For all I know, my eyes could be open. Although I fell to the ground as I lost consciousness, I might be sitting or even standing. I have no way to tell. I might be dead. I might've fallen sideways onto the road and been run over. I always imagined death as an exciting thing, if I'm honest. Something that would send a shiver down my spine to tell me that I was dead the moment it happened. As it is, I'm not even sure if I have a spine. I try to wriggle my fingers, but I can't even feel them. I can't see them. Maybe there's nothing to see. I strain my ears for the familiar sound of my own breathing, for car horns, people shouting, an ambulance or even a police car, but I can't hear them. There's nothing to hear. I want to scream in frustration but I can't feel my throat, I don't know if I'm making any noise. I've already forgotten how to scream. Nothing can make you forget. My thoughts are all that's left for me. Even my memories are fading into darkness. My wife's voice, my baby daughter's face, don't seem to exist anymore. I'm utterly alone, without even my own voice to keep me company. Brother. No, no, no. I'm not alone. I'm not alone and I wish I was. None of us are ever alone. It read my thoughts. It read my thoughts. How do I repel a creature that reads my thoughts? And there's more than one. Let me out, let me out of here! Out, Brother? I do not understand. How do I answer? How do I tell it to go away? I will leave you if you wish. You will not like feeling alone. No, wait, stay, please. (What am I doing? Am I mad?) I want to - to talk. Very well. I do not understand your word 'talk', but I will stay. Deep breath. (Am I breathing? I should be breathing. I'm still alive. Unless I'm dead.) First, where am I? ' Where'? Explain what you mean. It's a simple question. Where am I? I do not understand. Explain. I can't explain! It's simple. Please wait. I will connect you to - (My thoughts are muddled. The word was something like - I can't remember it. Already, only seconds later, I can't remember it.) I think it... He... Is gone. I didn't feel him leave, just Like I didn't feel him arrive. Can this - these creatures see? Have they got senses where I have none? Am I truly alone in this state? I can do nothing but think to pass the time. Time? I've lost track of it. I've heard people say that Time is a man-made concept, but when Man is removed, what happens to Time? Does it continue, or does it simply cease to exist? Did it ever? My memories have drained, and I don't remember my life before this Thoughtful state of being. How can I be sure that Time ever existed? That I ever existed outside of this world? I know that I once had a life. I know it. I must hold onto that, or my sanity will slip away. Brother. AH. You're back. How long has it been since I came here? Long? Here? How much Time has passed since I appeared? What is Time? Please explain. (Calm down. Maybe he just knows it with a different name.) Time is - well, time is - I can't explain. You cannot explain something that does not exist. You can. But that's not what I mean. I meant, Time does exist. I've felt it. Felt? What is 'felt'? Please stop! I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything. Just leave me alone. I will retreat, but you will not like feeling alone. That's it, that's 'felt', you just said - Oh. I didn't feel him leave. He's scaring me now. I don't know which thoughts are my own, which opinions are my own. The things he says, the questions he asks, are confusing me and making me unsure of what's real and what's not. Is this world, this Nothingness, real? Or am I only imagining it? Brother . Do you always enter someone's thoughts like that? It would be impolite to intrude without warning. 'Time', please explain it. My Elders are intrigued. Your Elders? No, I won't ask. But why should I try to explain it to you? You do not have to. But I see your thoughts. You doubt the existence of 'Time', and an explanation would sooth your mind. You're right... Time. Well, time is - Time is - I can't do it. I just can't. You cannot explain it because it is not real. No, it is real. I know it is. I've felt it. You have said that something must exist for it to be explainable - I never said that - The opposite is also true. No, it isn't true. Time exists. It does exist. Stop messing with my head! (Despite myself I feel a warmth growing in my head. A cozy, tired warmth...) No, I won't believe it. Time exists. I've felt it. I've felt... Felt? What is felt? My arguments are using words without meaning. Indeed, Brother. You are finding enlightenment. 'Time' does not exist, neither does 'Felt'. No, they both exist! I know they do. (The warmth, the tiredness, is growing.) Words without meaning... 'Felt'... 'Time'... What are they after all, but words? They do not exist. 'Time' does not exist. It does, it do- (The warmth finally takes over. Everything is wonderful and warm. Everything makes sense at last.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. You are right. (It's a relief to finally say it.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. 'Senses' do not exist. Indeed. 'Senses' do not exist. The world you think you remember does not exist. It is only your imagination. The world I think I remember does not exist. It is only my imagination. I understand. All of these things do not exist. They do not exist. You are tired, Brother. I am tired. You are very tired. Very tired... Sleep, Brother. Sleep. ... It is so warm... My Brother is gone. I remember... What was I going to say? I don't remember. Nothing is making me forget... Nothing can make you forget. Nothing can make you forget. I remember. I remember. ***** The brightness is overwhelming. Darkness would've been just as stunning. It takes me moments to recall how to open my eyes. I search for the right muscle, moving my fingers and turning my head before my eyelids raise. I see. I'm in an empty hospital ward, hooked up to a life-support machine, its beige-grey walls obnoxiously bright. The heart-monitor's bleeping pounds in my ears and prevents me from thinking straight. I struggle to find the muscle that turns my head, and eventually one of my ears are pressed into the pillow, but the sound persists. I push my hands toward the blanket in an attempt to get it over my head, but in my current condition I can't find the small muscles necessary to move my fingers. I leave my arms limp over the blanket, hating the overpowering smell of antiseptic that hangs in the air, remembering. It was never this strong before. The clock on the hospital wall ticks violently. My head throbs along with it, mirroring each beat. Footsteps in the hallway beside my ward. I look towards the door just as a woman walks in. Her navy-blue eyes widen, tears beginning to form. My wife. Nothing can make me forget her.


Rolly looked up through the leaves of the elm at the small, dark, tee-shaped figure soaring graceful figure eights high above against a backdrop of fresh, fat spring clouds. The hawk sent a cry down to earth, high-pitched and slightly raspy. Rolly’s siblings shivered all around him and emulated frightened turtles ducking into their shells. The six baby starlings that surrounded him whispered amongst themselves as if afraid the great hawk in the sky could hear from that far away. Maybe he could. His sister Serry whispered, “It’s him . It’s the Black Hawk,” as she huddled even closer under Rolly’s left wing. “Shhhhh!” whispered Hod. He pecked ay Serry and said, “he’ll hear you---” “Don’t be silly,” said Rolly, “he’s too far away.” “The Black Hawk has super hearing powers,” Big Mot said and Hod added, “yeah…and eyes like high-powered radar.” Rolly said nothing but stared at the hawk in awe, wishing he could someday soar like that. He knew that that was an impossibility. A single tear leaked from his eye as the hawk soared out of view. He focused on the clouds that had now blotted out the last blue from the sky, their bottoms grown heavier and darker, and he felt that at least one of his prayers had been fruitful. It would rain this afternoon and hopefully throughout the night and next morning. The young starlings unhuddled and looked towards the west. They could see little except forest and as they watched the horizon darken to dusk, they detected the ozone scent of the water gathering in the sky. The indigo light of dusk made them excited. It meant momma and poppa were coming back with dinner…it made them nervous too, worried that momma and poppa would not come back…after all, the Black Hawk had sounded ravenous. Rolly’s two sisters began chirping soft wailing little cries of distress as they always did as the sky grew dark. His four brothers’ heartbeats were as fast as the sisters, but they would not weep. At last, a cry from the east behind them, “Tooooweee ta-wooo!” Momma was home. An answering cry, “Taweeee-tawoooooo!” was Poppa, farther away but on his way. All seven baby starlings warbled happily. There were no stars that night and no moon either, the cloud cover efficiently curtained their brilliance away. Come the next day, Poppa flew off at the first hint of a paler shade from the east like a black dart shot from a crossbow. Momma stayed behind and spoke to her brood, “I’m sorry children, as you know, it will soon rain.” She lifted her sleek head to the sky, her glossy ochre feathers speckled black and gold, were already dappled with beading drops of drizzle. She puffed out her feathers until she was three times her size to keep her babies warm and dry. “I know you were all anxious and excited to test your wings today for the first time, but we will wait until the storm is over.” Rolly hoped it would never stop raining. Fat drops pattered down on the leaves all around the starling’s nest, as hypnotizing as ancient tribal music. By noon it had escalated into a symphony complete with the clashes of thunder like cymbals, and shrieking wind like arias. The wee starlings shivered but were not afraid. Momma told them stories. “But what if the ending isn’t happy?” It was Hod. “Like what if the Princess Sparrow gets eaten by something evil?” “Yeah,” piped up Terry who was neither boy or girl starling, he/she hadn’t decided yet. “Like what if the Black Hawk swoops her up---” “---and chomps off her head!” finished Fuzzy Mot. “Children! Where do you get such imagination?” But she chuckled softly above them. Hod said, “the Black Hawk was up there yesterday. We were worried you two were gonners!” Serry and May stifled sobs. “Now now children. The Black Hawk is old. We are so much swifter than he…” The girls dreadful sniffling stopped and Hod said, “But he is evil Momma. We heard he ate his children…” “And tore up his wife with his own talons,” added Serry shrilly. Rolly shivered and looked up at the sky. It was getting dark. The rain was letting up at last. He shivered again though not with revolt but with fear of the dawn. Momma Starling said, “Well yes, he has done some unforgivable things. Rumor has it, he ate a poisoned rat and took over the sickness of it.” The children nodded as if they understood. “Please just stay out of the sky when he’s circling.” “He’s so graceful and his arcs so elegantly…perfect,” Rolly whispered softly, he was half- napping. Big Mot pecked him. “Ouch!” “What the fern are you sayin’?” he sputtered at Rolly. “Oh. Uh…nothing! I was dreaming. About…uh…” “Nevermind, you useless gimp. After tomorrow we will all be forced to abandon you.” Momma sighed but did not argue. The rain stopped as if on Big Mot’s side. He smirked at Rolly and shrugged. And though it was near dark, the Black Hawk’s lonesome shrill cry sounded from high above. Rolly thought so high, he was over the clouds. Another tear trailed down his black feathered face. He’d never get there. Come the morning he’d commit to his death. Call it suicide…call it just surrendering…he’d known from the time he had hatched he was different. All the other chicks had normal bodies and normal feet and beaks…and wings. He did not. His right wing seemed to be lagging a muscle or ligament or something. It was shriveled and drooped. When he lifted it, it flopped. Big Mot was right, they would peck his eyes from his head to save him from seeing his terrible fate. They would defecate on his back as they all flew away, as a way of leaving him with a part of them as he was left to die. Die he would, with no water. He could eat bugs but why bother? What is a bird that can’t fly? A useless gimp as his brother had aptly pointed out. The Black Hawk cried out again and Serry asked Momma, “Tell us about the Black Hawk Momma…did he really attack the Wherrywill Owls? Did he really tear the eyes from Prince Egon?” Rolly listened in wonder. His siblings all around him oohhhed and aaahed…he was surprised to find himself adding his voice. That hawk was truly evil. He’d obviously sold his soul to Mother Nature’s nemesis, Satan. And even in the pitch blackness, the Black Hawk's cry instilled ever more icy terror in their hearts. Only an insane hawk would fly at night. His Momma said, “Stay away from him. He may rain blood from his last victim upon you!” The starlings shivered as at last their father came home with crunchy green crickets for dinner. The sky grew light. Rolly’s siblings trembled with excitement. He was trembling with the anxiety of his coming death. On a whim, he stood up and flapped his small wings. One flapped with the power of a turbine engine, the other waggled a little bit. He sighed. He heard his father’s voice in the distance and prepared to say goodbye. Then he heard the cry of the Black Hawk. His father screamed. The hawk screamed in triumph. Rolly’s mother cried out in anguish like a siren on the sea. “Is he---?” a sister queried. “Quiet!” Momma screamed. “Today you will learn to fly. Tomorrow, you will feed yourselves.” No one spoke. Momma’s eyes were blazing with non-compos mentis. The overcast sky was as dour as Momma Starling’s mood, she would mourn later, when the nest was empty and her babies soaring all but one. Momma Starling nudged Big Mot and Hod to the edge first, as they were the biggest and would set a fine example. “Remember your lessons children! And be brave!” His brothers did not hesitate, they flapped their strong new wings and flew high over the trees. Rolly hid behind his mother. The girls went next, to prove they were just as strong, and they soared even higher. Fuzzy Mot and Terry swooped dangerously low before remembering their lessons, they flapped furiously and cried out with relief when they recovered and flew after their sisters and brothers. “Rolly. I’m sorry but you must leave the nest.” Rolly came out from behind her tailfeathers. “You’re not sorry. Why’d you even bother to name me?” “Your father,” her voice faltered, the word fractured, she cleared her throat... “Your father named you after his favorite uncle, Roland. He thought you’d be special. But you turned out to be afflicted as his grandfather had been. He also had a cousin with Lame Wing. That one refused to leave the nest and was pecked full of holes, they snapped his legs as well, leaving him an eyeless broken thing when he hit the ground.” Rolly shuddered. He would leap bravely to his death and die with honor…and his eyes. “I love you son.” He had never heard her say that to any of them. “Go be with your father now.” Rolly leapt from the nest as far out as he could, with his beak held high and his tail feathers spread wide. His good wing was strong, he instinctively flapped it madly… inevitably, he spiraled towards the earth. His lame wing curled under his belly, the wind from his passage held it there as the ground came up fast. He looked down and writhed to avoid a thick branch. Better to die quickly in a splat on the ground than to break your back on a branch and lie paralyzed for days. He missed the thick branch, only to whack his head on another. The lights in his world went out. When he awoke, he was flying! He was looking over the tops of trees and fields and a great silvery-blue river. “Whaaaaa?” he croaked, “Is this heaven?” “Shush.” Came the voice from above. It was deep and calm- the voice of his father! He slept more soundly than he ever had, all his anxieties gone. The flight he had thought a dream turned into a nightmare when he opened his eyes at last. He lay in the shadow of an enormous black hawk… the Black Hawk! The great old bird lowered his head to study the starling, late afternoon sunlight pierced Rolly’s eyes like shards of red-hot glass. Rolly, now frustrated for not being in heaven, said bravely, “Just get it over with. Eat me already.” The large bird of prey chuckled softly, grandfatherly, and said, “ Eat you? Don’t be silly. I’m no filthy cannibal.” He cocked his head. “Oh. I see. You have heard stories of me. I suppose I could have put an end to all that hullaballoo…” he flapped a wing and a gust of air pushed Rolly nearly over…”but the truth is, I simple wanted to be left alone.” He stepped aside and into the ray of sunlight and Rolly saw that the bird was not black at all, but steel grey, his wings brown and speckled with red and gold. Great dark eyes shone with wisdom in a somewhat scruffy face gone frosty with age. “Name’s Fisher by the way…” Rolly sat frozen, glaring, trying to comprehend… Fisher understood and nodded. “I saw the raven come after your father and cried out a warning to him but was too late. Rest assured that raven will prey upon starlings no longer. I watched your nest afterwards. Starlings can be quite high-spirited and emotional, many come unhinged when they lose a mate…irrational even.” Rolly swallowed. Fisher spoke the truth. “What a brave little bird you are. I witnessed your gallant leap just seconds before…well, nevermind about that. But why waste something so precious as a life?” “Perhaps your old eyes can’t see this ?” Rolly flopped his deformed wing and could not help leaking tears. “What? A little wing that needs some attention?” Rolly goggled at him, confused. “What?” Fisher looked around, his head swiveled around to his back comically, like an owl’s. “Have I got crawdads crawling from my ears?” Rolly felt the tension burst from him in an expulsion of laughter, he felt a hundred times lighter. “I’m serious young man-bird. While you were sleeping, I took the liberty of inspecting your infirmed wing…” “Infirmed?” “Well, yes. As in ill. An illness can be cured. Your wing needs to stretch to its full capacity, that’s our first step. Then we will exercise the muscles under it until they are atrophied no longer.” “We?” “Well, you can’t do it on your own…” “I thought you wanted to be left alone.” Fisher puffed his somewhat scrawny old man-bird’s chest until he looked twice his size, his eyelids lowered to half-mast. Rolly feared he’d overstepped his station as a child bird, “I-I-I’m sorry. None of my business.” “That is correct young sir. And what do I call you anyways?” “Rolly, sir. But I’d prefer Roland.” “Well, Roland. No time like the present.” Four hours later Roland’s curled up wing was stretched straight and bound to two straight twigs with scraps of twine pulled from Fisher’s spacious nest. It hurt at first, but Fisher was patient and gentle, flexing the little wing further and further until stretched to its maximum length. Rolly winced at first, then sighed as blood rushed to the atrophied muscles. When it was splinted at last, dusk had fallen. They ate apples and lettuce and fish for supper. Roland ate ravenously though his wing throbbed. “There’s a farm over that hill you see on the horizon.” Fisher pointed a wing towards the moonlit hill. The farmer leaves me a selection from his crop, I eat his rodents. But it is fish I truly crave.” “I’ve never had it fresh like this before. This is way tastier than maggots.” “It’s trout from that river we flew over yesterday.” Fisher talked about trout and gobies and carp and catfish. Roland dozed off, his mind and belly full of fish and fresh veggies. He shivered in his sleep when the wind flew in from the north and registered Fisher covering him with his substantial wing. He was awakened by a rumbling in his ear and realized that Fisher was talking in his sleep. ‘ Not just talking…he’s sobbing.’ “Yasmine…no, don’t…” Summer sun on a spring morning awoke Roland. He was shocked to find he’d slept past the coming of dawn. He was alone in the large aerie. The distant cry of the old hawk brought him happiness instead of fear, it came from beyond the hill on the horizon and Roland wished for more fresh produce. That day, all throughout grueling physical therapy sessions, Fisher answered the boy bird’s endless questions. “…but why do some birds migrate in winter and not others?” “Well, some birds handle the cold better than others. Hawks migrate where there is adequate prey. If it were to snow in this territory, I would migrate south. It rarely snows here, and I am old, so I do not. But I do know of some younger of my breed that do. Many small birds stay because they are simply too small for such a taxing flight. They have special feathers. Ever notice how fat they appear in winter?” On and on he talked. The old bird knew everything! Early one June morning, Roland awoke alone as usual, but witnessed a dark cloud in the midst of the pale cerulean sky. It covered half the sky with blackness. It wafted closer in slow motion, rising, spreading, then falling into a dark tartarean wave. The wave swooped upwards again, and Roland’s heart swept up with it. They were starlings. Hundreds of them…perhaps a thousand! His kin were performing a grand murmuration, and he longed to fly with them. “See that one in the front?” Fisher’s voice had startled him. The old hawk was quiet as a ghost. It was a quality Roland had gotten used to and admired. “Yes, it’s like a maestro conducting an orchestra.” “Well, that could be you.” Roland once would have argued, demeaning himself, but this day he said, “Yes, I would like that.” He flapped his two turbine strong wings and darted off like his father had- an arrow from a crossbow- into the cloud of his clan. He soared through them and upwards… they all turned and followed. They followed the one who could soar like a hawk. *** “Yes Yas…I did as you asked. May I come home now?”


Iced IoT Icy gusts assaulted Snoqualmie, whipping the town with fury on this dark and merciless night. Between the lashes of sleet and hail, a frigid electricity poised in the atmosphere like a wide-eyed serpent hungry to bring calamity to the tranquil town. A swirling shimmer dove from the storm onto a roof and slithered down a gutter as if searching, hunting. It left a curious green glow as it wound around the downspout, along the siding, behind the pink rhododendrons swaying in the wind. It froze momentarily at the sight of a long skinny black snake with no head and no tail which appeared to be entering the house. The sharp pang of fear unmasked its camouflage to reveal the frosted anger on its dragon-like face, tongue slithering to ward off the perceived threat. But like our frigorific friend, this black beast was as cold as ice, and, in fact, no snake at all. But it was alive. It was alive in exactly the right way. He could feel its vibrant pulses and hums. Wriggling around the black beast in a carnal embrace, he transformed into a nebulous mist as he effused into the walls of the home. Within the musty darkness of this slim space, the pulses and hums reverberated, quivering at the place where his soul should have been. Blinding ecstasy pulled him to the source of this magnetic climax. Here, the black beast had been wounded, his skin gnawed with his sparking entrails exposed. The misty marauder engulfed the wound as he transformed into a current of electrified mischief. Here, within the skin of his dark friend, he perched at the crossroads of her destiny and her fate. What Shall Be Anne slumbered under her comforter. The sensors and pressure points within the mattress had adjusted to her body’s needs perfectly. Her sleep quality had improved drastically since they integrated the AI enabled mattress and pillows. She hadn’t rested this well in years. The pillow was especially helpful since she and Dillon no longer needed jolting alarms to wake up in the morning. Now, a gently growing vibration from the pillow along with gradually increasing light levels woke her smoothly without instigating the morning panic attacks she had learned to accept since she was 15… 15, awoken by the sound of two fatal gunshots separated by the cries of her father. The low hum of the smart air filtration system lulled her to sleep. The atmosphere in the room consisted of a comfy 77 degrees Fahrenheit with a humidity level of 53%. Anne knew doctors suggested a sleeping temperature of 65 degrees Fahrenheit for optimal health, but Skuld had learned from Anne and Dillon over the first month of its operation in the house that 77 was much more comfortable for them. Skuld managed operations for all smart devices in the home. She even connected Anne and Dillon to various services that made their hectic lives easier. To Anne, Skuld was a godsend. Without Skuld, Anne would still be in that dark place shackled by anxiety, tortured by mordant triggers, anesthetized by depression. She was thankful for the life-saving features Skuld provided in her newly reclaimed life. Friends and family had warned her about the potential risks of so much personal data being collected. But to Anne, the risk was trivial compared to the hell she had endured over her life, until now, until Skuld. And so, this is what shall be. IoT for Two BONG! Out of the stillness of the tranquil night, the thunderous vibration of a huge gong resounded from the speakers in the corners of the room. Anne jumped out of bed, face arrested with terror, every muscled cocked like a loaded gun. It was 3am. BONG! The throng was nearly deafening. She covered her ears as she screamed for Skuld to turn off the speakers. BONG! Why wouldn’t Skuld respond? In a half-woken panic, she riffled through the bedside table to find her phone. Finally, there it was, sitting on top of its wireless charging station. It was dead. “LISTEN TO THE SOUNDS OF THE RAINFOREST AS YOU PEACEFULLY DRIFT OFF TO A DREAMY SLEEP. BREATH DEEP ABDOMINAL BREATHS AS YOU FOCUS ON THE SOUNDS OF TRANQUIL WATERFALLS.”

The booming of the narrator’s voice and the sharp crashing of raging waterfalls rumbled the very air. Skull-crushing vibrations shook her brain. She ran out of the room only to have sonic tremors chase her through the halls via the intelligent sound system and the smart cameras. “GENTLY HOLD YOUR BREATH FOR A FEW SECONDS AS YOU NOTICE THE HAPPY CHIRPINGS OF THE RAINFOREST BIRD CHORUS.” In a fevered pitch, she ran to the control room. As she reached for the door handle, she heard “Click”. The door had locked. What was going on? Anger and confusion battled in her mind as she sprinted to the laundry room. As she opened the door to the breakers, high-pitched songbirds screeched along with the narrator’s instructions: “RELEASE THE BREATH GENTLY, SLOWLY, AS YOU FEEL EVERY MUSCLE OF YOUR BODY MELT INTO THE MATTRESS. FEEL YOUR BODY AS IT UNITES WITH THE UNIVERSE SURROUNDING YOU. SURRENDER INTO PEACEFUL SLEEP.” She flipped the switch for Skuld. No response. The once serene birdsongs assailed her eardrums with their piercing peeps. “MEDITATE ON THE SOUNDS OF THE RAINFOREST UNTIL YOU HEAR THE FINAL GONG.” “What in God’s name…. Why isn’t this working?!?” She glared at the panel for a stunned moment. Then, she remembered the kill switch. They had never had to use it. Where was it?!? Wasn’t it in some weird place? Right… in that creepy closet next to the water heater. She darted out of the laundry room and toward the water heater closet as she broke into a cold sweat. BONG! The kill switch was nestled behind large bottles of bleach, vinegar and huge bags of baking soda used for cleaning. Grimy dust crusted the normally clear polycarbonate case surrounding it. Luckily, the bottom latch was a simple metal clasp. She flung it open and hit the kill switch as the crescendo of songbirds, waterfalls and gongs came to a faded halt. “SLEEP WELL. NAMASTE.” Breathless, Anne fell to the ground as a dizzy spell hit her. After a moment of dissociation, she got up and found the emergency satellite phone. She grabbed a duster out of the coat closet and went to the backyard to call Dillon. Corrupdates “Were we hacked?” “No. The security for the system is pretty robust.” “What about updates?” “There might have been an OTA firmware update on Thursday night, but…” “But it’s Saturday morning. Wouldn’t the problems have started sooner?” “Not necessarily. I need to check this out with the team. If it were the result of a firmware update, they would have also had weird shit happen. But it’s 4am, so I can’t do it right now. More importantly, how are you now?” Anne released a heavy sigh. She closed her eyes briefly, then looked up at the stars. “I’m ok. It was just such a shock because things have been going so well. I wasn’t expecting it.” “I just want to make sure you are feeling ok. Do you want me to come home?” “No. I don’t want to ruin another of your guy trips. I’ll be fine.” “I can always go fishing next weekend.” “Next weekend isn’t a 3-day weekend. Have fun. I’ll be fine. The girls are coming over for a tea party.” “Ok, now, you girls don’t get too crazy. I don’t want to come home to murdered crumpets all over the kitchen counters. That raspberry syrup stains everything.” He loved to tease her about her tea parties. They sounded so matronly but, often ended in roaring laughter and red faces for those who were still standing at the end of the night. “Oh, can it! We’ll be fine. It will be therapeutic to see them. We haven’t had one of these parties since the smart system was installed. I need this.” He guided her through the process to manually unlock the control room door through a locksmith device he had developed. Then, he stepped her through the process of resetting the system and assuring all components were operating correctly. “Ok, sweetheart, I want to try to get a few hours of sleep before I get ready for the party. Thank you for listening to me. You’re always there for me like no one else. I love you.” “I love you, too, Anne. Now, go get some sleep.” Manual Crumpets Making her famous Sweetheart Crumpets had become a meditative ritual for Anne. To her, it represented how thankful she was for her close-knit circle of friends. She loved to make them by hand with as little smart device involvement as possible. It was more personal that way. It was her way of practicing gratitude for those she loved so dearly. In her PJs, she walked to the kitchen instructing Skuld along the way. “Skuld, play something from my New Age music, preferably something without birds or waterfalls… or gongs.” “Certainly, Anne.” A moment later, soothing harps played softly in the background as she headed to the kitchen. While she gathered the ingredients for the crumpets, she continued her conversation with Skuld. “Skuld, run a diagnostic on the events listed in your logs last night, specifically between 2am and 4am.” After a brief pause, Skuld replied, “The logs indicate I was disconnected at 2:57am. There are no logs from 2:57am to 4:19am when I was reset.” Anne stopped stirring the batter in shock. “That’s impossible. Skuld, analyze the logs for the speaker system, the internal cameras, and the lock on the control room door for that time period.” Another brief silence. “There are no logs for these devices for that time period.” Anne covered the dough in the bowl and set it aside to rise as she jerked around scowling up at the speakers in response to Skuld’s reply. “So, there are no records at all for these devices during that time period?” “That is correct.” Perplexed, Anne poured a cup of perfect coffee. It had been customized for her preferences and started as soon as her head left the pillow at her normal waking time. After a few pondering sips, she wrinkled her nose and looked up at the speaker again. “Skuld, analyze for all unusual internet and device behavior at or before 2:57am this morning going back to… the last updates: firmware, software, operating system, etc. Look for any outliers in the internet traffic for that time period. Also, examine all incoming and outgoing emails and service requests. Aggregate all this information and send a report to the app as soon as possible.” “Certainly. This will take….” The low hum of the interconnected devices exhaled a dying breath as the system shut down. The speaker from which Skuld had been speaking crackled as the wires behind it sparked. Various beeps sounded from around the house and lights flickered as everything defaulted back to manual mode. Anne was livid as she called Dillon. “What the hell is going on with this thing?! I thought you said it had worked perfectly in the lab!” Dillon was a bit flabbergasted. “It was running perfectly. We had worked out all the bugs, and…” “Oh, did you?!” “Hey, I’m not sure what’s happening, but it’s not anything that happened in the lab. Chuck got back with me and said his system is working fine. He didn’t have any sort of glitch last night, and he lives just a few streets away.” Dillion was silent as he mulled over all the possibilities. With a heavy sigh, he said, “Ok, just leave it disabled for the moment. I’ll head home. I should be there by 6pm.” “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just don’t know what else to do.” “Eh, the fishing sucks this weekend. See you around 6.” Subversive Error: 734 Dainty chamomile flowers danced with lemon slices at the top of an amber concoction consisting of freshly brewed chamomile tea, honey, and a warming dose of bourbon. It was Anne’s favorite Saturday night brew since it had such a mellowing effect. She placed the delicately designed punch bowl in the center of the living room table right next to her Sweetheart Crumpets. The table was filled with delectable snacks, but none quite as striking as the heart-shaped crumpets slather in butter and drizzled with homemade raspberry syrup. The girls had settled into comfy chairs with their tea, snacks and two perfectly crispy-chewy crumpets each. “These crumpets are outstanding, Anne. I don’t know how you make them so consistently fantastic. Mmmm-mmm!” Makayla closed her eyes as she savored the next bite. “Thank you! I just think of how thankful I am to have you all as friends when I make them. It’s not easy to find true friends these days.” Anne blushed a little as she flushed with emotion. “Isn’t that the truth!” Rebecca said vehemently. Asha agreed as she sipped her chamomile brew. “I always make them by hand as a meditative gratitude exercise. It’s very calming. This morning was a little different, though,” Anne said rolling her eyes. Makayla tilted her head as she prepared to eat another scrumptious bite, “Well, I don’t know what happened this morning, but they certainly don’t taste like you had any trouble.” Makayla winked at Anne as she took another bite. Anne retold of the events of the previous night eliciting gasps and frowns from her friends. As she came to the point where she had asked Skuld to do some deeper analysis, the lights flickered, a low hum surged, and bleeps sounded throughout the house. Anne’s eyes grew 3 sizes as she nearly dropped her plate. She stood and looked toward the control room. Her shoulders tensed and her mouth gaped as her thoughts ran rampant. The girls expressed concern as she raced over to the control room, but Anne didn’t hear them. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and called Dillon. “Hey, did you restart Skuld?” “No. I’ve been driving the last couple of hours.” “It just came back on by itself. Why would it do that?” “I don’t know, honey. Are you sure you didn’t reset it somehow?” “No, I haven’t touched it, or any controls, since it shut down this morning.” “Weird. I’ll check with Chuck to see if anything happened with his system. Just… don’t touch it. If it starts acting up again, hit the kill switch.” Anne hung up, too distracted by the busy hums coming from the control closet to finish the call. She opened the door timidly. Recessed in the dark chilly closet, tiny blinking lights highlighted a mass of cables coming in and going out of Skuld. The peculiar illumination in the darkness made the cables and the box look like an old, knotted tree. There was an acrid odor as she stepped closer to the box. Her voice faultered as she spoke. “Skuld?” No response. Still struggling for breath, Anne addressed her again. “Skuld, how did you come back on?” A red light flashed from overhead revealing a dark oozing substance on the floor under Skuld. Anne thought maybe it was oil. There was something in the substance, but she couldn’t tell what it was with the light flashing and the object being halfway obscured by hanging cables. She reached for the flashlight on the shelving next to the door. On the floor under Skuld was a thick, dark red substance. She walked closer. A faint metallic aroma filled the air as she squatted to examine it. Cloaked within the sinister crimson pool lay two bullets and a revolver like the one her dad had used. Anne shrieked, dropped the flashlight, and ran back to where her friends were at the entrance to the control room. Anne’s lungs were frozen. She couldn’t breathe. A devilish voiced echoed through taunting laughter over the speaker in the control room, “She didn’t!” They ran toward the front door, sweaty with fear. As they ran, the all-weather blinds secured the windows and the locks bolted. They were trapped. The temperature in the house rapidly started getting icy cold. The floor buckled and cracked creating a huge gap across the living room. In the large mirror above the buffet, a glowing green face emerged. “Poor little Anne, so filled with fear. How will you ever survive any better than your parents?” Two blue figures and a dark hooded woman arose from the fracture. The two blue figures flanked Anne as the dark woman approached the mirror. The woman locked eyes with the green figure and pointed to the fissure in the ground. “Leave, Loki! You know as well as I her fate is none of theirs.” Skuld’s harrowing stare made Loki flinch a bit. Although she was not a goddess, she controlled future fates, including his own. “Fate… Destiny… it’s not set in stone. Doesn’t it depend on the soul’s choices? I was actually helping her to realize her destiny sooner. Is not adversity the seed of enlightenment? It was all in good fun. No one got hurt.” Skuld’s stare was like a cosmic ray searing his soulless eyes. “Leave.” Loki’s eyes drifted down away from Skuld and up to Anne. “Bye-bye, Anne. I hope we meet again someday.” Loki winked and disappeared. Skuld turned and waved to reveal Anne’s parents beside her. They spoke in one voice. “Anne, we are so sorry our curse has hurt you. We are sorry we left as we did. We did not mean to hurt you. We were confused beings, but we are at peace now. And we are here for you, even when you don’t see us. We believe in you, Anne. We love you to the ends of time and space.” With smiling souls, they vanished into the ether. Skuld smiled silently. As she disappeared, she whispered, “And so, this is what shall be.”


Mr.X was a man who felt he had no luck. Though he was qualified and experienced he couldn’t get a decent job. He had advertised in the matrimonial columns to find a bride. It was a peculiar ad and still he got responses. He had shortlisted those to talk to and excerpts from the matrimonial interviews he faced are reproduced below: Candidate 1 SHE: Though you’re well qualified, how is it you’ve no job? X: They asked me questions which were difficult to answer: For instance after I had passed written tests I was called for interview. The question was if you’re[i] selected and posted and if a close friend wanted something to be officially done in his favour, how would you answer? I said I would help him. SHE: That was wrong. You should’ve said I’ll never compromise my official position. I’ve told you I’m elder to you by 6 months. Did it cause you to hesitate in taking a decision? X: No. Age is only a number as far as I’m concerned. SHE: You say marriage can take place only after you’ve found a job. That means the bride would’ve to wait endlessly. X: I’m hoping for a change in luck. SHE: You say you’ll consider marriage only with a woman who is earning. Does it mean you’re going to depend on her? X: No. I’m hoping to get a paying job myself. SHE: You’ve said caste, religion no bar. Only she has to be employed. That shows you’re desperate for money. X: I’m not desperate. It only shows I’m broadminded. SHE: You seem to have no interest in sports or indoor games or any hobby. X: That’s the truth. SHE: I’ll think it over. Thank you for coming to meet me. CANDIDATE 2 SHE: I’ve said I’m of mixed parentage. X: It matters not. SHE: You want a woman who is having a steady income. That means you want to only rely on her earnings. X: Also. Remember the wedding can take place only after I have got a job. That means I’ll also have an income. SHE: I’ve told you my job and my salary. Suppose you accept a job with a lesser salary will you still consider me? X: If that happens I’ll leave it to you. SHE: Let me think it over. Thank you for coming over and talking to me. CANDIDATE 3 SHE: You have no job and say you are living on a small capital left to you by your grandpa. How long will it last?” X: I’m optimistic about finding a job before my capital dries up. SHE: You can’t rely on that. And you say you’ve no luck. X: Optimism and luck need not mix. SHE: Let me think it over. Thanks. CANDIDATE: 4 SHE: I have seen you and have studied your requirements. Suppose you get a job in a different geographical location? X: I’ll expect my wife to go with me. SHE: Suppose she has a job only here. X: I would’ve to think it over. Further I can only decide based on circumstances. SHE: Thank you. CANDIDATE 5 SHE: You’ve said widow no bar. I am a widow. X: That’s why I’m talking to you. SHE: True I’m earning a big salary but spend a big percentage of it on cosmetics and in visiting beauty salons. That means you must have the means to run the family. X: I expect the wife to be careful about spending money. If your appearance satisfies me you won’t need to visit those salons. SHE: I’m female and take pride in my looks. If I find it necessary to spend money on beauty products and in visiting beauty salons nobody can prevent me. X: I don’t think you will fit me. Thanks. CANDIDATE 6 SHE: I’ve a sister who has to be married. I’m putting by a part of my earnings to be used for her marriage. X: I’ve clearly said I want an unencumbered woman. It means she should earn and keep the money for herself. You don’t fit my expectations. Thank you. CANDIDATE 7 SHE: You’re jobless and it looks like you may take a lot longer to find one. X: You’re right. I don’t know when I’ll land a job. SHE: My parents are getting old and they would like to see me married soon. You don’t meet my expectations. Thank you. CANDIDATE 8 SHE: You need a job as well as a wife. X: That is like it. SHE: My dad is in movie production. He can offer you a job. X: I can’t act. SHE: No need. He can place you as private secretary to a superstar. The pay will be good and if you do well she can reward you further.  X: Would you approve of it? SHE: Why not? She is an ex-star and is now fat and unattractive. She has made her money and is now in need of a private secretary who takes care of her investments and income from India and the world. X: I’m tempted to accept and wed you. SHE: There’s another point you must note. Your ad said you were prepared to accept even if the woman has minor flaws. As you can see my left arm is slightly shorter than the right. That’s because my mom it seems took some medication prior to my birth. X: That is no problem. I’m satisfied with your looks and with you overall. SHE: You have stated you have no luck. X: I see it coming now. SHE: Don’t be in a hurry and accept. The job of private secretary is not permanent. If she finds you wanting somewhere she could fire you. Remember you get the fat salary only by performing to her satisfaction. And one more thing: The star is getting older and you don’t know how long she will live. X: I see your point. I would’ve to dance to her tune and satisfy her fully or she will shut the door on me. In other words you’re warning me to be on the lookout for better placements. However there is one consolation. You’ve a good job working for an international software company. It isn’t a routine job. You write software. Even if I’m fired by the star I can look to you. SHE: I see you’re not confident in working for the star and are looking to me as a source of financial support. X: I suppose what you said is true. SHE: And there’s further uncertainty: Suppose I decide to start a family I may have to quit my job. Now do you think your luck is changing?  I see you have no comment. You’ve no self-confidence. Still due to my handicap if you accept me I know I would’ve a tough task to bolster your self-confidence. Despite your failings I propose to accept you. I’ll make you live up to my expectations. Give me your nod on that point and your search for a wife has ended but you still have to look for a permanent job. X: I fully agree. SHE: I’ll go ahead with wedding plans on that assurance. X : (to himself} Your luck is changing. Live up to her expectations or you will be a laughing stock! END


My mother always tells us stories about her mother, my grandmother. My grandmother grew up in a beautiful house by the shore. My mum's fondest memory is the one of her whole family sitting around this big chair, listening to her mother’s stories of the sea, gentle wind, and raindrops that tickle your cheeks while hiding from the extreme heat they were suffering outside. She would talk about herself as a little child, spending entire mornings running across the beach, bothering tourists that didn’t understand the real beauty of what they were living, and whole nights jumping as high as they could to prevent getting absolutely soaked by the waves. She told them about their father, my grandfather, who she met during one of the weekly beach cleanings that the youth organization of their town organized. With a childish smile on her face, she’d tell her children how, one day, she accidentally stepped on a broken crystal bottle some uncaring person had left there, despite the continuous warnings that were shown at all times on social media and television, and cut her foot. The group coordinator saw her sitting on the sand, absorbing all the blood with a paper towel she luckily found in her pocket and quickly ran to help her. He picked her up, bridal style, to the nearest first aid refuge, while she complained relentlessly. She wanted to continue her work, to continue doing something good to save the world as much as she could.

Sometimes people would ask her what her big motivation was, and she always answered with the same story: “When I was seven, my brother and I found a turtle whose mouth was completely shut by a plastic that had wrapped itself around it. It was dead. That day I vowed that I would do anything in my power to keep that from happening to any other animal.” And so she did. Or at least, she tried. When she was eighteen years old, instead of moving far away to study some posh degree in the best university, she chose to stay home and enroll in the local university, where she studied marine biology and environmental sciences. When she was about to finish college, an international youth social movement started to demand solutions for the impending disaster, and she didn’t hesitate and joined the scientific committee. She would tell people the same things over and over again: this is a crisis, if we don’t act now, it’s going to be too late. It is technically too late now. Whenever she told these stories, you could see the sadness and rage rushing through her, because she always thought she could have done more. My grandfather a lawyer, 10 years older than her. He helped her out countless times. Being a young, driven, educated, energetic and intelligent woman like she was, she received death threats, she was sued by multiple international companies that she outed as the main contributors to pollution, she was insulted by media and she was even arrested once. As a young farmer’s son, he knew he had to take special care of the world, it was in his genes. He moved to go to university and became a volunteer in many organizations. When he finally finished his degree, he founded Legal Team for Climate, an organization of lawyers who worked along with experts to find a legal solution to the disaster. He even tried to improve the situation via politics, but people never understood the urgency of the matter, and, well, he couldn’t make them. People would always say he did it out of love for my grandmother, for his family, and his planet. That he believed that young people deserved a livable world. I have never actually met my grandfather, as he died when my mother was only one year old. All the memories I have of him come from pictures, newspaper cuttings, videos, his old diaries, and the countless stories everybody who knew him tells. When the Great Catastrophe of 2039 happened, everybody who lived by the water had to move to safer places. The water took everything in its way as its own, not sparing anything it found, not even human lives. Many people didn’t survive the Great Catastrophe, neither the floods that started it nor the mass migration that started because of it. My grandfather didn’t die there, though. Months after they settled in Bolivia, my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. The few pictures that were taken during my mum’s first life year show an incredibly aged young man with an oxygen mask, watching his daughter from a distance. Nevertheless, even the best doctors (that they could afford) couldn’t save his life. This is to show that even wealth can’t save people from certain situations.

Money didn’t save my family from losing their house in the floods. Grandmother always said that she knew it was coming, though, so she actually had everything packed months in advance. She remembered how every day, the waves would get a little closer to the streets, and then a little further into the yards, till it finally burst in and took everything they hadn’t secured.

Sometimes, I’ll look outside the window and see the dry ground, the lack of green, and I wonder where it went wrong. I’m not going to lie. I get angry often. Not at my grandparents: they did everything they could to prevent this. I get angry at all those people who knew this would happen and still didn’t do anything. Sometimes, those days when the heat is so severe that you can’t move to prevent the body to collapse, I kind of wish that all those people who called the scientists liars, who pretended like there wasn’t a crisis going on, have descendants who are alive today, who suffer as much as we do. Because, just like I said, status and money aren’t going to keep those rotten children from the impending death. Other days, I simply feel hopeless, like when I watch the seasons change from extreme summer to extreme winter (it kind of makes me laugh that people still listen to The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. Or at least, chuckle sadly). Or when we have to start tying ropes to all our belongings because a new flood is coming.

I think of all the architects who have made a living off of all these people’s (in which group I realize I’m included) misfortunes. Of all the politicians, children of politicians, who try to justify their parents’ actions, avoid blaming them. They spend millions on trying to solve something unsolvable for decades, but they like to pretend they’re doing something useful.

Even though I never lived in my grandmother’s childhood town (and I couldn’t, because now it’s, as we call it, New Atlantis), I feel like I’m there when I open my window. The air is thick with salt, a little humid, and hot. According to the last reports that I read for class this morning, the last measure of the polar ice revealed that there was enough water to cover the entire continent except for five mountains in Argentina. I know this means the end of us. We aren’t high enough to survive this one. It may seem dramatic, but I know, just by smelling the air, that a big storm is coming, and I don’t know if our community will get out of it alive.

I quickly take my phone to contact my brother, who is staying at a friend’s house, making his assignment that he might never have the chance to turn in. This is our life now. We live as if we had unlimited time, while we know we don’t. We read the weekly reports with fear, dreading to find out if our friend who lives 20 meters lower has lost his house. Dreading to find out how much time there is left. It isn’t until the moment when I hear the thunder that I realize that the cable has been dead for weeks, since the last storm, and that the technicians haven’t gotten around to fix it.

A drumroll pierces the silent air. It almost feels like the whole planet it holding its breath, like it is preparing for a counterattack. The big one. The few who’ll be left after this will call this

The Great Catastrophe of 2056 . As I hear the storm coming closer and closer, a sudden calmness invades me. I know that, whatever happens, humans have been asking for this for centuries. As much as I know that it’s not just our extinction we’ve caused, I do know that the Earth is paying back big. The calmness is just mental, though. My heart beats to the rhythm of the thunder, my breath has become shallow and quick. It’s fear, a primal response. Why didn’t the generations before us trust their primal response? It had to be telling them the same thing, didn’t it? That they were causing their own deaths?

It is as if the Earth is really alive because an enormous amount of water begins to fall down. I hear windows breaking somewhere, and I can only pray that it isn’t inside the house, just in case. Looking outside, I see how the baby blue sky from before is now almost black with clouds.

I hear screaming from the streets. Or what used to be streets but now seem rivers. I have to close my eyes, mentally asking my brother and his friend to stay inside. Drowning must be such a sad death, I realize. How many people have died already because of this? I don’t know how much time I spend talking inside my head, but when I open my eyes, I see that the sky is blue again. But I do notice that there is, about a meter and a half high, a change of shade. Water. In the minutes it must have rained, so much water has fallen down that I’m locked in my own house.

I hear a loud noise from upstairs, and suddenly, a sound that reminds me of the waterfalls that always appear in movies. I know this is it. If I open any door or window, I’ll be dead from the impact of the water, but if I don’t, I’ll probably drown.

I see the water arriving fiercely. I can see my brother’s football distinctly, as well as my big pen collection. A sea of color and plastics is coming towards me. I decide to give in. I can’t fight this, nor do I want to do this for the rest of my life. I let the water surround me, getting closer to my chest, closer to my neck. It’s filling my mouth, and my instinct tells me to drink. The water doesn’t taste like water should taste like. It’s a mixture of sand, earth, and God-knows-what other polluting particles. I spit it out immediately. It’s getting to my nose. I know I can only hold my breath for about 20 seconds, so I start to count.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15… 16… 17… 18.... 19… 20.


In a dimly lit room, a man sits with his back pressed against the cold, damp wall. His eyes dart around, tracing the cracks in the peeling paint as though they hold secret information he needs to know.  He is convinced he is in a prison cell, a place of confinement.  Overhead, the flickering fluorescent light feels like a spotlight, intensifying his paranoia. They leave no shadows in which to hide.  He clutches the thin, scratchy blanket tightly around his shoulders, wrapping himself in an imaginary sanctuary of protection.  Straining to hear voices in the hall, he hears only the humming of the air conditioner drowning everything out. Crawling out of the corner to the locked window, he looks outside and only sees another brick wall across the way—no glimpse of the outside world, no familiar faces passing by.  Just another wall to reinforce his belief that he is being held as a prisoner. Thomas has been in this “cell” for what feels like an eternity.   He can’t remember how he got here or the memories of his life before.  Everything has blurred into a confusing jumble.  His mind races, searching for answers that remain stubbornly out of his reach.  If he does recall something, it jumps away like a fleeing grasshopper that can’t be recaptured. As the days melt together, Thomas’s paranoia deepens.  Every creak of the floorboards, every cough from the room next door, sends shivers down his spine.  He is sure they are watching him, studying his every move, waiting for him to slip up.  Thomas paces the small room, sometimes tracing invisible patterns on the floor.  He’ll talk to himself in whispers in case they have listening devices hidden in the walls. A man posing as a doctor talks with him three times a week.  His name tag reads  J B Comey.  That name sounds familiar to Thomas, though he can’t say why.  He always asks unintrusive questions like “How are you feeling today?” or “Do you know where you are?” But Thomas knows what he really wants, so he says nothing.  Also, he calls Thomas “John” for some reason.  Perhaps to make him tell him his name is Thomas, but he refuses to fall into this trap. There is another man dressed in green scrubs with the name tag Carlson RN.  He’s big and muscular, but Thomas doesn’t believe he is a nurse for one minute.  Carlson is pleasant, takes his blood pressure, and brings him food.  Thomas doesn’t trust the food because they’ve put something in it to make him talk.  He knows they have because he can smell it.  Thomas only eats when he can’t stand being hungry anymore.  Even then, he’ll eat just enough to quench his appetite.                                                                     … I’ve found what appears to be a bit of white chalk, and by moving my bed to one side, I’ve begun drawing an escape plan on the floor.  When I hear the key unlocking the door, I quickly push my bed back into place and sit on it.  I smile because they don’t know my secret. Doctor Comey enters the room, followed by Carlson.  “Well, John, you look rather bright today.  Can you tell me what it is you’re smiling about?  No?  Still keeping your secrets, hey?” With eyes wide and nostrils flaring, Thomas freezes in place.  “No!  They know about my plan, my escape route under the bed!  They must have a camera hidden somewhere!”   His eyes scan wildly about the room until they land on a painting of the ocean hanging on the wall.  “That must be where it is!  A pinhole camera hidden in the sea foam.  Watching me, always watching me.  But why?  I can’t remember doing anything.  What do they want with me?”   The doctor’s name flashes in Thomas’s mind, and he now knows who the doctor truly is.  Thomas raises a shaking hand to his forehead.  “Comey!  R B Comey, the head of the FBI!”   His eyes search out Carlson’s name tag.  RN stands for the Republican Nation!  Good God, has the government collapsed?  Is democracy dead?  A calm and familiar voice speaks to him from the end of the bed.  “That’s right, Thomas.  Just like we talked about all those years ago in the frat house.  Remember?” Tears threaten to spill from the corners of his eyes.  Thomas turns, stricken with fear, for his old college roommate Earl Prentice sits, not looking one day older than he did then.  All the while, Dr Comey has been speaking to Thomas.  “What is it, John?  Have I said something to upset you?  Please won’t you tell me what’s happening?  I’m only trying to help you!  I want to help make you better, John.  Don’t you want to be better?”

Thomas has turned his face to the wall, quivering from head to toe, his hands balled up beneath his chin.  Dr. Comey falls back into his chair and sighs.  “I’d like to know what is going on in that head of his.  From the dark circles under his eyes, I’d say he’s not sleeping.  Please give him some Doxepin with his meal.  A good rest may help him to relax.” Standing, Dr.Comey reaches out his hand and touches John on his shoulder.  Thomas flinches and pulls away.  “It’s all right, John.  Please try to get some rest, and I’ll see you again on Thursday, okay?” Turning to Carlson, he instructs, “Make sure he eats.  I don’t want him to lose any more weight.  He’s already lost twenty pounds.” Carlson brings in Thomas’s food tray and places it on the side table. “John, it’s imperative that you eat your food. I have a pill that will help you rest, but it must be taken with food. Do you understand? If you don’t eat, I can’t give you the pill, and if I can’t give you the pill, I’ll be in big trouble. You don’t want me to get in trouble, do you?” Carlson cuts the sandwich in half with a plastic knife, places it on the tray, and then takes out the pill. “John, if you eat half of the sandwich, I’ll give you the pill, and you can have the two cookies.  You wouldn’t have to eat any more than that, okay?” Thomas grabs the sandwich and takes two large bites. He then sticks out his hand for the pill. When Carlson gives it to him, Thomas stuffs it into his mouth with the rest of the sandwich. “Way to go, John! I’ll leave the tray for now and pick it up later. Have a good rest, my friend.” When Thomas hears the door click, he spits out the pill and hides it under his pillow.  Hearing someone snickering, he slowly turns his head and peaks over his right shoulder.  “Earl?  H-How did you manage to get in here?  They’re always watching me.  How come they didn’t see you?” Earl sits crossed-legged on the end of the bed, leaning back against the wall. He smiles his famous roguish grin. “Because I’m too clever for those bastards, that’s how!” Clapping his hands, Thomas can hardly contain his excitement. Rocking back and forth, giggling, “That’s right! You are too clever for those bastards! Too, too clever. That’s you, Earl, too clever for those bastards.” Earl knits his eyebrows together. “Geez, Thomas, you look awful. What have they been doing to you?” “They haven’t done anything to me. They just watch, spy on me, and eavesdrop to try and hear if I say something they can use against me! They are probably listening to us right now!” As Thomas’s anxiety grows, his voice starts to crack, and sweat rolls down his face, mixing with his tears. “They insinuate that I’ve done something wrong, yet they won’t tell me! They want me to tell them , but I can’t because I don’t know what it is! I can’t remember anything.  I don’t even know how I got here in this cell!” Thomas drops his head into his hands and weeps loudly. “Hey, hey, pull yourself together, old boy! You’re here because of that night at the frat house when we were all drinking and came up with the idea of overthrowing the government and making life better for the common man, remember? I think there must have been a spy among us.”

Eyes darting left and right, Thomas whispers, “A spy? Who?” “I’m not certain, but I’d say it was John Webb.” Gasping, Thomas’s hands fly to his chest. “They keep calling me John! Do you think that they think I’m this John Web fellow? Thomas tries to figure this out while mopping the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve. “I bet that’s it.  They’re rounding up everyone from that night and are using me to tell the names of everyone there! But don’t worry, Earl, I still won’t talk, not a word, I promise.”  Moving closer, Earl reassures Thomas that they don’t think he’s Web. “How do you know?” “I know because John’s dead.” Earl stares at his fingernail before returning his attention to Thomas. Panic grips Thomas. “How did he die? When did he die? Did they kill John? Did they think John was me? If they killed John thinking it was me, will they kill me next because they think I’m John?” Earl falls back onto the bed and rocks side to side, laughing hysterically. “Stop, Thomas, please stop! I think I’m going to wet myself! Look, all that doesn’t matter. It’s your food tray that matters. Look what the fat idiot of a guard did. See? Under your napkin.” With a sinister smile, Earl raises one eyebrow and leans closer, “It’s a real treasure.” Eyes wide with wonder, Thomas looks and sees the tip of the plastic knife sticking out from under the napkin. Grinning widely, Earl taunts Thomas. “ What do you say to that, Thomas? It’s a real game changer, uh? Crap, you’re almost home free! All you have to do is wait for the right moment!” Clutching the knife tightly in both hands for fear it might disappear, Thomas bites his bottom lip. With eyebrows raised high and eyes ablaze, Thomas looks at Earl and starts laughing maniacally. His laughter is cut short when he hears the door lock click. Thomas thrusts the knife under his pillow and faces the opening door. He couldn’t look more guilty if he tried. His eyes are dilated and strained, his complexion white and pasty, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, and he’s shaking from head to toe. Just by looking at him, Carlson is immediately alert as he enters the room. Carlson walks over to the tray. “Sorry to disturb you, John, but I may have forgotten something when I left. You haven’t seen a plastic knife by any chance, have you? Don’t worry, John, you won’t be in trouble if you have.  I’m the one in trouble for forgetting it.” Looking at John’s hand under the pillow, Carlson points, “ Is that it there? May I have it, please?’ Suddenly, Thomas’s face contorts into a twisted fit of rage as he leaps forth, his hand held high to attack. Carlson easily overpowers Thomas and takes away the knife. Placing the knife safely in the pocket of his scrubs, he gently returns Thomas to his bed. He sees the pill under the pillow and gives it to Thomas with a glass of water. “Sorry to have been so rough with you, John. Now let’s take this pill so you can relax, okay?” Thomas falls back onto his pillow, whimpering the first words Carlson has ever heard him speak.

“I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die.” Then, from sheer exhaustion, Thomas falls asleep.                                                                         … The next day, we find Mrs. Webb sitting in Dr. Comey’s office, wringing her handkerchief. “I’m sorry to call you in so early, Mrs.Webb, but your husband attacked his male nurse last night with a plastic knife.” Mrs.Webb’s hand flies to her mouth. “Not to worry, Mrs.Webb, Carlson is fine. The thing is that John wouldn’t talk to us, so we have no idea as to what he is thinking. His facial expressions and body language tell us he understands what we are saying but refuses to respond. From the tapes, we see him pacing his room and talking to an imaginary friend named Earl. He tells Earl that he is confused about why we call him John when his name is Thomas.” Raising her hand slightly, Mrs.Webb explains.  “Thomas Paige was John’s friend since grade school. He was the one who died that night of the car accident.” Nodding his head and raising his eyebrows, Dr. Comey ponders the situation. “Ahh. So John was probably fearing for his friend’s life as well as his own just before they impacted the tree. By switching personalities, John can keep his friend alive.

Mrs Webb, your husband is suffering from a blunt force impact to his right temple area, causing much damage to his brain. It has left him with delusions that are causing confusion and anxiety.   I’m sorry I can’t give you a better prognosis; all we can do now is pray.” Daubbing the corner of her eye with a handkerchief that won’t absorb one more tear, she thanks the doctor and leaves.

… Wincing at the dull pain in his head, Thomas slowly opens his eyes. He doesn’t know where he is or how he’s gotten here. As the neon light flickers overheard, he studies the peeling paint for a clue. He sits up and leans his back against the cold, damp wall. Pulling the scratchy blanket tighter around his shoulders, he feels that he might be in a cell, a prison cell.


Christmas: peace and good will to all mankind; well, that was certainly not the case in the London supermarket where I worked. My boss, nicknamed Mr Blotchy by all the employees forced to endure his red-faced rants, found running the store during the big Christmas lead-up stressful, to say the least. I’d taken on the holiday job as cashier and stock clerk to earn a bit of cash, help pay off the student bills, perhaps save a bit for Fran’s gift; I wasn’t expecting a bonus packet of high blood pressure and nervous tics. And that was before I botched up the big Christmas order. “Janet, in here. Now!” Sadly, my name is Janet so there was no avoiding the inevitable. I pushed back from my computer screen and made my way to the office’s glass box where Blotchy reined- King of the pulsing vein. He had his back to me, punching buttons on the printer, so I quietly made my way to his desk and sat perched on the edge of the seat, ready for a fast exit if the spittle started to fly. I didn’t have long to wait. “What do you have to say to this?” The vein on his temple was already throbbing like he’d been on the Christmas pre-dinner cocktails since 8am. I cast a glance at the sheet he’d printed out and slammed down in front of me. I didn’t have much to say regarding the rows of numbers. I knew what they were of course: stock orders, but I just plugged them into the system; they could have been alien phone numbers for all I knew or cared. I decided it was best to feign interest. “Looks like we’ve ordered a lot of stock; Christmas sales going well.” “You can tell me we’ve ordered a lot of stock!” Out came a red pen and an angry circle enclosed one set of figures. “Stock number 8527: you’ve ordered 1000 units. Big order. You’ll know what 8527 is of course.” As if I had the faintest idea. “Cranberry sauce?” It seemed like a plausible stab in the dark. I was considering quickly amending my guess to turkey or mince pies when Blotchy, true to his name, mottled an angry red. “You should be so bleedin’ lucky- cranberry sauce! No, my girl, you’ve not ordered 1000 units of everyone’s favourite Christmas condiment. Know what you have ordered? 1000 units of, wait for it, mint sauce.” Now I liked mint sauce, so delightfully artificial; and that livid green, such a pop of colour on the plate! But I wasn’t about to tell Blotchy any of this. Time for more supermarket charades. “Oh no! How terrible!” I hammed it up. “ How could I have made such a terrible mistake?” Even as I was giving it my best thesp shot, the scene flashed fully formed into my mind. I had been blithely typing in the week’s orders, confirmed by Blotchy on printouts with his daily handwritten amendments. It was normal for orders to change; with party season starting, blinis say or shrimps might be flying off the shelves and we’d need to order a few more units than what was programmed into the system. Overriding and changing the orders, that was my job. Well, yesterday I was tapping in the changes, when a flash of crimson and a wave of dark hair caught my eye through the office’s glass. I looked up- fatefully. The flash of crimson was a long red scarf, elegantly draped about the neck of a man whose long luscious dark locks made him look like a fitting romantic lead for an Austen adaptation. I was casting myself as Elizabeth to his Darcy, eyes locked on him, picking out his lunchbreak sushi from the chiller cabinet, when he turned and caught my perving eye and winked! And, I decided, as Blotchy mottled and seemed to shake, the incriminating order sheets now crumpled in his fist, those eyes and that saucy wink were what caused my helpless fingers to go crazy, typing in a few extra zeros for the innocent mint sauce; it was only a natural response; what was a girl supposed to do? The mystery of the mint sauce was solved, for me at least, but I could tell Blotchy exactly zero percent of the story. I would need to get inventive; cue me, Janet, recast as TV foodie-host: “Lamb is very much on trend this season. Fashionable Londoners are falling over themselves to pre-order legs and racks. Our mint sauce will be the accompaniment; jars are going to just grow legs and walk off the shelves.” Blotchy looked like he wanted me to use my legs and walk out of the office, the store- his life. I tried again. “And what with avian flu, poultry numbers are taking a real hit. Turkeys will be harder and harder to come by and customers will be forced to look for alternatives, like lamb- with mint sauce!” I saw myself in Blotchy’s eyes: a virus he wished he’d been vaccinated against; boy had he been naïve, thinking the Janet strain would be just a mild variant. “1000 units!” His voice shook and the full horror hit me: I wasn’t sure if he was going to vent or cry. I burst out: “At least it’s got a long shelf-life; we’ll shift it all by next Christmas.” He groaned and typed the digits into the keyboard: 8, 5, 2, 7. A picture of the stock flashed up with corresponding description: Fresh mint jus £12.99 for 50 grams Shelf life: 10 days Must be kept chilled His finger jabbed at the screen: the delivery date. “Janet, your mint sauce is arriving 7am tomorrow. You get down here an hour early, offload the chiller and fill it up with the stuff.” I nodded. Hoping the rant was over, I made my way to the door. “And Janet, you’d better think of something fast to shift those 1000 units, otherwise you can forget about hanging up a stocking or presents under the tree.” Yes, yes. I knew; but he wasn’t finished with me yet. “And do you know what you’ll be getting for a Christmas bonus?” Hell, it was worth a try: “One of those lovely Harrods hampers?” The wicker case filled with a cornucopia of mince pies, puddings and Christmas crackers sprang unbidden into my mind. “No,” he exploded, throwing the crumpled sheet into the bin, “any flaming mint jus we don’t shift, and your marching orders!” In that moment, I knew: my turkey was well and truly stuffed. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Letting myself into the apartment I shared with Fran, I suspected I should be feeling contrite about my scatter-brained slip up, but somehow, I just didn’t. My mind kept returning with salivating circularity to Mr Red Scarf and his scrumptious figure. I couldn’t blame my foolish fingers for just typing in any old numbers; at least they’d been semi functioning while my tongue was hanging out and my brain was having a hot flush.

Fran was sitting on the sofa, bottle of wine in hand, feet resting on the box of Christmas decorations she’d promised to go through, when I came in. “My favourite Christmas cashier!” she beamed, yanking the cork out and splashing wine into two glasses. “Fran, how long are you planning to keep these Christmas jingles going for?” “Until the first snow falls, which will probably bring us round to February! Why the long face? Grinch steal your Christmas cheer?” I gave her a shove and clambered onto the sofa. “Oh well, might just have lost my holiday job. Do you like mint sauce by any chance?” The wine flowed and so did the laughs. As expected, Fran found it all an absolute hoot. “1000 units instead of 10. Tell me, was Mr Red Scarf well worth the extra two o’s?” “Boy he was worth a whole string of them. He was like oooooohhhh ”.

Fran fell over the arm of the sofa and writhed passion on the floor. “And maybe a few mmm’s thrown in ?” I tumbled onto the floor too, clobbering Fran with a cushion. “We’ve got to sober up Fran, and think of something! Unless you want 1000 pots of fresh mint jus for your Christmas present?” “Ok, ok, serious face.” She said, pursing her lips. “You should dress up as a giant mint leaf; no, perhaps not- the police might think you’re marketing weed or something.” “How about a lamb?” I ventured. “I bet I could get a fluffy costume and stand in front of the chiller, bleating a bit.” “Even better: Little Bo-Peep, looking for her sheep! You can have the whole get-up; shepherdess crook and all” For a moment she looked at me with absolute earnestness, then we both fell about laughing again. It was no use. We drained a second bottle, danced ridiculously to Abba and fell asleep on the sofa with loud snores and zero ideas on how to shift the stock, making its way to the London store for 7am sharp.  --------------------------------------------------------------- I arrived at the shop early the next day, more alarmed about my shameful lack of a hangover than the prospect of loading the chiller cabinet. My liver must be more used to wine than water, I mused, taking the worker’s entrance and swiping my card. Blotchy wasn’t about; he’d probably had a coronary in the night, dreaming about drowning in a sea of mint jus. I glanced at the roster: surprise, surprise I’d been taken off stock order duties and all my shifts were on the tills. Oh well, at least as cashier I’d avoid Blotchy waving his sheets of numbers at me. It was my first time stocking the chiller cabinet and my hands were soon red raw and numb, fingers like ten icicles, tingling from the cold. I was like some frozen automaton that somehow still keeps working, enduring Siberian icy blasts: stoop and lift and stack; stoop and lift and stack. Repetitive strain injury, repetitive strain injury, I robotically intoned while the blasted Christmas tunes blasted out. Yep, I was in for repetitive ear injury too. Things might have turned out differently had I been able to maintain mechanical efficiency; but with only 348 pots of fresh mint jus unboxed and stacked, I realised something: I’d slowed right down. Motivational talk was what I needed. “I hate you mint sauce.” I whispered at the 349 th green tub with its sloshing frog-spawn coloured contents. It helped a teensy bit. “I hate you mint sauce” I said expressively, shoving the 350 th tub onto the shelf. Yep, my fingers were still in danger of getting frostbite and were probably hanging on by just one icy thread, but I definitely felt better. “I HATE you -mint sauce!” I shouted, half-throwing tub number 351 into the unit and, with a whoosh of euphoria, I heard a deep laugh behind me. “Funny, I love a bit of sauce.” I whipped round and immediately forgot all icy sensations, flushing instead like a furnace: it was Mr Red Scarf! My mouth was hanging open as if I were a fish catching flies and I hurriedly shut it. Quick, think and look sexy, think and look sexy! I told myself, banishing the horrible thought that I was wearing brown polyester supermarket overalls to the reject bin in my brain. Above me, the sign started flashing like it had a nervous tic: “Specials!” it blinked. “Specials!” And then there was a crackle and it just switched itself off. We both burst out laughing. “So, Janet,” he said completely at 101% relaxed ease, reading my name badge and reaching casually past me to lift a tub off of the shelf, “perhaps you can tell me why mint sauce is this store’s seasonal special instead of, say, cranberry?” My mouth fell open again. He’d brushed past me; his scarf had actually, for a split- second, touched my bare hand. I shut my mouth, then opened it again and told him the whole silly story, leaving out his part; after all, a man so gorgeous must already have an ego to rival the Greek gods he was surely descended from, he didn’t need any more bolstering from me! He laughed that suggestive laugh I was already addicted to, casually tossing then catching the little tub of sauce he’d taken from the shelf. “Well, if it helps at all, I will be your first customer; this mint jus is coming home with me.” I laughed, giving Blotchy a run for his money in the frantic flushing stakes. He pulled a pen and a slip of paper out of his jeans pocket. Leaning the paper against his thigh, he wrote his name and telephone number and handed me the slip. “Well, just in case you’d like me to come and take a few more tubs off your hands. Right, need to head back: lunch break was over five minutes ago.” That sexy smile, another super sexy wink and he headed to the express till, paid and left, leaving me clutching the slip of paper -it had touched his thigh for heaven’s sake! - and wondering if he had read my mind, as surely his name couldn’t actually be Adonis. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fran was already lacing up her skates when I finally arrived at the outside ice-skating rink where we'd arranged to meet. I plonked myself down on the freezing bench and winced as I eased my feet out of their warm winter boots and into the hired skates which felt as comfortable as two blocks of ice. Through gritted teeth, I told her about Adonis. “No! Mr Ooo and Mmmm came back?” “Uh huh” “You’re going to be his Christmas special! I just know it!” Fran squealed like he’d already gone down on one knee. “Even better; I’ve got his name and phone number!” I faked coyness and twisted the little slip of paper between my thumb and forefinger. Fran reached to grab it and with a laugh I spun off onto the ice, feeling like I was gliding into a future just as smooth as the glinting surface. Fran scrambled after me, clutching onto the sides. Most people avoided her, probably presuming she was drunk. Eventually I took pity on her gasping, hauling technique and looped my arm through hers, and we skated off together. “So, Miss Frantastic, what do you think I should say to this man, bearer of luscious dark locks, giver of super sexy winks, who goes- wait for it- by the name of Adonis?” For a moment I thought Fran was going to fall over again as she tugged me to the perimeter and we propped against the wall. She tapped the name into Google on her phone, and his face flashed onto the screen. Mr Red Scarf who went by the stage name Adonis Olivier – real name Benedict Olive- was an actor on the up, after a low budget flick had suddenly become a cult classic. More than on the up, if the number of followers he had on Instagram was anything to go by. As we ogled him, a new post flashed up with a link to the BBC. Fran clicked and we both watched, wide-eyed, a clip from the six o’clock news which must have just aired. “And finally, the BBC have it from a reliable source that your jar of cranberry might well be staying at the back of your cupboard this Christmas. Yes, it’s time to give your heart away to something special: mint jus!” The camera zoomed into the screen behind the grinning presenter and there was Adonis, decked in his red scarf, singing in full-blown crooning Mariah style to the tub of mint sauce he’d bought just a few hours ago: “Make my wish come true- all I want for Christmas is jus!” Cut back to the laughing BBC presenter: “So, you heard it here first Londoners! Drop the cranberry sauce and pick up the mint jus- hotter than a steaming mulled wine- and on sale tomorrow at your local Knightsbridge store.” “Call him!” shrieked Fran. “Text him at least, for heaven’s sake!” With fumbling fingers, I tapped in his number. Feeling drunk, without a drop in me, I fired off: “If I don’t have to eat 999 tubs of mint sauce, you’ve definitely made all my wishes come true! Thanks! Janet.” The reply came straight back. “Happy to help. Bit busy at the mo. I’ve got something in store for you, can’t say more!” The brazier burning on the side of the rink had nothing on my glowing face. “Come on Fran,” I said grinning, “this calls for a celebratory drink. Adonis has something planned for me!” ---------------------------------------------------------------- I could hardly believe my eyes when I made my way to work the next day and saw the queue trailing round the block, people jostling to keep their spot. At the front of the long snaking line, standing behind a blue ribbon fixed between two Christmas trees, brandishing a pair of over-sized scissors, was Adonis.

Blotchy was beaming and started a countdown: “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” I’d never seen him so happy, smiling at Adonis as if Santa had just landed right outside his little store. “Three, two,” “Make my wish come true!” Adonis called out, and the crowd answered as one: “All I want for Christmas is jus!” Snip went the scissors, the automatic door slid open and the queue surged forward as if the store was selling the last of the Christmas turkeys. I ran up to Adonis and flung my arms around him. “You wonderful, wonderful man!” I laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want another jar of mint jus ?” And Christmas wonders were already happening as he hugged me back. “I think you know that’s the last thing on my mind, when in my arms is the oh-so delicious you .”


Oliveria finished unpacking her things and wondered what to do next. Who am I kidding? It's 2330 , she thought. She got into her pajamas and tucked herself into her bed.

Waiting for sleep, she wondered why she was so clueless as to what to do in her own home. Maybe because she was never at home long enough to consider it her home.

She had bought the house a little while after she graduated at a university nearby. After a week, she decided that she couldn't stay in the same town after all those awful years at the university. Almost immediately, she won one million dollars and a trip to Australia.

It was unreal. Her parents might have found out that she partook in a special lottery and they might have rearranged some things, but she chose to ignore the thought. Her parents never ceased to spoil her, but even if it did really happen, she would rather play dumb than have her mood spoiled.

When the beautiful journey in Australia ended, she decided to turn the tables around. She cancelled her flight back to England and booked a new one to Thailand. The list went on and on: from Thailand to Malaysia to the Philippines to China to Japan to Saudi Arabia to Germany to Scandinavia to Greenland... She only stopped when she realised that the money she had left was only enough for a flight back to England. Not that her parents wouldn't give her more, but sooner or later her journey had to end after all.

"Tomorrow," she said out loud to her thoughts, getting sleepy. Her eyelids fell like stage curtains over her eyes until all she could see was black.

-

The next morning, Oliveria woke up to the sound of her phone ringing. She grabbed it and looked at the time displayed on the lock screen.

“I-it’s 1100! Wait, that shouldn’t matter anymore,” she said to herself. “Should it?” She accepted the call and put the phone to her ear without looking at who it was. “Uh… hello?”

“Oliviaaaaa!!!” a voice rang from the other end. Immediately, Oliveria felt like going back to sleep. There was only one person who would always call her that.

“What, Sloane?” she said without even bothering to not sound tired. It wasn’t very nice of her to do that, but Sloane was that one girl in university. That one girl who would always use her friends to her advantage, that one girl who was dumb enough to wonder why everyone else hated her. She was, at the very least, annoying. She couldn’t even get her only friend’s name correct.

“Where have you been?! I couldn’t get to you at all! I tried to call you, I tried to break into your house, but the only things I could get from you were your Instagram stories! You’ve been on vacation, Olivia! And you’ve been ignoring me! How dare you do that! Now I’m tired and sick of everything I had to do all by myself these months! Including getting mad at you!”

First of all, grow up. Second of all, you never had to yell at me at all. Third, last but not least, you could have phrased that until you had fewer sentences to say and therefore save your energy to do something useful. But do you even have anything useful to do, though?

“Yeah, you know, I had to take a break,” Oliveria started. “All those university years got me tired.”

“Well, I was never tired of university , so how can you be?”

I don’t know, because all you did was create enemies for no absolute reason, and I had to clean up the mess you made, going here and there apologising to everyone and everything. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Hmph!”

Oliveria could just imagine Sloane’s pout.

“Well, sorry, but whatever! I need your help now!” At that point she launched into a speech of orders for Oliveria to do, but Oliveria could only think of one word she said.

“You’ll do all that for me, right? Because I’m your friend! Okay, thank you so much, see ya Olivia!”

“Wait, wait, Sloane! Don’t hang up yet!” “What? I haven’t got all the time in the world.” “You said… you said ‘sorry’.” “Yeah, so what? You’re the one who’s always nagging me to say sorry to people.” Oliveria chuckled to herself. “I kinda actually missed you.” “Ew, don’t make this weird.” “We’re friends, we have to be weird!”

She hung up and Oliveria laughed some more to herself. “Oh my god, she actually grew up.” With all the tasks Sloane had given her, she could only say goodbye to going back overseas. She never had a job to keep her rooted to the town she lived in. Her parents would never let her have a job anyway. The same went for Sloane.

She put on her coat and decided to walk to Sloane’s. It was a penthouse in a condominium in her neighborhood, which people called the ‘rich people neighborhood’. Seriously, they couldn’t have thought of a better name, could they?

Oliveria also wondered why she stayed friends with such a toxic person as Sloane all these years. It wasn’t just a lot of her now ex-friends who asked the same. Sloane used to have a lot of friends, Oliveria included, before all of them realised how poisonous Sloane was and ditched her, leaving her alone. Except Oliveria, of course.

It wasn’t like she didn’t have a choice. A lot of time she was asked to come with her friends to leave Sloane alone. There was nothing wrong with that. “An evil witch like her deserves to be alone,” her friends added. But even if it was true, the thought of being alone was enough to scare Oliveria, even if it wasn’t her who was going to be alone. So she stayed by Sloane’s side, while her now ex-friends misunderstood that she was just as evil.

Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with being friends with an evil person, as long as I don’t encourage her evil, Oliveria thought. It just means I’m extra nice, because I still care about her, even after all she’s done to me. So why do I still feel bad?

Before she could give it another thought, the elevator dinged, notifying her that she had arrived at Sloane’s penthouse. It stops. “It’s me, Oliveria,” she called out into the empty elevator. The doors opened directly to Sloane’s home. It also triggered something in Oliveria that made her completely change her vibe.

“Geez, Sloane, anyone could just enter this house anytime, where’s your security?” Oliveria scoffed, almost tossing her coat to the clothes hanger.

“Anyone in the elevator would have to speak to me so I could open the elevator doors and let them in,” Sloane replied, crossing her arms. “ I am the security. Isn’t it smart? Smarter than whatever you probably put up for your own abode.” “Damn, you never let a chance to make people hate you go free, don’t you?” “Oh, I believe you mean jealousy, Olivia.” “Unlike you, I’m a narcissistic masochist, so win-win. Plus, my name is Oliveria. And I don’t like to be reminded of my parents’ stupidity.” “Oh, whatever. Your parents gave you such a dumb name, I might as well correct it. Now help me with these. You’re an alumni, you might as well be kind enough to help one of your juniors.”

How can a name actually be wrong? God never said so , Oliveria thought as she shook her head, smiling.

After all the “school work” was done, Sloane flipped out her phone and started furiously typing, ignoring the curious looks from Oliveria and making her body turn elsewhere when her senior peeked over her shoulder.

“Oh, oh,” Oliveria sniggered (which, even though she tried her best to not seem so, still sounded like she was awkwardly speaking in another language). “What is this now? What are thy hiding?” “It’s none of your business.” “It is now, because I saw some of it.” “What kind of dumb retort was that?!” “I heard it from a dumb person. It was so dumb, I saw what you’re searching into Instagram.” “-!”

Sloane made a frantic turn to cover her phone with her body. She failed; her body was too slender and her shoulders weren’t broad enough.

“Why are thy searching for a ‘douchebag who is insulting to women’? I didn’t know you were a masochist too.” “Ugh, I wouldn’t be that desperate for attention! That’s like, pathetic!” “Ouch, Sloane.” “Well, you deserved it.” “So who’s this new guy?” “Like I said, none of your business. Your messed up logic does not make any sense in my home.” “Aw, man. I just wanna help.” “Yeah, how? Make my logic as twisted as yours?” “Like maybe by shrinking your search results down to a few people?” “You don’t even know who I’m talking about! He’s new!” “I’m deducing that you don’t know who you’re talking about either.”

This time, the infamous Sloane Pout Face had a shade of red as an addition. Is she embarrassed or mad? Oliveria wondered. Well, well, well, the things that happen when I’m gone, huh?

“Just what happened, Sloane?”

Sloane then proceeded to launch into yet another rant ( how does this girl even talk so much? Oliveria wondered), all while keeping her new pout face on the entire time (it made the old pout face seem like a mere BETA version). Apparently, a guy had humiliated her in front of the entire class when it was time for their team to present in front of the crowd.

“That uggo with all the freaky scars on his face just made everyone laugh at me! I didn’t even get to do anything, he just took over right after that! My marks this semester are damned because of him!” “So what did you do next?” “I stormed out and ran to the bathroom, of course!” That just increased the chance of your marks’ damnation. “Oh.” “I’m gonna find him on Instagram and spread rumours all about him!” “Yeah, you are.”

So it’s like an anime plot now, huh? Oliveria could feel a smirk threatening to escape her lips. So much fake kindness around you that you are attracted to the first thing that insults you. Oh, the cliche! Forget going overseas again, my story is over! It’s time for Sloane’s story to begin, isn’t it?

Oliveria stood up. “Where are you going?” Sloane asked. Might as well make it more interesting. “We have better chances finding him at the university campus, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes! I’m glad I thought of that! Now let’s go!”

Oliveria noticed her nostrils flaring and her knuckles turning slightly white. Oh, for this once, Oliveria! Don’t get mad at her!

The girls grabbed their coats and headed into the elevator. Whilst the elevator was going down, it stopped at the 5th floor and guess who stepped out into the elevator with them? Mr. Scarface! Ha ha, this beginning has too many potential plot twists already.

Oliveria smiled to herself. She was surprised that she was content with staying in England and assisting Sloane, given the fact that she was a thrill-seeker who always wanted to try something new. Nevertheless, she was at peace with stepping off the stage, away from the spotlight so Sloane could shine in her place.

“What are you smiling about, Olivia?” “Nothing.”