August 2022 - Memorial Service for Pete Mills Surfing Legend Many surfers had come to Cocoa Beach to pay their respects to 82 year old Pete Mills who had died a couple of days earlier in his sleep. Pete was born in Cocoa Beach to surfing pioneer Peter Mills and mother Marion Mills. He graduated from Cocoa Beach High in 1958 and in 1961 married Barbara Donning. They had two daughters Cindy (Eric) Bolton and Jennifer (Jim) Williams. Barbara and Pete divorced in 1967 and remained on good terms. In 1972 Pete remarried to a woman named Louann Wilson. They had two sons, Brian (Tiffany) and Mark (Stephanie). Sadly in 2018, Louann died. Pete devoted his life to surfing and to the surfing community. He will be sorely missed. Pete was a grandfather to 7 grandchildren (Kaitlyn Bolton-String, Sara Bolton-Thomas, Hannah and Jonah Williams (twins), Tyler Mills, Justin Mills and Erica Bolton). He had two great-granddaughters Mia String and Jill Thomas. He is proceeded in death by his parents, his two older brothers, Melvin and Harry and his second wife Louann. Funeral services will be held on a beach per Pete's request early in the morning. His son in law Eric Bolton who is a Minister for the Surfing Community will do the service. My name is Eric Bolton. I mostly wrote the funeral announcement and everyone agreed with it. No one really noticed that I left the name of James Picken out. He was Cindy's first husband who died over 40 years ago. Most people except of course for the old timers remember the guy but they aren't thinking about him. I know as a minister this sounds terrible but I didn't shed a tear when he died. Cindy did of course but I didn't. Neither did her father. He was angry at how bad James had treated Cindy. James Pickens was murdered two weeks before the 4th of July in 1982. His mouth and his temper contributed to his death. He was high on drugs when he went surfing at night. There was a full moon that night, so he could see. Shortly after the full moon was at its heights, the weather changed and it started thundering and lightening. Don't ever surf at night. The next morning he was found dead on the beach from multiple-stab wounds. Police investigated the murder but never were able to pin it on anyone. Looked like it was someone who was angry that James owned them money. Pete wasn't surprised that James owed money and had heard that James had a gambling problem. He was surprised that someone killed him over it as the person isn't going to get the money now that James is dead. I heard Pete say this to the officer. James Pickens had no family. He was abandoned at birth at the Cocoa Beach Children's home as a baby. He left the Home when he was 13 and lived on the beach. When he had enough money to get a house he did. He was a good surfer but wasn't a good person. Cindy hoped to change that and tried to help him. All she got was verbal abuse (it was really bad towards the end) and he treated her with disrespect. The case of James Pickens has never been reopened. He is mostly forgotten as many of those who were at the police station back in the early 1980's are either deceased or retired. I know who murdered James. First I will say it wasn't me, although after he was so cruel and mean to Cindy, I wanted to do him in. In a way I'm indirect responsible for his murder as I went and took the money from the bookie that he owned money to and put it in a duffel bag. The storm was brief. During the storm, the bookie found the duffel bag outside with the money. They got into an argument. I nearly got hit by the lightening as I was hiding behind the bushes watching the argument from a window which was open. He was yelling for Cindy who had fled to her mom's house after James had punched her in the face. The bookie belittled him saying that she had come to her senses and left him. He responded by trying to hit the bookie in the face. The bookie took out a knife and chased him outside. From the lightening, I could see the bookie stabbing him. The bookie then took the duffel bag and ran off. James wasn't moving and I assumed he was dead. I know this is insane but I went into James's home and spent the night. I got out of there once daylight came. I saw him still lying there when I left. Since there had been a party the night before and I had been there, the fact that my fingerprints were there wouldn't implicate me. At the time I was a surfer and surfed for many years before becoming a minister. It was something that was needed. Cindy and I married a couple of years after James's death. I've never told anyone this, so I'm telling you dear reader.


It had rained again. He’d woken in the middle of the night, the staccato patter on the uninsulated tin roof penetrating the fog of sleep. He had a vague memory of having rolled over, exasperated at the realisation of what the next day would bring. He stood staring out at the makeshift garden. Three racks of plants, with the broader leafed and more robust varieties above, less sunlight dependent and smaller plants beneath. A sickly grey-green on the best of days, the leaves were covered in a thin layer of muck brought by the previous night’s downpour. Sighing, he pulled on a set of weathered gloves, and moved over to one corner. He reached, grabbed the leaf of a rhubarb plant, and methodically wiped the surface free of mud. He did the same for the next leaf, and the next. When that plant was done, he moved on. His crops were smaller each month, and he knew the day would come where he could no longer sustain himself through the plantation he had. Acidity, ammonia and other toxicity in the soil was building up too fast for the vegetation to drain it away, and the pall on the foliage suggested the plants were slowly suffocating, starved for nutrients. The rain didn’t help. It was as bad as the soil, though it did save him watering them. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, taking care not to get the dirty gloves anywhere near his mouth. Humid. The cloying damp was at least a change from the musty heat of the last month. The sounds of laughter that used to drift over the next door fences had long gone. Maybe it had been a night of quiet stories, and then a large dose of medicine. Maybe they’d gone walking through the haze, hoping to find some haven or other. Sooner or later, they all left. He was lasting a lot longer than most, as through sheer dumb luck he’d had a flatshare with a large backyard, a mess of shelving in the garage, and a green thumb. Three months earlier and he'd been in a thirty-six square metre apartment. Not a lot of agricultural space there. It had started while he’d been at the old place. These things take time to build up, then they happen all at once. The fires that swept across every continent on the globe. The mass of volcanic activity. A melted glacier full of ancient gas bubbles, each of them as noxious as the last, and then the dust storms started. He moved to the planters against the back wall, stepping over the small wet mound that had formed behind him as he’d cleaned. The mess would have annoyed his flatmates, but they were gone. He wondered idly if they’d found what they’d been looking for. Shelter, or something like it. He stood up to stretch, and stared up at the sky, wiping sweat from his brow. It was a hazy blue, for the first time in months. At least after the rain had collected all the floating particulates, the air outside would be safer to breathe. For a time.


(IP) Off the Grid With all of his tech broken, he’d long ago lost track of how much time had passed, and had given up trying. He sat on the old robot, a massive, hulking machine that had gone red from rust and disuse, observing his kingdom. When he’d first arrived on this planet, he’d been dumbstruck by the beauty of it all: trees so tall that their branches pierced the veil of the sky, their bark marbled with a dizzying array of colors, mountains that sparked and crackled, and valleys carpeted with lush blooms. It was sort of like Earth, but not, all at the same time. And with no way to contact his superiors, he’d distracted himself by exploring. If he was going to live and die on this planet, he might as well use his free time to map it. But the loss of his tech—the tech in his own body and in his ship—felt like he was missing a limb. There was a void inside of his chest that could not be filled, and he’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never come home, never see his family again. It had been so long that the pain had dulled to a slight throb. He barely remembered their faces; he found himself wondering if he’d been forgotten. And maybe, he thought with a twinge of regret, that was for the best. Callum had never been happy on Earth, but he had come closer than ever before, before the mission. But he hadn’t really had a choice in the matter: it was either go be an explorer in space, or stay on-world and face his crimes. If he’d stayed, he would’ve risked his family, and his lover. He’d left to start a new life on a recently discovered planet, and his loved ones were spared in the bargain. Even now, though, Callum wondered if he’d signed his own death warrant. But he had all the time in the world to think: He hid from the beasts that roamed the planet’s forests and mountains, coming out of his dwelling only to hunt for food and water. It had taken months for him to figure out what was edible or not; the most notable example had been when he’d eaten a handful of bright red berries, and had suffered hallucinations afterward. He’d made a sign around the bushes so he wouldn’t be tempted by the fruit again. Trial and error had helped, but not much. When he was alone, Callum spoke, to the sky, the flora and fauna, and the animals. He never imagined he’d be so tired of hearing his own voice, but it helped to temper the pain of his loneliness. He’d been in this place so long he barely remembered Earth: the salty tang of the ocean, so dark, deep and vast it could sweep you under and imprison you without you even knowing; the warmth of the sun on his face, the smile on his lover’s face. Before he’d lost contact with his superiors, he’d been almost done with his stint off-world. Callum had been so close, and here he would die, forgotten.


It started with stories of a girl born in Mumbai. Soon after she was born, the doctors noticed her cries were different from the usual “baby noises.” They thought she might be trying to form words and sentences. Eventually, one doctor recognized the speech as Mandarin, and called in a translator. The baby claimed to be an 87-year-old Chinese man, who had just suffered a massive heart attack in his home. The chinese authorities checked the address the baby had given, and found the corpse of an 87-year-old man, who had died at the same time as the baby’s birth. More stories like this popped up all over the world, of babies born speaking random languages, claiming to be people who had died just before their birth. Eventually, people started connecting the dots. Every single person who had died after the First Rebirth had also been reborn. The Buddhists and Hindus rejoiced, because their religious afterlife had been proven correct. All other religions began to crumble at their foundations, as people began to accept that they, too, would be reborn when they died. Of course, no one knew when or if the Rebirths would ever end, so they were cautious at first. It would be a long time until everyone trusted in their own immortality. New government organizations were formed in the wake of the Rebirths. One to validate rebirths and one to help those who had died reclaim their property, and arrange travel back to their place of residence. Before your death, you could set a 10-digit alphanumeric password and a set of security questions with the organization, with the idea that only you would remember them, and take them into your next life. The Last Will and Testament became a thing of the past; everyone’s will would have just left everything to themselves. No one would ever inherit their parents’ fortune, as no one could ever die or even retire. This meant everyone just got richer and richer, saving up money for a retirement that would never come. Heavy inflation would follow; when everyone is rich, no one is. One year after the First Rebirth, the rate of pregnancy had hit a record low. No one wanted to give birth to a fully-formed adult in a child’s body. This caused a problem for those who did get pregnant, intentionally or not, as death rates were increasing as birth rates decreased. This meant that each person would give birth to twins, triplets or more. Eventually, government organizations would pay those born as women 5-figure salaries to get pregnant, raising the birth rate so each person would only have to deliver one or two babies. People started to take advantage of the Rebirths. The rich paid fortunes to synchronize their death with a birth from a surrogate mother and sperm donor of their choice. Those in the trans community that could afford to use these services did so, in order to be reborn in the body they felt most comfortable in. Those who couldn’t afford it either stayed on hormones or decided to re-roll the dice. In the years after the First Rebirth, the education system ceased to exist, year by year. As the youngest “real children” graduated each year of schooling, that year was no longer necessary, so it was abandoned. After another decade or so, people were experiencing what it was like to grow up as other genders. Men began to understand menstruation when they experienced it firsthand. Gradually, genetic attributes like race and gender lost all meaning. Occasionally, people’s sexualities would change after a Rebirth, proving that one’s sexual preference is not a choice. One month after the First Rebirth, anti-LGBT right wing Senator James Wright was reborn as a gay man. As soon as he hit puberty and realized his “taste” had changed, Wright resigned from his position and refused to speak to the press. No one knew why he had suddenly decided to cut himself off from all contact with the outside world, but they had suspicions. Soon after this, more and more people started to hit puberty, realizing that their sexual preferences had changed. Once this phenomenon became common knowledge, people started to suspect that Wright was hiding something. Something that would contradict everything he had spent his career defending. The LGBT community was already stronger than ever, but when Wright finally came out, it was like a revolution never before seen in history. Wright’s fellow right-wing senators, almost unanimously, finally understood. Marriage equality was just the beginning. New laws were passed worldwide to prevent discrimination of any kind based on any genetic qualities. While this was all great for equality, it wasn’t great for couples. When someone is reborn as the opposite gender, their partner may not be attracted to them anymore. When they come back with different sexual preferences, they may not be attracted to their partner. Not to mention age differences, having to wait for their next puberty, and not looking at all similar to their previous body. “‘Til death do us part” took on a new meaning. Being a child again was great for the elderly, as well as the disabled and otherwise genetically disadvantaged. It did have its downsides, though. Being a reborn baby was treated as a new, temporary form of disability. New wheelchairs and other mobility devices were invented to help the babies rejoin society, but extensive use of these would cause the muscles to not develop properly, so they were rarely used. Having to relearn to walk, eating only liquids, teething, re-losing your baby teeth, puberty and growing pains all over again was highly uncomfortable. A big question for the Reborn was what to do with their old bodies. Most sold their organs for a tidy profit and cremated the rest. Some held fake funerals and buried themselves out of nostalgia, but this wasn’t enough for the funeral home, coffin and tombstone industries to stay afloat. Some eccentric billionaires preserved their old selves in resin, building macabre museums of their previous lives and deaths. After many decades, war, poverty and discrimination having been solved, we turned our attention to the stars. The number of people with degrees in the sciences was 10 times what it was before the First Rebirth, so it didn’t take long to develop interplanetary travel. We built a Dyson Sphere around our sun and used it to power near-lightspeed engines, and take us to other habitable systems in the galaxy. We colonized and terraformed other planets, bringing teams of pregnant people along. If the deaths of colonists on earth were synchronized with births on other planets, we could essentially “teleport” our minds and travel faster than light. We began to expand the human race’s empire in the cosmos, knowing that we could accomplish anything in our lifetimes. Our race would grow to possess infinite wisdom, maturity and experience. One century after the First Rebirth, the average “physical age” of the human population was 12 years. The average “mental age” was 130. The last human being alive to have never died was Anzu Takahashi, a Japanese woman, born just before the First Rebirth. Anzu was 101 years old. She could not bear the thought of eternal life without end, forever imprisoned on Earth with nothing after. Knowing that she had experienced all she could ever experience, she let her mind deteriorate with Dementia and Alzheimer’s, and by the time she died, Anzu Takahashi was a blank slate, ready to begin again.


Walking home from work I take my usual route, a shortcut that I take every day around this time but today is a little different, today there is someone taking this shortcut with me. There was a man waiting here today, waiting for me. He pulled a gun and said "Today I give you a choice, I can take your life, or I can take what your life is worth to you." I told him I will give him my lifes worth, as most of us would I imagine. I told him that I just need to get it from my bag, he didn't look very convinced and tightened his grip on his pistol as he nodded to me. From my bag I took a pen and a book, I always carry a book with me, there are always times when you find yourself with nothing to do and they are just the best for killing time. Oh, I didn't even realize then that i used those words in my head at a time like that, I even suprise myself sometimes. I opened the book and after a moments thought wrote, "A life for a life. In return for mine, I give you this. A life that neither of us can hope to have, but a life that we will both live. Every book you read, every game you play, is another life lived, another world experienced. I hope this life I have given to you is only the first of many that you will live." With this I handed him the book and bagged the pen. He opened the book and read what I wrote and the most astonished look came across his face. Without looking up from the book he said "You are the first person who did not throw money at me, but something that you believe to be worth your life." With no other words spoken, no eye contact given, with no hesitation he turned and started to walk away, only to vanish under the street light after a few steps had been taken. As I made my way home I was fighting with myself trying to figure out what had happened, was it real or something I had conjured, how could it even happen, who was he? None of these questions I could answer, not in the slightest and I fought with them as I lay in bed till I found myself drifting into a deep sleep. As I awoke the next morning I wrote it off as another crazy dream and went about my day as I usually do, I even took the same shortcut to and from work, just to prove to myself that it was a dream, that nothing happened. As I arrived home from work, fumbling with my keys as the sky was turning dark, I felt something, it's that feeling you get when somethings off, when the hair on your arms starts to stand up and your heart starts to beat faster, it's almost as if your body knows what's happening before your brain does. With the dream I had last night and the reaction my body was having, I admit I started to panic, and because of this my previous key fumbling turned into key dropping. Before I could reach down to pick them up another hand wrapped around them, my heart was beating out of my chest, I was sure they could hear it, it was the only thing I could hear, it was deafening. I followed the hand to the arm, and the arm to the chest and the chest to the face. It was the same man from my dream, from what I thought was a dream. "Hello again" he said with a sly half smile, "I was wondering if you have any more lives that you would mind sharing with me.


When she was ten, she went to the woods to find a flooded house. She can't remember if she was bluffing or if she really knew it would be there– if she had been there before or if she had guessed and gotten lucky. But eventually, the trees cleared into tall grass, and a house really was there. And the house really had been flooded, baby toys and clothes spilled out of the doorways. She took a locked wooden box with her when she left. Later she went to live with the Mazatoya's, to study weaving with the oldest sister, a master spinster. She woke at 8am and sat for 12 hours, spinning, weaving, talking, and every few hours eating, before going upstairs to fall fast asleep, dreamlessly. The Mazatoya's had three daughters, two of which were very practical people, each had chosen a craft in her youth and each had mastered it by late adolescence, working dutifully and with purpose. Anna was quite the opposite, which was why she had been sent to the Mazatoya house– she had no direction and, while interested in most things, she had mastered nothing. The third daughter, Lunetta, was, as though fated at her christening, even more lost than Anna, a pearlescent wanderer, constantly changing and leaving. She studied art in Paris, animal husbandry in Nice, and continuously made great efforts to get on a boat. But, she was no laborer and most men could see the mistake in sending a wealthy young woman from a famous family out to sea with rude and lonely men. Lunetta was saved, however, from the title of "black sheep" by the Mazatoya's live-in cousin, Brutus. At 10am one morning, Anna sat with Clara, the oldest daughter, spinning yarn and watching Clara's long and graceful fingers, her beautiful and clear grey eyes and serenely focused expression. "So you don't think then that Brutus is talented?" "It's not my kind of thing," Clara said, calmly. "I consider him to be one of a kind." "I only ever really enjoy sonatas, canons, that sort of thing. With melodies." Clara gathered the soft, swirling pile of dark violet yarn at her feet, and begun to wind it into a tight ball. Anna struggled to decipher Clara's opinion of her, based on this disagreement about the music, but studying the young woman's face, she found only knit brows, intelligent eyes, and no clear feelings about anything at all, other than a desire to do the job before her well. That night Anna went to see Brutus after working, after everyone else had retired to their own rooms. She brought two oranges with her and took the back staircase, which was always cold with stone walls and floor. She found Brutus in his room, sitting on a patterned rug, most-likely woven by Clara, and playing guitar by candlelight. Brutus barely acknowledged her entrance, and she sat down next to him, placed one orange between them, and started to peel the other. He continued to play his simple and strange discordant melodies– melodies that, to Anna, felt very true. "Sometimes I wonder why I'm not like them," she said, finally. "Not like who?" "Your family." "Well, you haven't met all of my family..." "The ones I have met." He continued playing in a way that made her uncertain whether or not she'd been heard, before he asked, "In what way?" "They know everything about who they are, they know what they like, they know what to do... and they do it." "Well, don't you?" "No." She felt chilled. She had expected Brutus of all people to understand, to be able to explain, to– though she didn't admit it to herself– compliment her for her difference, for the way she was. He took the orange she had peeled from her hands and said: "Thank you." She sat for a moment, before grabbing the other orange. "I'm going to bed now." She stood up to go. "Goodnight," Brutus called, as her hands pushed the door open. The next morning Anna decided not to weave. She couldn't bear to do it, and instead lie in bed, chastising herself for her laziness and luxuriating in the warmth of the linen sheets. A little past 8am, a knock came to the door. It was Eunice, the woman of the house, Mrs. Mazatoya. "Hello, Anna?" "Yes?" "Are you feeling well?" She peeked her head into the room. "Not really," Anna replied. "Okay, well, I'll make sure we have some meals brought up for you. Feel better." She shut the door. Anna wondered that such an industrious woman from such an industrious family would be so accepting of an excuse not to work. She heard another knock at the door. "Yes?" Eunice Mazatoya stuck her head in. "Would you like some tea?" "Yeah, yes, sure," replied Anna. Anna suddenly felt more energized and looked out the window, where she saw Brutus playing guitar under an orange tree. She suddenly felt a great need to be outside, and decided to take the back staircase, the same back staircase that she had taken to his room the night before, to the courtyard, in her pajamas. She entered the courtyard and felt the warm, golden glow of the sunlight, the small round pebbles beneath her, threatening her bare feet. She held a pale hand up to shield her eyes and realized that most days she didn't go outside at all. The cool morning breeze blew her hair off her shoulders and refreshed her. She suddenly wished that she had learned to ride horses. She breathed in deeply. "Hi," she heard. A beautiful young woman with rounded edges approached from the side. "Oh, hi!" she said. It was the girl who lived up the hill. "What, do you need something?" Anna wished she knew how to be more polite. The girl just shook her head and looked down at her hands, which held a note, before looking out at the orchard where Brutus sat playing, and suddenly Anna understood. This girl was there for Brutus, she had been called, this flutteringly feminine and gentle, selfless girl was enamored with an object like Brutus, callous and selfish and interested. When the girl looked at Anna, a whole world of hope and wonder in her eyes, she realized how alone she was, in this house. With the Mazatoya's. She saw the picture as it was being painted, and herself like a jarring red stroke in the upper left corner of the canvas. "You should go find him," Anna said. "I'm sure he's waiting for you." The girl smiled, and looked out distractedly. She began to walk, then to run, toward the orchard. Anna looked back up, at her room, at the window where she had sat earlier, at the window where Clara now sat spinning, at house she had lived in for quite a long time. She went back upstairs, and found tea made with fresh mint waiting for her. She took the wooden box out from under her bed and smoothed her hands over its polished lid, tracing the flowers and leaves, and for the first time, something popped within the mechanism and the box opened. Inside was a small piece of ribbon, and a note, that just said "go".


A small man, swaddled in clothing, fought against the wind to latch the gate behind him. He grabbed the handle of his cart, icy to the touch, and set off down the trail. Walking over the upturned roots the cart followed, each of its rusty wheels feeling the strain of the terrain. Five minutes later he arrived at the tree which he had watched fall yesterday; removing his gloves he started to snap off its branches, placing them down. One by one they filled the cart until there was no more room. Upon seeing that so little wood had filled his cart he sighed, remembering the cold nights that had made up the last week. Try as he did there was no more room in the cart, and he decided to head back home. He once again wheeled the rusting cart back across the veins poking up from the trail until he reached his gate. This time the gate opened easily, and he let the wind take it back. The cart was quickly unloaded, and an axe placed in its bed, for the heavier work that lay ahead. Back at the tree the axe made light work of the thin trunk and the cart was once again piled high before being taken back and deposited. Two similar journeys followed until most of the slight trunk was stacked neatly in the lean-to next to the house, he had left his axe and some of the thicker parts of the stump where the tree once stood. Returning to the tree for a third time and now bored of the monotony, he threw the remnants of the tree in the cart and dropped his axe down the side. After the previous three journeys the cart’s wheels had begun to shake as they passed over the path. Wanting to get the work over with the man walked on, paying little attention to the creaking wheels. After jolting over the root that he had previously taken care to avoid one of the cart’s rear wheels left its axle. Wood, his axe and most of the cart spilled over onto the forest floor. Taking the axe and one piece of wood in his arms the man trudged home. He walked back, defeated, to pick up the last bits of tree and his shattered cart. Walked back to his defeated cart frustration simmered, alongside disbelief that his cart had failed him when he was bringing the best bit of the tree back. Stirred by the bitter memories of the last cold week he picked up the pace, once again being careful to watch his footing over the upturned roots. As he emerged into the clearing where his cart had given up, he saw nothing other than the wheel that had betrayed his efforts and a smudge in the mud running into the forest. He knew exactly from whom and to where the smudge lead. He picked up the remnant of his defeated cart and walked back to his house only to find that the wind had knocked over his lean-to.


SISTERS OF THE HARVEST by J. T. WHITE Down in the valley, where the vineyards grew their succulent grapes basked in the light of the midsummer morning. A wooden caravan, the colour of wine, gilded with golden features, pulled by two identical white horses wearing peacock feather plumes made its way gracefully down the dusty dirt road. Sitting at the front of the caravan was an old man with a long, pointed, white beard and eyebrows wearing a bright blue tailcoat with a white rose placed in the breast pocket. Insects chirped in rhythm with the foot falls of the horses hooves and grinding of pebbles against dirt under the wooden wheels. The caravan gently rocked from side to side over the uneven terrain before coming to a crossroads and stopping in the centre. Stepping down from his seat the coachman walked around the caravan and pulled down on an engraved golden handle and opened the door before pulling down a set of wooden steps. Holding up his rough, calloused hand, palm facing upwards. A dainty, white gloved hand and wrist emerged from inside and gently placed itself in the old coachmens. Out of the caravan stepped a woman in a ruffled yellow dress and white heeled boots stepped down, lifting a white lace parasol above her head, shading her porcelain like skin and large honeycomb styled chestnut hair from the sun. A few seconds passed and out of the caravan stepped a second woman, this time wearing a similarly styled dress but in a pale pink, with the addition of large purple flowers attached to the bottom of the dress running up and diagonally across her chest, her hair was bright blonde and was much more uncontrolled and frizzy than the other woman's. It was decorated with a large blue bow on the left side and she wore small gold framed oval sunglasses which hid her eyes behind dark black lenses. Standing out in the crossroads the two women looked around studying the valley, the woman in yellow gazed up at the snow peaked mountains and smiled while the woman in pink skipped over to the grape vines and plucked a perfectly ripe, red grape, popping it into her mouth and admiring the sweet, juicy succulent flavour of the fruit; closing her eyes and lulling her head as she lost herself in the satisfaction of her work. "This is the place" The woman in yellow said, resting the parasol on her shoulder and spinning it with her fingers, she stepped towards the woman in pink and stood a mere two feet behind her and watched as the woman came down from her ecstacy. "How is your fruit sister?" "Delectable my dear sol, although I suppose I should be thanking you. Without your help, they would never even reach this stage" The woman in pink turned around and smiled at her sister before looking past her towards the old coachman. "Driver would you mind bringing me the little vial with the blue liquid please. It should be in the bag next to my seat" "Of course Lady Fauna" The old coachman stepped into the caravan and Fauna began to walk around her sister, whistling an upbeat melodic tune. "Don't you think it is strange that we do all of this without receiving any thanks?" Sol said staring ahead, voice monotone as her sister passed in front of her, standing still and lifeless. "Are you tired dear sister? Tired of providing life to those who need us?" Fauna said with an inquisitive yet melodic tone, she stopped walking and instead appeared to start dancing to the tune of the breeze blowing by just like a flower would. She looked at her sister trying to read her expression, it was however useless as always; she found that Sol only ever had one mood and it didn't give anything away. "Not that no, merely disappointed that they hold us in such low regard despite the fact their entire survival is reliant entirely upon us, and unfortunately… We Shall also be the death of them" Fauna stopped moving and considered what her sister had just said and stared back. "No… Not we, you dear sister. They are killing me and in return you are killing them" Sol stared at her sister, the parasol no longer spinning on her shoulder, instead she was now looking through the dark lenses of the sunglasses resting upon her sisters cute button nose. Footsteps grew closer behind her until the coachman stepped between them and handed Fauna a small crystal bottle filled with a brightly glistening pale blue liquid, Fauna took it in her gloved hand and pulled off the top before breathing its scent in deep. "Mmm thank you coachman, we shouldn't be too long" The coachman bowed his head and headed back to the caravan. Fauna stepped back over to the vines, giving her sister a sly smile as she turned. Tipping the crystal bottle she poured the liquid onto the ground at the base of one of the vines, watching as the soil absorbed the liquid and was taken up by the vines as the leaves became greener and the branches grew thicker. "We are the cycle of life dear sister, soon enough it works itself out, we just have to wait. We've already been patient enough, billions of years with you has been a test of that, you're not exactly the most fun" Fauna turned back around smiling at her sister, she stared into her sisters' eyes and could feel the heat coming off her. Sol stared back, she wanted to smile but couldn't, her face was unmoving, everything around would change but her face would always stay the same. "My dear sister, it breaks my heart that I am not only older, but also knowing that I will outlive you and everyone here, brings me sadness that I can't even explain" Fauna stepped closer to her sister and wrapped her arms around her and held her close. "I love you Sol, do not worry of the burden of the end, as long as you shine bright enough I will be by your side. The harvest season is nearly over and we can both rest for a while" Sol stood motionless as her free hand moved up and rested on her sisters back pulling Fauna closer to her, it was then she felt a hot tear run down her face before sizzling and evaporating, she could only imagine how much it hurt her sister to hold her like this, but she knew it wouldn't stop her. Faunas love for Sol was eternal, she needed her big sister and though she could not hold her for long she embraced every second before she had to pull away but not fast, she took her time and enjoyed the warmth of her sister. Not saying a word the two walked back to the caravan, dirt and gravel grinding beneath their footsteps as the two sisters stepped up into the caravan before the door was closed by the old coachman who walked around and returned to his seat as the caravan of the harvest set off once again.


2019 – El Dorado Hills, CA Devin bursts through the front door and slides to a stop on his knees in front of the entertainment center. In record time he fluidly powers up the television and game console betraying not only his excitement but also his experience. He’s been waiting for this moment for weeks now and to his ten-year-old self it’s felt like an eternity. The warm glow of the Fortnite loading screen greets his retina and is passed to his cerebral cortex. An equally warm burst of dopamine makes Devin smile. Positioning his gaming headset just so, Devin eagerly anticipates the voice chat trash talk that’s about to come. He’s good at it. He’s “Tourette’s Syndrome” good, having learned many choice insults from his older brother. In the past he’s made people scream at him; sometimes cry. The loading screen seems slow today, but Devin assumes it’s due to user traffic. Everyone knows that today is the “Summer Solstice Soldier” Event release day. He presses “Play” and sees a quick glitch; strange, but the Battle Royale begins and his worries evaporate. Raising the sights of his weapon to his first-kill he screams “GET WRECKED!” into the microphone. A rapid succession of ten-year-old insults and virtual bullets hurl towards some innocent person at the receiving end. Unbeknownst to Devin a day and a half ago and 94,467,556 miles away the largest X-Class Solar Flare ever recorded exploded out from the surface of the sun. The radiation’s trajectory eventually aligned with the Earth causing an EMP of massive proportion. Overnight, satellites lost contact with their controlling stations. Much of Europe, Russia, some of Northern Africa and western regions of China lost power as they bore the brunt of the blast. Auroras were seen as far south as Northern Texas. Internet usage and electronic communications were affected worldwide as people arose from their slumber and sleepily checked their mobile devices. Today the solar radiation of that X42.7 flare is still bombarding the planet as Devin furiously mashes buttons and screams curse words into the voice chat. 1953 – Chicago, IL Harry Edwards awkwardly reclines on a burgundy leather Chesterfield sofa in Dr. Martin Landers’ office. It’s dimly lit except for the thin window which Dr. Landers peers out of while listening to Harry’s words. “I don’t know what to do, Doc; I ... I feel crazy. The voices in my head keep screamin’ at me. All sorts of curses and takin’ the Lord’s name in vain. Some of it I don’t even understand. Today I’m movin’ boxes off a truck and out of nowhere - ‘GET WRECKED!’. I nearly shit myself! Ya' gotta help me.” Dr. Landers returns his gaze from the window to the man, inhales and exhales. “Mr. Edwards, this sounds like early stages of Schizophrenia. It’s a serious condition, but in this modern day and age very treatable. I’m going to write you a prescription for Thorazine which you should start taking immediately.” He removes a set of tarnished keys from his jacket pocket, unlocks a cabinet and retrieves a dark brown bottle with tablets inside. As Dr. Landers hands it to Harry he thanks him for his time and sends him out to the lobby to schedule a follow up appointment with his secretary. Closing his office door, he returns to his desk and scribbles in his journal: ‘Patient suffers from delusions of hearing hostile disembodied voices. Fifth case of schizophrenia diagnosed this week.’ He sets the pen down on his desk, reclines back in his chair and turns to face the daylight once more. “How odd,” he says aloud.


The soft sound, delicate against my not-yet fully awakened ears, echoes throughout the space like a pebble skipping across still waters. It threatens to rouse me to awakeness, to pull me from the peace, quiet and safety of the deep and empty slumber that my mind had slipped into. My mind slips back into darkness, away from the prying, grating noise that threatens to steal me away from my place of safety. Again. *Hoot. Hoot.* My eyebrows knit together in solemn acceptance, recognizing the significance of the sound as my mind stirs into lucidity. I am alive. Now is not the time for rest; there is work that must be done. My eyes slide open, pupils dilating in silent protest as shafts of dim light snake their way between the hoods of my eyelids to assail my still waking eyes. I lick my lips, the modest amount of saliva attempting to saturate their parched, cracked, and desert-like surface. I swallow, the spittle on my tongue feeling like sandpaper as it treks its way through the bone-dry crevasses of my tortured throat. The dull, throbbing aching in my joints, my bones, and my muscles crying out like a single voice, lost within a vast and uncaring wasteland. A third time. *Hoot. Hoot.* Now fully awake, but still not fully alert, I open my eyes to survey the wreckage around me. I lay within the shattered remnants of the still-smoking ruins of our battalion. Around me are the dozens of hollowed out shells of our trucks, carrier ships and machines of war. It’s then that the scent finally hits me, the putrid, agonizing stench of decay mixed with motor oil. I gag on it, the implications of its presence tightening around my mind like a vice, threatening to overtake my still recuperating mental faculties. It would seem I was the only survivor of this conflict. Still not wanting to believe it, my thin, raspy husk of a voice quietly, solemnly calls out, the sensation and the weight of the noise tearing through my aching vocal cords with the force of a gunshot. “H..Hello?” I whisper to the vast, empty void of space around me. “Is.. anyone t..”, I pause mid-sentence and cough, lungs forcing the air out of my chest in a violent, painful burst of sound. “Is anyone there?” I try again, hoping beyond hope that I have not been left alone in this wasteland. Much to my surprise, a response comes, the syllables tickling my ears as it travels through the air, the meaning of the words still incomprehensible to my tortured senses. I blink, muscles protesting as I raise a sooty hand to my eyes, wiping away the grime and stains of warfare that coat my eyelids. The voice comes again, words now much more clear, the threatening tone and harsh meaning cutting straight to the core of my being, and I know that I am undone. “Kyle, get off the floor and turn your alarm off, it’s time for school”. “But Moooooom…” I protest, looking at the circle of toy army-men and figurines scattered around me. “I don’t WANT to!”.


Veronica was alone on the bridge when the first distress signal was detected. The beeping echoed quietly on the bridge, reverberating throughout the sleeping ship as the members curled up in their beds. She needed something to do. Something to smother the remaining hours until the end of the week, her thoughts more than enough to keep her awake, her mind wouldn’t stop on its ceaseless crusade, reminding her of every little mistake. The distress signal was a distraction, exactly what she was looking for. “Merchant 6478-A we read your distress, can you respond, over?” Over and over she could hear Tina’s stupid bloody voice bringing the whole mess to a stand-still. She could see all the faces turn to them, including Giles, and the raised eyebrows turning to awkward looks and nervous faces. She wanted the vacuum of space to suck her into nothing and believed the reversal of her insides to outsides would’ve been less excruciating than eating the rest of her meal amongst the crew. The pity before was condescending enough and she knew if she stayed on board it would be palpable. “Merchant 6478, you’re very faint, can you adjust frequency?” Captain Urak saw it all just like the rest of them, but at least had the courtesy to not stare at her, despite all his faults. He didn’t have time for nonsense, as he called it, only time for his job and his drink. Although she had no doubt they’d be discussing it in her next pay review. It all had to come out at the worst time, a fucking embarrassment to everyone involved and another flag she had been adorned with. All because Tina didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut. Veronica keyed into Urak’s terminal. “Captain? Sorry to disturb, we have a dead corporate freighter here, looks like asteroid debris got into the engines and the communications is down as well. Shall we dock with them?” She heard the groan of her Captain, who had slept with a whiskey or two at his side since their trip began. “Lifeforms?” “I’m detecting seven, sir, which matches the record we have for the vessel.” “Dock then, Ven. I’ll be sending you and Giles down to sort the problem.” Ven felt herself blush furiously before she could stop it, feeling like a foolish child as she stammered: “G-Giles, sir?” “Yes, our security officer and an engineer. Is there a problem with that?” “No, but-“ He emerged fully in the camera’s view, letting her see up close how little he cared for her opinion. “I want the air cleared before 06:00 tomorrow between you. Regardless of what’s been said and what’s true, I want things as normal as soon as this job is done. Is that understood?” Veronica made sure he saw how she straightened herself and nodded stiffly to camera. “Yes. Perfectly.” His transmission ended and she easily directed the vessel to dock with the corporate ship, the accuracies would have to come from her Captain and she would only need to make things normal with Giles. The logos and slogans splattered across the dull grey and blue surface of the hull, leaving only the bridge and engines free of it. From a distance, it was difficult to notice the paint worn by travel and splattered with dirt and rust. But Veronica saw it and thought briefly of her father, navigator on such ships, playing the elusive corporate game. She had spent the day before testing the new software on board, stabilised the thrusters and fixed the food dispenser that had been playing up since launch. If she was able to do all that and not screw it up, she thought that it’d be easy to get back to normal with Giles. She could also theoretically turn herself into a sperm whale but she didn’t like her chances there, either. Giles was tall, thickly haired, muscled and some thought thickly brained as well, but Veronica knew him better than most. He was a sucker for tinned peaches from mother earth, if they could get them; watched all the zero-g MMA matches once they grounded and had a fondness for jazz that Veronica hadn’t heard since her dad had died. It felt pathetic, to have that longing inside that never seemed happy to move along, trying to find bits of her father in what was left of her job. But it was how she dealt with it, how she avoided people calling her weak. “You ready?” Veronica already knew, of course, by his holstered plasma handgun and suit. He nodded. “Is the Captain awake?” “Barely. And he’s been at the whiskey again.” “Pretty sure we were told not to drink drive when we were kids.” She shrugged, thinking of a joke but deciding to hold it back. “He’s the boss.” Giles expected the joke as well, giving her a short pause to deliver it and adjusting himself when she didn’t. He took a deep breath and didn’t look at her as he spoke: “Ven, I think you’re a really nice person, but-“ “Save it.” Veronica spat. “Don’t you dare even start with that bullocks.” “Ven-“ “Do you know how hard it is to be on this damned ship as an engineer? How many crusty old farts are condescending to me like I’m some fresh-faced whelp who doesn’t know how to use a spanner or a screwdriver? How I have to fight every day to get an inch of respect out of anyone?!” Veronica didn’t mean to raise her voice, but found it impossible to back down. She couldn’t show weakness. “I don’t need that shit from you. Not you too.” “It’s not my fault!” “No!” She took a moment to compose herself. “No, it’s not. It’s not, never was. It’s never one person’s fault.” She rubbed her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It’s fucked anyway.” “What is?” “Us. Our talks, everything!” “Why does that have to change?” She didn’t answer – not because she wanted it to, that much was clear, but because it had already happened. He felt like a stranger to her, like she couldn’t trust him. Like he already knew too much. She rubbed her eyes, exhaustion catching up with her. “It’s been a long week.” He nodded. It had been long for them all but it wasn’t hard to imagine the utter embarrassment she had gone through had destroyed whatever self-esteem she had left. Giles was under no illusion that he was the only person she really talked to in such a way and certainly wasn’t thick skulled enough to see that she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. The warning lights blazed around them, allowing them ten seconds to brace for the joining of the two airlocks. Their arms reached and grasped the handles above as gravity was briefly disabled as the ships came together. The lurch was powerful, but they were used to how it felt and were able to conduct themselves safely – both being subjected to enough training and safety protocols to last a lifetime. But what else was new in the depths of space? Giles spoke again as they headed into the corporate ship’s airlock. “I didn’t know. Okay? I didn’t know that you-“ “It doesn’t matter.” Ven snapped, turning away from him so he couldn’t see her face. “The whole damn crew knows, Tina might as well have posted it all online, let the whole bloody milky way know about it!” “Tina was drunk-“ “Tina was barely tipsy. She did it because she thought it was funny and I’m sure it was fucking hilarious.” Veronica hefted the airlock door closed despite the help Giles offered her. “I didn’t think it was funny.” Veronica was able to smell his bullshit from a mile away. “Let’s just get this over with.” The corporate vessel was one they had both seen time and time again during their patrol missions in the outer solar system. Like with the exterior, it was covered in corporate logos, slogans and even health and safety notices. Above their heads messy looking cables ran along each corridor with piping insulated alongside. Each ship was exactly the same, grey and blue, plastered with shameless advertising with only the faces manning them ever seeming to change. Yet despite this, there was something unnerving to Ven when she heard the distant beeping of a failing utility in the bowels of the ship and the cold whirs that seemed to freeze her bones. The darkness didn’t help, like the ship was derelict in a forgotten sea. “Cap said there were people here?” “I counted seven.” Giles frowned. “Then where are they?” “They could be injured, maybe they’re with their supplies in case of pirates.” “Pirates?” Ven frowned at his scepticism. “Well, what would you call them?” He shrugged, allowing a smirk. “Just sounds like we’re kids playing at school.” She raised an eyebrow. “You think? I mean I don’t think any pirates go for peg legs and parrots nowadays.” “The fashion could turn.” He pointed out, like an old spinster warning of bad weather. “I’m not sure I’d put my money on it.” Ven admitted, trying not to smile, which was easier once she spotted a comms terminal. “Here we go.” The dimmed lighting didn’t help with finding the keyboard and where she needed to place her fingers, but once she brought up the system’s commands, she was able to navigate easily through the old modules. Ven’s paranoia had focused on the thought that one or two men were bleeding out in the bowels of the miserable vessel, so she didn’t spend too much time looking through the essential systems. But even seeing the brief descriptions typed on screen were enough to make her pause. “That’s weird…” She mumbled to herself. “Why did they do that?” “Do what?” “Well the engines aren’t damaged, not seriously enough for a standstill, anyway. They’ve been switched off through the ship’s software.” “Why would they do that?” Veronica glanced over at him, knowing he’d find her suggestions ridiculous before she even said them. “Sometimes when a ship has a software upgrade, the engines are remotely turned off for safety reasons and then tested once the upgrade is complete. I did that earlier today, actually.” “Okay… So, they broke their own engines because they’re lazy?” “I don’t think so. ‘Cos this isn’t the most recently updated version, in fact the last update was from three months ago. Going without updates even for that short amount of time can mean that the engines have been switched off due to a glitch in the system – it's rare, but it happens. But option three…” “Yeah?” “It could be pirates.” She expected some mockery, maybe a surprised eyebrow at her paranoia, but he seemed just as convinced. “Why would they do that?” He asked, lowering his voice. “Turn off the engines, send out a distress signal and a bigger score usually turns up afterwards.” She replied, matching his tone. “Should we head back?” “You can. I need to make sure they don’t have hostages.” “No! No, don’t be stupid.” She hissed. “We get reinforcements, by the book.” “People could die while we wait-“ “You could die! We need you on board.” He removed his pistol from its holster and looked at her coldly. “Don’t be emotionally compromised over this. It makes sense, this is my job, just like yours is sorting out that terminal and getting back to the ship.” She grabbed his arm. “Your job is to be smart about this. If there are pirates and if they have hostages, then they’ll wait for someone-“ The high-pitched squeal of plasma fire tore through their conversation and she could smell the burning flesh before he felt it. The heat quickly destroyed any nerves but the shock of smouldering smoke whisping from his shoulder was enough to send him immediately in a panic. He screamed so loud and hard she was sure the ship would shatter around them, tears and blood and sweat poured from him and all the time only one phrase thudded through her head. Her heartbeat in time with the terrifying thought: he’s going to die. He was beyond the point of conscious pain or sanity as she wrenched the gun from his hand. She didn’t have time to think, reaching and firing where their attacker had shot, dodging back into cover and waiting until he needed to change his plasma pack. Their blind back and forth continuing with no clear goal, no clear target and Giles was screaming, shaking as he tried to reach for his medicine but unable to grab it without another screech, without another wave crashing down on him. Her shots were random and fragmented, her eyes unable to adjust to the bright lights and darkness that cascaded one after the other. Sparks flew and singed her face and arm; plasma fire tore a hole piece by piece above their heads, melting some metal that poured like white-hot treacle towards them. The stranger was having as much trouble as she was but they kept up the stalemate, Ven kept firing, the squealing of the gunfire and his screams inevitably would bring the rest of them to them. She had to end it, or they would be surrounded. She had to kill him or they’d die too. The insanity around her seemed to slow as her thoughts cascaded through time and space to the moments she had with her father, the panic and shock hitting her hard enough that the memories came unbidden. The wisps of vapor from his mouth, the virtual reality they shared between them, firing fake guns in fake shooting galleries, goading one another into making a riskier maneuverer. The days in the hospital as the cancer spread, continuing until it smothered him in darkness, the last days she felt truly connected to someone, the moment when he told her that he was proud of her. Knowing for sure that he’d never speak again and his funeral during a heatwave, the sweat and the salt and the red earth finally taking him. Her next shot ripped through the neck of the pirate and she watched him tumble to the ground, almost completely unaware of how she did it or how she knew where he’d be. She didn’t see his face, believing it was a blessing not to know. Then she turned, grabbing what Giles couldn’t, stabbing the formula into his shoulder and gritting her teeth as he tried to mute his screams. But in moments, the fog in his eyes seemed to clear and his breaths were slower, purposeful and deep. He focused on her and grabbed the gun from the floor. “I’ll cover you. Go!” “What are you doing?!” “Saving your ass, now move!” “You’re not dying here, Giles!” She gripped the gun and tried to take it from him. “Get to the airlock. I have an idea.” “You can’t take them all on alone, are you insane?!” She ignored his hypocrisy, snatching the gun from his hand. Then she ran down the corridor, finding and accessing the first terminal she came across. She wasn’t sure if the trick would work, but it was the best chance any hostages trapped had. Trackers were fitted in the uniforms of all employees of corporate vessels; tracking their vitals as well and it wasn’t difficult to access the details through some old forgotten code. Most of the newer models had been patched out, but Ven was hoping the back door still existed in the older version. She stared at the map before her, detailing each part of the ship and there were names only in one part of the ship, each name with UNKNOWN vitals. They were all in the disposal part of the ship, the disposal airlock and incinerator. The names disappeared one by one, the list shortening as each member of the crew was put into the furnace. Five became four, then three and finally two remained. The sickness bubbling within her was enough to make her eyes water, but she controlled any other response – she didn’t have time. There was nothing they could do. She heard footsteps ahead in the corridor, hurrying towards her. The bastards were coming and they’d try to take their ship next, then everyone else would be in the incinerator. Giles was on his feet and moving as fast as he could, one arm cradling the other as he stumbled towards the airlock. Ven caught up, almost slamming into him but crashing into the door instead, getting the airlock open with shaking hands as the footsteps raced closer behind her. “What about the hostages?” “Gone.” She admitted, panting heavily. “Dead, all of them, dead!” “What-?” “We have to go!” He moved into the airlock first, crouching on the floor and losing the remaining feeling in his arm. His face paling by the moment as the morphine started to wear off and his eyes glazed over with the terrifying fog. His breaths becoming ragged, panicked and his skin crawled as he started to tremble. Ven heard the pirates before she saw them and the cracks of pistols and rifles deafened her as bad as the plasma blasts as she pulled desperately at the airlock. Giles stared, his arms entirely useless, his mind slipping away as the shock gripped him in a vice. She felt like a deer in headlights, exposed and disorientated as she tried to duck around the random bullets that tried to impede their escape. She screamed involuntarily and pulled and pulled as the heavy metal door finally succumbed and sealed them back. Even the most ambitious of pirates had sense enough to leave an airlock well alone. She was panting, finding all the effort difficult to comprehend, still feeling adrenaline pumping through her. She had saved one life and that felt enough for a lifetime. She turned to him, bringing one arm around him to keep him steady and braced for the impact. As they floated together, looking at the other’s singed face, the dirt that always seemed to appear and the tears and the fear that they had somehow survived, they both saw pin drops of red float between them. The blotchy red substance seemed to come out of nowhere and once one droplet appeared, another joined it, then larger balls of red floated between them. Giles frowned, believing he was losing his mind to the drugs at first but his face paled and the clarity returned as panic replaced it. He looked down as Ven did. “Giles…?” Ven didn’t understand why she didn’t feel the pain at first, as once she was reminded of it, it seemed eternally there. She wanted to scream, but shock had muted her completely, she only stared and felt all the fatigue hit her at once. As the ship’s airlock opened, her head had already dropped and her hand stopped gripping him completely. The shock wasn’t enough to keep her awake and Giles’ voice was like a whisper in an endless ocean. Even when he shouted for help she didn’t understand him and everything faded into darkness. Ven’s senses were slow to return to her. Her head felt heavy, her arms ached and her stomach gnawed painfully in a way she didn’t recognise. Her eyes opened to a blurred room, the bright light of the open window and sterilised white walls only worsening her nausea. The beeping of her vitals grew louder as the faded blurry vision began to clear and adjust to the Martian sunlight. She saw a window with someone silhouetted against the foreground, sitting with a screen in his hands. For a moment, she thought it was her dad, a ghost to take her away. But the thick hair and young face was unmistakable. “Hey.” Giles smiled at her warmly. “Hey…” Ven was confused, trying to remember what happened and feeling the rush build in the back of her mind. She moved her arm suddenly, needing answers. “What-?” He took her arm, softly, as if it was natural for him. She felt goosebumps as he spoke. “It’s okay. We destroyed the ship. Its okay, relax.” “Where… How did I get here?” She kept trying to force herself to remember, but only recalled darkness after she collapsed. Giles smiled a little. “You saved my life, remember?” She felt as if she was acting on half speed, like a car needing to be pushed before the engine would start. “I… I did?” “I didn’t know you could shoot like that, Ven. Y-you saved our lives.” He slumped a little, unable to look at her as she pressed him for answers, which he gave reluctantly. “Mac stablised us on board. I woke up a few hours later but you had lost a lot of blood and you weren’t waking up. I…” He took a breath to steady himself. “We were a week away from Mars and… And Mac said you weren’t going to make it.” “So, you called an emergency shuttle?” He raised his eyes to meet hers, sorrowful and regretful that he had to tell her. She slumped where she lay. “He didn’t want to risk his fucking career.” “He said that everyone would have to take a cut.” Giles told her, not trying to hide the venom in his voice. “That the trip back to Mars would mean that we wouldn’t have the fuel to get back into the black. And that... That people took their risks when they signed their contracts.” She gritted her teeth to avoid spurting obscenities, in some misguided allegiance to him or to keep the hospital sterile, she wasn’t sure. Ven took a deep breath, hoping it would disguise how hurt it felt to be reduced to a number. “How did I get here, then?” “I requested to take the shuttle and drop you off for treatment. He refused, of course, telling me I wasn’t thinking straight and wanted me to be cleared by Mac before heading back out.” He shook his head. “If I waited that long...” “I’d be dead.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I took his shuttle.” Ven’s eyes widened. “The Captain’s shuttle? You stole the Captain’s shuttle?” “Stealing is a bit of an overstatement.” He replied and she laughed as he hoped she would. “He drinks himself to sleep on duty, it was bound to happen one day.” He looked back at her. “He threatened to have me court marshaled.” She scoffed, unsurprised but disappointed. “Drunken prick.” “I called him worse when he tried to force me back.” Ven believed him, but also felt goosebumps as he kept his eyes on her. “I guess he fired you, then.” “I made my resignation pretty clear, I think.” He replied. “But... I got to keep an eye on you, at least. Practice this speech, how’d I do?” She smiled, despite everything that had happened, he still somehow made her smile and that had all seemed to make it worthwhile. “Well, I guess we’re even.” “For now, anyway-” “Do you want to go out for a drink?” Ven surprised herself even as the words were already said. “After I’m out, I mean.” “I’d love to.” Veronica didn’t know if her infatuation was a passing feeling or if a drink with him would be one in a string of mistakes. She didn’t know if she’d ever find work again, whether Captain Urak would be found out for his negligence or if she’d be the one to push against him. She couldn’t know anything about what would happen – but she knew for certain that the emptiness inside her was shrinking and was being filled with butterflies.


Hey Guys, Here's a piece I've written about a bit of espionage gone wrong. Be warned, there's plenty of bad language and a smattering of violence. Hope you enjoy, I'd love to hear any thoughts or feedback you have on it. Matthews found it wasn’t the smell of the old butcher’s warehouse that made him feel on edge, but rather surprisingly, the noise. The whirring of the saws and the slicing of flesh was oddly rhythmic and organised, certainly not what he expected when he stepped through the battered entrance to the place. It did not fit the drab, revolting decor, and that bothered him. The paint on the walls were almost as worn as the tiled floor, which were obviously once white long ago. Now however, they were a dull, ugly shade of green, with black and brown stains spread sparingly throughout. He was no stranger to blood and gore, having seen much of it in his eight years of service to the loyalists. Tasked with the apprehension of vile, rebel scum within the city, he’d certainly seen his share. Carcasses of all kinds hung from rails in the large room, but the most common was pigs. Dozens of the things dangling lifelessly and skinless from the hooks above. Despite all of the noise of the machinery that would indicate people nearby, it was an entirely automated process with not a living creature in sight. Matthews shook his head slightly as he walked through the cadavers, being sure to not get any of the blood on his fine coat. He was heading for a door at the end of the large room, marked, “Private” With each footstep that took him closer, he could hear the faint sounds of something hard hitting something soft. He reached the ordinary, plain door and pushed it with a gloved hand. The door however, had other plans, and remained firmly shut. Matthews sighed and rapped his knuckles on the wood. Instantly the noises ceased, replaced instead by a soft murmuring he had to strain to hear. After a few heartbeats, a shrill high pitched voice sounded clearly, albeit muffled slightly from the door. “Whooooooo is iiiiit?” Matthews’s head lolled back in frustration and another heavy sigh escaped from his lips. “Just open the fucking door Hal. Must you always be so unprofessional?!” There was a dull click as the lock was turned and the door swung open to reveal a grinning man, with spots of blood on his face. Hal, as always, had absolutely no regard for formality or procedure. To him, it was something that was considered, then promptly ignored. Matthews was reminded of one of his most famous sayings upon seeing the ragged man, “Nobody ever died from not being called sir.” His hair was unkempt and messy, not slicked or styled, with long strands hanging down from the sides of his face. The telltale signs of youth were clear in his face and eyes, but that itself was a fortunate deception of nature, as Hal was in his early thirties. A thin stubble ran across his jaw and smiling lips, giving him a rugged look many of the ladies of the city found attractive. Where Matthews was tall and broad, Hal was short and wiry. Where Matthews wore sharply pressed trousers, a crisp white shirt with a fitted waistcoat and a tailored jacket, Hal was dressed in simple workman’s garb, wrinkled and stained with many days of use. Matthews knew better than to be fooled by his appearance however. Although Hal may have had all of the physical characteristics of a skinny factory worker, he was vicious, dangerous and above all else, loyal as a hound. Hal was still stood smiling when Matthews pushed him aside with a forceful snarl,entering the room. Hal held his arms up in exasperation, shaking his head with a sarcastic rolling of his eyes. “Oh yeah, I’m fine Matty, thanks for asking-” He began to speak, but was stopped by Matthews’ finger which was pointed at him, as rigid as a pistol barrel. “How many times Hal? It’s Matthews.” Matthews said with a glare. Hal laughed. “Hey! I can’t call you ‘sir’, ‘sir’. We’re in the middle of a covert operation-” “Spare me the bullshit Hal. You’d better have something good for me seeing as though you have no security whatsoever on the location. I mean, for fuck’s sake, anyone could just come through the fucking entrance!” Matthews said, anger colouring his words. Hal rolled his eyes again and gestured to the man who was tied to a chair in the centre of the bare empty room. The electric lights above flickered constantly, wreathing the man in bright white light one moment, then shrouding him in shadows a moment later. A table was illuminated briefly, covered with a variety of tools. Scalpels, pliers, hammers and clamps were to name but a few. A craftsman’s dream. “Taa daa...ladies and gentlemen, without further ado I present to you a known associate of the despicable restorationalists, Petir Mannings.” Hal said with an elaborate flourish of his bloody hands. As Matthews took in the sight, Hal continued with his introduction. “Known involvement with the Rail’s Cross bombings and the Bloomfield shootings, suspected involvement with various other terrorist movements such as the manor massacre and the great fire of the town halls, I give you...one nasty piece of rebel work...I bet he can’t even remember how many good loyalists he’s sent to the grave.” With his final sentence, he grit his teeth and punched the bound man square in the face, breaking his nose with a dull, distinct crack. The man howled with pain through his gag, as blood began to flow from his snapped nose. Matthews gestured to the many cuts and puncture marks on the man’s body and limbs, which were all precisely positioned, only oozing a small bit of crimson. “Hal, you’re not a machinist, you're a Justicar.” Matthews said, his voice softer now. “I know, I know…But this fucker was responsible for Niel and I wanted to remind him of that.” Hal replied, nodding his head slightly. The man continued to moan, unable to defend or care for himself. “They say that a pig’s flesh is most similar to a man’s. Fucked if I know, but he sure as hell squeals like one when you cut him.” “No more now, otherwise there’ll be nothing left for the machinists. They’ll make it long...and painful.” There was a silence for a few moments, save for the man’s groans of pain. “None of this blood’s mine by the way.” Hal said gesturing to his face. “I got him clean and clear in an alleyway out of east street, never saw me coming.” “Did anyone see the capture? No civilians?” Matthews asked. “No boss, it was quick and quiet. I don’t do things sloppy. I’ve been on him for a few days, trust me, I’ve not been made.” Matthews nodded and reached for his pocket watch in his waistcoat, checking the time with a quick glance. “The machinist will be here in a few minutes, I deliberately called him a bit later than I should have, I hope you’ll understand. After all, everyone’s got their guilty pleasures.” Hal said, a smile on his face again. To any other senior justicar, just admitting something like that would warrant a significant punishment for deviation of duty, or at the very least a “straightening out.” But Matthews had developed a strange sort of relationship with the man. Hal was professional at heart when he needed to be. He was easily one of the best Justicars that Matthews had command of, ruthlessly efficient and extremely effective in the field. It was just his lack of respect for the hierarchy and seniors that let him down and stopped him from promoting, although Matthews had long suspected that was Hal’s motive all along. He loved his work too much to be taken away from it. “I understand, but make sure he’s ready for the Machinist. Give him a bit more ‘reminding’ if you want, but be sure to leave something for them.” Hal gave a dark smile and nodded. “Much obliged boss, I’ll be sure to brief you on what we uncover.” As Matthews turned and began to walk out of the room, he heard Hal speaking to the man. “Oh dear oh dear, what are you moaning about? What’s life without a little laughter eh? Smile, it’ll make you feel better.” The soles of Matthews polished shoes rang out on the dirty tiles as he walked, not slowing his pace for a moment. The noise of something hard hitting something soft fading away with every step.


(WP) In My Time of Dying There has to be balance in everything. When Mara was human, she’d had but an inkling of how the world truly worked. But then she’d died too soon, murdered for protecting innocent bystanders. She’d been taken to The Pale, the place in-between, and a mysterious woman had asked her if she wanted to spend her afterlife doing something worthwhile. No one would know her name, after the fact, but it didn’t matter. “I’ve been watching you, Mara.” The woman had said, her dark eyes unreadable. There was something stern in her tone, something that made Mara squirm. “And let me just say that you’re not the first to waste your time on the mortal plane.” There were flashes of things that Mara barely remembered; small sins were always forgotten. But there was the time that she had stolen from her parents, all to buy alcohol for a party she was too old to be attending. The time she’d ditched her brother after his basketball practice to go on a date with her boyfriend, leaving him to walk home. But the first thing she remembered, really remembered, was fighting with her parents right before she’d left for the gas station. If she’d known she would’ve ended up cold and dead on the floor, she wouldn’t have gone to the gas station. “You gave your life in order to protect others, the day you died.” The woman’s voice softened, and Mara blinked at her; everything was all blurry, and when she touched her face, her fingers came away wet. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, on the mortal plane and this one. “Who are you? And what do you want with me?” Mara finally asked, wincing when she heard her voice crack. “I have had many names throughout the years, so many that I can barely remember my true one.” The woman chuckled, and the sound was sad. “But you can call me Mama.” Mara thought she heard the slightest hint of a syrupy Southern accent in Mama’s voice, but she merely nodded. “The real reason you’re here, Mara, is because I have been looking for a successor for a long time. And I think that you would be perfect for the job.” Mara blinked, staring at the other woman. “Here in The Pale, I am charged with maintaining balance, not just in this realm, but many others as well.” Mama murmured, and though she looked but a few years older than Mara, her eyes held multitudes, and were so sad that Mara felt like weeping again. “But I’m afraid I’ve grown old. And tired.” A chair appeared out of thin air, and the older woman sat down in it. “Are you saying you brought me here to take over for you?” Mara asked, her heart fluttering; she could feel her pulse everywhere, and sweat began to form in her palms. “In a matter of speaking.


“We need to get it done today,” the doctor tells the nurse as they walk into my room. “Before the girl sways them.* “I agree. The family will be here shortly.” I just lay here, eyes closed. Weak. I hear them pushing buttons, turning pages, fiddling with the IV bag and scribbling notes. The faint but comforting sound of voices I recognise claw through my fatigue. I'm exhilarated, but they all stop before the door opens and my family walks in silently. The beep of the heart rate monitor has increased in tempo, and seemingly in volume although that may be due to the silence that is suffocating the room. They never know what to say when they see me like this. “Doctor Bunt,” my wife, Rachael, greets solemnly. “Edna.” “It happened again,” Lacy says. “When we got here.” She’s talking about the beeping. “Lacy, please,” Rachael sighs, exasperated. Lacy is my little girl. My little gummy bear, although she hates it when call her that these days. Somehow, eyes still shut, I sense my brother and father are also here, although they've remained silent. “Thanks for visiting,” I say. “It means a lot. I know it must be a chore for you, but… Thank you.” Nobody replies. There’s nothing to reply to. “Are you sure you want everybody here for this?” Edna asks. “It’s Lacy’s father,” my brother, David, says, not beating around the bush. “She has as much of a right to know what’s happening as the rest of us do. More so, even.” Edna sighs. Not a sigh born from sympathy or even resignation: Irritation. I suppose, in her line of work, giving bad news to adults is hard enough. “The truth, Mrs. Newman,” the doctor takes over, “is that we would have expected to see some kind of response by now if your husband was going to make any kind of recovery.” He lets that hang before taking a breath as if to speak again. He doesn’t get a chance. “He is responding,” Lacy asserts, voice raised. “Lacy-” “No, Mum! He is! Every time we come here his heart rate goes up. He knows we’re here. Maybe on some level he hears or smells us or- Or something!" Her voice gets higher the harder she tries to control her emotions. "He knows we're here!" “Lacy,” I say, softly. “Of course I do. I know you’re here, bear. I hear you." I will the words to come the same way I always have but I make no sound and I move no muscle. “The doctor has explained to you over and over-” “It’s not random! It’s every time. As soon as we walk in. It's not- it's not random, Mum, please." “She’s right,” I’m insisting, silently. “I know this is hard for you, Lacy,” Bunt soothes. “But your father’s heart rate jumps up and down every few minutes or so. Our brains are programmed to find patterns in random events, especially in times of stress. You’re finding reasons to believe he’s still with us simply because you want nothing more than for it to be true. "I understand. We all do. But you must try to understand the facts. I’m sorry, Lacy, his increases or decreases in heart rate are not a response to anything in particular. It's simply a part of his condition.” “But- But he- It never goes down or stays-” “Lacy!” Rachael snaps. “Listen to her,” I’m pleading. For the first time I’m worried that they… They’ll... I’m worried that they won’t wait any longer. “I know he can hear us! Look!” I wonder what she’s pointing at, when I realise the beeps have gotten faster again. Much faster. “He’s listening now!” She screaming, now. Crying hysterically. “He can hear all of this. Dad, I promise, I won't let them-” “Lacy, for God’s sake,” Rachael pleads, rather than scoulds. “I can’t- Will one of you, please…” she trails off. My father clears his throat and slaps his thighs, which he always does before he gets to his feet. “No, Dad, wait,” I plead. “Come on, Lacy,” he says. “No," she croaks, "I’m not leaving him.” “Let’s just go for a little walk. He’ll be here when you get back. Come on, kid, let's talk about this.” “No, wait! Don’t you take my daughter away. Don't you dare!" “You won’t listen to me,” she sulks. "Please, Dad, don’t take my Lacy away from me. Please." “I promise you that I will. Your mum just needs a minute and then we can come back and talk to her together. Okay? Come on, darling.” "Bear?" I ask as if I'd get an answer. With that I hear the two of them leave the room. “No, Lacy! You have to- You know I’m here. You have to tell them! Lacy? Bear?” She’s gone and my words bounce around within my head, desperately searching for a way into the world. “What I need to tell you, Mrs. Newman. Mr. Newman...” Mr? Me? He knows that I'm- No. No, he’s talking to David. “It can’t be sugar coated, I'm afraid.” My wife says nothing. My brother, true to character, minces no words. “He’s already gone, isn’t he?” “The machines are keeping his body alive, but… Yes. He’s braindead.” “No! I’m not! I can hear you, I can hear everything.” I’m shouting and writhing, kicking and screaming, but none of the signals are getting to the necessary muscles or they’re not being sent at all. “I’m right here! I’m still here!” “Then…” Rachael’s voice cracks. “Then let him go.” “No, Rachael.” In my head, I’m sobbing. I’m not sure if the tears are real. “Rachael, honey, please. Please hear me. Please feel that I’m here.” “He wouldn’t want to be… Like this.” The heart rate monitor sounds like a fire alarm. No one else seems to be able to hear it. David agrees. “Would you like to be here?” “I-” I’d never heard David cry before now. "I don’t think I can do it, Rach. I’m so sorry.” “It’s okay,” Rachael whispers. “I should be with him. I’ll stay.” I’m kicking my feet and flailing my arms. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, no longer bothering with words. Just noise and movement, as much as possible. Maybe something will make it through. A single squeak or croak. A twitch or a tear. That’s all it will take. Anything. Any sign, before... I feel a warmth spreading from the IV. A warmth. A burn! A searing fire crawling up my arm! I’m still screaming, now in pain as well as fear. “I’m still here! Rachael, honey, please!” “How long?” she asks, her voice steadier now. Resolute. “You have only a few seconds.” I feel the mask pull away. I feel Rachael’s hair as she leans over me. I feel the inferno crawling towards my heart. She whispers in my ear, “I just need you to know one last thing before you go, my love.” The moment the fire reaches my heart it explodes out in all directions. An agony beyond anything I’d ever experienced before or ever would again. Or so I thought. Over the smouldering pain and through my fading consciousness, I can only just focus on Rachael's final words to me. “I know you’re awake.


(WP) Tithes to the Dead King Doran was named The Ghost King for the way he’d turned the tides of the war. The spirits, enraged at their death, had tried to storm the castle and possess all of the humans inside. But Doran negotiated for peace, with but one law. “When a spirit walks the land of the living, bring not pain nor plague, only gifts.” It turned out, though, that the dead were often rather imaginative with their gifts. They started out simply at first: a loaf of bread, the last fruit of the harvest, a few spare coins, a bolt of cloth. But then the offerings they gave only grew in magnitude, given to them by emissaries both alive, dead, and somewhere in between: precious stones that shone like bright eyes, heaping chests of treasures, collections of bones adorned with finery, even in death. King Doran’s bride, Queen Jazira, accepted all of the offerings at his side, but she wondered privately if this was too much, even for peace with the restless and the dead. After all, they were royal; they had no need of such pageantry. But she knew how much it had cost her husband, to barter for this tentative peace. She knew that nightmares from the war still haunted him; more than once, she’d awoken to his screams, full of agony, his face cold and clammy with sweat. The bodies of his battalion had been taken by the ghosts, vessels for his enemies, and he could do nothing but watch while his men slaughtered each other. Wraiths, revenants, the undead, all were summoned from the other side of the void, and blood had flowed freely on both sides of the war. It had felt like the longest two decades of Jazira’s life; she’d been sent to Doran’s court as a child, brought up in the ways of her fiancée’s land. They’d married on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, and the day after their wedding, her king announced that he would be making an effort to live in peace with the spirits, on the condition that both armies agreed to a surrender. And that mattered now more than ever; unconsciously, she put a hand on her stomach, trying not to show her nerves. Her husband smiled at her, squeezing her hand, and she relaxed somewhat. He’d been fighting for peace even before his father had died and he’d inherited the crown, and at long last, it was finally happening. “It pleases the crown that we have reached an agreement,” Doran said, his voice booming in the cavernous throne room. “Is there anything you would ask of us, other than our most sincere apologies for the bloodshed?” His inquiry was answered by a series of quiet whispers, in a language that Jazira couldn’t understand. “We wish to continue making our offerings to you, if you’re amenable to it,” Someone said in the crowd. “What will we give you in return? Let it not be said that King Doran is a greedy monarch.” “You’ve already given us peace, Your Majesty. How could we possibly ask for more?” Relief doused the rest of Jazira’s worries, and she was glad that her heir would live in a world where spirits, the undead, and the living coexisted in peace.


Chad hears the sound of construction equipment as he's doing his third leg workout. “What the frick?! I can't get swole with all this racket!” He thought agitatedly. Chad left his elliptical machine to go check out what was going on outside. What he found was a construction crew complete with a wrecking ball and bulldozer preparing to tear down his favorite Gold’s Gym! He screamed at the top of his lungs, “What the heck guys?! This is so frickin bogus!” at the sound of the B-word, an overweight girl in overly tight clothing stepped out from the sidelines and said, “What the frick? My guy!? You can’t just go around throwing the gosh darn b-word around all willy nilly you absolute dingus!” Chad looked her up and down skeptically and said, “Who the flip are you supposed to be? I've seen whale watching videos before and it looks like you need to be put back in the bay with your kind.” Stacy stared daggers at Chad and said, “How dare you say that to me! I am Stacy “The G” Albright and my dad knows all sorts of powerful people who can have you killed you dumbo!” Stacy exclaimed, outraged. “ I bet your dad had to drop a couple “G” to get enough grease to get you into those clothes!” Chad said. Chad was too distracted by his fire roasts directed at Stacy that he didn’t even notice her signal the wrecking crew to tear down the Gold’s Gym. It wasn’t until he heard the first crash of the wrecking ball that made him finally snap out of his trance of self-confidence. Chad spun around on his heels and screamed as he saw the wrecking ball going in for another swing. He tried to run and jump in front of it but he was too slow. He tripped on some rubble and skinned his knee, immobilizing him so all he could do is watch in horror as the wrecking ball swung one final time. Chadwick watched in horror as the building crumbled before him. He wept as he saw one lone Stationary bike get crushed under some falling concrete like the brachiosaurus in Jurassic World 2. The bulldozer moved in, crushing whatever equipment was left standing. Chadwick sat there, staring at the rubble of the place he once loved and cried out into the heavens, “ WHY GOD?! HOW COULD YOU LET A PLACE OF SUCH BEAUTY FALL??” Chad then sprinted back home to his father Zebulon, sobbing the entire way back. Chad barged in through the front door, startling his father straight off of his recliner. “Son, what’s the matter?” Zebulon asked in a concerned tone. “A big bully named Stacy tore down my favorite Gold’s Gym!” Chad replied, tears streaming down his face. “I'm sorry, my dear sweet boy,” Zebulon said, stroking Chad’s hair. “There is only one way to settle the score with this wench. You must challenge her to the oldest of duels.” “What's that papa?’ Chad inquired. “You must challenge her to... A THUMB WAR!!” Zebulon announced. Chad gasped in surprise at the words. “Papa are you sure I’m strong enough? I workout my arms a lot but I don’t know if my thumbs are strong enough to withstand the pressure of a thumb war!” “That is why I must train you, my son. I promised myself I would never return to this life but I’m afraid this is the only way. You will go to her house and challenge her to a thumb war in six months’ time. Both of you will train your hardest, but I know her type and she will undoubtedly cheat. We must be prepared for that as well, my child.” “You haven’t led me wrong before, Pops. I’ll challenge her in the morn.” The next day, Chad showed up at Stacy’s manor and knocked on the door. None other than Stacy herself answered the door. “Oh God, it’s the testosterone dispenser.” she said dryly. “Glad you remember me, wench, now, I'm here to avenge the honor of the Gold's Gym franchise by challenging you to a thumb war, or else you’ll have to go back to the farm, you fat cow. In six months’ time, we will meet at the biggest stadium and we will have a thumb war that will be remembered for all of HISTORY.” Chad said dramatically. “So be it.” Stacy said and proceeded to slam the door in Chad’s face. On his way home, Chad walked by the wreckage of his old gym. “I will avenge you no matter the cost.” And went home more motivated than ever to avenge the thing that was dearest to him. The next morning, Chad woke up to find arm braces sitting on his dresser. He picked them up and brought them to the kitchen where his dad was in the process of making breakfast. “Hey pops, what are these for? My arms aren't broken. “Those are to make sure your bones don't explode from training today.” Zebulon said “Wait, my bones could explode??!” Chad exclaimed incredulously. “You knew the consequences, boy.” “No I hecking didn't! I never knew the risks were this freaking high!” “Watch your language around me Chadwick. It's too late to turn back now so just eat your breakfast so we can start training for the big fight. After a tense breakfast between father and son, they went to the back yard where chad saw a large stump topped with a miniature boxing ring with two holes in the center. “What’s this papa?” “This my son, is a thumb war ring. Many years ago I was a champion of this sport. I promised myself I would never do this again. Not after the last time.” “What happened last time?” Chad asked “It's too dreadful to even think about. I'm afraid I can't say... yet” Zebulon replied as he stared off into the distance. After a few seconds of pregnant silence, Zebulon walked towards the ring and Chad followed. Zebulon inserted his thumb into the hole and Chadput on the brave and followed suit. As soon as Chads thumb was through, Zebulon smashed it into the floor of the ring. Chad yelped and drew his hand back. “What was that for?!” Chad yelled. “You must be prepared for anything, my son. Even surprise attacks.” Training over the next few weeks went on like this until Chad learned how to dodge effectively. “Good, my son!” Zebulon said and clapped his son on the back as he performed his first perfect dodge. “Thanks Papa!” Chad beamed. Over the next few months, Chad and his father bonded over something that they were both passionate about. He and his father had some laughs and at the end of the six month period they ended up closer than they had ever been prior to this experience. On the day of the big fight, Chad and his dad rolled on up to their enemies’ house. “A wise man once said; “The simple act of paying attention can take you a long way.” That wise man is named Keanu Reeves and he is truly breathtaking. Keep these words in mind when you take on your opponent, my son.” Zebulon said. “...okay dad.” Chad said confusedly. Father and son walked up the steps to Stacy's manor. Chad rapped on the door thrice and not even a second later, a bland looking servant opened the door and gestured them to come inside. As they entered, they beheld her giant manor. “Living like this has spoiled her, Chad. She will undoubtedly attempt some tom-foolery during the match. You must be prepared for anything.” “You got it dad!” They were led out into the backyard by the servant where they saw a giant arena surrounded by lava. “Holy guacamole! How the frick did you build this in only six months?!” Chad exclaimed. “All we had to do is move ze lava moat and ze rest was pretty easy.” The servant said in a light french accent. That statement raised more questions than it answered but Chad left the topic alone. He looked to his father but Zebulon’s eyes were set in steely determination and something else he couldn't identify. As they walked up the steps to the stadium they couldn't help but be awed by the sheer mass of it. As they reached the top of the stairs, they saw stacy already sitting in one of the two chairs set out for them. In between the two chairs, was a gilded thumb war ring. “Nice of you to finally show up, Meathead.” Stacy said tauntingly “I wouldn't miss it for the world, you tub of lard.” Chad said in retort. It was at this point that Chad noticed stacy had some sort of exoskeleton over her right arm. “That’s against the rules, Stacy! You can't have any body mods on during the match.” “I guess your rules weren’t specific enough, Chad.” “I said I wanted a fair fight, you cow!” Chad yelled “Easy boy,” Zebulon said as he put a hand on his son's shoulder. “With the grade-A training I have given you, not even her mecha arm could help her win.” Chad sat down across from Stacy and inserted his thumb into the ring. Stacy followed suit soon after. As soon as she was through, she immediately tried to pin him down. Chad was prepared for this and he dodged out of the way. He spun around and pinned her down to the floor of the arena with his thumb. She was down for two seconds but wriggled her way out. She slammed her knee against the bottom of the table, throwing him off balance and giving her an opportunity to attack and he just managed to parry her thumb away.before she could do the finishing blow. Stacy reeled back in shock at his miraculous recovery and chad took the opportunity to pin her down once more. Time seemed to move like a thick jelly as he counted down the seconds. All he needed was three seconds and he would be the champion. But then, out of nowhere, stacy whistled and a small dog ran out from the sidelines and attacked Chads ankles, preventing him from finishing the job. “AGHHHHHH” Chad screamed and tried to shake the dog off as well as fend off Stacy's attacks. But things were looking bleak for him. But then, Zebulon ran over and punted the Pomeranian into the lava. “CROUTON!!!” Stacy cried. While she was distracted, Chad took the opportunity to pin her to the floor of the ring. She tried to escape but she couldn't. Chad had won the battle!. He and his father cheered as stacy ran towards the edge of the arena to see if her dog had missed the lava by any chance. He hadn’t. Stacy later tried to press charges against chad for assault and killing her dog, but as it turns out, the judge also liked that particular Gold’s Gym. Chad was celebrated worldwide for his actions and from then on was referred to as “The saviour of Gold’s Gym. Stacy was forced to go into exile for the shame she caused her family by losing despite her cheating. She could never show her face in this town or any town again. Afterwards Zebulon and Chad went back home, laughing and enjoying each other's company.