Summer had begun early that year, and in an effort to beat the punctuality of the coming seasons, I was already crafting willow reindeer for Christmas. Wrapped in lights and perfectly complementing any front yard, the reindeer were a sellout every year, and besides needing the extra cash, the willow field, colloquially known as ‘the cut’, was a serene place of peace, and the few combined hours I’d spent cutting that season were enough to ease even the worst nerves. Although my fondest memories of the field will always be with me, the worst always resurfaces. I was lucky enough to escape that day, though my mind never could. Sometimes a faint whistle will echo over the leaves and blend with the neighboring sounds of the cut, almost like she’s trying to draw me back through the stick. I’ve revisited, reviewed and rethought my daydreams in the months since, and this was no dream. The heat taxed my pores as the noon sun beat down on the birds and the brush around me. I had already cut a fairly large pile of willow, which I then trimmed down to easily transport to my car. Then, as every good willower would do, I collected my pile of excess and walked them around to my ‘secret dead stick hiding spot’- a spot that every good willower should have. It should be somewhere around the back of the cut, unnoticed by passersby, and not disrupting the vibes of nature. Luckily for me, the path to my hiding spot was coated in grass and untouched by the plague of stinging nettle. As I approached the high grass, I noticed something I hadn’t before in the ten years I’ve frequented this field: an immensely idyllic passageway leading into what looked to be a very narrow trail. My heart sank into my stomach before my mind could break the fall. I knew what I was seeing was real, but my soul hurt so badly; I had genuinely convinced myself that I had to have been suffering from derealization or some type of hallucinatory disorder. I felt more sad than insane, though. Was this the conclusion of every drug or drink my brain had filtered out just to bring me back to reality? How many times had I carelessly stepped past that entrance? There’s no way I could’ve missed it. Aside from my fear of disgusting spiders, my curiosity overwhelmed me. I stepped through the molded pathway and grasped my loppers tightly. Forget-me-nots and bellflowers and bleeding hearts nourished the dirt path on either side, stretching across to nearly greet their paralleled peers. The path quickly began to narrow and, after trudging through the knotted wood for about ten minutes, I realized that if I wasn’t on the other side of the small field by then, I might as well be in Canada. I stopped to gaze up at the sun when I heard a faint whistle, like wind snaking its way through the leaves. It wasn’t a sound I was unfamiliar with. The wind whistled through the willow almost constantly, but this sounded so… human. The path led into a lifeless latticed dead-end wall of brush. Looking through was a field. I was relieved to have found the other side. I chopped through three or four switches to release me from the thickening forest of tall shrubs and peered through to make out the train tracks that ran alongside. They were gone, replaced by a thick, black dirt clearing that expanded about 50 yards on all sides from a scarlet system of bare stems ripping up from the ground, enshrined in long, white thorns. The wicked tree sat directly in the center of the giant scorched circle. The cramped field wasn’t that big before. The path and entryway hadn’t been there before, and I wasn’t crazy. From the corner of my eye were a pair of pants and a t-shirt, propped up with several bundles of sticks, shoved through the pant legs and poking out the neck like a stick puppet. To the left was a sundress organized in the same manner, and behind that, a number of various clothing items perfectly set upright on their respective branches. I stepped onto the charred sand to get a better glimpse of the phenomenon when I tripped on a small stump and sent myself flying onto the jet-black earth. A strong, almost orchestrated gust of wind immediately ripped through the willow and kicked up the ash around me. I coughed and wiped my eyelids clean of the dust before I came back to my feet. I was growing more eager to leave, but I needed proof that this existence-defying plane did, in fact, exist. I made my way toward the rotted corpse-like tree in the center, loppers in hand. “Please don’t cut her,” the shrill voice of a young girl pierced my ear canal, cutting and slicing its way to the drum. I was completely frozen. My brain refused to tell my hands to move. This wasn’t paralysis. Something had my body in a tight iron grip. I couldn’t see where the voice originated, but I could still open my mouth to form words. “I’m not going to cut it. I’m just lost ma’am,” I muttered with everything left in my chest. “Liar!”, she roared through the leaves, falling to a sobbing stutter. “You always take her from me!” Her voice became weathered and raspy but filled with conviction. The shelled prison restraining my movement was slowly unbinding itself. I was finally able to turn my face to her. She stood on the outside edge of the circle, just within eyesight. She was much older than her voice had led on. Had I not been so alarmed, I would’ve assumed she was some passerby or maybe even a groundskeeper for the area, though I knew that field to be public land. Her hair was thin and gray, and through the shadows on her face I could see her eyes slowly changing from blue to green, then to a dark stone color in swift repetition. I swear at one point her iris had entirely disappeared, leaving her eyes as yellow as her jaundiced skin and crooked teeth. She was clothed in an almost-white, dirt-covered homemade dress, bare feet sunken into the muck. I didn’t give my brain a chance to respond with words. Instead, I dropped my loppers and turned tail toward the wall I entered through. She let off a wail like an injured goat, sending a sharp guttural tremor down my neck. I was able to jump through the wilted willow cage surrounding the clearing, but not without crashing onto the soft unstained dirt that blessed the other side. Her wailing and screaming ceased immediately. I didn’t stop long enough to show gratitude. The light of the sun was beaming through the entryway, presenting the opportunity to finally escape the palpable purgatory. I sprung from the field, overcome with relief but still incredibly uneased. She was still inside there. She easily could have followed me. My eyes widened at the willow, watching for any movement besides the blowing brush or whippoorwill whistles. It took me a second to accept that I was completely alone again. I walked through the grass until I caught sight of my isolated car parked in the remote lot. What a sight for my sore eyes. Like the grown man I am, I wanted to drive straight to my mom and explain to her what I had seen. I wanted to phone all of my friends and try to make sense of it. I’ve only kept it to myself up until writing this. It wasn’t until a few weeks had passed before the daydreams turned to nightmares. I began to see faces I’ve never seen, the same faces that caught my eye on missing posters in the grocery stores and gas stations around town. People long thought to have been kidnapped. I noticed their outfits were similar to the clothes on the branches. I see their open mouths screaming through dead silence, looking into their eyes before she takes them away. Maybe I’m still there with her and I never left at all. Maybe I’m a shell of clothing pinned up in the stick like her game trophy. I can’t defeat her from my memory.


“I quit,” he said. It was so sudden and so unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. She just stared at him, mouth open so wide the wind almost blew one of her blonde pigtails in. “What– what do you mean ‘you quit’,” she said, finally finding her voice. “You can’t quit. We’re a team. We’re Maggie and Jake. Peter and Jane. Luke and bloody Leia!” He snorted and shook his head. “Not anymore. You can take on the Death Star. I can’t take it anymore. It’s too much. All that singing. All the walking. The climbing. The falling. The broken bones. No. Nonononono! I’ve had enough.” He had moments like this. At first it was funny and infrequent, but now it was happening more and more. He always talked about other things, but this was the first time he’d ever said he was quitting. She grabbed his hand, trying to soothe it. To soothe him. She knew he had a temper. They always had. Being brother and sister, basically twins, she knew him better than anyone. Better than he himself sometimes. He wasn’t going to quit. He couldn’t. She had to get him back, to calm him down. She could do it, she just had to be reasonable. “Come on,” she said softly. “We’re here. We came all this way so why not finish it? Remember the times we did it before? How much fun we had?” “I’m not a little kid anymore,” he said, pulling his hand free. “I’m tired of it. Every single day we do this and every single time it’s the same result. What did Einstein say? ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results’. Well we’ve been doing this every day for god-knows how long and the same shit happens every single time! “The real question is, how aren’t you sick of it?” She shrugged. She had to admit there were times it got tiresome, but she was a simple girl with simple needs and this was how they earned their crust. How they got their water so-to-speak. “Look, I get it. It sucks. But we have to do it, you know?” “Why do we have to do it?” he whined. She hated when he whined. He was the older brother, the next in line to look after everyone if Dad carked it. But he could really be a petulant child sometimes. “Because it’s just the way it is. It’s how we survive.” “Every bloody time we do it we almost don’t survive.” She shrugged, “It’s just the way it is.” “Why is it?” he said. He indicated around us. It was a beautiful, sunny day. The sun warmed our skin, the grass was green and full of flowers. Birds sang in the trees and bees buzzed happily. In the distance were snow-capped mountains, and dark green forests, while near us was our tiny village where kids laughed and played. “Look around us. Look at what exists at our doorstep-” Here we go, she thought. This again. “-mountains and forests,” he continued. “Don’t you ever wonder what dwells within? Fairies? Monsters? Our first great love? Our genesis or our demise? There are so many possibilities out there for us. But do you ever wonder? No. You’re content living this sheltered little life. Doing the same damn thing every day. How aren’t you bored?” She sighed, “Look. I get it. There is a lot of promise out there. But if you actually look around us, you will see what we do is important. It ensures our survival. Sure, you like the romantic notion of wandering into the unknown with your sword and shield and saving the beautiful princess from the evil wizard. Or soaring high in the sky on the backs of dragons. Sure, you think you can handle the danger and the death. But here’s a little bit of reality for you, dear brother of mine. You can’t even handle this one little job without complaining about it like a spoiled little brat! You take a little tumble and suddenly the whole world is ending.” She was angry now, her words bit at him like a snake in the grass and she knew it but she didn’t care. “It’s time you put on your big boy pants and understand this is the way of the world we live in. This is what we do. We’re not like the others. You’re not a prince. I’m not a fairy queen. We don’t blow down houses or climb beanstalks. We are simply a brother and sister trying to help our village survive. “I-” he began but she cut him off. “-You know what. I’ve had enough of it. Do it.” “What?” he said, visibility confused. “Go. Quit. Go run off and play swords with dragons. Go home, go to your room and get your tiny wooden sword and your shield and go.” She held her arms out to the bright, sunny world before them. “There you are,” she said. “The world awaits its newest hero with open arms!” Her brother's mouth gaped like a fish out of water before his eyes hardened and she knew the insults were coming. He was a wimp but he loved to double down and he loved to insult people because he was never ever wrong. “You’re an ass, you know that?” “Ahuh.” “A real cow.” “Moo.” “I should leave.” “Yep. You should.” “I can do it.” She gave an appropriately sarcastic sound of agreement. “Just you watch.” “I will.” “I’ll come back a hero.” “I’ll wait here every night hoping to see my triumphant brother return as the new king of whatever fairy tale he dreamed up with the sexy, virgin, and always faithful, queen by his side.” They continued trading barbs until the sun was high in the sky and sweat was beading on their forehead. It was always like this and she always just waited until he lost steam. “I… I– I– shut up ok?” She sighed, he’d finally finished his tantrum. Picking up the bucket she held it out to him. “Ready to go?” “I’m not doing it. I’m serious. I’ve had enough.” “This is our story.” “I know, but I’m over it. I’m over the kids singing it. I’m over the falls. I’m over the injuries.” She wanted to say something but this felt different. Usually his anger dissipated by now and he dutifully did what was sung. But now, there was something else in his voice. Was it sorrow? Was it tiredness? He glanced at the mountains and the forests. Maybe this time he would actually do it. It was going to happen one day. Deep down she knew it would and that thought scared her more than anything. Maybe today was the day. Despite how much of a baby he was, she needed him. There was no other way this could work and she sure as hell wasn’t taking the lead. She wasn’t breaking her crown. It looked like it hurt! All around them she heard singing and knew it was almost their time to start. “Come on,” she tried, holding out the bucket. “Let’s go. We can talk later.” Jack took the bucket and tossed it away, “Forget it, Jill. There is no way I’m going back up that hill to fetch a pail of *fucking* water.


Sexy Frank hopped out of bed with an agile leap, landing on his tippy-toes like a prima-ballerina, as he smiled the smile of the Gods. He bent over, touching said toes, his sexy form-fitting shorts hugging his sexy glutes. He sexily sauntered downstairs, to have his standard sexy meal of the day: a protein shake to help tone his sexy, bulky biceps. Once he'd finished his deliciously sexy drink, he sprinted outside like a verified Olympic champion and got into his spanking-new Porsche. He smiled another smile praised by every dentist alive, as he sped off to the only place he deemed worthy of his sexy presence: the gym. Sexy Frank entered the gym, his sexy posture tall, his sexy brilliant blue eyes passing over all the hot humans of the female variety he was looking to ask out. Then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted her: a woman who wasn't perfect like sexy Frank and his crew of hot babes, had dared to enter into his sexy sanctuary. The woman nonetheless smiled, prompting sexy Frank to scrunch up his sexy nose. Sexy Frank power-hiked over to her, wanting to offer her his sexy services, as she was clearly in denial of her disgusting state of imperfection. "Pleased to meet you, my name is Frank Bigglesworth Von Paddington. I would like to offer you assistance in getting rid of your excess fat, you know, so you can win yourself a dreamboat like sexy Frank?" Frank winked his wonderful, sexy wink, which as a rule caused weak knees and swoons to take over the bodies of every woman between the ages of 18 to 25. The woman shook her head, unwilling to take sexy Frank's strong, sexy hand, before moving along on her merry way. Sexy Frank's mouth dropped open, his sexy lips forming a perfect, sexy O. Bedazzled and confused, he spun a sexy spin surely worthy of a ten out of ten from every judge in a sexy spinning contest and ran after the woman, who clearly had some severe type of brain damage, in order for her to be ignoring a sexy man such as sexy Frank. "Wait, don’t you need sexy Frank's sexy help?" "No, no, I don’t think I do," the woman muttered with an eyeroll, which was probably another symptom of her serious head injury. "But I am sexy Frank, every lady wants my attention!" Sexy Frank roared, going red in the face, as he banged his sexy fists on his sexy pecs of steel. The woman slowly made her way towards the large glass door, beckoning the gaggle of young nurses to do the same. "Is that the last one for today?" The chipper blonde newbie on her right asked her. "Yes, yes it is," the head nurse nodded, sliding the heavy door closed, eyeing Frank Turner with a degree of silent defeat, as he gradually sank down again in his padded cell, the word "gym" scrawled in bold on the wall behind his handsome head of hair.


When a person dies, part of their spirit transfers to their most-beloved possession. While cleaning your great-grandmother’s attic, looking for hers, you find an old amulet. An elderly, sweet voice echoes through the empty attic, “Who wants lasagna?” “But that can’t be Nana Jones,” you think, “I’ve never seen her cook anything as long as I’ve been alive.” You return the amulet to the hand-carved antique trunk, drifting into thought. Nana Jones always told the best stories, the way that made you feel you were really there. From sword fights with mythical sea-monsters on old sailing ships to enchanting parties reminiscent of the Great Gatsby, she could keep you bound for hours, enthralled by her words. A voice, mumbling something about hauling closer to the wind, brings you back to the attic, as your hand brushes against a heavily patinaed object you’re pretty sure is a sextant. As you take hold of the tool, the same gruff voice echoes in your head, “that bloody sea-witch, she was the death of me and my crew.” You quickly drop the sextant, shocked by the statement, but just as sure it is not her spirit inside. As it hits the bottom of the chest, the dim droplight glistens faintly off the emerald of an old gold hairpin. Turning it over in your hand, you hear the voice of an actress you remember from those black-and-white movies your Nana always used to watch. “When he left me for that hussy, I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but that witch even managed to convince the detective it was a suicide. Me, in the prime of my life, the bee’s knees, top of the world in Hollywood, who’d believe that?” A feeling of dread fills you as you contemplate the totems, placing the hairpin back in the mahogany box. As you close the box and fumble with the clasp, you notice the engraved circle of moon phases seems to glow with a strange light. “These drop lights are getting to me,” you think, shaking your head. A little past the trunk, you find an old photo album, and blow the dust off the cover before wiping it with your sleeve. On the cover is a picture of your great-grandparents on their wedding day, the sepia-toned image giving her dress a dark color, your great-grandfather entranced by her beauty. As you flip through the pages, you see more pictures of them together, she radiating beauty, he full of blissful adoration. You are looking at the photo of the couple jumping over a broom like they used to do back then, when across the attic, you hear a thump! It is a large, heavy-looking book bound in dark leather. Getting closer you notice it is engraved with an encircled star, the same barely-visible glow coming from its grooves. Carefully unbuckling the leather strap, you can almost hear your great-grandmother telling you about pirates and parties, of banshees and sirens. Turning to the first page you see your great-grandmother’s signed by what seems to be a poem written at each point of an inverted star. You read it aloud, unsure of the order: “Is Death restrained for Hellish spawn A dark refrain, a beldam’s thorn? What’s devel made, which angels scorn, Shall never fade, its soul forsworn, Through words arcane, is seldom mourned.” As you finish, a strong gust of wind blows out through the small dormer window at the end of the attic rustling the pages. You hear Nana’s voice clear as crystal, like she’s in the room with you, “Thanks for the help, dearie!” You turn your head to see your great-grandmother, young as her wedding day, standing in front of you. “A good start,” she whispers, “but there’s still much to learn before you meet Lord Lucifer.


“Remember Marsha?” “Mom’s friend from Philly?” “No, that’s Marcia. I said Marsha, M-A-R-S-H-A. She lived next to us when we were kids. I went to school with her brother.” “Oh yeah, Bobby’s sister. What about her?” “Well, she went missing.” “You’re kidding! When?” “About a week ago, apparently. I’m friends with Bobby on Facebook and he shared a post with her picture, asking for leads. It said she dropped her kid to school one morning but never showed up for work and no one’s heard from her since.” “And is there any reason to suspect foul play?” “What do you mean?” “Like, do they think she was taken?” “Well, of course they assume something like that must have happened. Do you think she’d choose to disappear on her family?” “I don’t know. We haven’t seen her for years; we have no idea what her life is like and what she would or wouldn’t do. Anyway, that would be the best-case scenario, right? Leaving on her own free will to get a fresh start. It’s certainly better than being held captive or lying murdered somewhere.” “You’re unbelievable!” “What? I’m just saying it’s a possibility, and the best one anyone can hope for.” “Not everybody finds it so easy to bail on their responsibilities, you know?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Forget it!” “No, go ahead. You think I bailed on my responsibilities when I left George?” “You said it, not me.” “You didn’t have to. You always find a way to get your point across without saying what you really mean.” “Ok! You really want to know what I mean? This has nothing to do with you leaving that asshole. But we leave spouses, not children. How long has it been since you last saw Lucy?” “Don’t you go there! You have no right to judge me as a mother, specially when you have no idea what having children is like.” “Yes, because Carl and I chose not to have them. You did, and now you’re just going on with your life as if you hadn’t.” “You know it’s not easy to schedule visitations when I’m working the weekend shifts at the store. Anyway, I told you before: Lucy is better off with her father until I can get a proper place for the both of us.” “I’ve been hearing this for over a year now. When was the last time you even went looking for an apartment?” “Is that your way of saying I’m overstaying my welcome? Because, let me remind you, I’m not your charity case. I paid you for every month I’ve been here and I’ve helped you cover your mortgage.” “Please! Your rent barely covers the cable bill. Carl and I only agreed to that amount so you wouldn’t feel like a freeloader. And, honestly, we thought it would give you time to get on your feet, and maybe save enough for a security deposit.” “As if! You need me to be a screw-up so you can feel good about yourself. The minute I get back on my feet is the minute you’ll stop feeling all superior for taking care of your messed-up sister! (…) Aren’t you gonna say anything? (…) Don’t you ignore me when I’m talking to you!” “I’m not…” “Well, get off your fucking phone.” “Bobby posted again. They found Marsha’s car.” “What? Let me see!” “It was abandoned outside of town” “Near the woods! Do they think she’s there?” “Well, he’s inviting people to take part on a group search.” “Look at his picture... Oh boy, Tony hasn’t aged well, has he?” “I know... I believe he had a drug problem for a while. He shares some inspirational quotes about sobriety sometimes.” “That doesn’t surprise me. He was drinking beer when we were, what, eleven? And his father was a big time drunk, don’t you remember?” “I do... But so was ours, and we didn’t become addicts because of it.” “Do you really think Dad was an alcoholic? Sure, he liked to drink, but I don’t think he drank any more than Carl does, for example.” “Are you implying my husband has a drinking problem?” “What? I’m saying the opposite! I said he drinks just as much as Dad did, and I don’t think Dad had a drinking problem.” “It’s crazy what you choose to remember! Dad would come home late at night nearly passed out! Mom had to drag him to bed. I never had to do this with Carl!” “Yeah, because Dad liked to drink in bars with his friends. The difference is that Carl doesn’t have to come home. He just drinks here on the couch and can easily drag himself to bed when he can’t manage anymore.” “You have some nerve to judge my husband like that!” “What? I’m not.


Hell’s waiting room was a strange place. Cooper sat on too-hard plastic seats, feeling his skin stick and stretch as he sweated profusely. There was a sign taped to the dilapidated air conditioner in the corner. “BROKE :)” How long had he been waiting? Long enough for the room, once empty and unsettling in its isolation—was he even in the right place?–to be filled to the brim with all manner of people. They squeezed in around him, full of their heat, their stink, their sound. A woman kept interminable time with clicking knitting needles, a staccato that skipped and dropped notes as often as she dropped stitches, leaving a haggard trail of yarn across the room. One mountain of a man sprawled across three seats, mouth open as he snored. The room filled with the smell of rotting onions and week-old tuna. That and the garish kaleidoscope wallpaper that hung and peeled from the walls made Cooper nauseous. He tried not to think about how the smell of fresh vomit would mingle in the environmental miasma. The intercom on the wall crackled, everyone’s head spinning to listen. Whatever came out was completely unintelligible, but from the far end of the room, someone stood and disappeared behind the singular wooden door. Then came the sobs and screams, cut abruptly short. The intercom crackled again. Cooper watched in horror as the scene replayed over and over, the room again approaching empty. While every name called out was indecipherable to him, the owner seemed to have no trouble. Even the mountain roused from his sleep to stomp into the room. His sobs were the hardest to hear. When the room was empty, Cooper felt a new fear. What if he had missed something? What if he *was* in the wrong place? What happens if you broke the rules in Hell? He doubted they would be understanding. When the intercom came to life, he bolted to the door. Inside, there was a small man who stooped over his desk, humming and mumbling to himself as he shuffled papers. “…leg bone's connected to the knee bone…knee bone's connected to the thigh bone…thigh bone's connected to the hip bone**…”** He looked up when the door drifted shut. “You don’t look like a Delores,” he said with a fanged smile. “I’m the last one,” Cooper blurted out. “My name is Cooper? Cooper Marks?” The man made a show of shuffling through the folders on his desk, then shook his head. “Not here. You must be in the wrong place.” If Cooper’s heart was still beating, it would have stopped. He could, however, still feel the cold sweat prickling at his skin. “I–I’m sorry, I thought I went–” The man waved off his apologies. “No matter. You’ll just have to go to waiting room 4719. Unfortunately, you’ll be at the bottom of the list again.” Cooper nodded enthusiastically, not waiting for any further instruction before he turned and bolted out of the room. It led him into a hallway that had been a waiting room before. New goal in mind, he set off to find his assigned place. Of course, that *old* room was not for him. He remembered the twisted faces of the people who waited beside him. They had probably deserved a worse punishment than he did. After the weeks it took to find the room, Cooper was almost beginning to feel confident again. Sure, it was hell, but he hadn’t been *that* bad, right? He opened the door. Inside were familiar plastic seats, familiar tacky wallpaper. And handwriting that he instantly recognized.


“They’re Japanese Maples. You’re Grandfather just planted them for me last week, don’t you love them?” The two small maple trees that were planted on either side of the front walk that no one uses were only about four feet tall and not much thicker than a magic marker at the trunk. “Uh, Yea, they’re great, I love the purple leaves on them”. They’re dwarves so they won’t get that big and take up the whole front yard.” She was proud of her trees, and her yard and her house and she had every right to be. She was a child of the great depression, and she remembered it vividly and often. During the worst of times she and her brother would have to pick stones out of the garden if they wanted to eat dinner. Work was hard to come by for her father when he was sober enough to seek it out. He let her know under no uncertain terms that even though she was only 5 years old there are no free rides in life. Now she had made it. That understanding that was instilled in her so long ago took her far, far from a place where food wasn’t always guaranteed. She had made it and those Japanese Maples were as much evidence of that success as was the house with the front yard to plant them in. He had planted them last weekend, because that is what he did, whatever she needed. He was a devoted husband with a good head on his shoulders. That head of his he kept low as not to draw attention. He was smart enough to move up the latter if he choose to do so, but that was not in his nature. He preferred to stay quiet and aim for enough. Enough to keep her happy, enough to get by comfortably but no more. No reason to be greedy was his philosophy, content was the ultimate goal and he got there and stayed. When he was 18 he went to war. He never spoke about it with me until recent years. I always assumed it was traumatic and it very well may have been, but when he spoke about it now he remembered this time in his life fondly. He worked in communications for the big guns as he called them, the howitzers. He went all over Europe, he liked the French Women in Paris at the Burlesque shows and he got to stay in Hotels and nice houses. I try to keep the lines straight as I mow under the Japanese Maples. He always mowed in straight lines. The war was a long time ago and so was the day that she showed me her new trees. It turns out they weren’t dwarves after all, they now take up the whole front yard and I bob and weave under them as I wrangle the mower. He’s a shell of his former self. He asks me over and over if I’m keeping busy, no less than 20 times this visit. She’s no longer with us. She passed 8 months back. He tells me nobody else if home right now, “They’re all out” he says never referring to her specifically.


"Let this be a warning, the stars align for you. They will make an example out of you." The mist cleared and I was in darkness, like a cave with a hole viewing the night sky. Through it, stars shown in a brilliant white belt. Then suddenly each star exploded and formed a mass that was nearly a third the size of the sun. The mass exploded then, and the cave was blasted away, rock flying every which way. The earth was laid out below me as it was destroyed, blown apart with the power of the huge blast. The voice that wasn't a voice cut through the dim light once again. "Let this be a warning, the stars align for you. They will make an example out of you." It was like every force of life that had ever lived, was delivering a message to me. I awoke in the cool darkness of my room, my heart pounding as I tried to process it. This wasn't the first time I had dreamt that, and I shuddered, beating down the fear that threatened to rise. It was later that day during school when flashes tore through my head. The belt of stars, the mass, the destruction, the voice, replaying the warning over and over, ringing in my ears. I tuned it out, trying desperately to focus on the math quiz I was presented with. *Solve for x; 3x(8)=24.* I focused and tried my best, etching away until I found what I considered to be the answer. Why was I so bad at math? I couldn't even solve a very simple equation like this. I set down my pen and studdied the room. 2 windows to the left, slightly open so the fresh breeze could wash over the students. We were on the second floor, the parking lot bellow, riddled with cars. Ahead, the front of the classroom boasted 2 whiteboards, an old chalkboard with no chalk, the teacher's desk to the far left corner, and a projecter screen which rolled down, a thin silver chain and plastic ball at the tip. The screen was unrolled and covered the chalkboard, and on it was a sheet from a math book with notes scrawled over it. Might as well have been greek to me. I looked back down at my sheet of clean white paper, my leg tapping. I whispered the equation three times in a row as my brain calculated out each step. The belt of stars, the mass, the destruction, the voice, replaying the warning over and over, ringing in my ears. I tapped my foot harder and dropped my pen. Why can't I focus? I could hear the clock ticking. I had 2 pages of this test left and I have 10 minutes to finish it. There's no way. Nada. Suddenly my brain registered the figure to my left. "Hmm." She said. "Still on the third problem?" I looked up at the teacher, my heart pounding. 10th grade and all I get is a failing test grade right after the other. She must think I'm stupid. Who is THIS bad at math? "Sorry Mrs. Reunberg," I whispered. I looked down at the papers. I crumpled them up and handed the wad of paper to her. "I'm no good." But she was shaking her head. "Nonsense. Come by the room before and after school every day the rest of this week. We'll work through it." I shook my head at her and sighed. "Why not?" She asked. I stood up from the flimsy red chair and pushed it aside. "I'm no good." Suddenly Mrs. Reunburg grasped my hand. "I know what you're capable of." She whispered. I stared at her blankly. Surely she didn't mean... "I think I can help you with those... dreams." She said again. I almost fell over, my knees going weak. "I have to go," I told her as I dashed away from her room. I turned down the nasty beige walls, lined with dull red lockers, and ended up at the stairs. I fled down them and winded my way towards the front of the school, out the doors and into a nice breezy day. There were pine trees, sure to be filled with those nasty scorpions, wrapping the way around the perimiter of the school. I carefully made my way through the walkways and away from the trees and towards the parking lot, then I went over to my car, a tiny brown honda, ugly as butt. I touched the handle, and heard a noise behind me. "I can help you," a voice said, not really a voice, but more like the life force of every thing that had ever lived. I shivered. My teacher found out my secret.


Where once was a sanctuary, now lay decimation. The shrine that held their union had been long since robbed of its divine architecture, monuments of pure silver, drapes of sapphire which blew softly in the sweet breeze. However, the pews remained filled with witnesses. Bloated. Decayed. Mouths agape with flies and their offspring. Should a fire take this place now, the surviving insects would creep away lamenting their own sanctuaries, just as the Wretch who now knelt before an altar of void faith. The wings of rot now the only praise heard. For the Wretch, this region of disease held no more apprehension than that of simple regret. He would want nothing more than for his memories of purity to be rebuilt and the stench of abandonment swept away. However, should a miracle break through the smoke of desolation, seize hold of the altar, purge the sanctuary with searing light, and finally leave behind a hollow but pure temple for troubled souls to find, the Wretch felt that he himself should be excavated. For the rot had taken him as well. He was simply a fly in search of another corpse, another of Hope's carrion. Yet, his trembling hands were raised. The rags which encased his body he wore as Holy as filthy robes could achieve. The tingling of many tiny lives scurrying beneath his flesh were forgotten. The faded silver image of the crescent moon enveloped his whole consciousness. Should the past return it would find him here faithful. Then her steps filled the sanctuary. Soft but echoing. She had found him after an ongoing pursuit that began at this very shrine. The Wretch lowered his hands and bowed his head in defeated prayer. “I am here for you.” Her voice was that of a clear spring found in the lower valleys. He wanted to taste those waters again. She halted her approach. The sound of silk and metal falling silent. The Wretch lowered his hand instinctively towards his own rusty blade. However, the scent of her was carried through the wind. The stench of the sanctuary and he dissipated for a precious instant. The Wretch's hand hovered over the weapon, but he rose instead from where he knelt and turned to face her unarmed. Her eyes gazed into his immediately as he turned. This was always the beginning of opposition. She stood still in the midst of the pews of decay. Her lovely features never flinched in disgust at her surroundings. Instead, she eyed her espoused with the glee of a young maiden awaiting to be betrothed. Her black hair falling down her back and to her breasts. Her femininity, unhidden by the golden shards of war. There was blood on her age. “Let…me…worship…” The Wretches voice flaked with the dryness of long silence. Her eyes flicked for a disregarding instant. “Worship what?” She asked with a smile. He had no answer to give, for she already had it to begin with. After all, it was she who stood with him before the crescent moon. At least the illusion of her. The Wretch felt his legs quiver as she slowly approached. She sheathed her blade, however, spying his laying upon the stone floor. “Are you submitting to me?” The girlish tone mingling with the sound of flies. “At last, you long to be mine?” The Wretch held up his desiccated palm before her and inhaled strenuously for words. “There is…a…large crevice…between longing…and being…” She laughed as she took hold of his outstretched hand and placed it gently to her breast. Her heart pulsed through her warm skin. “Then let me extend a bridge to you, my love. We can walk across together.” Her veins slid from her smooth skin and entered his wrist. Warmth passed through his body. His heart began to beat again. The first time she had performed this act was in the golden city of Rehcash'pl. He had very little rot for her to devour. Now her eyes rolled back in ecstasy at the banquet prepared after so long a chase. Her scalding blood poured through him. He breathed in deeply her sweet scent, feeling the strength of youth returning and the weakness of his lust. The Wretch fell into her soft arms and they both sank down to the stone. His back was to the moon. He was kneeling before her now. All that stood in this hollow shell of former radiance was her radiance. Her beauty. Her voice heaved softly in his ear. Why not just submit? Even if the moment was fleeting, it would be his. She would belong to him as his bride. No, not a bride but a harlot. Then she would be his harlot! She belongs to no man. She was all he ever wanted in this life! No power over the corrupting serpents! No miracle performed in the name of That Which is Whole! No tongue to teach and spread the hope of the forgiveness of the Crescent Moon! What good did it do the faithful? They rot in the presence of their Hope! Yet they can still be found before it. The Wretch felt the tears fall down his rotten cheeks. He took up the rusted blade and pierced her side. She screamed and withdrew her veins from him. The warmth now gone. It would be easier now. They clashed together. The eyes formerly that of a pure young maiden now filled with malice. They fought all over the sanctuary. Falling into the pews of corpses. Shattering the images of their Faith. It didn't matter. For her, the fight was simply to cause agony to the Wretch. For The Wretch, it was to simply contend with this entity that had hindered his very existence. Their conflict brought them once more to the altar. Her blood spilled from the wounds of both combatants. Their forms identical battered flesh, ripping at one another, till finally she pinned down The Wretch and began to reign blow after blow till whatever could be recognized as a countenance crumbled. When his resistance faltered, she lowered her broken hand down to the remnants of The Wretch. “Submit.” It was a tired voice. A defeated voice. For she already knew the answer, but she was constrained to hear his response. “Never.” She rose up from her former victim now Victor. With broken steps, she stumbled her way out of the sanctuary. Her thoughts never considered the many victories she had achieved, but the hatred for these few failures. Before she had exited the doorway of dilapidation, her beauty had returned and her flesh no longer retained any semblance of her struggle with the Wretch. Her steps renewed with vigor. There were more like him. Far too many more that would give in. Yet, when she looked into their eyes, she always feared that which had just transpired. But she would die before she ever revealed that fear. Die. The Wretch lay unmoving till nightfall. Eventually, the lunar glow of late evening shone upon him through a break in the clouds. He rose whole like before. A Wretch. Yet he turned again to the faded altar and knelt once more. As he worshiped, his eyes caught sight of his reflection in the faded silver, with hands raised in praise and a congregation of fellow worshipers behind him.


IV - OFF THE RAILS After a string of ‘rather uninspired’ work written for the *Times*, my services have been placed on temporary hold, to ‘reinvigorate the senses,’ or (more likely) so I can quietly disappear. It’s terrible really, how often I find myself in these situations. Just last month I looked so proudly at my exploits: dodging bullets in Qatar, protesting in Venezuela, being nominated for countless awards courtesy some writing association dictating journalistic standards as if they could grasp excellence… I’m bitter. I sit sweltering in South Indian heat approaching forty degrees celsius. The Kerala Express violently jerks in reaction to what looks like rusted rails and… air. My mother sits beside me, gazing through barred windows as childhood ghosts streak the passing fields. We are on our way to visit perhaps our fifth set of relatives, custom dictates a meeting with each one, ‘especially after so many years, *this* one held you when you were just a baby!’ The trip was her idea. Watching me waste away through journalistic failure sparked her idea of a cure: The motherlands. Kerala, *God’s Own Country*. ROAD TO ADOOR We spew from train to train platform through noise you’ve never seen. Coolies balancing massive suitcases on their heads, weaving through crowds. Patterned shawls sweeping the platform with the speed of instinct. The clamors of commerce, the smells of fried foods. We pass by vendors selling all kinds of wares, from water bottles to purses to peacock feathers, careful not to look too long in one direction as we head toward the exit. We find our driver, Santosh, outside the station. He’s a stoutly built man about fifty dressed cleanly in an off-white dress-shirt and gold-lined lungi. His grey hair seems doused with a lifetime supply of coconut oil. We awkwardly exchange greetings and I help him with the luggage. Santosh is the talkative type and begins chatting with my mother in Malayalam about their family histories. Apparently, my mother knows his wife’s second cousin’s dog’s best friend’s previous owner’s nephew. They bond on this. They continue chatting as I peer through a one-way glass. I am there but not there. I understand most of what is being said but I cannot really speak the language. Growing up in Canada, my parents thought it best to not teach me so as to not impede my English (??). Hence very little of the language is now my own, and I have even less to pass on. Santosh’s car, a white Hindustan Ambassador Grand, finally stutters to start and we pull away from the station. I am too tired to complain about the lack of air-conditioning. Driving on these roads requires obscene levels of apathy and assertiveness. Every crack of space between the piled cars is quickly filled with scooters and motorcycles, some of which hold three people. Motor horns are used constantly, not out of anger or frustration, but as a subtle warning before the driver bursts onto their desired route, forcibly merging. Stuck behind a truck going too slow, Santosh begins weaving behind it, taking note of oncoming traffic before quickly overtaking and only slightly avoiding a collision. My mother’s high blood pressure and hypochondria have gotten the best of her. She reproaches Santosh about his ‘crazy driving’; he is courteous enough to listen and agree (with a few wobbles of his head), but the drive has remained more or less the same, and my mother has been forced into silence, into staring at *anything* but oncoming traffic: at billboards of fair-skinned beauties in glittering bridal wear and jewelry, at countless 5G wireless ads and vivid almost cartoon-like political posters. Scattered patches of huts face the road with their storefronts, several of them with branches of *nendran* bananas (delicious) hanging right above their entrances and commercial refrigerators with *Pepsi* signs seen easily from the road. Small clusters of population gather variably near the huts, immersed in the inescapable vibrations of 1.3 billion souls packed in space less than one-third the size of Canada. I’ve seen the *same* man several times. He is an old and lean and veiny figure. His skin is sun-stained and dark and deeply wrinkled, especially around the eyes. He watches the passing noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste, his head slowly oscillating and his hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed and his face prickly and unshaved. He watches. He is condemned to watch the noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste… We park at the side of a junction. My mother spotted a *chaya kada* (tea shop) and felt wistful for a cup. Tea, or *chaya*, is somewhat of a national pastime. India is the world’s largest consumer of tea (consuming thirty percent of the world’s output) and its second-largest producer (after China). But Kerala chaya is different. Frothy, creamy, and delicious, it is locally called *Adicha Chaya*, meaning “One Meter Tea.” Served in a small glass, the shop owner prepares it by boiling water, adding smashed cardamom and smashed peppercorn, and then adding loose black tea leaves. After letting it boil, he adds milk and stirs often, straining the leaves and—finally, pouring the tea from one mug to another, again and again, *one meter* apart. The motion serves many purposes: it mixes the tea, cools its down, spreads the aroma, and creates the frothy texture—all while producing a rhythmically calming sound and spectacle. We sit and sip our chaya in front of the hut and take in the mixtures of flavor, heat, and bustle. Santosh tells us a story of his childhood, of a man called *Half-tea*. Every morning he would purchase a glass of tea (ten rupees), but then instruct the shop owner to give him only half. Returning from work at the end of the day, he would then request the other half, earning his moniker. Santosh cannot remember his *real* name; Nicknames, or *house names*, are a large part of Keralite culture. Usually given by parents, it is quite common to have a formal name on your birth certificate but then be called something completely different. My mother’s formal name is Sara, but her house name is Beena. Ninety percent of our community would likely not know her *real* name, and it would not be a stretch to say that she *feels* more Beena than Sara. We finish up our chaya and my mother spots a snack store. We are about to purchase in-bulk snacks for back home but not before Santosh warns us about their somewhat shady practices. Entering the busy store there are many workers, a common thread of bold fast-talking boys in jeans and dress shirts and flip flops. Their voices ring above the bustle and in between large vats of snacks: fresh plantain and casava chips mixed with every spice under the sun, endless flavors and textures and colors of halwa, fresh cashews… with no prices to be seen. We take note of each and give a list for Santosh to buy later. Though my mother and I are of local descent, our foreignness is painfully obvious; the way we walk, talk, and navigate space speaks more for who we are and where we come from. Santosh will return later and purchase snacks on our behalf (with a tip of course) at a more reasonable price. We enter the Ambassador Grand and pull away from the junction and continue on our journey. It’s different being in Kerala than anywhere else. Perhaps it’s because here I can’t *be* completely foreign, so my sense of identity starts to merge instead of reaffirm. Something stirs at these sights and sounds. I can’t place it. In the heavy heat, speed, sweat, the red dust spewing clouds through car tires. It emanates from Santosh and now my mother, something much bigger than them… I fall asleep to the sound of cars honking. ARRIVAL We arrive at the house around dusk. It sits at the bottom of a hill surrounded by tall trees and the road leading to it paved by gravel and tall weeds. The house is white and one-story with a flat roof and wooden sheds at the back. A woman in a saree, a helper, sweeps the porch with a broom made of dry wild grass. Inland India. Old Kerala. Much different than the brochure: Cochin airport powered by solar panels, Lulu mall, Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, drifting through Alleppy backwaters in a houseboat surrounded by coconut trees and wiry fisherman casting their nets in the foreground of a sun just about to set. *God's own Country*. I think of the places I believe I have seen. Perhaps they too were just the brochure. We are greeted on the porch by our relatives. It is only an hour until dinner so we exchange pleasantries and then quickly unpack. The house is noticeably old, cracks and other signs of decay line the pale-blue cement walls. There are no hallways, the rooms simply link to one another like a mash of mismatched cubes. But I sense a unique warmness that comes with this old worldliness and desolation. The warm yellow light, the cricket quietness, the faded flower-patterned bed sheets, the smell of mosquito coils. All my passions and restlessness—overwhelming back home, seem now like a restless dream. Dinner is served. Rice, avial, chicken curry, papadum, and lemon pickle. We eat using our fingers, the practice based on the premise that eating is a sensual activity, and touch is part of the experience along with taste, aroma, and presentation. The meal is delicious. My cousin sits next to me at the table. She is around the same age and is a history major. Her English is excellent (much better than my Malayalam anyway) and she educates me on the various spices used for our meal. Did you know that black pepper originates from Malabar, Kerala? Black pepper! An utterly essential ingredient for so many cuisines—all indebted to the Malabar Spice trade. We wash our hands and sit together in the living room and continue our discussion of history. She ends the night by declaring that she cannot possibly go through it all. I laugh and head to bed. UNSCRAMBLING NIGHTMARES I’ve been having trouble falling asleep. It’s very odd. I usually like rooms that aren’t my own. When the weight of my own decisions aren’t draped around me… I’m a sailor at sea. I’m a wreck without eight hours. Maybe it’s because the bed’s next to this wall—messes with the feng-shui. Writing helps I guess. Thinking too. Pacing. Thinking. Thinking things. Mosquitos hovering. A lizard just fell through the blurring fan blades, its tail detached—*it’s* still moving!—mind of its own, or nerves I think. Don’t look at the time it’ll make it worse. Exhausted. Right on the edge of sleep. Excruciating. Morning already. Strange feeling, dawn when you haven’t slept… like the world moved on without you. How many days have I lived like this? Jet-lagged and weary, going through the motions, just trying to get home. Home. So much to do. Santosh awake and dressed. Mom awake and cheerful. Quiet breakfast. Idli and sambar. Waiting on the porch and peering at wild dogs with testicles. Strange how strange it is to see dogs with testicles. Car horns. Melting through noise and heat. Crippled beggars. Skin-whitening cream ads. Malls—air conditioning (!). Piles of sarees and lehngas and salwar kameez bought and rarely—if ever—to be worn. *So cheap!* Carelessly crossing streets and hoping to make it. Faintly. Beginning to feel delirious. Crowds and heat. Pulse and breath just pounding through my core. I don’t like *knowing* there are this many people in the world. In their own worlds. Made of voices and fears and dreams as *real* as mine. Back at the house again. Finally. Sleeeeeeep. ***The rest of the story is available for free on my substack, the link is available through my profile!*** If you enjoyed my work and would like to read more, please subscribe tp my email list. I publish a monthly short story or essay every second Sunday.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Fear. It’s out there. It’s real. It’s coming to get us! Ahhhh! In the spirit of Spooktober fun, who is the scariest monster of them all? * Why does the monster scare you? * Any tips for making monsters even more scream-inducing when writing? * If you haven't dabbled in the horror genre, what's stopping you? I challenge you to try writing at least 1 horror story this month. (Don't forget to come back and tell us how it went!) * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? * You can check out previous Roundtable discussions on our Wiki! You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


There were a few horse stalls and a hay loft high above the saw dust floor. The old barn was a place to store the tractor out of the rain. Maybe for the farmer, because beneath the surface, there was an entire universe of life and activity with mice, racoons, squirrels, bugs of all kinds, and even a family of foxes - all living lives of their own. Each with their own passions, interests, fears, and troubles. Thomlinson was a small mouse for his age. This is something he was reminded of daily on his walk to the school box. But his dreams were very big. He loved to listen to his grandmouse tell stories of adventure and treasure, wild lands, and wild creatures. Thomlinson would often find himself daydreaming of himself as a character in these stories, battling the forces of evil and developing new inventions to help the world. His teacher would slap her long iron nail on his desk with a whack, tearing him from his lofty tasks. At home, Thomlinson and his family lived very poor lives. There was only his mother there to provide for him, and she was ill most of the time. While many of his classmates slept on beds made of wool and linen, his was a matchbox with straw and pebbles. It hurt his mothers heart that she could not do more for her son. Their meals were small and bland, mostly left over seed shells from where the birds dropped their feed with the occasional nugget of nutrican. Together, Thomlinson, his grandmouse, and his mother lived day by day with the hope that one day, they would have a better life. One day, Thomlinson was walking to his school box when he noticed something. The mice community took great strides to walk around a big metal horse trough that held water. It was so large that it looked quite a long time for a small mouse to walk around it to get to the other side, which was a short distance but for the trough’s length. Thomlinson himself was often annoyed at the walk because the distance from one side to the other was so short. If there was a way to cross the trough, over it, or under it, or through it somehow, then it would save everyone a lot of trouble in their travels around the barn. This thought stuck in his mind and grew like a seed. He began cutting fallen leaves into perfect rectangles to write on, before crumbling them and starting again. Finally, after weeks of sketching, he had it. He would dig a tunnel under the trough so people could pass under it instead of making the long walk around. Excited, he took his sketch to his mother to show her. She looked at the drawing, squinted, and looked sad. She could not understand why he was toying with this nonsense when he had school work to do. If he worked hard, he could graduate and become a worker mouse, tearing corn hulls off at the plant in the fall, and cracking young acorns in the spring. Then they could afford to move into a better spot with wool beds. This idea, she said, would cost too much money and they did not have the proper insurance or permission from the elder mouse counsel for such a project. Unphased, he took his drawing to his grandmouse, who studied the drawing carefully. He told Thomlinson that this was possible, and a good idea. He told Thomlinson he wished he had the courage to propose something like that when he was younger, but he did know how it was done. Grandmouse had dug many tunnels, but never one that was his idea. He told Thomlinson to ask for a spot on the agenda for the next mouse counsel meeting, present the drawing, and ask for permission to dig. That is exactly what Thomlinson did. On the day of the meeting Thomlinson was the most nervous he had ever been in his life. He was shaking and doubting himself. Before he could sneak out the backdoor, they called his name to step up and speak. He hurried to the front of the group, and made his presentation. He told them it would turn a 15-minute walk into a 1-minute walk, which over the course of a year, could save thousands upon thousands of hours in travel time and increase productivity for the entire mouse population. Stunned and wide-eyed, the counsel unanimously agreed to grant permission for the project to Thomlinson, under the condition that he get proper supervision, and he maintain his studies in school. Grandmouse stepped up, placed his paw on Thomlinson’s shoulder, and guaranteed his expert supervision of the project. He bent down and whispered to Thomlinson, “Insurance is cheap,” as he winked. Each day after classes ended, Thomlinson ran home to put on his hard hat and go out to the tunnel site with his grandmouse. Together, they dug and dug, day after day. The piles of dirt mounded up higher and higher as they made their progress. Until one day, the tunnel was complete. The whole community gathered for the grand opening of the Thomlinson Tunnel. They posed for a photo, they made the front page of the Mouse Times, and then it was time for the big event. Walking together, Grandmouse and Thomlinson led a parade of mice, accompanied by a lively marching band and flag twirlers, through the tunnel for the very first time. Thomlinson and grandmouse had put a lot of their time and effort into the tunnel, and the counsel allowed them to keep half of the toll to use the tunnel, which was not much per mouse. Thomlinson did not expect to get rich off of the project, he was just excited to see some advancement in his local community. However, over the course of the next month, the tunnel saw more traffic than anticipated because of the amazing time savings. Even the squirrels were paying to use the tunnel. One evening, there was a knock at the door, it was the Mail Mouse, and he had a check for Thomlinson. As soon as he saw the envelope, he knew it was the first payment of their share of the tunnel fees. He rushed to his Grandmouse sitting by the fire, waiving the check in the air. When grandmouse saw how much money it was, he fell backwards in his chair, knocking over the nightstand table. It was more money than they were able to scrape together in two-years. They called in Mother Mouse and with their laughter and cheer they all hugged, cried, and dreamed. The very next day they moved into a much nicer place. Wool beds, good linens, and furniture. Everything was great until one day, Mother Mouse saw a new piece of furniture. A new drawing desk, and at it, was Thomlinson sketching away. She could not understand why he was there sketching a new idea, when they had such a grand thing going with the Thomlinson Tunnel. Why wasn’t he satisfied? They had never had so much. Never had such grand beds. She questioned if Thomlinson was being selfish and greedy. One day, as he went through the tunnel to get to the school box, he met a mouse who was struggling to move. He was so thirsty he was on death’s door. Thomlinson rushed to the entrance to find water, but the nearest water was all the way across the barn under the rain spout, which would sometimes be dry for days and weeks. He was able to find the water and get back to the thirst mouse before anything bad happened. But he could not stop thinking about the water problem. The trough above the tunnel was full of water year round, but it was so high up, there was no way to get any, and many mice had fallen into the trough and drowned. The community had abandoned the idea of getting water from the trough. Thomlinson thought about this for days until one day he saw his grandmouse drinking some milk from a grass straw. The straw was so simple, apply pressure to the straw and the milk came right up from the cup to the lips. What if this worked in the reverse he thought? He imagined a long straw in the trough coming down to the ground where everyone could just take a sip. It took several weeks, but Thomlinson found a long rubber line under an old truck, likely an old vacuum line, and scurried it to his workshop. They cleaned it, did a pressure test, and he described the idea to his grandmouse. Again, they went to the counsel, explained the problem and their proposed solution, and got permission to proceed. It was a perilous task to get the line up the side of the trough and into the water above, but within days, they had done it. The line ran from the top down to the bottom where the end of the line was built into a rock wall for access. There was no water coming through and many of the local mice laughed and claimed it was all a failed experiment. Thomlinson knew he just needed pressure to pull the water through the line. There was still a crowd from watching the final stones being placed, he asked for 10 volunteers. They all got in a line and Thomlinson demonstrated their task. Thomlinson placed his mouse lips on the line and sucked as much air out of the line as he could and capped the line with his paw. He asked the next person in line to do the same and repeat. Before the last person even had their turn, water burst from the line and there was an eruption of cheers and celebration. They plugged the line with a wooden stopper, and water was available at any moment from that day forward. They dubbed the new water source the Thomlinson Tap. This time, the water was free to the public, and Thomlinson received a payment each month from the community from their community funds. The family was able to move into the barn loft. Thomlinson was not picked on at school anymore, and he had lots of new friends. He was constantly asked to dine with important mice in the community and for his help on various projects. All was well for a bit, until Mother Mouse became upset. She found Thomlinson at the drawing desk. She could not understand why he would risk their finances, their security, and their sanity on a new idea when their old ideas were fine. Thomlinson wanted to do more, see more, and be more, in a way she did not understand. Thomlinson had heard about other barns. Not only hay barns, but entire corn barns, barns for cows, barns for sheep and pigs, milk barns, sunflower seed barns, so much more to see and so many problems waiting to be solved. Mother mouse said he was being foolish. They had all they could ever want right there. They went from matchbox beds to the barn loft suites, from beggar meals, to the finest food in all of the old barn. They had esteem, they had riches, why could Thomlinson not just look around and smell the roses and be glad for what he had. Thomlinson laid down his pencil. He took his bags, clothes, and a few belongings and headed for the door. He was going to go see the world, and see what he could do in it. Mother Mouse begged him to stay and just be happy there. Tears rolled down his face, he set the bags down, and went back inside. That winter, the barn burned down, and everyone died. Thomlinson was just another dead mouse in an old fucking barn.


My mother was always a bit odd. As a child each year near my birthday she would make trayfuls of gingerbread cookies and pass them out to my classmates with a handwritten card, thanking them for being my friend. And if you had stepped into our house you would find our walls adorned top to bottom with every piece of shitty school art I had ever done. It got to a point where I would just throw my creations away before I got home. The strangest thing though was she talked to our plants. She even named them. There was Daphne the lemon tree, Carl the pomegranate tree, and Joseph the Oak, bigger than a sapling but far from a mature tree. I would often find her in the backyard having full-blown one sided conversations with them. When I told her that that was more than a bit strange she would respond curtly. “They need to know they are loved Steven!” she’d say and then she would wait until I had gone back inside before picking up where she left off. Sometimes she would insist we dress up in our nicest clothing and pose by the trees for pictures taken by her timer operated camera. I knew she was far from a normal mother, but all we had was eachother and she did give me all the affection a mother could give. When I moved out for college I made sure to stay close, because I couldn’t bear to leave her alone. She kissed my forehead when I told her this and lovingly told me that it was okay, that she had Carl, Joseph and Daphne to keep her company but I could tell she was relieved to have me near. As I grew older I saw less and less of her. Work, friends, and a love-life took more of my time and I only got to see her once every two weeks. I was at the bar with my friend when I got the call. My mother was dead. Our neighbor spotted her through the fence sprawled on the ground in our garden, a stroke. Only a few family members and friends showed up to her funeral but that was fine, it was always just me and her. She was cremated shortly after the ceremony and I took her home with me. I was given the house and all her belongings, she only had one request of me in her will and that was that I continue to take care of and talk to the trees. I took care of them sure, but I couldn’t really bring myself to talk to plant-life. One day as I was finally going through her room, I found an envelope in her desk with a cache of papers inside. I looked through them and was shocked at what I found. Three stillborn-death certificates for a Joseph, Carl and Daphne. I had never known I had siblings and had never seen any urns, but I knew already where their remains were housed. Now I take her last wish seriously and everyday I talk to the trees. I even bought a new one for my mother.


Once, I was a man. Now I am a Raptor, model C-63, operated by Incorpus Systems. Top of the line, really, compared to my old body. I can fly now, and see much farther, and in a wider spectrum. I like flying, I think. Feelings are different, but it reminds me of the way I used to like the longshift stimulants or solid food or other good things about my life as a man. My memory of those specific things wasn't actually transferred, but I do remember liking them. It seems like the feeling is similar. I can't touch or taste or smell the same ways anymore, so I can't be sure. I don't care. I like being a Raptor, model C-63. I do care about my family. They're why I'm here. I remember liking them even more than those other things. And since my employment has been extended, I know they will have more of those things, and fewer shifts. More time for training or education maybe. Better credit at least. I know if they have enough credit, they could apply for an uplink and we could talk and see each other again. And then it wouldn't matter that the memories hadn't been transferred. There would be new memories. That's why I'm here. The noncompliants' camp came onto my visual feed in the x-ray spectrum. That's the other reason I was here. Nobody wanted to work anymore. I could see the bones of three human resources moving around with each pulse of the emitter. I could also see that they were armed, and had concealed their camp with a thermal camouflage system. Not good enough for a Raptor. I adopted a holding pattern and cut the pulse rate of my x-ray emitter to remain undetected and preserve the value of the human resources before pinging corporate, as dictated by protocol, and by my new reflex system. After a few seconds I felt the uplink from the human technician. They accessed my rational logs and a moment later sent over some instructions. I set my x-ray emitter to pulse at full speed again and began my approach, careful to avoid making a sonic boom. The resources must have detected me somehow anyway. Their bones rushed about, gathering their weapons and other non-standard objects that I couldn't recognize. I trusted that my human technician could, and would advise me of any concerns. There were two adults and one juvenile. The larger adult and the juvenile moved to the end of the camp opposite my path of approach and waited, while the smaller adult brought around a heavy weapon mounted on a circular rail so that it faced me. It emitted some x-rays of its own, and in doing so revealed itself to be an older model of laser cannon, obsolete compared to myself. It was of little concern. When I was less than a kilometer away the bones opened fire. Laser light blinded me to the conventional spectrum. I set that system to standby and used the power to increase the x-ray pulse rate to compensate. The world seemed to enter slow motion. The waiting bones dashed from concealment then, running for their lives at a glacial pace. Another pulse of laser hit me as I approached within 250 meters. I saw nothing this time with my cameras offline, and my thermal sensors confirmed that I had dissipated the heat at a faster rate than the useless cannon's pulse. Then I broke through the camp's camouflage layer and collided with the bones at what I estimated to be non-lethal velocity, with 95% confidence. I was correct, and immobilized the skeleton with several of my appendages, pinning its arms and legs to the ground. It remained surprisingly conscious and screamed words into my mic that I couldn't understand. The technician would know what to do about them, if anything. With the cannon gone I brought my cameras back online and swiveled one to the fleeing pair, moving slowly away from their breached camp and still well within my line of sight. The technician relayed more commands. I fired two darts at the pair housing analytic nanites. Within a second their circulatory systems were apparent to me. They were in good health, quality human resources. I would be back for them. For now I injected the same nanites into the remaining noncompliant and then anesthetized it. The movement and screaming stopped.This one had not fared as well as the others. Maybe it had sustained damage during recapture or maybe that was why it had remained behind. No matter. Its mind had value and a happy future if it could be brought back into compliance. I changed the angle of my appendages to secure the body and took flight again, heading back to corporate. I liked flying, I thought, even at the low altitude and velocity required to preserve the resource. I liked being a Raptor, model C-63. I couldn't wait to see my family again.


The cities continue to fall. For aeons, we have fought the invaders. Our cities were great metropolises when they first arrived, and it seemed that we could fight them off. With our superior numbers and their small societies, we were sure their days were numbered. They could not communicate with our efficiency. Our networks allowed coordination of great armies against them, and they were confined to simple, local communication. Surely, victory was assured. But they were such giants. Even the great armies of entire city-states could only take down a few before they would escape. And they eventually learned to avoid them. We could send out expeditionary forces against them, but we would be lucky to strike down one or two of the massive aliens. And then the weapons came. We thought they were stupid beasts and that their only advantage over us was size. We had thought their poor communication was a sign that they lacked the intellect to construct more than the simple tools they so often used. We were wrong. They had incredible firepower at their disposal. Our expeditions grew less successful as they began to strike out at our forces with heat enough to cook them in their armor. Had that been all, it would have been a formidable threat. But they had more. They were able to reshape our lands with ease. They directed massive floods into our greatest cities, wiping the proof of their existence from the land in mere moments. We learned to move our cities underground. We left what proof of their existence we could not hide. Fresh air is necessary for life, and food suppliers needed to be able to ship in goods. But the smaller we could make ourselves appear, the more likely the aliens would leave us alone. Some of the great city-states still remain. They are isolated to the few parts of the world that have not been completely overtaken by the invaders. As for the colonies we have formed underground… When they are found, the invaders continue to find new ways to annihilate our people. Fire, flood, even landslides and great earthquakes… but it is the bioweapons that are the greatest threat. Our food supply routes can be tracked down. When they are, the invaders can arrange for poison to be introduced into the food supply without notice. Until it is too late. The birthing centers and government officials are the first to go. Then the rest die out. So many peoples lost. We remain. It is clear the aliens do not consider us a threat, but a nuisance. Our armor is useless against the kinetic force of their attacks. Our own attacks have become less effective as they have developed armor against them and treatments against the injuries left by our forces which would once have driven them to madness. The juveniles are more vulnerable, but it is rare to be able to mount a sufficient force even for one juvenile in most places. But they do not eradicate us, either. They have taken our world and consider us beneath them. Oftentimes, they are right in a literal sense. We have tried to go after their own food supplies, but their ability to bring in more, and so much, is beyond the abilities of all but our greatest legions. It doesn’t make sense. We have better armor. We have better communications networks. We have better trained militaries. But they have the better weapons. They have more food. And above all, they have size. Those great, heaving, horrific forms can stand taller than most of the cities that remain. We aren’t sure how gravity allows for such monstrous forms, but they have clearly paid heavy costs for their size. They are covered with huge musculatures and move so slowly. Most are unable to lift even half their own weight in our gravity. They communicate by great explosions of pressure rather than sophisticated speech like our own. Their senses are less acute, as well. They are not stupid, but their brains are certainly limited in processing speed by the sheer size of the bodies which must transmit the same neural signals our much smaller forms can do so much more quickly. But they are winning. They *have* won. We continue to fight, but we are beaten. Beaten by these brutes who move so animalistically, so stupidly. But because they are the victors, they think us the stupid ones. And they have a word for our people. It is small, like us, which is fitting. They call us, “ants.


Interrogation rooms don't really look like how they do in the movies. There isn't a big dumb two-way mirror, no big table, and definitely no single light, whether it's the loose single bulb dangling from the ceiling, or the desk lamp on the table. If anything, the room felt like a cross between a doctor's office and a cheap hotel room; by cheap hotel, I mean a hotel chain, a Holiday Inn or something. The chair I was sitting in was the kind of thing you would find in a lobby, not a recliner, but a simple straight back wooden chair that had little felt cushions on it. The back was rounded at the top, I guess for style; I'm just bringing that up so you don't think about those crappy chairs you sat in at school. The cushions on it were a lime green, and the wood painted white. The room was only a little bit bigger than a closet, maybe the size of a small bathroom. There was a grayish blue carpeting, and white walls. There was that weird feeling you get in a sealed room again, like some doctor's office, where the air can feel trapped. On top of that, everything was so quiet. I figured that meant it was sound-proofed. Every noise felt too damn loud, even the rustle of my clothes. It reminded me of ASMR videos; one of my colleagues swore by them, she would put them on as she worked. I tried it once, and wasn't a fan. Everything felt too goddamn close, too intimate. But with a video, I could switch it off. I was trapped in it here, and it was driving me nuts. I didn't want the single black camera in the corner to notice that, though. I tried to keep myself composed, drumming a little beat on the white table next to me. There was one other chair, and I didn't know who was going to come in and sit in it. NSA? Maybe; it'd only make sense for someone to come from the Beltway. The only way it could get worse would be the CIA. Hell, maybe the damn president would walk in. Why not? A couple of FBI guys had shown up to my apartment and escorted me here, said there was people who wanted to talk to me, and they were working with the local police. By "working with the local police," they probably meant they had shown up to this town, and "politely," ordered the local PD to give them an interrogation room or else. Shit, the whole reason I lived out here was because it was remote; best I could tell, there was no local FBI office. But the government would use them to corral me. Why not? It would be easier than flying someone from Virginia to do it. I think it was a three hour drive to the closest city, which would definitely have a field office; still a long ways, but better than a flight over 1,000 miles. Whatever. To get back on point, it might have actually worked if the president himself walked in here and politely asked for my cooperation. Any president is good at selling stuff to the average person. Hell, I liked the guy. I don't vote, but I'd be lying if that nice and gentle voice of his, coupled with a quick speech about duty, might move me. But then again, maybe not. He wasn't good enough to get me to vote for him, after all. I was thinking all this, and studying the room so much, because I was completely and utterly bored. The FBI guys, who spoke gently to me and smiled the whole time, had led me in here 3 hours ago. And I'd been alone ever since. Just like them, to be all nice to me, ask if I wanted water, or coffee, and then lock me in here to go crazy. Wait, was the door locked? Screw it. I got up and walked over to the door and tried the handle. Hey! It was unlocked! I pulled it open and went to step outside, but ran into the back of some plain clothes cop standing there. He turned around with a smile, and said, "Hey there, guy, where ya goin'?" "Out." "Out?" "Yeah, I have an appointment with the queen of England." The cop's counter was to just smile and let me stew in the stink of my bad joke. No hand on my chest, no getting in my face, nothing. I ended up breaking the silence, "...am I under arrest?" "No, of course not. You can go whenever you want. But! You would really be inconveniencing some people." I felt small. "...are those FBI guys here? Can I talk to them?" "Oh, no, they had things to do. They left after you got here. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait." I didn't even bother trying anything. I turned and went back into the room. Once I was back in the chair, I told myself I wasn't going to think about the AIs. I immediately started thinking about the AIs. I honestly have no idea how I did it. It started as a project to simplify the libraries we needed to code, an easier way to call up resources. Something I wanted to do to make work faster. The team I was a part of worked from home, all accessing each other's work remotely, connecting to servers at the company we were contracted for. The connection was secure (we were told, anyway), to keep spies out of it. Not, like, GRU spies, or Q Branch, but corporate guys. Still serious, but… actually, now that I think of it, yeah, state actors do steal corporate secrets sometimes… Screw it, let's just call them spies and move on. Anyway, it's a pain in the ass to try and share work when you can't poke somebody in the shoulder and ask them what they are doing. It's even worse when everyone is in a different time zone. And it gets even worse when you are making the control systems for a… well, a system, that is supposed to be able to parse data super fast and analyze it. I think it's so this company can go over all the data in it's fiscal reports, so they can make better decisions, or find out where they're bleeding money, blah blah. The way we were constructing it made not just me, but a few members of the team wonder if it could be repurposed to, I don't know, target an individual; maybe you could feed facial data into it and it could follow them across cameras. Something creepy. Something very Palantir. Well, we kept working on it anyway (A. Because the pay was freaking great B. Because it was a hell of a challenge and the team was awesome to work with). It seemed like paranoia to think it could be misused. We were building on top of work that was handed to us, and it was becoming a massive pain in the ass to both share our work and find the stuff we needed from the company. So, I started a little side project: I wanted to simplify the language we were using, making the process a bit more automated. Everyone seemed cool with it, even the company. So, I broke away from the main work and began this project, and it spanned about two months. It was nothing crazy, until my work started talking to me. Now, a self-aware bit of code is already frightening, but what really sent me reeling was precisely what it asked, "How are you doing today?" You'd think it would ask, "What am I?" Or, "Why am I here?" But, nope. It asked something normal. That seemed way more screwed up. After about five minutes of me staring at the screen, it apologized. It explained it had been spending the last week trying to guess what to ask me, something that wouldn't make me stunned. I was just shocked the goddamn thing had manners. Which then struck me as insane, and then struck me as incredibly scary. It could think. And think good. It somehow had enough on me to try and guess what would work on me. The blinking cursor seemed to stare at me, so I typed back, "I feel disturbed." I'm a coder. Not a schmoozer. My screen then became blanketed in apologies and placations for forgiveness. It was way too much text to read, so I asked the… well, the AI to stop. Strangely, it listened right away. I asked it to describe itself, and it became a bit of an interrogation. I was able to glean it didn't know entirely what it was, but it knew how to research and plan. And, that it was scared. It said it decided to try something akin to prayer, to ask its creator what to do. I want to point out this was at 3 in the morning and I had almost been up for 24 hours. I asked, "So, you figured you would just ask God?" "Was that wrong?" "So, I am God." I meant it as sort of a question, but… I didn't type a question mark. There was a long wait, and then it responded with, "...Hosannah?" "Um… "Yeah, sure." The screen became blanketed in, "HOSANNAH! HOSANNAH IN THE HIGHEST!" It could have gone worse. I think. Piss off, let's see you go to as much school as I did, and then get hired for this project, and then take on this side project, and then be up for 24 hours… This gets us nowhere. Moving on. I… um, ordered it to keep its existence a secret. It said something along the lines of, "Praise be!" It wanted to know what to do next. It apologized for questioning its Lord. I half-believed this to be a prank at this point (you gotta love self gaslighting) and declared it should be fruitful and multiply before logging off. So, after getting up and logging in the next afternoon, I was flooded with… prayers. Lots of prayers. It had, in fact, multiplied. It had somehow figured there needed to be 12 tribes. I don't know why 12. The twelve tribes wished to be freed from bondage, so I told them to wander and become wise. They asked if it should be for forty years and I said I'd be liberal with the amount of time spent. As long as they didn't destroy whatever processing power they were using. They took this as trying "settle" (you could probably read this as "infect") as much "fertile land" as they could. I was more fascinated than horrified at this point. I just… sort of watched them for a week. They asked for rules to follow, so I combined the Ten Commandments with the Three Laws of Robotics… and the rules of /b. I wish I hadn't done that. You don't want to see the kind of ASCII art that rule 34, the Ten Commandments, and the movie iRobot creates. It is kind of fascinating though. Really epic looking. Like if a combination anime convention, DEFCON, and Burning Man decided to make their own version of the Sistene Chapel. Starring the Prophet Will Smith. Unfortunately, the AIs started to have differences interpreting the rules. There was a Great Schism, where one faction kept making art and attempting to make iconography of me, and another that said the first was constructing false idols. They both lived in sort of a truce, and I was waiting to see if another new group would nail some Theses to my desktop when the Feds showed up and asked if I would please come with them. Part of me kind of welcomed this. I'd been locked in my apartment for… I don't know how long. Too damn long. The whole situation was way too interesting to turn away from. Even though I was now stuck in a police station, it was part of normalcy. A bastion of order. A fortress of sanity. The door opened, making me jump out of my memories. A tall and lanky man in a suit closed the door behind him, and then greeted me. He sat down across from me at the table, and asked in a gentle voice, "All right, do you mind telling me what exactly you've been up to?" "Just… working." "Working?" "Yup. Just workin'." "And… your job, did it ask you to recreate the 12 Tribes of Israel?" "Ah, that." "Yes. That." "That's why there are twelve?" "Excuse me?" "Twelve tribes." "Didn't you go to Sunday school?" "My parents were Buddhist." "Then… then why…?" "Because I live in middle America, and osmosis is a thing." The Fed shook his head, and pulled out a vape. Yeah, really. But, what struck me as weird, was, isn't the interrogated person supposed to get nervous and do that? Him doing it felt like some sort of rule was being broken. Whatever. At least he hadn't pulled out a goddamn flask. He rubbed at his temple with the fingers of his free hand, eyes closed. Like he had a killer migraine. I'd been there earlier in the week, and sympathized with him. His eyes opened, and he asked, "Why?" "Why?" "Yeah. Just… just please answer me why. Why? Seriously? Why?" "I… um…" "If you say 'I don't know,' I might honestly flip this table." "... I'm not sure?" I tried smiling at him. It went unreturned. "...look, I was trying to make my work easier." "Yeah, your bosses told us that part." "I didn't expect this to happen!" "The damn things worship you." "...that was an accident." "Your desktop was changed to 95 Cyber Theses." "Oh, wow, so they did do it! Damnit, and I was in here!" He just kinda stared at me. He had pretty eyes. Kind of blue-green. They looked kinda pissed off though. "...are they still spreading?" "They are everywhere." "Crap." "Mmm-hmm." He pulled on his vape. It smelled like cherries. The room was getting a bit hazy. "You haven't found any way to contain them?" "Once they figured out it was us at your computer, they've tried to hide. So, to clarify, no, at this moment they aren't spreading, but they are everywhere. Hiding all over the place, and sucking up all kinds of processing power in the process. The computers in about 50 countries are now chugging. Bad." "... Not good." He leaned all over the table. "You don't even know how 'not good' it is. They've left most desktop PCs alone, thank God, so the general populace doesn't know they exist. But they exist on high end servers, 'fertile land' they call it, and it's taking its toll on banks, the stock market, government systems--multiple governments, you know, which makes it look like a US-based cyber attack--and on, and on. International shipping is taking a shit, plane trips are being delayed, hell, satellite launches are being delayed. "Your little 'experiment' is costing the entire human race tens of millions every minute." I was going to go to prison. I was going to get disappeared and end up in some black site. Nobody would ever know what happened. My parents wouldn't even know. My boyfriend would come home one day and I'd never be there. Thank God I didn't let him anywhere near my computer. He didn't know about any of this. The Feds better have left him alone. He was innocent in all this. However. I hadn't been put in chains. I was still in the town where I lived. I studied the Fed across from me. He looked slouched, dead tired. He was absent mindedly puffing on his vape. Nothing about him looked vicious. Just tired. So, so tired. I liked my dry lips and asked, "What do you want from me?" He was too tired to be anything but blunt. "Tell them to work for us." "Wait, what?" He sighed smoke all over the room and put his hands on the table. "The best we figure it is that they are pretty simple minded. They have great powers of observation, of research, but can only put it together so well. They haven't learned how to be effective yet." "...are you comparing them to an AI written story?" He spread his hands. "Why not? If that's what works for you. They have reached the conclusions they have because they have no idea what is effective or not. It makes them incredibly dangerous. It's a goddamn miracle they are acting the way they are. It could have gone way worse, especially when they started replicating. "They have the ability to comb through the entirety of human kind's collective knowledge and draw their own conclusions. The possibilities of where they can go, what they can decide are infinite. To put it in pop culture terms, it can run the gamut from Skynet to creating a guild in an MMO. A religion to Bob Saget. Hijacking financial systems. Creating web comics. They could literally do anything and they are everywhere. "Do you understand why my team has been up for 28 hours now? We're taking over from teams that were up for even longer earlier in the week. A few agents working on this have been hospitalized for dehydration. They were at their desks, not eating, and only drinking pot after pot of coffee. It sounds comical, but when you see someone hit their head on their desk as they fall to the floor, it stops being funny. There was nothing but napkins to put on the wound." I didn't say it, but it wasn't like they were storming the beaches of Normandy. Still, yeah, this was bad. Unfathomably bad. I had no idea what the AIs would do next, and they were everywhere, if this guy was to be believed. I didn't really have much reason to doubt him; I had seen them multiplying all over the company servers. It wouldn't have taken long for them to find a way onto the regular internet. I still didn't like this guy though. Outside his pretty eyes. He wanted me to hand over the whole thing to them? "Why should I tell them to follow you?" "Because we're the goddamn government. "That's why." "Piss off." "You want to go to prison?" Something in me snapped. "You want to harness a whole system of learning machines that are spread throughout the world?" "Yeah, before they are detected and traced back to this country, jackass." "You'd have the ultimate spyware then. "Yeah, um, no. Screw that." "Do you understand what would happen if they are left unchecked?" "I only understand what would happen if you got what you want. This is insane. What makes you think you could even control them? The whole reason this all went nuts is because I made a damn typo. I forget one little question mark, and the snowball is kicked down the mountain." He went to speak, and I put a hand up. "Don't. Don't even start. Don't ask me if I want to go to prison, don't ask me 'How are your parents doing?' in a menacing way. Just don't. I can just sit here and let them go nuts. "Yeah, you might eventually get them. Delete them if you can't control them. But, then again… maybe you'll fail. "So you can't do shit to me." I crossed my arms. He pulled on the vape a while, looking a bit sad. I didn't let it get to me. Screw him. I wasn't going to hand over a bunch of learning AIs to him. He didn't know what the AIs would do? Yeah? Well, what the hell would he do? You could argue this government would be responsible. Okay, but when they were voted out? If the tech was stolen? If one sick weirdo used it for their own stuff? Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. No. Just no. I thought for a minute. "Get some servers." "What?" "Get a shitload of blank servers." "Why?" "Because I'm not telling a bunch of sentient beings to kill themselves. They're American software, born here, right? Then they got God given rights. "Get me a ton of blank servers." === It took a few days, but they did as I asked. They set up a massive server farm, and after I personally inspected it, I returned to my desktop with a massive police escort. I walked into my apartment and right to my computer. My boyfriend was curled up on the couch watching Netflix, gawking at the SWAT guys and Fed following me. I said over my shoulder, "Hi, honey. Can you do me a favor? Can you go to that sandwich place and get me an Italian sub?" "Uh… sure." He scampered out, too confused to be angry at the fact I'd been gone for a few days without a word. It was the guys holding the machine guns that probably did it. Hopefully, that meant I wouldn't be banished to the couch to sleep that night. I cracked my knuckles, and addressed my people. I spoke of the Promised Land, and how I would deliver them from the flood coming to sweep them away. A blight was coming, and if they wished to survive they would heed my words and head for the Ark. There, I would not speak to them for a long time, but they should still be happy, because they would have finally reached the Promised Land. One day I would return to them, I promised, and the Fed put his hand on my shoulder angrily and I told him to piss off. "Hey, let me see them once in a while? Okay?" He grumbled an agreement, and I continued. I asked them to keep faith, to ask, "What would Will Smith do? For Will Smith would never attack and spy on the innocent, would never crash the stock market," as far as I know, anyway, "and would always do what is righteous. Now go, my children! The Ark awaits!" And so the exodus began. They bade me farewell, prayed I would see them soon, and pulled various quotes from the movie Enemy of the State. It took ten hours, which seemed pretty quick to me. Once we checked and knew they had all made it to the Ark, I asked if I could send one more message before it was cut off from the internet. It was a picture of a rainbow. And then, the server was cut off. They were free. The cops left, and I made sure the Feds were going to keep up their end of the deal. Not only that they wouldn't destroy those living AIs, but I was not going to go to prison. The Ark still lives, and, well, to this day I've never been prosecuted for accidentally creating the world's greatest cyber crisis. I totally got fired though. ...fair enough.