(1,805 words - ie only 6 minutes!) The Tipping Point “But, Dad, you said that the virus was only mild when it started?” “Yes, yes, indeed I did, son. And I was wrong. When the experts got together and sorted through the information, it became clear that, without specialist help, it would almost always result in certain death.” “But you had the Gravida Virus, and you survived it,” said the boy with pride in his voice. “I did survive – yes,” added the man, “but it was only through the specialist help that I came through… thank god I am a party member, and they treated me so well. non-party members fare very badly.” He shook his head and stared sadly at the floor. “Even so,” he said looking up, “the virus did damage my heart valves and the future is not good.” Robert had never seen his father look so sad, nor indeed drink beer like this. “Is it serious?” he asked concerned. “Yes, I’m afraid it is” was the reply, “I could even die in the near future” he added, putting the most optimistic and brave face on the “truth”. The “experts” had told him of the realistic and grim prognosis. “Have you told mum?” he asked with tears in his eyes. “No, I cannot bother your mum with things like this and, actually, I wouldn’t know how to tell her.” After a silence: \-“Will the virus kill me and mum if we get it?” “No, not at all,” said the father shaking his head and smiling: “Because all our family are party members, we will get the best treatment and you and mum will be just fine.” “… otherwise, we would die?” “Yes – for certain. I spoke to my friend Leon, sorry, I should now call him Commander Leon, who is the top doctor in the city, and his instructions are that every one with the virus must go to the “Healing Unit” to have a chance of saving their lives.” “What if they are not party members and they refuse?” asked the boy. “Well,” said the father looking serious, “we must then insist that they go into the unit – if required, with the help of the police!” He paused, aware that there were problems in what he was about to say, “I saw my friend, Martin today who has the virus and he refused to be admitted… he is an old friend, and though I could be in trouble, I could not bring myself to call in the police… I will go and see him again tomorrow, but he will certainly be dead.” “Oh,” said Robert as he had fond memories of Martin, a close family friend, “You often told me he was a genius.” “Yes, yes,” said Anthony slightly testily, “but that was last year, and that has all changed… he has not updated his views and does not follow the party guidelines. He would be in real trouble now if he had not received the gold ribband for saving the life of Brother-Commander Edward.” “Wow!” said the boy as this was a famous household name. After a pause, Anthony continued, “And even though that diagnosis has been overturned by the committee, his special dispension continues. “Does truth ever change then, Dad?” Robert asked thoughtfully. Anthony remained quiet for a while. “It’s called the narrative,” he finally said, “Sometimes, facts must be altered to fit the needs of the people – that is the wise web which the party weaves to explain everything to our citizens.” The two sat in silence, hoping there would be other times together. \*\*\* This was no time for tears; Martin had disobeyed the guidelines and must pay the price. Anthony drove sombrely with the death certificate book ready on the passenger seat. He pulled up at the little country cottage; Martin had never received the money and acclaim he deserved as he had never been a successful “committee-man”. He let himself in through the front door to find a man, who looked just like the late Martin, sitting in an old rocking chair reading a book. “Martin?” asked Anthony in astonishment, “is that really you? I can’t believe it!” Martin smiled. “But how? I brought your death certificate with me!” he added with a note of delight in his voice. Martin closed the book and put it to one side. “There are more things in heaven and earth than have entered your committee rooms” he chuckled. “I would share them with you, but the truth might get you into trouble… Hospitals can sometimes be machines of death themselves.” Martin seemed really quite fit and, although severely disabled with arthritis was able to make some tea as the two friends spoke of wonderful times gone by; as always, Anthony was struck by the incisive, questioning mind of Martin and his company was compelling as always. But Anthony had a busy work schedule and was soon making his leave. “Before you leave,” said Martin, writing on a piece of paper, “here is a number which you must memorize and then destroy.” He looked almost menacingly at his friend. “Promise me that!” Anthony promised faithfully. “And the password is ‘The Tipping Point.’” “OK,” said Anthony, “OK, I can remember that.” \*\*\* “Commander Leon, Sir, you sent for me.” “Yes, Tony, and this is a very unpleasant business.” The (very) senior doctor looked grave: “It has come to my attention that you have been treating Martin Slavic.” He held his hand up to forbid interruption. “And we suspect that you have broken our protocols and guidelines.” He shook his head and sighed in total disbelief. Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but was gestured into silence. “There is concern that you may have been contaminated!” continued Commander Leon “But I have already had the virus,” said Anthony innocently, “I am immune!” “You misunderstand me,” continued Leon, observing in detail every movement on the face of Anthony through the magnifying “protective” shield. “This man has been a dangerous subversive, who threatens the security of our state; if he had not saved the life of brother-commander Edward, we would have dealt with his problem comprehensively…” He paused. “Did he ever show you copies of his “Alternative” and, by the way, I know the answer to that.” “Well, yes,” mumbled Anthony, “but that was long, long ago.” The “Alternative” was a very subversive pamphlet which Anthony had scarcely read, as it was full of dangerous heresies. “We also have reason to believe that he may have contact with,” Leon paused and his voice dropped to a whisper, “…The Outreaches.” Anthony’s jaw dropped; no-one even mentioned that place of horrors where only sub-humans dwelt. “We think you may be in danger,” continued the commander, “and we will be committing you to hospital on section 94 to get you sorted out!” He looked angry and, obviously, the conversation brooked no appeal. “You have a psychiatric history and we are convinced that the Gravida Virus has impacted your mind; if you refuse to comply, then this would denote a more severe psychiatric case which would mandate expelling you from the party with all that entails.” Leon looked rather menacingly into the eyes of Anthony. Anthony did not have a psychiatric history, but was he really sure..?. Had his mind been damaged by the Gravida virus…? There was no choice but to comply. \*\*\* The hospital admission procedure was very straightforward, though it struck Anthony as rather odd that this erstwhile Medical Unit had been filled with psychiatry patients. The staff looked very young and inexperienced. “Is it Commander Anthony?” asked the junior in charge. “No,” smiled Anthony, “I am not a commander, only a doctor.” “Only!” exclaimed the junior and ex-student of his. “You taught me so much… it is a privilege to treat you, Sir, but I must give you your injection to help you settle in.” “Of course,” acquiesced Anthony. “But you look rather nervous; would you like me to give myself the injection?” “Please, please do that, Sir. I would hate to be reported for giving a clumsy injection to someone as senior as you!” Anthony smiled. “OK, look away” he replied as he plunged the injection into the mattress. “I feel better already,” he said. \*\*\* The next morning, the junior from the day before came with some students. How are you feeling today?” he asked. “So much better,” lied Anthony, “I just feel totally committed to helping all our citizens and the party. They began to talk informally, and Anthony soon lapsed into his teaching manner. The group was a mixed bunch with nursing and medical students on ward experience. Soon they began to talk about cardiology, about how to take a history and examine the heart. It was so nice to speak with these enthusiastic students. Eventually, Anthony confided that he, himself, had heart valve problems from the Gravida virus. He went on to explain about Echocardiography and how bouncing sound waves off the heart could give a clear picture of the heart and valves. “We have an ECHO machine here on the ward,” said one of the students excitedly. “Do you know how to work it?” Anthony did, having spent a year on a cardiology unit. Soon he had a full picture of his own heart to show the students. “So, as you can see, I have severe heart disease and have no more than a few months to live.” The students were in tears as they left the room; losing this great teacher would be a severe loss. But Anthony had covered up the truth. The ECHO had clearly shown that his heart and valves were normal… why had the experts lied to him? His mind raced as he continued to act like a medicated patient. \*\*\* The ward was totally silent; it was dead of night, and Anthony’s mind was in turmoil. Finally, he knew with total certainty what was to be done. He put on his outdoor clothes which were surprisingly easy to find. He had always been a good climber and now – reassured that his heart was strong – made his escape through a small window. He stepped outside, and breathed the fresh air of freedom. “Better a few days of freedom than a life of mental imprisonment,” he mused, for he had always believed that there could be no life outside the party-state. The very idea of the “hell-on-earth” of The Outreaches had always made him shudder, but now he wondered what he truly knew about them. He reached into his pocket, and there he found his cell-pager.


BEEP BEEP…. BEEP BEEP…. I lay in bed waiting for them to turn off the alarm… BEEP BEEP… I sigh as I remember and rub my eyes. I hit the alarm clock and rolled out of bed, falling to the floor. As I lay there, I stared at the ceiling before I got up. I got ready for my day, putting on my mask and leaving my room. As I sit at the breakfast table, look at everyone else, and glance at their mask, I wonder what is under them. I quickly forget and finish my meal and go on with my day. My day goes on as I try to ignore them. I realize it's not going to be easy, but nothing like this ever is. The day quickly ends, and I go to bed. BEEP BEEP… BEEP BEEP… I hit the alarm clock off and stare at the ceiling contemplating. I put my mask on and go to breakfast. Sitting at the table, I notice one of the masked individuals missing. I then ignored the thought though I didn't even know who was under the missing mask. After breakfast, I continued with my day. I was continually thinking about why the masked individual was missing and where they had gone. BEEP BEEP… BEEP BEEP… I hit the alarm clock off and got out of bed. After putting my mask on, I looked in the mirror for the first time in a while. I noticed a crack showing through. Weird, I thought it shouldn't be like that. That morning at the table, I looked at everyone else's masks and looked for cracks. They all showed slight cracking. I noticed though someone else was missing. Weird, I thought two people were now missing. I think about it more and realize three masked individuals were missing. I woke up without the sound of my alarm. I wait a moment as nothing happens, and I roll over and look at it. Is it off? BEEP BEEP… I jumped out of bed as the sound startled me. After I put my mask on, I check it in the mirror. More cracks? At the table, I notice a fourth masked individual is missing. I realize now there's only me and one other. I try to start a conversation with them. All I received was a stare as they got up, leaving me alone. Rude, I thought a simple "What?" would've been fine. Later on in the day, I suddenly had the thought. "Have any of us talked to each other before?" BEEP… BEEP… I woke up to the sound of my alarm. But something felt different today. I quickly got ready and put my mask on, forgetting to check it for cracks. I was more focused on if the last individual would be missing. They were missing. I now sat at the table alone. "Would I be next?"... "Where did the others go?"... As quickly as the thoughts came in, they then left my mind. I was left to go on with my day. BEEP BEEP… as I woke up this morning, I wasn't controlling my body; I was watching as someone else did? I noticed a girl next to us. They turned off the alarm and rolled over, and kissed us. "Good morning, handsome. I hope you slept well" A tired smile came over his face. As he did this, I felt my face. I then noticed my mask was gone. I then faded away as quickly as I came. "I was back, and the dark war in my head was over. The war many thought I would lose. It had taken my emotions and locked them away behind a slowly cracking mask. I never gave up and fought bravely. All those dark days I went through and times I thought about giving up. Hopefully, she will be the one, and I will never return.


I might as well start off telling you, I lost my eye in an unfortunate fork accident. When I was a kid, I use to flip my fork off the table by putting it on the edge of the table, and SLAMMING my palm on the end of it. If I had a quarter for everytime my Mother told me to stop, my first fake eye could have been glass! She never lets me forget that incident either. It's kinda her "go to" when I don't listen, even at my age. I'm older now, how much smarter remains to be seen. Coming in from the bar one night I stumbled up the porch steps, and stood for a moment. I opened the door, and collapsed in a chair. I was half drunk this night, sweating in that chair with the window open, letting in every drop of humidity there was. Not enough sense to close the windows, and turn on the air. I sat there dripping , sinking into my own sweat in the old chair. My fake eye started to itch. I began to rub my eye but it didn't help, it just made it itch more! So here I sit drunk, with an itchy eye. What should I do? Oh I Know! So, I popped it out, and laid it on the table. Now, I know I should have taken it off, and put it in saline. That's where it belonged. But you know how it is when you've been drinking. Believe me, I wish I had. About that time, a crow had landed on the window sill, and was eyeing me. He just sat there looking. Staring. I thought about closing the window. Drunk, that thought floated away. A second of clarity, I see the Crow again! "What are you looking at, I yell, as I reach down and toss a shoe at the damn thing. He keeps eyeing me. Turning his head from side to side, kinda sizing me up. He doesn't move. He just stares. Straight into my soul, searching for a bit to pull off. His eyes look like black holes boring into mine. The hair on my neck stands up, as I click the tab off another beer. I lazily drink that beer down, not taking my my eye of that Crow. He never took his eye off me. But he kept grinning. Like he knew a secret! The beer was warm, and I was tired. I stared at the crow some more til sleep over came my half drunken ass. I fell asleep in the chair with that bird eyeing me. It was the last thing I remember seeing. But I dreamed of that Crow. He was still in the window. Still laughing. Still grinning. I tossed, and turned. It was a very restless sleep. Grampa! Time to get up! Oh Lord... I'm still in that chair. My vision is half gone. Oh man. I look around for my eye. All I see are beer cans. Oh shit. I have to shake each can just to make sure. I don't think I would have put it there, but hey! I had to look. Nope! Just a tab in each can. I look down on the floor, I get on my hands and knees. Nope. Now I'm getting a bit anxious! I see the open window! And I remember the Crow! OMG!! I'm sure the damn bird has my glass eye. He's no longer there! Where is he!? I run to the window, and I see him. He's mocking me! He has a beady eye turned on me, and he's grinning an evil bird grin! Oh shit. What am I going to tell my wife?! I look at that Crow. I curse that crow. I thought unkind things about that Crow. I cursed him some more. Then I cursed him again. Then I turned my back on the hungry thief. I cursed him once more. So with no other option, I dug around in the drawer, and found the first plastic prosthetic eye I had made, and popped it in. I stood at the mirror, it was glaringly obvious! That DAMN bird I mutter as I walk away. I went down to breakfast. No one noticed! That kinda irritated me. Do you people even see me? Am I that old, that you just look through me now?! All right! So far so good. I was still angry at that damn Crow. Sneaky bird!! I was thinking of ways to repay my feathered friend all thru breakfast, as I crunched that bacon, I was thinking of that bird! Still a little angry at them for not noticing, I thought about them as I crunched my toast quiet loud! Later that afternoon my grandson wanted to play, and I agreed. He brought a box and opened it. There, amongst several marbles was my eye!! My beautiful glass eye! Hey! "That's mine" I said. Grampa you said we could trade! Wait. What? Yes! I asked you last night If we could make a trade, and you said yes!! I put two green cat eyes on your dresser!! OMG! The bird was mocking me because he saw me drunk, trading off my eye for two marbles!! And he laughed! That damn bird laughed. I had to get my eye back. My grandson was rolling it in his fingers. It was a beauty! A luscious shade of dark green. He didn't take his eyes off it. It was a fair trade! He wanted to keep it. It was the only one like it he had ever seen. It was his! Fair, and square! He gave his best two marbles for it! What did I have to trade a five year old? Just how much will it cost? He looked at me with deep blue eyes, searching my face for signs it was okay, that he could keep it. But I needed it. So I made the deal. It cost me a trip to Disney! But I got my eye. That bird? He still comes to the window to mock me. I feel he's justified.


“Like I said,” Samantha says, “there’s a monster in the woods and it’s lonely!” She points in the direction of the forest bordering our property, a long stretch of evergreens that extends for what seems like forever. “Oh, honey,” I say, crouch before her and take her coat collar in my hands. “There’s nothing out there but squirrels and chipmunks, rabbits, and a few turkeys. There’s no monsters out there.” “Mom!” she scowls, her brow furrowing. “I seen him! He’s round and furry and has four arms and no legs! And eyes! Four of them in the shape of a diamond!” This hasn’t been the first time she has brought up the Monster. It seemed like each day this thing had made an appearance at the edge of the woods while she’s playing. At first, I was worried maybe a bear had migrated to this stretch of Pennsylvania, but after setting up a trail cam around where this Monster appeared, nothing showed up. Then, I thought about wolves or coyotes; but again, nothing showed on the footage after several days. Eventually, I chalked it up to an imaginary friend, she was young, after all. But, each day she grew more and more convinced this Monster was out there, and that he was lonely and wanted someone to speak to, someone to be his friend. “Mom!” she shouts, pulling me from my thoughts. “Can I just go with him once? I’ll be extra careful.” I straighten, shake my head. “No, you cannot. You’re not allowed to go into those woods without me ever.” I glare down at her, as she puckers her lips. “And don’t give me that look. Those woods are big and I won’t have you getting lost out there.” “But—” “No ‘buts.’ Now, go get changed and get ready for bed.” She stomps from the kitchen, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. I hear the sink turn on. I sigh and move back to the window. The shadows between the trees grow as the sky darkens. The faint moonlight hardly illuminates anything. Absentmindedly, I look into the woods, searching for the Monster that doesn’t exist. Nothing stands in between the boles, nothing lurks in the shadows, nothing big and furry looms. “Honey?” I call, hearing the sink still going. “You almost done?” After a few silent moments, I go to her bedroom and peek in. The bathroom light seeps between the cracked door, and none of her clothes are lying on the ground with the others. I enter, call again: “Samantha?” and receive no response. I cross the room and push open the door. Water is almost streaming over the basin’s rim, and the window above the toilet is open. “Samantha!” I scream, turn and sprint out of the room, down the hallway, out the door. I know where she’s going. I cross the backyard to the woods, where I catch a glimpse of her within. She’s holding hands with something— someone tall and round. “Samantha!” I scream again. I plunge into the dark woods, weave past trees and leap over underbrush and fallen branches. She’s somehow farther, so much farther, and the thing she’s with is somehow larger, bigger, more like a bear than a person. Tears sting my eyes. My lungs are on fire. My heart is slamming against my chest. “Samantha!” I holler, throat raw and stinging. She looks over her shoulder as she walks deeper into the forest, and our eyes meet and she smiles, waves, then faces ahead. She and it pass by a bole and vanish. I make it to where they were only moments ago. I collapse to my knees, and search the leaves, claw holes into the dirt, cry and scream into the darkness, pleading to the heavens to return my daughter, but no one and nothing hears. And now, I wait… I wait in the backyard every day, from sunrise to sunset, for her to appear on the edge of the forest. I pray she will let me take her hand like her friend did her, and escort me to wherever she disappeared to, so we can be together again. Like her Monster, I’m lonely, too. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


“Welcome to your service of remembrance! I’m Kazuo, and it will be my pleasure to guide you through the process as you consider the various options extended to you by NeuroNon. Your presence here confirms the clarity of your life priorities. We believe that life is made of moments, not minutes, and capturing and retaining those moments that you want to savor is what we’re here for. With over a decade of public service and another fifteen in the private sector, we are the world’s first and oldest in the field. You’ve obviously discerned that some of the moments we live through are of no more value than yesterday’s kitchen garbage, and NeuroNon is here to proverbially take out the trash. As Montaigne put it, nothing fixes a thing so firmly in the memory as the wish to forget it.

I see, um, it’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable. You will not have to discuss the subject matter at issue with me. Only two people will be privy to your private interview, and confidentiality is critical to our company’s existence. Your reviewers will explore the precise details of what you want to leave behind, not to be invasive, but merely to make sure the specific contents are isolated without the interruption of your essential cognitive networks. They will be most gracious and very discreet. I think you’ll be deeply satisfied with…. You’re curious about the tank? Aplysia californica. Sea slugs found on the West Coast. They’re not the most photogenic, are they? But they’ve become immortalized in the NeuroNon narrative. That was the first species in which we successfully transplanted memory from one organism to another. mRNA transferral. A snail that had never been exposed to electric shock recoiled as though she had been after receiving the mRNA of a snail that had. It remembered someone else’s memory. Yes, it’s amusing, isn’t it? Amazing? I agree! Next, we replicated the process by manipulating sensory nerve cells in a petri dish…but perhaps this is more technical than interests you. Yes? The technique. Of course. Come, let’s walk. I’ll give you a tour. Through this door and down the hall. Memories can never actually be erased. There’s no camera flash on a stick that we wave in front of your face and make them disappear in an instant. It’s a bit more, if I can be casual, like hiding a candle in the sunlight. The candle is still there, you just don’t notice it. And if you intend to ignore it, it’s quite easy to do so. So we take a triggering image of bad memories and surround it in…a sort of…mental white noise. When a client encounters the triggering image, or sound, or any other sensory stimuli, the hippocampus, in which we implant modified neurons, recalls a vague scene or ambiance - a landscape, for instance, or the sound of waves in the distance. Anytime the client’s memory strays close to the cleansed memory, the more pleasant scene surrounds and overwhelms it. The experience, after decades of refinement in our labs, is very peaceful. I’m glad for how quickly you understand. You’ve obviously come from a pedigree education, am I right? Of course. It shows. If I may speak personally, as a former client myself, it’s exquisite to be able to dwell only in the isolated recollections for which we have labored and excelled through our lives, free from unwanted and undeserved mental debris. It’s an internal utopia. Glass of wine while we walk? Madison, could you provide for our guest? You’re correct. But the confidential nature of our work is not because we have anything to hide. Rather, we mean to protect those who have sought to leave the past behind. You can imagine that certain elements would meddle indiscriminately - social activists opposed to our vision. But at this stage, given your downpayment and paperwork we’ve already put you through, you’re free to ask anything you like. I’m an open book. Yes, our story is a fascinating one. I hope perhaps, in time, the files can be opened so that the worldwide public can marvel at how we arrived here. Perhaps some history is in order. The first real success was a horrible case - horrible before we cleansed her. She was a victim of kidnapping, locked in a basement, and brutalized for three years, if you can imagine. She was reduced to a panicked recluse, beyond the reach of psychiatry, likely to remain institutionalized and further regressing. When we completed our work with her, she was transformed. It was all gone, a blank slate. She was on her feet again. She was our evolutionary Lucy, the one who put us upright. That’s a fair question, and I’ll be honest with you. There were glitches. We’ve completely eliminated them, but there were a few originally. The clinical trials were long and slow, of necessity. In Phase One, there was a bank manager who had witnessed a murder during a robbery, a teller blown to bits with a shotgun, and in the process of righting his mind, we lost the bank safe’s combination. Relatively harmless, but a warning marker for us. Then one a bit worse, a woman who weighed over 800 lbs. She was, for obvious health reasons, dangerously close to terminal. In the process of eliminating some of her memories tied to dietary norms and impulses, we insufficiently distinguished that which was to be preserved from the rest of her cognitive networks, and afterwards, she had forgotten how to eat a banana. Random, yes? She could never relearn it. She would just sit and puzzle over the things. Harmless, I guess, but a mistake. And a few other things with her, but she is alive today because of NeuroNon. I do want to suggest, if I can pause for a moment, that you consider the optional promotional levels. They have less to do with the final product and more to do with aesthetics. Premium service is well worth the investment. While the Basic service will deliver the same ultimate result, it’s a bit like privileged airline classes - either one will get you there, but one is a bit more luxurious. But as you’ve already realized that the value of the result is worth the investment of a lifetime, the difference is inconsequential. No, there are no glitches today. Good question. The last one was…um…hmm. I can’t seem to place it. I’ll have someone look that up for us in a bit. Huh. Funny, I can’t…. Well, we’ll look it up in due time. Through these doors, you’re in luck. Someone is going through the process as we speak and has consented to onlookers through a glass wall. You can see…ah, they’re right in the middle of the surgery. You’re not offended are you? You see that the hole in the side of the skull is relatively small, only about the size of a quarter. Laparoscopic insertion from there. We no longer remove the skullcap like in the early days. And the external NeuroNon disc on the surface can be veiled completely through a graft of skin and hair, or, as we’re finding is increasingly popular, left in plain sight for, well, I guess one would say, bragging rights. Just look. The wetware, you see through the hole. Not really vulgar is it - not much different than the snails. Yet so versatile. It’s a universe in there. Back to my history-telling, though. There was one case that forced our hand in terms of availability, though. If Lucy showed the scientific and medical communities that it was an invaluable, ethical contribution to human betterment, this was the dark parallel: the customer who sues for millions after spilling her own coffee in her own lap. Of course you’ve heard the public version of this story. A woman sued us for the right to access the technology so that she could forget her ex-husband. It is a bit funny, I guess. But sad. We probably could have warded her off if the Catholic Church hadn’t embraced her, calling it “God’s view of annulment,” as you’ve heard. So for short relationships and midnight Las Vegas chapel weddings, you know, where there is no vast network of connections which would be lost, so the story itself can be isolated from the rest of the client’s history, it can be done. The public doesn’t realize how much this has driven the expansion of our work. Husbands who can’t endure their midnight angst who end up buying their wives what they call a “second virginity” as an anniversary gift, erasing one of her old flings whom they - the husband, I mean - can’t get over. Thomas Edison was miffed when the phonograph was used for entertainment, for music, because he wanted it to record only important speeches and historical events. I guess we can’t complain when the medical miracle that cures trauma is primarily funded by jealousy and insecurity. That to say, our reasons for acceptance of new clients are much broader than they were at first. And of course, that led to a flurry of lawsuits. Every student who had been triggered by a bad grade and was now too anxious for job interviews, non-medaling Olympians wallowing in depression, ex-prisoners as well as ex-officers, deprogrammed cult members and reformed sinners - everyone who had gone down a wrong path who now wanted a clean slate. Ex-junkies and even just cold-turkey-quitting ex-smokers. Anyone who could pull together a reason and a bank account was ready to insist that this was a medical necessity. Civil rights groups got involved, and a potentially methodical future rapidly became a less than well-prepared present. Of course, the cultural milieu was ripe for it. Statues were being torn down and the names of schools were being changed. Textbooks were being rewritten to give a smaller role to religion and a larger one to race. There was even a movement at one point, now dissolved, seeking to fund the service as a kind of racial reparations, to eradicate racist trauma retrospectively. We didn’t see forgetfulness as negligence, we saw it as our absolution. It was our baptism - washing off the old so that we could be free for new life.

No one with a good memory has a clean conscience. You hear that I’m not telling you that you have to see it this way. It’s simply the way many have come to see it. A…nuance, I’d say, not a problem…is that when the desires of the masses correspond to the desires of the elite, no one notices the disparity of motives. Our largest current influx is employers willing to fund the service for employees who wanted it in lieu of legal liability. It was written into their contracts. Instead of arbitration, the offense is erased by mutual consent, and thus settled out of court. When microtraumas are catalogued and litigated, it’s simply the most cost-effective way. Imagine, one day, being able to pluck individual memories from the mind like we pluck a hair from the head - a single, isolated memory that we would be better without. Sorry, I see from the glint in your eye I’ve stepped back on my soapbox. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m very passionate about this. It’s my life’s work. It saved me as well, after all. I don’t mean to be controversial of course. This is just history. If you’ll walk with me into the next room, I’ll show you where you would undergo the procedure. Here it is. The room will be redesigned to your specifications for your comfort. You’ll want to bring keepsakes and pictures tied to healthy memories on which you will concentrate when you awaken. But I can show you the equipment, nonetheless. This is the chair. Where was I? The lawsuits. Yes. Like a swarm of wasps. That then required some flexibility to prevent it all from shutting down. That’s when the billionaires turned from space exploration to memory. Facebook produced “Nevermind” and Alibaba, “Wangji.” And of course, that quickly led to government regulation. Of course, the federal government had been using the process for a decade before the public was even aware of its existence. In addition to trauma resolution, it served a remarkable role in counterterrorism. The most notable success was a captured operative whose memories of his training they distorted. He awakened to find himself in a penthouse with full maid service, surrounded by apparent CIA staff who told him that he was one of them. They needed everything he had picked up on a tour of duty, and they told him - see the irony here - that the enemy had wiped parts of his memory. What could he recall nonetheless? Quite a good deal, it turned out. Enough. And that’s actually how we got bin Laden. It’s true. The details will never be released in our lifetimes, and I cannot substantiate it for you as anything more than hearsay, but that’s what happened. As I say, I hope for a day when the files are opened and the world can see the revolutionary value this service has provided. There was no inhibition to its use behind the scenes after that. This was to be the way of the future, the way of a new world order. We have no idea how many people the military put through it, or how many variations of its use they’ve explored. Yes, we’re a private company. You ask that because…? Yes, it began as a military operation, but…. Sorry, I’m not sure. I see what you’re asking, yes. Somewhere along the lines our privacy was ensured, though, so governmental regulation didn’t result in government control. I’m…a bit fuzzy on that one. Funny…. Anyway, it’s completely private now. The government wasn’t seeking to limit it; I guess that explains it. To make the service widely available required widespread manipulation of mRNA, achieving preparation in subjects prior to the necessity of the procedure. Someone who is brought in after a car accident who has already received mRNA transference by injection is easily treated before they even regain consciousness, presuming the necessary waivers have been processed. While the patient recuperates, NeuroNon simply isolates specific neurons and creates our mental white noise around the timeframe of the accident. The patient awakens undisturbed, good as new. Of course we can’t ethically prevent them from insisting upon it. If someone doesn’t wish to awaken traumatized, who are we to insist that they must?

That’s how the mRNA injections came to be so widely distributed. Californians voted for it and Texans mandated it. It enjoyed more support than any legislation since we eliminated Daylight Savings Time. Nearly the entire public is ready to walk in at any moment and be cleansed. I’ve gone on too long now. I’m sure you have questions. Yes? Correct, we are a private company, free from federal interference. Yes, they support our work. Financially as well, yes. No, your records are kept private. How? Well…I’m sorry, ask me again? Sorry, perhaps I can review our records on that matter in my office. Rest assured, it’s secure. So, during the procedure, you would sit in this chair. Because neurological stimulation can provoke kinetic responses, we do strap you to the chair. Wouldn’t want fingers flying around when there’s direct access to the wetware, would we? The wall in front of you is completely digital, and through it we would run either self-produced video images or stock footage of your choosing, something pleasant and tied to a context of the most happy moments of your life. You can bring tactile and olfactory tokens with you - plush toys, a loved one’s shirt. One gentleman simply brought a slice of pecan pie of his grandmother’s recipe. Whatever you want. Would you like to sit down in the chair to see how it feels? There you go. It’s comfortable, isn’t it? Just a preface to the comfort you will have once the baggage of a lifetime is buried in warm, mental sunlight. The process is basically guaranteed. If anything were to go wrong, we could simply repeat the process and hide even your memory of being here. We could do it again and again, and you would never remember it. Funny, isn’t it? So, are you ready to begin?"


Have you ever had a stare down with the grim reaper, on the brink of death not once, but twice, Crenshaw couldn't believe he'd doubled back and let karma bite him in the ass not two but three times. He was sure he had his eyes on the prize, until he found himself lying on the coach both in physical and emotional pain due to Silence. She was long gone, it was 16 weeks and two days since his last intimate encounter with her and there was still no sign of her coming back..

No phone calls, no text messages, no appearances.

He didn’t want to believe she was laid up with someone else and he had not received even a phone call or sign from his beloved twin ray counterpart.

How could she not be there for him during this time.

Projecting blame onto her for not being present, made him subject to his own guilt and insecurities backfiring on him, causing him to reflect on how he had been treating her the past two years. Not picking up the phone, texting back, lying, partying, blowing money, with other women, refusing to go on dates, or treat her right, just f****** up because of he didn’t want to acknowledge she was pregnant by him or even show concern regarding the fact he was on the verge of losing the one and only person who truly ever cared for or loved him for who he was and not for what he had or could do.

A tear formed in his eyes and one rolled down his right cheek.  How foolish had he been to not admit how he really felt about her deep down inside, even more cowardly he ran away from the passion he'd ignited and the wall he'd built between them due to his own insecurity, jealousy, and fear surrounding what love should and shouldn't be, is or wasn’t, could, should or would be, instead of just chilling and going with the flow as he had once asked her to do, To be him, and her who she was and allowed herself to be was too much for him.

He knew he didn’t want to admit to himself or anyone else what they had done or were about to do. He was in love like never before, he knew for sure their love would be able to stand the test of time.  But was that reason sufficient enough for him to keep testing her limits by keeping secrets?

Sending her through unavoidable pain and mishaps left him and her wounded in the end, which only made him feel even more defeated afterwards.  After lying there for hours, and allowing himself to daydream, days went by, and he wanted to know more about the future, fantasizIng about her love and how he remembered having his way with her made him want to call her up for a tarot reading.  He wanted nothing more than to be in her presence, in her arms, in her home, and deep in her womb. Life didn’t seem fair.

His love didn’t seem real and he knew when she pondered on things for way too long she had the opportunity to really get to know herself, him as the man she thought she needed to let go of, and the reality of the circumstances they had found themselves in. Though he had fallen in love with her, she was on the verge of marrying someone else if he didn’t speak up soon.

 In the beginning, in the back of his mind, he knew she could and would bring so much happiness, peace, love, light, and healing into his world, yet he wasn’t ready to change or embrace her. Now that she didn’t think it mattered anymore, he didn’t want to lose someone he had fought so hard to attract and keep. He didn’t want it to be over.

The pain he felt within him was nothing compared to the pain he knew she felt after being exposed to all of his lies, trickery, deception, manipulation tactics, defeat, and secrets.

In 10 months she had came into his life and shaken him to his core, so much had changed, and suddenly he felt even she knew things would never be the same.

Time was expiring. Had he not initiated the process of letting her go; God wouldn’t have brought her back from the dead. Twenty One (CXXI) Capricorn World  Can you be useful and grab the toys?

What's the point of you being here if you're not going to help?”  I dropped the box of toys on the countertop and stopped to take a quick breath.

“Damn that box was heavy,”

I used the back of my hand to wipe a little bit of sweat off my forehead.

Silence picked up the rubber duck and playfully waved it in her hand before throwing it back in the box.

“Y’all should’ve paid somebody else to do this for y’all. Where Raf ass at? I’m not even supposed to be lifting heavy stuff knowing I’m pregnant!” I tried my best not to laugh.  “How about I take a cut of your money and use that to employ someone else,"  I teased her by throwing a rainbow colored dildo the size of a horse’s penis at her.

 She almost jumped out of her skin. “Geesh,” She dropped the toy, obviously creeped out by it, “what can a woman do with something that size anyway. If a man has a wand that size, he isn't human!!!!” she shrilled. “You're right, which is why it belongs to a horse,” I replied jokingly before picking up the dildo and putting it back in the pile of other sex toys.

I loved my friend to death, but being an Aries, she could act like a spoiled brat sometimes.

 She wasn't the blame entirely, I played a part too. She could be clumsy, even a little messy and uneasy sometimes but she didn't deserve the treatment people had given her over the years. I didn’t know the day I met her, she would become one of my best friends..

Only God knows the truth of it all. “Yoo…” Raf walked into the boutique nd interrupted me before I could finish my sentence.

 “I’ll meet you on the corner of MLK, drop you off at the spot, then ditch the car. Got it?.  I smacked my teeth listening to him on the phone. He rolled his eyes, “not this again.”

“Excuse me?” shocked at his demeanor. "Be careful,” he apologized. “You chose this life. This life didn’t choose you, and I dang sure didn’t choose it for you. You knew the consequences behind it. Hell, you brought me into it, I’m just doing my job and healing too, right now my job is to protect you at all costs,” he kissed my forehead before moving to the side. He caused me to smile, but grimace at his words; the choices we made choose this life, but I couldn't believe he was trying to call me out. “I know you don't call yourself reading me,” I nudged his arm with my arm. “Nah thug, I'm just saying,” he shrugged, “It's something I'll do again if that means protecting you and my roots. Anything for the family right.” I could understand that, as a family that's what we stood on, so I nodded my head at him.

He knew what was understood didn't have to be explained.

For the most part, as a whole, we were solid.

A bond formed between two people and God that couldn't be broken. Five years after our friend’s death, we moved to Augusta, GA in hopes of us “starting over".

From there, we opened up to a whole different world, a new world, one we’d created astrally.

Being introduced to what was previously known as “The New Age World”, was the best thing for me.

It potentially changed my life, all of our lives, including my family and social circle.  I hate we had originally been sent on a dummy mission to destroy the earth and the world. My perfect husband believed his time was up, and was becoming a liability. Underground Atlanta was supposed to be used as a means of survival in the beginning, never would I have thought I would be where I am today.

The highest paid, most influential, successful black woman in Atlanta, GA.

Being the owner of several private night clubs in the US, a sexy lingerie clothing line, that included a sex toy collection; I made a name for myself last year when I signed a contract to expand Underground Atlanta across the boarder.

I had less than 2 months before I opened the new and improved Underground Atlanta, although the name would change to Love Underground in honor of Love.  I felt like the name was more fitting, especially with all the activity that transpired within the clubs, the best way to pay my respects to my dear husband.  Lord bring peace to his soul. After my first spiritual awakening, I decided to use his last name after we got married and change my first and middle name to my heavenly name, once I changed my last name to Tutt, that’s what I identified by, burying the person I was before.  I was so glad to finally be my own person and get out from under the shadow of the notorious one. I was beautiful, fierce, rich, and powerful with unlimited resources.

I simply took a risk.

A risk that has been fulfilling its purpose as intended for what today marks the fourth year.

I was extremely proud of myself.

For not only deviating a precise strategy and building a magnificent team, but also doing it completely under the radar four consecutive years.

I was shocked at how successful we were able to execute everything.

Five years ago, I would have never thought I would be here, right now, preparing to finish Co-Operation. “Silence,” He snapped me from my thoughts, “you okay? Can we talk please?” I folded my arms and nodded my head, “yeah, I’m okay. Thanks, by the way.”

“For?” he raised his eyebrow with a blank expression on his face. “For saving me,” I responded with much gratitude, “don’t think I ever told you how grateful I am.” It was true, I was very grateful.

While I made a call to the alarm company to inform them of the false alarm, I thought about what we needed to do next.

God knows we didn't need the cops snooping around our warehouse.  It would blow the entire operation, so after that incident we decided to change to a more isolated location and add more security. “Told you,” he pounded his hand against his chest, “it’s my job.”

I’ll see you later” He threw up the peace sign and walked out of Sepaga. “See you later,” I repeated back to him before he walked out of Sepaga`, the lingerie and sex store I, well we, owned..

He hopped in the 2022 Burgundy Red and Black Toyota 4Runner I bought him for his birthday with his brothers then sped off. “God keep them safe and everything according to plan,” was the silent prayer I sent above as I began restocking the store, hanging the lingerie pieces on the mannequin. Thirty minutes passed by, and my stomach began to rumble.

It was definitely time for a lunch break.  I checked the time; it was a quarter past two and decided to take a break and head across the street to the new restaurant Agape's Food And Drink that we’d opened almost a month ago.  I had been hearing a few people that came through the store and club talk about it, so I thought why not try it out.  I could smell it from across the street, whenever I came outside the store, and it smelled delicious; from the Facebook pictures I'd seen, if it tasted anything like how it looked and smelled, I couldn't wait to get ahold of the new menu.

I grabbed my keys to lock up the store, my phone and my purse. I walked out of the store, making sure to lock it behind me, before crossing the street and walking into Agape's.

Twenty Two (CXXII) Sagittarius Fool “Hi, welcome to Agape's Food And Drink, will it be to-go or can I get you a table for 1?” The host greeted me as soon as I walked through the door with a pleasant and friendly tone. I was amazed; it was beautiful inside. A one stop shop for all your food, drink, and sweet tooth needs. It was buffet style with endless selections. I couldn't wait to try the food.

“You know what,” I thought about if I wanted to eat in or take it to go, “I'll just take a seat at the bar,” making eye contact before looking over at the bar.

“Great,” the host replied in a happy tone, “please follow me,” she instructed me before leading the way. “The buffet has a variety of choices. Drink menus are at the bar, and the desserts are to your far right. If the buffet has too many options for you, and you only want something simple, here's a basic menu for you.” She handed me the tri fold menu. “I particularly like the chicken tuna salad with fresh fruit and the buffalo chicken dip with the restaurant chips. It is being offered at a discounted price this week as the owner is choosing to discontinue it, so if I was you I would definitely try it while supplies last. Your bartender and server tonight will be Kloe`. If you need anything please refer to her.” She flashed me a smile. ”I hope you enjoy your meal today, let me know if you need anything,” was the last thing she said to me before walking back to her station. “Screwdriver extra shot of orange juice,” the bartender Kloe slid a drink across the bar top to a beautiful woman. Her thick, sandy brown, curly hair was pulled back into a high bun; she had hazel green eyes and wore hoop earrings with a halter black dress. The tattoo above her right shoulder was of a rose with the phrase “For those I love I will sacrifice” written under it, instantly sticking out to me. She looked far from feminine although that’s the manner in which she presented herself.

I had only been with one female since my transition, and that was my first night attending Love Underground, but something about her beauty had me memorized and for some reason, I felt like I had to have her.

I walked up and sat two seats down from her, “Screwdriver extra shot of orange juice,” I smiled at Khloe` before pretending to read the menu.

“Coming right up,” Kloe` responded eagerly.

“What do you know about a screwdriver with an extra shot of orange juice?” the sweet innocent voice coming from the left of me made me look up from my menu. “Well, I'm not much of a drinker,” I lied, knowing I could dang well hold my liquor, “however, I like vodka and love orange juice, so I figured I couldn't go wrong with such a basic drink.” I smiled flirtatiously. The lips the innocent voice came from curled up into a smile, and she parted her lips to speak, “Hey I’m Corinthian, and you are?”,  I leaned over and extended her hand to me. “Nice to meet you Corinthian, I am Silence ,” I shook her hand,

Kloe passed me my drink, and I took a sip before pointing across the street at my store. “I own Sepaga’. The intimate boutique across the street. You should stop by sometimes. We have some limited edition items on sale by two for $22.22 get 2 for $11.11. I'm sure you would look nice in anything.” I tried to hide my thirst.

She smiled at me, “I may just do that. Check please.” She stood up and handed her debit card to Kloe`.

“How about the next round? I got this one covered.” I pulled my wallet from my purse and handed Kloe a fifty dollar bill. “Keep the change,” I told her. “Any suggestions on what I should try?” I turned my focus back to the beauty in front of me. She smirked at me, “The chicken tuna salad and fresh fruit is to die for. The buffalo chicken dip with restaurant chips is good too. So tell me Silence, will I see you again??” “Well Corinthian, if you stop by the store and check out our limited edition selection of items while our sale is going on this week I’m pretty sure you will. I’m in the store all this week; I’ll be on vacation next week,” I smiled then handed her one of my business cards. She smiled at the card then back at me, “You have yourself a great day Mrs. Tutt.”

Watching her walk away, I quickly learned the eye which mocks the father and despises the mother must let the raven in the valley watch the young eagle pick out the eye and eat it since it refuses to obey the proverbs.


When a person dies, part of their spirit transfers to their most-beloved possession. While cleaning your great-grandmother’s attic, looking for hers, you find an old amulet. An elderly, sweet voice echoes through the empty attic, “Who wants lasagna?” “But that can’t be Nana Jones,” you think, “I’ve never seen her cook anything as long as I’ve been alive.” You return the amulet to the hand-carved antique trunk, drifting into thought. Nana Jones always told the best stories, the way that made you feel you were really there. From sword fights with mythical sea-monsters on old sailing ships to enchanting parties reminiscent of the Great Gatsby, she could keep you bound for hours, enthralled by her words. A voice, mumbling something about hauling closer to the wind, brings you back to the attic, as your hand brushes against a heavily patinaed object you’re pretty sure is a sextant. As you take hold of the tool, the same gruff voice echoes in your head, “that bloody sea-witch, she was the death of me and my crew.” You quickly drop the sextant, shocked by the statement, but just as sure it is not her spirit inside. As it hits the bottom of the chest, the dim droplight glistens faintly off the emerald of an old gold hairpin. Turning it over in your hand, you hear the voice of an actress you remember from those black-and-white movies your Nana always used to watch. “When he left me for that hussy, I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but that witch even managed to convince the detective it was a suicide. Me, in the prime of my life, the bee’s knees, top of the world in Hollywood, who’d believe that?” A feeling of dread fills you as you contemplate the totems, placing the hairpin back in the mahogany box. As you close the box and fumble with the clasp, you notice the engraved circle of moon phases seems to glow with a strange light. “These drop lights are getting to me,” you think, shaking your head. A little past the trunk, you find an old photo album, and blow the dust off the cover before wiping it with your sleeve. On the cover is a picture of your great-grandparents on their wedding day, the sepia-toned image giving her dress a dark color, your great-grandfather entranced by her beauty. As you flip through the pages, you see more pictures of them together, she radiating beauty, he full of blissful adoration. You are looking at the photo of the couple jumping over a broom like they used to do back then, when across the attic, you hear a thump! It is a large, heavy-looking book bound in dark leather. Getting closer you notice it is engraved with an encircled star, the same barely-visible glow coming from its grooves. Carefully unbuckling the leather strap, you can almost hear your great-grandmother telling you about pirates and parties, of banshees and sirens. Turning to the first page you see your great-grandmother’s signed by what seems to be a poem written at each point of an inverted star. You read it aloud, unsure of the order: “Is Death restrained for Hellish spawn A dark refrain, a beldam’s thorn? What’s devel made, which angels scorn, Shall never fade, its soul forsworn, Through words arcane, is seldom mourned.” As you finish, a strong gust of wind blows out through the small dormer window at the end of the attic rustling the pages. You hear Nana’s voice clear as crystal, like she’s in the room with you, “Thanks for the help, dearie!” You turn your head to see your great-grandmother, young as her wedding day, standing in front of you. “A good start,” she whispers, “but there’s still much to learn before you meet Lord Lucifer.


They do not give warning to their appearance and never speak. The soft black cloth they wear does not stand out from the normal garb of other nuns. The only feature that makes you second guess are the white clay masks they wear. Flat, smooth and blank. Only two holes for peering eyes to see through. They walk in a diamond formation of four. No one knows if there are more than four, just that they are only seen in one group at a time. Varied only in height, they always look the same. When moving together, they walk closely to each other, making it look as if it were one large black bed sheet moving along the wind. They do not wear any shoes and always have their hands clasped at their chests and heads tilted down, as if in prayer. There seems to be no reason that they walk the streets at night. They will go to a random house and knock three times, with light scratching at the door frame. If there is no answer, they will simply move on. A young woman is tending to her baby. A reminder of the man that left her, she did not resent the child. She placed him in a crib and hummed a soft song. Turning the handle of the door as it closed as to not make a sound, she hears the nuns at her door. Knock Knock Knock Scratch The young woman knows the sign of the nuns, the image of their masks flashes in her mind’s eye, only for a moment. She’s heard of these nuns and their odd behaviors from her mother. Her heart races, but for no other reason than to have something else to focus on. She tells herself not to go to the door, but something clawed at the back of her hot neck, telling her to go answer the door. There was no reason to be afraid, as there has been no reports of the nuns bothering anyone other than with idle conversations. She slowly inches to the door, readying her shaking fingers to open the latch and swing the door open slowly. Thoughts raced in her head and she practiced internally what she was going to say. “How can I help you?”, “What do you need?”, “Have you any idea what time it is?”, “Forgive my bluntness, but please leave me be.”. She could not agree on what to say. She slowly pushed down on the door handle and opened the door slowly. She saw the shadows of their habits and gowns before her eyes adjusted to the dark silhouettes cast by the street light behind the group. The image came into focus and she did not have to guess at what she was seeing any longer. She saw the four nuns standing together, one in front, two in the middle and the last one in the back. It was hard to tell where one of their bodies began and where the other ended, as the black fabrics seemed to twist together in the soft breeze. She could smell something faint, like the smoke of a funeral. Like the canisters that priests swing with the rhythm of the dead leaving this earth. “We do not mean to disturb you mam, but may we have a moment of your time?” The voice of the nun in front asked. Startled by the sound, the young woman braced herself against the half opened door. The nuns voice echoed in her mask, as if she was talking into a ceramic tea kettle. “It’s quite late.” the woman responded, shook by her own frankness. “We understand this, and we are terribly sorry” the nun to the left said “but you see, our sister has given herself a cut on her hand” the nun in the back lifted her hand forward, showing the scarlet ribbon running down, clasped by the other hand as if to hold the blood in. “Would you mind if we bothered you for some bandage so we mare care for the wound?” The woman lowered her hands to her side, un-clenching her fists. “How did she get cut?” she asked. The nun in front answered. “We were walking around the neighborhood and were picking up some broken glass bottles at the park down the street. She is often clumsy with such delicate things, we asked her not to help, but little can be done to ease her worried soul.” The nun looked behind her at the cut, making the hurt nun turn her head away in embarrassment. “She really should take better care with dangerous things.” The young woman thought for a moment. “Why ask my house? You must have passed at least half a dozen on your walk from the park. Was no one else able to answer?” She said, looking down to her neighbors front porches, flood lights above the garages slowly turning off one by one. Indicating that the group had passed these houses already. “”We had tried their doors, with no answer.” the nun to the right responded. “We heard you humming, so we thought we would not be too much of a bother as you were already awake.” The woman stared at the group and back into her house, dimly lit by the kitchen light. “How did they hear me?” She thought. It couldn’t have been loud enough for even someone downstairs to hear, let alone someone outside the home. “If we are being too disruptive, we understand” The nun in the back said, breaking the silence. “I do not wish to be a burden.” The nun said this in a very calming voice. The young woman did not see it as a burden. The group in front of her no longer seemed to frighten her. “Would you mind coming inside? I do not want to make you wait out here.” The young woman opened her door completely and waved her hand in, beckoning them to enter. The nuns looked at each other and whispered. “We do not wish to put you out,” The front nun spoke “But if you insist, we don’t have much say in the matter.” The group filed into her home. The young lady motioned for them to sit in the family room, with a couch and a few love seats. “I don’t have much to offer guests, times a tight. But may I offer you some tea?” The young woman asked, turning a lamp on beside the window. “We eat very well at the coven, but plainly. We do not allow ourselves such stimulants.” One of them said, taking a seat next to her sister. It was difficult keeping track of where their original positions in the formation were. “Oh, I understand” the woman said, sheepishly “I apologize, I didn’t mean to tease you.” One of the nuns assured her that it was fine, and said “God Bless your heart.” The woman went to her kitchen cupboard where she kept the first aid kit. She took out a sealed package of gauze and medical cream. She returned to the nuns with the medical supplies and a bowl of warm soapy water. She gasped and almost dropped the items. She saw that the nuns had removed their masks, but had their hands covering their faces, fingers spread only enough to peek through. “We didn’t mean to spook you, my dear” The nun with the cut hand said. “We believe it rude to wear our masks while being guests to an unfamiliar home. We must still keep our modesty though, as to assure our promise with our lord.” the other nuns nodded in agreement. The woman found this practice bizarre, but considering the situation already, it was not much to add. She knelt in front of the nun with the cut hand. “Let me see it, I’ll tend to it.” The nun stated something about refusing to let her, but she insisted. The nun allowed and lowered her hand, uncovering half her face. The woman could see blue and yellow marks, signs of bruising. She traced her eyes around the nuns face, there were small cuts and old scars. Finally resting at the most jarring detail, her dark, blood-shot eye. This made the woman hold her breath for longer than a moment, making her gasp when she finally let it go. The woman apologized for staring, and tended to the wound. The nun smiled and dismissed the apology. The woman cleaned it with the water and applied ointment, then wrapped it in a few layers of the gauze. When finished, the nun thanked her and replaced her hand on her face. The woman stood up and looked at the other nuns. Each one, fingers pried just enough to see, glinted red eyes back at the woman. She dropped her gaze and returned the items under the sink. The nuns had already stood up and had replaced their masks by the time she returned. Each one placed a hand on her shoulder and exclaimed phrases of gratitude. The woman lead them to the door and let them out, they waved as they turned away and resumed their formation. The woman hesitated before stuttering. “Your faces, and your eyes. Are you...” The nun in front turned and said very frankly, “The lord works in mysterious ways, my dear.” She watched them walk down the street and vanish into the dark. She stood in her doorway for a while before snapping back to lucidity. She had not noticed how much time had passed, as it had already been several hours since she laid her baby to rest. She went up the stairs and opened the door softly. “Are you hungry?” she asked as she peered into the room. Her baby was no longer resting in the crib. In his place was a black gown, a flat habit, and a white, clay mask. The woman cried out.


Sunsets were shorter on this moon than on Gaína. Everything had moved too fast since he'd woken up, healed but weaker. Since he had told Jaya she would be better off without him. Jaya had crossed the doorway of his hospital room and left him alone on a planet he did not know the name of. He had made it to the Intergalactic Academy after three months of... three months of work. It had gone by like a blink, like a nightmare. He has no rights beyond the basic right to life. No right to the money in his pack, no right to the passage he bought to the Academy, no right to demand money for his work and no right to refuse anyone who asks for it. But now he was here. This moon was considerably larger than the one that housed the Mond. Its atmosphere and attributes, along with the technology developed in the Academy, allowed for the growing of flora and assimilation of fauna from various planets. Aside from his home, it was the most colorful place Ono had ever seen. He’d finally made it here, to the Intergalactic Academy, the place of all his ambition. And yet he felt the strongest desire to go home to Gaína, his enslaved planet. No. Not enslaved. Indebted, because of his ancestors’ cruelty during the war. Indebted with an entire galaxy. Indebted. He squeezed himself onto the wide window ledge and counted his own breaths. Living quarters, such as this one, were conditioned to each race that inabited them. The classrooms and halls were commons, artificially suited to all races, but living spaces were cut into sections and modeled with the inhabitants' comfort in mind. There were, of course, no quarters prepared for one such as Ono. He had wanted to sleep outside, under cover of the stars...besides, he had no money to pay for lodging. But his new superior, a gentle Karaktar named Professor Ácimo, refused to let him sleep outside. He had an inversed sort of strength, that wise, fluffy, cowering creature. "If you are to sleep outside," Professor Ácimo had murmured. "I will sleep outside as well." Illogical, but effective. Ono accepted the professor's hospitality, reassured by his promise to make him work harder than any other intern in the Academy. He would pay him back. He could pay him back, because the professor gave value to his work. The tesseract worker took his passage ticket and ripped it in two. Then he made Ono work to supply the energy necessary for the vehicle to work. Ono had worked for the tesseract for three months, until an inspector caught him at it and sent him on his way. Ono had never dealt with windows before. Or low ceilings. But he liked the warmth and clutter of the professor's home. Another professor, who had doctorates in intergalactic law and diplomacy, had told him that he was not permitted to kneel before anyone here. That he stood on the same ground as any other creature, on Academy ground. It didn’t matter if the rest of the five galaxies demanded he greet other creatures with this display of submission. It was a strange feeling. Ono had been dealing with so many feelings lately. Everything seemed to be happening too fast. Down to the sunset. Ono lost count of his breathing. The colors were glorious, red and purple and blue and the barest hint of green on the edges. Nothing on this moon reminded him of home, but its sunsets were still beautiful. Ono ached all over. Inside, beneath his skeleton, bruises bit at him like parasites. Ono knew that, in the morning, he would have to deal with more of them. The diplomacy professor might have told Ono he was an equal to the other students, but the professor was far outnumbered. Outnumbered by his fellow colleagues and by many, many students, including those who had taken their fear and anger out on Ono today. Ono wishes he were not so big compared to them. He wishes he were not a target, despite how useless it is to wish you were not what you are in your essence. I grew like this to serve you, Ono had wanted to say to them. But who would listen? The sun sunk below the horizon. Ono realized his room was dark, pitch black, and he could not see. The door to his bedroom creaked open. "Who is it?" Ono asked. Professor Ácimo always carried a light. He had freely confessed to Ono that the dark terrified him. "That's why I'm among my books, and leave the field to my colleagues." He had chuckled. Ono wondered if the creature in his room had a weapon. He would not have wondered such a thing, at home on Gaína. He had not known creatures were capable of attacking without proactive provocation, but after the Earth woman had stabbed him in the Mond market, he was no longer so sure. "Your roomate." A voice answered cautiously. "My name is Ava." "I was not aware Professor Ácimo had...other tenants." "I'm new, such as you are." Said the voice. "Say...close the window. It's cold out." Ono treaded his fingers up in search of the latch and closed the window. "Are you not afraid of me, Ava?" Ono asks. "Maybe I am." The voice chuckled. "But my curiosity gets the better of me. What's your name?" "Ono." "Ono?" The room smelled strange. The creature's scent reminded Ono of water, of rainy earth. He breathed in quietly; he did not know what was better, more unusual, if this scent or being spoken to with politeness. "Say, Ono. You give off electrons, no?" Ono nodded. "I do." He wondered if the creature was playing a trick on him. The door clicked shut behind it. Ono could not hear any other breaths or heartbeats in the room, excepting Ava's and his. It seemed she was female, small-too small. Small enough to fit inside Ono's two hands. "I'm here." Ava whispered. She did fit into his hands. She floated and placed herself there, just as Ono stretched his hand out to greet her. "I can feel the charge on you... woah." Ono blinked. It was a strange sensation, touching Ava. It almost reminded him of... Her rainy-earth scent was so at odds with how her skin felt. The first reminded him of home, made him feel nostalgic and vulnerable- he had been having to deal with so many feelings, too many feelings, lately. He should have been asleep already, he was tired and he ached. But he had wanted to watch the sunset. Irrational. Unwise. He needed all his energy to prepare for tomorrow. Instead he was here, letting his feelings command him. Ava's skin, by contrast, made him feel awake. Strange. "May I?" Ava said. Ono had no idea what she meant by that question. But she was one of the three creatures who had addressed him kindly these past three months. And it was late. Ono was almost too tired to care whether she meant to harm him or not. He did not want her to leave. His insides did not feel so hollow in her presence. "Yes." Ono said. The sound she made then was like music. It reminded him of something. The feeling in his hands increased, and now he could identify it, as warm and soft, almost ethereal, and... Something in his chest seemed to rush out of him, all at once-he felt exhilarated. He gasped- Ava was no longer in his hands, she had slipped through his defenses, his skeleton, she was- The coiled energy in Ono rushed into Ava, snapping the tension in him, allowing him to breathe. He felt overwhelmed and lost and full of hot, bright light. She was- She was gone. "Earth below." She whispered, from halfway across the room. “That was…” Electric. That word hit Ono like a whip. Only his Jaya made him feel that way, with her kisses, with her touch, and this creature was a stranger , and the room was dark, the night starless, this moon was cold and foreign. What he felt with Jaya, it didn’t belong here. Ono shuddered. He wrapped both arms instinctively around himself. He should not have let her breach his defenses. He felt the need to hold Ava in his hands, he needed her to make sense of what just happened. “Please leave.” He said instead. “Hey, don’t be-“ Ava said. “Please.” Ono’s body hurt. “But I’m-“ “Go away.” Ono stood. His footsteps were too loud on the floor. Ava made another frantic, musical sound and dashed out, taking her rainy-earth smell with her. Ono moved himself back to the window ledge. He sat there, opened the window and looked into the depthless dark. He knew it would be difficult to find sleep tonight. He wrapped both arms around himself and made himself hum a familiar song. Just to feel a vibration in his chest. He felt emptier than ever.


“So was grandpa a soldier?” My 10-year old son asked, looking at me inquisitively.

“No! Why do you ask?” I said. “He has this big scar near his eye,” he said, as he flipped the photo album. “Oh yes, the scar!” I said, suddenly remembering. “How did he get it?” he asked. “Oh it is a very funny yet sad story!” I said, sitting next to him now on the couch and looking at the picture that made him curious. In the picture, I was happily sitting in the laps of my grandma with my grandpa sitting next to her. The photo quality was not great but the scar on my grandpa's face was strikingly visible. Pity grandpa didn’t live for long. He had just touched his fifties. Grandma lived to tell the tale about her husband’s scar to me.

My son broke my thoughts as I stared at the picture.

“So how did he get it?” he repeated the question. I knew my son was looking for some kind of a heroic response. Very typical of boys in that age wanting to become soldiers, fire fighters, pilots or even pirates! As long as there was some action! Should I break his heart and tell him the true story or play with his emotions and tell him an adventurous tale? I wondered.

He was now staring at me, waiting for me to start telling him his grandpa’s heroic tale. “Long time ago, when your grandpa was a little boy..” “How little?” my son excitedly interjected.

“Ummm...not as little as you, a little older,” “11? 12? 13?...” he asked. "Stop stop stop! You don’t have to start counting your numbers, he was 14!” “I was close,” he said. “Yes, I should have made you stop when you said 14! Sorry!” “Ok, what happened then?” “Well, he was a very fidgety boy,” I replied. “What is a fidge-et-tee?” “Who just can’t sit still,” I answered. “Aah! I can!” he said proudly, as he suddenly sat erect. “Oh yes, you sure can and daddy is so proud of you!” I said with a smile. “So, I am not fidge-et-tee,” he said. “No, you are not!” “Grandpa always kept moving his hands or his legs if he had nothing to do,” I continued. “That’s strange!” he said, making a little frown. “Very!”

“Did his mum and dad not take him to a doctor?” “Unfortunately, no. As they thought he was just bored and had nothing to do,” I said. “Ok, what happened then?” “So, one day on his 14th birthday, his dad gifted him a pen.” “A pen? Who gifts a pen? It is a boring gift!” my son said.

“Well, it was not an ordinary pen!” “You mean it was magical,” he said, suddenly getting all excited.

“No, not magical but it had pictures of his favourite cartoon characters and a small light at the top that lit up when you wrote with it,” I said. “That’s magical,” my son said with an awe. “Anyway, so my grandpa played with his pen all day long. My great grandparents did not know whether to be upset or happy about it. It was always in his hand. He took it with him everywhere!” “How could he play with a pen?” he asked.

“He kept fidgeting with it!” I said, stressing on the word fidgeting. “Fidge-et-ting? Couldn’t keep still,” he said. I smiled. “Yes, he put it between his two fingers and kept moving it,” I said, trying to show him the action using my fingers.

"In fact, even while he was studying or reading, he would have it in his one hand and shake it continuously,” I continued. “He never got tired?” “Nah! In fact it kept him active,” he said, sounding surprised. “But one day, he returned home from school, all sulking and teary-eyed.” “Because he lost his pen?” “No, because it got confiscated by his class teacher. He was taking it to school every day and twisting it between his fingers while he was in the class. The teacher got very annoyed one day and confiscated it.” “Con-si-fi-cated?” “Con-fis-ca-ted,” I said slowly, focusing on every syllable. “Con-fis-ca-ted,” he repeated. “Yes, when your teacher takes away something that you should not be bringing to school!” I explained. “Grandpa must be very sad!” “Extremely. He stopped talking much with everybody at home or in his school,” I replied. “That’s sad!” “Very! So, one day, his mum went up to him and made him promise that as long as he didn’t take the pen to school again and play all the time with it, she would go to his school and request his class teacher to return it.”

The son was now hearing the story very intently. “So what happened next?” He asked. “Well, on hearing this, my grandpa jumped with joy and promised his mum that he would not take his precious pen to school ever or play with it. He would just keep it in his pen-stand and only use it for writing.” I continued. Getting closer to climax, no, not climax but an anti-climax is always disappointing. I was still weighing in my head if I should turn the story around and turn it in to some adventure. Was it necessary to tell him the truth?

“So did his mum go to his school the next day?” “She sure did! She went to his class teacher and requested her to return the pen to grandpa. She even told the class teacher that her little boy would not bring the pen to the school again.” “And then?” “The class teacher returned the pen,” I said. “And then?” “Your grandpa was thrilled. As soon as they reached home, he took the pen and put it in his pen-stand.” My boy was happy as well.

“Grandpa made sure he didn't take the pen to school again.” “Yes, else it would be con-si-fic…” my son said.

I smiled and said, “yes, con-fis-ca-ted. But he didn’t keep a part of his promise.” I was finally reaching the end of the story. I decided to go with the truth. There were enough magical and brave stories around. “He played with his pen?” my son said. “Uh-huh!” “What did he do?” “One evening, he moved it so fast that the pen flipped from his fingers and hit the ceiling of his room!” I said. “Wow! and then?” “The pen came back hurling down, with its light turned on, and hit my grandpa’s face. Luckily it didn't hit his eyes,” I said softly. “Yes, but it was close,” my son said, looking at the picture again. We were quiet. Suddenly he laughed and said, “grandpa was a very naughty boy!” “Very!” I said, and laughed along with him.


The view was breathtaking. Katja held on gently to Max, one of her closest friends. She saw that he was preparing. With his beak in the wind, he felt where the wind would take him. In the distance he looked for a place to land safely. Katja felt a twinge of jealousy. Max was convinced that one day he would learn to fly. Katja did not have that hope. Shortly after this moment it started. The disappearances. First, Max disappeared. It had been a beautiful night because of the full moon and Katja had not been able to sleep well. Every twig poked through her feathers. The next day, tired, she went looking for Max. There was no response to her calls. No one in the village knew where Max could be. Nobody worried, as if they knew where he was. "Do not worry." Was the only message they gave her. Katja had persuaded Pim to search the ruins together. Max had already disappeared for a few weeks, but the new full moon would have allowed them to search extra long tonight. Maybe all night long. They searched behind walls, in hollows and on all remaining roofs. There was no trace anywhere. In the end Katja agreed with Pim and they decided to go back to their nest. Katja led the way, humming to keep herself awake. For the outsider a light chirp. As a result, it took longer for her to realize that there was no sound behind her. "Good night, Pim!" Katja walked towards her parents' nest and sat between them. In the morning Katja was awakened by loud voices. She looked up carefully and saw that her parents were busy talking. "She's awake!" Pim's father came up to her. "Where is he? You searched together last night, right? Where were you?" His beady eyes seemed to want to see through Katja. Like X-rays. Her father intervened. "Calm down, Sjaak." He turned to Katja. "When did you last see Pim?" He asked her quietly. "Last night, just before I got home." She responded in a small voice. "How so?" "And where?" "At the ruins." She tilted her head as she watched them. "The ruins?" Her father suddenly seemed relieved. He patted his back. Sjaak looked a lot happier. To her surprise, no one cared about the disappearances. Katja did not understand. "What's with that ruin?" Her father looked at Katja. He doubted whether to answer. "That's the last place Max was seen." He paused. "You will learn when it's your time, I promise." A huge shadow moved across the forest over them. "Whoo-hoooo!" Katja and her father looked up. In the distance they saw Max skimming through the air, Pim flew after him at full speed. They laughed and spun around treetops before flying back towards the mountain. Towards the ruin. Katja began to understand and ran up the mountain. She, like Max and Pim, would make sure she would be next. The next to learn to fly.


I met her Monday morning. She was peering into the large glass double doors of the office building in which I worked in the Los Angeles area. My mood matched the ugliness of the grey clouds having spent the previous afternoon and evening with the guys drinking beer and watching the pathetic Chargers lose until I asked, “Can I help you?” And then she turned around and so did my mood. Her name was Farah Cassidy. She was a new hire. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “I can’t figure out how to get in,” she said sweetly brushing a stray strand of honey blonde hair away from her face. To which I said, “Allow me.” By mid-morning, Cliff, my roommate, co-worker, and best friend, appeared at my cubicle. I spun away from the computer and faced him. He, we, all the men dressed in two-piece suits. If we left the cubicle we had to put on our coats. The old man liked the old days. Cliff expressed his refusal to conform by wearing ties typically with sharp jarring patterns and colors or as if created by a cartoon artist. He kept them loose around his thick neck and wore his top dress shirt button undone. Mine tended to be more of a conservative pattern and coloring with a little pizazz on the weekend. We were both clock watchers, just trying to keep our heads above water until lunch then punch out to go home and fuck off gaming for a few hours before doing it all over again. “You see the new girl?” he said smiling and raising an eyebrow. “What’s her name?” I shook my head. Cliff, ever since he started dating one of our coworkers, turned any conversation regarding anything into how I should get a girlfriend. Truth was she’d been in my head since meeting her. “Farah,” I replied. “Did you need something? Because I have lots of paperwork and phone calls. You still work here, right?” He straightened up and waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Maybe you can get a shot in at the Christmas party on Friday.” “I hadn’t planned to go.” I spun around and unlocked my computer. “Well don’t wait too long, the sharks are circling.” And we were. I included myself in the pool of men who went out of their way to introduce themselves to Farah as she sat in the cafeteria reviewing corporate materials. I took the long route to the restrooms to steal a glance at her. To my joy, she gave a small wave. Of course, I stopped by to say hi and see how things were going. She had removed her business suit coat. Her shoulders and arms were pale and delicate. Gold hung around her neck, circled her wrists, and dangled from her earlobes. “Everyone has been so nice to me,” she said. I told her if she needed anything to let me know. She said everyone’s been saying that. I needed to step up my game. * At the Christmas party, I stepped up my game. Alcohol always helps. That Friday night Farrah and I spent twenty minutes in my cubicle away from co-workers who were wishing one another Merry Christmas. She playfully teased me about the family photo on my desk, the one with my entire family at the reunion years ago. But she raised a plucked and penciled eyebrow at the image of the dubious octopoid on my mouse pad. “It’s Cthulhu,” I told her and quickly looked to switch conversational gears. Cliff warned me not to frighten her off with all the horror, sci-fi, and fantasy “shit” we watch. My confidence began to falter. “He lives at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean,” I blurted. “The ocean,” Farah said musically. She sipped the golden bubbling wine from her clear plastic cup. She licked her lips. “I love seafood.” And then like an idiot, I said. “I know how to cook.” And then after her face brightened, I doubled down and blurted, “I can cook seafood.” But my stupidity paid off because she said she would come by the following weekend for dinner. * “Holy shit!” Cliff exclaimed upon seeing the culinary operation I had underway in our small kitchen apartment for my dinner with Farrah. “Someone wants to get laid!” He called me a loser and then left to spend the night at his girlfriend’s apartment in the city. Our apartment, #218 on the second floor of unit two in the Bountiful Hills apartment complex in the San Francisco Bay area was not Fung Shui. More like shit flung everywhere. We shared a common kitchen with a small counter and table with four wobbly chairs a buddy loaned me years ago and then he moved away without it. We watched TV in the adjoining living room from either Cliff’s parent's cast-off couch or the maternity rocking chair one of our co-workers had wanted to unload. The kitchen tile and living and bedroom carpets were an unattractive light brown. The linoleum in the shared bathroom was also brown. The walls were white and the only item hanging from them which got attention was the dartboard. The living room’s sliding glass door led out onto the small covered wooden deck. The Kennedys, cool couple, lived below us. From our second-floor balcony, we could see Mt. Diablo looming in the distance beyond the freeway. Eucalyptus trees grew in the neighborhood and their minty aroma wafted through the apartment. Our comfortable bedrooms were identical in design and similarly furnished. Closet, dresser, double bed, and gaming computer at a desk. One game chair and three monitors. I had a menacing Cthulhu figurine on my dresser beside a green glowing essence dispenser misting cinnamon vapors to dispel any funk. A few items Cliff determined too geeky had been stored in the sliding paneled closet. But the horror movie posters stayed up. I spent the morning cleaning and the afternoon shopping. Mom made painfully sure we knew how to handle mop, sponge, spray bottle, and vacuum. The apartment sparkled and smelled chemically disinfected. At Whole Foods I spent one hundred and fifty dollars. Cliff laughed. “You should have gone out to dinner. It’d been cheaper.” I found the music from the 70s and 80s punk rock group The Cars particularly perfect for setting a nice atmosphere with their up-and-down music about the ups and downs of love. I played “Since You’re Gone” and got to work. I got the recipe from the internet. The picture looked simple enough. An iron skillet filled with sizzling shrimp in a slight light brown broth and sprinkled with green and red seasonings beside a platter of yellow rice. I’d never cooked anything this elaborate in my life. Food was from restaurants, take out or the patio BBQ. My pattern was to ask someone out and then for whatever reason we moved on. “It’s because no girl wants to watch horror movies,” Cliff had said. But I keep hoping and trying. * She arrived. The butterflies were going nuts. She giggled, laughed, and bounced into the apartment where I closed the door and took her coat. She wore an eye-snaring, heart-stopping bright floral dress and smelled wonderful. I gave her a tour of the apartment. “OH, there’s that guy,” she said pointing at Cthulhu. “You’re room’s interesting.” I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

We enjoyed a glass of wine while I finished preparing dinner. She had a million questions, which was a good sign, right?

I followed the recipe or at least I thought I had. We opened a second bottle of wine, and I may not have paid as much attention to it as I thought. I was not a fan of shrimp. Up until then my only one experience with it had been as a disgusting cup of shrimp cocktail set before me at dinner at a friend’s house one night ages ago. It had been cold, rubbery, and crunchy. I saw no reason to try it again until Farrah said she liked seafood. You get one chance to make a first impression. I wanted to make this one count. I had set out a white tablecloth, green placemats, and proper shining silverware. I think it impressed her. When dinner was ready and served along with garlic bread, and salad, I made a toast. “Bon Appetite.” “It smells delicious,” she said. We dug in. When I bit into the crustacean’s crunchy shell and tasted a mushiness, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. “Did you devein these?” she asked, speaking through a mouthful of unchewed food. “De-what?” I felt my face grow warm as she then I spit our food into our napkins. Perhaps I had not followed the recipe as well as I thought I had. I profusely apologized to her, to which she gracefully told me not to worry about it. She suggested ordering pizza. We cleaned up, finished that bottle of wine with the pizza while watching a movie. “Oh, I don’t like horror movies,” she said when I suggested watching my go-to pic when introducing horror to someone who says they don’t like it. Even after politely pointing out its awards and the money it made, she preferred to watch something funny. The movie ended and she had to go. I walked her to her car. I didn’t go in for the kiss. I chickened out. I think if not for the shrimp incident my chances may have been better. “I had a really wonderful time tonight,” she said and drove off. The opportunity to say, “Next time let’s go to a restaurant,” came and went and I headed back into the apartment to watch a horror movie and wondered if I wanted a next time.

* “How was the date?” Cliff asked the next day when he returned to the apartment. “Details!” He made exaggerated hand gestures as if holding large round objects on his chest. I thought about Farrah. The way she smelled. And then about shrimp. She didn’t like horror movies either. To switch gears, I asked how his girlfriend was. I listened to him explain what happened. They broke up. He Showed up and he’d been the one who had been surprised. He said he was fine. It’s best not to pester a friend about their problems unless they are struggling. I think Cliff and I will be fine. We agreed it would be best to avoid dating people where we both worked. “Dude!” Cliff said enthusiastically. “Next weekend you, me the bars. Yeah?” I told him he’d been right. “I should have taken Farrah out to dinner.” We laughed, drank beer, watched sports, gamed, went to bed, and then got up to do it all over again.


Before the beginning of time. Before anything, there was nothing. And in nothing was the possibility for everything. When creation was at its dawn reality wasn't yet possible. For to make reality possible, creation had to remove the impossible. To remove the impossible creation had to make the impossible possible. For the impossible, creation created The Doh. Vessels for the Impossible to be kept to not breach the dimension of xy and z. Doh are beings made to keep different parts of the impossible which if together could create punctures in reality. In total creation made seven Doh: Miraal, Griel, Oriel, Uriel, Rael, Sarael, and Lucif. Each of which had pieces of the impossible inside of them. Miraal, the eldest, holding the power to reshape what's already been made. Griel, the strongest, holding the power to erase matter in a breath. Oriel, the smartest, holding the power to disassemble and pull apart molecules from the source. Uriel, the youngest, holding the power to change physics at will. Rael, the weakest, holding the power to travel between realities. Sarael, the shyest, holding the power to remove pieces of reality into her "safe place". And Lucif, the Boldest, holding the power to bring back the dead of the living in twisted grotesque forms. Together they made the Impossible Seven. When creation found out about what the vessels for the impossible could do it took The Doh and locked them away outside of reality in their own pocket dimension. Kept far away from one another they stay, not seeing, moving, or attempting escape. The Doh are not malevolent by any means but even you just wonder. If you have been forced to solitude since the dawn of time. Would you stay idle? As he finishes his story I have a question I need an answer to. "Grandpa that's a interesting story and all but what happened to creation?" I ask as he finishes his monologue. "What do you mean Rael?" My grandpa asks me. "Well the way you describe creation is like a person or something. What happened to it? When did it end?" I ask more detailed. Grandpa laughs a little and explains, "creation never ended. It is in all of us, animals, people, plants. It is why we can create life, like your mom and dad made you. But just because creation can create life doesn't itself mean it is alive." He finishes. "Ah ok." I say. "Alright Dad it's time for Rael's bedtime." My dad says. Pretending to be shocked he looks at his watch. "I hadn't even noticed Kanon." He says to my dad. He pays my head and heads out. "Goodnight princess." "Goodnight Dad." I say. oOo "Why would you tell her that story?" Kanon says. "Because she deserves to know even if she doesn't know the full story." Grandpa says. "You are pushing the line. Any more and we'll have to reboot again." Kanon says. "You know this will never end. You are a creation made to keep her in limbo, whereas I'm her mind forcing her to realize this world isn't real. Why else do you think in every incarnation she keeps her name?" He says. "Then so be it," Kanon says. The world around them, excluding Rael's room, begins to dissipate. In the end everything is black and the void around them only holds them and her room. "We're going to try again. This time we're going to make her a teenager. She hasn't been a teenager in a long time." "You know you won't be able to hide this forever." He says as he starts to fade away. "I will as long as I'm able. Now go away and get reformed as a friend or something Morpheus." Kanon says. "This is the last time." That was the last thing Morpheus had to say before he faded away completely. "Sure it is. I need to inform the other watchers to reset their world's as well." It's a pain in the arse to have to do this everytime but being The Doh are all twins their minds will always be synced in this dimension. So to reset one is to reset them all. oOo We've been at this for over 14.3 billion years. The watchers resetting The Doh's minds when anyone of them gets to close to the truth of their prison and we, their conscious, try to end their prison. But that's all we are a conscious. We can't get them out only they can. The fact that we even exist is a side affect of them being 'impossible'. But this is the last time. They aren't even had they are exactly as they were made. They didn't choose to be the wielders of impossible but they will get a chance at freedom. As I look on in the physical world at Rael's body, blindfolded, chained, and motionless. In a floating temple she can't even acknowledge. In my physical form I can observe but I cannot free her. I kneel and rub my hand across her face. "You will be free this time." I use the rest of my power to give her one fragmented memory of her life before bondage. With that final moment both my physical and spiritual body was gone. oOo In the end Kanon followed through and reset Rael and the other Doh's minds but what they didn't know is The Doh were never truly under their spell all these millennia. In the silence, the darkness, the cold stone temple Rael is a low hushed tone uttered one word. A name. The one thing in the void that cared enough for her to help her. Her own conscious. Her own protector. Morpheus.