Tam opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was a blue and windless day, and not a cloud could be seen. A peaceful day, by all means. Yet she felt anything but at peace. She stood up and turned her eyes towards the horizon. There she could see an eagle flying in the distance. It flew and flew until it was but a small speck. She sighed and wished she too could disappear. “Your duty is an important one,” Uncle Haversian said. He was in charge of her lessons, as well as that of the other children who had been chosen. They were progressing consistently. Tam still could not breathe a wisp of flame. All that came out of her mouth was hot air. And spit. Lots of spit. “Feel it,” he said. “Feel the Eternal Flame flowing through your body, giving you life.” “But I don’t feel anything,” she said, frustrated. “I don’t feel anything when I concentrate,” she said, sitting down to catch her breath, her chest heaving up and down from the effort she’d been putting out for the last hour, breathing hard on the wood as if trying to blow out a stubborn candle. Except she was supposed to light the wood on fire, and hers was giving off nothing but black smoke. Lily’s on her right was fully aflame, and the child sat cross-legged in front of it, silently perusing the fire’s depths with her unreadable blue eyes. It was unusual for a Dragoneer child's transformation to start off with the blue eyes, but Lily was an exception. One day she'd woken up and her brown eyes were blue, just like that. The flame she now conjured was the same color as her arms, which were covered with silver scales. Like Tam, she had angry red rashes where human skin still battled with her inevitable fate--that of becoming a full-on dragon by the time many centuries had passed. Children with ascalienation grew--and then stopped growing. Instead of growing older, shriveling up, and dying, they stayed at the pinnacle of human adulthood for much longer, and then eventually became something not human. Was the pain, the constant burn and itch that the child went through as it transformed, worth the longevity? Some said yes, some said no. But unlike Tam, Lily did not make faces or cry at the pain of her affliction. Her face was always calm and unreadable, so much so that Tam sometimes wondered whether her peer was really a human at all. After all, the higher you fly, the harder you fall, people said around these parts. Everything that came with the prestige of being a Dragoneer, rank, power, wealth, fame, comfort. It would all be forgotten when one became a beast. Once Tam had been playing hide and seek, hiding from her toddler brother, when she heard the sound of men approaching the room. She hastily crawled under a table cover and sat there, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. “Did you deal with it?” a voice said, hard and cool as steel. Her father. “Yes, my lord,” the other man said. “Did anyone else see? “No my lord.” “Did you make sure?” “I scouted the area personally. There was no one.” “Good.” When they left the room, she’d seen the artifact lying on the table. A dragon’s head. Its neck was lined with dried blood, and the eyes were an electrifying, ice-blue. Just like Lily’s eyes, just like Tam’s eyes would become. She solemnly stared at it for a few seconds, and then slowly raised a finger and touched it. Then she’d run from the room. Sometimes she wondered if it had begun then. She'd woken up a week later with her first scale, a small pearlescent spot on her arm. Everyone knew it wasn't contagious but maybe she hadn't been "chosen" as was commonly believed, but instead punished for snooping around where she did not belong. “Daydreaming again, Tam?” Uncle Haversian said. She jolted out of her reverie and turned to him. “Sorry Uncle,” she said. He guided her hand towards the wood, and clasped her hand around it. “Feel it,” he said. “You need to feel the substance, know it, before you can affect it.” She ran her hands across the wood, feeling Lily’s eyes on her, unreadable in their silence. “No one is judging you right now,” her uncle said, sensing her wandering thoughts. “Just breathe and let the eternal Flame guide you.” She held her breath, and then let it out, quickly, disappointingly. “I feel nothing,” she said blankly. “It’s alright,” her Uncle sighed. “Go and rest, you’ve tried the most you can. Maybe--” He shook his head and smiled, choosing not to finish. “Don’t worry Tam. No matter what, you’ve got a good future ahead of you.” He meant no matter what happened after the ritual today, she wouldn’t be less than a princess. The others who failed would not be so lucky. Ascalienation gave you the chance to become a valued member of the Lunaris Legion, the elite army of the Astral Kingdom, but it did not guarantee it. Every year, a few failures would be shuttled away, and they would eventually get the hang of fire breathing by the year after. But they would not go off to fight the enemies of the kingdom. They'd just be stuck back at home, performing guard duties around the palace and homeland. Lower ranked, and lower regarded. Overall dismissed. But Tam would always at least have the rank of the noble family to hide behind. Tam nodded and walked away. She walked away from the patch of forest in the back of the castle where lessons were taught and towards the castle itself. At the entrance of the forest, a small spring bubbled and glittered. Above the spring, a statue of a woman rested, holding a baby upon her lap. A simple stone arch hovered over them, which together with the large rock behind protected them from the wind and rain. Water flowed from eyes into the spring, and her smile brought tranquility to all who came to gaze upon her. This was the Spring of Sylvan, said to hold the tears of Sylvan, the mother of Lunaris. It was said that she had willingly sacrificed her firstborn daughter to the Scaled One to save her people, the descendants of which were now Tam’s people. Her sacrifice was said to be the reason only females underwent ascalienation. About one in a hundred were chosen, and it was considered a great honor. Families received gifts, and the children were brought to live at the palace for training. For Tam, where she trained and what she considered home were the same. She thought of the first time she’d been at the Spring. It was customary to bring every newborn child to the Spring by the time it could first walk to bring the child good fortune and health, as the Spring was believed to have blossomed from the tears of Sylvan. She was lifted up by Mother onto her lap, and then Mother brought up a silver spoon, and lifted the spring water to Tam’s lips. She felt big, fat droplets dribble over her lips and gasped, this magical substance felt so cool in the hot sunlight. She splashed her hands in the spring and laughed, seeing the light dance in the limpid pool. That was before she had developed her first scales. That was before she had turned out to be a disappointment. Mother never said it--it was an honor to be chosen as a Dragoneer, chosen to serve one's kingdom--but Tam knew Mother had never wanted it, just wanted a beautiful little girl to pamper and dress up. The day Tam had been Chosen was the day she could remember Mother's crestfallen face, as that hope was taken away. And then Little Brother had been born and Mother had transferred her affections on to her new little brother. Tam never said anything, but it hurt. Tam turned her eyes away and walked faster, wanting to shut that chapter of her life behind her. A chapter in which she had been destined for a life of beauty and ease. Suddenly she was roughly pushed forward. She put her hands out and fell into the mud. There was the sound of laughter. She turned and saw the other Scaley children of her class. They looked at her with a variety of physical deformities. Ada had a forked tongue that flickered in and out of his mouth. Eva grinned, revealing teeth each as sharp as daggers. And in front of the gang stood Lily. Lily, the only one already with the ice-blue eyes, her figure otherwise just as moderately scaled and humanoid as the others, although a bit slimmer and taller than the average 14-year old. She came from a peasant family, but with her regal stature and calm bearing, she did not seem like one. “Powerless,” she said, looking down at Tam. Her voice was as tranquil as her face. Tam said nothing to the most promising Dragoneer of her generation. Lily nodded, and the other two grabbed Tam and held her. “What’s so special about you?” Lily wondered, coming closer, staring through Tam with her entrancing eyes, the pupils black slits. “Let’s see.” She closed her eyes and whispered a few words. Suddenly it felt like slimy tentacles were worming themselves into her ears, into her brain. She felt as if she had been plunged deep underwater, and all sight and sound were muffled. She gazed in stupor as memories were picked from her--running from her birth to the time she peed herself in the grand hall, to the one time when she was 4 and fell down cold stone steps, and screamed in pain and cried for her Mother, to the day she'd been Chosen, and sobbed all night. “Pitiful,” Lily said, letting go mentally. Tam fell to the ground as the tentacles relaxed their grasp. “We’re not supposed to use the Words yet,” she gasped. After their lessons in fire breathing would come instruction in the use of the Ancient Words, she knew that much from Uncle Haversian, but it was intended for the more advanced Dragoneers as it was a dangerous and often double-sided art. “Rules are for the weak,” Lily said. “Are you weak, Tam? Is that why you cry?” "I do not cry," Tam snapped, fighting back the growing moisture in her eyes. Ada and Eva dropped her, and she fell back onto the muddy ground, making a splash. The water burned where her scaly skin joined normal skin on her wrist in an angry red rash, and she struggled not to react. She blinked rapidly, but it was no use. Cry she did, and stop she could not. Suddenly she felt an immense rage. She was the princess of Astra, daughter with noble blood, and yet here stood this commoner, always better than her in everything. She screamed and blew fire with all her might, but again, all that came out was hot air. “You...you flame-pisser!” She said the naughtiest word she knew that wasn’t quite naughty. “Flame pisser?” Ada laughed, her tail whipping back and forth. "That all you can manage? What’s the matter? Can't cuss, *Princess*?" "It’s not ladylike," Eva grinned. "She thinks she's better than us. Even though she can't shit out a single flame. Noble little prick." She spit on the ground at Tam. “Pain is part of the power,” Lily said, looking hard at Tam. “Don’t give in to it, use it.” “Use this,” Tam finally snapped, flashing the middle finger. She didn't know what it meant but she'd seen a servant using it once. The others ooh-ed and laughed, started forward, but Lily shook her head at them to stop and turned back to Tam. "Get up," Lily said. Tam's arms felt like they were on fire, and when she gingerly put them down to push herself up, needles shot up them again and she took a sharp breath in, falling back on the ground. She gave up and sat there. Lily did not laugh, like the others, and now she sighed. “If you don't use the pain, it will use you,” Lily said. Then she turned and left. The other two flicked their tongues, then they too turned and followed. Long silver tails shimmered at the base of their elongated, curved spines, mottled with bumps and bony spikes still forming. Tam turned back and stared at the mud. Pity. A common peasant had shown her pity. Somehow that was even worse than the bullying. Then she pushed herself up, grimacing and crying out with this final effort, and entered the castle. **Visiting Stonina** Before going to her chamber, Tam passed by the courtyard. Inside the courtyard, long rows of green grasses swayed gently in the afternoon sun. On the far end stood several pagodas housing bird cages. She walked towards them. Usually she would admire the deep red of the delicate maples that grew star-shaped leaves as big as coins, but today she was too dejected for that. She crossed a bridge that arched over a small stream, till she reached the cages. She passed singing yellow canaries, squawking green parrots, and lively peacocks pecking at seeds around her feet. At the end stood a lone cage, in which a raven quietly sat, inspecting her with a beady black eye. Tam called her Stonina because she liked picking up stones in her beak. Tam often brought her smooth, colored, marbled and otherwise unusual stones and Stonina would carefully accept them and add them to her collection of stones in the middle of the cage. “Hello Stonina,” she murmured, offering the raven a walnut that she always kept stowed away in her pocket. “Bwah,” Stonina said, taking the walnut daintily in her beak. She placed it on the floor and pecked at it, chipping away at the nut slowly and methodically. Tam smiled. This was why she liked Stonina especially. Unlike the other birds, who pecked haphazardly and without method at their seeds and grain, and flapped wildly to the other side of the cage when approached, Stonina was slow and measured in her movements. She was careful and observant almost in a human way, and Tam swore she could understand human speech by the way she would sometimes cock her head and stare brightly back at Tam when hearing her talk. “I’m scared,” Tam said to Stonina, as she petted the raven’s head from between the bars. Stonina’s head remained bowed, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the head pets. “If I fail, everyone will know. Mother will be ashamed, and Father will be ashamed, and…” she coughed. “I will be ashamed too.” Tam stopped petting the bird so she could wipe away her tears. Stonina raised her head and looked at the princess. As if to ask, *Why did you stop petting me*? Tam smiled and resumed petting her head. She did this until the sniffling had stopped, and she felt calmer and ready for the evening. **The Ceremony** Tam stood shivering next to the bathtub. The soft robe around her only helped a little--her exposed wrists still burned and she clenched her jaw and started to count back from 100. Her body was unevenly scaled. Where the scales were fully formed, for example up her legs and up her stomach, the pain did not touch. These areas were tough and resistant to cold, like living armor. But where scale touched skin, at her neckline, and at her wrists, the pain lived and breathed like a snake, wrapping around and suffocating her with its presence. She always scratched these borderlines bloody in her sleep, and would wake up with sheets that looked like someone had been murdered in them. At least she had servants to get rid of the evidence, she thought bitterly. The servants began to bathe her, as gently as they could. She held her breath and closed her eyes, as warm water ran over her head and sank into her skin. At first the pain seared like when you accidentally touched metal in the middle of a hot summer day, or got too close to the fire and a spark flew onto your arm. Then it became duller, like a strong grip on the arm, and then it faded to a sinister whisper. She began to breathe easier and opened her eyes, examining the dark shadows that danced around her. She had insisted that the number of candles be kept minimal and far away from her so as not to burn her. But the real reason was that she did not want to see her own reflection in the mirror that stood in front of her. Noble ladies got dressed at the mirror, had their maids put them in beautiful dresses, adorn and pin up their hair, to become symbols of beauty for the court and the people. But she was not a lady. She was a monster, and she could not remember a time she liked looking in that mirror. The servants washed away the soap and grime and then helped her out of the bathtub, and guided her to the mirror. She lowered her gaze and busied herself instead with the jewels adorning the mirror’s bottom, as she raised her hands so that they could pull the dress over her head. The sleeves were long and the neckline high, fully covering her rashy spots. Then they brushed her long black hair and braided it into one simple long tassel draping down her back. “Beautiful,” Mary, one of the maids said. “Look at you, all grown up.” Mary had been with her since she was a little girl. The servant was only five years older than her, but always addressed her with respect. Tam nodded but did not look. “Thank you Mary.” The servants bowed and began to make their way out of the room. "Mary?" Tam said. The girl turned around and came back. Tam waited for the others to leave. "Am I really beautiful? Or do you just say that every evening?" Mary smiled. "I've known you since you were a little girl, my lady. And you've always been kind to me. That in itself is beautiful to me. But yes, you look beautiful. Your eyes are large and expressive. Your chin soft, your nose straight and proud." “But my skin is so...marred,” Tam said. Mary sighed and did something she’d never done before, she gave Tam a hug. “Aye, I know it is painful, your transformation, yes. But maybe that’s a good thing. It teaches you to be beautiful inside.” Tam smiled. "Thank you Mary. I do appreciate your kind words. You may go." "Yes, my lady." Mary curtsied and began to leave the room. As she was going, she paused and turned back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll do just fine.” “Thank you, Mary,” Tam said. And then Mary left and she was alone. Today’s ceremony was the ultimate test of the Dragoneers, to see if they were worthy of entering the Legion. It was the test of fire, and everyone would be there, both the noble families, her parents, being nobles themselves, and then the head of each peasant family, at the least. But usually there were more, because everyone was curious to see the spectacle of creatures not quite human, not quite beast, who would grow up to defend the kingdom. The thought of so many judgmental eyes terrified her. She tried to calm herself, but her heart fluttered like a bird. There was a knock at the door. Her guard. “Come in,” she said. “Are you ready, my lady?” She was one of the failed Dragoneers herself. Usually she was invisible to Tam, but tonight Tam looked at her tall, adult features, her fully scaled body and long reptilian face and could not help but stare. The guard shrugged. "It's not too bad, you know. All Dragoneers serve a role for the kingdom." Tam nodded and walked forward, her heart rate fast and palpable in her chest. Easy for the guard to say. She wasn't a princess with everyone's eyes on her. Mother already saw her as a failure. She would definitely be there tonight. And Father, and Little Brother, and Uncle Haversian, and everyone she knew and didn’t know. She tried not to turn and run the other way. The guard led her down the stairs, down a dark torch-lit hall to the back of the palace, and out towards the Spring she had passed earlier. In the darkness and the wind she began to see the glow of a thousand candles. A thousand candles held by a thousand guests, dressed in gowns of their finest silk. Peasants wore suits and dresses they’d taken years to save for. Baskets of fireflies hung from tall poles of bamboo at the edges of the hall, giving a warm glow to everyone and everything. In the middle of the room a path lay empty, leading up to the Spring. The other Dragoneer children were already there, a single gap in their line. Tam joined their ranks. She walked up the path and ascended the stairs to the Spring. By the time she was at the top, she thought her heart would burst out of her chest. The priest facing them raised a birch torch, empty and unlit. Birch, white and pure. The sacred tree of Lunaris. “Come forth, Chosen one, and light the Eternal Flame,” he said. Lily, the first in line, took the torch and lit it easily, blowing a small silver wisp onto the branch. She took her torch and moved behind the priest. The priest took another torch and repeated his line. The next Dragoneer came forth and lit her torch, and took her place next to Lily. When it was finally Tam’s turn, she took a deep breath and slowly turned to face the Priestess, whose face was hidden behind the mask of Lunari, the moon dragoness, warrior of the night. She thought of her Uncle’s words, to feel the Eternal Flame, not think it through. But it was hard to do so, when her mind was slowly filling up with thoughts of “what if I fail”, “what if I fail”. She took the torch and stared at it, trying to feel the wood. She thought of feeling. Feeling would take her, trying to feel anything. She thought of Mother. She saw the ghostly white face, pale and beautiful in the moonlight, ever so elegant. She thought of Father and saw the elusive authoritative man, who towered above her and somewhat intimidated her with his stately intelligence. And she felt something. She concentrated. Still the room was silent. She stood there with her face bent over the torch, her heart thudding madly. She felt like she was going to faint. She turned and faced the audience, but didn't look up. "Sorry.” Her small thin word spread out across the crowd and died. She walked back down the stone path past the people, past Lily’s bright, blue eyes and started running, and then kept running faster and didn’t stop until she was out of sight within the palace walls. Her skin burned, and she struggled not to scratch as she walked slowly towards the bird cages. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. She scratched at her elbows, which were beginning to dry and turn scaly again despite the dollops of yarrow oil Mary had applied to her right before the ceremony. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Above the moon hung still and round in a cloudless sky. Myriads of stars clustered in random places as well. “Why can’t I do it?” she asked Lunaris, but the moon dragoness if she was listening remained quiet, like a bright white eye staring down at her accusingly. Tam could already hear Mother's disappointed voice in her ear. *A girl of noble blood, failing the simplest test. What will the people think of the Starfarer family now*? Silently, she offered Stonina a walnut. The raven came and delicately took the treat, and began eating it. "Bwah," she croaked. Tam stroked her head through the cage bars with her other hand, and the raven bowed her head to receive the pets. Some time elapsed, and Tam began to feel quieter. Still stricken but less panicked. “It is not afraid of you,” a strange voice said from behind her. Tam turned and hastily draped her shawl back over her shoulders and arms. “I’m sick,” she warned. “I am not afraid of you either,” the stranger said. “Well, you should be,” she said, turning back to Stonina, but her sudden movement had startled the bird, and she hopped on the further corner of the gilded cage. “Why?” the voice asked, coming closer. “I...I could get you sick too.” Tam threatened. Some believed ascalienation was not a blessing of Lunaris, but a sickness to be caught. Contagious and evil. “I’m sure,” the voice laughed, coming over to inspect the cage. The moonlight revealed a boy, slightly taller than Tam. “Is he friendly?” Tam looked at the boy, scanning his plain sand-colored shorts and cap, the markings of a servant. She turned her attention back to watching Stonina. “Yes. But you have to move slowly. That way she knows your intentions.” “It is a she?” he asked. “”Yes.” “Show me,” the boy said. Tam brought her hand to the door of the cage and opened it. Then she slowly placed her hand in the middle of the cage. At first Stonina fled to the top of the cage. Then she hopped down to her hand, and pecked once lightly on her finger. After cocking her head for a second, she hopped on top of Tam’s palm and let her gently rub her head with the fingers of her other hand. The raven closed her eyes. “She enjoys it,” the boy said. Tam nodded. “So do I.” “I’ve seen you before. In the courtyard with your uncle. You look different.” “Well yes,” Tam said, rolling her eyes. “I am dressed for the ceremony.” “No, I mean when you’re petting her.” “What do you mean?” “You look happy.” She turned, confused. “Is that a good thing?” “I think it’s beautiful,” the boy said. Tam scanned him for sarcasm, but there was none. “The guests are coming out.” the boy said. “I suppose I should go.” He turned to walk away. “Don’t go,” Tam said after a pause. “Stay.” That was the first time Tam talked to Jai.


The bodies looked as they always did, and it had been many years since the sight of one frightened me. The Korean War had many horrors, and corpses. The shipwreck lay before me not even a mile from the coast. One of its crew stared at me from a portside window, his eyes dull, skin bloated and white, suspended in the water within the cabin for days. I made my way to the small fishing boat, my weighted feet moved sluggishly along the sea floor. The boat had struck some rocks during a recent storm. While some of the passengers escaped, others had been taken by the sea. I was sent down to assess the damage so retrieval could begin. The world was different down here, the rocky bottom with its swaying seaweed turning into a hazy distortion of shapes after maybe thirty feet in front of me. All I could hear was the tin noise of air bubbles escaping my helmet as fresh oxygen was pumped in from the boat above. My sense of touch went no further than the suit which protected me. The world outside was slow, and silent. I placed my hand against the hull, running my hand along the ruined wood exterior. The boat had been dragged by the current over some rocks. The damage was jagged, the innards of the boat had spilled out of the wound and were gently moving with the current along the sea floor. Peering inside the hole I cast my light and saw books and paper floating in the water, canned goods lay on the floor alongside an overturned pantry shelf. Particles danced in the cone of light as I scanned the room. There he was. In the corner. The other crewmate. He was turned away from me, suspended between the floor and ceiling. Small fish had already begun to claim him. I cut through the darkness inside with my light one more time and told the surface where to find the bodies. There would be no open casket funerals for these men. I glanced back behind me and saw the void. The world over my shoulder simply faded into a blue nothing. I was finished and signaled the boat to prepare to bring me up. Turning back to the wreck I saw that directly above me a cluster of flora danced in front of the beams of light from the sun above. Strange, local plant life shouldn’t have started to overtake the boat so soon. I looked closer at the swaying silhouette. Wait. It wasn’t plant life. It was hair. A startled gasp escaped my throat as I raised my lantern and saw a new body peering down at me. It was a woman, and only her hands and face were visible over the side. The corpse was positioned in a pose of almost macabre curiosity, peeking down at me from the deck. None of the survivors had mentioned a woman on board. But why would they? They were all married men, if it got out that they had a woman on board it wouldn’t take much imagination to predict what would happen to them once they returned to shore. I made a note of it; but couldn’t take my eyes off the motionless face staring down at me. I took one step backward, then another. Two more steps. The brass helmet hissed as air was pumped into it. I pulled myself away from its gaze and faced the void. So many bodies, so much violence has been committed in front of me. It had been many years since I felt shock at the sight of death. What an odd way to die. Even in death she kept her grip on the railing. It wasn’t the strangest way I had seen death take shape, but it was certainly up there with the most memorable. Still… I turned back toward the ship, and my feet planted themselves to the sea floor. The woman was no longer gripping the rail. She was standing. The murky waters had started to take away the details of the ship, but the silhouette was still visible. Her hair flowed and moved with a life of its own, and her slim figure and dancing dress held a strange beauty. We both stood still in a silent eternity. I tried to move towards my extraction point but was beholden to the sight in front of me. A sense of tension had seized my joints. The surface was asking what was wrong. No words would come. With a sense of grace she stepped onto the railing, and then over. The motion broke her spell, and a sound of panic filled my helmet. I turned toward the void once more and pushed forward as quickly as the sea would let me. I told them to prepare for my extraction, and the panic in my voice was evident. They asked what was wrong, but I had no words to give them. This was impossible. Corpses never MOVE. My feet moved as though the sea itself was against me, the point directly beneath the boat seemed so far away. My mind raced with ideas of what lay behind me. Of the woman touching down on the sea floor and racing towards the brown-suited man with his strange breathing apparatus. I could die down here, in this alien environment. I reached the extraction point. “Bring me up!” They started to pull up the tether and hose, but there was so much slack to go through first. The urge to turn around pushed its way into my mind. My breathing was quick, adrenaline coursing through my body. This was impossible. The ship was a murky shape in the ocean fog, and at the edge of it, coming into clear view, was the woman. She walked across the sea floor as slow as I had been, but with no struggle. This was her world, and I was a visitor in it. She reached out with both hands as if to welcome me to it, and a smile spread across her face. My adrenaline turned to fear. Heart pounding, mind killing fear. A scream escaped my lips. I was going to die down here. My atmospheric suit would be my coffin. Death approached me with open arms. Twenty feet. Fifteen. I had escaped death and seen its face for so many years and it had finally come to take me. My cries of terror echoed inside the brass helmet, tears spilled down my face. Her face was thin and grey, one eye a piercing blue. The other eye was a hollow, dark socket. She was on me, I could almost feel her fingertips touching the suit. The slack had become taut and I began to rise toward the ship. The smiling face of death fell away as I started my ascent. Within moments something touched my boot, a pressure clamped down on it. A hand. With a primal wailing I struggled and shook my leg, a tension growing between the harness and the woman as they fought to see who would claim me. Blind, unadulterated fear escaped my lips in shrieks that tore at my throat. I was caught between life on the surface and death on the ocean floor. I cried as I fought to escape her grip, when it suddenly vanished. The boat pulled me free of her grip, and I ascended towards the light of the surface, cries of terror still filling the suit. They unscrewed me from the suit in a hysterical fit, and I was deemed unfit for duty. I quit soon after and found a job on the mainland. So many decades have passed since that moment. I never found a rational explanation for what I saw. Wars would come and go. Worldly terrors filled the headlines and nightly news, but none of it frightened me. I realize now that the greatest fears are those we cannot find answers to. There are worse horrors than those that man can make. On some nights I’d find myself dreaming of the ocean floor. That beautiful, awful face gazing at me with arms outstretched. I never went in the water again.  Hey there, reader. If you made it this far I hope you enjoyed the story. This tale was performed on the No Sleep Podcast over a year ago, and while I was thrilled to hear the story be told in all the production values that that podcast brings to their stories, I felt that it also had a place in print. So I've decided to start putting my stories up online for you to enjoy, and I hope that you do enjoy them. Till next time.


The table was cold. No padding on it- no need for padding under my body, they said, when my consciousness, all forms of sensation, would be in an entirely different place. That stood to reason. There I was lain, upon my back across that slab, as the team began attaching the wired headset. Nearly delirious with nerves, I resisted the urge to burst into inane laughter at its comical resemblance to VR headgear. The reality I was headed for was anything but virtual, though. “You still want to go through with this, Christine?” Came a voice, one that belonged to the flurry of arms, which had since been replaced by darkness- thank you, visor. It sounded like Dr. Simms. He and his husband Dr. Cotton were some of our top researchers; just palpably, I relaxed. “Your body will be in complete stasis, unharmed by any-” “Yeah,” I muttered, frustration billowing in my chest to cloud the fear, the feeling of my heart pounding wildly against its bony cage, “I’ve seen *Avatar*, and you have too judging by you attempting this consciousness-transfer bull.” A laugh. “No second body needed, though- you aren’t inhabiting a host, your mind alone is simply exploring the m-” “Y- yeah,” I stuttered, failing miserably at biting confidence but nailing bitterness at minimum, “I want to explore. No hostiles anticipated, right?” “Right. Nothing should be where I send you first- this is just a test.” A reassuring voice, but I wished I could see it smile. If it even did. I wished I could be sure it was Simms, sure of *something,* as a loud *clunk* sounded at my left. “Bon voyage, dear.” And with that, a sharp tingle arced across my temples, seeming to rest itself in the center like a nasal headache. Instinctually I made to scrunch my nose, but found the motion impossible, opting instead to just sit in the pain, the darkness… …until I bolted upright, gasping for breath in an atmosphere that felt no different than the one I left, save for a curious absence of accompanying sensation, no familiar collapse within my ribcage I tended to take for granted. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Rising shakily to my feet, I grasped for my bearings, drinking in the surrounding purple sea I stood in. A field of lavender? No, these were no flowers, they were more like…anemones? Corals. Gasping, I jumped back, but no pain, no blood, followed, just harmless waving in the wind. Still I ran through them, wondering if they truly were simple life forms or if the gorgeous purple sea was built from the bones of hapless creatures like me. I didn’t get far before I struck what felt like a body, having made one too many haphazard glances over my shoulder at the silent field. How I missed another person *and* what appeared to be a small hill of dirt interrupting the still scene before was beyond me, but I was more concerned with the ground suddenly giving way, my field of vision overtaken by the bluish-grey sky. “Oh, you must be a visitor,” came an eager, faintly accented- though I couldn’t put my finger on any particular one- voice, before a face and body popped into my line of vision. The figure was tall, but not unnaturally so, and topped with a neat swoop of violently crimson hair as bright as his clothes, the style of which lie strangely between a tunic and a suit. Shining, nearly pitch-black eyes stared at me, making me want to jerk my head just to see when his eyes followed me if he had any sort of pupils. At least I assumed it was a he. Definitely a masculine build: quite slender, but with broad shoulders sharply contrasting a narrow waist. The eerie elegance of his elevated cheekbones was cut by an almost boyish, prominently dimpled grin, one that utterly failed to mask excitement. I almost smiled back at the sight of it. “Yeah,” I breathed, eyes roaming over the figure again and again, “how did you know, the hair?” Before *whoever had found me* spoke again, though, he’d taken my hand in his, skin tone and temperature surprisingly quite warmer than mine, to pull me to my feet, a part of my own body appearing in my line of vision for the first time since I’d…er, landed? My body- my skin, my clothes, seemingly *all of it*\- was drained of color, bathed in dull grey tones of my fair skin and plum blouse as if I was a sepia character stepping into modern-day entertainment for a crossover that was likely to royally suck. I gasped, jumping back and nearly falling onto my butt again. “Oh, I guess *that’s* how you knew. So you live here, then? And you’ve seen, er, someone like me before?” “Yes, a man,” the…humanoid? replied, “though after some visits he said he must go. Something of his body, he- he must have been unwell. But what is your name? You can call me Keyu.” “Christine,” I blurted out without thinking, nerves swimming beneath my skin as I bit back a “what the heck are you?”- you know, just in case I didn’t want to see whatever it was get mad. “Well, Christine, very nice to meet you. Very nice,” Keyu repeated, warm hand still gripping mine as he led me forward toward the dirt mound, “as soon as the next storm hits, we will show you our hospitality.” *We?* *How many of them are there?* *What the heck sort of world is this?* All I asked, though, was “Storm?” “Gravity storm,” Keyu said with a nod as if that cleared anything up, “it’s coming very soon.” “Yeah, ok, we *visitors* don’t have those. That sounds dangerous- should- shouldn’t we go now?” “Worry not, this is how we get home.” Sweeping aside some crimson hair, Keyu helped me onto the mound, where I knelt like he did, eyes still searching him. I wanted to fold up, to brace myself for whatever flies at you in a *gravity storm*, but he fixed me with such an intently, joyously anticipatory grin that I remained seated, asking him *what* until he burst into melodious laughter, laugher that only increased when I jumped at the new sensation. It was like the oddest cross of wind and an earthquake, an almost electric, shaking jolt of air that cut through my bones as the mound began to rise. With one final giggle, my odd guide gripped the sides of what I now realized was essentially a small chunk of land, broken from the ground as if by some massive piece of construction equipment. We drifted higher still until our makeshift vessel bobbed about twenty or thirty feet in the air. Glancing over the edge of it, I saw the ground bobbing too, rising pebbles, roots, and even some of the strange lavender, closer and further from my line of vision and far enough down that a fall would do some serious damage. There was no leaving, not then. *If I die, I just wake up*, I told myself. “Ready?” “No, I don’t think am- *whoa!”* Mid-sentence I was thrust forward, almost slamming into Keyu, who released an arm to wrap around my waist as we sailed forward through the sky, strange static-electric wind running through our short hair. Gliding like that was surprisingly smooth, a lot like a roller coaster on a track, one that slingshots you from zero to sixty in ten seconds and maintains you on the straight, momentous path. I laughed in spite of myself, an insane rush crashing over me as I waved a hand. There was nothing to crash into at least. “Fun, right?” Keyu called into the wind. “Yeah, ok, you win, it’s fun!” I shouted back through my adrenaline high. “I thought we were getting rained on by asteroids or something!” “Asteroids?” “Big rocks.” “Ah!” We sailed over the field, Keyu promising he wouldn’t do any crazy turns or loops *this time*, and I narrowly resisted the urge to just close my eyes, surrendering to the lack of control, and breathe in the possibility of my faded self existing- or, well, half-existing- in a world where I could ride the wind, deathless. The structure that shot onto the horizon, rising beyond the lavender fields near the face of an expansive cliff, was a carven stone metropolis, a quaint yet elegant haven of crimson-haired, black-eyed beings like Keyu, all of them thin, some leanly toned like him and others practically bony. They gave me a red dress, a gorgeous, shining piece that registered somewhere in my mind between a long jacket and a saree. They ate fruit from trees that abundantly lined streets and courtyards. A group of black-eyed kids spun little discs on the street, squealing at the figures that popped up and even letting me try it. Just about everyone was interested in *the visitor,* at least enough for their dark eyes to follow me. Or as far as I could tell- it turned out they did not have pupils. I kept waiting for them to try and throw me into the soup at dinner, grin and chant *one of us*, tell me their beloved trees were watered with blood or tie me up for a sacrifice. Maybe Governor Brainwash would step his way out of his YA novel palace and break up the party. Decapitate someone. Nothing like that happened. The weirdest thing was when I told them a funny story- something about a dream I had- they insisted they’d never heard of such things, none of them ever having a dream. It wasn’t taboo, though, they just acted like I was an alien. Which maybe I was. When they pulled the plug on me, sending me shooting up and gasping for breaths I never felt like I’d missed, I raised a hand before my eyes, flexing my fingers. They were still pale, but a healthy pink had returned to them. Even if it was faintly mottled. Most curious of all was the wave of disappointment I felt when my eyes met the calm ocean blue of Dr. Simms’s, which fixed me softly from behind his thin-rimmed, ovular glasses. “Christine,” he breathed, “you’re back.” “How long was I gone?” I muttered, blinking fluorescent light out of my eyes, which I’d assumed had been closed for a long time. *What’s he gonna say, a week or something?* “It’s nighttime,” he replied, “how do you feel?” “Fine,” I replied before motioning to the headset, which felt to be cutting a red line into my forehead, “may I?” “Oh, yes, yes! Of course.” Dr. Simms instantly shot up to untangle my head, helping me sit up further after the gear was finally lifted, a cool rush of air hitting my sticky forehead. “So you didn’t feel any complications? Nothing unusual about the world around you? Empty?” All I could do was shake my head. Nothing came to mind. “Your body was in complete stasis.” Our respected researcher repeated his earlier reassurance, tone strangely…impressed? Relieved? “Would you consider making a return journey?” “Yes,” I replied before a single gear in my head had even turned. My vitals seemingly at norm, I was let free shortly afterwards, free to cross the station’s institutional halls and take a meal alone like always. The soup I wordlessly spooned into my mouth seemed almost devoid of taste, drained like my color had been where Simms had sent me. Memories of the city, the gravity storm, Keyu’s smile as he sent our tiny two-person island racing through the sky, arm wrapped reassuringly around my waist, flickered across my mind as my eyes swept the rest of the cafeteria tables, all of which were inhabited by couples and laughing groups of three or four. The lavender wasn’t coral. It was a thick-leaved, almost frilled plant that fanned out a bit to catch the sun like one of those lizards that ran on their hind legs. When the field erupted in bloom, it lit up bright orange “just like the sea”. As the visitor in the scenario, I knew better than to argue with Keyu that the sea was not orange. I learned to use terms like “my sea” as if I owned all of planet Earth. Apparently, the other visitor, the man, had done that too. I started learning to ride gravity storms that day, claiming a chunk of stone that broke off the city and gripping its sides like it was an ATV, not someone’s old bedroom wall. I only hovered about four feet up, the electric breeze not nearly as strong down there, so as to keep my falls soft just in case. And fall I did, again and again, Keyu laughing at my “wobbling knees”, until I began to master keeping my weight distribution up, hovering straight ahead without dumping myself into the lizard flowers. A wave of triumph crashed over me, sending me whooping and leaping against Keyu in some weird half-embrace, half chest-bump, my own chest feeling light as a feather even through the faint vertigo. From over his shoulder I saw shadows in the sky, human shapes, limbs waving, striking, tugging. Starting, I jumped back, and that’s when I was yanked back into harsh fluorescent light, gasping and tightly gripping a wrist over its smooth, cold watch. “What the heck was that? You weren’t so violent last time!” I burst out incredulously, panting a bit and shaking a few beads of cold sweat off my forehead as I twisted as far to my right as I could. This turn met me with dark skin, a short beard, brown eyes laced with concern. Dr. Cotton. “Get Landon,” he commanded one of the masked attendants, who reluctantly loosened her grip on my arm. “But,” the woman protested, “he said-” “Get him.” This time, even harsher. “No, I’m sorry, I’m fine, I was… I was fine,” Numbly waving my hands, I made dizzy insistences until the doctor seemed to be assuaged, his eyes softening once more as they looked into mine. “Nothing in the forest with you?” *Nothing in the forest*. “No.” \~ My nails dug into Dr. Cotton’s flesh that time. The shapes had flailed much more violently, frantically, as I shot awake-or rather back to that particular consciousness-from Keyu telling me the next time I visited, he would take me to the shore, earnest, dimpled smile across his features as lightning pain arced across mine. My cheeks felt like they’d been hapless victims of less-than-nimble hands missing my hair with my three-hundred-degree straightener. Rather than blink slowly and plaintively, clearing sleep from my eyes, I winced, panting, as I glanced upward. Right into Dr. Cotton’s eyes. His very, *very* concerned eyes. “Why do you keep doing this? I was *fine*.” I bit out, annoyance blooming in my heaving chest. The last memory I had from the trip was sinking to my knees, Keyu narrowly catching hold of my hand as the shadows flailed above me, fighting for their lives in a silhouetted dance of death. Not fun. “Christine, I just- Your-” “Exploration of the forest *had been* quite enjoyable,” I shot back, frown deepening at the pain each stretch of my cheeks caused. He thought I was flitting between hollow rows of uninhabited trees, Snow White-ing my way through the flora or perhaps on an intrepid trek. So, trek I did. I didn’t want Keyu involved, didn’t want whatever pain and visions that befell my body, or perhaps my mind, to come to him at the hands of the wrong visitor. Just the mental image of him buckling like I had was enough to send a heavy jolt to my heart. Dr. Cotton’s bearded face buzzed with a multitude of bitten back words, lips parted and moving soundlessly as his eyebrows remained firmly and concernedly furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I’ve never travelled to any other worlds before. I don’t know what it feels like, what it-” he cut off with another sigh of sorts, this one more of a defeated exhale. He obviously knew more than he was letting on. “What are the other worlds like? Simms mentioned some of them already, said my forest there,” I questioned innocently, tilting my head and pointing diagonally off to the sky with a wistful ceiling-ward glance, “was one of the less dangerous ones.” Keyu’s world wasn’t dangerous. Not a single one of those black-eyed people so much as spoke a rough word to me, let alone being armed or starting cults or trying to cut out my mostly-white eyeballs. Gravity storms, for the most part, caught you, and if they didn’t? Well, that’s why you rode them on a vessel. Trying it skateboard-style was hard, but I was getting the hang of it. Laying down was the easiest until you got a nice bob like the one we’d used to picnic that one day. They could have sent me there deliberately- if they’d actually wanted to. Any hint at a non-plant life form and the researcher cowed. Worried as if I’d mess it up or something. “They can be dangerous, yes. We wouldn’t enact anything but a test journey with anyone outside of very select personnel,” Dr. Cotton thought he was reassuring me. “Like the ones you’re actually prepping for interplanetary excursions, not the people in perpetual training like me.” “Christine, you’re a *very valuable*-” “Guinea pig! I’m a valuable *guinea pig*.” “Christine, you are very strong and- And-” I was getting *really* tired of that preschool-teacher voice, those attendants’ furtive, fearful glances at me like I’d been pulled *from* Keyu’s world, not *back out of it*. “And what?” I finally sat upright, ignoring the sharp burn raising my voice ignited within my hapless face tissues. My vitals beeped a bit faster. “None of you trust me!” All I got was a wry smile and a disgustingly sympathetic hand upon my smarting shoulder. “We researchers are much more ignorant than you think, dear.” “And I’m not. Even when you ask me to study how many kinds of trees I see, to identify them. You don’t want a botanist. If you did, you’d send Maneet. But you’re *not* sending her, not once as far as I know. All I ever heard from you guys was that I was stubborn. So what do you *really* want from me?” Silence. Not a word about what happened to the first subject they’d sent to an inhabited world- the man Keyu mentioned, the one who’d aborted the mission, probably out of fear or anxiety…or one too many of those rude awakenings Simm’s husband favored. Not a word about any certain skill or gentleness or discernment or even simple *eagerness to travel* that impressed. Yet another middling grade chasing a profession that asked for astronomical numbers- literally. Heat pricked at my eyes, a warmth nothing like the hot, tender pain upon my cheeks, which had to be bright red by that point. Dr. Cotton’s consternation blurred before me, image shifting like it had been dropped into a pool. “I’m starting to think the reason you’re sending me is because I’m the only one no one would miss if something happened!” “Christine, I-” “I’m sick of it!” Tears flowed, saline I’d only previously allowed to soak my bunk on the worst solitary nights. “You do not have to continue with this project,” Dr. Cotton replied, firmly but with a new sort of smile in it, one far less insipid, perhaps more hopeful, “in fact, it may be better if we simply called it off now. Perhaps-” “No.” I blinked, my hands curling into white-knuckled fists as sparkling sunset seas lapped at the shores of my mind, swishing powerfully beneath the sound of mine and Keyu’s mingled laughter, not unlike what I heard from the others in the halls, in the cafeteria. The ones who stole judgmental glances so painfully obvious, it was like they wanted to be noticed. “Let me go one more time.” A pair of arched raven brows. It brought a tiny smirk to my face the way Dr. Cotton all but jumped back in his little swivel chair, wheels grinding faintly against the dull steel floor. “You *have* been viewing the reports, yes?” “Yes,” I lied, “and I’ll put a stop to everything going wrong next time. I want to take a walk there one more time-see the trees. They’re nothing like ours. The color of their leaves… If you really trusted me, you’d let me.” Ultimatums really scare people. He let me. I was bidden a good rest of my evening, released into grey halls, where I didn’t let myself stumble until Cotton and his pair of uneasy scrub-clad helpers couldn’t goggle at me. A shudder wracked my chest as my vision went in and out, flickering pitch-black then back to the station at intervals like a light switch had been installed behind my eyes. One hand, still mottled after twenty minutes, rose to my head, pinks and red splotches dancing before my eyes. I really hated when it did that. Vertigo was temporary; I thought maybe that was too, but getting worse over a week wasn’t the best sign. Not that Cotton needed to know that- I’d given him a chance to come clean, tell me about the first man they sent, the one a little crimson-haired kid had attempted to make a straw and fabric doll lookalike of, the one that had Keyu chiming in about our eye variants when I made a joke at the expense of my light green irises. The one who couldn’t push through it like stubborn, stubborn Christine, the one everyone whispered *just wouldn’t give up*. “You don’t have to do this, Christine.” Those were Dr. Cotton’s words as he stuck a diode to my forehead, eyes softening slightly at my wince-and-frown combo. “I need to,” I replied, voice hard at first until I sighed, giving into my fatigue as the face before me flashed into pitch, “you understand just feeling like you have to say goodbye, don’t you?” *Splat.* Another diode. “Of course.” “It’s beautiful over there,” I told him before slipping away one more time. Keyu smiled, poking at my cheek as he whispered my name. “You’re here.” Plush beneath my head. Thickly woven, yet somehow still soft, covers. All familiar-Keyu’s bedroom, the place I’d begun to wake up after the first few visits. “Of course I am. I said I’d come back, didn’t I?” His eyelashes, a softer red than his hair, fluttered briefly upon his angular cheeks as he drew back, hand leaving my face to rest under his chin, elbow settling upon the head of the backwards chair his lanky legs always straddled. “Yes. You did.” “You’ve got a much better bedside manner than the doctor back there,” I told him, propping up on my side. Keyu gaped, eyes falling widely open like I said I’d said his great-great-grandfather’s ghost was jigging behind him. “The blue-eyed man?” “No, Cotton. Simms is the blue-eyed-” Scrambling in my fabric cocoon, I shot vertical, sitting upright like I had after my very first journey, chest turning upside down just as fast. *No.* *No.* *There’s no way he wouldn’t have told me.* *He wouldn’t have said it was empty.* *He must not have known.* “Christine?” I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud, wrapping my faded hands around my knees, until Keyu shot me back to reality. “Are they pulling you from me already?” I shook my head, image of the masked attendant lady protesting bringing Dr. Simms into my room, to take one more look at my lovely little home slab flashing across my mind alongside Dr. Cotton’s face, the laboratory screens, even the peripheral little images of my nose that only bugged me when I chose to perceive them, fading into black as they sent me away one more time. “The blue-eyed man sent me here, but I don’t think he meant to. I think he wanted to stay away.” “Are you leaving?” Keyu repeated more urgently, his face fading from concern, expression falling away until he just looked *lost*. Never had I been looked at like that. It was enough to defibrillator me back into action, heart skipping an erratic beat before it calmed entirely, a smile shakily returning to my face as I shook my head once more. “I’m flying over the sea with you, if I’m not mistaken.” There went those deep dimples, those almost unnaturally straight, beautifully pearly teeth. “You are not, Christine.” Flickers didn’t happen there. Not physical ones, anyway. I didn’t lose sight of Keyu, nor the smooth stone walls of his home or the intricate, almost mandala-like chair head carving before me. “Good. I’m so sick of Earth’s BS today,” I announced, breathing a shaky laugh, “I think I need a beach escape or something.” “BS?” “Yeah, it’s short for-” I just shook my head, momentarily letting it fall back upon the plant-down-stuffed pillow it had been raised at a right angle from. “It’s a saying.” Weightless and free, I floated on my little six-by-six foot island of one, zooming along the glittery, faintly Himalayan-pink beach. Keyu piloted his at my side, dodging fallen rocks upon the sand with ease, having taken the inside lane and leaving me “the open, novice shore”. Stick my tongue out at him though I did, I’d laughed. Even harder still when the gesture went completely over his head, causing him to raise his bright red eyebrows and mutter that yes, my tongue was “quite a nice one” as we arced further past the shore. Seas were, in fact, bright orange there, looking and sparkling for all the world like an underwater sun was setting in their depths, tinting all but the white wave crests I skimmed merrily above. Whooping and shooting closer to shallow waters, I reached a hand out like they did in all the movies, spraying translucent orange droplets that caught the sun like fire diamonds and laughing as some water flicked my face, my nose instinctually wrinkling in response. Keyu laughed too, flicking more water at me until I did the same, earning a cover performance of my expression upon his much richer-toned face, those shining black eyes squinting tightly closed as he squeaked in surprise. We stayed above the water for what felt like nearly two hours, keeping by the shallows lest the water prematurely affect our reduced pull, forcing us into an early version of what I called the land land. We landed our lands near one of the jagged tidal rocks, Keyu jumping nimbly off as I tried to do, failing miserably in a comical stumble. Yet again, my guide was there to catch me, arms firmly grasping my waist, one hand traveling up, up to my shoulder… Another blackout, except this time a white flash, one that burned a distinct, moving afterimage like a vintage flip book. I gasped at the image of my body, soulless, eyes white as bone save for the veins creeping up their newly-rolled backs, writhing, Doctors Simms and Cotton’s assistants struggling to hold it down as its hands made clawing motions, fingers finding home base around their wrists. Just like I’d woken up practically palming Dr. Cotton’s expensive watch a couple weeks back. Two? Three? They tried to unplug my headset, electricity arcing above my reddening, unwilling head. A hand cupped my face, warm, grounding. “Christine?” Keyu’s eyes, complete and utter negatives of my thrashing body’s, searched mine as the image faded, their lids fluttering like they had when peering down at me in his bedroom. He’d reached with his right, I reached with my left, the gentle friction of warming skin beneath mine pulling me back from that sight, though my heartbeat didn’t slow in the least. Not when Keyu’s eyes opened back up, boring at me intently, pleadingly. Not when he adjusted his grip on me, pulling me a bit more onto my feet and against his broad chest. I yanked myself closer still, tilting my head slightly as I pulled his lips to mine. He responded immediately, hand on my waist traveling lightly on a little up-and-down circuit as his lips picked up the pace, quirking up in a smile at my faint inhale of surprise. Pleasant surprise. I’d like to say the kiss made me weak in the knees, but in reality I just dropped like a ragdoll the moment we pulled apart for air, sending Keyu calling out my name once more. Another white flash overtook my eyes like lightning, this time burning in the sight of Dr. Cotton weeping and shaking his head while his masked attendants shook my hands off and raised a pure white sheet, covering my utterly still, lifeless, burned-out face. Shuddering, I bent my knees, standing shakily up from a kneel with Keyu’s help. My hand, resting gingerly in his, had returned to its healthy pink. As he gave it a squeeze, my gaze travelled up to meet his eyes; wiggling his eyebrows, he smiled at me, *saw me*, as for the first time in that world I felt a full gust of crisp air rush into my lungs. I breathed in and out heavily, tasting the temperate sea breeze with a growing, relieved smile. My lavender fields and white city awaited. I have an eternity to make that colorful world my own, and Keyu says he wants to give it to me. His neighbors greet me warmly, regard me as a much more successful traveler than the blue-eyed stranger. I came to know that one little stone hollow, those woven indigo sheets, like the back of my hand, the one price I had to pay being faced with the sight of my own lifeless body staring back at me in my dreams every night. I can see why Keyu and the others didn’t talk about their dreams.


When the second great war was raging in Europe, a group of young soldiers was crawling, caught in the crossfire. Bullets gave them no escape, and if one as much as raised his head, the head would go down very next second with blood spitting out of it. One soldier afraid for his life started remembering all that waited home, his old mother and father, his young love, his own future. And the tears rolled down his cheek as he wished that he was still there, laying next to his love, but alas war gives no such pleasures, and he must earn that right. Suddenly a dark sky flashed. An enemy bomber was roaring its engines over the battlefield, and the group of poorly trained recruits knew that it was time for fight or flight, and none of them had more strength left for combat. As they saw the bomber open its belly, spitting out hundreds of angry bombs, they finally stood up. In front of them was a machine gun nest, to their side a group of mean commandos, and behind bombs were dropping. They all ran towards an empty side as bombs and bullets were chasing them, none of them catching, but a blast wave did knock them down. Gunfire was still going on, and as an aftermath of a strong explosion radiated in one young soldier's head, his vision blurry, his hearing nonexistent, only the beats of his heart were heard. He looked up and saw his friend emerging from a crater, he offered him his hand, and as he took it, he saw a bullet hole appearing on his friend's chest, with his last words being: "SAVE YOURSELF!". Our young soldier did not look back, but shortly after he realized that he is the sole survivor of his group. He felt sorry for his friend that gave his life for him, but now he needed to earn that, so he just kept running and running and running. "Why must one fall so other could rise?" Were his thoughts as he ran, then he felt a sharp stab in his back, and he looked down. There was just one huge hole near to his heart, and it was bleeding and bleeding as our soldier took what he thought are going to be his last steps thinking: "Or is there no such thing as a right sacrifice". Then he fell facedown in the mud. Life flashed before his eyes, once more remembering all that waited home, then he fell asleep. But he did wake up after all, and there were no sounds, no explosions being heard, and far in front of him, he saw a group of soldiers marching. He stood up, wiped the dirt from his uniform, and picked up his rifle, he went to join their prideful march with a sense of accomplishment illuminating his young and pure face. "I am doing this for the ones at home" he though. And together with them, he marched into eternity.


“No way you make this putt, cher.” The big man tossed the words out like coins into a beggar’s cup. Ian shook his head and leveled his eyes back on the ball, playing the big man’s taunts off as nonchalantly as he could, though he knew he was nowhere near a good enough actor to not be noticeably annoyed at this point. After 17 holes of Cutter’s (he still wasn’t sure if that was the big man’s real name or not) incessant peppering, Ian’s patience was worn out. Since the first tee box, he had been heckling the thinner man at every drive, chip and putt. He had even criticized Ian’s handling of the golf cart. Ian had endured it all with a polished smile that was only now showing its cracks. He needed Cutter’s business — badly. The big man controlled seafood distribution for the better part of the entire Southeast and Ian’s restaurants (a small chain, but a chain nonetheless) was on a knife’s edge of profitability after years of work. This deal could push him out of the red and into the black for the first time, and that was certainly worth 18 holes of blue comments from Big Cutter. Crass and obnoxious as he may be, the big man could *golf*. Ian was no slouch. He still prided himself on making the collegiate team at ASU and had once entertained aspirations of a life on the PGA Tour. Those dreams had obviously remained only dreams, but he still made it out on the course on a regular basis and enjoyed the rarified air of the Scratch Golfer. Even still, Cutter had kept pace through all 17 of the previous holes (even while downing a beer a hole) and now was stood — one hand on his ample wait, one wrapped around his 18th bottle of Budweiser — on the final green, smiling smugly as Ian eyed up the decisive putt of the match. “Tell ya what, cher,” Cutter said with a slur that was only barely decipherable. Ian had to admit he was impressed by that, this many beers in. “If yah sink this putt, I’ll sign yah contract right’n this very green. Whaddya say, cher?” Ian straightened. This was it. “Are you serious?” “Deathly.” “Alright,” Ian said. He was skeptical. The big man had been yanking him this way and that for the last four hours. Maybe the beer had finally loosened up his wallet. Still, Ian didn’t trust him. “And what if I miss it?” The big man let out a thunderous laugh that shook Ian’s slight frame. “Not too conf’dent, eh, cher?” Ian curled his lips into a curdled smile. “I didn’t say that. I just want to know what I’m wagering before I lay my chips down.” “Yah a cautious man, cher. Some folks admire that.” Cutter took a mighty swig from his Budweiser, belched, and then wiped his thick lips with a massive forearm. “Not me, though. Yah want a wageah, here’tis: Yah sink it, I’ll sign. Yah miss it,” he smiled his drunken smile down at Ian, “I take the stake in all yah lil eat’ries. How’s dat for a wageah?” Ian’s smile dropped like a dead leaf. “No,” he stated flatly. “I figured ‘twas a bit rich for yah blood. Well, thanks for the round, anyhow.” The big man took another swig from his beer and then turned his back on Ian. He began to waddle off the green. Ian cursed to himself. He couldn’t lose this deal. “Wait,” he called out, angered by how desperate he sounded, even to himself. He thanked God he at least had the luck of not seeing whatever self-satisfied grin must certainly be creeping across the big man’s face at the moment. Ian wrung the grip of his putter. “Deal,” he spat out. “Well, alright, then!” The big man turned, his face lit up like Bourbon Street, and made his way back up the hill to the green. “Hold on,” Ian said, fishing a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “You’re signing this contract right here.” “There’s that conf’dence, cher! I like it!” *Yeah, I’ll show you, you fat prick*, Ian thought. He turned back to his ball and lined up his putt. *No pressure.* He had made big putts before, this one was no different. 12 feet away, the cup sat patiently, waiting for him to realize his dreams — or bankrupt himself at the behest of some obnoxious seafood magnate’s drunken fancy. *No pressure*. “Get’n with it, cher!” Cutter belched. Ian ignored him. *No pressure.* He gripped his putter tightly, but not too tightly. He shifted his weight on his heels. He eyed the cup, his ball, the putter. *No pressure.* He drew back the club face, held his breath. *No. Pressure.* He brought the putter forward in a smooth motion, his arms locked and straight. The face met the ball and sent it skittering across the green. Ian exhaled. The ball rolled, straight as an arrow, right at the cup. He felt his chest swell. Butterflies swarmed his stomach. He had it. His stroke was pure. The ball rolled on, agonizingly slow, drawing out the moment. Behind him, he heard Cutter swish down the last of his Budweiser. The ball carried on undisturbed, a foot away from the cup… six inches… three… two… one… And then it stopped. Impossibly, it stopped. Ian felt the strength leave his legs. “Hoh hoh!” Cutter burst out. “My goodness, but that was close! My heart nearly stopped, cher!” Ian barely heard. His own heart very well may have stopped. He felt nothing in his chest, only emptiness. *How could I have left it short?* The big man, meanwhile, was hollering. Big, boisterous laughter rolled across the green like a tornado. Ian, who had sunk in on himself and was now hugging his own knees, felt a wide hand slap him, hard, on the back. Whatever breath was left in him whooshed out in a gust. “Well,” the big man was saying between laughs, “a deal’s’a deal.” He laughed again, harder. It sounded like a burlap bag being torn apart. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal!” And now he *really* laughed. It was a hideous sound, like heavy rock music turned all the way up on a speaker that had already been blown out. The big man was laughing so hard he was actually beginning to cough in between guffaws. It was like listening to a dog choke down a bone. In fact, it sounded exactly like choking… Ian managed to bring himself up from his knees. The big man had backed off a step or two. His wide face had gone from red to purple and was moist with perspiration. Round eyes bulged from above cheeks like hamsteaks. The laughter was now replaced by choked barks and the big man was clutching at his chest, clawing. Ian, wide-eyed, rushed forward dumbly, unsure of how he could help but wanting to all the same. It made no difference. The big man let out one final, chopping cough and then collapsed backward. He hit the green like an atom bomb. Ian actually felt the impact through his spikes. *Clink*. Ian turned. His ball was gone. In a daze, he walked across the green. He knew what he would see waiting in the cup, but he leaned over and looked anyway. His ball rested inside, the smiley face he had drawn on in Sharpie staring up at him, celebrating his victory. “Oh my God…,” The words left him in a breathless sigh. Then, without any thought, his arms shot upwards. “Oh my God!” Ian yelled out. “Oh my God! It went in!” He hollered and began to hop up and down, almost delirious with joy as he reveled in the impossibility of his putt dropping. Shame crept up on him suddenly. A man was lying dead behind him. A terrible man, but a man. He knelt, picked up his ball and headed back to Cutter’s body. Again, he knew what he would find before he checked, but he dropped to a knee and worked two fingers beneath the big man’s chins. No pulse. Of course. Still a bit dazed, Ian worked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed in 9-1-1 and brought the device up to his ear. He told the woman on the other end what had happened. She said they were on their way. He hung up. He wanted to feel worse, but he didn’t. Without realizing it, he found that the contract had worked its way back into his hand. He stared at it. Then he looked at Cutter’s blue face. He shrugged. “Well, a deal’s a deal,” he told the dead man as he pushed a pen into his cold hand. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal.


Wouldnt it be amazing to win the Lottery. I may not have won any significant money in any Lottery, but each and every one of us has won an amazing long shot lottery when we were born and we continue to win lotteries all through our lives. Not only did our sperm (One of millions produced by our fathers in their lifetime) make it to our particular egg which happened to be fertile and available at the time, but so did each and every one of our ancestors sperms and eggs in the same way down through our ancestral tree. When we say ancestral tree we are, each and every one of us on this earth, directly linked all the way back to some slimey primordal bunch of amino acids that first replicated in the warm clay sludge. That being the first pre-organism to survive and begat another just like itself. From these first twists of DNA forming and so on forward to the point where our first fish ancestor, finding that the pickings were pretty good in the very shallow shore mud, first pushed its eyes through the surface tension and looked around blurrily and went "Huh?!" Every one of those individuals in our ancestoral tree is also a total winner at life. Now that’s just the beginning of us. Add to this, the fact that before all those preceding generations had a chance to succeed, our earth had to first end up where it was at an appropriate distance from the sun with all the atoms and molecules required to seed the beinning of life. Those odds are, amazingly, even more astronomical. So that's the begat, begat, begat timeline. Along the way these same ancestors and ourselves have had to win lotteries on so many occasions just to survive. Any one single event; and ther have been thousands of them spread back along my ancestoral line, could have gone the othor way and I wouldnt be here. One single event could have wiped out my entire family tree and so so many more who share that tree. But my branch is my branch and I am here. Take, for one single example, an event in my time line around 1918, during World War I, before my grandfather had sired my father. My Grandfather was laying in a ditch on the side of the road in Lithuania. He was bleeding profusely from bullet wound in his thigh, with a shattered femur where a Russian sniper who had been positioned in the Church steeple up the road had almost succeeded in interrupting my family winning streak. His neighbour, a farmer and fellow freedom fighter, had dragged him into the ditch but now lay dead across him, with an exploded skull. That particular branch of his family tree was pruned when his head and the trajectory of another of the snipers bullets had coincided and all potential decsendants were snuffed out. Another Russian soldier walked up the road and as he passed heard my grandfathers moans. He stood in the embankment above him, laughing at his predicament and deciding to have some fun. He lifted his rifle and aimed it at my granfathers head. He fired and the bullet smashed into the dirt next to his head. The soldier cursed and reloaded but this time took his time taking aim. He fired and the bullet, and again it smashed into the dirt next to my grandfathers head. The soldier was furious now. Taking two steps forward he tried again and missed again. By now he was apopleptic with rage and stood directly over my Grandfather. He took forever to lining up the bead on his rifle (he wasnt going to miss this time) but when he fired, the gun jammed. Cursing loudly in Russian, he struggled to unjam the gun, jerking the cocking handle back and forth but with no success. So in frustration the soldier drew his dagger from its sheath and proceeded towards the very edge of the ditch to climb down. Suddenly, the sounds of approaching gunfire nearby distracted him. His head jerked up and glancing over his shoulder, he turned, ducking down and ran off up the road to seek cover. And now, here I am in my office in Australia in 2021. My daughter is working in the office next to mine and its my Sons 15 and 16th birthdays yesterday and tomorrow. Lifes a complete lottery every step of the way. And we are all the winners.


Ted Freely stood atop the world, looking down at all that was his. By *the world*, I mean his world. By *his world*, I mean 2 square miles of feces infested, homeless ridden filth and squalor in a once beautiful Southern California beach town. He was right at home. But truthfully, it wasn’t quite all his yet. The votes were still being counted. Ted was a tall, rotund man who’s heavy breathing could be heard with every step he took. But frankly, he didn’t give a fuck. He was standing on a deck with that cheap, tacky white plastic outdoor furniture. Behind him, sitting in one of those chairs, was a man who was the closest thing Ted had to a friend. His name was Ricky Cobble. Ricky was a short and slender, meek young man. He didn’t quite know how he ended up as Ted’s campaign manager… Or Ted’s friend… Or Ted’s acquaintance. But he tried to make the most of it. “Never in all my years did I think I’d make it here Ricky. They all doubted me. They’ve always doubted me.” Ted pensively boasted, addressing Ricky but really just talking to himself. “My father used to tell me I was good for two things: laughing at attempts to squeeze me into a car seat as a child, and eating all the junk food in the house to keep him from eating it, so he’d stay lean and healthy.” He snickered to himself, “Who’s laughing now, Dad?” Ricky held his phone to his ear, “Ok… ok… yes… yes…. I understand… thank you.” He hangs up. “Well?! Don’t just sit there staring at me! Did I win?!” Ted had left his calm mob boss stance at the head of the deck to manically approach Ricky, now towering over him. Ricky’s mouth couldn’t form words, he was too stricken with equal parts excitement and fear. He formed a wide mouth closed smile at Ted. Ted’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I did it.” *-3 Months Earlier-* Ted Freely spent his days doing a little of this, a little of that. He hadn’t had a job in years. He lived off of disability checks from the government that he started getting when he pulled off the best case of injury fraud the state of California had ever seen. When that wasn’t enough to pay the bills, he’d sell a little weed. Or meth. Or really whatever he was able to get from the other dealers down at the beach. Then he’d take it downtown and flip it. Ted’s ingenuity and street smarts were about the only positive things most people could attribute to him. Old Bill Skeeter over on Hoover street once ran Ted down with his Pit Bulls, Gunther and Roger, after Ted fleeced him out of $6,000 through one of those pyramid scheme pitches people give to their friends and family. When Skeeter finally cornered Ted and demanded the money, Ted said he didn’t have it, he said he had to use the money to pay for his mother’s heart operation or she was going to die. He promised Skeeter he’d pay him back every penny. Skeeter had a soft heart in his old age and agreed to turning the theft into a loan, while also not letting Gunter and Roger feast on Ted’s ham-like calves. Skeeter died 2 months later from a stroke, and unsurprisingly, Ted’s mother never had nor needed a heart operation. Ted had immediately used the $6,000 to finance a week-long bender in Vegas with a surly hooker he had just met named Dynasty. Dynasty was turning tricks behind an Arby’s when Ted pulled up and decided he’d found love that week. It was a hot July afternoon when Ted first decided his destiny was local political glory. As he waddled down a street of palm trees and downtrodden one story buildings, shoving a bacon covered glazed donut down his throat, he felt a *squish* beneath his dirty flip flops. Ted stopped in his tracks and lifted his foot, managing to get a look at the sole without falling over. And just as he realized that he had just walked over a creamy pile of human shit, he heard laughter coming from right next to him. A man on the sidewalk, leaned against an old commercial building, was cackling at the sight of Ted’s misfortune. The man’s name was Charlie, he had been a local homeless man for years, and was known by many of the locals, as were a handful of the other homeless. Anyway, Ted was seeing red. “Well look at that! HA HA HA real funny, right? You know what else is funny? How about the fact my shoe still smells better than you. You got the nerve to laugh at me? The only joke here is your life, pal!” Ted was red in the face shouting like a maniac, now himself looking like a crazy homeless person. “Hey, at least I don’t have poop on my shoes!” Charlie belted out through roaring laughter. “Fuck you! Get a job you damn leech!” Ted yelled. “Fuck off Ted, your fatass doesn’t work either. Only difference between you and me is you inherited a place to live here. You’d be eating cheetos right next to me here if it weren’t for your Daddy leaving you that big ol’ house.” Charlie was still laughing at Ted. Ted’s tone was quieter but still forceful, “My tax dollars paid for those Cheetos you ungrateful son of a bitch. I’m so sick of this shit. We real people let you… things… run around and do whatever you want all day, all off the sweat of our hard work. It truly disgusts me.” Ted started to turn his head away, staring blankly off into the distance, he was doing that thing where he really just starts talking to himself out loud. “Something has to change here. This town is falling apart at the seams. There’s shit on the sidewalk, bums lining the beaches, and nobody does a damn thing about it. Where are our leaders? When is someone going to step up and do something?!” Ted was yelling again, and as he ranted, a bus pulled up alongside him and Charlie. Plastered across the bus was the face of a man who Ted recognized… a man who was truly good, a family man with a strong moral compass, a man who would take the shirt off his back for a neighbor. The man was everything that Ted wasn’t, and Ted knew it. The man’s name was Jack Huberville, and just as his name appeared on the bus beneath the sprawling picture of his face, the text that followed read “I need your vote for Rocky Beach Mayor, let's make our town perfect!” Ted starred in bitter disgust at the image. “You gotta be shitting me. This guy is running for mayor?! I know this asshole.” Ted pointed to the picture and looked blankly at Charlie. “So?” “So?! So I went to high school with him. He got me suspended in 9th grade. The little bitch told on me for stealing Ms. Hanslett’s medication.” “Didn't she pass away from her illness?” “Damnit Charlie, will you pay attention?! This rat bastard is going to take our town straight to hell.” “He seems alright to me,” Charlie shrugged as he joyfully popped a Cheeto in his mouth. “Well of course you do. He’s the kind of guy that says he wants to sing Kumbaya with your people, but then when you come over to his little meet and greet event, they take you out back and bash your skull in with the George Forman grills they promised you. Then they perform all sorts of twisted experiments on your corpses. I know his type, Charlie” “You got somewhere to be, Ted? Weren’t you walking somewhere?” Charlie asked, now annoyed and itching to get back to his drug fueled sun bathing. “You know what Charlie. I think for the first time in my life… I know exactly where I need to be.” Ted took one last sloppy bite of his donut and emphatically tossed it to the side, unintentionally hitting Charlie in the nose with it. Then he took off walking like a soldier headed to his post. For the first time in his life, Ted Freely had a purpose: he must destroy Jack Huberville.


The bloody hellish sky screamed releasing a cascade upon us; summoned by the looming crimson moon itself. I suppose it made sense, a vision of tidings to come. Mud; it splashed in our boots, wet our clothes, made hands slippery, caked and coated armor. We marched to bring forth a downpour of our own design, a wash with which we would stain the earth this night. Exhausted, he lurched forth, disenchanted and disturbed with the knowledge of what he must do in the hours ahead. He always felt tired before a fight, drained, as if his mind felt the weight of what is to come before his body. Or was it fear? no, not fear, he was no coward, he had seen fear before and what it does to men. That wasn't what he felt now; he wasn't looking for an escape, for a way out; he was simply consumed by an acute awareness of the challenge ahead. Every warrior carries a beast within; and a wise monster knows to rest before rising to play its game. He was comforted at that notion, a hungry creature that craved the fruits that he detested. Thirsting for blood beneath his flesh, gripping the handle of his blade for him. There was no bloodlust in his heart, no desire for killing, plunder, or savagery. Yet it wasn't his intention to end up the product of someone else's. For this he was grateful, he thanked the monster. It helped him to imagine there was someone else swinging the blade... some-thing else. Something else's feet marching into the fold, bleeding from his wounds, something else spitting and pissing and pissing at the mulched remains of the ones who dared stand before him. Yes, reveling in the spilt blood wasn't his pleasure; but then why did it happen. It was hard to recall, the more he thought about it, the lapses. A moment of preparation, the seething, the chill in his spine and then, nothing; nothing, besides a forward march across piles of dripping mass that could be vaguely described as once human. Clumps of bone and blood mashed together like a clay sculpture; an art critique may call it avant-garde, hailed as a masterpiece for challenging contemporary taste. But he was no artist, but not a killer either; at least he didn't feel like one, or didn't wish to. However, no matter how cleverly one sneaks upon a mirror, it will always look you dead in the eye. The lens through which we see ourselves is cloudy, misinterpreted, and filled with lies. Who we really are can only be seen by a vantage point, to which we, unfortunately can never deceive. "I am a soldier" he told himself, "And a soldier does as he's commanded, there's no pleasure, and no wrong in it." Why then the guilt, the shame; why did it feel so good to take life? When his blade spilt blood it seemed to fill the pit inside him; and it was intoxicating, satisfying in ways that he desperately wanted his ordinary life to be. In truth it was pale, colorless to cast his net and reel in his provisions day to day. The sound of his children's laughter and the passion in his beloved's eyes; these were paltry reprieves in an otherwise tedious and unsatisfactory life. Perhaps it was more than a metaphor, more than something he told himself to steel before battle. There was a demon inside him, calling; a voice from a cold, empty place. A place that peacetime could not fill; not with joy or pleasure, not laughter or love. These were deep stony halls, laden with the corpses of fallen adversaries; feed for the pacing beast roaming inside. It terrified him to realize it, to shatter the façade he saw in himself. But this was war; and I suppose there is no better time to meet the killer inside you. It could be only real friend you have, the only thing that keeps you alive, the only thing that staves away the madness.


The small figure cast a quick glance over their shoulder as they scuttled through the darkened streets. In this sleepy town, at this hour, it was unusual for anyone to be out of their homes, but one could never be too cautious. The silence was pressing in on sanity; moments feeling as heavy weights on the ticking hands of time. Silence and time, when even the smallest scuff could be a booming signal, but risk for speed was a necessity. Pulling the hood of their cloak closer to their face for coverage, the figure refocused on the arrival. In a short dark alley, the figure knocked on a plain wooden door. In a hushed voice, barely perceptible, she whispered, “Maggie?” In response, on well oiled hinges, the door opened quickly and silently. The figure was reminded of her previously looming thoughts on silence and time. She stepped inside and the door closed firmly without a sound. Once inside, the figure dropped her hood and a mass of wiry, straw-like, fiery hair humbled out in disarray. This was one of the many things Fluxx had inherited from her Da, a dwarf. Others being her pale skin, stubborn and often abrupt nature, and distaste for conventional niceties. From her mother, a fire genie, she’d acquired her fierce confidence, obsession with magic, and her tendency to spark - both literal and figurative. Just one of the many reasons she’d been banned from her precious books in the city library and archive. Exactly where she now stood, in the dead quiet of night. Nothing boils the scholars more than scorched books and scrolls. Magdalena, her first and only real friend, was the only scholar that understood her passion for knowledge and the side-effects that could come from heightened emotions. Maggie, as Fluxx affectionately called her, didn’t agree with the edict that banned Fluxx from the archives, and often took the closing shift to assist in after-hours infiltration. The closing shift wasn’t something often wanted, so the upper scholars were happy to oblige. Fluxx removed her cloak as she made her way to one of the small sitting areas. She grabbed the nearest book, *The Ember in the Eye*, the nearest chair, and began absorbing what she could with her limited time. Page after page, she devoured the information. Page after page, she lost time and place. She clutched the book to her and leaned in, as if in doing so, she could take it all in quicker. Then, rather abruptly, she was ripped out of her reverie by a strand of hair. White hair, just a strand, was draped across the words on the page. That singular strand was just distracting enough to have pulled her out of her state. How odd to so easily be pulled away from such an episode, but also fortuitous to have happened before any damage. Magdalena usually kept an eye on her, but she was nowhere to be found. Probably finishing up any number of her remaining required duties. Fluxx relaxed slightly her grip on the book, plucked at the strand, and dropped it to the side of her. Rubbing her fingertips together to ease the tingling accumulating in them from her magic, she began to dive back into the words scrawled across the page. A small breeze picked up and blew the strand of hair back into place. To Fluxx, that thin strand of hair was as wide as an inlet, distracting - nay, preventing her - from viewing her precious words. She flung the strand aside, only to have it reappear with another small breeze. Small breeze? Fluxx looked up and around her. She was still sitting in the library - an indoor, closed-windowed archive. Where could that wind shift have come from? Fluxx pulled on the hair, as if to sever it from whence it came. The strand would not break. he followed it with her gaze, intent on finding the source. It trailed from her book to another on the shelf, *Abyss of Destiny*. Fluxx stood and retrieved that tome from the shelf. When she opened it and pulled on the hair, once more it would not detach, but led her to another text, *City of Smoke*, higher up. Her obsession with the strand grew. Fetching a ladder quickly, she traced the hair through book after book, carelessly ripping the tomes off the shelf and tossing them aside. *The Immortal Binds.* *The Call of Silence.* *The Tangled Throne.* *The Splintered Strand.* Tome after tome fell to the floor as more and more strands appeared. She pulled at them, twisted them, tried with everything she had to break them, but to no avail. The white hair was cascading through the books, tumbling tumultuous through her psyche. Fluxx was raw and exposed, her frustration and magic growing. Near the top, leaning precariously to one side, she reached for another tome, *The Voice of the Original*. Behind the book was a burning, glowing red eye, seeing Fluxx through strands of draping white hair. In a tone that was booming but ever quiet, she heard a voice say, “You’ve followed the tangled strands to the root. You are worthy to separate, cut, make right the wrongs of Men and Gods. Fate will be unknotted and restored. Come.


This story is about a man from the future going back in time and trying to get a job. **A Man From The Future** A man is sent back in time, and is set to work a job as a receptionist. His job is to accept calls, and book appointments for the business owner to work. She, the business owner, says she will pay him $12.50 an hour. For 8 hours of work, that’s $100. The man, having been well educated in the future, is curious about how the business works, and whether he is being paid fairly. He asks, "how many appointments will I be setting a day?" The business owner replies, "about one an hour, on average. And it will take you about 15 minutes to book each one." "And, what will I do with the other 45 minutes?" He asks, wanting to make the most of his time. "You will wait at your desk, and make sure you do not miss any calls," she responds. "Why don’t I make calls to others, and try to book them when I’m not on the phone?" The man asks. "Because you might miss an incoming call while you are on the phone with someone else." She responds. "What if someone calls in while I am already talking to someone else who has called in?" The man then asks. "You will call them back, but hopefully that does not happen too often. If it does, we will hire another person to answer the phones alongside you." The business owner responds. The man can tell she is frustrated by his line of questioning. Her tone suggests that his questions are so simple that he should already know the answers. He decides to change to a different line of questioning. He is still curious about whether his pay is fair, but he has concluded that the $12.50 must cover the opportunity cost of waiting for most of the day at his desk. The man asks, "do appointments always turn up?" "Almost always, yes," the business owner replies. "And, how much money does the company make from each booked appointment?" The owner smiles, "we make $125 for every appointment, and I always do 8 appointments, that’s $1000 a day," she says, sounding very proud. The man frowns, then asks, "and you are busy all day taking those appointments?" The owner nods. "Yes. While I’m in appointments, I cannot take calls." The man nods at this, "that makes sense," he says, and the owner smiles again. The man then asks another question. "Before you hired me, did you have another person setting appointments?" The owner nods. "Yes. She is the salesperson now at a different company. She worked as a receptionist for 2 years, and now she makes $10 an hour, plus $20 for every appointment that she sets for them. She left in order to make more money." The man frowns again. "And, before you had any employees, how many appointments could you do in a day?" The owner cocks her head and thinks, "Well, I was only doing about half the appointments. I missed most of the calls coming in, and then I had to call people back and leave a voicemail. Sometimes they never called back, or I had to call them a few times to get them to set an appointment and come in to see me." The man nodded. "So, if you are charging $125 per appointment, and are able to do twice as many appointments because of me answering the phone… Why are you only paying me one tenth of the value of the appointments I set?" The woman is shocked. "Well, I am the one actually doing the procedure, that’s why," she says indignantly. The man from the future is confused. "But, you would not be able to do half of the procedures if I wasn’t answering the phone. The company would make $500 less dollars a day if I wasn’t doing this job. So why am I only being paid $100 a day, when you make $1000?" The business owner is angry now. "If I wasn’t doing the procedures, the company would make $0 dollars, that’s why!" She says, her voice is raised now. The man scratches his head, trying to understand. Then he says, "if you were working alone you’d be making $500 a day. With us working together we’d be making $500 more. Why don’t I get half of that? It wouldn’t happen without me." The business owner is shaking her head. "You aren’t using any skills. You are just answering phone calls and setting appointments. I went to school for years to do these procedures." The man nods. "Yes, that is why you are making the $500 for the appointments you can work on your own. You're hiring me because you wanted to make more money right?" The owner nods, "yes of course I'm hiring you to make more money. But I'd be working twice as hard for that extra $500 if I had to give you half of it." The mans brow is furrowed in concentration, "You said, it takes you half the day and a lot of calling to get even half the customers you get when I’m answering the phone." "Yeah, but that work is easy to do." The owner says, becoming increasingly irate. The man from the future does not think he will get the job anymore, but he continues, curious to understand the past. He says, "Yes, answering phones is less work than doing the procedure, but our time is very valuable, it is the only thing we can’t get back. You aren’t just paying me to answer the phones, you are paying me* not* to do anything else with my time *except* for answering the phones. I could do a lot with that time, so I should be compensated accordingly. You have said the company makes an additional $500 a day due to my time." The business owner stands up. "It is not going to happen *due* to you at all. I am not hiring you! You think you should be paid…" she pauses a moment, dividing $125 by 2… then she continues, "$62.5 an hour to answer phones!" The man shakes his head. "Well, without me, you will have to go back to only making $500 a day, and still working 8 hours a day. You’d be working twice as hard for that $250, but you’d be making less money too. Without me you make $62.50." "No, I’ll just hire someone who will work for $12.50. I have lots of applications from people. Now get out!" And the man from the future left. He realized that there must be many people from the past who do not value their time. He wonders how that happened.