There is a beautiful poison inside of Gregory Coleman. It is a toxic blend of charm, charisma and confidence. Although he comes equipped with sharp fangs, he very rarely needs them. People are naturally drawn to his venom and are willing to suck it from him like desperate leaches hungry for his approval. Throw in green eyes and a radioactive smile that arches ever upward over a cleft chin and you have yourself a genuine, gorgeous predator. It is the rare man who can have ninety-nine out of the hundred ladies in the room and be unsatisfied. This was Gregory Coleman, and he was not just unsatisfied, it enraged him. The one he could not have always became the one he would have. This woman could be in a relationship or gay or just immune to his magnetic toxins. The reasons did not matter, only the audacity to refuse him. His three Cs were almost always enough to lure his unsuspecting prey into his web, but it was the chemicals that were the cocoon that incapacitated them. Rohypnol and GHB were his two favorite drugs of choice. Total blackout, no fight, no memory and the drugs were out of a girl’s system before she even knew what happened. Ethnicity, tall, short, blond, brunette did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the word no. The no turned Greg on because most women wanted to sleep with him. Those conquests were boring. When a girl says no and you fuck her anyway, that’s power. That’s ownership. Their most private of privates no longer belonged to them, it belonged to him. Five women had said no to him in college. Only one had drawn the attention of university officials and campus police, but the complaint never went anywhere. There had been four more since he graduated. Women brazen enough to blow him off. Three had gone as expected. Condoms and waxing your body hair, pubes most of all, was essential. A little soreness the next day in the baby dispenser was the only proof of anything. That was as good as if he wrote on her lower stomach with an arrow pointed down, “Greg was here.” His latest “No” was turning into a problem, and for the first time in his life he felt the swag slipping away from his swagger. James Smith knew there were more years behind him then ahead, but for only the second time in his life he felt scared. This time was different, however, because he was not afraid for himself, he was afraid for the person he loved most in this world. That’s a different kind of fear. Parents know the real golden rule. Do anything you want to me, but don’t fuck with my children. That goes for God as well. He had watched his daughter go off to college as a bright, vivacious girl full of wonder and curiosity. She was the captain of her high school soccer team and head of the yearbook committee. She had more friends than he could keep track of, but she came back from college for winter break a different person. She was twenty pounds lighter. Her usually clear complexion was ridden with acne. Her hair was oily and her bouncing blue eyes looked deflated and bloodshot. She had been at home for a week and only left her room to peck at food and use the bathroom. His attempts at conversation were met with one-word answers. When she refused to see her best friend from high school, he knew it was time to force a conversation with his daughter. After several unanswered knocks he peaked his head into her room with his eyes closed and shouted, “Honey, I have my eyes closed. I tried knocking. If you are indisposed, please put some clothes on.” “No, Dad, I just had my headphones on and could not hear you.” James opened his eyes and saw his daughter on her bed with her knees tucked up by her chest and her headphones around her neck. He sat on the edge of her bed and looked at a young woman he did not recognize. “Is everything okay? You’ve been home a week and I can’t help but notice you seem different. I know college can be a big adjustment. Is there anything you want to talk about?” “Like what?” “Like anything.” “No.” “You sure? Christmas used to be your favorite time of year, and it just seems like you are depressed. I figured you’d be excited to be home, hanging around with friends and making sure I was on top of your Christmas list. You haven’t seen any of the old crowd from high school, and you’ve been holed up in your room like a hermit. You may think I’m a dad who is out of touch, but I’m not that out of touch. You know you can tell me anything, right?” She made eye contact with him, and he thought for an instant that she was going to confide in him. Then she looked down and said, “I’m really okay, Daddy. Just girl stuff.” He thought this might be a ruse to make him uncomfortable so he would drop the subject, but his worry overrode his fatherly circuits. His immediate thought was that she was pregnant. “What about Kayla’s mom? She was always there for you when you needed female advice. You want me to call her and ask her to come over?” “I’m good, Dad. Really.” “Okay, I’m not going to pester you. You know you can come to me with anything.” “You might think that, Dad, but sometimes a girl wants to keep things to herself. She needs her dad to keep looking at her the way he did when she was born. You know, pure.” “I would never look at you any other way. Did something happen to you?” Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up off the bed. She looked at the caller and managed to smile at her father. He did not know it took every ounce of her strength to part her lips in an upward motion and flash her teeth. “It’s Kayla, I’m making plans to see her tonight. I should take this.” He felt relief in his gut and let out an audible breath. He patted her on her knee and said, “Take the call. Tell Kayla not to be a stranger. Remember you can come to me with anything.” He left her room hoping this was just a phase that she was going through. It would be good for her to see her best friend from high school, and maybe she would confide in her.

              James Smith heard knocking from the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth. It seemed too early for a delivery. He made his way downstairs and opened the door. He unconsciously took a step back when he saw it was a police officer. “Can I help you, Officer?”               “Are you James Smith?”               “I am.”               “May I come in?”               A knot formed in his throat threatening to cut off his airway. “Through a cracked voice he said, “Sure, come in.”               The officer entered and waited for James to close the door before he spoke. “Is Rebecca Smith your daughter?”               That’s when James felt the universe start to tilt and he wanted to grab the stair banister so he would not fall off into oblivion. Cops don’t show up early in the morning asking if you are someone’s father for something good. “Becca – Rebecca is my daughter.”               “I’m sorry to inform you that we found her body earlier this morning in a 2019 Jeep Cherokee registered to you. All preliminary signs look like a suicide. I’m very sorry, and if there is anything I or my department can do for you please let me know.”               James pinched the side of his leg and did his best to open his already open eyes. This was no nightmare. “What do you mean suicide? How can you be sure it was a suicide?”               “We are never sure this early in an investigation, but we start with what the preliminary evidence tells us. She was found with a hose running from the tailpipe to the back window. There was also a bottle of prescription pills found in the car. The bottle was empty, and the label scratched off, but the lab techs are going to examine it. There was also a vodka bottle that was half empty.” The officer handed James a business card. “That’s the lead detective on the case. Name is Gladstone. He is the one you want to contact for any further information. He is still at the scene where the vehicle was found finishing up.”               James felt like his head was pumped full of helium, and only wished he could float away. “Where was the car found?”               “A patrol car came upon it over at the town park earlier this morning. It was parked in the middle of one of the soccer fields.”               “That’s where she played soccer as a kid. Are you sure it was Becca Smith?”               “Sorry, but yes. We found her driver’s license and other than being a little thinner than in her picture, we’re sure it is her. You will need to make an official identification, but we never want to mislead a loved one. The detective in charge is going to want to speak with you. He can come here, or you can speak to him at the station. Whatever is most convenient for you. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you. Give you a ride, notify neighbors or a relative to come over and be with you. Make phone calls, anything at all.”               James’ whole life was his daughter. His wife hated him and left him when Becca was two, but that was warranted. He waved to neighbors but never took the time to get to know them. That was advice from three decades ago that he lived by to this day. Out of necessity he cut ties with his parents. His world as he knew it was over. Nothing had ever mattered to him except his daughter. Her birth changed him. He had only ever been in love with himself until she came along.               “Sir, are you going to be okay?”               James snapped out of his malaise. “To be honest with you I don’t know. I don’t think there is much you can do for me. I’m going to get myself together the best I can and make my way down to the police station and speak with Detective Gladstone.”               “Are you sure? You look a little unsteady on your feet.”               “I’m fine. You just told me my daughter took her own life. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to be. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to be alone right now. I’ll be in touch with the detective.”               The officer nodded his head and left James standing in his living room. When the door closed, he put the palm of his hand in his mouth to muffle the scream that had been building since the officer asked if Becca was his daughter. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees with a thud. He splayed out belly down and continued to scream into the carpet. He did not move, could not move for the next fifteen minutes. When he finally stood, he could see the carpet had gone dark from his tears and phlegm.               He was able to pull himself together to drive to the police station. When he walked through the front doors, he could not remember how he got there. Were gaps in his memory going to be a permanent thing? The officer at the front desk must have been expecting him because they immediately ushered him into the bowels of the police station to a vacant room. Within seconds a round man with a receding hairline and bad mustache greeted him with an awkward handshake and hushed tone. “I’m terribly sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances. I know Officer Simmons spoke to you, but if you have any questions, please feel free to ask.”               James went through the motions of answering questions. Was your daughter depressed? Did she have a history of depression? Was she on medication? Was she seeing a mental health professional? Was there a change in her behavior as of late. When James had about as much as he could take, he said, “My daughter went to college and came home a different person. That’s all I fucking know.”               The detective waited a few seconds after that remark before he said, “That pretty much explains the theory we have come up with.”               “Theory?”               “In cases like these we need information in a hurry. Even though the scene may look like a clearcut suicide, we always treat it as a possible homicide. One of our computer techs went through your daughter’s phone and found a link to a disturbing video that was posted on the internet. Your daughter tried to delete it, but our techs are pretty good at finding things people think they have gotten rid of on their digital devices. I know this will be hard for you to hear, but your daughter was gangraped. The footage was of her passed out on a bed. Nine men with brown paper bags over their heads took turns assaulting your daughter. We have already contacted your daughter’s college and the local and campus police. The assholes that did this thought they would not get caught by covering their heads. That’s why they posted the video. Two of the creeps had the same fraternity tattoos on their shoulders. Only a matter of time before we get one to roll over on the rest. College students are not your typical hardened criminals. You only have to lean on them a little and they would give up their own mother.”               James Smith threw up all over Detective Gladstone’s shoes.                 Gregory’s parents tried to throw money at the “No” that was becoming an increasingly large thorn in their son’s side. She would not rest until she stood across from Gregory Coleman in a courtroom and saw him taken away in handcuffs. The Coleman family were sitting in a defense attorney’s office. A 25,000-dollar retainer was required for the “No” that would not go away. She was 600 dollars an hour and double that for time in court. Stella Grangnoqi was Ivy League educated and she had cut her teeth as a prosecutor in Detroit. There was not much she had not seen. She suspected the well-to-do family had a spoiled, narcissist of a son who was used to getting what he wanted, never expecting consequences for a hand caught in the cookie jar.               “Listen to me very carefully, this victim is not just some anybody from anywhere. Her mother is a head honcho for The National Organization for Women. That organization has a lot of clout nationally. She sat at the president’s table at one of his fundraisers last month. I know because I was there. The alleged victim is being groomed to take over the Michigan chapter. Her pointing a finger at your son in a courtroom is going to carry a lot of weight. An arrest is imminent. There is no good news here. In most cases I could sell Greg’s face to any jury in the world, but I don’t know if I would take that chance here.”               Gregory Coleman Sr. spoke. “What are you suggesting? That we take a plea? My son is innocent. I don’t care what this woman says.”               “It doesn’t matter what you think. It matters what 12 strangers think. The evidence is circumstantial, but compelling.”               “You said there was not a shred of physical evidence.”               “There was no physical evidence of rape, but there was plenty of physical evidence that he was in her apartment.” She put her hand up before they could protest. “I know you said he was invited there, but he-said-she-said comes down to believability. Mom has the means to scour through Greg’s past. If there are any skeletons, she will find them and will dance them in front of the jury like a Halloween parade. It’s not a matter of if, but when Greg is arrested. You might want to think about a plea. He is going to have to do time, but I can get that down to a minimum with hopefully no sexual offender status. The alternative is a double-digit sentence with Greg going to prison as a sex offender. They don’t do well in prison.” After two days of serious conversation, Greg’s family decided on the best course of action. They took the money they were going to spend on their son’s defense at trial and bought him a new identity. He was given a new driver’s license, social security card, and passport. With the notoriety the case was starting to generate thanks to mom and daughter, the police had issued a warrant for Gregory’s arrest. Gregory left Michigan and headed for Canada, cutting all ties with his family in fear of any communication being traced back to his new digs. He was given the most common name in the United States to further aide his disappearance. With a name like James Smith, he could dissolve into the world and start over. He could make a life he deserved.


The clunky air conditioner churned behind his head as he took in the words he was reading. “I think someone is listening.” Scribbled out in shaky, thin lines, the words on that ragged scrap of paper made Gail quickly bring his gaze up to the man who had handed it to him. He was terrible to look at. He was pale white all over his naked torso and arms, the only article of clothing on his body was a pair of grey sweatpants. His face was skeletal, like some had tried to shrink wrap it. His eyes were sunk so far into his skull that the flickering, buzzing light above him cast deep shadows over them, making them appear as huge and vacant sockets. His beard and hair were thin and dry, wild in every direction. He reeked of death. “Bill…” he started, but cut himself off when the skeletal man, Bill shot a finger up to his lips. Gail saw every inch of atrophied muscle tighten like taut rope through skin. The eyes, shadowed over, became visible as Bill craned his head down and forward, staring up across his own forehead at Gail.

Play it smart, Gail. He quickly turned over the paper and, with his fingers in a fist and his thumb pressing down on them, mimed clicking a pen. Bill, still tense, stared at him for a long moment. Gail saw any number of possible scenarios flash through his own mind, many of them ending with Bill, this human shell, tearing him apart with a profound viciousness. What happened instead was Bill doubling back into his apartment, stumbling over something that audibly cracked under his weight, before ducking into the kitchenette. Gail looked down at what Bill had stepped on. It was drywall. Chunks of drywall littered the floor in gratuitous amounts, some in small piles in the corner but most just laying where, Gail surmised, they had initially fallen. The walls were littered with indents that were small enough that a human fist may make them. The larger holes worried him more however. They looked as if Bill had swung something like a chair or a bat with force enough to puncture the wall and had then started twisting and stirring it until they more closely resembled gaping wounds; gouges made by weapons a human body. The thought put Gail on guard enough that a sudden flash of movement in front of him sent him into a full body clench. It was Bill again, holding a pen out to him.

Gail took it and wrote his question. “How long? When did it start?”

Bill stared at the words for a long time, swaying on the spot enough that Gail feared he might see the man collapse, but such an event did not occur. Bill instead took the pen back and hurried back to the kitchenette, tiptoeing over the debris littering the floor.

Gail was standing halfway in the front hall of the apartment, the door shut, and he could see more now. The windows were covered over with sheets, producing middling light through them that illuminated the utter disaster that was Bill’s living space. Broken furniture, chairs, tables, and something Gail couldn’t even begin to accurately describe were strewn about haphazardly among broken glass and a lighting fixture, oddly ornate and fine looking. The thing looked like it had been pulled out of the ceiling and had dragged part of it down with its frayed wires. Gail took a breath in through his mouth to avoid the smell, then let it out slowly.

Play it smart Gail. Bill reappeared again, holding a large piece of paper that had one of the top corners ripped away. On it was everything Gail needed to know. “Been going a month. Worked at auto shop when guy came in. Tall. White. Grey slicked back hair. He drove a black Corolla. He said it was antifreeze trouble. Said he wanted me specifically. I asked what the problem was. He said I shouldn’t be on that website. It got heated after. I got fired. Never met the guy. No idea how he knew about that site. Been seeing people around outside. Blocked windows. Neighbour played music to loud. Told him to fuck off. He’s gone. They’re listening to me. They can hear me talk. Please help!!!” The letter was written with a rapidly descending lack of grace and penmanship, but Gail got all he needed from it. He spared Bill a quick, sympathetic glance and then turned the page over to write his answer. Bill shifted from one foot to the other, wringing his bony hands one over the other as he breathed heavily through his mouth. When Gail handed him his answer, Bill snatched it away and poured over it. “I know some guys who will keep you safe. I can’t tell you who they are because they need their privacy. Get what you need, and we’ll get right on going.” Bill did not move, did not breath, at least not audibly. Gail just watched him as he began to shake all over, shaking his head around on his thin neck so furiously that Gail thought it might fall off. When Bill lunged forward, the only thing that prevented Gail from screaming was the quick realization that Bill was crying into his chest. “Thank you.” Came his muffled voice. He was off him just as quickly and hurrying to what Gail assumed was his bedroom. When he was out of sight, Gail pulled his phone out and began responded to most recent text. Status of Subject #38? Subject is displaying clear signs of extreme paranoia, anorexia, and general emotional instability. Proceed? At your discretion. Gail put his phone away and reached behind himself in the same motion. He pulled out a handgun as he began to approach Bills room. The gun was strangely bulky, with a cover over the hammer. He raised it up as he picked his head around into the room. He saw Bill on his knees, his back to the doorway recklessly shoving junk and clothes into an overflowing suitcase. He might have felt pity over that sight, Gail thought, if this hadn’t been number thirty-eight. Since it was number thirty-eight, the only thing Gail did for Bill was aim the gun and pull the trigger. Bill sprawled forward over his luggage when the bullet blew the back of his head out in thick chunks of bone and meat. Gail left as soon as the body stopped twitching. He didn’t want to deal with the smell. It wasn’t his job anyway. He put the gun away and stepped out into the apartment. The apartment beside Bill’s opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, white, and had his grey hair styled into a shiny slick back. He had a wide, toothy grin in his face. “Fasted one yet, right?” He was struggled not to laugh between his words. Gail just rolled his eyes.

“It just means we’re doing our job right. No use lingering on it.” Gail turned without waiting for a response and started striding toward the stairwell. He could feel the grey-haired man grimacing behind him before rushing to catch up. “I can enjoy my work if I want to.” He said. “You can too you know.” Gail didn’t respond outside of sighing. This guy was going to be the death of him.


Danya groaned under the weight of the heavy equipment that she lugged across the tarmac. It felt like a metaphor for her life. One spent under the burden of following other people’s suggestions, which led to this dead end, working at a military air airfield in North Dakota. As she lamented her eight years in the Air Force, she gazed up at the stars flickering in the pitch black sky, and let her mind wander. She turned to her crewmate, Greg. “What sound do eagles make? Do they caw, or chirp, or…?” Greg's gaze remained focused on his equipment. “Don’t know. Never thought about it.”

“Or do they sing, tweet, or cluck?” “Never thought about it. You’re too smart for this, Danya. Why are you in the military anyway?” “When I saw the recruitment ads, it sounded fun to be on a mission, and not to spend all my time, you know…” She hesitated, and left out mating like animals . Experience had taught her it was best to keep quiet about such topics. Greg nodded knowingly though she suspected he had no idea what she was talking about. Unlatching the refueling hose from an aging C130, she moaned, “I don’t think I can take another day of this.”

“I hear you,” Greg replied nonchalantly. “I’m serious!” she blurted out, letting desperation seep into her voice. In the past, Danya would often pitch ideas to Greg that with his Great Plains reticence, would dismiss as not worth fretting over. But today, Greg turned to her, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and said, “If you’re game, I have an idea.” “Greg has an idea…” she teased, her heart racing with curiosity. What he proposed was the wildest plan she ever heard. Yet, there was a sincerity in his voice, and he had a connection. He was extending charity, something she didn’t like to accept, but unlike the other men in the military, she knew his help wasn’t attached to unwanted sexual advances. They had worked together long enough for her to know. “Trust me,” he said. She found herself nodding. Three weeks later, Danya found herself aboard a plane headed to Edwards Air Force base. As the aircraft lifted off, Greg gave her the tiniest of North Dakota nods, one she knew was an acknowledgment of their eighteen months together refuelling planes, unacknowledged and under appreciated . As she stepped off the plane in California, she was met by an officer in dress uniform who gave hey a formal salute. “Private Danya, this way,” he said, and ushered her into an auditorium where dozens of young soldiers were gathered. They looked as nervous and excited as she felt. As the lights dimmed, a screen in front of them flickered to life. President Kamala’s voice echoed through the room, delivering her famous farewell speech of 2032: “In the history of manned space flight, only twelve white men have walked on the Moon. Today, I announce a plan to change that!” The audience applauded. The image of the twelve men faded into a colourful montage of 48 young soldiers of different races and genders. She surmised they were the people she was with in the room. The contrast with the previous mission was vast, and she was excited to be part of it. General Johnson, a famous general, highly decorated from his service in the Ukraine War, stood behind the podium. In his powerful voice, he declared, “Moon 2069. There have been 37 years of challenges,” he dropped his voice on the word ‘challenges’, which Danya translated tobdelays, red tape and budget overruns. “But now, we are here, on the cusp of our great mission. You have the right stuff to change it the history of humankind.” Danya felt something she longed for her whole life but rarely experienced: being important. She applauded as loudly as anyone else in the room. The following three months of training were electric. Each day started at dawn, and continued until late at night. Drills, classes, and physical fitness activities filled every minute of her existence. Here, unlike in North Dakota, every member of the training class matched her curiosity and drive. A psychologist from Stanford guided them through team-building exercises, fostering their camaraderie. Despite the Moon 2069 program’s seemingly unlimited resources, the remnants of SpaceX logos clung to the training center’s walls. The company was nationalised after Elon Musk sent Xi Jinping a Tesla for his birthday. Aiding and abetting the enemy, a senate committee had concluded. So many things had led to this moment–12 trillion dollars spent over decades, to deliver a diverse group of astronauts to the moon on the 100th anniversary of the original moon landing. She understood the program was expensive. Her mother at complained about it during their telephone calls, lamenting the rising taxes and inflation that made life difficult for everyone. School teachers couldn’t afford to repair their cars or go to the dentist. It was hard to listen to, but as the date of the launch approached, her mother’s tone mellowed. “The country spending a trillion dollars to send my daughter to the moon. Who would have thought? I’m proud of you.” Two days before launch, General Johnson sat in his office awaiting their daily briefing. After a crisp salute, Danya took a seat, trembling in anticipation from the conversation ahead. The general spoke first. “Private Danya, I’ve heard through the grapevine you are having second thoughts,” he murmured in his baritone voice. “I’m here to tell you, after you complete this mission, you will be an example for asexual people all over the world.”

“So they can all walk on the moon?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “The Moon 2069 mission is important to the current president.”

The closer the mission came, the more Danya had contemplated what her goal really was. “I respectfully decline the mission, and I would like to be reassigned,” she said firmly. The General slumped in his chair, disappointment etched across his features. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” Before she could respond, she felt a sudden grip on her shoulders, then a pinprick in her arm. The following days blurred into a haze. She recalled listening to politicians’ speeches and seeing the blurry faces of her teammates.

A deep rumbling jolted her awake. She blinked under the bright lights, then realized she was strapped into her launch chair. Her teammates, Stella and Marco, sat beside her, their faces tense. The thundering vibrations of the Ascendant Rocket rumbled beneath them. She lifted her hand to attract their attention, to say she wasn’t supposed to be there, when the takeoff force of 10G pushed her arm back down. ** Ending #1: She resented being sedated, but once the mission had begun, her instincts to help her team members kicked in, and she played along. A week later, Danya found herself on the set of the Morning Brew Show, the bright lights and cameras capturing her every move. She smiled and told the audience how amazing the experience of the moon mission was. Once the mission was over, General Johnson had told her had a choice, she could return to North Dakota, or she could fly from city to city, staying at the best hotels, give interviews and school commencement addresses, and never have to work another day in her life. The life of a politician, he said. She rejected the offer, until the General said her mother could join. Ending #2: After installing Moon Base 2069, they received a video transmission from NASA.

President Kamala’s face from decades ago filled the screen, and she began speaking solemnly. “I regret to inform you the government used the LGBTQIA mission as a cover story, as the best way we could allocate enough money for this project without creating panic. The fake news you have undoubtedly heard, is true. The earth will be struck by an asteroid in 2070, ending all human life. You are our last hope to carry on. Good luck.” The weight of the words settled heavily on Danya’s shoulders.


Bernadette was pissed. She grabbed her hair in both hands. Sweeping it back in a fluid motion, she snagged a hair tie off her wrist and bound it out of her way. In quick succession she pulled the hatch shut, adjusted her safety harness, and fired up the Flyer; its twin turbines whined and came to life. As the engines powered up, the craft gently rose a few centimeters off the roof of her complex. Her injuries still ached, but she ignored the pain. She slammed the gear retraction button, stumpy landing gear folded in under the craft. She turned the steering yoke hard to the left, artfully manipulating the yoke and pedals. The nose of the craft rose, and it turned ninety degrees. Leaning into the turn she finessed the throttle, and the little ship tore off into the night sky. “I’ve had enough of this sonofabitch,” she said angrily. The craft rolled slightly right. Turning northwest she began following course to the target area 250 klicks away. En route she took a little time to plan her attack. The trip was short, and she had rushed through her plan. Normally she was methodical in her preparations, but this guy had angered her for the last time and she had to end him. She flew at high altitude in a wide arc aimed to the west of the target, the craft in whisper mode as she went. At 200 klicks out she switched to stealth mode. The flyer went deathly quiet and slipped off any radar screens that had been observing her transit. Her little, highly modified ship had a skipjack transponder that was feeding false information to the ground. Because the skipjack lied, ground controllers observing her flight would believe the small vessel had finished a short hop flight. It was decidedly illegal, but then again, so was her entire profession. In-bound now, at 100 clicks from her enemy she put the craft into cloak mode. All exterior running lights went out, her profile vanished from the night sky. The ship was silent and invisible to all observers, electronic or otherwise. Approaching 50 clicks to the target, she dropped out of the clouds. The little flyer zoomed quietly down to just below treetop level and she did a too-quick scan as she slowed her approach. She loosened the harness a bit as she had been straining forward with rage the entire trip and it was cutting into her shoulders. His towering flagship building appeared ahead, looming menacingly over the city; it was an homage to his ego. Bernadette slowed her approach further, eventually drifting to within 20 meters of the glass-fronted 6 th floor of the skyscraper. She took a moment to pause and recon the surroundings. It was late, there were no flyers or ground cars parked in the lot below her. In the lot’s dim lights, nothing moved. She turned her attention to the task at hand. Thumbing a couple controls on the yoke she drifted slightly closer to the building’s glass face. In a moment the little ship began climbing the 500-meter height of the immense building. The ship stayed level with the ground, and she watched its reflection as it sailed upward. She intended to fly straight up the side and silently pop onto the roof. After disembarking she would enter the little access building at the top, then it was a quick trip one flight down to his Penthouse apartment. If her hasty plan worked well, it meant that she would not have been detected by building defenses. All was quiet, the building AI had not noticed her. Her tiny ship’s mods were very expensively and carefully crafted to allow her to arrive undetected just about anywhere she wished. She gripped the yoke fiercely; her anger had not subsided. She teased the controls and the ship rose more rapidly. At speed, it was a very short hop up the building and over the edge of the roof. She intended to land, dismount, and rush to the Penthouse. Fate, ever the clever bitch, had other plans. As the ship peaked and bounded over the edge it bumped straight into a larger craft parked atop the building. The lightweight flyer rammed nose first into the bigger ship, then bounced upward and spun about uncontrolled. It slammed back down to the roof and skidded sideways; its right side thudded into the fuselage of the bigger craft. The tail smashed into the other ship with a tearing sound. It lurched viciously and careened backwards across the roof, ripping a gaping hole in the corner of the access shed on the far side. Ship and shed had sustained major damage. Onboard, alarms screamed. So much for surprise. The starboard engine nacelle had taken the brunt of the hit. That engine shrieked and spat metal through a gash in the hull. The ship, now crippled, labored to stay aloft but finally gave up and slammed to the roof. The ship’s AI announced, “Critical damage to airframe. Vessel unsalvageable.” Bernadette’s teeth had slammed together in the crash. She tasted blood. Rattled, she flipped the yoke aside, popped the harness off, and bolted out through the hatch. As she threw herself onto the ground, she tucked and rolled. This eased some of the impact, but she felt her left shoulder pop as she hit the roof hard. She scrambled to her feet, smelling the fuel spurting out from some artery in her damaged craft. Spitting blood and tooth fragments, she grabbed her injured shoulder and skittered across the roof. Behind her the ship said, “AI upload commencing, abandoning vessel.” Her best hope now was to use the larger ship for cover. As she ran, she glanced back, and the expected thing happened. The door to the little roof shed slammed open and a man appeared backlit in the doorway. It was him; he had a gun. “Shit,” she muttered as she sped up to put the large craft between herself and his gun. “This went to hell quickly.” Crouching now behind the front of the vehicle she noticed skid marks caused when her ship bumped into it. It sat canted sideways away from the little building and the landing gear were bent. It was larger, but sleeker and lower-slung than her ship. The dented nose provided enough cover if she stayed low. Edging carefully out from behind the ship, she looked down the hull. She could see that the end of the stubby winglet that had stabbed her ship to death was barely damaged. She spat blood as she muttered, “So fucking stupid of me.” Her words came out slurred; her jaw ached; she suspected she had broken it. Across the roof, ass-end against the building, her ship belched smoke. Its fuel was now spurting onto the surface like an arterial bleed. The man in the doorway ignored the little dying craft and called out across the expanse. “Goddam it,” he shouted, “Whoever you are, I’m gonna kill you for this.” Bernadette recognized the voice. It was Marcus, her intended target, and soon-to-be dead former fiancée. He shouted again, “You’re an amateur and a hothead, only an idiot would try something like this without checking the roof approach first.” He was partly right. Her anger had gotten the best of her. She had rushed over and popped up crudely to try to take out the best hitman in the country. She ranked right behind him, although you could not tell it from this little cockup. It was, simply put, without elegance. Unworthy of the second-best assassin. “Idiot,” she muttered. She cooled her temper and calmed herself. Slowing her breathing she took stock of her injuries. ‘Hands and fingers, knees and toes’ went her mental checklist. It was a joke she had learned from her father, inventorying her injuries with a little child’s rhyme helped her focus. Blood ran down her face and neck. She grabbed her injured arm, and with a hard yank popped her shoulder back into place. “Look, you can’t get away,” Marcus intoned, “Your flyer is wrecked, and it’s a long drop to the ground. And, well, I have a gun.” He was bragging, certain that whoever was on his roof was toast. “We’re gonna have to cooperate to work this out. Can we just talk, ok?” Bernadette realized his tactic immediately: lull the enemy into a false sense of hope by seeming to be perfectly reasonable. Then vaporize them the second they step out from behind cover. “Okay, think fast, find the advantage,” she whispered. “I’m hurt, pinned down, and he’s armed.” She patted her hip for her blaster. It was still in its holster. At least she hadn’t lost it in the chaos. Relieved, she whispered, “So am I, good. But I don’t think I can outshoot him. He’s always been a little faster.” She peeked out from behind the nose of the craft, certain he would not fire. He wouldn’t risk further damage to his beloved flyer. As long as she stayed low and hidden behind it, she was safe. A glimpse around the craft told her three things: His gun was at the ready, her ship was dying and aflame, and he was far too close to it. As if the tiny ship understood all that, it let out a loud scream as the damaged starboard engine began to tear itself apart. She stepped out from the safety of the flyer and there was a loud bang. The starboard engine died loudly. With another bang its turbine tore through the nacelle, launching itself just over Marcus’ head. It surprised him and he ducked. Finally noticing her coming around the front of his flyer, he called out her name in shock, “Bernadette? I thought I…” a third bang distracted him. More engine debris tore through the little flyer. This time ripping through the port engine. Marcus startled, ducked once more. Before he could fully register what was going on, she raised her blaster and fired, not at him, but at her little ship. Bernadette threw herself down and watched the show. Marcus’ eyes grew wide as he realized that he was already dead. The small flyer erupted into a massive ball of flame, smoke, and shrapnel. Marcus was slammed against the shed and torn apart before he could finish his thought, "...killed you." As the fireball rose and smoke billowed, pieces of the little ship and Marcus began raining down on the rooftop. She grinned through broken front teeth. “So much for you, you bastard,” she said. Sitting up now she gathered her thoughts. In a moment she rose up from the rooftop, dusted herself off and put together a contingency escape plan. Coming around the side of the large flyer she hastily checked to see how badly damaged it was. The tip of the winglet was dented and there were some scorch marks from the blast. She could see no holes from the shrapnel thrown by the explosion. Looking back at her wrecked craft she said, “Goodbye little girl,” and opened the hatch before her and clambered inside. After a quick survey of the controls, she fired up the craft and rose from the deck. It was larger and much heavier, which had made all the difference in the initial collision. But it was very similar to her own ship. Standardized controls and armaments made all the difference in this case. She eased it over the side and spun it about, angling the stern away from the building. Looking over the mess she had made, she was glad there wouldn’t be enough left of him to fit in a coffee mug. She backed away and began descending the tower rapidly. She flicked a switch on the yoke and the twin AU/G-350 phase canons on either side of the cockpit roared to life. The ship dropped lower and lower; the 350s tore the building into two ragged halves. She said to herself as she held the trigger, “Burn it down, Bernadette.”


Some have all the luck A wedding is set for April fools day, but Maggie feels more the fool than a bridesmaid. Her sister Rebekah has planned a fantasy themed wedding. To make matters worse, she has even chosen her sister’s costume, without any room for negotiation. Pointed ears, a green dress with glitter and sparkles adorned. Then there came the shoes out of it’s box, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, with great pointed toes!. How on earth was anyone to walk in these without falling flat on their face, was beyond Maggie’s understanding.  But she had promised to go along with her sister’s wishes, even if it meant photo’s on social media that would plague her for the rest of her life! The wedding’s location is by a great lake, centred within an ancient Celtic forest. Maggie was sent there early, to make preparations. The tents had already been set up by hired hands, and a few gathered round a camp fire as the sun began to set over the tree tops. Everyone must remain in character, while they are staying, so costumes and ears were fixed appropriately. Maggie avoided any eye contact with others there, she was a recluse and did not care for social interaction, though she enjoyed a concert if it meant she could sit back and close her eyes to take it all in. The wedding is at noon, in 2 days time.

The night was quite cold, as she tried, but failed to sleep, the wind blew through her tent and Maggie sat up, with one ear on, and the other hanging off, stuck to the side of her cheek. She poked her head outside, to see where this strange noise was coming from. She could hear music playing, and yet it was in the distance, amongst the trees, and not in the camp. Putting on her floppy pointed shoes, she hopped about, pulling the tights until they reached up and over her waist, as they had a habit of pulling downwards in an uncomfortable fashion. Maggie left the camp site, in search of this jolly music with such a hypnotic good beat. There she saw, tiny lights, flickering and moving about amongst the forest trees. Out of no where, this man, dressed like her ,only with dark green baggy clothes, and dirt all over as if he had been rolling around in the ground, leapt out. He cried “So ye be wantin te join the party?”. Maggie just burst out laughing. Thinking, these hired actors her sister joked about hiring, must have arrived and are in character. So she played along, fixing her wonky ears. “Yes, I be wantin, te join ye”. She replied. If there was one thing that could get Maggie out of her shell, it was music. To her it was a way to reach out to the world but still keep a safe distance. The pixie grabbed her hand, and trailed her with great haste towards a small group of people dancing and playing, all like him, but male an female.

The lights, came from old fashioned lanterns, hung around the trees. There were also these strange holes in the ground, a bit like giant rabbit holes. Musical instruments were being played, and Maggie joined in when she was offered to play. She played the flute and found this to be a fun party that had this trance feeling of comfort and joy. They did not pressure her with any questions, it was just simply music and dancing. As drinks were handed out, they tasted like wild nut tea. But Maggie felt dizzy and suddenly blacked out.

When she awoke, her head was splitting. Feeling for her false ears to take them off, they refused to move!. She tried over and over, pulling at them, but it hurt!. Had they pranked her and glued them on?. Furious, Maggie rushed to a mirror, but she had no reflection. Feeling the tops of her ears, and pinching them, it hurt even more!. ‘This can not be, it’s a nightmare or some weird mushroom drug was in that tea, I’m having a hallucination’ she thought. Running outside, there was her sister Rebekah, and other guests. All seemed concerned and were talking about her disappearance. Maggie reached out to them, but her hand went straight through, as if she were a ghost. Running now in sheer panic, she reached the place of the late night party. Only to find no one there, but a hole was still visible. She built up the courage and began to climb through it. Mud and water, made her filthy as she squeezed through tight corners. There a light, Maggie reached the end. A great cave, with a glorious waterfall and a rainbow which hung over it. An entire town was situated, streets and shops, and even a school. All of them carved out of the natural bed rock stone.

Maggie rushed towards a pixie, who walked with her cow from a small field. “Please, I need help, I think, I’m trapped”. The young pixie laughed, and turned towards her father who was now coming up the lane. She spoke as though this were a normal event. “Father, here is another one”. Maggie now with her throat dry from horror, begged to know what on earth was going on?. He answered, “isn’t it obvious, you made a deal with a pixie and now you must repay him”. Maggie, tried to think back. But while she was gazing around in deep thought. It dawned on her, everything here was small, as was she. There was a nut, being crunched up by 2 pixies on some strange apparatus with hammers. And again, another example, a flower, a buttercup lay on it’s side, used by children to slide down like a playground. “What must I do to return to normal?”. She begged in desperation. They explained, there is a way, but Maggie must repay her debt first. The pixie who had invited her to dance, was their chief prankster and he declared himself the champion, undefeated. Maggie in all her wisdom challenged him. If she fails, she will remain a pixie, and if she wins, he will grant her what she longed for, self confidence.

In her hand, just as if magic had prevailed, there appeared a scroll. A list of pranks, to win this bet. Maggie, placing it in her belt, and saying goodbye to this strange underground world, wished never to return, for fear of being trapped. She crawled inside the hole to make her exit. Maggie looked upon the first prank. An easy one by far. To place frogs inside her sisters wedding boots. Silly, but who was she to question the list. Only one problem, Maggie was fully visible now and was being scorned for her filthy appearance. Her ears could be removed, which was a blessing, but the list remained and so this was no dream. Time to avoid the crowd gathered and focus on this list, the frogs will just have to wait. She snuck into the wedding tent and replaced the figure of the bride with another, her keyring which was of a cartoon pig. But had to make conversation with two couples who lingered at the tents entrance, before making her escape. Next, to mix up the seating arrangements, no easy task when people are coming and going, and having yet again to make small talk with her sisters guests. Maggie was not panicking she had until tomorrow, at the wedding. But when she passed a calender on the wall, there a day had vanished!, her sister was to marry, in one hour!. If she fails before noon, a pixie she shall remain forever. Reaching now for seats, reading the list, that was declaring that drawing pins be placed, and on top of this, she is to burn a horrible smell, sabotage the catering with creatures such as worms and slugs. It was too cruel, too much, and unfair to Rebekah. Her sister looks so upset, already she has witnessed her cake. Maggie just felt awful, knowing that her sister had diet problems and was sensitive about such things. Maggie could not follow through any longer. No this was over for her. She threw the list into an open fire and approached Rebekah. “I wish you all the luck, joy and happiness in the world sister”. With a shocked expression from her sister, she was glad, both were of a renewed friendship that was just about hanging in there.

The sun was now in the south, as Maggie stood at the alter and watched her sister wed. Maggie heard music now, being played in the distance. Only she could hear this, she knew where it came from. The beat, the drumming sounds, they were back, and possibly waiting for her. Too afraid to touch her ears, Maggie shook with fear, as she knew, at any moment, she would vanish from sight. But she did not. An entire hour passed by, with nothing horrible taking place. Dare she touch her ears?. Yes they are OK. Needing answers, though terrified of the result, Maggie rushed through the dark forest, towards the music. The pixie stood waiting for her, he mocked, “so ye thought ye could beat me? Ye failed!”. Maggie agreed, but he laughed. “Why the long face, ye haven’t failed yer self, no, passed ye did, and wit flying colours”. Maggie was confused. Then she realised, she had lost, but her punishment was to be more like them, more open and alive. This was no curse, it was a lesson and a gift. As it says, it takes a wise man to act a fool. Sometimes, those we see as being fools, are the wisest amongst us.


It started snowing at 11am. Though I have a birds-eye view of the parking lot from my second-floor window, frost coats the edges of the glass, leaving only a small porthole to peer through. I can see the snow piling up near the electric fence and slowly creeping its way across the battered pavement towards the warehouse where I'm stationed. There are no cars in the lot. Everyone was sent home months ago because of the pandemic, except for the five of us—the skeleton crew—who needed to be onsite in case anything breaks and needs fixing. Aedna and Hal do the hardware stuff, fitting the robots with new wheels and cameras. Kash and Mo do the software stuff, something about algorithms and coding. Anyway they tell the robots where to go, what to pick up. Then there’s me, Alex. My job is to keep the floors clean so the robots can see the painted lines and find their way through the tidy maze of boxes full of books and dumbbells and blow-up dolls. Though I suppose there's a lot less demand for that stuff now. 1pm. The snow looks about a foot deep, falling in big, fat, heavy flakes. When the wind kicks up, the flakes swirl like those sufi whirling dancers I saw on youtube once. They wore long white tunics and skirts, and twirled like crazy, their hair flying out beneath their tubular hats. Huh, how did they keep the hats on? Maybe they stapled them to their heads. Anyway, you stare at those swirling flakes long enough and you get mesmerized. Hypnotized. You are feeling sleepy, very sleeeeepy, Alex. Very relaxed. Long deep breaths. Nothing can hurt you now, Alex. You’re in a safe place. I’ve eaten all the food in the communal kitchen, except for a jar of anchovies, because that’s gross. Aedna loves anchovies. She puts them on salads and toast and pizza for Christ's sake. What kind of a degenerate puts anchovies on pizza?

Pizza. I could really go for a slice of Louie’s famous pepperoni pizza, but I doubt old Louie is still making pizza pie, even if I could call him. The phones haven’t worked for weeks. The landlines went first, and then the mobile phones. Mo left as soon as the phones were cut off. His wife was seven months’ pregnant. They might have had the baby by now. 3pm. A foot and a half of snow, and some small drifts forming. I’d turn on the news to hear the weather report but we’ve not had TV or radio broadcasts for about ten days. It doesn’t matter much anyway. It’s not like I have a car or somewhere to go. The first news report after the phones went down said there was some kind of glitch in the system, but we found out it later it was purposefully destroyed. Sab-o-tage.

The generator is still working, powering the lights and dormant computers, but there's no warmth running through the radiators. It's gotten so cold the past few days that I've finally resorted to wearing Kash's goose down parka. It was hanging in the cloakroom on the ground floor. I kept thinking he'd come back to get it, but I guess he can't be bothered. And as much I'd love to order an electric heater with same-day delivery, that's a no-go since the internet went dark last week. That’s also when Kash and Aedna decided to leave. Hal was disappointed, he didn’t think they should abandon their posts. I could hear them arguing all the way from from Hal's office as I stirred my cup-o-soup. My favourite flavor of cup-o-soup is tomato, though chicken noodle isn't bad either. I glance toward the trash bin near the elevator. The styrofoam cup with remnants of red pulp is still perched on top. I was throwing it in the bin when Aenda and Kash asked if I wanted to leave too. They were getting a ride from Hal. But Hal was already in the elevator, impatiently swinging a keyring round his left index finger while holding the door open with his right. I could tell he was in a hurry and didn't want to wait for me. I shook my head in a silent 'no thanks' and waved as the elevator doors closed. That was seven days ago. I've been on my own since. 4pm. At least two feet of snow with drifts twice as high, climbing up the fence. My fingers absently twirl the key fob in my coat pocket. It unlocks the stock room in the basement that I’ve cleaned every day for months. Correction, every day except the past seven days. Can you call yourself a skeleton crew if there's only one of you? I'm just a thigh bone on my own. And this thigh bone ain't getting any warmer or fatter watching the world turn white. Time to see if I can find a heater and some food in the labyrinth of bar-coded boxes. I take the stairs to the basement because I don’t trust the elevator. If I get stuck, who am I gonna call? I press the key fob against the panel near the stock room door and hear the familiar sound of bolts moving, clicking, and unlocking. I pull the door open and step in. It looks pretty much like I remember. A big room, the size of a football field with a 30-foot ceiling and rows of metal shelves stacked to the brim with boxes, creating narrow corridors where the robots roam. The motion-activated lights nearest me wake up. I notice my breath rising in little puffs of steam and rub my hands together to warm them. It's always cold in here, but it cuts to the bone today. On my left, I spot the dim shapes of the robots, sleeping in their bays. The size of squat washing machines, they're two feet tall, but powerful enough to move rolling shelves loaded with laptops, and Barbie dolls, and barbecue grills. All the bays are full except one. I make a mental note to look out for the rogue robot. It's probably roving the corridors, trying to find its way back to the recharging roost before its battery dies. If I run across it, I'd like nothing more than to ask, 'hey bud, take me to the cups-o-soup', because I have no idea how things are organised. The cardboard boxes have bar codes or RFID tags, whatever those are. All I know is that I don’t read robot. I pick a row at random and grab one of the boxes on the shelf that’s waist-high. I cut it open with my pen knife and fish around inside to find out what I’ve won. Tampons. The next box along has tubes of toothpaste. I pocket a few, and try another row, venturing deeper into the room. More lights flicker on. The smell hits me first. It reminds me of the time I came back to my apartment after two weeks away to find my pet rat, Mable, dead and decomposing in her cage. I thought I’d pretty much lost my sense of smell over the years, but whatever this is, it’s pungent. Maybe some meat has spoiled? I hear a noise, a faint whirring sound. I hold my breath and walk quietly toward it. It’s the wayward robot, poking around the corner of a row, fifteen-feet dead ahead. I breathe out in relief, releasing a large cloud of steam. Approaching the robot, I see that the back wheels are trying to turn, but something is preventing escape. Rounding the corner, I see the source of the stalemate. A bloody tablecloth is twisted around the robot's front wheels. Kash is kneeling on the floor, half-slumped against a shelf. A perfect bullet hole mars his forehead, but there are no other signs of struggle. Aedna is lying face down, her torso bent over a crushed box of tablecloths, blood soaking through the contents. Her right hand rests limply on the trapped robot. I hear breathing behind me. I turn slowly. Hal is standing in front of me, holding a gun casually in one hand, and an opened can of kidney beans in the other. He smiles, offers me the beans and says, “Guess we’ll be a proper skeleton crew tonight.”


"Number 2021, how are you feeling?" the nurse asks. "Um my name is Hamuar." Hamuar sat up in bed, looking around. "What happened?" "You

drained way too much of your power." The nurse said. "And caused a whole lot of death and destruction." She looked at the window. "What do you mean? What did I do? What is going on." "Don't worry about it just rest, for right now just focus on healing." The nurse waved off all his questions. "Do you need anything?" 'No" "Very, well. You will be getting visitors." "Who?" Before her could get a response the nurse was already gone. Hamuar laid back and blew air out of his mouth with frustration. What did I do? Why won't anyone tell me what I have done? What destruction and death did I do? And how did I do it? What is going to happen when I get out of the hospital? Questions just spewed from his brain like lava at an erupting volcano.

He sighed aloud and listened to the monitors. He stared out the window glumly. Something was off. Very off. He couldn't put his finger on it. "What did I do? Could someone tell me?" he said, with frustration. He glared at the machines, tubes and monitors hooked up to his body. A few hours later there was a knock on the door. "Can we come in?" "Who is it?!" The nurse peeked in the room. "Your visitors are here." "As I can see, they can come in." The nurse beckoned a group of people into the room. "Mom! Dad! Livy!" Hamuar jumped from the bed tackling his parents in a big bear hug in a single move. "My son." his father said weakly. "How are you doing?" "Good." He gave Mom and sister a hug, then waited until the nurse was gone. When the door clicked, questions fired. "What happened?What destruction did I do? Who did I kill? How many people did I kill? What is going on?" "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about?" Livian put up her palms. "The nurse said something about me causing destruction and

death." The room when dead silent. Mom, Dad and Livian all exchanged cautious looks. Then Mom opened her mouth letting out a voice as gentle as a feather, "There were some 'things' that happened." She cleared her throat. "That you had caused." "Yeah, I am aware of that. That is why I am trying to see what it was that I did so that I can make it better." There was another distan pause. Livian spoke up. "Um, what you did, was permanent..." She looked at the floor then said, "and can't be undone." "What! What do you mean that, whatever I did, is 'permanent' and 'can't be undone'!" "Calm down you are still a part of the Time Maker's Workshop you just got suspended." Mom said assuringly. "With a few of your privileges revoked and a lot of very," "Very." Dad added. "Very, upset people." "Who?" Hamuar sat down on the bed and put his face in his hands. "Um, let's just say that you make a lot of people. Like a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot." Livian said butting in. Hamuar heaved a sigh. What have I done? He thought. ***

 Weeks passed and Hamuar finally found out that he had done more than just upset people. Signs were put up saying all kinds of nasty and disgusting things. Hamuar couldn’t believe his eyes, did he really do that much destruction? Obviously he had with the swarm of guards protecting him from the riots of people trying to attack him.

As he neared the Time Makers Workshop all of the employees were standing in front of the entrance with a massive crowd of people there as well. It was as if they were trying to block the entrance from him , they were expecting him to come and they were prepared. Hamuar could hardly believe himself, there was so much to take in. So much to process just about how much he'd done .

Maybe they were right not to take him in. The words of the Great Chooser echoed in his head We are not sure whether you should be our next Time Maker. As for you will gain too much power bringing not only yourself, but many others with you. You could destroy so much if you are trained too well. Which is why it is your job to make sure you can keep yourself under control.

Can you do that for me? Can you do that for us?

Then he remembered himself saying the exact words, Yes, of course I can. I know I can. He had broken his promise, his vow to control himself to protect everyone. Putting everyone in danger was the exact same as his name, Hamuar Auspious. With everyone now against him. Hamuar stepped out of the car with guards on every way he turned. People or everywhere surged forward with insults, weapons, every way they could think of, trying to get to Hamuar. Hamuar stood there speechless in horror and guilt. He had caused all of this mess and couldn’t fix it.

There has to be a way. He thought desperately. There has to be something that can fix this. Something, anything. Please. There was no use, no one would be on his side. There were way too many people all against one person. Who knew that one single person could do such a worldwide chink of destruction. Hamuar suddenly wanted to curl up in a ball in the darkest, deepest corner there was. He wanted to cling to the guards and beg and plead for a solution. The most effective thing he could do. It took a full hour to get to the stairs and thirty minutes to walk up them.

Stupid me, stupid, them. Stupid this. Supid, stupid, stupid. STUPID! He chanted to himself. He would whatever it took to get rid of all the living devil.

“There he is! There he is. IT’S THE HAMMUAR AUSPIOUS!” They would shout. In other words, GET HIM! HE IS THE ONE WHO DID ALL THIS! THIS IS THE GUY! HE’S THE ENEMY! He was carried into a large circular room filled with clocks of all kinds. Floor to ceiling. Clocks, clocks, and clocks. There was a large black circular desk

right in the middle of the room and there sat the high ranked Timekeeper. The guards parted the way blocking the way of the windows and door. Timekeeper was sitting faced towards the large patio door behind him. “Well, beautiful day isn’t it?” Casually spinning around to face Hamuar. Hamuar hung his head low and said nothing. “Good to see you back, with the Reset Celebration approaching. Hmm?” “I guess.” “I was expecting you to ask ‘ How come you didn’t ban me from the job sir? ’ Or ‘Why are you giving me a second chance?’ But you can be pretty unpredictable.”  “Sir?” Hamuar looked up into the Timekeepers eyes. “I have decided to let you stay, give you another chance. I decided to have you as the next Head Year Scheduler and Head of the Reset Celebration as well." "Really?!” Hamuar's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "Thank you so much! This is very important to me, thank you. I am very grateful.” At least someone forgives me. "Yes, yes. You are very welcome. But you have to agree to have your stopwatch removed and your Climax Card removed. For all that is going on I am going to hand you down to private servicing. If that doesn't work then I’ll have to have you with me. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” “Good. You are now dismissed.” With that Hamuar left the room as the guards led him down an unknown hallway. There he worked and was stripped of his Climax Card and Stopwatches with other privileges. *** Days flew by and people began to calm down, and prepare for the Reset Celebration. Poster, banners, fireworks, music, bright colors everywhere. Hamuar took it all in. The smell of food cooking and the sound of people laughing. The NIght Festival was just about to start.

Man how time flew by. There was one minute set to the huge display screen. Blinking red and wight counting down from 59. Everyone gathers to see the Ceremony and have a massive party. The important Organizers all filed onto the stage one by one, with Hamuar walking beside the Timekeeper. He stepped onto the stage pedestal with a straight posture and his head held high. He tried his best to hide his smile of pride. “Welcome all, Welcome to the Celebration of the Reset. Of Our Rest.”

The Great Chooser boomed. ”The Time has come to re-choose our new Scheduler and Rests Cermonizer. Hamuar Auspious!” There was an unsteady pause, followed by the Speech of Honor.

“Thank you, Thank you all.” Hamuar bowed respectively after the speech was done.

“We all are very aware of all of the chaos that has happened and we are now over it.” She continued. “Now we near the last 10 seconds of our year and ceremony. Now you Swear, you must swear you will never ever do such a terrible year, terrible time and horrid event. Ever.” The Great Chooser glanced at the time as to say Make is snappy, either do it now or never . Everyone was silent now. Hamuar lifted his left hand and put his right hand over his heart. Then recited his promise. “I vow I will never ever make a terrible year, a terrible, time or horrid event ever in my lifetime. Ever.” Hamuar looked into the Great Chooser stoney, gray eyes.

“Well then let’s continue with the countdown.”

“5!” Everyone chanted.

“4!” “3!” “2!” “1!” “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”


                                        The Yellow Box The security lights were on at the elementary school across the street so I could make out the windows of the classrooms on the east side of the building. I remembered the floor plan inside as I’d spent my childhood there what seemed tonight like a hundred years ago.  This was the umpteenth time I’d made tea this week, and many of those had been in the middle of the night. Most of the cups came back with just a couple of grateful sips taken, but it was essentially the only thing mom could keep down anymore. I’d heard the plaintive call coming from the master bedroom five minutes ago as I’d been dozing on the couch in the living room. It was my shift so I flung off the blankets and made my way by the lamp light to the master bedroom. We chatted for a moment about whether the other got any sleep, how mom was feeling and did she need anything. The answer was always the same and it was beginning to hurt my heart. I helped mom onto the commode then left her in privacy. I ramped up the burner under the endlessly full kettle then went back and offered support to return to bed, doing the personal care required before tucking her back in. Passing the computer/T. V/spare room on my way to the kitchen I heard my sister whisper, “Mo, everything okay, do you need me?” I assured my sister with a reply into the dark. “No, it’s all good Kat, get some sleep you’re on in the morning. Love you.” I added, drifting towards the dim light over the sink. This is where mom had stood for years, watching kids on the playground and then past it to the ocean and mountains beyond. Over the years, at this sink, as a healthy young mom, a working woman that popped home for a quick lunch, in her retirement making lunch for herself and dad, then standing stoically after he passed and preparing dinner for one. The kettle was starting to gather steam and I turned to watch it, just to make sure it didn’t overflow when it boiled. Taking a tea bag from the familiar beige box, lowering it by it’s stapled-on string into mom’s favourite mug, adding just a bit of sugar and milk the way she liked it. It was decided right there and then that I’d never make another cup of this stuff after mom died. There it was the word. I tended not to dwell on the fact even knowing it wouldn’t have made a slight bit of difference if I acknowledged it verbally or not. Mom wasn’t going to be here, in her life, in this house, in this realm by the end of the week. They’d had a zoom discussion today, well yesterday now, with the doctor who was going to come up in two days and provide the MAID procedures. Me AKA Maureen, Kat, and David sat on the couch like three sad monkeys, asking and answering questions about the process. It needed to be a consensus and we all consented to the decision for three distinct reasons. I walked gingerly back to the bedroom, making sure I didn’t spill any on the white carpet. Mom was typing something on the purple iPad she’d been keeping close to her lately. “What are you looking at, Facebook?” I smiled and sat the mug on the rickety, pale green side table.  Sliding down the wall to sit on the carpet, all the better to chat from this angle. Some people that visited would pull a chair from the dining set just outside the bedroom, or if they were good friends they’d snag a bit of the mattress and gossip. “Maureen, honey? Are you okay? Mm, this tea is perfect, thank you. I don’t know why your siblings can’t make it like this.” “Maybe because they’re not married to a Scot who drinks tea every day?” I answered back then asked again what she was working on. When she told me she’d been writing her own obituary I wasn’t surprised. “Organized to the end eh?” I smiled at her. I’d seemingly adopted a no-nonsense attitude to the whole thing even though the little girl inside was continually throwing a tantrum. It served to make Mom more relaxed about appointing me as the executor. It’s not a job that anyone wants no matter how close you are or were to the deceased. I knew hers would be easier than some. She’d been showing all three of us where her binders were to be found for ages. The campaign picked up after dad died four years ago. She had one binder for personal things like banking and her cell phone plan, and another that covered house details. “Do you want to read out what you have so far?” “Not yet. How’s your brother doing? He doesn’t come in to see me very often.” “I think he’s having a tough time talking, and you know he’s not good with death and dying. He was the same when dad was sick. You wouldn’t even know he was in the same house sometimes.” “That’s true, women are almost always stronger than men, I never got why they get the reputation as being the strong caretakers when it’s us that carry the emotional and physical loads most of the time. I’m done with the tea honey; can you take it away now?” I stood up and before I picked up the mug I looked into its depth; she might have taken two sips from the whole cup. I raised an eyebrow at her, a query without voice then turned and poured the tea into the sink, again. After using the washroom, I measured out the medication she’d asked for from the counter pharmacy. We chatted a bit more then she released me with a smile. “Back to your couch peasant!” She commanded and I laughed back. Peasant had been one of dad’s phrases. I managed to get comfortable on the couch for a couple more hours of light sleep before hearing her again. “Hello, hello, can anyone hear me?” “I’m up Mom, on my way.” I kicked off the cover and clumsily folded it realizing that it was six thirty and therefore unlikely I’d be laying down again for awhile. Even though Kat’s shift started at 7:30 this morning I still had tea to make and another conversation with my mother. “Hey mom, did you get any rest? What can I help with?” “I got an hour or two, I know you did, I could hear you snoring from here!” My snoring had been a family joke for years so it didn’t bother me. It was especially loud when I’d had a couple wines but those were few and far between lately. I’d had a couple of beers with pizza here last week on my birthday. It was only my fifty-fourth, not a big one but the celebration was muted at best. Kathleen had her fiftieth a couple months back, the same week mom had been diagnosed, so she totally won the prize for worst birthday so far. We went through the morning routine of personal care and medications then after I brought her another cup of the perfume scented tea that was starting to make me gag, we sat and chatted. Kat stumbled in, her long dark hair in a messy bun, her glasses emphasizing big hazel eyes. She’d likely put in her contacts later, but for now we three were gloriously unkempt, unbathed, and united.

Mom told us the song she’d like to be played as she ‘drifted off.’ It was the Hawaiian version of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ She related how she and dad used to hear it all the time in Maui, so it was kind of their song. I knew the one she meant, Al and I spent almost as much time there as they did. I jumped up realizing I hadn’t called my husband since yesterday afternoon. He would come over for a couple hours at a time but he felt at odds here because he didn’t really have a role. I understood that but I still missed him. That day flowed like most the past three weeks. When mom was sleeping my sister and I would just sit and talk at the kitchen table. A few times David would emerge from the basement where his bedroom remained much the same as his teenage den. He would deny any health issues and gently tell us to ‘back off.’ He didn’t want any dissension with his sisters as he knew in our edgy state we’d call him on anything at this point. When the three of us were in a good space and maybe having a glass of wine, we’d hear a plaintive greeting from the bedroom and sigh, Kat and I would put our glasses down and David, knowing it was no place for a man, would slink back downstairs. ‘The morning of’ as we would eventually come to call it was a beautiful April day. The three of us stood in the kitchen, not making tea for once as an empty stomach was called for. We came to the bizarre conclusion that it had been many years since the three of us were awake, in the same house, this early since our last Christmas as kids. The doctor and nurse arrived and we were reminded of the process. We gathered at mom’s bedside and I cued up her song on the iPad for her. She looked at us three grown ups as one of us foolishly said, “Say hi to dad for me” then she said, “Goodbye my babies” and slipped away. Kat and I both had our husbands in the house for comfort, we both tried to keep our brother with us but he continued to slip away during the day. I made the usual phone calls; the funeral home and close family, while my sister phoned her kids. There was a lot going on that day, but I still managed to remember to find that despised light-yellow box and lower it into the garbage can. It had soothed her, and given me something to do, but its job was done now.


“This time, can you pick out a fictional book, one with chapters, please?” she says, prodding and impatient. Both boys stop short in front of the glass doors and look back at her, silently pleading. Their bodies instinctively turn toward the section filled with factoids, statistics, and world records. Their shoulders slump and they sigh, eyes rolling up in disgust, but stubbornly they move along. The automatic doors swish open, bringing a gust of air inside with them, a spill of summertime humidity thick as glue. The circulation desk sits empty, stacks of books in queues, waiting to be checked out. The sound of children’s laughter and the sight of bubbles ascending and popping explain the empty seats up front. Storytime sends echoes of Wheels on the Bus spinning around in her ears, the words comfortable as an oversized sweatshirt. She sees a group of chubby-limbed boys and girls dancing in circles, falling down and getting back up again, carefree and unencumbered, and she feels the pang of a memory. Was it not so long ago when hers were this delicious? When they held her hand so tight, out of fear and love at the same time? Now they’re scrolling TikTok, forgetting their deodorant, arguing, eating everything in sight and leaving none for her. Stomping off to their musty cave of a room and sealing themselves inside. “Mom!” the older one calls from two stacks away. How many times did they get the please use your inside voice talk in preschool? It seems they never learned to regulate their volume. And this is the library, after all, the quietest of places. She peers through the stacks, bracing herself for the inevitable shushing, but no one seems to care. Next to her, an elderly woman shelves books from a steel cart, their plastic covers crinkling, as glasses dangle from a chain and bounce off the embroidered buttons of her sweater. She nods a hello as she slinks behind her, moving toward her favorite section. She patiently waits as another patron thumbs through what seems like every available book, and then she is able to slide effortlessly toward her literary wonderland: historical fiction. Running her hands along the shelf, passing covers with heroines of eras past –spies in tweed skirt suits, maidens delivering clandestine messages in cumbersome petticoats, bell-bottomed rebels with fists raised in protest. She could lose herself in all of them, a different time, a different life. She aches to lose herself in any of those stories, but seems instead to have lost her boys. She starts to panic, but remembers they are not toddlers anymore, and they are not unpredictable. She heads straight for the back corner and finds them crouched down like lanky little monkeys, thumbing through back issues of Sports Illustrated. “Busted!” she says and they turn to face her. “I think magazines, while enjoyable, do not count as chapter books. Come with me and let’s go see what’s on display in fiction,” she says. They lag behind her, hunched over, walking with their arms swinging aimlessly. She turns around to ensure they are following her and then almost collides with a tiny wisp of a woman. “You look lost,” the woman says, peering up at her over her cat eye glasses. “Can I help you locate a book or are you ready to check some out?” she asks. “Oh, thank you, that’s ok. We were on our way to the young adult fiction section, trying to get these guys here to level up to chapter books,” she responds. “Yep, you’re almost there. Right straight ahead,” she says. “Actually, if you can see Rod over there, Mr. Storytime, it’s right behind him and the kiddos.” They all shake their heads in silent acknowledgment and walk that way. She looks ahead and sees Mr. Storytime as he rises from his crisscross applesauce position, gently shedding clinging children from his lap and arms. It takes him so long to stand up that when he's finished, she realizes he's the size of one of the sturdy oak trees that surround the building. He turns to face them, and upon seeing her surprised face, moves closer with a welcoming smile. “Hey guys! Hey Mom. How’s it goin’? You guys finding everything you’re looking for?” The boys silently nod their heads yes, but she puts a hand out, interrupts them. “Actually, these two here were looking for some really good YA fiction. Do you have any recommendations?” she asks. And with that, his face lights up and a smile blooms across his lips. “You know I do!” he says, chuckling, reaching out for a fist bump. He turns to start walking and beckons with his bear paw of a hand for them to follow. The younger one slices his high-pitched voice through the silence. “Sir, you are really big! Are you a wrestler or something?” he asks. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry about that,” she says and cuts her eyes at her son, admonishing him. Mr. Storytime laughs softly and shakes his head. “It’s ok, don’t apologize. I like people who ask questions. Curiosity is a beautiful thing,” he says. He looks down at all three of them and shifts his eyes, settling on each face for a moment while he continues. “You’re right, I am big! And that’s because I used to play football. I was an offensive lineman at UNC and then I played professionally for the Broncos for a few seasons,” he says. “But I got injured and couldn’t play anymore, so I came back here, back to where I was born and back to my first love, books!” The world immediately folds in on the children like a weighted blanket. Their eyes stop blinking. They are enraptured. Mother and sons follow him through the maze of shelves, a trusted guide, a giant Pied Piper of pages. He stops abruptly and crouches down to grab a thick, heavy book from the bottom shelf. “Now this is one of my favorites. It’s actually written by a man who lives right here in town. It’s about a boy your age,” he says as he points at the older one, “who takes on the god of thunder!” She lets out a little laugh, thinking about how they’d already have one hand on an Xbox controller if she'd suggested that book, but somehow Mr. Storytime is selling it. Their eyes go back to blinking, and they nod their heads, their mouths gone slack, taking in every word. He hands the book to the older one who clutches it close to his chest like a treasure. She watches as he leads them on a guided tour, both of them getting more excited with each book he puts into their outstretched arms. They rack up such a haul that he retreats for a moment and comes back with an oversized tote bag. She plops down on one of the semicircular couches in the children’s area and cracks open the love story from World War II. She settles in and turns down the volume in her head. The kids are definitely safe with the guy whose job it was to protect the quarterback at all costs. A deep baritone and excited whispers tug her back to reality, and she looks up to see her children beaming. “Alright Mom, just bringing your professional readers back to you now,” he says and turns back toward the boys. “Listen guys, keep it up, ok. Keep expanding those minds of yours. There are so many worlds to explore!” he says and ambles back toward the front, stopping to pat a few toddlers on the head and high-five some older kids surfing on the computers. As the kids mill about near the entrance, she watches as the lady checks out her books, running each one under the scanner at a snail’s pace. “So, that Rod is amazing!” she says. “He’s singlehandedly convinced my children to check out their weight in fiction books!” The librarian looks up and smiles. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she says. “We like to call him The Keeper of Books.” She waits as the printer spits out the due date receipt and hands it over. “Thank you,” she says and turns. “Let’s go, boys.” On the drive home, she hums to herself, lost in thoughts of a woman from many decades ago, entangled in espionage and a secret affair. She steals a glance in the rearview mirror, notices the iPhones flung thoughtlessly onto the console. Her gaze falls to the boys, each holding a book tightly in their hands, absorbed in the words on the page, and smiles at her unexpected good fortune.


Today is going to be a great day. Today is fishing day. The fisherman was happy. The weather was sunny with a few clouds and not too warm, not windy either. Perfect conditions for a big haul of catfish at the nearby park. His partner had loaded up the SUV with his rods, tackle bags, some bait. They jumped into the car and drove over to the nearby park. He pulled his SUV into a parking space. He got the bucket for the catch out and left it near the car in the parking lot. They each grabbed two poles. The fisherman took the bait. He left the tackle bag for his partner to carry. He strode quickly from the asphalt to the grass. He paused.

From the parking lot, it was only about fifty yards down to the shore of the lake not too far away. The fisherman took in the view below him. Blue water, kind of kidney-shaped, a few acres total was the lake. Some vegetation here and there in the blue, not too much, mostly clean water. The narrow east shore was blocked by some heavy vegetation, as were parts of the west, but the north and south shores were clear with a few trees here and there. He turned to his partner, pointing: “Let’s set up near this big oak tree over here.” He started off down to where he had pointed, without looking back to see if his partner was following. They put a pole in the water each, drove the pole holders into the ground, left them standing up, lines shimmering in the sun when the slight wind blew. They each cast out with a second pole.

After a while with no luck, a park worker drove up in a small green and khaki golf cart. Stopped, he asked: “you two catch anything?”

The fisherman didn’t bother to look back. His partner replied after a pause: “Not yet.” The park worker continued: “Nobody ever catches anything around here.” The fisherman’s interest was piqued: “Fish are dumb, and lazy, I will catch them! It’s always a lot of fun. It’s a fun game!” His partner had a chagrined look, smiled apologetically. The park worker drove off. The fisherman cast out again. He felt a pull on his line. Ha! He had one! He reeled it in. Easy. Not the biggest catfish, but not too bad. He handed the catfish to his partner, who began the trek back up to their SUV, and upon getting the struggling fish into the bucket, his partner wiped a sleeve across sweated brow, leaned back against the vehicle, and took a drink of water. Meanwhile, the fisherman caught another small catfish. He turned, bent down on one knee, got the hook remover from the tackle bag, and began removing the hook.

There was a disturbance in the water behind him. Kinda loud. He focused on his work, got the hook out. More odd noises behind him, like footsteps but not. He shouted up to his partner at the car that he caught another. His partner hurried back to him. The fisherman told his partner to take the fish up to the bucket, handed the fish grabber to his partner with the catfish dangling below. His partner started trudging back up to their car. When he finally looked back towards the lake, he saw nothing, just some slowly fading large ripples in the water right near the shore. It looked kind of wet and the grass disturbed going up the bank. The trail led up to the big oak, behind it even maybe, and continued no further. Was that a dark really big whisker or tip of a really big fin sticking out from behind the big oak? Oh! His other pole was tugging! He had a bite! As the fisherman was struggling with his latest catch, the nine foot long catfish slid one eye from behind the big oak to make sure his prey was distracted. His prey was! He stroked his whiskers with his left fore-fin, deep in thought. Ah! He had it! He emerged from the cover of the tree trunk. The giant catfish then stealthily skipped on his fins around the back of the oak away from the shore and behind the fisherman. A twig snapped! The giant catfish froze in place, fish eyes focused with trepidation on the back of the fisherman. The fisherman didn’t appear to notice, engrossed in his battle with the fish on the line. The giant catfish breathed a sigh of relief through slightly open gills. He continued his stealthy stalking, fin by fin getting closer to the back of the fisherman. Only a few fins left now… The fisherman had finally reeled in his catch. He barely turned his head, looked back toward the car: “Got another one! Boy, these fish are dumb! They never learn!” Fin, fin, fin. The catfish reeled up to his full height, balancing on his tail-fin. The fisherman must of sensed something - the breath of gill, the tread of a fin, the stare of fish eyes? No one would ever know. He turned abruptly. What was THAT? Eyes widening more and more in shock. The giant catfish leaped up and forward, mouth wide, swallowed the fisherman whole, head first, all the way to the tips of his boots. He stood up slowly, gulped, wiped his whiskers clean with his fore-fins, croaked a few times in satisfaction. Time to go back in the lake and digest, he thought. He happily ambled back to the shore, slid into the lake and disappeared underwater, leaving only ripples behind. The fisherman’s partner saw the whole thing from the parking lot. Did that really just happen? Couldn’t be, could it?

At this moment the park worker drove up again in his golf cart: “Where is your fisherman friend?” The fisherman’s partner exclaimed: “he was just swallowed by a giant catfish! It hid behind a tree, crept up behind him, swallowed him whole, and went back into the lake.” The park worker: “really …” The fisherman’s partner: “really …” just looking at each other. After a moment of deep contemplation, the park worker said: “Well, you know what they say: It’s all fun and games …” The partner continued: “Until someone gets eaten by a giant catfish …” And the park worker: “that can walk on land …” Finished the partner: “and ambush people from behind trees apparently….” The park worker nodded sagely.