\_\_\_\_\_\_The middle-eastern sand, unlike the one found on St. Petersburg's golden shore, feels like dust and rust; It coated the desert-camouflaged chassis of our BTRs and stuck to our uniforms and visors, making it very uncomfortable to move around and sweat beneath the blinding February sun.  *It wasn't a bad assignment.*  \_\_\_\_\_\_The children from a nearby village would often come to us, to trade their hand-made trinkets and fresh tea for some of our MREs and candy. I've lost count on how many bracelets I brought back each day...a dozen, perhaps? They were done by a small and beautiful girl with sleek and long black hair that reached to her waist, whose entrancing emerald eyes made you feel naked ─ as if she could stare directly at your soul. I never asked her name, but often called her "*Veselaya*" in my mind since she would irradiate child-like innocence and an endless sense of wonder for the strange men in their metal beasts. She wasn't shy, unlike some of the other young children, despite being around 7 or 8, she would ask us a million questions without stopping to breathe: "Where are you from? Why do you wear glass on your eyes? What is that on your head? Do you have any chocolate...?" I couldn't answer with my limited arabic, afterall I only knew how to say "Cigarette?" and "Stop or die", but I could understand her very well. \_\_\_\_\_\_Halfway through the month, yet again under the scorching sun waiting for an allied unit to pass through, we patrolled around our BTRs’ defensive positions near the village when I looked at my watch, it’s cracked surface showed the third hour of the afternoon, we began to wait for the *deti* to arrive. For the past two or three weeks, they would visit us, eager to show us what goods they had on their tiny hands, what shiny piece of metal had they scavenged from the nearby ruins or what colorful drawing they had made ─after countless days doing nothing but mindless training, paperwork, repairs and waiting around for orders; this was *the* most awaited moment of the day. \_\_\_\_\_\_The Syrian veteran troops alongside us, despite being cooperative and decent fighters, even though they were under command of a police captain, often chose not to look at them, deploying forced smiles and imaginary urgent tasks to attend to rather than being near them. I know why. They often talked about rebuilding their homes and reuniting with their loved ones, the peak of their aspirations was surprisingly ...known to me ─ they wanted no more than to return home, sit in front of the TV, watch football and drink tea.  *I understood them, to a lesser degree, sure, but I did nonetheless.*  \_\_\_\_\_\_*Veselaya* wasn’t amongst the few dozen *deti* that were showing us their merchandise. No, she was far behind them, at the edge of the village. Even at 300 metres, I could see a slight glimmer on her emerald eyes, she was quietly sobbing. Holding a shoebox. I ordered my cousin to check on her through the scope of his rifle, feeling a knot being tied around my neck. She was *clutching* the shoebox. Strands of her black hair stuck to the tears that descended her bruised cheeks; then she began to walk towards us. Our Captain ordered us to raise our rifles and the Syrian troops began to shout at the children upon seeing her, ordering them to get behind our armor. ***Amidst an open field of desert soil*** ***A small frightened child held on*** ***To a small shoebox with a crying soul*** ***Quietly begging the strange men from distant lands*** ***To protect her from the evil old men that stood behind*** \_\_\_\_\_\_I shouted at her, over and over, the only phrase I knew in her tongue with nothing but fear and begged to God. \_\_\_\_\_\_My cousin trained his sights onto her chest, so did all the men around me, but she kept on walking through the dust-like sand, leaving a trail of tears and hopeless fear. ***I have always been a good soldat, but that day I cried.*** ***I dropped my rifle and broke through the defensive line,*** ***my vision blurred by a primal need to save the young.*** ***I saw no colors and felt no more*** ***For her I felt nothing but love*** \_\_\_\_\_\_I threw the shoebox up in the air behind me and threw my entire self onto her as the wires strapped to her chest pulled the pins on the hidden grenades. ***I held my breath and watched as my visor drowned,*** ***feeling lost in her emerald eyes.


“SEEKING: Card Players, Bootleggers, and Shady Characters. $30/day, $240/week.” The wanted section of the Weekly never fails to make you smile. It’s the kind of thing that you enjoy about Rosebud County, it’s why you came here in the first place. You’re none of the three, but the idea that Shady Characters are out there, clipping the classified ads just like everyone else, makes the mundane a little more exciting. The fact that the phone number below has too many digits just sweetens the deal. You put the ripped-out ad in your back pocket, to be reexamined after you finish the crossword, once you’ve found your five letter word for a tree that can’t be trusted. (Not the kind of clue you’d get back home.) After finishing your oats you head downstairs to open the store, only fifteen minutes late. Start being too on time and we might lose our charm, you joke to the mostly empty shelves. You open the lock boxes and start unloading all the food and hardware too valuable to leave unsecured after sundown. By ten the store looks like a store again and you settle down behind the counter. A scarecrow comes in and buys a set of new buttons. For an extra 70 cents you sew them on to his ripped sleeve. The barman from the piano hall picks up his daily order of peanuts. A timberman comes in for some nails, and suggests that your tree is probably a Larch. Never met one he could trust, he says. You pencil it in but it doesn’t work with the rest of the clues. You’ll come back to it later. After the morning rush, you take out the wanted ad and plug in the store’s old telephone. You try dialing the number as written, but it doesn’t go through. (It would have been a bit of a let-down if it had.) You try truncating the number in various ways, some of the calls connect but all are deadends. Not many people in the County use phones anymore, it’s possible that the number means something else entirely. You boil water for tea and sell a ten pound bag of rice to a man with round glasses and a long coat. You consider asking him about the ad, but you don’t want to come across any particular kind of way. You make your tea out of pinyon pine and juniper berries, native to this high arid steppe. Pinyon is what the crows like, it makes you sharp. You’re not sure what juniper does, but they always come as a pair. (Locals say that juniper is for the lizards, but no one remembers why.) You write out the digits from the ad on a long sheet of receipt paper. You circle the 9-7-9 of the Rosebud area code, a good place to start. Back in the day they handed out numbers in order of importance, you always like that the County was last. It’s another reason you came here, really. Of all the dusty dream towns of the steppe, you might as well pick the last. You stare at the numbers and drink your tea. The sun passes overhead and the dust kicks up outside. Thursdays are always slow in the afternoons, it’s a long time since last week’s paycheck. You rearrange the digits to see if they take any other familiar form, longitude and latitude, a time and place, a lock combination, nothing jumps out. There are too many numbers, anything works. Idly, you rearrange them into your old phone number, then your old zip code and street number. You get frustrated and sweep the pieces into a drawer. (Puzzles are only fun while they can keep you distracted.) You close the store and go out for a walk. \*\*\* Your mother sighs as she stands outside your room. The movers have packed up the rest of the house but this room was for her hands only. Everything is still and silent as she turns the knob. She holds her breath as she crosses the threshold, breaking the invisible seal that had formed over the last seven years. (She cries for hours.) Packing takes so much longer than she had expected. As painful as it was to think about the process, the practice just bled details she had missed. Disassembling your bed, your dresser, your blue chair. All the books on your bookshelves. (What an avid little reader you were once.) The clothes and shoes you outgrew but insisted on keeping. You grew so attached to everything. Someday, your mother thinks, you’ll come back and yell at her for getting rid of it all. (She regrets the thought immediately). The sun set and rose to find your mother’s puffy red face surrounded by stacked boxes and neatly labeled pieces of furniture. She holds in her sore hands a picture, stares at it for a long time. You’re in it, glowing beside your parents, in front of a soft yellow forest full of identical silver trunks. You were so excited to learn about those trees, joined together at the roots, one single organism stretching miles across. (Your mother can’t remember what they’re called now either.) She cries one last time then begins packing the car. She carefully piles everything you left behind into her station wagon. The thought of coming across a stranger wearing your clothes is too much, so she drives to a thrift store two hours away. It takes another hour to unload everything, for the clerk to mark which set of screws and bolts and wooden slats go together, to decide one final time what stays and what goes. The sun is setting by the time she ends up at her new apartment. The movers have already come and gone, unpacked everything in the time it took her just to take apart your old bed. She sits outside, not moving. (Hours just tick by these days.) Next to her in the passenger seat are two boxes, the remnants of your existence she couldn’t bear to give away. One box is labeled with the words “THINGS TO KEEP” in neat block letters. The other box just says “HOPE.” Your mother sighs angrily, and scribbles out the words. \*\*\* On Thursday afternoons, when the whole town is saving nickels and the piano hall is empty, you like to stop in and play. They never made it past ragtime out on the steppe, and folks think it’s some kind of magic when you play the jazz you grew up with; it makes the jack rabbits skittish and the donkeys bray. Eventually you decided it’s best to just keep your spells between you and the empty bar. Today the hall is clear except for the man with round glasses and a long coat. Again something makes you think he’d know about your strange ad, but you leave him be. (You never lost your good manners.) Instead you sit down at the piano and slowly warm your fingers. Your mind drifts as they wander over the deeply worn keys, playing pieces you forgot the names of years ago. It amazes you what your mind holds on to and what falls away, that you can remember ten thousand notes but not the three words that hang above them. (More puzzles.) In a moment of whimsy, you put the ad on top of the piano and start to play the phone number, as if it were a chord progression written down by an erratic piano instructor. It sounds awkward at first but with the right mix of major sevenths and accidentals you can start to hear some halfway decent jazz hidden inside. You just keep repeating the twelve bars, changing the key, the tempo, the melody, continuously circling around something. It’s soothing and nostalgic in a way that is unexpected but pleasant. You circle deeper and deeper, and don’t notice the round glasses in the corner of the bar fix themselves on you. You float back down to find the man standing next to you, waiting patiently for you to finish. “Aspen,” he says, as you stare up at him confused. “The tree that can’t be trusted.” He smiles and pats the piano fondly, then walks out of the bar. You sit frozen for a long time, then rush back to the store. You pull out the crossword but you already know that it will fit. As you write it in dark black ink you’re hit with a wave of memory. A high forested plateau. The sun shining through countless yellow leaves. Identical white trunks, tied together below the ground, stretching for a hundred miles. You have no idea where and when any of it is but you know you were there. \*\*\* Your mother enters her new two-bedroom walkup and sets down your boxes. She looks around at the job the movers have done, impressed how closely everything matched her instructions. There are still some odd boxes that need to be put away but it feels remarkably like walking into someone else’s home. (Into someone else’s life, already in progress.) She tours around the place and feels unexpectedly light, like a ghost, or a spirit floating out of one body into another. She feels like dancing. She sets up an old record player and attaches it to the speakers already mounted in the living room. She opens a box looking for her records and recoils when she realizes it's one of yours. Then, with sudden confidence, she goes back into the box. She had found one of her old swing records hiding on your bookshelf, and now she takes it out and wipes off the dusty sleeve. A pile of memories that threatens to bury her, but she feels unstoppable now. (She’s a ghost!) She twirls around the room as the horns dip and dive. The old vinyl cracks and pops, but the ride cymbal keeps its rhythmic shuffle. Your mother’s dark hair flies behind her, her bare feet glide nimbly below. She hasn’t slept in two days but somehow it only lends to her grace. The music builds and then falls, and she closes her eyes and sways as it fades between songs. She opens her eyes and rushes to unpack the rest of your boxes. Nothing more can be hidden away. Now is not the time for closed doors, for holding back, for waiting. Now is a celebration. (Hark! A new moon rises.) It was an eclectic mix of your possessions that she managed to keep, childish and out of place here, but that doesn’t phase her. She places the rest of your records by the turntable, cleaning their jackets and wiping the grooves. On top of the piano she places two of your stuffed animals, a donkey and a hare, and almost imagines they’re listening to the music. Her eyes twinkle as she takes each one for a whirl around the room. (Swing dancing is best with a partner.) At the bottom of one box is a rolled up poster that sat behind your door, another memory from a trip out west. It’s a huge scene of an expansive prairie, nothing other than a few juniper bushes to break up the flat, arid plain. Crows circle above and a magpie hops along the dusty ground. She never really understood the appeal, but now hangs it directly across from her own bed. She lies down and looks deeply into the vast western expanse. Her eyes droop as she looks, trying to see what you saw in all the emptiness. (She finally drifts off to sleep, still searching.) \*\*\* A distant sun is casting long shadows when you shake yourself out of your head. You pace around the store, packing away lock boxes, misplacing everything. You talk to yourself, about aspen trees mostly. You shutter the store and go upstairs. You push aside your rusty cot and pull out a scratched up wooden crate. You wipe the dust off and open it. You’re not sure what you’re looking for but with shaky breaths you leaf through your old life. Everything has a distant familiarity, but nothing clicks. You spread it all out on the floor. There are notebooks and journals and reams of sheet music, all fading slowly away. You can no longer remember why any of this is here, or what might have been left behind. You strike the crate in frustration and down flutters a photograph, knocked loose by your anger. You pick it up and the world spins. You are fixated first on the forest, yellow aspen trees glow in the soft autumn light. The trunks and branches are exactly how you remembered them, bright silver, all neat clones of each other. You knew you were there once. Then, nervously, you let your eyes drift to the three smiling faces in the center. You recognise yourself instantly, but your mother and father come as a much slower realization, a tide rushing in. (Waves crash, everything is spinning.) You sit down and feel like vomiting. You look away and look back. For a second you try to pretend it might not be them, you might be mistaken, but the illusion falls away. Memories flood over the high walls you so carefully built. They crumble under the weight. You stare at your mother, her hand on your shoulder. She looks back, smiling, comforting. The sun catches her long dark hair. She looks so young, so happy. You remember how much you once wanted to hurt her. And how much you once missed her. Your father doesn’t remember these things, at least not here, smiling on your other shoulder. He is tall but gentle. He looks cold, with a hat and gloves on, and a coat that goes down to his knees. Still, he looks happy too. He is beaming back at the camera, his eyes glowing behind his round glasses. \*\*\* You sit on the floor for a long while, thinking about where you are, this strange county of card players, bootleggers, and shady characters. You think about crows and donkeys and jack rabbits, about jazz music and pinyon pine, and the right and wrong kinds of puzzles. You hold the ad in your jittery fingers. You know you’re never going to figure it out. You knew that from the beginning, but you did what you could to put it off. Now, it’s time. You flip it over the cut out piece of paper, and look again at the other side. At your name printed neatly in capital letters. At the message copied below, “please come home.


Ben: So uh, is this it? Ellie: Is what it? Ellie: Lotta ways I could take that. Janet: Haven't you checked the news? Ellie: Which source? James: Yeah they're all covering something different. Janet: What do you mean something different? Janet: Isn't the Moon falling from the sky enough? Ben: The what. Janet: The Moon got knocked out of orbit. Janet: Astronomers don't know how, but it's coming down. Janet: We got a week left. Ben: Cool plenty of time to get eaten by zombies first. Janet: By what. Ellie: Zombies Janet, jeez aren't you listening? Ellie: Reading\* Ellie: James tell her. Ellie: James? Ellie: It's been ten minutes now James. Ben: Where's James live again? Ellie: Nebraska, vacationing in the Bahamas. Ben: Oh… He's… Ellie: God. Ellie: What? Ben: Check 'Mega-Tsunamis'. Ben: Maybe add 'Meteors' to the search. Ben: Apparently there's unrelated ones in the Indian Ocean too. Charlie: Okay so the internet finally comes back on. Charlie: And one of us is already dead. Ben: Hey guys I hear gunfire. Ben: It's pretty distant, but my dad's not home yet. Ben: As comical as having like Ben: What's the count now Ellie? Ellie: Thirteen. Thirteen different apocalypse scenarios at once. Ellie: Like WTF this is like that one stupid movie Ellie: 2012. Charlie: We won't even make it to getting Mooned. Janet: You are a child. Charlie: Technically still 17. Charlie: I feel I'm entitled to childish jokes. Charlie: Won't live long enough for adult humor anyways Charlie: Why deny me this one fleeting pleasure? Ben: Cool yes but that's not the point. Janet: What is the point then? Ben: I think between the zombies and the actual demons Ben: I haven't got long left before something reaches my house. Ben: I'm gonna check in every 10 minutes. Ben: Probably gonna… find my dad's rifle if the internet goes. Ellie: You gonna go down fighting? Ben: Sure. We'll go with that. Ben: If I don't check back in 10 minutes assume I'm dead. Charlie: I'll pour out a cold one for you. Janet: You're drinking? Charlie: Who's gonna stop me? It's the end of the world. Charlie: If I'm gonna die might as well do it drunk. Ellie: A long-standing human tradition. Charlie: If I'm going down I'm taking my liver with me. Ben: Checking in. Charlie: Roger that, I'm still alive. Ellie: Same here. Janet: Me too. Charlie: Know what the best part about all this is? Ellie: What? Charlie: I'm not gonna wake up with a hangover tomorrow. Ellie: ... Ellie: Screw it I'm gonna see if the corner store has any left. Ben: Any what left? Ellie: Booze. Janet: Aren't you Christian? Ellie: Rapture came and went without me. Ellie: If God has no use for me Ellie: I have no use for his commandments anymore either. Charlie: You sure you can't just steal your parents? Ellie: No I actually managed to move out, remember? Ellie: Two whole weeks of freedom. Ellie: And then the world ends. Ellie: So proud of that college degree now. Ben: Stay safe okay? Ellie: If I can be bothered. Ben: Checking in. Charlie: Still alive but out of drinks. Janet: How are the phones even still up? Charlie: Heck if I know. Charlie: Honestly I'm surprised the house hasn't come down. Charlie: Lotta earthquakes going on. Charlie: Almost like… Ben: Checking In. Janet: Charlie you gonna finish your quip? Ben: It's been ten minutes. Ben: Probably not. Ellie: Okay I'm back. Ellie: One of the mini death storms flew through. Ellie: No cell reception and I was stuck in an empty house. Janet: At least you're still here Ellie. Ellie: We're down another friend. Janet: Yep. Ben: Checking in. Ellie: Alive and now properly inebriated. Janet: Also alive but the electricity went out. Janet: And I can see explosions through my window. Janet: Do you guys think there's an afterlife. Ellie: I mean it's confirmed at this point. Ellie: It probably sucks though. Ben: That's depressing. Ben: Even more depressing is you're probably right. Ellie: Cheers Ben. Ellie: What about you Janet? Ben: Checking in. Ellie: Janet? Ellie: Guess not. Ellie: Hey Ben, you still there? Ellie: It's been ten minutes. Ellie: Checking in. Ellie: Checking in. Ellie: Checking in. Ellie: I know you probably just died before the rest of us got in here but… Ellie: I hope you get to see this Allan. Ellie: We didn't really talk much during this whole… Ellie: end of the world thing. Ellie: Guess that sorta defines our group before it started too though. Ellie: Wish I'd put more work into talking with you guys back then. Ellie: Maybe dying would've been less lonely. Ellie: Dunno why I'm still in here. Ellie: Still afraid of what's coming I guess. Ellie: Checking in. Ellie: Checking in. Ellie: Checking in. Allan: ... Allan: Missed you by two hours huh? Allan: What a day to leave my phone at home. Allan: See y'all on the other side I guess.


As I walk on the way to work today I see a small flower poking up through the sidewalk. For no other reason than a brooding feeling I can’t define, I pluck it from it’s hard-fought home and I begin to reflect on my knowledge of its nature. I know it is a complex machine formed of smaller, much more complex machines known as cells. I know there are different kinds of cells, performing different tasks and forming the different tissues and organs within the plant. I know all of those different cells form from a single cell, a seed, with a single genome, and that the cell is able to form into all those other types of cell by affecting its epigenome, turning genes on and off. And as all of this is carried out with absolute precision by small molecular machines within and without the tiny cells, I know I go to work everyday. I sit down at a desk, or stand behind a cash register, or whatever else, and I complete some repetitive, meaningless task everyday. I consider how I am simply another one of those molecules, completing a simple task, in the larger cell of a business, in the larger tissue of a corporation, in the larger organ of an industry, in the larger system of a country, in the larger organism of humanity. I think about those molecules. How they are built from atoms, which are built of smaller units of positive and negative charge, which are built by even smaller units I don’t know about, but I know there are other people who do. And I know that those people still go to work every day, and work on some slightly more complicated task that some people see as meaningful, and if they are good they might get rewards for giving people like me things to think about on the way to work. I think about those particles I don’t know about, and the natural laws that dictate their actions, and I consider how no matter what those laws may be, they are ultimately arbitrary, and I understand that all of reality is random and impossible, and yet still it impossibly exists. And I know that in spite of my understanding this, I will still go to work tomorrow, and the next day, and chase small, unfulfilling improvements to my quality of life until I die, and I think of how that too seems impossible. I realize that many people complete this impossible task everyday, and wonder how they do it. I know that some people, who are uninformed or confused, are actually able to find meaning in this, and I know they are better off for it, though I wouldn’t trade places now that I know. I ponder how none of this makes sense or has any meaning and I know the only reason I continue this pattern is because I’m afraid of the alternative. I pluck a petal off the flower and watch it fall. I decide that isn’t enough. I pull two more. That’s good, any more would be too many. I drop the flower and feel a little satisfied over leaving my mark on it, and I think about how there are probably distinct biological and neurological reasons that I feel this way, and how all my thoughts and feelings are the result of all those tiny machines moving about in my brain and how it’s all ultimately meaningless. I check my watch and realize I’m going to be late to work again, and I know that I ought to care more, but I also know I can’t.


Listen, he is on the floor bleeding. You are in the corner. You focus on where his pantleg meets his shoes. You do not know what to do, so you just focus on where his pantleg meets his shoes. You don't even know what color his pants are. It doesn't matter. It is stained with blood. It'll create a new color, something of copper. You'll focus on that instead. When you are ready, of course. But you never are. But when you are ready, of course. It is warm room, you think. You only think about it, though. He is still, the man. He is not a father, not a husband, not a brother. He is just he. This is good, this means he was no one to go home to, no one to gossip with about all your nasty disasters. They are disasters. Big grey-colored tornadoes and all. It would be quite stupid of you to think otherwise. You'd be a fool, not that you aren't already one. You were a bigger fool the minute you tried to convince yourself that he is just a he. He is just a he. He is still on the floor bleeding. He is still. The stillness that embodies Mr. He is a delicate thing: a lonely child awaiting a cruel punchline. Silence sweeps around you, around this room. You hold the silence between your teeth and breathe. You mimic him. It is easier to let him breathe for you. Your lungs are too heavy at the moment, crushed by your corner. But the corner is you. If you want, the corner can be him too. Before you is this man, copper-heavy. He has constructed the walls of your beginnings, stumbled into the halls of your decay, as one does. Somehow, this man veins are pulled open, this man has put himself in the middle of this room and someone you are the one that is embarrassed. You are the one the people like to gawk at. They are right to. You would be a fool, a bigger fool than you already are if you weren't embarrassed. But God, you are pathetic when you are. You are this worthless paradox that can't get anything right. This is who you are and no one can convince you otherwise. Not even he. You think about fickle tremors, you only think about it. It doesn't do you any good. Nothing does you any good. It's what makes you fit in corners. You are only fit in corners. This corner is not your first. You think about all those parties and how, somehow, in your foolish little brain. Your selfish decay made you think that in a room full people, all would linger on you. They would go home and laugh at you in the way they laugh at god. You are selfish and you cannot comprehend how one can make everything about themselves in the way you do. But it is about all about you. Everyone always looks at you in silent ridicule, that is just who you are. But still, you are so self-reeking. You do not focus on those parties, that is not a comfort. The focusing is. It is what helps you. It doesn't help him. His spine is cracked open and it is why you get chills when your nervous. You focus on the worthless things to pretend all the big scary things aren't there. But everything is a big scary thing to you, especially parties. Parties and pity, concerts where somehow, again, though Freddie Mercury could be on stage back from the dead, you'd still have all the people looking at you for your failures. So would Freddie. All of the good stuff. The fact they are oh-so big and scary to you is what makes you oh-so pathetic. It is what makes you convulse with kindness, nerved-politeness. So maybe, just maybe, nobody will gossip about your nasty tornadoes. Sometimes at night you leave the lights on and walk across the flat fields. When you look back from a distance, you house is like a boat on the sea. It's really the only time you feel safe. That and where the man's pantleg meets his shoes. You focus on the little things and then you realize that the man is not bleeding. This man does not think, he does not focus. He is not as pathetic as you, no one. No one is and he is standing. Now, he could've been standing for quite sometime. But you were too busy focusing, as you always are. This is why you fit in corners, you cannot function, not even compared to the man standing. He stands and stares at you and this is what makes you feel like your thoughts about you are correct, as if you aren't the only thing to stare at in this room. He sighs, he stares, he is tired. 'You aren't what you think you are.' And there was his cruel punchline. What is supposed to be a comfort? A praise? You don't know and it doesn't matter. No one can convince you other. What he says makes you feel worse and you will think too hard about it. He knows you will. He sighs. So listen, he is on the floor standing. You are in the corner. And with that, leaves. The sound of the door closing echos in your lungs, you have to breathe on your own now. So you sigh. You sigh and you are tired. This is the loop. You focus on how warm the room is.


We were in orbit. We had been for 2 days and 21 hours. It was so calm and peaceful up there. I looked out the window and saw the Earth suspended in a sea of black. It was like it was hanging on a piece of invisible string and I could see the faint, blue-grey haze that was Earth’s atmosphere. We could see whole continents with golden-green ground and deep blue seas. I could see the sun, brighter than a million light bulbs behind us. Trillions of twinkling stars sparkled all around us. The sky was darker than I’d ever seen it before, which only made the sun and distant stars seem even brighter. I turned back around and looked around the shuttle. The gleaming off-white walls were covered in panels, switches and levers. There were blinking lights and screens all around the walls with an area sectioned off for sleeping quarters. There was a huge jolt and we all bumped up and down. I looked out the window and saw that we had finally reached the moon after three days of being in that cramped shuttle. The milky surface gleamed in the sun’s reflected light, highlighting every crater, hill and valley. It stretched for miles and miles and all of it was covered in this white, milky light that felt like it was putting you into a trance, like staring into a fireplace. The effect was mesmerising. The hills, big and small, cast long shadows into the valleys and craters giving it an eerie look. I heard the pneumatic hiss of the door and snapped out of my trance. I jumped out of the shuttle and landed on the surface of the moon. There was a thin film of dust, hovering above the ground. That was one of the first things I learnt about the moon, that layer of floating dust. There is no wind, no movement up there to give any reason for it to be there like that, and yet it is. Our mission was to collect some small samples of rock to bring back for testing. This had been done before, so we had no idea why they wanted us to go up again, but they never told us, and we never asked. I guess they were paying us quite well to do this, as Nikola had so often reminded me. Martin was already jumping down the steps to the moon floor, so we followed him. There was no shortage of rock clumps and strange formations around, but none were small enough or of good enough quality to take back with us. I wandered off a bit, hoping to find an acceptable specimen. I walked behind a tall bit of rock to see if there were any small pieces, but there was nothing there. Even the dust had disappeared. I turned around and walked back the way I had come to the shuttle, but it wasn’t there. Neither were Martin and Nikola. They were gone. Everything was gone, except for a small building about 200 meters from me. I knew there was something off about this, but for some reason, I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I felt curious. There was a sort of gravity radiating from that squat little building, and I could feel it pulling at my mind, even from here. I slowly started to walk towards the building, which, as I got closer, I realised was glowing. I walked a bit faster, my curiosity almost a tangible thing by now. My heart was hammering, but still I felt no fear. It was the strangest thing, the building was glowing from a central point on the inside, like something, a consciousness of some sort was in there, and was trying to lure me in. I put my hand on the handle to the door, and even through the space suit, I could feel the heat coming off it in waves. The handle got hotter and hotter, but I couldn’t pull my hand away. The heat got worse and worse until I thought it might burn me through the suit but it stopped, all at once. I felt dizzy, almost like I had been sitting down for a while and stood up too quickly, but weirder. I looked around, and I was back in the shuttle. I stood completely still, listening for any sound that might indicate I wasn’t still utterly alone in this place. I heard nothing. There was absolutely no sound, not even the buzzing and clicking of the engines and power. I walked over the window, trying to peer out into the inky black, and saw the Earth. Only, it wasn’t *my* Earth, it wasn’t the planet I called my home. This was warped somehow, and the closer I tried to look the fuzzier the image appeared, like I couldn’t look directly at it. Like I wasn’t *allowed* to look directly at it. I could feel my dizziness turn into a pounding headache, and I sat down on a bed, realising I was in the sleeping quarters. There was still no sound coming from beyond my door, and that twisted Earth that wasn’t mine was still outside my window. It almost seemed like it was leering at me, laughing at my confusion and the fear I was just now beginning to feel. I wasn’t in my space suit, whatever had transported me back here had done something to get rid of it, so I lay down on my bed, trying to fall asleep in case this was just a nightmare, but I couldn’t. I lay there for hours, trying to sleep, but the more I tried, the more awake I became. I don’t know how long I lay there, but eventually I realised I could hear faint noise coming from outside my door, getting louder and morphing into the familiar buzzing of the inner workings of the spacecraft. I could hear people talking and walking around. I almost cried with relief, and ran to my door, out into the main room. Sat there were Martin and Nikola, looking for all the world like nothing had happened. So I asked them. I asked what had happened, where had they gone, what was that horrible building? But they stared at me blankly, and I could see no light in their eyes. Looking into their cold, dead eyes, I knew that whatever was inside that building, whatever was causing all of this, had gotten to them, and that for whatever reason, it had not claimed me too. Martin and Nikola got up, in total synchronicity, and walked towards me with their arms hanging limply at their sides. As they walked towards me, I knew. I could feel in my bones that even though that thing had not claimed me, I was not saved. My fate was to be much worse. I ran. I ran faster than I ever had before, straight to life module. I somehow figured out how to start it through my panic, and it roared to life. It was the most comforting noise I had heard in my entire life. The stress and fear took over me though, and I passed out. I woke up in hospital after the module had used autopilot to make it’s way back to Earth. And it was my Earth, not twisted and wrong on a fundamental level, but mine. I was released from hospital a week later, the doctors giving me a clean bill of health. It didn’t stop them though. Every night I have the same dream. I dream I’m flying towards the moon in the silent shuttle. I know which building I’m flying to, and I can’t stop it. I know that it will claim me eventually, and that I can’t do anything to stop it.


In a small old room with sunlight running through the yellow drapes, a seemingly ordinary clock ticked and tocked. The clock had colorful fur all around it and it was very huggable. A boy then held the clock close towards his chest and he heard his heartbeat match the rhythm of the clock. Walking backwards clumsily, he let his knees fall to the soft embrace of the bed and let go of his arms. The clock remained there in his chest, until the boy’s breathing got deeper and deeper till he was in a deep sleep. By the time he opened his eyes, he immediately caught the scent of grilled steak. He hopped off the bed and took off and down a flight of stairs. ‘You’re awake! Steak’s piping hot and ready!’ It was just the mother and the son sitting on the wooden table. The steak’s size was half of that of an adult’s and there was only one. ‘Go on ahead. I’ve eaten mine.’ The mom was looking him in the eyes with admiration. ‘Say, Jean. What do you think of your new toy?’ Jean mimicked how he hugged the clock and the mother smiled, ‘It’s so fluffy, and it makes the cutest chimes.’ Suddenly, a low tuned chime rang throughout the kitchen and it seemed like it came from upstairs. Jean, visibly frustrated, chewed on his meat faster, gulped it down, and walked quickly to the flight of stairs. Jean’s mother after seeing her son walk out and away from her sight, started sobbing quietly in the background. After climbing the set of stairs, the relentless chiming came to a complete halt. When he peeked inside his room, he found the clock on the bed and jumped up to the bed to hold it once more. Like he always does, he closed his eyes and embraces it. But very quickly, he opens his eyes and places his ears onto his toy. There was no tick tocks left to be heard and the second hand went dead. He then saw his mom peeking on him with concern. ‘I’ll buy you a real toy this time, okay? I promise you’ll like the next one.’ She gently approached the bashful boy and went to bed beside him. ‘You really love the clock?’ She whispered. After a few seconds of silence, he turned towards his mother. Jean spoke, ‘Jean believes the clock will ring again.’ He then felt the warm touch of his mother patting him on the shoulder. She then heard Jean sniffling and saw him holding back his tears. The next day, in the school premises, Jean emotionlessly rummages through his backpack inside the locker and pulled out his fluffy clock. He hid it underneath his shirt and headed back to his seat. Then, he discreetly placed it underneath his desk. He pressed on it gently but got interrupted by a group of cheery students. ‘Jean, come sing with us!’ In response, Jean refused politely, but the other surrounded him instead. The people around him seemed to be searching for something on his body. His friends spoke, ‘Wow is that a musical box I hear?’ ‘What a cute chime.’ ‘Show us. We want to know!’ ‘Ah! Here it is!’ One of the boys picked the clock from underneath Jean’s desk to his surprise. Jean, perplexed, asked his friends. “You can hear it?’ The boy replied, ‘Yes, and everyone else in class! Right?’ The others nodded in unison. He then explained his situation to the 4 students surrounding him. The 4 of them replied in succession. ‘You’re saying that after listening to the chimes yesterday, you can’t hear them anymore?’ ‘There’s no way, it must be that you’re imagining things! Like not being able to listen to it.’ ‘You should go see a doctor.’ One of the girls nudged the mean boy on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be mean. Although it’s most likely that you are hallucinating in reverse.. This really is a cute clock. Mind if we borrow it? Once the hallucination stops and you can hear the chime again, tell us and we’ll give it to you! I swear I won’t bully you or anything.’ She declared quite confidently in the whole class. I nodded in agreement. She then went back to her table and carried her favorite toys in her arms. With outstretched arms and a warm smile, she spoke, ‘Please have fun with these!’ ‘Thanks, Jasmine.’ Day by day went, and every time Jasmine brought out the clock in class, he wasn’t able to hear its melody. One day, Jean was too tired to wake up. His legs felt like jelly and he felt a bit nauseous. He then opens his eyes and sees his mother driving late at night. ‘mom…how did i get here..’ ‘oh dear. Oh dear… we’re going to be there soon, okay? The doctor will make you feel better.’ Rinng. Rinng. The melodious chime that he once heard came back to him. ‘Jasmine gave the clock back to you while you were sick because she knows you love it very much. Thank her later, okay?’ The lovely tune vanquished all the darkness that seemed to clench Jean’s heart and once again, he held the clock close to his chest and hugged it tight. Then, it went quiet again and the second hand stopped moving.. like how it used to be.


I haven't had many friends, even during my childhood days. Ive never been able to make friends easily. The only friend I have is Srishti. She has been my best friend, my only friend since I was a little kid. Her family shifted to my neighbouring house when I was five. It started as a simple 'Hi' to each other every morning in the school bus and grew into the best friendship bond of my life. We were practically inseparable during our school years; even though we were poles apart. Srishti thrived on people as we grew up, she was always surrounded by them and I was the one who enjoyed solitary time reading a book or sketching whatever inspired me. If I was on the introverted side of the seesaw, she was on the other extroverted side trying to keep me up and out of my solitude. She was my protector in school from all the bullies who thought I was some sad and gawky girl, she was the only being who I could trust and be myself with. But yes, school friendships take a toll when you enter college and it gets more complex when you are in different cities. We went our separate ways for our graduation, she went to Mumbai and I continued in Delhi. We wrote and called each other quite frequently in the early days but then days turned to weeks and then months. I tried keeping in touch but she was always busy with either a college event or a play or just hanging out with her new friends. She was occupied with her new and thrilling life and here I was always missing her and being updated with her life events only through social networking sites. I travelled to Mumbai various times to meet her when she completed her graduation, when she got her first job and even when she got a promotion. We mostly went for lunch and she largely spoke about her, I was never a topic of discussion. But then there was nothing great happening in my life. I was into coding which required hours and hours of working on a computer in confinement with no need of human interaction. She was into event management and every project had interesting and funny anecdotes which was amusing to hear. Hence I didn't mind at all to have conversations which centred around her. I did feel hurt though when I received her wedding invitation via an email, she had planned a grand five day wedding in Goa on the 15th of the next month which was only 25 days away. Well, I deserved a personal call from her at least. Or was it too selfish of me to think about myself, she would undoubtedly be busy with her preparations and would have forgotten to call. After all I am her best friend and she would have expected me to understand. There was no doubt that I needed to attend this wedding. I was pulled out of my thoughts by some baby's shrill. This flight was taking longer than I expected. Delhi to Goa is a 2.5 hour journey but thanks to the noisy bunch of aunties in the back, this flight seemed like a never ending torture. The couple sitting beside me were trying to pacify their new born and of course annoying the hell out of me. Yes, I hate babies and grown ups as you know by now. I cannot stand people of any size. They are bearable if they are in their own space but these small ones are just pure nuisance. I looked out of the window and sighed. It was upsetting to think that Srishti had not answered any of my calls I had made since receiving the invitation. Of course, she must have been really busy. Come to think of it, going for her wedding is awkward. She would be tied up with her wedding ceremony, what would I do there as a guest. It's a full fledged five day wedding and Srishti has invited many of her friends. Thinking about seeing that many people is daunting and my social anxiety is screaming. But I can do anything for Srishti and this was her big day and I couldn't miss it at any cost. Finally, the flight has landed and a little excitement builds in me, after all I am seeing my friend after so long. I quickly take a cab to the five star resort where the grand wedding is being held. Her haldi ceremony is already in progress and Srishti is glowing in the floral jewellery and the yellow silk saree. I wave her from behind the crowd but she definitely cannot see me. She is surrounded by her family and relatives who are taking turns to apply turmeric and oil on her face, hands and feet. I enjoy sitting in a corner and looking at the beautiful bride, now dancing away on the sound of live dhol players. The ceremony comes to an end and I finally muster the courage to meet her while she is surrounded by her numerous friends. However, all anxiety goes into dust when she smiles and hugs me. She is as excited to see me as I am to meet her. She introduces me to Anay, the groom and as I turn to talk to Srishti, there are a new bunch of friends who pull them away for some dance practice. I turn to my room to freshen up for dinner and cocktail party in the evening. I come out of the room in the evening and stand in the balcony to bask in the beautiful string lights and lanterns put up in the garden area. And the beach view in the background makes it look picturesque. I look out for Srishti to accompany her downstairs when I hear yelling and screaming from a room on the left. I walk towards the source to understand the commotion when I recognise Srishti's voice. She is screaming and I can overhear words like 'betrayed' and 'trust' from the room. I sneak in towards the room and crack open the door slightly and see Anay and Srishti arguing. I walk towards Srishti who is sobbing and Anay is just staring at her blank faced. I hold her hands trying to console her when she looks at me and drops herself on the bed."What's the matter, Srishti", I ask. She thrusts a mobile in my hand which has a messaging app open. I quickly glance at the long chats between Anay and a woman, Neeti. A small glimpse is enough for me to know this is not a friendly chat, the messages are outrageously flirty filled with kissy and heart emojis. I look at Anay who seems completely dumbfounded. He kneels in front of Srishti, "Babe, this is not me. I have never heard of that name before in my life. Let us call back on that number and get this clarified. I am begging you" "Anay, look at the messages. You have expressed your love numerous times to her, you have even met her at hotels; I don't know why are we getting married if you have no interest in me." I am still looking at the chats when there is a notification from an app. "What the hell" I shout loudly and Srishti turns and looks at the mobile phone. Its a dating app. Srishti takes the phone and goes through the dating app chats. Anay was having similar conversations with various other females. "You are sick. Now how many women am I supposed to call and clarify." "What are you talking about" saying this Anay takes the phone and goes through the chats "Oh fuck, this is not me Babe. I have never had this app in my phone. You have to believe me, I have only loved you and never even thought of anyone else. This is some kind of a joke. Please trust me, this is all fake" "Trust you??? What trust? Get out of my room and get out of my life. I don't think I even know who you are" Guests have started gathering outside the room looking with concern. Srishti's parents hurriedly enter the room alongwith other close relatives. Srishti is shaking with anger and shock. She has held my hand so tight that I think my palms are going numb. The same messages and app chats are now being read by her parents and they are looking at Anay with disgust who continues to plead that he is innocent. Everybody has something to say and various sessions of discussions take place but eventually Srishti has the last word. She gets up and leaves the room declaring the wedding is cancelled. Anay runs behind her but everyone knows by now that its in vain. She has made up her mind. By morning, Srishti has packed her bags and is now ready to leave the resort. The air is glum and filled with tension. I have packed my bags too as there is no point in staying back now. I sneak in behind Srishti and whisper "I cannot let you go alone to Mumbai like this, let me accompany you for a few days and then I will leave for Delhi". Srishti turns towards me "I was in fact planning to go to Delhi along with you, I cannot go back to Mumbai right now with all this emotional baggage" We get into the cab and leave for the airport. Srishti shuts her eyes and goes to sleep as we sit in the airplane to Delhi. There is a baby yelling behind us but that doesn't bother me anymore. I am elated with this turn of events. A little coding got the fake messages and dating app chats installed in Anay's phone. It was so easy to break into that moron's phone. He was such a fool that he didn't even realise that his phone had gone on update mode several times and had unknown apps installed. Srishti is better off without that halfwit. Finally, we will be back in Delhi and I will protect her from all such morons. I, too shut my eyes as its time for some sound sleep.


The breaths I take are short and shallow, like the desperate gasping of a grounded fish. As the room in front of me sinks in and out of focus, threatening to tilt and spill me onto the floor, I slide down the wall at my back and allow my blood-slicked hands to rest in my lap. The fire below has warmed the floor to a pleasant temperature, the kind that you feel on clear summer days. Across the room, smoke starts to creep under the door, trending up into the air to gather against the ceiling. The fire would follow. I close my eyes for a moment, listening intently to my slowing heartbeat. It’s gotten so terribly slow. I start violently when the phone in my pocket buzzes, groping for it without bothering to open my eyes. I flip it open and speak, my voice hoarse and breathy. “Yes?" There’s a moment’s pause, and then a familiar voice replies, exhausted but still pleased. “Thank God, I thought you wouldn’t pick up. We’re on the plane, Marcus. I’ve got my sister." There's a small commotion that I can't hear, and then the voice again. "If you catch the next flight, we'll be able to get on international together. How long until you reach the airport?" His words make my heart throb in my chest, and I suddenly feel my lips tremble. I take a short, steadying breath, and it catches in my chest, my lungs protesting the effort. I answer softly. “I won’t be making it, Rick.” There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, I hear the denial in his voice. “What do you mean?" I chuckle into the receiver, closing my eyes as the smell of the smoke reaches my nose. “You know perfectly well what I mean.” Another pause, and this time I hear Chris in the background. There’s a moment of silence from my partner, and when he speaks, his voice is trembling, “What happened? What’s gone wrong? Are you captured?” I shake my head before murmuring, “Things just went a little haywire for a moment is all. But I’ve assured that you guys are safe. No one will ever try to hunt you down from this side." “Marc-” There’s a series of odd sounds through the receiver, and then Chris’s voice is on the line, frantic, “Marcus? What's going on?” My voice instinctively adopts a tender tone, “Things on my side just… took a bit of a turn. But I want you to know that you’re safe. I destroyed all of the files on you two.” There’s a sharp sound. She had dropped the phone, and it takes her a moment to retrieve it. “Really? How? Why aren’t you coming?” I smile to myself and allow her time to figure it out herself. She hesitates. I can hear it in her silence. She knows exactly what’s going on and simply doesn’t want to accept it. “You’re going to die, aren’t you?” Her voice is broken and sad, and it pains me to hear it. “Yes.” Another silence. "How soon?" The crackling of the flames below me has become almost deafening, and the sweat pouring from my body could qualify the room as a sauna. The air tastes burned, and the feeling of it ripping through my airways makes me cough violently. I'm barely able to summon the strength to speak. "Very." She sobs. "I'm so sorry, Marcus." "Don't be. I dragged...you kids in." My next words are a weak murmur, my energy becoming scarce. “Put Rick on, please.” There’s a second of silence as the switch is made, and then Rick speaks, his voice subdued, “Any last orders, boss?” My lips twitch in an attempt at a smile, but I lack the energy to complete it. I listen to the fire crackle outside the door, taunting me with it's never-ending noise. “Just…one.” It takes a lot of effort to say each syllable. I pause to take a breath, and I find it nearly impossible to draw air into my lungs. I’m running out of time. I take as much oxygen as I can before saying, “When…you land…I want you to… go back... to your wife and daughters. Live…a proper life.” I go to take another breath, but I end up choking on it and coughing violently. I peel my eyes open just a bit to see that the air around me has turned gray and thick, encasing me in a world of smoke. I take a moment to gather myself, breathing heavily, my lips only trembling a little bit as my heart clenches. “But don’t...forget me...okay?” There’s a lengthy pause before he speaks, his voice cracking in a manner much like my own. “I won’t.” My lips tighten and I feel tears collect in my eyes. I whisper hoarsely, the tears spilling down my cheeks, “Thank you.” I push the end call button with the last of my energy. My arm drops and the phone clatters across the floor. I feel my head tilting to the side, and in the time that it takes to blink, the rest of my body follows, the contact my skull makes with the floor feeling cushioned and far away. Slowly, the sounds of the crumbling building and the snapping flames fade away. Then, with the gentleness of silk, the warmth recedes, leaving a cold chill in its place, deeply set and unforgiving. My last breath falters in my chest, my consciousness fighting for just one more second, like a candle flickering in the wind. A soft exhale is all it takes to snuff it out.


Prologue: The year 2756, mankind had far exceeded the upper limits of what we ever thought possible. Plague, disease, hunger, mental and physical medical conditions all gone. With the touch of a single button, anything was possible...but at what cost? When had we given it up? When had man forsaken his soul... Chapter 1: It was late, very late, Mark sat at his table poring over his notes from the last two months. The papers were dimly illuminated by his grandfathers lamp nestled precariously in the corner of his small apartment. Mark's eyes were heavy as he looked at the ancient symbols and texts, trying to pull meaning out of the strange lines. He knew he was close to a breakthrough, but his eyes continued to fall shut, slowly pulling him deeper into sleep. Finally his head fell to the table and Mark drifted deep into the land of dreams...upon waking everything changed. Chapter 2: Mark awoke suddenly to the shouts of men and the clatter of hooves. Jostled he sat up suddenly, noticing that nothing around him was familiar. There was a desk here but not his desk. It was old and roughly hewn. Mark stared and ran his fingers over the grainy texture before remarking "...is that thing made of WOOD?! REAL FREAKING WOOD??" "It must have cost a fortune" he quipped. Then noticing for the first time, the candle with a live flame next to the stack of papers. Now more awake, the dawning realization coming upon him, he jumped out of the chair in fright. Knocking the table as he did, the candle fell, hot wax running began running down the length of the table as the flame licked at the edges of the paper. They quickly lit and took to the flame. The paper was thick and fibrous burning fast and hot. Mark shouted "FIRE FIRE!!". The automatic fire suppression system built into every home did not engage as he knew it should. "I don't know what to do!!" he panicked. Nobody had ever prepared him for this!! Where were the automatic systems? How do you put out a fire without them?? Suddenly Mark was pulled from his reverie as he inhaled a lung full of thick black smoke. "Ack eugh eugh" he choked on the acrid smoke, he quickly began backing away. Running backwards he spun, suddenly tripping, sprawling out he smashed into a hard wooden bookcase. Everything faded, his head spun, his pulse pounded in his ears, his arms and legs felt weak. All he could see was the thick black smoke filling the room around him. He slipped into unconsciousness knowing this was the end. Chapter 3: Mark awoke, thinking to himself as he layed there..."that was most crazy realistic nightmare." And then he noticed what felt like stone beneath his face and hands...was that cobble stone? He was laying in a street, it was wet and seeping into his clothes, something stunk most foul, and he was sore all over. Groggily, he sat up, looking around blinking, he noticed the throng of people and behind them the charred hull of the building he had been in. They all stared and pointed, expressions of amazement, shock, and horror written across their faces. Not only that, but what were they wearing...he recognized it from his studies, were those clothes from the 14th century?? He pointed to the man closest to him, still struggling to see straight. "Hey man, can you help me out here?" he moaned. They all gasped, taking a step back, except for one man. He stepped forward shouting and pointing he yelled "DEMON!!" It was then that Mark remembered in terror that last Christmas his mom had bought him the latest version of the cellular modification system. It enabled his body to automatically regenerate in the event of an accident. Not only that, but it had built in life saving technology that would pull him out of any hazardous situation. In that moment Mark realized, that these ancient people had just witnessed mechanical spider like arms sprout from his back and carry him into the street. From where he sat now they were also watching as his body healed every wound, every burn, bump, scratch, or bruise was now rippling and pulsing as his body remade itself into his perfect form... Chapter 4: The mob quickly descended on him, they were out to rid themselves of this horror, this beast in their midst. With daunting fear and adrenaline, Mark rose and ran. With his mechanically enhanced legs and synthetic lungs he made a quick escape. Running far into the countryside, he found an abandoned barn. Entering, he noticed a strange smell, he looked around and saw hay and horse stalls. "Strange...I never thought I would see such marvels in my lifetime" he mused to himself. His body exhausted, from the process of healing and having to run so long and hard. He laid down into a pile of hay and quickly fell to sleep. In his dream, he saw these people and how they looked at him again, such anger and terror. Then in a flash the scene changed and he stood atop a small hill. People below him listening reverently as he spoke, in one hand he held fire and in the other a strange mist rose from his hand. Upon waking he knew what he had to do in order to survive. He had to become a God, a messiah, a savior.


Mr Pritt took to the podium with the air of a politician addressing a nation. “Parents, good morning. I’m Mr Pritt and I’m the headmaster of this school. Your sons and daughters made it through what was considered by some to be an overly-stringent selection process. We have great plans for our students and this requires them all to possess a certain level of intelligence, highly-functional social skills, and a strong sense of self. They will leave here and contradict every one of us, questioning the fundamentals of our principles and values. And in doing so, they will be the leaders of tomorrow, pushing us aside when we fail to perceive our own obsolescence and moving society in the right directions. We will take care of their education and the development of their minds as well as some aspects of their physical wellbeing. All our best efforts are useless without your help. If you aren’t prepared to carry on the good work, nutrition and exercise that we have proven to give a child significant advantages over others, then you might as well place them at any other school. They will have breakfast and lunch in school. Our food follows every aspect of nutrition that we now know to lead to significant physical and metal gains. In our lifetime we have seen that decades of demonising sugars has given us a generation that has, on average, 32% more stamina than we have and at least 15 percentage points more IQ than we do. We now know the benefits of dramatically reducing salt from a healthy diet. As we continue to make new inroads, we will adapt the diet accordingly. Your children will be fed up to twice as healthily when they leave school at the rate that our programme is learning and implementing changes. It has access to live health and nutrition data of over half of the planet’s population and is designed to evolve as it assimilates new information. In short, we are helping to formulate a super-species, the highest ideal that our genetic makeup can possibly attain. For the last 30,000 years we have not seen an ‘upgrade’ to our genetic composition so we can assume that our physical abilities have plateaued. But the expansion of the mind, especially within a significantly healthier body, can help us unlock parts of our species we’d only ever read about in comic books. This is the second fundamental pillar of our cooperation. A child developing skills and abilities that others can only dream of is enticing. However we need to make sure their power is channeled in the right direction. A solid moral compass is built into the educational system here - we expect you to continue to guide your children towards the light when they’re in your care. This might sound like a tall order. It may also sound like much more than you’d expected to have to face by the time your children were six years old. But you will appreciate that if we started any later, we wouldn’t stand a chance.” *The year 2042.* The fuge was a uniquely sordid contraption. It did get the job done however. In the right hands, it could separate a human body into its constituent molecules in just over 14 hours. Two years prior, this was not even considered within the realms of possibility. Once described by an influential journalist as an ‘evil device, the malignity of which was unprecedented, and that was in effect a giant centrifuge’, it had been dubbed the fuge by the starving masses that fell prey to its dispassionate dismembering. Soon after the catastrophic economic collapse that ravaged the planet during the third decade of the 21st century combined with a critical over-mining spurt to push the value of metals and rare minerals to such value that the manufacture of consumer electronics all but ground to a halt. The ultra-rich, of course, could afford wild extravagance and didn’t care that a handheld device could cost as much as most would pay for a family home. These hoarders of wealth had barricaded themselves in enclaves of opulence that could put entire civilisations of old to shame. The rest of the world lived in abject poverty, with vast swathes of what was once the middle class forced to scratch out an existence by squabbling over an enormous black economy that covered everything from electricity supply to food rations and fresh water. When the initial post-collapse frenzy subsided, 96% of the population of the planet had resigned itself to a bleak and odious existence but this numbness did not last long. An obscure scientific paper, meant to nestle under the radar within the pages of a specialised journal, leaked into the main information channels and had covered the globe within 12 hours. The paper had, in brief, put forth the maths to show that the content of a human body was, at current metal prices, valued at sum large enough to buy a decent apartment. Within weeks, the now-burgeoning homeless population started to thin. The fuge had been hacked together from separate bits of equipment, each designed to perform a very specific function but never designed to work as part of a system so the labs that processed bodies looked as though they’d been assembled by the kind of mad scientist who was more interested in the output than the aesthetics. This was a pretty accurate representation of the facts. Disused abattoirs were raided for their meat and bone separation machinery. Designed to dismember cattle at high speed and with great reliability, the first part of the process was gruesome but spotlessly clean. After all, butchers didn’t waste so much as a drop of blood when eating meat had been affordable and acceptable. The line fed into a variety of grinders and sieves and, finally, to the centrifuge stage that was where most of the magic happened. The fluids that left the centrifuge were fed into what looked like an elaborate meth lab. Purified water was bottled and sold to those who were at the top of the pecking order of the great unwashed. The remaining components emerged packed in compressed nuggets of calcium, phosphorus, potassium and the like. Smaller ‘coins’ of rarer metals like zinc, copper, and magnesium were also minted by the fuge. The amount of each of these in a single body is negligible but the sheer volume of bodies that made it to each fuge was staggering so that anyone who operated it had a steady supply of nuggets and coins to deliver to the manufacturers of all the playthings that the rich revelled in. There were two prevailing narratives that intersected at the fuge. The rich asked why one would value a single human life. In the grander scheme, there is no difference between a human, a cow, or a tree. Every life form is transient, there to perpetuate whatever species it happened to form part of. Ever since we had located consciousness and understood its biochemical nature, we had ceased to consider human life above all others. After all, the notion of humanity’s elevated importance, seeded by the large religions millennia ago, had contributed strongly to the ultimate undoing of the planet and of civilisation. The fuge and its produce were therefore considered legally and morally sound by those who made the rules and who benefited from the fuge’s operation. The poor experienced the other side and had little by which to influence the outcome except by using their own bodies. They had figured that life is not worth living when suffering and hunger and humiliation are the only conditions known. If a mother could, quite literally, sell her body in advance to a fuge operator, being certain that the value of her component parts would help her children survive another year, then she might as well do so. In time, this was expected by teenagers who, when struggling to feed themselves, turned to their parents and expected them to give themselves to the fuge as they would, in turn do, when their own kids came of age. *The year 2062.* Mr Pritt addressed the elders. Well, they didn’t look old and neither did he. They had lost their physical eyesight decades ago but no one relied on biological input any more. Living was experienced in the mind after all, and this is all they’d bothered preserving. If we are to get spatially technical, they weren’t in the same room. Nor were they in a room at all. But here they met, in the shared simulation of a boardroom from the distant past. The mid-century design was an affectation of Mr Pritt and they allowed him the indulgence. The elders represented what was left of the human elite, the fraction of a percentage of the population of the planet that still lived in relative liberty and unmatched riches so long as they could afford to. The extent of one's life was determined purely by the resources one possessed. In fact, the length of one's life became the measure of that person’s economic success. “We are here to discuss the issues we are having with planned ends. I understand that running out of resources puts one in an awkward situation. But you know my position on planned ends - it is unnecessarily thinning our population. There are ten million people on the planet out there, scratching a miserable existence because they can’t get round to organising themselves. And here we are, wealthier than the gods that humans had created, and there is a comparative handful of us. We are the future of the human race. Those miserable beings out there are the modern successor of the Neanderthal, destined to eventual extinction and, while it pains me to say so, the quicker they bring this about the better. Even I pity how drawn out their end has been. We need to find a way to at least maintain our numbers. I’m aware that sharing our wealth amongst ourselves is an act that violates absolutely everything we stand for. We are here today, after all, because we have individually amassed our own personal capital. Seeing that some of us could easily live for decades based on their current worth, we must look at a very distant future, one that could become exceedingly lonely. Some of you have remarked that I don’t value our continued refusal to collaborate but I do - I know as well as you do that our fierce individuality has been instrumental in our phenomenal success. There comes a time, however, when one has lived long enough to envisage a very distant future and I am by far the oldest here. I have you to thank for that. You valued the education of future generations above all else and it has paid off for all of us, myself in particular. I will outlive most of you. Of course, I say this with all the pride and conceit I have earned. I also say this remind you that I am the person with the least interest in the matter I am presenting you with. I don’t specifically care about the individuals amongst you who, when their funds run out, plans a spectacular exit. I enjoy the parties more than most. What I am doing, and I seem to be alone in this, is looking out for our collective existence. It is tempting for me to do as all of you do and simply exist for my own pleasure until the day I decide I’ve had enough. Do we want to simply watch as those around us vanish? Do we look forward to living as a handful of simulacra in a vast and beautiful universe of our own creation? Is it even right that we can see our own survival as a species under threat and live like every one of us has a universe to themselves?” Mr Pritt looked around and saw that there was hardly anyone left. Bored and indifferent, all but a handful of elders remained. These were the ones who were nostalgic enough to smile at Mr Pritt and nod as he spoke. When it was evident that he was awaiting a response, they said their goodbyes and quit the meeting. “Well, then.”, said Mr Pritt. *The year 2122.* It is eerily still.


In the quiet confines of his realm, a king sat in the dark and listened to the wails of the frigid wind against his window. A dark shadow hovered by his shoulder; it's icy tendrils brushed at the nape of his neck. "Sire," it's raspy voice breathed against his ear "She is late. She has broken her vow." "She will arrive, like she always does." he replied. A noise akin to a smirk was heard in response. "She might not this time, you can never tell with females. Their hearts are fickle and so easily influenced." "You don't know her." he said quietly, "She'll be here. She has always kept her word." He stands and walks to the window. The wind has died down and a hush has descended. "YOU don't know her." mocked the demon, "She has been biding her time and waiting for her chance to leave you. She is unhappy here." He pauses as he walks towards the door, not looking back at the demon he asks "Has she said anything to that effect?" The demon smiles as he feeds off the wisp of the man's self doubt. "She doesn't have to. If you've been paying attention, you would see her sadness when your back is turned, you want her all to yourself yet you lack the ability to make her feel like she truly matters to you. You are hopeless and she shall soon leave you for another." The man turns slightly towards the demon, barely realizing that the shadow has grown larger after feeding off his insecurity. "That isn't true," he said with a slight shake of his head. "She loves me." with that said, he walks out the door and down the cold stone steps leading to the gateway of his realm "what do you know anyway." "I know will she say anything to get you to trust her so that she can make her escape." taunted the demon who was now on sitting on his shoulder. "Let's not forget that I know you Sire. I know you best of all and I know you are not what she needs." hissed the demon. "She doesn't need this bleak and cold realm as a home," the demon continued "she doesn't need a battle scarred husk of a man. She deserves better and you know I am right." The man pauses as he reaches the foot of the stairs. The weight on his shoulders heavy, as his self doubts slowly begin to give way to other darker thoughts. The demon rubs his hands in anticipation as tendrils of his cold shadow slowly and teasingly wrap itself around the man's heart, ready to take and devour until he is consumed into nothingness. As the doubts and fear slowly form in the king's mind, salvation arrives in the form of a woman walking into the gateway of the realm in a flood of warmth and sunshine. Seeing the man before her, her eyes light up in recognition and she launches herself straight into his arms. "My love!" she squeals in delight as she wraps her arms around his neck and embraces him with all her strength. All at once, her warmth crashes into him like waves and the cold tendrils of ice building around his heart shatter as he hears her musical laughter while he holds her close. "I've missed you," she says, enveloped in his arms. "So did I" he whispers into her hair. Pulling away slightly, she looks deep into his eyes and sees traces of his battle with the demon. Placing her warm hands on either side of his head, she rests her forehead against his and whispers "I am home my king. Nothing will ever stop me from returning to you. I love you beyond all the existing realms in the universe." The king smiles and whispers back "Welcome home my queen." Tilting her chin back he leans in and kisses her deeply. As he does so, his demon slithers into the far recesses of the shadows, defeated by the light of love that calmed the king's thoughts. Outside, the bitter cold has ceased and world is awash in an golden warmth. In the quiet realm, the king sits on his throne, reunited with his queen in his arms.


10 The air was stale and warm as I lifted my beer to my lips and took a large gulp having it leave a bitter taste on my tongue. Looking around I could see everyone smiling holding on to someone close. I was alone, but you weren’t. We were young once so naive and innocent, what changed? Why did it have to change? I was happy once so incredibly fucking happy like a kid amped up on sugar on Christmas Eve, but then we got older, and it was like a slap in the face. I miss being young. I miss not having a care in the world. I miss not worrying about how I looked, acted, smelled, weighed. I miss not caring about peoples opinions. I miss not having to hold in my pain throughout the day and crying so hard at night. I miss being able to fall asleep peacefully. I miss knowing the only pain I had could be fixed with a band-aid. I miss letting go and letting positivity take the wheel. I miss saying “I’m tired” and actually meaning I want to sleep. I miss looking out the car window and only seeing how beautiful life is and not the cruelty of it. I miss being able to make friends and being able to have real laughs and smiles. I miss not understanding love and the pain it comes with. I miss having 4th grade crushes and splitting a fruit roll up with them. I miss laying in the grass and thinking about becoming a princess when I grow up. I miss being human. I miss not being broken, but at least I had you right? To hold my hand, kiss my cheek to give me warm hugs telling me everything’s going to be alright. You were my safety net until you weren’t. 9 Pretending to be invisible in a room full of people is a lot easier than you’d expect. So here I am in the corner of a crowded party cradling a warm ass beer close to my chest. It was a pitiful sight. Looking around the room, at all the loving gazes being thrown about made memories I tried to bury come to the surface. Words of false promises and haunting gazes burned my mind. Sometimes…if I focus real hard I can still feel the pressure of your lips against mine, the warmth of your hand against my curves gripping tightly like I was the only thing holding you down to earth. Like I was your lifeline and you were terrified of letting go. oh what a fool I was. 8 I walked towards the balcony coldness seeping into my bones a chillness that not even my coat could stop. I could still hear the sounds of peoples voices mixing together as they counted down. The air smelt like pine as I took a deep shuddering breath the cold making it go white in the night sky. The pine reminded me of your cologne. I hate it. I hate how wherever I go something always reminds me of you. It’s like I can never escape you no matter how hard I try. Maybe I just need to try harder to forget the indent you left on my heart or maybe the reason why I still can’t forget the taste of you on my lips is because some part of me refuses to realize you let me go. 7 I don’t even want to be at this party, but I guess it beats staying at home with only a bucket of loneliness and a soft serve of pain for company. Deciding I couldn’t take on any more of the frigid air I tread back into the crowded living room. The buzz of excitement is still fresh in the air as I let my eyes trail against everybody’s faces. So many lives so many stories, and yet I couldn’t tell you one thing about anyone here even if I tried. I’m not sure why I even agreed to come here especially when I knew there might’ve been a chance you would show…or maybe that is why I’m here, a subconscious decision I made full of hope and yet here I am nursing a warm beer trying to keep my emotions under wraps, so I don’t break like a porcelain doll. It’s fucking pathetic. I’m fucking pathetic. 6 I move further through the crowd my eyes flickering towards the corner of the t.v. 10 seconds never felt more like 10 years. I found myself siting on a dark green couch with two people next to me that looked 3 seconds away from committing public indecency. I trail my hand against of the arm rest picturing it was your arm inste-fuck I need to stop doing this shit. I chuckled bitterly against my glass bottle. Swallowing what little remained I tried to rear back my emotions, but it seemed impossible at this point. I hate how I miss you. I hate how you said “I love you” and promised things so easily like it was nothing, like I meant nothing. You played me like a fool and I let you. I wish I could go back and do things differently. I wish I could’ve seen what was going to happen. I wish I saw the signs. I wish I knew what changed why you changed. We were so happy so in love, it was like you flipped a switch overnight and the next morning I could barely recognize you. Peoples voices snapped me out of my little pity party as they gradually got louder when the last 5 seconds finally came into view, so I decided to join them. 5 Letting my eyes fall quickly to the Aztec beige rug I looked up and my breathing hitched, my body tensed, my mind went blank because not even 10 feet away there you were. Even from here I could see those warm brown eyes flaked with gold. How could something so warm turn out to be so cold? My skin felt like it was on fire and it wasn’t because of the alcohol. You have a beard now it’s different compared to the clean-shaven face you had 3 months ago. I never liked it. It was like my eyes couldn’t leave your body they were stuck on your silhouette. You must’ve felt someone staring at you because you turned around and looked, but you didn’t find me. No one does. My heart was close to beating out of my chest and I prayed to god you left my line of sight, but then I saw movement next to you. A hand grabbed yours her hair swirled and my heart dropped. You looked at her with such intensity it felt intruding to watch. I squeezed my hands shut to stop them from shaking as I looked at you both. 3 months ago that was me and now it’s not. I couldn’t stop the rage from creeping into my soul at the sight. I hate you. 4 I hate you so much. You hurt me. you hurt me in a way that I will never forget. You put me in a place I never wanted to be in and it only you took 3 months to get over something that lasted 5 years. But I don’t hate you as much as I hate myself for still loving you. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted. The person you needed. I hope she is. I hope she’s everything I’m not. Because as much as I want to hate as much as I want to never hear your name uttered from anybody’s lips. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart and I will hate myself for it with very fiber in my bones. My eyes watered and my breathing shook, the crowd felt suffocating I needed to leave. Rising to my shaking legs I rushed towards the exit pushing past the screaming crowd. Before i could get any farther than the edge of the living room my coat got stuck on a side table which forced me to tun around right as he did. 3 He stared at me 2 I stared back 1 The ball dropped. Screams erupted all around me. the surrounding colors blurred the world spun and then you kissed her and the hot tears I desperately tried to keep at bay all night fell down my cheeks. I briefly remember someone hugging me throughout all the chaos, but I didn’t even feel it because all I could feel was my heart breaking all over again by you. We locked eyes from across the room for the last time tonight before I finally fled a sobbing mess and maybe just maybe if I looked a little closer I would’ve realized you had tears in your eyes too.


There is a fish in my sink. I don’t think he wants to be there. I want to believe I saved him. It was quite a heroic act.  He swam in a drowned pothole. When I saw him, I immediately knew that I had to act fast. Fish don’t last very long in different water.  Still, I waited and admired this magnificently colored animal. Twenty minutes had already passed, before I grabbed a cup. I scooped the fish out of the hole, stuffed the drain and threw the fish in the sink. It’s not the best home for a fish, But I had to improvise.  There is a fish in my hand. He didn’t survive. I have no idea how long ago it happened. Even though this should be sad, I can’t ignore the beauty of the moment.  The fish’s yellow-orange-gold skin reflected magnificent in the divided light of the sun that came through my window, While I took him out of the sink. My whole hand was drenched.  This was the second time that this fish gave me this kind of inside. It’s impressive how much impact a recently bought object can have, In just a day.  A little girl walked across the street, Parents followed her. Suddenly it started to rain, and the walk turned into a jogging session. The little plastic bag in her hand started to shake.  It all happened so fast. Somehow, I ended up following the suddenly dropped bag with my eyes. The weird thing is this bag seemed to drop in slow motion compared to the rest of the situation.  By the way that the bag started to form waves, I was safe to assume there was some kind of liquid in it. I was proofed to be right when the bag hit the pavement, made a small jump and splattered open. The water wasn’t really noticeable in the pouring rain, but it did shed a light on a new object that my vision had ignored until now.  It was a gorgeous view. The small object flew out of the exploding bag by its shockwave. Midair I recognized the object to be a 4 cm long goldfish. While this was beautiful to see, I couldn’t help myself to worry about the inevitable drop. It wouldn’t survive the cold hard stones of the road. I was so relieved to hear the splash, that confirmed he landed in water.  There is a fish in my toilet. A creature that gave me this much enjoyment, deserves more, I think. But I simply can’t give him more of a burial than this, since I don’t own a garden.  This must be done.  When I flush, I can see the fish for the last time. This rotating little yellow-orange-gold skinned thing had made my day and live a little better. While the last glimpse of the fish drowned in the drain, I think to myself that now truly no one will have a clear memory of its owners.


Hell yeah. I love *Groundhog Day*. *The clock switches to 6:00 AM. “I Got You Babe” plays. Sonny & Cher.* Classic song. *Phil slowly rises from his bed. “It’s groundhog day!”* Classic line. Who voiced the radio guys? I should Google that. Every year I watch *Groundhog Day* on February 12. Ten days after Groundhog Day the holiday, but right on the release date of *Groundhog Day* the movie. I love Harold Ramis’s direction. People don’t appreciate him. Revolutionized the comedy-fantasy. Funny yet poignant. Seriously, A+ work. Neil, my roommate, says *Palm Springs* handles the time loop-gender politics better than *Groundhog Day*, but I don’t care. I just love *Groundhog Day*. “Want anything from the store?” Neil shouts from down the hall. “Nah.” No distractions today. I turn off my phone. Ned Ryerson’s intro scene is on. ————— *Finally free from his time loop, Phil wakes in bed with Rita.* Perfect ending, perfect movie. I watch through the credits. I bet IMDb trivia had something on the radio guys. I hit the red X to close Netflix and— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”. Phil Connors is doing the weather.* Weird. I’m still in my bedroom, but it feels like something jolted me. For some reason, Netflix is playing Groundhog Day again. I close out— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”.* It’s like I’ve been thrown back in my chair. An intense feeling of deja vu. Holy shit. Hand shaking, I move the mouse to the the red X…. *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”.* “HELL yeah! YES!” Noise in the hall. Neil knocks on my door. “Everything okay?” “Better than ok! I’m in a Groundhog Day!” Neil walks in, laughing. “You’re in a time loop? Or what? You think there’ll be two more weeks of winter?” “The time loop one.” “Sure. Prove it.” “You need to go the store later.” “I guess. To get what?” “Dunno. Didn’t ask. Tell me now, what do you need?” “Uh, eggs, vegetable oil, and, uh Greek yogurt.” “That’s enough!” I close my laptop— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up.* I’m alone in my room again. The clock’s gone back two minutes. “Neil!” ————— Neil is lying on my bed. I usually don’t like dirty clothes on my sheets, but it’ll clean itself on the next loop. “What’s the quickest way to prove to someone you’re in a time loop?” I turn. “Oh, like ways to show that I’m not crazy and I’m really in a time loop?” “Yeah, exactly. How long did it take to get enough info to prove it to me?” “Like, 6 or 7 loops. You really wouldn’t believe me.” “Why would I? I still don’t, really. It’s insane.” “Fair point.” I think for a moment. “Saying what they ate for breakfast?” “That could just mean you’re stalking them.” “Hm. Street they grew up on? Childhood pet?” “Are you stealing their credit card? Stupid.” “Dream from last night?” “Not everyone dreams.” Neil and I think for a moment. I clap. “Saying something’s gonna happen, just a moment before it does.” “Yes. *Yes*. That’s fucking it.” Neil sits up. “I’m checking through Twitter now.” “Find the biggest news stories and celebrity tweets. One for every one hundred and one minutes of Groundhog Day. For anyone I meet.” Neil puts his phone down. I’m confused. “Neil? C’mon. Start researching.” Neil leaps up and walks over to me. “It’s your time loop. Do the research yourself.” Before I can stop him, Neil grabs my laptop and closes it— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up.* Alone again. “Shit.” As *Groundhog Day* plays, I start scrolling. This’ll take a while. “Hey, Neil! Buddy! Can you help me with something? ————— I’m alone in my room again. *Groundhog Day* plays as I try read a book. I found I can’t turn the volume off all the way, or I loop back to the start. Pausing also makes me loop back. If I keep the noise but hide the video? Nope, loop back again. Leave the room as the video plays? Loop. Fully turn away? Loop. *Groundhog Day* is an hour and forty-one minutes long. Proving I’m in a time loop to Neil takes me nine minutes, at the fastest. He’s pretty stubborn about believing in linear time. On one loop, through some unfortunate-but-necessary violence, I made him tell me a secret. Revealing that secret saves me three minutes a loop, but’s it’s always an awkward conversation, so I avoid it when I can. Exploring the outside world was hard, since I have to carry my laptop with me, and our wifi craps out once I’m past the door. But Neil, always creative, thought of something. If I downloaded Groundhog Day on my phone and timed it exactly with the laptop, I could switch to the phone. Time loop on the go. With our wifi, downloading Groundhog Day to my phone takes four minutes and eleven seconds. My last-gen iPhone dies after playing fifty-five minutes of Groundhog Day, which I think is planned obsolescence. If I charge my portable charger for fifteen minutes, that’s enough charge to keep my phone alive for the full movie. I shouldn’t have started watching the movie during rush hour. Driving downtown takes a while, especially on a route where no cops pull me over for watching Groundhog Day and driving. That means I have to rush visiting museums and seeing segments of movies. By the way, I’ve noticed no one likes the guy in the theater who’s also watching Groundhog Day on his phone. ————— But you’ve seen all the time loop stories, you get the gist of what I did. Ate all the best food in the area. Did all the drugs. Learned a few instruments. Well, tried to, but I’m not made of time. The cello is a bit of a headache. I talked to my mom a lot. Funny enough, she’s been watching *Russian Doll*. She’s says it’s a pretty tight time loop story, and that Natasha Lyonne is a “revelation”. I checked out *Russian Doll*. Gave me the idea to look for other time loopers. Couldn’t find any. I even found a group of people who started watching *Groundhog Day* the same time as me, but none of them were loopers. They were pretty impressed though. I hooked up with one of them. It wasn’t great. I never tried Groundhog Day’s “kill yourself to escape” method. But I mean, it’s hard to kill yourself while still watching Groundhog Day. Also, what am I getting from it? A world where I’m dead? Seems like a major hassle. Trying to escape with time loop story methods didn’t help as much as you’d think. In *Edge of Tomorrow*, Tom Cruise gets time looping from alien blood. The loop ends because he… gets a blood transfusion. I think? Well I got a blood transfusion. Still looping. Other time loop stories end when you fix something - solve a murder, end a war, find love. Problem is, there was no murder. I can’t end a war in an hour-forty. And I broke up with my girlfriend a couple weeks ago. I’m happy I did! Plus, using time loops to find love seems a little creepy. And maybe I don’t want to leave. Maybe I like that everyone lives the same kind of life, growing older while changing nothing, and I get to do something different. I don’t have to grow old. I don’t have to move on. I don’t have to like new things. I can do whatever I want. As long as I’m watching *Groundhog Day*.