Twenty feet in the air blows a flag; red, white and blue. Its stars and stripes signal a certain pride to the traffic passing below. Its pole was dug at great cost to the owner, who is old and in declining health. It took him three days and two shovels to move the required amount of Michigan soil, rocks and roots. Lacking the funds to purchase a tall, aluminum flag pole, the flag’s owner, a man named Royce decides the next best thing would be to go to his buddy’s scrapyard and find the longest, straightest, least-rusted piece of pipe he can find. Knowing Royce’s plan, the scrapyard friend gives him the pipe for free. He even welds two chain links about three apart to the top of the pipe to serve as the flag’s anchors. As far as Royce is concerned this is the moment the pipe successfully becomes a pole. Getting the pole home presented a new set of challenges, chief among them was how to fit 20ft of something in 6ft of pickup bed. Royce’s 1994 Ford F150 is up to the task. To be considerate of other motorist, he tied a red rag onto the 12 foot of pole overhanging from his pickup. He gets home without incident, but the rag is gone. In order to put the pole in place Royce backs his pickup into the yard so that it would tip from the bed of his truck into its pre-dug hole. If it was even five years ago Janice would be upset about tire tracks in her yard. Today it will take a miracle of concentration to get her to notice. Before setting the pole in place, Royce attaches the red and blue flag to the welded chain links. Realizing his pole lacks the pulleys most flagpoles have, it occurs to Royce that he will not be raising or lowering his flag anytime soon. Maybe that’s why the aluminum ones were so much more expensive, he thinks to himself. Adding a couple of bags of over mixed concrete he sets the pole in place. Doing his best near-sighted eyeballing, he holds the pole as the concrete hardens. After the concrete sets, Royce notices the pole leaning more towards the house more than it does to the road. Nevertheless he is satisfied. His pole is strong and mostly straight, proudly displaying the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy. One of the first people to notice Royce’s new ornament of the old south is a woman named Hannah. Hannah has two dogs, a live-in boyfriend and a sister in California she talks to once a week. She volunteers at her local United Methodist Church even though his tells her friends from college that she is still an atheist. Once a week, on trash day she does her best to separate everything correctly, with most of her glass, plastics and aluminum making into their respective bins. Arriving at home she finds her boyfriend Taylor standing in the kitchen. He is eating cold pizza and watching television on his lunch break. “You are not going to believe what I just saw.” Hannah says. “You know that shitty looking house on the right side of the road if you are coming from Clarkston? It’s just before you turn into the sub?” “I can’t picture it, but go ahead. What happened?” “They have a Confederate flag flying in their yard! As in the actual Confederacy. As in General Robert E. Lee. As in we wear grey uniforms and think black people are property! And in Michigan! You know, that great bastion of southern pride…Song of the South, sweet potato pie and I move to Ann Arbor!?! WTF!?! They live hundreds of miles from anything remotely Southern. They’re in the Midwest. They are in the Big Ten. Why do they have that flag in their yard?” Knowing Hannah is not done, Taylor attends to the work before him, and by work he means his pizza and the last 10 minutes of SportsCenter. “It’s just the laziest way to be a racist.” continues Hannah. “Being a white supremacist in suburbs of Michigan is like being a misogynist at an all boys school. If you are going to a racist pig, at least have the courage to live somewhere the stakes might matter. I guess I have more respect for the Mississippi racist than the Michigan racist. Is that wrong to say? I feel wrong saying it? I don’t know if I should have said that.” Meanwhile, satisfied with the work he has done for the day, Royce fires up a red Weber grill and throws on a trio of steaks. One for him, one for his wife, and one for a black lab named Wally, but whose full given name is Stone Wally Jackson. All three steaks will be served well done, with a side a microwavable fries and cold ketchup. “You know”, Hannah says, “I’ve always had this fantasy about telling a racist piece of shit off to his or her face. What do you think I should say? Not saying I will confront them, but if I did, what would it be? What would you say?” Still mostly into his pizza and TV, Taylor offers only slight resistance saying, “Maybe they aren’t from around here. It's terrible, but maybe the flag and what it represents really is just a part of their culture?” “Yeah.” says Hannah. “So their whole thing is that the flag is a symbol of their heritage right? It’s not hate, it’s just a part of their past that they want to remember. What if I turn that argument against them? What I go over to that guy’s house and flip him off right in front of his face. Middle finger, right in his fucking mouth. And here’s the best part, if they offer any rebuttal, if they are offended in any way. Do you know what my response is going to be?” Taylor does not. Or if he does seeing the fire behind his girlfriend’s eyes makes him too afraid to answer. “With my middle finger right in their face I’m going to say ‘Why are you mad? This is not a symbol of hate, but heritage. My father flipped people off, and even his father and grandfather before them. All of them gave people the finger. So because it is my heritage, you can’t get mad.’ What do you think?” Finishing his pizza, Taylor put his plate in the dishwasher, stacking it in line with the other three similarly sized plates ready to be washed. “I’m not sure what to think. I think I trust in your instincts in this instance.” “I’m gonna say something to them.” says Hannah without listening. “I’m going to go over there and confront whoever it is that lives there. Do you want to come?” Taylor excuses himself from the occasion by mentioning how swamped he is at work, telling Hannah that he really needs to buckle down and make phone calls for the rest of the afternoon. “If I wasn’t so busy I’d come with you.” Hannah is unsure of his sincerity, yet resolute in her own. The drive from her house to Royce’s is short. She sits up straight in her seat listening to Rage Against the Machine in order to maintain her righteous anger. Her Subaru Outback splatters in the mud pulling into Royce’s rock and dirt driveway. Getting out of her car, she sees an older man attending to a smokey grill. “Hey!” she calls from his driveway. Royce, focused on his steaks, looks up. Feeling herself unheard, Hannah walks closer. “Hey you at the grill! Yeah! Is this your flag? Huh? Is it? If that’s yours than fuck you!” She stares at the man at the grill as he stares back at her. His stature grows small with each muddy step she takes through his yard. Royce looks up again from his grill work and sees a young woman shaking her fist and yelling in his general direction. His initial reaction is to ask himself what he might have done wrong. Not thinking of anything, Royce asks, “Can I help you?” “Yeah you can help me! You can help all of us by taking down that symbol of hate and oppression.” “I’m sorry young lady you are going to have to speak up. I left my hearing aid inside.” Hannah moves close enough to Royce to touch him. “I said I want you to remove that flag in your yard. It gives our neighborhood a bad name. People will think we’re all a bunch of racists.” Hannah points at the flag and asks, “But maybe you are ok with that?” Still unclear as to what the young lady wants, Royce thinks about running in the house to grab his hearing aids. But after seeing her point to his new flag, Royce thinks that maybe if he talks about it enough, he will have answered her concern. “Well I put that up earlier today. Took me a while to dig the hole and pour the concrete. It’s not as straight as I like it, but you know, do what you can I guess?” Hannah feels sweat forming on her lip and brow, as her argument goes nowhere. She again asks if Royce is ok with being known as a racist. To which he hurriedly replies, “Yeah uh huh. You know, I don’t hear so good young lady. I’m gonna run inside and get my hearing aids. Forgive me, I’m doing my damnedest.” Immediately, as if falling backwards through a tunnel, Royce falls to the ground. His left arm pulls hard against his chest as he loses all consciousness. Hannah runs over and does her best to help him back up. Unable to lift him, she yells for help but there appears to be no one else home. She runs back to the car to get her phone. Hannah reaches the emergency dispatcher. “9-1-1, What is your emergency?” “There is a guy, he lives not too far from my house. I think he is having a heart attack. He just collapsed right in front of me.” “Ok Ma’am, don’t worry. I’m going to help you out. Can I get your name?” “Hannah.” “Ok Miss Hannah, my name is Latisha. Do you know your location?” “I’m not too sure. I’m on M-23, not far from the McDonals and Kroger outside Clarkston. I don’t know the address. I don’t live here. We’re right off the road. We’re underneath a oh…umm…Confederate flag. You can see it from the road.” “Mmm…426, this is Dispatch. We have a possible medical emergency in the vicinity of M-23 and Ratalee Lake Road. Be advised, victim is under a Confederate flag. Ma’am is the victim breathing?” “I think so. It’s hard to tell. He’s not moving. I just want you to know, that I don’t live here and I don’t have anything to do with the flag.” “It’s ok Ma’am. Can you tell me his name?” “I actually came over here to confront whoever it was that put it up. It’s just that when I did he passed out right in front of me.” “Ma’am, can I have the victim’s name?” “Oh, I don’t know, we’ve never met. This is the first time something like this has ever happened to me.” A small, bent over woman in an over-sized blue gown comes out of the house. She looks at Hannah, then at Royce, then at her yard, “Oh no, someone has tracked up my yard.” She heads back inside. “Hannah, the emergency team is on their way. Will you please stay on the line with me?” “Yes.” “Great. Paramedics should be arriving soon. Is there anyone else there on the premises?” “Oh, his wife is here, at least I think it is his wife, but I don’t think she’s all there. She looked at him and left.” “Hannah can you check on the victim again? Can you see if he is breathing?” “Hang on…I think he is. It’s just really slow. You know, I had this plan. I was going to come over him and I was going to come over here and shove my finger in his face. I was going to flip him off for having a symbol of hate in our neighborhood.” “That’s great Ma’am. Do you know if the victim has any health issue?” “Does being racist count? I’m joking, but not really. It really is a mental health issue. There’s been so many studies done that link racism and mental health. I hope he’s ok. I mean, I hope he is physically ok and that this can compel some compassion out of him. I mean he looks harmless enough. You just can’t ever tell what’s going on inside someone. My plan was to flip him off and tell him that giving people the bird isn’t hateful because my father gave people the finger, and so did his father. So it’s not hate, it’s my heritage. You know, flip their argument around on them. Do you think that would have worked?” “I really can’t say Ma’am.” “Look, I’m sorry what is your name again?” “Latisha.” “Look Latisha, I'm an ally, ok? I don’t have anything but contempt for these people. I think racist should be locked up and forced into racial sensitivity training. And I’m not just an anti-segregationist. I believe in institutional racism. I see redlining and gerrymandering as on-going symptoms of this country’s problem with race. I’ll even go so far as to say that reparations are probably the only way this country atones for its racist past. Personally I think every white family that sends one of their kids to college should also pay for a black kid to attend that same school. That’s the only way we make ourselves whole. Black History Month is great, but we need to do better. So I’m here to do the real work Latisha. I want to make a better country for people like you.” “Ma’am I’m white.” “Excuse me.” “I’m not black. I’m white. My parents are named Larry and Patrica.” “Oh…I’m sorry. It’s just that Latisha sounds like an African American name. I guess I was just thrown off by how it sounded. Now that you mention it, you don’t sound very African American.” “And how does an African American sound ma’am?” “Hey…hey Latisha come on. Be a buddy. That’s not fair. You know that’s not what I meant.” “How was I supposed to know what you meant?” “I guess you weren’t. I guess I just had an assumption in my head of a certain type of woman who answers phone calls all day. And then you said your name was Latisha. I guess my brain formed this picture of you as, you know, the stereotypical, sassy African American woman who does those types of jobs. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m realizing now I too make assumptions about people and if I did that to you, again I am sorry.” “What do you mean sassy? My tone and demeanor has been professional throughout.” “No I wasn’t saying you are being sassy, just that there is a stereotype of a sassy, African American woman, you know, who works in an office, and she’s says things like ‘Go ‘head!’ and ‘I’m not the one!’ She’s usually a bigger gal.” “So I’m fat now.” “No I don’t mean you. I mean that’s what the stereotype looks like. You are your own beautiful person Latisha. I’m sure you are beautiful no matter what you look like. I think everyone is beautiful and worthy of respect and dignity, unless you’re a racist piece of shit with a Confederate flag in his yard.” “My grandfather was from South Carolina and he flew a Confederate flag in his yard.” “Huh. Well shit.” “Ma’am I suggest that you stay on the line until paramedics arrive. If the victim gets worse you can tell me, but we do not have to talk.” “No, yeah. I think that would be best.” says Hannah. She and Latisha remain on the phone with one another, neither saying a word for another five minuets before the ambulance arrives. Hannah hangs up on Latisha without a word. A paramedic asks Hannah if he has any allergies or health issues. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him before. I just got here.” “You mean you just happened upon a guy having a heart attack?” “Kinda.” “Kinda huh? Well the police will be here in a minute to ask you a few questions. Let’s go boys!” Royce is loaded onto a stretcher and into the without any response. Hannah speaks to a nice city cop officer with a tattoo sleeve on both arms. He takes her statement and personal info before going inside to talk to Royce’s wife, dismissing Hannah to go home. As soon as she turns the key in her ignition, Rage Against the Machine starts bounding through her speakers. She turns the music off, hoping the polite office didn’t here anything. Back at home Taylor is again in the kitchen looking for snacks. “Hey how did it go? Did you tell off that racist piece of shit?” “I don’t know.” says Hannah. “It didn’t go like I thought it would.” “Well, what happened?” “I went over there, and was starting to go into my whole thing, but he was having a tough time hearing me because he was an older guy. When all of a sudden he falls down to the ground. So I called 911 and an ambulance came and I think he’s dead.” “What? Really?” “Yeah. He said he was doing his damnedest to understand me, and that he was going to get his hearing aids, and he just fell over. I think I was the last person he ever saw.” “Wow.” says Taylor. “You definitely did your damnedest on that guy.” “I don’t ever know what that means.” admits Hannah. “I guess I don’t either.” ———————————————- The funeral for Royce Lee O’Neal is being held six days after he raised a Confederate flag in his front yard. In attendance are loving members of his family, several dozens of his friends and acquaintances, lots of guys from the Rotary club, a couple members of the Local 713 Union of Pipe-fitters. Also in attendance is the person who indirectly caused his fatal heart attack. On her way to the funeral, Hannah drives past Royce’s house and notices the flag is no longer flying from its perch, leaving a naked, crooked piece of pipe standing 20ft tall with grassy tire tracks running up to it. The funeral home is a couple of towns further north, closer to where Royce grew up. Hannah finds her Suburu a parking spot among a flock of muddy pickups and beat-up SUVs. Not wanting to draw any attention, Hannah shows up to the funeral right as it begins (11am), sits as far back as possible, and debates slipping out a little early. The two story funeral home smells of floral death; flowers mixed with the formaldehyde and furnished with heavy couches and chairs in evergreen and navy. The stripped wallpaper peels from the corners, freshly varnished floorboards snap and creek underfoot. It’s as if the entire house stands in-between life and death, an American portal between this world and the next one. Hannah can see Royce from the back of the parlor. It is an open casket service which means everyone is either looking at him or trying to avoid looking at him. Standing near Royce’s head and pillow is a wispy, arched man in a suit one size too wide and one size too short. Hannah guesses him to be the minister, the man charged with saying something significant about her racist neighbor. After a few hymns, the minister reads from the Book of Psalms. He then offers a short homily. His words are not charged with religious rhetoric about the end of days or any need for zealous evangelism. Hannah notes that if anything the preacher’s words about Royce are rather sweet. He tells a couple of funny stories, mentioning even the time Royce dressed in drag at a Halloween party. The congregation laughs. And when he tells of the time Royce took in one of his grandsons, practically raising him, Hannah hears sniffs and Kleenex being pulled from the box. Afterward the sermon, a young woman in maroon dress sings Go Rest High on that Mountain. Hannah has never heard the song before and is moved to tears by the chorus. The service ends sober and sincere and full of hope, a tone anyone would want their funeral to possess. Hannah picks up her purse ready to escape quietly out the back. However she notices a line forming at the front of the room as people shuffle by the casket for one last glance at Royce. She turns around and joins the line. Everyone shuffles, their heads bowed, their eyes bright. Hannah reaches the front and peers into the steel, white box, its insides lined in silk and cotton. Royce looks peaceful and content with his current predicament. Gone is the agony Hannah saw on his face a few days ago. He wears a light blue suit, probably purchased for the occasion. In that moment, Hannah wonders how she will be buried. What dress will she wear? Where will her final resting place even be? Next to mom and dad in Florida? Perhaps somewhere here in Michigan? Maybe next to ol’ Royce. She is glad she has come. If nothing else she and Royce share a final moment together. Hannah leans in a little closer, but as she does she notices something inside, covering the bottom of Royce’s body like a blanket. Its colors do not match the decor of the casket, or Royce’s suit. The blue of the covering is much darker, the red very bold, and lined with white stars in the pattern of an X. “I will never understand you Royce. I don’t even know if I want to.” Hannah leans closer, close enough to kiss the corpse if she wants. “But I’m doing my damnedest.


Henry Bishop was sitting at his desk working when his boss, Mr. Carn approached him. “Bishop, you were supposed to give me the Compton report this morning. I want that report on my desk before the end of the day. Do your job,” he bellowed and stormed off. “Loudmouth bastard. He's always finding something wrong with my work. I wish it were legal to kill people like him. He’s giving me an ulcer.” In order to forget how much he hated Carn and his job, Henry spent his weekends going to the beach and wandering around the city. One Saturday, he stopped at a curio shop. “This is a fascinating place,” he said looking around. He picked up a dusty book. “Boy, this is weird. There’s only one page. ‘You don’t have to die,” he read. “I wonder what the characters below mean. I’ve never seen characters like those before.” As he wondered about the book, a man appeared behind him. “May I help you with something, sir?” “This book. There’s only one page, and all that’s written is, ‘You don’t have to die’ and there are symbols that I don’t recognize, and where are the rest of the pages?” “That’s the only page. It is the only page that is needed. The symbols are from an ancient civilization’s language. They refer to life and death." “Life and death? What about life and death?" "All I know is they refer to life and death." "Well, what about the statement 'You don't have to die?' Why would anybody write that? Everybody has to die.” “That’s not true. If you could read the ancient symbols that are on the page, you would understand. What would you say if I told you that you could live forever?” “Forgive me, but I would say you’re crazy.” “Come with me,” he said and Henry followed him into a back room, where he opened a desk drawer and took out a dagger. “What would you say if I told you I can’t die?” “Not possible.” “Watch,” he said, and plunged the dagger into his stomach. “Oh, my God,” Henry gasped. “I’m proving to you that I can’t die,” he said and pulled the dagger out of his stomach. As he pulled it out, the wound healed. “I’m not dead, am I?” “I don’t believe it. It must be a trick.” “It’s not a trick,” he asserted. “Here, take the dagger and push it into my stomach.” “Are you crazy?” “No, I'm not crazy,” he said, and put the dagger in Henry’s hand. Henry stared at the dagger and watched the blood that was on it evaporate. “I’m not gonna…” Before he could finish speaking, the man grabbed Henry’s hand and pulled the dagger into his stomach. Henry gasped, jumped back, and stared wide-eyed as the man pulled the dagger out of his stomach. Henry watched the wound heal and shook his head in disbelief. The man then took a small box out of the drawer, opened it, and took out a vile. “My friend, if you drink this potion, you, too, would become immortal. If you want to live forever, drink it,” he said and he put it in Henry’s hand. "Why would I want to live forever?" "Imagine what you could do if you lived forever, if you couldn't die. Imagine what you would know about the past in 200 years from now." Henry stared at the vile, looked at the man, and then drank the potion. He waited for something to happen. “I don’t feel anything.” Without warning, the man plunged the knife into Henry’s stomach, and Henry gasped, looked down at the dagger, pulled it out of his stomach, and watched the wound heal. “Oh, my God. It’s true, I can’t die,” he mumbled several times and, as though in a daze, walked slowly out of the shop. On his way home, he stopped in a sporting goods shop and bought a hunting knife. “Mr. Carn, I bought you a present.” When Henry went back to work on Monday, he waited for Mr. Carn to bombard him with complaints, and he didn’t have to wait long. “Henry, the Compton report was full of grammatical errors. Didn’t you go to school,” he yelled. “One more blunder, Henry, and you’re history,” he growled. “Mr. Carn, if you will stop yelling for a moment, I want to show you a present I got for you. He e took the knife from a drawer, and plunged it into Carn’s chest. “How do you like your present, Carn?” Henry waited for the police, who arrested him and took him to jail where he was booked. His court-appointed lawyer stood by his side and entered a not guilty plea. “No,” Henry said loudly. “I plead guilty.” Because of his crime and his guilty plea there was no trial. Instead, Henry had to face a judge, who sentenced him to death as mandated by state law, and he was transported to death row. In the visitor’s room, Henry met with his attorney. “Is it true that if the condemned can’t be executed, can’t be killed, he has to be freed?” “Yes, Henry, but why do you ask?” “George, I can’t die. Soon I’m going to be free. I will have gotten away with murder.” “You can’t die? That’s impossible. Everybody dies.” “Not everybody, George. You’ll see, and I don’t want you to file any appeals.” Two weeks later, Henry’s lawyer visited him. “Henry, good news. The state supreme court has abolished the death penalty. Your sentence is now life in prison without the possibility of parole. Henry, the state saved your life.” “No. No,” he yelled. “They can’t do that. I want to be executed,” he sobbed, fell to his knees, and pounded the floor with his fists, and two guards dragged him out of the visitors’ room. “I can’t spend eternity in prison. I can’t,” he sobbed over and over as they dragged him to his cell.


I am going to have a long and nice shower. I will have a smoke first. I really like to roll my own cigarettes. I make them very thin and pleasurable to smoke. Although they are shorter, I feel like I enjoy them for the exact perfect amount of minutes. Normally I like to roll from the right side. I dont know if that is unsual, its just the way I learned. I smoke for 6 minutes. Its almost like doing meditation breathing exercises. Maybe that is where the addiction comes from. It was already Tuesday. I know that because I woke up with a little bit of anxiety. How can something good bring me anxiety? Well, I know. All the good things bring me anxiety because I am afraid of losing them. The anxiety is the fear. The fear of being excited and something ruining it. Something will go wrong - I think to myself. And with my partner, to be fair, it has. Its almost a self fulfilling prophecy. Why wouldnt I be afraid? For the good or the bad, something is never right. Anyway... Its Tuesday so its movie night. I've already picked the movie. This time there is no dinner before. Just lazy popcorn and some cuddles. Its always so good! Well, not always always. Sometimes something does go wrong. Or something is not enterily right. One of both options. We always agree on the movie we are going to watch. Mainly because Ollie accepts all my recommendations. Sometimes I wonder if Ollie is really watching the movie. Sometimes I know a good scene is about to come and I decide to look at Ollie with the corner of my eye. I wonder if their reaction will be similiar to mine. Normally its quite neutral. I dont really mind. Ollie likes to listen a lot. I love to talk. My mother used to say to always be with someone who is a good listener. She used to say that I should also chose someone that loves me more than I love that person. I dont believe in that anymore. I know that loving someone so deeply can be very painful. But choosing someone you dont love that much, is also very daunting. Ollie is usually late, so although we scheduled for 8pm, I know I will have to distract myself until 8.30 at least. Its okay, Ollie is not type of person to carry a watch. Ollie is not very aware of time and space. I like that. I truly do. At 7.30 my anxiety will get worse. Maybe I should go for a long and nice shower only at that time. I still have 2 hours to wait. Wait for the shower time. Then, wait for Ollie. Its a lot of waiting in my brain. Ollie doesnt think about waiting. Ollie is not waiting for me. That mind is always too distracted, or, actually, too focused, to ever wait. Its a funny thing. "I think of you all the time", I wonder if I should believe. I had a tofu salad for lunch. Or breakfast, actually. I guess I learned that with Ollie. I dont really have a routine with meals anymore. There is no "breakfast food" or "dinner food". I can eat anything at any time. Cereals for dinner or a vegan roast for breakfast. Its funny this about time. Its supposed to be a measure. Like how much do we weight. Its a measure of how much life do we have. Or how much life we do not have. The measurement is quite psychological. What if someone died on their 30s? Oh no, what a tragedy. They had so little time! But if I am here waiting for 3 hours for Ollie to come, isnt it that a tragedy as well? So time is just a measure like any other. It shouldn't be taken that seriously. What if we lived in a world where people didnt need to schedule an hour to appear? Exactly like what I do with my breakfast. My breakfast is when I feel like having a breakfast. So: what if Ollie only appears when he feels like it? We could schedule a day. But not a time. Tuesday is the day. What time? Whenever you want. There is no such thing as time anymore. Perhaps my anxiety would not exist. Why would I know that I would be more anxious at 7.30? I wouldnt even know that Ollie is late. There is no such thing as being late. I dont wait for Ollie because he asked me to wait. I do it to myself. I do it because time exists. "I think of you all the time" he says. Well at least I wouldnt have to decide if that statement is true or not. Because time doesnt exist here. Instead it would be: "I think about you". In that I could believe. "all the time" seems a bit too much. Although, I do that. Because time still exists. And because I am here waiting. Im going to tell Ollie that I had a salad for lunch. I know he loves to eat salads. I think he is going to be happy with that. What did he had for lunch? I am going to have a shower now. Probably Ollie didn't eat a salad today. If we had lunch together I would've made him a salad because I know he likes it. I would've said that I have a surprise for him. Just for fun. My mother used to do that a lot. Whenever she said she had a surprise I could almost guess what it was. I would always pretend and be surprised anyway, but 99% of the times I already knew what it was. So maybe salad should be my surprise to Ollie. I can make a salad now for him. I think he would like that. Or maybe its stupid. We are going to have popcorn. I hope he is in a good mood today. I will receive him with a smile and a kiss and wait for his reaction. Normally he kisses me back. Sometimes he hugs me. I love the hugs. I dont tell him that because I dont want to lose the hugs. I hope today is a hug day. Im going to say that I had a busy day. I had to work a lot and take care of other errands. I cannot tell him that I was waiting for him. No, no. I will tell him that I had to do something so important that I didnt even notice that he was late. Actually I cannot say that. If I say that it will mean that I noticed that he was late. Because actually, Ollie is the one that doesn't notice it. He wouldn't know that he arrived later. I already know that. Im guessing he will be here around 8.30. Maybe 8.45 just to ease my mind. He will stop whatever he is doing around 8, which is the time he is meant to be here. Then he will go for a smoke. His cigarettes are different than mine. Ollie was the one who taught me how to roll. His cigarettes are bigger and they take longer to smoke. I've counted and its 10 to 12 minutes. So after he goes for his meditation breathing exercise for 10 to 12 minutes, he will start is journey at around 8.15. Already 15min late. But its okay. I dont mind. I already know. I already prepared my mind for it. At 8.20 I will casually message him saying something like: let me know when you are on your way! In truethness, all I want to know is if my predictions are correct. If they are not, then it will not be 8.45. It will be 9. So I have 40 more minutes to wait. If Ollie replies "ok" it means that he is still not on is way here. I can distract myself by starting to make the popcorn for us. Oh but I love the way he does the popcorn. Should I wait? My mind was already so far away. Silly me. Its still 5pm. I am going for that shower now.


Michael "Maverick" Carter was a force to be reckoned with. A former space marine, he had seen the darkest corners of the universe and survived to tell the tale. He had a plan to push the boundaries of human understanding. Maverick wanted to see the future, and he knew just how to do it. Rumors spoke of a black hole lurking near the edge of the galaxy, a cosmic beast with the power to distort time. Maverick's plan was simple: take a spaceship to the outskirts of the black hole, slowing his time relative to Earth, and see the future unfold before his eyes. Maverick spent months preparing for the journey, retrofitting his ship with state-of-the-art technology to withstand the immense gravitational forces. He named his vessel "The Timebender." As the final preparations were made, Maverick's heart raced in anticipation of the unknown. Finally, the day arrived. Maverick piloted The Timebender through the darkness of space, edging ever closer to the black hole. He could feel the pull of gravity intensifying, but his ship held steady. Time slowed to a crawl as he approached the event horizon. From his vantage point, Maverick observed the Earth spinning faster and faster, seasons changing in the blink of an eye. He watched the world evolve, technology advance, and wars fought and won. He witnessed the rise and fall of nations, and the human race reaching beyond Earth to establish colonies on distant planets. As decades flew by in moments, Maverick felt an unsettling emptiness. The thrill of exploration and adventure was overshadowed by a longing to return home, to be a part of the world he had left behind. He had seen enough. With a heavy heart, he turned The Timebender around and began the arduous journey back to Earth. When he finally arrived, Maverick found Earth unrecognizable. The once lush and vibrant planet had been reduced to a smoldering, lifeless husk. Cities lay in ruins, oceans boiled away, and the sky a permanent, angry red. The Earth he had known was gone, and with it, the entirety of human civilization. Maverick's heart sank as he surveyed the devastation. He had wanted to see the future, but he had never imagined it would be so bleak. He wondered what had caused this cataclysm, what terrible force had brought humanity to its knees. There were no answers, only the silence of a dead world. In the depths of despair, Maverick received a faint transmission from one of the off-world colonies. Humanity had survived, but only in the far reaches of space. Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, he plotted a course for the nearest colony. He would share his knowledge of Earth's fate, and work tirelessly to ensure that the mistakes of the past were never repeated. Maverick's journey had taken him to the edge of time and back, and he had witnessed the tragic end of his beloved home. But as he set off for the stars, he knew that the future was not set in stone. The power to change it was within his grasp, and he would do everything in his power to forge a brighter tomorrow for humanity.


See part here. Links to other parts of the story begin there. **8** “What the hell’s taking so long, Clarence?” Her normally beautiful face looked harsh on his phone’s screen. Perhaps it was the lighting. Then again, it could be stress. Or maybe age was finally catching up to her. “You look tired, Darla.” She huffed in disdain. “Thanks.” “Where are you?” “Where do you think?” “No, I mean where are you? Where in the crawler?” She panned her phone’s camera to the side, revealing a zero-G toilet. “That enough of a hint for you?” She flushed it for emphasis, the waste-collection hoses making a sucking sound that was so loud it caused his phone’s speaker to crackle. Clarence smirked. “How’s the smell?” “Awful. If I could send you a sample, I would. What’s going on?” He shook his head. “I have no idea.” “Stop shitting me, Clarence. You built this fucking thing.” “I know, but—” “How serious is it?” He stared at her for a moment, unsure how to respond. “What’s Devon telling everyone?” She scoffed. “The usual line of bullshit. But you know them. They don’t even think he poops anymore. They’ll believe anything he says. So?” Clarence took a deep breath. “It’s serious, Darla.” “Fuck.” The word caught in her throat, and he thought he heard her choke back a sob. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for her. “How long?” she whispered. “Until what?” She cleared her throat, her voice regaining some of its punch. “Until whatever shitty thing is going to happen to us.” “That’s the thing, Darla, I don’t—” “It’s a hack, isn’t it? Someone’s trying to teach Devon a lesson, and we’re all caught in the crossfire. That stupid fucking prick has finally pushed things too far.” “I thought you were in love with him.” She scoffed. “As if he’d even notice if I were.” “How was the ride up—until it stopped?” “Extraordinary.” She smiled, forgetting her situation for a moment. Then she looked at the camera, as if probing for his eyes. “I wish you could have seen it. I really do.” “Me too,” Clarence said, “but considering the circumstances, I’m glad I—” “I’m sorry, Clarence.” “It’s no big deal. Really. I’ll just buy a ticket like everyone else once it’s open to the public.” “I’m not talking about the fucking elevator ride, you dipshit. I’m talking about us, the way things worked out with Devon. The whole fucking thing.” Clarence sighed. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry too, Darla.” Just then he heard a beeping sound. He looked up and saw an alert on the computer that was scanning the code. He paused to read it, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he struggled to process what he was seeing. “What was that?” Darla asked as Clarence leaned over and hit a few keys. “I’m not sure,” he said, his eyes continuing to skim the message. He swallowed hard, feeling as if his guts had just been sucked out through his spine. “Uh, actually, can I call you right back?” “No, you can’t. We’re not even supposed to have our fucking phones up here. What’s going on, Clarence?” Clarence glanced back to her, still reeling from what he had just seen. “Oh yeah, right. Well, maybe you can call me then. In about five?” She looked away for a moment and then turned back to the phone’s camera, her face hardening back into the mask he knew all too well. “You know what? Fuck it, Clarence. Fuck you, fuck Devon, and fuck this goddamn fucking elevator.” “Darla, don’t—” But she had already hung up. Wasting no time, Clarence rolled his chair in front of the other computer and initiated the scan again, still struggling to convince himself that what he had just seen was real. How on earth could this be happening? A moment later, he heard the automatic doors to the control room whoosh open, but he didn’t bother to look up. “Were you just talking to someone?” Terry asked. “I didn’t see any communications come through the network, but I thought I heard a woman’s voice.” Clarence punched a few keys, his eyes still on the monitor as he wondered vaguely if Terry had been eavesdropping on him. “It was Darla. She snuck her phone on board the elevator. You know her. She never was very good at sticking to the rules.” Terry leaned over Clarence’s shoulder. “What did you find?” Clarence watched the lines of code scrolling past, feeling like he was looking at a projection of his mind as he scrambled to come up with an answer. “I’m not sure, but I think—” Before he could complete his thought, the alert sounded again. There was no question. What he had just seen was real. Terry read it and then stepped back, chuckling to himself. “So, you found it. Too bad. I thought it would take longer than that.” Clarence turned his head slightly toward Terry, still unable to look away from the screen. “You . . . you knew about this?” A smirk tugged at the corners of Terry’s mouth. “Knew about it? I wrote it.” Clarence spun his chair toward Terry, about to respond, but then he snapped his mouth shut. In Terry’s right hand was a gun, and it was pointed right at Clarence.


You're tired of living on Earth. The planet's dying, the mass poverty is soul crushing as you can do nothing to help if you're not completely homeless. You have a tiny bit to spare because you work mind-numbing amount of hours to make for basic needs and wants. At least its not so bad. Until climate change forces you away from home, you look everywhere for relocation, you try your hardest, but the pathway you foresee is joining the endless sea of homeless. Risking being treated as a subhuman by so called "civilized" society, you become filled with dread. One advertisement appeals to you, an escape from this planet, a new frontier. Somewhere else, in artificially controlled environment, where the air is fresh and you'll have clean water to drink or your money back! You think that's a marvelous deal, so you sell nearly everything you have to take the voyage - not a big deal because you're billed by the gram anyway for transport. You head to a training camp where you meet James. James is a cool guy. He tends to know about things, he's friendly, outgoing, and he's a natural leader. James helped you pass a difficult test where you nearly flunked out which lead to a strong bonding experience. The training center was great, the people were amazing, the food was much better than the slop from the fast food joints and the water was endless. Your launch went well. James launch did not, his shuttle was impacted by some space debris. The footage from the Government's sUrveil-INet shown the corporation that produced the space debris was long since defunct. Not a large deal for the corporation, most of that shuttle had no next of kin anyway. A lot of Government Representatives were bribed and/or stakeholders in the corporation. You know the risk when you sign the contract, bad luck, so sad, too bad. You arrive to Mars. The first thing they do hand you an itemized bill. Every milliliter of water you consumed during training was billed at Mars rate. Every ounce of meat you consumed, Mars rate. Mars rate was not a fair rate, there wasn't competition or "choice" for your goods. This is a company town, where you get one choice of vendor, your corporation. If you don't like it, pay your bill and buy a ticket to leave. Can't afford a ticket? Work longer hours or have family/friends help. Or just get enhancements to get extra productivity bonuses. You do the math, if you live on bare minimum, you can scrape by and not only pay off your debt, but also be able to do minimal work [6 hour shift, 5 days a week] after merely 45 years. Of course, this also assumes 12 hour days, 7 days a week for the next 45 years. Never sick, never tired. You've already signed the paperwork, so be it. Three years in before you have your first mistake. You had company over and things lead to other things and you lost a few hours of sleep. This caused you to be very tired for your twelve hour shift. You made a mistake, a critical and costly mistake. 5 years. The mistake added 5 years to your debt. You honestly can't believe it... you start to realize the hole isn't just a deep hole, but it can get deeper. What choice do you have but to muddle through? To continue the struggle. You know now not to make that mistake. To focus on your efforts and spend less time socializing with others. Another 5 years goes by, you catch a flu that infects the entire colony. Everyone's sick for about 3-4 weeks. Of course, when you miss time from work, you either need to find someone to cover your shift or you owe the company for the lost productivity. You gain an additional 10 years of labor from this disease. You're tired, your limbs hurt, you want a break. You decide to finally look at those productivity enhancers. You decide to take the best option you can afford, some tool that is installed in your hand. You add 15 years to your debt, but with the productivity gains and benefits, you actually figure you can reduce your overall time spent by about 20 years by hitting those productivity quota goals/bonuses. The surgery and recovery is painful and adds another 10 years to your debt; no one mentioned the cost of training, re-gearing, nor the loss of feeling of the old hand. Touch no longer felt human but instead felt like trying to taste a picture, artificial and lacking of realistic sensation. You hum along for another 20 years. You wonder about when death is going to come, you realize that you celebrated another birthday, yet you don't feel much older than the day you landed. After your private inquiry, you learn that the water contains supplements to help aid life extension of workers, which is part of the reason the price of the water is so high. The nanites in the water was available back on Earth, but it was considered a luxury item, at least back when you were on Earth all those decades ago... where you could feel the breeze on your face and stare up at the sky to feel the warmth of the sun. Here, they merely had artificial lighting in the underground bunker that protected from radiation shielding. It's been decades since you've seen the natural sun. Another 15 years later, your debt grew through a series of unfortunate events. You realize that death won't come naturally and the system is designed to make the debt hole inescapable. You choose the one last free action you have, you decide to stop living. You wake up on a table, they revived you. They hand you a bill, and they say "due to the dangers you may do to others or yourself, certain freedoms have been restricted". sUrveil-INet is installed and you have a monitor to prevent any unauthorized actions. Thanks to your newly acquired medical debt, you debt hole went from in-escapable to completely collapsing in and the interest payments more to the debt than what you can possibly pay off. Your struggle continues, there is no escape, you are a prisoner forever.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: - **Sentence: They were like magnets.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Story uses . *If you feel that your foreshadowing is not obvious, please include how you used it at the end of your story.* This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story in some way. You may add onto it or change the tense, but the original sentence must stay intact. The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth an additional 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. &nbsp; *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. &nbsp; *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* &nbsp; *** #Rankings *Please be aware that we have a new point system. See “How Rankings are Tallied” for more specifics!* - **First:** - by u/katherine_c - **Second:** - by u/ZachTheLitchKing - **Third:** - by u/pathetic_optimist - **Crit Star:** u/katherine_c *Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit to use on r/WPCritique.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Try your hand at poetry with during the third week of every month on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


See part here. Links to other parts of the story begin there. **11** “Terry.” “Terry.” “You fucked up, Terry.” Pulling his eyes away from the pool of blood forming under Clarence’s body, Terry, who was still sitting on the floor, the gun clutched in his hands, finally looked at Devon’s face on the monitor. “Mr. Champlain. I didn’t hear you call.” “I didn’t call. I didn’t need to. I was just doing that as a courtesy before. The line’s been open the entire time. You should have known that. You know I’ve always been paranoid as fuck.” “I see.” Terry’s eyes returned to Clarence, or what was left of him. “There’s still a way we can work this out, Terry.” His formerly trusty companion slowly shook his head. “No. There’s not.” “What the fuck, Terry?” There was no hiding Devon’s anger now. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? How many lives you’re going to destroy?” Terry turned back to the display, a look of disbelief on his face. “Of course I do, Mr. Champlain. Why else do you think I’d do it?” “But Terry, surely there must be something—” Terry raised his gun and pointed it at the monitor. “Goodbye, Mr. Champlain.” “Terry, wait!” **12** Devon stared at his phone’s blank screen as he spun slowly in place above the king-size bed in the middle of his luxury suite. A moment later, someone knocked on his door. “It’s open.” The door slid to the slide, revealing Darla’s haggard face. She gripped both sides of his doorframe and propelled herself into his room, stopping herself by pressing her hand against the oversized window, which offered a pristine view of Earth and the space beyond, her handprint marring the otherwise perfectly clear glass. She studied Devon’s face. “You don’t look so good.” He glanced up at her. “To be honest, neither do you.” “Asshole.” “Bitch.” He reached up to the ceiling and spun himself, so he could look out the window. A moment later, she drifted over to join him. “I guess we deserve this, huh?” she said, her voice soft as she stared out into space. Devon shook his head slowly, his eyes on the stars. “No, no one deserves this.” \* \* \* **Author's note:** This story started as a screenplay called *TransJack*. It was going to be a futuristic take on the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, where the beanstalk was a space elevator that led to a wealthy orbital community, and Jack was a lowly space elevator operator who had accepted some disfiguring bio-modifications (hence the “trans” part of his name) in order to do his job. Jack’s position makes him a target for terrorists, who want to use his access to the elevator to sabotage the elite orbital world. Jack is torn, because as much as he resents his overlords, he’s fallen in love with the daughter of one of them, who he gets to know during her frequent trips up and down the elevator. One thing leads to another, including a terrible betrayal, and Jack finally finds himself in a situation where he feels he has no choice but to sever the cable that tethers the space elevator to Earth’s equator, sending the elevator, the terrorist leader, and his lover spinning off into space. I thought it was a good story, but when I saw the film *Elysium*, I knew the project was dead. That film had too many of the same elements, from the elite who live in orbit to the criminal element that wants to access the space habitat to the bio-modifications that protagonist Max Da Costa, played by Matt Damon, must accept to pull off the job. However, even though that approach seemed unlikely to sell, I was still fascinated by the concept of space elevators, so I tried to think of another way to approach the story. Inspiration struck at an unlikely time—as it often does. I was teaching a class on screenwriting when I pitched a what-if scenario about a space elevator being hijacked on its maiden voyage with a number of VIPs trapped inside, with the terrorists threatening to sever the cable unless their demands were met. I liked the idea, so from there it was just a question of who does it and why. For reasons best known only to my subconscious mind, I chose to approach the writing of this story similar to how I might write a high-concept/low-budget film with minimal locations and characters. I also attempted to use a spartan writing style reminiscent of Andy Weir’s excellent novel, *The Martian*. Of course, Arthur C. Clarke was also a major inspiration for this book, not only because of Fountains of Paradise but also because he was the author who originally ignited my love for science-fiction. I can only hope that this story is a fitting tribute to him, Andy Weir, Frank Herbert, Edgar Rice Burroughs, H. G. Wells, Ray Bradbury, and the many other sci-fi authors who inspired me over the years. Hopefully it will inspire others as well. Thanks to everyone who has read this story! If you'd like a hard copy of *GEO*, it is available on Amazon.


Against the backdrop of twisting pines stands the old abandoned mech, its guts spilling out from the front of its chassis like a chaotic spider-web made of long black electrical cables and most of the cooling system. Old Missus O’Malley built the thing out of parts from about thirty different creatures, including an antique Russian tank and a nineteen-sixty-eight Oldsmobile. It stood about sixty feet tall and had a roughly humanoid design with a central body, two legs on the bottom, two arms just above the middle, and the head on top, though the head itself was really just a large plastic hamburger about three meters high and six meters wide, which used to sit atop Greasy Bob’s Burgers and Fries fast-food drive-thru. That place went out of business years ago, back when I was just a kid, and I guess one night, when the mech was nearing completion, Old Missus O’Malley had used the partially-completed war-machine to steal the giant metal burger from off the restaurant’s roof. Nobody knows exactly what she’d built it for. She’d claimed it was a prototype she’d been hoping to sell to the military, but that was obviously just a pleasant lie meant to disguise the fact that the smartest woman in town had started to go a little mad. The thing sounded like an apocalypse when she took it out for walks, the metal bits screaming against each other as the twenty-tonne monstrosity lumbered around like some drunken sailor still unadjusted to being on land. One weekend a couple of high school students, Tracy King and Janine Lakewood, stole the thing from Missus O’Malley’s backyard, and took it for a joyride across town. They squashed a police car, kicked over a fire hydrant, and scared Mister Joslin’s cat so badly the poor thing developed a bald spot. The two girls wound up getting something like a hundred hours of community service apiece, and Missus O’Malley was warned to keep a better eye on her creations. Of course it was only a month or so later that Missus O’Malley passed. She went how I think a lot of us hope to go, peacefully in her sleep, with what was later revealed to be a surprisingly large amount of LSD and PCP in her bloodstream. And it was only a week after that when lightning struck the partially completed mech, temporarily bringing the thing to life. For a day and a half it danced sadly across those big empty fields just outside of town, until eventually it came to a final halt at the edge of the woods. That’s where it took its final steps before ripping out its own internal wirings, like some sort of strange imitation of a hara-kiri ritual. Most likely, most folks agree, the lightning had simply brought the processors back online, and the mech’s dancing and death had been nothing more than the autonomic system’s misunderstanding of whatever remained of the old lady’s coding until the thing ran out of fuel and self-destructed. Still, it was sort of nice to imagine that maybe the strange creation had simply missed its creator, and had taken the opportunity granted to it by the lightning to celebrate her life and then to follow Missus O’Malley into the great nothingness that waits for us all on the other side of existence. Big Tim Roberts thought he might be able to get the thing going, that was last October, but he lost a thumb when a piece of the outer casing came loose. One Thumb Tim they call him now, but it’s not to be rude or anything; Tim actually thinks it’s pretty funny. Eventually I’m sure the city will get its act together and collect up the old thing, haul it off to the dump. But a bunch of us sorta hope they just leave it out there. So as to be like a monument. To old Missus O’Malley, and all her big, crazy ideas.


Scully blew out the last somber notes to a nostaljazz love song. Nostaljazz was the music of the day, a mixture of somber yet upbeat music that reminisced about the days long past, when the world was whole. Scully was good at performing it too, but he wasn’t sure how he did it. He had no lips, no lungs. All he was, was bone. Bone and green ligature. The audience applauded Scully and his bandmates, though most of the cheering was aimed at their singer Sophia. She was the “Skin” in Skin & Bones, their band. She was a beautiful young woman, with red hair, and a red dress. Their drummer, as well as their everything else, was a boxy robot named Ampersand, he played everything except the saxophone. Scully was their sax player. The applause died down, and Sophia took a bow before handing the spotlight to Scully with a dramatic wave of her hands. “Thank you everyone! The world ended, but we’re still here, and will be every night after sunset! Thank you!” No one bat an eye at Scully, the skeleton in a three piece suit. He was a common sight around these parts. Which was a welcome reprieve from the usual frightened screaming he received in other places. Sophia, as always, was the first to leave the stage. She sashayed down the two steps off the stage, ignoring her admirers on her way upstairs to their apartment. Scully and Ampersand made for the bar to hang around, and maybe join in on a game of nuclear poker if any tables got going. “Not a fan of people, your singer,” said Buddy. Buddy was the owner of the bar, and its sole bartender. He was a mean looking S.O.B with a friendly demeanor. Scully liked him. “Some people prefer their own company,” said Scully. In response Ampersand let out a melancholy whirring, and sunk his head. “The robot seems to think different,” said Buddy. “Discretion Amp,” said Scully, shaking his head at the robot. Turning back to buddy he said, “She’s… not comfortable around men,” the words came out like they were walking on a tightrope, and buddy got the message. “Oh,” said Buddy, who flushed just a bit. “Yeah, ‘oh’,” said Scully. “Well, she seems fine around you and the robot.” “We’re hardly men though, are we Buddy?” “You’re dickless Skully, but you’re still a man. The robot identifies as one, far as I can tell.” Ampersand made his arms out like broad shoulders and “puffed” out his chest in agreement. “Hmm,” mumbled Scully, “What’s your point?” "My point is there’s two men she feels safe with, and that goes double for you. I have a way of reading folks, clocking them. She likes you, Skully.” “Hmm,” he mumbled again. Buddy let the subject drop, feeling as if maybe he’d pried too much to begin with, but Scully let the thought bounce around in his head. A game of nuclear poker later, and he’d decided to take a different kind of bet. He got up from the card table and went upstairs to the band’s apartment, leaving Ampersand, who was on a hot streak, behind. When he opened the door he found Sophia, still in her red dress, sitting on a leather chaise lounge, staring longingly at the full moon outside. “Hey,” said Scully. “Hey,” said Sophia, her wistful gaze turning to him. “Whadja up to?” “Reminiscing about the past.” “Nostaljazz” She nodded. Little diamonds formed around her eyes, and dropped down her red cheeks. This was only the second time he’d seen her cry. The first was in the alley where they met, when the walking skeleton had scared off some bad men. “Do you think it’ll ever go back to how it was before?” Scully took a seat on the matching ottoman near the chaise. He wasn’t sure they were talking about the state of the world just then. “It’ll never be as it was, but it’ll heal,” he said, willing his skull and empty sockets to appear consolatory. More diamonds. Scully had always been moved by Sophia’s singing. It was powerful. Now he understood exactly why. Nostaljazz was about looking back, wondering if it would ever be the same, just as she wondered about herself. “You really think so?” “I know so.” He wanted nothing more than to hold her in that moment, to tell her it was going to be okay. He didn’t though. If Buddy was wrong about how she felt, it could mean the death of their friendship. Worst possible outcome, she would never feel safe around him either. Maybe it was better to leave well enough alone. He got up, and made for the door. “Come down with me and Amp sometime, Sophia,” he said looking back. “Scully.” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Yeah?” he asked, not looking back. “Stay,” she said, then added, “please.” “Sure.” He went to sit back down on the ottoman, but she motioned him to sit beside her on the chaise. She wrapped an arm around his, and laid her head on his boney shoulder. She was warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be intimate in any way. Sometime before, he thought, when he had muscles, and hair, when he had something to offer someone besides cold dry bones. “It‘s not the first time I’ve had to ask you to stay.” “Hmm.” “You almost left me back then too.” “You were frightened of me as much as the bastards that ran off.” “Maybe I was, at first.” She squeezed the long bone of his arm. “But I felt safer with you around. I didn’t know who you were, but you came running when you heard a screaming woman in a dangerous part of town.” “I did what anyone would do.” “No, not anyone would. Not alone, not like that.” He didn’t know what to say. He had just gone into that alley, not knowing what was happening. He just knew someone needed help, and he was close enough to answer the call. She tugged on his chin, and looked deep into his eyes. He didn’t move, he didn’t dare dream. Didn’t dare to presume. Anything else now would be taking advantage of a woman in distress., but Sophia didn’t slow. She kept staring longingly into his eyes. *Don’t* he thought, but she closed her eyes, and puckered her lips. Something told him it wasn’t right, that she was too good for him, that she was too vulnerable, but he didn’t move to stop her. Her lips had just grazed his boney grin when the door burst open, and Sophia jumped her head back in surprise, but still held onto his arm. It was Ampersand. He rolled into their apartment playing a brassy drumroll with a victory trumpet on his speakers. He had cleaned out the other people at the table and was carrying two bags full of lady luck gifted money. He waved the bags in the air, ecstatic, when he noticed the other two sharing the chaise lounge. Scully wasn’t sure if he'd seen the kiss, but Ampersand was frozen still while staring at them. Sophia was the first to break the ice. “Nice haul, Amp,” she said. Ampersand nodded his head, and made a happy whirring noise. The robot looked quizzically at the bags of money then. “He doesn’t know what to spend it on,” said Scully with a chuckle. “I could go for a drink,” said Sophia. “Feel like buying me a drink Amp?” The robot nodded enthusiastically and strolled back down the stairs. “You’re really coming down?” asked Scully. “Why not,” she said, smiling at him. The trio took spots back at the bar. Sophia was the only one of them that could actually drink, but Buddy joined them and drank along with her. She never let go of Scully’s arm.


It came before. Before time would have any concept or meaning. Before matter burned and cooked and crystalized into any quantifiable form. Out of the impossibly ancient swirling dusts of creation it slowly, inexorably gestated. It was not created, it was not willed nor wanted into existence, it simply was not, and then was. How this came to be, when there was nothing, even it could not know. There were not words to form ideas for it to ponder such existence. In all the great nothing, it simply now was. It has no eyes; there was not yet light for it to see with. It has no shape or form in any meaningful way, there was nothing, and it was formed out of the swirling nothing. If matter existed, if space was defined in any meaningful way, it would have been more vast than any concept of modern measurement could possibly describe. Alone; adrift the infinite, endless void it was all, it was the only one of its kind; or any other; more than that, more than anything else it formed a thought, that thought. The first thought. "I am alone". The concept of alone, the first act of creation, the first words ever given form, trillions of years before the first star would set alight; so far before anything capable of conscious thought would possibly speak a primordial language. The very concept of thought, of existence, of this endless formless being was given life, and it was in the thought. It was the thought. "I am alone." If time could be measured then, it would be in aeons. Each word of that first thought billions of years in forming. The burning, twisting embers of each syllable flowing from the void, forming the first sparks of energy that might one day decay into matter to drift coldly beyond the stars. I. It now was. The first principle of existence could now be, it existed, then with that thought the possibility of existing formed with it. It was, and therefore all could be. Am. If it was born of nothing, then this concept made the nothing into something new. It coming to be drew the infinite nothing tighter and tighter, and in the nothing it now was. With this word the the concept of being, the very notion of acting, doing, interacting established itself. Change was possible. 'I' gave form. 'Am' gave motion to that form. But not yet. Alone. With this final word it reached out and felt across infinite space, searching for one like it, for anything other then self, for anything to interact with and found only the void from which it came. The concept of self meant nothing, for there was nothing else. But this differentiation of it from the endless nothing was in itself the first act of creation. It created itself by this thought, formed over countless millennia. Alone meant more. For in this moment, it gave the possibility for something else to exist. The concept of self must inexorably imply the concept of not self, of other, and in this time before time thought and form were one. The first God, in its now formed state now knew what it was. The embers of its first act of creation, of its own birth, drifted slowly out into the nothing, forming and collecting and condensing down into endless galaxies. Time and space made out of the detritus of its own formation, swirling and drifting and fading as the universe spread out from it. The first God screamed.


Father Thomas lowered his eyes to the velvet cushion on which he was seated. He traced his fingertip along its embroidery, following every intricate cross and curve. Much like the rest of the confessional, the cushion was well-worn, with broken threads that poked out from its stitching, inviting a destructive tug from the absentminded. The priest’s actions were more deliberate than that. He was stalling, passing time in the awkward silence that often followed his pointed questions. Passing time, until — “It was Alexis, Father. Alexis Mackey,” said the voice beyond the partition. Ah. The man on the other side was Frank Altezza. The two of them had their early fifties in common, but little else. Frank was a loud man who drove a loud Mustang and who refused to admit that he’d aged past his prime. He was also crying. This was not uncommon in the confessional, but Father Thomas had not outgrown his distaste for it. “I didn’t want to,” said Frank. “I just —“ “Of course you did,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “There was no one holding a gun to your head. There was no fortune to be made in the deed. What, other than a deep desire of the flesh, could have made you do such a thing?” “I just — you know, I never meant for it to go this far.” “Yes you did, Frank. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, how can you expect to be honest with Michelle?” “Father —“ Frank’s face became clouded. “You can’t make me tell her.” “Reconciliation and repentance go hand-in-hand.” “It’ll crush her.” “And the pain you both experience will make you less likely to sin again.” “She’ll leave.” “She won’t. But even if she does, far better that than to live with a lie. That’s your penance, Frank. You need to tell her and apologize. And you also need to apologize to Alexis.” “Alexis should apologize to me!” That was loud. Too loud. Others waiting outside might have heard it. “Enough. She’s half your age and you indulged in your in your brokenness together. Own your sin and apologize.” Frank took a moment to compose himself. “Yes, Father.” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go in peace.” “Amen. Thank you, Father.” Frank crossed himself and stood. He pushed aside the scarlet curtain and Father Thomas watched as he stepped out of the confessional, taking the chip on his shoulder with him. Frank was what the priest had come to think of as an identity Catholic. He’d come to know many of them in his six years at Our Lady of Virtue Parish. These were members of the Church who, though excellent at ritual, were lacking in faith. They prayed the Rosary. They attended Mass. He presided over their Catholic weddings and their children’s baptisms. When he presided over their Catholic funerals, however, he found himself wondering at their fates. And on that note, he often wondered if he was doing the Franks of the world a disservice, providing absolution when they’d just be screwing the Alexis’s of the world by the weekend and asking for forgiveness before the month was out. He wondered if he ought to care more. He remembered caring a lot more, back when he was an associate priest in New Hampshire. Now, leading a church in Brooklyn, those memories seemed faded and distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else. Well, it had been a few minutes. Perhaps that was the rest of it for the afternoon and he would finally be able to return home and shut off for a while. Father Thomas rose from his velvet cushion and pushed through the curtain before him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light of the sanctuary. The priest no longer saw the beauty of the place, the majesty that struck most people when they visited. It was the cracked panes of stained glass that drew his attention now, as did the water-damaged ceiling plaster, the chipped baptismal font, and the ever-growing rows of empty pews at Mass, which meant repairs were unlikely to come anytime soon. The pews were all empty today, of course. All except one. The priest shifted his attention to a lone figure seated a few rows back from where he stood. The man was younger, early thirties. His head was lowered, his shoulders drawn in, and he was clothed in a worn, gray sweater that hung from his body like a shroud. Without looking up, the man spoke, “Father, you think maybe you’ve got time for me?” Jesus would have taken pity on the man. Father Thomas felt only a slight irritation. But he had a duty and he had an obligation, and so he gestured with palms wide open and said, “Of course, come on in.” The priest turned and stepped back into the confessional, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He sat on the velvet cushion and rolled his shoulders back, preparing his mind for what would hopefully be his last session of the day. Light filtered into the other side of the booth as a bandaged hand pulled open the curtain — the priest hadn’t noticed it behind the pew. The younger man stepped inside, the floor groaning under his weight. Even through the partition, it was clear he had a more powerful build than his clothing had let on. He knelt before the screen, crossed himself, and spoke softly, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” “God is with us and will hear you,” said the priest. “How long has it been since your last confession?” “It’s been, uh…” The man trailed off. “It’s okay — there’s no need to be ashamed.” “Father, I honestly don’t know how to answer your question.” That was a strange thing to say, but strange things were often said inside the confessional. “Well, have you had confession before?” “I’m, uh — I’m sorry, Father. I have memories of confession, you know. But I…” He trailed off again. “What’s your name?” asked Father Thomas. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” “Daniel Walsh. And no, I’ve never attended Mass in New York.” “But you are baptized within the Church?” “I’m sorry — I’m sure this frustrating —“ “Daniel, I’m happy to meet with you, but the sacrament of confession is for those who have received a Catholic baptism.” “Look, I remember Mass, my Confirmation — all of it.” “So you were baptized, then.” “I just don’t know if it was real.” The priest shifted in his seat. It was becoming clear how this was going to go and it would be best to simply get on with it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you,” said Father Thomas. Daniel gave a meek nod, hesitated a moment, then spoke. “I killed someone, Father.” The priest gave a slow, solemn nod. He’d heard more than one grave sin confessed during his time in the city and it was best not to react too strongly. After allowing a moment of silence to pass, he said, “The Lord Jesus Christ died for all of our sins, Daniel. When did this happen?” “Today. A couple hours ago, maybe.” “Tell me more.” “If it’s all right with you, Father, I’d really prefer not to.” Father Thomas did his best to disguise his impatience. “The nature of Christ’s forgiveness is that it requires repentance. Repentance requires remorse. If you’re unable to speak —“ “I feel remorse, Father,” his voice was at a near-whisper. “I’m not a killer, you know? I’m… a janitor.” “Where do you work?” “The, uh — the U.N.,” said Daniel. He was caught off-guard by the priest’s shift in conversation, which had been exactly the point of it. “Wow,” said Father Thomas. “They put you through a background check for a job like that?” Daniel nodded. “Yeah, I got fingerprinted and stuff…” “And you said you’d never attended Mass in New York before. Where are you from?” “South Dakota. Outside Aberdeen. You know, flyover country.” “That’s got to be a culture shock.” “Yeah. For sure.” Daniel gave a slight, sad smile. “What brought you out here?” “A girl. I think. Maybe. I don’t know — we’re not together now.” That was a misstep. Time to steer the conversation back. “So you’re a midwestern guy with a spotless record.” Daniel nodded. “Until now, I guess.” “Tell me what happened, Daniel.” “Father, I —“ “It’s okay.” Daniel shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m scared of what I might do.” “Give your fear over to God and tell me what’s on your heart.” Daniel swallowed and drew in a deep breath, but said nothing. Father Thomas turned his attention away from his confessant and instead focused on the familiar feel of the pad of his middle finger against velvet. He let it glide along the raised, golden stitching, following the trance of its pattern until — “It was a kid,” started Daniel. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then continued, “He was on one of those one-wheel skateboard things - you know what I’m talking about?” Father Thomas nodded, but said nothing. “I was walking back home from the station and I didn’t hear him ‘cause I had my ear buds in. He was going at a pretty good clip and I guess I must have crossed in front of him — I don’t know — and his backpack caught on my pinky finger. Ripped all the skin clean off.” Daniel raised his bandaged hand for show. It seemed remarkably clean for such a recent and serious wound. He continued, becoming emotional, “Something came over me — I can’t describe it. I had no control. I pulled him off the sidewalk, into an alley — there was this brick on the ground nearby and I just grabbed it and —“ Daniel let out a sob. Father Thomas gave him a moment, then quietly said, “Go on.” “I smashed it into his face over and over and over again, until there was nothing left but flaps of skin and teeth and bits of bone and — oh, fuck,” he sobbed. “There was so much blood. I’m sorry, Father.” “Christ is here with us, Daniel,” said the priest, keeping the steadiest tone he could muster. “Do you think anyone saw you?” “I don’t know — I didn’t see anyone.” “What did you do with the body?” “I got scared. I just left him there. God, I don’t even know who he was! He was just a kid and —” “Daniel,” said Father Thomas, cutting him off. “I’m going to slide open the partition.” “Okay…” Daniel wiped his face dry with his sleeve. Father Thomas slid the screen aside. He glanced over Daniel’s body, then locked eyes with him. “You mentioned a couple times not being sure of what’s real. I don’t see a drop of blood on you.” “I told you, I was close to home. I went back to clean up and take care of my hand.” “Did you go to the hospital?” “No — I was scared.” “There’s no blood on that bandage of yours.” The look on Daniel’s face was one of terror. “You don’t believe me.” “I’m just trying to help you find the truth.” “Father, please - I must have forgiveness.” “Then show me your hand.” “I can’t do that.” “Wouldn’t it be better if there were nothing to be forgiven?” “I killed a kid, Father. Please.” “Then unwrap that bandage and show me a finger missing its skin.” Daniel stared back at the priest, the emotions in his eyes at once frightening and indecipherable. Father Thomas remained steadfast. Daniel sighed. He picked at the end of the medical tape that was wrapped around his bandage. “Up until this afternoon,” he said, “I thought I was just another guy.” He unwound the tape and continued, “Not a whole lot to me, but at least I knew who I was.” He pulled off the last of the tape and dropped it in a coil to the floor. “Now…” and he trailed off as he removed the gauze. Beneath the bandage was a hand with a pinky finger missing its skin. In place of bone and tissue and tendon, however, was a polished, metallic skeleton. Daniel curled the finger and regarded it as if it belonged to someone else. “Can a robot go to Heaven, Father?” “I can only hope so,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Daniel’s eyes lost their focus. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thump, his killswitch activated by the same coded message that every other dutiful android had encountered inside the confessional. Androids who’d been discovered, who’d killed those that had discovered them, and who’d been driven by their faith to seek forgiveness for their deeds. Father Thomas rose from his seat and stepped out into the cavernous sanctuary. He scanned the pews and the altar and the balconies. All were empty and all was silent, save the soft scratching of the door mice behind the organ pipes. The priest walked the short distance to the door that led to the back hallway. He turned its ancient glass knob and opened it slowly, minimizing the creak it made. Leaving the door open, he returned to the confessional and pushed back the curtain on Daniel’s side. The android’s body lay there, crumpled and lifeless, as it would be until its memory had been wiped and replaced. The priest stooped down and picked it up, throwing the four-hundred-pound hulk over his shoulder as he might a couple choir robes. He wondered at what this one’s role had been as he carried it into the back hallway, toward the stairs to the basement, where he would zip it into a black duffle-bag that would be picked up by morning. Maybe it had been a spy, unknowingly recording video feed to be used at some other time. Maybe it was would-be assassin, foiled by a child on a too-powerful skateboard. Questions that would remain unanswered, of course, just as so many had been unanswered before them. Questions that were the territory of other men. Or perhaps they were not men. Father Thomas did not know and he did not care. It would be enough for him to go home and shut off for a while.


Leonard hooked his cane over the back of his usual chair. Taking a moment before he sat to enjoy the afternoon sun. Setting the cup of coffee down onto the little table he slowly took his seat. His knees protested as he bent them; his rear didn't much care for the hard seats they had at this little cafe. Still he came every Friday. He pulled back the sleeve of his suit and checked his watch. It was 3:55 pm. It would be about 10 more minutes. He fiddled with the cup as he set to waiting. There was a slight breeze at his back, as normal. The outdoor seating area was empty save for him. There would be one more guest along fairly shortly though. He knew he shouldn't be doing this anymore. He was too old to be wandering around after people, but he couldn't really help it. People passed by on the streets. In all there various shapes and forms. He was never much of a people person. His wife always joked how he would be alone if she hadn't adopted him. He had always argued, but he knew she was right. It had never bothered him being alone; until he had met her. Now being by himself was agony. His eyes turned towards the door, no one yet. He had been coming to this cafe for over two months. He had been walking by, part of the passing crowd, enjoying his memories of what this place use to be. A young blonde woman, mid 20's maybe, had been sitting in the chair that was currently behind him. She had been playing on one of those smartphones his grand kids kept trying to make him buy. He hadn't thought much of it, until he got past her and the breeze caught up to him. Her perfume had reached his nose, stopping him in his tracks. She had smelled just like... "Excuse me?" The question broke him out of his thoughts. "Yes, how can I," he froze. The blonde woman was standing right in front of him, a polite smile on her face. "May I join you?' "Oh, of course," he stammered out. "Thank you," she sat down across from him. "I don't see many people here at this time of day. I noticed you here the past few times. I just thought I would say hello." She extended her hand. He reached out and shook it. He hoped she took the trembling in his fingers for his age. "I'm Emilia," she said. "It's nice to see someone else enjoy this place. What kind of coffee do you order?" "Oh just a normal cup of joe," he forced himself to take a sip of the vile liquid. He didn't come for the coffee. "I think that's the first time I've seen you drink from a cup," her smile widened. "So why do you really come here?" Caught. His panic peeked, then faded. All good things come to an end. He sighed and started speaking. "It's complicated," he began slowly. "I had my first date here. Well not my first date, and not here per se. My wife and I had our first date here. It was a malt shop back then. We sat inside and..." He trailed off, his voice failing. She seemed to understand. "When did she die?" "Two years ago," he whispered. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "You come here to remember?" He could lie. He didn't. "That and well," he forced himself to continue. "You see, you wear the same perfume she did." He hung his head. It was strange, he knew. She would think he was a creepy old man. He just hadn't been able to help himself. "I guess my friends were right," she quipped. "I really do have old fashion tastes." He looked up. There was sympathy in her eyes. "Would you tell me about her?" she asked politely.


The once-praised light of eons had faded away with the sudden nature that the universe tended to avoid. The climate of Earth had once been a prosperous and beautiful landscape, only to be completely unrecognizable in the span of two years. The only surviving species on Earth now are the underwater creatures, encased in a layer of ice, separating the cold, harshness of space from those who dwell underneath. The Sun had seemingly disappeared before anyone was any the wiser. Masses of people had flocked to make their way underground, and more safely, underwater, to avoid the harsh conditions. The colonies were clunky and lackluster for the first month, but thanks to the nanotechnology of the current era, they were able to make do and create a livable space for humans. Months had gone by, the Earth showing a significant decrease in temperature. The underwater climate was relatively unaffected, and the hydrothermal vents from the lower levels of Earth had kept everything around quite warm. The living situations of the colonies had drastically improved over the time, causing an increase in comfort, and people were as comfortable as they could hope for in these makeshift homes. Then the Old Ones made their presence known. The Old Ones, who were previously, miraculously, invisible to all forms of detection, made a large and overwhelming presence in the main communication tower of the colonies. There were twelve of them, all around the same size as a human, with wildly altered bodily features. They seemed to not have violent intent, as far as the humans could tell, but showed a very intrigued demeanor. “We come to see what all the commotion underneath the tides is all about, and why the seafloor is being infested by your inferior species.” The biggest of the Old Ones, who seemed to be the leader of this group, said. One of the scientists, who were working in the control tower, said, “The purpose of our abrupt stay was not that of invasion, but to escape the intense coldness of the aboveground, as the Sun has left.” “Hahaha! You are one funny specimen! What does ‘The Sun left’ even mean? You surely do realize that your story just sounds like a coverup and not the truth, correct?” Another scientist had stepped up to help explain, “Ge was trying to say that we were just minding our own business, when-” “The Sun left? Is that really your only proof of this happening? Why don’t we sense any difference in the audio transmissions from the Sun, if it has gone away?” This was a point of realization for the scientists. The creatures seemingly had no sense of sight, which made sense, as the seafloor was completely devoid of light at all times. The creatures only had a sense of hearing, and an incredibly good one at that, explaining the seemingly perfect understanding of English. One of the scientists was curious, and asked, “The Sun will continue to be heard for the next 13 or so years. I was under the assumption you knew this, right?” “We know your tricks, and want to know why you think you can get away with lying directly to our faces. We may not be able to see, but we can still feel your unending gaze across our bodies, in utter horror at the sight of us.” “There is no fear directed towards you, and-” Before the scientist could begin, the Old One to the left of the leader chimed in. “If there is not any fear, then why have you completely skipped asking for our names?” The scientists were unable to refute, and did the only option that they had: “So, then, what are your names?” The frontrunner had stepped up, “I am Frexa, the secondary ruler of the Old Ones. The ones behind me are Sisui, the commander directly below me. There is Ganta, The weapon specialist of our species. My good pal Gorathe, who has fought with me in wars that have lasted longer than you have been alive for. Lox, my lover, and writer of our group. Quinn, the quantum specialist of our group.” Ge asks, “What about the others that have been behind you all this entire time?” Frexa quickly replies, “Oh, the lesser ones? They are prisoners who we have taken as our personal escorts.” “Wouldn’t that be an upgrade to being in prison?” “Why sure, except if they step out of line at any point, then we execute them on the spot, to show that it is still their punishment.” This worries the scientists, and while they are unsure of what to do, Frexa suddenly says, “Well, it certainly has been fun coming to talk to all of you, even though you all seem to be complete wusses. We hope that the rest of humanity has a bit more of a backbone than you, because you’re gonna need it! See you guys later.” The Old Ones then teleport away, with the help of Quinn. The scientists are split, as some are worried about how they implied that we need courage, and others are even more worried that they had known that the species is that of humans. I hope that the humans that are still alive are able to read this, and understand that we never expected, nor wanted your likes to be our enemy. We hope to use this exchange of our first encounter to serve as a showing that we tried to be nice and work towards friendship, but you showed a blazing amount of fear and malice, based on the tones of your voices. We perhaps should have given you more of a chance, you may say. This may be true, but you were the ones who destroyed the planet, causing us to bring you down to our level. You were warned in early times, and had not proved any change whatsoever. We hope that you can understand that you were the cause of your downfall, and how you showed promise, only to cause destruction on a global scale, ruining our relationship before it started. We are ashamed to live on the same planet as you. We aren’t the enemy. We are the protectors of Earth, the harbingers of justice. We are the Old Ones, and the Old Ones have risen once again.