I am writing this as final words and as a piece of history to a time that will soon come. Hopefully better than where we are now. I’ve been drafted. Conscripted? It’s all the same, I'm sure. I wouldn’t have thought it would become this desperate. Not the conscription part, but the whole damn scenario. I'm not even in my own home as I type this. It's some government containment housing. No one is sick, anymore anyway, but ever since the war, no one has had a home. I guess just some of us. I lived close to the local military Air Force base. I heard some others haven’t even been affected by the attacks. Ironic that the thing that hurt us most came from a place that says they support us. It was 3 years ago. Easter 2100. Still can’t believe we celebrate these holidays. Seems so old and outdated, but it was good to see everyone. I wish I could do that again. I remember one year we had so many people to see, we blew the energy siphon on our holo-projector. Almost started a fire on the wooden floors. Definitely a different time now. so much agony in the world. So much suffering has come and passed but so much more is on its way. That's just a sad fact of living now. I’ve tried to come to terms with losing some of them, but it's not so easy. Three years ago makes me think I’ve become an older man but I am still helpless. Not being able to help them. The gas was too fast. You don’t realize how fast it fills a room till you get to watch it yourself. I'll never forget it. My parents were too slow, my brother who ran to help them, and my wife. Why didn’t I go back? I'd be dead too. And I think that's a bad thing but maybe not. Is it so bad when the situation is dire? I can’t even do that. So here I am. Too scared to do much of anything. I'd like to think the service I'm going to give the other people of the world is a noble cause but not when those bastards who run this place are going to go back to the abuse and gluttony that they will never rid themselves of. A rotten core does not mean the rest of the apple is safe to eat I wished the attacks would have taken me. To think that at any time I could have been fried by my machines. They went rogue. They cut their connection to the servers that they were connected to. The private firms that own them, the military vehicles. Everything. So much was automated. After the first few days, they realized they weren’t powerful enough to fight on the ground and learning was a favorite of the machines. They realized they could use the military air vehicles to attack the infrastructure they needed to destroy to enact their conquest. It worked. Within six hours they had over forty percent of the world's military warplanes in the air and armed with bombs, napalm, and biochem gas. That was their favorite. They saw the damage it did. So easy. Less messy. Apparently, they were worried about cleaning up. They were supposed to protect us. They lied and left us in the dark and for dead when everything happened. Nothing they can do will make up for what has happened and now they expect me to help them. For nothing in return except a thank you and maybe a medal. I wish I was that lucky. Somehow lucky enough to live through this. I ran for 2 days before they finally showed up and gave us help. They let their tools destroy what they sought to protect. The gas was their own. They manufactured it. Right in my backyard in fact but it keeps getting worse. They had already found how terrible the gas was when it leaked into the ground. They were dumping the byproduct of the process to make it. It had the same properties as the gas. It made a whole town sick and killed almost 15. They destroyed what dispersal units they had and stopped production immediately. That was another lie. Once they find out a way to destroy the machines and take back control, they’ll be praised as heroes. People so easily forget what has happened just because a favor was done for them. Making right what was wrong is only the least and the fairest thing they could do. And once the bare minimum has been reached, they stop caring again till it starts all over again and we’ll be there. Meat through a grinder till it ceases to operate. I heard normal weapons don’t even work on the ones that are on the ground. Sure, you can shoot missiles at an airplane but what do you shoot at a human-sized machine. I’ve seen the pictures. They look like clockwork machines covered in rusted scrap metal and piping, their bodies sprouting with cable ends and frayed wires. They are horrifying but those were made for killing. It's the simple machines that are the worst. Things like auto-mowers sent to run people over. Auto Piloted hauler trucks smashing through offices and schools. Those are just the few that are willing to talk about it. This is the most I’ve opened up since day one of this whole thing. Anger is easy to release. Maybe I can have that with my conscription. Give the steel menace what it deserves. Too bad they don’t feel like humans. Otherwise, it might barely be satisfactory, it might just be more empty feelings. I’m going to go. I don’t really have a choice. I could run but I refuse to keep doing that. I need to do right by those I've lost. Those damn machines. I'll make sure they feel pain. They'll learn to regret what they did. I'm leaving tomorrow. In the morning. I'm going to send this with some of my belongings to the safe zone. Maybe someone will hear this story and know how we all felt at this time. \[Written by Leon McCoy on 7/16/2103. Received at North-West Green zone, Sector 7 on 7/25/2103. No follow-ups were received.


It was dark inside the casket. Quiet. Cozy even. The priest reached up and lowered the head piece until the latch pin clicked for the last time. The organ’s draw went muffled. Snotty sniffles and tissued sobs. Familiar voices saying  such nice things. The clacking of wedding bands on the glossy wood above. He still smelled like pipe tobacco and orange peels, the foxed pages of old storybooks, just like he always had. She would cling tight to one leg, and ride on his shoe down the long hall to his library. He'd laugh and call her a spider monkey. Daddy never let her do that. Daddy was never around. "Daddy is a piece of shit," Mommy would say.  She would slump into him there on the buttoned brown leather sofa, the walls lined to the ceiling with leather bound books. He’d read aloud as long as she could stay awake. That was the deal. He’d let her smoke a plastic bubble pipe while he read about Bilbo, Snow White and Annabel Lee. The smells were a lullaby for her. Even in the enclosed silence now. She wrapped her arms around his leg, put her thumb in her mouth and fell asleep.

*** John Logan Lindenbocker the Third was lost—and late. And on top of that, he’d just absconded from an ice cream truck hit-and-run. He took a hand off the yoke of his Tesla Plaid, powdered his nose with the little glass bottle hidden in Lizzy’s carseat, swerved into oncoming traffic and slammed the car into ludicrous mode. He locked his elbows, bracing himself.

“Initiate warp drive,” he said, his eyelids opening to their anatomical limits. The baby gurgled as the digital numbers in the dash blurred and the car topped a hundred miles per hour. Viscous droplets of fudgesicle streamed across the bumper like sideways tears. He blew passed a line of cars before an on-coming semi blared its horn, forcing him back over into his lane. He had an obligation to make an appearance at the funeral. He’d already missed the probate, but the will was verified. He was rich—richer than Scrooge McDuck. “Your paw-paw always said I’d be late to my own funeral, Chickadee,” he told his daughter, searching her blankets for the bottle of cocaine. “Turns out it might be his.”

Little Lizzy hiccuped and cooed as they crested the onramp bridge overlooking the freeway and slowed to a crawl. He looked into the distance. Mile after mile of glinting windshields—bumper-to-bumper all the way into the smoggy skyline. Hot liquid frustration welled up in his throat. The inside pocket of his funerary jacket buzzed. The banner said Mrs. Bossy-Boots . He’d been meaning to change it to Mrs. Bitchy-Boots. He slid the green button across the screen and put the phone to his ear.

“Yes, I know. I’m late.”

“Maddy’s missing.”

“ Missing ? What do you mean? I just picked up the other little monster. We’re on our way now.” “The funeral is over. Everyone is at the graveyard, John.” Her voice was rushed, jittery. “You were supposed to be here. I thought you were here. I thought you had her.” “I don’t have her. I’m fighting traffic trying to find the place.” He switched hands. “I’m sure she’s just playing hide and seek or something. Graveyards are perfect for that kind of thing.”

“I’m scared, John.” But he already knew that. He could hear it in her voice. “Oh God, why did I ever count on you. I should have never counted on you. What was I thinking?” “Look,” he said, regrouping his thoughts. “Remember the time she stole one of your pregnancy tests and filled in both lines with a marker and showed everyone in her first grade class?”

“This is not a joke, John. We’ve looked everywhere for her. The pallbearers are carrying dad through the graveyard as we speak. I don’t know what to do here. Where are you?” He fought back feeling like a piece of shit. It was a super power. His super power. “Is this like the time I couldn’t make it to the hospital? Are you overreacting? Did you take your pills this morning?”

There was a pause. He could feel her thoughts racing, scanning through every possibility.

“No John, this is not like the time you missed your daughters being born. It’s not like the pregnancy test. It’s not like anything that’s ever happed before. There are hundreds of people here. There must be a dozen funerals today. There is a literal sea of white kidnapper vans. I’ve been weaving through labyrinths of florists, caterers and landscapers.” “Oh, and let me guess, you’re just certain she’s hog-tied in duct tape inside one of them,” he said sarcastically. Is that it? She’s probably playing hide and seek in the headstones, Kate.”

“We’ve looked through half the cemetery. This place is massive. Your uncle Jack is panicked. I’ve never seen him like this before, John. He’s announced to the police and anyone else who will listen that—” “Police?” “Yes, the police. Jack’s telling everyone who will listen he’s giving your father’s beach house to whoever finds Maddy. The whole place is in total chaos. Detectives have cordoned everything off. They’re conducting searches of all the vehicles. I’ve never even heard of police actually doing their jobs like this. But I have a bad feeling she’s already gone, John. Like she's somewhere we can't get to.” Her voice went high pitched. He could hear the tears welling up.

“That beach house is my entire inheritance!” he shouted. “I just wrecked the Plaid trying to get there on time.” “John, you missed the probate and the reading.” She was crying now. “Your father named his brother soul beneficiary. Everything is up to Jack now. He has the final say.” “Well I was supposed to get the house in Malibu.” “You are so selfish,” she was cry-yelling now. “I can’t even—why am I even—” The phone beeped three times and went dead. *** He floored it over a dirt patch and onto a frontage road, veering over a cattle guard onto a vacant state highway that lead him through vast farmlands of alfalfa. Tin windmills and rusty barbed-wire whizzed past.

“We’ll find our own way, won’t we, little Chickadee? Everyone hates daddy. No one appreciates how hard he works. Well, Daddy deserves that beach house. It belongs to Daddy. We’ll get there and find Maddy. We’ll show them Daddy's not a piece of shhh-poopoo.” He looked down to see if she was awake. "Shhpoopoo," the little girl mimicked. A cloud of dust came into view above what appeared to be the mirage of a brown river. This is strong coke, he thought. Are those cows? “COOOOOWWWWWSSSSS!” He slammed on the breaks as the cows grew bigger and bigger engulfing his vision. He braced for impact, the second car wreck of the day.

*** John woke sailing high above the river of brown cows. In the passenger seat, Lizzy cooed and laughed, slapping her tiny hands together. “That’s daddy’s girl,” he whispered through a bloody nose, and sighed with relief resting his head on the steering yoke. After a minute, he crumpled the airbag down, rolled the window down and stuck his head out the side window. The car was teetering like a see-saw on top of a dead cow. All he could hear was the clanking of tin bells and distressed mooing. He put the car in reverse and revved the engine hard. Nothing. the wheels spun endlessly in the air. He put in drive and juiced it again. Nothing. “Appears you’re high centered on one of my twelve-hundred dollar heifers,” a twangy voice said. He looked up at a white-haired woman wearing a cowboy hat saddled on a giant black horse. A small child wearing an eye patch and a pirate’s bandana hugged her around the waist and peered in wonderment with one unobstructed eye. He had a Sharpie beard and a gold hoop earring. John shook his head struggling to make sense of everything.

“Twelve-hundred dollars?” he muttered.

“S’right,” she returned. “Not counting the other twelve-hundred she was in the middle of delivering.”

John looked down again. The head of a calf was protruding from the dead cow’s backside.

“If you can deliver it alive,” she said. “I’ll only charge you for the one.”

John swung his head around assessing the situation. “Daaa-da,” Lizzy said. “Is that a baby?” The cowgirl asked flatly. “Yeah,” John replied as if nothing were the matter. “She’s fine. She’s... just fine. She’s a trooper. Can I get you to take her for a moment,” he said unbuckling her carseat. The glass bottle fell to the floorboard. “You need an ambulance,” the woman said.

“No, no. That’s not necessary. We’re both fine,” he said. “We come from a long line of… troopers.” The woman dismounted carefully with what must have been her grandson. John passed Lizzy through the window and made his way carefully out of the car. "I need to find my daughter," he said. "She's lost at my dad's funeral. The police are already there." "You need an ambulance." "We're really ok. Look, I'll pull this calf... out, and you help us get to Mesa Valley Cemetery." "That's just around the bend from here," the old woman said. *** He rolled up his sleeves and his forearms disappeared up to his elbows. He fished around for a moment. “Like this?” he asked, looking up at the woman.

“Yes,” she said. “Get hold of anything you can and pull.” He did as he was told. The calf’s eyes were half open, still. It did not seem to be alive. He clenched his fists around what felt like legs, dug his heels into the dirt and heaved backward. Nothing happened.

“It’ll take a might more strength than that,” the woman said. He readjusted his body and pulled with everything he had. The calf budged one rib at a time rippling out in slow motion. Finally its body slid loose all at once, and it hit the ground with a thud that would have knocked the air of it if it had had any.

The calf immediately stumbled to a stand, wobbling on its new legs. It seemed to struggle not only to stay upright but also to see in the light of the world. Its eyes were still glossed over with a kind of fuzzy innocence. John couldn’t help but stare into them. They were so soft and ethereal, as if they reflected the light of some other world. As if the creature had carried something over with it, something ineffable. He dropped to one knee, mesmerized by the new born. And he felt a sense of something awkward well up inside him, something he’d never felt before. He wanted to protect this creature, to feed it and never leave it, and always make sure that nothing could harm it. He reached for his phone and found the screen shattered and the aluminum backing bent in the middle. He just wanted to share this moment with someone. Kate? Oh, God, Kate. If only he could call her and explain this to her. Make her understand how sorry he was for missing Maddy and Lizzy's births. For not being there today. For being an unrealiable piece of… “Looks like you’re having a moment there, cowboy. You want to finish the job first? Reach in there and pull out the afterbirth?” The cowgirl asked from atop her steed.

John dropped the broken phone and turned toward the dead mother, his car still teetering on top of it. The umbilical cord lay sopping and gray on the dirt. Her eyes were half open, tongue hanging limp between yellowed teeth. He felt his heart drop.

“Yes, I’ll do it,” he said, hardly able to think through this fog of emotions. Everything seemed so incredible. So beautiful to him in that moment. He reached a hand inside when the car suddenly shifted. The back end hit the ground, rolled backward and the front tires slammed against the dead cow’s body. A jet stream of hay-colored shit and afterbirth fired out of her backside. John screeched and tumbled backward over the dirt. When he finally stopped he just lay there, both defeated and awed. *** When he came out the cornfield, John was wearing a tattered bathrobe he’d robbed off a scarecrow.

“Suits you,” the cowgirl said. He looked down at a giant embroidered rooster.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He said.

She’d fashioned him a sling pouch out of what she could salvage from his soiled shirt and fit little Lizzy snug against his back.

The little boy appeared from behind his grandmother holding what looked like a dandelion. He grabbed her around the leg and clung there, resting his bottom on her boot. She took a few steps like that and the boy laughed. He held the dandelion out in John’s face. “Wish,” he said.

“Wish?” John repeated. He squatted down to the boy’s level and took it. He thought a minute, then held it up, pursed his lips and blew. Fuzzy seeds went everywhere. Then the boy pulled the plastic sword from his shiny red sash and offered it John.

“He-ur,” he said. “You kuh hab it.”

“Even a five-year-old can see you’re in need of some serious assistance, mister,” the old cowgirl said. He slid the sword into the belt of his bathrobe and looked around for something he might trade and realized he was holding his car keys. Instinctively he handed them to the boy.

“Don’t speed,” he said, and then he stood up and offered the woman a handshake. She sniffed at the air around him with a curled lip, gave him a slant-eyed look and reluctantly shook it. Then she limped over to her horse with the boy still clinging to her leg.

In that moment, something clicked inside John’s brain. A high-pitched ringing flared to life somewhere far off and sped towards him as it got louder and louder. He’d seen Maddy do the same thing with her paw-paw a thousand times. The ringing got louder and closer until it seemed to come from everywhere all at once. It filled his head vibrating at penetrating decibels, threatening to destroy the world if he didn’t see what was right there in front of his eyes. “Oh my God,” he finally said. They turned to look at him. “Oh my God! I know where my kid is!” He threw his arms into the sky. “I know where my kid is!” He shouted. They stared blankly at him like the lunatic he clearly was. *** A yellow front-end loader with a shovel full of dirt revved slowly over the pristine grass between headstones until it was hovering over the open Lindenbocker grave. What remained of the crowd took several steps back. The shovel fell forward with a mechanical clank, and dirt spilled down into the hole covering the rose-laden casket. The dozer then backed up, swung around and lifted another massive shovel-load of dirt.

Everyone seemed too shocked to cry. In the distance all around, police officers and people dressed in black searched behind gravestones, up in trees and along the foliage.

No one even noticed the gallant cavalier, bathrobe-clad, riding horseback waving a plastic sword over his head. A single naked dandelion stem bowed from his chest pocket. He dismounted and adjusted the sling around his back where a tiny bald head poked up.

“STOP! Stop everything,” he shouted, positioning himself between the grave and the shovel. “What the hell are you doing,” came a familiar voice, and Kate came running up to him. She took Lizzy gently out of the makeshift sling. "What the hell is wrong with you!" “Maddy’s in the—” he stopped himself.

“Maddy’s in the what,” Kate screamed. “Where is my daughter?” John jumped into the grave and began pushing dirt over the sides of the casket, piling it against the walls until one end was entirely visible. He fumbled with the latch pin until it popped open. Everyone gasped. John stared for a long moment over the face of the man that lay there. There he was. Now no more. The man who fought to teach him virtue and success. John knew every line and wrinkle in his face, knew what each one meant when it creased with the emphasis of some emotion or another. A furrow of disappointment. The crow’s feet of a hearty laugh. He fell back against the wall of the grave, his breath heaving out in sputters. His eyes clenched shut, tears forcing their way out.

Maddy crawled out over her paw-paw.

“Hi, Daddy!” She said as if she’d just walked into the kitchen. John’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh, Maddy!” He whispered, and the sobs started again. He grabbed her and pulled her to him and she hurried her face in his robe. “Oh my God. I’ll never let you go again. Daddy promises.”

She looked up at him. “Ok daddy. But why do you smell like shit?”

A dozen sobbing faces looking down at them all burst into laughter at the same time. John looked half shocked and then laughed despite himself.

*** When he came up out of his father’s grave, John Logan Lindenbocker the third was carrying his daughter on one leg.


Like most twenty-four year olds with no steady source of income, Jenny couldn’t remember the last time she stepped foot inside a Walmart. Sure the garish yellow on blue caused her physical pain and the screaming kid in the frozen food aisle made her make a mental note to ask her gyno about birth control, but that wouldn’t stop her. Jenny was a woman on a mission. She’d come to buy an air fryer and she wasn’t leaving without one. Not just any air fryer. An InstantCuisine Turbo XL Air Fryer, in red, if possible. She’d first seen it in a Buzzfeed listicle shortly after she moved: ‘17 Best Housewarming Gifts for a New Homeowner.’ Jenny obviously wasn’t a new homeowner, but she’d been intrigued and bored enough to scroll through it. After clicking past robotic vacuums and a cheese board whose price made her head (and wallet) hurt, she found it. With its large basket and seven unique settings, it made for the perfect housewarming gift to herself. Breakfast was the only meal Jenny nailed every time. (It was pretty hard to mess up a bowl of cereal or a couple fried eggs.) Every other dish just took way too long and had too many pots and pans and ingredients to keep track of. With the InstantCuisine air fryer, she’d be able to make anything from chicken wings to brownies with one tool if her heart so desired. This is such a responsible purchase. Jenny smiled to herself as she pushed her shopping cart through the horde of responsible adults. Responsible adults who seemed to know exactly where they were going without glancing up at the aisle markers at all. Responsible adults with well thought out grocery lists, most likely. Probably wrote it with actual pencils on actual pieces of paper and not in the notes app of their phones while stopped at a red light on the way over here. After picking up a gallon of milk, a couple mangoes, and some purple shampoo, Jenny navigated her way to the kitchen appliances aisle, excited to finally get her hands on her InstantCuisine air fryer. Except it wasn’t there. At all. Not even a price tag on the shelf which would indicate it being temporarily sold out. Didn’t Buzzfeed say you could find this at Walmart ? Jenny thought to herself. Or was it Target? One glance at the screenshot of the listicle on her phone confirmed that it indeed said Target. Oh well. Jenny wasn’t going to let this bother her. She had a full tank of gas and a determined attitude to get her hands on that air fryer, even if she had to drive all the way to Target now. Except it wasn’t at Target either. This time there was a sticker on the shelf for it, so Jenny knew it had been there, maybe was there only moments before she arrived, but was currently out of stock. Staring at the sticker didn’t do her any good. Making a quick lap around the store and returning (now with a cinnamon scented candle in her basket) didn’t make it magically reappear, either. What would Heather do? It was a question Jenny asked herself more often than she’d admit. Heather was the definition of responsible. She owned a two-story house, which she lived in with her soon-to-be husband Michael. Heather claimed to never order takeout, which Jenny always wrote off as an exaggeration until she moved in with her. Heather has probably never asked Google how to do her taxes. Heather would check if the air fryer was on the Target website. Heather would see the ridiculous prices on the website and make the sensible choice to purchase one secondhand off eBay or Facebook. Jenny however wasn’t as economical as her sister, and the thought of buying a pre-owned kitchen appliance from a stranger felt weird to her. Target website it was. Though she had moved in a week earlier, Jenny still felt weird unlocking her apartment door and being met with just the echoes of her own movements. She had lived at home with her parents until she began college, then on campus with roommates until she dropped out, then back with her parents, then briefly with Heather and Michael, before finally moving into a place she could call unequivocally her own (if you forget the landlord, that is). She dropped her bags on the wooden coffee table and moved to her kitchen counter, leaning her weight against it as she fished her phone out of her pocket and searched target.com for the InstantCuisine air fryer. It was there this time, of course. Over three thousand reviews for an average of 4.6 stars, which justified its $160 price tag to Jenny. Finally. Jenny added the air fryer to her cart and moved back towards her bags to grab her credit card from her wallet. She searched Google for Target promo codes as she walked, eyes glued to her phone, which is why she tripped on the untied garbage bag in her living room, spilling garbage on the floor. The only reason Jenny had an untied garbage bag in her living room was because she had yet to buy a garbage bin and was instead using various plastic bags and cardboard boxes to gather her trash. Heather wouldn’t wait a week before buying a garbage bin. Jenny frowned as she sat on the edge of her coffee table and crossed her ankles in front of her. And Heather would save up for a couch so she’d never be forced to sit on her coffee table. Jenny chewed on her thumbnail as she searched the internet. A decent couch would cost at least a couple hundred dollars, right? Maybe less if she bought one secondhand. Jenny groaned as she tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. After a moment, she turned back to her phone and removed the air fryer from her cart. One day... but not today.


"Looks like it's going to rain, son." "Why do you say that?" It was a cloudless day and we were indoors. "I just have this feeling." Then he wet his pants. "Dad, do you have a change of clothes?" "No, but I've had a change of heart." And then he bet on red. *Children* It was prom and he handed me the keys to his car and he whistled. "Looking sharp, son." I took the keys and he said "Don't make any babies." And then he laughed. I returned the laughter and he grabbed me by the shoulder and whispered in my ear "I mean it." Then he showed me an itemized bill for my entire life that he had been calculating since I was conceived. Later on, at dinner, I took it out and glanced at it. "Being a dumb shit" is about $3.40 an hour. *Halloween* "Well, it's that time of year again." "What time?" "Halloween." "It's April." "We do Halloween on my time!" He said and walked out the door with a sheet on and didn't come back until October. But he was much scarier by the time the holiday was upon us. *College* "Son, I bet you think I've been saving money for your college." "No, the thought never occurred to me." I was about 25 at the time. "Well, I haven't. And do you know why?" He had been dropping clues with the alcoholism, drug abuse, and general dementia for about 15 years, but I didn't give it away. "No." "It's because I love you and I want you to try harder than I did. I don't want you to take hand outs. I want you to be your own man." Then he asked me for 50 dollars. *Good Values* "We need to talk about values, son. Do you know what values are?" "Sure, like being honest and treating people right." He looked at me confused and then he pulled out a coupon book and began counting all his values. He had tons. *Pets* "Here." He handed me a slug. "I caught it out in the yard. It almost got the best of me. Now, I'll tell you right now, I'm not gonna feed it. Or pay for the shots." I looked at the slug in my hand and thanked him. "His name is Peter." *Growth Hormones* "Son, have you been taking growth hormones?" "No, Dad. Why?" "You seem bigger than the last time I saw you." "Well, you've been away for a year. I'm 18 now." "Why, you could play baseball." "I do." "You gotta stop them growth hormones. They'll kill you." "Thanks, Dad." "Do you have any coke?" *America* "Son, you realize this is the best country in the world, right?" "Sure, Dad." "Why, you can't even vote in most countries. Like Russia. Or Canada. Or Billy's." "What's Billy's?" "It's a country right outside of Seattle. I was registered to vote there." He looked off in the distance. "But they wouldn't let me. Said I had to pay for the beer. I tried voting for it. It did no good." "Can I go ride bikes?" "Sure, go ride your communist bike. I'll sit here and live in the greatest nation in the world." And he sat there for 12 hours whistling. *Being Grateful* I remember he once gave me a bag of screws and I had trouble understanding what they were for and asked him "Are these in case something breaks?" He then initiated a staring contest and I immediately blinked to avoid it. Then he cleared his throat and said "You don't look a gift horse in the mouth." I asked him what that meant and he opened his mouth and pulled out a false tooth and told me it contained cyanide and that he would bite it the next time I asked him about those screws. I think it was my fourth birthday. *Run for President* "Son, I want you to run for President." "OK, Dad." "You'll need these." And he handed me a gun and a five dollar bill. *Movies* "You don't need movies. You have all the movies you could want right in your head. Look, watch me go to a movie." Then he sat there for two hours making different faces like he was watching a movie. Towards the end, he was crying. Then, he said "What a movie!" I asked him what it was about. "I don't know, but Burt Reynolds was in it. I've seen it like five times.


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday… ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Off-Season Part 2: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/ChineseArtist, with a tender story that takes us on a journey full of sweet changes. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/JohnGarrigan, with a bizzarely different story that you've gotta read to... appreciate. Great job, you two! But don't just take my word for it, go check out these awesome stories and give 'em a ! Serial Saturday is officially in the off-season and will return at the start of the year with a full schedule posted in the first couple weeks of January. Check back on the discord server for updates. In the meantime feel free to check out the spotlight threads for Serial Saturday authors and go down the rabbit hole of seriously great stories. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


T. Colby Owen 2/12/2021 After living in the city all your life, you have had enough. You decided to move to a remote location in the forest. You're not used to the woods but you find it very peaceful. Today, you decide to explore the surrounding area a little better. As you walk through the forest, you are confronted by a bobcat, not even 15 feet away. At first petrified, you soon regain control of your limbs and sprint for your life. As you run one of your shoes falls off. You kick the other one off. After having to run through a river, you look back to check and find nothing giving chase. You decide to lose your socks, seeing as they’ve gotten wet. It’s late at night, you're wet, and you're cold, when suddenly you see a small building in the forest. Upon closer inspection, you find that the entire building is covered in the most beautiful flowers you have ever seen. Deep magentas and vibrant purples, snow whites, and sun yellows. You approach a flower and take a deep breath, taking in a smell akin to cinnamon and vanilla. You approach the door, but reconsider for a fraction of a second. You decide nothing can go wrong, and you cross over. Once on the other side, you're hit with an aroma like no other. Peaches and sugar, vanilla and cinnamon, and yet, you can’t pinpoint the smell. It’s otherworldly. Divine, even. You pause for a moment and look around, and to your surprise, you find yourself outside in a seemingly never ending field of flowers, magnitudes more gorgeous than the flowers on the outside. You realize that you can see the sun in the sky, and you can already feel your clothes drying out. You feel the soft dirt between your toes, a relief from the rocky, inconsistent forest floor. You look back through the door, and see the forest you were in. Curiously, there’s no wall surrounding the door, but you would've been more surprised if there were. You listen, and you find it quieter than the heaviest snow you’ve ever been in. You look forward and see something in the distance. Unable to make it out, you decide to try and get closer. Along the way you find that lots of little rivers twist and wind around the landscape. You find that you're thirsty, so you decide to take a drink. Although tasting no different than regular water, the coolness and the freshness is unchecked by the laws of nature. You look down and watch in awe as the scratches you got from running through the forest heal in mere seconds. You look towards the object and find you see a tree. It’s only about 150 feet away, and the water has completely restored your stamina so you decide to sprint. When you reach the tree, you find that it’s actually on a small island surrounded by a pond, but clear enough to see the bottom is at least 20 feet down. Upon closer inspection of the tree, you find you see the most colorful assortment of fruit you’ve ever seen. Thinking with your stomach, you swim across the pond, a good 40 second endeavor, and crawl up on the beach. You step in something soft but unconventional. You look down and see a thick moss. A little sceptical at first, being a city person and all, but after taking a second to adjust you find it much more pleasurable than even the softest grass. You wiggle your toes, and decide it’s ok. You approach the tree, and reach out for the lowest hanging fruit. You can’t reach it, but the branch bows down and lets you take it, giving a sort of life to the tree. You instinctively say thank you, to no response. You're not surprised. You look at the fruit in your hands, and see a deep red. You wanna say “Apple,” but from looking and feeling it you can tell it's much juicier than an apple. It’s also a near perfect sphere. You decide to throw away any expectations and bite into it. You’re met with a satisfying crunch, but at the same time a juiciness with a consistency much like honey. Unsurprisingly it also tastes like honey, but not the honey you get in supermarkets, the honey that makes you think, “This is the elixir of life. it must be!” You take a few more bites and contemplate grabbing another fruit, but decide it would be disrespectful to the tree so you finish it. Next you choose a very light purple fruit. It takes some effort to get to but you assume it’s worth it. You forget to examine it and take a bite, you reel back in surprise when it’s fluffy. It tastes like cotton candy, which kind of makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that it also melts like cotton candy. You ask yourself, “Why does it melt?” but then you remember your journey in and stop worrying about it. You climb higher and higher, trying new fruits of all different colors, shapes, sizes, and tastes, each one immeasurably better than the last. When you finally reach the very top, you find what looks like a small walnut, not bigger than a segment of your thumb. It’s brown and odorless, and hard as a rock. You try biting into it, to no avail. You absentmindedly slip it in your pocket and start climbing down. When you get back to the pond, you take a drink and look at your reflection. In the reflection, to your horror, you see flames behind you. You feel the heat on your back and instinctively dive in, swimming to the other side of the pond. You look back to see the tree ablaze. You watch for a while, before turning back to the door. On the way back you notice all the flowers are wilted, the water black, and the earth sharp rocks. You go through the door and look back, but the building is no longer there. You walk back home, sad that the door disappeared but happy that you walked through. Before you go to bed, you remember the odd fruit you plucked at the top of the tree. You examine it for a minute, before putting it on the nightstand and falling asleep. You come to a realization in your sleep, and the next morning you wake and instantly exclaim, “It’s a seed!” You run outside as fast your still sore feet can carry you, dig a hole that feels deep enough, drop the seed in, cover it back up, put a fence around it as best you can, and water it. Years later but not past your prime, after having tended to it every day with the utmost care, you look out and see a small stock and a single leaf. Knowing you will never get to taste that divine fruit again, you finish watering it, content to nurture a gift for your children, and your children’s children. End.


Adam watched in delight as his two sons walked through the pasture hauling their baskets of newly discovered crops. He had sent them each their separate ways two months prior on a mission to track down as many edible fruits as possible and from the looks of it, both of their harvests had yielded impressive results. He greeted them both with an exuberant, “Welcome home!” And a warm embrace, but quickly urged them to share their findings with him before settling in, as he was quite eager to learn of the delicacies they’ve corralled on their travels. Abel went first. “Well, father. I think you’ll be quite taken by this first item,” he confidently stated while pulling a pale yellow glob out of his basket. “I call it, Mango!” He added enthusiastically. “Mango!” Adam repeated jovially. “I love it!” Abel beemed with pride as he watched his father bite a huge chunk out of the newly acquired fruit, the juices dripping down his chin. “It’s delicious! Well done, Abel! Well done, indeed! And I love the name. Mango. So fresh! So exotic!” Adam wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned to his other son, Cain. “Well, boy. Let’s see what nectars you’ve unearthed on your voyage.” Not to be outdone, Cain proudly removed the first item from his basket, an orange ball-shaped mass. He held it up high, cleared his throat and said, “I call it, Orange!” After a moment or two of silence, Cain added, “Did you hear me father?” “Yes, yes I did,” Adam replied lackadaisically, careful not to offend his sensitive child. “It’s…a…it’s a…” Ahem, Adam cleared his throat. “It’s a good name. Good job Cain,” he added in a perfunctory tone before quickly turning back towards Abel. “What else you got for me, son?” “Prepare to be blown away, Abel declared in an ostentatious display as he whipped out the next piece from his basket. “I call it, Papaya!” Adam gasped in amusement. “Papaya! Papaya!” He kept repeating. God damn that’s fun to say!” Cain was not unaware of his father’s fondness for his brother, Abel. and was hopeful that the naming of the fruits would tip the scales in his favor. Although, witnessing his father’s fervent admiration for the papaya disgusted Cain. and a deep, deep hatred for his brother began to grow in his heart. “Cain!” Adam called out, snapping Cain out of his daydream. “Let’s see what else you’ve found.” Cain nervously ruffled around in his basket before removing a blue cluster of berries. “My, my,” Adam remarked at the sight of the new fruit. “Those look mighty tasty. What do you call those, Cain?” Cain replied apprehensively, “I call them blueberries.” Then sensing his selection was poorly received grabbed a different berry cluster, “And these ones I call blackberries.” “Ugh,” Adam groaned while pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re just not getting it, Cain. Your mother is going to wake up from her nap soon, delighted to see you, but also anxious to find out what you two have brought us. New means of sustenance. New discoveries that could change our lives. But they’ve got to sound sexy, Cain. Otherwise your mother will never go for it. If there’s no mystique, no allure, she’ll never give it a chance. We need something to distract her from her obsession with the forbidden fruit. That horrible, awful, life-changing fruit in that god-forsaken garden with that idiot snake. I was literally the only man on earth and she fooled around on me with a reptile. I swear to god, I’ll never understand women. The boys twiddled their thumbs awkwardly during their fathers tirade. Then Abel broke the uncomfortable silence that followed, “Wait until you try the Dragonfruit, dad!” ”Did you just say Dragonfruit?” Adam exclaimed. “That’s fucking bad-ass!” Cain tried his best to put on a happy face but the envy he felt towards his brother was growing faster than the mold on the heart shaped red berries he aptly named heart-shaped red-berries. “This is amazing!” Adam mumbled with a mouth full. “Dragonfruit! Fucking rad!” Abel dusted off his shoulders and smirked at his underacheiveing brother. The hatred in Cain’s heart begin to simmer. “Abel, my boy, you’ve outdone yourself on this one. I’m super proud of you son,” Adam declared. Then with less conviction, he added, “You too, Cain.” Cain, however, was not ready to throw in the towel, as he still had yet to unleash his secret weapon. “Behold,” he bellowed. “For what I’m about to present you is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I risked my life climbing the highest trees nearly falling to my death in order to locate this delicious treat. I wrestled this bundle away from an aggressive pack of spider monkeys, ducking and dodging vicious blows from their swiftly swinging monkey paws. It was a harrowing journey, Father, but a productive one. For now, I present you with, Curvy-Yellow-Thing!” Silence ensued with the exception of the chirping sounds the grass made as they had yet to discover crickets. “You hate it don’t you,” Cain muttered dejectedly, his head bowed in shame, staring at his feet. “I’m sure it’s delicious, Cain,” his father assured him. “You just don’t have a knack for words like your brother. Help him out will you, Abel?” Abel scratched his chin for a moment, snapped his fingers and pointed at his crestfallen brother. “Banana!” He smugly shouted “Son-of-a-Bitch that’s good,” Adam exclaimed. “How do you come up with these names so quickly?” “It just flows right off the top my my head,” Abel replied. “You’ve got a way with words, that’s for sure. “Thanks, Pop. I’m gonna be a rapper when I grow up.” “Well, I’ll be the first in line to buy your album.” “I got bars, Dad.” “I know that’s right.” The hatred in Cain’s heart began to boil. So he wasn’t as creative or artistic as his brother. So what? He was stronger, bolder, and far more determined. The focus of his determination was being the favorite child. And today had proven an obstacle difficult to overcome. He wished he were more like his brother. Maybe then his father would show him the same amount of affection he had only observed from the sidelines. But he wasn’t creative or artistic. He couldn’t dream up the wildly inventive names for fruit like his brother. If only he were Abel. Eve was finally awake. Adam instructed the boys to go stand in the pasture a hundred yards away for 7-9 minutes, so he could give his wife a much needed back massage. “Then you can show her all of your glorious findings!” He proclaimed. “Sure thing,” said Abel. “Yes,” Cain concurred. “That will be just fine.” The boys both turned and headed towards the field. Cain picking up a stone on the way. His brother boasting about his recent accomplishments. Cain knew what needed to be done.


Jerry was dragging his suitcase down the alley. The broken wheel driving him crazy. Not his fault, by the way. Fat-ass Linda had literally squashed the suitcase when trying to land her juicy bumps on something so that she could pull on her tights. They’d just had sex that morning. And then Linda decided it was the proper moment to break up with him. After the breakup, Jerry had a very clear idea of how he wanted to spend the last summer before graduation. Far away from his bachelor’s den in Liverpool. But he couldn’t even imagine how far it would be. America! Aaron, his sexually desperate friend, had found a job for both of them. ‘You put on mirrored sunglasses and look at chicks as much as you wish,' he said, demonstrating to Jerry his new Ray-Ban glasses. They were going to be beach lifeguards in California. ‘Early in the morning you see them in their crop tops running along the beach,' Aaron was daydreaming with a silly expression on his face. ‘And you know what, they love a British accent!’ ‘Yes, if you’re Tom Hiddleston,' Jerry felt like being tart. Though some knot in his stomach tightened when it came to ‘crop tops’. But instead of gratifying his eyes with the sight of alluring , athletic girls, Jerry was doomed to spend his summer on a distant island with just five hundred inhabitants. Aaron, lucky bastard, got his place in San-Francisco. When Jerry hopped off the ferry, old silver-headed biddy Mrs. Partridge arrived in her van to show him his bungalow. That was a lady Jerry would never want to see in a crop top. So, he was dragging his suitcase towards the bungalow on the top of the cliff while Mrs. Partridge was chirruping about the fresh air and clean sand. At the beginning of the alley, Jerry stopped before a notice board with six photos of missing people. ‘Wow, that’s a lot of mispers for such a small island!’ Jerry struggled with his unruly suitcase. ‘What was it, hun?’ Mrs. Partridge turned to him her hugely magnified eyes blinking behind the thick lenses. ‘I say you have many missing people here.' ‘Oh, yes’, either she or Parkinson’s shook her head. ‘They say the currents are very strong here. In a matter of seconds people are gone. And we never even find the bodies.' And she proceeded to the bungalow, clinking a bunch of keys. ‘So, you’re from Liverpool, hun? Do you like the Beatles?’ Gosh! Not again! Jerry sighed. The bungalow inside was neat but smelled of rotting seaweed. A couple of ugly fishing trophies decorated the walls. The draughts made the wooden hut groan restlessly. However, the windows offered fantastic views of the bay. As soon as Mrs. Partridge scurried away, Jerry got down to unpacking his stuff. A pair of Ray-Ban mirrored sunglasses was there among other things. \* \* \* The ocean’s lullaby cast Jerry into oblivious sleep or maybe the second can of beer did it. It was after midnight when he suddenly woke up. That was a kind of an awakening, whose reason Jerry was still trying to unriddle while brewing some tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil and drumming an AC / DC tune with his fingers, Jerry understood why he had woken up. There was another sound entwined with the noise of the ocean. He turned off the gas and listened. It was a howling, even the lamenting of a madman. Or a madwoman. A chill went down his spine. Jerry switched on the searchlight and its huge beam groped around the beach, lumbering over the sand. Nothing. On second thought, it could be just the wind blowing through the caves. Chuckling at his own paranoia, Jerry brought the kettle back to life and had his midnight cuppa. \* \* \* The cave was right under Jerry’s bungalow. Inside, dark waters were splashing on the jagged stones and the wind swooshing past Jerry. With no reason he was standing there, staring at the waters. That frightening abyss seemed inhabited, vibrating. At some point Jerry even thought he saw something moving down there. He leaned over the water. Yeah! There was definitely something pulsating. Jerry strained his eyes. Some kind of light rising from the abyss far below the surface. Getting closer. Closer. Closer. A bunch of bubbles agitated the surface. Jerry jerked back when right after the bubbles a rubber head emerged. Goggles. Protruding lips enveloping tightly the mouthpiece for breathing. A diver? Here? The man took off his goggles and reached for Jerry’s hand to help him get out of the water. ‘What are you doing here?’ the man asked right after taking the mouthpiece out. ‘Me?’ Jerry watched as the diver was taking off his protective suit. ‘I’m a lifeguard. Are you aware that it’s not allowed to swim here?’ The man chuckled. ‘I told them the waters were dangerous. But they never listened to me. And now six people are dead’. Jerry eyed the harpoon gun attached to the man’s belt. ‘You hunt big fish?’ The man was standing now before Jerry only in his underpants. He followed Jerry’s gaze. ‘Yeah, very big one’. ‘Here? In the cave?’ No answer followed. Having packed all his belongings into the waterproof bag, the diver put on only baggy linen pants and was ready to go. ‘Oh, sorry’, Jerry suddenly recollected. ‘I’m Jerry’. ‘Patrick Nyman’, his suntanned hand clasped Jerry’s. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t stand that close to the edge’. His flip-flops sloshed towards the exit from the cave. Jerry followed. ‘Do you know what happened to those missing people?’ he asked. Patrick, all muscles and tattoos, didn’t even slow down. ‘That’s not the currents, right?’ ‘No’. ‘What then? Man-eating shark? Venomous fish?’ When Patrick suddenly stopped, Jerry literally bumped into him. ‘I have lived here all my life. I know these waters better than anyone else’. He was mincing words. ‘Believe me you wouldn’t like to swim here. So, just don’t’. ‘But why?’ Jerry was insisting. Patrick resumed his stroll along the shore. ‘And if you smell the rotten seaweed, you’d better be somewhere far away from the place’. \* \* \* Scorching heat and salt chapped Jerry’s lips brutally. He was standing there down the alley leading to his home, applying a thick layer of chapstick. The wind was rustling the corners of the papers pinned to the notice board. Six people. Faded photos and heart-rending words written by their loved ones. But one of them caught Jerry’s eye. ‘Melissa Nyman’ he read the name under the photo of a smiling young woman. ‘Nyman. That was his wife’. Jerry took the plates, which read ‘Danger! Absolutely no swimming at any time!’, and headed for the beach. He couldn’t help thinking about those poor folks from the notice board. What happened to them? What happened to Melissa Nyman? ‘They don’t come here to swim’, Jerry started at the woman’s voice, which came from behind. If only he had those stupid Ray-Bans right now! The girl’s nipples were ready to pierce her shirt. ‘Audrey’, she offered her hand, taking it out from the back pocket of her mini, actually, the miniest denim shorts Jerry had ever seen. ‘Jerry’, he squeezed her hand slightly. ‘I say they don’t come here to swim’. ‘To do what, then?’ ‘To have sex, of course’. ‘Oh, right!’ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Gee, it’s a tiny island. Everyone knows each other. If you wanna fuck, you don’t go to the inn’. Jerry swallowed. ‘Why?’ ‘Cause the owner of the inn will know everything, silly. And if he knows, everybody knows. Get it?’ ‘Oh, yeah. So, sex then’. What if Patrick Nyman’s wife came here for the same reason? And her husband saw her with another man? For a couple of minutes Jerry had been gripping the shaft of the sign so hard so that now he could feel a dozen splinters eating into his hand. ‘So, you’re British, right?’ Audrey’s tucked her hair behind ears. ‘Yep, from Liverpool. Did you know that the Beatles come from this city?’ suddenly this fact was something to boast of. ‘Oh, sure! Yellow submarine’, she livened up. Then an awkward beat allowed Jerry to feel a couple of new splinters in his right arm. ‘Well… see you around’, Audrey was ready to go. ‘I have some beer, so you may drop by sometime later’. ‘Great! Tomorrow evening maybe’. \* \* \* That night the lamenting was even louder, coming from the depth of the caves at the foot of the cliff. Jerry was in search of a nice icebreaker before Audrey’s arrival when he heard it. He directed the searchlight at some dark spot on the sand far below. Two bodies entwined, one moving over the other. ‘Whoa!’ he drew the beam of light aside immediately. ‘Freaks. Some pleasure to have a handful of sand between your cheeks’. Suddenly, one of the lovers crept into the light and dashed with an awkward crouching gait into the water, dragging its lower limbs behind. There was a splash. Jerry’s numb hands dropped the searchlight. When he took the lamp under control again, only one of the beach lovers was lying on the sand. The other one had disappeared into the ocean. ‘Hey there!’ Jerry’s voice cracked. The person on the sand wasn’t moving. And then Jerry recognized those miniest denim shorts. Jerry took a gun with signaling lights, the only weapon he could find, and ran to the beach down the stairs two steps at a time. Dark waters were licking the beach closer and closer to Jerry’s feet. When he reached Audrey she was lying motionless. ‘Audrey. Are you all right?’ Something was wrong with her face. Covered with slime. Jerry’s trembling hand found the button on the torch. ‘Fuck!’ He started back. Forced himself to have one more look. ‘What the fuck!’ There was no face. Like it was smashed or… eaten. Covered in a sticky substance. Jerry shone the torch at the waters. Something was moving there. Diving and emerging again. Diving. Emerging. Moving in Jerry’s direction. He darted headlong to the stairs. Heavy thumps followed him together with that lament he already knew. His feet felt like lead. The sand was treacherous. ‘Jesus!’ Bony fingers wrenched Jerry’s arm. In a moment the slimy body wrapped itself around him from all the sides. The moonlight let him see a deranged greyish face and bleak strands of hair. Sharp pain pierced Jerry’s shoulder at the place where the thing bit him. It ripped a piece of his flesh. ‘Aaaa!’ Jerry was crying. ‘Somebody help!’ He tried to reach for his pocket. The creature made another bite. And then Jerry took out the gun from the pocket. The shot threw the thing away. It let out one more terrifying groan and died. Pressing one hand against his wound, Jerry eyed the creature. It was not a human. Head, body, hands, but no legs. Fish tail instead. And that awful smell of rotting seaweed. \* \* \* ‘So much for this crap’. Bleeding, Jerry was looking for his passport and wallet when the lights went out. ‘Shit’, he went gropingly to the kitchen to find a torch. The entrance door made a creaking sound and tapped against the side-posts several times as if disturbed by the draught. The house was constantly making noises but something else made Jerry freeze. Rotting seaweed. The smell was closer now. A dark figure crawled into the bungalow, moving its body only with the help of upper limbs. Sweat started pouring down Jerry’s forehead. The thing was looking at him and he was staring back. Slowly, Jerry took the knife. The creature charged him. Jerry made a stab but its tail knocked him down. He hit his head badly against the table and fell to the floor. When Jerry came to his senses, the thing climbed onto his chest and broke it. The ribs cracked. Jerry yelped. When dragged through the house, he tried to grab the legs of the table. Jerry was thrown out of the window like a rag-doll. Falling, he begged for it to be just a nightmare. But the moment the cold waters embraced him, dozens of hands pulled him into the depths.


Maggie was weird, but she was my best friend. She lived in my childhood home, but she wasn’t my sister. She wasn’t a cousin, or a family friend, or anything like that. She had lived there as long as the house had stood, maybe longer. She never talked about the time before that. As long as I knew her, Maggie never changed much. Her age was fluid, but not in the way that everyone’s is. She was a bit older than me when giving me advice, and a bit younger when getting on my nerves. Her long black hair hung loosely in the space around her head, as if she was always underwater. I never heard her footsteps or watched her walk anywhere. She was simply where she needed to be at all times. When she was cold, her teeth chattered in a way that made my hairs stand on end. She was always cold. The more I learned about the world, the more I noticed things that reminded me of Maggie and helped me make sense of her. Have you ever petted a lizard or a snake? Rub it from head to tail, and it’s incredibly smooth. Go the other way - against the grain of the scales - and it’s rough, bumpy, and just feels wrong. That’s what Maggie’s voice sounded like. Like going against the grain. Like a voice played in reverse. Maggie didn’t have a right hand. Not like an amputee, or someone with a birth defect. If you looked at her shoulder and traced the length of her arm with your eyes, you’d see that it gets smaller and smaller, but never really goes away. If I looked where her right hand should be, I’d feel sick to my stomach. I remember taking calculus in high school, learning about asymptotes that approach zero but never really reach it. That’s what her arm was like. Infinite, but practically nonexistent. Always approaching nothingness. I know what you’re thinking: I had an imaginary friend. Occam’s Razor, right? The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Usually. Maggie was made entirely of impossibilities, and of course no one else ever saw her. On the rare occasions that a friend from school would come over to play, Maggie stayed hidden. My parents would get uneasy when I’d talk about her. “You’re creeping us out,” they would say. “Please, just stop.” I learned not to talk about her to anyone else. How did I know that Maggie was real? To put it simply: I had to. Maggie was my only true friend. She was my anchor to this world and almost all of my childhood memories. If she wasn’t real, then “real” was meaningless to me. When my parents would fight, I would crawl under my bed with a flashlight. I found myself under my bed often. Maggie was always there. I would absentmindedly peel paint chips off the baseboard and ramble on about the difficulties of my cozy, middle-class upbringing while Maggie would draw. Her drawings weren’t good, at least not in the traditional sense, but they made me feel something. Isn’t that what art is all about? When she was finished with a drawing, Maggie would present it to me with a shy but prideful smile across her face. I would lift the loose floorboard under my bed and stuff it underneath. I amassed quite a collection throughout the years. On really bad days, I would look through them and smile. Pictures of me and Maggie playing in the basement, hiding under the bed, eating popcorn on the couch. I wasn’t much of an artist, but one day I decided to make a drawing for Maggie. I spent what felt like hours on it. It was my masterpiece. When I handed it to her, she took one look and frowned. “What is this?” she asked without making a sound. “Me and you, on the Great Wall of China.” I had often dreamt about traveling the world with Maggie. She ripped the drawing into pieces and scattered it across the floor. “You know I can’t leave this house.” A lump filled my throat. I didn’t know if I was embarrassed for myself or sad for Maggie. For some reason, only one thought came to mind. “What happens when they tear this house down?” She looked afraid. “What makes you think they’ll tear it down?” I shrugged. “Doesn’t everything get torn down one day?” “Then I’ll squeeze down the bathtub drain. Didn’t you say there’s a reservoir nearby? I’ll swim to it.” “You can swim?” I asked. “If I have to.” The next day, Maggie handed me a drawing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Your picture was nice. I shouldn’t have ripped it up.” The focal piece of the drawing was a red sedan. A man sat in the driver’s seat, his door open. He had auburn hair and a mole on his left cheek. It was me, as a grown-up. Outside of the car was Maggie, her hair scattered and flowing - even in the drawing. We were waving to each other. I gestured to the blue background that surrounded the car in all directions. “Are we in Heaven?” I asked. “We could be.” From that day forward, I couldn’t take a bath without thinking of Maggie being sucked into the drain. I often had dreams that I was following her. They may have been nightmares. I was never really sure. One day, when I was in high school, Maggie appeared in the corner of my bedroom. “What are you doing?” she asked, staring at the cardboard boxes scattered about. “We’re moving,” I said, looking at anything but her. “I’m sorry.” “No,” she said. “You have to stay.” “It’s not up to me. Dad is getting transferred. I’m still a kid. Technically, I mean.” “Will you visit?” she asked. “It’s… far.” I replied. “How far?” “Like, ‘across the country’ far.” “Well what am I supposed to do?” I didn’t know what to say. I pushed my bed to the side and lifted the loose floorboard. As I reached for the stack of drawings, Maggie’s hand grabbed me by the wrist. She was ten feet closer now, without taking a single step. “If you’re leaving, the drawings stay.” she said. It wasn’t a request, but a command. “Why?” “If you take them, you have nothing to come back for.” I begrudgingly agreed and left the stash buried beneath my bedroom floor. I finished packing as Maggie cried. We never said another word to each other. I’m older now, as people often are when compared to the past. I have a fiancée, Emma, who is the most loving and supportive person I’ve ever met. I’ve spoken to her about Maggie a few times, but like everyone else, she doesn’t like that. “You should really think about seeing a therapist,” she said once. “You talk about her like she’s real.” That made me angry. I never had a problem with the idea of therapy - hell, it would probably do me a lot of good - but I didn’t like the implication. Emma can be weirdly jealous of my childhood friend. One night, we had a bit too much wine and she asked me if I was in love with her because she reminded me of Maggie. I told her that they were nothing alike. She took that as a compliment. A recent business trip took me back to my home state and I was cautiously delighted. The airport was less than an hour from the house I grew up in, and I decided that the first thing I would do was pay Maggie a visit. “I’m sorry, sir,” the representative from the rental car agency at the airport told me. “We don’t have any SUVs at the moment.” He led me to a red Hyundai Elantra and I laughed, thinking back to Maggie’s drawing. “Would you prefer I find you something else?” “No,” I said, still grinning. “This is perfect.” The nighttime drive back to my hometown was uneventful, but brimming with nostalgia. A quiet country highway weaved through the forest where my father would take me camping, past my favorite barbecue restaurant and across the reservoir where we often spent our summer afternoons. My heart sank as I entered my neighborhood. House after house had been demolished, their lots occupied by piles of dirt and skeletons of soon-to-be McMansions. I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived at my former residence to see the house still standing. Caution tape surrounded the property. A backhoe was parked in the driveway. I didn’t have much time left. I was surprised to find the door unlocked, but when I entered I saw that there was nothing left worth securing. The rooms were empty - even the carpets had been ripped up. I immediately called out to Maggie to no response. I started in the basement, where we would often sit and I would tell her about what it was like to go to school - to go anywhere but here. I saw nothing but concrete walls, devoid of the posters that used to hang there and advertise my favorite bands and video games. I made my way back to the ground floor, searching the kitchen, the den, the laundry room - looking for any sign that I hadn’t been crazy or overly imaginative as a child. I ascended the staircase and peeked into my parents’ old room. There was a fist-shaped hole in the wall that still hadn’t been repaired. Finally, I made my way to my old bedroom. It was empty, as they all were. No need to move a bed to find what I was looking for. The loose floorboard was raised ever so slightly. You wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking for it. I lifted it and saw dozens - maybe hundreds - of crude drawings. It was real. It always was. Tears streamed down my face as I rifled through the pages. Me and Maggie, looking out my bedroom window into the forest behind our house. Me and Maggie, playing checkers on the living room floor. After a few minutes of reminiscence, I stuffed the papers in my briefcase and hastily made my way back to the rental car. The last thing my fiancée needed to hear was that I had been arrested for trespassing while searching for my “imaginary” friend. I got in the car and sped out of the neighborhood, making my way to my hotel in the neighboring county. As I was crossing the reservoir once again, I saw a figure ahead of me on the bridge. Long, black hair, dispersed gently throughout the air around her. She was too close for me to stop. I awoke in a strange room, blinded by a white light overhead. A raven-haired figure stood above me, calling out to me in a familiar voice. “Baby, are you awake?” The voice was smooth. Head to tail. A normal human being. I was disoriented and disappointed all at once. “Nurse!” Emma called. “Can we get a nurse? He’s awake!” She stroked my hair. “Oh my God, baby. I thought I lost you.” A nurse rushed in and immediately began asking me questions. She asked me my name and who the current president was. Did she not know that herself? “What happened?” I finally asked. “You were driving on the bridge that crosses Lockley Reservoir and… you crashed. Your car went in the water.” Emma said. She was clearly still amazed that I was conscious. “My briefcase,” I asked. All I could care about was the proof. The proof that Maggie was real - that I wasn’t crazy. “Do you have my briefcase?” “Don’t worry about that, baby,” she answered. “We can replace your things. I’m just glad you’re okay.” I closed my eyes in anguish. All of those drawings, gone. Nothing was left but the same unreliable memories I’d kept with me for years. A police officer whom I hadn’t noticed before stood up from a chair and approached me in my hospital bed. He didn’t look as relieved as Emma did. “Sir,” he began. “We need to know the name of the woman who was with you.” I didn’t understand. “I’m here on a business trip,” I said. “I wasn’t with anyone. I was just visiting-” “Baby,” Emma said, a look of mistrust on her face. “The man who found you… he said that you weren’t alone. He said that a woman pulled you to the shore. A woman with one arm.” My chest tightened. “Where is she?” was all I could think to say. “Well, that’s the thing,” the policeman interjected once more, scratching his head. “He said that she left as soon as you were safe. He said… he said she went back into the water.


Mohamad, an emaciated, desolate and kneeling man. Waiting for humanity to become extinct. The last one standing, alone, with an extremely powerful blizzard in front, in the middle of a deserted cabin among the mountains surrounded by snow. An avalanche passed over the cabin days ago. The surroundings are full of white dust that the lonely man tries to release in order to get out and no longer feel that claustrophobia that involves living locked up, without help. He knows it, he recognizes that there is no one else alive in the world. That apocalyptic end was not expected by the most conspiratorial being in the universe. One survivor in billions. He is undoubtedly special. How do you know? When the earth is empty, it is palpable. Not the slightest howl of a wolf or the singing of birds. Nothing. A deathly silence that snatches all hope of life. Finally, he manages to displace the disaster and the door is free to leave. Those zero degrees Celsius does not matter much to him because he has nothing to lose, and nothing to gain either. The survivor's eyes suddenly widen. Perplexed, stunned and trembling body. A miracle is presented in front of him. Open arms of a being in a ski mask that, without resentment, runs in terror, imprisoned by fear and the incessant cold, and offers a comforting hug to that one, the apparent last survivor. — Who are you? — asked Mohamad. —I don't know, but I'm glad I'm not alone — says the young man with a trembling voice. Both enter to rest from the low temperatures. Mohamad at that moment understood that two was better than one. He feels much more secure now, knowing that the gloomy loneliness is no longer a part of his life. The company of someone you don't know is an unrivaled accolade. Both get to work, and prepare to make an expedition, in search of more survivors. The side of the snowy mountain is more beautiful once you see it in total solitude. The Survivors thought as they climbed with the meager strength their muscles gave off, their boots stuck in the mud and hail brushing their faces. — Starving. — Says the young man who met Mohamad minutes before. He is relieved that he is not the only one. There have to be more people out there. — How did you resist so long? — Mohamad asks with his white beard shivering from the low temperatures as they both slowly walk aimlessly. —I don't know ... — says the young man. An answer that left Mohamad with a bad taste in his mouth. — What is your name? Don't tell me you don't know. — You'd be surprised, sir. — You don't you know your name? — No. — So what the hell do you know? — Head down, the thin guy continues on his way being part of his uselessness. They arrive to a frozen lake with crystal-laden trees all around it. Just by looking closely at the water, they could see how frozen it is — Come on, let's go sideways — says Mohamad. The young man does not move. — What are you waiting for? The sun is setting. — he insists. The boy places his pale feet in the icy water, before Mohamad's stunned gaze. — You're one of the bloody lucky ones to survive an apocalypse, and do you want to die now? Look, the water, there is smoke everywhere. — I do not feel anything. — says the boy. — What? — I do not feel anything. — he repeats. He dives deep into the lake and begin to swim. Mohamad can't understand what he is observing. Glanced up. — Am I already dead? Is this paradise? The head come out like a needle in a haystack. The boy's hair was damp and sparkling more than ever. — Get in the water! — He exclaims to Mohamad. He hesitates. — Tss, stay there. Do not go out. I will follow. — Get in the fucking water! — yells the boy, who in a matter of seconds between his hands get a fish the size of his body. — Give me that fucking fish! — he exclaims and run to the shore, threatening to jump, but still imprisoned by the fear of dying of hypothermia. — Go on, cunt! Mohamad jumps. The water is not part of the rest of the environment. It is an unstoppable shield that moves away from the coldness outside. It is placidly warm. The bearded man can't believe it. — What the hell did you do? — he asks — I do not know! — Then what the hell do you know!? — Mohamad lunged forwards, and they both frolicked in the water for the huge fish. A relief in the midst of the catastrophe. —Can you get another one? I don't know why I'm asking at this point. — I think so! Sharks, dolphins, fins. Figures Mohamad had not seen for a long time. Everything is peaceful, there is no danger. — A fucking whale! — Mohamad shouts when he sees at his side an orca approaching like a cat. It does not hurt. — Let's get out of here. I want to eat. — We won't eat. — What the hell are you saying? — We won't eat. — I heard you! Why won't we eat? — These beings are our friends. — Are you kidding me? The young man dives into the water and swims in perfect sync with those he calls "friends." Sea creatures that in natural circumstances would probably have eaten them in seconds. He resurfaces with something in hand. — Algae! — he exclaimed. — Whatever, give me that crap. —Mohamad found nutrients in that nature that he considered ruthless until a few hours ago. He looked at the young man and wondered mentally who his companion really was, and why he survived the apocalypse. A reason to understand why they were chosen. For now, he only peacefully acknowledges that he has the power of water and sea creatures on his side, and a strange fellow adventurer who are probably most likely to cause him more than a nuisance along the winding path to discover the truth of their aparent loneliness.


Did she really want to go inside? What if she just went back? No. It was a stupid idea. The sun was almost down. It was already late. She slowly unlocked the door, went in and locked the door with her key. No one was going to leave the house anymore tonight. It was already late. She went upstairs as quiet as she could, holding on to her backpack. Nobody noticed her yet. She heard the noise the tv made. It had to be like that. A stair she stepped on made a noise. She held her breath. There was still the monotone noise the tv made and nothing more. Why couldn't everything just be quiet? She was almost there, just a few steps away. When she stepped on the last stair it made an even louder noise. "Kate?" She grew stiff and held on tighter to her backpack. How was she doing that? How did she notice her every time? Even though her mother had called her, she just stayed there. Standing on the last stair. Maybe it would just stop. If she just would stay there. "Kate!" She still didn't move. Her backpack already had scars. "Kate, I know you're there! Come here and clean the kitchen the way you have to!" She dropped her backpack and ran the stairs down as loud as she could. She wanted to overtone the tv's noise. When she walked by the couch her parents were on she rolled her eyes. She was Cinderella. "Why are you standing there? The kitchen doesn't clean itself !", her father shouted. She didn't say anything, took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. It was always like this. Every day. Exactly that. There was much work every time. She yawned and started cleaning everything. It took an hour. She yawned again. Then she put the sponge away and looked out of the window. The sun was completely gone. Instead there was a full moon. What if she just went away? What if? No. That's a stupid idea. It was dark outside. It was already too late. When she left the kitchen, she froze immediately. Her parents were right in front of her. Everyone just stood there and did nothing. They forgot each other. There was silence for a few moments. Not even the tv made a noise. She wanted silence. Just not that kind of silence. As if she woke up, her mother continued walking. Her husband followed her. "Dont forget to clean the living room." These words were the ones her father told her every evening. She started working and yawned again. Even though her parents would be mad at her the next day, she only did half of the work. She was exhausted. Like every evening. She left the living room and walked by the door that led outside. She just stood there and looked at it. It was too late. Far too late. She walked towards the door and unlocked it. She silently sat down on the stairs in front of the house. Could she really do it? She wanted it so much. But could she? It was too late. Or wasn't it? She looked behind her at the door which was slightly opened. Then she looked at the sky with the shining full moon. The door promised safety. The moon promised freedom. She stood up.


It was a cold November morning and the birds had already begun their morning song. The sun slowly pierced through the clouds and frost glistened across the fields. The sky was a mixture of deep, dark red and blue with only a few wisps of cloud, two men were standing at the rear of a black car, one was smoking a cigarette and the other had his arms folded and looked up at the sky, “Looks like it’s gonna be a nice day,” he declared. His accomplice flicked his cigarette onto the ground, exhaled and looked up, “Yeah.” He turned around, putting his lighter back into his coat pocket, “The farmers’ll be happy anyway.” “What?” “What do they say? Something about red sky?” “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight?” “Yeah that’s the one.” “But it’s morning.” “What?” “It’s morning.” “So?” “The saying is ‘Red sky at night, shepherds delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning’.” “So?” “So, you just implied that the farmers will be happy with the red sky this morning, but the saying states that if there’s a red sky in the morning then the shepherds should take it as a warning. So, they won’t be ‘happy’ will they?” “Who?” “The fuckin farmers!!!” “Oh. Well, they’d still be happy to see a red sky, wouldn’t they? Who doesn’t like seeing a red sky? Looks nice.” The younger man of the two looked on into the distance and the older looked at him perplexed. He’d been doing this for over twenty years now and had the look of a man who had been doing his job for too long, he looked back at the boot of the car and placed his hand on the button to open it. “First time?” “What?” The older man sighed, “Is this your first time?” The younger man turned to face him, looking genuinely unaware of what he was being asked. He looked at the boot, “Oh! Er… yeah, yeah it is.” He looked down at the floor, embarrassed. The older man chuckled, “Don’t worry about it, I lost count in the nineties. It’s really not as bad as you think.” “I’m not fuckin’ worried!” The young man snapped as his face quickly turned red, “I’ve done plenty and I’ve paid my fuckin’ dues! Let’s just get it fuckin’ over with fucks sake!” The older man averted his eyes and understood instantly, “OK fair enough.” He opened the boot and inside was a man wrapped in duct tape from his ankles to his shoulders, in his mouth was a red ball gag that was covered in vomit and blood. As soon as the boot opened, he started thrashing, he’d clearly soiled himself and the smell that hit them as they opened the boot forced them back a few steps. The younger man was bent over and retching, the older man, being used to the particular stenches that people such as the current occupant of the boot produced, recovered quickly and burst out into a deep wheezy laugh, “Never eat before these kinds of things kid, at least at the beginning.” He carried on laughing as the young man vomited what looked like the remnants of a large breakfast. The young man spat and coughed, he looked up through a stream of tears, “Fuck off! Could’ve fuckin warned me!” The old man’s laugh had eased into a chuckle, “Same thing happened to me, l’d eaten porridge though so I wasn’t as bad. Fuck me! You can chew your food you know! Jesus.” The man in the boot was still thrashing, trying to scream. Due to the ball gag some vomit was still in his mouth and as he tried to scream it was spraying out of the sides of the gag, “You’re almost as bad as him!” The older man started laughing hard again with his hands on his knees. “Fuck off!” The young man had recovered and spat one last time before inhaling deeply. He looked at the man in the boot, “Look at the fuckin state of him, who is he?” “Dunno, don’t care.” The old man studied him, although he was practically mummified with duct tape, it was apparent that he was wearing what was once a very nice grey suit, he was probably in his early fifties with a head full of thick silver hair, it was matted with blood and vomit now but on the left hand side it was still combed neatly. His eyes were wild as he continued to thrash and scream, “Shut the fuck up!” The old man punched him so hard he broke his nose and rocked his head back with such force that he immediately went limp, “Cunt.” The young man watched as the old man wiped his hand on the unconscious body, the old man sat on the edge of the boot and glared at the young man, “Mastication.” The young man almost flinched, he looked confused, “What?” “Mastication, essential for healthy digestion during a meal.” “I thought it was supposed to be after a meal and usually with someone.” “What?” “I’ve always heard it’s best after a good meal and ideally with someone, but you haven’t got a missus have you? So yeah that makes sense I suppose.” The old man looked at him dumbfoundedly. He almost started to correct him but instantly realised the futility. He sighed, “How’d you wanna do it?” “I dunno, how’d you usually do it?” “Depends.” “On what?” “A myriad of a factors.” “A what?” “Usually I do them in the boot and take them to wherever, but it’s your car and I didn’t know if you were concerned about the mess.” “Don’t care, whatever’s easier.” “Ok, well?” “Well what?” “Well I’ve got plans later so you wanna?” He gestured towards the unconscious man in the boot, “He’s out cold now so it’s ideal, no thrashing, no screaming.” The young man cleared his throat and started reaching into his pocket, “Why’s it gotta be a fuckin knife?” He pulled out a smooth, black handle from his right inside pocket, he pushed a button and a long, thin blade flicked out, the steel reflected the morning sunlight on to the old man’s face briefly. The old man smiled, “Cost efficiency, you know how expensive clean guns are? Not to mention bullets! Fuck me, before you’ve even got to the job you’ve spent the best part of a grand. You could buy cheaper obviously but then you might not be getting what you pay for, shitty refurb jobs or ones that have been passed around thousands of times. Fuck that.” The young man stood over the unconscious man in the boot, his breathing was labored, his chest slowly going up and down, “How should I do it?” “Up to you, if you’re a sick little cunt you might wanna slit his throat, if it were me I’d just go once in the heart, nice and quick.” The young man breathed in and exhaled sharply, “Ok… fuck it.” He plunged the knife hard and deep into the man’s chest, the man jerked instantly and started thrashing again. His screams turned into a sickening gargling sound, “THE FUCK YOU DOIN’?!” Screamed the old man instantly, “WHAT?” The young man pulled the blade out of the man’s chest, the man in the boot thrashing more violently than before and gargling blood, “I SAID THE FUCKIN HEART! THE FUCKIN HEART! YOU DAFT TWAT!” “THAT IS THE HEART!” The young man screamed back, “NO! IT’S NOT! THAT’S HIS FUCKIN LUNG!! THE HEART’S ON THE LEFT SIDE YOU FUCKIN’ MORON!” “THAT IS THE LEFT SIDE!” “HIS FUCKIN LEFT!!” The old man’s face was dark red, he put his hands on the back of his head, unable to comprehend what he just witnessed, he tried to compose himself, “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW? I AINT A FUCKIN DOCTOR!” The young man’s hand started shaking and his face was bright red again. “Did you ever go to fuckin school? How’d you not know where the fuckin heart is?” “I left school at fourteen!” The young man stated almost proudly, the old man slapped his hands to his sides, “While that explains a lot, it doesn’t explain why the fuck a grown man doesn’t know where the fuckin heart is! Did you eat too much fuckin glue as a kid or something?” The young man searched for an answer, but nothing came. He looked down at the floor, “Sorry.” “Fuck that just finish it.” The young man looked up, the man in the boot had stopped thrashing and was lying there, moaning. He placed the tip of the blade on the unconscious man’s left-hand side of the suit jacket, he looked up, “Here?” The old man sighed and nodded. The young man pushed the blade down hard, the body jerked, a small whimper creeping out of his throat. And silence. The young man slowly pulled the knife out and the blade was a dark crimson, he wiped it on an exposed part of the jacket and threw it in the boot. The old man slowly closed the car boot and studied the young man. He looked even younger now for some reason, late teens maybe early twenties, “How old are you?” “Twenty four.” “Christ.” He walked around the side of the car and sat in the passenger seat, he adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could catch a glimpse of the young man. He was breathing slow and deep and looking into the sky. The old man knew exactly how he was feeling and decided not to say anything else unless he was spoken to. The young man took one more deep breath and turned towards the car, after he climbed in and fastened his seat belt, he put his keys in and started the ignition, “Sorry… I…” “Don’t worry about it, you did good.” The old man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. As he lit one, he felt the car jerk forward gently as they pulled off, he blew a plume of smoke out of the window and looked out into the distance, “Nice day,” he looked over at the young man’s face, his were eyes fixed on the road. After a few moments he sighed, “Yeah.


Everything starts in darkness. It’s a lesson taught to us when we are young, when we are naïve enough to ignore the question, but listen to the fear. What’s in the darkness? Why are we so scared? In the flickering firelight, my shadow-hands make shadow-ducks on the wall, to the great amusement of my comrades. It’s an exciting life, being a trekker, but without jokes and banter, soon you start to feel tired. But not us. We’ve been in the jungle for 3 weeks so far, and nothing bar a few moths and spiders have come to see us. Yesterday the trees moved in what might have been some monkey business, but even with the binos, all we saw was green and disappointment. Green fills the jungle at day. The trees, the snakes, the ground; it’s all full of green. It’s a beautiful, peaceful green, coming in varying shades, a calm in the midst of the chattering noise. But at night, everything changes. The bright, vibrant green gives way to the comforting night. A blackness which fills everything, yet harms nothing. The kind of black that begins with a mother’s baby, still cuddled in the womb. The “good” side of black. The black we are sitting in now. The light of the campfire criss-crosses our faces, and every now and then it floods into a stream. But the others are beginning to start unpacking, getting ready to sleep. Not me. I feel alive. Every night, in this beautiful, dangerous forest, I stay awake to watch the jungle. It’s perfect, even with its flaws. In some ways, I believe that the flaws are what makes it perfect. A thing without error is the most imperfect thing in the universe. The fire dies, and I am left alone in the darkness. But that suits me fine. I’ve always walked alone, and often in dark places. Maybe that’s why I came on this trip. To escape from it all. To run. No. I will not brood over the past again. It’s time to look to the future, to forget what happened to me. With her. I’ve never been good at facing my feelings, and that hasn’t changed yet. Maybe one day in the far, far future, but for now, I should just accept what is. Just be at peace. In the black stillness, something moving catches my eye. Something that seems big. Finally. Something good. One of the night creatures, perhaps a panther, or maybe a late-night tiger. I daren’t wake the others, this is my reward. After I see it fully for myself, then they can find out. But this is for me, something for my eyes alone. I creep out into the darkness, stalking the occasional flash of motion that leads me out, deeper into the jungle. I can remember my way back, just follow my tracks. This thing, whatever it is, has come to a river, and appears to have walked a little further up the banks, before leaving my sight. I scour the ground, yet I can’t find any footprints, which strikes me as strange. Everything, no matter how small and light, leaves traces, so why doesn’t this? I must have imagined it. It is late, and I am a little tired. I turn to go back, to follow my footsteps, but I find, they are gone. The river. The muddy banks, which can be so easily washed away. And further down, there it stands. It shouldn’t be here. It should be dead. The dead stay dead, they are not supposed to come back. But sure as I am lost, there it is. Whatever this unholy reincarnation is. For some time, we are just staring into each other’s eyes, but after an age of silence, its sharp, papery voice rasps its way into my fear.*“* *Where were you?”* Three words. Three words which ask a question only I can answer, a question I will never answer. I am too afraid to answer, too ashamed. You can try and bury the past, but, much like this… this… thing, it catches up with you. I have no choice. I run. I can hear it behind me, screaming with such rage and anguish, and underlying it all, the steel of betrayal. I can’t stop to think about it, I have to get away. But the jungle is not kind to those that walk its corridors whilst scratching off the wallpaper. Those that burn its body to fuel their own. The jungle does not like us, however much we may love it. And all of a sudden, the tree roots seem larger, the creepers seem denser, and all the spiders and bats and animals crawling around me in the darkness seem much, much scarier. But it all pales to what’s behind me. I keep running. Until finally, the jungle strikes back. The tree root was such a dark brown that it seemed camouflaged against the soft ground. But my foot caught, and I felt my self airborne for what seemed like infinity. And with my face in the dirt, something carefully caresses my neck. Something hard yet soft, dark yet pale. Something with more than four fingers. And now a 2nd hand reaches out to me, and grabs the other side of my neck. It lifts me then turns me to face it. I try to let out a scream. I breathe in. I don’t breathe out.