The ghost of the mysterious dead woman sobbed in the guest bedroom, but Rico ignored it to the best of his ability. He felt sorry for her, whoever she was. Whatever her troubles were. He often wondered, what could be so sad? She cried heart wrenching sobs of inconsolable grief every single day, for hours on end. He wasn’t frightened of her, just pitying, at this point. She never did anything worse than pour any alcohol he bought down the sink drain while he was at work, for some reason. He had given up on trying to keep a bottle of wine in the apartment. He searched for the cast iron skillet, but it wasn’t in the kitchen. She had taken it, again. He went to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door. The crying abruptly ceased. He entered. The room was frigid, but empty. A search turned up the skillet on the floor underneath the bed. “I’m sorry, but I use this skillet every morning to make bacon and egg hash. Please stop taking it and hiding it from me.” He returned to the kitchen, washed the skillet, and made breakfast, in a routine that was becoming normal to him. He ate, did the dishes, and went to work. That evening, a girl he’d dated for a while texted him that her roommates were driving her insane, asking to come over. He reluctantly told her about the ghost, knowing from experience with his friends and family that there was a 50/50 chance that she would either think he was crazy, or want to come over immediately to experience the haunting for herself. “Can I come over now?” She texted. “Yes, but I promise you’re just going to flip out and leave.” He replied, with the certainty of having an apartment none of his relatives would visit now. She knocked on the door twenty minutes later. She had barely stepped into the apartment when she heard the ghost. “Oh my God!” She exclaimed. “I can hear it!” She backed towards the door in sudden panic. “She doesn’t do anything except cry, pretty much,” he tried to explain, “nothing bad will happen if you stay.” “No way!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry, but I am never talking to you again. I can’t come here, and you’re sure not ever coming to my apartment and bringing that thing with you. You’re nice, but I have to go!” She left. He sighed. He’d try to talk to her when she’d had time to calm down. He thought: move to the city, Rico. Pretty much the whole family lives there - you’ll see everybody all the time. You’ll have much better job prospects. You’ll meet so many women… Not for the first time, he wondered about the identity of this spirit who was keeping everyone away. With the limited knowledge he had of ghosts from horror movies he supposed she must’ve died here, but how long ago? The apartment he lived in was new – he was the first person to live there. He’d been able to find out that the area had been rezoned residential recently, and that formerly the site of his building was a drag queen dress and accessory store. He hadn’t been able to find out anything pre-dating that. He had ten months left on his ironclad lease, and breaking it wasn’t an option. He was going to have to continue to tolerate the specter. Other than the ghost, it was a perfect apartment. It was a mostly level fifteen-minute walk from his job, affordable enough that he’d even been able to get two bedrooms (which he now found amusing), was spacious for the price, and had a well-maintained building laundry room downstairs. He decided to try something different. He went to his book case in the living room and got his Bible, settling in the recliner in the living room to read aloud. Psalms 42:11: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed? Put your hope in God.” Rico continued with scriptures from his past. Jerimiah 6:16: “*Stand* at the *crossroads* and *look*; *ask* for the *ancient paths*, *ask* where the *good way* is, and walk in it, and *you will* find rest." He continued with verses and stories he felt were in any way relevant, feeling a bit silly, but doing his best. He had no idea what effect, if any, this was having on the ghost. The apartment was silent for the rest of the night. That night, he dreamed feverishly. He awoke in the morning with a start, sitting up straight. Reading the Bible had caused the ghost to invade his dreams. He wasn’t sure if she was responding negatively, or positively. There was something about a medium sized, pale brick house, with color appearing to be projected on it like a planetarium light show, changing in a kaleidoscope he couldn’t process as it undulated across a spectrum of every color he’d ever seen. There had been ancient trees in a row in front of the house going all the way down the street, swept up in a strong wind that seemed to be carrying him, helplessly paralyzed and levitating, across the landscape. There was the feeling that he’d been through an entire night of odd experiences. And there had been her, with him. A presence, a vague form beside him, but he couldn’t turn his head. She had been urgently telling him something. Upon waking, he only remembered a few moments of this experience. Within a few minutes of waking up, he only remembered the presence of the ghost in his dream, and that there had been weird colors. He had no idea what to make of it. While he was at work, his sister called. She’d gotten fired from her job because she stopped dating her boss, and needed a place to stay. She’d been renting a room informally from a friend, but money burned a hole in her pocket, and now she was reduced to her last paycheck. Everything she owned was stuffed in her SUV. She’d needed to stay with him before when she got fired from her last job for getting arrested after going ninety-six miles per hour in her company car, and another time when she’d quit without savings or another job lined up because her coworker annoyed her by playing talk radio too loudly. His sister was the reason he had gotten a two-bedroom apartment. She knew through the family grapevine about his situation, but didn’t care. “I’m as brave as you,” she told him on the phone, “I can deal with it, if you’ve been living there for months.” “A lot of people have told me they won’t be scared, and then they all are.” “I really need a place to stay. I’m so glad you’re letting me stay with you, thank you. I can put up with a ghost if it means having a roof over my head.” “All right…” “I’ll be over after you get home from work.” Beatriz arrived after he’d eaten dinner, her gloomy expression contrasting the cheerful neon pink of her duffel bag. She’d managed to get a parking spot on the street nearby. They watched TV and talked for hours, and Rico learned more than he ever wanted to know about her failed relationship. He was angry at her former boss, but annoyed with her continual poor decisions, and had no problem expressing this to her. She needed to hear it from someone. He expected her to be upset with him, but she was so exhausted she simply accepted his criticism and said that she knew she needed to try harder to keep jobs, and that everyone had faults they needed to work on. They left it at that. He offered to let her sleep in his room, and sleep on the couch himself, but she declined. She didn’t mind sleeping in the living room. He went to sleep around nine-thirty because he had to get up early for work, and she got on her laptop to apply for jobs. He woke up when Beatriz screamed five hours later. He rushed to the living room, where she was stood hyperventilating and staring at the ajar guest bedroom door. “I saw her!’ She exclaimed. “She was carrying something heavy she could’ve used to kill me!” “What did she look like?” Rico asked. “Like a scary effing ghost!” She practically yelled. “Was this something she was carrying my skillet? She steals that pretty much every night. She wasn’t going to use it as a weapon, she just hides it in the guest room.” “Yes! She could kill someone with that thing! And she was super scary! I don’t know. I don’t think I can stay here, if she’s running around with things she could hit you with like that. I think I’m going to sleep in my car until I get a job. I just can’t sleep here! That’s so scary.” “Calm down, it’s ok. I should’ve warned you about the skillet. That happens all the time. But tell me what she looked like - I’ve never seen her.” “I’m getting out of here! I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you what I’ve figured out. Maybe one of my friends will let me stay with them, or maybe I can afford to stay in a motel or something for a little while. Bye.” She had been stuffing all her scattered belongings into her bag. She zipped it up and was out the door thirty seconds later. “That’s it.” He said to the spirit, not knowing if she was listening or not. “Either you pay rent, or figure out other arrangements.” He went back to bed, and tried to go to sleep. The ghost started crying. He unplugged his cell phone, went to the door of the guest room, and recorded her crying for a few minutes. The next day, he composed an email to the closest Catholic priest, including the recording of the ghost crying. That was all he knew to do with his limited horror movie education. Within three hours, the priest replied. He wanted to come over Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday morning, Rico told the ghost that the priest was coming at three o’clock. He was startled to feel her hug him.


Logline: A young man has a summer romance with a much older woman who is in a dangerous marriage, it will be a summer of firsts. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ My name is Gerald Rice, in three months, I'm going to be 18 and off to college, what a wild three months it's going to be. I guess it all started when I got my first job, at Giuseppe's, a family Italian restaurant, known for their meatballs. They started me off with minimum wage, bussing tables. I didn't mind the job; it was a mindless task; I just needed the money. The first time I met Amber Watts, I didn't think anything special; I barely saw her. Amber was a waitress in the restaurant, much older than me; she was going to be 43, three days after my eighteenth birthday. I'd been working there for three weeks, the first time we were put on the schedule together. A closing shift, a closing shift is a shift that begins with a lot of employees and then ends with only a few, because staff can go home with fewer and fewer customers remaining. There are a lot of downtimes; you can get to know the people you're working with on the closing shift. Amber had a bubbly personality, an infectious laugh, and was fun to work with, especially at closing time. We would play little games, like, how many times will this guy send back the steak, will this baby have to be brought out to the car, and our personal favorite, how much of their dinner will these kids put on the floor? We were a good team, by our third shift together, we had all of our side duties done by the time the restaurant closed, this allowed us to count our tips and get out of there. It was also, on this shift, that we had our first moment. One of our duties at the end of the night was to combine ketchup bottles. Giuseppe still uses glass ketchup bottles, and one had broken in Amber's hand while she was trying to combine them. I immediately sprang into action, grabbing a cloth and applying pressure to the small cut on her the side of her hand. I could tell that Amber was a little embarrassed, but she said to me that I had a gentle touch, and we looked at each other in the eyes for an extended period. Neither of us wanted to look away, it was like a staring contest, except, there were emotions involved. I was beginning to develop feelings for Amber, and I believe she was starting to develop feelings for me. Right from the start, I had seen that Amber wears a wedding ring, but it never came up in conversation, and I was not assertive enough to ask myself. A couple of nights after the ketchup bottle incident, I caught Amber crying in a booth towards the back of the restaurant. Naturally, I sat down to see if I could comfort her, she was complaining about her husband, they had gotten into a fight before work, and he was sending her nasty text messages all night. I told her that she deserved better, she was a beautiful, smart, and funny woman, and that anyone who couldn't see that, didn't deserve her. Amber laughed, she said I was so wise for a young man, as we got up from the booth, she hugged me, the hug lasted a long time, I was never in a hug for that long before, but it felt good feeling her body pressed up against mine. A couple of nights after that, the restaurant remained busy all night, we didn't have a chance to do our side duties, which meant we would have to stay after the restaurant closed. It was a late one, and eventually, Amber's husband came down and was having a tantrum in the lobby. Amber went out, and he screamed at her. Finally, she came back to work in tears. I did everything I could to try to comfort her. Amber said I knew how to make her feel good. As we were bringing up takeout containers from the basement of Giuseppe's restaurant, she stopped me before we returned to the main restaurant floor, and she kissed me. On our next shift together, Amber asked me if I wanted to hang out after work today. Me, still living at home with my parents, asked her what she wanted to do. She said she wanted to have a little fun, and that she knew of a motel near the airport, where we could talk. After the shift was over, we got in my old Honda Civic and drove to the motel. We talked about everything under the sun for about an hour, and eventually, we started kissing. I had one girlfriend in high school, but we never went all the way, that night was my first time. From that point on, every night that we worked together, we would hang out after work, which was code for meet up at a motel, club, or bar and get it on. I didn't think much about her being married, the couple of encounters I had with her husband, he didn't seem like a good guy. We started to get riskier, one shift, she left me a note to meet her in the basement where the takeout containers were, we made love up against some styrofoam containers and soda cup lids. We enjoyed the danger, knowing that if anyone were to come down there, they would fire us on the spot. One shift we were supposed to work together, Amber didn't show up, and I was concerned. Since working together, she had not missed a single shift. I tried calling, texting, and social media, but Amber wouldn't respond. I asked our manager if she had called and said anything, and he told me he hadn't heard from her. Concerned for her safety, about halfway through my shift, I told our manager that I wasn't feeling well, and I left, looking to track Amber down. She told me where she lived, and that's the first place I went. I drove by three or four times; her car was in the driveway; I didn't know what to think. Eventually, Amber saw me doing laps on her street and came out to talk. She came out with a black eye; she said she couldn't speak the long, that she had to get back in the house, and that she would be showing up for her next shift. I was furious, I wanted to go in there and beat them up, but she wouldn't let me, she said he was a police officer and would try to ruin my life. The next night, we went to the motel again, we sat in bed, in a post-sex snuggle, and she told me that she was going to leave her husband. Amber admitted that he was the one that gave her the black eye because he suspected that she was cheating. She was cheating with me, but that didn't give him any right to give her a black eye. On our way back to Giuseppe's, in my Honda Civic, I found that a black truck was trailing us from behind. Amber was scared right away; that was her husband; we were caught. I went down several side streets, but he followed me every step of the way. I started to worry about my life. If this man was able to give his wife a black eye, what he would do to the guy who was sleeping with her. After trying to lose him to no avail, I knew that the police station was coming up on the right side of the road, Amber told me it wouldn't matter, he was a police officer, but, when I pulled in, his black truck went straight. Amber said he would be waiting for us when we got back to Giuseppe's and insisted that she take an Uber back to the restaurant and deal with it on her own. I told her that this day was coming, and I had to face it, but she wouldn't let me go. Amber got into the Uber, which would take her to the man who was going to kill her. I did what I was told; I went home. Later, I found out that Amber was all right, and she told her husband that she wanted a divorce. Amber told him that the love in their marriage was gone. Amber never worked in the restaurant again. I saw her a few times the rest of the summer. I never saw her again once I went to college. I loved Amber, I still do, and our time together is going to give me happiness for the rest of my life. Maybe, I was just an excuse to get out of that marriage, but perhaps it was more. Either way, I don't regret anything, in the end, I had a chance to spend time with a beautiful woman, and Amber got out of the torment she had to suffer in that marriage. Amber once said that we are supposed to meet each other. I like to believe that this is true and that everything in life has its meaning. Wherever she is, I hope she's happy, living the life that she wants to live.


Jody was sitting in the very back of the theater, as he usually did. Even in a packed theater, not many people would elect to sit in the back row if there are other seats available. And that practically guaranteed that there would be a whole row of empty seats for him to choose from. Jody valued his personal space. He didn’t have many friends. The kids at school didn’t know anything about him or his family. Even to his teachers, Jody Teller was an enigma. And that’s how he preferred to keep it. The house lights dimmed and the previews began to play. And all the standard noises soon followed. The sounds of muffled conversations, ringing cellphones that people had neglected to silence, patrons munching on handfuls of popcorn or tearing open bags of candy. Jody was very observant for his age. And what he observed was a young man, sitting by himself in the sixth row, glancing periodically over his shoulder in Jody’s direction. At first, Jody thought he was waiting for somebody. But as the previews concluded and the title of the film flashed across the screen, it became obvious that the man was alone. And he had his eyes set on Jody. He could almost sense what the man was thinking. The man saw a young kid sitting by himself in a dark theater, no parental supervision, nobody to protect him. He saw an easy target, weak and vulnerable. Jody was a short and scrawny ten-year-old boy, with a ruddy complexion, copper colored hair, and a smattering of golden brown freckles across his rosy cheeks. He wasn’t big or strong, but he wasn’t as vulnerable or naïve as the man silently predicted. As a loner, he was very aware of his surroundings at all times, and he knew how to look after himself, watch his own back. He waited thirty minutes, then abandoned his popcorn and soda and slipped out of the dark theater, hoping to avoid the man that had been watching him. He got three blocks away from theater when a white panel van pulled up beside him. The passenger window rolled down and the driver leaned over. Jody recognized the driver as the man from the theater. Jody started to take note of his features. He was a Caucasian male, dark curly hair, about two hundred and thirty pounds give or take. It was hard to determine his height while he was sitting behind the wheel, but Jody estimated he was about 5’10, maybe 5’11. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties. No wedding ring or jewelry of any kind. “Hey, do you need a ride?” the man asked, flashing a benevolent smile. Jody remained silent, studying the man, sizing him up. “Hop in. I’ll take you home if that’s where you’re heading. It sure beats walking.” “Sorry, I don’t know you,” he said. “You’re a smart kid. My dad always warned me not to take rides from strangers when I was your age. My name is Todd. What’s your name?” “Jody,” he said after a brief moment of hesitation. “Well, now we’re not strangers anymore. See how easy that was? Come on, kid. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not going to hurt you. I just hate to see you walking by yourself. This isn’t the nicest neighborhood.” He glanced up at the cloudy sky and added, “Looks like it’s about to rain any minute. You don’t want to get caught in the rain, do you?” Jody shook his head. “So hop in. I’ll give you a lift home. And if you’ve got a sweet tooth, I have plenty of candy. Do you like butterscotch?” Jody considered his options. Then he shrugged internally and thought, *what the hell? Why not?* The man leaned over again to open the door and Jody climbed into the passenger seat and accepted a few individually wrapped butterscotches from the man. He unwrapped one and sucked on it, grinning from ear to ear. His parents would be so proud of him. They would eat well tonight. He had to stop himself from licking his lips in anticipation. They would pick his bones clean, then grind them to dust. Nothing would be left for the police to find. Not that they would look. The cops never looked too hard for people like Todd. Nobody would miss him. The boy slipped one hand in his pocket and felt around until his fingers found the syringe. A quick injection was all it would take. Then the man would sleep forever. It wouldn’t even hurt. Well, maybe just a little. They drove in silence for ten minutes. Jody paid close attention to all the street signs as he enjoyed his butterscotch. The man took a sharp right turn into a wide alleyway and the van came to a stop. He waited for the man to remove the keys from the ignition. Then he pulled the syringe from his pocket and stuck the needle into the man’s neck, pressing down on the plunger. The contents of the syringe coursed through his bloodstream and he was dead in under a minute. Jody took out his cell phone and made a call. It rang twice before his dad picked up. “Hey, dad. I’ve got another one. I’m in the alley by the corner of Essex and Dewitt, in a white van. I need you to come pick me up. And make sure you have enough room in your trunk.


Morning light filtered through the canopy overhead. The lilting song of a thrush broke through the last remnants of twilight, heralding the start of the new day. A hand twitched amongst the leaf strewn meadow. The meadow air felt thick to this stranger who had appeared as if from thin air. The young girl finally rose to a seated position, her rumpled dress wrinkled and flowing about her as she looked about the grassy meadow, a clear look of growing surprise on her face. Her green eyes settled upon the five standing stones that rose ominously around her, their moss-covered surfaces staring blankly back at her as if they she disturbed their quaint little gathering. Niamh tried to work out what had happened since last night as she shook the sleep from her mind. She recalled having a fight with her parents, a silly argument over a boy she had been seen with yesterday afternoon. Her father had heard about the innocent tryst between the two from a nosey neighbor. Much was said but she only recalled her father forbidding it and what would her mother think? In her anger she had cursed at him and ran off into the woods leading behind their house, scurrying under the picket fence where boards hung loosely. She remembered a thick fog settling in around her much like a thicket blanket. Before she knew it, she could see no further than the nose on her face. Stumbling further forward, she had left the wooded path in into a clearing. In her haste, she become increasingly tired by this point and decided it best to rest in the quaint clearing. At least the ground was soft and adorned with moss and leaves, providing a soft bedding for her to lay upon. However, it appeared she had taken more than just a short respite and instead fallen deep asleep. Attempting to gain her bearings as she looked around, she noted a small ring of mushrooms had formed about her makeshift bed and appeared to fall within the circle made by the stones standing like guardians over them. This sent a chill through her body and she began to worry a little as the coincidence eerily resembled stories she was told of by her grandmother. "No, no, pay those stories no mind. Only old tales of fae and magic, children's stories to entertain and scare children into behaving. I'm no child.." she told herself. Gathering her dress about her, she rose and took off in the direction she thought was home. Angry father or not she felt a sudden urge to return home, unable to shake the nagging feeling of the concentric circles she'd awaken to. Leaving the clearing, she hoped she hadn't strayed far from the path. She breathed a sigh of relief when she came across a group of loose rocks she knew and played upon as a child. Picking up the front of her dress to keep from tripping she picked up the pace and soon broke through a gap in the trees to what would be the familiar sight of her home she knew to be just on the other side. ...only it wasn't there. In place of her house with picket fence and driveway leading to the street of the cul-de-sac she lived on was only a small, almost wild looking clearing. Amongst the weeds and short grass, a squat thatch roofed house made from timber rose before her. Gone were the SUVs that lined the road up and down her block. In their place, cows with their silly gaping faces stared back at her with their jaws endlessly working on the cud tucked away in their cheeks. Sheep milled around, grazing on long grass as their blunted teeth gripped and tore the blades of verdant green from the ground. From the thatch roofed home emerged a man, clad in an old kilt and tunic, looking as if he was posing for a historical reenactment of an 18th century Irish highlander painting. Niamh slowly realized her grandmother may not have been blowing smoke up her backside about the fae folk stories. Perhaps she wasn't mistaken and had just been whisked away to a time closer to 1800 than her own year of 2020. "Oh, this cannot be happening right now. I'm going to wake up and realize this was nothing but a bad dream." She pinched her cheeks till tears formed in her eyes but the idyllic scene before her remained unchanged.


There is a theory that exists called Liebovitz’s Law (sometimes known as Lieb’s Lawbovitz), coined in dis-honor of the famous gem-synthesizer Brinn Liebovitz. Liebovitz’s Law states that when one feels too strongly that they are going to produce a masterpiece or the greatest thing that’s ever been made, that is often the time when the world’s most towering, irredeemable pieces of trash are birthed. There’s some tendon within the human mind that, if greatness and importance are too consciously and strenuously reached for, snaps under the strain. Liebovitz’s Law has led to almost all of the world’s great disasters, and after what Mr. Liebovitz did, he became the shining symbol of this phenomenon. Mr. Brinn Liebovitz was, by all measures, a very great man. He started as a chemist, and soon became the only man on planet Earth who could make a perfect diamond with a microwave oven, create a ruby with a few household chemicals, and figure out a way to form a sparkling amethyst while stranded on a desert island. He fabricated stones that were combinations of all sorts of gems--diarubys and emeropals and sapphiamonds--and he was generous too, giving these incredible creations to jewelers and common folks alike. All of his work was built on a love of beauty and quality. He shared all of his recipes, and soon the people of the earth were able to create unspeakably beautiful stones whenever they chose. The only thing Mr. Liebovitz did not share was his home, and not by choice. Brinn Liebovitz was “*2034’s Ugliest Man in the World*”, as voted by People magazine shortly before the poll was erased and the magazine recalled for being “too cruel.” Mr. Liebovitz tried to shrug this off, but the truth was indisputable--his nose touched his bottom lip, his boils were infinite, his skin was a ghastly greenish blue, and despite his vast kindness and his not insignificant wealth, he could not find anyone who would love him. He had no family, either. The female members of his family died long ago from a series of tragic toxic shock syndrome accidents that resulted in the largest civil suit against a feminine hygiene product manufacturer in history, and his father was struck in the temple by a tragically mis-thrown bowling ball. Thus, Mr. Liebovitz had lived alone for 25 years, and this was the great burden of his existence. He was celebrating his 52nd birthday with five male colleagues in his palatial home near the Connecticut coast when he had the idea--the idea that would banish his loneliness for good. He explained to his colleagues that if the complex chemical makeup of a gemstone could be synthesized with his patented 10-step program, surely he was only about 10 *more* steps away from being able to synthesize real, genuine life. 20 steps, and he would be able to turn some household chemicals into a gemstone, and then turn that gemstone into a human woman who would love him forever. His colleagues were naturally skeptical. They pointed him to a variety of literature in which a reckless scientist attempts to play God, and is destroyed by his own creation. They also pointed him to the fact that this was completely, ridiculously impossible. Liebovitz, in his signature voice that sounded like a turkey drowning in a closed can of soup, rebuked them all. “With this 20 step plan, I will not play God, and I will not defy him--I have simply asked him to show me his methods, and he has passed his torch to me. He speaks to me, you see.” Having made his point, he wobbled into the kitchen like a month-old leg of ham. His colleagues would often beg him not to walk anywhere before they had a chance to look away--but now, as Liebovitz worked his magic, the five men who had gathered for his birthday found themselves unable to look away, despite their revulsion. First, Liebovitz used his 10-step process to create an emerald, the process of which is now heavily copyrighted and protected by Mr. Liebovitz’s estate, and cannot legally be printed, but suffice it to say it was a lot of pouring things into other things, microwaving, stomping, stirring, and the final step, which is common knowledge: **10.** Pour the mixture into your nose, let it filter through your sinuses, and when you open your mouth, *there the gem shall be*. Liebovitz did the whole process with the speed and precision of a Nascar pit crew, and when he opened his mouth his colleagues could not help but applaud, so giant and flawless was the emerald sitting on Liebovitz’s greenish, pickle-looking tongue. Liebovitz smiled and told them God was now communicating with him in visions, and that he had only begun to work. The next 10 steps are the stuff of legends. Liebovitz throughout the process is reported to have broken several previously established laws of both chemistry and physics, and the steps resulted in the death of four of his five colleagues. The actual machinations of the process are now highly classified and possession of them can result in incarceration for a mandatory minimum of 15 years. What is not classified is what Liebovitz said, over and over, throughout the three-hour process of turning this flawless emerald into his lover. “This will be my masterpiece. This shall be the culmination of my life’s work.” The one colleague who survived the experiment, a tiny man named Stillwaller, made it a point to recount that these phrases were gargled by Liebovitz hundreds of times throughout the night, at increasing speed and volume until they were burned into the cortex of everyone unfortunate enough to attend his birthday party. After the three hours were complete, and four of five of his only earthly friends lay dead, Liebovitz stood in the kitchen staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, created from one tiny emerald and hundreds of chemicals. For the first time in his entire life, a woman’s eyes did not flee from him in shock or fear. Her deep green eyes traveled up and down his body and lingered. Stillwaller stared from the corner in horror. Liebovitz was entranced. She looked at Brinn Liebovitz as no one had ever had--with love. He collapsed to his knees and she followed him with her eyes, and her face creased with genuine concern. Liebovitz began to cry, which was a sound so unholy that Stillwaller jumped through the bay window out into the hedges. The emerald woman did not. She crouched down and lowered herself to his height, and stared at him with great compassion. She spoke, and her voice was so soft and smooth that it sounded as if it had always existed in the air and she was merely drawing it out. “Are you okay?” “Yes, dear--I just never expected this to work. I was receiving visions from God, guiding me in what to do--but I never imagined they would be truthful. I never imagined that He would let me have this.” “Have what?” “Have you. Do you have a name?” “Emily.” Liebovitz’s mind was racing. This was a fully sentient being with an idea of its own name, a command of the English language with no teaching--he had not just created life. He had birthed something that not even God had birthed. He vibrated with excitement. He whispered to himself one more time--”this is my masterpiece.” He stood to his full height and looked at Emily, who stood at the perfect height for him and who looked at him like he was something of worth, and he wanted to melt even though he had always been told that he looked as if his face and body were already melting. He shook off thoughts of past abuse and looked into a future of love. “May I kiss you?” “Of course.” He strode to Emily with as much confidence as he could muster and stood before her, inches away, her energy reaching out to him and his to her, crackling with tension, the attraction physical and fiery. He looked deep into her endless green eyes, and then he closed his, hoping she was closing hers too. He lifted up his nose out of the way of his mouth, and then he leaned forward, heart in his throat. Time seemed to freeze and watch them. His lips touched hers and instantly there was an intense, scorching heat which Brinn Liebovitz at first thought was just what a kiss really felt like, but he then realized there was no way a kiss could feel like this, and then every single chemical he had used to create Emily rapidly decomposed and rearranged and reacted to the body heat and moisture he was emitting through his gaping mouth, and the only woman who had ever loved Brinn Liebovitz turned into a giant gaseous fireball that destroyed 500 square kilometers of Connecticut coastline, including 3,459 civilians and several small businesses and chain restaurants. The bodies of the people hit by the fireball were reported to be “melted and swollen, blackened, their noses hanging to their lips and their flesh filled with voluminous boils.” Brinn Liebovitz himself was never found, his ashes presumed to have been scattered into the atmosphere by the force of the explosion. The only person who survived in the surrounding area was Stillwaller, Brinn’s colleague who had knocked himself out when he jumped out the bay window. He incurred the severe physical disfigurement observed in the other victims, but the soft earth he laid in insulated him just enough to survive after a few months in the ICU. Later, as journalists attempted to piece together what happened on that fateful night, they interviewed Stillwaller, who said two things of note during the interview. The first was to coin the “Liebovitz’s Law” term, which has gained a great amount of popularity in recent years. The second thing he said, which was also popular, was that he now knew what it was like to be Brinn Liebovitz due to his physical disfigurement, that his wife had divorced him--and that he had figured out where Liebovitz had gone wrong in the 20-step procedure of how to make a woman that loves you out of a simple gemstone. Stillwaller published a paper online with distinct instructions of how to do it, including a thorough dissection of exactly where Liebovitz had gone wrong and how his new 20 step process would fix the fatal error. 3 hours later a 750 square kilometer chunk of Connecticut was destroyed by a fireball even larger and more violent than the last. Stillwaller’s document was downloaded millions of times before the government could take it down, and within a few hours every English-speaking country in the world was rocked by a series of massive explosions that left billions dead and the economy, infrastructure, and the human race as a whole crippled for several decades. Scholars would observe later how odd it was that the greatest disaster in recorded human history was caused not by a desire for destruction, or power, or resources, but out of a need for love, manifested by thousands of lonely people across the world. A quote from the novelist and journalist Fredrick Shulzmann sums it up best: “Let us be humble, and tend to our lonely as we tend to our sick--for without the love of one’s fellow man, the lonely turn to the pursuit of greatness for solace--and those in the pursuit of greatness may invent a 20-step process that turns a gemstone into a massive chemical bomb disguised as a beautiful woman.” Brinn Liebovitz did not know about any of this. All he knew was that he was floating somewhere high above the Earth, finally freed from his body, and that he had spent the last moments of his life knowing he was truly loved.


George had started to lose weight. At first he was overwhelmingly happy. He had struggled for so long against his own three hundred fifty pounds of flesh, and it had pinned him to the ground both physically and emotionally ever since he had married Alan. Finally, as if it was a plague of locusts departing from a wheat field overnight, the weight started to disappear without George even trying. During the loss of the first fifty pounds, George would go to the mirror and look at himself and watch his folds and slabs of flesh closely, and he felt that if he looked hard enough he could feel himself shrinking, he could see the fat dispersing into the air like sand being carried away by the wind, like the carving out of a canyon by a Colorado breeze. He told Alan that he felt like Mother Nature had decided to finally sculpt him. He told Alan that maybe all of his struggles with his weight and all the bullying and missed opportunities he had suffered were because he was a piece of marble, and Mother Nature was letting him get big and round and full so that she would have as much as possible to work with. Alan started making love to him again. First it was once a week, then once a day, and then it seemed that Alan couldn’t keep his hands off George any time he saw him. George didn’t even want to some of the time but he couldn’t say no because it had been so, so long since he had felt loved in any way. He began to feel as if this must be a trick or a joke and that everything would fall apart soon, and so he never said no, and he breathed in every single second of feeling cared for. They went on walks together and George would catch Alan in the corner of his eye really looking at him, drinking in the details of his face, and this made George feel that maybe he really had been chosen for something special. All of the suffering had been for something. Everyone else who had gotten to be attractive their entire lives--George pitied them. They were as good as they were ever going to get. He, on the other hand, was finding out his true potential at forty-five years old, and a whole new life was unfolding in front of him. He was experiencing a metamorphosis they never would! The next hundred pounds gone were all the more bliss. George saw the scale hit 200 for the first time in two decades and he fell to his knees and wept in his underwear in their North Carolina bathroom, and Alan heard him weeping and came in from the living room and comforted him, which George could not remember him ever doing. They kissed next to the bath, feeling the cold of the tile on their skin and the heat of the summer radiating in through the windows. George wept into Alan’s shoulder and Alan hugged him tight, which George cried harder at, because usually when he tried to cry on Alan’s shoulder he would be pushed off. Alan hated anything getting on his polos, especially tears, which he said left salt stains. This time Alan did not push him. He held him tight even though he was wearing his best polo, and George wept, and then Alan spoke in a voice that George had never heard come out of him in their twenty years of marriage. It was a voice that sounded as if it was generated by his bones rubbing together, like a violin made of keratin. “I think you’re finally ready.” George stopped crying and shuddered. He realized suddenly how much colder he always was without his extra flesh, and how much more vulnerable he felt. He wished that his bones were hidden like they used to be. “What do you mean?" Alan didn’t say anything. George felt the loving embrace that surrounded him become unearthly strong, and he felt Alan’s nails grow suddenly and sink into his back like talons. Alan’s skin became freezing and hard, and the walls of the bathroom were jet-black and they closed in on them, and Alan and George were completely alone and there was no sound from outside anymore. George looked into Alan’s eyes and he couldn’t help starting to cry again. He hated how easily he cried--whether he was arguing, or frustrated, or waiting in line--his body’s first response was always to cry. Now as he looked into the face of his husband, who held him in place with the strength of 10 men and threatened to crush every bone in his body, whose eyes were now missing and replaced by deep holes that seemed to go entirely through his head and whose mouth was now filled with row after row after row of tiny, serrated teeth--all he could do was cry and sniffle. Alan spoke to him again. “I’ve always been annoyed by how much you cry.” “I know you have.” “On our wedding you were a mess the entire day. You couldn’t even eat or make a speech because you were crying so much. I thought you were going to dry out like a raisin.” George looked into Alan’s eye pits and tried to find his old humanity in them. His skin was a sickening greenish-white, glistening like the wings of an insect. “Have you been eating me at night or something? Is that why I’ve lost weight?” Alan smiled, an absolutely ghastly sight that threatened to make George cry once more. He felt his floating rib pop from Alan’s death hug. “I used to do it at night, when you were repulsive to me. Now I eat you when we make love.” George decided he would shut off his brain and just let whatever happen to him here happen. His ability to process this and form emotions relating to it was depleted. “So you were just fattening me up for this. You made me miserable for 20 years, and then I got to be happy for four months, and now you’re gonna eat me and I’ll be gone.” Alan thought for a minute. “Yes.” George decided he was actually done being emotionless about this, and that instead he was going to try being very dramatic. Alan had always called him a drama queen and so George figured that if he couldn’t stop Alan from killing him, he would at least be very annoying to him as he died. “Well then go on and do it. Just let it be known that I was always good, and kind, and fair to you. Let it be carved on my headstone: Loving Husband, Passionate Artist, Unfairly Consumed by his ungrateful lover who shall NOT be named.” Alan didn’t respond. Instead, his mouth extended into a long tube like a worm and latched onto George’s face, surrounding it completely, and all George could see were darkness and teeth. He was too shocked to scream. He could smell Alan’s foul, sulfurous breath, and hear the inner workings of Alan’s body and stomach, churning, sucking, rattling, turning his body into nutrients or energy or whatever he was being processed into. George squirmed around valiantly in Alan’s grip and broke a few more of his own ribs, and he started to have a very difficult time breathing, half because of the stomach gases that were traveling up through Alan and corroding his face, half because of the broken ribs poking into his lungs. Alan’s voice traveled up from his stomach and echoed around the tube-mouth, seemingly produced only by the acid in his intestines. The voice sizzled and popped and hissed. “I did love you very much, George. You really were wonderful in many ways. This is just what I was made to do. You understand.” George felt himself getting smaller and smaller, his mass somehow disappearing into Alan. He felt that he must be something like 125 pounds now. He began to yell down Alan’s throat. “Just get me fat again and then eat me, and then do it again--I’ll be your food source, baby. Without me you’ll have to find somebody else.” George felt Alan’s grip loosen slightly. He felt like he was losing weight a bit less fast. “It...feels so incredible all at once…” George, through tears, yelled down the worm’s mouth again. “I’ll get big for you again. You can do it all at once every couple of months. It’ll be so much nicer that way--you never know if you’ll find someone who tastes like me again--you’ll never find someone who’ll get big for you like I will. I--I get to eat whatever I want and then lose it all, and you’re fed for life.” Slowly, the rate of consumption decreased, Alan’s mouth un-suctioned from George’s face, and his grip released. George looked up at Alan and he looked human again, brown-eyed and pale with his greyish-blond hair flopping onto his forehead. He smiled sheepishly. George looked down at himself. He was smaller than he had perhaps ever been. Slowly he stood and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like he did when he was 12, his ribs protruding, his arms thin and wiry, his skin stretched like a drum over his cheekbones, which he realized were quite nice. This had been his dream when he was heavy and now when he looked at himself he realized how alien he looked. He stepped on the scale. 110. Alan came up behind him and hugged him gently. George winced a little. Alan kissed him on the neck and began to massage his shoulders. George felt Alan’s fingers touch his collarbones, his shoulder blades. He felt like if he wanted to he could squeeze his fingers together right through him. Alan was so much stronger than him now. “Why did you wait 20 years to start eating me? I’ve been heavy for a long while.” Alan breathed and thought, and George felt his breath on his back. Even the breath felt like a threat, like it could take all his warmth from him if it wanted to. “I planned to start a lot sooner. But I loved you too much.” “And you don’t love me now?” “We have something stronger than love now, George. We have a deal.” George looked in the mirror again as Alan continued to massage him and kiss him up and down his neck, and after a few seconds trying to figure out how he felt he decided he would just stop thinking about anything at all for a long while. He asked Alan what they were going to have for dinner, Alan smiled and told him, and George did his very best not to cry.


In the gutter of an old street, in an old district, on the outskirts of an old city sat a young man wasting his days away. The poor and lonely pauper spent his many empty days hunting down scrap wood pieces discarded by carpenters and scavenging driftwood down by the dock. He would gather up only that which was discarded and begin to carve away, shaving after shaving, until all that remained were beautifully crafted small figures and sculptures. The pauper would often try to sell or trade his works for food or water, though much of his effort was in vain as those who passed him by on the busy street often scarce gave him a glance, let alone their attention. Every night the pauper would gather up his sculptures and his only possession, a razor-sharp tin carving tool, and make his way down to the cathedral at the heart of the city. His journey was long and rough on his bare feet, yet familiar and always soothing; especially when the rain would pour or the winds would howl, his daily trudge kept his spirits high and his soul at peace. As he neared the cathedral one day, his heart all aflutter, screams, and cries for help were heard from a nearby alley. Cautiously, the pauper stepped closer and closer to the alley peering down through the fog and gloom. He saw a small group of large men, Thieves, beating and robbing an innocent man as he cried in agony for aid. Without thought or hesitation, the pauper sprinted down the alley, no plan nor idea of what he would do once he reaches the end. As the pauper ran, he grabbed an empty bottle from the ground and tossed it high over the group of thieves, landing with a loud SMASH at the other end of the alley. Distracted, the pauper dove behind a pile of rags next to a fire pit as the thugs searched for the source of the clatter. Dousing a large ragged sheet in fuel and setting it alight, the pauper threw the cloak of fire onto one of the thieves, sending the brutes off screaming into the streets of the quiet city. As the echoes slowly faded into the night, the pauper hastily scurried over to the unfortunate man lay strewn out within the alley. The man was alive, horribly beaten but still drawing breath. His face was beaten to a pulp, barely recognizable to those who might know him. The pauper could tell the injured man was affluent, perhaps a merchant or successful trader. His fine clothes, now tattered and blood-soaked, peering through a thick wool robe. The pauper thought he must have been on his own way to the cathedral, an easy target for brutes and highwaymen. As he tried to speak, spurts of crimson blood gurgled out of his mouth and onto his face and chest; the pauper could barely understand him but listened patiently as he spoke, “T-thank you for saving me,” the injured man muttered between breaths. “Sir you need a doctor, it is they who will save you.” the pauper replied. Slowly, the injured man pulled an ornate golden ring off his finger, blood-covered yet still immaculate, and hands it to the boy. “If I move I will die,” the injured man slowly murmured, “Take this to my personal physician, an Italian who answers to Medicio. He lives by the Holovny Mict Bridge. Show him the ring and he will understand.” With that, the injured man fell unconscious, exhausted by his few words. The Pauper clutched the ring in his hand and ran for the bridge with the speed as though being chased by the devil himself. As he ran, block by block, street by street, all began to fade away as his mind focused harder on his destination. As he turned a corner, he accidentally crashed into a member of the night watchmen of the city guard. The pauper was relieved to find someone to help him. “Watch where you’re going you blind bastard!” the night guardsman shouted. Between breaths, the pauper did his best to explain, “I'm sorry sir, a man was beaten and robbed down by the cathedral. I’m fetching a doctor for him. There’s not much time.” “ A robbery you say, what have you got in your hand?” asked the guard. The pauper opened his clenched hand to show the lawman the gold ring, “The man gave me this to show to the doctor, he said the doctor would understand. Would you go look over him while I search for the doctor?” “Clever story, thief; you steal from a dead man, run into me while making your escape, then lie and try and convince me he’s still alive while you run off!” The guard grabs ahold of the pauper’s wrist and began pulling him back down the street, “I’m taking you to the jailer, I imagine he should have a cell perfect for you.” “Wait, I’ve done nothing wrong. I have to fetch the doctor!” The pauper pleaded and pleaded with the guard as he was dragged away in his firm grip. The pauper reached into his pocket and grabbed his carving tool, and with a swift lunge, planted the tool into the guard’s hand releasing his grasp. As the pauper regained his freedom he turned and fled from the guard as he gave chase. Ducking down alleys, turning street corners, it seemed nothing could stifle the guard’s pursuit. Soon the pauper’s legs became weary, his chest became sore, he knew he could not keep up this escape for long. Then, as if waiting upon the horizon, the pauper saw the Holovny Mict stand proudly over the rushing current below. With new life in his lungs, the pauper ran down the street screaming as loud as he could “MEDICIO! MEDICIO!”. He ran door to door, pounding his fists into the wood, still screaming for Medicio. Finally, on the last door before the bridge, someone answered to his call. “Who calls for Medicio?” asked a tall man, well dressed and thin. The pauper ran over to the man in the open doorway “I am! I must know where to find him.” cried the pauper between gasps of air. “Well you have found him, why do you seek the physician Medicio?” he asked, but before the pauper could answer the night guardsman ran up to him, grabbing him by the collar and throwing him to the street. “What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed Medicio. “I’m sorry to disturb you sir, but this scum has robbed from the dead, he attacked and maimed me while trying to escape. Now he has a date with the jailer,” the guardsman explained. “That’s a lie,” called the pauper, “a man was beaten and robbed, he sent me to fetch you.” The guard turned and gave the pauper a swift kick in the gut, “Quiet thief!” Medicio too turned his attention to the pauper, “Who was it that sent you?” The pauper opened his fist and held out the ring, still firmly clenched in his hand. Medicio peered closer, his eyes widened in shock as he saw the golden ring was marked with the stamp of the Holy Papal Cross. The doctor, with a swift single movement, grabbed his coat and bag and ran out the door. “Where is he? You must take me to him, Quickly!”. “But sir, this man is a thief. He must pay for his crimes.” stated the guardsman. As Medicio helped the pauper to his feet he answered, “The only crime this man is a part of was not being seen as an equal in the eyes of the law. Now if you help us, we may still save an innocent man’s life, if your ignorance and stupidity have not yet doomed him.” The guard, physician, and pauper all returned to the alley in haste where they found the injured man still lay strewn about. Within the hour, the injured man was brought back to the house of Medicio and was treated and cared for by the doctor. The pauper, content that the injured man was safe, resumed his journey back to the cathedral. Now with nothing to his name, the pauper had nowhere else to go and stayed by the cathedral day and night, coddled in the shadow of the grand steeple. As the days past, and his hunger began to grow, his mouth ran dry, the pauper knew his days were numbered. One night as he lay huddled in the cold street, delirious from thirst and exhausted from hunger, he watched as a tall dark figure approached him. The pauper knew it was death, come to take his soul; he was not scared, he did not scream, he had nothing left to fear to leave behind. He closed his eyes and waited for death’s cold embrace. The next morning he awoke in a warm bed, clean, wearing white linen, with a bowl of stew waiting for him on the table next to him. He heard a commotion coming from outside the window, the pauper thought to himself, ‘This can't be heaven, it’s far too loud’. The door slowly swayed open and to the pauper's surprise, Medicio stepped in to greet him. “Ah, good to see you’re awake. I was afraid you wouldn't last the night in your condition, but he told me I was wrong.” “Who...” the pauper began to ask, as the once injured man stepped through the doorway as well, leaning on a walking stick, and dressed in white robes, a mozzetta, and zucchetto. His Holiness, Pope Pius limped over to the bed and sat as Medicio left them to discuss. The pauper, only breaking free from shock, bows his head as he was approached. “Rise, my son, for it is I who am gracious to you,” His Holiness continued, “I expect you did not recognize me that night, which makes your actions even more spectacular. I was in disguise so that I may go do as Christ did, I did not even make it down a single alleyway before I was confronted by those men. But you came to my aid and saved my life even while being persecuted by the law.” Pius pulled out a large pouch of coins from his robes and gives it to the pauper. “I owe you my life, but please you accept this, for now, a mere token of my respects.” The pauper gazed at the purse longingly but refused the immense wealth. “ I have never been one to accept charity,” the pauper explained, “For I can not abide others forcing to go without, even if it means I must have nothing. All I’ve ever received, I have fairly earned or gained by trade.” “Then tell me so my soul may be at ease as well, what may I do for you to show my graciousness?” The pauper thought long on what he may ask for what he may ask in return, before finally returning his attention to his holiness and telling him “All I could ever ask for is a means to do what I love while helping those who need it. That is all I have done, and it is what I wish to continue to do.” “Well then my son, it seems though you require a vocation,” beamed his holiness as he returned the purse to his robes. As he stood again, the pontiff slowly pulled one of the pauper's small carved idols out from his robes and spun it thrice in hand. “The spirit of Christ is strong within you my child. Would you be willing to part with this?” “Of course your holiness.” said the pauper. “Ah, but then I would be a victim to your charity once again. How about a trade?” asked Pius, not waiting for an answer. His holiness lifted his hand, though bandaged, heavily adorned with various rings covered in many gems and precious metals. Pius pulled off one of the rings, a solid silver band with three gold crosses etched into the exterior, and slid it onto the ring finger of the pauper’s right hand. As he turned to leave, he looked back to the young man in bed and gave him a final blessing; and then he was gone. The kind pope kept his word, as the pauper had kept his. Not a week later and the pauper was a carpenters apprentice for a craftsman hired by the Vatican. The pauper was a pauper no more, he worked hard, lived within his means, and still walked to the cathedral every night. As time passed he found many things in life, love, respect, admiration, joy, as well as grief, despair, and anguish; through everything that happened, the ring never left his finger. It had been many years since the pauper had received the ring, many years since he lived on the street. He now lived with his lovely wife, the daughter of the carpenter to whom he had trained him. He lived in a large manor, was a caring father, a devoted husband, and a successful man of business. One night he approached the familiar and welcoming sight of the grand cathedral, only to be stopped dead in his tracks once again by a troubling sound. A faint whimpering could be heard coming from the mouth of the alley where he had found the pontiff beaten and bloodied. He looks down at his right hand to see the same ring still wrapped around his finger. As he peered down the dark corridor, he spied a young boy, dressed in tatters, softly crying by the mouth of the alley. He approached the boy, kneeling down in front of him. As he looked down, he saw a dog laying thin and lifeless beside the boy, and 9 newborn puppies suckling on the dead bitches teats. “What’s wrong, child?” he asked, expecting no response from the grieving boy. “My dog. She was old, hungry, but always kind; my only friend. She left her puppies. They need their mother, without her they won't last the week. I can't feed them, and I don't want to watch them die...” the boy said before beginning to sob once again. He looked back to the puppies, eyes still closed and cuddling up to their mother’s corpse. “Don’t worry, boy, I will take them. They will be warm, fed, and always happy with me and my family,” he said, trying to comfort the boy. He lifted his hand, now also covered in ornate and beautiful rings, the silver and gold remained as it always has. Sliding off a simple gold band adorned with a beautiful crimson ruby, he placed it into the poor child’s hand. The boy tried to stand but faltered from exhaustion and shock, tears still streaming down his face. “Don't worry, child. You’re not losing them, I could never imagine breaking up a family. I need someone to train and care for these puppies properly, there's far too many for my wife and daughters to manage. Can I count on you to care for and train them?” he asked as he began settling the puppies in an old blanket. Placing the blanket in the boy’s arms, he then lifted the boy in his arms and began on his way home. “T-thank you sir. What have I done to deserve this kindness?” asked the boy as he was being carried to his new home. He answered, “It’s not about what you did, but what you must be willing to do for others; to do what it is right because you know it is right.” **The End** \*A Pauper's Ring is any ring or band worn on the ring finger of the right hand, opposite a wedding band. Much like a wedding ring represents a promise to your spouse, the Paupers Ring represents a promise to yourself. Given to someone at their lowest point, it represents the want and needs to seek a better place in life. Once that point is reached, it serves as a reminder of where you once were, and everything sacrificed and accomplished for you to reach the point you stand today.


The light fades in and I see the tide. It touches the shore again and again, in a reassuring manner. The hot, humid clouds waft in the sky and they are stained by the coral sun. It is both warm and cool; the sun bombards the earth around me with no mercy, and the ocean breeze comes in, rehabilitating me, like a nurse in a warzone. I look in the faint distance and I can see a vague outline, an island. I have been there, once. I glance to the right and I see a pier, a boardwalk of sorts. It extends hundreds of feet into the sea and at its end is a diner, a bright, happy and glowing place. It attracted patrons left and right. I remember people used to walk here, on this shore, on this pier, now it all sits, lingering, awaiting it’s next admirer; abandoned but maintained. Down the highway are power plants, extruding their white gases into the atmosphere, before them are patches of nature. Water flows into them and out to the deeps. Grass grows in this sand, like nowhere else. It grows tall and high and mighty, as if resilient against the power plants that tower above them. Birds and animals take sanctuary in these patches. The men from the power plants don’t bulldoze the patches because they are told so, because the birds and animals live there. I step out onto the sand and it burns for a second and then soothes my souls. I step and my feet slip but I keep stepping. I reach the wet sand and my feet sink. I look out at the coral sun and I am thankful. Down the road is a trail. I have walked that trail, from time to time. It tracks under the road, and back up again. It follows the river and into the sea. On the other side of the river is another patch of nature, the largest one. Here, large birds, like herons, thrive, yet they too are towered over. Not by power plants but by homes. The birds see no problem and they continue. I move further, into the water. The water soothes my sunburned legs. I feel my feet travel but I stay put. I see waves coming in, some no taller than my knees and some are up to my waist. One waist high wave sails in and I try to run but the sand seems not to give and the water holds me down. The wave crashes down on my legs as I scantily make it. I laugh, as this must’ve looked amusing. I gaze at the horizon, thinking of all that’s over it. All of Asia is over that horizon, and all of Europe is over that as well, and over that is right back here. In some sense, I was looking at myself, by leering over the horizon, by staring at the reflection on the water, by thinking too much. I wish I could be there again, in the water, by the sand, on the shore, by the highway. Instead, I am elsewhere. The nostalgic longing calls me, but I am put, hundreds of miles from any coast in the near center of a continent. Most days I never hear the call, and some days it rings and rings, so I answer, but as I do so, the line is cut, and again I am put. Recently it has been calling, and calling, over and over again, and even if I could answer, I am more stuck than before. I have all but one piece of that shore; a jar, filled with damp sand. Sometimes I grab it, and smell it, and it transports me to that place. I remember that any place is better than no place at all, and I remember that it is good to have the privilege to be stuck, to be put, because to have no place is as good as dead. I think of the coral sun and I am thankful.


Imagine if you can dear reader, a generic mom and pop diner. The third stool at the counter is where Alan Christian was sitting. He was busy pouring over the menu. The waitress, Brenda Bird, approached him. “Have you decided what you’ll get yet?” She tapped her pen on her notepad impatiently. Alan began nibbling his fingers. “Not yet,” he said in between bites. “If you’re not careful, you’ll fill up before you decide.” Alan stopped biting his fingers, and ripped his eyes away from the menu. “What?” “Never mind. But please decide quickly.” Brenda left the counter to go check on the other guests, while Alan went back to looking over the menu. Four minutes passed. Brenda returned to Alan, who was still searching through the menu items. She reached for the nearby coffeepot to replenish his mug, only to see that his now lukewarm coffee had been left untouched. “Sir?” Alan did not look up. “Excuse me, sir?” Alan finally looked up. “Have you decided?” Alan silently pondered this question, before wordlessly going back to the menu. Brenda rolled her eyes and silently walked away. Three minutes passed. Brenda returned to the counter, only to find Alan gone, the mug of cold coffee still untouched, and three crisp one dollar bills sitting on the counter. The waitress pocketed the cash. It was because of this extra cash that Brenda decided to make a quick stop at a convenience store after her shift ended. There was one less than a mile from her home that she frequented. She purchased a 32-ounce cup of soda, and a package of Skittles. The cash register was helmed by Darrin Ortega. Darrin scanned her two items before asking “Would you like to make a lottery purchase? We’re having a special for half-off a lottery ticket with every drink purchase.” Brenda shook her head. “No thank you.” Darrin finalized the transaction and gave her the amount, “$2.74.” Brenda handed him the three dollar bills, and Darrin gave her a quarter and a penny in change. Brenda tried putting the coins in her pocket on her way to the car, but dropped them. After deciding that bending over to pick up the change wasn’t worth it, she kept right on walking. Two minutes passed. A kid, Joseph Hensley, passed by the area. He noticed the coins, bent down and put him in his pocket. One minute passed. Joseph walked past a spiral gumball machine. He decided that since he now had a quarter, that he could purchase one, and so he did. He chucked the gumball into his mouth, only to realize, once he attempted to take a bite, that it wasn’t a gumball at all, but rather a jawbreaker. The shock caused the jawbreaker to roll into the back of his throat and choke him. Every time he attempted to take a breath, the jawbreaker was in the way. His face turned blue. Joseph Hensley died on the sidewalk, alone, at the age of nine.


I wake up. I'm on my bed. I sit up. I crane my kneck to my left and peer out of the window. People litter the streets. I get up. I walk to the window to get a better view of the scenery. People are joyous. Why? Are they celebrating something? What? Should they even be outside? Then I see it: the sublime. My reader, have you ever seen a Gold Finch? We have them in New Jersey. They are gold. They are beautiful. But this one is different. Imagine, a Gold Finch mixed with a crane. The animal is stupifying. People are partying! So many people. Outside. Right outside my house, this creature stands. It is tall, my reader. We lock eyes, this creature and I. A smile sneaks its way onto my face. I haven't felt my lips do this in some time. A helicopter descends. Black. It lands on my avenue. Wizards flood out. BANG! BANG! Their wands become drums that become blood that spills and spills out the dead people. I look at the creature and it looks back at me.  I close the curtain. I turn on my bedside lamp. I sit in my chair and stare at the wall for hours, pretending it to be a portal into another world. I see goblins. It is a world full of goblins. These goblins are not so different from humans. There is one goblin, in particular, that interests me greatly. Their name is Txori (They/them pronouns represent these creatures better than he/she, for goblins abolished gender in the 20th red moon). Txori lives in a house. Txori was raised by their birthers sibling, Osaba. Txori never knew their parents. Both had been killed in the mines a few days after Txori was born. Txori was playing by their fence. The neighbor, Bizilaguna, is wealthier than Txori and owns their very own gnome. The gnome is near the fence, tending to the garden. The garden is giant. Txori looks longingly at the garden, for it contains the Dirua fruit. The Dirua glows brilliantly in the sunlight. The gnome takes a break. While the gnome is distracted, Txori hops the fence and sneaks over to the garden. Txori quickly picks the smallest Dirua. Txori becomes giddy. Osaba could finally take a day off from the mines! Maybe, Osaba might even take Txori out to the museum! BANG! Bizilangua shot their neighbor. Goblins held their property as sacred, especially Bizilangua. The gnome, mistakenly, saw this as an opportunity to escape. But gnomes are small and not too quick. Bizilangua reloaded their gun and shot the gnome dead in its tracks. Property is sacred.  I feel sad for Txori and decide to stop pretending I am looking at a portal. Txori had had good intentions. I get up from my chair, walk over to the window, open the curtains, and look outside. The bodies have been cleared and it is now late. I close the curtains. I walk. over to the bathroom, brush my teeth, wash my face, and turn the lights off. I had forgotten to eat that day, but I reassured myself I would eat tomorrow. As I waited for sleep, I wondered when this wizard war would end. Simultaneously, I wondered if Txori had gone to a better place. Txori seemed roughly my age (when converting human age to goblin age). Txori did not deserve to die, in my opinion. Eventually, I fall asleep.


Hi there, this was my first short story i ever wrote, if you like please let me know! **Cocaine and Abel** The afternoon sun hit his face, waking him. Abel grunted as he rolled over, and blearily peered at the clock. A little before three. Thursday? Probably Thursday. Another week’s worth of lectures missed. Something about “Thursday afternoon” nagged at his mind, and he suddenly remembered the follow-up appointment with the doctor in an hour. Damn. His folks had insisted he either see a shrink, or come home, and he’d already missed two appointments with the doc. Sitting up, he rolled a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He gathered up his discarded jeans and black t-shirt from the floor, dressed, and then waded through the empty spirit bottles littering the floor, searching for his bag, wallet, and most importantly, his earphones. They never understood. All they wanted to do was push pills on him to make him feel “better”. *Again, going to a doctor, as if that will help you. You’re pathetic, just kill yourself, it’d make everyone happy.* Better they always said, “Take this and you will feel better” they said. “These pills will help you sleep better, these pills will stop your episodes”. Pills, pills, pills and more pills. But it was all lies. They made him feel worthless, needy and sleepless. His life had become a shadow of what it used to be. While he was walking to the doctor’s, the voices in his head were drowned out by the music he was blasting in his ears. He was listening to a new metal band that he had found on the internet. That’s what he needed. Loud music. He arrived in the doctor’s waiting room and sat down, waiting for his doctor to come see him for his appointment. His mind wandered and thought back to two nights ago when one of his best friends had popped in to see him. “You can’t just shut us out Abel, you need to talk to us about this. Be strong, be courageous. Don’t let yourself be beaten by this” Jamie had said to him. *Don’t trust him. He’s lying to you, they’re all lying.* The words repeated and echoed in his brain. He knew he needed to talk about this, but he didn’t want to. It was easier to put on a fake smile and say that everything was fine. Abel’s doctor arrived and walked him into his office. “How are you today, Abel?” quizzed the doctor. “Fine” replied Abel. “Is the medication helping?” asked the doctor. “I’m starting to feel a lot better” he lied easily. *Liar, liar pants on fire! You’re not even taking your medication!* “That’s great news, but we still have a long road ahead of us. I’m happy that you have decided to get help, and I know it’s not easy. Don’t get beaten down by this, most patients feel better after a while. Stay brave, stay strong and keep coming to see me weekly.” said the doctor returning the smile. “Now that’s all for today, off you go”. *Lies, lies, lies and even more lies. Don’t listen to him, he won’t help you.* Abel headed towards the bus stop, wearing a smirk. He rearranged his bag, took the bus and went into town. He needed to pick up a delivery. He stopped at the train station and waited at the front, smoking his rolled up cigarette as usual. A man came up to him, shook his hand and the deal was done. He dropped the small package into his bag before quickly flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his foot as he set off. A smirk crawled across his face as he took out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself another cigarette. He had decided to stop counting how much he smoked, since it made him feel more depressed than anything. Abel’s smile faded quickly when he saw a beautiful girl walk past him. A blonde bombshell that he knew from class. He really liked her but never had the guts to say anything to her. He couldn’t talk to her, especially when he looked like this, near death’s door. He hung his head hoping she would not recognize him, but she did. “Oh my god Abel, what are you doing here?” she asked with a smile. “Nothing, I just had some business to take care of” replied Abel. “Oh, you’re still taking them I see….” She muttered. “I have to go, I’ll catch you some other time” said Abel, walking off before the sentence had even left his mouth. *Couldn’t even ask her out properly. You’re pathetic, can’t even ask a girl out. There’s only one answer for people like you.* He needed to get home as quickly as possible. He didn’t feel well. His head had started to swirl and his vision was blurry. Voices were screaming in his ears. He needed to get home. Abel woke up at 6pm that night on his bed. He looked around and saw two people sitting in his chairs across from his computer. He recognized them. They were his friends. Well, they used to be, before everything happened. He looked through the slits of his eyes and saw them, Natalie and Jamie. Natalie had made three cups of tea, Abel’s one had two sugars, just how he liked it. He got up and sipped his tea, waiting for them to talk. “You need to stop” blurted Natalie. “Stop what?” questioned Abel. “All this drug taking, the not telling us how you feel, everything” she replied. “You’re not alone in this Abel, you need to talk to us. We’re your friends, we’re here for you. We love you and we don’t want to lose you” she continued. Abel reached into his bag and pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a cigarette. He looked Natalie dead in the eyes and said “You wouldn’t understand, no one understands, get out of my sight”. *And you think they’re your friends? They won’t even help you, just making things worse.* And with that, he was alone again. They had disappeared like the smoke from his cigarette into thin air. He crushed out his cigarette in his fingers, the burning sensation making him feel alive. Abel walked over to his bag and got out another small pouch which he had bought earlier that afternoon at the train station. He opened the pouch and poured the white gold onto his desk. He got out his credit card and cut the charlie into four small lines. The only way that Abel felt alive recently was with this stardust. He grabbed a five euro note that was in his back pocket and rolled it up. Two seconds later he felt like he was king of the world again. Invincible. He went to the bathroom to make sure he looked presentable before heading out into town for a night of drinking. His eyes were bloodshot red and his pupils shone like obsidian. The whites of his eyes had turned a blood red and his sharp pupils stared into your soul. His hair had started growing again, blonde stubble was growing on his head and his face was unshaven, his ginger beard growing all around his chin looking as if he hadn’t been groomed in a while. He left the bathroom, and then left his room. He locked the door behind him, plugged in his headphones and walked to the bus stop. As he was leaving he passed by some people, who as soon as he had his back turned started screaming at him. He could vaguely work out what they were saying over the Omni-present music, but to be honest, he didn’t care. Help. Talk. Pills. Mental. That’s all he heard. He arrived at the bus stop just as a man in a top hat walked by the bus stop. He suddenly stopped and sat down beside Abel. Abel glanced at him but no one was there. “Sleep deprivation” Abel muttered to himself. *I told you. You should be in a loony bin, not wandering the streets like a crackhead. At least in a loony bin they can treat your craziness.* As he walked onto the bus, a thought popped into his head that reminded him about his medication. He was nearly out and the doctor would need to prescribe new meds to him. He needed to take his medication because he knew what would happen if he didn’t. He was brave enough to have asked for help, the least he could do is follow it through to the end. But he didn’t care about that now. Only one thing mattered. The only thing that mattered to Abel at that moment was getting to a bar and getting drunk. Once on the bus, he got out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette for when he would arrive in town. His head was spinning. Something was eating him up inside. Everything was eating him up inside. He needed a drink to calm his nerves. His music echoed in his brain. John Denver’s “Country Roads”, one of his favorites. It reminded him of his grandfather. Tonight wasn’t a night to feel sad, it was a night to have fun, to party, to make the most of everything. Abel walked off the bus and lit his cigarette. He took a long drag, closed his eyes and let the smoke fill his already tar coated lungs. He exhaled and opened his eyes, looking straight into the eyes of the person who had appeared in front of him. He recognized the person. It was one of his best friends. Or rather, someone who used to be his best friend. His headphones tumbled from his ears, and Abel waited for his friend to speak. He knew what he would say, he knew what he was thinking because Abel knew him all too well. He waited for the sentence that had become all too familiar to him recently, and without disappointment, his friend started talking. “I know what you’re going through Abel, you need to talk to someone about this” said Henry. “But, for now, let’s go have a drink” he continued. And so off they went, to their favorite bar. Henry ordered his favorite, a pint of Guinness and Abel ordered a Jägerbomb, as usual. No one uttered a word, they just sat drinking silently. The confortable silence was broken by a cough. Abel looked up from his drink and stared into Henry’s eyes. Henry could see the pain in Abel’s eyes. He could see the despair and he could see that Abel was hurting inside, even if he did a good job of hiding it. “We need to talk, Abel” muttered Henry. “What about this time?” grumbled Abel. “Why haven’t you spoken to anyone yet? You need to talk to someone, I can see the hurt in your eyes. You need to build up the courage and talk about this. You can’t stay alone all the time. It’s killing you.” Abel lurched to his feet, ready to confront Henry but he wasn’t there. He had gone. People at the table beside Abel stared at him, looking at him as if he was crazy. Maybe they were right Abel had thought to himself. He quickly downed his glass and took out his credit card to pay. Everything around him was a blur. He handed his card to the bartender, paid his bill and left. Abel wandered for around ten minutes before he sat down and took out his tobacco pouch. He took out a piece of cardboard that he had left in there and rolled it into a small, perfect cylinder. Now wasn’t the time for a cigarette, he needed something stronger he said to himself. What he really needed, was something to take his mind off of everything. He licked the paper carefully, rolled the “something stronger” into a perfect cone and stuck it between his lips. He lit it and breathed in the smoke deeply, letting it fill all the nooks and crannies in his lungs, spreading the buzz all around. His head already felt lighter, and as he exhaled, a grin crept across his face. He picked up his bag and lazily started walking home. His feet were light and walked easily. The smile plastered on his face stayed there, and with a spring in his step, he continued on the long road home. The alcohol and drugs had done their job and at that moment, he was happy. His mind was blank as his feet followed the path home that they were used to by now. Time passed and Abel’s mind began to wander. Why was all this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this? He passed by a bus stop and saw the man in the top again. He blanked the man and continued home. The road followed beside a river, and Abel stopped and sat down to roll another cigarette. As he had finished rolling, his eyes scanned across the river. It was a quiet night, and nothing was disturbed. The water flowed slowly and calmly, the tree opposite him swayed gently as a small breeze brushed beside it. It was almost picturesque Abel thought to himself, as he picked up his bag and left. His feet were getting heavy, and a different song blasted into his ears. *Only… Out... Suicide… End it….* “I’m on a highway to hell” Abel sang to himself. As he had finished the last lyric, a spot dropped onto his forehead. He looked up and saw the raindrops falling slowly onto him. If he stayed outside much longer, he would be drenched. By the time he had decided to light his cigarette, it was completely wet, he chucked it into the bushes and continued the long and windy road. As he approached some traffic lights, he saw him again. It was the man in a top hat. Abel walked near him and turned down his music. He looked straight at his face and was horrified at what he saw. The man seemed old, ancient. He looked as if he had been in a fire, his whole face was burnt. But what troubled Abel the most was his eyes. The black pits that gazed back at Abel stared into his soul, devouring him from the inside. The man grinned at Abel and walked away quickly. Abel shook his head, not believing what he saw. “I really need my medication” Abel muttered to himself as he dragged his legs home. The rain was getting heavy, and Abel rushed home. He entered his building and took off his jacket. He was soaked. Abel was in his room, alone. He turned on his computer, ready to sit down and listen to some music. A voice echoed in his mind. *You’ve lost everything, all of your friends hate you. What is the point in living anymore? It can all be over in a couple of minutes, it won’t cause you any pain at all.* Abel had had enough. Maybe the whispers were right. He sat down in front of his computer, and stared into the bright screens. He could vaguely see his reflection laughing back at him. *Crazy? You think you’re crazy? You know that’s true. You know to get better you need your medication. Go on, take the pills in front of you. Don’t forget, you’ve been crazy for a while now, take the right amount. Take them all…* Abel slowly opened the box of pills and put them one by one on his desk, mixing them with all the other pills already laying there. *First one, down the hatch…* One by one, he took them. His fingers trembling over his glass. How many had he taken? How many more did he need to take? *All of them. Don’t miss out a single one, you haven’t taken any since the start. At least thirty will help you…* He wasn’t sure. What if everything turned out alright? What if he talked to people and got proper help? Even with help, would it make any difference? Tears welled in his eyes as he sighed. Was this to be the end? *Do it!* Would all his hard work lead up to this? No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He would get help. He would talk to his friends about it, they could help him. They could make everything better, he knew it. He had found his courage, even if it was deep down inside him. He grasped at it with both hands and pulled it through the layers of depression, of negative thoughts, up to the surface, where it would be useful. *Don’t back out now, you’re so close to total bliss…* He blinked, and poured the pills into his glass of vodka. He downed it without hesitation. Abel’s head fell back with his eyes wide open and his mouth hanging. He slurred forward and fell off his chair, his mouth began frothing and his eyes began blinking rapidly, burning. Voices were screaming, telling him to stop, to give them another chance, to not let his demons take control of him, to find any last bit of courage to ask for proper help and take it. He could just distinguish the shape of a top hat on his desk as his eyes blinked furiously. The music echoed around the room. “I'm standing up, I'm a face my demons I'm manning up, I'm a hold my ground I've had enough, now I'm so fed up Time to put my life back together right now” But the demons had already taken contr...


Hi I write short stories by using the first word generated from a word generator online as the theme. Enjoy and I appreciate any feedback. Thanks! **"Carve"** Sweat trickles down the side of Andy's face. He has been at it for three hours without rest, food, or drink. Out in his backyard with no shade or shelter during the summer, he wonders if he might suffer a heat stroke. He reminds himself to Google the recommended time one should spend outdoors, and to set a timer next time. Andy is the kind of person who sets a timer for everything; and follows it. He once set a timer for how long he would wait for his girlfriend to return from the washroom before he drove off. She is an ex-girlfriend now. He also owns an Apple watch - it allows him to set a timer more easily. Andy loves his timers. "Fuck this. Why am I even doing this?" he mutters under his breath. Yet, he continues. Fanning and fanning, each wave of his forearm is filled with hope and longing; he has faith that it will all work out. That all his efforts will come to fruition. That he will succeed. After all, he has timed it. Andy is spacing out now, daydreaming of the pleasure that awaits. The pain has become numbness but he keeps going. He makes a mental note of the time required for his arms to go numb. He reminds himself that nothing worth doing is ever easy, and that he has to work for his reward. He thinks about how he could have just picked up his phone and chose the easy way out. He thinks about how he could have spent the morning researching how fast to drink his coffee before it loses its optimal flavour. He thinks about the decisions he made in life leading to this moment. He thinks about... Then, it happens. The shrill chimes of his Apple Watch telling him that his suffering is over. He drops the dreaded paper fan, light as a feather just three and half hours ago but now the very symbol of pain in Andy's eyes. Putting on mitts, he pulls the foil wrapped object out from the heat and lay it on the table. Having set said object down safely, he collapses on the grass exhausted. He sets a timer for fifteen minutes, as Andy will. Fifteen exact minutes later, he stands up. "It is time." He carefully opens up the foil package, as carefully as his excitement allows anyway. With trembling hands he unpeels the final layer, the last barrier between him and triumph. A gap emerged between the layers of foil. An explosion of aroma hits him - thyme, rosemary, garlic, butter and oh that glorious chicken. That beautifully slow charcoal roasted organic chicken fed with non-GMO corn (Andy only eats organic). He has never seen anything more exquisite. Andy forgets about the hours spent fanning the damn charcoal. He forgets how ridiculous he felt following a recipe requiring three and a half hours of consistent fanning to 'keep the airflow going to ensure crispy skin'. He even forgets to set a timer. There is only thing left to do now: **carve**. (Typically, Andy sets a timer for 4 min 27 seconds when carving a bird of this size.) He pulls out his carving knife and begins a familiar routine. He carves with precise movements. Then, he stops. Andy realises. .... ........ .............. The chicken is still raw.


Mail hadn’t existed for many years. Yet there before him lay a small box with a letter resting on the top. Sonder would never know who put it there or when, but he would soon know the importance of it. And why it was on his doorstep. Training. He knew it was safe. No heavy components for a bomb or anything out of the ordinary that would represent a threat. “Its just a package” he thought. Safe. The smell of fresh coffee caught in the cool air made its way to Sonder and he followed that smell back to the kitchen after shutting the front door behind him. Walking down the hallway, he opened the envelope and revealed a small piece of paper with numbers on in. \+1 617 3874020 Sonder, thinking of what the numbers could mean, walked into his kitchen. They reminded him of a system criminal gangs used in the underground. An old technology that required numbers to contact people. Through phones. Phones. Small enough for a package. He began to put two and two together and figured this might be a threat after all. A system used by criminals, to get in contact with a high-ranking officer in the World Centre Policing Agency, just showed up on his doorstep. He lifted the lid of the package and a phone rested at the bottom with a note saying: **We need to talk about project Cypher** Project Cypher was his life work. Before being an officer, a dream he had since he was a kid, he graduated from MIT with a degree in Algorithmic Principles of Security. His work in security jumpstarted his career and he was quickly hired to protect government secrets. Including Project Cypher. The project was a virtual vault for any type of information, and it was almost impossible to hack. The information that Sonder protected was nothing he could have ever imagine. The phone didn’t require a password. It must have been old. Security was a major part of Sonders life and work. The phone only had one application on it. He froze for a second after realising that it wouldn’t open on command, a very basic task for modern electronics. He held his finger down on the icon. A keyboard popped up right away. He slowly typed in the numbers. Sonder held the phone to his ear and listened to the light humming sound it made. Then the sound stopped. “Hello…Sonder.” The person on the other end was unnoticeable. No definite accent. Could be anybody. “I know you’re there Sonder, and I know who you are, what you do and why – “ “Who are you?” His training taught him to talk as little as possible, but he couldn’t help it. “This isn’t about me it’s about you…and the work you do. I have a question…where are you right now?” “At home.” “Well it that case will you please look under the sink in your kitchen.” Sonder slowly walked over to the sink and opened the cabinet. He didn’t speak. The air in the room seemed to drop through the floor, suffocating him, stopping him from speaking. He was in danger. A bomb. It was large and it was strapped to the pipe along with large detonators on each side. “Sonder, leave the house; we blow it up. Try to get help; we blow–“ Sonder began to speak again. “Who’s ‘we’?. What do you people want?” “We want to know the truth” Sonder started to yell into the phone. “I don’t know anything! I don’t know…” “That’s ok” said the man, “I’ll tell you what I know and maybe you can help uncover the rest.” The man talked about some of the most horrific thing he could imagine. He told Sonder about terrorist attacks that were planned by his own government to create fear, and about targeted outbreaks of disease to affect weak economies to make profit the rich on Wall Street. It was a scheme on a global scale and his job was to make sure nobody knew. He felt responsible but tried to ignore it. “But what evidence to you have?” said Sonder, now calm. “That’s were you come in. We need you give us everything on project Cypher. Send it all to this address before 12:00, or the bombs goes off.” The line went dead. After that whole thing he realised a tear was rolling down his face. But that wasn’t the problem. He rolled up his sleeve and peered at his watch. **11:43** The phone vibrated and an email address popped up on the screen. Sonder opened his laptop, taking a deep breath. He sifted through files he was told never to see. Sonders hands start shaking, his watch read 11:54. He used passwords and access codes that would get him fired. 11:57. And he saw things that could cripple the world. Billions of dollars funding secret government projects and large international bidding for war secrets. He had helped uncover the greatest form of greed the world will ever see. His hand hovered over the send button knowing that he was about to shatter the world. His work on project Cypher assisted the rich and hurt and poor. He hit send. 11:59. He looked back under the sink in the kitchen to look at the bomb. He stared at it, wondering if I would have really gone off one minute later. The world shook like the terrible truth that held it up for so long. Then the peace returned. It flowed back like the light that Sonder was forced to bring over the shadows. He would sit back and watch society rebuild around the knowledge that greed would always serve as a crutch. He never knew the darkness until now. Sonder held the phone in his hand and turned it off.