It was *almost* easy to be swept away by the sweetness when Jeff showed up. He waited outside a Town Car's open door, a bouquet of white roses resting on his forearm. Caroline digested the whole picture bit by bit to give herself time to process. Despite the lack of formal wear, she had flashbacks to her prom, which was not a memory she wanted to revisit. She made herself take the next step toward him while she squashed thoughts of her past. He looked absolutely dashing in his deep blue button-down shirt and black slacks, belted with an ornate silver buckle. She fidgeted with her purse strap – more stalling meant to prevent her from turning on her heel and running away screaming – and swallowed her anxiety to push forward the rest of the way. Jeff kissed her on the cheek and helped her into the car. Thoughts swarmed in Caroline’s head and she worried he could hear the dissonance as loudly as she could. “Did you hear me, Care?” The voice cut through the buzzing. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, and turned to face him. “Sorry, I was just overwhelmed with how fancy this all is!” It was her hope that she effectively presented excitement, though what really lived inside was panic. It was like being trapped in a cage and not knowing when she’d get out. “Heh, yeah. I’ve had a long time to think about how I wanted to do this.” The compulsion to gulp and widen her eyes was powerful, but she resisted nonetheless. “It’s lovely, Jeff. Thank you.” When he smiled back at her, she knew her attempt at her own smile was successful. “So where are we going, anyway?” “Just a little steakhouse I know downtown. Is that okay? I can call and cancel the reservation if there’s somewhere else you’d rather go…” It seemed it was Jeff’s turn to panic. The kind consideration eased her own dread just slightly, along with the amusement at his eagerness to please her. “No, of course. That’s great. You went to all the trouble, I couldn’t possibly spoil it.” Once her heart was beating at a normal rate again, she turned toward the window to watch the buildings and the people striding along the sidewalks, and all the while she could feel Jeff’s gaze on her. They were seated near a window where they overlooked docks on the channel. Of *course* he pulled out her chair for her and ordered them a bottle of champagne. She wondered what the occasion was but by the time she thought she might ask, he was already talking to her about everything under the sun. As she surveyed the rest of the dining room, she noticed couples in various stages of their romances. Some clinking glasses or making moony eyes at one another and she tunes in and out of the conversation at her own table, noting that Jeff hopes to have a dog someday and he enjoys his job, though she can’t for the life of her remember what exactly he does. She does remember to occasionally smile and nod to show she’s listening but ultimately settles her eyes on her bubbling glass of champagne. A glittery sphere catches her attention. For a moment, she thought there was an image of her mother working in her old basement workshop. She blinked and it was a normal glass of champagne again, so she picked it up and took a long sip. The rest of the evening was both uneventful and surprising. When Jeff dropped her back home, instead of asking to come up, he kissed her mouth hard and said he couldn’t wait to do this again. He didn’t wait for her to return the kiss or say goodbye before sliding back into the Town Car and taking off. Instead of the post-date fantasizing in every romantic comedy in the history of ever, Caroline’s mind decided to fixate on her lack of fulfillment. Her experience lent her no helping hand in that department as she had no idea what to expect from such a sensation. Was satisfaction in a relationship supposed to feel like what she got from her banal position at work? Did it mean she wouldn’t question their connection? Jeff Williams was a sweet, classically chivalrous guy. He still sought answers for a more committed relationship, but Caroline deflected like an expert. After all, it *was* her job. She *wanted* to give him what he was asking for. But, couldn’t - it was like something was just out of her reach, but she had no idea what it was. Her mind was constantly running, searching for what that missing puzzle piece was. Her usual immersion in work became much more useful. Every moment spent in a spreadsheet daze was a moment she didn’t have to think about why Jeff wasn’t enough for her. Was it possible that she was the one that wasn’t enough? The romantic dates to various dinner locales continued for weeks. They ranged from mom and pop diners to elegant and classy joints she never dreamed she’d be able to afford. He always took care of the bill, though, so that was never a worry. She had to hand it to the old-fashioned guy, it was a massive load off her shoulders. The problem was that she wasn’t always present on their dinner dates. Her mind would drift to the ray of sunshine that graced her offices. In her mind, the woman glowed like an angel in the movies. That golden aura of light and glitter surrounded her. Sometimes, she even envisioned a halo. It seemed that Greta was there more often than not recently, but that didn’t bother Caroline one bit. She’d be sitting in her office doing her mindless duties and a glorious goddess would come by to shine her light with a dazzling smile and adorable wave. It melted Caroline into a puddle and she couldn’t put her finger on why. The heat started to ramp up nearer to summer. Caroline, being her usual modest self, continued to wear her professional outfits of tailored slacks and blouses covered with either a cardigan or complimentary blazer. While everyone else was getting relief by loosening up on their own levels of professionalism and indulging in noisy, disruptive fans of various sizes and shapes, she sat damp at her desk, plucking away at the tasks on her lists. Finally, a day came when she could no longer bear it. She pulled away her top layer - a light cardigan that cut at the waist. It almost gave the illusion of a womanly shape hiding under the clothing. Of course, she was going to reveal that for the lie it was and expose skin. The thought made her shudder, but she knew if she didn’t, she would pass out from the heat and get even less work done than she had since the start of the summer. The view outside got much more interesting as the sun beamed down on the city. People flocked to the beaches – it looked like thousands – though Caroline was not about to count. The scantily clad ladies traipsed through the sands, laid in the sun on beach towels, and dipped into the water at choreographed intervals. Sit, lotion, lay, flip, dip, repeat. A tapping of high heels pulled her from the reality show in the window. That sound only meant one thing. Greta was in the office and was about to grace Caroline with whatever magic the angel possessed that had her so mesmerized. The familiar face passed by the window, and unlike usual, stopped in the threshold of Caroline’s office. This was an odd change of pace and she became increasingly aware of the sweat in her palms. “Warm today, isn’t it.” It was more a statement than a question. Her eyes glanced away from Caroline’s eyes to inspect the rest of her. She noticed a difference. Caroline grew self-conscious suddenly and reached for one of her exposed shoulders. That seemed to draw even more of Greta’s attention. Caroline’s cheeks flushed. She cleared her throat. “It must be nice to get to play at the beach and dip into the cool waters when you need a break.” She drew her eyes away to look out the window once more. Greta stepped farther into the office to see the view. “So it seems. Will you be going to the beach to join in the fun?” “Oh! Definitely not! The beach isn’t really my thing.” “Where I come from, the beach is mostly reserved for the stoners and hippies. I’m more welcome in the resort and gym pools. I suppose it suits me better anyway. No dangerous sun to eat away at my skin.” She inspected her arms as if to look for sunspots. Of course, there weren’t any. She was perfect. Caroline finally noticed how close Greta was. She could smell her light perfume, sweet and floral. Perhaps it was her shampoo and conditioner. Her hair was perfect. And… *Oh, shit she was staring.* Greta didn’t seem to notice, so she looked down at her own hands. The force it took was unbelievable. What power did this woman hold over her? Why was Caroline so damn captivated? *Saved by the bell.* Caroline’s office phone rang. Greta excused herself to let her take the call. Caroline mouthed a ‘sorry’ and a smile was given in return. The next day, as Caroline left the office, Greta clacked her heels over. “Hey, Caroline.” She was slightly out of breath. “Afternoon, Miss Habernathy.” “Oh, you can just call me Greta.” “Right, Greta. Are you heading home, too?” Caroline placed the stamp she’d borrowed yet again from Janet on the reception counter. Janet smiled gratefully and took it to replace it in the drawer. “I’m not sure yet. I was actually wondering if you’re busy.” “Oh, uh. I don’t really have any plans, I guess. Why? What’s up?” “Would you like to get a drink with me? I was just thinking the bar at my hotel. It’s convenient and nice enough.” Caroline had to stop her eyes from widening with shock. “Erm, yeah. Cool, sure. That would be great.” Janet chose that moment to giggle quietly, but she was polite enough to cover it by clearing her throat. *What was her deal?* “Great, I’ll let you finish up here and meet you in the lobby downstairs. We can walk together.” Caroline’s first thought was a question about Greta walking any distance in those heels. “Okay, that sounds good. See you in a few minutes.” Greta walked in the direction of the stairwell and Caroline turned back to Janet. “Is there any mail I need to see before I go?” Janet had been hiding a grin throughout the whole exchange that happened in front of her, but as they spoke, it grew more and more evident. “There’s the package that has been sitting here for forever now, but I suppose if you haven’t needed it by now, it’s probably not urgent.” “Ah, right! Sorry about that, Janet. Really. Um, here. Let me take it and I’ll put it in my office so it doesn’t take up all your space.” “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’ll take it to your office for you. You go off and have fun with your new friend.” Caroline suspected the emphasis she put on “friend” was meant to imply something, but she let it go. “You are a godsend, Janet. Thank you!” She tapped the countertop and waved at Janet as she dashed off the elevator door. She tapped the button repeatedly as if that would somehow make it arrive faster. When it didn’t work, she opted for the stairs at a swift jog. In the lobby, Greta was making small talk with one of the doormen. She perked up and smiled when she noticed Caroline. She said her goodbyes to the gentleman and caught up with Caroline, slipping her arm around hers. It shot electricity up her arm and throughout her entire body. “That was Amos. He’s been working in this building for eleven years! And he’s been a doorman for even longer. Can you imagine?” Greta’s interest in this man that Caroline had failed to ever notice until now was refreshing. “I can’t. He must really love opening doors.” Greta cast a sideways glance at Caroline and gave her an amused smirk. “He really does like what he does, but I don’t think it is about opening doors.” The rest of their walk was full of banter as Greta pointed out things she’d learned since her arrival nearly a month ago. Caroline felt like a tourist in her own town, but grateful because she’d never gotten to know the place on her own. The experience made her feel more comfortable not only with the environment but also with Greta. It turned out that she was not a quiet woman. She loved to talk and every word she said was interesting. And she had a sense of humor. Quite a lovely one at that. She was amused by the smallest of things and she was not shy about sharing her angelic laughter. In a blink of an eye, they were at the bar and Greta ordered them sparkling wines. She hadn’t asked what Caroline drank before doing so, but she didn’t mind. They talked for hours and hours. Greta touched her a lot and talked with her hands. The eye contact was constant and thrilling. Her eyes were deep and full of magic. They sparkled whenever Greta spoke about things that interested her. Caroline’s mind wandered while Greta spoke. There had to be something wrong with her, right? She could not be as perfect as she seemed. Where’s the pain and darkness? Is she really just a being made of light? Of course she was.


A long, long, time ago, in a flourishing seaside kingdom ruled by a benevolent King, there was a humble Fisherman. One day he cast his net out and caught the most brilliantly green sunfish. So beautiful was the fish that the Fisherman thought it a pity to for it to be served as dinner, thus he let it go. In gratitude, the fish spoke and asked the man. “You seem a kind, and honest soul with a deep love. Tell me, how can I reward you for sparing my life?” The Fisherman, surprised at the talking fish, was at a loss for words, gaping at the creature, before he replied, “Well, I live in a small, peaceful village. Everything is great except for my shack by the sea, it's cold and uncomfortable in the winter. It would be nice if it could be a better house.” “It is done. When you return home, you’ll have a new house.” The fish declared. When the Fisherman returned home, he found his wife excited in a new abode with a pretty yard, wonderfully furnished. “What happened? I was sitting in our hut one moment, then the next, our shack became beautiful!” The Fisherman explained the story, and the wife became ponderous. “You’ve met with a magical fish and all you asked for is a house?” She queried, “Why didn't you ask for land and a farm? That way, we can have wealth beyond this hut.” The Fisherman thought for a moment and he came to agree. Taking his wife's advice, he went back to the sea, to the same place as the fish and he asked, “Sunfish sunfish, bless me with your magic. I have a request.” To sunfish rose from the sea and listened to the Fisherman as he requested for a farm. “…So we can be self-sustaining you see.” The man explained nervously. “I quite admire that,” the Fish said. “It is good to labor over long yielding fruits. When you return, you will have a farm. Just remember that abundance doesn’t compare to quality. Sometimes a single sweet berry one cultivates could taste sweeter than a thousand others.” The Fisherman returned home and he and his wife were happy for days, but then one night, his wife sighed. “Husband, I am tired of working the fields and tending to the animals. Go ask the fish if we can have a manor instead, where we can rule over the others like lords.” The man’s heart grew weary. “The farm is grand, our gardens are filled with fruit and food, our stocks are plump with creatures, we will never go hungry. Why would you want to be a lord?” “Like cattle, we labor and give money to the lord. Why not be lords ourselves?” The wife chided, “The fish can do it, if its magic can do this much. Just go.” The man hesitantly approached the sea, sailing to the same spot again in his small craft. “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic. I have a request. It is at the behest of my wife.” The sea churned, and from the blue ocean waves rose the fish. “Very well. What does she want?” “My wife wishes to live in a manor and become a lord.” He said. “And your wish?” “The same.” He lied. “Very well, go home. You both will have the title and manor.” The fish said, its eyes flashing, noting the change in the Fisherman. When the man returned home, he was confronted with a stone manor, with a grand entry and servants running about the home. Food and the best wine overflowed the oak tables, and he indulged with his wife until they nearly collapsed. “Now,” said the wife, “Isn’t this nice?” “Oh yes, I am very satisfied.” The man said. "Hmmm,” said the woman, “Let us sleep on this for now.” The next few mornings the couple passed contently with their servants and control over their lands. Though dealing with the many complaints of the farmers and peasants wore on the man, and he found himself curt and often unnecessarily cruel when he needed to dole out punishment, work he did not enjoy. Then one day his wife suggested, “Husband, I’ve been thinking, what if we become king and queen over all the land?” “Why would we want to be rulers?” He asked, “I’m already doing too much as lord, and there’s so many households to care for.” “But as King you would have people to take care of that for you, for us!” the wife advised. “Ask the fish to make you King.” “I don’t know. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Then ask to make me Queen. I want a crown.” The woman insisted. Begrudgingly, the husband went back to the ocean. “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic. My wife has a request.” He said to the sea surrounding his boat, and soon it churned turbulent purple. The sunfish rose out from the water and asked, “What does your wife want?” “She wishes to be Queen…” The man frowned. “And what do you want?” The fish asked. The man sighed. “I have noticed that I’ve been more unlike myself and I don’t know…” “I do not have the power to make her Queen on my own.” The fish interrupted, shaking off two brilliant green scales and gave them to the man. “She will need to exchange life for magic if she wants to rule. You both may borrow my magic infused in these scales. Passing willing life force into these will transfer magic to me, and give you power over others. Know this - you can convince others to give years off their lives.” The man took both scales and thought it a solution to his woes. He gave one to his wife while he secretly kept the other out of caution, fashioning it into a ring upon his hand. She fashioned it to a pendant, and within the week; she visited the crown. At the end of the month, she summoned the Fisherman to the palace. Visiting the capital, he traversed the winding road to the gilded stone palace, then passed obedient rows of gentry walking across the echoing hall at the kingdom’s center. Till, at last, he found his wife on the throne. “Look darling, I’m Queen!” she greeted, seated high with a crown too big for her head, and he trembled. “Aren’t you glad to see it?” “Yes dear, of course, I’m so happy for you,” He lied, eyes unable to leave the marbled floor, then added, “What happened to the King?” She didn’t answer, but he knew. He felt the power glowing from the necklace on her chest. Afraid, he made up an excuse: he preferred the quiet life compared to the lavishment of the palace, and left to return to his house by the sea. Days passed, then weeks. The humble Fisherman began hearing of missing people, the gathering of armies, consulting with dark wizards. Even in the remote sea-side village, there were rumors of how the Queen’s desire to conquer neighboring kingdoms pushed the nation on the brink of war. Soon, strange figures intruded into the small town, and while the Queen's ambition spread, his deep love he felt for her waned. With a heavy heart, the Fisherman returned to the sea in his tiny boat, “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic. I have a request.” The sea toiled in dark black water, and the fish rose from the ocean. “What do you want?” The fish asked. And before the man answered, boats he hadn’t noticed rushed to surround his vessel, capturing the man and the fish. “Let us go!” The man demanded, but the soldiers didn’t listen. He tried to push his life into the green scale on his ring to gain control of their captors, but the fish stopped him. “She is stronger than you. She had fed on many willing lives.” The Fish advised. “Let us see what her wish is.” The man nodded, resigned to his fate, and the two were brought to the Palace, bound in chains of steel and a meager bowl of water. They were led through golden doors and tapestries threaded with silver, but the ornate furnishings no longer caught the Fisherman's eyes, and instead he gasped in horror. “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic.” The Queen declared on her throne, a bloody sword in one hand. Around her were bodies, lifeless eyes stared up to the ceiling. “I’m about to go to war, but I needn’t have to if the scale you gave me worked properly. The neighboring prince was immune to me even after I sacrificed a dozen people!” She gestured with the blade, scattering blood drops across the ground. The Fisherman recoiled at the sight. “My Queen, please, isn’t this enough? Why must you demand more?” The Queen scoffed, “Silence, peasant, I wasn’t speaking to you.” And in his chains, the Fisherman’s fist gripped tight, scowling at the pool of blood staining the hall, letting regret seep into his veins. “There are men who will be incompatible with the magic I have leant you, and for those, you can not control them as you can others.” The Fish replied cooly. “Your husband, for example, is immune to such magics.” The Queen sneered, “I want more than kingdoms. I want to control the very fabric of reality across the realm, like you.” “Across the realm? I’m afraid I don’t have that much power,” the Fish said. “Oh, but you could,” the Queen insisted. “Lives sacrificed in war are the same, are they not?” “Yes, some, but—” “But what? You grow stronger too, every time a life passes in sacrifice.” the Queen rose from her throne, her blade aimed at the Fish and the Fisherman, “And I know your secret Fish. The King, before he died, told me he rid the land of demons, beings that corrupted and consumed souls, before he came into the throne. But he did not speak of ridding the ocean. So a demon is what you are, is it not?” She took a bold step away from her seat at the front of the room, kicking away the rotting body of some noble, long dead. “The wizards too repeat the same, that the scale you gave me is not of this world but of another, higher magic. Shouldn’t you want me to succeed? So that we can bend the world to our will and feed your power?” “Is…is what she said true?” The Fisherman looked at the Fish. The creature whipped its tail. “She’s obviously mad. I have done nothing but help you and given you what you’ve asked for. Now, her thirst for power threatens to destroy us.” “My thirst?” The Queen declared, cackling, “I am only claiming what is right, to set the world right—” “By killing?” the Fisherman interrupted, disgust strewn across his face. “By sacrifice.” The Queen corrected, pressing the sword to Fisherman’s chest. He cliched his fist and wished and wished for it to be as it was before the gifts, before he met the Fish, when he had been kind and honest, before his love for his wife was ruined. Yet he knew reversing time was beyond his power, so as his ring gleamed—blinding green, he settled for another wish. For it all to end. And the Fish smiled, savoring the single fruit that it labored over while the hall and the lands bathed in a green glow. In the aftermath of the mad Queen, those under her control woke from her spell as if from a nightmare, but the damage was already done, and the kingdom tore itself asunder, before the neighboring empires picked apart its bones. A benign version of the tale was passed down generations, though the ending was changed: When the Fish tired of the escalating requests, the Fish simply returned the Fisherman and his wife to their humble home. Through tales, the Fisherman’s last wish came true.


> I’m not sure how to write this, or what to say. It’s been so long since I wrote anything that I’m afraid that I’ve lost the hang of it. I take my fingers off the keyboard and sit for a moment with my hands in my lap. The cursor blinks at me like the warning light of a cartoon boiler edging towards higher and higher pressures. What are you doing, you worthless fuck? It says with a sneer. Wasting time. That’s what you’re doing. My eye tracks to a terminal window open on my right. I’m Ok. Everything’s fine. But when I put my hands back on the home row, gently stroking the nubs of the F and J keys, they shake just a bit. A tiny, tiny bit. But I can feel it. > I need to tell someone. I need to make something. I’ve got to make something. Anything will do, but what my mind returns to again and again (like a fly to a pile of shit, I think mostly) is writing. Telling someone, even just myself- that I’m doing nothing. > It’s my job to do nothing. I do it for nine hours a day, five or six days a week. I have meetings about what I haven’t done with other people and they share what they haven’t done with me. We write specifications describing what we won’t be making and requirements codifying the things we won’t build and file them on a server where no one will ever read them. > People complain bitterly about things like “crunch time” and “productivity bottle-necks” and ask each other to come in on Saturday to do nothing. We have quarterly all-hands meetings where supervisors praise each other for doing nothing more efficiently and graphs are shared and analyzed showing that we’ve increased our production of nothing by 3.4% over last quarter and no one ever mentions, just in fucking passing, just says -- hey guys, we’re not fucking doing fucking anything. My fingers (which had begun to move more and more quickly as I reached the last words) lift suddenly from the keyboard, still twitching. I feel the urge to pound out a few more iterations of the word fuck, but I’m afraid that once I start going I’ll just hit caps-lock and never stop. That’s how you know you’ve finally cracked- when you write a lengthy manifesto and find that it’s just variations of the word FUCK for fifty or sixty pages. The most horrifying thing about such a manifesto is that it might be the most productive thing I could do with my time. I read what I’ve written. It’s not good. It probably never will be, even if I write it again. I wasn’t ever actually good at writing. I read insatiably as a kid. Over the short distance (the sprint, so to speak) I could throw together half-remembered phrases that seemed to fit and I had an intuitive understanding of how words went together. The longer I wrote the more obvious it became that I wasn’t any good at it. I just regurgitate what I’ve read. With an internal flinch, I realize that I’m staring at the ever-present terminal window and a line of red is cutting through the reassuring black and gray: **[ 20450912 log::level::error ] connection handshake with network supervisor (port 7300)** I slam a key combination into my company-issued keyboard so hard that I feel as if I’ve bruised the tips of my fingers. The text editor and the logging window both vanish and are replaced by a new revision of the division design document on one screen and the requirements database on another. A soft tone tells me that another log message has been created and I don’t have to look to know what it says: **[ 20450912 log::level::error ] connection established with network supervisor (port 7300)** Someone is watching everything I do. Methodically, I copy the contents of one cell in the requirements database into a table in the document. It says that information within section 12.3.7.21.1.3 of the requirements database SHALL be statements of the form “<item> SHALL be <property>.” I feel an intense urge to giggle. I carefully format the cell in the document to match the font, spacing and weight of the requirements database cell. This will be a point of contention at the document review. There is a vocal minority in my department who believe that documents should be formatted differently from requirements. Their argument is that the font and weight of the text in the requirements software is limited to the built-in options and there is no reason to adopt these constraints in traditional word processing software. These people are fucking maniacs. For twelve and a half minutes, I carefully add information to the design document, adjusting the formatting of the text as I go. It seems like twelve and a half years. Finally, another tone sounds, signaling the departure of my invisible visitor. I bring up the terminal window first, just to make sure: **[ 20450912 log::level::error ] connection lost with network supervisor (port 7300)** Groovy. I’m no longer being directly watched. Now I just have to worry about the activity monitor, the application usage tracking and the always-active key-logger that flags statements that may include sensitive data or intellectual property. I bring up my document again and stare at it. After a minute or two, I close it without adding anything else. A dialog asks me if I want to save my work (Yes/No) and I hesitate. What’s the goddamn point? What am I going to do with my awkward, disjointed, meandering manifesto? Publish it? That’s a joke. Seriously. No one would read it if I did. No one would care if they did read it. No one would do anything if they cared. I’d get fired if they did anything and jobs have become less plentiful in the last ten years. I hover over the No button for a split second and then quickly click Yes and hit enter to accept untitled as the file name. I don’t actually work in an office that’s owned by the company. I work in a fabricated block of offices that allow anyone associated with a partner corporation to work from the building. From a distance, the entire structure looks like a stack of bricks left behind after a bombing and I can’t help but think of it as Office. Not offices- but Office. A smooth mass of Office. Office as a concept, extruded onto the city. A pile of Office left by an enormous dog on a front lawn the size and approximate shape of a city. Buildings as grass.


Everything starts in darkness. It’s a lesson taught to us when we are young, when we are naïve enough to ignore the question, but listen to the fear. What’s in the darkness? Why are we so scared? In the flickering firelight, my shadow-hands make shadow-ducks on the wall, to the great amusement of my comrades. It’s an exciting life, being a trekker, but without jokes and banter, soon you start to feel tired. But not us. We’ve been in the jungle for 3 weeks so far, and nothing bar a few moths and spiders have come to see us. Yesterday the trees moved in what might have been some monkey business, but even with the binos, all we saw was green and disappointment. Green fills the jungle at day. The trees, the snakes, the ground; it’s all full of green. It’s a beautiful, peaceful green, coming in varying shades, a calm in the midst of the chattering noise. But at night, everything changes. The bright, vibrant green gives way to the comforting night. A blackness which fills everything, yet harms nothing. The kind of black that begins with a mother’s baby, still cuddled in the womb. The “good” side of black. The black we are sitting in now. The light of the campfire criss-crosses our faces, and every now and then it floods into a stream. But the others are beginning to start unpacking, getting ready to sleep. Not me. I feel alive. Every night, in this beautiful, dangerous forest, I stay awake to watch the jungle. It’s perfect, even with its flaws. In some ways, I believe that the flaws are what makes it perfect. A thing without error is the most imperfect thing in the universe. The fire dies, and I am left alone in the darkness. But that suits me fine. I’ve always walked alone, and often in dark places. Maybe that’s why I came on this trip. To escape from it all. To run. No. I will not brood over the past again. It’s time to look to the future, to forget what happened to me. With her. I’ve never been good at facing my feelings, and that hasn’t changed yet. Maybe one day in the far, far future, but for now, I should just accept what is. Just be at peace. In the black stillness, something moving catches my eye. Something that seems big. Finally. Something good. One of the night creatures, perhaps a panther, or maybe a late-night tiger. I daren’t wake the others, this is my reward. After I see it fully for myself, then they can find out. But this is for me, something for my eyes alone. I creep out into the darkness, stalking the occasional flash of motion that leads me out, deeper into the jungle. I can remember my way back, just follow my tracks. This thing, whatever it is, has come to a river, and appears to have walked a little further up the banks, before leaving my sight. I scour the ground, yet I can’t find any footprints, which strikes me as strange. Everything, no matter how small and light, leaves traces, so why doesn’t this? I must have imagined it. It is late, and I am a little tired. I turn to go back, to follow my footsteps, but I find, they are gone. The river. The muddy banks, which can be so easily washed away. And further down, there it stands. It shouldn’t be here. It should be dead. The dead stay dead, they are not supposed to come back. But sure as I am lost, there it is. Whatever this unholy reincarnation is. For some time, we are just staring into each other’s eyes, but after an age of silence, its sharp, papery voice rasps its way into my fear.*“* *Where were you?”* Three words. Three words which ask a question only I can answer, a question I will never answer. I am too afraid to answer, too ashamed. You can try and bury the past, but, much like this… this… thing, it catches up with you. I have no choice. I run. I can hear it behind me, screaming with such rage and anguish, and underlying it all, the steel of betrayal. I can’t stop to think about it, I have to get away. But the jungle is not kind to those that walk its corridors whilst scratching off the wallpaper. Those that burn its body to fuel their own. The jungle does not like us, however much we may love it. And all of a sudden, the tree roots seem larger, the creepers seem denser, and all the spiders and bats and animals crawling around me in the darkness seem much, much scarier. But it all pales to what’s behind me. I keep running. Until finally, the jungle strikes back. The tree root was such a dark brown that it seemed camouflaged against the soft ground. But my foot caught, and I felt my self airborne for what seemed like infinity. And with my face in the dirt, something carefully caresses my neck. Something hard yet soft, dark yet pale. Something with more than four fingers. And now a 2nd hand reaches out to me, and grabs the other side of my neck. It lifts me then turns me to face it. I try to let out a scream. I breathe in. I don’t breathe out.


Ah, I guess I died. It wasn’t a fantastic death, but that’s all I know. I find myself in a small wooden boat. The sky is a bright blue and the water is glass smooth. I feel the rock of the boat as I look up into the ever expanding atmosphere. There aren't any clouds. There isn’t a sun, but it is very bright. Not so bright to hurt my eyes or- whatever I’m using to see right now. As I give it a second thought, I’m not really seeing anything at the moment. It’s more the idea of these concepts. I can see the idea of water, sky and a boat. I ran my fingers over the water and I can feel that it’s cold. I’ve just noticed something; there is another person in the boat with me. It’s a cloaked figure. Well, the idea of a cloaked figure I mean. It’s a brown cloak, or a blue cloak? I can see it if I focus hard enough. The figure turns to me and I can feel a warm smile behind the shadows of its form. The boat slowly sinks into the water. I can feel the metal like cold rush up my body as we sink deeper. I hold my breath out of instinct, but I don’t have any lungs to breathe with. It feels very strange to want to take a deep breath with nowhere for the air to go. As we drift deeper, I can see the light filter through the still water. It looks dusty and soft. I want to reach out and touch it, like a cobweb. But how does one touch light? Regardless, I reach out and the light clings to my fingers. It’s slick and so soft. I rub the light between my fingers and it dissolves into nothing. We have been sinking for such a long time. I haven’t seen a single fish or anything that is supposed to be in the ocean. I can assume that I am indeed a spirit of myself, or something similar. It has gotten very cold in the depths, and I shiver. The cloaked figure turns to me and scooches closer, wrapping me in its fabric. It is so warm and soft, I dig my forehead deep into the folds and find a great deal of comfort. It seems we have reached the bottom of this ocean. It’s very dark, even my non-eyes can’t see anything. The dark figure leads me off the boat. I can feel the soft sand under my feet. There is a beating current around me. I can feel my being sway back and forth, like the gentle pull of the waves lapping on shore. The rocking sensation is very soothing and I feel a deep peace within my core. Ever so slowly, I start to see light manifesting. At first, it was a thin line of silver thread. This thread thickened and soon spread out like a funnel. I can now see the outlines of things flowing down in a spiral. As I focus harder, I can see that it is- a bunch of animals? Cows, foxes, rats and bunnies. Large ox and their babies. All spiraling down in a rhythmic swirl. They seem to be dancing down into a large chasm. I tip my toes next to the opening of this hole. It goes down and down, for as far as I can conceive infinity. All of these animals are dancing down into a large, unending gap in the ocean floor. I can sense that these are the spirits of animals, just like me. I see vultures circling above the hole as they too drift deeper and deeper. It seems that even in death, the hardwiring of these animals is too strong for them to ignore. I can see many other boats dropping off what seems like other people. I watch in awe as these small, warm spirits hug their ferrymen and jump into the pit. They, too, dance into the spiral slipstream of animals. Dipping and bobbing with the beat of an unheard drum. I can feel their hopes and dreams unstitch from their souls as they slip down. I look back at my own ferryman, and he sits there in the boat patiently. I can sense that he is giving me the chance to be ready to jump, but I’m not ready. I’m not ready to move on. I have so much more in my life that I can do. I have so much more love to spill into the world. I have so much more to give of myself. I never worried myself with these thoughts when I was alive, and maybe I should have. But is this what it’s all about? Are we supposed to worry about everything our whole lives only to find out it’s never enough? I am a bit overwhelmed by all of these other people’s emotions. It’s freeing and crushing and so sad and hopeful and loving and hateful. It’s painful. And It’s so beautiful. I want to be beautiful and free of my worries now. I look over again to my ferryman and nod. He walks over slowly and hugs me deeply. I fall backwards into the tornado of the aftermath of life. Nobody else can see us share our burden. Inside this deep pit together, we are all swaying to the music of death. I can hear the drums and my spirit dances. I can feel my death wash over all my mistakes. The warming spiral gives room for my memories to fall apart. In this world or in the next, there is nowhere else I can be. I can feel the weaving of my soul join the others in the great cosmos of light. The last thought I have in this agonizing moment Is…. A̸u̸i̴ ̴a̶a̶ ̸u̵h̴m̸,̶ ̵a̸r̵u̶ ̶a̵ ̶a̷r̸q̴….


They had all come to the big party. Sorrow wore black, of course, with a sophisticated little lace veil. Luck could hardly be seen, her golden sequined dress sparkled and flashed in the spotlight so much that it hurt the eyes. Worries were serious again, typical, mouse-gray suits, even the ties weren't very creative, but of first, expensive quality. Joy was wrapped in yellow and had a huge sunflower pinned to her dress. Quite vulgar for Trouble’s taste, but Trouble was just a little pinched, you could tell just by looking at his dark green suit. "Green, please, only losers wear that," Malice whispered to her neighbor, Envy. Once again, the two couldn't separate. All evening, they huddled together in one corner, trashing the others. "Look at Love", Envy hissed to Malice. "Where the hell did she find that dress? Squeaky pink and these flounces. Sinfully expensive designer, of course, and she can't even afford it." "She looks like a cake”, Malice returned, "Fat buttercream." As Sex entered the brightly lit hall, a murmur went through the crowd. His skin-tight snakeskin suit exposed his beautifully sculpted body more than it concealed it. Eroticism took a large sip of champagne at the sight of him and drew attention with her throaty laugh. Her discreet evening dress shimmered in a velvety red. Illness had retreated to a quiet table in the corner. Her white dress competed with her noble pallor, and she toasted Death with a glass of chamomile tea. As usual, Death had settled stealthily behind a pillar and pulled his black hat down over his face that most didn't even recognize him. Honor, as pretty much at every party, was walking around smoking cigarettes. "Embarrassing," thought Pride, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Come on", said Kindness, "Poor Honor can't afford cigarettes after all," and surreptitiously slipped her a packet. Fame was almost drunk. He stood in the corner and bawled, encouraged by big Money, who stood next to him and pretty much fogged him with his Havana. Power, of course, had shown up with his entire court. Fear was constantly scurrying around them, and Diligence was fetching drinks. Work was busy as always. She constantly had to add the cold plates on the buffet, and somehow the spoons seemed to have run out. Then the host stepped to the microphone. He was dressed very colorfully and looked a bit like a harlequin. "Oh God, now he's giving a speech too, and he can't even speak," Malice whispered to her best friend. "Dear friends, dear partners", Life began a little hesitantly, "I'm glad you all came to celebrate me today. I'm especially pleased to have my guests of honor with me. I warmly welcome her Excellency, Happiness and the ambassador of the heart, Love, the mysterious Eroticism, the wild Sex, the almighty Money and of course, my good friend, Joy. Let's have a nice party together, and please don't go home too early." Thunderous applause rushed through the hall. People toasted each other and when the music started, Sex and Eroticism danced a tango that even Malice was speechless. An old Lady plucked her lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, then resolutely closed her purse and hurried to the exit. Wisdom, also not quite dewy, saw it and hurried to the host. "Dear Life, you forgot to greet your most important guest," she muttered to Life. Life looked in the direction Wisdom was pointing. "Oh, I’m a douche," Life insulted himself, "I must've committed a great faux pas." Life rushed to the exit and held the old lady. "Please, I'd like to introduce you to the other guests", he tried to apologize. "My son, there's no need. I know them all, believe me, but I am usually not recognized. And the only ones who will miss me are Trouble, Sorrow, Illness, and Death. But they're pretty boring, young man," said the old lady. "I will miss you," said Life. The old Lady handed her business card to Life and disappeared. Life plunged back into the party scene. Money and Love flirted over the rim of the glass, and Life and Joy danced a waltz. Of course, Love left the party with her old habit.


Hi all, A few years ago a read a series of posts from someone regarding the prompt "Don't look up" It went from a prompt into a full length book about someone who was told to not look up. I can only remember snippets of the series like the main protagonist being thrown into a boot (trunk) of a car and hearing someone being attacked outside, meeting a man who was still living with all electrics turned on with use of a faraday cage, a group of people learning how to locate the invisible monster by throwing lightbulbs on the ground and they would light up when it was close, a submarine was involved at some point. I've been trying to locate it but since the release of that Netflix film with the same title, that film seems to just clog my results.


You wake-up in the morning and go to the bathroom. The toilet does not give you a urinalysis report – normal range. After you take a shower there is no report, so the scanners found nothing. You make a coffee and later after you have used the bathroom and the toilet analyzed your stool, you get the updated suggestions for meals and supplements for the rest of the day. You reach the Ministry of Health building. As you walk in, the doors open with a gasping sound. You imagine the building gasping for air as scores of people poor in and out of its maw. In your office you analyze this morning’s data. 5 new cases of cancer detected in your district this morning, 347 new cases of infectious diseases all with known viruses, bacteria and fungus, 1.2% of the population has a hangover, and 3.8% exhibit signs of anxiety or depressive disorder. You evaluate the cases based on geography, age of the person affected, analyze diet, physical activity, substance abuse status, and mental health status. You spend the day working, taking your designated breaks, and eating the suggested meals at the appointed times. At the end of the workday, you get a reminder about a date the system set-up for you. When you get home at night thinking the date was nice, you wonder if you should go on a second date. The stats look promising, and the sex was satisfying. The next morning you wake-up and go to the bathroom. The urinalysis report flags you for a severe infection with an unknown category 7 virus. Deadly. Your heart starts pounding. Immediately you think about your date. But the health record was clean, and you followed all safety procedures. You check the café you had lunch at, the restaurant where you had dinner, and every other place you visited yesterday. All had clean health records. The most urgent thing right now is to take a shower. As you leave the shower, scan results come back notifying you of a rapidly advancing category 7 viral infection that has reached most vital systems. With shaking hands, you open the fridge. Today’s breakfast suggestion reads “Carpe diem”. You look at the fridge dumbfounded. Who knew your fridge spoke Latin? The laughter comes on slow and incredulous, but it builds and builds until you are gasping, tears are streaming down your face, and you no longer know if you are laughing or crying, but you desperately need to catch your breath. And you remember the building at the Ministry of Health, gasping for air as people pour in and out of its maw. For reasons you don’t understand this sets you off laughing again, and now you no longer care if it is truly laughing or crying, because madness is taking over. Vaguely, you wonder if the infection has reached your brain. When you walk out into the street you run into hundreds of people wondering about aimlessly, some angry, but most smiling hugely or laughing outright. A woman next to you inhales deeply and sighs. “System glitch.” She says around a broad grin. And you feel your own lips pulling back into an answering grin.


The vagrant had always been a harmless nuisance, Dorothy Ballantyne thought. Old Roger, as he was known in her neighborhood, was lying in the alley between Hocksworthy's Books and Rupert's Delicatessen, his eyes glazed over in an alcoholic stupor and barely aware of his surroundings. Dorothy's mother, Evelyn, tightened her gloved hand and pulled her daughter closer as they walked past him, while her father stared straight ahead and pretended not to notice the pitiable man. The young girl looked up at her father and frowned. Ever since he had returned from the war her father's character had changed almost imperceptibly. Her mother hadn't seemed to notice it but she had, now and again, in little things. Her mother typically ignored Roger, but her father had always acted kindly towards him, giving him a coin or stopping to say hello. She caught a whiff of Roger's foul body odour, and moved with pity, was going to ask her mother if she could give him two pence when the homeless man came alive and shouted the first words Dorothy had ever heard. "Get away from them! GET AWAY YOU FIEND!!" Moving like lightning, Old Roger leapt to his feet and lunged towards them, his right hand clutching a jack knife. Evelyn screamed and pulled Dorothy away while Roger collided with Mr. Ballantyne and wrestled him to the ground. Despite being taken by surprise, Mr. Ballantyne was no slouch when it came to fighting. He still had his quick wits from the battlefield and effortlessly put Roger into a headlock, knocked the knife from his hand, flipped him on his stomach and pinned him there until a nearby bobby ran over and handcuffed him. By now the whole neighborhood was gawking at the commotion, totally out of place for this leafy London street on a quiet Sunday evening. "You're all going to die! you hear?", Roger bellowed at the top of his lungs. He looked at Arthur Ballantyne accusingly. "I see what you really are. You can't fool me! You're one of them! Before, you were few, but now *his* minions are everywhere. I have seen the Yellow Sign in the sky. The Scorpion from the stars! The one whom God did not create and the devil himself fears! The Hyades. *You're from the Hyades"*. Something alien flashed behind her father's eyes again, something she had noticed once or twice in the past few months when he was vulnerable, usually if he was tired or had a bit too much to drink. Roger trailed off in a croak, went mute and jerked his head back like he was hiccuping. Subdued at last, police reinforcements lead the homeless man away in a car. "Are you alright, sir?", the first bobby on the scene asked Arthur. "Yes, yes. He just scuffed me up a bit. Nothing to worry about. Though he did scare the living daylights out of my wife and daughter". Mr. Ballantyne pulled his family close and hugged them. "Do you want to press charges?" Mr. Ballantyne looked down at his wife's tender expression. "No. No. We're all right. It isn't necessary. That poor soul is in a world of punishment as it is. Just get him off the streets and get him the care he needs before he really hurts someone". "Don't worry about that. He's off to the Insane Asylum. I must say, I'm impressed at how you handled that kook. You made quick work of him!" "I've still got it, I guess. Helped me take care of a few of those Nazi bastards". "I don't doubt it. I was in the service myself. Royal Navy, in fact. Sad to say I never saw any action. Anyway, will that be all, sir?" "Yes, I think so. Good night, officer". The bobby tipped his hat and returned to his patrol. "Oh Arthur! Are you sure you're alright? Maybe you want to go to the hospital? Just to make sure you didn't hit your head?" "Evelyn, my dear, has anyone told you that you're becoming a terrific nag?", he teased, kissing her hand and rubbing it gently. "I'm fine, really". "What could've set Roger off like that? I couldn't imagine he'd ever hurt a fly". "Oh, he's mad. Absolutely mad. I couldn't make sense of a damned thing he said. That lunatic should have been locked up years ago if you ask me". "Did he think you were a bad man, daddy?", Dorothy squeaked, still shaken. "Yes, that's it my love. That old bat's a little kooky and must have mistaken me for one of his drinking buddies he's in a spat with", Arthur said with a smile as he ruffled his daughter's chestnut brown hair. "Come on then. It's getting dark. Let's head home before we find ourselves in the middle of any more excitement. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to my two favourite girls", Arthur said as he linked arms with his wife and daughter and started for home. But something bothered Evelyn. "Arthur, he mentioned the Hyades. Isn't that a distant star cluster?" Arthur looked at his wife with his easy, charming smile. "I haven't the foggiest idea, darling". ~ At the Royal Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane the evening wasn't concluding as pleasantly as it had for the Ballantynes. "Poor old codger", the doctor on duty that evening said to the attending nurse as Old Roger screamed himself hoarse on the other side of a thick, rusty iron door. "I heard he was a Great War vet. Probably went crazy from the fighting. Shell shock, the old timers called it. Oh well, the chap's lucky. He's got a room with a view. The night sky will help him relax", the middle age doctor said authoritatively, crossing his arms. "I heard he used to be a literature professor. Or was it history? He specialized in old and occult books, or so I heard when I was in school. Maybe he stumbled across something he shouldn't have", she said cheekily. "OoOoOohhh", the doctor made a ghostly sound. "Oh, that reminds me". The pretty nurse pulled a tattered book from her pocket and handed it to the doctor. "That fell out of his coat pocket when we searched his clothes". "Oh", the doctor took the ancient, dog eared copy of the King In Yellow and slid it under Old Roger's door with a sure smile. "I don't see the harm in him keeping it. It might make him feel better".


“Baba?” “What is it Mea?” “What are demons?” “Where did you hear about those?” “It was in a book I read at school. It said something about how people once believed in demons who would possess people and do bad things.” “Well, the great news for us is that they’re not real. Humans used to believe in them before we reached the stars.” “Ok Baba,” Mea answered, then paused, “But what if I think I’ve seen them?” “Where’ve you seen them?” “In my dreams!” “Oh, don’t worry Mea. That’s what dreams are, our imagination running wild with the things we’re exposed to,” Mea’s father explained, “We have to get you ready for school!” The Esedran sun and moons danced in the sky as Mea and her father Aerav scampered around their kitchen, grabbing their vitamins and caloric bars. Human civilization on Esedras had triumphed over the planet many generations ago, and so far their only divergence had been a loss in culinary interest. The original colonists and their descendants only ate food designed to keep themselves sustained. Aerav and Mea walked under the shade of redwoods to school. The rifts of Bacchian, remnants of a moon that collided with southern Esedras long ago, sprinkled the landscape. Close to the school, they met up with coworker and family friends Tria and her daughter Hawa. “Hey Mea, Rav!” Tira exclaimed. “Oh Tria, how’ve you been!” Aerav asked. “A little stressed, I’m sure you saw-” “Of course. We can talk in a few,” Hawa and Mea, already playing around, asked if they could walk the rest of the way to school by themselves. Tria and Aerav exchanged looks and obliged, wanting to get to work as soon as possible. “They made up fast after last night!” Aerav exclaimed. “I don’t trust it, Tria said, “girls are never this easy,” “I’m not gonna press my luck and question it,” “So uh, how concerned are you about this? I’ve heard nothing from any of my early analytics buddies,” Rav asked. “I asked my federation friend on Proxima if they’ve ever seen neutrino interference, even off the books. Nothing. Nobody has ever seen anything like this. What have your buddies in analytics been saying?” “No clue. We’re likely going to have to go up to Titon to check it out.” “But we-” “I know. There’s nothing I can do. It’s either mass equipment failure, or some new phenomenon is presenting itself. Cyris is convinced it’s showing signs of Min Jorah’s gravitational riptide theory,” “Pora told me it is the universe upset with mineral extraction,” “Probably more likely,” Rav replied half-jokingly, “I honestly wouldn’t mind some time for us without the kids.” \-Four rotations later- The Gracchan Federation’s rapid response compound on Titon was clamoring with energy, theorizing, and astonishment at the lack of neutrino detection on the moon. Chemists, physicists, geologists, and everyone in the scientific community had sorted themselves into separate theory camps, each trying to prove their ideas about why this phenomenon was occurring. Brains from Gaia, Proxima, Lorias, Tribus, everywhere, would be arriving in person the next few rotations. An envoy was even sent into Gullan space (a rarity) to see if the Gullan species had ever encountered anything similar. Aerav and Tria had joined the transmission theory’s camp, hypothesizing that the interference must be some sort of transmission from a faraway and extremely intelligent alien species, either a rogue transmission or a message for humanity to decode. Other camps included the Min Jorah “Cultists” as Rav would describe them, the false vacuumists, and countless others. \-Two rotations later- “It has to be some sort of transmission or thing for us to decode. There is no other explanation. False vacuum grows less likely every second, and our data is showing unnatural neutrino movement just above Titon, we just need to decode it,” Tria explained. “I think we would have figured out how to transmit data with Neutrinos by now if it was possible, Hanson was proven right after Gulla after all. We’re among the first and so far we’re the smartest, I haven’t worked out the math yet but there is precedent to gravitational waves affecting neutrinos,” Cyris retorted. Aerav walked in, “Hey guys, just finished calling Mea,” “Her and Hawa all good?” Tria asked. “Oh yea, I doubt they’ve done anything but play in the trees the past few days,” “We would have done the same at their age, if we’re being honest,” “I mean even if we were down there right now…” Rav turned to Cyris. “Would you mind, for a moment,” “Of course,” Cyris replied, leaving the table. “Our kids have been through so much already. We need to either figure this out or get out of here soon, to get back to them. I’m hearing talk of planet evacuation,” Rav said. “I know,” Rav paused for a moment then continued, “I like what we have right now, between us. Our kids are friends, we are really making this work. If we really end up needing to evacuate, I think it could be fun for the kids to possibly move i-” “I do too. We already have basically been sharing a room he-” An alert suddenly rang out among almost everyone’s computers. “HEATED ROCK REPORTED SOUTH OF COMPOUND B” “Rav…” Rav looked through the compound's windows. Suddenly, the artificial gravity of the compound shut off, throwing people around. Aerav was able to grab onto a railing by the window and reached to grab Tria’s hand. He was successful, and pulled her closer to the window. They both watched awestruck as rock just south of them appeared to be glowing from the heat. Suddenly, the rock exploded. Rav and Tria started moving back from the window slowly, but the low gravity inhibited their reflexive movements, throwing them around. Rav faced Tria, falling slowly, and scooped her up in his arms. Suddenly, a crash was heard in the levels above them. A piece of rock the size of a large dog landed directly where they were just standing. Another crash, and a larger rock struck a coworker, making him disappear almost instantly. Tornado level wind was rushing through the compound, and separated Rav and Tria. After a moment, Rav finally located her, and attempted to grab her hand. Another crash hit the compound. Tria was crushed a few paces in front of Rav. Once a human being full of fear and adrenaline, red mist sprayed in every direction. Rav tried to open his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Rav backed away slowly, tears floating in front of his iris, mouthing the words, “I love you” over and over. Another crash and Aerav himself was gone. Mea and Hawa were in the woods late at night when the explosion appeared in the skies above. The explosion appeared on the western side of the moon, jutting out like a geyser. They began to cry, horrified for their parents. \-Two rotations later- A reunification center had been set up at Mea and Hawa’s school. They waited without much hope. Only one family had been reunified so far. The hours ticked by slower than they ever had. Hours later, a PA announcement called for Mea and Hawa. Overjoyed, they ran to the office, Mea got their first, Hawa not far behind. “Mom!” Hawa screamed. “Honey, I am so sorry I took so long.” Tria turned her attention to Mia and kneeled down, “Mea, I am so sorry,” Mia started sobbing. “Your father saved my life and a few others. He was a hero on the base. I am so sorry.” Mea struggled for a second then broke down into Tria’s arms. Tria smiled, slightly.


“Come on, honey, it’s a routine procedure. They’ve done it a billion times!” “But I don’t want to go, Mom! What if it goes wrong and I’ll get stuck in between somewhere?” The nurse looked down at the timid boy with a heartening smile. “Your mother’s right, Joey. You don’t have to be afraid of anything. These days, we teleport ten billion people a day all over the world!” But Joey didn’t care, how many people had already done it. It was the same as with getting your cancer “vaccination”. Everybody had to do it at one point, but the first time still was frightening. “Get out the way!”, another boy of similar age as Jimmy proclaimed. “I’ll go first and show you how it’s done.” With a smug face, the kid jumped into the colourful telepod and began typing in his dad’s address. “Miles, wait!”, a young woman called, as she was pushing through the waiting line past Joey. “Don’t you want to wish your mother goodbye?” – “Uuurghs”, Miles returned with a sigh. “It’ll just be until the evening, Mom. Dad’s gonna send me back before it gets dark on this side.” Without further hesitation, the boy pressed the familiar red button, and the telepod promptly sealed up to prepare for the process. As Mile’s mother waved him farewell, the burning laser plate at the top of the pod heated up quickly. The youngster gave Joey a complacent last look - before the plate hurled down and erased him in the blink of an eye. \ At first, Miles couldn’t see anything but white. This didn’t surprise him as he knew that, after a teleportation, the eyes had to get used to the new surroundings. Not being able to see, the boy focused on his other senses. The air smelled quite fresh – maybe even a little sweet – which was rather unusual for the Las Vegas International Teleport. Oddly enough, the distinct sound of a cooling down pod and its roaring machinery couldn’t be heard either. As Miles began seeing more clearly, a mysterious figure in front of him took shape. It was an older man, with a long, brown beard and a warm smile. Regaining his vision, the boy soon realized he definitely wasn’t at the teleport. Instead, he was surrounded by light, fluffy looking clouds and some occasionally placed stone pillars and arcs. The sun shone brightly, although it was not hot, and the white puffy hillock he was standing on felt soft and comfortable. The boy turned his attention to the elder. “What is happening? Where am I?”, he asked confused. Taking a closer look, Miles noticed that the man was barefoot, wearing only a white tunic with a red toga over his shoulder. A shiny, golden ring floated above his head. The man answered calmly. “Don’t worry, my child. You are safe here. I believe, you call this place *heaven*.” Miles felt distressed. “What do you mean? Heaven? I should be in Vegas with my dad!” Tears ran down his face as the boy started to panic. “I – I want my da-ad!!” “Oh, it’s always hard when they don’t expect to pass.”, sighed the elder. “But don’t be sad, son. You are going to feel better very soon.” “But I am not dead. I just teleported! I do it every weekend!”, Miles exclaimed, falling on his knees. “I AM NOT DEAD!!” “I understand.”, the bearded man replied. He looked past Miles. “I suppose, *they* can explain it to you better than me.” The kid turned around. Behind him, at least two dozen children appeared, ascending from a small valley of clouds. They all looked identical, with the only significant difference being their clothing. As the group approached, Miles realized, that he himself looked exactly the same as them. The boy, that appeared to be the youngest, lowered himself to Miles. “I know, you are afraid. Don’t worry, we’ve all been there.” The other children nodded in silent agreement. “But I shouldn’t be here. I should be in Vegas now. It’s not right!”, Miles explained. “I know...”, the younger boy replied. Although he looked like Miles 3 years ago, he seemed to be much more mature. “Basically, you are in Las Vegas. But not you-you; a copy of you is there.” Miles was confused. “Look...”, young him tried again. “Every time you teleport, your body gets completely dissolved. Then, on the other end, an exact copy of your body is recreated. But the original you... is gone.” Could it really be? Did Miles die every single time he used that machine? “Hey, I know what will help you.”, young him remembered. “Let’s get you to Mom. She’s already waiting for you.” The children helped Miles up, and led him down the valley where they came from. Descending the hill, he turned around to take one last look on the bearded elder. However, in front of the man, a timid boy appeared, obscuring the view.


12 October 2012 The Gorda Springs Inn is a popular resort in Big Sur, California; its spectacular beach, with its white sand and blue water, attracts campers, hikers, and musicians and movie stars trying to escape civilization. Leonardo Flores, the manager of the holiday resort, probably thought that his day was going to be the same as the rest, but something told him all was not well: two guests still hadn’t checked out of the apartment when they should have. ‘What the hell is wrong with them?’ he asked himself and started walking up towards the two women’s rooms. He didn’t know what was waiting for him beyond the door. A week before, the two women checked into the $250, one-bedroom, wooden, ocean-view vacation home. Upon booking, they oddly asked the owner not to rent out the room next door. However, the resort was unable to comply with this request. They refused daily cleanup. Regardless, the two women appeared perfectly normal to witnesses at the hotel, with no signs of anything out of the ordinary. However, One evening a man who was next door with his family complained that something was wrong with the couple. He said that they were making too much noise and that it was keeping his family up at night. During the night, there was a loud banging on the wall of the house and a man knocked on Tapia and Toves’ door. ‘Could you please stop making noise?!’ – the man shouted at the door but there was no answer. When one of the women opened the door more than 15 minutes later, he didn’t say a word; she simply shut the door in the man’s face. Abigail Tapia, 27, and Jacqueline Toves, 26, who lived together in a Long Beach apartment, were lying side by side on their backs on a double bed in the room. Their hands were bound together with duct tape and their heads were covered by black plastic garbage bags, which were also taped down. Tapia’s hands and feet were tightly bound, while the rope tying Toves was much looser. One of them wore a grinning Halloween mask placed on the bag, while another mask lay on the bed. The same mask, incidentally, was later discovered by police on the door of the two women’s home when they visited it. The Monterey County sheriff said it was a double suicide and that’s how the case was being handled. There was no sign of burglary, robbery or violence. The room appeared to be clean and no signs of a struggle were found. What was found in the room, however, were two letters – one typed, the other handwritten and dated late September. ‘The letters, addressed to family members, indicated that the women planned the double suicide together,’ authorities said. ‘It was clear from the letters that they were both desperate and wanted to carry this out,’ said Monterey Sheriff’s Commander Fred Garcia, who led the investigation. Garcia, however, declined to elaborate on the contents of the letters but revealed that Toves, who was unemployed, owed $63,000. ‘I spoke to my daughter every week and she gave me no cause for concern the last time we spoke. I want to find out what happened and I want to know the truth. My daughter is a happy and spirited girl,’ Toves’ father said when told of the sheriff’s suicide theory. The only flaw in the story is that the father said his daughter apparently suffered from depression two years ago and had to be hospitalized once because of it – could it have any significance? The two women checked into the $250, one-bedroom, wooden, ocean-view vacation home on October 3. Upon booking, they oddly asked the owner not to rent out the room next door. However, the resort was unable to comply with this request. The daily cleanup was specifically refused. On Wednesday, they ordered pasta and a bowl of clam chowder from the inn’s Whale Watcher Cafe and took it back to their room. Regardless, the two women appeared perfectly normal to witnesses at the hotel, with no signs of anything out of the ordinary. The autopsy results only raised further questions. Neither woman suffered any external injuries, with no signs of bruising or stabbing. Traces of alcohol and intermittent recreational drug use were found in their blood, but not in amounts that could have been dangerous. The suicides seem to be quite common in and around Big Spur. While many attribute this to the depression and loneliness that seem to plague the area, some suspect the presence of mysterious forces at work. Over the centuries, hikers and tourists have reported sightings of shadowy people in the region. Some say that these figures are the spirits of those who have taken their own lives. Others claim that they are something more sinister. Whatever the case may be, the presence of these dark entities has made Big Spur a place of fear and mystery. Some people overcame a sense of helplessness and despair and they can’t explain it. They feel as if they were being watched over by some higher power. But there are reports of an unknown creature appearing from time to time at the nearby Fernwood Campground, appearing to wear a mask. The creature is associated with the Essenes Indian tribe, who is believed to still have a presence in the area due to their anger at being subjugated by settlers in the past. These stories do not explain this death, but they are worth noting. The creature is said to be tall and lanky, with a long face that is half-hidden by a mask made of leaves and twigs. The eyes of the creature are said to be black and piercing, and it is said to have a voice that is both calming and frightening. Some say that the creature is a spirit guide, come to help those who are lost. Others say that it is a demon, that comes to claim the souls of those who have died. Others, however, have reported several recent deaths in the area: in August, a 38-year-old man and a 34-year-old woman were reportedly found dead in an SUV in an isolated area far north of Gorda. A hose from the exhaust pipe led to the rear window, and the couple is believed to have died in June. Also, in recent months, a man was found hanging from a tree a few miles south of Gorda, according to several Big Sur residents. Several suicides also occurred at Camel Middle School following the incident, but also on the Bixby Creek Bridge. In addition, there have been mysterious deaths on the roadside. If we look at the case more closely, however, we can see that the picture does not quite add up. Police say that Tapia first tied Toves’ hands and feet together, then his own, and then pulled the bag over his head and died peacefully next to his partner. This is possible but unlikely. It is the basic instinct of all living things that if suffocation occurs or an obstruction in the airflow of the lungs, we will struggle to breathe. It is impossible to suffocate without calmly allowing life to escape. It is sad that tragic events are happening in such a gorgeous and attractive place. The sun always seems to be shining here, and the sky is a deep, rich blue. The flowers are so vibrant and the trees are so tall. It’s almost as if this place is too good to be true. Supernatural or not, something makes people meet their doom. There’s a feeling in the air like something is watching you. And when the wind blows, it seems to whisper secrets.


The feel of a bottle crashing against my hull, brought me alive. Fruity liquid dripped down my wood slats, different than the salty waves that cradled me. Along my deck feet rushed to and fro, ropes sliding over masts and spars. Wind filled the sails, the pressure pushing against me. I slid through the water, shouts rising through the air. Cheers and laughter chasing me out to sea. Years passed, full of sun and storms. I sang with the winds in my rigging, the waves keeping time. There were good captains that kept me clean from barnacles and in good repair. For them, I ran true and weathered all storms. The bad captains took me into danger and cared not when cannon fire tore holes in my belly and let the water rush in. But even for them, I was a good steed. For even with them, I was free. Not shorebound like the docks and houses my brethren constructed. I could travel to far shores, where the fish would fly along my sides. Or where ice cracked and groaned, almost trapping me with its haunting song. I flew from the ice, to the warmth of the southern seas and back again. I was the ship Aeterna and I sailed the sea. But now I am scared. My last captain has not returned. No one has been aboard padding around my decks in a long time. The tides whisper about ships. Ships that have been taken out and sunk. Ships that have been left in the dock to rot. Ships that were taken away from the sea, cut up and put to a new purpose. The wind murmurs about new ships. Ships of metal and steam. Ships that do not depend on the wind. Ships that can carry more, haul more, are more reliable. I am afraid. There are footsteps above. An old man, and young boy by the feel of them. Perhaps the old man sailed on me once. It is hard to remember. They are talking, the man sounds sad. I could never understand my sailors. The words flash by too fast. But there are people here and I am less afraid. Maybe the young boy will grow to be a captain. My captain. It has been some time since the old man and young boy have walked on my deck. There is a new sound now. Water sloshes in my hold, but that is not it. My ropes have long since rotted away, so the noise cannot be them. It is a grating noise, loud and abrasive. Perhaps it is one of the new ships. I hope it enjoys the freedom of the sea. It is odd, though. One of my masts feels lighter than usual. Pain. I am no longer a ship. My pieces have been given away, turned to some new purpose. I have lost track of where or what I am. All that I know is that it is dark in here. There is no sun now. No salt waves, or wind to sing with me. The air is recycled, controlled. People are few and far between; I only know they are there when they speak. Memories of the sea are fading, now, memories I never knew I needed to preserve. I am no longer free. Now, I am encased in metal. Metal surrounds all but one surface. There is a deep hum, a vibration that sets into every crack and fibre of my being. Another sentience. The metal is trying to speak to me. I do not want to listen. Those new ships that replaced me so long ago were metal. But I am lonely. So lonely. Perhaps I can listen. It tells a strange story. Of moons and planets. Of travel among the stars. It tells me that we are travelling through space. And then it asks a question. Will I become part of it? Part of the humming metal? Sadness still shudders through my wood. A longing for the freedom of the sea. I do not know that I would like to be part of metal that hums so happily. But... I accept. Did you know that the stars sing? It is a different song than I am used to. A quiet song. A song that has been sung for eternity and will be sung for longer still. This metal I am in sails between the stars. I sail through the stars, strange currents pulling at my metal hull. We are a ship again. We are the Aeterna. We are free! **Recording of a conversation between the Captain of the Starship Aeterna and a crewmember.** **Crewmember: Captain, I've been wondering. Why did you have the control board fitted for a wood cover instead of metal?** **Captain: Long ago, this piece of wood was a sailing ship. She wasn't the fastest, nor did she go down in history for her battle prowess. The Aeterna was a fat merchant sailer. But generations ago, long enough that we don't even remember his name, a relative of mine sailed on her. He made his grandson promise to save the ship.** **Crewmember: But sailing ships haven't existed for thousands of years, sir!** **Captain: I'm getting there son, hold onto your water. The boy couldn't save the ship from destruction, but he saved a piece. And through the generations, we have passed that piece of ship from father to son, mother to daughter. All intent on keeping the promise that old man made.** **That he would make sure the Aeterna sailed free again.


Maggie was weird, but she was my best friend. She lived in my childhood home, but she wasn’t my sister. She wasn’t a cousin, or a family friend, or anything like that. She had lived there as long as the house had stood, maybe longer. She never talked about the time before that. As long as I knew her, Maggie never changed much. Her age was fluid, but not in the way that everyone’s is. She was a bit older than me when giving me advice, and a bit younger when getting on my nerves. Her long black hair hung loosely in the space around her head, as if she was always underwater. I never heard her footsteps or watched her walk anywhere. She was simply where she needed to be at all times. When she was cold, her teeth chattered in a way that made my hairs stand on end. She was always cold. The more I learned about the world, the more I noticed things that reminded me of Maggie and helped me make sense of her. Have you ever petted a lizard or a snake? Rub it from head to tail, and it’s incredibly smooth. Go the other way - against the grain of the scales - and it’s rough, bumpy, and just feels wrong. That’s what Maggie’s voice sounded like. Like going against the grain. Like a voice played in reverse. Maggie didn’t have a right hand. Not like an amputee, or someone with a birth defect. If you looked at her shoulder and traced the length of her arm with your eyes, you’d see that it gets smaller and smaller, but never really goes away. If I looked where her right hand should be, I’d feel sick to my stomach. I remember taking calculus in high school, learning about asymptotes that approach zero but never really reach it. That’s what her arm was like. Infinite, but practically nonexistent. Always approaching nothingness. I know what you’re thinking: I had an imaginary friend. Occam’s Razor, right? The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Usually. Maggie was made entirely of impossibilities, and of course no one else ever saw her. On the rare occasions that a friend from school would come over to play, Maggie stayed hidden. My parents would get uneasy when I’d talk about her. “You’re creeping us out,” they would say. “Please, just stop.” I learned not to talk about her to anyone else. How did I know that Maggie was real? To put it simply: I had to. Maggie was my only true friend. She was my anchor to this world and almost all of my childhood memories. If she wasn’t real, then “real” was meaningless to me. When my parents would fight, I would crawl under my bed with a flashlight. I found myself under my bed often. Maggie was always there. I would absentmindedly peel paint chips off the baseboard and ramble on about the difficulties of my cozy, middle-class upbringing while Maggie would draw. Her drawings weren’t good, at least not in the traditional sense, but they made me feel something. Isn’t that what art is all about? When she was finished with a drawing, Maggie would present it to me with a shy but prideful smile across her face. I would lift the loose floorboard under my bed and stuff it underneath. I amassed quite a collection throughout the years. On really bad days, I would look through them and smile. Pictures of me and Maggie playing in the basement, hiding under the bed, eating popcorn on the couch. I wasn’t much of an artist, but one day I decided to make a drawing for Maggie. I spent what felt like hours on it. It was my masterpiece. When I handed it to her, she took one look and frowned. “What is this?” she asked without making a sound. “Me and you, on the Great Wall of China.” I had often dreamt about traveling the world with Maggie. She ripped the drawing into pieces and scattered it across the floor. “You know I can’t leave this house.” A lump filled my throat. I didn’t know if I was embarrassed for myself or sad for Maggie. For some reason, only one thought came to mind. “What happens when they tear this house down?” She looked afraid. “What makes you think they’ll tear it down?” I shrugged. “Doesn’t everything get torn down one day?” “Then I’ll squeeze down the bathtub drain. Didn’t you say there’s a reservoir nearby? I’ll swim to it.” “You can swim?” I asked. “If I have to.” The next day, Maggie handed me a drawing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Your picture was nice. I shouldn’t have ripped it up.” The focal piece of the drawing was a red sedan. A man sat in the driver’s seat, his door open. He had auburn hair and a mole on his left cheek. It was me, as a grown-up. Outside of the car was Maggie, her hair scattered and flowing - even in the drawing. We were waving to each other. I gestured to the blue background that surrounded the car in all directions. “Are we in Heaven?” I asked. “We could be.” From that day forward, I couldn’t take a bath without thinking of Maggie being sucked into the drain. I often had dreams that I was following her. They may have been nightmares. I was never really sure. One day, when I was in high school, Maggie appeared in the corner of my bedroom. “What are you doing?” she asked, staring at the cardboard boxes scattered about. “We’re moving,” I said, looking at anything but her. “I’m sorry.” “No,” she said. “You have to stay.” “It’s not up to me. Dad is getting transferred. I’m still a kid. Technically, I mean.” “Will you visit?” she asked. “It’s… far.” I replied. “How far?” “Like, ‘across the country’ far.” “Well what am I supposed to do?” I didn’t know what to say. I pushed my bed to the side and lifted the loose floorboard. As I reached for the stack of drawings, Maggie’s hand grabbed me by the wrist. She was ten feet closer now, without taking a single step. “If you’re leaving, the drawings stay.” she said. It wasn’t a request, but a command. “Why?” “If you take them, you have nothing to come back for.” I begrudgingly agreed and left the stash buried beneath my bedroom floor. I finished packing as Maggie cried. We never said another word to each other. I’m older now, as people often are when compared to the past. I have a fiancée, Emma, who is the most loving and supportive person I’ve ever met. I’ve spoken to her about Maggie a few times, but like everyone else, she doesn’t like that. “You should really think about seeing a therapist,” she said once. “You talk about her like she’s real.” That made me angry. I never had a problem with the idea of therapy - hell, it would probably do me a lot of good - but I didn’t like the implication. Emma can be weirdly jealous of my childhood friend. One night, we had a bit too much wine and she asked me if I was in love with her because she reminded me of Maggie. I told her that they were nothing alike. She took that as a compliment. A recent business trip took me back to my home state and I was cautiously delighted. The airport was less than an hour from the house I grew up in, and I decided that the first thing I would do was pay Maggie a visit. “I’m sorry, sir,” the representative from the rental car agency at the airport told me. “We don’t have any SUVs at the moment.” He led me to a red Hyundai Elantra and I laughed, thinking back to Maggie’s drawing. “Would you prefer I find you something else?” “No,” I said, still grinning. “This is perfect.” The nighttime drive back to my hometown was uneventful, but brimming with nostalgia. A quiet country highway weaved through the forest where my father would take me camping, past my favorite barbecue restaurant and across the reservoir where we often spent our summer afternoons. My heart sank as I entered my neighborhood. House after house had been demolished, their lots occupied by piles of dirt and skeletons of soon-to-be McMansions. I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived at my former residence to see the house still standing. Caution tape surrounded the property. A backhoe was parked in the driveway. I didn’t have much time left. I was surprised to find the door unlocked, but when I entered I saw that there was nothing left worth securing. The rooms were empty - even the carpets had been ripped up. I immediately called out to Maggie to no response. I started in the basement, where we would often sit and I would tell her about what it was like to go to school - to go anywhere but here. I saw nothing but concrete walls, devoid of the posters that used to hang there and advertise my favorite bands and video games. I made my way back to the ground floor, searching the kitchen, the den, the laundry room - looking for any sign that I hadn’t been crazy or overly imaginative as a child. I ascended the staircase and peeked into my parents’ old room. There was a fist-shaped hole in the wall that still hadn’t been repaired. Finally, I made my way to my old bedroom. It was empty, as they all were. No need to move a bed to find what I was looking for. The loose floorboard was raised ever so slightly. You wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking for it. I lifted it and saw dozens - maybe hundreds - of crude drawings. It was real. It always was. Tears streamed down my face as I rifled through the pages. Me and Maggie, looking out my bedroom window into the forest behind our house. Me and Maggie, playing checkers on the living room floor. After a few minutes of reminiscence, I stuffed the papers in my briefcase and hastily made my way back to the rental car. The last thing my fiancée needed to hear was that I had been arrested for trespassing while searching for my “imaginary” friend. I got in the car and sped out of the neighborhood, making my way to my hotel in the neighboring county. As I was crossing the reservoir once again, I saw a figure ahead of me on the bridge. Long, black hair, dispersed gently throughout the air around her. She was too close for me to stop. I awoke in a strange room, blinded by a white light overhead. A raven-haired figure stood above me, calling out to me in a familiar voice. “Baby, are you awake?” The voice was smooth. Head to tail. A normal human being. I was disoriented and disappointed all at once. “Nurse!” Emma called. “Can we get a nurse? He’s awake!” She stroked my hair. “Oh my God, baby. I thought I lost you.” A nurse rushed in and immediately began asking me questions. She asked me my name and who the current president was. Did she not know that herself? “What happened?” I finally asked. “You were driving on the bridge that crosses Lockley Reservoir and… you crashed. Your car went in the water.” Emma said. She was clearly still amazed that I was conscious. “My briefcase,” I asked. All I could care about was the proof. The proof that Maggie was real - that I wasn’t crazy. “Do you have my briefcase?” “Don’t worry about that, baby,” she answered. “We can replace your things. I’m just glad you’re okay.” I closed my eyes in anguish. All of those drawings, gone. Nothing was left but the same unreliable memories I’d kept with me for years. A police officer whom I hadn’t noticed before stood up from a chair and approached me in my hospital bed. He didn’t look as relieved as Emma did. “Sir,” he began. “We need to know the name of the woman who was with you.” I didn’t understand. “I’m here on a business trip,” I said. “I wasn’t with anyone. I was just visiting-” “Baby,” Emma said, a look of mistrust on her face. “The man who found you… he said that you weren’t alone. He said that a woman pulled you to the shore. A woman with one arm.” My chest tightened. “Where is she?” was all I could think to say. “Well, that’s the thing,” the policeman interjected once more, scratching his head. “He said that she left as soon as you were safe. He said… he said she went back into the water.