I kept rowing away from the island. I had never rowed before, and it wasn’t long before my arms and back ached from my inefficient form. I put down the oars and stopped. With no more effort to give, and exhaustion setting in, I leaned back inside the hull of the boat and rested. I had planned only to relax, but perhaps inevitably, I fell asleep. I don’t fully know how long I was asleep for, but I was woken by a thud. The boat rocked fiercely. My arms instinctively grabbed the side, and my eyes jolted open, as panic forced me into consciousness. “Are you okay?” a voice came from above. I looked up to see a tall man with a thick beard leaning over the side of a boat some twenty times the size of my own. “Yeah. I think,” I replied, a little hesitantly. I turned my head, trying to get my bearings. Over my left shoulder I could make out a small island I assumed were the Kadear Coalfields, but I was now too far away to make out any details. “You look like you could do with some help. Can we give you a lift?” the man asked. I nodded my thanks. The man reached out a hand, I grabbed it, and with one quick yank of his broad arms he pulled me and my bag aboard his boat. I looked around. There were maybe five or six crewmembers milling around, currently all staring at me with intrigue. “Welcome aboard,” the man said. “The name’s Kedrick.” I thanked him. “Ferdinand,” I replied. “Where are you heading?”. “Kadear Coalfields,” he replied. “No,” I stumbled back. “No. I’ll go back in the rowing boat.” “You’ll die if you go back out in that boat,” Kedrick replied. “I just came from the Kadear Coalfields. That’s where I’m trying to get away from.” “Why? Are you a criminal? Are you wanted there?” I could see Kedrick ready himself for a fight. “No,” I replied quickly. Technically it was a lie. I was a criminal, officially. But not in the sense of right and wrong. However, now wasn't the time for nuance. “You’ll see when you arrive. Things at the Kadear Coalfields have… or are changing, very quickly. And right now, it’s not safe for me to be there.” Kedrick relented. He seemed to either believe me, or just feel sympathetic to the desperation in my voice. “I’m not changing course for you,” he said. “We’ve got a delivery to make. That said, if we see a ship coming away from the island, I’ll wave them down, see what we can do.” I had little choice but to agree and so we continued to sail; the very island I was trying to escape slowly getting bigger in my field of view. About twenty minutes later we saw one boat heading towards us, and I excitedly suggested we get his attention. Kedrick hushed me down. “That’s Robertson’s boat,” he said. “You don’t want that. He either won’t take you, or he’ll rob you and throw you over the side.” It was a sudden moment of realization that I was lucky to have landed upon Kedrick’s boat. Not all merchants would’ve been so kind. I returned to silence, thankful for my sanctuary. Another boat came into view a few minutes later. I looked to him and he simply shook his head dismissively. However, moments later he spotted a small trading vessel leaving the beach. It was a much smaller boat than his own, but still sea-faring. We waited as the boat nimbly tacked up the winds towards us. “Ah, Alessia. She might help you,” the man suddenly announced. He instructed one of his men to grab some flags from the back of the boat. The crewman set off and started enthusiastically waving them in the direction of the other boat. The boat noticed and began changing course towards us. As the boat drew closer, I could see the boat was being guided by one woman. She stood by the wheel calmly steering towards us. Her long black hair came down just past her shoulders and billowed calmly in the breeze, creating waves just like the sea. She wore a thick jacket, with large puffed sleeves, and black denim trousers. Around her waist was a small tool belt that seemed to carry various knives, matches, and a few other useful items. “What have you got for me, Kedrick?” the woman called out from the boat. “Alessia, I’ve got a passenger for you,” he shouted back to her. “I’m not a ferry,” Alessia groaned. “I don’t really care for living passengers. I’ll take him if he’s dead.” Kedrick laughed heartily. I did not. By now the boats were side by side, and one of Kedrick’s men threw a rope across to Alessia. She tied it to her own boat, pulling them together. Kedrick walked to the edge with outstretched arms. Alessia hesitated for a moment, before raising her own arms with a relenting smile Kedrick reached ver the small gap between the two boats and hugged her tightly. “Got a guy looking to get away from Kadear Coalfields, and we’re heading the wrong way for him. Thought you might take him,” Kedrick suggested. “Where does he want to go?” she replied. “Anywhere,” I interrupted. “Just not there.” Alessia looked me up and down, inspecting me like she would any cargo. “What’s in it for me?” she asked. “Some company?” Kedrick replied. Alessia laughed. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” “He’s probably got something of value on him. And if nothing else you can put him to work. You’ll get free labour all the way to your next destination. Just throw him the odd fish that you catch.” Alessia scrunched her face in thought. She studied me intently, before finally making up her mind. “Look, I’m heading to the Bluekira Ministration. You can sail with me to there if you want. I won’t charge, but you work while you are on board. You can have some water, and we can catch fish. But otherwise, you don’t get paid. You work when I tell you too, you rest when and where I tell you too. And most of all,” she paused and took a step towards me, “if you even think about doing something stupid — robbing me or attacking me — then know that I will beat you to it and have no problem cutting you open like I clean a fish.” She smiled “And you’ll get to see. I can clean a fish really quickly.” She took out a knife from her tool belt just to drive home the message more clearly; the metal blade glimmering in the sun. As threatening as the contract was, it was safe passage. I walked up to the side of the boat. “Agreed.” I offered out a hand. She looked at it, ignored it, and turned back to Kedrick. “This guy does anything stupid, then you’re in trouble.” Kedrick raised his hands as if to accept the responsibility. And with that, I climbed over the side of one boat and stumbled clumsily into the other. \ It would be a full day-and-night’s sail, and Alessia put me to work immediately, sending me into the hull to rearrange the cargo to make things easier when we arrived. Upon my return, she asked me to try and catch some fish with a small line and hook. I had never fished before, and Alessia seemed to enjoy watching me attempt to figure out the process. I got the distinct impression that she had no intention of me catching anything sometime soon, that this was some kind of lesson in humiliation. After watching me ineptly dangle a hook into the water for around half an hour, she finally wandered off from the helm and came down to the edge of the boat. “You have no idea what you’re doing do you?” “That obvious is it?” I replied, trying to appear more amused than embarrassed. “Take it you didn’t have to catch your own food back at Kadear?” She took the small fishing line from my hands. With such quick ease that I was unable to follow her actions, she unraveled the string and set the hook down into the water. She let out more and more of the string as the line disappeared behind the back of the boat. “You want to make them think the line is a fish. It’s a weak breeze today, so you may need to pull it in really slowly to get the speed right.” “How will I know if I’ve caught anything?” I asked. She let out a small laugh at my expense. “You’ll know.” She placed the string back in my hand. “I don’t have a spare, so if you let go of that, you’ree going in after it.” With my humiliation achieved she sat down, resting on the side of the boat next to me. “So Kedrick,” I began, “he had a crew with him. And you seem to have a big enough boat for one.” “A crew is a hassle. It’s simpler this way.” “A hassle?” She paused for a second. “How many traders you met?” “I used to talk to them a lot actually on Kadear. They’d land on the beaches, and I’d try and chat to them, find out where they’d been…” “Yeah, but have you ever *really* met them? Ever traveled with them?” she asked. I shook my head. Alessia continued. “Things can be pretty rough out here. It’s tough, physical work. You have no real home. And there’s always the risk of some physical violence. So that lifestyle, it tends to attract a certain… type of person.” She stopped. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. And so I pressed further. “What kind of person?” With a shrug of her shoulder she elaborated,“Big tough men who think strength is what’s most important. Guys with bigger biceps than brains. You get guys like that on your boat, and sooner or later at some point, they get it in their heads that they should be the one running the boat, ‘cause they’re stronger, and they can lift more. Don’t get me wrong, I can handle myself in a scrap. But they’re always going to be taller and bigger than me, and ideally, I’d like to keep my boat for as long as I can.” She looked out to the sea, as if unsure if she had said too much. “I just can’t be bothered with all that macho shit, you know?” I nodded and smiled at her. “You let me on board though.” “Yeah. Don’t think you’ve got the ability to be violent in you though. Plus, I sized you up. I’d win pretty comfortably.” I chuckled, and attempted to hide some small wounded pride. Our conversation was interrupted as I felt a pull on the string. I announced it excitedly, and delicately reeling it in, with the help of Alessia’s guidance I lifted a fish out of the water and dropped it to the floor of the boat. I raised my hands in celebration. Alessia laughed it up, and grabbed a small hammer. “Do you want to do the honors?” she asked. I looked at her confused. “You hit it. To kill it.” she added. I looked down at the fish. It flopped backward and forwards awkwardly on the floor, desperate for some kind of purchase. Alessia took my pause as reluctance. She bent down and with one swift swipe hit the fish across the head, killing it instantly. She picked it up by the tail and handed it to me. “You’ve got a long way to go.” That night Alessia slept in the small quarters tucked within the hull. I remained on the deck. However, she provided me with some blankets, and with some maneuvering of some crates, I was able to create enough of a shelter that I slept relatively soundly. I slept soundly enough in fact that it was Alessia, and not the morning sun, that woke me the next day. “We’re about two hours away,” she said. “I’ll need your help when we get closer. There’s a small washroom in the quarters so you can freshen up. Feel free to use a towel.” I headed down into the hull and proceeded to wash and change. Finding a pair of scissors, I spent much of the next hour painstakingly trimming my beard into a more acceptable shape. It was a difficult task, with only a small mirror and the rocking boat throwing off my attempts at accuracy. Normally I would be clean shaven, be as presentable as possible. But such luxuries weren't possible currently. By the time I rose to the floor of the boat again the island was well and truly within sight, and I could make out people at a small stone harbor. While I had heard of and seen drawings of a harbor, I had never seen one myself. It was the first true sign that I would soon be on an island that was not my own. This island I was about to enter was truly foreign to me. Once we arrived, I begun helping unload the cargo to the harbor steps while Alessia spoke to the islanders. As soon as I placed each crate down, a man or woman dressed in plain blue trousers and shirt picked it up and carried it away in complete silence. While the traders spoke freely with Alessia, I could not help notice that none of the blue-clothed men or women dared to even make eye contact with either of us. It was as if they were incapable of noticing us. With the crates unloaded, I turned to Alessia and thanked her for the safe passage. “How long are you planning on being here?” she asked. "I hadn't given it much thought," I responded. “I’ll do you a deal,” she said. “I’m doing a run to Pearl Docman, but then after that I’ve got to head back this way for the next delivery. It’ll be about five days there and back. You get to the edge of the harbor wall when I come back, at let’s say sunrise, on the fifth day, you can have another lift onto where I’m heading next.” I hesitated for a second. “It’s very nice of you to offer…” “Just say yes or no,” she interrupted. “Yes,” I replied quickly, in case any hesitation be taken as rudeness. “But... I thought you didn’t want a crew?” “You’re not crew. I have to pay crew.” She turned and jumped back onto her boat. “Dawn, fifth day,” she called out as she untied the ropes and the boat gently eased off from the harbor edge. I turned to face the island. The large stone harbor curved around me in a perfect panorama, allowing me to watch the islanders going about their day. While they were the minority, wherever I looked, I could see those same men and women in loose blue clothing. The other islanders seemed relaxed, enjoying a the unexpected warmth of a winter morning, but the blue-clothed workers darted back and forth, carrying boxes and delivering cargo. None of them seemed to ever stop or talk to anyone. I had no idea what to expect from my time on the Bluekira Ministration, but I had chosen to discover the archipelago for myself, and initial ignorance was part of the journey. I began walking along the harbor wall towards the island. The exploring had begun.


Man was walking and saw a beautiful spot that he chose for a garden. "this is the spot I will make my garden" he said " I don't wish to be a garden" said the Soil. "As you can see, man has been here before and promised me he would tend to me. Those men failed and I grew thorns. Rocks came to the surface where there were none before. Weeds took over and now I cannot grow what I used to. They took all the good and left all the bad. I do not want to be a garden." " Do not worry Soil, you have such beautiful fruit inside those thorns. I will remove those thorns and rocks and I will tend to you with my own two hands. I will show you that we can work together to make such a lovely garden place. You will see. Trust me" the Man said. Soil was hesitant. Others had made promises before. However, Man was persistent in showing Soil how he could tend a garden. Each day Man brought water to the soil. He lovingly removed thorns that had grown and the rocks at the surface. Soil grew to trust Man and the thorns were easier to remove and the rocks began to roll away. He talked to Soil about how lovely a garden would be and planted seeds with his words. Soil began to grow rich with the time and attention from Man. Soil began to bear fruit and a garden was made. Man was very happy with his labors in the garden and the sweet fruit it produced. Soil was happy that the fruit pleased the man and all the care that Man took to tend the garden and all the fruit Soil provided. All was well. This would be where a fairy tale would end with the Man and Soil enjoying the care they each needed, bearing the fruit of the time and attention they each received. However, this is not a fairy tale. Time goes by as it does and Man continues to come to the garden for his fruit. One day Soil says to Man "Man, it has been very hot and dry and I need water to continue to produce the fruit you love so much. Please bring me water." "Is it my fault it has not rained?" asked Man " It is hot and dry. I am tired and I do not want to bring water out here for you. If you want water, speak to the clouds to bring water. I am not responsible for your water" Soil said nothing. Man took his fruit and left Soil thirsty. The days continued to be hot and dry, the clouds gave no water and neither did Man. However, he did come to the garden each day for his fruit. "This fruit is not as good as it used to be" complained Man one day "It is smaller and more sour. Why is your fruit going bad?" " I need water for good fruit. I asked you to bring some but you said that you would not. Also, look at the corners of the garden, there are new thorns growing. Please take the thorns away and bring water. It will make the fruit as good as you remember" promised Soil "It is not my job to give you water!" Man shouted " I am hot and tired and I have better things to do than make sure you have water. How dare you grow thorns! I will not remove these. If they are in the garden, then you allowed it to grow. I will take my fruit and I will go." Man took the fruit and went away complaining of the small fruit and its sour taste. Seeds fell from his mouth onto the garden and thorns grew where they landed. Much time passes before Man returned for fruit. The fruit was not as sweet as it used to be and harder to harvest. Man was angry at Soil. Soil did not know its place! Soil was here to give the man fruit, not complain. Not to take time or attention. Man had many better things to do and could not tend to the garden. Soil should be doing that to make sure the fruit is good for him. More time passes and the next time Man comes to the garden thorns have taken over, planted from his harsh words and neglect. Weeds and rocks choked what little fruit was left. "What is this?" cried Man. " It is all I have. I asked for water to make good fruit but you were too busy. I asked to have the thorns removed but you planted more with your words. Rocks have came back to the surface without your attention to remove them." "This is no garden fit for me!" yelled Man. "I am here to take my fruit. What you choose to do with your weeds and thorns is your problem and not mine to solve. You have put these rocks here to make it difficult for me. All I want is my fruit." "This fruit is not for you" replied Soil "Oh yes it is" cried man " I planted it. I came here for it. It is mine" Kicking at a rock that did not move. "I will have what I am owed" "You are owed nothing" screamed Soil. "You will only harvest what you planted. Here are your thorns, rocks and weeds, but you will have no fruit!" "You cannot do this to me. I am Man." growled Man. Man reaches his hand out to take the fruit that he did not plant. The thorns that his words had planted shift their thorns to keep his hand away. Man does not care and continues to curse Soil and its ingratitude. Longer grow the thorns and new thorns grow before Mans eyes. Blood begins to weep from the wounds the thorns make to keep his undeserving hands away. "You will have no more fruit from this garden" says Soil. "you have reaped what you have sown and will have no more. Go and leave this place. I will produce for you no more. This place will return to what it was before. You are no longer welcome here. Angry Man jumps and shouts and only more thorns grow. Seeing this Man decided to change his words. "Please, I would like some fruit from my garden" he begs. "No" replied Soil. "This is no longer a garden. The fruit that is left is mine and no one else shall have it." "This is unfair" whined Man" I loved the garden." "Not enough to give it water, or to roll away the rocks and remove the thorns." reasoned Soil "That was you who grew the thorns" replied Man "It was you who planted them" said Soil "Now please leave and no not come here again. There is no fruit for you, only thorns. Do not bother me again" Man leaves telling all who pass how terrible Soil has treated him. He tells how Soil grew thorns and refused him fruit, forgetting all the times Soil asked to be tended. "Soil is wild" and "look what Soil did to my hand" he cried to all who would listen. Some took pity on Man. "How could Soil do such a thing" they asked and shook their heads. Soil took pity on Itself. "How could Man be so cruel?" it asked. "How could hands that once helped now hurt so much" and more thorns grew to cover the much smaller and sour fruit. This is where we part ways with Man and Soil.


Part one How does a summer like that get forgotten? And what on earth makes one remember? Perhaps it’s coming back. Just passing through like before. A breeze on a creek flowing to a shallow grave, maybe. Either way I need juice, so I pulled into Cumberland Farms and aligned my Subaru’s Energy block to the magnetic receiver. The console of the meter drones with an advertisement for gas station coffee - as if I needed the nudge... I was unpleasantly surprised to find myself face to face with Emily Decker when I checked out with my coffee and 3 breakfast sandwiches. The same Emily I had known 34 years before as a young man, but morphed as if time could break down a person like fermented cabbage. “Hello” I said with a smile, hoping that my oversized sunglasses were enough to conceal my identity after so many decades. “Just the coffee and sandwiches?” Emily inquired lazily. “And a pack of Fatline Blues” I croaked, pointing to the light blue cigarette box behind Emily and to her right. She bent down and reached for a pack of cigarettes. My coffee fumed silently on the checkout counter, filling my nose with an intoxicating smell whose promise was a disappointing lie. I looked forward to it. “Have we met before hun?” Emily drawled, squinting as she rang out my breakfast and smokes. “No, sorry.” I lied apologetically “My first time around here.” I straightened the collar of my jacket and reached for my wallet. “Uh-huh.” Emily emoted, clearly unsatisfied, but by nature too lackadaisical to pursue the matter further. “Comes to 24.09.” I tapped my palm on the pay point and followed the prompts to enter my passcode. 24.09 credits were transferred from my account and Emily bagged my printed food and real cigarettes. She transferred the receipt slate to my Profile and nodded to me as I gathered my breakfast, declining the paper receipt Emily half-heartedly proffered to me. “See ya hun.” She grumbled with a certainty that belied finality. I gulped dry air down a grainy throat and stumbled out of the gas station to my car. The red paint on its body seemed to glow intensely in the hot September sun, my eyes watered as I unlocked and entered my vehicle. I inhaled and let out a long slow breath, blowing out through pursed lips for ten seconds or perhaps more. I sipped my coffee, grimacing as I burned my tongue on the too-hot brew, attempted putting out the fire with a bite from a too-hot breakfast sandwich - further coating my tongue in it’s synthetic napalm of cheese and eggs, and finally just tried to cut off the oxygen to the flames with some smoke. This kind of thing went on for a while, my 10AM orchestra of breakfast and cigarettes blared silently in the Cumberland Farms parking lot of Lower Indigo, Caterwaul. It was all much how I remembered it almost 3 and a half decades before. The fueling station stood lonely in a vast patchwork of fields unclaimed by man for years and showing signs of reclamation with their tall grass and snarling treelines. I thought of the first time I had been to this gas station. I thought of the farm a 5 minute walk, a 2 minute drive down the road. The long driveway that snaked through a forest encroaching on the fields lying not far east and south of the gas station. There was time to think, there was time to digest. My phone buzzed in the center cupholder and entoned the sound of a received text message. I picked up my phone and opened the message from and unknown number: Feast on the bones of your desire Lick clean the sweet marrow of your opulence Your dripping smile, a reflection of us all. There was something about working at a job so intangible that sucked the spirit from me. At 23 years old I felt frozen in the monotony of my daily routine - Wake at 6 am. Sentinel greets me with breakfast in bed and reminds me of my hygiene tasks. I eat my breakfast of printed sausage and eggs, with a glass of real mushroom elixir tea, and watch the morning news in my mind’s eye. I should say, I set lofty goals for my hygiene - mental, physical, aesthetic - and I credited it greatly for my success. After breakfast I practice aesthetic then mental hygiene, completing the tasks of bathing, drying, pruning, shaving, dressing, and sitting in silence for 30 minutes. While I complete these tasks Sentinel makes my bed and cleans up breakfast. I then go to the recreation room of my dormitory and practice physical Hygiene. I am there early so I am most often alone while I do this. On occasion I have enjoyed the company of another dormitory resident, but her profile was marked with a do not approach signal of which I abided. I believe her occasional appearance was the biggest anomaly in my banal existence. I will spare you the minutiae of the various exercises I employed in my physical hygiene practice - suffice to say, they made me strong indeed. My greatest pride was marked front and center in my profile, the bright red badge that declared me a certified Powerman. It may seem arrogant, and I suppose it was but as I said before - I owe my success to my excellent hygiene. When another person sees that big red badge in their mind’s eye, I get their respect. After my hygiene tasks are complete it is 8 in the morning. I settle into a body-form cove in the wall of my residence, and travel through the implant fused to my pineal gland to work. In my mind’s eye I am floating in a dark abyss, alone except for a slowly crawling assembly line and several green chutes surrounding me forming a half circle. A calming radiant sound buzzes from the surrounding darkness, filling me with a hypnotic bliss. I look to my left down the assembly line as it speeds up. From the point of infinity where the conveyor belt disappears in the distance, I see forms approaching. Large, blocky, colorful - with a foamy texture that seemed to roil and boil with anticipation. I reach out and grab the bright yellow starfish shaped form and throw it into chute C, behind me and to the left. I reach out and grab the purple rectangle and throw it into chute D, directly behind me. I reach out and grab a purple spiky triangle and gingerly toss it into chute A, directly to my left. I reach out and grab a dark green circle with a hole in the middle. Doughnut doughnut doughnut. The thought echoes through my perception as I well up with internal laughter that crashes through my mind in symphony with the ecstasy of the steady, low tone surrounding me. I drop the form into chute G, directly to my right. Data sorting was a high status job in the Union, and I was paid handsomely for it. 2 hours of real time seven days a week - but in sight-time that was 20 hours. At the end of my shift, after 20 hours of painful euphoric monotony I went to bed in my day clothes, completely drained. Because of this harrowing routine I have just described, I did not enjoy my life - I truly hated my existence. Alas it wasn’t always like that. When I first had started my position in data sorting, I had enjoyed the trade off of long virtual-hours for having almost a full day of real-time freedom. At first I had the energy and the passion for life to socialize and make use of my considerable wealth and status. I flaunted my Powerman badge on my profile at many Union Celebrations, our local dormitory cluster congregating in the center courtyard to caper with politicians, influencers, and entertainers of all breeds. Women swooned at my power and prominent local men gave me nods of respect. I danced with the loon weavers and spent my generous salary with an easy hand in the busy markets and cantinas. I had a beautiful mushroom garden in my residence with Reishi, Lion’s Mane, Jack-O-Lantern, Hairy Panus, Welcome Blues, Tjork Sevens, Hogwart, and several other genetically composed varieties. It was automated of course, but it still gave me great pleasure to watch the fungi grow from a tiny spore, to a matrix of mycelium, to fruiting body. At night I dreamt I was floating in a bright blue sky grabbing at radiant clouds and throwing them into a raging river below me, my face plastered with a grin that I could not make go away.


“Can you see the moon?” she whispered softly, her warm breath making tiny clouds in the cold air. “Yes.” The wind was howling, shaking the trees so violently he wondered if one would eventually fall over. “Why can’t I see the moon?” He looked up, unable to look her in her eyes. Not that it would have made a difference. “When it is time you will see it.” He slowly looked down at her again. Her dress was almost completely red now. He felt them pressing behind his eyes, but he kept them back. *There is still time, you can’t give in yet.*  “Can you see the moon?” Her voice was surprisingly calm, and he almost wondered if she even was aware. “Yes.” He looked up towards the sky. “I see the moon.” “I like the moon.” He could see the corners of her mouth twitch, as if it wanted to move but lacked the strength. “I like the moon too” he answered as his vision clouded up. *Not yet.* “Your mother also likes the moon.” He stroked her head softly like he always used to do when she was younger. Her skin was soft and pale, it almost shone in the moonlight. “Is mom at the moon?” “Yes.” He looked into her deep blue eyes, the eyes she had gotten from her mother. He still remembered the first time he met her; she had looked so lovely in the moonlight. He also remembered how the moonlight embraced her he lost her.  “Can you see the moon?” Her voice was faint now. “Yes.” He reassured her, while softly caressing her face. “I can’t see the moon.” He could not tell if she was worried or not. Her face looked more and more expressionless for every minute that passed by. “You will see it soon.” It was considerably more difficult to hold them back now. *Just a little longer.* He knew he could not give in yet. He had to stay strong, for her.  The air had gotten colder. He did not know for how long they had been there. The wind was blowing even more violently than before, yet he did not pay it any mind. He looked at her pale skin. It had gotten paler. “I see it! I see the moon!” she exclaimed suddenly, though so faintly he almost did not hear it. She lifted her arm slowly, using all the strength she had left as if she was reaching for someone important. He grabbed her little hand, firmly. This little hand he had held so many times before felt so cold in his grasp tonight. He knew it was time. “Go”, he said, trying his best to not let his voice crack, “your mother is waiting for you.” “Dad?” she whispered so weakly it was almost inaudible. “Do you see the moon?”  The wind had stopped howling, the only sound left was his own breath. As he looked up at the cloudy night sky, he finally let them stream down his cheeks. “No” he whispered to himself, as the rain started to fall.


Reddit. First site of my day. Unlock my screen. Fucking password..... My grubby fingers slight over the screen leaving tracks of fat an residue from my thumb like a snail creeping over the pavement. Finally. I know where the icon of this little white alien in front of the orange-red circle is by heart. Loading. My consciousness manifests - a reversed explosion. What do I want to do? Nothing! Let me just float on the stream of information for a while. Following my impulses I click on everything sparking my interest: r/wallstreetbets. Damn these crazy bastards really holdin. What about that? Probably the most boring and yet gripping Wallstreet-Thriller I've witnessed. Alright maybe r/memes gets my blood pumping to give me the needed push out of my sheets. Whats the first thing I spy with my little eyes. Something righteous about sexism. I would be interested in the discussion if it wasn't for midnight silk. Fuck it! Maybe r/WritingPrompts sparks the embers. What's that? "\[WP\] You read this prompt. Read it. Read it. Read it. Don't read the black pixels! Read the white ones!" I frown. What's that? I read it again. Shaking my head I scroll further, but my brain can't escape the itch. What if? I scroll back up. The post disappeared! What? Where did it go? I swear I did see it just now. I sit up. Now I'm invested. Where is the damn post?! I switch from "Hot" to "New". I scroll for 15 minutes. No luck! I get up. "Whatever man! Must be my imagination!" I make myself breakfast. Some cereals and milk. I switch on the TV. Some cartoons might distract me. I take my spoon and choke. Milk went bad. I run through the flat in search of a sink or bin with a plastic bag in it. I spit the cereals in the sink. I open my eyes and there it is! The crunched and munched up cereals form letters and the white milk lies opaque over the silver of my tin sink. "\[WP\] You read this prompt. Read it. Read it. Read it. Don't read the black pixels! Focus on the white ones!" Something's not a hundred percent right. I pull out my phone and type the sentences in as a post on reddit r/WritingPrompts. I focus on the white pixels. I stare at them. Suddenly they split into colours. First I see green. Then red. Lastly I see blue. The blue reminds me of Yves Klein's blue. I remember seeing a blue canvas made by him in the Brandhorst museum of modern art in Munich. I remember the undertow it had on me. It was like I could fall right into it just to be encompassed by a womb made of calming blue. I get lost in my thoughts and before I notice it I get sucked in to my screen.  "CNN news is at the scene. Jake, what do you have for us?" - "It was a quite morning here in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, when the neighbours of 24 year old Tim Rheiner heard a weird noise from their neighbour's flat. According to police it could only be described as an engine rapidly accelerating and then exploding. When the police arrived there was nothing to be found in the rather messy flat. A switched on phone was found on the floor of the kitchen showing the infamous internet page reddit which recently became a major news story regarding the skyrocketing prices of the Gamestop share. No one seems to know about the remains of Mr Rheiner and police is looking for any information. Call .....


So idk if this is really that good or not. I just like stories like this they're so creative and it's interesting seeing a different perspective of humanity from someone else. I wanted to kind of explore what it would really mean to switch species so rapidly especially one so drastic going from a dog to a human. I sort of got inspired by family guy cuz you know talking dog so there might be a few references to it but not anything big. I also used the surgery from flowers for algernon to explain why Brian adjusted to the human world so quickly. But anyway without further ado here's the story if you like please comment or upvote if not tell me what I can do better and I'll do my best to fix it. BRIAN This wasn’t what he imagined when he discovered he had become a human. No this was not at all what he thought being human would be like. He still remembered that day how could he not it was the day he had in essence been born. He used to be a dog before the transformation well not quite a dog yet back then he was around 17 months in dog years but in human years in his late teens. When he stepped out of the small room where he had been transformed in he was surprised to see how young he was. Why in dog years he was just a few months away from becoming a dog and therefore taking over the responsibility of pack leader. It was a great honor to be a pack leader passed down from generation to generation their duty was to protect their family and home guarding it with their life and making sure everything was running smoothly. The closest thing he could compare it to in human terms would be a kind of chief like the ones who in the past before cities and towns developed who would watch over his people making important decisions and keeping his people safe. His father pack leader or rather the formal pack leader he should say was in his opinion terrible at his job and was a disgrace to the position. He wouldn’t help anyone else on the farm preferring to spend his days drinking weird-smelling water that he stole from the farmer and abandoning his duty to at least stay near the farm to hunt in the woods ten miles from any sign of civilization. He clenched his teeth at the memory of his father and wished for the millionth time that he could go back and dethrone him leaving the spot open for one of his brothers to take. He didn’t want to be pack leader at least no anymore. The human world for all it’s faults had opened his eyes and let him discover exactly how beautiful and exciting it really was. It made him smile sometimes at just how far he had come from the small puppy that was blind to anything but the farm and never even thought of leaving it to explore what else was out there to a human that was what many saw as an educated, handsome and polite young man. He had done a great many things in his nine years as a human. The man who invented the machine and in a sense created Brian had after two days to see if any accidental side effects or problems with changing a dog to a human elected to do an experimental surgery on him would increase his intelligence and make it so his brain would pick up on things quickly thereby making it so by the time he was ready to reverse the surgery and put him back to a normal human state he would have already learned enough about being human to function normally in society without anything that would point to him changing species at any time in his life. When he awoke from the second surgery two weeks later it was like he was a whole new person. Well not entirely a new person rather it was like he had suddenly gained a ton of new skills in such a short time that to the untrained eye it would seem like he was a new person. But he wasn’t he still had the same personality and traits he had as a dog just adjusted to fit his new human form. He was still just as loyal and protective as he was before only now it was a little bit dulled and confined to a select few people that he privately thought of as family considering his actual family had probably died off long ago. It wasn’t like he would know he hadn’t been back to the farm since his transformation not really seeing the point if they couldn’t understand him. In the back of his mind however he had a small lingering fear that the farm would be too different now after so much time had past all the animals being traded in for new ones the barn having new hay inside and perhaps a fresh coat of paint if the farmers grandkids decided to once they’ve inherited it after his passing. He was perfectly happy holding on to the memory of his past life not wanting it to be tainted by the new reality of the place. Deciding he was done with reminiscing on his past and that he'd really ought to pay attention to his present after all he had been invited to the opening of this gallery it would be a waste if he didn’t at least observe the pieces and strike up a conversation with some of the other patrons. He looked down at his glass of wine swirling it around in a lazy manner. He hated the stuff too bitter and fruity for his taste but it was served at events like these and he didn’t really care enough to ask for something different. He quickly scanned the room trying to find someone that might not mind his sad attempts at making small talk. That was one thing that he had never gotten rid of. He knew no matter how much he tried no matter how many classes he took and how many books he read he would never fully pass as a human. Even though he tried with educating himself (having to sacrifice his monthly check from Stewie the man who created him as what he called compensation for the trauma of swapping species without consent he didn’t really understand why he still sent him the money considering the fact that he clearly wasn’t traumatized by the ordeal and had even thanked the man quite a few times for bringing him into this strange new world but regardless he was happy enough with the money it paid for his education and what was left of it was more than enough for rent and basic necessities.) Dressing the part in many different types of clothes something he was still a little confused over (why did humans have to have so many different clothes seriously this one was for fancy events, this one was for dancing, this one was for outside and don’t even get him started on the gender thing. Why did it matter what was in their pants what did that have to do with the drapes of cloth they wore over their strange bipedal frame. It was too much of a headache for him to unravel the mystery of human clothing customs so he pawned off the responsibility to Stewie who luckily had a hobby of designing and shopping for outfits.) He kept his body in good shape as well wanting to make sure this body he had been gifted with would last as long as possible. (He actually didn’t mind this one playing sports was fun and reminded him of running through the forest and hunting a particularly clever squirrel or if he was lucky a rabbit.) He was pulled out of his thoughts by someone calling out his name. “Brian! I didn’t know you were here. I’m so glad you came. Are you enjoying the wine?” Brian smiled politely and felt himself beginning to relax. It was Tony one of the few people he called a friend and the only one he could actually have a conversation with without worrying if they thought him weird. “Hey Tony I just got here an hour ago where’ve you been I was starting to think I'd have to talk to these stuck up blue bloods that wouldn’t know Hemingway from Dickinson.” At this Tony laughed “Ah Brian you haven’t changed a bit. Oh I heard about your play a passing fancy good God man how do you do it I mean a five-star review from the New York theatre league, a sold-out house for weeks, and I heard even Oprah was talking about it on her show.” Brian rolled his eyes. “Oh really Oprah's shilling it now wow what a big accomplishment I’ve really made it now soon the seat'll be packed with wine drunk stay-at-home moms that follow the words of Oprah and Doctor Phil like they were Gospel.” Tony slung his arm around Brian's shoulder “Ah come on don’t be like that. Enjoy your success for once stop being so trapped in that big brain of yours and focus on the good parts of your work. I swear you get so caught up in the details and mistakes that aren’t there you can’t see what’s right in front of you. If I had half your talent I'd be filthy rich living it up in Hollywood going to parties every day of the week.” Brian chuckled softly as to not draw anymore attention to themselves even though Tony had a habit of stealing the show no matter where he went. Maybe that was why he was so drawn to him that tranquil spring day they met in advanced philosophy all those years ago only a year after he had first transformed. “Well some of us are more happy without millions of eyes on us and being surrounded by adoring fans that just want you for the money and your reputation. Besides I have enough money I’m not really inclined to get trapped in the capitalist system of greed and keeping up with the Joneses.” Tony let out a loud hyena sounding laugh clearly not caring if people stared and gossiped about them afterwards. “Oh Brian so shy and noble its one of the things I love about you but seriously man live in the moment for once you don’t have to run everything through an extreme moral and ethical test before you try it. Just have fun for once enjoy what you have and don’t dwell on what could have been. At least let me take you out to lunch and celebrate my treat I’ll even let you pick as long as it’s not that nasty burger place I swear I don’t know why you love that place so much they stuff their burgers to the brim with meat and then drown the thing in their secret sauce which is just cheesy barbecue sauce.” Brian shoved him playfully. “Hey they’re not that bad besides I know you like their fries and they have the best pies.” Tony smiled glad to see his friend finally lighten up a little bit too much time in that head of his would drive anyone crazy. “Ok ok I admit it they do have good fries and those pies are heaven but I still say the burgers are shit. Come on we can go after this boring things over. I thought this place was supposed to have good art and new pieces from talented newbies all I’m seeing is the same old paintings and statues I’ve seen millions of times in every art gallery in history. Seriously would it kill them to do something original for once I thought that was one of the most important parts of art doing something new and unique not just repeat what someone else did.” As Brian stood there listening to his friends mildly drunk rant about the sad state of the art industry and how it was a great injustice that they were removing all creative arts classes in schools replacing them with more test prep lessons and STEM courses he felt relaxed, happy almost. No wait definitely happy he could feel his foot tapping on the tile floor making quick taps that sounded like small pebbles hitting a glass windowpane. Foot tapping had been translated from tail wagging in the shift from dog to human. When he was sitting down his leg would shake instead rocking the whole table if he were sitting at one. Tony teased him saying he felt like an earthquake was happening every time he was happy. But Brian knew he didn’t mind just like he didn’t mind the long tangents he went into sometimes about whatever had caught his eye or more often than not his wrath. He grinned as he listened to Tony making some obviously well rehearsed but no less eloquent and captivating points about how important art was to the world and how more people needed to understand just how valuable it really was. Maybe even though it wasn’t what he expected being human would be like he got the feeling that this was where he was supposed to be.


“What is this place?” “Just a spot I found a while ago.” The pair of them sat on that wooden skeleton of a rooftop, facing the endless forest. She rubbed her shins every so often when the wind picked up and nipped at them. He cracked open the tall can he’d gotten. “I hope this is as good as you say it is.” “It’s stupid that guys have to conform to only drinking beer.” She chuckled. “I promise I won’t call you a pussy.” He slurped a little. “You know, beer fucking sucks.” She snickered. “This shit,” he said, holding up the can, “is *great.*” She cracked hers open. “What’d you get again?” he asked. “I always drink this. Spiked seltzer.” “I can’t believe I love canned margaritas.” He shook his head as he took another gulp. “But fuck, if this is the gold standard, I’m gonna have a *lot* more of them.” “You’re funny.” “So,” he said after swallowing. “Where do you live again?” “The other side of town,” she replied, nodding. “On Hurst.” “I’ve got a buddy that lives there.” He scoffed. “Well, he was a buddy.” “What do you mean? Who?” “Jimmy Kenning.” “Is it bad that I don’t know him?” He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He sipped from his margarita. “We used to make movies together.” “Movies?” “Yeah.” He chuckled. “They were stupid little short films, mostly.” He turned and looked at her. “But we were planning a feature. I spent a whole summer writing it and revising it and table-reading it with other friends.” He shook his head with a smile. “It was awesome.” “That *does* sound really awesome.” She raised her eyebrows. He nodded. “What happened with you two?” “Well, when it got time to shoot it…” He buried his face into his palm. “No, it’s stupid.” “Come on, I want to know!” She tugged at his arm. “Well, the whole thing with the script was that it focused on a closeted gay man.” He looked at her briefly, pausing. She nodded with a smile. “And he has this friend through all three acts. Well, actually, two and a half acts.” He took a quick gulp of his drink. “By the end of it, he confesses his love to this friend. Of course, before then, there are little hints and blips of foreshadowing that lead up to it.” “That’s sweet.” “It was my way of confessing my love for Jimmy. We were going to play the two leads.” She looked into his eyes. Hesitant. “O-oh. Does that mean you’re—” “Oh!” He laughed. “I’m bi. I didn’t totally fool or catfish you or whatever. I *promise.*” She laughed too. “You see, you’re accepting of that.” He shook his head, and the rippling trail of his smile faded. “Jimmy wasn’t.” “What did he do, if I can ask?” The silence came, then. It was sharp and hot and prickly, but in direct dissonance with the birds and teeming insects. “Well.” He bit his lip. “He read it and was really enjoying it until he got to that point.” \*\*\* They only ordered a couple of coffees—which they drank black, because that’s what artists do—and some soup. People who had jobs, lives, and actual schedules hurried about the diner and talked on cell phones with colleagues. They seemed above the two of them, on another plain of existence. Jimmy read the title again, his steaming cup to his lips. “‘The Disconnect.’” He raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head. Cameron rubbed his cup of coffee with a stiff thumb. The ceramic could fragment at any moment with that amount of pressure. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it.” “I did.” Jimmy scratched his chin. “Their relationship is so—” “It’s not one-dimensional, is it?” Jimmy chuckled. “No, not at all. I was gonna say the opposite, actually. It’s really authentic.” Cam sighed, shakily. He tried to shed at least one layer of anxiety. “Thanks.” “And, at first the end was a shock, but it made sense to me once I thought it over.” He exhaled. “I’m really impressed, Cam. It’s such a you piece.” “Thank you. It means a lot.” “Who’d you have in mind for casting?” He took a sip of coffee. “You thinking about doing a call?” “Well,” he began. “I was thinking *we* could fill the roles.” Silverware clinked. Someone’s cell phone rang and wouldn’t stop. Each sounding of the ringtone blared and blared in a crescendo. “Cam,” Jimmy began. He stared, perhaps to draw an admission of sarcasm. “You’re serious?” “I mean,” Cam rubbed the cup of coffee harder and faster, “I know how you feel about being on camera, but as artists, we need to push ourselves out of each other’s comfort zones and—” “What is this?” He shook his head, script in hand. “Seriously, what is this?” Cam looked at him, tears on the fringes and legs shaking. “I love you,” he said. Jimmy scoffed. “Are you fucking joking?” He buried his face in both hands, which rubbed. “Oh my god…” “Jimmy, I—” He lifted his head up, shooting a glare. *That* brought silence. “I can’t believe you.” Jimmy hurried to his feet. He tossed the script toward their booth vaguely, the pages flapping until they hit the tile floor. Cam felt the tears come. He rubbed his mug hard at first, before befalling to his emotions entirely. He gave his wet cheek to the table. *Idiot,* he told himself. *Why are you such an idiot?* \*\*\* “I’m over it, though.” Cam finished the margarita, throwing the can into the forest. “Fuck that guy.” “Wow,” she said, half-ignoring his remark. “You’re so brave.” “What? No, I’m not.” He shook his head vehemently. “The whole thing was just stupid.” “No, I really mean it, Cameron.” She smiled. “You didn’t have to tell me that, and you did.” “Like I said.” He sniffled. “I’m over it.” “It’s okay not to be, you know.” She sipped from her seltzer. “I have regrets from, like, eighth grade, still.” “Regrets?” “Yeah. More than just an embarrassing tattoo.” She rubbed her shins. “Which I do have.” “You’ve got to show me before the end of the night.” “Yeah, we’ll have to see about that,” she said through her teeth. “What actual regrets do you have, though?” he asked. She hesitated. Sighed. “I don’t know. A ton.” “You don’t have to share, of course. That goes without saying.” “I will though, I will.” She laughed. “You know it’s funny, Cameron.” “You can just call me ‘Cam’ by the way.” “Oh, okay. Well, Cam, I was going to say I just think it’s funny.” She giggled. “What is it?” “I don’t know!” she protested, still giggling. “I just feel like I’ve known you for a while.” “Yeah, me too.” His fingers raked his scalp. “Well, actually, it feels like I’ve known *you* for a while, not that I’ve known me for a while, because obviously I have.” She took a sip of seltzer, humming quirkily. “You’re working through that drink pretty slowly, even though I’ve been running my mouth this whole time.” “Do you want to help me finish it?” she asked, shoving the drink in his face. “Okay.” He took the can. “A night of firsts. Margaritas, online date, spiked seltzer; what else?” Cam chugged. “It’s my first online date too.” She scratched her cheek. “I was kind of hoping for just sex at first, but, I’m glad it’s turned into more than that.” “Me too,” he said quickly. “And holy shit, this seltzer’s made me even *gayer.*” She started laughing with her nose scrunched. “You’re fucking hysterical.” “Hey,” he began, turning stern all of the sudden. “Regrets. *Remember.*” “Okay,” she said, begrudgingly. \*\*\* That highway always looked the same. Even if the sun hit the asphalt from a clear sky, the road appeared muddy. There must’ve been construction underway for the better part of a decade, and the same orange cones sat there, collecting weather. Meaningless traffic. Just watching the rain patter against the windshield. Following the wipers whir and skid across the glass. Mundane. Irritating. “I really have to go?” she asked. Her mother huffed. “It would mean a lot to your father.” “I didn’t even know this guy.” “But you know your father, right? And if this means a lot to your father, then it should mean a lot to you, Abby.” She sighed. Impenetrable silence. The sort Abby couldn’t really fragment with any quip or rebuttal. How could anyone, really? Even if she conjured the most incredible weapon of a sentence, a swift lecture would follow. Her mother enjoyed those. “You’re not even going,” Abby said. Perhaps an argument she could defend would do. “I can’t help with your tuition if I’m not seeing these extra patients.” Abby sighed. “But that doesn’t mean you get to just blow Kevin’s wake off.” Her hands smacked the steering wheel between each sentence. “I know it’s your day off, and I know you’ve been having a tough time recently, but…” *A tough time.* Abby’s mother knew the mere surface. She had told her about the time she tried acid, but not about the weeks of unbearable depression or random bouts of anxiety that crashed into her. Plus, the acid didn’t really bother her like she said it did. She may had even tried it again. But that wasn’t the point. Abby didn’t want to open up to anyone, let alone her mother, who judged first and gave sound advice second. It was already enough work hiding the smell of cigarettes, which she started smoking to cope with all this. Everything was gaining ground on her. “Alright, sweetie?” Her mother’s tone had lightened since Abby started ignoring her. “Yup.” They got off the highway. Exit forty-two. There was a deli near the funeral home. Abby didn’t eat breakfast or lunch, so, a roast beef sandwich appealed to her stomach. Most of the time she forgot to eat, and even though it was six-forty-five, she really didn’t feel too ravenous. She could wait until tomorrow if she really wanted to. Abby watched the deli pass. But after a few more buildings, the funeral home appeared, with a hive of cars surrounding it. “Text me when you and your dad get home,” her mother said as Abby stepped out of the car. “I love you.” Abby shut the door. And after her mother drove away, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it. \*\*\* “I never said it back.” The night’s ambient symphony filled the silence. The slight breeze. The groaning of tree trunks and rippling of leaves. “My mom died on her way to work. Some piece of shit in a ‘72 Gran Torino totaled her car.” She finished her drink and threw the can away. “I’m sorry,” Cam said. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.” “It’s so selfish of me, too.” Abby scoffed. “And for what? A stupid day off?” “I think you blame yourself too much, if I can say.” Cam scratched his cheekbone. “It was just another ordinary argument. And, I don’t know how things were between you guys, but you probably would’ve had some animosity for a day.” She fended off tears. “Then you’d make up. Someone would apologize before the other person would.” He snickered. “She wouldn’t want to see you like this, Abby.” “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes with pulled down sleeves. “That really does help me. I mean it.” Sirens echoed in the distance, over the trees. “What happened with you and Jimmy after that?” “I haven’t talked to him since.” “It would be worth it to try.” She gazed into his eyes. “If not for his second chance, then for yours.” “You think I should?” “I do.” She nodded. “You can come over before or after you do it.” Abby smiled. “You know what street I’m on.” He laughed. “Yeah, I do.” \*\*\* It was a small, yellow ranch. The front screen hadn’t been replaced since he’d been there, and the front lawn was overgrown in the same places. That identical plastic fence held nothing but weeds out back. But he didn’t recognize the car. He remembered Jimmy’s parents always driving Audis. It didn’t matter what sort of financial drought they were trapped in. It was always Audis. Today, beneath a powdery blue sky laced with strands of clouds, a Honda sat in the gravel. Cam rubbed his jacket zipper with a stiff thumb. Faster as the seconds passed. He took a step forward, prepping himself for whomever may answer. They could’ve moved. Jimmy could have left Hurst street and the town and all of it to pursue something else. What if Cameron was the reason Jimmy diverged from the path of an artist? What if it was all his fault? He knocked, gentle at first, half-regretting his decision already. But when he realized the choice had already been made, he knocked harder and more pronounced. Cam exhaled, tapping his foot on their stoop excessively. “Oh god, what are you doing? What are you doing, Cameron?” he murmured to himself. The front door’s seal broke. Its hinges groaned as it opened further. “Cam?” “Hey.” He was thinner—no, leaner—than Cam had remembered. But Jimmy stood before him, mind and soul, in the same—albeit trimmed—shell. “H-how’ve you been?” Cameron rubbed his nose. “Good.” “Come in, man, come in.” Jimmy opened the screen for him, allowing Cam to step foot into his home. “I’ve missed you.” They stood in the foyer for a second, inspecting each other to reacquaint. And as Cameron lingered on his chest—on the text of his sweatshirt—he felt the swift embrace of Jimmy. “I’m sorry,” Jimmy said through a heavy throat. “I was such an idiot, then, *such* an idiot.” “It’s okay,” Cam said, wrapping his arms tight around him. “It *is,* Jimmy.” The pair of them stood, the house’s walls sputtering with sounds of pipes. “Come on,” Cam said. “I want you to meet someone.


# The Writer **How far would you go to tell the perfect story?** *Written by Gregory Patrick Travers* My therapist, Dr. Raymond, has cleverly deduced that I suffer from mild paranoia. But what the simple doctor does not understand is that I am not paranoid, I am prepared. You see, it is all a matter of perception. Dr. Raymond’s reality was a linear one; he saw things in the first person, subjectively, in a straight line. I, on the other hand, saw reality in the third person, objectively, as the narrator, with a birds-eye view, scanning the entirety of reality’s infinite depth and possibilities. And that being the case, along with the knowledge of the sins in my past, my fear of being tracked down and plotted against was not one of paranoia, but of sound logic. Much of that fear drives from guilt, I am sure. It is the little bit of human feeling left in me that clings to man’s etiquette, believing I should answer for the crime I committed. I saw a priest who told me that feelings of paranoia are signs of the guilty soul screaming for confession. But God has seen what I have done and on my day of judgment if He cannot see the reasoning to my actions, well, then He is just as short-sighted as Dr. Raymond. Until that day I remain, Grant Hull–New York Times Bestseller. The author of “Held Up”, critically praised as, and I quote, “The most realistic depiction of the life of a bank robber in our time.” My book has given me literary recognition, public praise and wealth beyond my wildest expectations. Does this not prove even as we punish and imprison the thieves, rapists, and murderers that society secretly has a passionate yearning to swim in the dark thoughts of society’s most evil creations? The publishing industry knows this and year after year they publish weak attempts to capture the life of society’s darkest. The books are penned by authors who pull their research from dramatic fiction or Hollywood movies. But when these “authors”, if that is what they choose to call themselves, draw upon inauthentic sources like Hollywood they produce an inauthentic story. Then, the game of broken telephone begins and author after author draws upon the inauthentic stories before him, creating an even more far-fetched attempt to capture the essence of the bank robber, the rapist, the murderer. But those books will come and go, making a small profit but quickly forgotten in the collective consciousness of society. I wished not to be just another waste of paper but one of the great writers of our time–Of *all time*. If you look at the great authors of the past, such as Charles Dickens with *Oliver Twist*, or George Orwell with *Down and Out in Paris and London;* two undeniably honest commentaries on economic, social and moral abuses of the ruling class–these works only achieved such high levels of authenticity from the authors actually *taking* to the slums and *living* with the down and out characters they would eventually reflect in their books. To write great literature it is imperative that you know your characters *intimately*. When I first created my protagonist, he was so far from my country boy persona I couldn’t relate to the character. Jimmy, my bank robber, was a down and out kid from the Bronx who could no longer stand his bottom-of-the-list place in society, and so, turns to a life of crime. I didn’t know a thing about city life or desperation–so I researched. I read every book on bank robberies I could find, I watched every heist movie there ever was, I listened to every gangster rap album I could get my hands on. I learned much about the topic and it helped me to create much more depth and authenticity to Jimmy and the characters around him. For example, I had originally intended Jimmy to burst into the bank guns blazing, wearing a gorilla mask and telling everyone to, “Get the fuck on the floor!” while shooting off a couple rounds into the ceiling. In the movies, this seemed pretty standard, but in real life Hollywood’s portrayal of the bank robbery is heavily flawed and out of date. Bank security has come a long way over the years. Maybe in the 1920s John Dillinger and his gang could burst into a bank with guns drawn and stick around long enough to shoot it out with police, but not today. In today’s banks each teller has a panic button under the desk, so it was imperative that at all times throughout the robbery the only person who knew the bank was being robbed was the single teller, and only when Jimmy was close enough to her to monitor her hand and knee movements. The best way to achieve that would be with a simple note handed to the teller once he was called from the line. Do you see how much research helps create authenticity? But these were things any and every author would do in preparation for their story. I didn’t want to be just *any* author. I knew I needed a more aggressive approach if I was to be remembered with the likes of an Orwell or a Dickens. Over a scotch in a hotel lobby, I came to terms that the only way to capture the raw energy of a bank robbery was to actually rob a bank. I chose a Royal Bank across town as the target. At first, I just stood in the lobby and watched. I watched the customers, I watched the tellers, I watched the cameras–I even watched the half-dead security guard habitually putter about back and forth before he eventually found peace in a plastic seat next to the front entrance. Nowadays, banks don’t carry much cash in the drawers and I did not have the equipment or the manpower to try and successfully take the vault. But again, from my research on bank security measures, I knew that most tellers kept a “robbery bag” around that they were to give to the robber if ever faced with the situation. That’s what I wanted to leave with. I knew the bills were marked but I didn’t care, I wasn’t going to spend any of it. It wasn’t for the money; it was for character research. I needed to witness the look of fear in the teller’s eyes when I handed her the note threatening to kill her if she did not co-operate. I had to document the doubts and second-thoughts that would race through my head just before handing her the note. I needed to experience the pounding heartbeat and surge of adrenaline I would feel as I walked out the front door with that heavy bag of bills. And so, on a chilly day in September, I walked into that Royal Bank on Main St. and stood in line. I wore a hat, sunglasses, and a fake mustache to disguise myself from the recording cameras. One by one, I watched the person in front of me break from line and approach the teller until, all too quickly, it was my turn to step forward. I kept my hand steady while handing her the note that warned her I was armed and would shoot if she made any signals or reached for the panic alarm. It instructed her to give me the robbery bag and everyone would be safe. The moments from when I handed her the letter to when she gave me the bag under her desk were the most intense. The fifteen or so seconds it took seemed like an eternity. I thought my heart was going to beat right through my chest and land in her lap. It was not so much the *teller* that had me so on edge, she was scared and I knew they were trained to co-operate. It was the customers behind me. I was sure one of them had seen me hand over the note and would attack me from behind, but I couldn’t look behind me without arousing suspicion from security and I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off the teller’s hands. Finally, she reached over the kiosk and handed me the unmarked bag, holding in her tears to the best of her ability. I turned and, bursting with elation and disbelief, quickly walked through the front door, passing the senior security guard who may or may not have been taking a quick midday nap. I couldn’t say for sure, all I could see was the street outside–complete tunnel vision. Once outside, I walked around to the back of the building where the taxi I had arrived in waited for me on a back street, completely unaware of what had just happened. He dropped me off at a McDonald's a few blocks down where I disposed of my disguise in the bathroom garbage before hopping on a bus back to my neighborhood to count the score. Now that I had experienced the rush of criminality I was ready to translate my recent enlightenment to paper and bring Jimmy from the Bronx to life. I understood him now. As I wrote the novel I was constantly expecting the police to come to my work, or come to my home, and take me off to jail…but they never came. Three months after the book’s completion, with a little luck and a great agent, “Held Up” became a New York Times Best Seller and I had hit the big time. I did not need to spend the cash from the robbery; I was selling millions of books. Why? Because readers recognize authenticity. They really do. I had trouble during the book tour though. I was forced to grab a pushy fan by the throat to remind him of who he was disrespecting. I don’t deal well when dealing with the *readers*. The ones who read my story, living my experiences vicariously, never having enough guts to go out and do what I did. They used my experiences to escape their dreary, safe, and pointless lives. How I loathe them. But it was this incident, during a book signing in Los Angeles, that my publishers came together and decided I needed to see a therapist, throwing Dr. Raymond, uninvited, into my life, to accuse me of this paranoia. Things are better now that the book tour has ended and I am back in the comfort of my writing studio. Just the other day I received a call from my agent letting me know the publishers green-lit my next novel proposal. With the recent popularity of the murder mystery genre, I have decided to create a story from the point of view of the killer. Genius, is it not? I am happy to say, I have already begun my research.


Revenge, oh sweet revenge. How bittersweet it feels to hurt the one who undermines you. The quench and thirst to rip the life out of another as they watch you do so. To see their life tear one by one, devouring his soul as everything he ever loved and cared for is taken away. To know that he can’t do anything but watch as it torments what made him human. To watch him struggle through those ropes, using any resources he can. Going from resisting to knowing he can’t do anything. He falls to the ground, empty like a living corpse, lifeless on the ground with eyes open so wide, it would look like a golf ball popping out. Not one tear is shed. For he is no longer human, but a collection of dolls waiting for the grave. Its been years since my guilty pleasure, my last victim that ravages this world, and im growing bored. It appears that im developing symptoms for this sport of mine, and im starting to get an itch for blood. There’s just no more people, no more men that corrupt this world. Are they hiding? Scared? Or maybe im getting too old. I can’t take it anymore, every person I see is like a cattle to be killed, a fox to be shot, a pest that swarms this oh so depressing world, but maybe im just blind. Maybe they are just hiding amongst the trash, scavenging for another victim. Am I falling for this play, this act, this attempt to fool an old man that devoted his life to destroy who seeks to sin upon this world? I probably am. Im watching, for they do not see me. Like the king of the jungle, I watch my prey, I learn their every move, their daily activities. Lurking in the dark as they continue with their daily life, not knowing of what is next. Clueless, stupid, unaware. In public, they hide under a sheet of innocence while and night they wash in denial. They know they are trash, but they object to that every ideal. They are not supreme, they are just cans left with drops of liquor, waiting for someone to throw them in. I will do the deed, I will throw them in, I will be the one to get my hands dirty to rid of all sins. To wait is just part of the fun, but the real enjoyment is to know they didn’t see it coming. So I wait and wait. All for that moment where the world stops and my time is ready. 8 she wakes up, 9 she walks to work, 4 she stops to the sound of the fizzling steps that surround her every being. It is only a matter of time, a matter of patience. Does she notice yet? Is she nervous? Or is she scared! Strike I say, and strike I do, oh I do. The enjoyment, the pleasure, the undeniable boost of dopamine I feel to rip apart her soul, her inner being. To watch her face as she realises what happens, but she knows, oh she knows she can’t do anything, anything at all. Her face rolls over, and her mouth opens just enough to utter a word. A word I haven’t thought of till now. “Why,” she says in a whispering manner. You could feel her life force fading from her as she mouths that word. What do you mean why? You are trash, aren’t you? I kick her, punch her, stab her endlessly as I say wake up. I needed her to respond to me, I needed to ask her why she said that, but it’s too late. For she is dead. I sat in that room in a still figure, staring at her lifeless body, and thought about her last words for the whole night. I knew then and there that I was the trash, I was the scum of society, the dirt that fleets around the sewers. 2 choices is all I had, and those 2 choices were my last. To go back into society and forget the past or to rid myself in disgust, but of course, I knew the decision. \Let me know what you guys think of this story! It was for school.


My friend wrote some of this i added to it hence the name We head down the bridge together and for once I felt happiness. It was all over. We had won. I grip Roman’s hand tightly as we head down the bridge. We have been through so much together and finally, we get to enjoy the time together. We laugh about all that’s happened. We sit in the middle of the bridge watching the sunrise. The sunshine always made me feel warm and bright. I look into Roman’s eyes as his sea-green eyes twinkle in the light like the water below us. “So Maya, it’s finally finished,” He says his voice as deep and soft as always. “Yes we can finally rest now and watch the sunshine,” I say giggling with excitement. His face is happy but sad at the same time. I am perplexed and ask him what’s wrong. “Nothing just finally happy I get to spend my time with you,” He says his face going colder and colder. I put his hand on his cheek to see if he’s just not feeling right. He chuckles and holds it. “Your hands were always cold weren’t they” He laughs softly. “Yeah sorry about that but now you’re cursed with them” I giggle. He holds my hand tighter. “You know Maya I always loved you,” He tells me when I try to speak he puts his hands on my lips stopping me. “I know you didn’t love me and that’s fine I just, well just wanted you to know,” He says stammering and shaking. It’s almost as if this is goodbye. At that moment I see a bullet whoosh past me. But it wasn’t aiming for me I realise as Roman slowly becomes soaked in blood. I start to scream telling him to hold on. “It’s too late Maya” He stutters in pain. I refuse to believe it but the reality starts to become true as my hands drenched in blood. “What do I do!”I howl in panic. “You can only do one thing, Maya,” He says his voice remaining as soft “Sing” As the tears roll down my face I do the one thing Roman always wanted me to do: sing. ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy’ I start, the lump in my throat making it difficult to get the words out ‘When skies are grey’ he finishes with a small smile, wiping my tears away weakly with one hand as the other clutches the gaping bullet wound in his stomach. ‘You’ll never know dear’ ‘How much I love you’ I brush the hairs back from his forehead and gently stroke the curls as Romans breath hitches and he begins to tremble lightly, his once, vibrant sea-green eyes dull with fear and pain. Tears flowing freely from both of us now. I stutter the last line of the song, my heart dropping with every word. ‘Please don’t take ... my sunshine ... away’ I take one last look into Romans eyes before the light within them fades and his body goes limp. I gently close his eyes and lightly press a kiss to his forehead, he’s cold as stone already. Just like that, quick as falling asleep; my best friend is gone. Exhausted and sobbing, I lay down beside him pulling his cold body close to my chest and we lay side by side, together, from dusk till dawn. 2 weeks later The sun is beginning to set as I walk down the cobbled streets to the cemetery, every stone and cracked pavement threatening to trip me up. I stumble towards the headstone, not yet cracked or greying, under the willow tree surrounded by nature, exactly how he would have wanted it. I sit beside the headstone leaning against it as I start to sing: ‘You were my sunshine My only sunshine You made me happy When skies were grey You never knew dear How much I loved you Why did you take my sunshine away?’ My eyes burned and my lip trembled as I fought to keep the tears at bay, but sure enough, 16 years worth of memories started to roll down my face and drop to the soil beneath me. I lay my head on top of the stone and doze off, and there I stay ...


In the night chill of a bitter December, two boys fled through the narrow back alleys of New York City, the taller one carrying a duffel bag in one hand and tugging the smaller boy along behind with the other. They tore through the eternal detritus of the city between dark brick walls forever stained with ancient graffiti, their ragged shoes splashing up water as they ran across puddles from the previous night’s rain. “They’re over here!” a voice called from behind them. “Shit, shit, shit,” said the older boy between exhausted breaths. They skidded around a corner into the next alley, the darkness swallowing them whole. “My feet hurt, Riley,” said the younger boy. Riley stopped abruptly, the younger boy slamming into his side. “In here,” he said, lifting the lid to a dumpster and tossing the duffel bag inside. “Quick!” He put a hand out and the younger boy stepped on it and pulled himself up and over the wall of the dumpster. Riley followed, his foot slipping on some grease before tumbling inside onto piles of full garbage bags and shutting the lid. “It smells real bad in here, Riley.” “Shh, keep quiet.” “What are we keeping quiet for, Riley?” “I said shh!” Footsteps approached from outside the dumpster, the soles of their shoes slapping against the wet pavement. “Where the hell did they go?” a voice said. “Little shits are probably back on the street by now. We’ll find ‘em. Come on,” said another voice, their footsteps disappearing into the distance. “Can we go now? It smells real, real bad in here.” “Not yet. Let’s just wait a while. Do you have your notebook with you?” The younger boy produced a small black notebook from his jacket pocket. “Good. You can make some drawings while we wait. Here’s your flashlight,” said Riley, handing it to the younger boy. Riley unclipped his own from his belt loop, clicked it on and unzipped the duffel bag. Stacks of cash spilled out, each marked with one thousand dollar bands. “Oh my god. There’s like $20,000 in here,” he said, running his hand through the bag. “We can finally leave this rat hole.” “Look what I drawed, Riley,” said the younger boy, holding up his notebook containing a crude sketch of a stick man floating in space with stars dotted around him. “Drew, Spaceboy. Not drawed. Do you remember how old you are? Can’t be talking like a little kid anymore.” Spaceboy held up nine fingers and grinned. “Almost. One more. You just had a birthday, remember?” Spaceboy extended his thumb and started clapping. “That’s right,” said Riley, smiling. “But keep quiet.” “Do you like my drawing, Riley?” “Of course I do. I always like your drawings. What else you got?” Spaceboy smiled and flipped the notebook back to the first page; on it was a similar drawing to the last: a boy floating in space with a bubble for a helmet, a big wavy smile across his face and surrounding him were the stars Riley had taught him how to draw. “This one is me.” He flipped the page and again it was almost identical, but the person had long hair. “This one is Mommy.” He paused a moment looking at the sketch and Riley was sure he was going to cry, and wasn’t entirely sure he could hold back his own tears. For Spaceboy, heaven was a place in outer space, and Riley very much liked that idea. He put a hand over the page and looked at him. “Now that we have money, we can get you proper markers instead of that ratty old pen. You can make it look like real space. What do you think?” Spaceboy broke into a smile again. “Yeah!” Pointing his flashlight up towards the black dumpster lid, Riley looked at the specks of debris glued there, some dripping down onto the bags in the winter condensation. “Look, Spaceboy. Stars.” Spaceboy looked up and smiled. “Wow! Are they real, Riley?” “Not quite. But it’s pretty, isn’t it?” “Real pretty.” Riley piled the cash back into the duffel and zipped it back up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He peered through a small gap between the dumpster and lid, and when he was sure the alley was empty, he lifted it and leapt out, helping Spaceboy down after him. He was nearly to the street when he looked back to see Spaceboy was still by the dumpster, looking up to the empty black sheet spread out beyond the ethereal glow of the city lights - the starless New York City sky. “Do you think we’ll ever see real stars, Riley?” “Yeah,” said Riley, smiling. “Yeah, I think we will. Stick with me. Space men don’t ever leave each other, right?” “Never.” They came out of the alley on E 90th and sprinted south towards 86th, the accusing yellow eyes of the street lights burning their dark skin. “I’m tired, Riley,” said Spaceboy. “I know, I know. I am too. Not much further.” They arrived at 86th and Lexington out of breath and dripping with sweat, even in the cool December air. “Hey! They’re over here!” a voice called out from behind them. “No, no!” said Riley. He gripped his brother’s hand and they continued towards the subway station stairs. “Get the hell back here!” Riley looked back at the shadowy figure chasing them through the evening gloom, a gun in one hand aimed towards them. “Spaceboy, get in front of me!” Riley pulled Spaceboy in front of him and pushed at his back as they weaved between cars. A gunshot rang out - thunderous in the streets. It pinged against the metal subway station railing. Both boys ducked and kept running, tearing down the stairs and nearly slipping on the slick pavement at the bottom. Green pillars whooshed by like concrete trees as they ran. Another shot came from behind them as they leapt over the turnstile, reverberating against the graffiti-covered station walls and piercing their eardrums. Spaceboy covered one of his ears with his free hand. “It’s loud, Riley!” The rumble of a subway train shook the ground as it screeched to a halt next to them, its doors opening with the sound of clanging metal. “Get in!” Riley shouted and shoved Spaceboy inside. Another bullet shattered the window next to them, the raining glass glistening silver under the humming fluorescents like spilled mercury. “Go, dammit, go!” The door shut and the train hissed back to life. The boys heard their pursuer yelling something, his voice trailing off into the distance as the train barrelled onwards through the tunnel. Riley threw the duffel bag onto one of the seats and slumped down next to it. He felt a sharp pain and a cool wetness tugging at his t-shirt as his back touched the metal. Tentatively, he peeled the fabric off his tender skin and brushed his fingers over the wound, wincing. “Aw, no.” “You okay, Riley?” said Spaceboy, scribbling away in his black notebook. “Yeah, I’m okay.” They got off at 116th in East Harlem and hailed the first taxi they saw. It pulled up to the street corner and Riley guided Spaceboy inside before stepping in himself, wincing and holding his back as he squeezed in next to him. Sweat coated his forehead and dripped down from his nose onto the duffle bag. The cabbie looked at him from the rearview mirror. “You alright there, kid?” “Do you have a map?” The cabbie dug through his glove compartment and handed Riley a folded, coffee-stained map. Scanning it with his finger, he left a trail of red up north to the Bronx - looking for anything green and far. “We need to go to Woodlawn Cemetery.” “I ain’t goin’ that far, kid. My day’s almost up.” Riley unzipped the duffel bag and handed the man one of the stacks. He looked back at Riley, shrugged and put the car in gear. “Alright, boys. Buckle up.” Riley watched through the window as the street lights drifted by in a ghostly haze, his vision clouded by sweat. Spaceboy’s eyes were still firmly fixed on whatever he was drawing in his notebook. “Hey, you got any markers?” Riley asked the cabbie. “I got a couple Sharpies. That good enough?” “Yeah, give them to me.” The cabbie passed him the markers. “Here, Spaceboy. These should help,” he said, handing them over. Spaceboy looked at his big brother and smiled before popping off the lid to his new Sharpie. The night became darker the further they got from the city, as did Riley’s vision. He struggled to keep his eyes open as the low hum of the engine nearly lulled him to sleep. *Can’t sleep, can’t sleep.* He counted the gradually slowing beats of his heart to keep himself awake until finally, the car came to a stop. “End of the line, boys.” Riley stumbled out with the duffle bag and looked back at the stain he’d left on the seat. Spaceboy still scribbled away even as he stepped out of the car. They came out before a gate and Riley tossed the duffle bag over it with some strain. He boosted Spaceboy over first before attempting it himself. His stomach lurched as he kicked his leg over and fell to the pavement on the other side. Drool dripped from his jaw and his back burned in protest. “Are you okay, Riley?” Riley picked himself up and swung an arm over Spaceboy’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.” They walked over rolling green hills decorated with grey gravestones of varying shapes and sizes - angels and tombs and plain small ones. To Spaceboy, it looked like they were in one of those old black and white horror films he despised so much. Spaceboy held Riley up as they went. His breathing had become shallow and hoarse. “Up that hill. We can stop there.” Riley tumbled from his brother’s arms in between gravestones as they reached the top of the treeless hill. Spaceboy sat next to him and opened his notebook to the page he was working on. Riley rolled onto his back and looked up into the sky. “Hey, Spaceboy. Look up,” he said and coughed. Spaceboy did. Snowflakes drifted down from the still night sky like thousands of white-hot meteors tumbling through space. “Stars.” Spaceboy wiped his face as they fell to his skin in tiny droplets, some falling onto his drawing. “Are they real, Spaceboy? I’m not dreaming?” Spaceboy hesitated and looked down at his big brother; his eyes were half open and snow rained down on his sweating face. “They’re real, Riley.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I knew we could see them from here.” “I drew you a picture, Riley. It got kinda messed up though.” Spaceboy handed his notebook to Riley who took it with trembling hands. The page was almost completely black, save for the two figures clad in space suits floating in the middle; one with long hair and the other with none. It reeked of Sharpie. Wet marks dotted the paper, leaving small splotches of grey in the black ink like dim stars. “It’s you and Mommy.” Riley looked at it a long while before tearing out the page and slipping it into the pocket of his tattered jeans. “I’m gonna take it with me and show the other spacemen.” “Where are you going, Riley?” Riley pointed up to the starless sky. “Up there. To the stars.” “But spacemen never leave each other, remember?” “Well, sometimes they go to other planets.” Spaceboy wiped his eyes. “I guess so.” Riley handed him back the notebook and took his brother’s hand. Smiling, he closed his eyes. His breathing had become even more shallow, but the ache in his back was little more than a faint echo of pain now. Behind the darkness of his eyelids, he saw stars. “Goodnight, Spaceboy.