No physical compulsion? She signs, baffled by my admission. I shake my head. There is nothing to keep me from telling the truth, save the knowledge that I will lose absolutely everything if I do. Destinee raises a fine eyebrow before nuzzling closer to me. We watch her cousin in open amusement as he begins his daily struggle of wrestling the pink disc from the stubborn clutches of Night. The air shifts, Wind blessing our bodies with her cool breeze as the planet warms. Destinee wills her midnight tendrils to stay impervious to its pull. I carefully twirl a ringlet around my finger, smiling indulgently at her vain tendencies. Not even Wind’s good intentions are enough for Destinee to permit a stray or frizzy strand of hair. We seldom converse in the first hours of the day. Silence may be an obstacle elsewhere, but here, with her, it’s akin to an old blanket—worn and comforting. It wasn’t always this way. I met Destinee before her tongue was cursed. This golden-skinned, petite goddess spoke like she was in constant fear of interruption. Her words collided with one another, stumbling to attribute meaning and profundity to each line of speech. Many gods avoided Destinee, and for good reason. A conversation with her was like performing a play without lines. Destinee had a special affinity for collecting the deepest-held convictions and fears of others. Luxuries aren’t difficult to obtain for immortals, so we barter with something far more valuable: secrets. The future holds no mystery or allure, but the present consistently eludes Destinee. When I asked her if she ever used her newfound information to tinker with the future, she simply winked and said, “That’s the beauty of the future. It never exists. Thus, I’ll never get in trouble for influencing it how I wish.” I sometimes wonder if she knew then how wrong she was. Destinee’s gluttony for secrets was well-known, and regular visitors frequent. Her silvery-grey eyes would alight at the prospect of learning something her visions weren’t privy to, and precious bits of the future would tumble impulsively out of eager lips. It was at Poetry’s first birthday party that Destinee’s words abandoned their safe realm of inconsequential and entered imminently dangerous territory… I don a simple black dress that ends just at the knee. My long auburn hair is pulled into a messy bun, the only style my clumsy fingers can achieve. Destinee enters our room in a stunning floral number. Flora herself had blessed it with the enticing scent and lazily waving energy of a pristine meadow in exchange for the knowledge that her next children would be a healthy pair of girls. I watch a lilac petal on her sleeve shiver in a breeze I cannot feel. She laughs softly upon spotting my hairdo and instructs me to sit on the edge of the bed. She pulls out my pins and begins anew, her gentle hands weaving with the same intensity and practiced ease with which a spider spins its web for an early supper. I feel her touch for an extra spare moment each time she pulls away to pick up another pin. The echo’s sensation makes me grin. My smile vanishes as I catch her reflection in the mirror. Her elegant beauty takes my breath away. Not for the first time, I mourn the fact that I can never tell her outright how she makes me feel. “What will your gift be, Dee?” Destinee asks. “A silver tongue? Perhaps a talent for hearing lies?” She catches my dark expression and returns the scowl. “How dare they reject a godly gift? Hypocrites, that’s all they are. Do Rhyme and Meter not value power? The two of us alone could pit every single god in this city against the other with our knowledge combined.” “A lovely sentiment. I’m sure that would change their perception of me,” I sigh. Destinee gives an unbraided section of hair a sharp tug. “Sarcasm remains one of your worst creations, I hope you’re aware.” I suppress a laugh. My dalliance with Humor had been brief and unremarkable, yet evidence of our relationship could be found everywhere nowadays. I was at once amused and aggrieved by the constant reminders and their enduring popularity. The celebration is hosted by Wisdom himself. His palace is a breathtaking marvel in more ways than one, with an architectural design far and away the most creative and eccentric in the city. Fractals and other impossibilities blanket the floor and ceiling. Twin pillars are inlaid with sparkling jewels yet to be discovered by the human populace. I trace a navy-blue design on a nearby wall with greedy hands, aware that when I return it will be gone, replaced by something even more intricate and bizarre that caught Dom’s fancy. Destinee floats from guest to guest, chattering excitedly. She had confided in me that something important would happen at the party, though the images were still unclear. I’m fairly positive that each interaction is a mining of sorts for clues. Utterly disinterested in small talk and the mysteries Destinee embroils herself in, I hasten to help myself to the impressive selection of wine. Rhyme receives me at a table laden with refreshments. “It’s miles from the realm of perfection but I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself to our collection,” she remarks in a sugary tone. I almost laugh. Lying to the goddess of deceit must be the height of hubris. I pat my heart in response and smile. Ambiguous gestures are safest, especially at celebrations. Participants tend to get too drunk to remember that they must interpret my words. My heart stalls when I spot Candor nearby. I’m about to retreat when Rhyme follows my panicked gaze, a cruel smile touching her lips. “Deceit’s sister, come hither!” She calls, waving my twin over. Candor navigates the crowd swiftly, weaving towards us. Auburn hair hangs limply around her pale, freckled face. She wears a sparkly pink dress at odds with her hungry expression. “A pleasure to see you,” I greet her sweetly. She ignores me, and Rhyme follows suit. “I must admit,” Rhyme starts, an awful twinkle in her eye. “your identical eyes lead me astray. Are you the same in every outward way?” Candor nods. “Of course, it’s awfully simple to tell us apart if you know how.” My stomach hardens to stone. A crowd of well-wishers has gathered near to speak to Rhyme, but they pause at my sister’s words. “It’s so easy it’s laughable,” she continues. Destinee’s gaze meets mine from across the spacious room. I smile stiffly. Her stormy eyes flit to my sister and narrow. “Just ask either one of us a fact.” Candor makes a show of examining the table’s contents carefully before plucking a red apple from the cornucopia. The growing crowd follows every exaggerated movement. She thrusts the shiny fruit in my face. “What color is this?” My face burns. “Blue,” I mutter quietly. This garners several laughs and a few claps for Candor’s ingenuity. “How interesting! What color is the apple?” Destinee asks my twin with fake cheer, brushing past the other guests and linking her arm around mine. Candor looks suddenly unsure of herself, but answers regardless. “Why, red, of course. I’m not confined to lies.” Destinee’s grip on my arm tightens. “What an intriguing choice of words. Forgive me, Candy, but Deceit could have said any color in existence, save for red. She’s not beholden to the truth, which seems to me incredibly liberating.” If looks could kill the nearly un-killable, Destinee and Candor would both be lost to perpetual darkness. Dom intercedes, announcing the commencement of the gift-giving ceremony. The crowd quickly disperses to form a line to little Poetry and his father Meter. Rhyme rushes to join them, her mischief forgotten. Candor bows to Destinee and me with an ill-concealed sneer and rejoins the others. She won’t forget this soon. Destinee sighs irritably and follows the crowd, squeezing my hand in parting. I respectfully refrain from entering the queue, per Rhyme and Meter’s request. “We don’t aim to teach dishonesty to impressionable little Poetry,” Rhyme had explained in a cloying voice that attempted to convey regret she most certainly did not feel. Rather than join the small cluster of similarly rebuffed gods deemed too weak or uncaring to exact vengeance, I opt to leave early. I resign myself to the possibility of never meeting Poetry in person. A shame, considering Destinee’s insistence that he will grow to inspire the lives of many. I’m surprised to see Love loitering outside Dom’s estate. New parents want nothing more than a happy match for their child, and the prospects among immortals are few. No one would be foolhardy enough to eject Love when he has so much to offer. Did he really accept their food and drink only to refuse the most highly coveted gift of all? Perhaps he hates them as much as I. “How silly,” Love drawls, surveying my shock with a wry grin. “Your emotions are quite transparent. Aren’t you tired of the endless obligatory gift-giving sessions?” “Never,” I agree with a stiff head shake. Love pushes himself off of the ivy-laced wall with strong, large hands and steps closer. He towers above my considerable height, perfectly white teeth gleaming against dark, unblemished skin. “Oh, this is fun. Have you ever noticed how often you and your sister give the same answer? It makes me wonder why anyone cares enough to puzzle out which is which.” I turn to leave. Let Love find another plaything. He has billions of hearts to mold before crushing them. “Aha! I see it now. You love another. Candor keeps me for herself.” “Aren’t you clever?” I snap, walking quickly towards the gate. The last thing I need is Love meddling in my affairs. “You wound me!” He shouts in a voice spun from silk. “But exercise caution, little liar! Your lover isn’t the only one who sees the future. And your love story looks positively thrilling!” I don’t exhale until the gate swings shut behind me. What does thrilling look like to a god who has spent millennia toying with different hearts? I really think I would prefer boring. My feet take each step of their own accord, my mind lost. Memories of my sister overtake my thoughts, despite my best efforts. In anger, I had once sworn I would never see her again. Of course, this had only condemned me to more sightings. She posed a larger threat than the others realized, in no small part thanks to me. “But he does love me Mother—and if you really loved me you would just die!” Candy shrieked. What did you do? I wanted to scream. What have you done? Candor trembled in shock, standing rigidly. I fell to my knees, grasping at Mother with unfeeling hands. I press my hands to my head as if to squeeze the image from my mind with brute force. I don’t know how, but despite our identical features, Destinee knew it was I who took the stand in Candor’s place and pledged her innocence. Destinee had promised to keep her knowledge to herself. Of course, she isn’t bound by her words. Candy was never the same. I may have helped, but she had engaged in a deception. She could scarcely look at me afterwards. I became the reminder that Candor wasn’t always truthful. None of us fully embody what we represent; no multi-faceted god could, but I suppose that’s one truth my sister never learned to accept. I fidget uncomfortably, more concerned than ever for my twin’s future. Dusk arrives before Destinee, lazily blotting out every trace of Day’s artwork. I sit on the front porch, a rapt audience of one. I enjoy this view most; there is unexpected beauty in erasure. The chance hues and patterns spared never celebrate the same way twice. The clanging of the gate startles me out of my reverie. I spot the tears first, the defeated posture and shivers. I spring to my feet and brush away a tear, looking imploringly into her eyes. This is no time to say I don’t want to know what happened. I don’t care that she knows I mean its opposite—it would hurt my heart to say it. She grips my hand, squeezes it, then brushes past me into the house. I follow, my worry compounding. A dusty volume on sign language is plucked from a far shelf. We had pledged one summer to study in order to converse with Silence, a god both ubiquitous and profoundly lonely. He was unmoved by our attempts and we quickly dropped our practicing. Destinee flips to the alphabet and beckons me closer, pointing out letters slowly: C-U-R-S-E-D. Concern morphs into rage. My breath becomes uneven as, in an agonizingly slow and piecemeal manner, she briefly explains what happened. Destinee told Candor to leave me alone, threatening her with the truth about Mother. Candy’s response? “Write or utter another word and perish.” I shut my eyes. I never curse fellow gods, but Candor warrants an exception. How shall I do it? Destinee tugs on my hair until I look at her. Her wet eyes seal my fate. I can’t bear to let her down. Over the next couple of days we stay secluded at the house, poring over the book. Destinee becomes extremely fond of the profanity section. I counsel her strictly on restraint. My curse is not unlike hers—nothing prevents me from speaking truth and perishing, only my mind and will. These lessons, I come to realize, are more for my sake than hers. I can’t live in fear for her life every time we go to an event, witness a stunning sky, or bargain with other gods. I put a hold on social visits. No gossip, secret-sharing, bartering—no temptation. For the first time, future is a mystery even among the gods. The more I watch Destinee struggle to adjust, the stronger my wrath grows. I want to preserve the kind goddess Destinee believes me to be. What do I stand to lose by paying my sister a visit? After an afternoon of meandering around Candor’s public haunts, I bump into her at the garden, tending to her hyacinths. Before she can utter a word, I lie. “You will curse a god again.”

An eerie smile creeps across her face, a twisted semblance of my own. “You told Destinee. I simply covered our tracks. Do you forget how much trouble you’ll be in if anyone finds out you deceived the court?” “Ah, I see. You’re just looking out for us both. I’ll do the same.” Our smiles slowly match. One long pause later, her grin wavers. “I think I finally see too.” Feeling unbearably confined, Destinee and I decide to spend a night on our favorite hilltop. We drag a blanket across dewy grass and wearily allow Sleep to pull us under. As the stars keep watch, Silence guards us both from the curse of Truth. When the inevitable topic of curses arises in the early morning, we openly discuss mine for the first time. No physical compulsion? She signs, baffled by my admission. I shake my head. There is nothing to keep me from telling the truth, save the knowledge that I will lose absolutely everything if I do. Destinee raises a fine eyebrow before nuzzling closer to me. Once the sun has successfully breached the horizon, I descend the hill. At its base runs a burbling creek. As I kneel to cup its chilled waters, a beautiful, horrible sound rings out. “WATCH OUT!” Destinee screams. My head whips around just in time to see my sister cut the air with her dagger. I grab her wrist, shock gripping us both as the blade clatters to the stones below. I can do nothing but stare, breathing raggedly, as my perfect image takes several steps back and flees.

Destinee’s yell reverberates in my mind. I claw at the earth, climbing the hill at a breakneck pace. Near its peak lies Destinee. Wind has pushed her long black curls haphazardly across her golden form. I look into bright, silver eyes. They don’t look back at me. My mouth opens. No cry comes. I pull Destinee’s head into my lap and hold her until the sun stings my skin and the Wind relinquishes its hold on her hair, framing the tendrils around her heart-shaped face as perfectly as she would have liked. My mouth refuses to close. It knows, as I do, that my Future is dead. I press my lips against her forehead and whisper, “I love you.”


We enter a living room through double French doors, satin curtains billowing in the ocean breeze. The beach is like a mural painting through the tall windows, framed by clear blue skies and palm trees. Inside, everything is white fabric and woven bamboo. Bright-orange, tropical-afternoon sunshine engulfs the space. A smartphone lies face up on the coffee table. A tinny voice, irritant like a flying mosquito, fills the room, the words indiscernible. A young man sits on the plump sofa, hands in fists as his excitement mounts. A low-volume football match is unfolding on the flat screen mounted on the wall opposite him. The mosquito-sounding voice stops suddenly and the young man reaches for the phone, fumbling in slight panic. He catches the end of a question. “Of course I’m listening, Mum.” He grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl next to him, throws it at the TV as the referee rules against the team he’s supporting. “Hang on, I need to feed Reaper.” He puts the phone back down. The black cat sprawled on the rug shots his head up at the combined mentions of food and his name, then goes back to sleep realising the ruse. On the screen, a white-clad athlete pierces through a red defence. Past the forwards. Past the midfielders. With every yard the footballer covers, the young man rises an inch from the couch. His mouth opens in slow motion. Now past the backs. Only two between him and the goalkeeper. He takes a shot— And hits the crossbar. The young man falls back on the sofa. One hand clamps his mouth shut and the other punches a cushion. Feet kick the air. The furniture rattles and Reaper jerks awake, paws braced against the perceived earthquake. Limbs relax in defeat as the succession of three whistles ends the game. Numbers count down the time before the next recording begins. The young man picks the phone up again. “I’m back… No, once every hour is not too much. He exercises a lot… Well, you know, doing cat stuff.” Another match starts. He takes a swig of beer. “What trip?” He wedges the bottle back into the ice-full bucket he took it from. “I can’t remember everything you say, Mum… Yeah, I know you’ve ju— Yes, I’m listening! The trip, sure… to…?” A new action begins on the screen, but it’s short-lived. An opponent tackles successfully and the ball rolls past the sideline. “Venice, of course. No, how can I forget? Same as every year. But I don’t think I can make it this time.” He lays the phone beside him. The sound coming from it is like the screeching of fingernails on a chalkboard. The young man hunches forward, on the edge of his seat. “Come on come on come on…” he whispers at the screen. A goal, a victory lap, and he punches the air twice before grabbing back the phone. “Sorry, you got cut off there for a sec... Bad weather, pissing it down out there… What voices? Oh you know, the neighbours… partying in the hurricane, as locals do.” Aims the remote at the screen. The mute icon appears in the corner and silence falls. “There, I closed the window. You were saying? No, I know it’s tradition, but we’ve being doing it since, what—1910?… 1912, sure, my bad. Couple of years make all the difference. No, I’m not being sarcastic, just an observation.” He pauses the recording and stands up. Through the corridor, followed by Reaper with his tail up. Into the laundry, and Reaper sits down outside, disappointed. Into the bathroom. Phone sandwiched between shoulder and ear. “Look, nobody ever gets the joke. Not your book club ladies, nor Dad’s Facebook pals… Every year he posts the picture of us in front of Saint Mark with the title as caption and not one—Trickling? I’m getting a glass of water, ignore it…” He flushes and washes his hands. “As I was saying, not one single person ever — Oh, for—! It’s the dishwasher, Mum… Well, it’s… one that flushes, alright? Yep, self-cleaning, there you go... I’m sure you’re about to tell me all about whatever Barbara paid for hers...” Almost trips over Reaper still waiting outside the laundry. He studies the cat for a moment, holds the phone against his chest. “I suppose you actually want food now, don’t you?” They both enter the kitchen. “Of course I miss you, Mum. And Dad, too. But I want to hang out with the lads. Watch some football. A good curry and a few pints… I am 20!… What do you mean ‘since when’? I’ve been 20 for forty years now!” He fills Reaper’s bowls with dry and wet food. The cat purrs and meows, and dives in with appreciative slurping noises. “I told you, he exercises a lot… Look, it’s just a tired old joke. Besides, Dad’s the only one who really needs to be there for it to work. It’s ‘Death in Venice’, not ‘Death and Family in Venice’… not sarcasm, Mum, observation!” He plunges back into the sofa. The recording resumes. “Why are you so desperate for family activities anyway? It’s not like we’re going to run out of time… I’m sorry, sure, your friends are, I didn’t mean to say— Of course I want you to be proud of me, and show me off to a bunch of old lady knitters before Dad’s call of duty, but can’t we do it in a different way this year? Please?” He eats a few popcorns, kernels cracking under his teeth. Jumps up as his team scores again. Almost sends the phone flying across the room in his excitement. “What did you say? No, I'm not eating... It’s static Mum… Well, that’s what static sounds like, munching crackers… You’ve got a rotary dial, I have a smartphone, you want to argue technology?… I told you, I’m not doing Venice this year. Been there, done that. New plan.” He fast-forwards through the half-time commercial break. “I don’t know… Death Metal concert?… Maybe not your ladies, but what about their grandchildren?… Fine, sorry, children… I don’t know what age you’re giving yourself these days! Last time we spoke you were 80!… Two weeks ago!… Oh sure, and I’m supposed to know it was your lawn bowls phase?” He freezes the frame as the second half is about to start. Pulls up the menu. The second file from the top is highlighted, five more follow. “Listen, I’ll think about it and call you back, I’m afraid the hurricane is about to hit for real and we won’t be able to speak— No, Dad won’t have to work overtime, they’re pretty good at dealing with that sort of thing here… Yes, they’re used to it, hardly any casualties at all… just a lot of… water, yes, and destroyed buildings. It won't even make the news... Yes... Yes... I’ll pass the message to the ‘squishy ball of black fur’… He’s not going to get fat, Mum, trust me. Yes. Love you too. Ye—” He dumps the phone inside the bowl of popcorns. Shakes it around for a few seconds, then hangs up.


 Trapped! Simon Rafferty was dressed like he always did when on a job. He wore jeans, a Netflix T-Shirt, a pair of white running shoes and his sunglasses. If it was cool outside, then the leather jacket came on.

He was available four times of the year once per season. As he had told his boss: “Use me wisely.” And the organization had done just that. He was one of the best in the business — if not the best — and on this bright sunny September afternoon, he was going to take care of business.

The building was in the retirement block. It looked like someone wanted an old person out of the way. The names and faces didn’t matter; they were memorized and then quickly forgotten. He had found the building easy enough access was a little harder. There were cameras everywhere. The ruse as posing as a delivery man had gone the way of the dodo bird. There were a thousand different ways to gain access to a ‘secure’ building. After all, when you were the best in the business, there was always a way of getting the job done. It had been simple to get in. The manager was standing there pontificating about the present political situation and Simon had simply pressed a number on the panel. It took about three-seconds and then the door was opened. He really didn’t look at the manager squarely in the eye. He just shuffled past everyone that was sitting in the lounge area entrance and half-smiled. The two elevators were up on the seventh and eight floors respectively.

He didn’t feel like waiting and simply veered left towards the stairs. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and then proceeded to exit onto the main floor. The numbers zipped by and Simon realized that he had taken the set of stairs that was furthest from the desired location. It didn’t matter the end was going to be the same. According to the instructions the person of target was going to be home. Simon felt for the envelope and reassured that it was still there. One of the rookies had dropped the envelope and had been caught. The boys in the organization had laughed long and hard at that one. Of course, the stool pigeon had to be taken care just in case and before he started to flap. The apartment was 311 and he stopped. The man always took a deep breath before delivering the bad news. It was like being the grim reaper minus the dark hoodie, scythe and evil glare. The knock on the door was sharp and precise. It was a reflexion of how he did business. Lorne Johnson opened the door. He was in his eighties, frail, with a wisp of white hair, and a mouth that didn’t properly line up. His arms were full of brown spots and bruises. To make matters worse, the old dog was in shorts revealing very knobby knees. “Can I help you?” “Special delivery for Lorne Johnson.” There was nothing wrong with being polite. “Hang on, I’ll give you something for your troubles.” “That’s okay, enjoy.” Simon handed him the envelope. The old guy nodded and the blue eyes were alert for the last time. Simon could have taken the stairs but wasn’t sure were they led to. So he sauntered over to the elevator and pressed the button. The door opened and he went inside. He pressed G for ground and the door closed slowly. It was an older building and he guessed that the elevators were the originals. It buckled a bit and he smiled and then it stopped. He was unaware that the power had gone out in the building and the entire block. “Are you kidding me?” It was stuck between the third and second floor. The elevator hung in the balance like a cat hanging on by a thread over a steep precipice. He jammed on the emergency button but nothing happened. It wasn’t moving. “Okay, this cannot be happening.” But it was actually occurring in real time. There was no phone to use and he looked at his cell and it had gone dead. He wanted to pound on the door but it was not a good idea because there was no need to attract attention. If the old codger had opened the envelope by this point, then that part of the mission had been completed.

Now if he could only get the hell out of the damn elevator. The manager had gone back to his apartment waiting for someone to knock on the door. He was sitting in the chair watching some game show and promptly snoring the rest of his shift away. When the lights went out, he woke up and snarled. “Okay, don’t panic. You are Simon Rafferty, a professional, able to deal with any situation, any circumstance. You have survived all types of deadly situations. You have been behind enemy lines and managed to live and tell about it. In fact, they gave you a medal for it.” He smiled and wiped the sweat off of his brow. “I’ll be home for supper.” Carl stood in the main lobby and waited for the Hydro people to show up. Beverly Johnson arrived to look in on her father, but rarely on a Wednesday. The scout that had surveyed the scene could never have anticipated this. The middle-aged woman had driven down the street and realized that the power was gone. She couldn’t take any of the elevators, so she walked up the stairs.

Unlike Simon, she went up the right ones arriving at apartment 311 quicker. She knocked on the door and listened for a sound. There was nothing and she figured he was sleeping. Her father was partially deaf and he didn’t always hear a good rap on the door. She had own key anyway. She slipped inside and the place was clean. A woman came in twice a week to clean and look after him. Gladys, the cleaning lady, was a godsend. She not only cleaned for Lorne, but made sure that he took his meds, listened to him tell his long-winded stories and generally cared about the old guy with a pure heart of gold. The woman always went well beyond her duties. “Your father is just an old sweetie,” she had told Beverly many times. Beverly walked in and felt that there was something wrong.

“Father? Dad, are you here?” She walked up to the chair and knew by the limp arm that he was gone. She figured it was a heart attack but when she saw the envelope and the purple powder inside, it was obviously not a medical condition. Beverly had been a nurse in the trauma/emergency room of a major hospital for years. The cardinal rule was not to panic. “Okay, dad never went to get his mail.” The last time he had done that the pool old guy had fallen and broken a hip. That was six years ago and she usually picked it up on the days that she visited. Gladys grabbed the rest of the time. She didn’t disturb anything and reached for her phone.

“Hello, yes, this is Beverly Johnson and I am here visiting my father. He is deceased. I have a bad feeling that he was murdered. I am going to call the police and please do not disturb him until they arrive because you might destroy the evidence.” She said all this as she walked down the stairs.

Beverly found the building manager standing in the lobby. “Hey, Bev, how are you?” “Horrible. Dad is gone.” “Oh, I am so sorry. Was it his heart?” “No, he was murdered. Look, I have called paramedics and the police. They will be here shortly, hopefully.” “Okay.” Carl figured that the elevator was stuck between the third and second floor. “The Hydro people called and will be here soon. I better call the elevator people.” He checked his cell phone and doubted they would get there since it was already past three in the afternoon. He opened the office door and then one of the tenants poked their head inside. “There is someone stuck on the elevator.” Carl smiled because it would get the elevator people to the building very quickly. “Hello, yeah, it’s Carl. How did you know?” They laughed. “Anyway, the power went out and someone was in the elevator. They are stuck in the elevator you know the one you fixed last month? Yeah, we are in dire need of new elevators but the owner is cheap. Okay, you’ll be here in about ten minutes. Thanks, see you then.” Carl closed the office door and now it was a waiting game. “Okay, who is stuck in the elevator?” Five minutes later, the paramedics, the police, the Hydro people and the elevator repair person all arrived at once.

“It’s circus time.” Beverly stood there trying to retain her composure. “Okay, paramedics and police go to apartment 311. You have a key don’t you?” Carl smiled at her. “Yes, I do.” Beverly smiled back. “Great. The elevator is stuck between the third and second floor.” He looked at the elevator repairman. “We have figured out the source of the power failure and it should be fixed in like ten minutes.” “As soon as it is fixed the elevator will start moving.” “Did you figure out who is stuck in it?” “No, I called out but there was no response.” Stan the elevator man smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “How long have they been stuck in there?” “Not really sure, I was busy with something else.” Meanwhile, in apartment 311 the police saw the envelope with the purple powder and nodded their heads. “I have to make a phone call.” The police officer made the call and smiled. “Okay, I need to look at the surveillance camera.” They raced down the stairs and the manager shrugged his shoulders. “It should work even on generator power.” When the power went out the generator went on and produced an adequate amount of power. They started watching the camera tape and saw Simon. “That’s him, the guy we call the Purple Powder Assassin. Where did he go?” “He didn’t go out the door because he’s not on the camera.” Ernie, the elevator guy popped his head into the office. “Okay, there is a male stuck in the elevator.” “That’s him,” Officer Harris was so excited that he nearly bit his tongue. “You think so?” “Absolutely, one hundred per cent yes that is him.” “Do not fix that elevator right away. We have a major assassin trapped. The proper authorities will arrive.” He got on his radio and made a very urgent call. “Should we evacuate the building?” Carl was concerned for his tenants. Some of them had drifted down the stairs while others just staying in their respective apartments. “No, I don’t want anyone to panic. Besides, the guy isn’t going anywhere in these old style elevators. There is nowhere to go.” It was a few minutes later when the SWAT team arrived and the building was surrounded.

The power went back on. A couple of minutes later, Ernie pressed a button and the elevator started up. It moved down to the second and then the ground floor. Simon walked into the arms of the Authorities. “Simon Rafferty you are arrested on assassin and terrorist charges.” “And for killing my father.” She kicked him in the groin and everyone laughed.


Deep below Black Site 41 lays the most important project of our entire existence. Humanity is in grave danger and the end is soon. Since 1950 we’ve received a total of 4,000 distress calls from far off galaxies, and they all share one thing in common. A massive object was ripping their home sun apart and draining their planet of life. NASA has never been able to properly view the object, but thermal scans of the area showed us the monster murdering worlds. What looks to be a 400 x 400 structure resembling a pyramid that made such a strong gravitational pull it rivaled the largest black holes. Sometimes the gravity in the army would crush surrounding planets. The committee commissioned by president Truman referred to this entity as the Pyramidion. All of this wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for the “Grey Alien,” species that crashed in Roswell. Without them humanity wouldn’t have had any kind of chance. They came to warn humanity of this horror occurring in our universe, and wanted to give our life a chance at winning. Aside from various communication, flight, and research tech they also provided us with the Nebula Cluster Mega Bomb. The Greys introduced humanity to a theoretical weapon, the black hole bomb. This could possibly destroy its hull, hopefully, killing it. Now we had a chance. Truman gathered countries who were capable of launching such a missile and thus Operation Scholar went live. Project Scholar has recruited some of the best minds in science to aide in researching and observing its pattern. Saving Grace went on to have 20 years of nothing but watching as it ravaged the stars. We contacted the dominating alien dynasty in the Andromeda with help in this project. Scholar was based around simply observing our enemy, Operation God Killer was set in place to kill it. The reptilian like species who refer to themselves as Yigthanians aided Earth in creating Revaltions, a black hole bomb. We worked in coordination defying our previously thought limits of technology in a revolutionary collaboration. Humanity couldn’t celebrate with us. The Yigs helped us developed 10ft thick mirrors to surround a black hole, an electromagnetic ray orbiting one of their moons would fire a ray inside the sphere. The combination of the ergosphere and the mirrors would carry the ray at impossible speeds, with precise aiming we could release this beam with devastating effects. This weapon is our last chance to stop this beast in its tracks. Until 1969 we had nothing really to show for the countless man hours put into this project. That was until it made contact with us. It somehow telepathically contacted a subject of MK-Ultra causing the poor woman to go insane. It filled her head with everything it’s experienced in its life span. It originated from the center of the universe and has lived through 9 other universal resets. After communicating with one of the women involved with the project it communicated with one of our scientists. It learned all our secrets. It knows about our last hope. Since then we’ve not been able to locate or communicate with it. The current date is January 12th, 2021 and we’ve lost all contact with the Yigs. Breaking news reports have broke out across the world of the sun being blocked out by something huge accompanied by loud sirens. It’s here.


I hold the photograph tight in my hands, weeping. I will never see them again. I study the photo, tracing my fingers along the white creases of use. It's been folded and tucked hundreds of times but now maybe never again. That day was warm and cheery. The perfect day to depart from Earth with a lasting memory of the way life felt. Life was in everything on Earth. It greeted you in the mornings with songs of the wild. It caressed you in the rivers of the world. It captured and pulled you into it's overwhelming fullness. It was a place to love and become accustomed to. A place to live and a place to die. And here I am trapped and alone with nothing but steel cold walls to mock my existence, my life. No hope and no way out. My crew dead or dying and soon I will follow. Soon I'll float endlessly in a metal coffin touring the Galaxy. The creak of the steel awakens me from my stupor. I pull myself on a beam, propelling my body towards the window. I see a mass of blue hues expand the length of the window. Wreckage spans before me in an array of debris. The last of the ship that would've pioneered the way for generations to come. All lost now. I see in the far distance hunks of ship exploding and rocketing towards the unknown planet before me larger than before. Getting closer...too close. "Daddy! Daddy!" I turn quickly from the window to see my 4 year old boy. "Daddy do you want to play with me?" The tears bleed from my eyes, grouping in droplets in front of me. I swat them away in grief and anger. How could my little boy be here, in this place. I see his face but I know it isn't real. Still I drink it in and float before him. I look into his blue eyes and remember. It is unbearable. My loss is complete. I will never see my family and will never play with my boy again. I will never hold him high in the air to fly. He loved that. He used to tell me that he wanted to fly like iron Man and I would lift him in the air turning in circles until his laugher filled my ears. I looked at my son, my soul on fire. "Yea buddy, let's play." "Can I Fly daddy?" the ghost asked. My hands drift up to reach under his arms but there is no resistance and my hands simply move past his arms. I look away in dismay towards the air sealed door. The alarm lights flashing, indicating a breach to the ships infrastructure. (I will not escape this. I can either die the way the universe decides or I can die my way. I can die like a intergalactic space ranger.) I walk to the air sealed doors, glaring out the window at the gas giant before me. One small man facing a giant. I lay my finger on the emergency breach button. I look at the photo one more time showing a laughing father and son. My hands lifted high above while my sons arms stick out in front of him in the superhero fashion. He was wearing his iron man suit. "Let's fly now, son. Let's fly" I push the button.


Even though it had been going on for such a long time, I still couldn’t help but marvel at what was happening before me. At who was standing before me. But somehow, even after all of this, I couldn’t bring myself to think that I would’ve wanted my life to be any different. He stared at me sadly, anguish clear in his crystal blue eyes. He gazed into my eyes for a while longer, until he softly raised his hand to my face, gently caressing my cheek. “Goodbye,” he whispered.

Tears formed in my eyes, spilling over as I tried in vain to not break out sobbing. I could barely stand it - not going to him and begging him to stay. I didn’t want to say it; speaking it would make it seem all too real. But I knew that could very well be the last time I would ever see him. “Goodbye.” Somehow I managed to choke out the word, even if every fiber in my being didn’t want this to happen, for it to play out the way that it has. He smiled back at me sadly, as if he could somehow hear what I was thinking. Carefully and slowly, he pulled away from our embrace and, with one final look, walked out the door. I slumped down into my bed, trying to hold back the waterfall of tears I knew was going to come. That single word rang mercilessly in my mind. Goodbye .

“Lana. Lana? LANA!!” A voice shouted, snapping me out of my daydream. I looked around, dazed as I tried to remember where exactly I was. Jane stood in front of me, angrily snapping her fingers in front of my face. I scowled and shoved her hand out of my face, effectively ending her yelling. Jane frowned at me, most likely wondering what I was thinking about. However, even though she is my best friend, there are still some things that I cannot tell her. Some things that I cannot bear to share. She stared at me a while longer, seeming to try to get me into speaking my thoughts aloud without actually saying anything, but after a while of staring at me with no results she gave up. As well she should, for as my best friend and closest employee, Jane should know when it’s not the time to pry. She sighed off her irritation and continued with what I assume was what she was talking about before I had drifted off, listing all of the meetings that I had to attend and all of the places I needed to be. “Remember, you have an appointment at 12:30 with the CEO of Lang Enterprises, so make sure that you have all of the notes from yesterday's appointment with their ambassador. Your mother will be swinging down at 10:00 to discuss it, and remember that we have still not made a deal with Lang Enterprises so we must move carefully; we can’t afford losing their business to the Grays.” She spoke quickly, moving through my schedule that she had mapped out in her head. I flinched ever so slightly at the mention of the Grays. I couldn’t imagine her not noticing. Hopefully she just passed it on as disgust or perhaps even revulsion over my family’s most formidable business rivals. But it’s not like our family would ever say that in public. In front of other people’s eyes we were quick to assure anyone with a hint of doubt that our family was the one with the better business, the family with the upper hand. As she continued talking, I decided to release my hair from its tight bun and leave it as something more comfortable. A ponytail, perhaps.

Jane continued to prattle on and on about my schedule, but I couldn’t bring myself to listen. “Speaking of the Grays,” she said hesitantly, “Did you hear that Jason Gray got shipped off to the war?” She spoke the last part quickly, as if fearing my reaction, for my reactions have not always been pleasant when bringing up the Grays. However, she was definitely not expecting the reaction I gave. I stopped trying to pull my hair into a ponytail, dropping my hair in shock. My wavy brown hair fell down into my face, something that I do not particularly enjoy, but at that moment, absolutely nothing seemed to matter. Everything inside me just froze. “No,” I gasped, trying to remember how to breathe.

I could vaguely hear Jane calling my name, trying to snap me back into reality, but I blocked her out, knowing that I could only focus on one thing. The words that broke my heart in half. Unwanted memories started showing themselves to me, bringing me to many months in the past. I sat at the board meeting, feeling immensely annoyed as he kept speaking, talking the head of Cards for Kiddies out of lending their business to ours, and instead moving it to his family’s business. I rolled my eyes as he shook hands with the business woman, effectively sealing the deal, making sure that he saw my dramatic movement. He smirked at me, irritating me to no end, and I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out like a five year old. “Lana? Lana?” Jane sounded panicked, but the memories kept rolling past like a movie.

I sat at the bus stop with my head tucked between my knees, crying as the rain fell down on my head. I couldn’t believe it; after so many years of being with him, thinking that he was the one, all of those years down the drain. I knew that I must have looked pathetic, a 20 year old woman crying alone, in the rain at night, but I couldn’t seem to get up. I sat there sobbing until all of a sudden, the rain stopped pounding down on my head. I looked up, confused to find him, Jason Gray of all people, standing in front of me holding an umbrella over my head. He gazed at me a while longer until he sat down beside me, wrapping his arms around me as I cried.

“Lana? Lana?”

I walked with him, happily swinging our arms back and forth with our fingers intertwined. I couldn’t think of a better place to be. Then, in the middle of our walk, he stopped before the garden of roses. I stared at him, bewildered as he gently plucked one of the roses and placed it softly in my hair. He smiled at me and said, "Even the most wonderful flower has nothing on your beauty,” I gasped as he slowly got down on one knee, presenting me with the most beautiful ring I had ever seen.

The memories rushed past with even more force, until finally stopped on one of the most recent memories. And one of the most painful. I sat with him, feeling content as I dreamt of all the happy days to come. It didn’t bother me anymore, the fact that we weren’t supposed to be together. That we were supposed to hate each other, that we were supposed to be fighting every time we laid eyes on each other. However, sometimes I couldn’t help but stare at him and wonder how I could’ve gotten so lucky. I smiled at him as he turned around and gasped as I saw the expression laid out on his face. I had never seen that amount of pain on anyone’s face until that day. I hadn’t thought it was possible.

I stared at him in shock as I waited for his explanation. Tears escaped his eyes as he spoke his tale aloud. He said, “My father was not always a businessman. He was once a war hero, fighting for what was right. And he decided many years ago that I would follow in his footsteps.” I swallowed noisily, trying to shove down the lump that was forming in my throat. “He said that I would be sent off to train in the military.” I didn’t know what to do, what I could say. I tried to think of an excuse to keep him here, any excuse. But I knew that once Jason’s father made a decision, there was no changing his mind. That was what made his business such a huge success.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. “But there is no war. Doesn’t that mean that you don’t have to go?” He shook his head sadly. “No Lana, I still have to go. The good part is that there is no war, so all I will have to do is train. The bad part is that I will have to stay for four years.” Four years. I couldn’t believe it; it had to be a dream. However, I knew that I couldn’t have imagined the amount of agony shown on his face. “As long as you don’t get hurt.” I whispered, trying to think optimistically. That was, without a doubt, what I wanted for him. To not get hurt. I knew that that was not all that I wanted. I knew that I wanted him to say no and to stay with me. But I knew that wasn’t an option. I knew that this would be the best outcome we could possibly get.

All of a sudden I was brought back to the present, with Jane’s face hovering over me once again. Last time she was annoyed. Now she was worried. “Elana Penelope DeCreak, what is up with you today?” She asked, pulling the full name card. All I could manage to choke out were two words. “What war?” Jane frowned at me once again, now most likely feeling both worried and annoyed, but she continued to answer my question. “The Republic of Esperanto. One of the deadliest places you could ever be in. They just declared war and the USA is sending out everyone they can to fight them off, including Jason.” I could practically feel myself falling apart at the seams, tearing like a ratty old shirt. The Republic of Esperanto?! Why did that have to be the one place for him to go, the one place that my fiancé had to go. That is why I ran.

I ignored Jane shouting behind me, the heads in the office turning, wondering what was going on and ran out of the office until I finally stopped at my house. I wish I could say that I got over it, that I was strong enough to handle it. But that would be a lie. The days blurred into each other, passing by at the speed of a jet plane flying quickly across the sky. I doubt that I stayed in my house for anything less than two months. I eventually learned to block out everyone else’s voices, pleading for me to leave and to rejoin society. I knew that I would only listen to one voice, the voice that was as good as dead. I stayed there for a while until I finally fell into a routine; get up, make a quick breakfast, read on my Kindle, make lunch, read some more, make dinner, fall asleep and the next day repeat it again.

After going on like this for days on end, I finally awoke one morning to find Jane standing in my room, peering down at my once sleeping face. I screamed in terror, staring at her with the lower half of my jaw hitting the floor. She simply rolled her eyes as I continued on my yelling until she finally put her hand over my mouth. “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to speak through her hand like a muffle over my face. She sighed. “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve been hiding out in your house for days, and your parents threatened that if you don’t come out in the next two days they will fire you. So, naturally I climbed through your window to tell you, since you didn’t have the decency to return my calls.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. I flopped back down into my bed and under the covers, ignoring another one of Jane’s famous eye rolls. “I don’t care about my job.” I grumbled. Jane groaned and before I even had time to wonder what she was doing, she shoved the sheets right off of my bed. “Hey!” I protested, sitting up once again. She acted like she didn’t hear me and stared at me seriously. “Elana Penelope DeCreak, if you don’t get out of your bed and outside in the next five minutes I am telling everyone about your secret romance with Jason Gray.” Now that caught my attention. I bolted straight up on my bed, staring incredulously into her eyes. “How do you know about that?” I asked, surprised.

She stared at me a while longer, and all of a sudden she burst out laughing. She continued laughing for such a long time until I began to feel self-conscious. “What?” I demanded, my cheeks warming red. She finally stopped laughing and looked at me for a while, wiping the tears away from her eyes. “Lani, darling, I say this with love. You are the worst secret keeper I have ever met.” My face felt like it was on fire, which only made Jane laugh ever harder. I threw one of my pillows at her, which she dodged easily, and buried my face into another one of my pillows, desperately trying to hide my embarrassment.

I tried to summon up the rest of my courage and sat back up in my bed.“You know what?” I managed. “If you came here just to make threats and to accuse me of being a bad secret keeper, which I am not, I think that you will just have to leave.” I remember that I felt very proud of myself at the time for acting so put-together, but only for my pride to crumble down as I saw my words had no effect on Jane, which was clear from the fact that she was smiling and still in my room . I frowned and opened the door to the hallway, gesturing for her to leave.

At last she stopped smiling and finally looked apologetic. “Hey, look Lani, I’m sorry. But I know what can make you feel better. All you have to do is leave the house for a bit and I’ll lead you. You don’t have to do anything except follow.” I looked at her feeling skeptical, wondering if she was joking, only to find that she was in fact telling the truth. She really wanted to show me something. I could feel my irritation slipping away until I finally sighed. “Alright,” I said resignedly. “I’ll go with you. But it’d better be something good.” I wasn’t going to forgive her that easily.

After I had gotten up and taken a shower, only because of Jane’s begging (I didn’t smell that bad Jane!), I got all dressed up with Jane as my guide. When she eventually decided that none of my clothing was good enough, she quickly left to retrieve some clothes from her house. When she returned I could barely refrain from gaping at the dress in her hands. From the stitching down to the lovely red fabric-it was absolutely gorgeous. After staring wide-eyed at the dress a while longer, I then turned my gaze to Jane curiously.

“Where could we be going where I would need to wear that? ” Jane smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.” I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t continue to ask. After putting on the dress and letting Jane do my make-up, I slowly walked down the sidewalk in front of my house until something occurred to me and I looked back at my house shocked. This was it. I was actually leaving my house. Jane honked the horn of her car impatiently. “Come on,” she shouted. I took a deep breath and, with a final look back at the house, I walked up to Jane’s car and sat down with my legs crossed in the seat.

I gazed out of the window, watching the trees and houses fly by until we eventually stopped at a garden. Jane walked out of the car and opened the door for me, waiting for me to get out. I turned around, ready to ask what we were doing here when I saw that Jane was getting back in the car. “Where are you going?” I asked Jane as panic threatened to overtake me. I didn’t know if I could stand to be there, the place where Jason proposed when he was away, risking his life not knowing if he was going to make it back home alive. Jane registered my emotions and quickly ran over to hug me. “It’s all going to be okay,” she murmured softly. “I promise. However, you need to go there.”

I was struck by the sudden ferocity in her voice, but I knew better than to argue. Then, with one parting look, she drove away. I started walking forward, wandering through the garden until I finally stopped at the garden of roses, the exact spot where Jason had proposed. I gazed at the flowers for a while longer until I heard a quiet voice. “Hey Lana.” I whirled around in shock. It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t. But there he stood. He was definitely different; he was walking on crutches with his leg in bandages and he had a new short scar marring his cheek. However, I knew exactly who he was, no matter how different he looked. He still had his crystal blue eyes and was still as handsome as ever.

I ran forward to him and embraced him in the tightest hug I could hold, causing him to wince. “Woah there Lani, not so tight.” But he was laughing the whole time. I pulled back from him and stared into his eyes, his beautiful, beautiful eyes. “You’re back,” I whispered softly. I then wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him for a very long time.


Max came from a very religious family, but the beliefs that his parents held so dearly were not such that he wanted to claim as his own. They were both deemed ‘survivors’ of a residential school that was run by strict Christian missionaries who strived to drive the Indigenous beliefs out of the hearts and minds of their students. That had worked with his parents, but not many others of their generation. They were regular church-goers who had forced him as a child to attend church services at least twice a week.

One Friday, when Max turned sixteen, they told him that it was time for him to exercise his choice as a young man as to what his religion would be. While he reckoned that they believed that he would make a choice that followed their beliefs, he was still rather surprised that they would let him choose on his own. There were people in the community that lived according to the ‘old ways’ as his parents called it, clearly speaking of something that they did not fully understand. There was one old man in particular, who lived on the outskirts of the reserve, an Elder, whom Max knew that other people would go to for knowledge about their traditional culture. He was not known by his ‘colonial name’ of John Harvey. No one called him that. People simply called him Maskwa, which meant ‘bear’ in the traditional language.

So, on Saturday, Max went to see him, bringing tobacco as a gift, as he had seen people do that when they wanted to learn something from an Elder. Maskwa gave Max instructions as to what he needed to do to find his religion.

Max Tells His Parents a Lie Not long before supper time, Max came home to tell his parents that he was going to his friend Jim’s place for supper and to stay for a few days. This was not a usual practice with him, so they wondered about it. Still, they said nothing about it, didn’t ask him any questions. They knew that Jim’s family were Christians. And they knew that Max did not like to explain to them why he did what he did. Max quickly gathered up a knapsack full of stuff, strapped it on, and left with only a short ‘goodbye’. After he was gone, they noticed that he had left his cell phone behind. This too was unusual. The next morning, it being Sunday, Max’s mother Mary called Jim’s place to see whether he would be going to church with them. While he didn’t often do that these days, in his parents’ hopeful minds, there was always a possibility that he would.  When she called, she spoke with Jim’s mother, who told her that Max had not had supper with them, and that he wasn’t staying with them. Max’s parents became worried. They knew so many stories about Indigenous youth, even some of the kids in their community, who started taking drugs, then disappeared or died. When they went to church that morning, their prayers were for the safety of their son. Max on his Own Max was on his own in the woods. He had never fasted before, but it was what Maskwa had told him to do. Now he had gone over a day without eating. He felt that all his senses were incredibly vivid.  Maskwa had told a story to him of how he had gone on a vision quest when he was about Max’s age, and has ‘seen his future’, as Maskwa put it..  Max wasn’t sure about whether or not he would have a vision.  And what could it say about his future? It was morning now, and although he had slept little the night before, he felt wide awake. He was glad that he had been able to find the spot that Maskwa had told him about – at a curve of the river, where there were a few fallen trees with their roots sticking out. After describing the place, Maskwa told Max that the young man’s grandfather had been a carver of figures of small animals. His parents hadn’t told him much about his dad’s father, who died when Max was too young to get to know him. Max had long admired the carved figures that were around the home, but never was told and never had asked who had carved them.  After Maskwa had told Max about this essentially invisible grandfather, he handed him a knife, saying ‘See what you can do with this.’ Max had thought that strange at the time. But having nothing else to do, and to distract him from his hunger and his wondering whether he would have a vision, he cut off some roots. Then he started carving, with no particular shape or object in mind for him to form. It occupied his mind and was kind of fun. He was just enjoying the process, something of a surprise to him. The next morning, he felt his senses enhanced even more. As he sat down on a log, beginning, before he began to carve, he heard something, a kind of rustling in the bush. He would swear that he could smell it as well, the pungent smell of fur. At first, when he looked, he saw nothing. Then he saw a black object that he could gradually recognize as a bear cub. In one of the few words that he knew in the traditional language of his people, it was called maskosis (‘little bear’). He could see it clearly now. It seemed to be looking directly into his eyes, like it was trying to read his mind. It kind of unnerved Max, so he closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, the bear cub was gone. But the sight of the maskosis filled his mind. It gave him an idea. He would try to carve a figure of the little one. He worked and he worked at it, with the picture in his mind guiding him along the way. When he completed his carving, he was happy with what he saw in front of him. That would be the first. He carved two more that day, all guided by the mental picture of the maskosis. Feeling a sense of completion, late in the afternoon he headed to Maskwa’s place. The Elder gifted him with a great smile when he saw the little carved bear cubs. Max gave him the first one he had done. Then Maskwa said to him, “Your new name will be Maskosis. Now go to your parents and tell them what has happened to you over the last few days.” Max’s Parents and Their Concern            Max’s parents had grown more and more worried as the time passed without their seeing or hearing from their son. He had been listless and lost over the last few months, and they were concerned that his life had held no direction. That was why they had told him that it was time for him to find his religion.            Then he appeared, a smile on his face, and two objects in his hands. They were happy to see him when he arrived back home. They could even see that a change had taken place, a change for the better.            Max handed them the remaining two carved bear cubs. His father, Michael said, “You have inherited your grandfather’s skill”. Max could not remember the last time he had heard his father speak of his own father. The couple were initially very quiet and somewhat straight-faced when he told them of what he had been doing, and why. It was a practice that had been harshly condemned at the residential school that they both had attended. But Mary, after thinking of the opening lines from one of her favourite hymns, faced her husband and mouthed without speaking: “God works in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform”. She then turned to her son and said, “It appears that you have found your religion in the ways of our ancestors. It has done you good. But that does not mean that you can’t go to church with us some Sundays. There we will call you Max, but we will use the name that Maskwa gave you, Maskosis, when you are carving here at home. It is your God-given gift.”

Top of Form


She notices the kitten around noon. Black cat or not, whether her friends whisper about misfortune following her in to form of an animal, Maria doesn’t really see a reason to make it into something bigger than it is. An animal. The cat’s too tiny to be intimidating, to be some harbinger, an omen designed to resign a person to their upcoming downfall. Having watched it creep forward on legs too thin to support its own paws, fur matted and patchy, there was less worry about it having hold over any misfortune other than its own. So, Maria doesn’t mind. She feels bad, of course she does, but there’s not really much she can do to help it. It skitters every time she tries to step nearer, hisses if she bends down within personal space that is not her own. The kitten watches her, weary, but it does not come closer. “Don’t you find it creepy?” Rhiannon whispers, as they both head to the greenhouses. As the creature treks beside them, leaping towards the walls and paws digging into the grooves between each brick, almost ethereal with the way it glides forward, cushioning each step with a bounce against the pad of each paw. It is almost unnatural, the grace with which it glides with. “What?” “That thing,” Rhiannon continues, “It’s just staring at you with those beady little eyes it has.” Maria shrugs, holds the door open, partly for her friend, and mostly so the kitten can dart inside, tail brushing past her leg in a way that leaves her own hair standing on edge. It feels like anticipation. “She’s cute.” “Not the word I’d use,” Rhiannon whispers, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “And she? Y ou know the moment you start thinking of it as anything other than an it , you’ll get weirdly attached.” Stepping further into the greenhouse, Maria lets the door swing closed behind her. It gasps as it closes, a rough release of air, breathless, leaving her alone to the humidity of the greenhouse. Glasses foggy, with only the sound of Rhiannon’s mistrust and the slightest hint of a mewl from the kitten, Maria rubs at the lenses with her sleeves. She stops half step, turns in the direction of the cat, and pushes her glasses back up the rim of her nose. “Doesn’t she sound cute?” “Oh no,” Rhiannon says now. “You’re already attached, aren’t you?” Maria hums. She scoops a trowel from the floor, places it with the other tools, and heads towards where the kitten is watching her. She holds her hand out, hoping this time, the creature will sniff, maybe butt a cold nose against the sensitive part of her palm. She doesn’t. The cat simply blinks and lets out another mewl. Maria glances around – shadows follow her, her own, not her own, the greenhouse blurring plant and human life together, filled to the brim with shade – and spots a small bowl. She’ll need to warn people about picking the strawberries again. “What can I say?” Maria muses, scooping the bowl up and heading towards the water line. The lever lets out a low groan as she turns it clockwise, water spluttering out in short bursts, like something is caught inside. Behind her, the kitten’s mewl increases in volume. “I really love cats.” She fills the bowl, places it beside potted hydrangeas. Mauve petals clump together, bristled by whiskers as the cat comes closer. It pauses before the plate, whiskers twitching as it sniffs, making sure the water inside the bowl is safe. “There’s a difference between liking cats and liking trouble.” “Really?” For a moment, all she can feel is disappointment. Mouth parting, Maria can’t find the right words. She removes her glasses instead, rubs at them for something to do. As if taking off her glasses will leave Rhiannon blind to her furrowed brow, the way she teethes at her lip, trying to hold off on saying anything. “What…?” “You think she’s trouble?” Maria points to the cat, to where its started lapping up water, tongue flicking out, pale and raw. It drinks with a ferocity that makes her wilt more that the petunia’s they’d come down to re-plot and try to save. “She’s just a kitten.” Rhiannon scoffs, “Please, the only people who like black cats are witches and fools. Which one are you?” There’s something about how set she is in her superstitions that leaves Maria rolling her eyes. When they’d been kids, it’d been admirable, but they’re older now, and it’s just frustrating. “Oh, because black cats are magical, right?” The concept is laughable. The colour of a cat’s fur dictating magic. So what? Black cats see the future and white cats add extra years to your life if you see one? It’s all a load of nonsense. “They’re only ever around when they’re taunting you with a poor future?” Maria asks. The concept sets her teeth on edge, molars grinding together. “They’re called omens for a reason Maria.” Logic it seems, is going out the window. Obviously, her friend is insane. “Okay fine, I’ll bite.” Rhiannon arches an eyebrow. “So lets just say black cats – not any other cat, only the black cat – somehow have clairvoyance and can see the future. Why are they only seeing the bad things?” Rhiannon opens her mouth. Maria raises her hand in response, continuing regardless. “Maybe they’re seeing good things too, and they’re symbols of great fortune? ” She lowers her hand. Still thinking, considering. “Why, even if they were stuck seeing disasters only, would they want to taunt you about it?” She’d say that cats aren’t evil like that, but when Maria had turned three, her older brother Rowan had brought home a little tabby, who’d found joy in being an asshole. “Why when it comes to seeing the future,” Maria asks, “do people assume that the creature with the foresight is intrinsically devious?” “They’re not exactly helping though, are they?” “Maybe they’re offering a warning.” She pauses. This time when she reaches forward, the kitten presses her nose against the tips of Maria’s fingers, allows matted fur to scratch against her skin. “Not taunting but letting you know that you should try a different route.” “That’s a load of nonsense.” Kettle? The pot is calling. “Well things only go wrong when people ignore the black cat, right?” Rhiannon doesn’t answer. “Exactly,” she sighs, “you can’t deny it.” Holding her other hand out, she brushes her hands across the kitten’s body. Wincing at the feel of unhealed scabs and scar tissue along its spine. The poor thing needs a vet, not suspicion. “And who knows, maybe they’re misfortune to us. But we’re fortune to them?” There’s a pause. “I’m taking her.” Maria leans forward, scoops the kitten into her arms. A quiet hiss with no fire to it echoes through the greenhouse. “I don’t really care about luck.” Rhiannon rolls her eyes. “You think you’re Mum will let you keep her?” “Not without a name.” She brushes a finger under the kitten’s chin, lips tugging upward as she feels the vibrations of a purr against her arm. Sated, safe. “Mum might refuse a random kitten, but she’s not going to leave Mallory for the street.” “Mallory?” “Yeah.” Maria sighs. “It’s kind of a fitting name considering. Don’t you think?”


I guess since I’m the guy that started it all, I’m the best person to document it. Maybe I can amass a huge fortune and leave it to my family some day (ha!). I certainly haven’t gotten anything good out of it otherwise, aside from my fifteen minutes of fame and a lot of sleepless nights. Am I supposed to be writing this? Did I make the choice, or did someone make it for me? Is this what happens every time? For a guy with no answers, I sure have a lot of questions.™ (That trademark symbol isn’t a joke, BTW, my attorney suggested I trademark it since I was saying it so much. It never sold any T-shirts, but my lawyer probably got a nice boat). OK, future family of mine, or maybe some Papua New Guinea tribesman who still hasn’t heard the news, let’s start at the beginning. February 3rd, 6:43 PM. That’s what my search history said, and that’s what Wikipedia says now, too. Wikipedia doesn’t mention that I was looking at porn thirty minutes earlier, and neither do I, except I feel like I need to put some things in here that everyone doesn’t know yet, you know, for the sake of historical accuracy. I won’t say what kind of porn because even I’ve got limits, plus what if my mom reads this someday? Hi Mom! The Awakening is what they call it now. More like The Confusining, because that’s how it started and that’s what it still is. Fucking confusing. And now even more so. But I’m jumping ahead. I was browsing Imagazine, as one does after a good fap fest, and while swiping through pictures of cats doing stupid cat shit and people doing stupid people shit (all of it all the more stupid now) I found a picture of me as a kid. *WTF*, I thought, *who is posting pics of me online? *But it wasn’t a picture I’d seen before. This kid was spraying a dog with a hose, and we didn’t have a dog. Heck, we didn’t even have a hose, since I grew up in an apartment. I put my name into the comments voicing my indignation and demand for royalties (even in my pre-attorneyed state I knew that I was entitled to my fair share of stupid shit money). The picture taker responded that it wasn’t me, it was his younger brother. Well I’ll be damned, I said, we look exactly alike. Maybe he’s my long lost cousin or something. Maybe, he agreed, and we started exchanging some details in the comments—not a lot, it’s a public forum and all, but I ain’t got much to hide (aside from my search history, sorry Mom). For whatever reason it got a little attention, and that’s when someone (WizardLick418, historians take note) said, ‘gee, isn’t that funny, I recently found a picture that looked just like me as a kid, too!’ He posted a couple links and sure enough, the resemblance was uncanny (when is it ever canny?). Then the floodgates opened. Seemed everyone was seeing people who looked just like they did as kids. It didn’t take long before people started really searching. Videos were posted of people confronting their younger selves. It got on the news (although Fox declared it to be a scam by the Democrats to somehow allow immigrants into the country as relatives). A few children were abducted by parents of kids who’d gone missing years before, and who could blame them? Some nutjobs online started called for violence, which thankfully was a pretty unpopular opinion, but probably only because they were all kids. The internet is the only thing that allowed us to figure it out. Maybe it’s been going on forever—plenty of people are arguing over that idea, but no one really knows for sure. I think most people are too scared to look too deeply into it at this point. A woman named Melissa tracked down her *doppelkinder* (as they called them) and persuaded her parents to allow her to undergo some testing. Tests were done. Genealogy was geneaologied. People way smarter than I am scienced the shit out of it. Turns out they were the same person. Not twins separated at birth, or cousins. They had identical DNA. They had the same mannerisms. Confusingly and terrifyingly, *doppelkinder* almost always had the same name as their older counterparts, although the parents didn’t have anything in common. To say the world shat itself would be an understatement. People stopped going to work almost immediately. The Imagazine servers collapsed under the weight of people searching among billions of photos looking for themselves (it didn’t take long before some nerds automated that, which only made the problem—every problem—worse). The stock markets tanked worldwide, which is apparently what they always do when something unexpected happens, and if anyone had noticed it sooner maybe this wouldn’t have taken so long to figure out. It’s estimated that several million people committed suicide for Gods-only-know what reason, although they’ll almost certainly be back. It’s weird how you can go through life and not notice all of the things that happen over and over again without giving it any thought. Fractals used to just be a trippy thing you’d look at on your computer when you were buzzed out of your mind on Jolt cola at one o’clock in the morning. Scientists figured out they applied in nature somehow with nautilus shells and trees and sunflowers, but it wasn’t until I saw myself squirting a dog with a hose that people started really considering the ramifications. Turns out *everything* was some sort of fucking fractal: Traffic lights. The patterns your coffee makes when you stir it. Probably the sound waves of all of the farts in Notre Dam are some sort of repeating pattern that we could figure out if we had enough sample points. I think that’s what did it, really: sample points. All the data of eight billion people living on a planet and having lives. Going to jobs populated with people named Kristi (always with an i), making stir fry for dinner but forgetting to buy leeks, obsessing over what color leather to put into the dream car you keep configuring on a website, but can never afford. You know, doing stupid people shit. We overwhelmed the system and fucked up some data buffer and overwrote some protected memory and suddenly people were repeating. The system was conserving resources. The fact that we’re all living in a simulation is now mostly accepted as reality (that sounds so strange), although a certain percentage of the population denies it (8.473333333 repeating as it turns out). Theologians and philosophers are going to spend an eternity trying to figure out the ramifications of it all. Things are getting back to normal now, and people are back to chatting with Kristi about what it all could mean. Meanwhile, in what is almost certainly not random chance, I, the man who first brought about The Awakening, made another discovery yesterday morning as I made my coffee: there is no longer milk.


Evan Clark got on the empty elevator on floor nineteen. He had been putting off leaving work, dreading his next destination, and he was running late. He tapped his foot and stared around the elevator impatiently.

To his great dismay, the elevator stopped at floor seventeen to welcome an extremely frazzled looking Brianna Cowell, whom Evan did not recognize.

Long moments of silence passed, anxiety emanating from both bodies in equal force. Little did they know, the possibility of either getting where they were headed on time had already disappeared. Disappeared with the building’s power, that is. This fact hit like a load of bricks when the elevator crashed to a halt. “No… no, no, no, no, no…” Bri muttered, looking around the small room in a panic.

Evan sucked in a heavy breath. “I think we’re stuck,” he said, pulling out his phone to discover the absence of signal. “The power’s gone out. We’ve got to trigger the alarm.” However, Bri was already ahead of him, and violently slamming her thumb into the silver button. Spotting her frustration, Evan became concerned and put a hand near her arm in an attempt at comfort. “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll get out of here,” he said, in the gentlest voice he could muster. He felt like he was speaking to a child, though Bri was barely younger than him. In response, she groaned and curled up in the elevator corner. Bri knew she was acting like a child, but her embarrassment had taken the back burner. Hot tears of frustration rolled immediately down her cheeks, hidden in the heels of her hands. Tardiness, whether it was her fault or not, would surely cost her a chance at this job. Evan was alarmed, unsure how to react. Should he try to comfort her, put a hand on her shoulder, or would that just make her feel worse? In the end, he settled on sitting down next to her, not too close, and letting her cry. So she did. For a few long minutes, Bri cried. Every frustration of the last few days had finally caught up with her. When she could finally compose herself, she wiped the back of her hand along her cheeks and turned to Evan. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I’ve just had a really bad few days.” “Yeah?” Evan replied, trying his best to look comforting. “Yeah. I was supposed to have this job interview today, that I really needed. I only graduated two months ago and I’ve had to take money from my freaking parents every few weeks just to support myself. I’ve had to give up on acting. Only two months and I’m already a failure,” she said. Bri’s tears fell quietly now and her voice cracked. Evan hesitated, not sure how to respond. After a few moments, she did it for him. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear about my problems.” “No, no, it’s okay. It’s fine, really. I don’t mind,” Evan replied. Bri offered a small smile in his direction. “What’s your name?” “Brianna. But it’s just Bri. You?” “Hello, Just Bri. I’m Evan,” he said, and she chuckled. A long, thick pause filled the elevator. “It’s just, it wasn’t supposed to be this way. But my parents were right. I can’t live off them forever. I need to get a real job. A full-time job.

Acting will have to wait.” “Why a full-time job?” Evan asked, unable to help himself. “What?” “Why a full-time job? If you could support yourself with a part-time job, why not do that? Then you could keep acting. It seems like that’s what you really want to do.” Bri shook her head. “No. I need to be an adult now. That’s what adults do. They forget about their stupid dreams and they do something real with their lives. I don’t want to be a waitress or a cashier forever.” “But money isn’t happiness. Would you rather have a job you hate and be miserable but have a lot of money or go for what you want but only have some money?” Bri took a deep, shaky breath. “You sound like every guidance counselor ever,” she chuckled. “But it’s just not that simple. I’ve already decided.” “Just consider it, alright?” Evan caught her eye and waited for her to agree. “Alright, fine,” she agreed. “Anyway, what about you? Where were you going?” Evan blushed and turned away. “Nothing huge. Just a date.” “Really?” “It’s just a blind date. I haven’t gone out with anyone since…” he caught himself. “Since what? Come on, I spilled my guts to you, didn’t I?” Bri teased. “Since my girlfriend broke up with me. Two months ago.” “Not very long…” “Nope,” Evan agreed. “Was it serious?” He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, it was serious.” “So why so soon?” asked Bri, her brows knitting together in concern. “Well, I haven’t gotten any better since Claudia ended things. I thought I would, but I haven’t. I still miss her just as much. So I’m trying to move on. I thought it would be the healthy thing to do.” “Why’d she end things?” “A big fight. She said she was quitting her job, and it made me mad because she had worked so hard for it, and I was angry. I said some things I shouldn’t have, and she ended it,” Evan explained, staring into space. His mind was far away, back in his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. “If you miss her so much, why don’t you go back to her?” Bri asked. Evan chuckled humorlessly. “I wish it was that simple.” “Isn’t it? You regret what you said, don’t you? And you miss her?” “Of course.” “Then you’ve got to give it a shot. Go to her. Apologize. Maybe you can work things out. Even if she says no, isn’t it worth the risk?” Evan looked Bri in the eye skeptically. “Of course it is! Oh, come on. I don’t even know you and I can tell how much you miss her.” “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Evan sighed. “So skip your date. Drive to her place instead. Show you care.” An idea suddenly lit Evan’s chestnut eyes, and he shifted towards his new friend. “On one condition.” “I’m listening,” Bri replied, amused. Her first real smile in days crossed her features. “If you keep going to auditions, I’ll go after Claudia.” Bri blushed and turned away. “You don’t even know if I’m any good.” “Do you think you are?” “I don’t know.” “Yes or no?” “Sure, I am.” “That settles it then,” Evan finished. He extended his hand for Bri to shake. She watched it quietly, and couldn’t help the smirk growing on her face. One path felt like freedom, the other, misery. The choice was clear. She shook his hand. Only moments later, the power returned, and the elevator brought them to the closest floor. The two were relieved to step onto solid ground, and Bri surprised Evan with a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. “Thank you,” he replied, gently nestling his arms around her. “Go for what you want, okay?” Bri muttered. “You too,” he said, and Bri let go and turned to walk away. Before she had gone ten feet, she turned back. “Good luck,” she said. “See you in the movies,” Evan smiled at her. A smile from ear to ear grew on Bri’s face, and she all but skipped away.


The little dragon was on his way to visit his best friend, the rabbit. As he waded through puddles and happily jumped into any muddy hole he could find, he thought of all the adventures they'd had together. He remembered flying down to the big river with his little friend on his back, splashing around in the water, seeing who could skip stones the farthest. He remembered sneaking out at night to see the stars, staying out until their paws got cold and they got goosebumps all over. He remembered singing little tunes together with their other friends, the doe, the fox and the hedgehog. They'd dance around in the forest, making up new steps for every song. Yes, the little dragon thought, they'd had a marvelous summer! But now, the fall was coming, and as the little dragon felt the fallen leaves crunch under his paws, he wondered if the winter would be just as good. He shook his head. Of course it would! As long as he had his friend Rabbit by his side, everything would be just fine. But when the little dragon got to the rabbit's burrow, his friend was nowhere to be found. “Rabbit?” The little dragon called out, “Where are you?” When he got no answer, the little dragon stuck his snout into the burrow as far as he could. “Rabbit? Are you in here?” It was too dark for the little dragon to see anything, but suddenly he heard the quiet voice of his friend: “I'm sorry, little dragon, but I am very tired. I can't play with you today.” “Oh, that's alright”, said the little dragon, “Rest up. We can play tomorrow.”  The little dragon was sad – he had been looking forward to spending time with his friend. But he understood that rest was important too. So he played by himself for the day, and on his way home, he picked some flowers and put them in front of the burrow. He knew they were Rabbits favorite, and he hoped they would cheer him up so they could play together the next day. But when the little dragon came back the next day, the rabbit was still tired and didn't want to play. “I'm sorry”, he told the little dragon “but I need more time”.  Today, the little dragon was upset. “How can Rabbit still be tired?” he said to himself, as he left the clearing that held the rabbit's burrow. “Didn't he rest all day yesterday? Didn't I bring him his favorite flowers? Why does he still not want to play?” And suddenly, the little dragon got scared.  As he beat his wings in the air, he thought: “What if Rabbit isn't tired at all – what if he is just tired of me? What if he doesn't want to be my friend anymore?” The little dragon started to cry, and his tears fell down to the earth like rain. He was convinced that he had done something wrong. Had he made a mean joke? Had he done something that the rabbit didn't like? Or did Rabbit simply find a better best friend? The little dragon's head was filled with these stormy thoughts all day, while he flew over the fields, forests and rivers of the valley, until he made his way back to his little cave up on a big hill.  But as the little dragon turned to fly home, he spotted his friend the rabbit, sitting in a field with their friend, the doe. And all the bad thoughts the little dragon had during the day seemed to be true. “So he wasn't tired after all!” the little dragon cried. “He just didn't want to see me!” When the little dragon came home, he rolled into a tight little ball and cried all night.  For days, the little dragon barely wanted to get up. He grieved the loss of his best friend. But one evening, his friend the doe climbed all the way up to his cave, and sat down next to him. “Little dragon”, she asked, “Why are you crying?” “Because”, the little dragon sobbed, “Rabbit has grown tired of me”. “Why do you think that?” the doe said, and she sounded surprised. “He doesn't want to see me! He says he is tired, but I know he doesn't like me anymore”, the little dragon cried. And to his anger, the doe started laughing. Outraged, the little dragon reared up, and with smoke puffing out of his nostrils, he shouted, “Why is that so funny? Can't you see how sad I am?” The doe looked at him calmly, and with one last chuckle, she started to explain.  “Little dragon”, she said, “You need to remember. Even though you are still small for a dragon, to a rabbit, you are big and scary. You have sharp teeth, and your claws could carve through the bark of the greatest tree in the forest. The fire in your lungs burns so hot, it can feel dangerous to be close to you. Even for me, it is hard to keep up with you at the best of times. And yet, the Rabbit played with you all summer. That must have been very exhausting. Don't you think he might need to take a break to get back his strength? Otherwise he might not be able to play with you again.”  The little dragon considered the doe's words for a long time. He'd never felt like he was losing strength when he spent time with his friends. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood. “It's like flying for a long time, right? When I fly for hours, my wings get very tired, and I need to rest so I can fly again.” “That's right!”, smiled the doe. And the dragon smiled back at her, for he had realized that he hadn't lost his best friend, he just had to wait for him patiently.  So the little dragon waited. At first, he didn't know what to do with himself. All summer, he'd only played with the rabbit. But the little dragon had other friends – the fox, the hedgehog, the doe, the big owl from the forest, even the squirrel, they all liked to play with him sometimes. So while he waited, the little dragon spent time having new adventures. He raced through the air with the owl, he chased sunbeams with the fox, he searched for acorns with the squirrel, he watched the stars with the hedgehog, and he took long walks with the doe. But he never stopped waiting for the rabbit.  And one night, when the little dragon was lying awake in his cave, he heard a voice call out to him from the bottom of the hill. “Little dragon!” the voice said, “I'm sorry for making you wait. I'm not tired anymore. Do you want to come and play?” And the little dragon stretched out his wings and roared his happiness out into the night. His best friend had rested, and he had returned to him.


On the night of 20th February, 2020, a group of cult members gathered around a large table in a dim lit room. They were assembled to perform the yearly ritual. Each member of the cult was to participate in this ritual, on a specific day. Tonight was her turn. Nobody knew how it originated. Some historians believed that it began in the 19th Century Western Europe. Others traced it back to 15th century Germany. The Greek members of the cult started the use of wax lights. It was meant to honor the goddess Artemis. Since then wax lights have been an integral part of the ritual. A figure emerged from the other room, walking delicately towards the large table. Both the hands held ahead, he was carrying the ‘offering’ for tonight. The way he took each step meant that the ‘offering’ was not to be disturbed, yet. He gently placed the ‘offering’ at the centre of the table. Everyone in the room peered at it. The baby’s face looked adorable. Lying head sideways on the table, fast asleep. It was impossible to not love it. That doughy belly, soft hands and those tiny little fingers. The skin looked so smooth. And to imagine what would happen to it in the next few minutes, a shiver ran down her spine. *‘Why?’* she thought. ‘*Why do we have to do it?’* She was handed over the knife. She accepted it with trembling hands. Wax lights were lit around the offering. One, Two, Three, Four… Nineteen & Twenty. The tradition *had* to be followed. She was nervous. She wasn’t ready for it. ‘*This is taking it too far. We shouldn’t be doing this.’* she thought*.* Everyone around her, though anxious, gave her an encouraging nod. *‘You have to do it’*, was the unanimous call. To her, it felt wrong. Tremblingly, she looked around the room. Even through the eye masks and those stupid hats that everyone wore, tension in them was visible. “It is time,” said the person next to her. ‘*There is no getting away from this*’, she thought. She looked around and asked, “Where?” “The belly,” came a response. She knew what she had to do. She had seen it done countless times. She let out a gust of air from her mouth and the wax lights went off one by one. The knife in her hand moved towards the belly of the baby on the table. The sharp end of the knife pierced the belly and... slush… came out the gooey chocolate. Everyone in the room burst into laughter and started clapping. “This was a wicked, wicked idea,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. Everyone started singing the birthday song. The ritual of cutting cakes continues to this day. When a video of hyper-realistic cakes made by an independent cake artist Luke Vincentini was shared on Facebook. It went viral. He made cakes that looked like a kettle, a soup can, a shoe & a meatloaf. In the video, it was impossible to know that they weren’t the actual objects until a knife came on screen and sliced across it. It was only natural that someone with a dark sense of humor would one day have an idea of a hyper-realistic ‘sleeping baby’ cake.


“Isn’t this romantic?” Guiding her toward the loveseat, ornamented with rose petals just for this occasion, I gestured for her to sit down. Eyeing me, she waited for me to drop the courtliness. Sensing her annoyance already, I backed away in defeat, trudging to my side and collapsing onto it with a huff. She sneered bitterly and sat primly, as usual, always so proper and perfect as if nothing had changed. “Sooo romantic,” she rolled her eyes. Those black callous eyes, the eyes which had once been a beautiful sapphire. The eyes I had once yearned to drown in. Now I wish nothing more than to return to the past. “Auriel, my golden flower, I remember how blissful our life was before,” I paused, hoping to see a crack in her facade, “don’t you?” My hopes held no merit. She stayed silent, inexpressive. Detached. Cold-blooded. “Auriel, please. I know things just aren’t the same, but… can’t we just make the best of this?” Something stirred within her, the fervent flame that had once illuminated our nights with lively laughter but now ignited argumentation. “Make the best of this? *Make the best of this*?” she arose from her chair with surprising grace, as if she were floating despite the anger. “And just how do you expect us to make the best of this, Oro? We’re never alone anymore! We can’t do anything privately! We can’t do anything *normally* anymore!” “Auri, please just *try.* Do it for me. For us–” “*For us?* What is left of us? Everything has been ruined! Ever since…” Her tangent faltered as she finally held contact with me, which is difficult these days. We have been struggling to stay afloat. She could see the pain in my eyes, and I knew she was miserable too: that’s why I try so hard. “It doesn’t matter now, Auri. We can’t change the past. Don’t let the accident change our future. Everything is for a reason. We were meant to be, this was meant to happen. Things are simpler like this anyway, there’s more time for just you and me,” as soon as I said it, I winced. Or did as close to a wince as I could– I still haven’t adapted to this new body. “How could you say that? Just you and me? We are being watched right now! We get no privacy!” gliding toward the glass, Auriel scrutinized her reflection. This is how she often spent her days now, in our new life. “Auriel…” I gently placed my fin on hers, “You’re beautiful. As you always were.” And she was beautiful: her golden scales, her slender fins, those big dark eyes. The eyes that finally held gaze with mine. “As a human or as a fish, Auriel, you have my heart. Please say you’ll make this work with me. Please say we can still have a life together,” my words bubbled in the water of our enclosure. … Outside of the fishbowl, the scientists watched in absolute awe of their newest subjects: the once-human couple caught in the nuclear reactor meltdown radius... that mutated into fish.