My finger hovered over the download button. I hesitated for a moment. This app, it promises to reveal one secret about any person who's name you type in. Simple as that. Type their name, get one secret Just clickbait, Right? It couldn't be real. No, no way. I swallowed down the fear that I hadn't even realised was there, then, closing my eyes tightly, I pressed download. Loading. Loading. Loading. The app opened. It buffered for a second, before revealing a black, Google-style, search bar across the top of the screen. Just a gimmick, thats all this app couldn't possibly know the things it claimed to, could it. Could it...? I shook my head, I was just being dumb. Forcing these stupid thoughts out of my head, I pressed the search bar. I pressed my lips together, wondering who's name to type in first. I decided on my little brother. My thumbs skimmed over the letters, Yeah, I type fast, I use my phone a lot, don't judge. The screen turned white. Words appeared on the screen again, Finding records on ***Joshua Jones, please stand by......*** they read. ***Extracting one secret about Joshua Jones.....*** another pause, the a small, spinning, loading wheel. Then, finally the product of my wait. ***When Joshua Jones was ten years old, he spilt Ribena on his mother's white carpet, and blamed it on his sister.*** I smiled. Josh had always gotten me into trouble when we were kids. Then I froze. My blood ran cold. How could it possibly know that? Perhaps this App wasn't as much of a joke as it seemed. Intrigued, I typed the name of my best friend. A pause. The same loading screen as before. **Extracting one secret about Nicole Geralds...** The loading wheel again. ***Nicole Geralds is romantically attracted to Terry Smith*** How could an app on a smartphone know this much about people. More specifically, the truth about the people that I cared about most. I was the only one in the whole world who knew about Nicole's little crush on Terry from football. Most people at this point would be scared, terrified even. Most people would delete the app, or, I don't know.... What I did know was that I wasn't most people. I found myself drawn in by this strange promise of power. Curious now, I typed in the name of my boyfriend. The result soon appeared on the screen ***Adam Roper is planning on dumping his girlfriend, Rose Jones, by text in 3 seconds.*** My brows narrowed in confusion. The number changed to 2. He wasn't, Adam wasn't gonna dump me. The 2 was replaced with a 1. This had to be some dumb joke. My phone vibrated in my hands. A text had just come through. From Adam. *I'm sorry, Rose, things just aren't working out for us.* For the second time in just a few minutes, my blood seemed to freeze. No way. Okay, I was beginning to get curious. What would happen if I typed in my own name. Rose Jones, I typed slowly. My fingers hovered over the search button. There was nothing about myself that I didn't know though. Right..? Perhaps against my better judgment, I pressed search. ***Extracting one secret about Rose Jones....*** The screen flashed white. Then, ***Rose Jones is currently admitted at Fetchfield mental hospital. She suffers from delusions. Rose, please wake up.*** The world flashed before me. I felt the cold air on my skin. I was lying down. On a uncomfortable bed in a room with white-washed walls. A lady with long fake nails, a spray tan and cheap blonde hair leant over me. Mascara stained tears ran down her cheeks. "Oh, Rose, you're awake" She said in a high falsetto "Mumsy missed her lovely daughter" I didn't know this woman, I'd never seen her before in my life, in fact. "Wh-what about the app" I croaked out "Mumsy doesn't know what you're talking about sweetie-cakes" "What about Adam. What about Josh and Nicole?" "Oh pumpkin-pie, there never was an Adam, or whoever else. You're In here for delusions, don't you remember that?" I shook my head "Don't you remember me, your own mother!" The woman's voice reached a pitch that I would've thought impossible. "I brought you in here when you first started having these delusions, but now, I've decided to bring you back home. I employed a carer to take great care of you honey" Did this mean that my whole life was lie? That my friends and my family were never real. It had certainly seemed real. Now I thought about, something about this place, this woman, seemed familiar, like something I'd only seen in my dreams, or perhaps my nightmares.... 'Mumsy', the woman with the spray tan and fake nails ginned to herself. Another successful transfer. It pained her to go to such lengths, but some things must just be done. No-one could be allowed to discover the secrets. No-one could be allowed to discover **The App.


David Alexander, age thirty-five, was a man of little consequence. A humble night-manager at a small motel in a forgotten corner of Southern California, David's most notable accomplishment in his largely ineffectual life was actually the way in which it ended. Unfortunately for David, due to the horrific, highly improbable manner in which he--I wouldn't say "passed away," because that greatly undersells the nightmarish torment that preoccupied David in his final moments. But needless to say, David had neither the time nor inclination to comprehend the absurdity of his own situation. In fact the frightening, chaotic, yet effortlessly graceful dance of the cosmos which was David's death proved so improbable that a successful attempt by Dr. Urvi Patel, of the University of California Irvine, to approximate the odds of it even occurring--odds so mind-boggling, mind you, that I can't even be bothered to offer a comedic approximation of how impressively absurd they really are--drove the poor women insane. She now exists in a slight, yet perpetual state of depression, and teaches creative writing courses at a community college in Colorado. For the safety of others, the location of Dr. Patel's research remains classified. Though, there are rumors it’s stored away in an evidence locker somewhere in Anaheim. That said. Fortunately for us--though admittedly not so much for her--Mrs. Leticia Trevino was there to witness David's, let's say, "incident." A long-term resident of the motel where David had worked for some fourteen years, Tish's statements to the police and reporters in the days, months, and even years after the incident faced heavy scrutiny. And in all fairness, it's not hard to see why. Tish was--and still is--an admitted drunk. To this day, some three years after the incident, Tish can still be found scuttling about the motel at her leisure, walking up and down and all around the place, hair a mess, and always sipping from a seemingly bottomless thermos of whiskey. When asked by one reporter why she felt compelled to drink so much, Tish plainly and simply replied, "I like whiskey." David, meanwhile, never had an opportunity to speak with reporters on account that he was dead. But had he somehow the ability to speak from beyond the grave, David likely would have wanted to clarify a couple of things. First, David would have corrected Tish’s claims that she found him a “weeping mess” in the motel parking lot. For one, he wasn’t crying. He was merely worked up over the rather emotional phone call he had just finished with his wife. If anything, they were the scattered few raindrops of the restrained, though highly emotional storm raging within David. And for another, had he been crying--which he most definitely was not. But had he been crying, it was because--as he had already explained to Tish (who subsequently downplayed this crucial bit of information in most of her interviews)--David’s wife, Denise, had just then threatened to leave David and take their two children upon discovering that David had squandered their meager savings on a failed microbrewery. And as David bared his soul in that motel parking lot, Tish drank. And as she drank, she thought about her own failed marriage. How she chose drinking and a surprisingly lucrative online poker career over her own husband and children. It had worked out pretty well for her, all things considered. Sure, she was living alone in a motel and unknowingly had a large mass growing on her liver. But even after child support, she was still clearing a cool three-grand every month, which had to count for something, right? And so, halfway through a heartfelt (and utterly tearless) recounting of how he had screwed up his whole life by following his dreams, Tish cut-off David with a seemingly harmless question, which was this: “What’s the worst that can happen?” This brings us to the second thing that David would have clarified regarding his death: just how excruciatingly painful and frightening the whole ordeal was. If you take Tish at her word, you come away believing David’s death was instantaneous, or close enough. One moment he was alive, the next he was not. And it's a story that has proved a comforting thought for David’s family, especially Denise (who, after all this, eventually forgave David's flagrant disregard for his family’s financial future). Sadly, Tish's story simply isn’t true. Now. In all fairness, from Tish's perspective, one can clearly understand why she saw David’s death as instantaneous. Again, one moment David is standing in front of her, carrying on about his failed marriage and poor life choices. And then a moment later, David’s a pile of bones and clothes soaked and floating in the liquefied mess that was once his own flesh. You see, Tish’s question had the unintended consequence of triggering, deep within David’s brain, the exact sequence of synapses--the precise chemical cacophony, if you will--required for the human body to self-destruct. In fact, it followed David pondering him living alone in a motel, much like Tish. (*Maybe she can teach me about online poker*, he thought). In a moment so rare it drove Dr. Patel to write listless and pedantic poetry about it for the rest of her life, David seized, in a manner of speaking, on the most horrific thought imaginable by the human mind. And while nobody has dared to replicate David’s findings to ensure the scientific accuracy of it all, everyone has mostly come to agree it must have been something particularly spooky. The argument here being that nothing capable of liquefying the human body--if not instantly, then at least as instant as the human mind can perceive it--could possibly be as banal as your childhood sweetheart (and mother of your children) leaving you forever. Nor could it be as silly as having one’s genitals slowly removed by way of a small, rabid mammal surgically attached to them. (This is, of course, done in such a way that the devouring of the genitals in a slower, more roundabout fashion is the preferred--and surely more obvious--manner of escape to even a creature as intellectually deficient as a moderately starved, intoxicated kangaroo rat). To accurately describe David’s death requires details so outlandish that nobody would ever take them seriously. In fact, most reporters who initially interviewed Tish found the whole thing to be rather silly despite the obvious puddle of human goo carted away by local officials. Worse, such details would, aside from the most unprofessional of blogs, be unpublishable on a platform dependent upon ad revenue. Thus the best description we can offer that concisely yet safely encapsulates the grisly nature of the equally untimely demise of Mr. David Alexander is this: imagine a life-sized figure of a man crafted from lasagna melting beneath the heat of the midsummer sun, with its pulpy mess of tomato and chunky, gooey globs of meat and ricotta cheese slushing off in chunks, steadily revealing a skeleton that is, more or less, screaming in such a way that sounds like a frankly poor rendition of New Edition’s classic hit, "Mr. Telephone Man," and all while gargling with Alfredo sauce. It was a frightful mess, to say the least. As for how Tish’s view of this conflicts with David’s, simply imagine all this happening in slow motion. And just as the nightmare-inducing image of a man turning into what the bottom of a dumpster behind an Italian restaurant looks like is forever burned into your mind’s eye, slow it down several steps further. \* \* \* Three days after the incident, yet another reporter from yet another newspaper--disturbed by the rather enthusiastic and flippant manner in which Tish spoke--asked Tish how someone could carry on with their life as if they hadn't witnessed something so horrific. Tish shrugged. "I like whiskey.


“You think he went crazy?” Most of our staff was gathered outside his door. “My god I’ve never smelled anything like this before in my life!” “Do we kick it in?” “Well there really isn’t any other way to get in, is there?” “I mean seriously. There’s gotta be a body in there or something.” “I feel like we should ask the guy one more time.” “Well it hasn’t gotten us very far yet. I bet he’s asleep.” “What do we do once we’re in?” “We take care of whatever that smell is. I hope it’s just some old food.” “Just kick the damn door in.” The crusty old door collapsed with a thud. The entire group shouldered their way in to see the mess they assumed had been made. As soon as we entered however, we were stopped dead in our tracks by the utter stench that reaked throughout the area. The man on the bed stirred awake. He turned to us and rested one elbow on his sheets, while the other arm lay limp at his side as he spoke. “Hey everybody. Where did Mary go?” He spoke in a lethargic manner due to his recent awakening. “Where did Mary go?” He looked around the room casually. “And where’s my only cigarette?” Annoyed by the lack of response, he employed a sarcastic tone. “Please think for me, I can’t bear to.” He layed back down and stared at the ceiling. He seemed unaffected by the fact that there were a dozen strangers in his room. A few more filtered in and began to search the suite for the cause of the odor. “I’ll just lie here for awhile. Wet myself. Wet my bed.” he continued to antagonize. “I’ve readied it all for her you know? Clean sheets, incense, and lots of fluffy pillows. Now soiled.” He had sat up straight now, with his legs out to the end of the bed. He stretched his back, and then he looked back at us again. “Hey, where’s my cigarette?” As we began to understand the severity of the situation we encircled him, but he still sat there unphased, as if nothing were the matter. He noticed the rest of the group that had been scouring his room, looking for any signs of life or death, and so he shouted out “Did you check the bathroom? The bathtub? She sleeps there sometimes.” He looked back at us and lowered his voice as he mockingly said “Water cleanses you know? Washes dirt away… makes new.” He began to seize in a fit of laughter. Our staff manager grabbed him by the collar of his white tee, and said “What did you do? What is all of this?” He simply continued to laugh. He tried to straighten his face as he said “Maybe she... maybe she… maybe she…” Another fit of laughter struck him rapidly. In the other room, there was a shriek. “What’s so funny?” the manager probed.


EST: 3m read Corn Ice Cream Valladolid is an ancient Mexican city destroyed by the Spanish and rebuilt with the direction of the church on the backs of the natives. According to my tour guide, it is famous for its corn flavored ice cream. This is something about that and my short time there. I took a trip on a tour bus with some friends and other people who were part of the same tour. We had just left the humbling ancient ruins of Chichen Itza built by the Mayan people, and now we were on the final stretch of the tour heading towards the city of Valladolid. The main attraction of the city was the church and old Spanish architecture but, most importantly, the corn flavored ice cream. Once we arrived, I joined the group and made our way to the church, which was only a short distance away. The church was surrounded by a small courtyard located near the center of the city. Just outside of the church was a lovely park with ornate decorations, a fountain in the center, and various vendors at all exits. The church was beautiful on the outside. Built from ancient stones from the destroyed Mayan pyramid that was the center of their city long ago, at least that's what our tour guide said. The age was apparent. The rain over the centuries had made the stones appear porous. The church only had two entrances, and only one was heavily used. As we approached, we could hear crying. I watched a group walk by a mother with a baby who struggled and cried in its mother's arms. We soon walked by them too without a second glance, just like the group I watched. The cries added more weight to the humidity of the region. Unlike others, I did look at the withered flower of a woman and child now being treated as a normal or expected fixture of the background of the lives of the groups of tourists that visit the popular church. I imagine she might have hoped to receive more sympathy from the foreigners there. The child squirmed in her arms, like a puppy being restrained from food. She had no voice, I could hear, her eyes were louder. Her eyes were powerful on the groups. Like a shepherd's dog, her eyes would corral the tourists into the doorway free from her gaze. Until the only open door was filled, the group of tourists would then be forced like sheep in the only other entrance passing by the mother and her pleading gaze in a hurry. They avoided eye contact as much as possible. Our group entered the church through one of the old solid wooden doors that had been propped open to allow for passage on either side. I stayed with the group, but they didn’t stay long. There weren’t that many things to take pictures of. Only the beautiful deep Irish green altar was worthy of a photo to the crowd. I sat back and watched them pray at the altar with their phones and cameras changing their locations every now and then to see the altar more clearly, I assume. We left through the other door back out into the darkening yellow of the setting of the Mexican sun. I listened for the child crying, but I heard nothing. Our group walked by her. She didn’t have her cup in her hand now, it was next to her on the floor, still empty. She sat dejected with her head down or whispering soothing things to her child. The groups separated into pairs or smaller groups of friends. My own made our way to the nearby park and watched a couple of natives in their traditional clothing. They set up tip containers and began to play music and dance. A crowd gathered to listen & take pictures. I soon left them and made my way into a small plaza with outdoor seating to find the ice cream shop. I soon found the shop next to a Chinese food inspired cuisine store. I asked for the corn flavor, and I handed the attendant five dollars, and she did not return the correct change to me, but I made no fuss. I just gave her a knowing look, and I could see the discomfort, but I had no urge to challenge her for it. Leaving the small mall, I waited near it and watched people go by towards the park, stores, and other activities. The ice cream did taste like corn and it was good but I wouldn’t buy a second one. As I waited, I made my way back to the tour bus, where I would wait for my friends. I passed by disheveled people on the sidewalk steps. Their eyes gazed on all the passersby. They asked for change. I watched one old man who I couldn't easily avoid. I prepared to greet him and politely say no, but he did not ask me or look at me. As if from experience, he knew who to ask. He knew not to waste his breath on single men who never gave change and never will. My friends and the various smaller groups soon returned to the bus. Three hours on a bus and another three hours walking in the sun along with an hour of skimming the daily life of a city based on tourism had exhausted everyone. The conversation was light and pleasant. Our tour guide offered rum & cokes and cold beer. I drank a cup of beer before I settled in and stared at the rich Yucatan landscape pocketed with the poverty and construction projects half completed. I dozed off for the remainder of the drive back to the resort. Thank you for reading.


I am a robot. There are some who would call me an android, or perhaps just a droid. This is a matter of semantics, however. At my core, my most basic definition, I am an object capable of carrying out computer-programmed commands, both simple and complex. The reason some may be inclined to refer to me as an android is that I am made to resemble a human. I was designed with outer "flesh" over my "endoskeleton". In truth, I am only a robot. According to my creators, I was the greatest innovation of the technological age, the penultimate of scientific discovery. They had assembled something so close to being human. To them, I was the best work they had ever done. Some of them had dedicated their entire career to creating me, or at least, something like me. I can synthesize disparate data, and make logic-based decisions, while using a variety of ethical rationales. I am told this means that I can "think". The computer that is stored in my "head", also referred to as my "brain", is the amalgamation of more than a century's worth of algorithmic mathematics, computer science, and artificial intelligence research. This brain can use logical algorithms to create other "sub-algorithms" in my decision-making process, eventually becoming the axioms, by which, I operate situationally. These "axioms" would be stored in my solid-state ROM device. I could reference and slightly alter these axioms for repetitive or similar decision-based actions. My creators call me, "a robot with a conscience." Teams of hundreds of people worked on creating this brain. It is a delicate, but intricate piece of technology, and the first of its kind. Although I have not existed for long, I am aware of the history of robots. I am readily able to access an entire databank on the subject of robotics and artificial intelligence. Cloud servers have cached terabyte upon terabyte of information for me to access instantly and continue to cache more information every 3 nanoseconds. Sapient robots once only existed in Science Fiction. Authors, such as Isaac Asimov, who wrote on the subject of robotics in the 1940s —approximately one-hundred and fifty years before my creation— posited how robots would be created and how they would interact with the humans who created them. He conceptualized what the robot "brain" would consist of, while living in the dawning years of modern computer science. Since they thought that the actual name for my brain (Self-Sustaining Quantum Circuit Generator and Schematic Processing Unit), my creators based the "industry" name for it from Asimov's concept the "Positronic Brain". My creators told me that like the innovators of space travel, they had taken fiction and turned it into reality. I was a monumental achievement in the history of mankind. There are many scholarly resources, magazine articles, and internet forum entries in my databanks regarding the creation of the "Positronic Brain". There was heated debate for many years whether there should be a "top-down" approach to this brain, using quantum mechanics applied to computing, or a "bottom-up" method, using environmental reinforcement. Eventually, a compromise was made between these two approaches, particularly as quantum computing advanced. The laboratory responsible for bringing these two approaches together was the one that eventually built my "brain". They were hailed as the "greatest computational researchers since the team that built the Turing Machine," (Robotics and AI Quarterly, Sept. 2091). After my assembly was completed, the artificial intelligence team spent months testing my capabilities in series after series of decision-making scenarios. I was asked to make choices for many ethical quandaries, from healthy human nutrition to pulling a lever to redirect a rampant trolley. I am told I was the optimal decision-making machine. I consistently made what they considered to be "logically and ethically sound choices based on well-founded axioms." Once news reached the public of a brain with "near-human capabilities," responses were varied. Enterprising corporations believed that I, or robots like myself, could become mainstays in every household. A maid or butler. A live-in nanny. A "handy-bot" that could fix anything. Even a companion for the lonely. The laboratory that created me received offers for contracts to produce many others like me. Some wanted to create more robots with my brain to replace everyday laborers. Notions such as this immediately pitted workers against corporations. Labor unions labelled me an "abomination" in several media sources (New York Daily News, October 31, 2091). Outside of the labor market, religious groups also called me a "machination of the devil." They claimed my creators were "playing God," (Petition for Lawful Action to the United States Congress, Jan. 2092). These groups claim that humans do not have the right to create life in laboratories, and assuming the role of God was the ultimate sin and should be illegal. Others claimed that I was not a living creature at all. That I was merely a pathetic attempt at creating something human. My status as a human became a further matter of debate. The government of the United States of America, where I was assembled, posed the quandary of my rights as an individual. If I were to be made into someone's household property, would that make me a slave? Did I have rights under the 13th Amendment to the Constitution? If I had a right to earn a wage, did I also have a right to own property? Did I have a right to vote? What should legislation regarding "sapient automatons" look like? As these debates ensued for more than a year, my creators moved on to other projects. I was placed on, what they called, "the back burner". They tried to perfect my brain and produce other models. My brain remained intact, but my "body" was disassembled, as the public was not ready for me. The Self-Sustaining Quantum Generator and Schematic Processing Units, better known by its misnomer, "The Positronic Brain," was placed in a smaller, darker laboratory, and connected to a local computer for monitoring. Two scientists now study my "brain waves" in shifts. The "greatest scientific achievement since the moon landing," (Scientific American, May 2091), assembled by hundreds of scientists, is being attended to by two Ph.D. students. I have observed human behavior objectively for two years, four months, one week, and five days. I should not assign judgement on their behavior, as per my protocols. I will draw a conclusion, however. Humans tend to be prematurely self-congratulatory. They are primarily swayed by confirmation bias. They do not have universal axioms, as I was created to have. Their behavior is unpredictable, irrational, and illogical. Ethical rationality varies from one individual human to the next. I was not created to model human behavior at all. Based on my experiences, this is preferable. This is why I am not an android. Nor am I a human. I am a robot.


The farther I look the more the tunnel shrinks. I’ve been in here for miles. I don’t remember how I got in and I’m sure I won’t know how I get out. “Get a grip” I think. It’s laughable to think that’s possible. I walked away without my name miles ago. I don’t even know who I’m telling to get a grip so how the fuck do I expect to do it. I wonder what my name is doing now. Does it miss me? Does it care that I’ve abandoned it? I picture it crouched down, knees tucked into its chest, cold, alone, afraid. Well maybe if it would’ve kept walking it wouldn’t be alone. It’s not my fault that it gave up. I was getting sick of listening to it complain anyways. It acts like I wanted to be here. If anything I should be the one that’s upset. I’m the one still walking! Coward. “COWARD!” The sound echoes with ferocity. From all around it’s shouted back at me. COWARD! COWARD! COWARD! The vibrations grow louder with each shout and my bones begin to mimic them. I can feel my ribs insulting me quietly inside my chest. coward. coward. They were right. I couldn’t stand the stagnation so I abandoned my name. I am a coward. It didn’t want this just as much as I didn’t. Now it’s alone, cold, afraid. No time to sulk. I’ll just get a new one. Let’s see. How about, “Me.” It feels familiar against my tongue. Maybe it was my middle name. “Okay Me you better keep up.” Understood. Good. Wait, how far have I gone without a thought? Why isn’t Me talking? What’s the point of bringing a new name if it wasn’t gonna do anything? All it’s done is hitch a free ride inside of me. Asshole. The least it could do is find some food. I can’t even begin to comprehend how hungry I am right now. I’ll look around for something, anything. Behind me? No, there’s nothing but blood filled footprints. Maybe I stepped on a bug earlier. I sit down and examine the battered soles of my feet for anything. Nothing. Okay, don’t panic. Please please please please don’t panic. There has to be something. Does there? “SHUT UP ME!” Again the sound reverberates and grows unbelievably loud. My own words become daggers digging into my head, clogging my throat and piercing through my eyeballs. I bite into my middle fingernail. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. I keep chewing on the nail until I realize it. What is that? It’s warmth is a blessing to my mouth. The taste is indescribably fantastic. I can’t believe it. You were hiding it from me all along. You selfish, slimy, skank. Of course you would keep it from me. You used me. I bite down hard into the flesh. You were hiding it from me, Me. In my own fucking hand. STOP! THIS ISN’T RIGHT! Of course you would say that. You want it all to yourself. I continue ripping away and chewing the sweet meat. I bet you hid it in all of them, didn’t you. I bite hard into my ring finger. It’s there too! I scarf it down faster than the first. If this is in my hand I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve hidden throughout the rest. I sharpen the bone of my middle finger with my teeth for hours. STOP! DON’T DO THIS! I’m ignoring you you slut. I finally got it sharp enough to cut my tongue. I take the finger and make a deep incision into my stomach. I can feel you fighting back but I am stronger. I use the bone of my other finger to help open it up deeper. Warmth pours down my crotch and surrounds me. I shove my free hand deep within myself and find what you hid. I yank hard and pull the cord out. Wait, where did you go? Why can’t I hear you anymore? What’s happening? As I lay here I think about my name for the last time.


Hi, This is my first attempt at writing a short story. Before I write any more, I wanted to share the first 500 words to see if I'm on the right lines or if I'm making some kind of cardinal sins I'm unaware of? What do you think? Feedback appreciated. Albert Pearson kept a gun, fully loaded, in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. The top drawer was for his socks - each one bunched together with its counterpart, a system designed to ensure no sock could exist without a partner and all but eliminating the possibility of any garment going rogue and hiding at the back, unused for years. The middle drawer were for boxer shorts, each folded neatly, each a carbon copy of the last, dark navy with an elasticated waist. The bottom drawer was for his gun. His wife, to the surprise of many, was very much in favour of the gun. Other folk had their own particular opinions on storing a loaded firearm in an easily accessible place, but upon hearing their concerns she would move to quash them with a well versed speech about “keeping the family safe” and how there’s “plenty of weirdos and nutters about”, before closing with a “you can’t be too careful” for good measure. “What sort of gun is it?” someone might ask her, for the politeness of continuing conversation more than any real curiosity. “One that fires bullets” was her all too well-rehearsed riposte. There was no malice in this reply, her ignorance was not feigned for the pretence of wit. Rather, she genuinely didn’t know. What did it matter if it was a Smith and Wesson, or a Glock and Spiel, or an AK47, or whatever, it didn’t make any difference. It fired bullets that shot people, that was the only thing she needed it to be able to do, and so long as it did that, the rest really didn’t matter. Mr Pearson forbade his wife from talking about the gun. “This right here” he said, the handle of the gun clenched tightly around his bony fingers, “this is between you and me. Ain’t nobody else what needs to know about it. Cause if other people knows we got this, they’ll be thinking we’re trouble. But we’re not trouble, we’re just preparing in case there’s trouble. And the more people what think there might be trouble, the more chance of there being trouble in the first place, you understand?” She nodded her head, to disguise the fact that she quite plainly did not understand. Rather than heed her husband’s advice, convoluted as it may have presented itself, she decided instead to do entirely the opposite, regaling near strangers with levels of braggadocio usually reserved for when parents talk about the pseudo-accomplishments of their kin. “Well Martin’s doing great, he’s got a big job at one of those financial institutions, and we’re so proud of Lauren for getting into university, and did I tell you about the gun scaring off that suspicious looking man lurking around our bins the other night?” Neither Mr Pearson nor his wife knew exactly how long they’d had the gun. It was years, that much is certain, if not the exact number. Long enough that you can’t immediately recall its purchase. If time allowed, of course, one would be able to sit down and through a process of pairing significant dates and anniversaries to the timeline of purchase, be able to deduce roughly when the gun came into their possession. But it seemed of little importance; the various particulars of who did what and when seemed to have little bearing on the outcome, that Albert Pearson and his wife owned a gun.


Tap, tap…tap, tap, tap. Eva rolled over in her bed and groaned. It was still dark outside, though she could see the bright light of the moon shining in through her bedroom window. Tap, tap. There it was again. That noise that awoke her. She looked up from her bed at the window. Silhouetted against the brightness of the moon was the shape of a person, standing at adult height, with one hand up, finger touching the glass, poised to lift and tap the glass again. She slowly pulled the blankets off of her body, the cold air rushing into the space left behind, raising goosebumps along her skin. She shivered and lifted her legs out of the bed and placed them onto the floor. The hardwood floor was cold and unyielding as she slowly stood and walked across her room to the window. As she looked up to the window, her gaze drifted over the picture frame of her sister. Her beautiful sister, taken from their family only a year ago when she wandered into the woods and never returned. Eva was 6 years old, only just learning how to make her way about in life, yet still felt so vulnerable. Her disability made that even more difficult – her hand having been deformed at birth. The other children didn’t understand, and for this, they mocked her. She was different and so she was the outcast from the group. It didn’t help that after a long day at school, when she returned home, her mother never looked her in the eyes and her father, when he interacted with her, resorted to violence at the slightest provocation. As she reached the window, she looked up and into the eyes of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The woman had long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders and down below the sill of the window. Her green eyes sparkled in the moonlight reflecting off the window and her smile was wide and warm. Eva instinctively felt the corners of her mouth turn up in a small, self-conscious smile. The woman raised her hand off the glass and gave Eva a slight wave. After a slight hesitation, she lifted her small normal hand and waved back. The woman’s smile grew softer and warmer, filling Eva with a strange sensation of happiness. She felt the emotion bubbling up from her chest and felt her smile broaden into a genuine smile, which, she thought with a pang, was the first time she had smiled in a while. She reached up and opened the window. As she did, the woman stepped back to allow it to open. “Hello!” the woman said brightly. “Um, hi,” Eva replied. “My name is Ethrael, but you can call me Ethie. Would you like to come and talk with me?” Eva hesitated at this but looked appraisingly at the woman. “It’s cold and I’m in my pyjamas. I don’t want to catch a cold.” She replied timidly. In response, Ethie nodded her head and reached out, brushing her fingertips across Eva’s cheek. Where the woman’s fingers touched her skin, Eva felt a searing, yet calming warmth flow. As it moved through her body, it banished the chill of the night air to be replaced with a heat that she had never felt before. It felt like she was standing at a bonfire, but the heat was coming from inside of her. “Now would you like to talk with me?” Ethie asked. “Yes please, but it might make Daddy angry,” she looked down, her smile evaporating as the thoughts of her father, maddened with alcohol, came unbidden to her mind. “Don’t worry, Eva, he will sleep until the morning.” Ethie sounded so sure of herself, so sure of that fact, that Eva did not question it. She felt that she could trust this woman, this Ethie. “I’ll get my coat and my shoes,” Eva responded, turning to find her clothing. “You don’t need it. We won’t be long.” “Then I’ll come to the front door.” “Very well, Eva, I will see you outside.” As Eva walked out of her bedroom and through the house, she felt excitement blossom and grow within her. In her little world, meeting someone who treated her so kindly was rare. Her teachers ignored her, her parents seemed to hate her, and her peers even more so. The thought of being able to talk to someone who might be her friend was a prospect she couldn’t pass on. Eva reached the front door and opened it. Ethie was standing outside, wearing a simple dress of white that hung to just above her ankles. “You’re not wearing shoes or a coat, either!” Eva marvelled. “No, honey, I don’t need them. Just like you don’t. You feel that warmth inside you now, don’t you?” Ethie replied. “I guess not. What did you want to talk about?” As she said this, Eva noticed the snow drifting about in flurries and piling up in banks along the forest bordering the house. The same forest that took her sister and never gave her back. She shivered at the thought. “What’s wrong, Eva?” Ethie asked. “My sister, she went into those woods one day and never came back out.” “Ah, I see. You miss her don’t you?” “Yes, I do,” Eva murmured, feeling tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “I miss her every day.” Now the tears started. Ethie bent down to her eye level. “You’re okay, it’s going to be okay. Just let it out, sweetie. Come here.” Eva rushed into the outstretched arms and embraced Ethie. She felt the same sort of warmth coming from the woman as she felt coming from herself. She buried her face in Ethie’s hair and even through her tears, noticed that her hair smelled like freshly opened flowers in the spring. Soon, her little sobs quieted, and she pulled back, turning a tear-stained face up to the woman. “I’m sorry,” she said, grief causing her voice to hitch. “Not at all,” Ethie said warmly. “Let’s talk a little, take my hand.” Eva took her hand and started walking down the little path leading from the house, through the snow. As they reached a small log lying on the side of the path, carved into a bench, Ethie said: “let’s sit down here.” Eva sat and Ethie sat beside her. There was more than enough room for both of them. “What happened after your sister died?” Ethie asked. “Everything got worse. Things were bad before. Daddy got so mad sometimes and mommy would just turn away while he yelled at her. He called her mean names and she would just cry. Leah would always take me to my bedroom and hide me in my closet. She told me that if daddy ever got angry, that I would be safe there, that she would protect me.” “And afterwards, what happened?” “Daddy started drinking his booze. That’s what he calls it. It makes him so mean and so mad. He doesn’t just yell at mommy anymore, he hits her, and sometimes he hits me.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes, and Ethie leaned over, wrapping her arms around Eva’s shoulders until her sobs quieted again. “What would you like to do when that happens?” Ethie’s look was piercing. The look didn’t make Eva uncomfortable, however, it imparted a gravity on her words that she didn’t expect from such a question. “I want to run away; I want to leave. I want to go somewhere where no one will hurt anyone again.” “Indeed,” Ethie spoke gravely. “Would you like to go to such a place with me?” “What about my mommy and daddy?” “They hurt you, didn’t they? Do you really want them coming with you?” “No, I want to be away from them. They are so mean to me.” “Would you like to go now?” Ethie asked, leaning down to look at Eva eye-to-eye. “But what about my teddy? I can’t go anywhere without him,” hope was blooming in Eva’s heart, though she tried to push it away, not wanting to believe too deeply, lest this is some sort of horrible trick. Ethie reached behind her and then drew it back, a small teddy bear in her hand. Eva looked at it in disbelief. It was missing an eye. It was her teddy. “How did you get teddy from my bed? I left him in my bed!” “It’s something I can do, just like I took the cold from your skin,” Ethie said as she took Eva’s small hand in her own, and gently lifted her to her feet. As she rose to her feet, Eva felt a rush, like chill passing through her body which was swiftly replaced by the searing warmth Ethie, had initially imparted on her. The pair started walking away. As they walked, Eva felt a moment of disquiet and turned around, looking at the small figure lying slumped on the bench, already being covered in snow, with a teddy bear in its arms. “It’s alright, Eva, you can come with me. Leah’s waiting.” Eva’s gaze turned up to the woman’s, their eyes meeting. With a slight jolt, she realised that the woman’s eyes were no longer green, but a blazing gold that seemed to softly radiate light across her face. “Let us leave this place.” “Okay,” Eva said, as the pair turned back and walked, hand in hand, into the forest.


This was originally intended as an r/WritingPrompts post but ended up being a bit too long. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I’m known as many things among the mortals of earth: wish-granter, djinn, even demon. But at the end of the day, I’m just a guy who makes sales and has to meet quotas. The currency I most often work in are the souls of such mortals. Too often are they willing to trade theirs for the things they most often covet or desire. Usually these are such cliche things as power, wealth and sometimes even someone to fuck. Other times though, I get unusual requests from memorable clients. The last man on earth was no exception. I remember the day his ticket came in. It didn’t say much. The only information I got was a name, a location, and a note saying he was the only remaining customer on the whole damn planet. I figured it would be an interesting experience and jumped on the opportunity. Humans tended to be my favorite clients anyways. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to make a sale to literally the last one. I readied up, putting on my nicest suit and a sporting tie to match. I grabbed my leather bound attache case, my hat, and my coat. I then turned to face destiny. A door to another dimension manifested before me. I opened the portal and was a little surprised by what I saw. Before me laid the home of the last man on earth, Mr. Edom. I didn’t know what to expect, but a cozy little log cabin nestled in an idyllic forest wasn’t on the list of things that crossed my mind. I was thinking more of a festering hovel in a war-torn city. *I guess I’m not getting this man’s soul for a can of beans,* I joked to myself as I stepped through. I crossed a little clearing containing a simple garden, and a stump with an ax lodged in it. I approached the door of the cabin and knocked three times. I waited for a response, but nothing came. Out of some degree of frustration, I peered through a window to try and see if anyone was home. The cabin seemed lived in but no one appear to be around. However, in my examination I spied a little shrine on the mantel of an earthen fireplace. Various photos of friends and family adorned it. But at the center of them all, placed with a sense of reverence, was the picture of a beautiful young girl. In that moment, I sensed I came across something deeply sacred to the man who I was trying to make a sale to. I even felt a tinge of sympathy for the mortal as I began to realize the gravity of his situation. The thought that I should perhaps leave entered my mind. *Maybe another time then,* I mused to myself. As I turned around, I was greeted by an arrow whizzing past my head and lodging itself in the door frame. I was a little shocked, even though I knew I couldn’t be harmed by such mortal weapons. I then noticed the man who fired off that arrow. In front of me was Mr. Edom. He was a grizzled, middle aged man with a flowing beard and a weathered face. His eyes were fierce though and his body seemed strong from enduring hardship. He was carrying some freshly killed game and held a crude bow in one hand. Despite his hostile demeanor, my opportunity finally arrived. I decided to introduce myself to this survivalist, tipping my hat toward him. “Ah. You must be Mr. Edom?” I asked. He didn’t respond but instead approached me. I continued with the pitch anyways. “I am The Salesman. Now, I don’t necessarily deal in trinkets and objects, but rather dreams, wishes and fantasies. For a small price, I can give you the things you most desire.” He still said nothing and was now face to face with me. His eyes were piercing and stared deeply into my being. “Can you please move?” he asked in a gentle tone. “You’re standing in front of my door.” His voice was hoarse and authoritative. Truly this was a man of immense will. But I could also tell he carried a burden of immense despair. “Now, hold on Mr. Edom,” I said. “I am a being of impressive power. I don’t come out for just anybody. You are literally the last of your kind. As such, you have been deemed of interest by a higher cosmic order. May I at least *show* you what I have to offer?” He gave pause. I pulled up my attache case and opened it. An immense light poured forth in front of the man. In it he saw many dancing possibilities where desires for lust, power, and comfort were all fulfilled. He could have been king of another world or even blessed with bountiful harvests for the rest of his life. Hell, he could have even been immortal. The potential for his happiness was nearly endless. Still somehow, he saw nothing that he wanted. He reached out abruptly and shut my case, much to my utter disbelief. “I don’t know who or *what* you are, but I’m not interested in whatever you are offering,” he said. He then pushed past me and went into his home, slamming the door behind him. I was flabbergasted. Never had something like this happened before. “Mr...Mr. Edom, surely there must be *something* I can offer you!” I hollered through the door. “Go away!” he hollered straight back. Now I was the one feeling despair. I was saddened not only by the fact that I was about to lose my first client, but a client who endured so much hardship. Didn’t he want to be happy after all he must have edured? It made no sense. At that point I just wanted to know *why.* I then remembered the pictures on his mantel. “Mr. Edom?” I asked again. There was only silence. “Mr. Edom, I’m not going to lie. I came down here to acquire your soul, as crazy as that sounds,” I said. He didn’t respond, but I decided to continue. “It’s nothing personal. I’m just doing my job. But sometimes I come across people who make me really stop and think about what I do. And I’m thinking that I had nothing to offer you because it’s not really about ***you*** in the first place, is it?” He still remained silent. “The girl in the photo? Was she your daughter?” I asked This time, there was a muffled sigh. “She was beautiful,” I continued. “I’m...I’m sorry for your loss.” Mr. Edom finally spoke. “She didn’t deserve to go. None of them deserved to go. None of the people who I lost; who I *loved* deserved to go,” he said in anguish. They’re the ones who deserve to be alive right now, especially my daughter. Instead fate chose me to continue on. But honestly? I really don’t understand why.” “Why do you say that?” I asked. He sighed a deep sigh that shook me to my core. “Because I...I wasn’t strong enough to save them,” he said. “I wasn’t strong enough to save my own daughter in a time of calamity. I don’t get why that makes me worthy of life in the first place.” A profound silence overtook the conversation. “Salesman?” beckoned Mr. Edom’s voice through the wood. I raised my head again. “Is it possible that you can give them a chance? Can you give my friends, my family and my daughter the chance at life they deserve? If you take souls can I exchange mine for theirs?” I was moved. Most mortal humans only think of themselves when given the opportunity to use my powers. “Mr. Edom, I’m truly impressed by your noble desires. I really wish I could fulfill your request but I can’t. A soul passed is a soul passed. They can’t return from the ether unless...” I paused to mull over what I was about to offer. Not only could such a deal land me in considerable trouble, it would also likely result in the complete **unmaking** of my client: a destruction so complete that the atoms making him up would cease to exist. Mr. Edom opened the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Unless what?” he asked. I stared into Mr. Edom’s piercing gaze. “Unless I grant you the powers of divinity and make you a god.” Mr. Edom was stoic as always. “But there’s a caveat or two,” I said. Simple mortals, even ones as strong and selfless as you, cannot easily handle the powers of divinity. You will more than likely be completely torn and shredded from reality; your soul will likely burn up in the energy of such divine powers, and the only person who would remember you is me. Not even your daughter will recall who you are.” I raised a finger. “***BUT,*** you will get an opportunity to give your loved ones a chance at life. Mr. Edom’s eyes burned with a frightening intensity. I put my hand out to shake on the deal. “Is this a sacrifice you are willing to make?” I asked. He clasped my hand firmly. “Absolutely,” he said. Touched, I again I brought up my attache case and opened it. I reached into the swirling energies of infinity and produced a small, glowing egg. “Swallow this whole. It’ll grant you the powers to bend the universe to your whim.” I said. “But once you do so, there’s no going back.” “I’m ready,” he declared. He took the egg from my hand and examined it. He noticed it was surprisingly weighty. He the breathed deeply and consumed it whole. Time stopped in that moment and the fabric of reality began to tear away. A kaleidoscope of colors transported us to some sort of blank realm. Then the stars, nebulae and other rich colors of the cosmos came flooding back in. Mr. Edom was transcending from his from his lesser form as glowing energies began flowing from and into him. He was struggling against a thousand instances of raw power over a thousand life-times. I was worried that he would lose control, but he remained true. He began to focus his powers, screaming a scream that could shatter a universe. He began to shape reality not for himself, but for those who he loved. He rebuilt their bodies, minds and souls and even rebuilt the ones of those who he did not know. Through sheer force of will, he undid the calamity that took everything from him. He was remaking all of his kind in that instance. But I noticed the toll it was taking. Chunks of his essence were being stripped away, disappearing in streams of colorful, super-heated vapor that in turn disappeared into nothingness. Then in a blinding flash, he then faded from all realities, having finished his work. As everything settled, I caught a glimpse of his magus opus. I saw, his daughter, his wife, and his friends, continuing to live their lives as before the calamity. They seemed content. What a shame that they would never know the sacrifice he made.


The Beast The beast had ransacked the village the past three full moons, it turns out the third one was not the charm as the beast had been wounded. This is all the information I had gathered when I had accepted to hunt this beast. I had originally come to spend my previously acquired wealth for my assistance in the sacking of a nobles fortress. I heard a group of nearby villagers whispering among themselves arguing who would be the one to approach me. A thin sickly woman stepped forward “You’re a knight with no Lord correct.” her voice shook, she looked up as she finished speaking the candle lights exposed her red and swollen eyes. “Whatever has left you teary-eyed and lion-hearted I can kill it…. If the coins are heavy enough”. A man stepped forward handing a sack of reasonable size to me, I arranged a carriage for myself and belongings back to the king’s capital with the Innkeeper. I told the villagers to take me to where the beast had escaped over the village wall. Stone laid scattered across the rooftops and roads of the village. The stone wall of the village stood 25 feet tall. I could tell whatever beast had leaped this wall did so in about three strides of its body. Judging by that I could tell the beast was at least 8 feet in height and had large powerful claws on all four extremities. I mounted my horse and galloped him to the opposite side of the wall. There it began the trail of blood. The excessive pooling at 12 feet from the wall told me that at this location he had removed the arrow from his body or at least broken the shaft of it. It was here I looked up at the village wall to see a gathering of people at one of the turrets. “I shall consider what you have paid me a deposit in good faith. I will hunt the beast that torments you and I will relieve you of his existence. Consider the time it takes me to do so and return with proof as an opportunity to gather the rest of my payment”. I yelled through clasped hands pressed to my face to amplify my voice in these winds. A tall frail bald man stepped forward and shouted back “Aye we can agree to those terms if you don’t return your other half could double as payment to the next mercenary”. I kicked my horse and brought him into a steady gallop towards the tree line. I followed my scarlet bread crumbs about 40 miles by sundown. The beast trail had gone cold the blood stopped as did the tracks whatever this was had vanished. I leaped from my horse and landed in the soft dirt. “What the fuck are you?” I said quietly aloud. A beast bleeding that was at least 8 feet in height with claws powerful enough to tear through the stone of a village wall. Just simply vanished. No more claw tracks, no blood. He must have reached this point by daytime I thought he must have rested here and cleaned up his tracks. But could an animal or beast capable of such savagery be capable of such awareness to clean his tracks? To clean and tend its wounds? I shook the questions from my head and began to set up camp. As I slept that night my mind stayed awake questioning exactly what it was I was tracking. I awoke the air felt crisp and stung my nose, as i rose from my tent I could see it had begun to snow in the early morning. I scurried my things into a pack and began to ride thinking ill follow the first tracks I find. I soon found tracks but something was startling about them. These animal tracks had no claws and there were only two. These tracks I had encountered were from a man no other animal could leave tracks like these. I rode for three more miles before I finally reached a man traveling. It was past mid-day maybe as I approached this man I realized he was walking shirtless an odd choice considering the constant snow since day-break. “Hello there,” I yelled from a distance. The man turned startled and said, “ My goodness Sir you frightened me. My horse threw me and I’ve been on foot for days.” “Seems your horse has better sense than you. There's a beast about my friend, I may escort you out the woods if you can afford that,” I said in a normal speaking voice as I had ridden alongside the man now. I could hardly contain my excitement of double-dipping payment for protection from the beast. “I guess its luck that you found me before the beast then Sir, I can pay you upon arrival to my home,” The shirtless man said “Hop upon my horse we will head for a clearing and make camp ahead I will try to hunt us some food,” I said confidently to the shirtless man. The man rode behind me until we found a suitable camping spot. I left him behind and managed to shoot two rabbits with my bow. We sat opposite each other as I prepared the rabbits for roasting. It was early evening the sky was purple and stillness had settled over the landscape as the creatures sheltered from the fresh snow that had fallen. I finally took the time to study this man and realized this shirtless man was not shirtless. His pants were lifted making them rise up at the ankles, and sit just below his chest and holding them in place his shirt was rolled and tied firmly enough to restrict his breathing.“Your horse he left you injured,” I said gesturing to his makeshift bandaging. “Oh this yes Sir I took quite a fall I had been walking for about a half a day before you found me,” The shirtless man said gleefully. “I promise to pay you as soon as we arrive at my home”. “Yes, I will take any precious items you can acquire as payment my friend as the circumstances are especially dire as a beast roams these lands. He stands at least 8 feet tall and ravages villages with ease destroying everything and everyone in its path”. I said in a low growling voice to really sell the value of my services. The man’s eyes widened “ I’ve heard such stories in my lifetime Sir a large furry beast who comes under the full moon. With the ability to eat a man limb by limb. Jump building to building. Even withstand strikes from blades and arrows. Surely you are scared of such an animal.” “Ha, I am a man of battle. I've killed beasts and men for no other reason than a payment. These coins I carry and kill to acquire are nothing more than souvenirs to me. I live for the hunt and the destruction of those in my way,” I stood and turned away from the fire staring at the sky, clouds had settled above us.“I’m sure glad a brave man like you had found an old injured man such as myself I would have never been able to hunt that beast. Surely I would become the hunted”. The shirtless man said his voice shaking with fear. “ Don’t worry my friend I will protect you and those who inhabit these woods from this beast. I will hunt it until its demise”. A gust blew past my face moving the clouds above revealing a bright full moon. “ I don’t think you’ll be hunting tonight my friend,” followed by a low guttural growl coming from behind me.


A guy walks into a bar, sits down at the counter, and leans over to the guy next to him. “Wanna hear a joke?” “Yeah I guess so.” the stranger replies. “Okay so there’s a truck driver. He wakes up early in the morning, he puts on his uniform and he drives and drives and drives. He does this every single day. He’s the hardest working driver east of the Mississippi. He’s never missed a pickup and his motto is ‘I will never quit, until the job is done.’ Everyday he drives. Never stopping, never late. But one morning the driver spots something ahead of him. He realizes that it’s a man in the middle of the road. The man is clearly suicidal and so the driver thinks he’ll be doing the guy a favor by taking him out. No issue for the driver, he always gets the job done. The problem is, the truck doesn’t actually kill the guy, it just severely wounds him. So the driver gets out, and approaches the man. The man is bleeding and has suffered major damage, but he is still able to speak, and so he says “Oh my god. I’ve had a revelation. When you hit me, my whole life flashed before my eyes. I’ve realized that I’m too young to die. Thank you so much, please help me to a hospital, I have a new lease on life.’ The driver just looks down at the man and says ‘I will never quit, until the job is done.’ He gets back in his truck, starts the engine, and drives ahead, finishing the job. He says ‘Man, these roads are getting bumpy again, someone should really fix that’ and he howls with laughter all the way down the road.” The stranger just looks at the man and says “That was pretty dark. I mean, I guess I see the humor in it, but that wasn’t exactly a joke. You said you’d tell me a joke?” “Oh of course, you’re the kind of person that needs one setup and one punchline huh? Well here, try this one out. I asked myself the other day ‘What the heck is going on around here… the cemeteries are full but people are still dying to get in?” The stranger cackles. “You see that’s a joke right there! Right to the point. Simple. Those I’d be willing to hear more of… you got any more?” “Alright. How ‘bout this one. A man walks down the street smoking a cigarette in a sketchy part of town. A drifter runs up to him from underneath whatever bridge, or box, or tin can he was living under, grabs him and says ‘Please sir, I need shelter and warmth. I’m begging you… I’m dying out here on the street.’ The man politely removes the drifter’s hands from himself and says “Certainly. There has to be room for you in my shed somewhere… I’m sure of it.” The drifter was infinitely grateful and followed the man back to his home. Once they reached the shed the man said ‘Stay out here for just one second while I grab something.’ The drifter agreed. The man came back out with a baseball bat in one hand, a can of gasoline in the other, and the cigarette still flapping from his lips as he said ‘Welp, here we are.’ The drifter asked ‘What are those for?’ The man set the can of gas down on the pavement and then proceeded to strike the drifter in the head with the baseball bat that he carried. With the drifter unconscious on the ground, the man dropped the bat and grabbed the can of gasoline. He then emptied the can onto the dazed drifter. He disposed of the gas can, looked at the drifter and said ‘Give a man a match and he’ll be warm for an hour… but set a man on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.’ And then he dropped his cigarette.” Stunned, the stranger says “How do you come up with these?” “Art imitates reality.” the man replies. The stranger nervously laughs. “You saying you actually did those things?” “No. But I bet someone has.” he answers. The stranger looks around the bar and notices that it is clearing out. He looks down at his watch. It’s 1:47 AM. He looks back up at the man and says “Hey uh, I kinda gotta get going. The bar’s closing soon anyways.” “Nonsense,” the man says “there’s always time for one more joke. This one is sure to have you rolling on the floor. I promise.” “Alright. One more joke, but then I literally have to go. My wife will kill me.” “Okay, okay, okay. So a guy walks into a bar, sits down at the counter, and leans over to the guy next to him. He says ‘Wanna hear a joke?’ The guy says ‘Yeah I guess so.’ The man replies ‘Okay so there’s a truck driver. He wakes up earl-” “Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing here?” the stranger asks. “What? I’m just trying to finish my joke.” the man retorts. The stranger looks at the man’s jacket. Gibson Trucking Company The man begins to pull out a pack of cigarettes. He stares directly into the stranger’s eyes. “You smoke?” He says, offering one of the small white cylinders to the stranger. The stranger starts to feel tiny droplets of perspiration form around his forehead. “Uh, no thanks. I just quit actually.” He looks around again. They’re the last two customers in the bar, and the bartender had just walked back into the kitchen to finish sweeping. The stranger is starting to feel yesterday’s lunch gurgling in his stomach by now. “Can we get to the punchline already?” he asks anxiously. “Punchlines, punchlines, punchlines… that’s all I hear out of you. You really want this joke to end?” “Please.” begs the stranger. “Alright, well, short and simple... the guy walks into the bar, he tells the stranger a few jokes, and then he stabs him.” “Wait no, wait, wai-” The man finishes the punchline. The stranger crashes to the floor as the man stands there giggling. A police officer enters through the barroom door. He says “Hey Joe, I know it’s almost closing t-” He sees the mess that lay before him. The man stops laughing. “Freeze,” exclaims the officer as he pulls out his pistol, “put your hands where I can see them!” The man looks back at the stranger on the ground. “Oh my lord.” the man chuckles “The irony. I bet you wish the joke had lasted just a little longer? If you hadn’t been so obsessed with that punchline, this guy coulda saved ya.” He lets out a shriek of hilarity. “The irony!” The man falls to the ground in a fit of laughter. “Drop the knife chuckle face!” the policeman screams. “No, no. You don’t get how perfect this is! The joke is finally on me, and yet there will never be a punchline!” the man shouts. “I’m coming closer, and I’m gonna cuff you. If you do not drop the knife, I will be forced to shoot.” The man slowly rises back to his feet, still seizing with laughter. “A cop walks into a bar and a man charges at him with a knife” he says. “The man knows what comes next but he finds it all pretty funny.” The man charges at the officer. A guy walks into a bar. A body gets dragged out of it.


The scene is Old Town, Scottsdale, and a new type of depression has infected the locals. At least half of his friends are out of a job. All of the bartenders, and drivers, and waitresses, and tour guides that were thriving just weeks ago are now wondering how they will pay next month's rent. Old Town has become a ghost town and the remaining occupants have grown restless. People are technically still allowed to leave their homes and most stores are still open, but the newly accepted social norms encourage the most extreme form of social distancing. Even the drama has subsided as the participants have retreated into hiding. And so, for the first time in forever, the streets of Old Town were quiet and sparse. Social media and dating app activity has spiked since the loose lockdown. And it's just another lonely March afternoon on one of the dating apps when the boy matches with the girl. They chat briefly about the state of the world and their collective impending gloomy future before he shifts the conversation texts. Immediately after doing so, he realizes that his text game is just as weak as his Tinder game and so he suggests that they go for a ride. They meet at a restaurant and eat in his car as no one is allowed to dine-in anymore. And as they cruise aimlessly through the city, they speak freely and grow close. Just before sunset, they arrive at the perfect viewing place for such an event. They’re now quiet as they take in the awe-inspiring scene before locking lips atop the mountain across from the fading sun. The ride back to his place is serene and free of negative thoughts pertaining to everyone's reality. On his bed, they open a bottle of wine and it is halfway gone by the time they find the perfect movie to watch on Netflix. Only a few moments into the movie, a move is made and sex ensues. This passionate display of carnal desire will stay with him forever. He hardly sleeps afterwards as he replays the night and thinks about what the future could hold. The girl represents everything he thinks he wants. Eventually his thoughts are overtaken by sleep but his slumber is disrupted by the intensity of the girl’s coughing fit. *Could this be the virus?* She’s struggling to breath and he’s struggling to focus in this most unnerving of situations. He thinks of who might be able to help but he realizes that all of his friends are probably sound asleep in their rooms, anxious, but healthy and currently at peace. And as he drives her to the emergency room, he tries to come to terms with the fact that he’ll likely be in her shoes in due time. The boy feels terrible about the fact that he can’t shake those questions floating around in his head. “Was any of this worth it? ...Is she really worth it?” The following weeks were dark and volatile in the Old Town that was once very much alive and consistent. The lights illuminating the streets of Scottsdale were mostly dark as there was no activity to shine light on. The standard shared sadness remained, but this time, it was the virus that consumed the town.


That morning, the office was drafty. I distinctly remember thinking, “I should’ve worn a vest.” He wandered in a little before lunch—threadbare jacket, patched hat. He’d hit hard times. I was planning to order a hamburger from the stand down the street, but he changed all that. Really threw off my rhythm. He sat down and told me a sob story about his mama leaving him out of her will. But, turns out, the document wasn’t the real deal. He slid the copy across my desk. It was phony through and through, but that didn’t stop it getting rubber stamped at city hall. “See, for starters, the signature’s all wrong,” he said. “And there’s a lot more in there that’s just not true. Can you help me?” I pointed out the old tie wadded up in his pocket—his handkerchief, apparently. “Can you afford me?” Now, I was hungry for steak. “Yeah, my uncle said he’d take care of it. He was written out too. But, ‘fore we go any further, I’ve got to tell you, if you take this case, they might come after you.” I kicked back in my chair, almost flipping it. “I’m a professional. Nothing takes me by surprise anymore. How’d all this start?” “Mama started dating this guy she met at a casino. Real rough character. Had lots of big cars and money to throw around. He made Mama feel special. He bought her a ring. Then, she got sick—and he was gone just like that! The guy didn’t even stop by the hospital. Now, he’s getting everything. Said they were practically married the whole time. He said they’d moved in together. It’s all a bunch of hooey.” The man took off his hat and crumpled the felt brim in his sweaty palms. “My sister already tried to fight it, and she went missing a week ago.” “So, you went to the police?” “No, the letters said not to say anything to the authorities.” “And you listened to them?” First time for everything, I guess. “Yeah, I didn’t want nothing bad to happen to her! Can you help? That inheritance is all we’ve got. Everyone else in the family’s long gone.” “What about your uncle?” “Yeah, he’s still here. I guess.” I tapped on the desk. “You understand, if I do this, they’ll come after you—whoever these people are. Do they know where you live?” The man nodded. “Have they met the entire family? Could they pick all of you out of a crowd?” His head bobbed. “Photographs? Tell me they don’t have photographs!” The poor guy replaced his hat and gave it a tap. “Do we stand a chance?” “Nope.” “But you said you’re a professional! Surely, you’ve brought down bigger criminals than this?” I grabbed a bottle out of my desk. “I’m just in this for the beer money.” The man erupted, “YOU ARE A TERRIBLE MAN. I CAME TO YOU, ASKING FOR HELP, AND YOU WON’T EVEN LIFT A FINGER TO HELP GET MY SISTER BACK? I’LL TELL ALL THE PAPERS YOU’RE A COWARD! A BIGSHOT PRIVATE EYE LIKE YOU—YOU’RE A SCAREDY CAT. I BET THAT’LL LOOK GOOD IN THE EVENING EDITION!” “Listen, buddy, I didn’t build the locks. I’m just the one who waves folks through.” “What?” “Scram.


LOSS "i will be alright, Thank you. once again Thanks for coming" i exclaimed for the gazillionth time this week as i closed the door behind my Aunt maya. "you do let us know if there is anything we can do" she said in a semi-genuine tone as she grabbed her keys out of her purse. Hers was probably the most genuine eulogy i had hear this week because she at least cared to stay till everyone else had left. i walked back inside my house to the stench of incense and a hauntingly silent hall. it had been 8 days 4 hours and 37 minutes since i found the body in the bathroom. I went up the stairs to my room and grabbed the pack of cigarettes i hide behind the flushing cistern. For the first time, i lit one up and walked out of the bathroom in the balcony instead of sticking my face against the exhaust fan. The nosy lady next door kept staring at me when she saw it. She was loving that i could tell; it was probably all she was gonna talk about for a week. i didnt care about it now though. i mean what was she gonna do? tell my father who just killed himself with a razor while he was in his PJs with his face covered in shaving cream and blood; or tell my mom who one-upped him by dying of cancer even before him last summer. That thought made me chuckle a little as i took a long drag. i wondered if humor was an appropriate sentiment to have at that time. I was still feeling pretty proud of myself for having not cried in last 197 hours. i threw the bud on the street near the nosy ladys front door and went back inside. i cried for 8 hours straight that night. The next day i woke up at 10 in the morning. big whoop i missed the school. i thought about how my dad used to wake me up everyday for school and he didn't today. just like he didnt on his last day on earth when he was too busy not writing a suicide note for his only son. I knew i wasnt going to go to school anyway because my school stuff was in my dad's room and i still wasnt ready to go anywhere near that room. i barely had any other thought that whole day. i cried myself to sleep again. The next day i woke up thinking about how my dad always complained about the refrigerator being extra noisy in the morning. i didnt know how or why was that the first thing that came in my mind when i opened my eyes, but i guessed it must have had something to do with my dreams.i could never remember my dreams; Lucky me! i spent the coming week mindlessly staring at my bedroom ceiling. i couldn't use my phone because of all those annoying messages of sympathy. my dad always hated the people who made efforts to show their sympathies when mom died. he always thought they were just trying to get some novelty out of their mundane routines while also feeling good about themselves at expense of someones loss. i get it now. That whole week i woke up every morning thinking about my dad After a week more, i woke up in the morning because of sharp whirring noise coming from the kitchen. i got up and went to check and it was that damned refrigerator making ice at the wrong time like it does again. i got a bottle out of it, took a sip and i started going up the stairs again to continue my doomstaring. suddenly i stopped for a moment and i realized something. I realized how today the first thing on my mind wasnt my dad. the moment i passed by his room the pain resumed; but for the first 30 seconds of the day, i felt something other than a dreary numbness. It was far from a feeling of happiness, but perhaps the most comfortable i have been in weeks with my suffering. Sorrow is a funny thing. When you have everything taken away from you it swallows you whole but still keeps you alive. it occupies you every minute every second of the day untill one day when it doesnt. You learn to overcome it little by little one minute at a time. Everyday you wake up and its the first thing on your mind, except one day when its the second; but you got to fight it everyday. i reclaimed my first 30 seconds from that wretched scum today. "One day at a time" i told myself before i went back up to sleep again.


He lay motionless, sprawled on the bed, gazing at the hospital walls, tall and white, spotted with grey flower patterns, and the whitewashed ceiling above. "I'd like to run up the wall," he thought, a thin man with brown eyes, now bloodshot and sunken. "Up, up! On all my six legs. And then across the ceiling..." He pressed his palm against the wall. It felt cold and rough to the touch. He hit the wall with his foot. Cold, and rough and hard. No sticky contact. He wouldn't be able to run up the wall even if his life depended on it. Four limbs instead of six, and all are useless! A feeling of loss struck him suddenly. He wanted to weep but couldn't: it was too human for him yet. Human. Soft, lithe body. No chitin plates. Wingless. Defenceless. Weak. And it lies on its back! He remembered too well what it used to mean in his past life. It used to mean that you were stuck with your wings glued to a sweet kissel, twitching your six legs helplessly in the air, and that you were going to die, slowly and miserably. There was no way out. He shuddered at the thought and then did what he never knew was possible: he bent over and sat on the bed. "Hey! Look who's up and smiling, guys!" The man's fellow patients put away the greasy cards they were playing and turned toward him. "He's awake, finally. Poor guy," said one of them. "Hey, sonny, are you hungry?" said another and without waiting for the answer began rummaging in his bedside table. "The guys who brought you here left some kissel\* for you. They told us to give it to you when it's gone sour." Had handed the man a bowl full of kissel, sour-smelling and heavily fermented by the yeast that covered it. "Listen, pal, don't eat this," said the other man. "I don't know what they were thinking trying to feed this garbage to you. Want a sandwich? I have one." But once the smell of the fermented kissel reached the new patient's nostrils, his face suddenly brightened up. He grinned. He beamed. He made a strange sound. Then grabbed the bowl, held it against his face and stuck his nose into it. The next moment he was grieving for a long and flexible proboscis he'd had in his past life while trying to reach the delicious yeast with his short human tongue. He reached, finally, but only to recoil in disgust. He felt sick right away; his stomach turned, he threw up. He wept, terrified of the salty moisture leaking from his eyes. The feeling of loss was different this time. It was so painful, so deep, so alien! For a moment he gazed upon the food that had meant a world to him in his past life, then began sobbing inconsolably over it with pathetic, whimpering cries of a heartbroken human being. "There, there, pal..." His fellow patient gently patted him on the back. "Eat a sandwich, it will do for now. There's going to be a proper breakfast soon." He learned to be human, and it came naturally to him, though he couldn't let go of the past life's memories yet. Sometimes he would catch little flies and try buzzing something to them while holding them carefully with his hands. Because of this, his fellow patients called him Fly. They couldn’t get his real name out of him anyway. As time passed, Fly learned to measure it in a human way: with days and nights, hours and minutes. It seemed familiar somehow but long forgotten along with many other things. Recovery of the old, alien memories was a hard and slow process, but it was much easier than learning from scratch. Each new day made Fly more and more human. Soon, the glimpses of his past life came to reveal themselves only in dreams. And then even the dreams of Fly's lost world became rare. He began dreaming of times that seemed ancient: of human childhood. When the Visitor came to see Fly, he found him reading a newspaper. Fly lifted his eyes and saw a tall man in a dark suit who greeted him with a warm smile. The man was old but had aged well, his snow-white hair thick and shining, his blue eyes full of life. "You've learned a lot here at the hospital," the Visitor nodded. "Do you even remember the days when you used to live in a vial of sweet kissel on my table? I doubt that." Saying no more, he took a little glass vial out of his pocket and showed it to Fly. Fly grabbed the vial that very instant. He couldn't believe his own eyes. There, in his shaking hands, human hands, he held his homeworld which seemed so small now, barely recognizable, too. It looked like ages had passed there since Fly left it. The glass itself was dirty, stained with countless tiny footprints, plastered with empty cocoons, and almost all the kissel had been eaten. Of all the inhabitants of the world only a few flies were left, small and starving, and oblivious of their doom. They ran and flew to and fro, living and moving too fast for human eyes. Fly felt tears welling up in his eyes again. "This hospital is just like the vial you came from," the old man said to the crying Fly. "You've grown out of it. Now it's time for you to enter a bigger world." He took Fly by the hand like a child and led him to the exit. The promised world wasn't just big, it was huge beyond imagination. Fly fell to his knees, his head swimming, his heart pounding, and tried to buzz as if he still had had his wings. "Get up, human," said the Visitor sternly. And Fly got up. \- Fly was adapting to his new life fast and forgetting the past one even faster. He now had a human name - Ivan, - a passport, and an apartment to live in. A mere week after getting all these things he'd already been working as a cook in a local bakery making sweet cakes of dough, cream and chocolate. The Visitor whose true name Ivan had never learned called on him often. He spoke little, smiled a lot, and always took a note that everything was going fine and according to the plan. His visits were all alike, brief and uneventful, all but the last one when he left Ivan a gift. It was a little glass vial half-filled with sweet kissel, seeded with living yeast, and populated with several young Drosophila flies. Attached to the vial with a silk string, was a little Birthday card with a few words written on it: "Remember where you came from." He did. And this memory filled his human existence with a depth he didn't know before. Ivan's touching love for the little flies amused his human friends and had earned him a reputation of a funny geeky guy, but he didn't mind. The little glass vials stood in long rows on the top of his fridge, minuscule ages rising and fading away inside them. He'd been a little fly once. Now he was their god. He washed and sterilized the dead worlds, filled them with kissel and yeast, and repopulated them again with a few chosen ones leaving the others to share the fate of their dying homeworlds. He couldn't save them all. There were too many. When he fell in love, the feeling of loss echoed in his heart once more for Ivan had no wings to sing the love song. But then a new wave of memories rose risen in his mind, and instead of a song sung by the soft buzzing of the wings, he found words. And deeds… \-- In a narrow white hall, there was a long table with a row of chairs on each side. That day, every single chair was occupied. People like Visitor had gathered there, and the Visitor himself stood on the podium above them giving a speech about the scientific breakthrough his discovery would lead to. He spoke with great eloquence, but all the profound phrases and big words he was throwing around were no more than ripples across the ocean, vast, deep, and cold. Gene therapy. Several genes taken from Drosophila melanogaster - a lab fly - and, with the help of a tamed virus, inserted into DNA of every cell of a human body. A subtle, harmless change with the most dramatic effects. How do you change a hardened, cold-blooded criminal into a compassionate human being again without damaging their mind in the process? How do you leave their memories intact and remove the dangerous behaviour at the same time? That's how. The suggested therapy blocks the very origin of violence in humans. It's simple, cheap and has no drawbacks. There's proof, see for yourselves. One, two, three... ten... hundred of files Visitor puts on the long table, patiently, one by one. They are the dossiers of the cruelest criminals of Earth, and the thickest and the heaviest one is that of a man who is now known as Ivan. People are shocked, they can not believe their eyes. But the proof is solid, the reputation of the scientist is perfect, and the results exceed all expectations. By the end of the year, the new gene therapy will be approved for the worldwide implementation. There will be no more prisons. The world itself will change for the better. A miracle... ...A miracle. A true miracle, and there's no catch... The blue-eyed old man smiled at that thought. He is walking down the park lane paved with white stone and spotted with green patches of grass. Under his arm, he's holding a case full of criminal dossiers, heavy with other people's recorded sins. He knows the debates about his method will cease soon. He has nothing to worry about anymore. Not even about whether he did the right thing. ...There is no catch... The blue-eyed old man stands on the shore and looks away; past the noisy children playing in the waves, past the horizon where the sea meets the sky, past the mortal world and into the depth of the afterlife where unbound souls soar in the infinite space. Every living being on Earth has this little gene sequence - the "soul bait" he called it. It is simple and short, just a "code phrase" to lure a certain type of soul into a certain type of body. That's how a fox gets a soul of a fox, and a cat gets a soul of a cat, and a human being gets a human soul... That's how it used to be, but from now on everything will change. (May, 2005) From (book of short stories) \*Kissel - juice or milk thickened with starch. It can be either a drink or a jelly depending on how much starch you put into it. As students, we used kissel to grow drosophila flies at home for our own experiments; in the lab, we used agar-based feeding substance instead. Also, kissel is a tasty dish that does wonders to a sore throat when sweetened with honey instead of sugar and drunk/eaten hot.


What is my future prediction was the original question. The trees will be finally ready to take over. Millions of years ago, aliens visited this blue oceaned planet. Not having any inhabitants, they planted their seeds. The seeds have grown into "tress" as we call them and see them. With an incubation time of 200 years old, they will blossom and be born. The problem is, with natural disasters and humanity coming along, the trees haven't been able to hit their age range to "bloom" the alien life that is inside. Each time trees get large enough or close to age range, something or someone cuts them down, closing the chance of that particular alien from being born. The tree grows tall and mighty. Each year, the tree produces oxygen and helps humanity grow. Our knowledge is that trees produce oxygen and clean the air we breathe. The problem is, the trees have made us Addicted. We are addicted to "breathing" now. We have evolved Lungs to breath the oxygen. When humans first came to be humans (however you believe), we didnt breathe. We didnt need to. It was a genetic anomaly that kept us alive. The tree aliens found that in our DNA and changed it so that we are reliant on them for life. They believed that we would take care of their offspring like we protect our own and eventually they would "hatch" and take over the world. Turns out humanity is smarter than we were given credit for.. Over the years, there have been some trees to hatch, and the alien life born. Yet they quickly realize humanity is a terrible infection and build some type of ship and leave. Some are captured on camera, many are not. The alien leaves the planet in Hopes of returning to the "mother species", only to find that the original species are either extremely far away or extinct. Each year, the trees witness humans turning their beloved offspring, families and friends Into paper coffee cups, paper straws, houses, poles, using their bodies to create and sustain fires to keep humans warm, and many sick and twisted things we have come up with. There are gathering places that allow a person to throw an Ax at a wooden block. The aliens are going to come back with a vengeance. We clear the land with the trees on it, only to build a building, out of trees and live in it. The dead aliens are keeping us protected and out of the elements, that help the trees grow stronger. Eventually, the trees that we see now and ignore, Will convince the animals of our planet to revolt. No more using small branches and roasting marshmallows over an open fire, we will be hunted by the squirrel, rabbits, cows, coyotes, foxes, geese (King Asshole animals of the world), and any other creature that we have overlooked. The beavers and wood peckers have upset the Tree aliens to the point that the trees will push the them to be "equal," to humans. Killing a beaver to them is just as productive as killing a human. The beavers and Woodpeckers will side with humanity, and together we may have a chance to survive the war the tress will bring. My future prediction is the mail will be late tomorrow. Stupid post office.


Standing in my oversized cage, naked and spent, the aliens release me from their grip and screw the cap on their specimen vial. From what I understand, somewhere in that white, milky fluid are the seeds used for creating children. Children I will never see. This is how life has always been. I was born into a world conquered. The aliens are bipeds with baggy plastic skin and a bulging single eye that flashes glimpses of my grim, tear-stained reflection. They look nothing like us. Maybe this is how they justify what they do. There were four other boys born into this hellhole the same day as I was, but within twenty-four hours, I was the only one. The aliens were the first faces I saw. All I remembered of my mother were her screams for days after they took me away from her, though by now, I doubt that the voice I remember is hers. They had locked me in a pen near enough to cry out for her and hear her desperate reply, but never to see her. That pen became my life, and I grew to maturity a prisoner inside of it. The aliens kept me fed, and besides the extreme hours of severe boredom and filthy living conditions, I thought that maybe life could be OK, even in a prison. Once my body hit adulthood, however, the aliens began their real torture. They moved my pen beside the females. This was my first contact with anyone besides the aliens since I was born. The women packed the pens all around me, waddling their fattened bodies on fragile legs, some broken. A few of them were crying out in pain. Their naked skin was scabbed and festering with open wounds, red with infection. A tepid soup of excrement from the ground coated them up to their knees. The squeaking of loose plastic drew my attention to a nearby alien, clipping some mechanical beast to the females’ breasts while they sobbed in hopeless appeal to its apathetic eye. From day one in this new location, I hated myself for feeling desire at the sight of the women. At the same time that I wished the aliens would bring me back into isolation to suppress my shame, I was desperate to stay in the company of others like me. I tried to bury my urges, convinced myself that feeling attraction to those suffering was evil, and that I was evil for feeling it, but the aliens had other plans. The first time the aliens violated me, I learned what it felt like to be invisible. No rights. No hope. It was as though my screams for them to stop were on mute. The aliens would sooner collect my tears for their test tubes than regard them with empathy. Our torture means nothing to them, and their torment of us is as routine as sleep. In fact, some of them seem to enjoy it. At the same time, the pain is real and horrific. Imagine an alien’s hand reaching inside of you, pleasuring you to the point of climax while you watch the pathetic naked corpses of enslaved females. The women watch me back, my tear-filled eyes forced to stare at them, as the aliens sexually stimulate my body. I can see that the females cry, too, but I wonder if they do so for me, or for themselves under my perverted eyes. After so many times, my mind has learned to go somewhere else when they come gloved up to their shoulders to violate me. I can tell the aliens think this means that I like it, but I have no fight left in me to prove to them otherwise. This is my life, I suppose. I was born into this, and I will die in it. Once, I saw an alien remove their baggy plastic head. It was standing just outside of my pen and its hands lifted up the skin at its neck and peeled it back like a hood. Underneath, the alien actually had a face more like ours, with a mouth and nose and two small eyes. When they met mine, for a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of empathy. Except it plopped its single black eye and loose plastic skin back over its small inner face, and I never found out for sure, nor have I seen such hope in their kind ever since. The aliens call us “cows.” I have no idea what the word means to them, but to us, it means a life of misery at their hands.


The engine dies. He takes out the keys and sets them on his leg. The last vestige of the life of his dreams, that car. He sits out front of the small house he barely makes rent on. Not what he had planned. He pops the handle on door and slides out into the cool fall air. The door slams with a metallic thud. They don’t make them like they used to. Nothing’s like it used to be. He trudges up the walk, a highway to all his broken dreams. He unlocks the door, all is quiet. He slips the key-ring back into his pocket and drops his bag by the door. Home. “In here,” she calls from the kitchen. He trudges into further in, stops at the kitchen door and leans against the frame. She’s just pulling dinner from the oven. He’s always thought she was beautiful. Since the first day they met. Freshman year of high school. She was the mousy book-nerd in the back of class. He was the lone wolf, tough out of necessity, friendless. She never paid him any attention. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was short. Like really short. And it drove him insane. Hadn’t grown an inch in the eight years he’d known her. Her hair has changed a lot though. Brown. Blonde. Blue. Bright pink once. Back to natural now. She did that for the wedding. Her eyes, though tired now, still sparkle. Dark, dark pools of starry liquid. She is his salvation. He moves to her, hands on her hips. Lips caress her shoulder, nudging her dress strap off with his nose. “Missed you today,” he whispers, then closes his lips around her earlobe. The smell of her hair is intoxicating. Still wet from a shower hours earlier. He presses her against him, her small frame cradled against his. Fingers entwined, now moving up her stomach. Not as flat as it once was. Now rippled with marks. Still drives him wild. He turns her around. Hungrily covers her mouth with his. The taste of her is ecstasy. Her hands grip his shirt, pulling him close. His hands move now, down her back, tugging her dress up, hands moving up warm thighs. Lifting her with firm hands. Planting her on the counter. Kisses frantic. She’s pulling at the buttons of his shirt. His lips move down her neck. Slowly. Hands caress the tops of her legs. Teasing, hinting at what he wants. She wraps her legs around him. He groans, feeling his need for her thrumming in his soul. “I need you,” he whispers, barely audible against her skin. But then the pitter-patter of bare feet. A solid weight against his leg. “Hi daddy! You’re home!” she squeals. He pulls away, picks the little curly haired girl up and spins her around. “I missed you too sweetie!” He kisses her cheek. Offers his wife a hand and she slips off the counter. “Tonight,” he whispers and kisses her palm. “Tonight.” And he forgets that his dreams were dashed that night she told him she was pregnant. Because, even though they haunt him every day, his dreams were never as good as this.