I do not understand how it is so commonly assumed that we are supposed to fall into groups with other children at school. With a class of approximately thirty students, I am assumed to find an average of five kids that will want to swap football cards and kick a ball around with me. I do not understand how people could simply accept that and refuse to look further into it. “It is what it is” they all say. I have never been able to find my five, so I stick to my own company. It is not that other kids exclude me for looking or acting different, or being bad at sports. I have always chosen to be on my own. These other children are too immature for me. Besides, I will always have the company of The Faces, although their company is not always welcome; in fact, hardly ever. I remember the days when their appearance would terrify me and cause me to soil my pants. I was four when they first introduced themselves. Now I am a grown boy and they no longer scare me. Eight and a half I am. Nothing scares me anymore. The chairs are being thrown, the table turned over, wooden splinters flying in every direction. A muffled scream followed by a succession of heavy sobs. This is how I know it is time to wake from my restless slumber. As I sit up on the edge of my bed and pull a grey shirt over my pale, lanky torso laced with black and blue, I ponder what it must be like to get a proper night’s rest. I open my door after much hesitation, to my mother walking past with a rather harsh limp, drying tears from her eyes and trying to hide her pain from me. She offers me a weak smile through the heavy lines on her face and continues on her way. I grab the Swiss Army knife kept by my nightstand, in case my father is still around, looking for something to take his anger out on. I venture further into the depths of the house to find my father still in a fury, mumbling curses under his breath and pacing back and forth with clenched fists, as I keep one hand on the knife in my pocket. He looks up, and as his eyes meet mine he swings a powered punch at my head which I am able to swiftly dodge, leaving his fist indented in the wall. He creates a sound of pure rage and storms out of the front door. He will not be back for at least three weeks now, not that mother or I will mind. We like it when he is not around. I stumble over to the refrigerator, still shaky with the hangover of bad dreams. I ease open the refrigerator door so as to not disturb my mother and observe the contents. Half a carton of eggs that expired three weeks’ prior, a bottle of orange juice that has greyish mold beginning to form along the lower rim and an unopened jar of mustard. Groaning internally, I turn myself around to grab my coat and any loose change that would pay for a snack at the corner store. As I edge closer to my room, my mother races past me and out of the door, leaving it wide open behind her. I notice that she had been concealing an object underneath the flap of her jacket, and immediately knew that it was the 40 Caliber gun that she kept hidden under a loose floorboard in her bedroom. She had tried to shoot herself five times in the past, but could never muster the courage whilst in the moment. I race after her with the kind of speed that can only be achieved through high levels of adrenaline. My mother is not a fast runner, so I am able to catch her pace with little effort as we reach the playground in the park across the street. This is the playground that the offspring of the surrounding drug and alcohol abusers play at by day, and the playground that drunken stabbings take place by night. Once I catch up to her, she falls down in a heap at my feet, tears escaping down her face in a steady stream, and a sustained strangled note coming from her mouth as she struggles to breathe. I fall down with her and wrap my arms around her, prying the gun from her frail hands. I press her small figure towards mine and trace my fingers along her scalp soothingly. Her tears cluster in a damp patch on my chest and her nails create painful indents in my ribs. I continue to comfort her, and as the sobbing gradually eases I softly mumble “mum” into her ear and tighten my grip on her. She is the only person I have in this world; the only person I love. I close my eyes and bury my head amongst the tangle of limbs and torsos. We stay in that position for what feels like hours. I finally lift my head from the tangle to find that we are in the company of others. The Faces. They look particularly sinister this time however and I can not help but feel a trace of fear in my stomach. They edge closer, closer than ever before. One of The Faces, the largest of them all, flashes its teeth widely, exposing long, sharp needles lining gums in perfect rows. In a fraction of a second, the faces are suddenly upon my mother, slashing at her face and body with their needle-like teeth as she withers, unable to let out a sound. I watch, helplessly, clawing the air to try and pry the faces away from her, but my fingers slip through their transparency. The Faces begin to disappear, one by one, each taking a final stab at my mother’s limp body as they leave. Finally, as they are all gone, I grab my mother as she strains to lift her hand up to rest on my cheek. Her mouth is filled with blood and her eyes are missing from their sockets. With a final gurgle of the coppery substance in her mouth, her head falls back and the rest of her body goes completely limp. I let out a succession of screams, desperate for someone to come and revive my mother’s dead body. I lay down next to my mother’s corpse and rest my head on her torn-apart chest. I fall asleep like that and am woken awhile later to the sound of sirens blaring. I am lifted from the body by two strong hands and put into handcuffs. Bewildered, I attempt to explain the situation, but the strong hands are too distracted by my Swiss Army knife that has obviously fallen out of my pocket and is somehow covered in my mother’s blood. Perhaps the blood has simply soaked through my jacket pocket and onto the knife before falling out. The strong hands do not believe a word of this however and I am thrown, rather aggressively, into the back of a truck. As I spin the wooden Knight through my fingers, I cannot help but admire its beauty. The delicate lines that have been carved into its fine, white surface, set it apart from the other chess pieces. A hand is placed in the center of my back and guides me upwards out of my chair. I am led to a line where I stand patiently, moving forward at the appropriate times. As I finally reach the destination of the line, I am handed two small, baby blue cups. In one cup there are an assortment of dull-coloured pills and in the other, a mouthful of water. I stare at the contents of the two cups numbly before forcing them down my throat. I sit back down in front of the chess board, however no longer with fascination of the detail. I discover that the nail on my right index finger is loose and I begin to pick at it. The nail is taking too long to come off, so with a quick, frustrated movement I proceed to rip it from my hand, resulting in tearing open the skin. I yell out a series of curses and grip my finger tightly. A nurse on duty rushes to my aid. Not any nurse however. She is the nurse with the fine brown hair, that falls perfectly down her back in the pony-tail that she wears everyday. She is the nurse with the bright green eyes that see me as a person and not Patient 253. She reaches for my hands, and I let her pry my second hand from my wound and observe it with those eyes. She offers me a humorous smile and shakes her head back and forth. From the pocket of her apron, she produces a bandage and wraps it carefully around the nail and then lifts it to carefully observe her work. Satisfied, she lets go of my hand and gently pats me on the shoulder before returning to her perch, where she is able to observe the whole room at once. I watch her for the duration of her shift. I watch the way her hands lie on her lap when she is sitting. I watch the way her muscles move in her legs when she is walking. I watch her eyes as they move across the room and make contact with my own. I find beauty in her every detail. She is the white Knight. A loud bell sounds, signaling that it is time that we move to our beds. I remain seated and wait for her to approach me and lead me to my room. Her small, pretty hand reaches under my elbow and guides me from my seat and through the halls. We reach my room and she pauses outside, gesturing through the door. She flashes me one last dazzling smile before disappearing at the end of the hall. I fall backwards onto my perfectly made bed, ignoring the distressed sounds of a bad dream from the bunk above, and picture the life that the nurse and I will one day share. She will bare three children and we will live in a secluded cabin in the countryside, relying on each other for sources of entertainment. We will go on family hikes and take family trips to the markets every Sunday to gather our supplies for the week. Lost in these glamorous thoughts, I fall asleep fully clothed and on top of the sheets. I wake the next morning to the familiar sounds of screams and wails echoing throughout the desolate halls. My body aches from the position in which I fell asleep and I struggle to pull myself into a sitting position. Last night was the best sleep that I had had in years. A male nurse with a harsh, booming voice appears at the door and demands that we join the procession into the main sitting area where we can be constantly observed and pumped full of drugs. Dragging my feet, I obey the orders and carry myself to my regular chair facing the chest board. By routine, I observe each chess piece, saving the Knight for last, and line up for my medication again. With an excited jolt in my chest, I notice that she is once again on duty. Today is the day that I will confess my love for her and let her tell me the same. To get her alone, I tell her that I need to use the bathroom. She nods and gestures for me to follow her through a door and down a series of stairs. I stop her as we exit the door and are completely alone. Griping the railing with one hand I reach out for her with my other. Frightened, she jumps back defensively, griping her arm where my hand had just touched. This angers me, as I fail to comprehend why she is being so difficult. The Faces float in the background, edging closer, a similar scene to that night. As I become aware of the situation, I reach for the nurse and pull her tightly towards me and attempt to frighten away The Faces by desperately flailing one arm in their direction. This again, provides no use and I feel the tug of her body away from me and towards the hellish beings. Their whispers become louder and daunting, as their pull gets stronger and stronger. The nurse is torn out of my grip and thrown forcefully down the stairs. I observe the muscles contract throughout her body as it bends in different angles with each blow of each stair. I observe her pony-tail maintain its perfect shape as it is thrown around with the rest of her. Her body finally rests at the very bottom of the stairwell, disfigured and broken. Her limbs resemble those of an oak tree, twisted in strange, beautiful angles. Her neck is broken, resulting in her head twisted the same as her limbs. I race down the stairs to her aid, although I know that I am far too late. The Faces linger, and watch me as I kneel beside her body. I notice that her eyes are still open, and the bright green has faded to a dull grey. I softly close the lids of her eyes and run my hands over her broken, cold corpse. I admire the delicate curves and detail of her placement, my broken white Knight. I pull myself up from the ground and up the stairs. I enter the room where I had just come from, to find that the place was empty. Desperately, I run through one of the adjacent doors, to find myself in a large commercial kitchen, yet again, empty of all beings. I turn myself around to discover that The Faces had followed me and were edging closer, and closer to me, flashing their teeth. I reached behind me, feeling over the bench for an object to use as a weapon of defence. My fingers brush past a sharp blade, and I feel around for a handle. Grasping what I hope is the handle to the blade, I thrust it ahead of me, towards The Faces, only to have the blade enter clean into my chest. Gasping, I fall forward onto my knees, and then helplessly onto my side. I have lost control over every bodily function, and I feel a wet, warm sensation spread through my pants. The Faces are dancing around in circular motions before my eyes, disappearing one by one. Finally, after the last one disappears, I look down at my wound to find my hand still clasped tightly around the handle of the knife. My vision is becoming increasingly more fragmented by the second, and I am loosing my grip on reality. I do not even feel pain in my chest, just a hot sensation spreading throughout my body, the stab wound, the source. The rigidness eases from my body as I turn onto my back and stare above me. I wonder why I have never noticed the patterns in the white ceiling. There is so much intricate detail to it, similar to the white Knight and the nurse’s broken body. It is in this moment that I remember that I have forgotten to make my bed this morning.


The man thought he would like to become a writer, but didn’t think he was well read enough. He ordered some books. Some were from the Amazon best-seller list, others he picked from a forum post: 100 BOOKS TO READ BEFORE YOU DIE. He cherrypicked the shorter books with a page count of less than or around two hundred pages. This, he theorized, was the best way to get through as many books as possible in the shortest amount of time. He picked books from a variety of genres, but none too old. He would read these books two at a time. He would balance a novel and a book of short stories, or a book of essays. He would read the biographies of great men. When a book was done he would tick it off on his GoodReads profile (which he would set up) and pick up another. He would use various items for bookmarks – receipts, playing cards, dollar bills – but never an *actual* bookmark. He would go to great pains to never fold a corner or crease a spine. He would line the completed books on a shelf and occasionally make a mental note of how many there were. Previously abandoned books, including a fat Wordworth Classics edition of The Brothers Karamazov sat in a stack on the coffee table. After a time he would be ready to write, but what to write on? He had a laptop he used in his old job, but the screen was a whopping seventeen inches and when the graphics card was under duress the large fans would produce a steady drone. The laptop was full of messaging apps and games and other distractions. The weight hurt his knees after prolonged use. Not to mention the association with work. He didn’t want writing to be ‘work’. Best to find something smaller, less distracting. Something with no internet and a better battery (for long sessions in the coffee shop). He Googled for the most spartan notepad app, recalling an article he read about George R. R. Martin and how he used a DOS processor for all his work. The man made a mental note to keep a constant supply of backups, versions. Then there was the problem of where to write. He cleared the miscellany of the study into the spare bedroom, armfuls at a time. He rotated the trinkets on the sills and shelves, dusting beneath each in turn. Lint listed lazily in the daylight as the man vigorously vacuum-cleaned right into the corners, sweat shimmering on his red neck. He filled garbage bags until there was no more room in the can outside. He wiped down the old school desk and arranged a lamp, an ipad dock, a coaster with ‘COFFEE IS THE GASOLINE OF LIFE’ recessed across it. Then the problem of *what* to write. He bought a moleskin notebook with the intention of writing down minutia and trivia. Observations. He picked one that slipped easily into his jacket pocket, for rapid retrieval. He considered buying a hip-flask for the other pocket; after all, the best writers were also irresponsible drinkers. Maybe he could develop a habit and fast-track himself to Hemmingway status? Or perhaps he should be more mindful of his intake? Healthy body, healthy mind. He stocked his fridge with vegetables and bought flax and chia seed from a health food store. He made a couple of smoothies but struggled getting the ratios right. Instead, blended apple and kale congealed over a lake of coconut water. He grimaced as he drank, and spent the afternoon sucking kale flecks out of his gums. His wife comes home at around 5pm and he is already preparing dinner. She asks how his day was and he replies ‘productive’. An hour later, with the plates soaking in the sink, they collapse onto the sofa and watch TV. The show ends, and the great Netflix algorithm recommends another, then another. He dozes to the gentle tones of Bob Ross. As 11pm approaches they proceed up to bed, single file, turning the study light off as they pass. As he slips into unconciousness, the man thinks that maybe he would like to become a painter.


Hello. My name is Emily Judith Fuller-Elms. I was born at 5:15 AM on October 26th, 1988. And when I was born, my parents didn’t ask the doctor if I was a boy or a girl, or if I was healthy. Instead, they asked, “What’s the number?” The room braced for the doctor’s answer. My parents held each other close both openly crying as they prayed for good news. “Her number is…” started the doctor, flipping my right wrist over and reading the black numbers that spread across it. “152310232048.” My parents cried in relief. I would live a good life. I had a good number. You see, in my world, everyone is born with a 12-digit number on their right wrist. What does the number mean exactly? Well— the number gives us the day we will die. Think of it like the expiration date you see on a jug of milk. After the expiration date, you throw away the milk, right? Well, that is what the marks on our wrists mean. We obviously don’t get thrown away in the trash, but we cease to exist after that date. And just like that jug of milk buried in some landfill, we too will be buried in the ground. My number is 152310232048. This means that at exactly 3:23 PM on October 23rd, 2048—my heart will stop. The first time I realized the impact a person’s number has on their life, I was 5 years old. It was my first day of school, I was in kindergarten, and I’ve never really interacted with any other kids besides my older cousins. I was nervous, so when recess was called, I decided to go to the swings. Anyone who liked swings as much as me—well, they were cool in my book. On my way to an open swing, a wild boy with a dinosaur shirt and brown eyes full of mischief performed a backflip off the swings and nearly knocked me over in his crash landing. He jumped up, dusted off his pants and smiled at me and said, “My names Devon, and I am going to live to be 57.” It was such a typical kid way of introducing themselves. Adults tended to be more secretive about their numbers. Wearing watches, or long-sleeved shirts to cover up their numbers, but five-year-olds—we didn’t understand the concept of subtlety. Clearly. Another body quickly landed next to him, this one thankfully on their feet. It was a red-haired girl, with two perfectly braided pigtails. “My names Fiona, and I’m going to live to be 62.” Another body landed next to her. He stumbled a bit on his landing, and his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose as he found his balance. “Hi, I’m Oscar,” he smiled, shaking his long brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m going to live to be 17.” Mind you—we were in kindergarten. We were literally learning our ABC’s, learning how to tie our shoes, and zip up our coats, but the concept of numbers—that we didn’t need to learn. Our parents made sure we knew what our number was, and what their number was, and what grandma’s number was—numbers were literally ingrained into our minds, much like the literal numbers that adorned our wrists. Which meant even at 5 years old, I knew that Oscar—well Oscar, had a bad number. It must have shown on my face because the boy—a boy who I didn’t even know, hugged me. And as he squeezed me, he said, “It’s okay,” before pulling back and smiling. “My dad’s say that seventeen is plenty of time. They said it is isn’t about how high your number is— but it’s about what you do with the number you get. Looking back now—I’d probably say the same thing to my child if they were born with a bad number. What else can you do? You can’t change your child’s number. You can’t give your child more time, no matter how much you wish you could take the numbers off your wrist and place them on theirs—you just can’t. Your job as a parent is to protect your children, but you can’t protect them from the inevitable, so instead, you give them something else. Oscar’s dads gave him hope. His dads were great people. I grew close to them as we progressed through school because obviously, Oscar, Fiona and Devon and me—we became best friends after the day on the swings. We called our group “The Swingers,” much to the embarrassment of our parents. We didn’t understand why they didn’t like our group nickname when we were young, but we finally understood when we were 15— and thanks to the internet, we learned exactly what “swingers” were. But even after learning the sexual nature of our group nickname, we still kept it, because honestly, what teenagers didn’t like tormenting their parents? “Courtney where are you going? It’s late!” “Dad said I can go to Oscar’s house!” “And what will you be doing at Oscar’s house?” “God mom—we are just having a swinger party, can I go now?” The look of embarrassment on my parent’s face was always perfect—especially in public. Speaking of Oscar’s house. His house became the “hang out” spot for us four. Mostly because his dads had an awesome basement, and his dad Jerry was a professional Chef, which meant we ate well there. But back to Oscar’s dads—they were awesome. They adopted Oscar when he was just an infant. His mother gave him up when she saw his number. It was an epidemic in our world. Foster homes were full of children with bad numbers. But Oscar’s dads, they didn’t see his number. They just saw this happy, intelligent, beautiful blue-eyed child who just so happened to be destined to die young. They didn’t see his number—instead, they just saw Oscar. Devon, Fiona, and I—we only saw Oscar too. Most of the kids in our class didn’t really attempt to get to know Oscar, because honestly, what was the point? He wouldn’t be around for long. So, it was the four of us—for as long as we had the four of us. We laughed. We cried. We fought. We loved. We had our hearts broken. We got drunk once—never again. We got high—more than once. We just lived. The swingers lived every day to the fullest—until the day came when four was about to become three. Oscar’s number would be called just a few weeks before our Senior graduation. We always knew his number, but it never seemed real until it came so close to the actual date on our calendar. Oscar took accelerated courses so that he could graduate before—his number came up. The school planned a graduation ceremony just for him the day before his number. His dad’s and his extended family filled the stands, the rest of his class sit in their chairs, the very same chairs that we will soon fill in a couple of weeks when the class of 2007 would all walk together. The principal called out Oscar’s name, and he stepped up to the microphone. Oscar was the school Valedictorian. He stayed late after school, he studied well into the night, he worked hard—so hard, that his dedication to his studies really got in the way of swinger time. One day, after another late night of not seeing Oscar because he was studying for a Chemistry test, I yelled at him. “It is just a Chemistry test, Oscar! If you get a B, it won’t be the end of the world!” Oscar barely blinked an eye at my outburst, instead, much like that day in front of the swings—he pulled me into a hug. “Look, this is the only time I have to be great,” he said. “I don’t get anything after this. So, if this is all I get—I’m going to be the best.” And he did. He became the best. A 4.0-grade point average An SAT score of 1560. And he never filled out a single college application. Oscar cleared his throat in front of the microphone, garnering everyone’s attention. “ Thank you to everyone who came today. It means a lot to me. Very much like my life, I’m going to keep this speech short.” Gasps echoed through the gym, and Oscar smiled. “That was not meant to be a joke. Please don’t think that I am making light of the fact that tomorrow is my number. Instead, I say that I will keep this speech short—because I think the world tends to greatly underestimate the power of something small.” “My mother gave me up for adoption when I was only 1 minute old. As soon as the doctor read my number, she signed over custody of me to the state. I always wondered, how can I be judged of my quality of life, before I’ve even taken my first shit.” Laughter echoed from the students, gasps echoed from the parents, and grumbles of disapproval echoed from the teacher’s and administration. But Oscar just smirked, as he looked back at the principal. “Feel free to give me detention this weekend for cussing,” he joked. “She was wrong—by the way,” continued Oscar, his gaze going back out to the gym. “ Anyone who ever stared at my number, and looked at me with sadness—you were wrong. I have lived—not as long as our parents and not as long as you all will live—but make no mistake, I have lived. My life may have been short, but it doesn’t mean it has been any less significant as someone who lived well into their Taking a breath, he gave his parents and then the swingers a shaky smile. “Every second of every single day for the past seventeen years—have been lived to the fullest because simply, I didn’t have the time to waste. Every moment of my life has been counted, cherished and loved—can you say the same thing about yours?” Oscar died on 2:13 PM on March 16th, 2007. Like his number said, he lived to be 17. He had a bad number But he didn’t let his number define him.


My name is Dante, and we get to eat the last box of cookies today. We’ve been saving them for something special. Today is special because I am five. I was four yesterday, and before that I was three, two, and one. Before I was one, I was in Babe’s tummy. Drake put me there. Drake is twenty-two. Babe is twenty-one. I’m so excited for the cookies. We will get to eat them instead of potatoes from the bathroom. Babe and Drake put a garden in the bathroom when I was two. I put poo in there to feed the food. We put seeds in there from old food, but they can’t be wet seeds. Seeds must dry before they grow. Never eat seeds, even if you are really hungry. Babe always says “Eating a potato seed today won’t fill you up the way a potato would tomorrow.” The rest of the cookies were gone a long time ago. Babe ate them when I was in her tummy. I’m so hungry that sometimes I will eat the leaves off of the plants when Drake isn’t in the bathroom. Drake was in the bathroom all night trying to fix the generator. We stopped using the generator for seeing lights when I was two. Now we only use it for the food lights in the bathroom. The food lights feed plants like the sun used to do. I’ve never seen the sun. The sun lives Outside with God and dogs and cars and rain and heaven and trees and buildings. It used to make light Outside until it stopped. Drake says God isn’t real, but Babe always yells at him when he says that. I don’t think God or the sun is real. Babe tried to show me a picture of the sun once. It was in the kindling. Babe will stare at the kindling for hours with her brown hair hiding her face before giving it to Drake to make fire. She says the stories hide in the kindling. I shook the kindling as hard as I could, but no stories fell out. It’s really cold everywhere in Wal-Mart. Yesterday, it was warm in the bathroom because of the food lights. Today it isn’t because we don’t have any more oil. Oil smells bad. We make it warm near the dressing room by making fire. Drake will start by setting fire to kindling with the old sparks from the night before. Then Babe will add pieces of chairs, or shelves to make it burn longer. I tried to make fire to surprise them once, but I messed up. The fire on the kindling was so pretty; I tried to pick it up to show Drake. My hands are rough and scratchy where the fire bit me. The floor is black where I held the fire. Babe sometimes points to different places on the floor and tells me stories about the spots. The biggest spot is brown and black. It’s outside the dressing room. That’s where I left Babe’s tummy. There is a brown spot where the floor changes from carpet to tile. I threw up there back when I was sick. Babe was really scared because the medicine was old. She didn’t want to give me medicine to make me better because it might have made me dead. I didn’t want to eat the medicine either, but Drake made me and I got better. Everyday I go shopping with Babe. I push the cart to make my muscles strong and Babe puts food in the cart for us to eat. I don’t know why she never adds more food. I used to ask her to put more food in, but she would start crying. I don’t ask anymore. There’s not much food on the shelf anymore. That’s why we can’t eat as much. Once a week, we take the cart to the toy aisle and I get to put a toy in the cart. I like the puzzles the best. The pieces fit together and make a picture. When I’m done with a puzzle Babe tells me all about the picture. My favorite puzzle had bears on it. Bears eat salmon. When I finish a puzzle, Drake adds it to the kindling. After we shop, Drake meets us in the dressing room. We eat on the futon where we sleep. We have eleven blankets to make the futon softer. Babe and Drake keep me warm with their bodies. Drake’s hair smells like oil. It makes me sneeze. Babe tells me a story every night before we sleep. My favorite story is about how Babe and Drake came to Wal-Mart. ••• Goldville was evacuated. Evacuated means everybody left. Goldville is with the sun and God and dogs and cars and rain and heaven and trees and buildings. Babe and Drake were driving the car that’s by the gates. Then there was an earthquake. That means the floor shook a lot. Drake got distracted by the earthquake and crashed into the doors. The doors used to be where the gate is. The bathroom has a door. The dressing rooms don’t have doors. They have curtains. Babe and Drake sat in the car for a while until Drake’s ears heard a jingle. The gates were closing. They shut with a bang! The gates were supposed to keep bad people from stealing food from Wal-Mart. Stealing means taking things without giving money for it. Babe says I don’t need to know what money is because it’s too complicated. We aren’t stealing because we aren’t taking the food Outside of Wal-Mart. The roads Outside were broken, and a lamppost fell over in front of the Wal-Mart. A lamppost is a really tall seeing light for when the sun leaves at night. It’s always night now. Babe and Drake couldn’t get out because of the gates were blocking the Outside, so they went back to the car and turned on the radio. The radio beeped and then turned on the emergency station. The guy hiding in the radio said, “The earthquake has reached 7.6 on the Richter Magnitude scale. Its epicenter is in Gardiner, Montana.” “That’s only a few hours north of here!” shouted Babe. “What are we going to do?” “Babe, calm down.” Drake comforted Babe this way ever since they met. “This building is solid. It’s not going anywhere. You-” He was interrupted by the radio’s fuzzy voice. “Prepare for aftershocks. Find shelter under a doorframe, or sturdy table. If you are Outside move away from buildings and power lines that can fall on you. Crouch on the ground and tuck your head into your knees. Protect your neck with your hands.” The radio kept talking as Drake and Babe fought about what to do. “Drake! We have to get out! The building might fall in!” Babe was very scared. Tears slid down her pink cheeks, but Drake calmed her down and made her stay in the car. The car would protect them from falling stuff. The shelves are all bolted to the floor so they didn’t fall, but everything fell off the shelves. The floor started to shake again and Babe and Drake crouched on the seats until it stopped. Glass bottles crashed to the ground and broke. The guy in the radio kept talking but Babe and Drake couldn’t hear anything over the rumbling. The floor makes noise when an earthquake happens. “The after shock…rumble rumble…Yellowstone…. Erupting … Crash!... Ash in the air..Boom!...Seal doors and windows…Bang!” Then, the radio stopped working and the second earthquake stopped. There were a lot more tiny earthquakes before Drake got out of the car to look around. There was broken glass everywhere. Don’t touch broken glass or you will bleed. Tables were knocked over and a lot of signs broke off of the walls. Fish tanks in the pet aisle were broken and fish flopped all over the floor in the glass. Drake tried to save the fish and put them in a big bucket of water. The fish all died and he later used that water to fertilize the bathroom. The pink tub for my bath used to be that bucket. Drake wasn’t scared at all until he looked Outside. In the sky was a big gray cloud moving closer and closer. It was the ash from the volcano. A volcano is an evil mountain that squirts lava and ash into the air. “Get out of the car!” Drake yelled. Babe didn’t want to leave the safety of the car, but she had to help. They grabbed the same cart that we still use for shopping and picked stuff from the mess. Babe and Drake worked together to put layers of tarps, blankets, and shower curtains over the gates to keep the ash from making their lungs not work. Lungs keep you alive by making you breathe. They didn’t just cover the gates. They covered windows and cracks in the walls attaching them all with a nail gun and duct tape. Anywhere that air could get in was protected from the ash. It took a whole day for them to start eating the food because they didn’t have money to pay for it. Drake and Babe were scared of getting in trouble. Nobody came to help by then so Drake got some yogurt from the refrigeration section. Dairy stuff was eaten first so it didn’t expire. Expired food can make you sick. After a week they started to eat the meat, it was cooked in the Subway. The Subway used to be filled with sandwich stuff but it’s all gone now. The layer of blankets by the gate was starting to bulge by then. The ash was falling and building up in front of the store. Babe felt it through the tarps. Eventually the ash would’ve broken through the blankets and tarps. Babe and Drake could’ve been buried alive. So they nailed some flat boards from the shelves to the wall and put layers of shelves in front of the gates to keep the ash out. They took tabletops from subway to block the windows once the ash started to reach window height as well. They ate the produce and frozen stuff together. I remember the last package of hot dogs. They tasted so good. The fire makes a crinkly black part on the hot dogs. It looked like my hands. I liked hotdogs because they were like me. On the last day of hotdogs, I ate an entire half! Some of the produce rotted before we got to eat it, but Drake took the seeds to the bathroom to make new food. Not all of the seeds grew but the ones that did, became food. Now we only have non-perishables left. That means the food won’t go bad. But the potatoes are dying and there’s not much food left. ••• One month later… I have a new favorite story now, and I would like to tell it to you today. It starts the day after my birthday. Babe was crying about how we were all going to die. She told me all about the outside world and why we couldn’t leave even if we wanted to because the ash built up taller than the doors long ago. Drake was listening to the story too and suddenly stood up. For the first time ever Drake told a story. It wasn’t about the past. It was about the future. He remembered that Wal-Mart shared a wall with a grocery store Outside. A grocery store is a place like Wal-Mart but filled with food. If we broke the wall, we would just end up inside of the grocery store. He tapped all along the wall to find a place in the concrete without metal beams and drew a door on the wall with chalk. Then he got a big hammer that’s called a sledgehammer and he started hitting the wall with it. He must’ve hit it over a gazillion times! Soon enough we could see through the hole. After 3 days worth of work there was a hole big enough for me to crawl though. I was really scared but Babe pushed me through the hole. Babe and Drake couldn’t fit though the hole because they are adults. I crawled out into the dark, and it smelled like inside the bathroom. Then my eyes started to see from the fire on the Wal-Mart side of the hole. There were inches and inches of gray dust on everything. There was shelf in front of me and boxes on the floor. There were so many boxes everywhere. I picked one up that looked familiar. I brushed off the gray dust, and there was a picture of cookies on the front! I opened the box from the top carefully to not rip the kindling. I did it just like Drake showed me. There were twelve precious cookies and I ate them all as fast as I could. Babe couldn’t stop me from the other side of the hole. I ate two more boxes before I remembered why I was here. I took as many boxes as I could back to the hole and pushed them through. Drake and Babe pulled me through and then we all ate together. It was the happiest moment of my life. The next day, Drake made the hole bigger and we all went shopping in the grocery store. There was a gazillion cans of food. All the produce was rotten but we found seeds for the garden and batteries for our flashlights. Babe says the grocery store is called Super Giant. I think she’s wrong. The grocery store is called heaven.


At first, I thought it my ears playing tracks on me, but when I entered the kitchen, I noticed the backdoor was wide open and I caught a glimpse of something large in the yard, which looked almost like a meteor, but I didn’t hear anything like that this morning or the night before. It had a rippling layer of gold over a transparent shell of green. Sharon, my wife said something and turning my attention to her, I asked. “What did you say? And what’s that thing outside?” “Eraluth meg’ath nousth,” she said, smiling to Stevey, who sat across the table. Stevey, who was dirty and I assumed he got that way from playing outside that morning, returned the smile and replied, “Asouth de’ath aggilth’b.” “What are you guys saying? Is this one of those made up languages to fool me?” I asked, looking from my wife to my son, confused. I had taken French, Spanish, and even some Latin in college but what they spoke seemed to be so obscure, so odd, that I recognized no dialect of any language. She looked up at me and said, “Acum’th uonagg tura-tae’ggth” and Stevery, cheerily, faced me and said, “Manjeuth ujjothyine nagith.” There was something about their eyes I noticed. She had crystal blue eyes, something that caught my attention when we met in college, and my son had gotten my brown ones, but the blues of my wife’s eyes were tinged green and gold, while Stevey’s were a bright hazel. Maybe it was just the way the sun hit their ears? but… That doesn’t explain why they’re speaking like this? “C’mon, stop joking around. We have some stuff to do today and I can’t have you speaking gibberish, the neighbors will think we’re crazy.” Stevey looked at his mother, and said, nodding. “Uejith neugg brujth.” I felt a throb in my temples and I dug my nails into my palms. It was fun at first, but now it was becoming annoying. It was too early for something like this, especially when we had a day planned to go out to the park with the neighbors. “All right, cut this out now. It’s not funny anymore.” Stevey turned to me, repeating what he said to his mother. “Now quit it!” I roared, slamming my fist on the table. “If you talk like that one more time, you’re grounded for a week!” Sharon said, grinning. “Houg’th nyuaeth blougfh.” I quickly turned towards her. “And you too, Sharon! Don’t fucking play along with this! You’re a parent, too!” They both suddenly stood up, their chairs toppling onto the ground. Stevey stood with Sharon, who began to walk towards me. I stumbled back, nearly falling against the stove against the wall. Incessantly they droned in unison, “Suoth’in jus’goi noijgus.” “Stop! For the love of god stop this!” I moved away from the stove to the wall, where it seemed they jerked forward at a speed I didn’t quite see, as if I blinked and they teleported. They stood before me, not moving, smiling. “Stop, please!” I begged. “If you don’t, God help me I will do what I have to do!” I didn’t want to hurt them, they were my family, but the way they were acting was driving me insane. Sharon placed a hand on my shoulder, and the frustration I had pent up seemed to explode inside me. Before I knew it, I punched her in the stomach. But when my fist connected with her abdomen… it felt like I had punched a stone wall. Immediately I felt the sharp pain of my fingers breaking shoot up my arm. Tears erupted from my eyes and I quickly pulled my hand band and cradled it against my chest. I slid down the wall, sitting on the floor. “What are you? You’re— you’re not my family.” I murmured. Sharon leaned forward, placing her face an inch before mine. Her wide eyes seemed to grow beyond human capabilities, and the green and gold inside her beautiful eyes began to twist, to turn, to swirl around in her cornea. The snaking colors sprung from her eyes and everything went black, as a sudden, burning pain exploded over my body. Read more of my stories on my . Purchase my work on .


She knew what she was about to do was against the rules. In fact, she was about to break the single, most important rule instated for her to follow. Yet, she insisted. “Nobody will find out,” she told herself. She went on, believing the lie. Nobody had attempted to do what she was about to do, or if they had it had been kept secret. It was dangerous and irresponsible, but most of all, it could cost her her job. A job she had worked so hard to secure. Her hands trembled as she typed the message, each finger hesitating as it landed upon the keys with a familiar clack. The message she typed out was short, yet it was powerful, not in the sense of meaning but in the sense of defiance. She sent her message, a simple “Hello,” and with it she gave up everything she had worked so hard to uphold. He heard a familiar ding accompanied by a small, but intense, vibration from within his pocket. He reached in and fished out his sleek, elegantly crafted smart phone. He had received a message from an unknown number. A number that he could never recount seeing before. A number, unbeknownst to him, that was not in service to any individual. He opened his phone. As he read the message he was met with a small sense of confusion. The simple “Hello,” displayed itself upon his screen. It’s small gray bubble broke the silence of the otherwise white background. “Who is this?” he thought to himself. He considered disregarding it, writing it off as simply being sent to the wrong number. Yet for some unknown reason, the message entranced him. He dismissed the thoughts of ignoring the text and typed a reply. A reply just as simple, and just as short. As he typed on his small, digital keyboard, a small phrase appeared in the white space above. “Who is this?” and with the completion of the message he hovered his finger above the blue arrow and delivered his response, appearing in a little blue bubble, once again breaking the silence of his screen. The message immediately displayed itself upon her screen, and with it, came a sense of panic. He had responded. The reality of what she was doing began to set in. In an instant she wished to undo what she had done. To go back just five, short minutes, to go back to before she had violated the law of her work. Her wish was not granted. Instead she was left staring blankly at her bright, unblinking screen. She didn’t have an answer to the question she was being presented. Who was she? In a short instant she considered telling him the truth, yet she knew she couldn’t. All she could do was stare. The brightness of the screen engulfed her, she was suddenly lost in the artificial, unnatural light. She had not thought this through. Without contemplation she typed at her keyboard. She wanted to stop herself, but the thrill of what she was doing urged her on. She sent her next message, “A friend.” This was a lie of course, although she knew him, she was not a friend. A friendship couldn’t come from what she was doing to him. She was watching him, unknowingly and against his will. She was not a friend. A response came quickly, “Do I know you?” The answer of course was no, but could she tell him that? Her question was quickly answered for her as her computer was shut down. She herself was being monitored, a fact that she was unaware of. A tall man, slender in figure and heavy in presence entered her office space. He looked at her with a grim scowl, a scowl that dug deep into her soul. She was commanded to follow him, and she complied. He led her to the office of her employer, an office she had only entered once before for her initial interview. She was ushered in and the door was closed behind her. As she stepped into the office she was met with a menacing stare. A stare that shook her to her core and chilled her down to her bones. She took a seat without being instructed to do so, and calmly waited until her boss addressed her. “Do you know what you have done?” his deep, sullen voice, echoed through the small room that they shared. “Yes sir,” she was met with silence. She knew that she made a mistake, and she began to tremble in her seat. “Please sir, I can’t lose this job,” she spoke again. “You won’t,” there was a hint of disappointment in his voice, “not unless you do what you are about to be told.” She was simultaneously relieved yet frightened at his statement. She waited for further instruction. He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small handgun, placing it on the surface of his wooden workspace. Fear welled inside her, she contemplated running, anything to get away from the object that was just placed before her. “Tell me why,” he spoke. She then broke down and began to tell him everything. How she had fallen in love with the man the day she was assigned to him. She explained that after watching him for two years she could no longer bear being apart from him. She just wanted to meet him, she wanted to be able to fall in love with him away from her computer screen. She was hysterical, hot tears falling from her eyes, carving out rivers down her cheeks. His expression did not change. He looked at her with judging eyes and began to yet again fill the room with his cold voice. “You are to kill the subject that you have been assigned to.” These words were deafening, she was in that moment hit with the severe reality of her situation. Hit with the realization that mistakes like hers are why people disappear. She took the gun into her hands, feeling the weight of it. It weighed her down, and she felt as it was growing heavier with every second that passed. He gave her the address of the man she was to kill and had her removed from his office. He checked his phone again, he was overcome with curiosity and wished to know who the messages had came from. However, his day went on, and he quickly pushed his mysterious encounter to the back of his mind. He went on to mindlessly complete his daily tasks. Every day was the same, variation was rare and accepted as unlikely. This day was no different. It was as if he had no control over his life, as if everything he was to do was predetermined for him. It was as if he was an actor preparing for a role by living as the character, a character that he would meld with and soon forget who he was before. With this dull repetition, his day quickly turned to night, and he soon found himself meeting his large, lonely bed. She now trembled before his doorstep. She knew what she was about to do was illegal, but the law didn’t apply to her. In this instance she was above the laws set for those who simply exist in a world that she has a hand in controlling. She had no issue getting past the heavy, locked door. She was trained for situations like this, yet only now was the necessity of her training apparent. She shook as she made her way through an unfamiliar space. It was as if she stepped into another world, a world that she had no business entering. A world that she was about to destroy. She easily found her way into the bedroom of the man she had been assigned, and crept near his bedside. Upon seeing him laid out in slumber, she froze. She had long wished for this moment, to be able to see the man she loved in person. As she gazed over him a sense of panic set in. She had already come too far, and could no longer reject what she was told to do. She lifted the gun and pointed it towards his head, it’s weight now apparent more than ever, as if not only did it carry the weight of the materials in which it had been crafted, but also the weight of the sinister act she was about to commit. Her finger slowly wrapped itself around the cold trigger of the weapon she held, pointed at her target. A target was all he was now. He was no longer a human being that she had watched day after day, he was no longer a man that she had fallen in love with. He was a target, a target meant to be destroyed. As she reduced his humanity in her mind his eyes fluttered open, and his humanity returned for a short fleeting moment. A moment that seemed to last an eternity and in that eternity lie another in which their eyes met. An eternity in which she wished to live, staring into his eyes, into his soul. An eternity that was interrupted by the loud bang of a bullet being forced into his brain. Once again turning him into nothing more than a target. A target that had been eliminated.


“The Implant” Stroldt arrived at his apartment at five-o’clock. He had just got home from Kepler Interplanetary’s Corporate Headquarters, where he had been playing logo-guesser—a game where you gain credits by seeing how fast you can guess company logos. He had gained additional credits by visiting the company’s corporate office. He had started getting ready for bed, even though he wasn’t tired. You couldn’t be doing anything else when the implant updates happened, so people just slept through them—or at least laid in bed. He didn’t know what was going to be in the update. Sometimes it was a minor patch, other times, a completely new interface. All he knew, was how long it would take. He got into bed and closed his eyes. He accessed his implant, and the updates began. The implant looks just like a computer screen. The official name for it is the direct neural interface. It is a microcomputer that is placed on a person’s cerebral cortex. You can access the internet, send messages to people, do anything a computer can do. Just by thinking. When he awoke, he was bombarded with a terrible headache—not too uncommon of an occurrence right after an update. He walked over to his food synthesizer. He had one of the older models; which was larger, and took longer. It even had the old Cuneigen Logo. While waiting for his food he sat on his bed and played logo-guesser. He played for a few minutes then got an alert that his food was done. He paid with his implant and sat back down on his bed. Most apartments in the lower city had only a bedroom. There was no need for kitchens, because all food was synthesized. Services like bathrooms were public. There was no need for living rooms, people just communicated through their implants. He closed his eyes and started perceiving an advertisement for Siobdan. He needed to use the telepad later, so he thought he might get some extra credits. Money does not exist anymore. Instead, if you want to use a service, you simply watch an advertisement for that company. You then get specialized credits for use on their products. If you want to use the telepads, you watch a commercial for Siobdan. If you want to use the 3D printers, you watch a commercial for Cuneigen. You can watch an advertisement for a specific company, or watch a commercial for their parent company. This gains credits in the parent company, as well as all of their subsidiaries. So, for example, if you want healthcare, you can watch a commercial for Zuhcroft NLC; or you could watch a commercial for their parent company—Kepler Interplanetrary Corporation. Siobdan, chess, and Logo Guesser were also some of Kepler’s holdings. They are a space mining corporation and are the world’s only trillion-dollar company. When he had finished his food, he opened a chess program. After playing for twenty minutes, the game ended in a draw. He opened his eyes. He had to meet his friends at the theatre. He left his apartment and walked down the stairs. When he saw the line for the Telepad he muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes and sent a message to his friends saying that he might be late. He went to check the news. -Kepler Interplanetary has bought out Vechnosoft NLC. -Massive Hurricane Hits West Coast. More than 24,000 Dead in Las Vegas. -Weather forecast for this week: :) :) :) :( :) :( Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He was next. He entered the telepad and closed his eyes. His most frequented destinations popped up: Kepler Interplanetary Headquarters, the Kepler theatre, and Cuneigen Headquarters. He selected the theatre, his credits rolled down, and his body dematerialized. After he exited the telepad, he looked around for his friends. They were sitting on a bench in the lobby with their eyes closed. He walked over and tapped his friend Rodme on the shoulder. “Oh hey Stroldt.” Rodme said. “You feps ready?” Stroldt said. “Yeah, we were just playing logo guesser.” Rodme said. “More like you were losing at logo guesser.” Tibor said. They all laughed as they walked to line together. “Hey, at least I don’t always get Cunigen’s logo wrong like someone we know.” Rodme said. They continued to joke and discuss what movie to see. Stroldt went to the movie theatre about three times a week, so he had seen every movie that was currently out. His favorite was for Siobdan translocations—the telepad company. Tibor wanted to see the Kepler Interplanetary movie. Stroldt didn’t mind; he needed more credits after playing chess earlier. When he got to the front of the line he saw the cashier. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had brown hair and fair skin. She had two tattoos on her face. One on her left cheek of the Kepler Logo, and one on her forehead of Siobdan Translocations. It was not too uncommon to get corporate logo tattoos. Companies would pay you a decent sum of credits every month. “What would you like to see today misper?” She asked. “I’ll take one ticket for Kepler at 17,” he said. He paused for a second, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she seemed familiar. “Please scan your eyes on the scanner so the computer can register your implant code,” she said. “Yes, of course sorry.” “Alright, you’ll receive your credits after the show, here’s your 4D glasses…just kidding they’re only 3D,” she said. He smiled. “Enjoy the show!” She said. “Thanks, you too!” He said, instantly embarrassed. She laughed. He grabbed the tickets and the 3D glasses and turned around to see Rodme looking at him. “Dalkur, xhe was totally flirting with you, you should go ask xer out.” “Eh, there’s a line, plus I don’t want to be late,” Stroldt said. Rodme punched him in the arm. “There’s two people in line, don’t be a walku, flard.” “Fine, fine, I’ll go, grab me a seat okay.” He nodded. … “So, did you do it?” Rodme said. “Yeah we’re going to go out after this.” “Nice, you got here just in time too, I think it’s just about to start.” “I was going to ask you, did…” The lights dimmed in the theatre. “I’ll ask you later.” --Please be silent and keep your eyes open at all times— … When the movie finished, he said goodbye to his friends. He was going to meet his date in the lobby so he took a seat on a bench. He closed his eyes. He had a few minutes to kill until her shift ended, so he decided to look her up before they met. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he recognized her. He started perusing through the government database. He found a few different “Erishas,” but none that looked like this woman. He then rewound his memory to her face and did a search that way. “0 results” the implant said. “That can’t be right,” he thought, “this woman is a ghost.” He went into his photo editing software and erased her tattoos and searched her face again. “2186 results.” He brought up the first name on the list. She looked exactly like Erisha, but this woman was about twenty years younger. He brought up the second name. She looked exactly the same. He tried another, and another. All the same. These women all had different names, and different occupations, the only thing that they had in common was their place of birth. He looked it up. It turned out that it was a barrier city—one that was locked behind credits. Only the rich could access this part of town. Questions started to rattle around in his head, who is this woman? If she is rich why does she have to work at a movie theatre in a poor part of town, or better yet, why did she have to get those tattoos on her face? Just as he was thinking about leaving, she tapped him on the shoulder. "So, are you ready?" She asked. He paused. "Sure," he said hesitantly. He stood up and they started walking through the lobby. "I'm not sure where to go, I don't do this very often," he said nervously. "I know this nice café close by." "Okay, what are the coordinates?" He said, as he approached the Telepad. She had stopped. "Actually, I thought we could walk." He was taken aback. No one walked anywhere. If you wanted exercise, there was a pill for that. The lights indoors simulated sunlight, and the smog was so bad that you couldn't go outside most of the time anyway. "Umm, okay I guess." She smiled at him, but she could see the look on his face. "You looked me up didn't you?" He paused, and looked down. "Yeah…I did." "Couldn't find anything about me could you?" "Nothing." "Well you haven't left yet so that's a good sign." He chuckled. "I suppose it is." They had arrived at the café, since it was late there was no one else in line. They ordered two coffees. The cashier took two glasses of water and grabbed two pills, she put the pills in the water, and handed them over. He paid for the coffee with his implant, and they sat down at a table and sipped their coffee. They both were looking away for an awkward few seconds. “So…what do you like to do for fun?” she asked, trying to break the ice. “I like to play chess.” “960 I presume?” “Yeah, well, chess has been pretty much solved with the implant. So, randomizing the pieces is the only way to be fair.” “Aren’t a lot of openings for that solved too though?” She asked. “Yeah, but once you get to the mid game it starts to get fun.” He paused for a second. “Kind of gets boring again when you get to the late game though…all endings with nine pieces have been solved.” He said. “I see.” “I like to play Logo guesser too. I have the highest score amongst my friends,” he said. “I also like to go to the theatre…but I guess you already knew that haha.” She smiled. “And what about you?” He asked. “I like to take walks,” she said. “I read a lot too.” “Oh yeah? Did you read that Kepler bought out Vechnosoft earlier today?” “I hadn’t no, but I was talking about books, not just the news.” “Oh. I think the last book I read was in secondary school,” he said. “What’s your favorite book?” He asked. “Gulliver’s Travels.” “I haven’t read that one.” “You should it’s really good.” “What else do you do?” “I go to university,” she said. “Oh wow, what are you studying?” He asked. “I’m studying to become a school counselor,” she said. “Wow, I don’t know anyone who has went to college…come to think of it, I actually don’t know anyone who has a job,” he said. That wasn’t uncommon at all. Most jobs had been replaced by machines. The only jobs that were left were those that required a human touch. There was a long pause. "You know I've had a real coffee?" She said, trying to break the silence. "Yeah right." "No joke." He hesitated for a few seconds. He didn't even know where to start. There were so many questions rattling around in his head. "…where are you from?" He asked, already knowing the answer. "San Dwynwen." "Isn't that a barrier city?" "It is," she said, sipping her coffee. "Ask it," she said, "I know you're dying to." He paused for a second, “why are you here?" "Well, I was born in San Dwynwen, I was a perfect," she said. A perfect is a genetically engineered member of the upper caste. "I went to a great school, I made a lot of money, and I was happy—or so I had thought." He drank his coffee, listening intently. She went on, "have you ever heard of the Sklardu Syndicate?" "Yeah, but I thought that they were just a rumor though. I didn't think there was any crime in the upper city." "They exist." She moved her hair back to reveal a huge scar on her neck. "They did this to me. They removed my implant." "Strepka! Why would they do that?" He asked. "Don't know, didn't a get an itinerary." "I didn't mean-" "I know." She took another sip from her coffee. "I tried to figure out why they would steal it. I researched a lot. It turns out there is a black market for implants," she said. "Sometimes it's trade secrets, sometimes it's a trans person that wants to feel what it is like to be a woman, other times, it’s just money." "Strepka." "I spent the longest time thinking that they had ruined my life," she said. "But honestly, if I could, I would thank them. The implant…it changes you. Changes what it means to be human,” she said. "How so?" He asked. "How does the coffee taste?" "What?" "How does it taste?" "It's really good, you were right about this place,” he said. She smiled. "It's awful, the coffee here sucks." "I don't understand." "What's your favorite food?" "I don't know, I suppose I don't really have one." "What's your least favorite food?" "huh, I guess I never really thought about that." "The implant, she said." It alters your brain, it makes food taste good." "Why?" "I mean I don't know the science behind it." "I mean why would they do that?" "I guess so they could get away with serving everyone 3D printed disgusting food." "But I mean, if it makes food taste good is that really a bad thing? I mean honestly?" She sighed. "How do you sleep?" She asked. "I sleep really well. I get eight hours every night." "And do you dream?" "Of course." "What do you dream about?" "Well sometimes I dream about Kepler Space mining, other times Andrimov Enterprises…" She laughed, then interrupted him. "Those aren't dreams. Those are advertisements. Why do you think that you dream for eight hours about Kepler, and then go to the strep theatre and watch a three-hour movie about it?" She asked. "I guess…I mean…well, I don't know." "Why do you think the government offers the implant for free? Do you think it is out of the kindness of their heart? The government just wants to make money off you,” she said. "If that was true they wouldn't offer government services. Healthcare for example.” He said. She took a large gulp of her coffee. "You know, I had a friend back in the upper city. A best friend really. She was a good person. She had a husband. She had kids. She paid her taxes.” She sighed. “One day, the doctors discovered that she had a pretty serious illness, one that I can't pronounce; one that can't be easily cured by the medpods. The government just dropped her from the plan. Said she was being "let go,”—she said as she made air quotes with her hands. “What the hell does that even mean?" She said. "Did she…I mean" "She's dead." They looked at each other for few seconds. Stroldt didn't know how to respond. He sort-of knew that the government was ran like a corporation, but he didn’t know to what extent. In school, they had learned that in the year 2276 corporations had to bail out the government. Too much debt had been taken on, and the government could not function anymore. Corporations took on the debt in exchange for seats in the legislature. This was known as the Corporate Congress. All of the major corporations were represented. They started to strip regulations from businesses, and this; coupled with the growing robot industry, resulted in an extreme class divide. Erisha looked over at the flag on the wall. "Did you know that there used to be stars on the flag?" "For real?" He asked. "Yeah, have you ever heard the original anthem?” "I thought the Logo Spangled Banner was the original. What did the stars mean?" He asked. "One for each state, they even had arguments every time a new state would enter the union about what the new flag would look like." "I can't even imagine a flag without the Kepler Logo, that thing is everywhere." He suddenly remembered the tattoo on her face, and looked down. "I didn't mean." "I know,” she said. "Why did you-" "Credits," she interrupted. "Turns out you can get a lot of credits for being a walking billboard.” "So you got them-" "After," she interrupted. "Yeah if the uppers could see me now." She laughed. "Turns out you can't do your job very well without your implant. Turns out you need the database, the calculator, all of it." "So they just threw you out of the upper city?" "No. I left,” she said. “Well I had to. I mean, the government offered me a free replacement, but I declined. I guess I realized that people weren’t meant to live like that.” “Like what?” “Well, like…robots I guess” “How so?” She paused for second before speaking. “Have you ever heard about the Ship of Theseus?” He shook his head. “According to legend, the Ship of Theseus was a famous vessel in Ancient Greece. Over the course of the ships lifetime, it had nearly every single piece of it replaced until there were no remaining pieces of the original ship. So, the question is, was it the same ship? Humans aren’t meant to be able to remember everything. They aren’t meant to send messages to people with their mind, or look up people in databases before they actually meet them. They’re not meant to watch advertisements all day long. They’re meant to have their eyes open, to forget, to dream,” she paused for a long while. “Have you ever played a real game of chess before? I mean without your implant. Just two people, on a real chess board.” “I guess I haven’t,” he said. She smiled. She asked him back to her apartment. They talked and laughed as they walked all the way there. When they finally arrived, he saw that her apartment was the same size as his, but she had made room for a living room table. They played chess.


The Plague Doctor entertains victims of the Black Death. The Plague Doctor wears a mask in the shape of a crow and fills it with herbs such as juniper, mint and rose to protect himself from the harmful effects of miasma. The Plague Doctor carries a long cane to examine the infected, keeping himself as physically distanced from the unwashed masses as possible. The Plague Doctor strongly dislikes peasants. Sometimes he finds himself relieved at their passing. In dire times, The Plague Doctor must complete autopsies of a victim to determine the internal symptoms of the disease. To treat the sick, The Plague Doctor must carefully glide a thin blade along the victim’s inner forearm to re-balance the humors. This must only be performed on the Lord’s day, and for best possible results, under a new moon. The Plague Doctor is paid fifty florins a year for his services. He will also charge patients additional sums for special treatment. Occasionally, he may pocket a florin or two from the decrepit. They won’t be needing it. The Plague Doctor records the deaths of his patients in a ledger for demographics. He considers this his main responsibility, for the Black Death is nigh incurable. The Plague Doctor may collect bile in a glass vile from a deceased patient for the purpose of, erhm… manufacturing a vaccine. Often times, the Plague Doctor may officiate a noble patient’s will. This service is provided at an additional fee, of course. The Plague Doctor has a strained relationship with the Baron. The fool couldn’t possibly understand the power of medicine. He wants to fire the Plague Doctor. Not before he is finished enacting God’s Will. The Baron’s Daughter has fallen ill under mysterious circumstances, it appears to be the Black Death. Panic stricken and nowhere left to turn, he calls The Plague Doctor to treat her. The Plague Doctor treats the Baron’s Daughter, to no avail. She continues to grow evermore sick. The Plague Doctor offers one final solution. However, the toll upon the Plague Doctor would be so great, he shall only do so in return for ample compensation. The Baron offers his Barony to the Plague Doctor in return for the life of his Daughter. A contract is drawn up and signed. The Plague Doctor carries the Baron’s Daughter into a forest clearing under a new moon and places her into a pit of live rats. The rats shall bite her, both releasing the overabundance of blood and heightening her black pile. This is the most effective method of rebalancing the humors. The Baron’s Daughter is healed. The Plague Doctor is named Baron. The old Baron and his Daughter mysteriously disappear one evening. The Plague Doctor never attended University. His previous occupation had been a priest. He was excommunicated from the church for unknown reasons.


Across the Disc a shudder was felt. If anyone was to float through space alongside the Disc (which would be quite a feat in itself and worthy of another story entirely.) they would have seen the shudder flow. It started just behind A'tuin's neck, like the shiver when a song peaks and drops, but colder. The shudder moved across the great turtle's flippers, across the shell until it touched the base of the feet of the four. The great elephants Berilia, Tubul, Great T'Phon, and Jerakeen trumpeted into the darkness of space, ears flapping. Every city on the Disc stopped. The drunks in ankh morpork stopped fighting, their ale spilling out of the great flagons carried by the now-silent barmaids. Every animal in the water, air (this proved to be quite the tragedy for a flock of seagulls due to conservation of momentum and other such silly ideas.) or on the ground paused. The vampires, werewolves and other creatures of the night, sniffed the air and their eyes drew to slits. Every creature of magic or the mundane took their collective breath and sighed. "IS IT TIME?" Death asked, almost hesitant to phrase something he had never needed to say since the beginning. "Well, I suppose it has to be now." said the bearded old man, pushing his spectacles back on his nose and smirking. "YOU DIDN'T GIVE ME ANY WARNING YOU KNOW. I THINK I DESERVED AT LEAST A WARNING." "That would ruin the surprise, a surprise ending is important! Leaving it predictable can give a nice feeling but you get more from a shock than from a warm fluffy." "I DON'T LIKE SURPRISES." Death reached over to take the hand of the bearded old man. "DO YOU WANT TO SAY ANYTHING?" The bearded old man smiled, looking deep into the black sparkling voids where deaths eyes were. "Nothing to say now that the story is over" They walked off. Death and the first God of the Disc, the author. The one who started the story. The one who was the story. The Disc remained but there was no more story to tell.


Disclaimer** This story was originally written by my grandmother. There's a link in the comments to photo's of the original piece. All spelling and grammatical errors are as written on the original version. **FIFTEEN MINUTES IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE** It was one of those temporary Army hospitals, at a temporary Army base, and temporarily, half of the hospital staff had been recruited to assist at a local train disaster. My inflamed appendix, sizzled dangerously, as they wheeled me along the assembly line, to the operating room. I only hoped George would remember to do a diaper-wash first thing in the morning. It had been the technician, checking my blood count, that reminded me how calamitous a diaper shortage might become. But George Davis was defanitely the competent sort, so perhaps I was worrying needlessly. In the twenty minutes it took the Doctor to make the necessary hospital arrangements, my George, had with his usual proficiency, appropriated a housekeeper, prepared Ginny’s formula, and packed an adequate suit-case for me. Perhaps I would take his advice after-all and enjoy the advantages afforded to hospital patients. The anesthesia was taking effect and I was beginning to appreciate this unexpected reprieve, away from formulas, diapers, and cod-liver oil. A week’s rest would be a most welcome luxury indeed! In this buoyant frame of mind, I eagerly slipped away and awoke on the morrow, still under the investigating influence of Pentothal (that exhilarating new wonder-drug combination that erased all sense of depression.) I gazed about me lazily, examining my new surroundings. It must have been quite an accident, I thought. For lack of space they seemed to have emptied a conference room which now served as a sizable ward. The warm tea they gave me was nice, but I was beginning to feel a mite hungry when they started rolling the carts through the hall. I propped myself up slowly against the pillows and waited contendtedly, to see what they were serving. I was still a bit drowsy, and dozed periodically, for just seconds. From this delicious state, a soft, professional voice roused me. “Mrs. David, wake up and see what we have here for you.” I couldn’t tell by smelling what we were having, and I certainly didn’t want to miss the thrill of being served in bed, so I forced myself awake and smiled at the lovely young nurse. She deposited a soft squirming bundle, majestically, into my arms, and shoved a leaky milk bottle into my palm. Without any more ado, she departed. I couldn’t even scream!......I was totally paralyzed! Speachless, voiceless, and motionless, I lay there aghast! I automatically stuck the bottle into the gaping mouth, and sat in a frozen stuper, appalled and numb, suspended in my own private twilight zone. Frantically, I tried to assemble in my mind, the chronological events of the last ‘yesterday’ I could remember. My little Ginny was only five months old….George had brought me here to have my appendix removed. It was my ‘appendix’!...I distinctly remembered my Doctor saying “Appendix”. This baby just couldn’t be! Somebody made a mistake. Yes, that was it! It was just a simple mistake. The nurse must have thought I was someone else. That’s all there was to it! The relief was overwhelming. Weak and limp, I leaned back against the now clammy pillows, trembling from exhaustion, but still clutching in my arms a loudly sucking infant. Suddenly, I could picture George coming blithely through that door. My George, with his calm, efficient exterior, who always had a very logical, scientific answer for everything. I giggled rapturously, at the thought of George explaining this one to me. The moments ticked on and I wondered where all the nurses had disappeared to. Probably under-staffed today, I mused, with all the casualties from the train wreck to tend. The baby had drained the bottle, and I turned ‘It’ automatically, sunny side up. I had become quite adept in five month of motherhood. But when was that nurse coming back for the baby? It’s Mother must be getting anxious by now. I was starting to feel a nervous tremor in the pit of my stomach again. My eyes strained at the door for the pretty young nurse, who had said, “Mrs. Davis, see what we have here for you. “Mrs. Davis, she had called me! I felt my pulses begin to throb. I lifted my trembling, ivy fingers to my hammering brow, while the baby lay peacefully oblivious, across my lap. Waves of nausea were sweeping over me again. “No”, I sternly reprimanded myself. “Don’t panic… think coherently”, I tried to steel myself to reason it all out, the way George often did in a crisis. I fumbled awkwardly with the baby’s blanket and found the beaded bracelet on it’s wrist. I starred hard in disbelief at the name tag which read “Baby Davis”! I closed my eyes against the sheer, mad nightmare engulfing me. “Mrs. Davis”, a cool, familiar voice, spoke quietly. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, but the ‘other’ Mrs. Davis was moved to the maternity floor, only this morning. There wasn’t time to correct the nursery charts…We’ve been a little short-handed here today…I hope this hasn’t been too exhausting for you”. She smiled apologetically, and with the sleeping babe in the crook of her arm, she weaved her way around the maze of beds and disappeared down the corridor.


Hawking couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended. Due to the bio-synthetic technology powering his failing body he was now the oldest living person, despite the incurable disease that he suffered from since the 1900s. He remembered Roger Penrose funeral best, despite it being so long ago. Roger and himself had worked together on many problems in physics, but there was one issue on which they never had agreed. It was about the interpretation of quantum mechanics. Hawking smiled at the thought that Roger probably wouldn't have liked the new variant of the many-world interpretation that he was now working on. "Or, perhaps he likes it now", Hawking thought, "when it gives him eternal life". . . . . Penrose couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended. The most notable of them all was of course that of Stephen Hawkings, his dear friend and colleague, who had fought his disease for so many years. Roger had managed to stay healthy, but to his great grief he had seen his children grow old and die. Penrose had started to suspect that his friend had been right regarding the interpretation of quantum mechanics. The inner workings of physics stated that particles were in many alternative locations simultaneously, unless you tried to find out where they really were. Some physicists, among them his friend Stephen, had claimed that all alternatives really existed, and gave rise to parallel worlds. Penrose had long had a different view: "If there are multiple worlds then there should be multiple copies of Roger. In which of them, then, is my true self?" . . . . Albert couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended...


She stood on the clifftop where they had wed each other, letting out a pained sigh. There it was again; she could feel his breath on the side of her neck, like every other time he'd come up behind her and grab her swiftly from behind. He had this way of gripping her so firmly, that she would forget time existed. She stood staring off this cliff top, pondering about the way he kissed the back of her neck and it would create murmurs down every nerve of her body. There was no other way to describe it, she was enthralled with his enchantment. Nothing could separate her from the pain of having killed him at his wit's end. In this moment he wanted to devour their children, and was seconds from literally tearing them apart right before her eyes: a hex cast on his mind that ate him away slowly every single day until the one day he finally succumbed to its effects. Every piece of her could still see his soul trapped in his eyes, no matter how much anger fueled their glare. Saving him meant letting him fulfill the hex; letting all of their hard work and dedication which built their life go to waste on something as simple as a flick of a wrist. He rushed up the stairs after muttering a grotesque sentence under his breath, looking her dead in the eyes. The words he said rang through her like a thousand daggers as every emotion screamed out of her in absolute terror: “I need to finish this”. She knew immediately what he meant. She had witnessed every sign of this inevitable downfall, gripping onto the life they've built with every last piece of her existence. She followed him up the stairs as quickly as possible, screaming his name at the top of her lungs, her throat, her mind. There was no way she would let him, or whatever it was controlling him, follow through with this. He got to the door after running down the hallway and realized his error immediately. There was a newly installed lock he'd never seen before. She put it there for the safety of her babies, only recently though, as his appetite was diminishing to nothing. The day she got it, he had told her the dinner she made for him from scratch was worthless. “I crave skin” he said after throwing the plate as hard against the wall as hard as possible. That was when she knew without a sliver of a doubt he was cursed. He turned around and immediately roared at her as she stood roughly 20 feet from the doorway with a distorted, volatile screech that sounded like a sharpened fork on a dinner plate, but still with words that were completely decipherable to the human ear: “SAVE ME FROM THIS MADNESS. I NEED THEIR FLESH” “I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DIDN'T TELL ME” she screamed back at him “QUICKLY, I NEED TO FEEL ALIVE AGAIN” he screeched. Her ears began to bleed, as she screamed as loudly as she could, spitting out with every word as she let out every bit of pent up aggression she ever had about this entire 8 years of being his: “YOU CANNOT STAY IN HIM ANYMORE YOU NEED TO LEAVE, HE NEEDS TO BREATHE AGAIN” “YOU STUPID WHORE YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE DEALING WITH” Whatever was inside him had complete control. She still wanted to save him. There was nothing she could do but she couldn't tell herself that right away, so she dug more: “MY INNERMOST PEACE WAS WITHIN YOU, I DWELLED WITHIN YOUR LOVE LIKE THE BLANKET OF PURE GLIMMERING HAPPINESS THAT IT SHELTERED ME WITH” her throat was becoming raw. Calmly, he replied with the tone of an evil smirk: “I see nothing but pure insolence. You need to obey me or I have no choice but to eliminate you too". She sprinted and lunged at him with all of her weight, tackling him through the adjacent window and down to the ground three stories below. Once they hit the ground, she knew her left hand was broken. He wasn't conscious, so she let out a bellowing and blood curdling scream of agony for slight relief from the injury. When she had expelled every last bit of air in her body, she began to sob. Through her whimpers she could only let out pieces of sentences, speaking to him like she would have any other day. “My love, I don't know who or what put that curse on you, but I know this isn't you. I stood by your side through these 8 years and noticed the truth right after I became pregnant. I could see you withering away, your physical appearance has become that of a 75 year old male, while your age is only 30. I could see your eyes begin to shift from blue to red.” she turned her head to face him. “There is severe pain within me, I watched you and still loved you while you fell into this deep despair. Now I have to let you-”. His eyes shot open as he launched his body toward hers trying to eat a chunk of her face, only succeeding in ripping part of her left cheek off while she fended him off with her right arm until she was finally able to shove him to her left side. She immediately stood up as fast as possible, seeing an opportunity to strike. She was barely two feet away from him as he looked her in the eyes after seeing her raised leg about to come down on his temple. She screamed out a loud roar as she destroyed her husband's skull in one swift movement, wearing his brains on her leg. She immediately stripped all clothing off, she slung her broken hand in a makeshift cast from her clothes, and dragged herself inside to await the police after putting on a robe. The officers who handled crimes of magic had little to no research about spells because whatever casts them could be completely random. She had no idea, no way of knowing what caused this. She sits in her room and stares into Oblivion while wondering why. On the clifftop she stands, still wondering why, why did she let him stay? Was it for love? Did she think she could make it better? This clifftop has a nice breeze swimming through her hair, as she feels his invisible grip around her tighten.


My house smells like onions It smells like this because of my father's culturally intensive nachos from last night. The smell isn't the stench of old liquor, spilled after one (a few) too many shots. My nose doesn't sting from the smell of the vodka being sweat out of my dad's pores after a long night of drinking and sex, trying to pretend he's still twenty. My nose stings, because of the onions. There's a mess in the kitchen. Broken glass. Oven mitts. Cooking trays. Empty bottles. Onion skins. My eyes aren't burning because of the tears of my grandmother that cut me to my soul, because more often than not I'm the one who caused them. My eyes are burning, because of the onions. The dogs are cowering in the corner. Shaking. Huddled together for warmth and safety, two things in short supply in this house that was once a home. My mouth doesn't have a sour taste because of the odd mix of hate, pity, regret, rage, sadness and love I constantly take in and put out, like an old man desperately sucking on his oxygen tank, not wanting his time to be up. The sour taste, is because of the onions. My father is asleep in the chair. Slumped over in his too small leather jacket, cap from the patient's grower lounge about to fall off his head. The smell of onions on his skin. I'm not crying because of the screaming, the holes being punched in walls, the nights we go hungry, the false love. I'm crying, because of the onions. It's always the onions.


Hey all. This is just a short story i wrote one day. Hope you enjoy it! Deaf voices all around me are speaking a language I once knew but understand no longer. A life of pride, indulgence and valour, foundations to the coarse wall of fear and death no longer standing. A loving wife. Obedient children. All taught to follow a false truth, a repeat of history. Around me I see my fellow companions, friends who walk the same path as I do. The swastika, a symbol which established my superiority and once stood proud in my eyes now lays on the ground with its meaning detached from its purpose. Coming to a halt, my future stood. The fortress which resides in stolen lands. Auschwitz. *** “The war to end all wars. Propaganda sought out by those who fear defeat!”. Spoken by my father, his final breath which serves as my final memory of the man. The confronting thought to which I hold as proof of evil teachings. My father, turned mad through war, turned mad through death. He was once a man of integrity and strength, yet he now lays here fallen to the fate which no one escapes. The journal he wrote, the scramblings of a madman, his concealed thoughts revealed. He now lays there, quiet as the cold dreary nights of his silent screams which echoed through the empty air, unheard. *** Uniforms, bland and generic. Worn by the bricks in the concealed wall of death and fear. Symbols I thought I knew challenge my understanding, tearing open a void encompassed with regret and question. Red, black and white stripes I was once proud to wear, a symbol which gave me authority, but over what? Authority of judgement and the taker of life? Propaganda manufactured by Lucifer and believed by all. No joy or happiness lives here. From the naive youths to those knocking on death's door, all were condemned to the same judgement. Tears strike the eagle emblem, the very same I was taught to worship as a deity, the God that will grant us victory. But what god would grant sinners victory? A machine designed to “Cleanse The Earth” of undesirables, a war machine built by blind, ignorant men now does the fallen angel’s bidding. Never had I comprehended the resilience and the determination of man until this day, clawing like tigers against the steel cage. Engraved scars mark the blood stained stone and the coarse concrete walls. Their fate challenged, driven by that evolutionary trait, “Survival”. Horrific acts against God to which I ordered, fates of the innocent I locked into place. Acts which cause celebration in the streets, with my people cheering my family name and chanting my deeds and values as gospel readings. Calling me the key for victory, the key to Europe and to all new worlds’. Yet, I feel nothing. I’m isolated in the lost desert of my own barren soul. The key to my past life now buried, hidden from the ages and to remain lost until the ends of time. *** A past life lead by a dead man. Lüneburg Heath. A field to learn my future hunting profession, passed down through the generations. A repeat of history. My father, his head held high with pride wearing his freshly pressed, immaculate uniform, overwhelmed with badges of honour across his left breast. I, his eldest son, carried the family pride, “Vereingewehr”, the weapon granted the title of “peacemaker” which kept us fed, defended and alive. I hold my father's compass, forged long before he was from intrinsic gold which shone as bright as he did, but folded as easily as he had. “What truth could a madman give?”. Confronting thoughts to a concealed, unanswered question which grew from a past war, one which drove him to insanity. *** The fresh stench of blood and smoke stood before us. Fifteen demons, clearing out those who took their last breath only moments before. Holding man's most horrid creation, the fifteen took aim at their next victims. Among the fifteen stood a young man, related only through blood stood my son, a man of questionable beliefs and provocative values but a man of unrivaled loyalty. Ahead stood fifty, the overspill of the ‘cattle’. All awaiting my signal, my signature for a reservation to hell. Why I was condemned to end their God given life, lives which could have changed the world, I will never understand. My son glances back, staring at my weary facade, through the rusted iron mask I wore everyday. With one breath, one I did with regret, anger and pain, I changed the moment, I signed that reservation. I played God. *** Horrors, stimulating past memories which surface from the suppressed subconscious. We came to a river concealed by a russet haze. Our future meal lay along the bank, our means of survival met. As I held the “peacemaker”, I grew nervous. Approaching the river bank, I see our blunder, a man lays dead, his life taken by a boy on the order of his father. My father, a man of strength and integrity began to weep. Sprinting to the deceased, my father looks back at me, but not with his iron face of God, but one challenged by weakness and sorrow. He stares at me with eyes as red as the fresh haze, as red as the blood which now stained his attire. It was at this moment that I saw the error of my father’s ways, the blunder he had made. Just like his father before him, history has repeated itself. *** Awards and medals for loyalty, obedience and leadership stood stately in my office. Characteristics which became my undoing. Above the medals hung my family's versed “peacemaker”, an experienced weapon carried into conflict across three generations. Outside grey clouds defeat the sun, smoke of the dead blankets the truth. Prisoners, forgotten numbers in blue and white scramble across the vast concrete fields. Reaching for the “peacemaker” I reflect upon the choices I have made, the pain and suffering I had bestowed upon my family. The choice I was about to make. Pulling the “peacemaker” down, the shining compass draws my eye, bringing forth memories of my family. A family driven to insanity by choices, wreaked by war and suffering. My family, whose perceptions and assumptions drove me to sign up and fight. My compass is the only memory of happier times before the war. Now, it simply signifies a practicality, a compass for direction. A direction which took me down the path of evil. The path for judgement by God.


I hate it when people interrupt me. It makes me crazy sometimes. I live alone in a small one-bedroom house in east Los Angeles. I’m retired Marine Gunny Sgt. Alan Todd Singleton. I try like hell to lead a quiet life. I go to the VFW Hall every afternoon for a beer…or two. Sometimes the language gets salty when too many beers are consumed and a fight breaks out during these afternoon outings. I’ve lost track of how many morons have interrupted my conversations in the last year, and how many tough guys I punched out for the offense. But, I have to be careful these days because the management is threatening to ban me if I get in another fight. I’ve taken to drinking at the bar now, and not at a table with others. I banter with the old Marine bartender, but avoid getting into any lengthy conversations with him. The only reason I go to the VFW is to remind myself that I can be sociable. A normal guy. It’s a way to keep in touch with the human race without getting too intimate with anyone. I have too many secrets. Too many things that burden my conscience. It’s the nights that are really bad for me. Things happen. Violent things. My memories of my night excursions are almost always vague the next day. A convoluted series of snapshots and conversations. Sometimes I have to clean blood off my arms, face, and clothing – which I usually just burn. One thing is clear; I hunt humans at night. I never stopped after coming back from my third tour-of-duty in the Nam. That was in 1970, and this is 2018. I’ve lived all over the United States these last few decades. You can see why I would have to keep moving. Too many deaths in one area over a period of time attracts too much heat. The cops set up taskforces and the pickings get slim. Then it’s time to move. I’ve managed to last a year here in east LA, but I suspect my time is coming to an end. Maybe forever. Skill and dumb luck will only take a man so far. I’ve beaten the odds thus far. I know that. Especially after last night. The weird thing is I remember almost everything that happened. I was walking aimlessly on North Eastern Avenue near the Santa Ana freeway, when three home-boys stepped out of a front-yard and blocked my path on the sidewalk. They laughed and flashed gang signs at me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I never took Spanish in high school. The volume of their curses rose and they all three pulled out their switchblades – slowly swaying them in front of me. I grabbed the first wrist, twisted it, took the knife, and slashed the gangster’s throat! It wasn’t like I moved that fast, but I never wasted a move, and immediately grabbed the arm and wrist of the second assailant, twisting and breaking it like a twig. The third attacker lunged, as I threw the second down one down with a judo move. I moved sidewise and let his momentum carry him by me…off balance. Then I tripped him and watched him hit the concrete sidewalk with a thick thud. His neck was twisted at an odd angle and partly hanging off the curb, when I turned my attention back onto the last remaining attacker. He was crying and holding his broken arm, and didn’t put up any resistance when I put him in a chokehold and snapped his neck like a dry branch. No one came out of the houses. I was alone with three dead men, and thinking, “Mission accomplished.” I think it’s time to go. The media is blasting about last night’s murders. Cops are as thick as fleas in my neighborhood this morning. Groups of angry, and probably scared, gangsters are patrolling the hood…looking for answers. Looking for me. A week later. Ft. Lauderdale, Florida It was easy finding a VFW chapter with it’s own hall here. Lots of old military farts like me come to retire. Ex-Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force. We all like living in the sun. Keeps our old bones warm. I wonder if there are any others like me out there that still carry out night missions? I’ll tell right now…I wouldn’t be surprised if there were. I haven’t met one yet, but it seems like I can’t be the only trained killer in America that continued his craft after leaving the military. I don’t mean by going to work as a mercenary or glamor bodyguard. I mean regular guys like me that chose to stay out of the limelight…and hunt. Guys who don’t need an audience when they slay their prey. True hunters, like myself. Think about it. As It Stands, as a veteran, I’m always exploring issues that deal with the military.