Jerome loves his bee hives. He works almost as diligently as the workers that stay busy all the time making sure the hive is full of honey and pollen while drones attend to the queen bee. Hives are very sociable places and the bees communicate so well it sometimes makes him jealous because humans do not communicate as well. He knows the main reason bees are so important is because they pollinate plants that are so vital to the survival of the plants. The plants are vital to the survival of all animals including humans. It breaks his heart every time he hears the bees are endangered. He protects his hives with everything he can so at least his hives will not become extinct. Every morning he checks the hives and takes just enough honey to fill the number of jars he knows he can sell in one day with one jar a week for himself. Living alone now he does not need the amount his family required before they were killed by the government during the pandemic a few years ago. The old government by the people and for the people ended early in the pandemic. The new government saw fit to punish those who refused to obey the new laws of complete social isolation with only one family member allowed to shop. The members could rotate who could go at any time but only one at a time could leave their forced isolation. He did most of the grocery shopping from a list approved by the government. Once a month his wife shopped for clothes or shoes for the children because she was better at knowing what would fit the older ones. The younger ones inherited what had been outgrown whether the clothes or shoes actually fit them or not. In isolation, how anyone looks does not matter.

Selling the honey had taken some trial and error. Since no one outside the family could come closer than twelve feet, he had to think of a way his customers could get the honey and he could get the payment for it. His wife suggested they set up a system of ropes and pulleys that would send the honey on one set and the money could be sent to them in the other set. She made small baskets by hand that were attached and the system worked perfectly. The honey and the payment passed each other at six feet so neither side could reach the baskets to interfere with the transaction. She had always been handy with crafts and was really smart. God, how he missed her! Except the day she decided she had to take the children with her to try on clothes since their sizes were so different now. The older boy had shot up that last year as sixteen year old boys are known to do. The middle girl just turned fourteen and needed bras but it is difficult to know what size without trying them on. The youngest was just out of diapers but all the toddler clothes were too small for him. He had to try on some clothes so his mother would know what size to buy. The store was only half a block from their farm and as long as they each kept twelve feet from outsiders, she thought it would be okay for all of them to go together. She had not heard if more than one family member went out at once, all of them would be executed. When they did not return by dusk he went to the store to find out what was taking them so long. When he was within sight of the store he saw a small crowd gathered in front of it. Making sure to keep the legal distance, he started for the door. Something made him look up at the huge tree on the side of the building. What he saw sent him to his knees. His wife and three children were all hanging from limbs of that tree with signs proclaiming that was the fate of anyone who broke the law.He can’t remember how long he knelt there. He vaguely remembered finally getting up and going back home where he could no longer hold back the tears. Now the only thing he had were his bees.

For days he could not force himself to even go outside. Then he decided he had to keep his hives going but only for himself and a few families in the area. Knowing the government routinely sent aircraft to spray insecticides to kill all insects whether beneficial or not, he built a shelter around his hives and painted it to look like the surrounding vegetation from the air.The front and back were draped with plastic he had slit just enough for the workers to go in and out and large fans mounted on the side walls pushed any insecticide out of the shelter.  He remembered an old army trick they had used while he served his country. They could lay out a set of wires around the perimeter of their camp then attach a series of batteries to them. Anyone who tried to cross the perimeter would be electrocuted on the spot. He carefully bought the series of batteries saying they were for his various vehicles on the farm that he was setting up to use again. Everyone knew he had not farmed for years even before he lost his family so they believed him. The wires were easier. He went to the hardware store and bought a couple of reels of wire then did the same at the electric supply store and the discount store. He talked to an electrician and told him someone had been coming onto his property at night and stole all his supplies to put up an electric fence. He asked if there was any store he could replace all the wire and connectors that had been stolen? The electrician offered to sell them from his supply since he wasn’t able to do much work now.

Soon his property was totally protected from outsiders. The wires were well hidden under normal leaves and plants. It would take at least one hundred pounds of weight to cause the wires to contact enough to do harm. Next he planted some of the bees favorite flowers in an area close to the shelter and covered them with a camouflage canopy dense enough to prevent insecticide from harming the bees. He started up his old tractor and plowed a field to plant other plants necessary to the bees. It would look like he was planting a crop for human consumption and the planes would not spray it. He plowed and planted another field closer to the house with routine vegetables for his table. His wife had taught him to preserve foods so he could can what he could not eat in a season. They had planted apple trees when the first son was born then cherry trees for the girl. By the time the last one was born, they had planted pear trees in the small orchard. Now all but the pear trees were mature enough to bare fruit. Next he bought a cow and a half grown bull. As soon as their pasture fence was up he turned them loose from the barn. Hr built a chicken coup and added the chickens. Beside the barn he built a pig sty for a few young pigs. Lastly he bought a stallion young enough to start working with but old enough to breed. For the sire fees he asked for a colt here and there but in money he only asked as much as the mare’s owner could afford.

His farm had been going good for about five years when business began dropping off as he knew it would. In a hundred mile radius, his was the only operating farm now. Crops had failed year after year Wildlife continually decreased as well until none were to be found. In the last year most herds of cattle and horses had died along with large numbers of humans. People from town were flocking to his farm offering all they owned for a jar of vegetables or fruit or a cow or pig from his stock. No one could understand how he could grow all the crops and feed all the livestock when everyone else lost theirs. No crops could grow except on his land. No livestock could be fed except for his. He looked fit and well fed while everyone else was starved and emaciated. Did he have some sort of magic spell allowing him to prosper while everyone else went without all he had and especially without food? He assured them it was not magic. He farmed as he always had. His livestock were well fed from the fruits of his land and continued to produce offspring as well. He had plenty of honey from his bee hives and the bees pollinated his crops that fed him and his animals. One woman from town came with her Border Collie. She gave him the dog so it could live even if she could not. Jerome did not want to separate her from an obviously loved pet so he invited her to live with him and he would feed both of them. Then he asked her name and was surprised she was just a few years older than his oldest son would have been. He remembered her from all of her warnings to the townspeople that they needed to save the bees or they would die. She had aged unnaturally because of starvation but she was still the attractive woman she had always been. He invited her to have lunch with him and was more than welcome to bring her dog in as well. He fed the dog first with a bowl full of scrap meat and placed a fresh bowl of water beside the feast. He found out its name was Frieden. Frieden had come from a German family whose grandparents survived the Second World War. He had been a gift for her efforts to save the current world from death. His second name was Hoffnung. How fitting she had been given Peace and Hope as her reward. Over lunch he commended her on her foresight to speak out about saving the bees. His hives had tripled now and that is why he prospered while everyone else did not. He no longer worried about insecticides being sprayed but he did worry about people seeing bees flying around and trying to kill them. Most people blamed the bees for the destruction of all they used to have when it was actually they, themselves, who had caused the destruction by killing the bees.The government had become too small to be any further threat. The dictator called president had succumbed to the disease. Most of his cabinet had either fled or died at the hands of patriots trying to return the country to what it had originally been. A few had joined the patriots but none of them recognized killing the bees had destroyed humanity and the world. They did not live long enough to remember his little farm with its protected hives working tirelessly to keep that small farm alive and thriving.

The next day Jerome went into the town that was now empty of life except for a few cats and dogs looking for food. He looked in the grocery store and saw a few cans of cat and dog food on the shelves. He took out the well used canvas sack and took all the cans that would help until he processed some scrap meat for them. He selected a few other items he knew they would need then remembered seeing animal treats still on the shelf so he went back for those. He stopped at the pet shop for some birdseed and to make sure no live animals were still caged. He saw a Border Collie puppy still alive and took it from its cage. Cradled in his arms and given some treats, the puppy gratefully gave his cheek a weak lick as if to thank him. He named her Liebe for the love she showed him. None of the other animals had survived but Frieden would have a mate in a few months. The stray animals had followed him so once out of the store, he put down a trail of treats. That would lead the poor hungry little ones to his farm where they would be fed. Day after day wildlife appeared and were fed as well.

Since there were no more churches and ministers or judges, a month later Celeste and Jerome said their wedding vows to each other in the garden where his hives happily worked to bring back the world before the great extinction of bees that brought on the extinction of man except in a small corner of paradise where a wise man foresaw salvation by saving his bees.


Forever Fifteen by: Asher Romero Moeckli Caelum turned 15 tomorrow, and Camila had spent her entire day off working on his present. That morning she’d begged Nic, Caelum’s best friend, to drive her to a nearby photo store so she could print a picture of the three of them. Not one of their official photos that were used to promote the Academy, but one of the three of them out by the lake.

Camila’s other brother, Lewis Smyth, had been the one to take the picture, forever freezing the moment when Caelum was attempting to throw a goldfish into Nic’s mouth and Camila was sitting in the sand, building a wall of rocks behind him. It was Caelum’s favorite picture of them. They weren’t posing for the camera, they weren’t putting on the front of a happy family, they were a happy family.

Camila had framed that photo once it was printed. It had been a simple wooden frame that had the words “Family is Forever” engraved along the bottom in fancy cursive. Now, it was a decorated frame with stickers, shells, and rocks that they’d collected together. Camila had never been much of an artist but she’d asked Luka Jackson and Dylan Davis, two of the boys in her grade, to help her glue the shells and rocks on. They had used Dylan’s magic glue. Shortly after dinner, Camila had wrapped the present with probably thirty layers of tissue paper. Her older brother, Lewis, had walked in on her while she was in the middle of trying to tape one of the layers down. He’d laughed at her and told her she should stuff the bag with the rest of the roll before he continued on his merry way to his bedroom. So, of course, Camila stuffed the remainder of the gift bag with the rest of the roll of tissue paper.

That night she slid the bag under her bed as Nic flipped through the book he had been reading her, trying to find where he left off the night before. “Ready for bed kiddo?” Nic said, smiling warmly at her and patting her on the head. She nodded, excited to hear more about Shelby the Shellfish’s adventures through the Mariana Trench. Camila tucked herself under the covers quickly and stared at Nic, waiting eagerly for him to start reading. Tonight, Shelby was getting ready for her big dinner with her new neighbors. She had to spend all day gathering supplies and putting together the perfect dinner party. Camila giggled at how similar their days had been. She had also spent all day putting together the perfect present. “Sounds like you,” Nic had teased, shaking her leg from where he was sitting. This only caused Camila to giggle more. “Yeah. But mine is a present! I could never make dinner for someone, I can’t cook!” Camila replied.

“No, you can’t. I’ve tried your cooking. It gave me food poisoning!” Nic said through his chuckles. Nic had no ties to the Academy, but Camila felt like he was her fourth big brother. He had the same messy brown hair that Lewis had before he was appointed Cardinal and hazel eyes were close enough to brown. “You were the one telling me what to do!” Camila sat up and tried to smack him. Nic swatted her hand away. “Lay down, it’s bedtime.” He ordered, closing the book. “Wait, are you not going to finish the story?” Camila asked as he set it back on its place on her nightstand. “Nope, you were getting too riled up. You need to be calm to sleep. Your dad wouldn’t be happy if his favorite daughter was a zombie tomorrow.” Nic replied, reaching for the ends of Camila’s covers and pulling them up to her shoulders. “Fineeee,” she reluctantly agreed, tugging the covers over her shoulders and rolling onto her side, facing the door. She could no longer see Nic’s face as the light from the door cast a shadow over his face. “Do you think everything will be okay with Caelum and dad?” Caelum and her father, the Headmaster of the Academy, had gotten into a huge fight during dinner about whether Caelum could do a year at a normal school. The fight had ended in Caelum storming up to his room, yelling about how he never wanted to set foot in the Academy again. Of course this wasn’t the first time the two had fought. They fought about just about everything from schooling to training to Camila. But they always hugged it out and Nic would tell Camila everything Caelum said. “I think everything will be okay,” Nic replied, rubbing the top of her head and causing her flyaways to stick up, “I’m gonna go check up on him before I head home, alright?” “Okay. Tell me what he says tomorrow?” Camila asked, holding up her pinky finger. She couldn’t see Nic’s face but she would swear that she felt his smile as he wrapped his pinky around hers. “As always.” Camila laughed and snuggled into her pillow, “Goodnight Nic.” “Goodnight kid, I love you.” Camila was asleep before she could say it back. Camila turned 15 tomorrow, and she sat on her bed with that old box that she’d been hiding under her bed for five years. When Caelum had turned 15, Camila spent all day making sure she gave him the perfect present. He had helped her so much following Grayson’s death and with her training. She found the perfect picture– his favorite one– and enlisted the help of the best craftsman in the Academy to help her add her own flair to the frame. ~Family is Forever~ It had read. And Camila thought it was perfect, they were her family. Camila never got to give Caelum the picture. Because when she woke up the next morning, scooping the present out from under her bed and sprinting to give it to Caelum, she found that he wasn’t there. Turns out he had run away with Nic the night before, finally deciding that Camila wasn’t worth sticking around for anymore. He had left her a flashdrive where he had recorded his final goodbye. Camila might have listened to it once before throwing it into a box along with his present, the pendant he had given her for her birthday, and Nic’s letter that she’d received about three years ago. That box sat under her bed for almost five years. Now, Camila sat on her bed- forcing her nausea away and telling herself that she wasn’t going to throw up- with that box on her lap. She was almost Caelum’s age now. Fifteen. Obviously she knew he wasn’t fifteen anymore. Five whole years had gone by, he was closer to twenty now and no longer legally tied to the Academy in any way.

Yet, to Camila, he would be fifteen for the rest of his life. He was dead to her and he was dead to the Academy. And as of tomorrow, she would be older than him. It was time for her to get rid of the last remnants of her brother.

She unclasped the box and slid the top off. It was like opening a time capsule. Everything inside was just as she remembered it (albeit a little jostled around from being moved). The flash drive sat taped onto an old letter Camila had received from Nic. She figured bullshit belonged with bullshit.

She didn’t open that either. Sprawled out in a twisting maze on top of everything was the pendant. It was a small green pendant that had some sort of tracking device in it. Caelum had given it to her when she turned ten, five years ago tomorrow. He had told her it was so they could always find each other because family was forever.

She should smash it. At the very bottom of the box was that damn picture frame. It was covered in dust and some of the shells and rocks had chipped off, leaving large holes where they once sat. Guess Luka and Dylan’s magic glue wasn’t so magic after all. She wanted to destroy the picture. Her hands shook as she picked it up, blowing the dust away so she could clearly see what she had been missing for so long.

Just one look , she told herself. One look before she would begin destroying everything. Look at the three of them, so happy, so unaware of the misfortune that was going to befall them. Camila stared down at her brother, smiling like he wasn’t about to destroy her entire world in less than a month. She had always wondered if he’d always known he was going to leave her. Maybe that’s why he gave her that pendant. It was time for her to let go of Caelum. He was dead after all. Her grip tightened on the frame and her tears dropped onto the frame. She wished for them to stop. There was no point in crying over something that happened five years ago. Her tears fell faster and faster until she was bent over the box, sobbing. Sobbing for Caelum, for Nic, for the life she lost. Camila had been born into a family of four, a happy family of four.

And now this was all that was left. An old flash drive, an apology letter, and two meaningless birthday presents representing a family torn apart by time and by tragedy.

Camila is turning fifteen tomorrow. And Caelum would forever be fifteen.


Three men make themselves uninvited guests at Aiden Davenport’s table. “Swanky,” says the lofty, heavyset man. “Yeah, this is one of the best culinary establishments in Vegas,” the skinny man at the other end of the table comments. “Can we order? I hear the Crispy Skin Grilled Duck Confit is to die for.” The pasty, scowling man in the middle with the slicked-back black hair gives the second man a bewildered glance. “I swear Danilo, you must have had a different father. We won’t be here long enough for you to write a review for Yelp. I am Marko Melnyk. The gourmet is my brother, Danilo, and the hulk seated at the end is Maxim Gorski.” Aiden notices Marko’s clipped accent. “Russian?” Marko’s head snaps back in revulsion. “I am Ukrainian. In fact, my competitors call me the ‘Ukrainian Nightmare’ Let me get to the point. In a few days, you will fight Bullfrog Brazier in defense of your title. You will lose.” Aiden practically leaps across the table at Marko. His manager, Candido “Candy” Casanova, and trainer, Gabe Spinner, grab him by the shoulders, pushing him back into his seat. “I’ve worked for too long and have taken too many punches to take a dive.” “Your manager is a lousy poker player, and your trainer couldn’t pick a winning horse in a field of one.” “How much are they into you for?” Aiden asks. “Two hundred fifty thousand each.” Candy and Gabe lower their heads in shame. “You two should have come to me before it got this far. Ruby has a tight rein on our purse strings, I can’t ask her for that much money. And I’ll repeat what I said before about throwing the fight, so you know where I stand. NYET.” Maxim cracks the knuckles on his massive hands. “You don’t scare me, Godzilla. I’ve knocked out bigger goons than you. Maybe honor and integrity are strange qualities for a boxer to have, but I’m proud of my reputation as well as my forty-three knockouts. I win my next fight and I’ll pass Julio Chavez for the most title defenses.” “There’s nothing wrong with sharing the record,” Danilo offers. “You have held the title long enough, Mister Davenport,” Marko says. “Are you suggesting I retire?” “That is entirely up to you,” Marko replies, curling his lips into a predatory smile. “I like money and what it brings. I cannot have it if you hold the title.” “I’m surprised you’re backing Brazier. Everyone knows he can’t fight. The odds are fifteen to one that I’ll paste him. If by some miracle he takes the title from me he’ll lose it in his first defense.” Marko’s sharkish grin widens. “That is the plan.” “I’d rather die in the ring than throw away my title. And there’s nothing you can do that’ll change my mind.” “We have your wife.” Ruby Davenport rubs her eyes, trying to wipe the cobwebs from her mind. Looking around, Ruby takes note of the beige walls, IKEA end tables, and utilitarian lamps. She realizes she’s in a hotel room. Sitting up in bed, Ruby stifles a gasp as her gaze meets the startled stare of a swarthy, sleepy-eyed young man dressed in black leaning against the dresser. He cordially nods at her. “Where am I?” “You’ve been asleep for hours,” he replies. “For all you know, we could be in Canada by now.” “How long do you intend to keep me here?” “Until the end of the fight.” The spirited, petite redhead’s apprehension dissipates, replaced by anger. “Explain what’s going on, junior…” “My name’s Reed Melnyk. It’s simple. Your husband throws the fight, and you’ll go home. Otherwise…” “Ah, the death threat,” Ruby replies, studying him. “How old are you?” “Twenty-three.” “You're kind of young to be swimming in the deep end of the organized crime pool, aren’t you Reed?” “My Pop was a made man when he was my age.” “Really? Where is he?” “Dead. He died in a shoot-out with the police.” “What does that tell you? Have you ever killed anyone, Reed?” Squirming, Reed replies, “No. But my Uncle knows I can step up if I have to.” Ruby scoffs. “I’ll behave, Al Capone. But I can’t speak for Aiden. Lay down, stay down is not part of his fight strategy.” “Then he’ll have to face my Uncle and his men. And they don’t fight fairly,” Reed says. “If they’re anything like you, I’ll bet on my husband. You don’t seem like the gangster type. I bet you wanted to be something else as a kid.” Reed lets his guard down. “…A photographer…” “So, instead of having a forty-five in that bag on the floor, you’ve got a camera?” “That’s right.” “You didn’t happen to take any pictures of me while I was unconscious, did you?” “Just one,” Reed answers timidly. “I took it with my phone to show my Uncle my mission was successful.” “Yeah, you were really quiet when you snuck in the house and chloroformed me,” Ruby replies. “So, what are we going to do for the next forty-eight hours? And please, don’t let your libido do your thinking. I don’t want to have to slap you around.” “Woah! I’m married!” “But are you in love?” Ruby asks. “Of course. I met Phoebe in the eighth grade. There’s never been anyone else.” “Then you must understand how wrong this is. I feel the same way about Aiden as you do about Phoebe.” “Everything’ll work out fine if he loves you more than he loves being champ,” Reed says reassuringly. “If he doesn’t, you’ll never see him again.” Two nattily dressed men stride into the Rumble Boxing Gym where Boone “Bullfrog” Brazier is training. The amateur boxers banging away at the heavy bags and jumping rope slowly cede the room to the men. Bullfrog’s pint-sized, bald trainer Brutus Bolinger, yells, “Time!” Bullfrog stops mugging his sparring partner. Sucking for air, his cheeks puffing out like a bullfrog’s, he says to his manager, “I told you so.” Bullfrog’s manager, Nevin Badoo, protectively stands in front of the ring. His hand tightens around his brass-tipped cane, and he raises it, ready to defend himself. “…Welcome back, Mossy…” he says shakily. Maurice “Mossy” Graves’s declared profession of undertaker fits his tall, gaunt appearance. In contrast to his dynamic blue eyes, his face is long, pale, and thin. He has bushy, iron-gray hair, brushed high above his forehead, and often sports a bitter expression, giving him a striking resemblance to Andrew Jackson. The second man, Handy Mandy Muldaur, has an over-powering, tanned frame, bushy brows, and a maniacal look in his eye. “You don’t want to have to hobble around on two canes, do you, Nevin?” Graves asks. Nevin lowers his cane. “So that’s really how you broke your leg,” Brutus says to Nevin. “Breaking legs has become a cliché, but it’s still an effective one,” Graves replies. “I told you, Mossy, no one’s gonna believe it if Bullfrog takes a dive,” Nevin says. “The Boxing Commission will withhold our purse, and maybe even suspend him if they find out he threw the fight.” “Besides, I want to beat Davenport fair and square,” Bullfrog says. “Here’s another old saying,” Graves replies. “You try to fight Davenport, Bullfrog, and you’ll croak. I’m backing him.” “I beat Henry Harrison and Lefty Wright to get this shot. They’re both heavy hitters like Davenport.” “He doesn’t know, boss,” Handy Mandy guffaws. Graves allows himself a mealy grin. “You never wondered why Wright, who’d been trashing you for six rounds suddenly ran out of gas and walked into your jab? Wright and half your other fights were fixed.” Bullfrog thinks about jumping the ropes to get at Graves. He reconsiders when he sees Handy Mandy check his jacket pocket for what appears to be a gun. “If you’re so sure Davenport can beat me, why bother trying to bribe me?” “It’s not the result of the fight I’m worried about. It’s the round,” Graves answers. “I’m betting you fall in round two, so that’s why I need your cooperation.” “I won’t do it.” Brutus throws a towel around Bullfrog’s shoulders. “Take the deal, Bullfrog.” “Et tu, Brutus,” Bullfrog replies. “I’m not gonna let some coffin salesman run my career.” “I own fifty-five percent of your contract, Bullfrog. Jesus, Nevin, haven’t you told this dope anything?  I’ll say it one last time. You’re taking a dive in the second round. You remember Stanley Sandusky?” “Do I ever! He knocked me out in the fifth round. I never saw it coming. He was on the bullet train to a title fight when he disappeared.” “You can either take a nap in the ring or in the dirt with Stanley.” Aiden lowers his sunglasses to the end of his nose, scanning the room. “Don’t worry, I paid the waiters to keep this section of the restaurant closed until we’ve talked,” Bullfrog says. The two fighters tell each other about Melnyk and Graves’ threats. “So, I’m supposed to lose, and you’re supposed to lose,” Bullfrog says, rubbing his hand over his scarred features. “They’ve got my wife. I have to go along with what Melnyk wants.” “And if I don’t lose, Graves will chop me into Kibbles and Bits. Either way, one of us is going to suffer. I wish there was a way out of this.” Brushing back his blonde mane, Aiden flashes a winning smile. “There might be a way…” Reed licks barbecue sauce off the end of his fingers. “Use a napkin, they gave you a hundred of them,” Ruby scolds. “Not bad for door-to-door,” Reed replies, wiping his hands. “I know you’re used to gourmet dinners…” “When this is over, the quality of the Chinese food is the last thing I will complain about.” “Yeah, I guess being held captive sucks,” Reed replies, checking the clock on the wall. “The fight starts in three hours. Maybe you’ll be home in four.” Ruby shakes a finger at Reed. “Tsk, Tsk. You just gave away a clue that I’m only fifty or sixty miles away from home.” “Pretty smart trick. Maybe you should have been the champ’s manager instead of Candy Casanova.” Ruby raises her glass of soda, grimacing when she takes a gulp. “Can you get some ice? This soda is hotter than the action on the fight.” “Sure, but I’m going to have to lock you in.” “I understand. You’re just doing your job. And you’re really good at it.” Ruby stays in her chair until she hears the lock engage. She heads to the bathroom. Chuckling to herself, Ruby says, “I bet Reed is going to wish he had a picture of this.” Ruby opens the window, sliding out. Running to the corner, she hails a passing cab. Aiden and Bullfrog stare vacantly into each other’s eyes as referee Phil Gut explains the rules. Leaning on his cane, Nevin comments, “Given the circumstances, Bullfrog looks pretty calm.” “He always was a better actor than a fighter,” Brutus replies. “Did you spike his water?” “Yeah. The drugs should begin to take effect halfway through the first round,” Brutus answers. “He’ll fall in the second, whether he likes it or not.” The two fighters charge out of their corners, then uncharacteristically begin circling one another. The crowd responds by booing the reluctant warriors. Candy Casanova turns to Gabe Spinner. “What is this, a high school dance?” “Don’t blame Aiden. Bullfrog’s dragging his feet too.” The two fighters clinch. Aiden whispers, “This is awful, do something!”  tapping his glove against Bullfrog’s ribs. Bullfrog drops to one knee. Sitting at ringside in the second row, Maurice Graves buries his head in his hand. Turning to Handy Mandy, he asks, “Did I miss something?” “Like a punch?” Handy Mandy looks at the replay on his phone. “Must’ve been a phantom punch. Maybe Bullfrog is trying to ratchet up the drama for his swoon in the second.” Bullfrog winces, holding his side as Phil Gut counts over him. Bullfrog stands as the count reaches seven. Phil Gut looks into Bullfrog’s eyes. “You okay? Can you go on?” “Never felt better,” Bullfrog responds. “Then what the hell are you doin’?” Gut whispers. “I got ten grand on Davenport. You’re supposed to drop in the second round, you punch-drunk nimrod. NOW, BOX!” Aiden charges at Bullfrog throwing wild hooks, as if looking to finish him off. The fighters exchange a flurry of namby-pamby body shots. Aiden misses with a lunging right cross. Bullfrog taps him on the jaw with a jab. Aiden pitches forward, landing on his face. Aiden rolls over onto his back as Phil Gut begins to count. The crowd’s cheers nearly drown out Gut’s voice, but Aiden can still hear the referee’s frustrated comments. “ONE… Get up you son of a… TWO… I bet my paycheck on you… THREE… You can’t hand this bum the crown… FOUR… What have you got against me? … Michael Phelps took a better dive… FIVE… I’m just tryin’ to earn a livin'…” Aiden rolls on his side in a feeble attempt to get up. He spots Ruby racing down the aisle, running toward his corner. At six, Aiden jumps to his feet. “C’mon Champ! Show them all who’s boss!” Ruby yells. Seated in the third row directly behind Mossy Graves, Marko Melnyk slips his arms around the shoulders of his two henchmen. “Give Reed a chance, you said…” “I promised his father, our brother, that we’d look after him,” Danilo replies. “We? Our brother was stupid and impetuous. His boy is brilliant and careless. Find him. Get rid of him.” “But he’s family…” “Get out of my face, both of you. Do not come back until Reed is chum.” The two bodyguards reluctantly make their way through the aisle. “Are you all right with this?” Maxim asks. “We’re not going to kill Reed. We’ll find him and put him on a flight to Berkely, where he can attend photography school.” Maxin breaks out in a sweat. “We’re supposed to get rid of him, Danilo, not reward him. What if your brother finds out?” “He won’t, and do you know why? He made a big mistake, his last. He doesn’t have any bodyguards with him now. He has to drive the limo himself. We wait for him to drive off after the fight, and it’s the end of the Ukrainian Nightmare.” Aiden hits Bullfrog with two hard hooks to the head, stunning him. Pulling Aiden into a clinch, Bullfrog whispers, “What gives?” “Ruby. She’s free.” “So, you’re gonna renege on our deal?” “I have what I want the most, my wife.” Aiden pushes Bullfrog away, slamming him with a four-punch combination. Bullfrog’s body stiffens, crashing to the canvas like a falling redwood. Phil Gut starts counting over Bullfrog. The bell rings when Gut reaches five, saving Bullfrog from being counted out. Bullfrog’s cornermen carry their fighter back to his stool. “He’s the most knocked man I’ve ever seen,” Brutus says. “Plus, those sedatives we spiked his water with have done the trick. He’s in La La Land. There’s no way we can send him out for the second round.” Nevin glances at Mossy Graves, who grits his teeth, making a fist. “He really does look like Andrew Jackson when he’s mad,” Nevin says flippantly. “Yeah, but I don’t think he’s gonna give us a presidential pardon,” Brutus replies. As Aiden returns to his corner, Candy asks, “Why’d you do it, champ?” “For us,” Ruby replies, hugging Aiden through the ropes. Aiden sits down on his stool.  “And by the way, Candy, you and Gabe are fired.” Aiden waves Phil Gut over. “I can’t come out for the second round, Phil. “It’s my shoulder. I think I separated it.” Exasperated, Gut says, “All you gotta do is make it to the center of the ring and you’ll win.” “I’m in too much pain.” “You? My bankroll’s gone, thanks to you. Look, Bulldog’s practically in a coma. If you don’t come out for the second and he can’t come out, I’ll have to declare the match no contest. It’ll be like the fight never happened.” “So, everybody gets their money back. A shame,” Aiden replies. The bell sounds. Phil Gut moves to the center of the ring, certain that his announcement will result in chaos. Mossy Graves and Handy Mandy Muldaur watch ringside doctor Santo Corsica examine Aiden’s shoulder. The pocket-sized physician with the oversized Afro has been treating fighters for twenty-five years, and any diagnosis he makes is treated as an irrefutable fact. “He’ll be back in perfect shape in a week or two,” Dr. Corsica whispers to Ruby. “That’s great, Doc. But don’t forget what I paid you to say,” Ruby replies. Dr. Corsica turns to face Graves’ demanding stare. “He has a torn rotator cuff. He’ll be out of the ring for at least six months, and he’ll never be the same fighter.” “Maybe you should retire, Aiden. Go out a champ,” Graves proposes. Ruby steps forward looking up at Graves, her gaze and attitude indomitable. Graves and Handy Mandy step back. “I’m sorry we had to detain you…,” Graves offers. “Detain? You mean kidnap, you crooked Andrew Jackson imitation! Kidnapping puts you on the hook for ten years. I’ll cancel my talk with the Feds if you forget what Candy and Gabe owe you.” “…Sure, done. Well, it’s been fun everyone. I’m going to visit Bullfrog to see if he’s okay.” Aiden huffs. “You mean you’re going to let him know that I’m out of the way, and you’re going to get him another fixed championship fight.” “What can I say? I love this sport,” Graves replies, giving them a graveyard smile. “There’s something you should know, Mister Graves,” Dr. Corsica says. “I examined Bullfrog in his locker room before I looked at Aiden. Bullfrog has a detached retina. He’ll never fight again.”


“ You had the whole week off and you couldn’t even spend five minutes with her yet you take the other two for days at a time. You wonder why she doesn’t run to you or scream your name when she sees you. She doesn’t really know you anymore nor you her. You use to come over every weekend or every other weekend and spend the day with just her. You use to pay attention to her and play with her now it seems like your phone is more important. She asks for your attention but you give it to the other two more and she sees it. It not only hurts her but it hurts me as well. I want you to be close with her to have the bond again that y’all use to have. However it seems like you just want to drop in when its convenient for you, when you can make a big show about how great you are. I’m use to it. I’m use to being the outcast, the outsider, the mistake but she isn’t. I see how you treat the other two, how you take them places and have fun sleepovers yet with her you don’t and you always make excuses why instead of just trying. That’s what you need to do is try but I know you won’t. No matter how many times I ask or beg or plead you will still ignore us. You will still choose everyone else. ” Rebecca looked at the letter over and over again making sure it said what she wanted it to. Satisfied she saved the document and closed her laptop. Rebecca wouldn’t send the letter or even print it out. It was more of a way to coop to express herself without getting more hurt in the process. So she wrote letters whenever she needed to vent. Mind cleared and feeling more relaxed she walked to her bedroom window and watched her daughter outside playing with her best friend. It had been a long difficult year for them all but Rebecca was determined to make this new year better. She wasn’t going to let things bother her. “Mom, mom! Look what we found!” Her daughter Lily yelled running through the front door with her best friend, Madi, right behind her. “What is it?” She asked as both girls held out their hands. “Flowers!” They giggled in unison. “Oh those are beautiful. I love the purple ones” Rebecca smiled at the girls. “Can we press them for my mom to use?” Madi asked. “Sure we can. I’ll go get a big book.” Rebecca said as she went and got a book that already had some flowers pressing in it. Madi’s mom, Destiny, was a resin artist and used flowers and plants in her art she also was Rebecca’s best friend. They put the flowers in the book then the girls asked for a snack. Rebecca was cutting up the apples and bananas when her phone rang. “Hello.” “Hey Beck it’s me. Sorry it’s taking so long but the store lines are crazy.” Destiny said. “Yeah figured they might be with it being New Year’s Eve and all. This is what we get for deciding to have a party at the last minute.” “haha yeah your right but we deserve it and so do the girls. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” “Ok girl. Be safe.” Rebecca hung up the phone and gave the girls their snack. She then cleaned up the kitchen and started making some brownies. Yes, she thought, they deserved to have a little party even if it’s just them. The year had been long and tiring each one experiencing some kind of hardship or heartbreak. The girls might not make it to midnight but they could still celebrate with them. “Aunt Becks can we paint?” Madi asked. “Sure. Lily knows where the stuff is.” Rebecca put the brownies in the oven and went to check on the girls. They were laughing loudly as they painted and Rebecca couldn’t help but smile. Children’s laughter really did help make people happier. Thinking back to what this year was she was glad for everything that happened because it made her stronger and it made her friend stronger… The beginning of the year started good everyone was happy and healthy. Then Destiny’s husband was gone, not in a way most people think. He left, decided he didn’t want to be a father anymore. Destiny of course was devastated; she had no warning and no income to provide for her and her child. So she had to get a job which wasn’t too bad because she wanted to get one anyway. If it wasn’t for Rebecca babysitting Madi and being Destiny’s shoulder to cry on Destiny feels she wouldn’t have made it through. It was hard on Madi though; she loved her father and missed him. Madi didn’t understand why he would choose to leave and not want her. Lily did her best to be there for her friend but she too is a child and Lily’s father left when she was a baby so she doesn’t remember him. So they just play and not talk about it. Destiny and Madi are stronger and Destiny has a great job that she loves. Rebecca’s year was mainly about helping Destiny although she struggled too. Her struggle was mostly mental and emotional though. She felt like she couldn’t talk to anyone and felt like her family didn’t want her around. She felt like a failure and a bad mother but then she realized it was just voices that didn’t speak the truth. People telling her these things to get under her skin and make her feel bad about herself. So she started writing the letters and they help a lot. Rebecca found something she loved doing and started working on it. So even though the year had some bad times it made them all stronger and taught them to believe in themselves. So here Rebecca sat listening to the girls laughing while brownies are baking and prepare for movies and popcorn. Just then the front door opened and Destiny walked in with pizza and drinks. “Hey, hey, I’m back” Destiny said. “Mommy!” Madi yelled and ran into her mother’s arms. “Ohh pizza! Aunt Des you’re the best!” Lily exclaimed grabbing the box and carrying it to the counter. The girls got a slice then picked out a movie to watch. “What’s in the oven?” Destiny asked Rebecca. “Brownies. Felt like baking so I did.” “Ohh yum, works for me! How was Madi?” “An angel like always. They picked some flower for you to use. I already have them pressed.” “You are the bestest” They ate pizza then stuffed their faces with brownies. The girls crashed right before midnight so Destiny and Rebecca cracked open a bottle of whine and had a glass to toast to the new year. “Here’s too living our best lives.” “Here’s too not caring what people say or being bothered by others.” “Happy New Year!” They shouted in unison while clinking their glasses together.


“Sally, do you realize that Monday is Valentine’s Day”? Wendy yells across the across the hallway to her friend, who was busy shoving her jacket into her locker. Making sure her books did not fall out, as they have in the past laugh out loud. “When they are too serious, what the heck are we ever going to do”? As both girls realized they were running out of time, the final bell warning rings. Sally yells over to Wendy ”tell your parents that you are spending the weekend with me”. They both hug each other in the middle of the hallway, and run off to class and the opposite of directions as they don’t want to be late again to class because they know that they will be getting in school suspension. It’s the last class of the day, also the last class of the week Sally is excited to get into home economics. As she walks in the door she sees Mrs.Svetz standing there with her apron on..which meant they are baking today! Heck yeah! What a great way to finish out the week. Sally grabs her apron and puts it on, making sure as well that her hair is pulled back in a ponytail..she learned the last time as part of her long hair got burnt on the burner. Mrs. Svetz begins to talk, calling Sally back to full attention, “class since it is Valentine’s Day on Monday, you’re free to bake anything chocolate that you choose, have fun and please clean up before you leave”. Sally knew that was meant for her, as she left dirty dishes the last time. She learned, lol finally. Sally saw the double boiler, the Bakers chocolate, the cocoa powder, the vanilla extract, and the powder sugar, the butter and the wooden spoon, the thermometer, and the oven mitt. She preheated the oven to first make a cake, and then proceeded to clean up, before making the frosting she was told her Great Nana made. OK, a teaspoon of vanilla, a dash or two of salt, melting the bakers chocolate and 2 tablespoons of butter, add in 2 cups powdered sugar, 2 teaspoons of cocoa powder, blend together until melted, adding in whatever else was need to make it consistent. Take it off the burner to chill a little, take the cake out of the oven, making sure to turn it off, another lesson learned. And while she was waiting for it to cool, she realized that it was the perfect time to to clean up and do the dishes. Once they were all done, the cake was cool enough to frost. Sally was excited to lick the spoon when the cake was finished. She realized that she had enough frosting left over to make roses for her brother and sister, if not more. Once they were ready she put them in the fridge to chill. Then, she realized she could do this for the two cute guys that her and Wendy had crushes on, she’d just ask her Dad to take her to the store on the way home. Before she knew it the five minute warning was given. She came back into the room, and grabbed the four roses out of the fridge, washed out the molds, and put all the supplies away, wrapped up the cake in plastic wrap loosely, holding it up with toothpicks, wrapped up the roses, put her apron in the wash, tidying up her area. Then, thanked Mrs. Svetz for a cool assignment, wished her “have a happy weekend”, and skipped out the door with her gifts. Wendy, was in her least favorite class math, they had a surprise test.. Great she thought to herself, “what a way to end the week”. Before she got too upset, she took a deep breath and with a sigh.. Released the sigh. The teacher thank God was a substitute who was cute, as he passed out the test he noticed Wendy didn’t have a pencil, he got her one with a slight laugh and then gave them all instructions to “begin the test, keep your own eyes on your paper, and when you are finished, turn it in then grab the other sheet of paper for you, keeping quiet until everyone is finished. Good luck”. Wendy, was shocked when she looked at the test and realized..she actually knew more than she thought! A big smile came across her face, as she sped through the test, realizing that she was the first one done “Don’t change your answers” , she recalled her Mom telling her the last time. She got up, walked to the front of the class and turned in her paper, blushing as the teacher looked up at her in her eyes. Ahh, he was cute! She picked up the other piece of paper, thanked him quietly, and went back to her desk. She turned over the paper and saw it was a dot to dot, she chuckled quietly and then proceeded to finish it. The finished product was a Happy Valentine’s day card with a box of chocolates to color in. The perfect gift to color and then give to her parents. Before she knew it, the bell rang and she pushed in her chair, cleaned up her desk, threw the garbage away, gave the cute substitute the pencil back, he told her “keep it, and here is a topper for it, grab a box of candy hearts too, they are from your teacher”. She thanked him and after putting the gifts in her backpack, skipped out the door. Sally met her at their lockers, they both grabbed their belongings and skipped out the door where both their parents were waiting for them. Wendy yelled to Susan” my dad said it’s OK if I spend the weekend as long as your mom says it’s OK”? Of course it was, they made plans for Wendy to get dropped off after four. Giving them both time to go home and relax. Wendy couldn’t wait to get home, and color in the gift. Susan already gave her Dad a rose, he ate it licking his lips and sucking on the stick until they got home.


“Hi, I’m Lisbeth,” I said, holding out my hand as per the instructional video. “Hello Lisbeth, I’m Bianca. Your mother,” said the woman in front of me. She matched the image on my tablet perfectly; medium height, steel-grey hair cut into a sleek bob just under her strong jaw. Piercing blue eyes that according to my data file I had inherited. I had tried to look in the mirror and hold up my tablet side by side but nearly dropped the machine in the process. “You must be Rodrick, my father,” I said, turning to the man beside Bianca. He nodded once, his head bowing low to reveal the pink balding patch atop his red wiry hair. Next I turned to a shorter man, supposedly two years my junior. “Brother. Christoph?” Christoph nodded too and stuck his hands into the pockets of his ship-issued grey jumpsuit. “Apparently that’s me.” We lapsed into an awkward silence and desperately I grasped for some information about one of them that I could seize as a conversation starter. “Mother,” I said, and Bianca turned uncertainty to me. “You enjoy the piano. Do you play or listen?” The question seemed to catch her off guard and she instinctively lifted her tabled and scrolled through her data file. “I play,” she said finally, with a cautious smile. “Prior to suspension I was a concert pianist.” “Lovely,” I said. “I am sure you were very good and I look forward to you taking it up again.” “Shall we eat?” asked father. The food had been brought through while we clustered in the corner of the room. A round table set with elegant silverware and glasses gleamed under a candelabra. The carpet was rich maroon, the walls festooned with oil paintings, giving the place an air of tradition. The rest of the ship was sterile grey; this was a family room, where those recently awakened were supposed to gather for reintegration. Father hovered awkwardly, unsure of whether to pull out mother’s chair or not. In the end they both made for the chair at once and bumped into one another. “Sorry,” they spoke in unison, then the ghost of a smile played on their lips. Mother stood back to allow father to pull out the chair, then we were soon all seated at the table. At first nobody touched their cutlery. We all brought up our data files and scrolled through, checking our culinary preferences and matching it to the food on our plates. I found that I disliked broccoli, so placed my share neatly in a napkin. Brother was apparently vegan, so ensure he took the plate without animal produce. Once we were all settled father poured sparkling water into our glasses and we began our meals. The clink of metal cutlery clashing against porcelain rang out in the small dining room. None of us felt comfortable using it after so many years with our limbs frozen in cryosleep. But it at least provided a conversation piece as we finally had some current common ground upon which to converse. “Damn fork,” father said, readjusting it in his hand and frowning as it twisted slightly when spearing broccoli. Quickly I consulted the files on father and my suspicions were confirmed. “Try swapping them in your hands; the notes say you are left-handed.” “Oh, oh of course,” father said as if he remembered. Once the action was completed his attempts were far more successful. “Does anyone else get pins and needles in their hands and feet?” mother asked suddenly. “Yes, every so often it will come on suddenly,” brother answered. “I was told it was normal but it can be quite painful especially when walking.” “I dropped my hairbrush because the tingling was so bad,” I added. My first hair brushing. I had barely had the strength to pull it through my tangled auburn locks but I had felt proud of my achievement. Until I dropped it. Again, once this conversation topic had been exhausted we lapsed into silence, with only the sounds of cutlery scraping plates or glasses setting down on the table. Once we were finished there was no distraction and we looked at one another in turn, averting eyes to avoid meeting gazes. “Now what?” asked mother. Father frowned again and consulted his tablet. “The schedule for day one says we have free time. There are suggestions of the television room for a movie, or the activities room for games.” A pause of silence that stretched into the void, past comfortable and twisting into something awkward. Brother was the first to voice what we were probably all thinking: “I’d rather go to bed.” A collective sigh as those words unlocked the shackles of obligation from us all. “Me too,” said father. Mother nodded and I added a murmur of assent. “It was lovely to meet you all,” brother insisted, trying to compensate for being the one to end the evening early. “I mean re-meet you all. They said that by day twenty-one our memories will be almost fully returned. The first day is always the worst.” “Brain fog, they call it,” mother agreed. “The confusion is at its most acute today.” We all nodded politely, the air electric with our need to get up and leave. Everyone was too polite so I stood and thanked them all for joining me. “The schedule says we meet for breakfast at seven thirty tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening.” “You too, daughter,” father said. He’d forgotten my name already. I supposed brother and I had it easier; we were supposed to call parents by their title. Still it stung he had not made more of an effort to remember my name. Even if I myself had forgotten it again. I’d have to have another look at my tablet. - I followed the navy line to the sleep habitats. The ship was pale grey; walls, floor, ceiling. All grey. Apart from the colourful lines that were designed to guide the disoriented souls awakening from cryosleep. And perhaps those that were fully awake but for who the endless maze of corridors looked much the same. My habitat was Sigma-85. The habitat area was broken up into clusters, which made finding your room easier. My few possessions would apparently be waiting for me there, having been taken from storage by the AI bots. It was as I was striding confidently following the line that I saw him; tall, medium build, wearing the usual grey jumpsuit. He was standing at the end of a corridor peering out of a porthole into space. The splatter of stars lit up a galaxy arm behind his profile, lighting the tips of his wheat-gold hair with an ethereal glow. “Hello. I’m Lisbeth,” I said confidently, having checked on my tablet again. My voice startled him and he turned rather awkwardly, with an equally strange smile. Like he didn’t quite know how to do it. Mine probably looked the same. “Hello Elizabeth.” Close enough. “I’m…um…a bit lost.” “Do you have your tablet?” I prompted. “No. I left it in my room. I’m four days awakened, I foolishly thought I could make my way without it. But I had a memory lapse and now…” I nodded in sympathy. We had been warned that sometimes although we feel we are progressing we may experience small lapses in our memories and revert back to day one or two for a brief period. That was why the importance of keeping your tablet with you was stressed over and over. I decided not to lecture him; underneath that weird smile he looked genuinely confused and terrified. “You’re on a ship bound for our new home world, you’ve been asleep for over a thousand years,” I said carefully, reciting the text on page one of the awakening document loaded onto each tablet. “We should find an AI to help reorientate you.” He nodded quickly. “Thank you. That would be best.” “Come with me, I will use the map on my tablet to locate a help point.” I tapped the app that brought up a colourful interactive map of the ship’s interior. Instantly the locator dot glowed bright orange, indicating where I was in relation to the rest of the ship. I was three corridors away from the family rooms, where I had come from and twenty corridors away from the habitat section. “Here, there is an AI panel just left down here. Let’s activate it and ask for assistance.” “Thank you,” the man said. He followed me obediently as I padded softly down the corridor, my soft-soled shoes whispering across the cold hard floor. We were going against the navy habitat line, getting further from my ultimate destination but soon we came cross a recess in the smooth grey wall, where there was a large screen and a touchpad keyboard, that lit up with a warm yellow glow as we approached. The figure of a smiling smartly-dressed man appeared on the screen. “Good evening, how may I be of assistance?” “Hello, this man has forgotten his tablet and suffered a memory lapse. He needs to know his name and ID number so that he can find his habitat and return for rest.” For a moment the figure on screen smiled warmly at us while the AI processed my words and ran them through the algorithm. “You require an ID service. Please answer yes or no.” “Yes,” I said, happy with the output. “Please stand close to the screen and look directly at the red dot for the duration of the tone.” I stood aside to allow the man access. He stood tall and straight ad didn’t blink while a small beep issued from the panel. Another pause while the AI searched through the databanks. “Welcome, crewman 7382, Antony Maldova.” “Antony, yes that’s right. How could I forget?” the man murmured, a sigh escaping his lips. “So frustrating.” I nodded in sympathy again, wondering if I too would suffer these horrible lapses even once I thought I had remembered fully. Did anyone every remember fully? If you forgot some memories, or things you liked, who would know if they were gone? If it was a secret you held deep in your heart that nobody knew, what happened if it never came back? “Antony Maldova, your habitat is Sigma-85.” My eyes blinked once. Twice. Then I checked my tablet. “There must be a mistake,” I said. “I must have been standing too close and the scan was confused. Your room can’t be sigma-85, that’s my room.” Antony’s eyes widened and he sighed again. “I’m so sorry, I must have done something wrong. I’ll try again, please stand a little further aside to avoid confusion.” “Of course.” I stood a good few steps away, far out of range of the computer screen. “Please perform an ID check,” Antony said. The AI scanned him again. “Welcome, crewman 7382, Antony Maldova.” “What is my habitat number?” Antony asked. “Antony Maldova, your habitat is Sigma-85,” spoke the AI’s smooth synthetic voice. “Oh. Thank you,” Antony said, then turned to me. His sea-green eyes were even more confused than when I found him. With my brow creased I scanned through my files. I had not had time to study further than my immediate family who I had been due to meet for dinner and my likes and dislikes of foodstuff as I had been afraid of biting into something I would find unpleasant. The silence was poignant and with my finger hovering ready to scroll further for a clue on my habitat arrangements, I happened to glance up and saw Antony’s face begin to change. “Oh. Oh now I remember…damn memory lapse…” “What?” “My notes say I’m in a relationship. That I was to expect a room mate.” I looked down at my notes, the page that had just loaded was headed “relationship” and at the top was a small file photo of Antony next to the word “fiancé”. All jewellery had been removed during the sleep and I expected I would find my engagement ring among my possessions waiting for me at my – our – habitat. “Oh, okay then,” I said, desperately aware that something more profound was required but unable to formulate the words. “Shall we…go together?” “That would be best,” I said, turning back so that we could follow the navy habitat line in the correct direction. For a long time we didn’t speak but our cushioned footsteps soon fell into a rhythm, matching pace and stride. Just before we turned into the habitat area, Antony’s hand reached out for mine. The backs of his fingers brushed my soft palm, seeking permission. I considered it. I didn’t know this man. And yet apparently I did. Throwing caution to the wind I curled my hand around his fingers. When I looked up, he was smiling down at me. And this time there was nothing awkward about it. When I returned the smile, it felt natural. The first natural reaction since awakening.


“Will you have another cuppa? … Emma?” My Mum’s voice snapped me from my daydream, and I looked up at her. “Sorry, I was miles away. No, I thank ye. I was actually in a mind to take a wee stroll up the village,” I said, and so she’d let me go I quickly added, “I want to see who’s coming tonight.” I knew my Mum was wild for any gossip of who was attending tonight’s “American wake,” proudly hosted by our family, but really for all eleven of us emigrating from our tiny village of Killyderg, in Derry, Ireland. They were called American wakes because once you emigrated to America, you’d be lucky to set foot on Irish soil again. I shook the thought of homesickness off, and thought to myself, this is real progress we live in! I lived in modern times! It was March 1917, and change was starting to trickle in, even in our remote spot north of Derry City. The big ships were readying for the season, and I was leaving for America from Belfast with my Uncle Dermot and my fiancé, John. For New York City, even! “Right, off ye go then, but hurry back and bring any news. Tell Mrs. Duffy that I have her good green shawl mended if ye see her.” Mum stared at me for a pause, as if she’d something to say, then shook her head and with that she was clearing up the tea and moving on to the next item on her busy list. I stole a glance at her while she was saving the cakes. I looked so like her, I thought, with our identical blue eyes and thick black hair. But we were so different in every aspect. She was content just to be… content, and I wanted so much more. And I would find it in America with John! I knew it. Still, there was a deep pain in my ribcage at the thought of leaving my mother. Thinking about a long ship voyage made my scalp crawl and my armpits prickle with anticipation, and I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirts as I walked out of my family’s cottage and into the mid-afternoon light. I could hear the crank and bellow of Mr. Hanlon’s motorcar trying to start up. Good luck to him . It hadn’t run since the week after he came chugging into the village, scaring up every chicken in sight, half the women, and Mr. McShea. Modern times really were everywhere, I thought. On 7 March, Prime Minister George had declared parts of Ireland could self-govern if they were so inclined, except of course the Protestant (loyalist, most economically secure) northern part of Ireland. We were in that northern part, so it put speed on our plans to leave. Our entire village were Nationalists all, and proud to be. So there was political pressure to emigrate, especially because my John had fought in the Easter Rebellion last year. “Alongside Michael Collins himself,” he always liked to boast, but secretly I knew he’d fought in the rear of the GPO, reloading weapons, and bringing supplies with the other young lads who wanted a taste of freeing Ireland but had never fired a weapon in the heat of battle. It saved him from the firing squad though, only getting six months in gaol. When he got out, the decision was made to emigrate along with the rest of the group, with my uncle as chaperone. Will America have many motorcars? Probably thousands, I thought, daydreaming of skyscrapers and opportunity everywhere! Why, I could even become a woman of commerce! Laughing at the thought, I wondered if we’d have servants to mind our future children. John was going to be a solicitor in America, then maybe even a judge someday.  I listened for Mr. Hanlon’s car, now a lost cause, and paused to take off my shoes so I could save them through the boggy bit of ground that mucked up after a rain. It led around a bend, under the shade of swaying willows, to the center of the village, and I could smell the peat fires all burning mingled with the smells of different feasts as everyone cooked for the wake and their suppers. The loamy soil, cool and springy between my toes, felt nice, and I decided to stay barefoot. I’d be taking a bath before tonight anyway. I had a new dress for my trip, which I would wear to the American wake. A deep blue skirt to match my eyes, with a ruffled white blouse that we’d had sent special from London! It was a real treat to own, and I almost felt guilty, then thought of John seeing me in my outfit and my heart pounded. I stopped for a minute at Mrs. Duffy’s cottage, to give her Mum’s message about her shawl. She gave me a dozen eggs and a bit of cheese and told me not to be dawdling when there was work to be done. Typical Mrs. Duffy, then. That seemed like my cue to turn back towards our place, but just to be contrary I decided I would dawdle a wee bit. I stopped and sat down under the willow trees after the mucky bit, and decided to watch my village just be… content. Was that so bad, after all? I pondered. In the distance I could hear Mr. McElroy yell at his wife and then she yelled back louder and shoved him off to the pub and I sighed. Just then the wind changed, bringing the smell of fresh baked pies. Mrs. McCarthy’s place, will she still sell them when half the village has gone? I could also smell deep, rich earth and sunshine and played with a blade of grass as I observed a skylark land on a willow branch opposite me. It quickly flew away again, and I let my attention wander as far down the lane as I could see towards my home. After a long moment of peaceful silence, I spied young Seamus Devlin running my way. Sighing, I knew that Seamus had no end to his energy and therefore was the village’s messenger for bits of string or a pretty rock, so he was likely on his way to escort me home to help.

Feeling only slightly guilty at being caught out resting, I gathered my shoes and the eggs and cheese and met Seamus on the path. Grinning up at me with one missing front tooth and one half-grown in, he reached for my hand. “Your Ma’s after sending me to fetch you home and says I’m to take ye by the hand if I must.” His little hand was hot and sticky in mine, and I wondered whose cakes he’d got into. We were silent after that, Seamus happy to skip along, and with a start I realized I was perfectly… content. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as I thought, I concluded. But in America…I could be both content and much, much more. I smiled and headed home, barefoot and the sun at my back, daydreaming towards home and my own American wake.


When I first met my husband, I thought: Him. He is the one that I want. We met at an after-school English program in Asia. It was my first day of my new job and I fell in love as soon as the elevator doors opened. He was nothing much to look at--at 23, he was already balding and his stomach was a bit soft--but as George shook my hand and looked directly into my eyes, I just knew. In the beginning of our relationship, it was his confidence that attracted me to him. Also, it didn't hurt one bit that he had a perfect, neatly-clipped British accent. Her My wife is correct. I don't always understand her. She is American, and Americans always try too hard. Have you ever seen a group of them enter a restaurant? Everything is a bit too much for me. Everything they do is meant to attract attention to themselves. They talk too loudly, and I can hear every grating word that they say, as they slurp up their food with disgusting table manners. They are rude, obnoxious, and boring. Heaven help me; I cannot believe that I fell in love with one. Him It's my birthday today. When I got up this morning, he carefully laid three birthday presents at my feet. This was not an act of worship; he knows that I have neck arthritis and can't do a lot of overhead movement on rainy days. Also, I can't reach out and quickly grab things. The pain radiates up my shoulders, and it's just too much. Anyway, like I said, George was the most self-assured man I had ever met. He could walk into any room and people were instantly drawn to him. It was like he was a refrigerator and they were magnets. Her I don't believe in buying my wife flowers. They wilt. I wish she knew that flowers mean nothing when it comes to real love. Duty is always more important than romantic love, especially in a marriage. My wife and I are opposites in many ways, and I know that Clara thinks that grand gestures mean more than than the things I do for her. Him Once, after surgery, I bought myself flowers. When they were delivered to the house, George asked: "Who was at the door?" "I don't want to tell you," I said. "You wouldn't understand." "I might," said my husband. "Alright," I said, and took a breath. "I ordered sunflowers." "Can I see them?" he said. "No," I said. "I bought these flowers for myself because you don't like to buy them. You don't get to see them because you'll just say something horrible about them." George turned back to his video game. "Okay," he said. "I won't look at them." "Good," I said. I quietly shut the door, and sat down on the bed in the back room. Then I cried. Her "Those flowers are shit," I said. I admit that this was a mean, petty thing to say. I am not a kind man, and I freely admit this fact. The truth can never hurt you, as I always tell Clara. She never remembers how I make time in my day to pop by her office, just to ask how her day is going. I do this to show she is important to me, and I love her. Him My therapist says that I have to be the one to change in my marriage, as my husband does not attend therapy with me. My therapist is a man in his fifties, and I know that he has most likely been conditioned from birth to believe that women must drop whatever they are doing in order to help men understand emotions. The truth is that I am sick and tired of helping George. First, I helped him to build up the courage to ask me on our first date. Then, I helped him to have the confidence to succeed in the workplace. Currently, I am helping him in every way that I can. It's never enough for George. It's like he's a giant tapeworm, and I'm a succulent host. Sometimes it feels like there's nothing of myself left anymore. Like I'm all sinew, gristle, and bone. Her She steals my drinks, she steals my clothes, she steals my pens, she steals the toilet paper before I can use any. She steals snacks from my desk. I can't remember the last time I had a thing that was mine and mine alone. I have given her literally everything that I own, and it's never enough for her. Clara will always want more than I can give. Her expectations are too high. Him The birthday gifts that he gave me were tasteful and expensive. However, the presents he bought were the kind of thing that he would want if he were a woman: a designer lap top bag, imported chocolate, and a heavy geometrical vase. The truth is that that I prefer cheap paperbacks from used bookstores, and the kind of animal knick-knacks that my mother would hate. My favorite figurine is a tiny pig sitting on a tiny toilet, which I purchased for three dollars. George took one look at it and said it was a waste of money. Her My wife has terrible taste. If left to herself, she would eat highly-processed, nutritionally bankrupt foods like Ho-Hos , Twinkies , and Ding-Dongs . I admit all of these snack cakes are delicious, but they lack the nutrients or deliciousness of a good English roast. What would Clara do without me? She would probably starve to death within a matter of weeks, really. I taught her how to eat three balanced meals a day. Him George has terrible taste in movies. He likes action films where testosterone-fueled men make stupid decisions that cause needless problems. These conflicts can only be resolved through loud car races, and even louder explosions. Last week, he moaned about watching Anthony Hopkins in a well-written, excellently directed project. Seriously? Who complains about watching Anthony Hopkins act? What would my husband do without me? Most likely, his brain would turn to Jello pudding within three days. I guarantee it. Her My wife once called me out for mansplaining. Well, she continues to call me out for this. I remember I told her I like to explain things to her, and to no one else. She is the only one in my life--Clara has always been the one--who actually listens to what I say. The people I work with always want me to listen to them, and this is one of many skills I possess. I have no need to hide this fact. However, when Clara listens to me, I feel like the best version of myself. A man of substance and character, if you will. In reality, I know that I am vain and arrogant. I can talk with anyone, knowledgeably, about any subject, but I never talk about anything meaningful or important. I don't want Clara to know this, but I think I would become a hollow shell of a man without her. I tell her, often, that she is my favorite person. Our time is almost finished, and I don't mean to be rude, but my wife and I need to get going now. It's our 23rd anniversary party, and we don't want to be late. You know how it is. What? No, we don't want a divorce. We came in to talk about setting up a private investment fund for retirement. You're the one who insisted on meeting with both of us, separately. I thought you wanted an account of our personal relationship to give us better advice about the kinds of companies we should invest in. Him No, we don't want a divorce. Why would we want a divorce? Did he say he wanted a divorce? Oh, that's a relief. I was worried, but I'm often worried that I'm not enough for him, and that he'll leave me for a 20 year-old woman who is also a nurse. She'll hang on his every word, and will never disagree with anything that he says. Yes, I know I have a wonderful imagination. Okay, I can see that you are laughing. Was what I said funny? Yes, we are running late for our 23rd anniversary party, and I really need to go. George hates to be late, and he acts like a grumpy cat, who's just tasted spoiled milk, if he's not on time. Fine, I will answer one last question...no, I didn't think the questions you were asking were odd. If I were advising married clients on corporations they should invest in, I would want to know the history of their relationship. Okay, fine. If you won't stop laughing, I've got a joke for you...what do you call 50 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? Us Him: What a strange lawyer. Her: I know, right? I told him my best lawyer joke and he didn't laugh. Him: That joke isn't funny. Her: You don't know what joke I'm talking about. Him: I know exactly what joke you are talking about. It's the one that goes: "What do you call 50 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?" The answer is: "Room for more." Her: The way you just said it isn't funny. Him: No, that joke is never funny. I wish you would stop telling it. Her: Fine. Let's just get to the party. You know what you're like when you're late. Him: What am I like when I'm late? Her: You're an asshole when you're late, if you must know. Him: You know I love you, right? Her: Why do you say that? Him: No reason. Her: Really? I wish you would tell me why you love me. Him: I love you because you are smart, funny, and beautiful. Her: Thank you. I love you because of your butt. I hope you don't mind being objectified in this way. Him: I don't mind. Her: Did the lawyer ask you if you were there to get a divorce? Him: Yes, why? Her: He asked me the same thing. Him: What an odd man. Her: I agree. Him: Happy Anniversary, lovely wife. Her: I hate it when you call me wife. It makes me feel like you think I am something that belongs to you. Him: Feelings aren't facts. Her: What does that mean? Him: It means exactly what I said. Her: I am tired of arguing, but you are the only person I enjoy arguing with. Him: I feel the same way. Her: Happy Anniversary, George. Him: Happy Anniversary, Clara. Her: Would you ever leave me for a younger woman? Him: Why would you say that? Her: No reason. Him: Absolutely not. Who else would be able to tolerate me? Would you ever leave me for someone else? Someone with a full head of hair, for example. Her: No, but I may poison you in your sleep one day. From true crime dramas, I've learned that most women kill other people in this way. Him: A couple of nights ago, I had a dream that you stabbed me with an incredibly sharp knife. Her: Really? Just so you know, I would definitely poison you. Him: I know. Her: I love that you get me. Him: I love that you get me. THE END


„And we are back. We have reached the part of the Podcast that is dedicated to extraordinary People and their lives. “Extraordinary People, extraordinary Lives” as we so creatively have named it or EPEL for short as my Producer Michael likes to call it. My guest today is the extraordinary Person Sasha Gwynn. How are you Sasha?” “I am good, Nate. Thank you.” “Good to hear. We are glad to have you on today. So for our listeners, why dont you tell us about what it is that makes you extraordinary.” “Well hmmm… I don´t know. I mean you have asked me to be on this show so you probably know better what makes me so extraordinary.” “Haha, our guests are always so modest. We read your story online and were fascinated by you. But let me put it this way, what would other people find extraordinary about `you. After all there is a whole article about you in the New Yorker.” “What other people find extr… Well I have been called an extraordinary asshole a couple of times. But I am also quite good in the kitchen, I make a mean lasagne. So I guess I have a couple of things going for me.” “Ahem… We do have a certain audience and I don´t think they appreciate that kind of language. So please hold the swear words. But to get back on track and the whole theme of this segment. The article I am referring to has the title ´´"`Homo Immortales. Untouched by Time" and tells the story of your Immortality.” “Ah, yes. That piece. First of all that title sounds like I am a gay magician, and untouched by time? The molestation jokes are practically writing themselves.” “Jesus Christ. Please.” “I already changed my name from Sorcha because no one could pronounce it, and I most certainly do not want to be associated with that stupid name.” “Yes, well… anyway. Maybe we just start off slow. Can you tell us your birthday, just so our listeners get a sense of what we are talking about?” “I was born on the 7 th of August 1901.” “Amazing. That would make you 119 years old now. And you do not look a day over 16.” “I have never heard that before, thank you for saying that.” “I am sorry. You just mentioned that you changed your name from Sorcha to Sasha, is that Irish? Could you maybe tell us more about your background, where your family is from. You know maybe give us a little origin story.” “Yes that is Irish. Origin Story, that sounds so stupid. My family comes from a small town near Cork. The story goes that back in the 1860s or so my Granddad got into a fight with another guy, that guy stabbed him and threw him in the water at Cork Harbour. He should have been dead but a couple of days later some Sailors pulled him out off the water and he was still alive. That is literally it. The most boring origin story there is. Nothing you could write a novel about.” “Maybe not a novel, but perhaps a short story. Haha. But wow. All that took place in the 1860s? That is over 150 years ago. From what I know that was your fathers father right? He was the first one in your family to be immortal?” “I don´t know. He disappeared shortly after my dad was born. He kind of just stood up and left and no one has heard from him ever since.” “So you are the third generation so to speak. Your grandfather passed it on to your father and he to you. Is it safe to assume that you will pass it on as well?” “I eliminated that option a while ago so I guess we will never find out. The way I see it, me having a child could only lead into two different directions. I either pass this whole immortality shit on and trap another person in this never-ending life and probably earn eternal resentment for doing so. Greetings to my dad at that point. Or, I do not pass it on and have to watch my kid grow up, get older and eventually outlive my own child. I honestly think that is why my granddad left. Either that or he was just an asshole.” “That is… a lot to process. And on that note we will go in another commercial break, stay tuned.” … “We are still here with Sasha Gwynn, our extraordinary person of the week. So far we have talked about her beginnings but now I would like to ask the questions that everyone is probably dying to ask. Is being immortal a superpower?” “If it is it is one of the lames ones there is. Always knowing the exact time would be more useful than this. That would actually be awesome. No but immortality is bullsh..bullcrap. I cannot die and that is all there is. There is nothing super about it.” “There have to be upsides to it. I have read that you were in a pretty gruesome car crash when you were 16, were you not glad for your inability to die in that moment? 16 is an age, I think I we can all agree on, that is just too young to die.” “I probably would have been if I did not intentionally wrap that car around that tree. But hey, at least that is how I found out that I can not die.” “You did not know that you were immortal?” “Nopes, my dad did not tell me until he picked me up from the hospital a few days after my ´accident´.” “That must have been quite a shock I imagine. I cannot even remotely grasp how it must feel. That brings me to one of my other questions. You drove that car. You had a license and you had a 16 year olds body. Just as you have right now. Is that correct?” “Yes. Apparently we stop aging after our first death. Which I mean in some sense 16 is a good age. It is a struggle when it comes to alcohol, drugs or sex but over the years I have learned to manage that. Just imagine having my first death at the age of 80 and then being trapped in that body forever. That would fucking suck. My dad used to joke and say ´thank god you were a depressed teenager´.” “I have so many more questions but we are running out of time.” “Unlike me.” “Ha. Yes you could say that. The last thing I want to talk to you about. Why come forward now? Why let the world know now? Why not before or later or never?” “Quite frankly. I was bored and sick of hiding. I already told you I think this is not a superpower, I just do not die. It is something people will find interesting for about 2 minutes and then forget about it again. Unless medicine and science find anything of value in or on my body there is nothing to gain from it. And I have been tested and probably will be for a very long time. So far there is nothing any doctor could tell me about as to why or how this is working. It is how it is. And why not get my 5 minutes of fame for being special. It is not like I have anything else to do.” “I think it is fair to say I find you and your story absolutely fascinating and I can not wait to learn more. Thank you so much and hopefully we see each other again.”


Shakespeare has written plays not only as a legacy to England, but tales that have stirred up souls all across the world. We know of his Hamlet, chasing the ghost of his father and seeking the death of his uncle. We know of Lady Macbeth desperately trying to wash blood off her criminal hands. We know of Romeo screaming - "Juliet, my Juliet!" But what we don't know is of one fine miracle which occurred in a public London school, when the teacher did not weigh the potential impact of his words upon looked at his class from behind a pair of round goggles, twisted his left palm with a gracious manner and said to the seventh grader. "If there is immortality to be found among our lives, it hides in the stories of Shakespeare. His legacy is unfading. He is unfading. If there is one miracle I wish could happen, it would be for Shakespeare to be born again. A new William Shakespeare of the modern world. Maybe one of you... undecided little children, will one day aspire to such greatness. That is my goal as your teacher. That, will be the dream of Mr. Anderson coming true." A nice pep talk from Mr. Anderson. Seems like something every more than averagely dramatic English teacher would say in a London public school. What he didn't know, is that you should beware of your dreams for they have a nasty habit of coming true. Will, or William, coincidentally sharing his name with Shakespeare, was one of the students sitting in the back of the class. One of those who usually didn't pay much attention. Neither was he the macho type to sit in the back and roll cigarettes for after school or to tug the hair of whichever girl sat in front of him, a strange activity of which many middle school boys derived much pleasure. Will, was the most average kid, who still hadn't found a calling and neither was he looking for it. This strong inability and apathy to fit in remained with the boy all through his years, later turning into a strange craziness that allowed Will to create mad things with no regard of their practical application in the real world. Will began finding himself in the eighth grade, when the class started getting computer science lessons. The circuitry, the software flowing in them through electricity, the endless wires with which many of his classmates only got as far as making a lightbulb turn on and waiting for the lunch break to arrive, made more sense to Will, than anything else ever could. He gradually, year after year, started to explore and understand that the computer system works like the human brain and not only. That fundamentally, it's all the same algorithm which drives our lives in any sphere. An input - water getting on the soil under a flower. Storage - the roots taking the water in. Processing - the water going into the stem, the petals, the leaves. Output - the flower's nectar for the bees. The scent of the flower. Its beautiful look. Will understood the laws of nature by digging into something that logically shouldn't have had anything in common with it. And he went from an unnoticed kid in the back of the class to one of the brightest minds of our day in a matter of as little as fifteen years. He came up with all sorts of crazy ideas: flying houses, self cooking food with appetite sensors, childbirth through painless teleportation of the infant from the womb straight into the mother's hands... Will was able to bend the laws of nature as they previously were understood. He showed that everything which can undergo these four processes is able to be engineered. However one day, sitting in his smart house with the thermostatic temperature sensing slippers on his feet, Will began to get sick of all those ideas. He was tired of the fun he was having with divine endless possibilities which technology was offering him. And that's when the calm gentle face of Mr. Shakespeare, in the most simple hardcover book, looked at him from the corner of the bookshelf. With such airy hair, deeply penetrating eyes, some elegant clothing... Will went back digging in his memory, to the torturous days of Mr. Anderson's classes when he sat in the back and yawned at metaphors and similes. And his memory arrived at that first time, when the teacher expressed his wish, his dream, and when Will was coincidentally not taking an open-eyed afternoon-nap during the lecture. Will understood that one thing he had yet not done was to make someone's dream come true. The boy's life suddenly took a whole new turn. He was seeing a vision, his mind was ready to take a flight. With months of planning, which was a really long time for this mastermind, Will managed to build a machine. A brigner back of the dead. He didn't make much fuss about it on the news. No one knew except for him. And for that man whom he summoned. One fine Sunday evening, Shakespeare went knocking on Mr. Anderson's door. "Hi. I am Will." Mr. Anderson dropped the green poetry book from his hands. He was about to fall right after it. And he would, if Shakespeare himself wouldn't take a hold of the teacher. "Now, now. thee shouldn't panic. I wast hath sent hither by thy inhorn man: Will. That gent hath said thee wast his English teacher. "Will... Oh my God. Why would he do this to you. I am so sorry to disturb your peace Mr. Shakespeare. That boy is a real rascal. Last week he invented a toaster that spits bread right into one's mouth with a carefully planned trajectory. A crazy, crazy man." "Well that's quite comical if thee asketh me." "Yes. To be completely honest, sir, I also have one of those toasters in my kitchen. Please. Come inside." As Shakespeare and Mr Anderson sat in the living room around a cup of tea, Shakespeare began to look around, pleased to find many of his books on the shelf. Then he squirmed his eyes. The professor was definitely more anxious than excited for this man's presence in his living room. This to him seemed unnatural to say the least. He wasn't sure whether he should believe that it is Shakespeare in front of him, or simply a pixelated illusion of the writer. Shakespeare got up and tooks a copy of Romeo and Juliet. He looked carefully at the edition and ripped the hardcover right off the book's pages with a monstrous power. "Sir, what is wrong?" Mr Anderson stood up. "Look at this. " Pointing his portrait at Mr Anderson. "Look at mine lips. Mine lips don't behold like that! Those gents madeth me behold like a mistress. God, how horrid. Thither art probably coequal conspiracy theories flying around that ho, Shakespeare wast a mistress. Well, no wonder!" "Mr Shakespeare, conspiracy theories should not bother you. Let me see. Those look nothing like women's lips. I am sorry if the artists' work doesn't please you." For a while Shakespeare sits down, displeased and scarred. Mr Anderson understands he needs to keep the conversation going. "But it's not the portrait that makes you the genius you are and which people recognize. It's how your works touch the hearts and souls and express the depths of the human condition. Of all the wickedness and dirt that flows in the seemingly clean human hearts. Your books are mirrors for the people, to see how perversion can seep into them and get a hold. Make them commit murders, treacheries, monstrosities. Your works are as modern in the year 2035 as they were back in the 17th century. There are still Lady Macbeths among us. There are still Hamlets. You are immortal, Mr Shakespeare. Nothing has changed. Technology is changing, transportation is changing. We no longer ride in horse carriages, but greed still drives the human race, envy still covers us head to toe. The laws that work on us now are the same laws which were in piece back then, and those laws will hold true even a thousand years later. So what is a little portrait, if not just a blunder of the artist. You shouldn't feel disappointed, Mr. Shakespeare." Shakespeare remains quiet. Mr Anderson imagined he would be a sensitive man, but not to this extent. After so many years of laying dead, Shakespeare was happy that his works still remained true. That people didn't get any better, that the tragedies of life still lived on as he believed they would. "So what doth thee sayeth, we consume one of those toasts. " "Oh, you mean from Will's toaster... Sure! I think we need a different kind of toast for this special occasion too, sir." "Shall we drinketh to the unchangingly tragic and, like a toad, ugly and venomous condition of the humans? And of their occasional joy and purity? God, I just wish those gents recalled me being a bit more masculine than this..." "Is you complaining about your portrait only a comic relief for this crossroad in the times?" "You art one cunning sir, Mr Anderson. I wanteth people to recall that anything thee input thee wilt output. What thee giveth, thee wilt taketh. beest t greed, love, sorrow or joy. thee needeth to findeth what thee wanteth to nourish, and giveth t what t doth take to groweth into something quite quaint, something more marvellous than thee could ever imagine." A cheers. A toast. And it didn't matter whether it really was Shakespeare in front of him or simply an illusion. It were his words that mattered, which gave the writer the great presence he had. The next morning, when Shakespeare had disappeared without a trace to be tracked, Mr Anderson took up the responsibility of starting a new edition of books of Shakespeare with a whole different portrait of the man decorating its new cover. One Will left back to the passage of time, leaving the other to lead the humanity toward a different future, with yet the same constraints of our laws and of our infinite fragility. And words, words, words, will keep floating, till the end of time. Till the break of dawn.