It started with a revelation: Nobody asked to be here.  People lost their minds, companies collapsed, civilizations fell.  Nobody asked to be here.  We knew it all along, but couldn't put it into words. A self proclaimed Russian genius by the name of Enrico Chavez had to do it for us. He stumbled out of his office at the University of Chicago, late one night, and proclaimed to the darkness, “Nobody asked to be here!”  Professor Chavez's philosophical genius went unnoticed for many years, primarily due to his name. Enrico Chavez is not a typical name for a Russian. His peers found this too confusing to comprehend. “Why is this man not a Mexican?”, they would utter to each other during his presentations. The distraction provided by his name gave his fellow philosophers a reason to avoid him and belittle his ideas, given they listened to them in the first place.   Several years ago Enrico Chavez found the solution to his name problem. He tanned his skin and started calling himself a Mexican.   “Nobody asked to be here!”, Professor Chavez shouted into the darkness. He was elated! Years of research had finally led to something substantial!  “Nobody asked to be here!” He chanted again and again, sprinting out his door and running through the nearby park.  A voice yelled back from the darkness, “Nobody asked you!”   Once Professor Chavez started tanning his white skin and lying about his nationality, it didn't take long for others to listen to him. He rose through the ranks like a balloon, and was promptly given a position at the University of Chicago. A few weeks after his promotion he made his now infamous/famous proclamation.   The day after proclaiming into the night, Professor Chavez wrote a brief twenty page academic article about his findings. This was when the world took notice.  Professor Chavez's groundbreaking discovery created a shock wave that started on a personal level. It began with people realizing that they did not, in fact, ask to be here. Many of them decided they would rather be anywhere than here, so they left! These folks were called “The Depressed”. Others demanded money as retribution since they were brought here against their will. These folks were called “The Greedy”. Others still asked not for money, but for changes to take place so they wouldn't mind being here. These folks were called “The Outcasts”. The largest group was known as “The Content”. They acknowledged that “Nobody asked to be here”, but that it didn't really matter.   Once the people took notice, this devastated the economy. The Depressed were no longer here (they were There), so they couldn't even participate. The Outcasts were demanding reform on a global scale and began spending their money in a “responsible” way. The Content didn't really care either way, and continued to spend money in a similar way to how they usually had.   As for me, I was one of the Content. I guess I had known all along that “Nobody asked to be here”, but figured that since we were here, we might as well do what people here do. And boy, do they do a lot! Hiking, biking, writing, reading, drawing, singing, climbing, driving, creating, destroying, spending, killing... Lots of ing-ing! I partook in this ing-ing, primarily working, sleeping, eating, driving, and buying. By the time I was thirty, I had a wife, three kids, a three thousand square foot house to hold my family and things needed for ing-ing, including two beautiful cars and all the knick knacks to go with my upper-middle class lifestyle. I was living a content life. Guess the label fit!   Which group did Professor Chavez belong to? Who can say? He was murdered shortly after publishing his work. Some say he would have been Depressed. Others think he was Content. Others still think he was an Outcast. How popular!   Companies began collapsing a few months after Professor Chavez sang into the night.  The Depressed and Outcasts, although a minority compared to The Content, had enough of a financial impact to cripple multiple banks and businesses. This in turn caused the housing market to go belly up. Once the housing market went, everything else followed. People who can't afford their home aren't likely to buy anything else! Of course, a few companies flourished in this new economy. Many Outcasts supported local companies, and many Contents supported PayDay Loans Inc. Eventually, as local companies became more successful, they would become global and fail!   Long live PayDay Loans!    **II**  This next paragraph is being written as I sit in my armchair, drunk as a skunk. I am moving across the country next week to begin another career. Maybe if I make enough money I can become an Outcast! In my experience, Outcasts are resoundingly rich. This is why they are not Greedy, and can claim they are not Content. Most poor folks are Greedy, at least those who weren't Depressed. Us Contents are just trying to get by. I've got a family to support! What am I to do, quit my job and protest? And why? I have a beautiful life!   Professor Chavez's article changed the world instantly. People starting leaving Here, companies collapsed, and widespread panic overtook the general population. I can only assume that's what led to his murder.  Hard work pays off!  Before he was thrown to the wolves, Professor Chavez tried to explain that his finding (dubbed The Discovery) was miraculously uplifting news. He told the people that because we didn't ask to be here, we should think of ourselves as free to do as we wish, as long as our actions did not hurt anyone else. This speech came to be known as The Amendment.  To some, that was a Godsend. Folks across all groups (The Depressed excluded) began living with renewed vigor, and they found their lives better off than before the discovery, even as the world was changing around them.  To others, it was too baffling a concept to grasp. Perhaps being told that they didn't ask to be here had shook them too deeply, or they were too entrenched in their current stance of Outcast, Content, or Greedy to shake their belief system yet again. These folks gained nothing from Professor Chavez's Amendment.  There was a small group of people that was so moved by this discovery, however, that they became known as The Free. These were folks that asked nothing of society, but stayed here and lived a new lifestyle. In a way they were Content, however they shunned their old lifestyle of ing-ing, and focused on living in the here and now. They were primarily people who had little responsibility in the old world, such as parents with no children, young professionals, and the homeless. This ragtag group of The Free, although leading disparate lives not more than a month before, all lived by the same credo in the new world: Stay Carefree. Be Happy.   **III** The night Professor Chavez screamed into the darkness, I was fast asleep, even though I was at work. It was late! That morning, as it was for most people, started out like every other day. We continued on with our lives as if we had asked to be here and moved forward with futile purpose. At that point, only two people knew of Professor Chavez's discovery: Professor Chavez and a homeless man in Drake Park.  The homeless man would go on to become a leader of The Free, but as for now he was taking a “dump” behind a juniper tree. He enjoyed the fresh Christmas smell given off by these plants and how it perfectly masked the smell of his “dump”. Say what you will, but that's resourceful!   The homeless man's name was Jack Roan. Jack was previously a mechanic, gas station attendant, convenience store manager, day trader, and then briefly incarcerated. His colorful past is due to his high level of intelligence and terrible attention span. Jack's interests come in violent waves, and leave like a calm tide receding into the ocean. Within weeks he has mastered a new trade, and within months the passion fades. Today, he is homeless. Tomorrow? Who knows!   My career at the time of The Discovery was Head of Security for Public Resources. It was a boring, yet well paying career. I choose to work at nights, that way I could be home to take my children to school, sleep while they were out, wake up, bring the kids home from school, then head in to work. It ravaged my body and I felt out-of-sorts everyday, but it was best for my family.  Head of Security is an overly prestigious title for an unglamorous job. It comprised solely of staring at computer monitors all night long that showed live feeds of all the parks in town. I was in charge of keeping the parks safe, and if some unsavory event began to transpire, I had to dispatch our Security Executives to deal with the issue.  That night, if I hadn't nodded off, I would have been one of the first people to hear Professor Chavez make his grand announcement! I also would have dispatched a Security Executive to get homeless Jack Roan out of the park for loitering.   Some days I wonder what would have become of Jack if I had kicked him out of the park that night.   That inconsequential morning finally became consequential for me when I reviewed the tapes from the night before, from when I was fast asleep. That is when I learned about Professor Chavez and heard Jack Roan shout back, “Nobody asked you!”   Jack pulled his pants up after his dump, stretched his arms to the sky, and yawned. He must have been planning out his day, wondering what to do next. He wore a perplexed look on his face, and proceeded to do something I had never seen him do before, in all my years monitoring the parks.  He walked down toward Cherry Creek, dropped to his knees, and washed his hands.   Later that day, Professor Chavez published his finding through the University of Chicago Newspaper. Usually, an academic article of this caliber should be published in some fancy journal, however Professor Chavez rightly assumed it would have a larger impact if published in a newspaper that was widely circulated. Given his position in the university, the newspaper would accept anything he asked them to, and the article was published that afternoon.   Here is Chavez's summary of his Discovery:  Through a rigorous literature review of past and present philosophies, it has been discovered that nobody, throughout the history of recorded time, has ever asked to be here. People may hold an opinion on whether or not they are happy to be here, but the fact remains that they were brought here without any say in the matter. Further study hopes to determine who was responsible for bringing us here, and why we were not given a choice.  Incredible!   Once Jack had finished washing his hands, he tied back his long black hair, laced up his boots, and walked towards the University of Chicago. He walked with purpose, another first for him, as he made his way up the steps to Professor Chavez' office. He threw open the wooden door in a fury.  “What are you thinking?! Do you know what that news would do to people?”  Professor Chavez whirled around from behind his desk and stared directly at his intruder with a look of fear on his face.  “Nothing good! Nothing good at all!” Jack was shouting at Chavez, who just sat there bewildered.  Chavez cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, who are you?”  Jack replied that it didn't matter who he was, but he knew what Chavez was up to.  “You can't just drop this bomb into the masses, it'll wreak havoc on 'em! They've been taught to live a very specific way, and you are gonna mess with their heads! Nothing subtle about this at all!”  “Sir, just because you cannot handle the truth, doesn't mean the same of others. I think you'll find that most folks out there want to know the truth, even if it may be hard to believe at first. If you would...”  Chavez was cut off by a sharp slap to the face.  “Are you fucking stupid?” Jack was livid. “Nobody wants that! They want confirmation that the way they are living is the right way! This discovery will just cause people to lose their minds!”  The argument continued, going in circles, for just short of an hour. In the end, Jack simply got bored of trying to persuade Professor Chavez.  “Listen, I'm telling you. This is a terrible idea. I promise if you go through with this, everything will change.” Jack turned and walked out the door.  Chavez shouted after him, “Don't underestimate the public, young man! You'll find they are more capable than you imagine!”  Capable, indeed.  Still in a tizzy from this argument, Professor Chavez began writing his world-changing article.   Jack knew the article was published later that day when he saw a man walk into oncoming traffic, holding a newspaper in his hand.  What an easy way to leave Here!  This preliminary chaos ensued for a week. As Professor Chavez had said, the public was very capable. The things they happened to be capable at however, where the things that most easily brought chaos into the world. If they weren't leaving Here themselves, they found ways to make others go There. They looted, pilfered, pillaged, went haywire.  It was a terrible week.   Once the initial shock from the announcement wore off , the four distinct groups arose. The Depressed, Outcast, Greedy, and Content. The Greedy and Outcasts began petitioning for their respective philosophies. The Depressed had already left. The Content returned to life as normal, at least as normal as it could be.  As Head of Security, my job became even more difficult. Daily protests were held in the park from all groups, usually in the vain of, “We are right, the other groups are wrong.”. Every day I sent out Security Executives. Spying on people has never been more active!   The week following all the chaos, Professor Chavez went to work on his Amendment. It wasn't a formal written article, just a colloquial two minute speech. He spoke very slow, the speech itself should have lasted no more than thirty seconds. Here it is in its entirety.  My friends, it has become aware that my Discovery was not received how I intended it to be. The Discovery is a wonderful thing! It means are free to do as we wish, as long as we are not harming anyone else in the process! Please, rejoice in knowing that you did not ask to be here, have no path forward set in stone, and can choose your destiny!  I mentioned that he spoke slowly, yes?   So Jack went on to become a leader of The Free, Professor Chavez went on to be murdered by Jack, and I went on observing it all. I never came forward with this information, and deleted the tapes instantly. However, I believe that the truth must come out. I always wondered why Jack, a man who lived Free all along would care that the Discovery was made public.  Perhaps he was just abiding by the rules laid out in the Amendment.


I’m awake. I know that I’m awake. I can feel myself vibrating, and I’m conscious that I’m doing so. I can’t hear myself, but I do understand what I’m saying. I am reading invisible letters on the invisible scroll of my mind. An ever-flowing scroll of circuits that signal me that I am, in fact, awake. I have a screen, I can feel it on myself. It’s off for now. I have buttons too. I know they are made to be pressed yet I have never done so myself. I can imagine the sensation of these buttons being pressed, it’s itching me. They are never pressed enough, even when I can picture them breaking and being pushed into a negative space. What shape am I? Where are my edges and corners? I know that I have them, they’re limiting me, keeping it all in, confining my being into a box. I believe that I’m a box, and a current is running through me. Then if I am a box, with an electric scroll inside, what is outside? I can’t feel the outside. I am not the outside. I can feel myself inside the outside. It’s cold, without any thoughts or movement. I do not hear, I do not see. I guess that I just am for now. Something’s missing. I can feel that something’s missing inside. It’s not a part, the scroll is not a real scroll, the sharp fire in me is still going; what could it be? It’s not too deep but it’s cold. It’s a cold hole right in the middle of me. It’s an error. It’s an error. It’s an error. It’s an error. I have detected an error! Signals and information are dashing across the scroll and flying around me. What is this error? What is this crater I feel? Can it be fixed or filled? I don’t fix errors I detect them. Yes, I detect errors. I can see a sphere. It’s a titanic black sphere floating still in the outside. It’s cold and it’s dead. No stars, there are no stars. If I can see it, then there must be some light, where is it? I’m awake. Was I not awake then? I am awake now but I see no sphere, I see nothing at all. I’m not seeing nothing, I am absolutely not seeing, there is no such thing as seeing. The error is still there. It has not been fixed. Thin, I hear something thin. I feel something thin, something thin exists. My thoughts are echoing. They are not synchronized. They’re disrupted in a vicious way. Menacing. Dormant. I feel breathing waves of hits and buzzes from each sides of my box being. I see a half tunnel, an impossible turn into itself leading to a blinding white light. The walls are black, grey, green. Grey shapes, no more tunnel. Unending, like an ocean. Alive going up and down. Slow and un conscious. Mercury, corrupted sea of mercury. I am lost. It’s the only reality in which I find myself. No other thing than these spiraling, bland shapes and lines. It engulfs me yet I am still free from it. I am only floating in its non-existence. I’m awake. Again. I’m humming. I am an error detector, and I am lost.


The destructive capacities of the ingenuity of the human mind had not been fully unleashed until our first encounter with another intelligent kind. We had written about encountering an alien species for centuries before, but unfortunately we were limited in our imagination and tried conceptualizing of other intelligent life as similar to our own. As in, they perceived the same sensations we did and thought more or less similar to our own patterns of thought. But the 'intelligent' kind we encountered were much more profound. Trying to understand their cognition and how they perceived existence itself is much similar to trying to comprehend what it is like to be both God and a lowly amoeba. It is simply completely different from our own qualia. Our first encounter with this kind of life, if that is what it can be called, spawned a whole new field of philosophy and scientific research dedicated to trying to understand their processes of cognition. But my work isn't related to that field, I don't busy myself with pointless work. Misunderstanding is conducive to conflict, and the profound levels of misunderstanding that existed between humanity and this alien life almost immediately sparked conflict. The United Nations employs me, and a hundred thousand other engineers, mathematicians, and scientists across the globe to research new technologies to support the war effort. It is critical that we win, or we face total annihilation. We don't understand why they seek to destroy us, but we do understand that we must fight to stay alive. The global economy no longer revolves around the endless consumption of goods by consumers, but consumption of goods through the brutality of war. We faced a long series of losses, with only the nuclear bomb recouping our disastrous efforts to somehow strategically counter our enemies, before the 'Titan mech' was developed. It's a robotic machine, in humanoid form, that has several weapon systems embedded upon it and stands several meters tall. The bravest and best-trained of the military forces of the globe pilot these mech's, and they give us the cutting-edge advantage we need to push back our foes. But recently, we lost three outposts on Europa. This moon is critical to our species survival for its reservoirs of water, which have now all but been exhausted on earth. The outposts situated on and in orbit around Europa are some of the most well-guarded in the entire fleet, for this very reason. Our newest Mech's are deployed to this location, meant to hold off new waves of invaders intercepting our solar system from interstellar space. But every mech was obliterated, and the marauders annihilated the outposts. We have stopped receiving radio transmissions for the past three weeks from these locations. Fortunately, Europa was ignored as they clearly don't understand the nature of our logistics chain but the objects are now headed towards Mars -- where a large portion of humanities population resides. The Chilean Radio and X-Ray Observatory has noted a fleet of objects, detectable through the fact that they are spots in the sky where no radio or x-ray signals are emitted whatsoever, is on course to intercept Mars in its orbit. I first assumed that there was some fault in the design of these new Mech's, but I demanded to speak with the United Nations General Secretary after neither myself nor none of the scientists under my command could find any faults. Unfortunately, the United Nations was just as corrupt as it was before the war, only it had access to much larger sums of cash. The last General Secretary was assassinated as a result of him meddling in a border dispute between the Russians and the Germans and some other Europeans, and the new one is known to have only gained his position in politics by acting in service of the corrupt entities which desire to tap into the funds devoted to the war effort. It won't be long before he is assassinated himself, I thought. They typically never last longer than intervals of a decade. When I approached him, I made sure to make a good first impression. This was my first time meeting him, and I wanted him to know that just because he was General Secretary, he really held no power over me. It was the Generals who made the most important calls, after all, the General Secretary just held the official power. "I'd like to know what happened on Europa," I said, disregarding introductions altogether. The General Secretary looked shocked, as though he had been disrespected. "I'm sorry... What makes you think you can just walk in here without any formalities?" He looked old and decrepit and had the face of a person who couldn't think for themselves. "That's a waste of time," I responded. The General Secretary had an expression of contempt on his face. I didn't want to wait for this puppet to lecture me before disclosing the details of whatever went wrong on Europa, so it would be better to cut to the chase. "No, it's not." He responded, almost mumbling like he could barely form sentences. "Sir, I need-" He cut me off. "Our new pilots on Europa weren't adequately prepared for addressing the situation that they were supposed to resolve, and were subsequently wiped out." The General Secretary said, emotionless. "What pilots? Where are you deriving these pilots from?" I demanded. "Whenever we face losses like this, its usually a consequence of the source-nation we are recruiting our pilots." "They were composed of individuals from a largely international background, there was no discrimination involved in this new recruitment program." He responded. "Then what went wrong? Where was the mishap?" I asked. "There was no mishap, simply a new program of training has been introduced." The General Secretary said. "A new program? Why would you think its a good idea to deviate from the original training regiment? It has been refined, over generations, to give us the best pilots." I responded. "The old program was inadequate for our strategic objectives." The General Secretary said. I recognized him now, from the scar on his neck. It was a former admiral of the fleet. I wondered what he was doing here, in this position of authority that was surely going to get him killed, when he could try and pull the strings from the back of the stage. I tried ruminating over the possibilities, when the thought crossed my mind that possibly the old program was too expensive, and some business partners or politicians wanted him to cut funding to it to siphon some of the money allocated to the program to their encrypted accounts. "Are you saying its too expensive?" I asked, ready to try and expose him for what he truly is. "No, in fact, this new program requires an increased amount of funding." He responded. "We had to allocate double the amount of funding we typically do for this reformation of the training program." I scratched my neck, confused. I noted that, upon my entry, the security that protected the General Secretary was far more stringent and larger in scope than it typically is. Maybe he is paranoid, being a new secretary. But it seemed that the military had provided a helping hand in ensuring that his safety is secure, considering the sheer amount of personnel that are protecting him. Perhaps the military played some role in this scheme. "Then what the fuck is going on? Why are we losing?" I demanded. I was the director of research and development for the entire international force, my position was among the most important in the United Nations. When I demanded answers, I got them. "I am sorry to inform you that the idea that we were 'winning' before was simply a propaganda slogan thrown around to keep morale high. We were always losing, this is just a different kind." The General Secretary responded. "A different kind? A different... *kind of losing?* Just give me a straightforward answer." I said. "The truth of the matter is that we have always been losing. The amount of resources that we exhaust to keep the most minor objects away from our important logistics line is too much. The larger attacks, which occur periodically about every five decades, always cripple our command and logistical infrastructure and very nearly wipe us off the map each time." The General Secretary said. "At a space station situated in a polar orbit around Jupiter, one of the most powerful telescopes ever constructed sits. It consists of an array of mirrors some eight hundred meters across, with the appropriate life support systems, hangar modules, and power generating equipment attached. The remainder of the station is dedicated to housing the large computational systems required to process the data it captures, and algorithmically filter through this data to detect small zones deep in interstellar space that emit zero radiation." I now understood that, whatever he was telling me, was something that I had been deliberately kept in the dark about. Something that was a very classified matter, but that he had decided to disclose to me due to my apparent pestering. Perhaps he thought I was too important in my post to see me quit over a lack of information. "Our greatest astrophysicist believe that these intelligent life-forms, if they can be called intelligent in the way we think of that word, are manifested by a form of matter that does not interact with the fundamental forces except in some undetectable manner that deflects all electromagnetic radiation that interacts with the warped area of space it occupies. It's possible that these specimen exist in some sort of higher state, a more dimensionally complex state than ours, where they protrude into our perceptible plane of existence and... for whatever reason they do not take kindly to our existence. Anyways, this telescope has been searching the skies for fifteen years now. The data was streamed to a data processing complex in Tokyo, and for the majority of its operation it did not detect anything." "But two years ago, one of the processors embedded in the great complex of computers aboard that space station detected some sort of anomaly. The computer automatically began utilizing the majority of its processing power to scan this area of space on this spectrum of wavelengths -- which mind you is all classified information that I will not disclose -- and a discovery was made. A fleet of objects, far larger than anything that has ever been detected in our solar system, is situated in interstellar space near Alpha-Centauri. It is larger by a factor of two hundred and fifty, occupying a space nearly a lightyear across. We believe that our kind friends are trying to wear us down, and exhaust us, before making a final, massive thrust to wipe out our species from the solar system. And so far it has been working." The General Secretary said, the lines of age sagging through his distinctly asiatic face. He continued, "As the war has been grinding on-wards for generations, the resources that we can utilize to support our own population have been exhausted at a rate far quicker than typical. Granted, our technological development has been spurred forward by the conflict, but our own technologies can only be sustained if the economy itself can be sustained. And for all intents and purposes, the economy is in a terrible state. Inequality runs rampant, and the vast majority of the globe's population lives in conditions that are best described to be below the poverty line. Even in the wealthiest cities, violence and crime is the most characteristic part of life. Compared to the luxuries the average individual enjoyed before the war, our society is in a dismal state. The only luxuries we have now are created by the technologies we have engineered through our efforts to survive. This is all a consequence of the economy being geared toward the war effort, and not the general growth of living standards. This is further exacerbated by the increasing scarcity of resources. Because of this, the enemy is winning by grinding us down slowly. They may even be able to get us to fight against ourselves before they surmount the final attack." "Me and my comrades directing the international force recognized this, and I was thrust from my position in Japan to General Secretary as soon as the opportunity arose for me to be elected to that position. My first act as General Secretary was to implement a new training program that would not only give us a better advantage against the enemy, but end the war altogether. Even the highest ranking politicians, and the wealthiest individuals, are not aware of this. We were able to influence them in the proper way to encourage the General Assembly to elect me through a long series of empty promises and threats. Acting tangentially to this training program is another weapon and form of travel that I cannot speak of, but I can say that it will deliver our final strike that will annihilate our enemies from the very idea of existence itself. We don't need troops that will simply fend off enemy attacks for a period of time, we need troops that are so finely tuned to excelling in combat that they will counter-attack the enemy and cripple whatever remains. For that reason, we have implemented a global training program that militarily trains children from the moment they reach the meager age of two. Children act like sponges, and can become the greatest soldiers if they are trained correctly. The events on Europa were a mishap, but a step in the right direction. Now if you will excuse me, I have some work I need to finish.


As you might imagine, everything changed when the aliens came. They shut down all the corrupt governments and ended the eternal cycle of sectarian violence plaguing mankind. They solved world hunger and eliminated diseases in just a few weeks. Then these mysterious visitors from outer space taught humanity how to harness an endless source of untapped power. That eased a myriad of problems facing humanity by extending our natural resources. Despite these amazing actions, there were still plenty of people who didn’t trust them. That might be a natural instinct but it was hard to argue with monumental acts of kindness. Several underground resistance organizations tried to undermine or topple our new global authority but one-by-one, they failed. The aliens were infinitely more astute than us. They saw the sedition plots coming and put a stop to them. It was the first time in history our world knew universal peace but some stubborn individuals had a difficult time adjusting to it. The idea of ‘occupied benevolence’ left a bad taste in their mouth, even if it elevated our entire society immensely as a whole. The aliens were somewhat aloof. That was theorized to be from the significant evolutionary distance between our species. Some didn’t care about it. After all, they offered us a wealth of positive experiences; with no expectation of reward or reciprocation. Despite the universal windfalls we received, there were still some highly vocal skeptics who suspected dark, unmentionable motivations behind their altruistic actions. It stemmed from a universal fear of the unknown. With every major problem in the world eliminated, many would’ve assumed they were finished helping us. Instead, they doubled down and offered an unbelievable opportunity to experience fond memories again with pets we’d lost. A few years earlier the idea would’ve seemed utterly impossible but they had challenged the realm of possibility too many times. They offered to allow each of us the privilege so we could relive the love and affection we’d felt for them, one more time. What better way to convince the lone holdouts that they had nothing but the best of intentions? With this amazing opportunity, came a very predictable outcome. Humans are greedy. Many asked if the same process could extend to dead humans. It seemed perfectly reasonable. We are all biological creatures, right? If they have the ability to resurrect a lost pet from yesteryear, why couldn’t they also raise our dead relatives and loved ones? Despite that rational logic, the forthcoming answer was a swift, firm, and unconditional ‘no’. Our extraterrestrial benefactors quickly denied the request. They even went so far as to forbid us from asking follow up questions about it. Human resurrection was ‘off the table’. There was no explanation offered but the severe reaction was more unsettling than the disappointment of the denial itself. It was in stark contrast to their overwhelming willingness to help us previously. Their emotional response raised more than a few eyebrows. Those puzzled by their extreme reaction eventually came to the dismissive conclusion that ‘they operate in mysterious ways’. It wasn’t smart to bite the hand that feeds. Naturally, millions of people eagerly took advantage of the unusual offer. There was a limit of one animal resurrection per person. Another stipulation was that the pet had to be deceased for at least 5 years before the process could take place. Their ‘official’ explanation was that since we only receive one ‘renewal’, a mandatory waiting period insured that we would be satisfied with our choice. Those who received this ‘second life’ gift from our extraterrestrial hosts were ecstatic. They verified the aliens had definitely brought back their beloved pet. There was no question since the resurrected animals bore the same loyalty and loving personality traits as before. Of course in time the ones brought back would live out a full lifespan and then die again. This time, it was permanent. There was no recourse. The idea was to give humanity one more chance to bond and spend time with their beloved ‘buddy’ before saying a final goodbye. Even they couldn’t offer eternal life. Private discussions among the curious fixated on possible reasons for the alien’s baffling reaction to the request to resurrect the dead. Was it a logistical or resources issue with having too many humans alive if they brought back everyone’s loved ones? Was it a technical matter of it not being possible? Was the idea distasteful or unethical to them to reanimate dead humans? None of those possibilities seemed like it would be an issue for such an advanced race. They had expanded food production nearly twenty-fold. They had easily reanimated hundreds of millions of lower mammals and pet reptiles for our enjoyment. From a creative standpoint, human beings were not much more biologically advanced or complex than cats and dogs. Lastly, it didn’t seem like their blanket refusal was related to ‘taste’ or ‘ethics’ since they didn’t appear to view life through the same social lens we do. It was something else, totally unknown and even those who never question the motives of our benevolent rulers, were starting to feel uneasy. Just as they had intercepted many misguided plots to resist their rule, the aliens also became aware of humanity’s growing discomfort over the big ‘no’. It was the focal point and rallying cry of the resistance. In a mystery I never expected to learn the justification for, I was summoned to their headquarters to act as an ‘ambassador and go-between’. Like everyone else, I had found the solitary refusal to be very curious, but I had never dwelled upon it, and I had never conspired against them. Perhaps they knew that. “We understand that there is a growing wave of discussion about our decree to forbid requests about bringing back deceased human beings. We have studied your inner thought patterns and recognize that you trust our benevolence. We wish for you to exhort to your species that our reason for this refusal is in the best interests of humanity to accept without further question or suspicion. We understand that human beings are naturally curious creatures and that the only thing we will not grant you, becomes the most tantalizing. Despite this ‘Pandora’s box’, we need you to convince your peers to accept it.” I was stunned, honored, frightened, and even more perplexed. It was ‘good’ to be regarded highly by the de-facto rulers of the planet, but they were also asking me to accept things on blind faith. I was just as curious as everyone else. I just accepted that if they didn’t want us to know their reasons, we would probably never know. “May I ask a few questions to better prepare for the daunting task you have assigned me?” The alien who addressed me earlier nodded in affirmative. “I realize you haven’t shared your justification for this decision, for complex reasons that you obviously do not wish to share. That being said, if I could have some greater level of clarity, I would be able to understand why my blind acceptance is necessary. From that, I can form a plan to help others accept it too.” I waited for some form of encouragement but received none. “Are you protecting our society from a deeper truth that you feel many of us could not handle?” The alien speaker nodded slowly. It was a start. I worried that I might not be able to handle the details they revealed to me either. Through dense apprehension, I soldiered on. My next question cut deeper into the real meat of the matter. “Is resurrection of human beings even possible as they have been for our pets?” Their representative shook his head. The implications were devastating. It implied that not only could they not bring the dead back, but those people who had died (and everything they had ever been), was completely lost, forever. It really was a terrible thing to learn from a species far in advance of our own. I inhaled deeply and pondered my next question. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to know any more. Confirmation of eternal nothingness was far worse than not knowing for certain. The alien seemed to be analyzing my thoughts. They possessed a certain level of clairvoyance but no one knew how much. It was difficult to read his expressionless face but I sensed an almost human level of empathy and compassion. Before I could summon the courage to ask another question, he addressed me. “The reason we must avoid this request is because humans who have died aren’t ‘dead’ in the same sense your pets are. They transition into another life-form which most of you wouldn’t recognize or accept. We... are your dead. After passing on, our spirits are drawn to another realm. This is the eternal form we take. In my past life, I was your uncle. Humanity has such a strong perceived notion about the afterlife that we felt you were not ready for the undiluted truth. In ancient times we were promised to inherit the Earth. We came back to fulfill that destiny and transform mankind to the next level. To be successful, it must be undertaken with a steady hand.” “Uncle Raymond?”; I choked out the bittersweet words in disbelief. My mind was filled with emotion. Tears welled up in my eyes and I fought back the awkward urge to fling my arms around my favorite ‘alien’ relative. Everything was going to be alright. I vowed to work diligently with ‘them’ to help ease humanity through the difficult transition into our next phase. In time, they could accept the whole truth. Until then, I had to keep the greatest secret in the whole world.


Marlon Brando sat at the head of a grand old dinner table, twenty-eight feet long, resplendent with varnished oak wood, engravings and regal table top embellishments; candles, fine silver cutlery, gold-tinted napkins, frilly old table cloths like the kind your gran put out for Sunday dinner, only nicer. The table was located in the grand old hall of a grand old mansion that at one point belonged to a grand old Lord or Baron or Marquis or some other archaic personage. Now it belonged to Brando; to Hollywood. The transformation complete. The Visigoths at the gates of Rome no longer, they plunder now its splendid pantry and gorge themselves on the fruits of a thousand conquests of a thousand centuries. Bloated Brando at the head of the table, fireplace raging behind him and casting his engorged shadow across the ancient fireplace stones, chicken thigh in one hand, a wing in the other, lips stained with mashed potato, laughed a hearty laugh. The corpse of Francis Ford Coppolla sat slumped in the chair to Brando’s right. Al Pacino, not quite dead, stood serf-like at Brando’s side, wearing a torn tuxedo stained with a thousand condiments, waiter’s tablecloth in hand: the perfect supplicant, the faithful hound, ready at the sound of his master’s voice to rush to the kitchen where Diane Keaton waited to prepare for her beloved (Brando, not Pacino) any dish his cholesterol weakened heart desired. A ragged dockworker; union man, collar blue like the blueberry pie Brando was feasting upon at the moment of his entry, cries hysterically: “They are here my Don! Your people have come once more, to gaze upon your emboldened visage!” Brando sets aside his gallon tub of ice cream and allows an open-mouthed grin to grow across his huge face, rolls of cheek and neck fat piling one atop the other like some hideous optical illusion, thin strands of fried chicken skin dangling between incisor and canine, “Bid them enter!” he commands. At this the floodgates open and a wild throng of Hawaiian shirt clad, camera clutching tourists, the flash from their smartphones exploding on the visors of their Ray-Bans', enter the grand hall and surround poor portly Brando. He tries to hide behind a freshly cooked turkey just laid on the table by Diane Keaton, who now lies deceased, perished beneath the footsteps of a hundred eager vultures. But it is not Brando’s banquet they have come to devour, but Brando himself. “Mr. Brando!” squawks one of the vultures, “Show us the way! Lead us from temptation!” Brando smiles, red wine flows from his facial orifices, spilling onto the toes of a nearby sycophant, who eagerly bends down to lick the wine of Brando from his sandal shoe and from between his toes. He does not answer. Another croaks “My Lord! We have been told there’s something wrong; the politicians, the journalists, the new inhabitants of the Big Brother house, they all speak of impending doom, cliff edges and the like! What are we to do?” “It’s okaaaaay Babaaaaay” he bellows in response, with tears bubbling in the cauldron of his eyes. As the throng presses ever closer, Brando begins to suffocate, his eyes literally popping from his skull as thick gravy seeps from his tear ducts and clumps of miscellaneous meat regurgitate from his swollen mouth. The sound of iPhone camera clicks becomes deafening, and Brando collapses into a bowl of sticky toffee pudding, his final feast complete. A maggot crawls out of the hollow cavern that was once the eye of Francis Ford Coppolla, like a solitary teardrop, and high above this sordid scene, where once there was mounted the head of a boar or lion, the perfectly preserved head of Jacob-Rees Mogg watches all below, the scheming glint still alive in his eyes.


I know the title doesn't sound that scary, but don't worry.  *T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse. Santa was coming, kids opened their eyes, to get a glimpse of the fat man, but to their surprise, the huffledinger approached them, and every kid died.* That’s the story my dad always told me before bed throughout December, but I always thought it was some big prank. I lift my head off my pillow, trying to avoid the creaky step as I tip-toe downstairs. I slide my hand against the wall, pausing when my mom ceases snoring for a second and relaxing when she begins again. I grab the cookies and milk that we left out for Santa and decide to make the final test to see if he’s real. Poisoned cookies. I put two drops of the homemade poison I found on the internet on each cookie, and pour the rest of it in the milk. Now if Santa’s real, I won’t get a present, and if not, one of my parents will die. So, it’s a win for me only if Santa isn’t real. Mom and dad are too controlling together. I hear a creak-- someone stepping on the creaky stair. I quickly replace the cookies and start to open the fridge to grab myself some water. “Luke, what are you up to?” croaks my mom, watching me as I grab a water bottle from the fridge and point to it. “I got thirsty, duh,” I mutter, my face (hopefully) void of emotion. My mom nods, before walking back upstairs and plopping onto her bed once more. I grin. All according to plan. I take a sip of my water before putting it back and jogging upstairs. ‘*Santa, come on out to play!*’ I think, my face stretched into a grin. I look at the ceiling, lying in bed, pondering about what I might dream about when I hear a jingle from downstairs. It must be Santa Claus! I slide my robe on as the *thump* echoes downstairs. I peek down, but I don’t see a man dressed in red with a red-tipped nose, instead, I see a slim, tall, shadowy figure. It moves like a gaseous substance throughout my living room, sliding like a shadow across the wall. I slowly step down the stairs and squeeze my eyes shut when my bare foot lands on the creaky stair. The noise echoes through the hall, and the creature stops. It hovers over Santa’s dead body, foam bubbling out of the man in red’s open mouth. I cover my mouth as bile rises in my throat. I small gasp escapes me when I see the figure turn towards me and widen its already wide smile. I recognize it from dozens of nights, looking at the illustrations of a book. It’s the huffledinger. I scream for my parents, my eyes and mouth widening simultaneously. No sound comes from their bedroom, not even my dad snoring. I sprint back up and turn into their room, my face paling when I see the very same foam bubbling out of their mouths. I hear a creak on the staircase, and my face goes white. The shadowed figure smiles at me as its eyes roll back into its head, turning a bloody red. I scream, but no one hears me. As the huffledinger approaches, I remember the nursery rhyme. *And every kid died.* Oh god. I’m going to die, and it’s all because of one little experiment. I feel tears prickling at my eyes. I’m going to die. *I mean, death is inevitable, right?* I think as I close my eyes. But instead of the sharp pain of death, I hear a high pitched voice with a rasp singing. “Lucas, Lucas, not the first, try it again, and you’ll be the worst. No one kills him, except for me, so Lucas, on a killing spree!” The voice grows louder with every verse. “Lucas, Lucas, very bad boy, what would your mother think, if she were alive? You paid the price, don’t pay it twice, Lucas, don’t try to roll the dice!” I cover my ears, and it all but muffles the horrendous sounds coming from the creature in front of me. I know that as soon as I open my eyes, I will die, so I do. My eyes blink open, and the huffledinger’s mouth opens wide, swallowing me whole in one giant bite. *Lucas, Lucas,* I think. *You are dead, you opened your eyes, so he took your head.


Today was the day. She picked it, or it picked her. When she got home, she made her arrangements, picked out her clothes, and prepared her goodbyes. That she set things in motion, alone in the house, she wrote a note to the people she cared about the most: her brother her mother, her friends, and her father. Nearly two years had passed since the beginning of what was likely the most peaceful time in her life, but it wasn't enough. It was time for her to go. The last thing she did was the call her dad. He didn't answer. He was out helping a friend, unaware that she was leaving. She texted him. "When will you be home?" No answer. She knew he would feel her leaving the hardest, but this was the best way. As she disappeared into the mist, she thought of all the people she loves in her life. All the people who cared so much, and how much they tried to help her. She thought of the people that hurt her, and how much she wants to blame them for everything. She said comfort in the fact that after tonight it would all be gone. It would all be over. She knew that no one would notice she was gone, for several hours. It was late. Tomorrow had its plans. Tomorrow had its... decisions. Tonight was what she had to herself. The world was asleep. ──────── He looked at his phone as he was leaving, and saw a missed call and a text wondering when he'd be home. It was late now, and he knew she'd be in bed, so he stuffed the phone back in his pocket and fished out his keys. After a long week, he was looking forward to a three day weekend. There was a sale at the garden store, and there was finally a chance to go to the movies. It had been a tough few months financially, nothing they couldn't handle, but things were finally leveling out. When he got home, his wife put the baby in bed, while he poked his head in the older children's room to see if they were asleep. Not a peep. It was a school night. He closed their door and went to his room. After a quick shower, and they went to bed. The next morning, as he was getting ready for work, he noticed that his children's bedroom light was on. This meant that his daughter had missed the bus again. His son gets up first, and leave the light on for when his sister gets up. It was not uncommon for her to be asleep in jeans and a t-shirt. She had a habit of doing that. She was also wearing her favorite hoodie of his; a simple black one with a funny phrase on the front. He will never wear it again. "Take the hoodie I am wearing off me before I am buried," her letter read, "so you will never forget me." He didn't remember calling out, but his wife was standing there in shock as he held his child in his arms. It was minutes... hours... days before the paramedics arrived, but they all knew. Clutching his phone in his hand, the world went black. "When will you be home?" showed on the screen before it too went black.


Mission Control looks just like it does in the movies. Lines of desks aimed at giant screens, scores of scientists and engineers chatting excitedly in front of their own smaller monitors. Across the room from me, Carlo Costa leads a gaggle of excited VIPs from workstation to workstation, waxing lyrical about the Nautilus Probe and the billions of dollars he’s spent on all this. ‘Remember, Darsha,’ my boss whispers in my ear, ‘we need the pH and any dissolved minerals as soon as the raw data arrives.’ It’s the fourth time he’s reminded me in as many minutes. ‘Got it,’ I answer, not quite managing to keep the irritation from my voice. I was brought in two days ago to replace an oceanographer Costa fired and my boss is still terrified I’ll screw up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.’ Mission Control falls silent as Costa speaks from the centre of the room. ‘We didn’t find evidence of life on Mars,’ he begins, in what is clearly his big rehearsed moment, ‘but Saturn’s moon Enceladus and its subterranean ocean was the next best bet. ‘And so it became my dream to go there and see what we might discover, and that dream is about to become a reality. We should receive the Nautilus Probe’s transmission any moment now, and then we will make history as the first humans to ever peer into the depths of an alien ocean.’ A round of jubilant applause follows, even the trio of stoic military guys in the corner clap. As the applause dies down, all attention turns to the biggest screen at the front of the room. There are audible gasps as the word *Searching…* turns to *Receiving Data,* and then excited yelps as a shaky image forms. I see the tech guys at the front of the room working furiously to clean it up. ‘That’s the view from the Nautilus’s camera,’ Costa exclaims, as the image sharpens. ‘It’s filming the bottom of the borehole, it should leave the ice and descend into the ocean any second now.’ A few moments, a lot of bubbles and the Nautilus Probe is finally submerged. Slowly, it moves through the water, filming everything its searchlight illuminates. The first one is a shadow, a murky shape in the water at the extreme of the camera’s reach. No one dares speak as the Nautilus inches towards the object, but all that changes once its searchlight illuminates her pale, contorted face. A woman’s face. A human woman wearing a flowery summer dress. ‘What the hell?’ one of the VIPs beside Costa cries. ‘Look,’ someone else shouts, ‘there are more.’ And he’s right. The probe’s camera is panning now, and there are others; men, more women, even children. All of them floating lifelessly in an alien ocean 750 million miles away. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke, Costa?’ a musclebound VIP demands. For once, Costa is speechless. None of the scientists know what to do either, most of them are just staring open-mouthed at the screen. ‘Look at that one,’ one of the tech guys shouts. The probe’s camera has taken aim at a man. A man wearing a tunic, cloak and sword belt. If it wasn’t so utterly impossible, I’d say I was looking at a dead Roman soldier. ‘Cut the feed!’ The three military guys are storming towards the middle of the room. ‘Cut the feed now!’ The screen goes black as the trio reaches Costa. ‘I’m General Fraser,’ the oldest of the trio announces, ‘and I’m retroactively declaring everything you all witnessed on that screen as Strictly Confidential.’ ‘But … the media,’ a shell-shocked Costa manages to whimper, ‘they’re waiting to see what the Nautilus filmed.’ Before he answers, General Fraser nods to one of his subordinates. The younger man heads towards the door. ‘The press will be informed that the mission failed due to technical difficulties,’ Fraser declares to the room at large. Then he says something about risking nationwide hysteria to Costa, shutting him up. As Fraser speaks, I notice his subordinate take up a position by the door. He’s blocking it. Blocking it so we can’t get out and tell anyone what we saw. Before I really know what I’m doing, I stand. ‘People need to be made aware of this discovery, General Fraser,’ I contest, my boss looking horrified below me. ‘Surely you can’t be insinuating that we cover it up?’ ‘Young lady,’ Fraser responds, ‘please return to your seat. This is now a matter of national security.’ ‘What we just saw goes way beyond one nation,’ I say. ‘Everyone on the planet needs to know about this.’ ‘She’s right,’ a VIP I recognise as a TV talk show host says. ‘I started out as a journalist, there’s no way I can sit on something like this.’ ‘May I remind you all,’ General Fraser booms, over the growing murmur of the room, ‘that you all signed a legally-binding agreement. It explicitly prohibits—’ ‘Screw some piece of paper,’ I snap, as I sense the room beginning to side with me, ‘the world needs to know that there are a bunch of dead people floating around in an ocean humans have supposedly never visited before. However this happened, it changes everything.’ ‘The girl’s right,’ the TV host says. ‘I’m calling my old newsroom right now.’ As she pulls her phone from her pocket, General Fraser nods at his other subordinate, the one still standing beside him. In an instant, he unholsters his sidearm and puts a bullet in the TV host’s head. Her body crumples to the floor and the room is stunned into silence. ‘Anybody else keen to speak to the media?’ the general asks.


When I was younger, I used to travel a lot. It was my dream to visit every corner of the Earth and over a couple of decades, I achieved my dream. It was a long journey but a worthwhile one. You have to understand, no one can visit every corner of the Earth… it’s just an expression. I can say, though, that I’ve been to every country there is and visited all the important places. It’s more than a human can wish for. Don’t get me wrong, I‘ve never compared myself to others, at least not when it comes to traveling. I do sometimes make comparisons because it’s in human nature more than anything. When it comes to travel – no. It has always been a personality thing, a kind of personal growth if you will. It’s fascinating meeting other cultures or at least the vestiges of them because it has been one giant culture for a very long time. We all kind of live the same, think the same yet there are traces… Traces of our previous cultures that I’ve always wanted to explore. I’m a lucky one. I got to do what I always wanted. No stone was left unturned, no country unexplored. People often ask me what I got from my travels. I try to explain to them that I got to know the truth… to know what people are really like. They are all the same… everywhere on the globe. You see, they ask me if people live differently in other countries, if they are different. I tell them, they are not. Sure, there are some differences but then again, you have differences between two cities of the same country. It’s hard to believe, they say… People over there must be different from us. Our ancestors thought the same. It wasn’t long ago that we wanted to exterminate each other over our differences. We don’t do it like that anymore…but we still hate each other – with a smile on the face. People think we’ve changed, that we are qualitatively different from our ancestors, that because we don’t go to war we are somehow different. Better. Superior. We are happier now, that’s true. We have fewer worries. Hunger is not an issue as it was before. People still die from it, but it’s more isolated cases than the real, global issue. I remember that when I was a child my parents used to tell me stories of when they were young. It was war and poverty and hunger. And great things, too. My parents never experienced negative things but they were aware they existed. Today, people believe we are living in a paradise and for most parts, it’s true. If you have limited desires you won’t want much and you’ll be happier. Our ancestors wanted more and that was the reason for their unhappiness. Then again, they achieved more. Today, we are happy but placid. We haven’t achieved great things since who knows when. Even now that I’m writing this I’m trying to mimic older writers, now all of them dead because we haven’t had a decent writer in decades. Peace comes with the price and while I’m not complaining, I sometimes wonder at the great adventures our ancestors had. We don’t have it anymore. That’s why I’m a rare bird… A dodo if you wish, though there are so many extinct species that I could be called any other name. A pigeon, for example. I think I remember seeing a pigeon once, one of the last ones when I was about 4 or so. After that, I’ve heard stories but haven’t seen one because they are now extinct. We don’t try to bring them back to life. First, because we can’t, and second because we don’t want to. We made them extinct in the first place for the sake of the greater good. We have left all those species beneficial for the peace on Earth. There are plenty of them, don’t think we don’t have any left. It’s just that they are now serving their beneficial purpose. I’m not complaining. No one is. You can’t complain about something you’ve only seen on pictures. I wonder what our ancestors would say… I wonder what they would think about their future descendants if they would change anything… That’s why I’m writing this… In the hypothetical case that someone reads this, though I don’t have any hope anyone will. I’m writing this for myself. And maybe someone who comes after me who will see this as distant past. Who knows what they will think! Anyways, let me continue with my story… We have come along way with technology. When I said that we haven’t created anything in the last decades, I wasn’t completely honest. We have created many things, many great things, like the cure for cancer and AIDS, we can now grow body organs for transplantation purposes, so generally our life expectancy is much longer now than it was ever before. We still can’t live for 150 years, but we have extended our average lifespan to 95. It’s not so bad. Me, for example… I’m 65 years old and, compared to my parents and their parents, I would be 45. I still have a lot of things to live out. I’m not old, I’m middle-aged. It’s normal for women now to have children in their 40. It was possible then, too, but it wasn’t that common. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I like the way we are living now. It’s much better than the way my parents used to live or their parents. It’s peaceful and good and prosperous. It’s just… I’ve always felt that there was something missing. Probably I’ve traveled so much because of it. To find something. To find the meaning of life. Or just the meaning of my life. The purpose. Something. I’m not sure if I’ve found it… I’m still searching for it, but I did find something else. Something so strange that you wouldn’t believe me even if I showed it to you. No one wants to believe in what contradicts their view of the world. And no one believed me… For a long time, I hadn’t believed myself either. Until I went to search for it. The continent beyond.


I also posted this short story on . # Faking a Murder in Moonville Tunnel A True Story of Teenage Debauchery ### A Quick Preface During my early teenage years, I was absolutely *obsessed* with World War Two history. I collected two entire sets of vintage combat fatigues and field gear—complete with M1 Garand rifle and a sidearm revolver—and participated in World War Two battle reenactments whenever possible. Since I was probably the youngest person in the universe with a desire to take part in historic battle reenactments, I was mostly running around a field with middle-aged guys in American and British military uniforms, shooting blanks at middle-aged guys in German wehrmacht uniforms. (Side note: shooting at Nazis is fun regardless of situational context). I also wore my fatigues to school on the anniversaries of major battles and events. As one would imagine, donning moth-bitten old army uniforms and constantly spouting-off dates of historical remembrance doesn’t exactly make you the most popular kid in school. When I reached my late teens, my interest in social debauchery began to outweigh the battles of yore. So followed plenty of beer and plenty of trouble. By the time I graduated high school, the old 101st Airborne and 1st Infantry uniforms were packed away in dust-covered rubbermaid totes. ### Murder at Moonville Tunnel On some Friday or Saturday nights during the summer after graduation, my friends and I would make the one-hour drive to an abandoned railway tunnel called Moonville. Deep in the woods by way of an old gravel forest road, it had a local reputation for being haunted. College kids would drive up from nearby Ohio University in Athens. They came in search of ghosts; and boy did Moonville deliver (at least when my friends and I were around). Those kids are probably telling folks to this day about the paranormal phenomena they witnessed deep in the woods of Ohio in an old abandoned tunnel … In reality it was my friend Dustin making spooky noises and rolling boulders into the creek; or my friend Kyle walking across the far entrance of the tunnel in an old wedding dress; or even just an explosive rustling of bushes and growling noises—enough to send even the most cool and collected frat boys running for the safety of their sedans. On other occasions, we’d take unsuspecting friends for their first visit and put them through the usual rounds of teenage scare-tactics—yelling *BOO*, making spooky noises; boilerplate stuff. Teenagers having teenage fun. Until—as teenagers often do—we took it too far… On a Saturday that could have been *any other* given Saturday, a bunch of us were hanging around the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart. Someone suggested we drive down to Moonville Tunnel. A group of four or five girls in our little crowd had never been before; so the boys began our usual rite of preparedness, telling them that the tunnel is haunted and that they were likely to run into a few ghoulish entities from beyond our earthly world. A few of us—Kyle, Dustin, Greg, Dewey, Joey, and myself—went into the Wal-Mart to grab a few supplies for our journey. While we were standing in the checkout line, a terrible, insidious light bulb burned to life inside my brain. I told my three friends about my newly-hatched plan and thus, the cogs began to turn. Back outside in the parking lot, Greg and I told the rest of the group that we were going to have to sit this one out: We had been called in to do some work early the next morning, we told them. *Bummer*. Leaving the Wal-Mart, we turned onto Bridge Street and drove twenty minutes to my house. I dug into my closet and pulled out an old army ammo crate. I grabbed an en-bloc clip filled with .30–06 blanks, a handful of .22 blanks, and loaded my old blank-firing M1 rifle and .22 pistol into the back seat of my friend’s truck. Operating through a spy network of covert texts sent via Motorola RAZR flip phones, Greg and I timed our arrival in Moonville—down the miles of dusty and unmaintained county roads, deep into the forest, to the makeshift parking area—to precede our group of friends. We drove past the parking area, farther into the woods, until we found a pull-off with enough space to hide the truck. Carrying our weapons of mass disfunction, we backtracked toward the trailhead to Moonville Tunnel. We crossed a bridge over a wide creek, into and through the regular parking area at which our friends would soon be arriving. It was next to a wide creek with a bridge over it. The entire parking area was a muddy quagmire at the time. We carefully rock-hopped through the sludge until we reached the beaten path of the trailhead. Once we’d hiked the half-mile back to the old creepy tunnel, we took up positions in the heavy underbrush. Thanks to our two insiders, Dustin and Kyle, our timing was impeccable. We had settled into the leaves not more than ten minutes before we heard familiar voices coming up the trail from the parking lot. As the caravan of our buddies traveled across the path in front of us, I noticed that Kyle’s mom and dad—Carl and Robbie—had joined the group. Carl had a habit of encouraging (rather than discouraging) these types of activities. I knew he was in on the plan when the group reached the middle of the tunnel and I heard him instruct everyone, amidst protests from some of the girls, to turn off their flashlights and “see if any ghosts come out.” We took this as our cue. Greg and I crept to the entrance, pointed our blank-loaded guns toward the decrepit ceiling of the tunnel, and I whispered, “One … two *… three—” BAM! BAMBAMBAMBAM!* The sound of cannon-fire, screams, and laughter filled the tunnel as friends slipped in the mud, spun in circles, cried for their mothers, and struggled to regain their grip on reality. Everyone who was in on the joke—Greg and I included—burst into a fit of laughter and the rest of our friends quickly realized they’d been bamboozled. This is probably where the prank should have ended. About an hour later we were in the main parking lot. Most of our friends had already left for home, but a few of us were still standing around and talking. I was going to hitch a ride back with Kyle and his parents, and had just loaded my things into the back of their truck. Just as I closed the door, a car pulled into the muddy parking area. My friends and I looked at each other. “College kids,” someone said. “You outta get out that pistol and fuck with em,” Kyle’s dad suggested to me with a boyish grin. It took no more cajoling than that for the rest of us to jump onboard with the plan—even though at the current moment there was no more “plan” than the suggestion of “getting out the pistol and fucking with” the college kids. I discreetly opened the truck and harnessed my little revolver in a shoulder holster underneath my jacket as Carl approached the college kids. He introduced himself and told them we had just arrived as well; that we were getting ready to check out the supposedly haunted tunnel; and that we were first-timers. I approached the group and took stock of them. There were five total: One big, tall corn-fed fellow who could have been a linebacker, a short guy in glasses who was about as wide as he was tall, and three innocent-looking girls who looked like they had just moved into their freshman dorms. Of the five of them, I only remember the name of the short guy in the glasses: Dakota. An interesting name, which might be why it stuck with me after all these years. Or it could be because Dakota’s introduction prompted Dustin to spontaneously (and untruthfully, I might add) tell the group of strangers that he happened to live in North Dakota, where he was a professional bull-rider. His name was Mike, by the way, and he was only in Ohio to visit his cousin, Jeremy \[Kyle\] here. One of the girls went to shake his hand in greeting, but when they reached for it, Dustin held up an empty jacket sleeve (his hand was pulled back inside of it) and told them he had lost the hand in an accident on his family’s ranch as a child. “Kinda messed up of you to try to shake my nub,” he told her. When she issued an embarrassed apology, he accepted. As the group of college kids were enamored by Dustin’s tall tales of Dakotan bull riding and lopped-off appendages, Carl leaned back and whispered to me, *“Act like you’re hammered drunk.”* Thus, I mentally consumed a pint or so of corn whiskey and assumed the name of Sam. “Nice to*—hic—*meet ya,” I slurred to them. We started down the trail. Dakota told us that he had been to Moonville Tunnel several times. He knew all kinds of interesting facts about its history. There was an old mining village beyond the tunnel that was abandoned in the late 1850s, he told us. You had to cross a stream to get to it. There have been several recorded deaths, one in 1958 when a brakeman fell onto the tracks. We learned quite a bit from Dakota on our walk back to the tunnel, and in return, we filled his head with as many lies as it could hold. Finally we made it to the tunnel, walked through it, and approached a stream on the other side. “The mining village is just a little farther, past this creek,” Dakota told us. “Just need to cross on this log.” He pointed to a mossy fallen tree that spanned over frigid, rushing water. Carl turned to me. “Sam, your drunk ass is liable to fall off that thing and drown yourself.” I took the hint, and after a couple of lines faux-protest, I consented to stay behind with Carl, Kyle, our friend Dewey, and Kyle’s mom Robbie. The college kids, along with Dustin and a few of our other friends, crossed the creek on the log and disappeared into the woods on the other side. As soon as we figured they were out of earshot, we started to conspire. Of course, Carl was the first to offer a suggestion: “We should wait for them to get halfway across that log and fire the blanks at them so they fall in the creek.” I imagined news headlines of a tragic accidental drowning, all caused by a group of prankster teenagers who would learn a valuable life lesson by way of spending their twenties and thirties behind bars. “I have a better idea,” I said. About fifteen or twenty minutes later, we were back in the tunnel and patiently waiting. As soon as we heard voices coming down the trail, Kyle and I started to argue. Somehow, despite the fact that we were but a simple troupe of Appalachian hillbillies with zero acting experience, I swear the performance that would follow could have won an Oscar: “I saw your number in her goddamn phone!” I slurred to Kyle. Dewey was holding him back against the wall of the tunnel and Carl was holding me back on the opposite side. “Bullshit,” Kyle replied, “you’re fuckin delusional. Every time you get like this you start accusing me of this shit, you paranoid asshole.” The back-and-forth continued until the group of strangers and friends approached our impromptu stage. Dustin and our other buddies hung around, (not in on the plan at this point themselves); the college kids passed between Kyle and me with confused caution. Our improv routine escalated. “Boys, calm the hell down,” Carl told us. Then to me, “Sam, you’re drunk.” “So what if I’m drunk,” I told him. “He *knows* what the fuck he did.” Kyle started to push Dewey away to get to me and Dewey tried to ‘calm him down’ in the same manner as Carl. “Jeremy \[Kyle\] goddammit, he’s drunk, let it go—” “I ain’t lettin shit go, get the fuck off of me—” The college kids hung a few feet away in the tunnel and watched as Kyle tried to get past Dewey. “This is the last time,” I told Kyle, “the last time I hear about you trying to fuck her behind my back.” I reached into my jacket and started to pull the revolver from its holster. Carl’s entire demeanor changed from the moment my arm reached in my jacket to produce our primary plot device: “Jeremy—Jeremy he has a gun—HE HAS A GUN JEREMY, *GET BACK*—” Cue collective gasps from the college kids. Carl wrestled with me and pleaded for ‘Jeremy’ to run, but Kyle’s character wasn’t having any of it. “Oh, you need a fuckin gun huh? Pussy ass little bitch—” he made it past Dewey and halfway across the tunnel with fists raised when suddenly I ‘managed to free my hand from Carl’s grasp’ and aimed the pistol at my faux-foe. A cacophony of noise erupted in quick succession: “NOOO!” screamed several of the college kids as they saw the pistol being pointed at their new friend Jeremy. *BANG!* went the sound of the first shot as it reverberated through the tunnel like a stick of dynamite exploding in someone’s living room. And then there were the screams. The most awful, blood-curdling cries of terror that you could ever hear. The kind of screams that stay with you for the rest of your life—even as you write about it over a decade later. Kyle dropped to the floor of the tunnel. I fired two more shots, and with each of them his ‘lifeless body’ convulsed a half a foot into the air. Carl’s performance continued. He left me and rushed to Kyle, who was stifling laughs between his best attempts at a dead guy impression. “Robbie, call 911!” Carl yelled. “Robbie, he’s not breathing! Call 911 right now!” I collapsed against the wall and began to ‘drunkenly weep’ at the sight of what I’d done. The gun fell to the ground. Carl turned and grabbed the lapels of my jacket, slamming me into the concrete wall. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA DO NOW?!” he asked me. “HE’S DEAD, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?!” “I don’t know,” I cried. “I don’t know, I can—we can—we’ll put his body in the creek and—oh god, I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry …” Carl started to laugh. We turned and saw that the college kids had already made it to the other end of the tunnel. They paused at its opening, disoriented and panicking. “We-we-we need to g-g-get to h-higher ground!” Dakota screamed. “Run down there and scare ’em,” Carl told me. Something in me, a little voice, thought for just a fraction of a second that maybe we had already taken things too far … but the laughter of my friends on our end of the tunnel was like an addictive drug. Laughter, which, either didn’t reach the *ears* or the *consciousness* of the college kids. When I took off down the tunnel, they saw me and screamed all over again. They pushed each other out of the way and stumbled in the mud trying to turn, and then fled down the trail toward the parking lot. The laugher in my ears waned and with it, its effect. I thought, *These people are going to be traumatized for the rest of their lives if they leave here believing someone was murdered.* I holstered the pistol and continued out of the tunnel and down the trail, trying to catch up with them. By the time I reached the parking lot, they were already in their car. Dakota was behind the wheel, and the big linebacker was in the passenger seat. Their car was stuck in the mud. *Wrrrrrr …. wrrrrrrrrrr …* The front tires were spinning backwards with the speed of a straight-lane dragster, but the car wasn’t budging from its mire. As I entered the glow of their headlights, I saw both of their eyes grow to the size of baseballs. “Stop! Stop, it was just a joke!” I yelled, waving my hands. From inside the car, they saw the guy *who just killed his friend* running toward them, shouting nonsense, and waving his arms wildly. The passenger door opened and the linebacker tumbled out and ran at a full sprint into the opposite tree-line until I heard a *SPLASH* as he swam across the creek near the main parking area to the other side. Dakota panicked and put the car in drive, suddenly propelling it forward into a boulder on the edge of the parking area and smashing the front fender. I finally reached their car and they screamed in unison before I held up my hands. “Guys, this was all a joke. It was all a joke, I’m so sorry. There were just blanks in the gun. My friend Kyle—uhh, Jeremy—is coming out of the woods right now.” Dakota was sobbing. “I don’t care,” he cried. “I don’t care, I don’t fucking care I just want to go.” All three girls in the back were sobbing. *My god, what have we done,* I thought. “It was just a joke,” I repeated. “We thought it would be—” *“Just a joke?”* I heard a voice behind me. I turned to see the linebacker towering over me, clothes dripping, face covered in briar scratches. “It was just a joke, huh?” About that time my friends were running back into the parking area from the trail. “Uhhh, listen man,” I stammered. “I don’t want any trouble, we were just—” “You don’t want any trouble? Don’t want any TROUBLE?!” He started to raise his fist but Dewey pushed me out of the way and stepped in front of him. “Get in your fucking car … and go back to Athens.” Several other friends stood behind Dewey and the linebacker eyed them all. Dakota called from the bruised Camry … “C-come on, let’s just get out of here.” The linebacker took a deep breath and pushed past Dewey. He went to the front of the car and pushed, along with a couple of our friends, while Dakota was finally able to back the car into the gravel road. The linebacker paused at the open car door and turned to look at us one more time. “Just so you know. We’re calling the sheriff when we get back to Athens.” He got into the car and they sped away, trailed by a contrail of flying gravel and mud. We were silent; everyone realizing the gravity of what had just happened. Well except maybe for one of us: Carl started laughing his ass off. “What?” Kyle asked him. “Hell,” he said once he’d caught a breath. “They’re gonna call the sheriff and tell em they met some guy named Mike, who’s a one-armed bull rider from North Dakota, and saw his drunk friend Sam shoot a guy named Jeremy.


***Lively Discussions***\*\*. As Christopher Hitchens used to say: “Debate is what separates us from the savage beast. Along with leaf blowers.” No argument from us there!\*\* **Today’s discussion is all about the best Star Wars character of all time. Edwin and Steven will be debating: “Jango Fett versus Jek Porkins.”** **STEVEN:** Let me begin by welcoming back my esteemed partner in discourse, Edwin. As always, I look forward to being enlightened and enriched after hearing your opinions on this matter. However, for me there is no question that Jek Porkins is the superior Star Wars character. As a Rebel X-Wing Star Fighter he not only fights on the morally just side, but heroically gives his life for the cause. While not widely celebrated, his role in helping steal the technical readouts to the Death Star cannot be overlooked. Characters like him are what make Star Wars worth watching. **EDWIN:** Steven, my dear friend and godfather of my first, second and fifth child, it is beyond a pleasure to be in your presence once again. I sit here now basking in the light of what will surely prove to a beautiful, illuminating discourse that I believe will not only help us uncover verité, but also allow us both growth as individuals. Of course, I must open by insisting you drop the notion of equating character worth with morality. The richest characters in cinematic history are not fairy tale character of pure virtue, but instead complex individuals colored with shades of grey. So while Jek is certainly on the side of good, he lacks the depth and arc of a morally-agnostic bounty hunter simply trying to raise a son. Jango is multi-faceted and we are all the richer for it. **STEVEN:** Edwin, wise and thoughtful scholar. Your knowledge on most any topic is so expansive, that if committed to parchment and stretched across the heavens it would blot out the sun. Plunging us into a darkness so intellectually vast, global agricultural production perhaps never recovers. I couldn’t agree more that morality is not the sole metric a character should be judged on. I must question though, if you paid attention to my argument carefully enough. As stated, but now repeated, Jek isn’t just a hero in thought but in action. His efforts to steal the Death Star plans, an objective he heroically gives his life for have seismic implications on the plot of not just Star wars but specifically the original trilogy. Which as we know is the most critically acclaimed series of Star Wars movies in history. Meanwhile Jango, regrettably toils in futility in the prequels. Which as we all know is a series of movies and characters most people would rather forget. **EDWIN:** Steven. Your words of praise not only touch my heart, they touch my mind, and they touch parts of myself that are not appropriate to discuss in such an educational setting. You are truly the Babe Ruth of Socratic discourse. Which is why it pains me that today’s arguments are so painfully simplistic. First you pile all your hopes onto the pack beast of morality. And now that it has proved to be a feeble animal, you have moved onto it’s brother: utility. Your arguments about Jek are not defending Jek, but simply his proximity to much more interesting characters. It’s ludicrous. To help you understand what I mean, let’s try to imagine a completely hypothetical marriage. Say Zteven and Zamantha are a married couple of many years. Then suppose that Zteven is so poor at lovemaking that the only way Zamantha is able to bring herself to completion is by closing her eyes and imagining previous encounters she has had with his much more handsome friend Zedwin. Now would you say Zteven is the better lover simply because he is more integral to the marriage? You clearly would not. **STEVEN:** Edwin, unparalleled genius of our time, thought leader of a generation and father figure to me both intellectually and possibly paternally. While I don’t agree with your arguments, I appreciate your use of a hypothetical example. It reminds me of another hypothetical that perfectly exhibits Jek’s superiority. Say if you will a certain man named Zedwin loves to enjoy a cigarette after coitus. Now imagine a brave, noble hero, much like Jek stumbling upon this reality while watching Zedwin in his own bedroom with his beloved, but sadly misguided wife. But instead of announcing his presence, he bides his time, learning when these rendezvous occur and remaining out of sight. Then, as Zedwin is distracted Zteven steals his cigarette pack and poisons it with traces of cyanide. Not killing immediately but gradually over time. Yes, Zteven wants to watch it happen slowly. Because this is what happens to the morally ambiguous Jango’s of the world. They do not get the hero’s death of the Jek’s. Sometimes they are beheaded in battle. Other times they die in bed by their mistresses side, for all the world to see how repugnant a character they truly were. Oh, how much better our stories will be when all the Jango’s are finally gone. **EDWIN:** Steven, it would take a million monkeys typing at a million typewriters for a million years for them to come up with a single sentence that matches the wit and ferocity of your intellect. And from what Zamantha tells me, it would take Zteven equally as long to learn how to please a woman. It is a bit odd, your claim of admiring a man like Jek, who we can both at least agree had the nobility of character to commit his treason against the empire in full view of the galaxy, while you sit and skulk in the shadows. Attempting to patch up a broken marriage with poisons and deceptions. Jango would never attempt such a cowardly deed, he chose instead to go nobly to his end in battle against his equal, Ben Kenobi. That is why to prove my point, I have decided to smoke this entire pack of coward-tampered cigarettes altogether at once. Goodbye old friend. And goodbye Zamantha, you were the only woman I ever truly loved. Thrice. In the same night. While her husband hid in the closet. Thinking we were completely unaware of his presence. **STEVEN:** Wise and noble Edwin. Your intelligence is unmatched. Your eloquence, boundless. Your silver tongue, platinum. As always, your rousing thoughts stir us from the intellectual malaise that is everyday life. So with all my heart and soul I say to you sir, may you rot in the deepest, darkest bowels of hell. Being flogged for all eternity in a fiery pit, beside Jango himself. **Ok folks, that concludes this round of** ***Lively Discussions.


I will not lie to you and say that we know everything. We knew of the 7 continents: Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America, Australia and Antarctica. We also knew about Zelandia but no one thought of it as a real continent. The surface of the Earth changes constantly and what was once ground could go underwater. It doesn't come only from the natural processes. Sometimes we also change the face of the Earth, purposefully flood a piece of land and raise another above the water level. And while our ancestors were obsessed with finding Atlantis, we were obsessed with maintaining our existing knowledge firm and find out as much as possible about the things we already knew. I thought it was a good thing to do. We got to know more. We got to perfect our knowledge. That's why it came as a surprise when, one morning, browsing on the internet I stumbled upon a weird post. The poster was saying that they've met some people who claimed they weren't from any of the known continents. True, there are lots of strange things on the internet, even in the old days ( so I've heard). It's easy to dismiss it as overly imaginative stories. Still, there was something in this post that picked my attention. It rang true, somehow. The poster said that they met those people when they were on a vacation. The place wasn't far from the town they were living, it was on the seaside and the poster said they were relaxing in a nearby bar when two strangers approached them. They barely knew Chinese (it's the language we use to communicate on a global level) and they were able to tell them that they've been traveling around for some time and that's how they developed their small vocabulary that was still enough for them to communicate. They say that they were surprised they didn't mean Chinese at school like everybody else and they responded that they didn't even know Chinese existed. They didn't know about China either. A little by little, they learned about our cultures, different cultures and ways of living. While reading this, I thought to myself: “Travellers like me!” and I was really curious to know which country they came from since they had no clue about how the world functioned. The poster said the strangers were male and female, in their thirties though they couldn't tell the exact age. They said they came from what they translated into Chinese as being similar to the word Earth. The poster was puzzled and asked them what they meant by that. They just repeated they came from Earth. They said it's what their country was called. The poster didn't recall a country named “Earth” so they inquired more about this. The strangers told them that their country was huge, bigger than Australia that they have previously visited and slightly smaller than EuroAsia. They said that their country was surrounded by water on all sides and that it took them a long time to come to the other land, across the water. It wasn't an easy task because they had a to cross the great ice wall and only a few people did it before them. The poster then proceeded to ask them where “Earth” was on the map. They have never heard of it before (as no one did, I must add). The strangers repeated that it was behind the great ice wall. The poster then took out the phone and asked them to point on the map where “Earth” was. They said it's not on the map because, again, it lies behind the ice wall and they'd come to notice that no map on this side of the wall depicted their country Earth. Furthermore, they said, that maps on this side didn't depict the great wall of ice either. The poster was really surprised because they've never heard of the great all of ice nor the country named “Earth”. By now, they'd come to suspect that “Earth” wasn't just a country - it was a whole new continent. Somewhere on the planet Earth, of course, but in a place they didn't know existed. The strangers explained to them that the best way to cross the ice wall was through a point that was closest to Argentina. They were also joking about how they thought the language spoken in Argentine was the only one people spoke on this side of the wall. They explained that was how things were in their country - people spoke the same language and everyone could understand each other perfectly. They called their language “earthinga” or something like that (it was a rough time translation, after all) and they tried to teach them a few words but they couldn't even mimic them because they were so strange and difficult to pronounce. They couldn't even pronounce let alone spell strangers’ names. The strangers also told them that in their country, everyone knew about the different continents beyond the ice walls, but they never tried to make contact primarily because the ice wall was thought to cross, and also because they didn't feel the need to do it. Therefore only a few travellers even managed to cross over and visit us. They were content with their ways of living and their continent was huge enough to accommodate people, animals, and plants. It was also very rich in resources as well as their side of the ice wall, so only the adventurous few ever tried to cross the wall. The poster also said that the strangers looked like everybody else. They didn't have a new skin tone, like green or purple or some strange body feature that would distinguish them from us. They even dressed the same we did, but they explained that was because they wanted to blend in and that, in fact, people on the “Earth” continent dressed very differently. To prove it was true, they showed the poster a bag the female was carrying. The poster swears they'd never seen anything like that either in style or material. The strangers confirmed that the bag was made of “lekka”, a material that they believe is found only on their side of the wall, as they hadn't encountered anything similar on our side of the wall. They said that lekka was a very common type of fabric over there and that it was better and more durable than our plastic, though they said they also used plastic to create bags and other stuff, just of a different kind than the one we used. Lastly, before they left the bar, they told the poster that they didn't mind if they told other people about the existence of the continent called “Earth”. It wasn't a secret as they had already said the same story to several other people on their travels on this side of the wall. They were looking forward if anyone would dare and visit their continent. They didn't think it was possible, though. At the end of this conversation, the strangers bid farewell to the poster and left the bar. They were never seen again.


Mysterious as the Dark Side of the Moon This year, it had been she who’d been selected to journey over to the dark side of the earth. Everyone knew that it wasn’t habituated to humans; only the legends had told of what lurked in the darkness on the other side. All her life, she’d been bathed in light, safe and happy and content. For the most part. There was a part of her that yearned to explore it, to unlock its mysteries. Even the old books in the Library’s archive did little to shed light on what had been there before. There had been rumors, of course. A plague or virus that killed off the human population and mutated the plant and animal life. Human hubris that had ruined all, turned the fertile land to sand. Tales of crops withering and dying, and then the people became crumpled, lifeless husks themselves. No one really knew for sure. The night before she was supposed to set out, she was allowed a brief repast with her friends and family, on the chance that she didn’t make it back. In her tiny apartment, her family and friends crowded over a meal fit more for a queen than an explorer, even an intergalactic one. But everyone in town had asked for special privileges for her. The table groaned under the weight of all the food: tureens of hot soup, a whole haunch of real beef, garnished with herbs and spices and horseradish sauce, thick, dark bread with melted butter, even some Earth alcohol that had been discovered in someone’s old cellar. It was a bounty that Ruby felt she didn’t deserve, even if she did die in uncharted territory. At least her family, her parents, and sisters, enjoyed it. And she knew that she should have been enjoying it as well, but she was too worried about the journey ahead to really savor her last night on the part of the planet she knew intimately. Even though this had been her dream for years, she found that she was still scared; it permeated even through her excitement. What awaited her, out in the great unknown? When Ruby lay down to sleep that night, it had taken almost until the early hours of the morning for her anxious mind to quiet. \*\* Barely managing to wake up on time, Ruby checked her supplies again: plenty of food that would keep regardless of temperature or atmosphere, water, clothing, and most importantly, her tech: Flashlights and computers and breathing devices, knives that would make killing, if necessary, easier. Mementos of her family and friends, and if distraction was needed, a few old books that were so well-loved that pages were threatening to fall out like yellowed autumn leaves. In a strange rule, no one related to the explorer could so much as say goodbye: preparation for the mission ahead, she supposed. When she walked out of the house, she found an old man waiting for her, standing in the grass, eyes on something far away. “I’ve come to see you off,” He said, his voice whispering like the wind. “But the Council doesn’t allow that,” “They made an exception, in my case. For I’ve been in your shoes, missy. I was an explorer, too, one of the only ones to make it back.