This is my first post on here. Figured this would be the best place to put a piece of my work that will be evaluated. Enjoy this... weird one, to say the least lol. # At the end of his days, one scientist prepares to outlive us all... It was a bright summer day. Birds chirped their songs in the afternoon shades of their trees, children laughed and played in the parks, and couples sat together on park benches, taking in the lazy summer air that carried scents of freshly bloomed flowers. And underneath the sunny afternoon in the basement of a dilapidated laboratory, a scientist was about to spit in the face of natural law. The laboratory, once a powerhouse of innovation and genius, was now nothing more than a rotting carcass that barely resembled its former glory. From the outside, it was nothing more than an old two-story building wedged between a bakery and a pawn shop. An unnamed forgotten structure that most people never noticed. The doors were chained shut, and the windows were boarded up from the inside. The bricks were cracked and faded from decades of decay, and the grimy windows made the boards behind them appear almost ghostly. The building looked, for lack of a better word, dead. Though that was far from the truth, as Dr. Ivor VonLichten knew all too well, hunched over the keyboard in that dark basement. Most thought the laboratory was a former office for a law or accounting firm, but it was actually the birthplace of Ivor’s robotics empire. He thought it a cruel joke, that he rose to the top from humble beginnings only to fall back to square one. The paint was peeling off the bleak grey walls as mold and its stench seeped through the cracks. Rusty steel beams supported by a rib cage of pillars along the wall held the patchy ceiling, drops of murky water falling into various buckets placed along the floor. The basement echoed with the loud clacking of Ivor’s fingers on his keyboard, fervently blasting out lines of code. Wires all around the floor of the basement ran like arteries to a massive wall of monitors, dozens of screens burning images of coding commands and readings into the air. Ivor sat there in an old office chair, his tattered lab coat flapping everywhere as he typed out the next revolution of modern technology. Ivor had pepper-grey hair, with age spots dotting the skin stretched across his narrow arms and bony fingers. His glassy grey eyes were arid after staring at the myriad of screens so long, and his labored breath forebode its end. By all definitions, Ivor VonLichten was a dying man in a dying place that should have served no other purpose than his tomb. But still his fingers typed on with a ferocity that only the spark of life can bear, burning with the embers of a single fact - Ivor VonLichten was simply not going to die. For the bones of his laboratory were not going to be his grave, but rather his saving grace. Even after the failure of his business and the subsequent failure of his body, his mind was still as valuable as the day it was born. A mind that was praised and scorned by the very same people who were going to be responsible for their own demise. Ivor knew that as the people of this world laughed and played, they choked the skies and poisoned oceans, their own deluded happiness merely acting as a distraction from their impending doom. Ivor knew that humanity had an expiration date, not just individually but the species as a whole, and it was approaching exponentially faster. And Ivor knew that he was not going to join them as they dug to their own deaths. It was this very idea that drove him, even now in the decay of his own body and the ill basement he worked his last breathing hours in, to his greatest feat. And it was precisely when a screen to his left blinked green with the words *TEST #77: INTEGRATION SUCCESSFUL*, that Ivor’s jaw hung open and his eyes widened, staring in awe at the green glow of the monitor. Ivor checked. Then double-checked. He had quintuple-checked and still the integration was shown to be indeed successful. This was it. The moment he worked so tirelessly for, the moment that he sold everything he ever owned for, the crowning achievement of humanity’s entire meager existence had finally come to fruition, punctuated by a simple line of text on a green computer screen. His eyes were pulled to the corner of the room on his right, where cords as big as pythons ran into a single rectangular box, standing upright and glowing a stark ice blue. Standing eleven feet high, the front facing end of the Cradle - as Ivor insisted on calling it - was made of tempered bullet-proof glass, illuminated inside by cryogenic preservation rods, giving it the appearance of the underside of a glacier. Dozens of empty barrels labelled LN2 - liquid nitrogen - were littered around the monolith like giant beer cans the morning after a frat party. The edges of the glass flaked with frost and condensation. Yellow tubes gripped the sides of the unit like yellow skeletal fingers, each one filled with a solution that was worth more than the box, the supercomputer, and Ivor’s pension combined. Ivor slowly stood up from his swivel office chair, and stepped towards his now completed creation. His feet ached with every step, the muscles in his legs and core tightening in pain and revulsion, rejecting the need to move. But Ivor stepped closer, and brought his rattling, thin fingers to the glass face of the Cradle. Within the ice blue, like a silhouette of light, was a figure in the shape of a human body. Only Ivor knew what lay inside: a synthetic solution of several durable, flexible materials, slowly being drawn into the frozen Cradle. Ivor looked back at the room, a dank and dying skeleton of where his career started. Despite the notion of his being here a pathetic joke, he had to admit it was strangely poetic that this was the place he had found a way to begin anew. It dawned on him that this was the last time he would ever truly experience the world as it is, even now in such an infectious room. Ivor closed his eyes and took a deep breath - the rank odour of mold, the damp air, the drips of water that you *definitely* should not drink - taking everything in, and felt a strange sense of nostalgia. Suddenly, the floors were clean, the paint was fresh, and the fluorescent ceiling lights gleamed a bright white as he and his friends from college sat around drinking terrible coffee, towers of unopened boxes surrounding them, already laughing and talking through their favourite ideas and how they would change the world. Then Ivor blinked, and just as suddenly as they appeared, the lights dimmed, the walls grew colonies of all kinds, and the sounds of optimistic laughter faded away, replaced with drips of dirty water and the hisses and hums of machinery. Ivor looked back at the Cradle, and his wistful expression morphed into a scowl as he thought about how those same people would think of his creation. They would have called it insane, a delusional hope that would end in catastrophic failure. He could hear them - “Ivor, you’ve really lost it now. You call this a *solution?* You’ve built nothing but a fancy coffin!” Any other mind would scoff at his project and write it off as the tragic fall of a once great mind. But Ivor knew better. The one line of text on that small screen knew better. And here it was, physical proof that they and billions of others before him were wrong. For this wasn’t his coffin. This was his Cradle. Ivor’s focus now lay on the figure in front of him - a reflection of an old man in a rotting cave of his own failure. As those same hollow eyes stared back at him, his expression bore a new appearance that he hadn’t seen in a long time - determination. Ivor reminded himself why he was here. The Cradle was functional, meaning that Ivor was about to step into the greatest achievement by any mortal being known to man - and *become* that achievement. It was decided. Ivor pressed a button on the right side of the Cradle. A small tube ejected from underneath the button, containing an orange canister no bigger than a chocolate bar. Ivor took it in his hand and walked back to his desk, sitting down in his swivel chair. He pulled out a small mesotherapy gun from the left hand side drawer, modified with a switch array and cords running into the enormous computer in front of him. He flipped the switches to prime the device, turning on a green laser pointer on the underside of the muzzle. Ivor placed the tube inside the fixture where the syringe would go, and placed the gun to his head, the green laser fixed directly above his right ear. On cue, one of the screens switched to a diagram of a human brain, similar from what an MRI would show. A red line blipped intermittently across the screen, right through the brain diagram. Ivor brought the gun up and down, the line on the screen moving with the gun. He did this until the line beeped a satisfying green when it was aimed at the correct spot and the right angle. Ivor looked at the computer one last time before bringing his eyes to the Cradle. In that moment, he felt the embers of youth spark once again in his bones, blazing with anticipation at his feat. He took one final breath in that room, clamped his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger.  \* \* \*  Chuck del Toro was on the Eastrail 177 train when everything happened. Had he lived through the experience, he would’ve remembered every painstaking detail. The subway car barreled through the veins of tunnels, carrying all kinds of people to their daily routines to fulfill their duties as cogs in the massive clockwork of society’s machine. Chuck sat in between a wealthy-looking business executive - dressed in a suit as sharp as crystal, shoes that gleamed like polished obsidian and a watch that was probably worth more than Chuck’s apartment - and a rather impoverished individual wearing a tattered hoodie, faded jeans and busted sneakers that resembled three-week old banana peels. Chuck held his blue college backpack close to his chest, equal parts out of fear and embarrassment from his two travel companions. Too many things were on Chuck’s mind to notice that the subway car was shaking more than normal. That paper was due at eleven-thirty, right? Or was it twelve? So many mundane concerns piled onto his preoccupied mind, resulting in a migraine from the mounting pressure. Chuck resorted to looking outside at the lights as they sped by in a blur as bold, dashed streaks of light whizzing in a hypnotic motion. Then, the dashed blurs began to flicker. It was only now that he noticed the rumble of the car had reached a point beyond normality. Looks of concern and mild alarm rippled throughout the other passengers, including the vagrant and the businessman. Chuck turned his neck to look out his side of the car. Through the blur of motion, he saw cracks snaking their way up the bricks, and he heard the clatter of dust on the car roof. Panic creeped up his throat, and the hairs stood up on the back of Chuck’s neck as the tunnel in front of them collapsed open. Up ahead, a section of earth caved in, bringing that section of the subway tunnel with it. So much of it fell (or Chuck’s section raised) that the surface was now partially visible. Chuck’s subway car barreled out of the new exit. The wheels left the rail and the air fell silent as the car fell into freefall, seconds lasting an eternity. Chuck gripped the pole for support out of instinct, anchoring himself to the car. The vagrant grabbed the seats, and the businessman just tried to stay in his chair out of panic. Passengers all along the car tried their best to hold on. Some succeeded, some others had surprised expressions as they were lifted into the air, then the car made an impact on the ground below. Chuck’s car was the second one in the chain, which ended up saving him from the initial fall. The front car fell face-first into the ground as the second tried to fall to the ground, pushing against the now upright front car like an open stapler desperately trying to close. Passengers flew ahead from the force, including the vagrant and the businessman. The coupling bent too far and snapped, the momentum sending Chuck’s car hurtling ahead as it bent left and crashed onto its side. Chuck fell forward, his head bashed against the wall as the chaos of the fall began to blur. After what felt like forever, Chuck lifted his head that now felt like it weighed a ton. He touched his fingers to his forehead and felt blood. Chuck lumbered ahead on all fours, crawling to the nearest light. In the bend, the car had partially torn open, revealing the carnage outside. He made it between the businessman and the vagrant, and what he saw made him think he was hallucinating from a concussion, if that was even possible. Several chunks of earth collapsed and rose as buildings’ foundations groaned and fell, glass dust sprinkling down like rain. The land appeared to be rippling like the ocean, the surface cracking under the stress of the bends. Cars rained from the sky as they flew off of streets and parking garages, the meticulous paths of roads now crumbling into chaos. Chuck’s gaze drifted past the dissolving of civilization towards the horizon, where horror blazed. He had simply thought they were spots in his eyes from the crash, but reality was far worse. The sky was on fire as new suns began to supernova in the distance, blazing balls of light and heat rising and cooling into clouds the shapes of mushrooms, buildings on the horizon becoming translucent and fading away as the nuclear explosions raged forth, the deafening shockwaves barreling towards Chuck’s ears just before his vision faded to black. \* \* \* The Cradle hissed and hummed as the ancient glass doors creaked open, white gas billowing out as the last of the refrigeration solution faded away. Stumbling out of the Cradle was a humanoid figure made of a strange metallic material, black as the night. Microscopic cells along the body shrank and expanded, focusing on the nearest shreds of light, giving the figure a sort of ripple across its skin. The figure fell on all fours, struggling to keep its weight aloft, unused to the feeling. Slowly, two eyes opened, the aperture and artificial corneas contracting. Solid sun-yellow eyes gleamed, the pupils like sun spots. The figure slowly pulled itself up and took in the surroundings. The land had half fallen away, the side of the room opposite of the figure completely gone and open to the landscape. The room had been completely overtaken by nature, all kinds of vines and vegetation weaving from the hole throughout the room, as well as the sides of the Cradle. The cracks in the floor grew tall strands of grass, and a few flowers. Against the wall sat the remains of a supercomputer, the monitors blank and coated in dust so thick they looked like tablets of stone. On the ground by the computer was what was left of a human skeleton, covered in moss and grass, barely holding itself together. Ribs, a skull and arm bones poked out of the green, the puny remains of a hand grasping what was left of a now broken mesotherapy gun. After looking at the remains of the lab, the dark figure walked to the edge of the room, and the eyes of Dr. Ivor VonLichten absorbed the enormous scenery. The landscape was a series of jagged hills, smoothed over by centuries of erosion. Grass and trees covered the hills, ebbing and flowing in the breeze. All around the landscape, the remains of enormous fallen skyscrapers were littered like ancient tombstones in a forgotten graveyard. In between it all were great ravines formed by past earthquakes, riddled across the ground like lightning scars. Beyond that, enormous craters dotted the landscape like an enormous fist had repeatedly punched the Earth, now eroded and overgrown. A once mighty metropolis and monument to human power, now merely skeletons being consumed by the tide of earth in the wake of a new era. And yet Ivor stood there, having survived it all using the same resources as this fallen empire. He looked down, observing his metal, glistening black hands. The sensory receptors picked up every change in wind, every odour it carried, and every noise that it blew. He looked across the enormous landscape again, and nodded. Ivor brought his left leg back, bent his right knee, and lunged forward off the edge of the cliff. Suddenly, the fibers in his body began to expand and lengthen, legs merging together, each finger fusing into the remainder of the material in his arms until he was an enormous, thin sheet of metal, catching the wind with colossal wings and soaring across the sky into the expanse of the ruined city. Ivor descended onto a desolate city street, the asphalt overgrown with vegetation so that any semblance of concrete were simply slabs no bigger than three feet across scattered around the area like pebbles in a field. His body morphed back into humanoid form, performing a perfect somersault as he made contact with the ground. Looking up at the broken city Ivor truly knew how it felt to be an ant in a cemetery. The wind blew through the area, moaning as it weaved through the buildings’ skeletons, and distant clouds casting hazy shadows across the area, creating wispy shades like the ghosts of the human race. The sounds of ancient concrete cracking and crumbling under its own weight, as well as new species of birds making their nests in the decrepit skylines. Ivor took it all in, his heightened sensory receptors picking up every scrutable detail. Ivor, realizing his newfound freedom, willed his arms to change form. His fingers and hands melded into his arms and stretched out, forming two ice-pick like fixtures. He drove them into the concrete of a crumbling building and began to climb. He felt no sense of tiring or wear. Rather, it was a monotonous task as simple as breathing; his joints automatically readjusting themselves to account for structural damage in the building. During the climb, however, he would occasionally notice a strange shape at the corners of his eye. When he’d look in that direction, it was gone. He mentally cursed himself for not installing 360 degree vision. Still, he climbed forth, convinced that it was just a visual anomaly from his bionic eyes. After all, no machine would ever truly be perfect. He rose to the summit of the building, and took it all in. The cliff face where his old lab was located was now a tiny speck in the distance. If he looked at all the wreckage long enough, he could visualize what used to be the city’s original infrastructure. It was almost melancholic now, looking on at a world that used to be brimming with energy now reduced to an enormous concrete cemetery. Still, those were mortal concerns. Ivor wrote it off as nothing more, and prepared for the glide back down to the surface. Suddenly, mid-glide, he was hit by something. Ivor tried to shake it off, but whatever it was wouldn’t budge. In a panic, he retracted his glider wings and unleashed a blizzard of spikes on his back like a bionic porcupine. He retracted them and tried to unfold his wings again, but it was too late. He hit the ground with a resounding *thud.* Ivor struggled to get up, which wasn’t a good sign since he shouldn’t have had the ability to struggle doing anything. He noticed that he was now in what seemed to be the remains of a subway car, on a pile of what appeared to be three human skeletons. He couldn’t tell the difference between the three of them, but that thought quickly dissipated as those same shadows he saw before now showed themselves directly in front of him. They appeared to be strange-looking descendants of crows, now much larger and clearly stronger. They eyed Ivor with a sense of fascination, an expression that Ivor felt looked unnaturally human. Then, Ivor felt pain - a sensation that he had thought he would never feel again, and he knew that it only triggered when something in his new body was truly wrong. He looked up and to his right at his arm… to realize that it was now not there anymore, but was now in the hands (wings?) of one of these demonic corvids. The other corvids looked at him with fear and began to hiss at it and ruffled their massive wings in an attempt at intimidation. The corvid holding Ivor’s arm looked at it, almost like it was studying the strange object. It looked down at Ivor, and Ivor felt another feeling that he never expected to feel again - fear. The corvid brought down the heavy metal arm onto Ivor’s head, and did so several times until Ivor’s eyes went dark and his body went limp. The other corvids squealed in shock, confused as to what exactly this one was doing. Then, they hunched over in an act of submission. The now dominant corvid brandished the metal arm high above its head, screeching loudly in a cry of victory, holding aloft the first tool - a weapon - that would lead to their rise.


It had been a long day at work. Not literally, of course, every day on DS 42-c was exactly the same length, perfectly optimized to the circadian rhythm of an Earth born human, much to the chagrin of nonhumans and those hailing from the colonies. Even the days on board dripped with artificiality, a product of bureaucratic choices made by rich investors who cared only about their returns, and had never even been this far out in the galaxy. The day may not have been literally longer than any other, but it certainly felt that way, as days often do when you spend all of it on one tedious task. Ever since the budget cuts became official 6 months ago and the maintenance crew got downsized again, more days felt this way. More frequently, the entire staff would spend a whole day trying to fix one system on the brink of going critical, only to let other systems fall into the same state of disrepair. And even when we did manage to keep a system from failing completely, it was only a temporary fix. Nothing ever stayed working for long. This had been the general trend over the past few years. This was life aboard a private station, though, and in this economy, I was lucky to still have a job. This specific day had opened with a rather terrifying crisis. A leak in the oxygen recycler had grown, and was now threatening to cause a critical decompression in the entire station. The entire maintenance staff convened, even the already exhausted night shift, and our regular 8 hour shift became a nightmarish 15 hours. With the oxygen system stabilized, and our bodies exhausted and mangled by the day’s work, the crew dispersed, turning in for what was left of the night. I, however, had a tradition of going to the cantina on deck 22 after every shift, a tradition I planned on continuing after such a long shift. Deck 22 was rarely visited by the permanent residents of DS 42-c. It was for travelers, mostly, passing through. In accordance with Galactic law, all deep space stations had to have facilities for ships to refuel and crews to disembark and rest. Deck 22 was our station’s vagrant deck, and besides dormitories for crew of ships passing through and docks for ships to refuel, the cantina was the only thing of note. DS 42-c was the farthest space station in the Galaxy from the Core Worlds. No settlement in the charted Milky Way existed farther from the center of the galaxy, and as such, no station had fewer visitors. The cantina was nothing special, as far as the facilities the station had to offer. It was a dimly lit room with quiet jazz playing from a set of speakers. There was a bar against one wall, booths against the other, and on the wall farthest from the door was a window that filled all the available space. Depending on the position of the station, you could either see the entire galaxy or an inky abyss out of the window. Either way was profitable; if your clientele is having an existential crisis, they’re more likely to drink. Around the floor of the cantina was a smattering of tables for the patrons foolish enough to order food. There weren’t many guests normally, and tonight was no exception. A group of 3 Transadorians sat in one of the booths, muttering quietly amongst themselves. One of them had their horns removed, the mark of a murderer, another was missing one of their 6 eyes, and the third wore a flight suit. All 3 went silent and stared as I entered, only to silently resume their conversation when they saw I wasn’t there for them. A Hooloovoo was at the edge of the bar, still partially refracted from what looked like a special event. They moved their prism in and out of a Faraday Cage, causing their physical form to become distorted and weakened. Sitting at a table in the middle of the room were 2 members of the Cartography Guild. This far out in the galaxy, most of the strangers came from the Guild, though they never stayed long. I made my way to the bar and was greeted by Amanda, a human from the colonies above Venus. Before I could even ask for a drink, she procured exactly what I wanted, a Venusian Margarita, her specialty, and anxiously gestured to a table by the window. Either by my own choice or theirs, I hadn’t noticed before, but sitting alone at the table was a cloaked figure who stared out the window, which was perfectly positioned to see both the heart of the galaxy and the void that lay beyond its farthest edges. They looked tall, but the way they sat was hunched over, like they were trying to squeeze themselves into their chair, which made it hard to tell for certain. I made my way over to meet them, and their leg pushed out a chair on the opposite side of the table from them. Their gaze didn’t break from the window. I sat down and took a long sip from my glass. “Thanks for the drink,” I said. “Exactly what I wanted to get, you must have great taste.” The cloaked figure didn’t give any indication I had been heard. I cleared my throat and spoke up this time. “*Thanks for the-*” “No need to yell, I heard you the first time,” interrupted the figure, with the sweetest voice I had ever heard. Each word sounded like a song, harmonic beauty that resonated with the deepest part of my soul. “The Trasadorians in the booth likely won’t take so kindly to distractions at the moment. One of them is a convicted killer, after all. On the run and is understandably a bit jumpy.” I took a long sip from my drink before speaking again, softer this time. “You seem to know a lot about the people here. The Transadorians motives and my preferred imbibement.” “I know a lot about a lot of things. You will learn to quiet your mind and hear the music, too,” they said. “And you’re welcome for the drink.” They still wouldn’t turn to face me, opting to look out the window. “You know,” I said between sips, “it’s customarily polite to look at a person when you talk to them.” “Maybe among your people, but I’m not ready yet,” the figure said. I shrugged. “So, what brings you out this far? Not many folks come out to the edge of the galaxy for pleasure. Except the poets, but they’re weird anyway.” They were quiet for a moment. Then their shoulders moved slightly, like they were bracing for something, and they turned to face me. “I’m here for you,” they finally said. “Drink, it’s a muscle relaxant. It’ll help when we leave this station later.” “Wait,” I began. “Do you think I’m going with you? I don’t even know who you are. I don’t even know *what* you are, the people on this station need me. Why me, anyway? And why do I need to drink? I’ve been in Jump Space before and I was fine. And why the cloak? You look like a character from one of those old fantasy books. I have many questions, sorry.” After a moment of silence, they nodded, stood up, and walked to the coat rack by the door. There, they took off their cloak and hung it, revealing who was underneath. Now that they stood up properly, I could tell that they were about 3 meters, like I had assumed. Their skin was a pale purple, and completely hairless. Little was left to the imagination because they only wore a pair of pants, threadbare and too short for their long legs. Their figure was vaguely humanoid, save the long proportions. Their arms swung past their knees, and one hand had been replaced entirely by a prosthetic, with several computer inputs surrounding their wrist. Their chest was a mess of mechanics, and their spine had clearly been replaced, with mechanical joints connecting to pieces of exoskeleton, extending from their back, to their shoulders, to their elbows. Their face is what struck me most, however. It was human, or rather once was, by the look of it, but everything was wrong. Their mouth much wider than it should have been, and with some respirator attachment on their nose, with tubes running down into their back. Their eyes were massive for their head, and were black pits, seemingly without soul. They returned to the table and sat down; I stood up immediately and walked to the door. “I’m not going to force you to do anything,” they said, and I stopped. “I know what you think of us, but you’re wrong. Come sit and listen, and if you don’t like what you hear, you can leave.” I turned back to meet their eyes. There was nothing there, just a reflection of myself. But for some reason, I sat back down. Before they could say a word, I threw back the rest of my drink. They looked at the bartender, raised a hand, and I was brought another Venusian Margarita. “Thanks,” I muttered, staring at the table. “You’re welcome,” they said. “Now look at me.” I did. “What am I?” It took me a moment to respond, but after gathering the courage to say it, I replied “a Custodian.” The Custodian nodded. “What do you know of our people?” I took my first sip from my new drink. “Every species in the galaxy that we’ve found knows about you. You came to every world right before they made it to the stars.” “And?” “... And there are stories. Stories of people visited by Custodians who vanish. No note, they take nothing with them, they just vanish. And for some reason nobody does anything about it.” The Custodian sat for a moment, their eyes boring into the top of my head. “Normally,” they began, “it’s polite to make eye contact.” I looked up to meet their gaze and shuddered. They tried to smile sweetly to comfort me, but their altered face only made it more uncanny. I shuddered and they stopped smiling, to my relief. “I suppose first I should apologize. We have a rather negative reputation, though not entirely unearned. The stories you have heard are true, though only one side of the story. Before I can properly explain what, or rather who, we are, you should understand how the universe will die. Spoilers, by the way. “When this universe grows old, all that will be left will be black holes. Many supermassive black holes, drifting off into infinity, forever. What matter isn’t in those black holes will break down, the strong force holding the atoms together decaying. It is a tragedy, but that is how all universes must die. It happened to the universe before ours, and it will happen to the next in line, and the universe after that. Reasonably, you will ask yourself how there could be a universe after ours if that is our fate, or how we could exist if this were the fate of the universe before us. And that is where the Custodians come in. The universe is very messy, so when she’s done playing out this game, we clean up after her so a new one may begin. We collect everything together and effectively start up another big bang. “Every sentient being in the universe has the ability to make choices. But there are some whose lives have been carefully curated. They can make choices, but the circumstances under which those choices are made are decided. We think this is designed by the Custodians that came before, but there is no way of knowing for certain. All we know is that these individuals are made to become Custodians. We assume we were designed by the previous Custodians because we have laid the groundwork for the next generation in the next universe. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, you are one of these individuals. I’ve come to bring you with me to become a Custodian, the same choice I made so long ago.” While they spoke, I drank. You would, too, if presented with all of this information. Every developed species in the galaxy, potentially the universe, knew about the Custodians, but most had never met or even seen one. And here I was, having a casual chat with one about the heat death of the universe. After the Custodian finished, they gave me a moment to consider all they had said. I finally was able to speak after a time, though I’m not sure how long. It could have been 30 seconds or 3 hours. “Why would I want this,” I asked. “Why should I go with you?” “Earlier, I mentioned hearing the universe. Spacetime… She has a song. But not a song as you know it, with measures and sheet music, Passionately improvisational, all happening at once. Every note has happened, is happening, and will happen, all at once. Custodians can hear this song. We have to, the entire universe, all at once. It’s a lot at first, but learn to understand it… there’s nothing more beautiful, nothing that even remotely compares. Being a Custodian is a thankless job, only appreciated by the other Custodians, past, present, and future. But it is the greatest role in the universe, and among the most important.” “Does it hurt? Becoming like you?” “The transition isn’t easy, but when it’s done, it’s done.” “And I can say no? I can stay?” They nodded. “I cannot make you come. I cannot make you do anything. But you will choose to come. Nobody has ever chosen to stay.” “What if I do? Stay, I mean. You said you can hear the entire universe at once, can you hear..?” “You can choose to stay,” they began, “but you will live the next 32 years, 3 months, and 16 days, after which you will pass away quietly, in your sleep. That whole time will be on this station. In 6 years, you will become the lead of the maintenance staff, a position you will try to use to push for better conditions and pay for those beneath you. There will be marginal successes, but in the end, you will be another tool for those who own this base to keep your team in line. Nothing will change except you. You will die alone and unloved. No family, no friends, nothing to show for your life but a temporary position of power that meant nothing.” I only had one question left, the question burning at the back of my mind since the Custodian suggested I go with them. “Will I be happy? If I go with you, I mean. Do you even know that sort of thing? Do you know Custodian me? You can time travel, right? I mean, I’m not happy now, and it sounds like the most I can hope for in staying is to become complacent, so what’s out there for me?” The Custodian looked out the window again for a moment, and then turned back to meet my gaze. “Custodians don’t have many traditions. We’re a conglomerate, a melting pot of a million million different people from a million million worlds. Most of the traditions from our past lives were forgotten, we are all Custodians and nothing more. But there is one custom, unique to the Custodians.” They got out of their chair, kneeling to meet my gaze and placing a hand on my shoulder. “It is the privilege of the Custodians, in the moments before the beginning of the next universe, to travel back and invite ourselves to become Custodians. It is the true reward for our sacrifice. “I could detail every moment of what comes next for you if you leave with me. I could give every secret between the two of us you have ahead of you, but there is no fun in that. What I can tell you if that, in choosing to come with me, you will be happier and more fulfilled than you could ever hope to be here.” They stood up and walked to the door, grabbing their cloak and putting it on before they walked out. “You have an hour,” they said from the doorway. “Deck 22, dock 67. I’ll let you finish your drink, the time jump is hell if you’re sober *and* mortal.


The intrusive squeaks of the usher's shoes preceded his hushed whisper. "The museum will be closing in just 5 minutes, sir." The usher managed to blend his white uniform into the faux marble floor as he backed away on the pads of his feet. He joined the other ushers in the center of the museum’s lobby, placing a five-dollar bill in the head usher's hand. "He's never leaving." His eyes still looking sideways at the mysterious man. The quick rustle of sleeves as they made their bets barely reached the ears of the man before the painting, who was thinking about his father. He had spent his life looking up at paintings like this. They had been his babysitters whenever his mom had to work and his makeshift father. His actual father, the painter, had done very little parenting after conception. His mother never really let him leave. She used any way she had to keep him around until all she had was the hope that his paintings would serve his role for the both of them well enough. It was the only art the man had seen until he was twenty-one, besides his forced recreations. "Raph," she would say, the same way she probably had said his father's name, as if tasking him with the same one was not enough. "Do you see these strokes? These ones . . . here, just above the water." She would pull his hands to some 'Raph' painting that she had hidden away when his father had left and he would read its texture like braille. It was every conversation he and his father would never have. His mother's words were brushstrokes. She would pause before she spoke, setting her tongue on the back of her teeth. A wry smile would pull at her thinned face like a stretched canvas. Then, she would speak in the language of paintings. She could never describe the sun as anything but cadmium yellow and every solid thing was texture built up into three-dimensional existence. No one ever quite understood the way she spoke like her son. Things were not bad and good, but warm and cool and only people who knew how much she missed the winters in Trondheim could tell that cool meant positive. She had no time for grass that was not the deepest emerald green or water that could not be painted in the most royal blues. She had fallen in love with his father's blue and white representations of spring by the time they had met. Her arm was inked in the colors he would use the most. He would know to make chamomile and honey when she would dot her forearm with the constellation he had claimed that he saw in her eyes. His words had been deft and disarming. He would pull her in with the lasso of his charm. She had not seen him since the third month of pregnancy. When she talked in the language of paintings, she always talked of his father. It surrounded them as substantially as the walls of the apartment that his paintings hung on. "Feel the texture, Raph," she would say with closed eyes. Eventually, he would close his too and each bump would pop up in the darkness of his mind's eye like a syllable. 'How are you, son?' they would say. 'Are you eating . . . and are you happy . . . and do you have my eyes and are you like me?' He could never answer. He did not know his father's eyes, but his mother told them that his eyes were the same. Just like the name. She was convinced he had his father's hands too. His crayons were replaced with charcoal and paintbrushes. They lay around the apartment instead of toys. She would lay canvasses before him with an expectant eye and a clear commandment, recreate his father’s paintings. Every step was a dance around half-used tubes of paint and unfinished canvases. His hands would cramp around paintbrushes and wooden frames as he drew the canvasses tightly across them. The acrid scent of paint clung to the walls and wafted out in faint-inducing waves. Sleeping became easy. They would escape during golden hour to walk along the nearby rivers, watching how the light came down in streams. The grass and water would languidly dance with the sunlight in a clinging wedding waltz. His mother would stand behind him and her hands would lightly cover his ears. She would lift her hands slightly, speaking in soft croissant-tones that crisped at the end of each word. "Let it pause. The water stop. The sunlight freeze." She would put her hands back over his ears, tighter. He saw the world as colors built up around him like paper-mache. When he closed his eyes to his room's broken shutters and the street lamps beyond, his eyelids flashed with veins of vermillion that mixed with viridian green to make the chromatic black that brought him into his dreams like magic. There, he would take bricks from the apartment and break them open, dipping a wet paintbrush before dragging it thickly across a piece of paper that would appear in the air before him. He would tap the edge of the brush onto the thick sheet while he looked around the apartment for more layers of color to peel and use. The faucet would suddenly turn on and then go silent. The water had frozen in place so that he could grab it like wool and wrap it around his brush, flicking it towards the canvas that caught it with a wet thud. His mother once found a painting of his own. He had called it 'The Shutters' in tiny handwriting on the back of the canvas. He had written his name the same way in the lower right corner. It looked like it was hiding away behind the trees he had painted growing out of the apartment shutters from his bedroom. Her voice immediately ascended to a hiss. "Do you know how expensive the canvasses are! The paint!" She had looked from him to the painting and back. He searched desperately in her eyes, through to the Cygnus constellation. The small points of light he only really saw when she looked at his father's original paintings. He only saw the same shadow he felt rising in himself. The painting made a warbled sound as she threw it into the corner of the room. He was the reflection that would never live up to the original. "Come," she had said to the long silent apartment. "Let's draw the cliffs again." A lamp appeared one day in the corner of the room, its sodium glow echoed the sun's as they worked into the night. He fell asleep with a brush in his hand and his school’s phone number ringing incessantly and ignored from Caller ID. The walls grew dark with jagged pencil marks and charcoal smears. He stained his bedding with the charcoal that crawled up his arms like vines. In the silent moments when his mother left the room, he would close his eyes and feel the dark marks sliding up to squeeze his heart. He could paint faster without her over his shoulder. Every time she returned, he would have to wait while she stared into the threads of his attempts. The paintings were her idols and he was the priest. She would look worriedly at him as he painted, watching the works that should have haunted her come back to life. He often wondered if they did haunt her as they haunted him. He could tell by touch alone how his lines were different than the originals, even if his mother could not see it as she stated longingly into them. He tried not to stare. When he did, he disappeared into the finished paintings. He would finish whatever paintings his mother had chosen and then become enveloped in them. He would climb the beige cliffs to find his father at the top, painting the water and the people below. He would snap out of this reverie before he could sit down with him. He could not imagine what he would say to him. The paintings hung next to the originals along the exposed brick walls. The most sacred hung above his mother's bed. She would wake up to them like holy images. Before she did, he would steal away to sneaky corners of the apartment whenever he could, sketching and smearing the pencil into shadow with his fingers. The graphite trapping the flecks of French ultramarine that had caught underneath his fingernails in the day and fell away in the night. He heard a sharp noise in the dark apartment. He squinted into the shadowy corner. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to steady his hand before he returned to his piece. As the light before his eyelids shifted into black, he fell through that terrible memory, darkened by the unkind tint of memory. He opened his eyes again in the museum to a cliff painting. His fingers itch just a bit at the thought of the hours they had been covered in paint, trying to recreate the exact painting in front of him. The whispers of the ushers behind him did not bother him. They could not recognize his name from the sign on the central columns that held the roof of the museum up. It had been his wife’s insistence to design the museum when they had come to his firm. Returning to his past had not been easy, especially when he had seen the request for an alcove dedicated to his father’s works. When he had left his mother, many years ago, he had left her staring at the paintings. It did not matter if they were his or his father's, she stared at them in the same broken and lonely way. He had spent years never living up to his dad's image and now he was leaving just the same. It still felt strange, looking at the painting in what felt like a similarly broken way. He had left painting for architecture. He could break open the models in ways he never could with paintings, and the textures had none of his father in them. He never forgot the unspoken words though. His hands would sometimes cramp at the feel of a pencil and the smell of paint as he would pass by the art building on campus would leave him in a fog all day. The conversations echoed in the back of his head sometimes. *'How are you, son?'* Even now, dried, the paint in front of him carried over like a cloud. He could see his dad hunched over, whipping the texture of the water into a frenzy that must have echoed the one inside his head as he moved and moved and moved. The ferocity of fighting against nature to capture its light and colors, and letting a little bit of your fury bleed in. The image was still fresh in his mind, the paint still wet that he could imagine the tinted fumes leaking whenever he would breathe out. He had met his father a week ago. It had been strange, walking up to an apartment much like the one he had grown up in. In his mother's echoing rants, she had blown his father up into a titan spilling paint with perfect brushstrokes from the staircase of an opulent mansion. Instead, he was a small man-made smaller by hunching over canvasses for a lifetime. His eyes drew closed sharply at the ends from inspecting minuscule details that would cast shadows on the people who stood below his works. He had known those symptoms well and would have known it much better had he not left his mother and that life behind him. "Hello?" He had said huskily. His voice felt like a dry brush against his eardrums. His hair was thin and gray, flared out from his head like lightning. He could see how his every move felt like out of a painting. His every gesture felt like a measured stroke of paint. Every frame of his movement carried the briefest glitch as the painter waited for his next stance to be filled in. He looked through everything around like he was wondering which pigments made it up, even the man before him. His fingers moved in the air like he was mixing paint to make your skin tone or tapping out the dots of the constellation in your eyes. "I'm your son." He had practiced the line on his way up the stairs. "Ah," and he shuffled away. Confused, the younger Raph had followed. The floor seemed to be peeling, every step was a scrape along a flaking surface. He realized with a jolt that strung back to his childhood that they were old canvasses. There was paint and thick paper strewn about the place without a care. His mother would have fainted at the lack of respect. The older Raph scraped along the peeling surface of his work and settled into a tattered armchair. It was a red that was not even vermillion. The wallpaper around him was paintings too, dull lakes and beached whales that made eye contact with him like the old ponds and bridges never had. The older Raph tapped his brush on the canvass with color-stained fingers, not even looking at his son in the corner of the room. Finally, he flipped the brush over in his hand, using his other thick-jointed hand to squeeze cobalt blue onto the sheet. His eyes somehow closed even more as he pressed the brush down. He caked the paint into a deep ocean that took up the bottom three-quarters of the work. The painting was a portal, staring into it felt like gazing into something ancient and the void staring back. When the older Raph had looked back up from the abyss, he was alone in the room. Younger Raph still wondered why he had left. Perhaps the haunted place has been too similar to his old apartment, with the same ghosts. Different paintings but the same ghost hanging over shoulders in a way that covered the windows and blocked the light. The fan even turned slower there, as if time had stopped and the inhabitants were doomed to always paint and nothing more. Maybe he felt trapped the same way his mother had been. He still had not found her. He had hesitated to try and he regretted it now, having seen what she had been stuck onto or what had stuck into her. He imagined her lugging around the old paintings still, dotting constellations into her arms as the night rotated over and stars filled her view. Neither his father nor his mother had ever really left the other, and they had both done their best to hold him too. Raph looked into the painting of the cliffs. In the small upturn at the crest of the wave, he could feel the shake in his mother's hands as she cut his beloved purple carrots. He could see her dark eyes in the shadow of a figure walking along the shoreline. He saw her breath in the turquoise and red wind that swept through ancient rocks and into the unimaginable beyond the frame. His hand instinctively reached forward. He wanted to read her voice in the speckled beige of the sand. He stopped himself an inch away. He would never read her there. She had never tried to paint the rocks. She had only pushed him towards them. She was part of the reason that every pencil he held ached in his hand but she was the one who would forever be waiting expectantly for the next recreation of something she could not hold onto. Her hands must ache now from clenching onto nothing so hard. He looked down, worried for a moment that he would find his fingers stained blue and yellow. His eyes traced along the lines that he had memorized. There was a shuffle of feet as the ushers, banded together now, approached him. Finally, he reached the lower right corner. He had held few differences from his father. He had been pushed into his father’s style and trapped in his paintings day and night. He had managed to fight back in one way that his mother had never noticed. In his tiny writing had used a lowercase 'r', like the one on this painting. Leaving his mother had been hard, but made easier by the money this forgery had allowed him to leave for her. His mother would have never sold any of the paintings, even to feed herself. The younger Raph had not had the same devotion. It had made its way to this museum, but he had never wanted to see the cliffs again until he had tried to sit down with his father. he had avoided falling into any of his father’s paintings since had left. They only worsened in him those same feelings of inadequacy that he had carried for so long. The usher tapped his shoulder. "I'm sorry, sir. The manager says if you are not wanting to bu-" "No, no," Raph said, the words slipping out through the smile that he could not help. Owning the damn paintings that had almost owned him might have been too sweet. He walked out to a wet street, rain still sprinkling down. Home was not far away, with his wife and son waiting. An apartment mercifully containing coloring books with arcs of crayon bounding outside of the lines. The color-filled spheres that they would smash this weekend, powdering sidewalk with chalky colors he had never touched before. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of the rain. He paused and let the cool air wash over his face. He continued down the lamp-lit sidewalk, thinking that he might paint it one day.


The West Coast of the United States is one of the most concentrated areas of wealth and power globally. And In Portland- there's one woman more powerful than all else- Christina Pierce. Standing at a slight five foot three inches, her platinum hair, aquiline nose, and luminescent smile don't scream "Overlord of squirrels," but you'd be wrong. We all were. Christina's story starts in the depths of the Susquehannock State forest. The DuBois wildlife sanctuary was five miles away from the Pierce family cabin. A fact that didn't seem relevant until the outbreak. Christina was eight years old when a primordial beast escaped the electric fenced enclosure of the DuBois sanctuary and stalked towards the Pierce cabin and the smell of food. Death, thy name is Ostrich. Two legs built like tank pistons- they're capable of mass destruction when the mood strikes. And for fuzzy birdbrains? The mood always strikes. Night hid the grey plums of the deadly bird- and only little Christina stayed upstairs in the cabin once the screaming started. By the time the sun cast light over the scene- Christina's family had been dead for hours. She stared at the blood-stained tracks of that two-toed fuck and knew she would claim her revenge. Schools were challenging until Christina learned to hide her rage. A myriad of teachers and institutions blurred past. The only thing that mattered now was the extermination of a species. And that took patience. Her momma did say, "Go big or go home," or maybe it was "Go dig in lome," either way, Christina drafted a plan for her vengeance. The records never explained how a troubled girl managed to corral over a hundred thousand squirrels. But by 2017, she had amassed an army worthy of a Kahn. No amount of civil disruption, police enforcement, or gentle coercion could persuade her to release her hold on the vermin. At first, the scenario was cute. A single squirrel here or there that nibbled the proprietary treats she created in her studio apartment. The animals would follow alongside her like some live-action Disney flick- but would lose interest as the treats digested. She kept a notebook with meticulous records. She timed the entrancement she placed on the furry critters. Her progress grew exponentially following an online explanation of excel and the app lock on Instagram. Meanwhile, her neighbors took interest, but little alarm. Because when have squirrels ever created mass chaos? The answer would arrive with the annual Rose Parade. The news reported an Ostrich run on the final day of festivities. The news awakened her childhood revenge, and she knew her squirrels would be ready. The squirrel entrancer began to amass a furred horde- and soon turned from simple treat crafter to dominant overlord. Her legions prepped their arboreal assault on the festival to rain hellfire and acorns upon the ostriches. The warm, slightly overcast day provided the perfect cover got her troops to arrive along the festival streets with leafy cover. The celebration drowned out the scritch scratch of one hundred thousand tiny bodies scampering over branches. With a practiced aim and toned forearms that any bouldering veteran would possess, she launched the signal squirrel into the packed masses near the Ostrich pen. The memories of what happened next stay isolated to therapy sessions, and a censored Koin-6 broadcast leaked on Twitter. The swell of tanned squirrels swept into the streets and aimed at the dreaded birds. The ostriches held their ground, biting and stomping on as many bodies as possible. The pavement turned into impromptu cement slabs of toast to the remenants of squirrel jelly that the ostriches stamped them into. Squirrels flooded the pen with their bodies, and soon the sharp tang of death pinched the salty carnival air. The overcast sky couldn't hold off the young summer heat- and the odor announced itself to any brave and idiotic bystanders that didn't flee from the initial horde of tiny rodents. Christina mourned her losses- but took a deep, celebratory sip as reports of the final Ostrich going down reached her. A wicked grin cut her face- one shared by other legendary commanders- and she knew that her experiment was a success.  Australia was next.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** *Edit: If you have trouble with the above link, * This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   ***   #Last Week **Spotlights:** - - Submitted by u/LuvAPup - A scene of mystery and magic. - - Submitted by u/lynx_elia - A dark tale about things not quite going according to plan.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I can feel my muscles tensing. I can feel my feet aching. I can feel sweat run down my face. With every step I take I can feel leaves crack, twigs snap, and my captors fast steps getting closer. These are no ordinary men. Their footsteps move in unison. When they first began chasing me I heard two voices now I can only hear one, but yet their footsteps still remain the same. I had taken this chase into the woods praying that the tall trees would block the full moons ever illuminating light. My prayers had paid off. I dive behind one of the many tree trunks. With my back against the trunk I catch my breath. Sitting there I can’t help but observe how well the shadows are hiding my body, my focus turns back to the men chasing me as I hear one of them say” Dammit, we lost him! Let’s turn back!” his associate speaks,” No, he’s somewhere in here!”. The first man responds immediately, ”Fuck that, I’m not wasting my night on some shit we’ll never find!” “Fine, then go” barks the second man. At this point I hear a cacophony of footsteps on the other side of the trunk I'm resting against. I then hear both men march away in unison the same way they did before. With their footsteps getting more distant I look up at the trees around me. I offer them thanks for granting me shade and helping me continue my escape. I peak my head out of cover from the tree trunk to see how far the men are. As I do some I come face to face with one of the men. As we look at each other in the face, eyes wide, I look past him to see the other man on horseback. I know this man has no intentions of keeping my secret and as he goes to yell I lunge at him. I grab him by the neck and force him down to the ground. While I have him by the neck choking him, I’m stalling, I need time to come up with an idea on what my next course of actions would be. Without my knowing the man pulls a blade from this boot. He uses it to slash me on my right cheek but I don’t let go. He tries to get from under me, at this point I look at my surroundings. A pointed rock sits nexts to me. I grab it. With multiple swift smashes to the man's head he no longer struggles. He doesn’t move but neither do I. I am frozen, I am scared and I don’t know what to do. I get from on top of him. Praying he will move but this prayer falls short. As I look at the man I can’t help but think to myself this was a man who was taught to hate me. This was a man who like me didn’t know any better and who was doing what his life had guided him to do. This man did not deserve to die this way, he deserved to be taught to see his fellow man as his equal. It’s unfortunate that no one was able to teach him until this point. As I am wondering what to do with this man I look the way he came to see his colleague slowly coming back. He has yet to enter the woods. This time the horse can be seen taking a leisurely pace. I look back at the man on the forest floor. I know this man is dead. I know I will soon be if I let this man capture me. With this brief assessment of my circumstances I run. I run like I never have before. I make a promise to myself. I will make it to freedom.


I was made a fool last year. That would not happen again. No, this time, it would be Elias who would be the fool. Last year, I made some mistakes. This year, there would be no mistakes. No ridicule. No shame. I prepped my tools as best I could: a perfectly rolled (and laced) joint, a bottle of bourbon, and the will to go through with what had to be done. It wasn’t entirely Elias’s fault. But he was the one who had to pay. He had exacerbated the situation, and perpetuated the pain throughout the following months. Even last week, he couldn’t help but bring it up again. “Okay, Pee Pants!” he chided in front of a few of our fellow co-workers. The remark had lost its humor long ago, but it still managed to make Elias chuckle every time. Of course it did. He came up with it. I deserved some of the blame, to be sure. But it was Elias who had the opportunity to be a hero, rather than a villain. He chose the latter. Now, it was my turn. Elias opened his front door, wearing the same “ugly sweater” he’d worn to the office Christmas party last year. It featured Santa Claus, sunglasses on and cigar in hand, staring coolly out the driver’s side window of a 1960s muscle car. With Santa were a trio of bikini-clad women hanging out of each of the passenger windows, seemingly enjoying the ride. The caption in script across his chest read “Ho-Ho-Ho Indeed!”. “*Pee Pants* is here! Everybody keep an eye on him!” he said before I’d even crossed the threshold. I smiled, handed him the bottle of bourbon, and encouraged him to join me in a drink. He obliged, unsurprisingly. After the shared moment, I receded into the background of the get-together: standing around the table of hors d'oeuvres, nodding along to conversations I wasn’t listening to, and making sure Elias always had a drink in his hand. I wasn’t drinking much, though. Not after last year. I’d been quickly reminded of the incident with each trip to the bathroom. It was that bathroom that I’d nearly made it to last year. Nearly. Instead, I'd passed out on the bathroom floor, with the door still open, and pissed myself. I woke up some unknown amount of time later to an audience of my co-workers. Some of them were disgusted, others were amused, but it was Elias’s laughter that I remembered most vividly. “I had to show them! I-I-,” he choked out between laughs. “I had to show them! I’m sorry! Don’t be mad, *Pee Pants*!” Apparently Elias found me first. Rather than seeing if I was okay, or helping me clean up, he invited the rest of the party to the scene to join in his laughter. The reminders with each trip to the very same bathroom this year only strengthened my resolve. The party was nearly over, and I knew my moment would come. As I exited the scene of the crime for the final time, I watched the penultimate party-goer leave the house and Elias close his front door. “Welp, just us now!” he exclaimed, heading to the kitchen. “One more for the road?” he bellowed. The sound of him pouring two more shots followed. Sure, I replied. A classic rock song, I don’t remember which one, then came on over a speaker in the living room. Elias liked whatever it was, and immediately began bobbing his head and playing air guitar. We clanked shot glasses as he began to sing the lyrics, momentarily pausing for the drink, and picking up right where he left afterward. “I fuckin’ love this song,” he said, unnecessarily. “I bet it sounds great in your car,” I answered after I’d taken my shot of bourbon. “Yeah! It fuckin’ does!” he replied, waving me along as he began walking toward his garage. I felt in my front pocket for the joint, took a breath, and followed. The chill from the garage hit me instantly as Elias continued to strum his air-guitar on the way to his car. The car, which I do remember, was his pride and joy. A 1969 crimson Mercury Cougar. An undoubtedly nice car, but with how Elias talked about it, you’d think it could fly. As I opened the front passenger-side door, Elias started the car. He revved it loudly and smiled wide. Before I could form my lips to mention the fact that the garage door was closed, Elias quickly addressed the potential issue. “Calm down, it’s too cold to just sit out here without it running. We won’t be out here long, anyway,” he assured me. “Just a couple of songs. You have to hear how the new subs sound, I installed them last month.” Seconds later that same classic rock song from before was playing loudly through the car’s stereo, with Elias joining in on vocals. This was my opportunity. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the joint. “Whoa! I didn’t know you were a stoner!” Elias said with glee. “You’re going to share, right?” he asked with a laugh. Of course, I replied, handing him the joint with a smile on my face. Elias rolled the windows of the car down a tad, pulled a lighter out from the center console, and began to light the joint. Smoke quickly filled the car, as the music was joined by a series of coughs, rather than singing, from Elias. “Holy shit! This is some good stuff!” he yelled over the music as he passed me the joint. I told him it was called ‘Amontillado Kush’, but he didn’t hear me. Then Elias turned the music down to a volume that was easier to talk over. I held the joint up to my mouth, making sure to not inhale. “Hey man, I just wanted to apologize,” Elias said. “You know, for the Pee Pants stuff. It wasn’t cool. I can be a dick when I’m drunk.” I shrugged my shoulders while I pretended to exhale and cough, handing the joint back to him. “No, no, really. I’m sorry,” he continued. “I wouldn’t want someone taking advantage of me in a situation like that.” It was really no big deal, I assured him, offering a friendly smile. He took a couple more hits from the joint, and handed it back to me. “Thanks man, that means a lot,” Elias said. He then slumped down and his head thumped against the headrest. “Damn, that-that stuff fucked me up” he said, slurring his words. “I haven’t had the-the spins in a long time.” He turned his head and looked at me, clearly fading quickly. Looking at me blankly, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped further into his seat. I looked at the fuel gage, which told me the car had nearly three-quarters of a tank of gas left. That would work just fine. Exiting the car, I grabbed a nearby shammy cloth and began wiping every surface I’d touched. Standing at the door leading back into the house, I stared back at my masterpiece with the still-smoldering joint in my hand. I smiled, and headed inside. There I grabbed my nearly-empty bottle of bourbon, ran the joint under some water in the kitchen sink, and put my jacket on. As I left the house I placed the rest of the joint back into my pocket, and walked to my car. The rumbling of his idling car could still be heard through the garage door as I entered mine.


The gang began walking towards the village; Marshall leading the way, carrying the heavy sack of books over his shoulder. Every so often I would look back to Alessia to try and see if she wanted to leave. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to be here. However, any time I hesitated to head back to her, she signalled for me to keep walking. Our minds were made up. We would see this to the end. There was a great crack of thunder in the sky above. The clouds gave way and heavy rain poured from the heavens, smacking off the leaves of the trees with a persistent hammering. I increased my pace and reached Monica at the back of the group. “So Marshall and Rachel,” I shouted over the storm. “What happened between them?” “They were childhood friends, teenage sweethearts, adult lovers,” she started. Right up until about five years ago. But Marshall was never much into the island ethos and Rachel started getting involved in the executive group, so they went their separate ways and they just kept... drifting further apart.” “Do they really hate each other that much?” “There’s still love. That’s why Rachel never really tried coming after us; gave Marshall some flex.” “And now?” “We’ll find out in a few minutes.” The world temporarily lit up as a shot of lighting rippled across the sky. In that instant, I could see the slight fear in Monica’s eyes, and the still calmness in Marshall’s. I went back to concentrating on where I placed my feet on our walk along the dark and uneven forest floor. But in the back of my mind I was still remembering the the library Alessia had told me about earlier. I was keen to see what would happen here on Aila Flagstones, no doubt. But a part of me was also dreaming of reaching Ringatoy Shires, and the rich labyrinths of knowledge that might hold the secret to what created the Archipelago. We reached the settlement. We followed Marshall as he marched to the center of the village and then stopped. Rain poured from his face and fell to the dirt, slowly turning the ground to mud. He looked left and right at the nearly deserted streets, the citizens scampering from the rain. He raised his voice, stretching his diaphragm to let out a roar louder than the thunder. “Everyone. Come. See what we have found. See what the leaders want to keep from you. We have the truth!” Marshall threw down the sack. Slowly, people were drawn to the sound; peering their heads out from behind closed doors, or taking a few tentative steps out into the rain. “Come. Come closer.” Marshall called out. The rest of the group beckoned people to them, smiling at the confused citizens. Robin grabbed one woman by the hand, and with a wide smile, dragged her to the front of the crowd. However, growing in unease I made a few paces back, creating a thin bit of distance between myself and the group. I looked to Alessia next to me, her hand was paused by her side, ready to grab the knife in her belt if needs be. Marshall looked out to the crowd and smiled. “For the past few months our leaders have been bringing crates to the islands, filled with books. But they don’t do this to share the knowledge with you, but instead, to keep it from you, to burn it. The truth is, the old world was glorious. It was not as we have been shown on the images in the museum. They are lies. There is no great time to reminisce over. We, now, are just as good as they ever were.” He paused, looking at the faces of the onlookers. A small murmuring broke out among the crowd, before it was quickly snuffed out by a growl from the heavens. Marshall reached down to the sack. He threw a few books to the side, before picking one up. He held it in his hand with a wide simper. “Let me read you some facts about the old world,” he announced in a honeyed voice. Marshall flicked through the book. Raindrops landed on the paper, darkening the pages and matting them together. But there was still enough for Marshall to read. “At the start of the twenty-first century, twenty-seven percent of people didn’t have sufficient access to safe nutritional food, and eleven percent were under-nourished. Twenty-two percent of children, that’s right, children, had stunted growth from malnutrition. Even in the richest nation at the time - the United States - four percent suffered severe food insecurity….” I grabbed Alessia’s arm. “We need to get out of here. This could go wrong quickly, and Rachel already doesn’t trust us.” “We can’t,” she replied. “Why not?” I asked. “You offer someone protection, you stand by it,” she replied, her eyes focussed onto the back of Robin’s head. “What?” I asked. Alessia didn’t respond. Instead Marshall’s voice filled the silence. “...There were fifty separate wars between, and within countries. Those wars drove nearly one in every one hundred people from their homes…” “Marshall stop!” The crowd parted as Rachel and others walked through. “It’s too late,” Marshall smirked, shaking his head. “No it’s not. You know how this ends if you don’t.” “People deserve the truth,” Marshall outstretched his arms pointing to the crowd around them. I quickly tugged Alessia’s arm once more. She didn’t budge. “Marshall, please. Please, stop.” The rain poured down Rachel’s face, and it was difficult to tell if it was masking tears. “Or what…?” Marshall said through gritted teeth. “You’re going to shoot me. Me?” He stared at Rachel. She held his eye for a few seconds, until she broke contact and turned her gaze to the mud. “Thought so,” Marshall said. He pulled the book up with a straight arm in front of him. “Prejudice against different groups was rampant. In seventy-one countries…” Rachel pulled the gun from the waist of her trousers, lifted it, and fired. The book flew from Marshall’s hand, its pages landing facedown in the muck. Marshall stared at his chest for a brief second, before he fell back, prone, dead on the floor. Robin ran to his side, screaming his name. She instinctively recoiled her hand as it touched the warm blood of his chest. “I will KILL you…” she screamed. “Arrest the others,” Rachel ordered to those around her. “Seize the books. This ends now.” I pulled hard on Alessia’s arm. “We have to go now.” Alessia resisted. “We can’t.” “There’s nothing we can do, but if we don’t go they will come for us.” I could feel Alessia’s whole body tense through my grip on her arm. She surveyed the scene, and the guards moving in to grab Robin and the others. She swallowed a scream and turned away from the sight. “You’re right. Let’s go.” We began walking away as quickly as we could, sneaking behind buildings to stay out of the line of sight. Our pace slowly increased until we reached the forest and we ran. “Where are we going to go?” I asked. “The boat. We leave now,” “What about the storm?” I looked to the sky as rain flooded my eyes. “It’s beginning to pass. We’ll chance it.” We continued to head along the dark path to the beach, adrenaline allowing us to continue running far beyond what I normally could. My lungs burning, my feet damp from the puddles, we continued to run until the path slowly began to widen as we reached the beach. Alessia slowed her pace to a jog. “We just left them,” she shouted. “What were we supposed to do?” I replied, pulling up alongside her. “Protect her.” “What?” “Protect Robin, you numbskull.” She stopped, bending over with her hands resting on her thighs. “We should’ve protected her.” I paused, looking down and catching Alessia’s eyes. “I wish there was something we could do for them. But there’s not. If we go back that way, we die too. There is no helping. We’re not safe ourselves yet.” I looked back behind us up the path. “Besides, I thought you weren’t one for getting involved.” “I don’t get involved because you pick your fights, Ferdinand.” She stood tall again, the anger boosting her. “When you get involved, once you offer protection, you stand by it. You live by it. You don’t offer help one day, and then turn away as soon as stuff starts going south and your chicken shit.” “We had to leave,” I said softly. “Maybe. Probably. All I know is there’s a girl back there who thought we had her back and were on her side, and now she knows we’re not.” She shook her head. “If you ain’t gonna be consistent in what you do then you’re nobody. No character. And out here, character and consistency is all we’ve got.” “I’m sorry.” “So am I,” she said with a clenched jaw. She took a deep breath. “It’s not your fault. I know you mean well. But just… remember this isn’t an exploration for everyone. For some people it’s their lives.” We both caught a faint flicker of lanterns further up the path coming from the town. We turned, and stared at the distant swaying light. “They’re coming. We should go,” Alessia said with a sudden urgency. We ran to the jetties and jumped onto the boat. I untied the ropes, as Alessia unfurled the sails. With the ropes loose, I pushed the boat away from the jetty with all my strength, desperate to create even a single meter of distance between us and the island. The sails opened, the wind caught, and we began being dragged away from the island. “It’s going to take us a while to get anywhere in this weather,” Alessia said, bracing her face against the rain. “The sea’s going to get choppier as we get out of the bay too.” I felt the unsteadiness of my feet as the boat fought against the sea. I bit my tongue and took a deep breath. “Alessia, I need you to take me to Ringatoy Shires.” “What?” “I need to go to Ringatoy Shires. Can you take me there?” Alessia let go of the wheel, and let out an audible tut, raising her arms. “You know I still have to make a living, right? I’m already delayed?” “I can pay you. I’ll pay you what you need.” I widened my eyes, clasping my hands in front of me. “One of the reasons I left was to find out what caused the Archipelago. That library might have the answers. If it’s as big as you say it is, I might be able to find the answer there.” Alessia turned from me, and grabbed the wheel once more, staring out to the blackness in front. “If I drop you off there, I can’t wait. This travelling together, it ends. I have to sail on.” “I know.” Alessia shook her head. “It’ll add a day to the journey, but I can take you.” “Thank you. Thank you.” “Don’t... Don’t thank me,” Alessia replied, refusing to look at me. “I’m gonna need you controlling the front sail.” I nodded, and headed down to the steps to the front of the ship. The boat pulled out of the bay and hit the open sea. As soon as we did, an ocean wave crashed into the side of the boat, and a tall spray of water cascaded over me. The seas would be rough, but we were on our way. \ This concludes Aila Flagstones. New island starts 4th May.


I am no fool. I know that my search will end in failure and yet I possess a stubbornness that cares not, for I accept that I will never meet Elizabeth again. Her friends are my friends no longer, and social media has provided me with an electronic wall of silence on the subject. With every passing month her rude invasions into my dreams are more vivid, her role in my thoughts more fantastic, and my development as an adult halted because of her absence. I assumed that the introduction of weed into my evening relaxation habits – introduced as a way of coping with the sheer heartbreak I was still suffering from - had increased the intensity of her image into my life, but even after giving it up, she remained. Were it not for a work colleague brushing her hair one dreary lunchtime, I would have been resigned to my Succubus for ever more. However, as I gazed across the office at Michelle’s long blonde hair dancing around her waist with every bite of the comb, I thought of those Sunday mornings in bed watching Elizabeth prepare for work, the bare bulb light saturating her hair as she straightened it with her battered brown brush. I snapped back to the present and realised that I could substitute my lost love with a simile, a mimic that could be my Elizabeth. Even a small percentage of Elizabeth could be enough! The challenge was to find a doppelganger that was Elizabeth enough to fool my obsessive heart. The next day I approached the woman who had inspired me and asked her for date. Sadly I was rejected hard; Michelle was married. I spent the next few days apologising whenever we passed in the office and, thankfully, she took in good spirits. Her role in my story was concluded, other than the occasional hair dance that sated my hunger for a few minutes. I was not one to seek romantic partners; it wasn’t that I lacked an appealing appearance, I just found it difficult to initiate a conversation from a cold start. Ironically my love for my ex-girlfriend was the catalyst for a romantic lifestyle. My first venture was online dating since I assumed that a passive list of people’s pictures would make for rapid and easy success. Unfortunately static pictures lacked the tiny nuances that I needed, for Elizabeth was an experience as well as a look. Regardless I began to contact those who had long blond hair and green eyes with a hope that they may possess other Elizabethan traits. My first potential candidate was a petite, bordering on frail, girl called Kammy who lacked Elizabeth’s height but otherwise was a general match. We met in a restaurant and talked about the bland vapid subjects expected between two people that knew little of each other. It was when the date was concluded that I realised I had hit paydirt; Kammy put on a pair of very large dark glasses as we went to leave, and suddenly I was looking at the face of Elizabeth. Her chin, mouth, and cheek were an exact match, and I stumbled out a request for another date. Thankfully she agreed. The next date took place at a local pub of mine, with the expectation that we would go back to my flat afterwards. We had flirted over text throughout the week, and I was certain she was as keen on me as I was on her. I took her to bed that night and suggested that she wear a blindfold to replicate the image of Elizabeth from before, but my eagerness to have sex diminished as I climbed between her legs and stared into her face; Elizabeth was not there, not anymore. I made a half-hearted attempt to please both of us but I could tell that we shared a disappointment afterwards. I did not hear from her again. My next Elizabeth project was a friend of a friend called Sarah. I use the term clone, as her physical attributes were perfectly Elizabethan, and I almost hugged my friend when he sent me a picture of her. We arranged to go on a cinema viewing followed by late drinks; a strange date, but one that she had suggested so I felt obliged to comply. We met outside the complex and exchange brief words before sitting next to each other in complete silence for two hours. After the conclusion of the by-the-numbers film we sat in a nearby bar and then talked about absolutely nothing until last orders, then got into separate taxis and headed home. In bed I smiled at the ludicrousness of the date and lamented the waste of a potentially-perfect Elizabeth mimic. That was until my phone beeped with a message from Sarah thanking me for the night, with a request for another date. During the second date I realised that Sarah was the perfect physical representation of Elizabeth, almost as if someone had created her from the same blueprint. However, the creation process had omitted a personality, for she was bereft of any kind of original thought. She had no opinion, no likes or dislikes, no hobbies, passions, or skills. At first I thought this to be a huge disadvantage, but then corrected myself; I was on a quest for an Elizabeth substitute, and here was an Elizabeth body with a blank mind. I sustained conversation with Herculean-effort, helped along by wine and beer, then asked her if she wanted to be in a relationship with me. She agreed without hesitation; I wondered whether she would say no to anything. I started her transition into Elizabeth, buying her gifts that Elizabeth would have appreciated and introducing her to the same interests that Elizabeth had. She accepted all of this without question, but without opinion either. I bought her horror books which she read but did not give any judgement on. I introduced her to the same computer games that Elizabeth played; she participated like an automaton, competed neither well or poor, and had no passion for winning or losing. The sex was surprisingly energetic, but again was methodical as if going through an instruction manual of positions and duration. I woke up one morning and watched my new Elizabeth brush her hair in the morning light of her bedroom. The blond danced, the comb scratched, the clips held, but suddenly I was appalled by the the skinwalker that had slipped into the Elizabeth-sized hole to forever remind me that she was not her. At that moment she turned to me and smiled with a horrific long blank face, the familiarity close enough to chill me to the nerve. I cried out and hid under the sheets until she left for work. I hurried out of her house and never spoke to her again. Post-Sarah was my lowest moment in my life. I had tried recruiting an Elizabeth substitute, and had tried to create an Elizabeth mimic, but neither had succeeded. The honest truth, the reality that I had tried throwing people in front of, was that the only Elizabeth that could satisfy my hunger was Elizabeth. This new realisation gave me a care-not attitude and I decided to indulge in a significant amount of MDMA; I needed to escape from my own self, if only for a few hours. I did not know what to expect or how much to take, so took all three of the pills, sat on my sofa and closed my eyes to await the effects. There was a growing euphoria that I began to enjoy which disappeared quite suddenly, like a beautiful song that had been cut short. I received an epiphany several moments after and I searched through Elizabeth’s old love letters until I found her parent’s phone number, which I didn’t think I had. Against my better judgement I called the number, aware that I was probably under the influence of drugs still, and was suddenly talking to Elizabeth’s father. I had the vaguest recollection of attending his funeral some time ago and yet he was at the other end of the telephone, the same warm and witty man that I remembered with some fondness. Time must have muddled my memory. I left a message and a contact number, with a breezy message in the hope that Elizabeth would not be disturbed by my sudden reappearance. I did not have long to wait and was contacted via text moments later. I retained my breezy demeanour and arranged a friendly catch-up at a bar in an hour. It was fortunate that the exchange was via text; I do not think my voice would have held out if I had been talking to her. I arrived early to secure a good seat near the entrance. My mind conjured up the next few hours and what would come of it. Did she hold dear the same memories as I? Did she too look at the same pictures and disappear into remembrance, listen to the same songs, and revisit the same places? And then she was there, the same almond face, long hair, green eyes, and slender gait that suggested casual athleticism. To my eye she had not aged one day since we split up. Her eyes met mine and my stomach spasmed. I went into automatic response, greeted her, exchanged default pleasantries that we looked well and that it had been too long. I took the opportunity to buy her a drink to gather my thoughts. My Elizabeth was here, the person who was the focus of both my waking and unconscious thoughts. I ordered a gin and tonic – still her favourite drink it would seem - and stole a quick glance behind me. She was poised on her chair looking back at me, seemingly-unfazed by our meet-up. What did I expect her to be like? A quivering repentant mess of emotions, or complete indifference to the situation? I took her drink to the table and sat opposite, studying the details of her to add to my faux Elizabeth of my mind. She was exactly the same as I remembered her; always with small earrings that glinted as brightly as her eyes; a thin gold necklace because thicker necklaces looked gaudy against her long thin neck; the eternity ring that I had bought her as a precursor for an engagement. I reeled from the recognition and grabbed her hand. It was without doubt the eternity ring I had given her, dull cheap silver with curled etchings running along its length. My panic wasn’t because she was still wearing it after 20 years, but because I had it locked up in my box of remembrance, ever-ready to bring out to reflect upon. I stared at her but she put a finger on my lips and would not let me speak. I tried again, my confusion escalating, but her finger was firm and strong. The pub dissolved around us and I was suddenly in her arms, her face filling my vision as she kissed me tenderly. I thought to fight this new false pretender, but her embrace was everything I had yearned for. I relented and sank into her, rested my head against her chest, listened to her slowing heart beat, her breath in my ear. At that moment I understood that she had returned to comfort me as I died, the remnants of her love my final protector against the terror of my overdose. For the briefest of moments, before eternity swept me away, I was content that she was mine again.


“Nefarious. N-E-F… Could you use the word in a sentence please?” The spelling Bee pronouncer nods affirmatively. “Of course Miss Spangler. Devon was nefarious for being a bully.” Jillian Spangler nods and replies, “Oh yeah. Thank you. Nefarious. N-E-F-A-R-I-O-U-S. Nefarious.” “That is correct Miss Spangler. Please take your seat. Mr. Henry Waldrop, please come to the microphone,” the pronouncer says, while Jillian goes back to reoccupy her folding chair onstage. A face she’s known since kindergarten awaits her in the neighboring chair. “Wow Miss Spangler—I mean Jilly. At first I thought you were going to blow it!” Roddert Hardley whispers as she retakes her seat. “Me too Roddert. For a minute I couldn’t remember if the word had one F or two in it,” she whispers. “Yeah, me neither. But you got it right Jilly. That’s all that counts,” Roddert whispers back. “Yeah Roddert. I’m just glad they don’t ask us what these big words mean. The words they give us are tough enough for us sixth graders to spell as it is.” “You got that right Jilly.” “Oh. Shhh,” Jilly warns, with her index finger laid perpendicular across her lips. “Merissa Ogglemeyer is up now. People say she’s the best speller in the whole city.” Merissa Ogglemeyer stands at the microphone, glaring down at the pronouncer. “Miss Ogglemeyer, the word is prerequisite.” Merissa sneers in contempt. “Prerequisite. You’re kidding me right?” she says flatly, then lectures. “In case you haven’t heard, this is a City-wide spelling Bee. And I’m a championship speller. And all you can come up with is… Nevermind. Could you give me something harder?” The pronouncer unconsciously stiffens her back then draws her glasses closer to her eyes. “Uh, pardon me? Miss Ogglemeyer. I don’t believe you really heard me. Your assigned word is prerequisite. And I must warn you. You now have only forty-seven more seconds to spell it, or you will be disqualified,” the pronouncer says, sliding her glasses back down the bridge of her nose. “Are we clear?” Merissa had gotten as close to the line of gross insubordination as she dared. But declined to cross it. “Okay, okay. You don’t have to get so touchy lady. Prerequisite. P-R-E-R-E-Q-U-I-S-I-T-E. Prerequisite.” “That is correct Miss Ogglemeyer. Please kindly return to your seat. Roddert Hardley please come to the microphone.” Merissa’s chair is one over from Jilly and Roddert’s. She takes her chair with an air of superiority, and whispers covertly to Jilly and Roddert as she seats herself. “You two snotty nose C+ spellers might as well give up now. I’m the best speller in the city and everybody knows it. It’s down to just me, you two, and that Waldrop kid sitting over there. So why don’t you two go home and save yourselves some cry-baby tears.” Roddert tenses, but doesn’t take the bait. “Don’t listen to her Jilly. She’s just trying to psyche us out,” he whispers his reply. Merissa nods her head once, and again whispers. “Yeah Jilly. Listen to Ro-dirt. I’m just trying to psyche you out. Especially since you almost blew that last word you just spelled.” The pronouncer intrudes via the amplification of her microphone. “Excuse me children. We’re on a schedule. Talking, or talk-whispering while on stage isn’t really encouraged,” she says in a discouraging voice, and then re-invites. “Mr. Roddert Hardley please come forward.” “Yes ma’am,” Roddert swiftly acknowledges. Once Roddert settles his feet in front of the microphone stand, the pronouncer immediately pronounces Roddert’s challenge word. “Mr. Hardley, the word is pompous.” “Yes ma’am, Pompous,” he says and freezes, with his eyebrows nettling up as though his mind were stuck in the middle of what to do. The pronouncer notices and asks, “Mr. Hardley. Do you need me to repeat the word?” Roddert shakes his head no, and with firm resolve gives the pronouncer his spelling. “Pompous. M-E-R-I-S-S-A O-G-G-L-E-M-E-Y-E-R. Pompous.” The pronouncer takes a split moment to stare at Roddert and consider what she had just heard. Or thought she heard. But recovers quickly. With a sympathetic tone she begins to inform Roddert of his error. “I’m very sorry Mr. Hardley that is incorr…” One of the judges, to the pronouncer’s left, cuts her off by holding a finger up in the air to signal her to wait. She wonderingly does so, while all of the judges huddle inwards towards each other to debate. The buzz from the audience is deafening. In as little time as it takes to peel two ripe bananas, all of the judges turn to the pronouncer raising up their thumbs in proud approval. The audience gives their blessings as well, in a pandemonium of clapping and cheering! When the pronouncer can speak again, without shouting, she vocalizes the judges’ ruling. “Mr. Hardley. I believe you have just broken some very new ground in a spelling Bee contest. Because the judges unanimously agree with your altered spelling of the word pompous. Congratulations. You may take your seat.


The foyer was filled with thick red carpet, emblazoned with intricate patterns of silver and black ribbons that caught the eye, and covered the cold stone floor completely. The furniture was carved from the wood of the surrounding forest. Stained such a deep brown that the pieces looked almost black. The space was cold, and the only sounds were of the ticking of an antique clock accompanied by the rhythmic typing of the Headmaster’s secretary. A woman who looked ancient, but refused to stop working. As if her presence at that desk was simply another constant of the universe. We had been waiting for twenty minutes already, but my blood was still pumping. My ribs hurt and my trousers were torn, but otherwise I was fine. The upperclassman sitting next to me on the bench was not. He was wheezing and trying to hide it. I pulled a piece of nicotine-dosed gum from my inner jacket pocket, contraband here at the Citadel, and slipped it into his palm. He took it immediately. Hiding slow chews as his breathing eased. Fresh blood was slowly seeping through what remained of his right sleeve and he was doing his best to keep it contained. “Why do it?” I asked of the taller boy. I had to know. His eyes were closed as he kept pressure on the wound with his opposite hand, the secretary remained devoutly focused on her work. Apparently, the presence of wounded Cadets was not an uncommon occurrence here. “Why?” he responded with a slight chuckle and pained wince, “For one I’ve never liked Gregor or his family. Two, he had a knife, and you did not. Three, I’ve never liked Gregor or his family.” I pulled my uniform’s kerchief and began to tie it around his arm, cinching the knot over the gash to keep pressure. I kept prying, “And that was enough to spur you into diving off a table during dinner, stab him in the shoulder, and get cut for your efforts?” I checked the snugness of the dressing and glanced at the secretary. She kept typing, oblivious, or indifferent. “That’s correct,” he coughed, and I stared at him in confusion. He finally opened his eyes, and upon seeing my face he laughed, immediately wincing hard again. He spoke softly, “My name is Kalchomich. I am one of your class supervisors in the machine shop. I have watched Gregor accost you and other members of your class since the start of school, but you always stood up to him. Even when it would end badly for you. At dinner, when he threatened you, I simply had enough. So, I put a stop to it.” Kalchomich leaned back and focused on chewing while I attempted to make sense of his logic. A dull buzzer went off at the secretary’s desk and her constant typing ceased. She looked directly at us over half-moon glasses, “The Headmaster will see you now.” Then promptly went back to her keyboard and screen. I made to stand, but Kalchomich grabbed my arm, his pained eyes looking right through me, “We stand up for the good ones, because if we don’t, then soon there will not be any left.” I heard his words then, but it would be years until I understood them. At the time I was more focused on helping him stand. The bottom of his right trouser leg was doing a poor job of hiding a very swollen, very broken, ankle. The landing after his initial attack had not been a good one. Taking his arm across my shoulders, I helped him up and we pushed our way into the Headmaster’s office together. My name is Vladimir Zhukov, and that was the first dead hero I have met.