are screens everywhere with my photo plastered to them. Splashed across the monitors, like paint on a blank canvas. They have my name listed as “Sage”, like I told the woman back at the store with the colorful soaps. They have my age listed as twenty, which I guess suits my appearance well enough. I need a new hiding spot. There’s a storage room in the bookstore, at the very back, that hardly anyone ever goes into. I know it’s rarely-used because I can see how many times employees swipe into the room per day; this information is not readily available to the public, so I got it through somewhat questionable methods.            This is where I’m hiding now, after hacking the swipe card system to get inside. Silently, I shift piles of heavy books, moving them around so that they conceal me from sight. Whenever one of the piles teeters a little, threatens to topple over, I feel like my artificial-heart will beat out through my chest. “Hey, Brad!” someone shouts, and I shut my eyes tight. “Go check the backroom. They’re putting the whole mall on lockdown till closing, looking for some thief.” I hope that Brad isn’t the most thorough of employees. As quietly as I can, I drape my coat over myself, hoping to resemble a pile of books covered in a blanket. A human-shaped pile of books, covered in a blanket for no apparent reason. Great plan. The sound of Brad’s footsteps makes me inhale sharply, and I reach up to cover my mouth before remembering that I don’t have to breathe. Brad opens the door, talking on the phone; I detect the device as he approaches. “So, here I am at work, minding my own business,” he’s narrating. “I mean, I work in the bookstore, so it’s usually pretty quiet in here. Then, I find out they’ve locked the whole mall down to look for some thief? Now, my boss is having me check the backroom, just to see if the dude’s in here-” I can hear him moving about the room, doing a perfunctory, little search as he goes. It sounds like he’s just picking up the odd book every few seconds, as though he expects the “thief” to spring out from underneath one of them. “I mean, who the hell would hide in the bookstore?” he laughs, and then I hear the tumbling sound of books falling over. “Uh oh, not good…” “Brad!” someone yells from the front of the store. “Find anything?” “Nope! Dude’s not here.” “You sure?” “Yeah!” Brad shouts, then lowers his voice to continue speaking into his phone. “Alright, guys, I gotta go. See you later.” He pulls the door shut behind him as he goes; the sound of the door slamming, heavy and clanging and final, is comforting. Until I remember that I’m stuck in this locked-room till the mall’s closing, that the people from the lab are still looking for me, and that someone might double-check this room at some point. I am trapped here, like a spider under a water-glass. I pull my legs up to hug them to my chest, sighing into my boneless kneecaps. It’s dark in this room, but my night-vision setting is enabled. I read about six books in the span of two hours before I realize that I could try and trick the people following me into thinking I’ve left the mall.            First, I send an anonymous tip stating that I saw the "thief" at a nearby train-station. Then, I use one of the tech’s credit card information, obtained through some more questionable methods, to purchase a ticket for a trip to a neighboring city. I’m well-aware now that I’ve broken a few laws during my escape. Still, if your password is “PASSWORD”, it's hard to feel bad for you. Anyway, according to the ticket I bought using the guy’s card, the "thief" would have departed the station around 5:20 PM; it is now 5:45 PM, and they’re probably searching the station. I consider making a fake social media account to let people know of a sighting of the thief from someone allegedly on the train, but I decide against it. Less is more. Every time I hear footsteps, I shudder. I won’t go back to the lab. By the time it’s safe to leave the room, it’s three in the morning.            I’ve disabled all the cameras in the mall, showing the night-guards recycled footage with altered timestamps to keep them from being suspicious. Then, I slip out of the storage-room; the bookstore is completely dark around me, cloaked in hazy, violet shadows, and eerily quiet. I head for the food court.            The mall itself is locked, so most of the stores’ doors are still open. I walk past a candy-store and remember when one of the techs brought a white, paper bag of homemade candies to work once; she shared them with the other employees at the lab. Obviously, no one offered me one: I’m an android that can eat without malfunctioning but does not need to. I’ve never tasted candy before. I fill my very own bag with candies: technicolor jelly-candies in the shapes of animals and insects; saltwater-taffy of varying pastel, Easter-egg colors; and round, chocolate truffles. Then I slip a bill into the cash-register and duck out of the store. I find myself lingering in the mall. There’s no immediate threat of danger, of being found, so I wander from store to store in search of things to take. I won’t take enough to raise suspicions. Just enough, and I'll slip money into the cash registers as I go. I move into a music-store and slip a silver harmonica into one of the large pockets of my coat. I emerge from a department store with a new pair of heart-shaped, gold-rimmed sunglasses with black lenses. And, somehow, I end up leaving a toy-store with a teddy-bear; he has dark, brown fur and friendly, amber eyes, and I name him Sebastian. I make myself an ice-cream cone in the food court, using all the different flavors and piling the ice-cream on until the cone feels heavy in my hand. Cotton-candy is my favorite. I jump over the counter at the cinema, grab a red-striped-white, cardboard container, and fill it with fluffy popcorn that smells like butter. Finally, I climb the fire-escape and emerge on the mall’s roof.            From up here, I can see the entire city. All the pretty lights glitter against the blue, velvet night, like fireflies caught in spiderweb-mesh. For a few minutes, Sebastian and I sit on the roof in companionable silence, watching the view. My legs swing back and forth from where they’re draped over the edge of the building. I munch on popcorn and read the book of poems I smuggled out of the mall. I should get going. I climb down from the ledge, then slip down the fire-escape and into the city. Wander down cobblestone-streets glowing with neon pink and blue signs that read “Exit” and “No Vacancy” and “24/7 Diner”. I can walk over forty-eight hours without malfunctioning, so I will walk all through the night. When morning comes, I will be out of the city. Far away from it. When I feel coolness on my face, like the lightest brush of fingertips, I look up. I’ve never seen the snow before.


Today's goal is to leave the house with a modicum of confidence to offer the wide eyes and stalking vehicles. You think people inspect you like a celebrity but paranoia grips you by the skull. It's nothing but a fantasy. Every time your eyes meet the mirror, they skitter away. To be cool and collected, will you ever achieve that in your lifetime? A big clock adjacent is tick-tick-ticking. The throbbing at your temple marches to its tune. You try to stay focused on getting ready to leave. Impossible. Calm eludes you and a nearly coropeal stench of desperation exudes from your body. Your daughter is a music junkie and has never appreciated the gifts you gave her. Marcelline walks by with her headphones too loud for your taste. She appears in the corner of your eyes, timid yet hulking. Her urgency is that of a mouse, with a demeanor that makes you want to stomp on her. You call her over and note the questioning look on her face. Her nose even twitches. Each expression from her is so comical and exaggerated. Marcelline is your favorite because, of your five children, she makes you feel the most relaxed. “There is something wrong with you Marcie.” The words evoke satisfaction unbecoming of a mother. You crush her. Today, Marcelline has watery, wandering eyes but your headache has just about disappeared. You glance at the clock. Why was it hung over a picture from your glory days? Now your eyes can’t let it go. Still, it's the perfectly pouted lips and youthful blushing skin in the framed photo that give you a boost of confidence. You’ve lived fifty years total. It is year sixteen in the house with the big clock that never stops counting down. Your visage in the vanity allows you to observe the anxiety in your ocean eyes and the minute tremble in your hands. You take a deep breath and evoke stillness. The woman in the mirror draws a perfectly straight wing with the “ultra black” gel liner and smiles with triumph. Marcelline is already in the car when you enter the driveway so you’re a bit peeved you didn’t get to say the scathing words you prepared just for her. There is silence in the car as you cruise onto the main street. You find it difficult to focus on anything but how the driver behind you is pulling up too close behind your Lincoln Aviator. Your anxiety wails like a hungry ghost and your facade of calm cracks down the middle. “We’ve gotta stop to get cigarettes if you want me to take you to your friend’s house without having a breakdown.” The sunglasses that act as a barrier against the world, also keep Marcelline from reading your expression. “Newport Lights 100.” The reminder isn’t needed. She’s been buying your cigarettes for you since she was fourteen. Marcelline doesn’t ask for money to pay for the cigarettes. You feel a sense of loss as she runs into the familiar red and white CVS with the peeling paint. Waiting, you note the crowd gathered at the next door establishment. You’re curious but you slide down in your seat and push the sunglasses further up the bridge of your nose. You think they’ll swarm you like ants if they catch even a glimpse. Marceline finally gets in the car and hands over the cigarettes. You take it with a shaky hand and scrabble for your lighter. There’s several beats of silence. As you break open the pack of Newport Lights, Marcelline suddenly speaks up, “I love you Mother, I wish you wouldn’t smoke.” You wonder if she’s a sociopath. You say it aloud and Marceline becomes quiet again. Cigarette between the teeth, your elevated heart rate stabilizes and your mind clears. Maybe there's some regret from your harsh words but you don't take it back. It’s a ritual. Though you don’t wish to acknowledge it, this conniving and manipulative aspect of your personality is one of the reasons even your own children say “I love you” with hesitation. You want to know why it calms you down to hurt Marcelline. Her words repeat in your head. Then your own response. You examine the words every which way. No conclusions. Your hands itch to call your psychiatrist and demand answers, but your brain responds that you don’t have a psychiatrist. You can’t afford a psychiatrist any more than you can afford to buy the Newport Lights 100 yourself.


When Billie next returned, neither of them spoke of the awkwardness of their last parting. Part of Madeline longed to apologise, to smooth things over so everything could go back to how it was. But she was too reticent to bring it up. What if Billie asked for an explanation? What if she made things worse? And so, she let things fester under the surface while pretending everything was fine. Their visit was brief, anyway, and soon they’d left for the next planning meeting. For the rest of the week, Madeline focussed on building up her strength, under Lena’s careful supervision. The work provided a much-needed distraction, and she’d come to find the doctor’s conversation comforting. “So how do you think I’m doing?” she asked as they strolled around the block. “Good,” Lena replied. “In fact… I think you might be ready to try a light job.” At Madeline’s excited expression, she held up a warning finger. “A *light* jog. No running. No sprinting. And you stop if you feel *any* discomfort! Okay?” “Okay,” Madeline replied with a nod. A cheeky smile tugged at her lips. “Race you back to the house!” “Mad—” “Kidding! Kidding!” She held up her hands in a placating gesture, before taking off at a *light* jog. Though her muscles felt stiff and weak, there was no flare of pain or stabbing sensation from her injury, only the dull ache that she was more than used to. After the first couple of strides, she heard the rhythmic footfall of Lena jogging along behind her. “Everything alright?” the medic asked. “Yep,” she called back over her shoulder. “Better than alright. It feels *good* to be moving again.” Despite her assurances to her friend, she found herself gradually picking up the pace, revelling in the sensation of the breeze on her face. When they arrived back at the house, she was out of breath, mousy locks plastered to her forehead by sweat. “I’m not sure I’d call that a *light* jog,” Lena panted. “But at least we can say your leg seems all better.” Madeline turned to face her, chest swelling with hope. “Does that mean—” The doctor nodded. “You can go along to the next meeting. And go back to looking after yourself without me bothering you all the time!” She chuckled. Despite the excitement surging through her, Madeline’s heart dropped slightly at those words. “Will you… I mean, does that mean you’re going to… you know… Will I still see you?” Lena grinned. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried!” Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, the doctor would be useful to have around for their rescue mission. But beyond that, she wasn’t sure she could cope without her new friend’s company. Especially given Billie’s current coldness towards her. “Now,” Lena said, snapping her attention back to the moment, “how about we test out your leg a little more?” “Hmm?” “What do you say to some sparring?” Lena laughed at Madeline’s shocked expression. “I promise I won’t be as… enthusiastic about it as Billie. But it would probably be wise to make sure you’re combat-ready before heading back out into the world.” “In that case, how could I refuse?” Lena led her to one of the larger back gardens on the street and invited her to make the first blow. Although Madeline felt clumsy at first, she was relieved to find that her muscles held the memory of the movements well enough. She’d soon sunk into a familiar rhythm, dodging, blocking, and even getting a few good licks in herself, though she was certain the medic was going easy on her. She’d just slipped to the side and was bringing her now-healed leg up for a roundhouse kick when a humming sound reached her ears. She froze. Cold washed through her. Her eyes met Lena’s, and she saw her terror reflected there. But there wasn’t time to panic. It might have been a while since she’d had to deal with danger, but just like with the sparring, instinct kicked in. “We’ve got to separate,” she whispered. Indecision flicked across Lena’s face. Before she could protest, Madeline insisted, “I’ll be fine.” Finally, the doctor nodded. But before they could run in separate directions, she grabbed Madeline’s arm. “Meet me back in the village we stayed in. On the first night after we met.” Then, she turned and ran. After a second’s pause, Madeline did the same, taking off through the house to grab her stuff on the way. But the sight of her single walkie-talkie made her freeze once more. *What about Billie?* They would be back again soon, with no idea where she’d gone. She listened carefully. The humming was closer now. Too close. But perhaps without Lena here it wouldn’t be able to sense her. Perhaps it would just pass by. Or perhaps, it had already locked onto them. Perhaps more were coming. She knew she shouldn’t risk it. But she couldn’t risk losing Billie either. And not just because of how she felt about them. But because they were her link to the group. Her link to the rescue mission. Her link to saving Liam. She looked around frantically for a piece of paper or a pen — anything to leave a note. Her eyes landed on a pencil. She grabbed it and started scrawling on the wall as quickly as she could. ‘*AT LAST STOP*’ When she was done, she peeked out the door to check the coast was clear before taking off down the street at a run, her pack jostling on her back and a copy of *Wuthering Heights* clasped firmly in one hand. Stiff muscles screamed at her as she picked up the pace, but she ignored them. After all, straining her injury getting away was definitely preferable to reopening it in a fight for her life. She didn’t slow down until she was certain the only sounds she could hear were her own footfall and rasping breaths. By the time she did, her lungs were burning and her heart felt like it might burst from her chest. She limped onward as best she could until she found somewhere that looked suitable to stop for the night — an old cottage set back from the road, hidden by huge overgrown hedges. Once inside, she forced herself to remain upright long enough to sweep it for any other visitors. As soon as she was sure it was clear, she slumped down onto the bed, finally allowing her trembling legs to rest. As she lay there, birdsong drifted to her on the breeze. For the first time in a while, Madeline realised, there might be no other humans for miles. Given how used to isolation she’d once been, the thought shouldn’t have been as troubling as it was.


“So, what’s the catch?” Bastion, towering leader of the heroic Aegis team asked, reclining behind his desk as much as his high-backed chair would allow. “Excuse me?” Artemis detected a note of accusation in his tone. Her bow and quiver rested upon the wide marble surface between them, next to Bastion’s blue, articulated mask. “What does she want?”  Bastion persisted. “My job? Yours? Perhaps a… Vision-craft, or Vision-cycle?” His lip curled into a wry half-smile. “For her Vision quests?” Artemis snickered despite herself. “Boss, maybe ease up on the brand stuff a little?” “‘Mantle’ stuff,” Bastion corrected, preferring the industry term. “But, back to my original question… what’s the catch? Why did she agree to do this for me?” “Because you’re her boss…” “I’ve been her boss…,” he interrupted. “AND you asked nicely,” Artemis explained. “I didn’t ask. You did.” “On your behalf.” “Artemis.” Bastion leaned forward, revealing a small tear in the fabric of his uniform, just below his massive left pectoral. He took care with his injured arm. “Please, do not make me ask a third time.” Artemis sighed deeply. She then slid the cowl from her head, the fleeting shadow revealing a smear of black face paint and glassy, reddening eyes. “‘The catch,’” she repeated. “You dispatched your lieutenant to cajole our resident clairvoyant into revealing the exact date and time of your demise.” Artemis spat the last word as though it tasted sour on her tongue. “And you’re wondering about a catch? Of course there’s a catch, but not in the way that you’re thinking. I didn’t have to promise her anything.” “Explain.” Artemis shook her head. “She did it because…” “Right. There’s always a ‘because.’” Bastion arched an eyebrow. “But we’ll get back to that. You said ‘a catch, but not in the way I’m thinking.’” “You are a great many things, Boss, but simple-minded has never been one of them.” Bastion’s eyes narrowed. “Knowing when you die?!” Artemis said, fists shaking. “That, Bastion, is a burden that no man was meant to bear. Not even one with shoulders as broad as yours. Why on Earth would you want to know?” “I do not fear death, Artemis.” “NONE of us do! We’re superheroes, for heaven’s sake! I don’t even have powers! No, we don’t fear death, NOR do we chase it!” Bastion relaxed. A smile split his face. “A. You don’t need powers, Artemis. And B. I am not chasing death.” “Then what are you doing? WHY do you want this information?” “I need it. I need to know.” She sunk into her seat and dragged a gloved palm down her face, streaking paint. “To borrow a line from you, Bastion, please don’t make me ask a third time.” Bastion tilted his head and stared into her eyes, his gaze all but devouring hers. “Dr. Woe brought us to our knees, Artemis.” “Dr. Woe is in the Box!” she countered, referring to the specially designed maximum security prison that detained their enhanced adversary. “Because we got lucky!” Bastion shouted, almost pleading. “Because we’re the Aegis, Bastion! We saved the day, as we always do.” “This time was different,” Bastion explained, sighing and breaking eye contact. “Dr. Woe took a sledgehammer to the rules of engagement…” “There were rules?!? With him? Since when, Boss, and why had no one told me?” “Artemis… Donner is dead. Blitzen, grieving, on indefinite hiatus…” “We’re all grieving!” Artemis felt the weight of their losses as profoundly as he, and took offense at the notion that she needed such things explained to her. “Except she’s probably hung her cape up for good! Visionary’s in a coma, it’s a minor miracle you got… the information from her before she succumbed to her injuries.” His slammed his good fist upon the desktop. “My arm is in a sling, Artemis!” “We’re wounded, yes. We’ll need time to heal. But heal we will. And be all the stronger for it because, by God, we. Are. AEGIS.” A coy smile found its way back to his angular features. “ Which of us needs to take it easy with the mantle stuff again?” Artemis ignored the dig. “What will this knowledge do for you, Bastion?” “Plenty.” “Such as?” He studied her for a moment. “It will give me a window. I’m not thinking about the end. I’m considering the journey.” “Never took you for a poet,” she said in a whisper, punctuating her snark with a defiant eyeroll. “Life is a song.” Bastion needled. “I need to know how much time I have left to fortify what we’ve built.” Artemis raised an open palm to discourage further comment. “Not sure what you mean, but we’ll table those details for a moment. What difference does it make exactly? If you knew you had another hundred years, you’d kick your feet up, take your time? That’s crap, it DOESN’T MATTER. We got our asses handed to us, and you can’t let that stand. I’m with you on that. Starting here, right now, we put in the work to ensure that we’re never caught…” “Isn’t enough. No matter the strength of their conviction, everyone works harder with a gun to their head.” “Not you. The Bastion I know would just crush the gun. You’re invulnerable anyway.” He indicated his bandaged left arm with his chin. “Really can’t make that claim anymore, Artemis.” “Bastion, you’re going to die. We all are. Eventually. The gun’s inherently there already, let that be your motivation,” she said. “Not much of a threat, if I know I’ve got another six or seven decades before the trigger’s pulled.” “But in not knowing, you’d be a fool to count on six or seven decades. You’ve got to assume it could be pulled within the next five minutes, and respond accordingly.” “It isn’t the same.” “It should be.” Bastion drummed the desktop with the fingers of his good hand. “It isn’t just that. The amount of time I have left will inform the scope and complexity of how we proceed.” Artemis considered his words. “Am I to take that to mean that you’ve been holding back up this point?” “Of course not! But things have changed. We – I - need to do more.” “Bastion!” Artemis counted her breaths for a moment. “I suffered a concussion; you sprained your arm. But Visionary? THREE fractured ribs, and she lost. Her. Leg.” The gravity of her injuries was a spray of ice water to his face. “I hadn’t realized her injuries were that…” “I pushed and pushed, until finally, she delivered what I asked for. What you asked for. Point being, maybe I caused her to slip into the coma.” “Dr. Woe is the cause, and that’s the point.” “The point is that I badgered her into crossing a line she swore she never would, and the reasons you’re giving for why you asked me to do what I did smell like bullshit.” “You forget yourself, Artemis.” “I forget nothing. I obtained something that you, with all your might, could not. You asked about a catch? How’s this for one? I’ll give this to you, to do with as you wish.” She extracted a thin, folded card from her pocket and closed her hand over it. “In exchange for the truth.” “I could just take it from you.” “But you won’t. I’m not just your second-in-command, not just your friend. I am your legacy. You made me ‘Artemis,’ and for that, I would follow you through all seven circles of hell. You’ll give me the truth not because I coaxed it out of you, but because you know I deserve it.” Bastion shifted in his seat. “Bastion. Christopher. Talk to me.” “I’ve never lied to you, Artemis. Never. You’re the one… None of the others, none could handle the hard truths I face every day in this role. Except you.” Artemis said nothing. “But a lie by omission would still constitute a lie,” Bastion said, more to himself. “I suppose I have been lying to you.” She remained stoic. “I’ve met someone,” Bastion continued with an unfamiliar apprehension. “Fallen in love.” “That’s… that’s great. But what’s that got to do with…” Bastion’s eyes wandered. “Who?” Artemis pressed. Silence. “Who is she?” Bastion gave nothing away. “Is it a he ?” His exasperated eyes found hers again. “Tell me,” Artemis insisted. “It doesn’t matter.” “She… oh my God, Artemis said, understanding. “She’s a civilian.” “Listen to me…” “You’re dating a civilian?!?! ‘No civilian attachments,’ Bastion! That was your rule! I’ve GIVEN myself to y… your mission, and you defy YOUR bylaws AND have me badger Visionary into submission because you picked up a CIVILIAN girlfriend?!?!” “I didn’t plan it.” “Or avoid it.” “Leslie,” Bastion began, jarring her with the use of her given name. “I’m sorry.” Artemis’ eyes, lanterns in a field of black, burned. After too many seconds, she shrugged. “The heart wants what it wants, as they say.” She chewed her bottom lip.  “Tell me about her. This enchanting woman whose charms led you to break all the rules.” “Not all the rules.” “Just one big rule.” Bastion brightened. “She’s a barista. Twenty-seven. She lost her mother to ovarian cancer a few years ago, and her father to… to Riot.” “The anarchist.” Bastion nodded. “She’s putting herself through law school. To join our fight, without a cape.” “Not all heroes wear them,” Artemis teased, still angry. “You don’t.” “I need freedom of movement. No powers, remember?” Bastion drew himself to his full seated height. “You have the vision of an eagle, and the surest shot of any being – human, meta, or other – on this globe. Along with a pretty solid roundhouse.” Artemis rolled her eyes. “You’re also one of only two people who know of the… chink in my armor.” He touched a hand to the rip in his costume, and the purple, blistering welt at the center of it. “I wish to God I didn’t.” “Contingencies, Artemis. In case I were ever to…” “…go dark?” she finished for him. “Yes.” “You wouldn’t. Ever.” “The Icon did,” Bastion challenged. “Used his knowledge of my vulnerability against me too.” “That’s not fair. This was Dr. Woe’s doing.” She’d never much cared for the other veteran hero, but mind control by another represented the ultimate defense. “The point is, I can bleed. And now the world knows. Has seen it. And we need to prepare.” “You feel exposed now. I get that.” Artemis reached to grasp his resting hand. “Welcome to my life; just flesh, blood, and a little resolve over here. But a sprain, an Achilles heel? These shouldn’t worry you. Civilian attachments on the other hand? Major weakness.” “Some might argue a source a strength.” “ Poets might argue that. Me? I prefer a bow and arrow. You? Fists. Strongest on the planet.” Bastion chuckled. “Think I’m the strongest?” “Icon’s softened in his old age.” She shot him a wink. “He’s 42, Artemis.” “But an even bigger vulnerability would be an obsession with one’s own death. Makes you fatalistic. Basing every move upon your own anticipated defeat.” “It sharpens focus.” “You say focus, I say tunnel vision,” Artemis snapped. “She’s pregnant, Leslie. Her name is Nicole. And she’s carrying my child.” The words hit Artemis like a closed fist. “I know I’m probably supposed to congratulate you, but I…” “I understand.” “Do you?!” Artemis asked, bruised. “You let her in…” “She met me as a Christopher.” “But unless she’s a moron, she’s figured out that you’re Bastion! Or, she would have , if you hadn’t told her. Which you most certainly did before… inseminating her.” Bastion couldn’t argue this point. “I need to know that I at least outlive Nicole’s pregnancy. Beyond that, I want to know how much time I have to ensure my child has a fighting chance in this world.” Artemis’ lips smacked softly as they parted. “Your child’s best chance would be estrangement from its father. A father who should continue fighting to make this world safer for everyone’s children. With whatever time he – we – have remaining.” “I’m asking you – my dearest friend, my closest ally, and should I be so fortunate to receive your acceptance, godmother of my child – to honor our agreement. I gave you the truth, you give me that card. Or tell me what it says.” Emotion choked Artemis’ reply. “I don’t want you to know what it says, what the hell makes you think I looked at it?” Bastion’s brow furrowed. “Why the tears?” “Because this is the end of us. You, the indomitable Bastion, are doubting yourself as a hero and leader. And worse, you’re setting a timeline. You’re looking to an end.” “I’m not.” “You are! And this is me – your dearest friend, closest ally, and yes, godmother to a baby whom I will love to death – this is me asking you not to open this card.” “Artemis…” “Visionary doesn’t share death dates. EVER. And why has she sworn a vow NEVER to do so? Because the first and only time she’d ever done it before lead to disaster.” Artemis laced her fingers together upon her lap.  “At first, she and her brother treated her burgeoning precognitive abilities like a game. Growing bolder with each new vision.  Until she witnessed his death. And after hours of his insistence, she shared a date and time. Within that very year.” “Why would she reveal…” “Because he was her brother! And they were young. And dumb. She didn’t tell him the how, just the when. She at least had sense enough to withhold details. But it didn’t matter. Knowing broke him. He grew depressive. Turned to alcohol and opiates; he lost all sense of self. And ultimately, he…” “…stumbled in front of an oncoming train.” Bastion knew this part of Visionary’s story. “At the exact moment she’d predicted.” Artemis winced. “You see this knowledge as a resource. But what if knowing sets things into motion?” “Knowing you’ll die of cancer five years from now could be the very thing that saves your life.” “ Cancer isn’t what kills most people,” Artemis countered. “And you’re presuming an ability to change outcomes.” “Couldn’t we?” Artemis shook her head. “Our singular test case says ‘no.’” “I’m not looking to change anything. I’ve accepted the fact that my eventual demise is inevitable.” “Which terrifies me more than Dr. Woe ever could. You’re playing God.” “I’m being a father.” “Bastion! Knowing that we’ll all eventually die gives our lives meaning. Not knowing when is what gives us the freedom to make the most of our time. The world doesn’t need a Bastion with a five-year plan…” Bastion swallowed hard and arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t look at the card!” she insisted. “The world, this team, Nicole, your child? We need a Bastion who’s thinking long run. You’re scared. So am I. But this, this is a crutch. An arbitrary security blanket. And heroes don’t need blankets. We’ve got capes.” “Not you.” “Not me.” Artemis shared a laugh with him. “Holding your baby would be my joy. We can provide them a safer world. Together.” Bastion’s smile evaporated. He rotated his palm upward, which – based upon the set to his jaw – suggested he wasn’t seeking her touch again. Numbly, Artemis deposited the folded card into Bastion’s open hand. An eternal minute elapsed before he smiled again. He then crumpled and tossed the card into the wastepaper basket beside his desk. Without opening it. “Now, get out of here,” Bastion ordered. “I want a full report on Visionary’s condition – and Blitzen’s – within the hour. I need to connect with the warden.” “Of the Box?” “Yes. I’d like to handle Dr. Woe’s interrogation personally,” Bastion explained. “Bleed him a little.” “Artemis,” he said, a warning in his tone. “I know, I know.” “Within the hour.” “Copy. And Bastion?” Artemis began, eyes dewy. “Thank you.” She collected her gear, slipped the cowl over her head and departed, the door clicking softly as it closed behind her. Bastion nodded. He respected Artemis profoundly. But with so few assurances in life, and the uncertainly of Visionary’s fate, ensuring his child’s safety took precedence over all else. He plucked the card from the bin, and unfurled it slowly. The card simply read Right Now. Bastion’s heart sank, as realization settled into his stomach. The shattering glass of his office door barely registered. But the arrowhead piercing the left side of his chest, between his fourth and fifth ribs – his armor’s chink – monopolized his attention in an instant. Artemis’ heavy, deliberate footfalls – only heard when she wanted to be heard – as she stormed back into his office commandeered his thinking from there. “Damn you, Bastion,” Artemis roared, lowering her bow. Bastion’s blood spurted through his clutching fingers. “Why?” “Visionary didn’t tell me. She wouldn’t. Because she knew what I know. That knowing only leads to catastrophe. “ “Why?!” Bastion asked again, his voice faint. “I love you. Always have, and always will. But you betrayed me. Your secrets are ours. You lead us, and now you’ve shared intel with a civilian that you had no right to share. Bad enough on its own.” “I..” “But your giving up? It cripples us, and I won’t let that stand. I’m your legacy, and will represent you proudly. Words can’t convey the depth of my heartbreak. Deeper still, because I’ll now need to eliminate Visionary.” Artemis leaned closer. “She’s unconscious not because of a coma, but because of a powerful sedative. We don’t yet know the full extent of her abilities, but she can’t ever know or ‘see’ what’s happened here. For this, I am also sorry.” “Dddddon’t…” “I’ll be stopping for a coffee before visiting Blitzen. My words are true, I’d love to meet Nicole, and to hold your child.” Artemis’ tears stormed. “Which is now a problem. I cannot have civilian attachments.” She kissed her index and middle fingers and placed them to Bastions lip’s, flecked with bloody spittle. “Rest easy, Bastion. The Aegis will rebuild. And carry on.”


John, who turned 33 today, had always regretted several of his life decisions. If he could go back in time and do things differently, he would be an innovator, a person who mattered, and a person with money! He fell asleep while watching "Billy Madison" late one night. He awakened in his childhood twin bed, the size of a 10-year-old, with full awareness of his adult self. "Wake up, Johnny; you're going to be late for school!" his mother yelled downstairs. He rolled out of bed in his SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas, stared in the mirror, and couldn't believe how small he was. When he looked at his alarm clock, it said April 2000. This was the last thing he thought about before falling asleep, so he assumed it was some sort of supernatural wish granted to him. He slapped himself in front of the mirror to make sure he wasn't dreaming, but that only startled the dog, so he stopped. He remembered how much she dreaded going to school when he boarded the bus that day. There were bullies, teachers, and awful school lunch pizza; pizza should not be sweating. But Johnny walked into school with the confidence of an adult. He was an average adult man with average intelligence; certainly, he should be able to fly through his studies; why couldn't he skip a grade or two while he was here? Johnny's mind wandered as he sat in his old 5th-grade seat, and he wondered, "What can I do to persuade my teacher to let me skip a grade? Is it possible for me to just take an exam or something?" "What are the dimensions of a rectangle with a perimeter of 28 units and a length that is twice its width? Johnny, you haven't answered a question yet; what are your thoughts?" Johnny was taken aback; he didn't remember math being this hard! He went into the day expecting to be a genius, but at the end of the day, he had made a fool of himself because his adult self had not done his homework, had not gone over the math problems, and had spent most of the day daydreaming about skipping grades. "This was an opportunity to change his life for the better; what could he do differently?" he thought as he went to bed that night at 8 p.m. As he pondered this question, he realized that by devoting himself to studies, he might be able to change his life. So Johnny cracked some books, and his grades improved for a week or two, making his teachers and parents proud. They weren't willing to let him skip any grades, but he felt smarter, which boosted his confidence. He was studying one night when he came upon his old Nintendo 64. He remembered how much he enjoyed the Legend of Zelda, Mario Party 2, Pokemon Stadium, and around ten or fifteen more games when he was ten. So, he decided to play, and play, and play some more. Before he knew it, his grades had dropped back to the mean, and he was rethinking his options. "You know what, self, skipping classes and being the smartest guy in the room is no guarantee that you'll be successful and rich; maybe I should focus on my friend network; maybe if I befriend the smart students, we can invent Facebook, Virtual reality, or maybe 5G," he thought to himself if he only knew what 5G was. So he set out to make new friends, the nerd boys and girls he recalled being successful on social media as an adult. As he attempted to form a new friend group, he remembered how difficult it was to make new friends. The friends he already had wanted to hang out with him all the time, and it was difficult to say no. Plus, he only had a little in common with the smart kids, so it never worked. However, by the end of fifth grade, he was back where he started, if not a little worse off; average grades, average friends, and on his path to an average life. Now in sixth grade, as the year 2000 turned into 2001, Johnny was looking for a way to change his life from what it was. He asked, "What advantages do I have being from the future?" Then it occurred to him, why don't I try to prevent 9/11 from happening? He told his parents that he had to report a crime. He needed to speak with someone in the FBI's anti-terrorism division right away, ideally someone in command, not an underling. His parents, of course, did not believe him. He didn't want to reveal that he was from the future, so he said he had heard some suspicious men talking. But his story began to unravel when they pressed him with more questions. Because his parents refused to let him go to the authorities, he decided to walk to the police station himself. The police genuinely listened to him and took notes, but Johnny was only 10 years old when 9/11 occurred. He couldn't recall important details such as the airlines utilized, flight numbers, flight origins, or the identity of a single hijacker, "I think it was like Muhammad Atta; would it be difficult to investigate all the people named Mohammed?" Osama bin Laden came to mind, although he was already on the terrorist watch list. He knew the date, which buildings the planes flew into, and that it happened about 8:40 a.m. His parents had to pick him up that night and were upset that he had gone against their wishes. Worse, when September 11th arrived, the attacks unfolded just as they had the first time. Johnny drifted through the next few years of school, feeling helpless. With hindsight, things were a little easier, but everything happened precisely as it had before. As the end of high school came, he realized that college was where everything started to go wrong for him. So he decided to forego it totally and concentrate on himself. However, Johnny, going by John now, found that the opposite of a bad experience isn't necessarily better. He was a 23-year-old convenience store clerk, working 40 hours a week and barely making ends meet. When his car broke down in the middle of a rainstorm one afternoon, everything came to a head. As he sat in the driver's seat of his broken-down car, he realized that nothing would change; he was only 10 years away from being that same shattered person incapable of happiness. Suddenly, there was a knock on the window. "Do you need any help?" Emma was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, both on the inside and out. She not only waited with him while the tow truck was delayed, but she was also one of those people who was really easy to talk to; she was a fantastic listener and knew what it was like to battle with confidence and social awkwardness. This was a major game changer; meeting Emma was the first event that caused his life to deviate from its predestined path. They became friends, but John desired more. Emma improved his life in almost every way over the next five years; they became gym buddies, improving his physical and mental health. They would try new things like ax throwing, escape rooms, and hot air balloon racing. At the end of the day, Emma was a positive person in his life, so positive that it was contagious. John understood that life was a game of risk and reward; he wanted to be in a relationship with Emma beyond friendship, but he was always hesitant to go there for fear of rejection, making things awkward, or making her dislike him. One night, he threw caution to the wind and told Emma how he felt. Unfortunately, she did not share the sentiments and wanted to stay only friends. They remained friends, but things were never the same after that. For the next few years, John kept all of Emma's positive qualities in his life; nonetheless, he always wondered what he could have done better; not waiting five years to tell her how he felt; being a love interest rather than a friend; or being more confident and assertive? He pondered if things might have turned out differently if they had met for the first time now, rather than five years ago. It was the eve of his 33rd birthday, and he was in a better place than his previous self; he was more physically fit, had lived experience, and even had a more positive disposition. However, as he reflected on his second life, he realized that Emma was responsible for most of the positive improvements. He awoke the next day in his previous life, a little chubbier, in his old apartment, with his old job, and with "Billy Madison" credits rolling, but he remembered everything about his second chance. The first thing he thought of was Emma; they had never met in this life; was this a second chance to get things right? First, he got his life in order, got in shape, quit his job and got a more fulfilling one, and started to make more positive changes. After a month, he set out to find Emma. He used every tool at his disposal, including social media, recollections about her life, and, most importantly, the type of person she was attracted to. John joined a hot air balloon racing group that he remembered she loved. She was there on the first day; she was exactly the same. He took a deep breath as he approached to introduce himself; this time, he had to get it right. There were no do-overs.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Please note: This feature has feedback requirements for participation. Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is ‘Rift’! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘rift’. A rift is a crack, split, or break in something. This could be a physical thing, like a building or the earth itself, or it could be a split in a relationship of some kind; a difference of opinion or beliefs that causes a division between two people or groups. What effect will this have on the characters and those around them? Maybe this split is necessary for future events to unfold the way they need to. Can they see that? Or will this be the catalyst of a much larger falling out and/or series of events? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * January 30 - Rift (this week) * February 6 - Keepsakes * February 13 - Wrath   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** *** #Announcing a Brand New Feature for Completed Serials on Serial Sunday! I can’t express how delighted and honored I am to watch each of you grow and meet the challenges every week. Let’s face it, it’s quite a feat to create a world from scratch and write a serial! And finishing a serial is an amazing accomplishment. Over the last year, we’ve had quite a few writers cross that finish line. It’s something that the writers should be incredibly proud of—those still working on them and those who have already completed them. I started thinking about those finished serials and all the ones to come; I realized that a congratulatory post just wasn’t enough. I want to give you the chance to show off your hard work! And so I present to you...SerialWorm! ###What is a SerialWorm? Writers who finish their serials (with at least 12 installments) will be allowed to read their *edited* serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s Voice Chat. This is to celebrate your accomplishments, see how it reads once it’s altogether, as well as provide some additional motivation to cross the finish line. After the final chapter is read, there will be a Q & A with the author. Questions can be submitted/asked at this time. ###Serial Worm Rules: **A minimum of 12 installments will be required to read.** Serials will need to be broken up into multiple sessions, as with any Discord Bookworm. **Only one bookworm event will be held at a time (including non-serial Bookworms).** You may still submit your finished serial to get on the list. **You need to be available to read your own serial.** Readers will not be provided. **Your serial must have gone through significant, final edits after its completion. All ‘SerialWorms’ must be approved.** SerialWorm is not for live feedback or edits, but to share your accomplishment with others and read your finished product aloud. **Completed and edited serials may have a maximum word count of 1150 per installment, with no more than 2 additional installments (not posted to Serial Sunday weekly threads).** **Serials must comply with r/ShortStories content rules. No exceptions.** **Authors must have met the rules of the weekly post.** This includes two feedback comments every week, as well as meeting the deadline. Those who miss more than 2 weeks of feedback in a 12-installment period will be ineligible for SerialWorm. This is a privilege, not a right. **SerialWorm authors must be Certified on the discord.** You must be given final approval by Bay. You can request the ‘SerialWorm’ role at any time on the Discord to be notified of upcoming SerialWorm events. ###SerialWorm Q & A To add a little something extra to make it different from the weekly campfire readings, there will be a discussion portion. *This is not for feedback on the writing*, but more an elaboration/extension on the basic questions I pose to every author in the Completed Serial Modpost, with a few extras. This is the time to ask about their writing journey, challenges they faced during their Serial, etc. The discussion portion of the SerialWorm will be after the final chapter is read. Questions can be submitted to Bay over the course of the SerialWorm or asked on the day-of. ***If you have any questions, feel free to send a modmail or DM me on our Discord!***   *** *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/bantamnerd   - - by u/nobodysgeese   - - by u/mattswritingaccount   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Mr. Billingmyer's Seventy-Fifth Halloween" by Ryan Sheffield The doorbell rang for the first time that evening around half past six, and the excitement that brought Thomas Jacob Billngmyer to his feet was that of a grade school child. This was to be his seventy-fifth Halloween, but with such gleeful enthusiasm in his arthritic bones, one might have easily mistook it for his first. An old man he was, yes, but a child at heart. And how he loved the children. “Trick or treat!” was the chorus they sang, and to Mr. Billingmyer it was more lovely a sound than any Yuletide carol could ever be. The costumes grew more unrecognizable to him as the years passed—the children of late preferring their popular television characters to the more classic Halloween staples to which he was accustomed—but he loved them just the same. For one night every year they could be anything. For that one wonderful night, they were no longer burdened by the strict rules of school marms or the limits of the adult world. Adults preferred the rules and rigid routine, growing up and out of their imaginations and leaving them behind like a snake’s old skin—much to their own detriment, in the opinion of Thomas Billingmyer. On this night, he could be anything and there were no rules. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he proclaimed, and dropped a piece of candy in the baskets, bags and buckets of the smiling children. They thanked him and ran off down the drive, back to their imagination-deprived parents who waited in their boring, everyday clothes to lead the little ghosts and ghouls to the next well-lit house on the street. He watched them go and shut the door, too excited to sit down again. He wished he had had the foresight to purchase a carving pumpkin during the day. But he supposed it was best this way. His searing joints did not share his festive mood. Such spoilsports they were! He missed his youth dearly, and though seventy-five Halloweens were more than most could hope for, he would trade it all to have stayed young. To have never known that awful world of responsibility and toil and boredom that all adults must occupy. To never shed the precious gift of childhood imagination. In the two hours that followed his first evening visitors, the doorbell rang but four times. Each time was a grand time—tiny witches and pint-sized devils joyous and shouting and thankful—but it was so much fewer than the year before. And so the pattern had gone for years. Perhaps the children these days grew up too quickly. The world was changing and adulthood intruded on their little lives too soon. The old man wondered if a year would come when there would be no Trick-or-Treaters at all. He wouldn’t likely live to see that terrible night, and for that he was grateful. He would not be alive to mourn the world’s imagination. He would see to that. It was nearing 9o’clock and Mr. Billingmyer had all but given up when the doorbell rang again. He made his way to the door as quickly as his grumpy, old skeleton would allow. But this time he was not greeted by the shouts of princesses and goblins. The young man that darkened his doorway had long since shed and forsaken childhood, his scary costume nothing more than his own skin and that putrid symbiont, desperation. The young man pulled a knife from his shoulder bag and pushed Thomas Jacob Billingmyer backward into the house. He locked the door behind him and peeked nervously through the blinds on the window. “Keep your mouth shut, old man. I swear to God, I will cut you.” He gestured with the knife and Mr. Billingmyer did as it commanded, backing away slowly toward the living room. “Sit down.” The knife directed him to the wooden chair he had set out for resting between doorbell rings. He did as he was told. The young man dug through his bag and pulled out a roll of duct tape which he used to bind Mr. Billingmyer, most uncomfortably, where he sat. The young man was desperate indeed. He dug through all the drawers—even the kitchen pantry!—looking for valuables he never would have sought had youthful imagination not been so cruelly discarded. Mr. Billingmyer did not truly blame him. Adulthood encroaches as it will. He watched patiently as the young man darted into the bedroom, rummaged around, and returned with handfuls of jewelry. Most were obviously “costume” fakes, but the young man did not strike him as someone with a very discerning eye. He felt bad for him, really. “What time is your wife supposed to be gettin’ home, old man?” he asked as he filled his shoulder bag with the worthless trinkets. “I never married,” replied Mr. Billingmyer. “What, are you some kind of fruit? Why you have all this shit? Nevermind. Cash. Where is it?” The young man held out the knife. It wasn’t very threatening. It seemed to be serving more as punctuation than anything else. “I’m afraid I don’t have any,” said the old man. “You don’t have any? Bullshit. Don’t lie to me, man. I’m not kidding around here!” The punctuation was sharp but weak. “I’m terribly sorry. I really can’t help you, son.” The young man threw his arms in the air and began pacing. “You’re lying,” he said, though it seemed to be directed more at himself. “Shit!” He took a few minutes to quickly—and most ineffectively—ransack the house in search of money that was not there. He gave up easily. Mr. Billingmyer assumed the young man had done so a great many times before. “Shit… shit…” He threw himself into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. It was a sad and pitiful sight. Mr. Billingmyer wished he didn’t have to see it. After a moment, the young man got up in a huff and grabbed a piece of candy from the Trick-or-Treat bowl. “That candy is for the children!” shouted the old man. He was incensed and his lip was trembling. “It’s for the children, not for you!” “Shut the hell up, old man,” he said weakly. He unwrapped the candy and ate the entire bar in one bite. “No money… liar…” he mumbled. And then he fell facedown on the living room floor. His body shook with spasms and blood began to pour from his mouth, nose, ears, and even his tear ducts. The poison worked so much faster than Mr. Billingmyer thought was possible. And such a mess… Though his bones put up quite a fuss, the old man was able to wriggle free of his restraints after only a few minutes of trying. Goodness, the place was a mess! It was getting late and he supposed he should probably be on his way. The night was waning, the little ghouls were returning home with their bounties, and the homeowners would likely be back soon. And to find such a mess! He felt rather apologetic, but there was little he could do but make himself scarce before they arrived. Thomas Jacob Billingmyer’s seventy-fifth Halloween was going to end as a disappointment. He hoped the next would be better, if fate saw fit to let him live to see it. Then the doorbell rang. Mr. Billingmyer rushed to the door and opened it just a crack. “Trick or treat!” sang the children. The old man smiled. Oh, to be young forever. Adulthood was the end of dreams. And no one deserved that. The children extended their baskets, buckets and bags and the old man gave them each a piece of candy. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he said. And looking into their smiling faces, all the disappointment and misfortune vanished from his mind as though it were never there. Yes, he thought. It was a wonderful night.


I once impaled a child with a knife. Or perhaps I didn’t. Memory can be such a fickle thing sometimes. Echoes of memories, events taking place long before today, playback in my mind. They bounce around my head every now and then to invade my brain for long moments. Occupying all space. Today I remember being harassed by a group of strangers in the streets of Paris three years ago. They mocked this hunched skeleton shambling before their eyes with a surprised look on its face. They found reasons to laugh at the expense of this clown. Its looks, its pace, its reaction time, its clothing, its face, its choice of words, its lack of wit...Oh they wanted a laugh you see so...any reason would do really. It was the third time this week that strangers I’ve never met had a go at me. Ah and they had gotten away with it too. Not once, but twice...not thrice however. I was scared you see. So I decided to carry my old trusty knife in my pocket. The one given to me by my father when I was a kid to carve hearts in trees. I didn’t want to hurt anyone of course. I wanted to be safe from strangers and the mockeries. You understand how an hunted animal feeling backed in a corner will react, don’t you? Of course you do. You already know how this story ended. I pulled out the knife when the glee of the pack became evident. With these wide and devilish smiles of hunters finding easy prey. I waved the knife at them. I yelled something but I forgot what it was. Forgive me. I...they didn’t care. They didn’t listen. They never do. I killed four people that day. Every member of the pack. I remember my brief moves to their throats and the sudden drop of their bodies as blood spewed forth. The others didn’t move or shake when they saw their comrades fall. They couldn’t believe it. A prey? Fighting back? Ridiculous! Hopeless! They kept smiling as I charged each of them one by one. I struck. Then moved to the next. I struck again, another body fell. They were none left. I fled. I looked around me as I moved as fast as I could. The crimson knife was still in my small hand. But the world did not care for what I did. The birds were singing. It smelled like shit due to the fertilizers recently used in the public garden to my left. Luckily there was nobody currently enjoying the flowers or walking the street rue de Grenelle. The front of the Invalides was empty this Monday of November. The early sun rays softly warmed my skin and I briefly thought myself in Elysium instead of the 7ème neighborhood as I crossed the esplanade, a park in front of bridge Alexander III. Then I reached the other side and found myself in the neighborhood of avenue Bosquet where my humble abode awaited me. I walked on the road, saw an opening in the gutter leading to the sewers and threw the knife of my father inside it. Gone. I went home. It wasn’t far. Yes I remember doing all that three years ago. Or perhaps I didn’t.


Sometimes in life, you are given a choice. Free will, as they say. You choose your fate, and you accept the consequences. I understood that. But sometimes, you don't get to choose. I didn't choose my parents' endless beatings, or their little torture games they played on me. I didn't choose for my life to be full of purple bruises and empty stomachs. But on one day, when I was walking to school on a particularly malicious day, all of that was taken away by a man in a 1996 Honda Civic. And I chose to go with him. Savior, or kidnapper, those names were interchangeable when it came to Jako. While his treatment towards me wasn't what people on the outside considered desirable, anything was better than the bitter neglect my parents showed. They didn't even care I was gone. No one looked for me, and I was okay with that. I didn't want to be found, and I wasn't. Not for seven years, at least. It was November 14, 2020 when Jako came storming into my cell, grabbing the collar that hung around my neck with this grubby hand. "Go," he growled, shoving my out. "W-what's going on?" I shouted as Jako dragged me along. "Shut up!" He screamed, giving a quick yank on my collar. "They'll hear you." I figured that Jako knew best, and promptly shut up, following him through the dark corridors. Yet the voices of the police officers and their shining flashlights grew closer and closer. Then, I heard it. "Jako Ramirez, come out with your hands up!" ~ They gave me a choice. It was simple, really. Well, it was to them. They just wanted me gone, out of their police station. The officer stared at me, waiting for my answer. I could go home, back to the childbood I was freed from, back to the endless beatings and hissing insults. Or, I could go. Where, I wasn't sure. I longed for Jako and my safe cell, but that wasn't my life anymore. I needed to choose. Freedom, I decided. Freedom was what I wanted. ~ But was I free? Now, the two options seemed foggy, more the same than I thought. I was homeless, plain and simple. Homelessness was not free. Torture was not free. I was not free. Day after day, all I felt was cold. The shivering and aching were constant. Each time I coughed, the blood that spattered out reminded me of my bloody past. The blood worried me, but it wasn't like I could do anything. A hospital was out of the question, of course. Sometimes, when I would sit huddled by a bus stop on a particularly cold winter day, people would stare at me, looking at me like I was the scum of the earth. But what did I do wrong? If only they knew my story, maybe they would understand. ~ When you're homeless, stealing is inevitable. I had been avoiding it, but I couldn't any longer. My survival depended on it. So, one particularly rainy day, I slipped inside a convenience store. My head ducked down; I kept my eyes trained on the shiny linoleum floor as I made my way to the back. The bell on top of the door chimed, and I jumped, suddenly paranoid. Shoving my morals back down, I reached out for a can of ravioli. "Hey." I jumped, getting over my initial startle. I looked up to see a boy my age, looking down at me with piercing green eyes. His posture and expression screamed confidence, and I was suddenly self concious. I hoped that I didn't smell. "Hi," I mumble, ducking under his arm. "Woah," he chuckled. "What's wrong?" "I, uh, I've gotta go." He stared at me for a moment before his whole face lighted up. "It's the rain, isn't it?" He looks outside, the pouring rain beating down. "I always get jittery when there's rain. But hey, coffee usually cheers me right up. What do you say? Coffee?" One thing I learned from being homeless was that you never turned down free food, especially if it was warm. So without a word, I nodded. "Great!" The boy beamed. "Oh, and I'm Finn." "Hannah." ~ We began spending a lot more time together. I became an expert at hiding my homelessness from him, but it never felt good to do so. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't. Anyway, we made our relationship official not long after that first coffee. Love was something I never imagined as I child, but the word came easily to me, because that was how I felt. I loved Finn. I was happy with him, and I no longer minded going "home to the small space underneath the playground. I no longer minded the stares. I no longer paid attention to the increasing amount of blood I coughed up from my lungs. But ignorance isn't bliss. March 4, 2021. I was with Finn on our three month anniversary. We were walking down the street, and I had, for the first time in a long while, a full stomach. Arm in arm, words were not needed as we walked. But tonight was important. All these months, and I was finally going to admit it, and tell Finn that I was homeless. Somehow, I knew it would be okay. I knew he would stay. I turned to Finn, and he stopped. "What's wrong?" He asked, instantly sending my worry. I bit my lip, pondering my words. "Fi--." Just then, I was overcome by coughing. Feeling weak, I collapsed to the ground. The last thing I heard was Finn's distressed voice. "Hannah? Hannah! Oh God, you're coughing up blood!" ~ I woke up with what felt like a heavy weight on my chest. Struggling with my voice, I manage to squeak out a meager, "Finn?" as I wildly darted my eyes around the hospital room. Instantly, he's by my side. I attempted a smile, but Finn did not return it. Instead, his forehead was creased and his eyes were filled with worry. "Hey, you look worried. Is it raining?" I kept waiting for a smile. "Hannah." "What?" I grin, not getting the reaction I was expecting. "Hannah." My smile disappeared. "Just tell me what's wrong with me," I whimper, turning my head away from him. That's when I heard a soft sob escape his mouth. I turn back to him. "Finn?" My voice quivered. "It's cancer, Hannah. Lung cancer. I could've helped you! You should've told me, Hannah! You should've..." Finn buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking softly. "Finn," I whispered. "I could've saved you!" He yelled suddenly. Then, I was crying too. "Am I going to die?" I whimpered, feeling like I was a kid again, terrified of the future. I got no response, only sobs. And I knew. "Oh, God. No. No." I grabbed Finn, and I held him tight. I wasn't about to let go. But I did. I let go six days later.