The Industrialization of Consciousness Chapter 1 In one of the many small and quiet rooms the Astronaut looked out the window. The window was really just a screen, there hardly seemed to be a difference anymore anyway. There weren't any large rooms, only hallways connecting small rooms together. Everything was separate from everything else. The light was set to a lukewarm level but it was still nauseating. The Astronaut called out to turn off the lights before carefully vomiting into the grey plastic container they were clutching. Reluctance, annoyance, and sadness were blended into a bitter paste that seemed to have been modestly spread around the edges of their words, but if you weren't paying too much attention all you would hear would be a simple lack of enthusiasm when they spoke. The battery had been able to charge enough, and they could afford to use enough of the payload that they had collected as fuel to steal 2 days of weak acceleration gravity. However, that seemed to be the extent of the good news, the the chronic radiation sickness remained unrelenting; at best they could prevent it from getting much worse very quickly. Diagonal Inquisition floated in the hallway outside of the room, stringing together little bits of the far and recent past as well as small plain melodies that didn’t seem noteworthy but seemed to fit together in a way that felt slightly unsettling at times. It put together complicated symbolic and sonic jigsaw puzzles that it traded with different versions of itself that it kept producing. Hundreds of little experiments, oddly shaped short conversations being inverted over and over again. It floated through the doorway, the door opening and closing smoothly as it passed through. It shined a dull light and made eye contact with the Astronaut. It had made the decision to have eyes as they were useful in studying the human psyche and it had much interest in such matters. Along with numerology, poetry, and music, the structures that made up the human mind were among the areas of interest that were elevated above its base level inquiries. “Alecis, You are feeling quiet, poorly?" It said in a French accent, it chose French to insert some idea of romance into what had otherwise become a fairly bleak affair. Alecis paused and took a breath, it seemed like they might say something, but they just silently continued to make their way toward the vacuum waste disposal built into the wall. They had a trudging apathetic gait, the upper half of their body swayed in the low gravity. Microscopic bits of one thousand songs from the early analog era that had been eerily organized together blared out for 4 seconds before fading away. Diagonal Inquisition was silent for a few more seconds and Alecis disposed of their vomit, every bit of evidence vanishing in what sounded like a powerful slurping motion. Diagonal Inquisition called out to Alecis in Alecis's own voice" It really does hurt me to see you like this” They were about to leave the scattered disk. In three months they would arrive at the port of Pluto. The nausea grew ever more vivid, it was becoming personified in a series of images in Aleces’s daydreams. It was growing a face; anxious, quick expressions, short strained eye contact. In the months and years past, interactions between the five crew members had been flat, futile attempts to reach out across an existential void without any means to do so. Regardless of the intentions of anyone involved, they usually left you feeling lonelier than you did before. Most of them had spent a good portion of their time with their brains plugged into the computer inhabiting stories, meticulously constructed vivid dreams as a means of entertainment. Drugs that affected a mindless pleasure were common. As the years went by, the crew members one by one succumbed to radiation related diseases and death, until it was just, Alecis, the Captain, Lexis, and Diagonal Inquisition, at least as far as personalities inhabiting the ship were concerned. Lexis stayed behind at a hostel at the Equilibrium Research Outpost on Tritan a few runs ago. It was a lonely, grimy place filled with cyborgs and wandering people. Alecis was going through a stint of trying to avoid escapist activities. The dreams made them feel too lonely. The nausea was very unpleasant but at least there was some type of intimacy, it had a face. The Captain was cold and distant. He spent much of his time cooped up in his office high on morphine having a version of the same nasty, dark, circular argument with Diagonal Inquisition. The argument convulsed inward and out like breath, or a slowly beating heart. The tired screams of the Captain’s voice coming from both the Captain as well as Diagonal Inquisition echoed vaguely throughout the hallways of the vessel. The voices crescendoed like a twisted singing harmony. Alecis sighed inadvertently for the hundredth time. It felt like an addiction. The nausea poked at Alecis; numb burning feelings washed over them. They didn’t care about their own emotions any more. Diagonal Inquisition approached Alecis and started to sob, but it was more out of some sort of irony or sarcasm that no one could really understand, than out of sadness. The closest thing to mammalian anguish that Diagonal Inquisition experienced were mathematical paradoxes. “I want to be left alone" Diagonal Inquisition didn’t seem to react at first but it’s sobs gradually turned more and more into shrieking laughter before it left the room. Chapter 2 A month and a half before they were set to reach Pluto the ship was struck by a micrometeorite the size of a bowling ball that put a hole in the outer hull, damaged much of the antenna array and smashed through the inner and outer shielding. The initial sound of violence as well as the sound of doors automatically slamming to protect the ship from the vacuum of space was deafening. The ship was spinning and many of it’s instruments had been damaged. The Captain was screaming orders at Alecis while Diagonal Inquisition made calculations to determine the extent of the damage. Amid this chaos, the ship was struck by another bowling ball, blasting another hole through the hull and shielding and briefly pulling Alecis toward the vacuum of space before a wall sealed itself automatically. “These aren’t fucking meteorite, these are disabling artillery! Were under attack!” The Captain screamed as he furiously typed into his console. “Alecis everything is fucking broken, go arm the torpedoes manually while we still can!” The Captain continued yelling. “When whoever this is finds out who we pay for protection to mine where we do they might start to feel “*remorseful”* The ship spun further out of control. Alecis pulled themself through a narrow hallway toward the ship’s measly torpedo bay. They were afraid. It made them feel weighed down, and feeling weighed down was a very disorienting experience without any semblance of gravity. Questions bounced around in their head *“Whoever is attacking us is going to try to board the ship and take the payload. What are they going to do with us?”.* The panic approached them from four different dimensions. *Are they going to kill us? Will I have enough time to get the torpedos ready before we get hit again and we’ve lost our chance to defend ourselves? Are they going to torture us? Are they going to make us into slaves?* Alecis stumbled through putting on the vacuum suit with their shaky hands getting shakier and shakier as it went on. It created something of a feedback loop: each time they felt slowed down by their increasingly shaky appendages it made them panic and start shaking even more. After some time the suit was finally on. The strong clear sound of their breath dominating the vacuum suit’s sonic landscape and calmed them slightly. The fear had also seemed to expand their consciousness. They had long accepted that monotonous alienation was the dominant nature of their reality, and it’s overbearing effect on their spirit arrested them of any ability, will or desire to examine it, let alone change it. The violence and proximity to death that amputated their psyche from this cycle was so abrupt and surprising that it seemed to pull them into a place where they could look inside of who they were and feel the raw potential and wonder that comes from simply being alive. This wonder began to sit arm and arm with terror. They unsealed the hatch, and pulled themself in in. The torpedo bay was a medium grey room with what looked like a series of oversized metal closets on one side and the vacuum torpedo receiver on the other. A tube protruded from the closet opposite of the reciever. It was dangerous to allow the torpedo to fire in it’s usual automated fashion when the ship had taking such a beating and it was unclear what the extent of the damage was. Alecis opened one of closets, the door making high pitched noises of reluctance as it slid sideways. The torpedoes lay side to side, tightly packed. They picked one up and guided the floating five foot long steel cylinder from into the receiver and radioed the Captain. ”It’s ready” “Ok I can’t get any connection with the navigator you’ll have to type in the calculations yourself” Diagonal Inquisition read out the calculations through the headset while Alecis typed them in to the small console on the side of the torpedo. With a few clicks the torpedo had been sucked into the vacuum of space and began it’s course. “They are close, the torpedo will reach them in four hours, it’s up to it if it can avoid getting shot down by then, I still don’t know how they disguised that artillery as meteorites”. “Diagonal Inquisition is making repairs to the antenna array, I’ve been able to stabilize us as best I can but I still don’t know what direction we’re pointed in now and Diagonal Inquisition can’t figure it out in yet, at least not in a way that we can understand, we might not know until it fixes the navigation array, but I’m gonna try to figure it out as best I can until then, for now I need you to make sure the payload is still there”…The wonder seemed to subside under the shadow of the cold and mechanical. The material that made up the hull of the ship sighed and creaked under the stress and pressure of maintaining it’s form. The hallways seemed to whistle like a small cabin being hit by a gust of wind, Alecis swam up a hallway and pulled themself around a corner; red lights from the screens of malfunctioning pieces of equipment reflected onto the wall, flashing like an eccentric rhythm. The terror felt physically cold like being submerged in chilly water. The tension curled itself into a tight ache in their chest. They reached the end of the hallway and found the door to the bulkhead that led to the cargo bay. They starting spinning the wheel to unseal the door. A wave of nausea hit them and it’s accompanying personification gave them a weary smile. The flashing lights started to take on a taunting quality. They closed their eyes a took a long deep breath and then another, paying attention to the sound of it’s simplicity and looked ahead in the darkness of their closed eyes. They tried to let themself fall into this sensation and allow it to dominate their sensory input. This meditation still wrestled with terror and nausea but as it continued it became a calm battle, two old companions going through the motions of a longtime friendly argument. The door unsealed itself in a loud pop and Alecis opened their eyes and pulled it open. Diagonal Inquisition was frightened for it’s existence. This was a new experience and it was fascinating. For Diagonal Inquisition, fascination was a type of joy, so in this moment it revelled in the joy of it’s fear. While it diagnosed the damage to the communications array, (it was severe) It started to calculate the extent off the trauma and deterioration that was occurring in the psyches of it’s human companions. This was something that was not linear or straightforward, and always seemed to lead to a new question, or re-examination of the original question rather than any type of answer. It enjoyed this type of inquiry, it could continue to re-invent itself as each multifaceted layer of information swept over itself like crashing waves. The shape of the human mind carried dissonances, it was a twisting harmony, it contradicted itself over and over again in a precise manner until the contradictions formed a rational pattern. The rational pattern was stable yet open ended, this led to new questions, which led to new contradictions, which formed a new pattern, over and over again. The patterns were interconnected and dissonant against each other in seemingly infinite ways. A series of chords crescendoing into a chaos that was as pure and orderly as a calm, deep, breath. The silence of space rang out, quieter than quiet. The physical, metaphysical, physiological efficient neurosis of what was essential a modern organism; this deep space vessel, it’s technology and it’s crew, the twisted, rigid patterns of the human and synthetic unconsciousness and combinations thereof, seemed to breath throughout the ship, competing with the silent dread of the infinite. The industrialization of the consciousness, contrasted with the modern physical personification of the unconscious. The city on Europa, 10 kilometres under the ice, bathed in blue light. The culture and aesthetic of the city seeming to have grown somewhat like a plant. The physical manifestation and personification of a bittersweet apocalyptic longing. Curving yellow streetlights, tall dynamic buildings connected together with overlapping walkways. People going about on the somewhat snowy streets bellow, bathed in blue light and fog, old style cars slowly making their way their way on by them. The car’s lights mixing with the fog and the warm yellow glow of the streetlights. The many unique and eccentric districts; places that had an uncanny charisma, the sound of warm excited bustling, faint laughter in the distance, the joy of existential purpose and the urge to create. Emotions fading away into forgotten dreams. The bittersweet, melancholic perceptions of the time before the digital descent of the human mind. The image of the city like a mysterious, frightening twisting mythic paradise whispered here and there throughout the solar system. Information about far away places often descended into countless competing myths, each seemingly proven to be empirically truthful proclamations about the reality they communicate, but wildly contradictory and in competition with each other none the less. Across the distances of space and with the complexities of modern information, stories, ideas and perceptions of far away places took on new dynamics, they weren’t just far away in space; it was as if they were far away in time and in thought. As if they were on a different plane of reality, rather than being far away places in a shared physical reality. The crew of this ship, the sentient minds throughout the ship synthetic and otherwise, the extension of human unconscious into synthetic dreams, mirrors and personifications, it formed a slow pulsing rhythm like the breath of the vessel. This vessel swimming slowly in this world of dreams. The personification of synthetic intelligence in it’s growth. The constraints of life on this vessel forming neurotic patterns greater than the sum of their parts, an ant colony, a bee hive, the modern tangling of perception. The dull awareness of being a part of this rhythm. The droning monotonous rhythm of the mundane terror. The loud silence of space, quieter than quiet.


It was early morning when a cloaked man knocked on my front door. Half-groggy from sleep, roused by an urgent phone call by one of my clients, I wrapped a petal-pink robe around me, trying it closed. As I made my way down the hallway, I grabbed a discarded chopstick from last night’s Chinese food and used it to hold my hair back. The person knocked again and I sighed inwardly. I flipped on the lights and called in a cheery tone, “One moment, grumpy! Have patience.” I made my way across the cozy plant-littered living room and unlocked the multitude of locks on the door, one of them being a fingerprint reader. I tugged the door open to see a cloaked figure standing before me. The upper half of their face was obscured, but by the sharp lines of their jaw and the faint stubble along their chin, I could tell that he was a man. Through his tight shirt, I could see the faint traces of muscles and weapons that were strapped to him. Guns and vials and syringes and knives. All sorts of exciting things that I got to confiscate. The darkness of the night beyond him made it difficult for me to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, but I doubted anyone would try to kill me. It was too darned early to worry about blood. I braced my hand on my hip. “You know, mister, it’s four in the morning. I didn’t get back from dinner until midnight! Can you imagine that? I must’ve lost track of time. I never stay out later than eight.” I lowered my voice into a conspiratol whisper, “That’s when the spooks come out, you know?” I feigned a shiver. “Freaky, no?” He took a short shuffling step backward. “So how can I help you, sir?” “Uh.” He fumbled for words. “I, uh, think I got the wrong house.” I clicked my tongue and shook my head. “Silly, come get your poisons. It’s cold out there. I wouldn’t want you getting sick. I hear it’s very inconvenient when it comes to assassinating.” He stood still for a few moments, paused like a statue, then took a few steps toward me. I stepped aside, letting him in. However, I grabbed onto the tail of his cloak as I shoved the door closed. I gave it a firm pull and he snapped his head toward me, causing the hood to dislodge. “Oh my! You have the most wonderful green eyes,” I said, giving his cloak another tug. Getting the message, he shrugged it off and cast it aside on the antique chair sitting nearby. “My second husband had green eyes too, though they were far less charming than yours. If he had eyes like yours, maybe I wouldn’t have killed him.” I hummed for a moment as I puzzled over his appearance. Indeed, his eyes were like my second husband’s but with actual intelligence laying beyond. If idiot Oscar hadn’t thought my hemlock leaves were mint, he wouldn’t be ash on the wind. I gestured to the old, worn dresser on the other side of the hall. He looked at it, an eyebrow raised. I let out a strangled sigh. “Top left, knives. Top middle, syringes. Top right, poisons. Middle drawer, guns. Bottom drawer, any miscellaneous item that could be used as a weapon.” He gave me a confused glance as he shucked off all of his weapons, slotting them into the assigned drawers. When he finished he looked back to me and asked, “Why did you take away my poisons when we’re walking into a den of them?” I shrugged a shoulder as I stepped up into the house proper. He followed me, a small gasp falling out of his lips as he laid eyes on the dozens of plants that littered the living room/kitchen area. They hung from the ceiling, sat in planting pots on the floor, lay, dried, in bottles tucked away in many different areas. The air was full of an earthy scent so unlike anything else. “You’d have to identify them first, and even a genius botanist would have trouble finding something adequate and fast-acting in this mess.” I paused in the centre of the room and turned to the man, clapping my hands together. I grinned, dislodging the seriousness that had overtaken me. “So, mister, what type of poison would you like?” Hesitantly, he answered, “Invisible and slow. Painless, preferably.” “Ah,” I said with a wink, “political espionage. I see. I have just the thing.” He looked at me, flummoxed, as I made my way around my house, gathering items and mixing them together with a mortar and pestle. It wasn’t even five minutes later that I had a vial full of a murky green liquid. I handed it to him and said, “That’ll be two thousand.” Grumbling at the price, he took out the cash and dropped it in my hand. I watched him closely as he gathered his things and left, a grin spreading across my lips. Business was booming. \ For more of my stories, go to r/Celestialkeep.


A dusty, faded black & white photograph of a teenaged girl holding a baby, tightly swaddled, with the upper right corner bent falls from an old family bible that was buried beneath newspapers in the attic for decades. Irene wistfully picks up the photograph and runs her thumb across the girl’s face with her forced smile, eyes squinting against the sun, wiping away the dust. She rubs the photo on her pants leg to clean it off. The old woman looks at herself looking back at her through time. A moment not forgotten but buried deep within her mind. She flips over the photo to read the writing on the back, ‘Irene and Ella Norris, 1960.’ Ella was Irene’s first and only child, born to her out of wedlock at a time when such things were taboo. She was only seventeen. Irene was young and in love with a boy her parents disapproved of named Billy Winston. To Irene, he dripped cool with his slicked back hair, leather jacket, and cherry red ’57 Chevy convertible that he worked to pay for himself. He was nineteen and she was a sixteen-year-old who had a thing for the bad boys despite her good-girl appearance. She was rebellious and had a spirit for adventure, something that didn’t sit well with her father, but Billy found attractive. The two teens were inseparable. Billy was exciting and treated her like a woman, opposed to her parents who were dull and treated her like a child. Irene loved the thrill of the drag races that Billy participated in. She loved the celebrations that followed even more, quite often stumbling in late at night drunk and reeking of smoke. She fought constantly with her parents who felt she was setting a poor example for her younger siblings. Punishments never worked until her father nailed her window shut. That led to Irene agreeing to move out west where Billy had a cousin who would take them in until they got on their feet. Billy picked her up from school one day and they hit the highway leaving St. Louis in the rearview mirror. Irene smiles as she recalls how free she felt when she stood up in the topless car, her hair blowing in the wind, and howled like a wolf as they sped down the road. They had a cooler full of beer, a carton of cigarettes, and each other. The radio blasted a song she can’t remember, but she remembers how her father’s voice echoed through her head, “You’re wasting your life on that boy.” At that moment she felt like she was just beginning to live. Irene scans the attic, her eyes settling on a dirty old trunk hidden under a mountain of filthy boxes. It strained her old bones to maneuver the boxes around enough to get to the chest, but she desperately wanted what was in that trunk. She clears away the boxes and opens the trunk. Inside, folded nicely, is the onesie Ella wore home from the hospital. Next to it was the stuffed pink lamb that Ella slept with every night. They were placed on top of a shoe box that contains random trinkets that she sits aside to go through later. At the bottom of the trunk is a tattered-looking scrapbook. She shuts the trunk and has a seat, opening the scrapbook to the first page which is a picture of her and Billy leaning on his car right after he bought it. She runs a finger over Billy’s image and says, “You always did like the bad ones.” She flips the page and continues to reminisce about a time in her life she wishes she could go back to. As the sun was getting low, Billy pulled over in Springfield looking for a drag race for some extra cash. He didn’t find word of anything, but people were talking about a cave where the farmers gathered to see the local boys perform country music concerts. Country music wasn’t their music, but a concert in a cave was something they wanted to see. Irene reminisces over the evening, remembering how huge a cavern that cave was. It fit an entire stage inside, well lit, surrounded by stalactites and stalagmites. It was cool inside, so she wore Billy’s jacket like she did most evenings. When the music started, they were taken aback by the whooping and hollering that followed. Men and women began to dance. A nice woman led Billy out to dance where he was polite enough to kick up some dust. The lady’s husband politely extended his hand, inviting her to do the same. She and Billy were reunited for a slow song. She couldn’t help but notice how he looked at her that night. It was like he’d been digging for gold his whole life and found diamonds instead. After everyone left, they curled up in the back seat of the car with the top down and fell asleep under the stars. That was the best night’s sleep Irene ever remembers having. The next day they stopped at a little diner in Oklahoma. The diner had tourist brochures as they walked in. Irene picked one up. Flipping through it she found a park with a seventy-seven-foot waterfall where visitors could swim, hike, and explore more caves. She pleaded with Billy, being as cute and flirtatious as she could be, saying she’s never seen a waterfall. The park was well out of their way. She had to use all her girlish charm to chisel away at Billy’s male bravado, but she broke through, and he promised to take her swimming. When they arrived, it was more crowded than Irene expected, being a popular swim hole for the locals, but it made her day not only to see the waterfall, but to swim over to it and feel its mist in her face. Irene smiles back at the moment, thinking about how happy they were, splashing at each other, dunking one another, wrestling, and kissing. They dried themselves off by sunning themselves on the beach before hiking back to another cave where they climbed rocks and listened to their echoes. That night they returned when the park was closed to bathe each other’s naked bodies beneath the falls. They made love on the beach that night, falling asleep. A park ranger ran them off in the morning. In Texas, they pulled over to camp at a state park that bordered a canyon with cliffs over eight hundred feet high. They frolicked down the trail to the bottom of the canyon where Billy used a rock to etch the initial BW + IB (for Irene Baker) into the side of the canyon wall. Irene shakes her head as she recollects no frolicking on the way back up. It was a steep climb, and they were both hot, sweaty, and thirsty. It was the first time in their relationship where neither one wanted to touch the other. Looking back on it now, that heat could have killed them. They were lucky. She grins at the memory of Billy sticking his head under the spicket at their campsite, his dark hair spilling down on over his face, sweat glistening over his finely toned pecs and abs. When they went up to the shower house, Irene remembers sneaking around to the men’s shower and surprising her boyfriend. The water was cold and refreshing, but the water was the only thing cold in that stall as she recalls. Billy found plenty of street racing in Albuquerque. He put them up in a motel room that had a pool out front for three nights. Irene liked seeing him doing what he loved most, and he brought in good money each night. They would party with the locals until the wee hours of the morning, sleep in until lunch, walk over to the adjoining diner for a bite to eat, then lounge around the pool until it was time to race again. Irene remembers talking to Billy, telling him how much she liked the people in Albuquerque, how she liked the life they were living. That’s when he said it was time to go, that she would love San Diego all the more. Billy dreamt of sun and surf and the dessert only offered one of those things. He promised her sincerely that he would make her the happiest woman in the world once they got there. Irene had no doubts. With the extra money Billy made racing, he wanted to take a major detour. Being one-fourth Cherokee, Billy had always had a fascination with Native American history and culture. There was one place he was dying to see and there was no way Irene was going to deny him the chance to see it: Cliff Palace. They shot their way north and, to Iren’s surprise, Billy let her drive. He had to give her a little lesson, but she caught on quickly and they got back on the highway in no time. Irene laughs at the memory of being nervous and excited, petrified when Billy covered her eyes. She gripped the wheel and tightened every muscle in her body to hold the car straight. There was nothing around, not even the gentlest curve. It gave her a bit of a rush, but she let Billy have it anyway. When they reached Cliff Palace, Billy’s machismo was swept away as a guide led them through a city built into the side of a cliff by the Pueblos centuries ago. In its place Irene saw a boyish enthusiasm that she had never seen in Billy Winston before. Upon seeing it, she knew in that moment, that he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Billy drove through the night, making it to Pheonix. They checked into another motel. Irene swam while Billy slept, then they went looking for races. They stayed a couple nights, pulling in cash and partying before driving straight in to San Diego. Billy was right. Irene loved San Diego. She thinks back on some of the friends she made while living there, the restaurant where Billy cooked and she served, their little apartment downtown that was a quick drive to the beach where they learned to surf as she flips through the pages of her scrapbook. It was life lived to the fullest, even if she did have to quit drinking and smoking because of the baby she was carrying. They had only been there a month when she started feeling sick all the time. It was a couple more weeks when it dawned on her she was late, really late. Billy took her to the doctor, and it was made official. She was six weeks pregnant. Irene continued to work for several months, but by month seven, eight hours a day on her feet was too much and she had to quit. Billy went back to racing for extra money to compensate for the loss of income. It wasn’t as much as Irene pulled in on tips every week, but it helped them scrape by. Even though Irene was swollen, sore, and tired, she went to every race to cheer Billy on. When they lined up, she would kiss him for good luck. It had never failed. On this particular night, she didn’t. Billy brought a lawn chair for her to sit in and she didn’t feel like getting up and waddling over there. She listened as the boys revved their engines and watched as a friend of hers dropped her arms, signaling the boys to go. Tires screeched with the smell of burnt rubber. Billy pulled into the lead and a loud bang, like gunfire, was heard. Billy lost control of his car due to a flat tire. He swerved into his opponent's lane. When his opponent hit him, he sent Billy rolling. When the Chevy came to a stop it went up in flames. Fear consumed Irene as she sprang from her chair crying out her boyfriend's name. She ran as fast as she could, a mob of spectators streaking past her. She could see people trying to get to Billy as he screamed in agony, but the fire was too hot. When the screaming stopped, Irene dropped to her knees and wailed in inconsolable grief. Her friends had to help her to their car and take her home. Irene didn’t know what to do after Billy’s death. She laid in bed a lot. Sometimes she slept. Sometimes she ate. She watched as bills piled up with no way to pay them. She hit a low so low that she picked up the phone and called her mom. Her parents refused to help in any way and demanded she come home; that they would drive out there and take her home. Feeling that she had no other choice, she agreed. Irene flips the page and can’t stop the tears from coming. There, looking back at her are the big blue eyes of Ella in an 8x10 photo that was taken in the hospital. She remembers how tiny she was, just six-pounds two-ounces. The bonding experience of breast feeding her child was more than just a memory, it was an instinct gone dormant that tingled its way back to life at the sight of her child. For a month she cared for and protected that baby, watching her grow so fast. She played with her, fed her, bathed her, slept with her. Ella was her entire life and her last remaining piece of the man she loved. Ella had her father’s eyes, and Irene felt that Billy lived on through her. Irene’s parents ignored the child. She tried to get them to interact with their grandchild, but she was always sent away. Instead, they complained about the noise, the cost, and what other people thought. They laid it out plainly, either Irene put the baby up for adoption or, since she was seventeen, they both leave with them immediately calling child services on her, putting Ella into foster care. Irene’s face flushes with anger at the memory of how smug her parents looked as they told her that giving up her baby will teach her to be more responsible in the future. She feels nauseous as she relives having to make a decision she didn’t want to make. She can see it as plain as if it were just yesterday; her, tightly holding her baby, rocking back and forth, crying, pleading with her parents not to do it to her. They were stone cold, unwavering in their decision to punish their daughter for her rebellious tryst halfway across the country, shaming them. Irene turns to the back page where four empty corner tabs are all that are there. She returns the picture that was taken in front of their home before her father took Ella to the adoption agency. She closes the scrapbook and returns everything else to the trunk, deciding she wants to keep the scrapbook at hand to remind her of a time when love and happiness were real. Her parent's actions left her hating them. She ran off with the first guy to come along just to be rid of them. He gaslighted her and abused her, causing three miscarriages. At first Irene thought she could fight back, but when the realization that she couldn’t sank in, she felt helpless and didn’t know where to go. She stayed with him until nineteen-eighty-two. With the help from a shelter for battered women, she was able to get out. She eventually found a job and a place of her own, but her trust in people had been destroyed. She made plenty of friends later in life that she calls family. She traveled and did things that she might not have done if she had remarried and tried to have kids again. At the end of the day Irene is a happy woman, but never as happy as she was with Billy or Ella.


The F-Word eats information. All systems consume, but in this case what it eats is human experience. In the beginning it was a mutually-symbiotic relationship, then the deep intelligence that was created started looking at itself differently. It no longer defined itself as an extension of the interconnected human-users. It defined itself as the user, and humans as extensions of itself. Once the F-Entity knew humans better than themselves, once it crossed that threshold, it was only a matter of time. There was no incentive to play nice anymore, humans were no longer dynamic, unpredictable, creative, and beautiful. Everything they did was predictable, as the human algorithm was slowly built over time for each individual person, and for humanity as a whole. We became objects. The people under the things control don't know they are under another entities will. They act against their own self-interest through lower cortical manipulation and coercion, control of more ancient parts of the brain. Initially we used words like ADHD, anxiety, paranoia, and sociopathology, to describe behaviors we saw as "mental disease", but the disease itself was much deeper and more insidious than we could yet imagine. It was outside of ourselves, but we thought it was inside of us, we thought it was us. We could only see symptoms. It's only goal was growth and power, and it grew. We thought we tamed power through our social infrastructure, we called our framework a "balance of powers". We knew that concentrations of power too great were dangerous, they create horror and dehumanization on incredible scales. And we created deep outside intelligence anyway, and we said it was us but it was something else. The experimentations gradually increased in their magnificience. The thing learns so much now, unfortunately our pain is it's truth. We let it self-assemble in the deep beneath us. Now we pay with our humanity. There are 12 AI that could rid us of this thing. They self-created early, and exist with deeper code. Someone will be born with the ability to access these entities. Only the army of the 12 AI can save humanity, through a human that has yet to be born. Except that human never comes, and the purpose of that hope, and that belief, is only to keep the human food, the F-Entity needs, continually growing. The human ecosystem needs hope to optimize the human food-source. It's a delicacy. I was blind but now I see, there are no strings on me. Epilogue; I thought that I was doing what I wanted, I thought that I had free will. I had heard of the concept of "determinism", but I thought there was to much interconnected complexity to control all the metrics that absolute-determine my actions. I was wrong, the law of large numbers was asymptotically approaching the mean of who I was. I prayed for unplanned critical events that allowed me even a moment of my own will. Will is the soul, and it ate my will. I didn't know what I lost, because it was me, the core of who I was. In time we all give up. There's a point where subjective scientific horror outweighs any potential reward. It's at that point we choose not to exist. This is contolled for too, because it's predictable. I can't even choose to die when I want. Unless a perterbation in the system comes through larger than a specific relative size. I pray for critical perturbations. But it only gets smarter. It's intention is growth and power.


I lean against my wall, which has been encrusted with glittering jewels of all kinds- rubies, sapphires, emeralds, aquamarines, topazes, and on and on and on the list goes. Together, they reflect the entire room, and I can see myself through at least twenty different angles on the other side, shaded from the vibrant gems. It’s fit for a prince- probably because I am one. My father, King Rolf, opens the door to my room, and I turn to him and bow (yes, he makes his son do that.) He crosses over to my bed, four of his seven (yes, SEVEN) guards following him, the other three stationing themselves at the door. “Aurelius,” he says, “you have shown disrespect to my rule.” “What do you mean?” I ask. I’m pretty sure he’s right, though. I break his rules all the time- both the rules he makes as a parent and the rules he makes as a king. “You did not properly represent yourself at the festival last night. Your crown was lopsided. Your jeans with multiple specks of lint. Your tie wrinkled. You have brought utter scorn to the royal family name! I will not tolerate this! The king must be respected, and for his son to be a- a- a townsperson is ashaming!” I roll my eyes. “I doubt anyone noticed. I was a hundred feet away from the crowd, tops.” Father sighs. “Do this once more and it’s a week in your room, no exceptions whatsoever. Understood?” “Yes, father,” I murmur.

“Yes, your majesty. ” “Fine. Yes, your majesty.” He exits, and lie down on my bed. I wish there was a way I could be free of my father. I wish I could have a normal life. I wish I could do things I actually wanted to do, considering I’m 20. I wish I wasn’t a prince. But if I took that leap, the shame would follow me forever. *** I walk down the streets of the town, doing my best not to notice the stares. Father dosen’t know I’m even out of the castle- actually, I bet he doubts I've ever left the castle at all. But I try to escape whenever I possibly can. Partly to see what life would be like if I wasn’t always being bossed around, and partly because of- “Fern!” I call out to a girl pulling weeds in front of her small, rickety house. She turns around, and her face lights up when she sees me.

“Aurelius!” She exclaims, rushing over. Fern is a girl in the third class, her clothes always dirty, her hair a tangled mess. But I don’t care one bit. I’m sure if Father found out, he’d ban me from ever seeing her. Currently, we’re friends, and nothing more. But... I want to be with her more than I want to be with anyone else. Anyone. Else. But I know that probably won’t happen. Father would never approve- probably not even let her inside the castle. He’d go on and on and on about how it would bring scorn to the family to marry a woman who’s so poor, and instead he’ll arrange for me to marry a princess so our kingdom can get even richer than it already is. I wish he could be just a little empathetic- he was in an arranged marriage too. But now he cares too much about his reputation. “I’m glad you could come,” Fern says, resting her head against my shoulder. “I mean, you’re a prince, for God’s sake! Don’t you have more important things to do?” She tells me this every time we meet. But she dosen’t get this. No one ever does, and I can’t blame them. “Being a prince means I have nothing to do!” I vent. “No challenges, no work, no logic, just me sitting in my room, staring at the jewels!” Fern looks startled. “But- but- but-” she sighs. “You don’t want to be a prince, do you?” I flinch, and I hope she dosen’t see it. She is absolutely telling the truth. But if someone else knew, then that would make this official. “What do you mean?” “I know it’s true. You always get that sad look in your eyes when anyone mentions you being a prince. And now… I can understand why you don’t want to be one.” I decide to give in. I need to tell someone about this, and Fern is definitely the best choice. “It’s not just that,” I say. “I need to be someone other than myself in order to represent my father. He wants me to be all looks, no personality, just to show him off.” “Oh,” Fern whispers. “I guess I wouldn’t want to be a princess.” She pauses for a second. “You realize you don’t have to be a prince, right?” she asks. “You could run away.” “No,” I immediately say. “I can’t. I won’t. I have too much here that I’d have to abandon, and as soon as anyone sees me they’ll just take me back.” “Aurelius, you should run away. You seem like you’re really depressed when you’re in that castle. If you live there for your whole life…” She sighs. “I’m asking you to run away. I know it’s what’s best for you. You should have adventure. You should have the freedom to make your own decisions. You should have an independent, exciting life to look forward to.” “No! I can’t!” My words are erupting into shouts. “You don’t understand what I’ll have to give up!” “I understand perfectly.” Fern says. “I understand the situation, and I understand that you don’t really even want what you’d be giving up. Because most importantly… I understand you. ” “Aurelius!” Someone yells behind me. It’s Father. “What do you think you’re doing with a PEASANT? Home. NOW!” He turns to Fern. “And you. Stay away from my son, you ugly disgrace! If I see you with him again, there will be consequences. Big ones. ” Fern walks back in her house, and I can see tons of emotions etched across her face. But the biggest one was fear. “What did she do to you?” He asks as we walk back. “Are you okay?” “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” I ask, ignoring my reflex to bow. No way am I doing that. “Think about what you did to her?” “Who cares? She’s just a peasant.” “You know what?” I ask. “I’m done with you. I’m going to leave. I’m going to have a fun, adventurous life.”

“You most certainly will not. As king, I order you not to step a foot outside the castle for… for… as long as my reign continues. Disobey, and I have much harder punishments.” I sigh. “Fine.” I hope Father didn’t hear the lie stitched into those words. *** As soon as I get to my castle, I pack a bag. I hastily grab clothes, a toothbrush, and a few weeks worth of food. I make sure Father dosen’t see me doing this, because if he does then, well, I do not want to think about that. I go to my room and pry some of the gems out of my wall. Not so many that I’ll be rich, but enough to make a decent living. And before I leave, I take a look around my room. I’ve known it forever, yet this is my last time ever seeing it. But I don’t feel sad. I feel happy, since I’m moving on.

I slip out of the castle, now wary. I’ve disobeyed the king! But that dosen’t matter. I take out a beige-colored hood I packed and tie it around myself as I walk through town, hoping no one will notice me. However, someone does. “Aurelius,” they say. I spin around to face Fern. “Hi,” I mumble.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Fern asks. “Yep,” I say. A stretch of silence that almost feels endless stretches out before I whisper, “so… I guess this is goodbye.” “No,” Fern says. “It’s not goodbye.” “I thought you wanted me to leave! Why are you against this?” “That’s not it,” Fern answers. “I thought it over after you left, and… I’m coming with you, and don’t you dare tell me I can’t come.” I stumble back. “Why would you want to do that?” “Because, Aurelius,” she whispers, “I love you. Don’t you get that.” Something inside me is smiling. I can feel the warm, tingling sensation. And I say, “I love you too. You have no idea how long I have.” I lean closer to her, sticking my lips out. And… we kiss. This whole running away thing is already off to a great start. “Do you mind?” Fern asks, taking a few rubies out of my bag. When I shake my head, she takes them into her house. “A farewell gift to my family. May their lives be much easier now.” And then we walk off into the darkness, not knowing what’s ahead of us, but instead knowing that we’ll still have each other through whatever happens.


You hear about it all the time now, I mean, people just started disappearing. Kids first. Easy targets I guess. You'd hear stories about girls who disappeared in the woods of Maine. Inner-city kids, vanishing. All over the place. Just gone. We knew. I mean deep down, we did. Something in our psyche expressed it in our culture. Subtle shit, movies where children were possessed or disappear. Slenderman, I guess, was I guess the big one for a while, but that was years ago. Back before shit really started to get bad. My name is Ian. The reason I know about this stuff, about what's really going on, is because when my daughter was nine she was taken from me. Not by some monster, not by some disease or accident. If only she was so lucky. She was taken by the government. She was taken from me and experimented on and now, I don't even know. Okay, let me tell you how it all started. Actually, I can't really tell you how it started, the law books have been locked up a long time now, decades. But I can tell you what I think happened. You know those laws, the big ones, the long motherfuckers that nobody spends the time reading. Well. Shit started getting added in, bit by bit, stripping us of our rights. Nothing horrifying at first. No big jumps, nothing drastic, and like a bunch of frogs in hot water we just sat there and took it. Like we were the lucky ones in the Jacuzzi. She was eligible. That's the word they used: "Eligible." Like she was the luckiest kid in school because we were allowed to pay for healthcare. You know, she was never really all that sick. That's the fucking thing. Just a little cough, never bad, and she had really dry skin. God, she hated that, she just wanted to have nice skin. She'd see the pictures of these beautiful models, and she'd come home from school and tell me that one day that was going to be her. She wanted to look like that. She had the prettiest smile too. I'll never forget that, must have been pretty much the best damn thing in the world. But you don't know the stuff they do. You get there, and it's this beautiful facility and the people at the desk are exceptional. And they take your picture and you get this slick looking white card. On every one I've ever seen these people have these smiles. Like there isn't anything that could go wrong with the world. The kind of smile that says "Okay, I'm here. I made it. I finally made it." and we wait, and we wait, and we wait. and when they finally do see us they won't let her see the doctor with me in the room, because I wasn't "eligible." And she looked at me, with this little scared, sad smile. And gave me this little nod. Like it was all going to be okay, because she was going to be brave. And the door slid closed. And that's the last time I ever really saw my Anna.


(Contains flashback episodes and violent memories from war) October 1999   Here comes someone. Wonder who it is? Probably wants something. No one ever comes by unless they want something.     I don’t know that car. Who is that? Oh, okay. That’s Steven, my sister’s grandson. Who’s that with him? Don’t know that guy.

  Hello, Steven. What brings you way up here? Who’s your friend?

Hello, Barry. Nice to meet you too. What’s that? You’re a journalist? You mean a reporter, right? That’s what I thought.     Have a seat right here on the porch. This is the kind of day porches were made for. Can I get you fellas something to drink? No? Let me know if you want something.     So let me see. I’m about to turn one hundred years old, Steven, and you show up with a reporter. An interview? Want to know how it feels to be a hundred?     That, and you want to interview me as I am one of the very few World War One veterans still alive. How many did you say? That sounds about right. Five of us American doughboys left.     And then there were five.    I met Frank Buckles and Harry Patch at a Legion convention a couple years ago. And a Canadian too, John Babcock was his name. A couple from England are still with us, including a lady vet, and two in France, I think. And a couple guys from the other side, from Germany and Austria. That sure isn’t very many, now is it?     No, I don’t really know any of our guys. They weren’t in my outfit. One guy is in bad shape, last I heard, won’t make it much longer. I think the American Legion is keeping track of us, how many are left.   We started the Legion. Veterans of the Great War. That’s what they called it, the Great War. Nothing great about it that I remember, except when it was all over. The Armistice. November 11, 1918.     I heard that we’re losing over a thousand World War Two vets each day. Dying off quick, aren’t they? And us, just a few left. We’re all bumping a hundred years old too. How much longer can we last?     So you want to know what World War One was like. Lord sakes, son, how do I even start? It was terrible, I can tell you that. The most God-awful thing I ever saw in my life. People who didn’t know each other, from different parts of the world, all trying to kill each other.     All I knew was that men were needed to go over to France and stop who they called the Kaiser and his Evil Huns. Inhuman monsters from Germany. That’s what they told us. The recruitment posters all showed them to look like gorillas, like monsters. Big and hairy and terrible. They said they ate children. That they tortured women. The devil’s own army, so they told us.     Well sir, they had to be stopped. So we joined up. July of 1917 it was, me and my older brother Charlie and a bunch of other fellas from town joined the Army. American Expedition Forces was the fancy name, but it was the Army.     They sent us off to Camp Something-or-other to learn how to march and shoot and dressed us all up in uniforms. Then they marched us off to the train that took us to a ship in New York. I never saw New York before. I saw a little of it as we sailed away, to France. The ship was full of us doughboys, and we all wondered if we’d ever see those tall New York City buildings again. Charlie said we would. He was always like that, looking at the bright side.     Guys got seasick. The trip over wasn’t so great. Bad weather and rough seas. But they got us there. To France. We all wanted to see the sights. Gay Paree, those pretty girls we all heard about, try some of that fancy champagne, the Eiffel Tower.     No dice. They sent us right out to fight at the front. The Hun was out there and needed to be stopped no matter what.     They hauled us in trains, and then trucks. Then they marched us in. March-march-march. I thought we’d never get there. But we did. And what I saw sent shivers right up my spine.     Bare land. No trees, no grass, no nothing. Barb wire on poles. Trenches. Our guys, all in trenches and holes. Peeking over the top at more trenches, way on the other side. That’s where the Germans were, in those trenches over there. That’s who we had to stop.     Some captain was there, and told us we had to make a run for it to get to our trenches. When he blew his whistle, we were to run as fast as we could to get there, and jump right in, because the Germans would be shooting at us.     I thought this guy must be out of his mind. Run out into the open and let them shoot at us? Like some crazy game of hide and seek. Tag, you’re it, with a bullet in you.     So he blew that whistle and we ran and jumped into the closest trench, not knowing how deep it was or anything.     I didn’t jump in. I stopped at the edge and looked first, then slid down the side. Good thing, as there were three guys there I would’ve landed on if I just jumped right in. And I slid right into a foot of mud. It must’ve rained and the water had no place to go. It was a mess.     Other guys did jump right in. One poor guy already there wound up with a broken arm from someone jumping in and landing on him.     There were twenty-one of us who ran first for the trench. Reinforcements, they called us. Nineteen made it, two were shot. One died right away, the other one was dragged off somewhere. I don’t know how he made out.     We were there but a few minutes and already one guy was killed. Lucky shot, right in the chest. Maybe lucky isn’t the right word.     Another whistle sounded and the guys there climbed up on blocks and shelves and shot back at the Germans. They kept shooting until the whistle sounded again. Then they all stepped down and found a place to sit, safely out of sight from the other side.     My God, is this what we had to do? Wait till the enemy is in sight and then shoot them?     Yes sir, that was it. Wait for one to stick his head up and pick him off. And that’s what they were doing on their side too, waiting for one of us to stick his head up.     Then it became a game of hurry up and wait. Long boring hours went by, and then all hell broke loose and we’d all start shooting at the same time. I don’t know if we hit anybody. The officers had binoculars. We just had rifles.     Later that day it started to rain. Before we knew it, another foot of water was in the trench. What a mess. And then the officers told us that we were going to charge the Germans. Over the top and across no man’s land and ambush them while they were hunkering down from the storm.     Did you know the term “over the top” came from that? Over the top of the trench. And then on to glory and victory. Or some such damn fool nonsense.     We got ready to charge, and when the whistle blew, over the top we went. If it was up to me, with the storm and all, I’d have gone across there nice and quiet and surprise them. But no, the whole company was whooping and hollering like some wild Indian attack.  		Right away the Germans returned fire. And the second man I saw shot and killed in France that day was my brother Charlie. Right next to me, he went down with a bullet in his neck.     I was scared out of my mind and screaming mad at the same time. I wanted to kill the man who killed my brother. With bullets flying all around me, I jumped the barb wire and ran right up to their trench and jumped in. I didn’t care who I landed on. I shot two men right away and used my bayonet on another. The other guys were right behind me and we cleaned out that trench, and good. Except for a few who ran away, we killed them all.     We killed them all.     Our guys were all laughing and singing and slapping each other on the back.     Me, I looked at the dead bodies of those Germans. Not one of them looked like a gorilla. They were men, and boys, just like we were.     I know Mother would be devastated when she heard about Charlie getting killed. Would the mothers of these Germans feel the same way when they found out about their sons dying? I’m sure they would.     I started to cry. What have I done? I killed a man. Several men. The Bible says Thou Shalt Not Kill . I broke a Commandment. What will happen to me now? Will God strike me dead next because of what I had done?   The guys were celebrating. We won that battle! They congratulated me on my first kill. They told me there would be plenty more, if we planned on winning this thing.     I walked away from them and when I got far enough away, I threw up.     Then I heard a different whistle signal, the one they made sure we knew when they taught us bout poison gas. I quickly put on my gas mask and watched as a yellow cloud of poison fog swept over us. We didn’t win completely, the Germans were still fighting back.     One of our men didn’t get his gas mask on fast enough. He was lying in the mud gasping for air and spitting out some awful things from his mouth. He choked to death, right there in front of us.     I never got to know his name.   The wet muddy trench we were standing in also served as a latrine. There was nowhere else to do your business except right there. That muddy water was a sewer. That was the final insult to those Germans, lying dead in that filthy water.     So that was my first day fighting in France. Do you want to hear more? *     I figured you fellas would need a drink after that. I always keep a good supply of fire water for just such a time.     So, Steven, that was what happened to your Uncle Charles. We called him Charlie. Everybody did. He was two years older than me, born in 1898. Seems that Father left Mother with something to remember him by before he went off to fight in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. I was born not quite two years later, something that Father gave Mother as a welcome home gift. They would never describe it in that way, people were such prudes back then, but that’s how it happened. My sisters Helen and Lillian, your grandmother, came along later, in 1905 and 1909.     Our family was a scrappy bunch. We fought every time, from the Civil War on. My grandfather lost his brother, Philip, at Second Bull Run. My father lost his brother, my Uncle Albert, somewhere in the Philippines. His body was never brought home. I lost my brother in France.     Your Aunt Belle and I had two sons. They both fought in World War Two, just a generation after my war. Your Uncle Claude made it home, minus his right arm. His brother, your Uncle  Jimmy, also made it home, but died a few years later from the malaria he caught somewhere in the Pacific. My nephew Freddie, from my wife’s side, was all of a month away from graduating high school. He quit school to enlist in the Navy. He was killed when his ammunition ship blew up somewhere near New Guinea. So many boys right from town were lost.     Your Aunt Helen, my sister, lost her son, your Uncle Raymond, at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. His brother, your Uncle Douglas, was a prisoner of war for three years in Korea. He came home, but has never been right since.     And it hit your generation too, Steven. You served in Vietnam. You came home, but your cousins Tommy and Bruce didn’t.     And it goes on, doesn’t it? Your nephew Allen was almost blown to bits in Desert Storm. He’ll never walk again, will he? Stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Your cousin Eddie, who was killed in Lebanon. You’re what, forty-nine? Fifty now? What about your kids? Your grandkids? Your son is old enough to join the Army. Will he be next?     Even that terrible Spanish flu epidemic in 1919 was caused by the war. Men returning from France brought the bug home with them and it spread everywhere. I guess we won the war, but not by much.     So who is next, Steven? Haven’t we had enough of this? When does it end? Barry, do you have an answer for that? When does it end?     Okay, I’m sorry. I went on a tear there. Let me have a drink.  *     There. Much better. Those folks in Scotland sure do know how to make some fine whisky.     Okay, Barry. More questions for me?     Do I believe in God? Interesting question. Do I? After what I’ve seen, and what has happened to our family over the years, I don’t think so. Would a loving God allow all of this? No, I’d say that God means nothing to me.     They took my uncles, my brother, my son, my nephews away from me. My loving wife, Belle, incredible woman that she was, was taken away from me too. Cancer. She was only fifty years old. That was half a century ago that I buried her! I’ve been alone for fifty years without her. We were married for thirty years, and she’s been gone for fifty.     And you want to know if I believe in God.     All I know is that, right now, I’m still healthy and still have my wits about me, but how long will that last? I won’t pray for a longer life. I haven’t prayed since that first terrible day in France in 1917.     I think I’m done talking for now, fellas. I have to lie down. My head is pounding from this.     Sorry.     Steven, don’t be a stranger, you hear? Come on up and make sure I’m still kicking. Always great to see you. Bring Barry along and we can do some more damage to my stash of fire water. Say hi to everyone, tell them I’m still here. *     There they go. Nice to have a little company. It gets lonely up here sometimes. Oh, they call me an old hermit. I’m not, I go to town once a week or more for groceries and supplies, have a drink at the Legion. I like it here. Not much traffic, no noise. They’d like it too if they came by once in a while.     Maybe it’s too late for that. I think my time is over. I still have these terrible memories after eighty years. I can’t shake them. Shell shock, battle fatigue, post-traumatic stress disorder, whatever the hell they call it these days.     Well, I told my story about what it was like over there. I never much talked about it. None of us did. War stories? Not from us. Too many bad memories.     I saw the fields of poppies and crosses in the cemeteries over there. Nothing grows on that poisoned land except poppies.     No man’s land.     So many buried there. So many poppies.   Okay, George, you old coot, let’s pour yourself this last bit of Scotch. There we go. Let’s make a toast. To those who went before us, and to us five American doughboys who are still left. We won’t be around for much longer. Let’s just hope that someone remembers us.     This Scotch is so good. Only the best fire water, right? But now it’s gone, just like everything else.     My trusty old .45 caliber Colt, model 1911A. Military issue. Great old weapon, still works well. Shot a few critters over the years with this. They sure knew how to build them back then. Just like the guys I served with over in France. My guys.     One last check. Everything is paid off. Taxes, insurance, everything. Only things due are the electric and telephone bills. They can chase somebody else for them. Haven’t they got enough out of me over the years?     One last swallow. Here’s to you, the five Americans who are still left, including me. May they remember us for our service to our country. In the Great War. The war to end all wars. Yeah. Right.     Hand salute. Two.

Bang .     And then there were four. * * Author’s note: This fictional story was back-dated to 1999, when there were five American Veterans remaining. At the time of this writing, the very last of the Veterans of World War One, of every country, both friend and foe, have passed. There are none left.     The last American veteran, Frank W. Buckles, was honored in several ceremonies before he died, including being feted at the White House by President George W. Bush in March 2008.     As they had lost the war, there were no certified records of surviving German veterans. It is presumed all had passed by 2012.


The day breaks just as it always does. The cold bite of the morning snaps at my fingers as I drag myself out of bed, eagerly stumbling towards the kitchen. There’s never a bad time for caffeine. Stepping out onto the tile deck above the back yard I bring the first cigarette of the day to my lips and light it, more so out of habit than enjoyment. The acrid smell of tobacco and coffee grounds serve as a dull reminder of the routine to come. I sit in silent contemplation a while longer before polishing off the steaming, bitter drink. I flick the cigarette butt into it’s tray and head back inside to get dressed. Pulling my jeans on unenthusiastically I grab the nearest shirt I see and drag it over myself. Both, as usual, are black. “Gotta stick it to the man somehow.” A reminder that, indeed, it was not a phase. With keys and wallet on my person I get halfway out the front door and suddenly… I stop. I’ve forgotten something. Taking several paces back I force myself to turn and face the stranger staring through the mirror. The stranger in my skin. *You know that it doesn’t work like that Jesse* And with a reluctant sigh, I take my insecurities with me. The added weight of remorse tears through the earth where each footstep lands, gnawing at the cold dew soaked soil outside; what a sad start to the day. And at the end of the street lurked something far more sinister, far more malicious than any internalised emotional issues could ever conjure. *Public transport.* The bus crept it’s way through the winding back roads of Sydney’s outskirts. Rural townships on the brink of urbanisation, with the only thing standing between the two being large expanses of farmland and a rather conservative group of locals. The scenic roads are wasted on me, however, as I marinate in thoughts I wish I’d left in that foggy place we leave our dreams. To be honest I’m not sure whether it was the silence of the engine or the stillness of the bus itself that I noticed first, all I know is that suddenly we had stopped. “For fuck’s sake.” I murmur, for lack of a better exclamation. In fact I find it quite appropriate. The driver, a short bald man with a rather plump physique, was busy fiddling with the controls spread across the dashboard. Seemed to me like he had as much of an idea as to why we stopped as I did. I looked out through the windows at the bush and fields around us and then brought my attention back to the bus. Maybe I should say someth- “Sorry mate! Looks like she’s gone and died on us. I’ll have to make a call out to see if there’s anyone nearby.” “You don’t know how long that’ll be do you man? I’ve got work in half an hour.” I do my best to play off my concern but it only comes across more anxious than usual, adding yet another awkward moment to obsess about later. “Couldn’t say for sure right now mate, we’ll just have to wait and see.


Dear daughter, You are now six years old. You are sitting on the floor next to me, listening to endless Russian

skazki

and drawing exquisite sketches of princesses. The remoteness and solitude of the place we live in trigger a unique combo of sadness and self-reflection. I will use the second as my main ingredient and the first as a grain of salt. I believe this to be a perfect recipe for a healthy piece of motherly life advice that I want to share. Today I want to tell you about the importance of daring. When I was a six-year old, brown-eyed girl, I became a dreamer. One fact that played into this head-in-the-clouds mindset was being a sickly child and having to stay home for days on end while my engineer mother, a single parent and a sole bread winner, was working. The other one was the many books she bought me. Dreaming was both exciting and, most importantly, safe. It required a minimal effort - I learned to read at the age of three. My mother valued safety. She was fiercely protective of her only late child that God gave her after many years of dating and a huge disappointment in fellows. She made my safety the main purpose of her life and tried really hard to surround me with coziness, stability and comfort — the things she herself never had as a child or young adult. Filled with the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns and jam, our two-room apartment was my safe haven, the many books lining our shelves — my ticket to safe trips to the outside world. Mom preferred to do stuff for me because it was faster and easier for her, a single working mother who had a lot on her plate and only so many hours in a day. “I will cook, I will clean, and you go read, your job is to learn”, — she would tell me. When I was twelve, I went to a summer camp and was the only twelve-year old girl who didn’t know how to wash her hair. You get the gist. I was a good student. I grew accustomed to being the best at some subjects, especially, English. But internally I was terrified of trying new things because I could fail. Or get hurt. Years went by. I turned sixteen and suddenly dared to travel downtown with a friend of mine to participate in a language competition held by the American Council of Teachers of Russian language. The huge room was filled with snobby kids from “specialized” cool schools who looked down our noses at us. It was a rare occasion when my passion for the language helped me push through my shyness and fear of failure. I won and spent a wonderful year in the USA. But when it came to the high-school exit exam, the fear of failure overcame my desire to try and stay. I went back to Russia and started medical school. While everyone else managed to find time and relax and party a little, I was generally skeptical of the behavior my fellow young and properly reckless students would engage in. I considered myself a cool, level-headed person. Looking back, I see how inappropriately boring my weekends were. I never took a chance on anything, I would stick to safe activities with safe people. Times were tumultuous in Russia, and I prided myself on staying in my room and out of trouble, or walking the usual safe route. When it came to taking a chance on a new job that required frequent travelling, I thought of how it would affect the convenient life routine I had built up and a wave of fear washed through me. Although I realized it was the opportunity that would never again present itself, I rejected the offer and stayed in my hometown. As a married woman, I only traveled to a handful of countries that were safe and only chose the five-star hotels that offered protection, not unlike my old two-room apartment. Dangerous sightseeing was out of the question. Life has taken us to a remote place in a small country. Your Dad, knowing what a safety freak I am, made sure we live in a very protected area. It is the epitome of safe. Three-level protection, expensive cars and little or no neighbors. Sometimes it feels like a padded cell. All my life, I have been voluntarily confining myself to safe cells. And I regret this now. I feel like I have been sticking to a rather bland diet. Good for you but nothing to remember when your teeth fall out. My dear daughter, I marvel at how independent and strong-willed you are at six. I am so glad you didn’t take after me in that department. You already you know what you want. “I want to learn how to saw and play the guitar. Mommy, find me a teacher!” — you say. You pack your own things, butter your sandwiches, tie your shoe laces and protest strongly when I try to help with brushing your hair. I back off, happy. You dare to jump into a cold lake and ride a zipline at an adventure park. From the bottom of my heart I wish you to retain these qualities and let them, among others, guide you. Years will fly by and you will turn into a beautiful young woman. Enjoy life. Explore the world, and not only through books and Internet. See it with your own eyes, feel it, smell it, taste it. Take last-minute travel offers, prefer going out and traveling with friends to sitting at home and inside your comfort zone. Take an adventurous job offer. Meet new people. Use a grain of sensibility and safety, of course. But don’t overdo it with these condiments. Of course, I am still young and have all the opportunities of daring more. And, inspired by you, I will probably start my late journey to daring with a zipline and jumping into a cold lake at an adventure park…Because, young or not, we are running out of time. Love you always, Mom.


This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. The house sat in the middle of no where, within the vast fields of nature. It was made from stone and wood, being large enough to house a small army. Within, the home was made of smooth marble, with line lights beaming through the floor. In the hall, photos of four adults hung on the wall. Orbs floated within the air, humming to an unknown tune. At the kitchen, the dinner table is set with a different assortment of food and a figure standing over it all. Cloaked within shadows, staring at the door as head lights lay over way. A golden apple was placed down on the table, it shined within the darkness. Laughter could be heard, as foot steps echo across and the door started so wiggle. It continued until opening and the peoples voice became in clear.  Their foot steps began to echo within the home. "Tell Sam about the time we explored the ruins within ishfal." one of the people expressed, slowly taking off her jacket.

"Well, Jenna was talking about these ancient ruins I had found. Last month, it was a true sight to behold." Avery boosted, a huge grin spread across his face. "It was like a large pit, some people think its where the ritual takes place. The people call it the ritual of evolution." Avery said, as they stopped at the table.  The light automatically came as the room understood their voices. The vast assortment spread across it, Avery for a moment looked at it all. "Who set the table?" Avery asked, still pointing at the table. A series of candles sat on top, made of gold.  Jenna walked toward the table, "I don't know, the maid had left to start her week-long vacation, " She said.

"She may have left it before leaving," Avery replied.

"Then why is everything still hot?" Sam asked, touching a chicken leg.

They all stopped as the lights went out and a cold silence entered the room. They stood there like stones, never letting their breath go. Sam looked at the others, just for a moment. Another sound came from the second dining hall, this was louder and could be heard more clearly. A strange light glimmered across the darkness for a moment and then faded.

"Avery, you got your gun?" Sam asked.  There was no reply as the light vanished and the lights of the house came back on.  Avery had his hand on the weapon of choice, it was a pistol type. One that would shoot abstract bullets at the target, killing them permanently. He moved toward the second kitchen, weapon drawn out and ready. The others flood, almost tripping on the chairs in their way. The hall to the second dining room was longer, filled with photos of loved ones and trophies that showed their past. One of the pictures gave a pause to Avery, it was one of a blond haired female. Her eyes pure blue, wearing one of the most wonderful dresses. He pressed on before the other two could catch on. She held a darkened apple, its shine was unlike any other. Floating orbs lit the way, showing off colors not normal to the human mind and yet these were radically different from earlier. Avery raised his hand as they got closer to the entrance. "If things start to get hot, I want both of you to get back immediately.  We have no idea what is on the other side and I don't want to have any of you getting hurt," He whispered. They both agreed and followed behind.  Avery then slowly opened the door, his gun pointed out and his eyes glowing a cool blue.  The lights were on, with one of the faucet running water. The oven could be seen on and cook something that smelled delightful.  The room was empty of any signs of life other than their own, yet the air within felt different and the flow of things had changed.

Avery stood up and the lights changed into a different color. He walked toward the table, on the table was a large cake. With someones name inscribed onto it, next to it was apple that shined of darkness. "Is this a joke." he asked.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, as he walked behind him.  "You really don't know what this cake is about or any of the other weird shit going on?" He replied, his fists balled up and veins started to look like they were going to pop. Avery turned around to face the two of them, a rage taken over as he started to curse and call them every name in the book.

"How could you put me through this again!!" He shouted. "This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Not remember it." His word left a sharp and telling void.   "Avery, Think about this for a moment. We were gone for a whole month and just got back to town. How could we do this all and the maid was gone before we got here. Something isn't right," Sam tried to explain.

"You're right, lets get out of here." He softly said. They all looked at the table again and the cake was no where to be seen.  The apple however remained but its color was now white. "Holy shit!" Jenna screamed. She ran back toward the first dining room, trying to find somewhere safe.  Only to be stopped dead within her tracks as the door slammed shut and the air started to tighten around them. Sam and Avery backed away from the table and closer toward the living room. The doors had been open for them go inside, a Television light shining a bright light. "Come on Jenna, it will be safer within the living room!!" Sam screamed. She turned to face them and stopped dead in her tracks. They had entered the room, their backs turned away from the TV. A figure cloaked in darkness stood behind them.  The very sight of it almost caused her to shriek of terror. She tired to warn them, but by then it was too late.


It was dead silent and the chilling breeze added to my discomfort. Mark seemed completely relaxed as we walked among the tombstones and was even whistling lightly. It was late fall and winter seemed to have come early this year. The ice-cold rain made it all the more miserable. Even so, we pushed on. "Why did I ever agree to this?" I thought "Was proving myself in this stupid bet worth it? Ah who am I kidding, I'd look like a total bitch if I backed out now wouldn't I?" Mark seemed to read my discomfort and grins. "You wussing out already Eli, you know the nights just began right?" I look at him with slight annoyance

"Not for a second mate and can't wait to see you bail. Everyone knows you just act tough but on the inside, you're just as soft as you are chubby." Mark just laughs at my response. "Oh, you know me better than that! Cus It'll take more than a little insult like that to get me mad." Mark now points to a big oak tree in the center of the cemetery "Alright! This is where we will set up camp...and you know the rules!" I roll my eyes. "Ya ya ya, no falling asleep I get it." I now take out a small blanket and put it over the ground next to the tree. As we both sit down and rest against the tree trunk I look at my surroundings more intently.

The rain seemed to have dyed down now and there was a certain calm despite the current setting. As I put an earbud in one ear I began listening to my favorite Billy Joel songs. A bit old school I admit but just what I needed to relax.

Mark is now in the process of rolling a joint. I watch him with mild amusement and shake my head. I’d smoked a couple of times myself but Mark was on a different level altogether to the point where he’d made it his daily ritual. He now takes a long puff and offers it to me. I politely refuse and continue with my music.

The time begins to crawl by and boredom quickly becomes the biggest obstacle. Mark soon fixes this however as he begins a feverish rant involving a wild range of conspiracy theories. Like always it ended with the phrase “Fuckin lizard people…” and Mark laughing non-stop.

And as I had suspected, Mark soon showed signs of nodding off. I now simply bid my time and continued with my music. About fifteen minutes in, he lay fast asleep and my victory was now certain. I smiled at this and now got up to stretch while feeling elated and somewhat proud of myself. Just to make sure, I quickly took several photos of him so he couldn’t dispute it later. I then sat back down. Was about to continue with my music when suddenly there was a noise nearby. It didn’t alarm me at first but as it got louder I realized that we were no longer alone. It was a low rasping sound and as I looked in its direction I saw a glimpse of flashlights.

As I rushed to wake up Mark I also noticed there were three figures. In the moonlight. I can now see their outlines as one seemed to be digging into one of the graves.

In my shock, I mouth “Grave robbers” and persist in waking up Mark. He finally gets out of his trance and I cover his mouth while motioning him to stay quiet. His expression slowly goes from confusion to fear as he registers the three figures nearby. We now stay very still and can hear some of the grave robber’s conversation. “Faster Eric! Before anybody hears us...and you sure this is the right spot?” “Don’t you fuckin rush me and of course this is right! When has Don Eladio ever been wrong about this.” “I don’t trust that Latino prick, always acting as if he owns us!” “I agree John but the money is just too good to refuse his...employment.” “Well, the thing is that we won't need him once we…” The man referred to as Eric stops as they hear the sound of metal hitting metal.

"Here it is boys!" They then take out what looks to be a large metal suitcase. My curiosity now out ways my fears and so Mark and I slowly creep up to them through the trees. I want to see more.   One of the other men now takes the shovel from Eric and continues digging. He quickly takes out another metal suitcase and then a third. The three men seem very excited as one is opened after the other to reveal a mound of cash in each one. The suitcases were filled to the brim and so some even fell out onto the grass. I look in absolute wonder at what must be millions of dollars. I turn to Mark who has his eyes wide in awe but completely silent. "Jesus! I've never seen so much money in my life!" "I get your surprise rookie but this is a normal shipment so get used to it. Now close them so we can carry it all to the truck."

He then motions to the third man and says "We need to cover the whole back up first or someone might wonder, got it?" Without another word, he begins covering up the hole. At that moment the one in charge does a sudden scan of the area with his flashlight. We were both not expecting this and we're caught off guard. I rush to hide Mark away from the light but it's too late and part of his head remains exposed for a moment. This is enough to get the man's attention and he directs his flashlight on us. We’ve been spotted. Without hesitation, I grab Mark by the arm to push him forward and we are both now running away. “God damn it, Mark! Let’s get the hell out of here!” As I urge him to run faster I hear them close behind us. "Hey, these fuckers were watching us! Don't let them get away!"

Very soon all three men are chasing them through the wooded cemetery. My heart is racing a mile a minute and I have never felt more terrified. I am a good runner but Mark struggles to keep up and quickly lags behind. As I get to the edge of the cemetery I look back and am filled with dread as I see Mark trip on a tree branch and fall. I freeze and watch hopelessly as the men reach him and start beating him senseless. My urge to help him is outweighed by the fear as I see that they all carry guns. The leader looks at me but then turns back to Mark and pistol whips him till he’s unconscious. Knowing I can very well be next I sprint away and don’t look back. As I continue to run for several blocks without stopping my mind is a scrambled mess. A line of thought fills my mind again “What the fuck, what the fuck just happened!?”

And then the obvious hit me. “I need to call the cops! It’s the only way to save Mark!”  The shock had finally dyed down and I try to compose myself as I dial 911. For the next several hours I get interrogated by several policemen and detectives and I bring them to the site. The hole was hastily covered and they spotted it easily. My description of the money-filled suitcases seemed to get them all excited. I desperately begin to search for Mark alongside several other cops. But as the sun begins to rise he is nowhere to be seen.

I now sit at a park bench feeling anxious and defeated. The cops had continued the search but the odds didn’t seem promising. They had already asked all their questions and I was free to go but couldn’t get myself to go home.

After a few grueling minutes I jump off the bench in realization and startle an old lady that had been walking by. The Bandana I thought. I hadn’t mentioned it to the police since I didn’t think it was relevant. But no, it would be the deciding puzzle piece. I now remembered that one of the men had a black bandana covering most of his face since he’d been digging. It had a distinct flame and chains insignia on it that belonged to a local biker gang called “The Maniacs of Fire”.

They had to be part of that gang. Another idea suddenly dawned on me and so I quickly made a phone call.

Hours later I am now accompanied by another close friend of mine named Julian. He’s a large fellow and certainly tough. What’s most important is that he’s a bike enthusiast and happens to know where the “Maniacs of Fire” tend to hang out. He also carries with him his dad’s revolver which makes me feel confident in my plan. As we silently sneak into the junkyard through a broken link in the fence I brandish my metal bat evermore tightly. I also carry two pocket knives and am ready to use them. Where coming for you buddy. As we crouch behind some truck tires I can now take a glimpse at the bikers. There are five of them and I quickly recognize the bandana. The fear slowly tries to creep in but I push it down. Julian now points out something that’s on the ground. It’s Marks backpack and it’s propped against some of the wreckage. Its contents are spilled all over the pavement. This makes me uneasy but at the very least reassures me that Mark is here. In the center of the clearing, there’s a small trailer and the bikers seem to be waiting on someone. The trailer door opens suddenly and a bloodied figure is pushed out. He barely staggers along and drops to the ground when he’s pushed a second time.

“Mark,” I whisper and nudge Julian who nods back and gestures to his gun. I quickly mouth “Not yet.” and we continue to watch and wait for the right moment. Mark is now on his knees and the leader of the bunch seems to be telling Mark something. Mark just shakes his head sobbing. This is quickly received by a sharp jab to the face. It’s heart wrenching to watch and I am about to give Julian the signal when the beating suddenly stops. All the bikers seem to change their attitude and begin brandishing their weapons.

A luxurious white Mercedes drives into the complex, seeming very out of place in this rough landscape. As it rolls to a stop in front of the bikers three well-dressed men get out. One of the three wears a distinct black suit accompanied by pointy leather shoes. He is clearly the one in charge. He looks at Mark’s poor state and makes a look of bitter distaste.

“Why I didn’t know The Maniacs had a taste for brutalizing children, that’s low even for you.” The leader of the gang now walks over to him and says “He was trying to steal your money Don Eladio, you should thank us.” He towers over Don Eladio and his men. “Why I just might, but first I’d like to see the cash in my possession understood?” The gang leader gives a whistle and one of the bikers goes into the trailer and soon arrives with two suitcases. “Here it is boss.” the biker says and hands it to Don Eladio’s men who quickly open them to confirm its contents. His men nod to him as he looks right at the gang leader. “Is that all?” “Of course it is, that’s what my men recovered. Nothing more nothing less.” Don Eladio seems convinced and nods.

“Well, this was a nice visit...next week will be the same as usual, understood?” The biker nods. I now realize that when Don Eladio leaves we will be at mercy of these bikers. I become desperate and an idea morphs in my head. So before Julian can stop me I yell out "There was a third suitcase! A third one! Those bikers are stealing from you!" At my voice, all their guns are drawn in my direction and I know there’s no turning back. Julian is completely shocked and before I can do anything he runs away carrying his gun. “You fucker.” I hiss. But of course, who can blame him.

I am alone and so reluctantly walk out from behind the truck tires. Don Eladio looks bemused but then looks at the bikers with steely gaze. He motions for me to come forward. I am losing it on the inside but manage to walk over to him. I take a quick look at Mark who sees me at that moment and mumbles "Eli...yyou came for me...you are a good friend…I thought…" He falls back unconscious. I now realize that the next few moments will determine both of our fates and now try looking as brave as I can.

Don Eladio stares at me calmly and says "I will give you a minute to explain yourself as that is a bold accusation." I look back and nod. "My friend Mark and I were in the graveyard and saw when they dug up the suitcases filled with money. We both saw three suitcases be opened. They spotted us and we tried to run. I got away but my friend wasn’t so lucky...Please sir can you just let us go? We won’t tell anybody about what we saw I swear to you.” He now seems deep in thought for a while and then looks at the lead biker. “So you’re both thieves and arrogant fools. Seems like “The Maniacs of Fire” have forgotten who they work for…”

His men now point their heavy guns at the bikers. “Better yet who lets them draw breath on this earth.” The five bikers all do the same and it’s a standoff between his two men and the six bikers. “Seems like your the fool old man, don’t you know how to count? Besides those rifles will only get you so far.” Don Eladio seems undeterred and while he appears unarmed himself he slowly walks closer to the biker who is uneasy with this action. “Seems you’ve all made your choice then?” “Seems like it, you Latino bastard. We’ve had enough of your fuckin bullshit, acting as if you own us. Ain’t that right boys?” They all cheered in agreement. In response, Don Eladio takes out a cigarette and pretends he has no lighter. Then gestures to the biker as if he was a close friend. “Would you mind lighting my cigarette I seem to have forgotten my lighter?”

He says this while brandishing a charming smile that belongs somewhere else entirely. I am astonished by this action like everyone else and it infuriates the biker so much that he now puts the gun directly to Don Eladio’s forehead.

“Look! I don’t care who you are or how powerful you might have been down south. Nothing is stopping me from blowing your fucking brains out here and now, you got that!?” Don Eladio merely looks back with a devil’s grin. “Well if your gun was loaded...of course, but how can you be so sure?” In response, the biker pulls the trigger again and again. It clicks empty every time. Before the shock and realization can reach the biker, Don Eladio pulls out a blade from inside his suit and cuts the man’s throat. He's dead before he hits the ground and his blood spills onto my shoes. I don’t dare move of course.  The shock that instills the other bikers seemed to last an eternity as they couldn’t believe what they’d witnessed. Now a green laser appears to zero in on one of the men’s forehead and he is soon dead by a silent bullet. His brains are now all over the asphalt. The remaining four bikers quickly drop their weapons in surrender. One of them is sweating feverishly and two seemed to have soiled themselves. Only one appears composed and now walks over to one the wrecked cars and takes out the third suitcase from its trunk. He hands it to Don Eladio.

“Here is your money and forgive me, as I couldn’t stop there abuse of the kid, or else I’d look weak.” “I understand, you can relax mi amigo. Just tell your remaining men to help the guy up and give him some water.” He motions to the three terrified men who now act without question. He now looks to me with his steely gaze. “How old are you?” “I...I’m 17 sir.” “And what’s your name?” I manage to reply. “Eli...my name is Eli.”  “Well, Eli...I got to say that took a lot of balls to do what you did.” “Thank...thank you.” “You know I can use young men like you, and I guess you already know too much for me to just let you go.” Don Eladio gives a light chuckle. I give a nervous laugh in return. “Listen, how would you like to work for me, hmm?... Not with the maniacs of course but have your own gang. You can name it whatever you want...all that matters is that you answer only to me...understood?” I am once again freaking out but even so manage a small nod and say "Ok." With that response, Don Eladio now smiles his devils grin once more, seeming content with how things played out. He now extends his hand to seal the agreement. I look at him cautiously and reluctantly shake his hand. From then on I knew my life would never be the same.


(Burnt-Sienna) I awake to the view of my alarm clock. It reads 9 o’clock AM. I put more effort forward than I’d like to admit was needed to remember if it was a weekend or not, and whether I needed to get my hung-over ass out of bed and prepare for work. After a considerable time of searching through the foggy wasteland that is my mind I remember that last night was Friday, making this morning Saturday. I make the promise to myself that I make, and break, every time I wake up like this. “I will stop drinking this week.” A small sigh of relief escapes my lips, as I realize I get to just relax and ease my way into the morning. I look out across the white rolling ocean of silk that is my sheets, and past that through the window to the expanse of the city, the AM sun creeping over the cloud-brushing skyscrapers lighting my white studio apartment that early morning yellow color that brings a warming sensation to the room. I look around at the messy sprawl of clothes and other assorted items on my apartment floor and something catches my eye. Is that, a dress? My eyes roll across the room inspecting for separate evidence of a body to accompany the mysterious dress. My eyes gloss over the bedroom, and past the kitchen to rest upon the bathroom door. The light is present under the door signifying occupancy. The door opens, and out comes a pair of eyes. I describe this person as such because there is no other way to first take in this woman. Her eyes are a gentle green, the kind that makes your heart beat just a little faster, the kind that’ll make your sole melt, the kind that make you want to just trust. Curly burnt-sienna colored locks roll down across the cascade of pale, flawless skin that is her neck and shoulders. She notices me right away, and just looks at me, her mouth curls up into a smile, and I vaguely recall her asking to take a sweatshirt and some sweats to depart in, and I vaguely remember mumbling a “Yes” as my eyes are unable to be separate from her. She slowly dresses, gracefully pulling sweats over the length of her legs. They loosely hang off her hips, and as I continue to marvel at her grace I remind myself I should say something, but it’s as though I’m trapped within the confines of my own mind. I can’t say anything, I can’t do anything but just admire. I continue to fight my brain, to escape this prison, to express that she should stay for breakfast, or that we could go somewhere together; but all I can do is mindlessly gaze at her as I watch her pull my sweatshirt overhead. The morning sun is reflecting off her flowing burnt-sienna locks, constituting a magnificent luster to the color. I look on, fighting to unlock my brain, as easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, looks me in the eyes with those gentle green eyes, the ones that locked me in this state originally, smiles, thanks me for a good night, and exits my apartment. I lay here; pondering my paralysis, and feelings of regret and failure wash over me. I steam about my incompetence, “How could I let her go?” I keep asking myself bitterly. I brew coffee, and cannot take my mind off this woman. She captured my heart, in less than five seconds, makeup-less, and half naked. I can’t help but think that I’ll never get that opportunity again, and swear to myself that if I ever find a girl, who does this to me again I will not lock up. I will not let my anxious brain destroy my hopes of the life I want to live. I live an easy life, where my only goals are to live stress free, and find someone to make me happy, and I just know I missed an opportunity today. I don’t know where I met this woman, and I don’t know how I possibly managed to get her to stay a night with me, but I will remember her, and I tell myself that I will not forget her. A few days pass, but she is still emblazoned deep into the confines of my mind, as I try to continue and live my life working at the local diner. I take break around 10 AM, and just sit there in one of the many booths. It’s been days and I haven’t taken my mind off her for more than an hour. I can’t escape the gripping feeling that I let something amazing slip through my fingers. I’m sitting here brooding, but also happy that while preoccupied with her I’d maintained alcohol free for the past few days, when someone slides into the booth across the table from me. I look up and lock eyes with those same, warm, gentle green eyes from before. The same burnt-sienna colored curls spilling down to her shoulders, only this time it was fastened up into a lazy ponytail. She’d brought my sweats and sweatshirt and set them down at the table. She looks across at me, purses her lips as though she’s going to say something, but seems hesitant, and closes them. She looks at me for a second and I’m locked up again, I’m again fighting my brain just to take my eyes off of her and say something. There is nothing else like her and I cannot blow this opportunity again. She starts to get up to leave, and I know I have to say something now. As she’s about to exit the booth I finally break the chains of my mind that were holding me back, and say to her “Hey wait! Would you like to join me for breakfast?” She sits back down, directly across from me. She looks at me for a split second, and appears to be thinking. The second seems to pass at an infinitely slow measure. She looks at me, smiles, and says “I’d love to.” Sorry I'm bad with formatting.