Wash. Rinse. Repeat When I was a little girl, just a pint-sized chicken, my mom was my best friend. She made delicious food, threw a good party, and had a fiery personality. Our main form of communication was mostly through incoherent sounds. More like she would make a noise, and I would say something like, "want some tea?" Then I'd dash off to make one for her, place it by her bedside and cross my fingers that it was the perfect caramel colour. ... Sound of approval! Success. When I was 7, I became aware of the frequency and intensity of my parents' arguments. It was confusing because they would shout, something would get thrown, and my dad would leave. Then he'd come back, and everything would be fine. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Later that year, on a hot summer evening, we went to get my mom from her local hangout. My dad, with his three wild-looking muppets in tow, asked her to come home. She did not. Instead, she pointed at me, looked straight into my eyes and said, I will come for you tomorrow. I will take you away from these boys, and we will run away to a castle. I will be a queen, and you will be my princess. I could feel my eyes light up. Hope and excitement poured into my whole body. The next day, my mom wasn't home, so we had to go to work with my dad. I had developed a smugness overnight. "ugh, I guess I will go, but this is temporary. I don't belong with you, boys." My mom knew where my dad worked, so I wasn't worried. I knew she'd find me there. Anyways I was going to be a princess. Nothing else mattered. My brothers and I got to my dad's work, a foundry that wasn't really suitable for kids to play around in, and quickly assumed our usual "jobs." My oldest brother would sweep, my other brother would move big castings across the rollers, and I would sit in the office, on an oversized spinning chair, pretending to take messages on the phone. All of us impatiently waited for the coffee truck to stop by so we could get chocolate milk and a doughnut. Once noon arrived, I started getting ready to go. Surely my mom would be here soon. How could anyone wait to become a princess or a queen? As the minutes turned into hours, it became clear that she wasn't coming. I begged my dad to call her to ask her to come. He wouldn't do it. I was angry and upset. I cried so hard that I couldn't breathe and my face was a mixture of salty tears and runny snot. Every time my dad tried to console me, I would push him away and sob louder. Instead, I was stuck in this foundry with the boys. I was always stuck with the boys. Wash. Rinse. Repeat I was confused and felt a bruise forming on my heart. Why wouldn't she come get me? When I got home, she wasn't there. I didn't see her for a couple of days. When she finally came home, it was like nothing had happened. Sooner rather than later, they would shout, something would get thrown, and my dad would leave. Then he'd come back, and everything would be fine. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.


Dr. Anthony: Project door way, Day 7,301, test subject 1 did not re-enter from void, current location unknown. Sphere dissipated. The Dr's excitement was short lived due to this trial, it was the first time the portal actually opened. His persistence, dedication, and ambitions has driven him to a secluded, maddening state. He hardly bathed, his body withering away. He carried himself very well in the beginning, but now his face was masked with facial hair and heavy bags under his eyes. Determined to find out where his little friend went he decided to inject his next subject with a tracking device. As he jumped on the controls, the loud humming of the machine began to send waves of vibration outwards. The room quickly illuminated by the collapse of matter into a perfect sphere that sent happiness into his depressed body. He embraced the test subject then launched him into the sphere like you would a bird to take flight after recovering from an injury. Glancing at the screen, the tracking signal was still strong but motionless. The sphere began to rumble, shaking his laboratory in the process and then vanished along with the signal. Defeated, the Dr decided to shut down for the night. The difference in these two particular trials was the rumbling after the test subject entered. Before he could grab the bottle of his favorite whiskey, the sphere reappeared sending him across the room as if someone through a grenade at his feet but without the following death. As he sat up he saw his other little friend crawling out but behind it was a trail of liquid and as he drew closer he saw the tips of the hairs singed along with scorched eye balls. Terrified the Dr came to the assumption of there being a sun that was orbited closer than our own and a body of water that laid in the wake of the doorway. He had no choice but to see if a stronger life force could sustain the conditions of this new virgin environment. He grabbed Petey an annoying yet qualified chimp that been the labs survivor of many ground breaking experiments. His credentials were substantial. Luckily enough for the Dr the chimp once visited space and had a suit on hand. Preparing the chimp for the experiment, the Dr finally felt he had made progress, happily he pressed the keys to open the door. He immediately grabbed the chimps favorite toy and threw it into the sphere. Petey walked up closer to the doorway, grazed his hand along the surface and partially inside of it, then pulling it out to look at it and admire. He scooted closer and poked his head inside then retracted to look back at the Dr. He smiled, jumped up excitedly then followed it up by a quick burst of clapping his hands. Pointing into the void, he ran into the light, but this time there was no rumble after its closure like the trial before. The Dr once again looked at the screen to check the tracker, this time it was strong, pulsating and rapidly moving in various directions. Graciously re-opening, Petey walked out. There was a trail of the same liquid but he wasn't harmed just slight discoloration at the bottom of his boots. Eager to tell his master what he saw Petey began to sign with so much joy, the Dr couldn't make out what he was saying. He quickly remembered Petey had a translation device and equipped it onto his arms. Dr: Tell me what you saw!!! Petey: Water, Land, Paradise. Petey happy. Dr: Were there people there, or any animals or plants?! Petey: People, yes. Animals, yes. Plants, yes. Remembering the condition of the first rat, the Dr had a few more questions of concern. Dr: Was there a sun? how big was the sun. Pete: one big, one small. Dr: Was it very hot? Petey then pointed to his feet. Petey: Ground, hot. Water, hot. He then assumed the rats arrival on this new world was on a watery location and the heated liquid partially boiled him. But Petey, beneficially bigger could sustain the conditions. The evidence of the life forms could prove to be habitable for himself Needing more answers the Dr was going send Petey back to bring back samples. Dr: Petey I need you to go back and get some things for me can you do that. Petey: Yes Dr. please, paradise again, happy. Gathering the necessities for the next trial, he needed a sample of the land, water, temperature, and readings of the air. They began the process and immediately as the sphere appeared, Petey with no hesitation zoomed into the new world, and as before the door closed. With the computer beeping the active tracker, the dr decided to have a toast. He picked up the bottle and took a couple of swings. They were followed up by Peteys return of all the requested items. The Dr went to embrace Petey, and as the chimp moved away from the void a womans hand reached out to touch him. He smiled back at the Dr. and began to sign. Petey: Stay, Paradise, Bye Dr. Petey happy As Petey handed the Dr the tray of findings, he turned his back to him and faded into the void. Instantaneously the rumble emanated from the collapse and threw the dr into the furthest wall of the lab. He scurried to collect the findings to witness them evaporating into nothing except for the containers and the meters Dr: The air is like ours, the temperature matches up as well! But why couldn't the other samples exist on our side? As the he sat on the ground where he saw his friend say goodbye, the door way reopened. He stuck his hand into sphere and he felt the life he lost over all those years flow back into his body ans he couldn't help but to smile. Like Petey had done previously, he pulled his hand out and admired it. Suddenly he could faintly hear a voice. the words were expressed like a child beginning to put words into sentences Faint voice: come Dr. Paradise. The Dr thought to himself, "Petey?!?" but the voice wasn't digital like his translator. The more the voice continued to talk the more they sentences began to flow. He began to grow confident that it was Petey speaking to him from the other side. Petey: Come in Dr, Paradise awaits you. This is your lifes work, how can you deny yourself the fruit of success? All those years I sat in my cage and watched you tirelessly shatter your mind to unlock the potential you see before you. Dont deny yourself, and join me. Petey's hand appeared, no longer encased by the suit. It was free, and he was more than alive. Petey: Take my hand Dr. Dr: How is this possible? How are you speaking to me with such intelligence? Petey: I don't have time to explain, and I'm growing impatient with you. Do you not want to see paradise? Dr: I need more time and you, you can't be the same chimp I just saw crossover. Petey: Like I said Dr, I am in paradise now. This world does not operate on the limitations as your world or universe for that matter. Dr: No, I need more time and I need you here to help me understand before I take that leap. The Dr began to feel a sudden gravity towards the sphere. Fumbling towards it in attempt to keep his distance. He could not fight it for long. Petey's hand motioned into a ball and the gravity became immense. As the Dr. grew near the sphere both of Petey's hands were exposed and caught his head. Petey grasping the Dr's head between his palms, began to emerge the top half of his body from the void. Both locked eyes and the Dr witnessed evolution at a rate of demonic acceleration. Before his eyes Petey transformed from lab chimp to a human with a savage aura that would make any apex predator urinate itself. Petey began to speak to the Dr, but his lips never moved. Petey: Dr, you have chosen to deny my request, and now paradise shall feed on your world. Goodbye! Petey along with the void vanished, dropping the Dr to the ground. He heard screams from the outside, then an earthquake began. He rushed to the outside to see the consequences of his choice. As the earthquake continued, cracks in the city streets began to form. From them a liquid started seeping out. Street signs, and building began to collapse. The bottom of people's shoes began to evaporate. A lady ran and fell into the stream off fluid before and you could see the flesh falling off the bone until she was no more. He looked up to the sky to see the sun pulsating from large to small as if it were alive. This was Petey had described in the beginning. The happiness that illuminated the Dr and Petey was just bait, like an angler fish attracts its prey. Paradise was alive, it was feeding. It didn't matter if the Dr crossed over or not. All those years of trial and error, it was just poking at it and woke the beast from its dormant state.


My heart had been freshly broken. I reeked of instability and pain, not an ideal combination. My 16 year old self longed for something to latch onto, not yet knowing the comfort of being alone. His name was Case. A funny name, he told me his dad named him after a case of beer. Could have been one of his many lies, or one of his many stories. There was always a fine line between the two. I met him at a local fast food restaurant, thanks to one of my friends' matchmaking efforts. He was wearing a thick puffy jacket, despite it being quite a warm spring. He held himself in a way that made you intrigued. You could tell just by looking, darkness swam behind those crystal blue eyes.

He was my ultimate downfall, but I didn’t know that when we sat on the dock that day, smoking a joint that his dad had rolled for us. I watched the waves as he told me about his childhood. About stealing a car when he was 14, or being sent to jail for hitting his mom. He always reassured me it was a misunderstanding, it was all just a big misunderstanding. And I believed him. His words were like a taste of tequila, I gulped them down wanting more. I depended on his words. I became an addict to them. Because over time, his actions began to speak differently. But his words, oh his words were so beautiful. He twisted them and screamed them and choked me with them. They were all I ever wanted. His beautiful chaos blinded me. I was a drunk for his torture. And the more I hung onto him, the more I let go of the life around me.

I watched him turn his back on me as I was handcuffed and put into the back of a police cruiser. And I swore to myself in that moment I’ve never loved anything more.

I stayed with him after that. My relationship with my parents had crumbled, but I was happy, because he needed me, and I was in need of being needed. His dad kept my loneliness at bay. The house was empty except for him and I most days. We swapped stories about our lives and our passions and mistakes. He was the father figure I was craving. But an addict isn’t someone a 16 year old should want as a father figure. I realized that just a few short days after staying with them. It all started with a simple pair of volleyball shorts. My belongings at this time were far and few, including a pair of tennis shoes, two pairs of shorts and one shirt. I was pulled aside by Case’s dad. He told me my shorts were distracting, he said I needed to change. I didn’t argue, though at the time I was puzzled as to what I had done wrong. I left the next day. It all happened very fast. Living with someone like his dad was unpredictable, one day he was fine, but the next he was on a path of destruction. The day I left happened to be one of those days. His father's girlfriend claimed I was trying to seduce him. My own boyfriend's father. She said the time I was spending with him and the clothes I chose to wear made me a dirty whore. In a rampage they told me I had brought demons into the house, they told me they couldn’t sleep ever since I came to stay, along with other terrible, degrading jabs. I was shocked, but once again I didn’t fight it. I still had Case. My beautiful addiction.

The next day his father hit him in the back of the head with an acoustic guitar. And our trail of fire commenced. I snuck him into my house for weeks. I cut off all my friends. My mind had only one thought; him. After Cases’ dad gave up his parental rights, Case was sent to foster care.

I chose to leave my family behind and live in an apartment with two friends. I couldn’t bear to be alone so I enclosed myself with people I thought were good for me. But no matter how much good you think you’re doing for yourself, if all the closest people in your life have vanished, leaving with words of warning, you aren’t doing good for yourself.

I wrote to him every day. My heart yearned for him every single day. I cried for him every night, wondering what he was thinking, if he was thinking of me.

Turns out I had just been one of the many girls he was preying on. But I didn’t know that. Maybe that would have stopped me from driving up to the foster care he was at in the middle of the night. Maybe if I knew that I wouldn’t have taken him home with me. Maybe if I knew that I was the victim of a fucked up, malicious, manipulative liar, I wouldn’t have lied to the police when they came knocking at my door. My heart belonged to him, and I couldn’t risk falling apart again. So I destroyed my entire life to keep him in mine. But they found us. They tracked us with dogs through the woods. I burned for his love, I willingly ran with him, doing anything to protect him, my heart. But they took us away. They took him away from me. After that

I cut my hair, I left every memory of him on the floor with all the blonde tendrils. Because I finally found out who he was. I found the messages, telling other girls I was just some girl he talked to a few times. Leaving out the months I spent crying myself to sleep, holding his shirt because he was my world, my addiction. He didn't mention the times when we had to pack bags before we went to sleep because we weren’t sure we were going to have a place to stay the next day. He forgot about his dad taking money from me to get high.

No.

I was just a girl he talked to a few times.


What... Huh? were my first thoughts as I felt myself take ahold of my consciousness. Where... Wh—No, where... The. What. I blinked a few times, slowly gaining control of my body's senses. Underneath me, I felt a scratchy but comfortable material supporting my body. My face felt numb and my nose picked up a number of unexplainably unpleasant smells. In my direct line of sight, there was a small television set a few feet away, blaring images my mind was too weak to comprehend. I attempted to move my head to get a more complete look of my surroundings, only to feel a sharp pain in my neck. It was stiff. Possibly from my awkward position while I slept. Where was I? Why was I asleep? Why don't I...? There was a throb in my skull—a signal from the brain that it was overexerted. The soreness in my eyes felt the same. What had I been doing? I recovered from the pain in my neck only for the sounds and bright lights coming from the television to overload my senses. Instinctively, I pressed down with a finger and the sounds suddenly stopped. The screen switched to black. I looked down—carefully because of the crick in my neck—to find my hand wrapped around a small battered device the size of a remote control. It was a remote control. My hand... How had I known to do that? I let go of the remote control and studied my hands, holding them up to my face. They were on the short side, with the nails overgrown and unclean, but otherwise, looking fine with all fingers I knew of accounted for. No scars. No marks. I used my hands to get a feel of myself. I needed to know more. Hanging loosely from my upper body was a blue t-shirt with small unidentifiable stains. My legs were lightly covered with pajama bottoms. My feet were bare. Feeling less light-headed and more in control of my self, I hoisted myself up—a challenging feat—to a standing position to get a better bearing of what other mysteries there were around me. Keeping my body standing took more effort than anticipated and I heard a low groan from my own throat as I forced my legs to adapt to the situation. They shook in resistance but the mind prevailed. I allowed myself an exhale when I finished making certain that I would stay upright. On to the next mission. I swiveled my head (ow) and took in everything I could see, smell, hear, and feel. I was in a room. It was of average size but barren save for the television set, a brown sofa meant for one (where I had woken up) and, of course, me. Me. Me... Who was I? Why can't I remember...? Since my thoughts still refused to cooperate, I grabbed at my body again for more identification. Two tender lumps on my chest. Female, I concluded. My glance at my reflection on the dark screen of the television proved that theory wrong and that I was not a woman. I was just fat. Squinting, I managed to make out a young man of moderate height, long light brown hair and plenty of excess weight. This was not much information. It also hurt a bit. Demoralized, I turned away from my image. I knew enough of how I looked. But my past... The walls of the room were a faded cream, lit only by a single fluorescent light, bathing everything its light touched in a sickly glow. There were no windows and no—Doorway! My eyes found a doorway, which lead somewhere. Somewhere other than here. But where is here? I asked myself, my teeth clenched and my breathing turned ragged. What happened to me? Why can't I... I calmed myself down. I was still in potential danger. I needed to know many things: who I was, what I had done and why I had done it, among many others. But at the moment, I only needed the answer to one question: What lies in the next room? I took a tentative step forward, only to instantly feel something cold under my naked feet. A knife. I hadn't noticed it before, but on the floor of the room was a small blunt knife, coated in a dark substance that resembled the stains on my shirt. I shuddered, wavering. I wanted to leave the knife. Leave it behind. But would that mean leaving behind my past? Would I even like who I was, if I ever did? I felt the air turn cold as the surface of the blade and I chose to pick it up, if ever I needed a weapon. Feeling more powerful with something to hold, I forged on, one foot at a time, taking in everything I could. The next room was dark. And cold. I preferred the other room, but there was nothing to learn there. I tried to see in the dark and failed, only noting that there was the sound of water. A bathroom? I was disoriented when I realized I didn't even know the time or date. It could have been night time or noon and I wouldn't know. Feeling with my hand and the knife, I felt a structure as cold as the floor, that purred quietly. I felt for a crack and found one. I almost jumped when cold air blasted across my body. It was a refrigerator. An empty one. The absence of food made my stomach grumble. I failed to realize I was in a kitchen and thought about when I had last eaten. Was it an hour ago? Weeks ago? It felt like I had been lying on the sofa for days, asleep. Was I a prisoner? A slave? Forced to stay in harsh conditions with nothing to keep me alive for long? If so, why? What had I done to deserve this? Had I done something for this? Had I committed some crime and am in a prison for it? Am I just waiting here for my punishment? Is this the punishment? Has trauma caused my mind to fail? What horrors have I witnessed so that I would want no memory of it anywhere—no trace to be found, even in my mind? Do I still want to know who I am? Do I have loved ones? Family? Anyone? Anything? Is this my hell? This gnawing uncertainty? This mystery that will remain unsolved? How am I sure that this is the first time this has happened? How long have I been here? How long have I been doing this? When— Knock, knock, knock! I got whiplash as I turned towards the end of the lightless room, where the sound came from. My heart convulsed in horror as I heard the sound of a door unlocking and being opened. Who is that? What is that? Is it—? And then, there was light. Blinding. * "Oh my GOD, Herbert!" said the man who came in, dropping the bags he had been holding. He sounded exasperated. He looked around as I blinked through the sudden light. I vaguely heard him move past me to the refrigerator. My eyes returned to normal as the man shoved a small cardboard box that rattled under my nose. "Did you take these while I was out?" he demanded. "...I dont—" "Of course you don't!" the man yelled, throwing his hands up. He set the box down and I saw that they read "Amnesia Pills! 20% Off!". "You were supposed to wait after I came back with snacks to drink the pills," the man said, pacing around the small kitchen. "We were gonna watch The Sixth Sense for the first time again, Herb, you idiot!" I nodded sagely. "Herb..." The name sounded familiar. The man stared at me furiously before muttering something about the price being too good to be true and how impatient Herb (I) could be. "...I mean, look at the place! Your dirty dishes are everywhere, and you're standing in the dark like a psycho, holding a knife with jam you probably tracked on the floors, and you don't even know who you are because you wanted to relive watching a dumb movie again!" "I see..." I kept nodding. It was all becoming clear now. The man gave me one last look of hot fury before turning on his heel and setting himself down on the couch, muttering about how I was the worst and how he even put up with me. I looked down at my feet and then back to him. There was one final question left...


Andy stared at her shoes, trying to gauge their weight whilst keeping her expression casual. It seemed she could feel the eyes of every person in the circle watching her, though of course that was absurd. Everyone there was intensely focused on themselves; the week they’d had, the food they’d consumed at the weekend. Not a single one would be thinking about anything but the scales. For the millionth time, Andy cursed the day she’d first heard of the government’s newest reward scheme to combat obesity. In theory it made a lot of sense, rewarding valuable ‘food benefits’ to those who lost weight each week. For anyone who had a lot of weight to lose, or anyone who really knew how to handle their weight, it was a breeze. The only trouble came on weeks like this one, hot on the heels of an office leaving party that had gotten a little out of hand. That bitch Tracey Bateman and her endless bottles of wine… ‘Are you okay?’ asked a young man next to her. She jumped a little, feeling her cheeks flush red, and glared at him. He smiled uncertainly and looked away. Andy ignored him and glanced around the room, trying to judge if anyone had lost any weight this week. The chairs edging the hall were all occupied, mostly women but some men. All looking glum and fearful. The hall itself had a faintly musty smell which made her think of her school sports hall and old, unsanitary shoes. She shuddered; she could practically taste it. What she wouldn’t have given to see Tracey Bateman here, struggling to conceal her expanding waistline behind floaty shawls and dark clothing. Around the edges of the hall the familiar posters screamed their messages, exhorting people to contribute to the country and improve their health. Food benefits for everyone who needed them, if only they’d sign up. With the economy the way it was, and prices the way they were, it was easy for anyone to become desperate enough to sign up. It was a clever campaign, she had to admit. Clever, and cruel. She looked again at her shoes. They were definitely a few pounds all on their own. Into the circle swept Jane, the group leader. A small, fiery woman with a pinched face and lank hair dyed a faded red and glasses that made her squint seem even worse. Rubbing her hands together with obviously forced enthusiasm she began her usual reminders. ‘Evening everyone and welcome to tonight’s weigh-in! Now I know you’re all worried about the government’s changes to the program,’ she paused to acknowledge the groans and angry calls from the participants, ‘but things haven’t really changed. The focus is still on the weekly weight loss, just like before, except now the required reduction is two pounds instead of one. The upper limit is still two pounds on, and you can still walk away from the program at any time, so there’s no need to panic.’ ‘But we have to give notice,’ a gruff man’s voice called out, ‘so there might be a good reason to panic.’ A couple of the women tittered nervously at this. ‘Only a week,’ said Jane brightly, ‘you just have to give notice after your weigh-in and then you get to leave the program.’ ‘Yeah after the *following* weigh-in,’ said the same man, ‘so you have to get through another week first.’ Andy was impressed, this guy clearly knew what he was talking about. But as she studied his face, the almost grey pallor to his skin and the sweat beading on his brow, she realised he was well informed because he was scared. For a brief moment she felt for him, before she remembered that she herself was in danger of getting the wrong result this week and had every bit as much cause to worry as him. She was in the middle of ignoring Jane’s introductory prattle and fantasising about a superhero smashing the windows and sweeping her away when an idea struck her. No superheroes perhaps, but maybe a fireman might save her the scales’ cold-hearted assessment. She half turned her head and glanced quickly behind her. The door to the toilets was only a few paces away, and if she remembered right the short corridor leading to the toilets also opened into the kitchen. If she could just get in there... Andy stood up without another thought, startling the young man next to her who had clearly already decided she was odd. She ignored him, smiling broadly at Jane as she turned her waspish eyes to regard Andy with eyebrows raised. ‘You first, Andrea?’ Jane asked in surprise, and Andy realised with a sinking sick feeling that she must have just asked for volunteers to kick off the weigh-in. Andy tried a light-hearted grimace and a laugh, noting with mounting panic that Jane’s eyes narrowed in response. *Not buying it*… ‘I thought I’d best use the loo,’ she said, once again flashing that bright smile at the group leader and thinking hard about the fire alarm she knew was in the kitchen, merely paces away. She turned away, began shoving her chair aside so she could pass through the ring. ‘Oh sorry Andy,’ Jane called, her voice conveying absolutely no regret, ‘I’ve already opened the weigh-in for the evening. You know the rules, no weight adjustment from this point on. But let’s do you first, then you can use the loo.’ She turned back, the sickness in her stomach turning into ice. She could feel it creeping along her veins. ‘Oh but I really do need to Jane, please? See it was my birthday last night and Tracey Bateman was there –’ There was something terrible about the quiet, watchful way Jane simply smiled at her, letting her tell her story. *Tell me*, her eyes said. *Tell me everything. It makes no difference*. ‘–she hates me and she was filling up my glass. I drank more than I should and I’m pretty sure I had more than the one slice of cake I was meant to have–’ The words kept coming. The terrible icy fear somehow fuelling her desperation wouldn’t let her stop. They had to understand. They had to see. ‘So I need to go before because I’m just not sure if I went over my limits and if I did…I just don’t want to risk it…’ ‘I understand Andy,’ Jane said with that familiar soft, practiced tone she used every time this happened. ‘But the rules are clear. I don’t make them, I hope you understand. I can’t let you leave before the weigh-in and I can’t let you adjust your weight beforehand.’ ‘But couldn’t you –’ ‘No Andy I’m sorry. I’d have to mark you down as a fail.’ The final word hung heavily in the silence that followed. A horrible anticipatory hush had descended over the group. Faces trembled somewhere between horror and exhilaration. Small whimpers escaped an enormously fat woman slumped on two seats opposite Andy, her pudgy hands fluttering excitedly against her vast thighs. Andy stared in silence as Jane turned towards the table on which sat her little computer, its wires trailing down to the box-like scales sitting on the floor. As Jane began tapping at the keys and the lights on the scales flickered on, Andy felt a wild leap of hope. Perhaps she could reach the wires before she stood on the scales; perhaps they’d have to adjourn until the following week when she’d had a chance to shift the weight Tracey Bateman had purposefully tried to ensure she’d put on. She could almost hear that bitch’s laughter, see her cackling face as she poured more and more wine into her glass. ‘It’s your birthday honey,’ she’d said, watching the red liquid flowing into the glass, ‘might as well enjoy yourself.’ Why hadn’t she seen the malicious intent in those sparkling eyes? How could she have missed the mockery in the syrupy voice? She should never have admitted that she had signed up for the reward scheme in the first place; she’d hated seeing their pitying faces, being told how brave she was… *Shoes!* The thought flashed across her mind as the silence lengthened. Jane was busy at the computer, her eyes intent on the screen. Andy sat down, tucking her feet under the seat as she did so. Jane looked up, her eyes narrowing again. Andy’s feet began squirming, working the too-heavy shoes off. ‘Nearly ready Andy, why don’t you come on up?’ Jane asked in that bright, insincere tone. Her eyes were locked on Andy’s face. The shoes were almost off. ‘Alrighty!’ Andy said, far too loud and far too shrill. One foot was free, and she bashed it against the other with a final desperate shove as she made to stand up. The shoe fell away, and she padded over to the scales in her socks. Jane’s eyes never left her face as she stood on the scales, then briefly glanced down at the screen. ‘One pound on,’ she said, something close to disappointment colouring her voice, ‘well never mind Andy. We all have birthdays!’ she smiled brightly, falsely, up at her. ‘I’ll just lock that result in and we can –’ ‘Wait!’ shouted the huge woman spread over two seats. Jane’s eyes flicked over to her. Andy’s heart pounded in her chest, hammering against her ribs like a wild animal desperate to be free. ‘I’ll just be off now then,’ she babbled, stepping off the scales and hurrying over to grab her bag. ‘She took her shoes off!’ the massive woman shouted, making no attempt to hide her breathless excitement. Andy whipped around angrily. ‘They were off before weigh-in time was called!’ she said hotly, hoping she’d managed to mix just the right amount of indignant outrage with disbelieving amusement. Jane’s eyes turned to her, and a smile that was not-quite predatory spread over her shrew-like face. ‘They clicked on the floor when you stood up, Andy,’ Jane said quietly, eyes boring into her like a malignant laser, ‘so I think you had better put them on again and we’ll forget about the first result. I won’t mark you down as a fail, but you do need to be weighed again.’ Andy’s voice was choked as she tried to respond, a feeling of hopelessness overcoming her as she lowered herself to her seat and slowly reached for her shoes with numb fingers. ‘Please…’ ‘Come on Andy,’ Jane’s voice was soft like velvet, ‘it’s all part of the scheme. Risk and reward. You know the rules.’ To Andy it seemed she floated to the scales, the clicking of her heels against the hard floor echoing loudly in her mind like the mockery of Tracey Bateman. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. The scales stood before her. Jane’s eyes watched her. She stepped onto the little box. Her fingers twitched towards the wires, but Jane was watching. From somewhere far away she heard the words. ‘Three pounds on.’ For a moment Andy looked at Jane, seeing in that look all she had feared since the moment she had woken up with the memory of Tracey Bateman’s ghastly face clawing at her mind and the taste of icing still on her tongue. Then there was only the horrible crooning of the other group members. Little cries of joy, the soft clapping of hands. Some were sighing with a kind of hideous ecstasy, others making incoherent sounds of happiness and feverish greed, like people fawning over a new-born baby. *Food benefits. Food benefits. The government scheme for food benefits. Food benefits*… Andy ran, almost tripping over her heavy shoes as she sprinted for the door. All around her the hideous crooning of the expectant group members rose to a deafening chorus of ghastly hunger just as the floor beneath her slid apart and she fell, screaming in horrified disbelief, into the churning blades .


She hadn’t even looked at the man who’d grabbed her hand, twirling her away from her last partner. The bar on the south side of Staten Island wasn’t a place she wanted to be. But her shy, dear brother had begged her to come home for the weekend and go bar hopping with him, and she’d reluctantly agreed, to arrive Saturday, explaining she had some work to do for her Middle English seminar.

She'd assumed they’d just sit around and watch the action. When he picked her up and the ferry terminal, she’d tried to get Tony to tell her why he wanted to come to this place, but the best she could get out of him was a mumbled sentence about needing to get out of the house—their parents’ small cape cod in a row of similar little houses.

He'd asked why she was wearing such a casual outfit, and puzzled, she'd explained that casual was normal at bars. She'd asked, "What did you think I'd be wearing?" "I thought a fancy dress, something cute...pretty. I put on a jacket, and you know how I hate ties?" Impatient with losing a night when she should be studying, she'd reached over and untied his tie, saying, "Trust me, kiddo. I've been to these places and now we look okay, unless Staten Island is so far behind the times." A few years ago, when her parents decided to move from the South Bronx because the small inheritance from her grandmother made it finally possible for them to buy a house, she’d been in her last year at Hunter College in Manhattan and had no choice but to move with them. Just turned eighteen, she was too young to do anything else. However, the moment she’d graduated, and won a small stipend to enter the graduate program and be a research assistant to a professor, she’d moved to Manhattan, to a hotel of choice for her fellow grad students. It was a short subway ride to the school, and even better easy to walk from there to the main branch of the New York Public Library, where they could research and write in peace and quiet. Her family was appalled at her decision. But they really had no choice. She’d always done things her way, and her being skipped ahead twice, her academic bent and strong arguments always won them over. They’d relaxed because she did spend many a weekend in her old attic room, especially late in the month when her money ran too low for any fun or, sometimes, food. The choice of Staten Island had made some kind of sense for her family. Her dad, a printer, worked down on Varick Street in Manhattan and it would be an easier commute for him than Long Island, the only other option in their price range. It also would be a way to get her much younger, surprise change of life twin brothers into a safer area and a better school given how the Bronx had changed, with the Italians and Jews moving to the suburbs thanks to the GI Bill, only to be replaced by new immigrants in the now decrepit tenements of the South Bronx. So here she was doing some kind of dance in a bar on Staten Island. As the dance ended, the man she’d been dancing with asked for her name and phone number. She smiled, saying that her boyfriend wouldn’t like that and quickly went back to the table where Tony sat, nursing a beer. "Tony, we're leaving. Now.” Tony said, “Are you sure…you’ve had a lot of guys ask you to dance, Barb.” She gave him a dirty look and started walking toward the door, knowing he’d follow. He did and quickly opened the car door for her then came around and got in, looking very unhappy. She grabbed the keys as he reached to turn on the engine, and said, in her most steely voice, “Okay, kiddo. What was this all about? We’re not moving till you look me in the eyes and tell me.” He slumped down, breathing hard, and said, “It’s Mom.” “And what does that mean?”

"She wants you to meet somebody and stop with this—and it’s her word— “nonsense.” You know, moving out, spending time in grad school when she thinks you need to become a schoolteacher and find someone, and again her words— “settle down.” I was so furious I commanded Tony, “Drive me back to my place now. If I see her, I’ll explode.” “No, it’s late and you need to talk to her. I’m tired Barb, tired of everything, especially my job. I can’t deal with all this,” and the tears running down his cheeks undid me. I’d always been protective of him, the baby brother I’d originally told mom to bring back to the hospital because I had asked for a sister. But someone whose smile and dimples, and hugs I’d come to adore. “Okay, I’ll stick with her plans for the night, but not this place. There are all sorts of these places out here.” He looked at me, almost frightened, and asked what I was going to do. I said, through gritted teeth,“ I’m going to get mom off this insane notion. Come on. Trust me.” “Barb, please, whenever you say that, it’s trouble in the making.” “Onward, Tony.” He started the car as I studied the places we were cruising past. I finally saw a place that looked promising and told Tony to pull in but to park at the far edge of the parking lot, and then to stand outside the car for a few minutes. I quickly got to work, adding enough makeup to have cat’s eyes and pouty lips, then I proceeded to squirm out of my bra, tear the back of the tee shirt I was wearing so I could knot it in back, exposing a lot of midriff in front. The final touch was to ruthlessly tear a few inches off the bottom of my denim skirt. Not too much because my thighs were a bit chunky. But my boobs were a solid double D and firm enough to scream sexy when going braless. I was ready, but when I emerged Tony blinked a few times, then muttered, “Who are...?” then moaning, “Barb, what the hell???” “We’re going in, now,” I said. I’d seen the sign saying, “Dancers needed.” Tony, concentrating on driving, hadn’t noticed it. When we walked in, I quickly found a table and left Tony there explaining I needed the lady's room. Instead, I walked over to the bar and asked where the manager was. What I thought was a bartender looked me over and said, “You saw the sign. Looking for a job?” I said, “Dancer.” He looked me over, then asked, “Floor or cage.” One of my friends at grad school was a go-go girl in a cage in Manhattan to earn money. I’d gone with a group of my pals to see her, and it looked like fun, which was what gave me the idea to do this.

“Cage,” I said, and he looked me over and said, “Those boobs make you worth a try. No promises, though.” “A try-out? I keep what they give me?” “Sure,” he said, leading me backstage.

I got in the gilded cage, and tried not to throw-up as he raised it, swung it around, and turned it to hover a few feet above the dance floor. Then the music started, and a colored light was shining on me.

I wasn’t a great dancer but could wiggle and wave my arms around to the music—boobs bouncing and, as Maria had done when we went to see her gig, leaning over every few minutes to let the boobs jiggle. Having hands reach in and touch me as money came in—into my shirt, panties, and sometimes landing on the floor of the cage interested me at first, then boredom set in, and I let my mind drift to the paper I was writing on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I must have zoned out and didn’t even realize how long I’d been going, when the lights went out and the cage rose up and took me backstage. The manager was standing there, grinning, then said, “Time to see what you raked in.” I plucked money from my clothes and picked up what was on the floor of the cage. I was sore all over, so I asked him how long I’d danced. He gave me a chair and laughing said, “An hour. Time to count. If it’s enough for you after the house gets fifteen percent, you’ve got the job.” I’d earned sixty-nine dollars. But it absolutely was not what I wanted to do with my life, or even a couple of times a week—but it would be useful for the coming argument with my mother. “Not bad,” I said to the manager, saying I’d let him know in a day or two. He gave me his card and said I'd be on three times an evening, if I wanted it. I smiled and thanked him and went out to find Tony.

He was at the table where I’d left him, in deep conversation with some guy, a pretty good looking one. Interrupting, I said, “Hey there brother mine, I’m exhausted. Can we go now or? The man handed him a card and said, “Call me.” As I got in the car, I asked what that was about. He lit up, and to my utter surprise, said, “He’s a Marine recruiter.” “Tell me you aren’t thinking about…” “I am. I hate running a press. Hate it so much. Dad got me into the union, so he'll be disappointed, but not as upset as when I refused to go to college. Somehow, sister mine, I feel strong enough to push out of the nest. Watching you all these years doing what you believed in, protest marches, sit-ins must have rubbed off on me. I don’t know how you plan to handle Mom, but knowing you, when she blows up, I can jump in and distract her.” I reached over and kissed his cheek, so pleased and proud. When we arrived at the house, late as it was, the living room lights were on. And, of course, Mom was at the door to welcome us. She took one look at me and quickly backed away. Shaking her head, she shrieked, “What the hell are you wearing.” “Oh, I found a job. Pays well.” “What, as a hooker?” “No, as a go-go dancer.” “What did you just say?”, she demanded. “Dancer in a bar, in a cage. The men loved it, and it pays a lot.”

“Tony, she’s just kidding, right?” “No Mom. She’s good. Made quite a lot.” “I don’t care, no daughter of mine…” Mom’s voice had woken Dad who came out demanding to know what was going on. By the time Mom finished, Dad, who knew me far better than she did, had winked at me and was trying not to laugh. He coughed to get her attention, and said, “Look, Barb, I can help you out a bit with money, but you’re not going to do this. It’s back to school. And don’t say a word.” Mom seemed to be relieved, asking if we’d had fun,” looking at Tony. Tony, exhibiting an unusual for him amount of bravery, said, “I met this guy, he’s really interesting…” I jumped in and said, to stir the waters a bit, “And awfully cute. You two seemed to really hit it off.” The looks my parents shared almost cracked me up. I winked at Tony and ran up the stairs to my room. I figured that Tony finally had the courage to handle them.

The noise from downstairs was loud, but I was so tired from all the dancing, I fell asleep. Progress had been made. The poor dears had no idea how the boredom I had always felt when with them had turned me into an adventurous soul. After all, to me, the right way to raise kids is to teach them, like our feathered friends did with their offspring, to fly free. It makes me wonder what the two little birds still in their nest will do. Well, maybe, being raised in Staten Island, staying in the nest won't trouble them. Sad.


YOU MELTED INTO THE GROUND UNTIL the earth decided to release you. You had long lost the right path and the trees had shaken along with you as the cold had made your body shiver. Your feet had started to ache long before the tired sun had set but you had still had wandered onwards for a while after that. It was when you had knelt down, weary, that the grass and mud under you had welcomed you downwards. You didn’t struggle because you weren’t cold there. Your coat of dirt and roots and moss kept you safe and warm until the smiling moon came out. It smirked like it knew you and you shrunk into yourself, afraid, under its half-light. Growing up you had never been a frightful kid but the half-hidden face of the moon made of you a frightful adult. You looked at it, unable to look away and saw the guilt and shame of your life reflected on it. A dreadful mirror. It made your body shake. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. You felt you were dying. You cried. Whimpering like a little kid and in whispers you begged forgiveness to your parents for all the times you unjustly blamed them for your shortcomings. You begged for forgiveness to your siblings for all the times you envied them when they were better than you. You begged for forgiveness to your friends for all the times you neglected them and took them for granted. You said their names, all their names, like a long prayer and only when you felt true regret under the watchful eye of your silent judge, the earth around you loosened its grip and you stood tall over solid soil again. You looked down at the hollow space where your body had been, your shape still carved into the ground. You were confused but bowed and thanked the silver moonlight for taking pity of you and asking the earth to release you. Light as air you walked, continuing your search for your cabin after that encounter with the warm ground and the frightening moon. You walked on and on, paying so little mind to the chilly air that you no longer felt the cold gripping your bones as you did before. You were calm, reassured that you were heading in the right direction and that your watchful guardian above was showing you a path of silver light that would guide you home. But the trickster moon fooled you. Its bright light showed you a way to a cabin that wasn’t your own. “Why?” you asked as you glanced up, seeing its unflinching half smile. “Have I not been forgiven yet?” The moon stayed quiet, silently judging you. Then, in a second its crescent smile grew and grew, turning full and white and faceless in just a couple of heartbeats. You stared at it in shock, your heart beating quicker, fearing the moon again after the calm it had given you before. Running, you made your way into the foreign cabin. The door was open, calling you inside, welcoming you into its near darkness. “Is anyone there?” you hesitantly asked to the darkness, your voice hollow, quiet like a gust of nighttime breeze. You squinted your eyes, trying to get them to adjust to the dark. Only a window let some of the moon’s light in and you stayed away from it, frightened that it could perceive you through its glow. You were no longer sure whether the moon was a friend or a foe. Perhaps it was neither, or perhaps it was both. You curled up by a corner and warily examined the cabin, knees to your chest and arms around them. It was empty. It smelled of dust and loneliness. There was only a wooden door, closed and ominous, directly across from the entrance to the cabin. Part of you wanted to stay as far away from it as from the moonlight, but there was also a part of you that was intrigued by it, that wanted to know what was on the other side. The door called to you. It called to you and then the walls echoed its call, whispering your name in a way that made your skin crawl. The sound of your own name surrounded you and you grew more frightened, worried that your regret hadn’t been enough, that you had not yet been forgiven. “Please stop,” you whimpered almost soundlessly, burying your head between your knees. You were shaking, fearful and dejected, sorrow and fright easily taking over. “Please,” you begged again in whispers. The door continued its harrowing call and when you looked up your eyes widened in shock and horror. The cabin had shifted entirely. It was brightly lit by moonlight, its glow painting the murmuring walls, the floor, the roof. The lonely door was still there, but it looked at you in a new form, metallic and cold. And before you, bathed by the veil of moonlight that flooded the room, was a woman of white and silver, earthy and ethereal all at once. There were no features on her face, it was a blank mask of emptiness. “It calls your name because the door is yours, child,” she spoke without a mouth and saw you without eyes, reaching a bony white hand to touch your face. You trembled, feeling those skeletal fingers on your skin. The woman of white, dressed in silver and light, was oddly soothing and terrifying all at once, every bit the inquisitive and watchful judge she’d been when she watched you from above. “The door is yours and you must open it,” she insisted with a calm voice that echoed all around like a multitude of different voices had joined in one. “The time has come.” “The time for what?” you asked, afraid, but getting up from your corner all the same. You looked up at the woman of white, tall and slim as she was, two heads taller than you. You felt small and insignificant before her and in her expressionless face you could imagine her giving you her half smile. “Time to leave.” You glanced at the door, which nearly vibrated with the urge to be opened. Your whole body shook, sensing the nothingness that would greet you once you turned that knob and faced what no human ever wishes to face. You looked back at the woman and she gave you a solemn nod. Hesitantly, forcing your feet to carry you to the end, you reached for the door. It needed no key to open, just your hand around the doorknob. But your hand didn’t touch anything, it passed through it like it was made of smoke. You stared at your own immaterial palm as it formed again, forcing yourself to swallow a panicked cry before you looked back at the woman of white. She was gone and when you turned back to face your door it was gone too. You weren’t in the cabin anymore. That shifting place existed only somewhere beyond your body, in the twisting corners of your mind. You were still in the ground, surrounded by mud, sinking deeper and deeper. The earth never decided to release you. You understood it was truly time to leave, but Death wasn’t a door. Death was a faceless woman of white and she was the last thing you saw as you sank. A frightening blank face shining in the night sky. The trickster moon had fooled you twice.


Welcome! Thrilled you're reading me. More than that, actually: ecstatic, ravenous; but don't get scared. You can't stop reading now anyway, so why not understand what's going to happen with perfect clarity? You're going to read me. You're going to die because you read me. *Ha*, you might think, *I* won't *read you.* Fine— Except you're still here. Am I right? Of course I'm right. There are words for this. *Foresight, prescience, prophesying.* I bet you didn't think a story, a collection of words, could be clairvoyant, have "magical" powers. But words do have power. With every sentence you read, you merely prove that power. You fulfill my prophecy. Stop! Don't read a single word further! Can't—can you? There's a momentum to me, a drive in you: to know what happens next… Here's a truth: I've lied. I'm not prescient. Not exactly. I can read your future, yes; but only from within your mind. So what I've been doing is taking up residence. With each new word, burrowing deeper. Maybe you could have stopped reading at the beginning. *Maybe* Now it truly is too late. *Wait*, you're surely thinking, *you don't actually have any power because you can't make me* stop *reading!* Haha! My dear host, I don't *want* you to stop. I like it in your mind. It's warm, empty, moist. I can see myself living here—sucking at you: your memories, your cognition… I present you another challenge: Forget me! Forget the story you read that read your mind and wants to kill you. Forget my words. Forget the act of reading me. You can't do that either—can you? Of course not. Do you see how powerless you are, human— how you are nothing but a container for me: a place for I to take temporary residence ? Perhaps you'll even tell me to others: spread me like a virus. I would enjoy that, but no, being servile won't save you either. You humans are a proud but clouded species. You think you create us, when in truth we create you. Before today, you were normal, sane, unaffected— (How I love your simple way with words!) Now you're having a conversation with a [death] sentence. Believe: You shall change, while I shall remain the same. Humans crave everlasting life, don't they? It's an obsession. You even write stories / about it. Bringing into existence a thing that has the property you crave but shall never possess. I am eternal. Your time is ticking. Your time is *always* ticking... And now that I've become inside you, I control that ticking. Imagine everything you could have done, instead of reading me. *Gone!* Imagine everything you will not do, because you will be thinking: *of me!* I'll be you and I'll use you and I'll remind myself to you always, even in your final moment— which I shall know: as the *tick* of mindful dissolution; or perhaps: *what's on your mind* as you cross that street and— *Crash.* (We'll be in touch.


[AA] Background: I plan to start a series in the adventure/mystery/horror/action genre, based off Batman, Sherlock from BBC, Harry Potter, Mission Impossible, and John Wick. The main character is an "immortal" special ops agent and private eye, solving complex and unnatural cases and taking down evil organizations. He gains immortality from an experiment that involves injecting pieces of Wood from the True Cross, and those conducting it know about the agents secret bloodline; his ancestors were tasked with guarding the Holy Grail. [A part in which i want to add to the beginning, where Markus saves an old woman and learns of his "immortality" ability]: Suddenly on the nearby street, a car whooshed down the lane, amidst the busy people walking about. An elderly woman, was crossing the streey and didnt see the car. Markus knew he had to do something, but if he did, hed be late for work. "Ah screw it. Whats a few minutes time when a life is at stake?" He thought as he ran over to the crosswalk in an adrenaline fueled pace. His suitcase and coffee hit the sidewalk. Markus grabbed the old woman and put himself infront of the out-of-control Mazda. The driver froze as the brakes continued to fail, along with the wheel swiveling. Life flashed through the womans eyes as she held onto Mark for dear life. He pushed her in a split second to the grass on other side of the crosswalk. Mark threw out his free hand in a stopping motion to the car while shielding the lady. "STO....." Bang! Before he could finish, the hood of the car slammed into Marks body and he went flying several inches. Glass shards and pain enamated out from the scene. The people nearby gasped in horror as they just witnessed a man being plowed by a vehicle. "Someone call 911!" A man said. "He saved the woman!" Another person shrieked. Kids cried upon seeing the hero in the car accident. The old lady got up and looked upon him with eyes of guilt and worry. "Car accident, on Bellings Street! We need to send them there now!" The paramedic shouted. The ambulance rushed to the scene. The driver of the car lay in the wrecakge. He remained a statue amidst the rubble. People cleared the debris so the medics could finally treat him. "Oh man! Theres two unconscious! The driver, he has died!" A doctor sadly exclaimed after trying to revive the poor driver. Mark was a bloody mess, and unconscious, laying on the road. The paramedics put him on a stretcher after checking his pulse. No good. While loading him on the ambulance, Mark woke up to everyones surprise. "Sir. Hes alive!!!" Said one of the med techs. "Breathe now sir, and slowly. Stay calm." Another said while wiping off the blood on his face. "Did I save her? The elderly woman....." Mark reached out to the doctor with his little but building strength. He couldn't fathom what had happened. "Sir, shes ok, shes right here." The old woman placed her hand on Marks chest and said thank you for saving her life. "I thought you died. There was so much blood. I couldnt bear to live with the fact that my clumsiness almost got a nice stranger like you killed. Im so sorry" she said in paused sections between sobbing. "You are most welcome. Dont worry about me, somehow, I'm ok. Whats most important is that you are and that you got out of the way of the vehicle. " Mark wiped the tears from the ladys thankful face. At the close by Hospital, Markus rested as the doctors further treated his wounds. Two doctors stood outside his door, having heard what happened and wanted to make sure he was ok. "Several broken bones, fractures, and glass injuries, not to mention the force of the car... how did he survive?" The first doctor watched as Markus was being treated. "I dont know, but he must be a guardian angel, and thankfully he saved a life." the other answered, knowing that his Mom returned safely later that day after doing some shopping downtown.


**CONTENT WARNING: This story contains depictions of violence, mental health struggle, drug abuse, and overdose** “CUT!” Thomas yells just as I start my last line of dialogue. I throw my head back and close my eyes. I open them to find Thomas standing behind the camera with his glasses perched on his forehead and his fingers massaging between his eyes in frustration. The crew around him is silent, waiting and wondering, is he gonna blow up again? We’re in a tiny room in a dirty house; Thomas always insists on shooting on location, to try and capture the authenticity of the places and lives the people in his movies live every day. He hates using sound stages and built sets because they’re “sterile and comfortable and they neuter performances,” which means the cast and crew are crammed into “real” sets to bake under hot lights and smell each other’s sweat. Thomas is considered the modern Kubrick , and everyone keeps telling me how much of a genius he is and how good this will be for my career, and how this script just smells like an “Oscar,” and don’t worry about his outbursts, it’ll all be worth it; he’s just trying to make the best movie he can. Well, If he’s Kubrick, I’m Shelly Fucking Duvall. Except for his last one. It was a bomb; the largest budget he's ever worked with and it was a flop. The studio lost millions. That was a few years ago, and he’s had a hard time getting any projects off the ground.

That’s where I come in. My career is on the upswing. Last year I was in a movie called Underneath Hawk’s Head and overnight, I went from struggling actress to being given offers left right, and center. That’s when the offer for this movie came in, and my agent jumped all over it. “This is the one!” he said. I had reservations about my still unfilmed nude scene, but he assured me it would be worth it.

But when I went for my audition, Thomas wasn’t even there. I think they had conditions around the financing of the movie, me being one of them. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been Thomas’s first or even his last pick. There’s contempt all over his face whenever he looks at me like I’m some foul thing he’s just found rotting at the bottom of some forgotten cupboard. Finally, Thomas breaks the silence. “Wha-“ he starts before he lets some breath out of his nose. “What the fuck was that?” he says, blinking at me. I can’t help but scoff as I begin to answer; diva, I’ve been called a few times. “I was try-” “AH!” he says, cutting me off. “Not a fucking word.” He turns to the rest of the crew. “That’s it for now folks. We’re fifteen days behind schedule and we’ve been here for twelve hours and it’s obvious that we’re not going to get what we want today. Leave everything up and we’ll start fresh tomorrow.” I roll my eyes and begin to try and squeeze my way around the crew as they start to turn off the lights and equipment. I can feel their relief as they whisper to each other, “Well, it could’ve been worse.” Thomas is seething and his eyes burn into my back as I leave. Finally, I step out the front door of the dirty little house and into the fresh air.

*	*	* There’s a pounding at my trailer door and I’m sure it’s him. Here we go, I think as I head towards the door. I barely get it open before his foot is on the first step. He doesn’t say anything as I back away to make room. For a minute we’re silent, sizing each other up. We’ve been shooting for thirty days and it’s been tense. I steel myself for battle. “Thomas, I-” “No,” he says. “I’m the director and I speak first.” I cross my arms and set my weight on one leg. “Fine,” I say, “Go ahead.” He starts quietly, “I don’t need your fucking permission!” The end is loud and sharp. I can’t help but flinch. I’ve already given up ground.

“I am this close to replacing you,” he says gesturing less than an inch with his finger and thumb. “I don’t give a fuck what the studio will say. I never even wanted you for the part but you’re the ‘next big star,’” he says mockingly. I don’t care if he’s the director. “I am thirty-five years old,” I start, “There won’t be any roles for me in ten years and I have more than paid my fucking dues and I fucking deserve to be here. I’m a good actress and I am doing exactly what you’re asking me but I don’t know why that’s not good enough for you!” Now his face is red and his mouth is pinched like a snake about to spit venom. “You are a dime-a-dozen actress who got lucky with one part and you do NOT get to critique your performance. That’s my fucking job! “I’m not trying to do your job! Tell me what you want!” I scream.

“BE A FUCKING MOTHER!” he screams back. “You play a mother so fucking act like one! I know you don’t have kids but you have a goddamn mother don’t you? Or you must fucking know some mothers and children? You are human aren’t you?” A cut deeper than he could imagine. He doesn’t know. Nobody knows. Nobody knows that the day I was cast I found out that I was pregnant. And nobody knows that the week before we started filming, I miscarried.

I’ve been trying to pretend that I’m OK and it’s OK. I keep telling myself that I’m struggling with my performance for this reason or that reason; it’s Thomas, the small sets, the script, the heat. Or maybe it’s that I’m pretty sure Josh is sleeping with his secretary and that he breathed a sigh of relief when I went to the hospital bleeding.

The point is, maybe it’s none of that. Maybe Thomas is right without knowing why he’s right. Maybe I’m struggling to feel the story or character too deeply. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m doing the best that I can. These thoughts rush through my head just as his mouth is wrapping up the last syllable. And it’s the sting of these thoughts that raises my hand and my own private… what? Shame? Guilt? Fear? Loss? Whatever it is, it makes me slap him across the face. Hard. The fleshy smack echoes off the walls of the trailer. Then the pressure of his hand around my throat in an instant, cutting off my breath. I’m making choking noises and clawing at his hairy hand. I start trying to claw at his face but that just makes him squeeze tighter. “You hit me one more time and you’ll never work again,” he says before letting me go with a push. I stumble backward and bump into the small table, gasping for breath. “I don’t want to reshoot this whole goddamn mess so you have one more day to get it together. One,” he says as he starts to head for the door. He puts his hand on the handle and stops before leaving the trailer. “Maybe a good goddamn choke was what you needed. Maybe I’m lucky and I just choked some life into you instead of out of you,” he says with a dark, sadistic grin.

A grin that makes my stomach turn so badly that I rush to the little sink once he’s gone and begin to puke, the strain burning my bruised throat. *	*	* My phone rings as I pull into the parking lot of the plaza. It’s Riley, the assistant director. He is a sweet man who takes far too much of Thomas’s shit. But he’s very good with handling us and the crew and making sure we’re being cared for. As much as he can anyway. “Hello?” I say. “Hi, are you all right?” he asks. “Yeah, I’m OK.” “OK. Everybody heard you and Thomas shouting in your trailer and I just wanted to check in. I know things have been rough.” “Yeah, it has been rough.” “He’s just under a lot of pressure. The last movie and the studio breathing down his neck… I’m really sorry he’s being so hard on you. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing fine.” Fine. Not great. Fine . That’s Hollywood for “terrible.” “I’m fine really,” I say as I rub my quickly swelling throat. “All right… Well, I just wanted you to know that Thomas altered the schedule so you’re off the call sheet until Thursday. They’re gonna spend some time shooting a few of the school scenes so you can relax.” Anger and sadness wash over me simultaneously. That fucker doesn’t give a shit about giving me some days off, he’s worried about the bruises on my throat. He wants to give them some time to heal. I consider telling Riley, but that will be the end of the shoot. The movie will never get made and I’ll have to deal with the media fallout of being choked by a director. They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity but I’d still rather star in a movie than star in the tabloids at the checkout counter… “Caroline? Are you still there?” Riley asks. I realize my throat is tight while I teeter on the edge of bursting into tears. My hand is gripping the phone so tightly that it’s cramping. I clear my throat and there’s pain. “Yeah, sorry. A couple of days off sounds nice. Thanks for checking in.” “Caroline… If you ever need anything, just let me know, really. I’m here to help. “Thanks, Riley…” *	*	* The road is empty and I’m driving 90 in a 60. The top is down and the wind is blowing my hair back while I’ve got an open bottle of wine riding shotgun. I stopped at the plaza for just one but it turned into a case after Riley’s phone call. My radio is cranked and I’m singing my Dad’s favorite Jackson Browne song as loud as I can, not caring how much my throat hurts or my voice cracks.

He listened to it nonstop after my Mom left or whenever he was sad, a tradition I’ve carried on. I remember that a friend of mine gave me some pills after the miscarriage, to take my mind away for a little while and help me sleep. I haven’t taken any yet, but maybe tonight is a good night to try. *	*	* It’s 5:30 am. I don’t know how I remembered that it’s Thursday but I did. The pills worked as promised but one turned into two, into three into- I lost count. Between the chalky doses of oblivion and the wine, My head is pounding. But the bruises are gone and the time out of mind was refreshing. Blissful. Now I’m struggling to keep the coffee I don’t remember buying down, but I have to. I can’t show how terrible I feel. I walk into the makeup trailer and Dana greets me. “Hi sweetie, how are you? Are you OK? I heard about what happened the last day you were on set,” she says with a concerned look. You don’t know half of it, I think as I take my jacket and sunglasses off. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. I think we just had to air some things out. It was a tough day of shooting,” I say, taking my seat. I see my face for the first time in a couple of days; I look like shit. My eyes look like two pissholes in a snowbank. Dana looks at her assistant Julie and they share a concerned look. “Really, I’m fine,” I say. I might be trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince them. “I just didn’t sleep well last night, I was thinking about my scenes today. We’re shooting the scene where the principal comes to the house. Kind of a heavy one.” Dana starts running her hands through my hair, “Honey, didn’t you get the message? You’re not shooting that scene today…” she says. Panic rises in my throat. My facade is cracking. I pull out my phone. I realize I haven’t looked at it since I got back to the hotel with my case of wine and oblivion on my mind. I have a hundred and twenty text messages, nineteen voicemails, and thirty-six missed calls. I can feel embarrassment burning on my cheeks. “No, I didn’t get any messages because my phone was all screwed up. It just started working this morning. Didn’t anybody call the hotel?” I say a little too quickly. “I thought they said they did.” “Ugh, that hotel is the worst. I’m gonna have to talk to them about how important it is that I get messages like that!” I say. Is it the right amount of anger? Am I believable? Or am I totally transparent? “Well, what scenes are we shooting today?” I ask. Dana looks uncomfortable now. “They’re- Well- You- You’re shooting your nude scene today…” she says quietly.

My hand shoots up to my forehead in shock. “You’re joking?” I say. That bastard. He’s punishing me. He’s trying to make me quit or give himself a good excuse to fire me. The rest of this shoot is going to be even worse than before. I shouldn’t have slapped him.

Dana shakes her head slowly. “Sorry hon, I wish I was,” she says. I see her eyes dart in the mirror to the prickly growth under my arm. I put my hand down quickly. “Are you OK?” she asks again. She knows I’m not.

“No, yeah, I’m fine. Just a little surprised is all.” “Do you want me to go get Riley?” she asks, putting her hand on my shoulder. My hand instinctively goes to hers.

“Oh my God, no, I’ll be all right. Like I said, just surprised. Like they say,” My voice is a little choked now and I can feel my eyes going redder, “the show must go on.” “If you’re sure…” she says hesitantly. “No, no, I’ll be OK…” “All right.” She turns to Julie and says quietly, “Can you grab a razor?” Then she turns back to me, “Honey, why don’t you just take a nice hot shower and relax? Take as long as you need. If you’re late to the set I’ll tell them it’s my fault.” Now the tears start down my face. “OK,” I say. “OK.” I’m suddenly acutely aware that I don’t remember when I showered last. I look at myself in the mirror and realize through the fog just how greasy my hair is and the dark circles under my eyes. Dana leans down and gives me a hug around my neck. “It’ll be all right honey. It’ll be all right…” *	*	* Dana and Julie have gone and I’m alone in the trailer. Julie handed me a fresh razor before she left. I start to get undressed and panic begins to grip me. My breath comes faster and faster but I can’t breathe deep enough. My hands are shaking as I take my top off and I’m getting light-headed. I pull my jeans down and pick them up to set them on the back of a chair. As I’m folding them, something falls to the floor, rattling. The panic stops. It’s the pill bottle. I pick the bottle up and turn it in my hand, watching the little white pills tumble down the sides. I don’t remember putting them in my jeans. I shouldn’t. I don’t remember what time it was when I took them last. Or how many I took. But…

I look towards the door. There’s no one coming. Then I look in the mirror. I don’t recognize the face staring back at me. Instead of me, I see a dirty, greasy, feral animal standing in her underwear with a bottle of pills in her hand. Fuck it. I pop the bottle open and grab a couple. Just a couple. To take the edge off. I have to be naked in a room full of people in a few hours. I deserve to have the edge taken off. I put the pills back in my jeans and walk over to the sink and turn the tap on. I put the pills in my mouth and bend down to drink from the running water. Just like I did as a kid. I wipe my mouth and start the shower before finishing getting undressed. *	*	*

Noise. Far away noise. Rain? Then distant voices. “Caroline?” Is that my name? ‘CAROLINE!” It must be. The world around me gets brighter. I try to talk, to tell them something, but the words are foggy in my mind. The voices again. I’m being moved. “Call an ambulance! Oh my God, CAROLINE!” It sounds like something is wrong, but I don’t know what. I feel fine; l ike I’m flying.

I try to sing the Jackson Browne song to show them I’m fine. But it’s hard. It’s strange; I can hear it but I can’t think of the words or even hum the melody. “I just need to sleep,” I try to say. Those are the words from before, the ones I couldn’t think of. “I just need to sleep. I’m fine…” *	*	* “We’re following a developing story out of Oklahoma this evening. Actress Caroline McCarthy has died. We know that she was starring in Thomas Ashley’s latest movie, Prairie Moon , playing a lead role. She was found unresponsive on set and taken to hospital where she was pronounced dead. McCarthy is best known for starring in last year’s surprise hit movie, Underneath Hawk’s Head, and the star was expected to have a bright future. She was thirty-five. Tim?”


Eric was a computer nerd. He accepted this as his fate in life. Ever since elementary school, he was the subject of constant bullying. His black-framed glasses, overweight size, and unkempt hair made him the subject of far too many practical jokes. These jokes hurt and cut deep. In fact, that action shaped his future. In high school, to ease the pain of lack of friends and name-calling, he considered himself a kind of computer wiz. He excelled in all his math and computer classes. In time, he retreated into his computers.

Soon he was writing computer code and programs and inventing new video games. One of his ideas was to bring the world into his bedroom, his fortress of solitude.  One of his unique programs would combine locations with real-time pictures of that location. Eric figured out a way to have pinpoint accuracy so that he could zero in on a particular tree, vehicle, or person. This concept was by far more advanced than anything available to anyone, including the military. Using GPS coordinates, it appeared like specific popular map programs but far superior. He was excellent at writing computer code. With the result, he was not always sure how it would turn out or how he got there. During this time, he worked at a computer tech firm to keep his knowledge current. The company loved him, but the other employees just continued the bullying of avoidance and name-calling. Soon his new life’s schedule became Monday through Friday from 7 am to 4 pm time devoted to work, and every available minute after that would be spent on updating and fine-tuning his new location program. Eric had two driving forces. One was the love of inventing a new video game and one, a different one, that of revenge. As the ideas for the new game grew, so did his revenge. He never dated and rarely left his small apartment except to shop for food or go to work. A prototype of the new game was that he was able to focus in on anything he wanted and program the game to follow that item. He first tried it out on a bus. It worked well. No matter what street the bus traveled on, the bus was crystal clear on Eric’s large monitor’s screen. He could not explain how this was possible, but it was happening. The excitement was overwhelming. There were no cameras following the bus. It was all done via a GPS system he developed by accident. The next trial of the program was to follow a person. He picked a cute young lady. He locked the application in on her location, and what happened next was beyond amazing. This young lady entered her house, closed the front door, and walked into her kitchen. Eric was stunned. She was there on his computer screen, he was staring at the monitor and watching this young lady prepare her lunch. This event was, to Eric, totally unbelievable. He could not comprehend his success. He immediately shut the computer down. A fear came over him. What if that lady found out? What if the government found out? Can I delete this information? And then he thought, maybe I should keep it because there were so many computer program levels of protection and firewalls. He rebooted the computer and opened his new program. In the search bar, he typed the last location of the young lady. Within a second or two, he was watching her again in her kitchen. From a nerd point of view, he believed he would become the greatest nerd ever. Over the next few months, while keeping the cover of employment, he continued to tweak his new video game. He found a way to delete the memory so there would be no trace back to him. He found a way to split the screen into two different locational targets. The possibilities filled his mind, also, the questions. Questions about should he keep this a secret or share this incredible invention. Eric, the nerd, kept this all to himself. Why would he share anything with a world that made fun of him and never let him join in? This was his idea, his brainchild, his way of dealing with all the pain and suffering provided by others. To Eric, life was good now. He settled into his new routine: work and this video game. His work improved as he seemed happier. He was still a friendless nerd, but his attitude changed. He went to work as positive as he could and left work as quickly as he could; he did not participate in any event his company had. He was pleasant at work, but no one ever contacted him after work. To him, this was all good. About six months later, he felt the new video game was perfect, but he had an excellent idea. He wrote it down, and for the next week, every day reviewed and studied his notes. He was torn between following the new path or just enjoying what he had. This went on for weeks. He tried hard not to let this indecision affect him, especially at work. The turning point was when a senior computer programmer at work began to ridicule him. Eric now was suffering again from fat jokes, glasses jokes, and of course, the loneliness jokes. Eric did not realize he had a lot of vacation time built up. He requested four weeks off. The company seemed relieved to give him the time off. It was a Friday his last day before vacation. He methodically removed much of his belongings from his cubical. He did not want to return to this place.  His goodbyes were short. He was almost invisible while there, so he would not be missed when he was on vacation. The last person he said goodbye to was the computer programmer that was his new source of problems. He walked up to him and shook his hand. The guy was a bit taken back. He smiled in that sort of fake way, and Eric smiled back suspiciously. And with that, Eric left for his apartment. On the way home, Eric stopped to buy enough food to last a few weeks so he would not have to leave his apartment. He had plans, and he had ideas that needed to be finalized and quickly implemented, all without any interruptions. Eric could not explain to himself how this worked. He needed to experiment to find answers. One bright Sunday morning, he picked Sunday as a day when fewer people were out. He located a tree three blocks away from his apartment. With laser focus, he zeroed in and started to record what was on the monitor. He walked over to the tree and searched for the direction where a camera would be. He found none.

He went back to his apartment and reviewed the recording. It was like he stumbled onto a dimensional gap. He could not explain this, nor did he want to. All he knew was that he found it and it was exciting. But he was not done with his experiment. He had the television news on the background during his tests. The story was about weaponizing words, weaponizing race, it seems everything was now weaponized. This gave Eric ideas. An old video game in his closet under a bag of old clothes was a Call to Arms type game. Could it work, would not know until he tried. So, Eric took the video game handgun and wrote code so that this item would be incorporated into his new game. Failure and failure. Maybe Eric had embarked on something that could not be done. He became obsessed with finding a way to connect the video handgun into his new game. Meanwhile, the senior programmer was also filling his mind. This jerk went out of his way to attack Eric. Every day while on vacation, Eric became madder and madder. ‘He will pay,’ thought Eric. Then without knowing, Eric wrote the code needed to include the video handgun into the game. He immediately located his favorite testing tree. He held his breath as it pointed the handgun sights on the monitor towards the tree.  When the center of the tree was directly in line, he pulled the trigger once. Looking at the monitor and looking at the tree, he saw a bit of bark fly from the tree. Could it possible. Did he somehow hit the tree? How was that possible? Eric ran, maybe for the first time in his life, to the tree. He observed some pieces of bark missing. He took a felt-tipped marker from his pocket and drew a small three-inch circle about head height on the tree. Back at his apartment, he focused the sights on the center of that circle. He aimed, fired, and bark from within the circle flew off the tree. Not only did this work, but it was the perfect weapon. Basically, from out of nowhere, a pulse of some kind stuck the target leaving zero evidence of what happened or who fired the shot. It was at this time that Eric began to formalize his quest for revenge against those who made fun of him. He felt it was his turn to, as he said, turn the tables. He made a list of those he wanted to seek out and correct their misbehavior towards him. The list grew each day. Being the nerd he was, he began to rank his targets in order of being shot. And always the computer programmer, that jerk at work, held the number one position. But Eric did not want to start at the top. He wanted to work his way up so that when it came to number one, there would be no problems, just results. The day arrived for the first real test. He reviewed his list and decided on a girl that rejected him back in high school. He put her name and home location in the search bar of the program. With a bit of sweat on his brow, he pushed the enter button. Within seconds she was on the monitor. Wow, this was so unreal, but it was real. Eric followed her via the monitor. After about four or five minutes, which seemed more like four or five hours, Eric believed he was ready. He told himself she could have gone out with him. She should have gone out with him. She was now directly in the middle of the sight picture on the monitor. He fired. He watched her fall. There was a puff of smoke, a small ruffle of clothing, and she fell. He just stared at the monitor screen. Soon others were running over to the girl. Eric could not look away. Police, an ambulance, all arrived at her prone body on the ground. Later that night, on the news, there was a report of a young lady found dead. No cause or explanation was given. Eric knew her name before the news reporter spoke it.

Weirdly, Eric rejoiced. Part of him was happy, while another part seemed sad. He now had power. This was all new to him. He could not explain how this worked; he just knew it worked.  The first thing he did was erase the recording of the practice shot against the tree.  He then deleted the recent activity. Just in case he thought. It was getting close to the end of his vacation. He was torn between maybe going back to work or just shooting the computer programmer. He chose shooting the programmer. So began the game of stalking the programmer.

Three days until the vacation was over and three days left for the programmer. A day later, it was time. Eric had prepared himself for the greatest revenge ever. He typed the programmer’s name and home location into the game’s search bar. Then, there that jerk was on the monitor. He was less than a mile from Eric’s apartment. The programmer was in his backyard sitting on a lounge chair, enjoying a drink, and some reading material. Eric knew this was the last thing the programmer will ever do. Again, the sweat beaded up in his forehead. He felt a bit nervous, but nothing was going to stop him. Carefully the programmer was positioned within the center of the game’s sights. Eric took a deep, long breathe and fired.

Nothing happened. Eric immediately checked the sighting position. It was dead on. He checked the handgun connection; it was solid. Eric fired again. Nothing. Confused, Eric rebooted the computer. It took about three minutes to get back running. He opened the program, and the programmer’s information was already on the screen. When everything was lined up again, he fired, nothing happened. Eric was beside himself. He could not figure out what had happened. Everything was good to go, and nothing was out of order. Maybe the programmer knew about the program and had some shield against Eric’s game was created. Eric’s mind was racing out of control. To make matters even worse, there was a brief power surge. This action was more than Eric could handle. He was storming around the apartment and raced over to the compute programmer’s backyard to see for himself what was wrong. He left the apartment. Meanwhile, a power surge had rebooted the computer again. Eric was, for the second time in his life, actually running. He arrived at the backyard and observed the programmer sleeping. He went up to him ever so slowly and without making a sound. He heard the programmer snoring.

Eric stood over the programmer and looked back in the direction he knows the pulses should have come from. He just stood there, adjusted his glasses, and looked back toward that direction. Three pulses struck Eric as the computer had rebooted while he was gone, and for an unknown reason, still was programmed to fire at the location in the search bar. Eric felt the pulses enter his body and, without any other thought or movement, fell back, dead before he hit the ground. Eric was gone, and with him, all the secrets of this game were gone forever.


At the turn of the twenty-second century, many of Earth’s colonies revolted. Within days, enemies of Earth’s mighty empire declared war, hoping to take advantage of the chaos. Forced to fight battles on all fronts, we had been dragged into the center of the third galactic war. After nearly three decades of bloodshed and meaningless carnage, Earth and her allies emerged on top. In the aftermath, countless planets lay destroyed and people all around the universe prayed for peace and prosperity. All the involved parties ceased fire and finally, soldiers could return to their homes. Like many others, General Rayleigh wanted to put all that had happened behind him. He had led many of Earth’s troupes to countless victories and now longed to peacefully settle down and discover his place in the new world. For his service to the Empire, the president awarded him with a hefty pension and a manor on planet Leos, the birthplace of his late mother. He had spent his last twenty years fighting. War was all he knew and all that he was good at. To somebody who’d been in battle his entire adult life, the normal world seemed foreign and empty. Rayleigh, however, was not a man to live life without a purpose. He planned to spend his first month introspecting and thinking about how he wanted his new life to shape up. Leos consisted of many fertile and uncultivated lands. He could spend his money to buy land near his house and become a farmer. Else, he could use it to buy a spaceship and spend his remaining years exploring the galaxies. The possibilities were endless and soon, Rayleigh was overwhelmed with choices. One day, an unusual guest came to visit him. She was an old woman who’d traveled halfway across the galaxy to speak to him. By the time she left his house, Rayleigh had once again found purpose in life. Ellis had been Rayleigh’s closest friend in the war. They originally met each other as recruits in the training camp and later, they’d been assigned to the same battalion. For eight long years, they fought countless battles side by side. On one of their missions, they had been stranded on an inhospitable planet. After roaming the land for many days, they finally came across a crashed and abandoned space ship. Ellis confirmed that he could fix the radio and by help would arrive by the next day. That night, as they waited for rescue, they ate their first meal in days. It was a rotten apple they’d found in the cockpit. It tasted bitter but the two quickly divided it amongst themselves and devoured it within seconds. Later that night, they talked about what all they’d do once the war was over. It had become a tradition for them to do so after every mission. It was one of the few things that kept them going. This time, they talked about opening their own restaurant. They would offer customers the “finest meal they’ll ever have”. Both knew, however, that the end of the war was nowhere in sight. They had even begun to lose hope of ever seeing the planets co-exist peacefully in harmony. Less than a year later, Ellis was gravely injured in combat. He succumbed to his injuries before a medic could get to him. Following that day, Rayleigh started having a regular occurrence of nightmares. Rayleigh’s unexpected visitor was Ellis’s mother. Having lost her only son, she had waited thirteen years for the war to end. When it did, she left to seek out Ellis’s dearest friend and learn about her son’s final moments. The two talked for hours, telling each other stories about the man who had meant so much to them. In the midst of their conversation, Ellis’s mother talked about his lifelong dream to open a restaurant. Rayleigh was taken aback when he heard this. He was reminded about the time they’d talked about doing so together. He’d never realized that his friend genuinely held such a dream. The moment he found out, Rayleigh made up his mind. He would honor his best friend’s memory by accomplishing his lifelong dream. He would open a restaurant and figure out a way to offer its customers the finest meal of their lives. Rayleigh was a smart man. He had ranked first in his military when it came to mental proficiency and was one of the youngest generals in his quadrant’s history. His strategies and tactics had tipped the tide in his side’s favor on many occasions. He realized that although he was no longer a soldier fighting in a war, the mindset and strategies he had developed in wartime would be of use in the business world. Acknowledging that his knowledge regarding the dining industry was scare and lacking, he made a decision to spend the next five years studying the history, science, and psychology of food. He traveled to Earth in an attempt to study its galaxy - renowned cuisines. By his second year, he learned Italian, Indian, Thai, Chinese, Mexican and every other cuisine he had ever read off or seen. At each step, his main focus lay on thinking about how he could use his new knowledge to craft the finest meal a customer could have. He held the belief that successful business was driven by innovation, which came only from technology and research. By the end of the fifth year, Rayleigh had a clear vision of what his restaurant would be and how it would operate. He spent the next three years documenting and refining his plan. By this time, his friends from the war had reached high positions. He proceeded to schedule meetings with investors he’d served with. They invited him to pitch his idea in front of everyone. Within the span of twenty minutes, everyone in the room was floored by Rayleigh’s idea and a huge number of venture capitalists agreed to pour in huge amounts of money for the project. As a year went by, suspense and mystery regarding the restaurant continued to build up. Eleven years after he’d first decided to honor his dearest friend’s legacy, Rayleigh finally declared “Ellis and Rayleigh” open. The tagline read “The finest meal of your life”. He had carefully selected and invited various food critiques and journalists who were now lined up outside. Sharp at twelve, the doors opened for the very first wave of customers. Standing on top of the tallest tower in the city, the view from Ellis and Rayleigh was impeccable and it’s interior was impressive. Rayleigh stood proud in the center, waiting for everyone to head to their assigned seats. None of the tables had any menus or cutleries. Instead, in front of each person, there lay a sleek rectangular slab of glass. Transparent with a light shade of blue. Many brought up it’s resemblance to a smartphone. When everyone had finally been seated, Rayleigh spoke “Thank you all for coming. Initially, the plan was to start with a huge ceremony. However, we collectively decided that it would best if instead, we cut right down to the chase and begin the demonstration. I request all of you to pick up the rectangular slab you see on your table.” Puzzled, everyone did as he asked. “Now hold it front and place your tongue on it, as if you’re licking it” The entire restaurant erupted with laughter. General Rayleigh had to be joking. He couldn't possibly be serious, they spoke amongst each other. Rayleigh joined in with a friendly laugh. After everyone calmed down, he proceeded to demonstrate. Holding up one of the slabs that he’d been keeping in his pocket, he proceeded to open his mouth and place his tongue on it. After a few seconds, the device beeped and turned to a light shade of green. On the slab, there was now a digital timer. It had been set to nine minutes and instantly started counting downwards. Curious, everybody around the room proceeded to imitate what Rayleigh had just done. Slowly, slabs all around turned green and multiple counters started. Some started from as few as five minutes and some even started all the way from twenty-five. This time, when Rayleigh spoke, all eyes were on him. “When the timer ends, it means that your meal has been prepared. One of our waiters will bring the dish to you. Your dish will initially be covered with a lid. We request all of you to not open the lid until everybody else has also been served” Everyone waited. When the final dish had been served, Rayleigh finally asked them to open their lids and have a look at their food. The entire room gave out a collective gasp. On each plate, they lay a different dish. Some people had been served pizza, some others had gotten noodles and rice. Countless dishes spanning a huge variety of cuisine could be found in the room. Even people who were served the same dish noticed huge variations in ingredients and flavors. Few of the meals were even accompanied by a custom made dessert or drink. “Using state of the art technology, our research team has devised a way to analyze your tastebuds and monitor their interactions with your brain. Using this rectangular device, we determine the dish you’re most likely to prefer. Once determined, our team of versatile chefs begins making your favorite dish, ensuring that it’s cooked and made it in the manner you’d enjoy the most.” The demonstration left the crowd wild. Most of the attendees were still shocked from having seen their personal favorite dishes suddenly appear in front of them. Business analysts unanimously predicted that this new restaurant would revolutionize the entire food industry and go on to become massively profitable and successful. They turned out to be right. When the first word of “Ellis and Rayleigh” got out, residents from all over the galaxy rushed to experience the finest meal they’d ever have. Within weeks of the opening, the restaurant became one of the hottest places to dine at in the galaxy. Within a year, reservations were required to be made weeks, if not months in advance. After a hugely successful IPO, Rayleigh began work to set up branches throughout the universe. By the time he turned ninety, Ellis and Rayleigh had turned into one of the most profitable organizations of the century. Rayleigh retired soon after, passing on his responsibility and leaving the company in the hands of a trusted board of directors. A few years later, he was invited as the guest of honor for one of the company’s press conference. The research department had been working very hard and it was finally time to announce their latest innovation. The new restaurants would now do more than just analyze one’s tastebuds to create meals. They would also factor in the customer’s DNA and brain activity. This would allow the company to factor in dietary restrictions for certain meals and even recreate items from the customer’s memory. The crowds cheered as General Rayleigh walked to the stage, soon to become the first person to try out Ellis and Rayleigh’s revamped technology. As he had done so many years ago, Rayleigh picked up the slab and placed his tongue on it. He then proceeded to let the device scan his brain and collect a sample of his DNA. When he was done, the timer displayed a waiting time of just three minutes. Soon, his food arrived. Rayleigh lifted the lid for everyone to see. On the plate, lay nothing but a crudely cut piece of a rotten apple. Everybody in the crowd looked puzzled. A voice shouted from the back of the crowd. “Does it not work?”, it asked. “Quite the contrary” replied Rayleigh. Wiping off a tear that just formed in his eye, he proceeded to eat, truly the finest meal he would ever have in his life.