A yellow and black Mustang, colored like Bumblebee from the Transformers, made a radical, obtuse-angle turn, in order to catch the exit ramp. It sped down the ramp, as a pair of police cruisers sped past, unable to make the turn in time to exit. The Mustang followed a series of alternating left and right turns, evading what appeared to be a non-existent pursuit. Then it raced down Olive, a residential street. Tires squealed and smoke billowed as Ryan cornered aggressively into his driveway. He had already pressed the remote to open the garage door, so he continued to look behind the car. No pursuit, no flashing lights, no reason to panic. Great! “Ryan,” George squeaked, one white-knuckled grip on an overhead ceiling, the other hand choking his shoulder harness. “Relax, George. I have sensors installed that send a signal to my brakes when the car is in the right position in the garage. We won’t crash.” “But Ryan,” Cate added, pointing forward. Her other hand, not free, held her door handle in a death grip. The sensors worked, and the getaway car screeched to a halt, leaving black marks on the garage floor. Now Ryan was looking backward to smile at Cate. And to drool over the bags of cash stolen from First Union Bank that filled the back seat of the Mustang. The garage door, also communicating with the sensors inside, began rolling closed. “I told you we could pull it off, Cate.” Ryan turned to look at George. “And I told you I could outrun the police and get us safely home.” “But Ryan . . .” A loud, metallic voice interrupted George. Ryan turned to stare at a squad of five robocops standing in his garage.

A wide-shouldered, large robot stood in the center, flanked by a pair of smaller robocops on each side. It was the one in the middle that spoke. “Please exit the vehicle, with your hands in the air. Resistance is futile.” The Blue Collar Gang, which Ryan called the trio of Cate, George, and himself,

knew what would happen if they resisted, so they climbed out of the car, hands in the air, as they were told. “You got us,” Ryan admitted with a smile. Somebody on the force had a sense of humor. R2D42 blazoned across the chest of the large robot in the center of the robocop squad. “I guess the predictor algorithm works, R2. Even though you are nowhere near as cute as the original R2D2.” “Of course it works,” R2D42 responded, ignoring the slight. “It was programmed by Watson II, checked by a Hall V, installed by B-9, and rechecked by Robby. Then I pored over the code, as I have been programmed to do, ensuring that I would be capable of predicting all human behavior. I knew that you and your friends would rob the First Union Bank today, and return here, believing you would outrun our police force. So I brought my team here and waited.” “So the cruisers chasing us were a feint? They knew you were here, so they sped past the exit ramp and let us think we were getting away?” “I knew you would realize that, too. You cannot surprise me. Unless you are not actually a human. And my sensors tell me you are a human, not an android.” “I’ll bet you didn’t know George was coming with me this morning.” “We don’t bet. If we did, you would lose. We knew that.” “How about Cate? You couldn’t possibly have known about her.” “You sought out an attractive woman with martial arts training and no criminal record. Your business meeting turned into a date, followed by two more dates. Of course you invited her along.” “To join my Perfect Posse?” “Knowing why you named the group the Blue Collar Gang, I predicted correctly that you would not be wearing blue collars.”

“I’m hungry. Can we eat now?” Cate looked to Ryan for an answer. “Did you see that coming, R2?” Ryan sneered. “Of course. We have a healthy snack prepared for you at the station. Now George would like to say something.” “Me, too,” George added. “And Ryan.” “Come to think of it, I could use something to eat myself,” Ryan agreed with his fellow gang members. He headed towards a large toolbox sitting on a chest-high shelf on the side of the garage. “Stop,” R2 ordered.“What’s in that toolbox?” Ryan stopped. “Food,” he answered. “With your terribly invasive, ridiculous predictive algorithm, you predicted that we would all be hungry. Stress induces hunger, and we’ve had a very tense and stressful morning. Come to think of it, you’re not helping with that.” “Protect and serve, our mandate, does not include allowing criminals to open large containers during an arrest.” R2’s equivalent of eyes, a pair of adaptable multi-focal length lenses, clicked open and closed. “I’ve consulted my database. You will not be denied food. That doesn’t mean I can allow you to open the toolbox.” “What? You think there are guns inside? What good would guns do, against you guys? Pardon me, against you and your Terminator squad.” “Robocops, not Terminators,” R2 corrected Ryan. R2’s lenses clicked. “Terminator is a fictional type of robot, from a series of movies.” “Whatever. Go ahead and scan the toolbox for weapons. All you’ll find is protein bars. We really need to eat.” “Yeah, we need to eat,” George echoed Ryan’s sentiment. Bright cyan light flashed from R2’s lenses and washed over the toolbox. “Warning. I see dense rectangles inside. Those could be grenades.” R2 was staring right at Ryan. At least his lenses were pointed in Ryan's direction. “Are you serious? Grenades are shaped like eggs with lumps. Not rectangles. Those are protein bars.” “Or like cylinders,” R2 added. “Dah. German grenades.” T135, the robot to R2’s left added. “Do you see any bumpy egg shapes, or cylinders, in my toolbox?” Cyan light fanned out from R2’s lenses, washing over the toolbox. T137, the robocop to R2’s far left, and T138, to R2’s far right, rolled out of formation. They positioned themselves where they could each scan the toolbox, getting a different perspective than R2 had. Yellow light fanned out from T137’s lenses and moved across the toolbox. Magenta light from T138 spilled across the toolbox after the yellow light went out. “Only rectangles,” T137 announced. “Only rectangles,” echoed T138. “That’s all I saw, as well,” R2 concurred. “Can we eat now?” whined Cate. “OK, let’s chow down,” Ryan called out, stepping towards the toolbox again. “Can’t wait,” George muttered, going around the Mustang. “What do we have in there?” Cate asked, coming up beside Ryan. “Halt,” R2 commanded. “Only one of you may open the toolbox.” “What do you mean?” Ryan complained. “I have many different flavored protein bars in there. We should each be able to choose our flavor.” “You’re not choosing for me,” George complained, smacking Ryan on the shoulder. “You’d probably give me bubble gum, if there is such a flavor.” “And just like the jelly beans in Harry Potter, you’d probably give me snot, or poop.” Cate made a face. “Harry Potter, and Bertie Botts’s every-flavored jelly beans are fictional,” argued R2. “Go ahead. You may each reach into the toolbox, one at a time, after Ryan opens it.” Ryan opened the toolbox and pulled out a pair of large protein bars. The wrappers declared them to be beef. George removed two more, labeled Chicken. Cate took out a pair of Vegan bars. The members of the Blue Collar Gang nodded at each other. As one, they turned and tossed their ‘protein bars’ at the robocops. Each brick-sized bar smacked up against one of the robocops. Both of Ryan’s slammed into R2, one on his chest, the other on his head. Flashes of light, similar to miniature lightning flashes, flared across each robocop body and head, accompanied by a series of snap-crackle-pop sounds. All five robocops slumped and went quiet, the lights representing eyes winking out. “Magnets,” Ryan made a brushing motion with his hands. “Sort of like a taser against robocops. Didn’t see that coming, did you?”


12:49 a.m. 13 th October, 1947 Karachi, Pakistan The streets were deserted. The riots due to the India-Pakistan Partition had taken their toll on the citizens. No one dared to come out for fear of being caught and beaten or burnt to death by a crazed, fanatical mob. That is, no one, but my husband, my son and I. We were hurrying along to the train station; there was a train leaving to Jodhpur, India, in fifteen minutes. We would have gone earlier, but fear of the riots stopped us. On the morning of the 12 th , a kindly neighbor had informed us that we should beware while leaving. There was a protest starting at one o’clock in the morning the next day, one that would awaken the whole city of Karachi. No corner would be left untouched, or rather, unscathed . But so far, nothing had yet happened. We reached the station at one o’clock on the dot. It was quite empty, save for some people sleeping in one corner of the station on woollen cloths. We reached the platform where our train would arrive. At least we hoped it would arrive. There was no telling what could happen. It could be delayed, I thought, or worse, cancelled. I shook my head and banished these dark scenarios from my mind. It was no good thinking about them; I had to stay strong. I spotted a booth in at one end of the platform. It was a small, wooden building with a hole cut out on one side, above which were the words, ‘Delcious Chaat.’ I winced at the spelling, but it would serve as a decent safe house, in case the ‘protest’ actually happened. If it did, it would definitely reach the station. The hole was boarded up by a thin wooden sheet which my husband broke with one of the suitcases. He reached inside and fumbled a little, then unlocked the booth. I went inside with our son. “Where’s the train?” whispered my son, staring at me. I looked down into his big, innocent eyes, scared and confused, and stroked his hair. “It’s coming soon. Don’t worry. It’s coming soon.” I hugged him, so that he couldn’t see my tears. For our sake, I hope so . I reached into one of the suitcases and pulled out a wooden toy car. I handed it to my son, and said, “Go on. Play with it.” He nodded, but just kept holding it. I joined my husband outside. “The train should have come by now.” he said, quietly. “I know.” “Do you want me to go check outside?” I considered this for a minute. “Don’t go too far. The protest would have started.” He nodded and left. My son tugged at my sleeve. “Where’s he going?” “He’ll come back soon. Don’t worry.” I said, evasively. Waiting was agony. The two minutes he was outside felt like two hours. I breathed a sigh of relief as his thin, familiar frame emerged onto the platform again. “It’s bad.” he said, grimly, before I could ask anything. “The protest has started. A very small group with oil was going past. Luckily, they didn’t stop.” I stood still for a full minute, then walked over to one of the benches and sat down. I could feel my heart hammering against my rib cage, as though it wanted to break free and run away from this hellhole. I couldn’t blame it. I heard footsteps and stood up sharply. But only a single figure poked its head around one of the pillars supporting the roof. Seeing only us, the rest of the body soon followed. It was a man, nearer seventy years of age than sixty, holding a small suitcase. He was not overly tall, and the top of his face was covered by thick glasses. He had a long beard and wore the traditional Islamic skull-cap. I don’t know what, but something in his demeanor, his gait, his friendly smile as he approached put me more at ease than I had ever been in the past two days. The same couldn’t be said for my husband. He let out an audible sound of disgust. “Karthik!” I hissed. The man’s smile hadn’t faded, even though he clearly had heard my husband. He was leaning casually against the pillar closest to us. I got up and walked over. “You’ll have to forgive my husband for his appalling lack of secularism.” The man nodded and smiled wider. “Don’t worry so much. It’s expected in these harsh times.” “I thought I’d apologize all the same.” My husband strode up to us and caught me by the arm. “What are you doing?!” “Keep your voice down. And what the hell does it look like I’m doing?” I retorted. He looked at my son, who was still in the booth, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He dragged me aside and said, “He’s a Muslim!” “So what? When are you going to learn that not all of them start riots and burn houses down? Vikram Nayyar, who used to live across the street from us, he also took part. Does that make him a Muslim? This man here isn’t joining this protest, right? And don’t forget, I’m apologizing on your behalf!” My husband was stunned at this outburst. I wrenched my arm free and went back to the man. “I’m so sorry about that. My husband is just a bit on edge lately.” “Aren’t we all?” An awkward silence followed this statement. I noticed he had a thick scar on his neck, curling just a bit upwards at the end. He was reading from the Quran. “Are you going to Jodhpur?” I asked him, desperate for something to break the ice. “No, Ajmer. The train comes after the Jodhpur one.” “No one’s coming with you?” “No,” He shook his head. “My family’s back in Ajmer. I came here to visit my sister.” “Aren’t they going back to Ajmer too?” “Ha! Try telling that to them. They wouldn’t leave Karachi even if you paid them to.” he laughed. My son ran to me. “Amma, can you keep this back? Also, I’m feeling hungry. Is there anything to eat?” he said, handing me the toy car. I picked him up and carried him to the luggage, which I had kept behind the little former chaat shop. I unzipped a small bag and pulled out a glass jar, filled to the brim with home-made pickle, knowing that he relished eating it plain. “Eat this for now. I’ll give something else on the train.” I sat down on the bench, and soon the man sat too. “Is that your son?” “Yes. His name is Rahul.” The man nodded. “I have a granddaughter at home, about the same age as your son. Such a bright girl she is! She plays the veena so beautifully, and sings too.” I smiled. “I used to play that veena when I was younger, and when she was around five, she would not leave it. She was too small to properly play it, but she used to catch hold of one string and play that again and again. That’s when I knew; she would grow up to be a musician. Ah, but look at me! Ranting again. It’s happening more and more often since I've turned sixty. Please, I apologize.” “No, not at all. There’s nothing to apologize.” He continued reading his Quran. I glanced at my husband and frowned; he was lighting a cigarette. “Karthik! What have I told you about smoking near the boy?” He glared at me, but sullenly walked to the other end of the platform. My eyes wandered for a while, taking in all the smaller details of the tracks and platform, till they settled on the man’s scar. “Might I ask, how did you get the scar?” “Which one? This one?” he pointed at his neck. I nodded. “Ah,” he smiled, “This was back in 1905. At that time, I was a hot, young firebrand. My mind was flooded with the thoughts of revolution and other anti-British sentiments. I was studying to become a lawyer then, when all of a sudden one day, someone comes into our room and says there’s a protest in our college grounds against the partition of Bengal.” I vividly remembered my mother saying that West Bengal and East Bengal (present-day Bangladesh) had been united until a few years before my birth. “Of course I joined the protest,” the man continued, “but it was swiftly broken up, and I was arrested. They beat me up in prison. A whip made this mark.” I gasped. He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was no big deal to get arrested or whipped. On seeing my horrified expression, he laughed. “I’m very proud of it. That’s why I don’t bother to cover it up when I go out.” We lapsed into silence again. I heard screams from outside the station, far away. Cries were raised, either for or against Partition. There was no hope now, I thought bitterly, the country would remain divided into India and Pakistan. “Do you think it will ever stop?” “Hm?” He looked up from his book. He kept it aside, waiting for me to continue. Somehow, this one simple action made me feel guilty. The poor man was waiting for a train, trying to read his book in peace, and here I was, interrupting him every time he so much as picked the book up. “Do you think it will ever stop?” I asked, softer this time. “All this madness. The riots, the protests. When do you think people will finally be able to accept our differences and settle down, without hurting each other?” “I don’t think people will ever be able to understand and accept differences without hurting each other,” he replied, “but I sure hope the pain will reduce. These protests will end soon, but if not this one, another will start.” Was that resentment I detected in his voice? I kept quiet after that, thinking about what he had said, turning it over in my brain again and again. I was jerked from this reverie by the arrival of my husband. He had a disgusting ash stain on his lips. “The protests are getting closer. A large group is coming, maybe half an hour away at best.” My stomach dropped. I closed my eyes. My heart went into overdrive again, just like when we first entered the station. Was this the end for us? My husband and myself, I didn’t think much about; my first thought were for my son. He was still so young, so much to live for. And the old man. Would he never be able to see his granddaughter again? I found myself praying involuntarily. “Oh, God… please, if not us, save Rahul at least. Please…” As if on cue, a train horn was sounded. I opened my eyes, hardly daring to believe it. But it was true. A small light was fast approaching from the inky blackness of the night, from our right. I ran to the suitcases and heaved them up. My husband grabbed some from me. I took Rahul’s hand and we stood in single file, at the edge of the platform. The train got closer and closer, till the engine roared past, sending a plume of smoke from the side into our faces. I caught the letters ‘NWR’ splashed across the side of the engine in white. I took a step back, taking Rahul with me, marveling at its speed and power. The train slowed to a halt. I took Rahul and a suitcase inside and sat him in an empty coach. It wasn’t too hard to find. I went back outside to help my husband with the remaining three bags and saw the man, still sitting and smiling at us. I pushed the smaller bag quickly onto the train and jogged over to him. “It was nice meeting you.” he said. “You too,” I answered. “I hope you meet your granddaughter.” “Take care of your son. He’s a fine boy.” I laughed. “Yes.” He shook my hand warmly. “Go now. Your train is leaving soon.” “Goodbye, Uncle.” “Goodbye.” I hurried back into the train and sat down next to Rahul. My husband shot me a dark look, but at that time, I didn’t care. I looked out of the window. The man was reading his Quran, peacefully this time. In just a few minutes, the train blew its horn again. It began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster, till the Karachi railway station, with the man inside it, was just a speck in the distance.


Stolen Glances He was the Stable Boy. He had no right to be looking at her in that way. A way that spoke of feelings and desires beyond words. Feelings and desires that he had no right to be thinking about her, never mind speaking to her. She was a lady. The youngest born to a great lord. She was refined, poised, delicate. Her hands were swathed in the sweetest silk. Like her soft, pale face. One of these gloves alone was far more than the likes of the Stable Boy would make in a year. She was drowning in lux, heavy fabrics layered her body, burying her slight frame. She favored yellow, but often wore purple. A reminder to herself and everyone who surrounded her, from the highest lord to the lowest servant, of her status. The Stable Boy wore browns, all browns; brown cap, brown shoes, brown trousers, waist coat and shirt. Brown dirt on freckled face and freckled arms. Brown hair under his cap. Dark eyes looked up from under his cap, stealing glances at her when he wasn’t supposed to. Hidden looks that were not his. He hadn’t the right. Only once she looked back. That look wasn’t his to have. He never should have had it. The Stable Boy spent much of his time in the stables with the earthy smell of horses and the spring smell of hay. He brushed their flanks, shilled their shoes and fed them the finest oats. All the horses were those of the lords and ladies, and needed the finest care and treatment. The Stable Boy provided just that, without complaint. The stable was his home as much as his small lodgings on the lord’s lands he was permitted to keep there. More so when his parents fought. Their horses company was the company that the Stable Boy preferred to keep. It didn’t take much to know them and learn what they liked. And they didn’t seem to mind him all that much either. There was only one’s company that he would prefer more… She didn’t see him. She didn’t see him wherever she went. It was a conscious effort on her part. She did not wish to see him and chose not to. But somehow the Stable Boy kept appearing to her, in her mind’s eye, when she caught herself day dreaming, and when she lay in her chambers at night, heavy fabric curtains drawn, blocking out everything but his face. It swam before her each night. Forever out of reach to her. She who had the kind of father who could bless her with anything her heart desired. Except him. She didn’t see him wherever she went. But she carried him with her. Just as he carried her with him. ******** Once a week the lords and ladies would come out to ride in the mid-day sun. The Stable Boy silently worked, helping the lords and ladies, he saddled their horses and helped them into their riding boots. He never sought her out first. He always waited until the lords and ladies were speaking among themselves. She always stood to one side. It wasn’t announced and she wasn’t missed. She always seemed to disappear from them without notice, to stand to one side. To wait for him. The Stable Boy would work efficiently and silently. He would saddle her horse with care and kneel down to help her into her riding shoes. His tanned, calloused hands treating her so gently, so preciously. All the time he kept his gaze averted, eyes firmly down at the ground. His cap covering his eyes from hers. In these moments before she rode, she would look at him openly. Her eyes scanned him, searching. She took in the strands of dark hair poking out from under his cap, his tanned skin and scatterings of freckles. The hard line his lips formed into when he focused on his work. The way he hesitated before laying hands on her shoe. The care that he placed her riding boots onto her foot. The way his fingers longed to linger, but didn’t. The tension in his broad shoulders. He was threadbare and common, but he was honest and his touch sincere. Once the Stable Boy had stood again to help her onto her horse, she refused herself to look at him anymore. Once she was seated on her horse he would stroke her mounts mane and leave his hand there, lingering. She could feel his eyes on her now and refused to give him hers, looking straight ahead, fixed. They would stay like this, locked in a moment that they both refused to share with one another. Too frightened of what may happen if their eyes found each other. Yet they both longed anyway. This ritual was repeated each week. Each taking the turn to look at the other. Drinking them in, devouring them with their eyes. It was late autumn, the last ride out before the horses would winter in the stables, when the Stable Boy had his hand on her horses mane, gazing at her. She didn’t look at him. She never looked at him when he looked. She reached her hand out to his. Their hands trembled. ******** It was winter and The Stable Boy hadn’t seen her since the last day in the autumn. The Stable Boy had housed himself with the horses for the winter. He was out there so often feeding them and it was far warmer in here besides with the animals making good company. He thought of her often. Her creamy skin. Her rosy cheeks and lips. Her flowing lock. Fire in the sun and rose in the shade. The look of discomfort in that world of lords and ladies that none of those refined folks seemed to notice. Her eyes piercing him. Her eyes not lighting up when she politely laughed at a nobles jest. Her eyes fading when she was presented with another suitor. Her eyes shining when she looked at him (the Stable Boy saw more from under his cap than she realised). He lay in the top of the barn with the hay bales above the horses, dreaming of her and dreaming of her, both awake and asleep. It was a cold night when the Stable Doors flew open. Icy winds blowing in and a loud clatter (gave the horses a start). Assuming he hadn’t locked it properly, the Stable Boy quickly climbed down the ladder, calmed the horses and turned towards the stable door. She was standing there. They both looked at one another. They shared their first embrace that very night. She came to see the Stable Boy as she could after that first night sneaking out into the darkness, with nothing but a cloak and a lantern to protect her from winters bite. She would shuffle into the stables, shivering, and he would warm her and tell her in soft tones not to come again; she’d catch her death. But again the next night she would come and again he would tell her not to. The Stable Boy knew their time was short and sought to make each moment count. She wanted more and oft fretted about her marriage proposals and desires to be with him instead. The Stable Boy would hold her and say nothing. His heart heavy with knowledge and sorrow. ******** No one knows how the barn came to be on fire. Some think it was a jealous suitor, insulted that the finest lady in all the lands was choosing to spend her time with common servant. Some think that it was her father, mortified that his daughter had sullied herself with a lowly peasant. Others say that a lantern had been knocked over and had been the cause of the fire. There was a lot of talk after that night, when the barn lit up in a great bonfire. All agreed though, that she had been okay. The lords daughter was well, pulled from the barn by the Stable Boy. But the Stable Boy went back for the horses. The lord was ultimately most angry that his prized stallions and fillies had died in the flames. He gave no thought to the Stable Boy and even less to why his daughter had been stood in the snow, staring at the flames as tears rolled down her cheeks, freezing in place. She continued her ladies duties. She walked with poise, wore fine garments, tittered politely at her suitors remarks and kept fine ladies in her company. She later married a suitor and moved away to his lands. But her eyes were dulled. They didn’t shine anymore. ******** I am a scullery maid. My hands are calloused and I scrub and wash all day. My mothers a maid like me and my father keeps the grounds presentable. No grand lord is trying his best to win my hand, only to get in my knickers. I sleep in the servants quarters and I would love to get a tan from working in the sun. I usually work in the dark and the quiet. Remaining unseen so as not to disturb the great lords and ladies with my presence. I loved a boy from afar whose entire being was the warmest chocolate brown. His lips pressed together in a hard line when he focused and he never saw me. He only saw her. And she took him away.


I vividly saw hell and truly believed if I stopped breathing, I’d be there. Forever. I had two days off work and a friend, Joe, asked me if I would be interested in buying a four-finger bag of pure PCP from the chemist who made it, for one hundred dollars. This is a horse tranquilizer. Sure, why not? I had no idea.

After what occurred over the next several days, I could say this. Comparing LSD to PCP, LSD is a shot of beer, and PCP is a fifth of whiskey. PCP is one of the most absolutely horrible drugs on the face of the planet. I'm driving back to my apartment, and Joe is sitting next to me. He snorted a big line. Instantly, he said, “Hallsey'', my nickname, “Where are we going ?” “Back to my apartment.” “Where?” “Back to my apartment.” “Hallsey, where are we going?” “ Back to my apartment.” “Where is my dad?” “I don't know, Joe”. He went quiet. Wow!

I was dating a lady named JoJo. I went into the apartment and told her this stuff was very powerful. We both snorted a very small line. We were listening to the rock band Boston. Don't know why I mentioned that, except it was important at the time.

Instantly, everything went euphoric. Surrounded by white light. After a half hour, I wondered where Joe was. I went out to the car, he was drenched in sweat. He hadn't been able to open the door. He said he had been out in the universe. He crawled across the street, on all fours, like a dog. He had urinated himself. He came into the apartment and straight armed my oak coffee table straight over his head. Unbelievable strength. Then both JoJo and Joe were gone. What? Over the next two days, I'm snorting a little every four hours or so. I can handle this. Didn't sleep. I was very wrong. I went to work Friday morning, so high, I didn't know I was high. I worked at corporate headquarters, which also had a sales floor. I found out, after the fact, that I was going to be promoted to store manager. I was fired.

Here is exactly what happened.  	My first customers were two big men from a company called Stuart Sandwiches, looking to buy a used sixty-nine-dollar freezer. We had an open-to-buy list, where customers with a good buying history could take the product and pay later. I had looked at the wrong list and naturally didn't see the name. I walked upstairs into the vice president's office, which I had never done before. He was in the middle of a meeting and explained the situation. I told him there was a man named Stuart Sandwiches. It's a company.

He told me to not let them take it. I went back down, told them, and they went ballistic. I just stood there, looking at the floor. A fellow salesman came over and peacefully resolved the situation.

I went and sat at my desk. I opened a King James Bible my mother had given me. The words became extremely “pornographic”, vial, threatening, and menacing. I closed the Bible.

A couple of minutes later, there was a man behind me, looking at a stereo. It turns out he was a semi-driver taking a load of appliances back to Bellaire, which was five minutes from my hometown, Martins Ferry. We were also a distribution center. I went back to my desk, tore the front page out of the Bible, and wrote, “Mom, just thinking of you, have a nice day. Love, Bob”. She had, what turned out to be, terminal breast cancer. I went back to the warehouse, found the driver, and asked if he would mind taking this to my mother in Martins Ferry. He said sure and asked if the semi could maneuver in the backstreets. I looked at the truck, it was miles long. I proceeded to walk back to the sales floor, the driver following me.

We were in a darker area of the warehouse when he stopped me, grabbed my hand explained he was gay, and asked if he could give me oral sex. Now, I have no issues with gay men. However, in my mind, at that moment, I had just given him a “Holy Mission''. Taking my note to my mother with cancer. I had a 280-pound bench press and on PCP strength is magnified and you feel no pain. If I had torn into him I probably would have killed. I looked at him, turned around, and went completely insane.  I went to the sales floor and started switching all the price tags. I had an expensive Amana ice and water refrigerator, priced at seventy-nine dollars. A basic washer was over two thousand, and an inexpensive microwave was over a thousand. There were numerous customers on the sales floor.

I then picked up a can of Coca-Cola, went upstairs, and poured it into an industrial laser printer. I squirted some mustard on my suit and went down and sat at my desk. The V.P. came down a few minutes later and asked, “Bob, What's going on?” Quiet. “Are you drinking anything?” “No.” “Are you smoking anything?” “No,” “Fred, I’m scared.” “Why are you scared?” “I think I’ve overdosed on PCP.” Several minutes later, the police arrived and took me to an emergency room. They observed me for quite some time. I have no idea how long because I was lost in the madness of my mind. I was perfectly quiet, the doctor gave me a card to a mental institution, explaining that because I was not violent, I could leave. Somebody drove me back over to work, where I was told to take the weekend off. I was fired on Monday. A good friend said the printer would randomly print, “Things go better with Coke.”

I had a 1969 Chevelle SS. and started driving, I swear I remember hitting one hundred mph. And I was not on the interstate. I had no idea where I was. Became lost several times. I'm on the interstate, then side roads. Back on the interstate. I'm dripping wet from sweat. I ran many red lights and stop signs, all at a very high speed. Somehow, I made it home.

Arriving safely without even a ticket qualifies as a miracle. I was blown out of my mind.

At this moment, I thought I should call my mother and explain that a gay man might be pulling up in a semi-truck with the front page of the Bible she had given me. Today this seems hilarious. She asked what on earth was wrong with me. I told her the truth, that I was overdosing on PCP, and that I thought I had just lost my job. “You son of a b_itch” and slammed the phone. I had just lost my best friend.

I went to hell.

I'm sitting on the front porch drinking a little King beer. At this moment, my next-door neighbor, who I had never talked with for the year I had lived there, came over, sat down, and introduced himself. He was a gay man in a gay relationship.

I looked at him and he transformed. His eyes became black, he became over ten feet tall, and he grew wings and hooves. I said I was sick and had to go inside.

I went inside, locked the door, took off all my clothes, and went to bed. All this occurred on a Friday, and I came to sanity on Sunday morning.

All I can explain about those lost twenty-four hours is this. There was no concept of time. I'm visualizing spiders, snakes, bats with human heads, smelling sulfur, seeing humans on fire in agony, lakes of fire, hearing intense screaming, at times in utter blackness. For every good thought, there was an immediate bad thought. My mind was in a continuous loop. Good, bad, good, bad, good, bad. Fast, very fast. I remember looking at the clock, it was 9:01. I thought hours and hours had gone by, looked again, 9:02. One minute, I was beyond terrified. I explained this to a doctor several years later. He told me he was writing a book about the effects of natural hallucinogens on the human psyche. Many plants are known to have hallucinogenic properties. Some of these include Common Reed, Datura, Fly Agaric Mushrooms, Hawaiian Baby Wood Rose Seeds, Magic Mushrooms, Morning Glory Seeds, and Nutmeg. These plants contain chemical compounds that can react with the human body in specific ways, affecting the brain and mental state of those who ingest them. He asked if it was pure PCP. I said yes. For some reason, he asked if I was spiritual, and I told him I was Christian. He explained that I had gone catatonic. He had patients who were in mental institutions. Put their hand up, it stays up until you put it down. Their mind is in a good/bad loop. Most came out of it, but a few hadn't. PCP “short circuits” the synapse in the brain. I remember during those lost twenty-four hours, focusing on a small constant light and breathing, while all this hell was going on around me. I truly believed, if I stopped breathing, I would be in hell. Forever. I woke up on Sunday morning, and the first sound I heard was birds singing. I took the PCP and flushed it. I didn't even smoke weed over the next year or so. The doctor said I had experienced a miracle. Yes, I had.

 Before continuing, I should explain what I know is true. Eternal Source did not put me through this experience. I did. The Source was the light I concentrated on with my right mind and spirit. What I experienced was an extreme attack by my insane wrong ego mind. God does not send us trials, each mind has the Holy Spirit within. All works out for the good of all parties concerned, always. You may not think so at the time. Looking back at my own life, for me, this is very true.

“You may not get what you asked for, but you will get what you need”. The Rolling Stones.  I had been attending church regularly. Believing strongly in the existence of Heaven and Hell. Up until I became a student of A Course in Miracles, I still believed in hell because I had seen and experienced it. My mind made the whole experience up.

I now understand the power of our minds. As an example, have you ever tried to remember someone's name and couldn't? Several days later, the name “pops'' into conscious thought. Everything you have seen, heard, and experienced since birth is stored in your subconscious database. You consciously put into your database the question, and answer found and given to your conscious thought. This is why it is important to dwell and look upon what is good. Put positive in, not negative. I didn’t stop breathing, and the light I concentrated on brought me through the worst experience of my life to date. -Bob


Lilith By: Liu Mok Snowflakes fell profusely. Each winter in Terranova was an exact replica of the previous one. The same amount of snow, on the same days and storms on the fifth and twenty-third day of the year. That morning of the sixth day, everything went as usual, an overwhelming quiet after the ferocity of the previous day. Only the snowflakes disturbed the prevailing calm. Lilith woke up like every morning at seven, and prepared for her daily routine. The first indication that something was wrong was in the kitchen: the Tetra Pak of orange juice was empty. Tried to remember when was the last time something similar happened, but nothing came to mind. She was baffled a few moments. It was unusual. Since she had memories, orange juice had been an essential part of her daily breakfast. She pressed the reset button on her fridge, but nothing happened. Attempted some taps to the sides, but her Tetra Pak of juice was still empty. It was getting late. Her carefully timed routine had undergone a variation with a logical cost in terms of time. She made the decision to remove hairstyling from that day's routine so she could get to be on time at work. She had no recollection of ever been late. Lilith went swiftly to the office, passing the snow-covered sidewalks. She did not usually walk in such a hurry, but nothing was normal on that morning of the sixth day. Part of her routine was to count the one thousand one hundred thirty-five steps until she got to work.

Walked a few meters when she turned to start counting. Was startled to find that there was not a trace from the entrance of the house to the point where she was standing.

Snowflakes continued to fall and caressed her face in stupefaction. She looked under

her feet and turned away terrified, there were no footprints under the shoes. It can't be. She hurried to press the snow with the hands and to her surprise; the hands pierced the snow that seemed to have no texture. Between surprise and stupor, she laid her hands on the head, it was late, but she could not understand what was happening. Then something caught her attention as she looked towards the entrance of the house. A series of tracks

were appearing at high speed and were heading towards her. Lilith ran as fast as she could, without looking elsewhere than the flamboyant red building where she worked. She was short of breath, felt the cold inside her like needles, but she did not stop. Reached the entrance of the building and stopped to take a breath in the lobby. Five

minutes past eight, she was late. Her mind could not help trying to look for logical explanations for what had just happened. Logic and routine had been a fundamental part of her existence since she had memories.

Lilith looked out the entrance of the building, with its massive doors of pristine glass. Outside the snow was falling on the sidewalks and it was slowly beginning to cover the still fresh tracks that reached the very entrance. Her footprints.

Lilith began to wonder if the lack of orange juice in the morning was playing tricks on hermind, if all the chaos unleashed that sixth day had altered her perceptions of reality. She shook her head, less disturbed, and headed for her job. The long corridors of the red building, carefully marked, led her to her post: a blue chair with a wooden bureau. She would have liked to tell someone what had happened, to know if someone else have had a similar experience, but she did not know anyone. The giant corridors of the red building contrasted with the small cubicle with a blue chair and a wooden table where Lilith worked. The red building itself contrasted with its surroundings of gray houses and endless sidewalks that Lilith had never walked. The one thousand one hundred thirty-five steps from her house to work were the only thing she knew about that city that seemed too big and overwhelming, as it was her small cubicle

inside a gigantic red building of infinite corridors. She did not remember how or when she started working there, it just seemed like she had done it all her life. Actually, she had never tried to remember, absorbed in daily routines, did not have the time or disposition to do it. The chaos of that day had served her, at least, to be aware of her surroundings. The exterior of the building was red, but inside, the corridors and endless walls were gray and dark, except for her small cubicle illuminated by a dim white light. Lilith thought she had had enough chaos for a day and decided to regain control. Maybe getting into the daily work routine would distract her from everything. She sat in her chair and, as always, the Holoscreen opened in front of her. She entered the access code, like any day. "Error, try again". This whole day has been an error. She re-typed the access code, this time slowly. “Error, try again”. She felt a heat inside her body that was running through her. Jumped, knocking the chair to the floor, which echoed in the endless corridors of the building as if a bomb had fallen.

It was an unknown sensation; Lilith felt warmth in her hands and then her neck and finally her forehead. Screamed to the top of her lungs and everything suddenly went dark. Lilith half-opened her eyes and saw an intense light directly on her face; she had no choice but to close them involuntarily. Felt a persistent buzzing, like the winter wind passing through the trees.

After a while; opened her eyes one more time, the usual landscape of the dim light over her little cubicle was there again. The chair, carefully placed in its position, seemed to indicate that nothing had happened. She sat awkwardly, took a time to surpass disorientation. It was four in the afternoon, time to return home. What a strange day, Lilith thought on the way home, while rubbing the back of her neck. This time she could count the one thousand one hundred thirty-five steps back. This made her feel calm, that she was in control again. Completed her meal, bath and bed routine without any setback. Nothing outside the natural order interrupted her. The man took off his helmet. Typed the "compile" command on his laptop and pressed "Enter". Reached his smartphone and wrote a message. The prototype is ready Dealer. Whenever you want now, you can visit her and do

whatever you want. She will blow you mind! Whatever I want? Anything, bro, anything. You are the best Richie. This is the future bro. This will make us millionaires. See you tomorrow and hopefully I'll see her too. Lilith woke up. It was the seventh day and she followed her daily routine with total

normality. Nothing out of the ordinary altered her routine. Once outside, the cool breeze of the seventh day, already without snowflakes, caressed her face. She took a deep breath in that clean air that felt like freedom. The satisfaction of that little world with undisturbed routines made her feel comfortable on that usual morning. She could not remember a morning that was different, the weather varied, but her routine remained.

She made her way to work, as usual, with small steps through the endless sidewalks that reached the red building. One thousand one hundred thirty-five steps.


Chapter 1 A gentle breeze blew past. Finn pulled his coat closer to his thin frame. Beside him, Larry stood still, cradling an urn in his hands. It had been handmade by a local potter and had an Indian Gate mural etched on its body. That was all they had left of their comrades. The battle ground had been so decimated there hadn't been any bodies or mementoes of others to collect. “Cold?” He asked, glancing in the boy’s direction. “Na, I’m good.” He replied. His eyes fell on the urn. “So, are you gonna do it?” “Not yet," Larry said. He nodded, turning his gaze to the water. It stretched out far into the horizon, where it met with the full grey sky. Leaves floated close to the shore as the Northern Red Oak trees shed their dying leaves like bloody tear drops. He noticed a strange hazel colored leaf in the water, and as he watched it float away his shoulders dropped. “This sucks.” He said. “I know. At least it was worth it. All-Knoweth is gone.” “I failed.” His lip quivered. “Again.” Larry said nothing. He stared off into the horizon, his mouth a thin line. “I couldn’t do anything when it mattered…” “Well, we don’t have control over-” “Easy for you to say.” Finn snapped. He could feel heat rising in his abdomen. “You’ve literally had this entire world in your hands.” The heat seared through his body, up to his finger tips. Smoke curled up from his coat pockets. The wind blew Larry’s collar, revealing a jagged scar running from beneath his jaw towards his neck. “Everything comes at a cost.” The flames died down immediately. He stared at his friend, unable to speak. “what price are you willing to pay for control over your own destiny?” All-Knoweth smirked at him. He’d pulled his sleeves up, revealing scarred, burnt flesh, etched with designs and murals. “Only those with courage to face consequences can truly make their own choices.” This whole time he’d been too busy thinking about the consequences to actually make any choices. Not anymore. “I’m leaving.” He announced. “The Union?" "Yeah." He looked down at his feet. His once bright red sneakers had faded, the fabric had peeled and it was caked with mud. He sighed. Silence hung in the air, save for the gentle rustling of leaves. "If this is about Rick, don't blamed yourself." Larry said. He was staring at the water. Rick. "Finn, get outta there!" He'd turned, frozen in shock. All-Knoweth had just smashed Toby to bits and was headed for him. The others lay in heaps of blood, bones broken and hearts weakened. He remembered Rick's battered face, hair matted with blood, eye bloodshot. He'd smiled, revealing a set of missing teeth. Then he'd stretched out his hand and repelled him with a magnetic force, right before- "Finn." He inhaled sharply. Larry was looking at him, a worried expression on his face. "I haven't been in control of my own destiny for a while now." He said, looking at the sky. "I just went along with everyone, letting others carry me." "But you defeated All-Knoweth." "I wouldn't have activated Incinerate if you hadn't told me to. I was indecisive and he paid the price." He stared at his palm, then clenched his fist. "I just feel this… Is a decision I finally made on my own.” He kept a plain face, but his voice betrayed his true emotions. “I see.” The deafening silence returned. Occasionally Larry would crunch dead leaves beneath his feet; the sound made Finn nostalgic of a time when things were simple and could be decided by nods and frowns. The wind had returned, rousing the dead leaves from their grassy graves and leading them in spirals like a choreographed dance. As he watched the leaves like mini-hurricanes, he realised his life wasn't something he had control over. Perhaps not in this place, where everything depended on the whims of an unknown being and they were all just pawns in a sick game. He glanced at Larry. The Brit always seemed to know what to do, and always seemed to be in control. Something he'd envied. However, All-Knoweth’s words made him wonder. Just what price had he paid for the choices he’d made? He briefly caught sight of another jagged line of scarred flesh stretching towards his wrist, contrasting his caramel colored skin, but he wriggled his sleeve and it was hidden from view. “So what are you gonna do now?” “Well, Kara’s left to England with Shadow"-Finn's expression soured-"and Kevin is still missing, but I know he’s coming for me.” He narrowed his eyes, staring off into the sky. Something Finn always found confusing. “I’ll probably just wait in Quiet Place for the end to come.” “Oh, okay.” Finn said. A tiny flame danced around lazily on his palm, before sputtering and dying out. “I’d go home, but..” “No home to go back to.” Finn shook his head. Larry was right. They were Outsiders ; there was no where for them in the normal world now. “I’ll just get my katana and go wherever the wind takes me, I guess.” Larry snorted. “That’s so cliché.” He smiled, in spite of himself. Most of the leaves had fallen into the river, and soon the contents of the urn followed, the ashes spreading out in the shape of a flower before disappearing beneath the surface, leaving the water clear as before. As he watched, a bouquet of flowers fell from the urn as well. Names seemed to enter his head as he watched them float away: Dahilas, their radiant orange petals spreading warmth over the water; the intense red Gladiolus casting a reddish tint around them; the distinctive lustre of Protea petals causing sparkles on the water surface, and finally, the subtle amber glow of Daffodils. The flowers combined to form an array of beautiful colours all around them. He stared, dumbfounded, struggling to fight back tears. He couldn’t see Larry’s face but the urn dropping confirmed the Brit was shocked as well. He raised his fist and punched the sky. He didn’t know where he was headed, neither did he know what he would face, but he was filled with a sudden sense of determination. He'd taken the first step towards his own path. Everything would be fine. Thank you, Rick. The flowers floated away, the colours growing duller till they faded into the horizon.


Icarus’s eyes gazed down at the pairs of wax wings that were hidden under his bed. They were ready to be secured to his and his father’s body tonight. They were going to escape, finally, after being a prisoner for years upon years. “Icarus? Come here!” Daedalus’s voice echoed off the overgrown stone walls. “Coming!” His own voice bounced back. He stared at the wax wings for a second longer then pushed his mattress over them,

protecting them from the watchful eyes of King Minos. He ran around the corner to Daedalus, stopping only when he saw his father’s worried face.

“My boy, King Minos is going to be here any second, we have to be ready for his arrival.” Icarus nodded. “We just have to get through his daily checkups and then we will be free.” Daedalus’s face went from worried to anticipated. The pair had been thinking of an escape plan for years, they had gone through multiple fails, which had resulted in King Minos coming in everyday and checking that they are both still locked in their dedicated workshop. But this was different, they had a plan, a plan for escape. When night falls, they will break the window, secure the wings on their backs, and fly into the night. The wings would not melt because of the coolness of the night, but then in the morning they could get rid of the evidence of escape by leaving the wings out to melt into wax. All they had to do was get through this inspection. As soon as Daedalus finished talking, the doors to the room opened, King Minos stood there, looking at the pair with disinterest.

He strutted into the room with four of his soldiers at his side, a little overkill if you asked either of the prisoners. “These daily reports of if you are still here are getting rather constant, yes?” Daedalus and Icarus nodded accommodatingly. Minos looked around the room, his brow furrowing. “Have you changed something? It feels…off.” He looked at the pair accusingly. “No Sir, we haven’t changed anything. But we haven’t had our food for today.” Daedalus suggested, his throat bobbing. “Yes, yes your food is coming,” King Minos rolled his eyes, and flicked his hand to one of his soldiers who then left the room in search of food. “As we are waiting for him to get back, we will inspect the area.” He looked at the prisoners with an impish grin on his face, as if he knew they were hiding something.

Two of the soldiers started scampering around the room, searching for anything askew. While King Minos and his one soldier stood still, looking at the two soldiers, waiting for them to find something out of place.

The two soldiers made their way around the room, checking every nook and cranny, until they finally got to the mattress where the wings were hidden. The pair stood with wary hearts as they looked at the soldier's lift up the mattress, to reveal where the wav wings were hidden/ “Well, well, well, now what is this?” King Minos said as he strutted over to the soldiers that were now unloading the wings onto the floor. “An escape plan? Well, why would you want to leave?” He said, looking at the prisoners with a glee grin. “It’s not what you think it is!” Daedalus called, running over to the wings and looking down at them, Icarus followed. King Minos stared at them, delighted that he could wreck another one of their escape plans.

“Then what is it?” Minos asked. Daedalus went quiet for a second, looked around mutely, and then rushed over to the workshop table. The three soldiers, King Minos and Icarus looked at him in confusion.

Daedalus muttered to himself as he fitted gloves over his hands. He turned around with a gleeful expression. “Now, what are they?” King Minos spoke with obvious excitement. He was a king, yes, but a boy who likes treasure at heart. Daedalus hurried back to the wings and soldiers, stared at each of them, and then jumped onto King Minos, clawing at whatever he could reach. “Icarus! Get the wings and fly!” Daedalus screamed from on top of the king. His guards struggled to lift Daedalus off of the wailing king. “But, you need to come with me!” Icarus called as he started putting on the wings harness. “I can’t! But, my boy, listen, do not fly too close to the sun or sea!” Escape! Do not look back!” Daedalus finally submitted to the guards' efforts, and as King Minos stood up, a window smashed. They all whipped their heads around to see the fragile body of Icarus with the wax wings secured, staring out into the sea and the sun. Icarus looked back at the occupants, smiled sadly at Daedalus and jumped. Icarus leaped from the workshop’s window, jumping out into the great big sky. With tilted wings he started to soar, higher and higher. He could feel the sun kissing him with burning lips. He could feel the wind carrying him higher. He could practically taste freedom.

Icarus raised his hand to the sun, to touch what he couldn’t before. He smiled as he flew, a wide unrestrained smile.

For years he was trapped. Trapped like an animal in a cage. But now he was free, free to fly, free to live.

Icarus laughed, a laugh that was full of happiness and excitement.

Icarus flew down towards the ocean and then back up to the sun.

The wax wings started melting. Hot liquid wax trailed his fragile body. Icarus’s smile twisted into shock, a shrill scream left him. He started to plummet, further and further down. His wings burnt to nothing, Icarus had no choice but to fall. Looking up to the sky, Icarus cried out again, his freedom…gone. Icarus struggled against the tides. He sank lower and lower, down into the murky abyss. The air left his lungs, his screams for help turned quiet… Trapped under the waves, Icarus’s body was buried under sand. He was in a cage that he couldn’t escape. He was forever a prisoner. A boy, high on freedom, the sun, a tragedy.