The man who lived down the street, just six houses from us always wore a disappointed look on his face, halloween trick or treating was never fun as he always used to make us run off w/o as much as a dumb raisin. The neighbourhood kids hated him for that very reason, and I was no exception. I wondered often, what could he possibly own that made him so arrogant, so proud, so much so that even socialising with kids was beneath him? As I grew up, it turned out that adults were no exception either. This once I recall, all the adults of the society were to gather around for a meeting to review the rules and regulations of the society, everyone but the man who went by the name of Mr Steadler was in attendance. Noticing his absence, a triplet of the committee members was sent to his house to inquire why couldn't make it to the meet. Being the socialising wizard he was, he wasted no time in belittling the very existence of the committee and the clinginess of the members to get to his house uninvited, invading his personal space, and not letting him be.I remember asking my mom about Mr Steadler and why he was always in such a bad mood, and why he never talked to anyone, adult or child. To my disappointment, my mother had no answer either. It turned out, nobody in the neighbourhood knew anything about Mr Steadler apart from his address, his limping walk, and his charming personality. Being as curious as I was, I made it my mission to unravel the mystery that was Mr Steadler. I began by noticing Mr Steadler's routine for a week. Everyday he used to leave his house at 9 A.M. and return at 11 P.M. He never broke this pattern. At most he deviated for an hour or so but that could have very easily been the traffic holding him up. I also noted that between him leaving the house in the morning and entering it in the night, he never had so much as a grin on his face. I began to wonder if this guy ever really had a good day. He looked like he was about 45, maybe 46 years old, which made this even a sadder mystery to solve, to track the daily routine of a 46 year old man who never experienced a single day of happiness? It was getting depressing, even for a 15 year old. But I wasn't ready to give up just yet, I concluded that if I want to get to the bottom of this, I need to follow Mr Steadler around to know more about him. And so, upon the brink of Sunrise one Monday morning, my journey to become local detective had begun.I woke up early, freshened up quickly and waited anxiously on my bike for Mr Steadler to make a move on with his day. My parents weren't being very supportive of my actions, but like all heroes I knew that if I were to make it, I had to let go of them one day or the other.Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mr Steadler came out, locked the door behind him and drove off to wherever he used to drive off to. I followed him, maintaining quite a distance from him. With my helmet on, I was pretty sure it would be difficult for him to recognise me from this distance. I followed him to a mansion located just outside the city. It took us about 4 hours to reach there. Mr Steadler stepped out of his car and went inside the mansion while I stayed behind and set myself up at a nice vantage point with my pair of binoculars to give me a good view of what's happening inside the mansion through its windows. For the next 3 hours what I saw can only be called comedy in its truest form. I saw him cleaning the mansion from top to bottom while a guard kept poking him with a stick, saw him dance for, I'm assuming, the resident kids, saw him getting yelled at by possibly the owner of the mansion while he was on his knees. This was all too funny to miss. But then he did a very peculiar thing just before he left, he went to the adjacent garden, stood there for about 5 minutes and did the most abnormal thing he could possibly do - He smiled. Once he was done making a fool of himself, he got in his car and went off. I assumed we're off to our home and so I got on my bike and followed him from the same distance as before. But I was wrong. He made a turn I didn't recognise. I kept following him for another 90 minutes until we reached a graveyard. This took a dark turn real quick for me. I thought maybe Mr Steadler had spot me and now to protect his image he would take care of me here in the graveyard and dispose off my body in one of the graves. All sorts of horrible thoughts were circling in my head now, how he could use a stick, a hammer, or a jack to knock him unconscious, maybe rape me before killing me whole and then leave my naked body in a hole to rot for eternity? I wanted to run away but then I noticed him getting out of the car, standing at the gate of the cemetery and start crying. He wasn't here to kill me, he was here to grieve. But for whom?As he went inside, I closed in the distance so as to come within earshot of what he was about to say. I finally understood the importance of gravestones at that very moment. He went near a grave which I couldn't make out clearly of whom it belonged to, but I didn't care, all I wanted to do was listen. And so I did. What I heard next brought tears to my eyes. "Hey momma, I'm back. It's been 2530 days since you left. I know I say it every time I come here but I just don't know how to begin talking to you without saying how much everything changed since you left. The mansion in which we used to live in was taken over by dad, he kicked us all out and started his own family, completely abandoning us. Talia fell in love with a guy with connections to the underworld and lost her life to a don who enslaved her for 3 years. When she could no longer live with herself, she cut herself in the middle of a night and those monsters, instead of covering up her body and performing a proper funeral, left her naked cut body to rot in the streets for days until someone found it because of its foul smell. It took some time to identify her but when the media did, it broke me. To see my sister go through that filled me with rage and left me feeling so powerless because there was nothing I could do against these people. After some time had passed since Talia, I met this girl Alice in whom I found comfort. I confided in her and she embraced me with open arms. We went out for a couple of weeks before finding out she was already married to the same don responsible for Talia's murder. Thanks to our similar facial features, it wasn't hard for him to figure out who I was. As soon as he found out, he had me abducted from a fair I was attending and had me in front of a gun's barrel. He gave me two options, either die on the spot or live another day as one of his servants. I don't know why I chose the latter for the former would mean dying once but the latter would be to die everyday. Every single day he makes me clean his massive mansion with a small tooth brush. Everyday I fail to finish even a single floor for which he punishes me by making me stand in water filled with Piranhas. I have lost most of both my feet because of this, his wife, Alice yells at me horrible words just because I'm part Jewish, and keeps reminding me that me and my kind deserved the holocaust and what a whore my sister Talia was. It hurts more to know this is what she thinks of me now that we're over. To humiliate me further, the don would often fuck one of his sex slaves or his wife at times in front of me by tying my cock to a rope hung around a sensitive lever which would unleash the hounds on me should I get hard looking at them have a go at it. Once or twice an incident happened and I still have the scars all over my body. My life has gotten so sad that I'm afraid of making any friends whatsoever, I have to be rude to people, even kids all the time because I know that one little out for my emotions would mean a total breakdown for me, where I'd cry like a baby. Everyday before I leave that horrible mansion, I go over to their garden and smile that at least you guys are no longer here or you'd have it much worse than me. Heh, it's kind of ironic isn't it? Your death making me so sad while at the same time being a blessing. God, if there exists one, does work in mysterious ways, perhaps. I, anyway came here to tell you mom that, I'll be joining you soon. I want you to heat up whatever's leftover from last night because tomorrow I'm coming to you and Talia."Tomorrow he was going to his dead mother and sister? What did that mean? They're dead, how can he -Before I could finish processing that thought, I heard a cracker go off behind me. It was odd for a firecracker to go off at a cemetery. I sneaked a peek behind the gravestone I was hiding behind and saw Mr Steadler's skull all blown into several little pink pieces. The sound I heard wasn't of a firecracker... It was a gunshot.The gunshot had moved me, I didn't know what to do, all I knew was I had to get out of here otherwise it would be I who'd be in trouble. I made a run for my bike and cycled home as fast as I could. It was the longest journey I had ever embarked, from the cemetery to my place. All the events of the day kept going on repeat in my head. I reached home and went straight for a shower. I felt dirty, disgusted, and sad. I couldn't help but breakdown while in the shower. After a while it was difficult to tell how much of the liquid was actually water and how much were my tears. It's been 5 years since that one horrific night, nobody but me knows the tragic life that Mr. Steadler lead and now it's my burden to live out the rest of my days with that knowledge.


My sister, Savannah, and I were always opposites. My room was filled with *The Legend of Zelda* merch, and you could almost always hear *Skillet* emanating from my room. Various cables and cords snaked through the grass of my bedroom floor. I had one friend, and I always went over to his house after church on Sundays. My report card never saw below a B. I had a quick-witted tongue, and I used my natural talent far too often. Savannah’s AIM notifications mixed with a Jesse McCartney CD playing to create the symphony of a social butterfly in her room. Her low-waisted jeans and tube tops cluttered her bedroom floor. Her friends were always stampeding through the living room, causing an obnoxious ruckus on the weekends. She didn’t care about her grades. She faced all her problems with a fist first. Savannah decided I was one of those problems. She would do it anytime she felt I was deserving. A quick movement straight to my upper arm. Always the same spot. If I didn’t want to play the game she wanted to. A hit. If I forgot to unload the dishwasher. A hit. A hit. A hit. It wasn’t always not warranted. I was a little sister. Annoying, intrusive, arrogant. I called her dumb when she failed English. I snuck into her room to find love notes to taunt her with. I threw a snowball at her as she got out of the car. I kept spying on her and her friends as they played with my guitar hero. I messed with her Webkinz when she left the tab open. No matter what my offense was, she always responded the same: a hit. Our bickering may have taken different forms, but it was a classic sibling rivalry that always saw me getting in trouble. It was easier to hide the remnants of a punch than it was Savannah’s favorite Bratz doll now tattered in the playroom. I felt the hitting was unfair. I never hit her. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. We were four years apart and she stood towering over me. She knew she was the alpha dog. You could see it on her smug face anytime she settled upon punching me. So, the punches weren’t a punishment, they were a placement. They were warnings, reminding me that I was the little sister. Small, weak, indefensible. The incident happened on a day when I had already received three punches before lunch. It was a Saturday, the sun high in the sky peering over the tall pine trees that lined our backyard. A typical Saturday in which Savannah was home usually meant we were playing kickball. Just the two of us. We’d pick out various items to use as bases, usually a stray brick, a piece of wood, or a cluster of pinecones, and we’d have to search for our dusty red kickball. My team of ghost men and I always pitched first, because Savannah preferred kicking. I lined up the pitch, a roll directly down the middle. She wound her leg back and jetted it forward, and instantly made contact with the ball. It shot past all the bases and over our fence into the neighbor’s yard. I followed it with my eyes when it bounced past the trees and further into their yard. She told me it was my job to retrieve the ball, and she automatically gets a homerun. I couldn’t argue with that, it was a fantastic kick. When I got back to the mound, she was passing the home plate, and she proudly announced: “That’s 3-0.” “How is that 3-0? It was the first pitch of the game,” I questioned, already knowing she was bending the rules to ensure her victory (she did the same thing when we played Mario Party by giving herself nine stars before the start of the game). “I had two ghost men in front of me.” “No, you didn’t, you can only use ghost men after you’re on base,” I fired back. “I’m the one that even taught you about ghost men. I know how they work, and I had two in front of me.” She said this statement with a firm finality that meant no further argument would be had. Normally, I let her cheating slide. I never cared about winning, I just liked playing. Normally, I’d exhale all my frustrations and keep the game lighthearted. This was no normal day, however. The earlier punches mixed with my untamable frustration marked that. So, I kept pushing. “You’re just making up rules as you go so you can win. I’m not stupid,” “You are stupid, that’s how ghost men work!” Savannah began to raise her voice. I raised my voice to match hers, “You always cheat because you’re afraid I’m gonna beat you!” “I’m not afraid of you! You should be afraid of me!” She screamed. We were in each other’s faces. And then it came. The sting on my upper arm that still ached from earlier. The placement, the reminder. “See!? What are you gonna do? You’re the little sister!” She yelled. I felt my fists clench and unclench. My face was fixated in a scowl, and every muscle in my body was tensed up. I was a volcano begging to erupt. I was a bomb three seconds away from detonation. I was the little sister. Feeble. Puny. Powerless. No. It was that single word that shot into all the other adjectives floating about in my head. That one-syllable word rose above the others in this desperate moment, triumphing over the other words’ sharp teeth and claws. It duplicated itself over and over and over until it was the only word I knew. “No” was my savior. When the saliva shot out of my mouth and hit her directly in the nose, I hadn’t even realized what I had done. My sister stumbled back, stunned. Her blue eyes were wide as she tried to process what just happened. Then, it clicked. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her face with a sob. Savannah bolted from where she stood in front of me to the backdoor. She yanked it open while crying and wiping the spit off her face. A few moments later, my mom and Savannah emerged. My mom looked mad. She asked me point-blank: did I spit on my sister? I nodded. I was scolded by my mom, saying I never, ever am to spit on anyone. I nodded again. My sister stood behind my mom with a tear-stained face and wore a mean look. I think she was more upset that I had stood up to her than anything else. She was dethroned as the alpha dog. Her reign of terror crashed down before her in an instant. I was the little sister. Defiant. Unafraid. Smart. We still bickered like normal siblings do. We fought over who was player 1 and who was player 2, we fought over who got to be Toadette, and we fought over who got to use the trampoline that sat in our backyard. Savannah and I were sure to get on each other’s nerves as the sun was sure to set, but, after that incident, everything changed. She never punched me again.


James is a smart boy. So smart in fact, that nobody likes him. But I believe that he'll learn that he didn't need friends or loved ones. He will realize that life is too short to worry about that and he'll start to focus all his intelligence into immortality. He will unlock the secrets of immortality and be one step closer to unlocking the secrets of the universe. However, he'll soon come to find out that there is no singular universe, but rather a Multi-Verse. There are trillions of universes to travel to. He'll come to find out that in order to travel to these new and strange places, he'll have to do what is said to be impossible, get sucked into a black hole. Nobody believed him, but he didn't care. In ten minutes the earth will crumble and be reduced to nothing more than another asteroid belt that revolves around the Sun. If it goes according to plan he'll have nine minutes and thirty seconds to get off the planet and to the center of the galaxy. But all does not go according to plan because, unbeknownst to him, the Earth has multiple protectors, eight to be exact. Fate has a different plan for Charlie. She wont send Death upon Charlie, that's overkill, instead she sends the closest thing to Death, The Doctor, Malacai. Malacai is one of Earth's protectors, in fact, he was once an inhabitant of the Earth, but that's a story for another time. Malacai is called The Doctor due to the nature of his powers. He has regenerative immortality, meaning that any time he dies, whether due to natural causes or murderous intent, he will always come back to life. For example, if he ages out, he'll come back to the age of 25. Or if someone pierces his heart, he will always come back fully healed. However, the reason he is The Doctor, is because he can heal anything. He gained all medical knowledge of every creature in the Multi-Verse. He can cure any disease, heal any wound, even heal someone emotionally, to an extent. Unfortunately, he can't do anything against James. "YO," He said, "you wanna go an evil villain monologue explaining exactly what i need to do to stop you or can you just tell me, like a normal person?" James, slightly surprised at his sudden manifestation, could only muster a mere "Wh-Who are you?" Malacai smiled, a bright smile that showed only the slightest hint of what he was capable of doing. "Who I am doesn't quite matter right now," he said, "but what does matter is the fact that you have eight minutes and twenty seven seconds to make a choice, and hopefully it'll be a smart one." James was in shock. *Who is this man and how does he know my plan.* "T minus twenty seconds before the seven minute mark." The Doctor's voice broke through James' thought and brought him back to reality. "If you wanna live to see tomorrow I recommend you hurry." James had made his decision. He decided to just kill every one right now. He pressed the detonate button to detonate the nuke he placed at the earths core. He calls it the Micro Black Hole, because even though it's no larger than a dime, where he placed it would cause a nuclear explosion that would turn the Earth to rubble. However, when he pressed it the nuke went off next to him. In a nanosecond, the entire platform was covered in the blood and innards of The Doctor. Blood, guts, and bits of bone was stuck in James' hair and all over his clothes. Naturally, the lunch he ate decided it didn't want to be digested and found it's way out of his stomach and onto the platform, mixing with what used to be Malacai's brain. "What the fuck!" was all James' could say. Then, slowly all the bits and pieces of bone were moving, to a center point. Steadily gaining speed until, to James' utter astonishment, it reassembled into the skeleton of The Doctor. Malacai, his left eye the only organ in his body, started to speak in a raspy, bone rattling voice."Hey Fate, Death, can I kill him?" James was confused as to what was going on, but before he could try and figure it out, that same voice spoke again. "Perfect." This was the last thing James were to ever hear as Malacai, despite being nothing but a skeleton with a left eye, swiftly made his way towards him. He extended his right hand and grabbed James' face with his bony fingers. "Begone, and may your soul never rest." No sooner had Malacai spoken than James' body crumbled into an accelerated state of decay. In minutes, James' body was returned to the very soil that sparked the evolution of every land based species. Malacai destroyed the platform and rocket as well, turning them into mere flakes of rust in a matter of seconds. With his tasks done he returned to his universe, via The Creator's help.    I've had this idea for a while now. I have most of my characters and plots memorized by heart. I just didn't know how to start. This was an introduction to one that has the most confusing, but interesting backgrounds. I'm open to any and all feedback and/or criticism. I hope you all will like the first glimpse inside my universe, The Happy-Verse.


The Machine “Turn that off, Billy, it’s time for bed.” Billy turned away from the hologram projection on the wall, still showing a clip of a cheetah running through tall grass, to see his mother. She wore a grey nightgown, her hair disheveled. Billy thought she looked exhausted. But he wasn’t tired at all. He didn’t know why she always insisted he go to bed so early. There was nothing to wake up for in the morning anyway. “Fine, mom. But first I’m going to go see dad in his work room.” “I don’t know why he’s still wasting time in there with that stupid machine. But okay, you can go see him, and then after that it’s straight to bed.” “You got it. Goodnight, mom.” Billy clicked off the projector and began to move toward the hallway, a long narrow passage leading away from the living room with doors on each side. He could have reached his dad’s work room with his eyes closed, he spent so much time pacing back and forth through the apartment. He hasn’t been allowed to leave in more than four years, ever since the epidemic broke out. His mom always told him he was lucky to be healthy. But stuck in this one-floor apartment, 20 stories above ground with no windows to the outside world, he didn’t feel lucky. The one window they had before gave him a view of the city. He used to look out and see hundreds of grey buildings shooting out of the dark surface like spikes. He would imagine the thousands of other kids sitting there looking back at him. He looked toward where the window used to be, but now it was filled with a large, black box that protruded into the apartment. It was where the drones would drop off food and other necessities. The city had installed this drone delivery system after the epidemic began, because it was no longer safe for people to go outside without hazmat suits. The virus that spread throughout the city was fatal not only to humans, millions of whom had died, but it killed all of plants and animals it touched, leaving the city a barren wasteland. Billy barely had any memory left of the grass and flowers and trees that had once filled the city. He was still able to watch nature scenes in his projections, but it wasn’t the same. Looking through the half-open door into his dad’s room, he envied the man. As part of the engineering team tasked with maintaining the drone delivery system, his dad was allowed to go outside. He had to wear a bulky, full-body hazmat suit, but it would still be worth it. Billy imagined the excitement of walking around somewhere other than his apartment. “What are you doing there buddy?” his dad turned around to see Billy looking in through the door. The short boy standing in the doorway showed boredom in his face, with a hint of sadness. “Just watching you work,” Billy mumbled. “It’s better than going to sleep.” “Well it is time for bed, Billy.” “I know. But I’m not tired. Can’t I watch you work for just a few minutes?” “I guess a few minutes won’t hurt anyone. Besides, I think I’ve had a breakthrough with the machine.” An excited smile crept onto his dad’s face as he looked back at the machine, a hulking metal box the size of a refrigerator with a large opening in the front. Flashing blue lights inside the box lit up the tangle of thin wires lining its walls. Suddenly Billy perked up, with an unusual tinge of excitement in his voice. “Really? Does it work now? Can you travel back in time?” “Well, it’s still too dangerous for a human test, but I think I may have solved an issue that was preventing the wormhole from staying open. I still need to perform a series of diagnostics to test out its stability, but if all goes well I think I should be able to give it a try by next month.” “Next month? But that’s so far away.” “It’s worth taking my time Billy. This may be my only chance. If it malfunctions, I could get stuck in the wormhole, or trapped back in time.” “Where in time would you be trapped?” “I’m only planning to go back five years, to 2055. That way I can kill the virus at its source before it spread into an epidemic. That could save millions of lives.” “But couldn’t you go back farther if you wanted? To see what the world used to look like in the old days?” “Well, theoretically, yes. If it works for 2055 it should work for whatever year I plug into the controller.” He glanced at a black remote sitting on his work table with a series of buttons and a dimly lit blue display screen. “But for now my only goal is to stop the epidemic so things can go back to the way they were before. Anyway, that’s enough questions Billy. It’s time for bed.” “Ugh, fine.” Billy sighed, dejected. The machine had momentarily excited him with a curiosity he seldom feels. Everything else in the apartment was old and boring, with no opportunity for any sort of adventure. But he knew his dad wouldn’t let him use the machine. He would say it was too dangerous. Billy dragged his feet back out the door, his dad following him and flicking the switch to turn off the light in the work room. “I should be going to bed too,” his dad said under his breath. “I need to sleep on this. Need to consider what the breakthrough could mean before I move to the testing phase.” Wanting to ask another question but deciding against it, Billy shuffled through the hallway into his room, one door down from his dad’s work room. He closed the door, turned off the lights and plopped into his bed. It was pitch black in his room as he stared up at the ceiling, but Billy couldn’t fall asleep. He wasn’t even tired before, and now his mind raced with thoughts of the machine. Could it really take you back in time? Where could you go? What would the world look like? Minutes passed, and then hours. Billy had no idea what time it was, but he still couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep. His imagination soared with all of the people and places he could see if he tried using the machine. His dad said he had a breakthrough and solved the issue, so shouldn’t it work now? Billy’s curiosity became too much for him to bear. He crept out of bed and pulled on his slippers. Then he quietly opened the door and tiptoed over to the door of his dad’s workroom. Slowly, he turned the doorknob, careful not to let it make a sound. Then he cracked the door open just enough for him to squeeze inside and gently closed it behind him. The room was dark except for lights from the machine, still flashing bright blue. He used the dim glow to find the switch and turn on the main overhead light. It lit up the whole room, but Billy’s eyes remained fixed on the machine. Staring at it now without his dad working on it, the rectangular box didn’t look so complicated anymore. All he needed to do was grab the remote, get into the machine and press a few buttons. But what if his dad was right and it didn’t work? What if he got stuck somewhere? Billy felt a moment of hesitation. Then he thought about the last four years, trapped in his apartment, no one to talk to and no where to go, and realized it couldn’t be much worse. He gathered his courage and grabbed the remote from the table. Grasping the remote with his left hand, he took three steps forward until he was face to face with the machine. Before stepping in, he looked down at the watch on his hand. It read 2:00. It was two in the morning. Billy knew his dad wakes up at six, so he had to make sure that wherever he went, he got back before then. He lifted up his left foot and placed it into the machine. Holding onto the side with his right hand, he pulled himself into the refrigerator-sized box. It was cramped, but his fully body fit inside. He took a quick glance around at the wires and lights before looking down at the remote. There were ten buttons with small white numbers, a green button that read ‘GO,’ a red button that read ‘RETURN,’ a spinning dial and the display screen. With his fingers he tapped the buttons 2-0-2-0. Then spun the dial, not sure what it was for, and pressed the green button. Suddenly, the lights and wires disappeared. For a second, everything was black. And then he began to spin. As he rotated faster and faster, he saw flashes of blue light, then green and yellow. Billy closed his eyes and screamed, not knowing where he was or where he was going. The next thing Billy knew, he had been dropped outside somewhere onto a concrete sidewalk, landing hard on his feet. The bright light blinded him. “WATCH OUT!!!” Just as Billy turned to where the shout came from, a bicycle crashed into him. It knocked Billy to the ground, and the remote flew out of his hand onto the sidewalk. He looked up from where he lay on the ground and saw a boy who looked around his age, but with darker skin and shorter hair, had fallen off the bicycle. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you! I tried to stop!” The boy stood up and walked over to examine Billy. “Are you okay?” “Yeah … yeah I’m fine.” Billy touched his arms and legs and nodded back at the boy. “Where did you come from anyway? I could have sworn you just appeared out of nowhere.” “Uh … I … I don’t know. Where am I?” “What do you mean where are you? You’re in D.C., stupid.” “D.C.?” Billy looked around, and with his eyes adjusting to the light, suddenly he saw the world around him clearly for the first time. He was awestruck. The sidewalk where he sat stood on the edge of a wide field of bright green grass. He had never seen anything like the vast, green field that lay before him. Tall, bushy trees lined the field, and he could see groups of people walking on sidewalks on both sides. He followed the grass into the distance and his eyes came upon a large, white obelisk shooting into the sky. “What’s that?” Billy asked “Uh, the Washington Monument,” the boy studied Billy. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “I told you, I’m fine.” Suddenly Billy remembered the remote and shot up, running over to where it had fallen. He picked it up, and it appeared to still be intact, nothing broken. “What’s that thing?” the boy asked him. “Just a toy I dropped. Don’t worry about it.” Billy tucked it into his pocket and thought for a second. “This is my first time here. Can you show me around?” “Sure, I guess so. I was just riding around, I’ve still got some time before my curfew. What do you want to see?” Billy looked around, unsure of what else there was to see but amazed at the color green he saw everywhere. “All of the grass,” he said. “And the trees.” The boy looked puzzled. “All of the grass? Well I suppose I can take you to see this whole area, this is called the National Mall. Here, hop on these pegs on the back of my bike.” As the boy pulled up his bike and got on, he pointed to two short poles that jutted out of each side of the back wheel. Billy put his feet on the pegs and grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “What’s your name, anyway?” the boy asked him. “Billy. My names Billy.” “Nice to meet you Billy. I’m Michael. Now hold on tight while I take us around the mall.” Michael began to pedal. They started off slowly and then sped up as Michael pedaled faster. Billy felt the wind blowing his hair back and he squinted his eyes and smiled. He looked around at the green grass. He saw people sitting and reading. Two kids with gloves on their hands threw a ball back and forth. He saw a bird fly by and looked up at the bright blue sky. He felt a rush of excitement run through his body. “This place is incredible!” Billy shouted. “Eh, it’s okay. It gets too hot and humid sometimes, and there are lots of mosquitoes.” “But you have all of this grass! And the wind! I can’t believe you get to live here!” “Sure, whatever you say,” Michael responded. “Here come look at this.” Michael slowed down and stopped the bike next to the edge of a wide pool of water. Billy looked down and the pool stretched a long distance down to a rectangular, stone monument with columns across the front. Kneeling down to the water, Michael plunged his hand in and then quickly splashed the water so it sprayed all over Billy. “Hey!” Billy was surprised but laughing. He reached his own hand down into the water and pulled it back out. As the pool settled he saw a reflection of his face looking back at him, pale, round and smiling. Then a noise came from Michael’s pocket. He pulled out a small device and looked at it. “It’s my mom. She says I have to come home now. If you ever want to find me, I live near the corner of 10th Street and Franklin Street, Northeast. I usually hang out in the park there. It was nice to meet you Billy.” Michael got back on his bike and pedaled off, leaving Billy alone by the water. He wasn’t sure where to go. He walked back over to the grass and sat down. Crossing his legs in front of him, he picked blades of grass and put them in his lap. Minutes passed as Billy played with the grass, and then he remembered to check his watch. It read 3:00. It had only been one hour. But still, Billy thought he had enough excitement for one night and decided he should try to get home and back in bed before his dad wakes up. Pulling the remote out of his pocket, Billy paused for a second before pressing the red “RETURN” button with his thumb. Suddenly, Billy vanished from the grass. Thrust back into the spinning vortex that had brought him there, Billy felt unsettled, but not as scared as before. He closed his eyes so it would go by quicker. The next thing he knew, he was dropped back into the machine with a force so great that he fell out and toppled onto the floor, landing with a thud. “What was that noise?” He heard his dad shout from his room. His heart pounding, Billy quickly returned the remote to the table, snuck out the door and closed it behind him. “Just me, sorry dad! I was going to the bathroom and tripped on my way back.” “It sounded loud. Are you okay?” his dad’s voice coming from his room sounded calmer but still slightly concerned. “Yes, I’m fine. Goodnight dad.” “Okay, goodnight Billy.” Feeling relieved, he opened the door and returned to his room. As he laid down, his heartbeat slowed and his mouth rested into a soft grin. Exhausted, Billy fell right to sleep.


I hugged her. I hated her. The girl with tears streaming down her face sat crumpled on the floor before me, dejected. She was supposed to be my best friend. I hated her. It had been an emotional night. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember what had triggered her emotional outburst. I couldn’t remember exactly how the threads of conversation had twisted and turned until the knot of emotion in this girl’s heart had been revealed. Maybe it had been a joke that had hit too close to home. I don’t know whether it was my personality, my sense of humor, or just the twisted sense of satisfaction I got when I made people squirm, but I had always been good at making jokes that hit a bit too close to home. Jokes that would make people laugh in the moment, then lay awake at night wondering just how much truth there was to it. Jokes about the very things that kept me up at night. It didn’t matter what had led us to this point, all that mattered was that we were here. And I hated it. Hated her. I held her in my arms a moment longer before finally letting go. It should have been the other way around. I should have been the one being held. If only she weren’t so weak, it would have been me. She had said the same thing herself; that she was weak, that she was embarrassed, that she didn’t want to be seen this way. She wiped tears from her eyes, undoubtedly trying to erase the memories of the last few hours, from both her mind and ours. There was another girl there, though only a year older than me and my “best friend,” she was a motherly figure. Mature. Wise. It was impossible to imagine that she had ever gone through the same troubles that had brought the other girl to tears. Though, of course, she had. They all had. Still were. Some problems you never really get over. I was the same, of course. Still am. I put on a mask, but inside I was no different than the others. All humans are the same; scared. Scared of being alone. Scared of the unknown. Scared of the dark. We try so hard to live our lives in the light, sheltered. We hide. We hide behind our parents. We hide behind our friends. We hide behind our teachers, bosses, government. We do anything we can to hide behind labels and conceal others under the same. Anything to avoid seeing the truth. The truth is dark. My “friend” was getting hugged again, this time by the motherly figure. She was speaking to her again, with that firm but loving voice that I so longed to hear. My face concealed the hatred I felt. I felt like I had spent my whole life walking a lit path in the darkness. There was nothing but inky blackness all around me, no stars, no fires, no man-made lights. I pressed on, not through any desire of my own, but because it was what I was expected to do. As soon as I passed a bit of path, whatever ethereal, unseen light source that had kept it lit winked out, and I was left slowly fleeing from an ever-encroaching darkness. I wasn’t alone on the path, on occasion I would pass another, on occasion another would pass me. Sometimes they walked off into the darkness, never to be seen again. Most of the time they just pressed on in the same monotonous slog that I was trapped in. One girl had traveled with me longer than anyone else, neither passing nor being passed. She still knelt on the floor before me. Eventually we reached the end of the path. Darkness stretched out before and behind us. To the sides as well. Only the small square we stood on remained lit. It winked out. We both knew what we had to do. I stepped forward, intending to proceed as I always had. She, surprising me, jumped. When I was young I had feared the dark. I would make my parents leave my bedroom door open at night, with a light on in the hallway. I made them get me a night light. Eventually it got so bad that after they had tucked me into bed I would get up and turn the light back on. I got really good at sleeping with the light on. After that had gone on a long time my father sat me down and told me that people don’t fear the dark, not really. They fear what lurks in the dark. He told me that it was okay, though, because if there was nothing there in the light then there would be nothing there in the dark. The words that had comforted me as a child terrified me as an adult because, in that last moment before the light had winked out and I had been forced to step into darkness, I had looked around and seen exactly what I had most feared. Nothing. I fell. I tried to scream in the darkness, but it was pointless. In this void there was no air, nothing that I could fashion into a scream. I looked up and saw a tiny pinprick of light. My “friend’s” jump had been successful, she now stood on a newly lit platform just a few feet forward and a few inches higher from where the last one had ended. And I hated her for it. I kept falling and soon that pinprick of light had completely faded. All was dark. If only I had the strength to cry.


C: "Ok, so you're God? "  G: "Yup"  C: "God-God?"  G: "Exactly"  Clark was annoyed. Past Clark had made a promise. And today's Clark had not followed up on it and nevertheless came to Susan's party. In fact, he was more than fed up with the guys who pretended to be celebrities. Einstein, Napoleon and the overweight male Monroe. And now God. Naturally.  C: "Glad to meet you, I hope you don't mind" (\*1)  G: "No problem. Glad to meet you too."  God shrugged and looked Clark directly into his eyes. He was sitting on a large black leather couch that someone with no sense for Feng Shui or at least Common Sense had placed in the middle of the room. Apart from the straw hat and the interested look, there was nothing unusual about him. Jeans, t-shirt, three-day beard. Well, he thought he was God, but that was to be accepted as a given. Nobody is perfect.  C: "No offense, but I always imagined something different when I thought of God."  Clark did not feel at ease. There was something about this madman. But if he had to deal with someone like that again, at least he wanted to have some fun.  C: "It's really very sunny here, good that you have your hat with you."  G: "I hear that a lot"  God replied with a slight sigh and slowly looked down at himself. Once at the bottom, the disappointment on his face seemed to be gone and he looked at Clark with his benevolent smile.  G: “However, this makes it much easier to have a conversation. Hardly anyone gets out a meaningful word when he sees the face of an old man with a beard in the clouds that suddenly starts to speak. And I prefer not to mention the last attempt to emerge as a burning bush. Did you know that getting sprayed with a fire extinguisher is very unpleasant? And they always say the classics never die... ”.  The jibe regarding his hat was completely ignored by God.  C: "OK, that even makes sense," Clark had to admit.  C: "But what do you do if someone doesn't think you are actually God and wants proof?"  G: "I do the same as you do when an ant stands in front of you, waves its antennae and is firmly convinced that you are also an ant"  C: "Step on it?"  G: "I'm currently trying to be a nice God, so i think ignoring it would be a better solution."  C: "Touché" This guy was really hard to come by. But Clark didn't want to give up that quickly.  C: "If you are God, then you also know what the meaning of life is and why there is a world and everything"  G: "Sure"  C: "Tell me"  G: "You will be disappointed."  C: "I assumed as much, but I'm still kinda excited to know"  G: "You will be very disappointed."  C: "Would not be a big change for me..."  G: "OK, as you wish. ... ...  The world is the playground that I built for myself "  C: "You couldn't think of anything better?"  G: "Oh, I've tried a lot. But that's the most exciting thing so far. Once I was dead for a few million years. That was also exciting. At least the preparations for it.  C: "Really? how was that?"  G: "Imagine the time before you were born"  C: "OK, I shouldn't have asked. ... But back to the real question. All this because the dear gentleman needs a playground? "  G: "What would you do with eternity?"  C: “How about a world in which nobody suffers and everyone is happy? "  G: "Typical beginner's mistake. There is nothing more boring. Nobody there does anything. And nobody is really happy there either. This is a lot better. The romantic stories alone can fill aeons. Do you remember how your relationship with Susan started? Do you remember how it ended?"  C: "How do you know Susan?"  G: "God and so on? And if you remember... This is her party. We are at her house, you know"  Clark let out a big sigh..  C: "\*sigh\*... Ok . So God likes schmaltz... Whatever... But boy meets girl has to get boring at some point.”  G: "There is also girl meets girl, boy meets boy, boy shoots girl, boy stabs boy, girl poisons boy, boy writes book. Girl sings song and lots more. And thats just the beginning. After all, there are more species in this world. Not to mention other worlds. There have already been space battles in which the bitter opponents hurl entire solar systems at each other as weapons. And I was right in the middle. "  C: "And all the beings that die for you and your entertainment? "  G: "They lived and are now they are dead"  C: "So no perpetual reward or punishment for a good or bad life?"  G: "You hardly remember last Friday's breakfast. What do you want with eternity?  I remember your life. That has to be enough."  G: "Why are you looking so upset? Don't despair. Do you really believe all this stuff? I'm just a mad man with a straw hat telling people dark stories about God.  Do not worry. Just have a nice evening."  C: "I hate these guys," Clark thought, and was resolved never to go to one of Susan's parties again.  G: “Too bad, everyone is too busy with themselves to ask the right questions. And if they do they don't want to hear the answers anyways. ”  God said mostly to himself and to no one in particular.  (\*1) This is an alteration on the original text which is in german and the sentence refered to the fact that in german there are two levels of courtesy depending on how familiar you are and clark used the very familiar level dispite the fact that talking to God would have warranted a more courtesy level of addressing. But God aparently did not mind.


I used to travel a great deal. Part of that was due to the nature of my job but the rest fell back to a life-long interest in seeing quant little country towns. Frankly, I loved touring the wide-open road in my sporty convertible and discovering new haunts along the way. It made the soulless drudgery of life a little bit more bearable for me. In all of my years traveling for work or pleasure though, I never uncovered another place quite like the strange little town of ‘Newton’. It is unique. I stumbled across this virtual time capsule by pure coincidence. I’d meant to take the freeway to a much more familiar destination but somehow missed the turn. From that point on, my plans went completely off the rails. All of a sudden I found myself smack dab in the middle of a bizarro ‘time warp’. Honestly, I could scarcely even believe the place was real. The sleepy little community I discovered by pure happenstance is an amazing tribute to a bygone era. Every car which passed me by on the road was a vintage automobile. At first I assumed I’d stumbled onto a classic car parade, or a showcase rally for professional restorations but there were no newer model cars anywhere to be seen! It was genuinely startling and that wasn’t the only odd thing either. Not by a long shot. Everywhere I looked, I saw long outdated technology and forgotten signs of the past. The gas pumps didn’t even have a ‘pay at the pump’ feature; and ‘regular’ fuel was still an option there! I was dumbstruck by the very notion that leaded gas was still available. I thought it had been outlawed for years. Another thing which struck me as rather strange was the unwavering commitment each motorist had to honk at each other as they passed by. It wasn’t an angry, blaring blast of fury to release frustration either. They just tooted their horns lightly at each other and then waved, as a polite greeting. Frankly, watching that social exchange was surreal. I’d never witnessed anyone honk their horn as a gesture of respect. In larger towns and metropolitan cities I’ve frequented, a horn blast is primarily used as a sonic weapon. A few sharp honks are typically issued to chastise the poor driving skills of the other driver. There in Newton however, I found it to be an exclusive courtesy response. Before I could expend any more effort analyzing this incredibly different behavior, I witnessed a number of other startling things. The town had an honest-to-goodness drive-in movie theater and a soda fountain counter downtown! It was a welcomed slice of lovely Americana which I assumed was long gone. An involuntary smile crept across my face as I drank it all in. Unsurprisingly, the prices for food, fuel, and other general commodities were in line with the same distant time period. I stopped in to look over the available wares of a Woolworth dime store. It was eye-opening! The atmosphere was that of the early 1970’s ‘home town USA’. Even the dress style of employees and the customers suggested ‘a blast from the past’. Large collars, sideburns, wingtip shoes, and horn-rimmed glasses dotted the idyllic landscape. Small kids were outside jumping rope and playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. In one well-manicured neighborhood, I witnessed a young man delivering newspapers door-to-door by his bicycle! The whole thing was incredible. At first I was too stunned to do anything other than walk around and stare in bewilderment at the unexpected time capsule. That soon however gave way to opportunity. At the town dealership, almost new looking classic cars were available for used ‘clunker’ prices! I had to decide whether I wanted to buy a stunning 1969 Dodge Charger, or a beautiful Corvette Stingray for the equivalent of couch cushion change. In reality I wanted to buy both of them and a dozen other underpriced ‘treasures’ but no business in town accepted credit cards. I only had enough cash in my wallet to buy one of those jaw-dropping beauties. If there had been an ATM, I would’ve loaded up a whole car carrier full of gas-guzzling American muscle cars of the past and miscellaneous antique finds. Unfortunately that wasn’t an option. Back driving on the main highway, the motorists honked at each other and waved dutifully. I was a bit amused to realize that I wasn’t worthy of a honk from any of them. Obviously they could tell I was ‘an outsider’. I found myself envying those tight-knit townsfolk who knew and respected each other. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t honking at any of them first. Once I realized that in the sleepy bygone town, you probably had to give a toot to get one, I initiated the process and received my very first friendly honk! I was thrilled and it made me grin again in fulfillment. It felt absolutely fantastic to finally be accepted in such a personal way. Right then and there, I decided I was so in love with the magical place that I wanted it to become my hometown too. I begrudgingly drove my ‘new’ 1969 Charger Hemi R/T back toward my current home address with a level of satisfaction I’d never experienced before. I had honest intentions of packing up all my possessions and permanently settling in Newton immediately, but I decided there was always time for that necessary responsibility later on. It felt too good behind the wheel to spoil the moment. Instead I gripped the stick and desperately wished to continue acclimating to my newly-adopted home. It was completely intoxicating. I received dozens of courtesy honks and waves from my new neighbors as I tried to locate the interstate on ramp. The sooner I gathered up my things, the sooner I could initiate my permanent departure from my old life, and start my new one. I was certain the way out of town had to be nearby but I couldn’t manage to locate the exit. There were no signs. I must have driven in circles for hours. Finally I threw up my hands in surrender and gave up. Leaving to tie my loose ends just didn’t feel important anymore. I was hungry and Dave’s Drive In has a special on a burger, fries, and a chocolate malt milkshake for $1.35. A man’s gotta eat, right? Luckily, the miracle of 5G Internet even reaches the outskirts of Newton airwaves so I’m sending out this final notification to my friends, family, and employers. I’m not coming back. I’ve found a great job as a mechanic at Rawston’s garage, a good apartment downtown, and tomorrow I’m going to ask out Sarah the waitress from the soda fountain.


I wish I could cry. I wish I could cry for all the people that died during the war. Not just the soldiers, but the innocents. I wish I could cry for the other people, too; the ones across the ocean that launched their missiles at us. I wish I could cry for the people that had to launch our own missiles back at them. That must have been hard to do. I wish I could cry... but I can't. It has been a long, long time since I have seen another person. I've seen the radiation subside and the sky turn back to its normal, beautiful blue. I've seen the rubble of buildings finally be retaken by nature; the vines and dandelions covering the crumbling piles of concrete. I wish I could cry for them, let my tears quench their thirst. I really like their color; yellow. I wish there were more people here to see them too; to cry over them with me. A lot of the time, I find bones. I wish I could cry over them. I wish I could cry for the people that they once were; the people that had lives, and homes, and families, and happiness. I wish I could cry for all of those, too. Sometimes, I'll find the bones of animals. It's easy to tell which of the piles of bones were made before the war. I wish I could cry for them, as well. I feel happy for the piles of bones that came after, though. I'd still like to cry over them. Not in sadness, though. I wish I could cry for the decaying, empty homes that no longer had people to fill them; make them whole. It seems like it would be an awful lonely being if your purpose just disappeared one day. I think I might know something about that, though. I wished that I could cry when I came across a walled garden some time ago. The trees were sickly; twisted by the radiation. They were sad trees. I wanted to cry for them. They had once grown peaches. They had once probably been delicious. I wish I could have tasted one. Now, the sad trees stood between the four scorched, brick walls; their branches half-empty, with only a few leaves lapping up the sun when it sparsely showed its face. I wish I could cry for the sun. It used to show its nice yellow face to everyone all the time, every day. Now, I only see it every couple of weeks. I wish I could cry for the clouds. They used to bring rain down to grateful plants and the mouths of delighted people, now the only weather they bring is dark and icy. It has been a long, long time since I've seen rain. I get to see snow often, though. I wish I could cry for the summer, and the spring. For the summer, because it used to be a long, happy time. It is still a happy time, and the sun shows its face more then, but it isn't a long time. For the spring, because it no longer has the rains to make it special. Now, it's just a warmer fall. I wish I could cry for the fall, as well. There used to be lots of leaves for the fall to make look pretty. There used to be lots of leaves that the fall could cover the ground with. I like the color yellow, but I think I would have liked all of the nice oranges and reds of the leaves even better. I have seen some people before, not just the piles of bones. They are always so sad and scared. I wish I could cry for them. I wish I could cry when they ran away from me. I wish I could cry because I would never get to really say "Hello" to them. I wish I could cry, but I can't. I walk past an old parking building, covered with snow and browning vines. Summer ended not long ago, and I wish I could cry for it and the vines. Not everything here is dead, though. I can see smoke coming from the top of the concrete tower, so I go inside. There are cars here, lots of old, rusting cars. I wish I could cry for them, now without people to take them around. I find some stairs, and start to go up. The steps aren't crumbing yet, but they are quite small for my feet. I wish I could cry for the stairs, now without more feet to use them. The parking building is big, and it takes a long time to climb, but I don't mind. I like to think that it is happy to have something inside of it again. The roof looks like everywhere else, when it is covered in snow. It looks just like a white, fluffy blanket on everything. I don't need to want to cry for this blanket, though, for two reasons. The first reason is that this cold, mean blanket isn't a blanket that anything wants to be under. The second reason, though, is they there is someone already here. Even from across the roof, I can see her. She has her back to be as she tends a small flame she has built in a small crater that she has carved out of the snow. She has on a gas mask. I can tell from the straps that wrap over and around her head. Under the straps, though, I can see that she has long, dark red hair. It's such a lovely, deep red. I think it is what the leaves would have looked like in the fall. The nice red clashed with her coat, though, but I don't mind. Her coat, a rubber rain-slick, was the same color as the dandelions at the height of summer. I wanted to cry for her colors, but not in sadness. Beyond her, there is a rifle leaned against the rusting, metal railing along the edge of the roof. Next to it are the remains of a rabbit. I didn't feel like crying over the rabbit, though. It had died, but it wouldn't become just another pile of wasted bones. She was grateful for this rabbit. This rabbit died good, not like the people from before. I take a step forward, but the snow and the roof crackle under my step. She whips around. I can't see her face. I wish that I could. Through the eyes of the mask, I can see hers go wide as she falls back into the snow, next to the fire. I throw my hands up to show that I mean her no harm. I just want to say "Hello" to her. She screams and scrambles for the gun against the railing. She slips. Her foot slides out from under her, and she catches most of her weight on the butt of the rifle. She is still falling, though, and she reaches for the railing in a panic. It breaks. I don't have enough time to even take another step before she disappears over the side of the roof. I know she's gone. I want to cry... but I can't. I stand there for a moment, watching the struggling fire continue to smolder with its creator having left it behind. I want to cry for the fire. I look at my hands, still outstretched in a plea for understanding. I wish I could cry for these hands. I wish I could cry for the stumps of metal, wire, and electricity that I called hands. I wish that I could cry for the same reason I wish I could cry for the fire... ...but I can't.


My eyes fly open. Where am I? I look around and find myself in a strange room. Smooth walls, floor, and ceiling, all made of cement. Fluorescent lights irritate my eyes. There is a white cot in one corner of the room and a white desk with a chair in the opposite corner. I get up from the floor and look around more carefully, but there’s nothing else to find except two number two pencils and a sheet of paper on the desk. After seeing this, I realize there is no door. Panic sets in, there is a pit in my stomach, my mouth is dry, and I start to shake. I sprint to the wall, moving my hands up and down, trying to find a handle. I do this to all four walls of my square room. There is nothing. I shout to see if anyone will respond. All I hear is the echo of my own screams. A sob rises in my throat and I can’t stop it. I move over to my cot and lay down and cry myself to sleep. I don’t know what time it is when I wake up. I look down at my watch that I always wear to find that it’s missing. I'll never know what time it is. I feel better after sleeping. I now realize there may be hope, I just need time to think. The chair at my desk is uncomfortable, but at least it’s something to sit on. Now that my head is clear, I ask myself some questions to get my bearings. *What’s my name?* ***I don’t remember.*** *How old am I?* ***I don’t know.*** *What is this place and why am I here?* ***I have no idea.*** Anxiety pushes its way into my brain, dominating all other feelings, making me feel insignificant. I can usually push this away, but not now. Not when I can’t even remember my own fucking name. I feel worthless. I feel small. There is no hope. I don’t know how long I’ll be down here for, so I started a tally on the sheet of paper. I am careful not to break the lead of the pencil, seeing how I only have two and there is no way to sharpen them. As I write the first tally, I think that maybe soon someone will come and talk to me and explain what’s going on. All I must do is wait. I don’t know what time it is, but I’m tired, so I fall asleep. Nothing has changed in the room when I wake up, and I have a realization. I can’t tell when a day has passed because the lights never shut off, so my tally system is useless. Before I have the time to worry about that, another feeling comes over me. Hunger. I am starving and there’s nothing to eat. I swallow my spit to try to feel just a little satisfaction, but there’s nothing. I don’t know what to do. I do know I should be able to last a while without food, though, so, maybe the person that will tell me what this place is will bring me food, right? What seems like days pass, and I get hungrier and hungrier. As I am dozing, I hear something, and sit up. I listen closely. There is a whisper. *Are you hungry?* I don’t have the energy to speak, so I nod my head. *Well, that’s too bad... you have plenty of food.* The voice trails off. The voice is wrong, I don’t have any food. I look around the room once again. There’s something new on the desk. I weakly stumble towards it. It’s a menu. I open it up and all there is one picture. A picture of me. I blink, and the menu is gone, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. I go back to my cot and think about the voice. Maybe it was right. Anything in my stomach would feel wonderful. But no, this is a ridiculous idea, I’m going crazy.... But I can’t stop the urge. I raise my forearm to my mouth and dig my teeth into the muscle. Pain shoots up my arm, but I ignore it, for the pain in my stomach is greater. I only have enough energy to swallow as I pass out. I wake up. There is dry blood everywhere and my whole body is in agonizing pain. I look down at my arm and see the flesh and muscle ripped out. I can see bone. This causes me to throw up. I cry as I heave up the flesh I had eaten, and I eat the vomit in order to keep my nutrients. I have no other choice. A sudden wave of anger come over me, which causes me to go over to my desk and snap a pencil in two. I lay down on the floor, for I am too weak to move to the other side of my room. I pass out once again. There is someone in the room when I wake up. A bald man with a brown beard, wearing an all-black suit. He spoke to me, but he never opened his mouth. He spoke in my head. *How pitiful you are. Why are you doing these things to yourself? Do you really think someone will save you?* He slowly walks towards me. *You are too worthless to be saved at this point. I don’t know why you thought you would be in the first place. No* *one cares about you, no one loves you. You have nothing. You are nothing.* He is within my grasp. I swipe at him, and he disappears. I think about what he said. He’s not wrong. I am nothing. I am worthless. I am **alone**. But I do know a way out of this hell. I manage to sit in the chair at the desk. I don’t know if I can do this, but I have no choice. I pick up the second pencil, still sharp. Tears run down my cheeks as I raise the pencil to my neck. I put the point of the pencil right over my jugular vein. There is still time to stop myself, but I don’t see a reason why. I close my eyes as I push the pencil into my neck.


It was a long winter day, a cold night. As you stepped outside it felt like you walked through an ice wall… and the storms… the storms made it so much worse, but somehow today it all seemed different, it was calm, at least calmer than usual. For whatever reason, I was feeling a bit down, so I went for a walk as I always do, helps clear my mind; Without thinking I picked a direction and started walking. … After walking for a few minutes, I received a message from ‘her’, a video of her… ice skating, talking to me and smiling… oh that smile… it warmed by heart up to the point that I couldn’t even feel the cold surrounding me. I’m sure my face made the biggest smile it ever could as I kept walking and listening to her talk just about anything. ... I somehow ended up at an ice ring, the sound of roller skates on the ice brought me back from my trance. I was sitting down on a chair, overlooking the ice ring; I took out my phone and looked at it again, the video she sent me. I wanted… to hear her voice again and to see her smile. All of a sudden she was next to me… wait what… I thought she was in a different coun… out of my reach... She looked at me and smiled. Her lips moved but I didn’t hear anything. I gave a stunned smile and showed her that I was just watching the video she sent me… how her beautiful brown hair danced with the wind as she skated on the ice, her beautiful hazel eyes, where I’ve been lost far too many times and her lips… the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. She leaned over closer to the phone looking at the video, her lips started to move again but I couldn’t hear anything. I could feel my face was turning red. Without thinking I reached forward and kissed her on the cheek... She sat down on the bench next to me, and stared into my eyes, the video she sent me was still playing in the background. I’m not sure what she saw in my eyes, but she closed hers, leaned forward and gave me a kiss. That kiss… was unimaginable… I could hear and feel my heart beating all over me… my whole body was so warm I might have even produced some steam in this weather. I leaned back, surprised by her advance… I think she felt a little embarrassed, as she looked away the instant I leaned back… but no! don’t get the wrong idea. I too fell in love with you… long ago! I pulled back the hair that covered part of her, faced her and kissed her back. Suddenly I couldn’t feel anything at all… my eyes were closed and it felt dark, completely dark until our lips touched… then I could see her lips pressed against mine… it was as if I was in the abyss but our lips touching was the only thing I could see… the only thing I could feel. Each kiss felt better than the last. I couldn’t stop… what I felt for her was so strong… I don’t thing even the word love would be enough to describe it.


\[RF\] Realistic Fiction The wake of frost, glazed over young grass, lulls the starkness of the wind into a deep slumber. It cleanses me from sleep, like cold water from the tap might've done and, the wind trickles down as goosebumps on my skin. I clamber out of bed like a koala leaving its' favourite branch, to explore - it doesn't. Removing the duvet, it peels off as though it were second skin, with reluctancy. My body heat had transferred itself over through the discourse of the night, as if all my tired thoughts had vacated from my spirit and mind to settle between the bedsheets and the mattress, as if to say "stay here".  Many things had held my hand in this way, my child self was silenced by a baby blanket; my mother. Perhaps the greenhouse I had gotten so used to, withered. I had become dependant; shy but loud, talentless but so full of dreams, as if I were a river that travelled through the hearts of others. The fish that lived in my body contained the actions of others and I lived vicariously through other peoples' 'happily ever after' tales.  Until my own inactivity caused a drought that had buried me beneath the cracks of hardened soil, now more like brick. I am forever catatonic, in the sense that my time is still - unmoving. I crawl back under my many blankets, and look through my phone. This is how I start my days, daydreaming to have the life of some stranger on an instagram feed. Longing to be the version of myself that existed in some parallel universe somewhere else, far far far away from my version of here. To be the one that took all her chances, embraced the warmth of the sun on her skin and carried the storm from seas to land within the hazel of her eyes.  I crave the 'femininity' of a flower, what about it I want exactly ...I'm not so sure anymore. Yet, I often wish to be as alluring as the Wolfe's bane, to hold your attention by plainly being me. Like the roots of a tree, this incentive grew and grew and grew until it manifested a cobweb of toxic traits; such is the desperation to be conventionally beautiful. Such a hollow yearning, yet I knew from a young age that I was not to be adorned with any such thing. I was, and still am, average in every sense of the word, and so, back then, I sought the laughter of others in my attempt to feel needed. Whether people laughed at me or with me did not matter...  And I did everything for you to learn my name, only to misspell it then, because it is foreign on your tongue. I'm one of the good ones you see, not from your idea of here. I could not be, I was never enough, I did not light up the room when I walked into it, rather I hid behind the hips of my mother. As the youngest of the family, the wolf sought me out in many ways and, in all he succeeded, I was infested by his salivation. Leaving myself to be crucified with the apple of Eden stuffed into my innards like Christmas turkey. I let myself be heard through the voice of someone new and confident. Oh! how I’d prance about the living room singing opera to humour the broken marriage of my parents, as it watched television in the living room.  I would realise later that I had always been waiting for someone else to become my magic wand. For the man who is my father to be my father, for my mother to let her young’n fly and for my sister to love me as much as I clung to her, back then. She could do no wrong despite all the wrong she did. I was waiting for you to catch the fallen egg, to whisper to me that I am special in some form. That amongst all people I was your favourite. I was waiting for someone to remember me by name. Maybe I had strayed from my path, I had wandered too far from my flock and a Phrygian snatched me from my course by its' breath. I nestled in its' stomach and the darkness swallowed me whole, until I was no more but poison to its' lungs.


Wahh Wahh Wahhh! Bills alarm rips him quickly from his light slumber. He squints his eyes to read the time on the clock. 6:00AM. He fumbles around for a few seconds before he is able to silence his dreadful alarm. With each pulse of sound Bill winces from the sharp pain in his head. Eventually he finds his mark and his room is filled with silence once more. Finally, with the alarm silenced and his head becoming more clear, he starts about his daily routine. First he chugs the glass of water sitting by his bedside. Next he opens up his night stand drawer and picks out a small black case that he deftly opens spreading out its contents on the nightstand next to his bed. He lays out a bottle cap and empties the contents of a small baggy into it. He stares down and sees the familiar sight of crystals ready to be crushed, mixed, and injected directly into his bloodstream. This is Bills daily routine and he goes about it with as much fluidity and grace as a machine. He draws up some water into a syringe and then shoots it into the bottle cap mixing the contents until the crystals are completely dissolved. Bill draws up the liquid into a fresh syringe and begins to ready himself. The water he drank earlier is now making its way into his bloodstream which Bill is hopeful will puff his veins up giving him a bigger target. Just to be safe he grabs the makeshift dumbbell he created (a small carrier bag filled with a few textbooks) and does a few arm curls to pump his arms up some. Thoroughly worked Bill sits down in his chair and prepares the area, wiping his arm with multiple alcohol pads. Bill is a bit of a clean freak when it comes to his routine but thats how he justifies doing one of the most dangerous things a person can do. Without further hesitation Bill picks up the syringe takes off the cap and positions the needle next to his skin. He takes a few deep breaths and sinks the syringe into his arm. He pulls back to see if he has found his mark. A glorious sight fills Bills vision as he sees a plume of blood pull back into the syringe. He’s found his mark. Slowly he begins to push the plunger down. Before he is even halfway through he is starting to feel the effects. It starts as a tingly warm feeling in his tongue. Then he gets a metallic taste in his mouth and throat. Soon his entire head is flushed and warm feeling as if he is getting a hot blast of air to the face. Before long the feeling sinks through his entire body down and out his feet. Now Bill is off and running. His day can begin as he feels the energy buzzing through his body like there is electricity coursing through his veins. A big smile washes over his face and all his cares are gone. He is content, he is ok, nothing can hurt him, not on this day.


Hazed he looked at the bottle, unable to comprehend the meaning of his actions. In his heart he saw it for what it was, but in his mind he only saw the orange tinted bottle with the warning label on the side. In the sink he watched the water flowing down the drain and felt a strange familiarity with the water. Both he and the water ebbed and flowed, rushing to somewhere else, yet unguided by their own actions but rather by a superior natural force. The haze grew stronger now, and he felt the heavy hand of reality pushing down on him. Down he fell into darkness, down to its comforting solitude. Down… Up. Up he rose in a sweat and quickly looked around. He could feel the anxiety of the dream left from the adrenaline in his blood, and his heart yet raced from the illusions of the unconscious. His room was as always a mess, and beyond the crumpled sheets he could see his trusty alarm clock, once again waiting to awake him at the hour when the world needed him up. Today it read 6:34, and being as he wasn’t due to awake until 7:00 he considered falling back into a sleep. As he flopped back he realized that his heart was still accelerated, and he felt shaky, as though he had consumed one to many coffees. Slowly he rose from the bed to face the bathroom, which had frightened him so much in the dream. His steps were small and measured, as he felt his way through his apartment to the small room that functioned as his lavatory. Had it been any smaller and the French would not be the only one’s calling a water closet. Waving his arm through the air as though he was conducting an invisible orchestra he found the string that descended from a single bare bulb that was overhead. The soft yellowish glow made him feel as though he was ill, perhaps due to how it made him appear so in the mirror. The harsh lines created on his face showed his fatigue and stress, and he brushed it all away as he turned away from the ghastly image of himself. His thirty-two years of wanderings had left him largely penniless, alone, and in debt to loan companies and creditors alike. He would often reflect on his life and how it was largely unremarkable, and wonder what he would ever do that would matter. His career as a painter had been mediocre at best, with painting sales almost never equaling what he had spent on supplies, and his career as a writer being equally as successful. He looked at his watch, 6:48, time to prepare for another day at the office, another day making sure other peoples lives go according to plan, while his sat on hold in the wings, just waiting for the next act. He trudged through his routine and grumbled as he past his latest project, which now sat dormant upon his desk, no longer igniting a fire within his heart. The manila folder held within it detailed accounts of the people who were buried at Shady Willow Cemetery, which pending approval from the city council were to be exhumed and relocated in order to make way for a strip mall. He had spent nearly 6 months gather old newspaper clippings and interviewing surviving relatives in order to write his article, almost a page and a half per person, which he hoped would raise public awareness and stop the transfer. It was one of the few things he had taken a real interest in, and he truly felt as though he knew the people that were buried there better than any who were still among the world of the living. Perhaps if he could get that printed at his paper he would stop being merely arranging other’s work into an nice page format and writing articles of his own, but that would have to wait, as another days paper needed a layout. He paused before heading out the door after he was ready, checking his appearance in the mirror, he once again felt as though he was looking upon a ghost of himself, a shell of a person that he knew he could be. He let out a long sigh and opened the door, once again facing a world that had forgotten him. As he walked the several blocks to his office, he passed a homeless man, who appeared to have been beaten by life, held down at every turn. It reminded him of Neil Brennen, one of the people buried at Shady Willow. He had been a soldier in the first world war, and survived only to come home and get caught up in the whirlwind of the Roaring twenties, but once the Great Depression had set in, he found himself struggling on the streets to stay alive. As he tried to find work and food, he grew ever sicker from his life on the streets, until he quietly succumbed to hypothermia one winter night in 1932. The thought crossed his mind that he should feel pity upon this man, but then considered his own position. The world treated him with neglect, almost refusing to acknowledge his existence in the first place, and he found him self longing to be beaten back by life just so he knew that someone out there knew that he was alive at all. The bells jingled as he pushed open the door to the North Collins Courier, drawing unwanted attention to him from the editor. The editor was a short middle-aged man, whose inflated ego was eclipsed only by the demands he placed upon his employees. Striding to him folder in hand he began to talk before he had truly come within normal conversational distance. “Here is the articles that need to be arranged for tomorrows paper, and lets try to have them done before I have to send them to the printer this time.” The man’s air of annoyance came across clearly, through both tone and the presence of a slight twitch of the eye, which made one worried about the sanity of the editor. “Have I not been on time, I thought the deadline was 4pm, I always have it in by then,” He struggled to figure out why he was being questioned when he could not remember a time when he was late. “It is, and you have, but some people try to do more than the minimum. Perhaps it is why you are still stuck arranging words that are not your own. I sometimes wonder if you truly grasp how unremarkable you are.” His contempt was felt thoroughly, and his words haunted him all the way through that day. If only he could have the originality of Willard Stevenson, another corpse who found its resting place at Shady Willow. Willard Stevenson had done many things in his life, but what he was most noted for was not what he did while he lived but rather how he had died. While serving with the Union army he found his line breaking and unit in retreat. Unwilling to go down in history as a failure who had run from danger, he had broken rank and ran into the Confederate line. He fired his rifle and proceeded to bayonet confederate soldiers as the approached him. As the line enveloped him many soldiers were wary of getting to close to him as he was drunk with bloodlust, choosing instead to fire with their weapons at the single man flailing several yards away. Unfortunately they had him surrounded and the ensuing crossfire killed many more confederates than he could ever have, but enough rounds found their way to his body to end his fateful one-man charge. Having been honored for bravery, he was buried in his hometown of North Collins, with full military honors. The days work became monotonous as the hours wore on and he pressed to finish with time to spare. As lunch arrived the other employees filed out of the office to eat, while he stood fast to finish his work early. He did stop long enough to take note of the cute field reporter as she passed, and allowed himself to imagine himself for a moment with her as Mr. and Mrs. Avante must have been during their younger years together. They had met while summering at Cape Cod, and found that they fancied one another more than just as a summer fling. He was 21 from the prestigious Avante family from North Collins, and she was an Astor, a legendary family in its day. The two fell in love and wasted no time in getting engaged. Soon after a wedding followed and they were off exploring the world together, traveling upon the substantial fortunes of their families. From Paris, Rome, and Greece they would send home photos they would have done showing their exploits, and how they were becoming a truly worldly couple. As the years went on they found themselves traveling less and spending more quiet hours beneath the willow tree on the Avante estate, enjoying each others company and the solitude of the place. Mrs. Avante had taken ill in 1898 and died within a year, causing Mr. Avante to such grief that he dedicated the land around the Willow tree as a cemetery, and paid to have all the honored people from the town of North Collins Cemetery transferred there so that his late wife may rest among people he deemed “worthy of her greatness”. He died penniless 3 years later after a long depression and drug addiction in an effort to dull the pain of his lost love. The thought quickly dissolved from his head as he shook the ethereal feeling from his head. He knew that he needed to concentrate upon his work if he was ever going to finish by the deadline, let alone before it. He turned his eyes once again to his work and dove into its repetition almost robotically. As the day came to a close he stacked up the final copies that would become tomorrows news and placed them back into the folder, ready to go to the editor for final approval. Upon arriving at the editors door he felt his heart sink as he was met with a cold stare and an impatient tone. “Unremarkable yet again, congratulations,” and with that that editor turned to his work, completely dismissing his existence. He felt worthless as he walked home, wishing for some form of inspiration to bring him from the past to the present, so that he might someday have a future. His gaze searched around him and fell upon a young girl who was conversing with what appeared to be her classmates, and his mind was taken away once again, this time to Sandra Nelson, who had earned her spot in Shady Willow not through her deeds but rather her inability to grasp how mortal she really was at 16. The night air had been hot, and the smell of gasoline had her scrunching up her face, its pungent aroma reminding her all to much of her father. She sat aside the high school football star in his old ford, waiting to race some greasers from a rival school. She felt the thrill of being in the race and couldn’t help but hope that he was as turned on as she was by the situation. She gazed at him deviously as the race started, and continued to do so as they flew down the road. The next thing she knew she felt like she was flying, and before the terror of the situation could fully sink in to her the car landed on the passenger side roof, killing her instantly. She was laid to rest in the only cemetery that her father could afford, the old Avante place where only the poor were buried now, its treasured status having died with Mr. Avante some 50 years prior. He shook the image from his head as he walked along the sidewalk, once again contemplating his own life. As he walked up to his apartment he thought that perhaps he should walk to the cemetery that had dominated his thoughts all day and invigorated him in the past. The buildings quickly faded from thought as he walked down the road which led to the large tract of land that made up Shady Willow. As he approached he saw a peculiar sight, what appeared to be five people standing around a grave as though they were at a burial, only no one had been buried there since the 1950’s. As he approached closer he could make out the tell tale black clothing and decided to approach from behind them as to not be seen. As he came closer he saw that they were staring at a empty plot, with no headstone to speak of, as if they were waiting for something. No sooner had he come within several feet then did the crowd split and form a path for him to walk through. He looked upon the people with disbelief and horror, for he knew every one. His eyes went from the veteran to the couple, the girl and the hobo, and he found himself speechless. “You were the only one who cared for us, so it is fitting that we are likewise the ones who will care for you” The young girl spoke in a voice that was quite angelic to him, and he found himself captivated but the spectre. “How are you…what am I seeing?” he stammered. “Your mind is creating us as a result of those pills you took this morning. Your body has shown to be quite strong that you managed to fight it this long, but your body is failing, and it is almost time to rest.” The lovely wife expressed sweetly, and yet the meaning somehow hurt just the same. “You mean I am dying? You mean I will die here?” he questioned, barely audible. “You already have, brother, you already have.” The veteran said has he peered down at the now still body lying upon the plot. He rendered a smart salute and turned to leave. The other apparitions likewise turned and dissolved with the spirit of the lifeless corpse. The editor and reporter had volunteered to help clean the apartment, since the man had no family to speak of. As she cleaned up the paintings and writings, the reporter came across the folder sitting on the desk. She leafed through it quickly, and then called over the editor. He thumbed through the pages, reading the remarkable stories and the well-written opposition to the impending transfer. He knew that he would have to run this in the man’s honor, and so he hurried out of the apartment and back to his office. The small staff of the Courier stood around the grave, and each bowed their heads in respect. No one knew what they could say that could top what the editor had picked for the headstone, which was in no doubt a reference to his ability to save the cemetery posthumously. They filed away silently, never again to return.


Silence surrounded us in an unnatural haste. This special brand of silence can only be manifested, created, by man. Not mankind, not you or me, but by one man. I steeled myself against the encroaching fear and readied to plant my Black Rose as the saying goes. Footsteps of death broke the silence in which they themselves created; a duality in existence that only Life and Death possess. Despite the arid desert on this wasteland of Mars, a Black Rose can bloom like a weed in the Graveyard of Earth. The Graveyard of Earth is where the first scientists were buried. With them, marked the death of a society that would usher humanity further into our greatest potential. I always think of those scientists on the 40th day of the month. For when Death enters the prison wielding The Final Mask me and my fellow inmates living in the Purgatory sector of the prison wondering who death will take today. But, what would those scientists do? They fought against the impossibility of life on Mars. The Universe threw death at them the moment they left earth sailing through space for a new beginning. They shouldn’t have made it off Earth with the wars and all, but they outsmarted death. They shouldn’t have landed on Mars, but they were more prepared than death. They shouldn’t have built a successful civilization on Mars before the dust storms took them, but they were faster than death. Doesn’t matter though, death still wins in the end. The Final Mask hung lazily in the hand of the Warden, his own face hidden behind a sheer black mask with the constellation of Gemini in the center. the Final Mask was meant to be humane. An inmate was killed without pain as they were slowly lulled into sleep. Sleep is the cousin of death, after all. As the final mask was thrown into a pile of identical masks we would all don at once and as the Warden activated his remote switch the Final Mask would pressurize and send someone to sleep for good. When we lined up and took our masks the sound of a sudden thud as someone hit the ground would tell who was unlucky enough to have worn the fated mask. How would Mars’ first scientists handle this? They would fight back against death. If we can kill the Warden we can escape our death sentence. What was the point of it though, death comes for all of us in Purgatory. As the masks were mixed and then passed out a voice whispered into my ear. “Zane, my mask is warm, man. My fuckin’ mask is warm.” “Good for you. I’m freezing my ass off.” I said grinning to myself. “Is your shirt warm too? I’ll trade if it’s such a problem.” I heard a small chortle to me right from another inmate eavesdropping on us. Joking was how we got by living in purgatory. The only way to deal with this inescapable feeling is to simply laugh at it. “Think about it. My mask is warm. It feels like someone’s been holding it.” At this it began to sink in. I glanced at the cart whose mechanical arms continued to mix the masks move automatically down the line. “It’s my turn to plant the Black Rose. Shit, Zane this isn’t exactly as humane as they say it is. I’m not exactly sent from sleep to death here. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” Panic was setting into his voice now. His attempt at a joke fell short and only doubled the sound of fear in his voice. But, he’s right. I stared at the Warden’s mask, the Gemini twins radiating a soft glow, and considered how he would feel knowing death was coming for him with certainty. It didn’t matter that they tried to build a death penalty that was 100% humane and successful when the Warden probably sat on the mask beforehand just to feel a little power over us. As if he didn’t have enough already. I thought of the scientists that left earth so long ago. “Give it to me. Trade.” I was speaking hastily now as the cart was nearing the end of the line of inmates. “What? Fuck no. That makes me no better than the Warden. Why would you want this shitty thing, Zane?” His voice quavered with a mix of relief, shock, and residual fear. “Trade. I’m getting it eventually. Might as well get to choose when I die. That’s humane, right?” I meant it, but my eyes didn’t leave the Warden as he sauntered to the start of the line where he would check mask seals before activating the killswitch. I moved my manickled hands carefully so they didn’t disturb the manifested silence that still surrounded us. I grabbed the Final Mask from his hand, although I pulled harder than I needed there wasn’t much resistance taking it from him. I am the master of my fate, not the Warden, and if he thinks he can dangle fear over us I’ll gladly correct him. How does this guy live with himself? The whole point of the Purgatory Sector is to deliver a peaceful and humane end to a prison sentence. He began checking seals down the line. Each inmate repeating the phrase to verify seal integrity. I felt the warm embrace of my mask as the Warden of Death moved down the line. I wouldn’t just take the fear away from the man next to me, I’d deliver it back in kind. “State your number.” The Warden’s distorted voice echoed from behind his mask sounding both ominous and distant. “280-61914” “I, state your number, have violated the New Laws of Mankind…” I repeated the Wardens words with a stoic disdain as to not betray my thoughts. “...and am graced with a humane death, though I am unworthy.” The Warden repeated the phrase the same way he did every 40th day. Each and every soul in PurgatoryBut, this is no humane death. Is it humane to know your final hour? I admit, I haven’t felt so charged with life until now. A surge of thoughts and meditations of the original scientists who escaped death at every corner just so the whole of humanity could continue on. Are these inmates to my left and right also human? They deserve the same selfless act. Sruely, it’s selfish if I don’t do something. Pushing firmly against the left and right breathers the Warden nearly concluded his final checks, so I took my opportunity. I took my life into my own hands, even for a moment. Tackling him and pinning his torso hard we began to struggle in our duel against death as each man, master and slave, became equal as death loomed over both of us. The Warden was nearly at the killswitch on his hip. I didn’t relent. The robots that normally oversee the death penalty were not responding, though they probably registered my masks signature and assumed I was killed already.None of them know they wield death like I know, today.\ I caught his left arm between the cold concrete ground and my knee. None of the other inmates would join in. Why would they? People fight back all the time, but death always takes them. The Warden sent his right elbow down into my liver as I reached to take my mask off. The blow doubled me over, but men fight hardest in this final hour. I tore the Wardens mask free and in one swoop shoved the Final Mask in place. I pushed the killswitch and hoped the mask was sealed. While I loomed over the Warden I kept my face in view so he would see the face of death as my own. His body went limp and the line of prisoners roared and tore their masks free. That was when chaos erupted. The robots watching the precession are clearly on some sort of timer or routine and we had just violated it. I grabbed at the Warden’s mask, the Gemini twins still glowing a soft-blue hue, and put it on. The robots began subduing prisoners with mechanical efficiency; neither emotion nor malice in their actions. I vaulted for the exit as I escaped Purgatory. Frantically searching for a way out I considered the Warden must have personal items. I could be free of this place, my sentence has been served. Finally, I had stumbled upon a small room with a neatly folded white button down shirt, trousers, and a pair of sharply cleaned leather shoes. Rifling through the pockets searching for anything of use I found a key card and opened a locker in the corner of the room, my mask illuminated the interior dimly. A screen was staring at me with an ID reader built into it. I tried the Warden’s card hoping the computer had access to the communications network on Mars so I could begin to form a plan. Inserting the card a prompt appeared. Warden number: I keyed in the 7 digit alphanumeric number on the back of the Wardens badge. Termination Sequence Successful? [Y/N]: Termination sequence? Is that all this is? Just a routine, a policy or procedure, to be carried out with the same monotony as a janitor cleans a trash bin or an accountant punches numbers into a spreadsheet. I typed in Y anyway. Didn’t want to throw any alarms so close to freedom. Gemini Mask In Place? [Y/N]: I hesitantly typed Y. Must be an inventory check. You are free from the guilt of murdering another soul. An eye for an eye; death is the great equalizer. Thank you for keeping it Humane. My mask tightened and the world went black.


There are few things in life you need to take a firm side on- and the presence of pulp in orange juice is one of them. The cultivation of citrus has a contentious history in the United States. Dating back to the initial disappointments of the Florida territory not possessing the fountain of youth, young colonizers smashed oranges to manage their aggression. Outside of the unstoppable flow of time, a brief air of calm held the burgeoning territory in its grasp, until it didn't. A fierce debate surrounded the remains of crushed oranges and the leaked juice. One young man, Francisco Pulplenti, asserted the values of keeping the white detritus. At the same time, his rival, Hernan Alivincoso, slapped Francisco's sloppy goblet away to parade his purified version of the juice. The history of that day lived within the hearts of every true Floridian. Only through mutual disdain of Louisiana and lemonade were the two opposing forces able to tolerate one another. Yet, the siren call of conviction corrupted both sides after three hundred years of peace. Two field hands fell into an argument over which bottle to chill in the mini-fridge for refreshment, and just as it started three hundred years ago, it ended. The groove fell into the two sides of pro and anti-pulp. Small skirmishes peppered the state as chaos spilled onto the streets. Before the day set, the state had to shut its borders, lest outside forces added to the ongoing battle. The pro-pulp forces were the vocal minority; their numbers dwarfed by the populist anti-pulp masses. In the face of overwhelming odds, the pro-pulp prevailed in pitched battles. Whispers began to circle that the pulp gave them supernatural abilities. Soon, the anti-pulp faced internal rumors that they faced a legion of pulp-powered superhumans. The anti-pulp leadership branded pulp consumption as barbaric and alluded to a connection with witchcraft. The shift from the superhuman narrative towards evil practices quelled the morale loss from the pro-pulp victories. Just like the noncommital, none were left exempt from choosing sides. Citrus allergy? Still have to choose- otherwise, you'll experience your death allergy. As with all wars, factions brought it to its knees. The pro-pulp and anti-pulp fought on the pretense of the naval orange being the orange of choice. Both forces suffered surprise attacks by the Valencia orange and Blood orange armies. The tangerine mercenaries joined the melee while the grapefruit and lemon contingents watched the carnage in disgust. And so Florida fell- fracturing into several tribes. Each aggressive to defend their groves. The everglades soon filled with the hum of airboats as covert trade routes formed between former allies, friends, and families. Disney World closed its borders to the rest of the state and used their private airfield to maintain its cult activities. Even still, the Mouse privately funded grapefruit enterprises to dismantle the orange infrastructure. The corrosive nature of citrus burned into history as the rest of the country drank pale champagne mourning their own tradition. No longer would brunch, nor the nation be the same again.