I remember walking through NASA's Johnson Space Center when the Mars rover returned with samples of a strange black tar-like substance. I was taking part in some training at NASA when the atmosphere of the whole building shifted as everyone buzzed with the excitement of what the discovery might lead to. This new substance chiseled open jaded imaginations of tired workers. It lit that spark of excitement that seems to have faded out of the engineers and scientists that have been working the same meticulous job for 40 years, and it gave the younger employees a belief in a better future. The discovery of that black sticky substance did to NASA, nay, the world what heroin does to addicts. There was an overwhelming urge to get more. To find out more. A race between all space agencies followed, each hoping to get their hands on this substance. Some dubbed this the second great Space Race. Looking back now, all I can do is laugh at how naive humans are, hindsight is always 20/20. Let's back up and let me tell you who I am. My name is Maya Ayad. I'm currently the youngest female astronaut, having traveled to space when I was just 24. I beat the previous record holder, Valentina Tereshkova by two years. Growing up, space was my one true passion; I'd spend hours reading about the science of space and the stories of the stars. My teenage years were spent in the summer dusk sitting at my computer toggling between Wikipedia pages on the atomic dust and the mythological stories that were born from the constellations as the warm wind would blow in through my open window. I wish then I would have known how special those nights were. As far as I'm concerned now, that feeling was happiness, and it's far away. Currently, the year is 2050, and I'm sitting in a shelter designed to protect people from the Martian atmosphere, the windows open, but there's no air blowing in. Not enough atmosphere here to do that. I have a few layers of insulated clothing on to keep warm on Mars' -60°C weather, and I'm reading Great Expectation by Charles Dickens's while trying not to draw too many similarities between Pip and myself. It on nights like these that I try to tell myself not to long for the past, and remember that however intoxicating nostalgia is, her stories are lies that disguise themselves as comfort, rudely reminding you of what will never be again, in a way so subtle you'll crawl to her feet begging for another hit. Before we get into why I'm hanging out on Mars, let me get you caught up on what happened. Back in 2023, after scientists discovered the power of what the tar could do, it got renamed to MORE- Muscle oxygen replenishing enzyme. MORE acted as a biological catalyst that would break down CO2 (Carbon Dioxide) into C (carbon) and O2, theoretically allowing organic beings to breathe in environments with CO2 levels. This is particularly unusual, seeing as when CO2 decays typically, it does so in a way that requires the least amount of energy to accomplish, also known as the minimum energy path. Hence, decomposed CO2 usually produces CO (Carbon Monoxide) and a lone Oxygen atom. However, the enzyme manages to excite the CO2 atom into a highly excited state, allowing the molecule to break apart in a way the skips the minimum energy path. When tested on animals, it showed that they could survive in environments with high CO2 levels. When the news of what the tar could do, there was a shift in how space agencies ran their operations. scientists, politicians, militaries, and tech companies all saw endless opportunities in the sticky drug. Visions that ranged from a pure intent like helping firefighters to visions that had more malicious intentions. Unfortunately, as with most ground-breaking discoveries, it came as the result of warfare. A cold war between Russia, the USA, and China ensued. The idea of a new material that could potentially enhance humans had the world militaries clamoring for more, nobody wanted to be left behind. Every powerhouse was scrambling to send probes to space to try and retrieve MORE. That's how I got recruited by SpaceX; they believed that although it would be more costly and time-consuming, the benefits of sending a manned probe to Mars to find this substance would be beneficial, in addition to having us set up Habitats so we could start colonizing Mars. Their reason being that rovers are slower at retrieving samples and are more limited by terrain than humans. The crew's youth and physical ability would give SpaceX an edge over other organizations. I guess I was ignorant to believe that, but the idea of being the first person on Mars? Pride’s a bitch, I guess. There were more signs that I should have picked up on, but as I said earlier, hindsight? She's also a bitch. Since I already had my bachelor's degree in civil engineering and various other hard skills under my belt in addition to having just completed my 3 years' worth of experience in a related field when I was recruited, all that was left to do before launch was pass the physical assessment. The prep period wasn't like anything I would have expected it to be. There was a lot less transparency about the trip, with higher-ups keeping vital pieces of information for the crew and I. There were medical assessments almost every day, followed by vigorous physical testing. The crew consisted of some of the most amazing people I'd ever met. I'm not sure why I was surprised. We were all chosen based on our personalities and compatibility. I guess I have that to be grateful for. On the day of the launch, I felt amazing. Everything I had dreamed of was becoming a reality. Of course, I was apprehensive. It would take us about 205 days to get to space. SpaceX mandated physical assessments every day. Blood tests, urine samples, cognitive assessments all had to be quantified and sent back to Earth. I'd never heard of previous astronauts having to do similar tasks, but I'd figured things were different now because of the cold war. We did what we were told. Some days we felt more like soldiers than astronauts. It was the day before we landed that we heard the three chimed tone indicating we had received a message from the Base. I remember reading the words over and over again, it took me a few attempts to really understand the words I was reading. I think mostly because I did not want to understand them. The entire crew who had gathered around to read the message were yelling or crying. I just sat there. I could feel the tears well up. Betrayal pumped through my veins. SpaceX had been thinking about experimenting with the effects of MORE on humans around the time of our launch. They were apprehensive about testing it on humans in fear that it would cause outbreaks. Their solution? They inject the whole crew with a serum of the stuff. Send us all to space. If anything went wrong, we were too far away to harm the rest of the population. It explained the daily medical tests. Still, to this day, I don't understand why they told us the day before decent. Were they not afraid of us refusing to complete the rest of the mission? They still needed us to locate the rest of the enzyme. Unless that was a lie too. Call me cynical, but trust doesn't come easy to me after they pulled that stunt over on us. After landing and readying the Mars habitat, we did discuss the idea of abandoning our mission. Purely out of spite. We decided against it. We were angry, yeah, but what else could we do? We were stuck on Mars; we were all still healthy with no noticeable changes. So out we went, exploring the many subterranean formations that occurred on mars. We spent many days navigating these structures with every evening dedicated to studying the changes that occurred in our bodies. Eventually, we did find MORE. It was packaged and sent back. SpaceX decided to send it back on its own in a sample return canister that is programmed to automatically launch from the Mars Ascent Vehicle at a predetermined optimal launch window for time's sake. Meaning it was necessary we find MORE before the launch window, so naturally, the first part of our mission was dedicated to finding it. The second part of the mission was dedicated to setting up structures for future individuals to come and stay on Mars. After one long day of building with one of my crew members, Ralph noticed his oxygen tank was nearing empty. I guess he'd been overexerting himself. Being the only two out there, I rushed over to him. We had trained for this, sharing oxygen, except we didn't prepare for what would happen if I didn't have enough oxygen to get the both of us back to our base. I had paused to try and figure out a way to get us both back, and that’s when Ralph realized the situation, he desperately resisted my aids. Theoretically, we should be able to breathe on Mars due to the extremely high CO2 levels thanks to the MORE drug we'd been injected with, but no one ever bothered to test it. Not only because if we were wrong, we would suffocate, but the extremely cold temperatures and the corrosive dust would also be a bit of another problem. In a self-righteous attempt to save me, Ralph knowing that I wouldn't leave him there to die, ripped open his face mask. This meant that either he died, and I would not have to share my oxygen, or he could breathe, and I would not have to share my oxygen. After a short period that consisted of me screaming at him for what he'd done, I stopped, and I released that he was just staring at me wide-eyed. Not dead. That's when we realized how much our physiology had changed. After that the crew got curious. Pushing our bodies to see how much we could handle. It was exciting at first. The cold temperatures felt more like -15°C instead of the actual -60°C it was. The chlorine in the dirt, normally corrosive to humans, didn't affect us. Admittedly our tests were not the safest or the most scientific by any means. We were like children who just found out they had superpowers. Back home on Earth, the scientists were just as excited as we were when it came to our new abilities. Teams and teams of scientists would dissect our daily physical examinations that were sent back with reports of the build updates. It was after another long day of labor we heard the three chimed alerts saying we had a message from Earth. Hearing bad news was different this time. Afterward, I'd tried to figure out why the crew's response was so different. We all just sat there. Silent. I think the difference was that we were not angry. We weren't betrayed. There was no rage. All of us just felt deep mourning—a great sense of loss for what we could never have back. We mourned ourselves. The message stated that after analyzing our samples, SpaceX scientists had discovered that our physiological changes had made it so that it is impossible for us to ever return to Earth. If we did, we would suffer oxygen poisoning in addition to water intoxication, which would lead to Hyponatremia within seconds of being exposed to the Earth's atmosphere. So here I am, sitting in the Mars Habitat, window open, reading. Trying to recreate those summer nights on Earth I'm so desperately longing for. I will remain the observer of the great expanse while my memory will become one of the stories in the stars. It's been years since we've been up here now, every trip to Mars brings us food and supplies because we can't grow anything here. As time has gone on, there have been more changes. We can now feel the pull of magnetic north on Mars, admittedly impressive seeing as its magnetic field is much smaller than Earth’s. All our eye sights have improved to the point of 25/20 vision. Hearing and ability to withstand cold temperatures have also improved—all changes we've attributed to MORE. There have been some negative changes too. I'm looking at the scales on my skin, and I wonder how much must change before I am no longer considered human.


    It was one of those blustery August mornings that make you want to sing the color orange, drink too much coffee, and indulge yourself in a book in the park. The sidewalk beneath my feet was a river and I a boat, gliding down all the tributaries I knew so well. I inhaled deeply, feeling a hint of fall on my lips and clean air in my lungs. I loved days like this. The bell of the coffee shop chimed more sweetly than usual when I opened the door. “Hi Kathy!”            “Hey Paul! What are you having today?” she replied sunnily. Kathy always worked on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and always looked as cute as she did right now.            “Just the usual, thanks,” I said, smiling politely. I took my usual seat facing the window, sat down, and pulled out my favorite Dostoevsky. Then he walked in.            He was a tallish man in his mid-forties with graying hair and a suit to match, and while he did attempt to blend in, his demeanor betrayed the light atmosphere of the shop. He appeared intensely serious, focused like a laser, yet when he removed his Ray-Bans I could almost see humanity in those steel eyes. He politely greeted Kathy and ordered a latte.            He didn’t even see me in the corner, I was sure. Not once did he turn his head in my direction, even when he sat with his back to the window and opened the newspaper he had picked up outside.            “Kathy,” I said softly, with a wave. The man looked up briefly – alerted by the sound - then went back to his newspaper.            She served the stranger his latte, then came to tend to me. “What can I do for you?” she said sweetly.            “Could I get a coffee to go? I’m going to the park to read.”            “Sure thing,” she answered. She adjusted her apron, poured my coffee, and set it on my table with a smile.            “One more thing, have you seen that guy before?” I motioned quietly toward the stranger.            “No, I haven’t. I bet he’s new in town or passing through or something.” She shrugged.            I nodded and grabbed my coffee, walking until I heard the happy bell chime again, a little less cheerfully this time.            “Have a good day!” I heard Kathy say after me.            The door started closing. “Thanks, you too!” I waved and floated down the street.            When I found the edge of the park, I could feel the world turning with the chirping of the birds and the laughter of joyful people playing with their Labradors. It was hot now. Shade was welcome, and I located my portion of it on a park bench. The town ran like clockwork, from the joggers in the park to my Saturday coffee runs, though I loved days like this, with smiling faces surrounding me with an aura of superfluous, superficial ecstasy. I knew the pattern by now, even if two parts of that pattern would be absent this Saturday. I shuddered. It wouldn’t do to dwell on my neighbors.            An hour or two passed in peace and quiet. I read a chapter or three of my book.            When I looked at my watch, I saw that it was half-past noon. I ran like clockwork, as usual. I got up from my park bench and started humming Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” and I stretched vigorously. Deciding to survey the park before I took my lunch, I paused a second when I noticed something jumping out of the painting like a rip in a Renoir. Graying hair and a suit to match. He was facing away from me, but I knew it was him again. I felt chills run down my spine.

Even if it is him, it’s a small town and a nice day. This is just a coincidence. I calmed myself with that thought and followed the sidewalk river into the center of town.            “Mayor Smith! How are you?” I called up the street. George Smith was a short, broad man that I liked very well. We had gone through high school and community college together, though I ended up going to a University afterward and he ended up running the town.            He grinned graciously and hurried to shake my hand. “I’ve told you a thousand times to call me George when I’m not working, Paul!” He scolded. He frowned at no one in particular. “Actually, I think you’re right today. I forgot I’m supposed to go to the visitation for the Williams’s this afternoon. It’s a shame what happened between them. Are you going?” The mayor was serious now, seeming a little morose and quite irritable. I realized he probably wanted a friendly face in a crowd of mourners.            “Sure. I hadn’t planned on it, but I don’t have anything better to do,” I said. His eyes showed signs of relief.            He nodded, grinding his teeth in leftover frustration. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, but good. I’ll see you there.” He started to walk away.            “Wait, do you want to grab lunch? We’re only five minutes from the diner.”            “Sorry, but they’re closed for the funeral,” he responded, giving me a quizzical look. “I thought you’d have read about the closings this morning? You always do the crossword.”            I felt a headache forming at the base of my skull. I didn’t think about that part, I noted. I guess I’m not running smoothly after all. I need to be more careful. I nodded in agreement with his comment, shoving my nervous hands in my pockets. “I would’ve, but somebody took the last one this morning.” It wasn’t technically a lie. “Gray suit” took the last copy when he walked in.            He seemed to accept that explanation. “Anyway, would you like to have lunch with me and the wife? We’d be glad to have you over, and we live two blocks from the Williams’s house.”            “I don’t want to cause you trouble on my account.”            “No, never. You’re perfectly welcome to come, and Sarah always makes enough for an army anyway!” He patted me on the back and led me up the street.            “Well if you insist, thank you,” I replied, maybe less generously than I should have. My head was throbbing at this point. George didn’t seem to notice, but if he did, he probably thought it was the heat getting to me. The headache turned into a splitting migraine when I saw him out of the corner of my eye, that haunting form sitting on a bench on the other side of the street. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could still feel them boring into the side of my head. There is something wrong about this. I glanced suspiciously at his smug suit and tie. What should have been a glance turned into a glare, and before I could correct my error, he removed his glasses. There they were. Those steel eyes and their laser focus. And they were focused on me . *** “Kevin Williams?” the limo driver asked.            I nodded.            The driver opened the back passenger door and motioned me inside. I didn’t say a word the entire trip into town. Long flight. Longer day ahead.            The sun was just starting to go down that Friday night, though it seemed to be going down on my whole life. My brother and his wife were dead, and the official line was murder-suicide. I just don’t believe it. How can they believe Jim would do such a thing? I looked out the window, at the world spinning on without them. There’s something wrong about this.            I must have dozed off. The limo had arrived at the house, and the driver was waiting with the door open. I blinked wearily and struggled out of the car, tipping the driver and slowly walking to the front door. It was a fashionable little house, not to large and not too small. Just like my brother to be normal. I pulled the key out of my pocket, grabbed the door handle, and the door swung ajar. The police left the door unlocked. I cursed under my breath and locked the door behind me.            Jim left me everything. Life insurance, house, retirement, the whole nine yards. And I still couldn’t believe it. This was my house now, and the whole place screamed in eerie silence. Gave me the creeps.

I should get the watch, before I get anything else.

The watch was an heirloom from our father, a very expensive pocket watch from Germany. It hadn’t come up in the inventory of the house or the crime scene report, so I decided it was probably in a hidden safe somewhere.            The more I searched, though, the more I began to panic. When I was sure it wasn’t in the house, I started to get mad. My ten-year career as a crime scene analyst came to the play, and the murk surrounding their deaths cleared up for me. Connie, Jim’s wife, died from blunt trauma to the head. Jim died from a gunshot wound to the side of the head at point-blank range. It seemed to follow suicide story, until I remembered that Jim also suffered blunt trauma to the side of his head according to the coroner’s report. Combined with the missing watch, it told me all I needed to know. Someone else killed both of them, and I was going to find out who.            The next morning, I walked into the only coffee shop in town and grabbed a newspaper. I felt a little conspicuous in my gray suit, but I had to be dressed for the visitation later that day since I was the only surviving relative.            I ordered and sat down to scan the paper. “Kathy,” I heard the man across the shop say. He was a brown-haired man in his thirties, wearing a light, plaid shirt, khakis, and a brown belt. The barista came over. I heard something about the park. The rest was too low to hear. She shrugged and went to the bar to pour him more coffee, and I went back to looking for clues.            When I checked my watch again it was half-past eleven. The paper’s not getting me anywhere. I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.            “Ma’am, do you happen to know anything about the Williams’s? I read in the paper that they died earlier this week, and the article said it was a murder-suicide.” I scanned her face for a reaction.            Her eyebrows furrowed, she frowned, and shook her head. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. “I don’t know anything about it, except that it was a terrible shame. You should ask Paul Simmons, the English teacher. He was their neighbor,” she said. “Actually,” she corrected, “I’m pretty sure he was the one that called the police that night, poor thing. I’ve been especially nice to him. He hasn’t been himself lately, and I can’t imagine having to witness something so awful.”            My stomach churned. I nearly leapt out of my chair. “Where can I find him?” I demanded, eagerly.            “You just missed him, sir. He just went to the park about an hour ago,” she said, raising her eyebrows. I folded up the newspaper and stormed out. The barista said something as the door closed, but I was already too far away to hear it.            When I got to the park, I saw Paul sitting on a park bench at the edge of the sidewalk in the shade of an oak tree. I walked behind him, barely noticing the few joggers passing me. I only saw him . He just sat there, oblivious to the world, reading Crime and Punishment and chuckling to himself. He was there for another thirty minutes before he got up and –            “It was you,” I muttered under my breath. He looked at my brother’s watch like it was his own, without even flinching, without a hint of remorse. I turned around, sat down, and waited until I heard him walking down the sidewalk, humming to himself. My world just ended, and this psychopath is having the best day ever, I ruminated. I inhaled deeply. I should change that. He was in his own head all the way up the street, so walking unseen beside him wasn’t too hard. Paul stopped to talk with another man in a black suit for about five minutes, so I continued up the road and waited on a bench. When he started walking again, he was sweating and the spring in his step was gone. I took my glasses off just in time to see him staring at me as his friend led him down the sidewalk. He’s afraid, I realized.            Good. ***            I would face the same fate as Raskolnikov's, or worse. Everyone at the visitation knew the man in the gray suit was Jim Williams’s brother, and those close to the deceased told me he was a private detective and ex-FBI. I vomited in the Williams’s toilet, but the pounding in my head and the churning in my stomach just got worse, for no power on earth or above would pity my case. The gleaming watch I had stolen off Jim’s body was boring a hole in my pocket. If I try to dump it I’ll only appear more suspicious. Between all the niceties of “Good afternoon” and  “sorry for your loss,” my mind perceived fangs, daggers which would dispatch me at a moment’s notice for my sins, and all eyes in the room seemed devoid of the humanity I craved, if humanity was ever something open to me in the first place. To top it off, his eyes followed me everywhere.            I tapped George on the shoulder. “I’m afraid I have to go. I’m not feeling well, and I’d like to get some rest.”            “Take care, and don’t let the heat get to you,” the mayor replied, shaking my hand firmly. There was my humanity, summed up in a handshake. I smiled for the first time that afternoon.            I was humming again by the time I reached my porch, floating as the trauma of my crimes seemed distant once more. You over-reacted , I told myself wistfully. He was just home for the funeral, and he doesn’t have any reason to suspect you. I opened the door playfully, and walked in my house.            I stopped. Even my clocks were quiet, and the house screamed in eerie silence. I heard footsteps on the porch, but I didn’t turn around to see who it was. I knew. Gray hair and a suit to match. The pit in my stomach became an abyss. “Did you really think you could escape me, Paul?”            The hammer dropped, and a crack rang through the summer air. I felt the bullet rip a hole where my heart had been.            I gurgled, pulling the golden watch, now covered in blood, from my pocket. It was five in the afternoon, dinner time. Like clockwork.


When the second great war was raging in Europe, a group of young soldiers was crawling, caught in the crossfire. Bullets gave them no escape, and if one as much as raised his head, the head would go down very next second with blood spitting out of it. One soldier afraid for his life started remembering all that waited home, his old mother and father, his young love, his own future. And the tears rolled down his cheek as he wished that he was still there, laying next to his love, but alas war gives no such pleasures, and he must earn that right. Suddenly a dark sky flashed. An enemy bomber was roaring its engines over the battlefield, and the group of poorly trained recruits knew that it was time for fight or flight, and none of them had more strength left for combat. As they saw the bomber open its belly, spitting out hundreds of angry bombs, they finally stood up. In front of them was a machine gun nest, to their side a group of mean commandos, and behind bombs were dropping. They all ran towards an empty side as bombs and bullets were chasing them, none of them catching, but a blast wave did knock them down. Gunfire was still going on, and as an aftermath of a strong explosion radiated in one young soldier's head, his vision blurry, his hearing nonexistent, only the beats of his heart were heard. He looked up and saw his friend emerging from a crater, he offered him his hand, and as he took it, he saw a bullet hole appearing on his friend's chest, with his last words being: "SAVE YOURSELF!". Our young soldier did not look back, but shortly after he realized that he is the sole survivor of his group. He felt sorry for his friend that gave his life for him, but now he needed to earn that, so he just kept running and running and running. "Why must one fall so other could rise?" Were his thoughts as he ran, then he felt a sharp stab in his back, and he looked down. There was just one huge hole near to his heart, and it was bleeding and bleeding as our soldier took what he thought are going to be his last steps thinking: "Or is there no such thing as a right sacrifice". Then he fell facedown in the mud. Life flashed before his eyes, once more remembering all that waited home, then he fell asleep. But he did wake up after all, and there were no sounds, no explosions being heard, and far in front of him, he saw a group of soldiers marching. He stood up, wiped the dirt from his uniform, and picked up his rifle, he went to join their prideful march with a sense of accomplishment illuminating his young and pure face. "I am doing this for the ones at home" he though. And together with them, he marched into eternity.


Love and fate, those two intercoursing powers that shape whole lives and destinies, must have been at work when they met. Julian, with his eyes as piercing as a falcon’s, and Judy, as genteel as a flower. They had both been invited to one of those societal parties in which members of the arts are wants to gather and mingle with bourgeois, and vise versa, to give themselves more notoriety, or to distract themselves from their own mediocrity. How was it that it happened? A passing glance? A nervous greeting? Or a chance encounter as the passed by? How mysterious it is for two souls, thrown into the world as it were, to come together, out of all other people. Regardless, after that night, the two of them were inseparable, scarcely being apart from each other for more than an hour in the day. So attached were they that they were seen as a single entity, with arms wrapped around each other’s waists and shoulders, walking in unison. Julian was the taller, and Judy would look up at him, wide-eyed as a doe, smiling. This smile of hers would be enough to send him into all manners of boasts and bravery and he would puff out his chest like a strutting rooster. And this gave Judy the happiness that is singular to a woman, of having a man such as him all to herself. Their nights were spent in a passion, in which their love manifested itself into sculpted physicality. For whole months they lived a lifetime of happiness. Marriage had been discussed and a date set, and in April they were married. This did not encumber their love. On the contrary, their marriage had only tempered their love and made it stronger. They developed almost a new language, one that only they could know and would refer to one another, not by names, but by monikers of love. But after a month of matrimony and lawful passion, a change came over Judy. At first she didn’t know what it was herself, or why it was taking place within her. She grew quieter, and her eyes became sadder. Julian noticed this, and would ask, “What is it, my little love droplet, that has you so crestfallen?” But Judy could only respond, “I do not know, my proud rooster. A gloom has fallen over me.” Judy became less affectionate, more contemplative and melancholic. This both concerned and annoyed Julian. “Come now, darling, you must stop this. Whatever it is I must do, you know I will.” She was hesitant, almost frightened at what she should say. At last she spoke. “Well, perhaps things have become a little too expected. That’s not to say dull, but maybe just a tad humdrum.” “Well, my dear,” Julian said assuringly, “how shall I un-humdrum it then?” “I would like—that is, if you were to agree—to have a picnic in the country.” Julian, taken in by her feminine whims, thought the ideal marvelous, and the next day set about making preparations. He ordered a carriage, a fine carriage, to drive them out of the city and into the surrounding countryside, and had a restaurant prepare for them a nice basket of sandwiches, cakes, and wine. The day was sunny and warm, with a cool breeze. Tufts of white clouds floated gently in the blue sky above. The country was lush with greenery and birds could be heard singing merrily in the trees. The driver of the carriage was up front, controlling the two horses, while Julian and Judy were nestled in a blanket in the back, admiring the scenic view. “Look! A fox,” Judy called out and pointed. There were two foxes, playfully running and chasing each other, pouncing and jumping around. “Where would you like to stop, sir?” asked the driver. “A little ways more,” Julian replied. As they went along they came to a lake where a man and a boy were fishing on a boat. This picturesque sight charmed Judy, but Julian thought it inconvenient that someone else should be so close to them and ordered the driver to keep going. Then a splash was heard, followed by a cry. “Papa! Someone, help!” All three in the carriage, their attention grabbed so, saw that the man had fallen out of the boat and was flailing about in the water. Judy became terrified. “Julian, you must help him!” But Julian only blinked at her. “There is already enough trouble without my being involved.” Judy was appalled by this cowardice. The drive had already dismounted the carriage and was running over to the drowning man’s aid. He jumped into the lake and swam to him. He helped the man out of the water and back into the boat, where he and his son thanked him. “Now, you see? It was all a to do about nothing,” said Julian. The driver, wet from head to toe, walked back to the carriage. Judy offered him their blanket, much to the protests of Julian, who insisted they continue their drive immediately. “No, I don’t think I want to now. I would rather go home,” Judy said. “Are you mad?” Julian nearly shouted. “I have paid good money for this. It was, after all, your ideal!” But Judy was unyielding. Julian ordered the driver to take them back, foregoing the picnic. They didn’t speak a word more to one another the entire time.


ANALOG PROPERTIES OF DIGITAL CIRCUITS By Andrew Paul Grell “First, let me say good work being able to contact me.  But why on earth would I need a mask? I don’t leap over tall buildings in a single bound, you know, or wear my underwear on the outside, either. And I’ll save you the trouble of asking your next question. I don't have an origin story. I have a hypothesis about what happened. One hypothesis. Obviously neither collectively exhaustive nor, of course mutually exclusive. A sufficient but likely not necessary condition. I’m as much in the dark about the particulars as you are, Toots.” Regent Osgood was ‘cooperating’ in an off-book facility just off Center Street in Manhattan’s civil administration area, tucked between Mr. Jimmy’s Dumpling House and the Mah Jong hangout in Columbus park. The room, complete with the mandatory K-cup machine and coffee accoutrements, could have been used for conferences in any second-tier law practice. Except for the four sets grommets on the table one would assume were for power and data cables but were more suited for shackles and cuffs. Some nuts sunken into the floor were likely to bolt down chairs. President Spade’s visage hung from one champagne-colored wall, next to an American flag and a bit of heraldry bearing the motto “Simul Justus et Pecador.” Appropriate. “Would you mind telling us your hypothesis?” G-7 Morris Grady’s irritation that he had been placed in charge of a woo-woo case, an X-File episode, was clearly evident in is his voice. X-Files weren’t real, and neither was the Fringe Division. “Depends. Ever been a ranch hand? A cowboy? Or are you a city slicker? Rhetorical question, of course. You’re from Brooklyn, you went to Erasmus Hall for High School and then Fordham. So I’ll talk about the hypothesis under the rubric that I was on a U.N. sanctioned, United States supported environmental mission to Mongolia. The part they used to call Outer Mongolia. I’m a rancher with a PhD. I help other ranchers, well, ranch. My purview was to identify range and arable land that wasn’t spoiled by waste products from China’s incessant search for rare earth metals, mitigate existing contaminated deposits, and determine the effects on wild forage, fodder, and planted crop farming. We picked 30 test zones and classified each zone by contamination level and by soil abundances of various rare earth metals. One of the co-op fields, the modern version of the family-based Arad system, had a statistically significant advantage over the others. I was invited to a congratulatory harvest celebration. Seven days of eating meat cooked between saddle and horse’s back, fermented mare’s milk, and the finest vegetable produce in either Inner or Outer Mongolia…” “Mr. Osgood, what does this party have to with your, um, change?”  G-6 Loretta Mitchell was apparently in charge of keeping the wheels on the wagon. “Listen, Toots, I just laid out everything you need to know if you want to try to find a cause.” Regent lit up an American Sprit black, scanned the Feds’ faces, and blew a few smoke rings. “Mr. Osgood, there’s no smoking in the building.” “Obviously, Budrick, that’s not an operational statement. Since I’m smoking. Right here in the building. Be a good boy and grab a couple of the sugar cubes next to that fancy coffeepot. Chop chop.” Morris decided to play along and se where this would lead. He tossed the sugar in front of the visitor, who fished the lighter back out of his pocket and slid it over to the head Fed in exchange. “Light the hexahedron on fire, Bubba.” Try as he might, even with the fancy torch lighter, Morris couldn’t set it ablaze. “Sweety, be a doll and get a cup of water over here, would you?” She came back with it, following her boss’s lead. The stony guest handed the smoke to Loretta. “Rub some of that ash onto the sugar and try it now.” The cube burned with a light like a dim candle, and she tossed it into the water before she lost any fingers. Regent crushed out his smoke in the interstice between three wood knots on the old-growth table, pushed his chair toward the wall—it wasn’t bolted to the floor—and put his back to his hosts as he stood up. “I don’t think we’re finished, Mr. Osgood,” Loretta tossed out. “Of course not, Toots. If you want me, I’ll be on a bench in the little park across from Foley Square. Smoking.” The two Feds gave it enough time, they decided, to let their star think he could autohelicate. On the contrary, Regent was waiting, smoking, tossing peanuts to the family of squirrels in one of the park’s paltry trees. He had three falafels, a Snapple Peach Iced Tea for Morris and a Boylan’s Birch Beer for Loretta spread out on the bench. The pair’s facial expressions posed their shared question for them. “Really? What kind of chimera superhero would I be if I didn’t know what you folks had to drink with your lunch? When President Spade put out the tweet about the coffee trade deal with West East Timor, it took me about 12 seconds to find the coffee importer who had just made a contribution to the Spade campaign and would net about thirty million from the deal. And then another 12 seconds to flood the tweet with replies about the real story. But that’s not what you’re after, is it? Neither of you are enamored of the “best head of state” in the history of the world, are you?” “Why don’t you tell us more about what happened, now that we’ve all had our needs met? Or have we?” Loretta was not going to let Regent’s use of “Toots” go unchallenged. “Alright. The lucky range land was laced through and through with Didymium compounds. When we ran tests, it had gotten into the crops, the fodder, the livestock. Not enough to be poisonous, or even dangerous.” “Sorry, what is Didymium,” Morris asked.

“The rejected element. It’s really two elements that always wind up close to each other, but never chemically joined. Neodymium and Praesidium. It’s used to make very specialized glasses for difficult environments. There’s a lesson in that. Sometimes you think you have a thing, and then you find out it’s a different thing. We now think that Neodymium, in the presence of some other agent in the soil of that part of Mongolia, passes through the blood-brain barrier. Whatever it is that happened…” The telling of the tale was interrupted by the noise of two protests; one in front of City Hall and the other heading off the Brooklyn Bridge fifty yards away. “In any event, when I woke after almost two days asleep, and let me tell you, there is no hangover like a fermented mare’s milk hangover, I fished my tablet out of my pack and put it on the table in the room in the Yurt they had given me. I bent down to turn it on. But it beat me to the punch. It turned itself on. No hitting the home button, no PIN, no password, no biometrics. When I finally scanned the news, anything that looked like a lie was printed in orange, anything that looked true was green. I showed it to some of my team and some of the ranchers, nether group saw the color change. But neither group had reached the heights of inebriation or gluttony to which I had scaled that week.” “Nobody else had any effects?” Loretta returned to cop mode. “Bolomaa kept the stud book and was also the IT mistress as well as being the ‘school marm’ when class was in session. She was known as a hard partyer. She said the letters would dance on the screen and then say something else. Not many of the co-op members had any use for computers, though. But here’s the kicker. The goats started to steal anything with digital circuitry. Phones, laptops, PlayStations, anything. They wouldn’t give up their loot until someone came up with some chaffehay and ivy. I have some thoughts about a mechanism. But your mission is to weaponize me, isn’t it, Toots? Or at least duplicate what happened to me? Does your little boutique intelligence agency use honeypots as a tool? Perhaps we can work something out if you ditch the stiff.” There was a round of the trio valiantly attempting to tell the minds’ constructions in each other’s faces. The unanimous, but silent, agreement, was to sop up the remaining Tahina with the cut-off pita tops. “I think a deal is a good idea, Mr. Osgood.” “Funny, I know you have some issues of your own, but I never thought of you as a pimp, pal. You don’t even really know what I do; what kind of deal do you think you can make?” “We’d like to hire your superpower.” “And I would like to deal with people who know what they’re doing. How could you possibly think I would respond to money. I know every earnings report that’s exaggerated or finessed. I know every workout from every track between Belmont and Santa Anita that was fudged before it got to the Daily Racing Form. Take a powder, Pally, perhaps the dame got a higher score on the GMAT logical reasoning section than you did. Pick another bench, if you want to make sure things stay kosher. But you’re out of this loop. Welcome to Dumpsville, buddy, population you.” Agent Grady had no choice to do a lateral reverse and pick a bench with a view of his partner and the questionable character.” “Well, Regent. May I call you Regent?” “Of course, Loretta.” “What is the thing we don’t understand? It’s a little unfair of you, since you never got around to telling us.” “Analog properties of digital circuits.” “Come again?” “Heh, I wish. I talk a good game, but connubiality is off the table until I know more about what I’ve become. Did you ever plug something in and see a spark? Or turn on a wall switch and hear a little crackle? It would have been when you were little; they’ve pretty much engineered that out. You know, the special outlets where things are wet, kitchens and bathrooms. The ones with little lights and the button that says ‘TEST’? whenever a contact is made, just before, there’s a little tiny spark you wouldn’t notice. At that point, switches aren’t binary on or off. They’re in between. The spark sends out a tiny, little radio wave. I believe that what got into me allows me to receive those waves. Not from light switches, but from the trillions of flops from integrated transistor circuits. You know, your boss looks like he’s going to have a stroke. Should we let him back into the fold? Will this affect your career?” “Trust me, Reg. Let him stew. What do the radio waves tell you?” “Nothing really, it’s just clicks and pops to me. It’s what happens next that’s interesting. When I see the results of the flops as emails or Farcebook posts, I see the orange and the green. I also see red—a message that is intended for ‘good’—and blue for ill intent. Makes it easy for me, but there has to be something behind it. A field of force with an associated particle. I’m calling it the Qi particle. You know, remember the fad last century with Feng Shui? Qi is the driving force behind that.” “You said you were a chimera. What are you a combination of?” “I guess I’m a mash-up of a person and the digital world. The Qi field is persistent across time. I’m guessing that’s how I can find out about dangerous people by looking up and down their timelines. Oddly enough, and wiggle your fingers if I’m boring you, but if I know precisely how true something is, I can have no idea of how good or bad it is. The Qi field, if it exists, follows Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.” “Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise. Didn’t somebody prove that there are some true things that just cannot be proven to be true?” The digital prognosticator now looked at the agent from a new angle, possibly an angle Euclid never imagined. “Yes, Kurt Godel, Einstein’s buddy at Princeton. So, Loreta… I showed you mine…” “You might not like this.” “I don’t like colonoscopies, but I have to deal with them.” “Talk about TMI! Morris’s boss gave us a mission to find a mole. My partner doesn’t know all of the details.” “But you do?” “I do.” Morris was leaning forward on the bench, and the squirrels were scared at the program of tics and twitches that Fed displayed. “It was his idea to try to turn you into an asset.” “And he’s the subject of the investigation, but he doesn’t know it?” “Yup. Got anything for me?” “Close your eyes and count backwards from a hundred.” By the time she got to 72, DataMan had an answer. “I don’t know if he’s the mole you’re looking for. But in 2017, he shared a bit of information about an Israeli modification to their FA-18as with a counterpart in MI6 in exchange for World Cup tickets. Does that do you?” It was Loretta’s turn to invent new angles with which to view the reluctant recruit. “Listen, Reg, do you like Pina Coladas?” “Sure thing. Do you like walks in the rain?”


Concessions, or something similar. That was how it began between them. Avoiding conflict, not wanting war. Bridging all the gaps. Until they couldn't. Now it was different. She had crossed a bridge to reach him and was telling him something. She was telling him now that they had to part. That they just weren’t like they used to be, they weren’t really together anymore, they weren’t really a couple. (If ‘couple’ ever really has a definition.) And they definitely were not in love now. Not that anybody had ever told them that or even tried to suggest it.

Love is something very personal. That goes without saying. Still. It was something - their lack of love - that she had known for some time. Her eyes, her mouth, her everything knew it. She didn’t know how to argue it out loud, so she just said it, point-blank, like a person will fire a gun into the body of another without making a fuss. Not loudly, though, she aimed softly, perhaps at his heart, because she didn’t want to argue. And she detested loud noises, deep within what she knew was her spectrum. Colors in every shade imaginable. When she said it, her voice caressed no anger, pressed no sadness beneath the surface of the sounds, found no pain in what she was giving him. It was just a need, she explained - or tried to say - to not be together the way they had always been. She simply knew it was so - she explained - had been so for awhile, and so she had said it in the way it had needed to be said: simply, lightly, almost airily. It was all there was to say. It was the only way she knew how to do it. She was by no means a cruel person. However, there were things she knew, things she felt she was sure about, was certain were true, probably. That was why she told him what she did, the way she did. Do not think it didn't make her feel very sad, because it did.

The truth was, the years had not been few, their letters and phone calls had been often and most of all, their intentions had been good, had been honest. It had not been a waste of time, all that time. It just wasn’t, not any longer. Not honest and so not good. It needed to be over, she had told herself before telling him. It was done now, in any event. She had finally set them free. Her thoughts, and them, the couple they had been. "We aren't, anymore." He heard her first, then he listened with all the amazement he had inside him to the words that had come out of her mouth like serpents or baby eels, tiny worms. He looked at each of them, there in the air, and he saw their sharpness, the edges she had by no means intended. Edges that were there despite their curling forms. Like moving swords. Not to be ignored.

Then he really felt them, the words or worms, and asked why and cried. He cried dully, with no sharp edges of his own, even if he were craving to argue, to win the game, because it had to be that, it could not be an argument, just a ‘no more, adiós, see you somewhere.’ There could be no game between the air she spoke and the one he was hearing. "How did this happen to us?"

It was all he could manage to say, from the depths where he was. The pool of dismay got deeper, but he made no effort to escape. He could not do battle. "I wish I knew." (Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. Have that wish. Or maybe she didn't care at all. It was hard to tell.) She had answered that way, her eyes dripping in the same way his were. She was calm, as if she had not severed their artery. She was not happy, nor were her words, which were tightly shrouded in silence. There were no swords. Only those words that refused to argue, only speaking to him as if he understood.

"I don't understand." His words rang true, perhaps. He thought so, though. He hoped so, He did not, he could never, understand. He did not, however, doubt what she was saying, gently drizzling the words over him. He was drowning. She said then was she should have said before: there was someone else. Was saying that, not whispering, not (yet) crying. She appeared to be tearless, not needing to cry, her salt dried up and blown far away. There was nothing left in her words, maybe nothing left in her. Not for him, at least. "I don't understand." He hated himself (and her, a little) for repeating the words. Saying the same thing twice was changing nothing. He looked so sad as she watched, but neither was able to give birth to any other response. Then he drooped, like a flower bends forward in a vase after a week without roots. She nearly sucked her words back into her mouth, behind her teeth, swallowing them whole, but she didn't. He was looking down, to a place somewhere below his hands. He sensed she was looking away, knowing he would eventually look up, trying to find her eyes, her gaze, her lashes. He knew what color guilt had then: it was transparent. She had found her guilt, he thought, because she had shifted her shoulders and her head was turned toward the window. She now seemed to be talking to the blades of grass in the back yard. She would no longer walk there with him, because the glass split them off. Shattered glass. She had split them in half. Maybe that's the meaning of 'couple': when two halves happen, are born out of one. He knew she was right, however, and he knew something that was a hundred times worse: he knew that everything they had loved was over. If it weren't, she never would have said so.

She was wishing now that she hadn’t been forced to say anything, not even the tiniest sound, but she had. The words were necessary. Silence would have been a lie, and lying would have killed her, eventually. It would have killed him before that. She owed it to him. There was something else, though. Despite what he'd said, his few words that were not a war, he had acted as if he’d known all along. He'd acted as if it were natural to hear all that sound - that minute - and yet remain as silent as a tomb, despite being split open by three words he was never supposed to hear:

"There’s somebody else." Somebody else she was not supposed to know, or meet. Somebody else he knew, however. Somebody who had no right, but had taken it, and her. He did not know everything, though. She did not know everything, either. She only could say what she knew, which was simple and nonviolent: They were not, not any more. Which meant she was leaving.

Yes, she would give him a chance to cry, to resist, to ply her with questions. She had thought he might do that, and said no more. She had said what she knew and she also knew she must be going. It was his turn to speak. He did not try to stop her. He did not give her permission to leave. He did not ask for explanations of any kind, because he knew all the answers. When he thought about it, he realized he knew who was on the other side of her words. It was a name he didn't want to hear and did not have to. He was now on the other side of her, and would stay there. She would leave, and he would think no more. To clarify: He would think no more about them, about the couple. That had died in battle, in a war of very few words. He would think of her, and avoid the bridge of the years they had spent as one. He needed her in his life; he just wouldn't have them as one, together. He didn't know everything. He didn't think she had made it all up. That the somebody else was somebody she had created and presented to him. He thought he would know who it was if that had been the case. He was certain he was not wrong. His tears, in a way, had been for nothing. If, in fact, they had been tears. They might have been simply the splashing of the pool and without salt, for all he knew. Or cared. He also wondered if any of it really mattered, if the words or swords had done any damage. He felt rather relieved when he waded out and knew they had not. He was still there and she was gone now. She was not needed. He was satisfied. He had not needed her. He had not understood when she told him, cut them in two, but he didn't care now. There was somebody else for her, or would be somebody else. He realized, relieved, that he had in fact gotten free. He felt no guilt about that.

The truth was, he had somebody else, like she did (or had said she did). He felt nothing for her, for the one who had released them from their bondage. It was as if, exactly if, she had been able to read his mind. After all, they had spent so long together, she might have learned to do that. He had not. Learned to read her mind. She had lied, but he didn't know that. He had done a marvelous job of playing his part, of crying and then lying. He had lied, definitely. And he was pleased with himself. He, along with his Somebody, could now turn toward their life together, be a couple. It was time, because he had waited so long for this new moment. Too long. She, on the other hand, cried. Until she had nothing left to cry but a pool of salt. The one she had given him to set him free. Because she wouldn't have it, or him, any other way.


“Is there anyone out there?” “Is it safe?” I said, as my shoes squish underneath my weight, catching everyone's attention toward my untimely last-minute arrival aboard this crowded cage . “Sardines,” I mumbled to myself as I fell into ranks with this silent collective: strangers held together in such an unnatural habitat.   “What floor?” the balding man said with a slur, his dull gray eyes peering down at my shoes. Keeping my eyes down, I said, “The eighth  floor, please.” His stubby finger presses the button,  with a jerk, this cage broke free from its gravity prison, ascending ever upward this brick and mortar structure, as the weight made it rattled, sending uneasiness to this unwilling occupants.  As we climbed, this cage abruptly came to a halt on the third floor, the steel doors quickly open, only finding emptiness, nothing more. With this new revelation, those of us view this both annoying and inconvenient. Then, a faceless voice cried out in either terror or fear, “Wait,” this nameless person said, “wait.” And just like that, a young man, mid-twenties from what I can gather with, his neatly “man bun” so proudly wore  jump in only a few minutes more than he would have been, “well you know, a causality.”              “Eighth floor,” he said with confidence, “Boy, it’s raining cats and dogs out there,” as he continued, being unsure of whom he was talking to until I caught a glimpse of him looking at me. Trying to ignore his attention, I glance down at my watch. “Excuse me, uh, Miss?” he added, “I said that it is raining pretty bad.” With an uncanny smile. “Yes,” I quickly answered, hoping that he would be satisfied; however, he kept on speaking; that I can only imagine that someone had never explained to this young man the proper etiquette of riding in a lift.              Continuing onward, as the lift approaches the fifth floor, an elderly couple stepped off the cage just as middle-age women, nicely dressed, stepped across the threshold and into our group of travelers. She politely smiled, adjusting her red hat that sat perfectly on her golden hair. With a soft voice, she said, “The eighth floor, please sir,” Her teeth gleam behind her red lips, as she spoke to the balding man, who smiled.              “It sure is raining cats and dogs out there,” the young man said                             “Yes, it is,” the women answered,              “You’re going to the eighth floor?”                             “Yes, for a job interview.”              “Same here, small world.”              As they chatted away, my mind wandered, “ are they going for the same office as I am?”  A thought that caught me off guard, what if they are applying for the same position?  I needed to know, just in case “Excused, me Miss,” I softly said,              “Yes?”                             “Uh, I don’t mean to pry, but are you going to the office of Mrs. Wallace, by chance?”                             “Well, yes, why?”- “So am I,” the young man interrupted.  As they both chuckle, breaking the silence on the lift.              “And so am I,” as my words quickly spat out, whereas they just smiled, not a genuine one, it reminded me more of a pity kind. Taking a deep breath, I smiled and turned my focus back to the steal doors that were keeping me in this cage.  As the two of them chatted away, I was busy counting the number of floors until the eighth, three more, I thought, only three more .

             “Mommie,” a small voice broke through the silence,                             “Yes, dear,” the woman-loving said              “How long?                             “Only a couple of floors.”              “Mommie, I’m tired,” the child said                             “I know, dear, but it won’t be long,” her mother said, trying to soothe her daughter.

“Only a few more floors, ” I whispered, with a sigh, feeling unsure about this whole ordeal; part of my conscience was telling me to forget about the job interview; after all, who am I to think that I will even have a chance. Still, there was a small part that reminded me that experience plays a more significant factor than age. That was precisely the exact moment the lift shook and rattled until it suddenly stopped between the sixth and seventh floors.

             Momentarily the lights began to blink on and off; the small child started to whimper as her mother quietly started to softly hmm, a familiar tune. Then what seems like hours, the lights blink again, then, they came back on. A sigh of relief for everyone, as a few members of our band, thought that our ride would start again on its way upward. However, this false hope founds its way quickly dashed aside for the cage remained still.

             All eyes fell on the balding man, who unwillingly became everyone’s focus; questions started to rattle throughout this tin box, which began with a gentleman from somewhere at the back; “Excuse me, sir,” the man continued, “You, upfront what’s going on?” Soon a few other people seem to join in as well, all clamoring for positon for answeres. However, before this man was able to answer one question, another question arose.              “Listen,” the balding man said with authority, whose name is Mike. “Listen I, say,” he loudly said, as a few people said, “Hush!” then the young man, Alan, said, “Quiet, let Mike speak.”              “Yes,” the mother said, Irene commented, “Let Mike speak, please.”                             “You needed not to worry none. This occurrence is most likely due to the storm outside.” Mike sternly said, “I have already pushed the emergency button, so sit back and relax.”              “Mommie, I’m scared,” little Alice tearfully said as Irene hugged her, smoothing her red hair, “Hush, Alice,” Irene said, “Everything will be okay.”              “ Breath,” I reminded myself, “ Just keep on breathing.” As fear gripped my heart as I looked to Mike, filled with questions, “Does he know what to do?”  “ Will we ever get out of here?”  I felt more like little Alice, who luckily had her mother closed by, whereas I was alone. Then an affluent older woman, Marge, spoke her words carried a great deal of  weight, “My dear people, there is no need to fear.” As Marge continued, “We will be rescued in due time.”              Then the mid-twenty something, young man, Ivan, said, “Let’s play a game.”                             “What kind of game?”, the middle-aged woman, Sophia, said                                           “Truth or lie.” Ivan smartly answered              “Truth or lie?” I repeated                             “So how, do we play?’ Marge purposely said                                           “Simple, we will tell a little something about ourselves, then the rest will have to determine if the statement is true or a lie,” Ivan said              Stan, in the back, said, “Does it need personal?”- “No, just, something in general,” Ivan answered.              “Okay, I’ll go first,” Ivan said, “I am an artist.”                             Mike said, “All those who think it’s true to raise their hands.” Three out of eight of us believe it to be true. “Well?” Marge said, “Are you an artist?”              “No, I’m not, I’m a writer.” Ivan answered, then he looked at me, “You’re next.”                             “Hi, uh, my name is Janneke and, I am an um, a-“ as I took a deep breath-“ I’m an actress.”  My words spat out so quickly that I hardly had time to reel them in.                              Ivan said, “All those who think Ms. Janneke, here, is an actress raise their hands,” I held my breath, embarrassed by such a statement as my cheeks started to felt warm, looking down at my faded soak stain blue shoes.  Glancing up to only see two people, Irene and her daughter Alice had raised their hands.              “Well, Ms. Janneke, the question, is are you an actress?” Marge said under her watchful glare of suspension.              Clearing my throat, I hesitated to speak, “I, um..,”- “Is it true or not, Ms. Janneke?” Marge said.  “Yes,” I quickly answered, secretly wishing that the doors would magically open up so I could disappear.              “You were?” Sophia said, raising her eyebrow in disbelief, so did a few others when Marge pointedly said, “When, Ms. Janneke?”- “When I was in my early twenties,” I added, “that was a long time ago.” Hoping it will end any further questions by the other’s in our small group, glancing down at my shoes.

             “So who's next?’Ivan announced that reminded me more like an auctioneer calling for the next item. Sophia quickly said,” Me, I want to be next,” as she added, “Me, please choose me!” “Okay, you’re next,” Ivan said with a flirtatious smile.  “Well, here goes, I’m a waitress,” Sophia calmly said. While some of us appeared to be surprised, Mike and Ivan raised their hands, singling she had told the truth.

             “Well, Sophia, are you a waitress?” Mike said – “Yes, I am,” Sophia added,” That’s why I am looking for a more secure position.”              The floor vibrated under our feet, causing alarm to spread to everyone except Mike and Ms. Marge, who appeared to be relatively calm during this surprise that was happening. A few more jerks accompanied by a rattle or two, then the lights flickered before our tin can begin to move upwards. As a loud shout of “Hurray.” Escaped our lips, a Jubilee outbreak as those of us could feel the excitement of our pending rescue. Amongst the celebration, Mike, who more or less is our tour guide with a raised hand he announced, “ Please, ladies and gentlemen.”—“And little girls.” Alice’s small voice squeaked. “And little girls, Soon, we will be set free, so please remain calm until the doors open.”              What seemed,  like a lifetime of being held captive within this small tin box, with a few more jerks and rattles, the cold steel doors opened up to an array of emergency professionals, and Tom, the maintenance guy watching with great anticipation.   As we crossed over the threshold from the elevator onto the carpet, a variety of questions asked. Making sure that everyone did not have any medical conditions, once satisfied,  we then were set free, each going on to their final destination-and so ending our game.              Mike said a few words to Tom before leading his arm to Ms. Marge, who turned and powerfully stated, “I would like for the actress, waitress, and the writer to please follow me if you would be so kind.” As we glanced at each other, Ivan said, “Excuse, me, Ms. Marge, may we know why you want us to follow?” “That is a simple question to answer, Mr. Ivan,” Ms. Marge continued, “because I am Mrs. Wallace.” Amazed, we followed them up to the eighth floor; never would I have imaged just how everything worked out, and it all started with a simple game in a tin box that broke down.              “Is it safe?” I said under my breath. One will never know.                             The End.


Saturn was getting bored and it tried bullying the cool Fairy. “See, I am the king of vices and you are the queen of virtues. Let us play a game today. Let us choose a person and apply our forces and see who wins. I know in these modern days of Kaliyuga, I have a stronghold on anyone and everyone. But still, let us give a try. What do you say?” Fairy retained her cool calm posture and replied. “I am not into any game. I shall be a mere spectator. You do what you want to do. I will count till ten and you spot your victim and start.” “Why ten? 3-13-8 are my favourite numbers. So, you count till 13.” Saturn opened its eyes and picked up Thangamma. She was a maidservant in Ranee’s house who always remained honest and trustworthy.

Ranee was quite upset on that day. She was very angry with her eight-year-old daughter, Mrudula.  The girl had lost one of her golden studs. It was taken out recently from the locker for her birthday. Before it could be kept back, it got lost. ‘What a stupid girl! Does not know to keep her things safe.’ Ranee said loudly. More than the loss of the jewel, others in the house, irritated her the most. They kept questioning her why at all she decked up the girl with costly items. Precious items were to be handled with due care and diligence. Ranee searched for the stud hither and thither and it was not to be found. She told Thangamma about the stud. When it fell, or where it fell could not be established. At home or outside? It could having fallen somewhere and hid under the table or cot or somewhere else, wherever she was playing. The servant was asked to dust and sweep well, all places thoroughly. Thangamma did her job very well. She knelt and peeped under the cot and found something shiny. She swayed her broom and pulled the stuff to her. It was the front portion of the stud that had gone under the cot. Probably, it would have fallen on ground and rolled down under. She looked for the screw. A tiny thing. It was not found anywhere, even as much she would try. Thangamma was known for her honesty and loyalty and that was one of the reasons that Ranee was not supervising her work. But on that particular day, Thangamma was under the influence of Satan. She thought of keeping the piece of gold for herself. She had tied it to her saree and hid the same under its folds. Strangely that day, she swept the staircase also, searching for the screw and found it there. This also she tucked into her saree. She went and told Ranee that in spite of her best efforts, she could not find the lost jewel. A blatant lie. A thief and a liar for the first time! Satan winked at Fairy, as though wanting to say, ‘See how my charm is working!’ Ranee had high hopes of getting the 15000/- piece of gold and after Thangamma’s sweeping and searching, the good news would come. Alas! It did not happen. What the elderly people in the house told, seemed to be correct. She should not have ventured to adorn her daughter with a precious piece of jewellery. At least she should have remembered to remove the golden studs as soon as the birthday function was over. Since the studs suited the girl very well and she looked prettier, Ranee did not bother much. Now it was too late and a total loss. Thangamma went home. She had a son, Muthu. She had pinned high hopes on Muthu. He should study well, come out successfully, should get a decent government job or some permanent job, carry some ethical values, bother about family welfare, a bright future awaiting him, et cetera et cetera. Her husband, Manickam, was a good for nothing fellow and on top, a drunkard. Most irritating factor being, highly dominating. A hopeless one. She was the sole bread winner in the family and obviously had to do all juggleries to keep ‘hand to mouth’ going steady. Any small amount of saving meant a lot to her, so as to ensure Muthu’s bright future. This piece of jewellery was an addition. She carefully took out the stud and screw hidden inside the folds of her saree. She neatly put them in a cover and hid the same inside a stainless-steel container containing pulses. She often changed the place where she kept her secrete reserves. She had to guard her precious little belongings from her notorious husband. This time, the item was more precious because for the first time, she had stolen a golden stud. Stealing was much against her consciousness. She felt the pinch even now. In what way, she was different from her husband? He was laying hands on her hard-earned savings and for the first time, she too, did the same blunder. She laid hands on things which did not belong to her. She consoled herself stating that her husband squandered her earnings, meant for running the family, whereas, her theft, she linked it to her son’s bright future. It did not occur to her that she cheated her employer. She thought, of course there was some monetary loss to Ranee, but very soon they would overcome it. She hardly realized that it was a breach of trust and that she would be branded forever as ‘once a thief always a thief’. Luckily, she did not feel that she was richer nor having a jackpot in her pocket. Suddenly, she heard some ladies wailing, crying, howling and rushing towards her house. Her adrenal shot up. What went wrong? Did her husband create any ruckus? Her son… Aiyyoh! “Oh! God save me. Spare my son. Nothing should happen to him.” Amidst the ladies clamouring and crying, she could not make out anything. Someone with better senses explained to her that her son met with an accident and was rushed to Surya Hospital. Thangamma was torn apart and almost fainted. She feared the worst must have befallen on her. She grabbed whatever money she had kept in her rice drum and also the golden stud packet from another container and ran towards the hospital. All the way, she kept praying to all Gods. No sooner she heard the news of her son, Muthu’s accident, the first and foremost thought that occurred to her was, her first-time wrong doing. A misdeed, root cause of all mis-fortunes. Why did she set her eyes on that small girl’s stud.? The ill-gotten money had shown its true colours now. ‘Money, easy-come, easy-go.’ She decided then and then to return the stud to Ranee and seek confession and if possible, to forgive her. She was at peace now. By then, she came to the hospital. Again, the adrenal shot up. In her anxiety, she was more in tears and her words failed. The nurse calmed her down. She assured Thangamma that there was nothing to worry. The boy was riding on his cycle. He, on suddenly colliding with a scooter, fell unconscious, more due to shock and fear. The crowding mob mistook it for instant death. Though there was nothing alarming. The scooter-rider also had the jerk and some minor bruises. What a great relief! Tremendously thankful to God. Thangamma straight went to the scooter-fellow, sought apology and gave the left-over money for his vehicle repairs. Immediately she left for Ranee’s place. On seeing Thangamma coming to her, Ranee smilingly, told the other woman, to whom she was talking to. ‘Think of the devil, err, no, no, think of the angel and there she is.’ Thangamma carefully opened the packet containing Mrudula’s ear-stud and gave it to Ranee. She said it was found outside but near ‘your’ house. Once again, Ranee turned to the other woman and said, ‘see, how honest and trustworthy she is’. She continued. “You can simply leave the house to her care and go anywhere. All things will remain intact. In fact, she herself is a jewel.” Turning to Thangamma, Ranee said, ‘this lady wanted a baby-sitter cum domestic helper and I recommended you. All she wanted was an honest and sincere person. Hence, I suggested your name. You will be given good salary and you may have to work from 11 am to 6 pm. Is that okay with you?’

Thangamma fell flat on Ranees’s feet with tear-filled eyes. Actually, Thangamma betrayed Ranee and cheated her. But Ranee on the contrary, was very benevolent and attributed some noble credentials to her name and recommended her for a higher income. No doubt, Muthu’s bright future was ensured. What more she wanted.

Ranee comforted her.  ” You deserve it. I have not done anything great to be so grateful. Don’t be so emotional.” Fairy, turning to Satan said, “Initially, you were winning. Finally, the victory, is….” Satan did not listen fully to Fairy’s utterings. It turned its face away and went in search of another possible victim, may be a gullible one.


‘Can you not set the house on fire, Alfie?’ ‘It’s just smoke!’ I yelled back to Abby upstairs, over the deafening beeps of the fire alarm whilst trying to unscrew it from the ceiling. Balancing on a dining chair, I fought the device. ‘Let me try.’ Though Curtis was taller than me, I couldn’t trust him with another task after he set the timer for thirty hours instead of thirty minutes. ‘You’ve done enough trying today.’ I growled, pulling hard. The noise abruptly stopped, as if to give space to my startled gasp. I fell, but the floorboards never struck—I was caught in Curtis’ arms. Catching my breath after the scare and relief, my heart pounded in my chest with such intensity I was sure he could feel it. ‘You okay?’ he asked, his gaze as soft as his whisper. His gentleness surprised me, and I stared at him for a speechless moment, before clearing my throat. I freed myself and reclaimed the ground underfoot. Things weren’t going to plan. Tossing the fire alarm onto the sofa, I dusted his floury handprints off my clothes and inspected the kitchen. My heart sank as I took it all in, the smoking, black brownie, the flour all over the worktop and the countless bowls and utensils piling to be cleaned. I threw a tea towel at Curtis.

‘Remind me, why did I partner with you?’ Curtis shrugged, tossing the cloth from one hand to the other. ‘Come on Alfie, it was either me or nervous Norman.’ He flashed a wide grin, and I swatted at the prickling along the back of my neck. ‘I’d be willing to bet Norman can operate a timer.’ ‘Relax. We can try again tomo—’ ‘We’re running out of time. Why aren’t you taking this seriously, Curtis?’ ‘Why are you taking it so seriously? It’s just a baking contest. If you’re that obsessed with Olive Garden, we don’t need a stupid gift card to go there.’ ‘It’s not about the prize.’ ‘Then what?’ My throat constricted. Last year, Abby had baked the perfect brownie for the annual baking contest, the kind on those TV shows. It all came so naturally for her—school, sports, baking. Even relationships. Of course she’d won.

And snatched up the ultimate reward. # ‘Wanna hang out after school?’ Curtis had asked. He dribbled the basketball, weaving it in between his legs. I checked my watch. Abby was planning to practise her baking, and whilst I didn’t care so much about the brownie or whether she had a chance of winning, I wouldn’t have passed on the opportunity to see her baking partner. ‘Think fast, Alfie!’ Before I could snap myself out of my daydream, the basketball crashed into my head. My breath forced its way out of my lungs as I lay sprawled on the ground. Amidst the floaty stars, Curtis came into view, his eyebrows drawn together with concern. I groaned as he helped me up. ‘Not today.’ No longer concerned if I was skipping eighth period, I mounted my bike and rode away. The tension in my neck slowly eased as I turned the corner of our street. When I pushed through the front door, Abby’s giggles greeted me from the kitchen. Her favourite apron hugged her waist over her simple cotton tee and blue jeans, and a dusting of chocolate and flour freckled her cheeks and Toby’s nose. ‘Give this a try, Alfie.’ I plopped onto the stool beside Toby. His scent, a sinful hot fudge, mixed with the chocolaty notes of the brownie; a decadent treat impossible to resist. He smiled with crinkled eyes. ‘Going to be a tough act to follow next year, but I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with, Alfie.’ # ‘I’m in charge of the timer today,’ I stated, tying Abby’s apron behind my back. Curtis nodded, resting his eyes on me. ‘We better get it right this time. I don’t want to be doing this every day until–’ The doorbell rang. ‘Could you grab the flour?’ I pointed to the top shelf, whilst heading to answer the door. ‘Hey Alfie.’ Toby’s bright smile turned my knees into jelly. ‘Nice apron. Is the baking competition coming up?’ ‘Y-yeah.’ I scratched the back of my neck as the heat rose in my cheeks. I stepped back to let him in. ‘Is Abby ready?’ Curtis cleared his throat. ‘Got the flour.’ ‘Thanks.’ I glanced at him, just long enough to notice his displeased look, before turning back to Toby. ‘Do you want a drink? She might take a while.’ ‘Alfie–’ ‘Sure, what have you got?’ I was halfway through listing the juice options when Curtis slammed a flour-stained glass of tap water onto the table in front of Toby. ‘Um… Thanks, Chris.’ ‘Curtis.’ ‘Sorry. Thanks, Curtis.’ Toby smiled. Curtis grunted, and grabbing my arm, dragged me back to the mixing bowl just as Abby jogged down the stairs. ‘Save us some of that award-winning brownie for later!’ she said before closing the door behind them. I stared daggers at Curtis. It better be good today. # ‘Come on, you are going to win with me.’ Curtis whisked the wet ingredients with the melted chocolate, while I set the oven to bake.

‘Let’s mix everything together.’ He pointed at the bowl beside me, a whirl of sugar, flour, and cocoa powder. ‘Bring that over here.’ Softened, I closed the gap between us, holding the bowl with both hands and trying not to laugh at the chocolate smudge on his cheek. I could never stay mad at him. Curtis raised an eyebrow, his glance a salty and sweet mixture. ‘You’ll have to sprinkle it over while I mix, Alf.’ ‘You know I hate when you call me that.’ ‘Why? I think it’s adorable.’ ‘We’re not five anymore, Curtis. We’ll be going to college next year.’ ‘Fine, Alfred. Can you tip that bowl so we can mix this already?’ I pressed my lips into a tight line, pouring the dry ingredients over the wet. An avalanche of powder plopped on top of the chocolate batter and a cloud of cocoa and flour erupted into the air. ‘Whoa! Slow down, cowboy.’ Moving behind my back, he pushed the wet mix right in front of me and his warm fingers grazed my hand as he held onto my bowl. I suppose it was better than having his elbow in my face. My scalp tingled as his body lightly pressed against mine, toned and supple, as he mixed the gooey confection. His scent, an earthly, intoxicating aroma of sweat and sandalwood, enveloped me. The air was heavy and charged; like before a storm. ‘There,’ he said and let go of the whisk. ‘Done.’ My glance fell onto his muscular arms, enveloping me on either side, his chest rising and falling against my back under his light t-shirt. I glanced up over my shoulder. Maybe it was the mesmerising way the light hit him, or how strands of hair fell into his face. Whatever it was, it… distracted me. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked, his lips tugging into a half smile as he regarded me. I shook my head. ‘Uh, I’m just… trying to remember how long to set the timer.’ ‘Never mind that.’ He looked down at me. I was still leaning into him; it was a perfect fit. Kind of like how it had always been for us growing up. Where I lacked in physical strength for sport, he made up for it with his natural athletic ability. And where he struggled in maths and science, he found a tutor in me.

The weight of his stare was the last ingredient we missed to reach the bliss point. In the world of baking, this was when the right combination of ingredients made the culinary experience both pleasurable, and…

Difficult to resist. As if reading my mind, he leaned in closer. My breath hitched in anticipation of what might happen next. The oven beeped, reaching its designated temperature. ‘Right.’ I gasped, ducking underneath his armpit. I reached for the baking dish, coated with a small layer of cooking spray and lined with parchment paper. With a quick motion, I grabbed the large bowl from in front of him, pouring the batter and smoothing it with a spatula. Curtis watched with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. ‘Uh, what was that?’ ‘What?’ His tone sharpened. ‘You just completely dodged a moment.’ ‘Don’t be silly.’ I shoved the baking tray into the oven, setting the timer. ‘Come on, Alf. You can’t be serious. What’s stopping us from—’ The front door creaked. ‘Something smells lovely.’ Abby and Toby entered the kitchen, his arm wrapped around her waist. A sinking feeling settled in my stomach, as if a knot formed to block the butterflies unfurling their wings to soar into flight.

I rubbed the back of my neck. ‘You’ll have the first taste when it's done.’ Curtis shot a bewildered look in my direction. If Superman didn’t have the ability to fire invisible lasers from his eyes, then Curtis did. ‘Seriously?!’ He stormed out of the house, leaving the mess of dirty pots and pans to be cleaned. Heat flushed up my neck as Abby and Toby gave me incredulous stares. ‘Need any help?’ Toby asked. I shook my head. Their footfalls faded as they ascended the stairs, and I worked to tidy the kitchen. Opening the cabinet to return the sugar, my mouth fell open at what I found.

Two eggs: a critical ingredient in a brownie.

Why would they be here?

In a brownie recipe, eggs acted as a binder, helping to keep the mixture together. Without them, everything would fall apart. And when the oven timer chimed, the brownie came out as expected. # I avoided Curtis the next day at school, and he too was still sulking, turning his back on me by the lockers. My stomach tied itself in knots, and by lunch he still hadn’t come over to talk to me. The events of the prior day rode a carousel in my head; replaying on repeat that one heated moment when he almost kissed me.

What if I let him?

The thought was both thrilling and tainted with guilt. I knew how it felt to get rejected in a vulnerable moment. But he sabotaged the baking. I wasn’t the one who needed to apologise.

It was after the last lesson ended, when he stood in front of my desk as I was packing my books and cleared his throat. ‘Did Toby enjoy the brownie?’ he asked, his arms crossed. I glared at him. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Wouldn’t it be a shame if you couldn’t impress him?’ His voice, sharp with frustration, carried a tinge of hope. I gripped the edge of my desk and leaned closer to him, close enough to feel his breath on my face. ‘Then I would have to invite you over to make another one, right? Don’t worry. It came out perfect. We nailed it, even Abby agreed. Toby said it was the best brownie he had ever tasted.’ His jaw dropped open, eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But–’ ‘I set the timer right.’ As his eyes held mine, the corner of my mouth twitched. I was never a good liar. ‘Is that it? You don’t even want to see me after–’ ‘You hid the ingredients!’ I snapped, cutting him off. ‘Was that for a laugh? This contest is important to me, Curtis. I can’t believe I almost–’ I turned away, biting the sentence in half. For a moment, I really wanted to kiss him yesterday. Why did he have to betray me to further complicate things? ‘Almost..?’ ‘I wish I picked Norman.’ I pressed my lips together. His expression, one of curiosity and anticipation, faded. ‘You don’t mean that.’ I flung my bag over my shoulder and left without a word. # Before I could unpack my bag at home, Curtis stormed through the front door, meeting my eyes with an alert gaze. I hadn’t known it then, but it was just the right amount of concern and sweetness that I’d always return to. ‘Let’s try again, Alf! I promise to win the contest for you!’ I can’t believe I’m giving it another chance. Curtis got the bowls and ingredients out, by now moving confidently in our kitchen. But could he actually bake? ‘Trust me,’ he offered a forced smile as he lifted my apron over my head, and put his arms around me to tie it behind my back. It was strange, to have feelings half unsaid, half out in the open; both uncomfortable and safer than jumping headfirst into the unknown. ‘You didn’t make that easy…’ I mumbled, hoping he couldn’t hear my heartbeat or the wavering of my voice. If we talked this through, what would come next? What if it didn’t work out..? His stupid sabotage didn’t even bother me as much as it should have. Curtis gathered all the ingredients: sugar, flour, cocoa powder, powdered sugar, dark chocolate chips, sea salt, eggs, oil, water, and vanilla. Even more impressive, he measured everything with uncanny precision, not once checking the recipe. My mouth fell open as he worked. ‘Wait, how are you—’ ‘I told you we would win the contest.’ He winked, pointing at the measuring cup in front of me. ‘Pass me that, will you?’ A flush crept up my neck. His fingers brushed against my knuckles as he took the cup from me, sending shivers up my forearm. Had I been ignoring this all along? ‘Curtis, how are you terrible at maths?’ He scratched at his cheek, leaving a smudge of flour on it. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ ‘I mean,’ I said, pointing at the measuring cup, ‘baking is about precise measurements. Basically maths. How are you so good at this but not homework?’ He shrugged. ‘I could say the same about you. How are you so terrible at baking, but good at maths?’ He wrinkled his forehead at me, squinting his eyes, mocking. ‘Technically, if you hadn’t hidden the eggs from me, that last one would have been perfect.’ Curtis was never one who could win verbal arguments against me, so he would often resort to childish pranks to tip the scales in his favour. Before I could react, he swiped his finger into the bag of flour and wiped it on my nose. I jerked back with my mouth gaping wide open, a gasp escaping. ‘Oh no. Now you’ve done it.’ I dipped my entire hand in, and he darted across the kitchen island before I could come at him with it. I leapt forward, but he was too fast and moved out of the way, sidestepping around the table, towards the sink. I came at him again, this time successfully smearing flour across his face. Curtis grabbed my wrists. He’d always been stronger than me, so all I could do was laugh.

‘Is this funny to you?’ he asked, out of breath from goofing around. I grinned at him. ‘You look ridiculous.’ And somehow, for a brief moment, I’d forgotten all about the stupid contest. Or how I tried so hard to break free from Abby’s perpetual shadow of perfection, always failing. I couldn’t beat her grades, her athleticism, nor her baking. Hell, I couldn’t even compete with her for Toby.

Curtis stared into my eyes, and the mood shifted. Like the other day, his gaze travelled down to my lips. I held my breath. ‘Alfie,’ he whispered. He drifted closer to me, and I closed my eyes in anticipation. Abby and Toby chose that exact moment to arrive home. Caught off guard, my eyes sprung open at the sound of the opening door, and I instinctively stepped away from Curtis. Waited until they disappeared upstairs. Curtis closed his eyes and shook his head, letting go of my hands. Before I could think of anything to say to clear the air, he stormed out of the kitchen. # Curtis sat on the back porch, a solemn gaze fixed on the firepit in the yard; staring into the depths of the flames as if they held the answers to his current predicament. I sat beside him, rubbing my sweaty hands against loose-fitting jeans covered in flour.

‘Can we go back in time and stop me from almost kissing you? ‘Cause if we could, that’d be awesome,’ he mumbled. ‘Was it that insignificant?’ Curtis’s dark eyes were angry and hurt all at once, and I wanted—needed to do something. He’d been on the offensive this entire time, now retreating to defence. I didn’t want to put our bond through this tug of war. I took a deep breath, preparing myself to take a plunge into something new. But the universe had a funny sense of humour, because as soon as I shifted, the timer rang. Curtis sighed. ‘Better check on those. You know, to make sure we got the recipe right.’ He stood, but before he could go, I grabbed his hand. ‘What are you doing, Alf? We gotta get the brownies.’ I blinked, forcing myself to hold Curtis’ gaze. ‘They can wait a moment.’ ‘Are you high on flour?’ He laughed, but after all that happened, it sounded like he was on the verge of tears. ‘I–’ My face burned, but I relaxed my hand around his, and gathering my courage, stroked his palm. It was my turn to take a step. ‘We already got interrupted twice.’ Curtis’s mouth quirked up at one corner. He pushed my hand to one side, leaned close and kissed me hard. Shock rolled me; the sensation sending shivers down my spine. I never knew how much I craved this. It’s beyond me, how we didn’t burn that brownie. In the end, all it took was the right timing.