On a warm April day, a sociology grad student named Alexa Castorini saw something strange as she walked out of the NYU library. A man, looking wealthy and debonair, was slumped next to a homeless child on the curb, just far enough apart to know that they were strangers to each other. Both of them were hunched over, crying in what Alexa later described as “exactly identical positions”, their movements synced, sobs interweaving, amplifying each other, becoming one. That vision became the foundational anecdote that Alexa told to potential investors, and it had such a potent effect that within months her research project was fully funded. Ten months after she cleared her funding goal, she published a paper entitled “*The Unfair Equality of Pain*”. The paper posited that human emotional pain and suffering is distributed in relatively equal levels across people, regardless of the objective severity of the problems being reacted to. Through a series of tests involving measurements of chest pain, cortisol levels, heart rate, energy, self-reported sadness, and myriad metrics that could indicate emotional pain and distress, Alexa found that her hypothesis was mostly correct. The studies, carried out on a diverse array of participants, showed that there was no contextual proportionality in how the human body dealt out emotional pain. A little girl who had a toy taken away by research assistants could feel roughly the same amount of emotional pain as a little girl who just lost her mother. An extremely rich, comfortable man could experience equal amounts of emotional pain when the stock market dropped as a single mother could experience when being evicted from her home. Alexa explained: the human brain has a severely limited idea of the hardships of others and how they feel, in concrete terms. It only knows how things feel in relation to its own past experiences. When test subjects were provided with examples of other people’s more severe suffering, they would act outwardly as if the knowledge made them feel better. In reality, however, their emotions remained largely unchanged, the intellectual knowledge of others’ problems paling in comparison to the physical experience of their own. Alexa became obsessed with this lack of context, and in the conclusion to her paper, attributed it to most of the world’s ills. In her words, “Why would a rich man help the poor when his brain and body are convincing him biologically that his problems are just as severe as anyone else’s?” Alexa’s paper became extremely popular, and in response to her newfound fame she locked herself away for two years. When she emerged, she had invented a device, implanted in the brain, called TEMPLE. It was a small, delicate grey tube, that emitted electrical impulses and was inserted into the brain through the nose with a technique that came to be known as “The Reverse Pharoah.” The purpose of the device was twofold: Firstly, the device gave *context* to the brain’s emotional response. Through a series of complex metrics and self-entered information about the user, TEMPLE compared the actual severity of their problems to those of others and distributed emotional pain appropriately, reserving the most extreme depths of feeling to those with the most reason to feel them. Many questioned the decision to make the rich and comfortable calm and happy while those with real problems experienced great emotional pain, but Alexa Castorini insisted that making pain proportional to Actual Hardship Experienced (AHE) was essential to the other purpose of the device. The other function of the device was to function as what Alexa termed a TEMPathy Machine. Instead of simulated empathy performed by human brains with limited access to information, the TEMPLE device offered a much more concrete and visceral way to walk a mile in another man’s shoes, so to speak. Two of the devices could connect to each other and induce the neural patterns and physical feelings of one participant in the other. Initially, Alexa had allowed this to function via each user pushing their finger to their temple simultaneously (hence the name), but after a few tests and prototype versions that she gave away to family members, she decided to make this process automatic in the newer models. Get within ten feet of someone also wearing a TEMPLE device and the two of you would swap feelings, whether users wanted to or not. Although the device was unable to replicate specific physical injuries or deformities, and could not transmit fully formed thoughts, it was fabulously effective at communicating how distressed another person was through actual *pain* and emotion. This was added to by the now-proportional pain that everyone was feeling--a rich man with relatively few problems could connect his TEMPathy machine to a poor man’s and feel a level of Actual Hardship Experienced unlike anything he had ever known since installing the TEMPLE device in his brain. Extensive testing was done with groups of volunteers, who were asked to live together in a closed location for a month whilst fitted with TEMPLE devices. The results were miraculous. People with low amounts of emotional pain felt the pain of those with high amounts, and lifted them up. There was no longer any way to escape or ignore the feelings of others! Even those who tried fell into great sadness in isolation and returned, with no option but to try to uplift the people around them. Within the end of the month, the amount of suffering was reported to be nearly equal among all participants. Being forced to feel how others were feeling was an incredible motivator, and after the emotional equalization process, the group performed unbelievably well in several group tasks and psych evaluations. On March 1st, 2022, the studies were published and the TEMPLE device went on the market. Instantly the death threats started to roll in, accusing Alexa Castorini of “emotional communism” and attempted mind control. People were outraged at the idea that they didn’t know how others felt, and that their problems were perhaps not as severe as others. They rejected outright the metrics the TEMPLE device used to determine the user’s Actual Hardship Experienced. Alexa attempted damage control in a series of press conferences, insisting that *of course* she wasn’t saying that people’s pain wasn’t valid, but that the machine uses all available data to simulate the correct pain level on the vast spectrum of human suffering, rather than relying on the very limited experience of one human brain. The press conferences were brought to a halt after an attempted tackle. Many in the research community attempted to defend her, saying the device was the next step to our evolution as a species--but the public outcry only grew worse as scientists pushed for the general public to utilize the devices. Alexa was forced to evacuate her NYC apartment due to the high volume of threats. Alexa Castorini’s disappearance was called in by her mother Rhonda on March 28th, 2022, at 10:21 PM. Rhonda said she would always call if she wasn’t going to be home before 9. Police were dispatched and searched the neighborhood, but were unable to find any trace of Alexa. At 1:16 AM that same night, one of the strangest events in human history occurred. Every single person in the entire world, young, old, sleeping, awake, TEMPLE users or not--began experiencing the most severe emotional pain of their entire lives. After the event, nearly every person said essentially the same thing: it was like they were dying, every single regret they had ever had tore through them, and they were unbearably scared and sad and lonely and their hearts ached with pain like they were being snapped in two. The phenomenon lasted for around 4 minutes. In that time, around 500,000 people died--some from car crashes, some from suicide, some from organ failure. People in cities reported that they could hear every single person in earshot screaming as loud as they could. Listening devices that were later accessed contained recordings of what sounded like the entire earth screaming in unison. Most people said that the minutes seemed to stretch on for eternity, and that they thought the feeling would never end. The phenomenon seemed to have no explanation. Then, three minutes after that, for a duration of 7 seconds, every single person on Earth experienced what was later termed “Conscious Death”. Experiences varied wildly and getting people to discuss what they saw proved extremely difficult. Most of the detailed accounts are from the researchers themselves, who were brave enough to write their experiences down. Some describe years passing, vast mosaics of screaming, flailing bodies forming great currents and eddies and tides, colors and memories, and suffering unimaginable. Some researchers spoke of nothing but unbroken expanses of deep red, stretching out in every direction. Some reported still having their earthly bodies, others looking down to see nothing but flesh and gristle and bone. One researcher named Ron Jacobs found no appropriate words in any existing language to describe his experience, and instead developed and wrote in the languages he had heard in the place he went to. When the seven seconds elapsed, there had been another 800,000 deaths, and the Earth and all its occupants sat in stunned silence for three days. The roads were completely empty, the cities were silent, and the sun shined on no one. The bodies of those who transitioned from Conscious Death to plain old Death sat untouched, until three days later when the world collectively staggered to its feet and began to clean up. On that day, April 2nd, four years after she had seen the child and the businessman crying next to each other, Alexa Castorini’s pale and bloated body was dragged out of the Hudson river, several handfuls of TEMPLE devices Reverse Pharoah’d up her nose and down her throat, spilling out like tiny metal maggots. The man who killed her, Roger Pill, was found in the river as well, a few miles downriver from where Alexa’s body was recovered. Police postulated that he was exposed to the blast of her feelings most closely and drowned himself shortly after throwing her in the river, most likely before the wave of Conscious Death hit. He had been the most prolific author of death threats to Alexa, going so far as to identify himself by name and state the murder method he eventually carried out, hoping to use her own invention to relish every second of her death. Nobody knows why the TEMPLE devices that suffocated Alexa Castorini magnified her brain’s death so drastically. Some posit that the devices used nearby radio towers as a medium for mass transmission, while others argue that the river water and the sheer amount of them inserted amplified the signal uncontrollably. Many were more spiritual about the event. Whatever the technical reason for Alexa Castorini’s final broadcast, the world was permanently changed after it--for the human race now had an answer to one of its oldest questions. Everyone who was currently alive had seen death through their own eyes. In the years following, the human race went through the stages of grief collectively and frantically, now knowing the horror that awaited it on the other side. Immortality became the number one scientific pursuit, and safety the near psychopathic-obsession of almost everyone. In those years past the experience of death, the human race alternately drew closer to one another in desperation and then pulled away in fear, until everyone was absolutely exhausted. Slowly, new theories emerged about what humanity had experienced at 1:19 AM on March 29th, 2022. New religions popped up promising answers, and salvation from what they had all seen. People did their best to forget. The TEMPLE device’s blueprints were locked away forever in some dusty and unknown vault, as were the researchers’ reports of their experiences. Years later, Rhonda Castorini, Alexa’s mother, was interviewed at St. Mary’s Hospital by Ron Jacobs, one of the few researchers still trying to figure out the Conscious Death Event. He was an old man now. She was in critical condition. He asked her what she saw on that night, and whether she was scared of going back there now. In response, she simply touched her finger to her temple. Suddenly he saw Roger Pill’s hands around his neck, and the icy waters of the Hudson swallowing him, and he felt an unimaginable pain and distance and fear, and then he and Rhonda traveled into the hands of death together.


Hello guys, I am a huge fan of H.P. Lovecraft and his work in general and being a hobby-ish writer he is also a big inspiration for me. I wrote this story a few weeks ago and I tried to keep it as similar to his style as possible. So, if you have some time to spare, feel free to read my story and share your thoughts. Moreover, english is not my first language, so if you find some grammatical- or spelling errors, let me know. Enjoy! \^\^  **The Estate** Free is the mind, that doesn‘t fear. Free is the mind that can go out at night, untouched by insidious rustling in the underbrush. Free is the spirit that knows no horror. These are well known facts and even if not fancied about occasionally, the sane mind will agree with me on these thoughts. A wise man once said: “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.“ Since this one grim night on the fields east of the woods near Salem, this fear is my horrid companion. Hitherto I haven‘t found out what slaughtered the poor farmer‘s family and desecrated their humble farmstead. I haven‘t found out what lets the soldiers disappear from their patrol on the forest‘s edge. I only know that this thing, the murderer, is nothing the human mind could comprehend. The abomination that stalks those lands, that haunts my dreams every night, was birthed from the rotting organs of a dying world in pits so black, not the holiest of lights could fathom. As a private investigator I have dealt with many cases of ridiculous to grim nature and having solved the majority to the satisfaction of the employer I achieved a modest amount of fame in my ranks. Thus, I was called to a very remote region east of a great town called Salem. The village, in which I had to investigate what was described to me as a strange kind of serial killer, was so exiguous, it didn‘t even have a name. It was just commonly referred to as the Estate. This dwelling‘s position was well remote, for its only connection to civilization was a small road leading westwards to Salem through the blackest and thickest of forests I ever witnessed. The Estate had a rather sad expression, consisting mostly of rotting farmsteads, meadows and an abandoned town square with a building which seemed to formerly have been a town hall. I arrived at dawn and although it was harvest season, the fields were barren. The mayor, being my employer, greeted me and guided me to the latest crime scene: A small farm in the north-east of the Estate, where a family of six had been murdered in the most bestial of manners. On the way the mayor explained the real reason, why I had been called to this dark place. I had to investigate the horror that roamed this place. Apparently the poor family was the third in a series of brutal massacres which happened in the Estate, accompanied by missing children, farmers disappearing, as well as soldiers killed and mangled which were supposed to protect the village. This horror had been haunting the poor people for about one and a half year and over the rime more and more families emigrated through the woods to Salem, moving only at day, when no cloud was in sight lest nothing and no one could hide in the shadows cast by a veiled sun. At the time of my stay only four families, including the mayor‘s, remained, and I was their last hope. My task was to find the beast and free the people from their shackles of terror. Then we arrived at the scene*.* I had seen husbands killed by jealous mistresses, bloated bodies which were disposed in rivers, but never had I witnessed vistas so disgustingly horrifying as I did on that doomed Tuesday morning. No earthly creature, regardless of every mental state, would have been able to bear slaughtering the wretched family in the way it was done to them. They were mangled in ways I will never be able to forget. The sane mind would instantly have fainted or gone mad, even the insane mind would have turned at once and fled from this horror scene, but I was beyond that. My curiosity overwhelmed the fear in my heart and I kept investigating the crime scene. Afterwards I proceeded to gather information from the few residents. The Estate must have been a flourishing rural town until the incidents began, forcing the inhabitants to cower away in their houses, praying to whatever god was left in those unholy times. At first the people suspected enemy spies or highwaymen in the forest and soldiers kept patrolling and securing the town. The common suspicion of an enemy attack waned as the first family was murdered in a dark, late autumn thunderstorm at night. They were brutally slaughtered, along with their livestock, akin to the family I had beheld a few hours earlier. Since that, the superstition arose about a supernatural being, a demon or spirit, that haunts the forest and the Estate, hunting men and slaughtering families in its bestial manner. Supposedly one was able to hear voices and screams in the forest at night, along with a metallic sound, like an old metal bar being bend or ancient gears scraping into each other. There were many speculations about the appearance of the demon and every description seemed to differ from another. Some talked about a huge bear like beast, that lives in its den in the deepest and thickest parts of the forest, others fancied it to be a winged demon that darts through the sky at night, travelling with the thunder of midnight storms and finally a few described it as a possessed scarecrow of abnormal height, with claws as long as swords, that stands on the fields at night, just to be gone the next day. Though the visual descriptions all seemed very vague, everyone agreed on the sounds the beast uttered. The screams seemed to be *mockeries of its victims*, mimicking their last words like a parrot. The noble city folk dismissed these stories and reports as superstition, which will likely turn out to be a pack wolves or a group of very brutal bandits. But for me, after my traumatic experience in the farmstead and for me being keen on ghost stories and supernatural beings, there was most definitely a demon at large and although I was terrified to the bones, my curiosity won once more and I took precautions to find the beast that night. One man, living relatively near the house where the first massacre took place, had told me during my interrogations, that he heard the demonic voices to an increasing degree near that very house and this suspicion was confirmed by some of the folk. Hence, I planned on spending the night in the ruin to potentially observe the phantom. Equipped with a thick jacket, my camera and my trusty revolver, not that I believed in being able to kill or damage the thing, but it made me feel safer, I made my way down to the abandoned house as dusk fell. The house itself looked ghastly and the weather had taken its toll on the building. Broken windows gazing like black eyes, the former fencing half sunken into the ground like tombstones on a graveyard long forgotten and still claw marks and dried blood, recalling the suppressed memories of what had once happened here. I looked around in the few minutes of fading sunlight that I had left and discovered a rather fresh trail of prints leading from the house to a dim part of the adjacent forest. They were *nearly round* and conveyed the beast to be limping. Moreover, the track were accompanied by what seemed to be t*hree parallel lines*, drawn by a claw that‘s been dragged through the mud. Sometimes the lines vanished, just to reappear again. With the sunlight waned completely, I set up my lookout. I chose the hayloft, which was stationed on top of the barn, opposing the house and thus granting me an optimal view. It was a moonless and cold night and the wind blew mercilessly through the brittle barn. After around two hours of waiting, while I was getting tired in the freezing cold, I observed something quite unsettling, which had me wide awake ad an instant. Near the forest, behind the house, there stood a *scarecrow*. At first, I thought I would be hallucinating. Why would there be a scarecrow standing so close to the forest and far away from the next field, where it could fulfil its purpose? And why hadn‘t I noticed it, when I was previously examining the site? These two questions were occupying me while I kept staring at that nightmarish figure, swaying in the nocturnal gust. What happened afterwards is hard to remember. Somehow I must have drifted off with my thoughts and Hypnos must have taken me into his dormant embrace, for when I regained my consciousness, I found myself lying on the floor and my watch just striking midnight. I will never forget the sound that woke me, until I find final oblivion in the hands of death. The metal creaking, the cawing of crows and this voice, this doomed voice that echoes in my head every time the sun sets and the cold, cruel darkness takes over. “*IS SOMEONE THERE?“*, it sounded in a manner so unearthly, it is impossible for me to describe it in our puny language. “*HELP ME!“*, it whimpered childishly. It was directly underneath me at that time and the creaking became louder and the hell swarm of crows rose their laughter to a deafening level. That is where my memory gets clouded. The last thing I remember actively doing is looking out of the window, in this pandemonium I had found myself in, and finding the whole edge of the forest barren, except for *three straight lines*, originating from somewhere near the forest and leading into the barn right underneath me. That was the point where I must have gone mad. I remember the pitch black fields, the mud in my shoes, branches and thorns tearing my clothes and me running and screaming like a pig being butchered alive. I was found by soldiers on the skirts of the wood near Salem with a fractured ankle, multiple bruises and a few broken rips. Luckily the doctor believed my story. I told him that I was hunting in the forest, got attacked by some animal and had to flee, breaking my ankle by getting caught in a root. As soon as I got out of the hospital, I quit all my mandates at once, explaining my sudden unavailability with a rare disease that I had recently caught. I didn‘t dare to tell anyone about the terror of the Estate and I didn‘t contact my original employer either. There are some things the world needs to have unanswered and superstition is important to keep the human mind sane in the face of the horrors that emerge from the pits of hell. As I said, I didn‘t and will never tell anyone about the thing. I know too much and I can‘t live in the absence of light any more, let alone sleep at all. Every time I close my eyes I see that swaying scarecrow, the house, the claw marks. Every time I hear a crow, a shudder runs down my spine. At last, I lost every reason to stay in this abomination we call life. These are my last words to a broken world and let this be a warning to every curious person out there. There are things man is not supposed to dig up, for they are destined to dwell in the dark, gnawing on the decaying roots of our earth. Let this be a warning.


My hand trembled as I gripped my key tighter, hovering a few inches from the keyhole. My mind was racing. How can I face them? What will I say when I see them? They have been dealing with it since I got the call, but I just can’t. They were always stronger than me, Why am I finding this so hard? My heart was pounding, my skin began to heat up. How can I leave them like this? How can I not face this when they can? The key plunges into the door and makes a distinct clunk. Within no time at all I am inside the house racing up the stairs. I pause on the landing. I can hear them from the other side of his bedroom door. The sobbing tears a hole in my heart. I feel my anxiety spiking inside of me. Every inch of my body is overtaken by fear. I can’t go in, I just can’t. Before I can decide the door bursts open, and my sister is standing in the doorway. Her makeup stains her face, obvious tear marks cover her cheeks. Her eyes are overflowing with tears. Her lips are trembling as she plunges into my arms. I can do nothing but stroke her hair and burst into tears myself. I grip her tighter as she leans into me. After a few moments, that feel like a lifetime, she pulls away and walks past me. She’s heading to the bathroom to grab some towels, I rush into the room, having absorbed some of her courage. I freeze when I see him. He is lying so peacefully on the floor, with my parents crying over him. Dad is trying to console Mum, keeping her head pressed tightly to his chest as they both cry waterfalls. Blood is pouring from his head, but it is distinctly calm, his heart having stopped moments prior. The gun lays a few feet away from his hand. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. I’d had nights in my past where I had imagined what I would feel in this exact scenario. Most of the time it was some sort of dread. Other times disbelief. But facing the real feelings here and now I realised I was wrong. The unimaginable pain I felt in that moment resonated into my being. Having entered that room I knew I wouldn’t be leaving it, at least that version of me. I felt all the life drain from within me. How could I keep going after facing this. How could I live without him. How could I think about him without seeing this. I felt pure anger bubbling up inside me. How could they do this to me? Letting me see him like this. How could he do this to me? How could he be so selfish to take the easy way out? The amount of times I thought of doing the same. The times I sat with him, all night, keeping him alive. The late night walks. The patient sitting on the beach. Always being on the other end of the phone no matter what time of night. How had I not been able to stop him from doing this? I had well and truly failed him and myself. How could I go on without him? My anxiety became overwhelming. I had never felt like this. The nothingness became everything. How could there be a tomorrow when the world has ended today? What was my next step? I had been stuck frozen to the spot, my legs became weak. I collapsed and began wailing. By this point my sister had returned after an eternity, she frantically began mopping up the blood, pressing it against his head, trying to save him? Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe he was still alive, his heart had just slowed down and there was still chance. As quickly as my hope began to skyrocket it was quickly crushed. Snap out of it. You know that is not possible. You know he is gone. Comfort her. As her frustration grew I reached out and forced her hands to become still. I cupped them in mine and then pulled her in, as she began to join my parents in trying to fill the room. Maybe drowning us would help make the pain go away? As foolish as it sounded it was comforting. I’m not crazy because we are all feeling the same thing. Or at least we should be. The numbness became too hard to push away. It’s easy. I can’t be devastated if I don’t feel anything. Why don’t more people do this? Oh, people do this all the time. Too many in fact. He did. I know he did. I can’t count the times we were enjoying ourselves, where hope seemed to be growing in him and then it would just wash away as quickly as the ocean’s tide. That numb feeling is powerful. I know the alcohol helped him but only in numbing the pain further. I felt how much harder it was for him the last time we spoke. The suffering dripped off of every sentence. The pain was in every syllable. He couldn’t carry on and now I began to know how hard he felt it. When not wanting to be alive is easier than living your life how messed up is that. How is that fair to him? To us? He didn’t take his own life, he took all of ours. It’s been five years since that day and every day has become a burden since. I feel my life began to mimic his own. The pain. The sorrow. The drinking. My sister’s creativity had died that day. Once a renowned painter, she couldn’t lift another brush. Not just from the pain of losing him but the pain from losing all control in her body from a car accident, after she tried to end her own life about a year after losing him. A year after losing him. How long ago that feels. My parents couldn’t handle their grief and became shut-ins. I know they miss him and what their lives used to be. What all our lives used to be. As I finished off another bottle my mind focused on statistics. He had just become another statistic. So had she. How can they have been reduced to something so simple and inhumane? How can my life feel so inhumane? How can I go on? I felt the pain from that day more so than ever. Well more so than every day other than that day. I thumbed my key again. I hadn’t used it since that day. I could barely look at it, I had only just found it today while digging through a drawer looking for a bottle opener. My hand gripped it hard and I plunged it again, this time into my arm. I dragged it hard and deep all the way up my forearm. I lost sight of it as my arm turned red. After a few moments I felt light headed and my vision faded. I slipped into the darkness. I let it absorb me. I disappeared. Another statistic. At least I was with my brother again. He looked happy. At least, I think he was.


“It’s official ma'am. You are no longer Mrs.Sakthi Rajan,” the lawyer said to me and handed over the divorce papers. Six months later…. In my apartment... “Neha, it’s late. Hurry up or else you will be late to school”, I yelled from the doorstep of our apartment. We lived in a 2BHK apartment in Ashok Nagar, one of the safest environment for residence in Chennai. “On my way, Mum”, Neha replied. After a few minutes, she came out of her bedroom, dressed up in the ironed uniform, all energetic and enthusiastic. She always has this charm in her eyes which gives me the energy to conquer this world every day as a single mother. She is the lighthouse of my lost soul. I dropped her off in the school in my motorbike and then went to an interview for the job of a primary school teacher. That was my twenty-fifth interview in the last six months. In a populated city like Chennai, where there were about one lakh engineers jobless, it was difficult to get a job. I tried all possible jobs starting from IT employee to even a receptionist, but I was rejected everywhere. My age, my qualifications and my lack of experience were a huge drawback. For your information, I was just thirty-one years old. I worked as a receptionist in a company for a while, but I was fired for my carelessness. Maybe those twenty-four rejections were for my own good, I guess because I wouldn’t have ended up where I am in my life, right now. Though I was overqualified for the primary school teacher job, I didn’t have a choice at that time. I needed money to support my child. For the past six months, my parents had helped me financially but I no longer wanted to burden them. In the principal’s office … “ Ms.Sakthi Kumar, I am sorry, you are overqualified for this job”, the principal said. He was in his late sixties and appeared to be a kind and a gentleman. But at that moment, that gentleman took a decision that was not in favour of me. I had to take my stance then because it was my last chance or else I might even lose my kid to the father. I could not lose my temper at that stage. So, I made myself calm and took the last shot. I said, ” Sir, This is my twenty-fifth interview. I had constantly been rejected for my qualifications or my lack of experience or my age. After all these rejections, I realised that I lost my identity by investing in someone’s. Now, I have to create another identity for the sake of my daughter at least. So please do give me a chance to rediscover myself”. He was silent for a moment and said, “ Which grade do you want to handle Sakthi? “ That night, I was looking at the Saturn through my telescope in the balcony of my apartment. The light from the planet soothed my nerves and made me feel calm. It has always been these stars, which are the medicine for my pain. We shared an unspoken bond between us. That’s why, my dream was to study about these stars. I got my bachelor degree in Physics, so that I can pursue astronomy. But, I didn’t have the resources to study astronomy back then and it was impossible for an Indian woman to stay single after the age of twenty-two .After divorce, it didn’t occur to me to continue pursuing my dream until the chitchat with that one special person. you will get to know the person in the later part of my story. One year later… In my school, somewhere near the playground, during the lunch break… “ Ms.Sakthi , could I have a minute ? “the principal asked. “Sure sir, what is it ?“ I replied. “Meet me in my office, after the class gets over in the evening, “ he said. “Any important news,Sir?” I asked. “ you will know it soon”, he replied. Then he left. The remaining classes went as usual after lunch. After the class got over in the evening, I went to meet the principal. I had no clue what was about to come. I knocked on his door. I heard him saying “ Come on in” from behind the door. So, I got in and wished him. He wished me back. Then he asked me to take a seat and continued,“ How are you ? “. I couldn’t understand what he actually meant. So I replied, “ I am fine, Sir.” He remained silent. I got anxious and asked, "Is there any bad news?” He was silent again. It made me even more anxious and I asked, “ Are you going to fire me?”. This time he replied laughing, “ No! Absolutely not! You are one of the best teachers here.” I felt relieved but at the same time as a fool. Then he continued “Now, I want an answer for my question, my child” I said,“ Sir, really, I am alright as I told you before”. But I know deep inside that I was bluffing. Yes, I was not alright. Daytimes went by real fast with Neha and school. But, in the nights, after I tucked Neha into bed, everything went haywire inside me. Every nerve, every bone in my body felt an irresistible force caused by this huge void in me like an actual black hole, sucking out the life in them. I only slept two hours a day. Neha did cheer me up for some time but the fact that I had to let her go one day made it even worse. Even her light couldn’t save me from losing myself into this void day by day. Therapy was of no use. Sometimes I even stayed up all night looking at the night sky. They had always made me feel better. Those stars were the only support for me against the gravity of the void inside me. I knew it was like fighting the lion with a stick. But those stars gave me the strength to wake up everyday morning. “Sakthi, are you really okay?” the principal's tone was insistent this time. I couldn’t lie to him thereafter. So I said the truth,“ No, sir”. I felt like the hell was let loose inside me after saying those words. I couldn’t concentrate anymore. We both remained silent for a while. Then he broke the silence. He said,“ what are you going to do about it ?” I remained silent as I didn’t have an answer for that. Then he said,“ My child, I think you should take break, from all the responsibilities, from the world. Make a trip to someplace you like to discover yourself” I replied, “ Sir, but, I cannot leave things just like that. I have to take care of Neha.” He said,” Neha is a teenager now. I think she can take care of herself. Or else leave her to your parents. They will take care of her. Other adjustments can be made. Your salary will not be reduced as you will be going in medical leave. So, just let it go. “ The idea sounded pleasing but I felt uncomfortable about the trip. It was just an insane idea to leave all the things that mattered to me and fly away. He understood my discomfort through my face. So he enquired, “ what is it ?” I said, “ don’t you think, the idea is immature? You are suggesting me to just leave things and fly away like a youngster” He replied, “ do you remember what you told me in the interview that day when I said that you were overqualified for the job? You said that you wanted a chance to create an identity for you with so much determination. Only that determination of yours got you the job that day my child. Now, it is all missing in you. You are living just because you have to live. I have seen you eating your lunch in the staff room, so lost and unhappy, like your life was going to end after the lunch. And that’s not how one should live his life. Where is all that determination? Where is all that passion you had? ” I couldn’t reply for this question and again I became silent. At that moment, I realised that I had completely lost myself into the void and I had to take a break to discover my way back to normal. Also, the thought of taking a break made me feel hopeful in a long time. He sensed the change of mood in my face. His smirked and continued,” Now get out of this office and go find yourself”. I smiled. I greeted him and stood up to leave. But, I wanted to ask this one question to him or else it would keep on nagging me. So, before I reached for the doorknob, I turned around and asked the principal, “ Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?” The principal replied,“ My child, it’s because that I had also been in that situation. If I had taken this decision at the right time in my life, I wouldn’t have lost fifteen years of life. But I was too absorbed in my responsibilities to take care of myself. So, just take a break .” That day, he became the saviour of my life for the second time. Then I said with a smile, “Sir, I am going on medical leave. The requisition mail for the leave will reach by tomorrow morning .” He exclaimed, “ That’s the spirit my child!” Then we both smiled and greeted each other. I opened the door and left the office. He began to continue his work. He usually leaves the office by 5 pm. Then I went to home. I discussed my decision with my parents and to my surprise, they supported my decision without any resentment. That night, I slept for four hours. A week later…. “ Neha, take care of yourself. Don’t trouble grandpa and grandma. I will be back in two weeks” I said. “ Take care mum. Be safe”, Neha replied in all glow and smile. I could give anything for that smile of hers. Neha, my love. Then we hugged each other. It was really difficult for me to leave her. But I have to do so for both of us. I can not continue like that with that void inside me. It might even affect my relationship with Neha. I had to leave, got myself better and returned to Neha as a better mum. “ Take care, darling”, my mum said. My dad hugged me. I loaded my dad’s SUV with the essentials for the trip and got in the car. I inserted the key in the keyhole and the engine revived. I bid them goodbye and pulled the gear. I had decided to go to Bangalore and spend some time there . So, I took the Bangalore highways. I stopped only at the petrol bunks for filling the fuel tank and to get some food. Sometimes I was listening to songs on the radio as I decided not to carry my phone with me or I was listening to songs in my iPod through headphones , to pass the travel time. I was also very worried about Neha. At times, I thought of returning, but the principal's words gave me the spirit to go on. After twelve hours… I didn’t know how I ended up in NH 16. After I reached Bangalore, I didn’t want to stop driving. I just wanted to go with the flow. I liked the wind hitting my face. I liked its smell. It made me feel better. So, I continued to drive. After two days… Hunger or sleep couldn’t stop me from driving. I didn’t bother to call up my parents to inform my whereabouts anymore. In fact, I even stopped thinking about Neha. I hardly took a bathe. I still don't know what gave me the courage to take such a risk to travel so far alone. I was so lost that the distance wasn’t a matter anymore. After four days… I was driving relentlessly. Nobody could have stopped me on that day especially. That night, I was listening to a classic Elvis Presley song my iPod, "ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?" The first paragraph goes by the verse, “Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart? Does your memories stray to a brighter summer day When I kissed you and called you sweetheart? Do the chairs in your parlour seem empty and bare? Do you gaze at your doorstep and pictured me there? Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again? Tell me, dear, are you lonesome tonight?” After the first paragraph, I felt the heat of the tears welling up in my eyes and I felt a pain in my throat .Then for the second paragraph, I was crying so hard. I was slowly starting to lose my breath because of crying for a long time. My eyes were burning as it went dry. My hands were going numb. I hadn’t eaten in days and the headache as increasing rapidly. I began to feel very weak. I couldn’t stop anywhere because it was midnight. So, I kept driving and crying. That night it was the first time, I ever cried about anything like that because of the pain which was dwelling inside me for more than a year. After divorce, I was running so badly to get things settled for Neha and I, that I never really cared about the pain caused by the separation. I never cried about it once because I wanted to stay strong for Neha. But the pain did created this void inside me . In addition, the fear of leading the rest of life alone after Neha had grown big, made it even worse. So, this time, I didn’t try to stop the tears like I was doing for the past one year. Later, I realised that crying only made me stronger. Now, I never stop my tears After five hours of this meltdown, I opened the window and got my head out of the car to get some fresh air. Above me, I saw the stars which were shinning their fuel out selflessly to give light to its planets. From the age of twelve, those stars have been a part of my sorrow and happiness than anybody else. Now, I make a livelihood with the help of those stars. I remember how I fought with my mum for getting me a telescope and I had carried it with me to the trip. A few more hours later, I saw the most beautiful sunrise of my life. I saw the sun rising above the horizon filling the sky with its yellowish-orange light and my heart with awe and peace. Soon the pain and fear inside were overshadowed by the sunlight. Then my relentless driving came to an end. Nobody, not even Neha knows about this dark four days of my life. The world still believes that I went to Bangalore. Everything came to senses for me then. I couldn’t recognise my surroundings. It was all filled with tall green trees on either side of the road. I couldn’t see a human settlement until evening. In the evening, I saw a village in the far end. I got there by half an hour. When I got into the village, I stopped by a local teashop and asked the chaiwallah about the place and directions for a hotel to stay. He looked like he was in his late forties and it was my luck that he was able to understand and talk Hindi because various states of North India have various dialects and the locals of these states hardly knew Hindi. He said that it was a village in Kamrup district in Assam and to my surprise, he offered me to stay in his house as there were no hotels or lodges to stay. It seemed that I had to travel another hundred kilometres to get to the main city, Guwahati, to get a hotel to stay in. I was confused whether to accept his help. He sensed my confusion and said that it is almost like a tradition in their village to offer help to the tourists like me who travel by road and reassured me that his intentions were pure. I really didn’t think about the consequence of staying in a stranger’s house. I just wanted to go with the flow just like the stars in the night sky. Then he took me to his house. The houses in Assam are known as Ikra house because they use a weed named Ikra in the construction of walls and roofs, which is commonly available in the locality. The chaiwallah's house was a single storey building mostly made of wood materials. His house was identical like the others in the surrounding. When I went inside the house, I was warmly greeted by his wife and his three sons. The wife appeared to be in her late thirties and the three beautiful kids were around the age of ten to twelve. Those kids reminded me of Neha. She would have loved this place. It was almost night when I got settled in the house. Their house had a hall, a kitchen and there were no rooms to sleep. They usually slept in the hall. So, I had to sleep with him in the hall. We had rice and lentils for dinner, my first solid food in four days. Though they had no riches, they were as happy as a rich family. Then we all settled for the night. But I couldn’t sleep. So, I went out with my telescope to see the stars. For a better view, I climbed up my car and sat on its roof. After some time, I heard a voice from below. It was the voice of the youngest kid of the chaiwallah, Amarendar. He asked me with an innocent face, “ what is that thing you are having in your hand?”. The kid's Hindi was too bad that it was difficult to understand his Assamese mixed Hindi. I replied, “ it’s a telescope. It is used to look at the stars more closely”. Then I told him to come up to have a look at it. He came up and I showed him how to use it and I taught about how to look at stars. He learned them with so much interest and passion that I saw the twelve-year-old me in his eyes. Then he asked me, “ How do you know about all these stars? “ I replied, “ These stars had travelled with me in my journey for the past twenty years, through my sorrows, through my happiness. They are almost like my friends, like the ones you have in school. “ He interrupted me and asked me, “ like Bhupinder and Bhushan”. I nodded and then continued, “ We play hide and seek, we eat food together and we help each other during difficult times. We also share secrets with each other about us and that’s how I know about them”. He was amused by my answer and asked me, “Do stars talk to us?”, I replied, “Yes, of course, the sky is filled with a written message from the stars all over the universe. But you should know techniques to decrypt the message, like the treasure hunt game. You should gather clues which will lead to other clues and finally you will reach your treasure.” He could not believe what he heard. Then, he was keeping on asking me questions. After some time, he went into the house to sleep, but I stayed there. I was replaying the conversation that I had with the kid in my head. Then I realized that I should continue to pursue my dream of becoming an astronomer, and this time I should not lose it for anybody. After a few hours, I went to sleep. This was the first time in months that I had slept for eight solid hours. The next day morning, I prepared for leaving to Guwahati. Before I left, I gave them some money for accommodating me and I gave my telescope to Amarendar. I bid my goodbye to them and left the village. That night, I discovered myself again because of the kindness of that family and the innocence of that kid. In this world of crime and injustice, that village is the place of God, if he exists. Then I made my visit to Guwahati. I visited the important tourists part and returned after spending three days in the city. Later, in my other visits to Guwahati, I came to know that Amarendar was really interested in stars. Yes, I still make visits to the village. The family still allow me to stay the night in their place. And obviously, it’s a secret. At present, five years later In Chennai, “ Ms. Sakthi Kumar, we are glad to inform you that you have been awarded the fellow of the royal society award for your significant contributions in the field of astronomy and cosmology, especially for your bold ideas that the mankind dared to imagine for the past three hundred years, about the beginning of the universe in your book , TO INFINITY AND BEYOND “, the mail read.


It's a cool Saturday night, I sit on my chair watching the tele as the last of the Doritos crumbs cascade off of my enlarged stomach. I'm a rather large man, light short hair with the inability to grow a beard without patches. I'm wearing nothing but sweats and a grin across my face from the last corny joke that was said. This is how I spend most of my nights. Some call it pathetic while I call it home. There is a knock at the door, somewhat startling but not uncommon on a Saturday night. Probably the college kids messing around again. I lived not far from campus and it was not unusual for them to wander into the neighborhood. Thinking about answering the door fades from my mind as I decide nothing will disturb me on one of my beloved days off. After a few knocks I can see the figures pass by the front window and back onto the sidewalk. Maybe it was the Mormons looking to "save" another soul. I decided I was not going to be "saved" during one of my favorite sitcoms, Besides I'm perfectly content. I continue watching my show until my memory fades. A few hours pass as I lay sleeping in my lazy boy recliner that I splurged for last month. My mouth wide open pointed towards the sky as I make Roaring snores, the last of which is Loud enough to startle me awake. I noticed the TV was still on, not odd for one of my days off. In Fact it's hard for me to think of a time the TV was ever off, I'm either in the room watching it, or working, but either way it stays constantly streaming. Suddenly without warning an ad break starts on the TV, not unusual for this network, ever since the ratings have gone down they have needed a way to keep funding up. The commercial is nothing unusual, a rush of colors and sounds made to gather the attention of the average Joe. As I watch waiting for the show to start something catches my eye. I suddenly spring into action, doing my best to grab my wallet and keys carefully laid across my Side table, often where I put them after getting home from work. I run to the front door throwing on my jacket and slippers nearly breaking my neck as I somehow manage to close the front door and sprint to my truck (refreshed after that tuneup I got last weekend). I get to the drivers side and nearly drop my keys as I slide into the velvety interior of my truck. too occupied to put my seat belt on, I slam the keys into the ignition, turn the key and my pride and joy comes roaring to life. I throw it into reverse, then shift to drive and head recklessly down the road. No one was going to stop me from trying the new Doritos locos taco….


They breach the door, Eli shooting the guy on the other side. They walk up the stairs, they find an office. Jack opens it and falls, clutching his stomach. Roger kills the shooter, the two pull Jack into the office. Blood follows from the wound. Roger closes Jack’s eyes. The elevator at the back of the room opens, and blood flies from Roger’s head, staining the wall behind him. Eli goes to shoot, but they shoot the gun out of his hand. Eli charges the closest one, Slamming his head into the wall twice, Eli throws him into another guard, The guard shoots, killing the other guard coming at him, Eli runs at him, knocking him down, Eli takes the pistol, aims at another guard, fires then shoots the downed guy he’s on top of. Eli stands up and walks to the elevator, he goes inside and pushes the top floor button. Eli checks his ammo, wishing he had grabbed more off the guard. The elevator lights cut off and the elevator stops. Eli pries open the hatch on top. Climbing the cord, the next floor door opens, two guys walk out, and they both start shooting down. Eli aims and takes one out, he falls backwards, blood spattering on the roof Eli shoots the next guy and he falls off the ledge, hitting the elevator roof with a splat. Eli looks down, blood pooled around the busted wound on his head. Eli climbs up, and looks at the other guard. Blood had also pooled from the wound on the left of his head. Eli continues on, shooting three more guards who attempt to stab him. He enters a room then jolts back, hitting the ground, boots walk toward him, “Look alive. You’re gonna get executed.” The voice says. Eli wakes up with his mask removed and his head on a wood slab, the crowd from before watching intently. Someone walks out and puts a gun to the back of his head, the crowd cheers, the executioner starts pulling the trigger. Eli kicks his leg out, making him shoot the air. Eli kicks off the table, flying into the executioner, knocking him down, Eli wraps the handcuffs around the executioner's neck, choking him out. By the time the guards snap out of shock, Eli already broke out and shot three of them. One feel off the unguarded platform, Eli shot the executioner who tried to get up. The last two guards drew their guns, but to no avail. Eli drops the handgun into the crowd, picking up another one on the way back in. Dammit he did it again, should’ve grabbed the ammo. He opens a door. The building head grabbed someone and pulled them in front of him. Mason, he looked in pain and terrified. Eli looked at him. Not noticing the gun raised up, blood hit the wall behind him, Eli heard it. But there he was on the ground looking up, his face must’ve been a blank expression. Eli couldn’t move the muscles. Eli cursed softly and faded out.


Dad and I had wandered the infinitely-colored slopes of the Talking Mountains for seven weeks, begging them to give us the answers we had spent our lives not hearing. We had both been failures--not even colossal failures, just boring, unheard, unnoticed ones, although he had been a bit bigger of a disappointment than me--so we journeyed here to the Talking Mountains, where the side of every peak cracked and split and bulged into a mile-wide face, where some lucky few would hear the mountains speak to them with the voice of God if they wandered long enough. We are both old men now, him 95, me 67. He’s so shriveled and weak that I have to carry him on my back almost always. I was happy I was stronger than him, although I had always resented Dad for being older than me. No matter how much we wandered and begged the peaks to speak, to tell us what to do, the mountains’ many mouths stayed closed, always, and when we drew near they seemed to twist into towering scowls, their silence amplified into agonizing nothingness. I could hear my father struggling to produce saliva, could hear my joints rubbing together, could hear our miserable rickety hearts crying out to stop working for these ungrateful and unhappy bodies as we ascended and descended the dizzying slopes of magenta and scarlet and yellow and blue. On the 8th week, Dad got tired of me carrying him up and down the towering, shimmering peaks and begging the stone faces for answers, and he whispered in my ear, his frail, ugly, liver-spotted arms clasped around my neck. “Just throw me off that cliff. There’s nothing here for us. I don’t know what we expected. We’re just not people the world has anything for.” Suddenly there was a great cracking and chaos, and we looked high above us to see a mountain’s mouth opening. In doing so it knocked loose several massive boulders, which chain-reacted with several others, until a vast sheet of stone was flying down the slope at us. The mountain spoke but we couldn’t hear because of the colossal din of the boulders burying us, crushing my arms, my legs, trapping my father underneath me. Finally the noise ceased, and Dad’s chest labored to lift me and fill his lungs. I couldn’t move. We were trapped in a stone coffin together, chest to chest and nose to nose. The voice of the mountain boomed, so deep my ribs rattled. “The advice you need will always come *after* you can make use of it--and if it comes at the right time, you won’t listen.” Dad and I breathed as one, processing this, my breaths making room for his. “So my advice to you: Look out! There’s a rockfall!” The mountain laughed to itself a little. Then it fell silent. We breathed together in the absolute darkness, and we agreed that it felt like we were in the womb. After a while, as we approached a seamless transition from absolute darkness to death, my dad spoke, in a tiny voice I could feel killing him with every syllable. “We’re so stupid, John. We should have come so much earlier... what did we expect the mountains to teach us *after* we’d already messed everything up?” I laughed a little, then he laughed, and for a precious second the magnitude of the mistakes we had made was perfectly hilarious, that even in our final, desperate attempt to find meaning we were mistaken and lost and too late just the same. I had the fleeting thought that there was something worthwhile in even a completely failed life. I realized how beautiful the mountains had been--how much I loved my dad’s weight on my back. I realized how lovely it was to be dying in a colored-stone womb, stuck atop him, breathing together, laughing together, reflecting on two lives that we had mostly wasted by believing we were wasting them. The mountain shuddered and shook and opened a mouth to speak directly below us, and we and our stone womb fell into the hollow mountain’s endless blackness, my dad clinging tight to my shoulders as the wind rushed past us. I tried to tell him I loved him but the wind howled louder than I could hope to speak. I began to cry. The mountain stayed silent and uncaring, so I decided to scream, louder than I ever had, every bit of my life’s frustration and anger pouring out of me into the darkest depths of the great throat of the mountain. Dad heard me over the all-consuming wind and he began to scream too, first in fear, then in anger, and then the mountain began to scream with us, its monstrous voice vibrating every atom of the cavernous darkness as we hurtled through our own cacophonous harmony. God moved through us and out of us and we felt the earth shift as we expelled every ounce of accumulated rage we owned through our voices, and I had another fleeting thought that maybe we were put on Earth to fail and to build this rage and to scream, to serve as living testaments to the world’s unfairness, and once I had that thought I knew that the mountain was grateful we were here. I knew that our bones and our flesh and our failure would become part of the wisdom of these glittering slopes and cliffs, and also I knew that I didn’t really know anything and that maybe I was just talking out of my ass. I hugged Dad tight the best I could with my shattered arms and legs, and he hugged back. Then the mountain stopped screaming and said “If you let go of each other, you’ll both live.” The advice came at just the right time, but we didn’t listen. We stayed together, clutching each other’s shoulders, screaming goodbyes over the shouts of the wind and the shouts of the mountain, who yelled “Look out, you’re going to hit the bottom!” Before we heard the first word, we were already gone.


It's time. That sound, it's loud its annoying and it won’t shut up. It’s telling me to wake up, that my dreams are coming to an end and my rest now will be dead. It's approximately 7:08 and I’m late. She’s waiting for me at the cafe, and I can’t miss the train. I’m up now fully dressed and eating bacon that I cooked in the microwave to save time, my shoes.. Where are my shoes? One is here, halfway sticking out from under the couch and the other one I really don’t know but I need to go now. 7:52 I’m really late. The train leaves in 34 minutes and it takes me 15 to get there. Found it by the bathroom door, I need to keep my shit together. 9:00, I’m waiting. For her. She’s late, I shouldn’t have rushed. I’m ready now, ready to tell her everything. Everything I have been holding up inside but I can't wait any longer or i'll bottle it all up inside again. It’s been 57 minutes and she’s still not here. What does this mean? Where could she be? Does she even care? Has she forgotten about me? I look ridiculous sitting here alone sweating from nervousness and shame. It has been exactly 3 days, 7 hours, 38 minutes, 28, 29, 30 seconds since that day. No call or text or email or anything and I’m still obsessing. I'll call, I might as well, not much to lose anymore. It rings and rings, and rings, and rings, and then voicemail; “This is Sarah, leave me a message!” the beep I never wanted to hear that stupid beep, the beep that means it's not going to happen, to give up now and never go back. I force through those emotions and leave a stupid voice mail it sounds like this, “Hey.. Yeah hey Sarah um.. It’s me Craig, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay; you did know we were supposed to meet the other day right? Are you o-” cut off, I sound stupid. I just want to impress her but I just look like a fool. I’ve been up for hours, it's 2:27 in the morning, and I’ve been looking through her Facebook to see if she’s been posting or liking anything, I don’t want her to just ignore me. That’s not okay, and I hate that. Where is she, there is no recent activity on her page, and she isn’t reading any of my texts and well I just can’t handle it anymore. I have to know what is going on. She likes me, right? She *has* to like me. I need her to. Any minute now she’ll call or text me apologizing, and saying that she was super busy or her phone was out of service some stupid made up excuse that I’ll believe. My life no longer means anything, it’s invalid. I was watching the news and.. and they found a body. It’s Sarah. What am I going to do.. She is my world, my everything. Now she’s gone and I can’t live with myself. I will find the guy who did this and I'll kill him, break every bone in his body. I can't stop thinking, thinking why anyone would do this to her. She’s so beautiful and funny and the best person ever. I loved her. I still love her. This isn’t real. There is no way for me to accept this; I’m going to wake up any minute to my phone ringing because she’s calling me asking to meet today for lunch or to go see a movie. It’s not real. It's real. I thought I could wake up, but I can’t. I’ve been taking the past few days to make a collection.. I filled my wall with all my favorite pictures of her. It’s completely covered and it makes me so happy and feel better. She isn’t gone, not really. She’ll come back for me… \-Craig never got to finish this story. He didn’t get to finish it because they came for him. Although he comes off as a very sweet person he is a very dangerous person. Sarah’s body was found sitting upright at a cafe in a seat that was placed opposite of the seat Craig sat in when he waited for her. They found his DNA on the body, she was brutally beaten, stabbed, sliced, and molested. She had missing teeth and bald spots where hair was forcefully ripped out of her head. You could barely recognize her. They police broke into his house to find bloody clothes and marks all over the walls and furniture. And the most disturbing part was his room; pictures and notes covering every wall and her hair and teeth pinned to his mirror. It looked like a whole other crime scene. There was understanding of why he killed her. After the arrest and court trial they went through both phones to see over 100 phone calls and texts sent to Sarah by Craig. It was soon turned to the court that he needed to be sent to a federal mental institute because of his mental state. He died 15 years after from head injury and multiple stab wounds to the abdominal area. He would repeatedly bang his head on walls until blood would come out, he stabbed himself in his stomach with a pencil 17 times. Sarah never was supposed to meet him at the cafe, she never even talked to him. They went to high school together and he had a crush but she never acknowledged him. He stalked her and lost his mind while he was doing it. And that is where this story finally comes to an end.


I felt something stir in me and my eyes snapped open. ‘No.’ It was only a whisper against the stark silence of the night. This couldn’t be happening – not right now. I’d taken steps to make sure this didn’t happen at a time like this. I wasn’t ready and it was already too late. My muscles were already starting to clench and I doubted I could make it out. I had to try. I rolled off the bed, taking the duvet with me as it wrapped loosely around my waist. Fuck – that could be a problem but I could always replace it. I got onto my hands and knees, not trusting my legs to carry me. I could already feel my feet starting to spasm and I gasped when one of my calves started to cramp. When the cramp eased, I crawled toward the door as quickly as my stiffening muscles would allow. When I got to the door, I lifted my hand towards the handle and dropped it as an electric shock shot down my spine and held me down for what felt like minutes. I writhed and groaned as my body contorted - nerves wildly firing. Trying not to fight it, I tried to breathe but my chest felt as if it was held by iron bands. My mind raced to explain how this could have happened but to no avail. I just needed to get out. I screamed and howled in frustration, frozen in front of the bedroom door. I reached up, grabbed the door handle and pulled it down. Thankfully, the door swung out and I started to pull myself out. My legs had become useless now and sweat beaded on my forehead with every painful movement I made towards the front door. With every panting breath, every passing second, I inched closer and closer to safety. All I could think about was getting out before it was too late. For a second, I pictured what this would look like to anyone who was looking in – me crawling slowly across the floor, drenched in sweat, helpless, but using every ounce of strength I had. It was almost out of a B-horror film. I had to stop when another jolt in my back stopped me dead in my tracks. It felt like I’d instantly turned to stone and time halted. If it wasn’t for the blinding white-hot pain pulsing through me, I could have laughed at the ridiculousness of this. Years! It had been years since I’d been caught off-guard like this. I did everything I was supposed to and took my meds every day until they ran out every two months and I had to find myself in the woods to allow this to happen. I was sure I wasn’t anywhere near the end of this round, but here I was, in the middle of the night, straining against my own body’s change. Something was wrong but I couldn’t think about that now – I had to get out. A gasp escaped from my mouth as I regained control over my ever-useless body. The door started to blur around the edges and it took me a moment to re-focus. It was close but I could make it before I passed out. Nearly there. With arms and shoulders screaming at me, I closed the gap to the end of the hall. I felt the fire in my bones and all I could hear was the blood pulsing in my ears. My mind started to drift and the door got further and further away with every second. The darkness in the edges of my view was closing in fast. I wasn’t going to make it. I got this far, only to fail. I had been so close. I reached out - frustrated, desperate - before the blackness took me. ====================***==================== From the rooftop across the road, Lewis had watched it all unfold. The bugs he’d planted in the apartment told him when it was complete and he made his move. He crossed the street and made his way to the apartment and let himself him in with the key he’d copied a few weeks ago. Amazing how easy it was to clone the building and door passkey in a restaurant – dressed as a waiter, standing by a jacket for up to 2 minutes, while taking the orders of a very indecisive date. Natasha had played her part perfectly. A smile spread across Lewis’s face – it was unbelievable how easy this had all been. Considering what he was getting paid by his client, he had expected more of a challenge. A week of sugar pills and it was only a matter of time until his target was vulnerable. Lewis stepped into the hallway and approached the black cat. He looked deep into the cat’s amber eyes, looking for anything human, but, as he’d been told, there was none. He stroked the cat’s head and the cat leaned into his palm; eyes closed in pleasure. A quick movement and the tranquiliser dart was deep in the side of the feline. It let out a gentle yowl but it was already becoming drowsy. Minutes later, Lewis was walking out of the building, holding the sleeping creature. He knew how rare werecats were these days and his client had amassed quite a collection, maybe the largest ever seen, but in the end it didn’t matter – protected species or not, there was money to be made when dealing with exotic animals.


“All right, honey,” he said. “Are you ready to do this thing?” “Hun-nee,” she replied, smiling. “Good,” he said. “Could you hand me that screwdriver?” “Daddy!” she said, pointing at him happily. “Yes, I’m daddy,” he replied. “And that is a screwdriver—could you hand it to me, please?” “Peas,” she said, picking up the screwdriver. “Fowk.” “No, that’s not a fork,” he said. “Screwdriver.” “Bottow,” she said, handing him the screwdriver. “You don’t get bottles anymore, remember?” he said, twisting a stubborn screw into place. “You get a cup now.” “Cup,” she repeated. “That’s right,” he said. “But you didn’t want a cup, so now we’re down here in daddy’s workshop.” “Bottow?” “No, sweetheart,” he said. “Could you hand me that sifter there?” She picked up the sifter and said, “Boon?” “No, that’s a sifter, not a spoon,” he said, taking the proffered sifter. “Thank you.” “Day-doo,” she giggled—her version of *thank you* always good for a laugh—before suddenly running across the shop. “Take it easy, squirt,” he said, directly before she skidded to a stop in front of a teetering stack of books. “Whoa,” she said, steadying herself with the help of a low-hanging unicorn-bedazzled backpack she had insisted stay in the workshop. “*Whoa*,” she said again, looking beyond the book-stack into the shiny steel box behind. “Careful, now,” he said, swiveling in his seat to face her. “That’s uranium.” “Nanium,” she said. “That’s right,” he said, proudly. “Well done! Now, If you could—” “Nominoes!” she squealed, distracted by the multitude of multicoloured dominoes she had earlier strewn across the shop. “Yes, honey, but right now daddy needs the uranium. Could—” “Nanium,” she said, picking up a purple-dotted domino. “Greem!” “No, that’s purple.” “Purpo,” she said, picking up another, this one both yellow and pink. “Ornange!” “No—that’s yellow and pink.” “Pink!” she said. “And yellow.” “Yeyo,” she said, reverently. “And that’s uranium,” he said, smiling and pointing at said uranium. “Could you bring that to daddy, please?” “Peas,” she repeated, making her way around the books before stopping. “Heaby.” “Heavy, yes it is,” he said. “But you’re *strong*, aren’t you?” “Heaby,” she repeated. “Show me your muscles,” he said, encouragingly. Her face contorted and her arms shot out in front of her, little twigs of effort terminating into acorn-sized clenched fists. “Mussos!” she said, proudly. “Good girl,” he said. “Now, pick up that uranium and bring it to daddy.” “Haew,” she said, showing off her pigtails. “Yes, that’s your hair all right,” he said. “Let’s stay focused here, kiddo: bring daddy the uranium?” “Nanium?” she said, palms raised. “Nanium?” “It’s right behind you, honey.” “Hun-nee,” she said, smiling. “Behind you,” he said, pointing. She turned and looked at the uranium, then turned back. “Nanium?” she asked, palms again raised. “Look, sweetheart,” he said, crouching to her level. “If you’re not going to have a nap, you’re going to have to help daddy with his work, okay?” “Nap,” she said. “Miwk!” “You want some milk?” he asked, thinking she might be persuaded to have a nap after all. “Daddy will get you some milk!” “Nooo!” she yelped playfully. “Nooo! No! No!” she continued, running toward the dominoes. “Purpo.” “That’s green, honey.” “Greem,” she said. “Mommy?” “Mommy’s at work.” “Papa?” she said, raising her palms yet again. “Grandpa’s at home.” “Gamma?” she asked. “Honey,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t we agree that gamma-rays were too unstable to properly configure a bomb of this magnitude? Remember, sweetie? That’s why daddy went and got all this expensive x-ray equipment: because you took one look at the schematic and said *no gamma*.” She frowned. “Gamma?” she asked again, looking around. “I told you,” he said, standing up. “No gamma.” “Papa?” He sighed. “Grandpa’s at his house.” “Gamma?” “Wait,” he said. “Are you saying *grandma*?” “GAMma!” she said, smiling. “Well, grandma’s with grandpa,” he said, absently. “Have you been saying *grandma* this entire time?” “Doggie,” she said, pointing at the stairs. “You mean to tell me that I changed the entire operational system of this bomb based on you looking for grandma?” “DOG-gie!” “Yes, the dogs are upstairs,” he said, brushing a gaggle of crayons off the blueprints. “X-rays aren’t going to work at all, are they?” “UMMMMM,” she said, looking around the shop for something she knows the name of. “And it’s not like I can just trade this stuff back in,” he said, fastening his hands to his hips. “Bwoom,” she said. “Sorry, honey,” he said, sadly. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to be making a boom after all.” “Bwoom!” she said again, pulling on his shirt. “I know,” he said. “I’m disappointed too.” Frowning, she ran off towards the stairs while he glowered at his half-completed bomb. “Bwoom!” she said yet again, returning to jab him in the ribs with something hard. “Yes, dear,” he said, looking at her and her weapon. “That’s a broom.” She handed the broom to him and crouched, patting the floor with an open hand. “Mess,” she said. “Oh, it’s a terrible mess,” he said. “The whole thing’s a terrible, terrible—hold on. Is that what you meant when we first came down here, sweetheart? Broom?” “Mess,” she repeated, jabbing her finger at the floor. “Eew.” “You just wanted me to clean up my workshop?” “Keen,” she said, pulling the broom away from him. “Oh,” he said, watching her manipulate the broom in a vain attempt to clean up daddy’s mess. “Hey, honey?” “Hun-nee,” she said, smiling. “How about we go get some ice cream?” “Ice keem!” she said, clapping and running towards the stairs.


There are two men walking across the ground towards the forest. They are working together to carry a large bag. They are wearing black and posses the same blank, faceless expression accentuated by the night surrounding them. There are very few words exchanged on their journey.  The two men reach a clearing. The bag thuds to the ground. A collective sigh is heard as they stretch their arms. One of the faceless men reaches into the bag to reveal two shovels. It doesn't take long for the men to dig a sufficiently deep hole.  "You ready?" "Yeah."  The men drag the bag so that the opening touches the top of the hole. They heave. A body slips out. It's pale, bruised and a metal spike has ruined the face.  "Wanna say a word?" "Not really."  A short moment of silence.  "We loved ya buddy, it didn't have to be like this." "It didn't have to be like this" repeated the second man.  Another sigh and another moment of silence. The second man continued.  "He had to die, that's for sure. But what we did to him?" He points at the face before continuing "this ain't right, and what we're doing now? He deserves a proper funeral."  The first man breathes in to start a rebuttal, then hesitates.  "I guess. They'll always be time for a real send off. We-"  He looks at what's left of the face again.The second man's sadness has turned to anger "His family deserve to see the body."Their eyes meet as the first man replies "This body? NO ONE deserves to see this body, not even us. Look, he was a brother to me, just as you are. I hate to see him like this." He continues onto his next thought without taking a breath "And what are we to do? Dump him on his porch like a warning sign? Politely knock on their door and show them him in the trunk of the car? They'll be traumatized, we'll be ratted out, everyone loses."  "They deserve the truth." The second man said calmly, "even if it's horrible, they deserve time to sit with the body, process what's really happened."  The first man rolled his eyes "Even if they see the body, they won't know the truth. You know that yourself man. He told his whole family he has nothing to do with us now. They won't see the horrible things he's done to get himself into this mess. To them, he's a reformed man. They'll fuck us over cuz they don't know"  The second man "It's not about what he did in his life, it's about the fact that he's dead. They just need some time with him." "No." The first man's shovel raises. "We're not going down for this, if you feel this bad you shouldn't have killed him." "I don't care what you think, I'm giving his family the body" The second man's shovel rises.  Shovels clash, a skull is cracked and pushed into the grave. The grave is filled with dirt and a man drives off into the early morning.


Mrs. Haskall squinted at herself in the mirror. A blocked lettering of the word ‘Lovely’ appeared in the upper right-hand corner. She smiled as it triggered an old Stevie Wonder song. Below the word, a readout appeared. Her temperature, heart rate, and even her breath rate. She had never known that was a thing until it had been printed out on her screen every morning. The temperature was a little high, she had handpicked the gradient from a mint green to a tomato red. It only ever showed up when she held her breath long to make her head feel like it would burst with pressure. Her temperature was now a light yellow. She brushed her teeth, the vibration clicking into different phases of intensity based on her prescribed regimen. She placed the brush back on the stand, pausing a moment as she heard the whipping sound of its vacuum sending her saliva to the base of the charger for processing. It would be screened for diseases and defects within minutes. Dora Haskall focused on herself in the mirror once again, and decided against makeup. The mask would cover most of it anyway. She combed her hair, feeling the now-usual tugs as hairs were pulled in to the spine of the comb and tested within . At-home drug tests had become the standard for companies that could afford them, though now they were almost the same price as regular combs. It beeped a cautious tone and flashed green as she placed it on a magnetic charging pad on the counter. She adjusted her face in the mirror, focusing particularly on the dark spots under her eyes. She grabbed her mask from the hook on the side of the wall. It had switched places with her face towel, which now lay flopped on the counter. The mask was more of a re-breather than a mask. A small, lithium batter drove servo motors that drove air in and out of the mask. A well-timed ejection could make those motors shoot out a used filter like a bullet casing. The filters themselves were thin and effective. They were costly. Heavily tested to block the specific pathogens plaguing everybody at the time. Each new panic led to mass selling of new filters. A person's mask was like a car, personal and with a long enough life that each one felt like an extension of yourself. It saved your life at least three times. Mrs. Haskell called to her fridge as she walked down the stairs. It reflected her addition of orange juice and chicken stock on the LED screen. The low-light shopping list would be automatically ordered at the the most opportune time. The higher models waited for eye contact to trigger a slow gradient from low to bright lettering, in your favorite font or handwriting. She clasped the mask behind her head, feeling the familiar whirl of tiny, nearby motors. She never opened her mouth while the filters spun into place, it felt too close to that sinister grind of a dentist’s drill. She breathed a sigh of relief when the motors stopped. Each exhalation was sampled and monitored. The tiny bacteria inside collected and reacted to each atom, alerting higher and higher bacteria in a bio-chemical chain reaction until the dreaded alarm was sounded. She told her kids, who were still in bed, that the bacteria wore little suits while they did their job. She reached for the door, anticipating the *whoosh* of air as the tightly closed door opened. She pressed her thumb into the base of the knob. It let out a honk instead of a beep. Her brows furrowed, almost reaching the upper tip of the mask. She turned it hard this time, but the knob stayed. She pressed her thumb again and it honked. She jumped as the honk began to echo through the speakers throughout the house. Normally reserved for the doorbell, they now resounded its short, dying duck honk. Then the words she had dreaded followed: “Infection detected. Remain indoors.” She looked down at her hands, betrayed. They crawled with invisible horrors, a horrible slime that left a killing trail along her skin as they slid. She felt a hitch in her throat, a catch like a splinter from the air caught in the vulnerable red flesh in her throat. She coughed lightly, as her children woke up to the rumbling sounds of sanitizing baths being drawn and doors mechanically clicking as they locked shut. Mr. Holcomb’s morning started with a heavier cough. His name had been John for most of his life and his mask and high-tech toothbrush had been turned off for almost a week now. John walked to his mirror, with no greeting and much more comforting: no analysis. He adjusted himself with fruitless swipes and left with his hair worse than before. His wife was asleep, though not for long. His kids had woken them an hour ago to leave for the park. their coughs echoing in the hallway before they chugged their amber. John chugged his amber as well. It tasted about as sweet as it looked and even more sour. His cough subsided, his throat coated against those annoying dry catches and throat aches. He changed his clothes and quickly rinsed his hands in the sink. The most advanced appliance he owned: when the heat was turned on it automatically spewed out lava. He threw the water off his hands towards the towel and wiped the rest off on his shirt, the sudden warmth clinging to his gut. The door was the last hurdle. He haphazardly fit a plastic mask over his face. It jutted out in places and barely covered his nose. He grabbed an ice cube from the fridge and clenched it in his hands. There were still droplets in the floor from when his kids had done the same. Every house had been outfitted with these door handles by law, government-funded. They spoke to every other electric eye in the house, waiting desperately to lock. John straightened his tie with his other hand, let the ice fall, and grabbed the handle. It stuttered and then beeped green, turning smoothly in its casing with barely a push. The breeze hit John like a fresh hug, even though in the back of his mind it carried a hidden poison that he carried too. John let the guilt fall away. He let one last cough escape, and made his way to work. John worked in the corporate offices, separated from others a few inches of glass and a thick, wooden door. In the past decade, there had been two pandemics and four other minor panics. The technology had followed. Cameras that used infrared to capture temperatures spiked in price and demand and then fell to almost free once everyone already owned one. In buildings behind decades of developed technology, some even took off their masks. John eyed the cameras around him nervously, sweat collecting on his brow. The amber was a recent concoction. It was hard to get but in his position you began to know the right people. It hid all symptoms, but was inconsistent. Sometimes, an ice cube was necessary for the smart door. John could not tell if he was feeling sick or nervous as the line towards the door of his building rushed forward. Every step by the officers around them felt like the beginning of an assassination, a skipped heartbeat as if each step was toward him. His breathing shallowed. The base of his skull throbbed and suddenly it was his turn. A door led to a small room. Across from him was an eye. Digital. A black glass iris a foot across with a glowing center. The blue dot in the middle grew to fill the whole screen, and an image of a nurse came up. John did not fall for it. He knew the true look of this device was the dark eye, with the blue point of light that looked through his soul like it was nothing but data. It greeted him with a smile. He smiled back, his upper lip coated in sweat. He suddenly had the desire to cough, and he could not tell if it was in his head or real. His mind rolled with waves of cloying guilt and denying self-reassurance, crashing after each other. His eyes flickered at the robot. It had asked him a question. His breath escaped him like it was the last bit of air he had left. It repeated: “Have you been within 6 feet of an infected person?” “No,” John replied, wincing at the crack of his voice. The nurse pretended to take notes, a glorified loading screen. It used to be real nurses in the booths. “Are you feeling well today?” A new question, not asked before. “A bit tired,” John rasped. “Couldn’t sleep.” He tried to give a relatable sigh to the robot, but felt only more suspicious as the nurse returned to note-taking. “Do you know the result of lying?” John’s eyes narrowed. His eyebrows almost touched. He had been afraid, now he felt attacked. “Yes,” he shoved through clenched teeth he felt he had earned. “And I know the consequences. Quarantine. Arrest. My family taken and locked into a house that becomes a cage.” He caught himself before he called it a ploy. The constant panic and isolation. The push of people inside and then the push outside to fix an economy that never should have been broken. A strategy to ensure they all follow, to see the weaker people die, and the rebellious become the enemy. As he walked through to work, he partly wished he had spoken more, just to see their response. He got home even more tired. A long day made worse by a rising cough that threatened to break through the amber. He had taken to rubbing ice cubes down his temples and along his neck, telling coworkers the thermostat was broken in his office. No one had worn masks today. It was said the disease was almost done, after only a few weeks this. The redundant filters were no longer necessary. They had shaken hands and high-fived in celebration. Mrs, Holcomb was bent over a pot on the stove, sluggishly stirring. She had been moving gingerly for days, feeling the aches of a fever. “How was yoga?” John asked. “Oh lovely,” she whispered back. “They’re finally moving the mats closer together. It almost felt back to normal.” She smiles softly and accepts his kiss. Their two boys were limply fighting over bread, like their batteries had been pulled out. John turned the TV on, automatically to the news. All programming was halted for pandemic news. With the soup ready, the family gathered with their bowls. They let the warmth rise into their mouths and float into their heads, relieving the pressure within. True smiles came into their faces, and their coughs became more intermittent as they ate. On the television, a local reporter was worriedly showing rising graphs of infections and deaths in their city. And the Holcombs wondered when this madness would end.


Awakening to the sound of my phone buzzing always warms my heart: this morning was no different. Trying to shake off the brain fog that accompanies an eleven hour snooze fest, I reach for my phone. Every morning the same. I tell myself, “This’ll be the last time I look at my phone first thing in the morning” or “I’ll just check my emails and make sure I’m not missing anything”. My eyes struggle to stay open at the screen’s brightness, slowly searing the repetitive pictures of social media into my retinas. Another perfect start to my day. After scrolling through picture after picture of lame jokes, half-naked models, and other edited versions of reality, I finally get around to my email, hoping for something to make my day interesting. Alas, nothing. Stumbling to the restroom I commence my glamorous morning routine of taking a dump, washing my hands, and brushing my teeth. Currently there’s a fad of “morning routine’s” on the internet showcasing how awesome people are at their meditation’s, journaling, and morning yoga. Any simple youtube search of “... morning routine” will pull up a thousand videos from college students to athletes to mathematicians, all somehow waking up at 04:00 AM. Everyday I am thankful for their endless supply of advice, who knows where I would be without their input. Making my way to the dining table I set myself up for the second disappointment of the day. Instead of going for the heart healthy oatmeal or breakfast salad, I grab ol’ reliable… a bowl of cereal. In between bites of my Honey Nut Cheerios, it’s only natural to grab my phone and scroll through more social media. After all, everyday is so different, women with different bathing suits in different parts of the world, new exotic cars, new luxury watches, new memes. That is until you start to question what you’re looking at. I’ve been a lifelong fan of fantasy/fiction entertainment. Ever since I was little, reality has been so boring. Why would I want to be in this world, when I don’t even have super powers? Gradually as I aged, so did that ideology, and I have learned to embrace reality. Except there’s one hidden fantasy that no one seems to address: social media. Historically, people underestimate the power of pop culture. The lyrics of the music we listen to, the messages of the movies we watch, and the endless supply of entertainment at our fingertips can prime our subconscious for making decisions about how to deal with our problems or how to spend our Friday nights. If one were to learn about life from American pop culture, then said person would be waiting every day for a spider to bite them, a stranger to take them on a journey, or for their crush to ask them to the school dance. Thankfully, the majority of these examples are obviously gassed up versions of reality, and most people don’t transition these lessons to their lives. A gassed up version of reality however, that is indistinguishable from true reality, is exceedingly dangerous. This is social media’s true face. Planting unrealistic ideas in the heads of our society, our youth, and the impressionable is a moralistic crime that leads to millions of consumers feeling inadequate, unhappy, and jealous of a false world. New progressions, such as easily accessible internet, high quality cameras, and platforms for broadcast are arming people with weapons they do not realize they have.