￼ By C. N. Martin If I’d been given the choice between a punch in the face or a kick to the mid-section, I’d have gone with the punch. Ten years and fifty pounds ago my choice would’ve been different. That was before the beer belly, before I’d gone soft in the middle. I could’ve taken a kick back then. I’d have been more concerned with losing a tooth out of my pretty face than a cracked rib. A moot point I suppose, as the choice wasn't mine. I was gifted both. It was a fitting final jab at a life lived poorly. Bill was about my height, thicker around the middle and strong. He pulled me off the ground and walked me over to the side door and set me against the wall. “Joe, you okay, man? What happened?” “A meth-head asked me for a smoke, I told him I didn’t have any.” “He didn’t believe you?” “Apparently not,” I said. “You need a doctor or anything? You want me to call someone?” “No. No thanks. I’m good.” I pulled a Marlboro from the near-empty pack in my front pocket. My tongue pressed against the loosened molar and wiggled it, coating my taste buds in metallic booze-thinned brine. A cough rushed up my chest and I spat the blood into the rusted can of Folgers on the ground. The ache and stabs of pain crackled through my body like the cellophane around the misshapen pack of cancer sticks. It would have been much worse if I’d been sober. I lit the cigarette. At first I thought it was the soreness in my ribs that kept me from getting a good draw, but I was wrong. I hadn’t noticed the tear in the paper where the tobacco met the filter. Fuck it. I tore off the end, took a few puffs and threw the remainder in the coffee can. “All right, well I have to get back in. I got thirsty people in there. Let me know if you change your mind.” Bill put his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe as usual, and flicked the butt toward the bike rack where a little patch of dirt had become an unofficial ashtray. “Yeah, I’m heading back in, too,” I said. “I’ll finish my beer and get out of your hair.” “Stay as long as you like, brother.” The Corner was far enough away from the bustle of J Street that tourists from suburbia made only a rare appearance. They only came to midtown for the trendy brew pubs and coffee shops. This was a locals-only kind of place, my home away from home. Three blocks up, and three over and I was there. I shuffled in behind Bill, walked past the pool table, and into the bathroom. I hated that bathroom. The kitchen was the next room over and the heat poured through the paper-thin wall like a furnace. It was stifling even on a cold night, and the busted fan ensured that it always smelled like day-old piss. Its white walls and bright light were a stark contrast to the rest of the bar’s mood lighting and black paint. It was clinical without the cleanliness. After a couple of less than gentle taps from my fist, the dispenser coughed out a small mound of granulated soap. I pressed the chalky substance into my skin and washed the dirt from my hands and face. Shattered pieces of mirror clung to yellowed glue and cracked paint on the wall over the sink. I took an extra moment to examine my unexpected dental work in my reflection before I walked back to my customary seat at the end of the long mahogany bar. Tracy was right where I’d left her. “Bill told me what happened. Are you okay?” She ran her fingers through my hair and gave my scalp a quick scratch. “You need a haircut.” “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got sucker punched, and yes, I know I need a haircut.” I pointed to a heavy shot glass that sat next to the beer I’d left before I went outside. It was filled with a beautiful, amber colored liquid. “What’s this?” “It’s Buffalo Trace, from Bill. He poured it for you when you were in the bathroom. I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.” Tracy knew a lot about a lot of things. She had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. She was a slave to just about every form of music, and she often spoke in movie quotes. Her curves fit her frame in just the right way and her style made her seem like a classic pinup girl from an old black and white poster made real. I’d never cheated on my woman. It was a principle thing and I suppose in a way I even loved her. But I’d thought about it, and I’d often thought about it with Tracy. Tracy was sex. She was all those things and more, but she was strictly a beer drinker and she didn’t know shit about bourbon. Truthfully I didn’t know much about it either, other than the fact that I liked it. That may not have been the best bourbon in the world, but it was damn sure better than the Canadian Mist that sat in the well. I raised the glass high as my ribs would allow. “Thanks, Bill.” The shot worked its way with the tender, caring burn of a well-remembered friend. “No problem,” he said. “You earned it.” He smiled and went about his business. Bill was studious in his work. Even on a slow Tuesday night he buzzed around the bar, wiped down the counter and polished glass after glass. He even made the occasional drink or two for the regulars. If it was busy I’d play the good patron and collect empty glasses from the tables and bring them up to the bar to help him out. It wasn’t busy. There was an odd quiet in the air, broken only by the infrequent cracking sound that came from the pool table in the back where Mike was practicing. “Give me a dollar for the juke box.” Tracy opened her palm to me. “It’s time to learn you some more music.” It’d come as quite the surprise to her that I didn’t own any music, or a stereo, and that the radio in my car was tuned to either sports talk, or NPR. It came as an even bigger shock when she’d found out I actually played a little guitar. The calluses that once graced my fingertips were long gone, and I wasn’t good by any stretch of the imagination. But I used to make a habit of teaching myself new things. Guitar had been one of them. She’d accused me of being a music hater, and while that wasn’t true, I clearly didn’t love it either. So she made it a point to school me on various bands and singers. I was especially bad about linking a band’s name to the title of whatever song was playing. There were five singles in my pocket, my net worth. It was all hers. I put the wrinkled wad of cash in her hand and she practically bounced the five-something feet to the jukebox. She hummed and bobbed her head side to side as she picked out a handful of songs. Her fingers flew across the touch screen faster than I could read the menu options, or what she’d keyed in. She caught me trying to peek, frowned and rolled her shoulder up to block the view. I turned my attention back to the beer in front of me. The vibrating sound of hard plastic against key and coin caught my attention and I pulled the phone from my pocket. I could never remember the zigzag pattern on the nine button lock, so I’d gone with a number password instead. Zero-seven-one-three. The German had sent me a pointed message. The text read: Tomorrow. 8pm. Your place. When I’d first met the man I was more than a little surprised at his brown skin, and the tattoo of the holy mother on his forearm. The matte black Dickies that hung loose around his waist and the plain white T-shirt he wore didn’t exactly scream of central Europe either. An acquaintance had told me he was given the alias because of his middle name, Klaus. Supposedly his grandfather was on the wrong side during World War II and eventually fled to South America. Twice I’d gotten extensions on the money I owed him, and all the while the juice had been running. And with those extensions came inflation. Two thousand became five. Five became ten. I’ve seen you at the poker table, he said. This shouldn’t be a problem for you. After my first couple missed payments I started to wonder if his nickname came from his sadistic predilection for dishing out pain. Twice he’d used a rubber mallet in an effort to collect; once on my left hand, once on my right knee. He reminded me that I didn’t really need those to bet, or fold. Perhaps his Nazi heritage wasn’t so dubious after all. I stuffed my phone away as Tracy meandered her way back. She raised her hands to the air, fingers and thumbs pressed together like the conductor of some grand orchestra. The music rolled in like a storm for the next two minutes. Thunder clapped over the speakers first. It was followed by the sound of leather boots making a slow march down a long gravel road. It was the sound of the old west. A solo guitar sprang up a sad, one-string-at-a-time ballad. Then there were drums, more thunder, and then humming in tune with a violin. Tracy was anxious; she wanted me to guess what song it was. She tried to coax the answer from me with a stare, shrugged shoulders and a waiting smile. I already knew the title. Of the few songs I did know, this was my second or third favorite. It might have been my first, either way it was up there. I waited until the last possible moment, and blurted out the answer before the lyrics came on. “Short Change Hero, by The Heavy.” “Yeah,” she yelled. “Get this man another beer.” Her hand whipped into the air to signal Bill we were ready for another round. “Guess you’re not leaving after all,” Bill said with a smile. His laugh had a short, choppy cadence, and it carried less bass than one would expect from a man with a neck as thick as his. It was a good laugh. He set the beer onto the bar in front of us and let the coasters soak up the foam that overflowed from the pint glasses. “That’ll be five dollars. Whose tab?” Tracy made a motion with her hand as if she were swatting away the question. “I got this one.” “Thanks,” I said. “Well you’ve had a rough day. I’ll tell you what; if you can guess the next two songs I’ll buy the next beer as well.” With my head cocked sideways I shot her a skeptical, bleary-eyed glance. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to guess the next two. “And if I get them wrong?” “Then nothing,” she said. “It’s just a reward if you get the right answers.” We sat and drank and laughed at little things for the next few minutes. We listened to the rest of the song, and for a moment everything that was wrong didn’t seem to matter. In the end though, she couldn’t see where I was coming from, and the Corner was no place for heroes. I managed to guess the next song as well. I’d seen a special on ESPN about Seattle fans chanting an elongated “Wilson” whenever their quarterback took the field. The opening bass lines of a song that shared his name brought the same response they received at a Phish concert. I told Tracy about it. She called it cheating. “Of course you only remember it because of football.” “Whatever works,” I said. If I’d won that battle, I lost the next. I’d guessed the song correctly; it was “Where Is My Mind” by the Pixies. Only I didn’t say it was by the Pixies, I’d said it was by the Pete Box. I was wrong of course. It was close enough for Tracy that she honored her bet, and Bill brought me one last pint. I took it down in three deep gulps. The clock on the wall showed 1:30am. Late for a work night, not that I was actually going in the next day. All the same, it was about time for me to get down to business. Tracy gave me a kiss on the cheek, I shook Bill’s hand goodbye, and waved at Mike from across the bar. The corner of the building was rounded, and made of thick glass bricks with a door that pointed a person to the intersection as they walked out. I’d always walked out that door when I left and I let the door lock behind me for one last time. I pulled a smoke from my pocket, and made sure it was intact before I fired it up. The draw was smooth and satisfying. The burn in the back of my throat was different from the bourbon, but it was just as familiar. The flickering neon sign above me set the shadows of the surrounding trees dancing on the blacktop. It was a silent dance, save the light whip of the pan flute wind against the leaves, and the beating drum in my chest. I stood there for a time and watched, mesmerized by the rhythm, and pondered my fate. I’d had the ten thousand just the night before. Twelve hours I’d spent grinding the table at the Poverty Ridge Poker Room, and I’d been killing it. The nervous, sweaty stench of a bluff stood out more than the obvious strength of a high pocket pair before the flop. I’d tripled my money. Then the whale sat down with a fat rack of chips and just enough skill to lose it. Of course I had aces. Every bad beat story starts with aces. I bet big, he called. The ace of hearts hit the flop with an eight of clubs, and a two of spades. I pushed hard and bet a thousand at a pot of eight hundred. I had the money I needed. I just wanted to end the hand and go home with a little extra. He should’ve gone away, but instead he did the wrong thing and pushed all his chips toward the middle of the table. Maybe he had an ace with a high kicker like a king or a queen. Maybe he called the raise with the dead man’s hand, ace-eight, and made two pair. Either way I was good. I called the all-in because that’s what you’re supposed to do. He turned over his cards and showed me his pocket twos; my best possible three of a kind, against his worst possible three of a kind. Of course he hit a two on the river. Every bad beat story ends on the river. My mind was already set on doing the right thing, that’s why I’d taken the day off. I’d wanted to see as much of my family, and as many of my friends as I could. I owed, and one way or another I was going to pay. I’d thought about running, but I’d given Tracy my last five dollars and the half-tank of gas in the Honda wouldn’t get me very far. The German would have found me anyway, or hurt people I cared about if he couldn’t. I really had only two choices. I could’ve waited for him to show up with his crew, but that would’ve ended badly. It would’ve been messy. He would’ve made an example of me, and he would’ve done it slowly. I didn’t want my folks or my sister to see what was left after something like that. The alternative was to do it myself, but I didn’t want people to think I was sad or desperate. I didn’t want any clean-up. That limited my options. No. The best kind of death I could hope for was an embarrassing one. David Carradine came to mind, the guy that played Caine, from Kung Fu. I thought about tying a belt around my neck with my pants around my ankles. It would’ve been pathetic, but it wouldn’t have been painful. It would’ve looked like an accident of sexual deviance instead of an act of desperation. It might’ve even made people laugh, and that brought me a strange sort of comfort. My train of thought broke when the neon sign shut off, and the last puff on my cigarette brought the taste and smell of a burnt filter. I spat, flicked the butt toward the bike rack and walked kitty-corner through the intersection. A bright silver Mercedes idled near the stop sign where I stepped back onto the sidewalk. The front passenger rolled down the window, and two large men stepped from the back seats as I approached. “Hey, Joe,” the German said. “Let’s go for a ride.


#Hello r/Shortstories! It’s time to and congratulate another writer here on r/Shortstories! u/OneSidedDice has completed their serial, *Looking Homeward*, on Serial Sunday with 12 chapters. What an accomplishment! They’ve been an active participant in and for quite some time, and their writing is always a pleasure to read. You can find more of their work on their personal subreddit, r/2Space! They’ve even begun a brand new serial. Congratulations, Dice! You should be proud of yourself! Now, let’s take a few minutes and see what they had to say about their serial-writing experience.   *** #Looking Homeward - Written by u/OneSidedDice **A brief synopsis from Dice:** Early in the next century, rising sea levels are devastating coastal cities and communities. The resulting refugee crisis has strained economies to the breaking point; homelessness, joblessness, and food shortages have become global crises. In the United States, pressure from financial institutions and insurance conglomerates has outlawed individual bankruptcy, turning insolvent debtors into a population of propertyless second-class citizens. Russ and Larry are two young Floridians living in a FEMA camp, working off their families' monumental debts. A walk into town in search of a way to call their loved ones turns into a journey into danger, conspiracy, and opportunity. | | | | | | | | | | |   *** #A Chat with OneSidedDice about Serial Writing ###**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I began this serial with the goal of bringing out a character’s development and growth over the course of an adventure that takes him far outside his comfort zone. One characteristic of the very short stories I’ve been working with lately is that you tend to get a one—or two—dimensional snapshot of a character; for this series, I wanted to draw out that process over time to try to create a realistic sense of the main character evolving into something more than he was at the beginning. I don’t think I pulled it off perfectly, but I did make progress with an aspect of storytelling that has been difficult for me to use effectively. ###**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** I really, really loved and appreciated all of the feedback I received. The criticisms were extremely helpful in pointing out areas where I had been sloppy or indecisive, and almost always included suggestions that seriously improved the quality of my writing. The many encouraging remarks inspired me to carry on when I wasn’t sure if I was going in the right direction, as well. Through both, I’ve also learned a lot about critiquing others’ work, and I hope I’ve given close to as good as I’ve received. I’m not sure I have a favorite scene, but I most enjoyed writing the point in the story where Russ is thrust into a dangerous situation he’s not prepared for, and has to dig deep into himself to find the courage to do it. I think that process actually deserved more space than I gave it now that I look back over the whole story line—it was a stretch goal for me, and I’ve learned some things that will help me handle it better in the future. ###**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it? I’ve been writing very short pieces for some time, trying to get a feel for what makes good dialog, relatable imagery, a decent pace, and so forth, and boiling that down to as few words as I could while keeping the story intact and, I hope, interesting. I think my biggest challenge in writing a serial was keeping that tight focus on word economy when the theoretical final length suddenly stretched beyond the horizon. The 850-word limit on each chapter helped quite a bit with that transition, and my instinct to keep the story moving so that something engaging happened in each of those chapters paid off as well, I think. ###**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Serial writing is a great way to transition into writing longer stories if you are used to writing short fiction. It’s also a great way to learn to discipline your writing if your longer stories tend to go off track or suffer from verbiage creep. I’ve experienced all of the above, and I think I have a better feel for what works and what doesn’t after completing just one. Before starting, I strongly suggest that you make at least a very basic outline of the plot, and make some notes about the main characters’ backgrounds. You don’t have to use any of it in the actual story, but it helps keep the characters consistent and the action moving. Lastly, if you’re new to critiquing/giving feedback on others’ writing, take some time to read through the responses from previous weeks’ stories. That’ll give you an idea of what to expect, and what’s expected of you. Don’t be intimidated; accepting and giving feedback is an integral part of the process, and it will help you develop your skills much faster than working through it all on your own.   *** ###Wrap-Up Thank you so much for your time, Dice. I’m glad you have been such an active presence on the sub and in Serial Sunday. I’ve enjoyed reading your words and watching you weave worlds together. I’m excited for your new serial; I wish you good luck and good words! Congrats again! Readers and writers, please don’t forget to leave u/OneSidedDice in the comments below. Feel free to ask additional questions or just say .   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your own hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The most difficult things to imagine absent from life are those which have always been present. In 2027, when I was in second grade, Mani Inc. revealed their breakthrough “ManiWatch”: a rechargeable wrist device that, through tracking various physiological metrics such as heart rate, HRV, functional lactate threshold, and VO2max, could calculate a revolutionary new metric called a “Readiness Score.” This would conveniently notify the user which tasks they should and should not engage with given their score, as well as if working out was worthwhile that day, if a nap was a smart choice, and when exactly they should sip coffee for the largest benefit. It revolutionized productivity in ways that humankind could’ve only dreamed of before its emergence. Through letting objective analyzation dictate activity and monitor the most important metrics, society started to prioritize readiness scores over subjective measures of wellbeing, as the scores had proven themselves to be more accurate than someone trying to guess their subjective mental and physical potential. It wasn’t until seventh grade that I got my first “ManiBand”—a device which you’re supposed to wear around your head every night to enhance the “Readiness Score” accuracy from solely wrist-based metrics. It tracks the user’s sleep cycles and integrates the scores into a more accurate estimate of readiness. A breakthrough study by Harvard found that year, with just the fourth generation ManiWatch and first generation ManiBand, that by consistently wearing Mani Inc.’s “wearables,” one could boost their productivity by a whopping 110%. Parents started to encourage their kids to remember to charge and wear their wearables before bed in the same way they encouraged them to brush their teeth every night. Wearables were a significant advancement to the human condition, but through the Readiness Revolution humanity discovered something curious: the data that wearables provided over time indicated the existence of “rogue days.” These are days where, due to no identifiable precondition, the Readiness Score is incredibly low. Through early studies in the infancy of the Readiness Revolution on rogue days, it was determined that to do anything but rest and sleep would throw off the next several days of wearable tracking, Readiness Scores, and by consequence, a productive and happy life. These occurrences are extremely rare and decrease in frequency with each new Mani Inc. generation of wearables, yet it is still of upmost research to understand these seemingly random anomalies to develop techniques to counter them. Sensing a niche for a new product (the market share of Mani Inc. is the highest of any product in the world) the “M-pill” was introduced—the best antidote to a rogue day, which simultaneously eases the mind and tranquilizes the user, and is solely indicated for rogue days. As Mani Inc. has already eradicated the majority mental health challenges through their wearable’s contributions and M-pills, Mani Inc. is considered the most popular, reputable, and important business entity in the history of the world for all of humankind. I had rogue days often, but never more than twice in a year; nowadays most folks might have one in a decade. Nowadays, there are several iterations of the devices that Mani Inc. so infamously revealed since 2027. I personally use the ManiWatch 9, the ManiBand 6, and practice caloric tracking too, a new trend also affiliated with what people are starting to call “Metricism,” the preeminent philosophical movement of my time. Metricism posits that life—physical, emotional, mental, and even spiritual health—are emphatically improved by the meticulous tracking and analyzation through advanced algorithms of physiological metrics. Action follows the suggestion of these algorithms. Most everyone that begins to practice the values of Metricism becomes happier, healthier, and far more productive than those who do not engage in it. The more one commits to consistent and thorough Metricism practices, the more rewarding Metricism seems to be. I woke up Monday with a score of about 89/100, which meant I was in great condition, though all I felt was the urge to sleep another 5 minutes. I woke myself up, and groggily checked my ManiBand to try and understand why I felt so drained despite my high readiness score and discovered that I had only had 20 minutes of my REM cycle. When all the devices synced on the Mani companion app, my updated score dropped to a 67/100, which made more sense; it’s hard to achieve your dreams on days you didn’t dream, after all. The Mani companion app told me that today would be a day where a M-pill would be necessary in the evening, which gave me a sense of private relief, despite the rogue day designation. I ate precisely 450 calories as recommended by the app, as my ManiWatch had tracked exactly that amount had been burned by my base metabolic rate since my last meal input. I dutifully inputted the exact amounts of fats, proteins, carbohydrates, and fluids into the Mani companion app, hoping it would save the designation of the day from “rogue” to “poor.” My morning classes were stressful. The Mani companion app advised against putting any effort into studying, as the Readiness Score predicted that it would be futile compared to the potential of the next day’s score, given my weekly average, which was much higher. But I was already behind in my classes from the week prior, and it stressed me out knowing I’d be even more behind this week with the rogue day designation. The M-pill that night, I knew, would soothe my anxiety, but I still couldn’t help feeling restless through classes, and like I could do more. But like a sensible person, I obeyed the assessment. At lunch, my friend Sloan tried to help me feel better, but ended up just making me feel worse about my restlessness and agitation. “You know, we can just work out together tomorrow! My score today is barely enough to qualify for a run, so it’ll probably be a shitty run anyways,” he tried to reassure me, even though after an agitating day of low potential and tons of opportunities for productivity, all I wanted to do was burn the stress away with a run. My macros were looking great, but I was low on potassium, sodium, magnesium, and water, which factored into the activity contraindication I was given. Sloan never really had rogue days, and it felt difficult for him to identify with the stress of not being ready enough to complete already late work I had on my plate, plus not being able to run off the stress. The only thing to do was that which the companion app indicated—nothing of any importance. I got home and took my M-pill, and immediately the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. I played videogames until the rogue day ceased to be a concern, and I drifted off peacefully into sleep. I dreamt. When Tuesday morning rolled around, it was a shock to see that it was yet another rogue day. Not just any rogue day, but a 26/100 Readiness Score! I was consistent with what the algorithm had told me to do the day prior yet had two rogue day designations in a row. I had received perfect sleep, and my diet the night prior hit all my macros and micros that were deficient that morning. It felt like a blow to the chest, knowing that there was nothing to be done despite so many assignments, studying, and obligations to be done. Thoughts raced through my head, trying to tackle how this could’ve happened, but I arrived without any rational reason why I had now had two rogue days in a row. The philosophy of Metricism asserts that if you are not at a certain threshold of readiness given an opportunity to do something meaningful, that it is better to rest that day and pursue it the next. Better to complete a three-hour task on a day you’re Readiness Score indicates it’d only take you two hours, after all. The protocol for rogue days is to simply balance your macros, take a M-pill, and sleep it off, which makes another rogue day highly improbable. Rogue days are typically infrequent, yet I had had four that month alone, and in the past two days, two in a row. I spent Tuesday in limbo. I felt wholly capable of doing things but restrained by that which was supposed to objectively tell me when exactly to do what and when not to. I weighed violating the companion apps’ recommendation but assumed it would be futile, because I had never been put in a spot to consider such a drastic move. I told my professors, and they accepted the predicament I was in graciously and patiently, but Jackson, my supervisor, did not. I had had too many rogue days in the past month to justify keeping me, and I was promptly removed from my internship opportunity. “You seem alright to me, you pitiful subjectivite,” he said grinning as I packed up my possessions from my desk, with the tone of someone who was confident they had discovered a personal lie. I didn’t believe his sincerity initially, as every single other rogue day hadn’t been an issue, but the animosity in the air following the comment, and his grin indicated a completed shift of my reputation, and so I bowed my head and left. To lie about a Readiness Score is an offence that is prosecutable by law. The Metrics Act of 2035 codified the legal use of the Readiness Score, lying about which is prosecutable as fraud. Many worldwide countries joined the “Readiness Revolution” alongside the United States, and many resisted; those who evaded the revolution were later forced to join it as all their economies tanked next to the Metricistic countries’ economies, bolstered by the surge in productivity of its citizens. To lie about having a rogue day to evade responsibilities was nonetheless common, and we called those types of people “subjectivites.” To not participate in the Readiness Revolution was a freedom of choice that only the foolish and the elderly opted for. I was not a subjectivite, but I sure felt as lowly as one. It was true—I had had more rogue days in a month than most people had in years. Usually, the wearables pick up on any health condition days before doctors would have back in the 2020s, but mine indicated nothing unusual. Moreover, I was hungry to run, hungry to complete homework and study, and devastated by the sudden removal of my position from a job I cared so much about. I took an M-pill and let the world drift away from importance yet again, and fell into a deep sleep. M-pill sleep is usually the best kind of sleep. On Wednesday, I woke up feeling absolutely burnt out from the stress of the day before, the effects of which were just hitting me. The tens of hours of outstanding work to catch up on in university only weighed my head more into the pillow before I checked my Readiness Score, which read 90/100. I puked in my toilet from the anxiety of what faced me that day, and got dressed, intent on utilizing all of the potential my Readiness Score had indicated. My professors were most pleased at how rapidly I caught up in everything, but all I felt was dissatisfaction and emptiness. I could barely remember my name, or what I even liked. A pretty woman at Starbucks spilled my drink on herself, and I yelled at her, which I apologized for profusely, but she just stared, blankly. I got the work done, and the Readiness Score was accurate to how capable I was of completing everything I had fallen behind in, but I felt like I was a robot programmed to feel devoid of emotion the entire time. I skipped my evening physics class, and came home early, without even caring about the lecture I had just missed. As soon as I arrived home, I cried without a distinguishable reason. My ManiWatch automatically enabled activity mode due to my heart rate soaring to 180bpm, indicative of physical activity, as I sunk into a desperate madness. Nothing could comfort me, and as my ManiWatch congratulated me for hitting a weekly heart rate peak with beeping and animated confetti, I ripped it off and screamed into my pillow, anxious for my thousands of thoughts to cease, and my breaths to slow. I fell asleep at 5pm in the afternoon, fully clothed, without addressing any more of the unproductive thoughts from the productive day I felt like I had just barely made it through. I awoke Thursday morning to my ManiWatch beeping at me for my alarm and felt something was very wrong momentarily before it came to me—I had forgotten to wear either wearable to bed. Shocked, I looked at my ManiBand, resting peacefully in its charging port, the charge LED light indicating that it was ready for a full night of logging, only it was 6:15am. My ManiWatch on the ground read in big red letters across the screen: “INSUFFICIENT DATA.” I couldn’t believe what had happened; I hadn’t forgotten to wear a wearable since middle school. The weight of the previous day resurfaced in my head as I breathed heavily. I decided that I couldn’t afford to fall behind through another panic attack. I got dressed for the day, and tried to forget about the predicament I was in. It was my only option. The first thing I noticed was my stomach grumbling, and I remembered: I hadn’t tracked my macros and micros to completion Wednesday. The sensation was unfamiliar. I quickly ate a meal that was more than the amount I was supposed to for breakfast, to make up for the night prior, and tracked my macros as if the frequency of my meals hadn’t been interrupted from my episode the night prior. I ate, drank, and then ran errands for the rest of the morning, completing everything that I had still not completed from my productivity hiatus. Dr. Stevens, my biology professor, jokingly asked if I was experiencing *another* rogue day as I entered the room. His expression indicated that he had perceived my chaotic mental state, and I replied that I was fine— I was unwilling to fall behind and risk the chaos of catching up again by admitting my legitimate situation. He was my favorite professor: always organized, genuine, and wickedly intelligent, and after being sacked from the most promising biology internship in the state, I had no intentions of swaying another person’s perception of myself. “Ah, well that’s great news to hear. You don’t look well though,” he replied with a tone of concern. “How’re your vitals?” he asked. I snapped back that they were normal, and hurriedly sat down before the confrontation could continue. To everyone’s mutual surprise, Dr. Stevens announced a pop quiz on the central dogma of biology. I answered the questions quickly, my stylus shiny with sweat, before anyone else finished. I sat down again relieved at how easy the pop quiz was and waited for everyone else to complete the quiz before Dr. Stevens interrupted my state of contentment by requesting that I go see him in his office after class. Reluctantly, I nodded. His office was the most colorful in the entire building, with diagrams of complex biochemical pathways stretching endlessly into the corners of the room. A photo of his family sat on the shelf behind his desk. The young Dr. Stevens in the photo stared back at me, his face unhappy, almost glaring back at me. “All of my kids are married and raising their own kids now. I think that it’s very peculiar to be a biology professor and a parent at the same time; I can’t help but to acknowledge that they are my contributions to the same theory of evolution we talk about endlessly in class!” He smiled, as if expecting a laugh from me, but I didn’t feel like responding. “You didn’t look at your ManiWatch when I asked you if your vitals were normal,” he said as he mixed a bag of green tea into his heated mug. I could feel his aged eyes scanning my face as the silence of the room met his question. “You look sickly. Is everything going alright, Seth?” My thoughts raced through a dozen excuses simultaneously, but I had so many running through my head that I failed to commit to any at all as his eyes remained analyzing mine. The smell of his tea rank in my nose; it had been years since I had smelled a beverage that wasn’t coffee. “Are you doing alright, Seth? You don’t seem yourself.” I didn’t move. “You’ve had two rogue days back-to-back with each other, yet somehow look worse today,” he said. I remained silent. “I’m concerned, not upset; your grades are among the highest of the class,” he reassured me, but I was in another planet, the last 72 hours racing behind my paralyzed eyes, locked looking through the floor as my hands trembled silently under the desk. “Seth? Do you hear me?” Children, the ill, and the elderly most often forget to wear their wearables. Sometimes, they break in the middle of the night, though extremely rare—Mani Inc.’s product quality is the best in the world. The protocol to attain a proper Readiness Score in the event of a null reading is to immediately consult with a representative from Mani Inc. It takes about an hour and a half, but the importance of attaining an accurate estimate of a score from a licensed expert is almost always of such importance that virtually nobody risks not getting assessed, despite the irritatingly long and tedious assessment process. Overwhelmed by the contents of my mind, I broke my silence. I told him everything, all at once. I told him about the two rogue days, and the M-pills, my job, and the panic of the night before. I told him that I hadn’t worn my wearables, and didn’t know my Readiness Score, and that I had lied to his face about it. I told him about how desperate I was to not fall behind again from my peers and plead with him to not judge me for daring to lie about such a serious topic in the face of his genuine concern. I finished venting to him before I knew I had started, and sat in a state of helpless exasperation, staring again into the space beyond the floor. He sat silent for a moment, staring at the same place my gaze continued to shoot through on the carpet. After the moment had passed, and the silence of the room grown loud, he sipped his tea, and sat down in his office chair. “Your scores came back from the quiz perfect, Seth.” I was surprised at his irrelevant response and looked at him from the prison of a chair I had been bound into. Sensing the shift in my attention, he continued, not moving his eyes from the preferred spot in the carpet as he spoke. I noticed his eyes eased as he spoke, and his expression changed from one of concern to total ease throughout his admission. When he was done talking to me, he calmly met my blank stare, and stood up. As he unstrapped his ManiWatch from his wrist he smiled and left me alone in his office, humming a tune into the hallway as he walked away. Big red letters continued to flash across the screen as I walked out of his office a few minutes later.


"Hello, everyone, it's ya girl, Elizabeth Kraken, and I have a message for all you krackheads out there; this will be the last video upload for my channel, Beth on Krack. To be honest, I'm saddened by the fact that I'm closing down my channel, but the negative comments became too much for me. I get that; I'm not a really great video game player, and when I do playthroughs, people get annoyed because I lose almost immediately. People don't enjoy reaction videos of endangered Amazon rainforest plant flora; that's not exciting content. And, yes, I'd like to apologize once more for my new sponsor, New Life; I had no idea it was a cult when I signed a 50-year contract, and I still have to advertise the promotion: use the code word krack to get 50% off your first decade. We're all hoping and praying that Meredith Connors, of Normal, Illinois, returns home soon. Finally, I don't think I'm very good at this, so I've chosen to quit to pursue a career in magazine subscription telemarketing. Goodbye and good luck to everyone." Elizabeth completes her live stream and clicks the post button, uploading the video to her channel. A chapter in her life has come to an end, and she is ready to move on. Elizabeth receives a box in the mail a few weeks later; it has strange pony express type postage and appears to be from a foreign country. When she opens the package, she finds a rolled-up sheet of paper with the following on it: "Dear Sir, I'm writing to you from the People's Republic of Bermuda, not the island of Bermuda, but the landlocked country on the border with Iraq and Syria. Our country is ruled by General Bludlust-Goldstein, a ruthless dictator. He keeps citizens in work camps and restricts access to all media, including movies, television, and the internet. Beth does Krack, on the other hand, is one of his favorite streams. It's the only show he allows to be aired in the country. I beg you; please make new videos; since you've been off the air, the dictator has become irritated and now demands that we work 22 hours a day instead of our usual 18. Your content will make our tyrant extremely happy; thank you for taking the time to read this. We hope to resume our normal 18-hour workday in the near future, Sahib." Elizabeth was taken aback when she discovered she had fans in another country. It reminded her of an episode of Full House in which Jesse Katsopolis wrote a song that was only popular in Japan. She had a fantasy that one day she would be recognized for her one-of-a-kind talent. Elizabeth started thinking about creating new content, but first, she wanted to visit the People's Republic of Bermuda and meet her fans. She was astonished to discover that she couldn't book a direct flight there but instead had to fly to Istanbul, take a 22-hour bus ride to the Syrian border, a 10-hour camel ride across the desert, and then travel for two hours in the trunk of a 20-year-old Honda Civic down a bumpy road. When she arrived, she was met by a procession of military weapons, the dictator himself, surrounded by many enslaved citizens, and a small potted cactus. "Welcome to the People's Republic of Bermuda; you bring joy to many here; we are all Krackheads!" The General says as she gets out of the trunk of the 20-year-old Honda Civic. "Hello, my fans; I am delighted to be here with you. I have a major announcement: I'm going to start creating content again. I'm going back on Krack!" Elizabeth says. "To commemorate this excellent news, we will hold a state dinner! If you could perhaps join us at the Grand Palace, we will toast this magnificent announcement with a drink," the General says. Elizabeth, elated with the news, hops back into the Honda Civic trunk and is driven to the Grand Palace. When she arrives, she discovers that the Grand Palace is nothing more than an old McDonald's that has been turned into a makeshift Capitol building. Despite this, Elizabeth enjoys dinner with the general and is eager to help the residents in reducing their work hours. At the end of dinner, the General stands and motions to his guards. "These guards will show you to your room for the night, the grand presidential suite. I hope you have appreciated our hospitality," the General says. Elizabeth is led by the guards to what appears to be an old McDonald's men's restroom. When they open the door, they see a little cot sitting beneath the urinal. As Beth enters, disgusted by where she'll be staying, the guards shut the door and lock it from the outside. The General pays her a visit a few hours later. "You can't keep me in here, I'm a celebrity," Elizabeth says. "Yes, you are the most famous person in the Democratic Republic of Bermuda, and this is where you live now. You'll be creating content 18 hours a day, and I'll personally watch every video before it goes up on the internet. If I detect any evidence that you are attempting to flee or communicate messages through your videos, you will never be allowed to leave the Democratic Republic of Bermuda again," the General says. Elizabeth first refused to make any content, but when the General began withholding meals, she eventually caved. Elizabeth began by remaking some of her previous videos. A makeup tutorial in which she accidentally does black face; a cooking tutorial in which she improperly cooks the meal, making her and those watching sick; and a travel vlog about the Democratic Republic of Bermuda, in which she was able to show the beautiful tents in which the citizens live, the cinematic bars on the windows of the work camps, and the wild dogs that roamed the streets, waiting for her to collapse in the desert heat. Elizabeth's enthusiasm for content creation was reignited after a few months of making videos. As she got into her stride, citizens of the Democratic Republic of Bermuda revolted and began a revolution against General Bludlust-Goldstein. One afternoon as she was editing a video in the men's bathroom at McDonald's, someone was jimmying the lock on the door. Sahib, the leader of the citizen revolt and revolution, was standing there when it opened. "Thank you for making videos over the last two months; you appeased the General so much that he fell into a false sense of security, allowing us to strike and begin a revolution," Sahib says. "I'm glad you enjoy the videos; I'll keep doing them; this has truly been a life-changing experience," Elizabeth says. "That's okay; you can stop making videos now," Sahib says. "I don't mind at all; I think I'm really hitting my stride, and quality content is starting to come out of me," Elizabeth says readily. "Stop making videos; you're lousy at it; we just hung your biggest fan in the playground outback. Seriously, you should consider doing anything else," Sahib says. "Do you want to do a collab video?" Elizabeth asks as Sahib carefully closes the men's bathroom door, revealing the Grand Palace McDonald's burning to the ground.


Since my trip to the center of the island, I found new questions creeping into my discussions with the traders by the shoreline. An old inquisitiveness was reemerging. I could feel a tweak of jealousy that they were going out again to see new places and I’d ask them the same things that had gnawed at me back on Kadear. *What’s the geography like? What’s the system of government? What’s the culture? What do they eat? What are they like?* I was sitting on the Deer Drum boat. The pole beans were now a metre high, small buds growing from the stems, soon to be harvested. Novak had borrowed Lachlann’s guitar while he was off exploring the island and was showing me the new tunes he could play. He hadn’t mastered it yet. Often the top string would be missed on the down strum, or his fingers gripped that fraction of a second too long, delaying the note. But he could play. The tunes were enough for others to recognize and hum along to the melody. I listened to Novak play, being an attentive audience. He was just finishing a rendition of an old nursery rhyme when Mirai walked up beside us. She looked out to sea with a smile on her face. “Oh, I’d recognize that boat anywhere." I pulled myself up and looked over the edge of the boat to see Alessia sailing towards us. Xander stopped attending to his plants and ran up to join as the boat pulled up alongside. “Well, if it isn’t the greatest merchant in the Archipelago returning to grace us with her presence.” Alessia scoffed. “Just throw us a rope.” We tied the boats up and lowered a ladder so Alessia could join us on the deck. “I thought I’d meet you later at the apartment,” I said as she clambered aboard. “I figured you’d be here. Anyway, I only really came to say I’m heading off again.” “Already?” Mirai pouted. “‘Fraid so,” Alessia smiled. “Arrived here this morning and met a guy immediately. Asked if I could go take some goods to Sneppath Head. Practically threw money at me to do it.” “You got to leave immediately?” I asked. “I figured I could stay here for an hour or two. Cargo’s already on the boat. Gonna be a good week’s sail to Sneppath Head.” We sat down on the quarterdeck and discussed the latest island she had been to. Soon though the conversation turned though to Talin Barier. “You still going back to that town at the center?” Alessia asked. “Yeah.” I replied, grimacing slightly. “Soured this place a bit for you hasn’t it?” Her tone was somehow both sympathetic and smug. “This whole island is meant to be about choice. But, they have none. Or at least… whatever they choose, the options end up terrible. They can never earn enough to escape.” Alessia leaned back in her chair. “Freedom to choose your own poison.” I nodded as a silence briefly took hold. Xander broke it. “Alessia, any news of Sannaz?” Alessia shook her head. “He’s vanished. I don’t know. Maybe he’s dead; drowned or angered the wrong person or something. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not making any noise.” Xander looked down at his feet. “I still just want to know why I guess. Not that it’ll make the pain better, or go away, but at least it’ll make sense.” “We’ll get answers.” Alessia leaned forwards and patted Xander’s knee. “I promise you.” \ Two weeks passed. I left the apartment around mid-morning, aware that Alessia was due back today. I looked forward to seeing her again. Her recent stops had been only fleeting visits before she disappeared again. As I closed the door behind me. I saw Eda heading to her office at the far side of the courtyard. I remembered Maia and how she longed to get a job that would give a better future for her son. It wasn’t an escape, but working for Eda would improve their lives. I decided that perhaps, I could try and make a small difference. Put some positive into the lives of two people living in that cruel slum. I walked around the upper walkway that overlooked the courtyard to Eda’s office. I knocked on the thick wooden door, the sound immediately muffled to a dull thud. “Come in.” I walked inside to find Eda standing behind a desk. It was a large wooden construction of deep mahogany that took up near two thirds of the room. The gap between the edge of the desk and the wall was so small that Eda would have to shuffle sideways just to get to the other side. Across the desk were strewn towers of papers, and while at first glance it seemed chaotic, they seemed to have been organized into specific piles. It was an organization system clinging onto structure, always on the verge of toppling over. Eda grinned upon seeing me. “Ferdinand. What can I do for you today?” I took a small, uncertain step forward. “I was hoping to speak to you about a job.” Eda laughed. “If you need to work for me you wouldn’t be living here.” I smiled and forced a small chuckle. “No. I know I’m only a tenant, but I know of someone who wanted to work here. And I wanted to say that I knew them, or have gotten to know them. They’re a very good person, kind, hard-working…” Eda looked up from the notes on her desk. “And who is this islander?” “Maia,” I took another step forward. A sudden moment of stupidity hit me. “I’m afraid I actually don’t know her last name.” “Certain she’s worth employing, but don’t know her last name. Quite the reference.” Eda folded her arms. “Sorry. I know it’s strange I just-” “-Relax,” Eda grinned. She flicked through a set of papers on her desk as she spoke. “Your lady came in last week. Contract signed. She’s employed. ‘Fraid she won’t have much time for you anymore though.” She lifted up a piece of paper and passed it across the desk. I read the first few lines, glancing at the name, position. Then I read a field that was titled “length of employment”. *Permanent. Life. No resignation.* I stared at the line, trying to ignore it and let it go, but it scratched away at my brain until it burrowed out. “This bit, ‘no resignation’, what does that mean?” “Well, it means she can’t leave. I paid her a lump sum up front, and now she works for me, for life.” “Doing what?” I squinted at Eda. “Whatever I tell her to,” Eda shrugged. “For the rest of her life, she now does whatever I tell her she can do.” “That…” I cut myself off. There was an emotion rippling away under my skin that I was trying to understand, trying to control. It grew, rising up, until I could recognize it clearly. Rage. “That sounds like slavery.” “Don’t be daft,” Eda chuckled as she waved her arm. “Slaves don’t choose. She chose this.” “So that her kid would make it to adulthood she sold her life.” My tone was flat, my eyes static. Eda’s face look confused, as if I were speaking another language. “And that’s her right to choose to make that decision.” “She had a choice between death and slavery-” “-No.” Eda cut me off with a snapped tone. “She could choose whatever she wanted. Get whatever job she wants. If she had the money she could buy her own courtyard and become a landlady like me. She came to me asking for a job, any job, I gave her one, and she *chose* to accept it.” “And now she’s locked in for life. To become your servant.” Both of our voices were slowly rising in volume. “Her choice.” “And if she later regrets that choice.” I leaned my head forward with the tilt of an angry bull. “We all have to live with the choices we made in the past. I do.” Eda pumped her chest with an odd pride. “Not like this,” I shouted. “She chose this. She signed. It’s done.” Eda smacked her hand against the desk, as the papers rustled slightly from the force. She shifted her gaze back to the papers on the desk and spoke to me out of the side of her mouth. “And now get out of my office before I kick you out of your apartment.” I could feel my cheeks burning red, my teeth gritting so tightly it felt like my mouth would be welded closed. I turned and left the building, walking down the courtyard steps as quickly as I could, desperate to get away from the apartment, away from Eda, away from whatever I might want to say next. I turned a couple of corners and marched down towards the harbor. My feet darted passed slower pedestrians as I walked down to the coast. My elbow occasionally brushed against them, the anger transferring briefly as they hollered after me to be more careful. Maia was trapped. Eda had used Maia’s desperation, her needs, to create a slave. The contract that was signed had never come from a negotiation. It was a hostage taking. The crisp morning sun brushed against my fiery cheeks, sweat leaked from the pores. My face felt suffocated, drowning in its own heat, my mind racing as I tried to understand how Eda could make such a decision. It felt that the rage wouldn’t quell, that it would just boil over until I screamed it out. I wanted to get to the ocean, stand on the shoreline, and shout my anger at the sea. I wanted the entire Archipelago to hear how angry I was. But as I reached the shore, I looked out, saw a boat, and all the emotions disappeared, replaced with something new: fear. The boat was a trading vessel, perhaps a tiny bit longer than Alessia’s. However it was ruined. It limped towards the shore with half a sail intact. The bottom half of the red sheet was completely torn away and there was a gash in the top corner of what remained. The front half of the hull was charred black and I could see a large section where the wood had been ripped apart, allowing larger waves to roll over the side and onto the deck. There was one man aboard. He held the wheel in his left hand. His right arm dropped by his side, the lower half of his sleeve painted red. He leaned against the wheel, using it to prop up his tired body. I walked around the beach, heading towards where the boat was destined to land. Others, seeing the same site, had begun to form a small crowd as the boat rolled onto the sand, coming to a complete stop. Two women immediately rushed to the man’s aid, placing their hands under his arms, and carrying him back down onto the beach. “What happened?” Someone in the crowd asked. “Attack. The harbour.” The man muttered between pained breaths. “There were explosions. Gunfire. I’m lucky I lived.” The man sat down on the sand as one of the women ripped off his shirt to inspect the wound on his arm. The skin had been ripped away and all that remained was a mess of sinew, muscle and bone. “Where did you come from?” A man from the crowd asked. The man braced his body, his face contorting, as the woman pulled the shift fabric down past the wound. He paused, regaining his composure before he replied. “Sneppath Head.” \ Next chapter published December 19th.


Foreword: I made this to be submitted into a small contest, but I failed to meet the minimum word requirements. I am quite satisfied with the result and just wanted to share with someone. I hope you enjoy! **Sarah** She was nervous. Her face remained emotionless as she looked upon the curtain, knowing that soon it would open and that she would be exposed to the world beyond it. She sat in a circle of her peers, holding hands. The other actors all encouraged her. They all supported her. They believed that they could help her, but was she ready to accept them? She fought hard against her nerves. She knew what she had to do. She knew her speech. She knew every word by heart. She knew exactly what she had to say; what everybody wanted to hear. She recited it once to herself quietly and she could feel the encouragement rolling off those around her. They held her hands on either side. She didn't really understand the encouragement but she accepted it. At least, she didn’t reject it outright. Her heart beat faster and faster, but for every beat that accelerated the grip on her hand and wrist tightened a little bit more. She felt secured by it, grounded and held. She knew someone was watching out for her. She felt hope. Or was it despair? She swore she could hear her name whispered in the wind. The wind that passed from each member of the troupe to her. She was not yet ready, but the curtain was starting to open already. She could see the light shining glorious beyond it. It was beautiful and ever so bright and she somewhat feared it and loved it at the same time. Looking around her, seeing those that support her, she knew that she was going to face the light and she knew that they would be happy for her. What if it wasn't what she expected? What if the curtain opened and the audience beyond was disappointed in her, did not accept her, did not believe her performance? She'd been performing for so long that she couldn't imagine someone not believing her, but she always feared it. The time was nearly upon her and she could feel it. The cold sweat flowing about her body but she could also feel the tightening on her wrist as someone to her left supported her, encouraged her, called her name. It was time to sing. It was time to perform. It was time to dazzle those around her. She tried to pull away but the grip tightened and desperation filled the voice. She stayed a moment longer but the curtain was opening and she knew that curtain call was here. She knew she was on and that it was time to dance. She waited a moment longer, smiled and tried to reassure them that she was ready. The curtain opened a little bit more. She felt the grip on her wrist tighten and she felt a loving touch on her neck again. She tried to reassure them that she was ready but could barely mutter. She was ready. It was time. She could hear the audience now; could hear the murmurs and apprehension of the discussions happening beyond the curtain. People had gathered, watching at the edge of their seats, ready to see her but not wishing to be too loud and disturb her. Finally, she gathered her courage. She gathered her strength. She walked forth. She stepped into the light and the din got louder and louder. She did not notice. She did not care. She was there to perform, and none could doubt her. Everything went as she thought it would. She sang the tune as she had practiced. She called upon the audience's tears and love. She danced, twirled and played her part exactly as it was meant to be played, and it was wonderful. Everything was exactly as it should be and the light grew stronger and brighter. Blotting out everything in the world except her own voice and her own performance and her own presence. * * * Minutes passed and Mohammed cried. He held on to his sweet friend. He did everything he could. He tried to be supportive. He tried to encourage her but in the end it was just too late. The paramedic gently grabbed his hand and pulled it away from her neck and her wrist. He shook his head and said: “I'm sorry she's gone.


Riley Bronson, a stay-at-home mom, prepares to pick up her daughter from the bus stop as her phone rings. "ID blocked," says the caller ID. Riley wouldn't normally pick up a call with no ID, but she had 10 minutes before picking up her daughter and was curious who was on the other end, even if it was just a spammer. "Hello." "Good afternoon, my name is Felicity; I'm calling from the Jack Candor show, on 103.3, WKCT. We noticed you liked our show on social media and decided to give you the opportunity to win a trip to Disney Land. Do you want to play the game?" Felicity asks. "Oh my goodness, I adore Jack Candor's show. I have to pick up my daughter, Ava, in about 8 minutes; do you think the game will be over by then?" Riley inquires. "It'll be quick, Riley, it's only five trivia questions, so can I count on you?" Felicity asks once more. Riley says, "Sure, let's do it." "As I mentioned earlier, I'm going to ask you five trivia questions; if you answer one wrong, you're out. Unfortunately, if our phone call gets disconnected, you also lose. If you can answer all five trivia questions correctly, you'll win an all-expenses-paid trip to Los Angeles and complimentary Disneyland tickets!" Felicity explains. "That would be fantastic; my daughter Ava has been begging that we go for her birthday. It would be the trip of a lifetime," Riley says. "We noticed your daughter on your social media page; she's adorable," says Felicity. "Thanks, she's a great kid," Riley says. "So right, let's get started," Felicity says, "during Monday's show, what topic did Jack discuss that got Gladys from Glendale all worked up?" Felicity asks. "Oh, that Jack didn't like Philly Cheesesteaks!" Riley exclaims, ecstatic that she knew the first answer. "That's right! 'Great job, Riley!' Felicity says. "Let's keep the winning going. The second question is, "What did Victor's twin brother discover when he awoke from a coma on the soap opera The Young and the Beautiful?" Felicity asks. "When he awoke from his coma, he discovered that his brother had spent the previous ten years impersonating him. We thought we were watching Victor but were actually watching Rodrigo," Riley says. "That's correct! There are only three more questions," Felicity says. "Good, I hope they're all that easy," Riley says as she grabs her keys and heads out the door. "Oh no, Riley, you're breaking up; if the phone call drops, you're out," Felicity warns. "I just went outside to drive to my daughter's bus stop, she's only in second grade, and she'll be waiting for me," Riley says. "I can barely make you out; go back to where you were before; I swear it'll be short," Felicity says. Riley is uncertain, and she attempts to raise her phone to the sky, but Felicity still can't hear her. Riley looks at her watch and decides to quickly go back into the house to answer the questions. "All right, I'm back. Can you hear me now?" Riley asks. "There you are, three more questions to go, let's do this! What is the motto of the famous Betsy's Diner in Altoona?" Felicity asks. "This is unbelievable; I grew up in Altoona and worked at Betty's Diner, where the motto is, If you're feeling slow, grab some Joe," Riley says. "That's right! You only need to answer two more questions and you'll be on your way to Disneyland!" Felicity says as Riley checks her watch once more. "Your fourth question is, what is the island of Aruba's only poisonous animal?" Felicity asks. "This can't be real; I traveled to Aruba this summer. Are you playing a joke on me?" Riley asks. "Between you and me, the radio show wants to award the prize to a true fan; we saw you liked this program on social media, so we tailored the questions toward stuff you'd know about," Felicity says. "Well, okay then. Riley says, "Rattlesnake! After spending 6 hours in an Aruba hospital after my husband was bitten by a rattlesnake, I definitely know this one." "Correct! Riley, there's one more to go," Felicity says. "All right, let's get this over with; I really need to get going; I'm officially late now," Riley says. "All of that won't matter when you're soaking in the rays at Disneyland," Felicity says, "your final question is, where is your daughter's bus stop?" Felicity asks. "Wait, what?" Riley asks. "Yes, you mentioned it last week in a post, arguing the stop was too close to an intersection. You even attached a photo of the precise location with your daughter in the frame," Felicity says. "That's an inappropriate question; this is not trivia," Riley says. "No, it isn't. All I had to do was tell Ava that her mother, Riley, and father, Steven, wanted me to take her to her grandma, Pat, who lives on St. James Hill. You graciously shared all of this on your public social media account," Felicity says. "What?" Riley cries as she dashes outside to her car. "All I had to tell her was that I was a friend of her mother's and showed her a photo of us together that I edited when you posted a photo of yourself against a green background. You know, you shouldn't post too much about your life on social media; it's like stealing candy from a baby," Felicity says. Now driving about 90 miles per hour down suburban side streets, Riley turns the corner to see an empty bus stop. "You're out, Riley." Felicity says as she disconnects the call.


Leo Walker drops his children off at school, but he is thinking about her. It's his morning routine, or has been since he stumbled into a coffee shop two blocks away from the school. That's where we met Anita Rosales, a twenty-something college student who works behind the coffee shop's counter. He goes there every morning now that he knows her schedule, even though it is not on his way to work. She normally wears a pair of yoga pants that fit so well that they become her second skin. She greets him with a smile, which he seldom receives from his wife at home. Every morning since their second child was born, she has resembled a cross between Gollum and Jabba the Hutt rather than the woman he married. This morning, as he gets his coffee, he thinks to himself, "If I could only have one night with this gift from God, that's all I'd need." The scenario is entirely in his head; in truth, Anita is so exhausted most mornings that she operates on autopilot, hardly seeing the customers who come in. She is programmed to take orders, make coffee, and collect money like a robot. But that really doesn't matter because he's obsessed. In his mind, he had imagined them falling in love while sharing a macchiato and making passionate love on the coffee shop floor while the other customers look on. His order has been completed, and she calls out his name, "Theo." And, despite the fact that she misspells his name and the coffee tastes like burnt toast, he tries to slip a dollar into the tip jar. For the 20th time in a row, she misses the tip, and he heads to work. Anita Rosales attends City College at night and looks forward to her Psychology 101 class with Professor Leroy Quinn. The way he says the term psychodynamic raises the temperature in the room by 20 degrees, forcing Anita to unbutton her blouse. She is aware that he is married, but that doesn't matter; all she wants is for him to get to know the real her, and he would leave his wife and make love to her in his office, which is actually a converted janitor closet, but she doesn't know this. She can tell he works out because of the definition of his muscles through his ordinary polo shirt, with biceps so taut that she begins to worry about the fabric of his sleeve being able to contain all that power. He hands back the exams when the lecture ends that night. Anita glances down and notices her "C-." She runs her finger over the grade; his pen touched this page; she'll fantasize about him again tonight, making love while he grades papers. Leroy Quinn had no desire to be a psychology professor. He had always had a sense of adventure and only took the job till he had enough money to travel the world. His love of adventure got him in trouble during his first year of teaching when he slept with one of his students. She was a teenager, only 18 years old. The temptation to prove it was more than a fling compelled them to marry a year later. Things have changed five years later, and this formerly sane, youthful taboo has started to reveal her true nature. When Leroy does something she doesn't like, she transforms into a five-foot-tall version of Sam Kinison and Lizzie Borden. Leroy can't wait to get to the gym and work off all his stress as he exits class that night. He's especially excited to see Andrew Peralta, the gym employee at the front desk. He's bought 57 protein bars, 13 protein drinks, and four t-shirts with the gym logo on them in the previous two months; the sad part is, he doesn't even like the protein bars, and the t-shirts look like they were drawn by a five-year-old unsupervised. These brief interactions, on the other hand, provide him with the opportunity to spend a few minutes with Andrew. After a few conversations, he still doesn't know anything but his first and last name. From Leroy's perspective, he is clever, intellectual, and completely swept him off his feet. Andrew will one day take him in his arms and carry him around the gym like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentleman. They'll both quit their jobs and spend their days making love on the Caribbean's sandy beaches. Unfortunately, despite Leroy telling Andrew his name several times, Andrew still has no idea who he is. He smiles, nods, hands him a towel, and waits out the rest of his shift so he can finally leave. Leroy walks into the gym tonight, and Andrew hands him a towel. Leroy points to a protein bar and tries to strike up a conversation; "have a good one, buddy," Andrew says, blanking on the name. In college, Andrew Peralta met the woman of his dreams, Alicia Maynard. They quickly became friends, but unfortunately for Andrew, they've been friends for the entirety of their time together; friend-zoned by the love of his life. Despite several tries, he has failed at every point to move the relationship ahead. Andrew fantasizes about them fleeing to Europe and making love on trains. It's always trains for some reason; he thinks it has something to do with the rhythm of the tracks; I guess don't knock it till you try it. Andrew and Alicia go to bars, hang out with large groups of friends, and speak all the time. The bottom line is that Alicia simply does not feel the same way about Andrew. She prefers a mature man with responsibilities, as well as a family man that is loyal and loving. Andrew is simply too immature, has no regard for the future, and constantly wears those hideous gym t-shirts. Alicia Maynard is employed by a small financial firm. Leo Walker, one of her coworkers, brought his kids in one afternoon after they got out of school early for a half-day. She observed what a fantastic father Leo was and fell in love with him right away. Alicia dreamt about them making love all over the office, despite the fact that he was married. In the mailroom, the elevator, and on the copy machine. In one such scenario, a company-wide memo served as foreplay for their sexual rendezvous. Alicia spends one-third of her day fantasizing about Leo, whom she believes is a faithful husband who would only leave his wife for her.


If you’ve ever wondered if an alien can express emotions as we humans do, I’m pleased to inform you that in fact, yes, yes they do. For as my arm grew tired from holding it up high and firm, my new professor, from **Mega-Earth Kepler-10** ( A mouthful of a world to be sure), with his thick wide-body and tree trunk legs, his small eyes widened as he stared down the classroom towards me, I’m certain the expression showing on his face, so different from my own, was shock. It must have been like a mirror for him, for although I was easily the exact opposite to the man, from my upturned pink nose right down to my knobbly red knees, I too can confirm that my face showed a vague expression of shock as well. My hand had gone up on its own, my ancient ancestors, filled with rage and disgust, those dead warriors and mighty kings shook the heavens so hard that they shattered the pearly gates and possessed my body to fight one more fight in humanity’s name. “Yes? Brown, was it?” My professor enquired quizically as my hand flopped down an inch, I nervously stood up, all the while hundreds of different eyes and orifices turned toward me to catch a glimpse of the puny fleshy human who was interrupting their first lesson of the semester. “Um, y-yes Sir, I just… I-I just wanted to politely disagree with um with your p-point Sir, sorry.” I sat down, red-faced and hiding behind my curtain of black bangs, mortified and embarrassed. My professor was still staring at me, his eyes looked old and weary, but so full of knowledge and power, he looked at me with a calm smugness as he said, “Disagree? Brown? You disagree with my academic knowledge” I shot up like a rocket, straight-backed and sweating. “YEs Sir, s-sorry sir.” He paused for a moment. “ Well, this is a place of education and forward-thinking, so I think the rest of the class would agree” (he waved his arms and nodded at the class in a circular motion) “that we’d be *enamoured* to hear why you think your intellect outweighs that of a Professor of Universal Anthropology” The class was frozen in time, me, standing still in cold horror, my professor grinning at my dismay, and my whole lecture hall, glued to my board like body, so dwarfed by many of the much larger species in the hall. In fact, multiple were sniggering at my disagreement, I mean come on, I was living proof that humanity was weak. For some reason, their sniggering made me feel a sense of calm as I surveyed them all, all different species, and shapes and sizes, all of them large and proud. I should be terrified, but instead, I only felt a sense of... Confidence. My back straightened as I pulled my shoulders back. Time to become **human**. “Well, professor, I just meant that there is much evidence against your statement” I answered, somewhat calmly, but still shaking slightly (at least my stutter was gone). “How so?” I blinked. How the *hell* was I supposed to cram all of human history into one rebuttal?? May as well start somewhere. “While we may be an old fashioned race, and indeed we do focus mainly on peace treaties and peacekeeping, it comes from an ancient history of countless wars and numerous battles” The room exploded with snorts and cackles of laughter, whooping and honking drummed in my chest, and indeed even the professor was chuckling under his breath. I felt a burning deep in my stomach, like an indignant beast licking flames up my throat as I gazed over their sneering faces. My hands curled into tight fists that shook, how could I make them understand our deep history of battles, wars, genocides, our whole existence that once teetered on the edge of destruction by powers that made us question if the second coming of Christ was upon us. And as I stood straight and composed among my whooping classmates, something whispered deep in my soul, a sinister darkness, locked up long ago. *fight* I raised my arms. *Fight* I lifted myself up, onto my desk. *FIGHT* The class, slowly turned silent. *FIGHT.* And, with the might of a thousand millennium of history behind it *FIGHT.* My foot, as if in slow motion, but also with power, slammed down on my desk with a room-shaking BANG. I whipped my head up from its bent position and I stared my professor dead in the eyes, and for just a moment, I imagined this was how a lion felt as it stared down its wet nose to analyse his next meal to survive. My professor, all eight feet of that smug demeanour, faltered. Just for a moment, but he *faltered.* The room saw him. I stood tall on my desk, the shadow of a ripped, bloody flag passed down by my ancestors clutched in my fist, and I stared down at him, through my soft ebony mane. And I smiled. No words were needed. Humanity’s barbarity stood tall, ugly, and proud. I smiled sadly, we really live up to the legends, the human race, the greatest plague of the universe. I sighed, the first sound after my little show, and it seemed as if the class was waiting for my permission to move, they seemed to breathe out all at the same time, a gush of wind swept through the lecture hall but they still stood as still as possible, a class of marble. I jumped down from my desk feeling a wave of guilt come over me as I walked up to my professor, he looked so old and humiliated, so downtrodden, by none other than a human. I decided to fix humanity's nature, just like my parents taught me, step by step, for peace. I put my hand out to him, and I bowed deeply. “I apologise for my rudeness Sir, please forgive me.” He didn’t shake it, he just stood there, staring down at my small frame, bewildered. “Why do you bow?” I looked up at him, eyes locked, back bent, my wide, deep, black pupils still firey with passion as I stared deeply into his shallow snake-like pupils so different from my own.


Sat in class, bored as all hell. The incessant drone of anonymous conversations all around me. Sat in class, alone. My eyes heavy, the weight of last night’s lack of sleep hanging off my eyelids. Then, like a superpower, they gain the strength to look up. Look up at you. You walk in, blissfully nonchalant and radiating an inexplainable positivity as always. The slight crookedness in your smile as you see your friends makes my heart thump a little harder than what’s deemed healthy. You turn your back to me to take your seat, your hair flows effortlessly over your shoulder, a picturesque maroon. Glistening slightly in the bright yellow glare of the shitty public-school lighting. I stare pathetically, imagining it’s glossy perfection draping between my fingers as I brush it behind your ear. Giving me a better look into those big, beautiful eyes. I’d come over, sit with you until the teacher arrives. Getting to know you with polite small talk, but my goal would be to make you laugh. To be the one who blesses the room with that contagious symphony. Your laugh would light up my life a thousand times over if I were the one to cause it. I’d impress you with my knowledge in class discussion, being equally as impressed by your smarts and wit, but I know you’d be too shy to raise your hand and speak in front of everyone. We’d talk effortlessly, I’d be nervous, but your talk would comfort me dearly. I’d get your socials, and we’d talk for hours for the proceeding weeks. Eventually mustering up the courage to ask you on a date. You’d be shocked, none of the boys our age have the same old-fashioned ideals of courtship and you’d accept my offer. We’d laugh together for hours, our humour aligning like an eclipse. So fantastically rare but effortlessly beautiful to behold. You’d truly be the sun to my moon: my tired, grey life. We’d leave school and stay together, having the common interest of that class and pursuing it in higher education. We’d have bouts, disputes, and arguments as we grow and flourish together over the course of the years. Inevitably, after everything, you’d end up back in my arms, cuddling close, your familiar coconut-aroma in my face as you nuzzled my chest. Your weight against me the most comforting thing in the world. I’d hold you tight, just like that again, when you’d say *‘yes’* to my proposal. I’d feel no stronger sense of satisfaction than bearing a gorgeous diamond ring on your pretty little hand. We’d be committed, forever. My girl. We’d continue growing, getting older. I’d watch in absolute awe at you becoming a mature, confident woman; with the utmost honour of calling you my wife. I’d have the responsibility of holding you in the greatest of pain as your family leaves slowly, departing from us. We’d grow our family in place of them. Our children would be beautiful: a boy and a girl. We’d watch them grow as we had each other. Holding your hand as we support them in falling in and out of love with the world as we once had. After it all, my greatest pleasure would be looking deep into those big, beautiful eyes on your last day. Holding your hand tight, our hands withered and trembling, but yours as warm as ever. You’d smile, letting me see the greatest beauty in the world one last time. Making my heart flutter, watching closely as you leave us. Content with the loving, full life you’ve lived that I was honoured to be a part of. Even after that, the most painful thing is having to turning my head away from you in that class, as he sits down and makes you laugh, instead of me.


I stood there with anger in my eyes, pain in my heart. My brave soldiers lay lifeless across the ground, pools of blood littered across the ground like rose petals. The people who were able to get to safety were brought underground, mainly elderly and children. Any able bodied man was ordered to help fight. We outnumbered them two to one, but we still stood no chance. I have no idea who they are, where they came from, but I know why. I had been having this dream off and on for a long time now. I remember walking through this field of grass, sun high in the sky, breeze dancing across my face. Such a serene moment. I ask myself, is this what life on the ground was like? Then the sun high in the sky starts getting closer and larger. The closer it gets, the more the field around me starts to evaporate and burn alive. Eventually the light gets too bright to look at and I look away. The white light surrounds me until all around me is white, and the next thing I know I’m in a hallway, a long pristine white hallway, and at the end is a door. I make my way all the way down the hallway to the door. I open it, walk through the door and step out onto a charred, burnt ground. It is so unbelievably hot here.The sky is a permanent orange color. As far as my eyes can see is a broken and destroyed city, people lay dead all over the ground. To my right is my family, to my left are my closest friends and associates. This immense feeling of dread and hopelessness is overwhelming. I look down, in my hand is the relic given to me by my father, and his father before him, and his father before him going back to the time of the grounders. The relic starts to glow and the same white light from before erupts from it, encompassing everything like before. The light surrounds me, next thing I know i'm awake and laying in the same bed I sleep in every night, relic hanging around my neck. I think to myself, reflecting on what I just saw, Is this a warning? A flashback of what happened to the grounders? Seeing my city in ruins before my eyes, the dream starts to make sense, I know what I must do. I ordered the rest of my staff and any person I could find along the way to go underground with the rest of them and stay there until it was safe to come out. There weren't many of us left. I head down stairs towards a secret tunnel that leads out of the palace, in case of a situation like this. Based on the report I received from commander Dahlk, right before I told him and the others to head down stairs, I have about 15 minutes before they break through the wall and storm the palace. Just enough time to get into position. I ran the fastest I’ve ever ran in my life, through the old, damp, abandoned tunnel. Eventually after about ten minutes I make my way out of the tunnel, and come out behind an old, abandoned Bakery. As a boy I would always sneak out after dark, through this same tunnel. Running around the city after dark, not a soul in sight. Something about walking around the city at night when no one was around. I remember feeling like I was able to escape my life of royalty, even if it were for only an hour. I felt like a normal person, someone who didn’t have to keep up with his studies, someone who didn’t have to do training exercises everyday before pointless diplomatic meetings between people who would never know what it was like to sympathize with normal people. I remember this place I used to go to when I would sneak out. The top of the memorial for the grounders, right in the heart of the city. It’s the perfect place to lure the demons to, and away from the palace. I make my way to the top of the memorial, with seconds to spare. I sprint up to the edge of the building, looking down I’m about 100 feet up in the air. I inhale, taking the biggest breath I’ve ever taken in my life and scream, HEY, YOU DEMON ASSHOLES. I HAVE THE RELIC. COME GET ME. By the time the last word came out of my mouth, I heard this guttural screech, followed by the sound of a stampede of wild animals, based on the historical videos we watched in school from the time of the grounders. A few seconds later I see the first few demons making their way towards the memorial where I stand. As soon as I see this I look down at the relic in my hand, close my eyes tight for a few seconds. I open them, and the first thing I see is the city my family worked so hard to build over time, the city that gave humanity a second chance at survival. I mutter under my breath, goodbye, friends. It has been an honor to serve you. And I start to chant the phrase my father told me NEVER under any circumstance repeat, unless humanities destruction is imminent, in the ancient language from a time before the grounders ruined the planet, Orbitalis percutiens me locus. As soon as I finish the phrase, this burst of energy erupts out from the relic, and the once ancient piece of history I held in my hand, cracked into tens of pieces. I look up to the sky and see a familiar blindingly bright, white light, which looks to be getting bigger and bigger, closer and closer. I look away because of the sheer brightness, the demons once flooding the street begin to turn to ash and get swept away in the wind. I look up again and the same white light as my dream swallows me. The next thing I know I’m in the same pristine, white hallway as I saw once before. Utterly confused, I make my way down the hallway once again. I reach the door, scared and nervous to see what's behind it, hoping it's not the same as the dream. I turn the knob and open the door. It’s another pristine, white room, with a white chair, and a man who looks to be in his 70’s standing there, cane in hand, He looks distinguished, like someone who knows what to do. I take two steps into the room and he says “Valdour, it’s good to see you made the right choice” What do you mean “right” choice? “In the dream I’ve been showing you, the destroyed city, your city, that would have been your reality if you had used the relic for selfish, greedy reasons, much like the grounders” I’m having a hard time understanding what’s going on. Where am I? “Well, we are inside of the relic, theoretically. For I am the creator of the relic and someone who has the capabilities to bend space and time. I have been waiting a very, very long time for someone to use it. It seems you used it for the right reasons. I created the relic back in the early years of the grounders, seeing how humanity struggled to accept people of the same kind as themselves, abuse the power of deadly weapons. I knew humans would destroy the very essence of their own livelihood one day, so I created this device to give humans a second chance, for one day, if in the face of existence, there was a second chance for whoever held the relic, and those around him or her. I knew there was a chance that whoever had the relic could use it for selfish, evil intentions, so I created two possible outcomes. Both I’ve already shown you, without you knowing it.” What happens now? What happens to my people at home? “Well nothing changes. Life moves on as usual, same as it always has. The beauty of humanity, Valdour, is that humans always overcome, always find a way to rebuild, and come back bigger and stronger than before.” What does that mean?! Please, don’t leave me here. At that moment the figure started to fade away, into nothingness, as if he never existed. “Goodbye Valdour, I’m very tired and would like to finally rest.” And right before he completely faded away, he snapped his fingers and that all too familiar white light surrounds me again. I regain consciousness, opening my eyes to a familiar ceiling as I remember in my bedroom. I look to my right and my wife lay next to me, beautiful as the first day I met her. I sit up in bed, rub my eyes and think to myself, Wow, what a dream. I stand up and head to the bathroom. I approach the sink and turn on the cold water, hoping to shock me awake a bit so I can understand what’s going on. I cup my hands and fill them with cold water, splashing my face right before the water spills out the sides of my hands. I wipe off my face with the towel and look up into the mirror. Normally the relic lay draped across my neck, as a reminder of the power and responsibility I hold. It’s not there. It not being there sends me into this state of overwhelming panic and nervousness. I start to think what if it got into the hands of someone who does not know the power it holds, this is not good. I run into the room and leap into the bed. I immediately shake my wife awake, Kahlia, have you seen the relic?! She looks at me with her normally, big & beautiful, green eyes, but these eyes are the ones of someone who's half asleep still, but more than that, someone who looks utterly confused and puzzled by the question I asked her.