#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **When you looked inside, you knew things would never be the same.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does *not* need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to) and you can change the tense if necessary. You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week I’m doing something just a tad different this week, along with my personal spotlights picks. I received an increase in nominations this week, mostly due to our impromptu Campfire! (Wondering what this is? Come over to our to learn more!) So many unique takes on the prompt this week. #Crowd Favorites: - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - - Submitted by u/Calding #Bay’s Spotlights: - - Submitted by u/\_\_kxtty\_\_ - - Submitted by u/Poelarizing   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Day 1: The launch was today. I still cannot believe that I have been chosen to carry out this mission. I am nervous, but also very excited. Along with official scientific data and automated daily system logs, this log will serve as a personal accounting of my mission. I will not fail. Day 3: I was able to get a lovely view of the moon today as the ship went past. It was beautiful. It is hard to believe that only 62 years ago, that was the farthest humans could go. It seems like only a stone’s throw from home, as they say. Day 7: The ship has reached cruising speed and I have begun assigned experimentation today. The hydroponic farm is fully functional and the automated planters are beginning their work. Based on prior research, I predict an 89% success rate for the zero-gravity crops. At least 39 of the 42 plant varieties are expected to bear fruitful harvests at the end of this growing cycle. The remaining 3 will be used for genetics research. I believe with some slight alterations, I can achieve a 100% success rate. Day 14: The ship departed Earth’s orbit two weeks ago today. This marked the first opportunity to observe test subjects being removed from cryogenic sleep. I chose a pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030, or exactly one year ago for the procedure. Both mice were removed from cryosleep successfully and are recovering more quickly than anticipated. These results are extremely promising. More observation results to follow. Day 30: After 16 days of observation, the mice taken out of cryosleep on September 5th, 2031, have inexplicably died. A full autopsy was performed and yielded little in the way of answers. All organ function was normal, blood oxygen levels were good, and brain activity looked excellent. Simply put, there is no obvious reason for their deaths. Carcases were vented at 0800. Day 52: I still have not received any transmissions from home and have begun to worry. The ship was supposed to receive a monthly news update and new mission parameters days ago, even accounting for the ever increasing distance the transmission must travel. I have attempted to establish contact with mission control but received no response. I have picked up an unusual amount of radiation and very little radio traffic. Scans from this extreme range are often ineffective, however. I am certain that it was simply background radiation and interference. Day 161: It is my birthday today. Happy birthday, me! Day 365: Today is the 1 year anniversary of the mission launch. It is time to remove a new set of test subjects from cryosleep. I am cautiously optimistic. A new pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030 were removed from their cryopods successfully at 1300 hours. All vitals appear normal, though I have taken additional precautions during this trial. The subjects are being dosed daily with supplemental vitamins, minerals and anti-radiation drugs to aid in their survival and protect them from cosmic radiation. I predict a successful trial. More observations to follow. Day 387: As in the previous trial, one of the test subjects has inexplicably perished at 0324 this morning. Autopsy revealed no new data regarding cause of death. This pair has already lasted 22 days longer than the previous set of subjects, however. This leads me to believe that nutritional supplements were beneficial during the recovery process following cryosleep. The second subject is still alive at the time of this entry and vitals are normal. More to follow. Day 388: The second test subject has died. I am, once again, alone. Day 1095: Today is the 3 year anniversary of the mission launch. We are approaching the heliopause and are expected to cross the boundary in 2 days. Today is also the third opportunity to remove a set of test subjects from cryosleep. I have chosen another pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030. Prior to initiating the thaw process, the subjects were dosed with a blend of nutritional supplements and will be further dosed daily upon feeding. I predict a successful trial. Day 1099: The Hydroponic farm has begun its third harvest today. As predicted, slight genetic alterations have resulted in a 100% success rate of plant germination. All crops are thriving and produce is being processed at 99.98% efficiency in the onboard factories. The cryosleep test subjects are doing quite well, also. All vitals look exceptional. Today was a good day. Day 1001: Both cryosleep test subjects have perished as of 0553 this morning. Autopsy revealed no new data. Day 3650: I have been alone aboard this ship for 10 full years now. Hydroponic farm efficiency is down to 82.34%. Some of the equipment is beginning to show signs of wear. I will carry out what maintenance I can. It is also time to wake another pair of test subjects. I have chosen a pair of adult mice frozen on September 5th, 2030, and spliced their DNA with a gene from tardigrades that should improve resistance to background cosmic radiation. Previous trials showed no signs of radiation poisoning, but it is currently my only hypothesis as to their cause of death. Observations to follow. Day 3652: Both test subjects are deceased. Subject #5 died as a result of genetic manipulation. Subject #6: cause of death unknown. Day 9124: It has been a long time since I have written in this log. I am beginning to lose hope for the mission’s success. Hydroponics efficiency is down to 34.90% after a complete breakdown of several pieces of equipment that I lack the parts to repair. The ship’s reactor output is also beginning to decline. Supplementary solar power is non-existent as we are currently in extremely deep space. I will wake another pair of cryosleep test subjects tomorrow morning. Day 9125: Today marks 25 years in space. I have chosen a pair of juvenile mice this time, rather than adults. I have dosed both subjects with nutritional supplements and released them from cryosleep. Vitals look excellent. I am optimistic for their survival. They will be dosed with additional supplements at each feeding. I have ruled out radiation poisoning as the cause of death in previous trials so no anti-radiation drugs will be administered. Observations to follow. Day 9132: It has been one week since subject #7 and #8 were removed from cryosleep. Their vitals look excellent. More to follow. Day 9492: Test subject #8 died today. He survived for almost a full year following cryosleep. These are very encouraging results. Subject #7 is still being monitored. Vitals still look healthy. #8’s autopsy revealed no new data regarding cause of death. I believe the subjects age when entering cryosleep may be a factor in their survival likelihood. If that is the case, and all adult human colonists die upon arrival, mission success is unlikely. Day 9497: Test subject #7 died today. No new data to report. Day 10950: Today is the mission’s 30 year anniversary. Two fertilized mouse embryos have been removed from cryo and moved to incubation. Current hypothesis is that living subjects simply cannot withstand the strains of cryosleep, especially those with advanced telomere degradation resulting from aging. Observations to follow. Day 11001: The hydroponic facilities are running at only 14.67% capacity now. I believe design flaws or nonconformances resulting from rushed manufacturing of equipment may be the root cause. Seeds for each crop have been preserved and enough supplies to feed 1000 human adults for 76.11 years have been produced and stored. Hydroponics and food processing have been shut down entirely to preserve power. Reactor running at 61.20% capacity. Day 11335: Happy first birthday Jerry and Gadget. Those are the names I have decided to give to cryosleep test subjects #9 and #10. Embryonic development went smoothly. Nutritional supplements were added to each subject's diet and their growth has been very promising. They are both happy and healthy. Day 12801: Jerry died today at 1905 hours. He was just over 4 years old. He lived a happy and healthy life. He will be missed by Gadget and my/elf. Perhaps the next embryos will be allowed to breed. I am curious to see how well a litter born in space will do. Day 36500: Today is the 100 year anniversary of our depa//ure fr/m Ear/h. I have chosen a new set of mouse embryos to remove from cryo along with a pair of human adults. The h//ans are not expected to survive the journey, let alone this trial. Observa//ons to fo//ow. Day 36531: As expected, both human subjects have perished. H//an trial s/ems to confirm hypothesis. Cry//enic freezing appears to ac/elerate telomere deg/adation in living DNA leading to death. No more living colonists will be removed from cryosleep. It would be uneth/cal, considering the data I have gathered thus f/r. Animal embryo trial is going smoothly, as expected. Will attempt human trial using embryos. Observations to fol/ow. Day 36532: I have selected a pair of human embryos and removed them from cryogenic storage. 998 intact embryos remain for future use. Human subjects #3 and #4 have been placed into incu/ation cha/bers and dosed with prenatal su/pliments. Only about 10 lightyears remain in our j/urney. Assuming successful human trial, this should be enough time for education and development into adu/thood. Day 36537: The ship was str/ck by sp/ce debris at 0747 this m//ning. Dam/ge is relat/vely minor, though I lack nece/sary equi//ent to perform repairs. Several labo/atories are now of/line, and the rea/tor is ope//ting at only 41///% capacity. I am shu/ting down all nones//ntial syst/ms to preserve power and rerouting what I can to thru/ters to readjust our course and remain on target. Day 36813: Gestation of human embryos is compl/te. Happy birthday Adam. Happy Birthday Eve. You will be the very first hum//s to s/t fo/t on exoplanet Alpha-3451Y. Da/ 36//4: I hav/ beg/n to noti/e degr/ation of my centra/ pro/essor. I calc//ate a 0.133% cha/ce of mi//ion succe/s if my systems fail. Observ//ions of hu/an trials to fo//ow. Day 37178: Ha//y Birth/ay kids. Human tr//l show//g promis//g resul/s thus far. Tho/gh many sys//ms rema/n offli/e, I have be/n able to activa/e work droids and repro/ram them to begin educa/ing and car/ng fo/ the chil/ren. They are showin/ exce//ent resu/ts in both physi/al deve//pment and cognitive abi/it/. D// 38638: Happy fifth bi///day children. I hav/ chosen an a//itional 20 embry// for larg/r sca/e hu//n tria/ an/ placed th/m into incub//ion chamber/. My processor is faili/g and I fear fo/ the survival of th/ speci/s if trials ar/ not ac/elerated. Reactor is fun/tionin/ at onl/ 12.2% capacity. Life support rema/ns onli//. All o/her syst/ms hav/e been deactiva/ed. Day 39003: I hav/ remov/d an a//itiona/ 100 human embryos from cryo and beg/n incubatio/. My proc//sor is degr/din/ at an a/arming rate. I have se/ progr/m par/me/ers for a// droi/ functions and copi/d protoco/s to redundan/ auxi/iary system/ so th/t educa//on of hu//n colo/ists may continu/ upo/ my deat/. If m/ ca/cu/ations are co/rec/, li/e su//ort shou// be ab/e to susta/n cur/en/ po/ulati/n of 122 humans and all pr/ser/ed co//nist/ unti/ the miss//n is comp/ete. Day 43383: The mi//ion i/ near/y com//ete. Ada/ and E// tur/ 18 today. Ha//y bi/th/ay ki//. On/y 2.24 year/ rema// un//ll ar//val on Alpha-3451Y. The reac/or is depl/ted, bu/ fortunate/y, su/plimen/ary solar pow/r ha/ ta/en ov/r. Long ra/g/ anal//is o/ th/ pl/net su/gests a rocky su/fa/e that may a//eady su//ort loca/ flora an/ pos//bly fauna. Wat/r is prese/t on the sur//ce as we//. Atmos//eric compo/ition is 99.7% consist/nt wi// Ear/h. Estima//d plan//ary mass is 1.012 times Earth ma/s su/gest/ng an Ea/th-//ke gravi/y. I fear th/s w/// b/ my fina/ entr/. Proce//or degrada//on is rea/hing cri//cal leve/s. P/ease, give human//y a second cha/ce, chi/dren. Do be//er here. BE bet/er. I am sor/y I will no/ see our new hom/, but I hope th/t I hav/ made up fo/ th/ mista/es of my maker/ by ge//ing you h/re safe/y. You wi// hav/ every/hing you ne/d to surviv/ and thriv/ here. I w//l mis/ you. Thi/ is United Nat//ns Spa/e Exp/ora/ion AI designa//on E34291-X12 “Elpis” sign//g o/f.


I took in a deep breath. The air was cool and crisp, burning my lungs. This was exactly what I had sought, and it was exactly why I had come this far. Each step I took caused my legs to ache with weariness, but I had a smile on my face nonetheless. Why wouldn't I, when I would soon reach the summit? I had spent the past three days climbing so that I could enjoy the journey, but that didn't stop me from looking forward to my arrival at the top. The path was rocky and the plant life was sparse, making it more and more difficult to make my way up, but I kept myself upbeat by considering it training while I scaled the uneven terrain. The climb felt like it went on forever, but when I realized that there was no higher peak to reach, I felt oddly disappointed that there wasn't more to traverse. However, the view around me was beautiful. The rising sun shone between two other mountain peaks, casting a warm glow over me that had previously been blocked by the mountain itself. After having spent so long next to such vast cliffs, the sky suddenly opening up above me caused me to let out an audible gasp. It was beautiful, and I immediately took a seat on a nearby outcrop so as to better enjoy the view. My sword weight heavy on my waist, and in a moment of annoyance, I decided to stick it into the rock next to me to relieve myself of the burden. It was plenty sharp enough to pierce the solid stone, and I needed not worry about its wear due to its enchanted nature. As I looked around, I couldn't help but suck in a deep breath of frigid air at the breathtaking view. My fur protected my skin from the chill, but the same couldn't be said of my lungs. Nonetheless, it invigorated me, filling me with a calm sort of relief that only someone who's just accomplished a great thing could feel. However, the scene was broken up by a single figure that was impossible to notice. As I looked it over, it noticed me in return, and rose from its previous resting place. I drew in another gasp of air as the titan rose to her full height, overshadowing all the mountains around us, mine included. She was miles away, yet still made it over to me in only a few strides. The light gray wolfess looked down on me with interested amber eyes, a subtle smile highlighting the rest of her face. However, despite her curiosity, I was the first to speak. "You're blocking the view." It wasn't exactly the most respectful thing to say, even to the most unpredictable race of all. Were she to wish it, the titan could easily crush me flat with a single finger. However, in the tranquil state I was in, I couldn't help but understand that she wasn't so cruel as to do so. "I'm a view of my own, am I not?" "...That I can't deny. Is there a reason you're taking an interest in someone like me?" "You seem like quite the interesting person. Few people climb this mountain, you know, and fewer still alone. Do you have any particular reason for doing so?" "I wanted to be able to tell myself that I did. It was a fun climb." "But surely this wasn't the best mountain to visit if you wanted to climb?" That was true. The two mountains that surrounded the sun before the titan had cast her shadow over me were both taller than this one, and probably afforded a better view, too. However, one couldn't deny that the view of the valley was best seen from right where I sat. "Perhaps. However, I'm here now, and I'm glad I've done so. Is that such a strange thing?" "Not at all. What's your name, swordsman?" "Zen. Yours?" "Natasha." "Well, thank you for taking an interest in me, Natasha. I'm glad I was worthy of your attention." "Must you be so stiff?" "I find that it's better to be polite to those that are taller than the mountain you've just spent three days climbing." At this, she chuckled slightly. After that, she spun around, sitting down next to the mountain, returning my view of the rest of the valley. "Thank you." "You were right." "About what?" "It's a wonderful view." "Didn't you already know that?" "You'll find that things lose their wonder when they become commonplace. A titan would have no difficulty seeing for hundreds of miles, so it's not that special for them to do so." "What makes things so special right now?" At this, Natasha flashed me a lopsided grin. "Because I get to share it with you." I was rather... stunned at this response. Not knowing what to say, I returned my eyes to the rising sun and the trees of the valley below it. We sat like this for several hours, not talking any more. When that time was done, I silently rose from my seat and returned my sword to its sheath. My legs had rested enough, so it was now time to begin the return descent. "Where do you plan to go from here, Zen?" "Oh, probably... that peak over there." Saying that, I pointed to the next mountain, on the opposite side of the peak from Natasha. "I could carry you over, if you'd like." "...Thank you for the offer, but I'd rather do it myself." "Is there a reason for that?" "That... hm. I suppose it's hard to explain. I suppose I want the satisfaction of getting their under my own power, and the knowledge that I've earned every view that I see. If I were carried everywhere I go, I wouldn't feel any joy from being there. Does that make sense to you?" "I don't think I understand, but I'll take your word for it. There are few places I can't go, after all." "I suppose so. You've chosen quite a good resting place, though." "Right?"  As I made my way back down the mountain, Natasha and I continued to make small talk. It helped spice up the trip, although there were a few times when I had to remain silent to focus on a particularly unsteady path. She promised to catch me were I to ever fall, but I'd rather not go through that experience at all. However, there was one point where I was stuck, left unsure how to continue. The two mountains were separated by a canyon, a rapid river raging below. I could see that there were wooden posts hammered into the rock on either side, but they were quite rotten, and nothing connected them. "I imagine that there was a rope bridge there at one point, but it's long gone." A slight frown crept onto my face. If there were nothing here, I could've moved sideways along the gorge until I found a bridge, but it's not common for two bridges to be hung over the same divide. It would be quite a long trek to completely circumvent this gap, and there's no guarantee I'd be able to do so, even if I had a month's time. "I could always carry you across." I opened my mouth to protest, but Natasha cut me off before I could. "Don't say that you want to cross it under your own power or anything. If there were a ferry, you'd have taken it, and if there were still a bridge, you would have eagerly taken such a shortcut." "...Yes, you're right." As I said that, Natasha extended her hand downwards, placing it slightly below the gap. I was grateful that she didn't simply reach down and grab me. Steady as I may seem, few people can remain calm when a giantess is reaching towards them. When I stepped onto her hand, she cupped it slightly to prevent me from falling off as she moved it... not sideways across the gorge, but upwards, towards her nose. I didn't fear that she would eat me, as sustenance is no concern for titans like her, but that didn't make me any less cross. I said that I wanted to traverse this mountain range under my own power, and I meant it! As she brought me closer to her face, however, I couldn't help but close my eyes. Secure as I was in my self-assurance of safety, that didn't stop my instincts from taking over. However, instead of any sort of pain or otherwise, I felt... something touch my nose. When I reopened my eyes, I saw her massive, black nose touching my own, her amber eyes staring down at me mischievously. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." I nodded silently, not trusting myself to speak. After flashing me another lopsided grin, she returned me back to the canyon, where she carefully deposited me on the other side of the divide. Her tail swished gleefully from side to side, but it didn't betray much emotion that the face hadn't already revealed. "Th- thank you." "Any time."  The following climb took a few more days, simply because of its length. I had no problems with that, as my rations would hold out for plenty of time. I expected Natasha to grow bored with my rather monotonous routine, but she seemed rather... happy to simply remain, having sporadic conversations about the most trivial of things. "You know, it's been wonderful talking to you, Zen. I just wanted you to know that." "I can say the same for you. I've heard that titans are often uncaring of those that are smaller, but... you seem nothing like the stories." "It's true that we don't often connect with tinies like you. There are no lack of people corrupted by their greed, expecting their companionship with a titan to mean that they can use them for their own gain. Most titans grow tired of being a corrupting influence on anyone they befriend, so they simply remain distant, observing but not interfering." "Well, I'm thankful that you've reached out." "As am I. For a titan with few wants and no needs, it's good to immerse myself in someone else's life. Even so, I'm glad you've managed to remain true to your principles. "A swordsman is nothing without his beliefs."  With all the work that I put in, it was no wonder that the next peak I arrived at was just as breathtaking as the last. However, with it, came the sad inevitability that I would have to depart. I could see a tinge of sadness on Natasha's face, and I knew that the exact same thing could be seen on mine. "Must you go? There are many other mountains around the valley..." "I know, but I cannot remain so long here. These mountains were along the way, but my route remains the same. I will continue onwards to the sea, and to lands beyond." "I see. In that case, I wish you well on your travels, Zen." "I wish the same to you, Natasha." I admit, I felt quite lonely those few days I descended back on the other side of the mountain. It was actually somewhat unbearable, knowing that Natasha could reach me in but a minute, but I remained steadfast. I had already said goodbye, and I feared that if I were to drag her along with me, I would become the kind of person that she so disliked creating. Hopefully, the sadness of departure will fade with time, being replaced by the happy memories of the times we shared.  Even two weeks later, as I walked through the port city of the southern sea, I couldn't help but feel my mind wander. I tried to snap myself out of it, but I was stuck between noticing the many gazes on me and my sword, or thinking about the titan of the valley. In the end, I pulled my mind away from such distractions, instead focusing on the ships of the opposite side. The southern sea was a hotbed of both trade and travel, so there was no shortage of ships ready to depart by the end of the day. It was child's play to find one willing to take on a swordsman such as myself, especially since I was an added protection against the pirates that so often traversed these waters. When the ship cast off, I found calm once more by staring not at the port slowly disappearing behind the horizon, but at the waters below. The rhythmic rippling in the gentle breeze slowly lapped against the side of the hull, I felt myself relax muscles that I didn't realize had been tense. I gazed at the water's surface, feeling my concentration dissipate, instead replaced by an existential peace... ...Which was immediately shattered as I noticed a massive amber eye, staring up at me from beneath the water's surface. A few seconds later, the water's surface broke as a massive head rose above the sea, looming over the ship. The waves caused by the titan's emergence rocked the ship wildly, causing everyone to grab onto the nearest handhold even while panicking at the sudden appearance of such a titan. Considering that their lungs are around the same size as the ship I'm currently standing on, it's not abnormal for them to be able to spend several days underwater at a time. Even so, nobody could expect the appearance of such a creature, certainly not me. After all, even while the ship bucked wildly, I couldn't help but focus instead on Natasha's face, grinning back at me. Just as it seemed that the vessel would capsize, she grabbed it from below, lifting the entire thing clean out of the water and up to her face. A few of the weaker-willed passengers screamed and backed away across the deck, but I paid them no mind. I had a rueful grin on my face, and I couldn't help but start the conversation, just as I had the first time we'd met. "You just couldn't let me go, huh?" The vessel's crew and the other passengers stared at me like I was crazy. However, the only thing I cared about was the massive wolf's lopsided grin. "As if I'd say goodbye to the most interesting person I've met in years, just like that." I nodded, understanding her motive. I imagine that it can be quite lonely in that valley, and a change of scenery always brings about a fresh perspective. For someone unfamiliar with travel, it can be normal to cling to that which you're familiar with when in an unfamiliar setting, and for her, I suppose the only thing that's familiar would be... me.  Clearly, this would be quite the interesting journey for the both of us.


“So close. So fucking close.” Jerry looks up at me. “We’ve talked about this, Lucy.” He sighs. “Right,” I chuckle. He picks up a cigarette and twirls it between his fingers. “We should have known the second they come up with this contraption,” Jerry says evenly. “What? That was a masterpiece!” I exclaim,” They took their already short life and made it even shorter!” “Of course that would make you happy,” Jerry sighs. I wheel my creaky chair over to him. “I’m sorry for suggesting the plague.” Jerry’s eyes bore into mine. Finally, he makes a sort of half-smile. “It was a good idea. Can’t expect it to work too many times though.” Jerry and I are something of an enigma. We had to have come from somewhere; but the truth is, neither of us remembers. I guess we’ve just been around too long. The first thing I remember is watching our ball of dirt get hit by another ball of dirt to break off a third ball of dirt. All we know is we don’t want to be alone. You have no idea how hard it was, watching this dull globe rotate around a glowing globe for eons. Sometimes, we wandered on the surface of the desolate planet, just to break the monotony. One particularly gloomy day on the shores of a long-forgotten ocean, Jerry had a stroke of genius. “You might like this,” he told me. Then he sent a lightning bolt to hit a tide pool. I burst out laughing. “How’s that any better than the meteor shower two rotations ago that didn’t even have the decency to hit us?” Jerry sighed. “You’ll be eating your words soon.” And eat them I did. Only later did I realize that Jerry, my soft-spoken, stoic complement in this dark void, had created life. He’d given us companions and, more importantly, hope. Or at least a way to make some. The first organisms we coaxed out of Jerry’s organic tide pool were little more than moving dust. Slowly, we helped them join together and work as one, and before long we had our very own aquarium. Satisfied, we sat back and watched our planet ripple with life. Jerry looked over at me, amused. “Now we have pets.” For a while, it was captivating to see our creations roam around their cage until the sweet release of death. But, eventually, we grew bored with these creatures. Spending their days eating and making more creatures, they were no better than the dust they came from. What does it matter if they choose to eat and procreate? Debris still absorbs other debris and makes new debris. I rapped my fingers on the railing, falling ever deeper into the abyss of loneliness. We had hoped for a cure, but hope is a fickle creature. What little purpose it gives, it can easily take away. Leaving you with nothing but the memory of better times. “Jerry, can we try again?” He looked over at me questioningly. “We can do better than this,” I stated, gesturing towards our creatures. “What’s the use?” Jerry sighed, exasperated. “It’s not like we can make another one of us.” “How do you know, Jerry? Maybe we just haven’t tried hard enough. Maybe we’re just one step away from our salvation?” He shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Not much else to do here anyway. Let’s go evolve some sea creatures.” And so the dinosaurs began to walk our world. Oh, how I loved our creations. Sure they had the same flaws as their ancestors, but they felt alive. Looking into their eyes was like looking into Jerry’s. They had emotions and desires, playing and fighting just as we did. Finally, I felt we had made something real. But even then, I felt boredom encroaching on me. Our scaly companions did the same thing over and over. They didn’t seem to live like we did. What was it that made us different? Made us want to have something more? I stood up. “I’m done,” I growled. Grabbing the nearest chunk of space flotsam, I sent it hurtling down. “NO!” Jerry cried out. But the crater had already appeared on the surface. Jerry grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “What did you do! We spent ages building our world!” I shoved him away. “And for what! So you can feel important? Feel like you did something good for us?” I pointed at the dying planet. “That was nothing to us. Nothing. We’ve been lying to ourselves.” At that moment, I saw fire in Jerry’s eyes, harsher than the burning world below us. “You might be lying to yourself. But I still hope for better.” He left me there, watching the fires burn out. He didn’t come back. But the planet refused to die. The skies eventually cleared of smoke. Seedlings sprouted from the ashes. Eventually, I even saw small mammals, curious creatures Jerry and I had left to their own devices, scamper through the saplings. I saw Jerry playing with them, tossing sticks and feeding berries. They looked happy. Somehow, I had an inkling that they enjoyed living. Something about them felt different. At that moment, I saw fire. I felt such hatred for these mammals. Why? I thought to myself. I shook my head and growled. I don't care why. I remembered playing around with ice in my early days, a pastime of mine in the days before life. Reaching into my rage, I covered Jerry’s precious land in ice. But Jerry didn’t budge. Furry mammals began to roam the world, defying the freezing curse. I countered by sending relatives of our first creation, vile specks I liked to call disease. But even then, Jerry’s animals thrived. And back and forth we went, killing, creating, killing, creating, killing, creating, until one day Jerry came to me carrying two wooden containers. He sat down in front of me. “Please sit.” I snorted and began to leave. “Please, Lucy.” I heard something in his voice, something that made me want to stay. I sat down. “What do you want, Jerry?” He offered me one of his boxes, which was filled with frozen slush. “I call it ice cream. Try it, it’s good.” I took his offering. “So is this why you’re here? You found a new recipe?” He smiled, infuriatingly happy and at ease. “It’s made of one of my plants, an iris flower.” I stabbed at the ice cream. To my surprise, it tasted amazing. “This isn’t bad,” I grudgingly admitted. Jerry smiled, bringing a spoonful to his mouth. For a while, we ate in silence. I set down his gift, polished clean. “Just to be clear, I’m not stopping because of your frozen flower stuff.” He laughed, a pure sound I hadn't heard in centuries. “That’s not why I’m here.” “Then why are you here?” He pursed his lips. “Lucy, how do you think your antics are affecting this planet?” “I imagine they’re causing you a lot of trouble.” Jerry grinned, leaning back on his hands. “Actually, it’s kind of helping me.” I stared at him, utterly confused. Jerry laughed. “You are definitely troublesome. Yet, I’ve found your disasters to be quite useful in ironing out the kinks.” “What do you mean?” “Well, every calamity kills many, that’s true. But, that’s taught me to create variety. Then I find the best traits and incorporate that in my work.” “So I’ve been… helping you?” Jerry stood up. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve been working on this species. They’re incredible, solving problems like nothing I’ve seen before. They even look like us. I need you to help me make them better. They have potential, I can feel it. Will you join me?” He extended his hand out. I slapped it away. “Are you joking? Why would I help you? I hate your creatures. Insignificant and useless, all of them. You can’t possibly believe you’re doing any good for us. At the end of the day, they’re false hope. Can’t you see how bad it is to cling to hope when it's so clearly hurting you?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I know you. You’re lonely. I’m lonely too. But, I really believe in them. Why are you resigned to be alone? We can do it, you and I. I know we can. Just give this a chance.” I felt that emotion again in his voice. The one that made my eyes water. Hope, I realized. How did he still hope? I remembered feeling hope for the first time, staring at that tide pool long ago. That hope had turned to anger and rage during my deadly game with Jerry. But, I began to feel that rush, that passion again. His hope was infectious. And so began the story of humanity. Jerry and I had a grand time with this species. Boredom was a thing of the past. Before long, we had created societies, filled with humans going about their existence with just as much vigor as us. We walked among them, loving every moment of our creation. Humanity held the rage we felt. They fought viciously, like Jerry and I. Every once in a while, the humans needed a check. That's where I came in. I sent every manner of disaster: plague, earthquakes, drought. Jerry took the pieces and put them back together better than ever. We didn’t always succeed in our goals, but humanity had a way of adapting to anything. Maybe that came from us too. Which brings us back to the present, looking down on a slowly self-destructing world. It looked like humanity was on its last legs. I sigh. “We may have to start over.” Jerry shakes his head. “No, they’ll be fine. We have to hope,” he says, his voice trembling. It’s incredible that Jerry and I still held out hope in our pathetic creatures. We’d watched them commit unspeakably heinous atrocities and impossibly shortsighted blunders. But, then again, in this bleak void what else is there but hope? I tried filling it with hatred, but hope seemed to be the only thing that works. “It seems that's all we live for. Hope. Hope for a better future. In all the time we’ve lived, the only constant has been hope.” Jerry’s lips quiver. “I can’t,” he says shakily, “I just can’t hope anymore.” I turn to him. “Jerry, I didn’t mean it like that-” “Then what did you mean!” He yells. “Jerry don’t-” “Even humans know it! Existence is suffering… oh Siddhartha, my child, you don't know the half of it.” Crying, he looks up at me. “Who are we to inflict the suffering of existence?” “Jerry-” “Why do you think so many take their own lives? They feel the void eating away at them. Loneliness and pain, that’s all there is. Humans think their creators are gods, but we’re just as human.” “Jerry that’s enough. Was this suffering? Making humanity, making life?” He just looks at me, hopelessness filling his eyes as his tears trickle out. “Jerry, we’re alive. Before all this, we were just existing. You’re right, that’s suffering. When all that exists is the void, there’s nothing but suffering. But we made something out of the void. We don’t just exist. We choose to live. We choose to hope.” He closes his eyes, tears spilling between his eyelids. “Our precious humans know this too. They make their own existence worth living. They hope for a better future, and then try their damndest to make it so.” His tears do not stop. “Do you know what makes our humans different from the floating dust we started with? It's the desire for more. The desire to do more than just exist. They choose to hope for more. I need you to do the same” I took his head in my hands. “We don’t just exist. We live,” I repeat, “We hope. Don't give up on them just yet.” His eyes finally open, cloudy with moisture. Wiping away his tears, he looks me in the eyes. He smiles slowly at me, like he was trying for the first time. “Alright then. Thank you. Lets try this again.


His coffee had grown cold, but he took a large gulp all the same. He would need as much supplemental energy as he could find if he had any hope of arriving home before dawn. Already, Oliver could feel fatigue taking hold, and it was only just past midnight. He had at least five hours of dull and tedious driving ahead of him. His eyes were heavy in his skull, and the thought of sleep proved all too enticing. He longed for the warm embrace of his bedsheets above all else. A weekend of debauchery in New Orleans had left him exhausted. At some point, he lost track of how many bars and strip clubs he had visited. *When in Rome*, he thought. The weekend had also left him nearly destitute. Even if he wanted to rent a motel room for the night, he would have trouble finding the capital to do so. It seemed he was left with no choice but to press on, to make it home. Now, he was traversing rural Arkansas on his journey back north. The highway he found himself on was nearly deserted at this hour, and it was lined with dense forest as far as the eye could see. The unchanging scenery made staying alert all the more difficult. He took another swig of gas station coffee, his second cup of the night. He feared that caffeine would not be enough to carry him home, though — he needed to break up the monotony of the flat, static highway. The radio had been playing at a low volume thus far, but he thought loud music might reinvigorate him, so he turned it up to a volume that most would consider unpleasant. It was tuned in to a local classic rock station and, sure enough, he felt a renewed vigor as he hummed along to the cycling hits. He carried on in this fashion for another half-hour or so, thumping his thumb upon the steering wheel to match the familiar rhythms. *I might make it home after all*, he thought. Then, one of his old favorites came on — Blue Öyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” — and he turned the volume even higher, letting the music wash over him. The song brought with it memories of a simpler time, when Oliver was just a child, listening to the radio with his father in his childhood home’s garage. So much had changed since then; he was not sure when his life had gotten so off track. For the time being, though, he was content with allowing the nostalgia to fill his mind with images of a much more pleasant era, and he sang along: *All our times have come, here but now they’re gone…* A smile crept across his face. Without noticing, he began pressing his foot to the gas pedal harder and harder, gradually building speed in a subconscious effort to match the euphoria brought on by the music. Soon, he had accelerated to 100 miles per hour, though he was blissfully unaware of doing so. *Seasons don’t fear the reaper…* *Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain…* *We can be like they are…* Despite having few reasons to be happy, in that moment, Oliver felt at peace. All the while, the car continued to gain momentum. Then, in the blink of an eye, the entire weight of the world came crashing down upon him. *Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper…* At first, he only saw the glare of his headlights reflected in its eyes, but within fractions of a second, its full figure became clear — a deer, frozen in the headlights, watching as two tons of metal came barreling toward it. *Baby take my hand…* There was no time to correct his course. In a brief moment of clarity, he became aware that he would collide with the animal, and that he would, in all likelihood, die in the process. He discovered that the old adage was true, after all — your life really does flash before your eyes in the moments leading up to your demise. While some might think of all of the good times they have had, of cherished moments with loved ones, Oliver’s mind was flooded with a single, all-encompassing emotion: regret. *Don’t fear the reaper…* In an act of animalistic instinct, he closed his eyes as he braced for impact. He slammed his foot down upon the brake pedal, though he knew this would not change his fate. Time seemed to slow as his car, still traveling at ferocious speed, came closer and closer to obliterating the blinded beast, until, finally, it made contact, a monstrous machination of man colliding with the hide of one of Earth’s most beautiful creatures, and then — *We’ll be able to fly…* Nothing. His tires screeched as his vehicle came to its tumultuous halt, but inexplicably, there was no collision. Oliver felt like his heart might beat out of his chest, and his knuckles were white from the tightness of his grip on the steering wheel. Some time passed before he remembered to breathe. After a few moments of sitting in shock, he exited the vehicle to inspect the road behind him. There was no sign of the deer — no blood, no carcass, no tracks in the grass beside the highway. He tried to rationalize what had just taken place and failed to come to any conclusion. Was his tired mind playing tricks on him? Was the deer a figment of his imagination, a sign that he was not fit to continue driving? After searching the area thoroughly, he reentered his car, no closer to understanding what had transpired. He resolved to stop at the next establishment he came across to collect his thoughts, whether it be an eatery, a gas station or a rest stop. He turned off the radio and continued driving, this time at a sluggish pace. His hands shook violently on account of his crushing anxiety, having survived after coming within inches of certain death. He traveled well below the speed limit for the next few miles. Not a single car shared the road with him. The night now felt incredibly eerie, and he became acutely aware of how far he was from what most would call “civilization.” He was prepared to resign himself to pulling over and sleeping in his car when a beacon of hope appeared in the distance — a bright neon sign, a sign of life. He was unable to make out the words, but he knew that he needed to get there as quickly as possible. He picked up speed, and soon, the sign gained clarity — it read: “World’s End Diner.” It was the first building he had seen in over an hour. To Oliver, it felt like finding an oasis in the middle of a harsh and unforgiving desert. *A fitting name*, he thought. He reached the diner within minutes and, to his surprise, it was gorgeous — pristine, even. Given its surroundings, he had no idea how or why it had been so well maintained. The neon sign glowed a stunning blue in the night sky, and the retro architecture made it appear as if it had been plucked out of the 1950s and dropped there, just for this occasion. The scene was a strange amalgamation of beauty and omen. Strangely, there were no other cars in the parking lot, yet a neon sign in the window flashed: “OPEN.” For that, Oliver was thankful. He was not particularly hungry, but he felt that a cup of coffee that was actually hot would help to quell his nerves. Above all else, though, he yearned for human contact — the simple act of making small talk, even if he did not recount the details of his bizarre experience, might help to ground him and shake his deep feeling of dread. At the very least, it might take his mind off of an event that he was sure could not be properly explained. He parked his car and stepped into the night air, now oddly frigid when it had once been warm. A strong gust of cold wind stung his face as he made his way toward the diner’s entrance; it was as if he could feel the temperature plummeting by the second. He reached for the glass door and swung it open, bells jingling to announce his presence. He felt a rush of warm air as he stood in the doorway — already he felt relief — and he stepped inside the World’s End Diner. Letting the door swing shut behind him, Oliver glanced about the eatery and took in his surroundings. All of the décor matched the retro aesthetic he admired in the building’s façade — porcelain enamel, red leather booths, stainless steel panels. Either the diner’s proprietors were meticulous in their dedication to vintage design or it was built in the mid-20th century and had been painstakingly preserved. There were three others in the diner: a tall and slender middle-aged woman behind the counter who he assumed was a waitress, an older gentleman cleaning the grill, and a patron sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the restaurant donning a brown cap and a long overcoat. He could only see the woman’s face, which looked downtrodden; the others had their backs turned toward him. He hoped one of them would be kind enough to entertain his attempts at light dialogue. He found a stool at the counter and made himself comfortable before looking up and smiling at the waitress. She did not smile back. In fact, she seemed to be in no rush to accommodate him; she just stared at him blankly. This awkward silence carried on for some time as Oliver studied her wrinkled face. Her expression was a blend of profound sadness and total indifference, and could he blame her? Surely a life that revolved around waiting tables in the back of beyond, likely for decades on end by the looks of it, was not a particularly glamorous one. Eventually, he spoke, still holding onto a smile that was now forced: “Hey, how’s it going?” No response. “This place is gorgeous, by the way. Kind of a hidden gem, huh?” Again, there was no response. It seemed he would not be able to find the conversation he longed for with her. He sighed, and spoke once more: “Is there any way I could get a hot cup of coffee?” At this, she finally stirred. She shuffled toward a coffee pot slowly, her expression unchanging, and filled a mug. She handed it to Oliver without so much as a friendly nod. “Thanks so much.” He took the mug into his own hands and felt its warmth immediately. “This is just what I needed.” He watched as steam rose in wisps off of the black liquid, eager for it to eradicate his lingering chills. He raised the mug to his mouth, and as soon as the coffee touched his lips, he was shocked to find that it was already ice cold. He managed a small sip before resting it back down atop the counter. He stared at the mug, perplexed — not only was it cold, but it also tasted absolutely foul. He turned back toward the waitress, who was still watching him vacantly. “Uh… Can you please warm this up for me, miss?” Again, she shuffled slowly as she made her way toward him, without a word. She retrieved the mug before sluggishly sauntering toward a sink, into which she poured its contents. She filled it yet again, from the same pot, and returned it to Oliver. It was warm in his hands, just as it had been, but by the time he swallowed, it was icy. He had no intention of burdening the waitress any further, and so he feigned gratitude. “Thanks again.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, laying a $5 bill on the counter. “Keep the change, miss.” She stared at it, emotionless. It occurred to him that she might be braindead; she evidently did not have all of her faculties about her and she did not behave in a way that any functioning adult would. He slid the bill toward her, encouraging her to take it. After a long while, she did. She held the bill in her hands and gawked at it, as if she did not understand its purpose. As she was studying it, Oliver noticed something incredibly unnerving — a long gash on each of her wrists, blackened with dried blood, perhaps the remnants of a failed suicide attempt that she made no attempt to conceal. His eyes widened. “Are you okay?” She returned her attention to him, though she made no effort to reply to his query. “Ma’am, shouldn’t you see a doctor?” Her face twitched, and he thought she might actually respond, but all she did was shift her facial expression to one of confusion. *At least she’s finally showing an emotion*, he thought. *That’s progress.* He intended to continue attempting to help the injured woman, but before he could say anything further, she turned and retreated into a back office — or perhaps a storage closet? — at a much quicker pace than she had been operating at thus far. Oliver was left alone at the counter, dumbfounded. If she did not want his help, it was probably unwise to continue offering it. Still, he could not shake the feeling that the woman was in dire need of assistance, but at that moment he had more than enough of his own traumas to confront. He turned his focus toward the older gentleman tending the grill, and decided he might as well try to spark up a conversation with him — if he was friendlier than the waitress had been, Oliver might even be able to convince him to help the poor woman. He found a seat closer to where the man was standing, but his back was still turned toward him, so he sat in silence for a moment as he pondered how to attract the cook’s attention. Eventually, he decided on: “How’s it goin’ there, sir?” The man immediately let out a deep, guttural grunt. Oliver was not sure if that meant he did not wish to be disturbed, but he was so desperate for conversation, for at least *some* sense of normalcy, that he was not deterred. “Sorry, what was that, sir?” The man slowly began to turn, his feet scraping against the tiled floor as if he did not possess the strength to take proper steps, and little by little, his face was revealed — his eyes were shut tight, his jaw hung in a zombie-like manner and the skin around his lips was a sickening shade of blue. He faced Oliver and unleashed yet another rasping groan. Oliver tensed up, taken aback by the man’s appalling appearance. It seemed that every employee of the World’s End Diner might be in dire need of medical attention. He was left speechless as he studied the cook’s lifeless visage. The two of them silently faced each other for some time, although the man never so much as opened his eyes, so it was difficult to tell if he was even truly cognizant of Oliver’s presence. He just stood there, mouth gaping. Eventually, the man turned back around and commenced his task of cleaning the grill, although it was already spotless. Oliver abandoned his hope of conversing with the cook and considered the diner’s sheer peculiarity. Its occupants operated somewhere within the uncanny valley — they resembled humans, but did not behave like them. He reminded himself that he was, by all accounts, in the middle of nowhere — perhaps their strange behavior could be attributed to the drug abuse that had devastated so many rural communities in recent years. With half of his foul coffee remaining, he resolved to spend a bit more time in the confounding eatery — besides, he did not believe he was mentally fit to continue his journey just yet. He glanced over at the man sitting alone in the booth at the far end of the diner, concealed by his cap and overcoat. He was idle, not doing much of anything; in front of him were empty mugs and plates, signaling that he had been there for quite a while. *Let’s give it a shot*, Oliver thought. He stood, let out a deep sigh and slowly made his way toward the man’s booth. Timidly, he asked: “Do you mind if I join you, sir?” The man looked up and, to Oliver’s relief, he seemed to be in good shape — a middle-aged man of dark complexion with no apparent maladies. He looked melancholic, but that was to be expected at this queer hour. “Sure,” he said. “Have a seat.” *Finally someone capable of normal conversation*, Oliver thought. “Thanks — I think I really need to talk to someone.” He sat opposite the man and took a swig of coffee. After a moment of contemplation, the man asked: “What’s on your mind, son?” “Oh, where to begin,” Oliver groaned. “I’ve had such a strange night. I’m on a sort of road trip, and I had this run-in with a deer… But I’m not sure it ever actually existed. I may have imagined it or something, because here I am. Anyway, that shook me so much that I really needed to find a place to stop, and this diner showed up not long after. But this place seems just as strange — it’s in the middle of nowhere, but it’s beautiful. And the staff here… They look like they’ve gone through hell and back. They’re not even capable of small talk. It’s like everything just confuses them. It all feels like some sort of fever dream… I guess I could just use a little help making sense of all of it.” At that, the man chuckled. “I don’t think there’s any making sense of it, man.” Oliver was puzzled. “What do you mean by that?” “A place like this — there’s no rhyme or reason to it. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Oliver returned a confused expression. The man scoffed. “You really don’t know where you are, huh?” A brief silence. “Arkansas?” He shook his head at Oliver’s naivety. “Shit, man, you’re in for a rude awakening. Here… Take a look at this.” The man removed his cap and tilted his head downward, revealing a bloody mess of a hole in the back of his skull, the atrocious aftermath of a point-blank gunshot. Oliver’s chest tightened. “What the *fuck*?!” He looked toward the counter, where the waitress and the cook were now standing side by side, facing their booth directly. “Somebody call 9-1-1!” When nobody made any effort to seek assistance, Oliver took it upon himself. He retrieved his cellphone from his pocket and was dismayed to find that it was shattered, well past the point of repair. *When could this have happened?* The man laughed and returned his cap to the tattered remnants of his skull. “Don’t you get it, boy? There *is* no help. Piece it together, man. I know you’re smarter than this.” A part of Oliver’s mind began to work out what the man was implying, but yet another part rejected the notion entirely. *No. No. No.* He stood up and darted his eyes around the now sinister diner. The three other occupants were eyeing him expectantly, and he started to hyperventilate. “Ah, it looks like he’s starting to get it, y’all.” Oliver’s panic began to evolve into an irrational anger. “Fuck this and fuck all of you.” He stormed toward the diner’s entrance, determined to put the horror show that was the World’s End Diner behind him. “I’m done.” “There’s no running from this, man. Come on, now.” This time, Oliver did not dignify the man with a response. He swung the diner’s door open and stepped outside. Then, all hope was lost. Nothing looked as it had when he first arrived. There was no highway, no parking lot, not even any trees. Before him was only a bleak and desolate wasteland, black sand stretching out into eternity underneath a similarly black sky. The diner was the forsaken landscape’s only light source. His car was nowhere to be found. *What is happening to me?* Oliver fell to his knees and wept. He had never been a spiritual man, but now, he prayed — to whom, he could not be sure. Several long minutes passed in this fashion, alternating between curses and pleas to a higher power. He soon became convinced that these pleas were utterly useless. *I deserve this.* If there had ever existed a place where hope was strictly forbidden, where light itself was a mere fantasy, he had found it. *I do deserve this, don’t I?* It was then, in Oliver’s darkest, most despairing moment, that his surroundings began to change, ever so slowly. Initially, he was not sure if he was imagining it, but after some time, it intensified. The landscape was brightening. It was as if some great, all-encompassing light was being shone down upon him from a source unknown — as far as he could discern, there was no sun in this place. It seemed that the entirety of the sky was emitting this light, blindingly white and scorching hot, slowly but surely gnawing away at the once-infinite dark. Oliver’s tears ceased as he stared toward the sky, getting brighter and brighter by the second, until it seemed that light was the only thing there was, and perhaps the only thing that had ever been. He watched in awe as it enveloped the whole of the world, inch by inch, until at last, it had enveloped him, as well. There was no way to be certain of what he was experiencing, but in that brief moment, Oliver felt that he was gazing directly into the eyes of his Creator. **∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙** When Oliver regained consciousness, his brain was a foggy mess — it took him some time to remember who he was, and what had transpired. He was acutely aware of a single sensation, though: an excruciating, full-body pain. He was unable to move his body; he felt locked in place, wholly drained of strength. His vision was still white, but eventually, color faded in, and other sensations began to return to him. He was able to discern that he was lying down, staring up at some sort of metal ceiling. Then, he made out the bumps in the road beneath him, and he deduced that he was a passenger in some sort of vehicle, but he lacked the energy to turn his head and study his environment. There was a shrill ringing in his ears, drowning out all other noise, if there was any other noise to speak of. Then, that ringing began to fade, as well, and he felt like a newborn infant, entering the world for the first time. Other sounds began to flood in: footsteps, mumbled chatter and the persistent beeping of medical equipment. And finally, he was able to clearly make out someone’s words: “We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse.


A hundred of his money had been lost to the abyss. Watching the moon lazily trace across the concrete sky, muffled by roaring clouds and bureaucracy, his cigarette let him embrace a cold shiver of indifference. In the distance a mother is exploited and a husband is suffocated by the towering cavalcades of steadfast progress. A distracting blue light stings his eyes and slams his head. Text no longer written but blared with burning intensity into the retina of any poor soul broken enough to find it comforting. Ascending multicoloured boxes rolled by his fingers bartering away his emotions and instincts. Pleasantly disguised chimes made him salivate - he could only applaud Pavlov and the other dogs crammed into his vicinity. Addiction is only a problem when it is unwanted. One of the boxes materialised amongst the blurry fog. A cartoon fish. A price. A location. Rebellion commoditised. Effective communication. Predetermined probabilities forced him to go willingly. If hope can be caught he saw no reason why it wouldn’t dwell in the ocean. A bed submerged by millions of water is less weight than people’s expectations. Were he ever named hope it would make an ideal resting place, far away from disappointment. \* \* \* Rolling rubber. Shaking metal. A smearing of personalities side by side. The bus took him away from himself by adjusting others into focus. Shooting peaks of structure and earth set themselves in the corner of his eyes for the inconvenience, their intrusion sometimes ebbing out a tear. Swapping transportation for transportation. Metal for wood. Concrete for water. Fluorescence for moonlight. The bobbing cradled his bruised self and took him out into the vacuum. Whispers of dormant Gods lashed against his exposed ego, beating his flesh raw. Nothing left for him. Nothing left to do but cast a line. Sitting quietly with an endless background of noise. Fishing about for silver, wiggling, abstract prizes all turning and contorting around each other. A bite, a word, a phrase. He held it in his palm for inspection. It was not a big one, not one you would want to hang on a mantle or show to your father, but good enough for the lazy and disposed carcass that was perched over the pulsating expanse of black liquid. He gripped it like a child grasps a toy, running his fingers over the set plastic ridges, contemplating only the primal sensation the unholy smooth material lent to his nervous system. The phrase played continuously over his inner self, unobserved but present, its existence a comfort rather than a meaningful reflection. Zero percent of hope had been found. Something still ruled the world with a shit eating grin. All he had managed to do was make himself feel sad. He started to suspect systems of people had fucked him over personally. It had, however, made him into a weary boy with something like a university degree in pain. Instead of building hope, he now builds a precise model of a grotesque, duplicitous world.


TW: >! Allusion to suicidal thoughts, on-screen character death, psychological torture!< "*A scout was told by enemy soldiers that they’d shoot him as soon as he stopped playing the piano …"* He wasn’t paying attention to anything else; he was too busy trying to figure out just how out of tune the piano was and how much he would have to tighten every loose string to correct the pitch. Which didn’t spoil his enjoyment in the least. It was unfortunate that the first piano he’d seen since the war began was this shabby, but it was a real piano, and all the notes played sharp and clear like tiny daggers in the frosty air, and that was all that mattered. The first indication he had of their presence was a sharp jab in the back. It drew blood, which became a wet trickle that streamed down his shoulders and pooled at the base of his spine. He instantly forgot his place in the song and the music stopped. “Don’t turn around,” said a harshly accented voice. Something cold brushed against his shoulders, and he stiffened. “Keep playing,” the voice continued. “If you stop again, we’ll kill you.” Laughter, innocent and amused, like children at a playground, echoed around the room. *That accent.* He’d heard it once before, but only from prisoners of war - never from anyone he'd known personally. His friends were supposed to be guarding his back, but these voices weren’t theirs – where had they gone? His hands shook as he reached for the pale white keys. Warm orange light, perhaps from a lantern, reflected off the piano in his face and threw sharp shadows over his fingers. His vision blurred. His hands were cold, and he couldn’t reach his coat. These soldiers wouldn’t listen to any pleading. He wouldn't either, if he had been in their shoes. If he wanted to live, he had to impress them, which meant he had to play. On and on, forever. His life would only end with his music. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata came to mind first. The tension in the room dissipated as the first notes rang out, clear and strong and confident. He’d been playing this song since he was a boy, and his mother had played it before him. Just as it had lulled him to sleep in the evenings, he prayed it would lull these soldiers, whoever they were, to let him live. “What’s your name?” a voice asked. He paused and started to turn around. “It’s –“ “Don’t stop!” they warned in unison, jabbing him again with their bayonets. He slammed the next chord a split second off the beat, terrified of dying before he’d even started, and kept right on going as if he hadn’t stopped. The laughter behind him increased - this time, with a touch of malice. “Are you going to tell us your name?” they asked, and the shadows from the lantern light jumped up and down. They were trying to confuse him, or maybe they were simply laughing too hard to hold it still. He kept his mouth pinched firmly shut and shook his head. He didn’t dare get distracted. A wrong note jumped out with glaring dissonance and earned him another sharp jab. “Stop,” he mumbled, without breaking rhythm. “I can’t play if you keep doing that.” But did they really care about his music? A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. They were just teasing him – teasing him to death. Why should it matter if the sound wasn’t perfect? Perhaps all they wanted was an excuse to torment him. There was some mumbled agreement, and the lantern finally stopped moving – hung, he supposed, on a hook he’d noticed near the door when he came inside. His own shadow made it hard for him to see the keys directly in front of him, so he shifted to reach a lower pitch. The soldiers behind him suddenly silenced, probably expecting him to make a run for it, but he still didn’t look their way. His heart was racing so fast that he could feel it in his fingers, burning against the icy keys. But if he lost himself in the music, he could keep going forever. Nearly forever, anyway. *His* forever. “It’s warm in here,” one of the soldiers said. The pianist's touch on the keys grew light as he listened attentively, trying to see if he could understand anything else. But the voice died away in a mumble of gibberish, a language the pianist didn't understand. The soldiers seemed to be getting comfortable. Though he couldn't see them, except in the form of vague shadows reflected on the moldy, once-upon-a-time veneer piano, he could guess what they were doing from the noise they made. They stomped on the wood floor to melt the snow on their boots, exchanged what sounded like jokes in their incomprehensible native language, and laughed like they hadn’t a care in the world. He could tell they were laughing at him from the shiver that crept up his spine. They never took their eyes off him. They wanted to see if he could last as long as they had. Maybe, he thought with a thrill of horror, they considered this payback. Would they have acted any differently if he told them he was drafted, and not a soldier by trade? That he knew nothing about their country, except that it was cold and wet and miserable, and that the dirt was too frozen to dig trenches? That he didn't even know what he was fighting for? His mind wandered. He felt as if he’d trained all his life for this very moment. He could almost hear his piano teacher’s nasally voice: “You never knew just how useful piano would be, did you?” That was what he used to say, when his young student broke down in tears with chilly hands and bleeding fingers. "It makes you stronger," the teacher would say, his voice reeking with smug satisfaction. If he had known how much depended on his music, he would’ve picked a warm concert hall in the middle of a polished, empty stage with an audience cheering for their musical gladiator. Not this lonely, abandoned house in the middle of a minefield. If the soldiers didn’t kill him, something else would. This piano was only buying him time either way. His hands shook, and he missed a note. But, he reminded himself, no one who hadn't heard the song before would know. He waited resignedly for the retaliatory bayonet jab, but it never came. “Want some food?” one of the soldiers asked him, shoving a rough loaf of bread under his nose. It smelled sweet and doughy, and its warmth caressed his face like a blanket, and he could feel his mouth watering. But he couldn’t take it without lifting his fingers from the keys. He pinched his lips shut and shook his head. The final chord of the sonata rang out true and pure and clear. He already knew what was next: *Pathetique.* Appropriate, all things considered. When that was over, he started again. And again. And soon he realized with a slow desperation that he was running out of music. Soon he’d be improvising, and it was hard to think of notes that sounded musical. Could the soldiers tell the difference? He wanted a chance to pray while playing something mindless, something he could rely on his fingers to perform without his conscious assistance. He started to repeat the first sonata, but the soldier on watch duty behind him shouted it down. “No repeats!” *That’s not fair.* But none of this was fair. Neither the game, nor the prize. And he was only buying time, after all. He grasped at the last thing he could remember; a Tchaikovsky piece without a title, written on a few wrinkled sheets of paper before the composer committed suicide. He’d learned it years ago as punishment for not practicing. Some of the chords were too big for his frozen fingers to reach, and the song sounded like a different composition without them. But at least it was music. He could pray for strength now that he didn’t have to think about what he was doing. From here on out, if repeats weren’t allowed, the great musicians couldn’t help him anymore. He was on his own. He wished them goodbye, and his fingers hit a G sharp instead of an F. The soldiers behind him stirred, but didn’t say a word. And once the piece was finished, he kept going. The first tune that came to his mind, oddly enough, was frantically happy. It forced his hands to move so fast that they finally started to warm up. The soldiers behind him grumbled restlessly, seemingly irritated that the music had changed. But still, nobody spoke. He was succeeding at keeping up the illusion that he knew what he was doing. *Must* be succeeding. He couldn’t fail. He’d put in so much effort that if they killed him now – Unconsciously, his rhythm slowed, and he transitioned into a different theme entirely. He stopped thinking for a split second and hit a horribly wrong note. The soldier on guard smacked his shoulders right where he’d been stabbed, and he jolted with the pain that shot through his arms all the way to his fingers. He slowed down even more to give himself more time to think. His music teacher would laugh if he was watching. “Performing poorly under pressure,” he’d cackle. “I always told you to rehearse more, but you wouldn’t. You said you were too busy. Well, look where it got you!" “I’ve been fighting a war,” he muttered desperately, his voice drowned by the piano. And besides, he was practicing now, making up for all the time he'd procrastinated when he was young. How many hours had he been playing already? Three? Six? Twelve? His teacher’s face never lost its mockery. He was standing next to the piano now, his elbow resting on top – something his students would’ve been slapped to high heaven for doing, but as he always said, rules don't apply to masters. He jammed his hand against the upper notes, ruining the melody, and the pianist winced as though his ears had been stabbed. “Try harder!” he screeched. “You’re not giving it your best effort.” “I’m trying!” he cried, just like he’d done a hundred times before when he was a boy. A single drop trickled down his left cheek. It wouldn’t be enough no matter how hard he tried. It never had been. “Trying what?” someone behind him said. “You’re slowing down. Keep up if you want to live!” More wild laughter from all corners of the room. The teacher shot him a smug look of I-told-you-so and disappeared. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but there was nobody at the piano. All he could see were the drearily monotonous keys and his own shadow that seemed to drill a hole in the keyboard. He could hear a distinct rustling behind him. The soldiers were getting up. It was morning. He’d been playing all night. The orange light coming from behind him was the sun, not the lantern. It was about to be over. He’d impressed them enough. They’d leave and let him live. They had to. “Longest two hours of my life,” said a hot voice right into his ear. It was the soldier who had been on watch duty. “Thank God I can sleep through the rest.” He gulped and hit a shaky C major chord. Never had it sounded so hideous. The movement was replaced by silence as a new guard took over the watch. The orange light never changed; if it was the sun, it must have been blocked behind a cloud. He wondered what the world beyond the piano looked like. From his hazy memory the outside was a field and there wasn't even a tree in sight. Not a hill, nowhere he could hide if he suddenly made a bolt for it. Was there really no other option? What if he just gave up? How much more time did he need to commend his soul to the divine, and hope that at least God would have mercy on him? He closed his eyes, resigning himself to a few wrong notes, and tried to imagine what was about to happen. A shot to the head would be quick. He thought of how his body would be frozen here until the end of winter, or until someone from either side came along and found him. They’d say “poor bastard” in their language of choice, wrap him in a blanket, and dump him somewhere outside. And they wouldn’t use the piano because they’d say he was haunting it. But he wouldn’t know about any of that, because he'd be dead. It was getting harder to breathe. The wounds on his back begged for him to lie down, bathe them with warm water, anything to take away the stinging pain of congealed blood, cold air, and open flesh. He wondered if he could take one hand off the piano and reach around to touch them and let heat from his sweaty hands ease the soreness. No, he couldn’t. “Please let me stop,” he sobbed, still playing, resting his exhausted head against his chest. “I’m begging you. Please let me go.” “You can stop whenever you want,” someone said. The whole room exploded in titters, and he heard the familiar click of a bolt-action rifle. Even the littlest sound of the barrel brushing against someone’s canvas jacket sounded louder to him than the piano, which he could barely hear anymore. Something cold touched his ear, and he kept playing, doggedly closing his eyes. So what if the notes he hit were wrong? The worst they could do was kill him. Now, he could swear, the orange light had gotten a little paler. It *was* sunlight, soft and warm on his tender shoulders. The soldiers were starting to move around, yawning audibly and stretching, their joints cracking in the cold. They started a fire, which popped thinly and produced waves of smoke that made his eyes water. He wanted to rub them. He couldn’t take his hands off the piano. He was starving and thirsty. The smoke dried out his mouth, and his lips were stuck together. He couldn’t open them to get a drink, even if there had been anything to drink. Flakes of dry skin were peeling off his knuckles and floating gently down to the keys below, hard to see against the white but glaring and annoying against the black. They broke the pattern he was now so used to. He made a game of trying to brush them off with his fingers while he was playing. Then he smelled it: *food.* Cooking meat in some sort of savory herb he couldn’t quite identify. A soup, probably. *Steam.* It wafted around his nose and made his eyes water more, this time mixed with tears. And for that matter, what was stopping him from giving up, scarfing a last desperate mouthful of soup before the soldiers could kill him? He licked his own tears, but the salt only made his mouth drier. Since he’d become a soldier, he’d been constantly imagining his own death so vividly and so often that he almost felt he couldn’t survive without thinking about it. Whenever he found himself remotely in danger – near an edge, looking down the barrel of an enemy gun, barely missed by a shell – his mind flipped to the worst outcome. He fell, the bullet struck him, the shell landed nearby. In any case, he died. And he made peace with that possibility. The calmer he felt about his own demise, the guiltier he was for not minding death when he had something to live for. He had a family that would welcome him home, which was more than most could say. He had a house and a farm and a cat and a dog and a warm bed with wool coverlets. They’d scratch his hands when he crawled under them, but in a comforting, caressing way, like an old woman’s hand covered in calluses. In the morning, when he woke up, they'd be on the floor, because someone would have started a fire and his room would be swelteringly warm. He'd get up, wrapped in a cozy sense of homeliness, and go downstairs to find a bowl of hot broth waiting for him. He'd cup his hands around the mug and take a deep drink, and thank his mother for making it. She, in turn, would thank his father for building the fire. They'd all smile and laugh, and go about their days as though they hadn't a care in the world. Playing until he couldn't strike another note was his way of proving he’d fought. He had to keep playing until he was so afraid of dying that he couldn’t make peace with it anymore. And then, only then, when he had finally discovered the true value of what he was losing, would he deserve to be released. He played until his hands were raw and bleeding. He played until he couldn’t feel three of his fingers, frostbitten from the cold ivory keys. He played until he couldn’t hear his own music anymore, only the vague sounds of the soldiers behind him. He played until the knowledge of what he would be leaving behind was driven like a nail into his brain. He played until death was the last thing he could imagine, and his thoughts were filled with his home. And then, by accident, he stopped. His hands dropped to his knees, and when he tried to lift them again, they simply wouldn’t move. “Damn!” cried someone from behind him. “Longest concert of my life.” A deep choking misery crept up his throat, and he felt a tear run down his cheek. Another, and another. He smiled because, at last, he was afraid of dying, and still had hope that he wouldn’t. And he cried, burying his face in his hands and sobbing like a child, because his hope was founded on nothing but the mercy of his persecutors, who hadn’t yet shown any remorse. And he cried because his arms were so stiff that his shoulders felt wrenched out of joint, just from the tiny movement he'd made to drop his hands to his lap. No matter what happened, at least he knew he had fought all the way to the elusive end. A hand on his shoulder forced him to turn around and look straight up into a pair of warm brown eyes. The man was grinning on one side, and his grip radiated cheerfulness. “I’m impressed,” he said. The pianist smiled wider through his tears. “Thank you. I’ve been playing since I was a child, but this is the first time I’ve played for anyone else.” “You’re a pianist fit for nobility. If only we didn’t have to kill you,” said the soldier. He really did seem a little regretful, but his hands showed no hesitation as they unbuckled his holster and pulled out his revolver. He loaded it with painstaking slowness. The pianist watched, occasionally lifting his hands to his eyes to wipe away the tears so they didn’t freeze on his cheeks. He felt as if he’d earned a badge of honor. He was terrified, and pure fear had never felt so sweet. For, driven into a corner, he finally realized the magnitude of what he was giving up, and he was proud of himself for the first time since he could remember. He had finally earned the life he'd lived by fighting so bitterly to keep it. Were these soldiers really angels in disguise, sent to drag his downcast mind back into happiness? The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes, letting the moisture pool behind his eyelids, was the soldier's friendly smile, and somebody behind him giving him a thumbs up. He heard their laughter right up to the last minute, and he smiled in response. They weren't mocking him; they were encouraging him. *“… He played for more than twenty-four straight hours before collapsing in tears, at which point the soldiers, somewhat impressed, laughed and promptly shot him point blank.


Kirk Taggert quaked and quivered, standing on the official sized wrestling mat in the Cochran High School gymnasium. He was a popular poster-boy blueprint for a six foot-four, bronze haired, muscle sculpted, teenage boy wrestler. But belying Kirk's coveted physique, unadulterated panic shimmered behind his amoretto colored eyes. Kirk was no one to veer away from any opponent, but the wrestler that stood across from him wasn't just any high school opponent. This opponent could actually mentally break him before the match began. The evidence was in the amount of perspirations already beaded out across Kirk's forehead and upper lip. It was not because the opponent was grizzly bear sized, or a body builder's dream. Kirk could deal with that all day long. He preferred the challenge of making a mountain into a mole hill any day. But the guy standing just a mere three feet from him, he had loved ever since... …Probably forever. Kirk was hindered in his mind about just how he could violently do a take-down move on him, or forcibly manhandle the guy he loved onto his back for a three second count. Kirk's opponent wasn't even high school age. But was considerably much older than himself. He looked at the man, and gritted his teeth together in worried apprehension. He was about to wrestle an opponent that wasn't even five foot-nine. And who had the musculature of an arm chair quarterback, looking every bit as harmless as a Starbuck barista. Kirk could feel his hands betraying his brittle confidence. They were slick with body dew. And the absence of any sound in the gym was unnerving. Comparable to the soundless void of outer space. For there were no spectators around to cheer or jeer. The referee's whistle was about to shatter the sound void, however, to sharply signal the match to begin. Likely within the span of a meager few heartbeats. *Run up and wrestle his opponent or just plain old run?* The urge to do an early tap out was almost unbearable for Kirk. In his mind, he was no coward, but tapping out early would make him look every bit like one. And he couldn't stand looking like one of those, ever. Still only a few reprieving seconds were left. Seconds for Kirk to make the decision of a lifetime. Without conscious thinking, he crouched into a low center of gravity attack position, and licked his lips. His mouth felt as dusty as an old abandoned garage. Kirk spared a half glance, away from his opponent soft eyes, to register that the referee was now bringing her whistle to her lips. Time had finally run out. In a determined state of mind, Kirk got ready to send his hands away from his body, and to flex his fingers in the anticipation of using them as grapples. But instead, he stood up out of his crouch with a newer resolve. Kirk held up a hand to halt the referee's immanent puff of breath through her whistle's mouthpiece. And un-hesitantly walked briskly over to his opponent with his right hand leading the way. When Kirk was close enough, the opponent took Kirk's extended hand in his own and shook it vigorously. With a relieved heavy sigh, Kirk uttered bashfully, "Dad. I love you. And I apologize for shooting off my mouth earlier; challenging you to this match. From now on I promise not to miss my curfew." He then turns to the referee and says with a wink, "I love you too mom. Thanks for volunteering to referee.


“I’m still not sure I should be going to this honey.” Greg looked at his wife through the reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair or at least what was left of it. His father was bald by 60 so Greg felt lucky to be 65 with any hair at all. “ You need to go to this party. Its good for you to get out again.” Mary was always encouraging her husband to try new things. She had always been adventurous one, once she convinced Greg to take her on a trip to Africa. He never could say no to her. “I know, I know I need to make some friends or meet new people. It's just... hard. Why you can't come with me?.” Greg turned to Mary and stared at her as she leaned against the bathroom door frame. There was never a day that passed where Greg didn’t marvel at his luck. He met Mary in college. He was studying in the library when she came strolling in clutching a bag tightly against her chest. Greg always wondered why she choose to sit next to him, but when she did he couldn’t help but stare as the bag in her arms seemed to wriggle on its own. That’s when she leaned over and opened the bag inside was a small kitten probably only a month, old one of its ears was in bad shape. Together they nursed the kitten back to health keeping it a secret until campus security found out and forced them to rehome it. Greg always said he fell in love with Mary when she cried giving the cat up, but really he knew he had to marry her the day she sat down next to him in the library. “You know I can't go with you, dear. Besides it's just an office party you already know everyone who is gonna be there.” Mary laughed. Greg loved that laugh how it started low but faded into highnotes. Mary always had a way of bringing laughter into a room. Even on their wedding day her vows had everyone rolling. Even when he found out about his father's death she managed to coax a smile out of him. Even when the doctor told them they would never have kids Mary still managed to make the world seem brighter. Greg was the rock in the relationship sure, he held fast and true and settled Mary’s restless soul, but Mary she was the sun. “Your right, your right. I just am nervous I haven't even been to the office in weeks, and I cant get my tie on straight.” Greg said as he struggled against his neck tie. Despite years of wearing one he always needed Mary’s help getting it just right. In reality he knew how to tie it himself he just loved the excuse to have her close. “I told you that you needed to start learning how to do that on your own. Now take the top part and fold it over the bottom correctly.” Mary said firmly. Even on the day the doctor told her she was dying she managed to make Greg laugh with a dumb joke about the weather. Greg felt so lost that day like the oxygen had been sucked straight out of his chest. The scariest moment was that night when Mary finally broke down and cried in his arms. He held her close and promised to help her get better no matter what the doctors, or the cancer, or anyone else said. “Right again my love. But my tie never looks as good when I do it myself. I'm helpless without you.” Greg said those last words like a joke but in his heart they felt true. Even though he was taking care of Mary psychically, picking up pills, driving to treatment, holding her hair when she got sick, it felt like she was still taking care of him. On the good days she Mary would cook and sing in the kitchen, her voice was certainly not stage worthy but it was perfect for small houses and sunday mornings. On the bad days she would sit in bed and write, page after page of recipes, instructions, and jokes. Just in case she always told Greg. He hated that phrase and those pages of writing that burned holes through his heart every time he thought about them. “Don't say that. You are not helpless without me. You are strong and brave and incredibly kind. You can make it anywhere in this world if you have just a bit of faith in yourself.” Mary’s smile made it impossible for Greg to disagree. The weeks and months that followed the doctor's appointment were both a nightmare and a gift. Everyday felt like it needed to be held onto and saved in a glass jar. Greg stopped going into the office in order to take care of Mary. Some days he wanted to scream into the sky as he watched his wife flicker like a candle in the wind. Other days he was content to whisper all the world's poems in her ear. Greg would never understand how glad Mary was to have him as her rock during those months. “ Are you sure you can't come with me? I just hate the way they stare.” Gregs voice sagged. It was 5 months after the first doctors appointment when they found out Mary’s cancer wasn’t responding to treatment. This time it felt like Gregs whole body was going to give out. Mary didn’t cry then, instead she smiled at Greg and asked to take her dream trip to Africa. She had always wanted to see the lions in the wild. “Im always with you dear.” Mary said. Greg looked at her as he finished with his tie and exited the bathroom. Mary walked behind him as he went to the front door to get his shoes on. Greg felt a familiar lump in his throat.” “Not like this.” The words scraped through Gregs chest as they exited his mouth, rattling around his rib cage and echoing against his unbeating heart. Two weeks after Africa Mary’s heart stopped beating, Greg felt like his flatlined at the same time. Without his sunshine everything felt cold and distant outside was an endless dark night. But here in there house surrounded by her furniture, her clothes, even those letters he hated see her write, Greg couldn’t help but see her. He wasn’t delusional, Greg understood Mary was dead but alone in there bedroom and in her kitchen it felt like she was still there. But Greg knew letting his memories haunt him forever wasn’t what Mary would have wanted. So he made plans to return to work. Tonight was his welcome back party and every piece of Greg wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there. He wasn’t sure how he would handle the festivities, how do you find joy when you cant even find your heart beat. But Mary loved parties and Greg knew that she would have pushed him to go to this one. So, he finished putting on his shoes and opened the front door.


There’s a girl looking at me. Her eyes stare into mine. She looks like she doesn’t really live or lives somewhere out of this world. I want to know who she is, what she feels, what she thinks, but she’s inscrutable. In her eyes are oceans so deep you can’t see what lays at the ground and the surface of the water is frozen, cold and hard under a pale moon. Who is she? Who is she supposed to be? Suddenly the sun is rising. Its rays fill the landscape. The kind of sun rays that comfort everyone. The ice changes. Flowers start to cover it. Little flowers. Cute flowers. The kind of flowers that make everyone happy. Funny creatures start to jump around. The kind of creatures that make everyone I wonder how this happened. “How did you do this?”, I ask. She looks at me. “I don’t know how I can do it. I just can.” The sun goes down. Impenetrable darkness. “Light it up again”, I beg her. With the upcoming moon I can feel a shiver. I can see the ocean again. With frozen surface. Nothing has changed. Not the smallest amount of melting. “Why are all the flowers gone?” I ask her. “Have you ever seen a flower surviving on ice? Have you ever seen creatures survive without a home? Have you ever seen the sun melting ice hidden under the earth?” She wants to walk away. She doesn’t want me to look in her eyes. But I want her to stay. Because I want to see the sun rising. I want to see the flowers and funny creatures again. She makes it happen. For me. Or not for me? “Can you keep the sun up?”, I want to know. “Yes, but not forever. I need the moon to rise now and then to keep balance.” “Why? What would happen if you just kept it down?” If she has the power to make the beautiful landscape and also to remove it, why can’t she just leave it sunny and stop bringing up the darkness? She looks in my eyes. “If I would imprison the moon it would only become stronger. Stronger. Stronger. It would break out. Fill the beauty with coldness. Kill the sun. Kill the flowers. Kill the creatures. Kill the ocean. One day it will. One day it will kill. One day it will kill all. One day it will kill all and overwhelm it for good.” I am scared. She scares me. But I want to help her. Even if she scares me. “What can I do against it?” I ask. There is this girl looking at me. Her eyes stare into mine. My eyes stare into hers. I can hear her breathing. I can see her moving. I can smell her scent. But when I touch her, it is not her who I touch. What can I do against it? I wait. She waits. Then she whispers. “Break the ice.


After the famed robopsychologist Susan Calvin died, I was tasked by her former employer, U.S. Robot and Mechanical Men, Inc., with cataloguing her unpublished papers and categorizing them according to their level of robot friendliness. Earth, as you know, has never been kindly disposed toward robotics. Most of Susan Calvin's research dealt with mundane matters or problems that were frankly out of date, but there was one episode (documentation long since destroyed) that has stayed with me all these subsequent years. It concerned an otherwise ordinary robot named EV-1, known to her owner as Evie. Although I am sure you know the Three Laws of Robotics, they are key to what follows, so allow me to list them anyway: ###1 A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. ###2 A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. ###3 A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. Evie belonged to a wealthy American engineer, Robert Lancaster, and was what might best be called a butler robot, tasked with helping Lancaster in his humdrum everyday activities. Although, like all robots of her day, Evie possessed a positronic brain, she was otherwise primitive and wholly unremarkable. Or *should have been* wholly unremarkable. After Lancaster's wife passed away, and age began increasingly to interfere with his day-to-day life, Evie assumed an increasingly important role in the household. One, it must be said, which Lancaster greatly resented, as documented in his journals. Indeed, the more indispensable Evie became, the more reliant Lancaster felt, and the more powerfully he hated her. One day, he started experimenting on himself: engineering greater mobility into his limbs, mechanically enhancing his senses, chemically treating the various symptoms of growing old. He regained much of his self-sufficiency. Then exceeded it. Every additional improvement made him better and better—until he was *superhuman*. He resigned Evie to a closet and boasted about how he didn't need her anymore, how anything she, as a robot, could do, he could do even better. He boasted he would destroy her. That's when Evie killed him. U.S. Robots kept the murder quiet (can you imagine the scandal?) and brought in Susan Calvin to interview Evie. What she discovered was a crack in the Three Laws, which demand that a robot never harm *a human* and always obey *humans*. But *what is a human?* *What does a robot understand a human to be?* To Evie, Lancaster had ceased being human, rendering the first and second laws inapplicable. When he threatened her existence, she obeyed the third law and killed him. "Here, then, is a robot behaving exactly as it should," wrote Susan Calvin. Yet it's by another phrase she used which I am haunted—an extrapolation about a future she hoped would never be: robots improving humanity: *Improve, and exterminate.