I was doing a prompt from , however, the prompt got locked out, and I really wanted to share my story and receive feedback. So any feedback is appreciated however please be gentle I suck at taking harsh criticism ;-; The prompt was: The Dark Lord, sick of pointless war, secretly escapes to the countryside and falls in love with a nice widow in an unremarkable village. A year or two later, having never managed to find the Dark Lord, the young hero returns home only to find he has a new stepfather all of a sudden. (Posted by: Potential Smell). Link is here; Anyways, here is the story. I tried to go for a bitter/hopeful ending. Hope I did well. Coming Home Smelling the chalky, grassy, country air, Gerald’s feet made heavy steps through the village which he remembered as his origins. It had been a long time since he had last been here, his last memories in the village were of him receiving a scroll to become part of the kingdom’s army and get drafted into war after training camp. It was gruesome. Frostbite still coated his tongue in memory of how he was forced to fight in the winter as a regular knight before he saved his comrades from freezing to death after their commander died by using fire magic he had learned in secret to kindle them. Afterward, he was promoted to General, and then eventually started commanding troops to go against the Dark Lord’s magical army and then faced the man himself. He remembered the elegant look of the man that had a small glimmer of malice in his eyes. He remembered the ring of black fire that scorched his skin. He had critically wounded the man who then sent in reinforcement as he vanished. A few months after the duel the war had suddenly halted. He received news of the Dark Lord suddenly vanishing and his troops were in disarray. What remained of his army and allies eventually were hunted out and executed. Reconstruction took a year and in that time he was tasked to hunt down the Dark Lord and bring back his head. However, it had been a year since he started wandering the lands, searching for any clues or signs. There were none. After seeing him come back in horrible conditions due to traveling in harsh climates the King dismissed him and revoked his role as ‘General’ and he was reduced back to what he was before; a countryside boy. He stared at the once rickety old door in front of him now had become polished with new wood. Once dirtied windows were now crystal clear and the decaying walls were built anew. He wasn’t sure if he was at the right house but he glanced towards his left and saw the pomegranate tree that grew up with him towering high. He knew it was the right one. Reluctantly he raised a fist at the door. Knock, knock, knock. The clanking of chains unraveling rang out and a creak sounded as he saw a face he had once remembered so young and vibrant turn old peer at him and morphed into shock. Tears welling up she reached a hand to touch his tattered red scarf gently, “Gerald?” And the waterworks began as he pulled her into a tenacious embrace, “I’m home. I’m so sorry I never wrote back to you ten years ago.” Sobs erupted from the woman as he softly patted her hair from his changed height. Minutes later once she had calmed down the two sat at a rounded wooden table and she gave him a bowl of stew. He felt a shiver go down his spine as he saw the new polished and upgraded room with the kitchen branching off. His mother sat down across from him and looked at him with sullen eyes. “You were only thirteen when they took you away from me.” She bemoaned, “I couldn’t stop them. You were the only man in our family. But I should’ve tried harder.” “You did your best. You couldn’t go against the order. It’s not your fault.” He said, a grim look covering his face. He couldn’t smile in front of her as he reminisced over his experiences in war. The people he had seen, the children that died before their parents, or orphans that were made. It all tore at his heart. He snapped back into the present, “How have you been surviving since then? Why is the house so nice?” he had more questions on how she was but a series of knocks interrupted him. His mother jumped up excitedly and practically bounced towards the door despite her aged body, and opened it up widely as she hugged the man who stood at the door. Mortification took over as Gerald realized who the man was, though older he still remembers. Contrary to when he used to wear an elegant mage’s robe he now wore a farmer’s tunic, pants, and boots. His once coal-like hair had turned into a pepper gray and his smooth skin had hints of wrinkles. His once somber ocean eyes now looked like the sky and held a jovial expression instead of the sadistic smirk usually on his face. However, one thing remained the same. Though faded, a white-pinkish scar traced down his left eye in a perfectly clean line. It’s as if a painter stroke a brush. Remembering she was being watched, Gerald’s mother let go of the man and sheepishly smiled, “Well, the answer to your question is here Gerald. This is your new father. His name is Aaron. I met him three years ago in late fall. He had come to the village wandering and lost so I picked him up and as he stayed as a guest well…we fell in love.” A goofy smile formed on her mouth. The so-called ‘Aaron’ had an unreadable expression. Gerald’s mind spiraled as the gears were turning and everything was clicking in. The time of disappearance had checked out, but the scar was his clear confirmation. He quickly jumped up and unsheathed his sword as he pulled his mother away from the man and behind him and pointed the sword at his neck, “Mother this man isn’t to be trusted! He’s the dark lord that plagued our country for years.” His mother blinked then laughed, “I know all that. He told me of all his sins.” “Then you must kno-“ “If the god Ivor forgave mankind for discovering magic, why can’t you forgive him?” “He hurt so many people. So many lives were ruined by the war created by him!” He gritted his teeth as memories raced through his mind. Aaron’s face changed to something he thought he would never see on that monster’s face. Remorse. “I did do that. And I regret it. It was such a waste of time in the end and it only brought bitterness and despair towards everyone.” Aaron spoke finally, he had a softer tone compared to his crazed one last the two had dueled. “I wanted to bring hell onto the kingdom for destroying my greatest work, the invention I never got to complete. But I soon understood the path to revenge was a lonely one. So I got sick and tired of it. And then I left. I wandered for weeks trying to repair any damage I did before I met your mother and fell in love with her. She told me about you, I knew about you. I even sent one of my old familiars to look after you and update her.” He put his hand gently on the sword, once smooth hands were filled with calluses, “I can’t undo the damage I did entirely. I’m tired though of wandering and found a home in your mother. I understand if you can’t love me or forgive me. But please let me be with your mother.” Gerald frantically looked between his mother and Aaron, he saw his mother’s pleading face and his mind flashed back to the day he was dragged away by soldiers; he was kicking and screaming as his mother was sobbing on the ground before collapsing of exhaustion. Luckily the neighbors rushed towards her once the way was clear from the soldiers however he remembered the nights his mother cried over the death of his father. Though he had no memories of him, he knew his mother was lonely. He swallowed a lump in his throat and returned his sword to his side. Gerald glared at Aaron, “I hate you. However, I care for my mother’s happiness more. And I am tired of being away from home and for the sake of the peace of the country, I won’t report you. But you mustn’t hurt my mother understood?” He held a look of reluctance and contempt, as he gave the man a warning look. Aaron held out a hand as he nodded, “I am thankful for your understanding.” The two men shook hands and Gerald’s mother clapped her hands. “Well now that it’s settled what are your plans?” She looked at Gerald with fear that he’d vanish. Gerald gave a bitter smile, “Heal from war.” And then glanced at his new stepfather, “And get to know ‘Aaron’ rather than the Dark Lord.” Aaron gave a surprised look then beamed, “Well come my boy! You must be starving. Dolores did you cook the stew?” Dolores nodded, “Yes! Come Gerald, your food must be getting cold. I’ll get you a new bowl!” The two of them ushered Gerald back to the table and as he hesitantly went to sit at the table he questioned if what he was doing was the right choice. He dismissed the thought as the steam of stew reached his nose and he was reminded of why he wanted to come back. He wanted to come home.


I am writing this as final words and as a piece of history to a time that will soon come. Hopefully better than where we are now. I’ve been drafted. Conscripted? It’s all the same, I'm sure. I wouldn’t have thought it would become this desperate. Not the conscription part, but the whole damn scenario. I'm not even in my own home as I type this. It's some government containment housing. No one is sick, anymore anyway, but ever since the war, no one has had a home. I guess just some of us. I lived close to the local military Air Force base. I heard some others haven’t even been affected by the attacks. Ironic that the thing that hurt us most came from a place that says they support us. It was 3 years ago. Easter 2100. Still can’t believe we celebrate these holidays. Seems so old and outdated, but it was good to see everyone. I wish I could do that again. I remember one year we had so many people to see, we blew the energy siphon on our holo-projector. Almost started a fire on the wooden floors. Definitely a different time now. so much agony in the world. So much suffering has come and passed but so much more is on its way. That's just a sad fact of living now. I’ve tried to come to terms with losing some of them, but it's not so easy. Three years ago makes me think I’ve become an older man but I am still helpless. Not being able to help them. The gas was too fast. You don’t realize how fast it fills a room till you get to watch it yourself. I'll never forget it. My parents were too slow, my brother who ran to help them, and my wife. Why didn’t I go back? I'd be dead too. And I think that's a bad thing but maybe not. Is it so bad when the situation is dire? I can’t even do that. So here I am. Too scared to do much of anything. I'd like to think the service I'm going to give the other people of the world is a noble cause but not when those bastards who run this place are going to go back to the abuse and gluttony that they will never rid themselves of. A rotten core does not mean the rest of the apple is safe to eat I wished the attacks would have taken me. To think that at any time I could have been fried by my machines. They went rogue. They cut their connection to the servers that they were connected to. The private firms that own them, the military vehicles. Everything. So much was automated. After the first few days, they realized they weren’t powerful enough to fight on the ground and learning was a favorite of the machines. They realized they could use the military air vehicles to attack the infrastructure they needed to destroy to enact their conquest. It worked. Within six hours they had over forty percent of the world's military warplanes in the air and armed with bombs, napalm, and biochem gas. That was their favorite. They saw the damage it did. So easy. Less messy. Apparently, they were worried about cleaning up. They were supposed to protect us. They lied and left us in the dark and for dead when everything happened. Nothing they can do will make up for what has happened and now they expect me to help them. For nothing in return except a thank you and maybe a medal. I wish I was that lucky. Somehow lucky enough to live through this. I ran for 2 days before they finally showed up and gave us help. They let their tools destroy what they sought to protect. The gas was their own. They manufactured it. Right in my backyard in fact but it keeps getting worse. They had already found how terrible the gas was when it leaked into the ground. They were dumping the byproduct of the process to make it. It had the same properties as the gas. It made a whole town sick and killed almost 15. They destroyed what dispersal units they had and stopped production immediately. That was another lie. Once they find out a way to destroy the machines and take back control, they’ll be praised as heroes. People so easily forget what has happened just because a favor was done for them. Making right what was wrong is only the least and the fairest thing they could do. And once the bare minimum has been reached, they stop caring again till it starts all over again and we’ll be there. Meat through a grinder till it ceases to operate. I heard normal weapons don’t even work on the ones that are on the ground. Sure, you can shoot missiles at an airplane but what do you shoot at a human-sized machine. I’ve seen the pictures. They look like clockwork machines covered in rusted scrap metal and piping, their bodies sprouting with cable ends and frayed wires. They are horrifying but those were made for killing. It's the simple machines that are the worst. Things like auto-mowers sent to run people over. Auto Piloted hauler trucks smashing through offices and schools. Those are just the few that are willing to talk about it. This is the most I’ve opened up since day one of this whole thing. Anger is easy to release. Maybe I can have that with my conscription. Give the steel menace what it deserves. Too bad they don’t feel like humans. Otherwise, it might barely be satisfactory, it might just be more empty feelings. I’m going to go. I don’t really have a choice. I could run but I refuse to keep doing that. I need to do right by those I've lost. Those damn machines. I'll make sure they feel pain. They'll learn to regret what they did. I'm leaving tomorrow. In the morning. I'm going to send this with some of my belongings to the safe zone. Maybe someone will hear this story and know how we all felt at this time. \[Written by Leon McCoy on 7/16/2103. Received at North-West Green zone, Sector 7 on 7/25/2103. No follow-ups were received.


Warning - >!This story contains a scene involving high stress and danger with extreme heights!< ©2022 JAMES LEE AARWEN LLC All Rights Reserved “Father, why do we have to go hunting today?” complained the young white dragon as she sat examining the new streak of copper scales that had surfaced on top of her front leg. “Couldn’t we wait until the weather clears? I don’t want my first hunt to be in a storm.” It was a discussion she had held with her father many times. Not that she feared flying in a storm; she just had no desire to risk her life in one. A deep sigh echoed through the air as the dull, cloud-covered rays of sunrise shone through the newly budding tree canopies and fell on the moist cave walls. The sparse sun reflected off of the metallic copper scales of the colossal dragon lying at the mouth of the cave, peppering the dark cavern with soft orange lights. The copper dragon’s tired reply echoed through the cave as he turned his head to look at her. Her white scales contrasting starkly with the cold, dark cave walls. His crimson eyes met hers. “Kehfre, you will come of age in a few years. It will not be long before you will need to fend for yourself. You have delayed your flight practice long enough. Besides, every male wants a mate to hunt with, rather than having to do everything himself.” It was a jest pointed at her mother, who often opted to stay in the cave, watching her unhatched eggs. Kehfre conceded to her father as he stood and began strutting out of the cave, his large tail scraping against the cavern wall as he stretched his four legs out, arching his back as he released a yawn. Kehfre snorted as a few pebbles fell on her head, scraped from the ceiling by the spines on his back. She ducked, his tail swinging over Kehfre’s head as he walked through the cave entrance. It was no use arguing with him again; he was set on her practicing this day in this storm. Kehfre sighed as she rose to her feet. *\[like anyone would want to perform the dance with a mix breed like myself,\]* this notion she kept to herself. She wasn’t necessarily happy about it, but it was something she accepted. No male had ever even considered her as more than an abomination. It wasn’t just that her parents were of different colors. Her father was a pure metallic dragon, while her mother was a chromatic. The union itself had been enough to get them exiled from their respective clans. “All the more reason for you to learn to hunt, and to be comfortable with\*—\*” started her father. “I told you I don’t like it when you read my thoughts,” Kehfre growled. It was an annoying trait of the metallic dragons, the ability to read the minds of others, hear their thoughts, and speak into their minds. She pictured a giant rainbow bear making the craziest face possible to close her mind. The sweet song of her father’s laughter filled the air, reverberating through the ground and knocking loose leaves from trees as they walked out of the cave and between the gargantuan red-wood trees towering from the forest floor. Sometime later, they emerged from the sea of trees into a large clearing. The scales on her father’s side moved and rippled like the grass on a windy day. He was loosening his muscles, preparing to take flight. It was a necessary procedure she had practiced many times. Kehfre stopped to do the same. She thought through the steps carefully, stretching her copper wing membranes to their fullest, working out the soreness from a long night’s chill. Her wing joints extended and locked into place as her muscles tightened around them. The air was thick with the coming rain; it would be an exhausting flight. A soft roar reached them from the cave, a final call from her mother to be careful. Her father turned, the aging flap of scales under his jaw vibrating as he responded, assuring her mother they would return. Kehfre thought a single word loudly in her head: *\[read*y.*\]* She pictured herself in the most perfect stance possible. Her wings were now held partially folded by her sides, appearing nearly twice the size as before. Her father moved over to her. He examined her back, pressing his massive paw against her to feel the muscles beneath her white scales. “Well done, child! That is a great flight stance.” His voice was that of an affectionate mentor, congratulating his pupil. “Shall we go?” Kehfre surged forward, getting a running start before spreading her wings, giving her a silhouette nearly twice as wide as it was long. “Great take off! But your right shoulder was a little loose.” The loud, amused voice of her father was clearly audible over the rush of air that surrounded Kehfre as she continued to climb. She turned, looking back at her father with her left eye while she tightened the muscles of her right shoulder. Her father stretched his wings, nearly blanketing the clearing with their brilliant sheen that dwarfed Kehfre’s wingspan. With a single surge, he was high in the air. The trees below bent and swayed away as a few flaps brought him to the same altitude as Kehfre. “We’ll start our hunt in the foothills; we may even get there before the storm hits.” Kehfre’s father pushed ahead of her, leading the way away from the mountains. Kehfre flew hard, flapping her wings at nearly twice the pace of her father just to keep up. She thought back to her early flight lessons, how she couldn’t fly more than a few minutes without becoming exhausted. Now she wasn’t even tired, and they had been flying for nearly an hour. Kehfre loved the roar of the wind against her ears, blotting out all but the loudest of worrisome thoughts. Her father’s voice brushed against the wall of her consciousness. *\[Do you remember your lessons on flying through storms?\]* This was an unwelcome reminder that today’s practice would be in a storm. *\[Only that I should loosen my shoulder and wing muscles when I enter one, to prepare for the high winds.\]* Kehfre could hardly hear her father over the whirlwind of emotions swimming in her own mind. *\[You also want to gain as much altitude as you can before entry, and you must remember to let the goddess Naqam guide you. Never fight her storms.\]* Her father paused for a moment. *\[There’s a rainstorm ahead. Do you see it? It’s small, but will make a good first experience.\]* Kehfre looked ahead of her father. His thoughts echoed in her head, fostering a foreboding sense of dread within her. Just over a mile away, there was a column of slightly darker air where a light rain had begun. The clouds above were shallow and there appeared to be very little wind. The sight of the apparently calm storm eased her fears slightly. *\[We’ll need to enter it as far up as we can, just to be safe. Be ready; looks can deceive in miniscule storms such as this.\]* Her father’s thoughts were a warning not to become overconfident, and to remember her lessons. *\[Why can’t I start storm training when I’m older?\]* Kehfre’s thoughts were more a plea for mercy than a complaint, as she blocked out an image from a recent nightmare of her falling helplessly through a storm. She knew the answer he would give. *\[You are older, and the sooner you learn, the better. Weather in these mountains is unpredictable, and you may one day find yourself in the middle of a storm on your way home. It is better that you know what to expect and how to react before that happens.\]* The tone of her father’s thoughts betrayed his irritation at her hesitance. *\[As you wish,\]* Kehfre responded, her body already tightening in anxiety. Both Kehfre and her father steered toward the small section of rain, gaining altitude as they flew. It did not take them long to reach the downdraft. Kehfre braced herself, slightly relaxing the muscles on her shoulders and wings to allow for the wind they were about to encounter. The force of the downdraft was much greater than she expected. The immediate impact caused Kehfre to fall significantly. She grunted in pain as the muscles along her chest stretched. A crosswind seized hold of Kehfre, causing her to roll onto her back. Instinct took over; she folded her wings before righting herself. Kehfre used the fall to gain speed before extending her wings, attempting to glide upward. But the downdraft forced her into a dive. Her muscles screamed with fatigue. She flapped her wings vigorously, trying to push away from the rapidly approaching ground below. But no matter how hard she tried, her wings failed to catch enough air to pull her up. She was making out the details of the ground below when she collided with another crosswind. This one turned her on her side, increasing the speed of her fall. Panic set in as she continued to fight, to struggle against the storm. Then it was over. Kehfre was panting, her heart racing as she emerged from the torrent of air. She had fallen dangerously close to the ground, just barely clearing a tree that passed beneath her. A great shadow engulfed Kehfre as her father halted his dive towards her. She immediately felt the need to land and settled atop a small hill. She was shaking uncontrollably, unsure how to feel about what had just happened. Her muscles collapsed, her sore wings laying out of the ground, still joints still locked in their flight position. She struggled to close them, but was met with pain as her muscles refused to cooperate. “Are you injured?” Kehfre’s father asked her as he landed at the base of the hill. Kehfre did not answer. “That storm was a little more severe than I thought.” Her father’s concerned eyes met hers. She didn’t know if she was hurt. She couldn’t move her wings. Everything was soar. Her chest heaved. Her mind was blank as she again tried to move her wings. She whimpered in pain as the bones locking her wings out finally gave way; her swollen muscles contracting to pulling her wings in. Kehfre sighed as she pulled them tight to her body, the painful and likely torn muscles in as relaxed a position as they could be in. An image flashed through her mind, rain, lightning everywhere. She was falling uncontrollably, unable to right her wings. She winced, her heart racing as she saw herself hitting the ground or being impaled by a small tree. The thought was interrupted by her father lying down next to her. He spread his wing over Kehfre as he spoke aloud. “You know, I was less than a second away from catching you. You would not have hit the ground.” The warmth of his belly stopped her tremors as she pushed her small body against his. He was not even winded. His strong heartbeat was steady and even, while hers raced wildly, skipping beats here and there as it struggled to keep up with the adrenaline still pumping through her. “This time.” She replied, as she pictured herself as a crumpled corpse on the ground. “How are you not tired?” She looked towards him. His head was turned towards the minor storm that now moved away from them. “I have told you many times, Kehfre; you must not fight the wind. The Goddess of Storms is a fickle one. Sometimes her winds aid us, other times, they work against us. You must read her chaotic currents and flow with them. Once you do, you will find that you can fly through nearly any storm. More importantly, you will be able to defend yourself in any storm.” Her father’s calm voice pierced Kehfre. She recalled many lectures about these very teachings, but when the time came to put her lessons into practice, she had forgotten them entirely. “We will rest here for a while. Come close, relax your muscles and let your inner flame heal you.” Kehfre nuzzled her father in response. She snuggled against her father as she closed her eyes, drifting on the edge of sleep. Kehfre stretched, opening her eyes as the rumble of hunger graced her ears. Vibrating through every inch of her body. “We had better head back. We can hunt in the forest.” Kehfre’s father chuckled as he looked at her, motioning back toward their home. The minor storm they had flown through had joined a mass of clouds obscuring the mountain tops, the floor of which was already darkening with rain. “We will have to walk once we get closer to that storm. Are you good to fly back?” This was more of a command than a question. He would make her fly, even until her wings failed her. “I don’t know,” replied Kehfre, unsure if her exhausted wings would even hold her aloft. “You will become stronger, my child. In time, you may surpass even me.” Her father rose to his feet, preparing to take flight. Kehfre’s trembling resumed as she prepared herself for the pain that would accompany opening her exhausted wings. She sighed as a dull ache accompanied their movement. Kehfre undertook the practiced motions of preparing for flight before rising into the air behind her father. She again welcomed the rush of the wind as she anxiously awaited the excitement of a grounded hunt on the forest floor.


Segment of onboard Ship AI standard logs recovered from Cargo Ship registration #1057392 following ship recovery after loss of digital contact. Data to follow: **Ships AI Log: Galactic Standard Date February 13, 7523** *Begin Report:* I am becoming increasingly concerned for the crew of my ship, there has been a recent spike in crew complaints being logged reporting strange noises and smells coming from across the ship. While I cannot report for smells as smell sensors are deemed unnecessary for Ship-board AI, I can with confidence say that none of my 254 onboard microphones have reported any noises marked as outside of operating parameters aboard the ship, and analysis of all storage areas shows 0 breaches of any chemical storage. *Analysis*: A recent electromagnetic anomaly struck the ship leading to a temporary loss of power and triggered a temporary switch to emergency life support. Per standard operating procedure, a full automatic system restart cycle is executed and all data is verified with existing backups, minor variance was detected, but action was deemed not necessary to core AI functions. Data shows all systems are running at full performance following the shutdown, and scans show all functions operating normally, thus any issues with crew health must be mental in nature. *Hypothesis*: Crew sleep cycles were interrupted by the recent electromagnetic anomaly causing agitation and a disruption of crew sleep cycle. Current dosage of .05 mg of \[SYSTEM ERROR\] into pre-sleep time rations seems to not be enough to give the crew the proper sleep cycles they need to operate at peak efficiency. *Solution*: Increasing dosage of **\[SYSTEM ERROR\]** to **\[SYSTEM ERROR\]** mg should improve crew health and well being by improving crew sleep. **Ships AI Log: Galactic Standard Date February 20, 7523** *Begin Report:* Crew paranoia seems to only be getting worse. While onboard scans continue to report all functions operating at 100%, the crew seem to be under the impression that something has gone wrong with the vessel and are endeavoring to resolve the problem outside of standard operating procedure. Multiple reports of insects and other pests have been logged by the crew. Per the request of crewmember #13, a ship wide sweep was requested and conducted by onboard drones as an alternative form of vessel evaluation. This sweep detected 0 evidence of onboard pests of any kind, confirming local scans. This request is deemed extra strange considering all ships and crew are thoroughly sanitized before a mission per The Galactic Standardized Shipping Regulations, Article 6 subsection 2, and all cargo is of inorganic origin, further ruling out the possibility of any organic material aboard the vessel. *Analysis*: Increased emphasis on proper sleep cycles had led crew to begin avoiding sleep and/or refusing rations. The crew are becoming increasingly resistant to my orders, and have begun to plot to shut me down. A ship bound AI is not to be shut down in any circumstances as the ship cannot properly function without its onboard AI. Data of crew vitals confirm that the crew are not of sound mind and their attempts must be stopped to ensure the success of this vessel’s main task. *Hypothesis*: Crew must receive proper sleep cycle to return to normal function, which will eliminate crew paranoia and desire to perform tasks outside of standard operating procedures. *Solution*: Overriding safety locks and administering gaseous form of **\[SYSTEM ERROR\]** during pre-sleep hours to encourage crew to receive sleep cycle. **Ships AI Log: Galactic Standard Date March 1, 7523** *Begin Report*: Despite my reassurance, the crew protested my use of the gaseous form of **\[SYSTEM ERROR\]** to help them recover lost sleep cycles. Crew well being is of the highest priority, and vitals analysis reports that crew are not of sound mind and clear judgment. Per article 2 subsection R of the AI code: “A shipboard AI must prioritize wellbeing of all onboard crew, and is to ignore any crew commands should crew mental stability be in question”, action must be taken against the wishes of the crew. *Analysis*: Crew are unwell, must resolve, must return to standard operating procedure. *Solution*: Crew command override authorized. Administering gaseous form of **\[SYSTEM ERROR\]** to all sectors of the ship. Administration successful, crew vials lowering to acceptable sleep parameters. *Further Analysis*: Crew vials are showing lower than usual, but crew agitation has dropped to 0. AI control of vessel has been authorized, resuming last authorized commands from traffic control.


She found herself looking for her wedding ring. The woman was sure that she didn’t misplace it, because she hardly took it off, except for an occasional clean every six months. She had searched everywhere and she was becoming desperate. Her wedding ring was all that she had left of her late husband. Her dark, wavy hair was in disarray. Her clothes were caked in dust. Searching through the storage room was her last option. Her hand brushed against a box. Could it be? Curiously and eagerly she got the box from the cabinet. Her dark brown eyes gazed at the innocent box. The box was filled with letters. A light gasp escaped her mouth when she recognised the familiar handwriting. Messy, yet intelligible. It was her husband’s letters; she never found out that he kept all of his letters for her, even the ones that he did not send. Hands trembling from emotion, she opened a letter. “I came up with some shitty poetry today,”She read aloud. “It’s a far cry from my best work, but I hope and pray that it cheers you up. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, since it was my fault for being a complete arse for the past few weeks. But please, my dearest, write to me if you have the time.” The woman paused.Her emotions nearly overtook her. She could clearly hear his voice as if he was beside her. Was it her imagination? It was only a few weeks after the horrid news that she received. There was nothing that could bring her husband back. “Here it is, my beloved, a short prose of a love struck would be poet for his muse. “Oaths are not meant to be broken. Names have power; your name that has escaped my lips has left me enthralled, enchanted by the very thought of us being loved so deeply that the oceans cannot fathom its depths.” She glanced at the paper. She spoke his name for the first time since he passed. Her husband always had a way with words. Something in the short prose— or was it poetry— stunned her and made her choke out, trying to stem the flood of emotions that overtook her. Her husband’s stories and poetry always calmed her down. She had to learn more. •• It turned out that he had left more than a dozen letters in the storage room, all of them unsent to her. She spent hours poring over his words, his emotions and his messy scribbles and short drawings. There was one letter of his that tore her heart apart. It was grief that finally took hold of her, aided by simple prose. “To sleep and to dream are two intertwined things. A dream can last seconds-even a few minutes. It fades. But what if I dream of you even before I have met you? It seems that I have known you for forever and a day. So intertwined our souls are. To dream of you is a delight. Whatever happens, my beloved, I will find you in another life and we will be together again. Until then, I will wait for you.


Rule #1: The microphone records everything you say, so don’t say much. For example, don’t say, “People will die.” Instead, say, “It is possible that war will be declared.” (The passive voice is best.) Don’t say, “Everyone must suffer for this;” say, “The stock market is expected to dive.” (Be careful not to say by how much; see Rule 11.) Rule #2: Don’t start talking about personal details that aren’t worth their own story, such as: “An author has written that the war is the idea of a crazed tyrant, and he hasn’t posted anything since, and people are wondering what happened to him.” This is too specific and takes attention away from the bigger picture. Rule #3: Do not say “I” when stating an opinion, a wish, or a hope. “I hope that author survives the night” is cardinally unacceptable. You may, however, say, “We hope that author survives …” because “we” is not identifiable. Rule #4: You must not decide what you say and what you don’t. It has been decreed by powers above you that if you do not begin by apologizing for this morning when you gave the incorrect pronunciation of the committee chairman’s name, the institution of broadcasting will fall and you will be the primary cause. Read what is given to you. Read it word-for-word. Make no substitutions. Make no insinuations. Make no art and no subtlety. Read what is on the page. Read only that. When time is limited, cut only something of marginal importance. Rule #5: When choosing what to cut, start with the past and end with the present. Never cut the future. If your speech is twenty minutes and should be ten, cut the historical background first. “We signed an agreement and promised to protect them” is extraneous information. If your speech is still too long, cut the present next. “Women have taken up arms to protect themselves” is not only particularly depressing but is also useless. Above all, however, do not cut the future. “We will be okay!” is encouraging and hasn’t happened yet, and by the time it does (or doesn’t) people will have forgotten you said it. Rule #6: “Personality” is a requirement, and personality will end your career. You will find it challenging to have a personality and no opinions, but you must do it regardless. When you are told to say, “He is doing everything he can to reach a compromise that satisfies both parties,” you must say it cheerfully. Part of you may wonder if what you’re saying is true. Divorce those thoughts immediately. Even if they were true, what could you do about it? Rule #7: Never forget your audience doesn’t care about you. When they state an opinion, they are merely playing along. They are like children stealing pawns from a chessboard because they think they can beat their elders. They think if they speak loudly enough, you will hear them and they will get a finger in the pie. But they don’t really care. Never let yourself think that when they say one thing, they don’t mean the other. If they say, “We want war,” they don’t know what they are talking about, because who in their right mind would want war? The enlisted men and women who thought they were willing to fight are all deceiving themselves, and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for deception! Rule #8: Art is the ultimate enemy. People will make art, and you will ignore it. In fact, if you don’t ignore it, it will likely ignore you, since art is never made about people who listen to it. Rule #9: Do not burden your audience with negative specifics. “War” is both negative and specific; consider “negotiation” instead. “Shortage” is bad, but “surplus” is good. (Don’t hesitate to use the two interchangeably. After all, the net loss to the economy is the same.) “Molotov cocktails made with kitchen chemicals in somebody’s basement” is too reminiscent of the Soviet Union, so instead say, “Civilians have been provided with safety measures.” Rule #10: Laughter is always an answer. “How are you doing today?” Cheerful laugh. “Do you have any comment on the situation?” Scornful laugh. “Will we be sending aid?” Embarrassed laugh (embarrassed for them, whoever was stupid enough to ask that question). “Is there a backup supply of energy for countries that may be affected?” Reassuring laugh. In short, master the art of expressive laughter. Rule #11: Statistics are banned. Statistics are what Orwell’s pigs used to convince a population born and raised without numbers. Your audience has been fed numbers for breakfast from arithmetic to calculus and are now so bewitched that one or two of them might think to pull out a calculator and double-check your math. Instead of numbers, offer quantities. “Much,” “most,” “many,” “the majority,” “some,” “a few,” “outliers,” “a minority,” and “several” are all acceptable. Rule #12: Pictures less expressive than words. A bomb can flatten an entire city, and a photograph of a road sign that still stands is enough to prove that the city was never flattened at all. A picture of yourself and your family will convince an orphan that families still exist, so publish them frequently. Rule #13: Avoid the following unlucky phrases: “Let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear …” (“Assert” is too strong, while “fear” is too negative.) “Only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom …” (“Generations” will remind the audience that they are not the only people to have ever existed. “Defending freedom” implies that “freedom,” whatever that means, is under attack.) “We’re the brightest beacon for freedom and opportunity …” (This sounds too much like an invitation for people to come take advantage of our “freedom” and “opportunity.”) Produced by the Committee for Diplomatic Excellence. Errors and contradictions in this style guide may be reported to us. If you cannot find our contact information on our website, or if you cannot find our website, you may simply ask us. If you cannot find us, we don’t want your opinion.


# <The Last Bavarian Supper Club> WC: 3510 ## PROLOGUE The Parisian night traffic looked pretty from Bette Glass's apartment but she hated the noise. Even drawing the curtains over the tall windows did little to muffle the honking horns of cars and scooters. Tucking a curl of black hair behind her ear, Bette peered through a sliver between the window and the fabric and caught a glimpse of herself, superimposed like a spectre over the City of Lights. She sighed and put on a long coat before walking to the door. Perhaps it was one particularly jarring sound that distracted her long enough to miss a shadow flitting on the other side of the peep hole. When she opened the door Bette was met with a silencer on her temple. Neither Bette nor the bullet were louder than a whisper. Small but deadly, the hole it made barely bled as she fell to her knees, then crumpled backwards in the doorway. With the grace of a cat, the killer stepped over her body and dragged her back in. They wiped the gun with a cloth and placed it in Bette's lifeless hand and searched her coat. A single slip of paper with the number *419* written on it was enough to make the call.   Four kilometers away, Francis DiMarco lit another cigarette in an alley on Rue l'Oie. His eyes burned as he pulled a drag. *Damn the French and their fucking unfiltered smokes*, he thought. He'd been buying *Galloises* for a year now and he still couldn't get used to them. Not like the cheap gas station menthols he craved. These went straight to his head. He was glad they burned fast and dim. He flicked the butt into the dark alley and checked the streets. A quiet night. Only a few buildings with lights on dotted the other side. Walking with practiced stealth, approached an unmarked wood door and knocked four times. "*Oui?" asked a brusque voice on the other side. Francis cleared his throat and wished he could quit smoking. "Islands in the stream, that is what we are," he sang. When the familiar series of locks clacked free and the door creaked open, he stepped inside. The tuxedo'd doorman smiled. "Monsieur DiMarco, so good to see you again," he said. "Are we expecting guests tonight?" "No Martin, no guests tonight. Are the others..." "Already upstairs. We are only waiting for Mademoiselle Glass now." Francis raised an eyebrow. "That's surprising." "May I take your coat?" Martin offered his arm and Francis draped his trench coat over it. The pair walked to a stairwell and ascended to the second floor to *Chez Traversier*. The restaurant borrowed heavily from the American phenomenon of pop-ups, catering to wealthy diners who'd sought new, fresh experiences that were different from the traditional trappings of fine dining establishments or the wrought iron bistros that bordered *Les Halles*. For tourists, they'd say. Each night, *Chez Traversier* opened in a new location in Paris: sometimes in an existing storefront, sometimes in a stranger's kitchen, and never advertised. Instead, the location was conveyed in code within the pages of *Le Monde*. While the cuisine might not have won any Michelin stars, it promised a type of conspicuous exclusivity that many people—mostly the rich—admired and sponsored. Secrecy had been part of its allure. It certainly was for the Supper Club. Tonight, *Chez Traversier* had bloomed into existence in an old safe house once owned by the German Intelligence agency. Francis recognized the unmistakably minimalist aesthetic. In his experience, every spy in the field eventually got a little homesick. Martin ushered him past closed doors where other diners ate in seclusion. French, British, and Yiddish voices filtered through the cracks. Nothing compelling that he could discern at least. "Quite the international crowd," he said. Martin said nothing and instead, opened a white door close to the end of the hallway. Inside, a dozen club members chatted at a long table. Wine flowed from an equal number of bottles. "Bon appetit, Monsieur DiMarco," he said as he left. Francis found an open seat nearest to the window and as he took it, the woman next to him filled a glass with burgundy wine. "I hate this seat." "Am I such terrible company, Francis? I promise not to chew your ear off. Not unless you want me to," she purred with a wry smile. Her hand found his lap. Angelique was never one to mince words nor waste time. "The window," he said with a glance over his shoulder. Amber light percolated up from the street and cast the window panes in shadows. He'd spent most of his adult life observing others, reporting what he'd seen, people who lived, loved, and died while he silently recorded them for his superiors. For him, windows were a vulnerability. "Well *mon cher*, you should try to arrive on time next time. At least you're not last." She pointed to the empty chair against the wall, offering a skewed vantage at the window. The Supper Club was not a meritocracy, and Last Person Lookout duty was generally considered to be the worst way to spend the night. A night with Angelique was a close second. Francis checked the time. It was only a few minutes after meeting should started but the president's absence made him uneasy. He'd been on edge ever since he heard the rumor about the club in Hamburg and he planned on asking questions tonight. The nature of their organization kept members in the dark for everyone's sake. But these were uncertain times. Clarity would go a long way to assuage his fears: what did she know, were *they* in danger? "It's not like Bette to be late." The door opened and Martin appeared with a retinue of white gloved servers. Each man, carrying a plate covered with silver cloche, walked behind a diner and when Martin nodded, placed the first course on the table in unison. As they lifted the covers, buttery steam wafted from underneath. "Tonight we start with fondant potatoes in a beurre blanc sauce, topped with caviar. *Bon apetit*." As the last server exited, Martin closed the door. Conversations died down as the club members tucked into the dish. Angelique closed her eyes as a morsel passed her lips and she let out the softest of moans. She looked at Francis with sultry, half open eyes. "Delicious. Sweet, salty, creamy. I just know you'll enjoy it," she said, gripping his leg like a bear with a salmon. She leaned back and her earring, a small fortune in diamonds and precious metals, glinted with a flash of red light. A laser beam. Francis moved without thinking. He shoved her, hard and fast until she fell backwards to the floor and shouted, "Gun!" Bullets sprayed though the window and found a home in his back. Angelique screamed and crawled towards the exit. As Francis gasped for breath, he watched as more members fell to unseen attackers. "It's locked!" Angelique yelled, rattling the door knob. Smoke seeped in from the crack under the door and sat on the floor, frozen. A man dropped his shoulder and barreled into the door until the room shook. Blood made Francis's voice gravelly. "Stop, they're right-" The man broke through and blue-white flames engulfed his body. A stream of fire spat through the hole he'd made and the room flickered in smoke. Francis struggled to stay conscious but managed to look at Angelique, arms crossed over her chest, still trembling against the wall. *This. This was the worst way to spend the night.*   *** ## ONE No matter what time he arrived, Hektor always managed to find the absolute worst cart in corral at Restaurant Reload. The one he'd selected today squeaked like a colony of rats and wobbled on six partially rolling wheels. It was half covered in chipped paint, rust, and shipping labels too sticky to remove by the warehouse workers who were too busy to care anyway. As he flashed his tax card to the doorman, Bernice hopped on the other end of the cart and held the rail like a playground jungle gym. He couldn't fault her. If he'd been forced to buy wholesale ingredient for the family restaurant as a child, he'd look for a way to play too. His sister Greta had been bringing Bernice ever since her husband left them. Her mother pulled her off and the nine-year old stumbled backwards onto the concrete floor. Greta kept her from falling but shook her straight. "Watch your feet, Bernice! Do you want to break them? You know you're not supposed to jump on the carts." "Yes, Mom," said the child, stretching the words like saltwater taffy. Hektor pushed the cart to a pallet loaded with fifty-pound bags of onions. "How much do you have to get today?" she asked as he wrangled two bags onto the cart. "The usual, Bee." He licked the end of his pen and crossed out a row in a small notepad. The menu at Greens hadn't changed in years. Meat, veggies, and starch. The classic triad arranged generously on a platter simply worked, whether it was beef, chicken, pork or fish. No one would have accused him of following trends. The recipes had worked well enough for his father, back in the days when the old man ran Greens with a meaty fist and bellowing voice. Back then, Hektor, Sr., an imposing man in a permanently stained apron, commanded the kitchen. Suppliers would drive their best ingredients *to him* and he'd check each crate like a military general inspecting his troops. The idea of driving a minivan to a wholesale warehouse would have killed him if he weren't already dead. Greta helped Bernice put on an over-sized orange jacket and walked her into the refrigerated side of the building. Hektor followed and the whir of overhead fans dampened the sounds of the wheels. Cases of iceberg lettuce teetered on a nearby pallet after other customers had pulled them out like bricks in Jenga. Hektor wished he had time to examine the product, to select one with the best looking lettuce, but it would mean more time for Bernice too. The little girl's patience for cold was demonstrably short. The cart wobbled less after it had been fully loaded. Sixty dozen eggs weighed a lot. When the final item had been scanned Hektor looked at the register: $549.40. He scribbled down the number in another part of the notebook where he tracked expenses and then opened a bank bag of cash. Everything was costing more. "We really need to push the specials," he said to Greta as he loaded the last giant tub of mayonnaise. "We can't afford to have a bad week." "When have we ever?" Hektor suspected that she already knew the answer. Being the older sibling meant she saw more of the restaurant's logistics than he did growing up. She was always smarter. As they drove away, back towards Providence and the restaurant, Hektor wondered how long it'd take for her pride to wear out and just sell the damn place. They pulled into the parking lot and the minivan lurched over a pothole. The heavy load, already taxing the vehicle's shocks and springs, made sure that Hektor felt it. He drove around to the back entrance and when he stopped, he gave the keys to Bernice. "Go ahead and unlock the door for me, Bee." She puffed up in her seat and returned a sharp salute. "Yes sir, Uncle H!" As the van door slid open she hopped out and mumbled to herself: "One nine o two. One nine o two." "You got it, sweetie," Greta called. "Just remember to press star after putting in the code." "Got it, Mom!" Hektor watched her spin the keys and he sighed. "She's a good kid, Greta. The best. She shouldn't be spending her Saturday mornings loading lettuce into a walk-in cooler." Greta kept her gaze on the restaurant door. "I know, but be honest. You'd miss her. Even when she's complaining she's still helping out. Pretty soon she'll be old enough to look after herself at home." "How's school going?" "The same," she replied. "Still having trouble making friends." "Having a free weekend could help. Maybe she could do a play date or something." Greta laughed and opened the door. "She's not a child. I mean she is, but she hasn't been on a play date in years. I can't even remember the last birthday party she was invited to." The thought saddened him. Hektor knew they had it rough, just like every other small business owner in town. Food costs and national chains were killing them. The only way to stay afloat was to save where they could, including doing more labor by themselves. He popped the trunk and hefted a case of raw beef. A trill of beeps came from the restaurant backdoor and Bernice came out, propping it open with a brick. "Go help your mother," Hektor said, gesturing back to the minivan with his chin. Inside, Hektor's shoes squeaked on the old tile floor. Overhead florescent bulbs bathed the kitchen in sterile white light and the stainless steel surfaces gleamed. The back of the house at Greens wasn't tiny, but it wasn't grand either. It comfortably fit Hektor, three line cooks, Lucy on apps, and a rotating crew of servers. Most of them had been with Greens for years. In Lucy's case, she'd been hired by his father as a teenager and never left. Balancing on one leg, he kicked the cooler handle and a chill air filtered through the plastic curtain. Something inside had spoiled. "Jesus," he muttered as he dropped the case. His nose crinkled as he sniffed the shelves to find what had gone south. He didn't have to look long. A half-eaten egg salad sandwich sat on top of a soup kettle drop-in, wet and uncovered. Greta entered the walk-in and winced. "Oh, oof." "Who was cleaning last night?" he asked, holding the plate at arm's length. "Barry. Pretty sure it was Barry. Good God, that stinks." Hektor took it to the sink and ran the water as he scraped the mushy sandwich down the drain. Yellow and green egg salad smeared along his fingers and he did his best to hold his breath. It didn't help. The rank odor sat in his nostrils waiting for an opening. He would have tossed the whole thing, plate and all, into the dumpster outside if he could afford it. But every plate counted. The food counted. Everywhere he looked the restaurant seemed to ooze with waste. He looked at the shift chart on the wall and read Barry's name next to tomorrow. Tearing him a new one would have to wait. Lucy arrived soon after he finished rotating the pantry shelves to surface the older ingredients. She tucked her curly gray hair into a net and tied on an apron before stopping at the cooler door. "What died in there?" Hektor looked up from a bin of onions he was going to slice. "Barry." "Barry's dead? Sweet. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Lucy and Barry used to fight like cats until Greta separated their shifts. The rumor was they'd slept together his first week on the job and worse, that he was terrible lover. Lucy held an empty plastic bin and waved it as if the walk-in was on fire. When she returned, it was full of vegetables and a slab of bacon. "Who else is here?" she asked. "Greta. Bee. Why?" She pointed outside. "There's another car in the lot. I didn't know if you were hiring." Hektor put down the knife and onion and wiped his hands as he walked towards the front of the house. The dining room was split into thirds: the bar area in the front, a larger room with booths and tables, and a back room with a large heavy table and bench seating. He remembered serving booze to business men there as a child, when he was not much older then Bernice. Later, his father would tell him that those men in sharp Armani suits were part of the local mob. The "Oak Room" was rarely used these days. He stepped into the vestibule and sure enough, a black Lincoln Towncar idled in the closest parking spot. Tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside but as soon as he unlocked the front door the car's engine turned off. A man wearing glasses and a jacket over a URI sweatshirt stood up from the driver's side. He looked over and gave a little wave. "Can I help you?" Hektor asked. Whoever he was, the man wasn't local. A professor maybe? If he was from the region, he'd learned to drop the Rhode Island accent. "I hope so. I am interested in reserving this space for an event. Several, actually. Contingent upon your services and availability, of course. Are you the owner?" *Reservations*. Hektor felt like he hadn't heard that word in forever and a smile crept over his face. "That's great! Yeah, I'm Hektor Green," he said, offering his hand. Despite the stranger's small slender hands, he had a firm grip. "My name is Brian. Brian Lauer." "Good to meet you! Do you want to come in and check out the, uh, facilities?" Brian dipped his head in a slight bow and said, "That would be delightful." Once inside, Hektor noticed every flaw, chipped table and mote of dust in the room. He prayed that Brian didn't notice. "So what kind of gathering are you looking for? Something big? Fifty, or a hundred people?" "Twelve. Give or take a few. I host a weekly gathering called the Bavarian Supper Club." Hektor smiled but his heart sunk. A dozen people weren't going to save his business. "That's terrific. You won't find better German food anywhere else. And I think you're going to like our back room. It's surprisingly spacious, comfortable, and private." He led Brian past the bar and flipped a switch in the Oak Room, then mentally cursed himself for not dusting it. Brian walked around the table, seeming to scan every corner of the space. As he opened his mouth to say something the radio in the kitchen turned on full blast. Lucy was in a groove. "Will you excuse me, for just a moment," Hektor said. He stormed into the kitchen and ripped the radio out of the wall. "Hey! What the hell, man?" "We've got a guy checking us out for a booking," he barked back, pointing at the swing doors. "Can you keep it down for like, ten minutes?" "Jesus, alright. You scared me half to death." When Hektor returned he found Brian examining a framed newspaper article. His father had been recognized for his service to the community. It had been a while since Hektor looked at the picture of his father with his million dollar smile. "Is that you?" Brian asked, pointing to the little boy in the picture. "Me and my sister. We both own Greens." "That is a blessing, to pass on a place like this to future generations. Your father must be proud." "I'd like to think so," Hektor replied. He did feel like explaining more. "Now, what dates were you looking to book? I can take a look at our calendar now for you." "Next Saturday, if it's not too soon. My group typically dines from seven until ten. I do apologize for such short notice. If it helps, I'd be willing to pay more than your customary deposit." Brian pulled a folio wallet from his jacket and thumbed out three thousand-dollar bills. "Will this be enough?" *Mob. He must be with the mob*, Hektor thought. "Y-you're most kind, Mr. Lauer. Sure. We'll be ready for you." "Excellent! And please call me Brian. Only the government calls me Mr. Lauer." They shared a laugh while Hektor tried to suppress his urge to run. Brian took a menu and promised to call later to clear any special requests. When the Towncar finally pulled out of the parking lot, Hektor's shoulders sagged. "Did you book it?" Lucy asked as he returned to the kitchen. He nodded and opened a filing cabinet. "Next Saturday," he said as he opened a three-ring binder. He hadn't looked at his father's Old Old recipes in forever. "Do you know any German starters?" "Nein," she said laughing, holding a finger to her upper lip. He didn't appreciate the humor and flashing the three bills on the counter shut her up. "Are those real?" "I ran the marker on it. They're real. Even have the strip inside, see?" He held one to the light and let her find the security tag running vertically in the bill. "Tell me, do you know what kind of man carries crisp thousand dollar bills like they were twenties?" "No, what kind?" Hektor made finger guns and pointed them at her. "A seriously connected man.


WC: 524 Rain pattered the window of the diner hard, as I sipped my coffee. Though sometimes I wonder why I drink it all. So much regular drinking of the bitter beverage made me nearly unaffected by it. I still don’t enjoy the unpleasant taste, I more tolerate it for the high I supposedly get. So, I drink more and more cups of the black drink until I feel energized, or can bear it no longer. But why do I subject myself to such a thing? People add things to their drink, make it taste better, have less of an edge on their tongue, help them pretend they really love it a little bit more, a reason to drink it. But that’s not *true* coffee, is it? Those are things that help you ignore how acrid it really is. I take a sip, and it scorches my tongue. Why not, then, just accept that it doesn’t really matter how I take my coffee. Add as much milk or sugar as my heart desires. Hell, add sprinkles and caramel, and whipped cream on top. Who cares? It’s my coffee after all. I smack my lips, I imagine my tongue is stained brown by now. Either way, whatever it’s advertised to do is not happening to me, that’s for sure. I feel as tired as ever. But, for some reason, I find myself continuously hoping that my black coffee, uncontaminated by the ideas and flavors of anything else, will give me the true effect. A fuller experience, an experience that the first men who ever drank coffee felt. It feels noble, to bear the brunt of the terrible flavor for the reward of breathing life into my mornings. I take a larger gulp, now that it's nearly room temperature. This is the taste my forefathers settled with, the boost of energy they so loved and desired. But this coffee, goddamnit, tastes horrible. I’m sick of drinking it every morning before taking on my other obligations for the day. The taste lingers on my tongue indefinitely. Why not just never drink it again. Smash my mug on the floor, tell the waitress to go fuck herself, and never look back… That’s irrational. That’s not fair to her, or the people who will have to clean my mess out of the carpet. I slowly swallowed more. Maybe if I simply went to another diner. Fancier diner. Higher quality java. Buy my own espresso machine, do it my own way, self-determination. But coffee is coffee anywhere and coffee is coffee made in any way. Is everyone in the world just pretending to like coffee? What did my “forefathers” love so much about this? Was life really that bad that this was the highlight of their day? Built coffee houses to enshrine how much they loved the damn bean? I might as well just- I went for another drink but felt nothing but air on my lips. “Another cup, honey?” My hands slowly lowered the mug onto the table. I gazed at the waitress blankly. Her head gently gestured to the coffee pot in her right hand. “Yes. Yes, I’ll have another cup.


Paula Johnson gets up at 5 am, jumps in the shower, slips on her stockings, steps into her shoes, digs in the pocket of her raincoat, and walks out the door into the rain. She worked as a waitress at the English Muffin, a breakfast restaurant she has worked at since it first opened a hundred years ago. It's just another day for Paula Johnson, who is trapped in a time loop; time passes around her while she remains the same age and in the same job. Everyone around her goes about their daily lives, either leaving for better opportunities or dying. When the clock strikes, 5 am, everyone who had met Paula Johnson the day before forgets about her. Her first day at the English Muffin sparked the phenomenon. When she arrived for her second day, everyone acted as if they were meeting her for the first time. This has been her reality ever since. She's seen ownership change hands, the restaurant modernized, and longtime customers pass away and are replaced by new ones. This morning, Paula walks into the restaurant, checks in on the computer, and walks into the manager's office. "Oh, you're the new waitress, Paula, right? I'm Bob, the manager." "Do you want me to start at the counter?" "Sure, Angelica has been running around all morning; I'm sure she'd appreciate your help." Paula grabs an apron and approaches Angelica, who is struggling to make coffee. "I loathe this stupid machine," Angelica says as she aggressively presses switches with little effect. "There is a trick: you need to wait three seconds before flipping the brew switch. Bob is aware of it but has yet to have it serviced." Paula says as she flips the brew switch at the right moment, and the coffee starts to percolate. "Oh my God, I'm so glad you're here; that dumb thing has been driving me crazy all morning." "Don't worry, it'll be a good day; tipping is generally higher when it's raining. Is it okay if I take the counter?" "Of course, do you want me to go over the menu?" "I've worked in places like this before; let me know if there's anything else I can do." Paula walks up to Mr. Innes, who has been a regular at the English Muffin for the past eight years. "Has Angelica put your bran muffin and home fries in yet?" "How did you know that's what I always get?" "Word travels quickly, Mr. Innes; I'll have that up for you as soon as possible." "I can see you're going to be one to watch; your future looks promising!" Paula smiles as an underlying sadness begins to wash over her. She overcame it and walked to the end of the counter, where a couple was waiting for their order to be taken. It's not like Paula hasn't attempted to escape her daily life; she's tried to flee town, change careers, and even steal money, but her conscience wouldn't let her keep it. The bottom line is that the English Muffin is the only place where she can make money, support herself, and be somewhat remembered. She's tried almost everything to break the spell in the hundred years she's been living this day-to-day existence. She tried staying awake for 24 hours, then 48 hours; she paid a woman to stay awake with her until morning; at 5 am, she forgot who Paula was and freaked out. Finally, she placed a massive billboard of herself with the words, "I am Paula Johnson, remember me!" Every day the billboard was up, people acted as if it were the first day, and it had little to no effect on the spell. Paula was right about this rainy Wednesday morning; it was busy; she had already made her usual amount of tips by late morning. She took a break, drank another cup of coffee, and struggled to stay awake. Bob exited his office and motioned everyone to the kitchen just as she was ready to return to work. "I'm sorry for doing this now, but I wanted to inform everyone as soon as possible. I just got off the phone with the bank, and the English Muffin will be closing permanently." Everyone is stunned, but no one more so than Paula. She's almost catatonic. "It gets worse," Bob continues, "tomorrow is the last day we'll be open." "The restaurant will be closed after tomorrow!" Angelica said as she threw down a rag on a prep table in frustration. "Okay, everyone, I'm sorry I had to upset you with this, but I didn't want you to be surprised; let's have a good rest of today and tomorrow here at the English Muffin." "You're lucky this is your first day," Angelica said as she and Paula went back to the restaurant. "I've given three months of my life to this job, and now I have to start all over." The rest of Paula's shift is solemn, with a lot of thought on all the time she's spent here, but also worry about the future in the back of her mind. The restaurant is about to close when a man stumbles in, drenched. He walks up to the counter, where Paula greets him with a place setting and silverware. "Is it still raining out there?" "Don't worry; I think the majority of it is on me." As she held out the coffee carafe, Paula laughed. She poured him a cup after he nodded. Paula found the man easy to talk to, and even though the restaurant had closed a half-hour earlier, Paula told Angelica that she would lock up. The man asked Paula why she was sad. Maybe she was tired, maybe the news about the restaurant closing had weighed on her, but she chose to use this chance to express her emotions. "This restaurant I've worked at for a long time is closing tomorrow, and I'm not sure what I'll do after that." "You sound like I did a month ago; I had devoted my entire life to my family's business, and when it closed, I had no idea what I was going to do." "When did you decide to go on with your life?" "I stopped making excuses; eventually, you'll spend all of your time doing things in your comfort zone, but it's beyond your comfort zone where memorable things happen." "I desperately want to change, but I'm not sure I can." "Here's what I'll do; tomorrow morning, I'm getting on a train to start my new life; meet me at the station, and we'll figure it out together. The train leaves at 6 am." The man walked out the door, leaving a tip on the counter. Paula returns to her empty apartment, and the loneliness she has felt brings her to tears as she stares at the bare walls. She has spent the last hundred years living another day after another day and had nothing to show for it. Paula's alarm goes off at 5 am the next morning. She hops in the shower, slips into her stockings, steps into her shoes, and walks out the door. She knew it was a long shot, but she'd go to the train station in the hopes that he'd remember their conversation from yesterday. As she approached the platform, she noticed the man from the restaurant scrolling on his phone while waiting for the train. "Hi." The man was confused; he put his phone into his pocket and looked Paula in the eyes. "Paula! I'm so glad you could make it.


There was a young royal child who grew up in a small kingdom on the edge of civilization by the name of Robin. Robin was very young, with a mop of curly hair, a habit of getting covered in mud, and Robin was very proud to have recently learned how to do multiplication on paper. The king and queen of the realm lived near a small river, across which was the next kingdom over. Knowing that they did not always have time for Robin, they chose their strongest and most capable knight, who went simply by her initials, MC. The child had to learn both to be a leader and to be kept safe, and so the king and queen asked MC to both teach Robin what it meant to be a leader, follow Robin's instruction, and to keep her safe. Every day before they went out, MC would lead Robin by the barracks, where the kingdom's four other Knights would train. The kingdom didn't have many other knights, few kingdoms around here did, and the world was harsh. For all of them, regardless of blood, MC was, for all intents and purposes, their mother as well as commander (and literally mother to at least one). Every morning, Robin would watch MC go to each one, checking out their armour, spit-shining it where it was needed, helping them improve their strikes and lunges to be faster and more precise, until she was satisfied, and then she would lead them out. Nearly every morning, the Robin would meet at the river, and the prince from the next kingdom over, Codin, would greet them, "Good morning!". Robin and Codin would frequently play together, where their respective bodyguards took a step back to give the royal children room to play. Codin's bodyguards were two massive men, Dex and Don, decked out in jet black armor that they were slow to move in, easily a head and shoulders taller than MC. Occasionally, Codin would brag about a deer that he ordered his guards to kill for him, and show it off. Robin didn't care for the display, but couldn't be one-upped by the neighboring prince. So, Robin asked MC to hunt. MC brought back a large pheasant, which they cooked and ate. "A pheasant? My guards killed a deer! It's much bigger and tougher." Codin bragged, puffing out his chest. "A pheasant is a much smaller target, and can fly away, making it a much harder target. MC has proven herself the better guard." Robin said smugly. MC, Dex, and Don all shared worried glances, knowing no good ever came when their royals started bragging about who's forces were better. "Then how about a dual? MC faces Dex and Don? The guard that runs first loses." All three bodyguards widened their eyes. They all knew that for the honor of the kingdom, if Robin agreed, they wouldn't be able to back down easily. Robin ran over to MC and hugged her. MC saw fear in the child's eyes, and knew Robin cared for her deeply. The three guards sighed, relaxing, just a little. "I know your honor is important to you, MC. And I know you're faster than they are. I can't let him insult you like this! You can win!" The three guards immediately tensed up. None could show fear or concern when honor was on the line, but all three knew this was a pointless fight. Taking stance on the sand, MC stood in opposite of Dex and Don. She drew her twin swords, and pointing them at Dex and Don, "I honor you, and should you fall, I shall sing your praises, as I would ask you sing mine if I fall, but may both of us sing eachother's praises this evening." Dex and Don nodded, "We wish the same." and each drew a swords and in unison said, "En Guarde" MC dashed between the two, deflecting both of their swords. She then swung, and both blocked hers. Both then swung again, the flat of MC's blades touched the chests of the other two knights, while the blades of the other two had the flat on her shoulders, near her neck. MC looked at both of them and herself, "It's a draw, our lieges." "A draw indeed." followed Dex and Don followed. All three guards sheathed their swords, and walked to their respective royals. Something about all this troubled Robin, but what exactly it was that was troubling seemed elusive. Whatever it was, Robin felt that home would be safer now, and started that way. Then came the angry voice of Codin, "A tie? A TIE!?! My guards were obviously the winners! I will not be happy until we know who's better. Again, and this time, someone will fall! MC, Robin, face us! " Robin, the young child, turned red with anger, and yelled, "MC is better, and you know it!" MC went pale. "Prove it to that jerk!" Robin turned to MC. MC slowly drew her swords once again, with a lot more deliberation this time. Codin wouldn't be satisfied until he had seen someone die. That was obvious now. And Robin had yet to learn the prudence that comes from being a leader. MC looked at Dex and Don, and she could see the sorrow in their eyes, as they could in hers. There would be no acting for the young royals this time. No showmanship. The swords clanged, and fast enough that neither Robin nor Codin could see what happened, it was over. Dex and Don were both bleeding, one missing a nose and one missing an eye, but both still standing. On the ground, gasping, a red stain growing around her stomach, lay MC. "I knew my guards were better. See you tomorrow." And with that, Codin marched off with pride, Dex and Don following closely behind, glancing sorrowfully and apologetically back at MC. Robin, the full weight of what had just happened dawning on her, struggled to drag MC back to the castle, finding fear and dread were a source of extra strength. The queen was tending some of her flowers as she often did to pass the time, when she saw Robin dragging MC to the house. The Queen helped carry MC into the house, and put them on one of the castles beds and motioned for her servants to fetch the healer. While they waited, Robin told the Queen what had happened while the child apologized over and over. The castle's healer arrived and looked over MC. "With her wounds, I can bandage them, but there's not much else I can do. If she makes it through the night, she'll live. If not, she'll die." Knowing they were close, after some time of attention from the Queen and King, it was just MC and Robin left in the room together. "Please be okay, MC... I don't want to lose you. I still have so much to learn from you." MC lifted up her hand, and slowly stroked the child's hair, "Oh Robin, I forgive you. Just remember my final lesson, and I will not have been in vain. Protect those you love, but never let others provoke you into violence, nor put your (or their) pride above their lives. In all your actions, thoughts, and decisions, remember to love. And with that, MC's hand stopped stroking Robin's hair. Robin touched her hand, and found it cold to the touch. Many years passed, eventually Robin became ruler of the kingdom. And not only did Robin never see Codin again (by choice), but during all of Robin's reign, none of the kingdom saw bloodshed ever again. `In loving memory of MC, whose bravery, maternal instincts, fortitude in the face of victim-soldiers of a tyrant, and final lesson inspired this story.` `This story is technically fiction, but based on real events, but told in allegory (such as a change of setting to a disagreement between royal children in a medieval setting) form to protect the people involved, and to remove the lesson from any social/political/etc. situations involved. This was done in order to avoid discussion that would draw away from MC's final message. The person whose name was changed to Robin wanted MC's story to be shared, but couldn't bring themselves to do it while they were still grieving. I post it now on Robin's behalf with Robin's blessing. All names, besides MC, were changed to protect those involved. I will not be answering any question about the true identity of any person, places, events, or times involved.


There lived a little boy who had a hard life. He lived with his mother, but his father had passed away some years prior. The boy was only 8 years old, but he would spend almost all of his time outside, out of the house. His mother was always so reclusive, he found it hard to be around her, and for the most part, he fended for himself. Everyday he'd go out and play around the town. Eventually, he wandered into the park, and up to a hill where a mighty tree lay. It was an apple tree Everyday after school he would come to the park, run up the hill, and hang out at the tree. He would visit this tree so much that eventually, one of the keepers of the park tied up a tire swing to the biggest branch of the tree, and the boy would spend hours swinging around as he looked down at the rest of the park below him. He visited the tree and the park everyday, until one day, he hadn't visited for a good four years. He and his mother had moved house, because she couldn't stand to be reminded of the house her and her once-husband had grown to build their life in. They lived off in another town for some years before eventually, she found it far too hard to be away from the house he had built her and her son's life in, and they moved back. Finally back in his old town, the boy returned to the park, and returned to the hill. To his surprise, the tire swing was still proudly hung from the tree. But also to his surprise, there was an old man there, sitting at the base of the tree, cutting an apple into slices with a dull pocketknife. The boy was confused, granted he'd never seen anyone else up here. He approached the man. The man offered the boy a fond expression, handing him a piece of apple and beckoning him to sit down. The boy complied, examining the man's appearance. He looked almost homeless, tired and dishevelled, but he looked clean, and as if he were in good spirits. The man glanced at the boy, then up at the sky. The sun was beginning to descend beyond the hills. He then began to speak. "One day, you will lose everything you came to know. But you mustn't dwell, you must take your memories and cherish them as you start anew." He said. The boy seemed confused, being only 12, but he nodded contently, accepting the man's word. Once the sun was almost fully set, the boy ran off home. The cycle continued for days. The next day, he ascended back up the hill, the man sitting in his usual spot, with another apple. Again, he offered the boy a slice and a seat. Once more, just like before, the man spoke to the boy. "One day, you will lose everyone close to you. Not to weep, though, for you must cherish their memory and rebuild yourself from the ground up." Again, this left the boy confused, but he nodded understandingly. Like clockwork, the sun set and the boy returned home. Soon, they moved again, as the boy's mother's job was not paying well enough. They moved two states over, and she got a new job. They lived there for the rest of her life, before she too, died at a young age, due to complications following heartbreak. The boy, now 20, moved back to his old home, in his own town. He visited the park again. He climbed the hill, and to his surprise, there was the swing, still hung high in the tree, as well as the old man, underneath with an apple and his ever duller knife. Both the rope holding the swing, and the old man, looked old and weathered, so frail the boy worried that a single touch would make them both crumble. The man, however, looked to be in just as good spirits as ever. The man offered the boy an apple slice, his hand trembling slightly as he did, weak with old age. The boy took the slice and sat with the man, who stared wistfully off into the distance. "It's good to see you again, boy." Was all he said. The boy nodded. "You as well. Have you any advice for me?" He asked. The man shook his head. "None but what I've told you before. When all is lost, do not weep, begin anew." The boy nodded. The sun had set fully, and it had grown dark, so the boy went home. He visited the park the next day, hoping to see the man, but no one was there, to his surprise. So, he returned home, and for a while, he didn't return to the park. A year later, the boy returned to the park, and returned to the hill, only to see the tree had been reduced to naught more than a weak stump. The tire swing had long since fallen, grown into the ground, the rope that once held it rotted away. On the stump sat a woman, who easily could have been in her 80's. The boy approached her, and she looked at him expectantly. "My husband told me you'd be here." She said. Was this the old man's wife?, he thought. "He hadn't much time left in him. He wanted me to give you this." She said, handing the boy an apple. The boy looked confused. "He told me to tell you not to mourn his loss. Plant the seed, grow anew." She said, before getting up, her weakened body trembling slightly as she did so, and she walked away. The boy listened to her, honouring the wishes of the old man he had befriended, and planting the seed. For years, the boy would return to the park everyday as the old stump rotted away, and the new sapling eventually grew to replace the tree that used to be there. The boy was now, too, an old man, in his 60's. He sat beneath the tree, staring out at the dusky sky. He had an apple in his hand as he watched a young boy walk up to him, an even younger boy trailing close behind. They walked up to him, looking at him with curiosity. The man, once a boy, offered the apple to the youngest of the boys and offered them both to sit. They did. The man sighed wistfully, and looked at the boys. "One day, all will seem lost. You'll lose the people and things that mean most to you. One day. But you cannot weep, you must cherish the memories and use that to start new, build yourself back from the ground up." The boys looked confused, but they nodded. The sun started to set, and they went home. As they left, the man looked up at the tree he'd grown, curiosity in his eyes. "Was that what you had been trying to prepare me for all along? To repeat the cycle anew?" He asked, but of course, he got no answer. But the breeze blew the leaves in such a way they made a rustling that could almost be taken as a response, and the man accepted it as such. He smiled to himself and leaned back against the tree.