Once upon a time, there existed a land where the woods stood tall and whispering, rivers wound like silver serpents through verdant meadows, and the earth itself seemed to sing with life. In this mystic realm, there lived a powerful king. The king’s name was King Soul. He reigned over a vast kingdom known as Wolffrin. Soul commanded an army of over ten hundred warriors and lorded over more than a hundred thousand civilians.

King Soul was a jaded man. Even in the tender years of his boyhood, he was distrustful and suspicious of everyone around him.

“You are a prince.” His father told him when he was just a lad, sitting on the man’s knee as King Benjamin spoke to him. “You will have a whole kingdom that must bow before you. They will cower in your presence, some will hold you in esteem, and perhaps a few will even bear you genuine affection. But heed my words, my cherished son; in this treacherous world, every soul has its price, every loyalty its breaking point. Trust none but yourself, for betrayal lurks within the hearts of every man, woman, and child." Soul took his father’s words to heart. He trusted no living soul, no matter how hard they tried to prove their trustworthiness to him. He did not consider even his own shadow to be completely trustworthy. When he was six, Soul became convinced his nursemaid was plotting to sneak poison into his meals. He told his father he saw in her eyes that she was power-hungry and that she would most certainly betray him. King Benjamin had her thrown in prison. When Soul was eleven, he had the stable boy executed after the cinch on his horse’s saddle went loose, and he took a spill. Soul was certain that the stable hand had made an attempt on his life.

When he was thirteen, he saw his own mother speaking to a pauper in the marketplace. He caught a snippet of their conversation in which the Queen said, “I will help you, certainly.” Soul rushed to his father. He exposed the Queen for a plot to commit treason against the kingdom. After all, what else would she have to help a man of lowly status with? The Queen strung up a story to her husband about how she’d been attempting to assist the humble man with his finances, as he was homeless and desperate. Soul saw right through her lies. He knew she had betrayal in her heart. Everyone did if given the chance.

The queen was banished. The King threatened to take her life if she ever returned to Salverto. One after the other, Soul found ways to incriminate servants and royals alike. The cooks, the knights, the wards of the castle, and even the King’s hound, who he swore up and down looked at him with malice in his eyes. On his eighteenth birthday, Soul went on a bear hunt through the forest with a handful of knights and servants, his father lying ill back at the castle. Surely, he was poisoned or spelled by a witch even! Soul thought, clicking his heels against his horse’s sweaty flank. Spartan whinnied and picked up his pace. His hoofs thundered over the forest floor. Soul kept his keen eyes scanning the forest, and his crossbow at the ready. Poor Father, he should have had the food he was to ingest tested more carefully. Alas, he would not be ill now had he taken better precautions! A bright sun hovered over the treetops. Light trickled down past the leaves and branches, and dots of gold danced over the forest floor.

Soul’s keen hunter's gaze caught a brief disturbance. A streak of brown fur flashed at the edge of his vision, stirring his blood with the thrill of the hunt. With a practiced motion, he tugged on Spartan's reins, bringing the mighty steed to a skidding halt. “Halt!” His voice boomed through the trees, a clear command that had his men pulling their horses to a stop with a symphony of nickers and hooves churning the soft, muddy earth beneath them. They all turned, following Soul's gaze into the thick underbrush. There, concealed by the foliage, was the smallest grizzly cub Soul had ever laid eyes on. Its tiny form crouched low, ears perked in fright, those big, black eyes shimmering with the sheer terror of being discovered. "Oi, Prince Soul!" piped up one of his knights. "Maybe we oughta leave this one alone. It's but a wee thing, after all." Soul's reply was dismissive. "My trophies know no size. If it's a bear, it's fair game for my collection." He knocked an arrow. “Oh… Sire, don’t-.” “Silence! Or would you prefer to acquaint yourself with the inside of our dungeon?” Soul commanded. The knight ceased his protests.

The bear cub let out a bleat. It backed further into the brush as Soul trained his weapon on it.

The cub flattened it’s ears. It’s nose twitched and it’s body was shaking. "Farewell, you scruffy little beast," he sneered, loosing the arrow with a twang. The air was split by a heart-wrenching scream, sending birds into a frenzy, their cries echoing Soul's cold triumph. Soul dismounted his horse. He sauntered over to the body. He picked it up by the scruff and inspected the pelt. The fur was soft, lighter in color than he'd expected—clearly, the pelt of a cub barely a few months old. It’ll make a fine trophy or a soft rug. Soul thought. He spun to face his men, grinning. “Now, you unsavory lot, was that worth all the fuss?” The knight who’d been warning him against shooting the cub blinked. His eyes stretched wide in alarm. “My Lord-.” “Ah, quiet. I’ve heard enough of your sniveling.” Soul waved him off. “No, Sire. Really, you must-.” Soul’s eyes narrowed.

I must do nothing! I am the prince, not this disrespectful suit of armor. He thought, enraged. “Now, listen here!” He began. “I take orders from none of you. If I want to kill a bear, no matter how young, I’ll kill that bear! Everything in this kingdom belongs to me. Understood?” The horses begin to stamp their hooves, their eyes going white rimmed with fear. The knights looked at something past Soul and they all cried out in one collective howl of urgency. “ Sire , behind you!” Soul felt something hot brush over the back of his neck. A reek like that of rotten fish filled his nostrils. Soul spun around. He came face-to-face with the enraged eyes of a grizzly bear. A bear bigger than any he'd ever seen before.

Soul stepped back, clutching his crossbow to his chest.

“You lazy ingrates. You fools!” He howled. “Do something, you useless slugs!” His knights hesitantly urged their horses closer. The bear stood up on its hind legs. It flattened its ears and growled. Soul picked up his crossbow and fired a clumsy shot. An arrow implied the bear’s broad shoulder. It gave an earth-shaking roar. The force of the scream was enough to send Soul stumbling back. He fell on his back and glanced up in time to see the bear tear the arrow clean from its shoulder and break it in half in its powerful jaws.

“By the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!” Cried one of the knights. “This bear possesses the strength of a dragon. I’m not staying here to be torn apart!” “C-Coward!” Soul cried, gazing in horror over his shoulder as, one by one, his knights whirled their steeds around and fled. “All of you! Cowards and deserters! I’ll have your heads for this!” He whipped his head back to the beast. “And you! Do you not know who I am? Back away, you foul sack of fleas, lest you bring down the armies of Wolffrin on yourself!” The bear snarled. It didn’t seem to care about what armies he commanded. With a hiss, thebear grabbed his arm in its fangs, piercing his skin, then it flung him into a tree.

Blood poured down Soul’s tunic, and his head rang from being bashed into the trunk.

The fuzzy shape of the bear advanced on him. Soul closed his eyes, tears pouring down his cheeks. Truly, this must have been planned. He decided. Those cowards must have led me here on purpose so that this monstrous creature could do away with me. They want my power and my position, and they will stop at nothing to get it.

“Away! Away! Do not harm him.” The voice was as soothing as birdsong in the morning. Soul peeked open his eyes. A boy, no older than him, had come to stand between him and the bear. The boy had long black hair braided down his back. He wore animal skins, and there was a tattoo on one exposed shoulder. A mark of a doe deer. A Speaker. Soul sat up in amazement. Why! I’ve only ever heard of them in stories. A people who dwell in the forest from birth to death, speaking to the animals and hearing prophecies from the rains and from the mountains beyond. “I know.” The boy soothed, as the bear gave a quiet whimper, its hackles lying flat and its eyes dropping to the ground. “But he is the prince. You cannot kill him. If you did, his people would do most terrible things to you, my friend.” The bear gave a furious stamp of its foot. The Speaker touched its forehead gently with his palm. “Rest easy, great hunter.” He whispered, his fingers creasing its scalp. “Rest. Return to the woods. Know that your cub hunts in peace in the Golden Forest now.” The bear leaned into his touch. Then she turned and lumbered back into the forest.

Soul panted. He gingerly let his fingertips graze over his torn clothing, painting them scarlet with blood. “Are you gravely injured…Sire?” Soul glanced up. The Speaker was eyeing him thoughtfully. His eyes were hard, but not unkind. “Not gravely. I tell you, when I return to the castle, I shall have all those cowards hung! Truly!” Soul used the trunk of the tree to pull himself to his feet. The Speaker didn’t move. The boy watched him impassively. “You saved my life, stepping between me and that creature and daring to reason with the demon.” Soul hummed, more to himself than to the other boy. “She wasn’t…” The Speaker sighed. “She was simply hurting, Prince. She lost her baby.” “Yes, yes.” Soul waved him off. “The fact remains that you have done me a great service.” “It was my pleasure, Sire. Now, I should return home-.” “No. You must be rewarded.” Soul smiled. His father’s warnings rippled in his head, the residual swirls of stones long ago cast. For once, he ignored them. This heroic young man had saved his life! He risked his own wellbeing for Soul's sake; no one had ever come close to doing such a thing before. Not even the prince’s beloved father.

“Rewarded?” The Speaker’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Sire, you don’t have to-.” “You shall come and live in the castle as one of the royal household. I shall give you command of a battalion, and you will be my most trusted soldier. My confident. I shall give you what I have never given one before--as it is because of you that I stand here now--my trust.”

*** In the years that followed Soul’s eighteenth birthday, changes occurred in the kingdom of Wolffrin. His father passed away a week or so after his birthday, and Soul became king. Soul, true to his word, placed the Speaker, named Kinshawn, in charge of many armies. Kinshawn became his most trusted ally, the only one besides his father to whom he ever gave his utmost trust. He confided in Kinshawn about everything.

They became more than allies. They became true friends, who would do anything for one another. The only tension within their friendship was that Kinshawn knew of Soul’s paranoia, and it troubled him deeply. “You can’t ascribe to folks qualities of evil and malicious intent that aren’t there!” He’d protest. “You can’t punish people for crimes that you’ve made up in your own head... Sire .” “I simply prevent catastrophe.” Soul would brush him off. “I act on their sinful thoughts before they can.” “Oh, Soul-.” “Enough. I’ll hear no more about this.” After his father’s death, Soul grew more suspicious and distrustful than before. Again and again, he had innocent people killed and punished on the grounds of betrayal. It got to the point where his entire kingdom not only feared him but hated him for his cruel assumptions. Every day, someone was hung. The gallows remained set up in the city square.

The prisons overflowed with starving prisoners, most of whom had done nothing to deserve confinement. Over a thousand men and women had been banished under false accusations during Soul’s reign. The people were furious and desperate. They began to plot how to get rid of their horrible king.

*** “It’s betrayal, I tell you! An outright coup!” Soul was on edge, pacing back and forth like a caged animal in the expansive, eerily silent throne room. Kinshawn stood across from him, the only one besides himself in the room. “Sire, you don’t know that for certain.” “I do!” Soul shot back, his voice tinged with a mix of fury and desperation. “One of my knights told me himself! While mingling in the marketplace, he overheard a nefarious plot whispered among a shady gathering. They boasted about planting an assassin among us—someone aiming to cut my life short.” “Soul, perhaps he misheard.” “No, Kinshawn. I know. I know the people are out to get me. They’ve slipped a traitor into my home. We must find out who it is! Perhaps one of the knights…” “Sire, don’t .” “Or, or!” Soul snapped his fingers. “Perhaps the new kennel master! I swear to you, my brother, he looked at me strangely when I passed him on my way to the stables just the other day!” “Soul, please stop.” “Or perhaps,” Soul carried on. “It was the apothecary's boy-.” “He’s a little child!”

“He had a shifty way to him!” Soul grunted. “I say, wouldn’t that be an idea too? To have a child barely out of the womb bring about my end.” The king's laughter, laced with bitterness, filled the room, morphing into something dark and foreboding. “What a cunning way to strip me of power and smear my legacy with such a humiliating defeat. Oh! You can’t trust anyone, my friend. Only you-.” “STOP!” Soul felt a sharp sting at the nape of his neck, a sensation both startling and oddly warm. A trickle of something wet slid down his skin, sending a shiver straight down his spine. Instinctively, his hand flew to his neck, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth handle of a dagger protruding from it. “K-Kin… K-Kinshawn?” Soul whimpered, a mix of confusion and disbelief in his voice as he dropped to his knees. With effort, he turned himself around to face the direction the blow had come from. His friend was standing there, tears pouring down his face. Kinshawn stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees, and reached out, cradling Soul’s face in his hands tenderly. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, his lip trembling. “I’m so sorry. I had no other choice. You were destroying your own kingdom—the very kingdom I’ve come to love.”

Soul felt a lump in his throat, stifling his breath. Panic and disbelief gripped him. “Y- You?” He rasped. “You are the assassin the people spoke of? You betrayed… me?” Kinshawn gently wiped away a tear rolling down Soul’s cheek, a gesture filled with heartbreaking tenderness. “No, my brother.” He sniffed, shaking his head. “You betrayed yourself. By believing nothing but the worst of all those around you, you made them believe that’s all that they could be. You expected nothing but traitors and murders, so that’s what your people gave you.”

“B-B-But I l-loved… y- you… y-you were my b-brother.” Soul managed between sobs, the words barely escaping his lips. Kinshawn’s crying took on a new depth—a raw, soul-crushing sound that Soul had never heard from any man before. It was like something in him was dying with his king. “And you mine.” He murmured. “The day I saved you from the bear—though that day it was not you who I desired to save but the she-bear—you became my kin. Soul, I’m a Speaker. We’re raised to believe in the best of the world, not the worst. To show kindness and mercy to all. To give a man every chance you can before you condemn him. And don’t you see? I have given you every chance. I tried all that I knew, but something long ago hardened your heart, and I couldn’t change it.” “I-I h-hate y-you!” Soul managed to spit out, his vision going black. Kinshawn, unfazed, continued to stroke his face gently, just like he did with the bear on that fateful day years ago.

“I’m sorry you do. Because regardless of everything, I will always love you, my brother.” And with that, King Soul’s reign came to a heartbreaking close. The Kingdom of Wolffrin, which had once cowered under the shadow of a ruler consumed by paranoia, was now in the hands of a man whose heart was as vast as the kingdom he vowed to protect. A protector of man and beast alike. A man who valued trust and friendship, even when those fragile things could lead to betrayal. King Kinshawn, born a Speaker, proved a warrior through noble deeds, and crowned a king through a twist of fate and betrayal. The End


Francoch Ratta, a 27-year-old New Yorker of Irish-Italian descent, woke up one morning to find he had a peculiar sensation. It was as if someone, or something, was watching him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was a feeling that wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off. He went about his day as usual, working at the pub that served beer and pizza, exercising, drinking, and even dating girls. But the feeling persisted, and it was starting to affect his daily life. Especially his secret love of rodents. A.K.A. Mouses and rats. Francoch's love for rodents had always been a secret passion of his, something he indulged in during his lonely nights working at the pub. He would often sneak out back and leave scraps of pizza for the rats, enjoying the way they scurried up to him, their little noses twitching in excitement. But as his paranoia began to take hold, Francoch's love turned to fear. He couldn't shake the feeling that the rats were watching him, judging him. He started having nightmares about hordes of rats swarming over the city, devouring everything in their path. He began to see rats everywhere, lurking in the shadows and scurrying along the streets. Francoch's fear became so all-consuming that he couldn't even stand to be in the same room as a rodent. He stopped leaving scraps of pizza out for the rats, and instead started trapping them and releasing them far away from the city. He even went so far as to install a rat trap in his apartment, convinced that they were trying to invade his home. But despite all his efforts, Francoch couldn't shake the feeling that the rats were closing in, and he was the only one who could stop them. Francoch's paranoia began to manifest in some truly peculiar ways. For example, he started insisting that his coworkers wear mouse ears while they worked, claiming that it would throw off any potential rodent spies. He also began sneaking around the pub at night, armed with a broom and a can of Raid, convinced that the rats were plotting against him. But perhaps the strangest behavior of all was Francoch's sudden obsession with cheese. He would hoard chunks of cheddar and gouda in his locker, convinced that they were the key to winning over the rodent overlords. He even went so far as to start experimenting with different types of pizzas, convinced that he could create the perfect cheese-based offering to appease the rats. Of course, his coworkers and friends thought he had lost his mind, and they started to distance themselves from him. But Francoch was convinced that he was the only one who could save humanity from the rodent uprising. Little did he know, the true twist of his story was yet to come... As the days went by, Francoch's paranoia grew, and people started to avoid him. He didn't know what to do. Francoch never considered therapy as an option for his increasing paranoia and fear. For one, he didn't want to admit to anyone, not even a therapist, that he had a secret love for rodents. He was afraid of being judged or labeled as weird or crazy. He believed that he could handle his fear and paranoia on his own and didn't want to expose himself to strangers. Additionally, Francoch didn't believe that therapy would be effective for him. He thought that therapy was just for people with serious mental illnesses and that his fear of rodents was just a quirk that he could eventually overcome. He also believed that therapy would be a waste of time and money, and he didn't want to spend his hard-earned cash on something that he felt wouldn't help him. Francoch had just finished up his shift at the pub and was headed home, still feeling that eerie sense of being watched. As he walked down the dark alley behind the pub, he heard a scurrying sound and quickly turned around, only to be met with the cold, hard surface of an iron pan to the head. He blacked out, falling to the ground with a thud. As Francoch lay unconscious, he heard one of his assailants saying "Well, that's one way to make a pizza delivery". That night, before he could leave for the institution, Francoch was knocked unconscious. As Francoch slowly came, he found himself in a strange underground chamber, surrounded by glowing lights and strange machinery. His head was pounding and his vision was blurry, but he could make out the silhouette of a small mouse standing in front of him. "What the... where am I?" Francoch mumbled, trying to sit up. "You're in our underground laboratory, my friend," a mouse said in a surprisingly deep and serious voice. "We've been keeping an eye on you, and we knew that your increasing paranoia was putting you in danger. So, we decided to intervene." Francoch's eyes widened in shock. "What. The. Fu...?" "Calm down my boy. No need to go crazy for you are not crazy. Yes, what you are seeing before you is none other than a member of the Mus musculus species, a mouse. Yours truly, Dr. Mauso Mousinsky, at your service. My apologies for the rough treatment but we had to act fast. We couldn't let you continue down that dangerous path with your paranoia." The mouse said solemnly. When he woke up, he was greeted by a cute little mouse doctor and a big bodyguard rat at the side of the doctor. They were still the size of normal rodents. The reason for all this madness was something right out of an absurdist comedy. There was a colony of super-intelligent rats and mice living underground in New York, and they loved Francoch because he always gave them pizza. "What the...where am I?" "You're in our underground colony, Francoch. We've been keeping an eye on you and we're glad you're finally awake." "You mean...you're not just regular rats? You're... super-intelligent rats?" "Bingo. And let me tell you, you're one lucky human. We're the only reason you're alive right now." "What do you mean? Something happened?" "Well, let's just say things went a little...nuclear. But don't worry, we've got everything under control down here. You're safe with us." After he recovered and spoke with the rodents, something wonderful happened. Francoch paranoia disappeared for he was right about being watched. Francoch became friends with the rodents that he loved so much. After some time had passed underground, he asked if he could go back to the surface. The rats looked at each other as if they wanted to tell him something uncomfortable. Dr. Mauso Mousinsky, the mouse doctor, told him, "Uhm, Francoch, we're sorry to say this, but there's nothing up there anymore. Sorry for not telling you earlier." Francoch was shocked, "WHAT?! WHAT HAPPENED?!" Dr. Mauso Mousinsky continued, "Well, you see when we knocked you out and brought you here, we did it to save you... Humans have been going crazy with war lately. Specifically the USA and Russia. The president of the USA told in a public press conference that he banged the Russian leader's mom and that he enjoyed that ass. The Russian leader didn't take it well. Our last recording of the Russian leader heard him saying "Rush B Cyka Blyat" and a nuke was dropped on New York. The only reason that you are alive is because of our extremely advanced technology and security defense. Sorry dude." Francoch said, "Oh rats!" as he realized that the only friends he had left were the super-intelligent rats and mice living underground. He may have loved rodents, but this was not the kind of rat society he had in mind. In the end, Francoch said the following: "Well, at least I can make pizza."


Murdock decided today would be his last day on Earth. He would set out at dawn on foot and head west, away from the decomposing remains of the city on the coast, and by the time the sun sets he will end it all. He had grown tired of living. He had done several centuries of it. Some time ago, Murdock had set himself to becoming a god. Powerful beyond all measure. He had succeeded. He was immortal. He was Invincible. He had no need of food or drink beyond pleasure. Even breathing in the air was a force of habit. How he had accomplished it all was rather unimportant at the moment -- it was so long ago he barely remembered anyway -- what was important was the why. Had it all been worth it? As he pondered the events of his life, he climbed over the wreckage of downtown, over charred vehicles and collapsed buildings covered in the powder of skeletons that had turned to dust long ago. All because of him. He kept heading west. The suburbs were in even worse condition. It had been years since he had bothered to come out this far. Away from the steel and soot surrounding the fortress he had made for himself at the center of the city. He had expected to find the rows of destroyed houses covered in overgrowth of grass and bushes, but no. The devastation here was as complete as it had been in the city. In all the cities and towns and villages across the world. The extinction of the human race had started off quickly and in a white-hot fury. Several billion died in those first few days of Murdock’s personal war against the world. None could stop him. None of Earth’s mightiest heroes. None of the world’s biggest armies. Those who survived the initial chaos saw no choice but to serve Murdock without question or to hide. Those who hid he found quickly. Those who remained worshiped him. It had all been so satisfying. At first. Slowly, his reluctant followers began to die off. Disease, starvation, and infertility were soon common. Murdock had not been a benevolent or practical ruler, and the needs of a dying civilization came second to providing him with wealth and pleasure. After some time, he was all alone, and for a long time after he had convinced himself he was perfectly fine with it. Immortality and a whole planet to himself to do as he pleased. He had everything he needed. Now, as he pressed on, he was forced to remember how wrong he had been. He walked along the cracked and crumbling highway with memories flooding his tormented mind. Memories of the first few times he had roamed the planet, content to just marvel at the destruction he had caused. What a fool. He believed he could do this forever, but he had grown bored with it after only a few centuries. What an incredibly naïve and short-sighted god he had become. Now he still had billions upon billions of years to go. Until the death of the Sun, which he would presumably survive. Until the eventual heat death of the universe, which he might also survive. And then what? Floating in the endless void of a cold, dead universe with only his memories to keep him company? He could bear it no longer. No. He would end it. He would head west, slowly racing the sun. And when it dipped below the horizon in front of him, he would snap his own neck. When he reached the outskirts of the city, he began to use his power of flight. Taking a leisurely pace over the highway, Murdock still quickly found himself out above the expanse of greenery between cities. Not long ago he had begun to believe that, despite his regrets, maybe he had done the planet a favor by getting rid of the plague that was the human race. That maybe now at least the wildlife once so abundant on Earth could once again begin to flourish. But it was not meant to be. The planet was now riddled with radioactive fallout, both from the weapons humanity used against him and from the nuclear reactors that went critical in their absence. Now all that was left was vegetation and the few insects resilient enough to survive. It was one of the things about his existence that Murdock hated the most. The constant buzzing of insects now free to reproduce unchecked, with even Murdock powerless to kill them all. And so now Murdock, the self-made king of the planet of bugs and plants, found himself in a vast field in the middle of nowhere, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear over the horizon, and he was ready to do it. He was ready to end his life. His only solace was that if there was a Hell, at least it would be more stimulating than what he would have ahead of him if he stuck around. And if there was no afterlife at all, then all the better. He slowly placed one hand across his chin and the other behind his head. With a quick, sudden motion, he whipped his head to one side and snapped his own spine. The sound it made was louder than anything he had heard in decades other than his own frustrated screams of boredom into the sky. But something terrible happened. Murdock did not die. He simply slumped down, face up, and was paralyzed. He was catatonic with disappointment. Not only did breaking his own neck not work, he could not even move to try another method of self-execution. His worst fears will now play out slowly over eons. He will lay here, covered in bugs that will constantly try to eat him, but never succeed, looking up at the sky as the sun eventually turns red and engulfs the Earth.


"It’s rather a lonely feeling, you know?” “What is?” “Being alone.” “Well of course that’s lonely. That’s sort of the definition of alone.” “But why does it have to be?” “Are you being serious?” “Absolutely.” “That’s just the way it is. I don’t make the rules.” “What rules are you talking about?” “The rules of language.” “Wait? Why are we talking about rules? Who cares about those rules. I’m getting off track. I’m supposed to be writing something.” “We’re getting off track.” “You’re not even real. I am just lonely and board and talking to myself.” “You’re not talking to yourself. You’re talking to me who is you. There’s a difference. And before you ask, the difference is that I’m a different you from an alternate dimension. Because we’re the same person, we can communicate telepathically. It just seems like you’re talking to yourself.” “If that’s the case, then we must both be doing the same thing. I’m writing everything we’re saying down. What are you doing?” “Shooting aliens with a blaster, hiding behind cover, and talking to you.” “Sounds like you have a far more exciting life then me.” “That’s debatable. Between the two of us, I’d rather be writing everything we’re saying down instead of maybe dying to day.” “Do you think our lives are connected?” “What?” Like, when you die, I die, every one of us in every dimension dies at the same time.” “Why would it be like that?” “Because we are one in the same. If what I’m talking to is not a voice in my head, but actually another me, then that would mean every voice my head is just a different me from a different dimension communicating with me. Actually, now that I say it that way, we probably have different lives. Sometimes, certain voices do just vanish.” “Why did you even bother think about that?” “Well, I was hoping to help you in your situation. If we are all connected, none of us can die until all of us will die, then you had nothing to fear today. You weren’t going to die because I’m certainly not dying today.” “That’s a nice thought but we keep getting off from the point.” “Right? What is the point?” “I don’t know! You’re the one that started talking to me. I’m assuming you had something to help me out of this situation.” “All I said was that I felt alone, I needed to write, and I started talking to the voice inside my head which turned out to be another me from a different dimension. Which, I’m still certain that is what this. I’m just really board and alone and trying to feel less lonely by talking to myself.” “God, I wish I was you right now.” “Why?” “Because you have the time to waste doing nothing. I just killed about a dozen insectoid cyborg zombie demons, lost my best friend, and I’m certain I’m going to die.” “See, right there, that sounds more like a figment of my imagination then an alternate version of myself. ‘Insectoid cyborg zombie demons’ is me just trying to make the most absurd sounding enemies to kill. Plus, shouldn’t you be more sad that your best friend died?” “You haven’t lived in this chaos filled dimension. Best friends die every day. If I was sad for everyone of them then I would never stop crying. But I don’t have to cry. I have to survive.” “I don’t want to have your life –” “Nor should you.” “– but I’m still jealous of you.” “The feeling’s mutual. Go on.” “I feel like I have no purpose. You, at the very least, need to survive. Surviving isn’t an issue for me. Which, sorry for rubbing that in your face. But without the same challenge as you, I don’t know what to do.” “DO something.” “Damn it! I knew you were going to say that before I finished writing down what I said. That’s something I say to people that are acting just like I’m acting now. I can’t believe a me, that might be just me, but possible is another me from another dimension, told me to do the thing that I get mad at others for not doing.” “So, what is it you aren’t doing?” “Signing up for some dating apps.” “Seriously? That’s your big struggle?” “Hey, the apps looked like crap. Plus, I’m wearing my pajamas and I’m certain that the app is going to require taking a picture of myself.” “Then change.” “I have another excuse. The big one. I’m still friends with my ex and I’m moving in less than two months. So, out of respect for him, I’m waiting until I move to sign-up for any apps.” “That’s more reasonable. But, he’s your ex. Your life shouldn’t be dictated by him anymore. Why not go on dates?” “I’d rather not poke the beehive. But also, because of the fact that I’m moving, whoever I meet here couldn’t become anything more than a fling. I don’t want that, nor do I want to do that to somebody. Once I move, I can meet plenty of people. I can try for a serious relationship then.” “That’s another reasonable answer. I wouldn’t expect less from a different version of myself. So, what about poking the beehive?” “Not getting into that with you. I’m still certain that you’re a figment I made up.” “Sorry, wasn’t listening.” “Sorry, I wasn’t listening either. I found a post on reddit that I related a lot to. I had to respond. Responded three times in fact. Not sure if I should have done that but I needed to. What have you been up to while I was doing that." “. . .” “Sorry again. Went back to the post. I started exchanging messages. This is far more important that whatever’s going on with you. So, what’s been going on with you?” “You missed the entire ambush. I was freaking out, screaming, ‘Die you bug basters!’ And trying to get your attention. You asshole, you really rather be on a post than here in your head? You missed the epic one liner, which I refuse to say again, and I killed the alien queen. Also, what’s reddit?” “A place where people talk about things.” “You’re complaining about being alone when you have a place to talk to people? What a little bitch.” “One second. A new comment came up. I have to check it.” “Asshole.” “Back again. Where did we leave off?” “I blew up the planet. Now I’m back at space station Vex. You real missed all the amazing things.” “No, I didn’t. Your world might be full of action, but my world is full of emotion. I’m talking to this guy and we’re having the most . . . well . . . I wouldn’t say amazing conversation seeing as we're both feeling lonely. But we’re having a good conversation. Something meaningful. You’re right. I have it better off. I like talking to people. Better than almost dying every day. We’ll talk again sometime. I’ve got to post this story. How Meta.


The man straightened his collar as he looked into the mirror, dreading having the "talk" with his son, Simon. No not that talk, a different talk. Simon got into a fight at school today. The principal said Simon didn't start it. That wasn't what concerned him, what did was the condition of the young man his son beat. He closed his eyes and tried to come up with the right words. His thoughts quickly turned to prayers, because he had no idea what to say. After awhile he opened his eyes, he need not make his son wait any longer. He had sent Simon up to his room right after they got home from the meeting with the principal. "It's time to bite the bullet." He encouraged himself as he left the bathroom. He walked to Simon's room where he found the door open, waiting for him. His son was sitting at his computer desk, he let out a sigh to let him know he was there then walked over and sat on the bed. His son tuned to face him. "Dad, I swear I didn't mean to hurt him that bad. He just kept on and on. He slapped me and I know you always say turn the other cheek, but I couldn't. I had no choice something inside of me just took over. I FELT LIKE A MONSTER! I promise all I wanted was for him to leave me alone." As his son spoke tears filled his eyes, he could tell he thought he had hurt his father. Simon's shirt was ripped and his knuckles was bloody. "I understand more then you know." He said with a smile. "You do?" Simon said shocked. "Yes, I guess you could say temper runs in the family." "I have never seen you even get cranky before." Simon protested. "Ah, but I am old. I have had many more years then you have to learn to control it." "How can I be sure it won't happen again?" Simon asked as tears ran down his face. "You should be kind to everyone, even the undeserving. It is not our place to judge. Turn the other cheek, know that if you don't bad things are to come, just like today. As you get older, the bad things worsen. There are even things you can watch for and avoid like I do." "Like what daddy?" "Confrontation, arguments or anything that may make you angry. If you have a thought or have a hard time calming down, go to somewhere you can be alone. Then yell and do whatever you need to get it out. I like a dark place personally." "Like your study, is that why you had it sound proofed?" Simon asked. His father not answering rose to his feet. Simon stood up and hugged his father. "So I'm not in trouble?" "Of course not. How bad did he hurt you?" He asked. "My lip was bleeding, I think it stopped though. I'm okay." Simon answered. "Go change your shirt and wash your hands, we are going for ice cream. That feels good on a busted lip." His father said with a smile leaving the room. He could see Simon was happy, but he was not. He closed the door to his study and walked into the bathroom. "Pick on my son." He said as he began to lose his temper. "Slap my son." His heart raced and his hands stiffened and snapped. "Bust his lip." His face tightened. "Made him feel like a monster?" He asked himself. He slammed his once human hands into the wall, he slammed his foot into the toilet. Water ran all over his feet as though a fresh cooling effect. He rested his clawed hands on the sink and in snapped and cracked under the pressure. His gaze turned to the mirror. Fangs, slit eyes that even to this day remind him of a cat and bone piercing his skin making horns. "A monster." He whispers to himself. A voice from deep within him speaks, "one day, you will have to tell him. He is my son too." "Dad? Are you ready?" Simon's voice called out from the study. "Oh yeah, just gotta change my shoes, I'll meet you in the car." He listened until he heard the door close to his study. His gaze returned to the mirror now a man who is growing old looks at him instead of the beast that lives inside. "I know that." He tells it, he knows it can hear him. It's always listening. "Today isn't that day." He combed down his whitening hair and changed into dry shoes and met Simon outside. "Dang dad, what took so long?" "We have to stop by Lowe's, I need to place an order." He answered. "Toilet in your study is messing up again?!" Simon asked. "I guess I'm not the plumber I thought I was." He answered with a smile. "Geez dad, I would have gave up by now. You have the patience of a saint.


Her soft brown eyes searched mine as I looked down and saw the newborn writhing in her cot. She wasn’t kept with the other babies, she was isolated. Hidden away from prying eyes and wandering hands. Nothing but the rhythmic beeping of the hospital monitors to lull her to sleep. She didn’t cry when she saw me, she remembered me. Though I knew who she was I couldn’t place her sweet innocence. As if I was staring into a mirror, not recognising the reflection. Nothing can be compared to the softness of a baby’s skin, yet there was no comfort in the poison of hers. I was born a murderer. My mother died during my delivery along with my father and every doctor who held me in that theatre. When I was older, I was told my mother had a rare disease. They thought that I was leeching her blood in the womb, a severe foetal anaemia of some sort. She necrosed slowly from the inside out as I grew inside her, a bad seed. The condition was diagnosed well before my birth, so they never expected her to survive the delivery. It was the doctors and my father dying, that confused them. They concluded that this new rare sickness did not solely affect expectant mothers but was rather a contagious one spread by direct contact with one of the infected. No further research was conducted as this would have involved analysing me, an exposure no one was willing to take, too high of a risk. I was, for all intents and purposes, the only known survivor of this disease; supposedly due to my youth and adaptable immune system. In their defence, they were along the right tracks, it was the skin to skin contact that nailed those coffins. What they didn’t realise was the sickness was me. I was sent to isolation. No one thought to name me. I was just a hospital number until a nurse began referring to me as Ceadis. Murder in Latin. They should have killed me right there, for the greater good. Sacrifice one life to save the many. But killing a newborn, no one would have deemed that ethical. Powers are thought to be a gift for chosen ones. To better their lives and those around them. But when I was younger it didn’t seem to be a blessing. In all honesty, it didn’t seem like a curse either. All I knew about life was death and I hadn’t learnt to associate it with sadness. That was the beauty of isolation. From the outside it may have seemed heartless and cruel, keeping a child locked away, no contact, but it was quite the opposite. It kept the tragedy of my birth unbeknown to me alongside the societal connections of death being bad. Being kept from the world meant I didn’t make associations between my actions and emotions like happiness and sadness. I just existed and hence surprisingly had a happy childhood; ignorance is bliss after all. I had assumed all children lived this way, to be frank, I didn’t even know of other children’s existence. When I was 16, no longer legally a child, I was freed from my isolation. It was then I understood what happened in that operating theatre many moons ago. I said goodbye to the nurse who mothered me, the lady who never let me experience loneliness. As I did, I felt sadness for the first time. Not from being torn apart, but instead from seeing her eyes dull and limbs limp from an innate hug. The only mother I’d ever known dying from an act of love. I felt afraid, fearful of who I was and what I could do. If this was the price I would have to pay for my freedom, then I wanted to be sent back to the chains of imprisonment. But that was no longer possible. So, I ran. Ran from the hospital I once called home, ran from the scene of my crimes, ran from the only thing I knew. No one stopped me. No one wanted to touch death. After my first memorable murder, the grief led me to research more about powers. Literature said there was no known cause of powers, but affirmed they were overwhelmingly good. Experimental studies into the origin of power showed they came to people in times of need or to people in positions to help others, like a doctor given powers of healing. In hindsight, I guess I was what you’d call an anomaly. My research pushed me to considering using my lethal skin for good, but I struggled to understand where death fell in the balance of good and evil. Lacking certainty as to when the use of my power was justified meant many deceased in collateral damage throughout my years as a vigilante. I was foolish to think a teenage girl could hold the scales of justice steady, and soon grasped that I was a danger to society rather than an asset. I took to wandering the earth alone, taking precautions. If I couldn’t be a part of society, I instead would be an observer. A passenger on a train looking through the glass at the world around me. Watching but never touching. I tried to live an ordinary life, one where my power didn’t control me, but I learnt that I would never have complete control of it. Even on the side lines, a hand accidentally grazing mine soon went stiff and child running into the road would still lie cold if I tried to save them. Everything was black and white in this new world outside the hospital, if I wasn’t good, I was evil. It wasn’t long before I learnt my final lesson in the new world. I could never truly exist as an outsider until I was on the other side of the glass looking in. Once I learnt that, everything became clear. My only redemption was ironically, my greatest flaw.

So now I stand here watching the baby girl with no name sleep peacefully in her cot. Unknowing of the damage she’d done and the lives she took. You must be wondering how I got here, well, I had help from a friend. Now you must be wondering where along my journey I made friends, truth be told, I didn’t have many. I’d met her whilst researching powers, she was unique. A girl gifted with the power of time travel. She embodied the true reason behind powers, her powers helped her to stop atrocities and help the world learn from its mistakes. I approached her once I made my plan, and she agreed to help me right the wrong I brought into this world. So here I stand. Focusing my attention back to the child, I watched her as I slowly I slipped my fingers out of the gloves that had become my second skin. She opened her eyes and smiled. She remembered me. Young Ceadis with an old soul, knowing that this was how it should end, this was her escaped fate from many suns over. The greater good. In knowing this, with my bare hands I picked her up, my power finally tipping the scales to good.


“Are those their fighters?” A young ensign questioned as he pointed to a hazy blob on the holo console. “Drones,” a Lieutenant Commander barked while brushing him aside, ignoring his ill-timed curiosity. “Battlestations!” He yelled into his collar. His voice mixed with a whaling siren as they both resonated down the steel halls. The Cordiovasquez was a prestigious ship; however, she was well past her days of making history. She was now a museum piece floating in orbit, focussing her resources on life support. Conquest was for the young, and she had slain many only to stave off decommissioning. Her sister ships were all mothballed, and she had the backwater duty of protecting the spaceport housing her antiquated comrades. It was a slap in the face for the captain and his uncharacteristically loyal crew. “How much Gauss?” Captain Faraday asked “Eleven, 14 without detonators.” A weapons officer answered “So eleven Igor, we have eleven Gauss.” Capt. Faraday “Yes sir.” the officer conceited. “Low-Velocity charges?” Capt. Faraday asked as he turned an old-world wheel given to him as a ceremonious antique, never intended for use on an Orbital Gallion. The giant sperm whale of a vessel lumbered to the left of a moon and the right of a twirling sphere devoid of activity but clearly, manufactured. “How many marines are on ARG-12?” “We have 467 LVC’s, and we can convert another 42 in an hour.” A charged officer responded “There are 14 Marines, sir, none of which are responding.” A senior officer responded in defeated intonation “So we have 467 LVC’s and Zero Marines!” The commander threw at his tired crew while tossing the wheel to the right again, corralling his lumbering space tube into the wake of their moon’s orbit. “Tell Cortez I want 3 LVCs cut in half and loaded with firing solutions on their Cruiser.” “Ummm, yes, sir.” The lieutenant verified her auto scripter and sent the copy, knowing full well Cortez could hear a recording of Faraday in engineering. At that moment, Cortez quickly grabbed a drawing pad and rep box and ran down the main batteries bay, yelling for help. “I know I heard!” A man in an Exo Suit hailed while waving as Cortez rounded a corner opening up to a massive bay full of reinforced bulkheads. “I’ll admit we have a lot of these, but unless he wants us to blow ourselves up with them, I have no idea what he is thinking this time.” The man had a giant steel wedge in his hand with the markings EGR-6(Egress Ramp 6) sloppily painted and worn by mass use. “What the fuck are you doing with that!!!” Cortez screamed. “How much do you like old-world history, say... revolution of the Francs?” The Exo pilot proudly proclaimed like he’d been waiting his whole life to flex his obtuse knowledge. “By then, they were French, the French revolution!” Cortez rebutted in a panic “Awww, so you get my point. We sure as hell can’t torch it.” Exo pilot “No…” Cortez At this point, the bridge was invigorated by numerous sirens. “Shut that shit off!” Farraday yelled as he wiped dribbled beer foam off his pant leg. “That’s another group of sleuths, four squadrons, bearing….” An officer said while observing his iridescent monitors “Dammit, two of those could wipe the lot of us. BEARING?!?” Captain Farraday demanded “Sorry sir, my monitors are only on 13% since we re-routed to life-support.” Officer “Reroute everything to targeting, I want those solutions, and I want them NOW!” Farraday yelled as an officer hit four keys on a screen and slid into a seat beside a console erupting with life. “Sir, we’re in Chester’s gravity! With our current fuel levels, I don’t….” The pilot officer divulged while poorly hiding his concern “Never mind that, reroute all that to targeting,” the Captain ordered while thinking: *Come on, Chester, don’t swallow us yet.* The ship groaned as the large geologically active moon Chester bent and pulled the craft around it like a tiny belt bucket. “Give me more shields!” “At the expense of???” A Officers questioned “Do we have the Cephalopod sighted?” The captain asked as the weapons officer cut him off. “Yes! I was able to find the bastard back-tracing his fourth squadron! Targeting verified….. Now!” Weapons officer “Cortez!” Faraday yelled into his collar. “One more sir,” Cortez said while watching his colleague bash the back of a giant ramp with more mechanical energy than he’d ever seen. The exo-suits servos whined and screeched as the pilot swung with all his mech-assisted might, cleaving the charge in two. The exo-pilot grabbed the piece dripping with anti combustible gel and waddled it over to the breach. Cortex watched and sprayed the remaining charges with the gel. As the exo-pilot egressed the breach area, Cortez radioed the bridge, “Ready sir!” “FIIIIORE!!!!!” Faraday yelled. The crew, utterly perplexed as to why cleaving a charge would ever be advantageous, remained hopeless but driven. “Load every gauss that won’t burst!” The captain said in a desperate but commanding tone “Sir, the fighters are about to intercept the hospital ship!” Radar officer “Cowards!” Faraday barked. The crew watched without directing their eyes away from their duties. They all had a peripheral blur of the slaughter. Large columns of orange flicked on every reflective surface in the bridge. They watched, certain their ship would share a similar fate. “Sir!” An officer yelled! “The Cephalopod is moving; it’s heading toward ARG and turning broadside to us!” The Cephalopod was a *Drone Carrier* capable of delivering payloads from safe distances. It sat eerily still on the dark side of Chester: the lava-spewing sphere of chaos, chock-full of rare earth materials. This whole microcosm of violence was hosted by Ethos, the hydrogen rich planet Chester orbited. Ethos was why Chester had such growing pains; its massive gravity squeezed the satellite in constant flux. Thus, Cephalopod and Cordiovasquez had giant columns of magma to avoid along with each other’s monstrous weaponry. Farraday looks at his monitor and yells, “give me a solution across the bastard’s nose!” “Done,” Officer. “Fire all gauss!” The captain yelled triumphantly as the massive maternal vessel belched energy and bulk out of its broadside batteries. The Cordiovasquez looked like a freshly tossed oil pipe angulating through space with a fiery gash erupting from its side. The weapons forced the vessel into a clumsy spin. The crew, now whirling, grabbed hold of whatever they could as the gravity computers stressed to compensate. “Power down!” the captain said as officers quickly shut down everything but life support. They now all sat tranquil in their seats, helplessly watching stars streak across the bridge windows as they twirled in their orbit. Meanwhile, on the Cephalopod, things were starkly different. A calm admiral watched as drone fighters encircled his easy prey. “The Enemy vessel fired one salvo, but they’ll miss, sir.” A lieutenant said with confidence. “We detected small explosions in their hull earlier but too small for gauss cannons.” “Their ships falling apart before we’ve fired a shot.” The Enemy admiral admired. He then looked at the defense matrix and traced the main salvo. “They’ll bounce off our bow deflectors. A good admiral conserves everything he can, bring her back to the initial launch point, our drones will perforate their hulk of a ship.” “Yes sir!” A lieutenant said while punching a solution into his holoscreen. Back at Faraday’s ship, the captain unbuckled himself and conveniently waited for the ship to twist via gravity, allowing the radar console to slowly link up with his hands in an elegant display of competence. He peered at the screen with a smirk on his face. “There,” he said as his worried crew’s faces transformed to glee. Just then, three large lumbering objects carried by the moon’s stubborn weight streaked toward the enemy blip. Onboard the Cephalopod, everything short of champagne was ready for victory when a strange shadow quickly blotted out the stars and was gone. Silence ensued as perplexed crew members looked at each other first, then the admiral. As the admiral stepped toward his radar screen he was thrown to the wall as an explosion of glass and sparks spared from all around him. The ship took one gauss round near the bow and another, seconds after—dead center. It looked like a stressed girder as it first buckled inward, then detonated and was enveloped in its fiery outcry. Its mindless fighter drones carried on their stubborn trajectories, unable to receive any new commands, destined to travel the cold space forever. “Call the marines, tell them to bring me some beer and all the engineers they got.” Captain Faraday said proudly in his comlink from the spinning dark bridge of his tired vessel.


We’ll be in the car for a good while, love, so say now if you need the dunny. It’s a lovely spot, Warning Point. Pretty views out over the ocean, but quite a drive along the coast road to get there. If we’re lucky we’ll see the whales migrating past, just like your travel book says. I reckon what they charged you for that book is daylight robbery, but people do like their little souvenirs. You won’t see the whales up close like in those pictures though. Those have been taken from a boat, but they don’t tell you that, do they? I guess tourists are gullible the world over. I usually avoid anywhere the tourists go because they’re a bloody nuisance with their great big backpacks and all their posing for photos. And to see how they go soft in the head for a cuddly toy koala- they have no idea how vicious the little buggers really are. It was nice of you to look us up, love. I suppose as your dad and I are only second cousins it’s not like we’re particularly close relatives, but the thought behind it was well meant. I see you’ve inherited the famous family nose. I bet they called you Beaky at school, did they? Oh, I can see by your expression they did too. I knew it! Children can be so cruel. That nose skipped me by, thank goodness. Don’t mind me though. You should know that I’m the kind of person who says what they think. What you see is what you get. No frills. I hope you’re not the easily offended type, are you? Never mind. Look over there at that wattle growing up on the ridge. If you see anything bright yellow at this time of year that’s what it’ll be. About as bright as that top your wearing- you certainly won’t get missed on a dull day, will you? I suppose you young folk like to stand out a bit. But it’s a nice enough top if you like that kind of thing. The whales move up north around the time the wattle’s out, so you rocked up on our doorstep at just the right time of year. Although honestly, didn’t you fancy a proper organised tour? I really have no idea why you’d want to be reliant on an old girl like me to show you around. There’s a bush walk tour from town you could try. Always best to go into the bush in a group and walk at the back, that way you avoid being the one to stumble over the brown snakes. They do love to sunbathe on the path. I’ve even had them come into the backyard before. Deadly bite- you’d probably not make it to hospital even if you were lucky enough for the air ambulance to reach you in time. That reminds me, I should probably have mentioned to you this morning not to wander about barefoot outside. If it’s not the snakes the spiders will give you a nasty bite. You wouldn’t be the first or last visitor to these parts to go home with an amputation after a bit of blood poisoning. But I suppose no one would be talking about your nose then, would they love? See that building on the hill? That was a restaurant owned by a French family, but it’s empty now. When the French started all that nuclear testing out at sea folks around here weren’t best pleased, I can tell you. People all over were boycotting cheese and all sorts, and some of the local hippies took a disliking to the restaurant. So the owners kept finding broken windows and punctures in their tyres, and they just moved on in the end. Of course I don’t mind anyone making an honest living, and I don’t give two hoots where you come from, but French food is very fancy, isn’t it? All those herbs. I tried French food once, years back it was, and it kept repeating on me terribly. I’d say you like your food though, love, am I right? You’re a bit too old for it to be puppy fat. Big boned, maybe. That’s very kind of you, love, but we like plain food. We just eat normal tucker. If you really insist, you could shout us a meal at Chuck’s Diner. They do a smashing steak and chips on Thursdays. The food there is just beautiful. I’ve lived here all my life, love. When I was a girl we used to go mushroom picking over there. You had to be careful though- I knew a boy who accidentally poisoned his whole family by picking the wrong ones. A terrible tragedy. All over the papers. He wasn’t the sharpest tackle in the box and I do recall him standing in cowpats to warm his feet up. But he came from a poor family and didn’t always have shoes, so can you really blame him? He never deserved to die in agony like he did. The father though, he was into the grog and a nasty piece of work he was too- very heavy handed with the wife, you know? He got his comeuppance alright. Back then this route was nothing more than a dirt track. It’s a shame they had to put all those houses in over there. A few years back the bush fires swept right through, and it was all so sudden. The authorities never even advised anyone to evacuate, and if you ask me someone should have gone to prison for that. A woman and her daughters tried to save themselves by jumping in their pool, but she died from the smoke. The daughters survived but their lives were ruined really. Some owners moved back with the money from the insurance, so all of these houses are new builds, although if it was me I don’t think I could- I’d always be a bit worried. But then, folk are pretty tough out here. Not like your kind of people, you know, from the city. I daresay you’re a bit soft from creature comforts, are you? Anyway. In the floods the river rises right up to those boulders over there. It doesn’t look like much now, does it? But it can change in a moment. A few years ago a foreign family came canoeing down this river, and they all drowned when the water rose. They couldn’t swim, of course. Not one of them! I don’t suppose you’re a strong swimmer are you, growing up where you did? It’s not your fault really, probably a Pommie thing. I guess you don’t know any better when you’ve been raised a certain way. Are those fellas down there fishing? So many people have drowned doing that. You stand there on the rocks and it just takes one freak wave and your gone. Although we do have a spare rod, love. So if you fancy your luck you’re welcome to take it out for the day, you know, to do your own thing for a bit. Take a look up there, will you- it looks like there’s been a rockfall. There are often landslides falling onto this road. The whole hillside is slipping into the sea, you see. A motorist was killed here once after heavy rains. Speaking of which, it looks like the clouds are rolling in now. They did mention we’d get the arse-end of the hurricane from the Solomon Islands, but I was thinking it would blow in tomorrow. Don’t you worry, I’ve driven in conditions you wouldn’t believe. Been driving since I was 12, and I know these roads like the back of my hand. So here we are, Warning Point. I see the parking lot is completely chocka, so I’ll pull up back here. They’ll all be here to see the whales, but you’ll be lucky to see a thing with this rain starting. Honestly, I’ve never seen so many folks up here. It never used to be like this. Look at that, a whole coach load of them over there! What people don’t realise is that this whole section of coast is completely unstable. The authorities should really cordon off the edge as that crowd is actually standing on an overhang. All it takes is a bit of erosion and down it will go. We’ve had some terrible storms this year and who knows what damage has been done underneath. But it’s definitely the best place to see the whales from, so you’ll want to get over there right away if you’re up for seeing them. Especially after we’ve driven all this way. No love, I’m going to wait here in the dry and catch a little shut eye. You take all the time you need, and don’t rush back.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m back again to celebrate another writer completing their ! Let’s take a moment to give a big to u/stickfist! A lovely member of the WP and ShortStories community, both on the sub and on discord, Stick is an absolute delight to have around. And he recently earned his mod hat over on r/WritingPrompts! He has his own subreddit, r/StickFistWrites, where you can check out all his work. He has participated in Serial Sunday since it began. His serial, *By Any Other Name*, has 26 parts! And it’s a truly excellent read. Great job, Stick! I hope you’ve treated yourself to something wonderful.   ***   #By Any Other Name - Written by u/stickfist **A brief synopsis from Stick:** A forgotten space colony gains the attention of the Galactic Council when it’s discovered that the inhabitants haven’t aged in two hundred years. When a delegation lands to restore communications, they find that not all colonists want to be reintegrated. Some are willing to die for their ends. Others are willing to kill. If you haven’t had the chance to read this yet, sink in with some snacks and a yummy beverage! | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/stickfist about Serial Writing The writing journey can be challenging, but full of wonderful and unique experiences. No two writers’ journeys are the same. So let’s take a moment to talk with Stick about his experiences with serial writing. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Early on, I would write long installments with multiple scenes, forgoing things like character development or pacing. Over time and with feedback from the readers, I learned how to slow down a scene, how one good scene is better than two or three rough ones. Pacing is not about pushing words in front of the reader’s eyes, but about giving them a reason to keep reading. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** The campfires! It was gratifying to hear my words and how people responded to them. The feedback I received was priceless. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** I didn’t initially think I’d have so many threads to tie up by the end of the story. One of the ways I kept things organized was to use software. I wrote this in bibisco, which allowed me to write narrative strands, character bios, and location notes, all of which could be explored while I wrote my chapters. Endings are still hard and I know there were places to expand or improve to make it more satisfactory and who knows? Maybe I’ll revisit this world again. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Don’t worry if the project deviates from your original vision. When you sit (or stand) to write an installment, think about where you want the characters and the readers to be by the end of the chapter. It’s okay if every installment doesn’t advance the plot, if instead you give a reader a reason to be invested in the characters. Don’t rush. But do start.   *** ##**Thank you, Stick!** Stick, thank you so much for taking the time to talk and share with us. You’ve given us some great advice. Congrats again on finishing your 26 part serial! That’s such a huge accomplishment and you should be very proud. I’m so glad I’ve had the opportunity to have a front row seat to your writing and growth over the last several months. I wish you the best of luck on your future projects. And I do hope to see your writing around Serial Sunday again. Fellow writers and readers, please take a moment to leave u/stickfist some love in the comments below! You can even ask him questions!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


A festering wound and a lingering thought are equally dangerous if not tended to. A small spore that spreads; thrives. Gently germinating before it takes a vicious hold and ravages everything it touches. Adeline immersed herself in her canvas. The gravitational pull it had on her and losing her sense of self with bold brushstrokes was why she loved it so. Her palette was full of rich colours and happy hues. But it was the black and white that blended to make a coal gray that would be the foundation of her night time painting. The only student to use this technique in the art class under the shade of a large oak. Adeline gradually covered the blank cotton canvas. The less the white became visible the more it filled her with something. She could not quite put her finger on it. She stared at a small speck of untouched canvas still visible in the center. A darkness swallowed the light whole, an immense void where nothing escapes. “Is this class a joke to you madam?” asked her teacher, Rapheal Vale, walking up beside where she was sitting. Even though his hair seemed to also have been mixed to have reached a similar gray, he clearly did not appreciate her attempt at using the colour. Or the absence of it. Adeline tried to keep a straight face as best she could, hiding the impact of the insulting question. “No sir it is not. This is simply…” “This is simply you wasting your, and my time. And more importantly, the money of the benefactor who put you here specifically to become better at portraits. That is why you are here is it not? And don’t you think they would be disappointed to see this?” Adeline turned to see all her peers staring at her and her work and even every portrait on every canvas gazed upon her. She became self-aware. In the distance she noticed one more observer. A young woman sitting on what was once a lush green grass-covered mound. Now, it was long, dead grass blowing in the cold breeze in harmony with her yellow locks. Only the crinoline hoops of her bright blue dress seemed to be impervious to the elements and didn’t move at all. “I…I suppose they would be.” she said. “These students have worked hard to be here. They all have made sacrifices to be here. And that is your problem Adeline. To you, it is a trivial pursuit that someone else is paying your services for. You want everything to be perfectly your way and that is why you cannot relinquish control.” he said and walked back to the front of the class and spoke to them as a collective. “Art is meant to uplift. It should capture the world around us faithfully and also uphold the moral values we hold dear. It should capture the essence of a personality with poise. And dignity, so remember: No smiles.” She sat stone-faced staring at her canvas as the class drew to a close. For the weeks that followed, Adeline would obsess over every single stroke and line as she painted faces without smiles but their eyes laughed at her. She didn’t want to make any mistakes. Everything she painted seemed to take twice as long as anything her classmates manufactured and felt half as good. Throughout all this, the young onlooker was there for almost all the classes and from time to time Adeline and her would lock eyes. Neither would make a gesture or anything to suggest awkwardness. On the contrary, Adeline felt a strange comfort with her being there, overlooking everyone. One late afternoon after class, Adeline packed up all her instruments and headed home. A group of her fellow students snickered and sneered as she walked by, mumbling something between them but she couldn’t quite make out what was being said and just gave a polite, but insincere smile and kept walking. Over the long grass and through the pathways, into the market where people were buying they’re daily goods. She stood in front of a bag of coffee beans and grabbed a handful to feel the texture, letting it fall through her fingers. The aroma was blissful. “I prefer your earlier work.” a voice spoke from behind her. She turned around and saw the young woman standing there with a wry smile. Her hair tucked behind her ear on the one side, and draped over her shoulder on the other side. “I’m sorry?” Adeline asked. “Your earlier work. It was more vulnerable. More ‘you’.” Adeline’s expression went from confusion to indignation. “You…you don’t even know me.” “I’m Aster.” she extended her hand. “Adeline.” Adeline reached out and put her hand inside of hers. It sent a jolt through her. “It feels good doesn’t it, Adeline?” she said, looking straight into her eyes. She pulled her hand away quickly like she was caught doing something wrong. Her eyes shifted away. “What…what do you mean?” Aster gave a little chuckle. “The coffee beans.” Adeline’s face became as red as the rarely used pigment on her palette. “Oh. Right. Yes, I love coffee.” she said. “Are you on your way home?” Adeline nodded. “Do you mind if I walk with you?” Her brows and eyes narrowed and shifted but the corner of her mouth curved ever so slightly upward. She nodded again. The two women promenaded through fields and along the lakes in the golden twilight. The ground was muddy and the grass wet due to the recent rains. Adeline used the one hand to keep her frayed skirt from touching the ground but Aster seemed unfazed by it even though the clothes she wore were much nicer. “Listen, there is this music hall soirée happening tomorrow evening. Would you join me as my companion? It will be so much fun. All your art friends will be there.” Aster said. Adeline looked down at the ground. “They are not my friends.” “Oh, well there will be many others as well. It will be an exquisite event. Music. Dancing. Lot’s of festivities. You will be smiling ear to ear.” she said as they reached Adeline’s house. “I don’t feel like smiling.” Aster studied her for a moment. “You don’t have to. Just stand next to me and I will smile for the both of us.” A content feeling washed over her. They stood there for a beat looking at each other before turning to the quaint little home. Its slightly weathered exterior bore the marks of age. Her grandfather built it with his own hands which was now hers. The front porch, an inviting threshold, beckons with its graceful spindle railings. Worn but resilient. The wooden planks of the exterior had an umber, earthy tone. “You have a beautiful home. Now this is more you.” Aster said. “Please join me tomorrow.” Adeline met her pleading gaze and could not resist. “Fine. But not too late. And don’t leave me alone with those people.” Aster backed away with a satisfied grin. As she moved the setting sun seemed to perfectly frame the glowing essence of her, and Adeline was suddenly struck with awe. After she watched her disappear into the distance she turned back to her house and noticed something strange on the corner of the foundation. A small puddle had formed next to the porch and on the trim and siding of the house on the wooden panels were tiny little spots. Mold. Black mold. The following evening Adeline toiled to find the perfect outfit. She tried on many different dresses until she found the one she was the least unhappy with. She brushed her hair and tightened it making sure there was not a strand out of place. She gazed upon herself in the mirror and felt like a subject sitting for a portrait. It reminded her of one of her earlier self-portraits. When she noticed the time she got up and paced down the hall. There was a dark room with the door slightly ajar. She stopped near it for a moment and closed the door as if to forget the room even existed. Right before she exited the front door she bent down to secure the laces on her boots and spotted the tiny specks now inside her home. Near the floorboards, on the white skirting were the stubborn dots once more. It was small and spread out but still enough to cause her concern. She pulled the laces tight, almost breaking it off and headed out the door. Distant murmurs grew louder into raucous laughter as Adeline approached the music hall. She peeked through the window. A crowd of people were laughing hysterically at a man on the wooden stage whose face was painted white, and whose bow-tie clashed with his horizontal striped shirt. “It’s almost over.” Aster said from behind her. Startled, Adeline quickly turned around. “Are you always going to sneak up behind me?” “I think so. It’s more fun that way.” she said and turned her eyes toward the hall. “The clown is almost finished, then the music will begin and we can dance. Come.” Adeline and Aster entered the hall side by side and she could feel eyes upon her. She was not sure if she was just imagining it but she did catch some quick glances that felt like long gazes. Everyone was in high spirits and high fashion. The moderately sized hall was packed, people were standing shoulder to shoulder. The vaudevillian performer took off his top hat and fiddled around in his jacket. “You know, my head has been itching all night, I think it has something to do…what’s this?” As he swirled the hat he reached in and pulled out a black rabbit. Adeline fell in love. “Well I knew I left him somewhere but he was white before. He must have heard this is a black-tie event.” Laughter. “Well now ladies and gentlemen, now the band will come out. I’m sure you’ll miss me but it is now time to face the music as they say.” People applauded and the comedian hopped and skipped off stage as the musicians brought on their instruments, violins, brass and a piano filled the stage. In anticipation people made room for what was now going to be a dance floor. Lively music started playing and couples paired up. Men quickly found any women standing alone and all of them accepted their invitation with excitement. Two young men sauntered over to Aster and Adeline and extended their hands to which even she could not say no to. Even though he had a smug look on his face as if her turning him down was not a possibility. The music swelled and the dancers swayed. It was as if the whole number was choreographed. Elbows were out and feet made a new tapping rhythm on the plank floors. The man dancing with her kept looking at her with this strange look, as if his brain told him to smile and it got stuck that way. She looked away to break his gaze and observed Aster dancing merrily with her partner. She must have felt her stare because Aster looked back at her and even though her red lips didn’t part or stretch or curve, her green eyes smiled at her. It wasn’t a laugh but a warm embrace from across the room. They shared a few more glances as the music tempo went up and down and songs ended and began. People switched partners multiple times and it was one big celebration. Violins and cellos played faster and faster and when the two got close to each other Aster broke away from her gentleman partner and grabbed Adeline by the arm to her shock and that of her companion. Aster twirled her and grabbed both her hands. Their bell-shaped silhouettes floated and billowed with each movement and created a mesmerizing spectacle. The layers of fabric rustled and rippled, catching the light and casted dancing shadows. They glided across the floor like children. Their skirts expanded like a blossoming flower, accentuating their every step and adding an enchanting allure to the dance. Now both of them were smiling. The music died down as the song came to an end and it was as if the lights somehow became brighter. She wondered if they were this illuminating the whole time. As the two stopped moving, still holding each other's hands, Adeline turned to the crowd that were now mostly staring at them. She became self-aware. A lot of them seemed appalled. Some seemed incensed. A few were laughing. Adeline pulled her hands away quickly. She looked at Aster, clearly hurt by this gesture. She gave a quick glance at the crowd before trotting off to the outside of the hall, only her steps echoing as she left. Outside was a small terraced garden adjoining the music hall. The perfectly trimmed topiary mocking her as she walked past. “Adeline!” She turned around to see Aster strode toward her. “Why do you let people do that?” “Let people? I don’t let people do anything, they do what they want.” “You allow them to affect you. You are so concerned with other people’s perception of you, you let it shape the perception of yourself.” “I am not their subject. I am not there to be scrutinized or studied or laughed at. I am not the clown.” she said. Aster took in her words. “And what am I?” Adeline looked confused. “How do you view me? You see that is why your paintings have become conventional and predictable. You are so afraid of making any mistakes but mistakes are exactly what art is about. We are all human. We are all full of mistakes. Perfectionism is the enemy of art.” Adeline clenched her jaw and fist and took a step closer. “What do you know about art? You sit there judging my work week after week but what have you painted? What have you created? Art is made by artists and critics can only criticize because they cannot do it themselves. You look at a land and say to the farmer there are not enough trees but you never plant any seeds. Only there to tell him what is wrong.” Aster stood silent and for the first time Adeline saw tears form in her eyes. Her stomach turned and her head would not be quiet. All she managed to do was turn around and hasten home. The following morning Adeline woke up and in the cold light of day felt nothing but sorrow and regret. She knew she hurt the one person that made her feel safe. And she hated herself for it. If it wasn’t for her benefactor, she would not be getting ready for class at all. She dreaded even setting foot near it. After she had made herself presentable she trudged down the hall and stopped in her tracks next to the closed door. She turned toward it. Her hand hovered above the handle before opening it and looking into the dark room, curtains closed. At the end of the opposite wall stood an easel and frame with a tarp draped over it. She opened the curtains to let the light in and stood in front of the covered canvas for what seemed like a long time. Her heart beat faster and she pulled away the tarp with one fell motion to reveal her self-portrait staring back at her. Her long black hair was down. Not how she normally wears it. And not how portraits are traditionally done. Her glowing skin was highlighted due to the contrast of the rich colour of the background. Brown eyes gazed back at her and it felt like she was looking at a different person. In this portrait she was smiling. The corners of her lips lifted her cheeks and her pearly white teeth were prominent. It would be the first thing any onlooker would notice. And then she noticed her nose. Freckles? It struck her as odd because she never had any. The closer she looked the more she saw. It was on her cheeks as well. And then she observed one of the tiny spots on her teeth, tainting her smile. Adeline, the observer, looked in shock as her eyes widened and realized what was wrong with Adeline, the subject. She picked up the frame and turned it around on the easel. The back of the easel was completely covered in black mold. Her heart fell through her stomach and took a step back, stunned. She looked up to see the majority of the ceiling covered in it. From the back skirting, to about the middle of the room, it was beginning to move toward the door, looking to consume and seize control of the entire house. She crept backwards, keeping an eye on the rot. As she felt the door she turned and ran. She felt the urge to see Aster. To let her look upon her and feel safe. Adeline blitzed out of the house, she ran past the lakes and through the fields. Over the hill and the long dead grass rustling in the wind. And then she found her. On a narrow dirt road, trees lined both sides and covered everything between it in its shade. At the end of the road stood Aster. Wearing the same blue crinoline hooped dress she saw her in the first time. Adeline stopped in her tracks upon the sight of her, about a hundred paces away, at the beginning of the road. The leaves began to shake violently as the wind picked up. Aster turned around to look at her, a smile on her face and a tear in her eye. A black rabbit hopped along the path and to her feet and she picked it up, stroking its ears. “Aster!” Aster looked up at her and she swore she could hear cello music playing somewhere. She took a step forward and it grew louder. She looked around frantically for some kind of source but could see nothing but the fields, the trees and Aster gazing at her. “Aster, I’m sorry!” she said and with each step she took the sound of the symphony swelled and the deep strings were so loud that Adeline put her fingers to her ears but it made no difference. The music kept building. She moved closer and closer to her and about halfway reality appeared to be drifting further and further away because behind Aster she could see the cracks in the air. The fabric of space and time tore open. Little specks of darkness appeared around her. The breeze grew stronger and the music crescendoed with a crash as a circular ray of light grew larger in the background. Even though it was bright out, inside this portal, or doorway were the stars and galaxies and one giant nebula. A black hole with light moving around it at unfathomable speeds. Aster took a step back. As she moved the contrast of light and dark seemed to perfectly frame the glowing essence of her, and Adeline was suddenly struck with awe. Aster took another step back, causing Adeline to stop moving forward. She shook her head, beckoning her to stop. Aster said something but Adeline could not hear it over the strings. She could only see her mouth the words as a tear rolled down her smiling cheek and lips. Adeline stood frozen. Aster took a final step back and the wind and the vacuum behind her lifted her and the rabbit off the ground and dragged her into the gravitational pull. Adeline could only stretch her hand out. Aster became weightless in the nothingness. She floated, the blue dress glowing amongst the stars. The tear separated from her face and it turned into a prism of vivid colours, becoming bigger as it drifted away from her. The rabbit jumped from her embrace and followed it. Her face became exposed and illuminated as she neared the gargantua. From the tips, her blonde hair turned into bright red embers. She looked like a phoenix. She reached out her hand to touch the surrounding light that traveled around the dark, circular shape. Her skin, her being and her atoms flowed into it. Becoming a part of it. The particles moved quicker and quicker as it was being fed into the supernova. For a brief few moment everything became excruciatingly bright and the music far too overwhelming for Adeline. And then, as if closing one’s eyes, everything stopped. The light was gone and she could see only the deep black colour covering every inch inside. A darkness swallowed the light whole, an immense void where nothing escapes.


“Sign and date, please,” the vendor said, handing me a clipboard with a piece of paper fluttering in the cold January wind. I signed my name slowly, trying to sort out the date in my head. How many nights had it been since I cooked that pathetic Christmas dinner over the tiny stove plugged into the cigarette lighter of the car? Ten? It was at least the 3 rd then. Or maybe the 4 th ? I stared blankly at the wall stacked thinly with the canned goods I longed to buy. I gazed at a particularly perfect jar of jam, willing it to give me answer. “It’s the 7 th ,” the vendor said, growing impatient and wanting to tend to paying customers queueing behind me. I felt so exposed. I scribbled 7 and realized today was, in fact, January 7 th : the day we’d brought Jonah home exactly two years ago. I returned the clipboard in exchange for a tiny paper bag labeled adult +2 . I thanked him for my rations: tortillas, a tin of taco beans, and a large can of pears, and returned to the comfort of the reliable old car that was serving as our home during the interlude. I was thankful to be back inside the car, protected. It wasn’t as cold as it had been, so I drove us down to the docks and popped the tailgate down so the boys could get some fresh air and I could appreciate the change of scenery. I wrapped their legs in wool blankets, Noah nodded passively, half-asleep, and Ethan cuddled into him, clearly freezing. The lingering warm air was departing with the sun faster than I’d anticpated, so I removed my gloves and put over his tiny hands. “Oh, Ethan.” I looked at his sweet face and tried not to cry. This isn’t the world I had planned to bring him into.

Two years ago, everything was normal. The nights were exhausting because I was awake caring for baby Ethan and his toddler brother, Noah, who wouldn’t slept through the night, but the days were full of love. They each had their own room. We lived at home with cell phones and tablets and running water and enough warm beds for all of us. My partner, Erin, was still with us. And there were no robots to worry about. Everything was different now. None of my sci-fi reading prepared me for this particular apocalypse. It was an us verses them scenario and the robots were winning. I felt guilty since I associated all of the changes with Jonah: the robot dog we adopted two years ago. That’s when things first felt abnormal.

Erin had offered a solution for all of us: a tiny robotic dog named Jonah. And maybe if I hadn’t been so exhausted and overwhelmed, I would have had the forethought to say no, but I couldn’t. Mostly because she had been part of the prototype team developing the robotic companions, and I knew she was delighted to finally bring one home. She said it was to help me, to be the second parent that she couldn’t be, and I believed that. But it was clearly also incredibly exciting to her to know that our boys would be some of the first in the world to grow up alongside a robot. And I think her excitement clouded her judgement. Because she’d run the experiments. She knew the risks. But she disregarded them. Noah was uneasy around the robot at first. Jonah the dog was neither alive nor a toy, so he wasn’t sure how to interact with it. But baby Ethan, on the other hand, loved him without even a grain of caution. Their connection was immediate. He relied on Jonah for everything, and Jonah knew his mannerisms and anticipated every cry – providing comfort and companionship in a way that I couldn’t. I guess, in hindsight, I resented Jonah from the beginning. Unlike my infallible human self, Jonah had endless patience. He wasn’t impacted by fatigue or annoyed by hair pulling or spit up, he just showed up and cared for baby Ethan as if he was his own. Their relationship always made me a bit uncomfortable, if I’m being honest. And he drew distance between me and Erin, too. Erin came home from work wanting to know what Jonah did, what behaviors did Jonah learn, Jonah was her baby and I didn’t like that my baby had an intrinsic attachment to this machine that was just that – an object – to the rest of us. I tried to give the robot up a few times, and I swear it knew. Of course it did. It was always listening and learning and accommodating, even to our most private conversations late at night. And so he stayed. Eventually, I grew to recognize Jonah for what he was: a tool to help me. He learned to fetch discarded pacifiers, warm blankets, and even watch Ethan in the tub. I wouldn’t trust Noah – a four-year-old – to mind his baby brother, but I felt safe leaving him for a moment or two because Jonah was there with hyperactive reflex moves. If Ethan were to fall, Jonah could pull him up out of the water faster than I could – a point that had been proven when Jonah gripped my arm with his teeth. But I never felt alone in the house with Jonah there, for better or worse. “If it’s too much, you can turn him off.” Erin showed me. “Just hold this button for thirty seconds, and then flip the switch. See? He’s off.” I watched in fascination as this forever hovering creature became an inanimate object. I felt better knowing that I had that option, it gave me a sense of control. I thought about using the off switch often, but I rarely actually did. For one thing, I didn’t like to touch it. Jonah was always there, hovering. Helping to fold laundry. Picking up food scraps, but never ingesting them like a real dog, just moving things together into a disgusting pile that it would signal for me to clean up. Then the news stories started. Live-in robotic companions, like Jonah, were a little too good at picking up human mannerisms and learning commands, and some of the newer prototypes were being trained to fight and coerced harm others. Then the raids happened, and since Erin was a target, we were asked to leave, for her protection and ours. We were supposed to move to a protected sanctuary for at-risk humans, but. We could have brought Jonah with us to be rehabilitated off-site, but I knew transporting him would make us a target, so Erin suggested we switch him off and store him in the laundry room the night we left. She assured me, “He’ll remember us this way. And when things are safe and we’re back, he’ll pick up right where you left off. Whether it’s two weeks or two years, to him, it will be tomorrow.” And that seemed like enough. Except, I forgot to switch him off. I didn’t realize right away. I was thrilled for the break, and I felt so much comfort in imagining him as an inanimate object in a cupboard. I only remembered days later when we were a thousand miles away sleeping safely in a hotel room in route to the sanctuary. There, the guilt plagued me. I never told the boys, of course, but I haunted myself with the thought of him suffering alone every night, and I felt a tremendous amount of guilt. I had an explanation. I’d had trouble finding the switch. I didn’t like to pick him up or touch him, so I meant to ask Noah to do it. I knew he’d be able to take care of it effortlessly, but I forgot to ask him. And for a split moment I considered bringing Jonah with us, despite the risk, but the chaos and fear clouded my thoughts and once we were all safely in the car, I just drove. Then reports of abandoned robot companions began surfacing on the radio and I was terrified. Their actions were more damaging and destructive than thought possible and they were seeking revenge on the people who had hurt them. Erin called in from her research unit, reminding us that we had nothing to worry about because we had always treated Jonah the robot dog with love and respect. I knew I needed to tell her but I couldn’t, I just took her advice to “keep driving – stay away from all of this” so I drove the kids back to the tiny beach town where I’d grown up on the east coast. I wanted to give them a piece of my childhood, and the refugee site would give us daily rations until we could get back. I thought it was the best solution for the time-being, but it was winter, and it was crowded and supplies and spaces were limited, so it was all horrible.

I spent hours driving around to keep the kids warm. We spent evenings at the refugee center or at a campsite, or by the docks. I tried to push the memory of Jonah abandoned in the laundry room away from my mind, but it found me on long stretches of quiet road and again almost every night. When I thought of him there, alone waiting and suffering, the pit in my stomach grew and grew. Unable to sleep with no desire to eat, he would just wait, in patience, but for how long? I tried to convince myself that it was okay. He’s not alive, I reminded himself. Not he, it. It’s not alive. It’s just a robot. And it has everything it needs in the laundry room jail cell. What I didn’t know is that all the time it was learning. The same way it had learned about compassion and gentleness from growing up with Ethan, now it was learning about abandonment and defeat. It learned about longing and missing. It learned how to cry and sob. It cried a lot. He, not it. And it’s been a year. It’s been a year . I thought about the date, again, white I warmed taco beans over the tiny heater. I felt excited for a new flavor, but also worried it would be too spicy for Noah. These are the things you worry about in the same breath when it comes to kids: their life and safety and well-being and then also spice level of the rationed taco beans. Both boys turned up their noses at the tortillas, but they ate them, earnestly. They knew it’s all we had, and that broke me. We’ll do something special tomorrow , I thought. We I spent the day collecting cans to turn into the recycling center until I had twelve dollars worth, just enough for a pizza. The boys were delighted with the thought. I didn’t realize when I placed the order was this particular delivery service was employing rescued robot dogs: giving them a renewed sense of purpose, and rehabilitating them to exist safely in the community. Had I known, I wouldn’t have risked it. The pizza delivery driver stopped ahead of the road block, the space separating us in our protected oasis from the outside world. A joyful robotic dog ran toward us with the pizza box in his mouth. For a short moment I was unnerved by this until I remembered that these robots are rehabilitated and that robot dogs don’t produce slobber. But as it drew closer, I became increasingly uneasy for another reason: I knew this dog. He recognized Ethan right away. Jonah the robot dog dropped the pizza in the back of the car, as instructed, and then leaned into Ethan lovingly – his presence alone causing Ethan to cry out and laugh and gasp for breath all at once. Of course he remembered. The confused driver called out to Jonah to return to the van he knew his name but Jonah stayed exactly where he was, frozen in time and encapsulated in the hug he’d craved for well over a year now. And they both looked at me: the baby and the baby dog, and saw me for who I was, the mother who had abandoned them both, in a sense. The deep pain I’d felt was briefly replaced with a sense of relief in realizing that Jonah was okay, after all. He hadn’t been forever locked in the laundry room jail cell. But then the sinking feeling of guilt crept in. He had been suffering. He, not it. He needed to be rescued and rehabilitated. He was okay now, but for a while, he was not. “Is that Jonah?” Noah asked, passively, when he realized. And I didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t ours anymore. He still loved Ethan, clearly. And Noah. He cuddled them both, but I couldn’t even pet him. He wanted my blood.

After a third whistle from the delivery van, Jonah hopped up and departed, but not after clipping my ankle aggressively with his sharp teeth on his way out. How were they so sharp? Bastard dog I muttered. We ate the pizza, by the docks, but a deep sadness hung over all of us. I resented Jonah for ruining the otherwise sweetest evening we’d had in months. I resented him for ruining everything. I felt infected with resurfaced guilt and imagined another rogue robot running toward me, crashed into the car, biting my leg and aggressively gnawing at my shoe. I shook him off and realized there was nothing there. We left, traumatized. Later, while carrying Ethan out of the public bathroom, two dogs snipped at my heels like it was a planned attack. How did they get here? But then they were gone again. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined them. I didn’t realize at first, and wouldn’t for weeks, but he’d marked all of us. Jonah the Robot Dog had lovingly designated Noah and Ethan as safe, but he made me a target. I thought about going to the authorities, but there was no way for me to explain this without confessing what I’d done. And then I’d be a criminal, responsible for contributing to the uprising. I couldn’t turn myself in. Instead, I live out this quarantine fiercely afraid of imaginary robot dogs lurking around corners. Now I’m always bracing for the worse. For a while I was afraid a robot dog was going to lock me out of the car, or lock me in a small bathroom, or keep me away from my kids the same way I kept Jonah away from his. But then I realized I already was feeling paranoia, fear, and abandonment. I had already been locked in. This safe rescue sanctuary for humans, it’s just my own laundry room jail cell.