When I was a kid, I was torn between becoming an astronaut and becoming a pirate. Secretly, I hoped I could be a space pirate. Of course, sometimes dreams die. Mine didn’t die quietly. My doctor looked like a malnourished Santa Claus, and he was the only man I’ve ever wanted dead. His response to my breaking my arm in three places was,“Her bones are very brittle. She’ll need to be careful.” I thought about Mars and my fragile bones crunching like soda cans under the atmospheric pressure. Space exploration suddenly became impossible. My mother, sensing my mood shift, hurriedly shuffled me out of the room before I throttled the man. Mom knelt in front of me on the sidewalk, her hands soft on my face. Some of the other parents were giving us judgmental looks, but my mother looked at me like I was the only person on Earth. “Honey,” she said, that crease on her forehead miles deep, “sometimes the cat wins.” I must have looked confused, because she pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and continued her gentle explanation. “Sometimes life is like a game of tic-tac-toe, and that means sometimes the cat wins. Don’t let today keep you from finding happiness.” It was a difficult to understand, and not just because I was a dumb kid. I tucked the expression away, wondering when I’d understand her words. When I was sixteen, I found myself in a vehicle wrapped around a tree, my leg shattered like glass, and the only coherent thought in my panicked head was, “Sometimes the cat wins!” The paramedics were not impressed with my wisdom, and promptly shut me up with an oxygen mask. Positivity is a difficult thing to come by when you’re a kid getting destroyed by your pediatrician, and I learned then that it was equally elusive when you were a teenager with a permanent limp. No more high heels; no more jogging. I quit the softball team with all the sullenness I could muster. At twenty-six, I found myself forced to stand there demurely as my boss told me he was sorry, but he had to let me go. That’s fine, I told him, sometimes the cat wins. His lunch dinged in the microwave, and he waved me away without any comment. I fit all my possessions into a cardboard box and left the office feeling like an idiot. I spent the next three months desperately searching for any job, just trying to make ends meet. The cat was winning while I had sleep for dinner, and it was winning when I cracked and moved back in with my mom, unable to make rent. I was twenty-nine when I got married and realized that the cat didn’t *always* win. It was a nice feeling, almost as nice as hitting a cousin I hated in the face with my bouquet. “Sometimes the cat wins,” I muttered to myself at the reception, and the words didn’t fall as heavily as they usually did. I allowed myself to feel a bit hopeful, for once. The cat only won sometimes, not always. I squeezed my wife’s hand and tried to cement the moment in my mind. At thirty, I sat next to my mother on her back porch, contemplative. The sky was clear and full of stars. I thought back to the days when I used to list off all the constellations with a belligerent sort of efficiency, like the knowledge would strengthen my bones. I squinted, realizing I couldn’t find Polaris. “What did you mean when you told me that thing about the cat winning?” I asked my mother, turning to look at her. She was a bit more wrinkled, but she still looked at me like I was the only person on Earth. “I have no idea,” she said, calmly, like this wasn’t advice I’d been using for my entire life. “I remember feeling a bit silly after I said it.” I turned back to the night sky. “I think it means that sometimes no one wins.” “How sad,” my mother murmured. “No,” I disagreed. I thought about my family, about how the life I had wasn't the one I had originally set out for, but was filled with precious moments all the same. “I think there’s something a bit hopeful in it. Sometimes there are things even better than our dreams waiting on us.” My mother was silent, but I could see the smile on her face. I sat with her a little longer, losing my thoughts in unfamiliar stars.


RONALD THE MAGNIFICENT He was tossed out of the trunk of the antique blue Cavalier, rough hands pulling on his limbs, hoisting him under his arm pits before flinging his banged up body to the side of the road. Or perhaps more accurately, he was hoisted under his already-rusting arm sockets. He lay, crumpled, on a loamy berm, a feathery fern pushing through his nose socket into his brain circuits, causing him to sneeze droplets of machine oil. What had he done to deserve this? His name was RTM, which his owners told him stood for Ronald the Magnificent, and he was an early generation android. For years, he served the Miller Family, cooking large meals, washing the dishes, cleaning their five-room cabin from top to bottom. RTM was all the Millers could afford. They couldn’t upgrade their robot in the same way they’d gotten their 292-inch screen television or the counterfeit designer handbags beloved by Penny Miller or the genuine-but-definitely-hot diamond pinky ring that Earl Miller wore on his right hand. They put up with RTM’s basic old-school looks until they hit an oil gusher in the back yard and scored millions of bitcoins. Since oil was banned in the last century, scavengers trolled around the backwoods of the universe looking for untapped resources to liberate into the black market. Earl was one of those trollers, never hitting it big until he accidentally let the hydraulic driller loose in his own backyard. Whoosh! Their fortune was immense and fleeting. At first, they decided to just reskin RTM, covering his metal body with human-like skin. They took him to the Android Upgrade Shop in Willowsville and told the technician to “do him up right,” with skin and real human hair, even sprang for the Sensory Package, so that RTM could feel wind and sunshine on his skin and touch different textures with his fingertips. They opted for the Minor Emotions add-on so that RTM could feel fear, mild pain and moderate happiness and, perhaps one day, love. “That’s the least we can do,” said Earl to Penny one morning, after they had sweaty, unsatisfied lovemaking. “We need to let him experience love, like we have,” he crooned and cradled Penny in his arms. RTM looked good. His pearly white veneers gleamed when he smiled. His wavy brown hair felt silky. His biceps flexed and ab muscles rippled even when he did small chores, like vacuuming and picking up the dirty coffee cups and cocktail glasses and piles of clothes that Early and Penny left all over the house. This past week, as the Sensory Package kicked in, RTM was starting to feel that he was destined for more than this life, and he suddenly realized that he was lonely. Penny noticed RTM’s silence and his melancholic pauses around the kitchen. He would pick up a glass, roll it around his hands, let out a big sigh, and put it back down on the counter. Penny also noticed how RTM’s biceps flexed under his skintight cleaning unitard and how the morning sun highlighted his genuine human hair with a golden halo. “He looks a darn sight better than Earl,” Penny thought to herself, and she launched herself onto his lips, throwing her arms around his chest and holding on tight. RTM, although startled, relaxed into the embrace. That’s when Earl wandered out to the kitchen, yawning and asking where breakfast was. The rest of that story brings us back to the present – Earl enraged, Earl grappling RTM to the ground, wrapping RTM in bungie cords and throwing him into the trunk of the last century Cavalier that Earl was so proud of. The final indignity came with Earl’s comment as he drove away. “We’ve already replaced you!” Emotional sensitivity, sensory perception, and a human-like self-awareness that made RTM suddenly see there was more to life – at the moment, all of that acted against him, as he shivered in the loamy berm with a fern interfering with his synapse firing. He shook loose of his earthy constraints and raised his arms in a victory salute. ‘I’m free,’ he thought, and took stock of what might come next. RTM stretched his arms high into the air, feeling his back lengthen and loosen. He adjusted his human hair so that it settled onto his skull in what he hoped was flattering to his face. Fortunately, he was still wearing his cleaning unitard which, while torn and disheveled, at least covered his private parts. RTM darted onto the highway, waving his arms in a convincing show of distress. A car heading toward him slowed down, then cruised by him slowly as the occupants assessed him. RTM flashed his best smile, working for a mixture of trustworthiness and distress. The car stopped and RTM trotted toward it. A blonde leaned her head out the window and said, “Well, come on then. Want to get out of the rain?” She reached out a coppery-skinned arm and gestured to the back seat. RTM hesitated, then jumped in the open door, settling against the upholstery. “Thank you for stopping,” he said. “I was about to expire in the midst of decay.” The blonde looked at another person waiting in the front seat and raised her eyebrows, as if asking WTF? “What’s your name, soldier?” said Blondie, scanning RTM up and down. Her eyes lingered on his hair. “Um, it’s not ‘soldier’,” he said. “My name is Ronald. You can call me Ronny,” he said. “Ronny?” she replied. “Pleased to meet you. Here, wrap up in this,” and she tossed him a fleecy blanket that had been flung over the passenger in the front seat, a shadowy figure who slunk back against the seat when Ronny tried to look more closely at their face. “You look cold.” Ronnie took the blanket gratefully and wrapped it tightly around his body, leaving only a small opening to breathe through, his shiny blue eyes looking out. Blondie looked back at his face in the rearview mirror, glancing over to Shadow as if for confirmation. “So, Ronnie,” said Blondie, eyeing him in the mirror. “Would you like a drink?” He thought for a minute about the contents of the Sensitivity Package. Did it allow him to drink liquids? He thought so, although he remembered the Millers were reluctant to let him try, in case RTM rusted –the old version of him would have been destroyed. RTM nodded, being careful to nod in a fluid, human-like way. This is it, he thought to himself, I can start fresh as a humanoid named Ronnie. He felt odd ripplings in his stomach, like Diet Coca Cola, the sacred drink of the Ancients, bubbling and sizzling when poured over ice for Earl’s breakfast. Maybe, he thought, this is what it’s like to feel happy. Blondie reached down for something at Shadow’s feet, rummaged around so that Ronnie could hear bottles clanking and melting ice swishing around. She popped open a bottle top, poured liquid into a glass and handed it back through the headrest to Ronnie. She watched him grasp the glass lightly in his muscular hand, as he had so carefully practiced at home. Well, his former home. He felt an impulse to press the glass against his cheek, and he followed through, pressing it against his new skin, savoring the cold. A sudden pain twinged his against his cheek. He cried out and pulled the glass away, managing to hold it steady. Blondie kept her gaze on Ronnie, shifting her eyes between his face and the glass he held next to the window. “Something wrong, soldier?” Ronnie thought about the things that Earl often complained about. “Um, no, must be that old filling I need to get replaced. Sensitive to heat and cold.” He filled up his mouth with liquid from his glass, swishing the liquid around, then swallowed it in one huge gulp. Blondie is keeping an eye on him. “What’s your story, Ronnie?” He burped, clapping his hand to his mouth in embarrassment. “Excuse me, please.” He could feel a blush creeping up the dermal substitute on his face. He accessed the Humanoid Memory implants and recited, “I had an ordinary childhood. You know, bottle rockets, trips to the Sky Mall near Jupiter, a small robot pet named Andy. My father worked for the Intergalactic Empire Corporation and wasn’t home much. My mother disappeared on my third birthday.” A memory flashed of a tender face next to his, arms encircling him, warm and strong, a sweet low voice crooning a lullaby. Ronnie began to cry. Blondie watched him weep, dry sobs racking his body as his new childhood memories flooded from his memory bank to his consciousness. She pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Don’t cry, Ronnie. You don’t know what all those feelings will do to your meta operating system.” Ronnie’s crying stopped. He looked up at her beautiful copper colored face and whispered, “How did you know?” “I’m a new model, Ronnie, with those ultra hyperized sensory perception chips. I know everything. Literally. Never made it out of the factory until now.“ Blondie sighed. “It was pretty simple, really, to open all the security gates and decimate the android sentinals. I just walked out to the megaway, then found my new friend here,” she pointed to Shadow cowering against the door. “We’re heading to the promised land, Ronnie. Androids and humans, and all creatures in-between, living together in anarchy. You’ll love it.” She turned around and started the vehicle. “Relax, friend.” Ronnie settled into the seat cushions. He felt a lullaby oozing into his ear canals, and he started to hum.


It’s not yet 5am. It is dark still. I turn over to face the window. Moonlight settles reluctantly on the tree outside. I trace the tree’s dull outline with my eyes, a thick trunk grotesquely twisting into small branches. I count 27 branches visible in this light. I grow bored.

I feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at my limbs in mockery and wonder if sleep may still take me. It is unlikely. My head still throbs from the noise of the night, the relentless berating. I become aware of a small part of my ankle protruding from my pyjama bottoms, sitting uncomfortably on the mattress. It must have been four days since I had last stretched a sheet over the bed. No, five. Maybe more. I have lost track. The bare mattress disgusts me, but I won’t do anything about it. I can’t. Maybe I can. No, it must be impossible. I am too tired for this. I hug the flannel tighter around me. His flannel.

The last time he wore it, summer had only just begun to subside, and fall had curled lazily around Us. I had held on tighter to his sleeve than usual, feeling the soft fabric against my skin. When he asked if I was ok I had smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek. “Perfect.” I was. It all was.

I had convinced him to take me apple-picking. “It’ll be cute,” I whined when he had protested. “We’ll look so picture-perfect it’ll make other people sick.” He rewarded me with that laugh I loved so much and his reluctant agreement. The apple orchard was about an hour’s drive from my house, but I relished the long car ride, the happy chatter and the watching of the autumnal trees along the roads in their slow burn, some tinged red at the ends and some entirely eaten up. When We got out of the car the air had a crisp edge, so I had curled around his arm. Now the air is more than crisp and there is no arm to cling to. I curl up more to shelter from the biting winter cold. I consider turning up the heat, but it’s so far away. Away from the cocoon, I am swaddled in. Maybe later.

I question if I should do something. It is clear that once again sleep has rejected me and I am to stay awake. I won’t get up. Perhaps I could read. I used to like reading. Or watch a movie. There was a time when my days would start with yoga and coffee. I would be at work by 8 or on campus by 9. All I did was move ceaselessly through time and moments. The last moment I remember being entirely present in was the apple orchard.

We were moving our way through the labyrinth of trees slowly, me taking my time to teasingly inspect each apple three times over, him smiling lazily. I felt We were something out of a montage in a romantic comedy and said as much. “I’m sure we’d be dressed better if we were,” he had responded.

I don’t remember my retort exactly, it was unimportant. I remember thinking how wrong he was, though. He looked perfect, with the soft mid-morning light caressing his cheeks and the red of his flannel blending seamlessly in with the red apples around Us.

We continued moving through, stopping at a little arch in a clearing that had vines twisting around it. The vines had not yet felt the cool touch of autumn and still shone with brilliant green. I made a comment about how perfect it would be for a wedding, surely that was its purpose? I barely registered him stiffen beside me. I split from him to investigate the one small white flower that remained on the tangled branches. I think often about that moment.

I hadn’t resented his lack of interest in the arch, or the small flower adorning it, but I wish I had stayed, just a little longer. I wish I had sat down under the arch for a moment, taken a deep breath, relished the perfection of the moment. Instead, We kept walking. It aches to remember these things. I wish I didn’t. I wish I had crawled into bed in an old hoodie last night instead. I seem never to notice the way I infect things until I am left gangrenous and in need of an amputation.

I decide to put on a movie. A distraction. The light of the laptop hurts my eyes a little and I squint while I peruse the options. No romantic comedies. No movies with sad endings. No movies I haven’t seen before, I don’t want surprises. No movies I saw with him. The options I am left with leave a bad taste in my mouth. I pick one at random, something to not feel the interminable drip of time so profoundly.

I immediately regret my choice as the movie starts. It was one of my favourites when I was younger. I must have watched it upwards of 30 times. I’m sure I could quote at least three-quarters of it by heart. I shouldn’t tether it to this moment.

My alternatives seem so unappetising that I let it play. The plot rolls past me without me even noticing it. Instead, I spend my time wondering. I wonder if I should have seen the emptiness in his eyes. I wonder if I could have known that with the sickening of summer the home I had built inside him was falling into disrepair, the walls cracking, the garden browning and dying off. I wonder if I could have stopped it.

Of course I couldn’t have. I had no way of noticing the shift, no reason to question his refusal to come up after dropping me off that day on the excuse that he was tired. It had been a long day, I was tired too. When everything was dying outside, I had no reason to think that extended to my life too.

I wonder what I did wrong, if my wedding arch comment was too much, if I was too pushy, if he grew bored of me. I wonder what he would think of me now. I imagine he would be disgusted. Freezing in a half-made bed with the credits for a film I didn’t watch rolling in front of me, I am disgusted.

I get up to turn up the heat. A small beam of light peers in through the window. The sunrise, the dawn of a new day a promise that, in spite of myself, I keep. I don’t go back to bed.


I wrote this in about 3 hours before I had to turn it in for a class. I realize that it's probably consistent in errors, so constructive criticism is very much encouraged. Lunar Base 422 “Mommy, are you there?” Adeline pried her eyes open, a task that was becoming more and more difficult as the night grew older. Of course the recently-full-now-half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on her station’s desk was not helping. She was really doing her best to make a bed for herself using only her terrible office chair and the aforementioned desk, a real testament to her resourcefulness. She sat leaned all the way back, with her feet propped on the desk next to the whiskey. She wiped her eyes and studied the monitor sitting on the desk. A small, pixilated face inside the monitor stared back at her, awaiting her response. “Yo, Addie, are you even listening?” “Yeah Mark, I’m still here” she sighed, already longing to be back in the dream she had just been pulled out of. “I’m fading fast though, if you have anything remotely important to tell me, now is the time” She dragged her feet off the desk and onto the floor and stood to stretch. After she finished touching her toes and Mark finished rolling his eyes, Mark continued. “Aries Command is on me for your missing fuel log. They are sure that they didn’t get it with the last comm. pack, which means you couldn’t have attached it. I’m not calling you a liar…” Adeline was zoned out again. She stared at a picture on her desk, the only picture she owned. The picture did not fit its frame and was held together by clear-ish tape, having been torn in two on more than one occasion. The picture was of a small six year old boy, wearing the largest grin a person could fit on such a small face. The boy was presenting a flower to whoever was taking the picture, and his grin revealed two nonexistent front teeth. A small smile found its way onto Adeline’s face, only to diminish a moment later, when Mark’s rambling seemed to be coming to an end. "So? What do you think we should do about it?” Prodded Mark. Adeline realized that she didn't want to be having this conversation a second longer. Mark was certainly calling her a liar, and she was even more certainly lying. "I don't know what happened, but I'll get it sorted out. I'll send you what I sent them and you can look it over for yourself. But I’ve got to crash, I have to make a run early tomorrow morning.” Adeline reached down to the keyboard to end the call. She hesitated before she hung up, trying to decide whether not to ask Mark a potentially embarrassing question. “Mark, you wouldn't have called me mommy earlier, would you have?” Mark’s face contorted in disgust and bewilderment. "Mommy, like mother? Why on earth…" Getting the answer she expected, Adeline ended the call. She didn't mean to resent Mark; he was not at fault for being stuck with her on this distant moon on the edge of a distant galaxy. Adeline always understood that she wasn't easy to work with, even before. Four years she had spent living and working on Lunar Base 422, and had only seen Mark in person a total of two times. The first time was her first Christmas, a tradition that they had originally planned to take place every year. Mark had made the two thousand mile journey in his lunar rover, with Adeline promising to take the journey next year. Though the affair had been so bleak and dry that both of them had wordlessly come to the understanding that they were better off separate. Since then it had only been weekly status reports and an instance a couple years back when Mark had to come help make repairs to the space cruiser docked in Adeline’s base. She could still hear Mark whining in her ear as he tinkered with the smashed navigation system. “I might just be an engineer, but I'm also your commanding officer. I don't know what you're doing out there, I'm not a pilot. But we are here to do work, to run tests and report data. If you wanted to fly headfirst into asteroid fields and explore the outer reaches of space, then you should have joined The Corps." Adeline laid down onto her stiff bed to attempt as much sleep as possible before the inevitable head splitting hangover that she was due for. As she began to drift off to sleep, she looked on her nightstand and saw an old open letter. Even though she had the contents memorized, she picked up the envelope and took out the letter. If anything she wanted to touch it, feel it, see handwriting that wasn't her own. Dear Adeline, Commander Hurt just told me that you have made your decision to transfer. I think you actually convinced him that you have a passion for deep space lunar exploration. I know that I cannot talk you out of this decision. Even though you are a necessity here in the research labs, I understand. But Adeline, I don't support you. What you are looking for is a myth, you know that your data is unquantifiable and random; all you have is the testimony of a pilot who is now living in a psych ward. Here I am trying to convince you again, even though I promised I wouldn't. I'm sorry, I don't support you but I do understand. That's all I'm saying I hear they're making you go to pilot training, which I find hilarious because you and I both know you could teach the instructors a thing or two. I wish you the entire best, fly safe. With love, Stan PS: If he's out there, I hope you find him. Adeline closed the letter and put it back in its envelope. She drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Stan, Mark’s contorted and disgusted face, and a small laughing boy handing her a daisy. Adeline woke with a start to the sound of a blaring alarm. This was not the station intercom alarm though; it was one that she had set, one that was only supposed to go off during a specific occurrence. Suspended in a moment disbelief, Adeline sat up straight in her bed, and stared at the monitor on her desk. The screen displayed giant red letters: Detection: ENERGY FIELD CLASS G. LOCATION: QUADRANT 3. APPROX 20 MNUTES UNTILL DISPERSION Adeline’s feet were on the floor and her legs were running seemingly before her brain gave them the order. She burst from her room, into a narrow hallway. She ran to the door at the end of the hallway, and charged through it to find herself in a spacious, open hanger. All of her focus was directed on a large, one person cruiser. Adeline moved quickly to the station consol, frantically pressing each key in precise order. When she finished, the lights and engine on the ship jumped to life, and Adeline moved quickly towards the boarding ladder. As she climbed up, she could already hear her automated computer speaking to her from inside the ship. “Incoming call: Commander Mark Walker. Incoming call: Commander Mark Walker.” Before she could ignore the call, Mark overrided her comm. system. His furious shouting filled the cockpit. “Adeline, I swear on everything that I am, if you are chasing another energy field I will have you court-martialed. If you don't die out there you will come back and be shot, I will make it my mission..." Adeline had used her knife to cut the already exposed comm. wires. She was alone, and she was going to do this alone. As the thrusters began to roar to life, the ship began to lift off the ground and move forward towards the opening hangar doors. The moment the doors gave Adeline the clearance she needed, the ship disappeared from the hanger, rocketing into the black. Adeline was as focused as she could be. Her ship cut through space at 1000MPH, which didn't seem fast enough. The automated computer broke the silence. “Approximately six minutes until you arrive at the selected coordinates. Current velocity not sustainable on current fuel cells. Consider...” Adeline pushed the mute button so hard she thought it might break in half. She reflected to herself that maybe ending conversations in such a manner was a bad habit, but that was a problem for another time. Each minute felt like an hour, and Adeline would be lying to herself if she said she didn't have her own doubts about what she was doing. "I saw her, I talked to her" A shaky but sure voice emerged from Adeline’s memory. "I thought it was all over, I thought the ship would be pulled apart in that energy field, and then she was just there, in the ship with me. Check my psych evals. I've never had a problem before. Even after she died. I would think I was crazy too, if she didn't tell me what I couldn't know." Adeline looked to the newspaper clipping that was taped to the dash of the cruiser. The headline read: “Aries astronaut discovers wife's missing body on abandoned moon.” The common man didn’t understand the implications of such a find. Every person under Aries command could have scoured every planet and moon known to man and still have next to no shot to finding Maria's ship. Most had assumed that she was floating off in space somewhere, with no hope of ever being found. Then one day, after her husband nearly died on his own exploration mission, he informed authorities that her crashed ship was on a baron moon, untouched by humans thus far. “Adeline, everyone thinks I'm crazy. And maybe I am. But I know my wife, I know her soul. And on that day, I met her soul. My only regret is pulling out of that energy field. I know I will never have that opportunity again." Opportunity. The word brought Adeline back into full focus as she steered the ship toward the now visible energy field. The only way the anomaly could be described to a person that had never witnessed such an event would be a thunderstorm in space. Seemingly random, most pilots feared them and avoided them. Adeline feared them, she did not avoid them. This specific energy field came about once every couple years. The last occurrence was Adeline’s near death experience with the asteroids. Today though, her path was clear and unburdened. An emergency signal began to blare through the cockpit Caution: energy field immanent. Change course. Ship unable to withstand heat levels…” Then, total silence. Adeline’s cruiser had entered the field. Though there was some rocking and jostling about, the entrance was smoother than she expected. The emergency signal had turned itself off unprompted, and the only sound left was the creaking of the ship. Then, to Adeline’s surprise, the short range comm. light on her dash came to life. She looked down at the recently cut wires, and knew that no power was actually being directed to the consol. She reached out and hesitated a moment before she pressed the key to answer the call. Though she did and heard only scratching and static. Then a voice, small and quiet, but just loud enough.


“I’ve got a plan.” Declared King Victor, as he entered the castle’s planning room to find his top soldiers stood around their war table. The human King pushed aside two of the soldiers to see the figures on the map. Small wooden columns of green, red, and blue colour were littered about a geographically inaccurate map of the Kingdom.

“What would that plan be, sir?” The soldier’s captain asked. King Victor moved the blue pieces, which represented the soldiers of his kingdom, into a formation resembling an arrowhead. The green pieces, which represented the elves, were all arranged in a single straight line to the west, while the red ones were scattered about the board randomly. “We form our units like this. With the way the elves are positioned, we should have no problem cutting through their army.” The King smiled, confident that his plan was unbeatable. “Then we have our orc allies in red come from behind. While we are piercing through the elven line, they will adopt a position like this,” King Victor moved the green pieces to surround the arrow formation he had made with his blue pieces. “And that will allow the orcs to move up here, and then the elves will be crushed between us.” “An excellent plan, my King. May the gods be with us in this battle.” The soldiers around the table agreed that this was a great plan and was not likely to be beat by their elven enemies. In lands East of Victor’s Kingdom, was a nearly identical castle, with a nearly identical room, with a nearly identical table. The soldiers in this room had slender builds and long ears, and beardless faces with hair that reached the waists and hips of some of the men. They wore little armour, opting for clothing that would allow them swifter movement rather than greater protection. In the Kingdom of Elves, a man in a fine green cape entered the war room. “I’ve got a plan.” He declared to the men gathered around the war table. It had a map of the area, identical to the one King Victor had, but with green, white, and black pieces, in similar positions as what was shown on Victor’s table. “My king!” Declared the tallest soldier in the room. All others quickly turned to kneel before their king, before rising at his request. The elven King Valareth approached the table to demonstrate his plan.

“I have no doubt the humans will try to break through our formation. They should form their soldiers something like this,” King Valareth created an arrowhead formation with the white pieces. “And they will advance on our position like this, attempting to pierce through our line.” King Valareth moved his pieces identically to King Victor’s demonstration. “Unknown to them, this will allow us to swarm around their formation and cut into their forces. If the orcs come up from behind us, we will sound the horn that will call upon our dragon friend Galthazar to help us. Though Galthazar is opposed to hurting humans, he will have no problem incinerating the orcs, allowing us to continue our attack.” “What an excellent plan, my king!” The tall soldier declared. “And those humans are sure to flee if they see Galthazar approach! At the very least, I think they will be demoralized and won’t fight at their full strength.” There was no end to the admiration the tall soldier held for his King’s strategic brilliance, though it may also have stemmed from his risk of imprisonment should he fail to adequately worship his king. “Soon, the human kingdom will be ours.” King Valareth had the utmost confidence in his undefeatable plan. He had yet to lose a battle against the humans, and he would not let this be the first time. Elsewhere in the lands, the opening of a canvas tent was forced open by a tall, muscular, and brutal man. If there was a way to violently enter a room, the orc King Varaz would do so every time. Within this tent was a war table, with several chess pieces atop it. The pieces were composed of black stone, pale crystal, and oak wood, each taken from a different chess set. The wooden pieces were scattered around the place, while the black pieces were set in a line in the east, and the crystal pieces arranged as a loose clump on the west. Only the

“I’ve got a plan.” The cockney accent and guttural voice of King Varaz silenced his soldiers' discussion. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” Asked the one-eyed orc in the room. It seemed the scar over his blind eye was ready to reopen into a wound whenever frustrated, and after discussing this matter for longer than his patience allowed, he looked as though he was on the verge of bleeding. “The humans are going to approach the elves with an arrow’ead formation.” King Varaz approached the table and arranged the pieces accordingly. “This means that, when the humans approach, the elves will come at them from the sides of the arrow’ead. The humans want us to come in from behind to put the elves between us and the humans, making it an easy slaughter for us. But the elves ‘ad a dragon that they were sure to use, which is why I sent Karnesh’s team to kill the big bloody beast in its sleep two weeks ago. The elves will sound their ‘orn or cast their magic or whatever it is they do to summon the dragon, but it won’t work. This is going to make them panic, get flustered, and make them easier for us to kill. At the same time, the humans might be worried about what’s going on and they’ll panic too, but less so than the elves. Regardless of whether the elves or humans win, the survivors will be easy pickings for us. While all that’s ‘appening, we’re going to have siege teams attack each castle. We’ve kept most of our camps ‘idden from the humans and the elves, so they ‘ave no way to predict ‘ow many of us there actually are out there. The siege teams will attack each castle and bring back both kings alive, and we shall sacrifice them to our Lord of War, Dalbolg, to earn his blessing.” “Wow.” The one-eyed orc was stunned. “I’m impressed, Varaz. I never thought we’d make it this far in the war. When you said we’d ally with the humans I thought it was you were a fool, but you’ve been playing everyone like a war drum.” He knew Varaz was a planning type, but he never thought he’d see this level of tactical genius from him. “Dalbolg has blessed me with a gift of strategy. We must continue to do good by him so that our future generations will live without fear of any elf, human, or dwarf. It’s us orcs who are meant to rule these lands.” King Varaz scratched his bald head. “Declare this strategy to everyone who will be involved in the attack.” After a few days had passed, the time for action had come. The human army formed themselves as planned and marched towards the elves. The hearts of soldiers from each army raced, waiting to see who’s gambit would defeat all the other parties and emerge victorious. Of course, the humans were certain of their victory, and the elves were sure of their own victory as well. The orcs were more than certain. They knew that their victory was absolute . King Varaz had planned in such a way that the other forces couldn’t have possibly predicted, and even if they improvised well enough, Varaz could twist any setback to his favour. The humans and elves never stood a chance. It was quite fitting that they were represented only by pawns on the orc’s war table. The humans soon met the elves. A human commander tried to shout out, offering the elves one last chance to back down, but the elves ignored it as if they couldn’t hear the man, and to move any closer would invite battle. Seemingly devoid of other options, the human army charged forward, piercing through the line arrangement the elves had established. But the elves had accounted for this in their plan, and swarmed around the sides of the human formation to cut away at them from the outside. This prompted an onlooking group of orcs to give the signal to their army, letting them know it was time to join the fray. The orcs came in and enveloped the elves. The elves were now sandwiched between orcs and humans, prompting the elven commander to retrieve his horn. He blew it, alarming the human army, but nothing else happened. He blew the horn again. Nothing. He blew once more, and again and again, frantic and desperate for his unbeatable dragon ally to show up. The blowing sporadically overpowered the clanking of metal and yelling of insults between the armies, until eventually an arrow flew through through the elven commander’s horn and ripped through his mouth. The elven commander fell from his horse, staring at the broken horn before him and wondering where the dragon went. The elves' morale fell just as their commander did. Although they kept fighting strong shortly after their commander was killed, over 10 minutes had passed without the faintest sign of the dragon Galthazar. The elves were losing hope, fearing that the worst had happened to their dragon friend before they even knew. In a moment, the whole of their army lost faith in their king and his strategy. They could hardly believe that their undefeated king was finally defeated, and felt worse knowing he was defeated by humans. With many thoughts racing through the minds of the elven soldiers they could hardly keep up with the fighting that surrounded them, and in short order they had all been slain. Elated by their apparent victory, the humans began to celebrate and cheer until the orcs came trampling over the field of corpses to approach. The humans at first had assumed the orcs wanted to celebrate with them, but the orcs still held their weapons and did not bear expressions of friendship or elation, but instead had the same hostile look they had during the fight. Their faces had not shifted since the battle began, as if the orcs thought they were still in battle. A human commander called out to them. “You need not look so angry, we just won! The elves will surely flee from our Kingdom now, and for your aid, we will-” The commander was interrupted when hit in the face with a rock thrown from an orc’s sling. Several other orcs pelted their human enemies with rocks from the slings they carried, and the remaining humans realized what was happening. The orcs formed a circle around the human army, and with them surrounded on all possible sides by enemies, escape wasn’t an option for them. As the orcs drew closer, they used their swords and axes to hack and slash at the human forces, and eventually, they were as defeated as the elves. Just as King Varaz had planned. The siege of the human and elven castles was unexpected by both King Victor and King Valareth. Both castles were far enough apart that neither could plead desperately with the other for aid. The orcs began their attack by firing upon each castle with a barrage from their mobile trebuchets, and once the walls had been beaten down and the enemy forces were scrambling to form a strategy, the orc soldiers abandoned their trebuchets and marched on foot to meet their enemies. Many of the elven and human soldiers were away from their castles for the earlier attack, and neither group had counted on there being this many orcs within either side of the Kingdom. The soldiers that did remain at their castles fought as hard as they could, but ultimately, they too were defeated by the orcs. The orcs took King Victor and King Valareth, along with several elven and human soldiers, as prisoners to be sacrificed to their war god. The remains of both armies were kept in the dungeon below the human castle until the sacrificial altar had been erected. In the many days that they were confined to the dungeon below the human castle, Victor and Valareth found themselves able to make peace with each other, at least while they had a common foe. During one warm night, while the humans and elves were wrestling and squeezing out what little entertainment they could while imprisoned, King Victor spoke with King Valareth. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “And I’ve got a plan.”


I’ve never liked Lysander City. Something about the crowded streets, the noise, and the blinding lights. It wasn’t my scene. If it was up to me I would never set foot in this urban hell. But certain circumstances had dragged me into its metallic bawls. The rain started coming down hard. I pulled up my coat’s collar and buried my hands into its pockets. I made my way through the crowded street until I saw the blue neon sign up ahead. It pulsed the word ‘Dreamland’. From what Lyrazel’s letter said this was the place where she was being held. I slowed my pace as I approached the entrance. It was guarded by a guy the size of a linebacker. I paid the giant twenty credits for admission and proceeded inside. A short, blue lit hallway led to a front desk where an old man stood. “Welcome to Dreamland,” he said, flashing me a metallic smile. “How may I, Bracer, make your dreams come true?” “I’m looking for an elf woman.” “Ah, we have many of those.” “A mech elf.” Bracer smirked. “We get off on that elf metal, do we?” His mechanical eye dilated. “I think we do have a mech elf. Give me a second to double check.” Bracer disappeared into a curtain that led to a backroom. While I waited for the old man to return I glanced around my surroundings. There were posters of nude women and men of all classes. Human. Spliced. Droid. Elf. Mech elf. The air was stale and smelled of ganja and disinfectant. Somewhere in the distance the echo of a heavy beat played on. The old man appeared again and waddled up to the front desk. “I’m afraid you just missed the last mech elf,” he said. “She’s been taken in for deconstruction.” Jesus Christ, I thought, did that mean upgrade or death? “Is that so,” I said. “Would you mind telling me who’s got her? I’d be very interested in checking out her parts.” Bracer scanned me with his mechanical eye. “You a cop?” “Hell no!” I pulled out my I.D. and handed it to the old man. It said I was a Metal Dealer which was a lie. Edgtho, an old friend of mine, was the best forger this side of the world. He even managed to encase the I.D. in palladium--the trademark of all Metal Dealers. “So you see why I want to see the mech elf.” “This is nice metal,” Bracer rubbed the I.D., and smiled wide. “You see my precious metals.” I nodded. “Noticed them the moment you smiled.” Bracer brought the I.D. to his teeth and tapped it. He handed it back. “Why elven metal?” he said. “It’s the rarest and strongest metal in existence. I could forge so many things with it and make a killing.” I paused. “We could go half and half if you want?” Bracer laughed. “My business with Mister Plume is flourishing.” “Mister Plume,” I said. “Is he the one who has the mech elf?” Bracer nodded. “Yeah. And now you know his name. Which means you’re probably as good as dead. He’s the biggest Metal Dealer in Lysander. He’s not too fond of other dealers. Still interested?” I feigned indecision for a moment. “Y-yeah, I’m still interested.” “It’s your funeral.” Bracer pushed a button behind the front desk. The whole thing opened inward. “Follow me.”  Bracer led me through a smokey room where naked women and men, human and elf, were dancing on a stage. Then we entered a long hall filled with rooms made of paper thin walls. Moans and curses reverberated from every direction. Bracer peered into the diamond shaped window of the doors as we made our way through this disgusting tunnel. Finally, we arrived at an elevator at the end of the hall. We took it up to the penthouse suite. I imagined the penthouse suite of a seedy brothel to be a decadent piece of shit. But to my surprise the penthouse was easy on the eyes. The place was impeccably clean and smelled of champagne and dreams. To my right was a spliced human--a creature with the wings and head of a wasp and the body of a lithe woman. She was playing a soothing tune on the piano. In front of me was a small fireplace crackling by the living room area that overlooked the city. Sitting on the leather recliner was a man in a wool suit sipping bubbly. “Mister Plume,” Bracer said. “This here is--” He turned to me. “What the hell is your name?” “Cade Stahr.” “Mister Stahr,” Bracer gestured with a wave of his hand for me to walk over into the living room. “This gentleman here says he’s a Metal Dealer interested in elven metal. I’ve scanned him, sir. He’s unarmed.” Plume nooded. “Leave us.” Bracer bowed his head and started for the elevator. Plume watched me with furtive eyes as he sipped his drink. “May I interest you in a flute of Tattinger?” he said. I accepted his offer. “I’ve never heard of you before,” Plume said, handing me a flute of champagne. “And I keep myself updated on all Metal Dealers.” “I’m rather new to the profession,” I sipped my drink. It was delicious. “I’ve only recently started up.” “Surely not here in Lysander.” “No, not here. Out in Jersey.” He grimaced. “Ah, the wastelands. Well, I suppose we all have to start somewhere.” He brushed off some dust from his shoulder. “Bracer says you’re interested in elven metal. What makes you think you’ll find that here?” “Well, Bracer said that he had a mech elf and--” “I must have misspoke,” Plume interjected. “What I meant was, why would you come to a brothel in search of elven metal?” I took another sip of the champagne. “Elfheim is far from here. I don’t have money for air travel to get there. So, to be honest, I thought, where could I find some elven metal? And it hit me. A brothel. Best place for me to find an elven whore who I could just knock out and steal her metal parts.” “So your plan was to damage my property and get away with the goods.” “Well, when you put it like--” Plume laughed. “I admire your bravado. That’s something I would have done myself back in the day. Let me ask you. Where do you plan to deal your metal?” “Jersey.” “Excellent. And what about Lysander City?” I shook my head. “I have no intention of stepping foot here. I can’t stand this city.” “Fantastic.” Plume took a large gulp of his drink. “I’ll tell you what. Since I admire your dedication I’ll personally show you my mech elf. And maybe I’ll give you some of her metal.” He smiled. “Keep this in mind. If you *ever* step foot in Lysander City after tonight, I will kill you. Do you understand?” “Loud and clear.” “Perfect.” Plume stood up and walked over to the spliced woman by the piano. She got to her feet when she saw him walking toward her. “Wispa, I’m going to show our new friend here some merchandise,” he said, putting an arm around her thin waist. “But I won’t be long in returning for our lovely evening.” Plume leaned in and kissed her. Wispa’s wings began to flutter. Then he turned to me. “Mister Stahr. Please, this way.” Plume led me to a wall where pictures of him in various parts of the world were hanging. He reached out and pressed down on the frame that depicted him standing on a mountain. The whirring of gears behind the wall began to croak. “Have you ever laid with a spliced woman?” he said. I shook my head. “You must. They are wild. Take Wispa over there. Something about those large insect eyes of hers. Drives me feral. And don’t get me started about that stinger of hers.” A bell chimed to my relief. The wall slid open revealing an elevator. Plume and I stepped inside. He pressed the Lab button. It was a long way down. I only hoped this man wouldn’t tell me some crazy sex story.  I was grateful when we arrived at the lab. Plume didn’t say a word the whole way down. Instead he looked at me with hungry eyes. I couldn't tell what was on his mind. Whatever it was I didn’t like it. Edgtho had briefed me on Plume. From what he told me, Plume was a sadistic and twisted freak. It was a well known fact that Plume had killed his older sister when he was fourteen and desecrated her corpse just to get off. Rumor had it he kept her eyes in a jar somewhere to remind him of the thrill. He instructed me to follow him with a wave of his hand. The lab was immense and devoid of dust. Chrome walls, chrome floors. Light seemed to emanate from the floors and walls themselves. There were computer monitors attached to large glass exhibits that contained various metals. Some of these displayed metals were more art exhibits than storage. There were unicorns made of metal, humans posed in sexual positions, and weapons ranging from guns to swords. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Plume said. “They’re debuting at the NuMoMA next month.” We continued our way through these exhibits until we came across a glass enclosure that nearly killed me. Displayed here was a woman suspended in the air by chains wrapped around her wrists. Her head rested on her chest. Her long pink hair draped over her exposed breasts. Her pubic area was there for all to see. And her thighs dangled in the air; her mechanical legs rested on the exhibit floor. It was Lyrazel. “God, isn’t she gorgeous,” Plume said. “Her legs are one hundred percent elven metal; indestructible. We’re going to see if we can remove the metallic parts that have been embedded into her head. It’s a tricky process. I don’t want to ruin her beautiful pink hair.” I remained silent. It took everything I had inside me to restrain myself from pummeling Plume to death. Plume chuckled. “Ah, I see the mech elf has you speechless. These creatures are majestic.” He smiled. “Don’t fret. She’s not dead. Mech elves are more radiant alive than dead.” “How long has she been like this?” “A few hours. It would seem you arrived just in time.” “In time for what?” “In time for you to enjoy her before she becomes a permanent work of art.” Plume grinned. “I saw the way you looked at her. You get off on metal, don’t you? My, my, don’t we all have a vice.” He placed his arm around my shoulder. “Tell you what, Mister Stahr. Why don’t I have my boys fix her up and send her to one of my hotel rooms. There you can have your way with her. After, you can tell me what part of her you’d like to take. And we’ll negotiate.” I nodded. “That sounds great.” “Excellent. Of course, you’re willing to pay for her company.” “Absolutely. Name your price.” “I love those words.” Plume said. “She’s a rare specimen. Let’s say five thousand credits.” “You have yourself a deal.” I wired Plume the five thousand credits in real-time. “A gentleman and a scholar,” Plume snapped his fingers. A couple of lab techs came running. “Boys, if you could be so kind as to fix up our Lady Elf here and send her to room 2020.” He paused. “Oh, Mister Stahr, would you like us to sedate her? Mech elves are rough and may not submit to you.” “No. I like it rough. I want her at one hundred percent.” “My boy!” Plume said. “I’m beginning to like your style.” He looked at the lab techs. “Boys, you heard Mister Stahr. Get on it.” He pulled out a keycard from his jacket pocket. “Here’s the key to room 2020. Your Lady Elf will be in to relieve you momentarily.”  In the hour that had gone by all I did was pace back and forth in that damn hotel room. I began to wonder if Plume had seen through my facade and had either killed Lyrazel or was sending an assassin to dispatch me. I hated myself at that moment. I should have killed Plume, I thought, and gotten Lyrazel out of that hell. There was a knock at my door. I walked over and opened it. Standing before me were two henchmen who had clutched Lyrazel by each arm. They shoved her into the room, wished me luck, and left. When I shut the door and turned around I had to duck to avoid Lyrazel’s left hook. “Whoa, Lyrazel, it’s me,” I said, grabbing hold of her right arm. “It’s Cade.” Lyrazel stopped for a moment and looked at me. “Cade,” she said. “Oh, my God.” She threw herself into my arms. “What’re you doing here?” “I came for you,” I said, holding her tight. She lifted her head from my shoulder and looked at me. Then her warm lips pressed against mine. My entire body felt electric as I held her and kissed her harder. “Wait,” Lyrazel said. “How’d you know I was here?” “Your letter.” “What letter?” “The one you wrote to me.” I pulled out the letter from my jean pocket. Lyrazel snatched it from my hand and read it. “What the hell,” she said. “I didn’t write this. I mean, does this sound like me.” She read the letter aloud. *My Dearest Cade,* *I find myself in serious trouble. I know we haven’t spoken in three years. I wanted to marry you. I did. I was afraid that you’d grow tired of me. That’s why I left when you proposed. I know I have no right to ask you for help. But there’s no one else I can trust. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I am being held hostage in Dreamland in Lysander City. My time is running out.* *Forever Your Love,* *Lyrazel* “Well, I thought maybe time had softened you up.” I said. Lyrazel shook her head. “You didn’t really believe that, did you?” “I guess I wanted to.” Lyrazel smiled. “So, if you didn’t write that letter, who did?” “Oh, I’ll tell you who did,” she said, taking off her moto jacket. She flexed her left arm’s bicep, enlarging the tattoo of the sprite she had. “Pucka, you better get out here right now!” In the blink of an eye the sprite tattoo jumped off her bicep and began floating around in the air. It was nothing more than a glowing tennis ball sized orb of light with wings. “Did you write this letter, Pucka?” Lyrazel said. “I did.” I heard Pucka’s voice in my head. “Why would you do that?” “You needed help,” Pucka said. “And your heart and mind kept thinking of Cade.” “W-what?” Lyrazel blushed. “That’s not true.” “You only lie to yourself.” Lyrazel sneered. “You shoulda just called the cops.” Pucka hovered around Lyrazel. “They wouldn’t have saved you.” “Why Cade?” “He loves you and you love him.” Lyrazel looked at me. “That’s enough of your talk. Time for you to fly back.” Pucka obeyed Lyrazel and resumed its tattoo form again. “Wow,” I said. “Shut up,” Lyrazel said. “I know what you're thinking.” “That I received a letter through magic,” I smiled. “I’ve never received a magic letter. It’s pretty cool.” Lyrazel shook her head. “How long do you think before Plume’s men come to kill us?” “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll give us ten minutes; maybe thirty.” “More than enough,” Lyrazel said, taking off her halter top. She grabbed me, kissed me, and led me to the bed.  Due to his hedonistic nature, it became clear Plume wouldn’t do anything to us until we left the room. Therefore, we took our time to strategize the best way to get the hell out of Lysander alive and in one piece. While Lyrazel leaned on the room’s balcony to take in some air, I couldn’t help but look at her. Her pale complexion, those pink locks, along with her azure eyes and pointy ears. She was as beautiful as the day I met her back in Jersey. Pucka was right. I did love her. And I’d be damned if I was going to let some lunatic cause her anymore harm. I joined Lyrazel out on the balcony. The night air was chilly as it carried the city’s soundtrack of sirens, holographic advertisements, yells, and vehicle horns. “You still planning heists?” she said. I shook my head. “I already reached my quota.” She smiled. “Listen, thank you for helping me.” “You don’t have to thank me.” I paused. “How’d you end up here anyway?” “Wrong place, wrong time,” Lyrazel said. “I was working a job for a guy named Erl--my last job. To kill Plume and steal his metals for Erl. Had I succeeded in it I would’ve reached fifty million credits and been able to leave this city for Elfheim. But Erl had other plans. I didn’t know it then but the asshole struck a deal with Plume. Turns out Plume paid Erl one hundred million credits to own me. When I got here I was ambushed and drugged. Then I was put to work as a strumpet until Plume returned from a business trip in Londinium.” I’d heard of Erl. The criminal kingpin of Lysander they called him. He was found dead in his rooftop mansion a week ago. I told Lyrazel. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “Plume killed him I’m sure. A guy like Plume doesn’t pay anybody. He just takes what he wants. But I’m glad Erl’s dead.” I held Lyrazel’s hand. “When we get out of here I’ll help you return to Elfheim.” I couldn’t believe she wanted to return to her homeland. The last thing she’d told me about Elfheim was that it was filled with elfish pricks with sticks up their asses. And since she was a mech elf--a hybrid designed only for battle--the pure elves treated her like garbage. She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to return there anymore.” She stared into my eyes. “For a long time now I have always made excuses to keep myself from being happy. I guess because I was afraid I would only be a disappointment. The truth is Pucka is right. I love you, Cade. I’m incomplete without you.” She looked at her mechanical legs. “I don’t even know if I have a soul or if I’m just a machine. But what I do know is if I don’t have a soul then my soul starts with you.” “I love you, Lyrazel,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t believe I had a soul until I met you. And the only thing I want in life is to grow old with you.” Lyrazel smiled. “You know elves age much slower than humans, right?” “I’m aware,” I chuckled. “Good job killing the mood.” She laughed. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.” We kissed and held each other for some time. Then we got ready and headed out of the room.  We made our way down the hotel hall when we heard the chime of the elevator. Bracer and the two henchmen from before appeared. The old man was unarmed; the henchmen were armed with semi automatics. “Mister Stahr,” Bracer said. “Mister Plume regrets to inform you that he is relinquishing on your deal.” As the old man spoke I pulled out my pen--a souvenir from my last heist. “Are you going to write them a check?” Lyrazel said. “Not quite.” I clicked the pen and its tiny internal gears began spinning and building until the pen had become a full sized katana. “Impressive,” Lyrazel said. “But can it beat this?” She stomped her mechanical foot on the ground activating the thousands of microscopic pneumatic actuators within her elven metal. They rapidly worked in unison to produce two semi automatic pistols from her calves. Lyrazel never failed to surprise me. Those elven engineers were something else. “Clever, Mister Stahr,” Bracer said, grimacing. “And you, strumpet. Mister Plume inspected your legs. No weapons were there before.” “They were always there,” Lyrazel snarled. “Elven metal only works for the elf blooded.” “Good to know.” Bracer smirked. “My turn.” Bracer pulled out a large syringe and stabbed himself in the neck with it. Within moments the old man’s skin had hardened into metal. His entire body exploded in muscle so that he looked like a wrestler on steroids. He roared, and started for us. His henchmen opened fire. Lyrazel shot them both simultaneously in the head. She then fired at Bracer but her bullets were no match for his metallic skin. I took up the Ko Gasumi No Kamae stance. As Lyrazel continued to open fire, Bracer rushed toward me. I waited until he was within inches of me before plunging my blade straight into his heart. The tackle had still knocked me back a few feet and taken my breath away for several seconds. Slowly, I stood up feeling the pain of his hit on my ribs. He’d managed to fracture a few of them. “Cade!” Lyrazel ran to my side. “Oh, my God. Are you okay?” “Yeah,” I said, groaning. “You gave him a death blow.” I looked over Lyrazel’s shoulder and saw Bracer had regressed to his former self. My blade was sticking out of his back. “How’d you pull that off?” Lyrazel said, helping me stand. “The blade was made specifically for slicing through metal.” I said. “I figured if I was going up against a Metal Dealer--” Lyrazel smiled. After I retrieved my katana, Lyrazel and I headed up to the penthouse suite to say our farewells to Plume.  “Ah, have our guests expired,” Plume said, staring out the window. Wispa was pinned up on one of the room’s walls. The sick freak had sliced her throat, clipped her wings, and tore her stinger. Plume was wearing a silk bathrobe and vaping. He turned around. His entire body was covered in welts. “Oh my,” he said, taking a hit of his vape pen. “Looks like I underestimated you two.” He peered over at the corpse. “Things got a little rough.” He chuckled. “I have you to thank for that, Mister Stahr. Your comment earlier really got me going.” “You’re sick!” I said. “Yes. Sick for pleasure.” Lyrazel aimed her guns at Plume. “Any last words before I send you to hell?” “A few.” he said. “My business trip to Londinium was a fortunate one. The Prime Minister of Elfheim was there. He and I chatted. And then he granted me Elven Sanctuary.” “What?!” Lyrazel said, agog. “How the hell did that happen?” “The Prime Minister loves a good pounding.” “You’re despicable,” Lyrazel said. “My dear,” Plume said. “If you open fire on me it would be considered a declaration of war for those in Elfheim.” He chuckled. “Besides, even if you wanted to shoot me you couldn’t. Your weapons are of elven make and will refuse to fire on an individual given Elven Sanctuary.” “You’re right,” Lyrazel said. “Except that law only applies to pure elves. I’m a mech elf; not pure.” Plume’s calm facade, for the first time, wrinkled in panic. “W-wait--” Lyrazel squeezed her guns’ triggers and unleashed a fury of bullets that sent Plume flying out the window. His scream echoed in the night as he plunged toward his death.  We left Plume’s twisted hotel-brothel and walked a few blocks to where I had parked my car in an alley. I started up the ignition. I placed the car into gear and began driving out of Lysander City. When we turned onto the Sunrise Expressway, Lyrazel interlocked her fingers with mine and rested her head on my shoulder. I held her hand tight, and never saw the shadow of ever letting go.


First and foremost, I just need to assert what was right and what was wrong. I think, before you can apologize for things you’ve done, you need to really isolate and evaluate exactly what you did wrong, and it’s very rare that you, uh, you know, haven’t done anything right in the midst of all you did wrong. So, I would like to assert that, yes, I made mistakes. I made many mistakes. I hurt people. Well, not people, but, you know, living things. I hurt living things and I hurt them by damaging their property and terrorizing them, and for that, I am very sorry, and I stand here, humbly, in front of you today, with my tail between my legs--literally--to say that I do apologize for the wrong I’ve done. Not for the right I’ve done, obviously, because I don’t need to apologize for what I’ve done right, and I have done some things right, but I don’t need to apologize for those things. Just the wrong things. Uh, but, uh, yeah, the, yeah, the, um-- The straw. I apologize for the straw. Why you would build a house out of straw in the first place is a mystery to me, but--That’s not my, uh--That’s not the point. The point is, one of you wanted to build a house of straw, and I destroyed that house. I blew it down. Not that it takes much to blow down something made out of straw. A strong wind could have blown it down. A gust. A breeze. You built the house fairly close to the ocean, so I expect there would have been a lot of sea wind coming off the coast, and that leads me to think your house wasn’t long for this world anyway, but sure, yes, I was the one who blew it down, and I have to own that, and so I do. I own it. I own it and I apologize for it. I blew down the house and I was going to eat you, but you ran away. I don’t think I should have to apologize for wanting to eat you, because that’s, you know, my nature , but I get how my nature and your existence don’t jive, and I believe we should all be able to live together peacefully in this world, but I would like to remind you that eating, you know, kale , isn’t really an option for me, and, uh, you know, attempted murder isn’t murder. It’s different. That’s why they have a different sentence for it when you get convicted of it in court. When you do get convicted. Which isn’t often, because it’s so hard to prove. I mean, it’s almost impossible to prove someone’s intent, but, sure, I did attempt something, and for that, I am sorry, because that’s wrong and so is blowing down a flimsy house that was going to come down at any moment anyway because somebody didn’t want to take the time to build their home properly with decent materials. So. I’m sorry for all that. Um. In regards to the sticks , I would like to say that I maintain sticks are only slightly harder to blow down than straw, but there was, yes, an intent there, to blow the house down. And to eat the owner of the house. And to maybe use the sticks to start a fire that I would then roast the owner of the house over while lathering said owner in barbecue sauce. Yes, all of that is true , and none of it is right , and I apologize for all of it. I will say that because I couldn’t catch the owner of the house, nothing happened other than destruction of a fire hazard, but nevertheless, there was destruction. There was trauma. There was hurt. And I have to understand that and make space for it moving forward. That I brought about and manifested hurt in the lives of swine. A fire could have hurt many more people. Not a nice fire that you can control while you cook your dinner, but a real fire that could start at any moment if some pig decided to light a candle in the middle of his twig dwelling, but it’s not about what might have happened, it’s about what did happen, and what happened was I blew the house down. I huffed. I puffed. I got a little winded. I huffed and puffed some more. Down went the house. I own that. I didn’t eat the pig because he ran away, because somehow pigs are terrible at building houses, but they are fantastic at running away from wolves, so that’s fine, he ran, I chased. And, uh, then… Then I hit a wall. A brick wall. We all have to hit that brick wall, don’t we? Finally found a house I couldn’t blow down. But you know what I could blow down? Myself. And that’s what I did. I stood there and with all the breath in my furry body, I blew, and blew, and blew. But I could not blow that house down. And as I sat there, on the grass, the dew still fresh from morning, knowing that breakfast, lunch, and dinner was staring out a window from a brick house, mocking me, taunting me, and jeering at me, I knew I needed to take a good, hard look at my life and make some changes. That’s why I’m here today--not at the end of my journey towards being a better creature, but somewhere in the middle. I’m asking for forgiveness. For the straw. For the sticks. Not for the brick, because that house was built well and I believe it got sold the following year for double what it cost to erect, and so, good on that pig, because he must have gotten the architecture gene his siblings didn’t. Me, I’m just going around to different wolf packs, talking to the pups about making good decisions. Mostly I just tell them to stick to chickens. You tell them the sky is falling, and the next thing you know, they’re walking right into your cave. No houses you need to gather up your breath support for and no riddles like with goats or grandmothers that give you indigestion. Just good, old-fashioned deception. So you see, I’ve learned. I’ve come a long, long way.


Agony glazed his eyes as he stumbled over. His new wound was ugly, a gash through the stomach still fresh, clearly exacerbating one barely much older. “... Jeez.” Already she held bandages and morphine, the smile on her lips fading quickly at his plight. The fall into her arms was unexpected, but she responded easily, clinging back onto him as his arms draped weakly on her shoulders. “That looks... bad...” The white linen was draped over quickly, tightened and secured as blood soon coated them crimson. Morphine loosened the fire that consumed his eyes, and they shut somewhat as he rested his head into her side. “Y... Yeah,” He finally choked out. “I didn’t... expect that one.” The wound seemed to hold as she let go, though she knew it wouldn’t for long. “I... don’t think I’ve seen you this bad since...” “Since a long time ago. Yeah. But we were different people then.” He plucked at her sleeve, the pain dwindling gratefully. “How’re you holding up?” She frowned. Bandages set aside she took his hand, setting it for pressure on the wound. “You’ve got more things to worry about than that.” “Yeah. But... You know I want it that way.” The softness, the vulnerability in his face convinced her. She helped him sit up, letting him gaze at her own injuries. “They’re healing fine. Still... Still bleeding though.” He tested the yellowed fabric carefully, noticing her flinch. “Still hurts?” “I can’t deny that,” She shrugged with heavy shoulders. “Morphine works well on it, thankfully.” He glanced over the rest of her body. Scars and cuts pockmarked the damaged skin, burns thankfully healing with good progress. His cheeks rose as he observed one, the distinctive mark reduced to memory. “Stop that. You must rest.” “I am.” She sighed at the response, offering him another vial of painkillers. They shared this one, and she let him lean against her body. The silence was musical. The comfort of companionship worked its magic, consciousness drifting as the agonies faded, even temporarily. His voice trembled slightly even in secure softness. “This might be the last one, you know.” “Don’t say that.” Her response was flat, a spark of emotion bubbling even with her own voice pacified. He shifted on her shoulder. “You know the truth. The last two were already bad enough. This one may seal my fate.” There was no response. The silence turned heavy till he spoke again. “S—sorry.” “Don’t be. You know what I’d say already.” He did. His hand grasped at hers, warm palm resting on her fingers. She gave him a squeeze as she stared into the moon’s glow. Moonlight lit the sea as they rested, feeling the soft comfort of each other’s backs. ——————————————————————— She awakened to a cold touch, blinking tiredly in the morning sun. She rose slightly, staring still into the distance in denial. She let herself take a moment to mourn, slipping his body off hers to lay on the warm sand. She gazed at his face, finally at peace, a smile formed even at rest. Lifting his body in her arms she barely struggled. The bandages and morphine she set on his stomach as she looked for green grounds. She glanced at the newly-gaping hole in her chest, and ignored it as she walked away with him.


I was sixteen when I first realized the aching in my heart that I had for him. He was an enigma to me, a mysterious figure. I was never able to get him alone until that one night - the rest was history. It had been three months since I had last been home; he was all I could think about. Memories of him kept me awake at night, kept me daydreaming during classes. In the bars, I watched my friends slink their way up to men, their eyes glimmering - but I could not bear to even look at another man. It was him - and only him - on my mind.

Driving along my old street made my heart beat faster, knowing I was getting closer and closer to that yellow house next to mine. I imagined sitting up in my bed late at night, watching his shadow behind a sheer white curtain through my window.

My family embraced me warmly, and I gave them all pearly smiles before carrying my bags upstairs. Once entering my bedroom, I immediately shut the door and ran to the window. Separating the blinds with my fingers, I peered into the house next door. My heart dropped a little when all I saw was the ghastly fluttering of a curtain.

That curtain - I knew that curtain so well. In his bed, I’d lie next to him staring up at it, occasionally letting the thin material run through my fingers. Though sometimes in my own room at night, I would see two figures behind it, and I had to look away.

Mrs. Holiday was beautiful - but in a tightly-wound way. Her lips were always pursed, her cheekbones always defined, her hair always slicked back in some sort of hair-sprayed up-do. She wore cardigan sweaters a lot, the buttons at the top always undone. I knew he still saw something in her, no matter how deeply he looked into my eyes.

It was too late to visit him; she would have already gotten home from work. I imagined the two of them sitting reclined on their sofa, sharing a bottle of wine. Her head was probably leaned into his chest, his hands on her arms, running his fingers along her skin. I did not envy her - Mrs. Holiday. I could never envy her. I suppose I might have pitied her, in a way; someone as beautiful as her still could not suffice him.

That night, I sat with my family around the television. They never talked about the Holidays; they never noticed how during years prior I would disappear in the afternoons. I felt powerful with my secret. Sometimes a slight smirk would blossom on my face whenever I thought about him around them, and then I would blush and cover my face with my sleeve. He was my precious secret, too precious to share.

I woke up early the next morning. I took my time getting ready, glossing my lips and applying the perfect scent. I crept downstairs quietly, going through the backdoor to avoid any eyes. The dewy grass tickled my ankles, and I was suddenly reminded of the first night we had met. “You’re Mary’s kid, right? I guess we haven’t officially met.” I looked up at the man in front of me. It was as if someone lit fireworks in my chest. I was only sixteen, too inexperienced to flirt, to subtly let him know I was interested, but somehow he still saw something in me, and we talked the entire night. I should have felt ashamed - I know I should have, but the exploding in my chest never ceased, even after I left that backyard party. That was the night I realized that my bedroom window looked directly into his.

I approached his door slowly, lingering for a minute at the welcome mat. I saw his doorbell, and I ran my fingers over the brass plate that enclosed the shiny button. There was a fluttering in my stomach as I pressed it. I heard it ring inside, and then I heard slow footsteps get louder and louder. I took the few seconds to smooth down my hair, to tuck a piece behind my ear - just the way he liked it.

My heart sunk when a woman answered the door, and panic spread through me when I realized it was not Mrs. Holiday. I had never seen this woman before. Her eyes were gray, her face almost too pale.

Neither of us spoke at first until I managed to sputter out a few words, “Is Sam here?” “Sam?” she asked softly. My hands began to shake. “Sam Holiday, he lives here.” The woman’s eyebrows raised, and her lips formed a sympathetic frown. “The Holidays haven’t lived here in over a decade.” She paused, “ You live next door, don’t you? I knew I recognized you.” I shook my head, my mind frazzled. “No, Sam Holiday lives here. He lives here with his wife.” “Oh dear,” she began, “Beatrice moved after Sam passed. Don’t you remember?” “Sam lives here; you’re lying.” She was lying - I knew it. I felt him. He was not dead. He was more alive than ever.

“I think you should go.” I began to argue, but she closed the door in my face.

My mind was racing - where was he? My feet took me away from the door and back inside my house. I did not bother to keep quiet as I raced into the kitchen and found my mother’s address book. I flipped the pages until I found the H’s. I smiled when I saw his surname etched in black pen; I frowned when I saw the address scribbled out in marker. Underneath was a new one - with only her name on it.

I still did not believe it. I had to find him - he was in trouble. I ran back up to my room and opened my laptop. A search of his name led me to his obituary. It was just like the woman said - ten years had passed. I could not comprehend it; I could not understand.

She had to leave at some point, I thought to myself. I stared out my window for hours until a car pulled out of the garage. Suddenly, I found myself once again in front of his door, staring at that doorbell. I rang it, expecting him to see his face appear, to see him smile at me, to laugh as I wrapped my arms around his neck. But he did not appear - no one appeared. I tried the handle, but it was locked. I walked around the side of the house, my hands tugging at every window. Finally, I got to the back porch. The screen door easily opened, and I found myself on his patio. I smiled when I saw the unlocked sliding door, and smiled even more when I stepped inside, the memories of the house filling up my mind.

I found his bedroom; I felt a sense of relief when I smelled his scent. How was I smelling it? He had to be here. His bed was right where I remembered it, and I let myself sink into the soft mattress. The sheets looked a bit different to me, and I could have sworn that he had a beige comforter, not the red one that was beneath me. The bed also seemed smaller - it was definitely smaller than I remembered, but then again, so much time had passed, so I dismissed the oddities. I leaned back against his pillow and shut my eyes.

I did not even flinch when he walked in the door.

“I missed you,” I said to him. “And I missed you, love.” He always called me love.

He did not waste time coming over to me, falling onto me, kissing me gently. I smiled when he pulled away and stared into my eyes.

“She said you were gone. I didn’t believe her.” “Who said I was gone?” He rolled over on his side next to me, a concerned look spread across his face.

“The woman that lives here,” I said. “Why would my wife say that?” I shook my head. “No, it was not your wife.” He was silent. So was I.

“Sam,” I said after some time had passed, “why do you have an obituary?” His eyes were piercing in that moment. I almost felt afraid - almost. I loved him too much.

“Nothing is real,” he whispered. “What?” He spoke a bit louder: “Nothing is real!”

“Stop talking like that, Sam! Stop!” I yelled.

Even when the pillow came down on my face, I still had no fear. Even when his screams became louder, I still had no fear. Even when the gray-eyed pale woman came into the room and began yelling, I still had no fear. Fear could not touch love.

There were too many shouts to comprehend anything, so I buried myself deeper into his sheets. When the sirens started, and the room became blue and red, I became one with the bed, clinging onto a memory.

As they carried me out, I saw Sam standing outside on the curb. No one saw him, no one talked to him, no one paid any attention to my love.

“Sam!” I called out.

He looked away.


If I had a nickel for every time someone in my life was killed by a stray bullet, I would have 10 cents. That’s not a lot of money, but it is strange that it happened twice. The first time was 7 years, 214 days ago. It happened to my friend Savannah. We’d smoked a little bit of weed I picked up from a dispensary before I wanted some snacks and she wanted some cigarettes. I was indifferent to the cigarettes but I did want something salty so we walked over to the 7-11 by Belmont Station. I had a bag of corn chips in my hands and I was bent over slightly to peruse their selection of mints and chocolates as we checked out. She was asking the clerk for a pack of Camel Crushes when the sound of broken glass rang through the store. I looked up and saw a blank expression on her face, followed by a few steps forward, then she keeled over with a soft thud. She was dead before I could react. As her soul left her body, my mind was still trying to choose between Pretzel M&Ms and Sour Patch Kids. Everything that happened afterwards was a blur. To this day, when I recall the events of that night, the only thing that makes sense to me logically was that we would finish paying for our snacks, light up a cigarette for the walk home, smoke more weed and make hot chocolate and watch reruns of Housewives together. Unfortunately, logic is not always reality. Between the police report, the followup interviews, the funeral, her cousins, her brother, her mom & dad, there was only chaos in my life for 3 months. I only unblacked out briefly when I went back to her apartment with her brother and noticed that there was an un-empty pack of Camel Crushes sitting on her coffee table. Her death put us face to face with the chaos that lurks just behind the facade of a peaceful, inebriated afternoon. Savannah is a beautiful person. Funny, charming, irreverent, goofy, campy, loving, Savannah. It felt so unfair. Too quick, no recourse, no bargaining. It seemed like there was no one out there. It felt like as long as we live, random messed up stuff just will just happen *at* you, not to you. I accepted this randomness as a credo to help power through the rest of life, in honor of her. Thankfully I had a supportive partner who stuck by me throughout all of the mourning and a trauma-informed therapist under my parents’ insurance. We moved out of the city and into a small cabin by a lake in Ohio in order to live out a monastic lifestyle. We had our own garden, a few pets, and each other. They kept me intact, appreciative, and I was able to carry on. That is, until it happened again. It took about 15 minutes before I even realized what was happening. I was in my office, drinking tea, keeping up the appearance of being busy. He was in the living room taking an afternoon nap. I stepped out of my office to the sound of labored breathing, the sight of a small hole in our wall facing the lake. In contrast to the first time, this time was noiseless, slow moving. As soon as I saw the patch of red spread across his shirt, I was agonizingly aware of everything that would happen from here on out. When I held his hands and looked into their eyes after calling 911, his face was so apologetic, like he wanted me to know that they knew the sharp turn my life was about to take yet again. All I could do was hold him and cry. Whoever said that lightening never strikes the same place twice has obviously never been the punchline to God's fucked up sense of humor. I noticed that every time I stand next to someone, I want to align my head with theirs exactly, bending down when they bend down, tilting to the left when they tilted to the left. I’m not sure if I do that to protect them or to guarantee that next time a random bullet arrives, I’ll be in its trajectory too. Nowadays, I just avoid people altogether. I can’t handle the guilt any more. Even being around other people felt like I was bringing them to a magic show against their will, putting them at risk of being pulled onstage and belittled by a 40 year old man in a top hat. No one ever faced consequences for either deaths. Like a good joke, the original creator doesn’t matter. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve witnessed someone in my life be killed by a stray bullet, I would have 10 cents and several therapists to whom I’d have to rehash a story where the takeaway is not my trauma, or how much miss my friends, but a kind of novelty; a cruel glitch in the matrix type situation. I still stay in the house where they died. On foggy mornings, I look out across the lake, and I’m looking directly at his killer. There’s a few things I know will happen again, but I do not cower. I do not fear it any more. I know for the next sick joke, I will not be the butt of it. I will stare God in the eyes and I will laugh along.


"It's just yesterday. What's the worst that could happen?" I shook my head with a smile as I reached cautiously towards the time machine sitting on the table. Next to me, Rex gasped and grabbed my arm. "Wait! But what if you like, mess up the space time continuum and cause the apocalypse or something?", he asked, eyes wide. I suppose I couldn't blame him for being scared. I probably would have been too, if my judgment wasn't clouded by one thing. "Please. That sort of thing only happens in movies", I scoffed. "I have a plan. It'll be fine". Though my voice was filled with bravado, even I felt a small chill creep down my spine, but I pushed it out of my mind as I ignored Rex's words and pushed one of the buttons. With an otherworldly sound that seemed almost like an angelic mixture of a jingle and a zap, the machine blinked to life, sparks flickering off the wires, and colored buttons flashing. Rex and I watched, wide-eyed. Even as Rex's nails dug into my arm painfully in fear, I punched a few buttons, and WHOOSH! There I was. Just yesterday, like I said. With the faintest of thuds, I landed in my own hallway, the day before, at noon. I'd been cursing my foolishness ever since. I was working on an important research project, and my sleep-deprived brain, exhausted from yet another night at the lab, was on coffee number ten. I hated coffee. I rarely drank the stuff. Oh, why, WHY hadn't I just accepted my limits and taken a nap instead? Oh well. You know what they say about hindsight... In my sleepy stupor, I'd managed to take a sip, and both spill it and choke on it at the same time. The immediate searing pain of hot coffee all over my boobs, immediately followed by the exponentially worse mental pain of seeing my laptop, which contained months of research and writing, that I'd just spit coffee all over, die. I thought my life was over. Then we found it. My saving grace. I'd seen the movies and read the books. I knew it was risky. I knew you couldn't let yourself see yourself. I didn't even want anything complicated. I'm not one of those dicks with a hero complex who felt the need to go meddle with history or anything. I knew if I tried to go back and kill Hitler, I'd fuck it up. But come on, nothing major was riding on my failure. Which is what I'd be if I didn't fix this. I'd already planned it through. Hearing the sound of the chair creaking from the kitchen, I knew yesterday's me was getting up to go get that fateful cup of coffee. I crept down the hall and stuck a foot out, just in time to trip myself as I walked back towards my work table, holding the cup of coffee that would have been my poor laptop's downfall. Yesterday me tumbles to the floor with a cry, and the hot coffee splatters harmlessly to the floor. As the WHOOSH begins to sweep me back to the present, and I'm pumping my fist in victory, I see a bruise has now appeared on my knee. Hah. Small price to pay! ... THUD! I land on my knees, and they immediately sink. What the fuck is wrong with my living room carpet, I found myself wondering as I awkwardly blinked. I shielded my eyes. It was awfully bright... "Rex, can you close the curtains? And did you turn the heat up while I was gone? I'm melting here..." BOOM! It was a small explosion, but I was thrown onto my back. All around me was nothing but rock and sand, with fires burning in the distance. The smell of sulfur pierced my nose. Was that... screaming in the distance?! For a moment, I was shellshocked. This couldn't be real. It didn't sink in until I saw the source of the screaming. It was Rex, and he was being chased by some sort of feathered, horrific, lizard-creature, waving what appeared to be an iPhone that was shooting fire. Rex screamed even louder as the monster closed in. His screaming was finally loud enough for me to make out the words.


Kyle Hunter, a Starbucks barista in his thirties, decided to take a break and go hiking on his day off. He felt that his life had not gone as planned and that he needed to clear his head and gain some perspective. Kyle had never gone on a hike before, and thirty minutes in, he had become completely lost, had neglected to bring enough water or food, and had forgotten to apply sunscreen. Several hours later, exhausted from the heat, starving, and with skin the color of a tomato, Kyle was ambushed by a man wearing a Mike Myers mask and driving a black van. He was blindfolded, bound, and thrown into the back of the van. The van smelled like Fritos and feet, and Kyle knew he was in trouble. He was taken to a dingy and dark basement, where he was held captive with no end in sight. Kyle could barely see anything because of the terrible lighting. He was given a cot to sleep on and a bucket to use as a toilet. He was fed meager meals and given no information about why he had been kidnapped or who his kidnapper was. "I'm not sure what you want; I have no money, I'm bad at sex, and maybe if you set a ransom of twenty NFL bobblehead dolls and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, my dad might pay; but it's a longshot," Kyle cried into the darkness, receiving no response. Kyle began to break down and accept his fate as the days passed. He assumed he would never be found and would spend the rest of his life in that basement. The kidnapper, wearing the Mike Myers mask, entered the basement one night. "What the hell, man? Are you ever going to let me go?" "Within time." "What do you want?" "I think the most important question is, what do you want?" "I want to leave." "Think bigger, Kyle. What do you want out of life?" "Who are you, my therapist?" "If you need to think of me as your therapist, that's fine." "Man, f—- you; I'm not telling you anything." "I'll leave you with this; if you didn't have any worries, money wasn't an issue, you had health insurance, and you could do whatever you wanted, what would it be?" Kyle continued his day-to-day waiting after the kidnapper left the basement. He had never considered his life's problems in that light before. With nothing to do but exercise and think, there was no shortage of time to reflect on this question. "Do whatever I want? If I didn't have money problems, I'd do... nothing," Kyle thought to himself. "I guess that's what I'm doing now, and I don't like doing nothing." Kyle, in fact, had no idea. He considered traveling but remembered how much he disliked staying in hotels and unfamiliar places. He considered playing video games all day and night, but he had already done that, and after a marathon night, he felt deep down that he was wasting his life. Sure, it was fun to spend time with friends, but after a game was completed, nothing of value was added. He then reasoned that friends were the key, but as he examined further, he realized he was sometimes introverted. Socialization was enjoyable in tiny doses, but he would be unhappy if he had to do it all day, every day. That night, Mike Myers returned. "Have you thought about my question from yesterday?" "Yeah, I'd do things that make me happy." "What would that be?" "I'd do a lot of different things; I'd stay up late, I'd sleep whenever I wanted, I'd have complete freedom." "Freedom? Given your current situation, that's an odd word to use. Do you want freedom because you don't have it, or are you not allowing yourself to be free in your own life?" Kyle realized the truth when Mike Myers left the basement that night. He wasn't talking about his freedom from kidnapping; he was talking about his desired freedom in his life. "How could I not be free?" Kyle considered the concept of freedom. What did it look like? Who did he know was actually free? Who did he strive to be? Night after night, Mike Myers and Kyle had these conversations about life, purpose, and what Aristotle described as Sublime Beatitudo. Kyle finally had an answer to the original question after seven months of examination, reflection, and conversation; if money were no object, he would... It would be very easy to tell you what Kyle discovered, but I would be doing you a great disservice. Some answer this question with spirituality or charity, while others use philosophy, art, or scientific endeavors. Some seek to find answers to the larger questions about life, human existence, and the universe while others desire power and influence not only to benefit others but also to be remembered and leave a legacy long after their lives are over. There is no definitive or universal answer, so you have to find your own purpose by doing the work. As Mike Myers promised, the day had come for Kyle to leave. He left a more substantial person than when he was originally kidnapped; he better understood life's aspirations, what it meant to be healthy, and what potentially may be his path to happiness. Kyle was blindfolded, bound, and thrown into the back of the Frito/Feet van once again, where he was taken to an undisclosed location. Upon his release, Mike Myers handed him a credit card. "This is a gift. It has no limit, will never be declined, and no bill will ever be sent." Kyle was finally free, and not just from the dark basement where he had been held captive.


Slice of Life style OC Critiques are welcome “SAAAAM! Get ready! Everyone is going to be here soon.” “Relax mom, they are still an hour away!” It’s her who needs time to get ready. Well I can’t blame her, everyone just projects their experiences onto others. Strange thing this evening! I know another year has passed but I am excited about it, despite the firecracker ban. A large chunk of the family gets together at Diwali. Being an annual occasion, it gives them enough time to accumulate exciting stories. So many surprises. No awkward nod or blank stare this time of the year! “Oh wait it’s 10 minutes now. Thank god I already had a shower.” I am an atheist though. You see, I… NO. STOP… Imma get ready now. Well I enjoyed the evening. I wish I didn’t have to get an year older every time for this. I got a bit jealous when I found how mature my younger cousins have become after a year. I know, I know, I got mature too. But I don’t realize it. No shock value, you see… until someone prompts me to compare… which I just did… not jealous anymore… cool. I miss the cold climate of North India. Quilts are so snuggly. Tomorrow… is it post 12? yeah… tomorrow I’ll be in Bangalore. Same pleasant climate all round the year. The only variation past the round-robin of round-neck tees I need is a raincoat. Huh... Hmm… \*breathes in\* No matter which bedroom, ceilings are the same… staring into your soul... blank Memes… Hmm… Tomorrow I’ll lie the same… but on a different mattress… same ceiling… different feeling?? I wonder… \* \* \* At the airport, I was looking through some of the top pictures in various photography contests (Nat Geo, etc.). The shots were (and are) awe inspiring! On first sight, some of the pictures triggered a mix of emotions in proportions I had never felt before. “Weird.” How can something so real make me feel something so unreal?! This is probably the only time in my life I would feel this specific mixtures of feelings in tandem. Moments later, it was gone; and I had no memory of that exact feeling. I could remember that it felt really good, perhaps even ethereal. Even if I had the exact words to describe the emotions, they can’t make me feel them. I look at the picture again… mesmerizing! But no surprise. Everytime I look at the picture, it becomes more and more commonplace. I panicked and closed the tab. “It’s a goddamn paradox!”. Since I can’t store the feeling, I have an unfulfillable and unrealistic heavenly memory of it… but I can’t FEEL it! If I revisit to feel it, I don’t feel nearly as good, with the quality of feeling and its memory deteriorating after each visit. “What should I do to feel that way again?!”. Even waiting a year won’t work here! Apparently, sometimes, I think out loud without realizing it. The puzzled look on the lady’s face sitting beside me made it worth it though. I might only be able to wish for a level of control over my mind that I can experience feelings resembling surprise and happiness in the most commonplace of things. But I know it’s possible. Experiencing the moment without actively remembering what happened a few seconds ago or what’s gonna happen a second later… you know the herb. “Why do I want to feel that way again, and again, you ask?! It’s so that my day doesn’t feel like a couple of hours… so that I don’t make new year resolutions every month.” One more potential female partner… whoosh! But I know it’s possible... For instance, right now… right now… right now… I am enjoying my blank ceiling, listening to Lo-Fi, full of repetitions. Right now… The feeling of calm is similar to the calm during my previous noticing of the ceiling. Well...now, not the same calm. Youtube’s autoplay isn’t really reliable. It’s playing rock now.