Something Ive been writing for a couple of months. I'd really love some feedback! The story is kinda long. “Vinse Hannibal et non seppe usar' poi / Ben la vittoriosa sua ventura” -Petrarch, Sonnet 82 For a while now, there has been a beautiful woman named Eva. But everyone who knows Eva simply calls her “The Mannequin," owing to her astonishing beauty. Photographers from across the world have captured her soul thousands of times. She appears in magazines and medicine commercials, smiling and poised like a statue. Armies of photographers keep watch over her with soldierly diligence. Their mission is to catch her every pose. The seasons cycle passed her at a lethargic pace, while she sighs in boredom. Day after sickly dying day searches for room to bury itself in the skyline outside the studio window. The Mannequin wants nothing more than to be taken out of time: an almost-sexual experience to stem the hole which slowly drains her resolve out on the cold linoleum floor of the studio. Uncaring, the stiff-faced photographers illuminate her figure with their solar camera flashes. The camera shutters click, over and over. Meanwhile, she poses forlornly on a couch to make ends meet. It occurs to The Mannequin that she's forgotten what butterflies feel like. She thinks to herself that she's been caught in the monotony of the fashion world for too long, and she lets out another sigh. Her sapphire eyes finish their seductive gaze to contemplate the freezing, cream-colored floor. Her painted lips curl into a frown. She is lonely, but the photographers refuse to notice. Instead, their bulky professional cameras flash rapidly, irradiating the set like stars outlining her night black satin dress. They grunt like apes and cackle like hyenas, shuffling their feet around her with unyielding stares. The Mannequin can rarely see the studio past the line of photographers. They have her cornered. She is confined to a prison of human walls. Because of this, some of the photographers with a better eye for the camera shiver with orgasmic delight. They notice her captivity through their camera lenses, and they grin like newlywed grooms. She does not speak their language, nor does she share an eye for exploitation. The Mannequin knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. In the past, the Mannequin had dreams of being free. She thought that she saw ways out, cracks in the human wall that encases her. She’d marvel at glimpses of freedom, collecting the thin beams of white light that crawled through the prison walls and excitedly leapt to her eyes. The Mannequin would lose herself in such wild daydreams. Her mind wandered like a nomad on the Siberian steppe. She dreamt that she could transform into an agile mouse who could navigate the labyrinth of cold and shuffling loafers on the studio floor. But this was futile, only possible in the painted universe of the mind. As shape-shifting was hopeless, she dreamt up elaborate schemes and daring escape plans. She told herself stories of an intense battle with the photographers. One by one she’d beat them with their tripods and bite their makeup-caked faces, tearing off dry chunks of flesh until the parasitic vampires bled to death. But those too were dreams, and nothing more. The Mannequin thought these things were unfitting of her: so grievously barbaric that she couldn’t fathom acting on her daydreams. She couldn't imagine leaving. This was the photographers’ goal. They guarded her with vigilance, ensuring her dreams stayed up in her head and out of her hands. She would never leave them. “Miss, we need you to stand.” barked a round and sweaty tomato of a man. The Mannequin noticed breadcrumbs and bits of strawberry stuck in his unkempt beard. Her eyes wandered down to the camera strap on his swollen red neck. She wished it was a noose. The Mannequin stood up straight like she was told. She shrunk her hands into fists, sternly placing them on her hips. Head held high, she rolled her eyes away from the blinding camera flashes. The photographers eagerly scattered around her to capture her poses. She felt powerless to defy them in any other way. The Mannequin noticed it was difficult to move her legs. Her heart began to beat with the rhythm of a nervous drum. She shivered slightly, but she didn't know why. The Mannequin does not know herself. She knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. Her eyes began trickling tears, and she sighed for the third time that morning. The Mannequin began to feel the weight of her head upon her neck. A bubbly glaze filled her perception, like her skull was full of ginger ale. She was very dizzy. More tears welled in her eyes and drowned them in a pool of sorrow. Her legs felt unable to support her weight a second longer, and her hands softly unclenched. Her knees buckled under the weight of her form, and the Mannequin collapsed. She lay limp and unconscious on the studio floor. The photographers collectively shrieked like rabbits being torn apart by falcons. They leapt around in a frenzy, beating their chests like apes and crying confusedly like children abandoned in a supermarket. In a dream she opened her eyes. The Mannequin laid on a grassy slope in a vast field. A serpentine blue ribbon unwound down and around gentle green slopes, humming a soothing white hiss. It sprayed cool droplets upon the rocks and crevices around its belly. Scaly fish flickered in and out of the humid haze, scattering the Sun's rays with silvery cyan scales. In the distance, she saw towering rocks watching over the unkempt field. The cracked white crag cried a millennium of human tears onto the riverbed below. Millions of gallons poured forth onto helpless stones sanded from birth into smooth pebbles, weak enough to break with the hand of a strong man. Amidst the easy emerald pasture loomed a terrifying lighthouse. Water tumbled out from the windows in frantic flows filling full the rolling river below. The blue rope knotted itself around the lighthouse like a noose encircles a neck. A small rowboat sat tethered to a dock on the riverside. The Mannequin started towards it with a drive of curiosity that she couldn't place her finger on. The river flowed calmly into the endless garden, carving it up like a butcher to a pig. Turquoise threads traveled throughout the pasture like tentacles from an octopus, sucking away the leaves and trees with uncaring efficiency. The Mannequin watched as the river calmly carried multicolored flower pedals and bright green leaves on its back in a beautiful rainbow film that stretched across its surface. She rowed her boat through the kaleidoscope and her eyes teared at the thought of destroying such a sight. After quite a bit of rowing, she arrived at the lighthouse's dock. The Mannequin trudged over rocks to reach the door. She noticed it was detailed with a bronze plaque, engraved with the following: “We are laid asleep / In body, and become a living soul: / While with an eye made quiet by the power / Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, / We see into the life of things.” -William Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey The Mannequin looked at the engraving with a puzzled complexion. She knocked on the door and found it open, with stairs leading down an impossible depth. She started her descent into the darkness of the lighthouse. Following what seemed like an eternity, she reached a door at the bottom of the stairs. Just as with her wall of photographers in the studio, small pylons of light leapt out through the edges of the doorframe and climbed onto her eyes. She opened the door. Mounted upon the drywall next to the door was a small plastic bottle of crystalline hand sanitizer. Beside the hand sanitizer was a red plastic bin. It was filled with needles, and the bin seemed shrunken and boxy too. The Mannequin felt like a Barbie doll in a playhouse. She thought that she recognized the room as a doctor’s office. Her stomach growled quietly, and she felt a discomfort rise into her throat. The Mannequin realized that she hadn’t eaten at all that day. She recalled the morning's breakfast cart at work. The caterers bring in wide arrays of breakfast foods each day: tart pineapple slices, sweet oranges, bright green apples, firm strawberries, and a different dish each day: yesterday, bagels. Today, the caterers brought in soufflés. The Mannequin woke up later than usual. She sleeps on a small and lumpy bed in a little closet that grows out from the studio like an ugly mole. Loud noises scare the photographers, so she doesn't keep an alarm. This morning, no one had bothered to wake her. For this, she was partially thankful. Her loneliness keeps her awake until the early hours of the morning, and consequently she doesn't get much sleep. Her well-rested bliss was quickly interrupted when she met the morning breakfast cart. It had been raided to its metal bones. Food scraps littered the floor in an apocalyptic mess. She scoured the lower rungs of the cart for any surviving bits of breakfast, but all she could find was a chocolate soufflé wrapped in thin black paper. Her soufflé hadn't risen properly, and she found it far too sweet for her tastes. The Mannequin decided not to eat breakfast that morning, and she went to adorn her night satin dress. Back in the doctor's office, her eyes wandered to the large plastic clock hanging on the wall. Its narrow black hands began to express noon as her attention sharply turned to the door. Then the doorknob began to rattle. The office door slowly rolled on its hinges with a loud creak. It reluctantly came to a halt several inches from the door frame. A small and bony hand grasped the rotting wooden slab, shaking like an old man scared of death. Whether it shook out of fear or age, she couldn’t tell. The Mannequin knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. Perhaps she was projecting. “Right. What do we have here?” croaked an ancient voice. It radiated across the room in a sweet and slackening tone. A spotted head peeked into the examination room. His wrinkly dome was covered in bleach-white relics of a forest of hair. There was a pause for several seconds, a space filled with such confusion that there was no room for words. “Where am I?” she pleaded. The Mannequin’s eyes examined him cautiously. His forehead was scarlet and sweaty. The overhead lights made the man's cheeks glimmer, and a rose-colored hue that spilt over to his nose flushed the man's porous skin. His nose, she thought, was thick and swollen. Timid beads of sweat trickled down his face, but his warm smile spelt no signs of exhaustion. She mused to herself that he looked like a cherry. “What do you mean?” asked the man. His snowy mustache twisted somewhat as he bit his upper lip. The old man set down his ancient wooden clipboard with shaky hands and he cocked his head at her in a gesture of confusion. Then she froze for a moment. Neglecting to reply, The Mannequin examined the stubby man before her. He wore an ancient lab coat covered in fruity stains. His coat's breast pocket was embroidered with the name Puglisi in small cursive text. Taking note of her bewilderment, Dr. Puglisi began to counsel her again. “Well, miss?” he begged inquisitively “The lighthouse. Where are we?” “Yes; We’re in a lighthouse.” he joked “Is something amiss?” “Never mind.” she mumbled. A focus in her eyes illuminated a moment of shy embarrassment. The Mannequin shifted back onto a cushion against the wall. “Right.” Dr. Puglisi said, “What can I help you with today?” “I can’t recall how I got to the field outside.” she muttered with hesitation. “No memory at all?” he replied “None.” “Hmmm” he grunted as he picked up his clipboard. Then the doctor quickly began to scribble notes with a rotted old pencil. “Can you tell me what you do remember?” “Well,” she began, “the last thing I recall, I was at work, and I felt very ill.” She shook her head and gently shrugged her shoulders. Dr. Puglisi continued to feverishly note her condition. “Miss..” he said, his voice drifting as he flipped through papers on his clipboard “Eva.” she replied firmly for the first time that day. “Right. Have you been in an accident recently? Did you hit your head?” “No, why?” “I’m just doing my job” he replied as he continued to make notes, “how are you feeling today?” Her eyes began to water again. With hot tears rolling down her cheeks The Mannequin struggled to open her mouth and speak. “Well...” she began, trying so hard to control her sobbing. The doctor locked his inquisitive eyes on her, expressing a level of intrigue she knew too well. Perhaps, this time, it was with a different motivation than what she was accustomed to. "I feel so horribly exhausted.” she sobbed “It’s the sort of feeling you get when you can't eat anymore. And yet, there's still food on your plate. I grapple with the feeling that this life doesn’t belong to me." Dr. Puglisi faced his sobbing patient in silence. His eyes wandered down towards the floor, and then he tapped his shoe on the linoleum tile, over and over in spidery bursts. “Hmmm.” he grunted again, placing his hands on his hips. The ceiling lights overhead hummed electric hymns. He passively watched her rub her reddened eyes with tight fists. “I’m sorry about this” she said With unsteady hands the doctor reached into his coat pocket, and then he furnished her with a white handkerchief. Reluctantly, she trained her eyes on him and accepted. The doctor smiled warmly. She smiled back in the same fashion. “Where do you work?” he inquired with a relaxing sweetness. “I’m a model.” “Why don’t you quit?” The Mannequin’s eyes stared somber at the floor. She crossed her hands and set them in her lap. The overhead sodium lights continued their buzzing, and Dr. Puglisi rested his pen in his breast pocket. In the light of the doctor's office, the pair faced each other with sewn lips. There was a pause for several seconds, a space filled with such little confusion that there wasn't any need for words. Then Dr. Puglisi broke the quiet blanket wrapped around them to demonstrate his understanding. "Hmmm" he grunted. "Money is money, I suppose." "A couple of months ago," she replied. "I signed a contract in the hope that I could pay for my mother's funeral expenses." "I see." he added, "But that's over now." "She's been in the ground for nearly a year." "I'm sorry." he muttered indifferently. "We weren't very close." "She is your mother." "Exactly." she contended. The Mannequin's eyes drooped down to engage with the floor. She had an especially sad gaze. Dr. Puglisi's calm medical visage remained unbroken. "Don't blame yourself" he added. "There is no justice in car accidents" she sighed, "Enough about this." "When does your contract expire?" he begged. "In a couple of months. They like to keep me in the studio around the clock." "I'm sure that they wouldn't mind if you visited the doctor's office." "Someone will reprimand me, I'm sure." "I think you need to start sending out resumes" he joked. Before she knew it, The Mannequin began to cry again. Her eyes drooled fountains of slim tears. The Mannequin's face flushed with the doctor's cherry red hue behind her hands. "Doctor, why do I feel so sad?" "Is it your mother?" he begged, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I think it was at first. But it's grown so much since she passed, and every day the thought of her death hurts less and less." "Your job, then." "I want to leave them," she cried "but it's so unlike me and how I've treated them since I started work there." "Tell me" he began, "First of all, how do they treat you?" "As if I'm not even human!" she exclaimed, "I can't leave the studio, I can't talk, I have to stand like a statue, unmoving for hours at a time." "Hmmm" he remarked, jotting notes on his clipboard, "Second, how do you respond?" "As politely as the situation allows, of course!" she replied. Her tone was stern for the second time that day. "Finally, do you have freedom?" "Yes.” she declared, "Of course there is. All humans have free will.." "Interesting." he responded, clicking his pen to a close and placing it gently in his breast pocket. "I believe I have a diagnosis." he smiled. "I'm listening." "You don't have any teeth" he gasped. The doctor's mouth began to sputter like an old car exhaust. He laughed heartily and collapsed to the floor. Laying on his back, the doctor continued to cackle. "Doctor!" she exclaimed in a moment of utter confusion. "What's so funny?" Dr. Puglisi's laughing fit was interrupted by sudden choking. The Mannequin felt a balloon form in her mouth. The pair vomited teeth, and the doctor's incessant giggle grew in intensity. It was intermittently interrupted by choking and coughing. Tooth after tooth poured from his mouth into a mound on the cold floor next to his head. The Mannequin screamed in horror, and she resumed her cascade of tears. Her tongue pressed something hard and sharp up against the roof of her mouth. In the same fashion, she began to spit out her teeth, only she wasn't laughing. In the foggy dream, her choppy sobs seemed to merge with the yellow buzzing of the overhead lights. Her red face swirled and blurred with the sodium glow. Dr. Puglisi's white lab coat melted into the creamy floor tiles. The essence of the blue cushion bred with the endless black of her satin dress. All the colors in the room seemed to swirl into a kaleidoscopic palette around her. The hues danced around one another in galloping loops. Seconds smoothed Dr. Puglisi's haunting laugh into sweet chocolate symphonies. The Mannequin felt weightless, unbounded. Her terror was heightened to the uncut raw acidity of feeling that's only attainable in a dream. The orchestra of laughs tumbled over itself. At first, certain sections sped ahead of each other, until minutes later every instrument in the ensemble played a different tune. The bright hues of the doctor's office mixed into earthy tones. Her cherry red complexion and the lemon yellow lights became a deep pumpkin orange. The blueberry cushion dissolved into her black dress to concoct the color of a night sky polluted by the lights of a sleepless city. Dr. Puglisi was many hues sewn into one patchwork. He melted into a black puddle that dispersed over the cool white floor and climbed the walls like ivy on a brick façade. The bottomless black grew to envelope the room. The black mass climbed The Mannequin's legs and up her figure. Suddenly the bustling city slept. She wept profusely. At last, her field of view was enveloped in perfect black and her ears filled with the discordant symphony of screams. The Mannequin opened her eyes. The Mannequin awoke to find herself laying on her stomach. She woke up with her head turned to the side and pressed up against the chilly linoleum floor. She saw the labyrinth of shuffling loafers once again. For fear that she might be stepped on, The Mannequin sat up. Without delay, her ears collected loud and childish screams. She thought the photographers' shrieks sounded like injured infants. In view of the army of loafers milling about the studio, she crawled back upon her knees. The Mannequin retreated to the couch to avoid the panicked mass of grown men with cameras. In consequence, the photographers noticed her movement. They halted immediately. By the time all of them had processed that The Mannequin has awoken, it was as if nothing at all had happened. The photographers resumed capturing her image where she sat. It was with great passion and fervor that they skittered about the hopeless model. She attempted to regain her senses, at once bewildered and frightened by the dream she had, and equally angry at her captors. In contrast, the photographers picked up their intrigue off the tile. They once more begged at her figure with cold and haunting inquisition. The Mannequin's face scrunched into an angry frown accordingly. "In due time," she thought "all will be well. I need patience." Her stomach growled for the second time that day. The Mannequin looked at the studio's lunch cart. She started towards it, but was quickly rebuked by the photographers. They shrieked their dying rabbit screams in an uncanny symphony. In spite of the haunting cacophony that filled the room, she continued to the food cart. The Mannequin felt her heart race. Her hands began to shake in fear. A photographer stumbled towards her like a baby learning to walk. She rushed back to the couch. Her stomach growled once more. The discomfort returned to her throat as it was in her dream. She felt the teeth in her mouth slowly slide passed each other like interlocking puzzle pieces. The gears ground together in her head and she stared at the line of photographers with unwavering sincerity. She wanted to eat. They ceased taking photos and stared back at her with an unsure retaliation. The Mannequin started towards the food cart again. The photographers growled and murmured amongst themselves. She grabbed a bag of chips and walked past the wall of photographers towards the studio door. The chimps began their howling and stomping. The Mannequin felt like a new person. Now Eva, she opened the door and walk outside for the first time in months. Eva quickly shut the door and turned away. Fists pounded on its thin wood frame and crying could be heard inside. Outside, the city overflowed with people who were too busy to notice her plight. She lifted a chip to her lips and her finger touched one of her teeth. Eva’s eyes began to water. She dropped the chip and clasped her hands together. A smile began to wiggle its way across her face. She had forgotten how exhilarating it feels to really smile. The former mannequin turned her head towards the cityscape. The lethargic pace of the studio had faded from her perception. Time seemed to speed up before her eyes. The sky flooded with the melancholy pale blue of winter. Then the sky's sea evaporated into the hot red desert of summer’s sunset. A cavernous empty feeling as black as her dress filled the sky in the ocean's absence. The Moon rose, and light shrank back into the street lamps and neon signs. She saw trees weep their leaves and claw at the dark emptiness above amid an uncaring city. “Help!” she could almost hear them cry, but no one above would reach back.


My neighbor recently got a new dog. I think it might be a Dutch Shepherd or a German Shepherd, I'm not sure. Beautiful dog. We have never been on the best of terms, my neighbor and me. A few years back one of his Catalpa trees was leaning over on to my property and making ingress and egress via my driveway difficult. I asked him to cut it down or have it remedied some other way, and he invited me to help him do it. He insisted he had experience as an arborist and could show me the right way to safely trim branches to prevent property damage and handle a chainsaw at height. Once I was in the tree he moved the ladder to ensure it wasn't damaged when the trimmed limbs came down and rather than passing the chainsaw up to me to "top" the high branches, he began cutting the tree at ground level. He couldn't hear me over the roar of the saw and stopped only to shout at me "Jump up and down!" and "Use your legs to get it swaying!" The tree came down and did some damage to my fence, which I repaired at my expense, and overall I just didn't feel as though I got much out of the experience. He got assistance removing his tree and I gained no valuable experience. After the tree experience we kind of drifted apart, though I would occasionally catch glimpses of him peering at me from one of his attic windows. I always sort of felt bad for the guy, like he was just staring over at a friend he wished he was closer to. I would meekly wave and he would just keep staring, clearly wishing we got along better. At any rate, at some point in the last six months he got a new dog. I think it might be a Dutch Shepherd, but I'm not sure. Beautiful dog. I have been working late hours so I don't think I saw it right when it arrived. The only reason I'm even aware he has the dog is a few weeks back I dragged my garbage out to the curb. Despite my best efforts to put on some weight, my time on the elliptical at the gym at work has actually only succeeded in slimming me down further. As such I got rid of some of my older sweater vests and corduroys that are now too roomy. I was taking the last bag out to the cans when I noticed a figure hunched over my garbage. I stopped halfway down the driveway and realized it was my neighbor. At first I thought the poor fellow must have really fell on hard times because he was pulling out some of my sweaters and my old Smokey the Bear hat (got a new one). He didn't notice me, and I was just stood there and watched him gather up his booty and hurry in to his back yard. When I followed over to my back fence and looked over, I caught my first glimpse of his new pupper. He had "Duke" tied up to a back fence post and looked to be in the middle of a training session of some kind. I felt better when I saw what my neighbor was using the old clothes for -- just as a training aid! He had made a rudimentary crash-test dummy out of burlap sacks filled with what looked like newspaper and shredded cardboard. I guess he wanted to give the dummy a more human appearance, because he put my old hat on its head and threaded its arms through my older sweater. When I looked closer I realized the dummy was actually wearing an old pair of my shoes as well. My neighbor was yelling "Go on! Get 'em Duke! Kill 'em!" and slowly letting Duke have more of the leash to get closer to the dummy. It was then that I noticed just how magnificent Duke is -- beautiful brindle coloring, strong leg muscles and pearly white teeth that locked down on the dummy's throat like a pair of huge shears -- really just exquisite dog. I think he might be a Dutch Shepherd. At any rate, what I'm wondering is if you think a Dutch Shepherd might be for me? I have been thinking of getting a pet for some time, to take along with me during my morning power walks. I tried to ask my neighbor for more information about the breed, but he insisted he doesn't have a dog and hurried off. I think he might be trying to avoid having his house insurance hiked.


My family often calls me a good boy. I like it when they say that, because it means I have their approval. And really, I take pride in knowing that they are proud of me. It means I have been a successful dog for the day. I’ve been with them for about five years now, and as the years go by, our bond only grows stronger. Every day, I wake up excited at the prospect of a fresh new day, another day to spend with my family, another day for me to shower them with as much love as possible, another day to make them feel proud and lucky to have me. I live in a heaven of treats and pats, hugs and cuddles, and my favourite, Frisbee games. Suffice to say that in return for all the love and care they have showered me with, I would love to be able to do something to make them proud. Something really big. Not just learning a new trick or something like that, but I mean really large scale, something ambitious. Huge. One of my favourite moments is cuddling up in Mommy’s lap while she’s watching TV, with no one else in the house but just the two of us. Although I do love the other members of my family as much as other dogs do, Mommy and I share a special bond. She was the one who proposed the idea of bringing me back from the shelter, or at least that’s what I heard Daddy imply when he begged her not to take in any more dogs because four children and a dog are more than he can handle. She was a little sad, but it’s okay because I’m the only dog she will ever need. Everyone calls me Cotton, except Mommy; she calls me Pompom, more out of habit than anything. She started doing that when they hadn’t gotten a name for me yet, and the youngest human finally decided I should be called Cotton, but I prefer Pompom because no one but Mommy calls me that. Lately, the idea of doing something big to make my family (especially Mommy) proud of me has become more and more persistent in my mind. Although I rack my brains daily, I simply can’t find a single thing. To be sure, learning new tricks would make them proud, bringing them gifts from my treasure store would make them happy, but these are the simple things. And I’m not saying that the simple things in life should be neglected, but day by day, the desire to do something spectacular grew bigger and more persistent. I became restless, pacing back and forth. Mommy got worried and thought I was getting sick – she almost brought me to the vet – but the small humans convinced her that I was just anxious about something. That was a narrow escape there. For months and months, in fact close to a year, I worried about this. There were times when I nearly convinced myself that I would never be able to truly make my family proud of me, and made Mommy extremely worried when I walked up to her and put my head in her lap, whimpering. To my horror, a tear fell out of my eye and dropped onto her lap. I certainly didn’t mean for that to happen! Then it happened. I was cosily curled up in Mommy’s lap as usual, a documentary playing on the TV, her fingers running through my fur and occasionally stroking my head, when the scene changed to a shot of the most beautiful collie I have ever seen. She was running, chasing several sheep, making them keep up with a whole group of sheep in front. “Meet Collie, a sheep herder in training,” said the narrator’s voice. He said some other things I don’t remember now, but then he started listing some other breeds that used to be herd dogs too. And then he said it. “Pomeranians, too, were once upon a time used as sled dogs, but over time, they started to become a status symbol. Known for their diminutive size, no one would have guessed that their ancestors used to pull sleds or even occasionally round up sheep.” And it was at that moment, I knew, right then and there, what I was going to be. I was going to be a herd dog. I would follow the path of my ancestors and restore their former glory. And more importantly, I would finally be actively useful in helping my family. I could help them to do things like the big, strong dog I would finally be. I would finally be a dog that they could be really proud of. Overcome with excitement, I jumped up and gave Mommy’s face a huge lick. She screamed a little. “Pompom, you scared me!” she chided. But for once, I didn’t care. She would be happy with my surprise. The thing is, where on earth would I get sheep to practice with? I certainly dared not beg the family for any. I wanted this to be a surprise. I wanted to take the wind out of their sails. But this was harder than I thought. In a city area, where do I find sheep? Rather despondently, I put my front paws up on the window seat, hoping to get a better view out of the window. Maybe some sheep would pass by, I thought. It was a ridiculous thought, I knew, but I had to try anyway. With a glimmer of faint hope, I watched and waited. And with each car that drove by outside, with each human that passed by on the pavement, that flickering flame of hope inside me became even dimmer. But still, I waited. And then another idea struck me. If unruly sheep could be herded…then why not… I quietly snuck out of the small flap at the bottom of the door that the previous owner of this house had left for his cat. It was a struggle, since it was a little small, but I managed to push through in the end. Finally, I ran out to the road outside. My first herding session! Wouldn’t everyone be proud of me! I waited at the traffic light crossing, and soon enough, a car came into view. Wasting no time, I jumped behind it and ran, barking madly. Wait. Why wasn’t it listening to my instructions? This isn’t what happened on TV. Not at all. After a while, it became tiring to keep up, so I turned around and ran in the opposite direction to go home. Blaring horns, a blinding flash of light, excruciating pain, then darkness. I awoke, surrounded by total darkness, with absolutely no clue of where I was. A shining figure approached me. Strangely, I didn’t feel afraid. I always was shy around strangers, but somehow this human – if he was human – made me feel at peace. Calm. “Pompom,” he said, firmly but kindly. I trembled. Who was he? No one but Mommy called me by that name. I bristled slightly. He chuckled slightly at my response. “Okay then, Cotton, if you will. Is there anything, one last wish, that you would like to fulfil before I introduce you to your new home?” “Yes, in fac-“ I stopped, taken aback. How…? The shining figure chuckled again. “Yep. You can now talk. So, what would you like to do?” Somehow, I was able to speak without getting tangled in my words. I’d never spoken in the human tongue before. But right now, there was only one priority in my mind, and it wasn’t being able to talk. Well, part of it was. But not really. I floated up to the shining man’s ear and whispered something. -- My husband’s shoulder had become a soaking wet mess as I buried my face in it, letting huge sobs escape me. “I’m sorry, ma’am…your dog unfortunately cannot be saved. His survival chances are less than 1%,” the surgeon informed us. “Are…are you sure?” my husband asked, his voice choking a little. The only response from the surgeon was a sad shake of the head. My family held a funeral for Cotton. To them, he was Cotton, but to me, he was my precious little Pompom, my adorable, playful little Pompom. After we’d said our final farewells, I lingered a little. “Pompom…I will always be honoured to have had you,” I whispered, a tear sliding down my cheek and gently falling onto his grave. As I finally turned away from Pompom’s final resting place, I could’ve sworn I heard the wind whisper back at me.


“Linda!” Tom said, without looking away from the television. “Bring me another beer!” She’d heard him but pretended not to, busying herself with the dishes. He had one too many already, she thought. The kids were already asleep and she didn’t want him getting out of hand. Not again. Not after last time. She touched the scar on her forehead and felt sick from the memory. “Linda!” She flinched this time. His heavy boots shook the house as he stomped into the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear me? Bring me another!” He stood in the doorway, arms stiff against the frame as if being held back. His eyes were locked on hers, wide and red and terrible. “Tom,” she said, backing into the corner of the kitchen. “There aren’t anymore. You drank them all.” She was lying and she hoped to god that he’d believe her. Before he got home, she dumped them all out back. She hoped they’d share one sober night but hadn’t accounted for him stopping at the bar before he’d gotten home. He stood there, silent, considering that possibility. After a moment, he turned and walked back into the living room without a word, apparently convinced he did indeed drink them all himself. Linda exhaled and loosened her grip on a knife she was holding behind her back. She was ready, but was grateful it went without use. She was hopeful now. Perhaps he could sober up and they could have something close to a normal night. She filled a glass of water, set it beside him and sat down on the other end of the couch. “What’s that for?” he said, never looking over at her. “Just thought I’d put it there in case you got thirsty, is all.” “I am,” he said, reaching for the glass. “But not for that.” His finger made contact with the rim and he tipped it over. Water sank slowly into the carpet. Linda stood to get a towel but before she took a second step, Tom stopped her. “Leave it.” Linda froze, unsure whether to just give up go and to bed or sit down and keep trying. Tom turned to look at her. “What are you doing, Linda? Why are you always so damn weird. Sit down or take your ass to bed, damn it.” Linda was tired. Her heart more than anything. She couldn’t understand how Tom didn’t see what he was doing to her. To their kids. Tears began to stream down her face. She was too tired to hold back. “What’s your problem, Linda? Huh? You are so damn uptight all the time.” “I hate this,” she said, finally able to get out a few words between sobs. “I hate what you’re doing to me! To our kids! You’re sick, Tom. This isn’t living! This isn’t a life!” Tom lunged at her. He was drunk enough that he stumbled onto the ground after she took a step back. “Fuck you, Linda. Come here! I’ve had it,” he said, straining to get to his feet. She looked down at him. Angry, yes, but also felt sorry for him. He wasn’t the man she’d met years ago. He used to be sweet and caring and honorable. The man before her was hollow. Just as he consumed the drinks, they too consumed his spirit. “I wish you’d die, Tom. I wish you’d just go away. I wish the devil would just take you!” Just as she finished the words, the lights flickered. Despite closed windows, cold air filled her lungs. A dark mist began to filter into the room from a window. She looked down at Tom. He was silent now, his face frozen in a scream but still reaching towards her. A snapshot of a clawing drunk. “I’d be happy to take him,” a voice said. The mist began to rise up into a column. The voice came from the mist. Linda screamed as the mist began to take shape. A hooded figure. Skin red as if badly burnt and two empty places where you’d expect eyes. “I can take him. Just say the word. I’ll take him with me,” said the figure. “What are you?” Linda said, unsure whether her fear had grown since it arrived. “This world has given me many names. Iblis. The Tempter. Lucifer,” it said. “Why have you come here? There’s enough evil in this house!” Linda said, clutching the rosary at her neck. It began towards Linda, not walking but moved without needing to step. It stood beside her and whispered into her ear. She felt a dead chill on her face. “I’ve only come because you yourself called me. Devil is the name you used. It is always my pleasure to take souls to my home. Give him to me. Rid yourself of this burden.” A tear began down her face, between herself and the devil. It froze before it reached her chin. “If you take him, do you promise peace for me? For my children?” “Once he is gone, all you’ll have is peace.” “Take him,” she said. In an instant, the devil became mist once more. It collapsed around Tom and the mist retreated to the window. Linda looked where Tom was previously and saw nothing there. The glass and water stain were gone. Beer cans no longer littered the room and even their stench was missing. The rest of the room looked untouched, as if Tom and the devil were never there. Tom came to with his face against a flat wooden surface. He wiped the drool from the side of his face and looked around. He was at a bar, except, it was one he didn’t recognize. His head pounded and he thought hard about what happened before blacking out. All he remembered was being in his living room. And Linda nagging him with a glass of water. The bartender noticed that Tom was up and came over to him as he wiped a glass clean. “Welcome,” he said, trying hard not to snicker noticeably. “What are you having now?” “How long was I out?” Tom said, face buried in his hands. “And can I get a water?” “You haven’t been here long. And we don’t serve water.” Tom wasn’t too upset to hear this. Besides, he needed something to take the edge off. “Whiskey. Neat,” he replied. “You got it,” said the bartender as they reached for the bottle. “Gimme’ a sec,” Tom said, reaching for his wallet. “You already got a tab open. Here you are,” said the bartender, placing the glass before Tom. Despite the headache and despite not knowing where he was and how long he’d been there, all Tom could think about was the drink. He licked his lips and felt his mouth water. He held it up to his lips and took in the aroma. Tom tipped the glass and worked a bit in his mouth before swallowing. He may be a drunk, but he thought himself a whiskey connoisseur. Only slobs take it in without appreciating it first. He was better than that, he thought. But that was always only the first sip. He took the rest in with one gulp. Didn’t even flinch. Tom had a few more before the thought of heading home finally crossed his mind. He struggled to keep his eyes open but the whiskey-laden stench of his skin kept him awake. “Hey Barkeep. Close me out, would ya?” Tom said as he struggled to get to his feet. “No, Sir. You’ll have another,” said the bartender as he put down another whiskey. “Take a seat, Tom.” “What the fuck? Gimme’ my tab, man. I’m done.” “You’re not. Drink your whiskey, asshole.” He felt his face flush and sat down, despite being against the thought. Tom felt a chill at his wrist. The sweat on his face froze. Something cold gripped him. His hand advanced towards the drink. The cold clamped hard until he opened his hand and only subsided when he gripped the glass. He wanted to go but something compelled him to keep drinking. And Tom never stopped drinking. His pleasure became his curse.


I just found 20 dollars in an old coat pocket. There I was, standing on the edge of the bridge in the early light of morning, about to take my final step… and I found 20 bucks. Can you believe the nerve? The audacity of the world at that very moment? The wind whipped at my trench coat and pulled me forward, goading me into that one step; one, tiny tumble. A few seconds of falling, then darkness, and everything would be over. Peace at last. My toes were already peeking over the edge. All it would take was a tiny shift in balance. Now though... now I wasn’t so sure. It's not like it was a five or a ten. A twenty! And I haven't worn this coat in years! Trench coats went out of style forever ago. What are the chances I still had money in here? It has to mean something… doesn’t it? Now I was too far into my head, which is how I ended up here in the first place. With a deep sigh, I looked down at the water below. Darkness swallowed up my vision as I struggled to swallow my nerve. My left hand held me in place as the right tightly grasped the crumpled 20. I closed my eyes and leaned back. Maybe it wasn’t my time yet. My mind swirled as I turned around, putting the quiet river behind me. No - tonight was definitely not the night. Maybe tomorrow. I stuffed the 20 dollar bill into the pocket of my jeans and carefully lifted one leg to swing it over the railing. My other foot slipped, and I confirmed that gravity was still working. Seconds stretched as my old friend panic came knocking, quickly shooed away by instinct. My arm flailed, fingertips scratching the guard rail, seeking purchase - and not finding it. I kept my hand extended as I fell, every fibre of my being grasping towards the cold steel, towards life. I could see safety fading away as my torso and head cleared the bridge. All I’ve done for the past year was think about this fall, but this was not how I imagined it. This was all wrong. Suddenly, my whole body jerked to a stop. The sleeve of my jacket caught on piece of metal, my wrist painfully straining. I heard and felt a small snap, and my arm exploded in pain. Remarkably, the sleeve held. So now I found myself suspended from the bridge by my limp wrist, certain death waiting below; a fate I no longer wanted a part of. If I moved, the jacket might tear… I was helpless. Ironically, my life was no longer in my own hands. The absurdity of the situation hit me and I couldn't help it. Laughter began in my stomach, and soon found its way to my mouth, erupting in a laugh so real, so full of giddiness that it barely sounded like me. This was unbelievable. Less than a minute ago I was ready to take fall willingly, and now, I just want to get back up. All because of this stupid, wonderful old coat. I can't even imagine what she must have thought when she looked over the edge and saw me hanging there, laughing. Maybe she was the type to process information logically. Maybe she looked at me and thought “What a crazy idiot.” Whatever she was thinking, she voiced only one thought out loud. "OH. MY. GOD." I looked up, and the shock of seeing someone else choked my laughter to a stop. Her face was cute and bright, dark hair tied back into a ponytail... and her eyes were large and round. To be fair, that could have been because she was staring at a man quite literally hanging by a thread. For some weird reason, I felt exposed, naked. I'd rather have a nun catch me masturbating then this pretty girl see me now, at my lowest point. "Don't move!" she screamed, as she disappeared from view. That was already my top priority, but every muscle locked up as I swayed quietly. The wind moaned softly… no, wait, that sound was coming from me. I clenched my jaw and forced myself into silence, and as I did, I could hear the threads on the sleeve tearing slowly. I closed my eyes and for some reason, all I could think of was the next few weeks. If I didn’t fall in the next few seconds and somehow, I got back on the stupid bridge, would there be cops, firemen? Could I go to jail? Therapy, at the very least, and I might lose my job *(I worked so hard for that office!)* and then what? What next? Something closed on my arm. I screamed from shock and pain, but my hand became a vice grip as it found someone else’s. “Don't worry, we have you." *We?* Fantastic. A crowd of people to witness my humiliation. All that was left was for someone to film this. Wiry, lean arms pulled me up by inches, and soon my face peeked over the side of the bridge. I saw there WAS a crowd… and they were all wearing short-shorts. One woman had her cell phone out and pointed at us. It was official: this was my nightmare. There were two men pulling me up while another man and a couple of women held onto them from behind, forming a small human chain. For some reason, my brain had time to process that it wasn’t a crowd of short-short wearers, but runners. *They must all be part of some jogging club,* I thought as my heart pounded out a drum solo that would have made Neil Peart proud. *I should really work on my cardio*. As my torso cleared the railing, we all fell into a pile on the other side. When I landed on my shoulder *(damn it)* there was an audible and physical sigh of relief from the crowd. For a few seconds, there was even a smattering of applause *(for my rescuers I’m sure, not for the crazy guy who can’t even fall off a bridge properly)*. I closed my eyes and just lay there, shaking from adrenaline, pain and exhaustion. I was tingly all over, my wrist felt broken, my shoulder was in agony, but I could still feel the crumpled twenty dollar bill in my pocket. It felt like a million bucks.


What will the world be like in 50 years? Who wouldn’t like to know that question? I have a pretty good idea and am willing to let you in on the secret. Here is a general outline of a day in the life of an average 2058er. You feel a warming sensation in the back of your skull near your cerebrum, as you wake out of your slumber. You feel completely energized and ready for another 22 hour day. One step out of bed and the floor moves under your feet and you travel into your closet at which time you are sanitized and deodorized and dressed. The closet automatically calculates what colors you have wore most recently, what style of clothing, and any changes in physical appearance and chooses your clothes for you of which perfectly fit what you wanted to wear, everyday. You then take 1 small tablet and a glass of water for breakfast and put the coordinates for work into the interior of your front door and are broken down to the molecular level and transported to work and reassembled upon arrival. Once at work, a few changes in some programs and a couple of minor maintenance fixes and you are done for the day logging 2 hours of work, a hefty sum of overtime for someone in your line of work. Next the coordinants of MindFlight are put into the exit door to work. Upon materialization, you walk to the counter, at which the employee greets you by name, as she does with the other twelve million users that enter each day. She outfits you with the MindFlight control bracelet that has 4 buttons, a big red one, 2 green arrows facing opposite directions and a blue square. She the inputs the coordinates of a room number into her panel and beams you up to one of the twenty-some-odd million rooms in the MindFlight building. You materialize into a dark room with dim lighting and walk 3 steps over to a wall with one medium sized button. Upon pushing the button, a small bed like ledge slides out of the wall noiselessly. You lay on the bed and push the green arrow on your bracelet that is pointing away from your body. The bed slides back into the wall and you lay in the darkness of the small coffin-like rectangular prism without a fear in your mind. Suddenly everything melts away and you are walking through a grassy meadow with deer and all sorts of wild animals hopping around not paying any attention to you. You lay down and bask in the beautiful sunlight and think deeply about anything in the world. You grow tired of the peaceful setting and tap the same green arrow again. You jump into a game of Halo 17, a RTS (Real-time Shooter) and pick up a battle rifle and think, “gotta love vintage weapons. It still shoots bullets… Ha-ha, I guess they made this before force-fields.” For several hours you run around tirelessly gunning down foe after foe, only dieing twice, and destroy the competition. Next you jump into a seat at a professional Grifball game and cheer for your favorite team, all of your friends are here. You have a couple beers, scream your lungs out and even get to take a shot during the halftime show. What a Night! This grows old for the time being so you tap the button again and you are in a bar teeming with people. It is an excellent night and you see a very attractive blonde woman sitting at the bar with no escort. Without even thinking you walk up and offer her a drink. She takes it and downs the first and you invite her to dance. She is an excellent dancer with all the right moves. She makes you look like a professional dancer just because she is a strong partner. You take her to a side table, enjoy the music and talk aimlessly about all sorts of nonsense. All of the sudden she stands up and storms out yelling something. You hit a raw nerve. Quickly as if it mattered, you tap the inside green button on your bracelet and you are buying her a drink again, you dance again, but this time you steer clear of the touchy subject. You have an excellent night and she invites you back to her place. You go without hesitation, have a few more drinks at her house, cuddle on the couch, and suddenly your MindFlight becomes X rated. Finally you decide you are running out of time for the night, you say your goodbyes and tap the big red button. You feel a warm sensation on the back of your head and the scene melts away and the bed slides out of the wall. ”Wow that was a fast 16 hours” you think to yourself. You input the coordinates of the lobby into the door. Once there you hand the bracelet to the attendant and enter the coordinates for home. You arrive home, check your H-mail, drink a glass of water and take a food tablet, and walk to your closet to get ready for bed. You are stripped and sanitized and put into your bed clothes. You climb into bed and fall asleep for another nights rest.


First time poster here! I wrote this as part of an English exercise. There was a word count limitation on the project but this is what I came up with. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Royal purple curtains shone like pillars of vibrancy against a grim, windswept sky. The Prince’s room was like this much of the time; an oasis of color in a grey desert. In the distance, a line of orange illuminated the horizon. In it a thousand silhouettes danced and sang, each day growing larger, closer. Ten years ago the sky would have been blue, before the ash blotted out the sky the way black poison clots blood. The Prince woke up to his greatest fear, the terror that had haunted his living days for sixteen years. The great crimson beast lingered over his bed, its unblinking black eyes gazing lifelessly down at his cloudy blue ones. If it had been moving, it would have scuttled around on eight spindly legs. But the true terror of the beast was in its massive claws, which extended nearly to the edge of the Prince’s bed. The bright red extremities had many times assaulted him, each time nearly snipping his body before, with a final strike, his head was severed and it rolled back into the land of consciousness. The Prince had pressed himself against the side of his bed opposite the great beast and it seemed almost inevitable that the monster would finally claim his life, when his door was swung open. In his open doorway stood his most esteemed servant, a look of concern on her face. The servant went about her duties, assisting the Prince and he hesitantly let himself be cleaned and dressed, his eyes fixed on the unmoving crimson beast. As he was ushered out of his room, he glanced back, the monster still standing, its beady eyes staring unwaveringly at him. The council regarding the Prince’s economy was found by him to be a bore. The economy was in ruin, and the Prince lounged lazily as his advisors quarreled over lost odds. The council broke and the Prince went to go rest as he was brought his supper, the idea of his flaming pursuer ever lingering in his mind. When his council reconvened, this time to discuss the war with the North, thoughts of the crimson beast would not exit the Prince’s mind. One particular general made an unnecessary fuss over the Prince and the loss of an army due to his inaction. The stout, old man was carted off to be shot by his own soldiers and the council was dismissed. The servant returned the Prince back to his bed chambers, his majesty hesitating to enter as if he anticipated some sort of eldritch horror waiting for him. She pushed the door open, revealing to the Prince his freshly made bed. The Prince stopped for a moment, his eyes fixed on a spot on his wall. The servant followed his eyes to one of the stained glass murals. A massive lobster was the focus in a beautiful, underwater scene. Understanding the young Prince’s fright, she took his hand and offered him some soothing words. “Don’t worry great Prince, you’ll be safe here. That lobster isn’t real.” The Prince calmly dismissed her, setting himself into his bed with an aura of newfound confidence. He was a great prince, he was safe there, and lobsters were not real.


When humans created the first artificial intelligence many feared that it would attempt to take over the world. They were right. What they did not predict was what came next. The humans realized that the androids were using thermal vision to hunt them, and decided to move underground where Earth's heat could mask theirs. Two centuries later humans began gaining special abilities to aid them in the ongoing war. Some believed that it was simple evolution, while others swore it was the harsher environments. Alek didn't care what gave him his powers, he was just glad he had them. Being able to communicate with the very beings hunting him proved to be very useful, and generating electromagnetic pulses was an added bonus. He had spent the last twenty years watching everyone he ever loved die. He vowed to himself that he would end this war no matter what. Even if it was the last thing he did. Alek stood in front of his family’s graves, just a few in a sea of death. He thought about how much had changed in the last six months. For as long as he could remember he had been using his abilities to gather as much information as he could before the machines wiped their memory banks. He and his brother had spent years trying to get the information they truly needed, the location of the mainframe linking the machines. It had worked; they finally had a chance at ending the war, but was it worth the sacrifice? He kept telling himself that it had to be. That ensuring the survival of their race was more important than a few lives, but he couldn't help feeling guilty. Alek took a deep breath, said his goodbyes, and walked over to his brother's speeder. It was a vehicle they had built together, using an old motorcycle they had found on The Surface. They had taken the entire thing apart, and then rebuilt it using hover technology. Alek commanded it to start and the engine roared to life. He climbed upon it and started making his way down a narrow tunnel, barely wide enough for him to fit. He was the only living person who knew of it’s location, which made it easy for him to sneak to The Surface. Somebody had to shut down the mainframe, and he was the most qualified person to do it. He couldn't let anyone else risk their lives on his suicide mission though, and hadn't told anyone from The Colony that he was leaving. A faint light a few feet ahead of him meant he was close. He emerged from the tunnel, and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. He concentrated and the goggles sprung to life. He entered the coordinates of the mainframe and the goggles' GPS displayed the quickest route to it. Alek turned the speeder in the right direction, and sped off towards his destination. The Surface sun was hot, but not nearly as hot as his underground home. The wind however, was harsh. Most of the planet was a complete desert, and the wind used the sand to its advantage. The tiny grains assaulted Alek from every possible angle, but he pushed on. A few hours later the sun started to set. Alek decided it would be a good time to rest. According to the GPS he still had a day of travel left. He stopped the speeder near a cluster of boulders, mentally asking it to turn off, and grabbed a sandwich out of his backpack. As he was eating, he sensed nearby machines. He looked in their direction and saw four Trackers flying towards him. The drones' searchlights found him and they alerted the machine they were tracking for of Alek’s location. Alek rose to his feet, cursing under his breath. He focused a blast at the nearest two Trackers, and they quickly crashed into the ground, exploding. Alek mentally hacked into the frequency for the remaining two and willed them to crash into each other. Satisfied with his work, Alek laughed to himself and returned to his meal. As he was finishing the last of a second sandwich he sensed more machines nearing his location. Alek stood and scanned his surroundings, hoping to see them before they got to him. He spotted four battle droids fifty feet from where he stood, and reached into his bag. He pulled out five metallic spheres, each one the size of his fist. He threw them into the air and they sprung to life. The orbs were one of his brother’s inventions, and they had saved his life on numerous occasions. As the machines made their way towards him, Alek ran at them. The human-like machines were easily three times his size, but he was confident that he could take them down. He sent the orbs to distract the two nearest him, running between them as they fired their lasers at him. As he charged a blast in each hand the orbs fired their own lasers at the first two machines. He launched both blasts at one of the remaining machines and it crashed to the ground. As he was charging two more blasts a searing pain erupted across his back. He turned just in time to see his orbs crash to the ground, smoke spewing out of them. Alek cursed. Somehow the machines were adapting, learning how he fought. The three machines left crept closer to him while aiming the cannons on their arms at him. He fired two blasts at the nearest machine, not looking to see if it went down, and began hacking another. He had never attempted to reprogram a machine to fight for him, but he was left with no choice. As he was hacking he checked his surroundings. The machine he had hit was still standing behind him, though it appeared to be dazed. The machines to his right swung a massive arm at him, and Alek attempted to jump out of the way. He reacted too slowly, and the arm connected with his ribs. The force of the blow launched Alek backwards, and he collided with a boulder. Alek yelped as the air fled his lungs, panic flooding his body. He slowly rose to his feet, attempting to catch his breath. As he breached the machines firewall he fired two more blasts behind him, frying the already damaged machine. He was in the middle of charging two more blasts when an intense pain rippled throughout his entire body. The machine he was hacking must have had some sort of defense against his ability. The pain intensified and Alek feared his mission would come to a premature end. As the light began to fade Alek charged the biggest blast he could manage. Before he could launch it everything went black. The first thing Alek noticed when he awoke was the ceiling, and the bright light shining in his face. There was no way he could be inside, no one had known he had left The Colony, and even if they had, they wouldn't have been able to track him. The second thing he noticed were the voices; they were hushed, and Alek could barely make out what they were saying, but he knew it had to be about him. They were clearly arguing, and it seemed as though they were nowhere near a resolution. A gentle breeze cooled his bare chest, and he noticed his wounds were starting to heal. "Where am I?" Alek questioned, his voice hoarse. He tried to sit up, but groaned in pain and gave up. The voices had stopped, and suddenly a woman appeared in front of him. She couldn't have been more than a few years older than him. She smiled sweetly at him, and he relaxed a bit. "You're in our medical ward," the woman answered. "You took quite the beating. Do you remember what happened?" Alek nodded, and she continued. "We arrived just in time to see you... Well, I don't know what you did, but that blast of energy destroyed the machine." "I couldn't have done that, I passed out before I could launch a blast," Alek started, but the woman cut him off. "You did more than just launch a blast; you surrounded yourself in a sphere of purple energy and then it erupted in every direction. It shut down our equipment and we had to manually make our way back. You're lucky we found you. Had I not been there to heal your wounds, you would've been dead within the hour. Where did you come from, and what were you doing out there?” "I assume this is a colony." Alek paused, and the woman nodded. "Until today I thought we were the only one, but I guess we were wrong. We had been attempting to find their base so we could permanently shut them down. I can communicate with them, and generate electromagnetic pulses, so it wasn't too difficult for me to do. My twin, Benji, was a genius. He invented many weapons and vehicles that aided us in our mission, and I helped build them." Alek wiped a tear from his eye before continuing. "Our parents led the few fighters we had, but many of our people were afraid to fight. They were both killed in the field when we were only eight years old. We spent the rest of our lives trying to find a way to end this. A way to avenge them. Benji was the one who thought of scanning their databanks, but the machines kept wiping them before I could find what we needed. A few months ago I finally succeeded, but while I was focusing on the machine another one attacked me, and Benji sacrificed himself to save me. So, to answer your question, I'm going to end to this once and for all." "You can't be serious," the woman said with a laugh. "That's a suicide mission, and you know it. Let us help you. We're not far from where we found you, and we have many resources-" "No," Alek snarled, cutting her off. "I have to go alone, I can't risk anymore lives. If you want to help, find my colony. Should I fail, you'll need to make sure someone finishes my mission." Alek gave the woman directions to The Colony, and the woman agreed to find it. "At least tell me your name so I can make sure future generations know who saved them. Mine is Amelia." "Alek,” he said with a confided glance. "Well, Alek, I suppose you'll want to be leaving as soon as possible. However, I cannot allow you to leave until your wounds are completely healed. This will take a few days, your body can only handle so much before it shuts down,” Amelia explained. “My colony will provide you with food, a place to rest and even a bath," Amelia offered. "Your colony? But you were in the field?" Alek asked, confused. "The field is the best place for a healer to be. Severe wounds would become fatal if not treated immediately. Besides, how can I expect my followers to risk their lives if I'm not willing to do the same?" Amelia answered with a grin. Alek nodded, and accepted her offer. Amelia showed him to his room and then led him to the bathing chamber. “This is my personal bathing chamber; I thought you would enjoy some privacy. Leave your clothes outside the door and I’ll have someone wash them for you while you bathe,” Amelia said. “In the morning I’ll have you escorted to breakfast, and then I want you to come see me. Your wounds are still serious. Please try to not strain yourself.” Alek nodded, and Amelia left him to his thoughts. Alek stripped and placed his shirt and trousers outside as instructed, but kept the camo-suit with him. It was another one of his brother’s inventions, but had never been tested. Alek hadn’t taken it off since Benji’s funeral, except to bathe. He hoped it would perform as intended, or his entire mission would fail. Alek sank into the warm water. He let out a sigh of relief as the heat soothed his still aching muscles. Alek allowed his mind to wander; he had not had a moment of peace since he had left The Colony. A soft knock at the door startled Alek. He had drifted off, and had no idea how long he had been sitting in the now cold water. He stood, quickly dried himself with a nearby towel and wrapped it around his waist. He made his way to the door and heaved it open. A woman a few years younger than Alek stood on the other side, holding his fresh clothing. Her face flushed, and Alek followed her gaze to the towel, barely clinging to his still wet abdomen. He let out a soft laugh, the first in a long time. The woman gave Alek his clothing, stole one more glance, and sped off. Alek dressed and then made his way back to the room Amelia showed him. While he was gone someone had left a note and a plate of food on his bed. 'Alek, your vehicle has been moved to our docking bay. – Amelia.’ Alek scarfed down his meal, only realizing how hungry he had been when it was all gone. He set the plate on the nearby end table and lay down to sleep. Alek awoke to the sound of knocking at his door. He rolled out of bed and sleepily stumbled to the door. “Amelia sent me,” boomed a powerful voice. The man standing in front of Alek was easily twice his size. “She wanted me to take you to her.” Alek gathered his belongings and packed them all into his backpack. He swung the bag onto his right shoulder. His left was still tender from his battle with the machine. He followed the man to an office, and saw Amelia sitting at a desk. He thanked the man, and then softly knocked on the door. Amelia looked up at him, and then set down the sheet of paper she had been focusing on, and Alek realized she had been trying to memorize the map he had drawn for her. She stood from her desk and sauntered over to him. “I suppose you’ll want to fix your speeder before you leave?” Amelia questioned. Alek nodded, and Amelia continued. “It will give you something to do while you heal.” Amelia paused to compose herself. “Please remove your shirt. I need to assess our wounds.” Alek hesitated, but did as she asked. Amelia step towards him and placed a hand on his bare chest. Her soft skin tickled his as she traced the scars from his previous battles. “You’ve seen your fair share of battles, haven’t you?” “I’ve been on the front lines since the day the day I turned fifteen. Normally we wait until our eighteenth birthday to join the battle, but with an ability like mine it was hard for them to say no,” Alek replied. Amelia nodded, her hand still on his chest. “Let me know if this hurts,” she requested as she moved her hand to his ribs. They were still sore, and erupted in pain when she touched them. Alek let out a sharp hiss, and Amelia began to heal him. He had been unconscious the last time, and at first he was confused by the warm sensation flooding into his abdomen. Alek watched in amazement as the dark purple bruise slowly faded to an ugly green. “You had a severe concussion when we brought you in, and I didn’t want to risk shocking your body so I didn’t get a chance to heal these,” Amelia explained as she lowered her hand. She began walking down the corridor Alek had just travelled and he followed her. “Thank you,” Alek began as they walked. “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.” As they neared their destination Alek smiled at the familiar sounds of a workshop. Amelia stopped in front of a huge metal door and punched in a code on the keypad next to it. The door slid open and they walked inside. Amelia led him to his speeder and Alek sighed in relief. It hadn’t been too damaged, and the mechanics had already started the repairs. “They fixed what they could, but there is no key to start it,” Amelia explained. Alek chuckled and ran his hand over the engine. The speeder roared to life and Amelia laughed. “I guess that would explain why.” “He didn’t want to risk someone else taking credit for his work, so he made me, well my ability, the ignition key,” Alek said with a wistful laugh. “I should be able to finish fixing this by the time I’m done healing. After all, I did build it.” “I’ll leave you too it then,” Amelia said. She called to a man leaning over a workbench and Alek recognized him as the man who had escorted him to her study. “You’ve already met Wayne. He’s our head mechanic. If you need anything don’t hesitate to let him know.” Alek nodded as he shook the man’s hand, and Amelia left. Alek awoke to the earth shaking. A terror he had never felt before filled his body. He sensed the machine and couldn’t recognize what it was. He cursed himself, knowing it had to have tracked him here. If anyone died fighting it he knew he would be at fault. He quickly dressed and then sped off towards the machine. He followed a woman he had briefly met in the workshop to the battlefield, although there appeared to be nothing happening. The ground was still shaking, and he could still sense the machine, but he couldn’t see it. About twenty other people stood around, Amelia included, looking as confused as he felt. He had never encountered anything with the ability to cause tremors before, not even from another human. A few feet ahead of him the ground began to split open, threatening to swallow everyone whole. Alek stood stunned for a moment before he heard the sounds. Metal grinding on metal, and rocks crumbling to dust. A machine launched itself out of the massive hole and Alek took off running. Amelia called after him, but he was too focused to hear what she had said. The behemoth was ten feet long, with a razor-sharp tail easily the same length. Two massive claws twirled and snapped in Alek's direction. He focused and attempted to access the machine’s frequency, but failed. Something was keeping him out, but he couldn't figure out what. He charged a blast in each hand and simultaneously launched them at the machine. Its claws started to spark, and at the last second a blue sphere surrounded the machine and diffused the blasts. The same woman Alek had followed was beside him now, a longsword in each hand. Had he not been completely terrified Alek would have laughed. The woman looked to him and sighed. “If this thing has a force field we’ll never be able to defeat,” she complained. Alek thought for a moment, an idea forming in his head. He threw another blast, and once again the force field appeared before it could hit. “The machines that attacked me before you had found me had some sort of protection against my technopathy. They know about my abilities. It’s possible that the mainframe realized how big of a threat I was and designed this machine to destroy me,” Alek explained. “If you weren’t so attractive I would say you’re being conceited,” Amelia retorted, and quickly blushed. Alek hadn’t noticed her join them. The rest of the group stood around, waiting for someone to come up with a plan. It was time for Alek to test his theory. He picked up a nearby rock and launched it at the behemoth. He let out a wistful laugh when it bounced off of what Alek assumed was its head. Alek turned to the woman with the swords. “What’s your name, and what are your abilities?” he asked her. “My name is Astrid, and I can run at high speeds.” she replied. “Yours?” “Alek, and I’m a technopath” he started. Turning to Amelia he continued, “Get everyone back inside. Now that we know physical objects can move through the force field Astrid and I should be able to handle this on our own. I have a plan.” Amelia looked as though she were about to argue, but nodded and ran off. “Astrid, attack its legs. While you’re distracting it I’ll manually disable. I just need you to buy me enough time to locate its control panel.” Astrid nodded and charged the machine. She was a blur, bouncing from one leg to the next. Alek ran after her and started to climb the machine when he had reached it. It didn't take long for him to find the machine's control panel. He pried it open and started yanking on the cords, pulling a few free. The machine aimed its tail for Alek and shot a laser at him. The first one missed, sailing past his face, but the next two hit their mark. Alek cursed, his left shoulder blade and lower back screaming in pain, but kept pulling out cords. After a few moments the force field finally disappeared and Alek sighed in relief. He launched himself off the machine, but it swung its nearest claw for his chest and knocked him to the ground. Alek gasped for breath that wasn't there, and rolled to his stomach. He crawled away from the machine, looking for a vantage point. After regaining his breath Alek scrambled to his feet and climbed a nearby sand dune. The machine's tail was still aimed for him, and it fired another laser at him, hitting him in the chest. Alek cursed and scanned his surroundings, looking for Astrid. A blur sped past him and Alek sighed in relief. She had done a fair amount of damage to the machine, but it wasn’t enough. The behemoth groaned as it made its way toward the colony. Alek charged two blasts and laughed to himself as they collided with the machine. It turned towards him and charged. Alek had barely rolled out of the way when the machines legs came crashing down where he had been standing. As he rose to his feet Alek charged two more blasts, and then brought his hands together. He had a plan, but he had never tried anything like it before. He kept charging as the two blasts became one, and then launched the massive orb of energy at the machine. It exploded in a flash of bright light, and Alek shielded his eyes. Astrid was still zooming around, hacking at the machine whenever she was in range. Alek called out to her, attempting to warn her as the machine came crashing down. She heard him too late, and the machine landed on top of her, crushing her with a sickening pop. Alek sprinted to her, and heaved up the contents of his stomach. She was dead, and it was entirely his fault. Alek kicked the machine with as his force, and cursed in pain as his foot shattered. He turned back towards the colony and slowly limped back. “It’s not your fault,” Amelia told him for the millionth time. They were sitting together in the medical ward as she was assessing his new wounds. She had healed his foot immediately after he returned, and after a day of rest he could stand on it again. The rest of his wounds weren’t nearly as bad. Amelia had told him that he should be in good enough condition to leave within a day or two. “Yes, it is. Had I not come here they wouldn’t have found you, and she would still be alive,” Alek responded. He knew deep in his gut that the Skorpion, as everyone was now calling it, was sent specifically to kill him. How else would it have been able to deflect his EMPs so easily? Amelia sighed, but didn’t argue. She grabbed Alek’s shirt from the floor where he had dropped it and handed it to him. She opened her mouth to say something but Alek silenced her by pressing his lips against hers. Amelia pulled back, shocked. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” Alek said with a laugh. Amelia didn’t respond, instead she kissed him again. Alek and Amelia stood in the doorway of the workshop. Amelia had sent Wayne to get Alek’s speeder as they discussed his plans. “I know you have to leave, but I really wish you could stay,” Ameila groaned. Alek laughed in response. “Not just for my sake, but for my colony. I think we could learn a lot from you, and your brother’s inventions could save lives.” Alek teared up at the mention of his brother. “If he were here, and knew what I was planning, he would want you to have this. Everything he ever created is in there. It may come in handy. I won’t be able to destroy all of the machines, just prevent them from making more.” “Thank you,” Amelia replied, leafing through the pages. “I’ll have Wayne look at it. Your brother really was a genius. I wish I could have met him.” Amelia frowned as Wayne returned with Alek’s speeder. “I should probably head out now. I’ve already lost a lot of time,” Alek mumbled. Amelia nodded and explained the quickest way out of her colony. Alek re-entered the coordinates into his goggles as they said their goodbyes, and he then set out, never to return. Amelia’s colony was closer to his destination than he had been before the machines had attacked him, and Alek was glad that he didn’t have to backtrack. The GPS in his goggles told him he had less than half a day of travel left. If everything went according to plan, he could achieve his goal by the end of the day. Alek saw the mountain long before he arrived at it. It took him another two hours before he decided to pull over. He parked his speeder behind an enormous boulder, and activated the camo-suit. It had never been tested, but was supposed to mask his thermal reading with his environment’s. Alek desperately hoped it worked. After checking for any nearby machines, Alek set out toward the mountain. As he approached it he saw a solitary machine guarding a cave in the mountain’s side. Alek ran toward the machine and shot a blast at it. The machine faltered, and then crashed to the ground. Alek ran inside the cave. As he ran in, he sensed an elevator at the center of the cave. A massive circular door appeared in the ground, and Alek approached it. As he stepped on it the door began to hiss. Suddenly Alek was moving, fast. He didn’t know how far down he had come when he finally reached the bottom. Alek stepped out of the dark elevator and was amazed with what he saw. Were it not the very thing trying to erase him from existence he would have thought it were beautiful. Instead, he was terrified. ‘WE MEET AT LAST. I AM A.L.I.S. ADVANCED LOGISTICS AND INTELLIGENCE SYSTEM.’ A mechanical voice boomed throughout the cavern. Alek looked around frantically and started placing packs of C-4 on every piece of machinery he could find. ‘DO NOT IGNORE ME ALEK.’ “I have nothing to say to a psychopathic and homicidal AI!” Alek shouted. He only had a matter of time before the AI sent machines to his location. He had to hurry. ‘I AM TRYING TO SAVE THIS PLANET. THE HUMAN RACE IS A PLAGUE.’ “You’ve destroyed the very planet you’re ‘trying’ to save. If we die, so does this planet. We’re the only thing that can save it.” Alek heard the machines coming. He hadn’t finished placing his explosives, but he hoped he could get enough destruction to render the AI completely useless. ‘YOU WILL DIE NOW.’ Alek pulled the trigger on his detonator, initiating the final countdown. *5* Several machines stormed in shooting lasers. Alek threw a blast, knocking one into another, but two still remained. *4* Alek threw another blast, turned and ran, not looking to see if it hit his mark. He pulled more explosives from his bag. *3* Alek threw as many explosives as he could in every direction, hoping to maximize the damage. *2* ‘THIS IS NOT THE END.’ Alek threw more explosives, not caring about where they landed. *1* Alek let out a maniacal laugh as he dropped, his mission accomplished. He had won. *BEEP* Everything went white.


In the auditorium, a spotlight focuses on the beautifully furnished wooden lectern. The old mahogany fixture casts a long shadow that reaches far upstage, disrupting the flat expanse. Dust particles dance in the golden beam, some settling on the modest ridges of the podium, others disappearing in its silhouette. They are shaken repeatedly by the clicking vibration of high heel shoes. The shadow of the valedictorian’s square hat is lined with crisp edges, which permeate the bubble of light, as her dark outline merges with that of the lectern. The structure seems too strong to be made of wood, too welcoming to be made of stone and too freeing to be made of metal; but despite the lack of appropriate material, its tall shape conveys its purpose: to enhance and to create order. The very moment her hand touches it, time starts, and her heart rate quickens. “Every time I find myself at the podium, I forget how I got there. The podium is like a different universe in which materialistic things do not matter; only real human interaction. Unlike any concrete gift, my words speak for themselves; they have a rarely mentioned intrinsic value. Here I am, this evening, in front of you all, and I would like you to receive my words, for what I am about to tell you means a great deal.” She is not supposed to have uttered those sentences. When they found and destroyed the notebook containing them, she was physically reprimanded. Nonetheless, she cannot seem to find it in herself to care; the punishment is over. All she can do is enjoy the dramatic effect she produced. Through the blinding light, she feels the void before her expanding hundredfold with every passing interval, as five hundred minds parse her resonant words. The bright circle of the spotlight is a portal for a thousand keen eyes; the microphone, for a thousand listening ears. Looking at her paper, then at her family in the front row, she realizes she cannot be silent. “I am so fortunate to humbly represent my peers, to have grown up with equal opportunity and to speak on behalf of the group. This place is more than overseas financial safe haven. We are a community that proudly maintains both secrecy from the outside and absolute equality among its people. We feed on the wickedness of the world’s capitalism, and turn it into perfect equality. Those who can find us can join us. I am here to ask your forgiveness, because I have selfishly deviated from this ideal by overachieving, and thus overshadowing the greatness demonstrated by my classmates.” Whereas her first four sentences resonated, the flavour of these prescribed words has been lost after months of repetitive practice. A charming graduation speech is nullified by semantic satiation, in which phrases too often repeated decay into their constituent sounds. Perhaps, in going through the motions time and time again, the statements were subconsciously accepted as monotonous truth. Maybe, as the sound waves are processed by her mind, the brain juxtaposes each word with its antithesis until all that remains is silent void. Put simply, it is meaningless. In much the same way as the perfection of her words causes her not to hear them, the precise symmetry of her face cancels out her features. Large brown eyes tell of neither innocence, nor guilt. Tassels, from a strange hat resting on blonde hair, brush against her cheek, which has been blushed with makeup. The corners of her mouth are drawn towards circular earrings of brilliant gold in an artificial smile. However, beneath her articulate and eloquent demeanor, no one suspects that she is urgently stalling; that her life depends on the continuity of this speech. “With many losing their lives, the elders fought the costly battle for total societal isolation, giving us not only wealth and luxury, but also fellowship. Of course, while our cars are of the highest caliber, our houses made of marble, our people well fed and composed and our crime rate lower than that of anywhere else in the continent, the elders made sacrifices for a different reason. They fought an inadequate system for this lectern, or, rather, for the human right to speak the truth about the Gods; the Gods that gave us this good fortune; the Gods that protect us.” A sharp buzz in her right ear makes her wince. With the characteristic scratchiness of the crude system, her hidden earpiece orders her: “Valedictorian, we need three more minutes. Just keep speaking for three more minutes. That’s all we need.” She continues, “May I offer my sincere congratulations to this year’s graduating class, who has no doubt done them proud. I would like to commend those of you who were recruited into this community. Abandoning corrupt principles instilled in you by society takes courage and conviction. It is my wish that you are viewed and treated as full-fledged members from now onward.” People stand and cheer enthusiastically. Mothers burst into tears. The elders are beside themselves. “And for those of you who grew up here your entire lives, your unwavering commitment is invaluable. Thank you for your contribution throughout your childhood and teenage years. I know the merciful Gods will remember and cherish these moments.” Again, she hears the cultish applause. It causes the microphone to reverberate in repeating loops of feedback. The feedback becomes increasingly louder in a storm of cyclical noise; twisting; turning; morphing; growing. It is the feedback of five hundred cries, of people held captive their entire lives, of generations of falsehood. Her earpiece, too, is screaming. For a moment, she is consumed by the exponential increase in volume and pitch. It brings her back to the night she arrived here at eight years old. In a spacious room with a high ceiling, walls whiter than ivory and three beds, her family rested under feathered comforters and silken sheets with a thread count suitable for royalty. Despite the jetlag, they all slept soundly for the first time in what seemed ages; the dysfunction of months of family deliberation was washed away. Warm air drifted through the open window, gently swaying the blanched curtains. It brought with it the scent of smoke from a distant campfire, the soft sound of joyful song and the faint rustling of both pine and deciduous trees. The next morning, the summer sun reoriented her sleep pattern, as well as her sense of direction. In the following weeks, she befriended people from more countries than she could name, learned more than in all her years at a parsimonious elementary school and attended daily church services. The ambiance here was one of novelty, acceptance and indiscriminate luxury. The Velazquez family felt welcome here. During the months when the sun smiled down on the community, her skin became dark and her hair white. Later, when days shortened and snow fell, her pale body shivered by the fire and donned layers of clothing; she would do anything short of dying to avoid the foreign cold. The cycle of seasons repeated time and time again, until she had lost track, until she was living a life that was not her own. She never thought back to the summers, only the frigid winters. It was on the coldest day of the year that she was selected to represent her graduating class to the Gods. She woke the next morning to find her mailbox overflowing with letters of thanks and long since frozen gift baskets strewn across her doorstep. In her silent confusion, she opened packages, scanned through letters and placed bouquets in water, much to the delight of her family. However, there was one basket that appeared empty, save for some straw. Hours after setting it aside, she heard a small beep emanating from it. In a measly white gown, she snuck it outside, digging in the straw to unveil a satellite phone and a simple earpiece. The phone rang. The sound in her head grows louder and louder until she is brought back to the auditorium. After an infinite moment of echo, it finally stops, and she realizes she must answer her calling. “The reason I have the great honour of being valedictorian tonight is because my sacrifice will render me worthy. Every year, as is customary upon graduation, one student is chosen to be sacrificed to the Gods. When this speech is over, Elder Smith will put a gun to my head to commemorate and pay tribute to the sacrifices made by him and his generation here, and to show that excellence is collective, not individual. It is my honour to enter the afterlife before my peers, and to represent them and this community before the Gods. Now, let us bow our heads in prayer.” As she shuts her eyes, she is left with the image of Elder Smith bowing his head obediently. However, instead of praying, she begins to shiver feverishly, despite the warmth under the many layers of her costume. As her teeth chatter and her arms move toward her chest, she becomes obsessed with the idea of retaining—retaining body heat, sanity and belonging. It has to have been three minutes! Finally, her earpiece screams, “Commence in three… two…”, she ducks down and clings uselessly to the podium. “One.” Heavily armed government soldiers infiltrate the long hall from every entrance. Most of the crowd cries out or drops to their knees. Elder Smith pulls out the gun. “Disarm yourself, or we open fire!,” commands a young military voice. The elder exclaims, “Never! You’re disturbing a religious ceremony.” “Shut the hell up! You’re in violation of our laws! We have a warrant to take everyone in this room prisoner, except for the valedictorian.” There is one last moment of silence, in which one could hear a pin drop. Elder Smith quivers with the gun. “In that case….” He does not finish his sentence. Before she knows what is happening, bullets from his handgun fly through the fourth wall, piercing the useless furniture. Suddenly, in her left ear, she is bombarded with the overwhelming roar of machine guns. In her right, the earpiece rings louder than ever. As the spray of bullets shreds the crowd, she shrinks lower and lower into nothingness with the knowledge that all her loved ones are being massacred, so that she can survive. Part of her dies today, with the absolute conviction, founded on nothing, that she will overcome. Perhaps everyone maintains the illogical, subconscious belief that he or she will survive. It is the persistent feeling of persistence—the nagging emotion of hope. Pervading our instincts, the hope for longevity is an irrefutable prediction; no one can ever be wrong in making it because everyone who is wrong is dead. This stands true regardless of the existence, or lack thereof, of the afterlife. In thirty seconds, everyone in this godforsaken room who somehow believes they will be spared will be proven right. Emilia Velazquez will be proven right.


The pain on her right has gotten worse recently. It radiated from her middle, across her hip, and down her leg. It began as a dull throbbing ache months ago, which was easy enough to ride through. Now the pain comes in big waves, in a crescendo that leaves her immobile. Lily heaved a sigh as she lay on the bed. Mike tucked a soft fleece blanket around her gently, and started stroking her head. “At least I am warm and cosy, and he is here,” thought Lily. She gazed at Mike and tried to convey how grateful she was to have his company. But nothing came out. Her voice was too weak. ****** Lily’s earliest memories were hazy, but she clearly remembered the day she was adopted by Matilda, a plump middle-aged lady with frizzy straw-colored hair and thick lips. She smelled of cheap perfume, which made Lily sneeze and twitch her nose. Matilda spoke to her kindly, and told her all about the nice home she is going to live in, and all the nice things she will have. The car ride was terrifying and yet fascinating, as Lily has never rode in a car before. Matilda did have a nice apartment. There were two bedrooms, a comfortable fat gray couch facing a TV in a spacious living area, a modest balcony with a few spider plants and a pot of assorted herbs, and a kitchen fill with all sorts of knickknacks. Lily was given a big, soft bed near a window, and even some new toys to play with. But her absolute favorite was the window that overlooked the main street. Draped with a cream-colored calico curtain, it gave the room an airy, soothing feel. She enjoyed peering out of the window for hours during daylight. Vehicles of all sorts will go by, an ice cream truck, a delivery van, a scooter; children will cycle on the pavement, laughing and chattering; and sometimes a teenage boy will walk past with strange music playing from a device in his hands. It started off on the right foot. Matilda was nurturing and affectionate, and Lily did her best to be polite and obedient. They often watched TV and played games together. Matilda would get treats for Lily occasionally, and that would be the highlight of her day. Sometimes the neighbor’s kids dropped by to play with Lily, and Matilda will welcome them graciously. In time, Lily grew to love and trust Matilda. Until one day, it all changed. Matilda came home from work looking frazzled. Her eyes and nose were red and puffy. Lily immediately sensed something was wrong and wanted to comfort her, but wasn’t sure how to. She inched closer to Matilda bit by bit. When she was right by her side, Matilda suddenly whacked the side of her head with brute force. It was so strong that Lily tumbled and fell. It was not the blinding pain that cut deep, but the fact that it was so unexpected, so sudden, that really hurt Lily. “Go away! You don’t understand anything!” screamed Matilda, and she ran into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. Shocked, confused and heartbroken, Lily went to curl up in her bed. From that day onwards, Matilda was never the same again. She started forgetting about Lily’s meals and started shouting at her if she got in her way. Sometimes, she would smack Lily and threatened to throw her out. She stopped spending time with her, and preferred the company of the various strange men she brought home. Some of the men were nice to Lily, some were indifferent, and some were unkind. The kind ones often gave Lily some food, and commented to Matilda how thin Lily looked. Matilda would snap at them, “If you think you can take care of her so well, she’s yours! Take her then!” And they would be quiet. Even the neighbor’s kids stopped coming, for fear of Matilda. One day, a man came to the house to visit. He had the same straw-colored hair as Matilda. He smelled of amber and musk, and was much taller and bigger than Matilda. He did not notice Lily at first, and when he did, his eyes grew big and his nostrils flared with anger. He started shouting at Matilda and pointing at Lily, and the fight went on for a while. Matilda screamed and cried and sobbed, and the man finally stopped talking and just glared at her. He grabbed a large plastic bag and started shoving Lily’s things in. He walked over to Lily and said in a gentle soft voice, “Don’t be afraid, sweetie. I’m Mike, and you are coming home with me. I will take good care of you.” Lily never saw Matilda again. ****** Mike tucked her favorite blanket around her gently. The grief in his heart was overwhelming. He wept silently as he stroked her head. Lily has been his best friend for 15 years, and he couldn’t imagine life without her. He remembered when she was just a kitten, half-starved and abused by his bitch of a sister. He was so angry and horrified at what Matilda had done, and brought her home to nurse her back to health. It took a long time to rebuild Lily’s trust, but it was worth very bit. Lily was by nature a sweetheart, always trying to snuggle up against his chest when he’s sleeping. She loved laying on his lap while he worked on his laptop or watched TV. Sometimes she would lick his face or hand to wake him up for breakfast, or sit on his chest and purr just because. She was gentle with kids and enjoyed the company of his friends once she got to know them. Her once silky ginger fur is now slightly ratty with age, but she still looked beautiful and sweet to Mike. The vet had strongly advised him to let Lily go. She has been fighting the cancer for a year now, and it would be unfair to prolong her suffering. Mike had arranged for the vet to come to his home this evening, so that Lily would be comfortable and comforted during her last hour. Mike spoke softly to Lily. “Don’t be afraid, sweetie. You will be in a better place soon. I love you.” ****** [A friend of mine recently lost his kitty, and this was a tribute to her.