I stand in front of the wellhouse, shaking with cold and fear. Goosebumps cover my arms and chest, exposed to the late autumn chill. *Should have taken a coat,* I think absently, curling my hands into fists at my sides, bunching the worn fabric of my dress in clammy palms. Of course, I’d had other things to worry about at that moment. The village doctor and the women who’d found Joshua, face-down in the river, were still in my kitchen surrounding the lifeless body of my son. If they had known what I planned to do, they would have stopped me. I couldn’t allow that – my husband had died two winters ago and my little boy was the only family I had left. *And now there’s only me.* I push the horrifying thought aside, forcing myself to focus on the building before me. The wellhouse sits low and squat in the tall grass, surrounded by trees with thick, solid trunks and dense canopies of leaves. They grow closely around the building, branches interwoven in a dark mass that blocks out the stars above me. Gnarled roots snake along the edges of the structure, creeping their way through small cracks in the mossy stone walls. It makes the wellhouse seem like a natural part of the woods, growing in the soil like the trees around it. This is a very old place – part of the village that had stood here before my own. Though most of the other buildings have become crumbling mounds of loosely-ordered stone, the wellhouse remains mostly intact – weathered, but solid. My people believe it holds great power, for in it resides something far more ancient than even the abandoned village: the Water Witch. My breath comes in a slight pant and my skin stings from the many cuts I accumulated running through the forest to the old village. But my physical discomfort is secondary to my main concern – the unspeakable tragedy that has brought me to this place. *My baby, gone!* A terrible ache fills my chest and sends hot, desperate tears of grief pouring down my wind-chapped cheeks. *I must save him, whatever it takes!* Still, I hesitate, unwilling to enter the wellhouse. All my life, I have been told stories of the creature that calls this place home. She is said to be thousands of years old, the last of an ancient race that had once ruled this region. Some kind of spirit or nymph who inhabits the waters in the area. Part protector and part temptress, she guards the water and all who reside in it but also serves a much darker purpose. The “witch” is in fact, a siren, leading men astray only to drown them in the deep waters. She seems to particularly prefer those who have survived shipwrecks or near-drownings – men who escape watery graves, only to be lured back into them by a vision of beauty in the form they desire most. While the Water Witch’s motivations are poorly understood, her power is feared. The nymph doesn’t just live in the water, she *is* the water. Not just in her well, but in every lake, river and stream from here to the next village, almost three days’ ride away. She also guards the stretch of coastline to the East and if the few survivors and witnesses are to be believed, at least some of the deep ocean beyond. My people have always allowed her to live in peace and privacy, giving her wellhouse a wide berth. Some leave occasional offerings for her at the water’s edge, which go untouched until the animals take them. But tonight, I intend to do the unthinkable – to break the unwritten rules and try to speak to the witch herself. As I stand there surrounded by shadows, crisp wind carrying the scent of decaying leaves and peat to my nose, my survival instincts scream at me to turn and run like a frightened rabbit. But the agony off my loss far outweighs my terror, so I think of my little boy and let the primal need to protect my child fill me. It washes away my fear and hesitation, lending me the resolve I so desperately need. *The resolve Joshua needs.* Steeling myself, I take three steps to the door and push my way into the darkness. After a brief moment of terrifying blackness, my eyes begin to adjust. Small holes in the roof let slivers of light through, casting a pale glow over the cracked stone and wood that makes up the structure. The old well sits in the middle of the room, as high as my waist. It’s made of rough-hewn grey and black rocks, cut into a circle at least the width of a man’s wingspan. The air is still and smells of peat and dirt, stale from years of neglect. The wellhouse is utterly quiet, save for my own shaky breathing. “Hello? Is anyone here?” When there is no answer, I begin to panic, certain I’ve been following a path to a dead end. *Now what will I do? I cannot live without him!* At the thought of my son truly being gone forever, a sob escapes me. It echoes off the walls, filling the room with the sound of my grief. A soft noise breaks my rapidly-spiraling train of thought – a gentle splashing, coming from the bottom of the well. With baited breath and dread suffusing every ounce of my being, I slowly and cautiously approach. Stopping as far back as I can, I lean forwards to look over the lip of stone, down into the base of the well. *There, just below the surface.* A vague shape, spanning almost the full width of the well. *Is it moving?* I step forwards warily, poking my head over the edge, and a tear rolls off my cheek. It glimmers in the dim light as it falls to join the pool below. As the teardrop reaches the water, sending ripples across its surface, the shape begins to move. It surges up toward me with incredible speed, a spray of water arcing up as it breaches. I jump back with a startled scream, shielding my face with a raised arm. The dark shape lands in front of the well with a surprisingly light thud, rising up to tower above my cringing form. Though the wellhouse is filled with shadows, there is enough light to discern that the Water Witch is inhumanly beautiful. She wears a deep green dress the color of seaweed that clings to her like wet fabric. Her hair is a brilliant, ultramarine blue. It hangs down to her waist in a mass of untamed waves, dry in spite of the water she just emerged from. In fact, she doesn’t appear to be sodden at all - not even the faintest gleam of moisture is visible on her cyan skin. She regards me with sapphire eyes flecked with white, like the ocean itself is trapped beneath her lashes. After a brief pause, she speaks in a voice that reminds me off a still lake. Calm and gentle on the surface, but with an unfathomable depth I instinctively know to fear. “You taste of loss, little mad woman.” I stand there with my mouth agape, unsure how to respond. At length, I find my voice but all I manage to say is “I’m not mad.” The witch laughs, a pleasant sound strangely reminiscent of a babbling creek, and turns to walk around the left side of the well. “Of course you are, young one. Only a mad woman would seek a Witch of the Water. Especially a woman who tastes of grief.” As she speaks, she trails her fingers along the stone lip, slowly circling it as her eyes take in the state of the decrepit building. In her wake, thin streams of water decorate the floor and well’s edge, as if it’s emanating from her skin itself. Though I want to argue with the nymph, I must admit that she has a point. And more importantly, a potential resolution for my terrible tragedy. “I have come to ask for your help.” I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion. “My son ... h-he was playing by the river with some of the vi-village boys and somehow he...” I trail off with a sob, unable to finish my sentence. She chimes in, apparently unphased by my blubbering nonsense. “He drowned in my river. Yes, I know. I am sorry you lost him.” I am surprised to hear genuine sympathy in the nymph’s voice. I had always pictured her as a cold, terrifying being – powerful and unforgiving like the ocean. To hear gentleness and kindness in her tone fills me with nascent hope. “Th-thank you.” I sniff, wiping at my raw cheeks with the rough sleeve of my dress. “B-but it’s not good enough. I want to make a d-deal. I want my son back!” I shake, my throat tight and burning as hot tears stream down my face, wetting my neck and soaking into my collar. The witch fixes me with an unreadable gaze, leaning on the well across from me. “What you ask is no small feat, mad woman. What makes you think I can restore life to your boy?” My heart sinks at her question, but I cling to my hopes like a drowning woman. “You are the river – both its guardian and its spirit. Surely there must be something you can do? Please, I beg you! Joshua is all I have left in this world. I cannot bear to lose him!” She is quiet for a moment then answers, her expression guarded. “What you ask is technically possible but you would not be making the deal with me. You’ll need an old god for this.” I frown, struggling to understand. “Not with you? What do you mean? I don’t know any old gods!” Panic rides me hard, filling my head with thoughts of living out the rest of my life alone, grieving my husband and a nine-year old who were once the centre of my world. The nymph gives me a serious look. “You don’t, but I do. My master is one of the Old Ones. He may be able to help you but I must warn you, the price will be ... high.” I nod my head eagerly, renewed hope blossoming within. “I’ll do anything!” I say, dimly aware that I am making a dangerous promise. The nymph opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerge. Instead, I hear a song – one that is strangely familiar to me. A thought enters my head, unbidden and nonsensical: *This isn’t how it happened.* A sudden sense of déjà vu invades me as I find myself being pulled from my memory of the wellhouse. The witch and her warning fade away as I’m whisked far from the old village and the forest that surrounds it. I am weightless, only my spirit left to travel past what was once my own home, just down the street from the shops in the centre of town. Past the fields on the outskirts of what was once my village, past people I had once known. I fly over the landscape at inhuman speeds, feeling nothing but the magnetic pull that draws me to the ocean beyond. The song is loud in my ears, growing clearer and more recognizable with every second. The déjà vu is fading, replaced by the clarity of remembrance as my duty overcomes my dream. A crack of thunder rings out across the hills as I shoot past the eastern bend of the river, following to where it meets the ocean. The sky above me is dark and ominous, lightning forking across clouds the color of ash. Rain pours down like it’s attacking the ground below, violent in its intensity. I pass trees leaning at precarious angles, powerful gusts of wind bending them almost to point of snapping. I feel none of it of course, disembodied as I am. It is not my place to feel here – only to seek. I am catapulted over the river’s mouth, soaring above the roiling ocean. The storm has turned the calm waters wild. Massive waves swell and pound against anything in reach, rising from the ocean with fury as if they rage against the sky itself. The storm’s song is powerful and I can feel the old god’s hunger in its notes. I am pulled further out, not quite to the deep ocean, but close. Though I know what I’m looking for, it still takes me a moment to find the ship amongst the towering waves. It bobs along like a child’s toy, incomprehensibly small compared to the ocean whose surface it travels on. I drop down towards it, diving like a hawk sighting prey, and come to a halt just above the deck. There I hover, floating by the mast the crew is lashed to. “Brace yourselves! Here comes a big one!” The captain screams over the howling winds, his voice nearly lost before it could reach his men, standing at his back. Though there are at least a score of sailors on board, I only feel drawn to a handful: the captain, a rotund man with an apron who must be the cook, and the boy on the leftmost side of the mast with a mop of sodden red hair, gripping a bible to his thin chest. But most of all, a skinny young man with brown eyes who presses himself to the great wooden pole with obvious force. His fingers curl into claws, clinging desperately to the rough-hewn rope looped around him and the rest of the crew, holding them firmly to their only hope of survival. Though his terror is overwhelmingly apparent, it is not what draws me to him. It’s his loss – the desperate, aching loneliness that fills his heart and weighs down his soul. All the men who have summoned me here carry it in one form or another and it is that heaviness that my master desires. The call of the lost – that which I am bound to answer. It seems the old god is determined to have them, for I can see their ship being driven closer to shore. I follow along, an invisible onlooker as they are sacrificed to the one I serve. It is he who has brought me here, not just to bear witness but to finish the job. To follow where he cannot and bring back those who escape him. The brown-eyed man turns his head to the side and presses his cheek against the mast hard, heedless of how it strains his neck and scratches his skin raw, making it sting from the salt of the water. Against his better judgement, he looks back over the railing of the ship and lets out a low whimper of fear, which is promptly whisked away by the storm. A wall of water rises up, barrelling forward with no regard for the tiny ship it looms over. Like a dark cliff face, blacking out the night sky as it crashes down with terrible might. It rocks the boat violently and drenches the sailors, leaving them gasping and coughing as it recedes off the sides of the deck. The captain, an older man with greying hair and a scar that ran the length of his right cheek, grips the wheel, his knuckles white from strain. All his force is nothing compared to the power of the ocean but he fights with the strength of a dying man, desperate to do anything that will help keep them afloat. He tugs on the rope holding him to the wheel, reassured by the tautness of the line. Another wave begins to build, lifting the boat up into the air. It’s as though a mountain has suddenly risen up beneath them, carrying the little ship impossibly high as the water rages below. The swell carries them forward with incredible speed as the men close their eyes against the driving rain and pray to every god they know of. Unfortunately for the sailors, they are at the mercy of the old god himself and prayers are weak sustenance. The rocks appear out of nowhere. Black shapes, jagged and solid in a world of icy cold liquid. Though he can see them looming closer, the captain is helpless to avoid them and can only watch as the wave pushes them into an outcrop that has withstood the force of the ocean for centuries. The sharp stone easily breaks through the fragile wood of the ship, tearing chunks from gaping holes as the waves rake the vessel over the coarse rocks. The captain’s hold on the wheel is jarred loose by the impact and he slides along the deck, jerking to a stop as the rope catches him. He struggles to right himself and crawl back to the helm but another wave overtakes them, flooding the ship and pushing it back onto the rocks. When the water drains away and the men look back, spluttering and coughing up salty water, the rope around the wheel is gone and so is their captain. The sailors immediately begin screaming and struggling to free themselves, knowing they will surely drown if they do not abandon their sinking vessel. They frantically saw at the ropes with rusted knives as the pounding waves and torrential downpour conspire to rip the blades from their desperate grasps. A few prevail though, managing to loosen the bonds that hold them. Two of the smallest slip free, including the red-haired boy, and are immediately swept overboard. What remains of the crew struggle to hold on as the boat begins to tilt, her belly filling with water and dragging her down into the roiling depths. A few tumble loose, unable to keep their grip after hours of freezing cold and wet, and disappear into the churning water. The old god roars with satisfaction, perceptible only to his faithful servant. The waves drive them forward again, catching the tail end of the vessel against the rocks and spawning a course of creaks and groans as the wood of the craft strains against the power of the ocean. It gives way as all things do when faced with such unbridled force, fissures spreading out from the holes the rocks had torn. The ship cleaves in half with a series of loud, splintering cracks that are audible even over the raging storm. Cries of terror carry on the wind as the crew is cast down into the icy water. A small number surface, having managed to avoid being dragged down with the wreckage of their vessel. The cook is not among them. The storm’s song is a howl of victory as the old god receives his sacrifice. Clinging to a chunk of the hull, the boy with the brown eyes sobs into the wind. “I swear, if you let me live, I’ll give anything! I just want to see her again!” A beautiful woman’s face flashes in his mind – strawberry blonde hair, smiling green eyes – and he clings tight to the image, hoping it will keep him afloat. \~\~\~ I wake with a start, the memory of the green-eyed woman’s face sharp in my mind. *It is time.* Already, I can feel the pull of the lost soul above me summoning me to the shoreline of my ocean. In the distance, I can hear the storm’s song, my master aching for the last of the heavy souls on the ship. Though I can inhabit any water within my domain, I call the well home, just as my predecessor had. Deep within the belly of the earth, I sleep in the still waters of my reservoir. Cocooned by stone, hidden by overgrown foliage, I wait for the call of the lost to wake me. Just as my grief had woken the nymph all those years ago. While in the ether I am able to travel overland, outside of my slumbering state I am bound to the water. So, I disintegrate my physical body, making myself one with my element and travel through the underground aquifers that replenish my home. Above me, I feel the roar of thunder, shaking the very earth my well is cut from. As I pass from the aquifer into the lake, I reintegrate to my natural form: hairless and sleek, with skin of mottled blue and a patchwork of iridescent scales. I cut across the small lake with inhuman speed, my powerful tail driving me through the water as if it’s air. I can hear the storm’s song, amplified by the volume of the lake, fed by the voice of the rivers. I sing with the water as I swim, my voice lifting to join the chorus. All water has a song of its own but a storm’s is particularly loud. Especially one brought on by an ancient, hungry god. I reach the river, swimming with the flow of the current as the choppy waters surrounding me begin to calm. The storm is moving on, having gifted me the fruits of its destructive labour. Its song is fading, replaced by that of the river and the ocean to the East. The closer I get to the lost soul, the stronger the pull becomes. It is magnetic and instinctual – a honing device gifted by a primal god. Shadows of black and blue surround me, blurred by my inhuman speed as I am compelled to answer the call. I dart out of the river and into the ocean beyond, feeling the scattered survivors clinging to the shoreline. Some are already dead, their bodies growing cold in the frigid air. Others hold on to life by the thinnest of threads, merely delaying the inevitable. They are too far gone – passed beyond my reach and that of my master. But it matters not, for there is only one left that he wants and his soul can still be tempted to my realm. I swim to the edge of the shallows, calm water lapping around me. I feel the old god’s hunger in the ocean’s song, muted in anticipation. *There, on the edge of the beach.* A lone male, the one with brown eyes I had seen in my dream. He lies half in the water, his torso flopped across a broken chunk of wood. There is a cut over his right eyebrow and his cheek is rubbed raw and bloody on one side. His breathing is hoarse and scratchy, but even. His body will need time to heal, but he will survive. *Or he would have, anyway,* I think to myself wryly. When I had first been summoned to lure an escaped soul, I had felt sick with remorse at what I was compelled to do. But after decades of service to the old god, I no longer feel horror and regret over my murderous deceit. In answering my plea to save my beloved son, my master had remade me into the perfect aquatic huntress – an immortal instrument to feed his insatiable hunger. Unlike the nymph, who had served him out of duty and was rapidly approaching the end of her very long lifespan, I am nothing more than an extension of my master’s will – unsuited to any other purpose and nonviable without his interference. There is balance in all things, and knowing my Joshua lives and breathes is all the comfort I need to silence the faint voice of my conscience. Readying myself, I sense the ocean’s song go silent as the old god waits for his meal. I begin to sing from below the water’s surface, the high, clear notes carried to the brown-eyed man by whatever magic it is that sustains me. He stirs on the chunk of hull, the unearthly tone of my voice waking him despite how badly his body needs to recuperate. As he regains consciousness, he instinctively begins to look for the source of the singing. Anticipation suffuses me as I hold his lover’s face in my mind and feel the transformation beginning to take place. I rise from the water, my tail propelling my head and shoulders into the air. As my skull breaks the surface, I feel long reddish-blonde hair cascading down to brush against my shoulders and back, smooth white skin replacing pale blue flesh and iridescent scales. “Meredith?” The man’s voice is hoarse and disbelieving. I smile at him, singing my siren’s song from the shallows. His eyes drink in the sight of me, fragile hope blossoming in his gaze. My master’s need is a physical weight pressing against my back; a gaping maw eager to devour the sailor whole. “It is me, my darling.” My voice is not my own, stolen as is the face I wear. Plucked from the desperate prayers of a dying man; his damnation wearing the face of salvation. “I don’t understand. How is this possible? You said you never wanted to see me again after...” He trails off, tears in his eyes. “It’s why I left. To honour that request.” The man looks lost and unsure but he is stepping closer to the waterline even as he questions my sudden appearance. The old god growls at his approach, barely restrained hunger in his tone. “I can explain everything my love. But first, come take a swim with me. The water is calm and it would feel so nice.” I smile at him from Meredith’s face, letting my magic lull him into complacency. On the shoreline beyond us, the other survivors are beginning to stir. Though they are not the target of my song, they cannot help but hear it. The old god snarls with displeasure, sensing their awareness as well. The magic is less effective on them, increasing the chances they will realize what I am and break the spell before I can drag the brown-eyed man under. I am running out of time and my master is not the forgiving type. The man wavers and I know I must seal the deal. My tail paddles below me, propelling me upwards and revealing my bare breasts, skin glowing in the pale moonlight. I sing, high and sweet, sending him an alluring smile as I push myself backwards, leading him into the shallows. “I’ve missed you, darling.” I purr, lifting one hand – no webbing between the digits, tipped with blunt nails instead of claws – and crook my finger at him. Aching desire fills the man’s eyes as he follows me into the water. The ocean’s song grows louder in my ears and my master rumbles his approval as he samples the man’s loss. It is an irresistible bouquet for him, flavoured with the agony of the sailor’s loneliness. I see what’s left of his crewmates running from the jagged shadows of the wreck, screaming the man’s name, but it is too late for him. The brown-eyed sailor is up to his waist now, splashing through the shallow water with rapid, clumsy steps. I smile and close the gap between us with a single stroke of my tail, coming almost close enough to touch him. He stops where he is, eyes locked on mine and filled with desperate hope and love. He is blind to the impossibility of Meredith’s presence here, to the trap he has walked into so willingly. Blind even to my true nature, lurking just below the water’s surface – iridescent scales shimmering silver in the light of the moon. He doesn’t even fight as my arms go around him, nor when they turn hard and strong, dragging him down to the deep water. As the liquid hits my head and chest they revert back to my true form, sleek and smooth like the aquatic creature I am. My master roars with triumph, tasting the heaviness of the man’s soul as he enters the old god’s realm. It’s only when the sailor sees my true face that he begins to panic, thrashing and pulling against me – prey that has realized the trap too late. He opens his mouth to scream and water rushes in, forcing precious air from his lungs as I pull him deeper and deeper, where the shadows are purple and blue beneath the shifting waves. I feel him drowning as we descend, just as I had drowned in the witch’s well all those decades ago. Even after all these years, I am not entirely used to the feeling of the water filling his chest – that burning, choking sensation as his body screams for air. It is a temporary discomfort though, for I know it will end when his soul departs his body. Which would be right around ... *now.* I sense him let go, his body now an empty vessel. I release my hold and he drifts away, eyes wide and sightless, mouth open in a silent scream. A sacrifice to the ocean from which he’d escaped. My master lets out a satisfied grumble, releasing his own hold on me at last. Immediately, the magnetic pull fades away, leaving me as free as my servitude ever permits. Free to return to my home – the only place I find any rest. On my stomach, a burning spot about the size of a thimble appears, just right of my navel. I pay it no mind, more than accustomed to that particular sensation, and begin the journey back to my wellhouse. It’s always the same kind of pain when my hunt is over, even after the very first time I had offered a soul to the old god. Memories of that night flood my mind as I swim back up the river, its song muted and its water calm around me, sated by my hunt. How shocked I’d been all those years ago, when I’d forced myself to breathe in the well water. I had expected my vision to fade to black but instead, I had been transformed. The water had boiled around me, my skin searing as the old god remade me, accepting the sacrifice of my willing drowning. I had watched as my hair fell away in clumps, my skin darkening to an inhuman mottled blue and my legs fusing together, feet elongating and flattening into a tail. Claws erupted from my fingertips as the digits splayed out in an automatic reaction to the pain. I felt a strange tugging sensation between my fingers and realized that there was skin between them – a thin blue membrane decorated with delicate veins. I had screamed in agony under the tumultuous waves, drawing in liquid and receiving life-giving air – no longer a creature of land but one of the sea. Bound to the water, as all my master’s creatures were. As the agony all over my body faded away, a single spot about the size of my thumb directly over my heart continued to burn. It had swelled and hardened, turning shiny and iridescent as the pain finally receded, leaving me with a mark to remember my sacrifice. *A scale for a soul,* my new master had whispered directly into my mind, laughing with a rumble like the roaring ocean. *A soul for a soul,* I had thought to myself, picturing Joshua’s cherubic face – a perfect blend of William’s features and my own. Back in my well, I lie facing the ceiling of my decrepit abode, cradled in the gently lapping waters. My eyes are heavy from the exertion of my hunt – the old god’s call is powerful and always leaves me drained afterwards. He murmurs praise into my head as the quiet song of the water soothes me, like a gentle lullaby in my ears. I breathe slow and deep, the soft flow of water in and out of my lungs calming me as I stroke the smooth surface of my newest scale. The hundreds of others decorating my body like a patchwork mosaic glimmer in the dim moonlight, faint rays reaching down into the well through holes in the roof. I close my eyes to the tapestry of my enslavement and allow myself to drift back to the ether, once again awaiting my master’s call. \~\~\~ Author's Note: I wrote this story after listening to Water Witch by the Secret Sisters and Brandi Carlile. It is based off their lyrics but they are not affiliated with it. This story is my personal property and I do not consent for it to be shared, duplicated or used in any manner without my express permission.


Very new at writing fiction, so be gentle. Looking for any feedback/criticism you have that will make this story better. Enjoy! *** The fever ran rampant as of late, infecting any potential victim it could like some rabid mongrel. Birdie was one such victim. At fourteen-years-old, Birdie McBride was dying. She lived with her grandpa, Chester McBride, who was seventy-three years old, and whom she prayed with every night on their knees – he prayed for fortune and she prayed that she would live long enough not to be buried by Chester. Birdie’s ma was buried in the backyard and her pa was buried in the front. Even in death they lay divorced from one another. Birdie McBride often stood in the hallway between the windows looking out at either grave. She knew she was dying, but to be buried at home would be the ultimate form of degradation. In years past, when the fever was widespread, doctors and citizens alike were hell-bent on discovering a cure. The field of medicine attracted con artists like the scent of blood attracts sharks and Birdie’s folks did not hesitate to capitalize on the fears of the sick and the desperate. After all, many people in town needed medical help, so much so that their needs rendered them more gullible than usual. The couple ran a successful business as self-described doctors, selling what they claimed to be the cure for the fever. In actuality, their “cure” was just some snake oil concoction that did little to remedy the sickness. They cheated sick people out of money for years and lived lavishly for a while, purchasing cars and fancy clothes and the like. That is until word spread around town that their medicine was ineffective and they developed a reputation as con artists. Soon, the couple was met with stares and scolds from nearly every corner of town, even being banned from some businesses. With their reputation in ruins and their money spent, the couple’s relationship became strained. Most times, Birdie’s ma wandered through half of their home, while her pa roamed the other half without ever seeing each other. Their notoriety together, even in their graves, attracted the scorn of the town, with people meeting the graves with jeer or spit or stones. Because of this notoriety, Birdie was sure that when she dies of fever, she would not be buried with her kin, for to be buried with them was to share the roots seeped with their sins. One evening, Birdie felt particularly feverish, perhaps more so than ever. Her liver and kidneys functioned when they would, but her heart persisted doggedly to beat. Birdie’s nose ran with blood and her skin bore a translucent yellow tinge as she dragged herself through the house like a cadaverous apparition. Tonight was the night; tonight, she knew she would die. When she entered the kitchen, she discovered her grandpa dining on leftover stew at a small table. In her dwindling physical state, she believed it to be appropriate to discuss her burial plans with her grandpa for the last time. “Pardon me for interrupting your supper, Grandpa, but I don’t feel well. I fear I won’t make it to the morning in my condition.” Chester turned to face his granddaughter, raising his eyebrows half-mast at the sight of her, “Don’t talk like that sweetpea; you just need something to warm your belly. Why don’t I fix you a bowl of stew?” Birdie gazed at the floor, “I ain’t hungry, Grandpa. I doubt any food can cure me, let alone a doctor. I can feel it, grandpa. I can feel death upon me.” Chester shifted in his seat, tilting his head as he did so, “You sure you don’t just need some sleep? Maybe a nap will do you some good.” “I’m positive.” Said Birdie. Her grandpa nodded, “Well if you really feel that way, I suppose we should make arrangements. Have you picked a spot in the yard yet? Maybe beside your mother or behind your father?” Birdie met her grandpa’s stare, “That’s the issue, you see. I don’t want to be buried in the yard. I’m not like my parents and I don’t want people to think that I died sharing my parents’ beliefs. I want to rest peacefully, without the burden of dishonour.” “Birdie, you know we can’t afford to bury you in a graveyard. We just don’t have the money.” Said Chester. “Besides, what difference does it make? You won’t know or care where your body is when you pass.” “Please Grandpa. We can even dig my grave on some field; any field.” Chester bit down on his lower lip, “Sorry Birdie, law doesn’t allow it. I’m telling you, a home burial isn’t so bad. As much as you don’t like your ma and pa, they are your family after all.” Birdie’s brows furrowed as she balled her fists, “The past and the future are the same to you aren’t they? One forgotten and the other not remembered; you choose to ignore what they did and you have no more notion of dying than the bowl of stew in front of you. I will be damned if I am buried next to criminals.” Birdie turned and stormed off as best as her body could allow, trundling to her bedroom, where she sat marinating in her own sickly decay. A tear began rolling down her cheek as she listened to her grandfather shuffling about to prepare for the inevitable. She let her eyes wander around her room like a housefly, searching for any way to circumvent a backyard burial. Back and forth her eyes beamed until she became dizzy. From what she could see, nothing in her room existed that could prevent her home burial. With a sigh, Birdie grabbed her diary from her nightstand beside her bed and began to pen a final entry and clear her head. As she began to write, she noticed that the left-sided page had a sketch of trees and bushes on it. Birdie wiped her tears while she looked closer at the drawing, raising her eyebrows as she did so. She had an idea. Birdie waited for hours until she could wait no longer. With her pen, she had crossed out what she had been writing and restarted on a new page, which now read, “In a better place”. Birdie then tore the page out and placed it on her Pillow for her grandpa to find in the morning. She grew even yellower and her heartbeat sputtered like an old engine. As she put her ear to her bedroom door, she could no longer hear her grandpa and figured that he must have retired to bed by now. There was no time left for compromise or survival, and so Birdie made for the front door. Birdie gazed at the midnight streets, wondering which direction to run. She winced as she lifted her right leg and began hobbling into the night like a wandering nomad. The stars swung counterclockwise in their course and the North Star winked above her, guiding her path. Birdie walked for hours; she walked all night. She walked until her toes grew numb and she coughed up blood. The trek led her deep into the grassy foothills outside of town, where only beasts and wild things roamed and withered. The landscape looked just like her drawing, with trees wafting in the wind and bushes rustling. From where Birdie stood, the town was a kaleidoscopic sliver in the glare of the rising sun. She had come too far to turn back, even if she wanted to. Birdie sank to her knees, staring at the dirt below her. It was time. She raised her arms and began to claw and dig desperately at the ground like a dying mole. After a minute or so, digging turned into dragging; her fingernails filled with earthen grime as the life slipped out of her. Satisfied with the palm-sized hole she had dug, she lay down on her back and scattered the crumbs of dirt across her torso. Birdie closed her eyes and clasped her hands, whispering a prayer to the sky above. Then, she waited.


There was a man who could not see any beauty in the world. No matter what spectacle he had seen, he only saw sadness, anger, despair, and disappointment. He would go around, telling others of how there was no true beauty in the world, only the tricks we played on ourselves, hoping to hold on to some form of hope that our world wasn’t in ruins already. No matter what he saw, there was no beauty. He witnessed sunset and sunrise, but only saw the dread people faced from having to wake up to the stresses they would experience throughout the night. Deer would run past him as he travelled, though he could only see the deer becoming someone else’s dinner. Perhaps, the worst case of this was when he saw his child born, he could only see the pain they would experience after losing their parents, not the joyous moments of birthdays, or the making of a new friend. No, those were only distractions from the universe, trying to hide us from the truth. As the man went on, spreading his word, he ran into a man adamant about telling him that beauty existed in everything, he just needed to try harder. The man who saw no beauty was used to this, he had many tell him the same thing, but this man assured him, he was different than the rest. “I have walked the land. I’ve seen nearly everything there is to see on this world, and I assure you, there was not a moment I could not find any beauty. Come with me, I’m sure I can show you *something* beautiful. Perhaps that will help open your eyes to a world around you that you’re missing out on!” And so, the man who saw no beauty went with the man who had walked the land, where they came upon a river. “Look closely. See all the fish swimming around? How the stream flows in that direction for as far as we can see, leading to who knows where. The animals who come to this river to drink find peace here. It’s very likely there was a civilization that was started here because of this river,” said the man who had walked the land. “Yes, I can see the fish swimming, how the river seems endless, and how these animals come here to survive. It is likely there was a civilization formed here as well,” the man who saw no beauty spoke, though it was with a tone of sorrow. “Yes!” the man who had walked the land exclaimed in excitement, “Now do you see the beauty?” “I see that these fish will die, possibly from being hunted by a predator, or pulled out by some careless fisher and left to suffocate. And though it may seem the stream goes on I know it has to stop at some point. It also may be an inconvenience for those who live nearby, or perhaps may have ruined the fauna that was once in its path. The civilization that might’ve been here is long gone, with nothing to show for it, save for bones buried beneath the earth. There is no beauty here, only eventual death, like all things in nature.” The man who had walked the land gave frowned at the man who saw no beauty and tried another place. Though this man tore apart this place as well. It continued on like this for some time, until the man who had walked the land had an epiphany. “If I can’t prove to you there is beauty in everything, I know someone who can. Come with me, one last time. I promise it won’t be a waste!” The man who saw no beauty only sighed and gestured for his acquaintance to lead the way. After walking for what must have been days, they finally came upon a lone tent in a valley. “Sir, I brought someone who claims to see no beauty! Despite my best efforts, I cannot get him to see all that life has to offer. Please, help this poor man understand. He seems to be so sad and I believe only you can help him! *Please!*” spoke the man who walked the land, to another man staring at the sky, a paper in hand, pencil in the other. The man set the pencil and paper down and turned to look at the man who saw no beauty, inspecting him, circling around him, and mumbling to himself every so often. “While I commend you for your efforts, I fear I cannot help those who do not want to be helped, no more than you or anyone else. He may leave,” the man said, then immediately went back to looking at the sky, seeming to study the clouds. “But sir! You’ve walked among the stars, you’ve not just seen the world, you’ve seen the universe and what it has to offer! Surely there must be something you can do!” The man who walked among the stars grunted, then turned to the man who saw no beauty. “There is one thing I can do. I can give you advice, if you wish to hear it.” The man who saw no beauty shrugged and said, “Why not? Though there’s nothing you can say that will change how I see the world, in its *purest* form.” The man who walked among the stars smiled briefly, nodding his head, then spoke, “You actively avoid beauty. You don’t lack a vision for it, far from it. You see it. Then ignore it.” He spoke with anger and disdain. “There is beauty in everything, but because you can’t see any *inside* of yourself, you refuse to recognize the beauty around you.” The man who walked the land looked upon him in awe, having never heard his mentor speak quite this way before. “Sir, perhaps you’re being a bit harsh,” said the man who walked the land. He looked over at the man who saw no beauty, who was silent, only staring at the man scolding him. Though it would be more accurate to say he was looking *through* the man scolding him, almost as if he knew this all already. “I’m far from being too harsh my apprentice. This man is going down a dangerous path. He will do anything to convince those around him that there’s no beauty in *anything*. If he can’t find a lack of beauty in something, he’ll make a lack of it. He’d set ruin to the universe just to prove his point.” He pointed at the man who saw no beauty, “If you don’t change, I fear for the universe. There is beauty in you somewhere, but I can’t see it anymore than you can. So instead of destroying it, make some.” He paused, but only briefly, “While there is a beauty in destruction, your destruction will only lead to despair. And when you look at yourself, you’ll not see a happier man, no, you’ll see a man who’s broken and wasted away. Now get out of my sight.” The man who saw no beauty was dejected. He spoke no words but followed the order and left. The man who had walked among the stars saw no beauty in him either, and somehow, he had managed to find beauty in even the most destructive forces of the universe.


“Kathy, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” Andrew says looking up at you, head in your lap on the couch. He, and the others, were probably the reason you never bothered with boyfriends. You got enough male attention from your friends. Sometimes you made out with them when you got drunk. They were cute after all. But you couldn’t date them. You knew them too well. You were back home for the weekend and at Justin’s house the night before you had to take a Praxis exam, one of the tests you needed to pass to get your teaching license for when you graduated. Michelle, your cousin, was your designated driver. You trusted her to make sure you didn’t get too wasted. “Kathy, why won’t you love me back?” Andrew drunkenly whines at you. “You know I love you so stop that,” you say. “Yes, but you won’t really love me, you know?” “You’re like family, babe. That’s just not gonna happen. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” “Fine, well at least give me a peck.” You lean down and kiss him on the lips quickly before you tell him to get up and get another drink with you. He obliges and you head back into the kitchen where the beer Olympics tournament is picking up. Carlos and Evan are running the table. “Alright who’s up next?” Evan says after another victory. You take a detour to the back patio where Ian is outside begging Michelle to put in a good word for him with you. He doesn’t understand why you won’t be his girlfriend already. You thought it was cute most of your male friends tried to be your boyfriend especially after you would watch them drunkenly sleepwalk and try to pee on things. You’d let other girls deal with their boyish antics. You go back into Justin’s kitchen and hide all the knives in his washing machine like you usually did at parties so the boys wouldn’t try to shotgun things. “Kat, come here,” Carlos calls out to you. Evan must have ditched him and he needed a pong partner. Everyone knew the drunker you were the easier it was for you to sink cups. Carlos is like a puppy who has ADHD. Frantic, fast-talking, tons of energy, loving, innocent. He has dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He’s taller than most of your friends and has small gauges in his ears. He’s in shape from playing soccer like the rest of the boys do. You win game after game, but keep drinking through it all anyway. You get so drunk that you go up to Justin’s cat on the front steps where it’s quiet and watch as it scratches you, but you don’t feel anything. You bend down and pet her and she keeps scratching. You notice you’re bleeding and laugh. Carlos sees your arm when you pass each other in the hallway and asks Justin for bandages . “Let’s patch you up here, babe,” he says as he wraps up your arm in the sunroom away from everyone else. You look up at him and wonder why you’ve never kissed. Carlos usually has a girlfriend, but right now he doesn’t. You know he’d try to wife you up if you ever came on to him, but you think he looks so cute right now you might not mind. “You’re hot,” you say. “Oh you think so?” he says surprised and starting to blush, eyes still glued to the arm he’s wrapping. “Yup. Come with me.” He finishes bandaging you and you grab his hand and drag him upstairs to one of the many empty bedrooms. You close the door and feel around for each other in the darkness. You find each other and meet lips. You find the bed, push him down so he’s sitting on it then hop on his lap, straddling him. You make out for a while. He feels you up and tries to unbutton your pants but you smack his hand and tell him that’s not going to happen. He happily keeps kissing you. You go on like that for a while then snap back into it. “Fuck, what time is it, Car?” “1:35. Why what’s up?” “Fuck. I told Michelle we were supposed to leave at 12.” You check your phone and find 15 missed calls. “Wait 5 minutes then come downstairs.” You find the door, open it and walk downstairs. Michelle is waiting at the bottom of the steps for you. “You’re in trouble, missy!” she says playfully. “Who were you with, hm??” “Fucking Carlos. He’s so cute.” “Okay well let’s say goodbye to everyone cause you need to get back home.” You travel around, kissing everyone on the cheek twice goodbye because in your own drunken words, “This is France now, bitches.” Finally you get back to the front door where you find Carlos. “Let me walk you to your car,” he says. He does and when you get to the passenger door he grabs you and kisses you on the mouth. Carlos would never be your boyfriend, but he would be one of your best friends. He’d take you out and make you feel special when Paul dumped you then again when you broke up with Mike. You’d spend Saturday nights at the bar then head back to your mom’s afterward and cuddle in your bed. In 2019 you’d attend his wedding to his perfect and amazing wife, Vanessa. She was both more beautiful and patient than you. Jesse would tell you something in Carlos’ eyes was sad when you finally got to congratulate him and say goodnight.


Attention: Flight 3212 for Levit's Place will depart in a half-hour. Please be at the gate with your luggage. Dorothy looks at her old suitcase and at the people in the gate. All of them are dressed in clothes that went out of style several centuries ago. They are all reading books or watching television. She looks over at the glass wall separating them from the rest of the terminal. Passengers arrive at the exact moment the flight leaves. They do not have luggage, and the flight will probably have amenities to keep them busy. The AI has taken over life for maximum efficiency. She looks over at a wall and sees an old brochure case. She takes out one for Levit's Place. It markets itself as a way to escape to the hustle and bustle of modern life. The only place in the galaxy where community maintains its meaning is in the floating spaceship. It offers genuine privacy and a chance to bring back a level of unpredictability. The last page of the brochure shows a meet-cute which rarely happens these days. A hologram of a flight attendant appears at the front of the gate. The passengers scan their paper boarding-passes and walk to the plane. The interior mirrors a Pan-Am airplane. The two flight attendants have a blue patch that indicates that they are human. Human flight attendants. Perhaps Dorothy could get that job on Levit's Place. They run through the old instruction videos on space travel and fly. Dorothy reads an old book along the way. When they reach Levit's Place, it is a sprawling suburban oasis. Cars have been designed to imitate the old designs. The houses are all made of a plastic-fiber in a wood or brick pattern. All of the attire is period based. Dorothy smiles. She is home. She walks to the job placement center to await her next destination. The woman sitting behind the screen stands out in a shocking display of modernity. Her enhancements are visible, and her clothes are clearly designed to shift for her mood. The computer in front of her is small with a holographic display. Dorothy is disappointed by this, but she understands that not all of the town can be in the past. "Alright, according to this you have a bronze pass, correct?" she asks. "Yes, I was looking through the brochure. I found the accountant occupation to be quite interesting," Dorothy replies. "Alright, you will have to work ten years for that job," the woman replies. "What? I thought all jobs are available," Dorothy says. "They are. The passes allow you to skip lines. Be glad this is not a copper pass. They would have to work twenty years," the woman says. "What jobs are immediately available to me?" Dorothy asks. "Let's see. You have no typing skills, your human-oriented social skills are low, your creativity marks are average," the woman keeps looking, "Did you take any time before this to work on your skills?" "No," Dorothy says, "I thought this town would take care of it for me. Besides how much do I really have to know." "Oh dear, a romantic," the woman rolls her eyes, "Listen a lot of the skills needed to survive in this timeframe went out of fashion several centuries ago. The only people who develop them are hobbyists. We are going to have to place you in a program to survive here." "A program?? Will that cost me extra?" Dorothy asks. "Don't worry. Bronze accounts for this. I have already summoned a taxi who will take you to your next destination, goodbye," the woman says. Before Dorothy can reply, she is forced out of the room by the nanites. A small yellow taxi is waiting for her. She carefully walks up to the cab and opens the handle. "What about your suitcase?" the cab driver asks. Dorothy looks down and realizes that it is sitting next to her. "Do I have to take care of that?" she asks. "Oh god, a romantic," the cab driver sighs and gets out of the vehicle. He puts the suitcase in the trunk before sitting back down. Dorothy sits in the car. "Buckle your seatbelt," the cab driver says. Dorothy looks around, "Oh god." The cab driver moves to the back and instructs Dorothy on how to buckle her seatbelt. "Listen. You are probably like I was a few years ago. A romantic idealist who thought the past was amazing and that modern life is horrible. Let me tell you. Modern life is great. It took me years to learn the basics. As soon as you can, leave," he says. "I am going to a program to help," she says. "That is how they get you. You have a Bronze pass so you won't get as badly trapped as I was, but you will be forced to sign a contract. You will have to pledge more years to take electives that should've been core content. You will be spending the next few years of your life here wishing you could go back," he says as he starts driving to the program. "What is the point of this place then?" Dorothy says. "Honestly, a big conspiracy is that nostalgic places were developed as a way to get rid of the Neo-Luddites like us. They just change the time period to suit the person," he says. "I am not a Neo-Luddite," Dorothy says. "You are here. You are a Neo-Luddite. Enjoy your stay. I heard that it is purposefully made to be discomforting to force you to accept technology when you are released," he stops in front of a large building. Dorothy struggles to unbuckle the seatbelt. By the time she gets out. She stares at the large building. It is drab and windowless. Why would anyone want to live here especially in contrast to the beautiful surrounding houses? Dorothy takes a breath. If her ancestors could survive, she could too. She walks to the door and waits for it to open. A guard rolls his eyes and opens it for her. Well maybe she can't survive as well as she thought. r/AstroRideWrites.


“Oh my god, Kat! Come look at these pictures of my new g-little wasted!” Lindsey squealed. G-little, or grand little, is apparently a term you use in a co-ed honors’ fraternity. Lindsey took on a “little” in her fraternity last year, now it was her little’s turn. These roles were meant to emulate a big brother or big sister, but basically it just meant you bought alcohol for someone underage in the fraternity and forced them to drink too much. You see him for the first time on Lindsey’s iphone screen. He looked like a hot, teen pop star version of Cupid. Curly blonde hair, blue eyes, pink cheeks, drunk as fuck facial expression. You think he’s cute even though he’s hunched over a toilet. He’s filling out a Haines t-shirt in all the best ways. “What the fuck did you make him drink??” You say. “Oh we make them all chug vodka! It’s hilarious. They always throw up,” Lindsey answers. “How charming.” You can’t tell Lindsey you think he’s cute. She’ll try to set you up with him and it’ll be a mess. You’re a 21 year old virgin with a mean streak when it comes to men. Other than making out with random guys at house parties and then telling them to fuck off, you really have no experience with boys. Especially not dating boys. Dating is what Lindsey does. Where she spends all her time worrying about how many minutes pass between their texts. Or how much makeup is okay to wear because he likes her with no makeup even though he’s technically never seen her with no makeup on. Dating is draining. When you finally meet toilet boy for the first time it’s at your house. Drunk. Mitchell (Paul’s last name and nickname) comes in your front door after Lindsey lets him in. He looks out of breath from the cold and long walk. You run your eyes up and down him from the kitchen where he hasn’t seen you yet. “Tequila shotssss,” you call out to the house. “Jesus, you trying to get me wasted?” Paul answers walking into the kitchen. “Maybe...” You smirk. Paul blushes. You like who you think you’ll be to him. The hot, cool, older girl. At least until he really gets to know you. You really still feel like the least hot one in the friend group. The weird one. The clumsy, socially anxious, scared of everything one. The alcohol usually fixes that though. You clink glasses on the counter, then together, then take the shot. He winces. He’s wearing a white button down, cobalt blue jeans, white keds. Way more stylish than most college boys. Especially sophomores. You start calculating. He must be 18? 19? “G-Lits!!!!! Come here and take pictures of your Nana and her friends!” Lindsey cries out from across the living room into the kitchen. “Yes, Nana,” Paul says obediently. You wonder if he’s into Lindsey like most guys are. Lindsey has a way of completely dominating men that is somehow inviting and charming. Probably because she is hot. She always was the hot one as long as you were friends with her. She loved attention. Especially from men. And they loved giving it to her. It left you feeling like Velma to her Daphne. You still couldn’t help but love her even though you were a little jealous. You pose with your roommates in front of your front door while Paul takes pictures. “Okay let’s go!” Lindsey announces. You start the 20 minute walk across campus to one of the houses for Paul and Lindsey’s fraternity. It’s a classic frat house on campus-- large, old, Victorian, 4-5 bedrooms with blacklights everywhere and a huge basement. You get there and the living room is already littered with forgotten cups. The keg is in the basement along with a beer pong table and dozens of wasted college kids dancing to way too loud music. Like a G6 by Dev plays and everyone makes jokes about getting “slizzard”. You spend the first 15 minutes hugging people and taking shots with some friends you met through Lindsey. You met most people through her. “Hey bitch!!” Jessica calls to you. Jessica is the girlfriend of John, another fraternity member. She also used to live on Lindsey’s floor freshman year. She would always get drunk and brag about how big John’s dick was. Which was confusing seeing as John was shorter and more feminine than her. “Heyyyy,” you say, “How are you?” “I’m fucking great. I’m smashed,” Jessica answers. “Yeah I can tell!” you laugh, “Where’s John?” “Oh I think he’s over in the living room talking to Lindsey’s new g-little. He’s fucking hot. Have you met him? Pete?” “Paul. Yeah, we all came here together.” “Damn, I wish I could fuck him. He looks so young and innocent. Can you please do it for me and tell me all about it?” “Sex? What’s that???” you joke. “Oh my god, I always forget you’re a virgin. You don’t look like one in that, that’s for sure.” It’s true. You are honestly dressed pretty slutty. Tight, short black dress, push up bra, tons of makeup, long dark hair curled. The truth was the idea of sex seemed pretty intimidating and you really weren’t that interested in it. You got enough satisfaction from teasing boys at parties. Flirt, dance, make out, leave. Make them want you, but never follow through that way you’re never vulnerable. Besides, you had never met anyone that felt worth it. Especially not drunk guys in frats. “Yup, I’m trying to trick everyone. Glad it’s working,” you say. “Absolutely. Anyway, you should at least, like, make out with him or something. You would ruin his fucking life,” Jessica laughed. You look back over into the living room and meet eyes with Paul for a second. He blushes, looking back at John. He does look good. You can’t deny that. “Come on let’s go over there,” Jessica grabs your arm and drags you into the living room, just missing hitting the coffee table as she stumbles her way over to John and Paul. “Omg baaaaaabe,” Jessica says in a baby voice towards John who looks scared. “Uh hey… did you guys take some shots?” John asks. “Yup, Kat’s such a bad influence. Do you know that, Paul?” Jessica says, turning to him. “Oh yeah? I better watch out then,” Paul smirks looking at you dead in the eyes. “Please, we’re all grown ups. We make our own decisions. I only encourage what I think would be fun,” you shrug. “Baaaaabe, come upstairs with me. I want to… make sure my coat is still there,” Jessica giggles. “Uh, okay,” John replies. Jessica locks her fingers between John’s and drags him towards the stairs. John follows like the obedient puppy he is. You stay standing next to Paul in the corner of the room. “So you’re a bad influence, huh?” Paul asks leaning against the brick wall. “Noooo, me? I just like having a good time, that’s all,” you grin. “Alright, that’s fair. Look, everyone here seems to be on a mission to get me blacked out,” Paul says. “I mean you’re in college and you joined a frat. What did you expect? Though you did pick a frat for nerds so I can see how you might be a bit confused…” you shrug. “I knew there would be drinking and stuff. But they go hard here.” “Yes. Welcome! I mean I’m just here with Lindsey, but I’m basically an honorary member at this point. And yes, they do go hard. In fact I saw you went a little too hard last weekend. Lindsey might’ve shown me pictures.” Paul’s face flushes, “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing. They literally kept singing this one song about chugging over and over and gave us each a bottle of vodka. It did not end well for me.” The couch opens up across the room. You squeal, “Yessss, couch! Hurry! I hate doing things.” “Like standing?” Paul says. You move over to the couch and sit down. Paul joins you, knee pressed against yours. You look over at him. Eyes super blue. Face flushed from alcohol. “You’re cute,” you blurt out. “What?” Paul’s face flushes even more, “I mean... thanks. You’re…” “I know,” you say with drunken confidence, “but I’m not gonna kiss you. That’s a bad idea.” “Why?” “Because you’re gonna be at my house all the time with Lindsey. And you’re too young.” “Too young?” “Yes, it’s just a bad idea. But we can be friends,” you say. Paul presses his knee harder into yours. “Oh okay…” “So what’s your major?” you ask. Better to talk about politics or religion or anything that can keep you from thinking about what those blue eyes would look like hovering over you in bed. “Chemical Engineering.” “Wow, so you want to be a chemical engineer, huh?” “My dream is to study wildlife honestly. But this degree just makes more sense. But I love nature and animals and the environment. That’s really where I want to be. Out in the world trying to fix everything that’s being damaged.” “That’s pretty amazing.” “What about you?” “Special education. I love teaching.” You loved working with kids. It was something that always just clicked for you. You understand them and they understand you. You love the wonder in their eyes and their endless questions. You love the moment when something clicks for them or when they write something they’re really proud of. You never want to have kids of your own so they’re your kids. You love them. They frustrate you. You think they’re capable of so much. “That’s amazing too, I love kids. They’re the best.” You talk for hours on the couch. Something you don’t do at parties. He’s from a small, wealthy town in Massachusetts, but lived in a more modest home than most of his friends. He has a sister and some older half brothers from his dad’s previous marriage. Dad is English and mom is Swedish. He tells you he speaks French and Swedish. “That should be your opener with girls-- multilingual,” you say. “Why?” A little smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He’s fishing for compliments. “Girls love a guy who’s good with his mouth.” His body leans ever so slightly closer to you. “Maybe if I had you would’ve kissed me.” You smirk. There’s so many things you could say, so many you’d like to, but it’s safer to keep those pretty lips of yours together. A few seconds pass along with the moment and he moves back. “It’s getting pretty late. I need to get home.” “I’ll walk you,” he says a little too eagerly. “You don’t have to do that.” “I want to.” “I’m still not going to kiss you.” There he is, leaning in, invading your space with the way his muscles tense against the sleeves of his shirt. “What makes you think I even want that? It’s dark. You shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” You get outside. Campus is dark, but you can still see all of the trees and huge buildings. The hairs on your arms stand up in the cold wind. You keep talking. About movies, TV, other people in the frat, college life, social views, Marvel vs. DC, which Jessica is hottest (You say Alba, he says Biel), who’s better My Chemical Romance or Panic at the Disco. You keep looking over at him and staring at his lips. You finally get to your house. You say goodbye and hug him and your whole body lights up. You pull away slowly and look up at him. What the fuck is this? You push him away and say, “Okay, goodnight, friend.


Walter shaved. Then he walked to his room and vacuumed the floor for a while, until it was time to leave for the doctor’s appointment. He stepped into the sunny streets, feeling that he’d been there before. He didn’t look at the people passing by and kept his head low as he walked down the street. There was a green bottle top on the ground, a curled up rubber band and a purple glue on nail. They reminded him that he had been there before. Walter was nervous about the appointment. Afraid it was going to be too intense for him. He hadn’t been outside in a while. ‘Never heard of that,’ the doctor said. ‘Well, you see, this keeps happening to me. I encounter a situation, and when it’s over, or while I’m still in it, I get this strange feeling that this exact situation has already happened before. In the exact same way,’ Walter said. ‘And I have that feeling all the time, doctor.’ ‘All the time, you say? So right now as well?’ the doctor asked. ‘Yes.’ The doctor leaned back. He gazed at the ceiling fan for a while. ‘Well, I can assure you, this is the first time we’re having this conversation.’ ‘I believe you. But it feels as if I had been here before, and the longer we sit here and the longer we talk, the more I feel that way. It’s very unpleasant. And I don’t know how to escape it.’ The doctor grabbed a pen from the table and tapped it against his finger. ‘You see that?! The way you took the pen and play with it. It’s like that was bound to happen.’ The doctor put down the pen.‘What exactly is so troubling about your condition?’ ‘Don’t you understand? Whenever I get into such a situation, it’s as if I am put there, out of nowhere. This feeling, it’s as if it’s reminding me, that no matter what I do, it has happened before in the exact same way. And look. If it is true and it has already happened, then it’s like going in circles. That’s really what it feels like. Going in circles, without progress. It’s driving me insane.’ The doctor had a puzzled look on his face. Walter was getting twitchier and twitchier. The situation had become very intense now and he felt like leaving. He shoved around in his chair, while the doctor waited and smartly gazed around the office some more. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll prescribe diazepam for your condition. Take it once a day and you should be fine in a week or two.’ Walter left the office then. He should have known the doctor wasn’t gonna be able to do any good. He walked down the steps, deliberately deciding where to step. He skipped one step, then no step, then three, then one and then none for the rest of the rest of the staircase. But it didn’t change his feeling and no matter where he put his foot, with every step, he felt he was following a predefined path. As if he had walked down these steps just a week ago and was put here again now. So when he reached the second to last step, Walter suddenly stopped and jumped over the two steps, trying to surprise himself. He landed. Then he dashed left, clapped his hands twice and whistled, deciding it all so quickly and spontaneously, hoping to trick himself and the feeling. But it didn’t work. It never worked. As if it had always been known that he was going to jump the last two steps in that particular moment. On his way home, he stopped trying to surprise it and just ignored the feeling. He didn’t wanna make a scene. The people were giving him enough strange looks already. He avoided them and kept his head low exposing himself to as little visual input as possible. In front of his door, he closed his left eye, so he wouldn’t see the bay next to the door. Unlocked the door and went in. Inside he closed both of his eyes, which sometimes made it easier. He was mad about the doctor’s appointment. It had been too intense, like a complete reset, showing him that all the times he had thought he had tricked the feeling successfully prior to the appointment, were useless and just part of another bigger frame. Like a checkpoint he returned back to. So there was his room, the black windows shut and the tiled floor with the black and white tiles empty and clean. Just as he had left it and just like it always was. The vacuum cleaner was still plugged in next to the door frame. He looked around and felt that he’d been in this moment before. He was still following the track of the doctor’s appointment. Going in circles like a scratched record. Walter closed his eyes again and left the room keeping them closed. He had to do something. Surprise himself with something sporadic and unexpected that came from within him. Something to throw him off the track. So he decided to go outside. It was night and dark and nobody was around. He walked down the street, passing the alleys. Maybe he could climb something. A car or phone booth or something. He walked a few blocks. Then he reached an intersection. And as he crossed the street, Walter spotted three cops walking up the street his way. He walked on but turned to see where they were headed. The street was empty. But then suddenly a man fell out of the nearest doorway. Smacked right to the ground, his body completely relaxed and his pants down to his ankles. He didn’t move. The three cops rushed right over to him. And Walter snapped. What a coincidence. Oh what a fucking coincidence. He felt like puking. He stomped his foot on the ground multiple times, then ran a few steps ahead, stopped abruptly, swirled around, clicking his tongue and dropped to the ground. Trying to get away from the moment as fast as he could. He rolled sideways along the pavement, beating his fists on the ground, then quickly popped back to his feet again, shaking his left arm through the air and spinning around, continuing his spastic dance. Then he tried to calm himself down. What a ridiculous coincidence. Had he crossed the alley two seconds later, he wouldn’t have seen the man fall. He threw up once. Then he wiped his mouth and began to walk back. ‘Excuse me, sir! Are you alright?’ Walter swirled around. One of the cops had come over. His face twitched as he reached for his flashlight. ‘Sir, are you alright?’ he held the flashlight into Walter’s face. ‘You were having a seizure.’ ‘I’m fine. It wasn’t a seizure. I have a condition, it’s alright. Please leave me alone. Unexpected events trip me out like hell, as you’ve just witnessed. And this is another unexpected event to me.’ ‘Are you intoxicated, sir?’‘No sir. Like I said, I have a condition. It’s psychological.’ ‘What kind of condition?’ ‘Well, I always have the feeling that everything that’s happening to me has happened before. Like Déjà vu.’ ‘Hm. Well, this hasn’t happened before,’ the wiseass cop said, totally missing the fucking point. ‘Yo Rick,’ one of the other cops called then, ‘quit talking to the alien, and lend us a fucking hand here!’ ‘Watch out, yeah!’ Rick said to Walter and lowered the flashlight. Of course it hasn’t happened before. That was the point. It didn’t matter what was happening. He felt this way no matter what happened. And if he had stepped into the alley two seconds later he would’ve seen the man with his smacked head lying on the ground, and it would have freaked him out just the same. Turned inside out Walter walked home. Back in his room he was exhausted. The tube lights were on and the vacuum cleaner was still plugged in. He started it and began to vacuum the room. He started in the right corner of the room and went up the tiles towards the black windows. Then he turned and went down the next row. Keeping his gaze on the tiles. He breathed calmly and tried to think of nothing. He cleaned the entire room. Then he pushed the vacuum cleaner to the right corner again and started over. In the morning he woke up, lying on his back. He folded the blanket back to a perfect rectangle next to him, swung his legs off the edge of the bed and walked to the bathroom. His left foot stepping on the white tiles, his right one on the black ones. He was already naked. He stepped in the shower. It was a floor level shower. There was no shower curtain, no mirror, and nothing that could move. His razor was lying in its spot next to the drain, where it always was, aligned with a tile. Walter sat down on the tiles. His back and ass feeling the cold stone. Then he picked up the razor and began to shave his legs. From the bottom up. Ankle to knee. He knew where to start and stop each line. The hairs weren’t long at all. Hardly visible, black dots. But he still shaved every inch of his legs. Then his crotch. One slice across the ass, then his upper body, then the lower and upper back. He was getting cold now, but didn’t mind. He shaved his arms and his already bald head. And at last his face. Chin and cheeks and his eyebrows. Not cutting himself once. He placed the razor back where it belonged, stood up straight against the wall, closed his eyes and turned on the water. Washing away the hair dust. The tube lights in his room were on. Walter turned on the vacuum cleaner and began vacuuming the tiles. He started in the right corner and went up alongside the wall towards the two black windows. He vacuumed the whole room like that. Up and down the rows of tiles. The windows where taped shut with black cardboard, so no light came through. Because otherwise the light would be different on a sunny or rainy day, or at night. That’s why he had taped them shut. The light always had to be the same. No surprises. He vacuumed, tile after tile, like he always did. He finished, went to the starting square and started over. Keeping his stare on the next tile, trying to get it right. It didn’t make the feeling go away. But this way at least it made sense, because he really had been there before, in the exact same moment. Thousands and thousands of times. After another round Walter got hungry. He turned off the vacuum cleaner, left it plugged in and went to the kitchen cupboard. With his eyes closed he reached in and got a can of baked beans. He got baked beans delivered to his room once a week. They were dropped off in the bay next to his door. Usually Tuesdays. But he never dared to get them before Thursday, as he feared they might not be there and that would be unexpected. He didn’t heat the beans. He ate them with his eyes closed and immediately washed the spoon and put it back in the drawer. Blind. He only had one spoon. Then he returned to vacuuming his room until he got hungry again or tired. The next morning he woke up, folded the blanket to the side and went in the shower. He shaved his entire body like he always did. Not cutting himself once. Then he went on to vacuuming his room. Sometimes he felt like he was going too fast or too slow. And sometimes a wheel of the vacuum cleaner got caught in a groove or the cord. But he just continued up and down the tiles. Trying to get it right. He knew this way, it was all going to be over soon.


Dear journal, It happened again. It was a normal day, like any other. Quite boring actually. I went home from work, ate a dinner with my girlfriend and after few episodes of our favorite tv show we went to sleep. There it was, in a dream yet clear as if it was right there in front of me. The abandoned observatory, at least that's what I call it. It was a two story cylindrical building with a dome on top. Covered in graffiti. As always I was there with a group of 2 friends, a boy named Matthew, he had short dark hair and blue eyes, he was very energetic and needed to be best at everything he did, and a girl called Isabella, she had very blond, almost white hair tied in a ponytail and hazelnut eyes, she was calmer than Matthew but both were equally energetic and adventurous. They were a rowdy couple always trying to out do each other. I was just happy to be along for the ride. We entered the building by a staircase creeping along side the wall, there a metal door, rusted but unlocked was waiting for us. We entered and started exploring. Inside was dark but somehow the light turned on "Maybe Matthew found a light switch" I told myself as i continued exploring the room. It was a large room, around 10 meters across, rounded and almost empty, apart from the large computer console in the middle of the room,a strange ceiling mounted monitor array above it and a staircase on the opposite side from the main door. It all looked like it was from the cold war era. There were no windows and no color or markings on the wall, just mossy concrete everywhere. I noticed Isabella and Matthew were arguing about who should continue up the stairs leading to the second floor. "You go Matt, you are a man after all, aren't you?" Said Isabella in a snarky tone of voice. "Oh, are you perhaps scared Bella ? Maybe you should go play with other girls with dolls and let us reeeeal adventurers do our thing." Answer Matthew. He knew Isabella hated playing with other girls, and much rather went with us on our adventures. "I will go, you guys cover my back" I said as I started walking towards the stairs. It was very rusted and creaked with my every step. I looked back to see my fellows following me with terrified expressions in their faces. It was unusual but it didnt do much to me. I wasn't scared or anything, I just continued on as if it was nothing, I felt no emotions. When I reached the top of the stairs I heard from behind me "Turn on the lights like you did downstairs" said Matthew". "Hmm, that's weird. I thought you did it" I answered as I saw "it" again, sitting there with crossed legs, head turned to the left like a curios dog looking at me with dark featureless face. You see my dear journal, this is where I would normally wake up all sweating and terrified. But not this time, waking up was not an option. It stood up slowly and started approaching me. It was wearing a gray suit with impossibly dark tie with white dots resembling stars. "Hello again my dead friend" it said in a deep growling voice that boomed in my head "Today is the day you will let me in, my friend, today is the day you free me from this hell" it looked over me, it had to bend so its head would not hit the ceiling and it was comming towards me, but I couldn't move, my legs became impossibly heavy and when I turned my head to my friends, they were the same creatures like the one in front of me, my heart stopped, terrified to beat another moment of life into my body. It reached for me and touched my shoulder. "Thank you" I said as my perspective shifted, my consciousness swapping places with the entity. Then as if I was pulled back at incredible speed, the world around me collapsing and I woke up. Terrified to make a move. And then I saw it. In the corner of my room, the entity was there. Fragile and weak. Then a rushing wave of pressure slammed into the inside of my head. The pain was immeasurable as I thought my head was going to explode. When I was able to open my eyes. The entity was gone. I couldn't sleep anymore tonight. I am terrified of going back to bed. What if I am not so lucky again.


I'm an attractive woman but want nothing to do with the guys that I work with. They brag about women that they have scored with and I find this behavior to be juvenile and more like a frat party environment than a work place. This one guy Mark bet his friends that he would score with me and I thought to myself, wait till he meets my great uncle Charles who is a retired marine. He will not think about it after meeting him. We agreed to meet at Orlando Springs which is the local swimming hole and have lunch. He has no idea that 30 family members are showing up to meet him. They will position themselves, so he can't easily leave or quietly slip away. Right as we are sitting down to eat lunch, the family arrives. Mark puts his hand on my arm and my Uncle Charles taps him on the shoulder and says, "Don't even think about it." Mark turns around rather surprised. I introduce him to my Uncle who says laughs and says he's kidding. "Nice to meet you. When Maxine goes on a date, it's a tradition in our family for everyone to meet her date and to see if he's a suitable partner for marriage. " Uncle Charles rings a bell and yells, "Come meet Maxine's date." I know that Mark wants to escape, to leave, get out but he can't because family is everywhere. I introduce him to my 3 older brothers, one of whom is a professional wrestler and the other two are built like football players. We have lunch that my Aunt Clara made. She hugs him and says, "Welcome to the family." I see him cringe when she hugs him and I laugh. There were several picnic tables that the family sat at and Mark well, he's trying to figure out a way to leave but he can't. He's basically stuck with 30 of my family members. This wasn't his idea of a date. He basically has no interest in what they are saying. It's all I can do not to laugh. After lunch, several family members follow us down to the swimming area and watched as I got into the water and swam around. Mark had no interest in swimming, especially with everyone around watching his every move. He wanted to make his moves on me in the swimming area earlier but now I can see that he has wasn't a happy camper. Oh well. He didn't go into the water. After 2 hours, he may up some excuse and when he left, my brothers followed him back to his car chattering away. He wasn't listening to them as he was ticked. What was he going to tell his buddies at work. He forgot that he had put the phone on recording, so all his buddies saw that he didn't get lucky. When he left, my family burst into laughter. I had friended one of the girlfriends of one of the guys that I worked with. I also recorded the event. I could hear Mark saying some choice words to his friends and co-workers who were laughing about the date. He was so angry that he started yelling and cursing at them. I just laughed. It was so funny. This happened on a Saturday. It was a joke in our family that if you wanted to get rid of a date, sent the family to go on the date and have them show up later. They saved me this time. This was the only time that I did this. I went back to work and Mark barely talked to me after that. None of the guys talked to me after that unless it was worked related. That how I want it. I've written short stories but haven't written a humorous story. Any feedback would be welcomed.


I’ve always known my reflection was a bit off. I often caught glimpses of it, never thinking much of it. But as the years have gone by, the occasional “that was weird” thoughts have graduated in severity. And now, I am hiding besides my bed, fearing for my life. My parents first brought the mirror when I was 7. It was a few days before my first day of 2nd grade. It was delivered to my room by my dad, hoping to have dual benefits: The new mirror would allow me to dress myself for school every morning and simultaneously alleviate my mother’s hectic morning routing. My little sister was soon to enter kindergarten and required morning assistance. I encountered it one evening as I entered my room, oblivious of what it would eventually become. My dad placed it next to the bedroom door without warning, trying to avoid my objections to it. Even though I would have never admitted, I secretly enjoyed being dressed by my mom, and I had expressed poor excuses as to why I shouldn’t have it. Nonetheless, it stayed. The mirror was tall and skinny. My mom called it a “body mirror”, which seemed a bit grandiose to me: It was just a big mirror. Protests against it quickly wore off, and that mirror became a part of my morning routine. Every morning, I dressed myself. And every morning, my reflection stared back at me, dreadful eyes watching me. It started like that, with those eyes. Initially, I didn’t take notice; my innocence confused dread with grogginess, and that was normal, right? Everyone was sleepy in the morning, so there was nothing out of the ordinary! It took me years to realize this was not the norm. Years passed, and I became aware something was off about my reflection in *that* mirror. I first noticed one afternoon in the third grade. I caught a glance of my *real* reflection on my school cafeteria windows. We chatted away, in single file line, waiting to receive our meal. As a kid, I never cared much for my looks. I didn’t spend time in front of mirrors. I was like most kids, oblivious to physical attributes. But catching a glimpse of my reflection through the windows caused me to do a double take. I looked different. My reflection looked…alive. It looked vivid. It looked nothing like what stared back at me every morning for years as I got dressed for school. That reflection was glum. It was cheerless. It was even a bit pale and sickly. Here I stood waiting in line, captivated by what I saw. My classmates nudged me, urging me to keep up with the line. But I stood there, staring. When I arrived home, I went to my mirror, still in disbelief. I looked. The empty shell of a boy stared back at me. For years, I made excuses to justify this disparity between what I saw in my mirror and elsewhere. In the 7th grade, we learned the science behind reflections, but that didn’t seem correct. My mirror’s reflection wasn’t me. It looked similar to me, but it wasn’t exactly like me, as the teacher had taught. Windows, water, even other mirrors, they all showed me, but not the one in my room. The years passed, and I never told anyone, afraid to being labeled as a crazy teenager seeking attention By then, it was obvious something was wrong with that mirror, but the variances were always only aesthetic. I attributed it to bad lighting in my dimly lit, edgy, teenager bedroom. My skin tone looked unhealthy. My eyes didn’t look human; they even looked lifeless. My lips were dry. But I grew used to starting at a pale, soulless version of me, never digging deeper into its strangeness. But it finally happened. It was exactly 3 months ago today. My reflection disobeyed me for the first time. I was getting ready to go to my first college interview. I was putting on a tie, staring at the mirror while rehearsing an opening anecdote to use during my interview, one that highlighted my knowledge and wit. I fidgeted with my tie, mumbling the words of my story, trying to seem genuine and spontaneous. I lowered my hands to my side. I straightened my back, puffed my chest, like a soldier ready to go to war. I was ready to go to my first college interview. I examined my attire from head to toe. I approved. I turned away, satisfied with my appearance, and noticed something through my peripherals. My reflection *didn’t move*. I jerked back towards the mirror; it stood there. Staring at me – unmoving. I moved my hands nonsensically, like a mime waving enthusiastically. I raised my hands, wiggled my fingers, but it stood there, hands down, unmoving, a stranger in my room. I took a step forward; he stayed still. I reached my hand towards the mirror, my fingers feeling the cold polished surface. He stayed still. Then, slowly, his face contorted into a smirk; otherwise, he remained unmoved. I felt my stomach clench. I moved away and sat on my bed, away from the line of sight of the mirror. I knew I had to have imagined it. But deep down, I had been waiting for this day to come. I gathered the courage to stand in front of the mirror again. When I did, everything was back to normal. The pale version of me mimicked my every move. Since then, my reflection’s disobedience is growing in frequency and severity. The worst just happened, minutes before typing this. I felt particularly brave this evening, drunk on excitement for being accepted to my dream school. I wanted to challenge him, knowing he couldn’t really do much to me. He was the one confined to the mirror, not me. I stood in front of the mirror. I stared at him, trying to catch him break character. I did this half-jokingly, since he rarely response to provocations like this. I taunted. Usually, this kind of provocation would fail, as he seemed to only act when I least expected it. But He decided the facade was up. I stood, staring at my mirror, challenging him to defy me. I bobbed my head side to side, smirking, as he rightfully mirrored every one of my moves. “Ah come on! Indulge me!” I said conceitedly, as my head movement became more extreme, heavy with arrogance. But as those words left my mouth, he stopped. He froze, head tilted mid bob. And he slowly straightened his neck and started back at me. I felt a rush of embarrassment and fear, as I stood there, swaying my head to side to side idiotically. I felt my face hot and eyes wide. Before I could collect myself, He took a step forward, growing in size. I stumbled back in fear, knocking over a stack of papers neatly placed on my desk. I reached for support, as my legs became jelly. He stepped forward again. Again, I recoiled, this time stumbling to the ground. I sat there, legs bent against my chest, staring forward, feeling the sweat drip down my face. He was now towering over me. He stood there, so large, half of his body took up the entirety of this so called “body mirror”. He stared, and his face changed again. Horror filled me as I stared at a stranger that looked like a possessed version of me. One end of his lips curled up slowly, creating that smirk I had seen over the last 3 months. He stared at me, taunting, towering over me. He slowly shook his head. His demonic smile remained unchanged. He raised his right hand, index finger and thumb extended out: The universal hand gesture for a gun. He placed the tip of his index finger on his head temple, his thumb aiming towards the ceiling. He imitated a gun shot with his hand, recoiling his head to the side. His demonic smile remained unchanged. His neck and head quickly sprung back to position, staring at me. Uncontrollably, I thrashed backwards, crawling away and breaking eye contact. When I looked back, he was gone. Only I stared back, fear covering my sweaty face, panting for breath and grasping at anything to offer some support, as if the ground below me was giving out. With the help of my desk, I slowly stood. The room was spinning, and my head was throbbing. I became unusually aware of my temples pulsing unnaturally on the side of my head. I reached out to touch them. Adrenaline pumping through me, my immediate reaction was to reach for my bed’s comforter. I threw it over the mirror. He can’t do anything if he can’t see me, right? But as I write this, I hear hoarse voice is whispering, “you’re going to die…” over and over. I’m crawled up in the corner of my room, but there’s a light tapping of glass coming from the mirror being muffled by my comforter. It’s growing louder as the whispers continue. I’m afraid my reflection is going to kill me.


“It’s time for school!” my dad yelled as I was running late for my classes. I head downstairs, eat, and get ready for my school class. I am in my pj’s enjoying a great day. Today is the first day of health class and we are starting by learning how babies are made! Fun stuff, right? I sit in front of my PC and put on my virtual headset. Class for me has always been virtual, in fact, everything we do is. When we want food, we put on our headset, order and an hour later a drone arrives with our food. The drone is sanitized after each use and reused to deliver anything we need really. If we want to go on a trip, we put on our headsets and take a family trip. Everything is done this way! It protects us and keeps us safe while giving us the freedom of experiencing the real world in some way. We can feel, touch, interact with anything using our headsets and controls. We can interact with the world, meet people, and see animals all from the comfort of our home. School started as you would imagine, with us reading our global pledge to be good, clean citizens. We took a roll call and got started on the day's lecture, June Day. I might have gotten ahead of myself when I said learn where babies come from. They come from sex we all know that. We are 15-16 not stupid. The real reason I was excited is I get to finally have a good explanation as to why everyone’s birthdays fall in the same week of February. I always thought it was strange, and my dad would never tell me. Mom would always deflect the question and just tell us health class will tell us as they told her. “Does anyone know what June Day is?” asked our teacher as a few raised their hands. “Yes?” he said pointing to one of the girls in the back. “June Day is the one day a year we are allowed to leave our homes without a VR headset,” she said but in a way that implied she wasn’t 100% sure. “That is partially true,” Said the teacher “June day isn’t so much the one day a year you are allowed out of the house when you are an adult but it is the one day a year you are expected to mate.” That sentence rang hard with me. “Expected to mate” as in I am expected by our government to have sex with someone, anyone, in hopes of having a baby? It is understandable as the population has declined since the great wave and we became a virtual/digital society but “expected to” almost felt like a dead word that was used 100s of years ago called rape. I found the term in a really old dictionary. We don’t have this in our society since people can’t see each other with the exception of very early childcare. You might have thought my father this morning was yelling up the stairs but it was over an intercom. I see him every day on the monitors or on my headset. We play, make food together, have meals together. Just not in person as you would expect. I raised my hand. “Yes? You have a question?” the teacher asked when I raised my hand. “Why are we expected to mate? Isn’t the day about human contact? That’s the impression I was always given.” “No. We have human contact every day. You see your friends and play with them any time. See your parents whenever you need to. Right now, we are in class interacting, but there is only 1 day a year we can get close enough to each other to reproduce. Only one day a year our doors unlock, and we are allowed out into the world to mingle and interact. After which, we go home and back to our lives.” We spend all year virtually meeting people and connecting, then get one day a year to meet face to face and try and reproduce? Or just have a little fun? I had more questions as I never knew the life outside of our virtual one, so I raised my hand again. “Yes, miss?” “What happens after June Day and how exactly does it work?” “Miss… I am getting to that. The day starts at 9 a.m. on June the 3rd and ends the following morning at 9 a.m. This gives us 24 hours to meet with our mates, have a little bit of time to get comfortable and mate. After which, hopefully, the female becomes pregnant and continues our way of life.” You will have 24 hours to do anything you wish in the outside world. You can explore a little bit, although there isn’t much to explore and mate. Then head back home or face the consequences of not making it home in time.” Raised my hand again and was called on “What happens if we don’t make it back home on time?” “You will be banished for society never to be heard from again!” He said with a serious look on his face to suggest he was not joking. “Doors open at 9 am and they close at 9 am too! If your face is not recognized in your home shortly after, then you will be deemed unsuitable for society and cast out into the wilderness to live with the feral humans. The dirty, unclean, and unkempt humans if they can even be called that anymore. Don’t let this be you!” I had never heard of feral humans before, but it would make sense that they are unclean and dirty since they have no technology and live with each other. It sickens me to think people spend all day every day right next to one another, passing germs and disease like it is currency. I can’t help but wonder why as our history books skip over some parts with the explanation that it will be covered in health class. Here we are and I waited eagerly for my answers. “Why do we do this you may be wondering,” the teacher asked “populations boomed here on Earth. Children went hungry and there weren’t enough resources for everyone. Then came the great plague that wiped out 70% of our society. After that happened, we rebuilt, but we rebuilt with the plan of never letting resources be an issue; or plague and sickness affect us again. So we built our virtual world and cut ourselves off physically from one another, except for once a year, to mate.”  \  I hope you enjoyed my short story. It's my first one I have put out there so be kind lol.