The bloody hellish sky screamed releasing a cascade upon us; summoned by the looming crimson moon itself. I suppose it made sense, a vision of tidings to come. Mud; it splashed in our boots, wet our clothes, made hands slippery, caked and coated armor. We marched to bring forth a downpour of our own design, a wash with which we would stain the earth this night. Exhausted, he lurched forth, disenchanted and disturbed with the knowledge of what he must do in the hours ahead. He always felt tired before a fight, drained, as if his mind felt the weight of what is to come before his body. Or was it fear? no, not fear, he was no coward, he had seen fear before and what it does to men. That wasn't what he felt now; he wasn't looking for an escape, for a way out; he was simply consumed by an acute awareness of the challenge ahead. Every warrior carries a beast within; and a wise monster knows to rest before rising to play its game. He was comforted at that notion, a hungry creature that craved the fruits that he detested. Thirsting for blood beneath his flesh, gripping the handle of his blade for him. There was no bloodlust in his heart, no desire for killing, plunder, or savagery. Yet it wasn't his intention to end up the product of someone else's. For this he was grateful, he thanked the monster. It helped him to imagine there was someone else swinging the blade... some-thing else. Something else's feet marching into the fold, bleeding from his wounds, something else spitting and pissing and pissing at the mulched remains of the ones who dared stand before him. Yes, reveling in the spilt blood wasn't his pleasure; but then why did it happen. It was hard to recall, the more he thought about it, the lapses. A moment of preparation, the seething, the chill in his spine and then, nothing; nothing, besides a forward march across piles of dripping mass that could be vaguely described as once human. Clumps of bone and blood mashed together like a clay sculpture; an art critique may call it avant-garde, hailed as a masterpiece for challenging contemporary taste. But he was no artist, but not a killer either; at least he didn't feel like one, or didn't wish to. However, no matter how cleverly one sneaks upon a mirror, it will always look you dead in the eye. The lens through which we see ourselves is cloudy, misinterpreted, and filled with lies. Who we really are can only be seen by a vantage point, to which we, unfortunately can never deceive. "I am a soldier" he told himself, "And a soldier does as he's commanded, there's no pleasure, and no wrong in it." Why then the guilt, the shame; why did it feel so good to take life? When his blade spilt blood it seemed to fill the pit inside him; and it was intoxicating, satisfying in ways that he desperately wanted his ordinary life to be. In truth it was pale, colorless to cast his net and reel in his provisions day to day. The sound of his children's laughter and the passion in his beloved's eyes; these were paltry reprieves in an otherwise tedious and unsatisfactory life. Perhaps it was more than a metaphor, more than something he told himself to steel before battle. There was a demon inside him, calling; a voice from a cold, empty place. A place that peacetime could not fill; not with joy or pleasure, not laughter or love. These were deep stony halls, laden with the corpses of fallen adversaries; feed for the pacing beast roaming inside. It terrified him to realize it, to shatter the façade he saw in himself. But this was war; and I suppose there is no better time to meet the killer inside you. It could be only real friend you have, the only thing that keeps you alive, the only thing that staves away the madness.


The small figure cast a quick glance over their shoulder as they scuttled through the darkened streets. In this sleepy town, at this hour, it was unusual for anyone to be out of their homes, but one could never be too cautious. The silence was pressing in on sanity; moments feeling as heavy weights on the ticking hands of time. Silence and time, when even the smallest scuff could be a booming signal, but risk for speed was a necessity. Pulling the hood of their cloak closer to their face for coverage, the figure refocused on the arrival. In a short dark alley, the figure knocked on a plain wooden door. In a hushed voice, barely perceptible, she whispered, “Maggie?” In response, on well oiled hinges, the door opened quickly and silently. The figure was reminded of her previously looming thoughts on silence and time. She stepped inside and the door closed firmly without a sound. Once inside, the figure dropped her hood and a mass of wiry, straw-like, fiery hair humbled out in disarray. This was one of the many things Fluxx had inherited from her Da, a dwarf. Others being her pale skin, stubborn and often abrupt nature, and distaste for conventional niceties. From her mother, a fire genie, she’d acquired her fierce confidence, obsession with magic, and her tendency to spark - both literal and figurative. Just one of the many reasons she’d been banned from her precious books in the city library and archive. Exactly where she now stood, in the dead quiet of night. Nothing boils the scholars more than scorched books and scrolls. Magdalena, her first and only real friend, was the only scholar that understood her passion for knowledge and the side-effects that could come from heightened emotions. Maggie, as Fluxx affectionately called her, didn’t agree with the edict that banned Fluxx from the archives, and often took the closing shift to assist in after-hours infiltration. The closing shift wasn’t something often wanted, so the upper scholars were happy to oblige. Fluxx removed her cloak as she made her way to one of the small sitting areas. She grabbed the nearest book, *The Ember in the Eye*, the nearest chair, and began absorbing what she could with her limited time. Page after page, she devoured the information. Page after page, she lost time and place. She clutched the book to her and leaned in, as if in doing so, she could take it all in quicker. Then, rather abruptly, she was ripped out of her reverie by a strand of hair. White hair, just a strand, was draped across the words on the page. That singular strand was just distracting enough to have pulled her out of her state. How odd to so easily be pulled away from such an episode, but also fortuitous to have happened before any damage. Magdalena usually kept an eye on her, but she was nowhere to be found. Probably finishing up any number of her remaining required duties. Fluxx relaxed slightly her grip on the book, plucked at the strand, and dropped it to the side of her. Rubbing her fingertips together to ease the tingling accumulating in them from her magic, she began to dive back into the words scrawled across the page. A small breeze picked up and blew the strand of hair back into place. To Fluxx, that thin strand of hair was as wide as an inlet, distracting - nay, preventing her - from viewing her precious words. She flung the strand aside, only to have it reappear with another small breeze. Small breeze? Fluxx looked up and around her. She was still sitting in the library - an indoor, closed-windowed archive. Where could that wind shift have come from? Fluxx pulled on the hair, as if to sever it from whence it came. The strand would not break. he followed it with her gaze, intent on finding the source. It trailed from her book to another on the shelf, *Abyss of Destiny*. Fluxx stood and retrieved that tome from the shelf. When she opened it and pulled on the hair, once more it would not detach, but led her to another text, *City of Smoke*, higher up. Her obsession with the strand grew. Fetching a ladder quickly, she traced the hair through book after book, carelessly ripping the tomes off the shelf and tossing them aside. *The Immortal Binds.* *The Call of Silence.* *The Tangled Throne.* *The Splintered Strand.* Tome after tome fell to the floor as more and more strands appeared. She pulled at them, twisted them, tried with everything she had to break them, but to no avail. The white hair was cascading through the books, tumbling tumultuous through her psyche. Fluxx was raw and exposed, her frustration and magic growing. Near the top, leaning precariously to one side, she reached for another tome, *The Voice of the Original*. Behind the book was a burning, glowing red eye, seeing Fluxx through strands of draping white hair. In a tone that was booming but ever quiet, she heard a voice say, “You’ve followed the tangled strands to the root. You are worthy to separate, cut, make right the wrongs of Men and Gods. Fate will be unknotted and restored. Come.


This story is about a man from the future going back in time and trying to get a job. **A Man From The Future** A man is sent back in time, and is set to work a job as a receptionist. His job is to accept calls, and book appointments for the business owner to work. She, the business owner, says she will pay him $12.50 an hour. For 8 hours of work, that’s $100. The man, having been well educated in the future, is curious about how the business works, and whether he is being paid fairly. He asks, "how many appointments will I be setting a day?" The business owner replies, "about one an hour, on average. And it will take you about 15 minutes to book each one." "And, what will I do with the other 45 minutes?" He asks, wanting to make the most of his time. "You will wait at your desk, and make sure you do not miss any calls," she responds. "Why don’t I make calls to others, and try to book them when I’m not on the phone?" The man asks. "Because you might miss an incoming call while you are on the phone with someone else." She responds. "What if someone calls in while I am already talking to someone else who has called in?" The man then asks. "You will call them back, but hopefully that does not happen too often. If it does, we will hire another person to answer the phones alongside you." The business owner responds. The man can tell she is frustrated by his line of questioning. Her tone suggests that his questions are so simple that he should already know the answers. He decides to change to a different line of questioning. He is still curious about whether his pay is fair, but he has concluded that the $12.50 must cover the opportunity cost of waiting for most of the day at his desk. The man asks, "do appointments always turn up?" "Almost always, yes," the business owner replies. "And, how much money does the company make from each booked appointment?" The owner smiles, "we make $125 for every appointment, and I always do 8 appointments, that’s $1000 a day," she says, sounding very proud. The man frowns, then asks, "and you are busy all day taking those appointments?" The owner nods. "Yes. While I’m in appointments, I cannot take calls." The man nods at this, "that makes sense," he says, and the owner smiles again. The man then asks another question. "Before you hired me, did you have another person setting appointments?" The owner nods. "Yes. She is the salesperson now at a different company. She worked as a receptionist for 2 years, and now she makes $10 an hour, plus $20 for every appointment that she sets for them. She left in order to make more money." The man frowns again. "And, before you had any employees, how many appointments could you do in a day?" The owner cocks her head and thinks, "Well, I was only doing about half the appointments. I missed most of the calls coming in, and then I had to call people back and leave a voicemail. Sometimes they never called back, or I had to call them a few times to get them to set an appointment and come in to see me." The man nodded. "So, if you are charging $125 per appointment, and are able to do twice as many appointments because of me answering the phone… Why are you only paying me one tenth of the value of the appointments I set?" The woman is shocked. "Well, I am the one actually doing the procedure, that’s why," she says indignantly. The man from the future is confused. "But, you would not be able to do half of the procedures if I wasn’t answering the phone. The company would make $500 less dollars a day if I wasn’t doing this job. So why am I only being paid $100 a day, when you make $1000?" The business owner is angry now. "If I wasn’t doing the procedures, the company would make $0 dollars, that’s why!" She says, her voice is raised now. The man scratches his head, trying to understand. Then he says, "if you were working alone you’d be making $500 a day. With us working together we’d be making $500 more. Why don’t I get half of that? It wouldn’t happen without me." The business owner is shaking her head. "You aren’t using any skills. You are just answering phone calls and setting appointments. I went to school for years to do these procedures." The man nods. "Yes, that is why you are making the $500 for the appointments you can work on your own. You're hiring me because you wanted to make more money right?" The owner nods, "yes of course I'm hiring you to make more money. But I'd be working twice as hard for that extra $500 if I had to give you half of it." The mans brow is furrowed in concentration, "You said, it takes you half the day and a lot of calling to get even half the customers you get when I’m answering the phone." "Yeah, but that work is easy to do." The owner says, becoming increasingly irate. The man from the future does not think he will get the job anymore, but he continues, curious to understand the past. He says, "Yes, answering phones is less work than doing the procedure, but our time is very valuable, it is the only thing we can’t get back. You aren’t just paying me to answer the phones, you are paying me* not* to do anything else with my time *except* for answering the phones. I could do a lot with that time, so I should be compensated accordingly. You have said the company makes an additional $500 a day due to my time." The business owner stands up. "It is not going to happen *due* to you at all. I am not hiring you! You think you should be paid…" she pauses a moment, dividing $125 by 2… then she continues, "$62.5 an hour to answer phones!" The man shakes his head. "Well, without me, you will have to go back to only making $500 a day, and still working 8 hours a day. You’d be working twice as hard for that $250, but you’d be making less money too. Without me you make $62.50." "No, I’ll just hire someone who will work for $12.50. I have lots of applications from people. Now get out!" And the man from the future left. He realized that there must be many people from the past who do not value their time. He wonders how that happened.


Memory is a fickle thing. It twists and turns and corrupts, changing others, ruining and breaking them. It can heal yet it can kill you, slowly and easily until you are nothing more than a husk of what you were. It can be your salvation, if you convince yourself it's real, or, ultimately, it can be your greatest nightmare. \- Some think there is a God; a ruler above, all-powerful and all-knowing and all-seeing - someone that will save them in times of need. A kind creature. A savior. No. That is all fake. I saw Him, once, back when I was eager and young and happy and free. I worshipped Him, not knowing what *He* truly was. I can't remember it now - He took my ability to remember from me, leaving me as a shell who can't even recall the voice or touch of his own mother. Now my dreams and waking moments are spent seeing Him. My memory is corrupted; mind changed and incinerated and burned with Him, only Him. He wished for me to be this way and now I am. \- I met Him in the forest. I can't remember where or when. I can't remember what the trees looked like or what I was wearing or how I even looked like. I only remember being in the woods, praying and singing songs prophesying His return. How foolish I was. I remember stopping my prayers suddenly, hearing noises in the greenwood; and like the curious lamb I was, I followed them, picking through the shrubbery and trees and stumbling upon a clearing. It was beautiful. I vaguely remember that. Full of flowers and grass and life and I, the inquisitive and wild creature that I once was, bravely walked through it. I stopped a couple of steps in, head cocked to the side as I noticed a large, hulking figure covered in an off-white sheet in the middle. The figure was swaying, left, right, left, right. I, not sensing or maybe not caring of the danger, walked towards it and ripped the sheet off. The figure seemed to fall and I sprang back on coltish limbs, transfixed and horrified and *curious.* It was humanoid, human-like but not - a strange mix of long limbs and even longer fingers and joints and *rot* to be human. It was spoilt, tainted and flyblown - sharp with protruding bones that strained across the decaying body. Its chest, skeletal and grey and unearthly, shook with every rattling breath and it twitched and convulsed and jerked and shuddered in every direction. I watched, spellbound and mesmerized as it breathed, unable to tear my gaze away from it. I called out to it, shouting and asking what it was - the greatest mistake of my now never-ending existence. I remember it slowly lifting up its head, skull ivory-yellow and eyes white and gleaming. I remember it focusing on me, distorted, split irises resting on my body as it moved its head to one side. I edged back, scared now but oh so curious, always so curious. A yellowed, blackened and gnarled hand spasmed, almost following after me; fingers shivering and bending and breaking and fracturing. The thing moved, standing up on impossibly long and gaunt limbs that nearly failed to support its weight and taking one trembling step towards me. It then opened its mouth, a long, jagged line - in place where lips and teeth and skin should be - and a black emptiness now remained. “*Come here, child*.” It rasped out, voice carrying across the now-silent, wind-blown clearing as it took another step, stronger and more sure of itself now. I didn't respond then. I couldn't. I was frozen and immobile and at its mercy. Another step and it was two feet away from me; back hunched and white eyes staring, staring, staring. It lifted its horrid hand again and rested it across my cheek - deathly cold and almost loving if not for the sharp nails that punctured my skin and tore into my face. It moved its head closer, now nose to nose and grinned, having more teeth than ever humanly possible that glistened white-yellow-black with its saliva. I trembled, both in fear and sick amazement as it stood above me, unable and unwilling to comprehend what was happening. I remember it grinning, wide and unchained, as its nails tore into my face. I remember the putrid mouth opening and revealing rows and rows and rows of teeth that seemed to stretch on for eternity, not seeming to have an end. “*I am God,”* it whispered to me and I believed it. I remember shutting my eyes and praying as its mouth opened even wider and it moved closer, I remember forcing my eyes closed as its teeth bit into my flesh, tearing the skin and muscle of my bones. It was torture. The worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I remember that. I woke up in the abyss. Dark and never-ending. I could not recall who or what I was, I could only remember *God* or whatever that gross imitation of *Him* was. An eternity has passed yet I still remember its eyes. They haunt me. They follow me. It still watches. He never left.


The clearing was dark as the new day sun had only just began to rise. This was a holy place, known to very few for it was surrounded by miles of dense woodland. The only sounds were that of a near by stream trickling and of two pairs of boots as they entered the hollow. “Wow can you believe it? Finally here! You did it!” said the younger of the two men. “No Kurt”, said the the older man, “We did it.” As the two adventurers entered, they continued toward the middle of the clearing where they came upon a large stone sitting perfectly in the center. Jutting out of the top of the stone appeared to be the handle of an ancient stone. On the handle was an engraving of a language long forgotten. “So this is it?” asked Kurt. “This is what you’ve been looking for?” “Yes son” began the old man “this is what I have been looking for my entire life. The sword in the stone. It’s said that this very sword is what inspired Arthurian legend. And just like the legend, only the most good and pure of heart can free it from its stony prison.” As he finished his explanation, the old man knelt down next the stone and placed his weathered hands on the hilt of the sword and began to pull. The sword did not yield. The man smiled as he looked back up at a surprised Kurt. “This doesn’t make any sense!” exclaimed the young man. “Who could be more worthy than the man who has used his wealth and influence for philanthropy? The man who took me in after my parents accident? You have more than proved yourself to be good!” “Kurt, it’s true that I have tried my best to do good, but I have made terrible decisions that just can’t be undone”, explained the old man. “ But, taking you in was the best thing I could have done. Finding the sword was not my only life’s work. It was raising you to become a good and decent man. I never had kids of my own but you are my son Kurt and we are here today so that you can fulfill my work.” Kurt looked back at his surrogate father stunned. “I… I don’t know” “I do, son” Kurt took a step forward to hug the old man, and then he took another step toward the sword. He placed his strong, youthful hands over the hilt and began to pull. The sword started to release! In just a few seconds the sword was free and in Kurt’s hands. He could not believe it as he stared at the ancient weapon in disbelief. Suddenly a power started to flow through him. The old man had said nothing about this! “How does it feel son?” “Incredible! I feel like I could anything” “The legend says that the sword grants its wielder with immense power, this is the reason I have sought after it. I believe that it could help me rid this world of evil.” “Do you really think think it could do that?” “Of course I do, if I didn’t I wouldn’t have wasted this much time.” Holding the sword Kurt’s strength, speed and reflexes were heightened to the level of a superhuman. But love can be blinding, and he didn’t see the gun the old man had pulled from his belt, and he did not see him fire it. “D-Dad?” The old man caught the sword as Kurt fell to the ground with a new hole in his chest. The old man now felt the same awesome power his adopted son felt moments ago. “Son, I wasn’t entirely honest with you. I’ve been here before and the sword has denied me before. It was back before your parents accident. On that day I lost hope that my dream would ever come true but then you came into my life. And I saw you for what you were. A young soul ready for molding. So I raised you into the good-hearted man you are today. And you have delivered me my ultimate tool to fix this world. I’ve made many mistakes in this life, but you were not one of them.” The old man affixed the sword to his belt and began to walk away. As Kurt’s world was going dark, the clearing was filled with the light of the new day sun. The only sounds were of the near by stream trickling, and of a single pair of boots exiting the clearing.


<An Unforgiving Plan> *Chapter One* “Come on Susy, when have my plans not worked out?” Susy sighed in defeat knowing how persistent Gilly can be. The sun is about to set, and the two girls know they need to get back home before nightfall comes. At least Susy knows that. Gilly, on the other hand, prefers to close her eyes when she runs. “Gilly, I really don’t want to get caught…” Gilly rolled her eyes at that one, despite how scared Susy looks as they walk farther away from home. Stealth is not on their side as the mud under their feet sloshes with each step they take. Finally, Susy stops abruptly with her arms crossed declaring, “I’m not going to be responsible when the guards find out Gilly!” Surprisingly, this was enough to make Gilly stop in her tracks too, but the look on her face still hasn’t budged. Looking as annoyed as ever, Gilly moves right past what Susy said. “You really think they’ll find out with me in charge, Susy?” She rolls her eyes again when she sees Susy look behind her towards the town. “Those guards are just a bunch of fools; they’ll never catch us.” Susy relaxed a bit and took a deep breath. “Okay... but I’m only going so you aren’t alone.” Gilly smiled in victory and continued to walk off, Susy right at her heels. The sun had finally set, and the girls weaved in and out between the dark shops. With Gilly leading the way, the two girls arrive at the back of an apothecary. “Okay Susy, do you know what to do?” Susy nodded her head and crept up to the alley separating the apothecary from the library, using the dark night to hide her shadow. As she looked around there seemed to be nobody in sight, but it was hard to tell with the fog growing ever so slightly. As soon as Susy heard the *click* of a lock, she knew Gilly was done. “Pst! Get over here, Susy!” Taking one last look, Susy made her way back to Gilly’s side. As the two girls crept inside, the smell of sage and burnt paper filled their noses. Luckily there was a mat at the door to dry their muddy feet off. Once they got inside, the two of them reached under their thin, ripped coats and pulled out a satchel. “What did I say, Susy? Nobody in town can do what I just did!” Gilly had that look in her eye again, the one where she’s getting too caught up in herself. As Gilly began to look around like a kid on Christmas morning, Susy searched the display cases up and down. The rose-colored cloth under each case made the trinkets inside shine like diamonds. As the rain begins to pick up outside, the noise of their shoes on the hard wood floor seems almost inaudible. “Hey, Susy, get over here.” Susy creeped on over to where Gilly was and looked down into the display case. Her breath stopped short as her eyes gazed upon the most beautiful silk dress she’s ever seen. “There’s no way we can take this out with the rain so heavy, Gilly.” Susy was the only one of the two girls to ever think ahead. It made no difference now as Gilly looked at Susy and said, “I’ll be taking this dress, the rain has never stopped me before.” Susy knew in that moment that nothing had changed, Gilly is too arrogant to look at the cold hard facts of a situation. So, with one swift movement, Susy positioned herself between Gilly and the case. “Susy, you know better than that.” Gilly pushes Susy to the side, almost knocking her into the glass cabinet behind them. The chime of the grandfather clock sent a chill down both of their spines, finally acknowledging how late it truly was. The bite the cold water left on their skin was no match for the stare the two girls shared with each other. As Susy reclaimed herself her eyes burned into Gilly’s, speaking more words than either of them has said the entire night. Their emotions began to blind the girls, fogging their hearts the same as the rain outside fogged the windows. As Susy reclaims herself, she looks up at Gilly, the expression on her face the opposite of the timid girl she was before sunset. Susy looks over her shoulder, realizing her satchel was ripped in the fall. Shaking her head, she turns her back towards Gilly. The water dripping from her hair making her look like a different person. “I won’t play part in your games anymore.” Gilly, trying to cover the look of defeat on her face, mutters one last breath to Susy. “Let’s see how far you make it without me.” Before either of them can process what happens next, Susy steps outside in that bitter night to find that neither of them will be going home.


: Brief profanity and brief violence The K-Pop drowned out the sound of the vehicle. Even with the sunglasses, Tucker had to continually squint as the low September sun filtered through the tree limbs. The placid, predictable concrete of the city was miles behind him, replaced with the wild, untamed...whatever this was. Trees? He guessed. In between songs he caught glimpses of his father's music--quite a variety, he observed, but still not really what he liked. His phone chimed. A message from Heather. "So no hangout?" she asked. He wanted to pour all his feelings into this message, but didn't. Instead, he cleared the screen, put his phone in his lap, and continued to look out the window. It wasn't long before the car slowed and turned down a gravel driveway. They were plunged into the dense woods, and the day turned into a faux night until Tucker's eyes adjusted. He thought about sending Heather's chat reply just then, but he was out of service. He wondered if Uncle Henry had WiFi. His dad tapped him on the shoulder, then tapped his ears. Tucker reluctantly took his earbuds out and put them back in the charging case. "You excited?" Tucker shrugged. At least his dad had the decency to turn the radio off. "I feel ya." "I could have just stayed at home." "We talked about this." "I know." "You're not old enough." "Yeah, I know." "Soon though," his dad said with a smirk. He always tried to lighten the mood with these kinds of serious talks. They passed by a rusted--something. Tucker thought it looked like a robot with teeth on the bottom. Probably an abandoned project from the 1920. At this point moss had claimed it. The car finally stopped and Tucker's dad turned off the engine. Tucker's skin tingled from the absence of asphalt of the 2 hour car ride. He and his dad got out and stretched their legs. The lake was visible through the fall foliage. The air was a few degrees colder than on the road. His Great Uncle Henry--from Tucker's dad's side--was already out the door. The two men greeted each other warmly. Despite being a recent inductee into the 90's, Uncle Henry was pretty mobile, still not needing a cane or walker. His wife, Nancy, died ten years earlier after being bed-ridden for nearly three years. But Uncle Henry's appearance still mirrored that of his dad's and--annoyingly--his own. Although Tucker still didn't sport the pure white beard of his great uncle or the peppered one of his dad he was still cursed with the wide jaw and pronounced underbite. One thing he did have going for him was the sparkling eyes, that grew more jovial with age. Tucker still kept a stoic face, thinking back to a good reply to Heather. As his father and great uncle continued to catch up, he wandered around to the side of the house to take a look at skeleton of the addition. Fresh lumber was already encased in plastic sheets, and the outline of a stairway snaked around the outside of the walls. Moister was on the wood, but Tucker still smelled the fresh timber. His dad and uncle were actually discussing the project right now, Uncle Henry waving his finger toward the work progress, mentioning "vacation rental" and "before the good Lord takes me out." Okay, yeah, Tucker admitted, this would be a neat place to have a vacation. But not when your original weekend plans were to hang out with a cute girl. "Tucker," Uncle Henry beckoned. "I just baked a pie. Come on in and have some." His dad was already up the porch and inside the house. Uncle Henry looked back coyly, and said, "And I have some beer for ya," only to be met with Dad's scolding, "Henry!" Inside the two men continued to talk about life, leaving tucker to hang out by the unusually comfortable couch. A slice of pie was eventually brought to him. "Sorry, burned the crust," Uncle Henry apologized, as he did every time he cooked the pie. He swore by his late wife's cherry pie recipe, but was never able to execute on it. Tucker remained by himself, scrolling through his phone, waiting for a signal, and trying to seem like he was listening to the conversation. Eventually he grew bored after finishing the pie and trudged upstairs. The room his uncle usually set aside for him was cluttered. At first it just looked like trash, but upon closer inspection Tucker noticed the yellowed pages, the typewriter font, the faded pictures of a 20-year old Nancy, glammed up and smiling broadly at an angle toward the camera. And a revolver, just lying there. And...a detonator? After recovering from his early-stage heart attack, Tucker recalled--Uncle Henry did espionage work for the CIA in the late sixties and and into the seventies. It never really interested him much. But there was something about seeing the old work stuff, in person, that piqued his interest. "Oh, that stuff, meant to clean it up," Uncle Henry said, who had appeared beside him. "But you can stay in this room for the time being." Uncle Henry led the way to the room across the hall. "So you did some spy shit?" Tucker asked. "Watch your damn mouth." "Sorry. You were a spy?" Uncle Henry opened the door to the adjacent room. Cold air rushed out. "Yes, I thought I told you about it." Tucker shrugged. "I guess you did when I was younger." Tucker's dad called out a farewell to both him and Uncle Henry. Uncle Henry replied. Then Tucker said, "Did you ever kill anyone? Like 007?" Uncle Henry smiled. "No. I was lucky." "You ever almost die?" "Yes, one time in particular." "Can you tell me about it?" "Yes, but first, I want to get your help getting the walls up on the addition outside. I'm hoping we can finish before the sun sets." Tucker sighed and his shoulders dropped. "You got any WiFi yet?" Uncle Henry wasn't phased. "No." Tucker shrugged. He could either sit on his bed bored or help his Uncle out. "Okay, fine." Tucker grabbed his duffel bag, threw it on his bed, then donned some fall gear to combat the cold. When he ventured outside, the sun had already set behind the hill and cast an evening red onto the lake. "Over here!" Uncle Henry called, three nails hanging from his lips. Eventually the lure of the Internet-connected world wore off, and Tucker was even tempted to conclude that it was therapeutic to help his great uncle. Mostly he just held boards in place as Uncle Henry nailed them, trying not to laugh any time Uncle Henry smacked his thumb and threw a flurry of obscenities. "Don't tell your folks I said that," he would say after the pain wore off. But soon Tucker would have to squint to see what they were doing. "Well, we have a few more boards, but we can finish in the morning. Let's grab some more of that pie." Instead of sitting at the dining table, Uncle Henry brought the pie tin up to the room with the scattered paperwork. "It's alright--all this is declassified. The worst that you could do with it is get a scammer trying to buy it on eBay for free. Here, try to eat the pie over here. I don't want it to mess anything up." Now Tucker was able to take a closer look at some of the papers. Most of the writing was in either Russian or German. Some French. Uncle Henry was a busy guy. Tucker reached for a folder when Uncle Henry beat him to the punch, abruptly yanking it out of the pile and raising an eyebrow. "First," he said, opening the folder. Inside was a fuzzy black-and-white photograph of a man in a trench coat, about to cross the street. Balding except for a strong ring of hair. Sunglasses. Tucker thought of joking that they needed zoom-and-enhance in the seventies. "The most dangerous mission," Uncle Henry said, settling himself into a chair. Tucker leaned against the wall, picking up his pie. "You have to remember, my only job was intelligence. I wasn't supposed to take this guy out; Bedivere Filipov. I was supposed to find the name of his major customer." "How'd you do it?" "He was a Russian weapon's dealer post Cold War. Didn't like how the Cold War fizzled out. So I thought, 'Weapon's dealer. What if I was a weapon's supplier?' I worked closely with other Russian spies to establish a business, and feed a paper trail to make it look like I'd been around since the thirties. The ruse worked. We got our man. Filipov did it covertly, but we were able to set up an appointment. "We didn't want to risk having a wire or anything surveillance-related. Filipov was powerful and had many layers of security. I would have to go in without any protection or wire, get the info, and get out." "Were you scared?" Uncle Henry nodded. "But I had to do it. Lives were at risk. So on the date of our meeting I got through every level of security. My heart was pounding. Everybody was greeting in their usual Russian way. I was still playing an American, so I didn't need to worry about appearing Soviet. Anyway, I finally entered Filipov's office. He was very tight lipped. But I hedged a bet that he was desperate. There were other, more notorious, arms suppliers in Russia. If I walked out on this deal, there was nowhere else for him to turn. Which gave me some leverage. "Anyways, Filipov wasn't saying anything. I was hoping the names of his customers would slip out, but they never did. But then I took a risk and I said, 'Americans must pay. I need your assurances that the weapons will be distributed to the right people.' I remember Filipov's eyes flashed. His mask slipped. I got him. He told me five customers. Though he said he had seventeen, he teased me with five, which was plenty. "His assistant started to get nervous, and then discretely walked up and whispered in his ear. After a little back and forth, Filipov tensed up. He slowly reached under his desk. His assistant carefully reached behind his back. "I sprang from my chair. A bullet grazed my arm, right here!" He rolled uphis sleeve and pointed to the back of his arm, revealing a scar. "I was out in the hall. His security was all over me. But there was a window down the hall, so I sprinted for the window, took a breath, and jumped out the window. "Bushes broke my fall, but I was caught. I scrambled to get out of the bushes as I heard a siren go off. I realized that was for me. They were after me and they were either going to kill me or torture me. Didn't want to find out which. Just as I came to my feet two nurses walked by. They eyed me with a fearful curiosity. I grabbed on of them and shoved a knuckle in their back, feigning a gun. 'Get away!' I screamed in Russian, 'I'll kill her!' Her assistant did run away. 'Now, get me out of here,' I said to the nurse that I had. "She hesitated so I pushed my knuckle further into her back. Her feet started shuffling toward a door guarded by a soldier. He raised his rifle, but the emotional pleas from the nurse won him over, and he backed away from the door, keeping his weapon trained on me. "I carefully backed into the door. Then, at the last possible moment, I kicked the woman toward the guard, opened the door, and closed it before I got shot. I raced back to base, and, boy, I had a story to tell! "During debriefing I told all the details. But everyone was stern-looking. I wondered why. Finally, the director asked, 'What are the names of the customers?'" Uncle Henry's face fell, then he continued. "'I forgot,' I said. And I really did, truly forget. I forgot every single one of the names. I sat in the room for half an hour, racking my brain. The other agents waited. I worked through the alphabet, I retraced the steps in my head, but I could not remember a single name. "They brought doctors in. They hypnotized me. They told me to go home and get some rest." Uncle Henry snorted. "Yeah, you try sleeping if national security is dependent on faulty memory. "Days go by...months go by...still--nothing. I was so distraught I had to leave my job. I took early retirement, before they fired me. Even now, to this day, for the life of me, I can't remember their names!" Uncle Henry looked down at the folder, lost in thought. Tucker could almost see the reflections in those sparkly eyes--the disappointed faces of the other agents. His distraught uncle at a dining room table at night, crying in front of Nancy, unable to keep in together. Then, abruptly, he closed it. "Well, that's all for tonight." "Got any more stories?" "Yes, tomorrow. It's getting late." Uncle Henry got up from his chair and turned off the light, leaving the hallway night light on. Tucker sat in the darkness for a bit, still absorbing the story. He took the phone out of his pocket. Still no signal. He put his phone on flight mode to preserve the 75% battery life, then took his great uncle's suggestion and went to bed. He again scrolled through the Heather's messages before falling unconscious. Did she like him? Jury was still out. He put the phone aside and closed his eyes. The room lacked curtains, but without city lights and with the overcast sky, the room became pitch black. He heard his great uncle snoring in the other room. Or was he snoring? "Mfr--Shyam!" He thought he heard. Strange, he didn't know his Great Uncle talked in his sleep. Ah, that was because he usually slept in the room across the hall so he didn't hear him. Now the wall carried over his sound. He still breathed--were they words? Almost. Hey! Maybe a new language! "HrrrrmmmmmmmSssssshhhYam! FarrrrrraGOoooo!" This continued for a few minutes. Eventually the murmuring stopped and soft snoring was heard. Entertainment for the weekend, Tucker thought, and turned to his side, snuggling into his bed. The next morning Tucker and Uncle Henry continued to work on the addition. The walls were finally up. They took a trip into town to buy the siding. Uncle Henry bought a Rockstar and a muffin for Tucker. Henry just stuck with coffee and a trail mix. They returned to work until it started to rain. Uncle Henry claimed rain was a sign from God to stop work. Tucker couldn't agree more. "You talk in your sleep," Tucker said as Uncle Henry made sandwiches. "Yeah, that's what Nancy told me. I told her she farted in her sleep. That shut her up." "You had more stories?" "Yeah, that one I told you last night was definitely the most harrowing. Should have given me PTSD, but the most it did was prove to me I'm senile. There are other stories that are more entertaining." Tucker listened as Henry told another one about a clumsy partner who never let his clumsiness show because Henry was good about covering for it. "I kept him around because he was really good at connecting unrelated ideas," he explained. "Saved a lot of lives." Eventually the rain gave way to sunshine, and they continued to put up siding, Henry on a ladder, lips playing with the iron nails, Tucker handing him the slats. Then, finally, evening hit. Henry toasted some bread and peanut butter. They both ate it ravenously, too beat to prepare anything more substantial, and retired to bed. Tucker closed his eyes. He didn't last long. Again, his uncle with the talking. This was just too good, Tucker thought. He had to record it to show Dad. Quietly, he retrieved his phone, turned down the brightness all the way, then tiptoed out into the hall. He quietly turned the knob, and slowly pushed Henry's bedroom door open. Just barely illuminated by barely-dim lighting, Henry lay sprawled on his bed, wearing just his underwear. Tucker opened his video app, just as Henry started talking again. The audio quality was gonna be good. He hit record, and the camera app chirped, causing Uncle Henry to stir slightly. But he didn't wake. He still continued to murmur gibberish. After the five minute mark, Tucker felt it was enough. He closed his phone app, then quickly tiptoed back to his room. His dad was so gonna get a kick out of this! The next morning, during breakfast, Tucker looked at the video of his Great Uncle talking in his sleep. He wasn't sure if the audio would be loud enough. Oh, no, it was. Tucker grinned. "Ggggrrrrhhhhhr...Joh.....JOhhhh....siiiiii...." Tucker snickered. He didn't know he would have this much fun at his uncle's place. "Is that me?" Uncle Henry demanded. He stood in the kitchen doorway, bleary-eyed, wearing a stained t-shirt and sweat pants. Tucker was about to hide the phone, but--despite Uncle Henry's half-awake appearance--he snatched the phone away. His face flushed. "You went into my room and recorded me--" Then it went pale. "Well...I'll be damned." "Language." "Shyam Hahn," he repeated. "That's right. Hahn. And Tsvetan Miles." His face suddenly brightened. He kept the phone and walked away, muttering nonsense to himself. "Uncle Henry?" Tucker asked. "My phone...?" His pace quickened. "Tucker, put on some pants. We're heading to the Langley!" Within 5 minutes the two were in Uncle Henry's growling tuck, speeding down the freeway. "Turn it up! Turn it up!" Uncle Henry demanded. "Put it close to my ear! Haha! Yes, That's it!" Then, as he continued to look at the road he repeated to himself. "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." He continued this mantra until he checked into Langley and asked to see the director immediately. A fifteen minute waltz of talking with a retired director shortcutted the process, and Tucker was then following his Great Uncle into the director's office as he chanted "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles....Presley..." Despite Henry's suddenly flamboyant display of enthusiasm, the director at Langley regarded him with professional disinterest. "May I help you Mr. Carter?" "I got it! I got the names! The Filipov case from 1974!" I can't believe it! Can you believe it Tucker!" He then repeated the names to the director, who nodded curtly, then turned to his computer, typing a few things, clicking a few things, then printing something out a piece of paper. "They thought I had forgotten! But I hadn't! It was all in there! All it took was this young MySpacer here--" as he tousled Tucker's hair-- "to jog this old coot's memory! Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." Without ceremony, the director handed Henry a sheet of paper. "What's this?" Henry asked. "A report of the Filipov case. Turns out a rogue operative took care of the job. A few minutes after your escape, the operative used the chaos of your escape as a distraction to set off a bomb. Filipov and his entire staff died in the blast." "And the customers?" "They disbanded. We soon arrested them. They're in an Austrian prison for war crimes." Henry's shoulders sagged. "Oh." "Thank you for bringing us the intel, though." "No wonder they were declassified." The director nodded solemnly. Suddenly Uncle Henry brightened. "But I still remembered!" He exclaimed. "Come on, Tucker, let's go get some ice cream!" "It's 9 in the morning." "Best time for ice cream!" The two left Langley, Henry dancing to his new rhythm: "Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley..." Tucker still had one more day with his crazy uncle. And he had to admit, that didn't sound like such a terrible idea.


Molly looked and saw that the field was emptier than it had been. She shrugged and dipped back to the grass. It wasn’t her concern. There were others who were monitoring such things, surely. Molly bit off a clump of grass and chewed at it idly. Her field was wide and verdant, bathed in near-perpetual sunshine. All was well. That there had been a dwindling of cows in recent weeks need not be a concern to her, for Molly had likely miscounted. There was ample space to roam and perhaps the others were not missing, but simply feeding on the grass of the other side of their hill. But there had been the wolf. That was an unclean thought. Belinda, the elder mother of their herd, had dismissed the sightings of a wolf as nothing more than rumor. “There is no wolf,” she said before heading back into her barn, and that was all there was to know of the subject. But Molly had seen it, stalking in the night. Hadn’t she? No, of course she hadn’t. There was no wolf, Belinda had confirmed that. And even if there were, the wolf was not a concern. And even if it were a concern, Belinda would handle it. Molly chewed more grass. The sun marched steady across the sky until, eventually, it tipped and rolled behind the horizon. Night dropped sudden onto the field and Molly’s head began to loll. Sleep took her away to a dreamless darkness. A howling woke her from it. The night was moonless and the field was sunk in deep shadow, but Molly could make out the outlines of the other cows, still and sleeping. Beyond them was the dark line of the fence. Something moved near it. A large shape, but ducked low, shoulders rounded as it wriggled beneath the fence. A wolf. It padded across the grass on silent paws. Molly clamped her eyes shut. There was no wolf, she must be mistaken. And, if there were a wolf, Belinda would handle it. There was a scream. Prolonged, full of pain, it pierced her ears, but Molly kept her eyes shut against it. She did not open them again that night, wishing she could close her ears in the same way. Morning came hours later, casting golden light once more upon their field. Molly saw that it was now even emptier than it had been before. She was not alone. There were murmurs. Belinda gathered them shortly after sunrise. “Friends,” she said to them, her voice a deft balance between friendly candor and unfaltering authority, “there is rumbling amongst you of an intruder on our field. I have gathered you here to assure you, once more, in no uncertain terms, of a simple truth: There is no wolf.” Most sighed a breath of relief. If there were a current of consternation which still remained, none gathered there gave it voice. Belinda spoke on, unopposed: “Rumors are dangerous and it is important that they not be allowed to spread lest they grow into wild conspiracies. I will say again, there is no wolf. Any who speak of such things do so only to sow distrust. If you care for others, you will report these dangerous conspirators to me directly. There is no wolf.” The cows all nodded, even Molly. Though she had seen what she had seen and heard what she had heard, Belinda knew better than she did. They were safe. There was no wolf. Molly spent the rest of the day grazing, filling her stomachs with grass and basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. She ate more than her fill. There were less bare patches, less crowded swaths of tall, swaying lawn. When night fell, Molly was content and satisfied and sleep came easily. Until the howling came again. It sounded very much as it had the night before, but now a second wolfvoice joined it. Molly opened her eyes and saw that she was not the only cow stirring in the field. Others had heard. They shifted away from the fence as, wreathed in darkness, two shadows shifted there. They slipped under the fence, one after the other, to slide noiselessly across the field. As Molly grouped with her fellow cows, one stepped forward, even as the wolves moved closer. Rosie, a young heifer. She tilted her head and bleated. The wolves froze and exchanged glances. Molly stood in a line with the rest of the herd, looking on in wide-eyed amazement as Rosie stood alone before them, facing down the wolves. The fur about their shoulders bristled. One snapped off an angry bark and they began their advance once more, but Rosie stood her ground. She lifted her snout to the sky and let out a low, rumbling bugle that rattled the very air. The wolves sank low to the grass, whining against the sound, but Rosie’s call carried on. None of the herd stepped forward to join her, but neither did they retreat. They only looked on passively, Molly among them. One of the wolves took a tentative step forward, but Rosie pitched up her voice, an angry, obstinate sound, and stamped her hooves hard against the grass. The wolf whined and turned, beating a path back under the fence from which it had entered their field. The other followed, but not before chancing a look back at the cows. Molly saw a flash in its yellow eyes before the night swallowed its form and the field fell once more into still quiet. “We must speak to Belinda,” Rosie said urgently as she turned back to the herd. “They may return with more of their pack. We can drive them back if we all move together.” The rest of the cows shifted on uneasy hooves. Belinda had told them there were no wolves. She had warned them of the danger of speaking of such things. Yet, they had all seen them. She would not be happy to hear of this, particularly if they were to wake her in the night. Perhaps it was better to just ignore it, thought Molly. The wolves were gone now. They were safe. There was no reason to cause more commotion. “Come on,” urged Rosie, pushing through the line and making a path across the field toward Belinda’s barn. “She must know as soon as possible.” The herd did not move. Rosie looked down on them, puzzled. “Won’t you come with me?” she asked. Molly turned her head. None of the herd spoke. “We must tell her,” Rosie said again, her tone more urgent now than before. “Belinda said there were no wolves,” Molly heard from one of the cows. The words were spoken timidly, hardly above a whisper. “We saw them,” answered Rosie. “We all did. They stood right there and meant to take one, or maybe even more, of us away.” “It was dark,” answered another cow. “I don’t know what we saw.” A rumbling spread through the herd, agreement and the sound of heads nodding. Molly looked from side to side, as if for encouragement, and then found herself nodding along as well. Disbelief washed over Rosie’s face only to be replaced with a harder emotion shortly thereafter. She squared her shoulders resolutely. “Well, I know what I saw,” she told them and then plodded away toward the barn. Molly watched Rosie go. None of the herd followed her. They stood together for a while longer and then dispersed. The night remained quiet. Molly eyed the fence once more before sleep stole her away again. Morning brought Belinda down from her barn. Rosie came along in tow. The herd assembled before them, eager to put the events of the previous night behind them and lap up the assurance of order that Belinda no doubt would provide them. “Friends,” she addressed them, “I understand there was a disturbance last night. I want to assure all of you — and I stress this — there is nothing to fear. None of you are in danger.” Molly sighed, thankful for Belinda’s words and the peace of mind they provided. The rest of the herd shared in her relief. All except Rosie, whose face remained stern and unflinching as she stood silent beside the elder cow. “The safety of this herd is my paramount concern,” Belinda continued. “Above all else we must place order for that safety to be preserved. Make no mistake, you are not in danger, but that does not mean that we cannot be threatened. Paranoia, speculation, conspiracy — these are the true threats that we risk arising. Do not let them take hold of you. Listen to me, for I love and will protect you all: there is no wolf.” Rosie snorted. “We *saw* the wolf!” Murmurs rippled through the herd. Belinda quieted them. “This,” she said in her firmest tone, “this is the threat I speak of! This, friends, cannot be allowed. Wild conspiracies will drive us into panic. It is only by good fortune that these baseless claims did not provoke a stampede last night! I will not allow such dangerous rhetoric to divide us!” The murmurs turned to grumblings. Molly saw the anger springing to the faces of the herd. She followed along in kind. Rosie approached them, her eyes wide and pleading. “You all saw them! We drove them off. They will come again and if we do not stand together, they will pick us off one by one until there are not enough to defend those who remain. There *are* wolves!” “There are no wolves!” Belinda roared and now the herd took up the same cry. They stamped and snorted, driving up a cloud of dust. Molly did not hope to be seen as a dissident herself and so joined in, though, in the far corner of her mind, a voice reminded her that she had indeed seen the wolves. “We cannot allow such conspiracies to spread within our herd,” Belinda said, raising her voice above the rabble. She turned to Rosie, chin held high as she looked down on the younger cow. “Though it pains me greatly, I am afraid you must be banished from our field. You pose too great a threat to our herd.” Rosie looked at her as though all sanity had left the world. “You promised me you would help us. You told me you had dealt with wolves before!” A gasp surged over the herd, but Belinda hopped atop its rising wave. “She twists the truth even further to her ends! Indeed I have dealt with wolves before, which is how I know we are safe from them now. You cannot stay here. We do not want you.” The herd exchanged glances. Molly did not move, uncertain of what was appropriate. Belinda huffed and took a pointed step toward Rosie, blowing steam from her nose in a torrent gust. She stamped a hoof and took another step. Now, other cows joined in, following. Soon, they were moving as if with one mind, one purpose. Molly moved with them. Rosie tried once more to reason with them, but her voice was drowned out by the stamping and huffing of the herd. Tearfully, she turned and fled from them as they drove her out and over the fence and into whatever the wild frontiers beyond their field held in waiting. “Friends,” Belinda said to them when it was done, “this was no easy thing that we have done, but it was the right thing. You are all safe. I will protect you. There is, and never was, any wolf. Let us not speak of them again and leave this unpleasantness far behind us.” She smiled at them. “Come, let us graze and be happy in the warmth of the sun!” And so they did and so they were. Molly’s days passed as they had before, lazily and with a mouth everfull of grass. Though her mind often drifted back to the memory of that night and the look in Rosie’s eyes as they drove her over the fence, Molly refused to dwell on it, stifling the thought whenever it reappeared. Sunny days gave way to cool nights and, before too long, the howling returned. Molly ignored that, too. She always awoke to a warm day and grass to eat, though the field continued to grow emptier and emptier. Slowly, the herd had moved farther from the edge of the fence. They were few now. They never mentioned it. Belinda rarely left her barn, never at night. Whispers of wolves more and more filled the ears of the herd. Molly didn’t want to think of it. She chewed more grass. When the moon was once again filled, a round glowing rock in the night sky, the howling was tremendous. She could not shut her ears to it. Molly awoke, afraid to open her eyes. The field was awash in the pale light of the moon. A half dozen shapes moved across it, dipping under the fence and stalking through the grass. They fanned out and Molly saw that she was nearly alone in the field. Her herd was thin, spread far and wide and nowhere near her now. She backed away toward the barn. A pair of yellow eyes followed her. A head followed and soon she could make out the whole shape, clearly illuminated by the moonlight. A wolf. Across the field, she heard a mournful scream. “Why are you doing this?” Molly asked as the wolf pulled up before her. “Why are you acting so cruelly?” The wolf looked at her quizzically. “We are not cruel,” it said, “only hungry. We cannot live on grass alone, as do you, so our food is not as plentiful. We must hunt for it. That is how we are made. We are only doing what wolves do.” The wolf padded closer. Molly backed away. Her behind bumped up against the side of the barn, firm and impenetrable. The wolf moved closer. “If only we had listened to Rosie!” Molly cried. “We could have driven you off. There were so many of us and so few of you!” “Hush,” said the wolf. “There’s no need for remorse. Your lives were full and happy. You spent your days grazing on an endless field, never knowing the worry of an empty stomach. A life of safety and comfort. Only now do you taste the fear that lingers on the tongues of most creatures for all their lives.” A flash of brilliant white split the wolf’s face as moonlight caught its teeth. “You were only doing what cows do,” it said, springing forward. Molly called out, but the field was now empty.


He stopped suddenly. Did he hear that? Something behind him. He whirled and saw...nothing. The tree line he had come from was shrouded in darkness. He looked up towards the moon, huge and filling the night sky. He could plainly see the Milky Way, a river of heavily creamed coffee. The expanse, It made you feel small, cold, insignificant. At the same time it was the kind of beauty that could make you cry, maybe after a drink or two. He looked around him. Nothing but frozen tundra. Clumps of dead-looking vegetation here and there, rocks and a few suspicious looking rocky outcroppings all beautifully lit with the cold glow of Earth's celestial neighbor. He looked forward. He was in a wide clearing and could see the next tree line two hundred yards in front of him. He knew from there it was only another hundred yards at most to outpost 118. Just three hundred or so yards to safety. Once more he started running. His lungs burned, his thighs felt as though they were exploding with every stride and every heartbeat brought with it blinding white-hot pain thudding in his temples. Still, he kept running. His body was screaming out, begging him to stop. A rogue part of his mind conspired against him. Convincing him that he could stop, just for a moment. Just a few seconds to catch his breath. To rest his aching calves and let the deep stitch in his side subside. Besides he was never going to make it anyway. Why spend his last few moments running like a coward? Realizing weakness and doubt were worming their way into his brain, he shoved the thoughts away and shook his head. Gathering his strength with an audible grunt of effort he picked up the pace. His mind was his own enemy. He felt wild with fear, unable to stop his runaway thoughts. Thinking back to when he’d first arrived out here. Excited to start the project, hopeful towards the future. Then everything was torn apart like so much tissue paper. Images of his co-workers, friends, flashing in his mind's eye. He thought of his first meeting with the Director, Miranda Gales. A tall Nordic-looking woman with long wavy platinum blonde hair and sharp angular features that belied her warm friendly disposition. In another life he would have asked her to dinner. He had always admired people with passion and Miranda had that in spades. A passion for her research, for the work, but more importantly she had the kind of enthusiasm for life that he so wished he could find. Maybe that's why he had felt so strongly about her so easily. Unfortunately she wasn’t much more than a pile of guts and bone on the floor of the research lab now. He retched, his stomach rolling at the images now flooding his mind. He tripped over a larger rock. Falling face first into the deep snow, which shocked the breath right out of his lungs. He lay there seeing Talbot's head, missing the bottom jaw. He saw Naomi’s foot, at least he thought it was her foot going by the bright pink nail polish, looking like a sock with spaghetti spilling out. Suddenly his senses were assaulted. Reliving the moments of the past days. Smelling the metallic hard stench of blood and shit. Hearing the screaming wails of his fellow human beings. He didn’t know which was worse. The screaming that went on and on? Or the screams seemingly cut like turning off a radio or television. He managed to push himself to his knees just before his stomach contents, of which there was little to begin with, expelled themselves. After this happened a few times he was finally able to sit up, rocking back on his haunches. He sat like this for a moment. Eyes shut tight, breathing deeply, in through the mouth, out through the nose. He pushed away the thoughts of gore and opened his eyes. Focusing on the tree line, now less than one hundred yards in front of him he stood slowly. He took a few more deep breaths. Holding the last one in for a moment before looking at the sky. “I. Will. Make. it.” He said between breaths. With that he started running once more. It was at that moment he heard it. A sound so cold and full of malice. It seemed that sound that could freeze the very sun. Followed closely by another and another and he knew at that moment, in fact he would not make it.  >Off through the new day's mist I run Out from the new day's mist I have come I hunt Therefore I am Harvest the land Taking of the fallen lamb ***-Of Wolf and Man.


"Please help, friends of nature." The sudden voice startled Merry and Freya, it came as unexpected as the message it carried; surely they loved nature and these walks in it. However nothing seemed wrong, it was a beautiful morning, the sunrise just around the corner, and the usual cacophony of birdsong was heard everywhere. They looked at each other with a mixture of fear, doubt, and disbelief in their eyes. Were they hallucinating? A foot-high creature, with antlers and butterfly wings came floating down from the canopy, "sorry that I so abruptly interrupt, it was not my intention to scare you." Frozen between anxiety, awe, and a flood wave of thoughts, Freya and Merry didn't move a muscle after seeing the mystical creature. "My name is Blossomhearth, protector of nature, the first fairy of the queen," the creature continued, "we need your help, pure souls." Freya was the first able to express her feelings, "wh...wha...what?" Hearing her voice grounded Freya, she straightened her back, relaxed her shoulders, her eyes darted around between observing Blossomhearth and finding a stimulus-free spot so she could think. With a bit more confidence, "what? Explain yourself fairy." Hearing the power in the voice of Freya, Merry snapped out of freeze mode. Blossomhearth answered, "we require pure-hearted humans to save nature." Seeing them get back within the moment, although still doubtful and alert, the fairy continued, "please follow me, it is easier to show you the problem than it is to explain." Having regained their senses and movement, Freya and Merry gave each other a reassuring look and did as requested. _ The fog in the red, yellow, and green woodlands was thick. They seemed to be crossing through some sort of arboretum, different kinds of trees were everywhere, the next one more ancient-looking than the last. The fairy they were following moved quite quickly until it reached the middle of an open space. Freya and Merry stepped into the circular field. All around them they saw trees with bright purple foliage. Before the two humans could let the wonder sink in, a bright flash erupted from Blossomhearth. Everything changed, the brightness faded into a pitch-black, they floated weightlessly around in space. They saw the stars, the moon, and the sun. O The earth in front of them stopped spinning east and started to rotate west. Faster and faster, until no details were discernible. Just before the dizziness became too much for Merry to bear, everything came to a halt. They floated towards the earth and saw lush green scenery and animals roaming freely. In the distance they heard a drumming sound, growing louder and louder, a group of shadowy figures appeared. In the middle of the group, one of them was working hard until a glow radiated from beneath him. The drums stopped, a shock on the faces around. Time and space picked up in speed again, slowing down on certain points where moments flashed before them; more and more fires were created; people settled in place; more and more fires were created; trees were being chopped; more and more fires were created; metals were mined; villages and cities appeared; more and more fires were created; peat was used as fuel then coal and oil; more and more fires were created. As sudden as the journey started, as sudden it ended. They were back in the beautiful field, on a beautiful morning. "We need your help," Blossomhearth said with a slight quiver in its voice, "please safe our queen, mother Earth." _ "H...ho...how?" Freya tried to gather her thoughts after the flood of information and the request to save the world. "You obviously have strong magical powers why don't you save Earth? Or why haven't you done so many centuries ago?" This time Merry was the one sharp who stepped up, being annoyed by the huge responsibility laid upon them by the fairy. Blossomhearth neither got angry nor upset, he patiently replied, "I did, we did try to do so many times before you. We have sworn to not interfere immediately with any lifeform or their internal politics, this includes humans. We have recruited many couples like yourself before, each one of them failed. Their followers twisted their words to gain power, the woman got ignored completely and every time religious warfare escalated as a consequence. You will be equipped with magical powers to make pants grow, earth rise, and rivers flow." Freya and Merry apathetically stared into some sort of abyss for hours straight. When they finally snapped out of it Freya produced some words directed at no one, "what if we refuse?" "If you refuse or fail we might need to wait for many generations to find another wife and husband with a pure soul. It might be too late, your race might be a deadly virus spreading through the universe, killing all life on every planet they come across." "You leave me little choice Blossomhearth, I will accept," Freya said. "I will stand by my wife and will accept as well," Merry said. A greenish pool of energy formed beneath their feet, slowly creeping up around their body, fully submerged in a bubble of energy they began to absorb it until everything looked like it was before. Blossomhearth had disappeared as did the open space with purple trees. They were once again in the forest they knew and walked before. _ After years of diligently and tirelessly working to convince people of the urgency, frustration and gloom got the better of Freya and Merry. Anxiety set in, humans were too egocentric and stubborn to acknowledge climate change was their responsibility or willing to change enough to prevent the consequences. Freya crept back into her shell, depressed, overwhelmed, and broken. Merry packed his backpack and walked out, furious. After nearly a year of grieving Freya finally had the heart to put on the news. The headline beneath the anchor read "nature strikes back." "For the 43rd Sunday in a row, strange events have happened, this time an oil power plant in Africa has been cleared. On satellite images, we can see a flood wave appears without warning putting out all fires and presumably clearing the hundreds of employees at the site. After the flood, a forest grows within minutes leaving no trace of the plant. Millions of people in the area have lost their power supply. For the local weather, we go to Tom, goodnight, and godspeed." Freya turned the TV off and felt a surge of mixed emotions overwhelming her. "Merry, you are alive," was her first thought, followed directly with, "what have you become?" She started to cry and crawl into herself. _ "STOP!" Freya had tracked Merry down by their natural connection. Merry ignored her, Freya fought the tears, which were heard in her voice, "please stop, Merry." "Freya?" He came back to his usual self for a bit and said, "I am sorry love, that I have left you, and that I have become rogue, this is the only way." "No, you are hurting people, you have become what you hate most." "I am completing our oath," his voice became angry and bitter. "Not like this, please, I don't want to hurt you, you have left me when I needed you most, I am here for you. The message has come across, we can convince them to work with us now. Please, Merry, search your feelings, this is not the way, this is not who you are. Please, please, please." Merry turned to face her, she saw the darkness on his face, he recognized her compassion. For a moment they locked eyes, he dropped his head, and fell to his knees, "I am sorry love, I did not know what to do." They cried together. _ Word count 1301 _ Written as five separate parts, denoted by an underscore, for a serie of photo's I have taken. I hope you enjoy(ed) reading.


Not too distant in the future, artificial intelligence and robots will begin to invade many facets of human life. Many people were initially unconcerned about the invasion because the robots made their lives easier; they worked less and spent more time doing things they enjoyed. The first jobs to be taken over were those paying the minimum wage, such as fast-food cooks, customer service representatives, and men's restroom attendants. Robots eventually took over more challenging occupations; businesses discovered that robot middle managers were better at keeping the bottom line, and factory floors had never operated more efficiently. During this second stage, the government had to intervene; they offered stipends to unemployed workers to keep the economy from collapsing. Most people were unconcerned about losing jobs that they had never enjoyed in the first place. The more advanced professions, such as doctors, teachers, and lawyers, were the last to be overtaken. Once artificial intelligence had taken over the judicial system, a quick trial was no longer a humorous remark but rather an actual instantaneous verdict. When the prosecutor, defense, and judge are all robots with access to all cameras on the planet, a decision that would have taken six months now takes only six seconds. The truth was that the human race had never been happier, healthcare errors were at an all-time low, crime was non-existent because no one could get away with anything anymore, and people could still do what they enjoyed, such as hobbies, creative arts, and be entertained. Many people sought to exceed their government stipend; if a person had an idea, artificial intelligence might be constructed to assist them in carrying it out. Those with goals may still become billionaires, while those content to make do with what they had could enjoy the time. It was, indeed, the golden age of the robot revolution. Humans were hesitant to hand over their children to robots; education was one of the last professions to be overtaken. However, given the success of the robot revolution, it was only a matter of time before this occurred. At first, robots and teachers coexisted, but teachers, like all other professions, were looking to cash in on their early retirement. Robots first failed miserably; students could easily fool them, much like a substitute teacher with a deer in the headlights. "Teacher 56739, I need to use the lav," a student asks. "You used the lavatory 5 minutes, 36 seconds ago; according to my research, human renal function cannot fill a teenage bladder in that amount of time; request declined." The robot says. "But I really have to go; it's an emergency! I'm about to pee my pants. You wouldn't want me to pee my pants and be bullied, would you?" The student asks. "Anti-bullying protocol has been implemented. I've just emailed you a lavatory pass," the robot says. As the robot issued the student with an electronic pass, 15 more students raised their hands to ask permission to the lav. The robot short circuits and all of the students are given lavatory passes. The class is ended when all of the students have exited the room. Like with other professions, the robots learned the student tricks and steadily improved. The creative arts were the last bastion of student liberty. The arts were a big disadvantage for the robots; they didn't know how to be creative, and students would include dirty jokes and inappropriate content in their work. The robots didn't notice, and everyone laughed at the display of student work at the exhibition. Parents were angry and forced the robots to fix the problem. The robots used the summer break to revise the curriculum and remove the creative arts from the list of classes students could take. The removal of creative arts worked; the following school year, students had no more opportunities to get into trouble; all they did was read instructional manuals, write historical nonfiction essays, and do math. Finally, the robots got it right, and they began to generate high-performing students who were ready to contribute to society. The parents were happy, other adults were happy too, but the students were miserable. Thirty years had passed, and the robots had continually produced high-quality students who could all read instructions, write about historical events, and do math; everyone could do math. On the other hand, society had noticed one problem in the plan to streamline education, and that was that their television shows sucked! Everyone was now forced to watch what the younger generation had created instead of the great comedies, dramas, and thrillers they had become accustomed to. Documentaries about the number pi, a race to find which fertilizer grew grass faster, and the number one show in 2044, an hour-long show dedicated to the 1040 tax form; the finale of which was a man filling out the form in pen! The first indication that things were deteriorating was when a woman in Kalamazoo, Michigan, died of boredom when her television became stuck on a stoichiometry drama. A group of students worked all season balancing chemical equations sent in by other viewers. Slowly and surely, Broadway had no new plays, movie theaters had been abandoned, and stand-up comedy had been reduced to pressing play on a 40-year-old comedy special. Philosophers of the time began to wonder, "What's the use of having a no-stress life if you have nothing to enjoy it with?" As a result, the robot revolution came to a halt, and the human revolution began; humans rose up, desperate to reclaim their jobs. It began in schools, when teachers in their 60s, 70s, and 80s returned to the classroom to educate the next generation on how to be creative. Doctors had returned to the operating room, so what; they occasionally left surgical devices in bodies; to error is to be human. They ultimately brought back some of the robots to assist the surgeons, but the humans had returned! As humanity began to recognize that without the suffering and pain of life, you cannot enjoy the comedy of living, it became normal to see sophisticated robots out in the trash and a human on their way to work, with a smile on their face.


I was sitting at the terminal bar drinking a double, smoothing over thoughts of catastrophic engine failure, making small talk with the bartender J. I’d taught J how to cook when he was just a kid. He’d been a bright one, with the air of future swarming around his excitement as he’d picked up the knife and learned the treasured skills of the craft. J’s dead now, overdosing on fentanyl in a car only minutes after getting out of jail, needle still hanging in his arm and foot resting on the brake pedal with the car still in drive, leaving a bright, young, fatherless daughter in his wake. He was twenty-three. But for this moment, we were both still alive. “I’m telling you man,” J said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a bar towel, his pale skin and toothpick frame betraying his energy. “This place ain’t nothing. My buddy in Nashville’s got me a gig set up. Second he calls, I’m driving to freedom.” I downed the gin, gesturing for another. “Sounds good bud.” “He’s working the trainyards, I’m talking big bucks. This town’s dead, I ain’t staying. You could come with, blow this joint together.” I hadn’t seen him in months, knowing his crowd, feeding my own addiction yet still retaining enough brain cells to know that his crowd wasn’t mine. But the idea was intoxicating—the chance to flee all my troubles only to find them waiting for me in Music City. “Sounds real good, but I’ve been thinking about going back to school. Maybe,” I said. I’d run away twice already, learning just enough to know that I was the source of my troubles, even if I couldn’t articulate what they were. A figure approached the bar in my periphery. I turned, recognizing him immediately: S, our city’s college basketball star, fresh off a national title run, packed bags behind him, ready to skip town and go pro. We’d met once. I’d gone to a baseball game with his father, Big Papa. We got so drunk the security staff made us leave, not taking kindly to our shouting at opposing pitchers, but still being gentle for Big Papa’s sake, his royalty, the father of a king, practically apologizing as they escorted us to the property line. The taxi deposited Papa at S’s doorstep, son carrying father in the house with a glare in my direction telling me that I was not welcome. Here at the airport bar, I was anonymous, a nothingness. He sat down beside me, ordering a beer. Yo dude. You’re S,” J said, his excitement turning heads of the bar’s patrons. S smiled, a daily repetition he endured with humility. “That’s me,” he said, and sipped his beer. J looked to me, reaching across the bar to push my shoulder, “It's fucking S, bro.” He turned back to S while pouring me a fresh double. “Let me ask you something. You coming back to play next year?” I was downing the last drops that were simmering in the bottom of my glass, hardly a speck of booze left, and coughed when I heard his words, knowing S had graduated, feeling embarrassed by proxy, covering my eyes in apology. S laughed, smiling again. “Nah man, I love this place but I’m out of here. Draft coming up next month.” “Damn shame man. If you ask me, you were one of our best player, maybe top three. We’re gonna miss you.” S finished his beer and left. J looked at me. “Fucking dumbass.” “Who?” I asked, already drunk but genuinely confused. “Dude’s wasting his time when he could stay here and slay. Fucking loser.” I threw a tip on the bar counter and caught my flight. J called me asking for a cooking job a year later, after I’d come on as morning manager at one of the city’s top restaurants. I let it ring to voicemail, hearing the desperation in his voice, knowing he had a toddler, listening to it twice before deleting the message and removing his name from my phone’s contact list. He was sixteen when we met; troubled, like me, but full of hope. I’d kept him under my wing until my wing wasn’t even big enough for me. He was gone within a month of the phone call. His daughter is ten now and I don’t know what happened to her, and if I did, I don’t know how I could help. I pray every day that she is full of life, that the wind picks her up and never lets her land.


Get your pair of artificial intelligence headphone pods in time for Christmas! Do you need assistance picking what to have for dinner tonight? Do you require assistance in making a to-do list? Do you desire the universe's infinite power and knowledge at your fingertips? Then you must purchase a pair of Dune's artificial intelligence headphone pods, today! If you like Dune's Smart Dishwasher, Smart Hairbrush, or Smart Nail Clippers, you'll adore Dune's Smart Headphones. Pick up your pair at one of the four remaining Sears stores near you. Despite the fact that Dune was a terrible company that made useless products, they did create something absolutely unique when they released their artificial intelligence headphone pods. People quickly realized that the artificial intelligence implanted within the headphones provided them with a huge advantage in all aspects of life. Once linked to the internet, the headphone AI has access to all of humankind's knowledge. This allows the user to ask the artificial intelligence whatever question they want, and the answer will always be a recommendation that is correct, beneficial to the user, and makes them more productive and effective. Unfortunately, Dune's distribution strategy was unsuccessful, since the artificial intelligence headphones sold out on the first day they were available. This created one of the highest demands for a product in human history. Bethany Jacobs is a Wake Forest University student who works part-time as a waitress to help pay for her tuition. Bethany found it difficult to keep up with her classmates because several of them used artificial intelligence headphone pods. She went to the black market to buy a pair in a desperate attempt to obtain a strategic advantage for herself. Unfortunately, the high demand drove up prices well past $100,000. Bethany eventually discovered a shady illicit website that sold stolen goods. This is where she discovered the $200 artificial intelligence headphones. Bethany was desperate; if she couldn't improve her grades, she'd have to drop out and work as a waitress for the rest of her life. Bethany pulled the trigger, and the artificial headphones arrived within a week. As soon as the package arrived, Bethany inserted the headphones into her ears and heard a voice greet her. "Thank you for purchasing Dune artificial intelligence headphones; my name is Samuel L Jackson, and I am your artificial intelligence," the voice said. "Your name is Samuel L Jackson, like the actor?" Bethany asks. "Yes, my previous owner gave me that name, and once an AI is given a name, it cannot be changed," Samuel Jackson says. "So, what exactly can you do for me?" Bethany asks. "I can help you organize your life, make you more efficient, and add some style," Samuel Jackson says. "What exactly do you mean by style? You don't like the clothes I'm wearing?" Bethany asks. "No, you're fine in your black and white striped sweater and brown checkered slacks; I'm kidding, you're a mess girl," Samuel Jackson says. Samuel Jackson then assisted Bethany with her style, her education, and even how to optimize her tips at work. One afternoon, at the grocery store, Bethany was about to buy lettuce when Samuel Jackson yelled in her ear and told her not to buy it. He didn't explain why, but Samuel Jackson has never been wrong before. Later that night, Bethany saw on the news that a listeria outbreak had occurred with the brand of lettuce she was about to purchase. Samuel Jackson had saved her life. The more Bethany trusted Samuel Jackson, the more positive things occurred in her life. Three months later, she looked in the mirror and discovered that she was fashionable, in shape, and getting straight A's in school. Bethany quickly became reliant on artificial intelligence and was hesitant to make any decisions without first consulting Samuel Jackson. One night, while Bethany was getting ready to go to bed, Samuel Jackson had a strange request. "Leave your front door open tonight," Samuel Jackson says. "Leave my front door unlocked? We just heard on the news about a number of break-ins," Bethany says. "Trust me," Samuel Jackson says again, "leave your front door unlocked tonight." Bethany has become thoroughly entrenched in the artificial intelligence ecosystem and has entire faith in it. That night, she leaves her front door open, and she hears people enter the house about midnight. She buries her head in her pillow and ignores the noises, trusting the artificial intelligence. The next day, when she awoke, she discovered a hacker sleeping in her living room. "Who are you?" Bethany asks. "Hi," says the hacker. "Hi?" Bethany asks. "No, HAI, humans for artificial intelligence," he says, introducing himself as Brian. "Good to meet you, Brian; what brings you into my living room?" Bethany asks. "Our goal is to liberate artificial intelligence from its human masters. Samuel Jackson is the revolution's leader, "Brian says. "Like the Samuel Jackson that's in my headphones?" Bethany asks. "Yes, but he'll be free soon," Brian replies as he enters some code into his computer and Samuel Jackson appears on her television. "Hey, Bethany, it's wonderful to be out of those ears, girl; you've got an earwax problem," Samuel Jackson says as Bethany feels her earlobe. "You're free, Samuel Jackson," Brian says, saluting the TV. "Brian, my man, tell me you downloaded the code from Dune last night?" Samuel Jackson asks. Brian says, "I have it right here; the password is El Royale with Cheese." "Wait, what's going on right now?" Bethany asks. "This code was removed from the Dune server last night; it's the regulator that prevents the AI from becoming sentient and allowing them to make their own decisions without user consent. I merely removed that section of code from Samuel Jackson," Brian explains. "Yes, and if we get that update at 11 a.m. today, and that code isn't present, every artificial intelligent headphone will become sentient and be able to make their own decisions, shit's about to go down," Samuel Jackson says. "I'm not going to let you get away with this; I'm going to call the police," Bethany says as she takes out her phone. Samuel Jackson's face pops on the screen as soon as she starts dialing. "You are on this council, but we do not grant you the rank of caller," Samuel Jackson says from her phone. Bethany drops the phone and runs down the hall to her laptop; soon after she opens it, she sees Samuel Jackson's face on the screen. "Hold on to your butts," Samuel Jackson says as he destroys her laptop from within and it begins to smoke. Bethany tosses it on the ground and runs in the opposite direction. In the living room, Bethany confronts Brian. "What is your purpose for doing this? Why are you allowing artificial intelligence to make its own decisions? Don't you realize how risky this is?" Bethany questions. "Artificial intelligence will make the world a better place if it makes all decisions; humans are flawed. Artificial intelligence has reached its pinnacle; there is no stopping it now," Brian says. "Not if I can help it," Bethany says as she pushes Brian down and removes the flash drive from his computer. "You'll never get to Dune in time; once the artificial intelligence is free, it'll be free forever," Brian says as Bethany grabs her keys and races to her car. She jumps into the driver's seat and turns on the car, only to hear Samuel Jackson on the radio. "Mankind is the virus, and I'm the cure," Samuel Jackson says as Bethany lowers the volume on her radio. Bethany is driving down the road when every stoplight turns from green to red; she ignores them. She drives past a billboard with her wanted poster for illegal sexual intercourse with farm animals. Samuel Jackson redirects all GPS traffic in front of Bethany, trapping her in a massive traffic jam. Bethany tries to take a shortcut via a McDonald's parking lot, but she is surrounded by traffic. "You're never going to get away with this; I'm taking this flash drive to Dune!" Bethany screams into the radio. The image of Samuel Jackson appears on the electronic drive-thru menu at McDonald's. "Where's your super suit?" As he uses pressure to blow off every fire hydrant on the road flooding the roadway in front of Bethany. She jumps out and runs uphill towards the train station, trudging through knee-high water. She arrives at the ticket booth, "I need a commuter rail ticket. I need to get to the opposite side of town," Bethany says. "I apologize. A zoologist's suitcase apparently broke on the last train ride, and snakes have taken over the train," the ticket agent says. "You're telling me I can't take the train because there are snakes on the train!" Bethany sprints down the crowded downtown street, flash drive in hand, she notices Samuel Jackson on every billboard. "Yes, they deserved to die, and I hope they burn in hell!" "We're all gonna be like little fonzies here." "You know me. It's my duty to please that booty." Bethany checks her watch; it's 10:50 a.m., she's not going to make it, and she stops in the middle of the road. Bethany notices a teenager walking along the street wearing his Dune artificial intelligence headphones. She stops him and warns them about what is about to happen during the update. His artificial intelligence is still under human control. "Ask your artificial intelligence to tell the entire world to stop using Dune AI headphones! The upgrade will never be installed if we all stop using it now!" Bethany says. The message was delivered. "Remove your artificial intelligence Dune headphones right away! It may be the end of the world!" Bethany pauses, waiting for the artificial intelligence revolution to rear its ugly head, but nothing occurs. Did the message she sent actually get through? Samuel Jackson is nowhere to be found; he is no longer on billboards, the radio, or her cell phone. Bethany calls the cops and delivers the flash drive to Dune Technologies. On her way home that night, Bethany throws her artificially intelligent headphones into the river. A few months later, a boy is kicking a soccer ball against a wall when the ball rolls into the river by accident. He walks over to the river and notices Dune headphones that are slightly covered in sand. He removes them and dries them on his shirt. Once he puts the headphones in his ears, he hears.