The ground rumbled. A plume of moon dust rose in the distance near where Samantha was collecting samples. Ed dropped his instrumentation and headed toward the west ridge of the Sea of Serenity crater. He opened his comm to alert ground control. “Sam—Lieutenant Harris, check-in. Do you copy?” “Captain Seran, this is ground, we are showing sharp spikes in Harris’ vitals. She’s not responding. What’s going on up there?” “Samantha Harris, check-in. Do you copy?” Captain Ed Seran continued toward her last location. “Ground this is Seran. Harris was collecting rock samples on the west Serenity Ridge just about forty meters north of my location. I’m headed that way. Looks like a landslide. Do you copy?” “We copy. Approach with caution, instrumentation shows her suit may be damaged. There’s been slight depressurization. Likely a puncture. Keep us informed.” “Copy,” Ed responded through the lump in his throat. Aware ground monitored his vitals as well he worked to slow his heart rate. “Ed,” Sam’s ragged voice, like welcomed rain in a drought, radiated in his helmet. “Copy, Sam. I’m on my way. What’s your situation?” “I’m caught. Large boulder. Think I was unconscious. Wind . . . knocked out . . . of me. Landslide. Got my coordinates? Copy.” “Ground sent them. Lay still. Breathe. I’m ten meters out. Ground, you copy?” “We copy. Glad to hear your voice, Samantha. The doctor here has some questions.” Ed listened intently as he closed in; he could see the rubble. The damage was dramatic. Small rocks mostly, but that boulder was a bone crusher. Ed worried. This was Sam. His Sam. No one knew of course, but they did. He’d need to watch what he said and did if they were to have any career after this. But all he wanted to do was to tell her what he’d never said out loud. She would only object if he had. They couldn’t be in love, that would be a sin they couldn’t recover from. “Ground, I have her in view.” “Copy.” He knelt and took her hand. A moment passed as they searched the other's face for any hidden signs. They both smiled. “Captain Seran, can you elaborate on her condition?” “Uh, yes. It appears the smaller rocks can be dealt with. The issue is the boulder. Good news her leg is free. Bad news, the suit is caught underneath. Moving the boulder or the rocks in front of the bolder is impossible without risking the rock rolling onto her. I’ll have to cut the suit away. Which is the other bad news. Any advice? Copy.” Ed looked at Sam her eyes which showed sorrow more than fear. He grabbed her hand. “We’re going to get you out of this, back on the rover, and to the airlock. You understand. WE ARE.” She nodded with pursed lips. Her faint whimper of repining nearly pierced his heart, but he kept working at removing all the rocks from on top and left of her being careful to not disturb the boulder. “Okay, Sam. This is it. We have to cut your suit away, so the boulder stays put.” She nodded with closed eyes. “You’ll depressurize. So Ground suggests that as I cut, I apply suit tape. Between your tape and mine, I think we’ll get by.” “Duct tape. Fixes everything,” she smirked. “Don’t use yours. You may need it. Then what? We both die? No.” “Good thing I outrank you,” he winked. “Now as soon as you’re free, cover the tape. Apply pressure.” She motioned him closer. He put his helmet on hers. Tears fell toward her ears. A weak smile faded as she mouthed the words, I love you . Words never spoken. Two large splashes hit his visor and rolled downward as he lowered her protective visor. He drew a heart in the thin layer of dust. “Ed, this is ground control. You need to proceed.” “Copy.” The cutting tool sliced the thick outer fabric and layers with more ease than Ed expected. The duct tape held. Painstaking patience set her free, while the rover never moved faster. Once in the airlock, they listened to the cheers of Ground and smiled as they removed helmets and gloves. With the red light still signaling their need to wait in the airlock, Ed knelt and pulled away the silver duct tape observing just how close the tubing came to being crushed—how close her leg . . . He wound the tape into a crude band and slipped it on her left finger. “I love you, and I don’t care who knows or what it costs us. I love you and I want you to be mine forever, starting now.” She shook her head, yes. They embraced. Years later they sat on a bench having retired and celebrated many anniversaries. He fiddled with the duct tape band still on her hand. They looked at each other and remembered. They would never get over the moon. The following day they flew to Houston. Ed held a duplicate ring in his chest pocket. A time capsule would be placed on Mars. Each astronaut present had been asked to bring an item from their missions which would inspire the crew once they landed on Mars. Sam stood as her name was called and crossed the stage. “Well, I almost died up there on the moon. Rocks fall, stuff happens, but you always see each other through.” She held up a patch of her suit with it’s large, jagged tear. The crowd there clapped as she put it inside the time capsule. Ed had joined her, and he held up the duct tape wedding band and her left hand holding the original. "She wouldn’t let me put the real one in, but this duplicate is proof that when all goes wrong, duct tape fixes anything." Their story had been heralded as one of the great love stories at NASA. The crowd laughed and clapped. Ed added, “We will never be over the moon. But we are so hopeful for Mars to find love too.” He placed the duplicate inside the time capsule and kissed his moon souvenir. She kissed him back as she showed off her duct tape band.


I've painted him over a dozen times. I guess this is what true love feels like. With each portrait I believe I get closer to him, knowing him both personally and physically. I know the exact degree his eyes turn down, and the angle at which his eyebrows arch. I know the color of his skin at the tip of his nose, and the exact shade it turns once it's dark. I understand the way his hair falls over his face and how it blows in the wind. I know how to capture his curled lip when he tells a lie, and I know the secret he hides. Each portrait I think I understand why he did it. Men get bored easily and forget what they have right in front of them. But women like me will never lose sight of that, I know this for sure because I glide my brush over the canvas to highlight the side of his cheek. I don't think many of my first pieces captured him very well. That was before I thoroughly studied him. I started off having him pose for me, but he got restless easily and that made him hard to see. So, I took a couple of photographs and worked from those instead. "I think you got my nose wrong," he pointed out early on. It's always the nose. After the 10th session, I begged him to sit for one more portrait. He was hesitant, but eventually agreed. "I don't understand why you keep doing this," he said when I was on his lips. "Perfection," "You've got a ton of perfectly good ones already," "I'm not aiming for good. Anyone can do good." "So what, you want to be great?" I put my brush down and looked over at him from behind the canvas. His eyes moved to meet mine, never breaking his pose. "I want people to see your face and know you are a man worth painting a thousand times. They should be able to count the exact number of hairs on your chin. They'll look into your eyes and see you looking right at me, and they will know our entire lives story." In the end of course, it turned out he wasn't worth a single painting at all. And our story was one that had upped and ended, possibly doomed right from the start. In a whirl, I stopped painting him with an air of love and rather one of regret. Regret that I didn't see it coming. "You're still making more?" He scoffed after walking in on portrait number 82. I've come to the point where I can paint him by memory, though I still look over at him every now and again to see if I could capture a glimpse of remorse. "I'll make as many as I need to," "Okay," he chuckled. "Whatever you need." He shook his head and walked out. I don't think it's an obsession, really. It's a desire for the truth, the urge to know. It takes over and I've got to get it out somehow. There are far worse ways I could be dealing with this, I think I'm handling it in a rather healthy way. I could totally lose my mind instead. --- I had to see her today. Out of all the women he could've chosen, he picked one with easy access to my own home. An old college friend of ours, I don't quite remember which one of us introduced her first. I first became suspicious of them when I noticed something different in his eyes while I was painting them. It wasn't anything physical, only a feeling. "That's a very nice portrait," she said, pointing to the one I had hanging in the foyer. I only smiled. "I could never be an artist," she continued to say. "But I'm glad you find it so... fulfilling." She walked away before she saw the look of disgust on my face. Dinner was awful. Besides the fact that I find most of my husband's friends to be the biggest bores I've ever met, I just couldn't get it out of my head that the two of them might be playing footsie under the table. There was no real way for me to check without making a scene, so I did what artists do best- observe. I spent the rest of that dinner studying their body language, eye contact, facial expressions. I wasn't looking for any new information, it had already been confirmed the two of them were a thing. I mean I guess I was only just trying to make myself upset by watching them. There's a sort of comfort in being sad, in feeling like the only one there for you is yourself. I don't understand what he sees in her. She makes a perfectly fine friend, but not even one I would like to spend all my time with. She's not even the type of friend I'd invite to my birthday party, a pity invite, maybe. Her looks have nothing to do with it, she's a very pretty woman. But oh, she's just so dull! Not a single piece of her is unique or genuine. And that comment about being an artist? The nerve. I played with my food while she droned on about the legacy of Pina Bausch. Everyone paid attention like she was the most interesting woman in the world, but I saw right through her. She isn't the only one who reads the New Yorker. Even her fashion is uninspired, coming straight off a store mannequin or magazine catalogue. The proof came from a series of letters sent back and forth between them, and then eventually an eyewitness account from my sister. I found out about the letters through a postal friend of mine, who risked losing his job to bring some of the sealed envelopes to me. I never got to read any of them, but I could only imagine what they said. My sister caught them a few weeks later. She was visiting a friend two towns over when she saw them sitting close together in the park. His arm was around her while she laid her head on his shoulder. I was so upset that night I painted my first fiery landscape. The dinner was over after what seemed like hours, and I excused myself to the kitchen to do the dishes. One by one our guests began filing out, saying goodbye on their way past the kitchen and to the front door. Once I put away the last plate, I walked into the living room where the two of them where whispering over the fireplace. She was holding a book who's title I couldn't read. "Oh darling," my husband said when he saw me. "We were just talking about possibly setting up a book club with the rest of the group, is that something you'd be interested in?" "Sounds nice," I forced a smile. "You're so smart and well read, I bet you'd add a lot of unique insight to our conversations." She giggled. She might as well just call me stupid. --- I resorted back to some of my older portraits and photographs of him so I could paint those instead. It hurt to much painting him in his present state, the nose that's smell her hair, the eyes that have seen her whole, and the lips that say nothing but sweetness and light to her. I wonder how many of the jokes he used on me he's now telling her. And I wonder if he looks at her the same way he looked at me when I was fresh and new. Days went by and I locked myself away for hours, painting portrait after portrait after portrait. Of course it only drove him further away, the time spent in confinement was time permissible for him to be with her. I just wanted him back. Eventually I switched to drawing, and I tore from page to page, making dozens of portraits at a time. In my frenzy I ripped one out too hard and tore right through his face. Even as my creation I ruined him. Maybe I was driving myself to madness. Maybe my madness is what drove him away. The portraits started to pile up against each other, they surrounded me and I was in a sea of him. After another long day of painting I collapsed. He found me later that night and for the first time in a while, rushed to my side. "Darling, this needs to stop," he begged. We looked around in horror at the hundreds, if not thousands, of portraits filling up the space around us. As much as I've tried, I can't bring myself to stop. Because in these portraits, he still loves me. And in these portraits, I find that I still love myself.


April 15, 2017. It is always darkest before the dawn. River could still hear her grandfather’s words as she quietly stepped out of the front door 15 minutes before the sun was to rise. She was out here specifically to watch the sunrise. A moment she and her grandfather use to enjoy together. With his passing two weeks ago, she wanted to start to make this a tradition for herself. It didn’t need to be every day, but she wanted to continue the act of watching the sunrise and remembering the good moments of life. This is what she and her grandfather would do. She could remember that her grandfather would get her up early, he would have his coffee ready and hot chocolate for her. He would already have a blanket set up for her outside, and it would always be warm even if it was one of the coldest mornings. Sometimes they would be outside too early and would listen to the animals beginning to wake up. They would listen to the changes in the air. They would watch as the last of the night light would leave the sky, and the temperature would dip to its lowest point. And then the first rays of the sunrise would show. The light would suddenly reemerge in the sky. Her grandfather would tell her that the sun was pulling in all the energy it could so that it could create a dazzling show for them. So that nothing else could take away from its spectacular self as it brought the day to the world. River knew that it was not the truth, but it sure seemed like it was a good way to look at things. March 12, 2020 . It is always darkest before the dawn. River was called to an emergency meeting. She hated anything that had to be told to them in an overwhelming way. And emergency meetings were never calm and organized. She took a deep breath and told herself that it was just the dark moment where she would hate everything of the unknown to come. When you don’t know what is coming you can’t prepare for it. You can’t tell yourself all will be fine because you know that it is just a lie. How can the sunshine if the next step is the brightest moment you ever see? How can you suck up the energy to shine when you don’t even know what type of energy there is to pull from? Her entire office crowded into the small conference room. Only during emergency meetings do they all need to be in this space. And it seems with all this talk of a major illness going around they would have found a better way to do this meeting. The last thing River wanted was to get sick. She had some important presentations coming up, and she did not want to have to do them while fighting off whatever this thing was. As she sat in the room she looked around at some of her colleagues wondering what they have all been up to since some of them were closer than they had ever been. She wanted to mention personal space, but then that seemed a little rude. The regional manager stepped into the conference room and everyone went silent. “Hello everyone. I am going to make this quick because as of noon today we will need to begin to follow social distancing protocols. And as of tomorrow at 2 pm this floor is closed.” There were murmurs and some raised ends of sentences that buzzed all around the room. “I know this is sudden, but it would seem that we will need to close the office doors for at least two weeks. I want you all to take home the office laptops you have been issued. If you have not please see Sophia immediately so we can get you one.” She paused. “I know some of you are working on projects, please continue this. There are a few presentations next week, these will … I am not sure yet. They may be postponed or we may just work on a new way to do them. Keep working on them, and we will…see what happens.” She paused again. River could see that she was working on fumes. That she had been working really hard and understanding and organizing how to continue the work of the company in a new format. “I want everyone to make sure that you bring all your contact information home so that you can continue working.” She paused, took a deep breath, “Does anyone have any questions?” Noise erupted. It was like the room was sucked clean of energy. River suddenly couldn’t breathe. She stopped to look around her at what looked like murmuring clowns. There were faces of panic, concern, mortification, and complete confusion. The noises all merged into one. Everyone was trying to be heard, and yet no one was at the same time. There was no way anything could occur with this crazed mass in this small office space. Quietly, River slid her chair back, and she turned to step out. She stood behind her chair and lifted it back, tucked it under the table. She breathed out and took a slow and low breath in. She turned and stepped away from the chaos. She moved to the door and stepped out into what was fresh air. Into where there was space to be and to breathe. River went to her desk, where everything was nicely organized. She unlocked her cabinet to the left of her desk and pulled out her work laptop. She placed it into her work bag. She then grabbed her notepad where she kept all of her notes and random contacts that were not already saved to her phone. She glanced around; the floor still quiet. And she realized that while the world broke into the chaos she just emerged from, she was going to go home and be safe. She was going to be able to keep her normal routines, just all from the comfort of her own space. June 15, 2021. It's always darkest before the dawn. Working from home was not as amazing as River had hoped. It was nice at first, and then it just dragged on. She was still productive. She was able to complete projects and to work on her presentations. She found new platforms that made her simple old plain presentations more fun and eye-catching. But she also found that in order to fill all the time she used to use to go do things, she was working. Or she was working on making things better for work. It was like work took over her entire life, because, well…there was nothing else to do quite frankly. River just wanted to feel more normal again. In fact, she was beginning to miss the office. Not necessarily all the people, but the ability to leave her space, to sit in different locations that are not just 15 feet from her own kitchen. To use an office kitchen, as gross as it may be. River had a meeting with her boss in 15 minutes. She was pretty sure it was to just go over the new project she received. It did not look too overwhelming, and in fact, look like a typical process she had done many times. In some ways, River felt like this project was her specialty. River looked over the overview one more time to just make sure. She figured the meeting would be quick with the boss and then she could just go about her day. Maybe she would go for a walk today to get out and catch some fresh air no that things were calming down. Maybe actually get some food and eat it in the park. Be outside for a few minutes without a mask. River watched as the time was ticking closer to the meeting time. She opened the zoom meeting early. She hated to be late, and she feared that the link would be wrong if she waited until too close to the meeting time. The link took her straight to the waiting for the host screen. She checked her water, and that her pen worked. And then the screen changed. Her boss was signing in early too. “Hi, River. As usual, you are prompt.” “Hello. I don’t like to be the last one in. That is sure. Kind of sucks the air out of my lungs when I do that.” Her boss smiled. “So, I asked to meet you today because we are going to start bringing people back into the office. And some we are going to leave on work at home. I know that you have been super productive from home. Almost too productive. I have seen some of your email times are really late. I know that schedules are weird over the last 16 months, but you have to take time for yourself.” “Oh, yes, that is something I know I need to work on. You said some. What are you thinking about for me?” “Well, that’s just it. I really want you to come into the office. I think I need you here. Mainly because…I need you to head a task force to ensure we are all following the new protocols and policies.” She paused. River’s face did not change. “Am I asking for too much?” “You are not! I was just thinking that I missed those darn walls in that building. I have no problem coming in. What do you need me to do?”


# The Salesman  *He came again today* “Hello sir, welcome to Mercedes Benz” *Every week… and always on my shift.* **“Thank you kindly young man”** *Today he had decided on a straw cowboy hat and an obnoxiously big and fake Bert Reynolds mustache.* *...* *He’s really started to phone it in* "What can I help you with today sir?” *A passerby might look, and think this man was doing a bit, like there is no way this… costume is meant to come across as genuine.* **“Well I’m here to buy a car of course”** *But I know better.* ** *As we pass, I take my shot.* “Sir, while I grab some paperwork please help yourself to some complimentary bagels and coffee” *Please… just once…* **“Thank you, but no thank you. I’ve already ate”** *Of course you have.* “I see… well they are there if you change your mind” *You mother…* “Thank you, but I won’t” *Fucker.* ** “So this is our 2022 A Class, it runs about $36,000 with added on GPS at satellite tracking” *Oh I see, seems a little small, do you have anything bigger?* “I see, but it seems a bit too compact, do you have any larger vehicles?” *He’s switching it up.* “Right this way sir” \-- *I could have been a librarian* “This is our 2023 EQB-Class” *If I just would have actually taken the classes and passed the test* **“Now this is a vehicle.”** *2 hours a day of studying, for maybe 3 months.* “Would you like to take a test drive? All I would need is your license for record keeping” *Oh, that won’t be necessary* **“Oh, that won’t be necessary…”** *Of course not.* **“But might I look around the inside though?”** *What is to gain from this?* “Of course sir” *Three months was all it would have took.* ** *An hour and a half…* ”Are there any other models you would like to look at sir?” *Every time…* **“No I think that’s about it, thank you young man”** *Did he pick that amount of time intentionally?* “Very good sir” *Like he calculated that that was just enough time to show “genuine” interest* “And are you interested in purchasing any of the vehicles you saw today?” *Watching the dealership with binoculars and timing each purchase to find the average a customer took.* **“The more I thought about it, I think the 2022 A Class might actually be perfect”** *Is this madness?* …. *Is this purgatory?* **“And I would like to purchase it please”** *Or something else?* “…Of course sir, let me grab the paperwork” *Well, whatever it is…* **“Thank you young man”** *Here.* **“…But while you do”** *It.* **“…Are those bagels still complimentary?”** *Comes.* “Of course sir” ** *I don’t grab paperwork. About three months ago I stopped. And I’m surprised it took me that long.* **“****Hey sport, how’s the sale going****?"** *And yet my manager still asks.* “Grabbing the paperwork now Larry.” *Every week.* **“Wonderful, which model?”** *Is he a part of this hell?* “2022 A Class” *Is everyone?* **“You’ll see a solid commission off that”** *My wife? My kids?* “As long as he doesn’t run out” *Larry laughs… as if this isn’t a joke he’s heard dozens of times.* **“Good one bud”** *Oh God… Am I becoming part of it?* ** *Sometimes it’s on a napkin, sometimes it’s written on an empty coffee cup.* **“Dearest Salesman,”** *Today it was on a piece of the secretary’s letter stock.* **“I regret to inform you that I will be unable to purchase your fine vehicle today”** *After the first month I began storing them.* **“I have been notified that my dearest grandmother has taken a nasty spill”** *Piles of notes, sitting in a cabinet drawer in my office.* **“and must be transported to the medical facilities post haste.”** *To show to who?* **“However you will be pleased to know,”** *Larry?* **“that I will consider this dealership”** *My wife?* "**and you specifically”** *The FBI?* **“For all future purchases”** *No…* **“P.S.”** *Not yet.* **“Thanks for the bagel.”** ... *See you again next week.


The council had gathered in the Elder chamber. It was not a special occurrence, simply a meeting to discuss the welfare of the people. Chatwa Shaytan was begrudging present, these meetings never seemed to amount to much other than a waste of time for the Elders. As the Elders began, Chatwa found himself struggling to stay conscious in his older age. He sat up in his chair, forcing himself awake by studying the faces of the rest of the council. They Council of Elders was ironically named, he was the only true elder left. The younger faces were all of the leading male in each faction, none of them were older than forty cycles. Chatwa, was well beyond with an age of 130 cycles. It had been a struggle to still have a prominent voice in this council. The younger Elders were always pushing to remove his vote. Today, it seemed would be like any other. With the council discussing simple matters; what to do with the rash of thefts, how to keep control of a growing society, and of course the discussion of removing the old texts. Whenever the latter came up Chatwa was the one to adamantly fight for the inclusion of the texts. They held vital information on the coming of the light. Something that no one alive had any knowledge of anymore. Chatwa being the oldest had only partial memories of the light, folk tales that had been passed down from his grandelder. Chatwa was certain that these tales had come from truth and thus the texts should be held sacred and preserved. However, as each Elder was replaced he had less and less support. This meeting however would be different. Chatwa was about to suggest the insane. He had read through the remaining texts and found some references to a being called Gawantu. Gawnatu was some sort of large being that brought the light. At this point it was all but myth, but Chatwa believed different. He proposed venturing out over the horizon, to search Gawantu, to see if it could explain the light, or bring it back. As Chatwa explained his adventure to the council, the Elders looked bored. After he finished speaking he looked around the room for some sign of hope. All that he found was the look of boredom, with some Elders having fallen asleep. Chatwa sat down defeated, and as he sat he realized that he had lost. The Elders must have seen the despair on Chatwa’s face, because not long after he had finished they began to call the vote for his removal. Chatwa didn’t even have the heart to raise his hand in protest. The decision had been unanimous. Concluding today’s meeting, Chatwa would be removed as head Elder and sentenced to live his life at the edge of the village. The meeting was adjourned and Chatwa stepped down from his high Elder seat, walking solemnly to the door. He could feel the eyes of the Elders now on him. Without turning back he walked proudly out into the darkness. He went all the way to his camp, the small tent felt lonely now. He sat on the cold ground, looking up to the dark sky. The embers way up in the sky flickered back at him. The same embers that the old texts had spoken about. Chatwa was always entranced by them. He never would have predicted the commonalty between these embers and the coming light that was also referenced in the texts. As he contemplated the old texts, something shot across the sky. It was a bright light, followed by a long burning trail. He watched as the light fell over the horizon. Chatwa leapt to his feet. His eyes now scanning the sky and the horizon where the light had fallen. Could this be a sign? No one had ever seen such a light, and he couldn’t remember there being any mention of a moving light in the texts. He looked back at the Elder chamber. Perhaps he should go and announce this discovery to the council. No, he thought, they would simply dismiss him as always. Instead he decided to pursue this light, in search of answer or proof to show the council. He hurriedly wrapped his belongs and threw the sack of items over his shoulder. He headed off into the dark, unsure of what he would find. Chatwa walked in the same direction, each time he looked back at the village he could see the distance he had travelled by how small everything became. It wasn’t until he had gotten so far that he couldn’t see the village that he felt free. The terrain was fairly flat, the further he walked the rougher it became. Eventually, he was unable to walk in a neat straight line. He was forced to deviate his path and hike around large boulders or around deep ravines. Every few hours he would stop and rest, his older physique making the trip slower. On the third day he noticed something on the horizon, something that wasn’t there before. It was like a large curved mountain, stretching the full length of the horizon and farther. Chatwa had never seen anything like it. Both of his hearts began to race, beating like drums in his head. He pushed forward as fast as his body would allow. Now with each day the curve grew larger overhead. Chatwa had no idea how far away it was, but it seemed not to be a structure on the surface. Instead it appeared to float high in the sky, and soon it engulfed the whole of the sky. Chatwa could see no end to the disk, it went on as far as his eyes could see. He sat down, looking at the disk. Hoping that it would was linked to the light that he had seen falling. He had been walking for several days, his home now far behind him. He had not seen any sight of the light, and now without the embers in the sky his vision had only improved. The giant disk helped to block the light from the embers, which let his eyes function better. He leaned forward on his knees, tired from walking. He looked up once more to the disk, unsure of what to do. In despairation he called out. “Are you Gawantu?” he yelled to the disk, “Are you the keeper of the coming light?” in return he got no reply. He must have looked so foolish, yelling to a floating disk in the sky. But the longer he sat there the more he felt as though he was right. So he sat, and began to talk to the disk, calling it Gawantu and asking for answers. He spoke to Gawantu for days, asking about the texts and the coming light. Every day he received no answers. Until one day, as he woke from his slumber he saw something on the horizon. It hurt to look at, the brightness stung his eyes. He looked to Gawantu, and asked if this was the coming light. Again he got no response, but he could now see color on the surface of Gawantu. It had to be a sign, the coming light had returned! How lucky was Chatwa that he had found it! The falling light was nothing compared to the discovery of the coming light! The texts had been true. Chatwa was so excited, his spot on the council would be returned he would be a hero. He began his journey home. As he started back, he kept looking over his shoulder to see the light fading, Gawantu was protecting it until he returned! He shouted to Gawantu in thanks, promising to return with followers. His body was acting as though it was only 80 cycles, allowing him to push for home much faster than when he left. It was still days before he managed to see the village in the distance, but once he saw it he moved even faster. He didn’t stop until he was at the entrance to the Elder chamber. He caught his breathe and stepped inside. The Elders had never been so lively, they were conversing and debating louder than Chatwa had ever heard. He stepped into the circle at the center of the chamber and addressed the High Elder. “I have seen the coming light! Gawantu has shown it to me!” He shouted, trying to speak over the other Elders. “Gawantu has kept it safe for us until we found him again. We must go and see!” Chatwa began to plead with the council. He didn’t stop to let them object, he quickly told them all of what he had seen, how he started to follow the falling light and it lead him to Gawantu. He told them how he spoke for days to Gawantu and must have gained his trust. He told them of the coming light and how Gawantu was holding it behind him. Finally, after he told his whole story he waited, this time once he was finished every Elder was awake, their eyes fixed on him. The focus didn’t last long. They all began laughing, Chatwa’s hearts sank. He thought that this would be enough to persuade them. Instead they thought it was all a joke. They laughed for so long that Chatwa was walking outside before they stopped to address him. “Chatwa” boomed the High Elder, “do not come back this time, we beg of you” He smiled, still humored by the statements that Chatwa had made. Chatwa left utterly defeated. He stepped into the darkness and was surprised to be surrounded by several villagers. They told him how they had heard what he said, the story of Gawantu’s return and the coming light. They urged Chatwa to take them with him. Chatwa was dismissive of their enthusiasm, he almost believed that he had made the whole thing up. The villagers were persistent, they kept following him. Broken, Chatwa turned to them. Explaining that he was just a foolish old man and that he was wrong. He was leaving the city and never returning. Despite his dismissal of his followers, they continued to pursue him. He kept walking, some of the followers noticed that they were getting rather far from the village. Maybe it was fear, or just a lack of adventure but several of the followers turned back, deciding instead to stay in the village. But some stayed determined to learn of the coming light. As they walked Chatwa became more open, and began to answer questions. He told of the old texts, how they told of the coming light. He told the people how he saw the light on the horizon. As the village disappeared from sight, they were in deep conversation. The followers treated Chatwa as a chosen speaker for Gawantu, treating him as though Gawantu spoke through him. Chatwa reveled in this idea. He felt chosen, that this was his destiny. He lead the people across the land, over the trenches and past the boulders. As they walked Chatwa couldn’t help but fill in the blanks for the old text, explaining what the coming light was and why it had left. It told the people that it had once been a gift from Gawantu, handed to the people to protect them from the darkness. Over time Gawantu grew tired of the people taking the light for granted and he took it. When the people learned to live without it, Gawantu moved to the far side of the land, behind the horizon. There he waited until someone of true passion sought him out. This person was Chatwa. The people enjoyed the story, and the more Chatwa told them the more he was worshiped. The day came when the people saw for themselves, the large curve in the sky on the horizon. Some were hesitant to go farther, but Chatwa spoke to them and gained their faith. They went further, soon Gawantu was all they could see as they looked up. And on the far side of Gawantu’s surface, they could see the coming light. It was only a day or so later that they saw the light on the surface. Chatwa, explained that because they were inferior they could not look directly at it. The group migrated further toward the light. As the group got closer the temperature began to raise, Chatwa calmed the people letting them know that this new warmth was a good thing. It symbolized the Gawantu reaching out to them and leading them to the light. As the days passed, Chatwa noticed that the light was already covering a significantly larger area than it had when he first arrived. The group had also noticed a change in their bodies. Their skin which was once fair and pale had begun to darken and seem drier. Now they were so close to the light that it was almost impossible to see in any direction. They had to squint to keep the light from hurting their eyes. The dark coloring in their skin was now turning into a bright red, and some people had begun to peel skin from their body. Chatwa reassured the scared group, that this was an offering to Gawantu. As your body transcended into the light it would break free and lead them to the light. In a day or so some of the worst burned followers couldn’t walk any further, the temperature was now beyond bareable. Many argued that they should turn back, that this was a trap. Chatwa stayed true, promising Gawantu’s healing powers and eternal salvation after the transcendence. It wasn’t until members started to perish that Chatwa himself began to doubt Gawantu. Followers were now turning back, hoping to make it out of the light before it was too late. Chatwa, still in disbelief that Gawantu would kill them, pushed on. His own skin now peeling in large chunk, his eyes burned even when they were closed. On his last day, he spoke to Gawantu. “Why Gawantu, why have you abandoned us?” He pleaded with the disk in the sky. “Why have you made your love so harsh, do you wish for us to go back?” Still no answer from the disk. Chatwa leaned forward, the light burning his back, he could go no further. In his finally moments he wept, but no tears came.


Perhaps there may be a better sub for this request, but I enjoy the styles of a lot of the authors here, so I wanted to try this sub first: I was wondering if anyone would like to make a story specifically to be read aloud? I have recorded narrations of by and by . (Thanks again for your permission guys.) If you like the sound of my voice and my narration style, I would love to work with an author who has written a story specifically with a recording in mind. Other than stories, I have some recordings of poems as well, which you can find . I am excited to make this thing happen.


10. We met in a bar on his third whiskey. He looked out of place and seemed to be from out of town. I don’t even remember his name. He was tall and skinny, to the point where I had a feeling that he hadn’t eaten a vegetable in weeks, and his face was unpleasant, twisted into a permanent frown. We ended up in the back of my car because I couldn’t find his. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing...he was my first one. He stained the seat. That was the first time I tried going raw, I felt sick to my stomach for days afterwards.

9. He was a business major at the community college. His name was Chad or something basic like that. I’d seen him at several college parties standing alone in the corner. He was just a tad overweight and very sweet, but he had quite a lot of family drama. I got calls from his mother for weeks after it was over, begging me to take him back. He cried a lot. I kept his sweatshirt. The whole thing was really much more complicated than it needed to be, he almost wasn’t worth all the trouble.

8. Jason was a baseball player. He was fairly attractive and always smelled nice. I went to all of his games, but he never seemed to appreciate my efforts. He really wasn’t very good at baseball, and his teammates seemed to hate him, which was fair...he was a little too tough. This one was messy, and it ended with quite the fight. The bruises on my arm and neck are still slightly visible. I shouldn’t have let him keep his baseball bat in my apartment. It ended up in a nearby river.

7. Greg was a musician and an avid smoker. He was in a band that played at a bar I frequented. He was lazy, not in the charming “let’s lay in bed together all day” way but a “refuse to shower or cooperate with a single dish” kind of lazy. He did not believe in shaving, an aspect of him that grossed me out to my core. I never want to have to pick hair out of my teeth ever again. He wasn’t all bad though, he made an excellent meatloaf.

6. Daveed was a married man, which I was not aware of when we met--I’m not a monster, I wouldn’t purposely try to ruin a marriage--or else I wouldn’t have bothered. We met in an empty lot, he worked construction. He had his faults like anyone else, like getting into cars with single women, but I was rather fond of him. He was lovely. He told me how much he loved his wife, it truly was a beautiful moment, and he was very tender. The police found some of his bones in a local forest, they think the wife did it.

5. Titus is a survivor. We met off a hiking trail several miles into the forest. He was on a hike with his brother, Thomas, when they stumbled across my little archeology site. I never got a good look at his face, but I’m pretty sure he’d memorized every detail of mine. I figured he wouldn’t get very far without a large portion of his left leg, but we all make mistakes I suppose. I was usually pretty lucky, as witnesses were not a common occurrence for me, so I didn’t even think to go after him. In hindsight, I probably should’ve. His brother tasted better anyway.

4. Thomas was an avid hiker and a much slower runner than Titus. He was a smaller man, a little shorter than my favorite red duffle bag, with a surprising soft skull. He had some muscle, but not enough to be an issue. 3. Shaun was a local celebrity, like a news anchor or something. It was clear he would do anything to be worshipped, as it took almost no convincing to get him alone after I told him I was a fan. At the time, he was working on a breakthrough story about the strange deaths and disappearances of some local men. It’s a shame he never got to finish it. The police sketch of my face was borderline insulting.

2. Richard was a police officer. We met inside of my apartment, which was certainly a surprise to me. He was very inquisitive but not friendly in the slightest. He must’ve been a kinky bastard, as he was insistent on handcuffing me. I’ve personally never been a fan of men who don’t believe in consent. The pocket knife I carried with me slid into his chest with ease, like stabbing a slab of warm butter. The carving process was even easier. The meat slid off his bones, a sensation similar to scissors gliding through wrapping paper. I seasoned him with a dry rub--a special combination of salt, pepper, and cayenne--and grilled a few select cuts for about five minutes...my favorite way to cook a man. The biggest issue with this dish is that it’s time consuming, as I only got to enjoy a few bites before Richard’s friends crashed my dinner party.

1. Carlo was a prisoner at a correctional facility. I met him through the fence that separated the men from the women. He sold me a contraband nail file for a pack of cigarettes. Carlo was not very intelligent. It was no knife, but the sharpened toothbrush pierced his neck with just about as much ease. I thought I’d never bother with raw meat again, but I hadn’t had a decent meal in ten years. Prison food is truly disgusting, overcooked beef should be a crime on its own. I managed to take several chunks out of his arm before I was dragged away, but it was so worth it. He was tasty, but he wasn’t the last meal I envisioned for myself as Titus took the stand and spoiled my cookbook plans. It worked out though, I got the death penalty, and the only cooking method I hadn’t tried yet was frying. I hope they season me correctly.


I found Capt. Ahab on the first day. On the second, a crate, surprisingly undamaged, reached the shore. On both occasions, I had my trousers wet with seawater, but managed to get the stiff objects to the shore and in the shade of the palm trees. The contents of the crate were as follows: three candle-sticks; a matchbox; two or three sharpened quills; a pint of ink, black, iron-gall; the Bible; the captain’s log, of almost no entries; a knife, sharp. It was a cruel play of destiny that I should find those items, almost none of which I could trade for food, should we reach the natives of the land. I, however, decided to make the most of them and to thank the Lord I should find anything at all, since I had been bereft of my friends and my belongings. On the second day, I caught a sea turtle on the shore and roasted it on the fire. Capt. Ahab was sleeping in the shelter I had built, but I set aside a decent piece of turtle meat for him. Water was a bigger problem, but after many an hour of wandering, I managed to find a spring of fresh water and to bring a drink to Capt. Ahab in the turtle shell. He woke up on the third day, just after noon, and his moan startled me, for the scorching sun had me feel rather weary. “Water”, he murmured. I took the turtle shell to his mouth and he drank until there was nothing more to drink, and then asked for more. I gave him some fruit I had picked. Then I went to fetch more water. An hour or so later, I came back carrying the turtle shell full of water just to see Capt. Ahab clenching the knife I had found in the crate. I thought he intended to cut the meat, but the meat had gone off in the sun. Then I spotted his fake leg lying next to him, the leg he had had the carpenter made for him out of a whale bone; he was frantically eying it. I took the water to him and he promptly drank it. When the dark came, I put some more logs in the fire. I thought we should celebrate Capt. Ahab’s awakening, even under such strange and inconvenient circumstances, so I caught us another turtle and roasted the flesh so that we could dine. But while I was preparing the meal, Capt. Ahab got hold of his leg and started to hew it. I called him, but he grunted incomprehensively to himself. Then, when I tried to take him by his arm to make him sit by the fire and have supper, he took a swing at me and nearly got me with the knife, so I let him be. I put the meat and some water next to him and turned in for the night. The next morning, having added logs to the fire, I went to take a swim, for it was scorching; and when I came back to the shore, I saw that Capt. Ahab hadn’t moved since last night, that the food had gone bad and the water stale. I also saw that one of the candles had burned down. Capt. Ahab was still hewing the leg, but at some point, at night he must have had got up, took the candle and lit it with matches. We were down to two candles, while most of the matches had burned, as if he had been burning the leg the whole night. I looked at him, but he was consumed in his work. I tried to get him to eat, but he wouldn’t, and again took the swing at me. I realised I had to take the knife off him in order to get to him. I spent the day wandering up and down the beach and concluded that we must have reached an island after our three-day whale chase. I saw no man nor any trace of heathen tribes inland. I went back to the camp, deciding that we should build an even bigger fire, so that, when a ship passes, we could be seen by the crew who would salvage us. I explained that to Capt. Ahab but he didn’t listen. I read the good words of the Bible to soothe myself and prayed a bit. Then I got some fruit and dug out a turtle egg. I didn’t offer any of the food to Capt. Ahab for fear that he wouldn’t eat it and then it would spoil and draw hungry wildlife. I hadn’t spotted any wild animals, but they might be hiding, waiting until I’m asleep to attack us, driven by the scent of rotten food. I ate everything I had gathered. Capt. Ahab didn’t stop hewing. I could see the shape of the item he had the intention to make. At first glance, it looked like another knife and I feared he would use it against me, but I soon realised it was something of smooth edges, so I let him be. I thought of the good words: love Thy neighbour, so I continued to bring him water even if he wouldn’t drink it. But, during the following night, he burned yet another candle and even used some pages of the captain’s log as fuel for his own fire, as if the fire I had so neatly built gave no light. I asked him why. He grunted. Even now, after all the sad events on the forsaken island, while I write this in solitude, I can hear Capt. Ahab’s insane grunting and the furious sound of the bone being hewed. On the third night since he had started making the object, I got the glimpse of what it was. I crossed myself and whispered the Lord’s Prayer. There, in Capt. Ahab’s massive brown hands, clawed by dirty fingernails, lay the carved White Whale. I only saw it because Capt. Ahab, having finished his work, had swooned, with his chin on his own chest, and his fist opened, so that the White Whale almost fell to the ground. I stared at the thing and felt cold wind encompassing me. The whiteness of the bone pierced the eye; it looked just like the hump on the back of the White Whale that had destroyed Pequod . When I opened the Bible, my heart found the Book of Jonah and I solemnly read, whispering: “For thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all thy billows and thy waves passed over me. Then I said, I am cast out of thy sight; yet I will look again toward thy holy temple”. I took a candle, lit it and put it next to Capt. Ahab’s head. I prayed for him in the cold, dark, starless night. I prayed instead of him. The only light I had was of the dull fire behind me, and the good candle before me, and the word of the Lord in my hands. “Oh, the waters compassed me about, even to the soul: the depth closed me round about; the weeds were wrapped about my head”. I saw the devil’s imagery, the intricate, unholy work of whiteness staring back at me. I prayed. “I went down to the bottoms of the mountains; the earth with her bars was about me for ever: yet hast thou brought up my life from corruption, O Lord my God. When my soul fainted within me, I remembered the Lord: and my prayer came in unto thee, into thine holy temple”. The wind tried to get the book of me. Capt. Ahab’s body moved before me, his clothes ripped by the wind, his fists clenching the air, his mouth voicelessly babbling. But in the midst of my prayer, the White Whale opened its carved eyes and its foul mouth full of teeth and weed. I saw the unholy image under the candlelight, an image familiar and savage in its familiarity. Then I saw the souls of my friends trapped in the jaws of the Whale. I saw my reflection in its grin, as if it was trying to devour me, but the grin wasn’t entirely that of an animal, but also that of a man. Suddenly, Capt. Ahab opened his eyes. The knife was in his right hand and the idol in his left. His eyes were that of a mad man and his grin was of no Christian man. O, they that observe lying vanities forsake their own mercy! But I will sacrifice unto thee with the voice of thanksgiving; I will pay that that I have vowed. Salvation is of the Lord! I grabbed the candle as if it were the Lord’s sword and burned the idolatrous grin. The sea monster that had entered my captain’s soul screamed. I screamed. It fought back. The great white tail swung back and forth at me, hitting me, but I lingered. The idol roared, biting into my flesh, but I endured. The face into which I pushed the holy candle was a mask; the sound that came out of its mouth was of the devil. I pushed the candle into the mouth of the monster until it stopped moving. When I stepped back from the body, I saw that the White Whale had finally marooned and withered. The immensity of relief struck me and I fell to my knees, thanking the Lord for having guided my hand. Salvation is of the Lord, salvation is of the Lord!, I exclaimed. Capt. Ahab had tried to use the candles and the holy light to awaken the unholy leviathan, but my faith was stronger and my dear captain can now rest in peace, free of the monster that had entered him. # I put this letter into the crate and the crate back to the sea, so that when it is found, people will know that the White Whale is gone. I have enough food and water for one final sail back home. The Lord helped me build a new ship and I will set sails with the morning tide. I have my friend Quequeq with me and the remnants of the Lord’s candles and his words to guide me on my journey through the valley of death. I won’t take the quills with me, for I have no more use of them. I will, though, save some of this ink so that I can cross out the name of this ship, for it is wrong; her name is not Rachella, but Pequod; and I need to find the rest of the Capt. Ahab’s crew, for these men I found myself surrounded with I do not know, and they speak of me as if I were not amongst them. And it is obvious that I am amongst them, and that I am the only witness of the White Whale’s demise.


There are few things in life you need to take a firm side on- and the presence of pulp in orange juice is one of them. The cultivation of citrus has a contentious history in the United States. Dating back to the initial disappointments of the Florida territory not possessing the fountain of youth, young colonizers smashed oranges to manage their aggression. Outside of the unstoppable flow of time, a brief air of calm held the burgeoning territory in its grasp, until it didn't. A fierce debate surrounded the remains of crushed oranges and the leaked juice. One young man, Francisco Pulplenti, asserted the values of keeping the white detritus. At the same time, his rival, Hernan Alivincoso, slapped Francisco's sloppy goblet away to parade his purified version of the juice. The history of that day lived within the hearts of every true Floridian. Only through mutual disdain of Louisiana and lemonade were the two opposing forces able to tolerate one another. Yet, the siren call of conviction corrupted both sides after three hundred years of peace. Two field hands fell into an argument over which bottle to chill in the mini-fridge for refreshment, and just as it started three hundred years ago, it ended. The groove fell into the two sides of pro and anti-pulp. Small skirmishes peppered the state as chaos spilled onto the streets. Before the day set, the state had to shut its borders, lest outside forces added to the ongoing battle. The pro-pulp forces were the vocal minority; their numbers dwarfed by the populist anti-pulp masses. In the face of overwhelming odds, the pro-pulp prevailed in pitched battles. Whispers began to circle that the pulp gave them supernatural abilities. Soon, the anti-pulp faced internal rumors that they faced a legion of pulp-powered superhumans. The anti-pulp leadership branded pulp consumption as barbaric and alluded to a connection with witchcraft. The shift from the superhuman narrative towards evil practices quelled the morale loss from the pro-pulp victories. Just like the noncommital, none were left exempt from choosing sides. Citrus allergy? Still have to choose- otherwise, you'll experience your death allergy. As with all wars, factions brought it to its knees. The pro-pulp and anti-pulp fought on the pretense of the naval orange being the orange of choice. Both forces suffered surprise attacks by the Valencia orange and Blood orange armies. The tangerine mercenaries joined the melee while the grapefruit and lemon contingents watched the carnage in disgust. And so Florida fell- fracturing into several tribes. Each aggressive to defend their groves. The everglades soon filled with the hum of airboats as covert trade routes formed between former allies, friends, and families. Disney World closed its borders to the rest of the state and used their private airfield to maintain its cult activities. Even still, the Mouse privately funded grapefruit enterprises to dismantle the orange infrastructure. The corrosive nature of citrus burned into history as the rest of the country drank pale champagne mourning their own tradition. No longer would brunch, nor the nation be the same again.


I was a part of a group of southern Mesopotamian people whose name I’ve long forgotten. My earliest memory was gazing at the August sun as my father unloaded luggage from the cart. We were settling into a mudbrick house on the Euphrates river. It was near a quaint port-side village. It was nameless now, but later it would be named Babylon. Life was normal for the first 11 years of my life. We hunted, farmed, drank, did everything as we were supposed to, I never got sick, never injured myself, nor tried to. I had never seen my own blood. I never will. The year was 1502 BC, I was 11 years old. It was a period of instability as Hittites— a vulgar people from the south, marched on my town. I joined with my fellow children, we had shields made of wood and no sword, and we marched into battle with our fathers and grandfathers. Little did I know, a shield was the last thing I needed. Everyone but myself were slain, and my city was sacked. I was unscathed. The Hittitian scimitars hacked into my shoulder, but would not cut, their swords stabbed at my belly but would not go through. I slinked away in the fog of war, terrified of the fragility of my company, and my own inability to die. The wheel of history turns, 400 years pass. In the Kassite Dynasty, my Babylon was renamed Kardunias by Gandash of Mari, then taken by Shutruk-Nakhunte of Elam, and then again by Nebuchadnezzar. I had slowly aged to about twenty-five years old, and I realized that I will stay like this for a very long time. Since the Hittitian scimitars of 1502, I had lived alone. I participated in no wars, fighting only to defend the small parcel of land I have drawn for myself, and only when I know I can slay the invader. I wanted no word of my immortality to spread. During these years I tried to injure myself, escalating my efforts until they were all exhausted. I had starved myself of food and water for six months, tied stones to my feet and descended to the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea, I had bathed in the lava of an erupted volcano, I had flung myself from the highest cliffs into the jagged rocks below. And through all of it I incurred not a single scratch. My health was constant, an apparent real rule in a world where all rules were made up. It was 567 BC, when the name of the ruler was still Nebuchadnezzer, though a different man entirely, built the Hanging Gardens. It was... a beautiful place. In the majestic flat shores of the Euphrates rose this mountain of rich flowers and exotic walnut and juniper trees, pristine water fall from the sky, birds and fowl lived in harmony with one hundred thousand terraced white bricks. It was always my wish to go inside, to climb the wide stone steps between the embossed columns, and be within the Garden. I had accumulated some wealth, and sentries to the garden were easy to talk to. But my age had tricked me into immense patience, and it was another mere 600 years before I travelled back to Babylon, and my heart was broken to see the garden in rubble and ruins, my people raped and slaughtered. That was when I finally left Mesopotamia. My journey took me to China, Japan, North America, South America, and back to the Cradle of civilization in Africa. Twice the ship I sailed on sank in a storm, and twice I walked the rest of the way along the ocean floor. Very few things of note happened in the next two thousand years. It was 1969 AD before my wanderlust was once more awakened. It was unbelievable, but that bright diadem on the brow of the sky, man named Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin had set foot upon it. How I envied them! I was still fancying the thought of imprinting my boot print upon every square inch of the Earth, yet this man, whose life will expire like a whisper in the wind, had placed his own upon the stars. With my heart fluttering, I applied for a job at NASA. I was not a particularly curious man, and I had taken no interest in the sciences, for they seem to evolve and spread faster than I can walk, rendering any studious efforts wasted. But I had been to many places, and spoken many languages, and I knew the perfect combination of words and tone to say over the telephone as the interviewer named Gus Redman asked me “You have no education at all? What can you do?”. I said those words in that tone, and I got the job. It was merely ten years later that they sent out the first space craft into the voids of the sky. I had risen in rank and education, and thus participated in every decision in its design. I was not aboard it, but I watched with such love as a father would to his son as Voyager I was sent off into the world. It was 16 days later, on the Voyager II that I rode. As the countdown ended, I felt the most unnatural force push against my back. I accelerated to a speed I never thought possible, through the atmosphere, past the blue skies, and into the vast black expanse. Not once did I look down. Even before leaving the stratosphere my mind was already on other worlds, where the landscape was free from the germs of empires. They had asked me to wait seventy-five years, after the plutonium batteries have exhausted themselves before I could pilot. The Voyager II’s mission and responsibility to Earth would be exhausted, all instruments would shut off, and the spacecraft would only then be mine. I sat immobile for two hundred years, perhaps I hoped this washed my own body of all Earth’s responsibilities. Amongst the gifts of my colleagues was a telescope and a hand pump. The idea is I would collect space dust and pump into a container to pressurize and expel it in the direction opposite I wish to go. This would be my only way to control or accelerate the spacecraft to avoid orbital capture. They feared that I would be pulled by the gravity of a star and crash into it, however unlikely. To them, to be stranded amidst fusion explosions of 27 million degrees for eternity was a terrifying fate. Though to me, I only need to wait for the death of the star and climb onto the ejected material of the expanding upper core. Though these trinkets wouldn’t last even five hundred years, they were the well-wishes of a dead civilization. I gazed behind me, the sun of that August Mesopotamian day was now just one of a billion other stars, 50 billion miles away. The last shred of solar wind caressed my ship over 160 years ago, marking the final exit from the influence bubble of the Sun. I felt an unusual sense of longing, not for that now invisible pale blue dot, but for the other Voyager. It was to be my only companion in the eternity of time, my son, and we were headed towards the opposite ends of the universe. I turned my gaze forward, and relaxed. In about a hundred years I will be entering the Oort cloud, and it will take another 60,000 years to pass it. Then if I wasn’t picked up by extraterrestrials already, it would be another 240,000 year wait until I swing by Sirius, the brightest star visible from Earth’s sky, followed by Pav and GJ 754, 100,000 years later. In about 100 million years I would have completed one half orbit around the Milky Way Galaxy, and then it would be time for me to leave it, perhaps to Andromeda. I fancied that if I wanted to be even more patient, Andromeda will be crashing into the Milky Way in about four billion years anyways. After that will be when the real sights begin, I plotted my path towards the crab nebula, some 4.6 light years away. For an immortal, looking forward to something was a dangerous practice. Time moved fast enough when I was looking back. But I couldn’t help it. I want to see galaxies collide, I want to see stars born, I want to peek inside black holes, bathe in cosmic dust, have planetesimals formed upon me, I want to strike a pose in front of super novae. For the first time in my life, anticipation welled inside my chest. I had two hundred years of space dust collected now and pumped it behind me to accelerate forwards with half the force of a silent fart. No wars. No tyranny. No anger. No games of status that my fellows cling to day and night in the entire whisper that was their existence. I gave myself as a gift, for the grand thespians of the cosmos deserved an appreciative observer. Upon this ephemeral craft I journey, into the unknowable infinity. With constant velocity, and an eternity to savour it. What a show it will be. Though I am already prepared for it, I wish the universe never ends.


Is it supposed to stop?  I should have left several hours ago, when I wanted to. But as always, I let the duty, or perhaps my presumption of duty, cause me to disregard by instincts. I make the usual assumption that if the weather was that bad, they’d let us know. Tell us, me, to go home. Looking out the window, I can see the snow piling up on the roof of the car, swirling around the parking lot, now a white desert. I’m used to being alone here, I’m a night watchman, security guard they call us, but I’ve yet to figure out why. I don’t know what there is to guard. I spend the night primarily monitoring a number of screens that display areas of the building. They might as well be images painted on the screen for all the changes I see. Come to think of it, the only thing I’ve ever seen out of the ordinary was an animal one night.  Thought it was an animal.  It was a big rat, or maybe a raccoon. It had big eyes that seemed to glow. It looked right into the camera, as if it knew I was there. I walk around the building every few hours, just to have something to do. Sitting all night makes it so I can’t sleep. I don’t know why, but I get these cramps that makes me have to get up and walk them off. Then I’m up and know from experience, I won’t be able to fall back asleep. Nothing to do then but watch the world go by, and that just bores me. It’s the season where there’s not much to do outside, so I start to feel claustrophobic feelings.

I don’t have any hobbies really. Don’t have the patience for it. Tried doing puzzles but it makes no sense. Putting all those pieces together to get a picture you just take a part after all that work, and put back in the box like you never did a thing. Less stressful ways to waste time. Andy the day guy, says he glues his to cardboard. He’s got one hanging on the wall. The humidity made it curl, a few of the pieces fell off, and it now looks like its got something like small pox scars. It’s still snowing. Not the little flakes, but the big wet ones. The kind of snow that kills people. Tomorrow there will be a story about people who had heart attacks from shoveling. Then they go on to tell you how to shovel, so you don’t have a heart attack yourself. Seems like maybe it would do more good if they told you about how to shovel, before it snowed, but then that’s why I don’t watch much what goes on. It just makes me angry. If the snow keeps up, I might be stuck here. Happened once before a few years ago, seems like a few years ago anyway. It’s OK, can be bored here as well as home. At least I get overtime here. I get up every so often and walk around, exercise keeps me awake. They keep most of the doors here locked. I, to tell the truth, don’t really know what they do here. None of my business really. I had to take a course when I first got hired on how to deal with emergencies. They never said what kind, but how I was supposed to call the fire department, or police, but only after I called this one supervisor guy who I never met. Saw him once, I think. Seemed kind of strange, but then it’s none of my business how the place is run, or what they do.

I try the doors every night just to see. They are always locked. Tonight it was different though. The last door before you get to the end of the hall, was open. I didn’t know if I should go in, but then it was different than before. A light was on, I could see it from under the door. Usually when I turn the knob, nothing. This one turned all the way. I heard the click of the slide come out of the jamb; surprised me.

I didn’t know if I should go in to see, or just pretend nothing was different. I guess I got curious. I always wondered what went on here. It’s like it has something secret, or I wouldn’t be here protecting what ever it is.

I pushed the door open and there was nothing in the room. No desk, no chair, no file cabinets, no pictures. There was nothing in this room. There was a door towards the back though. I didn’t know if I should see about it, but it was curious. I moved slowly towards it. I wondered if there were any cameras in the room. I looked around but didn’t see any.

I tried to turn the handle on the door, and it turned. I didn’t know if I should open it or not, but I couldn’t not look; I’d come that far. The room, or whatever it was, was dark. I thought it was maybe a closet for storage or something like that. I felt the wall for a light switch. The blocks were cold, and then I felt it. This box sticking out by itself. I felt the switch and pushed it up. The room seemed to blink at me, like when the overhead lights in the hall first come on. Several times I could see something, then nothing, and then something again. The color was blue, and then the next time this iridescent pink, like a florescent tube flamingo I’d seen once. The room finally stopped changing and turned a weird purple and seemed to breath. The light would grow in brightness, then settle back, then come back bright again. Not start and stop like, but slowly, like it was growing and then shrinking. I didn’t know if I should turn off the light, close the door and forget all about it, or wait and see what was going to happen. Then this music starts to play. It was the sound of violins, but more like the sound was coming through an organ. It too seemed to grow and shrink with the light. Like it was alive.

I just stood watching the light grow and fade along with the music for what seemed like hours, and yet only seconds. The room from what I could see, was also empty. There was a door on the other side of the room, like the one I was standing in. I was afraid to go into the room. I don’t know why. The light and music seemed to make me feel like I wasn’t really there, like I wasn’t really me.

I’ve heard about those out of body experiences people have, where they are outside themselves watching themselves. It was like that except I wasn’t outside myself, the room was me and I was the room. I could feel the light pulsating through me along with the music. I’d grow faint and then as if I was given a different brain, I started thinking of things I not only didn’t understand but had no reason to.

The theory of relativity, string theory, distant galaxies, even infinity, all made sense. I could see how they worked, what they meant, and then they would grow foggy and I was left with only the wonder.

When the light was at its peak, the music, and my thoughts one, I felt as though I no longer had a body. I was lighter than air, lighter than a thought, and then as the light subsided, I could feel my body return,  settle back down. I wanted to leave, and I didn’t.

I thought about waiting until the next peak and then thinking about what was happening. Finding the answer so that I would know the answers to all of life’s questions about life, the universe, and how it worked. But then I realized when I came back down, I wouldn’t understand what I’d learned. I didn’t know what to do, but knew I either had to leave, or maybe I never would. For some reason I thought of the snow and could feel what it was like being a snow flake. I could feel myself falling, changing shape, becoming something beautiful, and then becoming something feared, dreaded, ugly.

I found myself looking into the sky. It was like being in one of those globes where everything is swirling around. It was then I heard the voice.

“Are you alright? What you doing out here? You’ll freeze to death. Come on, let me help you. You must have fallen. Were you trying to shovel the walk? That’s not your responsibility. You shouldn’t do that, you could have been hurt, even died.” Her words kept swirling around me as I attempted to remember where I was, what I was doing, how I came to be inside this globe, looking up at the snow falling to the beat of her heart. Then she opened the door at the far side of the room. I could see someone sitting at a desk before a number of screens with what looked like pictures of rooms and hallways painted on them. It was snowing. Not the little flakes, but the big wet ones.


This is a true story. I have not done this on an island yet, but the story is true. Trigger Warning: Suicide (not graphic) The moonlight showed the way as I guided the little boat to the beach. I stepped out and was surprised – the water was warm. I guess I expected it to be cold this time of year. I dragged the boat up on the sand and walked in a streak of light along the water’s edge. This is as good a place as any . I dropped down and took a long breath. The salt air felt so different in my Texas lungs. I opened the backpack, fished for my phone and turned it on, instinctively looking at how many bars I had. I’m on an island in the middle of nowhere! I laughed. Even out here, it’s a reflex. The breeze rode the waves to the beach, brushed my cheek, and danced across the palms with a whisper. I heard her name – CONNIE – and I shuddered. Maybe that was the wind. Maybe more. There certainly had been more on other occasions. I took another breath and emptied the rest of the pack – Bluetooth speaker, two silver dollars, a can of diet Coke, a pint of whiskey, and a .22 caliber pistol. I paired the speaker, closed my eyes, and let Chris Cornell rip my heart out with Say Hello to Heaven . The last note faded, giving my soul one final tug. I turned off the phone and speaker to save the batteries. “Don’t be wasteful”, she always told me. I held up the diet Coke. Cheers . God, it was awful! I never understood why she loved it so much. It was probably her favorite thing in life. When I had to identify the body, there were cases of that horrible stuff stacked in the corner. The rest of the soda ended up on the sand. I smiled a little, I actually feel sorry for the sand! I picked up a silver dollar. Its features were worn almost smooth. She gave it to me when I was ten. The date on it was 1966, the year I was born. “It will bring you luck.” I shook my head. The jury is still out on that . The other dollar, a 2001, was in better shape. I turned it over and over in my hands. The year my daughter was born . I tossed it into the water. The year my mother died . She planned it. I took my daughter to visit when she was first born. She waited to meet her granddaughter first, and now I mark the years since it happened by how many birthdays my girl has celebrated. I twisted the cap on the whiskey bottle. It made a loud crack that startled me. So quiet . She never had much quiet. Her demons were always there, but no one really understood it back then. I took a long pull. It burned and made me close my eyes tight. I held on to that small moment of darkness. Just like I did all those times before. Hiding from what was really happening to her . I sniffed the whiskey and shuddered. I took another drink. What a strong smell! That’s what I thought when I first walked into her little apartment. The officer said it had been a few days. The gun was not as heavy as I remember. Even though I was warm on the beach, it felt ice cold in my hand. I held it to my temple, pressing hard. The metal almost bore into my skull. Was this what it felt like? I stood. Is this the year I toss it away? I shook my head, sat back down and began carefully packing up all the items. I thought back to the day I got the backpack – three days after my mother used that pistol. ***** I drove around the city just trying to get away from what was happening and ended up in a neighborhood looking at a house we lived in when I was five years old. I couldn’t recall driving there. Across the street was an abandoned restaurant. Some kind of pancake place I think . I saw a woman huddled in a blanket against the brick wall. I pulled my truck into the old lot and got out. Never stopped to talk to a homeless person in my life . She started a little as I approached, “Ain’t breaking no law!” I backed off and held up my hands. She was so skinny . “This is my stuff! Ain’t yours!” “Hi.” I felt a little dumb. I had no idea what to say to her. “Uh, you OK?” “Fine.” I nodded, “You hungry? Do you need anything?” To this day, I have no idea why I stopped. “Always hungry. You got money?” She held her hand out. I dug in my pocket. “Sure.” I handed her a twenty. She nodded and wrapped herself back up in the blanket. I just stood there. “You need something?” she asked through a tiny opening around her face. “Well,” I dug in my pocket again, “do you know it’s Thanksgiving?” She just stared at me. I looked at the bills in my hand. I had seventy-three dollars. “Here, Happy Thanksgiving.” I placed the bills on the concrete in front of her. "Didn't know you get presents for Thanksgiving." She slowly picked the money up and pointed to an old backpack. “Let me give you a present.” I hesitated and she pointed again, “Go on, you can use it.” I nodded and picked up the backpack. It was dirty with grease and had holes in a few places. One strap was gone. “Thanks,” I told her. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I turned and headed to the truck. When I got inside, I unzipped the pack. I remember I was shaking when I looked . An empty diet Coke can. I opened the window and looked at the woman. “It’s not your fault.” “What?” I got out and walked back to her. “She said it’s not your fault." I just stood there. I had no idea what to do. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I stammered, “Y-You too.” I never found that woman again, and nobody ever believes me when I tell them! ***** I loaded my backpack in the boat and pushed off. As I headed away, I stared up at the stars. Maybe next year I will do Thanksgiving somewhere up north. Might keep that nasty diet Coke a little colder.


"What about this thing?" I hold up a round, yellowed appliance with a bulky wire wrapped around it like a hazardous umbilical cord. I have no idea what it is, but there's some sort of food hardened to the side that's probably been stuck there for years. Gross . Mom takes the thing from my hands. "That's a rice cooker, darling. I just picked that up at a yardsale." She sets it in (or rather atop) a full basket of kitchen relics in the "keep" pile, which, as I expected, dwarfs the little "toss" heap. So far, that modest mound only includes things of which she has more than two. Even those items had been a strain for her to part with. The idea that she still peruses yardsales is beyond discouraging. I look to the clock on the wall to find both hands resting lazily near the 10. We've been at this all morning. I take a deep, daunted breath as I lift another box down to the black-and-white linoleum. The kitchen and bathroom are the only rooms with any floor space left to speak of. "Why don't you take a break, sweetie?" I turn my gaze to my mother, sitting on her feet on the floor beside me. The frizzy, white hair that frames her face is glowing, backlit by the sun through the window. Behind her glasses, her green eyes crinkle in a familiar and genuine smile, and I force a smile back. She is still my mom, the same woman who cuddled me and read to me as a child, who kept an immaculate house for decades. She had been a great mom. She had been ... normal. It's not a good time to take a break; the apartment is still nearly impassable for all the boxes, totes, and baskets of Mom's new and old junk, but looking at it all again, I feel myself tense up, yearning for a smoke. I know I should quit. "Fine," I lament, "just a quick break." I walk out to the front step through the bright hallway that smells like paint and pot smoke, and as I fumble with my lighter, I feel the tears coming again. How can she stand living like this?

I think the hoarding began around the time Dad died. Of course, Mom refuses to call it what it is. "I'm not a hoarder," she'll laugh whenever she hears the word, as if her lifestyle is perfectly normal, moving from room to room in that cramped place via a narrow path through stacks of crap. It's obviously not healthy. I mean, she can't even have company over anymore. The last meal we shared at her table, before it got buried in junk, was more than six months ago. I take a deep drag off my cigarette and slide up the lock screen on my phone. It's a picture of Gaga, the one-eyed pomeranian my husband took in our long and petty divorce. I get visitation with her every Monday, court ordered.

I swipe idly through my text messages, pausing over an unread message from Eva: "Just leave it alone, Em." My younger sister is almost sweet in her sincere naivety. I should have known better than to even bring this up with her again. I texted her last night, something along the lines of "if I can't get Mom to clear out at least half that shit tomorrow, I'll lose it."

How can Eva argue that anyone living among so many towers of crap could be properly looking after themselves? Honestly? She doesn't get it. Six years my junior, 25-year-old Eva seems to still believe Mom knows everything and can do no wrong, but she wasn't here when Dad was sick. She didn't see how obsessed Mom became with his care, all but totally neglecting her own needs, nor how quickly she began to replace his presence in the apartment with these random things. At first it was a box of old books from goodwill, a few extra throw pillows, practical things that she more or less made room for. Then I started to notice other things. When was she ever going to need a plant stand? She never kept plants. And the suitcases? She doesn't travel. She might, she says. Then her collection became more obscure: rolls of sparkly wallpaper she might someday do a craft with, a broken doll that reminded her of me, an old-fashioned butter churner, five different can openers. I couldn't even find those things in there now if I tried. "Emma Grace," Mom sings my name when I re-enter the kitchen. She's moved a tray of silverware off of the stove top to boil a kettle for tea. I try to swallow the annoyance I feel at her lack of focus. "Mom," I plead, proud of my calm, even tone. "I think we'd better get back to it here, or we'll never finish." Mom has her back to me, so I don't see her expression, but I notice her hand pause briefly in mid-air before she pulls open the cupboard to root for teabags.

"Emma, Emma, Emma," she sings softly. She puts a hot mug in my hand and clinks it gently with her own. "How's that nice man you're seeing? Clive, was that his name?" "Mom," I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Is this a pencil sharpener?" I examine a clunky, metal device with a turning handle, the kind of sharpener that was screwed into the corner of the teacher's desk in third grade. Mom's gaze is fixed on my face, like she's studying a new artifact for this museum of uselessness. "Mom?" I shake the thing at her, trying to snap her out of it. "Oh, yes," she coos affectionately. "I love that." She takes the sharpener with a little sigh and places it gingerly next to the teetering "keep" pile. Incredulous, I'm not sure I can take much more. All I want is to throw a lit match at this mess and move Mom across town to the complex next to mine, someplace fresh and empty with space for her to move around, maybe even entertain guests the way she once enjoyed. Hadn't she enjoyed that? "Have you heard from your sister this weekend?" Mom blows over the rim of her cup and tries again to change the subject. Eva's text flashes in my mind, "Just leave it alone, Em." Easy for you to say , I think. Eva has a steady boyfriend who dotes on her, a close-knit group of friends she's known since high school, and a full-time job she landed effortlessly right after graduation. She's almost enviably preoccupied, I think to myself, as I sample the steaming drink in my hand. It's our favourite, chamomile. "I'm sure she's busy," I sigh. Mom smiles contentedly as she leans back against the counter, which is layered with magazines and various debris. Clean dishes sit in the drying rack in the sink, where they'll stay until she dirties them again, as there's no room to put them away in the cupboard. It's true, when I was dating Clyde and working at The Rivera, I wasn't worrying about Mom's situation so much. She'd say she's fine, she's happy, and I'd just take it at face value, carrying on with my own business. That's all the more reason I should be glad for the change. I was laid off and dumped in the same week, and it's probably for the best. Mom needs me. Doesn't she? Mom laughs and plucks a magazine off the counter. "Did you see this?" she asks, turning it to show me the cover. It features a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker draped in tulle, and a bright, pink headline screaming, "Self-Love and the City". Mom loves Sex and the City, although her TV hasn't been accessible for awhile, and she loves a good play on words. Her smile waxes and wanes as she happily flips through the pages looking at the pictures as if for the first time. My phone pings for attention in my back pocket, and I slide it out to see Clyde's name. Clyde texted me. My heart trembles. What does he want? My fingers reach trepidatiously to tap open the message preview. "Can you come over?" A pinball of excitement and angst ricochets through my chest. Mom raises her eyebrows in curiosity.

I can't just leave. I promised Mom I'd help her clean out the apartment today. She hadn't asked, but she obviously hadn't had to. I tap the screen of my phone with chipped fingernails, thinking about Clyde. Have I shaved my legs? I realize it's been more than a couple of days since I even showered. "I need to make a call, Mom." I look around the cramped apartment. "Are you … You're okay? You don't mind if we put this off a bit?" Mom's thin lips form a smile that is warm and reassuring, with a touch of what might be relief. Her green eyes crinkle. She probably knows it's about a guy. She knows me pretty well, after all. She's still my mom, a thought that both confounds and comforts, and, as always, I'm grateful for her approval.

Maybe we'll try to tackle this again tomorrow. I kiss Mom's cheek, and as I pull the door behind me, I hear her chuckle carelessly into the glossy pages of the magazine. Yeah, I guess she'll be fine for now. Tomorrow it is.


Nobody really paid the changes any mind at first. We all assumed they were nothing but minor ailments. The kind you’d barely acknowledge and, more often than not, keep to yourself and expect to fade with time. I did at least. It was nearly a year ago when I first noticed a change. It was getting late, I’d just gotten home from work and had headed straight for the shower. As I lathered myself, I noticed a pimple on my thigh. At least, it looked like one. It didn’t freak like one. It felt hard like acrylic. I didn’t pay it much mind. A few weeks later I went to get my annual checkup at the doctor’s office. After he measured my height, the doctor told me I’d shrunk nearly half an inch. We laughed it off. I was getting up there in years afterall. I also noticed, if only for a moment, a bump on his forearm alot like the one on my thigh. There came a time when the bumps could no longer be dismissed. They continued to appear all over mine and others’ bodies one after another. Eventually it became a topic of conversation, and soon every government had to make a statement. They were all along the same lines. They had no explanation for what was happening, but they said they had their top scientists working on it. At work I noticed myself struggling a little to type on my computer. It seemed my fingers, save for my thumb, refused to move independently from one another at times. Not often enough to be a real hindrance, but enough to annoy me. A few of my coworkers were having the same issue, and we assumed we’d gotten carpal tunnel or something. We petitioned to get better keyboards, and that seemed to solve the issue. It must’ve been placebo. After a while, everyone had encountered similar issues with their hands and lost enough height to notice, but not quickly enough to completely disorient us. It became hard for anyone to deny the changes without lying to themselves. We were afraid. I know I was at the very least, but we could only try our best to go about our lives as normal. We hadn’t completely lost hope yet. Scientists tried their best to prevent us from reaching a point of no return. That is, until their fingers fuse together and they could no longer use their equipment. We were all forced to abandon our work and our passions as our bodies became incompatible with the society we’d built, and it collapsed as our human desires faded. One day, I decided I needed to see my mother, as I found that even my love for her was fading. She was hesitant, afraid to see what had become of her son. I could hardly recognize her when we met. All her hair had fallen out like the rest of us. Her face was unnaturally wide and her eyes were beady. It was nothing I hadn’t noticed changing about myself in the mirror. When we met in front of my childhood home she tried to give me a hug, but her new body wasn’t built for hugging, and she ran inside crying. That was the last time I ever saw her. Our skin hardened and segmented as our bones dissolved, and soon we found ourselves shambling sideways through the streets. First on two feet, then four, then six, and then eight. We’d all given way to instinct as we began to make our way to one place. We knew the human world was no longer our home. We knew we belonged to the sea. I scuttled for miles past everything I was leaving behind. The office building where I used to work, the doctor’s office, my old highschool, my childhood home, and the hospital where I was born. The memories they evoked didn’t register as my own. I shrank smaller by the day, and the distance between me and the ocean seemed to grow at the same rate, but I never stopped for more than a moment. Eventually, the sea stretching into the horizon was within view. As my claws first grazed the shore all memory of what it was like to be human washed away, and as I first submerged beneath its salty waters I knew my transformation was complete. I knew what we’d become. I knew what I’d become. I was a crab.


“Are you hungry?” I squinted after rubbing my eyes for a few seconds but the image in front of me was still all blurry and I didn’t recognise the voice. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” A young woman with big pitiful eyes leaned down in front of me asked again. My mouth was too dry to speak and when I tried to talk my tongue flopped out. I moved my lips around frantically attempting to undo the stickiness and to fight off the sour taste. The young woman forced a smile and laid a bologna sandwich on white bread in plastic wrap in front of me. Then she gently placed a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin beside the sandwich, squeezed out another thin smile and scurried off. “Lunch.” Oh man, I remembered that I had a lunch meeting at 1:00 with the Board of Directors. What time was it now? I raised my left arm up to check my Rolex for the time. It was gone! I was never without my gold Rolex Day-Date strapped to my wrist. I tried to stand up but my legs had fallen asleep and I immediately lost my balance and fell over face first into a pile of newspaper, cardboard, and trash. I just laid there motionless for a bit. I was at a loss. “Where am I?” I rolled over and propped myself back up off the ground with my hands. That's when I noticed how filthy they were. Covered in grime. Dirty fingernails. "I'm going to need a manicure." I stuck my tongue out again. "I’m going to miss my lunch meeting”, I thought desperately. “Oh God, what if I’ve already missed it? Where the Hell am I? What happened? Ok, stop. Calm down. Think”, I thought. “What are the most obvious facts?” I stretched my legs out as I contemplated. “I am alive. I am a man. I am downtown. My name is Todd, Todd Cooke. I am the CEO of a major company and I have a very important lunch meeting today with the Board at 1:00”, I mumbled to myself, out loud. I spotted some cheap looking guy in a tacky readymade suit gawking at me chuckling as he walked past. “Hey! You laughing at me guy?” Did he steal my watch? Was he working with with the sandwich woman? I needed to call Rachel, my secretary. Surely she’d know what was going on-she was the last person I remembered seeing. We were together, in the office. I searched my pockets for my phone. Gone. The clothes I was wearing were disgusting and soiled. My normally pristine, tailored grey Tom Ford suit was all rumpled and dirty from top to bottom. My Louboutin oxfords were so scuffed up they looked like a pair of worn out Chuck-Taylors. “Someone is going to pay, BIG TIME, for this”, I shouted. "BIG TIME!" I stood up, slowly so that I wouldn’t fall down again, steadied myself against a building and watched the endless stream of pedestrians walking past me. They looked more like an organised parade of sloppy meat shapes than successful people. "Losers." I needed to use a phone. One of these meat shapes should surely recognise my pedigree and the seriousness of my situation. “Hey, hey buddy... Hey you..... Hey babe, I need to use your phone real quick it’s URGENT. Hey. I just need to call my secretary.” I snapped my fingers. None of them stopped or even looked at me. They all just schlepped along like stupid sheep. “Can anyone just tell me what time it is?” Finally, a hipster looking guy with tight pants, a pink knit cap, and a little moustache stopped and said, “yeah it’s 11:35 man” “Thanks buddy,” I said, “I need to use your phone.” The hipster guy looked at me blankly. “Are you hungry? Do you need something to eat”, he asked. “Hungry? I need a phone. I have an important lunch meeting with the board of directors at 1:00 and someone stole my Rolex and I just need to call Rachel. Get it!?", I shouted. “Ha ha whatever dude. Take it easy”, he said and he put his headphones back in his ears and casually walked away. “Phone!” Smart ass. I still had plenty of time to make the luncheon- if I could just remember where it was. My brain was still so foggy. I closed my eyes and slapped my forehead. I smacked myself in the face repeatedly until it finally came to me. “Oh yes of course! We have a private room reserved at Crayon (the upscale French fusion place) for twelve at 1:00”, I shouted. My legs were still numb so prayed to God that my car was somewhere nearby because I’d certainly never make it anywhere on foot in my present condition. I limped along the street scanning all of the parked cars for mine. "Where, is , my , car?" Looking. Looking. Looking. “Ah-Ha ha ha - there she is.” I spotted my beautiful silver Mercedes parked in front of a meter. The parking space was even paid up for another hour. Finally a bit of luck. "I’ll drive back to my luxury top floor apartment, clean myself up, get to Crayon, discuss the revenue, sales, and marketing performance to the board and pitch my new idea." Then I’d figure out what happened to me and who stole my watch. “Perfect.” Except that I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. I pulled all of my pockets inside out. I even pulled my pants down and back up just in case they were tucked into the waistband. I tugged on the drivers side handle thinking that maybe the door would be unlocked and the keys would be inside. But no. Nope. Frustrated. I kicked the door over and over angrily and then I flung myself onto the hood and flailed my arms and legs about violently until I had no energy left. Exhausted, I just laid there looking up at the grey sky panting heavily and moaning. My eyes got too heavy to keep open. “Are you hungry?”a monotone voice asked. “What?” My eyes shot open. Standing in front of me, leaning slightly forward, was a thin well tailored server with a little moustache and a black bow tie. Elegant. He said, “well if you’re hungry, and sophisticated, I would recommend the Pate de foie volaille with our clafoutis aux myrtilles and a café aux noisettes. It’s a playful little combination and a personal favourite.” His face was completely expressionless. I ran my palm over my hair and looked around while rubbing the back of my neck. The server remained motionless with his eyes fixed upon me. “Yeah, yeah that sounds good. That sounds great”, i stammered. The server bowed his head and whisked himself away into the kitchen. I looked at my wrist. My Rolex showed that the time was 1:12. “Ha! I made it to lunch.” “Are you alright Todd?” Harrison Knox, the chairman of the board asked, as he took a sip from his old fashioned. The members of the board were all present, impeccably dressed. They sat motionless and silent, facing me. Before I could speak the server arrived with my food and placed it in front of me. Harrison was still waiting for an answer. I told him the truth. “I’m a very important business man, CEO of a major company”, I said. “Yes”,the board agreed in unison. “I am very successful” “Yes that’s true”, they all said, nodding their heads in agreement. “My secretary Rachel is very efficient and furthermore she is a total hardbody and I’ve been having a sexy affair with her because I myself am very handsome, and it’s very chic.” “Yes that’s true, she certainly is and you surely are.” The members of the board shook their heads approvingly. I tucked into my food. “Shall we start the big meeting?” I asked with my mouth full. “Yes, lets get down to business and begin the big important business meeting now”, Harrison said. He lit up a cigar and winked at me. Then I gave a fantastic presentation while I ate. The board was so impressed that they all shook my hand and patted me on the back and I was given a promotion and a raise and I felt like a million bucks, and the food, the food in that place was exquisite.... A young woman and a hipster looking guy wearing a pink cap were sitting next to each other across the street in a coffee shop watching Todd mutter incoherently to himself while eating a bologna sandwich. “That poor man. I gave him a sandwich and a coffee on my way to class this morning” Todd was shaking hands with the air. “Yeah he wanted my phone.” “He’s always out there. Every day. Wearing those same old dirty clothes. I wonder what his deal is. Like what goes on in his head-who is he talking to. Ya know? I wonder who he was, before he ended up out there.” The hipster looking guy with the pink hat shrugged. “I dunno.” Silence. The hipster looking guy with the pink cap touched the young woman’s hand. “I was late to class this morning. I almost just skipped class altogether, I hate statistics. I didn’t even have time to eat breakfast. I’m starving. Are you hungry?”