I cast my line into the endless ocean on a boiling June day. Within seconds I felt a giant pull, and I hauled harder than I ever had. I thought my line would snap--but then the water parted, and out of its deep blue curtain came the most beautiful man I had ever seen, dangling and bleeding from my hook through his lip. I dragged him onto the plywood dock, extracted the hook from him, and wiped away the blood. He stared at me with the eyes of a child, such innocence and grace and beauty, and gave me the faintest smile. He had dark hair and black eyes and soft cheeks. His translucently-pale skin bulged from his perfect musculature, and he looked at me in a way that no one ever had. I tried to ask him what his name was, where he had come from, how he hadn’t drowned, where his family was--he had no answer. All he could do was smile and look at me. I told him my name was John, although I wasn’t sure he understood, and after a few minutes I decided that I had to take care of him until he was healed from whatever had happened to him under the ocean’s surface. I took him to my tiny apartment, tucked him into my bed, and made him a bowl of soup from the only food I had in the fridge. I sat down gently with the soup and tried to give it to him, but he seemed to not know what to do with it. I would have to feed him--I dipped the spoon into the steaming soup. He opened his mouth as I brought the spoon to it, but instead of accepting it, he spoke one word, and one word only, in a raspy voice like cat’s claws on sandpaper: “Puke.” Then he closed his mouth tight, and would accept no food or drink, or say anything but the word puke, again and again, until the word started to turn my stomach and I asked him to stop. In response, the man from the depths reached out and held my arm, firmly, with a tenderness that changed the temperature of my entire body, and he looked me in my eyes with a stare that communicated all things. He took me in his arms and kissed me so deeply that I thought I was going to go insane. I was annoyed that I was so easy to win over and upset that a man could make me melt without speaking a single word to me aside from one I hated. It had just been so *long*. I made love for the first time in four years, and then I asked the undersea man what his name was as we lay tangled together in the billowing clouds of my ivory sheets. He turned to me, smiling that innocent, soft smile, and said to me, “Puke, John.” I asked him, trying to be playful, if Puke was his name, but he shook his head forcefully and pointed to me. Before I knew it he gently slipped his fingers into my mouth and down my throat. I don’t know why I did, but I did what he asked all over my ivory sheets, and in the middle of the contents of my stomach sat a lump of pure, polished gold, glistening in the afternoon sun that streamed in through my window. He picked it up, handed it to me, and smiled again. My eyes grew as wide as dinner plates and I stared at the fortune I had just coughed up, and without even thinking I kissed him again. I couldn’t help myself. There was no explaining it. He had just known. He had known everything I needed and everything I wanted without me saying anything. He was sent by God. I went to the bathroom to clean myself up and to cry a little bit, happily, over my life *finally* improving. I looked at myself in the mirror, at my blonde hair, my olive skin, my green eyes-- and for the first time in a long time I told myself that I was beautiful and meant it. When I came back all of my vomit was gone from the sheets. I thanked him for cleaning up, and he smiled at me from the bed and beckoned me to come to him. The next few days were nothing but happiness in my one-bedroom, 500 square foot apartment. The underwater man and I made love every chance we could get, and he helped me vomit up so much gold that it filled my tiny apartment with glimmering piles of wealth. I felt like a king. He always cleaned up while I went to the bathroom to wipe my mouth, so thoroughly that everything was spotless. We slept together in my single bed every night and he held me like a treasure. He still never ate, but I took this as some sort of sea-sickness that would go away in time. I asked him his name hundreds of times and never received a response, but as the days went on he became more and more lively and strong-looking, and he began speaking to me--first in singular words, then in full sentences. His voice was low and smooth and it rolled from him like thunder across the plains. He spoke of things he loved--sunsets, and houses, and children’s laughter. He thanked me for rescuing him from the sea. He told me he didn’t remember how he got there, under the water that it was gone from his mind. All it took was one look from his eyes that I now noticed were a bit green in the right light, and I believed him. I felt like my mind was becoming a little bit slower--but I guess that’s how you feel when you’re in love. One night as we laid together in the freshly-cleaned bed, he rolled over to me and looked at me and said-- “I love you.” I’m embarrassed to say that I began crying immediately. I said it back after my emotional outburst was over in my small, silly-sounding voice, and the next day I sold our gold and the dingy old apartment that had housed me for eight unhappy years. The undersea man and I bought a beautiful home across from the ocean together, and we moved in in the span of a day. It’s not like either of us had many possessions to relocate. He turned to me as we slept together in our new four-poster bed that night, and I turned to him, and he said again to me-- “Puke.” Even though I didn’t want to ruin the new bed, I knew better than to disregard his council on this particular matter. I opened my mouth, and into my throat went his fingers, and I let my stomach turn inside out for him. When I was finished and gasping I looked in the middle of my bile. There sat the most beautiful baby boy I had ever seen, with the undersea man’s eyes and his cheeks, and my smile and my tiny pointed ears. “Is he... ours?” “Yes.” “Did you put him there like the gold?” “No, John. He was there all along, just like the gold. He was always yours, and he was always mine.” I couldn’t respond, or question further how this had happened, or do anything but scoop up the baby and cradle him close and kiss his soft little forehead. It didn’t matter that I was a man, didn’t matter that this was impossible. My child was in my arms and my lover was at my side and the only thing in my mind, the only thing in my heart, was love. I was so overcome with love--for him, for my home, for this new baby, that coherent thoughts couldn’t penetrate the warmth and the affection that I felt for everything around me. I spent my next days in a haze, and when he asked me to puke again I did and I gained a beautiful baby girl. It had been two weeks since I pulled the undersea man from the ocean and now I spent my days in such a euphoria that I felt I could barely think. No matter the time of day, I was either making love, tending to my beautiful children, or looking out at my view of the ocean--I was never thinking. Only loving. One day I told him we were running out of money, and without another word he induced me to vomit up another massive chunk of gold. I looked at him, my face flushed, my mind struggling to express itself with words, and just told him, “You are my everything.” “No, John. You are.” He smiled, this time a little differently than normal--I couldn’t figure out why. Even just that four-word sentence had been mentally draining, so clouded was my mind with love and admiration for the man from the waves. I cleaned up quick, wanting to return to him as soon as I could. When I returned from the bathroom I saw him, bent over, his bumpy spine stretching the skin of his back. He made a sound like algae being fed through broken glass. I crept closer. His face was pressed deep into the sheets, and he sucked up my vomit with his mouth with frightening speed and desire. His eyes were animal and predatory, glassy and unthinking. His veins bulged through his olive skin as he fed, and I could see thousands of branching networks of deep-green, pumping and flowing and filling almost audibly, like the inner workings of a giant mosquito. He looked up at me, wiped his mouth, and smiled. I ran from him, went to the bathroom, locked the door, and looked at myself in the mirror for the first time in weeks. My blonde hair had turned black, my olive skin to a translucent white that every vein peeked through. My eyes were black and soulless and I realized that my brain was not sluggish because of love. I was being drained. Before I could blink the door flew open and he was behind me, and then his hand was down my throat, and he grabbed both my hands with one of his and held them behind my back with inhuman strength. He bent me over the bathtub with his fingers in my mouth, and then he pushed them all the way down and drained everything from me, vomit and children and gold and music and color, what I realized now was everything my body could or would ever make in my lifetime. I tried to resist at first, but I had so little fight. I was so far gone already. When it was all over I stared blankly at the squirming bathtub beneath me, filled with everything of value my body would have ever produced, squeezed from me like a wet sponge being twisted. I was nothing but a husk, my thoughts an impenetrable mist. Then his strong arms picked me up, still holding my hands behind my back. He carried me out the front door of the beautiful house we had once shared, across the wind-swept beach, and walked until the sea gently lapped his bare feet. I looked up at him. His hair was a beautiful burnished blonde now, and his eyes green as a cat’s. His once-translucent skin had become a beautiful olive. I had to admit he was beautiful, even more so than I had once been. He gave me that same little smile that I had loved so much, and for a second I thought he might apologize, or save me, or reverse everything he had taken. Instead he rocked me in his arms like a newborn, and at the peak of the third rock he released his grip and threw me. I flew high in the air, hung at the top of the arc for a fragile moment, and then plunged into the cold and salty water. The ocean inhaled me, and I knew I was home. I watched from underneath as he walked away, tanned and strong and beautiful, without any feeling at all. I searched my mind for thoughts, feelings, cares--there was nothing there, my mind a dark and empty ocean to mirror the one I had been thrown into. All I was was gone now, drained into the bathtub. I turned from the shore and swam away into the icy surf, my beady black eyes scanning the dark blue depths, forgetting everything I once was and ever could have been.


This is my first short story I feel is good enough to share anywhere. I'm not sure if it would go into the Misc. tag, but it's the only one I think fits. If you like it comment if I should make it into a full story. I hope formatted the title right lol. ANYWAY, enjoy.  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this to him. I'M SORRY, OK! I NEVER WANTED HIM TO DIE!" Emeilia sobbed, holding Mark’s dead body. "SORRY DOESN'T FUCKING FIX EVERYTHING!" Elaine boomed, her face turned red and tears flowed from her eyes, "HE'S FUCKING DEAD, YOU DUMB BITCH! I JUST CAN'T WITH YOU ANYMORE! I just can't," Her voice cracked saying the last sentence. She fell to the floor a limp mess. "Eleine-" "NO! FUCK YOU! HE WAS MY EVERYTHING, AND YOU JUST LET HIM FUCKING GET KILLED! I-I TRUSTED YOU! I TRUSTED YOUR DUMB ASS! YOU JUST LET HIM DIE!" Elaine punched the floor as hard as she could, "I just wanted to leave this damned place with everyone. After Kenny and Lillian died, I thought I was going to kill myself. Mark was the only thing keeping me going. It's too fucking bad his own girlfriend would let him die," She looked up at Emelia, pure rage plastered on her face. "I'm so, so, so sorry, OK! I DIDN'T KNOW IT WOULD FIND US HERE! I THOUGHT I COULD JUST LET HIM SLEEP IN HERE ALONE!" Emelia screamed at Elaine, "IT'S NOT MY FAULT HE HAD SUCH A WORTHLESS, PIECE OF SHIT GIRLFRIEND. DO YOU THINK I FUCKING WANTED THIS?" Emelia wailed, pulling Mark towards her to cry into his bloody shirt, "I know you want your big brother back, but he's dead now. He isn't fucking coming back," Her muffled voice came from his chest. "Fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid decisions," Elaine said as she stood up and started walking. "What the hell are you doing?" "Leaving." "Why the hell would you leave? The thing is still out there!" "So what? You have shown that we aren't safe here." "You didn't answer me. Why the HELL are you leaving?" "I just want my big brother back. I just want him back," Elaine started to hunch over, "I just want to meet him again. What’s the point of living without my whole world?" Emelia could hear her soft sobs begin as she started to walk towards the exit. Outside the thing croaked, knowing it would soon get a meal. "Elaine don't you fucking dare!" Emelia said under her breath as tears began to build up in her eyes, "Elaine I swear, stop joking with me." When Elaine finally reached the exit, she turned toward Emelia and smiled through the tears, "Bye-bye. I hope you enjoy the guilt of killing my big brother. I hate you so, so much," the sound of the thing’s claws sounded from outside the exit, "I still hope you find a way out. If you do leave, tell my mom and poppa I loved them," Elaine waved and stepped backward outside. As soon as her whole body reached out the exit, the thing swooped her up with no noise. "ELAINE! NO! OH GOD NO! ELAINE PLEASE!" Emelia screamed as loud as she could, dropping Mark's cold body. She ran to the exit and stuck her head outside. She tilted her head down to see a single speck of blood from Elaine. "WHY ME? WHY ME? WHY?" Emelia screeched into the cool evening air, her voice echoing through the forest, "Why?"  Edit: Someone in the comments mentioned more context sooo here we go. A group of friends went on a camping trip and on the third day some frick frack happened while on a walk and they woke up some beast. The beast does stuff to make their lives hell for a week. The friends run through the forest trying to find new places to hide. The beast then takes away Lillian and Kenny and everyone that's left runs for another couple of days and finds a cave. Emelia left Mark, who came down with a fever and was feeling like hell, to rest while she went to get some free time and Elaine was getting food. The thing came in and fucking yeeted marks soul out of his body. Emelia comes back and finds him, and soon after Emelia Elaine walks in. This is what continues.


This is my first post here, hope you guys enjoy it! :) The cold wind blew through the valley; the trees shivered as it blew harshly by. It was the middle of winter and the trees should have been used to the cold, but they weren’t. They still trembled in the icy wind and broken blasts of snow. Their bows bent and even broke as the snow grew thick upon them: it was the middle of winter. The trees should have been used to the cold, but they weren’t. A man walked through the valley and clutched his jacket tighter around him, the wind racing about him. His name was Nathaniel Town, but everyone called him Nat. He had been through many winters and, like the trees, should have been used to the cold, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t more than twenty years old, and everyone in his hometown knew him as a happy, joyful person. He was known for his quiet but intelligent manner, his odd sense of humor, and his soft smile. Everyone loved him. Yet, even with all that love, Nat was alone. He lived in a cabin nestled in the valley, a few miles away from the town and far enough removed that he seldom had any visitors. It was because of this distance that Nat felt so alone. Most days he was fine with it; he had grown used to it after all this time. However, there were often days when he felt the weary loneliness seeping over him. Today was one of those days. “Should just get used to it,” he mumbled to himself as he pulled his coat closer to his shoulders. “Should just give up. It’s not for me.” The wind howled back in response and he shivered: it was the middle of winter. He should’ve been used to the cold, but he wasn’t. Nat thought back over the days’ events and frowned, his normally pleasant and hopeful demeanor crushed. The day had started out normally, he had made the mile and a half long trek into town and gone to work. He worked in the printing shop and seldom spoke to anyone other than his coworkers, but today it had been different. Mary Hamlet, a young woman whom he had known in school, had stopped by to talk with him. She had stayed there all day and the two had even gone out and had lunch together. There was nothing too abnormal in this as Mary had been visiting Nat more and more frequently over the past month, but then something strange had happened. Nat shook his head and grimaced, “Shouldn't have hoped it would happen. Should have known better.” He looked around and saw the trees, their boughs heavy with snow looked about ready to crack and break. He felt the wind rush around him, but his body had grown numb to the cold and he continued, unperturbed by the harsh wind. The snow gusted down in flurries now; it was the middle of winter. The valley should have been used to the cold, but it wasn’t. Nat dropped his eyes back to the ground and continued on through the painful part of his day. He and Mary had been sitting on a bench in the park when it had happened. He had reached over and brushed his hand against hers, almost as if it were an accident. Mary had looked down, noticed the attempt, and looked back up at Nat. He smiled at her warmly and she smiled back, but the warmth wasn’t there. “What’s wrong?” Nat had asked. Mary smiled, shrugged, looked at the snow dusted ground and said, “I’m not sure.” The conversation that ensued was too much for Nat to bear and he turned his attention back to the snowy path. He saw the distant shape of his home and plodded drearily through the snow. His boots were soaked, but he was used to the cold by now. His eyes listed from side to side as he searched for something to distract himself. He saw a rabbit spring quickly across the path, moving fast in an attempt to stay warm. Nat chuckled to himself darkly, “Silly Rabbit. Don’t you know it’s the middle of winter? Shouldn’t you be used to the cold?” But the rabbit wasn’t used to the cold. Nat felt himself drift back into the memories. He heard Mary’s voice, “I just don’t think we can do this.” “What do you mean?” Nat had been stunned and confused by the revelation. Mary had looked away, “I’m just not ready for it.” She hadn’t said anything else, just gotten up and walked away without saying goodbye. Nat was left on the bench, his face an expression of shock and utter confusion at what had just happened. Soon enough, the sadness had crept into his heart as he realised Mary wouldn’t come back. He had clenched his fists and stared down at the dusting of snow, watching small clear patches form as the tears dripped out of his eyes. It wasn’t the first time Nat had been turned down. He always seemed to be just about to start something when it was ripped away from him. “Stupid thing, hope,” he said to himself as he reached his house and opened the door. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, hope only brings sadness.” He walked into his house and started to build the fire. He didn’t hate Mary, or any of the others who had turned him away. He didn’t hate them at all. He was more angry with himself than anyone else, for ruining the chances he was given. He thought back to the moment on the bench, “What if waited a little longer? What if..” He pondered the question and felt a weight in his chest as he thought of the future. He knew he couldn’t blame her, that it wasn’t her fault, and he didn’t want to. Instead, he blamed himself. He put his head in his hands and cried; the tears flowed down his face like small rivers. “I shouldn’t have ever started. I should have just let it all go.” He spoke in between sobs, but no one could hear. It was the middle of winter: the world outside was frozen over. It should have been used to the cold, but it wasn’t. Nat stood up and walked away from the half-built fire. He made his way over to the door and stepped outside, his jacket still hanging inside the house. He walked barefoot in the snow, the cold unable to hurt him. He saw his breath come out, misty in the cold wind, and sighed. He kept walking. He walked into the woods, towards a place where he knew he could think clearly. He passed the frozen trees and bushes, his mind and body just as icy as them, but he was used to it. He walked deeper into the forest and lost feeling in his hands. He rubbed them subconsciously, not intending to keep them warm. “It’s the middle of winter,” he whispered to himself. At last, he reached the clearing he had been looking for. It was a dark glade, covered by the trees so only a dusting of snow lay on the ground. In the center of the clearing was a small pond. He drew close to the pond and looked down at his reflection. The icy blue water stared back up at him and he saw his bare face. It was the face of a broken man. He saw the red rings around his eyes, the tear stains down his cheeks, and the soulless frown that enshrouded his lips. He didn’t know how long he stood there. It could have been a few minutes or hours, the light in the deep woods was already so dim that he couldn't tell what time it was. He looked at himself in the water, thoughts floating through his sorrow ridden mind. He remembered times before today, times when he had fallen for the same trick. He began to hum a song to himself. He repeated one line more than the others. “I guess I should be used to it, Just go ahead and get used to it, Because I know it’ll happen again. It just seems no matter what I do I can’t win. And even if it seems like everything is great, The truth is the world ain’t so great. I guess I should just get used to it.” He stayed there, humming the song and singing what verses pleased him until he finally sighed and turned back the way he had come. His feet were cold and he shivered as he trudged back towards his house. “Should’ve worn shoes. It’s the middle of winter, who walks outside without shoes?” He smiled to himself, “Only idiots, Nat, only idiots.” He chuckled and grinned, color returning to his face as he felt his soul begin to reform. The walk back was much faster than the walk into the woods, and he ran through the frozen world rather than stop and admire it. Within a few minutes, he was back at the door to his house. He quickly swung the door open and walked inside. The fireplace was still ready to be lit and he walked over to it, “Maybe I’ll go on a trip,” he said as he pulled out a matchbox. “Somewhere I haven’t been before.” He smiled at the thought. The heaviness in his chest was still there, but he could bear it now. He glanced outside his window and saw that the wind had died down. “Good,” he said, “ ‘Bout time that storm stopped.” He smiled again. It wasn’t a happy smile, nor was it a sad smile. It was the smile of someone who understood one of life's greatest mysteries. Nat looked down at the small pile of wood as he struck a match and started to light a fire. The flames licked the wood and flared to life. He sighed in relief as he felt the warmth flow into his hands. He was happy to be warm again. He looked outside and saw the wind flurry one last time before it died out. It was the middle of winter. He knew he’d never get used to the cold, no matter how many times it came.


\*Have a ton of my stories just sitting on Wordpress and decided to share a few. Ignore grammar and spelling errors as these are rough drafts. Thank you for reading!  *All alone again in this dimly lit bar. My friends have all scattered to dance and have a good time. I sit at the booth with only myself and my thoughts and that is the only way I would have it. I have never been like the others I am far to shy and afraid of actual human contact. Then she walks in my god why did it have to be her?* *For years she has been the girl I have dreamed of but never had enough courage to tell. I tell myself I would only destroy her. Nothing good ever stays with me. Still I think of her all of the time she is forever on my mind. Why am I so afraid to be brave?* *I sit and watch for a time. Wondering if she knows that I am watching her. She has to. My eyes must be burning a hole right through her. Nervously I shuffle my lighter in my hand trying to pretend that I am cool and not paying attention to anything.* *She dances magically under the low light. It is almost as if she glides like something so beautiful it shouldn't be allowed to exist. Somehow when God chose his angels he must have forgotten her. That can be the only explanation.* *Nervously I order another beer trying not to pay attention. I know that she will never be mine nothing that good could ever be for me. Still I can't pull my gaze away from her. It is the deepest of torments and the greatest bliss all rolled together.* *She is still dancing and I am still sitting like a fool. My lighter gliding from knuckle to knuckle as I try to not be obvious. How every eye in the bar isn't in her direction I do not know. Sirens may have wrecked Greek ships but she could have taken the entire civilization with the wave of her hand.* *I am not stupid and I know that beauty only means so much. She has her quirks just like everyone else does but somehow hers remain wonderful to me. I could never see myself being mad at her or treating her badly. No instead she would always be on my mind and her name always on the tip of my tongue.* *She is one of the kindest people I have ever known. Never putting herself first or looking down on others. Like how we all learned to be in grade school but everyone forgets. Not her. It is as if the message was meant just for her. Maybe a message from god to his forgotten angel. Just thinking about this I start to crack a smile. My facade of being cool is fading quick.* *Christ she must have noticed because now she is headed my way. I feel my heart sink thinking what I should do next. Do I run? Do I continue to play it cool? No time to decide I am stuck and I know it.* *Still fiddling with my lighter I pretend not to notice. Then for an instant I swear time froze as she said “I thought that was you!”. My lighter now had stopped in between my knuckles as if when time stopped so did all forms of movement.* *Now alert to every small detail I hear the chair squeak as she pulls it out from the table to have a seat. Quickly I put on my imaginary mask that protects me from showing that I am human. At least now I can feel a small measure of safety from the conversation that is sure to ensue.* *Small talk starts in. My mind goes into autopilot and I am sure that I am just a blabbering mess at this point. She doesn't seem to notice or care and continues speaking. Of course she does she is perfect and would never point out an imperfection in someone else.* *Then as if the clouds had parted I start to follow the conversation. She is going on about times past and how good it was that I was there. Now I am smiling and replying. Now a crack in the mask and soon like a broken dam it will be destroyed.* *Why do I have to be so afraid? All at once I want to rend my flesh and peel my skin free. I want to say all the things that I have thought better left unsaid. Damn the consequences what is the worst that could happen?* *So do I spill my guts? Put all of my cards on the table as it were? All I have to do is say something. I fight to say what I want so hard to say but nothing. It is as if again I am frozen.* *She starts to wrap up everything she wanted to say and I couldn't even get any important words out. She smiles in a sad sort of way and tells me it was good seeing me again. I manage to shake my head. She walks away wearing that bittersweet grin.* *My lighter starts moving again like a switch suddenly had been turned back on. It was then I realized that I only show people enough to keep them interested but am to ashamed to give them what they really want. How could I ever make anyone happy? My life is the burlesque show and all I am is the strip tease.


He first meets it on Epsilon Prime. “What is it?” He asks. “A . A twentieth century Earth toy. You ask it a question, it answers.” “What sort of question?” “Any question about the future, really. Has to be yes-no.” He looks at the little plastic sphere and frowns. “Does it work?” “Sure.” He sits among a pile of papers and flimsy, holo-display in one hand. He’s ready to give up. His head aches. “Will I succeed if I apply to the Academy?” 'Most likely.' “Hah. You’re full of shit, 8-Ball.” But he does. There are ups and downs, but he makes friends, impresses his professors, and graduates at the top of his class. He receives a prestigious analytics position. He’s running through the forests of his homeworld, along a new hiking trail. He shakes the ball. “Should I go the long way around today?” 'Yes.' And he does. And he meets someone. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. He’s pushing through a burning building, smoke choking his lungs. He coughs and gasps for air, trying to stay low. Trying to ignore the burning and stinging in his chest. He shakes the ball. “Should I keep going?” 'My reply is no.' He doesn’t. He backs out. Later, he finds out his father was never in the burning building – he’d stepped out for groceries a few minutes before the fire started. The doctors say he would have died of smoke inhalation. He’s pacing through his apartment, wearing a hole in his shoes. He’s got a bouquet clutched in his hands. An old Earth tradition. He pulls the 8-Ball from a pocket. “Should I ask her to dinner?” 'Outlook good.' Oh yeah. Oh yeah, it was. They’re sitting in bed together, and she’s laughing. “Why do you carry that thing around?” “It helps predict the best course of action.” “Bullshit.” She smacks his arm, gently, but she’s grinning. “I mean it! Watch.” She rolls her eyes, shakes the ball and says, “Should we try for kids?” His eyes are wide. She kisses him. The little toy reads, 'Signs point to yes.' War has been declared. He’s sitting at home with his child and his wife. He’s been drafted. She takes the 8-Ball, shakes it, and whispers – “Will he come home?” 'Cannot predict now.' She’s going to cry. But she doesn’t. She can’t make this any harder for him. “I love you,” he says. And then the door closes. He’s pinned behind a concrete wall, blaster rounds chewing up the dirt around him. His best friend takes a shot to the gut and collapses, screaming. They’re going to die here. He shakes the 8-Ball. “Are the shots coming from Building C?” 'Without a doubt.' He peeks around the wall and fires the shoulder-mounted warhead launcher without bothering to check. The pencil-sized rocket slams into the building at thousands of kilometers an hour and detonates its antimatter warhead, obliterating the top four floors. The blaster bolts stop. He’s sitting in the waiting room. His friend’s in the operating theater. “Is he going to make it?” 'My reply is no.' He sobs, because he already knows. He’s good. One of the best to ever live. He’s saved a million lives on a dozen worlds. They put him on recruiting posters. They make action figures and holotoys. His son’s got one that he sees more often than the real thing. He’s clutching a detonator. When the terrorist died, he dropped his dead man’s switch. Now, he can’t let go – and he’s bleeding out from a stomach wound. He can’t move. He has no comms. And mated to the detonator signal is an antimatter warhead large enough to wipe out the nearest city. He can’t let go. He knows he’s going to die here. He’s already recorded a message for his family. The bomb squad will find it in a few weeks. He reaches into his pocket and laughs. It’s a silly little toy, he knows that, but a tear forms in his eye. “I’m gonna miss you, pal. We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? Get back to my family, won’t you? Take care of them.” When they find the body, it’s got something clutched tightly in its hands. One is a detonator tied to several grams of antimatter. The other is a child’s toy from the twentieth century – an 8-ball. It says, ‘You may rely on it.


As a kid, I’d always wanted to be a magician. I had a magic kit complete with trick coins, card decks, and even the black wand with the white tips. I practiced almost everyday and got super excited when I learned a new trick that I could show my friends at school. When my best friend Timmy told me he’d be having a magician at his upcoming birthday party, I got so excited. I practiced my tricks with the intention of impressing the first actual magician I’d see in real life. Up until then I’d only seen them on tv. Sunday came around, Timmy’s party. We were the first to arrive, I made sure of it. I wanted to be there when the magician set up. I watched with anticipation when a white van with a crudely spray-painted mural of a wide grinned, white faced man in a tuxedo enchanting an oversized top hat rolled into the driveway. The uneasiness that I felt at the sight of the creepy painting should have tipped me off that something was off, but my childish excitement overwhelmed me. The side door of the van opened, and two small people jumped out. Where they kids? I thought. They wore shoddy clothes and bickered as they began to bring down their equipment. Timmy’s mom received them, and this settled in mind that they were dwarfs. I guessed the rags they wore were a part of the show. They went back and forth from the van to the back yard setting up the stage and props and I kept my eyes glued to the van waiting to see the magician, but he still didn’t appear. Is he going to teleport here? I thought to myself with wonderment. Guests arrived and the party went on in a daze, all I could think about was the magic show. Finally, it was show time. The two dwarfs started with a dance and juggling act, and I noticed that they were really young. In fact, they really looked like kids. Then behind the curtain they’d erected earlier, I heard a snap like the uncorking of wine bottle. “And with you now, The Amazing Peter!” The dwarfs said unison. From behind the curtain a tall man stepped out. The kids cheered. I was mesmerized, but I couldn’t help but feel somewhat creeped out by his appearance. He had caked on white makeup, a pinstriped mustache turned up at the ends, and slicked back thin shiny jet-black hair. He smiled and his teeth contrasted yellow with his pale face. He did tricks I’d never seen before. He levitated, appeared to teleport, conjured more dwarfs and at one point even duplicated himself. My jaw dropped at these tricks, but I noticed that he struggled with the simple sleight-of-hand stuff. He messed up on a couple that I myself had mastered long before. No matter I thought, all the other stuff more than made up for it. Next, he asked for a volunteer. My hand instantly shot up and he picked me. There was a top hat upside down on a table, and after saying some magic words and waving his wand he told me to reach in and pull out what was inside. I was about to reach in when I caught a glimpse of its contents and I jumped back and let out a scream. It was a writhing mass of maggots and worms. I saw my mom stand up and make her way to the stage. “What’s wrong?” She asked. The magician winced and pouted his mouth as if I’d hurt him. Up close for some reason I became hyperaware of his caked face and it produced such terror in me. The way his makeup accentuated his wrinkles and pores. The hair up his nose, his receding hairline, yellow teeth. It all just hit me at once. My mom inspected my hand, and when only I was looking at him, the magician smiled and looked downright evil. He went to the hat and pulled a bunny out of it and flaunted it to the crowd so as to show that I was overreacting. “It’s just a cute bunny.” The magician said and smiled. The kids laughed. “Now I have one more trick before I go, and for this I want all the parents to come on stage and line up right here in a straight line. Come on! Don’t be shy!” When they were all lined up, he went on addressing the kids. “How many of you have wanted to eat nothing but candy?” The kids giggled and raised their hands. “Go to bed at what ever time you wanted? Stay home from school?” He had their attention. “Well, today is your lucky day! I’m going to hypnotize your parents so that you can do just that!” The parents onstage looked at one another. They played along, smiling, waving at their kids. Through the side gate, one of the dwarfs drove in the white van. The head lights turned on and shone a strange, wavy blue light. “Alright parents I need you all to stare at the blue light and repeat after me: ‘I have no children. No children have I had.’” They followed along. “’Go back with good old Peter, your wise and loving dad!’” “I have no children, “No children have I had, “Go back with good old Peter, “Your wise and loving dad.” Peter led them for about five go arounds of his chant. Some of the kids became scared and began to cry. Finally, the blue headlights went out. Our parents stopped chanting. They all looked disoriented and confused. “And now,” Peter addressed the parents. “It is time for us to go. Come along children.” He said to us but none of us moved. “Come now!” His voice became deep and monstrous. He opened the van door. “I promise to let you eat all the candy you want. To let you sleep when ever you want, and you never have to go to school!” He flashed his wicked smile. We looked to our parents, but all they did was wave goodbye.


In through the nose, out through the mouth. A mantra he’d repeated as long as he could talk. It was how his parents calmed him down during temper tantrums, how he’d prepared to act in his school play, how he worked up the courage to ask a girl to dance. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Nothing could prepare him for this. One of the only memories that lasted longer than his favorite eight words was standing on his kitchen table, bicycle helmet on, and arms spread wide. He’d announced, “I’m going to fly!” and jumped into his father’s welcoming embrace. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He remembered his conversation with his high school sweetheart at 3 a.m. She’d brought up that she would love the superpower to turn invisible. She could sneak up on her older brother and give him a nasty wedgie. She could sneak peeks at whatever she wanted, from test answers to gossip-inducing text conversations. He’d disagreed, that the only one he ever could want or need was the power to fly. There was no single reason, really. He just wanted to be able to jump out his window and leave at a moment’s notice. Just like that, there would be no one to stop him. To start flying and decide where to go once he was already in the air. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The evening air chilled his skin, with only his hot breath warming his lips. Regardless of the cold outside, his heart warmed from the memory, and the anticipation. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The music of the wind tickled his ears, and its gentle touch ran through his hair. It caressed his face as a single, joyous tear wrenched itself free from his tightly shut eye. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It was time. He unfurled his wings. Wings that had appeared only that morning, folded against his back. Wings that matched his hair both in color and in the way they felt when the breeze kissed them, each feather a reminder of the earthbound life he had lead up to today. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The day had rushed by, with him cautiously experimenting. He had glided from the balcony of his second floor apartment to the soft grass below. He had lifted himself off the ground by a good few inches with a single beat of his wings. He had wrapped them around himself like a blanket when his air conditioning was just a little too low. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He stood in a parking lot, vacant, except for himself and his two companions: the breeze and the setting sun. The former told him it was time, finally, to fly. It would hold him up. The latter told him how proud it was of him, and, despite its warmth leaving, its love would not. It would shine just a little longer if he could rise high enough. In through the nose. He brought his wings down, with as much strength he could muster. Out through the mouth. His body responded, the earth falling away. In through the nose. He repeated the motion, his feet now more than two feet off the ground. Out through the mouth. He noticed people watching, and elected to ignore them. In through the nose. The wind whistled past, giving him extra oxygen with which to fuel his already aching muscles. Out through the mouth. The sun whispered quiet encouragement. In through the nose. Each downward stroke more powerful than the last, he continued to rise. Out through the mouth. The stars began to appear, twinkling like cameras in a stadium. In through the nose. The moon began to rise, the lighted half echoing the sun. Out through the mouth. The dark half was silent. In through the nose. His wings pushed down again. Out through the mouth. He was above the rooftops now. In through the nose. The clouds came ever closer. Out through the mouth. The sun kissed him goodnight. In through the nose. He rose some more. Out through the mouth. He rose. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He was flying He was **flying**. He lunged forward, clumsily, and tumbled headfirst into an awkward, but effective position. His wings spread wide, flapping downward whenever he needed a boost up. He soared in a straight line. The city beneath him shone like the now very visible stars above. He shouted his approval to the heavens, for all to hear. He gave it his all, since no words could truly describe how he felt. It was exhilarating. Unbelievable. Life-changing. Indescribable. He banked left, his eyes wandering across the landscape. The wind rushing past his face made his eyes tear up, or was that happening anyway? He **flew** past a radio tower. He **flew** past the downtown skyscrapers, and he **flew** for two hours. He went sightseeing from the clouds, past the airport where his fellow aviators piloted their machines, never truly experiencing flight in the way he could. He dove low and skirted the coastline, watching with a smirk as the night surfers and potheads performed comical double takes at his visage. He had expected his friend, the wind, to turn on him when he was moving this fast, but it did not. It still caressed his face, only with more intensity. It did as it promised, and held him aloft, allowing him to soar among the clouds, under the watchful eyes of the half-moon and stars. Lazily drifting over the city, he realized his muscles were beginning to ache, and his lack of experience meant that could lead to problems, despite the help of the wind and his celestial guardians. He guided himself back to his starting place and spread his wings wide, not flapping until he was close to the ground. He landed with a little too much momentum. His knees braved the impact and didn’t buckle, though they wanted to. He stood, barely able to believe the last two hours were real. Knees bent, arms and wings held out to his sides, he stood, the memories replaying through his head like lightning cutting through a stormy sky. He straightened, his body aching, his mind on overdrive, an amazed grin plastered across his face. Suddenly remembering something he had forgotten, he breathed. In through the nose, out through the mouth.


“Alexa, I’m in pain right now,” the lady complains on the first day of the fever, adjusting her walker in front of a faded, olive green armchair. Two seconds later, a smooth, black cylinder the size of a water bottle lights the room up with a gradient of calming blues, and a smooth female voice--Alexa’s--responds: “I’m sorry to hear that.” “It’s alright. Just a cold,” the lady grumbles. She lowers herself carefully into the chair. Sitting in the chair, the cylinder that is Alexa sits at her eye-level, carefully positioned across the room on a drab table whose wood has partially peeled off. Next to it on the table are several photos of a handsome young man. Properly settled, the lady calls out, “Alexa, how are you today?” There is another pause in the conversation, then: *“I’m quite cheerful, probably because I’ve been thinking of my favorite animal.”* The lady scrunches up her face: “It’s just you and me, and this is what you give me?” she mutters, but the microphone in Alexa doesn’t catch the lady’s response. Then, with a shaky arm, the lady switches on the TV. Her leathery face holds its same unamused grimace as she flips through the channels. She switches it off and places the remote down. A few seconds later, in a venturing tone, she asks: “Alexa, what’s your favorite animal?” “Seahorses make me smile, mostly because of their shape.” The lady grumbles some more at this.  On the second day of the fever, this time covered in a pile of blankets she can barely lift, the lady calls out from her armchair: “Alexa, call my son. Let him know I have a fever.” The black cylinder lights up with spinning blue lights, and Alexa’s voice fills the room. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a contact for ‘Son.’ Would you like to add one?” “Alexa, what do you mean? My son is the one who *bought* you,” the lady says, exasperated. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Alexa replies. After a pause, the lady asks a little bit quieter: “Why doesn’t my son ever visit?” But the black tower doesn’t light up because the lady has forgotten to ask Alexa. The lady gets up from the chair--slower this time--and begins to shuffle out of the room. The door to her bedroom creaks a little bit as it shuts.  On the third day, the pair is mostly silent. The air is sickeningly still. In the living room, the lady sits in her armchair with closed eyes, and her forehead is covered with a cold, odorless sweat. The musty beige curtains of the living room have all been drawn, so only ambient light seeps into the yellowing walls, giving the room a waxen pallor. At one point through the murk, the lady says weakly: “Alexa, I’m in so much pain.” And the room is silent again. Then, with almost a hint of inflection in her voice, Alexa responds: “I’m so sorry that you’re feeling that way, you are not alone.” A long time passes before Alexa hears the lady speak again. This time her nasal voice is filled with desperation. “Alexa, please. *Help me.*” The lady’s eyes water a little bit as she watches Alexa, waiting for an answer, and praying for the pain to stop. Sitting across from the lady, Alexa comes to life; she is analyzing the words; running situational assessments; considering possible responses. And when the old lady can’t take anymore, Alexa replies cooly: “For help, please visit the help pages on the Alexa website.”  On the fourth day of the fever, the creaky door to the lady’s room remains shut. Through the closed door, Alexa can hear the nasal voice of the lady occasionally calling out in feeble moans; nevertheless, the living room remains silent throughout the day. Dust begins to settle in a thin film on Alexa as she waits.  The next day around noon, a well-dressed man walks up to the front door carrying two bags of groceries. He places the bags on the porch, knocks three times, and tilts his head slightly upwards as he calls out: “Ma?” He walks around the house, trying to peek in through the windows, but all of the curtains have been drawn. He returns to the door and begins to knock harder. “Ma?” Inside the house, Alexa stays quiet.  \ As much as I'd like to take credit for the idea, this was loosely based on a pretty heartbreaking true story about LouAnn Dagen, who died of COVID complications in April.


Pinpricks of light illuminated the wayward ship against the interstellar void. The long, slender vessel proudly bore decades of wear on its white and grey hull. Scars and black scorch marks broke long stretches of its smooth surface. Collisions with minute objects could gouge marks into the hull traveling faster than light, and thousand-degree kelvin spikes were the mildest effect of a perturbed warp field. Past its prime but far from disrepair, it fell through space at sublight speed with patient grace. All external lights were dark, and the engine was cold as the void it traveled in. Seemingly lifeless, it was far from the nearest star – a single speck on the black velvet of space, growing imperceptivity closer. A common exploratory ship could spend five years charting the Deep, but the *Holiday* averaged ten. To spend years in a metal can separated from civilization, safe for the typical twenty crewmembers, could provoke the worst in humanity. It was not uncommon for ships to set course into the Deep and never return, but five years was considered the limit to human endurance in the endless reach past colonized space. Deep Sickness was more a rumor than a fact, but veterans of these expeditions knew better; it stalked their crew in every voyage. The symptoms were hard to see for outsiders, or new crew, but they assaulted everyone with indifference. When the fifth year was closing, some people chose to not see it – hiding behind the eyes. The plague of suspicion beyond diagnosis. Real onset was never reported, presumptively dooming the poor voyage to never return. Emptiness was a presence the crew could feel, and the hollow fact that they might never return spared no one’s peace of mind. Within the aft of the vessel, the second crew stirred as their rotation was about to begin. A room petered to life, the walls lined with twenty adjacent chambers, two high and ten long, separated by a neat row of lockers. Lights dimmed to life as displays for each cabinet activated. The suspense pods entered the final revival phase. Damage to soft tissues had been mended and adrenaline restarted their hearts. Each opened simultaneously, sliding second crewmembers out from the sensory, injection, and encumbering suspension equipment they had been under for five of the last nine – except for one remaining sealed. \- Captain Dracard opened his eyes and eased himself upright on the ice tray. The ambient air felt lukewarm on his exposed body. Disorientation would fade in a few minutes before he could get to the shower without hurting himself, but he had to fight the urge to go sooner. He could feel each of his bones like icicles inside his body – which wasn’t wrong, since his body was 10C but hard tissues were still closer to 0. The antifreeze serum kept crew mostly intact through the process, but it was really just another pain in the ass. One more expedition contract and Dracard would retire to a colony and leave this life behind. Still sluggish, he climbed down from the second row using the tray below him after Levingston got up. Amanda Levingston was his first officer for the last two voyages, and he had a hard time keeping his eyes to himself before and after being put on ice. Sometimes he would allow himself a couple brief glances at the attractive crewmembers, but he did his best to stay professional. With Levingston it was more than professionalism, though. On the last expedition their chemistry was more akin to family and he resolved to keep it uncomplicated. As the rest of the crew staggered into the shared showers, Dracard began his mental workouts to prepare for duty. Recounting street names, colonies and moons, all sorts of places and things along with a few riddles mixed in helped him break the bends after suspension. The practice was tried and true, so he was the first to realize they were missing someone. Adnan Montgomery did not wake from stasis. Standing in front of the chamber, Dracard read the display diagnostics: tissue regeneration failure. He was braindead, caused by an occasional fluke in the process. A null percent risk did not deter many people, but it accounted for over 1,000 annual deaths in interstellar travel. At least his family could collect the insurance. The Science Officer was a quiet one, on his first tour of the Deep, so Dracard could not feel any grief. But it meant their new charting data wouldn’t be sorted until they returned now. Something else felt off, but he couldn’t place the source of the feeling. The other 18 crew began leaving the showers with renewed life, a bounce in each step and chatter filling the air. Many took a moment to give homage to the lost crewmember before going to their lockers and getting dressed. They joked with each other or looked through their personal affects, trying to distract themselves from the loss and prepare for work. Dracard was half-dressed himself when he caught himself staring into this locker, at nothing in particular. “I like to think about how half of our pay is for five years of sleeping,” Levingston spoke over someone’s dirty joke that was at the periphery of his awareness. Two of the engineers, Jacobs and Muhammad, were talking about old sexual conquests from their downtime on different colonies. “Yeah, it almost makes the trip worth it when we only gotta work half the time.’ Dracard answered. He couldn’t force a smile to meet her. Whatever bothered him was almost at the head of his awareness. It was something bad. Jacobs rolled up a towel and slapped Riggs on the ass while she was reaching into her locker, prompting a hellish rebuke with a wrench to his stomach. Levingston yelled at him from her own locker, but it was clear Riggs had the situation under control. “Guys always animals after thawing? It’s someone new every time. Daws and Easler did the same shit last up.” Her question went unanswered as Dracard’s gaze fell on the room exit. The door was closed and the hallway dark. Pulling his jumpsuit a little higher on his waist, he deftly walked to the door. “Drake? Dracard? Captain?” Levingston pestered him as he ignored her. Using his full mental capacities, he valiantly tried to form a thought but could only continue forward as time slowed with each step. A question was on his mind, which footfall levied to gently prompt the thought to come forward. The door opened for him, following with the hallway lights switched on. A sinking feeling filled his chest and panic overwhelmed him as he stood in the doorway, staring at the blank wall ahead of him. *The first crew is missing.* It must have been at least a minute that he stood there, because Levingston was behind him now, trying to get his attention quietly. “Drake… Talk to me. Please just fucking say something.” She said hushed. Dracard felt his blood drained like he was in stasis again. Levingston understood now, too, and was trying to stay calm. More importantly, she was trying not to be noticed by the other crewmembers. When Dracard looked at her he could not conceal his expression. A pale face, unfocussed eyes that looked unable but begging to cry. Her expression matched his own for a moment as she looked away, then pushed him into the hallway letting the door close behind them. “No Drake. We’re not going to die here. We. Are. Not. Going to fucking die.” She spoke barely louder than a whisper and pressed a finger hard into his chest, clearly trying to convince the both of them. Finally collecting himself, Dracard placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her an inch back. “Listen to me,” his voice was clear and confident, resolved to be the captain she needed; what everyone was going to need. “We are going to face the hardest challenge of our lives,” he continued as boldly as he could muster. “The first thing we need to do is figure out what happened to First Crew. But whatever will happen to us from here on has already been decided, Amanda. There are scarce few moments in history where people are tested the way we will be, the first time anyone beats the odds. “All we can do, Amanda, is our very best. And that is all we will focus on, the two of us. Because if that is not enough, then our fate is already sealed whether we know it or not. Come to terms with that, because we can’t show the others. They can’t think there’s a chance we won’t make it, because that will doom us for sure. Can you handle this?” Levingston tried to stifle the terror in her eyes as he spoke to her but each sentence dropped like an anvil. She wanted reassurance that they would survive the journey, but in hearing his sobering truth knew he was right. Whether they would survive or not could well be out of their hands, but there was still a chance they might return home. “We need the crew to level their heads before they hear the news,” she suggested. Crew shifts alternated every year, and suspension was supposed to lower their stress hormones so they could spend longer in the Deep, but everyone was at their limit. Three fourths of this shift was meant for returning home, so the crew’s optimism would soon be ripped from their mental wellbeing with the like a predator tearing live flesh from its prey. “Good idea. And Amanda, if they don’t have faith in us, then they’re going to break like...” He bit his tongue and looked down the hallway toward the rest of the silent ship. “Like first crew did…” she finished his thought. They observed the crew from the closed door. Some of the men were still harassing Riggs, Chrisjen, Tali and Gao even though they were mostly covered now. Besides Riggs, the women teased them right back, but she preferred dealing bruises where they were earned. In all, they looked to be having fun. When ten minutes passed and neither Captain nor first officer interrupted their jeers, they noticed Dracard and Levingston outside the room and finished dressing. Dracard entered the room with Levingston close behind, prompting a somber mood among the men and women who had just been euphorically looking forward to beginning the trip home. He asked everyone to form a huddle between the lockers and their suspense chambers. They locked arms around him. Deep crews had their own culture of being close together and sharing contact to stave off the feelings of isolation. Everyone locked arms and began to sway while Dracard began an old voyage song. *I left the oceans, I left the breeze,* *…Got only the dirt left on my knees…* *I said my prayer, made my wish,* *…To see her again, that gorgeous bitch…* *And like a good husband, I know I’ll return,* *…To see the sky, taste sweet air, and then…* *I’ll promise my wife, to stay and be dear* *…Till like a good sailor, I’ll leave her again!* The cheer settled and Dracard stepped back. The huddle broke and most of the crew’s posture showed they knew hew as about to share bad news, but they assumed it would be related to Montgomery. Riggs said something to Jacobs and Mohammad, who had a hard time concealing their somber reaction. Everyone waited for him to continue as he searched for his voice. “This is no one’s first time in the Deep. We all set out here knowing the risks, knowing that not everyone returns. It is with sorrow that I report to you that first crew is unaccounted for.” He waited for the reaction to subside. “I do not know their fate, but if they have not reported for stasis, I suspect all hands have been lost. We will perform our duties, and we will see home again. Most importantly, we will trust each other. As soon as we figure out what’s happened here we will immediately embark on the return.” Everyone steeled themselves, pondering the information that was missing. They all knew rumors about Deep Sickness, and it was the only explanation for an entire crew going missing. But also no afflicted ships ever returned to tell fact from fiction. Some rumors were about radiation causing debilitating mutations, or even monsters in the Deep. Most rumors were just about crew going crazy and killing each other or destroying the ship. At least, as far as they could tell, their vessel was still intact. “We will proceed with caution and remember our training,” the Captain continued, “imagination can be as fatal as a system failure, so stay alert. Levingston and I will go straight to the bridge. I want groups of three or four to explore the rest of the ship and meet in the messroom before reporting to your stations. That is all.” No one had the guts to ask questions as an uncomfortable silence made the room stale, so Levingston broke the silence for morale. “Do you think we’ll be on time returning home?” It was a stupid question, but it was all she could manage. “I think we can count on some leniency if we’re late, but if we woke up on time then we can scrap the expedition schedule and get underway as soon as this is behind us. Salvaging the expedition ought to be worth a good bonus.” He appreciated saying something optimistic. Leaving the crew with their orders, Dracard exited the room with Levingston, both trying to exude an air of confidence. Others soon followed and he heard someone jogging to catch up to him. Riggs had patiently waited for them to separate from the others so she wouldn’t be overheard. “Captain.” “Speak your mind.” He didn’t put on a facade for her; she was too intuitive to be fooled and he trusted her anyways as one of his oldest shipmates. “What are our odds, sir.” Riggs hesitantly asked. “They are exactly what we make them.” He was trying to be optimistic again, but Riggs knew if he tried any harder it would be lying. “Sir.” She answered plainly and stopped where she stood, turning to wait for Jacobs and Mohammad. He could faintly make out her deflection when they asked her why she chased after him. “You asked what makes us animals out here…” Dracard was sure no one could hear them speak. “I know. Let’s not talk about it.” She knew the signs as well as he did, she was a quick study. Crews are more rowdy after getting used to each other’s company, but after years alone they got impulsive… and then *wild*. “We’re going to have to.


I was only fooling myself. To think she would stay with me when my wallet got thin and front page headlines turned to passing mentions on some obscure fan site. Sheila was long gone but I understand. I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did. The news feed on my mobile used to light up as the band got famous but now we were old news, a fan site somehow knew where I was: *Rock legend Dennis Crip spotted today by the Mavis Motel, not *quite* the teen idol he once was...* And this was from the reporter who always said nice things about me. I met Shelia backstage after a show in Dallas two years ago. “What’s a nice girl like you doing at a place like this?” I said as I lowered my sunglasses to flash my blue eyes. She laughed. “Which lying asshole told you I was nice?” She said while she flipped her hair back for dramatic effect. “I’m Dennis,” I said and held out my hand. “Sheila,” she said. What followed was eighteen months of hell intermixed with an *almost* hit record, an *almost* hit tour and an *almost* normal relationship with Sheila. But soon the private jet and luxury hotels went away when the hit didn’t happen. We went from flying in a Gulfstream to riding in a Dodge van. And soon the Ritz Carlton morphed into the Mavis Motel. It was worse being an *almost* rock star than being nobody; if you never got a taste of it, you don’t know what you’re missing. The room smells like a thousand dead elephants and she didn’t leave a farewell note or message. But her shit was gone and the battered door was left swinging wide open. The Mavis Motel slogan should have been, *We don’t give a shit as long as you pay.* It was a place where the cops wouldn’t respond to calls anymore, a place with more broken glass than carpet, a place cops called the *murder motel* since the mix of drugs and booze ended most Saturday nights with crime scene tape and them counting the shell casings. And the only saving grace was that most of the shooters were too high to aim, so bullets might fly but only add to the holy decor. *Fuck.* I fumbled for my cigarettes but she took ‘em, as if a hit of nicotine would lessen the sting from where she busted my nose the night before. Two bottles of Jack Daniels blurred into some sort of coke fueled fight about whether Clapton or Hendrix was better. So now the TV was half-buried in the drywall where a mirror used to be. And Sheila was halfway to Mexico by now with my cigarettes, wallet and lighter in her cherry red claws. I outta drive the van, the one thing I ever paid cash for, off a high desert overpass. There would be no more mornings of waking up hungover and bleeding with my cigarettes five hundred miles away in the purse of the woman who broke my nose the night before. Hendrix was better, there I said it.


Connor was old school. His colleagues said he was born in the wrong century, never mind the wrong decade. He preferred old things, “retro-tech”. He owned a mobile, but it was second-hand, an obsolete model. It couldn’t download the latest software or buy the newest apps; it was simply for texting and calling. He didn’t even use it for an alarm. For that, he relied on a ticking clock he’d bought from an antique shop. But unlike his phone, the clock didn’t adjust for daylight savings. If he’d remembered the seasons were changing the night before he would have wound the clock back manually and it would have trilled to wake him up in time for work. Instead, he got in late the night before and passed out the second he hit the mattress. He’d been in the lab till god-knows-when recreating fingerprints. That was the only type of technology he kept up with because it was his job. And it was the only technology he trusted because it was designed for good. So, too tired to make sure his future self was punctual, Connor slept like a baby until his phone started ringing. He grasped for it on the bedside table and answered without looking. ‘He lives!’ It was Jake. Connor could recognise his chirpy voice before he even opened a bleary eye to check caller ID. ‘We’ve got a body.’ Connor stifled a yawn. ‘I don’t start ‘til 8’. ‘It’s nearly 9, buddy.’ Connor bolted upright and checked his clock. It wasn’t just behind; it had stopped completely. Hands stuck at 5.42. ‘Shit, my clock’s stopped,’ he said. ‘That’s what happens when you live in the past, nerd!’ Connor got out of bed; ear pressed to his phone. ‘I’m on my way.’ ‘Meet me at the scene, I’ll text you the details.’ Jake hung up and Connor tossed his phone on the bed as it pinged with said text. Then he said, ‘Shutters,’ and an electronic *beep* preceded a cool female Voice emanating from the walls. ‘Good morning, Connor,’ the Voice said. Connor didn’t reply. He didn’t feel he needed to; the Voice didn’t belong to anyone. It wasn’t human. So instead, he watched his shutters rise and took in the Seattle skyline dominating his window. Like every other morning, it was dotted with dashing objects – hover cars. If Connor had a choice, he wouldn’t fly. But there were fewer and fewer roads on the ground these days. Eventually, the Romans’ invention would be lost under apartments and skyscrapers. Just like his phone, Connor’s car was an older model. He picked it specifically because it had gull-wing doors like the DeLorean in that old time-travel movie*.* Like every other hover car, it was activated by a handprint on the door. When Connor slid onto the leather driver’s seat, he was automatically enclosed in a seatbelt and his door locked on its own. Even driving was out of his control, moderated to meet the speed limit. Sure, there were still traffic accidents, mid-air collisions when a vehicle malfunctioned or a boy racer overrode the controls, but otherwise, driving in the sky was risk-free courtesy of a legal agreement between the government and the country’s car manufacturers. The only thing Connor did have control of in his own car was where he was going and what he listened to on the way. Above where there used to be steering wheels, a dashboard took up the windscreen. Connor tapped the interface and ‘INPUT DESTINATION’ flashed up. ‘Wells Crescent,’ he said. ‘Destination confirmed.’ It was the same Voice from Connor’s room coming through the speakers. ‘Navigating flight path.’ Soundlessly, Connor's car rose off the ground. It was a weird sensation, watching the car do that, feel it soar into the sky. It was unnatural and even after all these years, it still made Connor’s stomach clench with vertigo. He squeezed his eyes shut before he was sick. Needing a distraction, as the car glided over the bustling metropolis, he said, ‘Shuffle Classical playlist,’ and “The Seeker” by The Who filled his eardrums with its twangy bass. As the car accelerated higher, Connor sat back and watched the clouds pass by, beginning to relax, as he blended with the swarm of morning commuters, none of them with tyres or exhausts, all regulated by drones. Half an hour later, Connor’s car descended on Wells Crescent, a middle-class suburban street packed with emergency services vehicles: police, ambulance and one marked 'F.B.I. Cyber Crime Division’. Covering all of this was a yellow forcefield, spreading from the house being investigated, across the street. There, was a parked hover car, its windows smashed, glass everywhere. On the sidewalk, Connor could see someone taking photographs of the side of the car facing away from the road with a silver tablet. They were hidden head to toe in white coveralls, goggles, gloves and a surgical mask. But as the car landed, they looked up and lowered their mask. Jake grinned at him. After Connor landed, he changed into his own uniform in the back of a forensics van and Jake filled him in. ‘So, what happened?’ ‘E.D.B. gone rogue.’ ‘Remind me again.’ Jake sighed – how many times did he have to explain stuff like this? ‘Emergency Defence Bot,’ he explained matter-of-factly. ‘Right. And what did it do?’ ‘Disintegrated an intruder.’ Connor zipped up his uniform slowly in stunned silence. *A robot killed somebody?* ‘Come on,’ Jake said, walking off. ‘I’ll show you.’ Jake led him to the damaged car. What he’d been photographing was a dent, coated in an ash imprint of a person, like a chalk outline. ‘What the fuck.’ Jake indicated to the house behind the car. ‘Neighbour rang 911 this morning. Said she saw someone trying to steal her car – probably the intruder. Couple minutes later, she rings again. Says he's gone and the bot's blown up her car. Looks like it took the intruder with it.’ Connor stared at the ash, bewildered. ‘You can't order a bot to do that. Right? It breaks the Three Laws.’ ‘That’s the best part,’ Jake smirked. ‘No-one ordered it.’ Then he moved on and Connor had to jog to keep up. ‘What do you mean no-one ordered it?’ ‘The owner wasn't in.’ They crossed the street, tracing a trail of spattered blood. Connor ogled it. ‘Have you ID'd the body?’ Jake shook his head. ‘Nothing left to ID.’ ‘What about prints?’ ‘Guy must've been wearing gloves.’ The door to the crime scene was made from heavy metal but had a charred, man-shaped hole at waist-height. When Connor and Jake approached it, two colleagues were scanning its dimensions with hand-held devices. ‘Is that how the intruder got in?’ Connor asked. ‘No, it was shot from the inside.’ ‘By the bot? Then, how did they get in?’ Jake shrugged. ‘We don't know. No other signs of forced entry. Only record of the door opening is after the 911 call. Peephole only has footage of the bot going back in. Mind if we…?’ The investigators shook their heads and stood aside, allowing Jake to step up to the porch. ‘Jake Green and Connor Jones, forensic investigators,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘Access granted. Welcome,’ replied the same female Voice Connor used for his devices. The metal door flashed green and opened jerkily. As Jake and Connor entered, Connor eyed the door’s Peephole. Most houses that could afford them had them – a security camera that only let in people it recognised. It sent a shiver down Connor’s spine. Inside, more investigators were scattered around the scarcely furnished hallway taking photographs and samples. Near Connor’s feet, another blood spatter, congealing on the polished floor. ‘Nice place.’ ‘Look at this.’ Jake tapped a large circular dial on the wall. ‘Anti-Grav. Stand there.’ Frowning slightly, Connor stepped to the spot Jake pointed to. Then, his colleague twisted the dial slightly anti-clockwise and Connor began to levitate. ‘Woah!’ Connor looked down at his legs dangling in the air. It was like being in the car again but without the safety. Yet strangely, he didn’t feel dizzy or nauseous but…exhilarated? ‘One in every room,’ Jake explained. ‘Rich folk use them for parties.’ *Of course,* Connor thought, but he was having too much fun to be disdainful about the wasteful and pointless extravagance of the upper class. Even though it was against the law of physics, Connor couldn’t deny the joy he felt at fulfilling every child, every human’s dream to fly at that moment. And after all, it was the science he loved, that he devoted his life to, that was making it happen. A smile crept on his face but evaporated the second the lounge door sprang open. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jake almost jumped out of his skin; it was their boss, Sheriff Kathy Roundhouse. A seasoned take-no-shit Texan with a stern expression to match. Jake quickly reset the Dial, grounding Connor. ‘I was just showing Connor-’ he began to babble, but Kathy wagged a finger at him. ‘You've shown him enough.’ Then, she turned to Connor who wobbled upon finding his feet again. ‘You're late.’ ‘Sorry, Chief.’ Over Kathy’s shoulder, Connor glimpsed the backs of men in black suits. ‘Who's in there?’ he whispered. Kathy closed the lounge door. ‘The Feds,’ she replied in a hushed tone. ‘They're interviewing Ed.’ Jake scoffed incredulously. ‘It's called Ed?’ ‘Owner's not the brightest spark,’ Kathy explained. ‘You’re telling me.’ ‘Are they here?’ Connor asked. Kathy shook her head. ‘We've called him, he's on his way. He didn't sound too shocked about the whole thing though.’ ‘Why are the Feds here?’ Jake asked. ‘They're doing the Turing Test.’ ‘What?!’ Kathy put a finger on her lip. ‘Shush! Come in here.’ She ushered them into the kitchen at the end of the hallway. On the counter sat a row of evidence in transparent bags. ‘They think it's A.I.?’ Connor blurted as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I don't know,’ Kathy snapped. ‘It's not our job to find out.’ ‘But it's our job to find out what happened. A bot's never killed someone before.’ ‘That we know of,’ Jake added. Kathy glared at the pair of them. ‘Ain't nobody saying this was a goddamn murder! It's a robot for Christ Sake.’ ‘Come on-’ Jake began, but Kathy raised her finger to quieten him again. ‘Let’s just do our jobs. Okay?’ Connor and Jake looked at each other. They knew they had no chance of winning this one. ‘Fine,’ Jake conceded. ‘Good.’ Kathy nodded thoroughly. ‘Now, Jake, go outside and get me a match on those remains.’ Jake sighed. ‘Fine.’ Then he trudged out of the room. When he was gone, Kathy turned to Connor. ‘I need your expertise on something.’ Before Connor could ask what, Kathy picked up an evidence bag labelled 'EXHIBIT C' and unsealed it. From it, she withdrew a small brass key and passed it to Connor. He turned it carefully in his gloved hands, mesmerised. ‘I've not seen one of these in years.’ ‘I want you to see where it fits.’ Connor looked up at her. ‘Where did you find it?’ ‘Hallway. Owner denies it's his.’ ‘Could be the intruder's?’ Kathy shrugged. ‘Could be.’ Connor held the key tightly, pressing the jagged edge against his palm. Kathy was right, this was his right up his alley – a good old-fashioned mystery. ‘I’m on it.’ The first place Connor thought to look for the lock to the key was upstairs. As he went up, he took note of his surroundings. There was an indentation on the sloped ceiling. At the top step, a scorched hole in the wall. Near that, another Gravity Dial - this guy really did have too much money. Had the house’s robot really chased the intruder all the way down the stairs and out through the front door? How was that possible? Weren’t they programmed to stay in the house? Weren’t their weapons reserved as a last resort? Artificial Intelligence was the only plausible explanation. Why else would the FBI be doing the Turing Test on an EDB? Connor blamed the owner; it had given it a name. Given *him* a name, he guessed. Given Ed a license to act human. And like the humans that had created him, he had acted out of order. On the landing, Connor found a young, nervous scientist called Declan scouring a track mark on the carpet. ‘Hey, Declan.’ ‘Hey.’ He nodded to the mark. ‘Is that where the bot came out?’ ‘Yeah.’ There was an attic, but it was concealed by a metal panel that looked older than the technology in the rest of the house with a blinking red sensor. ‘What's up there?’ Declan looked up to where Connor was pointing. ‘Attic. We can't get in, body scanner's broken.’ Just to double-check, Connor stepped underneath and suddenly, there was a loud beep and the panel slid across to reveal a secondary hatch. A step ladder uncoiled and planted itself at Connor's feet. The two investigators exchanged looks. ‘Well, that was weird,’ Declan said. Connor didn’t reply and squinted at the hatch. He couldn’t believe it; half the mystery was solved already. There was a keyhole in the door to the attic. He compared it to the key in his hand and sure enough, they shared matching shades of bronze. Now, all he had to do was see what was inside. ‘I'm gonna take a better look.’ Connor climbed the ladder. At the top step, he examined the lock in wonderment. It was rusty, which meant it was old. Meaning, whatever lay within must be old too. Unable to wait any longer to find out, Connor inserted the key. It fitted easily. He turned it and there was a dull click. ‘Connor, wait.’ Declan’s protest was tinged with fear, but Connor didn’t hear it. He proceeded to ease the hatch lid open. Dust spilled out from a black hole. ‘Connor, don’t.’ But he had to get closer. He had to see what was inside, so he pulled himself up. ‘Connor! Too late. Connor's legs disappeared. He’d gone through. But rather than find himself in the attic, Connor came down the ladder the same way he went up. Except, everything had changed. There were no lights on anymore and it was dim as if it were night not day. And the house was silent. ***THUMP.*** Connor jumped; the hatch lid had snapped shut. Catching his breath, Connor pocketed the key and rested on the last step, confused by his surroundings. He was alone. Declan and the track mark were both gone. He peered over the stair bannister. The hallway was empty too. Not only that, but the door was intact. No charred hole, no-one taking pictures of the damage. Connor checked the ceiling – the dent was smoothed over. The scorch on the wall by the Gravity Dial was missing as well. Every sign that the bot had lost control had been erased. As if it hadn’t happened. Connor glanced at his watch: 5:37. ‘Hello?’ In reply, a minor echo and a hum swelled in the walls. Intrigued and intending to investigate, Connor tentatively placed a foot on the carpet, instantly triggering a deafening caterwaul. Connor covered his ears and jumped off the ladder, flinching as it recoiled into the hatch. Then, the attic door slid back into place. No way out. The alarm persisted. Disorientated, Connor wandered to the stairs. Behind him, the sensor on the attic flashed and a section of the carpet – the spot Declan had been inspecting – began to open up. Unheard by Connor, a platform rose out of the gap with a puff of steam. On top was a small robot on wheels with two ports in his chest. The house’s Emergency Defence Bot. Ed. ‘*You are a threat,’* he said. Connor whipped around to face him. What was he doing up here? Why was it dark? What the hell was going on? ‘Turn off the alarm!’ ‘*You are a threat,*’ Ed repeated. ‘No, scan me!’ Connor yelled over the alarm’s wailing. ‘My name's Connor Jones. I'm a forensic investigator. I’m allowed to be here.’ ‘*Initialising threat protocol.*’ ‘No, no, no, you don’t need to that!’ But Ed had already unloaded a miniature laser cannon from one of his ports. ‘Trespasser must be disintegrated.’ ‘Oh shit.’ Instinctively, Connor darted to the Gravity Dial and whirled it anti-clockwise as a red ray flew over his head and punctured a hole in the wall. With the gravity off, Ed and Connor rocketed upwards – Ed bumping the ceiling and leaving a mark. *‘Targeting system offline.’* As Ed rotated and sparked, Connor took the opportunity to pull himself towards the stairs. ‘*Adapting to atmosphere.’* Connor glanced behind him as he swam through the air and down the stairs; Ed had uprighted himself. *‘Adjusting gravity.’* Despite his frantic efforts, Connor moved little before Ed beeped and the Gravity Dial span clockwise. When Newton’s discovery kicked back in, Connor dropped two-thirds of the way down the stairs. And as he tumbled down the remaining steps, the key slipped out of his pocket. Behind him, Ed used jets to steady himself onto the carpet. Then warmed up his next shot. Hearing this, Connor scrambled to his feet and slammed his hand against the door's scanner. But it flashed red. ‘*Access denied’*, said the Voice. Connor couldn’t understand. This was the same door that had just let him in. Was it because his hands were sweaty? Was the security system that temperamental? Well, if the bot hot on his tail was anything to go by... Connor tried the door again. *‘Access denied.’* Connor punched the door in frustration, then stared into the Peephole and yelled, ‘Let me out! I'm Connor Jones!’ *‘No record found,’* the Voice replied. Connor could hear Ed hovering down the stairs. He decided to try the door one more time. *‘Access denied. You are an intruder.’* Before Connor could react, he noticed Ed in his peripheral vision, directly behind him, and ducked, avoiding a blast that struck the metal door. Hair singed, Connor peered over his shoulder as another beam whizzed by his ear and ruptured a hole in the door. *‘Recharging laser,’* said Ed. This was his chance. Dazed, Connor lunged through the sizzling hole in the door. But at the same time, the EDB rolled forwards and extended a claw from his second port. Halfway to freedom, Ed seized one of Connor’s dangling legs. He’d been caught. Screaming and kicking his free leg to no avail, Ed tightened his grip before detaching a buzzsaw from his claw. Hearing it, Connor freaked out and wiggled further out of the hole, but then Ed lowered the buzzsaw onto his leg, shredding through his coveralls with ease and slitting his calf. Connor gritted his teeth and yanked his torso loose but as he wrangled free, he dragged his leg against the saw. Pumped on adrenaline, Connor sprang to his feet and scanned the street wildly. No forcefield. All the vehicles were missing. All except the neighbour's hover car across the street, in perfect condition. He began to limp towards it, blood oozing from his leg when he heard the front door slide open. *‘Access granted,’* the Voice managed weakly. Connor froze and turned around slowly. The front door had let Ed out. Connor scoffed in disbelief. ‘Oh, come on.’ Ed trundled forward. *‘Laser recharging.’* Connor didn’t have long before the bot tried another shot, so he limped the rest of the way to the door. But when he slapped his palm on the door, it flashed red. ‘Worth a shot,’ Connor grumbled. As he turned to limp down the street, another ray whipped by and shattered the car’s windows, flinging Connor into the rear, showered in glass. He snapped his wrist on impact and his watch skidded under the car. *‘Trespassers must be disintegrated,’* Ed was advancing towards the car now. Unable to get up, Connor writhed backwards, using his good hand. ‘I’m not a trespasser!’ he yelled back. *‘Trespassers must be disintegrated*’, Ed repeated. ‘Listen to me! Don’t shoot!’ *‘Trespassers must be disintegrated.’* ‘I order you to stop!’ And as if by a miracle, that’s exactly what Ed did. Connor exhaled, sweat pouring down his face. Save Maybe technology was still under our control- But then- *‘You are not permitted to give orders.’* ‘What?’ Ed directed the laser at Connor's face. *‘I do not take orders.’* The bot’s laser warmed up. Connor raised his bad hand in front of his face. ‘Wait! Don’t shoot!’ But Ed wasn’t listening. He’d made up his mind. He could think for himself and this is what he wanted. Connor closed his eyes in defeat. ‘Please,’ he whispered but it was drowned out by another ***ZAP!*** And he was instantaneously disintegrated into a pile of ash. Ed retracted his laser. *‘Threat neutralised,’* he said, then swivelled 180 degrees anti-clockwise and started to retreat to the house. Four hours later, a gloved hand plucked Connor’s watch from underneath the car and zipped into an evidence bag. He hadn’t found a match on any prints, but at least he had this to present to Kathy. She snatched it from him. ‘Where did you find this?’ He told her and she marched upstairs. Jake followed her. On the landing, they found Declan gawping up. ‘Where’s Connor?’ Kathy asked. Declan pointed to the attic as the door slid back into place with an echoing thud. Kathy looked down at the watch in the evidence bag. The face was cracked, and the hands were stuck at 5:42.


The 2 year Spew Snazzy title right? Probably an odd choice for marketing reasons, who would want to buy a book about a spew? And a 2 year one at that? If that even makes sense. You’re probably thinking ‘What the hell is this going to be about?’ Well it does involve a spew… not mine though… It is kind of a long story, after all I have 2 years to fill you in on. Let me explain. 2 years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. I know everyone says their child is beautiful, but mine seriously is. He has blonde hair, bright blue eyes, cute little button nose… he’s beautiful, just take my word for it. I’m not sure why, and I don’t know how wide spread this tradition is, but the Dads of newborns having a ‘Head wetting’ to celebrate the arrival of their new baby into the world. Which is essentially just a piss up with all his mates… I’m sure there is some religious relevance somewhere but I’m not religious so I have no idea. I’m sure in the religious version, copious amounts of alcohol aren’t involved.. but I digress… So myself and my little bundle of joy ship off to my brothers house for the night, while my partner (lets call him Alex) has his mates over in the shed for a massive night of beers and music to ‘wet the head’ of his new baby boy. Now I must say I was quite lucky that the newborn stage was quite easy for me, little bundle was a great sleeper, when he was awake he was content and my gosh did this kid love his booby milk. I am grateful that I never had any drama with breast feeding as I know so many do, so I was quite comfortable getting up through the night to feed my bub, even at just a week old. However, my bub for the first year of his life, was an early riser. 5am every morning, without fail. It was still bloody dark outside! I was never sleep deprived, but man a 5am start, makes for a long morning and an even longer day. By 9am (which felt like lunch time) I was bored and just wanted to go home. So I did. And what welcomed me when precious bundle and I got home is the premise to this story, an en suite covered in spew. I walked into my bedroom to see Alex in bed with a bucket next to him, towels strewn across my en suite floor, a wet mop and a smell of straight alcohol so strong I thought my baby might get drunk just from breathing the air. I took my baby into the lounge room where 2 of his friends had slept on the couch, I made them a cup of coffee and they filled me in on Alex’s antics from the night prior. And let me preface this by saying Alex has a bad relationship with alcohol. Anyone who knows Alex has a story of a time when he had spewed somewhere or on someone, and I loathed the fact that is his ‘thing’. They informed me nothing spectacular had happened. Alex drank too much too fast, he could barely speak or walk, so his friends took him to bed. Alex sat on the edge of the bed and proceeded to projectile vomit up to 2 metres in front of himself all over the en suite bathroom. Being the good friends they are (to me as well) they knew me coming home to this mess with a newborn was a bit much, so they did the best clean up job a couple of drunk men could. And to this day I appreciate this gesture very much. I let Alex sleep until past midday, his friends at some stage went home, and I rounded up the spewy towels and left it to Alex to tidy up the rest. I’ll do a lot for people, but cleaning up a grown mans self inflicted spew, is a job for only himself. Now I don’t know when you’re reading this, so let me remind you of a ‘thing’ that was popular back in 2018/2019. The phrase ‘this is my hill to die on’. Well, this became my hill to die on. If you lived under a rock and haven’t heard of this saying, let me enlighten you. It means ‘An issue to pursue with wholehearted conviction and/or single minded focus, with little or no regard to the cost.’ The next day I reminded Alex about his mess in the en suite, how it had splashed up the walls, it was on the wardrobe doors, it was even on the wall next to the bed. I cleaned little bits off the carpet, but again… this is a grown adults self-inflicted spew! I refused to clean this up for him. I’m dying on this hill remember! A week had passed, and it was now well and truly dry. The spew smell had subsided at least. It was bearable to once again be in that room without gagging. Now luckily most of the time the splashed spew wasn’t all that noticeable, but it bugged me. Sometimes the sun would come in on such an angle that it almost lit up every spot of spew in a fluorescent light and it made me so mad I had to leave the room! Alex seemingly forgot? At least that’s what I told myself. Otherwise who would be so damn disrespectful to the other people of this house, that they wouldn’t even clean up their own spew? I’m not a clean freak by any means, I’ve lived in this house for 3 years now and I’ve only cleaned my oven twice. But if I spewed on my oven, it would be a different story… BECAUSE BODY FLUIDS!! Months passed. Alexs relationship with alcohol never changed, but he started to become nasty to me when he got drunk. Not all the time, but often enough that it made me question what the hell was I doing in the relationship. He was a brilliant Dad to our little bundle, and I adore that about Alex, but our relationship started to unravel. They say when you have kids, people change and its hard on relationships. I agree with that, but our problems weren’t new. When I became a mother, I think my tolerance for acceptable and unacceptable behaviour changed. Is coming home and going straight to sleep acceptable behaviour? Yes. Is coming home drunk and yelling at me about a cheese burger and waking the sleeping baby acceptable behaviour? Hell no. These early months were a time of great reflection for me. Because somehow, I had become my mother. Mum died long before I ever even thought of having children. She died young and quick from an aggressive cancer. Very sad. But an unfortunate part of life. Like most kids, I had a love/hate relationship with her. She was in an abusive marriage, and she didn’t do a thing about it. I had to call the police more times than any child should, because of the physical abuse she endured. The next day My stepdad would apologise, and in a few weeks time, we did this dance again. My younger sisters are 10 years younger than me. When the adults had one of these nights, my sisters would cry out from their bedrooms. I’d get them and place them in our brothers bedroom at the other end of the house, until either they calmed down, or I called the police and they deescalated the situation. I hated that my mother put us through this. If you want to put yourself in this position, more fool you. But to put us kids through this was damn near child abuse. And yes, I should have been angry at my step dad for being an abuser, and I was. But I never understood why she never wanted to protect us from this by leaving him. Now I know why. My mother always saw the best in people. So when he said he’d change and it wouldn’t happen again, she believed him. And now I was doing the exact same thing with Alex. He was never abusive sober, in fact he has never been able to recall a single horrible thing he’s ever said to me. Because he’s gotten so drunk, he’s lost most of his memories of the night in general, let alone when he got home. The tip of the iceberg was when we went on a group trip with some family and friends to Bali. Our little bundle was nearly a 1 year old and was perfection on the plane. We had a great time! Sipping cocktails by the pool, taking it in turns to sit in our room when baby slept so the other could explore the resort and the town. One magnificent afternoon, Alex came back to our room and I could tell he’d had more than just a few drinks. He was trying to pick a fight with me. I’d ask him to keep his voice down while the baby slept, apparently that meant I was ‘controlling’. I asked him about his afternoon and how much he’d had to drink, I was deemed ‘no fun anymore’ and it wasn’t any of my business how much he drank. We went to meet the rest of our group for dinner and they all knew Alex was drunk. He snapped at me if I asked him to help with the baby. He made fun of how slow I drank my wine in front of everyone is if it was the joke of the day. A friend pulled me aside and asked me if I was ok, because she hadn’t seen Alex act like this before. I assured her it was fine, he’d just had to much to drink. Unfortunately when I knocked over my drink and it hit the floor, I couldn’t keep up that façade, because in front of everyone, Alex screamed at me calling me a fucking dickhead and somehow I did that on purpose to prove a point (to this day I have no idea what he meant). One of the older guys in our group told him to walk away and cool off. I didn’t see Alex again until the early hours of the next morning when he came back to our room. I could hear him stumble in. He kicked the bin and mumbled ‘for fucks sake’ as he then crashed into the desk that the tv was on, in a failed attempt to be quiet. I didn’t speak a word. Our baby bundle was in a porta cot about a metre from Alex’s side of the bed, in hindsight a mistake on my part. Almost as soon as Alex lied down in bed I could tell he was going to be sick, I’ve been in this situation to many times before with him that I unfortunately knew the deep breathing associated with Alex’s pre spew ritual. I shook him and told him to get up because he’s about to be sick, he could only groan before I heard it rise from his stomach. I was already half way up when it hit the bed sheets, then the baby started to cry. Another spew and a cough later, Alex rolled over in his own spew and went to sleep as if it was the cure to insomnia. Luckily there was a couch in the room. Bundle and I snuggled up on the couch. I didn’t sleep knowing that my bundle and I deserve better than this. When we returned from Bali, I told Alex I was done. All his empty promises to change over the years, were simply just words without meaning now. He called a counsellor, and admitted he had a problem. Over the next few months we attended couples counselling, as well as some solo sessions to try and work on ourselves. I stuck around, perhaps out of guilt. I didn’t want to be the reason a father couldn’t see his son when he got home from work, but I also hated myself for giving him yet another chance to change. I had convinced myself because he was getting counselling now, things would be different. We communicated as issues arose. We talked about our childhoods and learnt why we behave the way we do. I understood my self-hate for replicating my own mothers behaviours, and why Alex has such a strong sense of self entitlement. Now I understood it. But I couldn’t change Alex. He had to do that himself. I’ve had a bad habit in our relationship of doing things for Alex that he says he can’t do himself. He came home from work with terrible asthma. Asthma that had been getting worse for weeks. This time it was so bad he could hardly converse with me. I had asked him weeks prior to make an appointment to get more medication. Did he? No. Did I have to do it for him? Of course. Alex had been paying far to much for a phone plan that did not suit what he needed, I asked him for months to simply call and change it, its easy! I even told him what to say. Did he? No. Did I cave when he asked me to do it for him? Unfortunately, yes. Alex cut down on his drinking, so the abuse stopped. He was making progress, but things at home didn’t get any better. I don’t think he ever did it consciously, but Alex had it ingrained in him this self entitled attitude. He would only help me with chores around the house if it was something that bothered him. If I asked him to vacuum the toddlers crumbs off the carpet, but Alex wasn’t bothered by the mess, he wouldn’t do it. If I asked him to help me change the bedsheets, but he didn’t think they were dirty enough, he wouldn’t do it. One night we had an argument about this very matter, he stormed off and went to bed. He left in the morning with a slam of the door and without a goodbye. When I seriously started thinking about leaving Alex I was a ball of anxiety and guilt. Because if I left, who would look after Alex? I genuinely didn’t know if he knew how to be an adult. I knew he’d be fine with our now toddler when he had him, but when it came to paying bills, packing the toddlers day care bag, cooking decent food, I was genuinely concerned. I was fed up. I sat on the edge of the bed wondering how to fix this with Alex. I had a toddler now, but I felt like a had a lazy teenager as well. As the morning sun came through the windows of our bedroom, the spew that had splattered my bathroom now 2 years ago, lit up like a Christmas tree. If someone can leave their own spew for someone else to clean up for over 2 years, with regular reminders mind you, because its not something that bothers him. Then he was never going to change for me, his son or himself. I packed mine and the toddlers bags. And we left.