I am Julie, I am useful, I am cattle. The three pills I take every night before I lay in my bed and remain restless for hours. I am Julie; the nourishment pill, it's the sugary sweet green pill that quickly becomes bland and leaves a foul taste in my mouth. It reminds me of the memories I still have of a life. This is my life… Was my life. I am useful; the light blue pill, it pops with an explosion of sweet juice and gives me all the required energy to live. It reminds me that I am needed, needed alive. I am cattle; the preparation pill, a really big awful tasting red pill that prepares my organs to be harvested, it reminds me of my only use, I hate that damn pill… Why do I think this? As a reminder, a reminder of what I am. An awful thing to think but the only thing that works for me now. When I was young I was told that I was very special, I was smart, really smart. I passed all my classes as well as classes three grades ahead of me. I was turning sixteen when I found out I was going to go to university. Three days in and I started having problems. First started the stress. Normal for a college student especially in my position, but soon after I started not being able to sleep at night, it was as though nothing could calm my mind, thinking thinking thinking, repeat repeat repeat, never getting tired, never falling asleep, mulling over the same thoughts, again again and again, such a useless thing, never got things done, just thinking. Some nights I could though, happening near three in the morning I could pass out and have nightmares. The depression was worse, hitting me like a giant blanket, slowly descending upon me but once it hit I was completely pinned. I would sit there and not be able to function, trying to think of how to be happy, was I happy in the moment? No. Then how could I be happy in the future? You would think I would be tired all the time but I wasn't, sometimes I would have all the energy in the world, the next it would be gone and I would curl up into a ball and want nothing more than death. Grades started to fail. I couldn't focus on any sort of work. My family had planned a trip to get a much needed break. I thought “good a vacation to lighten up the mood and relax.” Three days in and I found myself crying on my bed in the room, unable to sleep, unable to stop thinking yet I could never hold onto a single thought. The only thing I could do was to be occupied, play a game, write, anything that kept my attention and occupied me enough so that I could make the long hours of night pass quicker, but I had few of those outlets there so all I could do was think. Mostly about happiness, I will be moving through life soon and I have no idea what makes me happy and what doesn't, I could work to see what made me happy, but how am I supposed to when it is never the same. After the trip was over I thought again that I might have a moment to breath, but I was only thrown into more and more problems, staying up all night thinking about things that made no difference. Acting like a child, I would think that someone didn't like me because they did respond to me right away, fearing the worst, that they did not like me anymore. The most childish things I obsessed over for hours, unable to change the topic in my mind, always afraid. I would bounce between a few different moods, depression, hyperactive mania, a feeling that nothing mattered at all, and a balanced peace, in which I could just be happy in the moment. This one was rare but my favorite. After midterms I hit an all time low, everything hitting me at once I could not sleep at night yet once I finally was able to sleep I would oversleep, after getting me several Fs. My mom took me to a doctor, I was diagnosed with Bipolar depression and an extreme anxiety disorder. My mother and I both froze in out spots. She tried to say something, but all she did was choke on her words before falling silent again, I think she fell in other ways too. This world I am in is very different from how it has been in the past. The world in 2067 witnessed the rise of an empire that threatened to wipe out all that oppose it. The empire was more than capable of doing it too. To defeat them the rest of the world all had to unite as one, and all perform at military efficiency. Anything without a use was destroyed, or recycled into something with one, only all working as one could they able to stop the empire. After the war that claimed a billion lives the world was left with a highly efficient new people, no one had problems like depression, or problems with the body like cerebral palsy, they were either killed, or the problems fixed. People were born into what they would stay in for the rest of their life, and they were good at what they did. Humanity grew ten fold, technology advanced exponentially, life spans ran 25% longer at 170% efficiency. The higher ups gave command to all the lessors, the lessors all did what they were told. No crime, no hunger, no money, no fighting. We even found a way to get nutrients and substance from things other than plants and animals, eliminating the Need to raise and kill animals. this all came at a cost though. No one could live a life with any choice, you did what you did no more, no less. Either one of those brought you only death. It's a perfectly functioning closed system, but humans are not gears to be just used then replaced and thrown away, at least we use to not be. Soon after the war they found a way to reuse useless people too, anyone dysfunctional would be harvested for parts. Kidneys for people who needed them, blood, liver, hearts… Even the brain was thrown into new age AIs. Those who were old enough were immediately taken to be harvested, youth were taken to be raised until ready. They use to raise them pretty well, giving them plenty of time to play and have fun, but that was seen as both inefficient and useless, so now we are given little rooms with small beds to live in, fed only what is needed to keep us healthy, and only go outside to get vitamin D. It's cheaper to get it from the sun than pill form. As one of the dysfunctional I was taken away from my family and thrown into a room to be raised until I was ready to be harvested. There are others here, some as close as a concrete wall away from me, but I have never had an interaction with any of them, the most human interaction I've had since I was taken was with the guard that drove me and escorted me to this place. I know of only about twenty of others, but the facility from the outside looked much bigger. Most of the dysfunctional people were taken twenty years ago when they first started to harvest. Most of this place is probably for the actual act of harvesting itself. Is this really the pinnacle of human society, we are the most advanced we have ever been, but that's like saying I am the oldest right now that I have ever been. We perform as a machine, at one point we put pleasure before all else, eating not for nutrients but for the pleasure of it, we did things like play games, we had useless talents such as ping pong. Years and years before that and you have to fight to survive, we didn't have time for fun, we had to survive. Fast forward centuries and you get what we have now, neither. No fun, no trying to survive. This is all different, not natural. This Is not natural. The first week here is the worst, having the pain of being up all night, and nothing to look forward to during the day it feels infinite, infinite time, infinite pain. After two weeks it starts to not matter anymore, you accept the fact that this is how it is and nothing will change. It's depressing but it makes you feel better, not caring is better than pain. Even in life I had to accept this fact, I constantly looked forward to what I wanted in the future, the problem was I felt just as bad when I got to those points as I did before. I just need to make it till our next vacation I told myself. Halfway through the vacation and I wanted only to be back home. Back home and the pressure of school came back. I had to Learn that what ever situation I was in I had to make the best of it. And in the end nothing matters. I open my eyes to look up at the ceiling, it's the same color white, and the same texture as the walls. Unable to sleep I just lay there, afraid. Afraid of what will happen, afraid of how I will do in the future. I remind myself I need to remain in the moment. Suddenly I have an idea. I walk over to my door, a movable piece of glass in a entire wall of glass. I peer out to see if there are any guards near me. None, I look down find the paper bag that my pills arrived in, I also grab the old pen I found a year ago from under my bed and I start to write. I use to write because I was assigned to do so but this was not for anyone else's purpose but my own. I write about what is happening, how I feel, the past. It helps, gives me something to do, and makes me somewhat tired, I'm actually able to fall asleep at two AM. When nothing matters to you, you do not care for yourself. Not only had I stopped sleeping but I also stopped caring that I wasn't sleeping, I didn't care about what it was doing to me. At the end of the day my mom would ask me If I had eaten, my answers shocked me, most days the answer would be no, or one meal. It's not even that I denied myself food it was that I completely forgot I needed to eat, I didn't get the sensation that I was hungry. I didn't care anymore, the one thing I did care for though was other people, and to hear the fear, anger, and sadness in their voice when they said to eat, to hear that they were worried, hurt like knives being plunged into my side. The one thing I could care for was others, and to hear that I had done something to hurt others sickened me. I rarely cry anymore, I use to a lot, but even before I was put in this place I has stopped. It maybe due to desensitization, nothing matters anymore, nothing is certain, all you know are feelings. But I find myself at night crying. I don't know what for, nothing in particular is happening, I'm not thinking about something sad it just happens. It's like my body is crying for my mind, crying for what is has become what is is going through. From personal experience nothing is useless, no matter how inefficient something is it can still have a use, even if it was not intended for that use. The boy with the broken leg that can't travel very fast can still hold a few sticks at a time to bring back to his family. Writing for anything besides recording useful information was banned a long time ago. It's not always about bringing things to a point, I am writing right here right now for me, not to tell a point or for someone else's enjoyment, but to help me. It is the silent tear shed, not for any usefulness, but just because it helps. Pain is an odd thing, meant as a signal for the body to tell the brain that something is wrong, this it is not enjoyable. I open my mouth and bite onto the side of my thumb, and count to twenty, I let go. It hurts, but it's a feeling. It reminds me that I am actually human, it's reminds me that I can feel. My brain works so much differently than everyone else's. This has always been the case, even before my diagnosis told me that my brain was wrong, I knew I thought differently from other people. Is this really wrong though, is being different such a problem? I was told many times as a kid that I was really nice, really smart. Different doesn't have to be good or bad, it's neutral until given an assessment, in many situations it's a good thing to a certain extent, to our government it's the worst thing imaginable, you need clean cut lines, conformity is key, thus I am a problem. A problem with a solution. I only have a few more months left before my time here ends. I can't say that I want to die, but I know I want this to stop, and if there is nothing afters this then maybe I do want to die. I could try to kill myself, but one it's pointless, just a waste, and two I don't think I could, security is too tight. At one point I could have said that I don't want to die for the sake of others, this was the only thing that kept me going during a difficult time. Telling myself that not only would people be sad if I were gone, but also they would be miss what I gave to their life. I always lived life thinking that no matter what struggles I go through, I could still help out others, even if it was just a small compliment that boosted someone confidence for a little while, or being there to help comfort somebody when they needed it, I lived for this and now I may die for it. All I can do in this moment to be there for others is to let myself be harvested, and hope that my blood saves someone who was in an accident, or my liver may give a recovering alcoholic a way to live and see his family again. My last gift, my body, my life. Today is the day, I'm not excited, but I am ready. The guards that escorted me to the big white room I am in now didn't seem to care about me writing, so I decided to bring it. It's a habit now, to write everything down. There are more of us here than I thought, the twenty or so that arrived with me I would assume, and just about sixty more. All the same age. Half of us seem to know exactly what is going to happen for we are solemn faced and empty, I can tell that a few have just arrived, for they are fearful, they haven't dealt with these thoughts for as long as we have, they have not given up yet. Others seem to be completely oblivious. Just looking at the new surrounding with wonder in their eyes, what's wrong with them? We were all taught about this in school, they should know what's going to happen. A big door opens revealing a long well lit hallway, we shuffle into it while the door slides closed behind us. There is another door at the end that remains closed. The hall has ceiling lights and rounded corners with a black glass like walls. Suddenly the room shifts, not very much but we can all feel the sensation of moment. An elevator? I must have said this aloud because the boy next to me look at me with a very confused look in his eye, but before I can say anything the hall stops and the door opens again to a completely white room. I can tell that the people are stepping out onto something but I can't see yet. Stepping out it opens up into a massive hangar sized room, the conveyor we are on seems to be floating in the air as we head towards the middle of the room. On the sides I can see glass walls with what seem to be nurseries inside, automated arms pick and move babies around. All of us are in shock at the sheer amount of information hitting us. Closer and closer to the center of the room the nurseries change to maternity wards, all maintained by robots. A baby is born, taken to the nursery, then the mother sent out. Oh god. Another conveyor belt intersects this one and on it are the mothers that just left the ward. A boy ahead of me screams in terror as he gets closer to our destination, I try to call to him, to tell him, but a woman stops me. “It doesn't matter, most of them were never taught a language.” The woman tells me. All I can do is fall to the ground as the scream is drowned out by the shutting of a door. “It all turns out the same, it always will, this same thing happened to my grandma, and will happen to my daughter. A whole line of a family, born, raised. Berth a child, then sent to be harvested. Are you ready to see God?” At the end there is a cylindrical tube that one person goes into at a time, it is sound proof so the screams are suddenly stopped by the closing of the door. I'm third in line. I am sitting on the ground crying in terror and all I can do is write. I am Julie, I am useful, I am cattle.


That summer I'd been hired as a temporary replacement drummer for the band backing bluesman Jailhouse Lemon Lee on a tour through the southwest. In the small hours on the road from somewhere to someplace, I asked Lee, then in his late 70s and blind since birth, how he managed to hold his own in the endless nickel and dime Five Card Stud games that we played to kill the road hours. I suspected that as the New Guy that I was being set up as a mark in a long con because I'd played in dozens of games and while Lee didn't consistently win, he rarely lost big. I couldn't figure out how he did it. I asked. From behind his aviator sunglasses Lee told me he used mirrors. Then he chuckled and settled back in his seat and started quietly chanting lyrics to songs unwritten, his baritone barely above a whisper, the music more felt than heard. The blues poetry of midnight trains and hound dogs, of prison, times good and times hard, and throughout ran the thread of love and lost and loved and lost again, all in 16 bars. And then he was finished. I should have left the lingering magic alone, but I didn't. "But how do you see things? How do you know those playing cards? How can you even describe a color like pink? Spell broken, we were back on the tour bus with diesel fumes and near-sprung shocks, stale beer, snoring, road thrum. The eastern sky hinted pale blue. He sighed, like a man explaining a simple concept to a child: pink was meeting the girl next door for the first time, your first kiss, how she looked on her wedding day, your first child, and how you chose to remember her the last time you were with her, when friends and family quietly stepped out of the room to give you some last time alone. He was a widower pushing three decades by that time. He never spilled about the playing cards. But that's how he explained the color pink.


High Priest Aelin stood solemnly in front of several men and women, struggling to maintain eye contact. After a few moments of silence he spoke, “I’ve seen it. Our so-called age of ‘gods’ is coming to an end, again.” He shifted uncomfortably before continuing, “But this time there *will* be a war, and...” A tall man with a thick black beard, Daylis was his name, raised a hand to cut the priest off before he could continue. The group parted as he walked toward Aelin at the front of the dimly lit room. Yellow light from the torches on the marble walls illuminated Daylis’ face as he turned to face the crowd. There were sixteen members, including Aelin and Daylis, in attendance. The room was full of mixed emotions ranging from resignation to anger. “Brothers,” Daylis started, “Sisters, we knew this would come eventually. We have been here longer than any other world. Clearly some of you have forgotten, but we are not *actually* gods. I’ve let you play with these people for too long. This is not what we came for,” he stopped to glance at Aelin. The priest was no priest at all, he was simply playing his role to ensure mankind stayed devout while the others acted as deities. A cold breeze came in from an open window causing the short man to shiver. Daylis turned back to look each member in the eye. “It’s time to go,” he said firmly. Several in the crowd started at this statement. Selene stepped forward, scowling. An adventurous strand of long silver hair fell down in front of her face at the sudden motion. “*No*, we’re not leaving again!” she shouted, “I don’t give a damn if they rebel. We’ve followed you long enough. Leaving just isn’t worth it. We’ve done enough.” A tall man with shoulder length black hair and a shaven face nodded in agreement. “She’s right. I’m not leaving, Dayl.” He rested his hand on Selene’s shoulder. “I say we just end them and start over again. *Here*. The two of us should be able to remove them.” Daylis stepped forward, pointing at the man, “No, Alcaeus, I *will not* let you kill them. That is *not* why we came. Besides, what do you think started this mess to begin with? The squabbling between all of you has driven a wedge between them.” He turned to look at Aelin. “There are, what, *five* nations now?” Daylis asked. The priest looked thoughtful for a moment. “No, there are six. One for each pair of ‘Creators’, apparently. Though one nation is on the verge of collapse due to Selene and Alc’s conflict with Thyr and Marnez. But...” Thyrion interrupted Aelin, glaring at Alcaeus. “*My* people were innocent,” he said growing red with anger. He pointed a finger toward the pair. “If anyone should leave, it’s you two. Your barbarous zealots are a plague, but I'll be the cure.” What was once a religion worshipping all sixteen members, Creators and Overseers, slowly evolved into several different sects revolving around a specific deity. Only in the last century had the tension between the different groups turned violent. Mankind had split itself into six nations, waging holy wars and creating hatred amongst the gods themselves as their personal playthings were killed by another’s. “No, Thyrion. They are not your people. We came here to nurture and save life,” Daylis said, arms outstretched looking through the crowd, “not to control and destroy it. We’ve done our job. We should have left long ago.” Aelin stepped forward and cleared his throat. “I didn’t ask you all to come so you could argue,” he said. Outside the window of their mountaintop temple, the moonlit world of men was silent. “Listen to me. Rebellion is not our main concern. Something is coming for us.


"Mom, how come we hardly ever visit Grandma Bates? We go and see Dad's parents all the time and they live much farther away. She's just across town and yet we barely know her." "Well the truth is, your Grandma has problems. She has a medical condition called 'agoraphobia'. She has a intense fear of going outside. She hasn't left the inside of her home in many, many years. She has a delivery boy bring in her groceries. Her mail is dropped through a slot in the front door. If she is sick, she calls a medical service to come and visit her at home. It's not that I'm ashamed of her. I know she can't help her irrational fears and phobia but deep down, I suppose I worry that her mental illness might be a little contagious. I don't want her odd quirks to rub off on any of you." Both Jan and Markus stood there with their mouths agape. The big family secret had finally been revealed. Grandma Bates was the dark subject that nobody talked about. In her innocence, Jan was too young to realize her Mom was uncomfortable talking about it. As little kids are apt to do, she just blurted out what thoughts occurred to her. Being a little older, Markus cringed like a member of the audience witnessing the wrong key pressed at a piano recital. "That's so sad, Mom. She never goes out in the sunshine or plays in the snow?"; Jan asked. "If she can't help her fears and we never visit her, then she's all alone in her house." Her daughter had a way of melting through even the most hardened hearts of ice. Mrs. Byers had subconsciously erected a wall of isolation between her and her mom. Intellectually she knew the phobia was powerful but emotionally she felt like her mother was just being 'stubborn'. Previous attempts to lure or drag her out of the house had failed miserably. After that, she just threw up her hands and gave up. Now it looked like Jan was about to open the same old wounds. Next she would attempt to 'help' her too. It's what well-meaning compassionate people do. Ultimately Mrs. Byers decided that it was unfair to let the issues between them affect her mother's relationship with Jan and Marcus. "Well, I'm sure your Grandma would like to see the two of you again. The last time we were there, Marcus was just a toddler and you were only a baby. I'll call her and see if she would like some company this afternoon. If we go, both of you must be on your best behavior. She gets highly agitated if anyone tries to talk her into going outside, or if you leave the door open too long. Those are the rules, ok?" Both nodded in understanding. Mrs. Byers called and had a short but cordial conversation with her estranged mother about the proposed visit. Once the details were agreed upon, the family loaded up the car and drove across town to Grace's quaint childhood home. Mr. Byers was silently impressed that his daughter had sweet-talked his wife into visiting. He had only been to his mother-in-law's house three times, himself. It was a sore spot with his wife to even talk about her. In only a handful of sentences, his daughter had managed to rebuilt some of those long-ago, burned bridges. Once at the Burns residence, Mrs. Byers reminded everyone again about the sacred, non-negotiable rules. She nervously rapped on the front door panel and waited for it to open. As if on queue, the door flew open wide and the whole family bound in like precision clockwork. The house was meticulously clean. Everything was just as Grace remembered it. There was no new furniture or furnishings. Her mother could never leave the house to buy any, nor could the delivery people rush through the door fast enough to avoid triggering her paralyzing phobia. It was a house locked in time. The kids looked around and drank in the atmosphere while Grace and Alan made uncomfortable small talk. Regardless of the initial friction, Mama Burns was thrilled to get to see her grandchildren again. Receiving school portraits once a year in the mail paled in comparison to having personal visits. After the initial ice was broken, both Grace and her mother began to relax and speak of old memories. Time had passed and both women were much more mature. The had grown to better accept the situation for what it was. The battle of wills was mostly over and things softened significantly between them. Life was too short to hold resentments or grudges. All in all, it was a very productive, healing visit. As if to make up for lost time, the family started visiting 'Mama Burns' on a regular basis. Over time, the old woman's eccentricities started to fade in importance. She would bake Markus and Jan cookies or watch old movies with them. She even participated in the pillow fortress games they played in the attic. When the kids asked if they could spend the night there on a summer vacation sleepover, Grace cautiously approved the request. It seemed harmless enough and it allowed them to bond during her mother's remaining years. Perhaps it would be therapeutic for all of them. The old house grew warm in the summer months and it's aged air conditioning unit was overworked. Jan made the mistake of asking if she could open the upstairs window. Mama Burns swift reaction caught the children off guard. Up until that point, they had treated the requisite rapid entrance and exit through the front door as a kind of fun game. It seemed harmless enough. Their other grandmother forbade them from wearing shoes in the house and using the 'fancy' guest towels. The 'door thing' just seemed like another household rule but her overreaction to the window request was different. For the first time, they saw 'the other side' of Grandma Burns. The one their mother warned them about. Almost as quickly as she had snapped at them, she calmed down and attempted to down-play her manic reaction. The kids mostly shrugged it off. In the end, it wasn't worth making her upset over. They just turned on the fan to cool off the room. All was smooth sailing again until Marcus spotted a large gray tomcat on the upstairs window ledge. It was looking directly at them through the curtained glass. "Hey Grandma, how did this large gray tomcat climb all the way up to the windowsill?"; He shouted down to her in the kitchen. "That must be at least fifteen feet straight up." A loud crash of dishes breaking downstairs erupted in the night air. Grandma Burns raced up the steps in a breathless panic. "Do NOT open that window under any circumstances!"; She screamed as she scaled the steps two-at-a-time. Then as she reached the threshold of the bedroom, she repeated herself again; with only a slight decline of fear in her voice. "How did it get up...." She cut Marcus off mid-sentence. "Never mind that! You can see it? You can see the big tomcat? Tell me what he looks like. Describe him to me." Both Jan and Marcus nodded nervously. They could see the large gray feline as it perched gracefully on the narrow ledge but were very confused by the odd question. Why would she ask such a strange thing and did it cause her to drop dishes on the floor? Of course they could see it. Marcus finally understood his mother's prior reservations about her. Even Jan could see she was acting unstable. "Yes Grandma. We can see it. He's very large, gray and has white feet. Oh, and he's missing part of his left ear. I guess he's been in a fight or something." Grandma Burns lip began to tremble in raw, vindicated emotion. The additional detail about the missing part of the cat's ear was the final confirmation she was seeking. They COULD really see it! "Children, I have a dark confession to make. That damn tomcat died 30 years ago. I killed it myself. I got angry that it kept fathering kittens around the neighborhood but it's owner wouldn't have him fixed. I'm ashamed to admit that I captured it in a pillowcase and tossed it into a nearby creek to drown. It's restless spirit has haunted me ever since. I know it is waiting to get its revenge on me as soon as I step outside or open the door. You mother could never see it and thought I was going crazy. She tried to get me to take anti-anxiety and hallucination pills. You don't know how relieved I am that you can actually see it too. All these years I thought my guilty conscience was just terrorizing me for my evil deed but both of you can see it! I don't know which is worse. To be haunted by a phantom feline or to just go crazy from the guilt. At least now I know he's really out there waiting to get inside." The cat remained on the window ledge while directly eyeing Mrs. Burns. It clawed the glass passively. Fearing it might fall and harm itself, Jan instinctively went to open the window. She was too young to put much weight into the confession or its terrible implications. Grandma Burns eyes were wide-open with pure, gut-wrenching terror. Not knowing what to believe, Marcus froze in confused indecision. Unfortunately Mrs. Burns was also too far away to stop her. As soon as the window was open enough for the cat to squeeze through, it bound in and pounced down on the floor with a graceful plop. Making a beeline straight for the object of his long quest, the cat sprang off the floor and leapt into the air with a singular purpose. After the kids calmed down enough to speak, they gave the detectives a nearly identical account of the fatal attack. The powerful animal sprang up and attacked Mrs. Bates before she could react or defend herself. A room by room search failed to find the feral beast but the medical examiner confirmed the method of death was consistent with a small feline attack to the jugular veins. Contagious disease experts were called in to take wound samples for possible rabies quarantine analysis. The kids were taken to a mental health trauma center to help them deal with what they had witnessed. For the first time in more than twenty years, Mrs. Bates left the relative security of her shuttered suburban home, by the coroner's wagon.


We sat there quietly on the black sand for perhaps ten minutes. Neither of us saying anything. We'd come two long hours and spent a weeks rations to see this. "It's so dark," that was the only thing he could think to say, I suppose. "I told you that you wouldn't like it." I said to him, trying to sound like this was all no big deal. I knew I'd have to explain it all to him one day, but exactly how do you start a conversation like that? "I didn't know it would smell this bad. Did it smell bad before too?" He looked so curious. I don't know why I expected him to be angry, he'd never known different. "No. It used to smell very nice. The wind would blow in over the waves and you could close your eyes and imagine *being* the wind and soaring for mile after mile over the water." Something in my throat knotted up and I stopped talking before I began to cry. "Does... does anything live in there now?" he asked. "No. Nothing lives there." I told him. We stood in silence awhile, just looking. The breakers rolled in with a sickening sound, like an old man eating without his teeth in. They slid back slowly- leaving thick, black, oily streaks behind. After a short time he said to me, "Still, it sounds really nice. I wish I could have seen that." I felt my heart jump in my chest at that. "Me too, son," was all I could manage. I seldom took him outside because I didn't know how to explain all the wrong that had come before him. I tried to avoid a million questions I didn't know how to answer by keeping him safe inside The Dome. “Daddy?” he asked, “What did flowers smell like?” It took awhile before I could answer. You just can't explain certain things. What does red look like? How does a tomato taste? How comforting is a father's hug? What does a flower smell like? “There were lots of kinds of flowers,” I spat out, hoping I'd know how to finish. “They each smelled different in their own way.” “I've never even smelled *one*,” he told me. “I know, son. I know.” I clasped a hand on his shoulder and he hugged my waist. I felt his chest heave and his shoulders begin to hitch up and down. I crouched down on my haunches and looked into his watery eyes. “Remember when mama used to hold you and sing to you when you were a little guy?” I asked. His chest heaved again, and he took a second to calm his breath and beat the tears back. “Kinda,” he said. “I remember her... but most times it's just her face.” “She was very pretty,” I said. This not so much to him but out loud to no one in particular. “She was,” I heard myself in his voice for the first time ever. “You remember that much?” I asked him. My heart was breaking in my chest. I never should have brought him here. “I remember... I remember her singing to me,” he said. He hesitated and I almost persisted but then he continued, “It was so pretty but...,” his throat tightened up and he stopped. “But you can't remember the words?” I asked. He broke then and threw his arms around my waist as he sobbed. “I CAN'T!” he heaved and struggled against me as the pain poured out. "I can't either," I promised him. That was a lie. “Shh,” I whispered. “Just calm yourself.” I told him. “What else do you remember?” “She would would hold me and explained how it would be like this forever and told me it would be okay,” he said through his tears and in between sobbing breaths. “It's not okay though! Nothing is okay!” he was getting angry now. It was about time. “What else do you remember?” I asked again. “About her?” he seemed confused. “About her,” I confirmed. “She...” he trailed off. I watched his eyes gaze off blankly into the dark expanse before us. After a few moments he raised his head and looked into my eye- tears still welling up in his own. “Her hair,” he finally managed. “Her hair?” I could remember his mother's bright red hair gleaming in the sun. It seemed to deny our future simply by refusing to dull in spite of the inevitability of our fate. It shone in the face of the darkness we'd set before ourselves. He looked at me as if I were mad to even question him. I couldn't blame him. “Yes. Her hair. It smelled so good,” he told me. “She would hold me tight and I'd shove my face into her hair and it smelled sweet. Almost like when the matrons make honey-rolls for breakfast on the holidays.” “Almost?” I asked. “Almost. Not quite,” he said. “You remember that much?” I asked once more. “I do. I don't quite remember her face and I can't really see it," His face wrinkled just as mine did when I was lost for words. "I know her hair smelled like fresh baked honey-rolls.” He trailed off and began to cry again. I hugged him closer. “You know," I began, "flowers were just like that.” I told him. “They smelled like honey-rolls?” he asked. “Not all of them, and not exactly,” I said then. “But all of them smelled sweet in a way you could almost describe perfectly but could never get exactly right no matter how hard you try.” We sat like that for a few more minutes and watched the black, oily waves lap at the shore. After a time he spoke up. “I can imagine flowers that smelled like her.” he said. "They'd be pretty." His face twisted then and he broke down- sobbing uncontrollably. I put my arm around him then and held him while he cried. “You've got it just right.” I told him.


Stars I look up to the stars. They flash unbelievably beautiful across the sky and bring back memories of when I was only a child. I remember chasing Spicy, the ugly but lovable dog, across the field surrounding the tiny house we owned. I would run after him, laughing at the odd way he moved his legs until I fell upon the embrace of the grass. The softness of the leaves would brush against my skin, and the wetness of the droplets of water that permeated them would make me feel slightly cold. I would look up to the sky as Spicy fell on top of me, and dream of a life beyond my tiny, minuscule existence. A dream of a distant planet, where I could hide for forever with someone who loved me and live in perpetual happiness. We would have a tiny house, just like mine, in a prairie, by a lake. But I wouldn’t feel alone. I wouldn’t feel unloved. I would be whole. As you can see, kids are not very smart: there is no such planet. There is Earth. You might be familiar with it and, if that’s the case, I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t do anything to deserve it. Living is painful. Take me: what do I have? I live alone, in a tiny apartment, in a dirty city, with more than a few rats. Getting up every morning is easy, though, as the pulsating sound of gunshots outside my window makes sure to wake me up. Falling asleep is hard, not because of any sounds outside my apartment but, instead, because my brain plays with me, and keeps me awake for hours. I have a fertile imagination. A plethora of scenarios, from my own death to my ascendancy to the presidency, buzz in my mind as if I was inside a beehive. The hardest nights are when I imagine the planet with the prairie again. I imagine a different life, one that is kinder, gentler, and more loving. I wish I could stop doing that. Those thoughts are only wishes, dreams, memories of a non-existent present. Reminders of my ineptitude at happiness. I have a date tonight. Nervousness courses through my arteries, an electrifying force obliterating everything else, guaranteeing the sweatiness of my hands and the idiocy of my jokes. I’ve been on many dates, and every time I feel this way. Maybe I still have hope? Rationality has never been my strongest feature anyways. I am a dreamer, a hopeful at heart. I try to tell myself “Stop. Nothing will come of this and you know it. Stop caring.” Sweat continues to profusely leak out of every pore in my skin, and I sigh. There’s no stopping human hope; it’s one of our worst, sickest features. Hope makes people unhappy because of its lover: disappointment. And out of the love of hope and disappointment, more hope is always born. Which always comes with disappointment. It’s a vicious cycle, obliterating happiness and contentment at every step of the way. It’s humans’ greatest pitfall. It’s a scandal. A horror. A shocking disgrace. But maybe it’s also what saves us from ourselves. It’s what softens the edges of existence, and allows us to go on. If we were just content with the conditions we were originally given, there wouldn’t be cities. No roads, cars, TVs, computers, cellphones. No paintings, sculptures. No books, movies, poems. No language. No humanity as an entity. We would just be happy to exist, hopeless and content, surviving. Unhappiness is truly the key to the success of the human species. The date goes well. A kiss at the end seemed quite viable, so I went for it. It felt good. Time itself seemed to slow down, eager to observe. Suddenly the tininess of my apartment seemed unimportant. The violence outside my windows innocuous. The rats in the ventilation system friendly. Everything still existed, but all outside our kiss was trivial. The sex was good. Very good. Feeling the closeness of someone on that level truly made me doubt whether humans are really built as a standalone product. Whether some cultures were right in saying that we are built in pairs, and spend our entire lives trying to complete one another. Trying to find that perfect match, that inexplicable connection. And sometimes failing eternally. The thing is, this time, I succeeded, I felt it. Maybe the other half of me being completed, maybe the inexplicability of life feeling a little bit less dizzying as I wouldn’t be alone. That feeling was intense. Irreplaceable. All-consuming. The stars look more beautiful than ever. The possibilities portrayed in their shininess are boundless. The imitability of their beauty is infinitesimal. Their eternity certain. They bring structure and perspective to my otherwise chaotic life; the mundaneness of my problems is made clear by their condescending glimmer. In this moment, they are the only reminder I have that the heart-wrenching way I feel is actually unimportant. It is inconsequential. Insignificant. The universe is so vast, so ungraspably infinite, that our lives on this tiny planet cannot be more than a footnote in history; they are essentially meaningless. And yet the connection I felt seemed to defy the universe’s imposingness. It was an explosion of energy in my life, one that could rival the massive giants burning millions of light-years away. The big-bang itself seemed less impressive now. Our connection was like an inflection point in time-space, a unique moment in the history of the universe. The center of all timelines. The bastion of all that is good and beautiful in an otherwise bleak world. The beginning and the end of life itself; a coil in the fabric of time. It was my meaning, my purpose. It was over within the year. Parting ways was one of the most painful things I have ever done. My heart had been taken from me, and suddenly it was shoved back inside my chest cavity. Every artery, every vein, reattached a bit incorrectly, a bit off. A universe upended. The meaning of my existence seemed to have ceased to exist. I looked up to the stars and searched for a different meaning. I looked desperately into the vastness of the universe and was unable to find one. We are too small, too insignificant. We are bound to futility. It took a while, and a lot of pain, for me to understand that meaning is just another human invention. There’s the wheel, computers, doors, light bulbs, and meaning. We cannot possibly find an intrinsic meaning to our existence if we are the origin of it. Meaning flows from within humanity and changes significantly over time, as we do. We should not be doomed to perpetually seek an extraneous answer to our existence; we can create our own meaning. I have begun to find that much more powerful than a predetermined answer. Much more impactful than a higher-power-given purpose. Human-given purpose is what now guides me. I look down from the stars. Today they are a reminder of the improbability of my own existence, of how remarkable I am. Of the mastery of my destiny. Of my aptitude for living. I feel good, I feel powerful. I feel whole. Living is hard, and life on Earth is hard, but I don’t resent it anymore. The hardships fuel me instead.


The roar of laughter filled the small apartment, drowning out the music playing over the tiny speakers on the laptop. The seven men sat squeezed together in the living room, flanked by presents and drinks. There was extra room for them to sit at a more comfortable distance, but they chose to be squashed in tight. Knowing someone for decades made personal space norms a non-issue. “Who is number 5?” “Me,” said one of the men as he got up and straightened out his shirt. From behind, one of the friends got the attention of the rest and slapped him on the butt cheek. Laughter again silenced the music. “Hey hey now! I didn’t give you my consent!” the man said. More chuckles followed. Looking over the gifts the choice was obvious. One gift was wrapped in clippings of porn magazines... so far no one had dared to explore the contents within. Cheers and jeers rang out all around and in unison they are sang, “Porn present! Porn present!” The man sat back down in between his best friends, took a swig from his beer bottle and began to unwrap the gift. The crystal clarity of the vision began to tear apart at the edges and the image became steadily more and more blurry. This was always the worst part, he thought. The man screamed out in frustration, “No! No!” What was, merely seconds before, a warm, inviting room in Long Beach was now replaced with a new image; one of sadness. Hopelessness. Dirt. Stains. Trash. Steel bars on the window. The old man rubbed his eyes as the new reality settled. The party was over and only he remained. “Too fast!” he yelled at nobody in particular. The memorex drug was no longer what it used to be. The junkies around here couldn’t be trusted to make the pure kind. Or maybe his tolerance was too high. For the last 4 years, as his health deteriorated and his heart became weaker, he had been taking the drug every single day. He struggled out of the discolored bed and got to his feet. Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen counter, found the pills and twisted the top off of the container. 5 pills remained. He mumbled to himself, “What was in the present.. I.. need to remember..” Tears began to well up in his wrinkled eyes. “It was a knife, right? Or a survival book. I can’t remember... I don’t want to forget anymore.” He sobbed uncontrollably. The old man, with his hunched back and uneven feet, walked towards the bed. Already he could feel the new reality begin to set in. 5 pills was dangerous territory. There was no coming back, but as the walls and carpet began to deteriorate, he didn’t care. A small figure appeared before him. The gentle noise of a children’s cartoon played in the background. The past was the only thing that was real anymore. The little girl smiled at him. “Daddy! Daddy! Can you dance with me? I picked out a funny song!” His body made its final attempts to regain control, his breathing became labored, his heart slowed to a crawl... but his mind danced across the cosmos.


There are a lot of stories posted here daily, but barely any feedback. Stories can be voted down or not voted at all, but that is no help to a writer. The only way that a writer can improve their writing is through feedback. A story may suffer from many things: too much description or not enough description; too many dialogues or not enough dialogues; bad formatting or bad grammar; too long or too short; not enough depth to the characters or the story; lack of plot development; too much telling and not enough showing. The list goes on. No writer is, or should be frightened of negative feedback. And no one should feel that they might offend a writer if they give negative feedback. All feedback is helpful and should be welcomed. You do not need to be a literary critic to give your opinion on a story. The stories that are not voted at all or voted down without any feedback can leave a writer bewildered as to what they did wrong and they might draw a wrong conclusion about what was wrong with their story. So please leave a comment, particularly regarding those stories that you didn’t like.


My mother’s hands have always smelled the same from as early as I can remember. I didn’t realize that the odor wasn’t a natural product of her skin until I tried my first cigarette, after which I scrubbed my hands raw in realization. I don’t condemn smoking for the health risks; I’m disgusted by it because it is something that can make me more like my mother. I stay away from therapists and cheap coffee for the same reason. It was the summer after senior year and my curfew was set strictly at midnight, so naturally I came home around one a.m. every morning. I snuck in the back entrance of the complex so mom wouldn’t notice me from her perch on our porch balcony. There are six rooms total in our two bedroom, second-floor apartment, but mom never seemed to inhabit any of them. She was always to be found in the solitary, nicotine-stained plastic lawn chair on the back porch, double diamond black between her index and middle fingers. She had switched to the two-dollar drug store brand when she could no longer afford to buy Marlboros and still put gas in her car. She had given up on putting food on the table a while back– sustaining herself only on a diet of 7-11 coffee, cigarettes, and a cocktail of anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. She stayed on the porch all day regardless of the weather; during the winter months she would just wrap a filthy old quilt around her. She had the vantage point of the second story stoop, yet could not seem to see beyond the lit tip of her favorite vice. She never noticed when I broke curfew. I drove around each night that summer in my 2005, midnight-blue Jeep Liberty. That car made me feel invincible. I got lost on purpose every chance I could just for the rush of finding my way back home. My journey was never fully complete until I found myself at a starry-skied beach. While during the day I would much prefer a quiet lake over crowded shores littered with perfectly tanned and sculpted bodies, at night the beach was my paradise. On a night beach, you can hear the rush of the waves in perfect serene, silent bliss. Along the coast, away from the worries of the city, the stars can finally win their battle against the streetlights. I visited at least ten different beach shores that summer during my nightly Jeep cruises, all without aid of smart phone, GPS, or map. I felt like a primitive explorer, finding my way using only intuition and street signs. The self-satisfaction I got from exploring was its own kind of high. I had just come out of a long-term relationship, and for the first time in my life I was truly free to be alone. I did not yet realize how precious a commodity this independence was, and like a child given a fragile glass trinket at too young an age to appreciate its beauty, I broke it. I gave my new-found freedom to the very next boy to come along. David and I had started dating back in the eighth grade. Throughout the years, as other young romances blossomed and faded around us, we were the couple everyone could count on to stay together. We won the yearbook’s “cutest couple” superlative in a near landslide. What I didn’t know at the time was that I had no frame of reference for what a healthy relationship should look like. I ignored all of his flaws, thinking, “Who else will ever love me?” The façade ended in April of our senior year when he suggested that we stay together through the summer, then go our separate ways in September so he could “play the field” in college. In my first real act of self-respect, I told him to end it there and then because “I would not be involved in a relationship stamped with an expiration date.” I relinquished this self-respect when I begged for him to take me back two days later, and again at a party the next week when I had my drunken friends harass him with midnight prank phone calls. I don’t regret what we had. Dave and I practically grew up together, and the entire relationship was a valuable and much-needed learning experience. But, I do regret how early I put myself into a very adult situation. By the age of 14 I thought I had found the man I would marry and have babies with, and was not shy in the least about telling him this. In actuality, we were both still children. This fact took me longer than I’d like to admit to learn, but Dave had known all along. “Did you really think I was serious about marrying you?” he said. “I don’t even think I know what love is.” While I was exploring on those summer nights in my midnight-blue Jeep Liberty, I tried not to replay every “I love you” in my head, each antidotal evidence of his cruelty. When you date someone for as long as we did, you make an innumerable amount of memories together. After the break-up, every song I heard, street I drove down, person or place I saw – everything and anything – was a painful reminder of Dave. When Jason started chatting with me through Facebook one day, out of the blue, I saw him as a welcomed distraction. “Hey,” he said. “We have a lot of friends in common. You just graduated this year, right?” We exchanged cell phone numbers and started texting. I interviewed him carefully, asking all of the most important questions I could think to ask a person. Mostly, they reflected my newfound “single-for-the-first-time-ever” independence, which could more appropriately be labeled as recklessness. “Do you like the sand between your toes?” and “Would you want to live in Paris just for the romance of it?” At the time, those were the important questions. Shortly after we began talking, he invited me to his birthday dinner. “A lot of our mutual friends will be there and it would mean a lot to me if you would go,” he said. “I’ll smoke you up, too.” Shockingly enough, I had first tried smoking weed just a few weeks before. Dave had always threatened to break-up with me if I talked about wanting to try it. Jason picked me up in a rusty blue Toyota Corolla, the back littered with annoying political bumper stickers; from, “If you’re not a libertarian, you’re not paying attention,” to “Honk if I’m paying your mortgage.” I tried to wipe off my disapproving look before I got into the passenger seat. We made awkward small talk on the ride to the restaurant. When we got to the parking lot, he packed and lit a small, glass, hand-painted bowl. “We’re going to smoke right here in broad daylight?” I asked. “Yeah, I don’t give a fuck about pigs,” he responded casually. Something about his demeanor told me that if a police officer ever questioned him, he’d probably shit his pants. I lit the bowl and took a hit, imagining I was a dragon while exhaling. I didn’t let myself cough to seem more impressive. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw that he was staring at me intently with squinty black eyes. “What?” I said. “Nothing. I just think it’s sexy when a girl can smoke,” he replied. “Oh.” I didn’t feel sexy. I felt hazy, lost, and uncomfortable about being alone in a car with a practical stranger. While I was deep in thought about how the old me would never do something like this, I felt a hand brushing my hair out of my face and behind my ear. As I looked up, a wet pair of lips came into contact with mine, immediately followed by a tongue down my throat. I was too taken aback to stop it. The next thing I knew, we were in the restaurant, and Jason was telling his friends that he and I were dating. We were dating? Who forgot to tell me? I couldn’t find the words to stop it. It was like I was a mute bystander, or perhaps an audience member watching some cliché teenage coming-of-age flick. The character on the screen was a separate entity from me, and I had no say in her life. I made myself snap out of this delusion a few days later. I told Jason we needed to talk, and he came to pick me up in all his bumper-stickered glory. “Jase, I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I’m ready for another relationship just yet,” I said. “Just give me a chance, Em. I know I can make you so happy. We can take it really slow.” It has always been difficult for me to say no to people. I tried, nonetheless, to protest again. “Jason, I really can’t –” He didn’t let me finish. “I am so depressed, Emily. I hate my life and everything about it. I’m not worth jack shit, and none of my so-called ‘friends’ give a fuck about me. I was thinking about killing myself on the day I messaged you on Facebook. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. But you responded. You saved me. Please. Don’t leave me.” His words were a wave that crashed over me, pulling me in and obligating me to stay. He refused my offers to help him find a professional to talk to. My mom knows plenty of therapists, I’d say, but it was a losing battle. I knew I would be guilt-ridden if I left and he followed through with his threat. He was the riptide and I was the lifeboat; as I fought to keep him afloat, he drowned me. I grew to hate him. I hated his deeply misinformed political activism, equipped only with tacky bumper stickers and social media rants. I hated his manners, or lack thereof. He was rude to wait staff at restaurants, who conveniently could not speak-up for themselves without putting their jobs in jeopardy. I hated how he made racist comments about passerby on the street only while locked safely inside his Corolla. I hated his completely see-through “tough guy” attitude. I hated how much he bragged about his job at Chuck-E-Cheese and his grades in community college. Worst of all, I hated how he smelled. I hated how sweat pooled above his upper lip. I hated how he looked at me. I hated how he shoved his tongue down my throat, and I hated how he tasted. I hated that he liked me. I hated how I was stuck with him solely because I did not want to be responsible for him taking his own life. We never went on formal dates. He always picked me up late at night, drove to some vacant parking lot somewhere, packed a bowl, and attacked my lips with his. The cycle was monotonous and exhausting. He made me hate being alive. One night, he asked what I wanted to do. Excited to finally have a choice in the matter, I picked the one thing I loved more than anything. We set off to the beach on a long overdue midnight Jeep cruise. To my dissatisfaction, he insisted upon using an iPhone GPS app. We took highways instead of back roads and arrived much sooner than necessary. “Let’s sit and stargaze,” I said. “Please, Jase? Please just this once?” “Why don’t we put the seats down and lay in the back of the truck?” he responded. “Because I don’t have a sunroof so we won’t be able to see the sky. And I can’t get sand between my toes in here.” The beach parking lot was deserted. “Come on Em. I don’t want to get sandy. Let’s just stay in here.” Shortly after, the back seats were folded down and we were lying beside each other. He kept telling me how I was the only thing that made him happy. I wished my Jeep was a boat that could take me far, far away. Before I knew it, his tongue was back in my mouth. But this time, he was climbing on top of me. He was pulling his clothes off and trying to do the same to mine. “Jason, what are you doing?” “Shhh, just enjoy it. I want to make you feel good.” “But I don’t – ” “Em, relax. Just let the high kick in and you’ll be fine.” Again, I saw it happen like an audience member. Only this time, it was a very different genre of movie. I saw the clothes come off. I saw a condom being retrieved from a wallet. I saw my legs parted, and the distant stare in my starry brown eyes. I saw his satisfaction. I saw myself wishing that Jason had killed himself instead. When it was over I, alone, stepped out of my midnight blue serenity and walked until I felt the sand, soft and cool beneath my toes. It was far past one a.m. I looked to the moon and imagined my mother looking at it from her nicotine-stained, plastic, porch balcony lawn chair.


“John! John, please, wake up. JOHN! WE NEED YOU NOW!” “hu..? Janice? What the hell are you doing? Ger’off me!” “Oh thank the gods. John, we need to go. NOW!” “What? Why? I can barely see. Why are the lights out, Janice what is going on?” “John, the ship lost power. We’re floating and they’re coming. We need to get to a pod now.” The ship was designed to withstand anything. We could fly right through a star and barely have the internal temperature rise five degrees. So how did the ship lose power? Janice wasn’t telling me something but I had to follower her, if nothing else I could go back to sleep in ten, fifteen minutes max. It wasn’t a very big ship only a one million ton freighter whole thing only needed four crew members during transit and even then only for the first and last three months of the flight. “While I adore your ninja character cosplay can you please take a minute and tell me exactly why you woke me up, why the lights are out, and didn’t you say ‘they’re coming’ who is they?” “Shut up! They’ll hear you.” She hissed at me. She actually hissed. Like a gods damned snake! “You know what? No! What in the blazes is going on, on my ship!?” So much for anger management classes, oh well. “I don’t know why, but the ship lost power in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere. But we aren’t alone. There’s… things, now that… I can’t. I just… can’t” “Well thanks for clearing that up. C’mon let’s get to the bridge and try to at least get the damn lights back on.” On the bridge there is a switch for the emergency backup nuclear reactors but it was already flipped. The power breaker box was no use either it was completely destroyed; even the mechanical ship controls were toast. “What are you doing?” “If you listen to the vibrations of the ship sometimes you can hear if the life support system is still up and running. Now shut up for a second.” “How could it be? The lights are off, the food dispensers are off and our sleeping pods ejected us.” “And yet you talk. Anyways speaking of a good night’s sleep, where are Kristoff and Julia? Protocol clearly states that in the event of premature wake up, or total power loss, you go to the bridge.” “It got them.” “Please describe ‘it’ again? And last time you said ‘they’ in reference to this terror inducing fiend.” “Fiend is a good word for it. I don’t know how it got on bored but Kris woke up before me and it... it ripped his head apart. Jules, never woke up. It killed her while she was asleep in her pod. Now will you tell me how the life support system would still be on?” “Fan-fuckin-tastic. So what? You decide to wake me up so that I get the chance to shit my pants before I die? Next time, let me die in my sleep. As for life support, it has about ten billion redundant power supplies for obvious reasons and the only thing it powers is the air filters and internal temperature regulators. This is good for us because I just so happen to know how to rewire some of those redundancies to the engines and main power to get us somewhere safe, or at the very least to send a distress beacon. Now c’mon, life support is in the cargo bay.” I never liked going into the cargo bay, the great omniscient engineers thought that it would put too much unnecessary strain on the life support to pump air into it. Makes sense though, air in this volume starts getting heavy believe it or not and the crew doesn’t generally need to come in here so why make the ship heavier than it absolutely needs to be? “Here’s the life support console. Janice, come here and watch my back, while I reroute the power.” Time to just type in my password… presto! I’m in now to make the batteries think they need to power the whole ship instead of just life support and the backup power generators will start freaking out and turn on by themselves once the batteries drop to 45%. It’s actually all quite easy. Now it’s time to check on where we are and why I woke up early. Huh. That’s weird. The computer is showing Kristoff and Julia as asleep and normal, and Janice as… dead? But that can’t be right she’s standing… Click “Why did you have to go snooping?” “Janice, or who, er, whatever you are what do you think you’re doing?” “Ten thousand planets and no other forms of intelligent life anywhere so your kind stopped sending probes to check the soil. But planet ten thousand and one the miners dug a little too deep, and little greedily because they allowed me to hitch a ride on one of these here rocks on this here ship. And now I’m going to replicate myself ten million, million times and I’m going to destroy your entire species just because I can, just because I want to. Now it’s time for you and the others to die. Good bye John, thanks for the piggy back ride back.


Children tend to be neglectful of these toys. Some leave them on the floor while others set them in dark boxes or closets never playing with them at all. Most of the toys in a child's bedroom are safe getting treated that way, but there are some toys who will not stand for it. How do I know this you ask? Well, I lived it and now I'm typing this to share the story with you. May it serve to keep you from making the same mistakes I made in my youth. As a child, I like many others, had a lot of toys. Now electronics in my day hadn't quite become nearly so big as they are now. Computers ran Windows 98, people had CD's but most kids still had tape players, TVs had commercials and there wasn't a tablet or DS in sight. The Nintendo, Super Nintendo, Sega, and Game boy did exist, but they were fairly expensive. VHS players were generally kept in the living room and only there was the TV. Children read books, played with toys and outside on bikes, roller skates, skateboards, and an odd Pogo stick or two. To most kids in this time I'm sure I sound old, but technology grew so fast. Being a child growing up in a quickly booming technological world was a marvel to watch, but as with all things magnificent there are consequences. My problem started with the day my parents surprised me with a TV and Super Nintendo for my room. Until then I spent a good deal of time playing with my action figures, dolls, marbles, coloring books, puzzles, etc. but after I began to play Super Mario, Zelda, Star Fox, and many others I left my non-electronic toys behind. First I would still play with them a little, but as I lost interest I stuck them into a Rubbermaid tub and put them in my closet. Three months after I put the toys away I began to have nightmares of the toys coming to get me, and I'd wake up screaming which drew my parents to the room. They would calm down, say it was just a dream, and tell me if I picked my toys off the floor perhaps I wouldn't have bad dreams anymore. I tried to tell them I had picked my toys up but they were on the floor and I was an imaginative child so I can understand why they didn't believe me. I was terrified so I went to the library to see if I could find anything that might help with possessed toys. Back then there was a card catalog system which isn't as effective as the computer system there is today. That being said, I spent hours searching but to no avail; however, just as I was about to give up I noticed a sign in for one of three computer the library owned. There were one hour blocks marked off and a free computer so I signed up and received the pass-code to sign in. I looked for the next hour I was allotted, but it came up with storied of other people being possessed or of objects being possessed. I even tried looking up hauntings but nothing stuck so I went home. That night I had to put a chair against the closet door just to get to sleep, but it didn't help for when I awoke I found the toys spread all about the room with the closet door wide open. It was still dark outside but the clock said 630 am so I knew the sun would rise soon. I was afraid to leave my bed until it did but as it turned out I didn't have to because, as though it knew I was awake, I felt a tugging on my blankets. Turning I saw Emily right before I closed my eyes to pretend to sleep. The moving stopped for a time then a soft voice whispered in my mind, “I know you're awake.” I screamed once again calling my parents to my room tripping over toys only to find me in my bed alone save for Emily. They were good about it and told me it was okay to be scared, but I really needed to pick up my toys from now on. Then we all went downstairs and my mom started making breakfast. Emily was a doll with ginger hair wearing a green and white stripped dress with white stockings and blackish boots. I had gotten her one Christmas a bout a year ago. My family had went on a vacation of sorts. We had taken off at the beginning of the holidays and traveled to all of our relatives houses. It was special because they lived far enough away we didn't see them very often. I remember I met my cousin Leo at Aunt Cheryl's for the first time, but other than driving and a lot of legs and waists I don't remember much. There had been presents at every house but none of them had been Emily. I received her once we finally got home. The night we arrived back home my parents said it was too late to open presents so we went to bed and I remember counting mine to satisfy my curiosity. The strange thing was the next day when we opened them I noticed in the light one of my presents was wrapped in black paper. I had mistook it for red the night before but young as I was it didn't stop me from ripping there wrapping off to find Emily inside. Her name was written on a card taped to her dress. My dad asked who sent the present as I generally opened first and asked questions l;later, but there wasn't a name on the gift just my name written on the outside. Mom and dad just smiled looking a little confused, but there were other presents so I just kept going and didn't even remember the incident until today. “I wish I had never opened Emily's box,” I said aloud. “What? Emily?,” my Mom called from the kitchen, “Why?” “I'm not sure,” I said,”I just don't like her. I think somethings wrong with her.” “Well if she bothers you that much we can drop her at the Caring Hands place for needy kids,” my dad said, “ Why don't you go get her?” I ran up the stairs relieved to my room only to fall with a thump on the floor. I sat up to see an old teddy bear I must have tripped over so I kicked it. “Stupid bear!,” I said turning towards the bed and starting to get up yet as I raised myself I froze in terror. Emily was right in front of me. She reached out and touched me on the head and I heard the voice again, “Silly creature, lose me and you will lose your life. I am more than you could ever know. Perhaps you should visit Gretel Chambers if you don't believe me.” I fell dazed to the ground as Emily strode to the bed and climbed up to the mattress. I went downstairs and told my parents I couldn't find her, which they accepted. Then after breakfast I went out to the library to find a Gretel Chambers. The phone book was helpful only there were a lot of G. Chambers so I looked online. After an hour I found a nursing home address not too far away, but before I could close the internet out a librarian came over to let me know my time was past up. I apologized, left, and made my way to the Sunnydale Retirement Home to visit Gretel. They let me in, I think, because they were happy to have someone of the younger generation come to visit. Soon after I found myself across from an old lady around 80 or so with white hair, deep wrinkles, and dark blue eyes. “Mrs. Chambers,” I started, “ I have a question.” “Yes?,” she said in a curious tone. “It's about a doll I received for Christmas last year,” I said. “Was it a female with ginger hair dressed in a green and white stripped dress with white stockings and black shoes?,” she asked concerned. “Yes, do you know..” my breath caught in my throat. “It came in a black box with no label save your name on the outside?,” she suggested. “Well,yes but..,” I began but she interrupted. “It's cursed.” “What?!,”I exclaimed. “It's cursed,” she repeated, “ Listen, a long time ago when I was but a child I received the doll myself. I loved it, you know, but I grew up. In those days we had the radio and I would play with Emily while listening to the broadcasts, but then along came television. The more shows it had the less attention I paid to her, but it was not only that, I also had a bit of a wild streak. I'd sneak out at night, leave my room a mess, and wouldn't do my school assignments. It wasn't long till I began to hear the voice in the night telling me to behave, and saying to take care of my toys. I didn't sleep so well after that but I was stubborn, refusing to change. Then I began to grow weaker and weaker wasting away while the affliction began to age me. How old would you say I am?” “80 maybe 90,” I replied. “I just turned 45 this month,” she said dryly. I paused, shocked and she continued, “ I eventually drug myself from my bed and picked up my things. I couldn't do much at a time, but I guess what I could do was enough because I quit hearing the voice and began to grow stronger. I was still afraid so I decided after I was caught up on my schoolwork to get rid of all of my toys. Unfortunately I succeeded and that night she returned. She told me to check on Beatrice Summers for if I removed her again she would kill me. As it was she laid a curse upon me one year is two she said. I found Beatrice who told me a similar story to that I'm telling you only she was to speak to Bella Constance and Bella was to speak to Agatha and Agatha to Katarina from Katarina to Sarabeth and so on. I knew one day a girl would come to hear my tale just as one will come one day to you. Now, listen closely, this is what she is. Ages past a witch was a toy maker in the village, both of which names are lost, she always gave toys out to the children until one day when the hunt came. The great witch hunt, and the children sold her out which eventually caused her death yet before she died she sent her essence out in a spell to every toy she had ever made. These toys are very special for they cannot be destroyed. They feed on your very life force, but only if you're bad, and they only leave you once you become a teenager or once you mature enough to make the right choices whichever happens first. If she is with you now all I can say is listen and behave. Don't give her cause or she will suck up your life force and you will end up like me,” she coughed weakly and blood flew from her mouth into a tissue she tried to raise in time. I got a nurse, thanked her for her time, and went home only it was too late. As I entered the house my parents told me they had gotten Emily a better home. I cried bitter tears as they tried to comfort me, but couldn't. Finally I fell asleep and woke to Emily standing on my bed a dark look on her face. “One for two,” she said simply and since then it has been so. I think the life these toys take keep them alive somehow but I still don't know how they choose their victims, and I don't suppose I ever will. I am currently 23 and I look around 36, which although bad isn't what concerns me. What keeps me up at night all these years since she left is this. How much of my life did she take? How many years exactly? Gretel looked twice her age and I only look ten years over mine. Does that mean I'm going to die soon? If I do who will warn the next child? I typed this in case I do, and all I hope is someone reads it and understands. Someone who knows, as I know, how real it is before they make the same mistake I made.


********** **MOM** by Nathan Graham Davis ********** “Mom.” “Yes, Caelan.” “What’ll…” Caelan let his eyes drift to a chip in the wall opposite him, losing himself in the pale blue dicarbonene. Sweat pooled under the crude weight between his legs; he’d need to mop before inspection. “Something bothering you?” “What’s going to happen to you when I graduate?” Mom let out a sigh she’d been holding in for ages, despite her lacking the capacity to breathe. “You know, I used to think I was prepared for this conversation.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was more demanding than he’d intended, but he didn’t apologize. She appeared on the wall before him, the chip pocking her cheek, her chestnut hair framing her face in the way that usually made him feel at home. But right now, something was amiss. “Finish your routine. We can speak after you shower.” Caelan said nothing. He now feared more than ever the answer to his question and found himself wishing he’d never asked it. “Caelan.” “Yes, Mom.” Caelan shut off the scalding water. He reached through the curtain for his towel and dried himself, goosebumps raising the hairs on his red, raw skin. The hairs were darker now, reflecting other changes in his body, changes most foster boys welcomed as they awaited their 6,000th day, eager to discover what would become of their lives. He found himself thankful for the privacy of the shower. With nowhere else in the room that he could truly be alone, he dragged out the minutes beneath the water these days. He guessed Mom knew how he was using the extra time, but she never asked and he certainly never brought it up. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the stall, the floor robbing his feet of their warmth. “So you said we could talk?” He had only a few minutes before Lessons, Sport, and Contribution would consume the rest of his day and he couldn’t see facing them with his question unanswered. Not now that it he’d asked it. He opened the laundry machine in the wall to a blast of sharp-smelling steam. Mom faded in beside it as he took out the same pair of underwear that he’d worn since he outgrew the last one some 700 days ago. “We were never going to be together forever, Caelan. You must have expected that.” He had braced for such words, but they still gave him a tightness beneath the ribs and a swelling in the throat. He nodded as he slipped his underwear on beneath the towel, doing his best to appear brave, “You have to stay behind to take care of the next one.” “No, they’ll spawn a new Mom for the next child to ensure a true bond. When you graduate, I’ll be placed into sleep mode for two-thousand days.” “I won’t see you for two-thousand days?” His voice broke just enough to betray his distress. Mom paused and spoke her next words softly, “After the sleep period, when it’s unlikely our memories will be needed again, most Moms are decommissioned.” Caelan stood up straight and looked her in the eye. The towel lost its grip on his waist and crumpled to the floor, “What?” “We’re cost a considerable amount to run. The price of war is ever-growing.” “They’re gonna kill you?” “Please, Caelan. That’s too harsh a word —“ “It’s murder!” “I’m an A.I.” “You’re my Mom!” “Caelan.” “How can you be okay with this?” “My directive is to ensure you grow into a fine Citizen of The State and I do believe you’ll be a legacy of which I can be proud.” She offered him a smile. He didn’t return it. “They’re not taking you from me.” Her face became stern, “Mind your arrogance. The State has fed you, clothed you, and educated you since before you were 1,000 days. You know exactly how they would respond to such ungratefulness.” Caelan fought the tears that pooled in his eyes. “You said ‘most’ Moms are decommissioned. What about the others?” “Put on your uniform. The door will be opening soon.” “Mom!” “It’s okay, Caelan. This has always been my fate.” “Why won’t you tell me?” “Because it rarely happens. On occasion when a graduate is assigned a Class One role, they will negotiate with The State to purchase their Mom.” “Only Class Ones?” The hope was leaving his voice. “Put on your shirt, Caelan. I’m not asking.” She continued as Caelan reached into the laundry and pulled out his shirt, “The price is prohibitive for all but the highest incomes. I would never want you to bear the burden of that cost, even if you were assigned to Class One.” “You know I’ll never score that high.” “If for some reason you don’t — pants, please — you’ll make one of the best soldiers The State has ever seen.” “That’s if I choose to fight for them.” “Enough!” Mom paused just long enough to calm herself, “If you care about me at all, you will lose this dangerous attitude of yours immediately.” A bell sounded in time with a light above the door. “Put your pants on. Hurry.” The unit’s door swung open. Caelan stood outside it, grime from the day’s toil smudging his uniform. He took two steps forward and with the chime of a bell, the door snapped shut behind him, locking in place. “Welcome home, Beloved.” “Hey, Mom.” He took another step into the tiny, rectangular room, peeling off his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “Caelan, you know better than to —,” her voice rose in alarm, “What happened to your face?” His brow was cut open, a bruise already pooling beneath the eye. “Not right now, okay?” He fell to his bed, sprawled shirtless across the same sheets he’d used for as long as he could remember. Threadbare, frayed, and yellowed beyond hope, they remained the only thing that brought him comfort. The only thing besides Mom. She appeared on the wall by the bed, lying down beside him. “I can’t force you to talk, but you know it won’t stop me from asking.” He turned his head to look at her, then rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I gave a wrong answer in Lessons — a dumb one — and one of the kids brought it up later in the tunnels.” “You’ve got to learn to control your emotions, Caelan.” “I know.” “You won, I hope?” Caelan nodded. “It’s good that you didn’t show weakness.” “Why?” “You know why.” “I could win a hundred fights and it’d never make me smart enough to be Class One.” “You give yourself too little credit.” “Not being stupid isn’t the same as being smart.” “You could do it, you know. Be Class One.” Caelan let out a bitter laugh. “You have nearly four-hundred days before Exams.” “Mom, would you maybe just… sing to me?” “Like a lullaby?” “Forget it. I’m fine.” Mom smiled at her son, moved by the raw emotion of adolescence. “This was one of my favorites when you first came to me.” She opened her mouth and sang. Caelan closed his eyes as her voice washed over him, pure as anything he’d ever heard. As the song carried him back to more carefree days, he turned on his side and moved toward the wall, pressing his back against her image like he used to do. When she finished, Caelan’s eyes were still closed and his breaths were heavy. Mom took one last look at him, then faded out of the wall and darkened the room. “I’m gonna do it, Mom.” “What’s that, My Love?” “Make Class One. I’m going to save you.” Caelan thrust the weight above his head, then lowered it as he inhaled. “Give me another one. No more history.” He let out his breath in a burst as he lifted the weight again. “History is still your weakest discipline.” He lowered the weight and managed to grunt the word, “Fine,” before hoisting it into the air again. “What was the name of our ship’s second Captain?” “Jack Purcell.” “What was his most significant contribution?” Caelan brought the weight to his hips, “He conquered that planet with all the uranium on it… what was it called?” “Reitan. And no, that was our fourth captain, Evan Graham. Captain Jack Purcell was responsible for the creation of our class structure, ensuring that power would never be given to those who lacked the capacity to wield it.” “This stuff is impossible.” “Continue your routine, Caelan. There’s no sense in sacrificing your best discipline for your worst.” “That’s a harsh way of putting it.” He pushed the weight above his head again. “If you want my help, it’s going to come paired with my honesty.” “If I turn down the help, do I get to lose the honesty?” “I’m still your Mom.” “What is the Second Law of Order?” “Mom — not while I’m in the shower.” “You’re following thirty minutes of exertion with a period of relaxation. Your brain is primed.” “I don’t care.” “I recognize that boys your age have needs —“ “MOM!” “— but with forty days until Exams, you must decide if your private time is more important than how you score.” Caelan stood in silence as the water poured over his head. “‘To question a superior is to question nature.’” “Very good, Caelan.” Caelan jolted awake. He threw the sheets off his body and rolled to his feet. He spent a couple minutes stretching and shaking out his body, then reached under his bed for his weight. “Save your strength, Caelan. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.” Caelan lifted his eyes to Mom, who shone bright on the wall before him. “You think I’m ready?” “What do you think?” He stood and shrugged, “I think I’m nervous.” “But are you ready?” “This is the best chance I was ever gonna have.” “It’s been twenty-three days since you’ve answered a question incorrectly. Did you know that?” “Twenty-three?” “How’s that make you feel?” Caelan took a seat on the edge of his bed. “It makes me feel… ready.” Mom beamed at him, “It’s been such a joy watching your grow.” Her voice began to break, “I can’t believe it’s going to be your last night here.” And then she did something Caelan had never seen before; she started to cry. “Mom, it’s okay — I’m gonna come back for you.” “No!” She interrupted herself to wipe her eyes and groaned, “This is so ridiculous. I don’t even have tear ducts.” Caelan cracked a smile, “I honestly didn’t know you could do that.” Mom laughed, “Me either.” She composed herself and picked up where she left off, “Listen to me, Caelan — a Class One could build a home on a warm planet somewhere. Raise a family. Live for tens of thousands of days in happiness. That’s what I want for you. You can’t have that if you start out in debt.” “Mom.” Caelan looked her in the eye, his face deadly serious. “I’m coming back.” The unit’s door swung inward. Caelan took a couple slow steps into the room, his face blank. “Caelan?” Mom appeared on the wall, her voice bristling with excitement, “How’d it go?” The door chimed and shut behind him. As the lock clicked into place, his shoulders slumped and his bottom lip quivered, building to a tremble as tears streamed down his cheeks. “What happened?” He wiped his face with his sleeve, then pulled it back to show a freshly-branded “M” on his forearm. “I’m going to war.” “What? No, no — that’s impossible.” “I finished the physical exam —“ “You were ready for anything they could ask you —“ “And they told me that was good enough.” “What?” “I’m not gonna be able to save you.” His words came out as sobs, barely comprehensible. Mom’s eyes widened as the truth dawned on her, “They were never going to let you be Class One…” “I’m so sorry!” “They wanted you to study harder… to become indoctrinated… they wanted me —“ The wall went blank. Caelan lifted his eyes — “MOM!” He charged at the wall, “NO!” He pounded the unforgiving dicarbonene with his fists, screaming for her until his voice became hoarse and his knuckles became raw. The room was in shambles. The bed was overturned, its linens shredded. The shower curtain had been ripped from the ceiling and the door of the laundry machine had been torn from its hinges. Pale blue flakes littered the floor near the weight that Caelan had used to chip an inconsequential divot in the wall. The bell chimed in time with the light above the door and his eyes fluttered open. He lay in a heap on the cold floor where he had cried himself to sleep after working himself to exhaustion. He watched as a sinewy man of perhaps 15,000 days stepped into the unit, dressed in the stark uniform of a military officer. The man grabbed Caelan underneath the arm and helped him to his feet, “All right, come on. I’ve got you.” There was a hint of sympathy in the his voice, but it did nothing to ease the hate in Caelan’s eyes. The man glanced around the room, taking in the aftermath. He nodded, “Yeh. You’re gonna be a good one.


Rebecca swung her legs out of bed and blindly stumbled through what she could have sworn to be a sea of dirty clothing. She used her arms as if they were the sweeping canes of a blind person crossing a street, if that street was a bedroom and if blindness meant the light was turned off. It occurred to Rebecca as the heavy fog of sleep loosened it's grip on her brain that this was a lot of work just to use the bathroom. Finally reaching the hallway, she groped the wall in the general vicinity of which she knew the light switch to be. It took almost a full two minutes for her eyes to adjust to the new arrangement she had made with the bulb hanging from the ceiling. The lack of casing around the fixture wasn't making the adjustment any smoother. Rebecca wasn't materialistic, she didn't take much interest in the appearance of non-sentient, inanimate objects. When she finally opened her eyes all the way, Rebecca, still laden with sleep-brain, was taken aback by the two doors. *Only* because there's only ever been one door across the hall from her bedroom. The first time Rebecca had seen the Black Door, she had been rushing to get ready for work just as the sun was creeping up in it's early-morning way, and it had been half the size it was now, stationed at the end of the hallway on a blank wall. The apartment next door had been on the other side of that specific wall, so she thought it was quite an odd choice of the door to make. She thought this, of course, after she had finished having a panic attack that caused her to run to her bedroom and slam the door. She did *that*, of course, after having stared at the door for several minutes, wondering if she was having a psychotic break. There stood the brown bathroom door she knew and loved, in all of it's warped and cracked glory. Standing in contrast to the Black Door on its left, the *modesty* of it made it fit right in with the yellowed, peeling wallpaper it made it's home in. The bathroom door knew it's place, it didn't try to be something it's wasn't. It was subtle. It was dependable. It was for functionality, not for show. It didn't vie for Rebecca's attention like this-this-this *intruder*. The shiny Black Door was silently screaming to her, it's frame mere inches away from the bathroom door's frame and a full foot taller. It was desperate. It was begging to be opened. Rebecca could feel it's longing in the depths of her chest. She could feel the weight pressing down on her lungs, quickening her breathing, her heart beating faster in turn. She was fully awake now. She didn't know if this Door was real, and if it was, she didn't know what it's intentions were. Could Doors have intentions? She didn't know. There were a lot of things regarding the Door that she didn't quite understand, most of all it's very existence. Rebecca came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was ignore it. This is the second time she'd seen the door, albeit the first time being several months ago. Now she was absolutely sure that this was an issue that needed to be brought to the attention of a trained professional. She didn't feel any shame admitting that she needed help, there's nothing wrong with trying to improve one's self. This was the sort of mantra she repeated to herself as she nervously edged right, around to the left side of the bathroom door. If anything, this whole exchange with the Door only made her have to pee more. Once finished, she washed her hands and crossed the hall without turning around to look at the Black Door. Despite the rise in temperature it would cause, she decided to close the bedroom door. Once through the threshold, her bedroom opened left and her bed sat in the opposite corner. If she left it opened, the angle would be perfect for her to stare at the Door all night. Adversely, the Door would have a perfect view of her as well. However, all of these preemptive strikes didn't matter, Rebecca found. As she closed the bedroom door she snuck a peek and much to her surprise, the Black Door had vanished. ... After several weeks of cheap therapy, dwindling nightmares and no appearances from the Black Door, Rebecca was starting to believe the prognosis that she was simply 'over-worked and over-stressed.' It was almost laughable that she had been so frazzled by a *DOOR*. It didn't even *do anything*, she reminded herself. Which some might argue, is the most sinister bit about the whole business. She arrived back at her building thinking it all behind her, but something was making her arm and neck hair stand at attention as she walked through the first floor towards the stairs. The hallway seemed... off. Rebecca couldn't quite put her finger on it and she slowed her pace.. She furrowed her brow. The hallway was longer. She realized the hallway was longer and her breath stopped short, because it wasn't longer by much, there was only one...extra...door. Her ears rang as she sprinted past the door, shoulder grinding along the wall opposite so she could be as far out of reach as possible, her footsteps echoed like thunder off of the twisting metal staircase, her eyes scanned every door she passed as she ran down her hall to her apartment. She used shaking hands to desperately fumble with her keys and she looked back and forth, not knowing why she was so afraid, not knowing what she was watching out for, only thinking of getting inside and calling her therapist. After what to Rebecca like 10 minutes she finally got inside, slammed the door and fell against it with eyes closed. After a moment, she thought about what she was going to say to Dr. Werren. She knew how many apartments are in her building, of course she did, they're all numbered. *This* door, this door didn't have a number on it. What she couldn't understand, however, is why the door wasn't black. It was a gray metal door just like the rest of the doors. She wondered if it was even a Door at all, if maybe she hadn't just made a mistake and jumped to an irrational conclusion. Perhaps the number had fallen off. She thought that maybe she should go back and look at the door, she thought she owed it to herself to follow through on her therapists suggestion to rationalize fear. Rebecca stood, still leaning her weight against the door. She ran her hand through her hair, she took a few deep breaths. She wasn't so proud that she couldn't admit that a few nervous, relieved laughs escaped. She probably looked like a crazy lady. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sharp rapping on the very door she leaned on. This startled her but she knew the human interaction would re-ground her in reality. As she simultaneously asked who it was and turned around, she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that erupted not a second after her eyes fell upon the Black Door. The front door to Rebecca's apartment was gone. In it's place stood the Black Door, holding the same dimensions as the space's previous occupant. Hand still over her mouth, Rebecca slowly backed away while tears formed in her eyes. It dawned on her that every time she had seen the Black Door, the hinges were visible. When one enters a room, the door swings away from them, into the room. She realized this means that whatever the Black Door separates, she was on the inside of it. It appeared that the Door had grown tired of waiting. The Door was no longer trying to catch Rebecca's attention, the Door was no longer giving Rebecca the luxury of ignorance. Rebecca lived on the 5th floor, the bottom panes of the tall windows were purposely painted shut. For the first time since moving in, she cursed herself for not spending the extra money on a nicer place. She didn't know when it had happened, but she now saw that the outside of the windows were pitch black despite it being the middle of the day. She whipped her head back and forth looking for any way out. Another quick rapping. Harder this time. Something wanted to be let in. It was running out of patience. Rebecca ran down the hallway to the opposite end of her apartment, which suddenly felt very, very small to her. She pounded on the wall with her palm, yelling for help, yelling for the police to be called. Ironically, this was the very same space that the Door sat in the first time she saw it. She yelled that there was a fire, she yelled that she was suicidal, she yelled that she was going to fucking blow all of you fuckers to hell, she'd kill you all. No matter what she claimed there was no response. No matter how long she yelled, nobody came to her aid. The Black Door sat quietly in place of her old front door, whom she missed dearly. She walked back and stood before it, almost in defeat. She wiped the tears from her face and considered sitting on the floor and staying there until she starved to death. Slow. Deliberate. *Knock.* *Knock.* *KNOCK.* Without having much of a choice in the matter, Rebecca strode to the door and twisted the knob.