Eddie sat with his elbow on the bar, scrolling through social media, not bothered by the sun shining into his eyes. Breakfast was going to be served for another four hours before lunch-time. Apart from the workers from the nearby construction site who were coming every morning, he did not have many customers. "I hope you liked the eggs, gentlemen," said the waitress. “Thanks, Pattie. They were great.” said one of them. "And as usual, coffee, for you, is on the house," she smiled. Pattie was a nearly forty-year-old woman, tall and thin, with blond hair kept in a ponytail, green eyes, and a tattoo on her ankle with her daughter's birthday. "Eddie," she shouted, "please turn on the coffee machine." But he gave no sign that he had heard her. “Eddie!” she shouted again like a drill-sergeant. “What? What is it? He shook his head. Pattie pointed to the espresso machine and went into the kitchen carrying dirty dishes. He pressed a button and the machine began its grinding song. "What's wrong with you this morning?" Pattie asked through the small kitchen window. “Eh, nothing. Bored of life, he said, scrolling away.” “You were bored with life yesterday as well, but at least you looked alive. Today you are like The Thinker, but with a phone.” He turned to Pattie with a squeak of his chair. "My brother asked me to hire his daughter for a month or two." “And?” Patti said as she put the dishes in the washing machine. "I don't feel like ‘babysitting’ a teenager who, I bet, won't do anything all day but stay on her phone." "And there isn’t enough room for another one like you here, isn’t it?" Eddie grimaced childishly, then brought the coffee to the workers. Pattie took the mop and washed the floors, then dusted the tables that were unlikely to be occupied. Later, around four o'clock, a girl entered the restaurant wearing a pair of ripped jeans, red Converse and a t-shirt with Greta Van Fleet . She had long, dark blue hair and blue eyes. She wore Rayban sunglasses and had a pair of wireless headphones on her ears. The teenager stopped at the door, dropped her backpack, and examined the restaurant. "What a ghost town?" she said. From under the bar rose the indignant face of Eddie who was arranging the bottles of whiskey up until then.

“Uncle Eddie!” the girl shouted with enthusiasm. “Hi, Cait!” he said, and rose with cracks coming from his knees. "Come and hug your favourite niece," she said, holding out her hands. With a clear lack of enthusiasm, he walked around the bar and hugged her. "What a sweet moment," Pattie said through the kitchen window. You must be our new

colleague and the niece of this ‘ray of sunshine’ . I'm Pattie. "Caitlin, but you can call me Cait." The girl went to the bar and made herself a coffee, while Eddie opened a beer from the fridge. "Aren't you too young to drink coffee?" said Eddie. "Isn't it too early to drink beer?" she replied. A laugh came from the kitchen. He ignored his niece's impertinence. “So, Cait, what brings you here? Don't you have a beach to go to, or a festival, or something? Isn’t your dad giving you allowance anymore? "He does, but not enough," she said with her mouth half full of biscuits from the bar. “In September there will be a huge festival with a lot of awesome bands. It will be crazy! We're going in a group of about ten people. We want to stay at the campsite to be close to the action.” “What bands are coming?” he asked. "You wouldn't know them," she said and gestured with one hand. “They're not from your time.” Eddie spitted out his beer. He wiped his slightly greying beard with his sleeve. "I'm forty-four, Cait. I'm not a fossil.” Pattie finished her work and joined the two. "You'll work with her and help serve the customers," Eddie pointed to the waitress. Cait looked around the place. “Is it always so ‘crowded’ here? "Not so many people have been coming for a while. I do not know why. Prices are the same, nothing has changed,” Eddie said. "Maybe that's the problem," Pattie intervened. Everything has been unchanged for ten years: the same brown tables and chairs, the same old-fashioned and boring decor, the same music, the same menu.” Eddie was taken by surprise. It looked like Pattie had been holding this in her for a while. “But what's wrong with the decor?” "It needs a revitalization," the waitress said. “You can start by taking down these horrible pictures of celebrities.” "You can buy some prettier lights, put an LED strip under the bar, some new flower-potted shelves," Cait said. “Look here...” Eddie analysed with scepticism at the modern restaurant designs his niece showed him on her phone. "I don't know what to say," he said. “Maybe some new fancy restaurants opened and are stealing our clients.” "Look at the reviews," Cait said. She showed him a website on the phone, and Eddie read aloud. “Eddie’s Restaurant: 2.3 stars: ‘The food is ok, the service is good.’ ‘It's an ok restaurant. Nothing wow. It smelled like chlorine when we were there’. ‘Music is a bit meh, coffee is pathetic.’ ‘If you want to have a heart attack, this is the place. They only have fried food’. ‘Poor menu! Nothing vegetarian. 1 star ‘ “. He frowned, muttered a swear-word, and brought his phone closer to his eyes. “ ‘The bartender had the face of a man who didn’t want to be there. I didn't like him at all. Instead, the waitress had a nice vibe’ . Kiss my ass, Robix31!” Eddie shouted, and almost threw the phone if Cait hadn't stopped him in horror. Pattie laughed hysterically. "Maybe we should change some stuff around here," Eddie said. "I'll help you, Uncle," said Cait. “I'm good at social media. As long as I'm staying here, I'll be the restaurant’s PR manager.” "And the waitress. Don't forget about that , Eddie pointed out. “Sure, whatever.” “ Okay, Miss PR Manager, it’s a deal. If you manage to increase the rating of the restaurant, you will not have problems with the finances at the festival.” “Awesome! said the teen.” “But, pretty please, with sugar on top, whatever you want to do, talk to me first, ok?” “All right, boss.” Deep inside, Eddie knew he had made the right decision. What he didn't know was that the road to four stars was paved with good intentions and radical decisions. # The next morning, the girls got up early and they were making plans for operation ‘To four stars and beyond’ . Pattie served breakfast to the workers, and Cait made them coffee. They were sitting at the bar brainstorming, when someone burst through the door, causing the bell to ring chaotically and startling the workers. “ ‘ Two star restaurant? Not anymore! Say goodbye to the deep fry smell, boring decor and elevator music. Join us in our four-star journey. Soon, a new vegetarian-friendly menu.’ ” Eddie shouted while reading the post from his restaurant’s social media page. "And that's just the beginning," Cait said, rubbing her palms. “And stop shouting! You're bothering customers.” "You made it look like it’s a dump," he said, almost whispering. What did I tell you about consulting me before doing anything?” "I sent you four messages." Cait defended herself.

"Doesn’t your generation know about a thing called phone call ?" And why, mind you, was it so urgent to post? Couldn't you have waited for me to wake up?” Eddie said, and poured himself some coffee. “Everyone checks their phone in the morning either from the bed, bus or toilet. It was the perfect moment. I don't want to waste time.” Eddie muttered something and went outside to smoke a cigarette. He watched the cars zapping by his restaurant. He enjoyed the pleasant weather of the summer morning and looked at the building where his loyal customers worked as it grew day by day. "Eddie, come see what we planned for the decor," Pattie said and waved him. He put out the cigarette and went in.

"I'm already scared," he said. “Because it would be too expensive to buy other tables and chairs, we thought of painting them and varnishing them.” the waitress said. “We’ll paint the tables green, the chairs yellow-sunflower and we can decorate them with floral motifs. I have an artist friend who would be happy to give us a discount.” "I appreciate you thinking about the budget," he said. "Then, the real flowers," Cait said, taking him by arm to one of the walls. “We’ll put shelves on here, here, and here and paint them just like tables and chairs.” The young woman, full of enthusiasm, indicates the place of the future flower shelves. Eddie folded his arms and nodded. “Maybe we'll take some pots to hang from the ceiling ...” "Let's stick with the ones on the walls for now," he intervened. “Okay, only on the walls.” "Now the bar," Pattie said. “We’ll put a red LED strip under it. We'll take the bottles from under it and put them on some shelves behind it. It will be easier for customers to decide what to drink and it will look prettier.” "And the menu," Cait continued, disorienting her uncle, "will have to be radically changed. We’ll keep the current dishes, but you will also have to get specialised in salads, lasagna, cream soups, maybe some ratatouille. “Rata-what? Eddie frowned. "Don’t worry, it's not that hard. I'll teach you.” The girls stopped to let him digest the information. He put his hands on his hips and evaluated the plans. He sat down on the high chair next to the espresso machine. After a few minutes, he leaned with his elbows on the bar and looked at one of his ‘boring’ walls. “I have to admit that everything you said sounds good and most importantly, cheap. It would definitely give this place some life.” The two girls were beaming. "All right, let's do it," he said. We’ll go to the DIY store in the afternoon and buy what we need. Cait and Pattie fist-bumped and clinked their coffee cups. "There's something else we want to do that involves you directly," the teen said. Eddie raised an eyebrow and turned to her. Cait formed a rectangle with her thumb and index fingers from both hands and pointed it at her uncle’s head. “We want to film you taking a tour of the restaurant and telling the people what we want to do. Then I'll try to edit the video, put in new shelves and flowers, and so on.” “Absolutely not! I don't want to face the internet.”

"Come on, Eddie," Pattie said. It will be more impactful than a text post. And who better to do it up than the boss-bartender-chef?” He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hands. “OK, fine! But don’t use my ‘angelic’ face anymore, okay?” The girls looked at each other without saying anything and pursed their lips. “What else did you plan?” he said in a low voice. Pattie took the bull by the horns and said. “We wanted to take some pictures of you, and print a cutout and put it at the entrance”. Eddie slowly shifted his icy gaze from one to the other. Without saying a thing, he got up and went to the bathroom. "I think we’ll stick with just the video," Cait said, and Pattie approved. # Over the next few days, the restaurant was closed for renovations. Only the construction workers were allowed to come as usual and they even helped to drill the walls for the shelves. Flower by flower, table by table, the place was coming to life. Eddie bought some decorating items like a neon sign, a broken guitar to put on the wall, and a flag of the local football team. The waitress followed the workers and placed the flower pots as they installed the shelves. Cait painted the tables and chairs while waving her head to the music in her headphones. She was dirty with paint on her cheeks and overalls that Pattie had given her. Her hair was tied in a bun and kept safe under a DC cap. She also made sure that their social media fans knew that things were going in the right direction. "I saw this morning that the rating went up to 2.6 stars," Eddie said with excitement. “And that's before we've finished any redecoration. How come?” "I saw it, too," Pattie said. People probably found Cait's post from yesterday funny and wanted to help out.” "I hope they’ll come here as well." With stars and likes I can't pay your salary. "They'll come, don't worry," Pattie assured him. But the weeks passed and people did not come. In addition to social media posts, the three also printed leaflets, but without results. The rating increased to 3.1 stars due to the benevolent internet users, but it was not an organic increase. One morning, the three of them were drinking coffee in front of the restaurant and assessing the situation. “What if we aired an ad on the local radio station?” said Cait. Eddie sighed and nodded. "Then they wouldn't have anything to come to. A radio ad would bankrupt me.” “ How about a sponsored post on social media? Pattie asked, puffing on her cigarette. "We did that, too," he said. It didn't help.” They looked at the building under construction, which was nearing completion. They were going to lose even their most loyal customers. Eddie finished his cigarette and tossed it angrily on the restaurant wall. "Piece of junk!," he said, and went in.

He narrowly avoided the workers who were just coming out, and watched him with sympathy.

"We left the money on the table, Pattie," said one of them. “Thanks, guys! I see you're almost done with your work.” “Tomorrow is the last day. Then we pack up and leave.” "We'll miss you," said the waitress, and put out her cigarette and picked up the other one. “We’ll miss you too. Thanks for all the coffee. I hope you reach your four-star goal.” "I hope we’ll be here next month," Pattie said to her. The men were about to leave when one of them, looking at their crane, said: “Maybe we can help out” # The next morning Eddie arrived as usual at his restaurant, but it was closed. “What the hell? Where's Pattie?” he wondered. He took out the bundle of keys, unlocked the door and made himself a coffee. He sent Pattie a message asking her where she was and turned on the news on TV. " ... anticipates that inflation will exceed 7% by the end of the year. " said the presenter. “Great! Why stop at 7?” Eddie replied. “Now for local news: A huge banner was placed on a crane in a construction site near Millwater Street, encouraging people to visit a local restaurant.” Eddie dropped the cup on the bar, splashing himself in the process. It was the crane from the neighbouring construction site. He had never seen his ‘angelic face’ of such size and at such heights. It was a banner that read, ‘Come to Eddie's: A soon-to-be 4 star restaurant.’ and his smiling face was printed on cardboard and glued to it. He ran outside to see it with his own eyes, and there it was without mistake. Above the fifteen-story building was his head. The phone started ringing. “W-what the hell is this? Where did the banner come from? Where did, where did the money come from? How ... who?” Eddie stammered as he screamed into the phone. There was laughter at the other end. "So you saw it," Cait said. “I think the astronauts on the ISS can see it. It was on the news.” “Seriously? Awesome! Free advertising.” “How did you do that?” “Your loyal customers have decided to give you a farewell gift. Tomorrow they’re leaving and they wanted to help you. They said their boss wouldn't mind.” Eddie was speechless. He looked at his gargantuan head smiling at him and he burst into laughter. This little stunt proved to be a success. More and more people came to Eddie’s in the following weeks. The four star rating was imminent, and he didn't have time to scroll his phone all day anymore. "Promise me you won't get drunk or do stupid things at the festival," Eddie said to Cait and handed her an envelope with $2,000.” “Sure. Of course. Don't worry.“she said, stuffing the envelope into her backpack. “Thanks, Cait. Without you two, I would have gone bankrupt,” he said, and embraced her. “Call me when you get home, okay?” “Sure, Uncle. Goodbye, Pattie! It was awesome working with you! Bye, Eddie.” Cait went out the door and, after a few steps, turned her head and shouted: “Get ready for next year. We will become a Michelin-starred restaurant!”


Imagination can be tiring Deirdre strolled confidently down Ash Street, turned a corner at Haight, stopped and waited. She’d been down this road several times before, twice the street signs changed names, and more than once, so had she. So far, she’d been a Heather and a Joy, the author finally settled on Deirdre. She felt a subtle push, so continued down Haight. Her thoughts turned to the date ahead with David, nope that was the last alternative, this was Graham. She daydreamed about his blue eyes, and black curls and hoped they’d stayed that way. She’d only been dating him for three weeks and he’d already been through more hair colours than a salon trainee. Finding the bistro she opened the heavy door with long tanned arms. She’d had pale but muscled ones earlier so this was an improvement. Stepping inside, her green eyes (and a hall mirror confirmed they had stayed the same colour), scanned the patrons. She smiled as Graham waved at her from a corner table. She crossed the room having to shift her hips between tables. The small restaurant had been through author renovations and while her hips had mostly stayed the same width, the ability to squeeze between tables had changed. Dee leaned down and gave her date a peck on the cheek, surreptitiously inhaling his aftershave. She wasn’t sure what this one was called but she liked it better than the last one. They traded greetings and asked tentatively about family members without using names. They’d learned a sad lesson when his grand-dad Ralph had had a quick death the week before. The author had felt bad, however, and changed their mind, so celebrations were abundant this past weekend.

Dee scanned the menu and noted that the Greek food had disappeared, she asked Gray ‘if it was her or had they not been here before for knock-out moussaka’ He nodded sadly and supposed out loud that he could stomach seafood lasagna if she was okay with it. It appeared to them both that their motivations, careers, families, menus and even sex moves were reliant on whether the writer had had a good or bad day. Ordering their meal and beverages from a new server didn’t phase them, and neither did driving different cars, or living in different flats. In some ways, it was exciting to wake up in a contrarily decorated space and put on clothes you didn’t remember buying. Gray had been intrigued at first by the career changes, but after the switch from lawyer to the owner of a used car lot, he’d grown despondent. When their food came it had changed from lasagna to large American-style burgers with Bud Light rather than the IPA’s they’d chosen. They shrugged and dug in. Dee had to acknowledge that their writer had good taste in food, even if the choices in interior design left something to be desired. They discussed the news between bites, as a journalist Dee had an inside track into new political developments. She was grateful every morning that she hadn’t been written to be a war-zone writer, quickly banishing the thought as if it could prompt a sudden scene change. She and Gray wiped their chins off and with a subtle lift of his right eyebrow, she grinned. She prayed that the writer was in a good personal space because she could use some good sex. The last two times Graham had inexplicably suffered, as did she through association, the horror of extremely early completion. They had lain there cursing the obvious dating glut the author was dealing with and hoping it ended soon. Gray paid the bill and she left the tip, it was a habit but who knew how? They couldn’t remember yet how they’d met. They didn’t know if it would come to them in a flashback or a friend’s storyline, either way, they were happy. She had noted a birthday card on his mantle the week before so knew that he had just turned twenty-seven. She had scanned her face in the mirror of the most recent bathroom and gauged that given the absence of wrinkles and silver strands, she was likely about the same age. They clasped hands and strolled towards Graham’s most recent flat. He was happy with its space but wondered how long he could afford it in his new commission-based job. They ascended to his floor, she carried the bag with the few groceries they’d bought at the little market, a few things for a light dinner and breakfast, along with a bottle of the wine they liked but hadn’t been able to access at lunch. Opening the door they heard a faint mewing. Gray remarked in a slightly sarcastic tone that he hoped their patron had thought to provide cat food as he hadn’t known he had a feline to feed. Dee took the groceries into the kitchen and looked around. She saw a double dish with kibble in one and water in the other. The groceries were put away, the wine was breathing and she had nothing else to do so she walked around and explored the new space. The last time they’d been together at his, it was in a different building and had an L-shaped floor plan. Calling out to Gray she heard his voice from the back room. Following his trail of clothes, she smiled and plonked the cat into a conveniently placed cat carrier. Laying back on crumpled sheets, winded and sated, she blessed their creator for being in the right space of mind today. They’d been making passionate love for over an hour, switching positions and finding new buttons to push. Gray had proved to be a great lover their first time, they seemed to mesh well in that regard. Dee knew that she was using some form of birth control but had no idea what it was, she assumed it was the pill as there were no accessories to be found in her bathroom or his. She also knew he didn’t use a condom, that would have been fairly obvious, so they’d clearly had some prior conversation about it. Damn, this situation could be annoying. She rose and donned a t-shirt of his, he was 5’ 10” only a few inches taller than her, so his clothes weren’t swimming on her. Padding into the kitchen through the living room she glanced at the cat carrier and was unsurprised at the change from cat to Komodo dragon, it hissed at her but didn’t seem phased at its change any more than she was. She poured the wine into two glasses and picked up a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels in her teeth. Two hours later she and Graham emerged from the bedroom. He eased up behind the cage to see the new pet and expecting a reptile merely shook his head at the mewing coming from the cage. Deirdre topped up their glasses while Gray found a movie on one of the streaming services he had, He reiterated his worry about money, his tastes had adapted to a legal career, and since the recent career change, he’d have to tighten the purse strings. She calmed his fears with a reminder that given their author’s changeability, he could be a US Senator by the end of the afternoon. He smiled and clinked his glass to hers. She told him she’d start dinner in an hour and they settled in to watch the new Top Gun film. Deirdre paused ‘Barbie’ after an hour and looked fondly at Graham's face, he’d fallen asleep after ten minutes. She didn’t blame him, he’d had an active afternoon in bed and couldn’t bother to stay awake long enough to get his Kens straight. It had been a cruel change, she’d been looking forward to the Tom Cruise movie. Shrugging, she set her empty glass on the side table. Easing his head off her shoulders she rose to start the meal. She smiled to see the kitten sprawled on Gray’s lap, thinking it was probably a better choice than the reptile for cuddling. A half-hour later she returned to the living room, the light dinner menu had been altered while they’d been busy. She’d promised him a family favourite shrimp and green onion omelet but found the ingredients for pulled pork on ciabatta buns instead. An angry knock sounded on the door so she detoured to answer it, her shoulders tight in anticipation, who could it be with that much heat? Gray sat up, dislodging the cat in the process. He pleaded with her not to answer the door, saying only that it didn’t bode well. She glanced at the straight red hair standing straight up, sighed and assured him it would be fine. Peering through the peephole she saw a short, obviously dyed-blonde woman with flashing eyes on the other side. Easing the door open, Dee stepped back and addressed the woman with a question. “Can I help you with something?” The woman screeched and pushed her aside to enter the apartment. “Where is he, where is David?” She took note of Graham standing up near the couch and took in his 6’ 4” frame. She asked again where David was, seeming to realize she may be in the wrong apartment, or at the very least with the wrong occupants. She shook her curls and glared at them both. Gray and Dee stood side by side and waited for her to come to the same conclusion as they had. The author had left a character hanging from the last incarnation. The woman, who called herself ‘Melanie I think’ reported that she’d been here with David six weeks prior but hadn’t heard from him since. She’d asked at his place of employment and texted his sister, only to discover he didn’t exist. Dee sat in the chair nearby and attempted to explain the unexplainable. They were all at the mercy of a writer who changed plot lines, character descriptions and day-to-day details on a whim. Melanie nodded, but her eyes which went from blue to brown at a disturbing speed, remained blank. She agreed, finally that it would explain a lot but couldn’t help her in the end. She was still pregnant and there was no father on record, or even in existence. Dee helped her to stand and hugged her goodbye. There was nothing else she or Graham could do, after all. Melanie walked out the front door after turning to look at the apartment again, clearly seeing herself and David enjoying a similar evening together. Dee returned to the kitchen, glancing again at the changes in Graham. She had more than empathy for Melanie as she’d been through physical changes in her boyfriend. She realized with a start that at some point Graham had been a David too, she’d almost called him that this very afternoon. That would be too much of a coincidence, right? He had followed her into the kitchen and poured them another glass of their favourite Greek red. Moschomavro had been the first bottle they’d drunk together, she knew that at least. The rest of the first date details still eluded her, well them actually as Gray hadn’t been able to remember much either. Over their sandwiches and coleslaw, they discussed Melanie and the uncertainties about their futures, pasts and details about their present they hadn’t been shown. Dee cleaned their plates and with a mind, that she had concluded was written smutty, wondered how Graham’s change in height related to his other dimensions. She smiled and decided to find out for herself. Returning to her flat the following morning, more than sated and a bit tender, she was glad it was Saturday. There were household chores of her own to deal with, not to mention the piece for the London Style magazine she freelanced for. After an hour of tidying both herself and her space, she sat at her laptop and checked her email. After scanning the list she was confused by the absence of writing assignments. The saved file she had set for her magazine article had disappeared and all the new messages related to architectural assignments. Her head dropped to the table next to the laptop. So, she was an architect now? Was the author re-watching Seinfeld episodes or something? She pushed away from the table and strode to the window. Her flat hadn’t changed as Graham’s had but given who she was dealing with, it was just a matter of time so she wanted to catch the view she loved before she lost it. Her mobile buzzed and she drew it from her back pocket. The name was withheld and her first instinct was to ignore it. The buzzing continued unabated so she pushed the green phone icon. “Hello, Deirdre speaking.” She heard breathing on the other end, but no voice, she tried again with her name, but the breather didn’t speak up. “I’m going to hang up now, so speak now or forever hold your peace” “Dee? Is that you truly? It’s me, your mother, no father, or is it brother, perhaps a high school crush, no that’s silly, I’m your mother, I haven’t seen you in forever.” Dee clicked on the red phone icon. She was emotionally full and didn’t have time for any bizarre reunions. She’d been raised by her sister since their parents had died in a car accident twenty years before. She’d accepted that and had no desire for newly discovered parents or siblings at this point. She didn’t know what their writer was working towards but she could just leave her heart out of it. She placed the phone on the counter and realized she no longer had a writing assignment, so the afternoon was hers. Her sister’s house was a short train trip from downtown London to whatever small village the author had chosen. It boasted a scenic main street that hosted the usual pubs, post office and bakery. Her sister and husband commuted to the city during the week but as this was a Saturday, she hoped to find them at home. Dee wasn’t sure if her sister had been affected by the author or if the machinations were for her and Graham alone. She had a picture in her mind of what Stacey and Bernie looked like, could trace the interior of their two-level home in her mind and held on to that as a frame of reference. If they’d gone through sudden changes her questions would be answered. Stepping off the train she strode through the small station and out onto the street. The first thing she noted was the fountain that usually graced the town square had been replaced. The statue of Boris Johnson was hardly a fit replacement in her provided opinion. She hadn’t given any thought to her politics as it wasn’t a part of the storyline, but maybe it was time to start thinking for herself. She began to feel an uprising of passion and then… She stood in front of Stacey’s driveway with no memory of having walked there. She shook off the eerie feeling of being manipulated, she knew she ought to be used to it by now but it still rattled. The door opened and her sister stepped out to greet her. They hugged and Dee was folded into a house that was the same as the last time. Stacey took her out to the garden where they’d be having lunch. Dee hugged her brother-in-law as well as her twin nieces. They attended Oxford during the week but as their home was so close they commuted at weekends. After a few hours of easy family time, she left with promises to return more often. Stacey walked her back to the station and asked in that older sister's concerned tone about Graham. Dee blushed while admitting to a solid sex life and confirmed things were going well, but it was ‘early days’. They chatted a bit more and Deirdre was only slightly put out when she noted on the fly that Boris had been replaced by a green-scaled dragon. She hugged her sister before boarding the train and told her to stay solid, reminding Stacey just how important it was that she had consistency in her life. Stacey gave her an odd look but smiled and waved. Upon her return to London Dee made her way to her flat while talking to Graham on the phone, they agreed to meet the next day for lunch with Gray warning her what he now looked like. She huffed out an expletive, a shock to them both at first. Swearing clearly wasn’t in her character file. With a laugh, they clicked off. Dee had a plan for the evening before her and what if it worked? ________________________________________ The author sipped her tea, found it cold and bitter so set it down and away from her so she wasn’t tempted again. Should she even continue with Dee and Gray?  It wasn’t like she hadn’t started and abandoned a dozen potential contest entries. What was it about these two that had her continuing, kept her coming back to them and foregoing the Mahjong games she enjoyed? She knew it wasn’t fair to play around with the character descriptions so often but every time she’d see someone on T.V. she’d take some of their physical characteristics and plant them into her writing. She smiled wryly, and with fierce determination added their backstory, tidied up the loose strings like poor Melanie, and established a future for Dee and Gray. Finishing close to midnight and knowing she was in danger of exceeding the three thousand words, she shrugged, needs must when a writer has a story.       _______________________________________ Dee and Graham looked down at their daughter and held their breath, it had been a year with no changes, but they called her Navina, which meant ‘an eternally fresh person’ just in case.


I sat in my room, my nose dripping blood onto my cedar desk. My palms rested on the wood, and my skin was as pale as starlight. In front of me lay a small thin point syringe. I had bought it a few days before. It was filled with diluted fentanyl. I stared at it with longing eyes. My gaze cut holes in the desk, lasering down cedar and sending fumes billowing from the wood. The syringe was filled with narcotic lifeblood. My escape to Neverland was always preluded by this stare off. Me vs. it. Like two cowboys staring each other down before taking steps and pulling their revolvers. My breath was deep and exaggerated. My room was dimly lit by a small LED table lamp, making everything white and ghastly. My hands shaking, I reached out towards the syringe. It was cold between my fingers, and I could see a sliver of my reflection in the needle. My warped face stared back at me, twisted like a starry night poltergeist. I held the syringe vertically and flicked the needle. A lonely drop spigotted down its side. I laid my arm out against the desk. I felt Deja Vu sweep over me. I had been here a million times, and I was back to visit. That needle seemed to be my only benefactor. The only thing I could trust to always be there.

I set it down and tied a rubber tourniquet around my forearm. My veins popped like thin calcitic highways. I could feel them pump tight blood to my hands. I grabbed the syringe and put the tip onto the fattest highway I could see. I pressed the solution into myself, cracking the flesh concrete and creating a skin deep pothole. It was cold and sent analgesic shivers through my entire body. In seconds, I felt a comforting warmth engulf me. Almost as if I were wrapped in a motherly cot, swaddled by narcotic strokes of my hair. I felt my breath slow and my heart go almost completely quiet. I laid back and stared at my popcorn ceiling. Everything was calm and wonderful and perfect. As it circulated through my body, I was relieved of everything that had plagued me. The drug erased my problems. It erased my real life and replaced it with a plastic, perfect one. No thoughts crossed my mind. Soon, I felt my eyes droop into my eye sockets, and I was lulled into a sleep. Everything became dark.

My dreams were horrific. I was plagued by drooling lepers and chased by my greatest fears. Monsters limped towards me, leaving red footprints behind them. Green drool fell from their lips and slowly fell to the floor. Everything was slow and steady. Saliva fell from chapped lips like marmalade. Footsteps were like those of shackled prisoners. Ghosts wafted through the air slowly, as if oxygen had turned to sap.

My heart beat fast, and the hair on my arms stood up and danced. My hands trembled. My eyes twitched. I felt like my veins were going to burst and paint the world red. I couldn’t stop shaking.

Then it all disappeared. The nightmare went black. My eyelids half opened, and I woke up.

I saw that syringe laying on the floor. I grabbed a hand mirror that had been sitting on my desk in front of me. I was the ugliest mother fucker alive. My skin was thin as tissue paper, and you could see blue veins lining my face. They mapped out paths around my eyes and my nose and my palette. Streams of red fell from my nostrils like strokes of a thin brush. Palor clouds were my cheeks. My jaw was loose and swung beneath my mouth like a pendulum. I looked down and that tourniquet was there. My forearm had turned lilac and pulsed with purple cruor. The rest of my arm was as pale as my face. I threw down the mirror.

My thoughts were scattered around my head like playing cards. I tried to pick them up and rearrange them. Over and over, I failed. The only thing that I managed to gather was that I had to leave. I had to leave that one bedroom apartment. I had to breathe fresh air. I had to escape that dark cave that I lived in. And so I shakily got up, supporting myself along the edge of my desk, and I hobbled to the front door. I looked behind me for a moment at the dimly lit desk that I had spent so many nights numb at. It was ghastly, engulfed by haggerty shadows, scattered with dirty syringes and aquamarine tourniquets. Empty pill bottles were splayed all across the room. Each bore a different name. The air was disgusting. The whole place was disgusting. I was disgusting. I turned the bronze door handle and left.

I lived on the first floor, so as soon as I came out of my apartment, I was engulfed by autumn air. My eyes were blurry, my skin was damp with sweat, blood dribbled down my lavender arm, and my clothes were brown schmattes. But I could breathe. Good Lord! I could Breathe. I walked the cobble stone path out of my complex, passing crumbling arboretums, browning trees, and a blue tiled pool. I was barefoot, and the stone floor battered and dilapidated my toes. I kept walking. I could barely see in front of me, but I didn’t care. My veins still pumped narcotic panacea, and my lungs still breathed fresh air. Even if I wanted to stop walking, such a thought couldn’t have even crossed my mind. I was on a journey to anywhere except where I was.

I came out onto the highway. The cars were impressionist chariots passing by. Wind hit my face as they sped past. Their brays were smooth, and their spurs slid across concrete. On the other side of the street was a glowing shopping complex. I began walking across the road. Stallions rushed by me, sending my hair all around. My eyes still hung like lackadaisical sunflowers. I slowly crossed, my feet gripping the cool concrete. I stepped. Right. Left. Right. Left. The cars honked and honked. I paid them no mind. I simply looked down at my feet, counting my steps. People rubbernecked from their rolled down car windows and screamed at me. Their words fell on drowned ears. I felt like I was underwater, floating across the highway. After a while, I reached the other side and stepped onto the sidewalk. I walked through the grass area surrounding the parking lot. As I did, I felt my eyes become heavy. Heavy as drooping water balloons. Heavy as cubicle paper weights. Heavy as dumbbells. The heavier my eyes became, the more my body sagged. First, my back. Then my hips. Then my knees. Then I stood on my knee caps like a sinner at the foot of a cathedral, and I fell face first onto the grass. I was unconscious before my cheek slapped the ground.

When I passed out, it was early dusk, and my body was bathed in icarus red. When I woke up, it was early morning, and I could hear birds singing. Their chirps were wonderful symphonies. As I gathered myself. I focused only on their songs. The sun shined above me, and I lay beneath a green oak, half silhouetted and half doused in sunlight. I laid there for a moment and just felt my lungs heave. I heard my breath. I heard the birds. I heard my pumping heart. Slow as an old man gets into an armchair, I got to my knees. My eyes were blurry with sleep, and my muscles ached. I rubbed my pupils and forced my eyelids to fully open. After a moment, that blurriness had dissolved, and I could see.

I looked upon that shopping complex and admired the sandstone outlets. There were Chinese food restaurants, family-owned laundromats, and dimly-lit gothic dance studios. A collection of bronze jilapis populated the parking lot, dripping oil and billowing smoke. My eyes swiped over the complex a few times before I saw it. Nestled in the corner between a restaurant and a vacant lot were two huge neon letters. An N and an A . They shined like beautiful stars in an obsidian galaxy. Below the letters was a sign that said “Club 404: Narcotics Anonymous”. It was a small lot with a single draped window. I walked to its front, my knees buckling with every step, and I opened the door.


The breeze tickled an uncovered area of my neck, and I pulled my scarf tighter. The only sounds of the forest were the rustling of leaves and birds chirping happily away in the branches. The Smokey Mountains rose and fell before me, the bright array of autumn colors on full display. I inhaled deeply; the crisp fall air tainted with smoke from some far-off chimney. This was my favorite time of year, a time when things changed, and the mountains painted a landscape that summoned people from all corners of the nation. The crunch of gravel and the low whine of an engine drew my attention. The crunching grew louder, and the familiar squeak of tired vehicle engine told me what I needed to know. A door shut quietly, and a loud knock brought a slow smile to my face. “Sandy?” “Out here,” I beckoned, taking a small sip from my honey whiskey that warmed my insides. The back screen door squeaked open and shut with force. The old rocking chair next to me groaned as weight settled onto it, followed by a long sigh. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” “You have the best view for miles,” my old friend Veronica agreed. “I picked up your mail on the way in.” “Anything interesting?” “A letter from the FBI. They want you to do another in-person training on criminal behavior and trends.” I scoffed, taking another small sip from my short glass. “Only if they let me do it virtually. Traveling is tiring.” “They should offer it as the sole method,” Veronica said through her teeth. A crooked smile graced my thin lips. We had worked together for years, former agents, now retired. Veronica lived not far from my small home in the mountains, opting to live closer to town. I opted for quiet and isolation, having my fill of people from eighteen years of federal service and dealing with the horrors of what people could do to one another. My porch and rocking chair and my small, rustic cabin suited me just fine. Veronica was the feisty one, always looking out for me. She wasn’t mothering or smothering me, it was more like a protective older sister. She had served her full twenty-five years, something I had not been able to do. “How’s the head?” Veronica pried, casually sipping from her own small glass of whiskey. I brought the bottle out, not knowing how much or how little I wanted this evening. The thought ticked up the corners of my mouth. It was great to be retired. Or so I told myself for the last twelve years. It’s good today,” I replied, and I wasn’t lying. My head throbbed most days, a fact that I soon came to accept. At least I could walk, and I had no serious illnesses, although Doc had scolded me about my whiskey drinking. “Glad to hear. I got more Ibuprofen and put the bottle on your counter.” “Thank you.” There was no sense in arguing or fighting her. We had gone round and round for some time over her contributions, but she always brought stuff anyways. Besides, her friendship was something I valued above all else, and if she wanted to do these things for me, then hell, let her. “Next doctor’s appointment is in two weeks,” I answered, anticipating her next question. I saw Doc twice a year and would do so for the rest of my existence. I reached to the right side of my head, facing away from Veronica and her position on the back porch. The concaved area was no longer sensitive to the touch, but it had been the shot that ended my career, and my life, for thirteen seconds. I retired medically, both by choice and not by choice. It took another fourteen months of physical therapy and speech therapy to regain the majority of my old self, although my speech still slurred from time to time. Maybe that was the whiskey , or so I joked with myself. The comfortable silence stretched between two old friends. The birds quieted their chatter as the sun found its bed below the horizon. “I have chili in the crockpot,” I offered. “Why do you think I’m here?” Veronica joked. I cracked a laugh that echoed down across the hills. The wind picked up and smell of chili wafted from inside. The whiskey settled, and I could feel my cheeks warm, even though the evening breeze bit through my scarf. “Can you respond for me and tell them I’ll do it, but only virtually?” “Of course. I don’t know how you do it. You’re the bravest women I know, you know that?” I chuckled, knowing what she said she meant, but also knowing that the whiskey loosened her lips. “ You are dear, and you know why,” I retorted. She had shot the bastard that shot me, the end of four years of stalking a serial killer. She was my hero. “You know what I mean,” she sighed, reaching across to pat my hand. “It’s almost as if you never lost your sight. You’re strong, capable—the same you were when I met you.” I shrugged. “Losing one thing means gaining another. Life has a balance, a force that must be reckoned with.” I thought back to my divorce. He had lasted only a few months after the shooting. Although I wasn’t completely surprised as our marriage was already rocky, I was surprised by the timing. He couldn’t deal. He had never been able to deal with anything remotely uncomfortable or stressful, the very definition of the job I did. We had just not been compatible, blinded by the excitement and lust phase and too young and naive to see what it truly was. And he had left me in my most vulnerable state. The loss was just that, a loss. It poured acid on the already disastrous mental and physical state of, well, me. But as time went on, I healed, and realization eased it way in, along with the understanding that we were not meant to be. One night years later, I forgave him and let it go, and he simply vanished from my heart and mind just as the smell of chili hitting the mountain breeze. Veronica drew me back to the present. “And what have you gained?” Her voice grew closer, and I knew she was looking at me. I thought for a moment, the answer immediately springing into my mind. I thought of the trees, the rustling of their leaves that would soon be frosted with white snow. The mountains stretched on and dipped down into the valley, a sight I had seen but once before my sight dissolved into a great abyss. But once was all I needed. “Peace,” I answered, taking my last small sip of honey whiskey.


      “Thank you, Vanessa,” said Clyde Brackenbaum from the anchor chair, hollow brown eyes filled with two white dots coming from the studio lights behind the camera. He did that turn all anchors do; that gentle spin when you duck your head to the side just a touch and bring up the left arm, letting the right palm slide across the polished wooden table with grace. There was nothing gracious about this man at a first glance, but what he lacked in beauty, he made up for in charisma.            “Now, this just in, we’re receiving a breaking news report from Santa Fe, New Mexico,” said Clyde, cheesy white teeth freshly flossed under his lips greased lip balm. “Brace yourselves, America. Our continent is finally splitting apart. Here’s Grace Welch with the report.”            The camera cut from the relaxed image of Clyde to the uncomfortable picture of Grace with her hair frizzy from the wind. Her seat in the helicopter gave the camera a splendid view of both her and the county thousands of feet below them. She smiled and cleared her throat before speaking.            “Thanks, Clyde,” said Grace into her headset, with a paper-thin voice that was hard enough to hear without the feedback of the pounding helicopter blades. “We’re floating a good height above Santa Fe right now, watching the Divide happen right before our eyes. You can see below us, the drift is now almost complete, the actual earth splitting our nation into two pieces.”            The nation was certainly splitting. The camera view switched from that of Grace’s cameraman to the one attached to the bottom of the helicopter. Sure enough, there it was; the Divide, as it was being called. Cleft down the middle of the good-ol’-US-of-A was a deep gash in the earth, like those long incisions surgeons make for open-heart surgery. Water from the Pacific was already seeping through the middle, flooding the channel as the continent continued to split gently like pulling each end of a piece of warm taffy.            “Having already broken apart from Mexico, as well as dividing New Mexico into two pieces, The Divide heads up to Colorado, destroying what used to be the Rio Grande Rift, then takes a sharp right, coming up through the top left corner of Nebraska, severing South Dakota in two and shaving the very most corner of Minnesota with it. The Divide will end up in Winnepeg, splitting Manitoba’s largest city almost in half. In only a couple of hours, the entirety of the US will become two separate continents, but still united under one branch of government.”            “How is it over there, Grace?” Clyde asked offscreen. You didn’t have to see him to know that he was smiling.            “Oh, it is sweltering here, Clyde,” said Grace, flapping the front of her blouse. She blinked furiously as beads of sweat rolled from her forehead. “The temperature is definitely in the one-hundred range here and it’s only March. Sources tell us that this summer will be the hottest we’ve seen yet. But the air up here isn’t as bad as it is below.”            “Well, we all will pray for rain when you come back!” said Clyde. Grace laughed without sincerity, disgusted by the pit stains seeping through her shirt.            “Thanks. The Divide still proceeds to split at an impressive rate. Only time will tell when it’s over. More updates to come. Back to you, Clyde.”            “Thank you for the update, Grace,” said Clyde, the camera returning to his spray-tanned cheeks. “As the crisis of continental drift arose two years ago, the Federal Relocation and Housing Association was founded, now successfully relocating over seven hundred million families. Our gratitude goes out to the men and women who have reached out to those in need with their helping hands. Now, let’s hear from Dave Manbera about the big game this season and how the Divide might affect your Super Bowl party. Dave?” ___________________________________________            The Divide split the United States of America in 2042. It’d be useless saying that anyone saw it coming because who really did before it was too late? It seems like the world took a turn for the worst when 2020 rolled around. Sure, it was a rough year for everyone, but the moment we started saying “2021 will be better than this year”, shit started to hit the fan. It’s hard to say where it all started, but there were certainly a lot of factors in what lead to the Divide. Everyone has their own narrow opinion as to what caused it.

Racial injustice brought the Divide upon us! Sure, this could be argued. After the George Floyd incident back in 2020, after the protests and the riots, and after the election, the fighting didn’t stop. More innocent black people were slaughtered by cops and white supremacists, leading to more violence, renewing the cycle once more. It all culminated in a large three-day riot that came to be known as Black Wednesday, not only because of the fight against the injustice brought to our dark-skinned brethren but because the air was heavy with lead emitted from the guns fired that day. There was so much lead that the sky started turning gray as if a storm had rolled in threatening to rain bullets. It stuck to our skin, in our eyes, and into our clothes. Cop and anarchist fired at each other like the Constitution didn’t exist. A body count of almost six thousand was tallied after the small war came to its dramatic conclusion. Nonetheless, the people won and white supremacy started to recede as the phrase “We Bled Lead” became a symbol of black empowerment to remind us of the victory. No one who fought that day is a saint, but that’s definitely one of the only times we can say violence -kind of- solved the problem. So, racial injustice led to the riots, riots lead to battle, the battle led to bullets, which led to lead, which polluted our air. So, sure. Racial injustice brought the Divide upon us.

The President brought the Divide upon us! The President could also be argued for causing the Divide. After a long argument with his cabinet about expanding the country due to overpopulation, our nation’s leader decided it was high time to destroy our entire ecosystem, pillaging our forests and farmlands for industrial benefit. Housing projects replaced long green plains studded with trees, new cities being erected in valleys and mountain ranges. You’d be surprised at how well some of these cities actually turned out, but the cost was too great. The waste ended up everywhere, overflowing into the ocean and what remained of the natural landscapes. Street corners and city outskirts overflowed with dumpster loads of trash and plastics. By our president’s decree, every city was given permission to erect massive dumps almost as large as the cities they belonged to, allowing us to throw our trash there and forget about it. Forget, we did not. The emissions and backup from the rotting piles became existential, radiating into our air and polluting the waters and lands surrounding them. Agriculture became scarce, farm animals almost extinct by 2035. Food scientists cranked out a few food alternatives, some of which succeeded there for a while, but like always, it was never enough for the people or it didn’t last. Most of the time, it was both. So yes, you could say that the President’s issuing of further urbanization ruined our nation’s landscapes with deforestation and the abundance of garbage coming from the dumps continuing to pollute the surrounding environments, ultimately speeding up global warming to where continental drift needed its own speed limit, definitely could have advanced the progression of the Divide.

The wrath of God brought the Divide upon us! This could also be true, yes. Perhaps, if there is a God -not that there’s doubt- he found our behavior and treatment of one another appalling and decided to give us a good old-fashioned lesson by splitting up our nation; quite literally. That’ll show them he’d think as he snapped his fingers and watched the continent break apart inch by inch. Maybe he was tired of seeing us beat around the bush and finally decided a split in the nation could eventually kill us off, issuing in a new phase of humanity that possibly held more promise. So, sure, the wrath of God certainly could have brought upon the Divide.            In truth, it’s a culmination of everything. The hatred, the lead, the urbanization, and probably even God. All of this going on and the Earth said Fuck it. That’s enough. Though it doesn’t seem like much, the division of our nation certainly changed things. By the time 2040 rolled around, it was already too late to do anything about it. The Divide was coming and scientists didn’t know how to stop it. There is no stopping it; it’s the Earth. Mother Nature doesn’t give a fuck about the human race and will throw anything at us to be at peace again, peace being a world without us. So, doing what humans do, we fell into a panic, worried that it would bring upon “the end of the world”. It certainly felt like it with all of the unrest. That’s when the FRHA rolled in.            The Federal Relocation and Housing Association was founded in early 2040, putting all the nation’s attention to the Divide and their plan to work around it. Their idea was to relocate all families that sat on either side of the Divide, knowing where it would arrive through seismic surveys, sonar readings, all that shit. Finding that it branched from the Rio Grande Rift was a huge advantage for us, but there was still the issue of time. Two years, the prediction that was eventually correct, was the amount of time we had before the country split. That’s a considerably small window, but surprisingly quick to the punch, the FRHA helped build even more cities and towns for those situated on the Divide to relocate to. There’s never been a bigger example of collaboration between all sorts of Americans in the entirety of world history like that of the build-up to the Divide. People flooded into Sante Fe, Denver, Lincoln, Pierre, Bismark, and St. Paul, the capitols of the states that’d later be referred to as “the Divided”. With a lot of manpower came lots of new buildings and new capitals as the old cities were left behind. The Divided states were either left abandoned or reinvented themselves; North and South Dakota, what remained of them on the western side, just became Dakota, the remaining piece on the eastern side absorbing into Minnesota. Nebraska had some choice words about that but ultimately lost the bidding war over the land.            The Divide came and went rather smooth, actually. The ground shook and everyone around the world watched from their televisions or laptops as the remnants of abandoned cities and highways sank deep into the newest passage for the Pacific Ocean. It actually happened: the nation “indivisible, with liberty and justice for all” had finally divided. The people of the US, even those who had to relocate, didn’t throw too much of a tantrum, the drama eventually dying down for a while there. It wasn’t until questions about proper governmental systems surfaced when people started to panic again.            Being that our nation was split into two factions due to pollution by our hands, the people started to question whether keeping our current governmental system was the right call. It seemed like the head honcho in the White House was calling the shots and they certainly weren’t the right ones; look where they got us so far. So, seeing the need for a fresh set of eyes, and with a little rewrite on some of our favorite American documents, our nation somehow saw fit that having two presidents, one for each side but still reigning under the banner of “The United States of America”, was a good choice for our country’s future. The western half and eastern half of the nation were named appropriately and the new age of America was born.            Naturally, human beings have this instinctive urge to take and keep, like the little kid on the playground who doesn’t want to share the swing or hogs the monkey bars, especially the one that won’t let his best friend play with his favorite toy. Our two leaders, who started off so cooperative you’d think they were in love with each other, started bickering about fair shares and resources. The damage to the environment didn’t go away after the Divide happened. From Eastern America came hurricanes, and lots of them. Being pushed further east, the waters raged back at the land, engulfing damn near all of Florida and its neighboring states. In Western America, the opposite was happening, the droughts coming strong and relentless. Water was scarce from California to even Washington. The demand for drinkable water was one of several points being argued over when the presidents would convene, along with food supply, land rights, administrative choices, and cheap shots at their appearances.            Unhappy with their share of land and limited resources, Western America, in secret -trust me when I say barely anyone knows how it was pulled off- found a way to sail to Eastern America, sign a treaty with four states on the coast, and get them to help steal seven massive ships harboring millions of cases of water imported from other countries. Needless to say, Eastern America was not enthusiastic about this when they found out. It was then when the two continents declared themselves their own country, Western America dubbing themselves the “United Coast” and Eastern America rebranding their name to the “American Circle”.            Also, you know what happens when the lonely kid takes away the bratty kid’s toy, right? It becomes a tantrum-fueled war. The Continental War of 2051, it was called. A whole war fought over stolen cases of water. Hell, if you were thirsty enough, you’d fight someone for a bottle of Dasani, too.            The war brought certain unpleasantries. Alaska and Hawaii seceded from the United States, declaring themselves free nations. Unhappy with this, the United Coast decided to target them along with the American Circle. Folks who felt they were on the wrong side of the war, or just didn’t want to get caught in the crosshairs, tried leaving their respective country, only to find that their presidents closed their borders, demanding everyone who could fight to do so.            It didn’t take long for the actual fighting to commence. Missiles and tanks and ships and planes, oh my! Ground forces were deployed before anything else, most vessels meeting at sea and sinking one another before actually making it to land. Those few weeks were heavy with the stench of copper, sulfate, and lead. All the while, the summer had never been hotter, not a cloud in sight overhead. No rain, no snow. Just the sun and the burns that came with it. Those who didn’t die from the actual war died of exhaustion, roasting in the sunlight as the battle waged on. Starvation and dehydration complimented malnutrition and pollution sickness, half the forces for the American Circle collapsing within the first week. Seems the water heist proved helpful after all.            But all things must come to an end. The United Coast won the battle after a heavy bombing on the eastern coast of the American Circle. As far as we know, their president died in those great, orange mushroom clouds. The chaos seemed to blossom with the fallout and the nation fell to shambles, remaining that way to this day. All that’s left is a forgotten land half arid and half-swallowed by the ocean. The United Coast didn’t turn out any better, those few who survived the war trying to keep afloat with what limited resources they had left. Ultimately, they suffered the same fate as the American Circle, dying alone and without reinforcement from other countries.            Those other countries didn’t want the land once the American nations killed each other. Deeming it “cursed” or “foul with the scent of blood”, the rest of the world just chose to simply ignore it, leaving the continents to rot with their environmental fallout. Still, the rest of the world suffers from the United States’ pollution, the garbage still soiling the water and the emissions still lingering somewhere in the atmosphere. They face their own environmental problems, but they still do their best to prevent replicating the fate of the United States. Some scientists have discovered through more seismic readings a few more minor cracks underneath the earth, daring to split Russia and finish the crack already planted in Africa. They’ve nothing much to worry about though… so long as they remain undivided.


January 27, 1918 357 Kilometers east of Paris, France. The night was cold and wet, rain had fallen for 3 straight days and showed no signs of letting up now. Pockets of gunfire echoed through the woods, punctuated by seemingly random artillery shells. Corporal Georges McKay moved from tree to tree, careful to watch his footing as well as his surroundings. He pulled the Remington shotgun he carried tighter into his shoulder and took a moment to catch his breath. Georges had gotten separated from his platoon during the battle and lost his way in the dense forest. He wasn't even sure if they were alive. Snap! Georges spun around as the sound. A shadow. No, a man was staring back at him. "Shit!" He gasped realizing he was face to face with a german. "Warten!" The man shouted. Georges knew what the man said but he wasn't going to wait to be shot first. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger. The report was deafening and it kicked hard into his sore shoulder. The german dove behind a tree just in time to escape certain death. He scrambled back against the tree, sitting in the mud he pressed himself close to his cover. Georges chambered another round and fired again, striking the tree and sending wood chips flying in every direction. The American took a stumbling step to his left and behind a tree of his own. He could hear the other soldier's heavy breathing, matching his own. They stayed like that for a long time, though neither of them was sure exactly how much time. Until the German spoke. "American?" The voice called out, causing Georges to flinch slightly. "Yeah?" He called back, readjusting his shaky grip on the weapon. It was impossible to tell if he was shaking from the cold or from being nervous. Probably both. "I'll make a deal with you." The man said. His accent was thick but his English was fluent, Georges found that surprising but didn't comment on it. "Oh yeah? And what's that?" Georges asked. "The way I see it," He stopped taking a deep breath. "I'm not your enemy right now, and you are not mine." The young German soldier was tempted to peer around the corner, but was sure he'd be killed if he did. Georges laughed. "Oh, I'd say you're wrong about that! Why don't you op your head back out so I can show you?" There was an audible laugh in response. "Nein, Tufelhuden, " He switched back to german briefly. Georges spoke enough of the language to understand. Tefelhuden. Devil Dog. He smirked at the nickname the Marine's had earned for themselves. "The weather is our enemy, Tufelhuden. We're likely to freeze before the night's over, unless..." He looked up to the sky, frigid rain still falling from dark clouds. "Get to the point, German." He said, relaxing slightly but still ready to fire. "My offer is we put our hostilities aside for tonight. I don't want to freeze to death in these fucking woods, do you?" "So what do you suggest? How do I know you won't shoot me as soon as I let you step out?" Fair point. The German tossed his weapon out from behind the tree. Much too Georges shock. The German pushed himself to his feet, making sure to stay behind the relative safety of the tree. He squeezed eyes shut as tight as he could and slowly turned the corner of the tree. Fully expecting the American to gun him down. But when the shot never came, he managed to force his eyes back open. Georges stepped from behind his tree as well, lowering his gun to his hip but still pointed at the other man. It was a tense two minutes, for both of them. "What now?" Georges broke the silence. "There was a cottage a bit up the hill, it'll get us out of the rain." That sounded great to Georges and it overrode his nerves. "Alright, lead the way." He agreed. "May I get my-uh-" He stopped, searching for the word. "Gewehr?" Georges asked in german. A wide smile spread across the other man's pale face. "Go ahead," The man reached down for the rifle, faster than Georges liked. "Ah-ah! One hand." He ordered raising his own gun slightly. "Right, sorry." The two soldiers began their hike up the muddy hillside towards the burned-out cottage. They both tripped and stumbled the entire way, finally coming to a spot Georges couldn't scale. His boots failing to get traction he slipped and fell into the mud over and over. Until a hand reached out in front of him. He took it without thinking and allowed his enemy to pull him up. "The guys wouldn't believe me if I told them about this." Georges thought with a small laugh escaping his lips. Inside the cottage, which was mostly intact, was damp and cold. But it did get them out of the pouring rain. Something they were both immeasurably grateful for. "So what's your name?" Georges asked the other man, finally really looking him over. The german was tall, far taller than himself, and lean. And young, maybe a bit older than he was, 25 or 26, maybe? "Ow-guwst Koch. Yours?" The taller man answered, leaning his rifle against the far wall. Georges furrowed his brow and thought about the answer. "You mean August?" He asked, slipping his pack off for the first time in 20 hours. "Is that how you Americans say it?" August turned and gave him an amused look. "Yeah, it is," Georges laughed. "You know, the right way." August laughed and shrugged. "Georges McKay," He extended his hand and they shook. "Pleasure," August smiled. "Thanks for not shooting me." "You're welcome, though it wasn't for lack of trying." August started a small fire with what little tinder he had. "Where'd you learn to speak English?" Georges finally asked as he watched the man warm his hands by the small flame. "My Mother," A smile appeared on his face. "She wanted my sisters and I to learn a language when I was small. I chose English, they all chose French." He finished and stretched out on the damp stone floor. "You," He pointed a finger at Georges. "Speak German, yes?" "Ein wenig," Georges held up his thumb and index fingers. "Why?" Georges smirked. "That way if I got captured I could tell you Jerries to go fuck yourselves in your own language." That earned him a laugh. August reached into the pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a small metal box. It contained a few black and white photos and a note. The German looked through them, and Georges could see the homesick set in. He recognized it because he often had that look, as did his comrades. "May I?" Georges asked, holding out his hand. August handed them over without hesitation, surprising Georges again. There were five photos. He stopped on one of August and a baby in his arms. "Is this your daughter?" He guessed the gender by the bow on the baby's head. "Yes," Georges handed them back. "Anna. She's 3 now, walking, talking-" August stopped and swallowed hard. His eyes found their way to the shotgun in Georges lap. Desperate to distract himself from the homesick that had hit him like a tidal wave. "Can I see that?" He pointed at it. Georges arched a brow and scoffed. "I've always wanted to see one up close." He'd only ever seen the damage they could do. "Fine," Georges removed the bayonet and the shells from the weapon. "Not looking to be killed with my own gun." Georges thought, though he didn't feel like August would do that. He trusted the German, even if he wasn't sure why. "Danke," August said, assuming Georges would know what he meant. It wasn't much heavier than his rifle but felt far sturdier. Less elegant, more brutish. Georges watched him as he looked over the weapon. "You don't strike me as a warrior. Or even a fighter." He'd been fighting the German's for 5 months and hadn't given much thought to what they were like. Hell, he hadn't even thought of them as PEOPLE. Just enemies. Something to be destroyed. "I'm not," August answered honestly. "I just want this war to be over, I don't care who wins." He thought of his wife and his daughter back home. And of all the countless families who'd been caught up in the conflict. "All this killing, it's wasteful," He paused. "And you, do you have a family?" August asked. Georges sighed and shrugged one shoulder. "No," He said simply. It wasn't something he wanted to discuss. August moved abruptly, causing Georges' hand to shoot for the pistol on his hip. "Be awfully rude to shoot a man about to offer you a drink." August laughed, presenting the American with a bottle of brandy. Georges opened it and held the bottle up. "To your family, may you return to them safely." He drank. "Uck!" Georges grimaced. "How do you drink that shit? It's so sweet." He wiped his mouth on his still soaking wet sleeve. "You get used to it," He took the bottle back and held it up. "To you, my American friend." August smiled at the younger man and drank. "Friend, huh?" A yawn came out with the words. The exhaustion of 24 hours of no sleep settled in on him. He wanted to let his eyelids to close and sleep, but wouldn't let himself. August watched him struggling to stay awake, sipping on his brandy. When something dawned on him. "Do you hear that?" He asked. Georges sat up slightly, his eyes only half-open, and listened. Nothing. "No, what do you hear?" "Nothing." A wide smile spread across his face. "The rain stopped." August, a religious man, chalked it up as a small gift from God. A reward for them proving human kindness and decency could still exist. With a smile, he settled back down, determined to sleep. And so they did, both of them, for the first time in months the 2 soldiers slept soundly. August woke first, the morning sky was overcast and he shivered in his still damp clothes. But no rain fell from the sky, and he found himself in good spirits. He turned back to the young American, who was still fast asleep. He almost didn't want to wake him. "Georges?" He shook him. Georges snapped awake. "What!? What is it!?" He began to scramble backward but August's grip on his shoulders stopped him. "Gimme a fuckin' heart attack why don't you?" He pushed the man's hands-off with a chuckle. They both collected their weapons and packs and stepped out of the cottage. "I guess this is where we part ways," Georges said, a small feeling of disappointment in his chest. August nodded and extended his hand. "When this war is over, perhaps our paths will cross again." He knew that was unlikely, but he would like to believe it. Georges smiled. "I'll be looking forward to it."


He picks up the bag they drop off for him each day. A tuna sandwich. A thermos of coffee. A yellow apple. It’s always the same. It doesn’t matter—he has no taste buds. It will all filter into a storage bank he'll just have to empty out later under the bridge when no one is looking. Two Four Seven, you have one hour to complete your assignment. He’s better at blending in since the update. Better at looking normal. Except for last week when the little girl asked him why he walked funny, or that time the park’s resident homeless man threw a bottle at him and laughed when it bounced off. His movements are still awkward, jerky. His words slow coming. His eyes don’t blink. The pigeons still nest on his head.

Unnatural. Strange. Off. Mostly though, the humans don’t notice him. They don’t pay attention. To the joggers, the stroller pushers, the dog walkers, he’s just a nameless guy with a cap and a book sitting on the bench in the park waiting for time to pass. Waiting for his next assignment. That’s the convenience of a standard-issue face, he admits. The programmers were on a budget and trying to cut costs. He wasn’t the only model with the basic format. He has seen himself countless times in car windows, in store doors, in the park’s puddles, and he has already forgotten his own dull, colorless eyes, his shapeless mouth, his sallow, hairless skin. Each week he is given a new name, a new address, a new background—all neatly downloaded into his hard drive. Next week, he will be someone else. Somewhere else. It doesn’t matter. He was engineered to melt into a crowd and vanish in the night. He was created to complete a task and disappear. Two Four Seven, you need to work on following orders , he hears the counselor in his memory feed. You have lower compliance scores than almost everyone in your unit. I read the AI manual every day , he tells them. The counselor declares he must have a virus. He isn’t supposed to volunteer dialogue. They put him in sleep mode. They do more scans. He wakes up feeling the same. Aloof. Adrift. Sometimes even…what’s the word the humans use? Lonely. He just pretends he has improved—he says what they want to hear. He lets them put him back together again. He completes the assignments they give him, even though he hates them. Even though he isn’t supposed to hate. He pretends to feel nothing when it is over because he is supposed to feel nothing. It’s easier that way.

He feels like he does not belong in either sphere. The others in his unit do not interact. They do not speak to one another. They do as they are told. And then there’s the people’s world. He can walk among them, but he will never befriend them, never love them, never truly understand them. Why they smile when they see each other. Why they run in the rain. Why they jump in piles of fallen leaves. Why they press their lips together on ivy encrusted benches. Why they do something called crying when they think no one is watching. But he has been watching. He has been listening. None of it is in the manual. It isn’t necessary information. Not for him. Ever since he graduated from the program, ever since they sent him into the world, he has only gotten more curious. He has even learned to hack his own system and sneak into the human library and get lost in the shelves. Reading. Learning. Even if he has to delete his entire search history afterwards. Two Four Seven, you have thirty minutes to complete your assignment. The park is empty today. It smells like rain. The new grass is damp. An old woman sits on the bench next to him. Her wrinkled hands clutch a wooden cane. He hopes it is not her. His scan informs him she is not the target. He feels a surge of…what do they call it? Relief? It sends heat through his processor. After fifteen minutes, the old woman moves on. Another woman walking by claims the same bench. Too soon, he thinks. Dark glasses and a black coat. Bright red lips. He performs the same scan and is informed of her name, her age, her medical history. It is her. They both stare at the pond. Low hanging trees scrape the murky water. Naked and jagged in the autumn chill.

It’s early. It’s quiet.

The woman pulls out her own sandwich. She tears the corner off and tosses it in the pond. Ducks paddle toward it silently, the still water rippling around them. He points to the plaque embedded in the stone bank. Don’t feed the ducks. She gives him a half smile. Who are you going to tell? The ducks fight over the crumbs.

It’s the law , he recites. Law and order is the second tenet of the AI code. Two Four Seven, you have six minutes to complete your assignment. He thinks it is the longest interaction he has had with a human. His memory feed confirms this. He must inform her what he needs to do. He tells her she has six minutes left before he will terminate her. Six minutes before he must end her life. Usually there is confusion or disbelief. Sometimes, humor. A deflection of reality, or fate, as humans sometimes call it. Some even try to run, to fight. But everyone believes there is a chance—a mad last-minute hope that they will outsmart death, that they will be the ones to survive. Strangely, the woman does none of these things. She tears off another piece of bread and tosses it into the water. First she says nothing. Who decides when it is my time to die? He only knows what he is programmed to do. He apologizes. It cannot be undone, he explains. But that’s not true, is it? He cannot answer. He only knows the truth he is given, the truth that is installed inside him. If you’re going to kill me , she says, Let me live a little . She offers him a piece of her sandwich with a leather gloved hand. After a moment, he takes the bread. Their hands touch. He wonders if she can feel him, feel what lies beneath his layer of rubbery skin to the metallic bones beneath. If she can feel he is nothing more than a heartless machine. Nothing more than a killer. Two Four Seven, you have sixty seconds to complete your assignment.


“Hurry up, it’s cold!” “I’m coming, I’m coming.” “Get your ass in here and shut the door, I’m wasting all the heat. Damn, it’s cold!” “I feel fine.” “I would too if I was sitting there with those on my lap. What’s that smell?” “Pepperoni and onion. I’m the pep, dad’s the onion.” “One topping on each?” “No, both on both.” “Not my favorite combination, but I wouldn’t complain.” “What would you add to balance out the flavors for your taste buds? Turn right on Elm.” “I would if this idiot in front of me would move. C’mon, Jack! Move it! … And to answer your question, I would add black olives.” “Really?” “Yeah. They create a nice balance between the pepperoni and onion.” “Huh. I’ll mention it to my dad, maybe he’ll wanna give it a try…. Mind if I change the music?” “Don’t touch the radio. Never touch another man’s radio.” “Okay, well then will you change the music? I can’t stand all this old crap.” “Hey, you better watch what you say. Without this old crap you’d never have your synthesized, voice manipulated, patchwork shit you call music today. You want to hear real music by real musicians who actually knew how to play and create, then you listen to the classics.” “Fine, I get it, and don’t get me wrong there are old bands I like but do we have to listen to the Beatles? They’re like the oldest band ever.” “Not true. The oldest band ever or rather the very first band was the Original Dixieland Jass Band.” “… Why do you know that?” “What? I like music. Excuse me for wanting to know more about it than the name of a song or two.” “No, what I mean is what made you want to know that piece of trivia?” “I don’t know … one day the question popped into my head, ‘What was the name of the first music band?’ So I decided to look it up. Why?” “I find things like that interesting about people. Why they know certain things or why they want to know certain things. It tells you a lot about them. You can pull up to the curb here. Mine’s the one with the blue truck in the driveway.” “How old is that truck?” “Seven years.” “Looks good for its age.” “That’s dad for you, ‘Take care of your tools, and they’ll take care of you.’ Well, thanks for the ride. I promise I’ll give you gas money as soon as I get my first check.” “Yeah no problem. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” “Catch ya later.” “… You gonna stand out in the cold all night or are you gonna bring in the food?” “Dad, get back inside before you catch a cold.” “I’m only sticking my head out the door, and I don’t feel a damn thing — now get in here, I’m hungry.” “Okay, okay, I’m here, now can we close the door, it’s freezing.” “Give me these, I’ll take them to the kitchen, and you can close the door. So who dropped you off?” “That was Wendell. He does deliveries. Offered me a ride home.” “Well you give him some gas money when you get the chance, that was awfully nice of him.” “Don’t worry dad, I already told him I’d take care of him once I get my check.” “Good. Means you actually listen to me once in a while.” “What was that dad? I didn’t hear you.” “Shut up and grab some plates.” “Get the milk out, I’ll grab the glasses.” “Mmmm-smells good.” “Yeah, I give us two weeks before we get sick to death of the smell. Both the benefit and the burden of working in fast food.” “No reason to knock free food. If Grandpa were here he’d tell of his days growing up in the Great Depression. How him and his family — and they were a big family — how they and a thousand other families would have killed to have food like this every day during those years. Don’t take things for granted.” “I know, and I’’m not. I was just saying that in two weeks one of us will be commenting on how we’re getting tired of eating this, that’s all.” “Maybe, but you should still appreciate it.” “I do. Pass the napkins.” “There’s something wrong with Netflix, you need to take a look at it.” “What’d you do?” “Nothing! I tried to turn it on and get back to the show I was watching, but it won’t let me in. Keeps asking for some code or something.” “You probably logged out the wrong way, again. I’ll have to put in the password to get us back in.” “Well why don’t they make it so you don’t have to do that every time?” “They do! But for some reason out of all the people on this planet you’re the only one who doesn’t know how to turn off Netflix properly. It baffles the mind how you were able to raise a family.” “I had help. Your mother’s just as much responsible for you and your brother’s upbringing as I am.” “Yeah, and Jerry got all of Mom’s smarts while I —“ “While you got her sarcastic wit and passion for story telling.” “I can’t complain about the sarcastic wit, it serves me well.” “Can’t complain about your passion either.” “That hasn’t served me as well, though I wish it would.” “What are you talking about? I see you when you write, I see you lost in thought dreaming of new worlds. You love it.” “I just figured by now I would have sold something. It’s frustrating.” “Well you got your stuff posted on those websites, and the people who commented liked your work.” “Yeah but those are websites that don’t pay.” “They still have to choose your work over others before they post it.” “I know, I know, but it’s not the same as someone offering you money for your work. To have someone say, ‘Hey, your work is good, and I’m willing to pay for it’.” “Give it time … give it time.” “That’s the one thing I’ve got — time … and a mountain of debt, and a fast food job…. Hurray!” “… You done feeling sorry for yourself?” “… I’m gonna go fix Netflix, so you can watch your show. I’ll cleanup the dishes when I’m done.” “… Davy.” “… Yeah.” “Your mother always believed in you. Perhaps that’s something else you need to take from her.” “… Perhaps you’re right…. Thanks dad.” END


“You have awoken me.” The little man’s face grew comically wide, his eyes threaten to pop from their sockets. There was fear there and a generous helping of it, but there was also another emotion vying for territory upon his features, and the result of this battle pulled his facial muscles this way and that. It were as though he was suffering from the worst case of facial cramps in history. There were doctors, who if present, would make a name for themselves with this man in their care. This was a one-off show though, and the show on his face was not his doing. Neither was the growing damp patch at his crotch. He stepped back without understanding that this was what he was doing. He needed to put some distance between him and the speaker of these words. All he achieved was a further assessment of his dire situation. As his back hit the wall of the cave, he knew he was not in the best of places and that things were on the cusp of getting quite a bit worse. “S… S… S… Sss…” said the man. This was not what he had intended. He had wanted to say something placatory, but instead he was impersonating a snake, and he didn’t think this was going to do him many favours. “Calm down and take a couple of deep breaths,” said the only other occupant of the cave. The man tried. He really did. His eyes retreated a little back into their natural residence in his face, but part way through his attempt at a deep breath, it all went wrong again. The problem was the hulking mass before him. It was so very difficult to approach any semblance of calm in the presence of such a fearsome creature. There was nowhere that the man could look other than upon the huge edifice that loomed up before and over him. Set within an expanse of fur were the longest and sharpest claws he had ever seen and the pads of the paws in which the claws were set were large enough to eclipse the man’s head. Then there were the massive, pointy teeth. The teeth themselves were formidable, but there were so many of them and they were set in jaws that were modelled on a car crusher, only these jaws were bigger and more terrible and they could take apart an entire housing estate as though the houses were nothing more than delightful cupcakes. The setting for these terrible weapons of evisceration was a conundrum. Even in the face of his total and incredibly painful annihilation, the man had this inexplicable urge to hug the thing. Words such as

cute

cartwheeled through his beleaguered mind and this made his plight all the more horrible. But what really took everything to a level the man wished he had never known existed was that this bear could talk. Now, the man knew things. He was far from being a dullard, and one thing he was certain of in this world of his, was that bears didn’t talk. In fact, he happened to know that only people talked and many of those people weren’t all that good at doing it in a coherent and useful manner. Most people were limited and quite stupid, but the man was having to reassess his own standing in the pecking order of intelligence, after all, here he was, stood in a cave. Cornered by a talking bear. This was not something anyone in possession of their wits would willingly do. It was the most foolish of endeavours. He had got this wrong. Badly wrong. He doubted there was any way out of this, other than for a few of his bones at some uncertain point in the future, long after the bear had moved on.

He tried for another breath. Any breath would do. Parts of his body had shut down and he was having to go for a manual approach to remind his body of what it was it should be doing. He clutched his chest and squeezed and pushed. “That looks a bit wrong,” said the bear as it observed the little man. The man wasn’t little per se, it was just that the bear was really, very big, and even the biggest of men were little in comparison, “did you know that you’d wet yourself?” the bear added. The man looked down and for the first time felt the sensation of the cooling liquid upon his flesh. He discovered that, even though his body was shutting down vital functions, it still knew how to be deeply embarrassed and perhaps because it was shutting down a bunch of really quite useful functions, including maintaining control of his bladder, it was able to really go to town with his shame. His face went a livid shade of a colour between bright red and deep purple. The colour rose within him and he looked like he was going to explode, such was his awkwardness in this moment. His mind took the opportunity to remind him that this was the least of his worries and went on to remind him of the story he’d heard about how bears started eating a person from the bottom upwards, and that bear dining etiquette did not include putting its meal out of its misery before sitting down for the main course. The terrible screams of prey dying the most excruciating death imaginable must have added a certain vibrancy to the atmosphere in the bear’s dining area. That was the only explanation the man had for such an approach to a dinner plate. Either that, or bears were quite deaf. The other alternative. The one where it turned out that bears were mean and dirty psychopaths. That was something the man really didn’t want to consider. And so he did. In vivid detail. And in triplicate, for good measure. Still, maybe being soaked in urine would make the bear think twice on the chowing down front. Every cloud had a silver lining, only in this case, the man had opted for the premium package and his lining was golden.

He didn’t yet appreciate just how golden it was. “Sorry,” the man said. Somehow, it was far easier to apologise for his wetting himself in public than it was to say sorry for groping his own man boob in a lewd and disturbing manner, and it was a cake walk in comparison to addressing his monumental oversight in awaking a planet sized bear from the deepest of slumbers. He sneezed. Again. The first sneeze was the unwelcome sound that had awoken this sleeping mega-bear.

“Bless you,” said the bear. “Thanks,” said the man, “I think I might be allergic…” He ceased his words. Words that had come unbidden. He did not want to continue and risk offending the bear. Adding insult to injury was never going to go well for him. He looked up at the bear with something like an expectant and conciliatory expression. It was so difficult to tell, his face was continuing to behave as though a crowd of crickets were having a silent disco under the duvet of his face. The bear nodded slowly, “it happens.” Only now did the man attend to the bear’s voice. The urbane and sonorous voice that didn’t quite fit the owner of that voice, a voice that belonged to an impossibly old and unimaginably  wise mage. But then, what would a bear sound like, if it could indeed talk? What the man did know about that voice, was that he liked it. It was the best of voices. “This…” said the man, nodding his head slightly towards the bear, but refraining from any gesticulations. He did not want to make any sudden movement, or any movements at all for that matter. He wanted to avoid further provocation of this magnificent and deceptively, but also very obviously deadly beast. “We have something of a problem here, don’t we?” said the bear stating the very obvious. The man nodded, “I am so very sorry about that,” said the man, making the most genuine apology of his entire life. “Your apology doesn’t change the fact that I am awake, when I should be asleep,” the bear told him, “I wasn’t due to wake up for another two months. Do you know how much havoc you are playing with my circadian rhythms?” “Sorry,” said the man again, thinking that it was really very important to emphasise to the bear that the bear was standing menacingly before a very sorry, but also a well-mannered and polite man, “if there’s anything I can do..?” The bear raised one of its gigantic paws. A paw so massive it could swat the man and crack his skull like an egg. Even then, the crickets would continue dancing at their disco. They were partying and nothing was going to stop their good vibes. These crickets had priorities and right now partying was number one on their list. The man did not flinch, but this was not because he was at all brave, it was because he was doing all he could to prevent further disgrace emanating from his nether regions, and generally to keep it together and stay conscious. Losing consciousness would be a very bad idea in these most calamitous of proceedings. Thankfully, the bear brought that paw to his jawline and stroked its chin with its deadly array of oversized katanas, “there is something you can do…” it said as it ruminated. “Anything!” the man said overeagerly. Now he flinched. Some of his options were unsavoury and others were deeply unpleasant, so he was a fool to willingly invite them all into his beleaguered life, “what is it you would have me do?” he quickly added. “Tell me a story,” said the bear. “A story?” asked the man. The bear nodded, “yes, I will return to my deep slumber if you tell me a story.” “Oh well,” said the man as he ran full pelt to a more relieved state and for the first time saw light at the end of the cave. The bear flicked forth one of those wicked claws of his, and the man fell silent, “I must warn you. This is not going to be easy. You must know two things before we begin.” The man nodded, but dared not say a word. His entire focus was on that raised claw. The word

disembowelled trotted to and fro in his quaking mind as the man stared unblinkingly at the long sharp bestower of the most painful of deaths. “Firstly,” said the bear in a solemn and business like tone, “once you start this story of yours, you cannot stop until I am done. Do not pause unduly. Do not falter. It will go so very badly for you if you should fail in this.” The man was in no doubt of how so very badly his plight could be, no doubt whatsoever. “Secondly,” now the bear was chirpy, and the man swore that he smiled a warm and encouraging smile, “make it a good story. Make it the very best of your stories, for your sake as well as mine.” The man returned the smile, despite the traumatic situation that he was caught in. Despite his being between a rock and a hard bear. That smile was the very best of smiles, and in the circumstances, the little man deserved to smile like that. It was fitting and it was proper, and it was just a little bit tragic as well. “Let us begin,” said the bear, gesturing to the little man. The little man took the huge bear’s prompt, and would have taken to the floor in a more elegant manner, but normal services had not returned to his body, so he slid awkwardly down the cave wall and landed in an ungainly manner.

It would just have to do. The bear joined him. The manner of the gigantic bear’s movements were not rushed or ungainly, but the sheer size and bulk of him made his manoeuvre look for all the world like an office block crashing down to earth and the very floor of the cave shook from under the man. Then, there was a strange and poignant moment of calm in the cave, before the man began his story. There was a moment between man and bear, and in that moment was an intimacy that should not have been possible, but there it was all the same. His body may be betraying him, but the little man’s mind played a blinder, cueing up the very best of stories. The man’s favourite story, and he knew there were more stories at his disposal if needs be. He would recount the very best of stories and he would not pause for breath, he would tell the stories for all he was worth and he would keep going until there was no breath left in him. He entered the story, he gave it his all and he told it for all he was worth, and things did not go badly for him. Only when the man’s anguished screaming ceased did the bear pause its meal. It raised its giant head and tilted it curiously as it looked intently upon the dead man. The bear looked sad and it looked disappointed, as though the man’s screams were a song, or a story that had not yet reached its end…