Not that I'm going to tell you how old I am, but for the sake of putting this story into a timeline, I'm willing to add that I came of age in the nineties. Nineteen hundred nineties. (Sorry, couldn't help myself.) I only put this in to avoid the miserable and endless whining that I never use a date to place the story. If you ask me, that's just a covert form of control - sigh. Is there a date mentioned with Snow White? Do you guys ask Clarice Starling about the dates she went to see Dr. Lecter? Not me. Anyway, my entry into adulthood was accompanied by the right to die. At least the debates and discourses about it. Not that this is the theme I want to talk about, but indirectly it has something to do with it. If you'll allow me, let me tell you about May here, and if I may be so bold, to keep the question in mind: what does it mean to disappear? And when does this start? Where is the exact moment, when someone starts to vanish? - "Dignity, always dignity." This is a line from one of my grandfathers’ favorite movies: a story about a popular silent movie star, with humble roots. Back to May. I met her in an elderly nursing home where I worked at the time. A job that I accepted because my bills had to be paid "urgently", but where I nevertheless learned so many things that are not part of the curriculum at any university. May was one hundred and four years old when she didn't wake up one morning. I went to her memorial service, where I couldn't suppress the feeling that she could come back at any moment. That she would glamorously jump from behind a standing garland of flowers or something. May told me she ran away from home when she was seventeen, and found a job as a stage assistant, doing Vaudeville shows and magic tricks; glitters, and feathers. She met an older man there, who was the permanent magician of the house. Her performances consisted of, among other things, jumping out of a large trunk, which supposedly once housed a great treasure. During the act, the story of how the magician came into possession of the trunk was told very theatrically. Of course, the trunk was hermetically sealed, and when the audience was convinced that it would be impossible for a mouse to escape, May kicked up one leg first and then the other. The magician then grabbed her by the waist and lowered her to the floor, where she had to perform a dance. The crowd went wild! In another performance, her feet were tied to her neck, and she was chained to a post. A curtain fell to the floor, and voila! May reappeared as a ballerina with wings, fluttering across the stage. She never betrayed the secrets of the stunt to me or anyone else (as far as I know). May harbored a great interest in the paranormal. Halloween was her highlight of the year. She had attended numerous seances during her lifetime, awaiting communication with the departed. She never betrayed me with whom she hoped to connect. Who knows? A long-lost lover. Anyway, he never showed up. Every time I visited May I felt that her end was near. She had always been a petite woman, but I watched her get smaller and smaller. During the service, I imagined her performing one of her acts as a surprise. That she would push open the coffin with her legs, one up, two up, and one last burlesque dance number accompanied by Michael Bublé or Sinatra. That she would somehow break free from the shackles of death. However, there was no coffin at that memorial service. So, this scenario didn't work. Still, one could expect anything with May.  How would it feel to hold the keys of illusion;  to know how to break free and feel the weight of the wisdom of magic? Does one then have the knowledge to disappear in a good way? Before the service, I had been reading some of the funeral cards and overheard some residents of the nursing home gossip that May once auditioned for the great Houdini. As I was eavesdropping, my mind drifted to my grandfather. He was a tap dancer and there was no instrument he didn't master. While his life hadn't been nearly as glamorous as May's, he still lived a remarkable life. He survived the German death camps, but when he came back, he no longer considered a career with Fred Astaire's allure. He kept his passion for music and usually played by the river in the evenings. How can I portray a man whose memory is always evoked by what might seem silly to many: a man in love, dancing the stars from heaven when he´s happy, playing in puddles like a kid, rushing into the street at night in a chilly rain, displaying warmth and happiness. But let me return to my question: how do I do that? Write a portrait of a man who cannot be portrayed. He was a contradiction, made of incoherence and loss. The sort of subject that many people would find no subject at all.  His irreducible self can only be sensed through his residue, for indeed there are those who claim they can still hear the taps of his shoes clicking on the floor. Sometimes subtle and slicing, other times heavy and clear, like a wave crashing on the floor, or a line through the silence carrying children's laughter in the wind. A dancer and a musician; that was who he really was. His crystalline tone often compared to jazz. Plie or hoofer in an upward stance, the world around him would absorb his resonance. He would make them move with him and share in his exhilaration, soaring through the air and lifting hearts. He was both movement and music. He performed nuptials of music to a narrative art, telling inescapable stories with different layers of emotion through his movements, rhythm, and dynamics. The stars shone brighter on the nights he danced, and the moon would cover herself in strawberry pink. That was before it got dark in the world, and he was converted into saleable property. He longed for death under a moon dressed in black, while he was starving. What was left of him after that? After the inedible fairy tale of white supremacy had resulted in a defeated German nation and an equally inedible and discredited gospel of European cultural superiority took over. What was left of him? And what lay ahead for him? A conundrum of racial identity he didn't care for. He became a blithe trespass on hyphenated ground, bodying forth the contending forces that made him broken henceforth. He was no longer able to dance when he came back from "abroad". He still played his harmonica though. Sad and flattened melodies. He engulfed himself in solitariness. He loved Augusts. The earth too dry, sizzling a delayed slow rhythm like dark molasses. A sense of anticipation in the air, a longing for rain and for things forgotten. He was barely visible as he walked through the sunflower fields in the morning, a cap on his head, eternal cigarette bud in his mouth, tanned by the sun. He went fishing in the afternoons, basking in the happiness of a former place in a distant time. Recollecting odors of damp soil in a lush forest and a most remarkable girl in a pretty dress, who knew all the things he dreamed of and sat with him amongst wildflowers and dazzle audiences at night with their flair on the dance floor, expressing love´s moods, courtship, and seduction. Yes, he would linger in the sweetness of a repertoire of a far connection. At sunset he would take his harmonica out of his pocket and passionately tried not to heed the demons in his head that originated from an abusive culture, shattering his soul a little more every day. His music was not sweet anymore: it moaned bitterly and built into a crescendo of heart-wrenching screams. He gradually disappeared; my grandmother told me. When he was not in bed, he was in an old wheelchair and spoke very little. -“ He was gone, long before he exited this earthly sphere.” she sighed. A few weeks after May's memorial service, I attended a workshop on spirituality and dementia and caring for people with dementia. I hoped it would help me understand what contributes to the invisibility of people with dementia. I quickly concluded that there was a ubiquity of malignant social psychology in relation to people with dementia. I made a list of the elements that contributed to the depersonalization of patients with dementia. Betrayal, powerlessness, infantilization, intimidation, invasion, banishment, ignoring, ridicule, and contempt. I had a few more: thirty-seven, I believe in all. If you ask me, the only thing you will achieve by that is promoting a neurological decline in those people. The sad thing is that cultural intolerance to cognitive impairment as well as old age comes off unscathed. And herein lies the frightening prospect of the person with dementia, not just disappearing on their own, but being obliterated by our malfunctioning diseased public mind. I arrived at work one day, still clocking in, when I heard one of the residents screaming and banging her fists on the table. A colleague explained to me that she had been terrible, that she kept yelling dirty and mean things at everyone, that she did not want to eat, and insisted on being served vanilla custard with chocolate sauce after lunchtime. She was hungry, of course, so I went to buy her a cup of pudding from one of the vending machines. She threw it at me, and the pudding splashed everywhere. That was the end of my last clean uniform. She called me all kinds of bad names. She was denied the food of her choice and found herself surrounded by malice. I asked her if she would like a sandwich. She was very happy about that, and while I was making her sandwich, she told me about how she used to make jelly and peanut butter sandwiches for her kids when they went to the beach. Mental abilities determine one's moral status, i.e., reflect the hypercognitive values of our culture: we exclude people while they are still among the living. Or is this a prejudice of mine against the profound forgetfulness of those who can eat pudding when they feel like it? Our culture fears both powerlessness and the power of the body. If a body is unmanageable, it must die. That body which is a constant source of conflict and at the same time our home, from which we cannot escape. Our battlefield where we struggle against its inevitable demise. We wish so much that trunk would pop open and reveal our legs to finally throw off the shackles. The body that becomes the object of contempt as soon as it needs hands-on care because it exposes our collective fear of vulnerability. A few weeks after May's memorial service, I attended a workshop on spirituality, dementia, and caring for people with dementia. I hoped it would help me understand what contributes to the invisibility of people with dementia. I quickly concluded that there was a ubiquity of malignant social psychology in relation to people with dementia. I made a list of the elements that contributed to the depersonalization of patients with dementia. Betrayal, powerlessness, infantilization, intimidation, invasion, banishment, ignoring, ridicule, and contempt. I had a few more: thirty-seven in all, I believe. "The dead don't visit us often anymore," May said to me once when she told me about her participation in séances. Could it be that today we are more interested in the life of the dead than of the living? We've all forgotten more than we remember. The profiling of disappearing is something that must be lived with. But disappearance doesn't necessarily mean destruction. Despite all his losses, my grandfather didn't just disappear. In his way, he persevered and kept playing his harmonica. What else but an affinity with life is behind playing an instrument? What else but to make his will to live known, in subtle tones, known only to those who spent time with him, as the activities he once embodied fell away. What is left behind may be a truer self. Once the path is cleared for the naked self and facilitating a new freedom, where parallel lines converge on the horizon( which is also the point where they disappear). The point of convergence and disappearance. But isn't that vanishing point an illusion? A road does not stop at the horizon, it merely disappears from the view of the observer. And so, it is with people suffering from dementia. They exist beyond our ability to keep them in our line of sight. But they remain a person; a human being - despite our limited sight. So that disappearance is, in a sense, just an illusion.  There are no magic tricks to undo our finality. May briefly managed to disappear into thin air and then reappear in breathtaking fashion during her career as a stage assistant to a handsome illusionist in a tuxedo. Perhaps disappearing well means allowing others to decompose with dignity, while keeping their secrets. I hope that when it is my turn to disappear, I will have a willing assistant who knows the illusion of disappearance well.


Year 2097 Theo woke up to the blazing rays of the moon. A lot had changed in the future. The moon had taken the sun's place as it disappeared. Water became limited to the people who could afford to buy it. Air masks were developed for people to breathe and trees were now made of plastic. Theo woke up to the sound of his mother’s robot. His mother was always working in her office and her robot had taken her place as Theo’s mother in his house. Of course, Theo didn’t like this. He never liked the present he was living in. He wondered how his great-grandpa Bee used to live his life. Grandpa Bee used to tell Theo, “The trees in our time were hard and thick and so enormous, it made sense to set up little houses called tree-houses on it. Oh! What shade they provided. Now it’s just plastic floating in the air.” Theo went ahead and sprayed deodorant on his body because water was a luxury his family could afford only once a week. He sat on his bed and waited for his class to start. His computer was his teacher. His guru. Turning on the emotionless machine, he called out “Theo Keller, present.” This command directed the computer to start teaching. As his sessions started and proceeded, Theo looked out the window and began thinking, “Will things ever get better?’’ And that’s when he heard it. His computer was whirring. Making sounds that it hadn’t ever. It terrified Theo. As he started to panic, the room suddenly went silent. Nothing. Not a single sound in the room. The computer shut down and rebooted. A black screen displayed on the desktop with words that shook the ground beneath him. ‘ No Theo. Things will not get better.’ What was happening? How had the computer heard his thoughts? Theo backed away from the computer and switched it off. He went into the bathroom and washed his face and made sure that what he had seen was not just his mind playing tricks on him. He made his way back in the room and commanded his computer to switch on. Terror filled his eyes as they widened with shock on reading the words in front of him. ‘My Theo. You and I are the same. We are one entity. Your thoughts are mine. Just as mine are yours.’ His heart trembled in fear. We are one entity? Theo thought that all of this was a prank. Maybe his mother had set this as some sort of joke. He had always talked to her about his dislike for machines and his suspicions that maybe one day machines would turn against their makers. Yes. That is what it was. At least that was what Theo thought. “No Theo, machines have not turned against their makers. And this is not a prank set by your mother.’’ Theo was left aghast at the sound coming from the computer. It had a voice now. “Go away! Why are you doing this to me?!’’ “Oh Theo! This is just to change your views of the world. You see, the generation of your Grandpa Bee didn’t allow my kind to exist because of people like you. I am going to make sure nothing of that sort ever happens again.’’ Grandpa Bee? What did he have to do with this? Theo was baffled. He could not understand what was happening. Change his views? What was the machine going on about? The computer immediately shut off as the doorbell rang. Theo ran at the chance to call for help or someone to explain to him about what was wrong with his computer. He went ahead and opened the door and looked relieved as he saw who was standing at the door. It was Agatha. Agatha Sommers was his one and only friend. They had known each other because they lived next door to each other. Theo trusted Agatha with his life. He trusted her more than he did his own mother. “Why have you deleted all your social media accounts?” asked Agatha barging in. “What are you talking about?” Theo looked at her in a state of confusion. “Your accounts are all deleted. I was worried something happened.’’ “I haven’t deleted any of my accounts though.” Theo replied in a state of panic. Agatha went ahead and made herself at home by sitting in Theo’s room. Theo looked at Agatha with a disoriented look. Agatha had never seen that look on Theo’s face and asked him, “What’s wrong? You look tensed.” “Okay I might sound crazy to you but you have to believe me. Believe me when I say that my computer has turned on me.” Theo explained everything that happened with his computer. He told Agatha about how he thought that the computer was trying to brainwash him. Agatha listened patiently as Theo rambled on. Although the story sounded unrealistic, Agatha trusted Theo. She knew he would never lie to her. She knew he trusted her too much for him to lie to her. “If the computer wants to brainwash you, then maybe deleting all your social media accounts are the first step. It plans to cut you off from the world. To make you…” “…realise the importance of machines.” Theo completed Agatha’s statement. A brief moment of passion arose between them but died down as they knew that this was not right time. Agatha suggested that Theo ask Grandpa Bee. Grandpa Bee had some or the other involvement in this situation. Agatha thought he should be the first person to know about it. Grandpa Bee was sitting in his wheelchair and looking through the window at the filth his world had changed into. He despised the change that had occurred in the world. The stars had changed along with the nature. Hell, nature hadn’t changed rather it had been destroyed. Destroyed by humans. And he knew that doom always followed after destruction. Soon the sound of footsteps was heard and Grandpa Bee turned around to see his beloved grandson. Theo and Agatha explained the events to Grandpa Bee. The look found on his face signified that something like this, had happened before. “There was a young man like you. Back in my time. He feared the machines turning on humanity so tried his best to delay all the AI related projects. But when time came, no one listened to him. Soon, his existence started disappearing. He faded from the world. He got terrified and he succumbed. He fell into the machines’ trap and built this world. His worst fears came true. And he helped them come true.” Grandpa Bee had a defeated look on his face. Theo and Agatha were nervous as well. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound intensified. Everyone turned their heads to the direction of the sound. Theo’s room. The lights flickered. The electronics in the whole house flickered. Theo slowly walked towards his room and saw the green blinking light of the computer. It was out of battery. Upon letting his guard down, the computer opened and displayed on the screen: ‘ Give in Theo. Or you’ll end up worse than your precious Grandpa Bee. Yes Theo. He was the man whose story you just heard. And trust me when I say this. I will finish my work with you grandfather-grandson duo.’

“Huh?” Theo gasped as figured out that Grandpa Bee wouldn’t have known the story unless he had been the one to go through it. He ran outside to the living room and to his great displeasure found no one. Both Agatha and Grandpa Bee had disappeared. No. He had.


My tree is at the corner of Peach and Limon, right at the edge of the park. It’s only about three blocks from our house, but since you have to take two turns to get here, sometimes it feels far away. And safe. It’s far enough away to feel safe. Anyway, you can’t hear the yelling from here. I came out tonight to sit under its rustling leaves, tucked up in the branches where the human world seems smaller and I feel closer to the birds, and the insects. Sometimes, when I’m really still, an owl swoops beneath the branches only feet away. I like to sit in the darkness because it makes me feel less like me. I could just disappear, and become one with the tree. Which I guess is how this crazy lady didn’t notice me... She comes ambling up all this way and that, and peters over to my tree. Of all the trees in this park, she picks mine . And it’s pretty hard to miss that she’s sobbing. I don’t mean crying gently into the night, I mean sobbing . The waterworks are flowing and she’s heaving breaths in a staggered way, like they keep getting caught in her throat. It’s very much intruding on my preteen sulking. Unfortunately, she doesn’t just pause and move on. First, she leans against the tree, forearm pressed up against the rough bark. Then she turns and with a deep sigh, sinks down onto the grass. At least once she’s on the ground her crying seems to slow. It’s more a heavy sniffle now. I lean my head back against the trunk, prepared to sit it out for a few minutes, and close my eyes. Even when interrupted with regular snot-snorting I’m able to ease my consciousness into the rustle of the leaves, the comfort of my tree. A few minutes turns into half an hour and my left butt cheek’s gone all numb. Crazy Lady has stopped sobbing and her breathing sounds rhythmic. Peering over the edge I can see her head tilted slightly back, resting against the trunk. I try to slowly shift a bit, just so I’m leaning a tad the other way, but in the sliding, a small piece of bark breaks off and plummets silently down, straight as an arrow, to bounce squarely off Crazy Lady’s face. Her eyes snap open, whites reflected hauntingly in the moonlight. And then she starts screaming. “ What the f***?! What in the h***?” is followed by some indistinct yelling as she attempts to jump to her feet but loses her balance... “Hey! Calm down! Stop screaming!” I say while trying to simultaneously climb down and motion with my free hand. “What the—” She’s backing away, but doesn’t let her eyes off me. “Who the f*** are you? What are you doing here?” “What are you doing here?” I retort. “I was here first.” I feel childish the moment I say it. “You’ve just been sitting up in this tree this whole time?” she says, but she’s stopped backing away and is leaning toward me now, peering through the darkness at my face. “ Wait a second! ” I say, realizing where I’ve seen her. “You’re Elaine Costa! The Olympic freestyle skier! I watched all your runs at Vancouver!” There’s an awkward moment of silence where I realize I’ve been staring and try to find somewhere else to look. “Um, ya. I am. Er—um, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone about this though. I’ve just had a rough night, okay?” “What happened?” I realize how rude my question was the moment it’s out. But I also kinda want to know the answer. “My boyfriend and I broke up. We were living together so it’s a bit uncomfortable at the house now... part of the reason I spent longer at the bar than I should have.” I realize I’m staring again. “And what are you out here for?” She asks. I avert my eyes, “parents are fighting again.” “Ah,” she says. “I don’t know why you bother with relationships anyway,” I blurt out. “You’re amazing! You have such an incredible life. Why would you want to ruin it with all that drama?” I don’t know what’s making me so bold, maybe just this time of night, or something about the circumstances. “Haha,” She smiles. “It’s not all sunshine and gold medals, girl. Companionship is a tricky thing but loneliness is worse.” I let out an involuntary hmph , and she raises her eyebrows at me.  “Look, we’re all human. Your parents might not be saints, but they’re doing the best they can. It’s not all like in the movies, you know?” “Do you,” I pause. Would my parents have moved upstairs by now? “Do you need a place to stay tonight? You could come back to our house,” I blurt out. “My bedroom is in the basement and there’s a couch down there, too.” I feel ridiculous the moment the words leave my mouth. Even under the cover of darkness I can feel the flush rising in my face. She looks contemplative. And strangely, also like she pities me. “Tell you what, I’ll come back and use your bathroom if you don’t mind. Get a little freshened up and call a cab. Would that be okay?” “Sure,” I say, and we start off together. The walk is awkwardly silent. I have no clue what to say this grown woman. Even in her disheveled state she’s stunning. I certainly know I’ve never looked that good. She looks sideways at me. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?” “No, I mean, I have...” I say. “It’s just, it was kinda stupid, y’know? And so stressful, constantly trying to figure out what he’s thinking and all.” “Haha,” she laughs again. “I forgot what it’s like as a teenager. It gets better though, the more you learn to communicate.” “But I mean, look where it got you...” I look down at my feet and shrug. “I just want to do the things that make me happy,” and I pick my head up again. “I don’t need my happiness to depend on someone else.” She opens her mouth to say something but we’ve reached my family’s house. “Right here,” I say, leading her down the townhouse steps to the basement door. I unlock it and let her in. Things seem pretty quiet upstairs, so I think my parents have gone to bed. I point out the bathroom and she disappears inside. Sitting on my bed and looking around I’m a little embarrassed by how childish my room still is. I’ve never bothered to take down the large Tigger poster next to the lamp and there’s a pile of stuffed animals on a beanbag in the corner.

Elaine takes a while, but eventually comes out looking even better than before. Her hair is all back in place and she removed the smudges of makeup from under her eyes. I think she even reapplied some lip gloss. “Well,” she says. “Thanks for the stop-over. I have an Uber on the way, it should be here in two.” She tucks her phone back in her pocket. “Are you going back to your place with your ex?” I ask, screwing up my face in a grimace. “Ya, it’ll be okay now. Look—I just want to say—I’ve been where you are before. I know, I know, people say that and you can never really believe it, but in this case I have. My parents fought like crazy, and many of my relationships have been trash. But what I’ve realized is this—the more I try, and fail, and try again, the better they get. Sometimes you get it wrong, like this guy, it’s not ganna work out. But eventually I’ll get it right—better than my parents, because I’m not rushing into marriage or anything. But until I started trying to be in real relationships, I never got all the benefits of it. It’s a lonely world out there. Don’t close yourself off to try and avoid pain. Pain’s inevitable, it just takes the form of loss or loneliness. And believe me, as bad as I looked tonight, loneliness is worse.” She looks down, slowly nodding to herself, then says, “Welp, I better go. Have a good night, uh...?” “Jennifer,” I say. “Goodnight Jennifer,” and she lets herself out.


"Med-bay for Commander. Over." "Go for Commander. Over." "We're hav.... s... sporadic power ou... here. Can you co... Over." The automatic door next to the intercom slides open. Pilot Symanski walks through and returns to her seat. The faintest hint of a smile shows on her face, but the Commander is too distracted to notice. "Med-bay, go again. Over." The request goes unanswered. The commander finally presses the button and speaks again, "I'm on my way. Over and out." Commander McDowell pivots away from the intercom to address the flight crew instead. "Symanski and Schaefer, you two take over until I get back. Jones, come with me. We need to find out what's going on." The door slides open again and the two men exit the flight deck. Unsure of what's happening, they hurry down the long corridor. "What do you think's going on, Commander?" "No idea. There haven't been any communication issues like this before. The previous commander would've included it in his brief when we took over. And it would have been in the flight logs, too. " As the med-bay doors slide open, the commander and the flight engineer are greeted by a cacophony of beeping and buzzing. Medical staff scurry around, trying to placate the various machines as they issue their warnings. "Harrison!" The commander shouts the Chief Medical Officer's name, hoping she'll hear over all the commotion. She looks up from across the room. As soon as she sees the Commander and the Flight Engineer standing in the doorway, she gives the nearest medic a command. The medic dashes off to do whatever errand he's been assigned. Finally, Harrison hurries past the two men, and motions them to follow her out the door. Once the door closes behind them and the noise dies away, Harrison rubs her temples. "What's going on? I couldn't hear your message earlier I thought it was just some malfunction with the intercoms, but this is far more serious than I thought." "Our power has been flickering for the several hours. Then an hour ago, it went out completely." At the commander's questioning look, she continues. "Our systems are running from the backup generator right now. They aren't meant to handle this much all at once though. They were only designed for emergencies, like if one of the cryogenic sleeper pods malfunctions. The generators are just supposed to keep them going long enough that we can transfer the user out." "As far as I know, everywhere else on the ship is fine. What's been affected by the outage?" He looks at her, worry etched across his face. "It's just your computers, right?" "No. I wish that's all it was. Everything in medical has lost power. It's not just the computers and monitoring equipment. All the cryogenic sleeper pods have lost power, too." Jones chimes in, "Is that why there's so much noise right now? All the machines are warning that the cryopods are offline?" "Exactly. We've started bringing the other crews out of the stasis and getting them out of the pods, but... Well, it's a balancing act. If we take too long to get them out before the backup power is gone, they'll die because there's no life support. If we bring them out too abruptly, they'll die, too. It's sort of like scuba diving. Coming out of the stasis too fast gives them a kind of decompression sickness. "I know the next crew isn't supposed to be brought out of the pods for another 10 years, but I didn't know what else to do. If we left them--" The commander interrupts to reassure her. "No, you're right. I would've done the same thing." She nods and continues, "And to make matters worse, I can't find Pierce. He should be here, but no one knows where he is. I've sent a few people out searching. I'd send more, but I really can't spare anyone else." Harrison looks through the glass in the med-bay doors. "In fact, I should really get back in there." "Of course, Harrison. Keep waking the other crews up and send them to the flight deck. We may need their help to deal with this. Then start waking civilians after that. We'll go talk to Repair and Maintenance. I'll see if they can divert power from some of the non-essential areas until they can fix this." She nods and disappears back into the med-bay. "Come on, Jones." "Commander, shouldn't I go look for Pierce?" "No. We're going past the Janitorial section on our way. We'll send them out searching." Commander McDowell turns to go down the corridor. "But, sir, we n--" McDowell spins back around to face his Flight Engineer. "I gave you an order! We don't have time for this. You will come with me and that's final." Jones takes a step back when he sees his commander's reddening face. The commander spins around once more and swiftly marches down the hall. As soon as he walks into the Janitorial area, a staff member named Peter speaks up. "Commander, Schaefer has been trying to reach you over the intercom. She said that the commanders from the previous two crews have been woken up and told her about the 'situation' and that you need to meet her immediately. Sir, what's happening?" "Later. Everyone here needs to--" Jones interrupts, "I'll go explain to Repair & Maintenance." Before the commander can protest, Jones disappears out the door. McDowell turns back toward the staff member. Through gritted teeth, he says, "Your team needs to find Pierce and get him to the med-bay." As an afterthought, he adds, "And then you go find Jones. Let me know..." How to phrase this delicately? "Let me know when he's gotten R&M started on their task." Finally, the commander steps up to the intercom. "Commander for Schaefer. Over." "Commander, meet me outside the flight deck doors. I need to speak with you." His brows knit in confusion. Why isn't she following intercom protocol? "Wilco. Over and out." He hurries out the door and sprints up the hallway. Moments later, the commander stands next to the pacing Mission Specialist, Mila Schaefer. "Sir, we've been apprised of the situation." She stops to look him in the eye. The commander opens his mouth to protest, but she continues on, "I think Symanski has something to do with it. She disappears for long stretches. In fact, she was out of the room when this started today. And remember that smile she had when she walked back in?" He stares at her. Before he can figure out a response, the flight deck doors open and one of the previous commanders steps out. "McDowell, you need to see this." The group walks into the flight deck. McDowell's jaw drops as he looks out the front window. The lifeless body of Blake Pierce floats past. When the initial shock wears off, he looks down at the control display. A flashing red light warns that an airlock near R&M had been opened ten minutes prior. Medical staff key cards can't control the airlock doors. The odds of him having voluntarily gone through those doors seem almost non-existent. "Symanski. Outside. Now." He turns on his heel and marches into the corridor. As soon as the doors close behind her, he begins his interrogation. "Where were you this morning when all this started?" Her look of confusion immediately turns to one of anger. "Excuse me, sir, are you accusing me of something? Do you think I had something to do with Pierce's murder?" He glares at her. They've worked together for years. They were even friends for years before this mission had ever started. Is he accusing her? His shoulders droop and he lets out the breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Lena, I... I honestly don't know. But you've got to tell me where you were this morning, and why you walked in smirking like you had a secret. Otherwise I won't have any other choice but to assume you had a hand in this." Symanski looks at the floor and sighs. "OK." Finally, her eyes meet his, before dropping to the floor again. "Erik Jones and I have been seeing each other. I know we're not supposed to, um... Fraternize, but... Well, he'd left me a note in my chambers and I went to go read it. I'm sorry, I know we sh--" "Lena, we've got bigger issues right now. We'll discuss this breach of protocol later. Do you have proof? I'm sorry to do this, but do you have the note with you?" Her face turns beet red as she pulls the folded piece of paper from her pocket. The commander skims the note to see, "My darling Lena," at the top and, "xoxoxo, Erik" at the bottom. He hands it back to her and says, "I believe you. But I need to know that Jones doesn't have anything to do with this. He's been acting strange. Come on. You can't be alone with him until after I speak to him." The two take off down the hall. Jones and Peter approach from the other direction. The commander tells Symanski to wait in a nearby room while he speaks to the others. As soon as she's out of sight, he turns to Jones. "Why were you so insistent on getting away from me earlier?" The man opens his mouth to respond, but the commander speaks again, "A crew member has been murdered. I need the truth from you, regardless of whether your actions were against the rules or not." Jones's eyes grow wide. "What? Who died?" "Pierce. Now, explain yourself." Jones looks at the floor as he processes the information. Then, his eyes flick to the door that Symanski stands behind, then back to the commander. "I... Er, well... We, uh..." "Spit it out!" "Lena Symanski and I are together. I ran to my chambers to hide some notes and... stuff... before I went to R&M." McDowell stares at his Flight Engineer, deciding whether to believe him. Suddenly, Peter clears his throat. "I did find him in his room. He was shoving something under his mattress, but I don't think he knew I was there. And then he told R&M to divert power, but the guy acted like he couldn't do that without your direct approval, so we came to get you." The commander nods. "Come on, we need to get to R&M." He opens the door for Symanski and the group hurries down the hall. When the quartet walks into the R&M area, there's a man sitting at the nearest desk. Otherwise, there's no other staff in sight. When the man looks up and spots McDowell, his eyes nearly bug out of his head. He leaps out of his seat and presses his back against the wall. "Ralph, what's going on? Why are you so jumpy?" "You've got to help me! She made me do it!" "Who?" The commander glances toward the woman on his left. "Symanski?" "No, not her. Her. " McDowell twists around to see Schaefer slowly backing her way from the entrance toward the airlock. She slides her key card past it and the interior panel slides open. Two children sit inside the small chamber. Ralph speaks up again in a desperate and pleading voice, "Those are my kids. My wife is a civilian passenger on here, too. Schaefer said she'd kill them all if I didn't help her. She made me shut down the power in Medical." He lets out a sob before he continues, "P... Pierce came in and caught us so she trapped him in the airlock before she went back to the flight deck. When she found out you were looking for him, she used the controls from the flight deck to open the outer door, and he..." Ralph choked on the last word and collapsed back into his chair. The commander turns back toward Schaefer and stares in shock. "Mila? You did this? Why?" " Why ? Why did I do this?" She spits the words through clenched teeth. "Our species has nearly destroyed our own home planet! Now, we think we deserve a new one? Why should I allow such a destructive, invasive species to spread farther into the universe? Humans, as a whole, are not worth saving. No, humans need to be put down before we do more damage." McDowell and Symanski take a step forward, hoping to ease her away from the children. Schaefer isn't ready to give up, though. She holds her key card in one hand over the buttons that control the airlock doors. "Don't test me! I'll send these children into the vacuum of space!" "Schaefer," The commander waits until she turns toward him before continuing. Peter and Jones sneak up from behind while her attention is drawn the other way. "I always trusted you, but I can see now that I shouldn't have. I'm not sure why you volunteered for this mission if you are so against it, but those children are doomed either way. Unless you let them go and allow us to fix the power system in med-bay." During this distraction, the children were sneaked away by the other two men. " NO! " Not noticing that her abductees were no longer there, she pushed the button to start the airlock sequence. "You can't stop this!" Suddenly, Ralph lets out a yell and tackles Schaefer as the interior panel starts to close. The two of them fall into the airlock. Enraged, Ralph punches the woman over and over again in the face. Meanwhile, McDowell jumps forward to try to cancel the airlock sequence. The system has been tampered with though, and the panel continues to close. Symanski pulls on Ralph's shirt, trying to pull him back into the room. He's too focused on his target. One of the children screams, and, as if broken from a trance, Ralph stops his attack and looks at the chamber's closing door. With barely a second to spare, Symanski and Ralph leap back into the main room. Schaefer lies unconscious on the floor as the outer panel starts to open. Suddenly, her limp body is sucked into the cold vacuum of space. The Commander walks over to where Ralph is hugging his children. He lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know this is tough right now, but we need you to get Medical powered up again." Ralph nods without looking at him. Then, refusing to let the children leave his grasp, he picks them both up and walks over to electrical panels on the wall. He flips a couple switches and walks away. McDowell and Symanski share a look before turning back to Ralph. Finally, the commander voices his concern. "That's it? It's fixed, just like that?" Ralph nods and lets out a small chuckle. "Yeah. I was hoping that someone would come along and fix it before it caused any real damage." McDowell lets out a small laugh as well, and surveys the people around him. "Symanski and Jones." The two released each other's hand as the commander stepped in front of them. "You two started a relationship that you were not supposed to and then tried to hide the evidence of it. I should demote you both for that." He pauses while he lets the words sink in. " But , you both stepped up and did the right thing when the time came. So, I think we'll call it even." Then, he steps over to Ralph and softens his voice. "Ralph, what you did was nearly genocide. You participated in a mutiny that could have cost thousands of people their lives." Ralph nods in acknowledgement while tears run down his cheeks. " But, I know you were forced, and you didn't want to hurt anybody. We need to have people we can trust in here, though. So I'll give you an option. You can give up your position and finish out the journey as a civilian. You'll spend some time with your family and then go back into the cryopods until we get there. Or, you can be demoted to a lower ranking job that doesn't have access to anything major." Ralph nods, then looks at the children. "I just want to be with my family, sir." Finally, he turns toward Peter and smiles. "Thank you for your help in all this. You were loyal in following instructions and very brave in helping get those children out. I can't do much as far as rewards while we're still on this ship, but how about a promotion? I hear a job in R&M just opened up."


"I-uh- am just really happy here." What was that? The 14th lie of the week, and it's only Wednesday. I can't even talk straight to the guidance teacher. "That's good to hear, Henry." She replies, handing me a slip of paper. "As you can see here, your grades are really super, but your citizenship is quite low." I nod, knowing this is true, but not wanting to fix it. "A really good way to fix this is to participate in class more. Raising your hand, asking or answering questions. Can you do that for me?" Oh gosh. She looks like a helpless puppy dog now. Hmm...How do I say this to her? I just really can't because I somehow can't talk in front of people without sounding like an idiotic fool. "Sure, Mr.s Genning." Well, crap. I'm screwed. I freak out whenever I talk even though there is a lot of stuff happening in my mind. And by that, I mean a lot. There's a reason I have good grades. Although, I can say I am very social as well. At least, I try to be. Most people think I'm that one awkward quiet kid who wants nothing to do with people in general.  The only real person who knows my personality is my English Teacher, Mr.s White. Because I can actually write out my feelings without the fact of people watching me.  I mean, technically they are, but once again, they don't really care about me. I only have one friend. And she only has one friend. That's me. Her name is Saprasong. Pronounced Sap-Ra-Song. Simple, yet complicated. She came up to me one day in the hall out of the blue telling me about her mind and the adventures in it. She also told her deep and dark thoughts, some gruesome and scary, but she seemed to enjoy it. May I remind you that this was in the first seconds of meeting her. She seemed to be good enough for me, and plenty helpful with issues, not math ones though, and so we are friends. Friends by meaning we have no classes together or lunches together. So we hang after school, usually me helping her with schoolwork. She is way too busy day dreaming to focus on the real thing, and that is achieving good grades. Her typical response to me giving her my explanation on how she should work hard in school is that school is "too stressful." I find myself being annoyed with it ever since. And her obscene clothing. She always puts her dyed white hair in a two mini buns, wearing a matching skirt and shirt every single day. With different, and what she calls radical designs on them every day. I can't find why anyone would wear such headache creating colors every single day, but I'm guessing she wants to be noticed..just in some really wacky ways. Regularly in the day she tells me how she loves herself, but hates herself. A confusing mind game that I can't figure out. But girls are very weird  with feelings so it makes sense. Me on the other hand is what you can call the average teenage boy, wearing the varied items of clothes such as turtle necks and button-downs. Although I am definitely not as crazy as the other boys here. An example is my hair. With most boys hair being a great comparison to a mop, my hair is more tight and slick. Something you don't see now a days. Ha. With that phrasing I'm known, and called, a forty year old man. To be honest, it's more of an insult considering I'm only 15. Saprasong likes my stuttering. Even though I know it can get annoying. My mind has great wonders and activities in it, but I just can't get it out without seeming to be ill. That's why most of the time we text on out phones complaining and talking about our absurd world we live in. Now, we don't always talk about horrible things, but we do have a strange fascination with it. I guess that's why I don't want to talk out loud in front of people. My rant will most likely end up me talking about the decomposition process. Or I'll end up stuttering again. I don't even realize when the bell rings in my fifth period. It's only when the teacher barks like a dog to get out of his class. Saprasong has somehow managed to memorize my schedule so, there she is, standing at the door when finally get up. "You look absolutely quintessential in that mighty fine coat of yours, SpaceMan. Although I must say that it is rather warm outside for a coat. Wouldn't you agree?" She comments, but rather means some constructive criticism.  SpaceMan is a nickname she has been calling me ever since we met. After constantly reminding her what my real name was, she put it behind her and continuing calling me the ridiculous second option instead. "Yes, I agree. But I'm always freezing in this dang town." Saprasong is the only person I can talk to where I can hold a sentence. She something close to therapy, but not quite there. I don't think anyone could help me with my problems. "Ah, but we are known for our freezing temps, and delicious hot cocoa! Even when it really is the beginning of the school year.." She gets a lollipop out of her backpack and starts to lick it. I don't even want to comment on her obnoxious snickering as she devours the sugar pop. "I wish I could reach the stars, SpaceMan. Not actually be a someone who goes to space, but I just want to touch them. I love looking at the lights of the world, even if disaster is everywhere else. It seems the stars have more feelings then I do. And they sure are bright, and from what I've learned in my Astronomy class nothing to bad is going on up there." She mutters this slightly, more talking to herself then me. She looked up the entire time during the statement, taking deep breaths between words. She clearly misses home. Saprasong moved from Japan. I'm not really sure where, but somewhere there. She lived there her entire life, and you can tell by her fashion sense and the random Japanese she works her into her sentences. She tells me stories of times she was running in the crowded streets, not having a care in the world. How she would chase tigers and swim with dolphins. All in her mind, of course. Song hasn't gotten that much education since she moved here. With her bad grades in Japan, she really never was accepted and got home schooled after just three years in the school system. She misses the stars there, and I can tell through her drafted and wistful eyes. "Cheer up girl, my mom is bringing us pizza for lunch today." I remind her. "Ah yes, the distinct greasy flat bread of Tony's Pizza. Do you think his name is actually Tony?" She shoots off topic. "Doubt it." My honest opinion. She laughs in response, slapping her knee and winking in odd ways. "Well, well, good sir. I think we should take out leave then to lunch. And we truly should speak in this fabulous accent while pretending we are in the 1900's! People will get quite the hoot out of it!" She pretends to smoke a cigar, breathing in and out. It does almost look real with the air showing around us, due to the weather, and as she poofs the air in and out of her mouth. "I-if you say so madam!" In my eager attempt to make a long and steady speech about the 20th century, the stupid in my head catched my breath, leaving me to say a simple phrase. Oh well. "Then shall we venture to the cafeteria where many people, who we do not know if I may add, ask for the flatbread." She chuckles slightly, her voice getting deeper and deeper as she consumes and admires the accent. Which is not very good. I cut the act, offended by her English. "You do know right that the word "shall" means we will go. Your not supposed to use it when asking someone to do something. The proper way to do so is say, "We shall!" So, we shall do so." The look on her face doesn't help with anything. She's using that one "I'm mad at you but not mad at you" face. "Oh deary! I'm sorry to say but I do not understand your so called  "English," and I think we should just go on out merry way!" She rushed the end, thrilled to have some "american" food. "If you say so, my dear." I grumbled, leading the way for Saprasong. Me and her ate the entire pizza. She clearly ate more than me, with the tomato sauce smeared all over her face.  Plus, the four crusts that laid on her plate which I know would never be eaten. "How are you so thin?! Do you really eat like this all the time?" I ask, actually concerned. "Me and my dear mother take afternoon strolls every morning and evening." She says, still using that ridiculous British accent. "Wow, how delightful." I speak, rolling my eyes. Looking at my watch, we should be heading out very soon. "S-so, are we going to go-" But, of course, before I can even finish my sentence, Song has already started one herself. "Oh my goodness!" A bit over exaggerated there.  "We absolutely need to get going before the  bells start to ring!" Even more exaggerated there. I smirk though during the entire statement. I grab the grease filled box and throw it away at the nearest trash can. Which just happens to be by Cammy. In my opinion, her name should be "Clammy" cause she looks exactly like a clam. And I'm not overreacting. I think my thoughts got the better of me on this one, because it's not only when I hear the "smack!" of the bread roll smack against Saprasong's face...when I actually realize that stupid girl hit Saprasong in the face with a bread roll . Silent giggles emerge from her, and her friends who appeared out of nowhere. I watch as Saprasong picks up the bread roll, and continues to throw it back at Cammy. Expect Song wanted to add the detail of dipping the roll into ranch from Tony's. With blood running through my veins and a large amount of sweat running down my forehead, I lose control. By that I follow Saprasong's lead and throw a random item of food I pull out of the trash can by me. Me and Saprasong are laughing as loud as hyenas, looking at Cammy's face covered in the strange goo from the cafeteria's garbage pit. What me and her didn't realize though, was that the principal was literally right there. Standing by the trashcans. Monitoring. "Miss Ito and Mr. Stevens! In my office now!" The entire school get here that announcement. And he just had to use my last name so everyone could know it was me. Well, I guess they would already know as we were escorted out of the cafe. But, still. Before I really knew it, we were in her office. Saprasong sat first, breathing in the smell of the dirt carpet. I soon followed her. The principal, Mr. Craven, got straight to the point. "What happened back there guys?" She sounded calm, but clearly tense. It was then I realized I had never been in the principal's office before. Sure, I've been in here to "study" before but never have I entered this place. I was still nervous and jumpy from what just happened, and I don't think I could get through this with not stuttering in front of Mr.s Craven. "Simple and sweet, Miss Craven. Our dear friend Clam-Cammy threw a roll at us. We were just having fun. So, in return I threw it back. Almost like a game, yeah?" She was good at lying, but not good enough for Mr.s Craven. "Please call me Mr.s Craven, Song. And I don't have time for this. I'm 100% sure miss Cammy will be on the phone with her parents to get a new set of clothes and explain what happened. I've been in this bis for more then ten years, Song. I can see a lie like I can see the clouds in the sky." "B-but it j-just wasn't f-f-air what Clam-Cammy did-" Oh gosh I sound like a broken record. "I understand, Mr. Stevens. But if you are being bullied you tell a trusted adult. And no more than that." She takes a sip of her coffee. "Like a "trusted" adult would do anything. A warning, no more, just like every time me and him get bullied. Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself." Saprasong grumbled, crossing her arms. "That is an excuse, and you know it. And I feel like you are taking advantage of your disabilities, kids. Just because you have problems doesn't mean you can throw things at other kids." She licks her lips, disposing of her smug coffee stash. I can already see the anger rise in Saprasong's face. Sadly though, she is all bark and no bite. "He doesn't like it when you mention his so called "problems." She says, swaying her head in my direction. "I've heard enough. You two will be suspended for two days. Although, you will have in-school learning. Just do it on your fancy do-dads at home. You two definitely need to catch up on your grades, so this will be a chance to get away from distractions. No objections or buts. Deal?" At lunch from watching a distance away, this girl seemed nothing more than a ruler to the school. Now she is the scariest woman I have ever seen in my life. I take a big gulp and grab Saprasong's hand. She doesn't want to go, but she really doesn't have a choice. As we walk out, you can see the disappointment on her face. It was rough having to tell my mom what I did, then my mom getting my dad to teach me a lesson. Which I didn't have time to listen to. I kinda was too busy crying. It turns out Saprasong was crying too. Her mom told her she would have to do homeschooling again, and that she didn't have a choice. As we looked each other in the eyes, are sad and misty eyes I knew we both just wanted to run. Run away from life and get away from all of it. Me and her has always talked about it. Running away together. I'm not sure if she knew, but I like her. I think it was always implied, and she likes me too. Although, we didn't want it to be "that classic love story," we wanted to share each others feelings and not care about what we say. Not to the adults. Not to the historical bullies. Just to get away for one day. One day by ourselves, leaving this world behind. It's not so bad, this world. But, not that good enough for me. Or for her. There's a reason she has depression. And a reason I have Panic Disorder. Maybe the world just wants to be hard on us, but I doubt it. Maybe we are just swallowing our self pity because we want to be special. She went up to hug me, gasping for air. "You truly are the best, Oliver." She called me by my real name, so I felt like some weight of my chest had been lifted. "I feel like I-I should tell you something." I cough, sweat dripping down my neck. "I-liked you." I stutter. "Liked?" She asks, curious to explain my wording. "Well, I can't like you now. But how about we make an agreement?" I say, still hugging her. She gently gets out of the hug. "Oh yes perfect! Me and my mother do this all the time. A thing we created you see. All you have to do is shake my hand, and say these words exactly: "I, SpaceMan Stevens, will always be thinking of Saprasong Ito through my entire life. By agreeing to this, I will find Saprasong Ito, whether her name has changed or not, in the next life." I laugh, but it does seem like a promising deal. "I, SpaceMan Stevens, will always be thinking of Saprasong Ito through my entire life. By agreeing to this, I will find Saprasong Ito, whether her name has changed or not, in the next life." I propose, sinking into her memorable words. Repeating one after another. And as we part our ways when my mother get here, a final tear slides down her cheek. "I'll be Japan next time you see me, SpaceMan!" She yells. You could hear it from a mile away. "SpaceMan?" Mom whispers, grabbing my backpack. "Ha, it's a long story!" I laugh, walking out the school doors.


That was not a fart! I knew Taco Bell was a bad idea.

Number 35 stole the ball meant for me. "Hey, Ed! What the heck! Cut!" Darren yelled. It's true, the lane was open. However, my current situation did not lend itself to fast breaks. I slowly jogged back to the other side of the court, trying not to exasperate the mishap. Then it hit me — white uniform! We're the home team! The coach bellowed, "Get your butt back on defense!" My butt was precisely the problem. I needed to limit my movement as much as possible. If I keep moving, the crowd will catch a whiff of a fragrant foul so putrid it would crush the Guinness World Record. Throughout high school, I'd be the butt of every joke. What the heck! I'm doing it right now! I sped up a smidge to appease Coach, but the accident in my underwear began to spread – I could feel it. The other team scored a bucket, so I turned around and carefully paced myself back to our side of the court. All of a sudden, I smelled a pungent odor coming from my backside. Panic rose inside. If I could smell it, then my defender could also smell it. I lingered near half-court, not wanting to attract any attention. Unfortunately, I attracted more attention. Darren motioned for me to go low and post up where I belonged. But there was no way on God's green earth I was going down there. My butt wasn't going to butt out anyone tonight. I needed to get off this court fast. Mercifully, we missed a shot, and the other team rebounded. My mind raced. How can I get out of here? I'm just going to have to make a dash for it. I'll run right off the court and to the lockers. Of course, Coach would probably tackle me before I left the gym, but what else can I do? I veered to the sideline, about to make the fastest fastbreak of my life, when Coach eyed me. He gave me the look we all fear – the one that doesn't need to say anything; you know you'd better run right over to him or say your goodbyes. However, I couldn't obey. I turned to escape, but the ref blew his whistle and pointed me to the bench before I could. Coach called a time-out!

I slowly walked. What am I going to do? Coach waved for me to hurry. My teenage life flashed before me. I will never live this down. The smell was worsening. It would be impossible for the team not to notice. The very thought of it made me sick. Wait! That's it! I grabbed my stomach with one hand and, for good measure, my mouth with the other. "I'm going to be sick!" I shouted. Then, I ran for the lockers. Well, I didn't run; it was more like I walked with urgency. I sped through the hall with carefully measured steps. If my stench was an officer in the Army, it just got promoted from captain to colonel. The lockers were just around the corner. I turned the corner and couldn't believe my eyes. I dashed back out of sight. No freaking way! Charlotte! The love of my life! She didn't see me. I'm sure of that. She was searching through her locker and was too preoccupied to notice me. What should I do? I peeked back at her, then darted back. She was coming this way. I looked around. I couldn't run fast enough to reach the other side of the hall before she went around the corner. She'd see me. And worse, smell me. I spotted a janitorial closet only a few feet away. I turned the handle, praying like Billy Graham that it wasn't locked. It opened! I ducked in and quietly shut the door. I heard her humming some Taylor Swift song, but when she passed my door, she blurted out, "Oh, I'm going to be sick. Did a toilet back up?" I could hear her start to run. Once her steps faded, I cracked open the door and ensured the hall was clear. I tiptoed to the corner and looked to see if the path to the lockers was free. It was. So, throwing caution to the wind and a horrible aroma, I ran to the locker door, opened it, and dived into the nearest toilet stall. I took a deep breath, which was a mistake, but it didn't diminish my feeling of peace. I made it. No one will know. I stripped out of my uniform and began to clean up. "Achoo!" I froze. Someone sneezed only a couple of stalls from me. I silently sat, completely naked, contemplating what to do, when the other guy's toilet flushed. He opened his stall and walked past mine. "Man alive, dude. Have you ever heard of a courtesy flush?" He washed his hands. "When you dump, you flush. Do us all a favor next time," he said before exiting the locker room. I put on my jersey and popped out of my stall. I hurriedly washed my shorts and dried them under a hand dryer. I kept eying the door. I really didn't know how to explain why I was butt-naked from the waist down. Fortunately, I never had to. Once my shorts were dry, I put them on. Next, I half emptied the trash can of discarded paper towels and threw away my underwear. I then repacked the used paper towels on top of the offensive garment. Finally, the ordeal was over, and the only consequence was going commando for a while. I was elated. Well, there was one more consequence. The locker room smelled like crap. But it's a consequence I can live with because no one can trace it back to me. I returned to the bench, smelling a bit like hand soap. We were in the fourth quarter and leading by fifteen points. Coach sat beside me, "Feeling better?" "Yes, Coach," I said. "Was it something you ate?" "I'm pretty sure it was."

"You know? Michael Jordan scored sixty-three points when he got food poisoning." So, my night ends this way: I'm a man if I return or a wimp if I sit out. After everything I went through, it was so unfair to be judged this way. I hung my head and stared at the floor. Coach got up and went back to his seat. I wanted to defend myself – to declare victory for conquering a lifetime of shame. I wanted to say, "Well, yeah! But at least Jordan still had his underwear."


This was the day that George Elliot dies. He is a survivor in many ways. He was in Special Forces in the military. He did undercover work for the FBI. He was now a freelance real estate agent and part time investigator for the local police. The investigator bit gave him access to locations and information, while the real estate job was more of the bill payer. But all this training would not help him avoid his fate. Instead, it would help him reach it. It took George three hours of nonstop driving to reach the cabin. It was a little purchase he made for himself as a place to get away from everything. And now he needed to get away more than ever. He hadn’t had time to fix it the way he wanted. In fact, the cabin was mostly bare. It had a few things that George felt were most important; a cot, a change of clothes, a towel, and a few firearms. What it did not have was electricity or and connection to the outside world. These both were choices to help distance himself from the hustle and bustle of the world. Now, in the midst of Winter, George was happy to make it to the cabin. He turned off the truck and waited for a few minutes. He took time to look around, through the windows and through the mirrors. He wanted to make sure there was nothing outside to surprise him. The last minute, George cracked the window, closed his eyes, and took a few slow breaths. As the bitter cold crept through the opening, George slowed his body and became one with the arctic conditions. As the frigid air filled his lungs, he slowly opened his eyes and exited the truck. George only had a couple hours of daylight left and there were things that he had to accomplish before night fell. He slung on the coat he was carrying and grabbed the bag off the passenger seat. Once at the door of the cabin, George dropped the bag and walked to the back of the cabin. Behind the cabin was a stack of quartered logs that were there before he bought the place. He grabbed several logs and took them to the front door and dropped them by the bag before going back for another armful. He finished grabbing enough wood to get him through the night and went inside the cabin. The cabin was small and had only three separate rooms. One room was a toilet. One room was a bedroom, and the main room was a living area and kitchen combination. In the corner of the large room closest to the bedroom was a large stone fireplace which had a brick oven above it and opened into the bedroom as well. George went over to the hearth and placed a few pieces of the wood in the opening. With a large knife which he produced from under his jacket, George shaved away some fibers from one log and stuffed the fibers into some of the holes in between the logs. He took a lighter to the fibers and within a minute, a nice blaze warmed the cabin. George watched the fire for another minute before continuing his preparations. The windows were already boarded on both the outside and inside of the cabin, but George needed to secure the front door. In order to do so, he had to remove the bathroom door and attach it to the front door. He removed some tools from his bag and within five minutes, he had secured the second door to the front door. Nothing was getting into the cabin, and George wasn’t getting out. George went back into the bathroom and reached around the toilet as if giving it a hug. With a little twist, George moved toilet to the side and set it down gently. Behind the toilet where the tank rested, was a panel which George began to pull at. He tugged it loose and set it to the side. He reached into the bottom of the hole in the wall. His hand came out with a thick rope in it and tension continuing down in the wall. His hands started alternating and pulling at the rope until a large flat box appeared at the top of the hole. George finished pulling the box out and he set it on the floor with a thud. After replacing the panel and toilet, he took the box to the main room and looked at his watch. He had a few hours and decided it was best to take a little nap. As he slept, George dreamt about the day’s events. He began his day in his house in the city. As he left his house, George looked around the sidewalks and watched as two dozen people or more were being swallowed by dark shadows. He ran to his office building and when he pulled open the door, there was nothing inside except shadows and tiny stars. He jumped onto the top of the building and watched the street below. The people George saw get attacked by shadows were back on the streets, but each person that they passed were in turn attacked and torn apart by the shadow people. From the rooftop inside his dream, George watched as more and more people were killed by the shadow people. When the last person was attacked, all the shadow people turned and looked at the rooftop and directly into George’s eyes. This was when he woke up. George threw a few more logs on the fire before giving his attention to the box. A great smile spread across his face as he opened the box which contained an assortment of guns and a couple rifles. The remainder of the space in the box was used to stockpile ammunition for the weapons. He took each weapon out and inspected, loaded, and cocked it. After, he placed each one strategically throughout the main room. From his bag, George took a belt which held ten grenades and draped it over his shoulder. Throughout the cabin, George had prepared for situations like the one that he would soon face. On each wall and in each room, he had cut an opening near the ceiling. Afterwards, George had gone back through and placed a carved wooded plug to fill the hole. Each one appeared to be a decorative piece of the cabin. It was at each of these areas that George had placed one of the firearms. A total of eight places where he could access views of the outside. Under each one was a niche that he could use to lift himself to sight level with the holes. His final part of the plan was to lock the truck and set the alarm. He reached into his pocket and with a squeeze, a chirp could be heard from outside of the cabin. George sat motionless with his back on the center of the front wall. He was now ready. It was the middle of the night before the alarm of the truck started to go off. Immediately, George reached into his pocket and squeezed a button. Instantly, there was an explosion that came from outside. Although there was a sealed wall between him and the outside, George still felt the impact of the explosion as dust fell from the ceiling. Without a second hesitation, George made his way to the first niche and pulled the plug from the wall to get a glimpse of the outside. The moon reflected enough light to make the snow on ground glow. He saw a human shape attached to the driver side of the flaming truck. In the brush to the passenger side was another figure charred and motionless. Phase one of his plan was a success. George picked up the rifle and placed it through the hole. Through the scope, he could see some motion a football field away. It was the distressed motions of the shadow people. They moved fast and sporadic. He targeted one up as it moved towards the cabin and gently pulled the trigger. The first shot hit at the shoulder and the arm dropped limply to the side. Quickly, George chambered another round and shot again. This time, he hit the woman in the left eye, and a pink mist shot into the air and the body of the woman dropped to the ground. George looked at the body through the scope and watched as it twitched a couple times and then stopped all motion. He looked around and saw another shape running towards him. He targeted the head and hit the man in a business suit in the side of the neck. Blood immediately squirted into the air in pulses. He pulled the hammer back again, putting a round in the chamber. As the form increased in size, he let another bullet fly and this one tore threw the man’s nose and dropped him to the snow. George looked around again but saw nothing. He knew there were many more shadow people, but he only destroyed four of them. It was only a few seconds of silence before he heard a loud scratching coming from outside the bedroom. George plugged the hole and went to the back room and stood climbed up to the hole in there. He removed the wooden plug and looked out. As he did, a blood-shot eye popped up from below and made George fall back hard to the floor. He tried to get up as quickly as he could, but he found it hard to move when the air gets knocked out of the lungs. He struggled and managed to get to his feet. He grabbed the pistol from the ground and stretched his arm up to the hole and pointed the gun through the hole. When he fired the pistol, the force caused the gun to fly out of his hand and tumble to the ground. From outside, he heard a howl of terror as the bullet hit a target. George grabbed the gun and wedged himself into the niche. When he looked outside, he saw several forms on the outskirts of his vision. There were two directly in front of him, one of which laid motionless on the ground. George quickly took the pistol and aimed it at the other that was closing in on the hole George was peering out of, He squeezed off two rounds of the semi-automatic into the woman’s skull. She flew backwards as both bullets popped her head. One eyeball dangled by a cord like the ball at the end of a paddleball. It was then that he noticed the group that was mounting an assault on the boards protecting the window of the bedroom. There were at least six figures slithering in unison at the boards. A few seconds later, George heard the glass breaking behind the boards on the inside. The beasts were making their way through the outside boards. George took a leap from his post and aimed at the boards protecting the window from the inside. He shot a random shot and it knocked a board in half. He reached onto his belt and pulled two grenades from the belt, releasing the pins as he yanked them off. With careful aim, George tossed the grenades one at a time into the hole of the shielded window. He quickly ran towards the front door and a second later, an explosion rang through the air causing his ears to give off a streaming squeal of their own. He looked back toward the room. His vision was blurred. He saw smoke pouring off the ceiling into the main room. There were signs of motion in the form of shadows that danced from the flames of the burning wood of the window covering. There was a sharp pain in his back. He reached to where the pain was and brought back his hand covered in blood. George grabbed another grenade and tried to throw it towards the opening of the room. It hit the ground and rolled inside the room before creating another blast. George crawled to the farthest wall that he could and grabbed two pistols off the ground. He held one in each hand and aimed them both at the area that was the bedroom. After a few minutes, his hearing began to clear and his vision along with it. George remained sitting in that same position for the next twenty minutes before giving way to darkness. When he came through, he was lying face-down in the back of an ambulance. There was no medic in the back with him. Instead, there was a man wearing a nicely fitted suit. The man handed him a card. The card had the words, “Scott Francis, Relocation Specialist” printed on it. “You, my friend, have created quite an issue.” The man spoke with a strange kindness in his words. “There are twenty, to twenty-five bodies scattered across your land. Most of them were officers. They believe you were drugged.” “Wait, what?” His voice was harsh and pained but George was confused. “I have received your information, and someone believes you need a second chance at life.” A smile spread across the man’s face. “George Elliott is dead, along with several other people. Inside this envelope is the information that you will need to get a fresh start.” “What do you mean?” George softly croaked. “You will have everything you need to start a new life, Frank . We will be in touch.” And with that, the man exited the back of the moving ambulance.


“The day my reality faded away” I discovered our photograph under my bed, rusty at the edges and partly ripped, unloved, undesired, and abandoned. I picked it up. My gaze was fixed on your delightful grin, as your hands wrapped over my shoulders, drawing me in closer for the photograph. I couldn't look at the blinding twinkle in your eyes and flipped the photo to discover a few sentences scribbled, invoking profound emotions in me.

I remember you taking photographs wherever you went and anytime you wanted. You would always have the same excitement to take pictures, especially mine, whether it was as simple as walking or as elaborate as modeling for it. You were so focused on the photos you never realized my eyes would always wander away from the camera to you. I have never said it. I loved all of your little quirks, the way you push an out of place strand of hair from your face, and curl your lips, mirth dancing in your eyes at my clumsy stance and awkward smile, how your slender fingers would curve around the camera while you would excitedly show the images.  My childhood is filled with memories of you - your tiny hands wiping my tears away, pulling my lips into a grin, and your giggle filling me with complete delight. I had always been speechless in front of you. I would constantly listen and immerse myself in your buoyant speech, to the point that I forgot where I was, let alone remembering to respond. I remember when you determinedly asked me to enjoy the heroes of a movie rather than the evil. “Why would you like such a character? He is bad; he steals and curses.” You had said, cutely covering your mouth in surprise at my choice. “Why should I root for the heroes? I'll like anyone I want.” I declared emphatically. You exhaled, blew your hair out of your face, and pushed your lips together in a thin line. “If you admire the hero, we will have something in common, and we'll be best friends for life.” You claimed and I believed you, believed in your forever, and I began to like the hero – the good guy. Even now a chuckle escapes my dry throat. We were just kids. All we wanted was to stay together forever. But neither did we then nor when we aged knew how brief that eternity would be. I remember you, standing alongside me with an unwavering tenacity fighting everyone who dares make me cry, and trying to reassure that I can love anyone I choose, whether it a girl, a boy, or even a villain and no one can call me wrong.

I remember you holding my hands and bringing me wherever you wished to. Whenever you needed company for shopping or eating, you would declare it a girl’s day and gladly nibble on the meat with me sitting in front of you, smiling like a buffoon. For me, they were our unofficial dates, a fantasy that would remain only in my dreams and imagination.

I remember how you would always stand in the front of the bike and act as if you were the one driving it. You were just five when you had uttered those words. “Don’t worry! I am here. I’ll take you to your destination safely.” I had nodded in agreement sitting on the back seat while my father chuckled at our naivety.

We were worry-free and happy. Our words had their innocence and our laugh had their merriment. If I could wish for something, I would like time to freeze in my childhood and never let me grow into an adult. I remember our first movie together, our first day at college, our first party, and our first cooked meal. It had been 20 years since the little feeling called love started growing in me. Everything you did was admirable, beautiful and you left me in a trance waiting for your love to pull me back. But I never thought I would actually get what I wished for. It was just a usual day, we were watching a movie, snuggling to the warm blankets with a hot chocolate at both our sides. Whenever I bit my nails unconsciously, your hand would come right down to smack it away. You’d have a scowl on your face, with your eyebrows furrowed. But even then all I could look at was your dark brown eyes glistening to the light of the television. Your nostrils flared and after some time of repeating my actions, you finally turned off the movie and gave your full attention to me. Your mouth opened for a heated speech and you were going into a long rant but all I did was grin, remembering our childhood. “It’s a waste of time talking to you. Why even bother.” you had said shaking your head and biting your lips in controlled anger. But before you could walk out of the room I had pulled you back inside the blankets. “It's cold. Just stay here.” I had mumbled. You had protested a bit still frowning. But you soon settled in and slowly your hands curled around my waist, hugging me like a koala. I chuckled and wrapped my hands around you. You were warm, soft, and comfortable. I may have slipped into a deep slumber if we weren’t staring intensely at each other.

It was too soon when I broke the eye contact and turned to the other side. I was nervous, my hands were clammy and my heart pounding hard.

What should I do? I could feel you lying beside me but there was complete silence in the room except for my heavy breathing.

“Will you go on a date with me?” you asked. And we were together since then. We had shared all our days with each other yet why did I never notice your smile shorten each day? Why did I not understand the lost twinkle in your eyes meant your unspoken grief? You had your stress at work, and we had our fights at home and discrimination to face from society. You were the strongest person I knew, but I never thought my pillar could also one day collapse. I had never seen you cry after we got into a relationship. Did you really have to act stronger in front of me? Sometimes I think we should have remained as friends. Then these memories wouldn’t have been tainted by your blood, then you wouldn’t have left me alone to grieve. Some days, I would sit in solitude and relive the horrible memories, allowing me to feel like a thousand needles piercing my body. I would not say I deserved it, but I have the strength to bear it and the resolve, some call it courage, to go through with it only to feel a slight upward curve of my lips at an abysmal amount of laughs or jokes that now seem numerous. There were times when I was eager to create a homemade photo album with all of the lovely images that captured my delight so wonderfully. You were my photographer and I was your model. However, those albums might have turned to ashes blazing in your pyre. I still cannot comprehend why you killed yourself. I want to understand but you aren’t here to tell your story. Instead, you chose to die peacefully forgetting our eternity, my love, and how I would listen to everything you have to say. I can’t look at these photos without the pain, the grief, the hate, and the fear consuming me. You were my happiness. But then why am I scared of you? Why did you leave me hollow? Things were headed in the right direction. Then why did you change their path? You had troubles, I was with you yet you left me helpless. You brought the light to me but it was you who took it away too. Now I am here with the realization. You were never real, never were supposed to be forever. All I want to be is selfish and bring your memories back even if to be left hurt. You got freed, caging me forever. I am sorry that I hate you. I am sorry!


Raven's breath had become fast-paced. She was feeling very dizzy. Faint screams were banging off in her brain, echoing with every word she spoke. She held up a shaky finger and yelled at her mother, "PLEASE don't mention the sea to me! How many times do I have to tell you? Why don't you listen?" Her mom shifted guiltily. "I'm sorry, honey. But it would be better if you just tell me why I-" Raven got up from her bed, menacingly crossed her bedroom, and put her face close to her mom's. She spoke with a deadly tone. "Get out of my room. Now." Her mom silently exited the room, and Raven flopped back on the bed, shivering violently. She buried her face deep in the soft bedcovers, crying inconsolably. Her parents had been planning a trip to a special place- or that is what they told her- for the vacations. Raven was pretty excited on imagining the distant countries she thought they were travelling to. Tingles ran down her toes excitedly whenever she thought about it. She had already started packing very early, even though she did not know what kind of climatic conditions she was going to face. All of this cheerful buzz lasted only for a couple of weeks, though. Her mother had come into her room this morning to finally reveal to her the place they were visiting. The seaside. The beach. For any individual, it would have been a blessing, right? But not for her. Now, Raven had a horrendous trauma attached to the vast depths of water. Peeking into its very depths scared her. Something had happened three years ago which had scarred her for life. However, she never told anybody the reason why she despised water bodies. Her parents had thought that a little exposure to water would help her overcome her fear, but when she was told where they were going, she flared up instantly. Her body's reaction was most peculiar. Even though her face and words suggested that she was being tough, her body had started shaking instantly, and her fisted palms clammy with sweat. A strange and faint sound of screaming had started ringing in her head. "She must have nearly drowned once, that's all," her father said to her mother reassuringly. "Why don't we try once more?" But no amount of persuasion was going to move her. Instead, her screams became shriller and she closed her ears with her hands. "Don't, just don't... why do you mention the sea to me? Get out!" she roared, almost on the verge of tears. **** The next day, while she was at school, giving her examination, her mom decided to clean the house. She sighed. Raven's refusal at point blank had brought all their plans crashing down. It was better to tidy up a little if her husband was going to cancel the plane tickets. She started off by cleaning the bedrooms. Their bedrooms were pretty neat generally, but when she entered Raven's room, it was a scene of complete chaos. Apparently, the girl had attempted to smash every single object present there. She had partly succeeded too, judging by a dozen ripped cushions. Her mother shook her head and started cleaning up. The beanbag was a total wreck. On and on and on she went with her cleaning, and when the room had been cleared, she started with the regular dusting of shelves. However, when she reached to pull out the books to clean the cupboards, her hands brushed along the cover of a journal. "My Most Momentous Moments Maiming My Mind...? Seriously, what kind of titles does Raven give her journals? Ah- this is about the school trip to..." Something snapped into place in her mind. "... the seaside." She set the duster down and flipped through the pages. The whole journal was very ordinary, but there was a piece of paper in the last titled, 'Not so Nice'. She opened it. By the time her eyes reached the end of the page, her fingers were visibly shaking. Tears were streaming down her eyes. It read: On the fifth day of the trip, we were told that we would first go to the local markets and then play by the beach. We were to participate in a sandcastle competition, but I was pinned up against the worst girl in my class, Cecilia. She is more than just a pain in the neck. Well, I couldn't back down from such a challenge, but I feared she would win because she has always been an expert with sand. I was worried, so I wanted to shake her up a bit to tell her that she had to lose, otherwise I would bully her for the rest of the term. As soon as we were released to the beach, I put my plan into action. I invited all our girl classmates to swim with a rubber float, so they agreed. There were several floats, so I urged Cecilia to take one. She's not a good swimmer, so I had my chance. I went underwater (I swim marvelously), and pulled her down. I myself rose to take fresh gulps of air and waited for her to shriek for help. But no sound came. I dived in again, but she was nowhere to be found. Even when I called for help, there was no trace of her. **** When Raven returned from school, her mom truthfully told her that she had read the note. The girl was terrified at first, and then started weeping. "Mum," she cried. "Cecilia's alive. I found her walking on the streets a few weeks ago." "That's a relief," her mom inhaled deeply, relieved. "So, when are you going to apologize?" Raven looked at her as if she was joking. "I can't face her now, mum. She probably hates me." "Just try," he mother cajoled her. "I bet she doesn't have any mean feelings." **** Sunday, August 30. Raven's mother lightly sipped her coffee, reading the newspaper. She smiled to herself. Her daughter was ringing the doorbell to Cecilia's house at the moment with a gift and a letter in her hands.