I was 13 when she disappeared, presumed dead. And that day, a piece of me was rewritten. Taken, my destiny changed, and given back. My grandmother and I were always close. The closest, ever since my parents also met her fate. Though our relationship wasn’t like others. A duty has been passed down our lineage. Gone through generations. A gift. The Artist of Deities. This was who my grandmother was. What I am now. The role of a mortal artist with gods as their muses, gifted the freedom to draw blindfolded through sacrifice. In an old vineyard at the edge of a hill surrounded by trees, overlooking the most barren of lands that seems to stretch on for miles and miles, ancient muses dwell where others bleed. These gods grant our pleas, gift us blessings. Ancient beings of immense power. Though through great power comes great sacrifice. My grandmother left in my possession items and clear instructions on how to fulfil my role, my duty as Artist. Isolde, Artist of Deities. A blindfold. Stained with red blotches on one side and wrinkled at the ends. A notebook. I’m not allowed to see the pages that have been drawn on, and it’s said to never run out of space. As much as my curiosity kills me, the rules were strict, concise and clear with her. A blade, etched with carvings on the metal and stained with red in the grooves. And a pen, more a quill, possessing the smooth feel of bone. The ink is always provided for the Artist, it never has to be supplied. All were necessities to take out my duty. Whenever I needed to draw, I’d bring a sacrifice, something possessing a beating heart, to an old vineyard, surrounded by a forest, once again overlooking a barren land. I’ve never seen it for myself, only descriptions that came from my grandmother, and the Artist before her. No Artist of Deities is allowed to take off the blindfold once at the edge of the vineyard. To protect them who dwell. The offering is a gift for the gods, something to remind them one mortal still cares for the existence they give us. And when it does not suffice, one must present the heart on a bed of leaves from the vineyard, lathered in grape juice. An apology for inconvenience. But how do I know when to draw, what to draw, how to see what I’m doing? They guide me. Oftentimes taking over my body, my arms and legs, aiding me in dragging the sacrifice through the forest and before the vineyard. Helping me in ripping its heart clean from its body, oftentimes I can still feel it beat when my hand wraps around it. And after the life is taken and placed onto the worn-down altar and the Artist stands before it, they draw. Not the offering, but the gods. I can feel their presence lurking beneath the clouds in the sky. The smell of their not so simple existence. Copper bathed in citrus, something ethereal. Something light, like fresh laundry, and something dense, with a hint of cinnamon and a pinch of something burning. Everything in them. Every creation in simple presence. Sight doesn’t matter in this occurrence. A true artist lets her pen draw and simply follows it. Pen in hand, notebook in the other. Offering before me, with that before the gods. And the gods before me. My muses. Godly. Ancient. Ethereal. As for the vineyard, when you can’t see anything around you, you rely on your other senses. The leaves are lush and soft, as the grass the same, and the bark of the trees is so smooth. But the grapes are odd. Bitter but sweet, salty but sour. Chewing one felt like rocks grinding against your teeth, but is it not the smoothest and softest when you crush it in your hand? Without sight, the mind takes you places as well. I imagine the vineyard and surrounding forest so lush, so green, so bright and happy. Full of life, full of love. There are trees, green grass, the grapes are large and there are many, scattered across the land. Butterflies and birds and bees flutter and fly around aimlessly. The sky is baby blue. The gods are full of light. I depicted a perfect heavenly realm. And it was, and it shall be, if not for what happened. As the mind imagines and creates your biggest dreams, it also questions your very existence. Not only yours, but of those you interact with. Why the blindfold? To protect them, or myself? Why the sacrifice? A gift, or a feast? Why the drawing? A blessing, or an illusion of the truth? An Artist would never know unless they choose to see for themself. Even so, what happens then? Is that the fate my grandmother met? And what lies in those other pages of the notebook? What does the vineyard truly look like? What do they truly look like? I doubt I’d be the first in my line to question it, or find out for themselves, but I just needed to know. This time, with the sacrifice on the altar and darkness flooding my view, notebook and pen in hand, blade by my side, I tore the blindfold off. And I couldn’t see. Light flooded my view. But as the glow settled and the surroundings became clear, truth was revealed. The trees, the grass were dark brown, as if burned and stained with impurity. The grapes were shrivelled and dead. No animals. No life. The sky was dark and eerie. And the gods, the gods. They stood there, their forms shifting with both light and darkness that was neither sun nor moon, something far more ancient and sacred and an absence of it. They were and they were not. They were everything in one. Every horrid imperfection, every perfect ancient aspect, all of it. And there were many, crowding the sky. Some had conceivable forms, thin and brittle with limbs elongated and claw-like, some robust possessing skin fissured with hairline cracks and eyes harbouring hollow, empty darkness that devoured light and any absence of it. And now I knew the truth. Everything in one. Every absence and presence of perfection and its opposite, held in one vineyard in a blooded sky. And I knew there was no escaping it. And so I picked up the pen that had dropped to the ground. The grass was hardened and sprayed with red. And I drew. The gods themselves, as they watched me watch them. Draw them. Interpret them, in my own way with my own eyes. And my hand was once again guided by them, drawing their portraits on the page in red ink. Life and death, nothing and everything in one drawing. I stopped, the pen stopped, their faces still twisted with destruction. The sacrifice on the altar, and a body sprawled on the ground in the drawing. One more truth to uncover. As I flipped to the beginning of the book and beheld the first page, it was as I had drawn. The gods, as existing and non-existent as I had captured them with my own sight. And I flipped from page to page, each the same, each the same. Until I came to the drawings I had created. And there was a difference. There was something else. Something else lurking in the pages, barely noticeable. Me. I had been drawing myself in every sketch I had done since I was 13. Mostly I was just standing there, pen in hand, notebook in the other. But as I flipped to the most recent ones, finished in the past month, something became very clear. I was dying. Scripting my own inescapable death. Some, I was being torn apart limb by limb by the gods. Others, I was the one on the altar. And the rest were all just as horrifying as the last. Skewered on a tree branch, my head torn from my body with my own heart in my mouth. It seemed as if the role of the Artist was inescapable. Undeniably inescapable. A cycle that must be undertaken. There was no gift, there was no blessing. Only burdens, only a curse placed upon my family for their manipulative plans for power. Were they gods? Or rather forces of undeniable evil? Maybe these were the gods all along, and our depictions were just what we wanted to believe. And I don’t know what to make of my drawings, but what I do know is I must finish the one I’m carving now. Willingly or not. The sky is my canvas, the gods are my muse. And here’s the part where I finish my drawing, but I don’t think that’s grape juice on my page, and the hole in my heart says otherwise. They know that I know. And now it’s my turn to be the sacrifice. For the deities. … When they say curiosity killed the cat, they were right. … They also say the brain lasts for 7 minutes after you’ve died, replaying your best memories. Well I’m here now, and you’re here too. We’ve been here the entire time. And it’s safe to say not every life is perfect. I’m just a mortal artist and her godly muses, allowed to draw blinded by sacrifice and blessing, but cursed with burden.


"You know why I eat bran, Son?" "It keeps you regular?" "No. The methadone does that. I like bran because it tastes like war." "How's that, Dad?" "Emptiness. The emptiness of sitting in the jungle and staring at the sun, hoping your eyes fry out and you can go home. But you go home and there's nothing there, either. Like you went to war just to get a key to reality and the reality that's all around us is absolutely nothing." He started to cry. "Dad, it's OK." "Anyway, Happy Seventh Birthday. Here's a box WITH NOTHING IN IT!" **Hobbies** "Son, you need a hobby." "OK, Dad. What's a good hobby?" "I can't tell you that. What are you interested in?" "I like to draw pictures." "That is a stupid, stupid, stupid hobby. What else do you got?" I started to cry. "Crying should be your hobby." **The War Part 2** "Don't ask me about the war." Father sat gripping his beer and staring at Who's The Boss. "OK, Dad. I'm just going over to Kevin's." "You know I don't like talking about the war." "I know, Dad." "You know why?" "Because you forgot what war you were in?" "That's one reason. But the other - I can't talk about that." "OK, Dad." "OK, I'll tell you. I was bitten by an elephant. There. It's out there now." "Were you hurt?" "No. It kinda stung. But it didn't hurt. But that's not the bad part." "What's the bad part?" "It was a pink elephant." Then he threw a Scotch bottle at the TV and yelled "Tony Danza fucked your mother!" **Wedding** "Son, I'm so proud of you. You found a great lady. Treat her right." Then he handed me a dildo. **Chores** "Son, you are getting to be old enough to mow the lawn." I was 36. "Yeah, do you need it mowed." "That's right, son. I need you to fix the garage door, the toilet, and the beer situation as well." "Anything else?" "Wipe that smile off your face and do your chores." "OK, Dad." Then he threw pine cones at me while I mowed the lawn. **Kindergarten** "Son, it's your first day of school. I want you to make me proud." I nodded and got on the bus. I opened my lunch pail and there was a beer and half a burrito. **18** "I can't believe it. You're a man now. I want you to have this." It was a bag of screws again. "Thanks." He began tearing up. "Finally, I can charge you rent." Then he did an inspection on my room and handed me a bunch of coloring books that he called "a lease". **21** "Suppose you're going to go out drinking." "No, Dad. I have to study for finals." "Suppose I'll go out drinking for you." "Sure, Dad." "Suppose I'll blackout behind the wheel again." "Not my problem, Dad." "Suppose I'll raise your rent." "OK, where do you want to go, Dad?" "Suppose you're paying." "OK. Where?" "Suppose you'll just give me the money and study your finals." "How much?" "You're in college - how much does a gram of coke and a case of Schlitz cost?" "I have no idea." "Suppose I'll get the calculator." **The Doors** "Son, you ever heard of The Doors?" He was wearing a blindfold and was balancing a martini glass on his head while doing Jiu Jitsu. "Yes. They are pretty good." "You know, I know them." "The Doors?" "Yes. I was buddies with Jim." "Wow. You must have some pretty good stories." "Yep. One time we you know'd a circus seal." "I don't know." "You know." "No. I don't." "Fed it tacos and then watched Gilligan's Island. You know." "No, I never heard of that." "It was the 60s, Son. It was different times." **Grape Soda** "Why isn't grape soda considered a distinguished drink?" We were at the hospital. He hit another shuttle bus with his Datsun. "I don't know, Dad." "I bet if you just charged 50 bucks a glass, people would start drinking it with dinner." "You're probably right." "And why don't more drinks come in pails?" "I don't know." "Like 'Hey, waiter, get me a pail of martini'." "It's something to think about." "What about this - you serve food in toilets, flush it, and then make customers plunge it out in order to eat it." "Why would anyone want to do that?" "I don't know. I guess I'm just a dreamer." **Fences** "Those neighbors are building a fence." "Well, they've been complaining about all the Datsuns you have on the side of the yard." "There's only five." "They are under the impression that one is too much." "Fences don't build good neighbors and neighbors don't build good fences." "Well, I don't know what to tell you." "I'm going to build a fence...around my heart." Then he started crying. "Dad, don't be like that." "Get my nail gun!" **Bad Checks** "Call me the Michael Jackson of check writing, son." **Juice Box** "What do you got there?" "It's a juice box." "Where'd you get it?" "The fridge." "Are there more?" "Yeah." "Hmmmm...." "You want one?" "No. I just want to know what the situation is." **Snakes** "One thing I'm afraid of besides your mother and talking about the war are snakes." "I am too, Dad." "Did I just hear that snake say 'me three'?" "What snake?" "We both know there's a snake in the room." "There is?" "Robbie! Come out!" "Who's Robbie?" "The snake." "You have a pet snake?" "I do now." **Beating a Dead Horse** There he was, out in the yard. I don't know where he got the dead horse, but... **Monopoly** "That Bell Phone - that's a monopoly. They're gonna break it up. That's America: finds a problem and fixes it. Like this room of yours - it's full of toys. That's a monopoly. A toy monopoly. Like that game there that says Monopoly. That's a monopoly. No competition. Toys take over the room. Make their own rules. Let the fat cat toys reign in blood. Blood. All over the room. All over the toys. Anyway, love you, goodnight." **Ringo** "Guess who my favorite Beatle is?" "Ringo." "Good guess." **Playing My Records** "I don't want you and your friends playing around the den when I'm playing my records. Kapish?" "OK, Dad." "It's when I like to think." "OK, Dad." "It's when I unwind." "OK, Dad." He turned and put a record on. Then he stared at me. I walked out of the room. Then he turned the record back off. "GET IN HERE!" I ran into the den. He started the record again. This went on all night. **Cat's Cradle** "The cat's in the cradle with some silver poon, Dad just drank himself right over the moon, when I'm coming back, I don't know when, but we'll get loaded on crack and hookers again, son, we're gonna have a good time then." "Dad. It's midnight and I'm not supposed to use the Dorm phone unless it's an emergency." "We're gonna have a good time then!" **Rap Battle** "Dimmie limmie jimmie jay" "What?" "Witchy what what?" "Dad, you OK?" "Kee kay ay day" "You want me to call a cab?" "Labby rab dab." "A cab." "Labby dab rab." "Dad, your pants are wet." "Witty wet wab." "I'm gonna call a cab." "Jabby wab dab." "Do you have a credit card?" "Frrrrrrrrrresshhhhhhhh." "We're at the mall." "Fresh for 89 ya'll.


Blake formed his plan almost immediately after hearing the sound. He didn’t expect such a simple noise to affect him so much, but that layered, striking sound—that clacking of dice falling against a wooden table sent his mind spiraling backward to a year ago, to the last day his friends were all together.                “Next week, same time?” Christian had asked. Blake closed his notebook                “Unless one of you fuckers wimps out,” Blake said with a smirk. Christian, Shell, Kevin, and Steve muttered various threats as they packed up their game supplies. They were all damp with sweat. Blake wanted to think they were sweating because of the session’s intensity and not the real reason, which was that Blake made the poor choice to try and fix his window AC unit while inebriated. In an enthusiastic (but confused) attempt to remove the grill, Blake leapt through the air and gave the poor old air conditioner a flying kick to the side. And now they would be stuck without AC all summer. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Blake told his friends. “Why don’t we just move D&D to my house?” Shell asked as she fanned the armpits of her pink, Fabio T-shirt. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Kevin shrugged and pushed his glasses up, “I mean, our characters are literally in hell right now, so maybe we just channel that for role playing.” “I play Dungeons and Dragons to escape reality—I’m not looking to ‘ literally ’ play in Satan’s butthole,” Steve said with an eyeroll. “I’ll play wherever,” Christian said with an easy smile. “Aaaaaand that’s why you’re my favorite, Christian,” Blake said. Blake began dropping the multi-sided, multi-colored dice back into his plastic case. “I love that sound,” Christian said. Blake looked at him questioningly. “You know ,” Christian laughed, “the sound of falling dice.”                The plan: call up the gang, tell them they’ll be meeting here for beers and the new Batman movie, and then BAM—spring a quick session of D&D on them. Blake paced his small living room. How could they say no?

               When Blake called his friends to invite them for a “casual hangout,” they all voiced some level of surprise. Shell said something like, ‘Wow we haven’t all hung out together in a long time.’ But once the shock wore off, they warmed to the idea of being together again. Kevin said he’d only come if pizza was included, and Steve just had one question:                “Is the AC fixed?”                The AC was not fixed; in fact, it was somehow more broken than the year before. But in the spirit of lying to his friends, Blake decided the truth was a matter of convenience and told Steve the AC was in perfect shape.                When his friends started playing D&D eight years ago, Blake transformed an empty corner of his kitchen into the game room, which was now complete with fantasy-themed tapestries, a bookshelf to hold campaign books, and a long wooden table big enough to fit plates of food and several battle maps at one time. It was in that small corner that Blake and his friends immersed themselves into fantastical worlds. They learned to escape by telling each other stories, they learned about themselves by pretending to be someone different.  Even after they stopped playing, Blake never changed the game room.                On the day of the hangout, Blake added ambience to the game room just like he used to. He dimmed the lights, lit a single pillar candle, and played peaceful tavern music. He dragged the dice case out from his closet and laid out some pre-filled characters sheets (desperate times). Just as he finished setting up, the doorbell rang. At the door was Kevin, who stood stiff as a rod, waiting to be invited in like a vampire. He shook his shaggy black hair out of his face as he sat down on the couch. Kevin, habitually early to every event, stared at Blake and asked,                “Where is everyone?”                Blake sighed and handed Kevin a bowl of chips.                Shell arrived next, bringing with her a tin foil container and the sound of flip flops. Shell explained to Blake that her newest hobby was baking. Regretfully, she wasn’t a very good at it. Blake lifted a dark brown cookie out of the container.                “Well, these look delicious ,” Blake told her.                “Fuck off—I’m new at this,” Shell said, snatching the cookie out of his hand and dropping the cookie back into the container. The cookie landed with a thunk.                “They’re burned,” Kevin said.                “Thanks Kevin,” Shell said. Blake had only hung out with his friends individually this past year. Somehow it was easier that way. Kevin became his Call of Duty friend, Shell became his bowling friend, and Steve…well Steve was the type of friend that was best experienced over text messages. “Did you lie about the AC?” Steve asked Blake when he walked in. His undereye circles were darker than normal. “ No .” “Oh, you’re just going to keep lying—got it.” Steve said and took a swig of his Rockstar. Blake always wondered what kind of person Steve would be if he didn’t use all his patience working in customer service. Chatter filled the living room as Blake and his friends made up for the year they spent away from each other. Kevin was prattling on about his analyst job when Blake suddenly realized he had no way of getting everyone to move to the kitchen. How could he start the game if no one moved to the game room? He chewed on the skin around his fingers until an idea seized him—another ruse so brilliant, Blake couldn’t help but scream it immediately. “ The pizza is in the kitchen!” Shell jumped in her seat and Steve narrowed his eyes, turning up his palms. Steve’s expression asked a simple question: are you fucking deranged? Kevin stood up slowly, smoothed his white dress shirt, and walked toward the kitchen. Blake leapt to his feet to follow Kevin, waving for Shell and Steve to follow.                As they neared the kitchen corner, the sound of tavern music grew louder. Blake could no longer contain his excitement and ran ahead of his friends to grab the dice case off the table. He sprinted back to his confused friends and lifted the case above his head, displaying as if it were a holy relic, and doing his best impression of an angelic choir.                “What’s going on there, bud?” Shell asked. She placed her hands on her hips.                “Surpriiiiiiise,” Blake said, his voice suddenly uncertain. “Did you bring us over here to...” Steve scratched his shaved head, “to trick us into playing D&D?” Blake still held the dice case over his head, though his smile was starting to fade. Kevin pushed past Blake and sat down at the game table. He started flipping through the character sheets. Shell’s eyebrows pulled together. “That’s kind of weird, don’t you think?” she asked. “It’s a lot weird,” answered Steve. “I don’t like my character,” said Kevin. Blake spun around. “Don’t worry—you can remake it!” Blake spun back to Shell and Steve. “Would you guys have come if I told you the truth?” “I’m not playing D&D,” Steve said firmly. “Steve, listen just give me a chance to—” “Can I remake my character now ?” Kevin asked. “Go for it,” Blake said. “Steve, just give me – “I’m not playing.” “Just listen to my intro: your characters enter the tavern, weary from battle —” “ We don’t have enough people to play ,” Steve interrupted.                Blake scanned over the faces of his friends—the enraged Steve, the sympathetic Shell, the indifferent Kevin. And then Blake rested his eyes on the empty chair next to Kevin. It was where Christian used to sit. Blake’s neck went cold. He felt himself being pulled backward again, to the last day they played.                Christian and Blake sat on the front porch, discussing the game. Christian wanted to know if they should have fought the bugbear king instead of fleeing, but Blake refused to reveal any secrets.                “Hey, I'm glad we're still friends by the way,” Christian said abruptly. Blake shook his head. “Why wouldn't we be friends?” Christian just shrugged. “After college, a lot of people go their separate ways. Life happens. We stop being kids.” Blake slapped his friend on the back. “Come on, man—we’ll be friends forever….we’ll be kids forever.”                Blake felt like a fool. He slowly lowered the dice case.                “You guys are right—this is weird,” he said, and turned away. Blake walked back toward the game room but on the way, something caught his foot. It could have been his own feet, some unevenness in the tile, or perhaps it was the air itself; whatever it was caused Blake to stumble forward. The dice case lifted from his arms and soared through the air, landing on the floor with a cacophony of cracking plastic and scattering dice. In a mere moment, hundreds of dice in hundreds of colors—blues, pinks, and greens—poured from the case, bouncing, sliding, clacking in all directions. Blake, Steve, and Shell looked at each other, too stunned to speak.                It was Steve who bent down first to pick up the dice. Then Shell and then Blake. “Do you remember when Christian rolled that crit against Lady Demescu?” Steve asked with a chuckled. Blake noticed tears in Steve’s eyes. “Or when he made assless chaps for his goblin friend?” asked Shell. They looked up and grinned at each other, remembering the best sound in the world. “Where’s the pizza?” Kevin called from the table. “ Jesus, Kevin ,” said Blake, shooting upright, “ we're having a moment here !” Kevin, finally recognizing the scene before him, slid out of his chair and began picking up dice, using his fingers like tweezers, inspecting them one by one. Kevin took in a deep breath. “I think Christian would have wanted us to keep playing,” he said. “I think so, too,” Steve agreed. After they picked up every single dice, the friends settled back into their old seats around the gaming table. Blake opened his notebook, blinked back a few tears of his own, and cleared his throat. “Now…where were we?”


He wakes up, tired. As usual, the common man did not get enough sleep. Working overtime became the norm. Being sleep deprived, became required. Giving his life in exchange for the ability to remain alive, became unchangeable. The common man knew it. He had known for a while now. There was a lot of regret in his past. Many lost opportunities. But he had no guide, no leader. No one was there to help him when he couldn’t help himself. Who could blame him? Now they all demand him to pull his own weight, even when they don’t give him the tools to do so. The common man gets up and starts his coffeemaker. The precious coffee was his biggest weapon. To remain awake, that is. There were not many drugs the common man would put inside his body. The coffee was to work. The weed was to live. The only way to live. The only way the common man could truly be at peace. There was always so much going on. Bills, schedules, meetings, more bills, cooking, showering, more bills, yelling, rudeness, and of course, more bills. They were, in fact, endless, the bills. There was always more coming. Always more. Nonstop. They told him to get insurance to protect himself, but they only cared about enriching themselves. The common man knew. He knew about all their corrupt habits, all their evil schemes. There was no escape for the common man, for no enemy was ever in sight. He could not fight. He could not resist. They lived in another reality, and the common man knew they were untouchable. After drinking a big mug of his bitter coffee, he got ready. Put his clothes on, dreaded eating breakfast, for no taste could be tasted by his bitter tongue. He left, got in his car, and drove. Drove for a long time before arriving at his destination. There, the worst and longest part of the day was taking place. The common man’s mind was numb, most of the time. Not for the drugs, but for the perspective. Or the lack thereof, that is. The common man had no future. He only lived a day after another. A paycheck after paycheck. Invest! They said. Work hard! They said. Exchange the limited time you have for the things we decide matter, is what they meant. They didn’t know better; the common man would say to himself. They were raised like that. Chunks of clay, molded by the machinery of the state, to become a brick and fit perfectly in the wall. The wall that kept on growing, but never changing. They say things change. They say one must adapt. But they don’t mean it. Things never change. The common man still lives under the bridge. The bridge that unites people and their dreams. The bridge he will never cross. After hours and hours of numb work, the common man’s shift ended. Another day for the books. Another chance of living life wasted. It is okay. The common man would say. But he knew it was not. He chose to blind himself from the numbers. For the numbers never lied, and he feared the truth. Scared of the ongoing countdown before the end of everything. He knew there was no going back from that bitter end. He knew that this was his one chance. And because of that, he was sad. As he has always been. Sad for the regret, that was already growing in him. Sad for the regret that was still to come. And it would come. Oh, yes it would. He knew that, which makes everything worse. Being aware. Conscious. Knowing full well of the wrongdoings happening around him. Enlightened by the fact that his life, for more depressing, sad, painful, and useless as it was, was still better than most. Once back home, the common man was still tired. There was not enough time in a day to fulfill all his duties. There never was. He stopped going to the gym because there was no time. He stopped playing video games because he was too tired. He stopped reading because he needed to cook. No. Not really. Those were all excuses. Things he told himself to run away from the harsh truth. They lied to him. They lied to everyone. They said we could be anything we wanted, but we can’t. They said all dreams come true, but they don’t. They said many things and many lies. The common man dreaded another day. His social circle was small, almost nonexistent. The rare occasions in which he would see the ones he called friends were, well, rare. Life happens. Everyone says. And it does indeed. We watch it happening, mesmerized by everything and nothing at the same time. Fixated on the things that give our daily dopamine. We watch life happening and forget to be part of it. The common man went out, ate with friends, talked about some interesting things, and then went home. He was feeling better. He always felt better after living life for a little bit. But because of the rules they put upon society, there were only small moments like that. Most of the time, life was preserving and protecting, not exploring. The common man lived his days like that for years. Finally, he reached the golden age. Retirement. He was excited. For the first time as an adult, he would live life. He would go places, see things, study interesting subjects, meet new people, eat exotic foods. Ultimately, create memories. It was tough realizing how much of those things he wouldn’t do. They gave him money, yes. They thanked him for the years he exchanged of his life, by giving him the necessary to survive. The living part was still up to the common man. So, he could choose between only surviving, or working more to get his lapses of life every once in a while. The latter seemed more appropriate. In his late life, the common man would admire young people. See their dreams reflected in their eyes. The sea of possibilities emanates through their skin. That excitement he had lost many years ago. He knew lots of them would lose that, as he did. And yet, he was grateful. Grateful for not having the same destiny that millions of people had. Billions, perhaps. The one of extreme poverty. The one to be born without a chance of living. The one where survival was the only word known. It could have been worse, he thought. And in fact, it could. It could have been much worse. Hell, the things they do to the weak. Disgusting. The few overpowered the many. The common man didn’t have any hope for changes. The many were preoccupied surviving whereas the few were living. It was a no-brainer. Like starting a chess match without the queen and the two towers. What are the chances given there? What are the odds the game will turn in my favor? Not many, he knew. The common man cried for the unlucky players. The ones that never even learned how to play. The ones on the bottom, prisoners of a game they never agreed to play. He cried for them, but he also cried for the others. The few. On their extreme lack of vision. On their stupidity and close minds. Give a man a fish, and you will feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he will invent new methods of fishing. The possibilities! That was the worst part. The common man cried on the wasted potential. On the brilliant minds lost to starvation. How many Einsteins have we lost? How many Teslas? How many Curies? The few were too blind to see. They enjoyed the creations of the brilliant, without realizing how much more they were missing on. Without the perception that if we all win, our victory would be much, much greater. Their minds were closed, and the keys for their cells had been lost while they focused on winning the game. They never realized we were on the same team. They never realized how much more fun the game could be. The common man sits in his chair, after another day of work. The sun sets slowly on the horizon. The beautiful orange light colors the sky. There is peace in the air. For a moment, there are no cars, no loud neighbors, no shots, no police, no airplanes, no politicians, no news, no nothing. Just the dim sunlight and a smooth light breeze hitting his skin. For the first time in decades, he has hope. As he closes his eyes one last time, the common man smiles widely, realizing the one final truth. The truth nobody knew, for the enlightened were already dead. The truth nobody shared. The truth nobody wanted to know.


Pigs in a Pen I was awoken by the ear-piercing screams of missiles soaring over my head. It was an alarm clock for me as a barrage of missiles flew by every morning at 7:30 am. Even though it was still pitch black outside due to the smoke covering the sun, I could tell that it was morning. I sluggishly shuffled down the stairs; there is nothing in this barren city to care about. Finding another human being in this devastated excuse of a town is as likely as seeing pigs fly. Daily, via television, the government briefly informs us that it is illegal to go out of our homes due to the danger the war poses. The houses all over the country are resistant to most forms of weapons, or so the government says. I open my computer and start trying to contact my friends since the only sources of entertainment nowadays are shows on the television coming from countries not involved in our affairs, and the other source of entertainment clearly being computers as I can access the Internet and contact others in the same situation as me, as I previously stated. Anyways, you are most likely somewhat confused about the current situation I am in, and I have not introduced myself yet either. My name is Samuel Haft and I am 54 years old, I lack friends in the sense that I do not have any friends in real life. My hobbies are eating and spending time on the Internet. Every home has a food generator that takes pictures of food from the Internet and produces it. I am not sure how it works since none of us are well educated due to the constant occurrence of wars. Within the 54 years, I have been alive, there has not been any excitement whatsoever. Every single foolish day I am on this planet I wake up, and by noon, the level of boredom I reach begins to hinder my ability to perform everyday tasks. I walk around my home every day contemplating my life decisions and simultaneously, I decide my next meal. After ages of mindlessly walking like a baby sheep following its herd, I found my desired meal; Eggs and bacon. I did not wish for a complicated meal; something as simple as eggs and bacon seemed fitting. I dragged my feet along the floor until I reached the food generator in the kitchen. I hooked my computer up to the generator and searched for “eggs and bacon”, I anticipated the arrival of my food and focused my gaze on the food generator until I hear the familiar “ding” come from the food generator signifying that the food was ready. By the time my meal was ready, I had already planned what I was going to eat for my next meal. I am never truly hungry and most of the time, I am just yearning for something to satisfy my taste buds. I always eat my meals before I am hungry, therefore, I never get hungry unless I eat too little in my previous meal. Food these days taste different from how they tasted when I was in my childhood, or at least that is what I recall. One of the reasons I like tasting different foods from all sorts of cultures is because about 20 years ago, when the war that is going on currently started, the food generators were introduced, and that is when my hobby of tasting foods from across the world started. Similar to the present, I had nothing to do at the time and I was still not accustomed to the boredom of staying home 24/7. Over the years, It slowly occurred to me that the food was starting to taste unusually similar and more and more tasteless. Earlier this year, I actually looked further into the predicament by conferencing with my online companions. It was not only me who found the food peculiar, one of my friends who claims to have aided in the creation of the food generators revealed that artificial flavours, colours, nutrients, and another ingredient he refused to disclose were mixed together in the machine and in a few short minutes, the food would be printed out onto the plate. I had no other information on the food, thus I had to trust this stranger who is technically my friend. 2 years later I continued my daily routine of waking up, eating, surfing the web, eating again, watching some television, eating on more time, and sleeping. It has been a whole 2 years since the last time I came upon interesting news, and for the past 2 years, it has felt like I was hypnotised by and was zoned out for all this time. I had stopped contemplating life and began to mindlessly entertain myself with whatever content was on the Internet; just like how the government wants us to do. Only now have I started to wonder if the government was lying to us the whole time and there was no war. What if all of the sounds coming from the outside were fake and the thick, reinforced windows were modified television screens? I seem to have broken out of the trance that I was put in for 2 whole years. Could it be that the government found out about the conversations I had with my online companions? I hoarded all my current knowledge and all my conspiracy theories I formulated, found the connection between them and thought about it. I layed there thinking about what all this could mean and in the end, I concluded that I should try going outside. I browsed the web for hours on end trying to locate others who had the same train of thought as me. Eventually, after searching for people, I found one person who wanted to explore the outside with me. He said that his webcam was shattered so I did not know of his appearance. We both had the same ideology on what we thought the government was doing and settled on roaming around the town until we met since we did not have any knowledge of our towns geography. This anonymous figure who I still barely knew told me that if I gouged the floorboard in front of my sink out of the ground, there would be a full body hazmat suit in a grey box. He then advised me to put it on when I headed out tomorrow in case the government was not deceiving us, it was simply a precaution. The very next morning, I woke up with a grin on my face for the first time in 22 years. I was going to set myself free from this accursed building that I was locked up in for 22 years. I bolted around my house searching for something to use to smash through the walls. Finally, I settled on a sledgehammer that rested behind the hazmat suit under the floorboards; I guess the man I spoke to yesterday forgot to inform me about the sledgehammer lock away in the ground. I pulled back and swung with all my strength; the force was enough to tear a jagged hole straight across the wall. After what I saw what I could do with the hammer, I proceeded to shred through my wall like a trigger-happy gunman in a swarm of people. A look of ecstasy flushed over my face as I looked outside through the now absent wall; The outdoors almost identical how I thought it would look like. I felt like I was reliving the faint memories of the outdoors from I was but a child. For the first time in all these years, I did not walk by dragging my feet across the ground, I did not feel any boredom on the inside, and I finally had something to do in life. I wandered around the town trying to remember the roads so I could return home when I needed to. The ground looked like not a single soul had set foot on it before, I continued my expedition to find this other man who had also found the darkest secret of our government. I continued my stroll till I noticed a sound, the sound was the missiles! I about to panic, but then I realised it wasn’t real and the government probably had speakers on the houses creating the sound. Slowly but surely, the sound of missiles was getting louder and my ears started to hurt. I plugged my ears with my hands and I collapsed and leaned against the wall of a house trying to prevent my ears from exploding. As the sound got louder, I noticed blue robot hovering towards me, that idiotic robot was generating all the commotion. The robot identified me as a human and turned off the sound and came over to me, stood there for about a minute or so, and out of nowhere it shot something through my chest, unbearable pain erupted throughout my body, my chest was burning and all my strength started fading away. I could not move a muscle; I felt paralyzed. But, for some reason, I did not feel any emotions, only pain. I accepted my fate and as soon as I thought I was about to die, the blade-like object inside me spun like a weed wacker and started moving. My flesh was being eaten by this robot, yet I no longer felt pain, I stopped paying attention to the robot and soon after my arm fell to the ground. A realization that the robot was cutting me up into pieces hit me strong, I was being cut into pieces like I was a pig at a slaughterhouse except I was still alive to witness myself be cut up starting with my limbs. I am now certain that the object that impaled me was laced with a painkiller and that the anonymous person who I spoke with was lying about shattering their webcam. That person was probably the government luring me out of my house to have me killed, and there are 3 reasons that the government would want to kill me for. Those reasons are either that I am now old and the government wants to kill me off, the government wants to kill me off due to my knowledge of what is actually going on, or because we are all like pigs being raised in a farm and I am now ready for consumption. That might explain why my online friend refused to disclose a certain ingredient that food generator uses to create food; it was most likely human remains. As I lay against the wall with a robot slowly dissecting me and removing my organs, I begin to lose consciousness, and due to the severe blood loss I suffered and am still suffering, I died the very next minute. At the age of 56, I died a pointless death, locked up in a house with no windows or doors my entire life like a pig in a pen raised, only to be eaten.


“Are you hungry?” the voice asked, soft as the Spring breeze, but unlike the springtime breezes, the voice instilled upon me nothing less than an icy dread that chilled me to my very core.

I had hoped to feign my continued slumber for a while yet, long enough to discern what truly was reality and not just the lingering fantastical afterimages of a dream I had yet to fully awaken. But I had never been an actor, and now I can be quite certain that my treacherously quickening breath had been more than enough to alert whatsoever shared my space to my wakefulness. If there had been something there to address me as I awoke, I shudder to think just how long I was not alone, the knowledge that I had almost certainly been observed in my slumber doing nothing to steady my already quickening heartrate.

With more reluctance that I fully understood on even a purely personal level, I shifted my weight slightly. The comfort of the feather-soft mattress, a world of difference from the forest floor that I had, in my exhaustion, claimed for my rest, felt almost deceptive. ‘How could anyone be in danger,’ it seemed to say,’ if they were this comfortable?’ But even through all the comfort, an odd twitching sense of wrongness made it so that I could not simply relax back into the moment. No, my accursed rationality seemed far too determined to remind me that I did not know where I was, nor how I got there, and so I was not even granted the privilege of enjoying waking up for, quite possibly, the first time in months without one joint or another aching out of bed to remedy the ailment.

I counted out on my breath three exhales, trying to keep them as steady as possible to mask, to the best of my abilities, the fear I was sure would seal my doom as whichever misfortunes lead me to my present state of comfort. On my third completed cycle of breath, I gradually opened my eyes. A wise decision on my end, as the room I had found myself in was just bright enough to be a little uncomfortable, oddly silvery sunlight streaming in through a crack in the heavy embroidered curtains to cast dancing light upon the far wall. I did not, however, have all that much time to assess the rest of the room, as my gaze settled upon the figure crouched upon his heels just by me. The man was strange, but I reasoned he was no stranger than the rest of my peculiar circumstances so I could hardly find a fault in this. To liken his skin to porcelain was less a comment on how alarmingly pale he was, but more because he seemed unnaturally smooth, as if he was a faultless carved statue of porcelain or marble. His hair, coloured as if it were fine-spun starlight, fell so long that, in the crouch he found himself in, the very tips brushed the floor. His eyes were fine amethysts, yet seemed so flat, so lifeless that anything he may or may not have felt remained a secret from the world. There was something about him that seemed almost exaggerated, like a caricature of a man rather than a man himself, too sharp, too pointy and just a little bit too much of everything.

Upon catching my gaze, the man smiled. It was the sort of smile that seemed practiced, a rehearsed smile that came from a place of obligation rather than anywhere near sincerity. His teeth bore twin eye teeth, leaving the total at eight where most carried four, each just a little too sharp for comfort as he flashed them. Now, I know I should have acted more cautiously, but a wave of panic struck me faster than rationality did, and so with none of the dignity I wish I could have shown, I scrambled as far away from the figure as I possibly could. All this achieved, however, was that it left me tumbling off the far edge of the bed and crashing onto the floor in a tangle of the silken sheets I had been draped in. My heart was thundering so loudly in my ears as I attempted to extract myself from the mess I had gotten myself into before trying to haul myself to my feet.

For all my theatrics, the man seemed entirely unfazed. This actually bothered me more than if he had reacted, but the extent of his reaction had come in the way of tilting his head just so that he could look up to me. I was all too aware that his dignity did not mirror my own in that moment and it made me resent him with such a sudden burst that I had not even realized I felt until I stood there for several moments with my arms crossed like a stubborn child.

“Or you could have just said no.” the man remarked passively. There was something just a little off about his pronunciation, as if he was speaking a language he had learned through the written word but never had the chance to practice aloud.

I chose not to dignify this with a reply. I decided he did not deserve anything from me, not even the most basic of acknowledgements.

“You needn’t scowl so,” continued he, seemingly unfazed, and as he rose smoothly to his feet I made the briefest mental note that he was, in fact, a head shorter than I was, “Your lives are far too short to waste it scowling.” “What?” asked I, immediately disregarding my resolution of no more than a cluster of heartbeats prior that I would not respond. “You’re scowling.” said he as if this was somehow the most pressing matter at hand. “Of course I’m scowling,” I shot back, “You kidnapped me.” The man, or so I chose to continue to consider him even as each passing second solidified my conclusion that he was something other than human, tilted his head, long hair briefly obscuring his features. For just a second, I worried I may have upset him, which felt like quite the opposite of what one should do when addressing the first person seen after waking up in unfamiliar locations. But he brushed the hair from his features with long, slender fingers and with it he brushed aside the look of annoyance I was left wondering if I had ever seen.

“Would you have had somebody waiting for you had you continued your journey? To mourn for you had things gone sour?” he returned far too pleasantly.

My features clearly betrayed me in this moment. I had the full intention of lying, to claim there was most certainly people out there waiting for me and would have, upon not seeing me return, already set out to try and find me. This was, unfortunately, a lie, and the unpleasantly heavy sort of lie that would make a person’s heart ache terribly if they were made to ponder it for too very long. The truth was, my unwarranted exile had left me without a single soul to wonder where I’ve been, to greet me by the fireplace with a cup of tea and a story.

“I thought so,” came the fellow’s remark, “Now, might I have your name?” “Why?” I asked, my eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Because you’ve decided to treat me as a stranger, and so are being hostile,” returned he, waving a hand, “That is what your lot do, isn’t it? Giving others your name to feel more comfortable?” “My lot?” I imperfectly echoed. “Quite.” was all I was given in reply, which was a little unfair.

I stared at him, hoping my silence would urge him to elaborate. It very much did not. The most it invoked in the man was a look of boredom, which did not really mean all that much considering he had managed to look perpetually at least a little bit bored for the entire interaction. If it had been some strange attempt to make me feel more at ease, it was very much not working. In fact, it make him seem all the more unnatural, and me feel like I was somehow the more unnatural of the two of us.

Maybe I was, after all, he seemed entirely at home in the area and I had no clue where it actually was that I had found myself. Considering him to be at home there brought with it an alarming flicker of concern at the potential literal nature of this. “Is this your house?” I hesitantly asked him. “Does it matter if it is?” came his vague reply. “Yes.” “If I answer you, will you give me your name?” Now, this set off more alarm bells than I thought was possible, and from every single part of me, including the parts of me that were notoriously known for not making the best of decisions, all screamed at me to deny this. There was just too much of an insistence, and frankly I had no obligation to give my name out to anyone at all. So, naturally with all the feeling in my chest I replied with a confident, “Yes.” I regretted my agreement just as quickly as the words slipped through the traitors that served as my lips. I did have the full intention of denying this, to play at being ornery for just a little longer, and yet proceeded to precisely, well, not that at all. The way something that I could not, nor entirely wanted to identify flashed in the otherwise dead eyes of my companion – captor? I still could not quite settle on my definition - made it all too clear that I had made the wrong decision. Actually, I wasn’t entirely sure if there was a right decision to be made at all, but if there was one, it was certainly not the one I made. “Good, and yes it is my home” he said far too pleasantly, “Now, may I have your name?”

He was too expectant, too eager and too… flat. It was verging on uncanny and it sent the fine hairs on the back of my neck to prickle uncomfortably. I regretted briefly that I had taken the time to confirm I was not dreaming, as I really would have liked to be able to try and excuse everything away as some strange and vivid dream.

“Benton,” said I, for this was the truth, though not without some small misfortune on my end. This was evidently not quite enough, however, as the other man quirked an eyebrow as if to urge me to continue, “Benton Harris.”

Peculiarly, especially considering I had only emerged from my napping a good few minutes ago – an admittedly eventful few minutes considering very little had actually happened while they passed – I found myself feeling thoroughly tired for no reason whatsoever. It was as if something had gone out of me, but I did try to rationalize that I was being ridiculous and that the cool upturn of the fellow’s lips had only come about because I had chosen to play nice and not from anywhere more nefarious. “Benton Harris? No, I don’t like that,” came the slightly baffling reply from the man, “Don’t worry, I will give you something far better. Something that flows, rather than coming off quite as,” he paused, “Sorry, your words are all so similar in meaning but not in connotation, so I find myself lost sometimes. It is blocky but that is not the meaning I mean.”

“Unwieldy?” I offered as if I was not thoroughly put off and entirely alarmed by the conversation. Truthfully, I was neither as alarmed nor put off as I think I ought to have been considering a stranger was pondering alternative names for me.

“I’m sure you know human words better than I,” he said with a shrug, confirming my prior assumption that he was not actually human at all, “But I know names better than you, so I shall find you something that suits you far better.”

I did not want another name that this man – fairy? – might think suits me better. I liked my name, it was the same one my grandfather wore and it was an honour to share this with him. In fact, I was more than a little offended that my name needed any changing whatsoever so, naturally, I replied with a perfectly telling, “Thank you.” Which was decidedly not what I meant to say at all. A softness seemed to grace the man, whose name somewhat unfairly remained unknown to me, regarding me in a way that seemed typically reserved for small, silly animals doing something particularly charming. Without warning, he reached out and clasped at my face with a grip that seemed just a little too hard for what I would have had to assume, based on my best assumptions of his expressions, was intended to be something tender. Just as uncomfortable was the chill to his touch, the feel of his skin not too dissimilar to the sensation that came from pressing my face against a window if ever I took a fever.

As soon as he had instigated this touch, his hand fell away again, leaving me with nothing but the odd tingle to my skin where his fingers had brushed. It was not quite as uncomfortable a feeling as part of me wished it had been, and so I found myself chastising myself for it. For the fact I felt uncomfortable at his touch, but also there was a part of me that wanted to remind me that I was supposed to be uncomfortable, that this was a stranger and that I really should not be out there leaning into stranger’s touches like I was doing in that moment. With the faintest ghost of a content smile still haunting his features, the man drew back and away from me, his gaze only briefly lingering upon me, just long enough to give an appraising yet noncommittal examination before turning on his heels. With his hands folded neatly behind his back, he simply left me there, passing through a doorway that lay half-hidden behind a tapestry of a moonlit field.

Left alone as I was, it would have been almost too easy to make my exit, to leave the strange place I had woken up in and carry on as if none of it had ever happened, and yet I did not. I did quite the opposite, in fact. Rather than flee, I sat down upon the bed, legs crossed to make myself as comfortable as I could be.

I don’t remember the last time I felt lonely, truly lonely that was, and yet even before I had even been given the chance to be properly lonely, I found myself near aching with the need for the company of the strange man who had so kindly welcomed me into his house.

How funny it was, mused I in those lonely moments, that I had been so very afraid of him when I had first seen him. There was nothing to be afraid of, not really. He had even been so kind as to take my – mind  – dirty old name from me, so there really was no need for me to have worried at all.


 "Baba, I want to say something." Said Arij hesitantly as her father was a serious man sitting at the head of the table.  " Please have your meal quietly." Her mother interrupted hurriedly. "Pass me that salad." She added with a stern look and hold the plate from Arij.

 "Is there something important to say?" Asked her father while having a bite of cucumber.

"Nothing special. She wants to visit her friend's home. And I think it's not appropriate to visit there frequently." Answered her mother, avoiding the eye contact.  "Yes, your mother's right." Her father nodded. Arij looked at her mother in astonishment, who was already staring at her. "Ammi!" Uttered Arij.

"We will discuss it later on." Her mother ended the topic. "Chew your food properly, Ali." Said her mother to her younger brother who devoured the full spoon of rice.

Sadness clouded Arij's features. She took a sip of water. She lost her appetite but had to stay here til the dinner is over.

"Clear away all the dishes." She heard her mother's voice. She lifted her head, looked around, everyone had taken their meal. She put the dishes in the sink.

"We are not your enemies, Arij. We want you to have a peaceful life." Said her mother politely as she put the curry in an airtight jar and placed it in the refrigerator.

"I also want to give you a comfortable life." Arij replied. "What do you mean? Are we living a miserable life?" Arij's response irked her mother. Arij took a deep breathe. "But that's not enough. we should struggle for more."

"Behave yourself Arij." Her mother turned red. "You should be thankful that you are provided with shelter and have meal three times a day. What else do you want?" Her mother got irritated with her stubbornness. She wanted her daughter as an obedient girl who always try to make others happy.

"I'm grateful for all this but life isn't about household chores, eat and sleep. I want to chase my dreams." Arij shared her views as she washed the last bowl and put it in the dish rack.

"Oh, that dreams of you! Harness your rebellious thoughts, it could create troubles in our lives." Her mother yelled at her but then immediately realized that someone could hear their conversation.  "I want to be settled in my life, want to help Baba, want to help my siblings to have higher education." Arij responded and moved towards the table. "What example are you setting for your siblings? Your rebellious steps would damage their personalities as well." Her mother expressed her fears, she turned no stone unturned to make Arij step back from her decision.

"To work in an office isn't a rebellious act." Argued Arij.

"It is. Our relatives consider it obnoxious. No girl in your family ever did a job in any institute." Her mother warned, who seemed much worried about the society and its norms. "If you want to do so, do it after marriage with the consent of your husband." She suggested. "Yeah, Aunt yasmin said these words to her daughter who is now captivated in her house. Her only wish was to study further but now she is serving her husband's family." Arij replied harshly.

"I am also a housewife. What do you think am I not happy with this all?" Asked her mother and then added "Don't make life difficult for us all. Be happy in what you have." She advised and then pointed at the shelf. "Clean it, and then go to your bed." She ordered as she left the kitchen.

"I am not that kinda girl who gives up." Arij murmured. She took a napkin and cleaned the shelf. She washed the napkin as she knew mother will yell at her if she finds this napkin untidy. Before leaving, she glanced at the kitchen to make sure everything was at its proper place. Instead of her bedroom, she laid down on the sofa at the corner of the living room. She had to manage somehow for that interview. She picked up the phone, dialled her friend's number. It's ringing.

"Yes, What's up?" A cheerful voice came from the other side. "Please will you rearrange the interview timings?" Asked Arij reluctantly.

"Are you serious, Arij? You must be there on time." Her friend shocked.

"I tried to talk to Baba but mother interrupted. She thinks he will get angry and this would be not good for us all." Arij explained her situation. "hmm, so you've to first convince your mother." Her friend suggested. " This seems a bit difficult." Arij answered in a brittle voice. "Don't lose hope. Keep trying, your parents will support you one day. This isn't your last chance. You'll get many opportunities in future." Her friend tried to pull her together. "Yeah, but I want to avail this chance." She halted. "ok mother's coming, talk to you later." She turned the phone down and put her shoes off.

"You are still here. Go to your room." Said her mother in a low voice. "I am not feeling sleepy." Arij grimaced. Her mother sat next to her and hold her hand. "We educated you for your own good. You have done graduation, that's enough, now focus on household activities. Sooner or later you have to get married and look after your home." Arij rolled her eyes. " but Ammi, there is a lot more than to just get married. I have my priorities." Her mother took a deep breathe and said, "Do you think you will get an amazing job as there are a lot outside more qualified than you." "I'm trying to take first step. Please help me. I need your support." Her eyes filled with tears, she desperately want her family's favour. "Ok, we will talk to your father tomorrow morning." Her mother couldn't see her crying. She hugged her and this made Arij feel better. Meanwhile her father came out of the room. "What's going on?" He smiled and sat on the couch. "You must sleep now, you have to go for the interview tomorrow." Arij's eyes opened wide.

"Be ready on time or else you'll miss the bus." Her father added and there was an amiable ambience with laughter and cheers.


Faster-than-light travel should not have been possible. Even if it had been, vessels and biological life should not have even been able to survive transit. Yet, in 2022, the *Yelle* visited Earth and their arrival couldn't have been more further away to what we had expected, than what we had been encountered in fiction and Hollywood media. The *Yelle* invaded our minds, all at once, in unison. Some people's brains couldn't handle it and in some cases, this proved fatal for them. For those of us who were more scientifically minded, what the *Yelle* showed us made a little bit of sense. But the illumination made many of us uncomfortable; it made us uncomfortable because it revealed to us that Faster-than-light speed was not only possible, but relatively easy and effortless - well, as long as you knew what you were doing and you possessed "red matter", or "red goo" as the media called it. The *Yelle* clearly lacked bedside manner and people skills because they informed us, in the least subtle of ways, that the "Universe" - well, the Universe as we knew it - existed in something "akin to" a computer program. Depressing, I know; but it was definitely nothing like the "Brain in a vat" we've all heard of...or the infamous *Matrix* in popular media. No, the *Yelle* informed us that it was more like a runaway reality, with strict parameters; but, as with all programs, there were possibilities of "hacks" - if you knew what you were doing anyway. Put quite simply, it was entirely possible for matter - any matter - to "blink into" another part of space - any point in space. Sure, sure, it sounded like what we understood to be "teleportation", but it was far from the ideas we had of this. So, years on from this bizarre encounter with this "godlike" intelligence, scientists and researchers around the world had worked feverishly to "create" this so-called "red goo". Within five years, our advances in "the space effort" had accelerated to superhuman levels. We had achieved in five years what it would have taken us a hundred or two hundred years to achieve. We began to construct spacecraft...*in orbit*. The bodies of vessels were coated in this "red goo". Crew and passengers embarking on trips would have to be in depressurized areas and then immersed in this "red goo" during transit. This therefore preserved all matter - spaceships, biological matter, the whole shebang - during FTL transit. So, here I was, Brandon Fischer of Orlando, Florida, floating in my cabin aboard the *Archimedes* in orbit over the planet Mars, docked in Bay 11 of The International Galactic Space station. I grinned, waving at the cameras. Dozens of screens surrounded me and I could see screaming crowds waving up at me: throngs and throngs of people in Times Square; thousands in Miami; masses and masses of people in Paris. "*ARCHIMEDES RELEASING IN TEN.*" Hundreds of thousands of screams blasted from the screens; the roars echoed in my earphones. I, Brandon Fischer, aged 17, would be the first teenage human to travel at Faster-than-light speeds - and not just to any random place in particular, but to a region of space located over 46 *million* light years away, in the Messier 108 galaxy, to Gaia in the International Ring of Earths. It was mind-boggling; in a few seconds, I and *Archimedes* would be "blinking out" of existence - quite literally - and then "blinking in" again, all within a few minutes, to a point in space located tens of *millions* of light years away. Shocking; impossible; unnatural - and yet, completely achievable. "*SIX.*" The screams became louder. "*FIVE.*" Jubilatory music blasted in Time Square, as if we were at the beginning of a NFL game. "*FOUR.*" Fireworks continued exploding over the Eiffel Tower. "*THREE.*" *Archimedes* began to shake slightly as the releasing process was nearing its end. "*Two.*" My heart began to beat quicker as I looked down at Mars from my cabin one last time and then quickly grabbed one last look at Earth floating in space on one of the screens in my cabin. "*ONE.*" Everything suddenly went dark; the screens had shut off; Mars was no longer in view and I could no longer hear anything in my earphones. The entire cabin - the entire spaceship, in fact - had gone completely dark and quiet. Everything around me was red-tinged, as if I was looking through red sunglasses. *Must be the red goo*, I thought. There was complete silence everywhere. There were 7,000 other passengers and crew aboard, but they were all in their own cabins and I could not see or hear them. I floated slowly and slightly, but the red goo kept me mostly fixed in place. Objects around me looked as if they were flickering on and off. *This is so weird...trippy*, I thought. I had never used LSD or dabbled with Magic Mushrooms, but I guessed this was what "a trip" must have been like. I tried to turn my neck to look out of the cabin viewing window; it was difficult, but I managed to catch a glimpse of it at the corner of my vision. The view was terrifying and bizarre. From the corner of my eye, it looked as if there were thousands of silver lightening-like strikes engulfing *Archimedes* and the nearby "area". *This must be what it's like...on the "outside"*, I thought. That was where we were right now - "outside", outside the Universe, outside of Space and Time. It seemed so unreal and so impossible. How exactly was it possible to be "outside" of everything that exists? And yet, here we were. The red goo suddenly began to tighten its grip on me; I was really struggling to move now. The grip became tighter around my jumpsuit; I was now struggling to breathe slightly. Suddenly, *Archimedes* shook and the cabin slowly began to repressurize. The red goo was gone almost as quickly it had appeared and I began to slowly "sink" down to my cabin seat. A hostess' elegant voice was the first to speak: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have safely arrived in the International Ring of Earths; if you look to your right - or, alternatively, on your screens - you will see Gaia in the distance and Jupiter II over to the left and..." I looked down through my cabin viewing window and saw the amazing sight. Gaia loomed large in the distance and Jupiter II glowed brightly beyond. I looked over to my screens and saw Amazonia glowing, with its purple and green foliage seen from orbit and its shimmering turquoise oceans. Across the other screens, the dozens of other paradise planets called out alluringly. We were here; we had arrived; the greatest location in the known Universe and it wasn't even the oldest: the International Ring of Earths. I looked at my watch and cursed. During transit, it had stopped. I had wanted to time how long it had taken us, but that private mission had failed. *Archimedes* had been fully repressurized now, so I opened my cabin doors remotely and called out. A hostess walked over, smiling sweetly and blushing. "How are you feeling, Brandon?" She asked, blushing. "How long did it take?" I asked. "The clocks stopped, Brandon, but the Monitors told me...3 minutes, 54 seconds, 22 milliseconds and 41 nanoseconds." I sat back stunned. I had traveled across 46 million light years of space in under 4 minutes. Mind-blowing. Crazy. *Contrary to science.


The bunny stuck its dessicated little head through a hole in the ground, peered hard and long at the dusty, barren fields surrounding it, then squeezed its body up and through, before hopping thirstily away… Dozens more followed. Through a spyglass, Popsmoll Wrencod watched them go. He would have to report this to the Chief knowing it meant the worst: Uberlute Sadbard had failed. Either the old storyteller had expired before reaching the summit, or, perhaps worse, his tale had proved insufficiently melancholic to coax tears from the Godstatue. The rainless days would continue and the fields would bring no crop. He turned, dejected— "Are you certain?" the Chief asked. "I am," said Popsmoll Wrencod. "I saw them hop into the horizon with my own eye." "Then our times are arid indeed," said the Chief, and the gathered elders agreed, murmuring amongst themselves about the dreaded dustbowl days, of famine and death, of little ones hungry in the pits, their fingernails torn from clawing through the dirt searching for discarded beets. "Yet even then, in the deepest of the dustbowl, there was no exodus of drought bunnies. Burrowed, they remained." "Rightly," said an elder, "for soon after, the mighty telltale Harpsichordian delivered unto the Godstatue the woesong of Klionimini, of her betrothal and betrayal, and of her death, causing the divine tears to well and fall, and for the most-bountiful harvest to begin." "What then are we to make of the current exodus?" asked Popsmoll Wrencod. "Uberlute Sadbard is dead," said the Chief. "Is hope evaporated?" "Nay. Drops remain, but they are few and boiling in the sun." "Insufficient for the prescience of the drought bunnies," said one of the elders. "They no longer believe, and in this I am inclined to share their pessimism. It is time to migrate." He stood and left the gathering, with several trailing after him. "Migrate? Abandon the protection of the Godstatue?" said Popsmoll Wrencod. "Such an act would be unprecedented. Forever have we lived here under its blessing." The Chief sat in grizzled wisethink. Uberlute Sadbard was the last of their storytellers. The others had all failed. Now he had failed. The drought bunnies indeed portended a fate worse than the dustbowl, and there was no one to ascend the Godstatue with a tale sad enough to move the towering divinity to cathartic precipitation. What could he do but decree migration? And that is likely what would have happened if not for the bravery of a young orphan girl named Seyma of Nosurname, who on that particular night was playing past her bedtime near the elders' gathering place and had overheard the existential predicament facing her people. Seyma liked it here. Seyma did not want to migrate. Seyma decided that she herself would climb to the summit of the Godstatue and tell a story so miserable that the Godstatue would have no choice but to replenish the earth with its tears! She decided she must do this in secret, so no one could stop her, and with utmost haste, so her people did not have time to migrate before the rain inevitably began. How she imagined those first raindrops feeling, and the expressions on their faces, the shock, the gratitude, the joy… The trouble, she realised as she gazed upon the Godstatue's big toe, was that she didn't know any miserable stories, and the Godstatue was very, very tall. How tall, she didn't know, but even its ankles were somewhere far above the wispy clouds, and if its proportions were anything like her own, it might take her days to climb to the top. Thankfully, one concern became the other's solution, as she decided that the climb would give her just the perfect amount of time to come up with the saddest story ever told. She took a deep breath, followed by her first steps onto the zigzagging, looping staircase that had been conveniently chiseled into the Godstatue by its creator-discoverers. So far so good, she thought. Less than an hour later, she was high enough that the ground had disappeared, consumed by a volume of swirling mist which seemed to whisper to her, *turn back, you can't do it, you shall fail, proceed and die*. Despite these sensations, Seyma pressed on. The warnings, however, grew louder, more shrill, until suddenly there was a squawk, and a flutter of wings, and a featherless bird shot out of the mist, yelling and demotivating, flapping madly, undermining Seyma's self-confidence. She did her best to ignore it, but it was difficult. "Your story isn't good enough," squawked the bird. "That's not true," said Seyma. "It's true and you know it," said the bird. "It's not true, and I'll tell you why," said Seyma. "I don't have a story, and if I don't have one it can't not be good enough." This gave the bird pause. "You'll never come up with a story that's good enough!" it squawked. "I don't believe you," said Seyma. "You should." "You said my story wasn't good enough, but I don't have a story, so you were wrong. Because you were wrong about that, you could be wrong about the story I will come up with." At that, the bird began flapping so violently—it exploded into a puff of blood and hollow bones! Although the explosion startled Seyma, the resulting silence was welcome, and it was in this silence that soon came upon a stone plateau, on which grew a fruit tree, beside which stood a bench, on which was seated an old man, holding his face dejectedly in his hands. At her approach, the man looked up, and Seyma recognised him. "Uberlute Sadbard?" "Yes," he said. "And who might you be?" "Seyma of Nosurname." "What brings you this forlorn way, Seyma of Nosurname?" She described her quest and the circumstances surrounding it, then said, "The Chief told us you were dead." "I am and I am not," said Uberlute Sadbard. "I told my tale but the Godstatue did not cry, so I made my descent until I arrived in this spot, with its bench and its tree, which bears fruit whenever I am hungry, and I am sure would do the same for you, so why not spare yourself the agony of narrative inadequacy and sit immediately beside me, so that together we may sit and eat and age, if not forever, at least for a long and pleasant time in each other's company, for if there is one thing I miss it is the pleasure of company." "Your sentence is very long," said Seyma. Uberlute Sadbard nodded. "Indeed it is, young storyteller, for at the summit I used many of my periods, and, as you know, we are born with a fixed number of them, so I have not many left, and I wish to communicate as much meaning as I can with what remains until the sun finally sets upon my wasted life." "Our people will starve!" The old storyteller smiled gently and looked toward the tree, which was sprouting a black, twisted fruit. When it was fully formed, he arose, picked the fruit and bit into it. Its inky juices discoloured his teeth and ran down from his mouth to his chin, before dripping to the stony ground, *hiss*… *hiss*… He held out the half-eaten fruit to her. "Thank you," said Seyma, "but I'm not hungry, and I still have a story to come up with." Uberlute Sadbard shrugged, shoved the rest of the fruit greedily into his cavernous mouth and sat down on his bench, which accepted him the way manacles accept a slave. Seyma continued up the staircase. Eventually she reached a place where the winds picked up, howling and gusting, and frightening her with their strength, causing her to cling to the Godstatue for fear of being blown off the staircase edge to certain death below. Her progress slowed. As it did, the imaginary gears in her head started to spin more quickly, activating her creative innerworks, the little mental workshop responsible for her feelings of horror and wonder and love and future, and as the wind pushed and pulled her, and she dropped to her knees, she remembered what she had once heard about stories, that some were light and others heavy, but that all had an impact upon the world. Sitting on the cold stone steps, knowing she could not take another step forward without additional heft, she realised that what she needed now was heaviness. It was time to imagine her story, or enough of it to give her the weight she needed to climb the Godstatue. She imagined first her own death; then the death of her people, starving or migrating into a new place which turned out to be the mouth of a great beast. She imagined Uberlute Sadbard, sitting forever alone on his bench, eating the corrosive fruit of his own failure. She imagined the winds abating—except it was not imagination but fact: the winds were abating, in the sense that they no longer affected her as a few minutes ago. She could stand, and step forward, and continue… She came next to a bridge spanning a gap in the staircase. It was guarded by a troll. The troll was tall and thin and had tremendously muscular arms, and it held with pale-knuckled hands a bloody, spiked staff. "What right brings you here?" it bellowed. "I want to get to the top of the Godstatue to save my people," said Seyma. "I want to get to the top of the Godstatue to save my people," the troll repeated, mockingly. "That is an utterly unoriginal reason." "It's the truth. Will you let me pass?" "Ask my name first, child." She did. "I am," the troll bellowed, "Homophonous, Guardian of the Bridge, Nemesis of Banality, Demiurge of Lies, [...] and Collector-King of Titles." "Now may I pass?" "Pass what?" "You." "To whom, child? There is not another soul here." "May I cross the bridge?" "You may cross it out of existence, but then you'll never get to the other side. As a practical alternative, I suggest you die." Seyma felt a strange tingling in her brain. "What do you suggest I dye?" she asked. "Surely, you must mean *which* ewe." It was as if a second voice had been born within her first, a narrative voice. "I've yet to meet a sheepish witch," she said. "Child, you would butcher the spelling rather than the spellcaster." "How rude!" "I have rued nothing in my life." "If you've an eye, you should see that soon you won't be true, as I've two eyes, and next I will be three." "A sea cannot be crossed without a ship. Why, then, not put down roots instead?" "I already have a route," said Seyma. "It leads—" With that, Homophonous bowed and stepped aside, pointing with his staff to the other side of the bridge. "Godspeed, child." Where have these voices come from, Seyma wondered as she crossed. They did not sound like hers. They were foreign yet familiar. It wasn't until she had left the bridge far behind that she remembered: the voices belonged to all the storytellers she had ever known, were of all the stories she had ever heard, and she was glad for their company. As her own story sprouted in her mind, granting her more and more weight against the raging winds, she understood that her success demanded not only a rousing tale but equally an effective voice to tell it, and now she had an entire cultural history from which to choose. Having overcome the naked bird of self-doubt, the welcome bench of dejection and the tree of fruitful misery, the punishing wind of frivolity and the staffed troll of clever wordplay, Seyma arrived at the Godstatue's shoulder. Many had not made it even this far. Then again, many great storytellers had, Uberlute Sadbard among them, but still failed to make the Godstatue cry. Seyma pressed on. The Godstatue's shoulders were appropriately wide and included a winding footpath leading to a towering Godneck. The Godneck had a ladder. As she started to climb, a voice boomed: "Please get off my neck. The ladder is for technical personnel only. It's off limits for humans. There should be a sign. There used to be a sign." Seyma slid down the ladder and neared the Godcollarbone. "Hello?" she said. Far above, something moved. Big stone lips and two nostrils appeared in the sky. The nostrils, Seyma saw, were the source of the strong winds she had encountered during her ascent. "Speak, if you must," the booming voice said. "I am Seyma of Nosurname and I am here to tell a sad story." "I am the Godhead, summit of the Godstatue," said the Godhead. "I will listen. But tell me, Seyma, is your story truly miserable?" "I believe it is." "Is it more miserable than the story told by the last storyteller who came this way?" "I'm not sure, Mr Godhead. I don't know that story, but I can assure you that the one I'll tell is the most horrible, miserable and woeful one I've ever heard." "You're young for a human, aren't you?" asked the Godhead. "I am," said Seyma. "In my divine experience, young humans are not nearly as miserably-minded as old ones." "In my defense, I am an orphan, Mr Godhead." "Anyway, proceed." "Once upon a time, in a land far below, parentless and alone, in a great dustbowl of a world, there lived a girl—" "If I may interrupt," the Godhead said. "I have a question. Is this the first story you have ever told?" "Yes, Mr Godhead." She began— "If I may interrupt once more, to ask a follow-up question. Is your story about you?" This caught Seyma off guard, and for a second she panicked, wondering whether she had misunderstood the nature of her inner voice, her narrative voice, and if that voice was not in fact the voice of the Godhead which had infiltrated her mind. "It is," she said. "How did you know?" "I may answer that in two ways. First, I am the Godhead, so I can know all. Second, I have listened to an eternity of stories, and that experience has allowed me to formulate several critical opinions, one of which is that first-time storytellers often tell stories about themselves. These stories are boring and terrible and no one should listen to them. They are miserable," said the Godhead, "in all the wrong ways." Seyma did not know how to respond. The fate of her people depended on her, but she had indeed decided to tell a tale about herself. "Should I continue, Mr Godhead?" "If you must." "I feel I do must continue," she said, refocusing and taking a deep breath. "As I was saying: Once upon a time, in a land far below—" "One final interruption," said the Godhead. "For my own records, if nothing else. What, human child, did you say your name was?" "Seyma." "Your full name." "Seyma of Nosurname." The Godhead paused, emitting no sound and ceasing its breath-wind, before two orbal eyes emerged in the sky above its godly lips and celestial nostrils. They squinted. They blinked. "And you say you are an orphan?" "I am, Mr Godhead.” “An orphan… of Nosurname?” “Yes.” There began now a tremendously deep rumbling. “Orphan Seyma. Orphan Seyma of Nosurname.” The rumbling deepend. It felt like all of existence had begun to vibrate. “Seyma of no surname. No surname, an orphan,” the Godhead said, his booming voice inflected with a hint of bounce. “Oh, that’s good. That is very good!” Seyma stood motionless, staring up at the face in the sky. Its eyes had closed, its lips had curved into a smile, and the rumble had become a chuckle, a divine, omniscient giggling-to-a-guffaw become an all-out boisterous laugh, which was awful and infectious, and Seyma too joined in the laughter. Until from one of the Godhead’s eyes, there escaped: a solitary tear. Seyma watched in wonder as it flowed toward the corner of the eye, and fell— I’ve done it, she thought. And not only that. The first teardrop was only the beginning. Soon, tear after tear was flowing from the Godhead’s eye and raining on the world below, her people’s world, the parched world from where even the drought bunnies had sought escape. If only she could have seen the expressions on their faces. It is difficult to say for how long they laughed together, the girl and the Godhead, but I am sure it was a long time, and after the laughter had passed, the Godhead said, “Seyma, it has been an eon since I have heard a joke. I must say, it has been a pleasure to experience one again, and I thank you for delivering to me such a precious gift.” “You are welcome, Mr Godhead,” said Seyma. “Go now, but promise you shall visit again some day, with another joke to share.” Seyma promised. Smiling, she turned, walked the winding footpath to the Godshoulder, and happily began her descent down the Godstatue. She passed the troll bridge, the place of the winds, Uberlute Sadbard sitting darkly on his bench, and the spot where the featherless bird had exploded, which had retained the faint smell of blood. It wasn’t until she was several hundred steps below, however, that a horrible tremor passed through her because: rather than diminishing, the smell of blood had intensified. She paused for a moment, sniffed the air and listened. She was not far from the ground, and certain sounds wafted gently into her ears: screams, mumbled pleas, the breaking of bones, the snapping of things human and sinewy… She sped up. Leaping rather than walking, steps at a time. When she reached the surface of the world, she noticed at once that it was different than she remembered. Where the land had been dry and barren, it was now verdant and overgrown. Where it had been dusty, it was damp. Grasses had grown taller than she. Trees had gnarled into foreboding, serpentine shapes. And the stench of blood was undeniable. Even before reaching the entrance to her village, she splashed through puddles of it, marking her legs with crimson, and the sounds only grew louder in voices more familiar. She called out all the names she knew. She called out for anyone, but nobody answered. There was only the breaking and the snapping, the crunching and the chewing, her breathing and— The bunny stepped into her path— She slid, into a tumbled halt. It was a hundred feet tall and porous, a biological framework of bone interwoven with strings of pale flesh and wet vines, sprouting varicoloured flowers and tufts of white fur, and in its belly, which writhed like worms, she saw the remains of Popsmoll Wrencod. The bunny perceived her with its charcoal eyes. From within it, the half-digested remains of Popsmoll Wrencod gurgled like bubbles rising through a swamp of vomit. The bunny bared its teeth. Seyma ran! Past the bunny—toward the village, where with racing heart she witnessed: absolute devastation. Buildings lay as rubble. Bodies littered the once-peaceful streets. The surrounding fields, fertile with agitated vegetation, snarled and cursed, and silhouetted against the red and thundering sky loomed the bunnies. “Seyma…” The syllables of her own name startled her. “Seyma,” said the skinless face of a man pulling himself toward her. He had been halved. His legs were nowhere to be seen. “Seyma, run,” the man said, and as he neared her she recognised him as the Chief. “A terrible… has happened. The worst…” “I don’t understand,” said Seyma, crouching. “Flee.” “I made the Godstatue cry. I ascended to the summit and I made him laugh and—” “It was… you?” “Yes!” The Chief’s upper body lunged. He grabbed her leg, bit her ankle. She kicked him off, and backed away. “What’s happened?” “Tears of mirth… are not tears of sorrow…” “I thought—” Seyma said. “You have damned us all!” At those words the Chief’s upper body expired, and Seyma collapsed in dreadful comprehension to the saturated ground, on which violently sprouting blades of grass cut at her skin, releasing her tragic essence into the soil,” concluded Uberlute Sadbard while peeking up at the Godhead’s features, trying to gauge its reaction. There was none. He prayed that he hadn’t bored the Godhead to death. “Godhead?” he called out. Nothing. “...releasing her tragic essence into the soil,” he repeated, with a little more oomph at the end. The Godhead stirred. “Mmm, yes. I mean, are you finished?” “I…” “It’s quite alright if you’re finished, you know.” “Are you—on the edge of tears?” “Well, to be truthful, I may have dozed off somewhere in the middle, but I did catch the beginning, and now you’ve also given me the end, her tragic essence oozed out into the mud and so forth, so the second act is easily implied.” “And… ?” “It’s no Klionimini by Harpschordian, but that perhaps is too high a bar.” “I see,” said Uberlute Sadbard. “The obstacles were overcome a little easily, wouldn’t you say? They were a smidgeon too symbolic as well, but as a symbol myself I may be oversensitive. The girl lacked a certain cohesion of character. Another draft may have been in order before you came all the way up here. I mean, I don’t see how a girl could have bettered an experienced and titled troll in a contest of verbal wit, no matter how much culture she would have consumed in her short life, not to mention that the troll himself is, I think we can agree, a lazy trope. Also, in the end there, you really let yourself go in the telling. There’s style, and then there’s *that*. I felt as if the tragedy were being pushed onto me.” “As if you were pushing the tragedy onto me.” “Excuse me?” “You used the passive voice. It would have been better in the active voice.” “Are you critiquing my critique?” “My sincere apologies. Sometimes my inner editor comes out when I’m interacting with others.” “That’s a laugh a half, because based on your story I wouldn’t have imagined you have much of an inner editor.” “Funny.” “It was, wasn’t it?” “Just don’t cry. I might be able to deal with my friends and family starving to death, but I wouldn’t be able to deal with their being mauled by rabbits.” “Bunnies.” “Whatever they are.” “You know that’s not actually what happens—when I laugh, I mean.” “Yeah? It’s what our legends say. Tears of mirth lead to complete annihilation by unbound planetary fertility and mutated drought bunnies.” “No—that part is surprisingly accurate. Pat on the back for that. What I meant is that laughing doesn’t make me cry.” “So where do you get tears of mirth?” “Oh, dear me, that is a real inconsistency, isn’t it?” “Fat amount of luck it does me.” “Yes, don’t worry too much about it. It doesn’t really matter, and I could always say I cry at weddings, couldn’t I?” “You’re asking me?” “I’m being polite. I’m the Godhead, I can do and say whatever I like.” “Are there other Godheads?” “No, just me.” “Are you married?” “To what: a human, a rocking chair, a mountain chain?” “So at whose wedding would you cry?” “I see you’re still poking at this. Not yours. All your potential human mates are about to starve to death in an arid world of dust and desolation.” The Godhead chuckled. “That’s not funny,” said Uberlute Sadbard. “It’s even rather sad, if you think about it.” *Fuck*, thought Uberlute Sadbard, raising his face from his hands. *That’s what I should have fucking said. I went too personal, with the innocence and the girl, when I should have gone cosmic, with the death of humanity. That’s the real tragedy. Now I’m stuck here on this cold, uncomfortable metal bench, eating that stupid black fruit, which doesn’t even taste that good, while my world turns to dust and I’ll never see anyone again. I’m such a stupid fucking failure.* A featherless bird landed on the stupid black fruit tree. “At least you’re still alive,” it squawked. “You again? I thought I had gotten rid of you.” “You did, but I got reborn.” “Good for you.” “I always get reborn. It comes with the territory. I wouldn’t be much of an obstacle otherwise. The first storyteller to make the climb would make me go *poof* and that’d be that.” “Has anyone ever turned back just because you told them to?” “Once or—well, once. A few minutes ago. Some little girl came up and I started squawking at her, you know the schtick, well, she got really, really sad and started to cry, then turned around and ran back down the stairs.” “Seyma?” “Speak to me in bird level words.” “The girl—was her name Seyma of Nosurname?” “How would I know?” Uberlute Sadbard leapt suddenly off the bench, to his aching feet! The bird squawked. “Goin’ somewhere?” But he was already running down the staircase, chasing after the girl. Maybe he didn’t have the storytelling chops to save the world. Maybe he wasn’t a literary giant. “Seyma!” he yelled. “Seyma, stop!” But there was no reason why Seyma of Nosurname, a character he fucking created, should have to suffer twice, first in his lousy story and now again in the real world. “Seyma, for the love of Godhead, don’t go down there!” Don’t worry. Uberlute Sadbard didn’t subsequently trip over his own feet (although I argue that he *could* have, because I did hint at the possibility with the *aching* bit), break his neck, and fail to save his character, who, despite lacking consistency, did later become a beloved creation of his. No! What happened was this: he raced down the stairs at a much greater speed than Seyma, probably on account of his longer, adult legs and renewed sense of purpose, met her on the penultimate step, and saved her life; discovering in the process that something inside of himself which makes every human special, and every human life invaluable: that inextinguishable spark of divine potential that not even a Godhead and his damnation can extinguish, a spark so powerful it made Uberlute Sadbard the first person to ever slump onto the Bench of Dejection (note the proper capitalisation)—and rise from it! It quivered. The Godhead’s mouth quivered. That’s when I knew I had him. The set-up, the middle, the twist ending. Plus the coup de grace: Thematic: Re-[fucking]-demption! “Damn you, Harpsichordion,” the Godhead said, its tears beginning slowly to trickle. “You get me every time. Every single time I think, No, he won’t do it. He can’t. I’ve already heard Klionimini, and nothing can top the betrayal scene in that. Yet here we are—” The Godhead blew its nose. “—and you’ve, mmm, you’ve outdone… yourself once again, and I, mmm, I just can’t handle it, you know? Your stories, the way you tell them, I just…” At this point, the Godhead’s speech became a sob-logged babble that I couldn’t understand, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I descended the Godstatue in a triumphantly woeful rain that replenished the soil, saved the world, and earned me another round of accolades. *Deserved* accolades, I might add, because you have to acknowledge your own worth. If you’re great, you’re great, and pretending otherwise is mere ostentation. Unfortunately, there was one small hiccup. It turns out that while tears of mirth are unlike tears of sorrow, the interpretation of legends is not an exact science, and you shouldn’t take everything literally, so while the Godhead’s tears did replenish the soil and save the world, you really shouldn’t get *any* kind of tears on a drought bunny unless you want it to morph into a hideous man-eating monster. The way I see it, though, the blame isn’t totally my own. The bunnies fucked up by losing their faith in me and coming out of their holes when they totally should not have done that. I maybe fucked up by waiting too long to compose this story and make my way up the Godstatue. If I’d done it earlier, the bunnies would have been underground, we would have survived, and you would have gotten a happier ending. C’est life, right? Oh, and please excuse the absurd length of this final paragraph and any spelling mistakes. It’s dark here in the drought bunny’s belly, its stomach juices are melting my organs and I’m writing through sincerely agonising pain. But as a wise man once said, we write to the bitter end. I’m dying now. Farewell. P.S. It was me. I said the *bitter end* thing in Klionimini. Deep breath, and goodbye for real. (I have no lungs.