Once upon a time, there was a young man named Henry that once lived inside of a balloon. It all started when Henry worked in a balloon factory. His job was to blow balloons. Blow balloons? That’s an easy job. What could go wrong? All sorts of crap. There was one balloon that he inflated. It kept growing and growing and growing. The balloon had infinite expansion. His lungs were oh so tired so he took a break. When he sat down, he accidentally let go of the balloon and the balloon began sucking everything in sight. Sucking? Aren’t balloons supposed to make fart-like noises and flop around the place as it deflates? Not this balloon. This balloon doesn’t deflate. It self-inflates as long as the balloon opening stays open. Henry didn’t know about this and the balloon sucked him in. The good news was the balloon didn’t engulf his entire body. The bad news was half of his body was trapped in the balloon opening. So everywhere he went, he had to carry around the ballon. People that knew henry never saw his face. You could hear him talk but barely. You had to put your ear onto the balloon to hear him. Walking around with a giant balloon wasn’t easy. Bathing was a challenge. His balloon couldn’t fit the bathroom so he had to hose himself outside. He couldn’t drive, so he had to fly to his destinations. While in the air, he feared the birds flying by might pop his balloon and he would fall to his death. Well, the balloon was unpoppable. He tried to find help. He tried to get himself out of the balloon but no matter what, no one or nothing could get him out. He tried scissors, nails, knives, and even rocket fuel. Nothing could pop that balloon. He tried vacuuming the balloon off his body but the vacuum broke. One day, while attempting to enter his home for three hours (the balloon was too large to fit through any doorway), a bunch of acorns fell on him. He looked up and the giant oak tree next to his house was flooded with squirrels. They all looked at him and threw their acorns at him. Henry felt attacked so he threw the acorns back at them. One squirrel leaped off the tree and landed on his balloon. The balloon popped. After living inside that balloon for seven years and trying to find every little sharp, dangerous and pointy object to pop that balloon, a little 4oz squirrel did the job. When the balloon popped, it rattled the earth. All the squirrels that bullied him outside his home ran. Everyone in town hid inside their nuclear war bunkers. Citizens from every town and city in the world evacuated to who knows where. There was mass hysteria. What was that sound? Is the world ending? Is there a volcano? It sounded like a thousand volcanoes erupting. People from the northern parts of Longyearbyen, Svalbard to the southern parts of Ushuaia, Argentina could see, feel, and hear the balloon’s pop. No one knew it was a balloon. While the balloon’s pop echoed around the world causing nothing but chaos, Henry felt relieved to be balloon-free. He went into his home and shut all the blinds and the curtains. He lit a few candles, grabbed some cookies, drank some tea, and read his favorite book. He went on about his day as if nothing happened. End.


In the town on the way up to the cottage, I buy lightbulbs, bread, and a new hunting knife. The salesman is a gruff old man in tatty Camo shorts and a grey t-shirt, with the look of a veteran about him. This man is wider than I was tall, a wall of meat, but despite his outward appearance is was kind and charming. That's most of what convinced me to buy the knife in the first place. From there it’s another hours drive and a twenty minute trek up the hill, once my car can go no further. Half way I spot the aptly named halfway house, boarded up and rotting. Its a ghost story, something we tell the kids every year as we bring them up. Apparently a mad monk used to live in there, some unknown time ago, and he would horde money in the chimney. One day he tried to get it out and got stuck, and now he haunts the little cabin ever since. Some of the newer staff assume I make the story up, but really I don’t know where it came from. I was told it when I was little, and I’m sure the previous leader was told the same. Finally I get to the bridge that marks the entrance to our land, and spot the cottage atop the final hill. The sheep are keeping their distance for now, though no doubt they will have swarmed the house by morning. You need to go up every now and then to do maintenance, to keep everything in order. This is no challenge, my day job is as a plumber, but its still never pleasant to rip out the pipe leading in to the stream under the bridge, or deal with the decrepit toilet and sink inside. Before I put in the key I turn the knob out of habit, and to my surprise the door creaks open. The lights are on, as is the heating. No one was supposed to come out here for at least another week, not until I got everything sorted out. I pull my new knife out of its sheath, and watch my steps as to not be too loud on the stone floor. “Hello?” I yell, “Anybody in here?” The lightbulbs, a row of four awkwardly wired in to the mantle, flicker and sizzle. The third always burns out, its the only one I ever have to replace. I weave around the wooden table and chairs, and begin to climb the stairs to the cramped second floor. “This is your last warning, leave now and we won’t have any trouble.” Footsteps tap behind the door to the bedroom. “I’ll give you to the count of three, when I come in put your hands up, I want any weapon on the ground.” My heart beats against my chest and in my ears as I begin to twist the doorknob. “1” “2” I hold out as long as I can, hoping to give the intruder more time to reconsider. Without a three, I barge through the now open door, knife raised, yelling like an ancient warrior going in to battle. A figure swaddled in blankets screams as I enter the room. Andy. He puts his hands up, and I lower the knife. “Wha\\t are you doing here you silly bastard?” He adjusts his hearing aid. “Sorry Gareth, should have called, I thought it was free this weekend.” “You gave me a fucking heart attack.” “I'm sorry, I thought I’d come up for a few days, enjoy the peace and quiet.” Andy is a Jr officer, about twenty two or twenty free, I’m not sure. He has dark blond hair down to his neck and a scraggly neck-beard. As my nephew, he has been the glad enjoyer of a vast degree of nepotism, but I can only handle so much. “Next time you come up here, call me, yeah? I almost stabbed you for gods sake.” “If I had heard you, I could have defended myself.” he says, nodding to the old axe leaning against the wall. I figure it could chop flesh as good as it could firewood, so im glad his hearing aids were switched off, for once. “What were you even doing?” “Well I was trying to sleep, its not easy with all those damn birds screeching all the time.” I rake my fingers through my hair, strain setting in to my jaw. “Fine. But from now I’m going to have to ruin your peace and quiet. I'm going to be up here doing repairs all weekend. And far from napping all day, you can help me. Call it payback for nearly sending me to the emrgency room.” “Says the guy who waved a knife at me.” “yeah, and I still have that knife bucko, so maybe be a little more polite.” Andy chuckles, turning back off his hearing aid. Enough excitement for one day, time to make a fire. Just before I set off, I remember the lightbulbs. I swap them all out, not paying any special attention to the third. No more flickering, for now. I really should get the wiring fixed, but that's not really my expertise. Andy is training to be an electrician, but at this rate I will have a better chance of becoming prime minister than he will of finishing his training. I take the axe, and lay it against a log next to the fire pit. A tree grows just outside the cottage, in the perimeter of the thin metal fence, but we decided long ago we wouldn’t chop that down. Its been with the Boys Brigade longer than I have. And anyway, there are plenty of other trees, and sticks laying around – the farmer wont mind me taking some. The fire is finished just as it begins to get dark. I arrange the wood in a pyramid shape, sprinkle over some lighter fluid, and light the kindling. Before long it crackles and spits, puffs of ash stinging my eyes and smoke burning my throat. I tried calling to Andy, telling him to come down and enjoy the fire, but he doesn’t listen. Probably has me on mute again. In want of company, I fiddle with my radio. I turn the knob, filtering through the static to see if I can pick up any local stations. Never been a fan of those big corporate stations, playing songs everyone knows. I like the rustic feel, bands who probably couldn’t even sell five tickets, who will never release an album. That's why I like radio, its impermanent – not recorded. A particular order of songs will only ever happen once. Finally, I turn to a local news channel. Nothing much to note. ‘Farmer x reports sheep missing’, ‘Police break up rave in abandoned barn’, that sorta thing. I zone out, enjoying the static and the aestheticism of the thing, until a phrase catches my attention. “...advise everyone nearby, lock your doors.” I begin to worry I’ve missed crucial information, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Out of all the things, its a strange feeling to have the police call you. I answer immediately. “Hello?” “Good evening sir, this is Constable Wortham.” “What can I do you for Constable?” “Bad news I'm afraid sir. Do you have a weapon at hand?” “Erm, yeah. A knife and a wood axe. Why? Are they having an amnesty?” “A little more serious than that. Are you familiar with Everwood prison?” “Yes sir, its just a few miles down the road.” “Exactly. We have received reports that a prisoner has escaped. He is extremely dangerous, and likely armed. Stay inside, lock your door, and don’t build a fire.” His last words chilled me, I watch as embers sizzle and fly in front of me. “do you understand?” “yes sir,” I stutter. “Good. Its probably nothing, just better same than sorry.” “Definitely. Definitely.” After this, the Constable politely ends the call and hangs up, as If he hasn’t just dropped a massive weight on my shoulders. First things first, the fire. “Andy, Andy.” I yell as I run up the stairs, adjusting his hearing aid, he grimaces. “What?” I explain the situation, and he looks at me with a sort of bored panic. “Come with me, we need to put this fire out.” “How do we do that?” “Fetch the buckets, go down to the stream. I’ll start getting water from the sink.” “Why do I have to go down to the stream?” he whines. “Fine, fine. I’ll do that.” I say, murmuring insults under my breath. I take a torch and the large metal bucket, and walk down the hill to the stream. Its nearly pitch black now, and the torch provides my only light, beaming out like a tunnel in front of me. I dredge the bucket through the water, trying to avoid stones and bits of driftwood, when I hear a rustling in the reeds. Knife, where have I put the knife? Its in my pocket, but I put it in my off hand for safe keeping. Its still sheathed, but it makes me feel more comfortable. After the third pass, the bucket is full, and heavy enough to make me lopsided. I grasp my knife wielding hand to the handle, supporting the other, and pressing the wooden grip in to my palm. Quickly however, I realise the obvious. I cant hold the bucket, the knife, and the torch at the same time. Weighing up my options, I put away the blade. I begin my trek back up the hill, when the rustling starts up again. Like scratching, or shuffling, through the long reeds, something splashes in the water. I peer over, projecting my light in to the stream. “Quack.” Greets the duck, staring up at me with blank eyes. I chuckle, and carry the water back up the hill. When I return, Andy is running too and fro, tossing a small glass of water on the fire each time. Dumbass. With one large throw of the bucket, most of the fire is dying down, and I stamp down the rest. “Nice job Andy, we will make a firefighter of you yet.” “Oh shove off, its not my fault we didn’t have anything bigger.” “The bowls? A vase? No?” He adjusts his hearing aid, and walks back in to the cottage. Fire dealt with, on to the next step. What did the constable say? Lock the door. When I get inside however, I notice the lock is completely broken. Andy, most likely. Impatient fool, I spot him lounging on the sofa. Still, neither of them were locksmiths, so there was nothing to be done. I pat a hand on his back, and he turns his artificial ears back on. “Yeah?” “Locks busted.” “Not my fault.” “Whose fault it is isn’t the point. I wouldn’t feel safe leaving that door unlocked at the best of times, and with that maniac on the loose…” “You don’t know he’s a maniac. He could have been put away for, like, tax evasion or something.” “Extremely dangerous, that's what the Constable said. Oh, you’re no use. Go and lie down upstairs, its all your good for.” “Fine. Suits me well. Just hope the killer gets you first, might get my peace and quiet back.” He laughs spitefully and then goes back upstairs. I can’t sleep in the same room as that oaf, so despite everything its the living room sofa for me. To address more important things, the door. I prop the Axe against it. It won’t keep anyone out, per se, but it might just warn me if anyone comes in. I set up my makeshift bed, turn out the lights, and play the radio on low. I doubt I’ll sleep much at all tonight. Taking out the knife from my pocket, I roll the handle in my hands. I may not be some beefy giant like the man who sold it to me, but I can protect myself well enough. And anyway, nothing will happen. There are tons of buildings between here and the prison. Why would he come here of all places? As I begin to dose off, rain begins to patter outside. It grows heavier and heavier as it pounds against the dirt paths, and I hear the first crack of thunder. Its almost comforting, like rain on a car roof. I awake to a great crack, but the rain has stopped. I grip the knife tighter, beginning to shake under my blanket. Looking over at the door, my worst fear is realised. The axe has fallen over. Surely there must be some simple explanation. The wind, probably, or maybe some stupid sheep looking for cover from the weather. I check my watch, 4 AM, still about an hour before it gets light. I hide my head under the blanket, and try to get back to sleep despite my racing heart and screaming mind. But I can’t do it. I'm restless, body and spirit. I force the blanket off my face, and then peel it down the rest of me, getting out of bed. I don’t stand up, just sitting on the edge. Waiting for my fear to pass. When suddenly, the door begins to creak open. I feel for my knife, staring at its sharpness. Am I prepared to use this on another human being? “Hello?” I whimper. The door opens wider and wider, footsteps coming closer and closer. Too many footsteps. “Baaaaa” Goes the sheep. I release my breath, and laugh at my stupidity. Just a sheep. I go over and close the door on its face, chasing the curious creature out. It isn’t yet light, so I turn the lights on myself. Now that the fear has passed, I don’t worry about anyone seeing. But then I notice something. The third light bulb on the mantle. It isn’t on, it isn’t flickering, it’s gone.     ( Based on a true story.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **“Something wasn’t right.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Last Week: Spotlights Wonderful stories this week. You never cease to amaze me with the unique take on the prompts and the many ways of interpretation. I hope to see more feedback going around the thread this week. Thank you, as always, to everyone who took the time to leave a comment for another writer. - - Submitted by u/rare27 - A traveller searches for buried treasure. - - Submitted by u/Thelettre7 - A man contemplates his options as he heads to a new town for work. #Two Weeks Ago: Spotlights You all did a great job all around. Thank you for being so patient! - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A poignant tale about the childhood memories and wishes we hang onto. - - Submitted by u/patheticoptimist - A story about an ominous sacrifice as one prepares for his future.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


As I layed on the ground, the grass touching my face. I could feel the wind blowing. I could hear the birds flying. “Why am I here? Why do I keep going? And how do I keep myself alive?” I heard a rustle of leaves behind me. "That must've been Clara" I thought, as I heard her calling my name. “Mark? Where are you? I found some food! We should gather some berries and eat before we move on again.”, I wanted to stand up, I really did, but my legs didn’t want to move. “I'm so tired Clara, can't we just lay on the ground some more. We got a few more hours before it gets dark. And I think the shelter must be nearby?”, “No, we must eat now and move on. You know we said we'd reach the shelter before dark. John is waiting for us there”. I stood up. And grabbed my bag and knife and walked towards the bushes to join Clara into gathering some food. Clara walked towards Mark and gave him the basket she found earlier. "Put the berries in there. And remember only the black ones not the red ones those are poisonous.” Clara said as she pushed Mark towards the other side of the berry bushes. A couple of minutes later Mark could hear Clara struggling to walk between the bushes without tearing her clothes on some of the thorns. "Becarefull not to tear your clothes. We don’t have any more thread to fix your clothes like the last time.” yelled Mark at Clara. “Oh, shut up, as if you're the one fixing anything, you can barely do anything let alone fix my clothing” she scolded and laughed whilst pushing aside the big rose bush she almost leant into. “oh nooo.” Mark heard Clara scream. “what's happening?” mark yelled at Clara. No answer came back, Mark quickly ran to the other side of the large bush and searched around for any sign of her. He pulled aside all of the plants and cut his wrist on some of the rose thorns. "CLARA WHERE ARE YOU?” Mark yelled around before hearing a faint sigh coming from behind a large fallen tree trunk that lay on the side of an overgrown path. “Nothing wrong. I just looked at this frog and before I noticed I stumbled on some rocks and fell over that log.” Clara answered whilst trying to stand up again and brushing dirt and leaves off her clothing. "Oh no.” She gasped and Mark quickly ran towards her in shock “What's wrong?” Mark asked worryingly, "My last favourite shirt is thorn.” She said sadly whilst having one hand in the air and the other feeling around her side trying to determine how big the cut was. “You had me worried there for a second.” Mark yelled at her and throwing a berry towards Clara's face. Clara bent down and scooped up a few hands full of berries and placed them into the bucket she had and walked around the long tree trunk. She pulled Mark by the back of his pants towards her. "Sit down here on the tree trunk and eat.” She said, as she brushed some dirt of the log before sitting down herself. “How long before we reach John and the others you think?” Mark asked whilst shovelling down hands full of berries in his face. “I hope within an hour or two, I really want to sleep on a bed tonight instead of sleeping in that disgusting two person sleeping bag you brought.” Clara groaned at Mark and giving him a dirty look. "Well, it was either the bag or nothing so be grateful would you.” Mark snapped at Clara, as he began gathering his belongings around him and putting them in his bag Mark pulled Clara up and they both walked towards a large cell phone tower they've seen in the distance that was marked on their map following the direction towards the shelter. As the light of the sun began reaching the end of the day and the sound of crickets in the long grass could be heard. Mark and Clara stood on top of a large hill looking down at a ruined city that used to be their homes. They both looked down on the destruction that was caused after the fallout. "Remember how we used to go to the shopping centre every weekend.” Mark said as he pointed towards a dark place of shops and houses on the other side of the town. “And how we used to argue for hours that we didn’t actually want to go and we just wanted to stay inside and watch tv, yeah I remember, those were the days.” Clara sighed and stared at an overgrown sign announcing the name of the city, and painted with trees. “How funny how there used to be so little green around town but now everything is overgrown.” Clara sighed. “Out of all things you find THAT, the funniest thing?” Mark laughed, “It's Kinda beautiful, maybe one day. Soon I hope, we can live there again?” Clara mumbled. "But for now, let's just hurry to the shelter, it’s a few minutes this way into the wood. Look. If you look there you can kinda see the smoke rising amongst the trees. You see?” Mark babbled on and pointed towards the tree line in the distance. “Yeah, lets hurry, I don’t want to be out in the open like this. It feels unsafe. We should walk along that line of trees there and rush towards those boulders there.” Clara declared and reached for the map that stuck out of Mark's bag. And showed him where they would enter the woods. She pointed at the sun that almost began to disappear behind the large field on the other side of the town. "let's just hurry and run. But don’t stumble and fall again.” Mark chuckled as he looked down at Clara's left side of her shirt that she quickly tied together with a string so it wouldn’t hang loose. Clara gave Mark a dirty look bit smirked as she pulled on his hands and rushed left towards the tree line. As they ran along the trees keeping to the shadows and watching to see if no one was around they hid amongst the bushes and high grass and ran to the boulders. They looked back at a few fences and houses in the distance and saw a few vague shapes. They didn’t know what they saw. But they definitely didn’t want to wait and find out. Mark grabbed Clara's hand and they ran into the woods. Quickly leaving the town behind and looking for any sign of the shelter. “Two life forms detected.” They heard as the walky talky Mark had in his bag turned on and they heard hissing sounds and people yelling and talking. "I think we are almost there?” Clara stammered as she ran out of breath and saw a large metal door in the far distance. Mark reached around his bag and felt around for the walky talky and found it. “It's us, Mark and Clara!” He announced. A moment of silence and a voice could be heard repeating their names on the other side of the line. “Mark? Clara? It's been weeks? Are you all right? we're opening the doors right now. Hurry!” hollered a voice out of it. As they both ran towards the metal door that now slowly slid open. She could see people around the fence and heard someone yelling around giving orders to the others. They reached the door. And Mark bumped Clara on her shoulder and pointed at a large watch tower to the side and she saw a familiar looking face. It was John. He waved and beckoned them inside. Walking past the metal door and hearing it slide close again and huge metal locks being closed they looked at each other with joy in their eyes. Finally made it after all those weeks. They could finally relax, a sigh of relieve came from behind them as they both turned around, they saw John slowly walking towards them with his hands out as to hug them "You must tell us everything! We haven't heard of you for weeks. And we are so glad you are still alive. Ill quickly inform the others of your arrival and prepare a huge feast.” John simultaneously pushed them towards the canteen and ordered a few people around him to make things in order As more and more people joined them in the canteen, they all sat down and a huge feast was set. Everyone grabbed plates full of food and the canteen fell in silence as everyone was eager to hear the stories of beyond the woods. Mark began telling them about how peaceful it actually was. "We haven't really seen one of them for a while. We sometimes heard a group of them moving amongst streets or roads. But they rarely venture into woods or anything.” Clara continued telling them "As we rarely walked near towns, we didn’t come across them much. We did have to hide often in cars or sheds to avoid detection.” Mark concluded “It was actually quite boring, we didn’t have much food after about two weeks, and we had to forage around a lot. Scavenging around houses or quickly running into stores to look around but as expected they were almost empty, after exploring about half the map we decided to come back and maybe in a few days we'll try to explore the other side of the map.” As people began murmuring around and talking about what they just heard. John could be heard saying “But why risk going out again when you just said it was boring. It's not worth the risk getting caught by those things when you can stay here and.” “And what...? Die of old age hiding in these shelters whilst our old world is just crumbling away next to us. We need to fight... we need to go back... we can't just hide for the rest of our lives. What's worth surviving if you aren’t truly living life to its fullest...?” Mark snapped back.


Each day became a routine. I would meet Kit in the town, walk with her to the market, and we’d visit a few of the stalls. Then she’d go off to do her own thing, bartering with the various buyers and sellers, before we’d meet up in the evening and walk back. During my alone time, I would walk around the market hoping for some miracle-book to catch my eye, or I would sit down in the nearby fields and keep a journal of my experiences so far. I was walking aimlessly through the market at the end of my seventh day on the island, when I spotted Kit by a small stall, flicking through a pile of disorganized books. “Got anything good?” I asked. Kit glanced up to me. “You got any use for space travel? ‘How humans can colonize other planets, terraforming our solar system’. I mean shit, it takes a week to get between some islands, I think Neptune’s a little out of reach right now.” The market seller let out a grunt of disapproval. “Calm down, Joe. I’ll find someone to buy your crap.” She left the stall and walked over to me. “How are you?” I sighed. “Frustrated.” “Give it time. The books will come.” “Just feel… useless, I guess.” I tried to shrug off the doubt. “Ready for the walk home?” “How about we get a drink here instead?” “You sure?” I asked. “Yeah. Nowhere else to be. A drink with you sounds like a nice evening.” Kit led me to a small cafe perched on the cliffs by the quay. Over the wall to my right, I could see ships resting against the quay; their sails furled and the masts silhouetted in the twilight. I watched the ships sleeping for a few minutes until Kit cleared her throat, turning my attention back to her. “Your books aren’t on those boats you know?” “Sorry.” I turned to face her. “Do you ever feel like the books should be staying here?” “What’ya mean?” “Instead of selling them off. You keep them here. Preserve it.” “Maybe. Sure. But people gotta sell stuff to eat. Besides, you have no idea how big that thing is. They’ll still be bringing stuff out after I’m long gone.” “Just...” I paused trying to extract the nagging feeling at the back of my head. “You have all this knowledge and information, and you’re just breaking it up bit-by-bit. If it stayed, then you know where it is. But, once it’s sold, you can’t replace it.” “You’re just grumpy because we haven’t found *your* books yet.” Kit stuck out her tongue. “That’s probably more true than I like to admit,” I chuckled. A waiter arrived and placed two small glasses. The drink was smaller than I expected, and it looked like it would only take a gulp or two to get rid of it. I picked it up, inspecting the pale liquid. I sniffed it, feeling my nose tingle at the strong alcoholic smell. Kit lifted her glass and smiled. “Have a taste, see what you think.” I complied, letting the drink briefly taste my tongue. I felt my sinuses burn, and my eyes watered. Kit burst out laughing, struggling not to choke on her drink. “They not have alcohol on Kadear?” “We do, but…” I let out a quick cough. “Not as strong as that.” “We’re a tough people on Ringatoy.” “Clearly.” I looked down at the glass, gently swirling the liquid, hoping the aeration might dilute it. “I have a question. Why have you been so helpful to me?” “I don’t know. You see a tall handsome guy spinning in a circle looking lost, what else would you do? Maybe I’m just a sucker for a helpless man in need.” She took another sip, sitting back in her chair. “Helpless? Is that what you think of me?” I said with raised eyebrows. “Maybe. At first I just thought I’d try and help you out and earn a bit of money. But I guess I realized you aren’t like most people here. I know pretty much everyone on Ringatoy; the visitors I usually only know for a day or two. You’re different. And I like that.” I smiled. Kit continued. “Plus, I get to toy with you, and watch you get drunk off alcohol that’s too strong for your delicate Kadear body.” She leant forward, propping her elbows on the table between us. “So why do you trust me?” “Can’t say I know. But you’ve been good to me so far.” “Well dang. I was hoping you were gonna say feminine charm,” she said. She let out a brief twitch as she did before she returned reclining in her chair. “Why d’ya wanna know what happened anyway?” I looked at her in confusion. “Like, why d’ya care about how The Archipelago formed? Ain’t gonna make any difference to our lives now.” I felt a brief shiver as the nighttime air wrapped around me. “Because it wasn’t always like this. A few hundred years ago, something happened, and the whole planet got flipped on its head, and now we’re all living on these tiny little islands. And I want to know how we got here. Don’t you want to know?” “I do,” she said, nodding in thought. “But I also want to be happy, you know. Live a life. Get a home, a job, a family. Don’t you want that?” I winced down another sip of my drink. “I had that, back on Kadear. I had a great job and had this whole life plan ahead of me. However, truth be told - though I’m tired, frightened, frustrated - I’m happier now than I was.” “And that’s it. You just keep searching for your answer?” “Until I find something else that makes me happy.” I smiled. We continued drinking until the cold made the tips of our fingers numb, and the walk back to the town was a jagged stumble through the fields. The strong liquor had no doubt impacted my coordination, and a few times either Kit or I found ourselves leaning onto the other for support. The next morning, I woke with a dry mouth and a small rolling sensation in my stomach. I stumbled out of bed, got dressed, and stepped outside prepared for a slow, studdery walk to the market. The morning sun stung my tired eyes, but as the brightness cleared, I could see Kit walking towards me, as lively as ever. “How are you this morning?” she said. “Slight headache. Been better, been worse.” I slowly began walking alongside her towards the market. “You know what I was thinking would help with that?” “What’s that?” “I was thinking you could buy my breakfast.” Kit grabbed my arm and leaned into me. “Could I indeed?” I chortled. “There’s an excellent pastry place at the north end of the market. I think you’ll like it.” “I assume you will too?” I tilted my head to her. She looked at me with a smirk. “Oh definitely.” “I see you’ve still got your guest,” came a loud call from behind us. I turned, to see a tall muscular man, with thick bulging arms; his height enough to cast a shadow over me. “Haddee.” Kit gave a wide smile before walking up to the man and hugging him. “How are things going?” “So so.” He rocked his head from side to side. “Ferdinand. This is Haddee, he runs one of the crews going to the library.” “Good to meet you,” I said. “You too. I’ve heard a lot about you, especially with Kit going lunar since you got here.” “Lunar?” I replied. “Shut it Haddee,” Kit interrupted, sending a mock fist his way. Haddee reciprocated with his own dramatized flinch in fright. “Just got back?” Haddee nodded. “You just got back from the library?” I asked, my aching mind suddenly waking up to the conversation. “Well, those two did,” Haddee pointed a thumb to two other crew members behind him, their long hair dripping wet, forming a small trail of water where they walked. I looked at the plastic tubs behind them. A foolish glint of hope crossed my mind, as I imagined some of the answers I sort in the boxes. “Did you find anything useful?” Haddee shrugged. “We’ve got a way in, but we’re mostly getting fiction. The stuff that really sells is way deeper in.” “Unreachable?” “There’s probably a way through all the rubble and things. But - too risky.” He shook his head. It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up. The slow droning ache in my head, replaced with new thoughts and ideas. “Haddee, you know a way into the library, right?” He looked at me condescendingly, and let out a long slow nod. “Take me down there,” I said. Haddee burst out laughing. “No way. Not a chance.” “Why not?” “That entrance is what keeps me and those two guys employed. It keeps us alive. If I let you sell off that secret to someone then I gotta go back to hauling books at the docks hoping for tips.” “I’m not going to sell it...” “Too risky. The three of us know and no one else. Not my mum, my girlfriend, no one.” “You can trust me…” “With all due respect, I don’t know you from shit.” I paused for a moment, rethinking my approach. “Okay. You reckon there’s probably a path through to more valuable books, right?” Haddee furrowed his brow. There was a growing frustration in his voice. “Yeah, but as I said - too dangerous to go fishing through that rubble.” “I’ll go.” I responded. For the first time Haddee didn’t respond immediately, his face frozen while he processed my response. “I’m going to have to go dig deeper to find what I’m after. So I take a crate with me and I grab anything of value, and I record how I got there. When I come back, I’ll tell you how to get to the better stuff, and you can keep everything I find.” Haddee paused, scratching his chin. “You know how dangerous it is down there right?” “Kit reminds me daily,” I replied, trying to force humour into the moment. “Can you swim?” “Yes.” “Like properly. You’ll need to hold your breath for over a minute.” “Fine.” “Wait? You’re not actually considering this are you?” Kit walked between Haddee and I, turning to face him. Haddee ignored her. “You have to return with something I can sell and use. You come back with nothing and I’ll bury you down there.” “Understood,” I nodded. “Haddee, listen. You can’t do this. You can’t let him go down there.” Kit walked up to Haddee, standing at his feet. “He’s offering to go do it,” Haddee retorted. “And you have the sense to stop him.” “We need the money Kit. We need to get something we can sell that will buy us more than scraps.” Haddee looked over Kit’s shoulder towards me. “You’ll have to provide your own supplies. I’ll tell you what you need, but you gotta get it.” “Agreed,” I nodded. Kit turned to face me. “Please, listen. The books will come to the market. You gotta give it time.” “And what? Wait a year? Two years? For books that may have already been sold or may never come? I’ve got to try something.” “You have no idea how stupid an idea this is,” she pleaded, the whites of her eyes glassy. “I’ve done plenty of dangerous things.” I looked back over Kit’s shoulder. “Haddee, when can you take me down?” Haddee rocked his head back and forth for a second. “Three days’ time? At dawn?” “Fine. Just tell me what to get.” Kit walked away from us both shaking her head. I could hear her short, sharp breaths, as her body tensed. Then, with a sudden flinch, she turned to face us. “Fine. You take him, you take me too.” “What?” I replied. “You know nothing about the library. I do. I know what it takes to survive down there. You go without me, you die. I go too, then maybe you live.” Her eyes quivered in fright, while her chin clenched in rage. “Kit. You don’t have to do this...” “I know. I choose to,” she interrupted; her stance firmly planted against the ground. I turned to Haddee. “This okay with you?” He shrugged. “Heck. I trust Kit more than you. You get those books and a route to more…” I looked to Kit. I took a deep breath, trying to slow down the pace of conversation. “You sure about this?” “You go. I go.” “Okay,” I gave a slow, reluctant nod. I walked up to Haddee and offered out a hand. “Three days, at sunrise?” “Done.” He shook my hand. \ Next chapter released 17th May.


For the new-year Gregor had decided to give the woman who ran the restaurant he eats at every night a massive tip. Gregor had been saving up for this since the middle of October when it had become clear Sachi and her two children and 3 grandchildren were falling, perhaps they already had slipped and were only waiting with clenched teeth to hit the concrete, straight on their faces into the pavement of poverty. The grandchildren still don’t like Gregor much, but ever since winter fell upon New York the apartment Sachi lives in gets too cold for children to safely stay in for too long, unless they’re wrapped tightly with blankets, so nowadays the children sit in the restaurant and sometimes even eat with Gregor. Times like these, when the whole world feels so sad and desperate, leave Gregor vulnerable to fleeting bouts of good-will and charity, which is what had caused him to decide back in October he’d got to begin saving up for a gift. Every night, for what seems to be Gregor’s entire life, but really for the past two years, Gregor has gone to ‘The Winter Fly’, a restaurant owned by Sachi and run by her and her two children. Every night Gregor leaves work and walks, sometimes walks for quite some time, always going nowhere until he looks up from the ground in front of him, all too suddenly realizing how awful his stomach and head feel, remembering the too sweet smoothie he makes for himself every morning, wondering if tomorrow he’ll make himself a real breakfast of eggs and bacon. So by the time Gregor makes it to ‘The Winter Fly’ his body is drained to near emptiness, so tired his neck droops so low you can see the individual vertebrae running up his curved spine. One of the grandkids thinks, when Gregor slouches like this, he looks like a dinosaur. Always upon entering Gregor looks at Sachi, who used to always smile when he or anyone else would come in; she now only seems to smile. Her eyes move like she's smiling, but Gregor can’t see her mouth. Sachi used to not notice or pay any special attention to Gregor, he was simply another regular at a rather busy restaurant, but since March he slowly became Sachi’s sole patron. Some nights Gregor is the only person in all of New York to visit Sachi and her kin. Gregor has eaten something different every night since he’s gotten to know Sachi better. Ever since Sachi has had no one else to talk to, he’s been letting her just make whatever she thinks best at the moment he walks in. When waiting for his food he used to always order a can of Sprite, which would react poorly in a stomach empty save for milk and frozen fruit; but since Sachi became his friend he drinks the warm, refreshing tea she brings him when he sits down and takes off his mask. Gregor hates taking off his mask in public places, but he noticed a while ago it seems to make Sachi relax a little when he does it, so he does it despite his discomfort. Sachi’s daughter used to make most of what Gregor liked to eat. She somehow kept, even in the rotten streets of New York, an ocean air about her, this daughter. She was the only one out of Sachi’s family who showed any particular attention to Gregor before he was their only customer, an attention born from noticing that every night, at around 10 o’clock, she’d have to make her soup with oysters (this was before Sachi began deciding and preparing Gregor’s food for him, back when Gregor would eat the same thing every night), and an attention that led to some wonderful conversations between the two about the poetry of Masaoka Shiki, some of which Gregor kept on his body at all times, in his small pocket notebook. This daughter had mostly grown up in America, but despite her concrete world she had always dreamed of diving off sharp cliffs into ocean waves; she and the other woman of her imaginary village spending an eternity, day after day pulling oysters with pearls inside of them out from the sea. Even as an adult she’d pass her lonely hours by picturing her and her friends sparkling under the soon to be setting sun, catching their breaths and waving to their husbands and children who sit on the coastal grass, watching the divers, back and safe from the steep cliffs the woman leap from. This daughter used to always prepare the seafood at ‘The Winter Fly’, only she had to stop when she started spending her nights working somewhere where she would be able to make a consistent, guaranteed wage for her family. Since October this daughter has left her family every night to attend some minimum wage job in some awful, disgusting, upscale part of the city. Throughout the bitter autumn’s end and into winter this daughter could be found crunching dead leaves on Manhattan's pretty streets late into the night, traveling home to her mother and brother and sister and children and niece. And on the way home from the fancy restaurant she’s embarrassed to work at, she walks down a dim lit path along the river and stares at the un-lit penthouses towering above her, thinking about how happy her children and niece would be to fly up to the 200th floor of a skyscraper and enter a warm empty apartment; she sees in the high tower’s highest room a wooden bath filled with clear, nearly boiling water. Then she sees herself putting the three kids one by one into the water, and just laughing at how cute they look all lined up in the tub, which makes the kids laugh to see their mom and their aunt so happy, which makes this daughter laugh and smile so honestly she can’t keep up the fantasy any longer, returning to the cold night. ... In an apartment underneath some ugly building Gregor lives with his wife Daisy. He lives a perfectly miserable life. At only 24 years old he feels he has plenty of time to be miserable. But when he and Daisy walk through the park, led by their three pointing dogs who subtly but constantly pull their walkers forwards, Gregor can’t help but feel like he owes something more to life, as if he accepted too great a gift by just being born and now he must repay his debt. The pestilent lurid thoughts of the too conscious mind bother his wife too, to the point that at any given moment at least one of them is likely dealing with a searing headache; they’d met on a subway train when Daisy had noticed how brutally Gregor was shoving his thumbs into his eyes. If only they could spend more time with one another, but things keep them apart. Nowadays, Daisy feels it best to keep a safe distance from her husband, mentally speaking. Sometimes Gregor says things that make Daisy’s stomach sink; a seemingly arbitrary remark will fester into days or sometimes weeks of worry. Like when Gregor started reading about metaphysics and kept telling Daisy that ‘everything is meaningless’, which neither seemed true or important to her, but he kept saying it like it was some great discovery, and Daisy had noticed that since Gregor started telling her and anyone else who would listen that ‘everything is meaningless’, she reckons it's been since sometime in the fall, her husband’s whole posture has changed. Not as if his back has straightened out, but more as if his spine lost its will to fight and like a willow tree it’s left itself to blow the way the wind decides best. She can’t help but feel glad for Gregor, glad he’s finally seeming to leave whatever trance he’d entered when he woke up to life too late in his late teens; but more than that Daisy can’t help but loathe her husband’s willingness to leave her behind, still fighting for air. She thinks about this all the time, him leaving her to the lonely thoughts of depression. So, when they walk through the park Daisy looks at her husband like he’s a million miles away, straining to stare at the lips she loves and knows, familiar lips that spout something nonsensical and scary about how... ‘it’s not that there isn’t a self, I’m not saying you or I don't exist’. Daisy glances down at their dogs, her mind drifting to a picture of her and Gregor, along with their three headed best friend, fighting their way through hell. HS dark cloak covers from his ankles to his nose and the brim of his bucket hat droops so low his eyes are covered by a visor of shadow; she wears a kimono the color of moss, patterned with cherry blossoms. She stabs a sword that’s twice her body length straight into the neck of some infinite demon, she sees Gregor follow their Cerberus into a fiery cave filled with screaming violence, unafraid of the nightmare. ‘What I’m saying is that the self is an illusion, you see, as in, “You are a product of your own imagination.” A figment!’ ‘What did you just call me?’ ‘A figment!’ Every night Gregor gets home at around 11:30, giving the couple only a few hours together before Daisy must leave for work. Usually 3 and a half hours exactly. His visits to ‘The Winter Fly’ always give Gregor energy enough to smile and ask questions and be kind to Daisy, but she knows how hard and long his days are. All Gregor’s fried mind can process is basic entertainment, so the two spend most of their time together watching TV, and it just makes Daisy’s heart melt when she sees Gregor batting his eyes, trying to stay awake until his love must go, too tired to do anything but stare at his own blank mind. But they just watch TV, and sometimes Daisy watches Gregor not-sleep, and when it's raining she sits by their window and watches everything get washed and soaked and cleaned. And every night, the first thing he does when he walks inside their basement apartment, Gregor leaves a bag of food that slowly cools or warms to room temperature on the table by the front door, for his wife to take to work. The food used to always be that daughter's delicious oyster soup, but nowadays she eats whatever treat from the sea Sachi has prepared for her. On the train to work Daisy used to drink coffee, but now, when no one else is in her car, Daisy removes her mask to sip deeply from the tea she asks Gregor to buy her, but that Sachi always gives him. Gregor works for the New York Public Library’s cataloging department, and across town his wife works for one of the city's many hospitals. Gregor works late into the night, long hours, because he’s basically the only person in the city that can do his job. Although, you would think finding books in a modern library is as simple as typing a call number into a computer and then finding the appropriate section where your desired books wait for you. At the least you’d think you could like hire people to take requests from patrons and know the library well enough to quickly find the books. Not so at the public library on Eucalyptus Ave. There, somewhere in its corridors bent to all sorts of inhumane ways, a phantom waits for all who come to take. One time a persistent public school teacher had insisted on receiving a tour of the library’s attic, an idea which Gregor almost begged his department head to snip in the bud, but which ended up happening on a cold May day last year. The phantom had found the teacher, leading to an epic end of the tour: his students passively watching as their once sane instructor was dragged down the library’s front steps by two pale officers, screaming about some made-up government agency that was abducting him so they could inject radioactive liquid into his veins and neutralize/silence yet another enlightened, free soul. You surely want to know why Gregor and the children were not harmed by the phantom, and of course that is the key to it all. When Gregor came into ‘The Winter Fly’ tonight he was surprised to find a young man sitting in the restaurant, eating a claw, a can of diet coke unopened on the table he sits at. … Malcom’s mom had told him to get a can of diet coke for her from the restaurant down the block. Malcolm hates his mom. With tears just behind his wide young eyes he’d left her rundown apartment for the last time, holding a dollar and ten cents in coins in his hand. ‘I don’t give fuck’. Malcolm kept saying to himself. He likes to have his music at such a loud volume it hurts his ears to even listen. ‘I don’t give a fuck’. Malcolm is only fifteen years old and already he’s decided to kill himself. His mom is cruel and violent towards him, no one cares about him, his only friend is a fat ugly mean kid. When he can’t sleep at night he stares at his phone for hours on end, thinking about killing himself. At least since this last October, so for the past few months. He’d read a few books that mentioned slitting your wrists and lying in a tub, but Malcolm’s family doesn’t have a tub. Despite the obvious opportunities of living in New York, Malcolm thought jumping from anything, building or bridge, might be too much of a spectacle even for his own internal viewer, who was likely to be the only one to know about it anyway. If only he lived by the ocean so he could just walk out onto the beach, take as many of his mother’s pills as he could swallow, and swim out to sea. In his suicidal fantasy Malcolm imagined that when his body fell to the ocean’s floor it passed through some threshold, onto an entirely different life, one where he could swim all day and have friends and a wife and search for pearls beneath the crashing waves in an air of silence. ‘Are you sure that's all?’ the woman asked. Malcolm nodded. ‘Well, please stay as long as you like, it's too cold out there for a little boy!’ Malcolm stopped looking at the woman who kept bringing him food. It smelt so good, but he had to stop looking because both the woman and her food were just too warm, and he’d been out in the cold for just too long. So Malcolm stared at the ground, his music slowly bursting his eardrums, slowly deciding whether he should go back to his mom's apartment, or stay with this woman and her two silent grandkids, or just go starve out in the cold. Out the corner of his eye he noticed the woman leave the front of the store, then he checked to see if the children were still attending their coloring books. He immediately took the opportunity to grab some alien leg out from one of a half dozen delectable steaming bowls, not-smiling while he sucked white meat out from the boiling hot claw. As he prepared for the final bite from what was probably the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten a man walked into the store, and Malcolm immediately stopped eating. … In his hand is the red envelope containing the new-year’s gift of 1,000 dollars. Gregor notices the boy’s face quickly flush and a calm fade out his eyes. The boy is sitting at the table right next to the entrance and he seems to stare at Gregor with an intense hatred while Gregor listens to the soft music he can hear through the boy’s headphones; this despite the amplifiers being shoved deep into the boy’s ears. Gregor notices the soup the boy is not-eating, each bowl filled with urchin and eel and fish cakes, each steaming like a chimney, and it all reminds him of Sachi’s daughter and the loves she cooks with. Gregor stares at the leg of some twisted dead creature and imagines him and Daisy, with their three dogs pulling them along the way, walking along the high cliffs of lands’ end; above him a gray sky that always rains so the poetry they write gets wet and wrinkled; but that's no matter, he and Daisy write hundreds of poems every day, there’s no time to read them. Gregor walks over to the counter where he can’t tell if Sachi is smiling at him or not, he greets Sachi, accepts his tea, and asks if her children might be in the restaurant tonight. Even though the mask covers her mouth, Gregor now can tell Sachi is not smiling, he can tell she wants to cry. She starts telling Gregor about the boy sitting in the corner who had only just enough money for one soda, but he looked so cold and lonely. And so she’d told him to sit down with her grandchildren, and that she’d make him whatever he’d like so long as he’d stay a bit. In a flurry of excitement, since Sachi had barely spoken to anyone all day, she told Gregor how the boy had just stared at her. Clutching the diet coke he’d bought in his hand, after probably 20 or 30 seconds, he’d finally spoken, and what he’d said touched Sachi in her soul. "My grandmother once cooked us seafood". Sachi said she knew just what he meant, and so that's why, even though the boy won’t eat anything she brings him, she keeps trying to find something he might be interested in. As if that’s why this boy isn’t eating, as if just the smell of Sachi’s cooking isn’t killing him. Gregor glances at the boy once more, takes his food to go, then hands the red envelope to Sachi. The kid seemed to be staring at some blank horror, and Gregor notices the boy’s eyes look like Daisy’s, when the couple walk through the park. … Inside their apartment Daisy sits by the window, waiting for it to rain. She stares at her phone, scrolling aimlessly, upset by how much music there is out there and how much her friends seem to explore and expand their musical tastes. Daisy just listens to the same songs, over and over again. Tonight keeps listening to a really, quite incredibly sad one: *Candy says,* *I’ve come to hate my body* *And all that it requires* *In this world* On the street above her (she lives in a basement) people are hurrying by, trying to escape the coming rain. Daisy thinks about going for a long walk. *I’m gonna watch* *The blue birds fly* *Over my shoulder* *I'm gonna watch, them pass me by* *Maybe when I'm older* *What do you think I’d see* *If I could walk away from…* Daisy’s singing voice was once described to her by a friend as sounding like someone might sound if a bleeding ulcer rested next to their voice box, but she doesn’t hold back to sing: *“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’.* As the rain picks up, she writes a note to Gregor: she’s got to leave for work early and won’t see him tonight. She wraps herself in the poncho that she’d stolen from the National Gallery of Art’s museum gift shop a few years ago, its pattern a blurry looking picture of a stream. Daisy thinks about whether or not the fact that she stole something from a museum, when like normally you would think if someone stole something from a museum that’d be a major crime, is funny or not. On a train, deep underground, she tries to think of something. She tries to find a song she wants to listen to. But Daisy can’t do it, she doesn’t know what to do. At the hospital she works at people die every day, people die of viruses and cancers and accidents all the time, and here Daisy sits, a young married lady, pleased with the thought her train might stop at some station she’s never been to, hoping it will let her off by the sea. When she gets off the train her stomach growls at her. She has only a few hours till she must be at work. Often people say stuff like ‘you can’t get a bad slice of pizza in NY!’ or ‘even average pizza in NY is better than most pizza!’, but they’ve never had this pizza Daisy’s having right now. It’s not even that the pizza tastes bad, she barely tastes anything at all, just that sitting in some lonely late-night restaurant, terribly alone, tired but with your whole day ahead of you, your whole life just waiting to be lived... Picking at her terrible skin, Daisy doesn’t notice the proprietor of the pizza joint staring at her, watching her as she squeezes and plucks and examines all the tiny brownish , slightly translucent little bugs that grow in her face. While working on an exceptionally small, un-compromising blackhead she’s finally swept from herself by a dream of cold water that washes over her irritated thoughts like a wave; she's floating in a silent forest growing out the seafloor. Although she doesn’t remember it happening, she knows Gregor used to swim down here with her, but as she looks to the water’s bright surface she gazes at her love treading water, breathing in the sunny air above. Daisy looks at her barely eaten pizza, thinking about ‘The Winter Fly’ and what Gregor probably will bring home for her, but what she couldn’t wait to receive. … Malcolm watches them speak. He can’t believe what he sees or what he hears. The man hands the envelope to the woman, seeming to be thanking her for something. They speak in a tongue Malcolm doesn’t understand. He still was holding the claw he’d taken from the food the woman had been bringing to him, but he no longer ate it. It just hung in his hand, drooping boiling liquid onto the fluorescently lit floor. No one ever gives Malcolm presents, but he thinks ‘I don’t give a fuck’ and starts swiping through his phone to find a new song to listen to. He’d listened to the same 3 songs over 100 times today. But then a panicked voice, and it only gets more surprising when he looks up. Malcolm sees both the man and the woman with their mask pulled down, the man smiling at the woman aghast, the envelope now in the woman's hand and slightly open. Perhaps what came next was just too much to handle. ‘TOO MUCH!’ The woman yells, as she hands the envelope back to the man, but he just smiles and refuses to accept it. ‘It’s TOO MUCH! Please Gregor, my family will kill me! I can’t accept this money!’ ‘You Must!’ For once in his life, or at least for the first time in a long time, Gregor feels triumphant. Not like a king, but like a man satisfied with life, amused by its silliness. ‘Gregor! You are poor just like we are! You and your wife are our best customers! What are you thinking?!’ Malcolm listens closely but understands none of this. He just watches with open eyes as two people haggle over more cash than young poor Malcolm has ever seen in real life, but the oddest thing about an already unusual scene: They both seem to be trying to get rid of money. They don’t want it like it’s something someone is trying to sell you on the street. Only, with every passing second, things get stranger. ‘You Must Sachi!’ ‘But… I…. Gregor!’ Malcolm nearly drops the claw he's holding, watching the woman literally try to put the money in the bag of food the man is carrying out. ‘Sachi! Please listen. Me and my wife owe our lives to you and your family. Without the food you’ve made us, we wouldn't be poor, we'd be dead!’ While their voices calm down and the woman begins to smile and cry, the idea comes to Malcolm all at once. Loud in his ear drums his music bangs against his skull. No more living with mom, no more school. Suddenly Malcolm remembers his cousin even said once, all though it was maybe a year or two ago, that he could live with their family, if only Malcolm could make it out his mother grim place and somehow survive the journey across the country. Before this moment that idea of adventure was just a dream. Neither of them makes a sound, the woman just lets go when he grabs it, and then Malcolm is gone. He barely stops going forward for the next 30 years. He makes it to the west, and ever since and forever more there was and never will be a wilder soul across all the rolling roads of America than that kid Malcolm. He runs out of the restaurant so fast the only thing Gregor and Sachi can make of him, when they finally react, spinning to see the door already swung shut, is the thief’s shadow still moving across the bright white floor.


On a rock this forgotten a lighthouse is needed, but on a rock this forgotten the lighthouse keeper is forgotten too. He leaves his front door open, the thin old door banging about in the storm; salty wind blowing straight off the sea and stirring the light objects in his room into open rebellion: unsecured papers lift up into the room and dip like birds, and the lighthouse keeper sits and plays his piano slowly, as if to calm things down. The rain blows in too, and mingles with the sea spray on the threshold, and taps on the windows. The music is hesitant and tinged with sadness and the lighthouse keeper almost looks as if he’s asleep, but his fingers keep moving. Outside, the waves build and combine, mash into each other and twist into foamy messes, or rear up over a submerged rock, and curl up into dumping waves that pop and boom along the rocks. No beam of light passes across the sea, because ships have stopped coming this way: the lighthouse keeper stopped turning the light on years ago. This night, however, the lighthouse keeper looks out of his front door as he finishes playing a bar of music and the next note hangs in the air, desperately needing to be played, but it hangs; the music stays unresolved. The lighthouse keeper stares, frozen. Out there, pitching, leaning, rocking, a ship is struggling in the grey chaos. It is mostly shadow, but a single light on that ship shines through the sheets of slanting rain. Just for a moment, the lighthouse keeper watches the light ride up and down, and watches it tip, and disappear behind high waves; then he jumps up and hurries up the spiralling staircase, puffing. It is harder than he remembers, and he leans heavily on the cold iron handrail. At the top he can see the ship better: it looks like it will survive the storm, but it is heading straight for the lighthouse, and the jagged rocks beneath. The ship is getting closer and closer and the lighthouse keeper swears at himself as he works; but soon the light starts up and a beam of light, getting brighter and brighter with each pass, punches through the rain and out towards the ship; and the ship sees, and makes a dramatic, veering manoeuvre, dangerous in the heavy sea; but passes unscathed, now parallel to the shore, and soon disappears into the dark and the weather. The lighthouse keeper makes his way down the stairs, closes the front door, and collapses on his bed, suddenly exhausted. The storm carries on. In the morning it is clear and sunny. The lighthouse keeper is up early, sitting on the bed in his underwear and staring down at the space between his feet. Eventually he gets dressed and steps out his front door, leaving the door open again, this time drinking in the warm sunrise and the lightly salted breeze blowing gently off the sea. He walks down the hill to a small dock, sheltered amongst rocks, where a small boat waits. Most of his belongings are in a heavy waterproof bag which he put on this boat a few days ago, and he awkwardly hefts this bag up onto his shoulder and carries it back up the hill. He walks in through the front door and dumps the bag right in the middle of the room, sits down at the piano, and picks up from where he left off the night before. Outside, sea birds make their noises and small waves break against the rocks.


\[HF\] **THE SAND MACHINE - a historical romance of artificial intelligence** Proclus reports that in a village located three days sail past Syracuse, near the foothills of the Atlas mountains, there was once a very prosperous temple to the God Ammon which the Libyans, in the distant memory of their forefathers, had set up. It is said that there was an oracle here, superior even to the oracle which Alexander consulted upon his conquest of Egypt. This oracle became renowned among the Libyan tribes for giving proclamations upon the birth of an infant with unerring accuracy for the child’s future virtue or demerits in entering public life. This increased the reputation of the temple, and the wealth of the priesthood grew with the generations. Eventually the priests of the God barely worked on account of the great wash of offerings, and the face of the icon was painted with gold infused rose-water every morning. Despite these acts of devotion, the piety of the priests was not increased by their newfound wealth. They began to seek ways to improve the reputation of the oracle still further, telling themselves they did it for the glory of the God. One priest, named Ostanes, who was accustomed to geomancy, began to make figures in the sand - whether this was connected to the original practice of the oracle I do not know - and these petroglyphs became a particularly successful shorthand for recording proclamations. Soon these figures were all that was presented to the public, and the voice of the oracle, along with the medium who maintained it, was kept secret. The oracle too saw only images drawn in sand to represent the questions asked of her. This saved time in allowing the oracle to issue proclamations on multiple petitioners at once without ever having to hear a case. The geomantic figures then translated the proclamations into whatever the questioners needed to hear. This system proved to be quite efficient and this Ostanes was well pleased, but he thought to improve the reputation of the oracle still further. Using a system of funnels and a contrivance of mechanical wheels he devised a way to sort the grains of sand of the desert to predict questions before they arrived, and to derive the desired answers. This machine worked by taking in what sand the wind naturally provided and herding it down a series of tubes, which descended into funnels that opened in rhythmic motion. In this way the oracle could be consulted before petitioners arrived. Then this machine would create symbols to answer those questions that would be awaiting them when they came. At first Ostanes devoted a great deal of his time in attempting to herd the wind to give the answers he already knew were true, based on questions which had already been asked; afterwards he left the natural progression of sand to its own devices and presented whatever symbols it generated to the questioners of the day. This system proved enormously successful, and the wealth of the temple was greater than ever before. The feet of the God were forged anew of electrum, its face was inlaid with lapis lazuli, wine from the Nile Delta was offered to it every night, and now the priests were the ones who bathed in rosewater. Ever more petitioners arrived, and thanks to the sand machine, the priests could receive them. But soon the number of visitors became so great the priests did not have time to consult the oracle for the questions predicted at the beginning of every day. They went to Ostanes and asked him what to do. Without thinking, he told them at once that it was unnecessary to consult the oracle, as his machine could already predict questions as well as answers. The oracle remained in the temple, but no one consulted her. She spent her days in solitude. At first this new arrangement worked fine, and the temple attained still greater wealth. But very soon reports began to come in of inaccuracies in the predictions petitioners had received. Virtuous youths had been declared despondent, whereas slouches and layabouts were proclaimed to be upstanding citizens. This was causing particular tumult in the social order, as individuals predicted to be honorable behaved rashly, whereas those with real merit were left unused by society, to the great regret of all. More and more complaints came to the priests about the statements of the oracle, which up until then had never been wrong in this regard. The priests implicated Ostanes, who defended himself and his machine to the people, assuring them that it worked, and that their society was capable of being saved - all it needed was to be made bigger. For, as he said, the greater the number of grains of sand accommodated by the movements of the wind, the less chance there will be that the machine would make a mistake in drawing. That the oracle had ceased to be consulted was not mentioned, and the people were under the impression that it was she who read and interpreted the geomantic figures which the machine drew. So it happened that a large number of young men (many of whom had been declared layabouts by the new oracle while being perfectly virtuous in fact) volunteered for Ostanes to work to expand his machine. This was a labor they say took one hundred and eighty days, and by the end the machine extended nearly three stadia into the immeasurable desert. It was powered by a series of enormous windmills which rivaled the water screws Strabo attributes to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in scope. More than a thousand funnels produced intricate glyphs day by day, and, while this provided employment to many who had been demoted under the new system, it served ultimately only to distract the populace. Complaints continued to filter in. The reputation of the temple began to decline. Eventually the priests found that what had been unthinkable just a few years before was occurring, and they had to settle debts. Still no one thought to consult the oracle, and, seeking only to recreate the wealth that their machine had provided at its peak, they put their last remaining resources into expanding the contraption still further. In the end the doors of the temple were shuttered, the icon was stripped until it was little more than a pole of wood with legs, the once great priesthood was dispersed, and the people stoned Ostanes to death as vengeance for misleading them with sorcery. All that remained to tell of the oracle’s once great reputation was a forest of funnels and tubes, useless and serving no purpose, but creaking audibly on the outskirts of the village, and extending further into the desert than any villager knew. The remnants of these mechanics did nothing for anyone, and only served as furnishing for a wasteland. They say the oracle survived, but where she traveled to is unknown, and if the lineage of that medium has continued, it is now to be found among common fortune-tellers, not among the Great.


The roots hanging from above trembles, the earth kicking down dirt and ash. “They’re still dropping seed bombs? After all this time?” Susan asks, her browning hands to the fire. “Yeah, I guess,” I say, staring back into the flames. The kindling pops like snapping bones. “I don’t know who or what could be left up there.” She sniffles, wipes brown snot across the back of her hand. “Who knows? Can’t be many though, if any. How many years has it been?” I try to remember when the bombs started dropping, when roots and vines overtook cities, when wood replaced bone, dirt instead of blood. Fail to. Probably the fumes screwed up my brain more than I know. “Who knows?” I parrot. We sit in silence for a while. Another bomb drops somewhere in the distance. More dirt falls over us, the dense underground forest surrounding us. It disturbs some of the Dwellers. Their dim emerald eyes appear in the gloom within the depths of the boles. But they don’t come out. Not a fan of light, we learned. But I remember before we learned. Susan and I sprinting down to the subway canals after the world fell. People — before we nicknamed Dwellers — chasing after us. Bark skin. Gnarled, rooting fingers. Vines spilling from their mouths. The fumes, bombs; whatever it was turned them into catalysts that only want one thing: to create more of themselves. “Go Green,” we said, mockingly, remembering the Clean Power movement. It’s not so funny anymore— “Get some more kindling,” she says. “It’s getting low.” I sigh, standing, brush the small dirt piles from my lap. “How much?” I don’t know why I ask this every time. A bad habit, I guess. “As much as you can carry,” she repeats, staring at me over the fire, the flames reflecting in her greening eyes. I step over the stump I sat on, walk the small path to the firewood. Dead Dwellers lay in a heap below a yawning opening in the ceiling. We never found out whose been dumping them down here, but it doesn’t matter, really. We both get what we want. I snap brittle arms and legs from bodies, tear fingers and toes and shove them in my pockets. Once my arms are full, I return to the fire, toss a couple on, set the others nearby. Sit back down. “Feels good,” she says. “It’s getting colder.” I never admit it aloud, but it’s not. Down here, it’s warm. Almost suffocating. The dense forest’s fumes forming some type of greenhouse effect. But Susan and I aren’t the same anymore… Her eyes are greener, her hands browner, her hair’s receding, revealing bark-like flesh. It’s only been a couple minutes but the disease works fast. The flames lick the air. Kindling cracks, pops. I dread when I’ll have to toss her onto the flames, too. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


Henry Carson was the best of the best. Everybody knew it. When the private dick was on your case, you would be caught and wind up in a cell or a body bag. The legends honestly turned his stomach a little bit. Truth was he had failed to apprehend plenty of crooks in his time. But people are only too happy to remember the successes and write off the failures if you've got the mantle of a hero. The shimmering light reflected off your crown blinds people to your failures. And its beam is one hell of a bar to live up to. Eventually, the drive to attain that level of legendary perfection leads men down dark paths. It was no different for Henry Carson. No different at all. It was mid-October in a dive bar on the edge of town. The brick building was mostly boarded up, but the ground level was one of the seedier joints a person could find themselves. The hole in the wall was called The Viper's Pit, and while it usually boasted a raucous crowd of ruffians, it was strangely calm that night. The bartender, Mr. Morgan, was an elderly fellow who had run it into the ground over the last ten years. He had to sell his house to keep the place afloat, and so he lived in a single room just above the pub. It was a rough life that gave the old cuss a bad attitude and very little patience for unwarranted social interaction. The codger slung drinks and occasionally gave bitter life advice to the younger patrons. Henry was not young enough to merit the fruits of his wisdom, nor wealthy enough to deserve transactional kindness. The detective slunk into the pit, trenchcoat soaking wet from the deluge outside. Taking a seat at the bar, he slapped a dollar onto the counter and demanded a shot of whiskey. “Rough night?” Mr. Morgan asked, with all the gentle delicacy of sandpaper. “Getting rougher,” Henry barked back. “A double. The buck should cover it.” The bartender reached for one of the bottles on his back wall, but Henry tapped him delicately on the shoulder. “I wonder if you would humor me and use this one right here,” Henry explained, tapping his finger on a thin brown bottle on the other side of the bar from him. Mr. Morgan sighed. “Customer's always right.” He poured the brown liquor and watched as Henry swallowed it in one stoic gulp. It barely crossed his eyes, which were bloodshot and cradled in deep dark bags. Something was unnerving about the flatfoot. His reputation preceded him and he didn't go anywhere without a purpose. The man was always on the hunt. “Anything else I can get you?” Mr. Morgan tapped the counter impatiently. “I'm meeting three men here tonight,” Henry began, his voice cracked and rough. “One of them is a murderer. You're going to help me figure out who it is.” The bartender took a moment to process what Henry had just said. Not another soul was in the house tonight, and the splintered wooden tables sat unoccupied. The lights were dim, the flickering neon was the only sound as even the jukebox no longer worked in this place. And apparently, it was now going to play host to this man's private courtroom. “What the hell gives you the right?” Mr. Morgan protested. “You think I want some hoodlum in here wrecking up my pub?” “You'll be compensated. I needed an out-of-the-way location, and this worked well enough,” Henry explained. “All you have to do is serve them all a drink.” “I don't understand-” “You do your job and I'll do mine. There's $500 in it for you if I catch my man, so just play your part,” Henry ordered. Before Mr. Morgan could say anything else, the door creaked open, giving a brief glimpse of the torrential downpour outside. The man entering was some sort of construction worker, dressed in navy overalls, and holding his hard hat under his left arm. The rain had soaked his thin layer of dark brown hair, which was nearly the same shade as the dirt that covered his face. “Andrew Kelstrom?” Henry inquired, wheeling around on his stool to greet the newcomer. “Yeah,” Andrew replied curtly. His words were coated in a thick New Englander accent. “You must be that dick that everybody talks about.” “People have a lot of names for me,” Henry shrugged. “Have a drink on me. Try the whiskey.” Mr. Morgan, despite wanting nothing to do with this shady ordeal, poured a double shot courtesy of Henry's liberal coinage. Four quarters hit the countertop, and Mr. Morgan poured diligently. As Andrew swallowed his courtesy drink, the door opened once more. The second guest was a fish out of water. The jacket of his suit alone must have been worth a month's rent. The tan ensemble was highlighted with a gaudy yellow tie. Mr. Morgan would have guessed car salesman at first glance, but as soon as he opened his mouth it became apparent the boy had not a whit of a charisma. “Uh... excuse me, I think, er,” the young man stumbled over his words, running his hand through his blonde hair. “Is this the place to meet a Mr. Henry Carson?” “Right on time, James Bartley,” Henry replied, gesturing towards an empty seat next to Andrew. “Though I gather from your line of work punctuality is a chief virtue.” “Um, yes, I s-suppose so,” James stuttered. “I, um, hope I c-can help.” “This kid even old enough to drink?” Andrew scoffed. “Barely,” Henry said while sliding a few more quarters in the direction of Mr. Morgan. “Double-shot of whiskey, on me.” “Oh, I uh, I'm not much of a d-drinker,” James stammered, raising his hand as though he were in school. “You are tonight,” Henry said with unyielding finality. “You need some hair on that chest anyway.” The youth had no will to fight any further. He gave a tentative sip and pulled a face, turning towards Henry for any sign of acquiescence. There was none, and with effort, James finished the drink. “Kids a little green in the gills,” Mr. Morgan said. “You need some water, son?” “He can't have any. Not yet,” Henry interrupted. “Oh, be reasonable now. What's the harm in giving the boy a little chaser?” Mr. Morgan argued. “It will all make sense in a moment. Now, Mr. Morgan, I need you to drink a double of your own,” Henry ordered. “Excuse me? I don't drink on the job, pal,” Mr. Morgan bristled slightly and he defiantly placed the stopper back in the bottle. “I don't think you understand what is happening here,” Henry said, his bloodshot eyes piercing through Mr. Morgan's soul. “I told you I was meeting three men here. Can you count?” Once again, Mr. Morgan was dumbstruck. After a second he took Henry's meaning. “Oh, I'm the third suspect in this little freakshow of yours?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I'm calling the real cops, buddy.” Mr. Morgan slowly moved over to the hanging rotary phone on his back wall. Before he was able to lift the receiver, a shot rang out, and a bullet shattered the base. The rotary fell to pieces and Mr. Morgan stumbled back against the wall, knocking a few glasses off the shelves behind him. In Henry's hand was a smoking .38 revolver, but the man himself showed no emotion whatsoever. This was the same reality he had been living in all night. But now it was revealed to the three of them in extravagant fashion. “Now, Mr. Morgan. Your shot, please,” Henry ordered, every syllable cold and deliberate. Mr. Morgan turned to the shelf to grab a nearby bottle, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The bartender was too old for all this excitement. Too old, his heart too frail. “Use the same bottle as these two,” Henry explained. “There's a method to my madness, and still $500 in it for you if things go well. Minus the cost of repairing that phone, mind you.” Mr. Morgan nearly dropped the bottle in his haste to comply. Andrew and James, for their part, had moved against the back wall in a vain effort to put as much distance between them and the raving lunatic as possible. “Hey, mac,” Andrew began. “Look I got a family at home, don't do nothing stupid now, you hear?” James was hyperventilating and quite unable to form a complete sentence. “Only one of you is going to die tonight. As I told our kind host, Mr. Morgan, I'm looking for a murderer, and I have narrowed the search to one of you three,” Henry explained. “Mr. Morgan, that shot, please.” Mr. Morgan had been fumbling with the stopper, but finally managed to pry it out of the bottle. He poured himself a double and downed it without further fuss. “There we are. And I've had my shot before you two arrived. Isn't that right Mr. Morgan?” Henry asked. The bartender's hands were white-knuckled, and the alcohol sat hard on his stomach. It looked like he wanted to vomit, but was afraid of doing anything to agitate the detective further. “I said, isn't that right, Mr. Morgan?” Henry demanded. “Yes, that's right sir,” Mr. Morgan spat out. “Double of whiskey, just like all of us.” “Thank you,” Henry nodded. “So as you can see we are all in the same boat.” Henry reached into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat and produced a small photograph of a young woman. She wasn't much older than James and were the image in color her striking blonde hair would have been more apparent. “Sarah Wilkins. Pretty young thing. Just turned twenty last August. Pity that we found her body halfway up the canal,” Henry explained, waving the photograph around. “Now our medical examiner ruled the cause of death as drowning. That's modern medicine for you. But I've been operating under a different theory.” Henry reached into the same pocket, this time revealing a few crumpled papers of an official-looking nature. “I've taken a few statements from her friends and family. And it turns out she wasn't much of an angel. Hung out with some bad people. Doesn't mean she deserved to die for it though,” Henry continued. He then pointed an accusatory finger at each of the men in sequence. “James, you should recognize this girl well. Considering you used to date her before she dumped your ass back at the start of the Fall Semester. Young man can take rejection real hard, especially if it's his first.” “Now wait just a minute!” James protested. Henry lifted a hand to silence him and then turned it towards the next suspect. “Then again, Andrew, I think you also recognize her as well. You're best friends with her father after all. I wonder if James knows about how intimately you got to know her following their breakup.” “You don't know what you're talking about,” Andrew growled. “Don't listen to him, kid, he's a crackpot.” James' fists were clenched in anguish, but he was far too timid to do anything about it. He would certainly not stand up to a man twice his age and size, and far less so anybody with a gun. Henry just let the two of them stew for a moment, while he continued his argumentation. “And you, Mr. Morgan. Well, you should know her too, considering she came in here every night to drink. Of course, you knew she was underage, but you've been pretty hard up on cash and weren't about to turn away a paying customer. In fact, you've seen her in here with both of these men and never said a peep about it to anybody.” “You gonna take my liquor license then?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I didn't kill anybody, now are you planning on making an arrest or are we continuing this stupid game of yours?” “Did I not tell you that you would be instrumental in helping me determine the identity of the killer?” Henry asked pointedly. “You see it all comes down to the whiskey.” Henry reached into his coat pocket a final time to produce a different report from a medical examiner, or rather a copy of one that had been neatly folded into a square. Along with it was a small vial of clear liquid. He unfolded the report and began to elaborate. “I'm not going to try and pronounce the name of the actual drug, I failed Latin in high school, but in a word, she was poisoned. The drug is interesting, it's basically harmless by itself, but when combined with ethanol it's pretty potent stuff. Which immediately led me to assume she was poisoned by a drink,” Henry pointed to the bottle once more. “Wait, you mean-” Mr. Morgan put a hand to his lips, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “I didn't get there all at once mind you,” Henry continued. “First I had to track down what bar she frequented – your little establishment – and then I had to deduce her favorite drink. After a rather long series of interrogations I found that she drank whiskey sour like her old man and that she was seen here with – depending upon the informant – either a young college boy or a man old enough to be her father.” James was now taking deep gasping breathes and buckled over in his chair in pain. Andrew was stoic but gave a concerned glance to the kid. Mr. Morgan reached over the bar to try and comfort the boy. “You have to stop this now,” he said, firmly. “The kid's nerves are gonna kill him before your gun does.” “Oh, that's not nerves,” Henry explained. “That's the poison. You see, earlier tonight when you turned your back on me, I slipped a bit of the stuff in the bottle. And that's what this little game is all about. You see that vial contains the antidote, and I'll gladly administer it to us all once I get a confession from one of you. Either the murderer goes to jail, or we all die here together.” “You're crazy,” Andrew spat, standing up to his full height. “Give me that vial or I'll take it from you!” “You forgot who has the gun in this situation,” Henry reminded tactfully. “P-please,” James sputtered. “I don't w-wanna-” “What if you're mistaken and ain't none of us done anything wrong? We all gonna die because you decided to play a game with our lives?” Andrew shouted. “Death or prison, the choice is obvious and the killer will make it,” Henry insisted, raising his revolver. “Think about it. Even the most deranged madman has a survival instinct and this killer is no lunatic. He was thoughtful, decisive and he planned out every stage of the murder of this innocent young woman. Poison that could be mixed into her favorite drink, and one so subtle that it was almost missed by the medical examiner. Or rather was until I pressed the point and made him look again. The killer planned everything to a tee, they have no deathwish.” “I'm sick of listening to you blabber!” Andrew shouted, making a lunge for the pistol. A reflexive shot rang out from Henry's gun, but the bullet ricocheted off the back wall missing all of them. Andrew's meaty fist made contact with Henry's right cheek as the two grappled over the firearm. Three more shots shattered the glasses on the countertop, but the last bullet in the revolver went through Andrew's shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Henry lay near motionless for his battering, face covered in blood and head swimming from the assault. James was on the floor, crying and close to vomiting from the ordeal. As for Mr. Morgan, he stood behind the bar, casually turning the vial around in his hand. “What are you doing?” Henry asked weakly, attempting to get to his feet. “This is the antidote, you said?” Mr. Morgan asked. He casually removed the stopper and knocked it back like a shot. “No!” Andrew bellowed, before coughing out a bit of blood. “Why?” Henry asked, running a hand along his face to mop away sweat. “Why did you do it?” “There wasn't really a reason, I guess,” Mr. Morgan said, flatly. “I don't plan these things, as you claimed. I just find something that I want, and I take it. I never dreamed you would hand me an opportunity like this to watch two of the people she cared about die as well.” “No reason? There's always a reason. It always makes sense somehow,” Henry grunted. “Call it hunter's instinct if you want to attribute some reason to it. I'm not young enough to kill in my preferred methods, but slipping a little poison to an unsuspecting bit of prey and watching them writhe in agony before the life finally fades out of their eyes,” Mr. Morgan let out a dreamy sigh. “There's nothing in the whole world like it. And now I'll get to watch you die as well.” Henry slowly stood to his feet and began to chuckle darkly. “You're right. I was wrong. I didn't understand a damn thing about you.” “You were very close to solving it if it's any consolation,” Mr. Morgan smirked. “Want a last drink? There's still a bit of whiskey left in the bottle. It might speed things up a little. Save you some of the agony?” James lay motionless on the floor, but he was still breathing. Andrew could not move and was nursing his gunshot wound while trying to drag himself towards the door. “I don't think that will really help any,” Henry exhaled, sitting down on the stool just across from Mr. Morgan. “No, I suppose not,” Mr. Morgan nodded. “Oh not for the reason you think,” Henry explained. “You see, I made a promise that only one person was going to die tonight, and I keep my promises. You're right that I was making some bad guesses. In fact, my initial plan was a crapshoot. My Plan A's always needed a little bit of work. But my contingencies are rock-solid.” “What the devil are you talking about?” Mr. Morgan asked with an amused smile. “Getting us all to drink put us all in the same boat and it was my hope that little mind game would coerce a confession out of somebody. If that didn't work, I could count on the madman doing anything to keep themselves 'alive'. So you see the whiskey served two purposes,” Henry explained. James slowly began to stir. Andrew had made it to his feet and stumbled out the door towards the street, immediately screaming for aid. The three men who had entered Mr. Morgan's bar were very inconveniently alive. “The poison wasn't in the whiskey, you fool. It was in that vial.


Her name was Aubergine, but she didn’t deserve it. Currently, she was ferociously stomping home down the crime ridden evening streets in a pink dress and combat boots, and everyone who saw her gave her at least ten feet of distance that had nothing to do with the pandemic. She slammed her door and evaluated her life. What she had: $972 in savings, a job that supported her, and a car that had three matching doors and worked most of the time. Things bringing her down: obnoxious, stupid men who thought she was obligated to sleep with them just because they bought her a banana smoothie with oats and extra stevia, friends who were running on a toxic hamster wheel, family who only called to ask for money, an apartment that had been burgled three times in the last year, and a cat that hated her. She found it a cruel irony that she would never be able to find a husband in this huge metropolis because her friends only knew men interested in one night stands. She was fed up, and getting the hell out of this place. She was bringing the cat, though. The next day she woke up at dawn, as was her custom, because that was the time at which her cat drew blood to inform her she was hungry for breakfast. She fed the cat. Then, she started earnestly applying for any job she could imagine all over the US that she was remotely qualified for that would support her. The location only had to have a lower crime index than this city she loathed. She applied for jobs in every spare moment, regretting telling her friends, as they extensively tried to talk her out of it. Her boss was similarly unenthused, but she told him she likely would be unable to find employment elsewhere, and he agreed with that…until he started getting calls around the hundred application mark. In the end, she applied to almost three hundred jobs, interviewed on the phone ten times, and got four job offers. The best of them was seasonal, but paid extremely well. She left all those naysayers behind and went to work at a salmon canning facility in Alaska, having been offered 30k for four month’s hard work. She reasoned that four months was plenty of time to find a permanent job. The lodgings she secured were humbler than any she’d ever known, but she was fond of her little off the grid cabin despite the commute. Her roommate, another cannery employee named Juniper, was a woman seven years older who spent most of her off hours playing pool in the air conditioning of the restaurant near work. There was absolutely nothing around the cabin except mountains and thick, deep forest, the road just a gravel track scratched into the wilderness. She worked twelve hour shifts six days a week. On the seventh, she attempted to run errands, in culture shock that was extended because of her work schedule. A big tree fell across the road one night, and she and her roommate were completely stuck. They had no cell service, no chainsaw, and it was too large for them to move. Neither of them had ever even used a chainsaw - her roommate had been a bank teller in Iowa. They were going to have to wait until one of the few people who lived up the road happened upon it, in hopes that one of them could do something. They reluctantly became friends over the course of the next few excruciating days, as they worried about their jobs and how long their groceries would hold out. “You didn’t show up for three days,” they were informed when the tree finally stacked itself in segments on the side of the road, “You are fired, and have already been replaced. It doesn’t matter why you couldn’t get here. If you can’t reliably come to work, we don’t want you.” Aubergine and Juniper found themselves unemployed, living in a $600 a month off the grid cabin in a coniferous rain forest, forty minutes from a town the size of a postage stamp. Aubergine wondered about her life choices. Juniper started a vegetable garden and only applied at the bank. Aubergine never heard back from any of the dozen jobs she put in applications for, but Juniper got hired within a week at a great wage. “I can get you a job at my work, just apply.” When both of them were pulling good wages at the bank and their lease came up, they pooled their resources and got a pleasant house in town. Aubergine started to date a man who treated her with respect, although he wanted her to go hunting with him next season, and she was trying to find out if that was mandatory in order to become an Alaskan. Aubergine’s cat, Pluto, began to escape, and they never did figure out that she was squeezing out the clothes dryer vent beside the hose. Pluto had quick reflexes from her experiences as a feral kitten, which helped her on exciting adventures that shocked her, such as the time she encountered a bear in the woods. She was a particularly intelligent cat, and had wild theories about why the world had changed so much. In time, she found the docks, where workers cut up the day’s fish and tossed scraps of salmon and halibut to the cats that gathered there. She went every day after that, and meowed at the front door late afternoons well fed and glossy with health from fish oil, a mystery Aubergine never solved. The cat spent her winters lazily dozing, stretched out, in front of the wood burning stove, basking in the warmth. In her life Pluto had gone from a miserable existence on cold city streets to this, and she was happier than anyone else.