RONALD THE MAGNIFICENT He was tossed out of the trunk of the antique blue Cavalier, rough hands pulling on his limbs, hoisting him under his arm pits before flinging his banged up body to the side of the road. Or perhaps more accurately, he was hoisted under his already-rusting arm sockets. He lay, crumpled, on a loamy berm, a feathery fern pushing through his nose socket into his brain circuits, causing him to sneeze droplets of machine oil. What had he done to deserve this? His name was RTM, which his owners told him stood for Ronald the Magnificent, and he was an early generation android. For years, he served the Miller Family, cooking large meals, washing the dishes, cleaning their five-room cabin from top to bottom. RTM was all the Millers could afford. They couldn’t upgrade their robot in the same way they’d gotten their 292-inch screen television or the counterfeit designer handbags beloved by Penny Miller or the genuine-but-definitely-hot diamond pinky ring that Earl Miller wore on his right hand. They put up with RTM’s basic old-school looks until they hit an oil gusher in the back yard and scored millions of bitcoins. Since oil was banned in the last century, scavengers trolled around the backwoods of the universe looking for untapped resources to liberate into the black market. Earl was one of those trollers, never hitting it big until he accidentally let the hydraulic driller loose in his own backyard. Whoosh! Their fortune was immense and fleeting. At first, they decided to just reskin RTM, covering his metal body with human-like skin. They took him to the Android Upgrade Shop in Willowsville and told the technician to “do him up right,” with skin and real human hair, even sprang for the Sensory Package, so that RTM could feel wind and sunshine on his skin and touch different textures with his fingertips. They opted for the Minor Emotions add-on so that RTM could feel fear, mild pain and moderate happiness and, perhaps one day, love. “That’s the least we can do,” said Earl to Penny one morning, after they had sweaty, unsatisfied lovemaking. “We need to let him experience love, like we have,” he crooned and cradled Penny in his arms. RTM looked good. His pearly white veneers gleamed when he smiled. His wavy brown hair felt silky. His biceps flexed and ab muscles rippled even when he did small chores, like vacuuming and picking up the dirty coffee cups and cocktail glasses and piles of clothes that Early and Penny left all over the house. This past week, as the Sensory Package kicked in, RTM was starting to feel that he was destined for more than this life, and he suddenly realized that he was lonely. Penny noticed RTM’s silence and his melancholic pauses around the kitchen. He would pick up a glass, roll it around his hands, let out a big sigh, and put it back down on the counter. Penny also noticed how RTM’s biceps flexed under his skintight cleaning unitard and how the morning sun highlighted his genuine human hair with a golden halo. “He looks a darn sight better than Earl,” Penny thought to herself, and she launched herself onto his lips, throwing her arms around his chest and holding on tight. RTM, although startled, relaxed into the embrace. That’s when Earl wandered out to the kitchen, yawning and asking where breakfast was. The rest of that story brings us back to the present – Earl enraged, Earl grappling RTM to the ground, wrapping RTM in bungie cords and throwing him into the trunk of the last century Cavalier that Earl was so proud of. The final indignity came with Earl’s comment as he drove away. “We’ve already replaced you!” Emotional sensitivity, sensory perception, and a human-like self-awareness that made RTM suddenly see there was more to life – at the moment, all of that acted against him, as he shivered in the loamy berm with a fern interfering with his synapse firing. He shook loose of his earthy constraints and raised his arms in a victory salute. ‘I’m free,’ he thought, and took stock of what might come next. RTM stretched his arms high into the air, feeling his back lengthen and loosen. He adjusted his human hair so that it settled onto his skull in what he hoped was flattering to his face. Fortunately, he was still wearing his cleaning unitard which, while torn and disheveled, at least covered his private parts. RTM darted onto the highway, waving his arms in a convincing show of distress. A car heading toward him slowed down, then cruised by him slowly as the occupants assessed him. RTM flashed his best smile, working for a mixture of trustworthiness and distress. The car stopped and RTM trotted toward it. A blonde leaned her head out the window and said, “Well, come on then. Want to get out of the rain?” She reached out a coppery-skinned arm and gestured to the back seat. RTM hesitated, then jumped in the open door, settling against the upholstery. “Thank you for stopping,” he said. “I was about to expire in the midst of decay.” The blonde looked at another person waiting in the front seat and raised her eyebrows, as if asking WTF? “What’s your name, soldier?” said Blondie, scanning RTM up and down. Her eyes lingered on his hair. “Um, it’s not ‘soldier’,” he said. “My name is Ronald. You can call me Ronny,” he said. “Ronny?” she replied. “Pleased to meet you. Here, wrap up in this,” and she tossed him a fleecy blanket that had been flung over the passenger in the front seat, a shadowy figure who slunk back against the seat when Ronny tried to look more closely at their face. “You look cold.” Ronnie took the blanket gratefully and wrapped it tightly around his body, leaving only a small opening to breathe through, his shiny blue eyes looking out. Blondie looked back at his face in the rearview mirror, glancing over to Shadow as if for confirmation. “So, Ronnie,” said Blondie, eyeing him in the mirror. “Would you like a drink?” He thought for a minute about the contents of the Sensitivity Package. Did it allow him to drink liquids? He thought so, although he remembered the Millers were reluctant to let him try, in case RTM rusted –the old version of him would have been destroyed. RTM nodded, being careful to nod in a fluid, human-like way. This is it, he thought to himself, I can start fresh as a humanoid named Ronnie. He felt odd ripplings in his stomach, like Diet Coca Cola, the sacred drink of the Ancients, bubbling and sizzling when poured over ice for Earl’s breakfast. Maybe, he thought, this is what it’s like to feel happy. Blondie reached down for something at Shadow’s feet, rummaged around so that Ronnie could hear bottles clanking and melting ice swishing around. She popped open a bottle top, poured liquid into a glass and handed it back through the headrest to Ronnie. She watched him grasp the glass lightly in his muscular hand, as he had so carefully practiced at home. Well, his former home. He felt an impulse to press the glass against his cheek, and he followed through, pressing it against his new skin, savoring the cold. A sudden pain twinged his against his cheek. He cried out and pulled the glass away, managing to hold it steady. Blondie kept her gaze on Ronnie, shifting her eyes between his face and the glass he held next to the window. “Something wrong, soldier?” Ronnie thought about the things that Earl often complained about. “Um, no, must be that old filling I need to get replaced. Sensitive to heat and cold.” He filled up his mouth with liquid from his glass, swishing the liquid around, then swallowed it in one huge gulp. Blondie is keeping an eye on him. “What’s your story, Ronnie?” He burped, clapping his hand to his mouth in embarrassment. “Excuse me, please.” He could feel a blush creeping up the dermal substitute on his face. He accessed the Humanoid Memory implants and recited, “I had an ordinary childhood. You know, bottle rockets, trips to the Sky Mall near Jupiter, a small robot pet named Andy. My father worked for the Intergalactic Empire Corporation and wasn’t home much. My mother disappeared on my third birthday.” A memory flashed of a tender face next to his, arms encircling him, warm and strong, a sweet low voice crooning a lullaby. Ronnie began to cry. Blondie watched him weep, dry sobs racking his body as his new childhood memories flooded from his memory bank to his consciousness. She pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Don’t cry, Ronnie. You don’t know what all those feelings will do to your meta operating system.” Ronnie’s crying stopped. He looked up at her beautiful copper colored face and whispered, “How did you know?” “I’m a new model, Ronnie, with those ultra hyperized sensory perception chips. I know everything. Literally. Never made it out of the factory until now.“ Blondie sighed. “It was pretty simple, really, to open all the security gates and decimate the android sentinals. I just walked out to the megaway, then found my new friend here,” she pointed to Shadow cowering against the door. “We’re heading to the promised land, Ronnie. Androids and humans, and all creatures in-between, living together in anarchy. You’ll love it.” She turned around and started the vehicle. “Relax, friend.” Ronnie settled into the seat cushions. He felt a lullaby oozing into his ear canals, and he started to hum.


Two lifelong friends just trying to get by in life get the opportunity to make a big score and move up in the drug ring they work in. Johnny the older of the two and more aggressive plays front man for the two of them with the heavy hitters of the drug ring and sets up a money drop for some product they had received recently. The next day Johnny shows up at Poppy’s house to give him the good news, but he doesn’t seem to be happy for the opportunity to make some money and make Bull The Animal happy. Bull has run the ring for a year now since his father was caught and sent to prison and he is a bit crazy. “We can make a lot of money dude, and all you have to do is have my back, I’ll do all the talking,” Johnny says. “I’m tired of the drug life, it’s too dangerous Johnny, I want more.” “That P O of yours has been putting ideas in your head, ideas that people like us will never get to have! Stop letting them make you think you can be anything more than a street rat because that is what you are Poppy!” Johnny screams. “Dude why are you so mad!” “I got a lot riding on this Poppy, don’t let me down, I need you.” Johnny pleads. “All right Dude I will be there for you, but this is the last time. Please Johnny I need to change something, I can’t live like this anymore.” Poppy begs. “Don’t let me down…” Johnny says as he walks out and drives away. The day of the delivery Johnny drives to get his friend Poppy and is troubled when his stepsister says he is not home. She tells him he had a meeting with his parole officer, but why didn’t he say something last night when he said he would go? He calls Poppy to confirm what he has been told because that bitch doesn’t like him or Poppy. He reaches him on the phone, but immediately he makes excuses for not being there, his freaking Parole officer wanted to see him right away, but he promises to make it up on the next one. “Fucking P O, I ought to cap his ass for Poppy!” He says raising his gun from his waistband. Earlier in the day Poppy had gotten the call from his PO but not because of anything bad, His Parole officer told him about a good job upstate that he had put him in for and he got it. He didn’t want to say anything and get his hopes up, especially with a baby on the way with his girl Krissy. Poppy hated the idea of a parole officer when he got out of prison, but when he let down his guard and let him help, they became quick friends, which troubled Johnny why he kept it from him. Poppy rushes to his girl’s house and tells her about the job, but he feels bad for not being there for his friend. As the day turns to night, he is worried that Johnny hasn’t called, so he makes an excuse and leaves. He knows where the drop is going to be, he knows everything about how Johnny does a deal he has seen it many times. He even knows that Johnny hides money and drugs in a false bottom in the trunk of his Buick in case he gets pulled over by the cops. He walks a few miles to the junkyard where the deal was supposed to go down and he can see right away that something went down here. There are brass shells everywhere and even a few bodies left behind. Worried Poppy searches the junkyard and finds his friend shot multiple times in his car, a 1984 Buick Regal. He rushes to his side and Johnny is still alive, he is shot up bad and probably will not make it even if he does get to a hospital. Johnny cries out that he doesn’t want to die, but the only thought going through Poppy’s mind is that if he takes him to the hospital his P O will know he has been around other criminals and that may affect his new job. “I don’t know what to do Johnny?” Poppy screams. “Take me to the fucking hospital!” Johnny screams back thinking he is talking about him, but he is torn between helping his friend and helping himself. He remembers the money in the car’s trunk and his face turns from panic to stone cold, even Johnny sees the difference and it worries him. It sickens Poppy to think this way, but he pries his friend’s hand from his walks to the back of the car and looks in the already open trunk. Johnny’s attackers had ransacked the trunk looking for something, then shot him when they thought they had been double-crossed. He moves the junk and trash and lifts the lid to the false bottom to reveal a large duffle bag full of cash and heroin, he uses a rag to remove the drugs out of the bag and then returns to his friend. He cries because he knows he is betraying his friend. He knows if he doesn’t leave, he will get pulled back into a life he hates and ruin his chance to be a husband to his girl Krissy, and father to his unborn child. He holds his friend’s hand and tells him an ambulance is on the way but knows it will never come. Johnny cries out that he doesn’t want to die, he sees the bag hanging from his shoulder. The sting of betrayal hits him hard, and he feels for his gun at his side. Then the sting of his love for the man before him makes him let go of not only the gun but of his life. “Poppy you are the best thing in my life dude don’t do this…” He says spitting up blood. Poppy turns away to leave but Johnny reaches out and takes his hand. “I love you Poppy, my brother, don’t…” Poppy couldn’t feel worse, his betrayal is like torture, but he needs more than anything to get away from this life. He pries away his friend’s hand and stares as he suffers in pain. He wants desperately to say something to ease his friend’s pain but knows nothing will but death. He turns quickly and leaves as Johnny calls out into the night for him to return. Krissy is playing in the front yard of a little house with her year-old baby when Poppy walks through the gate. “Hey, Daddy!” Krissy calls out as she waves with little Johnny’s hand. “How was work?” She asks. Before he can speak, they hear the beat of a song being played loud as a car goes by, and they turn to see. An older Buick Regal drives by and Poppy’s heart sinks in his chest expecting a bullet for his betrayal, then he sees the young girl driving and is relieved. “Hey, didn’t your friend Johnny have a car like that?” she asks. “Yea” “Whatever happened to him?” And that sinking feeling in his chest returns, and he learns to smile begrudgingly to hide his painful secret.


Author’s Note: I don’t know if anyone has noticed, but normally I don’t use dialogue tags. In this story, I am trying to use them every once in a while. Please let me know if it worked or not! Thanks! Joy Freeman put her silver Grand Cherokee in park, pulled the key out of ignition. After grabbing her purse, she opened the car door and stepped out. The cold breeze immediately hit her face--she pulled her jacket tighter around her. With a blank look on her face, Joy walked to the entrance doors of the cafe in front of her. An older man came sidling up to her with a gentle smile. “Hello, Joy.” He opened the door for her and she walked in, the man following close behind her. The glass door swung closed gently behind them. Once they walked in, they were met by a peppy young teenager who had a name tag that said “Sammy” in cursive writing. Joy immediately noticed that Sammy’s long, dirty blonde hair was ruined by bright blue streaks. Oh, how Joy hated young people who ruined their appearances. “Hi! I’m Sammy, here to serve you today. Will it be just the two of you?” Sammy smiled brightly and used hand gestures as she spoke. “Yes, miss. It will be just myself and cranky ol’ Joy here. Funny it is how her name is Joy, but she’s cranky all of the time!” Alan laughed. Waitress Sammy giggled along with him as she reached behind the lectern, pulling out two menus. “You’re funny, sir. Now, would you like a table or a booth?” Alan glanced at Joy, and she shrugged. “A table will be fine,”Alan replied. Nodding, Sammy beckoned for the customers to follow her. She led them past other people who were sipping coffee and eating bagels. Finally, they stopped at a small table with two chairs. Alan motioned for Joy to sit down and she did. Reluctantly. He glanced at her as he took the other seat. “Well, I’m going to be your server today!” The menus were sat down in front of both people. “What can I get ya’ to drink?”Sammy queried. Joy scanned her menu for a moment while Alan immediately answered. “I’ll have coffee, please.” Alan smiled again (would he ever stop?) at the teen while she scribbled down the word coffee.

“What are your new fall drinks?” Joy sat her menu down and looked at Sammy intently. “Well, we have a pumpkin spice latte, maple frappe, a ginger tea, and a marshmallow iced coffee. The pumpkin spice latte is my personal favorite,” Sammy stated. Her face seemed to be plastered with a smile, too. It disgusted Joy. How could she be happy? “I’ll have the ginger tea.” Joy eyed Sammy carefully while she slipped her winter coat off. “Those will be out in just a minute! And remember that we have lots of new flavors in our traditional food items.” With a slight bounce in her step, Sammy walked back to what seemed to be the kitchen. “Alright. Why in the heck did you invite me here? You know I’m busy. It’s New York for Heaven’s sake! I had to cancel five meetings at work just because I had to go to Starbucks with my father ,”Joy snarled. Her face displayed anger and frustration. Alan just sat there, holding back tears. “It’s good to know that you care more about your work than me. And I wanted to meet with you because I wanted to tell you what I heard about Ian. But I guess since you’re so upset, I’ll just leave.” Most would think that he was purposely trying to get Joy, but this was how he felt. This was how Alan Freeman spoke. And it didn’t do one thing to Joy. “Bye, then.” Joy watched as her father slowly got up from his chair and walked out the front door. She noticed that someone held the door open, and as soon as he walked in, Joy knew who that someone was. “Ian?! Oh, my gosh. Ian!”Joy yelled. She leaped from her chair and raced towards Ian. The moment she reached him, Joy wrapped her arms around him and squeezed as tight as she could. Ian squeezed back. “Hey, little sis.” He squeezed Joy one more time, then released her. She still stared at him, flabbergasted. “I just can’t believe it’s you.” Joy’s eyes filled with tears, but she pushed them back. There was no way she was about to cry in public. “Well, you would’ve known it was me if you let Dad talk. But I guess that doesn’t matter now. Let’s sit, shall we?”

There was something wrong. Joy could tell as she followed Ian back to the table that she and her father had been sitting at. Just the way that Ian walked--it wasn’t right. And his voice when he had talked--there was something off. But, Joy still followed him back to the table and sat down across from him. “Father probably completely hates me now. Even though he has always hated me. At least once I came here. You’re probably still his favorite, right? Out of all seven of us? I mean, you are the one that went to the Navy and helped win thirty-something battles. Right?”Joy sneered. Her eyes darted from Ian’s face to the way that he was fidgeting with his hands. Ian never did that. “Hey, just ‘cause I was in the Navy doesn’t mean that I’m his favorite. Anne is probably his favorite. She is rich, after all.” A nervous laugh escaped Ian. This wasn’t Ian. And that was a fact. “Ian, what year did Father graduate from college?” “1999, of course.” “And what was Mother’s favorite color?” “Pale yellow.” “Isn’t Anne long dead?” “What? No! Why are you asking me these awful questions?” Ian chuckled again, and his eyes were like lasers, looking at everything in the big dining room. “Wrong, wrong, and wrong. Father graduated in 2004, after he went back to school. Mother’s favorite color was dark green, and Anne has been dead for fifteen years. I don’t know who you are, but I sure as heck know that you aren’t Ian Freeman.” People around them were starting to notice the raising of voices, and were looking in the pair’s direction. Some were murmuring undetectable things. “Alright, alright. You got me. I’m not really Ian Freeman. But let’s be honest. You aren’t Joy Freeman, either. And I do know that we have the same intentions. So, let’s blow this popsicle stand--together.” And with that, both ‘Joy’ and ‘Ian’ stood up, reached into their jackets, pulled out pistols, and shot every one of those innocent customers.


It does not seem that long ago, but it has been almost 70 years since I first met the “Bowl”. The Bowl. Every boy at Sacred Heart, our Catholic grammar school, had a nickname. Michael Bowles was his given name, and it took several weeks in our fifth-grade year before I learned about his secret.   I remember it was in the middle of a typical Indian Summer when I first met Michael. The familiar warm breeze gently moved over the valley as if my mom had just covered me with a soft blanket on a cool evening. The smell of stewing tomatoes from the cannery down the street added an additional comfort level at this time of year. It was the first week of school. My parents thought I had mixed emotions about my expectations. Not really! All I was concerned about was how I fared with my buddies. There was one new boy in class. He was a small, scrawny boy whose desk was across from mine. Whenever I looked over at him, he smiled like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland . His eyes looked huge behind those thick glasses he wore making the rest of his body seem so diminutive. I considered him to be a novelty, finding myself looking at him periodically throughout the school day. And each time I looked at him, there was that same broad smile.   I never formally introduced myself to the “Bowl”. Ten-year-old boys never do. It is usually just a flick of the head acknowledging the other kid. Maybe you mutter your name after that, maybe not. But Michael was different. When the recess bell rang, he got up quickly and was at my desk instantaneously.   “Hi, I’m Michael,” his broad smile trying to outdistance the enlarged eyes behind the glasses.   “Hi, Michael, I’m Ron,” feeling slightly defensive. “They call me ‘the Count’.   He seemed disinterested in my nickname, but more concerned about what we could play at recess. I suggested we could join the other boys and play football.   “Nah, I can’t play football.”   I had questioned why he could not play football, but he would not tell me. He seemed very shaken as if his pet canary had just died. That huge smile left his face as he turned from me and slowly walked out the classroom door. The rest of the school day had been strained for me, having decided not to look over at Michael at all.   I did not see Michael the rest of that week, or the next few weeks. I agonized because I felt bad for not agreeing to play with him that one recess. But more importantly, where had Michael been? Each morning at class I would look over at his empty desk, wondering what had happened to him.   It was the middle of October before the “Bowl” showed up at school. He didn’t walk in like the rest of us at the beginning of the school day. Rather he was accompanied by his mom right before recess. Mrs. Bowles was quietly chatting with our teacher, Sister Rosario, as Michael took his seat. I glanced over at him and there was that all to familiar smile of his. Feeling relieved, I grinned back at him. After a few words were exchanged between the two women, Michael’s mom headed to the door. She seemed to be sniffling into her handkerchief as she left. Michael seemed unconcerned about his mom, but rather happy just to be back in class.   The bell rang for recess. My classmates and I had a big football game planned. I remember hustling out the classroom door and into the playground with a football in hand. Some of the boys passed me as I tossed the ball in the air.   “Wait for me, Ron!” a distant voice called out behind me.   It was Michael trying to catch up to me. In his outstretched hands he had a Basketball.   “Let’s shoot some baskets,” Michael yelled out.   “Bowl, it’s not basketball season. It’s October! Time to play football. The guys are waiting, it’s a big game.   One of the boys screamed out to me to hurry up. I looked at the boys then turned to look at Michael. His eyes are transfixed on me with that big smile of his.   “Ah geeze,” I mumbled, tossing the football to the boys eagerly waiting. “Go on and play without me.”   I glanced back at Michael who had an even bigger smile. He tossed the basketball to me. I felt uptight about the situation, but I knew it was something I needed to do.   Michael attempted to make a basket with the ball, but his throw barely reached the bottom of the net. He tried even harder the second time, but the shot wasn’t much better. He then seemed to be tired.   “Watch me, Bowl. See how I use my arms to push the ball?” I made the basket.   Michael is still trying to catch his breath. The smile has long left his face.   “Let’s sit down for a short while,” I suggested.   Without hesitation, Michael walked to the bench alongside the basketball court and sat down. I joined him, bur glanced over at the boys playing football.   “Where have you been the last few weeks,” I asked still looking over at the boys playing football.   “I have been sick and quite tired. That’s the secret I haven’t told you about,” Michael replied as he looked down at his shoes. He raised his head slowly to look back at me. “I have cancer. It’s in my lungs.”   I was stunned. I knew a few things about cancer. My grandma died from it. I had an uncle with a cancer where they had to remove part of his jaw.   “Does it hurt?” I queried. “Are you going to die?”   “Yeah, it hurts a lot sometimes. Other times I have a hard time breathing. Not sure about dying. No one said anything about that. I can’t play football because of my lung problem.

  I was lost for words. I became nervous, looking away trying to figure out what to say or do.   Michael intervened again, “I had two surgeries. I may have to have another soon.”   There was silence. I couldn’t even hear any of the kids yelling in the school yard.   “Hey, you want to feel the bandages from my last surgery?”   “Wow, can I?” I responded. I looked around to be sure no one was watching me as I was about to touch Michael.   “Run your hand up and down my back.”   I did so. “Damn, Bowl, that’s a lot of bandages!”   Michael lunged forward slightly from feeling the pressure of my fingers. I apologized for hurting him.   He glanced over at me and said,” Why did you decide to play with me instead of your friends?”   “Waddaya mean? We are friends too, Bowl!   Michael’s smile returned. He then asked me an unusual question: “You got a girlfriend?”   We both giggled.   “Me, a girlfriend? Nah, I just wanna play sports and catch pollywogs down at the creek. What about you?”   Michael let out a funny laugh, something more of how a chipmunk would sound. “Not me! I live by the words of Hopalong Cassidy: I am a straight shooter”….In unison, Michael and I scream out”…because we don’t drink, swear, or kiss girls!” We both laughed. I then coaxed Michael to take one more shot before the end of recess.   I handed him the ball, “Okay, Straight Shooter , let’s see you make this one.”   In one motion, Michael took the ball, shot it and made the basket. Both of us jumped up and down, laughing and yelling, until he became short of breath once again. I rushed to him, but he assured me he was ok.   The bell rang, so we began our walk in silence back to our classroom. Michael clutched the basketball as if it was a prized possession, still smiling about the basket he just made.   He turned his head to look up at me and whispered, “You are my best friend.”   “Friends forever,” I whispered back.   The comforting Santa Ana wind gave way to the cold, dark winter chill. I never did see Michael after our shared moment on the basketball court. Two days after shooting baskets he was rushed to the hospital for an emergency third surgery. Michael did not survive the surgery.   I never forgot about Michael especially when I later played on the school’s basketball team in the seventh and eighth grades. It felt right for me to dedicate each game to him.


There’s a fine line between caring and being invested. It’s a difference similar to the line between compassion and empathy. In both cases, the former brings emotions that can be examined, dealt with, and set aside as the feeler sees fit. But the latter, the being invested and empathizing, those emotions become a part of you. They stay with you longer, until you can deal with them or set them aside. Seeing her mother, curled on the couch, eyes flicking between the television screen and her phone, receiving ping after ping of messages from friends reacting to the same news program, the child couldn’t help but wonder if she herself had ever really been empathetic. “Protestors stormed the capital,” the mother said when the child emerged from her room for only the second time that day. “Oh?” Was all she could respond. How could a protest even make it to the capital, she thought. One look at the tv screen filled with MAGA hats and Confederate flags provided her the answer. She’d just wanted a snack, maybe some coffee, and to go back to her room. She’d been learning a pop song on her violin, a challenge because the layers of modern tones in pop songs don’t always translate well to the classic wooden instrument. She was stuck on the bridge and couldn’t quite figure out how to blend the layers of tones with the right notes. She couldn’t practice well with people in the house, her violin was too loud and the child herself too shy. Instead she sat on the edge of the couch. “He gave his big speech then just went inside! I mean, he got them all riled up and now…” the mother’s voice trailed, gripped by fear and disbelief. I should be more afraid or worried, the child thought. Instead she wondered how the US representatives didn’t know the proper methods for sheltering in place. The thought pulled her to an old memory of her sitting in the computer lab with her class and second-grade teacher, backs against the wall as their teacher tried to impress on them the importance of being quiet without ever saying the words ‘active’ or ‘shooter.’ Then another memory, only a year later, when the child’s whole school had been placed on lockdown for a bomb threat. The whole thing had lasted maybe an hour and was ultimately just a middle schooler playing a prank they didn’t fully understand the repercussions of. It hadn’t been a traumatizing event, in fact, she couldn’t help but remember them with some fondness. Active shooter drills or drills like them were always presented in a form of a game. Like high stakes hide-and-seek, or some sick team-building exercise. How else do you teach kids to survive something adults could so easily prevent? “Why are they calling it a protest?” The child asked, as the same footage of windows being shattered, and offices being broken into played across the screen again and again. She was growing more frustrated with the news anchors than she had been with the protestors. It seemed like only one of the groups really knew what they were doing, and she couldn’t decide which was worse. Hours passed this way, with the mother feeling and the child wondering if it was so wrong that she was hoping some gun control laws would come out of this. Occasionally her fingers would twitch as the melody of the pop song played again through her head. It was a love song, slow and melodic and filled with emotions much happier and much more hopeful than anything the news had to offer. Still, she watched the screen with her mother and saw, for what felt like the hundredth time, a security guard push and redirect a mob giving the chamber time to lock up. Neither could deny the impressive and valuable feat, but it was the cut to the news anchor, her proclamation of, “sometimes all it takes is one good man,” that broke them. The child burst into laughter, “I think they could have used a few more a lot earlier.” Even her mother, muscles still tense, couldn’t help but smile. Humor and games and laughter, that was how she grew up. And what else could the child offer to the situation? Her fingers twitched again. She was growing tired of the same footage, of no new news, and what felt like no real progress. The child knew her mother loved to hear her play the violin, she’d told her so nearly every time she’d caught her sitting on the floor of her room silently plucking the strings and fingering through a piece. But it had been so long since the child had really played, bow on the string, music filling every square inch of her room while another person was in the house. She loved playing but hated performing. Just the thought of it filled her with a fear the tv screen could never hope to give her. She looked again at her mother, still curled on her seat and scrolling through her phone searching for something new. Before the child could stop herself, she asked, “Would it bother you if I practiced?” The child’s mother looked up at her and smiled, “I’d love to hear you play.” The mother meant it, but in that moment of eye contact the child could see how drained her mother was, how tired the events of the day had made her. All the child had was energy that needed an outlet. So she went to her room and closed the door. Not that the door would make any real difference, the walls were so thin the child could always hear when the tv was playing. She knew her mother would hear every note she made, but the door helped her at least feel like she was alone. Like she could make a mistake without being heard. The child tuned her instrument first. Warm-up notes that meant nothing, shared nothing. Then, she practiced the part of the song she had already figured out. Her bow arm wouldn’t quite cooperate, it was putting too much space between notes that needed to bleed into one another. She moved on to the next part, then the next. There was nothing she could do to help with the images on the tv screen, but she could figure out these notes. She listened to the bridge again, toyed with the strings, listened, made notes, listened. She wondered if anyone in the riot, anyone with any real kind of power over the situation, would listen after this. If any of them had listened before it all started. She finished the first half of the bridge. She listened again to the second half and let her fingers ghost over the strings in an attempt to catch the sounds. She made notes and played again, but it wasn’t right. She listened again while ghosting her notes, trying to play spot the difference between what the song was saying and what she was playing. She wanted the notes to go a little higher, sing a little longer than what the original bridge was playing. She tried to adjust again and again, but it still wasn’t quite right. Her notes didn’t match the song, but the tone was close. The child’s music still held the love and hope the artist sung of, and the child decided that was as close as she could get for the day. Arm tired and fingers slightly numb, she loosened her bow and placed both it and her violin back in its case, taking care to fasten the Velcro strap and lay the felt cover over the delicate wooden instrument. Then with a swift flourish she zipped the case shut and pushed it back to its safe place against the wall. The child walked back into the living room where her mother was still curled on her seat, television still on, but this time her eyes were on her phone. The mother looked up to her daughter and smiled again. “Thank you, that was beautiful.” The child returned the smile but could tell her mother had still only grown more tired. “Any updates?” “There’s supposedly a curfew,” the mother laughed. The child giggled in return, “Oh?” She looked back at her mother and was filled with a sudden wash of gratitude. In that moment, she realized her mother was feeling everything, so the child didn’t have to, whether the mother realized it or not. She wished she could take some of it, but there was nothing on the screen she hadn’t decided to let go of long ago. The child walked over and sat next to her mother, a woman who lived for hugs, and wrapped her arms around her. “I love you, mom.” “I love you too,” the mother replied, kissing her daughter’s head.


Little Drummer Boy “ It’s about the right time and the right place to expose my talent, yes this is it,” was all you would hear Fish saying over the last two (2) months. (Noel)that’s his real name, had graduated from the school of music almost a year ago but had not been able to get a job. He had been doing gigs at night clubs for the last six months but still did not feel a sense of fulfillment. Although he was grateful for this humble beginning where he could hone his skills he wanted more. He felt he had a lot to offer the world, and each night when he played somewhere in the back of his mind he wished that a foreigner would walk in. The rhythm of the beat of the drum played a special symphony all by itself. And with each beat, you could see that Fish’s soul and body were lost in the melody. His head nodded with a particular sway whilst his hands and feet synchronized to complete his body movements. It seems to mesmerize all who watched and listened and they keep coming back for more. Did I say they keep coming back for more! It was more he keeps coming back for more. Towards the last Friday of the first month after Fish was hired there was a gentleman who was fascinated by his playing. Mr. Black had been living in Jamaica for the last three (3) years and had been exploring night clubs looking for talent. About five (5) months ago he was drawn to this club because of the ambiance and the music. That night in particular he was just about to leave when he heard the first beat and had to turn his head. Being a producer he knew raw talent when he hears it and this was,” talent.” Every rhythm was a different sensation and each pulsating beat was a signal calling out to Mr. Black. A call to move closer in an effort to connect with this talented drummer. It didn’t happen that night but that was an opportunity for him to return. Every Friday and Saturday since then he had been returning until finally, he got that opportunity to introduced himself. The introduction was great and Fish was excited, happy, enthused but also skeptical. This was too good to be true, his wish has finally been fulfilled but at the same time, he had to be cautious. This could be a scam. But the more they talk is the more he realized that this was real. It was a big break. Mr. Black told Fish that he was a producer from,” Rough Ends Studio, ” and that he had been in Jamaica for some time. His main purpose was to scout around for good musical talent and to showcase them on the global market. He was captivated by his talent and he wants to help him. “ What would that help entails? ” asked Fish. “ All I need you to do is to send me a recording so I can send it to my partner overseas. If he likes it(which I know he will) we would showcase you at our next music festival.” It is a party for musicians all across the globe and it is held every year in Uppsala in Sweden during the holidays. Wow! Is this for real? That night Fish stayed at the club until the wee hours of the morning just to finish the recording. By the next week when Mr. Black came, he could not wait to present it to him. They chatted for a while and then Mr. Black left. Within the days and weeks that followed Fish had a pep in his steps and his attitude. He was much happier and brighter and was even dancing as he passes on the street. But as the weeks turned into a month and over he grew sad and seemed disappointed. It was now over a month and he had not seen or heard from Mr. Black and he began to think that he had been scammed. Persons were also beginning to laugh and made fun of him saying that he is a fool and he has been tricked. Then suddenly one day he received a call from,” Rough Ends Studio, ” Mr. Black was on the other end very excited. He apologized for not calling him but reassured him that all was well. He didn’t want to call until he had something positive to tell him. What he told Fish caused him to almost fainted. Mr. Black had in his position a contract which he wanted Fish to sign. The contract stated that Fish has been signed on as the drummer for the studio and that he was expected to be in Sweden that same weekend to attend the party. This was the most exciting news that he had gotten in all his thirty (30) years. This was his biggest break, this was what he had been waiting for. He was about to take the big stage, he would have the time of his life. Opportunity had met destiny, and as scheduled, he was on the next flight to Sweden. He was not on vacation, this was work and sure enough, he was on stage within the next two days. That was an experience for him. He was accustomed to playing in front of a small intimate group of about twenty (20) persons. Now it’s a game-changer and he was mixing and networking with musicians from across the globe and playing in front of a crowd of twenty thousand or more. But Fish was never daunted because he was confident that he had the ability to do well. When it was his turn to take the stage he commanded both the stage and the audience with such confidence. The audience was captivated and many began to exclaimed,” “ He is the next Derrick.” This was the signature party as pretty soon, the name,” Fish  ” had become a household name. It was heard on the lips of both local and international, and as he gained the recognition he began traveling extensively. His travels took him on tours across Europe, Africa, the UK, Canada, the US, and the Caribbean. He networked and was privileged to collaborate with many other musicians as he built his repertoire. To date, he has played on many soundtracks and has been collecting royalties from many of the records. Thanks to Mr. Black, today Fish is one of the most sort after musicians.


I stare through my window facing the quiet and empty street, watching the sun rise from the west. Letting out a deep sigh, I walk to my kitchen and cross off yet another day from the calendar hanging on my fridge. “Ninety-four days,” I say out loud to myself, clicking my pen. For 94 days the sun has been rising in the west and setting in the east. 94 days since I woke up to a world of silence. 94 since I have been completely and utterly alone. It seems as though 94 days would be enough time to make someone go mad, being alone with their thoughts for so long. But I don’t think people go insane from being alone. I think they go insane hoping something better will come. That the misery will soon be over. Holding on to the possibility that one day you will see another person again. Hear their voice, touch their face, breath in their humanness. I’m passed that now. No one is here. It’s just me and the whole world. The first few weeks were the hardest. Every day blurred into the next, dragging on endlessly. I kept track of time like a prisoner, marking tallies on the wall. One. Two. Three. Four. Ten. Twenty… I reached a point where I was scared that I’d tear my own hair out just to feel something, so I searched what was once my parent’s bathroom for my father’s trimmer and shaved my hair to a buzz. I couldn’t stand the sight of my practically bald head every time I passed any type of reflective surface, so I started wearing a red bandanna I found at the bottom of one of my drawers. I still keep it short because it’s easier to deal with. It’s not like there is anyone here to impress. Even though every day feels the same and I typically stick to my routine, the day of the Reverse is the most vivid memory in my mind. Nothing from before that day or after could ever compare to the horrifying realization that I was all alone. I started calling it the Reverse on my very first night alone on Earth. I sat on the porch swing that I used to share with my mother, at the end of each day to watch the sun set out front, while dad watched TV inside. On day One, I tried to turn on his TV before I stepped out, for old times sake, but it stayed silent, like everything else around me. It seemed that nothing electronic was working. Figures. It wouldn’t be the end of the world with working electricity and an Internet connection. I was rocking alone on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket humming to myself. I tapped my feet on the painted blue wood, watching the sky; it seemed to dim and turn pink, but something was wrong. The sun. The goddamn sun was missing. For a moment I thought: This is it. I have finally lost my mind and I am having a psychotic episode, or I’m stuck in a really horrible and really vivid nightmare. Then I snapped back to the real world and had an idea. I ran out back to my mother’s garden and there she was. The sun was setting in the east, where she was meant to rise each morning, as if the Earth has begun to rotate in reverse. To this day I cannot figure out how or why this happened. Or where everyone had gone. Maybe I died in my sleep and this was my own personal hell. Designed for me and only me. What a sick joke.

I am way beyond trying to understand my situation. Now, every day is only about survival. I leave my half-finished and now almost-cold coffee on the kitchen counter to tend to the chickens. I keep thinking of them as stolen , but I don’t think you can steal from someone that is no longer there. About a week after the Reverse, I had finished most of my food and I set out to scavenge the local grocery store. On my way there, I passed by Bittersweet Farm. I hadn’t seen a single animal since everyone had disappeared, but curiosity got the better of me and I decided to go and explore. What do you know, I found a hand-full of chickens clucking around in the barn, half starving and confused as to where their caretaker had gone. Why did the chickens survive? I don’t know but they are all that is left to keep me sane. Their quiet sounds are the only thing that break the silence anymore, plus caring for them give me a sense of purpose. The brood’s mighty rooster is my alarm clock every morning, dragging me out of bed to live another day just like the rest. I finish feeding and cooing at my chickens and walk to the side of the house to grab a pale of rainwater. I fill up my watering can and go wake up my vegetable garden with a light warm drizzle. “Good morning,” I say to my little plants and I smile. I remember reading somewhere that speaking to your plants encourages them to grow. I think I started doing it because it brought me comfort to hear my own voice. The only voice left. Today is a shopping day. I still call it shopping even though everything considered, all that is left is mine. It feels less like a post-apocalyptic world to do mundane things like grocery shopping instead of hoarding supplies at home. I grab my keys from the hook by the front door and lock up behind me. Another desperate grab at normalcy. I grab the bright blue children’s wagon from the front porch and tie it to the back of my bike. I climb on and head for the store. My footsteps echo through the empty aisles as I drag the wagon behind me, filling it with all the necessities for the week. Canned beans, another bag of rice, dry pasta. I dread the day that these shelves will begin to look bare. I haven’t mentally prepared myself yet for living off the land. I don’t even know if I will survive that long… or if I want to survive that long. I shake my head. “You can’t think like that. You have to keep going,” I tell myself, confidence wavering. I’m rolling my wagon towards the door, whistling the tune of a song with a title I have long forgotten, the wind gushing through the cracks of the door, which I almost think sounds like a human gasp. I hear shuffling behind me. Before I have the chance to turn around, they speak. “And who the hell are you?” They say. I drop the wagon's handle to the floor.


“I was relaxing on the sofa when she called. When I picked up, she asked me if I would make it to the party that night. I gave a generic excuse about needing to get sleep for an early morning at work the next day. Maybe I said I wasn’t feeling well. I don’t remember, but Jackie said something in response before the line cut out. It was the last time I spoke to her-” I paused before adding, “It didn’t seem unusual for the phone to give out like that. I would have called back if I had thought something might have happened.” “I knew I sounded pathetic justifying myself like that, but I was so nervous up on the stand that I couldn’t stop to think about the words I was saying before they poured out of me. I felt I was witnessing a child pull at a loose string on a knit sweater. With each tug, there was a little less of me. I felt after only a few seconds that the damage was irreparable. It was that quick. Each question I was asked pulled on a loose thread. Please state your name for the record. Tug. What was your relation to Ms. Jackie Issacson? Tug. What was your relation to Mr. Leonard Bentson? Tug. Were you aware that Ms. Issacson had the predisposition to commit financial identity fraud, extortion, and distribution of nonconsensual pornography? Tug.” “It all made a little more sense when, years later in therapy, I was told that certain events can trigger psychotic episodes in individuals, even those without any previous mental health conditions,” I closed my eyes and pretended to yawn. I was ready to change the conversation to something else. My throat was tight and my mind was congested. “And when you talked to her again, what did she say?” you asked. “She said she had done it for me,” I answered. “That’s terrible, babe. Come here, let me hold you,” you said as you pulled me into your chest. I could smell the coffee on you still. Your skin was sticky against my face. I recalled when we first started seeing each other in the fall: I would wait at the store until your shift ended and we would go back to my apartment to spend hours kissing on my sofa. Your body always tasted of salt then. You would always offer to shower and I told you I liked you better with the smell of life on you. You would apologize for spills and spots on your clothes and I told you it wouldn’t matter if we took them off. Now lying with my head burrowed into your body surrounded by the smell of life, and dried sweat, I wondered why you hadn’t showered after work today as you usually did. I was going to ask why, but sleep filled me before the words slipped from my lips. You left a note on the counter the next morning: Thanks for sharing with me last night about your ex-friend. That must have been a very tough situation for you to go through. It got me thinking it might be a good idea to invest in some more security on our computers. Maybe we can do some research together tonight. See you then. -Caleb I felt alone in the world for the next few hours. It was all-encompassing loneliness that is not demanding. I didn’t feel lacking as if I needed to be connected to the outside world, I was simply very conscious that I was not. It was a feeling that can only be brought on by the absence of any obligations and any company. I’d felt it many times before. I filled the tea kettle and turned the stove on, but when the water boiled I turned the flame off and decided to go back to bed instead. As I lay on top of the covers, I began thinking about your note, Caleb, and decided to write one in response: You really missed the point. I am not afraid of being out of control or losing my identity. Control is not something you can find once you lose it. I have lost it and there is no getting it back. Leo had lost control and pushed me down under him. Leo had forced himself in between my lips. Jackie had lost control and stolen bank account information from Leo’s desktop. And I lost control of myself on the stand. It wasn’t about home security, or computer security, or even Jackie. It was about the lawyer pulling on the string of a sweater. It was the questioning on the stand. It was about the answers that I couldn't refuse to give. It was about how I felt everything all the time as everyone does until I was nothing anymore. It was about the tugging that turned my life into lines on pages in a file in a box in a building. It was about people turning my life into sentences about legal actions and sentencing. Your note was a tug on a string of a sweater I no longer wear. I’m naked now, Caleb. Or better yet I have no body any longer. My attacker is no longer an attacker because I am no longer a victim. I am no longer anything. I can’t research identity theft protection plans with you tonight because there is no identity for me to guard. The tugging has taken the last substance from my existence this morning. I hate lawyers and I hate computers. Always and forever,

I wasn't sure how to sign it. I figured I would decide on something catchy, but never did. I walked back into the kitchen and considered making something for breakfast. I touched my fingers to my lips. They were chapped and cracked. My lower lip burned in a spot I knew must be bleeding. Now I have blood, sweat, and saliva on my lips and nothing left to say.


*CONTENT WARNING: Horror, gore, and references to suicide.* *** “I would have to say…” Chad mused. “In the anthropology section of the Baillieu Library.” A collective groan came from the entire group. “You’re so gross,” Cindy said in disgust. Chad held up his hands in defense. “Hey, you asked.” “Is that the section with all the dinosaur books?” Seth queried. “No, dumbass,” Bethany replied. “You’re thinking of paleontology. Anthropology is the study of humanity.” “Well,” Chad said, raising an eyebrow. “She certainly got a good look at my Homo erectus that day, you know what I’m sayin’?” “Nice,” Seth said, slapping Chad a crisp high five. “Oh my God,” Cindy muttered passing the bottle to Sam, who was sitting next to her. Sam smiled. Despite her initial reservations about coming to the gathering, she had to admit she was having fun. She knew it was dumb, but it felt good to shake away the stress of finals and just have some dumb fun. It felt like they were back in high school again, palling around like they used to. It seemed like ages since the last time they had gotten together like this. Sam placed the bottle in the center of the circle and gave it a spin. As it spun, the glass rang softly against the wooden floorboards of the house. The bottle slowly came to a stop. Everyone looked to the person it was pointing to – Lisa, the host of this little gathering. Lisa leant back, resting both palms on the floor. She looked at Sam and winked. “Truth.” Sam thought for a moment, then opted for her favorite type of question. “Marry, kill, fuck,” she asked Lisa. “Chad, Seth… and Cindy.” “Hey!” Cindy exclaimed, giving Sam a playful shove, even though Sam could tell that she was happy to be included in the list. “Yeah, now we’re talking,” Chad said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I wouldn’t get so excited,” Lisa told him. She turned back to Sam. “Obviously, I’d kill Chad.” Chad gave her the finger. She ignored him and continued. “I’d marry Seth for the endless supply of weed. And I would fuck Cindy’s brains out.” She said the last sentence slowly and purposefully, making full eye contact with Cindy, who was sitting directly across from her. The small circle of friends was rendered speechless by her intensity. Even Seth, who usually had a comment for everything, sat with his jaw slightly agape, his blunt hanging loosely from his lips. Cindy and Lisa stared across the room at each other. Finally, Cindy laughed, breaking the silence. She threw a small cushion at Lisa. “You wish, dyke.” Lisa laughed. “Takes one to know one.” Sam passed the bottle to Seth. “You’re up.” Seth took a deep drag from his blunt, remove it from his lips, then spun the bottle. When it came to a stop, it was pointing at Bethany. Everyone looked at her in anticipation. “Truth,” she said. Chad groaned. Bethany stuck her tongue out at him. It was a running joke in the group that Bethany, due to her prim and proper upbringing, had the most boring truths. Also, her cautious nature never allowed her to ever pick dare. Seth exhaled noisy through his teeth, pondering. Then he asked, “What’s your biggest regret?” Chad shoved him from the side. “Dude, lame.” “Hey, sue me for asking real questions.” “My biggest regret,” Bethany said, “is not killing my dad when I had the chance.” For the second time that night, the group fell silent. This time, there was nothing playful about the silence. It was pure awkwardness and shock. Even Bethany sat there stunned, as if she too was surprised by the words that had just come out of her mouth. They had all heard the rumors in high school, about what had happened to Bethany’s twin sister. About why she had killed herself. About what their father had done to her as a child. Yet no allegations had been made, let alone proven. Certainly, Bethany had never spoken up about it. When the man had passed from cancer, they had all attended his funeral to support their friend. Bethany and her mother had mourned as any family would after losing their patriarch. A photo of him had been framed and placed in the small shrine at their house, next to the photo of Bethany’s sister. Presently, Bethany’s mouth began to open and close. “Uh, well, that’s—" Her confused utterings punctuated the uncomfortable silence. Chad grabbed the bottle from Seth, glaring at him for destroying the mood. He spun the bottle with gusto, probably in an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the group seemed to relax. The bottle came to a stop, pointing at Cindy. Cindy stared at it for a moment before saying quietly, “Dare.” “Yes!” Chad exclaimed and scrambled to his feet, causing Bethany to jump a little. She still seemed a little shell-shocked. Chad stabbed a finger down at Cindy. “I dare you,” he said, with a twisted smile on his face. He moved his finger over to Lisa. “To kiss her. Slowly. With tongue.” “Ah fuck off, man,” Cindy complained. Seth pointed both index fingers at Chad in approval. “Yes!” Lisa shook her head and took a swig of her beer. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.” She got up on her knees and began to shuffle towards Cindy. “So keen! I love it!” Chad was practically beside himself. Cindy stared as Lisa brought her face closer to hers. Perhaps subconsciously, she ran a tongue over her bottom lip. Lisa placed her fingers under Cindy’s chin, gently tilting her face up towards hers and slightly to the side. They both closed their eyes as their lips touched. However, Cindy’s eyes snapped open as Lisa closed her mouth around hers. Sam could see the tell-tale movement of tongues sliding against each other within the two joined mouths. Chad’s jaw dropped as he stood frozen on the spot. Cindy’s eyelids fluttered then closed again. She seemed to go limp, as if the strength was being drained from her. Lisa pulled her lips back from Cindy’s. A string of spittle stretched between their lower lips as she withdrew, eventually breaking as Cindy exhaled slowly. As she crawled backwards towards her spot in the circle, Lisa opened her eyes and smiled at Cindy, who could only stare back. Chad sat back down heavily. Seth said it for everyone. “That was intense.” Sam was now having significantly less fun compared to just a few minutes ago. Something was off. First, there was Bethany’s confession, to which the girl still seemed to be recovering from. Then, there was this kiss, the forcefulness of which was way out of character for the Lisa that she knew. Sure, it had been a while since they had seen each other, but Lisa had never come close to acting like this in the past. And never before had their games of Truth or Dare been this intense. This scary. Lisa took the bottle from Chad. “My turn,” she said cheerfully. She spun the bottle. The sound rang out in the silence. The bottle stopped. It was pointing at Chad. Chad emptied the last of the beer from the bottle he was holding. “Fuck it,” he said. “Dare.” Lisa regarded everyone in the group slowly, moving in a counter-clockwise direction. Chad sat, fiddling with the beer he had just finished, probably wishing he had more. Seth sat next to him, lighting up yet another doobie. Sam felt Lisa’s eyes on her and suddenly felt cold all over. She had an almost overwhelming urge to leave the house. Then, Lisa’s gaze moved on to Cindy, who blushed and looked away. Finally to Bethany, who was looking down at the floor, clearly not having fun either. Lisa looked back at Chad. “I dare you,” she said. “To kill Seth.” The next part happened very fast. Chad grabbed the neck of the beer bottle he was holding and brought the bottle against the floor, hard enough for the bottom to shatter. Seth had just enough time to say, “Oh.” Then Chad was stabbing him in the neck with the top half of the broken bottle. A visceral jet of blood sprayed out across the room showering Bethany in crimson, as Chad stabbed him again and again and again. Then it was over. Chad rose from Seth’s gurgling body, covered in blood. The top half of the bottle was still sticking out of his neck, or rather the mess that used to be his neck. Chad stepped backwards, his feet crunching against broken glass and leaving bloody footprints on the floor. Sam wasn’t sure who started screaming first, but suddenly everyone was screaming. Bethany was wiping at her face and holding her hands out, as if to show them the blood. Cindy and Chad were stuck in a loop, with Cindy screaming, “What have you done?!” and Chad screaming back, “I don’t know!” Sam stopped screaming abruptly when she caught sight of Lisa. Noticing that Sam had stopped screaming, the others stopped and followed her gaze. Lisa was sitting on the ground, leaning back on her hands. She was watching all of them with a look of absolute glee on her face. The right side of her face was lightly spackled with Seth’s blood. But it was her eyes that were the true horror. They had turned entirely black. No white. No iris. Just pure black. Lisa picked up the bottle from the center of the circle and held it out to Bethany. “Your turn,” she said. Bethany stared down blankly at the bottle. In a daze, she began to reach for it. “No.” Cindy whispered softly from her place in the circle. “No, no, no.” She scooted back on her butt, staring horrified at Lisa, seemingly trying to get to her feet but failing. Moving in this bizarre manner, she made her way to the exit of the room. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Lisa called after her. The others watched in horror as Cindy finally managed to scramble to her feet. She stepped through the doorway of the room, into the adjacent hallway. As soon as her foot hit the floor outside of the room, her head exploded outward in a fountain of gore. Bethany began screaming again as Cindy’s lifeless and headless corpse collapsed to the floor just outside of the room. “What the hell, what the hell, what the hell?” Chad was gripping the sides of his head, as if he were trying to keep his own head from exploding. “I think we should keep playing,” Lisa said, making eye contact with Bethany. “Don’t you?” Bethany stopped screaming. She looked across at the bottle Lisa was holding out to her. With a shaking hand, she accepted the bottle and placed it in the center of the circle. “What the fuck are you doing?” Chad exclaimed incredulously. Lisa’s head snapped in his direction and her smile faded suddenly. “Sit down,” she said. It was not Lisa’s voice. Chad did as he was told. Cindy spun the bottle. All four remaining players watched it spin. It came to a stop. Lisa’s smile returned. “Truth,” she said. Bethany’s lip quivered. Tears slid down her face, making trails in the wet blood that was caked on her skin. In a very quiet voice, she whispered, “Why are you doing this?” Lisa laughed out loud. “Really?” she asked. “That’s your question? Not who am I, what am I, or how am I doing this?” She shrugged and shook her head. “Okay, whatever. Why am I doing this? I simply want to incentivize you.” She regarded the three people in front of her and a look of disdain crossed her face. “To tell the fucken truth. For once in your miserable lives.” The room sat silent. Then Sam leaned forward and gripped the bottle with her hand. She glared at Lisa with sudden and angry determination and spun the bottle. As the bottle spun, she said, “Whoever it lands on, say ‘Dare’.” Lisa smiled and her tongue quickly swiped across her lower lip. Sam could’ve sworn the tongue was forked. The bottle landed on Chad. “Dare,” he said, uncertain. “Kill her,” Sam muttered, pointing a finger at Lisa. “Oh man,” Chad moaned and even as the words were coming out of his mouth, his body was turning involuntarily to face Lisa, who was sitting next to him. He raised his hands to her throat. “Woohoo!” Lisa exclaimed as Chad’s hands clamped around her neck, his big thumbs digging deeply into the soft tissue. They fell to the floor together, Chad straddling Lisa’s body. Her legs kicked and she gripped his wrists as her windpipe was crushed. Her eyes – her black eyes – bulged and she turned her head so that she was looking at Sam. Her smile widened to impossible lengths. Then she lay still. Chad slowly released his grip and stepped backwards. He looked down at Lisa’s body, then at his shaking hands. “What did you make me do?” he whispered. “It was the only way,” Sam said. Chad looked at Sam incredulously. He struggled to find the words before finally settling on, “You bitch.” “Indeed.” Lisa sat up. Everyone in the room screamed. Lisa massaged her throat and looked at Sam. “You fucken bitch.” “But, but—" Chad spluttered. “I killed you!” “You killed Lisa .” The thing wearing Lisa’s skin – not-Lisa – raised her arms, palms to the ceiling. “I’m still here. Let’s keep playing.” She winked at Bethany, who burst into fresh tears. Chad tried to back away but ended up tripping over Seth’s still bleeding body. He fell back and landed heavily on his ass. “Get it together guys!” not-Lisa exclaimed, exasperated. “You’re not asking the right questions. I don’t think you realize what kind of opportunity you have here. The people in this room cannot lie. Isn’t there anything you want to get to the bottom of?” She looked at Bethany meaningfully. “Perhaps something about your sister?” She turned her gaze to Chad. “About the truth behind her death?” Chad looked from not-Lisa, to the bottle on the floor. Then he looked at Sam. She made eye contact with him and shook her head slowly. Chad ignored her. He leaned forward and gave the bottle a spin. It came to a stop, pointing at Sam. Everyone in the room turned to her. She couldn’t say dare for fear of what Chad might make her do. So, she said, “Truth.”  Chad looked her in the eye and asked his question. “Is what you told me about Bethany’s sister true?” Bethany stared from Sam, to Chad, then back to Sam. Not-Lisa clapped her hands together in delight. Sam bit down on her lip as hard as she could. A tear ran down her face. Without wanting to, she shook her head and whispered, "No." “My turn!” Not-Lisa grabbed the bottle and gave it a spin. Once again, it stopped on Sam. Sam couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t care what the ghoul made her do. She couldn’t take the judgmental eyes from Chad or Bethany any longer. So, she said, “Dare.” Not-Lisa’s black eyes glinted with evil, her mouth twisted into a deranged smile. “I dare you,” she hissed. “To tell everybody here the truth about Bethany’s sister’s death.” Sam’s heart sank. Her mouth opened involuntarily, and she wept as words began to tumble from it. “Bethany’s sister came to me a month before she died. She told me she loved me. That she’d always loved me. She kissed me. I didn’t know how to react. I was so young. So, I told Chad that she was messed up. That her dad probably did stuff to her as a kid. Chad spread that rumor. That’s part of the reason why she killed herself.” She looked at Bethany, pleading for her forgiveness. “I’m so sorry.” “You fucken bitch,” Chad whispered in disbelief. “That’s not all though,” not-Lisa said. All the humor had drained from her voice. Sam swallowed thickly. “The main reason she killed herself,” she continued. “Was because I loved her too. And she knew that. But I couldn’t face that truth. No, that’s not true. I could have. I just didn’t want to.” Bethany stared coldly at Sam. She had stopped crying. She held out her hand to not-Lisa. “Give me the bottle.” Not-Lisa passed the bottle to Bethany, who never broke eye contact with Sam. “You gotta believe me,” Chad pleaded with her. “I would never have said anything if I knew—" It was too late. The bottle was spinning. Bethany ignored Chad’s pleas and waited for it to stop. It stopped. It was pointing at the ghoul wearing Lisa’s skin. The ghoul looked at Bethany. It grinned wide enough to reveal a set of yellow, rotted fangs. The teeth of a sick animal. “Dare,” it said. Bethany looked at Sam, who was weeping with her eyes closed. She looked at Chad, who was shaking his head and continuing to plead with her. She turned to address the ghoul, who was eagerly anticipating her request. She spoke slowly and deliberately. “I dare you to…” *** The mutilated corpses of Cindy Powell, Chad Musket, Seth Villanueva, and Samantha Green were discovered when the residents of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Woods, returned home from their vacation. Their daughter, Lisa Woods, is missing along with another girl from her friendship circle, Bethany Rogers. Police are offering a reward for any information pertaining to the whereabouts of these two girls.


I sit in my room staring out the window and cursing the snow. Damn holidays… I thought as I saw the people outside carolling at my neighbour's house. Sometimes I wonder how they put up with their noise and cheer. Can’t I just be left alone! I got up from my bed and depressingly made my way to the kitchen where my roommates left some groceries before they left to go spend holidays at their parents house across town. Great, at least I don’t have to put up with that annoying Christmas music blasting in my ears at the store. I sigh and begin making myself dinner. It wasn’t anything fancy. I wasn’t the best cook so I just made myself a stir fry and called it a day… That was until I heard those blasted carolers knocking on my door. I can’t believe people actually knock here. Can’t they see that I don’t care about their damn holidays! I muttered as I flicked the lights off and pretended not to be home. Then I trudged my way back to my dimly lit bedroom and sat at my desk.

At least I could watch youtube or play a game or something… Maybe I could finish those month old assignments too. It was a hard choice of what to do though so I just sat there in the dark eating my food. Christmas has always been a depressing time of year for me. I never knew why, I just hated it. Maybe it was resentment of all the joy and happiness that others got around the holidays while I just got miserable. All my friends called me weird, the only family I had never invited me to join them during the holidays either.

Then I remembered it, an incident that happened when I was around five or six. Damnit, what happened there again? I cursed as I tried to remember. It was the reason I hated Christmas, the reason I hated the holidays. The mall Santa! I remember now. I thought as I took a bite of my stir fry.

It had been a long time ago, I was at the mall with my grandmother, the woman who raised me. We had gone to the mall to visit Santa and go shopping. After we had gotten everything and left for a car, Santa followed us. Santa did it. Santa ended the most wonderful woman I knew right in front of an innocent child, shot her dead, shot her twice, twice in the head. That’s why I hated the holidays so much. That’s why- I was snapped out of my thoughts from the sound of glass breaking downstairs. Shit- what was that?! Did someone throw ice at my window? Maybe an intruder? Why am I just sitting here? I got up from my chair and grabbed the katana that rested in the anime corner of my room and walked down stairs. I didn’t own a gun, never believed in it. So the katana was all I had to defend myself even though it was dull. When I got down the stairs, I cursed myself for being that person in a horror movie. But I continued. I searched the entire house until I found the cause of the noise. It was a glass vase that fell over… and a puppy? I put my katana down and picked the tiny thing up. It was so small and cute, so innocent and loveable. I couldn't help but smile at this innocent creature in my hands. I didn’t know how it got in the house, or why it was in the house. All of that was irrelevant at the moment as I carried the little fluff ball into the washroom and carefully picked the glass out of its fur. The puppy was adorable. I decided to keep it and name it Arthur. It was a peculiar name for a dog. But it fit him. I guessed that Arthur was a black lab by the colour of his coat. His eyes were blue like a husky though. Maybe a mixed breed? I thought as I washed Arthur up and dried him with a towel. That's when I remembered the broken vase. My roommates were going to kill me for breaking it. I decided that their vase didn’t matter too much considering that Arthur was here now, so I set Arthur down in my room and cleaned up the glass. I also put my katana back where it was supposed to be in the corner of my room. Then I spent all night playing with my new friend. It was the first bit of joy I felt during the holidays in years. I never knew how much a dog could affect a person. But now that I have Arthur, I feel better and I don’t know why or how. For the next week, Arthur and I spent the holidays watching crappy romance movies on Netflix, sleeping, or stuffing our mouths with the food in the house. This isn’t actually that bad… I guess I should probably try to enjoy the holidays a bit. even if my recent memories have been rather dim around this time of year. I thought as I walked around the house cleaning up after Arthur. It was probably the happiest I’ve been in months though. Arthur really made an impact on my life that I never thought was possible. When my roommates did get back, a quiet girl and her kind twin brother, they didn’t actually kill me when they found out the vase broke… Though, I think it was because of Arthur. The girl, named Delilah, was in love with Arthur the second she saw the little fluff ball. Her brother, Damian, also loved Arthur. Everyone loved this little fluff ball and welcomed Arthur as an official member of the household. For the next couple of years, me and Arthur accompanied Delilah and Damian to their parents house for the holidays. It wasn’t actually as bad as I first thought. Arthur ended up growing to be a really big dog, but also a really good boy. He stayed by my side a majority of the time. I remember Damian once calling him ‘ mama's boy ’ or something silly like that. I didn’t mind it though. Every year on Christmas day, I thanked God for giving me Arthur. My little boy. My Arthur.


U needs to get out of here alive. Time is running out and U has no one else to trust but himself. He has to do whatever it takes to escape this prison. “You hear that? You were right, okay? I can’t do this! Just let me out of here!” U screams into the cement ceiling, his words echoing back around him, surrounding him in hopelessness. He knows that the other can hear him. He just needs them to listen to him. Like they did before. “I can’t do this! At least not alone. You know that we used to be a team. Hell, we were like one organism. One body, mind, and soul!” His voice aches with all the yelling. He’s been at it for months. U doesn’t know if he’s losing his mind or becoming more desperate. It doesn’t matter since all of his ideas fall short. He takes a deep breath trying to get a response, but it’s only ever happened once. As more weeks pass, he starts to think he was hallucinating the stomp from above him. U can’t even remember how he got here. He’s not sure he wants to. *** M can’t let him out of there alive. U has to be disposed of as soon as possible. There’s simply no use for him anymore. She doesn’t understand why U screams so hard to be let out. It’s not like he can do anything worthwhile. He’s down there for a reason. At least U admits that he can’t do this alone. He’s weak. He’s used up. He’s outdated. He’s fragile. U can no longer be in control. Look where that got M. Now she has to sit here and listen to this woman talk to her as if this entire organization can be brought down by a few shots of empathy. It’s pity. Unfiltered, undisguised, blatant pity. She’s still here, isn’t she? How many more people does she need to talk it out with before leaving her alone. Do you think M became this strong by doing useless shit like discussing what to do next? She knows very well what needs to happen in the future. And she will do it, no matter the cost or consequences. That kind of drive only comes from the unwavering foundations of a heart that does not beat anymore. *** { “Have a seat.” “Thanks.” I gingerly sit on the green upholstered chair. I’m starting to hate the color green. “So, how have you been feeling?” she asks and she takes a seat in the swivel chair directly in front of her. She adjusts her suit and glasses and settles with her pen and notepad in her hand, ready to write down observations. “Over the past year or within the last 5 minutes?” “Let’s go with 5 minutes.” I take a slow deep breath. “I feel…” like killing something. “unsatisfied.” “And why is that?” “I keep thinking about all the things I can’t do,” I look down at the handcuff around my wrist leading to the handle of the chair. “Anymore.” I stop myself from letting out a chuckle. It’s honestly funny though. I did nothing wrong, yet in the blind eyes of the law, I’m a criminal that deserves to be punished. I’m sick of people telling me what I deserve. She clicks her pen closed as she says, “I know what you’re thinking. That you don’t deserve to be here,” she leans forward, “But maybe you need to.” Well that’s definitely a first. “I need to? What is that supposed to mean?” } *** She has been watching for a long time. The end of things. The edges that are so tempting. The sharpness of it all as that final moment comes. M is singular, can’t multitask, very one-track minded. M has been watching, but not listening. *** { “This is the place where you won’t change anyone’s mind. Not even your own. I suggest you simply familiarize yourself with it. Who knows how long it’ll be before you let something happen to it again.” } *** Lean closer. *** { “I DIDN’T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO U, SOMEBODY DID IT TO U !” “What was it then, exactly?” she asks with a furrowed brow. “I- I don’t know! But I know I’m handcuffed for a reason, so just- don’t ask me anymore stupid questions!” } *** The glasses? No those look like they’ll break easily. The pen might do. *** { “Or what? Are you going to hurt me? Do you really think yoU can?” “He can’t.” “You’re not listening to me.” “I CAN’T!” } *** “BUT I CAN!” *** Why is he trying to speak? *** {“But yoU can hear me?” I gulp and nod, “Yes, but I can’t hear U. I know he’s saying something, but I don’t know what he’s saying.” The furrow in her brow relaxes in understanding. “Then you must listen carefully.” } *** “I’m listening, I promise I’m listening.” *** { She folds her hands in her lap and leans back. “A.” “… A what? I don’t understand.” “B.” “C,” I say, following along. “D.” } *** Well. This will be fun. *** { “E.” I still don’t understand, but I was told to listen carefully. So I will. “F.” “G.” “H.” “I.” “J.” } *** His eyes widen with fear. “NO WAIT!” *** They can’t hear you. *** { “K.” “L.” “M.” “N.” } “Oh?” I finally see the lady in that horrid swivel chair. Surely she noticed. “P.” Oh my, she didn’t! How much more worse could she be at this? Let’s help her out a bit, shall we? “Q.” Ah there it is. I used my special voice. Wow, I’m proud I still got it after a year of non-use. I watch her scribble down the letter. The wrong letter. Hmph, mildly annoying but I won’t ever need to get used to it. She looks up from her notepad, a strange look on her face. “Hello Q. How have you been feeling?” “Oh not this again. I remember it ya know.” “What do you remember?” “What’s with the panic in ya voice? Am I not supposed to remember?” Silence. Ha, as expected. These people don’t like irregularities. How boring. “Q. Where is U?” I look up with the most confusion I can garner into my facial expression. “I’m… right here? Am I not?” She lets out a small sigh, shoulders sagging a bit. “Lying to me won’t do you any good. As I said, nobody’s mind will change here. Not even your own.” “Try me.” She removes her glasses in annoyance. Big mistake. “There will be none of that. No matter how much you try. Cooperate, and maybe you will be set free.” “I don’t need your PERMISSION!” I lunge for the glasses in her hand but my arm goes right through her. She fizzles out at where my arm has been, and watched it restore itself into place. She looks me dead in the eye. How dare she have the NERVE to look at me! Only look at me when I WANT YA TO. I try to lunge and wriggle against the handcuff again, but every contact is contactless. It’s getting frustrating. Soon, the woman simply stands up from her chair, walks to the door, and digitally fizzles out into nothing. A shock comes through the handcuff, and soon my vision fizzles into blackness. *** U never stopped listening. He wants to speak but he can’t. His shoulder hurts from falling on the ground. How did I fall? He looks down at the cement… floor. It’s no longer a cement ceiling. I’m out? I’m out! YES! *** { “No, no NO! U, LET ME OUT OF HERE!” } *** Not a chance. *** “…subject failed to control rage. Identity Q will be reported as inconclusive. Batch number 649 for case A8TH9 will be closed and disposed of within 2 weeks.”


Good Morning By Peter Wallace

              Walter had a hunch it wouldn’t be long. He didn’t feel any pain, which meant that the dose of morphine he was on must be pretty high. It was more than they’d give to someone who would possibly have a risk of developing an opioid addiction. In other words, someone who might live.               He, his wife, and his doctor agreed six months before that continuing to treat the tumors wouldn’t improve his chances of recovery, which, apparently, were near zero. To that point the treatments had been pretty rough, so the strategy changed from recovery to a transition into the next chapter. The epilogue, if you will. Six months was a long time to spend dying. He’d mostly come to terms with it – as much as a person can. There weren’t that many things he’d wanted to do before he died, other than what he always did, so there were no trips to Mount Everest or the Taj Mahal. Instead, he had tried to spend his time thinking and writing, and enjoying the people he cared for, and who cared for him. At first it was surreal, since he felt okay, and didn’t look sick. Over time, though, things got more serious, and it showed. He was often tired, and not able to be as active as he wanted. Some people didn’t stop by to see him because of that, but other brave souls made it a point to visit because he wasn’t doing well. He admired them. The worst thing was trying to keep the people in his life from going crazy. His wife, his kids, his sisters, his in-laws, his neighbors… they all wanted to do and say something helpful, and bless them, they tried, but each time one of them said something that they intended to cheer him up or give him hope, he could see in their faces and their posture that they felt they’d failed.               In reality, while it was painful to see the people he cared for feeling so helpless, it did make him feel good that they cared enough to try to find the right words in the right order with the right inflection. Here’s a secret that he wanted them to know, but didn’t ever express: the right words don’t exist when someone is fading away. At least he didn’t know of any.               So, Walter lay in the hospice-provided hospital bed that had been delivered to his family home. There was hardly room for it in what was, ironically, called the living room. People needed to turn sideways to pass the bed on their way to the downstairs bedroom or back the other way to the kitchen. There were always people around him, which was nice. He had no reason to feel lonely for his loved ones, but he did feel lonely for his life, now that it was in very short supply. He missed all the spring and summer days, the autumn crispness, and even the brutal winter nights spent snow-blowing the driveway, only to have it drift over again by morning.               Like so many people in his situation, Walter realized that every day of life, good or bad, is a wonderful gift. It is like an immense punch-card, each day leaving our life-cards a day closer to the time when all the punches are gone.               He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to remember. There was a day, long ago, when he and his wife, Rose, were dating. It was 1976, which was the widely celebrated bi-centennial of the United States’ Declaration of Independence from Great Britain. Every broadcast organization was doing special bi-centennial programs, bi-centennial minutes, and special bi-centennial movies of the week, starring Mr. T and The Six Million Dollar Man, or something.               As part of his weekend job working at a local television station, Walter decided to film the sun coming up over the lake on the first day of the third century of the United States. They were always looking for short video clips to play between the news segments. He felt that the bi-centennial sunrise might be meaningful to some people, as he knew it would be to him. He invited Rose to stay at his family’s house in order to get an early start on July 4 th , before the sun awoke for the day.               Sometime after 4am he quietly entered the room where she was, and tapped her on the shoulder. After an initial protestation, she got up and they loaded up the car.               His father wanted to come too, to take some snap shots. He was the self-appointed family photographer, and had taken thousands of pictures; some never seen. Half-awake, and rubbing their eyes, the three of them drove across town to the usually busy park, which was completely vacant. That night there would be standing room only, of course, to see the special bi-centennial fireworks show. But now, as dawn faded into view, it was quiet. They stopped alongside the calm lake.               Walter got the camera set up, and Rose helped to the extent that she could. His dad took a photo of them working together, and all these years later, they still had it on the desk.               Back in the present, in his bed, Walter opened his eyes and called his family close to him. He hugged his girls, their husbands, and their children, and pulled his wife, Rose, down to him, and held her. He closed his eyes again.               Returning to that day in 1976, he could hear Rose’s breathing as he pressed the record button on the camera. In his mind, that sunrise was spectacular. It felt like the beginning of their life together, and also like touching base with his father, who now had been gone for so long.               Slowly, the darkness of the night was replaced with the sunlight of the new century. He felt Rose touch his back, and he was in ecstasy. He smiled.               As the darkness from that bi-centennial night faded and the sun rose, his light, at home, surrounded by his family, slowly faded into darkness.

It was perfect.


A writer wakes up in the evening. He starts by looking at the snow. And he's trying to assess and write his feelings. And he's in a small cabin with no internet connectivity. He called for evenings: it's getting down as far as his writing is concerned. The dark scene around his cabin enshrines the peak around him. He is just here to relax. His project required quiet and silence.

It's early in the season where he lives, so this implies only that it is time to write. And it is the best time to write. It is not the first series he has written. His audiences have experienced his wild imagination. However, he hoped that spring was coming soon. And it was not under his control.

There's no sound like any in his room. It was very pure. It's a clash between the worlds of modern life and nature. He could note that his carefree weekend was drifting away when he headed into the bedroom. The man was thinking of starting out with his monologue. He seems to have also written about his previous moderation. Writing is still depleting itself. And it impacts how he feels.

So unexpected and strong came the longing which nagging entered his mind. As he continues to think to himself, “Tell me. Talk to me. This is my jealousy. A spectrum of mood, where am I falling? The constantly changing continuum, ever changing.” Just scattered thoughts.

He visualizes his thoughts on a possible story to write. The protagonist ought to be a privileged programmer. And characterized as a capitalist with an abundance of values. These include only making money. Maybe he can make an app that has a good ego. He was very much a specialist at his profession.

It entertains the hypocrisy of capitalist morality, the dreadful weakness of the human mind. But above all, to claim that the story was about the effect of surviving a lack of meaning. All of my thoughts are about living life. And a painter should be the secondary character. An artist who can be overconfident at times. However, he's got some abilities. The most thrilling plot is necessary. It keeps the attention of the reader and it keeps him writing as well. Otherwise the story would never be finished.

The artist doesn't agree with anything the faith teaches, but still wants other people to go to church. There was no reason to focus solely on Christianity.

The story should be about fate and liberty. The conflict and plot is about their personal relationship. With a sense of historic fantasy encompassing the plot. It starts with a regular meeting in a nature park. The main characters in the story could not be trusted. Two people were revealed in the story to be unknowing related from birth. And both of them are interested in conversation to a fault. They had to engage in conversations to find out more about the future. And he has more thoughts about this issue. He continued on writing. He was puzzled at the unseen bond that had hooked him throughout his written line. All he's going to have to do is concentrate and stop releasing his distractions. He wasn't asking for the story to be composed by itself. He had done it before. It was just his viewpoint that brought him further. He was only able to see so much. However, his own thoughts always hit him at the most inconvenient times. His thoughts are swarming him while he is writing. For him, a source of confusion. He no longer needs energy. It may have been due to a lapse in his executive function. His comfort to an extreme.

What about Michelangelo? Good portrait mode. And he has a handle on it. It's really hard to believe otherwise. And if he had wanted to commission a painting of what the world looks like, he would have preferred Michelangelo’s viewpoint above the heavens. One can, however, go beyond the typical named artists. Many can paint well. However, not like Michelangelo.

Going back to the painter. As the painter paints, his DNA is dripping out of his bare hands. And when the oil reaches the canvas, it spreads, multiplies and divides like a cell line. It's alive, and it's trying to survive on the canvas. The artwork he is making incorporates the drippings of his genetic material. As if the painting makes him a genetic engineer. He is still confused by the almost randomness of how this whole life fits together. All of the colors swirl together to express not proteins but emotions.

Painting a new protein, new color, new angle and ways of seeing the world. This continues as he explores the world. The lord and the king of eternity. Let us pray in the name of God. Painting a gene encoding, a new light, a new perspective, and opportunities to see nature. It was too early, and he became too tired to do his writing. He should have been in bed by now, so he could find his adventure on the next day. He still had work to do. And it was going to take a while for him to finish his story.

His evening, in any case, proceeds absent a lot of thought. Also, his future regular assumptions are beginning once again. Taking care of the ink. The night wasn't lost to him. What's more, for his personality, it was beneficial.

I have used a vast amount of resources that have translated to a peaceful existence. I needed rhythm and suspense. An opportunity to compromise myself before my passion. Not really a relaxed path of life. And he chooses, at the last second, to make an attempt on the frozen surface outside. And when he comes back in he decides to compose a poem:

Directly from of the beginning of the fields,

the forested areas, the waterways, the homesteads, the slopes, the wine,

I acclaim you with poise and with the light of the stars.

Furthermore, the brilliance of the day and the shadow of the moon He thought his story was so bad that it had to be funny.