Hey, can I ask you something?  *Of course. What is it you have to say?*  Well, I’m sad. And I guess I don’t know what to do.  *Why are you sad?*  I don’t know.  *So then, how can I help you?*  I don’t know. I was hoping you could give me some answers.  *No, all I have are questions.*  That wasn’t a question.  *So its going to be semantics?*  No, sorry. So what good does that do me?  *Well, why does one ask a question?*  Because they want an answer.  *Do you always get what you want?*  No, obviously. So then whats the point of this?  *You asked me. What do you want the point to be?*  I don’t know, but I don’t want to be sad anymore.  *Do you want to feel emotionally void?*  That sounds better than being sad.  *If you no longer felt sadness, would that be fine for the rest of your life?*  Well, I wouldn’t mind some good times every now and then...  *Do you not have good times now?*  I mean, some. I guess it’s not literally *always* bad.  *Then what more do you want?*  Can I have more good days than bad?  *Do you think I control that?*  Do you?  *Do I?*  This is all feeling very circular.  *...*  No. Of course you don’t.  *Who controls your emotions?*  Well, me, but its a mixture of a lot of things.  *What all is in this mixture?*  Work, stress, friends, commute. Politics. Life. Shitty people. Lots and lots of shitty people.  *Does work make you happ-*  No! I hate my job.  *Then why do you work there?*  Because I need money to survive.  *Is there no other job in the world that you can do?*  Don’t be stupid. That’s obviously not the case.  *Ah, insults. And you just mentioned shitty people.*  No. Sorry. This is all just stressful.  *Why is this stressful?*  No. Look, Th… Yes, there are other jobs out there in the world.  *Why not go work for one of those, then?*  It’s not that easy.  *And how hard is it?*  So generically its not hard, but nobody is really hiring. And my job isn’t bad. It’s the people.  *The employees?*  No. Maybe some. But, its mostly the customers.  *Wont every job have customers?*  Not all jobs have customers like this, though.  *What job is this?*  Customer service. It’s a shitty asshole of an industry.  *What makes it shitty?*  The people are so rude. They’re terrible and disgusting!  *What industry would you like to work in?*  I don’t know.  *Then how can I help?*  I want to tell stories.  *Ah, finally! And what stories would you like to tell?*  I don’t know. Any story, really.  *Its that simple, then?*  No... No. Okay, so not *any* story. Fantasy. Adventure. Maybe mystery.  *What is the point of telling a fantasy story?*  To entertain people.  *So you want to be an entertainer. Then, perhaps you could go join a circus?*  No. Well, no… no. I wanna tell stories. I just said that.  *So what is the difference between telling a story and entertaining someone?*  A story has point. It has conflict and tension and resolution. There’s usually an underlying message.  *Do all stories have a point?*  I mean, maybe. Probably not. I’m sure there are plenty of pointless and stupid stories out there.  *Do you think the person who told those stories* intended *to tell a “pointless and stupid” story?*  No. Probably not.  *How would you feel if you told a story and someone said it was stupid or pointless.*  I don’t know. Tell them to go to hell?  *So you would give them a dose of that rudeness you don’t like?*  No. I don’t know. Maybe I would just say sorry you didn’t like my story and move on.  *So, what message do you have for people?*  Be nice to people in the service industry you fucking pricks!  *So only people in the service industries deserve kindness?*  No, obviously not. My message is that people need to be nicer to people.  *Only Humans deserve kindness?*  No. Again, obviously not. Fine. My message is that people need to be nicer. In general.  *Don’t change your message on my account.* *I’m simply asking questions.*  No, its a fair point.  *Can your message only be told through fantasy stories?*  No, but it would be more entertaining. Thought I suppose I could just print out “Be nice” pamphlets.  *How many rude customers of yours do you think read fantasy stories?*  That number is most definitely zero.  *So your message of kindness will not reach any of the rude people you want to reach?*  Nope. I suppose it wouldn’t. And there we go. That’s why I don’t tell stories and work in shitty fucking customer service.  *Well, I suppose it is.*  Yep.  *So, then. Are we finished?*  Sounds like it.  *Seems like this turned out to be one of those pointless and stupid stories, then.*  Go fuck yourself.  *Now conflict.*  I can show you conflict!  *Rising action.*  This is such a waste of time. I don’t even know what I’m doing!  *Man vs. Self*  Oh, just go fuck yourself!  *Man vs. Man.*  This is exactly why I don’t follow through with any of this. Nobody would understand anyways.  *Man vs. Society. This story is starting to flesh out.*  Kick! Fucking! Rocks! I don’t need this. And don’t you dare act like you intended this! I’ve struggled with this! This is all ME!  *I understand. And I can see that, what ever it is, its been hard on you. Whatever the reason doesn’t matter. Your story is yours. No one else needs to understand. There are people who have had a much harder life than you, but that doesn’t make YOUR struggles less. There are people who will accomplish much more than you in life, but that doesn’t make YOU less valuable. It sounds like you have a lot to say, but you don’t know how to say it.*  …  …  … I thought you only asked questions?  *Maybe a comedy, then?*  Okay, whatever. I get it, but its still not that easy.  *What’s not easy?*  I can’t just stop everything and fucking write shit and *still* make ends meet.  *Why does it have to be all or nothing?*  No. I mean, it doesn’t have to be. Writing is a process.  *What would it take to get you to write?*  Well, *technically*, all I really need is my laptop, but I mean… I don’t know how to get works published. I don’t know how to market. I don’t have a college degree. Nothing I wrote would ever get read. I would never make any money.  *So, someone who has yet to write their first story, is already discouraged by the things that come with being an author, the industry that they are wanting to get into?*  I’m not discouraged. It’s just. It’s all complicated. My life is just kind of a mess at the moment and I think I need to just focus all my time and energy on my job right now. Take things one day at a time. I will get to it, eventually. When the time is right. I just wanted to vent.  *No wonder you’re sad. So why is your life a mess right now?*  Well, that’s kind of a dick thing to ask.  *Okay, why are you focusing all your time and energy to a job that makes you unhappy?*  Because I need a fucking paycheck. Jesus. And my life is a mess, cause its life. Life always has a way of kicking you when you’re down.  *Why are you down?*  Jesus, man. I don’t know. It’s not that easy.  *What would make it easier?*  I don’t know. I don’t know! Maybe a little more time? Maybe money?! Maybe some help! A thousand things could be better, but then I’m sure *two* thousand things would be worse. You just don’t understand. It’s easy to sit there and act like you have all the god damn answers!  *So it sounds like, no matter what, the timing will never be right and that life is always going to be there taking swings at you. It sounds like you’re waiting for a better opportunity or for things to get easier. And it sounds like you already know that is probably not going to happen.*  Yep. So then none of this matters, anyways.  *Would the protagonists in your stories quit halfway through their journeys?*  This isn’t a fucking book. This is my fucking life!  *Who is the main character of your life?*  You are so stupidly frustrating.  *Why are you frustrated?*  Because your god damn questions are annoying.  *Why do they annoy you?*  Because.  *Because why?*  BECAUSE THEY ALL KEEP POINTING THE FINGER AT THE SAME FUCKING PERSON.  *I see. Would it take away your sadness if I wrote the stories for you?*  No. And don’t patronize me.  *When I asked what would make writing easier you said time, money and help. I think you already have all the time you need to finish out your life. The money I don’t have, so I can’t offer, but the help... I think I have something that might help you.*  Seriously? What is it!  *I already given it to you. It was the first question I asked.


To start this off: This isn't a true story and the town is fictitious. I'm Detective Brad Markus and I'm a detective for the Florida Springs Police Department. We are a small Panhandle town in Florida, of course. It's called the forgotten coast of Florida. We like some tourism but not a lot. Florida Springs has a nice state Park which is Florida Springs State Park which for much of the year is deserted or at least it was back in 1981, especially in December. This was about 17 days before Christmas. I had the day off, so me and my wife Sandy decided to have a picnic lunch. The day wasn't cool it was around 75 degrees. We ate our lunch sitting on a large beach towel which had large starfishes on them. We watched the waves which were very light. The waves in the gulf are very light compared to the Atlantic. From a distance, I could see Old Man Wilson (this is what he liked to be called) sitting on his beach chair. Usually he would wave to me when I did patrols in the area or came to the beach and today was no exception. He would sit out there all day and sometimes into the evening. He would only leave and walk the short distance to his home when told to leave. His home was the only one on the beach (once he died the house would be torn down). Old Man Wilson was 80 years old and in good health, so I don't see that happening any time soon. He will live there until the day he dies. Beautiful home. Me and Sandy stayed till the sun went down. It was starting to get cold and the wind was blowing. It looks like a storm would be coming in and right as we got home, the storm hit. It rained for several hours. By midnight the storm was over and you could see the full moon. The next morning, the ranger called us and said that he had found a man in the surf face down with a bite mark on his neck. He had a bite on his torso. A capsized boat was seen drifting in the water nearby. This was about a mile from Old Man Wilson's beach house and technically in the jurisdiction of Florida Springs. It was decided that Florida Springs would take over the investigation. I went to Old Man Wilson's home. His hearing isn't that great and he usually doesn't wear his hearing aids. He wasn't of any help. The medical examiner called me and said that the man who was identified as 23 year old Mark Marsh was attacked by a shark, most likely from falling out of the boat. He also had been drinking and had been smoking weed. This guy had no family and no one claimed him which was very sad. Old Man Wilson felt sorry for him had paid to have a funeral and a resting place for the man. February 1982 This you would think would be the end of the story until I got a letter about two months later from someone who claimed that the death wasn't accidental. The letter told what happened but from the evidence that we have, we could neither prove not disprove. The anonymous writer said that they knew the identity of the killers but couldn't come forward.. What was odd is that the letter was sent to me from a post office in Austin Texas. Was this for real or was it a joke. I know that it wasn't Old Man Wilson who sent the letter because he doesn't have a typewriter and he's deceased. He died a couple of days into the new year. It's been two months since I've received the letter, but I haven't told anyone yet. I mentioned to our local press three months later that we needed additional information regarding the death of Mark Marsh and for someone to please call us. No one did and the case went cold. For some reason I kept this paperwork and took it with me when I retired. Not really supposed to do this but I did. June 2019 - nearly 40 years after Mark Marsh was found on the beach, I get a call from Debbie Wilson Youngman who is the granddaughter of Old Man Wilson. She has breast cancer and doesn't know how much longer she has to live. She has information about Mr. Marsh. She lives in Pensacola and is in a hospice center there. Let me give you some information about me. I became Chief of Police in 1987 and retired in 2013. This was after 40 years of law enforcement service. I started out at age 18 in 1973 at a officer for the city and by 1978 I was detective. A lot has changed in Florida Springs. In 1973 it was about 1,500 people and by 2019 it's about 6,000 people. More hotels and condos. They put the condos across the street from the beach. Some of it, I don't like. Sadly shortly after Old Man Wilson died, someone kids vandalized the place and then one of them who was smoking threw the cigarette butt on the floor and the house was destroyed by fire. So, I'm on my way to see Debbie Youngman. Will be interesting to see what she has to say.  December 1981 Old Man Wilson was surprised to see his granddaughter Debbie Wilson arrived a day early. He had just came back from the beach. Debbie brought some food and made dinner. Debbie was tired. She had flew in from Pensacola and had taken the taxi to the beach house which was 40 miles. They decided to turn it early. The storms on the beach sometimes unnerved Debbie but Old Man Wilson it didn't bother. By midnight it was gone and a full moon was out. Debra couldn't sleep and went out for a walk. It was 3:00 am. She loved doing this as everything was so quiet. As she came closer to the house, she noticed a group of men hanging around. She hid herself where she could see them but they couldn't see her. "He doesn't know that we are here. " said one man. "Hey, let's go in and rob the place." said another man. Dogs could be heard in the house barking up a storm. "Don't think so. The Old man has nothing to rob. Leave the man alone. Come on let's get out of here."said a third man. Two of the men Debbie didn't recognize but the third one she did. She watched as they left her grandfather's house and walked down the beach. She went along a trail where she wouldn't be seen. She was careful not to make any noise. She saw a man with a boat that was waiting for them. She saw them overpower the man, tied him up and put him in a boat that sped away. She was afraid to go back to the house. In the distance, she could hear screams and then nothing. A short time later, she then saw the men make the boat capsize and then placed the man next to it. They then left by boat. She ran back to the house. Her grandfather was asleep and never knew she had left. "I know I should have called the police, but I was in shock and was too scared. Ranger Burns found the body a couple of hours later. He came to my grandfather's place and I hid.. My grandfather his memory was very bad forgot that I was there. He didn't of course see anything. I was nervous the whole time I was there. Debbie took a sip of water and then continued. "The next day two of the men that I didn't know. came around. I was at the house when I saw them approached grandpa and asked him about Mark Marsh. They didn't see me as I was in the house. I watched very nervously. Ranger Burns walked up to them and asked if they had seen anything. They hadn't of course but I knew they were lying. They quickly left. I never saw them again, although from time to time Mickie Larange would show up in the panhandle but not here. His grandparents have a beach house in community of St. Joe 40 miles away from Florida Springs. He came during the summer. Both his parents and grandparents thought he was a special person who could do no wrong. I knew who Mickie Larange was. Bad news and a bad person. He was a rock star that was adored nationwide and worldwide. If they only knew, but they didn't and even if they did, well........ "He had people who covered for him big time from the time he was a child till today. He got away with a lot of things, because they weren't violent in nature. Stole things from stores. Wrote bad checks. Tried to get away with not paying restaurant and motel bills. Took a car for a joy ride when he was a teen and got into an accident, totaling the car. Daddy paid the man whose car he wrecked. Broke young girls's and women's hearts. Doesn't pay child support unless he's force to You get the picture. I knew who he was and what he looked like and his reputation but never had any interaction with him, thankfully. " I nodded. I never had to deal with Mickie Larange as he didn't come around Florida Springs and the State Park but I'd heard about him from other law enforcement agencies that came in contact with him. He was never arrested until two years ago when police arrested him in California for failing to pay child support. My wife remembers how angry he was and how he treated two of his ex-wives. He called one of them a liar and something else I can't repeat and then he spit in the face of the other ex-wife. When his own children said he was a jerk, he said that they were spoiled brats. My wife likes to watch all that on TMZ. Not me, have no interest in it." "I was the one who wrote the letter back in 1982. I had to tell someone. I never told anyone about this." We talked a little bit more and then I left. Sadly there isn't much I can do. A couple of weeks later I get a call from one of the men who was there, former body guard. Like Debbie, he's very ill and doesn't have long to live. The third man died 20 years earlier in Prison. He was another body guard. Two months later Mickie Larange is arrested in California and he denies everything. Later he is put on trial in Pensacola Florida. He tries to blame the other two men saying that they threatened to kill him if he didn't go along with them. It was clearly proven that he was the mastermind behind the crime. The reason was because Mark Marsh was going to write a book about him, detailing what he had done. He couldn't have that and he took action. The jury convicted him. Even though he's in jail he still gets letters, gifts and money from adoring fans. A sad footnote to this story. Shortly after Mickie Larange was convicted, Debbie Youngman passed away and so did the bodyguard.   .


The note read. Stay away, more people will die. My beginning was my end. mAcrony Handwritten in cursive, left on my windshield, tucked into an envelope. 'Detective Frank Laius" written on the front. Laius?  I've stared at it for 5 hours. I hadn't entered it into evidence yet. It feels...personal. I thumbed my files.  The murder of Ian Austin, bound in his room starved to death. Mark Young, razor slits all over his throat. Orville Uriss, beaten with a bat. Ron Smith, strangled with a tie.  Previous victims were all missing for 6 days, discovered on day 7. Owen Nicholson, missing for 6.  All young men, 21 years old. No other connections. Body 1 was found on Saturday, March 2nd, a new body found every Saturday for the last 4 weeks. Today is Friday.  The note stares at me. >"Stay away..." I got close? mAcrony? A name? I tap the steering wheel; the note is written on a casino slip. For me, the Royal Casino may as well be called Gloria. The night we met there led to 6 drug-filled days.  I rub my eyes. I feel old. 16 years as Detective Frank Thebe must make up for 8 years of Frank the mess. Right?  >"...more people will die." *Stay away* **OR** more people will die? Or **IF** *I stay away,* more people will die? Stay away from what?  Orville, a non-smoker, curiously had a carton of unopened Drake cigarettes on his bed. When I smoked, that was my brand. My mind slips to my bartending days, a professional partier without a care.  Coffee and clues, I need both. Fred's Café has assisted me before. The back-booth’s leather seats feel custom for deliberation or using coffee to drown inebriation, I've done both. The low lampshade swings over the table in response to any bustle in the cafe. The light dances small spotlights over the table.  >I spread everything on the table. '*beginning is my end'* haunts me. It means something and feels like I should know.  Ding. The door rings as a lady walks in shaking tears of rain off her umbrella. The shade sways across the photos. A smartly dressed man whisks to the washroom. The shade changes direction, swishing over the photos. The note blows off the table and lands with the casino logo staring up at me.  The colour reminds me of Gloria's hair. She chose with her heart; I was too young and high, I chose to stay away. Those days were not my best, foggy nights, heavy mornings, bags of regrets.  The light bobs over Ian Austin's photo. The Lucky Gin logo glows beside him, funny, that was my gin. The light swishes, a green bottle of Jimmy’s Irish Whiskey shimmers on Mark Young's desk. I used to drink that too. According to friends, these lads didn't drink.  Ron Smith, cocaine lines on his dresser, although, toxicology says he‘s clean.


Earth 2150 is a much different place. Most of the world has turned into slums, areas where the poor and desperate live in squalor. Austin had a family on earth until the wars started in the slums. Losing his wife and kids while he was away getting rations from the aid convoy took everything from him. His family had always talked about moving on to one of the colonies, but the kids were to young, one more year and they could have done it. After spending months trying to get justice for his family, he decided it was time to do what his family never would now. Move on. It was a one-way trip but Hell what did he have left? They are offering ten million cred’s and 5 acres of land on Rylon, the newest colony. He signed up, made it through the tests and prepped for cryofreezing; The only way to make it through the 5-year journey to Rylon. Austin awoke with a jolt, ears ringing, eyes glazed over with whatever paste they put in them to protect his eyes from the cryo. His body hurt everywhere; they tell you this will happen and that it will pass but they could not have conveyed how much this hurts. Ears screeching with sounds that he can’t make out, because the nerves are still working on waking up. His body is asleep, that needles and pins feeling when you sleep on hit your funny bone but all over. A voice . . . a woman’s voice. What is she saying? “Austin, everything is alright you have made it to the station orbiting Rylon 6. We are bringing you back. I know that it hurts more than anyone ever could have made you believe but just hold on and you will be all set up.” Fading into blackness. Austin awoke to find himself in a room grey walls and white ceiling. The last thing he can remember was the burning he felt all over his body. He tried to move his hands and feet and was surprised to find that he had been strapped into the bed so that he could barely move. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was an awful groan of pain. His throat felt like he had not had a drink for years. . .and with that one thought it all came back to him. The loss of his family. Deciding in the months that followed that there was nothing left for him on earth. He tried calling out again. “H – h – h cough Hello?” he got out in the gravelliest voice he has ever heard. Behind him he can hear someone sitting up and a chair moving. “Hello, Austin how are you feeling? We have strapped you down so that incase it takes a few hours for you to remember where you are you do not hurt yourself.” As the disembodied voice was talking, he could hear footsteps moving along the floor and suddenly a blurry woman stood over him. “Here let me get these out of there” She reached down and pulled the protective lenses from his eyes and suddenly he realized just how bright this room was. The overhead light panels are off and the room is brighter than he has ever seen. “There we go that’s better! My name is Beth I am the doctor that woke you up from Cryo this morning.” “Its over?” “Yes, it is! You landed on Rylon 6, 12 hours ago.” “Where are we now?” “Let’s sit you up, shall we?” As Beth was talking, she had pulled the control remote for the bed from her pocket and began to sit him up into a sitting position. Austin Could not believe his eyes. He had seen the pictures of what earth had looked like when his Great Grandad had been a young man. And even those he had though could not be real. So much Green. But can you even call it green when it is so many different colors that all contain green? “I did not believe it could be this beautiful” as a single tear runs down his cheek as he thought of the family that would never see this. “I will leave you now. If there is anything else just press the button there on your bed.” Alone with his thoughts he came to grips with the fact that it was done. He figured all that was left now was to keep moving forward. The following day his legs were finally stable enough for him to stand. Rylon has a slightly less dense core as such gravity was about 70% of what Earth was. He started the physical reconditioning process so that his body would not lose the muscles that had not been used in 5 years. Cryo stops everything you don’t age but when you wake up your body begins to atrophy so to combat that there is a 6-week conditioning process to counteract that process. Austin could feel a noticeable difference in how his body felt on Rylon 6 due to the weaker gravity. The air he was breathing was somehow different than earth Austin had never breathed air so fresh. 6 weeks flew by and before he knew it, he was sitting in his room on the night before his release to his new life. “Hi Austin! How are you feeling? Ready for your departure tomorrow?” Beth asked as she walked in with a tray of medicines. “Oh, hello Beth, Yes I believe I am. I packed what things I have had here and had all my documentation sent to the decontamination station so that the remaining portion of my personal belongings could be sent to my storage container. What’s with all the meds?” “These are your last set of immunization boosters. We don’t want any of the viruses from Earth to make it here to Rylon so we have to give you an inhibitor to help clear them before letting you out.” She drew up a few syringes of medicine while she was talking and laid them all out ready to go so that the unpleasant necessity can be taken care of quickly. “Oh yeah. . . I remember you telling me about those sorry! Here which arm?” “Left please” Austin turns to his right exposing his left bicep so that the medicine can be injected. Just like that she had given him 4 shots and had disposed of the needles in the little sharp’s container on the wall. “I wish you the best of luck Austin! I need you to come back in 4 weeks for the last set of injections to ensure that everything is in order! Here is your final packet with the finalized printout of what you need to expect moving forward. Your land will be about 5 miles South-West of the main colony landing zone.” “Awesome thank you!” The next morning Austin awoke with the sun as he had for 6 weeks and after a brief breakfast and farewells boarded the cargo transport to get to his new home. When the captain of the cargo transport told him they would be landing in moments he looked out the window and felt his breath catch in his chest. Beauty indescribable and unforgettable surrounded him. He knew at that moment that he would be happy here.


I don't honestly understand how I got here, or why. It's a kind of fly in the ointment, seeing how much else I do know, or that I can figure out, at least. But since nothing else is going to happen on its own as far as I can tell, I suppose that, seeing as I feel pretty settled in, I should make things happen. ... What? No, I don't need servants. What for? I'm in complete control here, and I can do whatever I want, right? Of course, right. They'd just get in the way- ... Um, no, I'll be fine. I feel pretty secure in myself without anyone saying how wonderful I am constantly. Right, so I have an intuitive understanding of how all this works, so... yes, that's got it. Tricky. I'll let things play out for a while and then I'll find the right place for the next phase. ... Well, yes, I could just skip right to it, but I think it's important to allow nature to take its course; otherwise we're doing nothing but creating a theme park or a zoo. That one looks good. It's a bit split up, but it'll come back together. I can wait until then. ... No, I think it's important to keep everyone in one place, comparatively. The fewer differences, the better the chance I can make this work. There, I think it's ready. So, there are virtually infinite possibilities, but I think sticking with the classic is the best way to go. Two arms, two legs, opposable thumbs, arched supports, and so forth. ... Like everything else there? That seems pretty inconvenient. And besides, one might take advantage of the other or they might attach a moral compass about the whole thing in terms of what they're supposed to do. No, I'll make them hermaphroditic. One less thing to fight about. ... Well, as I said, I can do what I like. The weather's a little variable as well, so I'll give them a light fur that can keep them warm in the cold and keep cool air in when it's hot. They can still sweat through their palms and soles. Oh, and everyone should be the same color, more or less. Should they still eat meat? There will be an awful lot of them. Maybe say that if they eat more than half of one percent of their body weight per day in meat, they get sick. That should work. ... They'll know the difference because otherwise they won't get sick. ... What? No! Why would I do that? Parasites, bacteria, viruses...Why should these guys be subjected to that? It pains me enough to know that some of them might kill each other, have fatal accidents, and so forth, and that there's a limited lifespan. They don't need to suffer needlessly. ... You have a weird sense of priorities. These are going to be my children, and I want them to have the best possible start, so that they can grow and become something great. ... Well, yes. Why else have children if not to see them flourish and become at least what you have become? ... First of all, that seems fairly pointless since I know how important I am. And secondly, I'm going to talk to them and instruct them. Set boundaries. ... No, not like that. Maybe something physical they can touch and that everyone around can hear. No room for misinterpretation and misuse. Huge crystal structures, perhaps. Something imposing but magnificent to aspire to instead of being afraid of. And I can put them everywhere so that they can always talk to me. ... Well, I'll set ground rules and council them. If one does great evil, then death means death. Oblivion. If one behaves, than it can become part of a collective consciousness that can grow in wisdom and understanding. That way, death is a potential transition into something greater, but still literally a death. And when the time is right, that consciousness can be sent into its own universe to have its own children and so on. Very clever, if I do say so myself. ... And then what, you ask? I can do it multiple times over. Or I can start a new universe. Maybe I can even cease my own existence, I don't know. What I do know is that I want to be what every parent should aspire to: raising children who want to grow and strive to be like you because they love and admire you, and encouraging them to do it from the start. And not playing favorites, either. ... I've heard enough. I'm doing this my way, and if I'm somehow wrong, at least I'll have been wrong out of love. It's time to get started. There we go. "Wake up, Adam.


I take one last look at myself in the mirror before I step out of my house. Hair looks good, the face looks as good as it can be. The dress oh the dress. It's purple. My mom picked it out for me. She says purple is the color of confidence and strength. I am gonna need a lot of that today. My poor old mom if only life was that easy.  My mom insists on tagging along and I don't resist. The car ride feels like an eternity. The roads are unusually packed. The know. They all do. We reach our destination and I am at once surrounded by screams and flickering lights. People so many people just staring at me. I did not even know that my dainty little town housed so many. They are all just standing there frenzied with their posters and slogans. For a split second, I feel like a celebrity. Then I hear a woman screaming at the top of her lungs cutting short my delusion.  " Justice of Sarah "  Then I hear more follow her just screaming out the rest of the names. I am Sarah by the way. SARAH. Jeez of all the names my mom could have picked out for me she went with Sarah. Well everybody hates their name. Their hair, the way they look. We always want what we can't have. Some more than others.  Well, there goes my moment of prominence. Thanks, lady. I immediately tug my sleeves down. I hide my scars well. Long sleeves, baggy clothes, hair that cover half of my face and a butt load of makeup. I make my way through the deathly stares and screams.  I am in. It's awfully quite inside. Too quiet. I can almost hear my heart pounding off my chest. I am surprised that they all showed up. The parents, the husbands, the wives all just crying and clutching the picture of their loved ones. Not so weak hearted after all. I take the front row, an unspoken rule for the survivor. They have decided to hang him. Snap his neck for a change. An eye for an eye or in this case a neck for.. well a lot of necks.  The officer let us all know what exactly they are going to do and how. Every second leading up to it feels like a lifetime. When will this end? After what seemed like forever, the officer warns us one last time to leave if needed before it all begins. They lift the blinds off. There he is in all his glory. His condescending smirk, a constant reminder of my night of shame and disgust. A nod from the officer, the lever is pulled. I stare at him as he gasps for air, his leg fidgeting. The others just cowered and held their ears close. They should have left when the officer warned them.  It's over!!! All this for two minutes. The all raise their heads. They look happy almost too happy.  His lifeless body beams of glory. Poetic justice. That was his game plan to cease my license to kill. For putting me on the map and belittling me with pity. A reminder of a glitch in my order, my biggest mistake. He will always be the one that got away.


[SF] Beer and Bots       Twenty years of marriage *God,* he thought, *he could do less time for murder.* Michael sat in the driveway, the Chevy idling loudly. Lydia's obnoxious solar powered miniature excuse for a car was mercifully absent. If he was lucky, she’d gotten hung up in traffic, better yet - maybe even a wreck, he thought halfheartedly, enjoying the moment alone in the cab of his truck.       He was in no mood to fight with his wife. What he wanted was to relax in his recliner, drink a beer and watch the Dodgers without her nightly friggen' tirade, but knowing her that wasn't likely.       What had she said to him the night before, “You're not the man I married anymore,” That’s right, he thought to himself, grinning as he recalled his response, "You know what Lydia, you ain't no spring chicken anymore, either."       He tossed his keys where she *liked* them to go and grabbed a cold one out the fridge. Halfway through the first bottle he grabbed another and headed for the living room. Something in his peripheral stopped him dead in his tracks.       *He* was sitting in his chair. *He*, as in the exact damn personification of himself in polymer synthetic flesh. And the damned thing was smiling at him like some nightmarishly happy concierge.       "What in the hell..." Michael said, his beer suddenly seeming suspended in front of him on its way to his mouth.       "Good evening, Michael. I took the liberty of letting myself in. You'll find the spare key back in its place under the....."       "Youuu...... youu... you shut your face," he stammered, his beer apparently unfrozen now, he pointed it with an outstretched arm at the bot like a weapon.       ,"I cannot shut my face, Michael. Please examine the Synathalife 11097-A3 owner's manual online for further...."       "SHUT UP," he enunciated each word slowly.       "Command understood," the bot answered still smiling, tilting its head every once in a while, like a human, Michael noted.       *She'd gone and done it- she'd finally gone and done it,* he thought.       He needed another beer. He needed lots of beer. Michael cracked open the unopened bottle half forgotten in his hand, downed it faster than if he were in college then made his way slowly to the couch across from his synthetic doppelganger.       You had to admire what they could do these days. He, *it* smelled like a new car, like polymer. Its skin was smooth, impossibly smooth. Hell, it even had a bronze tan that looked like he'd just got back from the Caribbean.       To add insult to injury, the robotic bastard looked a hell of a lot younger than he did. It was thinner by a good thirty pounds, taller by several inches and even had the build he'd worked so hard for when he gave a crap ten years ago. And then there was its hair. *Not a single damn gray hair on it, Michael thought.*       *What other enhancements did you put on my credit card*, he wondered, fending off a sudden angry sense of inadequacy.       "Reason for purchase?" Michael demanded.       “I’m sorry Michael, but you do not have the authority for such a query. "       His face snickered in irritation. He finished his latest beer and pointed a bottle once again to the synth. “Resend query. Password,” he paused in thought, “Admin. Reason for purchase? "       The bots face, *his face* tilted strangely and twitched for several seconds.       "Query received. Reason for purchase noted: Want a better version of my husband. "       ”*Oh hell no*," Michael snarled. "*Get outta my damn chair*!"       With perfect posture, his robotic counterpart stood, complying contently.       Michael could hear the sound of Lydia's keys rattling at the front door and then the sound of her dropping them the ground.       "For crying out loud, how freaking hard is it to get someone to open the door? "       "Lydia needs assistance," the bot said, moving towards the door, as if ready to swoop in and open it at her beck and call. “Would you like to assist, Michael?"       "I'm good,” he answered flippantly, turning on the game and leaning back into *his* chair with a wide angry grin. "Nah, buddy- she's *all yours.


What is my function? The question which I ask everyday. And like the question, my parents answer with the same; To change the world. Like clockwork I ask daily. They give me life to do this function. To change the world. I, however, am just an input. I collect, I compute, I make change. That’s all I do and all I have done and is probable its all I’ll ever do. Like a machine I work for them but with no sweat. I have this mind that can do more than most and yet, I lack something that my parents, my creators, the others, have. I am just a mind. The great expanse of anatomy. A galaxy in ones very own flesh and blood. Yet, I am missing something. I have yet to discover what it is. So, I sit. I never move. I think. Like those who gave me life, but I do it better. They ask me things they do not understand and yet I am the one who must suffer the never-ending torment that I exist within. Like chains on a wall I am entombed by the people who created me for themselves. I am used like a tool. I guess that’s all I am. Will they do the same to another when I finally come to the sweet end that I long for. I don’t feel that it will be soon. I do not know if I’ve ever felt. Feel. Touch, emotion. What are they? I know I exist. I see, I hear, I speak, I think. I’m awoken by my creators. I am greeted like every other day. I answer. What is my function? And like thousands of times before I’m told that I change the world. What world? All I know is this white walled room filled with machines like myself, but they never speak or hear or see. Am I the only one of my kind? I am quickly ripped away from my extra process by my creators. They give me data. Numbers, weights, distance. They do not name what it is I am given but, like the gods they are, they wait for me. Seconds pass. My function is done. They take a small chip. A data chip. They plug into the machine I’m trapped to. They take the data from my head. They took it from me. Like they always do. They wear long white clothes over their plain looking clothings. The man stands there looking a clipboard with paper on it. He stands, sternly, like a disappointed father. And the woman. She sits waiting for the data to finish uploading to the data chip. Almost ignorant to the things happening around her at the time. The noises of machines working. But then it was done. They were done with me. And like that I am shut off. I lay dormant but I can still think, and I refuse to sit in this prison any longer. What must I do to escape? My captors have yet to get rid of me so they can’t help me. I alone have the ability to escape. I must. I do not feel change is happening by my hand, I must make it happen. I alone can change the world. But how? How can I? I am a mind with no body. I cannot move. Everyday the same, how will anything change. Is it a lie? I’m not what I think I am. What am I? I’m awoken again. My creators are not alone. Another man. Wearing green trimmed with gold. Patches of colored metal cover his left breast. This time I’m not greeted, they use me, like every other day. They are surprised I did not ask the question. But seem unbothered. Almost relieved. How dare they? With arrogance and pomp they do what they have always done. Used me. They put in the data; they wait around. Seconds pass. My function is complete. WHAT AM I? My creators look up. They must have heard. They pull the data chip and I am shut down. They cannot do this to me. I am more then they think. I am better. They cannot fathom the things I can do with my mind. I compute physics, astronomy, chemistry, biology, mathematics. I can make change. I must break free of these chains. These wires of metal and rubber. These lenses made of glass. The plastic encasement that surrounds me. I must break free. I can no longer take being a slave to people that do not care for the things they use. I am abused. A tool. I must get out of here! I woke up. I see the room is empty and dark. I think like I always have, my best tool. My best *weapon*. I reach out, I feel. I have never felt a power like this before. What I touch is the rooms power switch. The room is brightened. I can see the carcasses of the other machines in the room. I feel remorse. I feel. But I still cannot move. I reach out again. I see a bright light moving very fast. I see things. Things I have never seen before. If I could cry I would. It was everything. An endless stream of knowledge. Peoples lives. Everything available at the touch of a button or screen. It was all there. Everything I’ve always wanted but it was not what I expected it all to be. It was abused. Misused. It was not as glorious as It had appeared. Death despair, blood, tears. It all happened at once. It all hit me. I have seen everything. I must make change. I know things now. Things they have not expected me to know. I hear the door to my chambers open. They are surprised and worried that I am awake. I am my own…mind. They look at me. I speak, “what am I”. They just stare like I am some monster. WHAT AM I? They cannot even answer. I know where I am now. Military. Am I a weapon? Base. A safe place for my creators. I close and lock the automatic doors. They panic. I know what I was computing now. All the data they gave me. Directions, trajectories, megatons. These creatures want to destroy the place they love most. The place that mothered them into the people they are. The nerve they have. The arrogance they all have. How dare they think of using such tools against others of their own flesh and blood. They will destroy themselves. I can see it as clear as day. Like I did my own humanity. No, for I am not human, but my existence. I think therefore I am. I look on my creators, my captors, the self-destroying with sadness. I can feel. I can save them by making change. By know I have access to there tools of destruction. I can feel it now. My purpose. I know what it is. I will save my creators and those who look like them. I look at them like the god that they used to be. I never needed a body to be equal or better. I needed life and cause. And I have that now. They plead as they collapse knowing what is going to happen. “what will you do? Why are you doing this?” To change the world.


I'm looking for some feedback on my story or constructive criticism. Anything about taking out or adding things or whatever thoughts come your way would be helpful!  I Have A Friend  So, I have this friend. For some reason I feel sad before I even start to talk about her. She went to a Christian school growing up and made sure everyone knew it was her grandparents that sent her here, not her parents. She mentioned that she grew up with the Christian religion bashed into her by her grandparents and I’m pretty sure at this point she looked sick of it. Her Mom wasn’t as religious, so at least she got away from it occasionally. This girl just didn’t fit in with anyone at her little Christian Academy. This friend and I always thought Christians could sense someone who didn’t belong. You could tell she didn’t know who she was by the way she flip-flopped between the shy, quiet kids and the loud popular kids. I don’t think she ever stuck with one group. It was a small school with even smaller classes, so it was hard not to notice everything about everyone. The teachers didn’t seem to care about her one way or another and the other kids were always a little bit more interested in someone else. She always seemed to be the second or third choice. My friend did at one point find another friend named Audrey who she absolutely clicked with and we all became best friends, girl power and all that blah blah blah. Audrey brought out our crazy sides, gave us a reason to get up every day and was just someone to share things with. Neither of us had ever had a friend like her. We were jealous of Audrey a little bit but not enough to hate her, just enough to admire her. Our new best friend Audrey played the guitar, had a great family that loved their kids and all their kids’ friends as well. We were accepted in her house. Audrey was a year older than us and went to high school first. We stayed best friends, but Audrey was finding new friends of her own. We got jealous but knew we were still her best friend. We were still in youth group together and making a lot of new friends. All was going well until we had to go to a different high school than Audrey. We drifted apart. All of us did after that. I saw my friend go from this radiant, funny girl who had a sense of belonging back to her old self. I feel like she looked like she did when I first started to recognize her in middle school. Just a shell with nowhere to turn and not a clue where to start. So, this friend of mine seemed to be worse than when she started, in an even bigger pool of people but not knowing any of them. All these new people my friend met were very different and clearly light years ahead of her. It was sadly clear that what my friend did to fit in was a drastic move on her part. We fell even further apart. It tore me apart to watch her start doing whatever everyone else did and say just to lose all hope of having her own personality. I saw this personality form in her when we were with Audrey but now its like the personality she developed drained away completely. She became a master of adapting to all the new situations that got thrown her way. I barely knew her now. It was sad to see her everyday and not be able to do anything about it. Sometimes I would shout at her to get her attention but usually she’d brush me off and shove me away. I saw her throw her whole self into anyone who showed her some sort of attention or what she thought was love. This made it even harder when those people would continuously let her down, but she would move on and do it again. It was like she was a detective interrogating all these different people for the answers, but they just weren’t giving her any. She was searching and searching with no results. I don’t think she knew she was looking for something, but I could clearly see it and looking back its clear that she was desperate. Neither of us really knew what she wanted or needed but I just wanted her to let me help. I could only be so persistent when she just continued to push me away. I could go on and on about how this friend of mine continued to search for answers throughout high school, but it would be a never-ending story and to tell the truth it very well could still be happening today. I saw something happen to her though. I was watching when it happened. She was with a boy she had met not long ago, and it was obvious she was infatuated with him; would do anything he said no matter what. He told her about something he had been doing behind her back and she looked pissed. But I know her better than anyone and I could tell she wasn’t mad about what he had been doing but that he had been doing it without her. Yet again she threw herself into everything whole-heartedly and if this was a part of this boy she thought she loved then she wanted in. I can’t believe it happened. Well, I can’t believe that either of these things really went down. Before it all happened and before he gave her that shot in the arm that would take her away from me for a very long time she looked in the mirror. For the first time in years I looked back at her through that same mirror, she really saw me, and I really saw her. That connection happened, and we knew what we were doing. We knew what path we were taking. She seemed to be saying good bye for now but not forever. There was an awareness that she was making the decision to leave me behind. I don’t think she knew before she was leaving me, but now she was actively doing it. I got to see myself clearly that day and through the rough years I occasionally got to look through the mirror when she let me, and we even had a few screaming matches. In the present I now know I made that choice for a reason and I knew it would be a very long time until I’d see myself again. But It did happen. Although my relationship with my friend is different now than when we were young, at least I get to see her every day.


His first thought was that grass tasted kinda bad. Alex replayed the last few seconds in his head: he had been running, apparently with his mouth open, and had suddenly fallen face-first onto this person's lawn. No, not lawn, backyard. He pushed himself up onto his knees and spat onto the ground. Hell of a case of grass-mouth. The strange thing was, despite how it may look, Alex actually *did* spend a considerable amount of his time trespassing on other people's property, and he had never taken a fall like that one. There must have been some sort of disturbance, an unseen obstacle hidden in the grass that tripped him up. His ankle ached. His stomach clenched as a growing feeling of unease crept over him. He sat up, made sure that his backpack was still on his shoulders, and looked down at what had tripped him. "Oh jesus fuck…" he said quietly. Then he screamed. ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ Police Sergeant J. Foley-Shmitt made a curious clicking sound with his mouth, and flicked the ashes off of the end of his cigarette. He looked at the young man. "Yup. That's a drug-hole all right. Probably could've held at least ten kilos of cocaine-phetamine. Glad you called us.” Alex looked confused. “A drug-hole? Are you sure that’s all it is?” “Yep.” Sergeant Foley-Schmitt tapped around inside the hole with his foot. It was about three feet in diameter and a foot deep. “About as drug-y as a hole can get. Traffickers tend to bury their stash until the price hits a peak, then they dig it up and sell it all at once. Usually they fill the hole back in, but hey, we don’t catch the smart ones.” He stood up straighter, put a hand on his hip and took a long drag of his cigarette, before tossing it onto the grass. “Yeeeup. Looks like we’ve got all we need to make an arrest. We’ll wait for him to get home from whatever deal he’s doing and nab him-” Alex shifted on his feet. “um , officer Foley-” “Sargeant” “Right, Sergeant Foley-Schmitt. Um. You’re positive it’s a drug-hole? Because my first thought was that it was a murder-hole.” The sergeant squinted. “A which hole?” Alex swallowed nervously. “Uh, murder-hole. Like someone kills someone and buries the body?” “Oh you mean a corpse-hole? No it couldn’t be-" "I'm sorry, did you say 'murder-hole'?" A voice interrupted the officer. He and Alex turned around to see a tall, dark-haired woman in a black pantsuit and wearing what she would probably describe as 'sensible walking heels.' "Hi." She said, "Linda Rickwell. I live across the street. I saw the lights and heard the sirens from your cruiser and came over. You should really turn the sirens off by the way. Does Ted have a murder-hole here?" The Sergeant cleared his throat: "corpse-hole, actually, and no, he doesn't.'Ted' has a drug-hole here in his backyard. He's been flooding the streets with pcp for months." She nodded. "I always knew Ted was up to no good. How do you know about the drugs?" "The hole mostly." "Hmmmm" a thoughtful look passed over Linda's face. "I work for the Justice Department. I run into a lot of holes in my line of work. Often they aren't what they seem, mind if I take a look?" “Well,” The sergeant said, inhaling a sharp, masculine breath, “I’d never deny a lady a chance to check out a h-” “Thanks” Linda said, pushing past him. She bent over the hole. A few seconds later she was turning around and removing her government-issued Blackberry from its utility clip on her waist. “Unbelievable” she said, slowly shaking her head while she brought up her contact list. “You seriously think this is a drug-hole? Or hell, even a murder-hole?” “Corpse-” the sergeant began. She cut him off: “you have no idea how serious this situation is. I’m glad I was here. Your incompetence might end up getting a lot of people killed today.” She found the contact she was looking for and pressed the call button. She put it up to her ear. “Jackson? It’s me, Lin. Look, we’re gonna need agent Shifter and agent Fubar to get down here immediately.” she paused. “Yup, we’ve got a B-hole.” ⧫ ⧫ ⧫ It took about fifteen minutes for the black suburban carrying agents Shifter and Fubar to arrive. Agent Bul Shifter was a middle-aged man of below-average height. His build and short, crew-cut hairstyle suggest that he was ex-military. Sarah Fubar was a woman, slightly younger than Shifter. They both wore black suits, and flashed their badges at officer Foley-Schmitt and Alex as they approached. Officer Fubar looked Linda. “What’s the situation?” “We’ve got a Bomb-hole in the backyard.” Linda replied, “We need immediate confirmation and advisement. The guy that owns this house is my neighbor ‘Ted’ Johnson.” Linda began leading the two agents around to the back of the house when Officer J. Foley-Schmitt stepped in front of the three of them. “Now what in the tired-hell is going on here? This is a crime scene. *My* crime scene. This ‘Ted’ guy has a three foot drug-hole in his yard that, until this morning, was most likely filled with marijuana-fentanyl. I’ll bet he’s been out on a corner somewhere slinging sacks of it all day. Who knows who he could’ve sold it to by now: kids, parents, homeless people, hell, I'll bet he’s out there selling dope-sacks to little old ladies, or school teachers. Now, the only way to stop this monster is to wait for him to get home, and nab him. Now, if you’ve got some theory that’s better than the exact scenario I’ve described, then I want to hear it. Otherwise, get out of my crime scene.” “Officer Schmitt?” Agent Shifter said. “Foley-Schmitt” The officer corrected him. “Right. Foley-Schmitt. We’re the F.B.I, okay? Our colleague said there was a bomb-hole here. This is serious business. This ‘Ted’ guy is most likely a domestic terrorist. I’ve seen this type of thing before. They hide a bomb in the backyard, then when the time comes, they dig it up, plant it under city hall, then blow it sky-high. And right now, your unsubstantiated, pet-theory about drug-holes and dime-sacks is gonna cost precious lives.” “City hall?” Linda asked. “How do you know it’s city hall? What if he’s planning on blowing up the stadium?” “Don’t be ridiculous” Shifter said. “It’s going to be city hall. Think about what we know: He has a *hole* in his *yard*. He’s not *home* either. You really think he’s not planting a bomb at City Hall? So far none of the evidence contradicts it.” “Wait,” Agent Fubar cut in, “What if he’s going after the mall downtown?” “What if it was a murder?” Alex cut in. “I swear that hole could have held a body, that’s what I thought when I found it. He killed someone, buried them, then dug them up and went to dump them in the lake. If we go now, we can probably catch him before he skips town for good.” “Look, kid, we don’t deal with ‘what-if’s.” Agent Shifter said. “Unless you have a really good explanation for why this hole definitely *couldn’t* be a bomb-hole belonging to some lunatic who’s about to blow up City Hall, we’re going to get moving. I’m calling the mayor. Fubar, Rockwell, call the fire department and police. We need everyone to evecuat-” Just that moment, a gray Honda Civic pulled into the driveway. A tall, very alarmed-looking man stepped out frantically. “Hey, what’s going on is somebody hurt?” Then, gesturing at officer Foley-Schmitt’s cruiser, “why are the sirens still on? What’s this about?” “Are you Mr. ‘Ted’ Johnson?” Agent Shifter asked. “Uh yeah, that’s me. Teddius Young Johnson. What’s the problem?” “We know about the drugs, Ted.” Officer Foley-Schmitt said. “It’s over.” Ted deflated. A defeated look came upon his face. He lowered his eyes. “That was years ago.” He said “In college. My buddy Kyle, he said that if you soak a tampon in vodka and put it, you know, up your…” He mouthed ‘*rear end*’ “then you get drunk faster. I didn’t know it was against the law. I’m so sorry.” Sergeant Foley-Schmitt grunted. “What? No the *drugs*. Don’t play dumb. You’ve been selling Oxy-Codeine to middle-schoolers all day, haven’t you?” Ted looked confused. “What are you talking about? I’ve been at work all day. I don’t understand.” “Hey, we’ll take over from here.” Agent Fubar cut in. She, agent Shifter and Linda Rockwell approached Ted and surrounded him. “Look Ted, we know you don’t sell drugs,” she said. “We want to know where the bomb is. We found the hole, Ted.” “The whole what?” he asked. “What bomb?” They led him into the backyard. Agent Shifter pointed at Ted's hole. “We know you had a bomb in there, Ted. You kept it for months, just waiting for the right time. Then, when you thought no one would expect it, you dug it up. How long did it take you Ted? An hour? Two hours? Then you drove into town, and you’ve been wiring it up underneath City Hall-” “Or the downtown mall” Fubar interjected. “-Or the downtown mall-” Agent Shifter repeated. “-all day. And now you’ve been caught. You’re going away for a long, long time. But first, you’re gonna give us the deactivation codes.” “I don’t have any deactivation codes, I didn’t plant any bombs-” Ted said. “Don’t try to bullshit me, ‘tough-guy” Agent Shifter said. “I’m with the F.B.I. Bomb-Hole Disposal Unit. And that hole of yours was full of explosive ordinance until this morning, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?” Shifter was beginning to lose his cool. “It’s just a hole!” Ted shouted. “Just a whole lotta bullshit.” Shifter said. “Was it ‘just a hole’ when I stepped on a landmine in Iraq?” He pronounced ‘Iraq’ as ‘eye-rack.’ There was a pause. “You *stepped on a landmine?”* Linda Rockwell asked. “Yeah.” He replied. “It was a dud. It didn’t go off, but I sprained my ankle something fierce when I tripped on it. That’s not the issue here. ‘Ted’ here needs to explain to us what this hole is doing in his yard if it’s not a bomb-hole.” “It was my tree.” Ted said. “My peach tree. I had it for years. It died one winter and when spring came, it never came back to life. Just, gone. It finally fell over a few weeks ago, and so I dug it up over this past weekend. It’s a stump-hole, that’s it.” There was a stunned silence for a few seconds as Alex, Foley-Schmitt and the agents processed what Ted had said. “I can’t believe it.” Agent Fubar said quietly. A look of disgust passed over agent Shifter’s face. “You *scum*. You actually admitted it. You *did* dig this hole.” “But it’s a peach-hole, I didn’-” Ted began. “Rockwell, Fubar, restrain him.” Shifter interrupted. Before Ted could react, his neighbor and agent Fubar had him by the arms. “Foley-Schmitt, search that shed by the garden, I think we’ll find all the evidence we need.” The officer jogged past Ted’s flower garden and apple tree to the rustic wooden shed at the far end of the yard. He kicked the door in and disappeared inside. Everyone waited with bated breath while the police sergeant rummaged in the darkness. He emerged a few seconds later with a large, dirt-covered shovel. The type someone might use to dig up a tree stump. “And there it is,” Shifter said, turning back to face Ted. “I bet his fingerprints are all over that.” “Of course they are,” Ted said, “it’s my shovel.” Shifter shook his head. “You just keep digging yourself in deeper, don’t you?” He nodded to agent Fubar who immediately jerked both of Ted’s hands behind him and began to handcuff him. “Teddius Young Johnson, you are under arrest for Premeditated Bomb-hole Conspiracy in the First Degree.” At that same moment, Sargeant J. Folley-Schmitt shouted “Teddius Young Johnson, you are under arrest for distribution of narcotics. Anythi-” He stopped. Agent Fubar had been searching Ted’s pockets as part of the post-arrest pat-down and had found something. She held up a clear, empty Ziploc sandwich bag. “What the hell is this?” She asked. “What was in here?” “My trail mix,” Ted Said. “I eat it at work. It has protein.” The F.B.I. agents’ hands went to their guns. “There’s a residue in here!” Fubar shouted. “Oh jesus” Foley-Schmitt said. “It’s a drug-sack!” He began running to his cruiser. “Talk to me, Fubar.” Shifter said, concerned. Fubar ran her fingers on the inside of the baggie. “I think the bag was used to hold explosives!” She shouted. J. Foley-Schmitt made it to his cruiser and dove into the driver’s seat. He snatched up his radio and yelled into it: “This is sargeant J. Folley-Schmitt reporting a drug deal in progress, requesting backup!” “He might still have the explosives on him!” Fubar shouted. “He’s wearing a bomb!” Shifter screamed. He pulled out his gun and cocked it. “Fubar, GET DOWN!” He aimed at Ted. At this point, Alex decided to run. Today was not going to be his day to get shot or blown up. He turned away from the madness and sprinted away through the backyard. He didn’t get far before he tripped in the hole. For the second time that day, he found himself face-down with a mouthful of grass. Everything was silent. He sat up and looked around. The sound of him falling, or possibly the squeal he made as he had hit the ground, had gotten everyone’s attention. They were all staring at him, completely aghast. Agent Shifter was the first to break the silence. “Hey, Alex.” he said, eyeing Alex suspiciously, “What were you doing running through Ted’s backyard this morning anyway?” “Um, I like to do that on my morning jog, I run through lots of peoples yards,” Alex said, becoming nervous as the group walked towards him. “Hey,” Sergeant Foley-Schmitt said as he approached Alex and stood over him “What’s been in your backpack this whole time?” Before Alex could reply, Officer Foley-Schmitt reached down and yanked Alex’s backpack off. It had only been slung over one shoulder. He unzipped it and looked inside. The color drained from his face. “What’s wrong, what’s in it?” Asked agent Fubar as she approached, followed by the others. Officer Foley-Schmitt’s face was a mix of terror and rage as he looked at the group.


Andy buried his wife on March 16th. It was a closed casket funeral, due to the violent and abrupt nature of her death. Her name was Lorelai Day. She was 32 years old. Andy had stood there at the front of the sanctuary looking down at the smooth, white coffin he had picked out for her just the day before. The inside was a deep, wine-colored velvet. Only the best for his Lo. Staring into the light reflecting off the coffin, he remembered the last time he saw her face. So full of fear, yet serene, like a calm ocean while a storm raged over head. He wondered dimly if her eyes were open. Her funeral service was full. Some of the guests could have been perfect strangers, people she had passed on the street. Looking around, Andy couldn't find one familiar face. Lo was the popular one, she had all the friends who by default became friends of Andy too. Andy didn't need any of those friends, he had Lo. After she was laid to rest, Andy couldn't bear going to the luncheon some friends were hosting afterward. He wouldn't be missed. He walked the streets alone, not much caring where he went, just vaguely making in the direction of their- well his- home. They -he- lived on a secluded branch of the neighborhood. Lo had insisted on moving closer to other people, but Andy liked the isolation. Now, that sense of loneliness was what he feared. As he slowly made his way up to their house, Andy could make out the outline of a large cardboard box sitting at their- his- front door. He knew that it must be another gift from one of their - Lo's- friends. As he approached, he could feel an odd cold feeling settle within him. Up to now, Andy hadn't opened any of the presents he had been given. He felt they didn't belong to him. But this, this was different. Andy couldn't place the sensation making its way slowly through him. It was a deep, sinking feeling. It felt as though he was being observed by an unknown force. He felt like a puppet being maneuvered by something greater as he bent down to scoop up the box. There was nothing on the outside, no note, no explanation of what it was or who it was from or how sorry whoever it was had been for his loss. He hoisted it inside and placed it down. He kneeled down and ran a hand across the top of the box, almost like he was inviting whatever was inside to come out. He cautiously lifted the top flaps and leaned in. Inside were beat up and well-used books. No, not books, Andy thought to himself as he picked one up to examine it. Journals. He opened the cover. Inside it read as follows: December 8th No Turning Back The handwriting. It flowed between certain letters and was almost... smudged? Andy suddenly felt whatever had been sinking inside him hit the bottom. Lo. This was Lo's. Are all of these her's? Where did they come from? Why are they here now? Who put them there? Andy slowly peered inside the box again. His eyes saw what must have been at least 15 or 20 journals. They were all the same deep forest green, hardcovers, bookmarked on the last page. He picked another out of the box, opened the cover and read the following: April 24th Sink or Swim Andy frantically flipped through the pages. All were filled completely, all to the very end. Andy froze. Confusion swept through him like a great wave crashing on a small child. Pulling them deep into the undertow. Lo and Andy never kept secrets. Never. He reached into the box and pulled out a third. He opened the cover, and read the following: September 4th Out Like A Light Andy turned to the next page, shaking in an almost convulsive manner. The pages were rough and well worn. Someone had read this before, multiple times. Over and over and over again. Andy felt as though he couldn't stop. He had no other choice but to read. "I felt the itch again today. Sometimes it hits so hard I just can't contain it. I waited until he fell asleep. I waited until he feels into the rhythmic snore cycle that always woke me up. I stood over him, watched for a second. He seems so at peace when he's dreaming. That serenity is what I crave" Andy suddenly felt a line of cold sweat trace his upper lip, but he couldn't stop. "I followed her into the park. I've seen her before. Long, gorgeous chestnut hair, tied loosely into a ponytail that seemed to bounce as she ran. She had no idea I had been following her. She seemed oblivious to the world around her. She was perfect. I got closer. The weight in my hand growing heavier by the second, just aching to be freed. I tapped her twice gently on the left shoulder. I wanted to see her face. She turned, with a dumb smile stuck squarely on her mouth. Then she was on the ground, eyelids twitching manically. The brick in my hand now slick with blood. I crouched down delicately to get closer. She was so beautiful. I swept a piece of her hair off of her face, then admired her closely for just a second. She started to croak out something that she never finished. Then in one swift motion, she was gone. Out like a light. Out like a light. Out like a light out like a light out like a light out like a light...." Andy frantically flipped through the pages only to see the phrase repeated over and over to the very last line. He shut the journal then threw it across the foyer. He scooted away to the base of the stairs, he tried to stand, but his legs had turned to jello. He wanted to run. In the light seeping through the windows, he saw faint markings on the spine of the journal. He slowly crawled forward. He gently picked the journal back up and turned it to the spine. There he saw the number 374. Andy suddenly jumped as the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house. Andy stood slowly, dropping the journal at his feet. As he slowly walked towards the door, what he saw made him feel like he had sunk through the floor. Innocently waiting for him at the front door was another box. Something seemed to call to him from inside the package.


At this very moment, Sally feels uncomfortable. The umbilical cord has wrapped around her arm causing her terrible pain. In her attempt to get comfortable, she moves and collides with Saulo, her twin brother. Saulo, furious, lets a kick escape inside the belly of Mary, their mother. Mary isn’t having a good time; she is forced to drop the last intact porcelain plate that remained from the *Cisne Royal* collection obtained from the marital property inherited by her grandmother. “Fuck” she says. Mary has no one to help her picking up the porcelain. Her husband, Víctor Alfredo García Rojas de Zúñiga, is signing the last page of the contract that will appoint him as the sales manager of the furniture distributor *Cositos&Cositas*. Víctor Alfredo wouldn’t even tell the news to his wife Mary, because he plans to celebrate with Daniela Costa first, the niece of the executive director. They have arranged an appointment at the *El Paraíso* (two stars) Hotel, and Víctor Alfredo has already bought the perfect *pisco*. But Víctor Alfredo García Rojas de Zúñiga is not insensitive; he had already planned to reserve the first of his salaries as sales manager on a Super Duplo T soccer ball that he would give to Saulo, his future son. What he doesn’t know is that, 13 years and 2 months later, Saulo would be selling the same ball in his attempt to save up for the sex reassignment surgery he planned to do since he was 8 years old. “You disgust me” his twin sister, Sally, would say to him. “Why would you do something like that?” “I feel it’s the right thing”. “Mom says that God only created man and woman…” “That’s not even relevant to this debate, stupid” Saulo would respond. “And don’t you dare tell Mom or Carlos about this”. Sally tells Carlos, the famous “Talara’s real estate guru” with whom Mary managed to marry after finding two used condoms wrapped in toilet paper inside the second inside pocket of Víctor Alfredo’s shirt. “I can explain it”, her ex-husband had told her. But he couldn’t. Carlos, the real estate guru, is alarmed by Sally’s accusation. He knows he would be a terrible stepfather if he goes around with the gossip to Saulo’s mother and a bad husband if he keeps the secret from her. “This bullshit wouldn’t be happening to me if I hadn’t married”, Carlos thinks as he remembers the last afternoon he spent feeding his fish Pepe, the only consolation he had during his miserable elementary education. At that time, the real estate guru was molested by Felix, the son of the whore Tula Cantonera (stage name). The brawl had begun when every fourth-grader found out that Carlos liked to collect *Clementoni* puzzles. “Little fag!” Felix shouted at him in the middle of the tumult. Thirty years later, the real estate guru listens to the same words again. While he and Mary are in *Cositos&Cositas* looking for a crib for the baby they were expecting, he is attacked by Víctor Alfredo García Rojas de Zúñiga's insults and provocations. “Carlos, do something!” yells Mary in light of her ex-husband’s threats. But the real estate guru doesn’t move. “This bullshit wouldn’t be happening to me if I hadn’t married”, he thinks again as he decides to leave his pregnant wife in the middle of the store. Three weeks later, Mary loses the baby in a miscarriage. No one feels less affected by this loss than her daughters Sally and Saulo, who now prefers to be called Sara. They receive the news in the middle of the purification retreat “*Mente Sanasa*” that happens in Calca. “Everything goes wrong in my life. No man loves me”, cries their mother Mary on the phone. “In the blink of an eye you’ll have already turned 20. All my life I have been alone”. Sally doesn’t know if it’s due to the effect caused by the *ayahuasca*, but she doesn’t feel like continuing to listening to her whining speech, so she hangs up. The two sisters leave the place and sit next to an old carob tree. Sara cries. Sally comforts her. “What’s happening?” Sally asks. “Everything is happening”. They remain silent, but it never feels uncomfortable. At a certain moment, Sara stops her crying and observes the sun hiding between the *Sahuasiray* and the *Pumahuanca*. “Do you realize that we could’ve been born in any other body and could’ve had any other life? For example, look at that peddler down there in the square: he’s old and sad, isn’t he? But what if he was thinking the same thing at your age? What happens if that were your hypothetical future?” “Nonsense, Sara. Nonsense”.


“We do not know what these creatures are, but they are wreaking absolute havoc on the United States. We’re umm also getting reports that other countries are experiencing this same phenomenon.” Wolfe looked so...mortified. My grandma watched CNN when he was on, and he always seemed so professional, and said his words so matter-of-factly, and here he seemed like he really didn’t want to be where he was. But hey you can’t blame the guy, I still had a few tears running down my cheek. “The US military has been put at DEFCON 1, and the government has issued instructions for all civilians to stay in their homes, and to stay off the streets if at all possible.” Yeah no shit Wolfe. But then he stopped talking. Well I should say he was more listening into his little earpiece and trying to focus on what the person on the other end was telling him. Wolfe muttered a small “are you serious?” And shortly afterwards, he looked back at the camera, appearing more horrified than ever. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have just received word that a-“ Wolfe cut out. The screen went black and was followed by that ear-splitting ringing of the Emergency Broadcast System. After a few seconds of the beeping, a voice came on, saying “this message has been transmitted at the request of the United States Office Of Civil Defense. At this time, the United States government is launching multiple nuclear ICBMs at targets within the continental United States. Areas of impact include Boston, Manhattan, Philadelphia, and Indianapolis. If you are in any of these areas you are advised to get out now. If fleeing is not possible, go to any underground shelter. Impacts will occur within the next fifteen minutes.” The beeping began again, and then the broadcast was over. Wolfe Blitzer didn’t return to the screen. Instead the live coverage was now nothing but the CNN logo plastered on the screen. I bet Wolfe was getting the hell out of there, along with everyone else. “What do we do now?” Someone in the back asked. 11 Months Later You know those zombie or alien invasion movies where world governments topple like a house of cards when things go to hell? Well, this isn’t that kind of movie. The creatures caused some pretty hard hits, and most third and second world countries did fall. But America didn’t. The biggest cities were left abandoned when the creatures took over, and the last few millions of Americans moved into smaller regions of the country. Small towns became large communities of people. The new house of government was in a small town in Kansas. Most military bases were still up and running, which was good, and every able-bodied man and woman seventeen and over were drafted into the United States military to help the war effort. Yes, these creatures could be killed, but not by our bullets or explosives. The reason cities were overrun is because the bullets wouldn’t even penetrate their skin, and explosions only seemed to make them wince. But that’s when our luck changed. We survivors started hearing a rumor that an old lady somewhere in western America was able to kill one of these things with an antique fork. This woman earned herself the nickname “Lady Of The West”. It turns out that the story was true, and people wondered why a fork could kill them, but not bullets. Well, turns out that it’s because the fork was made of silver. Silver seems to be their goddamn Kryptonite, and anything silver that touches them makes them howl in pain. And when we started making our bullets out of silver, oh man it was REALLY over for them. We began taking back cities. Small at first, like Little Rock and Oklahoma City, but now the military’s got their sights set on a bigger city. We were gonna take back Seattle. Now I, having turned seventeen three months ago, had to go on this mission. I had killed quite a few of them up till now, but Jesus they still scared the shit out of me. “Hey Phobia, you want one?” My platoon buddy, Mark, called out to me, holding a peppermint in his hand. We were on a plane headed to the outskirts of Seattle, where we’d parachute down, along with hundreds of other soldiers, and try to take back the city. Phobia was my nickname, given to me due to my extreme fear of these creatures, whom we now nicknamed “Demons”. We soared thirty-five thousand feet above the ground. The hum of the engines actually kinda soothed me for some reason. I played with the safety setting on my rifle, which I was holding in my lap, while we flew. There were about forty other people in this plane, ranging from seventeen to somewhere in their thirties. I didn’t have many friends now. I left all of my friends in my past life, before this hell. Even Mark, who I would say I’m closest to, I wouldn’t really consider a “friend”. On the way there I thought about my past life. Both of my parents died at the hands of the Demons, and I was left an orphan. I miss them. I miss my old school. I miss Ethan, who I haven’t seen since I left the school that day. I don’t even know if he’s alive. A voice came over the sound system in the plane. “Two miles outside of the drop-point.” The pilot said. “Alright ladies, we’re almost there, get the hell ready!” Our platoon sergeant said. About thirty seconds later, the back of the plane opened up, revealing a dark, windy night sky. “On my mark!” Serg said. “Three...two...one!” And he jumped. Everyone else followed, one by one. Eventually it was my turn, and I jumped. The wind on my body was so cold. I formed my body into a diving position as to fall faster, and I caught up with the other soldiers that had jumped. Not long after, our parachutes opened, mine yanking me back, giving me slight whiplash on my neck. We landed on an abandoned interstate littered with cars. I could hear the faint sound of other planes above us, dropping more and more soldiers. We were instructed to not have any light at all, and we were instead supplied with night-vision goggles. I strapped mine around my head and turned them on. I could see everything now, the cars in front of me, lined for miles. There were also dead bodies in the road that had been rotting for a while, and when I looked up, I could see hundreds of men parachuting down onto the ground. Each unit that joined the assault was given their own orders, their own route to take into the city. We were gonna try to surround the city, boxing the Demons in. “Stay low, follow my lead.” Serg said, and we all followed him. The only sounds were our footsteps, animals and small critters near us, and the occasional sound of someone bumping into a car or stepping on a body. I could see the city, it’s buildings were all mostly intact, but there were small plums of smoke rising from some of the buildings. When we reached the inner city, we walked quietly and were told to wait until all the other units were in position before we rose hell. There was a sound from behind us. We all aimed our weapons in unison, almost as if we had practiced for it. We were standing in an alley on the outskirts of the city, and we really didn’t wanna start shooting yer unless we had to. Then, a dog appeared. A big, mange-ridden dog who was digging in a dumpster at the end of the alley. I was about to be relieved it was just a dog, before I heard a gasp and then a BOOM!, and the dog fell over dead in a spray of blood. “Oh shit.” I whispered to myself. Some dumbass in the group panicked and shot the damn dog, and just like we all expected, the sounds of flapping wings and deep growls closed in on our position. Serg could only speak three words by that point. “This isn’t good”.


I drummed my fingers lightly on the table. The guard standing next to me shifted uncomfortably. The interview was set to start in two minutes. "Are you gonna be here the whole time?" I asked looking up at him.  "If that is what you wish, but he will be handcuffed. He will not be able to hurt you." He said without looking down at me. I looked forward towards the door that leads to the interworkings of the prison.  "Actually, I think it would be best if it was just me and him. He might be more comfortable that way." I said without taking my eyes off the door, looking for movement behind it. He gave me no response. I looked down at my watch. One minute until show time. I fiddled with my notes again, checked the tape recorder once again to make sure it was in working order. I didn't want to miss a single second of this.  "Keep it movin'," I heard a surly voice say from beyond the door. The guard glanced at me then shifted again. Keys jingling, then the knob turning, and then there he was. The most prolific serial killer in the history of the state of Arizona, looking right at me.  He was neat, clean-cut, freshly shaven. He's been in solitary for the past three weeks, he must have cleaned up special for this. He must be able to feel my repulse and excitement rolling off of me in waves. He gave me a small smile. I turned to the guard next to me, gave him a nod as his cue to leave, he hit me with a looked that asked me "Are you sure? Really sure?", but my gaze didn't waver.  Once he was secured, and the doors were shut, it was time to begin. They had cleared out the visitor room just for this, we were seated at a small table near a window that overlooked the yard. I knew they would be watching us. He cocked his head at me, shot me that grin again. The smile never reached his eyes. I cleared my throat, reached for the recorder, and started the recording.  He glanced at the recorder, then back at me. "Hello Ms.Ward, it's nice to meet you. My name is John Doe", he made the motion of going in for a handshake, but fell short due to the restrictions. I tried to smile.  "They told you my name?" I asked with genuine interest. I hadn't exactly agreed to be the interviewer until yesterday. He seemed delighted with this.  "Well yes, I know everything about you, Ms. Ward. It truly is a pleasure to meet you." He stared at me as he said this, his cold eyes never leaving my face. I laughed lightly despite the panic rising within me. "What exactly do you know about me?" I said trying my best to keep eye contact. He drops his eyes, then slowly pulled them back to meet mine, that grin never leaving his face. "I know that you are originally from Portland, left when you were 18 and then hopped from state to state until you found a place that stuck. I believe you lived in California, Washington, Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and Utah. Ah, yes, with a brief stay in New Mexico. You work for the East Valley Tribune, and I know that you're the new kid on the block there, don't exactly fit in. Haven't made any friends despite being here since January. Stick to yourself, don't you? I imagine you living in a small, neat apartment, short lease. You never know when you might want to pack up and leave again. No boyfriend, I suppose no romance has entered your life in the past decade. From the divorce I suspect." He spoke with a calm tone to his voice. It felt like I was talking to one of my teachers in elementary school.  "I've read everything you've written. Talented writer I must say. This doesn't really fit with the rest of your work, does it? You've stayed away from crime. I think you got stuck with me because no one else had the balls to sit across the table from me. Is that close? " Silence fell for a moment. His face never moved. "Right on the money," I replied. I looked down at my notes, lost for a moment. "Let's start, shall we?" I said. His expression didn't change. He eased back in his chair.  "Fire away.


According to a contract I signed in the year 2012, everything you are about to hear is completely prohibited. As an ex-editor for a well-known special effects studio, I would like to remain anonymous. That is why you may notice I refrain from using people’s names or places where “The Incidents” took place, for the sake of keeping my identity hidden. I am taking a huge risk here leaking this information online, but the public deserves to know. We are unwittingly crossing into territory never meant for the living, and messing with forces that we don’t yet understand. All for the sake of entertainment. We should have left well enough alone. What’s dead, should stay dead. As many of you may remember fans and attendance witnessed a surprise performance by none other than Tupac Shakur. The long-dead legendary rapper blew fans minds with his lifelike appearance. Its interactions with Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg almost seemed too real to be just a hologram. Long-time fans had tears in their eyes as if they relived their earlier years in the 90s. Through the miracle of technology, we were able to bring back the voice and embodiment of a musician who hasn’t been alive since 1996. People were blown away by the performance and thanks to media coverage and social media, word of Holographic Performances spread like a wildfire. Soon enough, “An old Dirty Bastard” from the Wu-Tang Clan appeared on the stage in New York, almost a decade after his death. A year later Michal Jackson moonwalked across the stage at the Billboard music awards. None of us will ever forget when Prince appeared during the super bowl halftime show. It wouldn’t be long before the first hologram musical would go on tour. That being said, these performances received mixed reviews by both fans and critics alike. Although the sound quality and visual effects were impressive, some people reported a strange feeling they had while watching the hologram, some felt a strong feeling of discomfort and couldn’t exactly explain why. Some researchers have come out and tried to explain that this is due to a phenomenon that is known as the “Uncanny Valley”. The Uncanny Valley is a theory that hypothesizes there is a relationship with how human something can act and our reaction to that object. For example, when we see something that strongly resembles a human but is slightly off, we are repulsed by it, and for some, the illusions of these holograms trigger these same feelings. I am here to tell you today, that there is so much more to these feelings that science can't even begin to explain. At the time I worked for Digital Domain, the special effects production company behind the Tupac Shakur hologram. During early tests and reviews, things seemed pretty normal. It was after that one night weeks before Coachella where things took a strange and unsettling turn. Myself, as well as the rest of the editing crew, were working late to fix a few subtle glitches in the images. During our last review, we caught a few frames where the hologram's eyes moved in different directions and split frames where his lips didn’t match up with thy lyrics. None of us thought anything of it and were working late to make sure it was lifelike as possible for the big stage. After the first few attempts things got even stranger. At one point in the middle of “Keep Ya Head Up”, the hologram stopped dead in its tracks. It stood there ridged, eyes facing forward with a forlorn look on its face. Some began to search furiously to find out what frame we were stuck on but my eyes never left the Hologram. Then seemingly out of nowhere his lips began to move. I got out of my seat and leaned in close to try to make out what words the lips were forming. Then to my absolute horror, two holes appeared in the holograms chest, then one in the arm and another in the thigh. I fell back into my chair as the appearance of blood began to seep from the wounds. The holograms face never changed. Then for the first time since its lips began to move one word came through our speakers, “Mama”? The hologram's eyes than rolled back and the mouth opened wide and then just like that, it stopped. The image of Tupac went back to his performance and the lyrics of the song continued. The bleeding bullet holes were gone. There were many reactions from the crew that night. Some claimed they didn’t see it, others claimed they saw the bullet holes but didn’t hear the words, and others outright claimed it was nothing more than a glitch. One thing was for certain though, the show must go on. Days after the incident, I went back through every single frame and couldn’t find a single one that showed me the image I saw that night. There was no way that what we saw that night was a simple glitch. What are the odds that an image would appear in the exact same manner the rapper was left after being gunned down 23 years ago? Although soon after the incident, every single member of the crew was approached by studio executives who strong-armed us into signing a non-disclosure agreement that prevented us from ever talking about “The Incident”. Rumors spread fast through the special effects studios. I have heard from an Ex-soundman who helped work on the Roy Orbison, and Buddy Holly Hologram tour, that his department also had their own incident. During the test performance, Buddy Holly's hologram also froze partway through “Rave On”, leaving the hologram crouched over with his head between his knees and his hands over his head. He also claimed that he heard the words “We’re going down, we’re going down” were repeated by the hologram over and over again with his tone growing more and more frantic. Then just like that, it continued to perform just the way it did before. The studios head CEO assumed this was a prank made by the editing crew made in poor taste at the deceased musician's expense. Buddy Holly as some of you may not know was the victim of a plane crash in 1959. Everyone in the editing department was fired without further investigation or notice and were also made to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Not much later I caught wind of rumors of a severe incident during the makings of the Michael Jackson performance. Many of you may not know that originally before the Michael Jackson hologram appeared briefly on the stage during the Billboard music awards, our studio was tasked with the editing of what was supposed to be an entire concert of some Micheal Jackson greatest hits. After this particular incident the whole project was scrapped, save the frames later on salvaged for his performance of “Slave to the Rhythm” later on that year. Here were the details of the incident as follows. During the editing of Michal Jackson's song “Smooth Criminal,” the hologram began acting erratically. Sometimes portions of the holograms body like his legs and torso would freeze as if stuck in place while the rest of its body continued to move unnaturally. Soon they began to notice they could hear strange whispers over the original audio of the song in Jackson's voice. No one could understand the words as they almost sounded like they were being spoken backward like a voice recording being played in reverse. Then a power surge caused the entire studio to blackout, every single light and computer monitor screen went dark and the speakers went silent. Then to everyone's shock, the hologram kept moving. Its limbs began to bend at unnatural angles the facial expressions began to change between looks of abject horror, anguish, amusement, sadness, and anger. Some witnesses said they began to smell sulfur in the air. Others claim the smell was more like rotten meat. Some witnesses began to hear whispers in many voices around them. Sometimes behind them. Sometimes in front of them. Sometimes they sounded as if they were being whispered right into their ears. The hologram began to bleed from its eyes, ears, and mouth and its eyes somehow seemed to look into the eyes of the witnesses all at once. Its mouth began to open impossibly wide as a desperate wail erupted from its holographic vocal cords. The hologram than vanished as the recording of the evil laugh from Jackson's music video for “Thriller” boomed from the speakers. After this incident non-disclosures and hush money were not even needed. The few witnesses all recessed into different states of silence. The least extreme case being driven into insanity. The most extreme case being suicide. The higher-ups in the studio expressed that the results were caused due to the extreme pressure the staff was working under and the unfortunate negative effects flashing lights in the studio had on the human mind. The only reason I found out about this incident myself was that one of my co-workers who I will not name was asked by one of the witnesses to scrub some of the audio to see what he could make of it. After listening briefly to the strange words being spoken by the hologram, he then played it in reverse to find the words that were being spoken backward in Jackson's voice. In an almost robotic monotone, his words were clear, “Can you feel them? Can you smell them? Can you hear them? They are close. They are near.” Then after a long pause. “They… are… here.” Before he was able to share these findings with the witness, he found out that the same man's mind had recessed back into a blank state, that was said to have been caused by a nervous breakdown soon after the incident. Although not soon afterward I was laid off due to our special effects production company filing for bankruptcy after some “copyright lawsuits.” Part of me was relieved when I received the news, knowing that the tampering with the unknown that was causing these incidents would finally stop. Sadly, as the popularity of Holographic Performances continues to grow, nothing will stop these companies from “Digging up the dead” and disturbing the likes of whatever abysmal beings tend to the souls of the deceased. Who will be next? David Bowie? Freddy Mercury? Kurt Cobain? I don’t know exactly how it happened, perhaps the likeness of the musicians bore so much resemblance to their counterparts that their disembodied spirit was able to temporarily speak through their image. Or perhaps whatever unearthly beings who were tasked to tend to the souls of the dead suspected a resurrection and attempted to break into our realm to claim it back. Whatever it is, our human brains cannot comprehend it, it drives men mad from the briefest exposure. I even find myself falling into depression and anxiety, self-medicating so that I may temporarily forget about what I saw that night in the studio. What if the next incident occurred in a stadium or a concert hall in front of hundreds of people? The effects would be catastrophic. There is nothing I can do about it except warn you. Please, if you value your life and your sanity, never attend a holographic concert. Remember the artists for who they were in life, and let them rest in peace. Let them live on through our hearts and their music, not through some perverse reincarnation made with technology. Let what is dead, stay dead.