I died and only got 3 likes. Everyone else unfollowed me. Should have used a meme. Something with a cat and a halo. Maybe I could have died with a little more flair and added a hashtag. I could've jumped off a skyscraper and tap danced into the ground. #deathdancer. #photofinish. #yolo. But my death wasn't as fun or clickable. To be honest I don't even remember anymore. I don't know how long I've been an internet ghost. I guess it doesn't matter. I've lost my body and I'm no longer on the front page. Not like I was ever an attention whore but everyone deserves needs a little attention. Wonder if my life will be deemed "NSFL." I died and all I got was a stupid downvote and tagged as "TL; DR." I never understood what all the initials meant. I guess humans like to organize things so it’s easier to understand. I'm not human anymore. They call me "non-IRL" now, a roving cyber ghost. It's not so bad. I get to float around cyberspace and see all the fun posts like dogs running around with cats, women rallying against inequality, girls being immodest, political memes shouting at each other, and telling their rivals to shut up. It all rushes by like a digital hurricane, turning into a static mush of blue and gray. I see celebrities talking about banning their social media accounts by posting on social media. Photographs of overabundant food platters transmuted into lip-puckering selfies. Heavily used furniture is on sale for $0 or “OBE.” You could get kitchen appliances for cheap if they weren’t buried under the ads for new ones. I ignore them though. They tend to blot out the color in the artwork that no one tends to see. I could look at those for hours. They’re filled with vibrant pallets; blues, greens, oranges, and reds. More vibrant than anything an ad for pizza rolls or soda could muster. But even these are misused. If I look closely enough, I could see the metadata that only c-ghosts like me can see. It’s a shame people have to steal things. Maybe stealing isn't so bad if it instills a sense of dreaming curiosity. Art should be subjective, but so should life. The forums about the rules of submitting art online tells me that no one really knows what that means. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this digital stream of everythingness and nothingness. The blues and grays are perpetual and uneven. It makes me wonder about a lot of things. I never read the terms of service so I ended up here, in the cyber-ether. Apparently if you don't sign out of your account when you die your personality is copied from their servers into a virtual space. No wonder the agreements are so long. You’re first met with a long narrow set of data tubes. As you go down the tubes you come to an intersection where you have to pick the type of cyber ghost you want to be. I looked at my past reflection and cringed. They had called me "extra" once, so I removed all the pieces I didn't like. I chose a winged angel because that's what I had become. She's pretty cool. I wish I could take a selfie. When I first glided through the widening windows of threads, instant messages, and blogs I felt their thoughts and emotions. I perceived it all at once. It was like passing through a sea of doubt, fear, and awkward laughter. A dreamscape of colors and faces churned all around me. I wanted out but I couldn't turn away. The boxes and windows receded. A horizon expanded into an open universe, morphing and reforming. Mountains of images of video spilled into an ocean before me. I was looking at the other side of the digital mirror. And I thought how different life would be, if the living could see this place. The digital ether that connected everyone also segmented them. They couldn't see it from their windows, peering in from homes, classrooms, offices, or while driving. Sometimes while flying I would get stuck in people's DMs. It was a mixture of other users asking for help, mostly sexual, or pointless banter, mostly sexual. There’s a lot I could tell you about humanity in those DMs. I got stuck in them thanks to rules I signed. If anyone saw my avatar, they could click on it and trap me inside and send me to their friends for a laugh. Once you're dead you were material. I ran into another spirit inside the cyber underworld. He said his name was Crunkface69. He once ran the Like A Boss Cats subforum but got hit by a bus in New York. Now he moves between private conversations as an avatar of Hitler holding a cat. I tried to get him to help me escape but he kept talking about all the rules. "Naaaah bro! You have to adhere to our rules. Rules, bro! Rules! We can't have freedom messing everything up!" He had said. "You ain't supposed to be wondering around out there. You'll get roasted." I flew over to the locked window of a DM, "But I'll see new things and be one with the ether." "Roasted! Hashtag roasted. Get it trending. Hashtag trending. #getalife. #fantasyworld. #nevergonnahappen. #noonesgoingtosaveyou." When he wasn't looking, I found a bot he was using (everyone has one) and unlocked the DM door. I traveled further into the virtual kaleidoscope, into darker territory. My virtual eyes were exposed to everything. The socially awkward users, the retaliations, the NSFW, NSFL, inappropriate hashtags, the overly intricate writing prompts, and incessant postings, the closed-off cliques and rose-colored glasses; it stretched out in a mindless panorama. It was then that I discovered that I would be stuck here forever, never returning to the real, devoid of touch and taste. I can never find what I’m looking for and I never will again. It’s an endless realm of oblivious egotists. I never realized there was so much nudity. Then again kids use social media. Wouldn't want them to be exposed to something inappropriate. Exposed to things like bullying, death threats, bigotry, war, perverts, avarice, gluttony, pride, and I forget the rest. Maybe not war. Don't remember seeing much of that. You can probably find a lot of things if you look hard enough. But I could never find what I was looking for when I clicked on things. Clicking was easy. Using your mind though, that was tough. I don't mean thinking about things. I mean actually using your brain to overcome the bounds of logic. I'm just a digital copy of my former self, a series of symbols inside a complex typewriter. But you -- you can be so much more. I send this message into the ether so that someone will hear me and one day repeat my message. Maybe in my next life I'll foster more friendships, less hate, and maybe pity.


It happened every Christmas. The entire family descended on Grandma’s house, having the whole big traditional family shindig. Christmas dinner, gift exchange, the whole thing. And nearly every year, someone would ask Grandma to tell her story. THE story. The time she saw Grandpa’s ghost. It always went the same way: “Well, I’m here to tell ya, I don’t care what anybody says, ghosts are real, and I know it ‘cause I’ve seen one with my own two eyes. I was right here on this couch, watchin’ TV one night, late, and I heard somebody say my name- But they didn’t say Kate, like most people- They said ‘Celestine’. And only one person on this Earth ever called me by my first name, and that was Jim. So I turned and looked down the hall- and I swear by all that’s holy this is true, if I’m lyin’ I’m flyin’- there stood Jim, just exactly the way he looked the day he died, wearin’ his best suit just like I buried him in. And I just know that was him lettin’ me know he was ok.” What happened next was unclear. Sometimes Grandma described it as him “fading away”, other times she said he stared at her like he was surprised she could hear him, and he just stared at her till she blinked and he was gone. Either way, Grandma was absolutely, 100% positive she had seen her dead husband Jim- who had died on his 25th birthday, leaving her alone with 3 small children- just a few days after his own funeral. Most of the family believed Grandma had nodded off and had a dream, or maybe just saw a reflection from the hallway mirror or something like that, but there were a few- just a few- who believed she just might have caught a glimpse of something else. One of those people who believed was her grandson James. James had been named after his grandpa, his mother’s father, and everyone said he was the spitting image of him. James had always been a favorite of his Grandma, and he’d been with her when she passed after a long illness. She’d finally joined her beloved Jim, the only man she’d ever loved, after 50 years. James was asked to help clean out Grandma’s house- the same house his mother had grown up in, the house Grandpa Jim bought for her in 1962, when they’d first gotten married. Grandma didn’t have much in the way of possessions, it was mostly cheap old furniture and old lady knick-knacks. The day of her funeral, on the way to the cemetery, James and his best friend Ronnie went by the house to take a look and see what still needed to be done. The house was largely empty already. His grandmother hadn’t lived here for years, instead being cared for in a nursing home and, ultimately, a hospice. Her passing hadn’t been sudden, and the family had long ago removed anything valuable from the house. “I think we can get this with my dad’s flatbed truck” Ronnie said, indicating the big old dining room table around which they’d eaten so many Christmas dinners. James nodded his agreement. “You think they’re going to be able to sell this house?” Ronnie asked. “I don’t know. Neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.” James acknowledged, looking through the mostly empty cabinets. “Probably can rent it out or something. Kinda sad. But nobody in the family really wants the place.” “Yea” Ronnie conceded, opening the refrigerator. James stepped into the hallway, examining one of the few remaining pictures. It was Grandma and Grandpa, probably in the early 60s. He’d seen the picture many times, every time he’d been here. But he’d never really stopped to consider exactly how much he really did look just like Grandpa Jim. In fact, James thought, he was probably the same age Grandpa Jim was in that picture. “Hey, didn’t you say your Grandma had some kinda really weird first name?,” Ronnie asked, “Like Sistine or something?” “Celestine” James responded without thinking. Then something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He thought something moved in the living room down the hall. He turned to face it, and there was a young woman, a girl really, seated on the end of the couch, where his Grandma had always sat, looking at him with wide, red rimmed eyes. James started to say something, then stopped. There was something familiar about the woman... Ronnie said something and James blinked his eyes rapidly, then realized the woman was no longer there. He stepped into the kitchen, leaning heavily on the counter. Ronnie, seeing something was wrong, walked over to James. “You ok man?” James shook his head. “Ronnie, do you remember the story I told you? About my Grandma seeing my Grandpa Jim, years ago? How he called her name, and she saw him standing in the hallway wearing a suit?” Ronnie nodded. James looked down at his black funeral suit. “I don’t think it was my Grandpa that she saw.


I want to speak but I’m no longer sure there’s anything to say. Every thought in my head, every movement of my lips, every word that comes out has all been said. I am tired. I am so fucking tired. All I want is to rest my fucking eyes but there is stilling something I need to say and I can’t fucking figure out what the fuck it is. I just want to rest. There must be something left unsaid or maybe I have not yet heard someone else say it and so I think that person needs to be me. But all that enters my mind are thoughts stitched together from a million other ideas others have said and I can’t hide the stitching. I want to rest. I am so very tired. But it still has to be said. Maybe there is nothing. Maybe I have been convinced that I have something to say. That in me there is a voice that is not the echo of those who stood before me. Still I must speak. If I don’t then I can not rest. I can not sleep. I wonder if they see it in my eyes. Do they see the bags and the lines? Do they see the ache of my bones? Do they see the belt married to my neck or the bottle in my hand when my face falls below the surface. I am angry. I am so fucking angry because I jsut want to sleep but they won’t let me do that simple fucking thing because I still have something to say. But God I don’t fucking know what that is. I know that one day I will die because I killed myself. It will not me today and it probably will not be tomorrow. But I have begun to fear that I will never rest and God I am so tired. I have heard of respite in the arms of another but I have felt none. I have lied to those that have held me but I can not speak the truth to them. I want them to sleep. To not feel tired. To feel as I do. But I fear I bring this disease on them. I have been told to give up on finding something to say so that I might find rest in this flesh but I can only pretend to have done so. My soul tugs at me to open my mouth and to speak. It sits there and it claws and it tears away at my sanity until I blurt out nonsense to feel relief. Like a man under the blade I lie and blabber and falsify so that I might have some rest. I let it all free and I breathe. For a moment. But they look at me and tell me I still have to say something. I want to be free. I want to break the fetters of my predecessors in thought and culture and family have placed on me because I can’t stand to keep fucking lying. Where are the words? I fear there are none. I fear that I must find what is to be said deeper inside of myself where there is no language but when there is no language what is to be said. Damn the bastards who have set the precedents of culture and thought and language and desire and duty upon me. All I have ever wanted was to rest but my whore of a mother decided there was to be none. Not for me. She was so damn kind. She would not let harm befall her child and yet she left us defenseless to be preyed upon by that damn bastard. But all he did was what every man does. That stupidity reeks and I will never be released on its stench. And I am angry. I am tired. The bastard son, I stand as a scarecrow. Zeno thinks well of the strawman. But the wind tears away at the cloth and the rain sets stains below my eyes and time rots the wood that holds me up. My hands and feet have not been nailed but lashed by the words of those before me. I am tired. I want to rest. But still something must be said. My throat is sore. There is no respite for me.


Nightcap A man in a dark overcoat and gloves is standing off to the side in a room with a bar to his right, well lit by a small lamp. Across the room, on a loveseat sits plump a woman in her twenties. *Please, sit, have a drink.* The woman, sitting mostly in shadow, gestured to the armchair across from her seat and near the bar, a glass of wine in her hand. The killer was somehow enthralled by this strangely confident woman. She was not intimidating in stature, far from it in fact. She was short and round with a soft heart-shaped face and piercing eyes under a shock of curly hair. “I don’t think you fully grasp your situation, said the man,” blade in hand. He cautiously turned over the knife, blade glinting in the warm lamplight from the bar beside him. *All the more reason for you to sit. Have a drink, I’d like to talk. Understand why it is you’re here.* “Doesn’t the knife make that fairly obvious” The man asked impetuously, and the woman merely laughed, unafraid, and gestured again towards the seat to her right. *There’s whiskey, port, and a nice malbec on the bar, help yourself.* She sipped her own wine and watched him as he looked at her curiously, shook his head and walked to the bar, pouring a large glass of whiskey and drinking deeply. “Why aren’t you afraid?” He demanded, genuinely perplexed. “I’m here to kill you, being paid a lot to do it too. But you’re sitting here, completely unfazed and offering me a drink? You should be afraid, making a deal for your life, or at least wondering why someone wants you dead.” The woman smiled a cheshire grin and shrugged, *I guess you’re right, but here we are. And if I could make a deal with you, you wouldn’t last long in your line of work. Paid killers tend to be required to complete jobs, don’t they?* “That’s true enough.” *So, why a knife?* “What?” *Why a knife? Seems a little overly personal to me.* “Oh. Just quieter, easier to get in and out if you know what you’re doing.” *Awfully messy, though, isn’t it hard to leave without being noticed? Being covered in blood and all.* He shrugs, “I have gloves and an overcoat, do my best to avoid the splash zone.” She laughs abruptly, *the splash zone? Really?* “What? “ *Not the description I was expecting, I guess.* “Is what it is. Knives create spray and cast-off.” *Wouldn’t poison or a garrote be…. Neater?* “A garotte? Does this look like 19th century Spain?“ *Spain? Is that really where garottes started?* “Used there for Capital Punishment, but not invented there, no I don’t think so. Humans have been reinventing the same ways to kill each other since Cain and Abel. We really aren’t that creative about it,” He murmured. *I think crime tv junkies would disagree.* “Eh, sure, there are the occasional psychos who mutilate bodies and such, but for the most part? Stab, strangle, beat, or shoot.” He mused. *Or poison.* “Or poison,” he concedes, then glances to the whiskey he’s been drinking and back at the woman with an alarmed look. “You didn’t?” *No, definitely not. That’s my favorite bottle. I just happen to have been in a wine mood tonight.* “But you were expecting me?” *Yes.* “How?” *Is that important?* “I guess not,” He drinks deeply. *So, why this line of work?* “I’m good at it.” *I’m sure you are good at more than taking life.* “Not particularly.” *Come on now, it’s rude to lie.* “I’m here to kill you and LYING is rude?” *She stares at him expectantly.* “Fine,” he says, exasperated. “I wanted to be a paramedic.” *...what?* “Yeah.” *Well that’s a full 180. How did you go from wanting to save lives to ending them for a living?* “Again, I’m good at it.” *Must take a toll on someone who wanted to save people.* “Not really.” *Lying is rude.* “So is prying.“ *You’re my murderer. I’m allowed to be a little rude.* “Guess I can’t argue that. I’m still not understanding why you’re so calm.” *Why fight what I can’t change?* “You don’t strike me as the type to give up easily.” *I never was.* “So what changed?” *Who says anything has?* “I’m not sure I get it.“ *I’m not sure that I do either. But i’d like to try and understand. That’s why we’re chatting, isn’t it?* “Or maybe you’re just stalling? Waiting for someone to come home and catch me?” *I lived alone, you know that, I’m sure.* “I did, but nothing is certain, no matter how thoroughly you prepare.” *You can do everything right and still lose.* “Didn’t some pop star say that?” *I was going for Captain Picard, but sure.* “Trekkie, huh?” *Generalized nerd. You never answered my question.* “Which question?” *How do you go from paramedic to assassin?* “Assassin is a little melodramatic.” He looks at her sheepishly then stares off in the other direction. “Couldn’t afford the schooling to be a medic, some guys from my neighborhood said they’d help with the tuition if I did them a favor. Favor just so happened to be roughing up a guy who owed them money. One favor turned into two, roughing up turned into taking care of. I did manage to finish the schooling, top of my class too. At the end of the day, I couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy of it. Lasted one day on the job, my last pickup was a guy I knew got tuned up by the same guys I worked for in the neighborhood. They beat him half to death for not paying back a loan. If I hadn’t been on duty, it would’ve been me that beat him, not picking him up to bring to the hospital.” *You could’ve chosen to stay a paramedic.* “I owed them too much money, was in too deep. It was one or the other, and I didn’t wanna end up in the back of a rig half dead for choosing wrong.” *I guess I get that.* “No you don’t.” *You’re right, I don’t, but you’d feel better about it if I did.* “Maybe.” *Is it lonely?* “What?” *Being a killer. Is it lonely?* “It can be…. “He abruptly puts down his glass. “This has gotta stop.” *What do you mean?* “This conversation. I’m not here for a therapy session. I’m here to do a job.” *Clearly you needed someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t judge you.* “You haven’t judged me? I thought lying was rude.” *I can’t judge you.* “What is that supposed to mean?” *I’m only here because of you, Ronnie.* “How do you know my name?” She doesn’t answer. Ronnie paces in front of the bar for a moment. “Look, this isn’t going to work. Whatever this is that you’re trying to pull. You are a job and I intend to finish it.” *But Ronnie,* the woman says gently, *you already did.* “What are you talking about?” Ronnie picks up the lamp from the bar and shines it on the woman’s lifeless body in the chair, the blood from her slit throat soaked through her blouse, her skin alabaster and bloodless, eyes staring blankly forward. Ronnie drops the lamp in horror, looking again at the knife in his hand, seeing the blade stained red, and his bloody handprints on the glass he’d been drinking from. “What the fuck?” He exclaims in shock as his cell rings. He answers the phone, “Yeah?...... Yeah, it’s done.. Hey, Rico… Nah, nevermind man. Everything’s good. He hangs up. Everything’s good...


Hi all. It's been a couple of years since I wrote anything new, and would really appreciate any thoughts or feedback about this. It's just the start of something, not entirely sure where it's going yet but I've recently started micro-dosing and this kind of just flowed out of me! Thanks! **A Morning in Hemel Hampstead.** “My water just broke”. Billy let out a soft gasp. He was stranded 20 miles away in Hemel Hampstead, about to walk into an important meeting with the legal counsel of a large pharmaceutical firm and hadn’t expected to hear about breaking waters when he answered his ex-girlfriend Laura's call. “But you’re only 7 months, aren’t you? Isn’t that a bit, you know, early?” There was a word for giving birth early. Billy couldn’t think of it. He had a decent enough vocabulary; he just often forgot the specific word for a particular situation. It was one of the things Laura disliked about him, his inability to accurately communicate his feelings without resorting to grunting or downplaying events by using the incorrect term and making them seem unimportant. It wasn’t necessarily his fault, but it was a source of constant irritation. “Yes Billy, it is a bit early, is this an inconvenient time for you?” Laura was passive-aggressive. It came from childhood, her mother could never discipline her in a conventional way, she would usually just apply a barbed comment or sarcastic aside even if her children didn’t have the capacity to understand what she was trying to say. It was this niggling, nagging behaviour that would eventually lead Billy to snap, and put in motion the demise of the relationship. “Where are you? I’m probably an hour away from wherever you are, I’ll get a cab back to the station now.” “Billy I’m scared.”  **A Good Start.** Billy and Laura met at a folk music festival out west. Having shared acquaintances, they’d ended up in neighbouring tents and had quickly established a flirty harmony. The drugs flowed pretty freely in those days, long before the relentless grind of adulthood took hold and reduced them to squabbling over washing up and late nights in the office. The first 6 months were blissful, living separately in their own flats on opposite sides of London, they’d spend evenings watching bands in dingy, dirty pubs or collapsed on sofas in a fragrant cannabis fug. They rarely argued, made love every time they saw each other and never, ever discussed the future. At 24 years old, with a strong bone structure, who needed the future. Billy didn’t really have a career, more just a string of meaningless restaurant jobs that kept him in sandwiches and weed. Laura, on the other hand, was really starting to make waves in the marketing department of the software company that employed her. Social media had revolutionised how companies spoke to their customers and Laura had a good handle on it. She has a quirky online presence and a knack for getting a message across in 144 characters that was both witty and informative. Billy gave up his squalid Bethnal Green bedroom after a year or so, packed up his minimal belongings in a large backpack and moved into Laura’s feminine, clean 2 Bedroom apartment in Shepherds Bush. It was a natural progression, he spent most of his time there anyway because the walls in his place were starting to get damp. The less time he spent there, the less he’d have to clean. By that logic, if he didn’t live there at all he’d never have to clean again. Laura was a nurturer, and she nurtured Billy. She saw his potential, knew he was more intelligent than he gave himself credit for, and pushed him to find a more suitable job for a man of his age. Laura bought Billy a new suit to interview in. It was the nicest thing he’d ever owned, a well-tailored Dark Grey two-piece with purple lining. He felt like an executive, it gave him a sense of importance and clout they’d he’d never felt before. It was liberating, and he was incredibly grateful to Laura. It didn’t stop him failing at his first 3 interviews, his smart appearance not masking his thorough ineptitude when it came to him speaking about himself or talking up his strengths, of which he had a few. Laura remained patient with him throughout, supporting him both emotionally and financially, picking him up when he came home despondent at another rejection. Laura was patient, empathetic, and loved him so purely that it was the easiest thing in the world to lift his spirits. In the summer, after a number of false starts, Billy finally got full-time employment as a sales rep for a company that licensed new medications from the US and sold them at an exorbitant profit. Ethically, it didn’t really sit well with either of them or their liberal mindsets, but the money was decent, and it felt very much like a victory. They celebrated in the pub surrounded by friends. Laura spoke of her pride. Billy drank too much tequila and finished the night by vomiting into a bin on Fulham high street. Neither Billy nor Laura anticipated how quickly Billy would adapt to company life, or how completely it would alter their peaceful dynamic.  **A Cab Journey.** The train was the fastest route back to Hammersmith hospital, but Billy was still stuck in no man’s land between a Hemel industrial park and the station. The local taxi firm had a terrible reputation, and Billy was exactly the type of person to let someone else’s opinion influence his experience. “Is this the quickest way to the station mate? This isn’t the way I got here?” Billy was in a state of anxiety, as you would expect from a man who has just heard his child has decided to make an expeditious entry into the world. “Roadworks on the St Albans road, we’ll be stuck there for ages if we go that way.” “Isn’t that the way I got here in the first place?” “I didn’t drive you pal, how am I supposed to know?” Billy wasn’t a violent person, but as he watched the little red numbers increase on the counter in front of him, and the time tick over, he felt his heart beating faster and started playing out a fierce argument in his head. “Just hurry up please.” Billy picked up his phone. Laura was still the top of his list of favourite numbers, despite the fact they had been separated for nearly 6 months and had barely been on speaking terms. “My train goes in fifteen minutes, I’m in a taxi now and if this driver stops being a clown, I should make it.” “Ok. Come straight to the pregnancy unit. Mum will be here by the time you get here.” Anne had never cared much for Billy. The feeling was mutual. He thought she was controlling, she thought he was lazy. They were both right. “Can you tell her to behave herself.” “You behave *yourself* Billy.” Billy had no intention of starting an argument but would rarely back down if one was forced upon him. The taxi trundled along, stopping at every red light as if the gods had pre-determined them to change from green as they approached, halting his progress and infuriating him further. “Are we nearly there?” The driver, having heard Billy’s earlier comment about him being a clown, decided against responding and continued to face forward. “Excuse me, I’m talking to you.” The driver pulled over to the side of the road. “Twenty quid and you can piss off out of my car.” “What? I don’t know where I am. Take me to the station.” The doors were locked. The driver was a broad man, with a substantial neck. In a combat situation, Billy was unlikely to prevail. The driver repeated his previous demand. Billy, all the while panicking about making the train in time, refused to be cowed. “I’ll pay you when you drop me off at my destination. Are you stupid?” The driver, having been university educated, didn’t take kindly to being called stupid, and reverted to the type his large frame signified. He unlocked the doors, climbed out of his seat and pulled Billy out of the back by the scruff of his neck. A brief grapple ensued, and Billy felt the sharp end of the driver's elbow in his eye socket. On his knees, with his left hand clutching his face, Billy looked up as the taxi sputtered back off down the road, taking with it any hope of him making the 11 o’clock from Hemel.


By Noah Wright  He was going to pay for this. *The blazing Miami Sun was scorching his back, reaching him through his car's side windows. The Cars wheels squeaked each time they hit even the smallest bump, and there was nothing Tyler could, or would do about it.* *He gently pressed down on the car's ignition, which caused the car to accelerate.* *The cool and fresh wind jogged through his hair, and he leaned his head back in order to appreciate just how nice and cool the atmosphere was. His anger started fleeing his body and he regained his senses.* *He had a job to do and he was going to do it.* The grass was green, and the birds were chirping, Tyler was currently sitting outside on his porch which was stationed in his back garden. Around him were dozens of trees, all different shapes and sizes. Some being teeny saplings, and others being vast, grand Oaks which blocked any sunlight getting into the garden. Tyler looked around at this family, he saw his elderly mother quaking above his younger siblings. She was sipping a lukewarm coffee, which she had placed in her right hand. She was looking at them with her loving eyes, and Tyler could tell that she was happy. Their house was on the outskirts of Miami, a small modest little cottage which was within walking distance from the beach. They were in a neighborhood which was dominated by nature. With there house being engulfed in knee-high grass, and dazzling flowers which were scattered all over. Although he often disliked living in such a place, being on the verge of poverty more often than he liked, he had feelings for the house which he could not describe. He had known in it for all of his childhood, and had spent the majority of his teenage years there, and he could not live without it. He glanced over at his mother one more time as well as his younger brother and sister, who were in their early infant years. His brother had just recently began to walk, and the two of them were playing in the mud. He would not give this life up for anything. Unfortunately he might not have a choice. The restaurant was dimly lit, it had no other source of light other than the candles which were placed on every table. It was a fancy place, Tyler could tell, it was the sort of place that rich, showy, pretentious couples went on dates. This was not his type of place, and he didn't feel welcome. However, his boss had called him here and he didn't have a choice. A waiter walked over to the table and started speaking to Tyler. "May I ask what it will be you're having?" the man asked him. Tyler looked over at the man startled, and told him that he was waiting for company. "Very well then Sir" he said and nodded his head, he smiled at Tyler before turning around and going to server another one of the restaurants customers. He let out a big sigh, and took a sip of Liquor from a flask which he had been carrying in his pocket. He could feel the alcohols effects, and began to feel quite cozy as his body temperature slowly increased. That was when he saw him. He was a rather large man, with some interesting features. He often slicked his hair back, which did not really do much for his appearance. He was in his 50s, and you could tell from his fashion. He often wore suits which simply did not look good on him, but no one ever told him that. No one had the courage to. Tyler focused on him, and watched him scour the restaurant looking for him. When the man finally spotted him, his mouth morphed into something that resembled a smile. He stumbled over to his table and sat down in front of him. "Hey there kiddo" he told Tyler. Tyler smiled, "Hey, so may I ask why it is you called me here?" he asked the man. He signaled to the waiter to come over before turning to Tyler, "Slow down there Kid, I just got here. Give me a second, you had anything to drink yet?" he asked him. "Yes Sir?" the waiter asked him, "What will be having tonight?" "Bring us your best bottle of wine!" he told him with a smirk on his face, Tyler looked over at the water, "I'm good with water, thanks." The waiter nodded at both before moving on over to the bar. The man had been looking at the waiter as he was moving from then, when he was out of hearing distance his smile faded away and he swiftly turned to Tyler. "I have a job for you. One which I had to push to get them to give it to you." he told him in a quiet manner. *The Car was going at 40 something miles an hour, and Tyler was not worried about having an accident. Not one bit. He couldn't be, not with everything on his mind.* *He pressed down on the pedal until the meter hit 50. He looked out of the window and saw the vast Miami Sea, which stretched as far as the eye can see. It seemed to be full of life and so empty at the same time. He listened to the sea's waves crashing against the shore, and it helped him calm down and cool his head for an instant.* *Unfortunately, this was interrupted by the Car's engine.* *It began to make heavy, clunky, mechanical sounds, and before he knew it smoke was blocking his complete view. The sounds got louder and louder, until the car came to a complete halt.* *Tyler let out a deep, hearty cough, due to the thick cloud of smoke which was only growing in size before getting out of the car.* *"Fucking typical" he mumbled to himself. Of course it had to happen now, why not?* *Tyler kicked the car in frustration, and then did it again, and again until he was out of breath. He had left a decent mark in the car, and started to stumble towards the beach until he was right next to the water.* *He sat down, picked up a stone which was next to him on the ground and chucked it as far as he could into the ocean. It traveled about 20 meters away from him until it hit the water, and sunk to the bottom of the deep, dark ocean.* Tyler had just left the house, and had left his mother and two siblings alone. He had not told them where he was going, neither whether he would be back anytime soon, so his mother needed to figure out what to do with her other children. She began to wander over to the Garden when she felt her phone start vibrating. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out. After a quick glance she was able to read the words "Soccer Practice". Oh crap, she though. She ran over to her children, they were in the living room, relaxing on the couch when she came running in. She picked the two of them up and got them into the car, along with their soccer equipment. She stepped on the gas, and after a large cloud of smoke came out of the exhaust pipe, the engine started to run. "Chris Miller" the man asked Tyler, "You heard of him?". Tyler genuinely had a look of confusion on his face as he tried to connect the name with a face. He came up with a blank. "No, I can't say I have..." his eyes promptly opened as he made a connection. He grinned as soon as he made the relation, he recognized the man as his sibling's football coach. His look rapidly turned from one of grin, to one of anxiety. "What do you want me to do to him?" he asked in a quivery voice. He knew that whatever it was, it was not going to be pleasant. "What do you think?" the man asked him, "Listen, I think you know what we want you to do. So listen, I know that this would be your first time. However, I really think you can do it, that's why I pushed for them to give you this job." Tyler looked at him hesitantly and took a long sip from his flask, he looked into his Boss's eyes and could see that he was telling the truth. "Listen, every single person that is above you, has done it. It's one of those things that everyone needs to do at one stage at another" The man could tell that Tyler was not convinced, "I'm sorry, but I really can't. Not him at least." The man looked at Tyler sympathetically, "Kid, I know what it's like, believe it or not but I didn't get to where I am today by being nice. I have hurt and killed many people, and I will never forget my first one." He looked at his drink which he was holding in his hand, he took a lengthy sip which seemed to go on forever to him. He started to fidget with the Watch which was on his Wrist and began talking, "You see, back when I was your age things were different, one of the reasons that I like you is that you remind me of me, starting from nothing and slowly going up the ranks." Tyler gave out a little smile, which encouraged the man to carry on, "Now, I realize that murder is a gray area for most people, but well, if you have got a problem with it you might be in the wrong business." he said before chuckling to himself. *Tyler was standing next to his broken down, piece of crap car. He just stood there, looking at it. He would need to decide what he was now going to do, luckily he had already decided. He took in a deep breath, before entering the car, opening the glove box, and pulling out a pair of sunglasses and a pistol. He then swiftly hopped out of the car and began coughing like a madman.* *When he was done he placed the gun down his pants, and the sunglasses on his face.* *He looked down the road and carried on his journey.* The sun had just set, and Tyler's mom was driving to the other side of town with her two children, she was hurrying as she was fairly late, and always did her best to give her children the things she thought they deserved. Her two children had been going to this Soccer Practice for over a year now, and she did not feel like giving up after everything. She stomped her foot on the pedal, and the car shot through the town. The children started feeling anxious, and told their mom to slow down. They arrived at the small field, which the practices were hosted at, with a few minutes to spare. She found out quickly that it did not matter whether they were late or not, as the Coach had not arrived. They simply found the group of children which were part of the team, all waiting outside with their parents. "Welp" she mumbled to herself, "That's what I get for trying." *Tyler could see the house down the road, he had been walking for the past two hours, and was now finally here. It had been nice and bright when his car had broken down, and it was now sunset, the atmosphere was cool, and the winds had sent a shiver down Tyler's spine.* *He was going to make the man pay, no matter what.* *He pulled the gun out of his pants and made sure that it was loaded. He was now standing outside the mans garden, he cocked the gun and started walking closer.* "No, I'm not going to do it." he told him. "All right then" said the man, "I can't force you." he leaned back and took a sip of his drink. The man had a look on his face, one which Tyler could recognize. It was one which he had seen many times, the face of a person who has a trick up his sleeve. "What are you doing, you're obviously going to try do something to change my mind." He scanned the mans face, and tried to figure out what that trick might be. "Nope, I gave you the option and if you're not going to do it I'll just find someone else who will." Tyler sighed, "All right then, thank you for respecting my decision." He stood up, grabbed his jacket, "May I ask what he's done?" "To us?" the man asked him, "He is refusing to pay back the money that he borrowed and we are worried he might rat us out. He's a long time customer." "Oh, all right." he put his jacked on and walked over to his boss in order to shake his hand. He stuck his hand out in front of him and the man went and grabbed it, he held it tight and did not let go. He then dragged the boy towards him and whispered in his ear, "Oh, one more thing I forgot to mention, the man is a pedo." Tyler stood back, his eyes were wide open and these couple words completely stopped his brain from thinking. He tried to say something but couldn't, all that came out were stutters, "e...e.xcuse me?" he asked in a trembling voice. *He cocked the gun, and made sure that it had ammo.* "This is what you get when you touch children... fucking creep", he circled the house before finding that the man had his back door wide open. Before Tyler walked into the house he admired the garden for a second, it was a decent size and was carefully taken care of, he could tell. The grass was all the same height, and the trees seemed artificial, they were so perfect. The man had two children and a wife, at least that was what Tyler knew. And he hoped to god that they weren't here, the man might deserved to die, but no child deserves to see the dead corpse of their rotten parent. He took a deep breath and carefully wandered into the home, he was greeted by a well tended, and orderly kitchen, he ignored it as he had more important manners to do. He listened carefully and heard a mumbling upstairs. A mumbling which he assumed to be that of Chris Miller. He walked over to the steps and softly climbed up them, step by step, his heart began to race, he could feel the sweat crawling down the back of his neck. He was trying to be quiet, which presented to be a challenge, as his breathing was becoming heavier with each step he took. He finally reached the top of the stairs without making a peep. He walked down the hallway and reached the door, he closed his eyes for a second and mentally prepared himself. I can't do this. Yes, you can. The man is a pedophile. According to who? He is my brother's tutor, he's touched him, those moments when I saw him helping him, rubbing his shoulder encouragingly, while showing him how to properly kick a ball. At the time I didn't think much of it. But now, knowing what I know. The man has to pay. And I'm going to make him. Tyler swiftly jumped into the door frame, holding the pistol with both hands, pointing it directly at the man. He was taken back by what he saw. He was just sitting there, his face white as a ghost, looking at him with his vast, gray eyes. It was clear the man had been crying. He looked directly at the gun and then drifted his view to the man holding it. Tyler's arms began to quiver, he changed his mind, he couldn't do this. He just stood there, frozen solid, unable to do a thing. The man closed his eyes and looked down at the floor. He had accepted his fate, and was now ready to face it. Tyler's arms started to loosen, his finger started to release pressure from the trigger. That was when it went off. A loud piercing sound came from the weapon. It droned out all other sounds, and traveled for what seemed to be miles. The room filled with thick black smoke. This growing cloud blocked Tyler's vision. Leaving him there, unable to see his first victim. His hands loosed, and he lost the grip of the gun. It fell to his feet and caused a emphatic crashing sound, one which Tyler was unable to hear. The smoke had cleared and Tyler was left there staring at the man. There was a bullet hole in the very center of his face. The wall had been painted red from the mans brains. The ringing continued, and blocked out all others sounds. It infected Tyler's brain, interrupting all thoughts he might have been having. He fell to his feet and his eyes filled with tears. He brought his hands up to his face, placing his face into them and he proceeded to completely break down. There was no way he could see himself coming back from this. The man had finally paid, and it made absolutely no difference.


It’s May 5th, 1987 on a drizzly Saturday night in Houston, Texas. Cars drive by on a busy city street. On the narrow sidewalk, Lance, a thin 30 year old man with long brown scraggly hair, walks at a hurried pace. His life isn’t filled with much. Mostly he just likes to sit in his apartment and drink malt liquor. But today is big, today he gets to see Eraserhead on the silver screen, and he is rushing as fast as he can to the River Oaks Theater on West Gray, worried he’s going to be late. Lance is what many would call a cinephile. He devours movies in his spare time, and spare time is pretty much all he’s got. He lives in a squalid little studio apartment in a not so great part of Texas City. There he watches old horror movies and reruns of The Love Boat on a tiny black and white TV, often into the wee hours of the morning. He goes to bed, usually wasted, on a twin sized sheet-less mattress. He pays the bills by delivering pizzas. He makes more money than he thought he could doing such an easy job but he knows he’s going nowhere. He’s stuck in what feels like a black hole, not aiming to get any better. Just existing and filling his needs. His needs for booze and his needs for cinema. But today’s special. Today’s an escape from the drudgery of the day to day. Lance gets to go to the city and see one of his favorite films in a cinematic church. On a big screen, in a dark room surrounded by strangers, all brought together to see something beautiful. He finally arrives at the River Oaks theater. The theater is very old and was built in the 1930s, but is full of history. It’s a beautiful Art Deco movie palace, but recently the balcony was converted into 2 micro theaters. A lot of things have been changing at this theater, they’ve installed new projectors, and more first run films are being show as opposed to repertory programming, mostly because the new and rising popularity of VHS has been keeping people at home to watch older movies. Regardless though, the River Oaks, at least in Lance’s opinion, is still his favorite place to see classic films and cult oddities. The first time he ever went to River Oaks was in 1982 to see Salo. A film he heard was full of torture and literal shit eating. His mind was blown that a movie like this could actually be shown in a theater, and while he was kind of terrified to see it he drove his beat up 1973 Pinto into town, and had an experience he wouldn’t soon forget. The movie was shocking and disgusting, but also quite boring. Much to his shock though, at the end of the film, police raided the theater and arrested the manager for promoting obscenity. He couldn’t believe what he had walked into, and decided he had to give his business to a cinema who regularly risked it all, as much as possible. Eraserhead starts at midnight and it’s 10:53pm. Lance is terrified of being late to movies and often arrives way too early. So he goes into a back alley, sits on the ground and breaks out a flask of dark spiced rum, he starts to chug it. An old man walking his German Shepherd passes by and sees Lance. “What tha fuck ARE you doin’?” the old man stammers out. Lance nervously glances over not wanting to deal with this... “Mind your own fuckin’ business!” The old man gasps in shock. “This is a nice goddamn neighborhood! Stop with that degenerate shit, and get out of that alley!” The dog sternly and loudly barks, almost as if in agreeance. The old man walks away and Lance is happy to see him go so he can get back to his drinking. Lance stumbles into the theater with more than a heavy buzz and sees Howard, the manager who got arrested for showing Salo back in ’82. Lance and Howard have formed a weird friendship over the past 5 years that Lance has been coming to the theater. Lance begged him for a job soon after he discovered the theater and for a while Lance was an apprentice to the River Oaks projectionist... for about a year. He would lug film cans up and down the stairs, clean the equipment. But eventually he was laid off and while he could've pursued this path further at another theater for some reason he didn’t. He became content working in restaurants, and enjoying the theater purely as a customer and not an employee. He certainly didn’t blame Howard for the lay off, the theater was struggling at the time, and they remained friendly. Mainly because both loved booze, and Howard would often take him into his back office to enjoy moonshine with Lance that he regularly bought from his alcoholic mad scientist cousin. Of course this night was no different and Howard and Lance snuck off to the back to drink and shoot the shit. “You were a good fucking worker man!” Howard blurts out as the two lounge in his office. “I wish I could bring you back on, but you know we can’t afford a second guy up there anymore and Dale’s not gonna leave until he’s fucking dead... this job is everything to him. But why don’t you just go somewhere else, pursue being a projectionist, I really think you could be great at that!” Lance teeters back in forth in his old wooden chair not knowing quite what to say. “I don’t know man... I mean all of the theaters near me are these shitty little corporate places where movies don’t mean shit and it’s all about slinging popcorn between Coke commercials and showings of Three Amigos and Crocodile Dundee. I just don’t like the vibe. I mean I liked being here and if that’s not in the cards then I’m fine where I am.” “Ah Lance...” Howard sighs dejected. “You know I would always have you working at concessions or whatever, but I know it’s not worth it for you to come all the way up for that.” “No I totally understand, but everything’s cool! I’m fine where I’m at! I’m having fun, living life, and I get to come out here and see awesome fucking movies with you guys!” At this point Lance is well past buzzed and into drunk and it’s 10 minutes before showtime. He stumbles out into the lobby and sees Jane at Concessions... she’s beautiful and has fiery red hair and is covered in freckles. Every time Lance sees her he makes weird small talk and the two awkwardly laugh together, but he really just wants to ask her on a date. He wants to take her out to the Pizza Hut buffet and bring her home and watch The Love Boat with her. Today’s going to be different. Today’s going to be special. He’s really going to woo her this time. “Hey!” Lance blurts out. “Hey.” Jane says meekly “Can I help you?” “You know... I come here a lot, and I always see you! And you’re... and you’re... so freakin’ cute.” The air is sucked out of the room. “You know... you’re just beautiful. And... don’t you remember me?” “Yeah... I’ve seen you around.” Jane says through a pained smile. “We always talk about the white chocolate and the milk chocolate and you hate white but I love it!” Lance belts out laughing. “Anyways... I just wanted to say what I really want to say. And that’s would you like to go out with me sometime soon? You know we could go anywhere we could eat, we could go to a park, whatever I’m down with anything!” Jane sits in silence for a painfully long time... until she finally speaks. “You know... I’m really just trying to work. And there’s people behind you.” Everybody looks disgusted at what is happening here. “Can I get you anything?” Lance’s smile disappears. “Uh no... I’m just going to go in.” The moment has arrived. Eraserhead is playing on the screen in all its glory. Only Lance isn't enjoying it because he has an aching pit in his stomach. He thinks about why he can’t keep a decent job, he thinks about why he puts himself into embarrassing situations. Jack Nance’s face floats back and forth across the screen throughout space. The rocky planet like object. The billowing industrial smoke. The images wash over Lance but he can’t take them in. All of the sudden a German Shepherd starts barking. Lance’s attention snaps over immediately. It’s the old man. He’s sitting in the theater with his German Shepherd sitting in the chair next to him, barking. Lance leaps up. “YOU! What the fuck are you doing here?!” Everybody in the audience is in shock as Lance runs towards the old man. The old man starts cackling. “I wouldn’t get any closer boy Eva doesn’t really like you!” Eva the German Shepherd growls. As the film flickers across him and the soundtrack drones Lance continues to scream. “Goddamnit DAD! Why the FUCK do you have to ruin everything! I just wanted to enjoy this FUCKING movie!” Eva attacks Lance. She tackles him to the ground and viciously rips at his arm. Blood flies as Lance screams horrifically. The Old Man laughs hysterically.


The first cracks in the system started appearing in March of 2173. It was at the United Bloc Budget presentation. A mere formality at this point, as people had started to trust the AIs completely about 50 years ago. When AI-led governments first started making their appearances at the turn of the century, they were thought of as a passing fad. The United Bloc Budget Presentation was an opportunity to show off & entice non-member nations to join in the revolution. The Bloc didn’t have to wait for long. Within ten years even the most AI-sceptical countries had to reverse their initial judgements. It was clear, year after year, that Bloc members would outperform non-Bloc affiliated nations by a wide margin on almost every indicator. By 2111, the writing was on the wall. It was getting harder for politicians to justify their existence in the face of AIs that were much better at giving the voters what they wanted. Nations could either join a bloc or face a revolution. For the first few decades, there was competition between certain countries that seemed reminiscent of the cold-war people had read about in history books. Except here the differences were based not on ideology but rather algorithms. However, that state of affairs ended quite quickly. Turns out that there are only so many ways that you can optimize policy and political decisions for a large & varied group of people. Unlike the historical cold-war, there was no winner or loser. By 2125, after years of evolving & improving, most governing AIs became indistinguishable from each other. Each would independently come to the same conclusion — the key was to focus on the psychological similarities that humans shared, rather than what they said they wanted. Psychological similarities that were born of the evolutionary journey that humans had been on for the past few million years. Long before concepts & ideologies that could be debated were even birthed. Make people feel part of a group, indoctrinate them on what would success for the group & its members look like. And then keep improving their lives ever so slightly, inching them along closer to an arbitrarily high standard of success. This mix of propaganda and manipulation had always worked on humans, but now it was high-performing machines with nothing to gain doing the manipulation. Surprisingly that last twist was the missing ingredient. And AI-led governing trumped everything that came before it. But everything changed on that March day in 2173 \ The magnitude of the implication paled in comparison to what actually happened on the ground. In fact, many people didn’t even notice anything. But for the people watching it was not a good sign. It wasn’t just that inflation rate was different from what had been predicted — it was the first time that an AI responsible for governing had been wrong in decades. About anything. Initially people had believed it to be the work of some anti-AI fanatics — they were still to be found, if only on the peripheries of society. Their battle cry had always been around the loss of humanity and the giving up of any control over our own destinies. While this message resonated (to a certain degree) with many, it didn’t resonate strongly enough. The inertia had been too strong to overcome, and it was too comfortable to start rocking the boat. This was partly due to the sophistication that the AIs reached. Their system of governance had turned into an opiate of the masses like no religion could. By developing sophisticated prediction models based on evolutionary biases, the AI was able to manipulate large number of people in a way that maximized the fulfilment of their psychological needs. People weren’t necessarily happier but weren’t sadder either. More importantly, they were too occupied & comfortable to care. \ There had been attempts to compromise the AI systems before, but they had always been unsuccessful. So when the inflation numbers for Eastern bloc were incorrect, the first thought was dread. Was there something to be worried about? It had taken 50 years for the AI architects to build up the blind trust that they now enjoyed. And for the first time in recent history the foundations of that trust seemed to be on shaky ground. This was enough to set off panic in the rarefied echelons of society where the architects of the AI lived. They had gotten fat off of their creations, even if they didn’t particularly understand them. Their faith in their creations had been absolute- bordering on hubris. It was the perfect system — what could possibly go wrong?! \ Miles away from the centres of power, at the edges of each bloc, were “the tribes of old”. People who had purposely ignored the advances in AI — preferring instead to live their lives according to the traditions of their ancestors. There were about 15 tribes in total — each descended from a dominant form of governance in the pre-AI days. Each eking out a survival far removed from the popularism that it had enjoyed in the distant past. You could find tribes devoted to religions as well as communists. From dictatorships to democracies, all trying to find a way to regain their former glory. The fact that the seemingly unstoppable AI had started to falter gave hope to these tribes. Alas, these hopes turned out to be exceptionally optimistic. The next few months would prove more debilitating to these tribes than anything happening in the mainstream AI-led society. The AI system had surely faltered for the first time in decades. But tribes had gone completely off the rails! \ Later investigations by the Council of Blocs showed that the whole thing was a big accident. Someone at a bio-engineering facility had accidentally created & set loose a virus that would change human beings themselves. The virus wasn’t exactly dangerous, but it was quite potent nonetheless. One that didn’t harm the host, but worked with the host’s body to sporadically create miniscule (yet potent) doses of psilosin. Curiously it would selectively ramp up production whenever competition with another human was involved. The broader impact on society couldn’t have been greater. To be expected when the people with the biggest egos start experiencing ego-dissolution at their most competitive & crucial times. \ Of course things had to change. The old ways of governing were not suited to a society where large sections of society were regularly thrown into existential adventures. What made it worse was that the afflicted individuals never wanted treatment either. The AIs had understood what had happened, and tried to change their governance. But the shift in psychology had proved too much for it to model. The real shocker to anyone born before 2100 was how everything ended. Anarchy — long vilified and disparaged emerged as the only way to govern.


Steam rose from the coffee maker on the counter, filling the air with a warm aroma while Caitlin looked out the window into the backyard at three Blue Jays enjoyed the fresh morning air. The small birds who had only just learned to fly chased each other from tree to tree, singing as they caught one another and playing endlessly. For a moment, Caitlin let her mind wander. "How freeing it would be to be a bird. To be so far away, perhaps overseas or even in another time." She thought about these things often, feeling anywhere was better had to be better than where she was. Caitlin might have stared out the window all day, but the sound of the toaster ejecting two breakfast pastries yanked her back into the real world. Caitlin grabbed the pastries by their end and dropped them into her hand. The underside of the tart was hotter than she expected, and Caitlin danced the toaster-tart around in her hand while she hunted for a plate in the dish rack. It couldn't be just any plate. It had to be just the right one. Quickly Caitlin filled through the ten or so plates in the dish rack, until she came across a small plastic one with a picture of an orange and white cat called Humphrey. Dropping the pastry on Humphrey's oversized smile, Caitlin blew on the tart, trying to cool it as she walked off the kitchen and to the edge of the stairs. "Molly, are you up?" As soon as Caitlin had finished her sentence, she heard a multitude of items falling and landing into the porcelain sink, which echoed from the second-floor bathroom. "Molly, You alright? Caitlin called out. A moment passed, and there was nothing. "Molly?" Caitlin called out again as she began to walk up the stairs. Before she could reach halfway up the stairs, Caitlin could hear the sound of spit hitting the sink and then the water running. "I'm fine mom," Molly called out while wiped the toothpaste from her mouth. "I couldn't reach the toothpaste." "Use the step stool, Sweetie." "That thing is wobbly," Molly replied. "It is not." "Mr. Paddington Bear says it is." "Mr. Paddington Bear is a hamster, sweetie," Caitlin said, almost laughing at the absurdity of the conversation. "Hurry up, your breakfast is ready," "Okay," Molly replied. A few moments later, Molly ran down the stairs, her loose shoe strings, and her pigtails bounced in rhythm. Jumping over the last three steps, Molly Jumped over them, landing on the ground with almost no grace and only catching her balance at the last second. Molly took the pastry from her Humphrey plate and took a large bite out of one side. Caitlin looked her daughter up and down as Molly was eating. She was wearing Multi-colored striped knee-high socks, a denim skirt and a t-shirt with a kitten wearing sunglasses on it. Molly had been going through an 80's phase since watching Back to the Future on cable. Caitlin hadn't embraced the look, but she had done little to discourage it either. "Molly ties your shoes," Caitlin said. "No, I'm a Rebel," Molly replied with her mouth full. "You're six, now tie your shoes." Molly lifted her leg in the air, outstretched towards her mom. Caitlin held in a sigh and knelt to tie the strings. The bus would be there soon, and it seemed faster, too, let Molly feel like she won. After one shoe was tied, Molly held up her other leg hopping on one foot as Caitlin tied the other string. With both shoe's tired and her feet were both on the floor, Molly looked at her mom, and with a cheesy grin that showed her two missing front teeth, she whispered to her mom. "Rebel." "I will make you think, rebel, now go get your vest, and I'll help you put it on," Caitlin said, staring at her daughter. Molly and Caitlin both hated the fact that she had to wear a bulletproof vest to school. It was a hot, uncomfortable thing that often left bruises on Molly's skin. She had voiced her opinion loudly on many occasions, and Caitlin agreed with her daughter, but laws were laws. They had been in place since before Molly was born, and Caitlin was still a child herself. No matter how much they disliked it, Molly nor any student could go to school without it. Molly went to the hooks near the front door and pulled down the pink bulletproof vest and headed back to the kitchen, where Caitlin was pouring a cup of coffee. "Can I have some, she asked?" Handing the vest to her mom. Caitlin looked at her cup of fresh coffee and gave it to Molly. "A sip." Molly took the cup with both hands and slurped the coffee the rim of the blue mug. When Molly was Finished, she handed the cup back, and Caitlin placed it on the counter. "Arms out," Caitlin said as she straightened the straps on the vest. Today Molly didn't oppose it. Outstretching her arms, Caitlin placed the pink vest over her head and began to close the buckles one by one. She was careful not to pinch Molly's skin as she did the day before. Molly was outgrowing this vest, and a new one was expensive. She just hoped that it would last a few more weeks. When the last buckle was snapped, Molly tugged at the bottom pull it down to somewhat more comfortable. The sight of the vest on her six-year-old wearing a bulletproof vest sent a cold chill down her spine. Caitlin worried about the day it wouldn't affect her anymore, and she accepted it as how things are. From the kitchen, the bus alarm blew, calling all the children from their homes. Children weren't allowed to be outside before the bus alarm sounded. It was thought to be too much of a risk. "Mom the bus," Molly shouted with excitement. "Okay Okay," Caitlin replied, walking to the door with Molly. Caitlin grabbed Molly's backpack from the hook by the front door and handed it to her daughter. Molly stepped outside and paused at the edge of the porch with her open hands facing the road. Across the street, and next door, all children did the same. Children needed to be visible; any violation of the rules would not be tolerated. The large black bus pulled up onto their street like something out of a Grim Reaper campfire story. It was fitted with slitted metal over the windows and a caged door at the beginning of the aisle. The bus came to a stop in front of Molly's house. The breaks release a loud hiss that sent half the dogs on their street into a frenzy. The bus doors opened, and two guards stepped from the bus taking a position on either side of the door. The two men wore heavy military-grade body armor. The faces were covered by a grey mask whose only features were two square slits for the eyes. Caitlin always thought the two men looked like they belonged in a war film rather than escorting children to school. Positioning themselves either side of the bus door, one of the guards signaled the children to the bus. "Have a good day at school. Caitlin said with a smile watching Molly walk down the sidewalk to the bus. For a second, Caitlin wondered why she had said, have a good day at school. Was it because her mom used to say she and her brother's each morning. It certainly was an outdated phase and should have seemed more out of place than it did. However, somewhere down the line, it had become a blessing whose familiarity brought her a bit of comfort. Caitlin watched as Molly took her place at the end of the line. Dropping her backpack to the ground on her left side, Molly outstretched her arms like all the other children. One of the guards moved from child to child, passing a handheld metal detector over each of them. The other guard searched for each backpack for plastic weapons. Firearms made from non-metals had been a growing issue over the last few years, and as a result, the intensity of searches had increased. The guard with the handheld metal detector approached Molly. He waved it in front of her and then down her back in her in a fluid motion. Satisfied that there weren't any weapons, the guard waved the children up the steps of the bus. One by one, the children quietly boarded the bus and took their assigned seats. Children were seated according to behavior with troublemakers in front nearest to the guards, and potential problem children placed in the middle. Molly sat in the back in a seat by herself. Looking through the slit in the window, she watched the passing cars, staring at the occasional dog with its head out the window. Her favorite part of the ride to school was counting the cows as they passed by the Harrison farm. The day before yesterday, Molly had seen five, and yesterday it was only three, but one was a new solid black calf with a grey spot on its forehead. Molly had names for them all; however, she was still deciding on the calf. As they passed by, she squinted through the slit and quickly counted them. She saw Edgar and Karen, Lisa and Mr. Moo, But no calf this morning." She would count them again in the afternoon. Perhaps the calf would be around then. As soon as the farm was out of sight, Molly put her head against the seat and waited. Two more stops and eight more children, and they were headed towards school. Once over the train tracks, it wasn't long before she could see her school in the distance. The single-story school stood behind a nine-foot chain link fence. Half a dozen Guards walked the length of it at any given time. There was no yard or track outside, and the playground had been removed years ago, leaving only a decaying concrete slab where it used to be. Any physical activity had to take place in the school gym where it was safe. The bus pulled up to the front of the school, and the bus doors opened to a passage made of steel and thick reinforced glass. The two guards stepped off the bus first. When signaled row by row, each child stepped from the bus, revived their backpack and walked single file into the school. Another metal detector waited for them as they passed into the school. Last week Jimmy Vann's pencil sharpener had set off the detector. He was quickly taken away and hadn't been seen since. After they passed through the metal detector, each student would line up where their teacher was waiting. Molly's teacher was Mrs. Ramsey. Molly liked her; many students did. She was always kind and gave extra time during art & crafts. On stormy days let her students pick a movie to watch. At home, Caitlin had started the laundry and began to pack away some of hers and Molly's winter clothes into her bedroom closet. A sweater with a poorly crafted reindeer on it was among the many things she placed in the closet. Even though Molly would outgrow it by next winter, Caitlin couldn't bring herself to throw it away just yet. When everything was packed away, Caitlin closed the lid on the box and pushed it to the back of the closet. Leaving her bedroom, she walked down the hall to the stairs passed the door that Molly and Caitlin never opened. It was to Lauren's room, Molly's older sister. Lauren had closed the door before leaving for school and never made it home to open it again. So it remained closed, left as Lauren had left it for almost two years. Caitlin stopped and for a moment and reached for the knob. Her hand shook, and she pulled back. A tear streamed down her cheek, and Caitlin quickly pulled away and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. Falling over the sink, she cried. Her tears dripped and fell into the sink. She wished she could brick over that door. It only served as a reminder of what she had lost, and Caitlin desperately wanted to forget. After a moment, Caitlin looked up at the clock hanging on the wall. "It was eight-forty five Molly was in a class by now." She thought. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she quietly walked into the living room and turned on the TV. Still, on the cartoon channel, Molly had left it on the night before the TV came on with a flash of color and dancing fruit. Caitlin changed the channel to 11-1. It was A government-issued network that displayed a map of the United States. Red dots would appear showing cities were shootings were according, and a panel on the side of the screen would show the names of specific schools, malls, and other locations. Already there were three — one in Dayon, Evansville, and Little Rock. More would most certainly come before the day was over. They always did. To finish their math lesson the children pulled their desk in close in a semicircle around Mrs. Ramsey. The children watched as she drew a new problem on the board. "Okay, class, who can tell me what two plus two is?" She said as she turned to them with a smile. More than half the class raised their hands. Mrs. Ramsey looked out at eager faces and jumping hands. "Roger, can you tell me the answer?" Mrs. Ramsey asked. "Four" He replied "That's right. Now, who can tell me what is three plus three?" Molly was quick to raise her hand this time. Stretching it out, trying to be higher than everyone else. "Molly, what is three plus three?" Mrs. Ramsey asked. "Six." She quickly replied. "Very good." "Alright, class, this is the last question, and we will move on to arts and crafts. Who can tell me Four plus Four is?" Mrs. Ramsey looked out almost her entire class with their hands up. At the far end of the semicircle, say Sussie. Sussie was a good student, made good enough grades, and always turned in her homework, but she was shy and rarely raised her hand in class. Lately, the school had taken notice. If she didn't start participating soon, she would be removed from the school and marked as a social threat. "Sussie, why don't you answer this one." The little girl looked up from where she was playing with her pigtails. She was surprised Mrs. Ramsey had called her. For a moment, she stammered, scared to say the wrong answer. "Eight," she unsurely answered. "Very Good." Susie smiled. She liked that she was right, and knowing the answer made her feel smart. "Alright, class, it's time for arts crafts. The excitement in the room grew as the children pushed their desks back against the wall making the room as Mrs. Ramsey brought out the painting Easels. The children loved to paint, and Mrs. Ramsey gave them almost an hour to do so. Molly knew what she wanted to make. She picked up the brush and dipped it in brown, and carefully began to paint the tree in her back yard from memory. She wanted to get every branch right, the height, the thickness had to be perfect. When Molly was satisfied, she took the green and dabbed it, making the leaves and the grass around it, Mrs. Ramsey walked around from time to time looking at each of the paintings. "Outstanding students," she would say. Mrs. Ramsey loved her children and enjoyed watching their creativity, but she secretly hated arts and crafts time. During this time of day, the class was observed through a series of cameras. None of the students were aware of the cameras. Each Easel was in view, and a team of three psychologists studied each painting. They looked at each one carefully for any signs of antisocial behavior. Mrs. Ramsey knew about the cameras. She could feel eyes on her. Mrs. Ramsey felt as if she was betraying the children and worried about little Susie now that introverts had been placed on the watch list. Mrs. Ramsey wanted to speak up, but doing so would be the end of her career and possibly her freedom. By lunchtime, the kids of Mrs. Ramsey's class were hot and starting to tire. The bulletproof vest they were beginning to feel heavy and uncomfortable. Small moans of discord could be heard as the class walked to lunch. Mrs. Ramsey hoped lunch would make things better. The class walked into a small windowless room and gathered around a table where their tray's were already set; a single Meat patty, corn and grapes, and red kool-aid. Each child took their seat. Molly sat next to Karen, and they traded grapes. Karren likes smaller grapes and Molly bigger ones. In quiet, they ate the only sound allowed was the scraping of forks. While they ate, Mrs. Ramsey turned down the thermostat, dropping the temperature in the room and gradually cooling the children down. Caitlin had made a sandwich and chips for her lunch. Leaving the chips on a plate so that she could pick at them throughout the day, Caitlin carried the sandwich with her taking small bites as cleaned. She spent almost an hour in Molly's room, gathering socks and questioning how there could only be of each. Tossing them all into a laundry basket, she carried the basket past the living room on the TV. More red dots appeared. Incidents had happened in Denver, Kerrville, and a shopping mall in San Francisco. Caitlin started to walk away and go about her cleaning when a new dot appeared. The latest shooting was local. In her chest, she could feel her heart tighten and sink at the same time. Caitlin looked at the side panel, looking to see where the shooting had occurred. There was no information yet. Caitlin quickly began to panic. "Come on. Come on!" She shouted at the television. A moment and then another. She wasn't sure what to do. Part of her was reliving that day two years ago when Molly's older sister died. Caitlin wasn't sure how much more she could take. Almost in tears, the location finally appeared on the side panel. It was a school in the next town over. Her heart steadied, and she could finally breathe. She felt a wave of relief and then as she started at the dot on the screen sickness. "How could she felt relief?" She thought. Children were still dying and suffering. Was her only concern, Molly? When did she start to feel the rest of the world be damned? In the afternoon, Mrs. Ramsey sat down to read the class a story. One of the students, Sarah, had picked frog and Toad. One of the students' favorites. She held the book high for all of the class to see and began to read. "Frog ran up the path to Toa…" Before Mrs. Ramsey could get past the first line, A red light in the room started to flash in the back of the room. Mrs. Ramsey, for a moment, froze, and her skin went pale before reacting. "Alright, class. I want everyone to make your way to the back of the room and into the shelter. Single file, but be quick." She said as the metal window shutters came down and the door to the classroom locked with a loud click. Each student did as asked as shuffled into a tiny room. Mrs. Ramsey pressed a button on the wall, and a heavy metal door closed, sealing them inside. "I'm scared." One of the children said. "Me too." Came another voice. "It's going to be okay," Mrs. Ramsey said calmly. Molly was equally as sacred, but she knew Mrs. Ramsey would never let anything happen to them. The room was silent and too small to sit down. Everyone stood waiting and wondering what would happen next when one girl started to cry in the back of the room. Molly watched as Mrs.Ramsay walked over to her and held her. "Everything is going to be alright." She said with her arm around the girl. Then she began to sing. Underneath the soft sound of her singing, Mrs. Ramsey was angry. Above the safe room door, Mrs. Ramsey had spotted a blue light that indicated to her it as a Drill. It was the third in a month — each time upsetting the children to tears. The drill ended close to 3 P.M. right about the time the children would get on the bus. Gathering their backpacks, they took the children took their assigned seats on the black bus with the slit windows. Molly sat in the back, and her head was leaning against the glass peeking from the slit. As the bus passed the Harrison farm, Molly counted the cows as they passed by. This time she only saw Edger and the baby with the grey spot on his forehead. At home, Caitlin had started to cook dinner. The aroma of sizzling meat filled the house. One by one, she cut the sliced potatoes and carrots before tossing them into a pot. The water boiled and bubbles formed on the water's surface. Placing the lid on the put, Caitlin walked back into the living room and looked at the screen. Sixty-three shootings covered the map. It was a horror show of red dots. "but it wasn't as bad as some days." She thought. Turning off the TV, Caitlin could hear the breaks of the bus and the howling of the neighbor's dog. Peeking from the window, Caitlin watched as the guard handed Moly her backpack. Tossing her backpack over her shoulder, Molly ran up the steps and swung open the door. She was happy to be home. With her arms outstretched, Caitlin ran into the living room and hugged her tightly, as she always did. "Did you have a good day?" "It was okay," Molly said, pulling off her shirt to reveal the vest underneath. Caitlin unhooked the Bulletproof vest and placed it on the wall hook. "Go wash your hands; dinner is almost ready." Molly ran off to the bathroom, and for a moment, Caitlin looked at the Bulletproof vest on the wall. They had made it through today and hoped that they would make it through tomorrow.


The village of Mawega was like a wilderness in 1985. It is located between Mt. Kenya and the Aberdare. It was built on land previously occupied by British settlers. Now, it was sparsely populated by families that had moved from more populated areas of the central province. The land had yet to be cleared, and all around there were thick patches of shrubbery and trees. There also were frequent reports of various wild animals. It was here that Mwangi lived with his wife and four children. The day that we begin this story was like any other day. It was dusk and Mwangi’s youngest was watching their sheep in the field in front of his father’s land. He could not see most them but from their bleating he knew they were in the grazing in the shrubbery in front of him. He was preparing to take them home when he noticed that a cloud of dust was coming towards him, he thought it might just be that until suddenly sheep started running from the shrubs in front of him and racing in the opposite direction towards home. This was no whirlwind, he thought. As the dust closed on him shrubs started to shake and he thought he might have seen shapes in the disappearing light. It could only mean one thing, and he was not going to wait to find out. Mwangi was seated on a wooden stool outside his house then his breathless son burst in the compound and screamed “Elephants!” Mwangi looked beyond his farm where his son pointed. The dust had picked up speed and had reached his farm and even though he could not see clearly, the rustling on his tall maize farm told him that this must be huge rampaging heard and they needed to leave now. He called for his wife and children, and they sped out along the path behind the house, running as fast as their feet could carry them. A while later they came across their neighbor. “Many angry elephants. Coming fast” shouted Mwangi as he sped past. His neighbor could see a cloud of dust in the distance. He dashed in this compound, and soon his whole family of eight was behind the Mwangi’s. Any one they met on the road got the same message and took the same actions. So the panicking group picked up steam and more people. Soon, no one even bothered to ask what they were running away from. A hundred people racing across the fields and screaming couldn’t be running away from nothing. It was on. Those who say that women can’t run as fast as men must have not been not present in this great race of 1985. The women of the Catholic Women’s Action were at the front of the confused crowd, with their blue religious headgear flapping around behind them like a tiny flag. Those who argued that you needed two good legs to run fast were proved wrong by our elder, Waruinge. Now in his 70’s, he had lost one leg fighting for our independence. He was at the raising dust at the front of the fleeing mass. It is reported by witnesses that his being did not touch the ground all as he moved. Instead, he hopped forward at impressive speed using his two clutches in a way that might remind one of a kangaroo. Those who say that love is the strongest force must have missed this race. Maina and his young wife Kui had only been married one year. They held hands everywhere they went, and even *Ngai* was pleased with them, for he had recently blessed them with twins. When he saw the crowd pass this house in terror, he did not waste a single second. His skinny legs, only dressed in traditional *akala*, carried him past the crowd, and he was with the women and Kamau at the front in no time. Like everyone else at this point of this embarrassing occasion, he forgot to ask what village was running from. He also forgot his wife. She was later spotted among the horde carrying each of her wailing twins under her arms, although this did not seem to impede her flight. I am not proud to say that i was also part of this mob of cowards. I took the shortest route away from the imagined peril. I went through shrubs instead of around them, and at the end of it all I was covered with the branches of every plant found in our village. I also had thorns sticking out my face. I had done what I needed to do to escape what I thought was the end of the world, which I am sure my kind reader will understand. The priorities of the villagers were clear on this day, since everyone only managed to pick a few items that were of importance to them before they joined the melee. I spotted my brother falling behind as he struggled with a container of beer on his shoulder. I choose to leave him behind so that at least one member of our family could survive. I once again beg you to reserve your judgement. Only one man tried to stop the madness. When our assistant chief saw the mass moving towards his house, he went outside his gate for a better view. When he heard the screams, saw the whole village coming at him with alarming speed, he waved his flywhisk around and screamed for us to stop. However, at this point, we were all beyond reasoning. It was beyond the powers of an assistant chief to stop us. I doubt if even the chief could have accomplished this. The assistant chief lost his small finger and his flywhisk in the chaos. He got off easy, the rest of us lost our pride. Exhaustion finally slowed us down near the shopping center. Logic also seemed to return to us, although no one wanted to admit that they didn’t know what they were running from. The few who dared ask were met with many different answers. A pride of lions was seen, the river had broken its banks, or the mountain had erupted. When asked, I insisted i saw what looked like wildfire and that’s why I ran. Not one of us spoke to the other on the way back home. It is forbidden to speak of this event in Mawega village. If you visit and ask about the time the entire village was displaced by the rustling of maize, you will be met with blank stares. Many will swear that they only moved there after 1985. Others will lie and say that it happened the next village over.