Today was supposed to be simple, I planned on teaching the exceptions to I before E, and then go home to sit on my couch to just dither. The thing is life seems to always have an ace up it's sleeve ready to throw you for a loop. Quite literally for me, I just remember rolling. Rolling cigars it’s what I’ve been doin since I was round ten. Miser Gershaw is a good employer, much better than the testin labs, where some kids go. I just roll the Misers cigars and fetch things when he asks, as long as I don’t make him real mad he don’t beat me. He always yells when I do my tick, I gotta remember not to do dat. “Boy you stop that muttering, nobody cares about those damn exceptions! If I weren't busy here, so help me god, I’d beat those damn words outta you.” roared Gershaw. “Sorry miser, sorry.” Turning to me, red faced, Gershaw said “speak correctly while you are in my house. I know you failed your aptitude test, but that is no reason to speak like a nitwit” He slapped me so hard that I saw lights, flashing by my head. The ceiling was white, bleached like bone, I was being pushed, rolling, but immobile. The shapes above me faded in and out, dark foreboding figures, speaking indistinctly as they rushed along with me to who knows where. My eyes fluttered open, above me was Gershaw, mouth moving in silent words. My ears ringing I finally heard "Get up" I picked myself up from the floor, "Sorry mister Gershaw, it won't happen again" He looked disdainfully at me, "Jaremy, get the mail." I trudged off, down the metal hall to the mail shoot, where the mail is dropped by the pneumatic tubes. As I walked, my shoes clicking on the marble floor, I contemplated, the exceptions which I failed on my aptitude test. "I before E except after C. Agreeing, ancient, beige, being, caffeine, concierge: concierge, what a funny word, when I get home I need to find it." The arched windows only displayed the beautiful land which Gershaw called the Amazon Rainforest, of course I wouldn't have known either way, it burned down before I was born. All I really know is that the outside wasn't nearly as green, or wet as the picture. Gershaw says if i hadn't scored so poorly I woulda learned bout why that really happened to all those trees. "Ow, shit!" I exclaimed as I stubbed my toe on the package. "Man that hurt" The package was a heavy box, labeled "to be delivered to Mister Gershaw by the 5th of May 2039." Today's date. I lugged the box all the way back up the smooth marble hall, clicking all the way. When I returned with the package, Gershaw opened it to reveal the newest Practice book for the kindergarten standard aptitude test, which Gershaw's little daughter Loiza has been seeing a tutor for since she was just able to speak. I never had no practice books or nothin like that, down in the Burrows we get what we get, nothin fancy like this. The rest of my day went without much event, and I was getting ready to go home. Taking off my black and whites to change into my patchwork pants, and threadbare shirt. I put my mask on, and went down through the airlock into the murky evening of the Burrows, where I was soon swallowed by the thick rolling smog. In the distance I hear the sound of a siren as it screams by, hunting for its next patient. I trudge through the dimming streets, lit only by the lights from the homes high above. First I walk by the factory where I hear machines werring and buzzing away at their tireless work. As I plod on I walk by the testin lab where the bloodcurdling wails of less fortunate children echo from the operating tables, and testin chambers where the children lay. My cracked path led me past the hospital where the hunting siren stops its cry, past the billboard which promises "a bright future for children!" only if they take the "Standard Aptitude Test: measuring student potential since nineteen twenty". Even the board is grimy and run down. After I failed my test when I was ten, all I had to look forward to was reading a new word from the weathered leather bound dictionary, which was our only real book. The test meant that I couldn't keep going to school, and I had to start working for Gershaw to pay off the education which I had received. At home I sat down on my hard mat, in my dingy grey room, and opened my cracked dictionary to see what concierge meant. As I opened the book, my vision became nothing, but a bright white light. Suddenly I awoke with a start, as the alarms on the bed called for a nurse. My room was stark white, and it hurt my eyes to look, but I couldn't help it. Everything was different. The nurse came in bustling. "deery, my god I cannot believe you woke up." she said frantically "why? " I frowned "You've been in a vegitative state for twenty years" "I was just driving to teach my class, but the last thing I remember is the rolling" "Honey, your car rolled, and you where seriously hurt" I stood up shakily on my atrophied muscles. Before my legs gave in, I briefly caught a glimpse outside into the murky air, broken only by a sign which promised "a bright future for children.


When she was ten, she went to the woods to find a flooded house. She can't remember if she was bluffing or if she really knew it would be there– if she had been there before or if she had guessed and gotten lucky. But eventually, the trees cleared into tall grass, and a house really was there. And the house really had been flooded, baby toys and clothes spilled out of the doorways. She took a locked wooden box with her when she left. Later she went to live with the Mazatoya's, to study weaving with the oldest sister, a master spinster. She woke at 8am and sat for 12 hours, spinning, weaving, talking, and every few hours eating, before going upstairs to fall fast asleep, dreamlessly. The Mazatoya's had three daughters, two of which were very practical people, each had chosen a craft in her youth and each had mastered it by late adolescence, working dutifully and with purpose. Anna was quite the opposite, which was why she had been sent to the Mazatoya house– she had no direction and, while interested in most things, she had mastered nothing. The third daughter, Lunetta, was, as though fated at her christening, even more lost than Anna, a pearlescent wanderer, constantly changing and leaving. She studied art in Paris, animal husbandry in Nice, and continuously made great efforts to get on a boat. But, she was no laborer and most men could see the mistake in sending a wealthy young woman from a famous family out to sea with rude and lonely men. Lunetta was saved, however, from the title of "black sheep" by the Mazatoya's live-in cousin, Brutus. At 10am one morning, Anna sat with Clara, the oldest daughter, spinning yarn and watching Clara's long and graceful fingers, her beautiful and clear grey eyes and serenely focused expression. "So you don't think then that Brutus is talented?" "It's not my kind of thing," Clara said, calmly. "I consider him to be one of a kind." "I only ever really enjoy sonatas, canons, that sort of thing. With melodies." Clara gathered the soft, swirling pile of dark violet yarn at her feet, and begun to wind it into a tight ball. Anna struggled to decipher Clara's opinion of her, based on this disagreement about the music, but studying the young woman's face, she found only knit brows, intelligent eyes, and no clear feelings about anything at all, other than a desire to do the job before her well. That night Anna went to see Brutus after working, after everyone else had retired to their own rooms. She brought two oranges with her and took the back staircase, which was always cold with stone walls and floor. She found Brutus in his room, sitting on a patterned rug, most-likely woven by Clara, and playing guitar by candlelight. Brutus barely acknowledged her entrance, and she sat down next to him, placed one orange between them, and started to peel the other. He continued to play his simple and strange discordant melodies– melodies that, to Anna, felt very true. "Sometimes I wonder why I'm not like them," she said, finally. "Not like who?" "Your family." "Well, you haven't met all of my family..." "The ones I have met." He continued playing in a way that made her uncertain whether or not she'd been heard, before he asked, "In what way?" "They know everything about who they are, they know what they like, they know what to do... and they do it." "Well, don't you?" "No." She felt chilled. She had expected Brutus of all people to understand, to be able to explain, to– though she didn't admit it to herself– compliment her for her difference, for the way she was. He took the orange she had peeled from her hands and said: "Thank you." She sat for a moment, before grabbing the other orange. "I'm going to bed now." She stood up to go. "Goodnight," Brutus called, as her hands pushed the door open. The next morning Anna decided not to weave. She couldn't bear to do it, and instead lie in bed, chastising herself for her laziness and luxuriating in the warmth of the linen sheets. A little past 8am, a knock came to the door. It was Eunice, the woman of the house, Mrs. Mazatoya. "Hello, Anna?" "Yes?" "Are you feeling well?" She peeked her head into the room. "Not really," Anna replied. "Okay, well, I'll make sure we have some meals brought up for you. Feel better." She shut the door. Anna wondered that such an industrious woman from such an industrious family would be so accepting of an excuse not to work. She heard another knock at the door. "Yes?" Eunice Mazatoya stuck her head in. "Would you like some tea?" "Yeah, yes, sure," replied Anna. Anna suddenly felt more energized and looked out the window, where she saw Brutus playing guitar under an orange tree. She suddenly felt a great need to be outside, and decided to take the back staircase, the same back staircase that she had taken to his room the night before, to the courtyard, in her pajamas. She entered the courtyard and felt the warm, golden glow of the sunlight, the small round pebbles beneath her, threatening her bare feet. She held a pale hand up to shield her eyes and realized that most days she didn't go outside at all. The cool morning breeze blew her hair off her shoulders and refreshed her. She suddenly wished that she had learned to ride horses. She breathed in deeply. "Hi," she heard. A beautiful young woman with rounded edges approached from the side. "Oh, hi!" she said. It was the girl who lived up the hill. "What, do you need something?" Anna wished she knew how to be more polite. The girl just shook her head and looked down at her hands, which held a note, before looking out at the orchard where Brutus sat playing, and suddenly Anna understood. This girl was there for Brutus, she had been called, this flutteringly feminine and gentle, selfless girl was enamored with an object like Brutus, callous and selfish and interested. When the girl looked at Anna, a whole world of hope and wonder in her eyes, she realized how alone she was, in this house. With the Mazatoya's. She saw the picture as it was being painted, and herself like a jarring red stroke in the upper left corner of the canvas. "You should go find him," Anna said. "I'm sure he's waiting for you." The girl smiled, and looked out distractedly. She began to walk, then to run, toward the orchard. Anna looked back up, at her room, at the window where she had sat earlier, at the window where Clara now sat spinning, at house she had lived in for quite a long time. She went back upstairs, and found tea made with fresh mint waiting for her. She took the wooden box out from under her bed and smoothed her hands over its polished lid, tracing the flowers and leaves, and for the first time, something popped within the mechanism and the box opened. Inside was a small piece of ribbon, and a note, that just said "go".


There is a box in my attic. It’s left alone for the most part. Tucked behind everything else. Still, sometimes I need to remind myself. On those days I go to the attic, take that box from its hiding place, and sit down in a chair across from an old mirror. It’s frame of brass and ivy. For the next few hours, I stare at what’s inside. It came from the first apartment I ever lived in. It was cheap and somehow still furnished. Everything being from the previous tenant, who clearly had a fascination with mirrors. Each room had one, caked in dust older than time itself. There were many shapes and sizes, the largest was in the living room and placed in front of the couch. The smallest a pocket mirror left in the bathroom drawer. All were decorated in brass and carved into intricate patterns of curling ivy. I first noticed the feeling there in that pocket mirror. Staring into its glass I swore I saw myself, but different. Something about it wasn’t right. I couldn't place it then. I started to notice that feeling in each of the mirrors framed with ivy. The one above the dining table killed my appetite, the one in the bathroom watched me as I showered, and the one in the bedroom gave me nightmares. The worst was the one in the living room. It was the most ornate of the mirrors. The frame was enthralling, vines twisting around every inch of it, some leaves twisted in front of the glass, frozen. Whenever I looked into it, that was when that feeling was at its worst. It was so deeply unnerving seeing every inch of me, and not being able to find out why it felt so wrong. After staring into that mirror and soaking in that feeling, I found what wasn’t right. It was the eyes. Not the shape or the color. No. It was the lack of life. Looking into the eyes of another you can tell they are alive, that they in turn can see the life inside you. These eyes were empty. Staring into them felt like staring into the depths of the darkest water. Anything could be hiding just beyond that veil of shadow, and you wouldn’t know until it was too late. I couldn’t stand to look at my reflection after that. I covered every mirror in a thick white sheet, even avoiding any I ran into outside. In those my eyes were normal, yet it only reminded me of the empty ones. I tried to get comfortable living like this, trying to forget why I covered them in the first place. The sheet only did so much. *Tap Tap Tap* The sound called to me on a sleepless night. Harsh light from my phone told me it was three in the morning. I tried to will myself to sleep. Closed my eyes. All I could see was that other pair staring back. I found myself in the kitchen with a glass of water. *Tap Tap Tap* Nothing dripped from the faucet in front of me. Each knob tightly closed. I pushed them further. They creaked and groaned under my hand. I looked up at the mirror, the one in the living room. I could see its sharp edges threatening to rip the sheet. All it would take is the slightest bit of dust and… *Tap Tap Tap* I couldn’t deny it any more. The mirrors, the sound, those eyes. Standing in front of the mirror, I grabbed the sheet gently. I took a breath in, and let it out. Took another in, and let it out. It only made the wait more unbearable. Gently, and slowly, so very slowly, I lifted the sheet. It got caught on one of the leaves as I pulled, making me lose my grip, but it was still enough for me to see. I stared into one eye, empty and cold. That thing stared back half hidden behind the dangling sheet. It had a single finger pressed up against the glass. I watched those eyes look back at me, into me. We stared like that for a long time. Waiting for one of us to do something, anything. It made the first move. Taking that finger off the glass, it reached for the sheet on its side. As it gripped onto the fabric, I could see the shape of its hand press into the sheet on my side. As the sheet fell, I saw the other eye. White, until it rolled back into its proper place. The thing was smiling now, it felt just as hollow as its eyes. The next few moments still aren’t fully clear to me. All I remember were hands pressed to my head, extreme pain, and a shattering sound. The next thing I remembered was being in a hospital bed, police sitting next to me. They had questions about the broken mirrors, the excess amount of blood, and the severed hand. They told me the blood and the hand matched me. Looking down I saw both hands, still securely attached. There is a box in my attic. It’s left alone for the most part. Tucked behind everything else. Still, sometimes I need to remind myself. On those days I go to the attic, take that box from its hiding place, and sit down in a chair across from an old mirror. It’s frame of brass and ivy. For the next few hours, I stare at what’s inside. It still bleeds.


“Ugh,” Hanna uttered under her breath. Her laptop charger had escaped the wall outlet yet again, as it had four times before that same day. Or was it night? She could not tell. As far as she was concerned, the library was her home now, its grayish-tan walls and dusty bookshelves emitting a strangely hospitable aura. Stretching like a contortionist, she maneuvered the plug back into the inconveniently-placed wall outlet. The charging light turned orange, and Hanna leaned back in her chair and sighed in relief.

She looked at her watch; 4:00 AM, The writing in geometric font blazed at her bloodshot eyes. She sat there and simply stared at the numbers until they read, “4:03,” then swiftly got up and began to throw things into her backpack. “HOW,” she questioned aloud, clearly the only living person left in the library at this time. How did she do this? Did she fall asleep? Where did the time go? Hanna reflected on other events similar to this. She was known to fall asleep just about anywhere, and to get so caught up in her work she would forget the time. No matter. She just needed to get home and finish her essay, her grading for grad school, and bake a cake for her friend’s birthday party. She would be able to finish all that and get to class at 8 AM. Perfect! she thought.

Hanna meandered through the rows of shelves, bumping into the occasional section of books. She was sure she knew how to get to the exit… Or was she? This was actually a different section of the library than she normally visited, and her three and a half hours of sleep from the night prior were finally catching up to her. But that was college! You were supposed to never sleep, survive on the pure sodium of ramen, and drink coffee instead of water. Right? “Hanna…” a faraway, raspy voice called. Hanna stopped in her tracks, a shiver running up and down her spine. Wow , she thought, I really need to get some sleep! She smiled and shook her head as she began to walk once again, trying to reschedule her night to include a one hour nap.. But as she continued her quest, sections of books that she swore were never there previously began to appear in her path. She tried to read what genres were on the signs, but she could not read them anymore. Each sign seemed to be written in Hieroglyphs, or Cuneiform, or some other ancient language unknown to her.

“Haaannaaa,” a different voice, lower and weaker, beckoned to her. What she had formerly believed to be an auditory hallucination was now becoming more real by the second. Glancing behind her, she continued to walk, quickening her pace until she was striding, then running, then sprinting. Her aching bones and tingling muscles worked as hard as they could to carry her along as she ran, dodging falling books that fell from disturbed shelves. After what felt like a lifetime of running, Hanna screeched to a halt. In front of her was a door. But it was not like any other door in the library that she had seen. It was made of a darker, older wood than the others, and did not have a rectangular window with chicken wire on it. “What the-” she said under her breath. “Hanna,” a third, higher-pitched voice whispered behind her, and she decided it was not time to admire the door any longer. Faster than lightning could strike, she had grasped the golden handle, swung open the door, and thrown herself through it, slamming it behind her. She breathed in relief for only a second, and then absolute horror coursed through her body. Before her was a dark, dripping room full of moldy old bookshelves that towered above her. In front of her stood three figures, each shrouded in darkness. Her vision spun as she gazed upon them, thinking about how this would be her last night alive. “Who are you!” she managed to sputter out. The figures looked at each other, looked back at Hanna, then moved into the only dim light in the room, the source of which Hanna could not discern. When she saw them, she felt as if a cold hand had clasped her windpipe shut. The three souls stood in a row, sad eyes bulging out of pale, translucent-skinned heads. The grayish-pink of their brains shone through their skulls and fading skin, and their gaping mouths quivered, dry and decomposing. Hanna’s eyes traveled down to their hands, which each figure had folded politely in front of them. Their hands all bore the same translucent skin as the rest of their bodies, and Hanna could see thin, bony fingers with long, yellow, cracked nails. Some of the skin on their fingers had come off, and Hanna could see bloody bones. She suppressed the immediate urge to vomit, and instead wordlessly stared at the three figures, inspecting them individually. The person on the left wore a long, blue skirt and a white button-up polo shirt with a yellow sweater wrapped around her neck. Much of her hair had fallen out, but what was left was stringy, the color of urine, and pulled up into a high ponytail. Her faded blue eyes bore into Hanna’s very being, and protruded slightly from their sagging sockets. Hanna’s attention moved to the middle figure, who was holding a beat-up book with a maroon cover that looked as if it were from biblical times. She gasped and jumped back slightly as she inspected their face more closely. Their skin was the color of rice paper, and was sunken in so much that it seemed it was glued closely to their skull. Some bits of their skin had sunken in and opened up, like great craters on the surface of the moon. Shaking like a bad washing machine, Hanna adjusted her eyes and fixated on the third figure. He reached for something in his pocket, slowly and with great effort. He pulled out a most likely decades-old cardboard box, slid it open, and picked out a cigarette. With another trembling hand, the figure searched his pocket for a lighter, and pulled one out. The other two figures slowly rotated their rotting heads towards him, and stared disdainfully. He brought the lighter up to the cigarette, flicked it a few times, and seemed very confused when it refused to spark. The other two figures seemingly exchanged a look, then went back to peering woefully at Hanna. “Hello, dear,” the person in the middle finally said, speaking in one of the voices she had heard before. Their voice sounded even more dry than before, and Hanna shuddered. “Hi,” Hanna replied, eyes jolting every which way. She searched for an exit, any door she could possibly see. But there was no escape in sight. “Are you studying, too?” said the man on the right in his wispy tone. He flicked the lighter absentmindedly with his left hand. “Yes, I was studying Sociology and writing my essay on Aristotle,” Hanna responded, starting to feel eerily calm. “Aristotle! He is quite interesting,” the girl on the left said, smiling from cheek to cheek with black gums and corroded teeth. “I prefer Gorgias, myself,” the man said, glancing over at the ponytailed woman. She glared at him with sunken eyes. “Where AM I?” Hanna managed to ask. “Why sweetie, you’re Awakened,” the middle figure replied, smirking. “What does that mean?” asked Hanna, “And why me?” “Because,” the woman on the left chimed, “You’re dedicated.” “Dedicated?” Hanna responded. “Yes,” the man on the right added, “And that’s why you should stay here. We have all the knowledge we need, right here. We never sleep, we never eat, we never bathe. We have all we could ever ask for. Nothing else is needed but to KNOW. To be AWAKE.” Hanna was completely still now. What information lay in these tomes? What could she acquire from learning all these things? Would she discover something new in the name of Sociology? Would this finally get her the A+ she had been striving for since day 1? Since she knew how to think, speak, and write? “All you have to do is open a book,” said the middle figure, grinning with their disturbingly jagged teeth. Their black gums glinted at her. “How did you all get here?” Hanna asked. She felt off. Something was suppressing her normal inhibitions, and she couldn’t figure out what it was. Her brain felt strained, like she was thinking about imaginary numbers in Calculus. “Just open a book, honey. It will all be okay,” the man on the right added. The three began to walk slowly towards her. As the three loathsome learners closed in, her brain seemed to click back into place. “I think I’ll be going now,” Hanna stammered, backing up. The figures pressed in even more, their eyes glowing menacingly in the now inky darkness. Hanna did not care what was behind her. She kept backpedaling, and backpedaling, until she fell back, breath catching in her throat as she tried to scream. As she fell, she could see the faces of the three half-dead library enthusiasts gazing down at her. They all wore frowns on their moist, indented faces, and their brow bones drew together as they glared down at Hanna. She fell away, and only hit solid ground after a few feet. She blinked, and was back in the library. Sitting up, she looked at her surroundings rapidly. She found herself in the place where the door had been. It was no longer there. This did not surprise Hanna, but her body and mind were in shock from the entire experience. She pushed off of the rough, carpeted floor and took off running in the opposite direction. Instead of strange, unfamiliar bookshelves and sections seemingly materializing in front of her, this time she knew exactly where she was. Following her knowledge of the library’s interior, she took the exact directions she knew would get her out. She sent out a prayer to whatever forces would answer that she would make it to the front of the library and out the door. She went down a flight of stairs, and finally saw the large, glass doors of the library. However, she would not let herself be relieved yet. She had no clue how she was going to get out if the doors were locked. On her first try, the giant library door opened up, releasing her into the cold nighttime air. Hanna exhaled a huge sigh, and her breath vaporized. Never before had she walked home that quickly. The next day, Hanna emailed all of her teachers and supervisors that she would not be coming to classes. She texted her friends quick messages canceling her plans for the day. That day, she decided, would be completely for rest. From now on, her health and happiness was her top priority. Not school, not other people. Herself. And never, EVER, again would she find herself in the library at 4 in the morning, speaking to half dead students who had never made their way out of the trap of academia.


[FN] a four leaf clover Hi, I’m a four leaf clover. Over here! No, to the left. Your other left. Bingo. Here I am. It must’ve been difficult to find me, amongst these three leaf clovers, suffocating my beauty like a fire blanket. They spread rampant like weeds, don’t they? . I mean, okay, granted I am a clover as well, but I have 4 leaves. Count them if you don’t believe me. One, two, three, wait where’d my other- oh there you are, and four. It’s easy to get me confused with a three leafs, especially if you’re not looking hard enough. But you, you’ve found me. You are my knight that slayed the dragon, you can rescue me from this mundane ordinary tower and lift the curse of the malicious witch . I have been mistaken for a normal or cursed by the hatred. Sometimes I even worry if I actually have four leaves, being surrounded by the three leafs that I continue to keep count everyday. 4, 4, 4, 4 is the magic number. Why must my beautiful be bundled away beneath. I want to be seen! I am extraordinary and a treasure for men who seek, not men that lie. You must have an eye for greatness unlike these other men. Men who walked past me without a glance, who walked on top of me without an “Excuse me”, trampled me with their field games. The nerve! There was one who laid their hands upon me only to disgrace my unique beauty by making me his pillow. These three leaf clovers granted do make great pillows, but I however am a four leaf clover. I am to be held to the greatest honor, hoisted on a wall to be ogled. But instead they mistake me for one of THEM. How disgusting. How putrid. The clovers around will attempt to trick you and pretend that they too, have a fourth leaf but let me assure you, they are only facades. Somehow they’ve been managed to be picked before me, the real deal. But you, you see me as I really am. Yes lower your hands and pluck me out of this misery to leave behind all the three leaf clovers in the bed they have made. The clovers swayed in protest but I have graced this earth long enough. That bed is not for me, but I know you will give me a bed worthwhile . A bed for royalty as you can see I very much am. Wait, what are-, that hurts , OUCH. What are you doing? Are you some kind of savage? Who rips someone up by their stem, I have ROOTS you know. Oh, I’m fading, there won’t be left much of me once I’ve finally felt the honor i deserve. Why has my life been cruel? What will be my legacy but this fourth leaf of mine. Oh sweet leaf, you are special. But in the end, I am still only just a clover. I fed off the soil we shared together, yet I thought I was too good for your soil. And your bed is what has given me the nutrients to grow my fourth leaf. The fourth leaf that I owned and only I could own. What a wasted revelation as the young man has put me in his pocket now. I am no longer a four leaf clover , I am his.


The sun was dying. And that means our world was too. Some people believed that the sun would explode and we'd be in the blast radius with hardly any time to feel terror in our last moments of life. Others believed that it would just turn off, leaving plants to die and begin the collapse of the food chain which would lead to the painful starvation of the populace. And the wealthy of the world, with their vast resources, made plans. They created strongholds dug deep into the ground and stocked it with technologies that they hoped would allow them to live. They realized quickly that though they might survive, they would not live in the fashion they were accustomed to. So they recruited medical professionals, security, and various staff. These people they saved from the impending apocalypse for the price of servitude, not just of them but of their offspring. And so the stage was set. Not just for the destruction of the world as we know it, but for the violent end of the human race. It's been ten years since the sun went dark. As soon as the last ray of sunlight touched the earth, the underground habitats closed themselves off. Like Noah and those on the ark, those inside turned a deaf ear to the banging and screaming at their door. They comforted themselves with rhetoric and reason. Philip was a boy of five. He was born into a world of artificial light and indifference. His mother was a cleaner who worked punishing hours. He didn't know his father, but he heard things. Mean things whispered to his mother sometimes even in his presence. Most people ignored him, except when they needed him to crawl somewhere small to fix something. Most days, he was left alone. Which he preferred. He was responsible for his own care. He dressed and bathed himself. If he was hurt, he would attend to the wounds himself. If he didn't appear in the kitchens at meal times, no one would bring him food. His mother would stumble into their small room at the end of the workday and collapse on their shared bed. They were lucky to have some privacy. Most rooms housed several workers, but his mother was given a separate room when he was born because no one wanted to live with a screaming baby. At least that is what his mother told Philip. He had heard others give less kind reasons. Sometimes it made him angry and he cried great big hot tears. But people were cruel here and so he figured that even if there was some small truth to what they said, it didn't matter. His mother was good, no matter what had happened before he was born. He crawled out from the covers and pulled off her shoes. He brought her a roll he had saved from his dinner and poured her a small glass of water. She lay on her side, took great bites of the bread, and gulped the water down, almost choking. She fell back down immediately. Her eyes fluttered closed. Phillip pulled the blanket to cover her small frame and kissed her cheek. Her thin lips turned up into a sweet smile. “Thank you, my beautiful boy.” Philip petted her hair. “I love you, mama.” His mother being pulled quickly into slumber, gave her last bit of strength to mouth the words “love you too”. Then the little child climbed into the bed beside her curled close under the covers and slept without dreaming. The next day, Phillip woke to his still-sleeping mother. His eyes grew wide in fear. He shook her. “ Mama! Wake up! Wake up! You've overslept!” His mother groaned but didn't jump out of bed. Instead, she gave a wicked smile with her eyes still closed. “I wanted to surprise you. Today, I don't work. There was a lottery. Five workers would win a free day. And I won. It was just wonderful seeing the look of jealousy on that ugly face–,” she paused, sitting up to look into her son's eyes. “Can you imagine that hag implied that it was because of favoritism?

But, let's forget her…Anyway, I won. Today, we can do anything you want.” Philip hadn't moved since his mom started talking. He was frozen from the shock of the news. He had never known his mother to take a day off of work except for illness and even then it was very rare.

His mother’s smile faltered, worried that something was wrong with her son. She started to reach out to touch him when he finally moved and began to jump up and down on the bed. “Whoo hoo! Whoo hoo! This is the best day ever!” His mother beamed up at her little boy. It had been so long since she had seen him happy. She would do whatever she could to make today perfect for him. And It had been a perfect day. His mom pulled out her greatest possessions, five books. Even though Phillip knew each word by heart, he looked at each word carefully trying to memorize how each word looked. After each book was read, his mother quizzed him by pointing at random words to make sure he knew how to read them.

They went down to the Kitchens for their meals and it was one of the cooks that slipped special treats into his mother's hands when no one was looking. She stuffed them into her pocket quickly and gave the man a bright smile. He blushed at her attention and then shooed them off before either of them would be noticed and reported. They played in the garden for a while. His mother wanted him to experience a little bit of what life on earth had been. She taught him how to play tag. She was his playmate as he was the only child in the working class. She trusted very few people, so she had the boy keep to himself as much as possible hoping that most would ignore him and that it might protect him from some of the horrors that she knew existed in this underground world.

They ran until they were both winded and then laid down looking up toward the ceiling where someone had painted a sky and clouds. They ate the sweet confection given to them while sharing the shapes they imagined seeing in those clouds. Before falling asleep, they read through all the books again. This time his mother quizzed him on the spelling of some words. And when he was able to spell them all without error, she kissed the top of his curly head. They lay hugging in bed, but not yet sleeping. Neither wanted to end this day. Phillip pretended to sleep and looked through his eyelashes to watch his pretty mother. She looked down at her boy and there were tears in her eyes. He tried to stay awake just to see her for a little bit longer, but his eyelids were so tired and heavy. The next morning, it happened. Their room’s door had been kicked in and people spilled inside. His mother was dragged out of bed by her hair and forced from the room. Phillip sat on the bed shaking and crying out for his mother. The last thing she said was, “I love you, son.” The uprising continued for days. Phillip waited as long as he could, he hadn't eaten for so long and his water was all gone. Carefully, he stepped out from the cupboard that he hid in and began his journey to the kitchens. He stepped over splinters of wood that had once been the door to his room. The hallway was a mess. He could see that all the doors had been broken and there was glass everywhere. He peeked inside the rooms as he walked past but didn't stop. There was red splattered in many of the rooms and he moved quickly past those trying not to see more. It wasn't until he was in the kitchens that he began to look around. On the ground was the crumpled apron of the cook who gave treats to his mother. It was covered in blood. He knew what that meant. Philip found one of the large refrigerators. He opened it and took the nearest thing out which happened to be an apple. He bit into it. It was sweet and tart and the best thing he had ever eaten. He finished it in just a few moments and picked another fruit. He took a bite of the orange, rind and all. He spat it out and quickly figured out how to peel it to get to the tasty bits. Later, he found carrots and onions and ate several of them. In a nearby cupboard was some slightly stale bread and he devoured that as well. He finished his meal with three large glasses of water. For days, he never saw anyone. He wondered where everyone had gone. If everyone was dead. And if so, where were their bodies? He began to search and found an open doorway that he'd never been through. He followed it until he came to a locked security door. It's there that he saw someone. Oblivious to the child who stood a few yards away, the man tried unsuccessfully to reach his hand through one of the small openings in the security gate. He was dirty and bloody, his clothing torn and stained. He stops when he sees Philip. For a moment he just blinked in surprise. “Hi there. Hey there kid. Hi.” The man gives a too-big smile. “I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten for days and I need your help. This door is locked and I can't get in. See that latch right there? It's super easy. Just push that and the door can open right up. Yeah?” The boy doesn't move. ‘Don't be scared. I'm really nice. My name's Brad. What's your name?” “Phillip.” “Phillip? Phillip?... You're Molly's son. Yes, that's right. I know your mom.” “She's gone.” “Yeah? You're all alone? Well, I can take care of you.” He got on his knees and pushed his face into the gate looking sincere. “Cuz…cuz I'm your dad. I know you don't know me. But we're family. And family helps each other out. You open up this door and we will go looking for your mom. And then we can be a real family. You and your mom could come to live with me in a nice place with lots of toys. You’d like that wouldn't you?” “How come you never came before?” Brad signed frustrated and spoke low, looking down.“I couldn't …for… some grown-up reasons.” The man looks up to see that the boy isn't impressed with that response. He continued. “You're mom and me…well we broke the rules. We weren't supposed to be together. When the authorities found out, they sent your mom to work down here. I didn't know about you for a long time. And then I figured it was for the best that I stay away.” He looked imploringly at Phillip.

“But now I know that I was wrong. I should have come to see you.” Phillip moved a step closer and Brad didn't hide his eager expression. The little boy looked him dead in the face. “Someone said that you hurt my mom. That you made her do something she didn't want to…and that's why she had me.” The blood drained out of Brad’s face. “No. No. I never hurt her.” “I don't believe you.” Each word from the small mouth was emphasized, heavy with disdain.

Brad's lip curled in anger. He lunged forward trying to grab at the boy. “You little shit! Open this door right now! Right now!” Phillip stumbled back at the sudden change in demeanor but righted himself quickly. Without another word, he turned around and walked back to his room. He heard the angry screams turn into pleading, but he didn't go back. He would never open that door. Not for the man who hurt his mother. Never.


: *In an alternate future, it is now February 2024 and Wesley "Wes" Carter-Wright, 41, a black Canadian-American of Central African descent who is a hotelier and property developer and one of the first black people to be publicly worth more than ten billion US dollars, is preparing to launch the first capsule of his first modular orbital hotel - that is, until a surprising event occurs.* The makeup artist smiled at Wes and completed the finishing touches to his face and neck. "Okay, Mr Carter-Wright, we're ready for you now," a tall and thin Indian woman - who was nearly as tall as Wes, standing at nearly 1.87 meters tall - waved over to him. She motioned to the seat in front of the curved table in the middle of the studio. The lights were on and four automated cameras were lined up around it. Charles Craven, the famous host of *Craven At Nine*, beamed grandly at Wes, his white teeth and golden skin exuding confidence and magnanimity. "Good to have you here, son!" He exclaimed as Wes sat down next to him. "On in five, sir!" A robot announcement echoed overhead and its echoes bounced around the studio. Craven gave a thumbs-up - to no-one in particular, given that most of the studio's workers were robots or everything else was automated and controlled by *Minerva*, the smart AI system NBC and Fox used in their studios now. Wes cleared his throat. "Um...Charles, you remember that I requested no questions about my grandparents, yes." Craven nodded, still beaming widely and gave another thumbs-up - this time to the automated camera furthest to his left. Green lights flashed and the live television interview began. "Okay, viewers, I'm joined here by Wisconsinite Wesley Carter-Wright who is probably one of the richest Americans today - and certainly the richest Wisconsinite, I can tell you that for sure!" *Automated laughter.* Wes smiled and Charles began to ask benign questions. As the time passed, the questions became more sensitive, but Wes was sure Craven would not forget his request. So, Wes responded amicably and talked about how he left his well-paid IB role at Dreyfus Arnaud aged 25 and teamed up with three friends from college to start up a small property development firm. "It was difficult at first, but we managed to get a large loan through a relative of one of the partners and we fixed up the property ourselves and sold it at a profit." "Wow!" Craven grinned. "And this was in Nevada, right?" Wes nodded. "Yes, first one was just outside Henderson. Large mansion, with a small pool. Sold for six million." "And it was obviously onwards and upwards from there?" Automated applause rang out across the studio and one of the automated cameras moved in to zoom into Wes' face. So, the live television interview was completed without a hitch and Wes thanked Craven. Wes had been advised by his PR team to take part in *Craven At Nine*, so he'd reluctantly accepted the invite, especially with Forbes now listing him on their website as one of America's richest men. Later that day, Wes had flown over to Salt Lake City and was now sat in the penthouse office of his space hotel company, based just outside Logan, about eighty miles north of Salt Lake City. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the furthest end of his office and took in the breathtaking views of Mount Logan. He had just been having a meeting with Rufus Turner and Mike Jefferson, the co-executives of *Wyke Interplanetary*, the rocket company which would be shooting the first capsule of Wes' modular space hotel into orbit. The launch - over in New Mexico - was scheduled for next week Sunday - weather permitting - and Wes couldn't be more excited. The global media had been talking about it for the last week and interest generated was huge. As long as everything went according to plan, by December 2024 *Pentagon Space* - the space arm of his hotel chain, *Pentagon Hotels* - would have its first modular space hotel up and running in orbit over Earth and it would be the first functional, safe and sanctioned hotel in orbit over Earth to date. A notification beeped behind him. He waved his hand and his HoloTable lit up and became opaque. "Go ahead." The smooth female AI voice replied immediately. "Mr Carter-Wright, you have mail marked as urgent, signed with the seal of The Global Environmental Authority; an automated video accompanies it." Wes frowned. It was strange to be receiving contact from them at this time. The planning application had since gone through long ago. "Open," he said. A silver robot head emerged from below his HoloTable and the diamond emblem of the GEA flashed briefly. "*Good afternoon, Mr Carter-Wright. This is an automated messsage sent from the Office of Planning of the Global-*" Wes waved his hand and fast-forwarded the automated robot message. "*Pursuant to Clause 5.9, subsection 3 of the Earth Environmental Code of Conduct of Space, planning permission for Ark One of Pentagon Space...has been revoked.*" Wes stared at the automated robot in shock. "What? I-" "*The accompanying formal document has been forwarded to you over HoloMail. Do you have any questions? Please note that my responses are limited only to the contents of the letter.*" Wes blinked and tried to gather his thoughts. "Uh...yes, I- What are the contents of Clause 5.9, subsection 3?" The holographic image flickered for a second and then the automated robot responded automatically. "*If any party directly connected to an application for planning permission - even if the application has already been accepted and successful - is found to be in breach of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Agreement and the Global Code of Conduct on Global Financing at any time prior to the submission of an application or during the period where an application is being reviewed, planning permission shall be revoked immediately.*" Wes stared in shock and horror. "Who...which party is in breach?!" Wes didn't understand. *Pentagon Space* was still a space startup. It did not use any nuclear material yet nor did it have any plans too. None of this made any sense. The robot was silent for second. "*Mike Jefferson, Chief Execute of Wyke Interplanetary.*" Wes frowned, even more shocked and confused. "Why?! What did he do?! Is it something to do with *Wyke Interplanetary*?!" "*Mr Carter-Wright, my responses are limited only to the information at hand.*" "How is Mike Jefferson in breach?" The robot answered immediately. "*Confirmed intelligence shows that Wyke Interplanetary secretly bought nuclear material from a blacklisted corporation during the period Pentagon Space's planning application was being reviewed. Wyke Interplanetary did not notify the relevant authorities of this purchase.*" Wes shook his head in shock. "*Whilst you may appeal this decision at any time, please note that due to the nature of everything in Clause 5.9, an appeal requesting for permission to be reinstated will be denied if the linked party responsible for the revocation of permission in the first place is still listed on the application.*" The accompanying document flashed up on his HoloTable and he waved the automated robot away. Wes stared at the document and could not believe his eyes. It was in-depth and went into detail. It outlined what was responsible for the revocation of permission and the blacklisted corporation *Wyke Interplanetary* had bought nuclear material from. The executives at *Wyke Interplanetary* would also be receiving notifications now as well. He'd have to have a long and heated conference with them. Wes slammed his fists down on the physical table near his HoloTable in anger. There'd be no launch next week; there'd be no Pentagon Space hotel for the foreseeable future. He'd now be locked into a battle with *Wyke* and be tangled in wranglings over payments and blame; he'd also have to find a new company to launch his modules into orbit or consider the Chinese backup he'd put on the back burner early last year and then he'd have to submit a new planning application all over again. "Dammit," he hissed. *Pentagon Space* would no longer be the first working hotel in orbit over Earth, for Hawthorne Orbital was poised to launch their own hotel into orbit in June later this year. Wes shook his head. His dream had been dashed in a heartbeat.


“This never would have happened if you would have just-” “What! If I would have just what, Linn? Please oh please, enlighten me of all of my shortcomings up until this moment!”

“Hey! I am trying my best over here! You think if I could go back and change everything I wouldn’t?”

“Just admit that some of this is your fault too! It's not all me!”

“Oh really? We’d be a happy family right now if you wouldn’t have always put work first all the time, and maybe you could have paid attention to the kids at all? Not just thrown presents and money at them as a sorry for missing every basketball game and birthday?” “At least I was doing something to support us! Sorry I couldn’t be there at e

avery stupid little legue soccer game, I was busy making sure they didn’t starve!” “Don’t pretend we were ever going to starve! I bring in an income too, you know! And-” “Oh, now that ridiculous little Etsy shop is a source of income now? I thought we both decided a long time ago painting portraits for the internet wasn’t a reliable source of money!” “It became one! You just wouldn’t know because you haven’t even talked to me in weeks! Half that money went into the kids college funds.”

“I thought we decided the kids wouldn’t get handouts when they went to college! That they would find scholarships or pay for it on their own?” “That was always a ridiculous idea and you know it! You were just too cheap to put aside money from every paycheck that you couldn’t use! Well now you have your stupid wish, you don’t have to put three kids through college anymore-” “Hey! That’s not fair!” “It is fair! Money was always more important to you. You didn’t go to Erica’s daddy daughter days at school, you didn’t see Tyler take his first step, you didn’t watch Alex start in his first high school football game, and now look! There's no more do-overs. You can’t go back in time and sit at his parent teacher conferences, or give him a hug when he graduates, you can’t pick him up from school and listen to him tell you about his day. Those opportunities are gone! You’ve got two other kids but hey, you can just pretend that this never happened and redeem yourself with them. But I’ll know. They won’t remember how you forgot they existed until Alex died, but I’ll know.” “I am not-I am not like that! I loved Alex! Just like I love Erica and Tyler and… it's not my fault that work is so time consuming! And it's not my fault that he died! Stop blaming me!” “No, it's not your fault that he died. You didn’t tell him every teenage boy goes out, drinks and has a one night stand, just don’t be stupid like you were, right? You didn’t tell him to take his car to impress the girls, or that being a teenager is the time to be crazy and have fun being irresponsible while you still can, before you hate your ‘life and your wife’, right? No, it couldn’t be your fault he died. You didn’t text him any of that, did you?” “You-you looked through his phone! You are not blaming me now, you’re just bitter you were a stupid teenage girl who got pregnant with a man you’d just met and you’re mad you're stuck with me. I could have left you and Alex with nothing but no! I worked for you two to survive while you grieved your lost childhood! I lost my childhood too!” “You were 25! You were almost done with college and I was a naive 18 year old college freshman! I was drunk! And don’t you dare switch this up on me. Alex didn’t get a girl pregnant, Mark. Alex crashed your precious mustang, sometimes I wonder if you’re grieving the investment you made in that dumb first car than you are for your own son!”

“I am grieving the loss of my oldest child! I don’t care about the car! I don’t care about the $90 whiskey he took with him to that dumb homecoming party! I don’t care about anything other than the fact that my son is dead! And it is not my fault! How could I have known that telling him to have fun was going to kill him!” “But it did, didn’t it!” “You haven’t been a model mother either, have you? You’ve-” “No! I don’t want to hear about how because I was horribly depressed over dropping out of college to raise my son and marrying a man who has been involved with three women on the side since we got married 17 years ago! Don’t tell me about my shortcomings, I was there for every moment of their lives. Every scrape on the knee, every school project, every victory dinner after a football game. I have been living virtually by myself with a senior in high school, a 3rd grader, and a toddler and they made every day feel worth living! And yes, sometimes I would drown and forget to send Erica a juice box in her lunch or have to yell at Alex for not cleaning his room, but I was trying! And that’s more than you can say! I don’t blame you for Alex’s death, I just blame you for only deciding to show up after he was gone.” “Do you think I wanted it this way? Do you think I wanted him gone? That I wanted to be gone so much? I saw those women because you cared more about the kids than you did about me!” “Don’t you dare say that to me. I showed up first to that hospital to tell him goodbye. The moment I got the call. You were with her two hours away. You can admit it. Because I know.” “So what if I was! All that matters is that I left her! That I’ll be here from now on. Isn’t that what you want?” “No Matt. What I want is for you to get out of my life. I want a divorce. I want to bury my son, and I want you out. I don’t care if we have to split up the kids on weekends and weekdays and you fight to see them for holidays. Hell, I don’t care if you never see my children ever again, marry one of those women you love more than me, have children with them and pretend the last 18 years of your life never even happened. I don’t care! I just want to grieve my son!” “This never would have happened if you would have just-” “What! If I would have just what, Mark? Please oh please, ‘enlighten’ me! No. I’m packing the kids up and going to my mom’s until this is all figured out. For now, I can’t even look at you anymore. See you at the funeral. If you feel like that’s an important enough thing to go to. If not, I’m sure Alex would enjoy a gift with an ‘I’m sorry I’m working, champ’ text. I’m sure that will fix this." "Linn, wait," "Goodbye Mark."


My mother died when I was nine. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this now, today. Not that I’ve never thought about this before. It’s just that nothing happened today. I woke up. I sat on the couch for an hour. I checked my mailbox around noon: nothing. I watched the clouds roll by to the droning of the television. I’m not even sure what it was that was on. Some game show or other shit program that advertises false happiness for free. I’m so fed up with wealth being the only source of happiness that’s feasible anymore. But everyone thinks that, don’t they? I can’t even be original with my angst. Not that I was original in anything I’ve done thus far with my life. See, my mother died when I was nine. I’ve already said that, but the point is I never quite came to terms with it. I woke up in September, and she was dead. Car accident. Not that the cause is really important. The end result is always the same. And like I said, I never really dealt with this. I was nine. What nine year old can comprehend death? What third grader can grasp the idea that their mother stopped living? She’s gone, they told me. She’s in heaven. I remember looking up the directions to heaven that night. Why did she go, and not bring me? When is she coming home? Mommy is never coming home, they said. Well, never is a long time. Never hasn’t come and gone yet, not for me. And see, I struggled with this concept for a long time. And as a nine year old trying to come to grips with his and everyone else’s mortality, I wasn’t very fun to be around. I grew up with no real friends, just people I talked to on occasion. That kid in the back of the class that everyone whispered about and avoided in the halls? That was me. My father tried to help, at least. He tried to get me interested in sports. He’d take me outside to throw a football. I pretended to be interested. I tried really hard to be enthusiastic about something, anything. But really, what was the point? We all live; we all die. It’s a useless cycle of oxygen exchanged with carbon dioxide. Eventually we all become food for trees. Apathy had a stranglehold, and it wasn’t letting go. I tried therapy. They told me I was depressed, so I tried antidepressants. They just made me anxious. I tried writing, but I was never any good. Everything came out stiff. I tried learning an instrument but my fingers never moved the way I wanted them to. Eventually even my father gave up on me. So forgive me if I don’t believe you when you say you care. When your father gives up you, you’re at the bottom. That’s really just it. And what’s sad, what is so fucking pathetic, is that none of this is unique. Do you know how many assholes have lived this same life? This apathy isn’t original, it’s cliché. I’m just a sad speck in the spectrum of grey nothingness that is the universe. And today, nothing happened. I woke up; I lived; I sighed; I gave up. My dog hasn’t even looked at me today. Aren’t dogs supposed to sense emotions and respond appropriately? Maybe it’s because I’m not sad. I’m not angry. I’m not anything. I just am. I exist. Who cares? Not my dog, not my father; not my mother, that’s for damn sure. So the sun set today, like it has every day in history, and I sat down at my desk. This time I’m not writing for catharsis. I’m not writing to get better. I’m writing so you understand why. And tomorrow the sun is going to rise. Just like today, the day that nothing happened. Just like that day in September when I was nine and my mother was dead. And tomorrow, something might happen, just not for me.


Once upon a time, when I was a fierce Product Manager, I was invited to the Company's Top Hundred annual meeting. Neither I nor any of my group colleagues - invited as well- were part of such a select group, but our manager had decided that year to do a bit of self-promotion and convinced the organization that we were worthy of being included. So when the day arrived, we were there, the top hundred, a few organizers, and the ten extra-worthy ones, in a remote location, surrounded by greenery and chirping birds, ready to discuss the organization's mission and vision during the day and drink and eat at night. One of the first topics of the day was the human side of the business or, better said, the classification of the humans in that room. A few days before, we had worked on a questionnaire to give us (and those around us) an idea of our character and traits as professionals. The results were supposed to divide the group into a healthy mix of "personality colors" because mixed organizations should be better performers. There should be "Red": aggressive and goal-oriented. "Blue" were the calm ones, detail-oriented. "Yellow" were the energetic fellows who pulled everyone to work with smiles and enthusiasm. And finally, "Green" were the empathetic people who would build bridges, able to listen and process emotions and information. So we filled in all the questions days before and waited patiently for the results of the workshop morning when the organizers distributed letters around. Then, they asked us to identify ourselves with the round sticker in the letters on our shirts. Everyone opened the envelopes, and shortly after, the colorful dots started to pop up: red, red, red, red... everything was red. There was only a green one, the human resources representative, a little woman, who wore her little green dot like a champion for the two days we were offsite. After discovering that most of us were alpha-to-be, aggressive, and goal-oriented, it was a challenge for each of us to let go of our objectives and dreams. The real test came when we were asked to work in teams (very homogeneous teams). The day, which had started with nervous energy and pride in being in a place where I was not supposed to be, continued with the discussion of the different business segments' values and goals for the following years. I found myself in a group with Mr. Bright, the owner of the newest and most future-oriented group of products, and a couple more people working in other areas of the Company. The segment I was responsible for had the most significant market volume. Still, some people considered it old-fashioned and "easy" compared to the newest technologies. But before I could introduce myself, it was clear none mattered. When we were about to introduce ourselves to the work team, it seemed there was a contest to see who had the "biggest one," and I had been somehow disqualified from the competition before even saying my name. Together with the Human Resources lady, I was one of the two women in the room, and the men around (the ones who did not know me before that day) were amazed when they saw the red circle in my shirt. "Red?" asked Mr. Bright. "Expecting something else?" I replied. "It does not help diversity," he said, smiling at me before walking away to speak with someone else.

The rest of the day was not much better. Whenever I tried to speak up, the others buried me in questions and doubts. After all, my work was easy, and Mr. Bright's products were the pride of the Company. It did not matter that my segment was the cash cow, the one paying for other projects. To them, I had an easy life. I should smile more and be more... green. By the end of the afternoon, we presented the results of our discussions, and what a session that was, with everyone trying to speak over the others, joking about the value of this and that, showing how valuable each and everyone was for the organization... It was a nightmare, but it was over. Or that's what we thought. After several rounds of presentations, the organizers announced a surprise for us. They led us to the main room of the convention center and asked us to take our seats. As we settled in, our attention was drawn to a massive curtain and a pair of overly enthusiastic individuals in front of it. The curtain was dramatically pulled back, revealing our surprise: a group of horses, each attached to a small chariot, lined up on the other side of the glass. "Today, you'll race," said one of the organizers. Hundreds of people sitting in that room looked at each other like they had seen a UFO. Fifty-five chariots with fifty-five horses waited for us. Before we were asked to meet our new afternoon companions, we were told what we were supposed to do. "You'll be paired. Each chariot will have a driver in front and a steer person in the back. You will do a first round of recognition with the horse owner and a second round on your own. You'll be timed, and the team with the best time will be the champions." No one moved. My nervous energy from the beginning of the day was long gone. Right there, the only thing I had was much closer to a panic attack.

When the organizers started calling for the sets of two names that would join each horse, I never thought the other person to ride with would be my biggest issue... until I heard his name. Mr. Bright smiled at me, and when he was near enough, he put his hand on my shoulder and, in the most condescending tone ever imagined, told me: "Don't worry, I will care for everything; you don't need to be scared." At that very moment, I felt my blood boiling, but I said nothing. I smiled back and walked with him outside to meet our new team partner. Growing up, I had no pets and never experienced "country life." I had seen horses close before, but those beasts- despite being magnificent- never made me desire to take riding lessons or care of them.

Next to the horse was its owner, a calm middle-aged man who told us that if we took care of the horse, the horse would take care of us. I thought then that the man was selling his product too optimistically, but after a few not-so-glorious discussions that day, I kept my opinion to myself and sat by his side in the chariot to start the recognition ride. When the horse started to move, the sun was shining, and there was a light breeze and a few clouds in the sky. We rode in dirt paths and crossed little creeks; we moved below trees and saw birds and squirrels above us. It felt nice, almost peaceful... until it stopped and the man asked us to choose who would be on top. I was already sitting by his side, so, in a very casual way, I picked the reigns and didn't let go of them even when Mr. Bright told me it would be better if he drove. I did not move; I just smiled and told him to get ready to start. It was funny to see his face. It almost felt like no one had ever told him "no" to anything. When we were waiting for the sign to start, I realized the weather was changing. There were more clouds, darker. The wind was not a light breeze anymore but something much stronger. The trees looked like they were dancing to a violent tune, and the birds seemed disoriented, but I did not care. I was laser-focused on driving that chariot and having the best time ever. Another horse stopped by our side, and a few seconds later, I heard a "go"... and we... didn't. I did what I had been told, but the horse did not move. Our neighbors in the race were long gone when I finally made the horse move, but not even in a straight line. The horse, utterly uninterested in whatever I told him or commanded, did zig-zag across the field, peed, and stopped to eat grass. At the same time, Mr. Bright started screaming because I was "doing it all wrong," and when I was about to reply to him with what I thought about his behavior, the horse ran. The animal did not gently move or pick up its pace. No, it ran as if a bee had just stung him, and it did not matter what I said or yelled at that magnificent creature: it just carried us along. I had branches hitting my head, it started to rain, and my partner, Mr. Bright, did not seem as cheerful and confident as before. When we arrived at the creeks, the water splashed everywhere, and from then on, I heard a weird "chouf, chouf" for the rest of the trip. I tried to gain control, but it was in vain, and at a certain point on the way, I just convinced myself we would only stop whenever the horse wanted... and so it was. The animal did the whole route as it wished to, and when it saw the green spot where we had started, it suddenly reduced the speed and moved with such gracious movements that no one could understand why we were in such a disgraceful shape. When we stopped, I did not see Mr. Bright. He was not in the little platform behind me. I looked again and saw him on the ground, secured to the back of the chariot, all muddy and bad-tempered. He stood up, furious, and walked towards me, mumbling something (probably not nice) when the organizer of the race came to us, microphone in hand, euphoric first, surprised when he saw the mud monster by my side: "Oh my God, you were awesome! We've never seen such a fast race! How did you do it?" I was about to start laughing, but then I saw the red dot on my shirt, covered in mud. I removed the little sticker and looked at the horse. "Teamwork, I guess," I said, and everyone around started to clap and cheer.


One year one room one me     The room is a rectangle with two 10 feet long walls and two 15 feet length walls. There is one window about 7 feet up from the floor on one wall and a sky light right in the middle of the ceiling. There is a door that that has been locked for what seems like forever. I have a twin-size bed, a night table, a small lamp on the night table, 5 changes of clothes, a sink and a toilet like those in a prison cell, one cup a area rug, 12 books, 12 notebooks, 2 pens, and 1 pair of moccasins slippers.  There is a TV built into on of the walls but it only comes on three hours a day and if I have done something that is considered to be bad it doesn’t come on at all.    About 11 and a half months ago I had gotten a call from a friend asking me to go check on one of their clients. My friend is a social worker and lives about 3 hours from my old home. They had gone on vacation and while away gotten what seemed like a distress call. Since I also use to work in the field of social services I agreed. I had gone to the address and knocked on the door. A smartly dressed middle age woman had answered when I rang the doorbell. I introduced myself and explained that are mutual friend was very concerned about her and had asked me to drop by. The woman sigh and invited me in. She offered me some teas and explained that a year ago she had lost here daughter. I could see the tears staring to well up in her eyes so I accepted her offer and came in. She prepared the tea and explained that her daughter had left home to live with her boyfriend. After they had been together for a while, she had gotten pregnant. When she told him, he had become enraged and shot her. When the police arrived, he had taken his own life. I was feeling a little overwhelmed. The woman had gentle patted my hand. “You know dear she would have been about your age if she had lived.” That was the last thing I remembered. I blacked out.    Sometime later I woke up in the god forsaken room. I was sure she had drugged me because I had a killer headache. Of course, I banged on the door. Tried everything I could thing of to open it but no luck. I had yelled to I couldn’t yell anymore. My phone and purse were gone. Everything I had worn had been removed and replaced with one of my new outfits. I had studied the room and when I found the note books made a note of the day and time I had arrived. That how I knew that I had been in here for almost year. Somehow once a day, when I was asleep, food would be brought into the room. At first, I thought that drugs were being but into the food so I stopped eating but I still became sleep. Then I released that some form of sleeping gas was released into to room. I could mark day and night by the window and sky light as well as the seasons. I never heard anything expect when the tv came on. I was always some kind of history or national geographic series. I had read the book a number of times. There was the works of Shakespeare, a bible, works of Edgar Allen Poe, Sherlock Holmes, some Jane Austin, and the rest were books of poetry. God how I wished for a newspaper or a magazine even the national enquire would have been nice just so I could know what was going on in the rest of the world.    I had developed an exercise routine to keep myself fit. It also helped me work of my anxiety. Physically exercise in the morning, mediation in the afternoon, and running in place before going to bed. There were so many things I longed for. A hop bath or shower instead of washing up in the sink. Some junk food and candy. I think I might of sold my sold to the devil for a drink. I kept trying to figure out why know one was looking for me. Making up stories of what the woman had said when the did try to find me. I wondered what she had done with my car and other personal belongings. I had developed a theory that she was pretending I was her dead daughter and she was trying to keep me safe. In two more days, it would be exactly one year since this event had occurred. I decided to reread my journals. I was astonished to see how much I had changed; my beginning entries has ben filled with anger and resentment. I had one note book for each month and was coming to end of that last one. I had no idea what would happen when the last one was filled with writing. Would I get more. Or would my lie be ended. I had written a number of entries about that in my more morbid phase. Over the most recent month I had become very reflective of my own life. I had written about what I want to do if I ever got out of this hell hole.    Something was different today, The Tv hadn’t come on at its usual time. I knew I had done anything consider bad because I had a whole list of what that was. Yelling, trying to get out or escape, Destroying or damaging things in the room, harming myself. Or not taking care of myself. I started hearing a strange sound like a large truck. I got closer and louder. The I could hear people yelling. I jumped onto the bed and remand very still. I sounded like there was a machine digging. The I saw the door shaking, then a loud crash and the door fell down in to the room. My eyes blinked and filled with tears but I couldn’t speak. Two police officers, one male and one female were standing in the door way. They walked slowly into the room speaking in soothing tones. I can’t for the life of me remember what they said. The gentle helped get up of the bed and walked me out the door. As I looked back, I saw that from the outside the room looked like a bunker with most of it buried in the ground. I was taken over to a waiting ambulance and rushed to a near by hospital.   After a thorough exam a psychiatrist came in. He asked how I was doing and said all of my physical test had showed me to be in good health. He explained that my friend had received a letter from the woman who had taken me captive. She explained that she was only doing it to protect from the evils that could befall a woman, much like what had happened to her own daughter. She also explained that she original planned to do all this to my friend. She closed the letter with directions to my location and a suicide note. I became very still and aske the psychiatrist why had no one tried to find me. He told me they did but when they had gone to the woman house, she had told them, “Oh yes lovely lady. She did stop by but told me she was on here way to visit relatives. We tried contacting all of your know relatives and know of them had heard or seen you. When we went back to the lady’s house, she was gone. You friend never gave up looking for you. I took a deep breath and a nurse walking in with a large milk shake, a double whooper, and some onion rings. That when I lost it. I started shaking and sobbing until the gave me a sedative. One year one room and one me.


“So!” Kiernan’s shoulder rocked hard into Imryn as he threw himself down on the bench. “What are the odds that Cyneric actually shoots at the target this year?” Imryn’s retaliatory shove sent his much slighter brother tumbling down to catch himself on his forearm. Not one to take that lying down, Kiernan kicked Imryn’s shin. Imryn pinched his little brother’s ticklish side and barely dodged a fist to his own ribs.

A cough from Esme made them both look up at their sister seated a row above them, and her disapproving glower put an end to their wrestling. Such childish play was unbefitting for two grown princes who were third and fourth in line for the throne.

At least, as long as they were in public. Everything was fair game in the privacy of their house, and Kiernan’s mischievous grin told Imryn that this wasn’t over.

Offering his hand to pull his brother back up, Imryn answered as though there had been no interruption, “I don’t think they would let our brother compete again if he threw the game this year. Even with Aurelia and Lady Isolde vouching for him, they barely let him shoot today.” Kiernan snorted, soothing his elaborately embroidered tunic back into place. “These are games in honor of Lady Isolde,” he said. “Do you really think the Mistress of the Hunt would allow her favorite Hunter to be banned?” “Isolde is not the only immortal present,” Esme murmured. Her dark eyes were fixed on the darker form of Lord Cassander lounging next to his bright brother, Lord Declan.

This was the immortal’s first appearance in public since King Eamon’s youth. Most of the people had no memory of him and knew him only from hushed stories around the hearth that warned children not to wander far or the Lord of the Night may snatch them away. The immortal's imprisonment for his crimes against their people would not last forever, the elders warned. Lord Declan favored his brother and would not see him punished long.

They had been correct.

Lord Cassander watched the proceedings curiously as the archers stepped up to their starting lines. An amused, bemused little smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in, as Imryn watched, to whisper something in his brother’s ear, drawing out a laugh that rang like windchimes across the stadium.

It was the perfect picture of a benevolent god indulging his silly little devotees in their efforts to please him as they ran around beneath him.

Imryn might even have believed it, if it wasn’t for the shade of grief and fear that darkened his grandfather’s eyes every time Lord Cassander was mentioned. King Eamon had lived his childhood under the unchecked reign of the Dark Emperor. As much as he strove to put on a welcoming show, Imryn sat close enough to the throne to see his trembling hands.

“Cyneric will shoot straight for sure, this time,” Kiernan predicted. He, too, had followed Esme’s gaze to Lord Cassander.

Turning his head sharply away from the lordly pair, Imryn grinned at his own little brother. “Oh, he always shoots straight,” he said. “It just depends on what he’s aiming for!” Kiernan threw his head back with a golden, tinkling laugh of his own. Esme shook her head in disgust at the both of them and sat up straight as the starting bell rang.

In the first few rounds, targets were set close, and the rings of the bullseye were wide. Cyneric had passed these levels before he even reached Imryn’s shoulder; there was no chance he would miss them now.

Neither, for that matter, would their cousins Aurelia and Evander. The three of them stood next to each other in the center of the line, commanding all attention as scions of the royal house. Imryn watched the spectators while he waited for the more difficult rounds. The two day Festival of the Hunt was one of their people’s most treasured holidays, and the capital always swelled almost beyond capacity for the celebration. Every venue was filled to maximum capacity.

Yet there were empty spaces on the benches. Kiernan sat close enough that the shoulders brushed not because he was shoved against Imryn by other people, but because he wanted to (because he felt safer when he was closer to his big brother).

The crowd should be boisterous and rowdy. Last year, Imryn had been called halfway through the contest to try to help contain their enthusiasm as they jostled against one another to point out particularly impressive shots, hooted their approval or hissed jeering boos, and surged to their feet to stomp and pound their fists against their chests.

A polite smattering of applause graced the first whistle of arrows through the air. People whispered their delight or discontent into each other’s ears rather than allowing it to burst forth.

The reason why was no mystery: even the most chary of the audience couldn’t help but dart discreet glances towards Lord Cassander.

Often, their eyes would then drift over to their own king, sat just a row below the immortal. King Eamon’s expression was as serene and jovial, as keen for sport and entertainment, as it was every year. Their people instinctively relaxed at his easy affability.

Imryn saw the crow’s-feet at the edges of his grandfather’s eyes deepen, and his foot tap in stress. Eamon may not want to alarm their people, but his apprehension couldn’t be hidden from his closest family.

It was so obvious, in fact, that Crown Prince Bellamy, Imryn's father, had insisted upon claiming a spot just a few seats away from both his father and the immortals in the box reserved for royalty. Free-spirited and impatient with court protocol, Bellamy usually preferred to join the crowd and leave his father and siblings to deal with visiting dignitaries alone.

The fact that he had stationed himself so close to King Eamon had not gone unnoticed by their people. Many did a double take on catching sight of his resplendent crimson robes among the other, more demurely dressed lords, and they murmured to their neighbors.

Bellamy’s sharp eyes followed the same path as Imryn’s across the crowd. Their gazes met briefly, and Imryn saw his own grim understanding of the situation reflected in his father.

The bell for the fifth round startled Imryn into glancing back towards the field, surprised at the quick progression of the contest. The first rounds always dragged on to accommodate the children and beginners who wished to participate. The rows of archers had looked full earlier, but clearly fewer people had volunteered than Imryn thought.

The real contest started at this point, and the rules of play slightly changed so that each marksman was now allowed only thirty seconds to take their shot. Fast paced and high stakes, the last few rounds were the most anticipated event of the entire festival. The marksmen had waited all year for this chance to prove their prowess, and the crowd always delighted in their feats.

Imryn frowned as he noticed a small trickle of people vacating the benches to meet the archers that had failed out of the earlier rounds.

Two rows down from where he sat, the parents of one of the few child participants were coaxing their little girl towards the exit even as they praised her performance.

“But I don’t want to go!” the child whined as her mother took her hand. “You let me stay and watch last year!” Her father answered in a tone too low for Imryn to hear, relieving her of the small bow and glancing surreptitiously around as he did. His eyes flashed from his little girl to Prince Bellamy, Lord Cassander, and then even up to Imryn.

A small, apologetic grimace twisted his face when he caught Imryn’s eyes on him, but he only dipped a shallow bow in Imryn’s direction and set his free hand on his daughter’s back to urge her out faster.

Kiernan’s fingers caught the sleeve of Imryn’s robe, hidden from view by the fall of the voluminous fabric. His little brother’s expression was perfectly placid when Imryn glanced at him, but the gesture betrayed his shock.

So quickly had the fear that pervaded their grandfather’s childhood returned with the pardon of Lord Cassander.

Esme leaned forward to grip Kiernan’s shoulder and, more covertly, to grab the wrist of the hand that was tangled in Imryn’s sleeve. “Cyneric will shoot soon; pay attention,” she said as a cover for the skinship.

Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, Kiernan nodded. His grip on Imryn went slack as Esme sat back again.

The sun glinted off of Cyneric’s hair as he lifted his bow confidently. Imryn had braided it this morning, twining a diamond-studded silver chain into his brother’s long blond hair.

The Hunter had complained good-naturedly about the extravagance, but he had preened as well, so Imryn assumed Cyneric didn’t truly mind. Watching Lord Cassander shift in the box, he wished he hadn’t added the trinket.

Cassander, Imryn had been told, had an appetite for luxury.

Cyneric’s shot hit dead center, and he stepped back with a satisfied smirk. Lord Cassander’s attention shifted to the gold circlet on Evander’s head as the other prince took his place. Imryn liked that no better.

Two more rounds passed quickly, eliminating most of the remaining competitors. The last archer of the seventh round left the field shaking his head with a chagrined expression as his arrow missed its mark by only a few centimeters.

As the contest attendants ran out to adjust the targets again, an impatient tsk cut through the buzz of the audience’s chatter.

“Does this little game get no more difficult?” Lord Cassander asked, his voice carrying due to the acoustic design of the box in which he sat.

The attendants stopped in their tracks.

King Eamon’s hands tightened on the arm of his throne, and Lord Declan frowned as he turned towards the other immortal.

“Brother, it takes no little skill to strike a target so far away with any level of accuracy,” Lord Declan protested.

The crowd, which had gone silent at Lord Cassander’s interruption, began to rustle with shifting robes and soft murmurs.

Lord Cassander waved an impatient hand as he said, “Yes, yes, but have you not grown bored watching repetitions of the same trick? Surely there are better ways to entertain.” The archers remaining on the field looked toward the Mistress of the Hunt for instruction, but Isolde only stared up at Lord Cassander with a clenched jaw.

“What’s he doing ?” Kiernan hissed under his breath.

“Nothing good,” Esme replied, too loud in the sea of whispers. Those sitting closest to her leaned away as though worried that they would be blamed for the disrespect.

“This contest is meant to display skill, not entertain,” Lord Declan said.

“Ah, but a true master would be able to adapt their skill to the situation, and this contest only shows competency in one technique,” Lord Cassander argued.

A few more of those seated on the ends of the benches slinked out of the arena.

“This is a time honored competition, brother,” Lord Declan rebuked, although he cocked his head to the side as though intrigued. “But perhaps there is some truth to your words. What say you, King Eamon?” Gripping his chair with white knuckles, Eamon kept his tone admirably level as he asked, “What do you suggest, Lord Cassander?” A slow smirk curled the immortal’s lips. “What about… moving targets? In my experience, it is significantly more difficult to strike beings that actively attempt to flee.” Eamon’s face went white, Kiernan gasped quietly, and Imryn’s heart missed a beat. Such blatant reference to Lord Cassander’s past deeds surely could not pass without rebuke.

Except Lord Declan didn’t seem to catch the insinuation. “The beast hunt is tomorrow, and we have no prey to shoot at,” he objected casually.

“Surely there is something that could be used.” Cassander’s gaze flickered down to the attendants, still frozen in the act of moving the targets. Several of them had paused mid-motion with the heavy stand tucked up in their arms so that the bullseye sat in the middle of their chests.

“Father—” Bellamy gasped, aware that both his children and his niblings had volunteered to help stage the contest. Whatever his relationship with his brothers, Prince Bellamy would protect their children, to say nothing of his own or his subjects.

“Thrushes!” King Eamon exclaimed with only the smallest note of panic in his tone. “Some were netted for the feast tonight. If we are quick, we may yet find a few alive with the cooks.” A flick of his hand sent his personal attendant running even before Lord Cassander’s delighted, “Perfect!” On the field, Lady Isolde called the volunteers back out of the range. Most of them disappeared immediately into the forest that edged the field. Many of the people huddling together on the benches eyed their escape enviously. If the crowd had been subdued and uncertain earlier, they were downright fearful at this twist.

Beast hunts for public entertainment were simply not done. Many of their people hunted, but there was something different about a stadium full of people cheering on the slaughter of an animal. Something unsettling. Although Imryn knew it was not uncommon in other kingdoms, it had never been their people’s way.

Time stretched as the dumbstruck audience waited for the return of the runner.

A vain hope (or was it a dread?) wandered across Imryn’s mind that perhaps all the thrushes would already have been killed. Preparing them took time, and dinner was only a few hours away. The cooks should already have butchered those they were planning to serve.

Yet the runner returned, panting and red-faced, with a cage full of flapping birds. A knot loosened in Imryn’s chest, even as a lady a few benches down from Imryn gasped in dismay. Her husband grabbed her hand and hissed a distressed plea for silence.

“Give them here.” Lady Isolde took the cage even as she spoke, and shooed the runner away.

Raising her voice to be heard through the crowd, the Mistress of the Hunt explained, “We will take this by turns. On the mark of the bell, I will release a bird, and you will have only one chance to shoot at it. Whoever kills their bird wins, even if there are multiple victors.” The five archers left on the field nodded solemnly and then broke ranks. Patting Evander on the back, they encouraged him out first.

Evander’s mouth was drawn into a thin, displeased line, but he took his place and raised his bow with steady hands.

Lady Isolde reached into the cage and snatched out one of the birds. Assuming that the bird would fly first for the safety of the trees, she had positioned herself across the field from the forest. When the bell rang, she threw the thrush up into the air.

The crowd held their breath as the small black dot flapped desperately to get its bearings, darted across the sky, and dove towards the trees.

Evander’s arrow flashed towards it just as it started to dip into the forest and went wide. Very wide.

The crowd collectively deflated, slumping back from where they had been quite literally on the edge of their seats. A few nervous laughs, born more from relief than from meanness, trembled in the air.

Watching his cousin shrug as though abashed, Imryn knew that Evander had not intended to strike the bird. The contest didn’t mean enough to him to outweigh his distaste for the concept of killing for sport.

The Huntress who stepped up to take the next shot had no such qualms, and came so close to striking her bird that it squawked in outrage and chittered angrily as it streaked away.

The next Hunter missed more spectacularly than Evander, though less purposefully.

Each time the whistle blew, the crowd shifted forward with bated breath, and each time the arrow missed, they momentarily relaxed. Even this routine had begun to wane by the time Aurelia stepped up. Three already had missed their mark. Surely no one would be able to meet this challenge.

That was until the princess aimed her bow, released her arrow, and clipped the bird’s wing.

The collective gasp was deafening.

With a terrible screech, the bird dropped from the sky. Its tiny body writhed in the middle of the field until Lady Isolde stalked forward to take it in her hands and snap its neck.

Imryn could’ve sworn the crack was audible from where he sat. Kiernan’s face went pale. The lady who had gasped when the birds were brought in burst into silent tears.

“Not quite a clean kill, but perhaps a winning shot,” the Lady of the Hunt announced.

Dipping her chin in acknowledgement, Aurelia swept across the field to the equipment room. No one stopped her from leaving before the contest was technically over.

Cyneric’s turn had come at last, but his attention had strayed. Running his fingers down the silver wood of the bow he had carved with his own hands, the prince stared at Lord Cassander.

The immortal met that fiery gaze with amusement and curiosity. His eyes flashed every few moments to the sparkle of the diamonds in Cyneric’s braid with an avaricious gleam, but the young prince had definitely caught the Lord’s notice for his own audacity. A cold stone sank in Imryn’s stomach as he realized that his little brother now had a target drawn on his own back.

Stepping up to the mark and nocking his arrow, Cyneric glared into Lord Cassander’s eyes. Only when the bell rang and the bird shot into the air did his gaze finally snap onto his prey.

Cyneric’s arrow flew, straight and true, directly into the heart of his target.