I had spent an entire afternoon weeping over Kavan Rathore’s death, for the eleventh time in a week. It was disorienting to see him outside the grocery store, that very evening, smiling his heart-wrenching, lopsided smile. It had all started with the flu. The one I caught by getting wet in the rain and jumping into puddles like a lunatic. Why did I do all of the above mentioned things? There is no dignified answer to that, I am afraid, so I’ll come out clean. It was a desperate performance of the manic-pixie dream girl, for a boyfriend who was to click a bunch of incredible photos and share them with #mygirlsosweet (he did not, eventually). Three days later, I was sneezing out most of my body fluids and crying out the rest of them, covered in snot and slime. When I rang up my knight in shining armour, to complain, it was mostly crickets chirping on the other side. “Babe, I feel like my head is splitting into two. Also, my throat feels like someone scrubbed it with sandpaper. Catching a cold is the worst thing, and that too right near the end of the second quarter. I am already trembling from the pending workload of missed deadlines and harrowing data presentations.” “Hmm, that sounds bad.” Obviously, it was meant to. Why else would I be complaining about a headache, to a relative stranger at two in the night? “What do you suggest? The medicines I’ve got are not proving to be that effective. Do you know about any other doctor I can go to?” “Yeah, sure.” The phone pinged, I received a forwarded number and he hung up.That was when I decided to call someone useful, someone who felt like a real human being at the other end of the phone, not some brainless, gutless answering machine at a hospital help desk. It was my elder sister, Anisha. She listened to me patiently, agreed that everything should feel like crap when you have the flu and fixed up an appointment at a reasonably priced hospital, quite close to my flat. And just because we share the same DNA, she also joined me in trashing my boyfriend, and suggested a really good web series that would lift my mood till the time I felt better. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't even have started watching what I now realize is the worst romantic comedy/horror/supernatural thriller ever. Since I recovered, I have tried to go back to the show, trying to find something that might have made it watchable, but every time it just makes my head swim. I was able to make it through 5 reruns only because I slept through half of them and had my eyes tearing up,clouding my visibility for the rest half.

The female lead was a barbie doll, the male lead was a misogynistic, baby faced idiot and the plot was so convoluted and gnarled that if you tried to understand one end of it, you would probably find yourself in some other universe by the other end. Then I remembered what had made my cold-blocked sinuses open-up and glue themselves to the screen.

It was the antihero, Kavan Rathore. Best friend to hero, plenty of hidden motives, wrapped in intriguing shades of grey and romantically aloof (by the second rerun, I definitely wanted to be his romantic interest). If the male lead was being pampered by his servants and had women fawning over him, Kavan was putting his life on line for a mysterious, dangerous mission. He was silent, broody and his deep dark eyes swirled with danger and charisma. I almost hadn’t noticed him at first, amidst all the grand gestures of love and supernatural snakes turning into humans. Just as the show became so droll that even my virus infected brain couldn't take it in, the makers zoomed in on his role. Suddenly, Kavan was the one making decisions, carrying out underhand deals, mixing with the bad guys. But my heart knew from the very beginning that this was only a charade, he was probably just misunderstood. Because look at that face! The perfect angled jaw that is chiselled but still is soft near the chin, the curved-bow like mouth and those droopy, black eyes. I knew this character had to have a redemption arc, he was just too good to be bad. This was day no. 3 of the flu. With only a few episodes left, the show was almost inching close to my all time favourite list.Life was good, Kavan had been shown to be a secret protector of the male lead and he would probably walk into the sunset, alone, but looking for love.

And then they killed him. Maybe such a delightful heartthrob was fated to die anyway, but I hadn't expected the plot to

sacrifice him just for the sake of the male lead delivering an elaborate, useless monologue. My fever and choked throat were nowhere close to the pain of watching him bleed out, gasping and sobbing and pledging his life and friendship to the hero. If someone had been in the same room that day, watching me watch the episode, they would have seen a 24 year old adult woman, sitting among a pile of used handkerchiefs and crumpled tissues, shake and tremble as if her life was coming to an end. Luckily, no one did. But I woke up the next morning with a burning fever and only half aware of where I was. I vaguely remember calling out to my mother, iny empty flat, near noon and then falling asleep on an empty stomach. The doctor looked visibly grim when I turned up for a second check-up. The next phase of the flu began as I walked home after the checkup, clutching a paper bag brimming with shiny silver foils of all sorts of colourful pills and taste-bud-burning cough syrups. Anisha had spoken to my neighbour, a middle-aged banker named Mrs. Sinha and she kindly consented to share her meals with me. The rest of the week is a blur--I remember waking up in the morning to greet Mrs. Sinha, waiting desperately for the dabba of food and trying to snivel back into my flat as soon as possible. The rest of the day I would drift in and out of very garbled childhood dreams.

Sometimes I would see my grandmother scolding Anisha and me and in the middle of that I would see the supervisor in my office join in, and add to the steadily growing list of my faults. To ease my mind of this pain I traded in a different kind of torture. I went back to a rerun of the aforementioned web series. This time I skipped most of the introduction, breezed through the meet-cute between the lead pair and finally reached the part of Kavan Rathore’s entry when he saved the female lead and let her think the hero did it, by melting into the shadows. Having a weakness for underdogs in general, I went to sleep holding a bowl of rice and curry, dreaming of the million ways I would have definitely noticed him in the same situation. When the bell rang the next morning, it shattered my nerves and I tipped out of the couch, bowl, rice and curry. This was day 5 and I had stopped bothering about appearances. If Mrs. Sinha was going to see me groggy-eyed, speaking like a zombie in an oil-stained T-shirt, there was nothing much I could do. When I opened the door, craning out my face and trying to hide the rest of the mess I was, she did not appear to be very disturbed. “Good morning, Beta . How are you?” My cheeks burned when I put in the effort to smile. “Much better, Aunty. I would have invited you in but the house is a bit of a mess.” She reached into her bag and I already started extending my arm for my packed lunch. Instead of her usual steel tiffin boxes, she pulled out a crumpled roll of aluminium foil and placed it in my hands. It was disastrously light. My lost appetite made a comeback and rumbled sadly in my stomach. “My maid is on a holiday today, so I packed your lunch in a hurry and didn’t bring the box. You already look much better than yesterday. I think by tomorrow, you will be back on your feet. Take care, bye.” “Bye, Aunty.” My voice floated off weakly, and I didn’t even wait to reach the dinner-table. Closing the door behind me, I unpacked the foil, gulped down the dry aloo paratha she had made, then lumbered off to sleep again. Mrs Sinha's words turned out to be mysteriously prophetic as I woke up in the evening, feeling more aware of the world and slightly less numbed. I decided to walk to the nearest grocery store and stock up the fridge, in a burst of optimism.

Near the bread and dairy aisle, my world stopped spinning as I spotted Kavan outside, surveying the store. Beautiful, brave, Kavan Rathore, who sacrificed himself, blood spilling out from his mouth and dove-eyes tearing up before going still. We locked eyes and he smiled--the sad, cynical, drop-dead gorgeous smile I had memorized by now. But something moved behind him and my eyes shifted focus.

A huge cargo trolley, squeaked and groaned on its rusty wheels as it made its way towards the grocery store. The boxes on the top swayed dangerously and I bounded out of the store. I already knew that those boxes contained something heavy that would fall on my heartthrob just like they had fallen on the female lead in the show. I would not let him die, I would be the savior's savior. Unfortunately, my depleted stores of energy could not keep up with the run that I had broken into. My legs trembled and collapsed before I could reach the grey checked shirt that I loved so much on Kavan’s broad, athletic figure. The next thing I remember is waking up to Anisha’s powerful eyebrows knitted together in intense focus as she studied my face.

“You are in big trouble.” “Did I save Kavan? Is he alright?” “Who?” Anisha’s eyebrows shot into her hairline and her nose curved up viciously. “Kavan, Kavan Rathore. Arrey, the one in that web series, he was standing outside the grocery store.” I tried to move and saw that I was on drip, on a hospital bed. “You mean the actor who plays him? And which grocery store? I brought you to the hospital straight from your flat and Mrs. Sinha told me you hadn’t left your flat in the last 3 days.”

“What happened to me? Is the flu getting bad?” Anisha smacked the hospital case file shut. “Yeah, it did get bad. That tends to happen when you starve a sick, weakened body and forget to take most of your medicines.” Things had gone too far for me to be indignant at being scolded like a 5 year old. “It wasn’t me, just the delirium--it knocked me completely out of my senses.” It has been a year since the Week of the Flu. I have broken up with my pre-flu boyfriend (no drama at all--he calmly told me to pay my half of the bill as we left the eatery where we broke up.) Nowadays I only watch non-fiction--documentaries, travel shows--you know, mature adult stuff. I have given up on all--just a second, my phone is ringing, it's Anisha. “Have you watched the actor who played Kavan Rathore, in his recent interview?” She wasn’t going to let me forget this so easily, was she? “No, because I’m not interested, thank you very much.” “I’m sending the link. Watch it right now. He is talking about a paranormal experience he has had last year.” I wasted 5 minutes, trying to convince myself I was not interested, before tuning into the interview. The host asked him whether he believed in ghosts, being a part of such a hugely popular supernatural show.

He looked a bit different, almost like a twin. Same features, same voice but I felt nothing like watching my Kavan Rathore. “Not in ghosts,” he replied, “but I did have a very strange experience last year. I had a minor head injury, and initially I used to have nonsensical dreams. I would see this 5-feet-4 woman smiling at me from a grocery store I have never been to. I kept having the same dream again and again. It almost felt like she was someone I had met.” I stopped watching, locked down my phone and went back to work. THE END


It had been three days since the storm started and it didn’t look like it was stopping anytime soon. I was sheltered under some cardboard boxes, which had turned too soggy to support themselves, let alone shelter me - it was as if I was standing under the rain. Many times I thought of getting up and finding a better place to spend the night but, I feared not only the frequent boom of the thunder or the occasional lightning that followed, but the thugs who came out at this time of night.. Even after decades, it seems that these people never sleep and continuously watch you from the shadows; like a curfew - if all the homeless people weren’t sleeping by 11 pm, it was these people’s job to get rid of us, like mere pieces of garbage. The boxes prevented anyone from seeing me at night, but not the loud bang of the gunshots. It was this that kept me from dozing off into the merciless night. My cold, wet hands were tucked within my legs, my legs bent inward to conserve some heat. Someone had stolen my entire cart while I had gone to find some food. It had everything I rummaged over the years; a blanket, pillow, some bits of food and water, and gloves; oh how I missed my gloves! I always brought it with me, but yesterday, I was close to a dumpster, so I decided to leave it behind. I made sure to conceal it well but someone must have been watching me. The five minutes that I took was enough for the thief to get what he or she came for. I resented myself for it and should have known better than to take the risk. All I could do now was to start all over again, like I did when I first arrived onto these streets. This time though, I knew what I had to do.

The night passed and the storm had calmed down, thankfully, but that didn’t mean it was going to stop. The morning was normal; car horns blaring, huge crowds scrambling to the store with the biggest discount, pigeon droppings falling on people’s heads - all normal from a homeless man’s perspective. It was reasonable enough weather to go on a little scavenger hunt. I knew from experience that nice weather doesn’t last long, so I had to hurry to find not only a shelter, but also some food and new clothes. I got up from under the boxes and took a look around. Other homeless people had also started to look for food in the dumpsters. One man made a mistake of shouting excitedly, indicating that he had found some food, which caused others to rush towards him and fight for it.

”Amateur”, I thought but in the back of my mind, I knew I was once that amateur as well.

I fixed my hair as well as I could, to blend in with the crowd. As for my clothes, I had no choice but to keep them on until they dried. People were looking at me from everywhere, as if I was some inhumane creature rather than the same species. Some were discrete about it, looking only when I was not, but I could feel their eyes burning into me. And others simply couldn’t help it. “What happened to you, freak?”

“Stay away from me, oh my God! You stink.”

And it was true. I did. But I had been in these conditions long enough not to even care anymore. Fashion is something one must sacrifice in order to be successful on the streets. I was shoved by some who were brave enough to touch me, and spat on by ones that were not. I continued through the crowd because I knew that resorting to fighting would do me no good as I was too weak to fight. As I escaped into an alleyway, the clatter of the crowd subsided and I pulled out my map to see where I was.

North St. A dumpster was close by, but before I could get there, something caught my eye. A few feet in front of me, I could see a folded blanket. Without hesitation, I went towards it and picked it up. It was heavy, so there was something inside. It was also very warm and soft, as if it had been left in the sun before being placed here although, there hadn’t been any sun the past few days. I took the blanket with me, making sure that I wasn’t being followed. I then hid behind some trash cans behind a small shop. I placed the blanket on the ground, and opened it. Inside, there was a cylindrical container, with crimson liquid peering from within. I soon realized that that was the thing that made the blanket feel so warm. I wanted to pick it up, but feared getting burnt. Nonetheless, my heart was yelling at me to touch it. And so I did. But as soon as I did, the liquid inside the container turned a light shade of blue. My hand didn’t feel hot, instead, I felt cool. It was then that I saw the opening for the container, and so I decided to open it. I don’t really know why I wanted to open it. I should have left the container alone, and taken the blanket, but it called out to me. Like when you know something is wrong, but still end up doing it. As I opened it, I decided to test its capabilities by pouring it onto a rat that was amused by the turquoise light. The liquid just fell on the rat’s body, and drenched its fur. I looked away too soon to realize that the rat disappeared. Thinking that it was safe, I poured it into my hands. The cool fluid flowed into my already wet hands, and almost instantly, I felt a ringing in my ear. “ Miikke”. I heard my name being called by an unfamiliar voice and after a few seconds, I fell unconscious. When I came to, my eyes needed a few moments to fathom where I was. Around me, transparent walls concealed me from what seemed to be some sort of lab. There was equipment surrounding me, and I was constrained to a bed. An unpleasant and an unfamiliar aroma was floating in the air, and my mind wanted to escape this ratchet place. I would rather have been homeless than sit here waiting for something to happen. Then, an automated voice said, “Welcome Mike to the Home of the Spartans. You are in lockdown and will be released after two weeks.”

That was all that it said, and then from holes in the ceiling escaped a visible green gas that once again put me to sleep.  2 Weeks Later…

My body was sore and I was no longer wearing the old and soggy clothes from the day I touched the liquid. I was still in the bed but my constraints had been removed. I got up and walked around the room, trying to find a door. Then, as if on cue, a man accompanied by two bodyguards appeared from within the ground. I asked him to get me out of here and he replied,

“Relax, Mike-” “How do you people know my name?” “You gave it to us 10 years ago.” That is when I went homeless. “Lies, I was homeless then. I had never seen you before in my life!” “Mike, we brainwashed you for an experiment. You were willing to risk your life for it because you said you didn’t have anything better to do with your life. You lost your wife, your job, and your house, so we took you in.” “I don’t believe you.”

“I knew you wouldn’t. So here is the footage of the entire thing.” He showed me a video and it showed me and him, talking to each other. I had said that I had nothing else to do with my life. And yet, I don’t remember any of it.

“We told you that you would be brainwashed and you agreed. You said you wanted to forget your past at whatever cost, even if it meant being part of an experiment that made you homeless. It all seems a lie, but it's true. Now that we’ve finished conducting the experiment, you are no longer needed, so we gave you that teleportation liquid. The rat that you tested it on has been eliminated from the laboratory. We will give you your memory back if you want it.” “Yes, I want it. Of course I want it. I need it. I don’t know what I was thinking - forgetting about my past. That’s what a coward would do. Not me. I’m Michael Gray.” “Actually, your name is Johansen Berger. To recover your memory, we need to also edit your family’s. That process will take a while, but I assure you, that as soon as we finish, you will be reunited with your family.” A week had passed and I was finally going back to my small apartment. My wife, Diane, had passed long before my memory was erased. The kids, Cooper and Lily, were left on their own to figure out the world for themselves. I was excited but ashamed. What if my kids tell me to leave? What if they don’t forgive me for what I did? I started second-guessing myself, but it was too late. I was outside their door, and so I knocked.

An elderly man opened the door.

“Cooper?” I asked “Who? My name is Silverstein. There is no Cooper here. He was murdered along with his wife or something, Lily, I think it was, I don’t remember.”

At his words, my life crumbles within seconds. I couldn’t bear it, so I did what I could, I jumped out the window, and felt the wind rush through my air. The ground got closer and closer until it was right there. My eyes closed, and weren’t opening anytime soon.


The whiskey stung going down. Sheriff Houghton coughed back the cheap swill and took in a deep breath through his nostrils, taking in the scents of Old Delilah’s saloon. That one sniff carried with it the musty memories of liquor, twice chewed tobacco, and the unmistakable truth that it had been weeks since the bartender before him had seen a bar of soap. He quickly rejected the breath, pushing it out from his mouth with great force and slamming his empty glass onto the table. “You’re doin’ nobody favors here, Kipp.” The words came out in a drawl croak, still recovering from the whiskey’s hard punch to his throat.

On the other side of the bar, Kipp poured another stream of the fiery potion into Houghton’s glass. He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes ran cold. He poured the man another drink. “You got that right. I ain’t doing favors for nobody, cuz I ain’t hidin’ that boy on your poster, Sheriff. Never seen ‘em, don’t know ‘em, and he ain’t my business.” The sheriff grasped his glass tentatively, but did not drink. He stared down into the swirling golden liquid as he contemplated the barman’s lie. He knew Kipp to be an honest man who paid his fines and did his time in the Sunday pew, yet Houghton knew there was a history between Kipp and the boy’s mother, Susie. For him to say he had never known the boy was a bald-faced lie. If this man were hiding the boy, then it was only a matter of time before he would break. “Alright.” Houghton said. He threw up his hands in surrender. “You don’t know ‘em. He wasn’t here.” Kipp lowered his defenses and relaxed his jaw. “Like I said.” The room went silent for a time. The sky outside had gone black, the streets deserted. There was only one other man in the building, seated at the farthest table from the bar. Kipp had only just now noticed him, due to his lack of movement and the tan duster he wore, which acted as camouflage in the dusty saloon. “Last call!” Kipp shouted across the room. “Last call, Fella!” When the man showed no signs of life, Kipp walked over to him and placed an empty glass near his nose, checking for breath. He examined the fog on the glass carefully, then cleared the man’s table and left him to continue his rest.

As he returned to the bar to clean the glass, he glanced at the sheriff again and grumbled. “What’s there such a price on that kid for anyhow? He ain’t more than ten or so.” Houghton returned his hands to his full whisky glass. His right eyebrow curled. “How is it you know he’s ten, iff’n you don’t know the boy, Kipp?” Kipp, now back behind the bar, brushed the notion away with a rag he was using to polish the glass. “Oh now, Sheriff, I was just lookin’ at that great doodle you’d done of ‘em. I was just supposin’ he was young from it.” Houghton, still unconvinced, pushed his glass away and sat up straight onto his barstool with crossed arms. “You were supposin’?”

“Yessir. I was supposin’,” Kipp defended. “And supposin’ he’s that young, wouldn’t you suppose he’s got some folks? They’d sure know his whereabout’s wouldn’t they.” Houghton leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar counter top. “That’s an awful lot of supposin’ on a kid you don’t know, that you’ve never seen, that’s none of your business.” There was a tumbleweed silence as the men examined one another with grave suspicion. Houghton knew Kipp, and he’d all but decided on trusting him, but he couldn’t help but wonder. An anxious sweat broke out over his face. Behind that unwashed beard, those lazy grey eyes, and the gap-toothed smile, could there be a man capable of harboring a fugitive?

The sleeper in the corner broke Houghton’s thoughts short with an unconscious chortle as he broke wind. The sound filled the otherwise empty space, and the smell was enough to make even Kipp, in his unwashed glory, turn up his nose. The two men shifted to glance at him, then returned to one another, the tension broken with a shared smirk.

“I worry for his mama is all.” Kipp said, putting the glass away. “Must be worried to high heaven if she don’t know where he is.” This sentiment amused Houghton. He wasn’t sure if this comment confirmed he knew Susie or if it secured his innocence. He choked down his still full glass, voicing his distain for the beverage with a breathy gasp. He stood and brushed his pant legs, returning his hat to his head and offering Kipp a well folded bill for his trouble, which he declined with the wave of a calloused hand as he poured himself a whiskey. “On the house, Sheriff. Here’s hopin’ you get your man.” Kipp raised his glass in a toast to Sheriff Houghton, with a smile that cast even more suspicion. Houghton still had one more card left to play. He decided that if he told Kipp enough of what the boy had done, perhaps he could elicit a confession of some kind. He didn’t tell him all of it. Truth be told, so much of it didn’t make sense. All that blood on her with no open wounds, the bullets found laying in the dirt near the body. The sobbing boy who was there one minute and gone the next. He was beginning to think it was all just the heat. That he had imagined it all. He wouldn’t tell Kipp everything. Just what he needed to know. “I wouldn’t worry much for his mama now. She won’t be missin’ him much, being as she’s dead. Her blood’s all over the kid, if you believe the stories.” Kipp’s eyes widened, his face pale. After a careful study of the bartender’s stunned expression, Houghton decided that it was best to simply end the evening and let his words stew. He would return tomorrow and see if Kipp was ready to talk . “Like I said, you’re doin’ nobody favors if you know where he is.”

With that, the Sheriff adjusted the hat on his head and turned to leave.

Kipp stood still a moment after the saloon door swung closed. He wanted to move but couldn’t. He wanted to shout, to curse his grief at anyone who would listen. Somehow he had a feeling that his last lone patron in the corner wouldn’t wake if he did. Still he just stood motionless. What in the Sam Hill have you gotten yourself into now, Kipp? What the hell has you done? What has HE done? He’d always thought of himself as a good man, an honest man, and yet here he was, lying to the law, implicating himself. And for what? Some kid. Not just some kid. Susie’s Kid. Susie. She was dead now, gone. He’d never told her, but she was the closest thing he would ever have to a daughter. He had wanted to cry, to break down when Houghton had said the words. Still, he protected the child. That is what Susie would have wanted, even if the child had been her undoing.

After several attempts to awaken the man in the corner, Kipp decided that the man was nothing to bother with and would likely see himself out when he woke. He checked the body again for signs of life and locked up his establishment, casting a cautious glance outside to ensure that Sheriff Houghton had gone. He stood in the room a moment, taking in the scent of dust, wood, and mildew.

His shock had been simmering, and now it had come to a slow rolling boil. Anger filtered through all of his thoughts, clouding them. He walked behind the bar to a small storage room and slammed his clenched fist down on a mildewed whiskey barrel. He spoke to the air. “Now you wanna tell me what you done that has Mr. Law barking at my door at all hours, or should I ask ‘em back here to tell me his own damn self?” From inside the barrel came a shuffle and a knock. The lid tumbled off and a tuft of ash blonde hair rose up from the inside, followed by a pair of bight blue eyes and a soot covered face wearing a scolded expression. It was as if he had been caught drinking the communion wine and had come to seek his penance. His body trembled and his eyes swelled. He opened his mouth a bit, but no words came. “I’m waitin’.” Kipp barked. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Why you wanted, kid?” His voice rose with urgency. He shook the paper in the child’s face. “You kilt your momma?” Did you kilt Susie? My Susie? Is that her blood on your trousers? You kilt yer momma, and then you come here and ask me to hide you. Is that it? You gonna have a go at me too?” His voice was now a rolling thunder that filled the full saloon. He imagined it would wake the man in the bar, but figured it would likely not matter much what a lazy drunkard heard.

“I ain’t kilt my momma.” The boy mumbled.

Kipp put a hand to his ear. “Eh?” He’d heard well enough. He just wanted to hear it again. “I said I ain’t kilt my mama!” The boy’s voice cracked and warbled, he wiped away a variety of fluids from his face with his soiled sleeve. Kipp gestured to him to continue, eyes wide with impatience. “I was too late to help her. She was gone dead when I got there” The words were coming out, but they were muffled and broken. He stopped a moment and sobbed into his filthy hands, dirt mixing with the salty water and stinging his raw cheeks. “Real dead.” He said. “Can’t be helped kind. There was no going back.” Kipp allowed the boy a moment to continue his tears. He kept repeating that last part. “No going back.” It was a mantra to him, keeping him in his grief. “No going back.” Kipp fought back the urge to embrace the child. He tried not to recall the day his own mother died, when the fever took her and left him with nothing at just fourteen years old. He didn’t want the kid to see his sympathy, but it was there. He knew this child couldn’t have killed his mother. There wasn’t any way this whimpering mess of a boy could do that to anyone.  “Then why you hidin’? Kipp asked, finally. “If you ain’t done it, then go to Houghton and tell ‘em true. You ain’t done it. I believe you. He’ll believe you. Hell, He believed me, and I’m the worst damned liar this side of the Mississippi.” Kipp laughed a little, but the boy didn’t. There was a still darkness in the boy’s eyes. His grieving abated for now. He was still inside the barrel, but standing erect in it, stone still. There was fear in him. Real fear. The kind that you can’t shake. “I ain’t hidin’ from the law.” He said. There was a tone to it, an ominous one. He said the rest with his eyes, burrowing them into Kipp with gritted teeth. The truth of it hung in the air, haunting them both. The boy hadn’t killed sweet Susie, but whoever had certainly wasn’t going to leave loose ends. Before further explanation could come, the creak of boots on floor boards sent the boy back into his whiskey barrel. Kip covered the barrel and turned around to find himself eye to eye with the darkened well of a pistol barrel. Even more startling than the gun itself was the man at the other end. Standing at his full height, with his eyes wide open, the man appeared much more of a threat than he did earlier, when Kipp had checked his vitals and declared him harmless. “Now, I thought you was sleepin’?” Kipp choked.

They called him “The Possum”. Only once Kipp had heard of him before and it was never told whether the man who stood before him was an outlaw, a bounty man, or a murderer. The only consistency amongst all the rumors was that the Possum only ever wanted them dead and never alive. It was said that he never flinched at the thought of killing anyone, even a woman or a child. His namesake was earned by his reputation to “play dead” until the time was right, hidden in plain sight. Sometimes he was a dead body, or an unconscious man you just stepped over in brawl, and sometimes he was just a drunk, huddled in a corner, so fast asleep that one might think he was dead.You never called on the Possum if you wanted your money back. You called him when you were done waiting. “All right, son. Common out where I can’t see ya or I kill ‘em!” The Possum spat as he shouted to the room. His word’s came out in raspy broken spurts as he struggled to keep a piece of tobacco lodged in his cheek. “We can do this easy or hard, kid! Your mama’s time was up! She shoulda paid the man what he was owed, and you, well you was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now I don’t know how you done the thing with the bullets, or how you got away like you did, but I got yah now. I can’t let you be. Wouldn’t be responsible, lettin’ a motherless little bastard run around. Better yah get shot quick than starve to death in the heat.” Kipp placed a shaking hand over the barrel of the gun and met eyes with the man. “He’s with me now, cousin. We ain’t gonna say a word. You can rest assured he’s safe and silent.” He thought perhaps a friendly tongue would calm the man, talk his finger away from the trigger. He thought wrong. “Ain’t your cousin.” The man replied. He fired a shot into Kipp’s palm. The ensuing explosion surprised Kipp as a thunder clap filled the room and specks of blood splattered his vision. Kipp look down at his ruined hand and saw a blackened tattoo around a stone sized hole, now filling up with blood. Kipp fell to his knees on the hard floor and snapped his eyes shut, praying that if he closed them tight enough, he might disappear. The Possum’s gun was now pressed to the bartender’s head. “The boy!” The Possum shouted.

Kipp, his eyes still closed tight, pointed shakily with his good hand in the direction of the whiskey barrel. He felt the Possum’s pistol moved away from his skin. Warm liquid trailed down his leg. Kipp could hear the struggle, the barrel opening, the muffled sounds of such a small and helpless body fighting against the strength and muscle of a full grown man. The air stung his nostrils with the scent of blood and sweat. The floor was hard beneath him as he stayed there, crouched, eyes closed, waiting for it to end. The gun fired again, and the room went cold and still. It smelled of lighting before a storm. All of the sounds simply stopped. There was no struggle anymore, no crying or shouting.

Kipp opened his eyes. Time was still. The bullet had stopped, suspended into mid air. Kipp and the boy remained in motion, while everything else appeared stagnant. The boy was backed up against the barrel, a bullet within an inch of his red and watery nose. Kipp watched, stunned, as the boy reached a shaking hand towards the bullet, picked it carefully with his thumb and index finger, and turned it on its axis to face his assassin. The boy gave a deliberate wave of his right hand and the bullet continued on its new course, punching a hole into the Possum’s stomach. The gunman fell, bleeding and dropped his weapon. He coughed and sputtered, unsure of how he had come to be shot. The boy kicked the Possum’s gun into the corner of the room and came to stand over the injured man. He made a clockwise gesture with his index finger over the man’s stomach. The Possum jerked spasmodically on the floor, his body cracking and crumping in a series of sharp spurts coughs and moans. Then he was still. What would have been an agonizingly long ordeal of bleeding out and waiting for death had been condensed into 10 short seconds. Kipp had been wrong about the boy. He did have it in him to kill. The boy came to crouch down beside Kip. “Gimme your hand.” He said. Kipp hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the boy, or if he was even a boy at all. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He said impatiently. Kipp held out his disfigured hand and the child examined it before pointing his index finger at the wound. This time, the boy’s hand motion was counter-clockwise. Kipps hand itched and tingled with the bites of a thousand mosquitos as the wound sealed itself. When the boy finished, the hand was covered in blood, but otherwise looked and felt as normal as it did an hour ago. The boy gave a slight grin, reminding Kipp once again that this was Susie’s child.

Kipp reached down and picked up the bullet that had passed through his hand. He placed the blood soaked souvenir into his pocket and turned to thank the boy, but he and the body were gone.


Over the past few years, Mary Gardner began suspecting Tim was hiding something from her. Something big! While on his frequent business trips, he rarely answered her phone calls. She was lucky if her texts prompted a response. The only details he ever shared when he got back home were insignificant, like what he had for dinner or what kind of car the rental company gave him. Who cares about that? According to him, he worked 14-hour days on boring, but secret, projects. The locked briefcase he kept in his closet drove her crazy! He would never open it when she was around; moreover, whenever she asked him about it, he’d respond with something like “It's just paperwork and files” or “It’s boring work things that you can’t see but wouldn’t be interested in anyway.” She tried so hard to ignore it and trust him. After all, he never actually did anything that disputed his trustworthiness, but the secrets were driving her mad! She couldn't take it anymore. She decided today was the day she would finally see what was inside. She would discover the truth, once and for all.

One hour after he left for work, Mary decided it was safe to proceed with her plan. She used a hammer and screwdriver to pry open the lock on the briefcase. Inside she found a bundle of paperwork, two passports, a gun, a large envelope full of money, and a key. She sat on the bed and started looking through the papers. They seemed fairly routine until she came upon a Marriage Decree and was surprised to see that the names recorded were Marie Snyder and James Hart. Then she noticed that all the paperwork was related to them. Who were they and why did her husband have their documents? She opened the passports and found they were also issued under the same names, but her heart skipped a beat when she realized the pictures on them were of her and Tim! What in the world does this all mean? Suddenly she realized that Tim was not the boring salesman he claimed to be! So many things flashed through her mind. Was he a spy? Could he be a criminal? Maybe he has a second family? And what in the world was he doing with a gun? Was Tim dangerous? She couldn’t decide if she was more angry, scared, or curious. But she was sure she had to confront her husband and demand an explanation. Mary put everything that was in the briefcase into her satchel, even the gun. She was too flustered to drive so she called an Uber to take her to Tim’s office. Twenty minutes later, she was on her way downtown. She was calmer now as she spent the drive time convincing herself that Tim was sure to have a reasonable explanation. So many different scenarios bombarded her thoughts. It seemed to take forever to get to the office building on Frontline Avenue. When they finally got there, she didn’t even thank her driver. She just jumped out of the car and ran up the steps into the building. The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and Mary stepped out. The first thing she saw was a big sign saying that the office was closed for renovation. Why hadn’t Tim mentioned this? And, more importantly, where in the world was he? And the plot thickens….. Mary called a few of Tim’s friends and, without revealing the morning’s events, attempted to locate him. Since no one offered any helpful clues, she went back home to wait for him to come home. What she found when she got there stunned her! Her home was ransacked. Drawers upended, a broken lamp, and closets emptied but the strangest thing was that there was no noticeable way anyone got in. The door and all the windows were locked and intact. The only way they could have gotten in was with a key and how could that be? Only she and Tim had keys. And the plot thickens…… Her first instinct was to call the police and report the break-in but what would she actually tell them? There was no corrupted means of entry and, as far as she could tell, nothing was taken. The only casualty seemed to be the lamp that apparently got knocked off the table. Besides, how much should she actually tell law enforcement? Her mind was still processing all of this unimaginable data and hadn’t reached any conclusion as to which side of the law Tim was on. Even if he was a good-guy spy, she probably shouldn’t share any information. She decided to wait for Tim to get home. She waited and waited. Mary was surprised, and kind of embarrassed, to realize that she was glad to have a gun handy. She never wanted one in the house, but it helped her feel safer tonight. Finally, about 3:30 a.m., she dozed off on the couch with the gun resting on the pillow beside her. The phone rang and she woke up with a start! When she answered, the caller just hung up. The clock read 7:15. She ran from room to room looking for Tim, but he still was not home. OMG! He never did this before, and she was becoming terrified! What could she do but WAIT? Each hour felt like a day. When Tim’s brother called shortly after noon and said he had stood him up for lunch, she thought she would lose her mind! Mark was talking but she didn’t comprehend much and when he asked if she knew where Tim was, she started crying. She tried to cover it up, but he could tell and said he was coming over. She tried to refuse a visit, but he was determined. Secretly she was glad he insisted because she longed for a trusted opinion on what she should do; and, if she couldn’t trust Mark, who could she trust? He arrived about 20 minutes later and was shocked at the chaos he saw. She ran to him, and he gave her a hug and asked, “What in the world is going on?” She held on a moment longer and then backed away and began to explain. Mary composed herself and started with “Oh, Mark, I’m so scared and confused. I don’t think I know Tim at all! After six years of marriage, I have uncovered some baffling bits and pieces. I have felt for some time that Tim was hiding something from me and today I decided to investigate.” Mark queried, “What made you feel that way and what did you do?” “Well, it is extremely hard to contact him when he goes away on his business trips,” she answered, “and he has a briefcase he keeps in his closet that he clearly specifies as private and for his eyes only.” Mark says, “That would drive me batty and make me want to know even more.” “Right? Me too,” she blurts! “So, I decided to wait until he left for work this morning and I broke into the briefcase.” “Wow!” Mark responds. “And?” She hesitates. “I’m not clear as to what is going on. It might be dangerous. It might be classified. It might be nothing. Are you absolutely sure you want to be involved?” “If my brother is in trouble, I am all in. I have to help if I can!” “Okay,” she tells him. “This is what I know. The contents of the briefcase were a bundle of paperwork, two passports, a gun, a large envelope full of money, and a key.” “Holy cow,” Mark exclaimed. “I can’t even imagine your astonishment. Keep going.” “That is just the beginning,” Mary went on. “The paperwork and passports referred to a couple named Marie and James Hart. But the kicker is that the pictures on the passports were of Tim and me!” Mark was speechless, but the look on his face said it all. She held up her hand and continued, “I don’t know how much money is in the envelope, but it’s a lot!” “And the key?” Mark asked. “I have no idea. Honestly, I haven’t even started trying to figure that one out.” He said, “It looks similar to my safe deposit key, but I’m not sure.” “Next,” she began again, “I put all of it in my satchel and summoned an Uber to take me to see Tim at his office. When I got there, I was thunderstruck by what I found.” She started feeling shaky and sat down on the couch. “What did you find?” Mark asked excitedly. “No one was there, but there was a sign stating that the office was closed for renovation.” Mary told him. “I didn’t know what to do so I came home. That is when I found this mess! I cleaned up a few things, but I didn’t know how much I should do. I waited for Tim, but he never came home.” “Did you call the cops?” Mark asked as he sat down next to her. “No.” Mary told him. “Nobody broke in or stole anything as far as I can tell, so what would I tell the cops? And that leads to my most mind-boggling question: Is Tim a spy? Or a criminal? And, oh Mark, where can he be?” A tear slowly rolled down her cheek. He reached over and pulled her in for a hug and thought for a moment. “I don’t know, Mary, both are hard to believe, but I seriously don’t think he’s a criminal. I will stay with you, though, until we figure out this puzzle.” “Thank you, Mark. That makes me feel better.” Mary told him. “The only other thing I can think of that you don’t know is that I got a phone call early this morning and the caller just hung up when I answered. It was probably nothing.” Mary and Mark waited together and discussed possibilities and actions they might take. Other than the key, for which they had no idea how to find its counterpart, the other items in the briefcase were not really clues. So, they passed the time picking at some food and distractedly playing cards. Just after midnight, the phone rang. They both jumped and Mary grabbed the phone. This is what Mark heard: Mary said “Hello. Oh my God, where have you been?” After a pause, she said “Okay. But just so you know, Mark is here with me, and I opened your briefcase. You have a lot of explaining to do!” She listened for a short time without saying anything and then said, “I don’t understand, but okay. You’ll be there soon?” Once she hung up, she turned towards Mark’s worried face. “Tim said that I should pack a suitcase with the items from the briefcase and anything important or sentimental that I couldn’t bear to leave behind. Not to worry about clothes and things, just important stuff. He said that we are not safe here so we should hurry and go to your house. The people who detained him had taken his keys and were looking for him. They were most likely watching the house, so we are to be extremely cautious and be sure we are not followed.” And the plot thickens….. Mark’s face looked ashen and all he could say was, “Wow. What in the world is happening? What did Tim get himself into?” Mary shook her head, “I don’t know, but we will find out everything when he gets to your house. He said he’d get there as soon as he could.” With her direction, he helped her get her suitcase and pack it. Forty-five minutes later they were ready to leave. She looked around one more time and said, “Let’s go.” Quietly, they peeked out the window and then stepped out onto the porch looking around for anything unusual. Mary had given Mark the gun and he kept it handy, just in case. The coast looked clear, so they walked quickly to his car. Once inside, Mark wasted no time getting out of there. It was late so there were not many cars on the road. He took a roundabout route home and neither of them noticed any suspicious headlights following them. Once satisfied they were not followed, Mark pulled into his driveway and parked the car. When they were on the porch, Mary told him that Tim said to go inside but to keep the lights off and stay out of sight. “Tim said he would knock six times so we could be sure it was him at the door,” Mary advised. Again they waited, but this time in the dark. About an hour later, a man appeared on the porch. The couch stood in front of the window, and Mary hid behind it as she peered outside. By the glow of the streetlight, she could see that he was a very big man, tall and husky. He was white and had red hair. When he reached out to try to turn the doorknob, she saw a skull and crossbones tattoo on his forearm. She had never been so scared in her life! At the same time, Mark hid in the hallway and pointed the gun at the door. He had told her not to come out no matter what happened. Only seconds later, the brute of a man rammed the door in and entered the foyer, gun extended. Mark shot first but only hit the man in the shoulder. He was not so lucky. The intruder fired and shot him right in the forehead and Mark crumpled to the floor. The man looked around quickly, but probably assumed no one else was there because the house was totally dark. He pulled the door closed as best he could and left. Mary, in a state of shock, stayed in her hiding place waiting for Tim to show up. It was no use trying to help Mark as it was obvious, he was dead. She doesn’t know how long she would have stayed behind that couch because the decision to come out was made for her when the police showed up about 15 minutes later. Apparently, the gunshots did not go unnoticed by the neighbors. Is that why Tim never showed up, she wondered. At the station, she told the detective some of the details, keeping the contents of the briefcase and Tim’s phone call to herself. She told him that her husband was out of town, so she was staying at her brother-in-law’s house for the night. She gave a detailed description of the shooter, including the tattoo on his arm. By the time she finished working with the sketch artist, the detective had received a report from Bay General Hospital that there was a patient there with a bullet wound in his shoulder. He fit the description Mary gave to a T. As suspected, it was him. He was arrested for murder. As it turned out, he was a hit man for one of the biggest syndicates on the west coast, and Mary would have to testify against him. She had police protection around the clock for the next week. Tim never did come home or even call again. She would probably never know what happened to him as she was scheduled to enter Witness Protection next week. Was he a good guy or bad guy? Did he ever really love her or was it all an act? What in the world did that little key fit? Well, at the very least, she had enough money to comfortably start over. She never would become Marie Snyder-Hart. and she would never be Mary Gardiner again. She pondered what her new name would be and what her new life would entail. She learned many lessons during this life; hopefully, her next life will be absolutely wonderful! And the plot changes…..


Pinocchio was born into the simulated universe on a Sunday.

This was an exceptionally good day to greet the universe, and his parents were in awe that The Great Program had shown such favor to them.

What a profound addition to the code he would be, they were certain of it.

But also if he wasn’t, well these sorts of things were really out of everyone’s control, so no one would feel too poorly.

Above his bed was stitched a personalized creation story that his mother had sewn.

It read: :function (create new) if CycleTiming == IsNow Andif ParentObject(Male) == True Andif ParentObject(Female) == True Andif function (disease) == False Then create function (Pinocchio) Endif :Add function (Pinocchio) to Code She knew that it was a very simplified representation of what the real Code must look like, but still she cried in joy as she hung it above his crib.

He was a marvelous boy, his eyes had the same code as hers, and his face was coded like his father’s. Pinocchio grew at a rate that was well within toleranced bounds of a generic bell curve fit, which made his parents glow with satisfaction.

He was a happy baby, and cried an amount considered statistically average.

His first year passed without issue, at each developmental stage he showed signs of progression at the appropriate moment.

But when he spoke his first word into the world, the perfect childhood came crashing down around them. “Real!”

His squeals of laughter after saying it rang through the house, but it left his parents frowning at each other. “Where did he hear that from?!” “Well it certainly wasn’t me, I don’t use that kind of language in the house!” “Well it certainly wasn’t me either, could he have heard it at one of those protests?” They both stop and think then, but neither of them can remember a time that he’s ever been near those people .

“The doctor, we’ll have to get him seen immediately.” – The next morning, after a night of troubled sleep for his parents, Pinocchio sits on a table at the Pediatrician’s.

The doctor shines lights in his eyes, in his ears, and takes his temperature all while conversing with his parents. “Has he had any other signs or symptoms of being a realist?” “At his age?

Surely that’s not a concern.” The doctor tuts absentmindedly; “One can never be too certain, some areas of study are now suggesting that Realism is a psychological disorder.” Both parents gasp and look at each other.

Not our perfect boy! Their eyes scream.

Pinocchio, watching this exchange, thinks that now might be the appropriate time to try his word again. “REAALL” He exclaims. “My word!”

The doctor turns around sharply again to stare at him.

“What a positively curious case!” His mother does not find this positively curious, and instead it sends her crying inconsolably into his father’s arms. – On the way back to the safety of their house, they pass a protest on the street.

Protectively, Pinocchio’s mother shields his eyes from it.

She watches through the window as they cruise slowly by signs that read I FEEL REAL, and PINCH ME, I’M NOT DREAMING.

She shudders at the ugliness of it, at the implications of what these people believe. It was entirely self-evident that this world was a simulation, and pretending otherwise was abhorrent to her.

When philosophers and scientists first discovered this, there was large scale outrage against it.

What a silly, backwards time .

But over time it was accepted, and then it was triumphed.

To think that her own child might grow to be one of these miscreants, why it was positively wretched!

We will get him the best tutors, the best therapists, and make sure that he doesn’t. – Even with the best tutors, and the best therapists, Pinocchio’s interest in the real only grew with him.

And with a great access to knowledge, his understanding of the world grew at a rapid pace.

As a child, he’d ask the most confounding questions, so that his mother and father had to take to studying philosophy to answer him. “But mother, if this is really all a simulation, what’s even the point of existence?” “Would there be a definitive point if this was real?

We make our own meaning, sweetheart.” “And if it is a simulation, are we in charge of our own actions?” “No one knows that dear, it’s unknowable.

Determinism can’t be proved either way, but I certainly feel in charge of mine.

Don’t you?” He’d nod slowly after exchanges like this, staring off into empty space for long stretches afterwards.

Although his parents maintained a calm, loving appearance with him, each conversation increased their dread.

“No matter what we do, his interest is only growing!

Maybe we’re taking the wrong approach?”

His father would say. “Maybe there’s nothing we can do, dear.

The Great Program has made him this way, who are we to try and alter his code?”

His mother would respond, for she had become very religious over the years.

Every Sunday, she would attend a gathering to celebrate the simulation and praise The Great Program that held everything together, and created all things. It was a time of great growth for Pinocchio, who was surrounded on all sides by bright thinkers.

Even if they tried to persuade him to believe in the simulated universe, it never felt right to him.

But he heard all their arguments, and turned them over in his brain again and again like shiny toys. – His parent’s fears were crystalised the summer he turned sixteen revolutions.

They knew this was a time of great rebellion, and had feared his increasing temper and impatience with their views.

It had led to several heated exchanges where his father had reproved him, screaming things like; here in this house we believe in a simulated universe, and in moments of great despair; your ideas will lead you down a dark road, son. They woke on his birthday to find that he had left.

There was a simple letter on his bed. Goodbye mother and father, I love you, but your life is not for me.

I want to be a real boy, and I want to be around others like me.

You’ve taught me well, and I will cherish my time with you always. – Over the years, they’d see him occasionally from the car window, but never approached.

He was their greatest shame, their most obvious failure.

He’d be at a corner protest, or on the television leading a march.

He looked happy, thrilled and alive in the moment, and it only deepened their embarrassment.

What a sad thing to believe in something that isn’t real.


Love Notes From Afghanistan My husband Paul had been serving in Afghanistan for almost a year now and, oh, how the kids and I missed him. Sure, we could Face Time once a week when he wasn’t out on a mission, but I craved his smell and the warmth of his breath on my face. For the kids, it was a bedtime cuddle. Willow our youngest was  fifteen-months old now. He'd missed her first tooth, the first time she took a step and many other things that dad's enjoyed. She would and run to the laptop calling  say Dada, Dada, she didn’t understand. Eight-year-old Jake did though. He missed playing ball with his dad and trips to our cabin by the lake. He and Paul collected firewood each day and lit the ‘biggest bonfire in the world’. I tried to fill in for Paul. ‘Don’t even try, Mum, you can’t do it like Dad.' That hurt. I settled for a gas burner inside the cabin and Jakes’ best friend, Alex, joined us. Watching Jake struggle broke my heart. The children couldn’t possibly understand the ways in which I missed Paul. A quirky raising of an eyebrow was all it took for me to put the kids to bed early and curl up with him in front of a good movie, with a single malt in one hand and his arm around my neck. Then we’d make our way into a night of the most exquisite lovemaking. And his cheeky grin when Jake asked us the next morning why we left our clothes ‘all over the place’. Most of all though was his gift of being able to calm my fears and convince me things would be okay. Like when I was doing my PhD at Cornell. I was missing timelines for my thesis. ‘They’ll throw me off the course, Paul.’ ‘No they won’t, how about I take the kids to the cabin for a couple of days. You can have the house and all the time you want to work on it. But first call your supervisor, she’ll understand.’ Paul. The voice of reason. And then he was gone. Each night I’d hug his pillow and breathe in his scent, relive the lovemaking. Tears fell because my heart could no longer take the pain. Like rain they fell until the clouds could no longer take its heaviness. I let them flow, hoping for a brighter tomorrow. Paul wasn’t there to catch them. I smiled every time a found one of the many ‘love notes’ he’d hidden around the house before he left. I wanted them to last so Jake and I allowed ourselves just one each day. They finally dried up, as did my tears. I kept everyone of them in a jewellery box. They were my jewels, my gems. Taco Bell had to wait until Paul got back.  It was his and Jake’s ‘special’ time together. We passed there every Sunday on our way to church. Jake would look the other way. ‘The next time your Dad takes you there, Jake, will be when he’s back home with us for good. You’ll like that.’ He'd nod. We belonged to Oceanside Christian Fellowship, a church that Paul and his family had attended; where we got married and had the children baptised. Pastor Bob Darling kept an eye on us. ‘Your Paul’s a hero, Alice. He’s doin’ his country proud.’ Prayers were said, not just for Paul but for all those serving in what Bob termed the “most outrageous conflict that America should never have got involved in.”  This got him into trouble with some of the older members of the church who held the staunch belief that a man should “live and die for his country”.  But this was twenty-fifteen and those whose loved ones were fighting for world peace understood. Each Thursday evening the families would gather at Bob’s house for a barbecue. The kids played together and we Mums talked about anything and everything, just not the war. Karen Jones had just had twins, Mavis Richmond had started up a women’s garden group. An invitation to join was prized by many. I was happy doing my volunteer work in the church office. As much as I tried not to, I'd look across the lawn to where the men congregated searching for Paul’s face. Every Sunday afternoon, the kids and I sat in front of the laptop waiting for the much longed for ‘ping’ that announced Face Time and our chat with Paul. Sometimes it didn’t ‘ping’, that’s when I panicked. I prayed for an email some days later. It was better than nothing. My family were in Florida but Paul’s folks lived close by, we were close. One day instead of the post being left in the mailbox, there was a knock on the front door.

‘Here missus, I think you’ll like what I have for you,’ the postman said as he handed me a securely wrapped package with the official seal of the US army in one corner. I took it inside. ‘Jake, come see what your Mom has.’ Jake was jumping out of his skin. I was trembling at the thought that loving, caring Paul had held the parcel himself and would have been just as excited as the rest of us. I pictured him carefully choosing suitable gifts and imagined the exotic sounds of the afghan markets he had so vividly described. I handed Jake the parcel while I went to wake Willow from her morning nap. When I came back, he had it up to one ear. ‘Something’s rattling inside, hurry and open it, Mom.’ It took what seemed an age to cut through all the tape and wrapping. Finally it gave way and I let Jake finish opening it. He pulled out a bag of marbles, a small car and his favourite of all, a pack of notes written by Paul. ‘Would you hide these for Jake, Alice, I know how much he loves finding them.’ Willow’s gift was a traditional Afghani doll. She took it in her arms and hugged it. ‘Dada, Dada.’ It tore at my heart. The last gift, a small box tied with a dark red ribbon, came with its own message. ‘This is for you, Alice, hope you like it.’ I opened the box to find the most beautiful pale blue lapis lazuli ring. ‘I chose this one because it matches your eyes.’ I wore the ring every day. And the look of delight on Jake’s face when he found one of the notes I’d hidden made my heart sing. Even from thousands of miles away, Paul was still with us. A cascade of gold from the sycamores heralded fall. We spent as much time as possible at the lake before it became snowed in. I saw Paul everywhere out there. Jake tried hard to make up for his dad. He cut wood, stoked the fire and even got the boat in from the middle of the lake and secured it into the shed. We played marbles on the rough wooden table in the kitchen. My beautiful ring caught the weak sunlight coming through the window. It shone like a star. Willow had her doll. Paul’s folks joined us for the Columbus Day weekend. We laughed at stories about Paul when he was a kid and looked through an old photo album. I saw Jake in every picture of Paul. We never broke the golden rule – no sad talk. Snow began to fall in early November. I laughed at the snowman Jake built and called ‘Dad’, beside which was ‘Mom’. A smaller one was Willow. ‘What about you, Jake?’ ‘Dad always does mine.’ I put my arm around his shoulders. ‘He’ll be here next winter, I promise. Let’s do it together.’ We made snowballs and threw them at each other. ‘You’re the man of the house now, Jake, we’ll build one for you as big as your dad.’ He liked that. Paul’s deployment was only ever to be three months but that became four and so on. I kept a video diary of the kids. Willow’s first steps, the first time she said Dada and best of all, when she coloured the hallway walls with one of my lipsticks. Jake and I had a devil of a time removing it. Jakes drama teacher arranged to have a professional video done of the school play. Jake, the Artful Dodger, was very proud of himself. As the months passed, I couldn’t help but notice how much Jake was becoming like his Dad. He was a quiet, caring boy who loved playing pranks and especially loved those secret notes Paul sent in his monthly parcel to us. 'When I have my own family I'm going to do the same thing for them.' Camp Alamo near Kabul where Paul was stationed, sat in a valley surrounded by high mountains. As winter came on, Paul was often dressed in a heavy coat with ear muffs now attached to his cap, much the same as Jake and Willow wore when they went outside. As the weather closed in, communication from Kabul was severely interrupted. Instead of the weekly FaceTime call we had to make do with an email every now and then. And then there was nothing. I scoured the newspapers for any updates on any escalation of hostilities. I contacted the Department of Defence, to no avail. I stayed upbeat for the kids’ sake but the constant knot in my stomach and night-time tears overwhelmed me. Jake must have heard me one night because he came into my bed and cuddled up to me. ‘I’m frightened, Mom.’ And he began to cry. My faith in our Lord comforted me. Pastor Bob sent a group of women from church to visit me. Though well intentioned, their constant chatter about grandfathers who’d fought in the war in the Pacific or, in the case of a couple of older women, son’s who were going to sign up did nothing to comfort me. Neither did their ‘small minded’ talk about women in the community who had transgressed in the most trivial way.

‘Why, Tanya - May Wilson didn’t come to Bible reading last week. Said she had something important crop up. It was a visit to the hairdresser, I known that for sure because we have the same hairdresser and she told me.’ I’d had enough. The following day when I was at the office with Pastor Bob, I asked him to suggest to them that they find other ways to help not just me, but all the women in our church who had serving husbands. I breathed a sigh of relief when one after the other, they rang to offer their apologies for the next ‘get together’. And then the news that I’d dreaded came. Paul had been killed in action. If ever I needed my faith it was then. Telling Jake was impossible. Paul’s folks helped me with that. He spent days shut in his room. I allowed him time off school. Willow who was about to have her second birthday clung onto her doll. ‘Dada, Dada, Dada dead.’ Had I mentioned that word in her presence? Days turned into weeks before my beautiful Paul’s body came home. The three of us plus Paul’s folks stood on the tarmac at New Castle Air, National Guard Base in Delaware as his cask, draped in the US flag, made it’s way slowly into a hangar set up for repatriations. Jake saluted as the cask went by. We would never get over Paul’s death but life had to go on. Jake was chosen to play the role of Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, the school’s Xmas play. I was so proud. Learning lines and making costumes were a welcome distraction from the loneliness. The craving for Paul’s body wrapped around mine, and the endless nights of lovemaking were unbearable. And there were the little things. His cheeky grin, and warm cuddles. What we as a family missed most of all were those tiny notes, sometimes written on pieces of used envelopes or a page from his notebook which still had the indentations of his hand writing etched into the surface. Jake wanted me to continue that tradition. ‘When Willow is old enough to enjoy them,’ was my way of saying no. It could never be the same. The night of the first performance of arrived. Willow, who would not let her doll out of her grasp, laughed when she saw Jake dressed up as Scrooge. Then she held up her doll, ‘Dada, Dada,’ she repeated over and over again. I took a deep breath hoping to hjold back tears. When we got to the school, Jake was reluctant to get out of the car. Finally I talked him into it. I was waiting in the wings with him to go on stage. I looked into the audience. Paul’s Mom was holding Willow. I waved to them. Willow lifted the doll in the air. When it was time for Jake to make his entrance, he hesitated. ‘Go on Jake, I think there’s someone watching, look up to heaven.’ He smiled and did as I said, just as Paul would have done in the same situation, then strode onto the stage. I could almost hear the intake of breath when he put his hand into one pocket and pulled out one of Paul’s notes. One I’d been keeping for just the right time. The one that said ‘keep smiling.’


     One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe.

     My chest tightens as it fills with air, breathing in the nauseating combination of odors filling the room. The unmistakable smell of blood. Whose blood was it? The smell of alcohol, burning in my nostrils. The dank smell of some kind of chalky smoke. That smell makes me sick, and my stomach turns.

     I need a window. Fresh air. But of course this room has no opening to the outside.       I look around. It’s all too familiar. And I shudder.

     One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe.

     I can hear him walking around. The muted sound of his shoes shuffling from room to room. I can’t see him right now. I know he’s outside this room, somewhere. I know he’s coming for me. He’s done it before.

     I wonder what he’s doing now to the others. Every so often, I hear a strangled throaty moan. I change my mind, I don’t want to know. I can only imagine. Selfishly, I’m glad it’s them and not me right now.

     I try not to think of the last time. My eyes press closed reflexively. Chills run up and down my arms, and I wrap them around my body.

     It doesn’t take away the vision of him standing over me, his hands lingering over my face. I can almost feel his fingers pressing into my cheek again, hard. Too hard.

     “Does it hurt?” he had asked.

     I wanted to scream, “Yes! It hurts! Please, please stop!”      But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It would not have made any difference. He was in charge. With his dark eyes, his brown wavy hair, his thin smile. He’s always the one in charge.

      I remember when I first saw him. I thought he was so handsome, in a rugged kind of way. His personality was charming like no man I’d met before. He had this way of tilting his head every time he spoke, and leaning forward as if he didn’t want to miss anything I’d said. Nobody had ever really made me feel so important like that before when we talked. I blushed when he spoke to me, when he asked me questions about myself. I tried to answer nonchalantly, as if I didn’t care how he was taking in my replies. But I did care. And weighed every word I spoke. Did he think I was pretty? Or funny? Was he flirting with me, or was this just how he always acted? I was never good at flirting with men. I always came across as awkward, needy, and did I mention awkward? There was a time I looked forward to seeing him. Schoolgirl butterflies would flit through my belly at the thought of him. I would get lost in daydreams thinking of him.

     But not anymore. Not now. And soon, he would be in this room again. Standing over me. Pressing his hands into my face, as I lay helpless beneath him. Looking up into his dark eyes.

     I grip the leather arms of the chair I’m sitting in, unable to escape. Or, am I? Could I run? Could I break away, no consequences? But there would be consequences. Painful consequences. I abandoned the thought, and focused once more on my breathing, on calming my beating heart and unquiet mind.       One. Two. Threeâ€¦       I hear his voice getting closer. Louder. He’s coming for me. My hands grip the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. My nails dig into the worn, brown leather. The sweat on my palms makes my hands slip as I try to move. It’s too late now.

     He’s saying my name.

     He’s standing over me.

     He’s reaching for my face, straightening my chin upwards to look at him.

     “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he sweetly says, as if I ever wanted him to come in. His voice is deep, gravely, and as unpleasant now as his touch. He smells of aftershave, but it’s too strong. It mixes with all the other nauseating smells in the room. I can’t ignore what he’s done to me before. The pain.

     I tense, and close my eyes. He has complete control. I have no choice but to do as he says, follow his orders, submit to his will. No matter how painful. I tell myself to be strong.

     All of a sudden, the room spins. A jolt of pain shoots through me, as I grab his arm to make him stop.

     “Easyâ€¦” he whispers, close to my ear.

     He doesn’t stop. Another lightning bolt travels through my body, and I draw my knees to my chest. Make it stop, make it stop! But I can’t speak. His hands are in my open mouth. A groan escapes as I feel a drop of blood drip from the roof of my mouth and slide down my throat. Its metallic taste makes me nauseous. I feel a single, hot, salty tear creep down my face. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to show my weakness in front of him.

     I go numb. Just as he wanted.

    “You’re very braveâ€¦” he says, watching my face closely.

     I look away. I don’t want to see his face. And I certainly don’t want his hands on me again. But I can’t move. I can’t get out of this. Again, I can’t get out of this.

     But, I came here willingly. I agreed to all of this. Why did I come here? I begin to regret my decision. Regrets don’t get you far in life though. I can do this, I tell myself. Even though I know it will only get worse before it gets better. So much worse.

     His voice brings me back. He’s leaning in close now.

     “Once the novacaine kicks in, I’ll take care of that tooth. A root canal is your only option, like last time. Good thing you came in. Untreated, this would have some painful consequences,” he said, getting up to go and check on another patient.

     I lay my head back, and submit to my fate.


Click. “That oughta do it. Nervous?” “More than you can guess,” Aichen admits. He tugs on the restraints at his wrists. “These have to be so tight?” “Part of the safety protocol.” The computerized voice is warm, almost human. It’s been programmed with perfect attention to colloquial speech, but it still lacks a proper bedside manner. The questions it asks are never followed up. Is he nervous? Yes. No. It doesn’t matter how he answers. “So if I win—” he begins. “—I’m not programmed with that information.” Two beady eyes blink behind a flat screen, which twists to meet his gaze. That’s as close as the programmers could come to successfully mimicking physical mannerisms in a human conversation. No matter how he turns, the screen will follow him. “Great.” Undercover mission or not, Aichen didn’t sign up for this. His superiors will be hearing his complaints—if he lives. “Throw me in then. I’m as ready as I’ll get. The longer I wait, the worse this feels.” “You’ll wait until your allotted time.” Blasted thing. “Your partner hasn’t been decided.” Aichen stands from his patient bed and investigates the window on the far wall. From here, he can barely make out the roaring coliseum. There’s a crowd from floor to ceiling and there’s no telling how far up the ceiling goes. It’s impossible to guess at this angle. “This isn’t some en masse fight to the death or something, is it?” Aichen wonders, hands pressed to the glass. After being captured, he’d been told absolutely nothing. It started in a cell, then he was being led down this hallway, and now he’s stuck in this room. His only mission detail was: get captured . What could be so important inside those anti-gravity walls? He won’t have much chance for recon. “Await your time, prisoner…1227894-4-4-4….” “122789435,” Aichen finishes for it. “You’d think they could afford functioning ‘bots with the high bets they get here.” He briefly glances at the bot, who’s makeshift face is a blaze of expressions, and sighs. Buzz. “Guess it’s finally my turn.” Approaching the sealed door, Aichen mentally prepares his first encounter with the chamber. Recon, then fight. And in a worst-case scenario, gather his bearings before proceeding. But he’s seen anti-gravity before. He’ll be fine. Bang! His body jolts forward. The roars erupt. And then he’s plummeting. Where’s the anti-gravity? For a fear-invoking moment, he just falls. Air whooshes past him, billowing through his tunic, ruffling through his hair.

A hand grips his ankle. “Get it together!” the shout is audible, even over the deafening thrum of people, machines, and fear. Hovering above him is a woman as well-lived as the council. Aged ones are rare. “Check the bonds.” As Aichen flails to grab his wrist, she drops him.

Two blurred figures clash with her. She blocks. Parries. Counters. Her form is pristine. She must be aged. Aerial combat is no longer sought after. The academies deemed it archaic. It and every other form of combat. That’s why he had to find a teacher. “Focus,” Aichen whispers to himself. His eyes waiver over the wrist binds until he sees it. Ripping a circular tab up from the forearm, he gives it a twirl, then shoves it back in. His body jolts. Like a crescent hand, an air current forces him back up the clear shaft. It forces his gaze onto the woman and her plight. She kicks one of the figures away and sinks her fingers into the other. Pieces of them scatter, framing the air around her. Click. Aichen whirls to meet the sound at the very base of the chamber. And then it begins to fill. A liquid floods beneath them. Water? Aichen’s never seen water before. But the frothy blue could be nothing else. He stops. The crescent releases him, leaving him dangling near the very height of the chamber.

But the water is rising. Clank. Clank. Clank. A rhythmic clatter before the full vacuum. He holds his breath. His heart pounds. His eyes clamp shut. The vacuum overwhelms him, water filling in over his head.

Soft at first, another beat. Then, from the all-consuming liquid, the beat spreads. Bang. Bang. Bang. Though soft on the ears, it vibrates through him. He hazards a peek. The aged woman is nowhere to be seen. But those two figures are approaching him. Fast. With an unplanned weave backward, his hands hit the glass. One figure eases a hand over his throat, the other threatens with razor teeth. Aichen’s limbs are heavy. How did his ancestors move in water? How did they swim ?

Panic sets in. “Oy!” the woman’s voice echoes in his head. And theirs too, apparently. They both turn to meet her. Two thin talons puncture the tips of each finger. She strikes. A flurry of movement. A feline cry. Then two screams as they dissolve. “They’ll be back.” Her words are filtering through a throbbing bubble. It fluctuates with every word, every breath.

“This is a team event?” While Aichen usually prides himself on asking astute questions, this isn’t one of his best moments. And here, under the water, the drowned sound of his voice causes the words to sound even less intelligible.

“Swim.” She ignores Aichen, drawing him toward the surface. “You may not understand the feeling. But you’re drowning.” They breach the waterline. And Aichen gasps. His chest is burning. His nose, too. But with the air, the weight of his limbs lessens. “I can’t swi—” “—I know. The academy never trains ‘em right these days.” Her grip on him holds. But her gaze is less loyal. She’s surveying the landscape beneath them, the crowd threatening to break through the chamber, and the ceiling. “No, I’m no—” “—Save it, embboy. You’re an incarnation of academy regulations.” She gestures at his feet. “Any hidden weapons in those boots?” He ignores her.

“There’s nothing wrong with being born ,” he grumbles. “Being of embryonic cells is preferable to whatever you are.” For a brief moment, the woman meets his judging glare. The bubble at her mouth squirms against her frown. “Are you one of those tube babies ? A biobot ? Or maybe you were one of the original crafted ?” He knows he’s digging his own grave, but he can’t stop the onslaught of insults from tumbling over his teeth.

“Do you have something against crafted ?” “No,” he’s quick to recover. “No, I’ve just never met one.” She eyes him a moment longer, before glancing away. Deep in the water, the figures are easing toward them. They don’t have time for this.

Diving beneath the water, the aged woman takes hold of his boot. She rips the laces free. And the knife beneath them. The other boot is short to follow. “Wield this,” she orders him as she resurfaces. “Fine.” He reluctantly takes the blade. And then he’s sinking. Rapidly. Two billowing claws climb his legs. They rip. They shred. They slice through his skin. And he swings aimlessly. The knife strikes once. And the figure recoils. It screams with a growing wound, which festers and spreads. It’s skin dissolves. Again. The water recedes. From above him, the aged woman lunges. She catches Aichen by his belt. Then herself on the wall. “The trials are quick. You have to keep up.” Thrusting him onto the wall, she points with her head. “Each scenario is different. But the goal never changes. Kill those things, survive.” “Right.” He can do that. Gurgle.

The water drains beneath them. A harsh moment. A long moment. His heart’s deafening him in anticipation. His hands are clammy.

But nothing happens.

“They can take a moment to transition,” she admits under her breath.

“I guess we can catch our breath,” he jokes. He isn’t sure she even has breath. If elders are rare, the crafted are inconceivable. They had died out decades ago, along with the other elders. And for good reason, at least, that’s what he’d been told. Dangerous, unpredictable, unstable, and horrific. Not one positive descriptor had ever been used to describe them.

He resists the urge to stare at her. “What’s coming next?” His question drifts beneath the mechanical engine that erupts beneath them. The hatches open. There’s creaking joints, the rattle of movement, and a heavy hiss. But above that, a black mass scaling up the wall towards them.

“The air, the water. I could handle those. You’re afraid of biosects ?” “What?” Aichen looks down at the mass. “I—I…” “I’ll handle this one. Climb,” the woman lowers herself. Among the mass, two shadowy figures surge. It’ll end if he kills one and she kills the other. Closing his eyes, he lets go. As he falls, he raises his knife. “No!” Her shout bursts his eyes open. The shadow has moved. Beneath him, there are only biosects. “Throw it. Throw it!” Before he hits the ground, Aichen releases the dagger. Mid-air, their daggers graze each other. That soft touch is enough to guide his. Screams. Aichen flattens to the floor. No biosects. No shadows. “Stand, hurry.” The woman is already beside him, gathering both daggers. Looping a hand under his arm, she lifts him to his feet. The wail of a siren. Pounding from the opposite side of the chamber. Cheering. “It’s not over yet.” “M-more fears?” Aichen wonders. He squints at the crowd, wondering how they find enjoyment in this. They wouldn’t if they were the ones down here. No, they’d be begging for mercy and dying one by one.

“Two unknowns, one fear.” “So then it should be over.” “Yours are. Mine aren’t,” her eyes scan the chamber. “The unknowns could be anything. But if you understand them, then I need you to—” The words are sealed into her mouth by a thin thread. Alarmed, Aichen tries to reassure her. But he can’t. His lips clap together. The thread is quick. Once finished, it pounces from his mouth to his eyes. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Wings? No. Electricity. A hand encloses in his. But the touch is gone as soon as it arrives. His dagger is all that remains. He tightens his fingers on it. This is something he’s been trained for. Bending both knees, Aichen assumes a proper dagger-stance. He can hear the woman’s breath to the left. But to the right, a whoosh. He swings. The blade connects.

And then she’s screaming. “Elder?!” he shouts. He approaches her. One arm as his guide, he interprets the situation. She’s on her knees. The figure has her by the hair. Digging his fingers into what should be the figure’s eye sockets, Aichen thrashes back. The knife moves with him. A sickening, fleshy sound tells him he hit. Light filters back through his vision. But the woman is lying on the ground. Blood has stained the floor around her shivering form. “Hey,” he whispers, dropping to her side. “Hey!” His hands cup her wrinkled cheeks. “Please. I need your help.” “Wrap it,” her voice barely passes her pale lips. Aichen tears the fabric from his shirt, peeling it into a long thin scrap. “My shoulder.” He heaves her into his lap, securing the fabric around her chest and shoulder. It’ll have to do. Another failing of the academy. No medical practice. “Give me the other knife,” Aichen tells her. “No.” She shakes her head. “ Give me the other knife!” he barks. “I’m not dead. We’ll finish this together.” Before Aichen can argue further, the lights cut. Her unknowns are all visibility related. Will her fear be as well? Electricity hisses up the chamber walls. In an arcing coil, a blue spark alights. The back of his neck tingles. This is an unknown for him, too. He has no experience with live electricity. It’s an issue of the past. The coil rotates inward. With increasing speed, it lurches in at them. He pulls her beneath him. “I can take it,” he promises. Engulfing her small frame in his body, he absorbs the shock. It rattles him. In his every nerve. In the deep, squirming organs. In his instantly nauseated stomach. His teeth chatter. And he groans. Saliva foams through the corner of his lips. But in the soft glow, he sees them. Against the increasing pain, he brandishes his knife. The figure flits in and out of view. But its location is constant. Are they testing his timing? Without a second thought, he hurls it. The knife passes through at first. But the figure returns just as the blade seeks to exit. And its eyes bulge. “Give me the knife,” he sounds the words out through pained whimpers. He’s passing out. The electricity is only gaining in strength. The once aching tingle is now a violent jolting. “No.” Her hand flicks out. He watches the blade spiral into the darkness. And then he’s free. The blue crackle releases him. The lights flicker back on. And the chamber erupts with applause. But he’s still vibrating.

Regardless of his freedom, he’s suffering. Hugging himself with both arms, he attempts to still the trembling. But it’s not just his body that’s shuddering, it’s his eyes as well. Even if he calms his body, he can barely see anything.

“Don’t move too suddenly,” the woman rests a hand on his shoulder. “You could be injured.” “It’s fine”—he jerks out of her touch—“If we’re going to get out of here, I need to know. What’s your fear?” He isn’t one who likes to be doted on. He never has. Joining the academy was a way for him to prove his worth, not to be protected like a child. As it is, they prepared him to handle worse shocks than that. “You’ll see.” “No. Tell me. Now.” He pushes to stand but falters. The knife is too far out of reach. He has to get to it before the next test begins. Dragging himself across the floor, he strains his fingers out for it. Snap. His fingers crunch under her boot. He withholds the scream, even through the throbbing. He’s in enough pain now. It’s all numbing. The woman bends to retrieve his knife. “That.” Her voice comes from behind him. Oh. “You’re afraid of yourself?” he confirms. The woman above him grins. Knife in hand, she dives for him. He rolls. Catching her leg in both hands, he rips her to the ground. They tumble. They wrestle. But she manages to gain the high ground. From the corner of his eye, he can see the real woman facing a similar fate with another version of herself. This is the last one. The last one. Tightening his fingers into the woman’s striking wrist, he leans forward. His teeth clamp down on her nose. His jaw holds firm, even though the rest of his body is wavering. She claws his cheek. Those metal points in her fingers are identical to the real woman’s. But he doesn’t let up. Blood seeps from her face. Her grip loosens on the blade. And Aichen rips it free from her hands. He delves it deep into her throat. Click! Hiss! Plumes of smoke fill the chamber. The crowd disappears as the screens stop projecting. The sound of them fades with it. The duplicate bodies of the elder woman glitch until they’re nothing but training dummies. Including the one atop Aichen. It flops, weighing him down to the floor; nothing more than a sand-filled human-shaped sack. “You’re certainly resilient.” The elder woman stares down at him. The messy, silver tresses that were once tangled into a bun are now sleek and straight at her shoulders. Her dirty, torn tunic and pants have slimmed into an ankle-length, black pantsuit. The tattered shoes are nothing but bare feet. “And considerate.” “I was trained to b—” “—Oh, certainly not. You may look regulation, however, you’re anything but. The agents before you left me to die; the ones who made it that far. After all, they still won without me. But you never assumed that to be true—” she kneels beside him, her lips to his ear—“Embboy, who really trained you?” Aichen doesn’t answer. His mission was to get captured, but now he’s wondering who issued it. And who she really is. Like all aged, is she part of the council? If so, he has no reason to talk. He refuses to have a reason. They were the ones who drove him to join the academy. Fighting them was the only thing keeping him alive after... “Twelve,” she calls out. “Commander?” a familiar face enters the room. Aichen’s eyes widen. “Weldler?!” Aichen exclaims the name before he can stop himself. “122789435.” Weldler bows to Aichen in greeting. He then returns to the elder woman. His bow only deepens. “W-Weldler.” Aichen’s voice softens. They’d lost Weldler nearly a year ago. He’d gone undercover and never returned. But those with him couldn’t remember what happened. They just labeled him MIA and the higher-ups dismissed any requests for rescue. “What can I do for you, Commander?” Weldler prompts the elder woman when she doesn’t instruct him. Gaining a soft grin, she rests a hand down on Aichen’s head. A pat. Two. Then she strokes his bangs from his forehead. “Prepare 122789435’s new living quarters. Oh, and change his file name to Aichen . I will send him to be escorted shortly.” She dismisses Weldler, who leaves without a second thought, or a second glance. Her fingers trace down Aichen’s cheek before resting under his chin. “Your mentor won’t be able to hide from me for long. See. I’m eager to unravel your mind, Agent Aichen Lurch. All too eager.” She stands with abrupt grace and snaps for another man standing at the door. “He’s ready.”


As he transferred the paper into the final chemical bath, Edmund held his breath for a moment. He thought about what it could mean, if he had actually managed to capture a photo of the strange creature he had been seeing in his peripheral vision for so long. Firstly, it would mean that he wasn't going mad. He pushed his held breath out past his lips. That would be a large measure of relief, even though he had told himself over and over that he had very definitely witnessed it affecting items; it knocked over a bowl on the kitchen counter, and it also turned the water off and on. And also, he'd seen that his cat, Dorcas, ran away, whenever the creature came too near her. These facts made it impossible that it was just a figment of his imagination, didn't they? He used the tongs to agitate the paper in the tub and waited on the developing image. He dared not be too hopeful. He still found it difficult to believe that the thing could be real. How could it be?

He removed the paper from the final tray and hung it on the line above his work area. There it was! The creature was there on the right (of course, on the right). The arm of the velvet chair was in front of it a bit, but otherwise he could clearly see the entire creature. He took off his gloves and sat down on the stool by his work table. He'd never seen anything like it. Never! That strange silver-colored body made him feel a bit queasy. Where had he seen that color before? In an insect maybe? A fish? No. It was unlike anything else. He realized, suddenly, that even though he was now looking right at the creature in the photo, that he could still be completely insane. He needed to show this photo to someone else. Or it could still be a product of his own sick mind. What would he do, if he showed the photo to someone and they didn't see it? “Why, there’s nothing there, old man! Nothing at all.” Well, he would just have to cross that treacherous, ice-covered bridge when he got there. If he got there, he corrected himself. It seemed that he now had some proof! Who should he show it to? He didn't have very many friends. He lived alone; well, with Dorcas, and his family had all died years ago. Was this thing always with him? Perhaps this creature was the reason his life had not gone wholly as he'd hoped. Could it have even caused some of the tragedy he'd gone through?

He looked at it again. Wait. Wasn't the chair arm in front of it before? He put his hand on the table to steady himself. Yes, he was sure that it had been in a slightly different position when he looked at it before. Well, the red light of the darkroom was probably playing tricks on his eyes. "Or perhaps you are insane", a voice whispered in his head. "Stop", he said aloud. He took the photo and went out into the sitting room. He sank down onto the settee and examined the photo again. Now the creature appeared to be looking out of the photo, its thousand spiny teeth bared in a menacing grin. He picked up a large book and quickly slid the photo between its pages. Then he shut it and put the book on the floor. He quickly stacked several more heavy tomes on top of it. Then a few more, for good measure. He really did feel a bit shaky. Perhaps he didn't need to show the photo to anyone after all. Perhaps he should just keep it there, under the weight of all those books. He hadn't seen the creature since developing the photo. Usually, he caught flashes of it in his peripheral vision all the time, but he was not seeing it now. A strange thought occurred to him: could he have somehow captured the creature itself in the photograph? That is, could that be the actual creature somehow and not just a likeness? Let us suppose that the creature is real. "You know that it is not," said the voice in his head. If it's real, and he had somehow captured it, then he was free of it! Was there really a need to show it to another? He glanced at the pile of books.

When had he first noticed it? The flash of silver in his peripheral vision. The endless sussuration; so quiet, but almost always there. Perhaps it was why things had ended so badly with Millicent. Oh Millicent. Maybe he would be with her now, if it wasn’t for the creature. He recoiled from remembering their last encounter. Millicent, so pale and stoic, telling him that he was a “terribly nice” man, but that she did not care for him. And then how she died that very night in a runaway carriage. So horrible. So final. No chance to see if he could sway her, if perhaps there was still some feeling for him after all. Something had spooked the horses. What if it was the creature? And perhaps the creature had prevented him from being as attentive as he could have been (would be now!), always stealing his attention by flashing past his far right vision. Haunting his dreams at night, causing him to lose sleep and become careless and less doting upon her in the day. Yes, the creature was likely to blame for his less-than-satisfactory life. He imagined it now, pinned in the photo inside the pages of the heavy book. Writhing, gnashing it’s slender teeth together, eyes rolling, showing the whites, like a terrified horse. Well, It was time to feed Dorcas and he probably should eat also. His step was a bit lighter, as he made his way to the tiny kitchen. There would be time to contemplate this thing more later. Right now the light of the day was fading and he was tired--but satisfied. Tomorrow he would embark on his new, better life; unencumbered by the creature and knowing that everything that had happened in his life thus far was not his fault. Yes, tomorrow he would start anew. “Ha!” the voice in his head chortled. “You will not.” His eyes dragged against his will to the stack of books. Yes. Things would definitely be better now.