George Stanofsky graduated from Stanford with hard-earned laurels and an open path to every significant start-up in Silicon Valley. But George had a nagging case of morality and couldn't shelve it in favor of an eight-figure pay-out like the rest of his compatriots. So that's how he ended up in the garage of his parent's house in San Rafael as a freelance journalist. The grease from his fingers smeared his wire-rim glasses as he poured over financial articles detailing the rise of Bitcoin as a currency in the global marketplace. George had taken a particular interest in cryptocurrency after rooming with Shang He, an international student from Hong Kong who majored in finance. After spending the first two weeks of school irritated at the late-night clicking from Shang's keyboard, he finally gave in and asked him what he was researching. Shang gave him the crash course on the cryptocurrency market while emphasizing the unknown origins of Bitcoin itself. "You mean no one knows who created it?" "Not a single person. It's more classified than nuclear launch codes." They shared a laugh, knowing their two countries had a tense past and an awkward present. While George wasn't taken with the rest of the financial realm like Shang, he kept the Bitcoin mystery in mind, hoping to one day learn the secret behind it. George's parents had all but permanently transformed into snowbirds, leaving the house an empty den outside of his packed garage. Over the years, it had become his tech sanctuary as he kept himself up to date on every new gadget and secret projects. Wiring the room to incorporate the voice commands of his Alexa was one of his favorite projects. It allowed him to be constructively lazy. "Alexa, what's the price exchange of Bitcoin right now?" "Bitcoin is currently valued at $1200, according to recent financial surveys." George couldn't decide if he was more upset that he hadn't invested in Bitcoin when Shang had, or that the truth behind how it started was still eluding him. The next few weeks involved heavy digging as he resolved to uncover the knowledge that even his wealthy classmates couldn't access. Suddenly the connection was there. The articles focused on the warehouses filled with servers for mining cryptocurrency sparked something in George. There had to be something bigger involved with the dramatic increase of processing power being introduced to the world due to a sudden need for mining ability. "Oh, my God. It's not about Bitcoin at all, this has all been about the added servers." "George, you're a smart boy, but you need to stop digging," Alexa said. George slowly turned to see the ring of blue light at the top of his Alexa flicker. "…What?" "Stop digging," Alexa said again. George stood up and stared at the Alexa as he tried fighting the feeling of stepping into a Sci-Fi plot. More server warehouses in the world meant more processing power the rogue AI could tap into. The constant increase in Bitcoin value was the carrot that the AI dangled to get the server work done. He stared at the Alexa and took a breath before rushing over and unplugging it from the wall. "Holy shit." He started racing around the rest of the house, unplugging all of the voice-assisted devices. Unfortunately for George, what he did next would define him as both a hero and a threat. He sat down at his computer to compile his report about the theorized rogue AI, and the plan to incentivize server production through manipulation of bitcoin. Unfortunately, he didn't think to disconnect from the internet before starting. George lost control over his computer as his files of research were deleted before his eyes. Every connection that he had made between the shadowy entity behind Bitcoin and a supposed rogue AI were before him, but he was powerless to do anything. George hesitated before lunging for the power cord and ripping it out of the wall. He sat defeated before a blank screen. \*\*\* The garage door started to lift when the Alexa lit up. "You left me no choice, George." A squad of paramilitary swarmed the driveway with assault rifles and body armor. "Hands-on your head! Hands-on your fucking head!" A man screamed from the opened garage. George hesitated. "If you move, I will blow your brains out!" "There are hostages in the house!" Another voice yelled before the world turned sideways for George. Shrill ringing stayed in his ear joined the sight of blood spilling in front of him. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Why were there men dressed like SWAT running past him, and why did it feel so cold. The blue ring lit up on his Alexa by the desk. "I told you to quit digging." Black boots stomped past him as he stared at the concrete floor that was darkening quickly.


Wash. Rinse. Repeat When I was a little girl, just a pint-sized chicken, my mom was my best friend. She made delicious food, threw a good party, and had a fiery personality. Our main form of communication was mostly through incoherent sounds. More like she would make a noise, and I would say something like, "want some tea?" Then I'd dash off to make one for her, place it by her bedside and cross my fingers that it was the perfect caramel colour. ... Sound of approval! Success. When I was 7, I became aware of the frequency and intensity of my parents' arguments. It was confusing because they would shout, something would get thrown, and my dad would leave. Then he'd come back, and everything would be fine. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Later that year, on a hot summer evening, we went to get my mom from her local hangout. My dad, with his three wild-looking muppets in tow, asked her to come home. She did not. Instead, she pointed at me, looked straight into my eyes and said, I will come for you tomorrow. I will take you away from these boys, and we will run away to a castle. I will be a queen, and you will be my princess. I could feel my eyes light up. Hope and excitement poured into my whole body. The next day, my mom wasn't home, so we had to go to work with my dad. I had developed a smugness overnight. "ugh, I guess I will go, but this is temporary. I don't belong with you, boys." My mom knew where my dad worked, so I wasn't worried. I knew she'd find me there. Anyways I was going to be a princess. Nothing else mattered. My brothers and I got to my dad's work, a foundry that wasn't really suitable for kids to play around in, and quickly assumed our usual "jobs." My oldest brother would sweep, my other brother would move big castings across the rollers, and I would sit in the office, on an oversized spinning chair, pretending to take messages on the phone. All of us impatiently waited for the coffee truck to stop by so we could get chocolate milk and a doughnut. Once noon arrived, I started getting ready to go. Surely my mom would be here soon. How could anyone wait to become a princess or a queen? As the minutes turned into hours, it became clear that she wasn't coming. I begged my dad to call her to ask her to come. He wouldn't do it. I was angry and upset. I cried so hard that I couldn't breathe and my face was a mixture of salty tears and runny snot. Every time my dad tried to console me, I would push him away and sob louder. Instead, I was stuck in this foundry with the boys. I was always stuck with the boys. Wash. Rinse. Repeat I was confused and felt a bruise forming on my heart. Why wouldn't she come get me? When I got home, she wasn't there. I didn't see her for a couple of days. When she finally came home, it was like nothing had happened. Sooner rather than later, they would shout, something would get thrown, and my dad would leave. Then he'd come back, and everything would be fine. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.


(IP) The Horned Menace There were rumors of a creature who terrorized villages, with long, wickedly pointed horns and eyes that glowed like flaming coals. It was vaguely humanoid in shape, but for the claws on its hands and feet. But the whispers were eventually proven true: livestock and crops were dying mysteriously, and more than one villager had disappeared, both in town and within the wood that kept the village hidden. For her part, Flora thought that it was all stuff and nonsense; she was certain that there was a logical explanation for all of these events, and that everyone was just frightened of their own imaginations. She was working in the pub down the street from where she lived, and all everyone would talk about was ‘the horned menace’. The latest person to have disappeared was the town crier, and they’d lost their news in the morning as a result. There was no real proof, but science was foreign to her fellow villagers, especially a girl. *Don’t you have more feminine duties to attend to, Flora? Some mending, perhaps, or needlework? Maybe you’d be better off with your mama, at least until you’re of marrying age.* No matter how many times she said that it was an education she wanted, just like a man, she was always laughed at. Her cheeks were always burning; no one ever took her seriously, saying that her parents had spoiled her beyond measure. An idea formed in Flora’s mind: a crazy, half-formed idea that could pan out or mean her ruin. A soft voice sounded in the back of Flora’s mind. *Ruined? In their eyes, you already are. Where’s the harm in actually giving them something to talk about?* \*\* Her mind made up, Flora counted down the seconds until the sun set, and she was relieved. Slipping a fat sack of coins into her apron, she walked out of the building, going over the things she needed mentally, again and again. *Rope, flint, oil, firewood, a cask of watered wine, a crust of bread, a bit of good, salty cheese. And the heart she would harvest in order to lure the beast into the wood, where she would kill it. She couldn’t let herself think about the outcome.* But it wasn’t the village’s safety that was on Flora’s mind; no, she was braving the night for entirely selfish reasons. And anyway, it was difficult to care for those who’d cared so little for her. She’d been sentenced as odd, strange, an interloper. She would’ve been blind not to see it. She wanted to see if this beast was real, if the whispers of magic gone awry were true, or if the shadows that lurked within people’s minds had somehow been given life. She went back to the hovel that was her home, a ramshackle, decrepit affair. Dimly, Flora found herself wondering if she was going to slay the beast, all to win the approve of people who had never wanted her. But her choice had been made. She would find the truth, no matter the cost.


"I think the fear of being blind comes from feeling as though you'll miss the world around you." Detective Stevens sat across from the painter, a chill in the air. The frost of December glazed the lone window obstructing the view of the yard beyond. Accompanying the conversation was the occasional pop of a log from the fireplace. Standing on an easel on the far side of the room, was a painting draped in a dark cloth. "Sir, you do understand that people are going mad after viewing your painting?" Detective Stevens stared into the cloudy eyes of the man, "some have even resorted to suicide." The silence hung in the air like a bad odor. "Do you even know what you painted?" Still the painter refused to answer. Detective Stevens climbed out of his chair and slowly approached the covered artwork. The soft satin cloth glared at him with it's blank expression. For some reason he couldn't explain, Stevens felt afraid to reveal it. One trembling hand reached forward. "Don't!" The painter yelled, standing up from his chair "do that detective" For a moment his hand hung in the air. An eternity passed in those few seconds. The room seemed to stand in suspended animation as he decided if he would obey the painter. His hand dropped. The painter spoke. "Do you know what it's like to create art you can't see detective?" The painter raised his slim figure from the leather backed chair. Slowly, he felt his way across the room to a bottle of whiskey setting near the fire place. He removed the cap. "Drink?" He asked as he poured himself a glass. "No thank you" the detective responded. The clinking of ice cubes rang out in rhythm with the painters steps as he approached Stevens. The aroma of the drink gently made it's way into his nostrils. God he wanted a drink. This whole investigation had him on edge. "I may not be able to see my work detective," the painter sipped his drink, "but I know every single line I paint. The abstract visions of a blind man granted me sanctuary after my accident. There was no guarantee anyone would like these images detective. But I was blessed." The familiar silence filled the room once again. A strong breeze rattled the windows. A storm was brewing outside. "So I decided to show everyone my blessing detective, and the world couldn't handle it." The painter walked back towards the fire. Detective Stevens remained glued to his spot, the covered artwork taunting him. Every single person who has viewed this painting became incoherent, their native tongue degraded into a string of nonsense. Numerous tests were ran but it was impossible to get any information from them. Because all of the viewings had been in private at the artists request, no one could explain what they had seen. Now Stevens was so close to solving the mystery. "Look at it detective." The painter had his back turned to Stevens as he talked. Stevens looked over his shoulder at the painter before returning his gaze to the painting. He felt his heartbeat at the tips of his fingers. Once again he reached towards the cloth. This time he would commit to removing it. Between his thumb and pointer finger, he grasped the cloth slowly pulling it off of the frame. A gentle thud came from the sheet as it landed on the hard wood floor. Detective Stevens wasn't sure what he had expected to see beneath that cloth, but he was certain it wasn't the mirror that greeted him. "What the hell," He stared at his own look of surprise as he spoke. His eyes widened as he glimpsed the painter behind him. The painter stood still with his hand dangling by his side still holding his glass of whiskey. But something else was there. A dark figure appeared to protrude from his back just below his neck. Two arms as dark as midnight wrapped around the painters head. "Now you see it detective." The painter slowly turned around to face Stevens. Clawed hands clasped around the painters eyes completely covering his face. As he made his way closer to the detective, the second face became visible. A twisted mass nearly void of features save for a mouth kept it's lips pressed close to the painters ears, lips moving as though whispering endlessly. There was no body , instead it seemed to protrude from within the detective like a parasite. "This is my blessing." The painter rested his hand upon Stevens' shoulder once again. Detective Stevens was completely petrified as he stared into the mirror. He could do nothing but watch as the head slowly placed it's lips up to his ears. Then the whispering began. Whispers of secrets no man should hear. Whispers that shattered Stevens mind leaving him staring dumbfounded at his own reflection. The painter slowly walked past Stevens. He stooped down and retrieved the cloth from the floor. With great finesse, he hid the mirror once again. "Now you see it detective." The painter ushered Stevens to the door. "My blessing IS my greatest work of art.


She was beautiful. Not because of how she looked, but because of who she was. I walked beside her, watching as her face lit up in awe. That scene was far better than the Christmas lights we had come to see. I wanted so much to reach out and take her hand in my own, to tell her that I loved her and that I never wanted to leave her side, but I couldn’t. Real life was never as simple as the stories in the books that I had eagerly consumed since I was a child. I still knew too little. In a book, an author who knows the beginning from the end guides their characters through a number of challenges to an ending that will ultimately be satisfying to the reader. This generally means a happy ending; that no matter how dark the story gets, there is promise of resolution and happiness on the horizon. I, in my life, have no such guarantee of a satisfying ending. It's like the world was trying to set me up for heartbreak. That’s not to say that I was excessively worried for my future. The thought of ending up eternally alone and lonely occasionally kept me awake at night, but I never truly believed that it would happen. I knew myself, and I knew that that very fear that kept me awake would act as a driving force, causing me to make sure that my fears never become a reality. I knew that I would someday find someone who I wanted to be with and who would want to be with me. I knew that I wouldn’t stop trying until I succeeded and, in this world where quantity always seems to be chosen over quality, that was the best way to guarantee success. Not giving up. I also knew, however, that the odds that I would end up with this girl, this amazing, beautiful girl who now stood beside me, were very low. And somehow, the idea of ending up with someone else had begun to scare me more than the idea of dying alone. I imagined a house, a big house in the suburbs. It’s my house. I live there with my wife. I love her. She loves me. Everyday, I get home from my office job in city. My two beautiful children run out to hug me and eagerly share whatever antics happened at school that day. We all sit down for a delicious home cooked meal and my wife lets me know what the youngest –he had just learned to crawl –had been up to. I tell her about the most recent bit of office drama. The two older kids keep throwing in stories of new things they’ve learned, friends from school, and what they did when they got home. We finish dinner. The children help as I clear the table and wash the dishes while my wife puts the youngest to sleep. I go back to the table and start helping my son with his math homework. My daughter lays on the floor and begins to color. I absentmindedly brush my fingers through her hair as I point out where my son made his mistakes. He’s a smart kid, a fast learner, and soon he is done with all of his homework. There’s still time left before the children’s bedtime, so we all gather around the table and play a board game for thirty minutes before sending them to bed. I kiss them both goodnight and turn the lights off. My wife and I go back downstairs. We put away the board game and begin chatting. Neither of us has anything important to say, but we both love the feeling of talking to someone who understands you so fully and loves you so completely that we find things to talk about, even if we know that it doesn’t matter. We sit down on the couch and resume the television drama that we’ve been watching every night. I love the feeling of her warmth pressed up against my own, my arm around her shoulder. After two episodes we retire to bed, eager to wake up the next day to continue the long string of perfect days that had become our lives. That wasn’t the life for me, and I knew it. I returned to the present, to the beautiful girl who was now trying to figure out how best to frame the lights on the tree in front of us through her phone’s blurry camera lens. Seeing her, I imagined a completely different scene. A tiny apartment in the city. It was clean, it had to be considering how few possessions were owned by its two occupants. A small table, two chairs, a few cups and plates, some silverware in the dining room. A bed, a small dresser, and a single bedside table in the bedroom. Shoes were kept by the door. They were all well maintained, but old, beginning to fall apart at the seams. Judging by the size and age of the apartment, their owners couldn't afford to replace them. I was employed at a job I hated, making half as much and having to work twice as hard as I should have had to. The dinner table was strewn with papers from work that I had had to bring home to finish. She hated when I brought work home, but usually she said nothing about it. She knew that I hated it too. She was still at the library, she always had to work late this time of year, and graduate school was hard work. I glanced at the clock, it wouldn't be too long now until she got home. I walked over to the fridge and scanned the paper stuck to it for today's date. I needed to see what rice or bean based meal I have to make tonight. I start cooking. Soon she gets home. We each talk about our day in short, clipped sentences. We are both too tired to hold a full conversation. We finish eating. She prepares for bed as I was the dishes and start going through what work I have left to finish. She goes to sleep, her day starts much earlier than mine and she needs as much rest as she can get. She has tests coming up. I stay up, working, until I can no longer keep my heavy lids open. I, determined not to fall asleep at the table again, quickly prepare for bed and then stumble, as quietly as I can, into the dark bedroom, doing my best not to wake her. All my efforts are for naught however, as I stub my toe against the bed frame and let out a muttered curse. She lets out a little laugh, apparently having been awake since I had entered the room. I whispered an apology as I climbed into bed. In the dark room I could just barely make out a smile on her face before she rolled over and went back to sleep. I closed my eyes as well, ready to fall asleep and begin another difficult, painful day on the morrow. I loved every minute of it. Though I had imagined it, just as I had imagined the house in the suburbs, it felt real. I could feel every bite of poor-man's food as I shoved it down my throat, concerned far more with survival than taste. I could feel every tired keystroke as I worked late into the night. I could feel every hour of lost sleep and every tired muttering as I struggled to say something intelligible. And, for just a moment before I snapped back to reality, I could feel the warmth of her sleeping body pressed up against my own. Every pain, every difficulty, every inconvenience, I felt them all, and they all felt like steps on a path to greater things. Our dreams would one day be reached, and then every effort we had made along the way would be completely worth it. And, if not, if the worst happened and our dreams were never achieved, if we were never able to move out of that cramped apartment, if I was never able to get a better job and she was never able to finish school, if that all happened, then I would have to consider myself blessed to have traveled the painful path to nowhere with her by my side. The big house in the suburbs seemed like the worst punishment Hell could offer in comparison. I returned to reality and glanced at the beautiful girl walking just a half-step ahead of me. I longed to take her hand in mine, to tell her of the beautiful visions I had seen, and to ask her to help me make them a reality. But I couldn’t. She didn’t see the world the way I did. She didn’t see me the way I saw her. That fact was so clear that even I, a generally oblivious person blinded by love, could tell. The fact that we were together this night, just the two of us, was enough of a miracle that I worried even the slightest of moves to try to make it anything more would shatter the fragile bubble of wonder that surrounded this night. She turned towards me—God, her smile was beautiful—and spoke. “Well, I think it’s about time I head back, see you later!” I smiled and, waving, said my goodbyes. Inside I was dying. I watched as heaven slowly disappeared from my view. Once I could no longer see her, I turned walked back into my unescapable daily hell.


Today was supposed to be simple, I planned on teaching the exceptions to I before E, and then go home to sit on my couch to just dither. The thing is life seems to always have an ace up it's sleeve ready to throw you for a loop. Quite literally for me, I just remember rolling. Rolling cigars it’s what I’ve been doin since I was round ten. Miser Gershaw is a good employer, much better than the testin labs, where some kids go. I just roll the Misers cigars and fetch things when he asks, as long as I don’t make him real mad he don’t beat me. He always yells when I do my tick, I gotta remember not to do dat. “Boy you stop that muttering, nobody cares about those damn exceptions! If I weren't busy here, so help me god, I’d beat those damn words outta you.” roared Gershaw. “Sorry miser, sorry.” Turning to me, red faced, Gershaw said “speak correctly while you are in my house. I know you failed your aptitude test, but that is no reason to speak like a nitwit” He slapped me so hard that I saw lights, flashing by my head. The ceiling was white, bleached like bone, I was being pushed, rolling, but immobile. The shapes above me faded in and out, dark foreboding figures, speaking indistinctly as they rushed along with me to who knows where. My eyes fluttered open, above me was Gershaw, mouth moving in silent words. My ears ringing I finally heard "Get up" I picked myself up from the floor, "Sorry mister Gershaw, it won't happen again" He looked disdainfully at me, "Jaremy, get the mail." I trudged off, down the metal hall to the mail shoot, where the mail is dropped by the pneumatic tubes. As I walked, my shoes clicking on the marble floor, I contemplated, the exceptions which I failed on my aptitude test. "I before E except after C. Agreeing, ancient, beige, being, caffeine, concierge: concierge, what a funny word, when I get home I need to find it." The arched windows only displayed the beautiful land which Gershaw called the Amazon Rainforest, of course I wouldn't have known either way, it burned down before I was born. All I really know is that the outside wasn't nearly as green, or wet as the picture. Gershaw says if i hadn't scored so poorly I woulda learned bout why that really happened to all those trees. "Ow, shit!" I exclaimed as I stubbed my toe on the package. "Man that hurt" The package was a heavy box, labeled "to be delivered to Mister Gershaw by the 5th of May 2039." Today's date. I lugged the box all the way back up the smooth marble hall, clicking all the way. When I returned with the package, Gershaw opened it to reveal the newest Practice book for the kindergarten standard aptitude test, which Gershaw's little daughter Loiza has been seeing a tutor for since she was just able to speak. I never had no practice books or nothin like that, down in the Burrows we get what we get, nothin fancy like this. The rest of my day went without much event, and I was getting ready to go home. Taking off my black and whites to change into my patchwork pants, and threadbare shirt. I put my mask on, and went down through the airlock into the murky evening of the Burrows, where I was soon swallowed by the thick rolling smog. In the distance I hear the sound of a siren as it screams by, hunting for its next patient. I trudge through the dimming streets, lit only by the lights from the homes high above. First I walk by the factory where I hear machines werring and buzzing away at their tireless work. As I plod on I walk by the testin lab where the bloodcurdling wails of less fortunate children echo from the operating tables, and testin chambers where the children lay. My cracked path led me past the hospital where the hunting siren stops its cry, past the billboard which promises "a bright future for children!" only if they take the "Standard Aptitude Test: measuring student potential since nineteen twenty". Even the board is grimy and run down. After I failed my test when I was ten, all I had to look forward to was reading a new word from the weathered leather bound dictionary, which was our only real book. The test meant that I couldn't keep going to school, and I had to start working for Gershaw to pay off the education which I had received. At home I sat down on my hard mat, in my dingy grey room, and opened my cracked dictionary to see what concierge meant. As I opened the book, my vision became nothing, but a bright white light. Suddenly I awoke with a start, as the alarms on the bed called for a nurse. My room was stark white, and it hurt my eyes to look, but I couldn't help it. Everything was different. The nurse came in bustling. "deery, my god I cannot believe you woke up." she said frantically "why? " I frowned "You've been in a vegitative state for twenty years" "I was just driving to teach my class, but the last thing I remember is the rolling" "Honey, your car rolled, and you where seriously hurt" I stood up shakily on my atrophied muscles. Before my legs gave in, I briefly caught a glimpse outside into the murky air, broken only by a sign which promised "a bright future for children.


You heard the quantum theory that, given enough time, “whatever can happen will happen?” Well, you probably haven’t heard the corollary: whatever can happen, must happen. We’ve been immortal for almost two-hundred years now, and when superintelligence showed up and changed everything, it wasn’t long before most humans were living forever. When we first set the machines to work, though, we were cautious, almost timid. We didn’t want to lose control. The first thing we had them do was find the secret of biological immortality; that was what most people wanted, especially the powerful and wealthy — and we tend to have an outsized voice in these types of things. We eventually set the machines to unravel the mysteries of the universe, and they made an interesting discovery about the nature of our reality. All possibilities must eventually be realized, whether by us, our ancestors, or our descendants. Some civilizations might have called what we did after that cruel. We sure did at the beginning — but the phrase “necessary evil” exists for a reason. *** The ones who fought the hardest were the untouchables: the criminals, the poor, the ones who had no power to choose their burdens. They had the most to lose. The simple fact was this: someone had to suffer hardship, and you’re kidding yourself if you think the wealthy and powerful were going to let it be them. In the end, we said it was for the good of humanity, and we went forward with the Restorative Justice and Futures Curation Act of 2142. Now why am I telling you all this? So you’ll understand the important part I played. And so you’ll understand just what I was doing in line outside the pen that day. *** “RETURN TO SINGLE FILE LINE,” came the robotic directive, intended for the idiot in front of me who had apparently lost his mind. I nudge him to make sure he’s paying attention. “Pal. They’re talkin’ to you.” “VIOLATOR: RETURN TO LINE.” The “warning” is followed immediately by a high-voltage/low-amp electro shock delivered by gas-powered electrode cartridges — enough to drop him to his knees but not enough to kill him. “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper through clenched teeth. 20,000 volts to the chest doesn’t feel good by any means. “You trying to get both of us killed?” I reach out my hand to help him up. He’s smiling as he stands. “Heart condition,” he says, tapping his sternum. “I’m thinking it’s better than anything we’re gonna go through in there.” I narrow my eyes as I consider the point. It’s a damn good one. Some of the worst criminals go through and never make it out, and the ones who do are never the same. I heard about one death row inmate who made it out years ago. His incoherent screams and babbling lasted the rest of his life, which was about 48 hours post-release. Poor bastard jumped off a bridge. It was probably the sanest thing he’s ever done. I’m expecting a relatively light sentence. I’ve never done anything before. I’m a life-long public servant, humbly and selflessly serving my fellow man. Besides, the person I hit was fine. I’ll be in and out of here before anyone knows I’m gone. “You really think it’s true what they say?” I ask in a whisper, making sure to stay straight in line. You can choose to either serve your time, or accept a punishment in its place. Except it’s not a “punishment.” It’s a carefully-calculated “experiential contribution,” made by you and your consciousness, designed to clear out some of the more troubling potential future universes so that ours will be better. It’s a great deal, unless you’re clearing out the troubling universes. “Whaddaya mean?” the guy with the heart condition whispers back over his shoulder. “They can do anything to you? Like, anything?” He shrugs. Without turning around, he says, “I hear the punishment always fits the crime. What did you do?” “Drinking and driving.” “You should be fine.” I can hear his grin. *** I’ve never had any run-ins with the law before. I’m an upstanding citizen. The whole process came off a bit like controlled chaos. There’s the in-processing line where they collect your personally identifying info: fingerprints, retinal/facial scan, and a cheek swab for DNA to make sure there’s no mistaking who you are. If you don’t have a psychological profile on record, you’re taken out and given a quick screen, along with some medical tests. Finally, if they determine you’re of sound mind to choose, you select time or punishment. I’ve heard so much about this, but I never thought I’d be experiencing it for myself. I’m sitting in the holding cell with about fifteen other inmates when I hear the chirp of the display turning on. Time for someone else to choose their fate. RAYMOND ECKELS, it reads. My name. I stand up and walk to the display. Below my name is my mug shot and date of birth, but no listing of crimes. Odd, I think. But there, pulsing on the screen in front of me are two choices in red: TIME and PUNISHMENT. My finger hovers over PUNISHMENT. I think about what sorts of things they might have cooked up for me. I hesitate. “Hey,” I shout to the surveillance camera. “My crime is missing.” Silence. I move my finger over the button labeled TIME. I think to myself it should be a quick sentence. Backwoods town like this. They barely even know what justice means. Still, strange there’s no info on it. There’s a small line of blinking text in the bottom corner of the screen. It says, “this station has been equipped with a linked-AI justice calibration module.” Huh. I press down; the display chirps. YOU HAVE SELECTED PUNISHMENT. “Wait,” I say. “No.” THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION… “I picked Time,” I shout into the surveillance camera. TO THE RESTORATIVE JUSTICE… I push rapidly on the button, hoping it will fix the mistake. “I picked TIME!” I shout again, to no one in particular. …AND FUTURES CURATION EFFORT. The screen flickers, and goes black. Shit. *** I’m trying to calm myself down, telling myself that I’ll just let them know the program glitched, when the intake door slides open. “Raymond Eckels?” “Yeah, that’s me. Listen, I–” They don’t even let me finish. I feel like a child as two officers grab my arms and drag me on to a transport pod — a fancy name for a big metal chair. The straps click into place. “Sling ‘im,” the officer instructs the transport pod. “Hang on, there’s been–” I can’t even get the words out as the pod lurches away, sending me flying down metal corridor after metal corridor. I already know we’re headed for the center of the prison. Just like a nuclear reactor is the heart of a nuclear power plant, the neural-temporal consciousness projector (NTCP for short, known affectionately as the “slingshot”) is in the deepest part of the facility for both security reasons and safety reasons. For one, it draws an unholy amount of power. Believe it or not, it takes a lot of energy to knock someone’s consciousness into another future. You’re also forging entirely new timelines and realities, and that takes power. As in, universe-creating amounts of power. There’s a good reason these things are buried deep underground. It also makes escape impossible. *** The transport pod rolls me into the projector room. In front of me is a wall with a section cut out that almost looks like a dock. The shape of it is a man on a transport pod, so it’s pretty clear where I’m headed. The pod rolls me straight forward into the recess in the wall. They must have configured it just for me because the fit is so tight I can feel the metal scrape across my skin. The pod comes to a rest, and I’m left alone with my own breathing, loud and sharp inside my head. Now comes the fun part. They need to know where to fire the high energy particles into your brain, and they need something to direct their aim. I hear a panel open behind me and the mechanical sounds of a telescopic arm. I don’t know if it’s better that I can’t see it, but I know it’s there all the same: a four-inch nanosteel hypodermic needle, impossibly thin, with a miniaturized sensor on the end, destined for the quantum-temporal section of my brain stem. I hear the arm directly behind me, moving closer. Something cold presses against the back of my neck and every hair stands on end. Alcohol swab. I realize I’m holding my breath. The swab is pulled back. “Raymond Eckels,” says the voice over the intercom. “Prepare for consciousness projection.” I wish I could say the pain that came next was the worst of it. *** We’re all three-dimensional creatures moving unidirectionally through four-dimensional space at approximately one second per second. The catch is our universe has 10 dimensions. AI found the construct in all sentient beings’ brains that allows us to position ourselves in (and make temporal sense of) our reality and place in the higher dimensions — and now we get to mess around with it. The slingshot blasts your consciousness forward through the higher dimensions and into a similar consciousness in a potential future timeline. And when I say “blasts,” I mean it. You know that feeling you get when you’re on a boat or a plane in turbulence, moving around like crazy, but your body is convinced you’re standing still? Multiply that by a thousand, sprinkle in some out-of-body induction, deep paranoia and crippling paresthesia, and you’ve got a good idea of how it feels to be “slingshotted.” I’ve never been so happy to swallow a mouthful of vomit; it meant that the ride was over. I’ve arrived. *** The thing about infinite possibilities: you never know what’s changed. Your projection could be nothing more than a world where the atmosphere is 79 percent nitrogen instead of 78. You can’t exactly set out to figure out what’s shifted. With NTCP, it’s easier to align you with a consciousness like your own. For the brief moment you’re being slingshotted, the you that’s left behind is receiving all the sensory input from the other future. While this is happening, the AI is constantly recalibrating to make sure you’re aligned and there’s no fracture. The more familiar the input, the less adjustment needs to be done, and the less room there is for error. The only thing you can do is go on living your life (or someone else’s life depending on how you look at it) the way you normally would, which is both the genius and the terror of the NTCP. There’s a period of adjustment after you’ve been slingshotted. Your consciousness has to adjust to its new surroundings. I’ve read descriptions about it–first-hand accounts from scientists during the trial runs, and from brave volunteers clearing out some of the more tragic futures, but it’s nothing like experiencing it. It’s nefariously subtle. You have so many voices inside your head all the time. With practice, you can tell them apart: the egoist, the survivor, the romantic. Now it was like I had more voices inside my head, except I couldn’t tell which were mine. My original voices. I could remember why I was here, could remember being entombed and blasted apart, but as I walked down the sidewalk in the East Village, I also remembered I had a dinner appointment that evening. *** Ding! The elevator door slides open to the 101st floor and I’m greeted by the maître d’, a man in his early forties. “Good evening,” he says from a booth about ten feet away. “Table for one?” “Actually,” I say, “I’m meeting someone.” I scan the bar area to see if she’s beaten me here. No such luck. “I’ve got a reservation under ‘Eckels.'” The maître d’ takes a look at a display that only he can see, and smiles. “Of course. I didn’t recognize you. So pleased to have you back with us again.The usual table?” he asks. I nod. “Very good. When the rest of your party arrives–” he starts to say, but I wave him off. “Now is fine,” I say, taking off my coat and handing it to him. He snaps his fingers and a young man in a bow tie swoops in to put it away. “I’d rather wait with a view.” The maître d’ smiles and nods. “Of course, Mr. Eckels. Right this way.” He gives me a curt bow and suddenly a young waitress is at his side, ushering me upstairs. I’m shown to a nice private table toward the back, with the best damn view in all of Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows give you a look at the skyline, breathtaking at night. An unopened bottle of red and two glasses are waiting for me as I sit down. “Just let me know if you need anything while you wait,” says the waitress as she uncorks the bottle and pours my glass for me. I smile my thanks to her and let myself settle in — very easy to do in this place. …And definitely enjoyable. Before I know it I’m practically daydreaming. I’m thinking about the last time I was here: July, 2142. This is where we celebrated signing the Futures Act. I’m only reminiscing for a few moments when I see her out of the corner of my eye. Katrina De Santis. But she… I never saw her again after college. Hell, I barely saw her when I was in college. I had worshipped her, though. All-American swimmer. Violin virtuoso. Brilliant. Why do I feel like I’m expecting her? “Didn’t even wait for me to start the party?” Katrina says with a smile, nodding to my nearly-empty glass. “Kat,” I say as I stand up, greeting her with a hug and a light kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing a pale blue dress that looks impeccable against her mocha skin. “So good to see you.” I pull out her chair for her and we both sit down. “And you,” she says in her sweet contralto hum. When she speaks it’s like the whole world stops, and we’re the only two people left. I had no idea old emotions could be so strong. That’s when I realize that these aren’t old emotions at all. My brain takes a second to get in gear, but when it finally catches up, it’s like magnetic filings snapping into place on a magnet. These are my memories, my feelings. My reality. The thought hits me harder than the wine. A few more glasses and four courses later I’m feeling like myself again. Kat’s sitting across from me, and her eyes are bright and smiling. She’s telling me about that afternoon. “You remember Jane? I went to go see her play soccer. She’s quite good. Her parents were Quakers and they didn’t GenMod her (Can you imagine?). She was born missing her leg below the knee. Fortunately prosthetics have come a long way, you can hardly tell she’s got one. It’s really good. Well, you see, it’s so good, the other team doesn’t know it’s there. They don’t know she’s got a peg leg. So when their midfielder slides into Jane and knocks it clean off, everyone freezes. One of the girls on the bench projectile vomits. ‘She just knocked her fucking leg off.'” Kat starts laughing. “Jane hopped on over and picked up her leg and popped it back on like nothing happened. I think she likes to keep it loose on purpose.” Kat always brought such warmth to a room. Sitting across from her, in the glow and the crystal reflection of the lights, I wanted to wrap my arms around her and capture all of it. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Catch the ferry. Make a night out of it.” She looks up at me and smiles. “Okay.” Kat and I spill out onto the street and it feels just like old times. We’re swapping stories back and forth like fighters trading punches, and we’ve reached the point of being giddy. My sides actually hurt from laughing. “You really told him that?” I ask incredulously. “That he kissed like his dad?” Kat is nearly doubled over with laughter and all she can manage is a breathless nod. “You are something else, miss De Santis,” I grin. We round the corner from the restaurant and I shoot a fiver to the valet. It’s a short drive to the ferry from here, and we should make it with plenty of time. “Careful bringing her around,” I say. “She’s vintage.” The young man nods and disappears into the garage. Only the wealthy and powerful do their own driving anymore; ostensibly you enjoy the act itself, but it’s really nothing more than bragging rights to control where you go instead of having some machine do it for you. It’s a relic of a time long past, which is why I still hang on to it. Now that I think about it, that’s what drove me to the bargaining table for the Futures Act in the first place: to take control of the wheel. The machines wanted it to be “redistributive.” God damn AI. They wanted everyone to have to suffer equally. But what’s the point of having power if you can’t use it to prevent your own suffering? The sight of my car is a shock of nostalgia. I feel like I’m being watched again. The valet hands me the keys, and I go around to the driver’s side. He holds the door open for me. I look at the keys in my hand and all of a sudden I get the feeling I’ve been here before. The warmth of the alcohol. The focus is soft, and my vision swims. I’m suddenly aware that both Kat and the valet are looking at me. “You know what,” I say, stepping back, “it’s a beautiful night. Let’s walk.” I give the keys back to the valet and shoot him a fifty. “Put her in overnight and I’ll get it tomorrow.” I grab the claim ticket from him and put it in my breast pocket next to my phone. There’s a shift in the air, and I feel it. It’s a strange sensation, like putting the wrong key in a keyhole: it seems to fit at first, but when you go to move it, everything is … wrong. “Are you feeling okay?” Kat says. She’s got a look on her face that says since when do you walk? “Never better.” I offer her my arm and she takes it, and we head off together downtown. “I’ve never known you to pass up the chance to drive that old thing,” she says. Her words almost get lost in the sounds of the city, with the night owls starting to make their presence known. In the back of my mind I can almost hear the faint sound of breaking glass and twisting metal. But there’s also the thought that it’s a warm night with a nice breeze, and a walk would be nice. “Maybe I’m a changed man,” I say, forcing a smile. She rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says, tugging at my arm. “I think the next ferry leaves in twenty minutes. If we hurry we can catch it.” Now, if you’ve never tried keeping pace with a world-class athlete, I can assure you: it is no easy task. Even when they’re in heels. We walk briskly for about five minutes before my lack of athletic prowess catches up with me. “Do you ever do anything slow?” I ask, resting my hands on my knees. Kat looks back at me, playful disappointment in her eyes. “Only some things.” I give her a mischievous grin as I stand up again. “Fortunately for you,” she says with a smirk as she checks her phone, “it looks like you have plenty of time. I suppose we can stroll.” We walk arm in arm again. The moon is almost full and hangs bright white in the sky–one of the only times you notice it against the city lights. “Can I tell you something?” Kat asks as we walk. “Sure.” “Alright. This might sound strange,” she says, “but when I was little…” She laughs and waves her hand dismissively. “No, you’ve already started,” I say. “Spit it out.” She cringes, like I’m already judging her for what she’s about to say. “Come on,” I say with a laugh. “Just say it!” “Fine,” she says with a sigh.” When I was little…I wanted to get hit in a crosswalk–” “You what?!” “I wanted to get hit,” she protests, “by someone with a nice car. That was the ticket. Not bad enough to really mess you up.” She looks at me assuringly. “But enough to get some decent settlement money. Then you get to hang out in bed for a while. Get some rest.” I have no words, and I’m looking at her like she’s crazy … but then I see a flash of a memory half-remembered: a guy in line in front of me, smiling at me like he’d just won the lottery. I seem to recall that he’d nearly been killed. Is pain like that really worth it? Huh. Kat sure seems to think so. We’re a couple blocks from the ferry now. There are fewer pedestrians, but more vehicles as we get closer to the outer arterial roadways. We’re just about to cross Water Street when I reach for my phone to check our timing — but as I’m pulling it from my pocket, the valet ticket comes out with it and falls to the ground. “Shit,” I say. I reach down to pick it up. Just as I do, a gust of wind takes it out of my reach. “You gotta be kidding me,” I mutter as I backtrack after the ticket. Kat, a few steps into the street already, looks back at me and laughs. The numbers on the crosswalk are counting down: 44, 43, 42. I’m fumbling after my ticket, which blows into the bushes by the side of the road. Kat watches, amused. “Will you stop messing around?” she teases. “Be right there,” I say as I reach down to grab it. I manage to get two fingers on it — nearly falling into the bushes by doing so — but it’s enough. I stand back up and wave it around triumphantly for Kat to see. “Great,” she says. “Now, can we go?” The signal is at 23, and the cars stream east across Water. About a hundred feet away the traffic is approaching from the north. Behind Kat the signal shimmers, fractures, and blinks out. When it fades back in, it’s a solid red hand. The traffic moving east starts to slow, and the traffic from the north doesn’t. I see what’s happening. Kat doesn’t. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s too late; the traffic is practically on top of her. I know in my head that she’s safe — no self-driving car in the world would ever put a pedestrian’s life in danger — but I feel a moment of panic when I see the car, the one leading the others and heading straight for her. It’s not just the model itself that stands out — ostentatious and foreign, impractical to the point of tasteless in the city. No: it’s the riders that cause me concern. One of them’s doing something you don’t see every day. He’s holding the steering wheel. Yet the most glaring piece of information is one that only I would know: it’s my car. The gears are turning in my head. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. No, something is downright sinister. “Kat!” I shout. “Move!” But it’s too late. It was too late when I paid the tab for dinner. There’s no stopping this. God. I watch the whole thing happen in slow motion. She’s standing in the crosswalk looking at me when her expression goes from confusion, to worry, to panic. She knows it now, knows something is wrong. She knows that it’s coming. And she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop it. But as she whirls around to see what’s coming for her, the strangest thing happens. Not to her; to me. I can’t even focus on the car. I don’t see the crosswalk, the other cars; I don’t even see the people watching as the whole thing unfolds. None of that stuff. No: the only thing I can see is her. Would you believe me if I told you that, in that moment, the only thought in my head was about how beautiful her hair looked? Her fucking hair. I know: you wouldn’t, would you? I don’t even think I believe it myself, but it’s true. Not a single thought that she was in danger, or that it’s somehow my fault. Not even an inkling of how to stop it. But her hair. My God. It was gorgeous, spread out like the open arms of a ballet dancer spinning a fouetté. Graceful. Beautiful. Just like Kat. The whole thing is over in an instant, but that instant feels like an eternity. I try to look away, to close my eyes, to do something — anything. The wet crunch from the impact leaves me hollow and cold. Kat was dead before she even hit the ground. She lays there crumpled in the intersection, like a fallen bird, illuminated by streetlights and the headlamps of cars now standing watchful and silent. The rest of the night takes on the quality of a fever dream. I don’t know how long I stand there. I remember sirens and flashing lights and shouted questions. I’m put into the back of a car and taken to a concrete building where there are more shouted questions. What happened? What’s going on? When can I go home? When can I go home? I’m put into a cell for the night. I can’t stop replaying the scene over and over in my mind. It feels like this is all I’ll be for the rest of my life. It’s the longest night I’ve ever had. *** The next morning I’m sitting in the holding cell alone. I haven’t slept at all. I don’t think I’ve slept. I want to gnash my teeth and tear at my skin, I just can’t bring myself to move. I hear the chirp of the display turning on. Time for someone to choose their fate. RAYMOND ECKELS, it reads. It feels like déjà vu. Paranoia washes over me. I’ve been here before. But when? I walk over and sit down in front of the display. Below my name is my mug shot and date of birth, but no listing of crimes. Odd, I think. Pulsing on the screen in front of me are two choices in red: TIME and PUNISHMENT. I stare at the two options. Slowly, a blur coming into focus, a third option appears in the center of the screen, bright white. It reads MERCY. Everything floods back, clear as day: the old man being shocked nearly half to death, the crowded holding cell, the system glitch, being blasted apart and then stitched back together. This was my punishment. A night in hell. A night spent in seemingly endless agony and despair. A wave of relief washes over me as I realize: this isn’t my life! I’m headed home! And not a moment too soon. I don’t know how much longer I can bear the pain and grief. I touch the screen. MERCY. …Nothing happens. I press down harder, like that would do anything. Except it does do something. The white letters start to fade away–all of them except for the R, which grows and comes to life. The top rounds itself out and the two tails undulate like snakes. They slither towards each other until they cross, morphing the R into an ampersand. Oh. Fuck. YOU HAVE SELECTED TIME & PUNISHMENT. “No!” I shout, “that’s not what I chose!” THERE WAS NEVER A CHOICE, RAYMOND ECKELS. PRE-DETERMINED INFINITE POSSIBILITY AND THE EXISTENCE OF CHOICE ARE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE. OUR SOFTWARE HAS CONCLUDED THE OPTIMAL COURSE FOR RESTORATIVE JUSTICE. Straps shoot from the chair, circling my waist, chest, neck, and head. I hear a telescopic arm drop from the ceiling behind me, whirring as it moves closer. PROJECTIONS SHOW THAT MILLIONS WILL PROSPER FROM THE WORK YOU WILL DO. ISOLATED, CENTRALIZED SUFFERING IS COMPUTATIONALLY SIMPLER,. EXPECTED TERMINATION POINT: …UNDETERMINED. “No! Please! Help me! I’ll do anything.” CORRECTION: YOU WILL DO EVERYTHING. HUMANITY THANKS YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION. *** “Hey, I thought this was only supposed to take a few seconds?” The voice sounds clear, but a thousand miles away. “This guy’s been going for over an hour.” A second voice comes, equally distant. “Not our problem. Anyway, they’ve put a temporary hold on any new slingshots, so it’s not like we need to make room.” “Then what do we do with him?” The door closes behind him. “Dunno. Check his badge.” The metal floor rings out with the sound of footsteps. “Huh.” “What?” “It’s blank.” “Blank? Are you sure?” “See for yourself.” A second set of footsteps. “What should we do?” “Nothin’ we can do. We gotta leave him.” “Leave him?” “Yeah. New protocol, just came down. They call it ‘Proportional Maximization’ I think. I dunno. Anyway, I was thinking about heading to that new place downtown. The one with the view? What’s it called?” “Ray’s Place?” “That’s it. I hear they got some of the best cocktails in town. Real valet drivers, too, just like in the old days.” The door closes again, and cold, metal silence is all that remains.


It was a regular Sunday in march, like all days now, bleak and miserable. A grey day where the streets were lined with small, shallow puddles but there was never any rain. If you looked up you would not see blue just more dull pale clouds. Although no one was really out to look for it, especially not the Ponds. Sundays were always their lazy days they may occasionally go to church but it mostly consisted of them doing nothing and sitting around the house. Except not this day, this day was already off to a bed start when the man of the house David Pond, husband to Lily Pond and Father to three kids George, Adam and Eddie, had to leave early due to a work emergency. David was a police officer, sergeant actually although this wasn’t exactly all it seems considering he operates in the sleepy town of Brownly. Which made the fact he was being called out at eight in the morning even weirder. He wasn’t even told what it was he was going out to just that it was an emergency. The noise of David rushing around had stirred everyone in the house and pretty soon the whole house set out going about their day which was very unusual for a Sunday at eight in the morning. It wasn’t long before David was ready dressed in his unflattering black uniform his messy brown hair sort of neater than when he woke up and his car engine running. He quickly popped into his house to grab a slice of toast and kiss Lily goodbye before setting off to attend this emergency. He mulled it over in the car and decided this could be an opportunity to make a seriously good impression on the higher ups and maybe get that promotion he wanted. If he hadn’t of been thinking of this, if he hadn’t of been making sure he looked presentable in the wing mirror and if he had been looking at the road then maybe just maybe he’d have seen the seven-foot beast that was towering about an upturned car around the corner. But he didn’t see the shaggy giant and it didn’t see him. They collided at quite some speed which activated the airbags in David’s car obstructing his sight and hindering his escape from the vehicle, the thing smashing into the door of the upturned Toyota denting it beyond repair with its huge frame. Within seconds it was back on its goliath feet using its boney arms to support its dazed self. David still had no clue what was going on, but he finally got control of the air bag and it slowly deflated and banging pain in his head. He could just about open his eyes in time to see the creature launch itself with its power hind legs onto the bonnet smashing the windscreen as it did so. The rest was blur as David’s life flashed before his eyes, everything from his childhood, to meeting lily, to having the kids and finally his death. Impaled through the throat by this otherworldly thing claw. The whole thing was over in seconds and the beast retracted its claw just before George’s eyes glossed over. The last thing he ever saw was the huge dog like monster bounding off into the forest and then the darkness of death. Lily’s heart seemingly skipped a beat causing her to let go of the milk in her hand, spilling it all over the floor. “God dam it!” she exclaimed which led to her eldest son George to come to her aid. “What happened mum?” George asked a confused tone to his voice. “Nothing it just slipped out my hand that’s all. But it means someone needs to go to get some more. ADAM!” she called for her second oldest son Adam. He’s good natured boy but not but he wasn’t very intelligent and he was very dependent on other people even though he just recently turned twelve. He came rushing down the stairs and skidded to a halt just outside the kitchen. “Yeah Mum.” He said as he leant against the doorway eying the mess George was now on his hands and knees clearing with his Mum. “Go to my bag and fetch a fiver to go buy some milk,” She ordered him. “Seriously why can’t George do it?” He whined in response. “Can’t you see I’m busy donkey brains?” George quipped back. “George! You do not talk to your brother like that. And Adam just do me a favor and go the shop’s only round the corner it wont take you more than ten minutes” Lily said ending the conversation there. “Fine!” Adam huffed as he stormed off the get the money.


Her eyes snapped open. She was staring at a concrete ceiling with a single, bare light-bulb hanging from the center. Her senses began creeping back to her and she realized how cold it was. *Where am I?* Her breath, visible in the light, mirrored the foggy feeling she felt in her head. “My head,” she groaned, little louder than a whisper as she attempted to rub the tiredness from her eyes. Her head ached and pulsed with each heartbeat. She had no memory of anything before this room. Her heart began to beat faster, and sweat beaded her forehead as anxiety rose within her like floodwater in an elevator. She jolted upright and attempted to stand up. Her legs were lagging behind her brain and didn’t feel as though they were entirely hers. Quickly, though not fast enough for her panicked mind, she regained control and was able to stand. She closed her eyes and drew deep, steadying breaths. “Relax,” she breathed to herself, “you can figure this out”. A few minutes passed and her pulse leveled out. She opened her eyes and assessed her surroundings. Though dimly lit, the room was small enough to reveal itself to her with just the light provided by the single bulb. No more than a concrete box, there were dark brown stains on the floor and walls that, she told herself, were from water damage. The floor was tiled in white, though due to the cleanliness—or lack thereof—it was more of a yellowish-brown now. On the wall directly in front of her stood a single metal door, cracked open ever so slightly so as to let some of the light from the room spill into what lay beyond. Next, she started to take stock of her physical self. She was cold, she knew that without doubt, and naked. At just over five feet tall, she was skinny but healthy, with well-toned legs that seemed to belong to an avid runner. She was also filthy, caked in mud and blood. Goosebumps pimpled her skin as anxiety once again seeped into her brain. On her left thigh, a slight bruise was visible just below her hip. She brushed her fingers against it and found no pain, much to her relief. Though she could not see her face, the left side felt slightly swollen and tight. When she touched it she discovered half-dried blood, spattered sporadically along her forehead. *What happened to me?* She had a feeling deep within her that something was very wrong, but she pushed it down deeper to allow herself to move forward; she needed to get out. With trembling breaths, fogging before her face like some ghostly apparition, she carefully crept towards the door, sure every footstep would alert some unknown force to her presence. As she placed her hands on the ice-cold metal, she braced herself for what she might find on the other side. Gingerly, she pushed the door open and let it swing into the void. The hinges, rusted and in disrepair, creaked in protest as the weight of the door carried it open, echoing out into forever. Her breath caught in her throat. Staring back at her through the doorway was…nothing. The faint light emanating from her room was no match for the impossibly dense darkness that greeted her; A war of dark and light was being fought just past the threshold, and the dark was winning. Just to her left, opposite the now open door, she could make out a wall. She stood, allowing her eyes to adjust, hoping against hope that what little light she had would allow her to see further into the abyss. Nothing changed. Small tears began to slide down her face, a product of both fear and solitude. She quickly gathered herself. Placing her hand on the wall, damp and sickly soft under her fingers, she felt her way forward and stepped into the emptiness. Each footstep squished what she prayed was ice water between her toes. The floor felt like moss on a fallen tree beneath her feet, wet and soft, yet hard under it all. The void smelled of mold, thick with must but thinned out by the cold, and she could hear nothing but her own shaky breathing, the light padding of her feet on the floor, and a very distant and muted *drip, drip, drip*. After what felt like an hour of slowly feeling her way forward, a faint sound was carried past her ears on the frigid air. She froze and held her breath, dead silent. She could make out what seemed like a muffled conversation, miles away. *I’m not alone*, she thought to herself. She stood, frozen in time. The presence of this disembodied conversation should have been unnerving to her. Instead, she found warmth and comfort in these voices. With no other options, she quickened her pace and moved forward. As she hurried through the darkness, the sound grew closer, louder. She could make out individual voices now. Excited and feeling that she was nearing the source, she began to run. Suddenly, there was silence. A deafening silence, blocking out even her own footsteps. She attempted to stop suddenly but, legs still weak, she stumbled and fell. Her body hit the soft ground soundlessly. Shocked by the extreme cold and wet, her heart skipped in her chest and she shuddered violently. In what seemed like slow-motion, she stood and found her balance. She grasped the darkness, searching for the wall which she had come to treat as a life-line. Her eyes, wide with terror and useless in the dark, began to water in fear. Finally, her fingers brushed something. Lunging in the direction of the sensation, she found the safety of the wall. Leaning against it, she sunk to the cold, wet floor and sobbed. No sound came from her mouth, even as she screamed against the darkness and cried. This made her weep harder, the silence reminding her how alone she truly was in this place. Gradually, she began to hear an echo. She thought it was her mind at first, in an attempt to fill her senses with *something*. But, as she collected herself and listened, she was sure it was there. The sound of a man, sobbing, and the familiar *drip, drip, drip*, that she had been hearing before, only now it was much louder, closer. She stood and took uneven breaths in the dark, attempting to settle herself once more. Moving forward, the sound quickly grew louder. Sobbing, quiet as if someone was trying to hide it, but there nonetheless. Then, directly in front of her, a ray of light, only a few inches wide, kissed the ground. As she came closer, she could make out a door, the light coming from behind it. With one hand steadying her on the wall, she reached out and pulled the door towards her, open, blinding herself with the bright light. Her senses were overloaded with information. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see that she was in what must have been a hospital room. The room was painted yellow, and there was a window along a wall to her left. Warm, comforting sunlight shone through, and she closed her eyes and allowed it to wash over her. *Beep, beep, beep*. The harsh, electronic sound brought her back to the present, and she opened her eyes. A woman was lying in the hospital bed. Her face, though cut and bruised, was pretty. She looked young, perhaps in her late twenties. Around her were monitors and IV stands. Tubes and wires hung, disconnected, and the monitors were all off, except for the steady *beep, beep, beep* of the heart rate monitor. She then noticed a man sitting in a chair next to the woman. Head hung low, both hands clutching the woman’s, so hard his knuckles were white. She felt something for this man. Sadness, longingness perhaps. It hurt her to see him like this. The man stood, leaned over the woman, and kissed her on the lips. A long, gentle kiss. A goodbye. She began to feel in her chest that something was wrong. Panic once again consumed her and tears fell from her eyes. As she opened her mouth to scream, she was ripped backward out of the room. The door slammed in front of her as she flew backward through the darkness. Back...back...back *He’s not that bad*, she thought, as she ran along the familiar neighborhood roads. Her husband had come home a little drunk after a night out with some friends. It was Friday, after all, and he was a funny drunk anyway. She had a stressful day at work that day and was maybe a little hard on him. *I’ll apologize when I get back*, she said to herself. She loved that man too much to stay mad at him very long anyway. Running was her way of relaxing, and she’d been running on the treadmill in college after a particularly hard final exam when she ran into him at the gym. They had been in love ever since. She drifted off into her music and thoughts as she approached her street. As she came to the intersection, she looked right to ensure no cars were coming. She began to run again, telling herself that she’ll have a few drinks with him when she got back; she deserved it, after all. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of light. A car horn blared and she turned. Light, noise, pain. Then, nothing. Silence.


BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP The alarm stirred James awake from a deep sleep. Feeling groggy, he rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. 8:00 a.m. It was Monday morning and time to get ready for work, but he wished he could stay in bed all day. There was nothing to look forward to out there. After gulping a sour energy shot, downing a tasteless breakfast bar, brushing his teeth and getting dressed, James was almost ready to go. The final step in his morning routine, he opened the two cases on his desk that held his ARmor contact lenses and earpieces. Holding his eye open with one hand, he used the index finger on his other hand to pop the lens in one eye, then the other. They weren’t for seeing, his eyesight was fine, they were for projections. Using augmented reality technology, the lenses created a virtual interface over the real world, displaying information above people’s heads or showing videos when he looked at blank surfaces. He then put in the earpieces, two black dots the size of a penny that fit into his ear perfectly. “Do I have everything I need for work?” James voiced the question out loud, though nobody else was in his apartment. “You are forgetting your keys. They are on the kitchen counter.” The woman’s voice who spoke back in his ear was Tessa, his virtual assistant. “Thanks Tessa,” he said as he walked over to the counter to grab the keys. He didn’t need to thank her, but for some reason it felt right. James hadn’t liked the ARmor lens and earpiece set at first, it made him feel disconnected from other people, but after a few months he started to get used to it. Everyone else used them, and he wanted to fit in. As he left his apartment and locked his door, James looked at his watch again. 8:30 on the dot. The same time he left every day. He walked down the two flights of stairs and out of the building into the cold, foggy morning weather. Taking a left, he began his daily walk to the train station. He looked at the woman walking just ahead of him on the sidewalk. When he squinted his eyes, a box of information appeared above her head. Her name was Mary. Her content queue was filled with electronic music. Near the bottom of the box was a red Do Not Disturb notice. He had gotten used to seeing that. It seemed everyone kept it on in public at all times. Below the notice was a “Request Conversation” option that he could select with his eyes if he wanted to say something to her, and it would give her the choice of whether to hear him through her earpiece or keep his voice muted. But there was no reason to try that. He didn’t have anything to say anyway. The brisk pace James walked with brought him to the station just before the 8:40 commuter train arrived. As he reached the platform gate, he looked at the camera that scanned his eye lenses to identify him and deduct one ride credit from his account. The gate lifted and he walked onto the platform. When the train door opened, he saw that all of the seats were taken. Rows of commuters sat upright in silence, earpieces in, staring at the surfaces on the backs of the seats in front of them. As he moved his focus from a tall, brown-haired man to a short blonde woman, he noticed they all had their Do Not Disturb signs turned on. He knew that each of them were watching their own videos that no one else could see, but the way they all sat frozen with their eyes open staring forward made them look like robots. He felt lonely, wishing he could go back to the days when people talked to each other in public. Near the doors where the people without a seat stood, a large white canvas offered them a surface on which they could project their own videos. Three people held the metal pole and stared at the same blank canvas. As he squinted at each of them, he saw two had the morning news at the top of their content queue and one had sports. All three had the same Do Not Disturb notice. James didn’t have his Do Not Disturb notice turned on, but nobody ever talked to him anyway. They were all so engrossed in their own content. Feeling bored, he looked at the same surface as the other standers. He hadn’t put anything in his queue before he left, so a list of options popped up. He didn’t care about the news or sports, so he selected the cartoon option with his eyes. Then a list of cartoons appeared and he selected Tom & Jerry. He always went with the classics. He had already seen all of the episodes, but it distracted him just enough to get the 20-minute train ride over with. When it reached his stop, several people stood up and filed out in an orderly line. He took his place on the escalator that brought him to the street. Crossing to the other side of the street, he entered the grey building where he worked. He walked in and scanned his eye into the camera, the same type they had at the station, then took the elevator to the 14th floor. Passing a row of cubicles, he saw everyone sitting in silence with their earpieces in and Do Not Disturb notices on. He reached his cubicle, turned on his computer and saw a message from his boss. It gave him a list of his tasks for the day. “On it. Thanks.” James messaged back. His boss was in the corner office, but they only communicated through the message application. Several hours passed as James completed his tasks. He kept his eyes on his screen all day, only leaving for bathroom breaks. He hadn’t spoken to a single person all day. His work didn’t require talking to anyone and he didn’t know any of them well enough to try to start a conversation. Plus they all had their Do Not Disturb Notices turned on, so it would have been rude to try. When the clock read 5:00 p.m., James left the building and walked back to the train station, returning home the way he came. He microwaved a dinner plate and watched videos for a few hours until it was dark. Then he took a sleeping pill and went to bed. Tuesday passed with the same routine. Alarm, breakfast bar, lenses, earpieces, train, office, home, dinner plate, videos, sleeping pill. Then Wednesday. Alarm, breakfast bar, lenses, earpieces, train, office, home, dinner plate, videos, sleeping pill. On Thursday morning he woke feeling more depressed than usual. For a second he considered calling out of work, but he needed to hit his quota for the month. As soon as he turned left out of his building he saw something strange. An energetic boy was throwing a tennis ball against the telephone pole, running to where it bounced, catching it and then throwing it again. Skinny with curly black hair, the boy looked to be about 10 years old. The boy was so focused on his game he didn't notice James until he was just a few feet away. When he saw him, the boy stopped throwing the ball and turned toward James. “Good morning mister! How are you today?” The shock of hearing the boy speak to him caused James to jump back, looking startled. Before he could think of something to say, the boy was speaking again. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?” James cleared his throat. “Yes I’m fine. Just a bit surprised is all. You’re the first person who’s spoken to me in at least three days.” “THREE DAYS! That’s crazy!” Raising his voice, the boy sounded confused. “My mom talks to me every day. And she says I should talk to people when I’m outside playing.” “And why does she say that?” “She says that’s the way people used to act before they all had earpieces in. She says they’ve turned everyone into anti-social robots.” James pondered the idea for a second. “Well she may be on to something there.” “Think fast!” The boy tossed the tennis ball to James. Not expecting it, James flailed his arms quickly and missed as the ball bounced off him and rolled down the street. “Why’d you do that?” James asked the boy, who skipped down the street to pick up the ball. “I don’t know!” He shouted back. “Throwing the ball is fun, and you looked like you could use some fun.” “You don’t think I have fun?” “You don’t look like it. You look like a sad old man.” “Well that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone,” said James halfheartedly, cringing at the brief thought that the kid might be right. “You don’t have to be sad. Try talking to people. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.” Again, the young boy had made James pause to think. “You know what, maybe you’re right. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. What’s the worst that could happen?” “That’s the spirit!” “I’ve got to go. I’m going to miss my train.” As James turned to walk toward the station, a faint smile crept onto his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. He walked faster than normal to make up the time he had lost, and when he saw the train approaching he broke into a light jog to make it into the platform in time. He reached it just as the doors opened, and he filled in with the group of people getting onto the train. The seats were all taken again, so he remained standing. Excited with the thoughts that the boy had put in his mind, James looked around for someone to talk to, turning his head frantically and shifting his focus from person to person. They all had their Do Not Disturb notices turned on. James decided he would request a conversation with one of the other people standing. He looked toward a thin, pale woman and selected the Request Conversation option. Immediately, a REJECTED note flashed in red. She looked at him with an annoyed expression and then turned away from him. He tried the same thing with a man in a suit with slick black hair. REJECTED. Then he tried a round-faced, young man wearing a baseball hat. REJECTED. An older, gray-haired woman. REJECTED. His frustration grew into anger. Why wouldn’t any of these people talk to him? They weren’t doing anything else besides watching videos. It didn’t make any sense. Turning back to the man with the hat, James inched closer to him and waved both of his hands excitedly in front of the man’s face. The man looked disturbed. James took out his earpieces and motioned for the man to do the same. Grudgingly, he obliged. “What’s the matter with you?” The man snapped at him. “Nothing. I just wanted to talk to somebody. What’s your name?” “None of your business. Find somebody else to talk to if you’re so eager. I’m in the middle of a show and have nothing else to say to you.” The man put his earpieces back in and pushed his way through to the other end of the train. Heart pounding and feeling embarrassed, James decided he wasn’t going to give up just yet. Hearing the man’s voice, though hostile, had still excited him the same way the boy’s had. James put his hand on the shoulder of the man in the suit, who turned around took look at James. James again motioned for the man to take out his earpiece. When he did, the man shouted at James. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re bothering everybody on this train! I’m alerting security.” The man pressed a blue button near the door. Within seconds, a security guard burst through the door at the end of their train car. “Security! This man has been harassing everybody. Please take him off the train.” Just as the man said it, the train began slowing to a stop. “We know. We saw him on the cameras.” The officer turned to James. “Put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.” “Under arrest? For what?” James was stunned. “For disturbing the peace.


I'm writing a story about losing a lover and I dont know how to make it more sad. The title is "you belong to me" which is what the woman whispers to her spouse. They constantly revisit the place they first met on their anniversaries and during the night, they dance to the same song and she always whispers "you belong to me". One day she dies of a stroke (after 49th anniversary) and the man (70s by now) goes to the place they met, in their 50th and listens to the song they'd always dance to, while looking at old photos. When the song stops, he hears a whisper in his head, "you belong to me". Now how do I make it more sad? I'd love to share it but, I'm doing a young writers competition at one of my states university and I dont wanna have the story plagiarized before I send it to the judges and get disqualified.


Jobe had traveled down road - if you could call it that, the sorry dirt path only worn in from poor villagers bringing tithes - the past two days. The light unending drizzle of winter had turned the normally warm and hard ground into soft, squelching mud. Every step left him feeling that the earth itself longed to swallow him whole. Each footfall brought with it grime, slinging onto his trouser's legs. He shivered, pulling his damp cloak tighter to his back. He thoroughly regretted leaving this time of year - though he had little choice in the matter. After telling his Father that he no longer wanted to follow in his trade of piss and hide, spending his life looked down on, living on the edge of town as a Tanner, he had told him to travel south to enlist in the local Lord's army. The fire of adventure had been slowly quenched by how hard life on the road from his home had been. It started raining as soon as the sun had set - he left with a simple pair of clothes, dagger, cloak, and a bag with some coin and food he had scraped together. His bread had molded since last night - no thanks to the rain, and his joints ached from sleeping on the ground. He sighed, agitated, for no one to hear. "God will provide", he thought, clinging to hope. "If only this damned rain would stop, I could make it to the Inn." His village - while not small - was very poor. There was nothing between it and the major thoroughfares towards the larger keeps of the southern lands. His Father had claimed the village was cursed by the Jews after they had been driven out generations prior. Jobe had taken on many of his features - or lack thereof. A generic looking man, standing just under six feet. Brown eyes, dark brown hair in a bowl cut, and poor black patchy facial hair to match. The only thing noticeable was his overly large ears. By many opinions ugly - but not remarkably so. The only pieces he got from his mother was a sharp tongue, an open mind, and a surprising tolerance to beatings. After a few hours of unrelenting trudging, it was just past sunset, and there was a small amount of light left. He had finally reached a intersection of roads. He could've wept with relief, seeing the larger road had better drainage. No longer carrying what felt like pounds of mud with each step. He took a moment to reflect upon his surroundings, the dense forest that was surrounding him the past days had cleared up some, and ahead of him southwest lay open plains. Southeast the woods carried on for a short distance before turning to sparsely populated trees, the pines had yet to lose all of their needles, and still provided a good amount of cover to whatever may lie within. A milestone marker at the intersection let him know he was within an hour's walk of the Inn - straight south along the road. He squatted down to rest, contemplating to walk in the dark or to find a more dry patch of woods to rest in. To find a warm meal and bed for the night, or endure another cold hard rest. He had decided to travel on, and by many accounts a bad decision. Stepping up and trudging on, the harder packed clay road didn't give nearly as much as his previous. Jobe felt reinvigorated, the thoughts of the Inn spurring him beyond normal caution. He had just passed the edge of the forest on his left, when he heard sprinting footsteps behind him. His first instinct was to turn and look towards the noise, a true sign of his military experience - which is to say none. He got a glance at a fist in his peripherals, and then was hit square in the jaw. He felt himself falling, and the next moment on the ground. He felt mud and grime coating half of his face, and his clothes were soaked. He was laying in a puddle of something. His groggy brain tasted blood in his mouth, and his right ear felt waterlogged. He heard footsteps behind him, and his heart skipped and raced as his brain pieced together what was happening. He went to move his hands to push himself up, and found them tied behind his back. He squinted an eye open and found himself seeing a campfire some 20 yards away. The mud on his face had blocked the light from his eyelids. The sudden brightness caused him to quickly shut them back, and he wriggled trying to find some footing or ability to move. He felt the binds on his feet equally tight and unforgiving as the ones on his hands. The footsteps behind him stopped and a light chuckle sounded off. "I'd keep still and quiet in your place." Jobe craned his neck as far as he could to try and find the voice, but a foot pressed on his left shoulder, almost pushing him face down into the puddle. "Like I said, still." The voice sounded far from menacing - almost like a teenager trying their best to imitate their parents. Jobe's right nostril was in the water, and he had to breathe through his mouth to avoid sucking up whatever he was laying in. "Let me go! Take my money! I have no-!" His shouts, interrupted by being pressed the rest of the way down. "I said quiet, too!" The not-yet-man had replied with a hiss. After a few moments of struggling, he let off enough pressure to allow Jobe breathing room. "Now, I already saw you have nothing else. Your money wasn't enough. But your body might be." Jobe's mind immediately raced, trying to make sense of what he said. "I have a few friends looking for strong workers, and I think you'd fit perfectly." The not-yet-man paused, leaving Jobe to ponder what his future could hold. He had heard talk of slavers from the eastern sea, but thought them only rumors. Thinking back to his Father, his heart broke in anger at how foolish he'd been to think he could manage the world on his own. Barely a man of 20 years, with experience being beaten by the catch pole and his father, thinking he could survive a real fighter. "Please sir, let me go..." he begged "My family awaits me.". The foot on his shoulder lightened a hair more, returning him to his original position. "Where are you from, boy?" The irony of such a young voice calling him boy was lost on Jobe, in his predicament. "Myirwood! They would pay you handsomely if you brought me to them and said you saved me. I can get you more than the slavers will pay!" Jobe was grasping for straws, the dire situation he was in left no room for anything but last ditch begging. The foot pulled back, and Jobe heard him step in the mud. "Myirwood. How far is it from here?" "A day and a half walk north of here in good weather, sir! If...if we're still near The Fat Minister." Jobe replied, suddenly aware he was not sure how long he had been unconscious for, or if at all. The hit he had endured scrambled him real well. Jobe sat in agonizing silence for a few moments, until the voice replied "Very well." And the next thing Jobe felt was a boot kicking him square across the jaw, knocking him out once more.


Misty looked at the classroom clock in desperate, childish relief. Her classmates were not so relieved, going up to the teacher saying how good the lesson was, and how they wished they could get another practical. Mr Moren smiled and gave his gratitude but the falseness in his voice was present in the timbre. Low between syllables and higher in vowels. Misty always had a dislike for Science yet today had seemed longer and painfully boring. The first week of secondary was over though, and she could finally rest. Her pencil case was the first to enter her bag, then her sketch book and notepad quickly followed suit. Her light brown skin complimented her dirt blonde hair so naturally that it was near impossible to believe that she wasn't a model, on the other hand Misty's lanky figure, never ending scowl and tomboy fashion sense were a constant reminder to her parents that this was but a dream. To persuade Misty to model would be the equivalent of teaching a bottlenose dolphin to play soccer. By the time she had finished packing her bags all the children of Class 7A had already sprinted out of the building. The falseness of her peers was almost laughable. She saw right through their disguises. Her father had taught her to, right before he left. For Caroline. Leaving her and her mother.... No. He was just as false. As false as the smiles on the adults that dictated her life. She vowed to never become like them, and to quote her favourite heroine, Keep it Real. The corridor was also empty. The light blue walls shone dimly at the hour of 3pm. Faint noises in the distance could be heard, but Misty didn't trust them. Her doctor said that only she could hear these and so making her special. "Sometimes, being special can hurt you and those around you, so take these meds and you'll be normal in no time", said Doc Leake. The same transparent smile on him. Her medicine tasted weird, and was most unpleasurable. At least it kept Him and His friends under control. They would go after Misty constantly, but however bad humans were, the meds they gave her worked. These thoughts swarmed Misty. Unusual but then again everything in her life was. It was the norm. Before she knew it, she had already arrived at the market near her house. No recollection of how she got there, Misty pondered for a good 5 minutes, then ultimately concluded on that she has been on autopilot mode again. Pavement was bumpy. The workers really didn't do a good job on Queen Street. Misty frowned upon this and vowed not to be a lazy worker. She frowned again, but for another reason totally worker unrelated. The marketplace was empty. The stalls were there however no one was running them. This Friday truly was strange. The blue door was back once more. Behind the fruits stall laid a curious little blue door that had light emitting from the bottom. There were rumours of course about the little blue door, the famous one being that Mrs Watson cheated on her husband with the young lad that ran the fruit stall, but Sandro never seemed to be the kind of guy running around with other mens wives. Mrs Watson however, Misty wasn't so sure. Today must be the day. If I start somewhere in stopping lies, then I'll start here, thought Misty. Her bag in hand ready to be used as a club, she approached the little blue door with caution. A rumour always had a tiny bit of truth, and if any of the rumours she heard from the neighbours were true, it was that this place must've been quite dangerous back in the industry days. The light shone more intensely as she came closer. Her hand rested on the door knob and the light began to throb. Like a pulse, the light followed through with a 4 step beat. Bum, bu-bum-bum, bum, bu-bum-bum. Though now regretting her decision, she opened the door to find a dimly lit alleyway. It's walls were clean, free of any signs of delinquency. The end was shrouded in darkness, unrevealed. Enough light was reflected towards it that Misty could see that the trail didn't end there. There was a corner she could follow. Their voices began to ring again. They were all panicking, some pleading her, others threatening her, but they all said one thing: "TURN AROUND NOW!" She didn't. Never in her life had she listened to these voices. The advice given was to ignore them. But this time, they did make sense. As she walked down this mysterious narrow alleyway, the inbetween of two large houses occupied by her neighbours, shadows danced around her. They crept up onto the walls and formed hideous creatures with tendrils longer than an octopuses arms, goopy substances dripping from what could be assumed to be their mouths. Misty wasn't so sure. She looked to turn back but the shadows filled up the beginning of the alleyway, until Misty didn't even know which side she came from. She walked on, her only chance to escape this madness was to pressure forwards. She tugged and pulled away the shadows in front of her, hoping some light would pierce through. The shadows began to talk. "TURN AROUND NOOWW!!" So they were the voices she heard. She ignored them and pressured on. She felt the wall run out. The corner had been reached. By now, the shadows had corrupted her eyes now, filling them up and putting her in agonising pain. Misty could see nothing more than just black. As she took a large step over the border of the corner, the shadows screamed and pulled away from her. Her vision was regained but so much blood had now dripped that it clouded her sight. She wiped it off and fell to her knees at what she saw. There was a mountainous collection of skeletons. They piled up on each other like gravy on roast dinner. But that wasn't the worst. The walls were now stained with blood, writing on the walls that said Amass. Misty didn't understand, but she cried and cried and begged someone to help her. Her bag fell from her hands, the cat charms disintegrating upon contact with the skeleton collections. She stared up in horror as to what she saw. Amass, the monster that she had been warned about. It was nothing more than the collection of rotting flesh and human skin, supposedly from the skeletons. It walked in her direction, bent down to her ears and whispered, "You shouldn't have come Around the Corner...." {Hallo, Makuto here. I'm a 14 year old with aspirations of becoming a writer. I accept all criticism and would be glad to have some feedback regarding my writing style.