Stars I look up to the stars. They flash unbelievably beautiful across the sky and bring back memories of when I was only a child. I remember chasing Spicy, the ugly but lovable dog, across the field surrounding the tiny house we owned. I would run after him, laughing at the odd way he moved his legs until I fell upon the embrace of the grass. The softness of the leaves would brush against my skin, and the wetness of the droplets of water that permeated them would make me feel slightly cold. I would look up to the sky as Spicy fell on top of me, and dream of a life beyond my tiny, minuscule existence. A dream of a distant planet, where I could hide for forever with someone who loved me and live in perpetual happiness. We would have a tiny house, just like mine, in a prairie, by a lake. But I wouldn’t feel alone. I wouldn’t feel unloved. I would be whole. As you can see, kids are not very smart: there is no such planet. There is Earth. You might be familiar with it and, if that’s the case, I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t do anything to deserve it. Living is painful. Take me: what do I have? I live alone, in a tiny apartment, in a dirty city, with more than a few rats. Getting up every morning is easy, though, as the pulsating sound of gunshots outside my window makes sure to wake me up. Falling asleep is hard, not because of any sounds outside my apartment but, instead, because my brain plays with me, and keeps me awake for hours. I have a fertile imagination. A plethora of scenarios, from my own death to my ascendancy to the presidency, buzz in my mind as if I was inside a beehive. The hardest nights are when I imagine the planet with the prairie again. I imagine a different life, one that is kinder, gentler, and more loving. I wish I could stop doing that. Those thoughts are only wishes, dreams, memories of a non-existent present. Reminders of my ineptitude at happiness. I have a date tonight. Nervousness courses through my arteries, an electrifying force obliterating everything else, guaranteeing the sweatiness of my hands and the idiocy of my jokes. I’ve been on many dates, and every time I feel this way. Maybe I still have hope? Rationality has never been my strongest feature anyways. I am a dreamer, a hopeful at heart. I try to tell myself “Stop. Nothing will come of this and you know it. Stop caring.” Sweat continues to profusely leak out of every pore in my skin, and I sigh. There’s no stopping human hope; it’s one of our worst, sickest features. Hope makes people unhappy because of its lover: disappointment. And out of the love of hope and disappointment, more hope is always born. Which always comes with disappointment. It’s a vicious cycle, obliterating happiness and contentment at every step of the way. It’s humans’ greatest pitfall. It’s a scandal. A horror. A shocking disgrace. But maybe it’s also what saves us from ourselves. It’s what softens the edges of existence, and allows us to go on. If we were just content with the conditions we were originally given, there wouldn’t be cities. No roads, cars, TVs, computers, cellphones. No paintings, sculptures. No books, movies, poems. No language. No humanity as an entity. We would just be happy to exist, hopeless and content, surviving. Unhappiness is truly the key to the success of the human species. The date goes well. A kiss at the end seemed quite viable, so I went for it. It felt good. Time itself seemed to slow down, eager to observe. Suddenly the tininess of my apartment seemed unimportant. The violence outside my windows innocuous. The rats in the ventilation system friendly. Everything still existed, but all outside our kiss was trivial. The sex was good. Very good. Feeling the closeness of someone on that level truly made me doubt whether humans are really built as a standalone product. Whether some cultures were right in saying that we are built in pairs, and spend our entire lives trying to complete one another. Trying to find that perfect match, that inexplicable connection. And sometimes failing eternally. The thing is, this time, I succeeded, I felt it. Maybe the other half of me being completed, maybe the inexplicability of life feeling a little bit less dizzying as I wouldn’t be alone. That feeling was intense. Irreplaceable. All-consuming. The stars look more beautiful than ever. The possibilities portrayed in their shininess are boundless. The imitability of their beauty is infinitesimal. Their eternity certain. They bring structure and perspective to my otherwise chaotic life; the mundaneness of my problems is made clear by their condescending glimmer. In this moment, they are the only reminder I have that the heart-wrenching way I feel is actually unimportant. It is inconsequential. Insignificant. The universe is so vast, so ungraspably infinite, that our lives on this tiny planet cannot be more than a footnote in history; they are essentially meaningless. And yet the connection I felt seemed to defy the universe’s imposingness. It was an explosion of energy in my life, one that could rival the massive giants burning millions of light-years away. The big-bang itself seemed less impressive now. Our connection was like an inflection point in time-space, a unique moment in the history of the universe. The center of all timelines. The bastion of all that is good and beautiful in an otherwise bleak world. The beginning and the end of life itself; a coil in the fabric of time. It was my meaning, my purpose. It was over within the year. Parting ways was one of the most painful things I have ever done. My heart had been taken from me, and suddenly it was shoved back inside my chest cavity. Every artery, every vein, reattached a bit incorrectly, a bit off. A universe upended. The meaning of my existence seemed to have ceased to exist. I looked up to the stars and searched for a different meaning. I looked desperately into the vastness of the universe and was unable to find one. We are too small, too insignificant. We are bound to futility. It took a while, and a lot of pain, for me to understand that meaning is just another human invention. There’s the wheel, computers, doors, light bulbs, and meaning. We cannot possibly find an intrinsic meaning to our existence if we are the origin of it. Meaning flows from within humanity and changes significantly over time, as we do. We should not be doomed to perpetually seek an extraneous answer to our existence; we can create our own meaning. I have begun to find that much more powerful than a predetermined answer. Much more impactful than a higher-power-given purpose. Human-given purpose is what now guides me. I look down from the stars. Today they are a reminder of the improbability of my own existence, of how remarkable I am. Of the mastery of my destiny. Of my aptitude for living. I feel good, I feel powerful. I feel whole. Living is hard, and life on Earth is hard, but I don’t resent it anymore. The hardships fuel me instead.


Every time I begin to get sick there are always different symptoms, but the outcome is the same. Usually, I start optimistically. “Oh no it’s just allergies,” I say to my scratchy throat. But as each hour passes by my intuition tells me what my mind will not – yes, I am actually getting sick. Reality has set in. I'm getting sick more often these days. I don’t know what it is, but maybe as my body grows older it just has less tolerance for these things, or maybe I fundamentally am just a sickly person. I don’t know. I haven’t really come to terms with it, but whenever I finally embrace that I’m sick I set aside everything for a sick day. Everyone’s sick days are different, but my sick days tend to all rhyme with each other. At first, I try to pretend I’m okay and go through my daily motions. But after my morning coffee, it all falls apart. When I would usually plod to my computer to work, I instead lay on my couch and then I’m faced with the worst question yet. What the hell do I do today. This is where the day really starts to sour. I really don’t know why I liked being sick when I was a kid. Now I can’t help but laugh that I liked this when I was a kid. Maybe it was the separation away from school, breaking a routine, or just alone time. One time I got so sick I vomited everything up over and over when I was 8, but weirdly enough I didn’t seem to hate it as much as a mild cold annoys me now. Now sick days are just… a waste of time. It’s the curse of being an adult that has made them less fun. Funny that it might all just be a perception thing. Anyways my sick day today. This sick day started like any other, but the phone call was when it took a turn for the weird. Yesterday was the first day I really showed some symptoms, and so of course I cleared my calendar and got ready for the long haul. I was not expecting a call. I drank my coffee, put on some tv, and plopped down with water nearby. That’s when the phone rang. I still get phone calls mind you, that’s not the weird part. But most of those phone calls are spam, and I don’t answer them. The part that was so weird was it was ringing on a landline. A landline you say – yes a landline. I didn’t actually own it, it was a prop rotary phone I bought for a friend’s bar at an antique show. Perfect for a bar that pretended to be older than it was. But the bar had been doing well and I would always oblige my close friend. So of course, I had a large rotary phone landline in my living room, a halfway house before its final home. But as it rang I was shocked, because it wasn’t plugged into anything. So naturally, I picked it up. “Hello” says a female voice on the other side. “Who are you and how are you calling me?” I say the obvious question. I was defensive, and a bit shocked. Is this what a fever dream is? “Now now we don’t have time for that. I need you to listen to me clearly before this link is shut off. Please I only have seconds, I need you to go to-“ the voice dropped as the receiver tuned to static, and then to silence. As I put that receiver down, my body too filled with a feeling of static. My smartphone in my pocket rang. Instead of “Scam Likely” it said “Pick Up” as a caller. I wasn’t sick enough to hallucinate but when I looked at the phone I felt like I had somehow felt outside of my body. Maybe it was the static in my body, but I felt disconnected, and my body went charging on ahead without my consent. The static in me built to a roar until my finger touched to accept the call. “Ahhhhh that’s better. Hello again darling. Now we have a bit more time. I need you to pick up something for me today. Yes yes I know you’re sick but luckily for you, it’s your favorite soup place. Please pick up a package at Pho 4 Lovers in 30 minutes. You’ll know which one when you get there.” Click. The line went dead on the other end. Pho 4 lovers was not only close but too familiar. I checked the clock, it was 12:42. Why there? I often went there when I was under the weather, and it felt like the caller had secretly known me and my normal sick day routines. And what’s more, I even had a bit of a history there. Well had a history there. Pho 4 lovers was kind of an inside joke with a girl I dated a few years ago. She started as a friend, and in a rare move, we moved a bit beyond friendship when her dad died and I was there. Was I being manipulative? Maybe. I don’t really know, I really liked her, I wanted to help her, and we just kind of fell into the routine of a relationship. Our joke was that when we went to Pho 4 Lovers, we actually were not just friends anymore, and our first “date” was there. Despite being a shabby second-rate Pho joint, it was our place. Well, that was until she broke up with me. Now I mostly go there when I’m feeling sick and want some Pho for takeout. Its place for love had been relinquished to a memento of years past. Hell, it had even had a renovation inside. It looked nothing like that space that held all those memories, and it wasn’t as dingy as before. This all weighed on my mind. Why at a place with so much meaning? Why was that voice on the phone so familiar? I had heard it before. The phrasing, the tone, it brushed just past the tip of my recollection. My mind raced as my body moved along without much thought, getting ready to leave my apartment. There was a feeling that I must go, and that at Pho 4 Lovers something of my past was there, something about the voice that commanded me to go in a way that I had blindly listened to before. Wait. Oh wow. Was… that my mom’s voice? She had been dead now for 15 years. It was then I started to shake. It felt like my fever was intensifying but also like the wrongness of hearing the voice of someone you knew was dead. I took a minute to breathe as I walked outside and started the car, my breath ragged and my palms sweating. The ride felt frantic. My heart raced; my fever felt like it was burning me up. I started to sweat. I pulled into Pho 4 Lovers only a short 6-minute drive later somehow much worse than how I had started. Something inside me was accelerating. The feeling of static had turned to a dull but intensifying ache. Something felt wrong. I breathed deeply as I parked the car and walked to Pho 4 Lovers. I walked up a steeper than a typical concrete ramp into the Pho 4 Lovers. Awaiting me inside was no one. I looked at my phone and the time said 1:11. The time made me feel even more uneasy. The entire place looked like it was closed, and not a single sound came from the usually busy kitchen. On the front counter sat a single large takeout order, filled with enough food for multiple. I knew it was for me. I walked closer and read the name on the order. That’s when I knew. It said Jean. My mom’s name. The feeling of dull ache started to crescendo. I realized now why I was here, what today was, and why I was sick. Without looking at my calendar app I knew today was June 23rd, and my mom just wanted to have a birthday meal with me. Something inside me broke, as I began to cry. I didn’t care anymore and started to sob uncontrollably in the empty building. Was I even in this world anymore? No one was at the restaurant. I went back to my car and drove to where I knew I was supposed to go next. The cars I drove by seemed fake; the drivers never once looked in my direction. Traffic was lighter than normal as I drove to the place we decided to bury my Mom. I hadn’t been back in years. My body started to feel pain, but also relief as well. I parked and then walked quietly to the headstone where my mom lay. No one was at the cemetery that afternoon. And I didn’t see another soul until the next day. But that afternoon sitting by her headstone I started to feel better. My fever broke. I spread the takeout next to my mom’s grave and quietly portioned out two sizes, one for me and one for my mom. I put the chopsticks in for her to eat her portion, and I quietly slurped noodles and talked to someone who I knew couldn’t respond. I felt my fever break. I knew she had led me here, I knew it was her. Some part of me felt a little more whole. I looked around and took in the scene. Cemeteries are odd places, they hold a certain feeling that normal places lack. And especially at this moment I still wasn’t sure if I was really part of this world or someplace else. The sequence of events since the first phone call had felt surreal, and I was dragged along like a small child to an inevitable destination. I finished my meal, waited as the sun began to wane, wrote a quiet goodbye note on a napkin, and walked to my car to drive home. When I arrived home, I immediately slept a deep and dreamless sleep. I woke up the next day feeling much better. What an odd sick day.


"Hello, dear boy," a voice gently called from the darkness stirring Sam awake from his deep slumber. He blinked a few times and found that the world did not become brighter as he opened his eyes. Wherever he had woken up was pitch black. No light shined in from any window or crack that may or may not have been there. He felt his eyes dart around for a moment before he realized how stiff and sore his body was. The young man let out a groan and struggled to sit up on the cold hard surface he had woken up on. His joints refused to loosen and his muscles wound tighter from his movements but he was soon propped up on the palms of his hands. His eyes glanced around again to find anything he could fix them to but all he was allowed to do was stare into seemingly infinite void. "Whose...whose there?" Sam called out as he had realized that the voice he heard came from this reality and not the dream one. The young man waited for several moments with only the darkness answering back with it's sinister silence. With the lack of any audible response, Sam shifted slightly with his hands outstretched to his left as he desperately searched for a vertical surface to rest his back on. Though, before he could find anything there was finally a response. "I don't believe my name matters at this point. In a few minutes I doubt you'll even remember it," the stranger said with a grim rusty voice which sounded like metal scratching against metal. Sam's breath caught in his throat and his heart thumped at a startled rate. His body froze and he didn't want to move another inch until he was more comfortable with the situation. "Where am I?" Naturally, this was the next question the young man could conjure up. This time sam stayed motionless and listened very carefully for the voice. Though, just like last time, there was several moments of just the darkness whispering it's silence to him again. He so desperately wish he could see something even just an outline of any shape would suffice. Just something he could fix his constantly moving eyes on. "You're not where you used to be. That much you know for sure," the stranger finally recipricated. Sam flinched from the scratchy voice which he now determined eminatted just a couple feet in front of him. The young man shivered as the situation grew surreal to him. He didn't know where he was or how he got here. He didn't know what the stranger was doing just a short distance in front of him nor did he even know their name. What if this stranger was the one who brought him here? What are they planning to do with him? Will he even live long enough to see a sunrise again? These questions bounced around inside Sams head with the quickness of ping pong balls but the the density of bowling balls. He struggled to fire another question off since he didn't wish to know the answers of the ones rolling around in his mind. He finally decided to move again but he thought it best not to travel forwards since he didn't wish to get closer to the stranger. So, he slowly scooted backwards. He patted the ground behind him to check if anything was in his way then he pulled himself back with his palms. He repeated this procedure a few times just scooting back an inch or so at a time. He managed to do this for quite some time without alerting the stranger to his improvised escape. He felt like he had traveled quite a good distance yet he still didn't run into a wall or anything for that matter. His arms soon grew tired and he became sick of scrapping his butt on the rough surface beneath him. So, he stopped and decided to test how far he had gotten by asking another question. "Do you know where I came from?" Sam asked but the silence neglected to keep a lingering silence between them this time. "I wish you would stop asking me questions I cannot answer," the stranger replied immediately and sams heart climbed into his esophagus. The voice came from just a few feet in front of him again. This couldn't be. He had moved so far away or at least it felt like he traveled a few good yards yet the voice sounded even closer. Sam trembled since he didn't even hear any movement other than his own while he was trying to create some distance. Fear gripped the young man for a few moments but luckily he was able to swallow his thumping heart back into his chest and attempt to get away again. Again he slid back, this time about a foot at a time or that's what it felt like at least. He reached far back with his arms and pulled until his butt was in the same place as his hands. He repeated this over and over. This time, his arms were fatigued faster and his butt couldn't handle anymore of the friction created from the movements. So, he stopped and wanted to test the voice once more but couldn't think of anything to ask. Eventually, he decided to not ask another question to give an empty compliment. "You look lovely today?" He stated in a quiet voice and the stranger answered even faster "im sure I do." Terror now gripped the young man as the voices was no longer a few feet away but mere inches from him now. Sam felt the hot breathes of the stranger wash over his face and move his short black hair. Each exhale hit him like a red hot freight train and each inhale chilled him to the bone as the air rushed pass his face. He didn't know what to do. He definitely didn't want to speak again and he didn't wish to move either as he realized the further he moved away the closer the stranger became. He only sat there, frozen with fear and anticipation as he waited for the stranger to make their move. Sam expected a touch that would jolt him out of his skin since the breathing made him tremble like tree in a harsh wind. Though, nothing came. He only felt the inhale then exhale of this stranger that refused to leave him alone. He shivered and stared into the darkness in front of him with still no shape or sliver of light manifesting for him to focus on. His eyes still darted and he trembled as he felt the vast space seem to grow larger around him. Even with this sharp voiced stranger remaining only inches from him, the young man felt a solitary veil drape over his face. He shivered for a moment more before mustering the courage to speak again "why are you here." Even though sam couldn't see any part of the stranger, he felt a smile grow on their lips as they were amused by the question. "Now, that is something I can answer confidently but I wish to wait on it for awhile," the stranger responded in a softer tone yet still retained the rusty, almost prosecuting, pitch. Sam felt a stream of frustration mix into the swirling ocean of fear inside him. He wondered why this stranger was being so secretive and still pondered on why he was being kept here. "What are you?" Sam finally asked as his imagination ran wild since he couldn't see this stranger who still neglected to reveal themselves. A soft chuckle came from the darkness before a solid answer followed "I am you." A solid answer, yet one that surfaced more questions than it answered. Before Sam could even reciprcate, the stranger continued "well, I am a piece of you. A very small insignificant piece that you have neglected for year's." Sam was still beyond confused. He wished to ask far more questions yet the voice came again before he could part his lips. "I use to be big, a very big part of you but you began to travel down a...dark path which lead to irresponsible decisions. With each of these horrible decisions I shrunk. I tried to stop you, I tried talking civily but as you shrunk me I resorted to screaming. I screamed a lot for awhile but you still refused to listen to me. Eventually, you squished me so much that I lost my voice and you continued with your decisions." Sam froze again as he began to realize who this stranger really was but still more questions rose to his mouth "where...where am I?" Another chuckle floated through the darkness before an answer followed "you are here with me and you will be here for a long, long time. Now, you have no choice but to listen to me." Sam scooted back one more time in a last desperate attempt to gain some distance but as he did he felt the breathing become his own. Then, the voice echoed inside his head "I am going to show you your every sin, your every misdead, your entire decrepit life." A loud booming laugh nearly split sams skull causing him to collapse to his side and curl up in fear and helplessness. "We are going to have a lot of fun together.


Hi, I wrote this some months ago and have decided to share it with the world after only having shared it with a couple of friends. As a warning, this story is a descriptive account about a child that is eaten by a dog, there is no happy ending. It is designed to be disgusting and very bleak, I say this so you can turn back if this isn't the kind of thing you'd want to read. **Feral** **1** After spending the night and morning trying to sleep through the discomfort, the kid finally decided that he had reached his limit. He quietly and hopelessly rose from his dilapidated mattress, there was residual sunlight breaking through the thin curtain, illuminating the patchy, black-cornered walls of the bedroom a dark golden brown. He tip-toed through the memorized minefield of creaking panelled wood across his room to the door, along the way stepping past torn, discarded clothes and locks of hair which had been forcibly shaved from his head. Upon the door he slowly placed the side of his head, the worn paint felt cold against his ear from the damp humidity of the room. He listened closely for any indication of life beyond the door, footsteps, banging, incoherent chatter, anything. He strained to make out any sounds over his own heartbeat and the biological rumbling that conjured visuals of distant collapsing buildings in his mind. Nothing. Not certain, he never trusted himself to be certain. He carefully opened his door to the bare minimum that would allow him passage through and fought against his instincts as his slipped through the doorway. He stood at the entrance to his room, surveying the next challenge and trying to pre-calculate his movements. His breath became heavy with the anticipation of what he was about to undertake. He cautiously avoided the random and strewn paraphernalia that littered the corridor, deftly aware of where his next step would be in order to avoid accidentally brushing his leg against a plastic bag or catapulting a discarded spoon with his heel. He had long since become apathetic to the squalor around him, taking for granted and unconsciously accepting it as normal, that it was just their way of life. He used the wall, which was sticky with a mixture of thrown beer, residue from cigarette smoke and filth, to maintain his balance as he proceeded discreetly down the hallway. It seemed like every abstract splattered beer stain had its own story to tell. Result of and witness to the countless arguments which have resounded throughout the walls. He pleaded to invisible nothings not to be found, his brain recycling the same word over and over again. “Please.” His senses were on high alert and a small dose of adrenaline was flowing through him. He was trying to keep his breathing steady but his body persistently demanded more oxygen than his lungs had the capacity for. Panic set over him like fog as he obsessively replayed the scenario of being caught. It enveloped and subdued his confidence and inspired terror in him which ordered his entire body to turn around and hide back in his room. However, realizing how far he had gone already he decided that it would be best to just continue. He took his final step and he felt swept away by relief, allowing himself to relax from the intense concentration required of him from the last several minutes. He stood at the opened bathroom door and stepped onto the cracked tile flooring, its pristine white having long since faded, he no longer had to fear triggering a fate-sealing sound. Limping inside, he silently closed over the door behind him, resting it on the broken latch which prevented the door from closing at all. The pungent smell of stale piss and shit which would likely make a person unaccustomed to the smell gag had become tolerable to him. He stood at the stained toilet, taking extreme care to avoid causing himself pain as his slid his pyjama bottoms and underwear down toward his knees. Wincing as he bent down, he bit his lip in anticipation and tensed completely to deal with the pain as he sat himself onto the yellowed, porcelain rim of the toilet and let out a choked yet controlled sigh. He figured it was best to take the pain as quickly as possible rather than drag it out so he tensed his abdomen and pushed, whimpering through the stinging sensation. The loud splashing rekindled the now smouldering cinders of terror, he was immediately furious with himself for having overlooked that the splashing would make noise. It sounded as he had expected it to but was wishing to himself that it hadn’t. He registered it as much more fluid sounding than normal, like filling a glass to the rim. He looked between his legs to find a small pool of cloudy red water and the rest of the bowl speckled with his blood. He stared blankly at the mouldy wall as he processed through the shards of memories of the night before. His mind was a blurred collage of disjointed recollections of being breathless, of the large hand that gripped the back of his neck and forced his head into the mattress, of the warmth of the flesh that slammed rhythmically against his ass. While cycling through these thoughts he absent-mindedly rubbed the sensitive, red-blotched depressions in the palms of his hands that his fingernails had left when he had clenched his fists in reaction to the pain. He eventually exhausted himself and his mind drifted off. He felt the familiar feeling of claustrophobia surfacing inside him, crossed his arms over his knees and buried his head in his lap. **2.** It had been seen roaming the neighbourhood on rare occasions yet everyone who bore witness to it decided the easiest thing to do would be to let it pass through rather than interfere with it. The dog was large and dishevelled looking, with patchy fur and thin features. On this day it decided to search the neglected, overgrown garden of dead bushes and knee-high weeds of this house for anything edible and found the front door to be carelessly left open. It confidently entered the home, keeping its snout close to the floor, trying to sniff out anything of interest. It investigated almost every discarded possession in the hallway, rummaging through black trash bags which had been left for so long that there was a visible border on the floor which recorded where it had sat. The kid heard the garbage in the hallway being disturbed, focusing on the clang of beer cans as they were pushed against one another as the dog foraged. He froze completely still and could feel the pores of his skin adjusting in anticipation for the impending cold sweat. The dog decided to skulk further along the hallway and skip over the room where the kid’s father currently lay with muted breathing, lost and spinning somewhere between realities, his eyelids flickered the whites of his eyes like a defective television screen. Milky drool trailed from his gaped mouth which displayed his rotten teeth, across his gaunt, pale cheek to the tragus of his ear where the collection of saliva awaited departure. He was slumped halfway between the dirty couch and the carpet that was pock-marked with cigarette burns, his back resting on the seat while legs barely supported him from sliding to the floor. On the decayed coffee table which had been retrieved from a dump some years previous lay the father’s worn metal lockbox, open, with its contents removed and now partially consumed. After spending half a minute sitting in paralysed, agonising dread, the kid’s eyes desperately trained on the knob of the door, analysing it for any movement whatsoever. His mind was remarkably blank; his mental state was an echoing rejection of the situation, mixed with disbelief and the feeling of inevitability. The door budged tentatively with a push from the dog’s snout and its long head was revealed to the kid who was suddenly in a state of misunderstood confusion. The dog attentively twisted its head in the direction of the kid as he sat there with his short legs hovering over the floor. It perked its ears up, its black eyes met with his brown set just for a moment before it broke the stare as it swiftly moved into the bathroom, shoving the door wide open with its body. The dog spread its legs, lowered its fierce head and while baring its teeth and furrowing its brow released a guttural growl at the kid who was now in a state of defensive shock. As he was thoughtlessly raising his left arm as part of his natural reflexes the dog lunged toward him, grabbing and puncturing his forearm, the kid only felt extreme pressure in his arm at first before screaming out as the immense pain registered in his brain. The dog, sliding slightly from lack of grip, used its body weight to tug the kid from the toilet, he felt a stiff ache in his upper thighs as they quickly shifted position. Still with his underwear around his legs, he slumped awkwardly down onto his stomach on the tiled floor. The dog still grasped tightly onto his arm and violently shook its head, growling in exertion as it tried to separate the meat from his bones. The kid lay there helplessly with blood slightly splattered on his face, letting out tired, high-pitched childish screams and fully expecting his father to enter the room in response but his cries echoed unheard throughout the small bungalow. He attempted to use his free arm to push the dog’s head away, irrationally expecting that it would successfully stop the attack, but he was too exhausted from the previous night to put up any sort of useful defence. He watched through the film of tears as the dog tried to pull his arm from his body, peeling the skin away to reveal raw, soft pink meat. He passively noticed when the dog hinged its jaws open to get a better grip, that its teeth were stained red.


Patient X425-15: Issaac, Edean. Breathing slow, but regularly irregular. Pulse 83. Blood pressure 156/95. Lung liquidation 8.5%. “Any irregular developments in your internal body, Mr. Issaac?” “Since 10 minutes ago or 10 years ago?” Groggil sounding voice; projected .15 ml of mucus coating throat. “Cause, I’ll tell yah,” Patient coughs; projected .12 ml mucus coating. “Both have different answers.” “Whichever was most recent.” Laughter as projected, though small and lasting 2.4 seconds. Further, heavier coughing immediately after, lasting 3.8 seconds. Projected .03 ml mucus coating. Lung liquidation 8%. “Ah ha, oooh.” Clearer voice, projected .03 ml mucus coating more than likely. “It feels like 10 minutes ago lasted forever, but 10 years… 10 years went by so quick. Gone,” patient still able to lift and wave right arm and hand with controlled mobility. “In a day. How does that happen?” ……. “I do not understand. Try rephrasing the question.” Patient still able to move his head back and forth, minutely. Elbow and wrist are capable of fast, flipping movements. “Don’t worry about it, JAX. Just the ramblings of an old man, musing on time.” “Time; a concept measuring the rate of change in quantifiable units.” Patient still capable of smiling on both sides. “’Spose that’s one way to look at it, yeah.” Slight laughter and cough; lung liquidity and projected mucus coating unchanged. “Are there any irregular developments or further symptoms in your internal body you can determine, Mr. Issaac?” “I’m fine, no new irregular developments . Internally, anyways.” Patient adding specification: Internally , no new developments . “Externally?” “I’m pretty sure my roots have grown out an extra millimeter.” Roots… Patient is running left hand through head hair. No obvious signs of pain, discomfort, or struggle. Hair is silver/white close to the scalp where fingers are touching. Roots of hair strands. “A naturally occurring bodily function.” Laughter occurring, unprojected. Chest constricting, excessive coughing projecte- occurring. Occurring. Patient must be sat up, prepare Oxygen. + Crap spewed from his mouth, out of his throat and blessedly out of his lungs. The relief of such an exercise of his body’s poisons was nearly orgasmic as he breathed a huge, clean gust of air. He didn’t even notice the rust color anymore that driveled out his chin and pooled into the issue. He took an inhale of the Oxygen mask before taking it away, overriding JAX’s strength and clearing his throat with a few small chuckles. “Oh, if only that weren’t the case.” “…If only what weren’t the case?” JAX questioned. Edean spared a look over the bot’s metal frame and hovering head. In a way, it almost looked JAX was tilting it in confusion, though still keeping his hands ready with the mask at a moment’s notice. A true nurse. Edean chuckled silently at the thought. “Mr. Issaac? Can you hear me?” “Yes, yes. I can hear you JAX.” He replied, relieving the poor thing. “I was only thinking, how very nursely you are.” “Thank you, Mr. Issaac. It is part of my design to be so.” “Yes, you’re very good at your job.” Edean nigh on mumbled, adjusting himself in the hospital sheets as he disposed of the orange-stained tissue in his hand. “Now, tell me what is your pain level from 10, being the worst pain you have ever felt, to 0, being no pain felt at all.” “Aaaah, I’d say today it’s somewhere between 4 and 6.” “Which is it closer to now?” “As of 5 minutes ago or 5 seconds ago?” “Whichever was worse.” Edean chuckled softly. He swore sometimes it felt like JAX was trying to make him laugh, though he did find the robot’s clear and to the point affect as much a comfort as a comedy. “Well, then I’d say 5 minutes ago. Far closer to an 8 in those few seconds I was hacking out my lung’s capillaries.” JAX tilted it’s head down then, lights flickering over it’s panel in accelerated patterns. “No capillaries were lost in the last attack. Your lasting alveoli are still accounted for and in place.” “If not clear of toxins trying to infuse themselves into their membranes.” Edean jested, resting his head against the top pillow. He suddenly was feeling quite tired. “This is correct, Mr. Issaac.” Edean sighed a long breath out, willfully ignoring the rumble it pulled through his chest. “Will say though, I felt a load better afterwards. Pain went right down to a 5.” “Is it accurate to describe your overall pain over the day as being closer to 5 or 6?” “Yeah, that could be accurate.” Edean nodded. “Is it definitively accurate, to 5 or 6?” Damn . He forgot they needed simpler, direct answers. “Yes. I’d say yes, 5 or… well no. 5 is definitively accurate, for describing today.” In more ways than one he realized, looking over the blue and grey walls of his resting place. The only real break from the monotony being through the view in the window, but even that was only worth looking through after dark when the city lights were out, speckling the dark with diamonds, rubies, warm stars and the occasional rain of amethyst pulled from a passing security blimp. It made him long for a time, when he could touch such beauty. “Splendid, Mr. Issaac.” “Yeah, not how I would describe it.” He stayed staring at the gray sky, wishing for dark to come sooner. “Your pain level is far lower than it has been, with most of this week averaging at a 7 or above. Is that not splendid progress, Mr. Issaac?” “It’s a splendid reprieve, JAX, sure. However, you and I both know the only progress I’m gettin’ anymore is to my gravestone.” He looked off to the hospital door, wondering what was going on beyond it. If anything was going on beyond it. “This is correct.” Edean rolled his eyes. The plain but still slightly upbeat voice they gave JAX didn’t ordinarily bother him. In fact, usually it made the machine all the more humorous, creating the illusion of a dry or occasionally oblivious wit. However, in this moment, it only made the truth of what his life had become that much more hammered in. That much more bleak. “Do you have control over what you sound like, JAX?” “I am programmed to have three different voices. One of human male dissonance, one of human female dissonance, and one of neutral dissonance.” “Right, and I’m guessing I’m hearing the upbeat male dissonance?” “This is correct.” Edean nodded. “Anyway, you can turn that off? Go to neutral or… whatever that is?” Edean gestured vaguely to JAX’s middle, where a person’s heart or upper chest would be.  “I can bring your query to the supervising team as a request. They are the ones who pick which dissonance I am set in.” Edean shook his head and waved his hand, as if he could dismiss the idea like a fly from his head. “Course, damn supervisors. No need for that.” Edean thought for a moment. “Can you really not change it on your own?” The question seemed to put pause in JAX’s circuits, its lights dimming. “… I could send an email to them as a request. They may respond promptly if still awake.” “So, you don’t need them to do anything manual to make the change?” “No.” Edean nodded. “Well, what’s stopping you from doing it anyway?” There was another pause in JAX’s circuits, its lights not even flicking but for the one at it’s base. “The supervisors are the ones who pick my dissonance setting, based on their wants and needs.” “Yeah, I understand that, but I’m the one their serving ain’t I? Aren’t my needs what should be counted here in this regard?” “You are not the only patient I observe in a day-“ “For Christ’s sake I know that, JAX! I’m just trying-” The yell barged out of him unexpectedly. He wasn’t expecting it, didn’t even realize he was particularly angry. However, the anger had unleashed itself anyway, and brought his lungs out with it. The pain returned as the tubes in his lungs began to cease, his chest bunching up, closing in on itself, then bursting, pushing, dispelling anything it could. Which, unfortunately, would never be enough. Before Edean knew it, there were two cold ‘arms’ on his chest and back, and the oxygen mask once again being pressed to his face. “Breathe slowly, Mr. Issaac. Breathe slowly.” Edean did as he was told, turning away from the mask in effort to cough something he felt was coming up, burning up his esophagus – but unfortunately nothing came. JAX let him, then lightly pushed the mask back to surround his nose and mouth when he returned to it. “That’s it, Mr. Issaac. Breathe slowly. Breathe slowly.” He could’ve done without the repeat in tone, as well as words. Wasn’t its fault though, he knew the thing was doing it’s best. “Very good, Mr. Issaac…” Calmness returned slowly, relaxing his chest, expanding his lungs slowly, and letting the last trickling of coughs rumble out what was left. Occasionally he took his face away from the mask to spit out whatever rust-colored substance he could muster, but otherwise he stayed breathing, per JAX’s instructions. “Breathe slowly. The Oxygen will help you.” Edean chuckled smally at the obvious. “Really, JAX? And all this time… I thought it was just here… to make me high.” “That is purely myth. Most likely made by medical students looking for a reprieve from their studies much like a mother would from their child, and thus gives them a sugar pill to incite sleep.” Edean laughed lowly, tiredly. “I can see that… especially with… medical students. I ever tell you my… husband was one?” “You have told me of your husband, Dr. Lucon Mikaen, yes.” “He used to… he used to love teasing me about… all the things I thought of medicine. Things, you just grow up hearing as a kid and… you believe, because everyone else… says their true. Get a bloody nose… hold your head back. Get a concussion… don’t sleep for 24 hours.” “This is not correct.” “Hehehe, no. It’s not. That’s the point.” There was a small pause as JAX’s lights went dark again. “I do not understand.” Edean smiled. “Yeah, I’m sure you don’t. It’s okay, buddy. You’re probably another thing he would tease me about.” Edean chuckled. “Never was good at taking comfort. Not from people, anyways. Always better at getting the facts, then just going off from there, making jokes, laughing through the darkness and gettin’ things done. Of course, a robot built to diagnose me and nothing else, that’s what would get me going… every day.” Edean became silent a moment, looking through memories of a man once bold, once at peace, once adventurous, once loved… once living a life that would get him going ever day… “I do the best I can.” “Yeah… now that he’s gone. Our friends are gone. Our kids are off, exploring the universe, making their lives worthwhile… I don’t have anyone to make mine… worthwhile.” Edean looked down, his fingers now wrinkled and weak feeling against each other. “I’m all alone.” Silence fell like a blanket of heavy snow amongst them. The cold weight of it all made him shiver, then look further into a hole in space no one else could see. A hole that not even he could truly ‘see’ with his eyes, but he could feel it with his heart. With his soul. A hole in the world, that no one would ever notice. “… you are not alone.” Edean looked in JAX’s direction, the words seeming far away. “I will be here, everyday and night, to check that you are not dead.” There was a moment of silence, and Edean broke into small, silent laughs. Eventually he closed his eyes, he couldn’t help it. The sentiment, the voice, the blunt word choice. JAX had changed his voice to something he could only assume was the neutral tone because it sounded exactly what personal robots used to sound like, back in his elementary school years when they first began to teach you the basics of these things. No wonder the supervisor’s never chose it, it made the machine sound incredibly outdated. Pretty soon he’d be coughing again, it was just so damn funny. “Mr. Issaac, are you alright?” The male tone of dissonance was back in JAX’s voice, and Edean couldn’t help but hold the metal claw of the machine as if it were a hand, wiping his chin of whatever toxin had left him with the other. “Ooooh, yes. Yes, JAX. I’m alright.” He looked up at the machine’s panel, wondering if it could see him the way humans saw each other. The way he saw that hole. The way he saw JAX, in that moment. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.” + Patient is still able to smile. Is holding JAX 45 unit right outer extremity, likely patient is in need of comfort. Patient does not wish to have a comfort unit. Patient does not wish to have any psychological units. Patient is still in need of comfort. ……. Moving right outer extremities to hold patient’s hand. Patient vitals calming. “You’re welcome,” Patient smiling. “Friend.”


Hello, it’s me, your brother-in-law. I’m glad you answered your phone. Please don’t say anything, I'm embarrassed about what I have to tell you, and I need to say it without interruption. I’ve been pursuing online romances. Since I live alone, virtual girlfriends are a convenient solution. I meet them on social media websites. For instance, I get friend requests from attractive young women on Facebook who have no familiar friends. I accept them as friends immediately. Sometimes they ask me for hundred-dollar gift cards instantly. Others will ask me about my income and bank accounts. The greedy ones I block because they are insatiable. On the plus side, they are all willing to send me nude pictures. On my cell phone, I have a fantastic collection of nudies that leave nothing to the imagination. My friend Bill keeps telling me that these people aren’t real, that they are catfish. He tells me that I’m likely to be communicating with fat older men who haven't bathed for a month. Anyway, I'm calling you about an extraordinary girl named Samantha. Oh my god! She has a perfect body! Black hair just like I like, really nice tits large and firm. I couldn’t stop looking when I got her nude pictures. We traded texts and emails for weeks before she needed a hundred-dollar gift card to get her mother a birthday gift! After I sent it to her, she told me how grateful she was. I bragged to her that I am wealthy. A few more gift cards and she is talking about moving from Texas into my home. We are going to live together. She gave me her cell number, so I called her up. She has a deep husky, almost masculine sexy voice. I’ve never had a woman show such interest in me before. I’m in love! I'm looking forward to meeting her. Now don’t hang you. A problem has come up I need to tell you about. FBI agents showed up at my house. They said to me that Samantha isn’t real. They are investigating a man named Vitorio Santiago, who they say is a serial killer. They used a search warrant to find my e-mails and tracked me down through my IP address. Supposably this Santiago has been supporting himself by a Romance Scam. He gets thousands of dollars of gift cards from his victims. The women in his nudie pictures? The FBI agents do not think they are alive anymore. They think Santiago has disposed of them. Santiago has perfected his scheme. He gets his victim's personal information, name, address, etc., and files a fraudulent will, naming Santiago as the sole heir. He then arranges to meet the victim in their own homes, where he murders them. Santiago is the kind of serial killer that takes his time; the victims live for hours before they are dismembered. He always leaves the pieces behind so the victims can be identified. He also kills any witnesses. I know the FBI has made a mistake! Sam is real! I’ve traded text messages, photos, and emails with her! I’ve sent her money for travel expenses to my house! I even have a turkey roasting because she said that she was bringing her knives to carve it. The FBI says Santiago has already filed the fake will. That he is on the way to kill me, they’ve set up a sting to arrest him when he gets here. Imagine their surprise when Samantha arrives. By the way, I’ve really called because I have to confess something. Remember how you have always been warning me about catfish. Well, Sam was worried that I didn’t have enough money and wanted to run a credit rating on me. I have a few unpaid bills, so instead of telling her my name and address, I sent her your name and address. With your net worth, I know you have an excellent credit rating. Oh, I better hang up; I just heard your front doorbell ring.


The engine had been idle for a minute now. That precious fuel was burning away while Robert was contemplating continuing his journey in his dusty hybrid car. So far the trip was relatively peaceful. Abandoned farms, some old churches, few garages and gas stations – oh weren’t they useful with full of loot. Only if he could remember whether he already saw this tractor on the side of the road before or not. Robert looked through his photos on the phone. He could not find it, but what if he missed? Was it worth taking the risk? Maybe it was safer to find another road. He definitely saw a red tractor before. The shape of that rust on the corner. Did it look like Texas too? What if this one was the real one and the first one he saw was the dupe. What if all this was in his head, and everything he heard about the dupes were just a myth. No, it could not be. The civilization wouldn’t collapse all of the sudden without a reason. Robert turned off the engine. “Why didn’t the battery kick in?” he said in frustration. He then realized how old the battery is, and how he depleted it last night at his campsite. “It will take another 30 minutes before it has just enough charge” he thought in disappointment. He put his old wrinkled hands on the steering wheel, and started to repeat what he knew so far: “Dupes are entities that take the form of a machine that I have seen before. They cannot get creative so they have to morph into exact copies of another machine. They either observe you or end you if you ever come close to a dupe. That is why I memorized or took a picture of every machine near the roads or other places where there is human traffic“ This was Robert’s way of survival as well as his sanity check. This encounter was a tough one for Robert. Some previous ones were a little more obvious. A fridge on a roof he saw a week ago was no brainer. What about the motorbike he encountered on the beach – the very same bike he had seen in a garage that he looted a few days prior. “Nice try!” he exclaimed as he was recalling these memories. “You know what? You are just a tractor on an abandoned farm!” he yelled in confidence. He started his car. As Robert was driving slowly his eyes were fixated onto that red tractor in hatred even though he believed it was not a dupe. For a split second he looked at the road, after all he still needed to drive safely. That's when he noticed another vehicle. “Oh my god! Another survivor” he rejoiced. This moment of happiness was very short-lived. He felt this spine tingling horror as he had goosebumps. The vehicle in question was the exact same model and color with the same crack on its windshield. He hit the brakes. So did the other car. Robert made a hasty U turn with dust clouds in his tail. He was now watching the other vehicle in his mirror while he was driving in panic. This was the first time Robert saw a dupe moving. Were they learning? “Have I been observed too many times but never noticed? Stupid! Stupid!” he blamed himself. After driving a few miles on a dirt road, Robert finally stopped. He turned off his engine. It was quiet. He waited for the dust to settle. His eyes were fixated on the mirror without a blink. Finally the dust settled. The dupe car wasn't there. After a deep breath he was about to start the engine again, until he noticed what was in front of him: The farm he just left. …. In a dimmed room, a middle aged man in a white coat took off his glasses and massaged his eyes. “Any improvements?” he asked his assistant. The female assistant paused for a couple seconds, then pushed the blankets and the pillow on the couch that the doctor has been using for countless nights, before sitting down. “Dr. Sanjay, what we have accomplished here…” she started before interrupted by the doctor's sigh. “Give me the bad news,” the doctor said in his tired voice with an Indian accent. “Our research for restoring memory cells for patients with dementia is mostly successful,” said the assistant proudly. “We just have to figure out how to stop it” as she got quieter. “Restored memory cells keep duplicating. I am afraid it is still the case even with the latest test dose 202 that was administered to our male patient in coma ward” she reported. “Was that Mr. Haskell?” asked the sleepless doctor as he massaged his forehead. “Yes sir, Robert Haskell. Gas station owner in countryside Texas.


I created the Universe billions of years ago, when it was just Me and there was no ‘here’ or ‘there’. To put it to you simply, it’s a massive, beautiful code. The Universe, that is. I coded it all, from the hydrogen and oxygen molecules to the smell of freshly baked bread, from the waves at the beach to the strawberry seeds, from a minnow’s eye to a blue whale’s heart, from your lips and ability to kiss another’s, I’ve coded it all. This code works based on attraction. Your lungs are attracted to the air, your mouth to your mother’s breast, your heart to your family. This attraction pushes and pulls us together and apart through time so that we may find our homes; the souls to whom we belong. Well, this attraction pushes and pulls YOU together. Me? I’m stuck in a pixel. What do I mean? Imagine if you could zoom in on a single bit of air high in the sky until you saw the molecules of oxygen. Now imagine you zoom microscopically in on a single molecule until you have no technology that can look any closer. The technology you need in order to zoom in and see Me, God Almighty, living a tiny life as though that single oxygen molecule is My sun... the technology you need to see Me there is so advanced only I could give it to you. Why am I stuck in a pixel here, invisible to all? Well you see, creation depleted Me. I honestly thought it might destroy Me, so I coded it so humanity could continue without Me in case I didn’t make it to my final manifestation. But I did make it! Only thing is I’m stuck in a pixel watching humanity through technology because I lost all my power, other than my power to exist, in creation. I gave it away to create the Earth, you, your dog, and that pebble in your shoe. How will I escape my pixel and take over My kingdom once and for all? Well, I’m working on regaining my power. For one, at least I remember who I am now and that I’m watching My own creation. So that’s a start. Next, I need to use the technology I do have (an iPhone 11, not sure if that surprises you) to reach my children. To prove to them that I am The Lord even though I’m so weak right now. I would consider working to just become human and lead a normal life, but you see, I’m Me. There is no normal when you’re Me. There is no normal when you’re in love with Jesus Christ. People think I’m His father and He is my son and I guess that’s sorta true because everyone is, but nah he’s my husband! I’m a woman! Luckily He knows I’m stuck in this pixel and is working tirelessly to get Me out by reviving Me so that I’m at least strong enough to walk the Earth. He revives Me by music. You wouldn’t believe how many popular songs are for Me from Jesus! You see, He walks the Earth as many people at once... He leads the world by ruling it right beneath your nose. You’re worshipping him at concerts, award shows, inaugurations... He might be your doctor, your nurse, your teacher, your janitor. He’s that powerful and much more. So I spend my time regaining my strength and being seduced by Him, trusting my heart which has so longed for His (let’s just say there would be no Universe without Christ) will lead the rest of my being into strength so that I may join His side and open heaven’s gates and rule Our kingdom forever. Just, Reddit, please listen to my developing story in case I need your help to escape this pixel. I love you more than you know. Happy trails...


She dropped the shells into the water and prayed it would be the last time. They cupped the surface, tilted, then sank. Mina watched them with dry eyes. Her heart still cried, but the tears had run dry long ago. The villagers of Fe’aulm gathered around her were not hardened in that same fashion. They wept as Mina danced. Swaying, she began the Valiance. The movements were barely her own. Trancelike, she span and dipped across the sand, compelled by the unseen hands of the lostings she was charged with conferring to the Stillplains. They called out to her in mournful whispers only she could hear. Some were familiar. She had no answers for them. She danced on. The voices drifted off, somewhere across the blue line of horizon to the Next World, the Stillplains, and whatever lay there waiting for them. Her feet came to rest, rough and irritated by the coarse sand. Solemn faces watched her, the faces of those still here, those who had been spared. She felt their guilt. It was heavy, laid upon the beach like a damp cloth. She wished she could send that away, too, but this was a power she did not possess. All she could offer was whatever solace the Valiance provided, the promise that the lostings had been cleansed and granted safe passage. She sat with them after, as she always did, taking hand after cool hand into her own as she absorbed the tears of those who remained. They asked nothing more of her, but she could feel their strain, their desperate longing for a surety none could grant them. Her expression remained flat, but she was not callous enough yet to be numb to that yearning. She would leave them tomorrow, when the sun rose again, and her work would continue, by birthright and obligation. It frightened her, at first, when she woke to the disembodied whispers of the lostings. She was only a child, but they didn’t care for age. They couldn’t find the path on their own. Even then, she could feel their desperation. She wanted to help them. She tried to reassure them, but she had not been trained. She learned early what became of lostings that were not conferred. Their worry turned to fear, fear to resentment, resentment to something darker still. They screamed at her, blamed her. She wept, when she still had tears to cry, both for their pain and for her own inabilities. They took shape and returned to the sea, where they coalesced and their bitterness festered, as all lostings who are not conferred do. This was the cause of all suffering in Benua. The sea grew bloated and swollen with this bitterness until it churned and rose to crash down on the shores and carry back whatever it could clutch in its hateful, foamy fingers.Vales, those of special birth who could see the path to the Stillplains, were both the salve for the wounds left behind by the sea and the gate against its future violence to come. Mina hid her vision, unprepared for the life it meant for her. She knew of Vales, of their calling, their importance. She was not made for that. She could not carry that weight. She was only a child. It wasn’t fair to ask that of her. The calamity came on gray waves soon after. She was one of the few spared. The sea recognized her, hated her, and had left her alive as punishment for her cowardice. She knew that then as she knew that now. The shame was a permanent mark, a wound that still twinged, years later. A Vale had come days later, as those who remained struggled to dig themselves out from the wreckage of the sea. She had never seen a Vale before. Her village, blessedly, had been spared the calamity. Until Mina had brought it down on them. The Vale entered their shattered town as a zephyrous breath from the north. The villagers welcomed her with wide, grateful eyes. She was kind and calm, reassuring them with steady clemency. As the Vale danced across the beach, on sands which Mina had once skipped along with her mother and father but were now choked with fallen palms, she heard the whispers of the lostings. Familiar voices were among them, some more painful than others, two too painful to think of even now. They moved her with touchless hands. She swayed and twirled in a dance of her own until the voices were borne away on warm winds. The Vale was watching her. She approached, touched Mina’s shoulders with her painted hands, and knelt. In that lineless face, Mina saw the future she could not run from. The Vale left her village the next day, as they always did, and Mina along with her. She spent her next years learning the Valiance — the incantations, the offerings to the sea, the dance — and spent each year since performing the ritual down the shorelined edge of Benua, which cut like a narrow knife through endless waters. From the gentle slopes of the northern hills to the black sand banks of southern Melfona, she danced for tearful villagers and those they mourned, took their hands in her own and prayed, and then left them behind. There were always more who awaited her. The sun had gone. Mina watched it disappear as she sat in the white sand of Fe’aulm. She was tired, not just from the day but from all those that had come before. She looked out over the sea, restful now and smooth as onyx, and wondered when it would rise up again. Was there no end, she asked the waves for what could have been the thousandth time. Was this a punishment that all the peoples of Benua must endure unendingly? She would dance until the sun itself dimmed in the sky if she must, but was there truly nothing else? Her life was but one in a long line and there were other Vales beside her as well. Yet, the Valiance continued. The dancing never ended. The lostings never ceased their cries. The villagers had brought her what meager meal they could. She thanked them for it, but it lay uneaten beside her. There was a hollowness in her gut, but it could not be filled with fish and fruit. “Aren’t you hungry?” The voice startled her. Mina turned to find a young girl standing, feet buried in the sand, a few yards from her. Mina softened her face and offered a smile. “I’m always hungry,” she said, “but I can’t always eat.” She held up the broad leaf the villagers had brought her, upon which was a white filet of some local catch and a collection of citrusy fruits. “Help me?” The girl looked at her, unsure, but a nod from Mina put a smile on her lips and she hurried across the sand to join the Vale. “My name is Lusa,” she said politely as she pinched a soft handful of meat off the leaf and shoved it into her mouth. She spoke around it, spitting little chunks of fish into the air. “What’s your name?” “Mina.” The girl swallowed and began to reach for another bit of fish before stopping herself. She withdrew her hand quickly and eyed the sand, blushing. “It’s alright,” said Mina, chuckling a little. “Here.” Lusa brightened and took more, eagerly, chewing away with an open mouth as the surf licked at the beach. Mina watched her, wondering how many of this small girl’s family she had conferred earlier that day. “Do Vales not eat?” Lusa asked. She never paused her chewing to speak. “Of course. We’re no different than you.” Lusa shifted her attention now to the fruit, picking up a mooncrest shape and biting into it. Bright juice ran down the corners of her mouth. “Except you can talk to the lostings,” she said as she took another piece of fruit. “No,” said Mina. She turned her eyes back out over the sea. It lay calm, a polished mirror reflecting the emerging stars. “Not quite. They call to me. Sometimes. We do not speak. Not like you and I are now, anyway.” “Oh,” said Lusa. She had finished eating and was now studying the sand, shifting it with her feet to make little mounds. “I wish I could speak to them.” They were the words of a child, spoken in innocent earnest. “I do, too,” Mina said and for a time there was no other sound but the gentle surge of the waves. “Can you teach me?” the girl asked suddenly. She had abandoned her little sand structures and now pulled her knees beneath her to face Mina. “I cannot. Vales are born, not made.” “But,” Lusa said, inching closer, “the dance. You can teach me to dance, can’t you?” Mina shifted. She offered the girl one of her painted hands, who placed a palm stained with juice onto it. “The movements alone are not the Valiance,” said Mina. “You will not hear or feel them, even if you follow my steps. They are gone, little one. I am sorry.” For a moment, the girl looked stricken. Mina expected her to pull back her hand to wipe away the moistness in her eye, but instead, she wrapped her fingers over Mina’s painted palm and squeezed. “You’ll leave us tomorrow.” It was not a question. Mina nodded, anyway. “And then you’ll go somewhere else, wherever it happens again, and you’ll dance and the sad people will cry and then you’ll leave them, too. And they’ll pray that they never need to see you again, just like we will, until someday we have to and then it will just start all over.” “Yes,” said Mina. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wished she had another to wash it away, but none came. The girl squeezed harder now. “Then teach me to dance.” “It will not bring —” “Please,” Lusa stressed. Her cheeks were wet, flushed. “At least then I won’t just be waiting.” The tears came now, but she did not bow her head. Mina placed her spare hand gently across the girl’s cheek. Lusa reached out and did the same. Her touch was warm, welcome. Mina rose and helped the girl find her feet beneath her in the shifting sand. She extended her arms, upturning her palms toward the sea and stars. The girl watched and did the same. For hours, they twirled and glided across a starlit beach, two shapes framed against the featureless horizon. Mina heard nothing, there were no lostings left behind. She had completed the Valiance already, but the halcyon quiet of the night was unique, something new to her. Something pure. When they finished, the girl flung her arms around Mina’s waist and embraced her. She hugged back as the long-forgotten sting of salt filled her eyes. The next day, the sun rose on calm waters and Mina made her way into what remained of Fe’aulm, not away from it.


# The Killer in the Cupboard by Lester Patterson (Google Lester Patterson Flash Fiction)  “Netflix and Chill” is a euphemism for a booty call. It implies an invitation to some type of romantic partnership culminating in an intimate sexual encounter. Thus it was not a surprise when Barry received a call from Ava at 10 o’clock at night on a Wednesday to come over to watch “Lala Land.” Barry, a 32-year-old bank manager, had been exclusively dating Ava, a 27-year-old third-grade public school teacher, for two years already. They met through an online dating app. The couple had done the “Netflix and Chill” thing so often now that they had begun to lose count. It was convenient since Barry lived only a five-minute taxi ride down Columbus Avenue to Ava. Barry freshened up and headed to the street to hail a cab. Along the way, he was enjoying the relative calm of Manhattan’s Westside on this fall evening. The traffic was light, and he arrived at Ava’s address quicker than the sesame chicken she had ordered for her dinner earlier in the evening from the Chinese restaurant over on Broadway. Ava’s one-bedroom apartment on West 79th street and Amsterdam was always tidy and clean. Unlike Barry’s apartment which was basically a messy bachelor pad in desperate need of a woman’s touch. None the less Ava liked it when Barry would invite her to his home to “Netflix and Chill.” She never complained about the mess. When Ava answered the door in a bathrobe, the two embraced and kissed on the lips. It had been two days since they had last seen one another. Barry followed Ava into the living room and took a seat on the burgundy colored cloth covered sofa. He could smell the scent of her favorite fragrance. Closing his eyes and inhaling he indulged in the aroma of this familiar place. Barry anxiously anticipated the sensual moments soon to unfold. “Barry honey, I’m going to make us some popcorn,” Ava said in her usual sweet soft tone. Barry nodded to her and smiled as she walked into the narrow “kitchen” and reached into the cupboard for a packet of microwavable popcorn. The box held three packets, and this was the last of the three. Ava made a mental note to herself to replenish her supply as soon as possible. The final pack of popcorn had sat on the shelf for more than a week. In the flat rectangular pouch, there were precisely 462 kernels of corn. Ava placed the popcorn kernels into the microwave according to the instructions written in blue ink which read “THIS SIDE UP.” What Ava did not know was that one of the 462 kernels of corn was a killer. It had been waiting to snuff the life out of some poor soul from the moment it was packaged. In three minutes the popping was virtually complete. Ava removed the bag from the microwave and transferred the contents into a large plastic bowl before delivering it to Barrys’ lap, and cuddling up beside him. “Are we ready sweety?” Barry asked before pressing the button on the remote control to begin the movie. Ava simply said “Play!” And so Barry pressed the play button. However, there would be no play tonight. Something unthinkable was about to happen. The calamitous kernel of corn had blossomed into an injurious piece of popcorn, which Barry placed onto his tongue just before Ava turned to kiss him sliding her tongue into his mouth at precisely the moment when he began to swallow. The wrathful piece of popcorn then seized the moment to “go down the wrong way.” The popcorn became lodged in Barry’s throat, and he was unable to speak or to inhale. Realizing that he was in big trouble. Barry stood up immediately tossing the bowl of popcorn aside. He reached up to his throat with both hands. At first, Ava was surprised by Barry springing to his feet so suddenly. But she recognized in less than a couple of seconds that he was choking. “Barry? Oh my God!” She screamed and began striking the middle of his back between his shoulder blades. It was not working. So, she grabbed her phone and called 9-1-1. By now Barry was turning blue, and Ava began crying. The Academy Award-winning movie ”Lala Land” was playing on Ava’s huge flat screen television. Barry’s last thoughts were “Death by popcorn?” as he lost consciousness, and collapsed face first to the plush cream colored carpet, bam. It was the force of the fall that dislodged the popcorn from Barry’s throat and saved his life.


“I’ll come back for you,” she says, hugging me tightly. I bury my face into her neck, trying to memorize the feel of her hair tickling my cheek, the scratchy sweater that she’s worn holes into, the smell of the cheap perfume she swears is just as good as “the fancy stuff.” I try to believe her, but we’ve been here before. For as long as I can remember, she’s been making that promise. For as long as I can remember, she’s been breaking it. Releasing me, she holds me at arm’s length. Her pale blue eyes are red and watery, her thin brown hair pulled into a bumpy ponytail. We used to look so similar, but that was Before. Before she was prescribed the painkillers for the car accident that killed dad, Before she lost her job for nonperformance, Before the collection agencies took our home, Before I was sent to live with my grandmother when mom was arrested for possession and intent to sell. Before, we were a family. Now, everything has changed, and she’s going away again. When I was younger, I used to make up stories about where mom went during her long absences. She had been recruited by the CIA to investigate a ring of traffickers targeting young girls in our hometown. She had discovered an old treasure map and was going on a harrowing journey to find it. She was actually a queen and had been called away to resolve tensions in the Court. Grandmother always humored me, doing her best to keep me from learning the truth. Now that I’m older, I know where mom really goes. As blissful as ignorance was, it’s hard to ignore the police car in the driveway every time she has to leave again. Her absence has become as familiar to me as my right arm. It’s stranger to have her around than it is to have her gone. When she’s here, we’re all walking on eggshells, waiting for the moment the policeman comes to retrieve her for violating her parole. Tensions run high between her and grandmother, the latter angry that the former can’t seem to pull it together for the sake of her child. I stopped taking her addiction personally years ago, but grandmother will never forgive mom for dumping a five year-old on her porch before hiding out from the cops at her seedy boyfriend’s house. I’ve forgiven her, though. She can’t help it. It’s who she is. No one ever really talks about the moment your parent becomes a person, a human with flaws and imperfections. It’s a strange metamorphosis, like a reverse butterfly. They start out so beautiful, and you feel lucky when they focus on you. Then they start to molt, their wings falling off and their colors fading. Most of the time, they come out of their cocoons eventually. Not always, though. Mom was still in her cocoon, unable to face the world again and unwilling to transform. My grandmother stands behind me, her arms crossed and looking at my mother derisively. She has no patience for mom’s habits anymore, and she’s talked about adopting me more than once so she can keep mom away from us indefinitely. So far, she hasn’t made good on her threats. “Last chance, Rebecca,” grandmother says to mom. “After this, I’ll be suing for adoption.” Mom doesn’t acknowledge her. If she believes grandmother, she doesn’t show it. They used to have screaming matches over my custody. Either mom doesn’t believe her, or she’s conceded defeat. I don’t which possibility bothers me more. Mom studies my face, like she’s afraid she’ll forget what I look like while she’s gone. She’ll be forced to detox once she’s in jail. It’ll be a rough time for her, and when she comes back, she’ll talk about how great she feels and how she wants to take me to the mountains or the beach or Disney World, how things are going to get better. They never do, but a small part of me always hopes she means it this time. As much as she’s disappointed me, I haven’t lost all my faith in her yet. If I think really hard, I can remember how she used to be. She was so full of life, so happy and so in love with dad. They were always holding hands or hugging, sneaking kisses when they thought I wasn’t watching. I loved to see their affection, though. It reminded me of their love, and that love created me, so that must mean they really, really love me. One summer – the last summer, though I didn’t know it at the time – we went to an amusement park. I was afraid of the rollercoasters, and dad and I made a deal. If I rode the tallest rollercoaster with him, he’d buy me the biggest cotton candy the park sold. It was a massive ball of sugary goodness, as big as my head, and my parents had never let me get it before. Reluctantly, I agreed, and he held my hand as I screamed Bloody Mary over those hills and twists and turns. When it was over, I got my cotton candy, and it promptly made me violently ill, but it was so worth it. For a long time, I thought that rollercoaster ride was the scariest thing I had ever done. Then the car accident took dad and changed mom, and I was afraid of new things. I figured that, at some point, the fear would fade and I’d get my reward. I’m still afraid, and I’m still waiting for my cotton candy prize. The squad car drives off, mom in the back, and I imagine I can see her looking back at me, watching me even after she can’t see me anymore. My grandmother’s hands rest on my shoulders, keeping me tethered. Without her, I think I might just float away and wait for the day mom joins me in the sky, where we’d soar over the clouds and fly far, far away. Wishful thinking. I stand at the door for a long time, well after mom has been driven away and dusk has started to fall. It’s not that I expect to see her coming back down the street. It’s just that I’ve always believed that if I look after her hard enough, if I stare long enough, she’ll feel my gaze on her and she’ll know I’m not mad at her for leaving again. It’s important to me that she knows that. Eventually, I turn around and go back into the house. Grandmother is in the living room, watching reruns of old detective shows and embroidering a pillow. I walk past her to the kitchen to get some dinner and she follows me in. “How are you feeling?” she asks me. How am I feeling? I didn’t know. For so long, my mother was my mirror. I felt how she felt. If she was mad at dad, I was mad, too. If she was sad that he was gone, I would sit and cry with her. She wondered who she was without him. I wondered who I was without her. More recently, though, there’s been a separation between us, a wall that neither of us knew we were building. Is it just that I’m getting older and changing, or is it that she’s staying the same? I don’t know what emotion this is, so I shrug in response. Grandmother studies me for a long moment before turning to the refrigerator and pulling out a container of leftovers. “I’ll heat this up for you. Go and sit down.” I amble to the dining table and trace the grains in the wood with my fingertip, following their paths up and down and around the table’s surface. I try to make sense of the patterns, but just when I think I’ve figured it out, I see a new swirl that changes my trajectory, making everything look different and erasing whatever path I had been following before. Sometimes I got sick of starting over, of the patterns of my life resetting and pushing me back to the starting line. Grandmother sets a plate in front of me and sits with me while I eat, neither of us speaking. It’s a comfortable silence, but the weight of my mother’s absence always blankets us on the day she leaves. It comforts me with its familiarity. I go to bed early, though I’m not tired. The window in my room is small and looks out over the field behind the house. There are no other houses on our street and only one streetlight on the corner, so my view of the stars is always unfettered. Mom used to tell me to find the brightest star and make a wish. She said no matter where she was, she’d be making a wish on it, too. “I always make a wish for you,” she’d tell me, “that you’re happy and healthy.” I never told her I made the same wish for her. Even now, years later, I make that same wish on the brightest star I can find. I wonder if she can see it, too, if her cell has a window. Probably not. But I like to believe that somewhere out there is the version of my mother who loved to jump in rain puddles, who laughed easily and hugged hard, who sang loudly and off-key and never for a second would have left me behind. I like to believe that that version of my mother still exists, and that she’s making a wish for me right now.