Genevieve sat aghast in front of her company laptop. Her mouth hung open like a trout caught on a fisherman's line. Her emotions dangled with equal effect. She did her best to manage the shock that radiated through herself within her workspace. "No fucking way," she stammered out. "How is this even possible?" The LED screen displayed the usual garbage pile of personal email subject lines. This lone email subject caused her skin to crawl. She had been reassured repeatedly that everything would work out fine, nothing could go wrong.

"Hey, let's get some coffee." Her coworker offered from around her desolate gray cubicle wall. Genevieve jumped in place, bumping her red and white water bottle. The BPA Free container spun on its bottom before landing triumphantly in place. "Dude, are you alright?" Bradley offered, concern cemented across his face. "Um, coffee. I, um, yeah. It's not a good day to go for coffee. I need to…" Genevieve openly divided her attention between her worried work husband and the front of the screen that gently illuminated her face. "Gen, when have you ever, I mean, ever, turned down a large cup of Jittery Joe's on a Monday morning? Especially a dreary morning like this one." He studied her face for clues that she wasn't providing. She continued to look at the screen as if he had ended their conversation years ago. "Gen?!" He barked with compassionate anxiety. "What?!" She looked at him lost in a world of thought he had not been given an admission ticket to enter. Her deep blue eyes focused back on him. "Coffee, oh yeah, not right now. I have to…" She trailed off again, pulled back to the digital distraction. Bradley furrowed his forehead at the mystery. He slowly edged around her unorganized paper piled desk. Genevieve caught notice of movement and immediately realized that his eyes were moments from reading the subject line blaring at her. She slammed her laptop shut, securing her arms across the horizontal logo with immediate intention. Bradley jumped back, never expecting such a reaction. He looked down at her in surprise. She met his gaze as if he had tried to read her teenage diary to the other twenty coworkers in the finance office. Genevieve reached into her verbal bag of 'get out of embarrassment free' cards. He noticed her hands shake. "Coffee. Yes, coffee from Jittery Joe's. We should go now." Genevieve popped out of her seat into a tall stance, trying her best to project urgency to leave the moment. She grabbed her work purse, encouraging to have him to follow. Bradley watched with sustained confusion at the oddest encounter of their eleven years as friends. The dark cottony sky held its secrets about when their rain baptism would let loose. The two of them walked in unusual silence through the other morning automatons, bypassing their customary weekend debriefings and catty comments that made Mondays before lunch bearable. The silence grew its discomfort around Bradley. He decided against asking her what bothered her a third time since they entered the elevator ten minutes ago. Her responses of oh, nothing and that's interesting continued to inflame his worry. The scent of coffee pirouetted throughout the cramped room of Jittery Joe's. They stood in the usual line of phone-focused patrons, waiting to place their order under the smile-painted sign overhead that read ORDER. Genevieve stared through thoughts that evolved her facial expressions from eyebrow squinting concern to misty-eyed frowning. Bradley communicated their orders to the red smock wearing cashier. He had been a part of this ritual enough to know her ordering nuances. He took back his card from the young woman while Genavive navigated her emotional jungle. "Oh, fuck. I'm sorry." She began to frantically fuss through the collection in her purse for the leather wallet with her own cards. "Gen, I already paid. Let's move over to the side, so people connected to the day can have their turn." She took her distraction alongside him as the baristas hurried behind impulse buy-lined walls. Bradley watched her mouth inaudible conversation to herself through his periphery. Her face responded in kind to the discussion. "Bradley, your order's up." A thin, spectacle-wearing man sang out with more enthusiasm than anyone in line needed at 8:47 am. "Thank you." The heat from within the paper cups warmed his hands. Genevieve continued to struggle within the sticky web of her thoughts. Bradley passed her the caramel-infused double espresso mocha hoping that the heat or the caffeine would break the increasingly frustrating spell of her ongoing distraction. She accepted the coffee with an absentminded thank you. They followed the same concrete path back to the lakeside office front doors. Bradley could see the numbers of his increasing frustration level in his head. Genevieve had bad days before, especially the months after she broke up with Hank several summers ago. She wore the fashion of running mascara for weeks following that, but at least those days came with scattered conversation and an invitation for him to help one of his best friends. Today, he felt like a tug boat pulling at an ocean liner who floated aimlessly near port, its captain mesmerized by the mermaid's siren song. He inferred that maybe Genavive needed to go home if she would be this distracted as they returned to their office floor. A deep flash of realization passed through her fog to central command. "Home?! No, no, no, I, I can't go home." She blurted out, eyes wide. She looked at him with cooling coffee in hand. Bradley pulled her to an unused office, littered with storage that no one ever had the time to sort. He roughly grabbed her by the outsides of her shoulders and forced her attention to his face. He normally preferred to avoid this level of confrontation. Bradley desperately needed for her to avoid the attention of JL Silverton who happened to be in office this day. "Gen, get your crap together and snap the fuck out of whatever's going on. Big Ball Swinger's in today and he looks clear out of nose candy. You're going to make it easy for his petty ass to end your days here and I can't do this job without you." Genevieve looked at him as her mental puzzle began to reform. He shook her one more time. She blinked in rapid succession. "Big Ball is here today?" She asked as if the office hadn't been gossiping about his eight-week return for several days already. "He is. If you don't fly right, that fucking slime ball is going to cancel your career like NBC cancels all of my favorite shows. Too soon and with no regard for anything but the bottom line." He held his look at her confused face. The stupidity of his analogy landed her final puzzle piece. She smiled cleared of the fog. He smiled in return. "I have to go back to my computer, don't I?" She inquired, pushing back her haze. "If you want to make partner at any point, that would be a good idea. Rumor has it that he's only going to be in for half a day. Maybe his cocaine shipment is coming in later, who knows? Get through lunch and I can cover for you through the end of the day. If he stays, there's not much anyone can do." She nodded and smiled. "Thank you." Her eyes twinkled with platonic affection. "Look, whatever is going on, check that stuff until Ball-Z slithers out the front door. Do whatever you can to stay focused. His secretary has been confiding in me that he's looking to cut a few of you to make room for a third Caddie in his garage. I'm doing what I can to make sure Frances in accounting gets chopped. That pretentious twerp is better off somewhere competence and hygiene isn't a priority." Bradley tilted his coffee cup for her clink as if they were champagne glasses. She bumped his cup in turn, their plastic coffee cup tops meeting in one spot with a dull plop. "Clink." They quipped simultaneously. "I need a minute," Genevieve suggested. "You have less than that." Bradley peered around the doorway before exiting. How do I go back to my email? she thought. The idea of dealing with that subject line began to rush water at her mental steadiness quickly unseating the stability that Bradley had helped her onto. She felt alone, knowing that he wouldn't be available until much later, especially with the ass-chewing that he would undertake for any additional attention her way. Genevieve took full advantage of the minute alone before making a slow path back to her desk. She fought through an avalanche of anxiety towards her economy office chair. No, I have to deal with what's ahead of me, she told herself. Genevieve allowed her laptop to remain closed as she busied herself with the monotony of filing and organizing her side desk. She nursed the coffee past the halfway point, promising herself to open her email when the bottom of the cup became unoccupied. Its stiff caffeine mixture began to meet her body's need for the morning addiction simultaneously pushing her anxiety upward. JL Silverton with slick backed, oil-laden hair made his rounds through what he called "the bullpen" as she kept busy through paper shuffling. "Are we planning on doing any real work today, or had you come into my office to file papers like a temp?" He leered at her with the intent of overt intimidation. "No, no, sir. I wanted to get the filing done so I could focus clearer on my computer work." Genevieve offered with genuine intent. He thought about her words while inspecting her workspace from the carpeted walkway. "Get your fucking computer open in the next five seconds or you will be filing other people's papers for the rest of your career in the mailroom." His smile oozed with disdain. "Ye, yes sir." She jammed her focus to the thin laptop on her main desk. She opened the computer and processed through the password prompt. Content with her compliance and his control, JL Silverton announced to the office with booming satisfaction, "If you aren't making me money, you aren't needed in this world." He strode away holding his customary red cup with the words Big Ball Swinger in all capital, ivory letters. Genevieve gulped the rest of her gently cooling coffee and rolled the empty cup into the trashcan under the desk. Her teeth chattered from the unplanned encounter and the forced attention to the email before her. She read over the digital line that continued to cause so much emotional indigestion. From: Curie Genetics Subject: Mutation Danger!!, DO NOT DRIN. She couldn't make out the rest of the subject line from the cutoff. Her hand shook as she held the tiny finger icon over the prompt. JL Silverton toured through "the bullpen" like a shark searching for vulnerable fish among the gray, work partition coral reefs of his office. Genevieve told herself that looking at a personal email during his patrol became too much of a risk for her chance of partner. An offense that would likely land her as a faceless foot soldier in the trenches of career monotony. The idea of finding a new hellion to work for sounded less appealing. She followed his movements all while staging the illusion that her computer efforts were for the company's benefit. Big Ball Swinger moved outside of her line of sight, forcing her to open an online financial page that he couldn't offer critique about. Genevieve didn't want to open the email. She didn't want to know about what dangers a mutation could bring. An office door shut with authority on the other side of the office. Genevieve popped her head up like a meerkat from its den, hoping to confirm her boss had retreated to the ivory tower of his office. She took in a breath and switched to her personal email somehow hoping the subject would be gone or another subject line reading Disregard Last Email magically appeared to negate the other. Genevieve clicked on her fate. The words poured into her eyes with the comfort of molten metal. Genevieve, Don't drink any coffee or anything containing caffeine under any circumstances. The data is showing a 96.33% chance of irreversible, rapid mutation within two hours of consumption. We tried to call your phone at 212-555-0983 several times last night. Call us at the number below when you get this email. Margaret Onasis, MD Research Lead - Advanced Amphibious Research Division (AARD) Curie Genetics, LLC 212-555-1461 Genevieve became enveloped into a shell of dumbfounded numb confusion. Her phone number with the group had been recorded one number off at 0982, probably by that geriatric dinosaur behind the reception desk. Nothing could have prepared her for this development. They told her that the risks would be minimal. They promised a chance at her dream of being superhuman. The remorseless bricks of reality piled around her head as time began to become meaningless. Her stomach began to quake as if a drunk monkey began wrestling a restless puppy under her blouse. The words oh no trickled from her lips. Genevieve desperately searched for Bradley from her seat. An impossible feat without standing. Her toes began to pain as she fought not to double over. The thought of her boss coming back during her moment of weakness would likely prompt one of his many "time of the month" quips. A searing pain simultaneously ripped across both sides of her neck. Her hands remained on her stomach. Bradley, she muttered to herself, praying for a burst of ESP to force his assistance. Her breathing became insatiably easier for a reason she couldn't imagine. Her neck pain subsided, being replaced with a gaping sensation. Genevieve securely covered her mouth to stall the growing need to vomit. Her ability to breathe continued unabated. Confusion grew to staggering levels. She hesitantly touched the right side of her neck. Several skin flaps opened and closed in time with her breaths. Her eyes widened at the one word she had never associated with her imperfect body. Gills. The pain from her feet continued to increase, jockeying to receive proper attention. Genevieve became locked in petrified fear about slipping off her low pumps. The fluorescent-lit room began to spin on a turntable before her watering eyes. Genevieve called out for Bradley, finding that her tongue had since tripled in size silencing words that wouldn't reach anyone's ears. She doubled over her chair vomiting red-orange slush all over her smile decorated coffee cup. Genevieve sat up. Her tongue began to pass between her lips to gain space for itself. Pain erupted in her hands causing bringing them flush against her tossing stomach. Her shoe fell off, causing her eyes to grow large at the sight of a left foot that looked as if its toes melted together into a human flipper. Three powder blue painted toenails littered the industrial, gray carpet. Panic took full hold. She attempted to stand. Her legs refused to comply. Genevieve struggled to make sense of herself. Mutation. Coffee. Bradley. Midas. The words began to lose their meaning in her internal dictionary. She looked down to her lap as her back tensed into a series of muscle knots. Genevieve became complicit in watching her fingernails pop off into her crimson skirt. She groaned to herself. Her eyes rolled. She could intimately feel her four-finger skin merging to one another as her thumbs began to double in length. A primal need to find solace overtook her brain. Genevieve stood up against the objection of her twitching back muscles. She took flight to the stairwell, working towards the one goal of escape from the ever-blinding light. Her long, brown hair trailed behind in segmented clumps, careening to the carpet. She breached the stairwell door, leaving her other shoe just beyond its entrance. Genevieve's world became painted in hues of obscene fuchsia. Her breathing remained steady as she burst through the lobby-level door. She swung her head around, thinking more like a loose animal than a rational human. Her eyes took bead of the lake just off of the building grounds, ignoring the few people talking outside. Her feet plopped along the tiles as if their bottoms were lined with suckers. Genevieve bore through the double doors into the daylight. The smokers outside jumped backward at the bald womanesque creature whose eyes appeared to radiate an obscene magenta over a wide gill-lined neck. She began tearing away at her clothing as the water became closer. Her hand claws ripped open the blouse at its center, splitting the top into one flapping fabric. Genevieve had enough humanity left to know that her skirt and panties needed to be pulled down to be free of their constraint. People watched with expressed horror as the woman tore her purple bra off into the grass. A distressed witness later recalled that a naked woman, accessorized in what looked like monster make-up dove into the cold waters of Lake Polamalu. No one reported seeing her resurface.

Water rescue units searched the immediate vicinity for several hours before giving up on finding the woman. Local police concluded that the incident had been orchestrated as either a prank or personal cry for attention. No one from the office could offer anything additional to help clear the mystery. Bradley explained to formal investigators that Genavive had acted abnormally, though, upon their exit, she appeared to have calmed down as he knew her to be. The moment detectives left, JL Silverton refocused his office back to their tasks after threatening to "shitcan" anyone deciding to "flake out like that broad."


I saw the devil walking home from school 2day. It was bright outside. I felt so warm. The day was splindid. Sun shining down, birds doing their talkie in the trees. I don’t live far from my school, Marsh Middle, so it was a short walk. As I strolled my mind flew out into the blue, blue sky. I wasn’t thinking about much, just pleased with the beeutiful day. But then it happend. Some one breathd on the back of my neck. That made all of my little hairs jump up. BOOM. I froze on the sidewalk. And then my mind burst into a picture, telling me what was behind me. It was a man smiling at me, only he wasn’t a man. not really. He had gray skin that ooozed like rottun cake. Ms. Hannigan says practise five dollar words so here i go. His grin was t e r i f y i n g. i felt like he was saying Your Gonna Die, and happy about it. When i saw his teribl face i spun around real fast. But there was nothing behind me sept the blue, blue sky.

By Lia Riosena

Sharon stared at the words of her daughter’s writing assignment, hands trembling. She touched her greying temples, stood from the table, and went to the kitchen window to look out onto the street. The counters gleamed, smelled like lemon cleaner. The faucet dropped tears into the spotless sink. Sunlight was dying along the street when Sharon’s daughter came into sight. Lia walked with her bookbag slapping against her, the jaunt of a carefree child. A smile warmed in Sharon’s crinkled eyes. There was a pregnant silence before the bursting of the door. When Lia walked in her mother was there, ready to swoop her up and hold her.

“How was your day sweetheart?” Lia dropped her bookbag on the carpet in the entryway. “Good, I got an A plus on my vocabulary test mama!” “Oh my goodness!” Sharon held up her hands for a double high five. Lia jumped up to smack them. “Well that settles it. We’re going out to Foster’s tonight.” She launched into song about Foster’s Freeze, squealing and giggling.

“Ok sweetie, mama’s gonna finish up here in the kitchen. Why don’t you go play outside for a little while before starting on your school work?” Sharon kissed the zigzag of her daughter’s barrettes, watched her go, and then turned back to the writing assignment. It was sitting by the sink. From the cabinet she produced a box of matches. With a grunt the kitchen window slid up, paint crumbling away. Yellowing angel’s trumpets shivered in the late afternoon breeze. Sharon put the writing assignment in the sink and lit a match before dropping it onto the paper. As it burned she fixed herself a drink in a mug that said World’s Greatest Mom, sipping as she leaned against the wall, watching Lia play outside.

Time flew and Lia with it. She shot up to the sky, taller than her mother now at 17 going on 18. The fever dream of her younger days cooled. Hula hoops had shrunk down into bite-sized somethings. She put them glittering into her ears. The jump rope followed suit, lacing itself around her neck. The hopscotch squares had become buttons she pressed to chat with Tae or Jenny. She wore her colors on her fingers and toes now. And she had grown into a gorgeous young woman. Her ID showed up in the mail and when it did Lia tore the envelope open. The plastic card clattered to the kitchen table. That evening she asked her mother if she could go to a concert on Friday night. Sharon looked at her. Smiled.

“As long as you bring your cousin Isaiah.”

Isaiah was 31 but looked and acted younger than his age. He often came over to sit and chat or help Sharon with a repair. He and Lia had spent a lot of time together lately. When Friday came Lia emerged from her room in a skeleton print dress and laddered tights.

The fridge light fell on her as she scanned the shelves.

Sharon, seated at the kitchen table, looked up, peering at her daughter over her reading lens.

“Honey, I have a pair of fresh nylons in my drawer.” Lia faced her mother. The fridge closed with a rubber kiss.

“Mom, I'm wearing them like this on purpose. It’s a style.” A deep crease furrowed Sharon’s forehead. There was a honk from the street. “That’s Isaiah! Bye mom!” Lia pecked her mother on the cheek and flew out the door. Sharon watched her running out to the car from the kitchen window.

The next morning Sharon made pancakes. She stood over bubbling butter, still in her robe with a sleepy smile. Lia was sitting at the table, scrolling social media. The cakes each got a pat of butter with eggs and bacon on the side. A shriek suddenly pierced the air as Lia bolted up from her seat. Sharon was walking the plates over and nearly dropped them.

“What is it?” “He’s looking for me!” Lia danced around the kitchen. “What?” Sharon held her stomach, bracing herself on the table.

“J Cool!! The guy whose concert I went to last night! I met him and now he’s posting on his socials about me!” “Eat some breakfast before you get caught up in all that.” “Yeah, yeah, I will.” “Explain to me who this J Cool is.” Lia gave a little groan. “Moo-om. I’ve told you.” “Tell me again.” “He’s a super cool producer from Sweden who lives here and makes music and he wants to hang out with me.” “I need to meet him before he meets you.”

 J Cool painted his mustache black with mascara. The makeup would smudge and blotch in dirty looking patches over his skin and along his ears and forehead because he painted that too. Sharon didn’t like him. His eyes would bug out when he talked, his laughter was false, and he had a rotten tooth as grey as foul. Yet Lia looked at him with stars in her eyes.

“He’s so talented. He said I give him blue balls,” she sighed wistfully. “Sweetie, whatever happened to Isaiah? I don’t see you two hanging out anymore.” Lia looked down. She picked at a thread in her jeans.

“Isaiah did something to me that I didn’t like.” Sharon looked struck. She reached out to hold her daughter, but Lia tore away and shut herself in her bedroom.

The next day Sharon stomped over to the house down the street where Isaiah lived with his grandmother. Burst through the screen door, nearly taking it off its hinges. Ignored the cries of protest. Found Isaiah in his room and began beating him with her fists.

He just looked at her like she was crazy. Everyone did, even his grandmother and his mother who had come to shield him with their doughy arms. Nothing was the same after that. Sharon made angry phone calls. She cried and yelled herself hoarse over phones and doors and pillows. Lia wouldn’t speak to her. Sharon clicked through mountains of articles, blurbs, blogs, posts, and accounts. She drank tea like her life depended on it. Little spikes of alcohol here and there. She needed it on nights she couldn’t sleep. She needed it on nights she saw Lia going out. Then she started going off to see J Cool. She’d take the metro to Hollywood. He never came by except that one time.

“He’s really busy with his music,” Lia explained to her. “I don’t want you disappearing like that. It’s not healthy for a girl your age to be spending so much time with a man. He’s too old for you sweetheart.” Lia looked off, her face an expressionless mask. “You don’t get it. We’re not just hanging out. We’re making music. J Cool says I’m gonna be a big pop star.” Sharon maintained her composure with some difficulty.

“Well, I’d love to hear it sometime.” Lia played a demo for her mother in the minivan on their way to church.

A beat punched through the speakers followed by Lia’s voice which sounded like a sexy robot. Sharon kept her startled expression trained carefully on the road.

“It’s called Yo Hoe.” Lia hollered the lyrics out the window. “Girls are just a big distraction for you, you don’t wanna deal !!! I’m not gonna be yo ho !!!” “I’m glad that you and J Cool are being so creative.” “Yeah,” Lia said nonchalantly. “It’s cool.” “But honey- I hope that J Cool isn’t doing the things that you talk about in your lyrics.” Sharon’s hands white-knuckled the steering wheel. She pulled to the curb and put the car in park. “I know we’ve had…difficulties. But I just want you safe, Lia. Is J Cool hurting you?” There was no answer but a small sob. Sharon wrapped her arms around her daughter.

“My baby…It’s going to be ok,” she murmured into her hair.

Lia stayed home for a while. They watched reruns of Midsomar Murders . They went out to Costco for the five-pack macaroni and got huge ice cream sticks covered in chocolate and almonds. Lia spent her days writing new songs and hollering the lyrics out all over the house. For a while it was good. The nights were still rough, for both of them. Lia cried herself to sleep. Sharon tossed and turned. Sat in the kitchen with her mug. But the days were pleasant.

On Saturday Sharon woke up and decided to do something she hadn’t done in a long time. She made pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Lia cleaned off two plates before scooting out of her chair. “Where you goin?” “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Jenny called and wanted to hang out so I’m gonna go to her house.” “Ok sweetie, have fun.” Sharon beamed at her daughter through the window, her hands wrist deep in suds at the sink. After clearing the kitchen she tidied the house. She came to Lia’s room to put away a stray pair of underwear that had ended up with hers. When her hands parted the jumble, a thermometer suddenly appeared. Her nails rasped against the wood bottom. She held it up. She held it for a long time, wavering slightly. It wasn’t a thermometer. It was a pregnancy test.

Sharon rushed for her phone. “Hi, mom, what’s-” “Get home. Right. Now.” When she did Sharon was waiting for her in the kitchen, the test laying on the table. Lia saw it. She slowly sunk into a seat, never taking her eyes off of the test. “When were you going to tell me about this?” “I just didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared of your reaction.” Sharon rubbed her temples. Her World’s Greatest Mom mug was on the table. She took a big swallow. Lia watched her mother, eyes narrowed. “Is it J Cool’s?” Her voice was low, full of fear. Neither of them met the other’s eyes. “I don’t know.” Sharon yelped. Lia’s eyes filled fast with tears.

Her mother began to dial a number. “What are you doing?” “Calling the clinic. You’re going to need an abortion.” Lia was horrified. She jumped from her chair, tears splattering down her face. “You don’t get to make that decision for me!” she screamed. Sharon dropped the phone, shot up, and slapped Lia across the face. It was silent. When Lia righted herself she held her cheek in shock, and looked down into the mug on the table. An ugly snicker slashed her speech. “I never want to see you again.” The next day Sharon watched from the window as Lia brought her things to the curb. J Cool was there, waiting for her, leaning against the car with his arms open. He rocked Lia side to side, and then he noticed Sharon watching them from the house and gave her a big smile.


“Good evening,” greeted the tubular dark figure hovering at Emily Whitticombe’s front door. “I am Constable RMR-1132813, and my supervisor on this visit is Detective Inspector Dorothy Garland of the Droid Yard.” Emily Whitticombe studied the shadowy figures intensely, before switching her porch light on to illuminate them. “What do you want?” She demanded to know from the hovering android. “We would like you to help us with our enquiries, Ma’em,” the droid replied with phonetic difficulty. “Regarding what?” The impatient householder asked. “May we come in?” “Have you a warrant?” Emily defiantly asked. “Article three, paragraph five of the RHI manual,” the droid robotically recited. “The what!?” Emily frustratingly asked. “The Rumour Has It manual . It’s our GoTo reference for all things rumoured.” “Well, aren’t you the floating acronym.” “The RHI manual states that in the suspicion of a confirmed rumour, an officer of the law may cross a threshold without prior approval from a court order, or non-compliance from the house owner . My request was merely a gesture of respect. However, non-compliance will be recorded against this address, and ultimately, you will be summoned to appear at a tribunal for non-conformists and potential agitators.” “Sorry to lean on you a bit heavy,” D.I. Garland politely stepped in. “We’ll only take a moment of your time.” “Truth damages those trying to hide it,” Emily stated. “Let it not be said that I stand in the way of the moral compass. Please come in.” Reluctantly motioning the two police officers into her house, Emily pushed a red button located on the wall that automatically closed the front door, then activated a protective force field around it, designed to repel intruders. “Too many heel locks out there that would like no more than to rob me of my possessions. The zapper gives no warning. It just vaporises them if they try to get in. No traces left,” she glibly explained to them. “I just love technology, don’t you?” Guiding the droid and Dorothy into her living room, a cacophony of female voices chatting and laughing, suddenly went silent, looking on in red-faced surprise - like someone they were gossiping about had just entered the room. “Ladies,” Emily announced. “ The Rumour Police have arrived to sniff out the false gossip of subversion.” “I’m Detective Inspector Dorothy Garland,” the Detective Inspector introduced herself. “And this is my droid, RMR-1132813.” “Christ, girls,” came the exclamation from across the room. “It’s Dorothy and the Tin Man!” Giggling at the topical joke, Emily offered a seat to Dorothy and a hospitable invitation to a recharging station for the droid, before taking her seat with the other women at the dining table. “Thank you,” the droid acknowledged. “That will not be necessary. My energy cells are of a different technology to household droids. Whereas, the voltage is universal, the cycle of Ohms can be damaging to my circuits.” “ Ohms ,” one of the other women mockingly mimicked the sound associated with meditating, prompting more giggles as she closed her eyes and pressed her thumbs and index fingers together. “And you are?” Dorothy defensively snapped back. “Why, I’m Evanora , my pretty,” the comedienne replied. “The Wicked Whistle-Blower of the East.” “Perhaps, an introduction to your friends here would save us any further jokes that I haven’t heard before,” Dorothy leadenly suggested to Emily. “I may be a proponent of the truth, but I oppose incrimination,” Emily carefully replied.  “So be it, Constable , if you will, please.” Upon request, the droid projected a holographic image of each of Emily’s guests, while reading their police file out loud. “Beryl Whitehouse,” the droid began. “Satire writer for The Big Bugger Broadcaster Show . Spent eighteen months in New Holloway Prison for the unnecessary spread of fake news regarding how banks steal our money.” “Everything I wrote was the true,” Beryl clarified. “Not according to the Rumour Mill Law Court,” the droid clarified, while skimming through Beryl’s file. “Released early for quiet behaviour. Currently on probation.” “They threatened to cut out my tongue, then gagged me in-between mealtimes. So, I did my stretch in silent protest,” Beryl disclosed. “ Quiet time , indeed. Forced silence is more like it, but it worked against them. I’m out now and ready to spread the truth on corruption at the highest of levels loudly and clear.” “Stipulations of your probation state that you are not to associate, nor be seen in the company of other rumour mill convictees for a period no longer than six months from probation termination,” the droid remarked using its own AI creative terminology. “Maybe I’m not really here,” Beryl teased. “Maybe, I’m just a holographic projection, like the one coming from your dusty lens.” Instantly, the droid fired an electrical static charge at her to test her posed hypothesis, causing Beryl to shriek in pain. “Your physical attendance has been recorded, “the droid noted, before projecting and identifying the next guest’s holographic image. “Dawn Green. Shamed columnist of the Daily Tattler.” Sitting opposite Emily, Dawn lifted her nose in a snooty gesture, and replied, “What a dull description of me.” “Also remanded in New Holloway for an abuse of defamatory articles dating back to the start of the Libel and Slander Age,” the droid continued . “ Twenty-three months for bringing into disrepute, the previously good reputation your employer had built for reporting award-winning factual commentary.” “I brought institutional lies to its knees in the last century,” Dawn’s educated accent explained. “And I would do so again to anyone trying to control the narrative.” “Your record shows that you spread your own version of fake news,” the droid revealed. “I quote, The Daily Tattler is a government funded propaganda machine intent on demoralising the general population and that they are guilty of the fearmongering that led to the Nine-Day war in Moldova .” “They have a lot of blood on their hands tucked into deep blood-filled pockets,” Dawn declared. “Yet, they still churn out their Babel Fish of lies, protected by those that control everything and everyone – including your own police bosses.” “Are you implying that our police force is corrupt?” Dorothy asked in an accusatory tone of voice. “I’m saying nothing that you don’t already know.” “Be careful, Mrs. Green,” Dorothy warned. “Statements like that could get you into more trouble.” “Yes yes, I know,” Dawn interrupted, dismissing the idle threat. “ The Rumour Police ,” she scolded. “ Hear all evil, see all evil, and speak no evil against one’s paymaster . A contradiction in the dark chasm between duty and truth.” Ignoring the insult, Dorothy took charge of reading the next guest’s file. “ Abigail Ronson . Now, you are most definitely a person of interest. The records show that you are currently awaiting trial on sedition charges.” “No comment,” Abigail’s sultry voice replied. “It says here that you planted a verbal bomb in the men’s toilet at the Houses of Parliament.” “Innocent until proven guilty,” Abigail drably added. “Looks to me like an open and shut case,” Dorothy smugly explained. “You were seen on droid video entering and exiting the facilities moments before a rush of ministers crowded in during a break in the PM’s questions and answers session.” “Deepfake,” she replied in a dismissive tone. “You can’t believe a thing you see in holograms anymore. Piss someone off and they can make your life a living AI hell. They,” she emphasised. “Can fake anything these days. Don’t you know?” “A voice bomb, huh?” Dorothy repeated while reading its description. “ An atmospheric subliminal recording best effective in close and crowded situations . Fascinating. So, who’s the someone you pissed off, then?” “Influencers.” Abigail’s one word answer struck a chord. “Interfere with their revenue stream and you become a target for vindictiveness.” “What was it that you broadcast in the toilets?” “No comment. If I told yah , I’d have to, you know.” “Kill me?” Dorothy boorishly asked. “Is that a threat?” “I meant that I would have to deny everything from out there in the No-Go Zone , and hope for a warm welcome back by the Quadrant later.” Dorothy noticed that Emily and her guests went deathly silent at the mere suggestion of escaping to the No-Go zone. As much as life in the Quadrant was rife with crime and threat, it was much safer than beyond it in the No-Go Zone where life and survival was an unknown factor. “I’m sure my droid can dig through the central database and find what you said.” Dorothy’s threat alarmed Abigail, causing her some anguish. “No, please don’t,” Abigail pleaded. “It will trigger a flag. Then, all of our lives will be in danger.” “I don’t understand. What kind of influencers have that much access to secure records?” Abigail took a deep breath, then slowly exhaling, she replied, “ Lobbyists .” “Record found,” the droid announced. “Shall I open the file?” “Lobbyists, Activists. Same thing,” Abigail explained. “For many unregulated years, they have pulled the strings of their government puppet disciples. Private enterprise with financial gain at the root of its intent, influencing major decisions at mega levels. With every recurring success the Activists enjoy, a varying number of new billionaires are born, who in turn, share their wealth up the pyramid of power and position, where two percent of the population control the remaining ninety-eight percent.” “Shall I open the file?” The droid asked again, as Abigail continued her impromptu sermon. “News, stocks, industry, and technology are all controlled by a star chamber of the elite, who can make or break those that oppose the Greedy powerhouse class of society’s real traitors. These capitalist Bourgeoisie’s main aim is to increase poverty, hunger, and crime, so the despots of greed - the Fat Cats can gorge themselves on caviar and champagne, while the poorest of the poor claw at each other for scraps of stale bread and dirty water – causing those desperately on the verge of starvation, to turn on each other in blinded rage fuelled by the narrative. Out of desperation, they eventually sell their souls to the company store’s forced labour politburo, who mete out rationed crumbs to starving mouths. Is that the free society you have sworn to protect, D.I. Garland?” “I don’t see any of you ladies starving,” Dorothy countered. “For those trapped in the middle of this class divide,” Abigail countered back. “Fortification traps us within our own struggle. We’re just trying to ride out the chaos, but that is becoming ever-increasingly challenging. That’s why the No-Go Zone is the only viable option.” “But no-one’s ever returned from there,” Dorothy pointed out. “Is that your escape plan?” Dorothy asked in reference to half-a-dozen backpacks lined up against a far wall. “You see,” Abigail ignored the question. “Without the ninety-eight percent to feed their masters, the two percent has no revenue stream. So, monitor, control, and impose on the masses , is the doctrine of the privileged – not the underprivileged. The slave masters need slaves, and the Activists willingly service that need. Do you understand?” “Awaiting instruction,” the droid impatiently added. “Shall I open the file?” “Seeking out the No-Go Zone is a crime,” Dorothy stated. “That’s why plans need to be kept secret from rumours of seditious escape,” Abigail confessed. “I presume that is what you are here to investigate?” “Indeed.” “Please,” Abigail pleaded. “Let me show you something first.” Producing a disc about the size of a cat food tin lid, Abigail placed it on the dining table. Then, with a few swipes of her hand, another holographic projection jutted up from the disc’s centre for all to view. It further displayed video and records of government-approved subversion of the masses and government manufactured gossip streams, where rumour was maliciously spread into one hundred percent of the ninety-eight. The collected evidence being displayed showed details of big business paying lobbying organisations huge amounts of money to press their contracted influence on the decision makers in government. “It is no coincidence that you in particular have been assigned to this visit,” Emily mentioned. “You have been led to this location because somebody thought Abigail Ronson would be here.” “So, a query on my records would confirm my whereabouts,” added Abigail. “Giving them full justification to arrest and prosecute me for sedition.” “Shall I open the file or not?” The impatient droid grew frustratingly agitated. “No, cancel that,” Dorothy surprisingly commanded. “Return your query to the database, then disconnect from the Cube.” “I’m sorry, Dorothy,” the droid hesitated. “It is illegal for a droid to log out of the cube’s repository.” “Switch to local knowledge base immediately. That is an order. I am invoking Article One of the Droid Management Procedures Manual that states, on threat of potential data leakage, a droid supervisor may disconnect their droid from the central server until satisfied that no risk to the Cube remains .” “But that means I will be scheduled for a full reset,” the droid nervously pointed out. “I will bear the responsibility,” Dorothy assured the droid.” A few tense moments elapsed. Not knowing what her droid would do, Dorothy contemplated flicking its reset switch. As she leaned toward the switch, her droid suddenly announced its compliance. “Migration to local server initialised and completed. May I say that it has been a privilege and an honour to work with you.” A perplexed Dorothy intriguingly watched as the droid turned and left the room, heading for the front door. “The zapper!” Emily exclaimed. “Force field off,” She yelled in a panic, while rushing after the droid. Leaping to her feet, Dorothy ordered her droid to stop. But just as she rounded the doorway to the hall, a bright flash caused her to cover her eyes. Following behind her, Emily’s guests stood silently staring at the front door before Dorothy stepped forward and physically guided the slightly singed droid back into the drawing room. “What!? What just happened?” Dorothy’s flabbergasted confusion searched for answers. “Probably, an attempted droid suicide,” Abigail answered. “Suicide?” Dorothy’s perplexed question required clarity. “Droids don’t commit suicide, do they?” “That can mean only one thing,” said Abigail. “There are rumours of droids somehow developing sentient thoughts, feelings, and emotions.” “You mean…” “Love,” Abigail stated. “But how is that possible?” “I’m not an expert, but there have been rumours about depressed droids turning up at recycle yards asking to be crushed.” “RMR,” Dorothy addressed her droid. “ Are you feeling depressed?” Several uneasy silent moments passed until the droid responded. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you not being in my every waking moment.” “My goodness, the Tin Man does have a heart, methinks,” jested Dawn. “That will make for great reading in The Tattler.” Attempting a comforting gesture, Dorothy patted the droid’s outer casing. “Then, we won’t schedule your reset,” she promised. “Not possible,” replied the droid. “To remain active in the Quadrant’s Cube, full reset will be required.” “You don’t have to remain in the Quadrant or the Cube to exist,” Abigail suggested. “What alternative is there…?” Dorothy’s trailing question was overridden by Abigail’s cold facts. “Like it or not, Darling, you’re now a part of the resistance.” “Resistance? I’m an upholder of the law,” Dorothy half-heartedly emphasised, realising life for her had suddenly and irrevocably changed in the blink of a droid’s’ eye. “ They ,” Abigail pointed out while waving her hand at a distant, unseen entity. “They know you disconnected. They , will see your act as anti-establishment. They , will want a scapegoat. Manufactured rumour and gossip is their social currency and you are now money in the bank to them. Someone of their own to punish as an example to the ninety-eight percent, that rumours corrupt. What better a way to silence seditious thought, than show no matter what level of the system you connect to, you are always subject to the law of the land. What is more concerning to me more than anything at this moment, is They know exactly where you are, and to whom you converse with. “Ladies,” Emily commanded. “We have been compromised, so an immediate evacuation to the tunnels is imminently required. Please pack up all necessary supplies and head directly to the cellar.” Swiftly gathering clothes, food, and water into the strategically readied backpacks, the group went busily about their responsibilities, while a voice command from Emily opened up a previously concealed panel in the drawing room’s bookcase. “This is all happening very fast,” Dorothy hesitated – hoping to preserve a little time to process everything. “Analyse it later, when you’re safe in the No-Go Zone,” Beryl hurriedly prompted Dorothy to move. “You and the Tin Man ain’t in Kansas anymore, so get going!” Dorothy hesitated while listening to the approaching sirens signalling time was running out to explore her options. Sensing her uncertainty, her droid nudged her in the direction of the hidden passageway to the cellar. “If it means we will be together,” her droid urged. “Then, it is the logical choice, and I will support your decision.” Waiting at the bookcase, Emily encouraged Dorothy to act quickly. “I can’t promise you that life in the No-Go Zone will be easy. Nor will it be any place like home. However, it is our own yellow brick road of discovery, so what do you say, stay and die, or follow me and live?” Extending a beckoning hand, Emily’s concerned expression morphed into a pleasing and satisfied look as Dorothy nodded to her droid. “What say we click our heels together, RMR? Shall we live to fight another day?” Passing through the bookcase portal, Dorothy and Droid descended the stairs to the cellar. “Force field on. Lock cellar door,” Emily’s voice issued its irreversible commands, just before a bright flash from the hallway filled the drawing room with the brightest of lights. “Force field,” Emily shouted out. “For good or bad, I just love technology, don’t you?” “Rumour has it, you do,” RMR playfully replied. As Emily guided them toward the tunnels, she patted RMR’s metal body and said, “Let’s not tell anyone, okay? It’s just loose gossip, after all…”


First time posting here... I wrote this story for my AP Lit class. Harsh criticism encouraged. “…which means that we should prescribe you something as soon as possible.” I looked up. I had been zoned out for the past several minutes. I’m not even sure what I was thinking about, but I noticed that I was fiddling with a pen in my hands. “Sorry?” I said anxiously. My psychiatrist sighed. “Mr. Cohen, what I said was that there is a high probability that you have Bipolar Type II, or more hopefully, cyclothymia. Both of these should be treated seriously and you appear to be in a depressive state, which means that we should prescribe you something as soon as possible, because if you enter a hypomanic state you may no longer feel the need for medication.” I stared back at Ms. Wilcox blankly. I was having a little bit of difficulty comprehending what she was saying. “I just thought, you know, bipolar means like, drastic mood swings that happen a lot.” “Well that’s a common misconception. Yes, manic episodes often bring extreme mood swings, but mood swings are not the only part of bipolar.” “Can you explain what you mean by Type II and cyclothymic?” “Sure. There are a few types of bipolar—Type I is characterized by periods of depression juxtaposed with severe mania. Mania can cause anything from highly risky behavior down to episodes of full-blown psychosis. Bipolar Type II contains a milder, briefer form of mania, known as hypomania, which is characterized more by confidence, fast talking, racing thoughts and the like. However the depression is much longer and more severe. Cyclothymia cycles rather more quickly between hypomania and dysthymia, which is a type of depression that is not as severe or long-lasting.” “I think I have that last one. Bicyclethymia.” “Cyclothymia. I understand your previous psychiatrist diagnosed with ADHD and an anxiety disorder?” “Yes, ma’am.” “I am inclined to agree with him on the ADHD but you don’t seem to exhibit any signs of anxiety issues.” “I have attacks. Generally in close spaces when people are up in my face and stuff.” “Mr. Cohen, do you have low self-esteem?” “That’s a pretty rude question to ask someone,” I said defensively. “I would say you do. You generally try to preempt criticism with self-deprecation and from what your parents have told me, you tend to act out seeking positive attention,” Ms. Wilcox said flatly. I got a text at that moment. Probably from my mom. “Calvin, are you done yet? I really don’t want to miss my stories” is most likely what it read. “Mr. Cohen, you have so far refused medication for both your attention deficit and anxiety disorders…” started Ms. Wilcox. “Yeah, I did,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to be smothered. You know what would have happened if they put Van Gogh on meds? I mean, he probably never would have cut off his ear, but I don’t think he would have done all the cool stuff he did and drew all those diagrams and wrote backwards and stuff. He would have just been this ordinary boring dude living in a house someplace with a wife and some kids and he would have died and no one would have ever heard of him.” “Calvin,” Ms. Wilcox said, addressing me by my first name. Wow. Things must be getting serious. “This is getting serious,” she continued. Ha. Called it. I pointed at the calendar next to her desk. “Why is your calendar still on December? It’s May.” “Calvin, I need you to focus.” “I think you mean, ‘Calvin, may you please focus?’” Ms. Wilcox did not laugh at my clever play on words. We talked some more and came to the conclusion that I had cyclothymia, which I think is like the wussy version of bipolar. This is what we need psychiatrists for? Seriously? There are people out there with real problems. Like that Son of Sam guy who thought his neighbor’s dog was ordering him to murder people. I’m sure he didn’t have some wimpy “affliction” like cyclothymia. I mean really. The name sounds made-up. I refused medication, got up and walked out of the office. As soon as I passed through the doorway I felt different. I know my brain is wired all sorts of wrong now, so being in the outside world felt really bad. I mean what am I supposed to do with this new information? Go forth and try not to snap and have a nervous breakdown while crossing the street? I was standing outside the building waiting for my mom. Oh, no, my mom. How am I gonna break this to her? “Sorry mom, your kid’s psycho. Guess you gotta live with it.” I started pacing around nervously. I had about fifteen minutes until she got there. How do I handle this? I got another text. This one was for my girlfriend, Jayce. It read “Hey! ” That opened up a whole new avenue of awful. So I have to tell Jayce I’m mentally unsound now? Then she’s probably gonna break up with me and I don’t really blame her. Then what? Am I gonna be single forever? I can’t go on dates. I would just be like a big flashing Ghostbusters NO sign. “DO NOT DATE THIS PERSON. HE IS MENTALLY UNSTABLE. HIS SEED IS UNFIT FOR YOUR WOMB.” I stopped pacing and gathered myself. I can get through this. I texted Jayce back “Hey.” “So how are ya? Still shacked up in the wacko basket?” I received back. I wanted to lie to her so bad. Or at least not tell her. This was something that could wait. But I couldn’t do that to her. That is ridiculously unfair. All I could think of is that one day I was just gonna snap and yell or I would do some dumb thing and hurt her. She puts up with so much already that this one more thing shouldn’t be that bad. “I have something to tell you,” I texted back to her. “Mmmhmmm…” came the reply. “I have cyclothymia. It’s kind of like bipolar. I thought it was just my ADHD and anxiety but apparently it’s not. I’m three shades of insane.” She responded with, “You’re bipolar? Shocker. Wanna show me one of those poles when you get back home?” I laughed out loud. Yep, that’s just what I needed to hear. My mom’s car came rolling up next to me. I got in. I thought telling Jayce would have made me feel better about telling my mom but it didn’t. It really didn’t. Now I just have this giant ball of dread that’s sitting inside my stomach and it feels that if I don’t tell her I’ll explode but if I do tell her, her response may not be something I can handle. “Mom?” I said meekly. My mom had just hung up her cell phone. “Yeah, sweetie?” “So, I was talking to Ms. Wilcox…” “Oh, you’re finally talking to her? I thought you were still doing that whole ‘I’m training to be a mime’ act for all your psychiatrists.” “No, Ms. Wilcox is actually really nice. And um, she, uh, she said I have cyclothymia.” “Okay,” my mom said obliviously. “No, not okay. It’s like bipolar.” “You’re not bipolar!” my mom said. “You just want attention. Jesus. Some people have real problems, you know? Like that UCSB guy who shot all those people. He had issues. You’re just a little off. You’re not a special snowflake.” “I know I’m not a special snowflake, mom,” I said. “I know. But this is serious. I think I have a real problem here.” “No, you don’t. Kids these days, we just sit ‘em down in front of the TV or we pop ‘em full of pills and that’s supposed to solve all our problems. What ever happened to good old fashioned discipline? That’ll slap the cyclothymia right out of your mouth…” “Mom!” I interrupted. “This is not about discipline. This is not about ‘kids these days.’ This is about my brain. And there are neurological problems in my brain. It’s why I go back and forth between feeling so amped and then just feeling like nothing matters. And it’s why I can’t pay attention, and it’s why I freak out and have panic attacks. It’s because I’m messed up. I wish I was some dumb disrespectful little kid, because you can fix dumb and you fix disrespectful. But you can’t fix crazy. This is a job for the professionals.” Mom kept her eyes focused on the road. I was breathing heavily because I was so full of anxiety that I think if I pricked my finger pure adrenaline would have poured out. After about two minutes of complete silence, she said “Okay.” The next week I came back for another appointment and accepted my medication. I think that’s the only thing I can do at this point. I don’t know if it’s gonna restrict my creativity, or any of that. I hope it doesn’t. But I want to fix my crazy. I don’t want to end up like Vincent Van Gogh and cut my ear off when Jayce breaks up with me. I don’t know if I’m gonna be okay, either. But I’m trying. And that’s about the best anyone can really do.


Taeyeon had just finished redecorating the Christmas tree with Jungguk. They were now sitting on the couch. "Who's gonna go buy more candy canes?" Taeyeon asked. "How about we don't? I'd rather eat the fudge that Artemis gave us. Taeyeon sighed. "Whatever." Jungguk and Taeyeon had only eaten a few pieces of fudge when Taeyeon's phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. It was Korean. (Translations are italicized) "Yeoboseyo?" Taeyeon said. "Hello?"

"Annyeonghaseyo, gimtaeyeon-ibnikka?" The voice on the other side asked. "Hello, Is this Kim Taeyeon?" "Ye. Nuguseyo?" "Yes. Who is this?" "Jeoneun yeonghwa gamdong-ibnida. ulineun sae yeonghwaui kaeseuteuleul mo-eugo issseubnida. ulineun dangsin-i uliui ju-ingong-idoegileul balabnida." "I am a movie director. We're gathering the cast for our new film. We would like you to be our main supporting character." "Jeongmal? Hangug-eseo?" "Really? In Korea?" "Salamdeul-eul tongjehago nugungaga yesanghaji moshan il-eul hal taekkaji geudeul-ihaneun modeun geos-eul algoissneun jeongbue gwanhan yeonghwaibnida." "Yes. It's a film about a government that controls it's people and knows everything they do until someone does something they didn't expect. "Maeu heungmiloul geos gatsubnida. Maenijeowa iyagihagessseubnida." "That sounds very interesting. I'll talk to my manager." "Johguna. sigan nae jusyeoeso gamsahabnida." "Alright. Thank you for your time." "Choedaehan ppalli yeonlag deuligesssubnida. Annyeong." "I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Goodbye." Taeyeon hung up the phone.

"You should take the role!" Jungguk said. "But, if I take the role then I won't be able to hang out with you guys until the shooting is over! That could take months!" "I thought it was a movie?" "He didn't really say what it was. It could be a whole series! What if it takes a year!? What'll I do without you guys?" "Well, talk to your manager like you said you would. We'll talk about it with everyone once we get more information. * * * "I can't believe I'm on a plane right now. Actually, I can't believe I even let Jungguk talk me into this! What am I gonna do without everyone?" "You okay?" A voice next to him woke him up from his thoughts. He turned to look at a girl that must've been twenty or twenty-one. She couldn't have been much younger than himself. "Yeah." "Oh, good. You looked kind of worried." "Um. Where are you heading too?" Taeyeon asked, trying to start a real conversation. "I'm heading to Korea. I'm gonna be acting in a new movie! Where are you headed?" "I'm actually doing the same thing." "Really? What's the movie you're acting in called?" "Predicted." "Oh my gosh! I think we're acting in the same movie? Who are you going to be?" "They said I'm a main supporting character. I think I'm probably going to be the second lead or something close to that." "Cool! I'm the main! How long have you acted?" "I've been acting since I was young. You might have heard of me." "Oh! I totally forgot about names! My name's is Park Yumi. What's your name?"

"My name's Kim Taeyeon. I've heard of you before! You were the main in Find Me! My friend loves that series!" "Well, it's nice to meet you!" Taeyeon shook Yumi's hand. * * * They had landed and checked into the same hotel. In fact, their rooms were right across from each other. Taeyeon had rented a car before he got to Korea and he offered to take Yumi to the first day of shooting. So, there they were, awkwardly sitting in the car, wondering who would speak first. After many minutes of silence, Taeyeon cleared his throat. "So ... How old are you?" "I'm twenty. What about you?" "I'm twenty-three." The car was once again filled with silence. Taeyeon was now hesitating to try to start a conversation again. He worried that he might be annoying her. Maybe she didn't want to talk. "Do you have siblings?" Yumi asked. "No. I'm an only child." "Lucky! I have a younger sister and she's always taking my stuff!" "I live with my best friend and we're about the same size so he's always taking my clothes too! He steals my candy all the time! That's what annoys me the most." "My little sister does the same thing!" The two laughed. The rest of the ride was silent but it was no longer awkward. The silence was light and comfortable now and it stayed that way for the rest of the ride. * * * Taeyeon had been sent a script but he had only skimmed over it. He was very confused when he found himself sitting in the makeup room for the next hour, getting interesting markings drawn on his face. As it turns out, he was the second lead but, he was with the evil, alien government. He wasn't very happy with all of the makeup but he was happy to find out that Yumi was having her make-up done right next to him. The enjoyed talking for the majority of the time and they went over lines together until their make-up was done. He then watched Yumi go first. "Mom. Why can't I do anything that I want to do?" "It's dangerous. You shouldn't even try! They know everything that you have done, are doing, and will do!" "But I want to be free! I don't want them to choose my life for me! I want to be able to choose what I like and who I like and love!" "That's dangerous! Please listen to me! They've taken people in before. If you even try to attempt to do something that they can't predict you'll be taken away and I won't ever get to see you again!" "Isn't there some way to stop them?" "They make sure that there isn't. And there won't be so, please listen to me. As your mother, I'm telling you not to make any bad decisions." Her mother stared into her eyes until Yumi's character sighed. "Okay, mom." "CUT! PERFECT!" The director said. Yumi complemented the lady who was playing the mother before stepping off of the set to find some water. Taeyeon walked up to her and tapped her shoulder. When she turned around he handed her a cold bottled water. "Thanks." "No problem. You were amazing up there!" Yumi was going to thank him but he was called up for his first shooting. "Well I'd better go. I hope I do good. This role was kind of unexpected. I've never been on the bad guy's side before." "I think you'll do great!"


Grey light sank into the cell, revealing the other occupants - An old woman, cradling her head between her knees, rocking feebly. A teenage boy with a bloody nose, who mopped at his face half-heartedly. A man, ashy beard and blackened face, who only stared up at the light with mouth hanging open. All at once a cough would rattle his chest and then he would fall still again. And there was me, in my own corner of the cell, reeking in the same clothes I had been abducted with two weeks ago. Ambushed in the hospital after my bite, quietly commanded to dress, leave my things, I wouldn't need them where I was going. The men, three of them in military ware, each had the butt of a gun jutting from his belt. You can't argue with that. And now I was their prisoner, a quiet concentration camp for the bitten. We were infected, more men in sullied commando gear insisted. They looked on us like rabid dogs, gun barrels following us wherever we turned. The first three nights I railed against the cell door, splintering wood and making iron sing until my hands bled. The other occupants just watched me with hollow eyes. My son, you can't keep me from him. You can't lock me up, treat us like animals. You were bitten, they hissed through the bars. You're not a man anymore.


There was my bridge, my darling bridge, and all was right with the world. Just one step and my feet were on the wooden planks, my hands holding on to the iron railing on each side. Bliss. I turned upstream and lifted my chin. The summer breeze blew gently onto my face. It was also caressing my bare arms. Closing my eyes with a smile I breathed in. My nostrils were cooled by the air rising up from the water below me. I reached up, unclasped my long, curly hair from its clip and shook it free. I knew it was going to be a nice day. I was twenty five with my whole life ahead of me.

I ran to the other side of the bridge and scrambled down the grassy bank. I kicked off my sandals and dipped my toes in the water. Divine. Carefully, I stood up and walked into the middle of the stream. It made my heart sing, even though my favourite yellow dress, with daisies on, would be a sodden mess when I returned. I walked away from the bridge for a while not intending to go too far. That was always my thought but I never stuck to it. The pebbles on the bottom were slippery but I loved the sensation of my legs moving through the water, which was about three feet deep. Eventually I turned and the bridge was nearly out of sight. Again. No matter. I had been  enjoying myself too much to notice. I spotted Mr Kingfisher on a low branch. He was a regular visitor, with his stunning, metallic looking blue wings and his bright orange chest. Such a beautiful bird. I'd made friends with him and he wasn't at all disturbed by me being there. I even talked to him most days.

"Hey Mr Kingfisher! Caught any fish today?" He must have been in a bad mood as he ignored me and flew off. I enjoyed hearing my own voice in this setting. There was an echo if you called out loud enough and most times I did, because I loved it. "Coo ee," and sure enough my words flew back to me as if by magic. I could feel that I wasn't alone. There were tiny fish in the stream. Flashes of silver would go past me and I would bend down and cup my hands trying to catch them but I had never succeeded. Mr Kingfisher did, but only when I was safely back on the bridge and out of his territory. I could understand that. Walking back I deliberately sloshed the water with my hands. This created interesting ripples in the stream which caught the sunlight but had on occasion drenched me if I'd done it a bit too enthusiastically! Sitting on the grass I put my sandals back on and made my way carefully back up the bank. I didn't want mud on my dress which, in the building heat, would soon dry out. The sun had gone in for a moment but it would soon be back. Before long I was on the bridge again and I could see Mr Kingfisher darting in and out of the stream so quickly that he was but a blue blur in the distance. The water would bubble and break over the glossy stones at the stream's edge and I felt totally calm. The moss on the banks held my attention for a while. I was fascinated by the shapes and textures. There was even the odd mushroom growing. Then the sun came out again and suddenly the water became like a living thing beneath my feet as it twinkled and shone, reflecting the sun's rays. Butterflies fluttered by. A line from a little girl I hadn't seen for years. It was silly but it made me smile. I felt so alive here. Such a happy scene to anyone who might be watching although there was never anyone there and it truthfully was a happy scene, but I was only happy here. The rest of the time happiness was just a distant, fuzzy memory from long ago.

The birds were chattering. I felt the warmth on my back from the sun as it went down. Time seemed to move faster here. The water was glinting as if it was smiling at me in these last rays of the sun. The rich reds and opulent oranges of the sunset made me gasp, but it was time to go. How many more visits like this would there be? I tried to block that question out but it was getting harder. Over the other side of the bridge the trees at the water's edge caught my eye, the way some of the branches had grown heavy and now dipped down into the water. Heaviness was something I identified with. It surrounded my heart, the heart that had turned to stone. Why? That was an easy question to answer. If my heart was stone it couldn't feel, couldn't become enraged. A stone heart was safe. It protected me. It left me able to live my life, such as it was, but that was rubbish and I knew it. The heart of stone didn't protect me and it certainly didn't stop the feelings. It just squashed them, leaving them to fester, eat me alive. At times my chest became so tight it bubbled much like the water below me.

I'd had to learn to bury my feelings from a young age, but even to a master like me it was getting harder and harder being unable to speak out, to be the real me, whoever she was. So much of my life hadn't been what I wanted it to be. The face I showed the world was a sham, always smiling and accepting of my situation. I put it on every morning and took it off every night.

I grabbed the railing tight and breathed deeply, trying to concentrate on the wonderful flowery smell of this beautiful spot hoping that might keep me here a while longer. When all else failed this had always been my last resort, a way to calm the rage inside me but lately every breath just reinforced the stone as it hardened at all the broken places. I dreaded the day when it might crack open leaving me vulnerable, having to exist in an outside world I had no idea how to live in. My anger was becoming too great to keep inside. Who would I be without the stone around my heart? Daisy, the little girl inside me, cried with fear at the very idea of it. Her entire world had ceased to evolve so many years ago she didn't know how to live as an adult. She needed me for that and I'd mothered her for far too long. It was exhausting and seemed so pointless. She'd never grow up. I'd delayed as much as I could but now it was time to go back to the real world where all the people around me saw me as static. It was as if I could manifest myself as being in one place whilst at the same time being miles away, just as I was now, alone on the bridge.

In truth I was still lying in bed in my room at the care home. I had not been able to speak, or move from the neck down since I came out of my year long coma. The doctors had told my parents that my life expectancy was twenty five at most. I was seventy six years old. I'd beaten the odds, but with pneumonia I was ready to go, hoping I'd visit my bridge in heaven. Maybe I'd finally meet Daisy, my younger self. My life had been stolen. Seven years old when I was hit by the speeding car. Just one step in the road.


A small lizard sluggishly scurried from a dead bush to beneath the floorboards of the stairs of an old rusted saloon. The heavy footsteps sounded like booming quakes to the reptile's ears. Its sand-colored body sank in with the ground around it acting as a makeshift shield against the eyes of the large predator. The lizard began to slow in its march to the stairs. Finally, its overheated body stopped completely, and the predator closed in. The lizard desperately tried to carry itself away, but the harsh sting of the sand beneath it and the boiling glow of the sun overhead stopped it in its tracks. The predator towered over the feeble reptile and crouched down, no doubt preparing to lap up its prey. A soft trickle of water droplets splattered on the reptile's back and spread across its body. It lifted itself up and gave a quick curious glance to its savior before retreating beneath the stairs. The man watched it hideaway through the eyeholes of a polished brown wooden mask. The cloaked figure of the man strode into the pub with a large blade in a glossy black sheath adorned with gold letters spelling Zephyr at his side. Some of the people in the bar gave a satisfied look to the blade, while others were too caught up in their stupor to give him a thought. The bartender studied the man with a mournful look. He took a seat in front of the bartender and pulled out his now-empty flask. "If you wouldn't mind," he said in a dry velvety voice. The bartender simply nodded and pulled out a large dusty container of water and began to pour. "Care to share your business here?" The bartender asked as the flask was nearly full. The man looked up at the bartender preparing to answer. The light of the pub shone through revealing the man's hazel eyes for a split second. "Ahh come on Brax, ain't it obvious? he's killed a Zephyra and put him in that blade, and now he's here to kill more," A large man said forcing his way into the conversation. "There are Zephyra here?" The cloaked man asked, a hint of worry muffled by the dominating tone of apathy in the man's voice. "Not here, but further in the Madlands there's a whole gang of 'em," The large man said with a devious grin. The cloaked man quietly considered the new information, looking down at the crusted wood. "Can I ask how you killed 'em?" The large man asked in a hushed tone leaning forward to the cloaked man. The cloaked figure let out a disappointed sigh, and in one motion he raised his back up, and in another, turned his head over to the large man as if to say, did you really just ask me that? "Ok sensitive subject, I get it," The large man continued. "So how's about you tell us how you got his soul in that there sword instead," He said with a grin that was a beating away from toothless. The cloaked man's concentrated gaze on him fell slowly into an almost shameful look at the floor. He snatched up his flask and stood up, heading for the door. "You can just never take a hint huh Groll," Brax the bartender spoke. As the cloaked man passed the bottom step and began his trek further into the Madlands, he heard the sturdy doors burst open quickly behind him and turned his head to look. "Hold up now!" The bartender pleaded racing to catch up to the man. "Listen, I know they're mutants but the Zephyras out there are good people," Brax cried. The cloaked man gave no response, staring at him with an expressionless wooden glare. "Just don't kill 'em, not all of 'em deserve to become a Zephyr like that," He begged, eyeing the black sheath on the cloaked man's waist. He stood with his robes gently fluttering at the whims of the wind, the light badge color perfectly reflecting the tone of the sand around him. "You asked about my business here," the robed man said. The bartender's eyes narrowed in confusion. The cloaked man unsheathed his zephyr blade revealing a long, thin silver blade with a slight reddish hue to it. "This used to be a good friend of mine," he said softly and sorrowfully, holding up the blade's hilt to the bartender. "He said he wanted to be buried in his homeland, so now I'm here," The man finished. Brax reached out and held the hilt of the blade for a moment. "So you ain't gonna kill none of 'em?" Brax asked. "As long as they don't try to kill me," He retorted. The bartender's eyes softened. He handed the blade back to its owner who promptly sheathed it. "May I ask your name?" The bartender beckoned. "Call me Shepherd," the man said with a smile in his voice. He turned away towards the Madlands readying himself for the journey ahead. The Madlands were just as described, endless deserts of quicksand that threatened to swallow up any who stood in one spot for too long. Towering dunes would rise up and crash into themselves as the roaring winds would throw gargantuan tufts of sand and plunge them back down. Truly you would have to be mad to want to be mad to reside here; either mad or a Zephyra. The man who called himself Shepherd wafted through the sandy blizzard that was the Madlands, needing to extremely careful not to leave his feet in one place for too long. Every now and then when a particularly powerful gust of wind would shoot out at him he would have to unsheathe his zephyr blade and counter with a lashing flurry of wind himself. He looked down to his wrist holding the hilt of the blade and chose to leave it unsheathed, using its elemental power to condense to sand beneath him and make fit to traverse. He knew it wouldn't be long now, he was already deep in the Madlands and soon they would sense his blade and come for him if they weren't already. He had survived endless battles with his friend but now, looking down at what was left of him Shepherd's hands loosened. "I don't know if you can hear me," his voice dryer than ever before spoke. "You died for me, if it takes my life to see your final wish fulfilled," he paused for a few moments before exhaling heavily. "I'll see it done," he finished. The blade in his rattled against the leather coating his gloves as if in protest. He looked down at it wondering for a second if the blade really could hear him. It shot out of his hands and into the sandy fog ahead. "Damn," Shepherd said to himself. All around the world rumbled as herculean bolts of wind crashed into him from every direction and squeezed his body. Swirling tendrils of dust became clear around Shepherd's body, slithering and constricting him like snakes. As the storm began to settle the silhouettes of several people became clear. The most prominent of which stepped out in front of him raising his foot high in the air and coming to rest it on Shepherd's chest. "Gotcha," the man said with a gleeful smile. He had a mad wide open look in his eyes and sharp jagged teeth. Half of his face had a red faded burn mark and his blond hair was rippled in the wind that vaguely resembled the embers of a flame. "Now, I don't usually talk to you mongrels," he continued. "But, quite frankly, you don't seem like all that great of a Zephyra hunter," "I'm not a hunter," Shepherd said calmly. "I'd almost believe you considering how bad you are at it," the man snickered. "But then there's this little fella," he said holding up the zephyr sword for Shepherd to see. "Tell me, what brings a man kill another and make a weapon out of him," he asked his mad eyes narrowing with contempt. Shepherd looked down at the ground watching the sand crept up his leg threatening to drag him under. "I didn't kill him," Shepherd protested. The man's mad grin faded into a distasteful snarl. "Convincing," he retorted before using the foot on Shepherd's chest to push him to the ground. "Can we kill him yet," a crazed voice hissed from behind the man. "Go nuts," He said waving his back as if to call off an order. The dust around him condensed and squeezed his body further as the sand consumed more and more of his body. He felt his bones beginning to splinter under the pressure and his eyes felt like they would pop out. Just as he was beginning to accept his end the force lifted. He fell to his knees and felt something metallic brush up against his boots. He opened his eyes to find his zephyr blade sliding to him through the sand. He shot up blade in hand and prepared to blast a powerful force of wind at his assailants before the man's words rang in his head. Turning a man into a weapon. He looked down at his friend. "That won't be your legacy," he said softly.


And on the seventh day once I had finished the final details of my creation, I took up rest, leaving Adam and Eve made in my image to go forth, multiply and thrive in the Garden of Eden. The earthly paradise furnished with all that humankind could desire. Satisfied that my children would live content and never want for anything other than what I had already provided I lay worry free, exhausted from the toil of my work I drifted into a deep sleep. Leaving my creation in the hands of time, content that times slow consistent embrace would safely guide my creation through its murky passages. At last, I awoke, hazy from my deep and restful slumber. My body ached from strain I had put myself under whilst creating the universe and the earth. Mindful that I had left the jewel of my creation, earth in the hands of time I immediately went to inspect its state, assured that the earthly paradise would still be intact. I was eager to reestablish my relationship with my people, so I took on my human form and descended from the heavens into the realm of man. The year was 2021, I was taken aback by how long I had indeed slept for. But what had happened to my earthly paradise. There was nothing left in the world that resembled the creation that I had toiled so hard to fashion, not one grain of the earth held the same beauty that it once held, not a single grain. I could not believe what I saw, my mind was overwhelmed with both immense sadness and anger that my people had squandered all the beautiful things that I had provided. Humanity was made perfect, yet I could see nothing, but a corrupt and fickle people corrupted with greed and a blinding drive for success and power. I observed the world for a time watching its ways and customs. I felt like a total stranger in my own house everything felt so incredibly foreign, from the settlements to the institutional structures of power. The world was no longer one garden but fractured into a multiple of groups and countries. After watching for some time, I decided to go and interact with this new humanity. I first decided to visit the institutions of religion, it seemed to me that there seemed that there were several which were established in my name. I first set foot in the chambers of the pope in St Peters, the man who was supposedly the representative of my voice on earth. As we had never spoken, I thought it pertinent to discuss the destitute state of my paradise. When I appeared in his chambers it was night, and the Pope was asleep. His room was adorned with gold leaf, jewels and finery adorned his room. His room was fit for a God indeed yet all I saw looking man in the bed was a frail, wrinkled, weak old man. I gently touched his shoulder so to wake him up. He woke in a fright letting out a shrill scream. “who are you, what are you doing in room, guards guards guards, there is an intruder” the popes screams were manic, and his voice was filled with sheer terror, he tried to flee from the bed although before his naked body cloud flee from the confines of his sheets, I firmly placed my hand on his shoulder stopping him from his flight. “it is me, the one you call your God, I have awoken from my slumber and I am here now to help you in your mission to spread my word around the world” My words seemed to calm the pope down slightly. He stopped struggling to break from my grasp. “you cannot be my God” he barked with the same stubbornness of a young child. “You came to us long ago and gave us all we have but this is no longer your earth, you have been replaced, you have been killed off, you are extinct, you have been replaced, the absolute power that you once held over the universe has been tasted by man, and that taste lingers long we are all down driven by that insatiable hunger to hold that power which you claim is just yours, people don’t want to be subservient to you, they want to be you, they want to surpass you ” “Why do you speak so” I replied restraining the anger that had risen in my chest after hearing his words, “I have not been killed I am here now, it is said that it is your role to be my messenger on earth, why do you cast me aside and reject my presence when I stand before you now, in the flesh, whilst you and all humanity taint and corrupt the paradise that I constructed for you all.” “I am not your messenger, I never have been, I am the head of the church, even if I was to believe that you were the one true God, which you cannot be, I will not speak your new messages, you are not the center of the universe, it is man, your creation has surpassed you, I am merely a Shepard helping to guide a portion of the flock, It is through me that the foundations of morality are based, you have been asleep too long, I am held accountable by man not by you. Be gone you have already disturbed me from my sleep, it is late, consider yourself fortunate that my guards failed to hear my calls”. “You heathen” I shouted at the old man, “how dare you deny me, the maker of all that is good, when I stand here before you now, your insolence is putrid, your arrogance is absolute. I have seen the churches dedicated to my name, I have heard the prayers said to me, I have seen those who worship me, I will take the flock back from you, you imposter, you are a mere man and I hold ultimate power” The Pope started to chuckle, infuriating me even further. With a sly smile on his face, he replied. “You have clearly been asleep for a long time, your powers of perception fail you, people don’t go to churches to worship you, they don’t care if you are there or not, they go to feel safe they go to reflect on themselves, they go to feel a part of a community of people bigger than themselves, some even go to listen to hymns and bask in the beauty of the man-made creations” The anger I had so far suppressed overcame me, I lunged at the pope and grabbed him by the neck slowly chocking him out, however before I could send the old man’s soul to the depths of hell, the door in the corner of the room swung open and a group of armed men stormed in guns pointed at me. Before I had a chance to react, they were on me. They grabbed me and threw me to the ground. Handcuffing and dragging me away. It was dawn when the door of my cell first slammed shut, condemning me to the mercy of man. I was tired and I was draped in sorrow. Dejected I sat against the wall on the floor of the cell, wandering about what I ought to do next, tired and lost in my thoughts I soon fell asleep. I was awoken by a policeman who informed me that the Venerable Father had decided not to press charges, despite my intrusion. The officer scolded me “the laws of man may have spared you, but the sin of intruding on the world’s most holy man will weigh your heavy on your soul when your day to be judged comes”. I left the police station, the phrase from the officer cut deep and angered me, I decided to tour the world to find what It was that I had allegedly been replaced with. Wealth, money, material success. The kingdom of heaven, an eternal paradise for the souls of man has been replaced. Replaced with a mortal realm adorned with things, humility had been replaced with pride, virtue is no longer measured by the purity of your soul and an accumulation of one’s life’s actions, but it is measured by wealth stacked hoarded and wasted on more things which benefit no one but feed the monstrous beast of vanity which appears to have overcome the souls of all those on my once pure earth. All starving for power, power over the world, power over themselves and power over others. I have no place here, the history of humanity had only sung my praises yet today I was dismissed tossed aside as a mere accessory, a mere facilitator for people to have power over themselves. Is that all that my name has come to, having created all that there is all that there ever will be, a facilitator. People complain that I am unable to bring them joy in the same way that a paycheck does, they say I can’t put food on the table, they say I can’t pay rent. Has my creation become so blind that what they seek from me is material wealth, have they become so fickle in their nature that they think all that I am good for is a means to claim more power. Have they forgotten that I am power, I am the good, I am all the wealth and happiness that could ever be accumulated, I am the alpha and omega, the light in the dark, yet I am seen as a gimmick, someone who only acts as a symbol to an ever decreasing few, a few who if they fully believe in me, they are ostracized, called weak, not worthy of the power of man, subservient to those who place man at the center of the universe. I ought to leave earth and never come back, I should have stayed asleep, these people are not lost, they think they have found the meaning to the universe, they think it exists within themselves, they think that it is all about them. The fools, I will let them fester in their ignorance, I’ve learnt from my mistake, I shall go and create a new world, one incorruptible, one that will remain pure, and I will create a new man, a man steadfast in his nature, man whose entire existence through time will be confined by the limits to his nature, one who cannot surpass me, one who will call me for the rest of time, their one true God.


"Can you hold your neck out a little more, please?" The excitement of changing, the rush of adrenaline and fear coursing through my veins; everything that has been built up to this point immediately stops, like an orgasm being pulled away. I open my eyes and look at him. His pale face nearly glowing under the moonlight, his silver hair shimmering, his wide, red eyes gleaming. "I'm sorry, what?" I ask. He points at me, then returns his hand back under his cloak. "Can you put your neck out more?" I shake my head. "What do you mean? Why can't you just do it like I am?" He smiles, revealing sharp canines, and giggles. He runs his hand over his forehead, then his hair. "Well, uhm... Can you just do put it out more for me, please?" When I turn to him my auburn hair falls back over my neck, covering the spot I so desperately want two marks in. "Why can't you take me as I am? I've read your kind love to do that. The touching, the closeness, the intimacy." He giggles again, looks away into the woods surrounding the park. "Well, you see, miss, I am— I am not one for intimacy of that sort." I blurt out a laugh. "Holy— a vampire afraid of flesh." His brow furrows, and he glares at me. "I'm not afraid of it, just... Just not fond of it." "Jesus Christ," I say, slapping my hand on my forehead. "How do you even live, if you have to ask people to do this? I can't believe they're willing to give up the pleasurable part of it all." "I'll have you know that I live just fine," he says, turning his nose up, "and there's been plenty of people willing to accommodate my... My affliction." "Your affliction?" I say, laughing. "Give me a break. You're just afraid of a little skin touching, afraid that those cold dead hands may touch something warm and alive. You're like a child who wants to play tag but never wants to be it. You can't have one without the other." "I'm not a child," he says, staring at me, his red eyes beginning to glow. He grits his teeth. "I haven't been a child for eons." "Sure looks like you're one now," I say, turning away from him. "Like a child who can't handle what its meant to do, meant to be. Doesn't matter now anyway." I wave my hand carelessly in the air. "I'll find a real vampire to turn me, not some trembling ghoul who pisses himself when presented with a little skin." What feels like a cab runs over me. Decrypted breath fills my nose and I can taste churned soil and rotting corpses. Two hot-brands pierce the flesh on my neck as clawing hands tear at my gown, dig into my skin, probe at my now burning bones and boiling marrow. I moan and shutter and my insides swell and burst and oh God does it feel good. "I'm no child, wench," I hear him growl as he swallows out the old, spitting in the new. "Never speak it again, or the next time we meet, I will drain you dry." If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.