The Black Horse on the Prairie The ripened Pink Ladies could not mask the putrid odor of Herman Hilltop’s decomposing body. A fresh patch of sugar magnolias could not even soften the tear-rousing stench. Had a man passed his foul-smelling corpse, a double-handed nose-pinch would disable him from cutting down the cordage noose—as would the apprehension of fondling a dead black man's flesh. There, drooping from the highest branch, he would stay flaccidly swaying in the wind. It would be just eight days until the maggots had finished boring through his brain and crawling out his eye sockets, but his tattered skeleton would not be found until hell froze over. ⏅ “Momma. Just a few mo’ months and Imma get us outta her’, alright,” Herman, with a hand gripping her sagging shoulder, explained. It had been 11 years since Herman and his mother were sold to the Corucca Plantation in Calvert County, Maryland. Surrounded by acres of tobacco, he fantasized about life out of shackles, earning modest wages, and raising his own family. His fantasy was not too far out of reach. The laxer conditions of the north allowed him to work odd jobs, after his day in the field of course, for a couple bucks. After 11 years of spit-shining shoes on the most dehydrating-days of the summer and constructing oak-wood furniture until his fingers could not bare anymore splinters, Herman had accrued $650, nearly enough to purchase his and his mother’s freedom. Just a few more months, as Herman had so neatly drawn out, and they would be freemen. ⏅ Nobody saw it coming. The winter of 1865, as temperate as it seemed compared to last, carried a devastating wind-chill that took lives mercilessly. Wrapped in wool blanket by open fire, Herman’s mother took her last breath, and her son neiled by, head-in-hand, sniveling over his loved-one’s death and the impetuous fever that foiled their plans for liberation. He found he had haplessly misused the past 11 years. As fate would have it though, in the following month, January, the 13th Amendment was passed through congress, freeing all slaves in the entire U.S. territory. 11 years of arduous toil just to be left with a dead mother and gratis-freedom left him in a deep, dark, and seemingly incurable depression. As all the other slaves on the plantation soulfully celebrated their imminent release, he chose to rest alone; convinced solitude would alleviate his anguish. ⏅ “Don’t trus’ nobody. The white folk. The black folk. Nobody.” Herman remembered the lesson his mother had ingrained in him since childhood and he had earnest intention on following it. 11 months and 17 days after his late mother's death, Herman departed from the Calvert County post office on horse, clutching his Homestead Act authorized-deed to 80 acres of land in Kansas, en route to the Great American Desert: his new, reclusive life. Herman understood the land out west was nearly infertile, but he had no intention on farming it commercially. The crops he grew on this land would be harvested for subsistence only. $650 allowed him to purchase one horse, two oxen, a wagon, a steel plow, seeds, saplings, and enough raw materials to build a comfortable dwelling: a wood-framed interior encased by a mud-brick exterior, a one-room residence that could keep cool in the steaming days of the summer and toasty in the windswept days of the winter. His dreams, once of raising a good ol’ Christian family, had faded and were cloaked by his narrow-pathed vision of withdrawal and grief. ⏅ Good grief. He’d been reaping what he sowed. Eating enough to live but barely living enough not to die. Apart from tending to his crops, he hadn’t been outside his 80 acres in weeks. When he first arrived at his land, a quick horse-ridden survey would keep him inside his boundaries. No residents but ex-Confederate soldiers and Irish-bloods for 30 miles in every direction. His mother taught him how to read them when he looked, and, promptly, he had been left alone. With the majority of his 80 acres being untouched, passerbyers could assume the land was vacant--no knocks on his door, no hospitable salutations, nothing. Sadly, the empty land was not the reason for his lack of companionship. The knowledge of his black skin passed through the grapevine, keeping neighbors away. A barrack of buffalo soldiers, stationed just a 45 minute gallop away, never payed a visit to the sole black man. With their rise in status, from slavery to calvary, and their new pompous attitude, they had no interest in accompanying the ostensibly declasse black, from slavery to solitary poverty. ⏅ Two years and he’d been alone in his grief for too long. Never had he been invited to cut up the rug at the biannual Grange dance. Never had he been invited to tie one on after the Priest’s sermon on Sunday night. Never had he even been invited into the threshold of the local church. Two years was too long to not hear another soul’s voice. Two years was all it took. ⏅ The Pink Lady tree reminded him of the one that grew on the Corucca plantation. Even more than its aesthetic, climbing to its tippy top brought him back to his childhood. His childhood, although full of slaving and drudgery, had one key component: company. Although he was nearly worked to death, he had never felt as weak as he felt right now; in his terminal moment he had nobody. His mother, never even breathing a breath of air as a free woman, comfortably died in her loving son’s arms. Now, he would see his own death, cradled by the arms of the Pink Lady tree. As the black silhouette tangled by the cordage noose, Herman Hilltop’s horse nayed. Now that his master had gone under, he was a free horse and could travel about as he liked. Where shall I go, thought the horse. What shall I see? Who shall I meet? The horse, in all of its glory, galloped into the prairie, the Great American Desert. In two years or less, the vivacious nag would have all of its questions answered: Nowhere, nothing, and noone.


A cheery voice at the other end picked up. "Hello, A1 Galactic Exterminators! You imbue 'em, we subdue 'em!" I cleared my throat. "Hi, do you guys come out to the Milky Way?" "We sure do, what can we help you with?" "Well, I've spun up a planet to raise an advanced species, but the planet has been over-run by a natural predator, and the intended species' evolution is in trouble." "No problem sir, we have a number of attractive packages that will return control back to your intended species. We'll just start with a few questions. What is the plantary lifeforms' base element?" "Carbon." "Great, any non-biological augmentations?" "Nope, 100% organic." "Wow, hard mode..... ok, I think I found your planet, I'm pulling it up right now... Hmm, all the current lifeforms are concentrated on this one continent, which makes complete eradication impossible. It will be a bit tricky to target just the lizards, but we do have a package where we take a native virus and genetically engineer it to selectively target the unwanted species. It's a bit costly though, about 4 days." "That's a little steep for me..." "Well, for 2 days we can seed the super-volcanoes on your planet to simultaneously trigger, and create a small cove for the intended species to shelter during the storm. Very distressing, but effective." "It's interested... but I've already spent 6 days putting this planet together, and I have plans for the future for some of my hours..." "Well sir, how about we see what your budget is and we can go from there?" "I have about 3 hours." A tense silence on the other end of the line... "...sir, for 3 hours we can chuck a rock at your planet and hope for the best." "Sounds good.


Ever since man invented the wheel the animal kingdom had a hard time adjusting When cars were invented animals had to learn to avoid them…many failed. Then in the spring of 1985 a squirrel named Bert Beckerman got an idea He would make this killer of all animals – the most extreme sport of all time Here is how it goes Bert would mark a line in the road where the car would pass through. He would then draw a line for the starting point. When the car would pass through the first line, you would know when to start. The quickest you can get to the other side without being squashed was the time to beat. If you got hit or stopped halfway you lost Bert cleverly called the sport “Running” and started telling everyone First it was just Squirrels but then Opossums, Raccoons even Deer started playing Some would make it across, and some, well some wouldn’t make it past the first tire. But it seemed everyone wanted to at least try Running and the sport took off Bert was at the head of it all. He made “official races” on Saturday afternoons, the crowds would form on both sides of the road, and the lines were painted in white. When the spotter saw a car coming down the road he would signal and the crowd would duck, once the car got passed the first line the racer would start running. Now most Runners used the 25 foot rule, 25 feet in between the lines, this way you have enough time to make it across but not enough time to mess up. Bert was different; being the pioneer of the sport he always tried to push the limits. He was the face of Running and let’s just say Bert was Bert’s worst enemy. Being in the spotlight, Bert could have his pick of the ladies, they would line up to see him train, flock to his appearances and would always fill the crowd to see him race. Burt knew it too and would show off at any chance he could. After each win, he would run into the crowd and give one lucky lady a kiss on the cheek They would cheer so loud you could hear it for miles. Burt completed his 23 foot run in mid July As he ran out to the crowd for the kiss one particular girl caught his eye Her name was Nancy Higgins and she was one of the most beautiful squirrels around As soon as their eyes met it was love at first site. Burt did everything he could to make that kiss land on only one girl’s cheek. And from that day forward every kiss from Burt was saved for Nancy It wasn’t long until Nancy Higgins became Mrs. Nancy Beckerman In the prime of his career Bert was not only the leader in the sport he created but a husband to an amazing wife. After a short while Bert became a father too James Joseph Beckerman (Jimmy for short) was born during the finals of the Running season. Bert was planning on beating his record of 23 feet by attempting a 21 foot run. No animal had survived in the past but Bert was determined. The date was set and the preparations were underway. On the day of the run Jimmy and Nancy were stationed right in the front of the crowd. Jimmy was only a baby then sleeping in his mother’s arms. Even the noise of the crowd didn’t wake him. They called Burt’s name up to the line and the crowd cheered. As Burt stood at the starting line and a squirrel walked up to him and said “ Could you do 20?” And without even thinking about it the word that came out of Burt’s mouth was “Yes” “Move the line up!” Said the squirrel “He’s going for 20!” The crowd cheered even louder “20! 20! 20!” Nancy was horrified but there was nothing she could do The line was set and the crowd stood back under the brush. Bert stepped up to the street and a drip of sweat slowly made its way down his face. His eyes focused on the horizon as a car quickly came near Burt takes a deep breath and one last look at Nancy and Jimmy in the crowd The car hits the mark and Burt is off and running but it’s coming too fast The driver is unaware of anything happening and hits the gas to save time on his commute Burt only gets halfway across when he realizes he can’t make it and he quickly tries to turn around The crowd gasps as Nancy covers Jimmy’s already closed eyes The driver notices the squirrel and tries to stop but it’s too late. Bert was buried in the grass by the spot where the accident occurred. The Running world was rocked, having lost their creator and face of the sport. Running groups disbanded and deemed too dangerous. Sponsorships where pulled and the sport of running died right along side of Bert. Nancy vowed to never tell Jimmy about Running or what really happened to his father. She packed up all of Bert’s awards, posters and trophies and put them into the attic and told Jimmy that Bert had gone away and would not be returning. Nancy wanted to make sure he knew nothing about Running because she couldn’t bear to lose another loved one to the sport but years went by and Jimmy grew up quick. The newspaper article on Running making a comeback landed on Nancy’s doorstep in June. Turns out a few Deer in Connecticut started a club and vowed to bring the sport back. Nancy was horrified at this because she knew eventually Bert’s legacy would be revealed to her son. She quickly scooped up the paper and threw it right out. Nancy wanted to do everything she could to keep Jimmy away. It wasn’t until mid July when Jimmy and his friends were playing in the woods did they come upon a campsite. The man at the campsite was fast asleep but in front of him was a portable TV. The squirrel kids crept up towards the TV and started to watch. “The number of road kill has doubled since summer started, it seems the animals are just trying to get run-over. The numbers haven’t been this high since the 80’s. Here is footage obtained from a highway cam in New York” “Why are they doing that?” asked Jimmy “My brother said its called running or something. Some crazy new sport, I bet you’d be good at that” said Jimmy’s friend “You know I probably would..” thought Jimmy “ I’m faster than any of those animals” and he was. The man slowly woke up and the animals scatter. A few days later Jimmy and his friends were kicking around a nut when one of the boys accidentally hit it towards the street. “I’ll get it!” said Jimmy as he ran up to the pavement. A car flew past him and the wind almost knocked him of his feet. “Don’t ever go in the road” he can hear his mother saying. “Actually.. maybe I shouldn’t” he said nervously to his friends. “Come on Jimmy, it’s like that running sport, you said you’d be good at it!” He stepped up to the street and watched as another car came speeding past. Starting to shake Jimmy looks back and sees his group of friends cheering him on. “Jimmy! Jimmy!” He sees a car coming up on the horizon, he hesitates for a second as the car get’s closer. “Go!” one of the boys yells and Jimmy was off. The other kids had never seen someone run as fast as he did, not only did he run across one side of the road but he managed to continue to the other side nearly missing a southbound car. When he got to the end of the street Jimmy kept on running. It wasn’t until a mighty oak tree put the brakes on him. Jimmy’s heart was pounding; he had a rush in his body that he had never felt before. “This is what the runners must feel like” he thought in between breaths “I could do this! I can be a runner!” He came home with a few scratches and Nancy asked what had happened. Jimmy told her about his run and Nancy’s heart dropped. “Get to your room and never come out!” She yelled. “But Mom why?” “ Get to your room! Don’t ever go near a street again!” Jimmy ran to his room and started to cry. He didn’t understand why his mother had yelled at him as she did. He didn’t understand what was so bad when he had felt so good afterwards. Nancy laid down a strict punishment to Jimmy but never told him the reasons behind it. Weeks past and Jimmy found himself wanting that rush more and more. Rain came down hard the next day which forced Jimmy inside. After a few meaningless activities he decided to explore his home. First he hit the basement, flashlight and all. Under a few boxes he found a pair of sneakers labeled “Bert” he thought nothing of it. He then snuck up into the attic. With flashlight in hand Jimmy started going through old boxes and chests that were now covered in dust. He was a pirate and he looking for his gold. One box stood out, it was large and had a tiny heart drawn on the top. Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. He started pulling out picture after picture, trophy after trophy, articles about Bert Bekerman being the fastest runner of all time. The he found a video tape that was labeled “20 foot run” it was the news cast of the race and he quickly put into the tv nearby and hit play. This was the first time Jimmy saw Bert. His jaw dropped. The newscast had a reel of Bert at his best, sliding by tires, leaving dust clouds as he would take off, his famous decent into the crowd after each victory. Then the beginning of Bert’s last race came on, Jimmy felt that rush in his belly again. It wasn’t until the light went on that Jimmy realized his mom was standing right there. “What are you doing Jimmy? Put that down! Turn that off!” “But Mom! I can do that! I’m really fast, I could be a champion just like dad!” “Don’t ever say that!” His mom yelled “You will never be like your father! You will never be a runner! Never!” Jimmy ran out of the room and Nancy gathered up the contents of the box and packed them onto her back. She came downstairs and walked out of the house. As soon as he hit his bed the tears flowed from his eyes. He had seen his father for the first time, in the sport he created. He had seen the glory and he had seen the fame. All he could think about now was how he wanted to be just like dad. It was September when Jimmy came upon a flyer in the woods. It talked about a local Running competition in October. All animals were invited to participate and the grand prize was huge. Jimmy knew it was wrong, he knew he would get in trouble if he was to participate but he also knew he’d win. He took the flyer, brought it home, filled out the information and put it in the mail on the way to school the next morning. He was determined. The day of the race was coming up fast and Jimmy knew he would need practice. He would walk away from his friends and Run, he would sneak out at night and Run. He would attempt to Run whenever he could get out of site of anyone. He was good at it, damn good. The day of the race the animals gathered. There was many different kinds, all thinking they were the best. The line was set and one by one the animals would attempt the 25 foot Run. Some made it through, some stopped in the middle and one attempt finished with an arm getting stuck under the last tire but the animal was still alive. They called Jimmy’s name. The announcer stopped when he read the last name. “ Is this possibly the son of Bert?” All eyes zoomed in on Jimmy. It was at this moment that Nancy, while flipping through the channels, saw her son on a local broadcast. “Noooo!” She screamed and ran out of the house towards the competition “Is that Bert’s kid?” “Oh my god is it?” the crowd continued to say An old squirrel walked up to Jimmy. “Are you really Bert’s son?” he said “Yes sir” Said Jimmy “Are you here to break your dad’s record?” Said the old Squirrel It was at that moment that the words “yes” came out of Jimmy’s mouth. Jimmy didn’t recall putting the words there but that is what came out. “Move the line up!” Yelled the old squirrel “This is the son of Bert Bekhiman the greatest Runner of all time” The workers ran to the line and brought it forward “Good luck” said the old man as he walked away from the street. “Runner Ready!” Everything had happened so fast that Jimmy couldn’t even think about the dangers of what he had just done. He stepped up to the street and watched as cars zipped past him. “Runner set!” Jimmy could hear in the distance a familiar voice “Jimmy no!” That feeling hit his stomach again and a drip of sweat slowly made its way down his face “Runner go!” Jimmy saw the car hit the line and he knew it was now or never. He began to run but his little foot slipped on the dirt costing him seconds of time. Jimmy got passed the first tire and in an attempt to reach the second he jumped. The crowd gasped, Nancy finally makes it to the street. Jimmy’s lifeless body rolls onto the median, his tail still sitting where the tire made contact. “Nooooo!” Nancy yelled as the crowd went silent. Visions of Bert rushed through her head as she ran to the street to get her son. The crowd bows their heads. Nancy makes it up to her son and then falls to her knees. Jimmy picks his head up from the grass and whispers “Mommy?” “Yes Jimmy! It’s me!” Nancy cries. Jimmy’s looks into Nancy’s eyes and says… “I did it” The tears flowed from Nancy’s face as she wrapped her arms around her son “You did Jimmy, You did” Once the crowd realized he was alive they cheered so loud you could hear it for miles. Still to this day Jimmy’s 20 foot run has never been beaten. Even you may come upon animals attempting to break the record. Out of nowhere they dash in front of your car and don’t give you time to react. Just stay straight and don’t hit the gas, you may be helping the next star of the most extreme sport in the animal kingdom - Running.


Crowding the gateway edge of the town's graveyard five boys peered inside at a sixth, larger boy, picking weeds around the stones. They watched with petty, angry, eyes as he moved with a languid grace, his hunched form strange and his dull eyes gray like the overcast. Darius was coming though, they knew, to put an end to this overgrown freak-show and hopefully drive him right out of town. They'd have done it themselves, they'd all agreed nodding, but it was much easier to let Darius do it. He was a mage's son after all, and already trained in fire magic. The magic of war. 'There he is!” One of the smaller boys hissed, pointing as the blond boy approached from behind them. “Sush up, idiot!” Another boy whispered with a jab. “Or Saed will hear us and know who's coming!” There was the smoke-like silence that drift through the cemetery as Darius approached. It twist round statues and smoothed down the grass. Spring had just recently taken root and so the budding greens were still mixed with sodden browns. Saed moved onto the next statue while they watched, his rough hands dragging a wheel barrel without delicacy. The noise it made seemed the only valid sound across the whole grounds. The birds agreed in silence. At the gateway, like parting the seas, Darius strode between the gang of boys without so much as a nod, his novice robe, red as flame, licked the air above the ground as it billowed in the soft wind. The boys were uncharacteristically quiet as he walked past, each taking their turns examining the academy insignia wrought across the back of his robe: a blackened dragon's talon that seemed to emanate its own heat, a warm gust of wind dissipating as the young mage got further away. Grins crept up onto the boys faces as they watched Darius stride towards Saed. The freak was as good as gone this time. Moments later, unnoticed, Darius stopped just a couple feet before the gangly gravekeeper and paused to pat down his shirt, then readjusted his gloves. A fire was building in his chest as he stared down disdainfully at the peasant. He spoke abruptly with a thunder. “What are you still doing here Saed? Is it not clear the town wants you gone? Do I have to make our opinion more obvious?” He attempted to crack his knuckles. “More.. substantial?” The last word came out slow, Darius' grin spreading as he said it. When he was done his speech Saed finally turned around to address him, standing up... and up. The grungy gravekeeper was somehow at least a foot taller despite the two's identical ages. Instinctively a small fire lit at the tips of Darius' casting hand. He decided not to hide it. Yeah? And if I dont you're going to what?” Saed replied casually, obviously not understanding the gravity of the situation. He spit out some sort of plant stock out before continuing, “spittle your fire over me like a scared little Breye? Call your daddy on me because I was mean to you?” He turned back around with a grin, dismissing Darius like a pet before pulling out some more weeds. “Fuck off Darius, I have a job. Unlike you.” If there was ever a time where Darius was more angry he could not fathom it. His voice cracked as he all the sudden shout. “I'm not some fucking useless Br-eye, you low class garbage! You think all I can do is just spittle fire!? You want to find out what I can *really* do?!” The other boys broke into a sprint across the pitch , Saed at the same time sprung to his feet horrified as he turned, watching as Darius begin to weave fire between his fingers like string, his hands shaking feverishly in anger. “Darius wait! Stop!” someone shouted. **** Seconds later Darius jut out his fingers and the strings melded into a hellish portal, a javelin of orange flame firing from inside the light with such force as to buckle the teen's wrists! The projectile whined like a shrieking star as it shot just feet from Saed's head and exploded into a headstone to their left. Rock, dirt and searing wind threw the two boys to the ground, moans and groans of agony soon followed. Groggily, Darius shook his head as he tried to gather himself. Mentally, he was stunned out of anger and thrown into a ruinous satisfaction. Never before had he truly unleashed what he knew! For what he knew... he wasnt supposed to know. Stolen lessons from his father's texts and overheard conversations, the masters had refused to teach him anymore than what his age allowed, and yet somehow he had learned. A smile folded up the corners of his mouth as he repeat the phrase in his head. *Yet somehow I have learned.* He was going to be great he decided. Powerful. Slowly the young adept eagerly opened his eyes, ready to view his destruction first hand and be judge to his own awesome power. When he finally did open his eyes, however, instead of beautiful destruction he found a large humanoid mass atop him in the dust. And it growled. *Wack!* Waving the cloud out of his face, Saed looked down on the pompous brat with disgust. He contemplated giving him a couple extra punches for good measure but what was about to happen would be punishment enough, he thought. Using dangerous magics against an Unfound causing... this? Darius was about to be stricken of all academy rights, expelled from the school and forbidden from learning any more magic. His whole life was about to be destroyed. There could be no conceivable defense for coming into the graveyard and nearly killing its caretaker. The smoke refused to dissipate though, as the leaden wind slid slowly across the grounds, Saed still in debate as he sat over the boy's limp form. He squint then, trying to get a better look Darius' face, and subtly shook his head. He was smiling, the son-of-a-bitch was smiling! It was at moment that Saed knew Darius was somehow going to get out of this. With his father's connections or sheer weight of coin, he was going to get out of this. And so with his huge fists Saed gave him another punch. Debris was dangerous after all.


“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! To anyone that can hear me, this is Isaac Jameson, the only surviving crew member of the mining vessel Akanu 3! The ship’s engine room caught fire following a micrometeoroid shower and we were forced to land! The engine room exploded shortly after and left a large hull breach! I am stuck on the Pallas asteroid and unable to leave! The other two on board were killed in the explosion! Please respond!” I sent the mayday call and waited nervously for a response. I knew it would take about ten minutes for the signal to reach Mars and another ten for a response to get back. It took twenty-two minutes to get a response. It came from mission control at the Akanu mining headquarters, the company I worked for. They told me a rescue would take about three months to organize and carry out, and that I should check to make sure that the life support systems still worked. I double checked my mining suit for any holes and pressed the button to open the door to the life support room. I found that the life support room was completely unharmed and I turned off the air to the engine room so I wouldn’t lose any more oxygen through the hole in the hull. I realized that I was going to be stuck on Pallas, so I went back into the reactor control room and tried to get the fusion reactor to start again. While I worked I thought about my previous job. ● ● ● I came to Mars on an Ares mining shuttle back in 2183. Ares was the largest and most successful mining company on Mars. Ares paid its miners well, so I decided to get a four year contract job working as a drill operator in the Denning crater mines. Those four years were easily the worst of my life. Life in the mines was miserable. You got up every day, put on your uniform, and had breakfast at the mess hall. After breakfast, you went to the airlocks and put on your pressurized mining suit. Every suit had a twenty-four hour supply of oxygen and a radio. The only way you could talk to others was by using the radio because the air was too thin for sound and the radios were unreliable at best. I don’t know what it was about those radios that made them break so easily. Half the time my radio refused to work because of a loose wire or something, so if I ever needed to tell someone something it was hard for me to know if he had actually heard me. Not to mention it was unbearably hot in the mines and the suit’s cooling system barely worked, so I spent nine hours each day drenched in my own sweat, chipping away at rock walls. In fact, I remember one of the miners in the D2 mineshaft actually died of a heatstroke during my first month of work. They made a big deal about it on the news but Ares didn’t do anything about it. At the end of my shift, I had to walk for a good twenty minutes to get to the airlock before I could take my suit off, and by then I would be practically starved and dying of thirst because it was impossible to eat or drink while I was in my suit. My favorite part about working in the Denning mines was always when I got to stop working. They served us a ton of food after we got back from the mines in the mess hall, but none of it ever tasted particularly good unless it was taco night. There were five mines at Denning. There was the old, closed down D1 mineshaft, then there was the D2 mineshaft, which went down into Mars at a 45° angle. All of the excavation in the D3 mineshaft had to be done with explosives because the rock was too hard to use a drill. I worked in the D4 mineshaft, which was the safest out of the five. The D5 mine was brand new when I started working and the tunnels were not yet wide enough for the big mining equipment to fit yet so everyone that worked there had to mine out the walls by hand with jackhammers and shovels. Miners would always talk about problems they had in the other mines. They said the D2 mine was too hot, the D3 mine was too prone to cave-ins, and the D5 mine was too narrow. Noone really ever complained that much about D4, but it was still bad. I was planning to get another four year contract with Ares when I was nearing the end of my current one, not because I liked working there but because the salary was so high. I was going to renew my contract but then people started to get transferred from the Denning mines to the Cassini crater mines up north. All of the miners that came from Cassini told stories of the place. The Cassini mines were the worst place to be assigned on all of Mars. Cassini was home to the infamous C1 mine. On June 25, 2181, the Cassini colony was devastated by a magnitude 6.2 marsquake. The C1 mine was the only mine at Cassini that remained operational, and it was none too stable. I probably saw somewhere around seven different news stories about massive cave-ins at the C1 mine during my four year stay at the Denning mines. There was no way that I was ever going to the Cassini mines but I doubted I would ever be able to find work elsewhere on Mars. The Ares mining company paid for the shuttle ticket to Mars for all of its employees, but once your contract expired, they didn’t pay for the ticket back to Earth. I guess I was expected to save up eight months worth of pay to be able to afford a shuttle ticket back. If my wife hadn’t lost her job then I wouldn’t have had to worry about sending her almost every penny I made. I didn’t want to quit my job at Ares because I needed to support my wife. I needed to make sure I could find a job that paid more than Ares did so that I would be able to save up enough money to get off Mars and head back to Earth. I spent most of my time in the barracks searching for a job with the small laptop Ares issued me. I figured having experience at Ares might help me get a job working for another mining company. I checked but I couldn’t find anything on Mars that paid better and that I qualified for. I eventually found an opening at a company called Akanu mining. The company had only been in operation for three years but if I was able to get the job I would make three times as much as I did working for Ares! They needed people that had experience working with mining equipment on either Mars or The Moon. I did some more research on the company and found out that it already had two spacecraft that were able to pull up right next to an asteroid and use a robotic scoop to grab chunks of rock that would be knocked loose during a mining operation. It actually looked like I had a fair chance of getting the job so I applied immediately. It only took two days for me to get a reply. I went in for an interview and was hired on the spot. Apparently, they were having a hard time finding qualified people that were willing to go to the asteroid belt. They put me in as part of a crew of three. I was going to be working with Richard Higgs, an engineering technician and Joseph Dewalt, a former commercial shuttle pilot. We were going to fly to the Pallas asteroid in the asteroid belt and start a mining operation there. The trip took three months. During that flight, I mostly did small maintenance tasks on the ship and made sure the life support systems were running like they were supposed to. Richard was in charge of making sure the ship’s onboard fusion reactor and engines stayed running. Joseph was in charge of making small adjustments to the ship’s speed and trajectory. We all watched movies and read books in our spare time. The three months went by quickly and we were just about to land on Pallas when we started getting pelted by micrometeoroids. Most of them were too small to do any harm and bounced harmlessly off the ship’s hull. The engine was the only part on the ship that was vulnerable because it didn’t have any hull plating, unlike the rest of the ship. It got hit a couple of times and the coolant system must have failed because a fire started in the engine room. Joseph managed to land on Pallas using the secondary boosters and told me to cut oxygen to the engine room so that the fire would burn out. He went with Richard to the airlock where we kept our space suits. They put their suits on so that they could breathe in the engine room that was at that point, running out of oxygen and full of smoke. I’m not sure what went wrong but after they went into the engine room there was this loud explosion. I honestly don’t know what caused it. The fuel tank must have ruptured or something. ● ● ● I messed around with the fusion reactor for almost an hour before getting frustrated with it and giving up. If Richard were here, he would have had it running by now. Richard was always good with stuff like this… But now I was all alone on an asteroid with the closest civilization three months away. I still needed a way to keep the life support system powered and the ship’s batteries were running low. I went back into the cockpit and found the controls to the solar panels that were on the ship. I rotated them to face the sun and the ship’s batteries started to charge up. I would have to re-orient the solar panels every couple of days to keep them trained on the sun, but it looked like I was getting enough power out of them. I had plenty of food. The ship was still stocked with enough food to feed three people for four months if it was rationed out. Now that I was the only person left on the ship, I had enough food to not have to worry about rationing it out. I had plenty of food, water, and oxygen to last me until rescue came. I had a lot of everything, but most of all I had a lot of time. I had three months to kill before I was rescued and I honestly had no idea what I should do to pass the time. The only productive thing I could do would be to attempt to mine out a small section of the asteroid and verify that it actually contained valuable minerals. Pallas was expected to contain large amounts of platinum and chromium but there was only one way to make sure. I put on my suit and got the mining equipment ready. I double checked my suit and moved into the airlock, holding a jackhammer. I was going to look for anything valuable. I had to run a tether from my suit to the ship to make sure I wouldn’t float off into space. My suit also had boots that resembled very large cleats that I would have to use to anchor myself to the surface of Pallas. I pressed the button to cycle the airlock and pushed by boots into the ground. I walked out about ten yards from the airlock door and started up the jackhammer I was holding. I started chipping away at the rock and bits of it flew off into space. I went down about four feet and noticed something shiny. I wasn’t sure what it was so I dug down a little deeper and caught one of the chunks as it flew past me. I looked at it closely and realized that it was extremely high-grade chromite, an ore of the metal chromium. This was a huge discovery! I had been able to prove the existence of chromium on Pallas within the first ten minutes of digging. I started making plans on how to dig out more of the stuff as I made my way back to the airlock. When I got back inside the ship I went straight to the cockpit and radioed to Akanu. I told mission control that I was alright and that I could easily survive the three months it would take them to rescue me. I also told them that I found chromite and was planning on mining out more of it to bring with me when I was rescued. It took twenty-two minutes for a response again. They told me that they were not expecting me to still try to do my job. They said that I could bring back whatever I dug up and they would pay me a large share of the profit. I could probably mine out enough chromium from Pallas in three months to get a shuttle back to Earth and be set for life. I wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again. Until then, I’m stuck on this rock with nothing to do but dig.


The western world didn't end with a bang or even a clamor. It was a quiet death that allowed people to get comfortable with it before it really happened. As with anyone who watches someone pass from a prolonged illness, there's almost a sense of grip and letting go days before the end. For the world, the gripping motion tore most of the modern countries apart. All manner of national law, trade agreements, and human decency seemed to be up for grabs. Larger governments failed to keep their power leaving cities to cite pre-industrial days, building walls and restricting movement. It seemed everyone was convinced their neighbor would not be their salvation but their enemy in the days to come, and most stockpiled in the way you'd expect. There was a run on banks, grocery stores, gun and ammunition ranges, and oddly, libraries. It seemed information was finally more important than the risk of overdue fines. There were millions of suicides. Almost as if the media had a single order from the top, the news began explaining how the catastrophe predicted by science wouldn't be as bad as previously theorized. The news anchors tried old tactics of distraction, focusing attention on inane celebrity lives and feel good stories of families who stuck together through tragedy. It didn't work. The suicides continued and the population of the world was cut by two thirds, in the modest estimations. It wasn't just self-harm though. Humanity can do amazing and terrible things in the same breath. Whole towns that decided to create a stockpile system for citizens would be overrun by a few, taking everything with them after ending any chance of retribution. I wept when I heard of the first like this. By the seventh city massacre, I was no longer interested in how the outside world was collapsing. I looked inwardly and began to plan. I was near enough to adolescence that I understood what might happen. What had already occurred would not be the worst of it. No one took the time to explain to me what I should be preparing for but I'd seen enough movies to know to be ready for zombies or (more likely) the collapse of society. I didn't let the transition to godless barbarians rip my family apart. I decided to walk away first. I'd never been close with my mother or father. They weren't close themselves so when Dad unlocked the gun cabinet and allowed each of us to choose our own, it seemed best to take the gift and go. I'll never know what the actual plan was or if Dad had even had one. If the world was going to end, I wasn't about to let the last conversations of my life to be arguments concerning what was and wasn't any longer. I don't know if they looked for me. I know I didn't look back. As I was packing my stuff the night my father had given me the gun, I realized that most of what I had would be useless in a hard world. I looked around and settled with the basics. There were items that I would need on the way and I began to enter them on my phone. Realizing how stupid it was to depend on tech that would give up in the next few days, I put my phone in my 'maybe' pile. In the end the only personal item I packed was a piece of glass cut to make rainbows. My grandmother had given it to me before she'd passed. As she put it in my palm, she told a story about how your loved ones can visit on rainbows when you see them. It may have been a child's reasoning, but I was a child. The first of millions about to take on their own independence and I clung to any idea that I would not be alone. The dissonance of actively leaving my family but hanging onto a spun tale about dead relatives visiting is clear to me now. It was the end of the world and I don't blame myself for holding onto it. In fact, I hang it every night before I go to sleep, so when I wake up I can say hello to everyone I loved. It works. The first few months were harder than I expected. Despite my decision to strike out on my own, I wasn't ready to go feral from the start. I lost my pack and all my belongings three times before I gave up my attachment to things. The first and second beat downs, I fought. I found my instinct to hold onto what was mine hard to break even when the second batch had been cobbled together from remnants of houses left to rot. The third time I still lost my items I didn't fight as vehemently and was mostly bruised due to insolence. The fourth time I didn't fight at all. When it was clear they were more willing to harm than I was, I dropped my bag and walked away. I kept my hat that time. My rainbow-catcher had long since been hidden away, embarrassingly, inside me. There was no pocket I could guarantee safe passage for something so precious. So I'd stuck it the one place it would be worse for someone to steal than the rainbow-catcher. That first year, I celebrated my 15th birthday over a fire with a can of beans. They were delicious. I developed a routine. I'd scout each new area for a day, darting around until I found the best and most vacant looking house to sleep in. I was aided by a taboo that began when suicides became common. While humanity fell apart for the living, those who'd left this world brought back superstition in the extreme. No one raided the house of someone who'd killed themselves. It just wasn't done. It was likely this habit, rather than all the other less than angelic ones I developed, that made me notorious. I didn't see the dead as the rest of the living did. I knew the spirits were gone and the only way they could visit was on a rainbow. I'd put my catcher up in the house at night and stay until I saw a rainbow. You'd think this was only on sunny days but rainbows are everywhere. When I finally saw one, I took it as the spirit's blessing and allowed myself to resupply. After another night of sleep I would move on. My education hadn't been fully executed at the time of the collapse. I took it upon myself to learn from any books on useful topics in the houses I slept in. These I kept with or without a spirit's blessing. Admittedly those books were the hardest things to lose. I developed the ability to speed read and an extremely good memory. I started with an emphasis on science hoping to learn things that might help when I was a bloody pulp. It wasn't until I found an A-Z herbal remedy book that I started to learn anything useful. With that new knowledge I was able to scavenge herbs with confidence, finding bottles to keep them in. I would work on my medicine cloak at night when it was too dark to ready by firelight. The cloak was red and was full of pockets. It was first item of red I began to wear regularly, inspired by a favourite story I'd read before the collapse. These were good times. There were bad and terrible nights. Nights when food and fire were scarce. I couldn't always find the kind of home I preferred to sleep in. In my travels I found a pop-up tent, the kind you get for an over-privileged child. That was freedom itself and I slept in nature with delight. Eventually, as all things seemed to, my tent and other items were lost to a bastard who was stronger and meaner than I was. I knew my life was more important than what I could scavenge. The benefit of living in a world of such previous consumption was that there would be surplus of items for years, if you kept moving as I did. I let the tent go and went back to living in houses of suicide victims. As I traveled I kept a specific checklist for scavenging. I wasn't picky but I did become particular. If I found an item in better state than I had, I would lose the first and keep the second. I kept my eye out for tent supplies as I could. After creating my cloak I found my favorite color of clothing was red. I decided it would be the only color I wore when I found a collection of Deadpool comics. His assertion that it made him a better fighter was enough for me. I'd take whatever red clothing, male or female, from the closets of those blessed houses. I didn't wash clothing, just threw it out when it became to unbearable to continue wearing it. My cloak was the only thing I washed on a regular basis. This was more to ensure my herbal supplies weren't ever exposed to anything deadly than a preference for being clean. The red and natural smell made me feel like a poison dart frog, just rank enough to be left alone unless my attacker was truly desperate. There'd only been a few times when I'd been attractive enough for someone to try at taking my rainbow-maker. The first time it saved me. As they entered my virginity, they were not gentle and rammed themselves so hard there was an audible snap. My attacker was so wracked with pain it allowed me to curb-stomp his nose in and run away, with my pack and virginity mostly intact. The second time I was not so lucky. The woman had fooled me into having a cup of tea at her fire. She'd been quick with the leaf and before I recognized the strong sip of valerian, a powerful sleeping drug, she was on me. She found my rainbow-catcher and removed it deftly, flinging it and its leather cord into the fire. Once she'd satisfied herself, she took all my belongings and left me with only rags of clothing. It was difficult to move the next day and it wasn't until the evening that I had the strength to search through the ash of the fire for the glass. The rainbow-catcher cleaned up. I took longer to physically and mentally recover. That attack was the only time I'd ever regretting not replacing the gun my father had given me. After this, I wanted to be stronger and knew I needed to develop my muscles. Abandoned gyms were everywhere so I took a break from my endless journey and searched for an appropriate gym. While there were a myriad of choices within the small town I'd stumbled through, most were occupied by gangs. I set up camp in a 24/7 Fitness Center that had a locking mechanism left in the closed position during the collapse. Evidently no one had enough reason to break in and as a result the place been left unmolested. I spent the day working out how to get onto the building's roof and muddled my way through air vents until I was inside. Snug as bug, I settled into a workout routine three times a day. When you have little else to do but physical training and reading, you get strong quickly. A smoothie bar within the gym had stocked dehydrated fruit preserves that left me with better food than I'd had in some time. I was there for a month and subsisted on orange concentrate, protein mixes, and power bars. All in all, my newfound strength was the smaller prize considering the safety I enjoyed while living there. I dubbed it my 24/7 Fortress. I marked my mental map in case I ever had a desire to repeat my stay or found another like it. There was a small chance but it was enough to leave a happy mark on my memory. With the decreased population, wanderers were a rarity. I would stay on the outskirts of towns and mostly preyed on vacant suburbs. Sometimes you'd run into people to trade with but I kept my interactions to a minimum. As that first year turned into the second, towns began to recover and society returned in some measure. Communities grew around gardens. Villages were cobbled together in city centers and farming areas alike. Rarely shunned but always treated as the outsider I was, I was happy enough to pass through quietly. My red clothing was loud enough to mark me and when I began to hear questioning rumbles about who I could be, I left immediately. My herb knowledge became more useful when I exposed myself to others. When I finally knew enough to fill a book, I would transpose what I'd learned from stolen library tomes and through experience into scavenged notebooks. If I was treated kindly I would leave this with whomever seemed to be in charge of medicines in the village. It was easy enough to create a new one and I didn't require a written reference. I earned my first nickname of the Red Doctor by doing this a number of times. Villagers began to seek me out as I travelled. I would cure and treat what I could before insisting I needed to move on. These were also good times. It wasn't until items in the world became scarce that I earned the name that stuck. I'd never had that sense of superstition for the dead as others had and when I stayed freshly clothed and fed when others were struggling, some saw me as the worst kind of thief. As I walked the struggling hamlets, I would hear my name rippling through their grapevine. They would quietly cluck that the Red Bandit had arrived. This set the stage for my finest and darkest times.


Light settled within my sight as I stepped towards the dying glow of a fire. I watched the flames’ sparks flutter into the sky in desperate attempts to escape their fate, before perishing in the abyssal darkness. Collapsed afore the blaze, I could feel the menacing pain of an arrow lodged betwixt my ribs. I winced as I pulled it from the hole it tore through my torso; but my long journey taught me well enough that pain was only a reminder that I still lived. As I wrapped a cold, weathered bandage underneath the blue fabric of my tunic, I reflected upon the odyssey that dragged me to where I was now. I began as we all did: a hopeful warrior called upon by the blight the Dark Goddess had laid over us. People’s minds would fall apart to reveal a core scorched by despair and madness, leaving only husks that would march these lands in ravenous rage. They dotted my seemingly endless road with death and ruin; shifting my hope from success to survival. But in spite of the horrors I witnessed or the torment I endured, I recognized that turning back was no viable option. Because with each reluctant step forward that I made, the world took one step backwards into irreversible destruction. Now, my track of bloodied footprints had arrived at their finish line. Arrived at this skeleton of what may have once been a great watchtower, but now stood only as a cage to trap the light of a dimming fire. Alas, with what little strength I had been allowed to scavenge, I trudged into the black obscurity. With vision barely adjusted, I could identify the hundreds of corpses of those that reached this place before me. I knew I wasn’t the first, but I hoped I’d be the last. Though the word "hope" itself was only a stranger to me now. But, I had no time to argue with my own thoughts, as the path of bodies had diverged into a tremendous throne room. Amidst the thick shrouds of darkness that layered the air, I could discern an immense figure sitting atop a throne of shattered armor and weapons. Her very silhouette had replaced any true, human-like form that perhaps she once donned. She slowly stood up, exposing an enormous dark blade that lie in place of her forearm. Realizing the threat that was approaching, I grasped the hilt of my sword and swung it from its sheath. My blade arced towards her rushing form, but met no physical resistance. The battle-worn weapon simply passed through the shadows of her towering presence as if she were darkness itself. I froze in a moment of shock, then found myself looking into the lifeless eye sockets of her gaunt face above me. Without warning, I felt a frigid force pierce my chest and I was heaved backwards. Greeted with the uncomfortable cushion of the ones who came before me, blood began to permeate my tunic and pool beneath me. And with that, I was given my final taste of the feeling of being alive… I walk forward, facing down the dark that would dare try to keep me from finding my path’s end. With each step I take, I can see more and more bodies bereft of life. Each one defines themselves with a different armor or different tabard; but inside them, they all carry the burden of a quest failed. Just before entering what I believe to be a large room, I look down to see a warrior, clad in blue, lying inert and painted with the dried blood of defeat. I know I’m not the first to enter this place, but I hope to be the last.


Chapter 1 2001: I pushed open the heavy door to her room, mostly white, with an ugly pink wall. A TV surveilled us from its perch. She was under a single white sheet, mouth draped open, in a half dream, her bare feet out in the air. She had a mitten covering one hand. It was tied to the bed rail. The silence was thick. "Hey Mom." I touched her arm. "Oh..." She paused and looked toward me, sort of a blank stare. Her gaze passed over my shoulder. "Johnny Pie Pie.” Her words were just above a whisper. "I've been working.” She coughed and shifted in bed. Her mouth sort of formed circles as if she were smoking. Over and over, she looked off into the distance and smoked imaginary cigarettes. "Now everyone comes to visit," she sighed, "They’re afraid I’ll die", she said with a satisfying grin. "Yeah, they feel guilty.... Ha!" "Nangana." she looked away. "John Travolta was here." knowing I wouldn't believe her. "What? John Travolta?" I paused. "Nah... I think it was just someone who looks like John Travolta." "Oh no, no... No, it was John Travolta". The nurses were talking to him." "Wow, so what was he doing here?" "How should I know?" "Was he a patient, or visiting someone?” "Well he didn't come to see me". We both laughed, and then were silent for while, observing each other, glancing at the TV. She kept on smoking those imaginary cigarettes and looking off into space. Then she looked directly at me, and paused. She sighed, and asked, "How did I get here?" "Well mom... ", I paused, "you had a stroke." She was quiet, looking up, out toward the small window. She nodded a little. I knew it wasn't the answer she wanted. She wanted more but I couldn't give it. All I could come up with was, "you had a stroke". What a stupid answer. Surely she knew she had a stroke, but what was she asking? Then I remembered that she asked me that question before, "How did I get here?" The first time she asked that question was a long time ago. It brought back a very specific memory of something I had long forgotten. 1963: When I was a kid it was easy to skip school. I didn't even have to pretend to be sick. Every once in a while staying home was more important than going to school. I guess I had more sick days than most kids but that didn’t bother me. I knew I had to go to school but in my own little brain I knew that home was more important than school. All I had to do was stay in bed, and when Mom came to check on me, it was easy! “I don’t feel like going to school today”. “What wrong Johnny?” she touched my shoulder. “Okay, stay with me today then.” It was as easy as that. No pretending, no faking a stomach ache like my friends had to do. All I had to say was “I don’t feel like it” and that was it – a day off. A whole day away from all the little nastiness that happens in primary school. Mom knew I didn’t need to be sick to spend a day with her, she wanted company. So I waited in bed until the house was quiet, until everyone had gone, and then when I heard her alone in the kitchen I jumped up and headed straight out the front door. It was already hot outside. The street was empty and dry, and silent. The air was hot, and moved in from Mr. Duke's pasture, bringing with it the fragrances of cut grass and wild flowers. Our house was at the edge of town, in one of those new neighborhoods out on highway 90. It was small but respectful, white with black shutters and a small front porch. Located on a small lot, it was a 60's ranch with just a few young trees to protect it from the harsh Texas sun. We had all types of plant life: Red Buds and Azaleas, a fig tree and Honey Suckle, roses along the side fence. On summer evenings a warm breeze would come up and dance with the trees for a while before moving on into town. I used to go out under those trees and play in the shade. While the sun angrily beat down on the asphalt road I could sit in the shade and let my mind wander. I built roads and bridges for my little cars and trucks. I would bring bricks from the side of the house and pile them up in the dirt. I had a whole little city built with my bricks and dirt: a court house, a gas station, a Weingarten’s. Sometimes I would leave out the cars and play with little plastic Cowboys and Indians, and my city would become an Indian village. I always felt protected under those trees. They were like soldiers at attention, sentinels with outstretched arms, and they listened to my dreams. That summer "Eleanor Rigby" was on the radio. I was dark and skinny, with straw colored hair and cutoff blue jeans. My bicycle was made for popping wheelies and jumping curbs. I had a new pair of white sneakers from The Globe that glistened when I walked. "Johnny" Mom called, "Come in for a while. The sun will leave you with an awful headache... Johnny?" She never quite lost her accent, even after so many years. "Come on now; find your shoes so we can go to the market." I could hear her, but her words sounded distant and dreamlike. I was in another world, another time and place, concentrating on my Indian village. In my mind I cautiously approached the village, walking through the forest, along a stone lined pathway, getting lost in my imagination but then my illusion evaporated. "Johnny!" She was becoming irritated. Her impatient tone brought me out of my haze and back our little house in Texas. "All right Mom, I'm coming". I stood up, dusted off the dirt, and tilted my head to try to listen to one more moment of my imaginative vision. I wasn't ready to let it go, and tried to get back into it, but once interrupted I could not regain the concentration to return. Aggravated that my trance was broken, my inner world momentarily shattered, I slowly walked toward the house, looking back at my bricks and dirt. "I heard you the first time", I complained, "and anyway, I don't know where my shoes are. I left them right there next to the table, but you're always moving things around and I can never find anything! If you'd just leave things alone for...." "Yes, and if I don't pick up the mess, who will, Mr. Rockefeller? Now let's go to the market, I need a few things for lunch." Actually, what she needed was a pack of cigarettes, but that was all right. I used to enjoy walking with her to the store. She called it "the market", but actually it was just a convenience store, a 7-Eleven I think. By the time I'd found my shoes, she was already outside and headed toward that little store. I slipped on the shoes, grabbed an empty coke bottle, ran to catch up to her, and tried to scare her with a quick jab to her ribs, but she didn't crack a smile. I bounced around in front of her, but she strode directly on, head up, khaki shorts, white canvas shoes, no socks; proper British walking posture. "Mom, were there Indians living here a long time ago?" "Well how should I know, I'm not that old, am I?" "But there must have been. Miss Williams said this area was full of um before the pioneers came." "Well, miss Williams must have a keen memory". She smiled. As we approached the store, I noticed the hundreds of bottle caps encrusted in the black asphalt parking. It was a random collection of colors and textures, like stars, or perhaps like people, each one hanging on to its own little piece of the earth. A bell hanging from to the frame above the door rang as we entered the small store. "Good morning mam." the man from behind the counter said. She just nodded and went to the back of the store for a loaf of bread and a can of tuna fish. I dropped my empty bottle in a wire basket and opened the "Cold Sodas" chest. All the bottles floating in dark ice water were so enticing. I fished out an orange soda, then returned it and retrieved a 7-Up. I decided on an RC cola. For the same price of regular coke I could get four extra ounces. Mom placed her tuna and bread on the counter and then at the last minute, as if she had not really thought of it, picked up a bag of pig skins and placed them next to the bread. I popped off the cap of my RC, walked over, and placed it on the counter next to the other items. "And a pack of Benson & Hedges." she said before he had a chance to ask. The man totaled up the items and Mom paid from a small coin purse she had been holding. He placed the items in a paper sack, wrapped a thin paper napkin around the RC and handed it to me. We said our “thank you’s” and “have a nice day’s”, and stepped out into the morning heat. The old door squeaked and the bell jingled once again before it slammed shut. We were off across the barren suburbia. We arrived home went into the kitchen. I sat and watched as Mom prepared our lunch: tuna fish sandwiches. While she was opening the can I noticed her nails, long with cracked red paint. One nail was broken off. Her cigarette smoldered in the full ash tray. I loved tuna fish. Sometimes we had deviled ham but that day was tuna. “Hey Mom, did you have any pets when you were a little kid?" “Oh yes, we had lots of animals. We had a German Sheppard – a beautiful animal named rusty. Then there was Don Pedo. Un perro ordinario. That was your uncle Claudio’s dog. Claudio taught Don Pedo to pee on the nuns habit when they came to visit.” “Ha ha ha.” I laughed and slapped the table as if I had never heard the story. “Oh yes, he would sneak up behind them and lift his little leg against their long robes.... And Tio Claudio would laugh like it was the greatest thing on earth." I continued to laugh. I loved her stories of Paraguay. It was another world - a land of mango trees and siestas, gauchos and Indians, Jaguars and caiman. It was also a world of revolution and political upheaval. "Once my father brought home an ostrich from the Chaco. That animal was very loyal and I think he loved me but he couldn't stand Tia Tinkle. Tinkle had a little cut on her ankle and every time she went outside the ostrich would head straight for the wound". Mom shook her head a little to pry loose the distant memory, "When I was a girl I lived in a big house with lots of servants and tutors and such. I had a woman to wash my hair. She took a long deep drag from her smoke. Oh yes, we had stables in the back for the horses and an orchard out beyond the stables. Then she paused, looked out the window and took a deep drag from her cigarette. She looked straight into my eyes and asked, "Johnny pie pie". She sighed, "How did I get here?" She turned away and looked out the window. I said, "I thought you came on the niña, the pinta, and the Santa Maria". Ha! After a brief moment of silence, she smiled and said, " y si pues". and continued to look out the window. "It's very quiet during the day time, isn't it. What a strange way to live".


I would like to regale you with a tale of heroism, courage, betrayal, regret, and loss. We find our start at the beginning of a quiet Saturday morning. I was working the opening shift, so it would’ve been 6am, to be exact. I clocked in, found a suitable register, and turned on my light, ready for another day in retail. Just as I had turned my light on, I felt a rumble in my tunnel; a small gassy surprise if you will. I said to myself “Awesome! I get to fart!” Now, to anyone who hasn’t opened at a grocery store, it can be a very boring first few hours, so a nice fart may very well be the most excitement one gets that morning. But boy was I wrong this time. I felt it reach the exit hatch, and as standard procedure, I *squeezed* and let it go. “Oh,” I thought nervously, “that one felt kind of weird.” But every fart feels a little different, like little gaseous snowflakes. Perhaps this was just a special snowflake, with its very own feel and texture, unlike any other before. So I gave it no more thought and decided I would help out the girl in Starbucks, by putting the chairs down from the table. As I took a step however, I felt it—it was a mix between wet, gooey, and creamy. I knew immediately what it was. That little snowflake brought an uninvited guest. But I continued towards the task I had set my mind to, as to not draw attention to myself, all the while devising a battle plan. After I had finished with the chairs, I asked the thankful girl if she wouldn’t mind watching my register, and calling me if anyone walks up, as I had to use the restroom rather urgently. She obliged, none the wiser to my terrible dilemma. I quickly made the shameful trek to the toilet, all the while being wary of any spillage that may occur. Thankfully there was none. The entire walk I could feel the mess caressing more and more of my lower buttocks. I knew I hadn’t much time, and I prayed that the bathroom would be empty. God, seeing me in my despair, certainly had pity and grace, for I had the privacy I greatly desired. I hastily grabbed a couple paper towels, dampened them, and rushed to the large stall. I unbuckled, unzipped, and undid my pants, and pulled them down. Instantly I was hit with the most putrid stench that would make even Krillin cry and a Muk vomit. Have you ever had a moment on the toilet that made you think, “When did I devour a dozen rotten eggs, and down them with 2 year spoiled milk?” This was one of those moments, except not on the toilet, but in my pants. I assessed the damage, and the boxers were totaled, but the undercarriage was salvageable. However, I wouldn’t have the time to fix everything now. The boxers were covered in a brown, gross, swamp like stain, so much so that I think I heard Shrek telling me to stay out. So, counting them as loss, I grabbed the paper towels and cleaned as much of the area where my legs meet as I could. But the paper towels only lasted so long, and I eventually had to resort to the half-ply excuse for toilet paper, and get as much as I could with that. Keep in mind; at this moment, there was a lonely register with its light on, that was meant to be manned. But that man—nay—that boy is hurriedly cleaning feces out of his pants. The half-ply wad had done very little in this endeavor, and seemed to instead deflect most of the work towards my hand, which was now covered. I knew I couldn’t stay any longer, so I threw the wad and paper towels in the toilet, gave it a careless flush, and redid my pants as best I could with one hand out of commission. I made my way to the sink, and washed my hands of the mess as much as could be done, short of dissolving my skin in acid. After composing myself, I returned to my check stand, pleasantly surprised by the lack of interruption during that ordeal. But it wasn’t done yet. I checked the schedule, and I had 2 hours to wait until someone else came in, so I could take a proper leave to the bathroom, and finish this battle. So I stood stewing in my own filth. My pants were soiled more than California’s Great Central Valley. But I took it like a man; a man who had crapped himself. I could feel the wetness start to dry, and the remaining bits begin to stick to my skin. Just by breathing deeply through my nose, I would be hit with the agonizing reminder of my mistake. I knew others could smell it, but I held a poker face, and did everything in my power to stay as far away from people as possible; a hard task as a cashier. It finally came time for my coworker to join me on the lines of duty—hehe, duty—and the second she was on her register I was off mine. “I’m going on break,” I said, making my way back to the battlegrounds. She replied, “Ok,” while looking at her watch, which I resented. I would’ve liked to have stolen a few extra minutes for this particular break, but now I was bound to the allotted 15. No matter. I quickly made my way back to the bathroom, tore half the roll of paper towels out, and got them wet once again. Back in my stall of solitude, I tore off my pants and started scrubbing as much as I could, until there was nothing left for me to do. Staring at my boxers, the source of the odor, I contemplated whether to abandon them, and be free—from the stench and more—or keep them, lest I experience an episode II: attack of a clone. I decided towards the latter, as I was not trusting my backside bets today. There were many a time in the past that I had gambled on farts, and won. I could’ve made millions with those odds at Vegas. But my streak was over; smeared by another kind of streak. Even though these boxers were going to be worn no more—which was sad, to say the least—I knew they had some fight left in them, in case of another attack that day. So doing all that could be done without a shower, lighter fluid and a match, I tossed the wad of paper towels in the same toilet, which had not flushed properly from round one. Usually I try to be courteous, and I would try to remedy the situation—as it was my fault—but I really didn’t care at this point. I flushed again for good measure, and the water went down an inch before starting to rise again. I got out of there as quickly as I could, as I was in enough crap for one day (don’t worry, all was well with it in the end). For the rest of my 8-hour shift, I had to act like I didn’t smell like a baby’s diaper that hadn’t been changed in a week, knowing full well that I did. At one point a lady came through my line and scrunched up her face, as one does when smelling something horrific, “Do you smell that?” She asked disgustedly. “It’s been like that since I got here,” I cleverly remarked. That last part never happened, but I had that response in my back pocket if ever the time arose. The rest of this story is full of truth, only embellished slightly for comedic effect. The moral of this anecdote is as such: don’t trust a fart; they’re all filthy liars, and if you can’t laugh at yourself, don’t do stupid things. Now you may be wondering, “What was *heroic* about that?! You crapped your pants.” Well, avid reader, it simply sounded better than, “a tale of stupidity.


It began with concerns about contaminating the moon. As our species struggled to escape the gravity well of the Earth, precautions where taken to ensure that when moon rocks and moon dust where collected and returned at such expense, that they remained free of earthly microbes. A process had begun, that would be glimpsed at work in film and fiction, in science and culture, spreading throughout human conciousness. It was a process that lead to the Andromeda strain, to star wars, to Kubriks masterpieces. Bit by bit, the human race got used to certain ideas, certain concepts. A slow strangulation befell religion. Its shrill voice silenced and ridiculed by science and the stars. Ufo death cults appeared, conspiracies and Area 51, reptiles and alien governments. We proposed ever new variations to each other - allowed ourselves to consider the alien in so many new ways. Manga, Hentai, tentacle shit, of course, but also other, richer, higher imaginings - we could see the alien through any lense we choose - the big brother - the fatherly figure- the noble savage- or the semi-divine. And in so many of our versions, contact with the alien meant war. In time, serious thought was given to this issue, governments paid for reports, for contingency plans. Universities carried out studies, Authors and philosophers wieghed in. As our technological progress continued its relentless conversion of sci-fiction into fact, so did grow the economic and social value of such concerns. Soon we would be littering our solar system with brave and lonely robots, sending us pictures of some rock to which we exiled them. What if we did finally find the alien? the Question needed answers. Gentle Contact Theory was developed as part of a NASA study in August 2002, and was initially unremarkable. The usual tropes where trotted out - Sterilising all tech they sent into space was routine by now, by the concept of ideological sterilisation gaining ground. Minimising the information that humanity would reveal through contact with aliens. Framing our questions to avoid revealing information about ourselves. Creating false or sanitised descriptions of humanity. Deciding, in advance, how truthful we might be. As it turned out, the process was quite revealing. We all lie on CV's, but if you had to apply for a job on behalf of humanity, you might hesitate. But the report needed writing, and its authors felt it was .. "taking shape" ... a guide-book or manual format of sorts- strange flowcharts: "Is the alien ramen or varalese?" "Is it a memetic hazard?" are you human? (sorry). *PART TWO* On August 27th, the first of a long series of contact games was held. By mid october a number of strategies had emerged, and discussions about them led to the first draft of the GCT paper. Caution was a popular choice, and many teams exploited a concealment and study approach, which was effective against a number of the more hostile alien models, but contact itself remained problematic. NASA didn't want a plan that involved orbiting an alien world indefinitely. Assumptions were discovered in the game mechanics, artifacts of the technological costs of space travel. Our visiting starship would have to enter orbit, would have finite resources to sustain human crew or AI systems, it would require communication systems, a landing vehicle, and so on. Cautious strategies rapidly encountered limits on their success. In essence, they seemed to simply delay the inevitable failure of contact.


People keep telling me there are monsters here now. We can’t see them without help and they never stop coming. Dozens of blue-hued faces prowl through parks and skip down streets. We want to catch them all but they never stop coming. We aren’t scared of them because we’re real brave and we aren’t afraid of things we cannot see. There are monsters all over Edmonton and Toronto and Vancouver. There are monsters all over Ankara and Istanbul, and they hide inside tanks and dance on the barrels of guns as they shoot metal fire into the sky like shooting stars trying to escape our cities to the cold dark of space. They killed 294 of us, and their blood sticks to the bottom of our shoes as we stalk a Zubat hovering above a flaming car, flapping its thin leather wings against the tide of our indifference before turning from us into a darkening alley. There are monsters all over London and Lisbon and Prague. There are monsters all over St. Anthony and Baltimore, and they hide inside minds and dance on the hood of a police cruiser struck by a vehicle turned metal missile driven by a young man trying to capture a Pidgey. The police officers have a good chuckle while cameras are rolling and decide not to shoot the man because he isn’t black like the other young men whose names we can’t remember because there are just too many names to remember. Our heads are filled with the names of invisible monsters now. There are monsters all over Canada and Europe and Africa. There is a monster in America and it hides behind the orange teeth of a future leader and dances across our borders like a whirling, shapeless shadow coiling around the grinning incisors of a Gengar. And a man who wears darkness and leaks shadow tells us he has no time to hunt monsters. He is building a wall to keep monsters out. We believe him because sometimes we’re not real brave and we don’t want to be afraid and we won’t be with a wall between us and them. The man smiles and the Gengar smiles and we remember that monsters can smile too. People keep telling me there are monsters here now. We can’t see them without help and they never stop coming. We aren’t scared of them because we aren’t afraid of things we choose not to see. People keep telling me there are monsters here now, but there were always monsters here.


Bacon (Feedback appreciated) “Fuck it’s hot,” he proclaimed as the sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down next to his eyes. It was day three hundred thirty, and another routine patrol in the Registan desert of Afghanistan for Three-Charlie. The weight from his pack pulled him backwards so he was in a constant forward lean as they walked. His mouth was parched from the sandpaper air, and his eyes glazed at the sight of the flat dirt that surrounded him. His legs were sore, and the foot blister pinched with pain on every step. “A week. One week Carl. If you could quit being a crayon eating bitch for just one more week,” said Lian as they walked down the side of the gravel road. The sun was baking them like roasted chicken. Lian walked in front while Esha followed him from behind. His helmet was stifling, and the straps caused a rash on the back his head. He wanted to wipe away the sweat but he couldn’t. His rifle was held firmly in his hands, the finger on the guard. The doors opened and the cool air conditioned wind blasted him as he walked in. He picked up a shopping cart and began to walk down the fresh meat isle. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Carl? I haven’t seen you, well, since you left. I heard it was rough overseas,” said the well-dressed man. They shook hands. “I just want to say thank you very much for your service. You’ve done so much for this country.” He smiled back, nodded, and watched the well-dressed man leave looking satisfied with himself before going back to picking his fresh meats. Fish, Poultry, Beef, Pork… “Why the fuck, are we even out here?” Carl continued. “The glorious 33rd Expeditionary force, trained in mountaineering, airborne drops, CQC, and urban ops. Five hundred fifty thousand of tax payer’s money to train and spit each one of us out of basic. And what do we do for a fuckin’ year?” “I don’t know Carl, why don’t you tell us,” said Baptista sarcastically as he swiveled slowly side to side from behind the mounted turret of their truck. It crawled beside them. Two section’s truck followed a length behind as they walked on the other side of the road. “For a year, we walked around this empty fuckin’ desert waiting to get shot at. We move water pumps, generators, and guard absolutely fuckin’ nothing. If isn’t the Taliban, its fuckin’ Americans who can’t tell friend or foe. Fuck, we’ve had more deaths from people falling off the guard tower than the fuckin’ enemy.” he continued ignoring the sarcasm. He left the checkout line and exited the building. The sweltering heat came back to hit him. His knees shot with pain as he stepped down the curb. He groaned on the inside. *Pain is weakness leaving the body.* Luckily, he didn’t have to walk far, he had parked close to the entrance. “This your vehicle?” A lady asked. She looked agitated. “You parked in a disabled spot. What’s your problem? You look fine to me.” She paused as she noticed the car magnet on the side of his car. “Support our troops? What are you a warmonger? You can’t possibly support those babykillers and their rapist tendencies!” She continued to shout at him as he closed his trunk and got inside his car. *Maintain Composure.* He blasted the A/C and drove off slowly, and made sure he didn’t hit anyone… “So you want to get shot at Carl? Is that what I’m getting from you?” said Lian kicking a rock to the side as a miniature dust bowl floated away. “The ‘Stan has been fought over for a millennia. Stopped the mighty Soviets in their tracks. These people know nothing but war. Peace breaks out in the ‘Stan. Not War.” “What’s your point Carl?” “My point is, this is fuckin’ bullshit. I came here for some action. I want to know what our mission is. Our real mission. Why the fuck are we doing all this bullshit? We have enough firepower to level everything and pave it over.” Lian turned around and bashed Carl on the helmet with the butt of his rifle. Carl returned with a shove. Lian swung his rifle to his side and grabbed Carl by the collar and brought their faces close enough together that their helmets clanked. “One Week. We’re on a plane and back home in one week. Shut your pipes and we can all go home.” He opened the packaged bacon and threw four pieces on the pan. It began to sizzle, little air bubbles popping so fast it sounded like static… Light chatter came in through the radio. “Two-Charlie, this-is-zero, request Sitrep, over.” “Two-Charlie, Roger, wait-ten, out.” A pause. Lian and Carl continued to stare at each other. “Three-Charlie, this-is-zero, request Sitrep, over.” That was them, Three-Charlie, he pressed the PTT without breaking eye contact and responded. “Zero, this-is-Three-Charlie, wait-ten, out.” “Quit touching each other, boys,” directed the Lieutenant, her long red braided hair flew in between them as she pushed them apart with little effort. Lian slung his rifle back into his hands and rejoined the patrol front. “Walk with me Carl.” “Ma’am – “ “Corporal Carl, recite the mission briefing I gave you this morning.” The sound of his rank being called snapped him to. “Mission: To maintain regular patrols along key MSR’s within the Kandahar Province. Assist locals in their infrastructure building process. Provide security when necessary. Commander’s intent: To prevent the spread of Neotaliban insurgency from spreading beyond the thirty-first Northing in the Registan Des – “A sudden force knocked him clean off his feet, the air out of his lungs, the light from his eyes. Blackness. When Carl came to, all he could hear was his skull ringing in his ears as he coughed and tried to breathe. The smell of carbon filled his lungs, and everything was on fire. There was nothing left of the first truck but the wheels. He stood up slowly, and grabbed his rifle off the ground. He pulled the bolt back and watched a round eject out as he unjammed his weapon. He heard Lian screaming to his right and ran towards him. When he got there, he stared into Lian’s green eyes as if he was trying to ask him what was wrong. “Just couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Help me up,” rasped Lian as he stuck his hand out. He grabbed it and pulled, but only managed to straighten the arm and lift the shoulders off the ground before it slipped. There was no grip pressure from Lian as the head tilted back and the eyes rolled up. He stared at Lian’s lifeless body. Everything below the waist was disintegrated, pieces of shredded cloth and Kevlar hung over seared flesh that clumped itself on to the exposed pelvic bone. Blood pooled slowly from the cavities, directed only by the force of gravity. He took a step back and fell as his boot rolled over Esha’s dismembered arm. He landed hard as Baptista's helmet, later to be the only thing they found of him, punched his side. Everything smelled like burnt bacon and rusted iron. Someone shouted at him from behind, but all he could think about was how he be dead next to them if it weren't for their argument. The shouting became angrier – “Hey! You’re burning the bacon!” His wife pushed him aside as she took the pan from his hands and dumped its contents into the kitchen sink, hosing it down with the faucet. “No wonder you keep getting fired,” she lectured, scraping at the pan, “if you zone out like that at work, no one, and I mean no one is gonna keep you around!” She ran the pan under the water and steam hissed off the surface. “I thought the Army taught you to pay attention to details or sumthin’, but clearly I was wrong!” she continued. “Why do you insist on using this rusty old pan anyway?” He didn’t answer. She sighed and dropped the pan into the sink, the sudden clunk made the stillness scream. They stood staring at each other. Days passed. She spoke again. “I - I don’t know if I can deal with this much longer.” She said dropping her shoulders. He remained silent. *Show no weakness. It was your fault. Suck it up buttercup. You asked for it. Unfuck yourself troop. You wanted action. Get your shit together. They died for nothing. Sort your shit out. No one here cares. Quit fuckin’ around like a bag of smashed assholes. People want their Starbucks, not foreign policy. Stop falling on your face like a bucket of rusty skidoo parts. A country’s war is the soldier’s fault. Shit heels! Stop feeling guilty. A country’s war is not the soldier’s fault. Don’t be a crayon eating bitch. Tell me why, why did my brothers and sisters have to die?* “Well? Say Something…” She softly demanded as she approached him. Stepped in closer as the tears began to stream. “You can’t keep it inside you forever.” Her closed fist struck his chest, as the weeping began to soak his shirt. He held her, his mouth hung open. He tried. He tried, so very hard to tell her.


Hi! You are new! I am Max. That is the name my humans gave me. They are great humans. I love them so much. They should be home soon. I will be very excited when they are home. I do not like it when they leave because I'm always scared they will not come back. *The front door makes a noise, and it opens to reveal a man and a woman.* Yes! My humans are home. I am so happy! *Bark Bark.* Hello humans I missed you so much! What? They did not pet me...Why didn't they pet me? Maybe they did not see me. I will try again! *Bark Bark.* Hello humans I missed you so much! *The man and woman walk into the kitchen. They appear to be fighting.* They did not notice me again. Maybe it is food time? *Max runs into the kitchen eager for food* *"Not now Max," the man said sternly.* What is wrong? Why did he look at me like that? Am I in trouble? What did I do? *Max walks slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room where his toys are.* *Max grabs his bone chew toy, and he lays on the carpet with it.* I am sorry humans. I did not mean to be bad. *The woman walks out of the kitchen and goes upstairs.* *The man comes into the living room and walks towards Max.* Oh. Human I am so sorry for what I have done please forgive me. *Max nuzzles his head against the mans hand* *"Hey boy, sorry about that. How about we go outside," the man says while petting Max.* Oh boy! I want to go outside! I do! *The man and Max head out the back door to go play fetch.* That was so much fun! But I am thirsty now. *The man and Max come back inside. Max heads over to his water bowl and drinks all that is left in it.* *The man fills up the water bowl first. Then he fills up the food bowl.* Yay! Food! I love food! *Max starts to eat his food quickly* That was so good. I think I will check on my other human. *Max goes upstairs, and he enters the room with the big soft thing* There she is! *The woman was sitting on her bed crying.* What!? Why is my human sad? I must comfort her! *Max hops up on the bed, and he pushes his head against her arm.* *"Oh hey max," the woman says as she pets him.* I am sorry human. I shall give you kisses! *Max licks her nose, and she smiles a little.* *"Thanks for being here for me Max. I love you," she says as she pets him some more.* I am getting sleepy now. I think I will go to my spot now. *Max gets off the bed and goes into the living room where his dog bed is located.* *Max gets into the bed and turns around twice before finally settling down.* *Yawn* I am so sleepy. *Max closes his eyes and dreams of tomorrow.* *Max wakes up early.* *Yawn.* It is time to go wake my humans up. Wait....what is he doing here? That is not his spot. *The man is sleeping on the couch.* *Max walks over to him and starts licking his hand.* *The man wakes up quickly and sits straight up. He looks around confused for a second before he realizes where he is.* Okay. One human up. One more to go. *Max goes upstairs to wake up the woman, but she is already awake. Max sees that the bathroom door is open and looks in. The woman was in the shower.* I am not going back in there. It looks like she is awake though. *Max goes back downstairs to eat some food.* Yum. I am starving. *Max eats the rest of his food and goes into the living room.* Yay! Both of my humans are here! *Max walks over to them.* *The man and woman are still bickering but not as badly as the night before.* *They start to put on their shoes.* Oh no! You guys are leaving? Can I come this time? *Max goes and stands by the door.* *The man and woman both pet Max before heading out and closing the door behind them.* Oh. I guess they did not want me to come. I have an idea! They always put on those things before they leave, and there are a bunch of them in the humans spot. I will just go eat them! If I eat them then they won't leave me! *Max heads into the humans room and heads towards the open closet.* *He sniffs out the shoes sitting on the floor and starts to chew on them.* There. They can't put those on anymore. *Max walks back downstairs and gets a drink of water from his bowl.* What was that?? *The front door opens, and the humans walk in holding a bunch of papers.* Yay! My humans are back! I knew that would work! *Max runs up to the man and puts his front paws on the mans chest.* *Papers go flying everywhere. "Uhg," The man moans.* Uh oh. I think I made him mad again...I am sorry human. *The man grabs Max by the collar and puts him outside.* Wait. You are not coming too? Do not worry! I will guard the home! *Max sees a squirrel.* *Grrrrrr.* *Bark Bark.* *Max runs towards the squirrel and starts to chase it.* *The squirrel runs up a tree, and Max tries to follow. However all Max can do is jump up at the tree.* *The back door to the house opens, and the woman calls out Max's name.* *Max runs inside and gets his head pet by the woman.* Hello human! I missed you so much! *The woman heads upstairs, and max goes to get a drink.* That was so good. I will go say hello to my other human now. *Max walks into the living room and hops up on the couch with the man.* *The man starts to pet him when the woman comes downstairs. She looks angry.* *"Your dog chewed up all of my shoes," the woman yelled.* *She shook a chewed up shoe in Max's face.* *"I think it's time that you left, papers signed or not," the woman said to the man. The man pleaded, "Can't we talk about this some more?" "I'm done talking," the woman walked back upstairs.* Oh I am so sorry humans....I just didn't want you to leave. *Max went to his bed slowly and laid down. The last thing he saw before he went to bed was the man holding his head in his hands.* *Yawn* *Max wakes up slightly late today* What is all this new stuff? Is it for me? *Max looks around and sees brown boxes everywhere.* *Max sees the man putting things into the boxes.* Hello human! What are you doing? Is this a game? Can I play? *As the man puts a pair of socks into the box Max jumps up and start to tug at is.* *"No bad dog," the man says as he rips the socks back and puts them into the box.* Bad dog? I am sorry human. I did not mean to be a bad dog...I guess I will go lay down in the kitchen for a bit. *The front opens, and Max pokes his head out of the kitchen to see what it is.* *The woman walks through the door holding a pair of keys. "Here the moving van is out front whenever you are ready," she says as she passes the keys to the man. "Okay," the man says with a sad look on his face, "I'm on my last box now."* He finishes packing up the last box with all of Max's stuff.* Wait! What are you doing with my stuff? Are we going somewhere? *The man and woman pack every box into the back of the van. The woman goes back inside and gets Max.* Yay! I love going places! *Max hops up onto the seat with the man. He moves into the middle so the woman can get in, but she shuts the door instead.* Wait...is she not coming with us? *Bark Bark.* Don't worry human we will be back. I love you. *The man drives to a dark looking apartment building and takes Max in. He puts Max in the bedroom so he can unload everything.* Wow this is a small room. It also has one of those fluffy things. I wonder who this spot belongs to. It smells funny in here. *The man opens the door.* *Max walks out of the small room to see all of his stuff over by the television.* My stuff! What is it doing here? This is not my spot. *Max walks around the small apartment feeling very confused and scared.* *Bark Bark.* I do not like it here human. When are we going home? *The man goes into the bathroom and comes out later in his sleep clothes. He goes to bed.* Wait that is not your spot human. Where is my other human? I hope she is okay. I am feeling kind of tired so I will sleep now, but do not worry human. I will sleep lightly so I can still be alert. *Max walks over to his bed in the strange spot and falls asleep.* *He dreams about the woman, the man, and the home that he will never see again.* The End.