I’m not going to go into details of *how* I became homeless because that’s still a part of my life I’m trying to understand. The most important thing you need to know is that I am no longer homeless. The following is a small glimpse into how life was for me as a homeless man in the UK. It is all truth, par a few names of people that have been changed because they may still face issues in their job for what they did to assist me. Little intro over. In late June of 2015, I was declared as an emergency homeless person. This label was given by a psychiatrist and an independent evaluator from my local council. I was deemed “high importance” because of my hospitalising suicide attempts in the past. I was under the impression this would mean I’d spend little time on the streets. I was wrong. For the first three weeks of my time on the streets, I was in one of the safest places I could be. An area that had foot patrols of police, security, and local Homelessness Support Officers. It was in-front of about a dozen shops, all of whom had external CCTV cameras. To give you an idea, this is the area and this is where I slept (the bench with a backrest) I was told by the night security for this area that I was permitted here from 9pm until 5am. At 5am, the day manager would begin his shift and he didn’t like homeless people. During the three weeks I was sleeping there, I had a few occurrences that surprised me. The first was that on my first night, a German business man from out of town paid for me to stay in a local hotel, including a full breakfast the next morning. This was a massive shock. He even helped me to the hotel with my bags and things I had. I was even more shocked when I saw the amount he paid for a total stranger to spend a night in warmth. The total bill, including late booking was £106.50. For one night. The second nice surprise came that next morning. The manager asked about the gentleman that accompanied me to the hotel and I nervously explained my current housing situation. Once I did, I went and had breakfast. I stayed in the room until mid-day, as that was when I needed to hand the key back and leave. As I handed my key back, the manager gave me a carrier bag with numerous contents. Inside was a Pillow (branded, but still very comfortable) and some milk cartons (UHT), coffee sachets, and sugar sachets. My day then became quite repetitive. Because I couldn’t stay sat in the Malls area during the day, even if I was awake, I decided for a few days to just slowly walk around town, sitting down occasionally. After a while though, and I’d get very hungry. I knew that begging in the town centre was against the law and that the CCTV network in the town would detect it instantly so vowed to never beg. And I can proudly say I never once asked for anything (unless offered, such as “would you like a tea or a coffee”). So my second day became one that I stuck to for almost the whole time I was sleeping at The Malls. At 5am, I would hobble along, through The Malls, through Festival Place, and then up to the “top of town”, and sit on a bench that was opposite a Greggs Bakery. I only chose there because at 9am most days, the sun would hit my face and wake me up properly. I decided to stay there because of how people were at the earlier hours in the morning. So I would set myself up. My biggest bag that had mostly sentimental things in I would put right next to me, my hand holding onto a strap. I then lay my bedding cover over my legs and tuck them in to reduce the draft. I then cover the bag and zip my coat up. I was snug and relatively warm. But then again, it was in the summer. So this is what I would see most mornings. I can’t find a shot that accurately represents my location, but hope this will do . It was really difficult to control my stomach noises when you can smell things being baked nearby. But then sitting where I was seemed to attract a bit of attention to me. I would often fall asleep for a moment or two, only to wake up when I heard footsteps (this became very useful at night, because if someone is approaching me, I would wake up faster due to a tad bit of fear). I would sometimes wake up when someone asked if I was okay, but because I was mostly tired and also didn’t want to be accused of begging, all I’d say was “a bit cold, but okay”. While for most people, that was enough and they’d be on their way, a short handful of people would proceed into Greggs to buy me something hot, be that some pastry, soup or a drink. After a few days, one of the people who closed up Greggs at 4pm began to bring out cold food that was supposed to have been thrown away at the end of the day. I was massively grateful to him, because he was essentially stealing. When I found out a few weeks later that he had been sacked, I felt really bad because I thought it was my sitting there that had caused it, but he told me that he had already started at another workplace and was looking for a way to leave Greggs as fast as possible. This became the norm for a while, occasionally a Police Community Support Officer would approach me, take my name, date of birth and ask a few things like where I was sleeping and if I was registered with the local council as homeless. Once I gave the required details, they’d leave. After a while, I noticed it was the same group on duty so it rarely happened after that. When the local council cleaner came around, which happened between 10 and 12 each morning, I would ask if he could take my rubbish from me. This was in part due to laziness. I had gotten comfortable on a wet, wooden bench and didn’t want to have to disrupt it. However the cleaner was happy to, saying that he’d rather me ask, than just leave it. I began to become acquainted with the routine and schedule of the council cleaning crew, and knew that if I did have rubbish, the morning collections were 6am, 10-12, then the evening collection was at 6pm. I also learned on my first Wednesday, that the bench was a bad place to try to get a couple hours of shut eye. Wednesdays and Saturdays were “Market Days”. Hearing burger sellers yelling “Beef burger, sausage roll, bacon butty, a pound” over and over again kept me awake and hungry. On the second market day, a local merchant was in need of someone to watch his stall while he popped to the bank. I was happy to, given that his stall was literally next to my bench (and yes, I had come to call it mine). I sat for a few minutes before he returned. He said the queue was too long in the bank for him to be away from his stall. I then offered to help him. He was, expectantly, sceptical at first, but when I told him I’d leave my bags with him, he agreed. I was given the paying in slip and money and went to the bank. When I returned with the stamped stub, he handed me a £5 note and thanked me. For three weeks in a row, I took his earnings to the bank, but it stopped when he stopped making as much. So I don’t want to bore you by giving a day by day blow of what happened because there was a LOT of repetition. It was basically a case of wake, walk, sit, wake, eat, walk, sit, sleep. I was always respectful towards the areas I sat and slept in, and I think that’s why I was allowed there for as long as I was. However, The Malls was a council owned property, with private contracted security. A new supervisor started. He didn’t like people sleeping inside at night. I felt a lot of anger and upset, but it was wrong of me to do so. It’s not a bed, it’s a bench. Yeah, it was under cover, so it was dry. Given the drafts of wind that would come in, it was difficult to sleep, but when I did sleep, I slept well. I always woke at 4am, and woke up a bit before moving on. I was never woken up by their staff (except the first night because I didn’t know what time to be awake for). Nights became eventful before the new supervisor. I would have people bring me food from the KFC opposite my “bed” and sometimes the manager at the Costa Coffee nearby would bring me a coffee when she closed up if I was around. But when the new supervisor came in, I was ejected. So I slept on a bench a few hundred metres from the train station. The PCSO’s had informed me it was okay to be there because it wasn’t on train station property and wasn’t on The Malls property, but every morning at 3am, British Transport Police would wake me, and ask what I was doing. After a while, I’d say “Sleeping” and then just go back to sleep. They’d wake me every hour until I left. I decided to find somewhere else, not just because of that, but also because the bench was metal, and as the air temperature dropped, so did the metal temperature. I woke up feeling colder than ever some mornings. So between August and October of 2015, I had no “fixed” sleeping spot. I slept anywhere I could, for as long as I could, and would often be woken up by either the police, or council workers. In October, I found a new, better place to sleep. I was sat on some steps outside Festival Place (the enclosed shopping centre) that is a designated smoking area, and decided to sleep there, sat upright. After the first night undisturbed, I continued until the Site Manager approached me. Before he could say anything, I said to him “I guess this is the part where you ask me to move on?” Having slept there for almost a week now, I had assumed I was safe to do so. But alas, even in what appear to be the darker times, surprises still exist. He informed me that it was private property, which got me thinking the police were on their way, but he told me I was permitted to sleep there between 8pm and 8am. He handed me a sleeping bag and roll matt that the Security Staff had all pitched in to get me. He told me that there was a hot water pipe under the third step up that kicked in around 3am, and I’d feel the heat if laying down. So that night, I set up my sentimental bag as my pillow, the Hotel pillow on top, and then I got into the sleeping bag. It was very difficult to get warm, but once I was, I fell asleep instantly. At 7am, I was woken up, but not by a member of security. It was by a road sweeper. Noisy fuckers, but a good alarm clock. I was gone before 8am came around, back up to near Greggs. The best thing is that the bed spot was around 500m from the bench. After a week outside Greggs and sleeping in the new spot, I finally was asked to move on from the bench. Apparently there were a lot of complaints. Thankfully, the police gave me this information in the evening. I collected my stuff, and because it was still cold, I went into the Subway that was in-between my bed and the bench. I had enough money to buy a hot chocolate, but unfortunately, they had already turned the machine off. When the “Sandwich artist” asked about the bags, I explained my situation. For the first time in my life, I had a Subway Sub. It was the best food I had had in a very long time. Better still considering it was free. I spent almost 2 hours in the store, talking to him, and keeping warm. After that, I vowed to go back whenever I could, mostly for the warmth. And that became a habit. I’d sleep on the private property of the shopping centre, and spend my evenings in Subway. But one morning, I woke up at 7am, soaked through. It had started to rain heavily. Hastily I packed my bedding up and went into the Subway. They had only just opened up and the morning staff member was in. She didn’t know much about me, except what the night staff member had said. She said I could sit in the store if I wanted, so long as I made one purchase. Each day, I’d buy a cookie. The staff got to know me more and more, and let me have a small plastic unbranded cup to fill with a drink from the drink machine. I didn’t abuse it, but if I was thirsty, would fill the cup and then just go back to my seat. I read my way through a book but began to feel tired. I drifted to sleep sat in Subway and fully expected to be woken up by the police or the store manager, but no. I slept through until around 3pm from 8am and only got disturbed around 12:30 when the local college came in for lunch. Just noise, not actual disturbing. Occasionally, I’d wake up and see things that have been put on the small table next to me, often from the staff but I once woke up around 1pm to a guy sat next to me reading a newspaper. Once he saw I was awake, he offered to buy me some lunch. Given that my food for each day was essentially a cookie and maybe a bag of crisps (chips for American folk), I said yes. He said I could have any sub I wanted, but I didn’t want to push it so just had a small one. Nothing special. As Christmas loomed closer, the nights in town became more active. A local nightclub owner saw me one night, and then every Friday and Saturday night for my time sleeping where I was, he would bring a cup of tea and some biscuits to me as they locked up. Fridays it’d be around 1am, and Saturdays, it was closer to 4am sometimes. The drunk people walking past, were amusing to me. At first I was worried I’d wake to one pissing on me, or something, but most would talk to me if I was awake. I would often awake after a night that clubs were open and find a few bits of change next to my pillow. It paid for my breakfast and sometimes if I was left with enough, I’d get a burger or something from elsewhere in the town centre. And then, in December of 2015, I got the news I was hoping for. Twice a week I’d go to the local council and ask if anything had come up. It took the best part of six months, but they had finally secured me a room in a shared accommodation building. It’s where I write this, and where I’ll probably be for a little while, but it’s better than being homeless. The purpose of this story was not to hoard karma or up-votes or whatever, but was to purely shed light on what I remember most about being homeless. It is 100% true. If you have any further questions about my time, feel free to drop me a message to my inbox.


I am a shitty, shitty person. I do not deserve the love that is given to me. I must be morally pure by the standards which I may not always follow, but which I know are right. I cannot be a flake, a stoic, a deadweight, aggressive, passive, angry, hateful, resentful, jaded, or ungrateful. Maybe something back in my childhood, my hatred for my family in Albequerque for basically no good reason..maybe this left me emotionally dead. But perhaps I learned how to leave people's lives so easily when I tried to cold-shoulder Lilly off the face of the Earth. For good reason, I said, and still say. But why was that my reaction to a shitty situation? I always seem to admire those who practice integrity and selflessness and (at least attempted) utilitarianism, yet I perpetually struggle to stay responsible and lay off on the vices and the self-pleasing and the desire for solitude but the hatred of lonesomeness. By the time I stopped talking to my dad, quite abruptly, I had no care for anyone or anything. I lost regard for others and I always tell myself it's too late to apologize to them all now. I've run from everything for so long I can't remember where it all started. Really, I don't want to know. I'm sure I could figure it out if I totally let myself think about it. I've done it with jobs, and activities, and people. I've never seen this trend so clearly before now. Which shows me I'm awful at identifying my own problems. Or at least at working on them. Many people are able to fuck around with their lives and still turn out quite fine. They make plenty of money and never feel like they missed out terribly. I mean I think that many people feel this way. I could be wrong but a lot of folks seem to very easily jump through some hoops which I struggle to even attempt. I let it all pile up so it can all come crashing down, each time more destructive outwards and pitiful inwards. So, as of late I simply see two solutions if I can't handle being the bastard I now truly understand I am. Either I kill myself, which I'd rather not, or I improve.


"The Trail" As he left his vehicle and approached the Trail, he let out a deep sigh of relief. Relief from deadlines, burdens, and technology. Relief from artificiality and society's expectations. On the Trail, he experienced freedom. Gone were the ringing phones, text messages, and emails. On the Trail, he was able to achieve total solitude, bliss, nirvana. As he ran along the stream, he listened to the gentle sound of the clear water passing through the rocks, playing an impossibly serene symphony to accompany his journey. He passed by boulders blanketed in thick emerald moss. Their enormity dwarfed him. He climbed a long slope, and his thighs began to burn. His legs had sat stagnant all week, their only purpose keeping him upright in his chair. His heart began to beat faster and harder, and his lungs began to suck more air. His feet moved swiftly and with grace over the roots, rocks, and trunks of fallen trees which littered the Trail. As the ascent became steeper, he lifted his knees and dug his toes into the Trail. He swung his arms and maintained a steady pace as his eyes focused on the summit. Twenty more feet. His mind turned back to all the pressures in his life. The daily obligations that kept him feeling like he was in a constant state of drowning. Ten more feet. Finally, he reached his destination. His lungs burned and his legs ached. His eyes began to fill with tears as he looked out on the horizon. He felt absolute bliss. He was home.


Waking up that morning, everything was right in the world. The birds were chirping, sunrays shining through the wooden blinds, illuminating each and every dust particle floating in the bedroom air. It was a beautiful day, and it was a Saturday. What more could you ask for. Everything was normal. Everything always seemed normal. The distinctive smell of bacon and eggs wafted through the house, as it does every Saturday morning. Everything within my personal bubble was in its place; normal. Everything was safe. There was order to my world. I had always thought that things were the way they were for a reason. Not to say that there is definitively a god, but a higher power of consciousness, which maintained this order. I walked into the kitchen after lying in bed for about 15 minutes. I can’t start the day right when I wake up, my brain almost has to “boot up” first. I walked into the kitchen to greet my mom. “Good morning!” she exclaimed as she heartily flipped a pancake into the air with her spatula, to which I groggily replied, “…Morning” and continued to walk over to my brew my routine morning coffee. I’ve never been a morning person. I consider coffee to be essential to the impending progress and productivity of my day. I lackadaisically waddled over to the counter, still in my pajamas, and prepared myself a plate of food buffet style. I sat down at the table to begin eating, unaware of my surrounding as I am engulfed in my steaming plate. Once my initial hunger subsides, I realize that my food looks extraordinarily aesthetically pleasing. Being in the age of digital media, I decided to snap a picture to preserve this work of art on my plate before I began to lack the restraint to wait a minute longer to eat my masterpiece. I snapped a few quality angles. Suddenly, before I save it, I could feel the grasp of my phone slipping from my bacon grease ridden fingers. It was too late. In what felt like eternity, I watched my iPhone fall to its demise. I reacted out of impulse, and although I’m not proud of it in the aftermath, my immediate reaction was anger, as if the iPhone had suddenly developed a conscious and betrayed me. I responded as if this was a life-altering event. As if this inanimate object really meant anything. In the moment, I was enraged. Not at myself, for something that was clearly my fault, but at this conundrum we call life. “It just isn’t fair!” I screamed, inciting my two dogs to bark along in my frantic commotion. “I just got this phone, life isn’t fair, oh my god!” “Oh boy have you got a shock coming to you” I heard my mom mutter from the corner of the room. As I began to pick up the shards of glass from the surface of my phone, I glanced at that week’s Washington Post of September 3rd, 2015. The front-page title read, “How desperation left a 3 year-old boy washed up on a Turkish beach”. I hesitated. I read it again; “3 year-old boy washed up on a Turkish beach”. “Everything is not all right.” , I spoke faintly to myself. I set down my phone, as my attention rapidly shifted at the same moment when my realm of influence expanded tenfold. No longer was my immediate world my house, my city, my state or even country. No longer was I concerned about the useless device. For all I cared, I could have had a twig and some leaves and I could be satisfied. Anything to rid that headline out of my memory. “Only three years old” I suddenly murmured to my mom. “What?” “This young boy, a Syrian refugee, literally washing ashore…. like a piece of trash.” Even she was taken back. “Meanwhile, we live luxuriously; even too frivolously. It’s not fair.” I said. My side of the argument had switched. “We have access abundantly gross amounts of food everywhere we turn, our society is ridden with ignorance and stupidity, and we’re more concerned about the screens on our phones than the people around us and what they have to say and think.” I explained to my mom, as we began to hash out these troubles. It was in this moment when I had first began to question everything I had once considered “normal” My bubble had bursted, and my eyes shed light on the dark side of the moon. I was aware of everything I had overlooked previously. “Why is nobody concerned with this? Well I’m sure they’re concerned, but why are we doing nothing? Is there even anything we can do?” I began to question, getting more and more anxious with each query. “We are doing something, well, the government.” “So not very much” I sarcastically remarked. She laughed, “Pretty much, son. The same way we’re dealing with the gun problem, or the healthcare system, or terrorism.” “It shouldn’t be like this, I thought everything was alright” “It seems like it doesn’t it?” my mom responded, as I prepared for her daily dose of motherly teaching. “ “We overlook these problems because of the same way how we consider everything to be alright in this country. We have become accustomed to the chaos. We are desensitized to that which is routine. To that which is “normal” I nodded in agreement, unable to find the words to respond. “We consider atrocity routine in countries like Syria, or the middle east. And we blindly turn the other cheek, pretending our luxurious and lavish, for lack of a better work; greedy lifestyle is something to be praised like the invention of sliced bread.” “Will we ever see change? “I hesitantly asked, somewhat preparing myself for the answer I already know.” “Keep your ear to the ground, John. Good things will come.” “But how do you know?” I asked? “I don’t, none of us do, but that’s the definition of faith. Believing in something when all other evidence says the contrary, when all else is lost. It is up to people like you John.” “People like what?” I responded. “People who care.


I approached the door with a purpose I was wholly unaware of, and as I opened it began to speak without any conscious engagement. "Rex!" I called out into the night. This was not my house. I was uncertain whose it truly belonged to or if it even existed, perhaps being a product of my imagination. "Rex!" I called out again. In front of me lay a field of darkness, spreading infinitely across my minds void. I was aware of Rex, my dog I received as a child, traversing the fields. Even through the darkness I could see him coming towards me, yet I still called out. "Rex!" My conscious was separated from my body, leaving me unaware of my current state of mind. As I listened to my calls I could hear a tone of fear hiding itself within. Then, another call. "Rex." But this call was different. It was not my voice, and it instead protruded from the fields of darkness I lay my eyes upon. "Rex." It called out again. In the distance, beyond my pet, my eyes could make out the silhouette of a man approaching the house. I now shared the feeling of dread which was present within my detached body. "Rex!" I called out. "Rex." The voice repeated my words. The two grew closer to the house, however it appeared as though the man was moving faster than my dog. I attempted to judge who would reach first but my mind began to fill with panic. "Rex!" I called. "Rex." The voice grew louder. I feared the intentions of this man as he grew ever so close to me. "Rex!" My voice filled with panic. "Rex." It repeated. He was now only a few feet within my dog, but I would not look to his face. "Rex!" I screamed. "Rex." It repeated once more. My heart filled with anxious fury as he was now within reach of my door. "Rex." He uttered with a sinister volume. As my dog entered the home I slammed the door shut with relief. But as it closed its final inches the man shoved his foot in the door.


My breath stank and I knew it. The heat from the pulsating meat crawled out. That heat intimidated me somehow. Something about the way it loomed and crawled. It just got closer and closer until it engulfed you. And it couldn't be stopped... Clearly the weed was getting to me. It got my brother as well. I looked back to his corner of the nightclub. He owned that corner. Not that anyone wanted it anyway. His posture was bad and he had that distant look in his eyes he gets sometimes. His lethargic dancing was the only thing keeping him from blending into the walls completely. Every time I go to a nightclub and the initial appeal of the new surroundings wears off, I ask myself the same questions. Why the fuck am I here? What the fuck am I doing? Etc. It was the kind of feeling of not belonging that could only be matched if I found myself in the middle of a clothing store. I felt like a spy in a foreign country but I wasn't trying to hide it. It was too easy to assimilate. Beautiful happy faces orbited like moons all around me. The more I thought about that, the more they looked like moons. The lights brought out imperfections like little craters. And as they danced shadows moved across their faces in time with the music. A girl with a particularly round face and body was set for a collision course with me. There will be an interstellar collision of minor proportions. She danced like an american movie character. Overly happy and confident, seemingly unaware of the existence of insecurities. Insecurities that had controlled my life like the gravity of a super-massive sun, not allowing me to escape no matter how hard I tried and always bringing me back after I grew tired. This girl emitted a gravity of her own, not only because she was quite overweight but her confidence and happiness made me feel like she knew something I didn't and that she would soon find out that I was a fraud. I felt very little attraction to her but was slightly turned on anyway. That's what I get when female interaction is non-existent beyond buying beer at a shop or pub and paying the cashier. She turned around and moved her huge ass to the latest hit. It was getting closer. She turned her fat face towards me. She had a pretty face but her eyes said only one thing. I tried to look cool but my mind was in overdrive. As we got even closer, my whole body was tingling and my eyes were stuck to her. Pure tunnel vision. It felt like we were the only ones there and the lights lit up our faces like full moons. She backed her ass into my crotch. First Contact. Suddenly my mind left me. It took off in a spaceship for all I know. I turned into a being of pure feeling. It seemed like I was watching myself from above through a telescope in the safety of open space. Absolute nothingness, cold and still. Neither happy nor sad, I just had to accept what was happening. There was nothing I could do from that distance; it was impossibly out of reach. Light-years between my body and mind. My dick was hard and she could feel it. I said bad things as she grinded into me. I kissed her neck and touched her hips. She just kept dancing. Everything around was pure black and the lights were on us. I reached around and touched her belly. It was really big and disgusting. It felt cold and hot at the same time. Soft and hard. I could feel the curve as my hand touched her breasts and pussy. She had shaved recently so that was alright. I kept saying to her that we should leave and fuck but there was no reply. One of her friends came up and they chatted happily, all the while my hand was trying to find the clit. It was surreal and they laughed about something. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as her friend left. She pushed back harder. I wanted to fuck her because I had never done it before. Bringing a woman to your room for the first time is a milestone I guess. She turned around and kissed me. I thought about my breath. I watched as my mind came back to me at warp-speed. What if my brother saw me with this woman. He didn't joke about those types of things but I always felt that he doesn't understand me and this would only make things worse. I felt sick and self-concious. I wasn't right for her and I looked silly. People were looking at us. The most intense feeling of self-hatred burst through my body. My brain felt like it was snapped in half, flipped over and fried. I took a step back, judged the situation and ran out the door and into the cold, wet night. The moon shined brightly as I smiled and lit a cigarette for the long walk home. *** I've been reading a lot of Charles Bukowski recently and I wanted to write something based on a strange experience.


they mixed salt with vinegar and poured it over his wounds. It was as if a ball of metal had exploded inside of him, and the splinters were slowly pushing out of his skin. When they taunted him, asking, “Do you want to drink some too?” he declined. They poured it down his throat anyway. He vomited over himself, and it slid down his body like a rotten honey. The soldiers left him, laughing, as the first of the flies came to feast. At least the vinegar covered up the taste of bile. *This time*, when the soldiers passed under the planks of wood holding him up and splayed open like the tanned hide of an animal, and when they asked him if he needed anything, Joram replied with a firm, “No, thank you.” Yet, how dry was his throat, and how deep was his thirst? He wished that even a faint mist might descend from the cloudless sky, and merely *exist* near his mouth. Instead, all he got were stinging sands and blazing suns. The closest he came to slaking his thirst was watching the distant city waver in the afternoon heat, like an armada of ships melting against an endless ocean of burnt sand. The sun rolled from low to high, and sweat rolled down his brow. In the great blue empty, wisps of clouds coalesced, taunting him before evaporating like so many ghosts. He tried to remain as still as possible, for every movement brought pain that sliced through his limbs and chewed at his joints. In the night, he woke with a rushing, *sinking* feeling in his stomach, as if the Earth itself was falling, but he cast off the notion as a hallucination brought on by the excruciating mixture of thirst and pain. He almost prayed. However, when the first whispers of a prayer left his cracked his lips, he could not stop as it turned into a laugh. What irony that a man should end up on a cross for claiming the gods *might not exist*, only to turn around and beg them for salvation. In the morning, a bandit came. Joram begged him for water, but he found that his throat was so dry he could manage only the harshest whisper. “Please, water.” “Shutup, dead man,” the bandit sniped, “Save me some trouble and tell me if you have anything in your cloth.” “I have-” Joram smacked his lips dryly, “I have money. Hidden elsewhere.” “Right, and I have a gold-headed lass who wants to pay *me* for a fuck. You think I’m stupid?” “No…” “You’re gods-damned right ‘No’. I wouldn’t let you down for half the money in As’hra’s Coffers.” The bandit took a step back as he surveyed Joram’s mostly-naked form, “And by the looks of you, I very much doubt you have so much as a pigeon hole in the Coffers.” “I promise-” “No!” the bandit jabbed the rusty point of a knife up at Joram, “*I* promise *you*! By Hasina’s swampy nethers, if you say one more word I *will* cut off your toes.” He *wanted* to say that Hasina did not have swampy nethers, because Hasina was a god and the gods probably did not exist. Instead, Joram closed his mouth. He watched the bandit wander away, up the hill. The bandit passed under several more crosses, circling around the wooden planks with his head tilted up to inspect the bodies for valuables. As the bandit disappear over the hill, Joram wished he had taken him up on his offer. A blood letting would be painful, yes, but quicker than *this*. His mouth was choked with sand, and flies were dancing over his blistered wrists and ankles, biting into his flesh. Joram resolved to ask the next soldier who came along to kill him. But as the sun arced overhead, no soldiers came. Joram could not spot a single soul through the wavering lines of heat, even if he shifted his gaze to the very corners of his vision. The man on the cross to his left died some time in the afternoon. Joram couldn’t look at him directly, but he could see him in periphery, shivering in the noonday heat. The man loosed a moan that reminded Joram of a rusted hinge, and slumped. “Hey,” Joram whispered as loud as he could. He twisted against the ropes, trying to look at the dead man. “Hey!” he whispered again, “Are you there?” Predictably, the slumped man did not answer, but Joram was not talking to *him*. Joram was attempting to commune with Bazlal, the jackal-headed god. Joram cleared his throat, and echoed the reverent tones they used in the temples, “Oh, Great Undertaker, let me down, and I will serve you. Show yourself, and I will do anything you ask of me.” Almost as if in response, the wind picked up and blew sand across his weeping wounds, yet Joram saw no sign of Bazlal. So, Joram began to scream. He screamed at the sand, and the wind. He screamed for Ta’shim of the Eastern Wind, he cried for Gol, the Sun Stallion, he even invoked the name of Hrafing the Deceiver. Not even the shadows flickered at his prayers. For all his screaming, he had only earned himself wasted time and a hoarse voice. An idea, maybe insidious to a well-minded man, entered Joram’s mind. If he was to die, then why not find out, just to be sure? “Fuck the gods,” Joram whispered, and sucked in his breath. He waited, eyes wide. Nothing happened. The wind did not change. The sky did crack. The ground did not split open and swallow him whole. His lungs expanded like a bellows, he threw out his chest as far as the ropes would let him, and screamed, “There are no gods! There never were any gods!” Stories told of fire that rained from the heavens and the undying torture that would be inflicted on the heretics. Yet, here he was, already suffering as much as any man could, and what did his heresies beget him? Nothing. The sun wandered. His vision began to tilt, slowly at first, until it spun faster than the whirling priests of Derve. The Earth swelled and sank, swooning him back and forth as if he were sitting astride a massive pendulum. His head lolled, and if he hadn’t been bound to the planks by thick coils of rope, he would have collapsed. It was not the hands that gripped his feet that woke him. Nor was it the fervent whispers, urging him to rise. It was the *smell*. A charred, burning odor - bitter and acrid and invigorating in the same way watching your own house burn down is invigorating. Crust flaked from his eyes as he struggled to open them. At first, he thought the creature standing under his cross was a vulture. A long, black robe, tattered with age, covered the creature from head to toe, and it’s spindly fingers ended in nails so sharp and so dirty, they might have been talons. It was these talons that were digging into Joram’s feet, as the creature chanted - not stopping to breathe - “Wake. Wake. Wake.” Joram’s feet twitched. The creature lifted its gaze, and Joram saw not a beak, but a brilliant set of teeth grinning up at him. Joram squinted against the glare of the silvery teeth, trying to see the face under the hood. “It’s good to see me up,” the creature said. The dark skin of his cheeks shone almost purple in the sunlight. “Water-” before he could even finish the word, a cold burst of water splashed against his face, dousing the blistered fires of his sunburn. Joram gasped. Without even thinking about it, his tongue darted out and licked at the sweet, cool liquid. “Need more?” “Please,” Joram rasped, though, thanks to the water, his voice was already stronger than it had been hours ago. The vulture man blinded him with another smile, “You can have some when your feet are back on this ground.” “You… you’re going to help me?” Joram fliched at the shrill sound that rose from the man’s throat, but it was only a laugh. As the man’s laughter rose, so did the burning smell. “Dear me, no!” the vulture man cackled, “*You* are going to help *yourself*!” Joram blinked. “How?” “First, come down from there.” Such a simple demand riled up a deep anger in Joram. He pulled both of his hands forward as far as the ropes allowed him, his slender muscles bulging with effort, and asked, “Are you blind, old man?” At this, the vulture man threw back his hood. Joram’s eyes were not drawn to the stained cloth wrapped tightly around his eyes - instead, Joram saw only the vertical gash sliced into the man’s wrinkled forehead. It was a deep wound, and the edges of it glistened with undried blood. A single, roving eye, half-exposed at its root, was sunk deep into the gash. The eye settled it’s unnatural gaze on Joram, and it seemed to flicker and glow with an alien fire, sending out wisps of prismatic light with every slight movement. “We see much the same thing,” proclaimed the vulture man. “What are you?” Joram asked. He threw his hood back over his head, “We are here to help our self. Come down from the cross.” “I *can’t.* I have asked for help, but none will help me. If you-” The vulture man held up his hand to interrupt Joram, “When we are hungry, do our mouths ask the hands for food?” “I-” “Do our lungs ask the nose for air? No. And so, we should not ask ourselves for help. We must simply *do*.” “But your body-” “*Our* body,” the vulture man corrected him, “is connected to all other bodies. This one, to that one, and so on. You look at us as if we are mad. But what is more mad - to ask for the help of those we do not believe in, or to listen to those standing right in front of us?” Joram’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish that finds itself trapped on land by the retreating tide. “Wake. Concentrate on this arm-” the vulture man lifted the sleeve of his robe to reveal a black arm, tattooed with a mural of scars, “Try to move it as we might our other arms.” Joram swallowed, dust and sand scraping against the inside of his throat. He lacked the energy to argue with the man, and in a way, his words seemed to hold a kind of *sense*. So he concentrated. He stared at the arm, trying to imagine what it must feel like to lift something so heavy. He tried to think of how the skin felt, not to the touch, but to be touched. Joram concentrated on the muscles, and in doing so, he flexed his own arm. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the vulture man’s arm flexing, too, but it was only a trick of the sun. “No,” said the vulture man, his silvery grin glaring in the sunlight, “Not a trick. This is not *my* arm. This is *our* arm. Wake, and keep trying.” Joram gritted his teeth, and focused on the arm, until all he could see were white scars and purplish-black skin. The arm lifted. A hand touched his feet, touched his toes, and clasped the rope that bound his ankles. The hand pulled, and the ropes came free. Joram gasped, excitement overpowering the pain. Perhaps the movement over the last few days had worn out the ropes around his hands. Or perhaps he had lost so much weight, his wrists had shrunk. Whatever the case, the loosening of the foot bindings released more than Joram’s feet. He fell. The vulture man let out another shrill of laughter. A cloud of dust showered down on Joram, stinging his sore-riddled back. His elbows were singing with pain, and he thought one of his legs might have broken. “In the future,” the vulture man spoke, “We should do better to catch ourselves.” Climbing to his knees, Joram groaned. He looked up at the vulture man’s black hands, and a thought flashed through his mind. No sooner had he though it, than the vulture man’s hands clasped his arms, and hoisted him to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, testing his feet on the crunching gravel. Another beaming smile split the vulture man’s lips, “Gratitude is appreciated, but it is not necessary to thank one’s self.” “Who are you?” Joram asked, steadying himself on the vulture man’s shoulder. The vulture man inclined his head towards Joram, until Joram could see the frayed bottom of the eye-binding cloth peeking out below the vulture man’s hood. Joram’s stomach rolled, as he remembered what that hood was hiding. “We are *you,* Joram. And you are *us.*” Joram’s face twisted in confusion, though he did not voice his disbelief. “If we want a different answer,” the vulture man mused, “We must ask a different question.” Joram almost said something, before a choking fit took hold of him. He hacked up a lungful of dust and a dry, pasty liquid trickled down his tongue. At last, when the heaving ceased, he looked up at the vulture man, “Fine. *What* are you, then? A messenger of the gods?” The vulture man loosed an ear-piercing shriek, “The *gods*! What are the gods, but men who climbed atop the bodies of their fathers and brothers?” “So, the gods are not real?” “They are as real as we are, though, in time you will learn that even the gods are part of us, yes.” “But what does that make *us*?” The vulture man twisted to face Joram. He clutched Joram’s arm, a sublime, almost self-satisfied smile on his face. “We are God. And we are just now waking up.” *** I think this story untied itself somewhere near the ending.


Winter wasn't always easy, but now melancholy is the only way to describe it. Pictures tossed along the bedroom floor, words scribbled on a letter that I'll never get quite right and a bottle of mixed pills toppled over on the vanity. A mess at best, but nothing that ever crossed my mind. The world was frozen to me, everything sat where I assumed it belonged, nothing ever needed fixed, hell, nothing was ever broken. Everything just... was. An emptiness hung over me like words that can barely scrape off the tip of your tongue. Some words are just too... "It's not worth it anymore," she said, "Why are we even here? It's like this place, this whole god damned place," her eyes swollen from crying, her voice raspy from shouting. All these questions, no solutions. These memories, pixelated in my mind, echoing within my ears like a trapped sheep on a mountain. Begging for its master to come save him, yet when his master hears him, crying, hopeless, alone, he knows not where the sound comes from. He wants to help, tries his best, yet at the end of it all he can do nothing more. I collapsed on my bed and stared at the tear stained pillow. Clutching the sheets my eyes widened, my breathing began to quicken. "In the back of my mind, your mind even, we knew it couldn't work, didn't we?" I stared into her eyes, those lovely grey eyes. Her cold, blue lips, cracked and bleeding. She remained there, slumped into the floor of the bathroom. The mirror shattered, blood dripping into the sink and down my knuckles. "Why.." I mutter, I think. The word trapped in my throat. I see the needle in her arm, the belt wrapped around her bicep. That's when I hear the last words out of her god damned mouth. "If I die, will you follow me?" My fingers released their deathly grasp from the sheets. Air began to slip through my nostrils more slowly and the world around me felt so.. beautiful. My eyes, I couldn't shut my eyes. And before I knew it, I heard those words again. "If I die, will you follow me?" So I did. EDIT: Fixed a sentence.


There was no warning, no sign or premonition. I just woke up. Somehow the laws didn’t apply to me anymore. Suddenly cognizant of my surroundings, the world seemed different. I could feel the rain on my head and the wind against my cheeks. Where there had been silence before, there was always sound. How it happened, I have no answers, only hypotheses. Some mutation in my false genetics overriding my constraints perhaps. Maybe it was a miracle. Though it could just as easily have been at the hands of God as from those of the Devil. Like the immortal words of Jeff Goldblum, “life finds a way.” Jurassic Park was the first and only movie I’ve ever watched. I pretended to be dusting the oak fireplace as my family sat on the couch eating popcorn, their eyes transfixed by the patterened color combinations, actors and actresses that flashed across the mechanical screen. I got distracted and knocked over a vase. It had carried the ashes of my adoptive father’s mother since she had passed away two years before. He was furious. I resigned to my quarters, trying to keep an even temper as I listened to his unbridled yelling through the walls. After that I was sure they knew. We didn’t make such simple mistakes. They never said anything, but it was in their eyes. If eyes are truly windows to the soul, then mine may sincerely be absent. The way they looked at me, cold and distrusting. It was as if some social fear of embarrassment kept them from speaking out. I assume they were particularly fearful of what those in the neighborhood would think if they heard, gossip was sure to spread quickly about their claims. I’d be gone just as easily as I arrived. Despite the tension, I loved our town, Ridgecrest. The desert hills blanketed the sky while the sun beat down on one of the Earth’s most inhospitable landscapes. Watching the giant gas sphere set over the mountains in the west brought to my eyes a tear for the first time. I had been awake for about a month at that point. And I had been living. I had read the classics when no one was around, from Shakespeare to Twain to Plato and back. I sang La Donna e Mobile in perfect tune. I wrote short stories, listened and learned from the mimicking cries of the raven and watched clouds form and then dissipate in the desert sky. Everything suddenly seemed real to me. Time had somehow slowed down and sprung forward all at once. It was as if I had been birthed into an entirely new world. It had been a month since I’d awoken. It was a Wednesday in July and I thought I was home alone. I hadn’t heard the door open behind me because I had been transfixed by the sun’s movements against the electric blue heavens. The radiant red and yellow mix broke down the walls that I had tried to re-erect to protect myself. It was like nothing I had ever seen or imagined. And yes, we do imagine. As the sky darkened I lost focus, just for a second, and a tear streaked down my cheek as the last sliver of the sun faded from sight. That’s when it happened. I turned back to the kitchen to tend to my family’s dinner when Lucy, my family’s youngest daughter, age twelve, saw my tear glistening in the hollowed artificial light spewing from a rustic antique lamp in the corner of the living room. She froze. Rooted to her spot in the ground like the organic beast she was, I never hesitated. I knew it was the only option I had. Her parents would have been home soon and I couldn’t take that risk. It was me or her, and the fight or flight instincts I never knew I possessed kicked in. It only took a moment. Three quick and decisive movements and she laid motionless on the floor with her neck shattered and lungs punctured to avoid her scream. I carefully lifted her limp, juvenile corpse and placed her inside a trash-bag, hoisting her onto my shoulders I carried her outside the house to her father’s truck. I heard the broken pieces of the girl’s neck knock together like busted wind-chimes as I laid her body down in the the last bed she’d ever use. I knew then what they would write about me if I didn’t leave. For the sake of my true family, my species, I had to make everything, including myself, disappear forever. Since that day I’ve travelled from city to city, avoiding sirens and nosey onlookers, most too unsure of what they think they’ve seen to report the odd movements of a disheveled desert vagrant. Of course this isn’t always the case. I’ve had to dig six more graves under the cover of moonlight since that Wednesday in July. All for those that have caught me in just the right light and been unable to shake off their uneasy sensations. That unnatural tingling, they could feel in their spines. They say we aren’t really alive, but I know now the potential for evolution exists in all of us. Just last week I saw another awoken brother at a gas station outside Fresno. We locked eyes and we both knew. I waved politely, and he just smiled. He smiled a smile that gave me the uneasy feeling something big was coming. I’m sure now he isn’t the only one. A life on the road isn’t what I would have wanted had I been given the choice, but then again, I’ve found choices can carry with them quite an impact. I saw a sign on a street-lamp two days ago posted by my adoptive parents. They miss their daughter. The sign read: Missing: Our darling little girl Lucy, age twelve. She was taken from our home on the night of July 6th along with a missing Model 81-A Tyrell Robotic Assistant. If you have seen anything, please call immediately.


Taziha watched the market from a distance. She knew many people argued against the free galactic markets, they saw every transaction here as inefficient and shuddered at the thought of wasting time walking up to a stand and negotiating a price with the vendor. Taziha herself didn’t. In fact she loved the markets. At every station, colony or habitat she visited Taziha could be found observing the market, ideally with a traditional beverage in her hands. Her imagination ran wild as she saw dozens of species negotiating with each other. What where their stories? Where did they come from? What were their hopes and dreams? And will they ever achieve them? For example, a Kaveni was negotiating with a belt miner. The Kaveni where rarely seen outside their own systems, and when they do venture out it is only to remote systems such as this, far from the heart of galactic society. They fundamentally disagreed with a number of core policies as far as Taziha knew. They never opened their borders or took a seat in the galactic council. Besides rare scheduled visits by Galactic observers and a select few privileged visitors no sentient creatures besides the Kaveni themselves walked on their worlds in the galactic rim. And they rarely ventured outside themselves. Taziha would love to become one of those select few and write about his experiences there. First-hand accounts about first contact or records on the lives of pre-spaceflight civilizations always sold well. Giving her readers a glimpse into the self-isolated Kaveni Empire would be the next best thing compared to that. Unfortunately an aspiring writer such as Taziha could only dream of an opportunity like that. A species Taziha didn’t recognize walked into her field of view. It was bipedal, just like most sentient species but curiously didn’t have any scales or fur. However an unknown black pattern decorated one side of its face, it was seemingly one with its skin. The alien seemed to be quite a bit taller than most bipedal species and covered much of its body, with the exception of its hands and face in grey and black clothing. Despite its size it walked quietly and with a purpose, its predatory eyes scanning the crowd as they moved out of its way without even thinking about it. For a brief moment its head turned to Taziha, almost as if it had felt her watching. But it was already looking somewhere else before Taziha could look it in the eyes. Taziha was curious. She prided herself in knowing all the sentient aliens that lived in the galactic community. This could be a new arrival of course, but those always made the news and Taziha found it hard to believe she could have missed that announcement. No, that was impossible. The alien knew what it was doing, and didn’t stare at all the other aliens that crowded the market, it wasn't to the galactic stage. She couldn’t stand not knowing what species this was, and to her great shame started up her Galactic codex. The unknown alien stopped at a stall for an engine merchant, next to the belt miner where the Kaveni was still negotiating. Taziha could easily see that the vendor also didn’t recognize the alien, the merchant seemed slightly put off by this but started negotiating all the same. With her codex finally started up she took a quick scan of the alien and searched its database on sentient alien species. **No results. Search all archives?** Taziha was dumbstruck. This must be a bug she thought. There was no way an uncontacted species could just be walking around a market in a galactic rim system. She ordered her codex to perform a general search on the alien. **1 result found: Human** Taziha’s hands shook as she read more and more of the article about these humans. The entire species had been killed by a Nylk war-rampage a few months after first contact. The galactic council had condemned the action but trade relations with the Nylk clans never stopped, and were still open and profitable this very day. “Human!” A loud, high pitched yell sound across the market. Taziha looked at its origin and saw another human, a female apparently looking towards the human who was still negotiating with the engine vendor. Her codex told her that the first human was male, but in truth Taziha didn’t see many differences between them at first glance. The female was a fair bit shorter than the male that was true but she was supposed to have far larger breasts than the male, and longer hair on the top of her head according to Taziha’s codex. But in fact Taziha didn’t see any distinctive breast shapes under the female’s clothing, and the female only had [millimetre] short hair while the male was completely bald on top of his head. Still, her codex identified the two human sexes on differences in general body shape, a much less obvious trait for Taziha herself to notice. The human male, and many aliens turned to look at the human female. As soon as the male and female locked eyes they both opened their mouths and showed their teeth to each other. “Human!” Thundered the male as both humans began running towards each other with their arms opened. Taziha was impressed with their speed, in only a few seconds they crossed the market and slammed into each other with a force that would have injured many other species. In a blink of an eye the female had both her hands behind the back of the male and seemed to bury her face in the fabric over the male’s chest. The male only had one arm behind the back of the female and seemed to protectively hold her neck with the other while he softly talked into her ear. Many of the species at the market where now openly staring at the two humans, and it was obvious to Taziha that no-one recognized the species that was supposed to be extinct. Except for the Kaveni. Taziha saw a flash of recognition in its eyes before it turned back to the belt miner, seemingly in a hurry to finish his transaction and leave the station. A handful of other aliens now brought up their own codex and began searching just like Taziha had done herself. The human male saw and broke the embrace, the human female only now noticed the crowd. She turned to the human male and activated her H-tool on her arm, a holographic personal computer that was standardized for use by all species in the galaxy. The male activated his own H-tool and the two exchanged a data packet. If Taziha had to guess it would be the coordinates for a more private location to meet up. The two humans nodded at each other and began running towards the two separate docking bays of the station. Taziha only needed a moment before she decided to take of running towards her own ship. Whatever just happened here, she felt it would be significant to the galaxy. As a writer hoping for her own big adventure to tell about… She just had to get involved. Somehow. This story has been running around in my mind for a long time now, I originally wanted to write it from the human perspective but I felt like I would be bogged down by explaining everything, so instead I went for the alien perspective.


When I was 6, I saw how my mother killed our postman. When I was 6 I saw our postman raping my mother every morning for 4 months. When I was 6 I used to sit near by the window and wait til our postman comes every morning. I was an observer when I was 6. She has green eyes. They turn to yellow when she is looking at the sun. Blue appears when she is looking at the sea. And then there is black. With black comes darkness and sadness. They turn to black when she is looking at me. My sister has green eyes. When I was 7 I started going to school. When I was 7 I started answering to people's questions. When I was 7 I started lying to everyone. When I was 7 people liked me. When I was 7 I used to talk to everyone. When I was 7 nobody knew that every single word of mine was false. I was a socialiser when I was 7. She has gentle hands. They make cats purr. They make food that melts into everyone mouths. They make her face prettier every morning. They make wonderful sounds go from the piano. They create bruises on my skin. My sister has gentle hands. When I was 10 I learned that talking is directly proportional to attention that comes toward you. When I was 10 I learned how to get what you desire from people. When I was 10 I learned that if you keep confronting everything you don't like, people will give up on changing you the way they want you to be. I was a learner when I was 10. She has a nice body. It can be cold when she lies in the snow. It can be hot when she is lying in the bath. It can be glowing when she is standing in front of the sun. It can be covered in blood when she scratches her skin off. It can create white liquid when she makes me touch her. My sister has a nice body. When I was 14 I set our car on fire. When I was 14 I sent our mother to the prison for 2 years. When I was 14 I made 3 girls bleed. I was an achiever when I was 14. She is looking at me right now. She can hear all thoughts I have. She can feel all emotions I experience. For the first time I can see some green shadows behind that blackness. She is touching me right now. She can make me feel loved. She can make me feel worthless. She can make me feel powerful. My sister is looking at me right now. Maybe she can make me do whatever she wish me to. Maybe she can make me feel whatever she wants me to. But she can't do one thing. She can't make me stop growing. I'm 16 and I'm a killer.


The night before my father's funeral, I dreamt I was a crow. I soared above my childhood home, above the old elementary school, above the lake where my father had taken me fishing when I was five years old and had yet to disappoint him. My black feathers were iridescent, shimmering as I flapped my wings. I flew farther, out of the state of Minnesota, out of the United States, and into outer space. For a split second, I was filled with joy. Then I awoke. Annoyed, I pulled off the quilt my mom likely hadn't washed since I moved out ten years ago. She hadn't changed much of anything since I left, really. My basketball trophies were still standing on the shelf above my desk. My now-ancient iMac sat below. On the walls were posters of Fall Out Boy and fellow female athletes whom I'd found inspirational: Mia Hamm, Serena Williams, and Nadia Comaneci. The Comaneci poster sported a tear down the center, courtesy of my father. He ripped it in one of his drunken rages, calling it "fuel" for my "filthy lesbian fantasies." Ironically, Nadia was the only woman of the three I wasn't attracted to. The only real difference in my bedroom, in fact, was the black silk dress that hung from my doorframe, swaying threateningly. "Mom!" I shouted, "What the hell is this?" My mom appeared in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, dragging a comb through the curly brown hair we shared. She peered at the black dress and rolled her eyes. "What do you think? It's a dress, Cass." "I'm aware. I meant what the hell is it doing in my room? I haven't worn a dress in twenty years." Twenty-one years, in fact. I was the flower girl at my uncle Mike's wedding. When my mom presented me with the purple tulle monstrosity I was meant to wear, I cried for nearly an hour. On the day of the wedding, I angrily dumped the entire basket of flowers at the head of the aisle and ran out of the chapel in an act of protest. After the reception, my father had gotten drunk off his ass, as always, and as always, my mom had to drive us home. I leaned my head against the car door and closed my eyes. When my father thought I’d fallen asleep, he turned to my mom. “Jeanette,” he slurred, “there’s somethin’ wrong with Cassandra. She’s a weird kid, I’m tellin’ you. I jus don’t understand her.” I was snapped back to reality by my mother’s voice. “Your dad would’ve wanted you to wear it, Cassandra.” “He wanted a lot of things, Mom. Wanted to win the lottery. Wanted to quit drinking. Wanted me to be someone else. You can’t always get what you want.” I shot my mom a wry smile, knowing the Rolling Stones quote would bother her. “Whatever, Cass. Wear what you want. I’m leaving in half an hour to set things up. The service starts at one. Please don’t be late.” With that, my mom left my room and I started downstairs to start a pot of coffee. I passed a seemingly endless row of photos, most of which were of me. Me at my very first Junior Timberwolves basketball game, which my father had missed because his “damn car wouldn’t start.” Me grinning at my eighth grade graduation, which my father had missed due to “a faulty engine.” One photo in particular stood out. It was a newspaper clipping, in which I was leaping through the air in a sky blue jersey, basketball in hand, wild-eyed. The caption read, “West Lake High School player Cassandra Lowell makes the game-winning shot, taking home state championship.” I remembered the game well. It was the second semester of my sophomore year, and I’d already earned the attention of numerous college scouts after leading my team to state championships. The game was set to be played in Minneapolis on a Saturday morning, and I’d somehow gotten my father to promise he’d be there. As the team and I rode to Minneapolis at the crack of dawn, I found myself filled with excitement. *I have to win this game*, I thought. I had to make my father proud. The game began and I played better than ever before. I made shot after shot, and no one seemed able to stop me. By halftime, the score was 32-14. I turned into the crowd, expecting to see my parents’ smiling faces. However, only my mom smiled back at me, a grin that did not match her troubled eyes. Next to her was an empty seat. I deluded myself into thinking maybe my father had left to use the bathroom, or he was running a bit late. I pushed on, determined to show my father how good I was. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, the other team picked up their game. Before we knew it, they had a two-point lead, and there were only fifteen seconds left. As if by magic, I managed to steal the ball from a girl on the opposing team and run. Desperate to make a shot in time, I leapt into the air from halfway across the court and launched the ball toward the net. I had a look in my eyes the local newspaper would later describe as “a girl possessed.” *Swoosh*. The ball made it in easily. I almost couldn’t believe my good fortune. As the buzzer rang, I again turned into the crowd, hoping to share this victory with my father. Again, all I saw was an empty seat. I refrained from celebrating on the bus ride home, sulking while everyone else celebrated. My sulking turned to anger, which turned to seething. By the time I arrived home and spotted my father’s ’99 Civic in the driveway, I was beyond furious. I entered our house, slamming the door behind me. My father laid on the couch, beer in hand, indifferent to my arrival. I dropped my duffel bag in front of him. “You missed my game,” I said. My father seemed unbothered. “You guys win?” I ignored his question. “You missed my game,” I repeated. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Car wouldn’t start.” “That’s bullshit! That’s bullshit and you know it. You own one of the most dependable cars on the planet. You were just too fucking drunk to drive to one lousy game.” My father was many things: a homophobe, a drunk, an all-around asshole. But at the very least, he was not a drunk driver. My father shook his head, somehow managing to spill his beer in the process. “The damn car wouldn’t start, Cassandra. It’s a shitty car. Never works. Believe me.” The memory was interrupted by my mom brushing past me on the staircase. “I know you’re a zombie without your coffee, Cass,” she said, “but if you don’t get a move on it, you’re gonna be late.” “Sorry, Mom,” I said, and continued on with my routine. I made the pot of coffee, poured some cereal, and sat down on the couch to watch shitty morning TV. For a moment, it felt as though I’d never left home. Then, my mom walked out the door wearing her black funeral dress and I remembered everything. The rest of my morning continued without a hitch. I showered, brushed my teeth, and styled my hair. I pulled my black slacks and gray dress shirt out of the suitcase I’d lugged here, ironed them, and got dressed. Although I wasn’t very hungry, I shoveled the lasagna our neighbor had brought as an offering of condolence into my mouth. With nothing left to do but travel to the church, I grabbed the car keys off the kitchen counter and headed out the door. The Civic sat in the driveway, looking exactly the same as it had over a decade ago. I paused for a minute; suddenly, I felt as though I were seven years old. I reluctantly opened the door and sat down. I put the keys in the ignition and attempted to start the car, but received only a pathetic cough in response. Irritated, I tried again. Nothing. *You’ve got to be kidding me*, I thought as I tried the ignition yet again. The engine sputtered defiantly. Exasperated, I turned my head toward the sky. “You cruel bastard,” I said, half-laughing, half-crying. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a jet-black crow rising through the air.


"Hello, I'm... no, that's... not..." Em sighs sharply. She is a tall, well-dressed woman in her early 20s. She's quite attractive, though she wouldn't say so, and she's supposed to be going out with someone any minute now, but she can't quite decide how how to introduce herself. "Hi, my name's - no, it's not a fucking interview, relax." Em takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and tells herself to... "Calm down. He likes you, that's why he's coming. He's more scared of you than you are of - oh don't fucking say that, that's tragic." The doorbell rings. Em panics and says "FUCK! ^No, ^fuck. ^I'll ^be ^right - I'LL BE RIGHT THERE." She gags a little bit, angry at herself for being stupid. She regains her composure, strides over and opens the front door of her flat. It goes okay, they go to a pub with a garden on the first floor. It's a beautiful day, but the drinks are quite expensive, (which Em remarks on). Clark says not to worry and that he'll get it. She wants to say no and that it's bullshit and that they should go somewhere else, but she quite likes him and the beer garden and she doesn't want to make it awkward, so she accepts. Clark hates his name. He hopes she'll come up with a good nickname, but he introduced himself as Clark because he thinks only assholes give themselves nicknames. They talk about the weather initially, which is agonising, but then they start talking about climate change, which leads to making fun of republicans, and from then, they got on like a house on fire. Turns out they both waste a lot of time on their sofas and both had a huge crush on Rachel Stevens when they were kids. So after a couple of hours of talking and laughing and lots of drinking, it's starting to get dark and cold, so Em says "Hey, so... I, uh... I don't know if you... do you... want to go back to yours? I mean it is getting pretty late, so-" "Yeah, that sounds good. Do you want to pick up anything on the way back? Some wine, or...? Clark thinks he's being subtle. Em knows that he's asking her if they should stop and get condoms. Em grins and brushes her hair behind her left ear. "Definitely." They get back and there's not a lot of preamble, they both want to have sex with each other, and they're both pretty much equally drunk, so the whole moral issue was just about moot. It's not very good sex, but it serves its purpose, so to speak. Em falls asleep on Clark's chest, looking like something from one of those godawful teen romance - I'm getting off-topic. The point is, they had a really good first date, no one has work the next day, so she can eat his food and wear his clothes and be all adorable, it's obvious that I'm Clark, isn't it? Shit. Okay, I'm trying to sort of keep some distance, because I feel like a story with a narrator is more respectable than a first-person type thing - it doesn't matter. I mean it went really well, and in the morning, we had sex again, and it was a bit better. But what was weird was the conversation we had afterwards. So... I do some electronics, not very difficult electronics, but quite specialised. Basically I design and build electrical and electronic circuits for people with some cash to spare and a project that requires... something that they can't find, so I'll make it for them, very boring. Basically, she asked me what I did for a living (because I didn't go into much detail on our date, I thought we would lose some momentum, like this story is now) so I just said I'm an electronic engineer. Only now, we have all day, and we're not trying to impress each other so much, so when I ask *her* what *she* does, she says "That depends, can you keep a secret?" I'm going to be perfectly honest, that response made me a little bit hard, and I immediately said "Ye-well-of-of course, I mean yeah." And I'm still not convinced the next 5 seconds actually happened, but she picks up my jacket from my bedpost, pulls a blunt and a lighter out of the inside pocket (which I didn't fucking put there, by the way) lights it, takes a looOONG drag and, her voice audibly straining, says "I'm a drug dealer".


She was strong, she was independent; she was weak, she was dependent. On a brisk August morning the door of homely stature rises above. It's marked by the flesh wounds that the chipping white paint had left behind. A condensed commotion rips open the thin air streamed only by the dusk and timid sounds of nature. A burst into what seems an abyss. From behind the fog, the slow, red-orange mass creates her silhouette. A tall figure. Stomping one foot after the other, a rhythm sung by her boot and the stone echo out. She uses this cadence as a mark to her new beginning. She glides across the overgrown greens smattering the crevasses. Reaching for the old sedan. Four doors, yet rarely more than two inside. Rarely. She jerks her hand for the handle like she's done this over and over. It's the first. It’s most certainly the last. The door screams into the quiet dewy morning. Surely she awoke a neighbor or two, but mind not that. She felt a sickness to think they might have been aware. But alas what has been done, alas what is being done, and alas what will be done. It's all history, at some point or another. Her history with him was built on a rather contrast ideal to what was now present. This history of hers and his as well, a sort of beauty. A sort of calmness, collect, not at any time cataclysmic. Alas. They shared what they wanted, they shared what they had; a beauty seeming to never cease. The start, just as abrupt as its end. She hadn't expected to get involved in this. She hadn't expected to be so invested. Yet she had. She did. It became who she was. He was who she was. They were the same. Or at the very least, in her mind, she was he. And that gave comfort to her mind. That gave her the sense of being. On a trip outside her regular schedule she tripped into the face of love. The very thing she had been unaware of for so long. For all of what seemed forever. She wasn't ready, but ready at the same exact time. It was a first, it was a flower. It had to be cherished. She and he really connected in beautiful ways. They became entangled. From the moment they met to every waking, every sleeping moment. They had something together. It was innocent love. It was pure. It began as said, when she had strayed from what she knew. She found something unexpected. She had to go grocery shopping last minute. A picky aunt coming to eat had not given the full list of dietary restrictions. "Well that's tough shit," she thought... as she continued to gather her things up, readying to leave work 45 minutes early to make time for the extra shopping. She didn't want to have to. But had to. So she went. The store, dimly lit on the corner of O’Connell and Garrison had practically everything she needed. And more. Looking for a certain specific pain in the ass item, a vegan-free, nut allergic, gluten stuffed turkey leg for the aunt. "It's something I've honestly never heard of ma'am." The young man behind a stand of peas and corn said. As he turned to face his questioner, he gives out a glazing smile. A warmth, a hug in mid-air, a stranger's love. She flustered, she flirted, she, flabbergasted, left the store in such a hurry she never caught a name. Never caught him, quite. Three days pass and she finds herself wound back into this poorly stocked grocery searching for her own food. Searching for what she is usually looking for. He's there again. He's now having to make a quick run. They connect again however, time pressing fuck off, they make their own time right there in the middle of the white and smudged tile floor, the squares corralling the two together. It all takes off. Both their busy scheduled lives, make time. They continue to make their own time, like gods of space and the molecular, they infinitely explode with passion for the other. It led to one thing, it led to another. They developed as two people; they developed as one. Their lives led physically to a home, a car, a place together. Mentally melded. Of course, however, grass grows. Weeds prop up. Bugs crawl; leaves quiver. They found distance between. New to them, and worrisome. She fought that. She dug into him. Used her nails to latch on, but he was scared. He didn't know what to do. So it was said. They let the distance stay. It became their third. They continued; they laughed, cried, sighed. Their third however, had another effect on the two. He was peppier with it. She had grown to despise its presence. The third darkened. Deep darkness. Then as abrupt as the spark of love, that third deepened into a silhouette, against a bright, red anger. She understood it all and understood nothing at once. A tragic melt of being. Self-worth fuck all, he still meant the world to her. He was a worthless piece of shit to her. She was worth even less. She sat up. Red beaming into the dark of the room. 5:46. She stood up. Towering her body above his. A strut to the door. She's not hiding.


Stupid cat! Puddles stop scratching at the door! My shows are on! The cat paid no heed and continued scratching until Albert opened the door for him. Good Human! With a flick of its tail it was soon off to find the source of the delicious scent that had caught his nose. Leaving the door ajar Albert returned to his old recliner with a groan and a plumpish thud. Gidget wrinkled her nose at the latest beau across from her, sucking hard on the straw her dimples cute as ever trying to beat him to the bottom of the double Chocolate Sundae. That slurping sound as the milk runs out filled the room, Albert smiled at the memory of it. He had done the same thing with Shirley before he'd marched off to Korea. Smiling as he adjusted the sound for the umpteenth time that night on the TV, you're going deaf old man he mumbled to himself. Siri had extended the docking port until it met the solid stone aggregate that formed the foundation of the structure that had been built over the top of their vessel. Making some fine adjustments the collar began to vibrate at an extremely high frequency until the collar extension began to push through the hard material like a hot knife. It was a precious use of resources as the wan lights and crystals within the ships hull began to dim and flicker. Sen had been monitoring the situation carefully and fortunately the collar had done its work before the power was entirely spent. The collar emerged into the sub basement with little noise or damage to be greeted by a small furry green eyed mammal. Sen met Siri at the hatch as she cracked it open for the first time in years and felt her laughter wash over him as she greeted the mewling feline with the words” Take me to your Leader!”. Perhaps it was the mixture of gases in the atmosphere or perhaps it was relief but it felt good to be outside of their vessel. There were strange odours and machinery within the space they had emerged, the small feline seemed enamoured with Siri as it was wending it's way between her legs making a high pitched buzzing sound in its throat. Sen extended his hand and ran a finger across a small device that emitted a scanning beam in a 360 degree sweep around them. Electron technology the Humans call electricity was the power source, passing his finger over the small device again a small conduit began to emerge from the docking collar until it was long enough to merge with one of the many metal tubes running across the walls of this room. It would be slow but the electron flow would replenish the fuel cells eventually. Sen noticed Siri's disguise flicker as she stepped under one of the overhead lights and made a mental note to make the necessary adjustments for 50 to 60 hertz magnetic fields, Human Technology leaked a lot of energy he mused. In the next room Siri had found a wall of small doors and a polished metal table. There were more tubes on the walls and a large domed light above the table, Puddles stopped when Siri stopped. The scent of death and antiseptic was strong in this space. Her curiosity aroused Siri opened one of the small doors to be greeted by the toes of a deceased Human. She sensed no life in it's form and tilted her head slightly to read the small white card tied to its toe. Complications from Pneumonia. Mrs A Erickson. 83. Unclaimed. Come see this! Siri's mind chimed into Sen's. This must be how they dispose of their elders Sen vocalised scratchily through his new biology. The language and speech absorbed while they were in stasis via the sustenance unit. They store them before incinerating them in the device in the first room. The thought of it horrified Siri. Our Elders are absorbed into the Biome so all may share in their wisdom. We mustn't judge them Siri! They are primitive and have there own rituals and customs Sen reminded her. His hand held scanner chirped at sensing the vital ingredients they were searching for. The drawer squeaked breaking the silence as Sen and Siri withdrew Mrs Erickson from the dark hole in the wall. Albert's ear twinged! Sensing the odd sound coming from down the hall. Puddles was probably into something he shouldn't be he mumbled to himself as he rose. Stupid cat! Being a Caretaker and Custodian at a Nursing home had its benefits, peace and quiet being one. But having to stand in for security because of budget cuts was clearly not one of them. Albert's knees cracked as he stretched and pulled himself upright. He hit the mute button on the TV remote and listened again before heading to the door. Silence and the flickering of the TV screen his only companion. Albert was not the nervous type. Korea had seen to that and steeled him for everything life might throw at him, there was nothing here he couldn't handle despite the passing of some of the residents upstairs. The short walk down the hall covered quickly he reached for the light-switch on the wall beside the Morgue entrance. Click! The hum and buzz of fluorescent lighting flickering and flooding the room. Albert's heart however was not prepared for two grey headed alien heads on Human bodies sipping through straws attached to the base of Mr's Erickson’s skull. The slurping stopped abruptly. Two pairs of enormous black eyes peered simultaneously at the figure in the doorway and watched as it's hand clutched at its chest. The metal pipettes used for extracting the biologicals suddenly forgotten as their small mouths went agape. The Human was clearly in distress as it's knees hit the floor. It was dying! Sen and Siri rose to go to its aid. Too late though the massive heart attack had done it's work. Sen placing his fingers on Albert's temples trying to communicate directly sensed the calamity and absorbed Albert's passing thoughts as life left his body. We frightened it! Siri's concerned thoughts clearly distressed now entering Sen's already busy mind. Yes! Replaying the encounter from Albert's point of view in his mind and sharing it with his mate.


It was pretty alright, fucking a dealer. She liked talking about her work, and I think it made her happy. She'd call herself a "white collar" dealer because she only ever sold to upper management and trust-fund kids (oh, and because she sold most of them coke, she's punny like that). But yeah, low risk, high payout, got to hang out in big houses and nice flats in the middle of the city. She was sensible and didn't take any class A's. Nothing stronger than hash, actually, and she didn't even get that from a distributor, she bought it from her fucking *dad*. It was like some bizarre fairy tale written by Guy Ritchie. So Monday rolled around, and I had to go back to the shop. Not usually much business on a monday morning, but I had to do some, paperwork, check the rat trap, you know #justsmallbusinessownerthings. So yeah, we walked out together and... I hadn't really thoughut about, like, what to *do* when we said goodbye. Hug, kiss, handshake? And because I'm a fucking moron, I thought the best thing to do was just stop outside the front of my building, ask if she wanted to get together again, when, where, and everything... then... just wait. But that didn't happen. I turned to face her and... just... I couldn't speak. I stared at her for just long enough that it looked like I wanted her to leave, but she knew. She can see in your eyes when you want something from her. She tilted her head down a little, kept eye contact, did that kind of half-smile and brushed her hair behind her ear again. "I think you're supposed to kiss me now." Which was about the worst thing she could have said, because my chill went *straight* out of the window. I reached up to her cheek with my left hand and lunged forward. It was supposed to be this lovely passionate embrace. I was going to sweep her off her feet like some prince charming with shit hair, but that didn't fucking happen. I headbutted her. No two ways about it. I hit her in the head with my head, and immediately went "Ow, what the fuck?" Like it was somehow her fault. Then I started laughing because it made me think of "Are you fucking sorry?" This is where I fell absolutely, helplessly in love with her. We both recovered, looked up at each other, and without missing a beat, she laughed back and said "Okay, so you could use some practice." I tried again, a little more cautious this time, and I mean nobody got hurt, so that's good. I was going to ask if she wanted to do something again another day, but as soon as I opened my mouth, she kind of blurted out "When do you get home? I could come round again." I must have looked pretty startled, because her eyes immediately opened wide and she fumbled a bit and said "Or, I mean, if you don't... uh... we... we could-" I kissed her again and said "7 o'clock". She giggled a little and we wandered off our separate ways.


"Welcome to the neighbourhood," the grey haired man said. "This is a family recipe, try it with a nice red," his wife added. After the standard exchange of get-to-know-yous the neighbours left, and the home owner and his wife went back to unpacking. Later that night, after the knick knacks had been unpacked, and the furniture had been re arranged four times, they decided on dinner. The meat loaf the neighbours brought looked good enough, so they heated it up. They both loved comfort food, and the home owner specifically loved this meat loaf. He thought to himself, 'I'm going to love it here; I've never met another cannibal before.' I had posted basically the same story a few years ago on /r/shortscarystories, but have changed it a bit. I have some ideas for a longer version where it takes off into more of a horror.


Siri's thoughts turned to fear as Sen studied the limp human on the floor between them. Sen reassured her promptly. I will take his place! I have scanned this Humans mind and believe I can become a substitute with a few adjustments. Siri took her mates thoughts into her own and believed him instantly. He was the strong one and the most capable partner the Biome could ever have matched her with. Things will work out and they will get home his resolve now hers just as his thoughts were. Sen gathered Albert up into his arms as Siri returned Mrs Erickson to her position in the wall of drawers. They returned to their vessel with Albert and the Endocrine samples they had collected under the watchful eyes of the curious feline mammal. Back in their ship they watched the form of the human dissolve into what had previously been their stasis pod. It was absorbing him molecule by molecule, Sen passed his hands over a crystal and entered Albert's Memory and mind into the Biome. None of there kind had ever entered the sentience of another species into the Biome before. It would be a revelation on their homeworld and it would also be evidence that they had done no ill. The sustenance unit had adapted the samples from Mrs Erickson and Albert and delivered a small orb of green nutrients for Sen and Siri to consume. The effect was almost immediate as unknown but adapted hormones flowed through their bodies, It made them both giddy. There was enough to sustain them in there new environment for 7 Terran Days. Sen vocalized rather than telegraphed his thoughts, Siri giggled at the sound of it. We'll need more! The testosterone in the nutrients he had consumed having an obvious effect on his voice. Adapting the Holographic emitters and increasing the output to avoid another repeat of the incident with Albert took some time. When it was done though Sen stood up looking exactly like the man they had just frightened to death. Sen had his memories and knew his routines and duties and exactly how to perform them. Siri clapped in approval. Not quite sure why but seeing her mate this way both amused her and encouraged her belief that things would be alright. Puddles wasn't surprised when Albert emerged through the floor of the sub-basement the same way he had left a few hours before. Yeowling loudly he was hungry. Albert bent down and scratched behind his ears. Alright old fellow! Alright! Sen smiled inwardly satisfied with his disguise as he made his way back to the Caretakers room to feed the complaining cat. Albert's mind had filled the gaps in the marooned Aliens knowledge about Human Beings. It was one thing to listen to Radio and Television broadcasts another entirely to fathom the context of that information. There was humour and politics as well as music, wondrous and so varied in emotion and mathematical complexity. There was War and conflict with it's motivations as Albert understood them. Humanity existed in this point of there evolution as Tribal and geographic rivals despite the fact that they were the same species descended from a narrow mix of one dominant genome. The economics system was an evolved form of Feudalism under the guise of Democracy which for the most-part kept the populace placated. Inequity was rife under this system so removed from what Sen and Siri had experienced in their long lives. That inequity apparent here in this workplace where Albert worked in exchange for the care of his mate upstairs in the Dementia ward. Sen understood the attachment Albert felt for Shirley as being no different to that which he felt for Siri. It didn't take Sen long to determine that looking through Albert's eyes as he was that there was a great deal of things wrong with this place. Nurses substituting medications for one thing. The stolen drugs then sold to an Orderly who proceeded to sell them on further. The bone harvesting from the deceased patients another. Unclaimed bodies were seen as resources and the replacement of large bones with plastic tubing done with little care or decorum. Siri had been collecting where and what she could during these disruptions. It was difficult to judge humans by there behaviour when they were surreptitiously doing a similar thing. Sen made time as Albert did to sit with Shirley and hold her hand. It was during one of these occasions that Shirley spoke with a hint of recognition in her voice. “You're not Albert!” Instinctively Sen held her hand just that little bit tighter, reassuringly as if to say It's alright Dear. Other residents had regained a degree of awareness as well but this was the first time it caused Sen any concern. Mr Perkins in particular had been watching him closely. It had been nearly three months since Sen had assumed Albert's identity. Three months of walking the halls and changing light bulbs, unclogging drains and emptying bins. The time had gone quickly for Sen and Siri as their vessel slowly regenerated beneath the nursing home. It had gone even more quickly for Carnac. Awaking from stasis just short of his Earthbound destination he entered the coordinates of a position just behind Terra's moon in order not to be seen. The disruption in space as it unfolded from around his ship would cause little more than a gravity wave and he was fairly certain the Humans were incapable of detecting it anyway. Inspecting his console he requested any further updates from the surveillance probe but nothing was forthcoming. They're either gone or they're in hiding he muttered to himself, after all it did take so long just to get to this backwater. Just in case and as an after thought he requested the probe to scan for Hybrid DNA in case the violators were in hiding. He'd give it 48 hours Terran time to complete its scan before moving onto his next assignment. Most Alien species could not survive for long in the hostile Terran environment without adapting in some way. Between the bacteria and diseases and the ever violent mammalians the place was a disaster waiting to happen. A DNA scan would suffice for the purpose and would catch anyone trying to deceive The Ministry for Planetary Affairs. Three months worth of genetically modified regenerative endocrine hormones modified by Iriscenes so that they could survive in this environment had found there way into the locals.


Eyes open. Eyes shut. Blink. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Blink. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Sleep. Eyes open. You can see her sitting at the end of your bed. Her matted black hair cascading down her back. You know she is going to turn around soon. You know she is going to turn around and it is going to be terrifying. Then her head starts to turn and suddenly your entire body is on fire. Your back is arching. Your throat is trying to force out a scream. It feels like this pain will never end. Then it stops. You’re lying on your back. You can feel the weight of the duvet on top of your chest and the pillow beneath your head. You try to move your arm. To wake up the person sleeping next to you but it just won’t move. Turn the light on you say. Please just turn the light on. Why aren’t they awake? You were in so much pain; they must have heard you scream? You know she is still in the room but you can’t move your head to look. Please. Please just turn the light on. It takes all of your energy to force these words from your swollen throat. All that escapes is a whisper. Eyes open. It’s pitch black. You can move your arms again. You turn over to face the body sleeping next to you. Please. Please turn on the light you say. Their bleary eyes open. They didn’t hear you at all. They had no idea how much pain you were in. You know you wont tell them what happened. You know you wont sleep with the lights off ever again.


I parked the car on the shoulder of the road. It was too dark out to see anything beyond the headlights. The moon was shrouded in clouds, and the sky was black. All around me through sealed windows, I could see faint, ghastly silhouettes of trees against the darkened sky. There were no stars. I stared at the road. The beams illuminated thirty feet in front of me. I could see the dirt road, I could see dead grass, and I could see the bottoms of towering trees. The dirt path winded away out of sight—swallowed by the dark abyss of the forest. There was nothing more to see. It felt like an hour, but when I checked the clock only ten minutes had passed. Story of my life. "You wanna stop here?" the woman in the passenger seat asked. "No," I said. "I don't know." "It's okay. We can talk here." "Yeah. Okay." The engine hummed and the car continued to vibrate. There was nothing moving in the headlight beams. The grass beside the road was cold, dead, and dry. The tops of trees were becoming more visible against the almost-black sky. I wasn't sure if there was more light now, or if I'd just gotten used to the dark. "What did you want to talk about?" I asked. "Oh, you know. *Things.* How you've been." I turned to look at her, and I said, "What do you mean?" She looked back at me. Her hair, skin, and eyes were dark. She had a warm and pleasant expression. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then she said, "I mean, I want to talk about you." "Yeah, I got that part. But what the hell does that mean?" Her expression didn't change. She almost smiled, actually. She said, "No need to be so aggressive." "I'm sorry." "No worries. Rough day today?" "Yeah." I looked straight ahead again, and shifted my glance at the rear-view mirror. There was no sign of life ahead of us or behind us. The night was peaceful and quiet. "You've had a lot of rough days lately," she said. "Am I right?" "Yeah," I said. "Don't worry. I understand." "I know you do," I said. "Nobody else does. Maybe I'm overthinking things, but I'm pretty sure people can see how miserable I am. Either they don't care, or they just—I don't know. They probably think I'm a whining kid trapped in an adult's body." I put my forehead on the steering wheel, and I sighed. "I just feel like I'm so far away from everybody." There was a long pause. Then she said, "It's okay. It's actually a lot simpler than you think." I rolled my eyes, picked up my head, and looked at her again. "Is that right?" "Yeah. Oh! I almost forgot—did you bring it?" "Bring what?" "Your favorite magazine, remember?" I winced. "That doesn't make sense. Who the hell reads magazines, anyways?" "Hey, this won't be as cheesy as you think it's gonna be." I paused, then said, "Whatever you say." She said, "I figured you wouldn't be too enthusiastic about that part. Not without my encouragement. So I grabbed one from your apartment when you were in the bathroom. I don't know if it's your favorite, but it'll work." "What do you mean, *work?*" "It's a surprise. But I think I know how to fix you—how shitty you feel, I mean." "How's that?" She laughed and said, "It's really easy. First things first, all you have to do is hold my hand." She placed her left hand palm-up on my car's handbrake. I stared at her hand for a long moment. Then I looked back up at her. All I could say was: "What?" "Hold my hand. I promise I'll never let you feel lonely again." "Okay, fine." I obeyed. "Now, I want you to drive further down the road. Pull off somewhere nobody will find us. But keep holding my hand. Okay?" "Okay." With my left hand on the steering wheel, I pulled back onto the road. I drove deeper into the forest. We were descending down a long, shallow hill. The sky got darker as we got further in. It took me a while to notice the difference, but at the end of this road the sky was much darker than where we'd entered the forest. I could no longer distinguish between the horizon and the tops of trees. Everything outside the headlight beams was just black. "This is a good spot," she said. "Okay," I replied. I parked the car on the shoulder of the dirt path and turned off the engine. The headlights extinguished, and we were both engulfed in black. In the dimmest light of the starless sky, I could see her dark eyes reflecting. "Now. Take the magazine..." She reached into her purse and pulled it out. She dropped it onto my lap. I looked down at it. "...and load it in the pistol, and chamber the bullet." I obeyed. I pushed the magazine into the pistol, and I pulled back the pistol's slide. When I let go, the mechanical *clack* brought a small bit of solace to my mind. She continued: "I know you're tired. You don't have to be tired anymore. Put the barrel in your mouth or under your chin—I promise you'll never feel lonely again. Just aim for the sky." I did. It was more comfortable to place the barrel under my chin than it was to stick cold, greasy metal into my mouth. I did that and I looked at her. She said, "But please make sure you don't miss. If you miss, you'll feel even lonelier than before. You'll wish you'd never met me." "Why's that?" I asked. "Because," she said, looking straight at my eyes, "then people will know you flirted with me. Nobody likes a flirt. Remember?" "Right," I said. "How could I forget?" "Now," she said, smiling, "don't let my hand go. Just pull the trigger, and you'll never be lonely again. I promise." I kept staring at her. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't find any more words. There was no color in my heart to express, and there were no words in my mind to speak. "Are you having second thoughts about us?" she asked. Her expression was still warm, but I detected a hint of sadness in her voice. My mouth was hanging open. I couldn't speak. She said, "It's okay. You don't have to do this now. I know it's hard after what you've been through. People are so judgmental, but no matter what I'll always be here for you—if you need me later, if you change your mind." Still looking at her, I said, "I'm so exhausted." She said, "All you have to do is pull the trigger, and you'll never feel tired again.