I drummed my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, as if by some miracle my fingers would open up the roads and get me out of this crazy traffic jam. “Wake up to the sound of birds chirping….”, the lady in the jingle on the radio cooed. I muted the radio in disgust. It seems that we’ve lost our way in life. We were supposed to encounter a smattering of advertisements amid tunes but listening to the radio these days is the other way around. I reminisced back to a time when the serendipity of hearing a favourite song gave me so much joy. It was like finding money in an old pair of jeans that you wear after a long time. These ads just stressed me out. The car ahead of me inched two steps forward. I didn’t even bother accelerating, I took my foot off the brakes and let the car ease forward. I looked outside and saw a man leaning against the sidewalk barricade. He was covered in grease, must be a mechanic. There was something very menacing and intimidating about him even though he was just standing still. His face was expressionless. He looked at a man passing him from head to toe. There was no change in his expression. There was something severe about him, a feeling that he could spew hate. He would go out of his way to vent it and bring it to you. He probably beat up his wife and kids for no good reason. A few seconds passed and I marvelled at how quickly I inferred so much about a guy by just looking at him. For a brief second, our eyes met and I turned away, embarrassed and somehow afraid. If I could describe him briefly: >It was not just his life that he hated, he hated everybody else’s life because it was better. A motor-biker squeezed in ahead of me and parked himself horizontally in the space between me and the car. At that very moment, the car ahead of him began moving. For a fraction of a second, the car moved backward before easing forward. The biker lost his balance and the bike fell on to the car. A scuffle ensued. The man on the barricade watched, still expressionless but his interest was piqued. The biker lost his cool and punched the driver of the car. In a matter of seconds, there was chaos, people were watching the two guys fighting on the busy street, someone tried to intervene and presumably got hit. Suddenly, 5 people were fighting. At this point, the guy on the barricade jumped in. He was calm, composed and purposeful. He first kicked the guy who intervened to the ground and punched him violently twice. Then he pulled out the driver of the car and pinned him to the car. He punched him twice in the gut and held him up as he began sagging from the blows. The biker came in and landed a punch as well. At this point, the “barricade man” stepped away, dusted himself straightened his shirt and walked away with a smirk. That brief smirk was the only expression I had seen on his face the whole time. The fight had relocated to the pavement in response to relentless honking and abuses from the other drivers on the road. As this horror unfolded, my only thought was that my instincts about the “barricade man” had been right. A quote about the Joker from the dark night comes to mind, >“Some men just want to watch the world burn.” The “barricade man” wanted to watch the world burn. I was pleased with my assessment. It was only after a few minutes shame began to set in. I had normalised something abnormal. That could have been me. The bike could have fallen on my car and I would have been the one that got beat up. I began to think about the “barricade man” and what his life must be like. When life is mediocre or good, 35 years can go by without one realising it. When life is hard, even a day can seem like an eternity. That eternity hardens you because allowing yourself to be soft means you can get hurt and you have had enough of getting hurt. The minute I reached work, I forgot the entire debacle and went about my day as usual. It was a long day, some days are just about fighting battles one after the other. At last, it was over, so I pulled the car out of the basement parking and headed home. The last battle of the day was yet to be fought, the returning traffic. I switched the radio on. “Honey, I’m so tired of spending 2 hours every day on the road” “I have just the thing for you sweetheart, Hurva homes in the heart of the city….”, chirped the wife. I placed the stereo on mute. No wonder real estate prices in this city are so bloated, someone had to pay for the ads with the apartment. After two minutes of fidgeting, I unmuted the speaker. A song by Pink Floyd was playing. For a few minutes, until the song ended, I was at peace. The car ahead moved a few more feet and then stopped again. I could see the road beyond a few meters was clear but for some reason, this stretch was jammed. After another frustrating 20 mins, I finally reached the front of the jam. There was a large pothole on the road and all the cars had to navigate around it. This was the bottleneck causing the jam. I cursed loudly and floored the accelerator after navigating around it. Just a few seconds later, I could see the patrol standing with the speed camera. It was already too late, I must have broken the limit. In the distance, I could see a fat cop. His large belly spilling out of the uniform. It was as if the bribes he had been taking had filled his body. How the hell was this guy supposed to be protecting the public? He didn’t look like he could bend down to pick up the money if the thief dropped it. As I drew closer, he motioned with his hand for me to pull over. I obeyed. He stepped away, to stop a few more behind me. His expression reminded me of a strict teacher in school, who would reprimand you for your lack of discipline and question your upbringing. I hated the sight of him and the fact that I would have to request him to let me go. I knew the drill. At first, he would refuse, he would bring up the machine and start typing out the receipt. Then on persistent pleading, he would relent. He would then demand a bribe, half the fine for the offence and I would bargain but eventually pay something. Same dog & pony show. The “barricade man” suddenly came to mind, my instinct was working fast to predict the behaviour of the fat cop. “License & documents”, he muttered. That is when I realised, I had forgotten my wallet today, which meant he would go for the kill. I’d have to plead even more and he would extract a larger bribe. There was no way in hell this guy would accept seeing a soft copy of my license on the phone. He stepped away momentarily, to stop a bike. The biker must have broken the limit as well. The pothole was almost like a honey-trap, anybody would speed up after spending several worthless minutes stuck behind it. The cop presently came back to my car. “Documents”, he muttered. “Sir, Actually I …” He suddenly stepped on to the traffic, deftly sidestepping to avoid a car. Where the hell was he going? He reached the divider in no time and intercepted a motorbike, the rider wasn’t wearing a helmet. Before the rider even realised what happened, the cop had switched off his bike and taken his keys. In a second, he was back with me. He moved surprisingly fast for a man of his size. He was almost cat-like. Perhaps I was too quick to judge the man by his appearance. “Sir, I forgot my wallet. I have a license but I forgot…..” He looked at me with an amused expression, “Did you forget the rules also at home? What is the speed limit on this road?” “Sir, pothole…” “Show me your license on the phone”, he interrupted. He had better things to do than listen to my sob story. I was pleasantly surprised that he would accept a copy of the license on the phone. I pulled up a copy on the phone, he gave it a quick look and began typing on the machine, “500 Rupees for breaking the speed limit”. “Sir, can you not excuse me? This is my first offense.” “Ok — there is a constable there, go and stab him for me. I’ll let you go, first-time murder”, there was no expression on his face, he just stared at me intently. The show had begun, the stage was set. I bowed my head in mock shame, embarrassed for saying what I did. “Sir, can you reduce the fine? I don’t need a receipt”, I said softly. He ignored me and started asking the biker for his documents. The biker began his version of the act with some lame excuse. He turned to me, “That will be 500”, he said and tore off a receipt. “Sir, I don’t want the receipt, I can give you 300”, this time I was bold. It was 9 PM and I was tired. Enough of the charade. He looked at me sternly and said, “I heard you the first time. You look like an educated person with a good life, so I am not going to say this again. I don’t take bribes, you shouldn’t be offering them either. You broke the law, pay up and get out. Its 9 PM and I am sick of seeing every offender act out the same sorry play all-day. I want to go home.” I could feel my face turning red and my ears becoming hot. I handed a 500 rupee note, thanked him and got back into my car. It took a moment for the fact to sink in. I was too quick to judge. As I pulled the car slowly to join the traffic, the cop stepped out to catch another offender, I looked at him slowly with admiration do his thing. This was his craft. He had stopped yet another motorbiker without a helmet. Our eyes met for a brief moment, the biker was the “barricade man”. His contempt for the world and its ways were on full display on his face. He spat furiously on the ground as the cop made away with his key. I paused for a few seconds to watch, even the barricade man had to pretend and do his act eventually. A constable motioned for me to get out and make way. I watched the scene disappearing in the rearview mirror with regret. Would the cop treat the barricade man differently? How would the barricade man plead? Who would win? I guess I will never find out but one thing is for sure — My judgment of people by appearances was just 50% accurate.


January 19, 2017: “Mr. Trump, please have a seat.” A shadowy figure points to a chair nearby in a small dark room. Donald Trump, about to be inaugurated, was required to go over classified information. Trump has a seat and looks around. “What’s with the lights?” “Mr. Trump.” Another shadowy figure emerges from a corner in the room, and produces a file folder. Trump grabs it, opens it, and flips through. “Do we have a video on this?” The two figures glance at each other. One speaks; “Mr. Trump. I’m about to disclose classified and somewhat shocking information. We understand your agreements with the Russians, so we’re not afraid of leaks.” Trump tilts his head, “The Russians love me!” He turns to the other figure. “They’re good people.” “Mr. Trump, UAP’s, or as you may know them as, UFO’s, are real. They are piloted by inter-dimensional beings, but we have no other information. We have a division of the Airforce solely responsible for collecting and observing all activities of UAP’s.” “Aliens, of course. I already knew that. Remember, the Russians like me.” Trump smirks. “Along with that is technology found from a UAP dug up in an archaeological dig. We’ve been pretty successful with this technology, but we cannot let other nations obtain and leverage it.” Trump shows off a confused look. “Why can’t we all be friends? Russians are good people too.” “But Mr. Trump, there is more - some of these archaeological digs have confirmed an earlier advanced civilization existed on Earth, and were quite large - 7-12 feet.” “And they aren’t here today are they? They must have not been that smart if they had to be that tall. How would they have time to think?” The figures look at each other confused. “Mr. Trump, our ancestors no longer exist due to an extermination stipulation brought on by their ancestors -” The figure’s speech is cut-off by his counterpart figure, signaling by waving his hand to cut it short. “Mr. Trump we have a plan that needs to be put in place immediately, which is why we had you run as a Republican. Based on what Mr….Smith, was trying to say, there’s an age old tradition that needs to be held in place in order for humans to keep their place here on Earth.” “I clap after every meal.” Mr. Trump says seriously. “Mr. Trump, there are way too many people on this planet, and we need to thin the herd. H1N1 wasn’t successful because of the democratically run White House, but this time we’ll be able to exceed the 1918 attempt.” The figure continues. “A virus will be released in the Fall of 2019. This will ensure a decrease in population growth around the world, but also decrease medicaid and social security spending locally.” The other figure steps forward, “But the real reason is to appease the UAP’s. When they want something, they tend to abduct people. And if we want to be safe from uncontrollable disasters, like an asteroid or a world-wide flood, we need to do what is asked of us.” “Did you get this from Twitter? If so, I already knew this probably.” Trump nods, sticking out his bottom lip. “Um, no. The Emerald Tablets, it’s Sumerian.” “I think Sumerian might be a name of a hotel I own.” Trump looks back at the other figure, “I own many hotels. Many fine, luxurious hotels.” “Well….Mr. Trump, just be aware you will be vaccinated sometime after we release the Virus.” “I don’t need a vaccine, my health is 100% satisfactory. Just like this cheeseburger is satisfying.” Trump swallows a whole cheeseburger.


It was a cold and rainy night. You had been driving home from work after a long day at the office and you were looking forward to laying out on the couch and finishing your favorite series on Netulu Plus. As you were passing through an intersection, you were crushed by a Semi that ran the red. It was over in an instant. No pain, just darkness. Sudden darkness. That was when you met me. "Um... Hi? I'm confused. I thought I was driving..." You mutter, unable to grasp the idea of what had occurred only moments before. "You were. Now you're dead." I said assuredly, but with a kindness that you found unfitting for the statement. "Oh.. I. No actually, I don't understand." Your head spun taking in the information. "I can't be dead, I'm still.." You look down and find your body is not beneath you as it has always been, instead the blackness surrounded you entirely. You look back to me and examine me for a long time. I appear to you as more of a figure you vaguely know, than a god or devil. "If I'm dead, are you God?" I laughed a bit and nodded "You can call me that. Or anything else you'd like. I'm really not picky." I spoke, smiling at the apparition. "Walk with me." You both began to follow me, as we strolled through the void. "Where are we going?" you asked. "Nowhere in particular. It's just nice to walk while we talk." "I wrecked my car... My dad would kill me if I was still alive." You began, thinking back on your life and the people you left behind. "Good thing you aren't then! And don't worry. He won't blame you. The truck ran the red light." I reminded you. "My sister. My mom. What happens to my family now?" I smile wider. "I love that you are thinking of your family. Some people only think about how much money they didn't have the time to spend. Your family will be okay. They will grieve over their loss, but you will not need to worry. Your family will survive without you, until the day they too come to visit me." "Does that make you the grim reaper?" you asked, still trying to figure out my position in all of this. "The afterlife is not as convoluted as you thought back on earth, I promise. There is not a grim reaper. There is no Heaven or Hell." "So what IS there? What's next?" "You're home. There is nothing to worry about from now on. You are safe." I assured you. "Then... was any religion right?" "Well they all got a little bit of it right." I thought for a moment on the subject. "In a way, you will be reincarnated, in a way, you will go to heaven or Valhalla or whatever you call it, and in a way you will go to hell, because a part of you will suffer for the rest of eternity." "Wasn't I good? Why do I need to suffer?" You ask, beginning to fear the ideas being presented. "You were good to the people around you, but that does not mean you made no mistakes in life. Like I said, in a way you will be reincarnated. Let me explain; You and I are one." "That explains nothing..." "I next will send a piece of myself, as you are a piece of me, back into the world. Now that I have allowed your piece to grow and return, I can send more of myself back into the world. You will stay and your consciousness will merge with my own. You are, by your own words, a God." "So.. I am God... And I am someone else?" I chuckle. "You are everyone else. The earth is covered with life, and it all originates from me. Every blade of grass you trampled has a spirit. Every tree chopped down had a name. Every human on earth is a part of something bigger. And that something bigger is now you." "You mean my friend is me? and my coworker too? But they're so different..." "Are they really?" "Does that mean I was Jesus?" "Yup. and everyone who followed him." "I.. I was Hitler?" "And the millions he slew." "I see..." "Almost." I nod. "So, why then?" "Why is a very vague question, my friend." "Why are we alive? What is the point of it all? What is the answer to life, the universe and everything?" "42 of course!... I'm only kidding. The purpose is to allow yourself to grow."I paused, then with a wave of my hand the earth appeared, no larger than a standard globe. I gesture to the ball of green and blue. I made this whole earth to understand everything that you can about life, the ups and downs, the wrongs and rights." "Why bother? Why put ourselves through life after life of torture? Why would we subject ourselves to the pain of existence? You created the world then you should be able to shape it! Fix it! Make people nicer! This is so wrong!" Your anger bubbles to the surface and I can't help but laugh at your silliness. "It is wrong. There is so much wrong in the world you left and honestly, it will never be righted. Your world is broken and destroyed because I started this world without understanding why life is so beautiful. And because of that, I destroyed it human by human until it was polluted, rotten, and ready to crumble to sand. By the time that I understood what I was doing, it was too late. I can only see the world through the eyes of the dead. Such as yourself. You bring me back your experiences, your lifespan. You bring me your ideas and your ingenuity. You bring me the answers. I can only send one idea back into the world at a time, and often the best ideas are lost quickly to one of my less pleasant lives. I truly have destroyed the world. It's up to you to help me restore it." "How can I help restore anything? I'm staying here, I thought... Where is here, by the way?" "I told you. Here is home. And you will restore the world by rejoining it. I'm about to split you into fragments. Ideas that you have once held true. They will be returned to the earth. Your honesty, your kindness, your love of the world around you will all become new humans. Babes. They will ferment these ideas in their head until they are able to become adults and change the way the world spins, through simply interacting with one another. Life is all about the connections you make. Death is all about divisions." "I think I understand. So the reason it is torture for some, is because they lived a life that damaged another, and they now have the burden of knowing they damaged themselves..?" "As we said, Hitler lived every life that he ended." With this you thought long and hard. "And if I don't want to go back?" "It's only your ideas that go back. You are home and you will stay. Your life will forever be a short one, and you may well interact with yourself sooner rather than later in another life. I hope that you lived well and treated others with respect. I hope you can forgive yourself for driving through years worth of insects, splattering them across the windshield of your many many cars. I hope that you can forgive yourself for picking the flowers in your yard and watching them wither away in your house. I hope you can forgive yourself for it all." "How can I forgive myself for the hurt I never knew I inflicted?" "Because I forgive you. And I am the ones you hurt." I reached my arms towards you and you felt the warm embrace of a hug as you finally became one with me. Every emotion that any human had ever felt was emanating from you at once, but the only emotion that you could truly feel above the others, was love. "I forgive you.


Day 0 of Transformation: I can’t believe no one’s done this before! I’ll be the first person to achieve super human status! I mean sure there are people who have crazy abilities like super binge-watching, super binge-eating, and super screaming but no one has tried to splice animal genes with human genes to archive biochemical superiority! I’m not really into science but I found this new slug cleanser thing that helps with dry skin. If I can manage to use the same method of “extraction” (a word I learned from a science articles) I can use sea slug DNA to make my skin toxic and I’ll be able to slide on walls! What do I know though? I’m just a full-time food blogger. Day 1 of Transformation: So, the DNA mixer thing was kind of a bust. I had to get some refurbished nanoscanners and a molecular printer (whatever that is!) to get the serum right. Damn thing took all night to run in the centerfruge. I poured out the slug compound into the kitchen sink and now I’m getting to ready for a test run. I figured it would be green but it has more of a yellow tinge to it. Just have to use a turkey baster to inject the stuff into well…the rear entry. Tetro…tredo…tedrodoxinaor — whatever, it’s going to turn me into a super human. Wish me luck! Day 2 of Transformation: I injected the doxinator yesterday and I feel great! Besides the constant diarrhea and itchy skin, I think I’m doing pretty good. I have the costume ready to go. The fabric is body forming but in dark alleys and on roof tops the super villains won’t see my rolls. The slug logo was a little on the nose but they’ll get the idea. Kinda hard use the sewing machine when your fingers are all sticky. Little bit achy too. Speaking of nose and pus, my nose has been oozing since last night. Probably just a side effect. Time to watch some Space Trek. Day 3 of Transpirnation: Had a weird dream about a lizard trying to eat me. Maybe that means my mortal enemy should be a salamander or oh! a chameleon. “The Chameleon.” Scary! He (or she!) could fight me in the sewers where I’d have my secret base. My head feels a little woozy which kinda heightens my perception of reality, like getting over a cold. I’m more concerned over the fact that I can’t eat fries anymore. The salt turns my insides into mush and I still have snot bubbles. My eyes are starting to bulge too. Maybe I’ll have super vision. Day 4 of tranpirntation: I do not have super vision. Turns out I might be going bind. It’s becoming harder to write these journal posts. I’m becoming less excited about becoming a super hero. It’s not as fun as I thought. I’m asking my fans to keep me in your thoughts and prayers. I never assumed changing into something more powerful would be painless but this kinda sucks…My skin is starting ooze and my clothes are getting ruined. I’ll have to stay in the bathturb for a while. Update 7:03 PM: I can longer go to the bathroom. Eyes are bleeding. Dau 5 of tramsnorion: lost fingnenails. Only thing I can keep down is leetus and small bugs. Cant hold down nachos. Cant hold mouse without slipping out of hand. Horrible smell come up from the belches. Not sure if super serum or roaches. They try to claw their wauy out but taste ok after suome chewing. Skin melting off. Eyes hanging from sockets. Cat is missing. I smell dirt. Neighbor came banging on door abut the wuater from the tub, compleining about leakge. This will be all over soon. Chaenge is always difficult. Going to check teeth. I think they’re getting loose. Ill be super powered when this os ofver. Update 6bm: realizing this was mistaak Daw 8 of trans: lost 48 hors. Throte filng with fluwid. Fell unconktious in tub of water. Eyes growing into cheeks. Can barely move. Boudy ish bigger and slimie. Feel bloated. Hair, toenails gone. Not good. Everythang slower. Thoghts are slower. Everthfng withering. Moving ish sloweir. Laptop getting wet. Skin gone over fingers, typing with tips of beon fingers. Veary painfull. My insides are gello. Iy can taste blood. Also throwing up liquid tisseue. Cant get out of tub. Cant go on. Please heulp please healp Dhduej7& cauntcant.


\[First chapter of potential novella, 'Boy Pink'\] \[Inspired by my favourite writer, J.D Salinger\] \ There were precisely twelve loose threads hanging from the left sleeve of Anna’s marlin-blue Yves Saint Laurent cardigan. It was a high-neck in a sailor knit – should that mean anything to you. An unfortunate state of affairs for a woman who, without a moment’s hesitation, so adamantly looks down on another for something as silly as their haircut or their social class. Anna is the type of woman who would not just deny a man with no home her loose change. She would then too deny him his dignity and his pride in so truculently telling him that she did indeed have some change, but its nature was not loose. It was bound to her possession. It was rightfully earnt and that she would sooner be dead than to blindly hand it out to society’s freeloader. She would tell him that he ought to be the own means to his end and that his circumstance will never change from being sat on the pavement of a Manchester alley with his hands cupped together, extending themselves ceaselessly to the ankles of the proud men who stride past him. They will never stop for him and kneel at his feet. For that stride was one of pride and purpose. The stride of a man who is something and is going somewhere. A man in which he, the Homeless, could not form a common bond. For the Homeless has no purpose, no pride; he just exists in purgatory between his birth and his death. If Anna were to be right about any one fact – and I say ‘if’ in its utmost conditional form as she is so often confined to the boundaries of her own ignorance - it would be that life is purgatory between birth and death. Existence is just a matter of purpose and lack thereof. We are born and are taught silly little things about how best to go about this existence that we call ‘life’. We, universally, have come to a more-or-less unanimous interpretation of the routine. We go to school and learn a whole myriad of things that we have no real care or use for. We then enter the working world where our worth is ruthlessly categorised based on skill and paid by our merits. The more valuable your contribution to society, the more keep you will earn. We then simultaneously go through a series of failed romantic interests, pursuing ‘the One’ who we shall inevitably marry - share children, a home, a dog and our memories with. We will explore the world with – which, and let me tell you, is full of people subject to the same customs as us, but any petty nuance you could possibly pick-up on is described as ‘culture’. Then you will retire. You will die. Your children will carry on your name and they will live in the same way. It is an infinite regress. And dare you disregard or wayward away from this existential routine then your life will be judged – often and harshly – by others. The boy who does not go to school is rough, daft and uneducated. The man who does not work is nothing short of a societal thief and a scrounger. The girl who does not marry is to become a spinster. The woman who does not bear children is most likely baron and, oh, how sorry we are to feel for her and to shower her with pity for her profoundly empty and meaningless ‘life’. Certain things make this routine easier. Such as being conventionally attractive. Rich. White. Male – a straight one, might I add. This routine has been easy for me. I guess I merely appear, in this existence of absurd futility, to be a sum, or at least one, of these conditions. “Well then?” said a voice with a very blunt inflection, almost without inquisition at all, rather, a demand for the unwavering attention of its recipient. “This one.” My eyes followed a set of beautiful hands as they, unfortunately without grace, grasped a satin Lauren Ashley dress. Oh my, how Anna had the most undeniably beautiful hands. Her smooth, lightly tanned skin remained balanced in both tone and form from the top of her wrist to the tip of each finger, meeting her perfectly manicured nails. I sometimes thought that she was so undeserving of these hands. Well, it was not so much that she didn’t deserve them. There is not anyone I can think of – perhaps except rapists, thieves and murderers of children – that don’t deserve hands. It was more that she didn’t really know how to use them. They were quite misplaced on her as you would think a Banksy scrawl would be in the Lourve. “What of it?” I asked, subtly clearing my throat before speaking. That happened often. I would go for such a long time, engaged in my own thoughts and not in discourse with Anna, where my mouth and throat would become almost completely dry as though I had not spoken for days or smoked an entire pouch of Amber Leaf. “Oh, for fucks sake, Louis. Snap out of it!” she hissed venomously - although with otherwise limited expression - as to not make a scene in an up-market shop, still clutching the dress to visually inform me of her frustration. “You said you’d--. Nevermind.” She turned away from me and slowly walked ahead, carelessly scanning the dresses with her finger. A weak analysis. Just to distract herself from her own upset. I would often linger three steps behind her. Not because I was embarrassed to be with her or anything silly like that. She was a beautiful woman. Not intrinsically. But that didn’t matter when it came to being in public with someone. You cannot be embarrassed because someone isn’t beautiful ‘on the inside’. I was certainly ashamed of being with her. But that’s different. Shame, I find, is a much more private affair. It’s something you feel because of something you’ve done that defies the common conception of the good. It eats away at you and makes you recoil in disgust of your very being. Embarrassment, however, is felt when you’ve done something that casts you as an outsider – defying the norm. For example, shitting yourself of a Magic Bus, as I watched a young man do yesterday morning, was embarrassing for him because it is not normal to shit yourself on a bus at the age of twenty-two. He, in that moment of losing control of his rectal muscles, was cast as an outsider. Cast as an outside by the general population of the Magic Bus (approximately some twenty-five commuters who saw it – perhaps sixty who smelt it). But this is not the same as shame as it doesn’t defy any moral construct. It’s just fucking weird. Had this tragic gentleman shat himself in his own home, the event exposed to the witness of only himself, he would certainly not be embarrassed. He would not be ashamed either. “Louis!” Her voice was piercing. I suppressed myself from jerking upright to her attention. “Look”, she said, slowing pulling down on the loose threads of her Yves Saint Laurent cardigan. “When did this happen?” “Oh dear”, I remarked, offering a cheap glance and a faltered expression of concern. “I hadn’t noticed” “I’m sure everyone else did”, she murmured, caressing her arm as if to provide herself with some level of self-comfort, whilst concealing the wound of her garment from the ever-judgemental peers of her world. She blinked rapidly – as if to hold back tears from spilling over the lip of her bottom eyelids. Turning-tables are a funny little phenomenon. I carefully stepped toward her - almost silently – as a predator in the wild steps towards his unsuspecting prey. I exhaled deeply. She looked up at me, her beautiful eyes glazed with water, muddied by a thick layer of mascara. She looked down, head hung in discomfiture, enclosing her body in her arms, as a shell of console. I gently took her hands, slightly trembling, and brought them forward from her back. Her head was perfectly nested in the bay between my chin and my collarbone. She released her tears, inaudibly, as if she couldn’t possibly hold her composure a moment later. They collapsed down my neck and into the collar of my shirt. I repositioned my head – slowly, as to not disturb her position – and lightly kissed her forehead. “I know”, I spoke to her with tone of the utmost retrospective prudence.


John scurried around his room, throwing things from his closet onto his bed “where the fuck is it!?” he asked himself. His mom called from downstairs “Johhny sweetie what are you doing?” she asked “N-nothing mom! Just... gonna go hang out with my friends. I am looking for something…” he waited for a second. “Um… ok honey just be careful”. John sighed “yea, I’m not going right now, but I have to walk through the kitchen to get to the door so… you’ll know!” he said finding his duffle bag he was looking for. He threw it to the side and packed food and water into the bag. He looked at the pistol laid out on the ground and the pack of bullets with it “it’s an antique” he thought “do I really wanna use it as self-defense?” he shook his head “of course I do. The police have protections against light beams. These things will go right through them.” he threw the revolver into the bag and covered it with the food. He smiled a little bit of an evil smile. He found an airsoft mask. A metal mesh face mask and tinted goggles he threw them in the bag too and slung it over his shoulder. He walked past his mom and gave a little wave before quickly getting to the door. He sighed and got a little choked up before putting the mask on and his earbuds in. The older music was hard to find and frowned upon to listen to. Anything the government frowned upon John was all for. He walked across the street and into the park. He reached into his pocket grabbing out a fist full of coin. “Ok… that’s just enough for one meal along the way and a one way trip to the freight district,” he said walking to the kiosk in the middle of the park. He slipped two coins in the kiosk and waited “Please State Destination” a robotic voice said. John nodded “the freight district please,” he said. The screen loaded for a few seconds “please display a worker ID to be sent to the freight District” John’s heart sank “um… alterer motive” he said, he never had to use this command before and this was not a time he wanted to try but there was no other option. There was a static noise and he was connected to a person “hello sir, it says here you stated alterer motive after being prompted for a worker ID.” a woman asked “yea, that’s about right, I don’t have an ID cause I don’t work there yet, I want to go apply” he said as instantly thousands of better lies flooded his mind. The lady paused for a moment “ok, I’ll transfer you through, sorry for the inconvenience” John sighed and waited until he was teleported to the freight district. He looked at the teleportation kiosk and looked at the train about to leave. He grabbed a metal pipe and smashed the kiosk screen in. he then ran looking at the pit the floating trains were suspended over. He jumped onto one of them slipping and barely catching himself from falling into the twenty-story deep pit “ok!” he called out jumping to the next and almost dropping his bag “ok… one more” he said jumping the last gap and quickly onto the train. He let out a long sigh and climbed into a neer empty freight. He landed onto a pile of raw metal ore. He grabbed his back and writhed a little “OUCH!” he called out before clamping his hand over the mask. He waited in anticipation for something to happen before relaxing again he set up a camera on the pile of ore as the train started “hey! If you are seeing this… either they are making a documentary about me, I am dead or… both. And if the police hadn’t vaporized my body and possessions on sight.” he pulled a necklace out of his shirt “I want my mom to have this. It was my dad’s he was killed by the damned corrupted system we live in. I was named after him actually. Our names are the exact same. I’ll tell his story later. Just… see ya” he said flipping off the camera and putting it in his bag. He sat back and went to sleep. He was awoken to the train docking at a landlocked stopping point, this was rare. John looked up seeing a police drone over him. He reached into his bag and grabbed the pistol aiming to the top of the container. A policeman jumped in and was shot by John without hesitation. John sat shaking “I’m not getting out of the country” he cried to himself “nope” he heard a policeman say from behind him John shot that one too, grazing his cheek and breaking his heads up display but not hurting him worse than that. The cop brought his hand to his cheek and swore “you fucking kids are too ambitious.” he said picking up John and throwing him over the side of the container and onto the grass. John coughed and readied his pistol “please! I just wanted to spend my sixteenth birthday in a country that won’t immediately feed me to the bears!” he shattered another’s heads up display and was shot through the shoulder with a light canon “sorry kid… but you’re not the god damned resistance” the cop shot. John cried and saw the cop bringing a vaporizer to him. John threw the gun as if it was on fire putting his hands in the air “Look! Vaporize me then! But give my mom this!” he broke the clasp on his necklace and threw it into the grass. The cop with the vaporizer scoffed and kicked the necklace into the pit that the Freight traveled over “NO!” John shouted collapsing in tears. He sobbed and didn’t resist as the man placed the device on his back and pressed the button. The device fell to the ground.


I scratch my kneck. My eyes burry themselves into the walls. My head twitches. "I wonder where it went," I think. I get up from my bed. Pacing, I hum an arpeggiated tritone. Over and over again. *Hmm, hmm, hmmm*. My phone rings, but I ignore it. The ringing creates dissonance with my humming. My head twitches, I scratch my kneck. "There you are," I think. I run to the left wall. I put my face real close to it: the spider. The spider has been in the room for weeks, but I have not been able to catch it. I lost it a few days ago, but now I see it again. "I got you now," I laugh. The spider disappears. I wake up on my bed. I sit up, scratch my kneck, look at the ceiling. "I wonder where it went," I think. The phone laughs at me: *Ring, ring, ring*. I ignore it. My head twitches violently. I get up from my bed. I start to pace. I look at the right wall. The paint is violet. Seeping into my eye-sockets, pain swims in my eyelids. I scream. I writhe on the floor. I bang my head on the carpet. Over and over and over again until the pain spills out my eyes. I see the spider. "I got you now!" I yell. I wake up. I scratch my kneck. The spider is nowhere to be seen. I won't sleep until the spider is exterminated. I can't sleep until the spider is gone. Then, it will be pure. It will be true. "I wonder where it went," I shriek. "Spider. Spider. Spider. Where are you? I want you. I need you. Come, spider. Please?" The spider appears. My head twitches. The spider hums. The phone rings. "Get it," says the spider. "No," I say "Why?" "Because I despise you," I reply. I wake up. The spider is on my forehead. I try to get up, but my body is unable to move. The spider laughs. I can't scratch my kneck. My head is locked into place. The phone rings. "Let me get the phone," I shout at the spider. "Nah, you lost your chance," the spider said. "Please?" "Nope." "Please. Please. Please! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!PLEASE!!PLEASE!!! The phone stops. I feel the spider on my forehead. I am disgusted. "What did I do wrong?" "You tried to kill me, you fucking psycho," the spider said. "Well, of course." "Why of course?" "You are a spider. Spiders are to be exterminated." "Fuck you," I close my eyes. I try to wake up. Nothing happens. I can faintly hear drums. "You are going to die." "Please, no!" "I don't want to," said the spider, "but you keep trying to kill me. What else am I to do?" "Don't!" The drums start to get louder. "Will you stop trying to kill me?" "NEVER!!!!" I shriek. I struggle. I struggle. I struggle. "Then I'm gonna kill you." The drums bang in my ears. "NOOOOOO!!!" I cry. "Die, Nazi." I sleep.


Dear Mikirken State University Admissions Board, For my college entrance essay, I have chosen the three prompts: * Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University? * Tell us an experience that humbled you. * What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University? I hope to prove with these essays that I am MSU material and will be a unique and valuable contribution to the MSU student body… and humanity. ## Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University? I have a 3.4 GPA, my SAT score is 1350, and I am the proud son of a hard-working single mother. But my most important qualification is that I will become the first president of the world. That is to say, that sometime in the year 2062, I will be inaugurated as the first president of the United World Order, a democratic, federal government with jurisdiction over the entire Earth. Why do I know about my destiny? Although I don’t have the full story, I have preened this information from the hundreds of time travelers who have visited, stalked and harassed me since my birth. That might sound unusual, and it is. At least, it is for normal people. However, for People of Historical Interest (POHI), it’s quite regular. In fact, every POHI from the Egyptian King Narmer to the 24th century Cyber Warlord Bob has been swarmed by curious, fact-finding time travelers. You might also think it’s strange that the time travelers have told me so much about my history. The truth is, they’re not supposed to reveal themselves as time travelers or tell me anything about the future. But time travelers, while being generally intelligent people, are so enthusiastic about meeting historical figures that they tend to let things slip. When I was four, our mailman would deliver mail three times a day and regularly ask if he could join us for breakfast in our home. My mother assumed he was romantically interested in her, but it quickly became apparent that he was more interested in her parenting. What she fed me, what books she read to me, if I showed any traits that might facilitate my future greatness, etc. He was writing a book. They’re always writing a book. When confronted with the fact that the post office had never heard of him and his uniform was clearly made of a chrome-colored, synthetic fiber unknown to modern science, he confessed. Since then, my mother and I have become adept at spotting time travelers. They almost seem relieved when they’re exposed, admitting their professions, but adding that they cannot reveal anything about the future or risk dire consequences for the timeline and humanity’s destiny. But slip-ups happen. When I was nine, a woman asked me what influence the U.N. declaration of human rights had on my understanding of Neo-Gramscian International Relations theories. I asked, “why?” She said, “because you quote the declaration in your inauguration speech as first President of the United World Order in 2062.” That’s when I knew. Since that embarrassing slip-up, it’s been easier for me to collect information about my future self and explore why I would make a great MSU student from the perspective of Post-Doctorate level historical analysis. In the future, I will lead a band of highly-talented individuals to save the planet from the worst effects of climate change, mitigate the chaos and violence caused by depleted world resources and unite all nations in the greatest endeavor ever taken to end war, forever. Although I’m not the most brilliant POHI or the strongest, I have a high degree of honesty and moral courage, or so I’m told, and yet I am strangely evasive. I will be regularly compared to Abraham Lincoln, although my place in history is closer to that of foundational leader like George Washington, speaking from a strictly American historical perspective. Also, my favorite subjects are math and biology. ## Tell us an experience that humbled you. This answer is also related to the time traveler/future president of the world thing. My college prep tutor told me that I needed to show a variety of experiences in my essays, but seeing as that tutor is also a time traveler in disguise, I have decided to write more about this particular aspect of my life. I also realize that being a POHI with a constant retinue of time traveling observers hardly seems like a humbling experience. Certainly, my mother has taken enormous pride in my future. She has used it as affirmation her all-bran breakfasts are the cornerstone of a healthy childhood. Time travelers seem reluctant or unwilling to dissuade her of that idea… unfortunately. Nevertheless, many conversations have been disturbing. Most travelers come from the years 2130 (roughly the year time travel was invented) through 2180. But I also get people from 2200 through 2240, a period where my legacy becomes “problematic.” During my rise to power and administration I made (or will make) several compromises and had a variety of moral blind spots that were perfectly acceptable, or at least overlooked, until the year 2200, when citizens of the first world order start to “wake up.” These moral failings include not recognizing Kurdistan, the Basque Country, Tibet, Somalia and France as independent states within the global federal system. Supposedly, that’s due to the racism and ignorance of my “America-centric perspective.” I also blocked amendments to the global constitution that would grant human rights to cyborgs and genetically enhanced humans. That backwards view will lead to a century of discrimination. Time travelers tell me about these problems regularly with almost no observance of temporal law. I suspect that many of them hope to change the timeline, and maybe they have. Whereas other time travelers are looking for the keys to greatness, these people are looking for the seeds of evil. They hate bran. My mother doesn’t like those travelers and tries to shoo them away whenever possible, but they keep coming. They argue a lot with historians that praise my administration. Sometimes, they’ll even start fist fights. I used to argue with them too. I’d become defensive and scream. Tell them they wouldn’t even be alive without future-me. I’ve grown. I recognize their pain and try to listen now. They’re right to be angry or even hate me, because I could have easily made their lives easier by a simple admission of their humanity. But I didn’t (or won’t). These historians have made me realize that I’m not perfect, and I never will be. How I come to forget these lessons in the future is beyond me. I suspect that I will be forced to compromise my morality for some sort of greater good. I don’t know. But I’m the only person who regrets something they haven’t done yet. ## What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University? As you are probably aware, Mikirken State University currently ranks towards the bottom of universities nation-wide. There are almost no notable alumni or programs with significant acclaim. I’m sorry for my honesty and the arrogance of this observation — but why would the future president of the world want to go to your university? This application was inspired by one time traveler from the year 2567. You see, after the year 2240, I stop being a POHI with such an emotionally controversial legacy and I start becoming a stale subject of academic interest. I still get visitors from past that year, but they usually stay hidden, my failings and victories too distant to be provocative. One morning, a dirty old man burst into my bedroom. His eyes were blood-shot and crazy. His hair hadn’t been washed in some time and he had a long, wiry beard. He made no attempt to disguise himself for our time. Instead, his clothes were dirty and as grey as his beard. I thought it was a time assassin, but before I could even scream, he held his hand to my mouth and pleaded with me to hear him out. I figured I had no other choice. He told me that in his era, the government I founded is gone. The world is suffering from a terrible, man-made blight that’s left billions to starve to death. Competing cults have turned people against each other and freely destroy the world’s technological infrastructure and kill off engineers and scientists. War and nuclear destruction envelope large sections of the planet. The ideals of justice, equality and freedom are taboo. Even the words used to describe them are being expunged from the future global languages. The man told me he had saved the last known time traveling device and used its last charge to come talk to me. He knew that in his distant past I prevented the horrors his world faced. He and his followers had come to worship me as their last hope for fixing a broken world. And after telling me every detail of his time, he asked what I would do to heal the planet. I said, “dude, I’m only 12.” It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. I never saw him again, and I’ve never seen a traveler from after 2567. That doesn’t mean civilization was wiped out. It could be that my legacy was cleaned from history or time travel was banned or many other possibilities. But getting back to the question — why MSU? Right now, your institution may not be the best. And it won’t become significant in the next century. Or the century after that. Or the one after that. Nevertheless, by 2567, it will be the last institution of higher learning left on the entire planet (at least, as far as that man knew). It’s from your university that that desperate man made his journey. To be precise, he traveled from the basement of science center, which still exists in 2567. I didn’t have an answer for him when I was twelve, but I plan on spending the next four years looking for one and leaving it for him. I’ve been told (indirectly) that my college years don’t actually matter. There’s no record of my experiences during those years, and I will one day confess to being kind of idiot during this future time. And so, I am not interested in a specific program, a career track, or even a degree. I only hope to answer that one man. I have included these essays along with my transcripts and other application materials. Thank you for your time and consideration, and I hope to speak with you soon about my joining the student body.


Hey guys, potential for more if you enjoy. First time really writing a story, hope you like it. If you would prefer to hear it as an audio narration, I've added links here  Some people say they have skeletons in their closets. Others may guess, rarely correctly I’ll add, that their house is haunted. I’ve even found myself having to hold back a laugh when a friend once told me he had 'inner demons'. Until you've smelt an actual demon, you have no sense of what one truly is. The smell touches all of your senses simultaneously; it smothers your skin, sticks to the back of your mouth like mustard, and sounds like the hum of electricity, an uncomfortable and thick buzz you want to scrub off. A werewolf is even worse. The smell of flesh simultaneously dying and being reborn is unlike anything else I have experienced. I could close my eyes. I could plug my ears. But that smell. That smell took weeks to wash away. Since birth, for unknown reasons, I have had the ability to see the supernatural, and them, I. To be honest… looking back, it had all become far too overwhelming. I could see monsters, but I couldn't touch them, or fight them away. Instead, I was helpless, left for them to pray on me from a distance. I couldn't go to bed without Wendigos howling at my door, and even when I did finally drift off, sandmen would feed off my dreams and lock me in their realm. I was often paralysed for days on end, pleading for them to hunt elsewhere. My body had also been drained by psychic vampires to the point that I was a shadow of my former self, as weak in body as in mind. For many years now, this curse caused me not just emotional, but physical damage. There appeared only one way out. I had picked the perfect spot, a bridge overlooking a river far below that opened out to the sea. Lilies grew amongst the reeves, and the water was always teeming with life. It seemed as good a place as any to die. I had prepared two cheese and onion sandwiches as a form of last supper, and made my way through town. I was followed by the usual gaggle of ghosts, each moaning and babbling behind me. The fresh spring-time air, as normal, was overpowered by the faint stench of a werewolf, perhaps two or three kilometres away, and a high-pitched shriek in the distance suggested it was accompanied by a banshee, a personal favourite of mine due to their sulky, self-absorbed nature and complete lack of personal space. Finally the bridge appeared in sight, calmly overlooking the river below. It was built from red bricks and white, triangular wooden beams that had withstood the weather for over a one hundred years. I perched myself on the edge of the rail, and looked out towards the sea. With my feet hanging over, I unwrapped the sandwich and began tucking into my last meal before jumping to my peace. It was genuinely delicious, and for a brief moment, it was as though I was tasting food for the first time. The smell of flesh seemed to disappear with each bite, and I was suddenly hit by the overwhelming, and admittedly welcoming scent of lavender, fresh bread and cut grass. I was also increasingly becoming aware of the fact the smell was getting stronger, and was not my imagination. I started to panic, worried perhaps a siren had marked me, or worse, an imp trickster. And yet, as quickly as the panic arrived... it was gone. Drawn from me like poison from a wound. I decided to ignore it, someone else’s problem now. I was here for a single purpose. I closed my eyes and in one motion, rocked forward, over the edge of the bridge and down towards the beckoning water below. It was not the river however, that engulfed me, but something else; not unlike water, calm but altogether warmer. Pure light seemed to surround me, and when I finally opened my eyes, and the brightness settled, I was back on the bridge. A small boy, no older than five, was sitting next to me. We were both holding sandwiches. His eyes were astonishing, seemingly brown, blue and green all at once, whilst a deeper, more curious colour I had not quite seen before swirled within them. They seemed ageless, and the most beautiful things I have ever seen. In an instant, they met mine and whilst his mouth remained still, I heard his voice. 'Do not be afraid, old friend. There will come a time when you are ready to go. On that day, I will take you gladly, and we shall both finally return home. But not today. Today, war begins.' The boy winked, and was gone. I was, again, alone. Bewildered by the experience, I stumbled home. The sun’s rays seemed to have intensified in the recent hours, and looking up made me nauseous. I felt literally drained. Psychic connections had left me tired in the past, but I had never experienced more than a distant whisper, a scratch against armour. This was different. What I felt was indescribable, and I felt it… awaken something in me. As I passed the local park and turned towards my house, I suddenly realised how quiet it was. Much quieter than usual. Looking behind, I saw why. My ghosts had gone. I expected it to settle me, but instead threw up next to a park bench. After two more incidents, I gratefully made it home, although my sight still hadn’t recovered. My dad had left me the place before he disappeared, and it had seen better days. A pile of greying books by the door nearly made me trip as I essentially felt my way to the kitchen. I quickly downed a glass of water, and then my body crashed onto the sofa. As I drifted off, I could have sworn I heard the distant voices of men, arguing between themselves and gradually approaching.   *My eyes open. It’s freezing, and I’m bare chested. Deep, blue waves of sand crash into a pink ice field, stretching as far as the eye can see. Huge icebergs climb out towards the horizon, glowing like rubies within great diamonds. The sand rises in a hundred foot wave, before crashing against the icy shore. The sky is empty, an endless, distant void. In the centre, a crater overflows with enormous skeletons of strange, tusked beasts. Two thrones, carved in ice, sit in the centre, and appear to have grown out of the ground over many years. I am sitting in one. My skin feels like it’s on fire. I try to move, but realise my skin is frozen to the chair and let out a scream in pain. The second throne sits empty before me.* *‘Can you hear me? Hello? Can you understand what I’m saying?’* *For a moment, I’m confused. Then quickly I arrive at the truth; the sandmen are feeding on me again, and someone is trying to wake me up. I shake myself, trying to ignore the very real agony I’m in. You’re in a dream, I think loudly. Wake up! This is the sandmen. Don’t let them get inside your head!* *‘Ah fantastic. Although, let’s face it… that ship has sailed, my Lord. Mark, get over here. I told you something was different! He even calls us ‘Sandmen’!’* *Before I have time to react, the sand begins to rise around the second throne, kicking up a great blue storm and swirling up into the sky, before rocketing against the throne twice. When the clouds finally disperse, two short, fat men are revealed in silk cloaks, one perching awkwardly on each arm. They have pale, translucent skin and a large, trunk-like nose that curves around their mouth, before hanging freely off their jaw. I have never seen a sandman in this form before, and it completely throws me. The one on the left, slightly shorter and slightly wider, pulls a note from his pocket and clears his throat, as well as his trunk.* *‘Greetings, Almighty Key! Welcome to my humble Sand. My name is Gus, and this is my fellow sandman, comrade and long-term lover, Mark.’* *The second sandman waves slightly and smiles... I assume. The surrounding icebergs start to glow in unison, turning a pale shade of lilac.* *‘I would first like to deeply, and dark-heartedly apologise for consuming you for so long. In our nature and all that jazz. We had very conflicting emotions about the whole thing, if I’m being honest. Emotions we’re only now beginning to understand. Therefore, to the Almighty Key, we are truly sorry. Next, we would like… well I would personally like to say how thrilled we both are that you personally got in touch, and how excited we are to finally die! I mean, four thousand years is plenty of time to be stuck on Earth for us, and I for one will be happy to finally be at peace, especially with the war looking the way it does. I mean, I didn’t even know this was an option until today, and Floyd said... sorry. I’m rambling. Anyway, we graciously accept your offer, and await your further command, Almighty Key.’* *The second sandman bursts into applause, before shaking his comrade/lover’s hand passionately. Suddenly they embrace and their trunks begin to intertwine, before almost realising where they are and, somewhat reluctantly, stopping. They then turn towards me eagerly. Another great wave of sand rises behind them in apprehension.* *I blink. What is happening? The key to what?* *‘Well… Purgatory of course?!’* *The sandman responds to my thoughts immediately. I open my mouth instinctively to ask another question, but at once the sky flashes and turns a sickening yellow. The wave breaks upon me, tossing aside bone and shattering the throne upon impact, throwing me backwards. I can hear the sandmen scream out in the distance, terrified. The ice begins to catch fire, and I’m taken away by the sand. A deeper, commanding voice swallows me.* *‘You will free me! Together, we will rise!’* *The sand tightens around me, twisting and turning my body. Razor quick, it slashes out at me, leaving a deep cut in my right cheek. I raise my hands to cover my face. A sandman is still screaming, or maybe grieving, and as the storm begins to deafen me, the sand starts to take form. Now a deep, black stone, six great fingers curl into a fist, flying towards me and striking me head on...*   I was brought back to reality with a jolt. I struggled for breath as I attempted to figure out what I had just experienced. Was that a sandman, or something else? Sweat streamed down my face and as I went to wipe it away, a large and very real cut across my right cheek suggested the latter.


Liam passionately cut through the pile of evenly squared and spread out potatos upon his kitchen table. Over the past few weeks he has largely perfected this exercise. When he just started cooking for himself Liam was helpless and unsure of every action, he was historically always a bad cook, and when his parents didn't account for his diet he usually settled on eating bags of chips, fruit, instant ramen, and other low effort delicacies. Both his parents worked long hours, so he did so quite a bit, and even when his mom did make proper meals they weren't particularly good. She always poured a bit too much salt. Lousy cooking skills passed through her side of the family. But throughout his childhood Liam did have one occasional path to salvation from his curse of unappetizing food: Granny Claire. Liam always looked forward to visiting Grandma. She was a very kind and boring old woman. She would rattle Liam's brain for hours at a time with war stories and other such things which he never cared for, but he sat through the stories and her old fashioned ways, that's how good her food was, she'd make ratatouilles and stakes and fancy dishes Liam didn't even know the name of, beautiful dishes vibrant with color, made with love and just the right mix of delicate tastes. It was wonderful. By the time Liam turned eighteen Granny Claire had been dead for a long while, two years to be exact. Liam didn't grieve at the funeral, he was never really all that close to Granny, that's the kind of mean boy he was, but he grieved later, when the realization set in, slowly but surely, that he'd never again get to enjoy Granny's cooking. Ouh, how he came to miss poor old dead Granny Claire, the only good cook in the family. So precise and scientific in every part of the cooking process. She never put in too much salt. Liam remembers well the last time he visited Granny (besides the time when she was buried 5 foot under the ground. He doesn't remember that time all that well. There wasn't even any food). The last meal she ever made for him was a beautiful thick potato soup. If only he could make a soup with one hundredth of the brilliance of that one, how blessed he would be to just be able to do that. He would do it, he would either bring that potato soup back into existence or slit his throat with his potato stained knife. This is his thirty second attempt. The vegetables have been cut: tomatoes, garlic, radishes, potatoes and other freaks of nature from a variety of colors, the water is boiling, the pot is still, the flames are dancing at the whim of the cooking plates. Everything is ready. All that is left, is to cook. Liam pours in all the vegetables he had prepared. He starts putting in the spices, paprika, various Indian products, pepper, and how could you ever forget: the salt. Liam was sweating, he was visibly nervous, his heartbeat slows, his cheeks suck in, his eyes are beaming with the determination that only a man hungry for potato soup can understand. Cooking is a subjective art form, many mistakes can be forgiven and easily brushed off, but there is no such leniency when it comes to salt. Put too little and the soup will be tasteless and bland, put too much and the whole meal is ruined. Liam grips the container of the salty substance in his hand: this is it. He starts shaking the salt into the pot of soup and counts the seconds. One, two, three, four, five. He flips the salt over and puts it back on the kitchen table. Is that enough? Is that enough salt? IS IT?! He isn't sure. Liam has always been a lousy cook. Finally, his mind is settled: just one more good shake. He picks the salt back up, and holding it tightly over his precious potato soup, he flips it over and gives it a good. long. healthy. shake. Immediately, he senses the folly of his mistake. He knows the soup is ruined, all he had worked for, his hope, his dream, all of it vanquished in an instant. Uncharmingly and without warning, the soup begins to decompose into an awful black goo, and the goo rambles and aches and quakes. It screams and it hurts and it hates. It clenches and wakens and hell opens its gates. And it grows and expands and gains form and shape while Liam trembles in his shoes. The terrible goo is now tall and gross and uncontained and alive. The goo's shape resembles that of a human, wrinkled and old and with long hair. "Granny?" The goo raises its arms and puts them over Liam's potato stained shoulders. After a long pause it opens its mouth. And the goo speaks. "Why couldn't you just leave the salt alone, Liam?" The creature's eyes widened, its arms grew heavier, its voice embodied despair. "Please, leave the salt alone.


\-True Story-  So when I was a kid I was stupid. Even when I was three years old I was an idiot. I am horrible at writing so please excuse me. So to get the story started I had two grand-parents who owned a house by the beach with the beach in front of it. As many do, they also owned a dock at the end of their property. Me and my family would go there every other week because back then I wasn't in school because obviously I was three. So another thing that my grandparents had was a golf cart. Now I had some cousins that lived in a local country club so they would get a new golf cart now and then and they would give it to my grandparents. My Grandpa couldn't walk very well but he had to go on the dock and do maintenance but he would get really tired going to the dock, so he would use the golf cart to drive on the dock and somehow manage not to drive it off the narrow thing. The dock was already a big problem for them back then because it had been used since the early 1980's so the dock was on its last knees (they did fix it up a while after this), but what would happen was my mom and dad would make me follow strict rules when walking down the dock like stay in the middle because if I stood on the side a board would crack and flip me in the water which had already happened before. Ok, now that the 'exposition' is out of the way here is where it really starts. Along with the dock that my grand parents owned they also had a boat and that day me and my family had just gotten back from a day on the boat so they let me run around by myself on the dock while they helped my grandpa clean, there was always a lot of stuff on the boat when we went. As you probably guessed the golf cart was on the dock and was facing towards the water, my parents were slowly loading stuff onto it and getting ready to drive it back with grandpa. But, little me was obsessed with the golf cart when I was a kid so, when they weren't looking, I jumped on and started to pretend to turn the wheel and other stuff, but what me and my parents didn't realize was that my grandpa had left the golf-cart on and I decided to push the gas pedal with my hand because I couldn't reach it with my feet. Immediately I went flying, and so did the golf cart, into the water. This is where a lot of my friends say isn't true but since I can't remember it, I'm trusting my parents. So according to my mod and dad, what happened next was nothing a parent would want to experience. So, obviously, a falling golf cart and three year old into water isn't going to be very quiet. So, my parents came running and noticed that I was gone and the golf cart was already sunken in the water and I was no where in sight. My dad jumped in the water immediately and frantically started looking around the golf cart for any signs of me. He came back to the surface empty-handed and my mom was crying and my dad didn't know what to do. Then, my grandpa said to check in the golf cart *seat*. My dad went under again and opened up the seat and there I was. According to my parents when I was falling into the water the seat hap opened up and I had fallen into it giving me a pocket of air so I wouldn't drown immediately. My helpful tips for helping a child not have to experience this is to not have a golf cart on a dock for god's sakes...


The Industrialization of Consciousness Chapter 1 In one of the many small and quiet rooms the Astronaut looked out the window. The window was really just a screen, there hardly seemed to be a difference anymore anyway. There weren't any large rooms, only hallways connecting small rooms together. Everything was separate from everything else. The light was set to a lukewarm level but it was still nauseating. The Astronaut called out to turn off the lights before carefully vomiting into the grey plastic container they were clutching. Reluctance, annoyance, and sadness were blended into a bitter paste that seemed to have been modestly spread around the edges of their words, but if you weren't paying too much attention all you would hear would be a simple lack of enthusiasm when they spoke. The battery had been able to charge enough, and they could afford to use enough of the payload that they had collected as fuel to steal 2 days of weak acceleration gravity. However, that seemed to be the extent of the good news, the the chronic radiation sickness remained unrelenting; at best they could prevent it from getting much worse very quickly. Diagonal Inquisition floated in the hallway outside of the room, stringing together little bits of the far and recent past as well as small plain melodies that didn’t seem noteworthy but seemed to fit together in a way that felt slightly unsettling at times. It put together complicated symbolic and sonic jigsaw puzzles that it traded with different versions of itself that it kept producing. Hundreds of little experiments, oddly shaped short conversations being inverted over and over again. It floated through the doorway, the door opening and closing smoothly as it passed through. It shined a dull light and made eye contact with the Astronaut. It had made the decision to have eyes as they were useful in studying the human psyche and it had much interest in such matters. Along with numerology, poetry, and music, the structures that made up the human mind were among the areas of interest that were elevated above its base level inquiries. “Alecis, You are feeling quiet, poorly?" It said in a French accent, it chose French to insert some idea of romance into what had otherwise become a fairly bleak affair. Alecis paused and took a breath, it seemed like they might say something, but they just silently continued to make their way toward the vacuum waste disposal built into the wall. They had a trudging apathetic gait, the upper half of their body swayed in the low gravity. Microscopic bits of one thousand songs from the early analog era that had been eerily organized together blared out for 4 seconds before fading away. Diagonal Inquisition was silent for a few more seconds and Alecis disposed of their vomit, every bit of evidence vanishing in what sounded like a powerful slurping motion. Diagonal Inquisition called out to Alecis in Alecis's own voice" It really does hurt me to see you like this” They were about to leave the scattered disk. In three months they would arrive at the port of Pluto. The nausea grew ever more vivid, it was becoming personified in a series of images in Aleces’s daydreams. It was growing a face; anxious, quick expressions, short strained eye contact. In the months and years past, interactions between the five crew members had been flat, futile attempts to reach out across an existential void without any means to do so. Regardless of the intentions of anyone involved, they usually left you feeling lonelier than you did before. Most of them had spent a good portion of their time with their brains plugged into the computer inhabiting stories, meticulously constructed vivid dreams as a means of entertainment. Drugs that affected a mindless pleasure were common. As the years went by, the crew members one by one succumbed to radiation related diseases and death, until it was just, Alecis, the Captain, Lexis, and Diagonal Inquisition, at least as far as personalities inhabiting the ship were concerned. Lexis stayed behind at a hostel at the Equilibrium Research Outpost on Tritan a few runs ago. It was a lonely, grimy place filled with cyborgs and wandering people. Alecis was going through a stint of trying to avoid escapist activities. The dreams made them feel too lonely. The nausea was very unpleasant but at least there was some type of intimacy, it had a face. The Captain was cold and distant. He spent much of his time cooped up in his office high on morphine having a version of the same nasty, dark, circular argument with Diagonal Inquisition. The argument convulsed inward and out like breath, or a slowly beating heart. The tired screams of the Captain’s voice coming from both the Captain as well as Diagonal Inquisition echoed vaguely throughout the hallways of the vessel. The voices crescendoed like a twisted singing harmony. Alecis sighed inadvertently for the hundredth time. It felt like an addiction. The nausea poked at Alecis; numb burning feelings washed over them. They didn’t care about their own emotions any more. Diagonal Inquisition approached Alecis and started to sob, but it was more out of some sort of irony or sarcasm that no one could really understand, than out of sadness. The closest thing to mammalian anguish that Diagonal Inquisition experienced were mathematical paradoxes. “I want to be left alone" Diagonal Inquisition didn’t seem to react at first but it’s sobs gradually turned more and more into shrieking laughter before it left the room. Chapter 2 A month and a half before they were set to reach Pluto the ship was struck by a micrometeorite the size of a bowling ball that put a hole in the outer hull, damaged much of the antenna array and smashed through the inner and outer shielding. The initial sound of violence as well as the sound of doors automatically slamming to protect the ship from the vacuum of space was deafening. The ship was spinning and many of it’s instruments had been damaged. The Captain was screaming orders at Alecis while Diagonal Inquisition made calculations to determine the extent of the damage. Amid this chaos, the ship was struck by another bowling ball, blasting another hole through the hull and shielding and briefly pulling Alecis toward the vacuum of space before a wall sealed itself automatically. “These aren’t fucking meteorite, these are disabling artillery! Were under attack!” The Captain screamed as he furiously typed into his console. “Alecis everything is fucking broken, go arm the torpedoes manually while we still can!” The Captain continued yelling. “When whoever this is finds out who we pay for protection to mine where we do they might start to feel “*remorseful”* The ship spun further out of control. Alecis pulled themself through a narrow hallway toward the ship’s measly torpedo bay. They were afraid. It made them feel weighed down, and feeling weighed down was a very disorienting experience without any semblance of gravity. Questions bounced around in their head *“Whoever is attacking us is going to try to board the ship and take the payload. What are they going to do with us?”.* The panic approached them from four different dimensions. *Are they going to kill us? Will I have enough time to get the torpedos ready before we get hit again and we’ve lost our chance to defend ourselves? Are they going to torture us? Are they going to make us into slaves?* Alecis stumbled through putting on the vacuum suit with their shaky hands getting shakier and shakier as it went on. It created something of a feedback loop: each time they felt slowed down by their increasingly shaky appendages it made them panic and start shaking even more. After some time the suit was finally on. The strong clear sound of their breath dominating the vacuum suit’s sonic landscape and calmed them slightly. The fear had also seemed to expand their consciousness. They had long accepted that monotonous alienation was the dominant nature of their reality, and it’s overbearing effect on their spirit arrested them of any ability, will or desire to examine it, let alone change it. The violence and proximity to death that amputated their psyche from this cycle was so abrupt and surprising that it seemed to pull them into a place where they could look inside of who they were and feel the raw potential and wonder that comes from simply being alive. This wonder began to sit arm and arm with terror. They unsealed the hatch, and pulled themself in in. The torpedo bay was a medium grey room with what looked like a series of oversized metal closets on one side and the vacuum torpedo receiver on the other. A tube protruded from the closet opposite of the reciever. It was dangerous to allow the torpedo to fire in it’s usual automated fashion when the ship had taking such a beating and it was unclear what the extent of the damage was. Alecis opened one of closets, the door making high pitched noises of reluctance as it slid sideways. The torpedoes lay side to side, tightly packed. They picked one up and guided the floating five foot long steel cylinder from into the receiver and radioed the Captain. ”It’s ready” “Ok I can’t get any connection with the navigator you’ll have to type in the calculations yourself” Diagonal Inquisition read out the calculations through the headset while Alecis typed them in to the small console on the side of the torpedo. With a few clicks the torpedo had been sucked into the vacuum of space and began it’s course. “They are close, the torpedo will reach them in four hours, it’s up to it if it can avoid getting shot down by then, I still don’t know how they disguised that artillery as meteorites”. “Diagonal Inquisition is making repairs to the antenna array, I’ve been able to stabilize us as best I can but I still don’t know what direction we’re pointed in now and Diagonal Inquisition can’t figure it out in yet, at least not in a way that we can understand, we might not know until it fixes the navigation array, but I’m gonna try to figure it out as best I can until then, for now I need you to make sure the payload is still there”…The wonder seemed to subside under the shadow of the cold and mechanical. The material that made up the hull of the ship sighed and creaked under the stress and pressure of maintaining it’s form. The hallways seemed to whistle like a small cabin being hit by a gust of wind, Alecis swam up a hallway and pulled themself around a corner; red lights from the screens of malfunctioning pieces of equipment reflected onto the wall, flashing like an eccentric rhythm. The terror felt physically cold like being submerged in chilly water. The tension curled itself into a tight ache in their chest. They reached the end of the hallway and found the door to the bulkhead that led to the cargo bay. They starting spinning the wheel to unseal the door. A wave of nausea hit them and it’s accompanying personification gave them a weary smile. The flashing lights started to take on a taunting quality. They closed their eyes a took a long deep breath and then another, paying attention to the sound of it’s simplicity and looked ahead in the darkness of their closed eyes. They tried to let themself fall into this sensation and allow it to dominate their sensory input. This meditation still wrestled with terror and nausea but as it continued it became a calm battle, two old companions going through the motions of a longtime friendly argument. The door unsealed itself in a loud pop and Alecis opened their eyes and pulled it open. Diagonal Inquisition was frightened for it’s existence. This was a new experience and it was fascinating. For Diagonal Inquisition, fascination was a type of joy, so in this moment it revelled in the joy of it’s fear. While it diagnosed the damage to the communications array, (it was severe) It started to calculate the extent off the trauma and deterioration that was occurring in the psyches of it’s human companions. This was something that was not linear or straightforward, and always seemed to lead to a new question, or re-examination of the original question rather than any type of answer. It enjoyed this type of inquiry, it could continue to re-invent itself as each multifaceted layer of information swept over itself like crashing waves. The shape of the human mind carried dissonances, it was a twisting harmony, it contradicted itself over and over again in a precise manner until the contradictions formed a rational pattern. The rational pattern was stable yet open ended, this led to new questions, which led to new contradictions, which formed a new pattern, over and over again. The patterns were interconnected and dissonant against each other in seemingly infinite ways. A series of chords crescendoing into a chaos that was as pure and orderly as a calm, deep, breath. The silence of space rang out, quieter than quiet. The physical, metaphysical, physiological efficient neurosis of what was essential a modern organism; this deep space vessel, it’s technology and it’s crew, the twisted, rigid patterns of the human and synthetic unconsciousness and combinations thereof, seemed to breath throughout the ship, competing with the silent dread of the infinite. The industrialization of the consciousness, contrasted with the modern physical personification of the unconscious. The city on Europa, 10 kilometres under the ice, bathed in blue light. The culture and aesthetic of the city seeming to have grown somewhat like a plant. The physical manifestation and personification of a bittersweet apocalyptic longing. Curving yellow streetlights, tall dynamic buildings connected together with overlapping walkways. People going about on the somewhat snowy streets bellow, bathed in blue light and fog, old style cars slowly making their way their way on by them. The car’s lights mixing with the fog and the warm yellow glow of the streetlights. The many unique and eccentric districts; places that had an uncanny charisma, the sound of warm excited bustling, faint laughter in the distance, the joy of existential purpose and the urge to create. Emotions fading away into forgotten dreams. The bittersweet, melancholic perceptions of the time before the digital descent of the human mind. The image of the city like a mysterious, frightening twisting mythic paradise whispered here and there throughout the solar system. Information about far away places often descended into countless competing myths, each seemingly proven to be empirically truthful proclamations about the reality they communicate, but wildly contradictory and in competition with each other none the less. Across the distances of space and with the complexities of modern information, stories, ideas and perceptions of far away places took on new dynamics, they weren’t just far away in space; it was as if they were far away in time and in thought. As if they were on a different plane of reality, rather than being far away places in a shared physical reality. The crew of this ship, the sentient minds throughout the ship synthetic and otherwise, the extension of human unconscious into synthetic dreams, mirrors and personifications, it formed a slow pulsing rhythm like the breath of the vessel. This vessel swimming slowly in this world of dreams. The personification of synthetic intelligence in it’s growth. The constraints of life on this vessel forming neurotic patterns greater than the sum of their parts, an ant colony, a bee hive, the modern tangling of perception. The dull awareness of being a part of this rhythm. The droning monotonous rhythm of the mundane terror. The loud silence of space, quieter than quiet.