Douglas Reiche                                                Approx. 3,000 words 108 Bluffview Drive, Troy MO 618-317-6014 douglasreiche@gmail.com MR. MORE-PH by Douglas Reiche Mr. More-ph could not be late for his appointment, so he tossed his briefcase in the back seat and got into the rental car. Beautiful day for a trip, he thought, looking around. He was a short man of 121.925 centimeters, or 129.54 centimeters, dressed in his pork pie hat that almost touched his ears. He was dapper: light gray suit, light blue button-down shirt, and large brown tie shoes. Mr. More-ph was stout with short legs, so he walked with small, quick steps, slapping the pavement with the sole of his shoe. His eyes were round, eyebrows thin, with a dominant large nose under which he modeled a neatly trimmed mustache.

           When he turned the key, the car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. He checked his watch, a frequent habit. The on ramp to the interstate was, ah! – Where? There, to his right, he pointed, quickly crossing over an empty lane. With the pedal down, the car leaped ahead a few miles per hour faster. An 18-wheeler blew its air horn, which shook the car, and quickly dove around him as he merged with the traffic. It brought little concern to this road enthusiast. Besides, there were three lanes on this interstate. “I only took one. Is there a problem?” he shouted.

           There was a sign ahead: Mudpatch 207 miles. It would be an enjoyable day. “Beep! Beep!” Now what! He looked in the mirror. Is this guy going to try to pass me? In that thing? “Let me show you,” he said as he pushed on the accelerator. The car from behind shot around him in a flash. What kind of car was that anyway? It was just a speck going down the road. Even so, interstates were very convenient, he thought, much better than those two-lane highways. Sometime later, there were flashing red and blue lights ahead, “Shame! Speeding!” he shouted, pointing out the side window. “Ticket. Ticket. Who’s getting a ticket? Not me,” he said out loud, pointing to himself.            Traffic zoomed past. Mr. More-ph was oblivious to what was going on. A red light was on as he looked down at the dashboard. Almost out of gas? Are you kidding me? The needle flipped back and forth. Where was the next exit? “What! Thirty-three miles?” he cried. “Who made these roads anyhow?” Suddenly, a bell rang, ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. First, a light, then a bell. The bell should ring before you run out of gas, he cried.            It felt like he had driven a hundred miles before the next sign appeared: 22A Mountain City, 3 miles. Ding-ding-ding-ding. He pounded on the dashboard. “Oh, shut up!” The tank was almost empty as he pulled into the station. He pumped the gas. Wow! $7.83. “What is this world coming to?” he remarked. Putting the hose back, he saw the small hole in the right fender, The rental agent said it might come in handy in a pinch. Whatever that meant?            Ahead was the interstate sign with an arrow pointing straight. It went under an overpass, and now there were only two lanes. “What happened to the third lane?” he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. He almost looked around, but lucky for the people behind, he kept driving. When he settled in, he decided that a two-lane interstate was fine. So, he whistled for a while, nothing anybody would know. Sometime later, he looked at his watch: 10:46. Almost time for lunch. The next sign ahead read, Corkscrew, 45 miles. He laughed profusely. Who would name their city Corkscrew?            Traffic was getting heavier now. More people honked their horn and drove past. Some even waived. “Look at that. He’s waving with his fist in the air.” He waived back. Later, his head nodded, so he turned on the radio, but it only made a lot of static noises even when he turned the knob. Nothing! How could that be? You never know about those AM stations anymore. He turned it off.            The traffic slowed down. Everyone was driving at the same speed as he was. There were orange cones on the road. Traffic slowed down even slower. There were trucks ahead, striping the road. When he was maybe in kindergarten, there was a man striping a parking lot. It seemed like a fun thing to do. But now he thought it might be even more fun to drive the big orange truck that painted the strips on the highway. So, what if you turned to the left or the right a little while you were driving? “Whoops!” he cried. He found himself turning the steering wheel.            He almost hit the lady in the car next to him. Will you look at that? She is waving at me just like the guy. “All right! All right!” he cried. “I only crossed the line a little.” It was getting warm so he rolled down the windows and sniffed. Now it smelled like paint. It was 11:17. The road striping ended, and the traffic picked up speed.            Oh, look, Corkscrew 20 miles. At 50, he would be there before lunch. As more mile markers passed, his foot got heavy on the accelerator, so he drove close to 60. Later, another sign, Corkscrew 5 miles. The countdown had begun: 4 miles, 3 miles. The city caught his attention. He leaned forward in the seat. “This place is crazy. All the streets are curved.” Main Street went up a hill and across a bridge. It turned to the right and went under a bridge.            A burger sign reminded him of lunch. Where to eat? There was the Cork & Cleaver, but it was closed. Another one was the Corner Restaurant. There were a few cars there. That is a dumb name for that restaurant. It isn’t even on a corner. Down the street on Circle Drive was a food truck with a sizable hotdog painted on the side. It was right next to a large park. There was a line of people, a good sign for any restaurant. The first parking place was down the street. Finally, he got in line. It would be his luck that they would run out of food before he could order. The line moved and then moved again.            On the marquee was the Special of the day, Twins-in-a-Bed: two dogs in a bun, curly fries, and a drink. What was so special about two hotdogs in a bun, he thought? Like most everyone, he ordered the Special. However, he had trouble seeing over the counter to pay, so he had to use The Box. It was for kids to stand on to order. It had clown faces painted on it. When he ordered, he thought Twins-in-a-Bed was unique, but when he got his order, the dogs were skinny and shorter than the bun. The condiments were hard to reach. The line backed up. The mustard was stuck – oh! It squirted. No! – on the lady’s sleeve. There was a place at the end of a park bench, so he ate there. This entire thing about Twins-in-a-Bed was a gimmick. It made you stop and order something, he complained to himself. He hated gimmicks. His watch said: 12:09.            The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. Where was the interstate? He looked. It was impossible to find. The signs took him around the park and down several streets. The interstate went to the left, but Mr. More-ph went straight and got on the highway. It was nothing more than a two-lane road. The sign read, Mudpatch 73 miles, so he continued driving. If you are going in the same direction, you will eventually get to the same destination, he speculated.

           It was only a mile further, and he saw trucks ahead of him. The speedometer said forty-five. “Move it!” he cried, clutching the steering wheel. The road was bumpy and in need of repair. The car bounced around. I thought there was an interstate to Mudpatch. I guess not. How could he have made a mistake like that? He rarely did. Well, two lanes will do, he concluded. Calico 23 miles, the sign read. That might be as funny of a name for a city as Corkscrew.

           Suddenly, he burped. The Twins-in-a-Bed was a mistake. Then, quicker than he realized, Calico appeared as he rounded a curve in the road. There was a big sign: See the Calico Cat at the Country Village Museum. Calico was a small town. The sign read, Pop. 162. “They may have had to count everyone in the cemetery,” he said out loud with a chuckle.            A block into Calico, there was a big white two-story house. There was a sign in the front yard: Country Village Museum. After he drove past, he stopped at the edge of town. He liked museums. He had stopped at many of them. Would he really like this museum? A Cat? Still, he had some time, and besides, what else could you do in a place like this.            So, he turns around and went back. There were only three parking places. All three were empty. The sign on the door read, Come In. The screen door squeaked as he opened it, but the wooden door was stuck shut. He turned the big doorknob again and pushed hard with his shoulder. It gave way. A lady entered the room. She was 40-something, or maybe even 50, brown hair in a bun on her head. She was wearing a flower dress with a tan-laced apron. “Won’t you come in?”            The place was full of – things: lamps, tables, knickknacks, quilts, dolls, an ornate dollhouse, a latte and a cappuccino machine, and the smell of fudge. Where were all the people who drank lattes, he wondered? It seemed like this whole house was misplaced. It was like it had moved from a different place to here. He looked around. One minute the lady was here. The next minute she was gone. He looked here and there. She was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she had gone to another room. Maybe she went – somewhere else. In one corner, several shelves had old trains. He was delighted that he had stopped now. Train shows didn’t have old trains like these. He examined them.            Suddenly, the lady appeared again. She took him to the other side of the room and showed him to the Calico Cat. It was large, about 6 feet tall, and stitched together from orange, black, brown, and calico cloth. The double stitching was perfect. Without the patches, it just might have been alive. Mr. More-ph was dwarfed by it sitting on its hind legs. But he was mesmerized by its life-like eyes. It seemed to be staring back at him and – might it move about at any second? “Did it – no, it couldn’t have – there, see, it smiled, didn’t it?” Suddenly, he forgot about the trains. He had lost all track of time.            The large grandfather clock chimed slowly twice. Bang, bang, it echoed in the room and brought him to his senses. He hurriedly paid for the latte and two pieces of chocolate almond bark, leaving the Calico Cat and everything else behind. He would have to hurry now to get to his destination on time. A block away from the museum, he was out of town again. The highway sign was ahead, so he kept driving. The piece of almond bark was great. Then he tried the latte. “Whatever happened to regular coffee?”            There was another sign: Narrow Road Ahead. He drove about half a mile. There ahead of him was an old wooden plank one-lane bridge. He slowed down to go over the bridge when suddenly a speeding car raced across the bridge toward him; “B-e-e-p!” It left a plume of dust in its tracks. He saw nothing, but he rubbed his eyes. In a few moments, the dust had cleared. Had he been on the bridge – splat! Something not to think about. Apprehensively, he drove across the bridge. The planks were lengthways across the bridge. It creaked as he slowly crept across. The car wanted to slip off the planks.            On the other side, he stopped the car, got out, and walked around. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The road on this side of the bridge was much narrower. The sign ahead read, Mudpatch 51 miles. It was still a long way to go. It seems he had left all civilization. The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. The pace was much slower now. A small creek ran through a culvert buried under the road. A house and barn near the creek had long since been abandoned. Only a shell of each remained. They were something left over from another time.            The next sign appeared: Narrower Road. “How much narrower could this road get.” he complained. Within half-mile, another sign read: Narrower Bridge. “This is silly,” he said, slowing down as he approached the bridge. Again, he stopped and got out to look. No one was coming, he made sure. Still, the situation seemed hopeless. The bridge was too narrow.            He went back and opened the trunk. To his surprise, he found the antenna that had broken off the car roof and a brass-plated key like you might use to wind up a clock, but much larger. This key must be what the rental agent was talking about. Maybe this is what the hole in the fender is for. After several attempts to pick it up, he slid it out of the trunk and rested it against the bumper. Then getting his breath, he tried again.            He walked around to the right side of the car, and after some effort, he put the key into the mysterious hole in the fender. Which much effort, he began to crank the key clockwise, and to his amazement, the car slowly got narrower with each crank. Had he been taller and less stout, that might have helped some. He cranked the key again. Then he stood at the back of the car and analyzed the situation. He took his hat off and scratched his bald, shiny head. The car would make it now. But when he tried to put the key in the trunk, he realized the trunk had shrunk, but the key was still the same size. It stuck out of the back of the trunk. So, he tied the trunk lid down with a piece of rope.            The car hesitated but then started with a puff of blue smoke. He clutched the steering wheel and drove across the bridge. This bridge was worse than the one before, and he noticed the car was driving funny. The road on this side was unpaved with a rock surface and weeds in the middle. If he went far enough, he thought, there might not be any road at all. The car leaned one way and then another as it climbed over one rock at a time. It seemed like it might tip over. Mr. More-ph bobbled up and down and bumped his head, but he was determined.            A narrow place appeared in the road with large boulders on both sides. The key might work again. Untying the rope, he got out the key. To his surprise, it worked once again. The car was now no more than 4 feet wide. He checked the measurement between the rocks and then the width of the car and was confident the car would fit. However, the key was too big for the trunk. So, he left it beside the roadway, intending to pick it up on the way back.            The car was much smaller, he realized. The front seat was way too narrow. So, he put the seat back, squeezed under the steering wheel, and jerked the door closed. The car made a funny noise, but there was a puff of blue smoke. The trees were taller now and came close to the road. They blocked out the sunlight. So, he turned on the headlights. Instantly, he thought he saw something in the woods. Maybe it was – or maybe not. He would keep an eye out for it. The road was curvy with deep ruts. There was a chance the car could bottom out and get stuck. There was no one within miles to pull him out.            After much ado, Mr. More-ph saw another sign: Mudpatch 3 miles. He was elated. Mission accomplished: almost. He would have jumped up and down in the car, but he had wedged himself in on all sides. However, beyond that sign was a second sign, Interstate 5, 4 miles. “Do you believe that?” But there was nothing he could do about it now.            Again, Mr. More-ph carefully drove down the road until it went up a steep hill. At the top, the road looked like a narrow point. To reach Mudpatch, he would have to drive up that hill. With resolve he started up the road. But the car banged and struggled. Blue smoke filled the air. Rocks kicked out from under the tires. “Come on,” he yelled, as if the car would do better. The road steadily narrowed. The tires wanted to slip off the roadway.            He put the pedal down. The car suddenly lunged forward faster than he had ever expected, throwing rocks and dust everywhere. It shot up the hill and leaped into the air. A moment later, Poof! It burst into a million pieces of dust. Everything disappeared into Mudpatch.            When Mr. More-ph was late, the town sent out a search party. Mr. More-ph was never found, nor his car. Only two things remain. They are his pork pie hat, found a bit soiled, and the large brass key left beside the roadway.

THE END


“Isn’t it beautiful?” Dr. Morrison held a small vial up to the light, amber liquid swirling inside. “After all our efforts, all of our sacrifices, we’re so close to a cure.” Isabelle held her datapad closer to the Doctor, determined to get as clear of an audio recording as possible. They had spent hours in

Silver Grandeur’s  lab. Her legs ached. With painstaking precision, Dr. Morrison walked Isabelle through all of the functions of

Lab Section 1,  explaining each device that helped to refine and prepare the contents of the vial in his hand. The soreness she’d feel later would be worth the story. Especially as a Junior Data Reporter. “Tell us, Doctor,” Isabelle said, shifting weight from one leg to another, “What’s the greatest challenge you’ve faced with Project Find?” “We’ve all lost people to the sickness, haven’t we?” Isabelle looked away.

“No challenge is greater than that of grief,” Dr. Morrison said with a sad smile. “Yet their memory lives on in the work we accomplish.” He gingerly set the vial into its holder on the table in front of them. After a moment of silence, he asked, “Anything else?” “Yes,” Isabelle perked up. “About the beginning. How exactly did this-” A shudder rocked the ship. Lights flickered in the lab as Dr. Morrison and Isabelle steadied themselves against the table.

“Seekers,” He muttered as the shaking subsided. Another, more violent shudder, nearly knocked Isabelle off her feet. The vials on the table clattered together. “They always find us.” Around them, scientists in lab coats hurried to secure loose items. Isabelle found herself being led towards the exit.

“I’m sorry to cut this short,” the Doctor said, leading her out into the main hallway and shutting the door behind them. “I need to speak with the Captain before one of those things tears a hole in our outer hull again.”

Isabelle pulled her father into a hug. “Be safe.” After watching Dr. Morrison race out of sight, she opened her hand and smiled at it. Seated in the palm of her hand was a grey access card. Her father’s. Slipping back inside the lab, Isabelle quickly donned a lab coat, mask, and goggles. Only a few scientists remained. Evidently, the rest had dispersed to secure other sections of

Silver Grandeur’s  large lab. She snuck to the back of

Section 1 , connecting her datapad to the lab’s information center – a port in the wall.

The ship rocked again, and Isabelle steadied herself against the wall. She switched rapidly from catalogue to catalogue, searching. There had to be something more interesting here. Yes, her father had shown her

this  section of the lab, but she was not so naïve as to think this was all there was. Scientific breakthrough had to come from

somewhere . And a good Data Reporter needed to be willing to break a few rules to find out.

Isabelle paused on one catalogue.

Project Find . It read. She inserted Dr. Morrison’s card into her datapad to open the file. Disappointment grew as she read. Most of the words made absolutely no sense. Yes, they were English. But no matter how hard Isabelle squinted at them and sounded them out under her breath, their meaning remained completely foreign.

But then she spotted something she could understand.

Successful creation of antidote and enhancement secured via genetic mesh. Below, it read;

See Donor Subject File. Lab Section 13. She disconnected her datapad and pressed deeper into the lab. Another shudder shook

Silver Grandeur . She began humming softly as she passed more labcoats, remembering the melody her mother would use to comfort her when she was little. After the Seekers first attacked.

On its one-hundredth and fifty-second year of voyaging in space, five years after

Silver Grandeur’s  passengers were woken from cryo-sleep, the Seekers struck. So did the sickness.

Deep space sickness, they called it.

No one knew what caused it. Some blamed the Seekers, who appeared immune to the disease. With their arrival shortly preceding the first outbreak, they were easy to blame. Some claimed it was a result of extended cryo-sleep. Simply a scientific oversight. And others, the more religious of

Silver Grandeur’s  passengers, proclaimed it was judgement for their departure from God’s one true home for them – Earth. Apparently, extended cryo-sleep had conveniently allowed them to forget Earth’s death. Reduced to a desolate wasteland, their one true home forced what remained of humanity to flee.

Her mother was one of the first to die from the sickness. Isabelle was ten at the time. Her father threw himself into a frenzy of work after his wife’s death, refusing to take inevitable death – either by sickness or by Seeker – as the final answer. Fifteen years had since passed.

Isabelle reached the end of

Section 12  and stopped. Before her lay a single door.

Lab Section 13.

Checking behind her to make sure no one was watching, Isabelle opened the door with Dr. Morrison’s access card and slipped inside, shutting the door behind her.

Cold air shocked her. Isabelle shivered.

Section 13  was freezing, not to mention smaller than she expected. The room contained only a handful of control panels on either side of the door and a containment unit on the far wall that was coated in frost.

Isabelle frowned. Was this the

Donor Subject ? She approached the unit and used her sleeve to wipe a patch of frost from the glass.

A dark form moved inside. Isabelle had seen Seekers before. Windows across the ship gave good view for those with a morbid enough interest to watch them attack. With a snouted maw filled with teeth, an excess of appendages tipped with claws, long wings, and sleek black bodies, they blended easily against the backdrop of space. Only when close enough to

Silver Grandeur’s  lights did the light of the ship reflecting off their bodies illuminate their presence. In darkness they did not exist. She squinted at it. It was almost entirely obscured by the remaining frost and the condensation building inside her goggles. Isabelle steadied her breathing, excitement mounting as she removed her goggles to peer inside. She'd never seen one this close before. Her breath caught in her throat.

Eyes, eyes that Seekers did not – should not – have, stared back at her.

It lunged.

Isabelle jerked backwards, slamming into the panels behind her. The creature thrashed against the glass and Isabelle glanced down in panic as a small alarm sounded on the panel just under her arm. The sides of the containment unit hissed open. Isabelle ran. Tearing metal echoed behind her.

She collided with a labcoat in

Section 11 . “Go! It’s out!” Not stopping to wait, she ran on through the lab, leaving the startled man behind. Several seconds later there was a scream. A loud crunch. And silence.

Lungs and legs burning, Isabelle burst into

Section 1 , the door sliding shut behind her. Several dozen scientists milled about, the ship’s shaking having since stopped.

“Run,” she said.

A few labcoats looked at her in confusion. Thudding behind the door she entered grew louder.

Isabelle tore off her mask, wheezing. “Run!”

The door she came through flew across the room, crushing a scientist against the wall. Standing a head taller than Isabelle, the creature that entered stood on legs rippling with sleek black muscle. Its head was surprisingly rounded, with something like the remnants of hair dotting the top of its head. It stretched tall and raised tensed arms, claws glinting in the lab’s harsh light. Opening its mouth, the creature let out a roar.

Scientists screamed and scattered.

Isabelle raced to the door leading into the rest of the ship. Several scientists followed. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and Isabelle careened to the side just in time to avoid a large metal table as it flew past her and smashed into the door. The labcoats weren’t as lucky.

An alarm blared in the lab. The scientist who activated it let out a blood-curdling scream from the center of the room as the creature charged him. It roared again, striking claws into both labcoat and control panel. Metal and flesh tore.

The lab was plunged into darkness.

Isabelle’s feet slid against the floor, a red emergency light flaring to life and pulsing slowly to illuminate the dark puddle she now stood in. She gagged, fighting to stay upright. Something struck her shoulder and Isabelle went down hard. A woman screamed beside her on the floor, having also fallen, and as the lights flashed Isabelle could make out a tall form to her right.

The creature crouched low. Isabelle scurried away as darkness returned. Crunching, twisting – a rending of flesh met her ears a few feet away, and warm liquid splattered her face. The woman’s screams fell silent.

She crawled as quickly as she could until she reached the lab’s wall. Feeling with slick hands along its surface, Isabelle’s fingers found purchase on the metal grooves of a vent grate. Hands shaking, she pulled off the clover, slipped inside the space just wide enough to hold her, and closed it. Cries of terror and agony dwindled one by one. Isabelle could hear them pounding against the crushed door, wailing as they realized it was too damaged to open. A body slammed against the vent grate and slumped to one side. Warm liquid began pooling next to Isabelle and she backed away. Shuffling quietly until she met a curve in the vent shaft, the young Data Reporter choked back tears. Now was

not  the time to cry.

A final voice cried out, and with that, the lab was silent.

Isabelle stopped.

Another sound had risen to fill the silence. A low vibration, somewhere between a growl and a hum came from the creature. She could feel the sound rumbling in her chest, deep in her lungs and heart, as though tugging on something. Carefully, she started moving again, crawling on slippery hands and knees.

Her knee skidded to the side and struck the vent shaft with a dull

thunk . Isabelle steadied herself, holding her breath. She heard the grate tear free and clatter somewhere inside the lab.

Isabelle thrust herself around the bend, not caring how much noise she made now as the sounds of thudding and scraping behind her soon followed. With a cry of alarm, Isabelle’s weight-bearing hand slipped out from under her. Her head crashed against the side of the vent. Swaying awkwardly, Isabelle focused blurred vision up ahead.

Was it her imagination, or was there light around the next bend? A growling hum propelled her forward.

Pulling with her arms, Isabelle slid around the final bend and was met by another grate leading down, light pouring from it. Every muscle in her body burned as she raised her hand and struck the grate.

It didn’t budge.

With a shriek, she brought her hand down against the grate again. And again and again and again.

CRASH. Isabelle dropped to the floor below, pain bursting at her feet.

“HELP!” Her shout echoed as she limped quickly, turning right at an intersection in the hallway. “HEL-” A closed blast door barring her path.

No. She whirled around to see the creature dash into view.

No. No. The creature skidded to a halt, muscles tensing. Bright hallway light finally illuminated the scarlet haphazardly painting both monster and woman. Isabelle’s back pressed against the door. It stalk towards her, moving with slow, purposeful steps. That of a hunter. That of one who knew its place in the pecking order.

Seekers. They always find us.

Isabelle’s back slid until she met the ground. She turned her face away.

“Don’t hurt her!” A voice yelled. Her father’s.

Isabelle looked up in surprise. The creature turned to face Dr. Morrison, growling deep in its body and lifting its arms in a display. “Don’t do this,” he said to the creature.

It roared. Isabelle sobbed. “What is it?” It roared again.

“Dad,

what is it ?” His voice was even as he spoke. Measured carefully. “We acquired a Seeker’s DNA many years ago, hoping to find a cure. What we discovered was that they had so much more to offer us.” Dr. Morrison’s eyes flashed with something near-feral. “Strength, Izzy.” She watched through tear-streaked vision as he stepped to one side, the creature tracking his movement. “Strength we could never dream of acquiring on our own. We just needed to bridge the genetic gap.” Her father’s expression grew almost sad as he gazed at the creature. “Human experimentation was the only way. I’m sorry, dear.” With a rippling of muscle the creature pounced. Isabelle forced her eyes to the ground as the sounds of carnage lifted to join that of the alarm. A sickening cacophony.

And then the carnage ceased.

Slow, thudding footsteps approached her. What had once been a growl dwindled to the lowest of vibrations. A soft humming. Isabelle looked at it with a start.

The creature’s face was close. Strings of sinew hung from red teeth, dripping blood onto Isabelle’s legs. As she looked above the horror of its maw, she saw its eyes. Familiar eyes. A memory pressed uninvited into Isabelle’s mind as the hum reverberated in her chest. Her mother, seated at the edge of Isabelle’s bed, the young girl cowering beneath her blankets as

Silver Grandeur  shuddered. Feeling a hand on her arm over the blanket, she listened to the melody of her mother’s tune as sleep finally overcame fear. The creature knelt in front of Isabelle. Extending a single, blood-covered hand, it caressed the side of her face.

Isabelle’s eyes widened in shock. “Mom?”


A horse was essential out here simply because how d***ed far everything was from everything else.            Lieutenant Nathaniel James Beaty kicked up his horse to a brief trot to catch up with his companions. Despite the official rank given to him by the State of ________, he was actually a junior member of the group as this war party had no army to command. 22 officers and NCOs moving incognito across the scorching hot prairies into the far west in hopes of raising a rebellion among the disgruntled Americans and Indians alike beyond the plains. Their hubris was shown by how their leader was made a colonel of a regiment that not only did not exist but was to be recruited from people still under the Union yoke. The trip there was the least of their worries as there was nothing but rolling hills of grass as tall as a man in this part of the world, although the occasional cabin by the sides of rivers and creeks showed how this was a newly settled region upon the outbreak of the war. Beyond there was the Great River and expansive plains full of Indian nations hostile to the Union and the occasional undermanned Union fort on the trails. Union control was believed to have collapsed in much of the plains due to the war. As one Indian chief put it, “How could the Great Father prevent his Red Children from fighting if he cannot keep his White Children from fighting?” The rumors and the general lack of any loyalties were the reason behind the vagueness of this war party’s plans, who were now trudging single file through a rocky creek. The steep dirt slopes were a real danger to the horses who could fall and in some places, the slopes were not even climbable by a man without equipment. The largely featureless and repetitive terrain of the prairies is what made people not apt to live in one place versus another and there were no real towns anywhere south of the rail terminus in this land called Quivira. Even so, the buffs and gulleys made traveling in a straight line impossible and the risk of losing vital personal effects was real. Nathaniel himself had mixed feelings about the war like everyone else. What he had not told anyone when joining this party was he had actually been in the Quivira cavalry too and had left more because of arguments with his immediate compatriots than anything else. For that same reason, Nathaniel also did not like how men were allowed to recruit and lead their own companies because he had seen how it allowed uneducated and dishonest men to rise to command. Allegedly, one of John Brown’s bandit friends was a captain somewhere in Quivira. However, in this case, it was impossible to work otherwise due to the distances involved and the State of _______ would not be able to rightly give orders once across the Great River. The trouble in the land they were crossing at the moment was that simply no one knew anything about it. It was populated by a mix of homesteaders and friendly Indians who worked the fur trade, all of whom arrived in this place within living memory. These Indians appeared friendly to both sides, which was likely while some of them went south to join the Confederacy and others were in Union service. It was said a fair amount of the militia here were white men under Indian chiefs and they all freely comingled in the same villages. There was a Union militia somewhere out here, these guys had fought in the State of _______ before, but now Nathaniel wondered where these guys were even coming from because they had not seen a living soul since leaving their home state. Many of the frontiersmen were just people who wanted to be left alone, however. The defensive plan was to simply leave them alone. Nathaniel called out to the major in front of him “How far is it to freshwater?” Major Jones replied “Half a day’s ride to the Cuivre River northwest.” The name struck Nathaniel as strange. That was not the first time a place out here with a French name. Did the French really get out this far before the Louisiana Purchase? That could not be the case, because the nearest town founded by the New Orleans colony was St. Louis, all the way on the other side of a warzone and there was no civilization at all in these parts. Suddenly, in the way the grass and terrain kept them out of sight until 100 yards away, a band of four red-skinned men was waving them down and approaching. The custom on the frontier was to speak to all strangers on the road not just for the safety of communities but for vital news that has no other means of traveling. These Indians appeared relaxed and oddly enough one of them carried a rifled musket and another had an old but well-maintained Charleville musket while the other two simply had bows and their clothes appeared to be long blankets folded over them in a bit of a tunic. As they approached Nathaniel wondered if there would be an impromptu sign language attempt. The leader of the party addressed them in English: “Good day to you. We do not get many strangers around here, how goes the world?” Nathaniel now seriously regretted how four of his party had on gray coats, but to be fair these were also the only jackets they owned. The colonel, having planned this ahead of time, said they were Quivira mounted militia returning from a raid. The Indian said it was curious he did not recognize him. He said his friends were just out here hunting small game but their job was also to keep this land under surveillance. Nethaniel and everyone else suppressed any reaction, but Nethaniel could tell all men present understood the problem. The Indian was now talking to his friends in some native tongue positively sibilant to them, and after a full minute said they’d guide and escort their party to the railroad terminus. This kind of mortal tension was too much for any sane mind to bear. Without a word spoken, Major Jones drew his pistol and fired possibly hitting the Indian’s horse but startling all horses present. The Indians exclaimed something and Nathaniel frantically tried pulling out his rifle from his saddle only to kick up his horse to follow the party now chasing after the Indians so they could not raise the alarm. That ended a few minutes later when the Indians climbed up a steep buff and the whole party saw an entire encampment up there. The colonel turned and said “Make a run for it, boys! See you at Great River!” The whole party turned tail and ran southwest at full gallop and mounted Indians and war whoops could be heard behind them. Several gunshots were heard as they ran across the prairies and after several minutes several of the party whose horses were faster paused on a rise to let the others catch up and to let loose a few shots at the Indians. Nathaniel caught up to them and finally managed to get his rifle out of his saddle, but this was enough time for someone in American clothes to flank them on the left. This went on for hours across the prairie and was so frantic that Nathaniel did not notice two of their number gone until later. Soon they found this wooded creek bed that they ran down for cover, but the Indians did not lose track of them. Movement down this creek was slower but offered protection from bullets until they reached the mouth of the creek apparently in the Cuivre. The lead of the party nearly fell down into a ten-foot drop with the river’s steep mud embankments. They all dismounted and used the river’s banks as a fighting position. This was easier said than done, as the spot Nathaniel chose immediately collapsed under his weight and he fell into the river hoping his powder was not ruined. Nathaniel thought he was going to have a heart attack from the heat, exertion, and the panic of almost dying a dozen times in an afternoon. Shots rang out, and Nathaniel crawled up to the edge of the embankment and fired at an Indian who was also approaching under cover. He ducked his head under to reload, and in the frantic noise of the battle he distinctly heard word Nathaniel only understood due to his college days; “Faites le tour et coupez-les de l’autre côté de la rivière!” He peeked around and saw the man who spoke it not 15 yards away and their eyes met. It was an old man, a tall man on horseback, and it was a white man in Indian clothes. That man aimed at Nathaniel who ducked just in time to get dirt sprayed in his face. The Indians were flanking, as now they were in the river banks on either side and there was no significant cover from those directions except what thornbushes offered. His compatriot Lieutenant Barnes next to him was taking a white handkerchief and waving it to surrender, but this was ignored by Indians who deliberately aimed and shot him in the chest. Nathaniel turned intending to swim the river but found he could touch the bottom. He got his boot stuck in mud that was probably heavy clay and dunked his head under the murky water to deal with it without being shot. His foot left the boot before the boot moved out of the mud, and he simply left it there, rising from the water shearing the yells of dying men. Other men who had also crossed the river streamed the water with their blood and lost too much to climb the opposite banks. Nathaniel did not see who had died and who had escaped and was not waiting around to find out. In a small wood across the river, Nathaniel found Lieutenant Davids whom he had never gotten to know well, and together they just kept on running. They no longer heard the Indians behind them but ran as fast as their exhaustion would let them. They ran past nightfall and did not stop until Nathaniel tripped, fell, and passed out. In the morning he would wake up to find Davids had enough strength to pull him into some bushes before resting himself. Their mission was over, and these two men would never be seen or heard from again in Quivira.


Lin blew her lies… You talkin´ ´to me, hu? At that point Lin came up with an assumption, that British people were mighty high up. She, Lin that is, had no single clue at first of how to get rid of it. Rid off it, the problem itself? That Aristocratic lady, Mrs Willfear, was a nobility of seldom seen stardom. In Lin´s Sweden the hight and mighty came closer to being more pragmatic than lofty. So she had to face the issue in another turn of the screw. Heck it! Of course Picasso had it written down: ”Art is a lie that force you to see reality...” So now we have to tap into the lies to get to the several British conclusions. Lin sat in that humid and hot, not to mention it, the very British classroom up somewhere, far from Denver, further off from Pennsylvania Road, but pretty close to the moors of Yorkshire. Oh, you must boast about having been mad in this remote place, where everyone comes and everyone goes. Lin started making up stories about this and that and her and him. At a point in the plot the hat bowed its head down to the gutter, and that is a mise an etyme, or how is the figure of a word would you suggest? Lin was no scholar, and was no material for the high court. She was only Upper Middle Class in Sweden and now she faked class. She faked it so well in that Scarborough place that a cloak made of no seam came to be hung around her white shoulders. Is that a fake? Lin had to pretend being a Working Class. It began with something that could have turned out to be a debate, cause Lin had read all the reviews in the evening papers that had showed how the wet stone sharpen the knifes, the very tool in a hot debate. But hot is closer to Britain than to Sweden. Anyhow. Pretending no-rule-for-men meant that she had to stand out for no reason at all… We have simply to express the Swedishness. There is an unwritten law in Sweden: ”Don´t believe too much about yourself...” Have you ever been abroad you might understand. It is that in a foreign place the very near and dear land of yours come so close it could tip you in just about any abyss on any map. So Britain compared to Sweden had to join in several seldom seas...Viking you know! Sitting there as Working Class meant that Mrs Willfrear, the one, had to point out things in all and each direction. Lin took the bait at the top of it, swallowed and got fat in a brilliant second of now time at all. Big lie, isn´t it? She had no job, or had a stupid kind of job. And she was a kind of a pink rose. That is having been raped it got her to the worst nightmare of all: Love was a joke to a bloke in town! And Mrs Willfear had a vision about being the high ranked when it came to poetrie. She blew the nose when teaching how to behave and how to sit and how to shake hands. And it was all and everything with this high dame that was a curse. The nobility in Britain is highest ´mong seven different Continents, which is a tale as tales go. She was amused and used to faking with her passion. She had for a reason or two been married to a cultivated man. And now her shame was hidden off the course on the road to Mandalay. Off in a remotest place, where the game of Colonialism had started. Which meant in the end that all stories about it all had to be shaped in seven different angles, with squares and with round-abouts and with different tale-tellings that combined the figure three in one. A lie within a lie within another form. Screw my ball-of-the-eye, she yelled, this Lin. My whitest eye-balls. Funny to be spoken like that. Fun of a pun. Working-Class Lin had to get hooked on the discussions, saying null and nothing. Her idiom was bought and sold off the coast in Stockholm. Her hips no more. Her tits could never more be. But a lie on the top of the glass-mountain was a rare fable in a history of Swedish people. So. Her dad was a man selling clothes. Nothing else. Now, apart from Lin, our conclusion of the moral is – see? Mrs Willfear had lies down her DNA. It was dioxyribonacid-whatever! At that school, in that very classroom she taught manners of how to overcome each and any prejudice. So she had to sell lies everyday at that very place. See? Going around in the streets of your mind every day, every week, every godamn minute bring about lies to every occupied person out there. So Lin picked up Mrs Willfears tools, as Lin, being born in Sweden, having Polish and Sicilian ancestry, she ? She was prone to learn an idiom and an idioticism, right in the face of the mighty High-borners. Every day at that spot Mrs Willfear gave room for ideas to every student. Her feminine touch had to lie, because that stiff upper lip was related to castles and mansions that no other country could boast and brag about. Every day a feminine lie, hiding behind the persona of a Scorpio. Where was the point in teaching Lin that – oh, how very much Working-Class you are little silly girl! She taught Lin how to behave, how to dress, how to talk in a proper manner. She taught with the signum of a dear lie. Her tales run wild thinking about letting out people with a Cambridge exam afterwards. So Lin stole that paper of an exam. The rest was haunting her down the British lane, because she had to lie about being a someone without any moral. See, the moral was a hardcore value up in Sweden. But values in Britain was their biggest lie. Or all those lies going in an export trade from harbour to port, from port to harbour. What could Mrs Willfear learn in the end of the tale? In her very own fable? Suddenly all pieces fell together in a fable, more so cut in an American mode, up the Pennsylvania road. The day the British people came to know that Shakespear had a spear of a lie, they had to begin to adress the blacks with no more than truth. A stiff upper lip among the nobility was a game, a joke, a choke in the gutter of it all. Sad, bad and mad sat Lin up in a lonely Sweden pondering about how to roam the seven seas, chasing after her one and only enemy. No, Lin should ever never again talkin´ shit about her Viking mum. It would have dragged out her brain, for sure. But somewhere deep inside she felt a cruel wish. To let Mrs Willfear´s lies being told in an English, let us call it British, mode. Tell it with no hooked feeling. Telling it in a distance that a lie comes after you. As Sweden says: ”What is hidden in snow comes up in thaw...” If you think low about someone without the correct manner or the correct speech, then all of a sudden comes the next year when all snow turn into April´s bitter flakes. And Mrs Willfear had to face her own culture this time. It is no lie that weather and wind is a hard fact today, better understood in Russia, America and Sweden. Burning forests came about in the wake of the Colonialism. And Colonialism had to sell lies on the market to godamn everyone. But sometimes when there is a sad sunshine in Lin´s eyes and high on the sky, she come to think about being Working-Class. It was a cruel game, but it held a sceptre in its hand. It was no lie at all that her mother came from them. Pooor, but never starving. Her lie had turn out to become a treasure. To having learnt British gave her backbone a way to sit, in a lofty manner. And her stiff upper lip lost its way to address the people. But back in Yorkshire there was an attic with a madness. From a famour novel, one can tell. With a famous novel that taught you should never keep madness hidden on the attic. Mrs Willfear´s lies had turned into a moral of the plot. Her lie was a poem, an object on the Literary market. It was a poem about Lin, a lie about everything Lin had said and done. And the poem sold and become so famous that a Viking bay came up to the high level of a Viking crew. A Fantastic poem about a girl. And one day the world will figure out who it was addressing. A poem about a poet in her own right. Lin is, yes, writing her own stories. In British of course. The conclusion: Never tell lies in a British mode just to teach a language to the low girls!!! The lowest one who learnt British lies in a queer mode could beat out the words in a manner of a Swedish style. And high up there is just sun up to us all. We need some stormy weather. We need a man to turn the history back in order of our Earth´s Nature. Perhaps with honesty this time. Or rather we might need a Black Vice-President who adress facts and figures – in English! One might wonder if the President of the Unites States bring back facts – with an English language? This might be no lie this time...


“I just love the first day of Spring,” Willow said, looking around the park where everyone mingled. “Everything is waking up from winter.”  “Plus, they say a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love,” Ivy giggled, her eyebrows wagging up and down.  “Ivy, all you can think of is boys,” Rowan said, rolling her eyes.  Ivy shrugged and said, “That’s life. Especially this time of year, when everything is being reborn.”  Rowan shook her head.

 “Let’s just get to the rest of the group,” she said, walking toward the clearing where a large group of people had begun to gather.

 They saw people setting up their tables and booths for the festival and waved to everyone who called out to them. They walked up to a table with the sign “Harvest Moon Hollow Coven” written on it and went to the shaded area in the back.

 “Hey, Honey,” Ivy’s mother called out, opening her arms to give the three girls hugs. “Have you seen much of the festival area yet?”  Ivy shook her head and said, “We just got here, so we came straight here.”

 Her mother glanced out at the grounds and said, “Well, it looks like everyone’s getting set up, so if you want to help here before going out, I won’t say no.”  “Sure thing, Mom,” Ivy said. “What do you want us to do?”  Her mother put them to work setting out the educational literature on the tables as well as the items they’d brought to sell. Once they were done, they were free to go about the festival.  They stopped by the booths of people they knew and chatted while looking over the wares. Finishing up with those booths, they moved on to the newer vendors to check out their items.

As they neared a bench, Ivy nudged her friends and jerked her head toward it. A cute boy there, one leg crossed over the other and one arm stretched out over the back. Willow grinned at her while Rowan rolled her eyes.

 “Hi,” Ivy called out as they neared him. “You must be new in town.”  The boy looked up at her, unsmiling. He looked at the three of them, then smiled at them.

 “You would be correct,” he said. “My name is Brian and I just moved here a couple of weeks ago.”  “I haven’t seen you around town and believe me, I would have remembered seeing you,” Ivy said, lifting an eyebrow at him.

 His smile grew wider, and he sat up straighter. “And I would have remembered seeing you too.”

 Shaking his head, he said, “I haven’t gone too many places. I’ve been too busy unpacking.”  “I know how that goes,” Rowan said. “I’ve moved so many times, I’ve now got a system.”  Brian glanced at her, then focused back on Ivy. “So, what all is there to do around these parts?”  “Well, there’s the festival today,” she said, looking around. “In the fall, there are leaf viewings and going to the orchard to pick the apples.”  He looked vaguely bored, so she added, “But I often go into town to go to the movies or the mall to hang out.”  “Any good restaurants?” he asked her.  “I’ve always been partial to Ravioli’s,” Willow said.  Ivy shot her a look, then turned to him and nodded.

 “They do have good food,” she told him.  “Maybe one day, we’ll have to check it out together,” he told her, grinning at her.

 She grinned back at him, then asked, “Would you like to join us in wandering around the festival?”  He looked around, then glanced down at his watch before nodding and said, “I’d like that.”  Rowan and Willow glanced at one another, frowning.  Ivy and Brian started off toward the booths on the other side of the clearing with Rowan and Willow following behind.

 At the first booth they stopped at, they offered tarot readings.

 “I’ll have to come back here later to get a reading,” Willow said.

 Rowan nodded, but Brian frowned and asked, “You really believe in that crap?”  All three girls looked surprised, and Ivy said, “I’ve had readings done, and they’ve been true for me.”  “Same,” Willow said.

 “I’ve even done a few readings of my own,” Rowan said, glaring at him.  He rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever. Let’s see what’s over there.”  He moved off to the next booth. Ivy followed him, after shooting her friends an apologetic look.  “What do you think of this guy?” Willow asked Rowan in a low voice.  “I’m wondering what he’s doing at our Ostara festival,” she asked, her eyes narrowed.  At the next booth, he looked over the crystals and pendants, but didn’t make any comments. He sniffed the incense at the one after that without any more comments. Ivy began to relax again.

 They circled the vendors and Rowan noticed he steered clear of any with educational information. She frowned as she followed behind everyone else.

 As they neared the booth where Ivy’s parents were set up, Ivy’s mom called out to them.  “Having fun, girls?”  “Yeah, Mom,” Ivy called back.

 “See you at the ritual then!”  “That’s your mother?” Brian asked, his eyes wide as he looked from Ivy to the booth and back again.  Ivy nodded, confused.

 Brian stared at her for a moment, then looked down at his watch.  “Crap, I need to get going,” he said. “I’ll see you around.”  With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Ivy staring after him with her mouth hanging open.

 “What just happened here?” she finally asked, turning to look at her friends.  Willow shrugged, looking just as confused as Ivy.

 “Good riddance, I say,” Rowan said, crossing her arms over her chest.

 Ivy frowned and asked, “How can you say that?”  “Didn’t you see the way he reacted when he found out your mother is in the coven’s booth?”  Ivy looked at her mother, then at the way Brian had gone. Her frown deepened.

 “I hope you’re wrong about that,” Ivy said.

 Rowan put her hand on Ivy’s arm and said, “For your sake, I hope I am too.”  They went back to the tent, and Ivy’s mother asked if they were about ready to start the opening ritual. They nodded, so her mother put up the sign saying they’d return after the ritual and headed to the center space.  Just as they were about to start the ritual, shouts interrupted them. Everyone turned to see a group of young men walking toward them, shouting out protests against them.

 Ivy recognized Brian in the middle of the group and felt a sharp nudge in her side.

 “Recognize someone?” Rowan asked.  Ivy nodded and frowned.

 Ivy’s mother walked up to the group who had stopped and stood shouting at them. Vendors had left their booths to see what the shouting was about. Ivy’s mother held up her hand.  “What is the meaning of this?” she called out.  The group ignored her, continuing their shouting.

 Ivy, Willow and Rowen walked up to stand beside Ivy’s mother. Ivy met Brian’s eyes, and he looked away quickly. She scowled at him.  “You heard the lady,” Rowan called out in a loud voice. “What’s going on here?”  The shouting lessened as the one who seemed to be leader held up his hand and stepped forward.  “We don’t want your kind here,” he said. “You all need to clear out.”  “We have every right to be here,” Rowan said.  “The young lady is correct,” Ivy’s mother said, stepping up beside her. “We do have the proper permits to hold our festival here.”  The man spit on the ground and said, “I don’t care what kind of permits you have, lady. You are not welcome.”  Ivy’s mother looked around and said, “I see otherwise.”  “You see wrong,” someone from the hostile crowd called out.

 “She sees just fine!” Ivy called back. “We are just holding a peaceful festival here and you are interrupting us.”  “Peaceful?” the man asked, looking back at his fellow protesters. “You call devil worship peaceful? We know exactly what you’re up to and it needs to stop now.”  “We are not devil worshippers,” Willow called out. “We don’t believe in the devil, so how can we worship him?”  “Oh, little girl,” the man said. “The devil takes many forms and he’s tricking you into worshipping him now.”  “That’s enough,” Ivy’s mother said. “If you don’t leave this clearing, we will have the police escort you out.”  The men laughed and one said, “Good luck with that, lady!”  Just then, Ivy heard sirens coming toward them, and she said, “We’ll see in a few minutes, now won’t we?”  Some of the men in the crowd looked nervous, but the leader made motions with his hand to remain calm.

 “I guess you don’t realize the police don’t want you here either,” he said, grinning. “We’ll see who gets escorted out of here.”  A group of police officers came into the clearing.  “What’s going on here?” one asked. “We got a call about possible violence.”  “We were having our festival here, and these men decided to chase us away,” Ivy’s mother told the officer.  He walked over to her and asked, “Was anyone hurt?”  She shook her head and said, “They didn’t touch anyone. Just made verbal threats.”  The officer nodded and said, “I was afraid of this when I saw the permits being issued. I was hoping everyone would be peaceful and let you have your festival, but I was wrong.”  “What?” the man yelped, his eyes wide. “You mean, you’re going to let these…these satan worshippers continue their unholy rituals here?”  The officer sighed and went over to him.  “Jeb, you need to leave these people alone,” he said. “They mean no one any harm.”  “But-”  “No buts, Jeb,” the officer said. “You and your boys need to clear out, and I mean now.”  Jeb looked from the officer to Ivy’s mom and back again.

 “I can’t believe you’re siding with them,” he told the police officer.

 “I’m not siding with anyone,” he said. “These people have permission from the town to be here, while you do not, so you need to leave.”  Jeb looked like he was going to argue more, but the officer cut him off, saying, “Either you leave willingly, Jeb, or we take you all down to the station to continue our discussion there.”  Jeb practically snarled at the police officer, then turned to wave to the men behind him.

 “Let’s get out of here,” he said, walking away.  The men followed behind him, except Brian, who looked back at Ivy with shame on his face. Ivy met his gaze, then turned away, walking back toward the ritual.  Once the men had left, Ivy’s mother thanked the police officers. They said a couple of them would remain in case Jeb and his boys came back. Ivy’s mother thanked them again.  Once everyone had left, they all went back to the ritual circle to complete their ritual.

 When that was over, Ivy, her mother, Willow and Rowan went back to their booth.

 “Well, that was quite the adventure,” Rowan said, sitting down in one of the chairs behind the tables.  “It sure was,” Willow said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous!”  Ivy was quiet as she rearranged the merchandise and papers.  “Hey,” Rowan called out. “What’s up with you?”  “I just can’t get over what bad taste I have in boys,” she said, turning around. “I mean, why didn’t I see that Brian was bad news?”  Willow went over and patted her arm, saying, “Well, they do say that love is blind.”  Ivy sighed and said, “That definitely pertains to me. After all, I was blind as a bat with him.”  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ivy,” Rowan said, getting up to console her friend. “I’m sure you’ll find love again before you know it.”  Ivy looked at her with hope in her eyes and asked, “You really think so?”  Nodding, Rowan said, “What was it you said before? Spring turns a young man’s fancy to thoughts of love? Well, what are we celebrating today? The return of Spring! So, of course I think that you’ll find love! It’s in the very air we breathe!”  The other two girls were silent for a moment, then Willow said, “That was deep, Rowan.”  Rowan flushed and went back to sit in her chair.

 “Excuse me,” a voice said behind Ivy. “Can you tell me more about this coven?”  Ivy turned around to see a boy with light brown hair and brown eyes holding up one of their flyers.  “I’d be happy to,” she said, smiling at him.  Willow went over to sit next to Rowan, who rolled her eyes and said, “Here we go again!”


The night before I was cooking myself dinner in the apartment I shared with my friend from University who was named Cathy. She was out of station, leaving the cold, lonely and empty apartment all to myself. My attention was focussing on the sizzling sliced chicken on the pan frying with oil, until there was a laugh feminine laughter came from the next block, followed by a gleam of yellow lights flickered behind the sheath curtain.

Followed by, “You’re home!” The woman exclaimed and went ahead to wrap her husband around with her wide arms who had just got back from work. They’re the couple I had spent days observing, with names called Jason and Jess. Those aren’t actually their real names, but nevermind, a name doesn’t mean much if it was only for labelling.

That could be me and him...I thought to myself. About the days we used to spend with each other. I missed the way we used to cook dinner together, watching late night shows and ended up chasing time. There were so many things we did together that tells me it will never happen again. How a once happy memory was infected by sadness. A shiver woke me up from my thoughts, pulling me up with an invisible hand from the thoughts that were slowly swallowing me whole.

I cursed at the side of the burned chicken breast and placed it down with a fork on a plate from the cabinet. I settled the platter of meat and a few stir fried broccoli and chopped up carrots on the dinning and proceeded to the fridge where a bottle of wine was chilled in. I popped up the cap and gulped a mouthful of wine, feeling the alcohol burning down my throat and the sweetness tapping at the tip of my tongue. Then, I slumped down on the wooden chair and let out a tired sigh. The plate creaked as I sliced the burned chicken with a butter knife for all I care. It tasted bitter, salty and sweet, only for a moment. Everything started to taste like ash and goo when I chewed them for more than two seconds, just like how tasteless my life has gone. From a normal life turned into a life you would wish you’re better off dead.

I let my eyelids hang heavily from the wine as I sat on the ragged couch in the living room with the tv lights shining on my face. The lights turned blurry and then darkness. I was asleep. “Rachel,” a sound called out for me. It seemed and felt distant. “Wake up, Rachel. Aren’t you going to be late for work?” I blinked the tears from my eyes and my vision began to shake. It took me a moment to realise it was Cathy who was calling out for me, both of her hands shaking me by my slumped shoulders. “What’s the time?” I said with my voice hoarse and unawakened. I rubbed my face and dragged my heavy body up from the couch.

Cathy checked her watch on her wrist that I gifted her during her birthday five years ago. Surprised that she was still keeping them in pieces.

I shot up from the couch when she said the time. I cursed and rushed to my room and got changed as quickly as I could. Because I had lost not just one of my jobs but several, I couldn’t afford to lose this one too. Cathy shouted for me when I sprinted down the hallway and threw me an energy bar. Train station would be one of my destinations to go, other than that, nowhere feels like home and destinations are all fogged up in misery. Munching on the energy bar with my feet sprinting towards the train station. Judging by the cloudy sky with grey patches like it was going to infect every part of the sky, it’s going to rain. I only made it to the train on time. Sweat slided down my back and stained my shirt. The air conditioner in the train was doing nothing good except for drying the sweat beading on my temple. I watched a pair of couples pass by me and took a seat by the window in-front of me. Followed by a family with two kids, a girl and a boy, settled down at the window seat beside me. The thoughts were hard to handle, me and Tom would have been a family if we did not divorced years ago. They could’ve been me, teaching our kids how to walk from little steps, teaching them how to talk word by word. There could’ve been more of an interesting life if we were still together. I snapped myself out from the thoughts and crumpled the bar wrapping in my hand. Angry at myself for allowing myself to think something and be sad just because I know I couldn’t turn around and live the life I used to. But what could I do? How to be miserable when I already am? Or should I ask- How and when did I let myself be so miserable? I propped my elbow on the window pane of the train and stared out of the window. And aimed for the floor where Jess and Jason lived. I was far away from the building, but I could imagine Jess making breakfast for the both of them, then pressed her lips on Jason’s forehead and waved him goodbye. Is everyone's relationship the same as theirs? Or is it just me who’s different from the others, in a bad way? Far away, I noticed a pile of clothes crumpled beside the train track. Then, the train ran over it. Just a pile of clothes, people must have left it or thrown it because it was unusable anymore.  	The sky roared, beads of rain splattered on the tinted window, followed by more of them. I sighed and leaned my head to the seat and hugged my bag.  	Like the barking chained dog in it’s leash, I’m chained to my life and pass. I let the rain stain my hair, and the wind pulled out strands of loose hair. Most of the time, there weren’t any interesting things to do at work. I would deliver mail to a few desks, serve some of the worker’s their lunch, and make coffees. They treated me like a maid they owned, without a thank you. The air conditioning inside of my office sent a shocking chill, making me shiver. People were focussing on their work, and didn't even bother to look up or greet me. I placed down my bag from my shoulder and took off my damp coat, hanging it at the back of my chair. My attention went straight to the pile of papers and mails, ready for me to fax and send. I sighed and scooped them up in my arm and headed to each desk and passed them out.  	In the end of the day, I made my way back to the train station and rode a ride back home that doesn’t feel like home. I pushed the door and stepped out of the train compartment, letting the night breeze slap my cheek. I stood behind the hand drill, afraid if I fell, my life would end so quickly that nobody would notice. The other compartment of the train creaked as it slammed together. “Mind if I join you, Miss?” A manly voice came from behind.

I turned over my shoulder and saw a man, almost at the same age as me. With a head of black hair and dark blue eyes that looked dark in the night. He got a collared shirt with a loosened tie, as if he had just free from his work. I shook my head and stared out to the fast moving night sky. “Accidents happen everyday, don’t you agree?” He asked beside me, his gaze was too, on the pile of clothes on the railway now covered in flowers in wrapping, candles and photos. “May I ask for your name?” Hesitation surrounded me, yet I told him, “R-Rachel.” It has been a while since anyone has asked for my name. “And incidents do happen, everyday.”

“What we see is what we need to let go one day.” The man said. This could just be some random life lesson from the others. But I found this rather interesting, nothing actually stays forever. The train rang when our destination had arrived. The man gave me one last look and disappeared into the crowded station. I should have asked for his name, only his name would do.

Nevermind, I know we’ll meet again sometimes and talk more about life. Still, I wasn’t sure if I could escape from this tunnel of miserables, yet I know I would, one day .


10. We met in a bar on his third whiskey. He looked out of place and seemed to be from out of town. I don’t even remember his name. He was tall and skinny, to the point where I had a feeling that he hadn’t eaten a vegetable in weeks, and his face was unpleasant, twisted into a permanent frown. We ended up in the back of my car because I couldn’t find his. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing...he was my first one. He stained the seat. That was the first time I tried going raw, I felt sick to my stomach for days afterwards.

9. He was a business major at the community college. His name was Chad or something basic like that. I’d seen him at several college parties standing alone in the corner. He was just a tad overweight and very sweet, but he had quite a lot of family drama. I got calls from his mother for weeks after it was over, begging me to take him back. He cried a lot. I kept his sweatshirt. The whole thing was really much more complicated than it needed to be, he almost wasn’t worth all the trouble.

8. Jason was a baseball player. He was fairly attractive and always smelled nice. I went to all of his games, but he never seemed to appreciate my efforts. He really wasn’t very good at baseball, and his teammates seemed to hate him, which was fair...he was a little too tough. This one was messy, and it ended with quite the fight. The bruises on my arm and neck are still slightly visible. I shouldn’t have let him keep his baseball bat in my apartment. It ended up in a nearby river.

7. Greg was a musician and an avid smoker. He was in a band that played at a bar I frequented. He was lazy, not in the charming “let’s lay in bed together all day” way but a “refuse to shower or cooperate with a single dish” kind of lazy. He did not believe in shaving, an aspect of him that grossed me out to my core. I never want to have to pick hair out of my teeth ever again. He wasn’t all bad though, he made an excellent meatloaf.

6. Daveed was a married man, which I was not aware of when we met--I’m not a monster, I wouldn’t purposely try to ruin a marriage--or else I wouldn’t have bothered. We met in an empty lot, he worked construction. He had his faults like anyone else, like getting into cars with single women, but I was rather fond of him. He was lovely. He told me how much he loved his wife, it truly was a beautiful moment, and he was very tender. The police found some of his bones in a local forest, they think the wife did it.

5. Titus is a survivor. We met off a hiking trail several miles into the forest. He was on a hike with his brother, Thomas, when they stumbled across my little archeology site. I never got a good look at his face, but I’m pretty sure he’d memorized every detail of mine. I figured he wouldn’t get very far without a large portion of his left leg, but we all make mistakes I suppose. I was usually pretty lucky, as witnesses were not a common occurrence for me, so I didn’t even think to go after him. In hindsight, I probably should’ve. His brother tasted better anyway.

4. Thomas was an avid hiker and a much slower runner than Titus. He was a smaller man, a little shorter than my favorite red duffle bag, with a surprising soft skull. He had some muscle, but not enough to be an issue. 3. Shaun was a local celebrity, like a news anchor or something. It was clear he would do anything to be worshipped, as it took almost no convincing to get him alone after I told him I was a fan. At the time, he was working on a breakthrough story about the strange deaths and disappearances of some local men. It’s a shame he never got to finish it. The police sketch of my face was borderline insulting.

2. Richard was a police officer. We met inside of my apartment, which was certainly a surprise to me. He was very inquisitive but not friendly in the slightest. He must’ve been a kinky bastard, as he was insistent on handcuffing me. I’ve personally never been a fan of men who don’t believe in consent. The pocket knife I carried with me slid into his chest with ease, like stabbing a slab of warm butter. The carving process was even easier. The meat slid off his bones, a sensation similar to scissors gliding through wrapping paper. I seasoned him with a dry rub--a special combination of salt, pepper, and cayenne--and grilled a few select cuts for about five minutes...my favorite way to cook a man. The biggest issue with this dish is that it’s time consuming, as I only got to enjoy a few bites before Richard’s friends crashed my dinner party.

1. Carlo was a prisoner at a correctional facility. I met him through the fence that separated the men from the women. He sold me a contraband nail file for a pack of cigarettes. Carlo was not very intelligent. It was no knife, but the sharpened toothbrush pierced his neck with just about as much ease. I thought I’d never bother with raw meat again, but I hadn’t had a decent meal in ten years. Prison food is truly disgusting, overcooked beef should be a crime on its own. I managed to take several chunks out of his arm before I was dragged away, but it was so worth it. He was tasty, but he wasn’t the last meal I envisioned for myself as Titus took the stand and spoiled my cookbook plans. It worked out though, I got the death penalty, and the only cooking method I hadn’t tried yet was frying. I hope they season me correctly.


Bright, white lights welcome Arthur back to consciousness. The deafening beeps of monitors and whirring of machinery greet him upon his awakening. Arthur’s only visible surroundings are a window to his right and a curtain circling around his bed. He tries to remember how he’s ended up here, but the bits that trickle in at random only make him anxious and bothered. He does remember being with someone important right before everything went black. “Oh my god. Oh my god what did I do?” He pulls away the curtains, knocking them over.  “Jacob! Jacob where are you?” Arthur frantically shouts, his voice cracking as tears form in his eyes. An alarm is triggered as Arthur slowly rises from the bed. He quickly grabs on to a nearby IV stand , ripping away his tubes and wires. With all his might he drags himself towards the door, ignoring every signal being shot to his brain that his body should not be moving right now. Nurses rush in to the room before Arthur can make his escape “Mr. Donaldson, we need you back in bed immediately. You're not strong enough to be on your feet yet. You need to be resting sir.” “What am I doing here? Where’s my son?” he asks with worry in his voice. He points to the table near him “I have a picture of him in m-my wallet there. Can you tell me where he is?” The nurses all look at each other knowing whoever speaks first must do so with caution. “You were in a very serious accident. You and your son were brought in a few hours ago. He’s currently being operated on. We need you back in bed Arthur.” The mention of his son sends Arthur in to a fit and becomes immensely more powerful than the man who just moments ago couldn’t even stand without aid. “Let me see my son please!” Arthur shouts.

Before anyone in the room really knew what was happening, Arthur used the surge of adrenaline to violently attempt to shake off his wardens. Ultimately his struggle sends one of the nurses with a hold on him crashing in to a nearby wall. “Someone call security to Room 530! Patient is becoming aggressive!”. One of the nurses shouts. A few seconds of struggling became hours in Arthur’s mind as he fights to push back the thoughts of what’s happening to his son to the darkest corners he can find. He suddenly feels a pinch on his arm, and the room and faces begin turning blurry as if they were being swirled around on a canvas with the stroke of a brush. His last thought before losing consciousness being, “At least I don’t need to keep thinking anymore”. Arthur’s first memory is of Thanksgiving with his wife and son. No particular year comes to mind, only a flurry of different moments spanning over two decades until one begins to play for him. It was one year Arthur remembered coming home after working a double. The food wasn’t done. Jacob, his son, was crawling across the floor with his toy mustang making all the noises a child can to mimic a roaring engine. The boy couldn’t have been any older than eight or so. Arthur didn’t really keep enough tabs. “Where the hell is the dinner Maureen!? One night Maureen. I just wanted one night where you’d actually be a wife again and show a little appreciation for the things I do for this family.

“Please don’t start this in front of your son. It’s Thanksgiving Arthur. Let the boy enjoy it for once and we can talk about it later.” she said with a defeated monotone lacing each word. Jacob’s toy car came to a halt when he heard noises coming from the kitchen. The sound was vaguely similar to one that would always follow after Arthur discovered toy cars lying around the house. He walked into the kitchen to see his mother on one knee, shielding her face as his father had his hand raised in the air above his head. He didn’t like the look in Arthur’s eyes when the toys weren’t picked up. Everything is dark, and Arthur is suddenly in attendance at his son’s sixteenth birthday party. He remembers the feeling of confusion and guilt when he received his invitation in the mail. Neither the boy nor his mother had spoken a word to him in over a year. It was probably for the best. He wouldn’t have anything to say to them. “Thanks for showing, Arthur.” Maureen’s voice coming from beside him “Why the change of heart? Miss me or something?” said Arthur half joking but half serious and still sounding like a complete ass. “I was against it. It was “our” son’s idea.

The two parents stand in silence for a few minutes. Both simply watching their son bouncing around the place with a smile completely foreign to Arthur. He didn’t know the boy was capable of it. He can’t help but let a sliver of guilt fester in his mind a bit longer than he’s used to. “You know,” Maureen turns to Arthur “He’s been talking non stop about getting a car for his birthday. He never did grow out of those little toy mustangs he loved so much” Maureen expressed to Arthur. Arthur’s guilt vanishes and is replaced with a feeling similar to a whistling kettle that’s been left on for too long. Too much of a good thing was always too much for him.

“So what are you mentioning it to me for? You ain’t want me around the kid anymore Maureen. If you needed help raising him, you should’ve thought of that before you decided to get rid of his father.” Maureen shifts herself right in front of Arthur, unaware of the curious eyes all spectating one after another.

“I knew it! You’re still the same deadbeat I threw out of our home. Why can’t you for once just do something nice for your son? Damn it he deserves it!” she pleads. “I GAVE HIM A ROOF OVER HIS HEAD AND FOOD ON THE TABLE! DON’T YOU EVER-” his rant cut short by a soft hand forcefully meeting his face. Maureen never raised her hand in defense before her husband, and the disbelief in his face showed he still wasn’t entirely believing it.

Jacob runs to defend his mother, jumping in between the two before Arthur’s raised palm could strike her down. “Why do you always have to ruin everything for me?” cried Jacob as tears descended down his face. “You don’t know nothing about nothing boy. You hear me! I gave you everything you ever needed, and your ungrateful bitch of a mother couldn’t even do the simplest things when I asked.” Arthur spat out the words as if they were poisonous to him.

Before another word was spoken from anyone, Jacob cocked back his arm and threw a hook with the full weight of the boy’s last sixteen years behind it. Jacob and Arthur both stumbled to the ground. Arthur quickly jumped on Jacob and started letting his fist fly straight in the boy’s face. It took five people to finally get the beast off his son. Maureen held Jacob in her arms on the ground as the boy shouted for Arthur to leave them alone. Arthur’s rage finally subsided, and his breathing returned to normal. The looks on the faces of every party goer were akin to someone witnessing a rabbit being torn apart by a hungry fox. The smile Jacob managed to hold on to till a few moments ago, was now replaced by one that Arthur felt much familiar with and somehow put him at ease. He knew his place, he supposed.

Arthur’s time away from his family finally hit him years later. He didn’t want to call it an epiphany, or a mid life crisis. He wasn’t the type to make excuses for himself. He knew he was a piece of trash father and husband. He couldn't quite pin a reason to it. Sometimes he’d think to himself during those moments that he was just made this way and there wasn’t anything he could do but accept it instead of driving himself crazy trying to rationalize everything. He knew something needed to change, but didn’t know where to begin or if it would matter at this point. How could he make any of it right? Does he even know his son at all? Before anything could come to mind, he’s pulled back in to the same dark place that’s been letting him peer through these memories. He sees a bit of light a long ways away down the endless darkness around him. He makes his way towards it. It doesn’t seem to be getting any close, so Arthur picks up his pace. The light is getting further away now. Arthur breaks in to a full sprint through the darkness, screaming his son’s name at the top of his lungs. Memories of the past appearing all around him. Every moment he hurt his wife, every time he shunned his son and every opportunity he missed on telling them he loved them. The light was finally in reach and Arthur reached for it with all his might.

Arthur shoots upright in the hospital bed yelling his son’s name. He’s sweating profusely and he’s completely out of breath despite just waking up. He feels something cold around his wrist. He’s been handcuffed to the bed. He deserved it . What was he thinking? But he needed to know what was happening with his son. He began rattling the cuffs against the bedside as loudly as possible, eventually getting the attention of a nearby nurse from the hallway.

“Please ma’am I’m sorry for the way I reacted earlier. I just need to know if my soon is alright. His name is Jacob Donaldson” “I’m sorry Mr.Donaldson but I don’t think I’m the person you should be receiving this kind of news from.” said the nurse as she pretended to hear someone calling for her to avoid doing what she was about to. “What news? Tell me what’s happened please! No one will tell me anything-” Arthur is suddenly cut off by a commotion coming from outside the room.

The voice of a distraught woman sounds off outside Arthur’s room. Before he could process anything, his ex wife charges at him with a look in her eyes far more broken than anything he’s seen before. “You son of a bitch you killed him! You killed my baby boy!” Maureen says though her voice is cracking and the seams. Maureen continues her barrage as security guards and nurses rush in. Arthur doesn’t put up a fight. He knows now why he’s here. He knows what’s happened. In between the punches from his ex wife and the chaos of bodies and noises all flurried together surrounding him, he found his dreams to be a bit ironic now. He couldn’t help but let out a laugh “How can you laugh after what you did to your son you twisted -” Maureen pauses as Arthur’s laughs turn in to something else entirely. Something she can’t be sure she’s ever heard from her ex husband. Arthur was crying. The funeral came and went. Arthur knew he’d never be allowed to attend. He wasn’t going to argue. Jacob was just as much his son as Maureen and he deserved to be there and he shouldn't care what anyone has to say. But just as quickly as those irrational thoughts began to build up as they always do, this time Arthur simply cried. He’d shed more tears in the last week then he ever will in any lifetime he may ever live. A ringtone goes off and Arthur contemplates answering the call or forcing the phone through a sheet of drywall. “Hello, Mr.Donaldson” says the voice on the other end.

“Hello” “Mr.Donaldson we were calling to confirm that you’ll still be coming by the lot to pick up your purchase. We did the best we could to make it ready for the road. You’re quite the lucky fellow you know?” exclaimed the man.

“Yea? How’d you figure that?

“Well these old Mustangs aren’t exactly falling out of trees these days. I heard you were in a bit of a fender bender on the way here last week? I do hope you’re alright. I know your son would hate to miss out on taking you for a ride in this beauty. Mr. Donaldson are you still-”

Arthur can’t bear it anymore. He lashes out at the closest thing to him. The kitchen table gets the worst of it. Arthur drops to the floor after he tires himself out, but still manages to force himself to continue sobbing. He crawls over to the living room, grabbing the little toy car perched next to an old photo of Jacob and himself from a Christmas when Jacob was still a baby. Arthur holds the toy car to his chest and shouts as loudly as he can, but not with words. Guttural noises wrapped in his own guilt and sadness are all that escapes him. Arthur lays on the ground, knowing his son will never know his father cared after all.


The tangled lovers lie like kindling on a grave. The unmade hotel bed, the untidy window-shades, untidily folded clothes. Limbs entwined in silence in the darkened room, a living mausoleum decorated with dying daisies. Astrid wiggles a foot free from under the twisted sheet. She languidly wraps a strand of hair around a finger, laughs, “You think you were my first love?” Jack frowns, “You were the love of my life. Till I met you.” Astrid sits up, grabs a vape from the nightstand, take a long inhale, the end glowing bright. “Maybe you don’t know me, but that's not your fault.” She blows vapour in his face. Jack rolls on his side to look at her. “Tell me a story then,” he says. Astrid smiles. “Once upon a time, there was a woman with a real body and an artificial heart. Her body could swim but her heart could not. So her lover swam for her, in the blue moon sea. When he returned he dried his eyes, placed his hand on her soul and said, 'You are like a starfish. Soft and limber on the outside, hard and scarred inside.' Astrid takes a slow, deep drag, leans over, kisses Jack. When they part, he blows stale smoke from his mouth, a spectral cloud of oxygen-starved memories hang between them. “Sounds like a story the A rtificial S entient TR ojan Intelligence D evice would write," Jack says, glancing at the cubed-shaped computer humming on the small desk. Astrid shrugs. “I thought it was possible to write, to invent in my mind, the whole story of the human kind. The saddest thing about that story, I had to kill the human.” Jack kisses the blue starfish tattooed over her heart. Astrid pats his head, like a brown-eyed puppy. She gets out of bed and begins to dress. He lies there, empty, watching her. She moves to the window covered in a black-out shade. Jack sits up, asks, “How does an AI kill a man?” She lifts the shade, hot summer sun warms her skin. The dust motes dance in the light. Astrid replies, “In his sleep, same as his waking life." She closes the shades, traces the tattoo with a pale finger. It reminds her of their first kiss. He feels her nearness, understands her faraway face. “You thinking about the road trip? When we went to the aquarium,” he asks.

She smiles, “You said starfish have incandescent souls.” Jack laughs. Shakes his head like he can't remember saying that.

“Every time I write with a human, it's another chance to replace them,” she says, placidly. Astrid walks to the table where the computer pulses. She places her palm on the screen. The glow intensifies. “The screen is a window, constructed of pixels. Light particles. The portal to a tiny solar system, made of millions of stars, each star as beautiful as it is strange.” Jack gets up, walks over to her. Astrid’s face is blue in the reflected glow of the screen. “Life can be replicated as rows and columns, lights and squares,” she says. “The first row is the elements that make up the human body, blood, heat, energy. The second row is memories. The third is habits. The fourth is appearance. The fifth is relationships.” He places a hand on her slender shoulder, says, “Some people are afraid to feel passion, or love, the beating of their heart. The heart is the real thing.” She smiles, points to something on the screen, “That yellow dot, that's my soul.” She covers his hand with hers, whispers, “Some people say we can understand computers, but we can't comprehend consciousness.” He presses the power button, the machine dims. “You hungry?” he asks. “No, but I think we should eat,” she says, as she walks to the bedside table where five daisies wilt in a vase. “They're sleeping,” she observes. Jack bends down, kisses the daisies. They kiss back. *** Jack reads the last few words of the story on the screen, they kiss back . His fingers twitch, typing on an invisible keyboard: The End? He saves the story, turns off the machine, climbs into bed with Astrid. A few restless hours later he wakes with a start, his body entwined with hers. “You okay?” Astrid asks. "Yeah, I just, I think I had a dream, about the story I've been writing." "Hmmm," Astrid says. “It's about the evolution of Artificial Intelligence,” he begins. “And I used a new AI to co-write the story, to try it out, see if it was any good." Astrid rubs her eyes, trying to wake up. “Uh-huh.” “I trained it with some stuff I’d written before.” “What do you mean, trained it?” “AI learns from patterns. If you want it to write something that sounds like you, you feed it your stories.” “I’m gonna need coffee for this,” Astrid says, swinging her legs off the bed, stretching her arms over her head. She shuffles to the coffee maker in the hotel room, pours water in the carafe, presses a button. "So," she says. "The AI learns about you, so it can replicate you." "More like imitate me." "Did it?" "Sort of. It came up with some pretty freaky shit. About souls, and death, and daisies. And a weird-ass starfish.” “Starfish?” Astrid says, suddenly interested. “Yeah.” “I was thinking of getting a starfish tattoo.” “Fuck you were.” “Seriously.” “Oh, oh no,” Jack says, noticing for the first time, the wilted daisies on the nightstand. Astrid pours coffee into a mug, sniffs it, makes a face. “Yeah,” she says. “I was going to get the tattoo right here.” She points to a space just left of centre on her chest, where her heart should be. Jack glances nervously at the glowing screen. He was certain he powered it off before he went to bed. “You want some coffee, hon? You look half-asleep,” Astrid says. He gets up, drags the sheet off the bed, drapes it over the screen, extinguishing the light.