Three months. That’s how long they say it takes to know someone, to fall in love with someone. Personally, I think that’s nonsense. I think you can know someone in an hour – but they have to be the right person. It took me less than three months to know Serendipity. After one night, I felt I knew her better than I knew myself, and that scared me more than I cared to admit. How can you fall for someone so deeply that their every word is carved into your brain like initials in wood, how can you feel so intensely that the colours of the world seem brighter than ever – in a single night? I regret going to that bar, I think. It was a Saturday afternoon and I felt horrible, because I’d just found out that my backpacking would be cut short – that I’d have to leave Italy in three days to return to my regularly scheduled life and the monotony that accompanied it in an inseparable duet. The reason was simple – I’d run out of money far sooner than I’d calculated, on account of the fact I enjoyed a lavish lifestyle I hadn’t predicted. It could have been prevented, of course, and god do I wish it had. I sat in that bar over the cheapest beer I could afford, having offended the waiter with my abhorrent Italian – because lazy and arrogant as I was, back then, I hadn’t bothered to learn properly – and I simply took in the atmosphere, the open air, the water, the cliffs and the beach, so stunningly unreachable from up there. I was about to order my second drink when I saw her, leaning against the wooden bar alone, impatiently waiting for the bartender to leave his conversation with another sorry patron and notice her. She was stunning, was Serendipity, and I was not blind. She was tall, with legs that reached to the end of the world, brown skin, and perfectly curled dark hair tumbling to her waist. Her eyes were dark and cloaked by long lashes, touched only slightly by the magic of makeup. And her cheekbones were sharp – shaped so perfectly that any model would be jealous. She wore white that night, a dress that clung to her like a scorned lover, the back plunging almost to her hips and the neckline only a little shallower. When she turned her head, glancing around for another bartender, I smiled at her, shrugging as if to say, “Well, what can you do?”. I was not a handsome man, but I wouldn’t say that I was ugly – however it stuns me to this day that the beautiful woman at the bar came up to me and asked me my name. I told her it was Alexander, but only when I was in trouble, so she could call me Alex. “And you are…?” I said after her giggle, sitting up a little straighter on the rusted metal stool. “Serendipity,” she replied, and her voice was red and gold and silver and chocolate – and I realised then that you can fall in love with a voice, even before you love its owner. “That’s unusual. What does it mean?” “It means a happy accident – something you weren’t searching for, but that you found in a lucky coincidence.” And perhaps it was fate, that Serendipity was in fact my serendipity – my beautiful lucky coincidence. We spoke for hours that night – walking through that small Italian town in the cool heat of an autumn evening. It was that night, in that small town, where I realised that all they tell you about love is true. The sounds of the town create a heavenly chorus, the people seem to have stars in their eyes, and the colours of the world are brighter and deeper than what I thought was possible. She spent the night with me in my too-expensive hotel room, and we fell asleep to the sounds of music from the street below echoing up the six stories between earth and my new heaven. It was beautiful. *She* was beautiful. My Serendipity, my lucky coincidence. But nothing lasts forever. I woke up alone, the sheets folded over, the bedding cold, and the widow closed. The world was dull again – the sun shone over the greys and blues of the hotel room, once again an earthly realm that much closer to the ground. It was as if Serendipity was never there at all. I remember the dismay that crashed over me – the fear and panic that maybe it was all a dream, and maybe I’d never met a beautiful girl in an open-air bar, but then I saw it, on the bedside table. A note. I scrambled to the other side of the bed, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline rushing through me. Her handwriting was neat cursive, flowing over the page like water. It was a simple note, but my heart leapt nonetheless. *To lucky coincidences, and nights to remember.* \- *S* And carved into the wood of the dressing table just out of sight from anywhere in the room save that side of the bed, was our initials. *S+A* I never forgot Serendipity. I treasured her note, and the memories of the night we spent together more than I treasured anything in the world. When I lay down to sleep, my dreams were filled with her anecdotes and the colours and sounds of the night. When I woke in the mornings, I saw her face. Perhaps it was more infatuation than love, but those memories were what sustained me through the years. They kept me going, she kept me going, even when I felt alone and despairing. And years later, against my better judgement, I went back to that small town in Italy, with a full wallet and a hopeful heart. I knew, yes, I knew that she wouldn’t be there, but I looked anyway. I stood in that bar and looked around wildly, as though I was chasing after her. She wasn’t there. I’d expected it, but the disappointment was immense and all-consuming, and I nearly cried. Once again, I sat at the bar drinking the cheapest beer – for memory’s sake – and dwelt in my sorrows. Until I saw it. Carved into the wood, among the many scratches and water stains that spoke of many years of use, was a name in perfect, flowing script. *Serendipity.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion As writers, our internet search histories can be quite interesting (to say the least) and it’s a running joke that if any government agencies got a hold of them they would have some serious questions for us. This week, I thought it would be fun for everyone to answer the following questions about their **search history as a writer**. I’m looking forward to all of your answers. * What search would these “government agencies” have the most questions about? * What is the most ridiculous thing in your search history as a writer? * Have you ever fallen down any rabbit holes while researching? * Which topic have you enjoyed researching the most? ***Please keep all answers within the rules of the subreddit*** *** * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? * You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


Madeline froze. Her muscles tensed as she scanned the room for the speaker. "Sorry," she said, voice croaky from lack of use. "I didn't realise someone was here." A scuffling sound drew her attention, head whipping around to land on a figure in the corner, half-hidden by the darkness. She took a slow, deliberate step towards them. Then another. When they made no sudden movements in response, she edged further into the shadows. As she approached, she began to realise how small they must be – too small. "I s-said you shouldn't be here!" And that voice. The quivering uncertainty. The high pitch. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the figure in front of her resolved into a child no older than twelve or thirteen – dirty clothes hanging off his small body and wild eyes staring out of a gaunt face. Her heart wrenched at the thought of what those eyes must have seen. A small, long-buried part of her yearned to reach out and fold the boy into a hug, whisper to him that everything would be alright, that she was here now, that she would help. But she’d learnt to fear more than just the Poiloogs over the last few years. Maintaining a wary distance, she crouched down to his level, holding up her hands with palms open. "It's alright, I won't hurt you." "I wouldn't let you." "Good.” She couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s confidence. “It's good to be able to look after yourself. Are you here all alone?" The boy frowned, fixing Madeline with a calculating look before giving a slow, deliberate nod. "How long have you been here?" "A while." "And you’ve been alone all that time?" He turned away sharply. Madeline followed his gaze, muscles coiling ready for someone to spring from the shadows. But there was nobody there. A sniffle drew her attention back to the boy, and she realised there had never been anything to look at. Just a child trying to hide his vulnerability in an impossibly tough world. Again she felt the urge to reach out and comfort him. But then what? Take him with her? Look after him? Surviving was hard enough on her own, let alone with someone else to care for. A small pit of self-loathing flared open in her stomach. But it was easily ignored, buried deep with other emotions that weren’t necessary anymore. She’d had plenty of practice – after all, you didn’t survive this long by being sentimental. “Well, I can see that these supplies have already been claimed. I’ll be on my way. Sorry to have–” Cold terror flooded her body as the hum of an approaching ship cut through the stillness. The boy looked up, tear-stained eyes wide in terror. “I told you. I told you you shouldn’t be here.” Ignoring his rambling, she dove into the darkness, but the sudden movement was too much for him. He leapt away from her, crashing into a stack of shelves, causing them to topple over. When the clattering finally stopped, so did the humming. Madeline cursed silently as a hydraulic hiss broke the silence, only to be replaced by a scuttling sound that grew ever louder. "Hey, you," she whispered to the whimpering boy. "It's all going to be okay, okay?" He nodded quickly, pleading eyes locked onto hers. "I need you to take this," she said, thrusting the book into his arms, "and read it aloud to me, to stop them getting into my head. Can you do that?" His small hands closed around the cover, fumbling to open it. “Yeah, I think so.” Free of the weight of the book, Madeline felt oddly naked. She resisted the urge to snatch it back and swung her pack off, placing it on the floor. “Read,” she urged, turning to face the door. “And don’t stop no matter what.” The first word had just left his lips when the Poiloog came crashing through the door. Madeline charged toward it, knocking it to the ground with a well-placed shoulder to the abdomen. The collision with its stiff exoskeleton jolted the joint in its socket, sending tingles of pain shooting down her arm. Her momentum carried her through as she gritted her teeth against the pain, and she landed with a thud on the other side of its sprawling body. Then it was a race to see who could right themselves first. By the time she scrambled to her feet, all eight of the Poiloog's legs were back underneath it and scuttling towards her. Its eyes bulged, antennae pulsing, and a strange buzzing pressure encroached on her mind, enveloping her senses. Her body felt as if it was drifting away from her, heavy limbs floating where she’d left them. Catching herself, she tried to focus on the words coming from the boy. "...with very little to distress or vex her." She regained control of her body and senses just in time to slip the grab of the Poiloog’s claw. It reached towards her again with a jagged pincer which she ducked under, moving her head down and sideways in a smooth arc while keeping her eyes on the kludge of a creature. "She was the youngest..." The violence of the moment juxtaposed with the sweet story brought her a strange amusement. She was starting to get a grip on the rhythm of the fight now. Dodge here. Slide there. Focus on the words. Change the angle. Keep out of reach. Focus on the words. "...of two daughters..." Her breathing was becoming ragged, and she knew she couldn't keep this up much longer without making a mistake. She needed to go on the attack – to finish this. All she needed was an opening. "...of a most affectionate...." The Poiloog made another swipe at her, overreaching slightly. Madeline rolled under its clawed hand and she swept a leg round, her shin connecting sharply with two of the creature's eight knees. "...and indulgent father." It collapsed forward and Madeline leapt to her feet, snatching the book off of the boy to swing round into the Poiloog's head with a satisfying *crunch*. She brought the book down again and again until the body stopped twitching. Panting, she stared down at the deep purple fluid oozing from the pulp where the Poiloog’s head had been. As the adrenaline started to seep away, pain reared its ugly head. Pain in her shoulder. Pain in her shin. Pain in her palm. It was then that she noticed the splash of scarlet amidst the purple. Tucking the dishevelled book under her arm, she reached down to retrieve the sock that had been wrapped around her hand, wringing as much of the goop off of it as she could before stuffing it in her pocket. She flexed her injured hand a few times. When she was satisfied it wasn’t about to start dripping blood again, she grabbed her pack off the floor and headed for the door. A sniff stopped her in her tracks and she turned back to where the boy stood. "We've got to leave now. More will come looking for this one." "I can't," he cried. "I’m meant to stay here. It's dangerous out there. It’s dangerous with you. It’s danger–" "I'm sorry but I don't have time for this. Yes, it's dangerous out there, but soon it's going to be even more dangerous *in here*. I’m leaving with or without you. Now." Not waiting for a response, Madeline started towards the door. She paused when she reached it, inspecting the street. The Poiloog’s craft sat outside, looking strangely mundane now it no longer hovered in the air – almost like an oversized jet ski. Apart from that, everything seemed clear, for now at least. She slipped through the opening and set off down the street. She moved faster than her usual pace, fear overtaking caution as she clung to the edge of the buildings, head swivelling constantly. A few seconds later she heard hurried footsteps behind her. Glancing over her shoulder she could see the boy trying to catch up. He was jogging down the road, a loud *slap* ringing out each time his foot struck the ground. A jolt of panic ran through Madeline with every *slap slap slap* of his feet, setting her whole body trembling. She looked around, noticing an alleyway to her left. If she sprinted down there and round a corner she could lose him – lose the attention he would draw if he carried on like this. But he’d only left because of her. Gritting her teeth she stopped in her tracks, turning around and waiting for the boy to catch up. Once within reach, she grabbed him. He struggled against her grip but his strength was no match for hers, her hand easily encompassing his skinny arm. Pulling him closer, she fixed him with a glare. When she was sure she had his full attention, she hissed, “You’re going to get us both killed if you keep making that much noise. Follow me, stick to the edge of the street, and please, for the love of God, try to move quietly.” “Sorr–” “Now come on.” Madeline set off again, keeping a tight grip on her new companion’s arm.


**Year: 1929** I was coming inside my home after a long day’s work at the port office, when I heard something from inside my kitchen. I quickly reached into my purse and drew my FN Model 1910 semi automatic pistol. And then, out of nowhere, this creature that looked and smelled like an undead human came stumbling towards me. I fired at its torso, but my shots appeared to be doing nothing. The strange man-like creature kept coming towards me, and it looked hungry. But then, right as I thought I was going to die, someone or something dropped down from my ceiling, and landed on top of the walking corpse. It pulled the corpse’s head off its shoulders, and then threw it against the wall. Then, it started smelling the air. “Who are you?” I asked, but it didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shoot it or not; it just saved my life, but I had no idea what it was or what it wanted. I turned on a light, and what I saw shocked me. It looked kind of like a man, but its skin was pale as snow, and it had almost dog-like fangs protruding from its mouth. It turned to face me as it continued sniffing the air, and once I got a look at his face, I recognized him. “Charles.” I said. Moments later, Charles transformed into a bat and flew out of my window. I watched it leave, and it flew onto the arm of someone else I knew; Reverend Hayes. The bat landed on Revered Hayes’s arm, and together, the Reverend started walking away. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The most surprising part of the whole incident wasn't that a vampire was in my house; it was that I recognized him. My younger brother Charles went blind and deaf as an infant due to a bad fever. Once he was like, two years old, my parents decided that he was too much work, and sent him to be taken care of by nuns at a children's asylum, and we never saw him again. Five years later, we found out he had died in a fire. That was all fifteen years ago, and I had long come to terms with my brother's passing. I never forgave my parents for giving up on him, but I had accepted what happened. Until that night. \_\_\_\_\_ The next day, I went to the church. The door was closed, but I started banging on the doors. "Welcome." Reverend Hayes said as he opened the door. I could tell he was coming even before he spoke; his cologne was as strong as ever. We often joked that we could smell him from all the way around the block. "Susan, it's so good to see you here again, I don't think you've attended service since…" "Where's Charles?" I asked. "I'm sorry?" "My brother, Charles." I said. "I know he was in my house last night, and I know you carried him off." For just a moment, just a very brief moment, there was a look of surprise on his face. But he quickly went back to normal. "I'm sorry Susan, but you must be mistaken. Your brother died in a fire years ago. I officiated his funeral myself." "You're lying!" I said. "You know where he is and what he's become, I know it." "I'm sorry, but I truly don't. If you'd like to discuss your grief, I'm happy to walk you through some Biblical passages on dealing with loss. But otherwise, I'm afraid I have a sermon to prepare." \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I knew he was lying to me, so that night, I snuck into the church. I broke in my prying open the backdoor. Then, I made my way to the top. “WHO’S THERE?” Reverend Hayes screamed, but I didn’t let him stop me, I kept pressing on. I could hear Revered Hayes coming down the stairs, along with someone else. I looked up to see that he was escorting my brother. My brother sniffed the air, and then came running towards me. He stopped when the Reverend tapped the floor three times. “Charles!” I said as I shed a tear. I went to give him a hug, but Reverend Hayes motioned for me to stop. “He doesn’t recognize you.” He said. Then, he held Charles’s hand and appeared to rub his fingers across his palm. “This is how we communicate.” Reverend Hayes explained. “It’s called tactile sign language. I’m telling him that you’re his sister.” “What’s he doing here?” I asked. “And how’d he end up like this?” “I might as well put on a pot of tea.” Reverend Hayes said. “This is going to take a while.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ “There was no fire at the asylum.” He said. “My organization made that up to cover what really happened. The truth is that on that night, a vampire broke in and committed a massacre; killed eight children and drank their blood before we stopped it. Only one of its victims survived; Charles, your younger brother.” “He’s still deafblind, but when the vampire virus took over his system, his other senses sharpened greatly. His sense of smell makes a bloodhound’s look weak by comparison; we know because we’ve tested him against bloodhounds, and he won every time.” “We didn’t make him work for us. We gave him the chance to simply be transferred to one of our safe houses, a place where he’d have fit in nicely. But he chose to become one of us, and aid us in our mission.” “I’m sorry, ‘us?’” I asked. “Who’s ‘us?’” “A secret organization known as the Protectors of Humanity.” He said. “Ever since the Middle Ages, we’ve been working behind the scenes, protecting the world from the paranormal. We’ve stopped everything from vampires like Dracula and Carmilla, to mad scientists like Dr. Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll, and The Invisible Man.” “But, those are all fictional?” I asked. Reverend Hayes laughed. “Not as fictional as you might believe. Those authors borrowed a lot more from our adventures than you’d like to believe.” “Anyway, this church has been a front for the Savannah branch of the Protectors of Humanity for over a hundred years. Most people don’t realize it, but under the surface, this city is crawling with supernatural threats, including a recent series of zombie attacks. You know, like the one you almost died in last night.” “We don’t know who is responsible for these attacks, or what their motive is. Our only advantage is his sense of smell; if there’s a single zombie in all of Savannah, he can track it down.” And then, we heard the whistle of his tea kettle. "Tea's ready." He said. "You take anything with it? Sugar? Honey? Milk?" \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ We continued talking until Charles started sniffing the air and pounding his feet on the ground. "Something's wrong!" Reverend Hayes exclaimed. "There must be a zombie." “What are we going to do?” I asked. “I’m sorry, we?” Reverend Hayes asked. “Charles and I are going to resolve this.” He explained as he reached into a cabinet to grab a sawed off shotgun and two knives. “You are going home.” He continued. I stood up and said “No. I haven’t seen my brother in fifteen years, and I’m not leaving him now.” Charles was getting more agitated, so the minister quickly realized that he didn’t have time to argue with me. “Fine, you can tag along.” He said. “But you will not engage with any zombies we find. You will stay back and allow Charles & me to handle them. Understood?” “Yes, understood.” “Good, now get your shoes on.” Charles transformed into a bat and held onto the Reverend’s arm. Together, the three of us walked in the direction he was pointing with his wings. Ultimately, we knew we were close when we heard a woman scream. The Reverend tapped Charles's wing, which made Charles take flight and fly in the direction of the scream. “STAY HERE! Reverend Hayes ordered me, and I remained on the sidewalk while he followed Charles towards the house that contained a zombie. While I was waiting for them, I felt something on my leg. I looked down to see a python crawling onto me. Before I could even start fighting it, it had wrapped itself around me and had started to squeeze. Moments later, a carriage pulled up beside me. “Good evening, ma’am.” A man said from inside. “No worries, Emmauel will not kill you. Only make you, how you say, fall asleep.” He then picked me up and loaded me into the back of his carriage. “HEY, STOP!” Revered Hayes shouted as he started firing at the carriage, but it was too little too late. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I woke up with my legs chained tightly to a chair. To my surprise my arms were free, and I was in front of a table with a full set of silverware, and even a glass of wine. It was a small room; just a dining room table, two chairs, and a window; a window whose blinds were all the way down, preventing me from seeing anything outside. My kidnapper was sitting on the opposite end of the table. “I hope you’re hungry.” He said. “My chef should be ready with the fried catfish in just a few minutes.” “Who are you?” I asked. “Heavens, where are my manners?” The sharply dressed stranger said. “I’ve gone by many names over the past century. I currently go by Papa Brown.” “Papa?” I asked. “Bit of an unusual suffix.” “Not for a voodoo priest.” He said. Moments later, a zombie emerged from another room, carrying a tray with two plates of food. “Excellent.” He said as he started eating. “Go on, eat.” I had no intention of eating my catfish. The smell of his chef alone spoiled any appetite I may have had; but even if he smelled right, I was certainly not going to eat anything prepared by a corpse. “You might as well have some.” Papa Brown said after taking a sip of wine. “It might be your last meal.” Hearing him say that made my heart sink. “What do you mean?” “I mean, after I have no use for you, I’ll probably just feed you to my horde.” The stranger said. “Only reason I kidnapped you is because I want information on the vampire who keeps foiling my plots, and the man who always accompanies him.” “I don’t know anything.” I said. “I just happened to run into them in the street, thought I’d watch them.” “Really?” He asked. “So it’s just a coincidence that a day after one of my zombies almost kills you, you’re at the scene of my next random attack.” “Yes.” I said. “I know it’s unbelievable, but strange things happen.” “I think that’s nonsense.” He said. He then stepped aside to take the blinds out of a window. Even in the dim light, I could see a whole horde of zombies, at least twenty of them or so. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Papa Bown asked. “And these are just my personal guard. I have more stashed in other places outside of the city.” “That must be why Charles hasn’t found him.” I said to myself. Reverend Hayes said he can only smell zombies within the city; he said nothing about the surrounding areas. “I’ve spent years planning to takeover Savannah.” He continued. “The attacks, like the one that almost killed you, are simply my trial runs. Soon, I will have this whole city under my control.” “And right now, the only thing standing in the way of that is a vampire and an old man.” Just then, I felt a snake slither up my leg and wrap itself around my torso. “Emmanuel doesn’t have to make this quick.” Papa Brown said. “He can make this last as long as he has to. Believe me ma’am, we are literally squeezin’ everything we need out of you, and no matter how long it takes.” I was so scared that for a brief moment, I was almost tempted to tell him what he wanted to know. But then, moments before I might have caved and given him the information he wanted, there was a loud crashing sound coming from the ceiling. “Emmanuel, come.” he said as his skeletal serpent slithered back to him. He turned on a lightswitch, and I saw my brother fall to the floor. “The vampire appears to have found us.” Papa Brown said. “No matter, he should be no match for my horde.” He was wrong. Two zombies stumbled towards Charles; Charles started sniffing the air, and once he had a clear sense of where the zombies were, he struck. He raised his hand and slapped a zombie’s head right off its shoulders. The other zombie tried to grab onto him, but Charles kicked it away. Moments later, Reverend Hayse barged in with a Thompson submachine gun. The moment he ran in, he started opening fire on the zombies, hitting their heads with surprising accuracy. He ran up to Charles, and used their tactical sign language to say something to him. I obviously couldn’t tell what it was, but it appeared to be something along the lines of “I’ll finish off the zombies, save Susan,” because after sniffing the air one more time, Charles started running in my direction. He burst through the window, landing on the ground in front of me. Meanwhile, I took advantage of the commotion to take the steak knife off my table and start breaking at my ties. “Leave, or you will die!” Papa Brown shouted. I was tempted to tell him that Charles was deaf, but I figured that he’d catch on soon enough. “Emmanuel, attack!” He ordered. His snake launched itself at Charles, latching onto his arm and trying to get to his torso. But Charles simply grabbed it, pulled it off of him, and then pulled it in half. “Ma’am, hold my coat.” He said as he took off his jacket and threw it towards me. I simply tossed it on the ground and continued sawing at my ropes, but I don’t think he even noticed. Only then, once his jacket was off, did I see that he was also a zombie. He had rotting flesh, some even to the point where bones were sticking out of him. Nonetheless, he looked ready to fight. “He seems to rely on his sense of smell.” Papa Brown said. “Let’s take that out of the equation.” He then waved his arms, and all of a sudden, the room started filling with thick fog that smelled like rotting corpses. “There, that should keep him distracted.” He then approached Charles, who had no way of knowing where he was coming from. Papa Brown then pulled a vial of water out of his pocket, uncorked it, and threw it towards Charles, who immediately started to burn. “Holy water.” He said. “I’m never without it. If only I had more, so I could finish you off. Guess I’m gonna have to do this the old fashioned way.” He then grabbed Charles and threw him against a wall. Charles tried to fight back, but there wasn’t much he could do about an enemy he could barely even sense. Once he had him against a wall, he started to beat him. Charles continued to throw out strikes of his own, but Papa Brown was blocking all of his strikes. He didn’t stop until Charles was virtually immobilized from his injuries. When he was reasonably sure that Charles couldn’t do much to fight back anymore, he went over to his cabinet, and pulled out a wooden stake. “Goodnight, vampire.” I then finally burst free from my ropes and charged into action. I ran at him with my knife, and before he could even react, I had already stabbed him in the back and pushed him down. What happened next was nothing short of incredible. Charles appeared to feel the vibration of his fall on the ground, and finally had a sense of where he was. Once he had a lock on him, he jumped forward, landing right in front of Papa Brown. Papa Brown tried to repel him with magic, but Charles fought back, and was able to grab ahold of him. One his hand was wrapped tightly around Papa Brown’s neck, he simply pulled it off, and threw it against the wall. Moments later, Reverend Hayes burst into the room. He was covered in blood and brain bits, but he didn’t care. The first thing he said was “Are you two alright?” “I am.” I said. “Charles looks hurt though.” Reverend Hayes took a look at his injuries and said “Nothing a few nights of rest can’t heal. Surprisingly, this isn’t even close to the worst he’s been through.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reverend Hayes drove me home. I told him I was fine, but he insisted. As we approached my house, he had a conversation with me that changed my life. “Susan, I want to offer you a place within our organization.” Reverend Hayes said. “Are you serious?” I asked. “Yes, I am.” He explained. “You showed real strength back there, when you saved Charles. We need people like you working with us.” “I’m not going to lie to you, it will be difficult.” He continued. “I will personally facilitate your training, and I can guarantee you right now that I will go out of my way to push you to your limits. I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it, but if you’d like, I’ll gladly make you a Protector.” I said “Sir, there’s nothing I’d like more than to join you and Charles in protecting this city.” “That’s what I was hoping to hear.” He replied. “Now, unless you have any plans today, I suggest we begin your training.


Maybe it was fate, maybe it was dumb luck, and maybe it was just coincidence. Whatever it was, things that day seemed to fall into place all by themselves. It was the perfect day, the sun was shining, birds were singing as if they also knew how good the day was. Women were smiling at me, the lights were green everywhere I went, everything was perfect. Until eight o’clock. It had been a productive day. I’d gotten groceries, changed the oil in my car, gotten a haircut, I was getting things done. Then the phone rang. I paid the bills, washed the dishes, and did the laundry; I even got some reading in. It was her. I went for a run that morning, visited my grandparents in the home, called my brother in California, I even sorted the recycling. She was coming into town. I spent some time cleaning. I swept the floors, cleaned the bathroom, and vacuumed the rugs. She was going to be here in an hour. It was like the world wanted me to see its best side. My usually optimistic outlook on life was twice as bright as usual. I hadn’t had a negative thought all day. I couldn’t believe it; a person sees a day like that about as often as they see a movie star in a small Midwest town. Nothing could ruin my day, except maybe Maggie. It was two years, three months, fourteen days and one and a half hours since the last time I had seen or heard from Maggie. We were engaged at the time. She went to the store for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. That was a lifetime ago. The whole thing had been a whirlwind. Not just her leaving but the entire relationship. We met at a Halloween party. I went as James Dean; she made one hell of a Marilyn Monroe. We did what seemed natural given the circumstances. Two months later, I proposed on New Year’s Eve, a decision that by the night she called I had second guessed a thousand times over. Don’t get me wrong, it was great at the time. I couldn’t have asked for more. We were madly in love. She moved into my apartment shortly after we started seeing each other and gave it and the rest of my world the life it had been lacking. We played all day and made love all night. Nothing could shake us, or so I thought. It was St. Patrick’s Day; we were getting ready to go to my best friend’s house for the evening's festivities. Maggie said she was going to the store for a pack of cigarettes, and that’s when she left. At six-thirty on March 17th, 2006, with no explanation, no warning, and no goodbye Maggie left for the store, and left me. She left me to explain, to wonder, to myself. After that I had to tell everyone either of us knew what happened. She didn’t explain herself to her friends, she didn’t tell her family, she didn’t warn her coworkers, she didn’t even tell the clerk that sold her the bus ticket. Sure, the nametag behind the counter knew she was going somewhere, but they didn’t know where she was going or what she was leaving behind. After several days of hearing too much from me and not at all from Maggie, her parents had reported her missing. There was an investigation; all they found was Maggie’s car at the bus station. They couldn’t figure out where she went, or even if she had bought a ticket. I guess the teller wasn’t paying enough attention to actually keep track of who bought tickets and the security cameras weren’t working. The detective said they couldn’t track down every bus that left that night just to see if she was on it. I disagreed, but they didn’t ask for my opinion on this one, kind of like Maggie. Even if the police couldn’t, or wouldn’t, prove it, I knew she had gotten on a bus that night. Maggie was like a cottonwood seed, she seemed to go wherever the breeze took her. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had seen a street sign that read Delaware and gone there. I knew there was a bus driver somewhere that remembered where he dropped her off, that there was a waitress somewhere that had served her coffee, that there was someone somewhere that knew where Maggie had gone. I just didn’t know where they were or what that damn street sign had said. Everyone told me to move on, that it wasn’t good to dwell on things we couldn’t blah, blah, blah. I heard so many “everything’s going to be alright” and “time heals all wounds” in the following days and weeks that I thought I was going to be sick. I fell into a depression so dark that a mole couldn’t see. It took almost a year for me to come out of it. It was a year of blind dates, of disappointments, of lowering my expectations and still being disappointed. I tried, I really did. I dealt with my friends trying to fix me up, I tried to meet girls at bars and coffee shops, but it was useless, none of them were good enough, they all failed my test. In their defense, it wasn’t a fair test. There was no way they could pass, even as simple as it was. It had only one question, ‘Is she Maggie?’ It was summertime when I finally started to pull my head out of the sand and come to terms with the fact that Maggie wasn’t coming back. After a year of disappointments, unfair tests and unfounded hopes, I had finally come to my senses. The mole could see again. It was July when I met Cara; she was working at the coffee shop next to my apartment building. I went out for a smoke and there she was, beautifully distorted by the cloud of smoke that she was exhaling in my direction. After two weeks of awkward hellos and all too brief, cigarette fueled conversations, I gathered my courage and asked her to dinner. That was exactly one year before Maggie’s call. I was making her dinner to celebrate our anniversary; she was going to be there at nine. Maggie was going to be there at nine. By the time I met Cara I had made a decision to forget Maggie. Not that you can ever really forget a girl like Maggie. She was the kind of person that once they were a part of your life they were permanently etched into your memory. Like an image on a broken etch-a-sketch that no matter how hard you try, you can’t quite shake off. Either way I had decided to put Maggie behind me, not think about her, not talk about her, nothing. I hadn’t told Cara about Maggie, she didn’t even know she existed. She was about to find out. I wasn’t sure which part made me more nervous, Cara finding out about Maggie or Maggie finding out that I hadn’t waited for her. As I was debating this point with myself it hit me, I wasn’t over her. If I was over her I wouldn’t have told her she could come over, if I was over her I wouldn’t care what she thought, if I was over her I would have stopped her. It was the doorbell that finally startled me out my introspective; I didn’t know who would be there when I answered the door. I didn’t know who I wanted to be there when I answered the door. It had to be one of them but I didn’t know which. I opened the door to see the girl that I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life with. Two years, three months, fourteen days and two and a half hours later, Maggie was back from the store. She invited herself in while I searched for words, any words. I’m not sure which part of my setup for the evening she noticed first, the soft music, the smell of home cooked food coming from the kitchen or the candles on the table but that’s when it hit her that I had left something out when she called. I told her everything, I didn’t really mean to but it all sort of spilled out. I told her about the investigation, about my depression, about the fix-ups, and eventually about Cara. When I finished she was silent, it was a lot to absorb and I was sure that she would have questions, but all she said was “Cara.” It was one of those statements that almost got to be a question but didn’t quite cut it. As if to give her statement the answer that it almost demanded, I went for the picture of Cara and I that I kept in my wallet, but in its place was the weathered picture of Maggie and I on our first date that I used to keep with me. Confused, I went to the drawer in my nightstand where I kept Cara’s love letters. Nothing, just old notes from Maggie. I couldn’t find her number in my phone and the drawer that she kept in my dresser was filled with the things that Maggie had left so long ago. I didn’t know what was happening. I went back to the living room and just stared at Maggie in disbelief. It was as if she knew everything that had happened since she left. She simply smiled at me and said “It’s OK.” In that instant I knew that Maggie knew me better than anyone could. I never heard from Cara again, I never found her number, the people at the coffee shop didn’t remember her, and it seemed that there wasn’t a trace of her anywhere. It was almost like she hadn’t ever happened. There was no explanation for it, except maybe Maggie.


Janus pinched the pill between two fingers. There was nothing striking about its appearance, it looked like your standard oblong. One half blood red, the other half a sharp white. Janus was a little surprised not to see a warning label for something so allegedly life-changing. Ingest it once and your world would never be the same, you could never go back to living the way you did before. Supposedly it was a crime to even offer Euphorium to anyone who couldn’t afford a lifetime supply. The pull of the drug was so powerful that knowing what it felt like and not being able to take it was tantamount to torture. The salesman, Maurice, was watching his evaluation of the pill with interest. “You can feel free to take one now, if you like. It’s a mild dose, the effects wear off in an hour. We have relaxation rooms if you’d like to settle in with the effects, then you can come back and review the rest of our collection.” Troy had already set his pill down. He gave Janus a wary look, before turning back to Maurice. “And how many of your customers choose a drug other than Euphorium once they’ve sampled it?” Maurice smiled. “It hasn’t happened yet. It’s our bestseller for a reason. The effects are said to be magnificent. It dials the brain’s pleasure centers up to their limits. Eternal bliss, within your grasp.” “Have you ever sampled your own product?” Janus asked. Maurice shook his head regretfully. “No, it wouldn’t be wise to start yet. I’m fifteen years away from retirement still. But once I do make it, it’ll be Euphorium all the way.” “I’ve seen the pictures.” Troy commented dryly. “Rows of bodies resting in hospital beds, their faces smiling masks, completely disengaged from reality. Living off IVs like coma patients. It’s hard to believe that could be paradise.” “Reality is created by the mind, paradise can be whatever the brain experiences.” Maurice replied smoothly. “If you have any concerns about the long nap, some of our clientele start off by switching off the drug at weekly or monthly intervals, taking the occasional breather to check in on the status of the outside world before deciding if they want to continue. But eventually, everyone seems to decide there’s no reason to walk away from heaven.” “Walk me through how it works again.” Troy interrupted. Janus groaned inwardly. He could tell from Troy's tone that his friend had already made up his mind. He was taking this time just to prove his point. Maurice launched into his spiel. “True to its name, Euphorium delivers pure ecstasy to the brain, filling it with a serene joy. There’s really no way to understand it without experiencing it. I could show you some poetry written by some of our users…” “But won’t the brain eventually become de-sensitized to the stimuli?” Janus interrupted. “Shouldn’t the effect get duller over time?” Maurice smiled. “We very delicately suppress the tolerance response in the brain to take you off of the hedonic treadmill. Your first moment with Euphorium will be as good as your last.” “My last moment is part of what concerns me.” Troy was tapping his finger on the counter. “If you’re no longer engaging with the world, how does that affect your life expectancy?” “All our evidence shows that Euphorium is actually healthier for the brain than non-assisted living.” Maurice replied. “You can expect to add ten years to your life, and if any complications do arise, you’ll have access to the best doctors in the world.” “What if we go broke, and you have to cut the drug off?” Troy asked. “Impossible. If you sign over your assets for the long nap, we’ll continue investing them on your behalf. In the unlikely event that your capital should evaporate, you’ll still be guaranteed a lifetime supply of Euphorium. Our company assumes all the risk.” “And what if your company goes bankrupt?” Janus asked. “Spoken like a businessman.” Maurice gave Janus an appreciative look. “I don’t normally do this, but I can share with you our entire business plan if you’re interested. We’re insured for a global financial meltdown, and we have enough assets on hand to continue operating for a hundred years with no additional revenue.” “It just doesn’t seem sustainable.” Janus shook his head. “If the entire population would rather live in a mentally altered state, someone still has to do the work to keep the world running. What do you do when everyone is under your care?” “Supply and demand, my friends.” Maurice said. “Our fees have been rising every year. As the supply of available labor shrinks, the price to live on Euphorium rises as a result. You’re lucky to be able to get in now. Not everyone gets to retire in their thirties.” Troy sat back and crossed his arms. “All the more reason not to throw it all away. How do you know if being on Euphorium is really a better way to live, or if the drug just makes you think it is?” “I’d argue those two are the same thing.” Maurice said. “What’s ‘better’ or ‘worse’ is entirely a function of the mind. What we know for sure is that no one ever wants to go back. All of our clients say it’s the most amazing thing they’ve ever experienced. Heaven on earth.” “Or you’ve manufactured the perfect addictive drug.” Janus spoke the words he guessed Troy was thinking. “A drug that makes you never want to stop taking it.” Maurice’s smile began to strain. “All forms of pleasure are inherently addictive. Euphorium has no chemical withdrawal markers. It’s simply a better way to live.” Maurice reached into a cupboard. “Anxiety around self-modification is perfectly understandable. The ego excels at self-defense, often to its detriment. A man who’s angry at the world would often rather stay mad than give up that identity and lose a part of himself. Luckily, we have a pill for that.” Maurice set a pair of purple oblong pills on the table. “Modicum. It disengages the ego to allow you to be more open to change. It’s like being born again, you’ll look back on your life with a fresh set of eyes, able to see your own experiences and possibilities as objectively as you would a stranger.” “A pill that makes you want to take your other pill.” Troy could hardly have seemed more repulsed if the salesman had told them the pill was stuffed with elephant dung. “Is there a pill that makes you want to take Modicum?” Maurice tried to re-assure them. “It’s nothing as sinister as that. Mental processing is simply prone to getting stuck in ruts. A person who’s used to feeling angry all the time lets that anger become a part of what they perceive to be their core identity, and they’re naturally afraid to give it up. Modicum reduces that defensiveness, and lets the user evaluate objectively whether they’d be happier if their personality was different. Some of our clients take Modicum even without an eye to evaluating other treatment options, saying it broadens their perspective, making them more open to change.” “Wouldn’t it always lead to the same conclusion?” Janus flicked one of the purple pills and set it spinning. “It sounds like Euophorium is an attractor state for the mind. If you no longer feel the need to preserve your old identity, what could be better than bliss, and taking Euphorium?” Maurice scooped both sets of pills off the counter. “From my point of view, nothing. But it’s worth noting that not all of our clients end up choosing Euphorium. We have a wealth of other options. However you want your brain to work, we can arrange it.” Maurice set a new pill on the table, a dull grey oblong pill. “Victorium. Quite popular with our results-driven individuals. It amplifies the brain’s reward mechanism for success. Every triumph is that much more sweet, every minor victory feels that much better. It's simply allowing your brain to celebrate how amazing you are. Even simply solving a crossword or finishing a Sudoku feels like the crowning achievement of a lifetime with Victorium.” “Which would presumably make you less effective at accomplishing any given task.” Troy didn’t seem to think the pill deserved a first glance. “And leave you out of touch with everyone who wasn’t as impressed by your mediocre success.” “All true.” Maurice acknowledged gamely. “You have to consider though, that being effective stops being a concern once you’ve made enough money to live as you please forever. And if you’re interested in the respect of your peers, we have a product that can deliver that sensation…” “So long as you’re fine living in a delusion.” Janus finished the salesman’s sentence for him. “That just sounds like a lesser form of Euphorium, cheating your brain into thinking it’s happier than nature thinks it should be.” “In which case why not try the real thing?” Maurice offered up the question, despite the looks on their faces suggesting he was gaining little traction. “Once you’ve transcended the need to fight for survival, there’s no reason to keep your brain from being as happy as it can be. Some philosophers claim ascending to a state of pure pleasure and joy is the natural evolution for the species. Once you break your evolutionary shackles compelling you to survive and reproduce, there’s nothing left to do but ascend to a care-free existence where you can engage in unbridled hedonism.” “So all the time we spent working up until now was pointless?” Troy asked. Maurice shook his head. “Not at all. But you’ve worked hard enough and added enough value to society that you’ve earned your way into paradise.” “What else have you got?” Janus jumped in before Troy could resume arguing. This was clearly getting them nowhere. Maurice slid open another drawer. “Some of our clients prefer to maintain an active social life, rather than leaving behind the connections they’ve made up until now. We have a number of enhancements you might consider.” Two pink pills slid onto the counter. “Empathium. This treatment super-charges the mirror neurons in your brain. If you’ve ever felt bored at a party or unable to relate to someone, this is the cure for all of that. Your brain will become more empathetic than you would have thought possible, our clients say they can instantly understand how someone is feeling, relate to them as intensely as a parent to a newborn, and have an intuitive sense for how to make them happy. We have reports of withdrawn, awkward individuals turning into the life of the party. It supercharges your social awareness, making you more exciting and more excitable. We can flip you from an introvert to an extrovert, or dial up your extraversion even higher.” “And what if you’re fine not being the life of the party?” Janus asked. “What if you don’t want to care about the things you don’t currently care about?” “We keep returning to the paradox of identity, there really is no answer.” Maurice smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with introversion or extraversion, we’re simply offering the choice. Some of our clients take Empathium on as-needed basis, for large social events and corporate functions. Some even report the curious experience of not knowing which version of themselves is superior. When on Empathium, they’re fully convinced that they are a creature of superior social awareness, and their previous self is dull and uninteresting. Off Empathium, they experience a similar disdain for their previous self that was using the drug, as an easily distracted social butterfly.” “Then who’s right?” Janus asked. “Neither. Both.” Maurice said. “One version finds social engagement the most fascinating thing in the world. Another regards it as far less interesting than leading a rich inner life. Both are simply a question of what the brain prefers. And it’s perfectly consistent to toggle between two sets of preferences.” “Surely there’s a right answer though. One has to have a greater survival value…” Janus felt like he was grasping at straws. “It’s entirely possible that the greatest survival value comes from adapting your values to your situation.” Maurice said. “Empathium may be perfect for the saleswoman needing to close a big client, but being off the drug might be better when she’s filling out expense reports or doing her own accounting. She would simply get used to switching between multiple versions of herself, each of whom finds whatever she’s currently doing to be the most fulfilling thing in the world, allowing her to put her entire focus into it.” “That’s mildly terrifying.” Troy muttered. “If modifying your values and preferences is as easy as you say, why does no one ever leave Euphorium?” “Well, some people do settle on a mode of functioning as being superior.” Maurice said. “Even if their values are different, if our hypothetical saleswoman remembered being substantially happier on or off the drug, she could eventually settle on staying that way. Euphorium is simply the global optimum for brain states. Although…” Maurice lowered his voice to a whisper. “I shouldn’t be saying this at all, but we’re working on a version with chemical inhibitors to long-term memory formation. You’d be able to experience Euphorium, and leave yourself a message describing how you felt at the time. You might even be able to sample it, and return to normal functioning without the same sense of loss.” Janus blinked in disbelief. “Are people really going to pay for a pleasant experience they don’t get to remember?” “What’s more important, the memory or the experience?” Maurice asked. “You could consider it a chance to hear from the version of yourself who has experienced the other side.” “I’m not taking Euphorium, memories or no memories.” Troy said firmly, then glanced at Janus who also nodded his head. “What are your other options?” Maurice slid two orange pills onto the counter. “Imaginarium. What Empathium is for relating to other people, Imaginarium is for being immersed in the world of ideas. Are either of you avid readers?” “Haven’t had the time.” Janus said. It was partly a lie, which Maurice’s knowing look suggested he understood. “Been awhile since you’ve been able to lose yourself in a good book?” Maurice pointed at the orange pill. “Imaginarium can change that for you. It enhances your brain’s creative faculty. You’ll find yourself abile to visualize alternate realities in vivid detail, feel other worlds come alive in your head physically, emotionally. Depending upon how strong we prepare the dose and the strength of the stimuli, you might feel like you are literally immersed in another world when reading a book, or engage in a video game as if you were actually living the life of the protagonist, your brain filling the gaps with smells and sounds. You can allow a piece of music to directly translate your emotional state, letting you feel love, joy, or serenity. With each mental journey under your complete control. It’s the Euphorium you can steer…” “But what would the point be?” Troy interrupted. “None of it’s real.” Janus couldn’t help but agree. Neither of them had kept up with TV, movies, or any of the endless entertainment distractions that were available. Janus couldn’t say why, but each option felt too much like a drug to him already, another way to dull the passage of time and enter a false reality that left you craving your next fix. “It provides the brain with enjoyment, stimulation.” Maurice faltered. “Immersing yourself in another world is also a way to study new ideas, gain new perspective. Watching a film on the Titanic for example...” “If I want to study the Titanic, I’ll study the Titanic, I don’t need some drug so I can lie to myself and feel like I’m there.” Troy shook his head. “I take a certain amount of pride that I don’t spend time zoning out in front of a screen, accomplishing nothing. I’m not sure why taking a pill to start doing that will make my life better.” “The mental journeys you take don’t have to be fake.” Maurice said, looking back and forth between both of them hoping to catch a sympathetic eye. “You can re-live old memories as if they were happening to you for the first time.” “I’ve never been one to dwell on the past.” Troy gave a knowing look to Janus. “I can understand you might say that now, but if it changing that about yourself would make you happier…” Maurice’s voice trailed off. “If the point is to be happier, why not just take Euphorium?” Troy threw his hands up in the air. “You have a pill that gives you emotional highs based on how other people feel. A pill that gives you a rush from losing yourself in imaginary worlds. They all just seem like gateway drugs to Euphorium, one step closer to disengaging from reality to feel better about yourself. How is that not a worse way to live?” “There is no definition of better or worse that exists outside the mind.” Maurice seemed on the verge of snapping. “If you’re not willing to try Modicum to broaden your perspective, I don’t know what I can tell you. It’s clear you’re locked into a neurophobic mindset, unwilling to step outside the cage you’ve built for your own mind. If you’re not interested in being happy, then there’s nothing I can do for you.” Troy was already standing up to leave. “I don’t know if I want to be happy, but I can definitely say I don’t want this.” Janus stood up, a little more reluctantly. Maurice tossed them both a packet with a brochure. “In case either of you come to your senses. A sampler pack. Only one more we haven’t discussed. Medium. A low-intensity mix of Empathium and Imaginarium. You can read about it on your own time.” Maurice was already shuffling them towards the door. Janus waited until they had left the building before speaking to Troy. “You’re just giving him a hard time, right? To get them to come back and engineer something bespoke for us?” Troy shook his head. “Sorry if I made it worse for you in there. But I’m not going back. This isn’t for me.” “But…” Janus struggled to find the words. “You’ve made more than enough money to retire. What are you going to do with yourself?” “Go back to work.” Troy said dryly. “Why?” “Because I don’t want to just turn into a worse version of myself.” Troy’s eyes were clear and focused as he stared back at Janus. “I like what we do, I feel like our work matters in a way nothing in there does. It keeps the world going. Even if I don’t need to do it anymore, I’d rather have a job and something to live for than spend the rest of my life feeling useless. Or turn myself into a vegetable, taking a pill so I don’t feel useless, taking a pill so I don’t feel guilty about taking the first pill, and eventually just taking the pill to become a mindlessly happy drone.” “I thought this was the whole point though.” Janus felt like he’d been cheated somehow, although he couldn’t articulate why. “Isn’t retirement all we were looking forward to for all these years?” “If it was, then we were wrong. You can go back in and be happy, if you want.” Troy gave one last look at the packet Maurice had handed him, then tossed it into the trash. “I’d rather be me.” \ Janus lay in his bed that night, staring at the packet. Euphorium. Modicum. Victorium. Empathium. Imaginarium. Medium. Six pills. Each of which would make him into a different person. A person who would presumably like who they were, with no desire to ever change back. It would be like stepping into a teleporter, having every atom in your body disintegrated and recreated at the other end. The original you would be gone forever, with a clone standing in your place. It would be like getting a complete brain transplant, under the logic that your new self would be happier than your old one. He would be letting his identity die. So someone else could live a better life. He should just throw the whole set of pills away. Janus lifted the packet to toss it into the trash, before changing his mind at the last second. He opened it up once more to look at its contents. Maurice’s point about the saleswoman switching between two states until she found the one that made her happier had left an impression on him. If he genuinely would be happier with a medically induced personality change, he’d never know unless he tried. And if he had the option to switch back, he could at least make the choice with his eyes open. Janus swallowed the saliva in his throat. Was he really considering this? He took a moment to examine each of the pills. Euphorium terrified him. It seemed like a mental dead end, a gilded cage for the mind. Modicum seemed like the next logical step if he was going down this road… but that also seemed like it would be making the choice for him, committing to detaching himself from his identity and letting a stranger take over. Victorium, Empathium, Imaginarium… Janus’s fingers finally settled on the small red pill. Medium. It seemed like the mildest, safest treatment they had. If he was going to try any of the pills, it might as well be this one. A few new sensations, maybe. Nothing irreversible. Janus gulped down the pill in a single swallow, setting the other pills on his bedside table. He gave it a few seconds. He didn’t feel that different yet. How long before the pills were supposed to take effect? Janus flipped open the pamphlet that came with the packet. Janus suddenly cried out in pain as a burning sensation filled the back of his head. His brain felt like it was on fire, surging and firing in unexpected ways. A swirl of emotions coursed through him. Anger, surprise, fear, each experienced more intensely than he had felt them in years. Janus bit his lip and tried to hold on. He must have gotten a bad dose. The drug’s effects couldn’t last for that long, he just had to weather the storm. Janus closed his eyes and willed the torrent raging within him to stop. When he opened his eyes again, Janus saw a sight he hadn’t seen in ages. He was in Troy’s old apartment, years ago. He could barely remember how long it had been, it felt like another lifetime. Janus blinked again, and he was back in his bedroom. The image of the apartment had seemed completely real to him. If he looked for it, he could still see it in the back of his mind. “You have to see this.” It was Troy’s voice, as audible as if he were in the room. In a panic, Janus reached for his phone on the bedside table, almost knocking it to the ground before grabbing it and dialing the number on the pamphlet. The scene of Troy’s old apartment was beginning to cement itself in his vision. Maurice answered in a bored tone. “Hello?” “I think something’s wrong with the pill I took.” Janus spoke as quickly as he could. “You have to help me. My brain feels like it’s on fire.” “Neural readjustment can be an intense process the first few times, I assure you it’s nothing to worry about.” Maurice began to perk up. “Which one of our products did you try?” “Medium. Listen, I’m hallucinating.” “Hmm. That’s rare for new users, although there can sometimes be some side effects if you have anything else in your system. This was all mentioned in the waiver you signed this morning. Experiencing emotions you haven’t felt in a while can awaken associated memories, and the recall grows more intense as your brain’s imaginative faculties expand. It’ll all pass soon enough. If you examine the pamphlet…” Janus let his phone slip onto the floor and collapsed back into his bed. The scene playing out in front of him was already too vivid to ignore. Troy was standing in front of him with a grin on his face. “This is going to change our lives.” Troy was smiling, his long hair had been cut short, the shortest Janus had ever seen. His guitar was resting underneath a pile of books. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. That was odd. Troy never went a day without playing his guitar. “What is it?” Janus heard himself say the words with a curiosity he sincerely felt. He remembered this conversation on some level. But he hadn’t thought about it in years. There had been no need. “It’s a new drug.” Troy was shaking a pill bottle in front of him. “They call it Optimum. It enhances everything you do. Makes you smarter, more effective, more focused. I taught myself Mandarin in a week. Learned quantitative finance yesterday. We could rule the world with this stuff.” “So why isn’t anyone else?” Janus mouthed the words in bed as he heard himself say them. Troy shook his head. “It’s years away from clinical trials. Rumor has it, some of the big names in Wall Street are already using it. The world will turn into a rat race once this stuff goes public, but we can get in early. Get to the top of the heap before anyone else.” Troy seemed overcharged and amped up, his mind working so fast the words could barely keep up. “I got my hands on a supplier. The best part is, this batch is non-addictive. It changes your brain chemistry each time you use it until eventually, the pill has no effect. After a month, you’re just on Optimum all the time, even without the drug.” “What else does it change?” Janus’s gaze turned to the unused guitar. Troy grimaced. “Some minor stuff. It dials down empathy, imagination, anything that’s not strictly achievement oriented. Music is much worse. I can’t even watch TV anymore. Anything that doesn’t help you get ahead simply gets filtered out as noise.” “So you’re far more efficient, but less happy. Only dialed into reality.” Janus said dryly. “It sounds like the opposite of that drug Euphorium.” “Yeah, but the effects are reversible.” Troy pointed to another bottle on the wall. “They already have the cure for it.” “Have you taken it yet?” Janus studied him curiously. Troy shook his head. “I will. But only when I’ve made enough money to retire. I’ll stay in the game for as long as it takes, then get out.” “And be a soulless monster in between.” Troy looked a little guilty he glanced at the guitar lying idle, then shrugged. “It’s not so bad. It makes it so you enjoy solving even the most repetitive problems. Your brain trains itself to do whatever it takes to succeed.” “As much as you enjoyed writing music? Going to festivals?” “No.” Troy shook his head. “But I’m not going to have the time for that until I retire anyway. Would you rather spend 40 years working shit jobs and hating your life, or spend 10 years, loving your job until the moment you leave it, then get out? If we get in on this early, we could retire in our thirties. Our twenties, even.” “I don’t know…” Troy had already handed him a pill. A white and red generic. “You should at least try it.” Troy’s voice sounded sincere. “If you hate how it feels, it’s easy to go back. Ask yourself who you want to be ten years from now. You could be rich, and able to live however you want, or you could be dirt poor, with nothing to show for it.” With more than a handful of misgivings, Janus swallowed the pill. It burned down his throat, filling his head with a white-hot fire. Seconds later, the vision had been wiped clean. He was back in his apartment, lying alone in his bed. His eyes felt like they must be bloodshot. Moisture was dripping out of them, the words he had wanted to say left unspoken.


Moving to England from Old New Jersey wasn't the worst thing in the world for Tom Rhodes. He was in the fourth grade, about to be in dreaded fifth, and he wasn't exactly Mr. Popular amongst his classmates. He thought that they thought he was a weirdo - and what was wrong with that? Everything, apparently. More likely, they just never thought about him at all. England could be a fresh start for Tom. His brother and sisters did not agree. "I hate it here already!" said Elle, the youngest sibling at six years old. "Me too. There's no beach, mom!" said Susan. "I was supposed to lifeguard this summer." "Sigh," said Peter, followed by a literal but quite exaggerated sigh. "You were never gonna be allowed to lifeguard, Sus." Susan and Peter were twins, just over two years older than Tom. Susan arrived a full half hour before Peter, which she often reminded Peter of. Their mother, Abby Rhodes (her parents had a bit of a thing for The Beatles and couldn't help themselves), glanced back at her kids from the rear-view mirror. Her stiff-upper lip, as the Brits would say, was curled into her forever crooked smile, thanks to a field hockey accident in college. "Give it a chance, everyone. We're almost there. I think you're gonna like the house." Their mini-van scratched against the bushes on the skinny country road. "Maybe I should drive, Mom," said Peter. "You're not used to driving with the steering wheel on the right side." "And you are?" asked Abby. "Yes, actually," said Peter. "I've played every single racing video game in the world, and I'm fully prepared to drive this car." "Over my dead body," said Susan. Peter was about to say something, but the lane cleared into a long expansive yard, at the end of which stood a massive stone house. "Woah," said Tom. "It's a castle," said Susan. "And that's where we're gonna live," said Abby. "You know how English houses all have special names? Well, ours is called Coldfast." "Cool," said Peter. "*Coldfast*. I dig it." "Is it really ours?" asked Elle. "Well, we're technically renting it for the summer," said Abby. "But, if we like it -- and my job here works out -- then maybe we can buy it." "Yay!" said Elle. Tom's stomach turned, the way it did when he tried reading in the car. "Can we get out, Mom?" he asked. "I was going to drive up a little closer, but why not?" She stopped the car, and unlocked the sliding doors. The kids pushed out and flew across the grounds towards the house. "There's a stream back here! It's like a little river!" "Look at this climbing tree!" "I think there's 5 floors!" "Kids! Can you come here and help me carry in our bags?" "Yes, mom!" they all replied. There were enough bedrooms in Coldfast that none of them had to share a room, and there wasn't even much fighting over who got which one. Tom's choice must have once been an old library or a study, because it was filled with wall-to-wall bookshelves, which were now mostly bare, except for a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Tom pulled out the "T" and skimmed ahead to the find the section on turtles when an old-fashioned bell rang from somewhere downstairs "I'm gonna have to figure out how to call you all, and this bell seems pretty good," said Abby. "A little different from our house in Old New Jersey, huh?" "Yeah, Mom," said Susan. "I love it here," said Elle. "Good," said Abby. "Now I have to drive into town to get situated at work. They want me to start at Bletchley Park tomorrow, and I've got to get my ID card and whatnot set up today. So, Susan and Peter, you're in charge. Stick together, and have fun. I'll bring home something English for dinner. Ok?" Everyone nodded. They stood at the large doorway to Coldfast and waved at their mother's minivan crunch away on the gravel driveway. "So, we're splitting up, right?" said Peter. "Obviously," said Susan. "We've gotta explore this place, and I want to do it my way." "Me too!" said Elle. Tom pulled on Susan's arm. "But didn't Mom say we were supposed to stick together." Susan patted Tom's head. "Don't worry. I'm in charge now." "No, I'm in charge," said Peter. "We'll meet back here in an hour and report back on our findings." "Ugh, okay," said Tom. "I'm going outside then." Something about the house creeped him out. "Elle and I will explore inside," said Peter. "Susan you should try outside, too." "I will, but not cause you said it." Tom and Susan went outside and set off in different directions, Susan towards the stream and the rolling hills beyond the western side of the building, and he towards the pine trees on the east. He'd always loved the smell of Christmas, and pine trees were as close as you could get during the rest of the year. It wasn't long before Tom had lost sight of Coldfast. He kicked up tufts of fallen pine needles as he walked, like little yellow fireworks for potato bugs. He wondered if potato bugs lived in England. Or if they had some other kind of rolly-polly bug. He spotted a particularly gigantic pinecone and kicked it. The pinecone bounced and tumbled before rolling into a hollow at the base of a large oak tree. The oak seemed rather out of place in the pine woods. Tom approached the tree and crawled down to try to snag the pinecone. He felt a warm breeze coming from the hollow, and reached inside for the pinecone. He couldn't quite reach it, so he crawled his head inside. The warm feeling grew. Soon Tom was fully inside the hollow, still crawling forward. Maybe this was a cave, he thought. This would be something cool to report back to his siblings. His head bumped into something. He reached forward. It felt like a door. It was wooden and smooth, with those boxy groves that doors sometimes have for styling purposes. Tom's hand found a cool round handle in the center of the door. He twisted it and the door opened into a sunny afternoon in a completely different forest from the pine trees where he'd been. Something snuffled nearby. Tom flinched, worried it might be a raccoon or something with rabies. "HALLOOF!" Tom turned towards the sound. Something fuzzy with two legs was sticking out of a rabbit hole. "HALPF!" Tom was pretty sure it was trying to say "Help!" so he grabbed onto its legs and tugged. And tugged, until finally the thing got unstuck and the two of them rolled backwards into the meadow grasses. "Oh, thank you, Christopher Ro -- wait a second, you're not him." It was a talking teddy bear. *Yes*, Tom said to himself, *A teddy bear is standing up and talking to me. I must be unconscious or something.* "Well, I always do say, a Stranger is just a Friend you haven't met yet. I'm Edward Bear, but my Friends call me Winnie. The Pooh." Tom nodded blankly, because at this moment, behind Edward the Pooh, were three more stuffed animals: a piglet, a tiger, and a baby kangaroo. "Pooh! Oh, Pooh!" cried the piglet. "There you are!" "Ho-hoo," said the tiger. "And a-who do we have a-here?" "Are you coming on our Expodition to the South Pole?" asked the baby kangaroo. "Because we could use someone Strong and Brave." "I..." stammered Tom. "I don't know..." "You either Know something or you Don't," said the bear. "But you can never Don't Know something. That's like saying honey isn't sweet and sticky and delicious." "A pa-pa-paradox," said the tiger, hopping on his rather coiled tail. Tom had enough. He was clearly losing his mind. He began crab-walking backwards towards towards the door, and grabbed its handle. "Are you leaving us before the Expodition?" asked the kangaroo. "Yy-up," said Tom, opening the door, scrambling inside, and pulling it shut. He crawled through the dark back into the pines, and then ran back to Coldfast as fast as he could. He opened the front door and found his siblings arguing in the foyer. "Well, where have you been?" snapped Peter. Tom could barely catch his breath. "I... I found something." "Yeah, we all did," said Susan. "No, no, no," said Tom. "I found this tree, with a hole in it, and I crawled through it, into this whole other forest, and there was a talking teddy bear, and a talking piglet, and a tiger that bounced on its tail, and this baby kangaroo, and they were all going to the South Pole." "Uh-huh..." said Peter. "Sure, you did." "No, I'm serious!" said Tom. "You have to see it. I can show you!" "I found winter," said Elle. "Your cheeks," said Tom. "They're freezing. Did you find a cellar or something?" "She was just about to tell us, Tom, before you interrupted everyone," said Susan. "Not a cellar, but a wardrobe, in another bedroom," said Elle. "I opened it up, and it was filled with these heavy coats, perfect for snowstorms, and I tried to take one off the hanger, and then I just felt more coats hanging behind them. So I climbed into the wardrobe and kept walking. I couldn't find the back of it. And it kept getting colder. Until I looked down and saw that I was walking through snow, and then I looked up and I found a lamppost, and I was standing in a forest covered in snow." "Your shirt," said Tom. "Are those snowflakes on it?" "Yes," said Elle. "But then I saw this goat-man walking towards me, and I screamed and I ran back here." "I don't believe you guys," said Susan. "I saw something *real*, though. It was a huge battle of these rabbits on the hills beside the house. There were almost a hundred of them. One of them had a big funny tuft of hair, and another had a broken eye, and then there was this big bird helping one of the two sides. It was like watching a real war, I don't even know who won, because suddenly a bunch of the rabbits climbed onto wooden rafts and floated down the stream." None of this would have seemed possible to Tom, if he hadn't had his own experience with the talking stuffed animals. Something was happening here in Coldfast. "That all sounds great, team," said Peter. "But I've found something even better." The other three stared at him. "They have a regular Nintendo here." "What?" said Tom. "A regular Nintendo. The old kind. It's in the den." "Do they have Duck Hunt?" asked Susan. "Yep! It's the one combined with Mario Bros." "What's Mario Bros?" asked Elle. "Oh, you'll see, because I found something else. Something amazing. I was playing one of the levels and then I hit this block as Big Mario and then somehow Mario got sucked into the bricks and then I was at this warp pipe, and it was a new level, one of those awful water levels, but the level name was World -1." Tom had played a lot of Mario in his life and he'd never heard of World -1. "What does that even mean, Peter?" "It's a secret world, obviously," said Peter.


A man wakes up in hell. He feels nothing but pain. He lies on a hill amongst ruins, the foundational outline of a missing home. This is not a world meant for anything living. The sky is thick and gray with clouds like wet cement. Plants do not try to grow here. The carcasses of trees lie beside each other, twisted on the ground. The landscape lies as still and gray as the sky, unstirred by even the wind. The man inhales his first breath and coughs. From his mouth is borne a cloud of white ash and dust. He gets to his feet and walks through the ruins of what must have been an old town once. Instead of buildings, now the bricks are stacked like rubble. The jagged edge of one wall reaches a peak above the rest, at half his height. Upon it his fingers trace the outline of a heart drawn in ash. He looks around at the battered image of a hollowed out town. He closes his eyes. He waits for this nightmare to be over. He coughs up some blood and spits it out. On the ground mixed with the ash it looks more like tar than something from anything alive. He continues now on a path that leads away from the town. The dead trees lie together as though they’d been slaughtered in battle. Fallen comrades. None of them heard. He follows a trail of smeared ash through a large, empty stretch of land. It might have been a field once, when things could grow. He stands over a patch of lifeless earth and watches it. Tears leave trails of smeared ash like the one which led him here. He continues to another ruin. The suggestions of architecture linger. Some stone steps lead him down to a cellar below. Here he finds a hatch and crawls down into it. Inside there are a couple of beds and a smattering of empty cans across the floor. In the center of the room is a table, swept clean except for one half-eaten can of mush. He vomits up some blood then sits down to eat. He eats less than a mouthful worth of bites then lies down in one of the beds. After a fit of violent coughs he’s asleep. He is exhausted. He is even more exhausted when he wakes up. He sits at the table and cries over the can. Finally he rises weakly to his feet and heads back out into the world. He walks through the field to a disturbed patch of dirt and ash. Nearby a shovel lies on the ground and he decides to dig. He digs for hours in a daze. The Earth slowly opens up for him, shovelful by shovelful. Suddenly here, protected from the decomposing world above by a blanket of dirt, he finds the body of a woman. He stoops down, transfixed by the peaceful expression locked upon her face. His own expression is distant, his mind in a hole miles below the one she lies in now. He gently kisses her forehead and then he drags her out of the hole. A coughing fit strikes and he needs to sit down. Then he fills the hole back in. He carries the woman’s body up another path away from the field. It stretches for a mile or two uphill and over rocks. He has to stop several times to try to catch even a gasp of breath between his coughs. He pulls her body up a hill and when they get to the top he can see the whole town. Here at the top of the hill he holds her body and cries endlessly, even when the tears stop. He sits with the body next to him and props her head on his shoulder. This is where she wakes up in hell with him. Her eyes open to a world that life abandoned. It takes her some time but eventually she coughs white clouds of ash to clear the way for air. They watch the distant ghost of a town together then make their way back down the hill. She’s still weak so he helps her down but he doesn’t have to carry her this time. They make their way back across the field and over her grave to the ruins surrounding the stone steps. Together they climb down to the room where all that is left lives. He looks at her with concern which she affirms by vomiting blood across the floor and shaking like chattering teeth. He kisses her forehead and they hold hands at the table for a while before lying down in the bed together. She coughs in her sleep and he doesn’t sleep much at all. When they wake up they eat from some of the dusty cans. After a few bites she stops and coughs for a long time. He watches with concern and fear. He doesn’t want to be alone here. Together they walk through the ruined town and look up at the ruined sky. Neither of them has anything to say. She stops at various piles of bricks and watches them as if imagining what they would look like whole. They come across the wall he woke up by and she traces the heart with her ash covered fingers. She stands in the ruins of a building and here she cries for a long time. He switches between standing back and letting her cry and holding her shuddering sorrow in his arms. Eventually the tears turn from a river to a stream and finally to a faucet, which is how they stay for the rest of their walk through the town. Back in the room they eat some more cans of mush and lie in bed. He cries while she sleeps. This cycle continues for almost a week, with walks through the hollow town, meals of mush out of old cans, and taking turns in tears. More often than not though they cry together instead of waiting for their turn. One day in town they find some old books scattered in the ashes and bring them home with them. The woman hates the books and can’t stand to look at them but the man thumbs through them now and then. After a few days neither of them go near the books anymore. His cough is gone and her cough is getting better. She breaks the long silence with a question. She wants to know what the point of living is. He chews his mush and stares into the empty can wondering how long their food will last and whether they will last long enough to finish it. One morning she doesn’t get out of bed. This goes on for two days. The next day she sits at the table and heaves growing sobs. He sits quietly on the bed. His face looks as lifeless as the town. The next day they are both weeping but they need to go outside again. They go to the field and there he digs another hole through tears while she sits and wails on the ground nearby. At the bottom of this hole the man finds the body of a boy. He picks the boy up tenderly and holds him close, tears running down his cheeks and into the boy’s dirty brown hair. The woman can’t even look. The man lifts the boy out and then fills the hole back in. They bring the body into their room and the man seals them off from hell. The boy lies in one of the beds. She screams and cries. The man touches the boy’s cold head. His face is locked in peaceful slumber. That night they sleep and when they wake up the boy’s head is burning hot. He’s sick. His eyes are closed and when they try to feed him he won’t eat. They stay down there a long time and none of them eat. The man and the woman feel sick with worry. They watch the boy and sit by his side. Even though he can’t hear the woman reads the books to the boy and even though he isn’t looking she hides her tears from him. One day the boy finally opens his eyes. They can all eat again and even share a can of fruit instead of mush. The boy starts getting better. His head cools off but never gets as cold again as when they dug him up. They live together in the underground room. Now their worst problem is boredom, a blessing considering what lies outside. She reads the boy books throughout the day until he’s asleep again. They play games at the table some nights. They eat meals out of cans together and pray for hope. They try their best to be happy, and being together they’re sometimes able to succeed. This lasts a long time and hell feels distant. The man worries about the possibility of the devastation leaking into their home down here but he never lets his worry show. He doesn’t want to lose what he has to the emptiness outside. Then one night a voice on the radio says that bombs are being dropped and that this could be the end. They all rush out of the room and through the hatch. Sirens are going off in the town. The boy cries in terror. She carries him to a room upstairs and lays him in a bed. The man meets her in another bed and they fall quickly to sleep together as the sirens go quiet. The next day they go into the town and she takes the boy for a walk while the man buys cans of food he hopes he’ll never eat. The sky is blue and full of birds and the bricks are stacked like buildings. Trees stand tall and brave and donned in tremendous green. People walk the sidewalks and smile for good reason. An old woman whose hair is gray yet full of life, lets the boy pet her Scottish terrier. The boy, the woman, and the man walk home through a field of grass that hides an orchestra of crickets who fill the air like music. That night the man and woman put the boy to bed together and read him his favorite book. He tells them he wants to write books just like it when he grows up. In their own bed the man watches the woman as she falls asleep. He kisses her forehead and smiles. He has everything. He takes a deep clean breath and feels nothing but bliss. Then he falls asleep in heaven.