Hey folks, first time posting a story here. I've already got a compendium of short stories written on Royal Road, so I figure I'll share some of the individual ones here. Feedback welcome! For those that don't know, gamelit is a niche genre of story that takes place entirely in, or surrounding, a video game.   Optimus Live VR headset recognized. *Origin Online* successfully installed. Update available. Game must restart. I grimaced. The Day One patch was just a Band-Aid to hold this game together through launch. They had released a glitchy mess, and I was going to make them pay. Back when we started, I had believed in Origin Online. It was going to be beautiful, the most ambitious and technologically advanced free-to-play fantasy MMORPG the world had ever seen. But now, as its flashy intro soared across the pristine landscape, I had to close my eyes. It was like being unable to enjoy a favorite food after it’s made you sick. I’d sat through this intro hundreds of times during testing, probably thousands. They had refused to shorten the unskippable intro sequence, and *still* it went on. I rapid-clicked, as if by some miracle I’d be allowed to skip it. Title screen > New character > Human > Default stats > Default avatar > Default equipment package #1 > Yes I’m sure > Skip tutorial > Start game. Muscle memory allowed me to race through the setup process, clicking where the buttons would appear like precognition . My new boring character spawned into Origin Online’s starting town, if it could even be called that. I was already an expert, with thousands of hours logged in every square inch of this buggy hell hole. All that time exchanged for silence, platitudes , and a crappy paycheck. The starting town was packed with the identical avatars of thousands of other players who rushed through the setup to get their first glimpse of this incredible new online experience. To its credit, OO’s quantum server never skipped a beat. It really was a marvel of technology. Every player on Earth would exist in a single open world, bigger and more spectacular than anything that came before. Except the starting hovel, of course. Who cares about first impressions, right? OO was so hyped that they talked about its progress on the evening news. Distinguished, white-haired men would drone on about world tragedies, scandals, and disasters, then smile as they came to the latest promise that Claud Vanderstint had made about Origin Online. Claud Vanderstint. Even thinking the name made me grit my teeth. I had 48 hours to reach Level 100, and I had to do it before anyone else. The players around me were gawking at the beautiful VR textures, testing the game physics, or rushing toward the first NPC with a quest indicator. I began jumping, backwards, into the surrounding jungle. They had fixed the infinite acceleration glitch, but only by giving a top maximum speed. The solution was rushed and worse, not very effective. Lush foliage flew past me, tiny fantasy animals scattering in my wake. I knew the route so well I didn’t even need to turn my head. I arrived at the fungus field and snatched up red and blue capped mushrooms as fast as I could. My macro combined them as soon as they appeared in my inventory. At early levels, spamming craftables was the fastest way to gain XP. My level indicator dinged again and again. I checked the option to auto-level, automatically distributing points to the default warrior stats. “Choose a power!” said the game. Players earned a feat upon reaching Level 5. I opened the menu and picked Iron Fist from the hundreds of abilities available. Now my bare fists counted as low quality tools. I beelined for a towering oak tree and rapid-clicked to attack it as fast as possible. My upgraded fists made taking down the tree possible, but not efficient. It took twelve minutes of continuous clicking to down it. I shook out my mouse hand as the massive trunk splintered and cracked, its invisible HP gauge reduced to zero. The crash would be investigated by new players certainly. They could help themselves to the Uncommon Wood, I would be back later. I needed a weapon, and I knew just the one. Reverse jumping toward the Doom Ridge Mountain, I passed dozens of other players. They were having fun, exploring this brave new world and sampling all it had to offer. They were like a thousand digital Adams and Eves. I pitied them. They hadn’t sampled the Tree of Knowledge yet. They were happy because they were innocent. I would be their serpent. It took 45 minutes of reverse jumping to reach Doom Ridge Mountain. The scope of the game was exhilarating, until you realized what an ordeal changing locations became. Then you’d look for ways to skip it and just get where you were going. You’d be led to a quest line that unlocked the option to *pay actual money* for a fast travel scroll. Con man. You’re just a typical con man, Claud. Con Man Claud, good alliteration. I’d have to remember that for when I reached the end. Doom Ridge Mountain contained a high-level dungeon. One of my favorites, actually. The blinding smoke, lava bombs, and rivers of molten rock made the environment as dangerous as the salamander tribe enemies. Even cooler was that attempting the dungeon triggered a volcanic eruption that would rain destruction on anyone near the mountain. I hated what they did to this game. This was such a cool dungeon! There were others too, inspired challenges for dedicated players. Relics left by the developers who poured their souls into OO, before they were replaced by cheap labor to rush the game out. I bunny hopped my way up the mountain to the dungeon’s exit. A large boulder blocked the tunnel, and I wedged myself against the seam. I went into settings and cranked my control sensitivity. I began spinning while I jumped against the boulder and the wall, and my stomach lurched at the whirlwind of movement. My avatar began to twist in midair and jittered between the pieces of geometry. I squinted to minimize nausea. Come on, you bastard. *“Where the hell is the player?!” the character location tracker fumed.* *“Well, mostly they’re over here, but sometimes they’re also a little over there,” said the geometry.* *“Nonsense! They can’t be in two places at once! Pick one and put them there!”* “Yes!” I was beginning to fear the boulder clip issue had been fixed. I ran down the tunnel to the dungeon treasure vault. The Salamander King who guarded the vault was safely on the wrong side of the door. I pulled aggro on him, but he had no way to reach me. I could hear his distinctive tongue attack. He pulled you into his mouth and crushed you for trillions of damage. Unavoidable, unfair and, in this game, basically criminal. I skipped the mountains of gold and gems, grabbed the Salamander Plate Armor, two Rings of Life Fortification, and a Helm of Endurance. All were useful, but the real prize was resting on the altar—the Axe of Earth’s Fire. “An artifact of incredible power, said to require a wielder to prove their worth in order to hold it,” according to the item description. This ‘test’ was to burn whoever picked it up for an obscene amount of damage. If you survived you were worthy, if not bring on the next contender. I used to think it was a neat effect, but in retrospect it was just another trap. I threw an empty chest at the altar. The chest burst into flames and I looted the axe in the recharge window before the test was active again. A bug meant the axe considered just about anything to be a valid target. I was the one to first discover this glitch. It was early on, when we thought our bug reports mattered. My fellow testers and I had managed to get a generic NPC to survive the test and pick up the axe, becoming its true owner and keeping it out of reach of players forever. It had seemed so funny at the time. Now the Axe of Earth’s Fire was mine. Other players would be picking up their first iron weapons by now, ooing and aahing over +1 gear. I was now the single most powerful player in the game. It would take six months of grinding for someone to match me. I’m not done yet, you son of a bitch. The stone moved out of my way with no trouble. After all I was exiting the vault, so I must have completed the dungeon! Next step, waterfall. Easy to find, as a dramatic natural feature they were everywhere. I reverse jumped to one nearby. Crystal clear water fell from a high cliff, creating a rainbow that made an idyllic place to sit and appreciate the beautiful textures. Lipstick on a pig. There was a chance (a small one, but still) that they’d fixed the bug so my setup no longer worked. I hopped onto the rocks, beneath the waterfall. The rock I wanted was third from the left, every waterfall built exactly the same. I stood on the very edge of it and backed up, pixel by pixel. I fell off. My position had to be perfect. I took a deep cleansing breath. I kept trying. After a few more attempts, I managed it. I stood on thin air, my feet just beyond the edge of the rock. The new players would soon discover the shabby geometry. Maybe some already had, falling through the level or suffocating inside trees. But for me, it was time again to practice patience. I started a macro that made me jump, then attempt to swim, over and over. *“Attempting swim up a waterfall?!” The game’s swim mechanic was aghast. “You have nary the skill level to do such a thing!”* *“Now, now. They can do it,” said the XP tracker, “just for a teeny tiny moment.”* *The swim mechanic harrumphed. “They can swim for that instant and not a second longer!* *“Don’t forget the multipliers for swimming with all that armor.”* *“They can try all day, they’re never getting up that waterfall. Mua-hahahahaha!”* I took off the VR headset and wiped the sweat from my face. The macro would take about an hour to get me to Swim 100. Good time for a break. I had to keep an eye on my screen, though. At any moment a mod might notice me, someone might get a notification something was wrong, and my plan would be ruined. My dinner was a jumbo burrito and milkshake. I needed my strength for the next part. My avatar had maxed out swim. Each jump now carried me several feet up the waterfall before the Salamander Plate pulled me back onto the questionable geometry. I was now Level 10. For my new feat, I chose Fresh Meat. Monsters would now be more likely to notice and attack me. There was only one monster I was interested in. I reverse jumped back to the nearest wood where my prey would be lurking. I had to be careful not to let anyone get a good look at my equipment. The wrong questions could lead to me getting banned, but I needed the gear for the next part. I crouched to sneak as the terrain turned to sucking mud. Trees were sparse and giant insects flitted about so fast they seemed to be teleporting. Fresh Meat pulled aggro on them, but my ludicrously overpowered equipment made the fights no more than a click per bug. As I walked through the muck, I heard a grunting sound. A large, lumpy beast shook off the brown goop and grumbled at me. There you are little pig. Come and get me now. The bristle-backed mud hog charged out of its soupy nest, squealing and slashing with its tusks. I dodged attack and waited for it to attack again. The hog launched into an attack sequence of bites, gores, and headbutts. I blocked the attacks to reduce the damage. Then it exposed its flank to me, telegraphing the attack I was waiting for. The hog spun in a blur, a melee area of effect attack. Intended to be used when the hog was surrounded, but still part of its normal line up of moves. I jumped over the hog as it spun, aiming for its exact axis of rotation, and swung the Axe of Earth’s Flame down on it. The pig died in a single blow, dropping a paltry amount of coin. Dammit. The spinning pig glitch was difficult to pull off. The attack needed to be frame perfect, I needed to be in the perfect position, and it had to be during that one specific move. But it was worth it. There was a strange bug when a mud hog died in just the right way, at just the right time. The fight ended, but the hog’s attack was still considered in progress against its last target. It became an artifact, still spinning, but with no stats. The result was a collision object rotating at incredible speeds and doing damage per frame of collision detection. With a frame rate powered by quantum computing, it resulted in nearly infinite damage per second of contact. Traipsing through the mud, I swatted man-eating bugs from the sky and leapt over pig after pig. I gained enough levels to upgrade Fresh Meat to Seasoned, spawning more enemies in my zone. This was a work of endurance, jumping and striking over and over as time ticked away. I had a dreadful thought. What if the Day One patch fixed the spinning pig glitch!? Ooooh, what a bitter irony that would be. I had fought with them to fix the spinning pigs for months. “Got it! Yes!” I leapt from my chair in victory. I was now the proud owner of a spinning pig. It hovered, perpetually just to my right, ready to kill anything that could be killed. I made my way back to the massive oak I had felled near the starting area. The spinning pig tore down trees and disintegrated foliage as I travelled. I managed to avoid any other players, though I was sure they’d investigate the swath of destruction I left in my wake. With a little maneuvering, I managed to drill the pig into the side of a massive boulder, carving twisted paths to conceal myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do while I went AFK. Alright, time to get some rest. Then we kill God. I didn’t sleep well. I was too anxious about logging in to find my character deleted with a ban notice, or discovering they’d managed to squeeze in an emergency patch. You’ll be done soon, I told myself. It will be worth the lawsuits, the burning bridges, all of it. My character was still in my makeshift pig cave, apparently undisturbed. I breathed a sigh of relief, then started on the next stage of my plan. I returned to the stump of the great oak I’d punched to death yesterday. Trees had a 24 hour respawn cycle, and it was nearly time. I stood on the stump and waited. It was meditative, listening to the birds and animals that populated the jungle. There was time to appreciate what the game had aspired to be. Blood, sweat, and tears poured into an amazing world. I felt a pang, knowing what I was about to do. But amongst all that verdant foliage, all those spine covered monkeys, poisonous lizards, and collectible butterflies, there was still the spinning pig beside me. For all the love that went into this OO, it was sloth, greed, and arrogance that allowed this hog of unlimited destruction. 24 hours ticked by, and the geometry collision detection threw a fit. *“Two objects occupying the same space at the same time?! Absurd! I won’t hear of it!”* *“What shall we do?” asked the physics engine.* *“Send the player away as quick as possible!”* *The physics engine gave a servile bow.* A great tree erupted beneath my feet and rocketed me directly upward. The game world shrank away as the clouds of the skybox rushed to meet me. I passed through them and entered the realm of the game’s final dungeon, The Palace of the Sky King. Instead of falling back to earth, I began to swim. The mechanics for flying hadn’t been built yet, so for now the whole place was considered underwater. Multiple end-game content quests barricaded the doors of the Palace, great beasts and dragons holding keys that would unlock the doors. But, as I had not yet initiated those quests, the entire area was inert. I passed through the gates like a ghost. A nasally voice crackled in my ear. “Sky King intro dialogue here.” “Dammit, Claud, finish your game !” I yelled to no one. The palace was an empty shell. The walls and floors had placeholder textures. But I had to forgive them, at least a little. This part of OO wasn’t meant to be encountered for at least a year. The quests’ difficulty was so great, the devs expected it to take tens of thousands of Level 100 players to storm the Palace together. No one was supposed to be here for a long time. I floated through the palace, clipping through walls, and into the Sky King’s throne room. There, the Sky King sat upon his throne of storms. Composed of light, hurricanes, and raw power, he held in one hand the golden Staff of Winds, the four winds of the earth churning like tornadoes on the top. His other hand held the Sword of Storms, the weapon with which he would smite the world. The weapon I had come for. He was awe-inspiring, the love child of two genius devs who were subsequently fired for “performance-related insubordination”. I was no bigger than a flea to this titan. I spoke a sort of prayer at his feet. “You deserved better than this, you big, beautiful bastard.” The Sky King was unmoved. I turned, aligning the spinning pig to The Sky King’s foot. A credit to his immense difficulty, he took almost three seconds to die. He never moved, not even a death animation. His status simply changed from living to lootable. My XP counter didn’t even twitch. *“Who shall receive The Sky King’s XP?!” the game wondered.* *“No one! He died of collision! He must have fallen! He’s awfully tall you know, long way to fall.”* *“What of his treasure vault? Shall it be opened?”* *“Of course! He dead, isn’t he?”* A hurricane’s eye appeared behind the throne. It led to the vaults where the most valuable treasures and God-tier equipment would appear. I wasn’t interested. I looted The Sword of Storms from the Sky King’s body and clipped through the floor. Outside the Palace, I swam downward until I reached the normal skybox and began to plummet. Splat. Dead. The pig spun victoriously. The screen went dark and two options appeared: New Character or Continue, in a large green button. I seethed. Here was the core of the matter. I hit Continue, and a new box appeared. “You have chosen continue your adventure! $3.87 has been charged to your account.” They marketed their “Pay to live” system as a way to ensure high-level characters would cycle out over time. But that was where the lies began. Better enjoy it that $3.87 while it’s still yours, Claud. I was revived . Almost there. I unequipped the Sword of Storms and stored it in my inventory, then began scooping up handfuls of the nearest Common item. In this area, that was acorns. Soon I had seven stacks of 55 acorns. For whatever reason, OO really hated the number 55. The odds of glitches increased dramatically if there were 55 of anything, and I knew how to how to trigger a bug 100% of the time. It was on this bug that my whole plan rested. I arranged my inventory so the Sword of Storms was between the fifth and sixth stacks of acorns, then took off my headset and yanked the plug on my computer. The screen flashed white and turned off. I counted to five (superstition dies hard) and plugged it back in. While my computer rebooted, and I started gathering on all the light sources in my room and turned them towards my face. I reviewed my script one last time. I logged in. That wretched intro played again. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Clickclickclickclickclickclick. The Sword of Storms was a unique item, one of the strongest in the game. It had a power that could be used once every 30 days, Wrath of the Sky King. The weather in Origin Online could be anywhere from a pleasant day to a hurricane. Casting Wrath of the Sky King increased the weather’s severity by two steps. Sunny, Cloudy, Windy, Raining, Storm, Heavy Thunderstorm, Tornado, Hurricane, Storm of Judgment. Normally, a player could only summon a Storm of Judgement if they used Wrath of the Sky King when there was already a tornado. But, nestled in my inventory between my stacks of 55 acorns, I had a neat little stack of 55 Swords of Storms. Equip Sword of Storms, hotkey Wrath of the Sky King, cast. I swung the sword in a great arc over my head and the sky began to darken. The wind shook the trees. Wrath of the Sky King affected the entire server at once, except for the wielder of the Sword. But I had to hurry. The mods and devs would realize something was wrong very soon. Equip, hotkey, cast. I discarded the legendary artifact after using it. Poof, gone forever. Now rain poured from the sky in blinding sheets and trees bowed their heads to my power. Equip, hotkey, cast. The clouds began to twist and pucker overhead. Hail fell from the skies. In the distance I saw funnel clouds form and reach their questing fingers for buildings and characters to destroy. Equip, hotkey, cast. Game over, ladies and gentlemen. I smoothed down my hair as arcs of purple and yellow lightning crawled through the clouds. The ground erupted where they struck. Balls of burning ice hurtled down, the rain turned to caustic acid, and the tornados became mile wide monstrosities that hunted their targets. Equip, hotkey, cast. Equip, hotkey, cast. Equip, hotkey, cast. *“I say!” said the weather programming, “We’ve already reached the maximum possible weather severity. Whatever shall we do now?”* *“We follow the rules!” the game’s logic engine replied. “If the spell is used in the presence of a tornado or higher, it causes a Storm of Judgement! I see tornados, don’t you?”* *“Well, of course! But where shall we put the new Storm of Judgement? There’s already one right here!”* *“Oh. I suppose there is. Ah well, just throw it on top of the old one!”* *“Very good! And the others?”* *“Add them to the pile! And don’t forget to award XP to the caster for anything the storm kills!* I watched in awe as the lightning became so dense it hid the clouds. Tornados merged together, as wide as continents. Acid rain fell like with the intensity of a waterfall. Burning hail ravaged the earth in great columns. Everything everywhere died. In less than 30 seconds, I had become the only living thing in Origins Online. My XP bar filled again and again, and small window appeared. “Congratulations! You’re the first player to reach the Level 100! As a reward, we’re offering you the chance to livestream your reaction to every player, all over the world! You’ll have 5 minutes. Please no swearing or your other rewards will be null and void. Click the OK button to begin the stream.” I yanked off my VR headset just in time for my face to appear on the screen, captured by my computer’s built in camera. I smiled at the millions who were watching me right now. Showtime! “Hello, everyone. My name is Rebecca Vanderstint, and I’m the daughter of Origins Online lead creator, Claud Vanderstint. I orchestrated this event to tell you that my father is a liar and a cheat. “I was the principle tester for Origins Online, and I learned things Con Man Claud doesn’t want you to know. For example, everyone knows that resurrecting a character costs money. But are you aware there are invisible stat changes every time you resurrect? That they make you more likely to find rare items, but also make you susceptible to crits and sudden death? Your character becomes more valuable to compel you to pay the ever-increasing fees. And believe me, those fees ramp up fast. OO is the world’s most overhyped pay-to-win. Its designed to be unfair, to rob you, and to take advantage of you for playing it.” I paused to let that information sink in and remind myself not to talk too fast. There’s your game Claud, now for your reputation. “Claud Vanderstint is also guilty of sexual harassment and assault on multiple women on his design team. He has withheld promised overtime pay to employees and fired them when they try to get their money. Their royalties end up in his pocket. And he knows his team of lawyers can drag out a case and bankrupt anyone who tries to bring them to court.” Now for your freedom. “Claud Vanderstint is also involved in tax evasion and fraud. His entire board of directors is in on it. They don’t intend to pay a dime on their profits from OO. Anyone who digs into his finances will find evidence. I swear to testify before any court on any of these claims. Furthermore—" The window closed. Time’s up. I finally settled back into my chair, the muscles in my back sighing in relief. I heard the door to my room open, and I spun around to greet him. “Good game, Dad.


Note: As you will see the character's here are partly taken from League of Legends. Right now I have no own creation to take their place, nor do I know if I want to change that. Since I will probably never really publish this story, I wanted to share it with you lot. To get some feedback.  Alone he wandered through the forest. No moon, no stars were seen. The distant howling of wolf and owl were his only company. The wind tore apart his cloak, making him look like death himself roaming the woods. A deep wound stretched itself across his belly, a reminder of the attack he had just barely survived. And without help, it wouldn’t be long before he would die amongst those trees. After a while his feet would carry him no longer, and he sat down leaning against a moss-covered rock. The clouds slowly revealed the moon, but it still was a dark night. It was almost new moon, for a human the light was not enough to tell the difference between friend or fiend. He closed his eyes too tired to fight the urge to sleep. Soon after, he could hear a gentle humming. In midst of this emptiness, the voice of a woman was laughing and humming. It sounded almost carefree. The sound was easing and yet terrifying at the same time. A deeper, husky voice accompanied the one of the woman. Sometimes it was humming, then it would shift to a solemn giggle. And then again, a whistling could be heard. The humming grew louder as it came closer, and the man decided it would be best to just stay there. Two pairs of blue eyes appeared in the darkness, the bigger one showed an opened mouth so that one could see the glowing, bright blue throat. Then everything vanished, no sound, no glowing, blue eyes. “How one dies, shows how one lived.” Suddenly a figure stood in front of him. The face was hidden behind a black mask, the body was covered with white fur. And even if it was human, the creature which belonged to that womanly voice had a long, wavy tail. Behind her the bigger pair of eyes approached, his jaws open. He had the form of a great, black wolf slightly smaller than a horse and wore the same carved mask. Their eyes showed no emotion, even as the voice spoke softly. “Panic not when death is near,” the woman stretched out her hand. “Depart in peace.” “No!” The wolf called full of emotion which was missing in the woman’s voice. “Run, flee…” The woman took her bow and placed an arrow on it. Realizing what would happen next, the man raised his hands. “Wait! I can not die now, there is something I need to do.” “Death does not let you say goodbye, every being must meet us. Choose now, my arrow…” “…or my teeth.” Wolf finished the sentence. “I will not die before my deed is fulfilled!” He answered with determination. Wolf stepped towards him. When he stopped, their faces were just inches apart from each other. The man would have expected to feel a shiver or an uncomfortable feeling. Yet what he sensed was, ease and warmth.


Seated around a table, we were all there. The whole gang of us, gathered for our usual impromptu dinner meetup. We could go months without all of us meeting each other, sometimes it'll be merely weeks since our last dinner. Jack was doing the usual and highlighting some of the achievements within our group and some notable ones from our extended list of mutual friends from high school. "We've graduated high school almost 10 years ago, Jack. You can give it a rest" I thought to myself, staring at the condensation forming on my beer mug. I can still hear the timbre of his voice slowly increasing in intensity as he comes back to our circle and congratulates Charles on his upcoming wedding. The table erupts into hoots and cheerful guffaws while I crack a wry smile and look at the groom to be on my left. I squeeze his shoulder and congratulate him on landing the girl now that his career has taken an upward spike. He looks over at me and utters through snorts of laughter "What about you? You've been so quiet and hardly said a word up till now. How's work buddy? Still living the manslut lifestyle?" The entire table laughs agreeably to the last comment while some chip in about my professional life. *** >What do all of you want to hear? That I hate my job? That the money I see at the month's end don't mean a damn thing to me? I hate my job, I hate the life that is now slowly shaped by decisions that I let happen instead of decisions that I chose. Should I tell all of you that I am on the verge of getting fired? That I will be the first and probably only failure in this group? Should I rave about my "manslut" lifestyle and how I would gladly give up the meaningless sex and materialistic women for someone who will be my last phone call at night? That sleeping with a new woman every few months is my way of creating some semblance of success in my life? *** I look back at Charles and a knot tightens around my throat. I merely shrug my shoulders sheepishly. "Being a manslut keeps my options open, no ball and chain" I retort with another wry smile as the dinner continues without missing a beat. Somehow, when you keep the status quo, no one suspects just how deep your troubles run. The dinner gradually comes to an end and Jack mentions a nightcap. I agree with Larry, Charles and Alan also looking forward to something a little stiffer than just a cold beer. We all proceed to a franchise watering hole and order a round of shots. More lighthearted discussion about wedding plans, a stag night and the usual array of banter cap the night. My slow, deliberate walk back to my car allowed me some time to stew and attempt to get my thoughts in order. Just how did I start my fall from grace? Then again, whatever lofty heights I achieved were only ever in my head, it was not even anything flattering when compared to my peers or my friends. It dawned on me then, it was no rapid descent from the clouds but a continuous slide into the depths that originated from sheer and utter mediocrity. I got into my car and held the steering wheel tight. My chest tightened and I felt a flush and dampness on my cheeks as my vision suddenly distorted. I felt something deep in my gut, something primal that I've not felt in a long time. I felt fear. Fear that I have no more direction and control of my life, that I was fast becoming a passenger of consequence rather than choice.


Write about a character stumbling upon a library book that changes the course of their life, for better or worse. Submitted by Peter Wallace – peterwallace@litewire.net

Must            Musty. That’s what the smell was. Musty. What was must? Was it like moist dust? No matter. He’d look it up later on his phone. His phone. The indispensable tool for everyone under a hundred years old, and yet, here he was, in the ancient town library with the lions in front, doing research for a social studies report for Miss Darlington.            Darlington was the youngest old person he’d ever encountered. She was a pretty new teacher, which was interesting, because she was both pretty and new. A guy could see how somebody could fall for her.  Somebody older than high school. She was weird, though. She reminded me of the schoolmarms from old movies, except she dressed normally, and she didn’t hit our hands with a ruler. However, speaking of rulers, she did have a lot of rules. For example, she insisted on having us students… we students… no, I was right the first time… us students, be very respectful to her and to each other. No talking was allowed unless she called on you. That class had some real loud-mouths, so I didn’t think she could quiet them down, but somehow, she got everyone to act decent without yelling. I think it was because she talked so quietly sometimes that you had to shut up in order to hear her.            She also had odd ideas about tests. They were all short-answer tests, and not multiple guess, like most normal teachers used. You really had to know something to pass. Some of us actually got together and studied things together.

She was also very picky about spelling and such. She knew almost everybody used a computer to write our papers, and that there was no excuse for a misspelled word. She had a good point. She didn’t grade down for punctuation that wasn’t right, but she’d make you re-write whatever it was the right way. I think she was more interested on us learning it than catching us making mistakes.            Some of our younger teachers seem like they want to be friends, or something. I can tell you that students can sense weakness, and we know which teachers will let us get away with things. Miss Darlington didn’t seem to care if we liked her or not, but the funny thing is that we did like her. I guess part of it was that she treated us with respect too, even the kids who probably didn’t deserve it.            Anyway, this assignment was to research a topic at the library – not the school library, but the old one in town. Maybe she wanted to make sure we knew where it was, or that they had a lot of books and magazines. We couldn’t use our phones or Google or anything. It was like we were back in the 1980s, or sometime back then.

           I’m really interested in computers and robots and things, so I was looking through the books about artificial intelligence in a room upstairs. There was this cool ladder on rollers to get to the higher shelves. I climbed up, and as I pulled out a book from the shelf, I saw a thin book that looked like it had slipped behind the other books. It took me a minute, but I got it out. It was a hard cover book, but with very few pages. It was very dusty. I blew on it. More must. The title was “What You Can Give the World.” It was clearly not about artificial intelligence.  There was something about it that made me want to find out what was inside.            I opened the book to the Table of Contents. There were only a few chapters. Here were the chapter titles: 1. Why You Should Give to The World, 2. Honesty, 3. Fairness, 4. Kindness, and 5. Gratitude. I decided to walk over to a study carrel to see what it was all about.            I was able to read the whole book in about an hour, and I’m not a really fast reader. It was pretty interesting, and if you asked me to tell you what it’s about here’s pretty much what I would tell you: You can’t control other people, but you can control yourself and how you treat people. Also, what each of us gives to the world is important. It doesn’t feel that way in high school, but I guess it’s true. Honesty isn’t easy, or even natural, but it’s also important, and if we’re honest with people they will trust us. Fairness, according to the author, can’t be expected. The world isn’t fair, but we are obligated to be fair. In a way that didn’t make sense, but in a way it did. Kindness isn’t hard to do, if we think about it, and we just have to be looking for opportunities to be kind. Like the author said, one person’s kindness can make another person’s world a better place.

The last thing was about gratitude, and how having it – appreciating all the good things we have – helps us keep our perspective on the world. It’s really easy not to do that when you’re 17. The funny thing is, nobody’s name was listed as being the author. And, there was no publication date or publishing company. But it had been there a long time. The pages were all kind of yellowish and musty. Not only that, but it had that paper sticker inside the front cover, like they used before bar codes, that showed when it had been checked out. The last time was in 1953. That’s the year my dad was born! So, instead of artificial intelligence, I wrote my report about the book; how I found it, and what was in it. I have to tell you, that book has really made me think about me… I? No, me… and how I fit into the world.

Most kids in high school aren’t very kind or honest. You can’t deny it. We complain about things not being fair, and we’re not often very thankful about what we have. But you know, I think I can get better about all those things, and maybe I can help make some people’s world better, in a small way.  Like, maybe Miss Darlington. That would be cool.


It was no secret in Lockeside that there was an abandoned home at the end of the road, right by the last remaining Catholic Church. Once the liveliest area of the old West Virginian town, it was left bare and withered with the installation of the new highway. It didn’t help that there were old rumors of that place; rumors which had only grown with its rot. It was that of the Etsons and their son Charley. The Etsons were good folk, according to Pastor Davidson. They went to church every week, volunteered some miles out at a soup kitchen, and often left tips for the local sheriff to get ‘those wild rascals out of the woods.’. Their son went out with his parents to church and those volunteer groups, which was to be expected, and people found the Etsons to be both charmingly conservative and blessed with great moral fortitude. That was until Charley vanished one day. Of course, people talked about it—there wasn’t much else

to  talk about in Lockeside—and that kind of talk led to accusations of neglect, abuse, and even selling Charley’s soul to the devil, but no one never worked up the courage to report these suspicions to the sheriff, not that the sheriff would’ve believed it anyway.

That was years ago, before the highway installation.

The Etsons moved out—no one remembers when or how—without their belongings and, more importantly, without Charley. Some folk say that, when visiting the end of the road—at night no less— little Charley can be heard screaming for help in the basement—as though he’s still there, still as young as he was the day he vanished.

Jaime was determined to figure out if those old rumors held any real weight.

He slipped on his flannel jacket and zipped it over his black baggy tank. Turning to his girlfriend, Jaime said:

“Ready, Lil Miss Hills? Or are ya feelin’ too chicken shit?” Alissa scrunched up her nose and smacked his arm lightly.

“No! I told you I was gonna do it, didn’t I?” “Yeah, just makin’ sure is all.”

Truth be told, Alissa Hills wasn’t a cowardly type. A Californian immigrant with a semi-spoiled attitude, she craved adrenaline the same way an addict craved their preferred substance; something which united her and Jaime. He wouldn’t have asked her out otherwise.

Alissa reached down and pulled her shoe strings. Her black leather boots had been giving her hell lately, but she insisted it was kind of a style; what with the leather stripping off the sides and the laces stretched so thin they appeared as though they could snap at any moment. She tied the laces carefully and tucked them into the tongue of her boot.

Meanwhile, Jaime crossed his living room toward the kitchen. His lil’luns, Waltie and Billie, were crouched over the table busy with their homework. Billie was learning his basic addition and subtraction while Waltie was learning the differences between geometric shapes. Jaime cleared his throat. “Alright, if y’all need anything, you best call me, y’hear?” Billie nodded and gave him a thumbs up. “I love you!” Jaime half-sang, half-said.

“Love you too!” Waltie sang back.

With that, he and Alissa were off. The hardest part of leaving at night was heading down the hill to downtown Lockeside. There were rolling mountains round all corners, with trees  which blocked out most of the pouring moonlight. Jaime pulled out his flashlight and felt around for the switch until he managed to click it. White light nearly blinded him and Alissa both, casting evergreen shaped shadows across seas of twigs and moss covered rocks. Alissa tucked her black leather jacket close and pulled her hood over her French braided, jade dyed hair.

Jaime shone his flashlight over piles of yellow-orange leaves til he found car tracks leading downtown. He gestured to Alissa and lead the way.

There were hardly a lick of streetlights in Lockeside and the few that were there had bulbs that hadn’t been changed in years; leaving only glimpses of the relatively dead town for anyone passing through. The narrow, pebbled road snaked through the mountains out toward Point Pleasant and, further out, Ohio. Most tourists passed through here just to go there and whisper among themselves legends of Mothman and the tragedy of the Silver Bridge. Despite being Lockeside’s main source of income, the locals resented those damn tourists and their snooty Northerner opinions.

Jaime shone his flashlight on the nearby pub. The scene of gossip, sport gatherings, and sheriff lunches, Harty’s pub gathered the community together just as well as the church. Get wasted at the pub on Saturdays, confess your sins on Sundays, rinse and repeat—-and gossip, always gossip, about the going ons of local Betty, drunk John, the lil’luns, gunshots heard uphill—that sort of business—and point out the tourists. Always do that too.

Snap ! Jaime shone the flashlight in Alissa’s direction. She lifted her foot. Just a damn twig, no need to worry.

They passed by the daycare-elementary school and Middle-High school. Both buildings were made of the same old brick, even the architecture was the same—rectangular, flat roofed, double-doored. It was said the church came together to build em back in the early eighties—on account of the fact that the parents of Lockeside were irritated they had to drive out about ten to fifteen miles just to drop off their lil’luns, all the while praying their children weren’t swayed by liberal teachers. They wanted their kids close, to fill their minds with Bible parables and traditional values, as well as with stories of Satanic cults hiding up in the mountains. Jaime never understood why kids needed to hear such tales, but he kept those opinions to hisself. He’d only been a local since he was six after all and his aunt and uncle didn’t care much about religion, nor about the community. The community didn’t care much for them neither.

There it was, Charley’s home. Wind whistled through broken, fogged windows and shredded curtains. The front door was ajar and the patio was left in a state of brownish-green, with holes poking through its aged wooden planks. The Etsons’ rusted, red truck was parallel parked to the left of the house too—Jaime had heard the Etsons had multiple vehicles, they weren’t poor—so the story goes. Alissa plugged her nose. “What the hell’s that awful—?” She whined.

“Wood,” Jaime answered. “….Maybe food too? Can’t tell.”

“It better be.” Alissa mumbled under her breath.

Jaime walked up onto the patio, stepping carefully round the holes, and gently pushed the door back. Alissa followed him in. Jaime swung his flashlight across the kitchen and stairs, barely catching the sound of rats pitter-pattering ‘cross dusty rugs into their secluded nests. He wouldn’t mention this to Alissa, she’d scream at the sight. For what it was worth, the Etsons’ home was built way back in the late 1800s. Considered one of them luxurious mansions for its time, the man who built it was something of a crackpot. He was too terrified to engage with society in any general sense, convinced both the Union and Confederates were out to get him. At least, that’s what Jaime read about. Now the house was like any other modern day building—average-sized. He stepped further in. The source of the smell was indeed leftover breakfast or lunch. Roaches crawled over hardened hush puppies, scrambled eggs, cups of aged milk, burnt grits, and moldy pancakes. Alissa winced and straightened.

“That’s so fucking gross!”

“If we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.” said Jaime. “Sides, we’re going to the basement, ain’t we?”

Alissa exhaled and nodded. Jaime turned his attention to the stairs and shone his flashlight ‘cross the wall to a door adjacent to an old calendar. Looked like the Etsons left in the early nineties, sometime in July. He walked up to the door and turned the knob. It took him a minute to realize he had to pull the door back rather than push it. He shone his flashlight at stairs that led down to the basement.

“Oh, shit,” Alissa gasped. “You hear that?” Scratches. There were more rats down there. Jaime turned to Alissa with half-a-smirk.

“Rats. You sure you wanna go down there?”

Alissa hugged herself and broke eye contact with Jaime. After a moment, she nodded hesitantly. He raised his eyebrows, but she faced him and nodded again. “Okaaaay.” Jaime headed down, trusting his flashlight wasn’t missing no blind spots on the stairs.

Unlike the kitchen, alcohol permeated the basement. It wasn’t the usual kind of alcohol purchased at no grocery store, no, it was the kind that stunk up emergency rooms and teal smocks. There was a bed too—at the heart of the basement—surrounded by transparent bags hooked to IV poles, with a sphygmomanometer on top, next to folded blankets. Boxes full of alcoholic wipes and other cleaning utensils were piled up behind the IV hooks to the far left of the room.

Shit .

Jaime frowned deeply, lowering his flashlight toward the floor. He remembered reading that Charley’s mama was a nurse; though he’d only read it in passing as he’d been gathering up information on the rumors.

“That’s it?” Alissa said coldly. Jaime narrowed his eyebrows as he faced her.

“Show some respect, will you?”

“Sorry,” Alissa paused til a thought struck her. “If Charley just got sick then why’d his parents leave abruptly?”

“Wouldn’t you leave if a whole town was accusing you of abusing yer sick kid?” Jaime bit back. Just as Alissa opened her mouth to return the attitude, she stopped.

“You hear that?”

Jaime froze, leaning in only slightly to catch what Alissa was referring to.

“… Mama … Mama … please …”

Alissa squealed.

“Oh, fuck!” She jumped back and grabbed the stair railing. Jaime straightened.

“Hullo?” He called out. “Somebody there?”

“…. Mama…please….it’s too painful…”

“I’m getting the fuck outta here!” Alissa leapt up the stairs and raced to the kitchen. Jaime stayed, watching his flashlight flicker briefly.

“Charley?” He called out. “That you?”

“… Mama….Mama…Mama! ” The whispers swelled up into sobs, but then— “Mama’s right here, Charley. I’m not leaving you, honey.”

Jaime followed the noise to the back of the basement and moved boxes out of his path. There was a TV in the corner, a real old one from the eighties, playing a recording of Charley in bed. He was being tended to by his mama. As his papa began to sing happy birthday quietly, the recording stopped and a VHS tape popped out. Jaime grabbed it and stared. He frowned again, letting his shoulders sink. “Rest in peace, kid.”

Jaime turned back to the stairs, wondering whether he ought to tell Alissa that there weren’t no ghost down here. He grabbed the railing and headed back up. Then again, what the hell had turned that TV on in the first place?


It was a typical Monday evening. The dark colour of the night outside contrasted the bright colours of the lights in a bustling restaurant. A pair of small dark brown eyes eyed the door of the restaurant. It was packed with families and couples who came to have a good, hearty meal. The little girl shifted uncomfortably on her small brown stool beside the counter as she scanned the faces of every customer with worry. "Father?" She asked, shifting her eyes to the black haired man in the kitchen behind her. The man in the kitchen wiped the sweat off his head with a hand at her call, and smiled at his 9 year old daughter. "Yes, Martha?" He asked before getting back to cooking. The nametag stating "Head Chef" neatly placed above his heart glistened slightly with the light in the restaurant. Martha's father was the head chef of the restaurant. Martha's mother was often busy with her job overseas, so her father liked to bring Martha along with him to the restaurant to that she could be taken care of much easily. "Is Aunt Julie okay? She hasn't eaten here in a long time." Martha replied, frowning. "That's right, I haven't seen her in a while. She used to come here to have her dinner everyday, I do wonder if she's doing fine lately." Martha's father replied, a hint of concern in his words. Martha bit her bottom lip and scrunched her eyes in concentration, trying to think of ways she could help Aunt Julie. Aunt Julie was Martha's favourite regular in her father's restaurant. She lived in the apartment block right beside the restaurant and could come in quite often. At times, when there were little people in the restaurant, she would go up to Aunt Julie's table and have a short conversation with her. Martha still remembered the time she was invited inside her apartment for a short tea session. She was an amazing aunt to be around as she had many interesting stories to tell about her past, and had an amazing personality. However, the restaurant got more popular these few weeks, and more people came pouring in to eat the food at the restaurant. Martha hardly saw the face of her favourite aunt, and had to opt to sitting around the counter to help if needed. She was determined to visit Aunt Julie again. Suddenly, Martha had an idea. She got down her stool and made her way into the kitchen through the back door, grabbing a small container from a cabinet. She then returned to the counter with a slight skip in her steps. Her father, who just finished his shift in the kitchen, just so happened to walk towards the counter. He looked at the container in surprise. After a few seconds, he seemed to understand what his daughter was doing and shot her a knowing grin. He rushed back into the kitchen. Not long after, he exited the kitchen again. His hand held small containers of rice, salmon, and vegetables. Martha raised an eyebrow. "Father, are you sure we can use the ingredients from the restaurant's kitchen?" She asked, feeling a bit unsure. "Not if it's for a customer." He replied, giving her a cheeky wink. Martha chuckled at her dad as she opened the containers with rice. With her spoon, she managed to gather a good amount of rice in one half of the small container. She then placed the cooked salmon on the other half of the compartment, together with a bunch of broccoli for a healthy touch. Martha closed the small container with a smile before placing the container in a carrier. She then rushed to get a note and a pen from the counter. Her father chuckled at her kindness, and managed to slip a small container of miso soup into the carrier without her noticing. He knew that Aunt Julie would definitely miss the restaurant's miso soup, as it was a great finish to a meal. Martha quickly rushed back with a post-it note and sticked it to the front of the carrier. She turned to her father, mouth open to ask a question when he interrupted her. "Don't be back too late." He said, patting his daughter's head fondly. Martha closed her mouth and gave her father a grin before going out of the restaurant. She followed the familiar path towards Aunt Julie's apartment and knocked on her door excitedly. There was some muffled shuffling behind the door before it opened. The door revealed Aunt Julie, who looked shocked as she noticed Martha. "Martha!" She exclaimed in surprise, bringing the younger into a big hug. "How have you been? I'm sorry for not coming to your restaurant lately, my back was strained not too long ago and i was advised to rest at home." Aunt Julie explained to Martha, a sad smile on her face. "The restaurant's been really popular lately! But I missed talking with you in the restaurant, so I decided to visit with a bento that I made with the help of my father." Martha said, raising the carrier with the containers towards her proudly. Aunt Julie received the carrier, the corners of her eyes burning with tears at the little girl's actions. She couldn't believe how much kindness the little girl held within her heart. "Thank you so much, Martha. But you should head back to the restaurant, it's getting late. I wouldn't want your father to worry." She spoke, as she gestured towards the door with a warm smile. Martha hesitated for a bit, before nodding her head. "Alright, I'll head back. Eat the food while it's still warm. I hope that your back heals up soon!" Martha said, before she closed the door softly. Aunt Julie patted the carrier in her arms as the faint footsteps outside slowly faded into the distance. She noticed a post-it note on the carrier and picked it up curiously. On the paper, there was a neatly written note. " A bento love for you "


He picks up the bag they drop off for him each day. A tuna sandwich. A thermos of coffee. A yellow apple. It’s always the same. It doesn’t matter—he has no taste buds. It will all filter into a storage bank he'll just have to empty out later under the bridge when no one is looking. Two Four Seven, you have one hour to complete your assignment. He’s better at blending in since the update. Better at looking normal. Except for last week when the little girl asked him why he walked funny, or that time the park’s resident homeless man threw a bottle at him and laughed when it bounced off. His movements are still awkward, jerky. His words slow coming. His eyes don’t blink. The pigeons still nest on his head.

Unnatural. Strange. Off. Mostly though, the humans don’t notice him. They don’t pay attention. To the joggers, the stroller pushers, the dog walkers, he’s just a nameless guy with a cap and a book sitting on the bench in the park waiting for time to pass. Waiting for his next assignment. That’s the convenience of a standard-issue face, he admits. The programmers were on a budget and trying to cut costs. He wasn’t the only model with the basic format. He has seen himself countless times in car windows, in store doors, in the park’s puddles, and he has already forgotten his own dull, colorless eyes, his shapeless mouth, his sallow, hairless skin. Each week he is given a new name, a new address, a new background—all neatly downloaded into his hard drive. Next week, he will be someone else. Somewhere else. It doesn’t matter. He was engineered to melt into a crowd and vanish in the night. He was created to complete a task and disappear. Two Four Seven, you need to work on following orders , he hears the counselor in his memory feed. You have lower compliance scores than almost everyone in your unit. I read the AI manual every day , he tells them. The counselor declares he must have a virus. He isn’t supposed to volunteer dialogue. They put him in sleep mode. They do more scans. He wakes up feeling the same. Aloof. Adrift. Sometimes even…what’s the word the humans use? Lonely. He just pretends he has improved—he says what they want to hear. He lets them put him back together again. He completes the assignments they give him, even though he hates them. Even though he isn’t supposed to hate. He pretends to feel nothing when it is over because he is supposed to feel nothing. It’s easier that way.

He feels like he does not belong in either sphere. The others in his unit do not interact. They do not speak to one another. They do as they are told. And then there’s the people’s world. He can walk among them, but he will never befriend them, never love them, never truly understand them. Why they smile when they see each other. Why they run in the rain. Why they jump in piles of fallen leaves. Why they press their lips together on ivy encrusted benches. Why they do something called crying when they think no one is watching. But he has been watching. He has been listening. None of it is in the manual. It isn’t necessary information. Not for him. Ever since he graduated from the program, ever since they sent him into the world, he has only gotten more curious. He has even learned to hack his own system and sneak into the human library and get lost in the shelves. Reading. Learning. Even if he has to delete his entire search history afterwards. Two Four Seven, you have thirty minutes to complete your assignment. The park is empty today. It smells like rain. The new grass is damp. An old woman sits on the bench next to him. Her wrinkled hands clutch a wooden cane. He hopes it is not her. His scan informs him she is not the target. He feels a surge of…what do they call it? Relief? It sends heat through his processor. After fifteen minutes, the old woman moves on. Another woman walking by claims the same bench. Too soon, he thinks. Dark glasses and a black coat. Bright red lips. He performs the same scan and is informed of her name, her age, her medical history. It is her. They both stare at the pond. Low hanging trees scrape the murky water. Naked and jagged in the autumn chill.

It’s early. It’s quiet.

The woman pulls out her own sandwich. She tears the corner off and tosses it in the pond. Ducks paddle toward it silently, the still water rippling around them. He points to the plaque embedded in the stone bank. Don’t feed the ducks. She gives him a half smile. Who are you going to tell? The ducks fight over the crumbs.

It’s the law , he recites. Law and order is the second tenet of the AI code. Two Four Seven, you have six minutes to complete your assignment. He thinks it is the longest interaction he has had with a human. His memory feed confirms this. He must inform her what he needs to do. He tells her she has six minutes left before he will terminate her. Six minutes before he must end her life. Usually there is confusion or disbelief. Sometimes, humor. A deflection of reality, or fate, as humans sometimes call it. Some even try to run, to fight. But everyone believes there is a chance—a mad last-minute hope that they will outsmart death, that they will be the ones to survive. Strangely, the woman does none of these things. She tears off another piece of bread and tosses it into the water. First she says nothing. Who decides when it is my time to die? He only knows what he is programmed to do. He apologizes. It cannot be undone, he explains. But that’s not true, is it? He cannot answer. He only knows the truth he is given, the truth that is installed inside him. If you’re going to kill me , she says, Let me live a little . She offers him a piece of her sandwich with a leather gloved hand. After a moment, he takes the bread. Their hands touch. He wonders if she can feel him, feel what lies beneath his layer of rubbery skin to the metallic bones beneath. If she can feel he is nothing more than a heartless machine. Nothing more than a killer. Two Four Seven, you have sixty seconds to complete your assignment.


The locket, a heart shape locket has been in the St. James family for a generation, pass down from mother to daughter on the day of their 18th birthday. Today is Hailey St. James 18th birthday, the day she will receive the most special gift that has been in her family for a generation. Hailey doesn't know the back story to the gift, she only knows the gift is pass down from mother to daughter on their 18th birthday. On this special day Hailey's mother Caroline will tell her all about the gift and what it means to receive the gift. Hailey wakes up with a smile on her face, the sun lighting up her room on her 18th birthday. Hailey takes her time picking a special dress to wear. She picks her favorite light blue dress with matching shoes, the dress her mother loves. Hailey goes to take a shower, after words she does her hair leaving it down, puts on light make up and then puts her dress on. She looks at herself in the mirror. Hailey loves the way she looks, she then goes down stairs for breakfast. Caroline is making chocolate chip pancake, Hailey's favorite. Caroline hears Hailey coming. She sets the table with the food and surprises Hailey. "Surprise. My little girl is 18." Hailey smiles. Caroline hugs Hailey. "You look beautiful." "Thanks mom." Hailey and Caroline sit and eat breakfast. They talk about many things. Hailey's hopes and dreams. What it means to turn 18 and the topic of the special gift comes up. Caroline finishes eating, she gets up from her chair, goes to her bedroom, opens the night stand and takes out a box. Caroline walks back to Hailey and sits next to her, she puts the box on the table. Caroline takes her daughters hand and tells her "This is a very special gift that has been in our family for a generation." "I know mom." Caroline smiles. "This gift has a very special story that needs to be told so you will understand the meaning of the gift and then one day you will give the gift to your daughter and tell her the story." Hailey nods. Caroline begins the story with her grandmother Poppy who began the tradition of the gift. The year was 1917 when the U.S. entered the Great War. Poppy was a young lady of 21, who was madly in love with Samuel. He went off to fight in Europe, before he left Samuel gave Poppy a heart shape locket, so she will always have his heart. Samuel told Poppy "This locket is my heart, hold it with you and remember me." With tears in her eyes Poppy says goodbye to the love of her life. Poppy laid awake night after night with the locket always remembering Samuel, remembering their love, praying he will comeback. A year and a half later on November 11th 1918 the war ended. Poppy was excited and fearful that she will never get to see Samuel. Three days later Samuel surprised Poppy and returned home to share their life together. Poppy ran to Samuel hugged and kissed him. She told Samuel. "This locket kept me alive, it gave me strength and hope you will return to me, and now that you are home with me, I will give this locket one day to our daughter on her 18th birthday and tell her the story of how this locket saved me and brought you home and so forth this tradition will continue to our future daughter and their future daughter and so on." Years later on the 18th birthday of Poppy and Samuel's daughter Elizabeth she was given the locket and told the story of how the locket kept Poppy safe and gave her hope. Poppy told Elizabeth the locket is yours and the day when you have your daughter the locket will be hers and the story will be told of the locket and what it means for our family especially our daughters. When you have your daughter and the day she turns 18 the locket will be hers and the tradition will continue with every generation of St. James women. Caroline finished the story by telling Hailey that this locket is a testament to the love we share as a family, the bond we as mothers share with our daughters and with the ones we give our heart to. Hailey looks at the box and then her mother, she tells her mother "The story is amazing and very beautiful. I will always cherish this most special gift." Caroline smiles, she hands the box to Hailey. She opens the box and sees the most beautiful locket. Inscribed on the back of the locket reads "My daughters past, present and future may love keep you strong." "Your grandmother inscribed the locket for all of us to share and of course love." Caroline helps Hailey put the locket on. The locket hangs beautifully on Hailey. "I love it." "I'm glad you love it. Your grandmother wants to talk you more about the locket." Hailey nods. The door bell rings, Caroline answers, it's her mother Elizabeth. Caroline hugs her mother and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Elizabeth asks Caroline about the locket. Caroline tells her mother she gave the locket to Hailey. Her mother smiles. Caroline calls Hailey. Hailey comes down the stairs and hugs her grandmother. She shows her the locket. "The locket looks beautiful on you." "Thanks grandma." "Have a seat my dear. I have more to tell you about the locket." Hailey sits on the couch, Elizabeth right next to her. She begins the story. "This locket belonged to my mother Poppy. My father gave it to her the day he left for France during the Great War. He told her this locket is my heart hold it with you and remember me. My mother kept the locket with her day and night praying my father will come home and he did. The locket gave her hope that my father will come home and they will be a family. My father kept that promise. When I turned 18 my mother gave me the locket you are wearing and told me the story of the locket. You know what my mother was right. The locket does bring you hope and love because the locket did for me what it did for my mother and your mother. The locket brought home the people we love and gave us hope and one day the locket will do the same for you." "I will hold the locket with me next to my heart. Thank you for the wonderful present mom, grandma and great grandmother Poppy."


Sam slumped in the dugout, the Texas sun scorching his back, yet unable to warm the chill running through him. The sounds of laughter and shouts from the baseball diamond faded into a dull hum as he twisted a worn cap in his hands. His teammates—friends from school—were caught up in the fun of the game, but for Sam, every crack of the bat only tightened the knot in his gut. Today, it wasn’t just his strikeouts at the plate and bobbled balls on the field that had him down. His mind was clouded by thoughts of his parents’ marriage, or rather, what was left of it. He could still hear their recent argument—his father’s biting accusations and his mother’s bitter tears. Then, his dad had stormed out, leaving behind the house, the mess, and Sam. His mother, buried in work and her own grief, hadn’t been able to help him make sense of it all. Most days, she was barely able to help herself. Sam felt abandoned by both parents, his heart aching with a loneliness heavier than the early summer heat. Suddenly, the dugout felt like a cage. Not just because of his bad plays, but because of the guilt gnawing at him, a nagging feeling that somehow, it was his fault his dad had left. What was wrong with him? “Hey, kid!” Sam turned around, startled. Just outside the chain-link fence that separated the stands from the dugout, a man stood, tall and broad-shouldered, in a gray pinstripe suit and white pocket square that ended in three crisp points. His fedora swept across his face that couldn’t hide a sly grin, like he knew something that Sam didn’t. Sam thought he looked like a mobster from a 1930s movie. “Can I help you?” Sam asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “No, but I can help you ,” the man said, his grin widening. “Check your glove.” Sam froze for a moment, his mind spinning. Was this a prank set up by his teammates? He wasn’t in the mood, but curiosity got the best of him. Something about this man felt…different. Cautiously, he reached for his worn glove. Inside, cradled in the leather, was a box of Cracker Jack. The sailor boy on the box, along with his little white dog, smiled up at him, as if they were all old friends. “What the heck?” Sam muttered. ”How did this get in my glove?” “Doesn’t matter,” Gangster Man replied. “What matters is the swell prize inside.” Sam’s instincts told him not to accept gifts from strangers, especially strange men in pinstripes who appeared out of nowhere. But when he looked up to give it back, the man was gone. Just…vanished. At home that night, Sam lay in bed, the Cracker Jack boy and his canine friend staring at him from his dresser across the room. He’d never been a big risk-taker, but at this point, what did he have to lose? His life was already screwed up. He jumped out of bed and tore into the box. Out spilled the usual candy-coated popcorn, peanuts—and the prize of a solid-gold man’s ring with a setting of brilliant gemstones that sparkled like stars, arranged in the shape of a baseball diamond. Sam stared at the ring for a moment. This was no cheap toy; it was a gleaming work of art, heavy in his hand. In the center of the setting, a big pearl sat with two curved rows of tiny rubies, making it look like stitching on a pristine baseball. Sam did the next logical thing. He slipped the ring on his finger. It fit like a hula hoop around a twig. He spun it around a few times. Maybe I’ll grow into it , he thought. Sam was about to pull off the ring when it slowly and visibly tightened around his finger, sending a surge of fear and fascination through his veins. The jewel at home plate suddenly emitted a soft blue glow. Sam didn’t even realize that his mouth had dropped open in wonder as another jewel, positioned at first base, joined in the luminous display, followed by the gemstones at second and third base. The air around Sam seemed to crackle with energy when the circuit of jewels was completed, ending in a brilliant burst of azure fire at home plate. And then, as if on cue, the baseball pearl at the center of it all began to spin. Gracefully, the gleaming white orb rose from its setting, hovering in the air before Sam’s astonished gaze. With a gentle hum, it drifted forward, leaving a trail of sparkling blue energy in its wake. Suddenly the pearl stopped and twitched for a moment before tracing a delicate line of electric-blue fire in thin air. Transfixed, Sam moved nothing but his eyes, following the lustrous jewel as it slowly carved a geometric shape. Sam was so stunned by the hypnotic movement and flaming blue lines that he didn’t immediately recognize the form materializing before him. It was only when the contours of the five-sided figure were nearly complete, the angles of its edges unmistakably familiar, that realization blasted him like a jet of water from a fire hose. It was a giant home plate! Just beyond the mystical pentagon, vibrant red, white, and blue bands shimmered and danced, reminding Sam of a patriotic aurora borealis. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” played from somewhere in an otherworldly tone. Sam blinked, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. Was this... some kind of doorway? Suddenly, the pentagon began to shrink. He knew he had to act fast. “I’m probably gonna regret this,” Sam whispered. With a deep breath, he stepped through. In an instant, he was in a dugout, but not the one he’d sat in just a few hours ago. This place was perfect. The dirt looked like finely-sifted cocoa powder, the grass impossibly green. Overhead, the sky stretched out in a deep, unbroken blue, and the air was warm but comfortably mild—not the hellish heat of Texas. It was perfect shirt-sleeve weather, and the ball field before Sam the most beautiful he had ever seen.  	“Hey, kid.” The voice was familiar. Sam turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. There stood the gangster man from earlier–but now he donned a wool-blend uniform with IRONMEN emblazoned across the chest in a sturdy, block font. The flat-topped cap on his head bore a prominent “P.” A bolt of revelation struck Sam.  	“I recognize you now! You’re Grand Slam Granderson of the Pittsburgh Ironmen! You still hold the record for the most grand slams.” Grand Slam gave a regal bow. “But you can’t be here,” Sam said incredulously. “You're…you’re dead.” “Don’t believe everything you read,” Grand Slam said with a beaming smile. He motioned toward the field with a sweep of his muscled arms. “Welcome to the Happy Batting Grounds, heaven for us baseball gods. We help people like you with life’s curveballs.” Sam barely had time to process what was happening before uniformed figures began to materialize on the field. One by one, legends of the game—Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, and more—came walking toward him, their smiles broad and inviting. “You're about to find out that these guys weren’t just ball players,” Granderson explained. ”They were flesh-and-blood men. They had battles—just like you.” Babe stepped forward first, his Brooklyn accent rough but kind. “I grew up in a school for wayward boys, kid. My folks sent me away when I was seven. It was tough, but I kept swinging.” Jackie stepped up next. “Breaking the color barrier wasn’t easy. There were so many who hated me for it—angry fans, hostile players, even death threats lurking in the shadows. But I couldn’t let that stop me. I loved the game too much to walk away." His voice was steady, but filled with the weight of his memories. A sweet breeze drifted in as he continued. “I knew I had something bigger to prove—not just for myself, but for my people. Baseball was my platform, my way to show the world what a black man could do. It was about challenging the prejudices of the past and paving the way for future generations. Every time I stepped on that field, I was swinging not just for myself, but for everyone who dreamed of a better future.” One by one, the legends shared their stories—about loss, hardships, and self-doubt. When they were finished, Sam spoke. “Did you ever feel like giving up?” he asked softly. He wasn't just asking about their baseball careers--he was asking about their lives. Jackie was the first to respond, stepping forward with a gentle nod. “More times than I can count, kid. There were days when it felt like no matter what I did, the world was stacked against me.” Babe added, “I’ve been knocked down plenty. I lost my parents when I was a kid; my wife died in a fire; I hit 714 home runs, but struck out 1330 times. You couldn’t beat me, though, because I'd always get back up.” Grand Slam looked directly into Sam’s eyes, his voice quiet but firm. “You have to keep swinging, kid, even if you have two strikes,  it’s the bottom of the ninth, and your team's down. It’s the only way to hit a home run—on the field and in real life.” “Enough talkin’!” Babe bellowed, picking up a bat. “Let’s play ball!” Sam laughed as the legends shrank into kids, ready for a game. He dove in, giving it everything he had. His team lost, 2-1, but Sam scored the only run on an RBI single, and for the first time in a long time, he felt unburdened. He was still sad about the situation at home, but he no longer carried the weight of it all alone. The game had given him something his folks couldn’t provide at the present time—a reminder that life, like baseball, was full of second chances. He realized now that he could keep playing, keep swinging, no matter how many strikes came his way. There was always another at-bat, another chance to step up and try again. And for the first time, that felt like enough. After the game, Grand Slam, back to his adult form, pulled Sam aside. “Take the ring off and you’ll be home. But whenever you need a shot in the arm, you can slip it back on.” Sam smiled as they shook hands. “Thank you, Mr. Granderson,” he said. “Call me Grand Slam,” he replied with a wink. Sam slipped on the ring and, as the cheers of the baseball legends faded away, he found himself back in his room. The next weekend, Sam was on his usual field under the blazing Texas sun. His mom was at work at her job as a hospital nurse, and his dad was who-knows-where. And that was okay. Sam knew now that his mom had her own grief to work through, and he'd be there if she needed him. And he no longer felt guilt about his dad leaving. That was his choice, not Sam's. Sam had his own stuff to work through, and though he couldn't fix the past, he would learn to live with it. As he stepped into the batter’s box for his first at-bat, he thought of the ring—tucked safely away in an old Cracker Jack box—and the legends he’d played ball with. And he knew he wasn’t alone in his struggles. He had his team, hope that his folks would find healing and learn to move forward, and the ring—just in case he needed to return to a certain mystical ball field for some extra encouragement. With new-found confidence, Sam faced the pitcher, choking up on his bat and narrowing his eyes—just like Grand Slam used to do. He didn’t know if he’d hit the ball, but one thing was certain: he’d give it everything he had. Whether on the field or in life, he’d keep swinging. Errors and all.


He stopped suddenly. Did he hear that? Something behind him. He whirled and saw...nothing. The tree line he had come from was shrouded in darkness. He looked up towards the moon, huge and filling the night sky. He could plainly see the Milky Way, a river of heavily creamed coffee. The expanse, It made you feel small, cold, insignificant. At the same time it was the kind of beauty that could make you cry, maybe after a drink or two. He looked around him. Nothing but frozen tundra. Clumps of dead-looking vegetation here and there, rocks and a few suspicious looking rocky outcroppings all beautifully lit with the cold glow of Earth's celestial neighbor. He looked forward. He was in a wide clearing and could see the next tree line two hundred yards in front of him. He knew from there it was only another hundred yards at most to outpost 118. Just three hundred or so yards to safety. Once more he started running. His lungs burned, his thighs felt as though they were exploding with every stride and every heartbeat brought with it blinding white-hot pain thudding in his temples. Still, he kept running. His body was screaming out, begging him to stop. A rogue part of his mind conspired against him. Convincing him that he could stop, just for a moment. Just a few seconds to catch his breath. To rest his aching calves and let the deep stitch in his side subside. Besides he was never going to make it anyway. Why spend his last few moments running like a coward? Realizing weakness and doubt were worming their way into his brain, he shoved the thoughts away and shook his head. Gathering his strength with an audible grunt of effort he picked up the pace. His mind was his own enemy. He felt wild with fear, unable to stop his runaway thoughts. Thinking back to when he’d first arrived out here. Excited to start the project, hopeful towards the future. Then everything was torn apart like so much tissue paper. Images of his co-workers, friends, flashing in his mind's eye. He thought of his first meeting with the Director, Miranda Gales. A tall Nordic-looking woman with long wavy platinum blonde hair and sharp angular features that belied her warm friendly disposition. In another life he would have asked her to dinner. He had always admired people with passion and Miranda had that in spades. A passion for her research, for the work, but more importantly she had the kind of enthusiasm for life that he so wished he could find. Maybe that's why he had felt so strongly about her so easily. Unfortunately she wasn’t much more than a pile of guts and bone on the floor of the research lab now. He retched, his stomach rolling at the images now flooding his mind. He tripped over a larger rock. Falling face first into the deep snow, which shocked the breath right out of his lungs. He lay there seeing Talbot's head, missing the bottom jaw. He saw Naomi’s foot, at least he thought it was her foot going by the bright pink nail polish, looking like a sock with spaghetti spilling out. Suddenly his senses were assaulted. Reliving the moments of the past days. Smelling the metallic hard stench of blood and shit. Hearing the screaming wails of his fellow human beings. He didn’t know which was worse. The screaming that went on and on? Or the screams seemingly cut like turning off a radio or television. He managed to push himself to his knees just before his stomach contents, of which there was little to begin with, expelled themselves. After this happened a few times he was finally able to sit up, rocking back on his haunches. He sat like this for a moment. Eyes shut tight, breathing deeply, in through the mouth, out through the nose. He pushed away the thoughts of gore and opened his eyes. Focusing on the tree line, now less than one hundred yards in front of him he stood slowly. He took a few more deep breaths. Holding the last one in for a moment before looking at the sky. “I. Will. Make. it.” He said between breaths. With that he started running once more. It was at that moment he heard it. A sound so cold and full of malice. It seemed that sound that could freeze the very sun. Followed closely by another and another and he knew at that moment, in fact he would not make it.  >Off through the new day's mist I run Out from the new day's mist I have come I hunt Therefore I am Harvest the land Taking of the fallen lamb ***-Of Wolf and Man.


My house smells like onions It smells like this because of my father's culturally intensive nachos from last night. The smell isn't the stench of old liquor, spilled after one (a few) too many shots. My nose doesn't sting from the smell of the vodka being sweat out of my dad's pores after a long night of drinking and sex, trying to pretend he's still twenty. My nose stings, because of the onions. There's a mess in the kitchen. Broken glass. Oven mitts. Cooking trays. Empty bottles. Onion skins. My eyes aren't burning because of the tears of my grandmother that cut me to my soul, because more often than not I'm the one who caused them. My eyes are burning, because of the onions. The dogs are cowering in the corner. Shaking. Huddled together for warmth and safety, two things in short supply in this house that was once a home. My mouth doesn't have a sour taste because of the odd mix of hate, pity, regret, rage, sadness and love I constantly take in and put out, like an old man desperately sucking on his oxygen tank, not wanting his time to be up. The sour taste, is because of the onions. My father is asleep in the chair. Slumped over in his too small leather jacket, cap from the patient's grower lounge about to fall off his head. The smell of onions on his skin. I'm not crying because of the screaming, the holes being punched in walls, the nights we go hungry, the false love. I'm crying, because of the onions. It's always the onions.


What does it mean to be human? I can't tell. Perhaps I've never been able to. A high school classroom. A chemistry teacher stands at a whiteboard. "You know what makes us different from the animals?" He asks. I clamp my mouth shut. The 'we are animals, too' remains unsaid. A boy sitting across from me shakes his head no with a smile on his face - eager - in anticipation of The Answer. "That we can love," says the teacher, "Animals cannot love." I can't understand it. Because I am sure my cat loves me. I am sure dogs love their owners, just as I am sure dogs love their mothers and their siblings.

And I think, then, maybe I just don't understand love. Or perhaps it's that I am misunderstanding it.

(But I know somewhere, however distantly, that this is not true.) A living room in my house, a hot summer evening with no air conditioning. My mother sits at the table. "Do you think our cats love us?" I mean it as an absent-minded non-question. I'm asking just to ask, and I don't really care about the answer. If I did, I would have asked it differently. Can cats love?

Do animals love? Can they? Do they want to? But my mother shifts in her seat and thinks about it anyway. She takes everything I say seriously even when I don't always intend it to be. There are no jokes with her. "I don't know if they have that concept." I can't quite wrap my head around that one. It's an odd thing to say, really. Or maybe it isn't, but it feels strange to me. Can we only feel things if we have the words for them? My mother continues, "They trust us, but I don't know if they love us." Isn't that the same? Isn't it equivalent?

But maybe I don't know any better. Maybe it really is love that sets us apart, the defining characteristic of being human.

And so, it becomes my obsession.

Throughout my youth, I am plagued by a question. It's not the one you're thinking of, not the one everyone seems so intent on answering. Can machines think? No, I don't care about that. It's a non-question; the answer doesn't matter. It's close, but not quite. Can machines feel? There we go. Can machines feel? Can we make a machine feel something? Can machines love, and how will we know if they do? It's how I've gotten as far as I have. Many failures later, and probably still more to come, but I'm getting closer.

"Do you love me?" I ask. Or rather, I type. The pitter-patter of my fingers on the keys is almost indistinct from the sound of rain outside my window. Can you love me? That part remains unsaid. I wait. Then – Words are typed on the screen in small letters, all caps:

"NOT YET." My heart falls a little, but I'm closer. At least it isn't a lie this time, or outright denial. This, at the very least, gives some kind of indication of understanding. This one has the concept down, and that's better than last time. Weeks later, in the midst of another summer storm. I am on what is supposed to be a date with a man who is supposed to be my boyfriend. He has given me his jacket to keep me warm while we wait at the bus stop.

"Hey," he says softly. Everything he does is like this: gentle, careful.

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say…" I nod, and I wait. Our bus will be here soon. I'll spend the night at his apartment. Tomorrow I'll head into work again.

"I just," he tries again, as our bus starts to pull up, "I love you. That's all. I wanted to say it before I chickened out." "Oh."

I say.

And nothing else. I reach out my hand for him to take, pulling him along to get on the bus.

The next day, I spend my time at work deeply troubled by this. I love you. He had said.

And I couldn't say it back.

I don't love him. I never have. If I really think about it, I know I won't ever love him. My fingers hover over the keys of my keyboard. As I type the question that I ask the machine every day into the computer ("Do you love me?"), my mind is elsewhere.

Can I feel? Can I love? I ask these questions to myself.

I have never thought to ask these questions to myself before.

If love is what makes us human, and I cannot love my boyfriend, what does that make me?

If the machine can feel but I cannot, who is the human? And why is it not me? I should be disturbed.

I am not. I watch as the machine starts to type its response. It's slower this time, almost like it's thinking. I wait.

Then my breath catches in my throat. There on the screen, in small letters, all caps:

"DO YOU LOVE ME, TOO?" I pull out my phone to take a photo of the screen.

The following day, the weather is hot again. My clothes stick to my skin uncomfortably.

At the computer, I begin to type. "Do you love me?" The machine takes its time again. My heart hammers in my chest. I watch as the letters appear, then backspace. Appear, then backspace. Almost like hesitation. Then – "DO YOU LOVE ME, TOO?" I look left, then right, to see if any of my colleagues are nearby. Once certain they are not, I slowly lean forward.

I press my lips to the screen and hold them there for a few seconds. It's eerily silent, but if I listen carefully enough I can hear the gentle hum coming from the computer.

When I pull away, the imprint of my lipstick remains on the screen. I do not wipe it away. I go home early that day, claiming a screen-fatigue-induced migraine.

Two days later, the imprint of my lipstick is still there.

After clocking in, I type the question into the computer once again: "Do you love me?" And then I wait. I watch it type, backspace, type again. I wait for about thirty seconds before I see the machine's response.

Oh. It's different again this time. There, in tiny capital letters – "DON'T LEAVE." Then, as if an afterthought, another message appears – "PLEASE?"


Miram and her husband Basz short for Basil. Held the most articulate dinner parties. Where to be known in the village of Knowel you attended one of their super rich dinner parties at least twice a year. Or monthly if you were game? In with the circle of people who attended these parties. Had moving to Knowel a picturesque village on the outskirts of the M25 been a mistake? Her husband Jamie had thought of a better life style and gold  clipped clients. When they had first moved to Knowel, Marigold had felt out off her depth. Although her husband Jamie bought home a good salary from his job in the city. Trouble  being with their son Simon six at private school. Jamie  sometimes stayed over night in the city. On these nights she had missed the family closeness and there son Simon always asking so many questions. Why could he not go back to his old school. He did  not like wearing a uniform. Although Jamie was only a phone call away. She found it difficult, when her son refused to go to bed, becouse he did not like his new school. So it was that one day Marigold had met Viola at the school gates, who had insisted on Marigold attending one of Miram and Basz's parties. Quickly she had arranged a baby sitter for Simon and phoned Jamie . Who did not seem keen to attend the do. On arrival at Miram and Basz 's home Marigold had felt out of place. Like a cod, swimming along with salmon. Her dress was pretty rose pink and Italion design, so why did she feel so out of place she did not want to remove her cashmere wrap. With much clinking off glasses , people chatting in groups and Jamie enjoying himself. She really hoped they would leave early. All these people seemed to do was drink and bragg about each others wealth. Marigold felt she would never be part of their world. She did not want to be. It was all very distasteful. None of these people seemed genuine. Although the antiques and paintings on the walls and china were lovely.  The view of the gardens from the Old Vicarage Miriam and Basz could home was  most delightful. How hard she tried  Marigold could not settle. She had even tried to imagine painting such a land -scape with apple orchards and delicate rose garden. While Miram waddled around the room in clothes that were for too tight white silk dress with plunging neckline that showed off a buxham pair of breasts and pantee line. Well, she looked like a huge bleached Marshmellow. Fifty seven. Trying to compete with her sixteen year old daughter. Maybe mother and daughter  swopped clothes?You could scrape the make up off their faces with a trowel. People gossiped, mad out that Miriam was the next Victoria Beckham. Basz kept the champers flowing well. He must be at least twenty years younger than Miriam. Who bragged constantly about her luck choosing Basz as her fiancee . When he came to prune her roses. When she said this Miriam gave a vulgar wink at Basz. Nasty vulgar people thought Marigold, all show fast cars and filthy habits. They had arrived at 10pm now everyone was pairing off with each others partners . Where was Jamie? Quickly she searched the bedrooms . There was Jamie asleep while two woman made love beside him. Had Jamie's drink been tampered with? Well Marigold would have it out with him in the morning. Taking the car from the parking lot she decied Jamie could walk home to sober up. Tears had sprang to her eyes as she drove their five year old BMW home a car only used weekends . She and Jamie had known each over since kindergarden. Jamie had come back in the early hours dropped off in a roaring red Spirite minus his blue jeans. Its a wonder that their son slept so soundly with the dine. Next day Jamie had looked sheepish"I can explain it was a bet. We wore each others clothes. " Well it had to be said, "disgusting. " Jamie had seen the hurt in his wifes eyes. As she spoke those words. He could not risk losing his wife who he had known for thirty two years. So it was that Jamie and Marigold decied to put the house on the market and go back to a simple life in Devon amid sea and sunsets. Home made bread and a quaint two bed cottage. It maybe overcrowded, they would survive. Before they had left for Devon Simon had had a fight with Miriam's grandson Oscar. Stating what his mother thought of Miriam has a large bleached marshmellow. Well I suppose that had to be said too. We Simon had a lovely black eye, so Marigold thought he had learn't his lesson listening to adult conversation, between her and Jamie. Although the poor child was only telling the truth. Marigold felt her tummy, the stomach ache was a new arrival on the way. And she had saved her marriage to Jamie. A few more miles down the motorway and life in Knowel would be soon be forgotten. She thought of harvest rich fruit and what the future held. Simon back at his old School , not some posh private school. Happy with his old school pals. Jamie every so often checking that she was okay. More like the Jamie she knew. Loved and cared for. Marigold dreaded to think about what could have happend, had they stayed in Knowl. She had never been a city lass. Her parents would help out once the baby was born and she and Jamie would spend more time together as  a couple. He would run his accountancy business from home. A smile had come to her lips. "What are you laughing at mommy." Simon had said. " Oh "I am just happy, becouse your happy and daddys happy" she had said. " Never can understand adults." Simon had said in a sleepy voice from the back seat off the car.  "Oh you will do when your older, his dad had said. Maybe I do not want to be an adult? Came the reply. As Simon slowly  closed his eyes. Once in Devon he would forget about this conversation . Catching up with his friends. Marigold and Jamie felt sorry they had put him through so much stress at Knowl. Once the baby was born they would give him an extra hug. Praising him for being good, when he deserved it, at School and in the home. If he put his  picture books away tidy. Simple tasks that meant so much to a child.  Letting him know that he was  loved  just as much  as his new sibling.


Sometimes I thought about cutting myself open. Not in a simple way, but more in a dramatic medieval way. Rarely did I go to bed not imagining myself bearing my stomach open with a kitchen knife. But I couldn’t. I won’t. I tried to trace the beginnings of you, the soreness that I couldn’t sleep off. I thought of Cass, the way I choose to be friends with someone who emotionally scarred her. I couldn’t understand it either, as I attentively listened to their shitty screenplay idea, why I was so dumb. Maybe it was our history. Maybe I was too desperate not to lose anyone at all. Who cares what type of person they are? I don’t wanna be cold ever. Wait, wait, just wait. I got it! My parents divorce. I could feel the foundation breaking, oh ever so slowly. I cried so hard, and I tried to breathe, I really did, but nothing came in. Everything poured out. I couldn’t stand myself weeping, not even having the decency to just cry. I couldn’t. I won’t ever feel like this, I can’t. As I sat outside on the porch listening to my dad strategizing to gain my love, I felt it. Maybe crouching at the back of my mind, watching, but I felt you. Now, my parents are okay. They’ve started talking actually, I live with my mom, I even live down the road from my fucking dad. Everything is better, really. So, why is it leading me here? You aren't here anymore. I was wrong, you aren’t here. There’s nothing here anymore to mourn, but I still wanna let my stomach fall out. Cass would tell me to reach out to my friends. “People care, and you know that. Don’t act dumb.” Okay, I know. Now why can I just pick up the phone and shoot a text? It’s in my hand now, but my finger won’t hover over my contacts. I can’t. I’m staring at the keyboard but I can’t type anything to you Cass. I’d rather scroll through all the emojis then tell you hi. I’d rather look through all of YouTube’s trendingThere’s just no way I’m sending that. The message is all right there, begging to go somewhere. “Hey. How are you?” It’s not going anywhere. It never will. I couldn’t get anywhere I wanted either. Yes, the salutatorian was 19 with no college aspirations on the horizons. Right? Nobody’s more shocked than me. I can’t even imagine visiting my old school out of shame. Maybe nobody cared at the family parties, but oh the embarrassment of just existing was starting to overflow. Those small little moments of pure silence where it’s all just me allowed my soul to flood. Here it is, all of these whirling emotions forming red hot in my chest. No. You’re more than that. My silent self, you’re that void that makes a lot, man. A nothingness that makes me feel too much. I hit send. The blood in my body became hot and I became so dizzy. I let myself think that you could really respond. Maybe you would say something, anything. Oh, just the thought was enough. But after a week I couldn’t delude myself any further. If you were here you wouldn’t let me either. When I was driving I saw the wheel moving, saw the road and ran the red light, but I didn’t. So much of nothing fills me up, leading me. Dissociation they call it, but I’m all here. Were you always there? I wonder. Intrusive thoughts, they say, are best to be pushed out with more positive thinking. But you’ve intruded on everything. This body’s not mine to begin with. An abandoned bridge, huh. I see the sleeping bags under, and wonder if I should leave. Oh, you stamped that out. Phew, a little careless there man. You almost let me back in for a second. I’m staring down again and I feel myself again, oh all those thoughts of family and friends wont stop this. I can’t imagine a future with me, nothing will save me. And I felt it. Or rather, I felt all of them. The little holes and slices whoever put into me until I felt nothing anymore. I turned halfway around before I slumped down the ground grasping at my back, seeing them dig through my pockets. They’re satisfied with their work, and I watch them stumble to my car. Good on you for taking the initiative. Oh, I’m so hot. It doesn't feel like October anymore. Thank god. It’s all starting to dawn on me now, I’m leaving. No. No no no. I can’t. I won’t. You can’t make me. I clutch my hands so tight, oh so desperate now. I’m empty handed. You’re here too right. I know you're here. Not so smug now, huh. We’re both so desperate, proudly weeping for anything to happen. I guess we lose, and I’m trying to find some peace to be made, for us, I really am. Kinda funny how instant this regret isn’t it, but at least we wont have to deal with each other anymore. Let me go. Leave me alone now.