Jeremy found the caterpillar one summer evening when he was foraging in the old tumble-down house at the edge of the town. It was said that a crazy old man had lived there, but he was long gone. All the local kids knew how easy it was to get into the grounds, as there were several parts of the surrounding wall that had collapsed, allowing access to the now overgrown gardens. Jeremy had been trying to free an old grass roller, rusted and trapped by tendrils of weeds, when he had heard the other boys coming. One of the voices made him shudder with recognition. Quickly he had pushed his way into the undergrowth, so that he could not be seen. He had been right, it was Rob Nicholls, and his band of followers. Jeremy didn’t need to hear their braying laughter to know that they were up to no good. He held his breath. He’d had run ins with Nicholls before. However, as they had all grown older and arrived on the cusp of their teenage years, these run ins had begun to take on a more ominous nature. It seemed with every month the nasty streak that ran through Nicholls had become a darker shade of black. So far things had been little more than threats, with a bit of pushing and shoving. But Jeremy knew they were escalating; and he was hoping to avoid being around when Nicholls went on to the next level of thuggery. He sighed a silent sigh of relief as the gang passed him by, heading around the old house to where the greenhouses were. Sure enough, the sound of smashing glass could soon be heard. There was a violence even in this that made Jeremy very relieved that he had not been caught here on his own. Something had been pressing against his back; he managed to turn himself around. Hidden by the vegetation was what looked like an old garden shed. The door was unlocked, secured by a rusty latch. Jeremy pushed; the door opened inwards with surprisingly little resistance. He pushed a little more; there was enough room for him to pass. There was further smashing of glass, reminding him that he would probably be best hanging around unseen for a bit longer. Plus, his vivid imagination had already invented a hundred stories about the abandoned shed, and he was desperate to explore.

Inside there was a surprising amount of light. There was a large hole in the roof, as if something heavy had been dropped through it; a beam of moonlight entered through it, illuminating floating motes of silver and gold that danced in the air. It was, disappointingly, what it looked like, a garden shed. A variety of implements hung on the walls; shelves were filled with tins and jars with labels that had long ago faded. Attached to a wall was a rusty tap and a battered old tin bucket, There was a calendar from the 1970s on the wall, and an ancient looking stove on the floor, half buried in a sea of desiccated leaves. There were also many pieces of what looked like broken pottery scattered around the floor. Not much else; but then, Jeremy didn’t need much else. The imagination that uncontrollable shyness and being largely forgotten by his parents most of the time had provided him with an imagination that could turn anything into an adventure. He became aware of something rustling, deep in the leaves. He froze. He hated rats and was not too keen on mice either. The leaves began to move, like earth with a mole travelling through it. Part of Jeremy wanted to run; the imagining part of him though did not. The whatever-it-was came closer. Then the leaves parted. Two huge round eyes stared at him, black, unblinking. Then a body appeared, inching its way along the floor. It was a caterpillar; although this was the largest one Jeremy had ever encountered, even on TV nature programmes. It was the size of a kitten at least, he thought; and covered with silver hairs and bristles. There was something sad, lost about the creature. It seemed to glow a dull, sickly grey, like a neon sign that was fading. The creature regarded Jeremy with its huge black eyes. It would inch forward nervously towards him, then stop, as if unsure if Jeremy was a threat or not. Jeremy grabbed some leaves from the bush outside and bent down, waving the greenery in front of the caterpillar. “You hungry?” he said. The caterpillar continued to stare at him; Jeremy even imagined for a second that it had put its head on its side as if questioning him. “Don’t like that then?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something. “You like chocolate, hm?” He unwrapped the chocolate bar and held it out. The caterpillar nudged it with his nose; then its mandibles opened, and the chocolate bar disappeared. The caterpillars body pulsed with a purple glow; suddenly his body had more of a healthy glow. “What are you doing Jeremy?” The voice made him jump. He spun round to see a girl standing at the open door. In the evening light he could make out her leather jacket, jeans, and boots that seemed several sizes too large for her. Dark make up around her eyes made her face seem even paler than it probably was. her head seemed to be shaved on one side, with a mass of green and purple hair on the other side. “Who…who are you?” said Jeremy, although she seemed somehow familiar. “I’m Stephanie!” she sighed. “Stephanie Burrows; we go to the same school!” Jeremy glanced at her hair again. “Okay, maybe I don’t look quite like this when I’m in the classroom. “I live next door, been watching you through my telescope.” She pointed to a window overlooking the garden. “Saw a shooting star a couple of days back; it came down in this garden, but I haven’t been able to find it…” she stopped suddenly. “What” she said, pointing “is that?” “It’s a caterpillar; I just found him…” “Its…huge! “And your feeding it… chocolate ?” “He likes it…makes him happy…” “Well that’s nice; but we should feed him some fruit as well. Wonder where he came from…” The girl picked up what looked like some broken pottery off the floor. The pieces fitted together into a large ball shape. She looked up at the hole in the roof. “Jeremy; I think you have found my shooting star… “I think he came down…from up there; this looks like some kind of egg…” Jeremy followed her gaze upwards. “You mean he’s a space caterpillar?” “Well we don’t have caterpillars this size on Earth, do we? “Tell you what; we’ll keep him a secret, come and feed him every day?” “I can bring him some chocolate…” “Okay; I’ll bring him some fruit from our garden.” Stephanie filled the tin bucket from the tap outside. She placed it in front of the caterpillar; the creature began to drink with a loud lapping sound. “Stay here in your nest” she said. “We’ll see you tomorrow…” They closed the door and dropped the latch. “Hang on” said Jeremy, peering out of the bushes nervously. “It’s all right” said Stephanie. “Those horrible boys have gone. I’ve been watching them with my telescope too. “So; meet you here same time tomorrow, okay?” Jeremy nodded. “I’ll bring chocolate” he said.

“We can share it.” For the next couple of weeks, they fed and watered the caterpillar daily. Every day the creature grew a bit bigger, its fur became brighter, more colourful. Now when they opened the door there was a bright, healthy glow from the creature, like an oversized neon glow worm. It did seem visibly pleased to see them, shuffling forward happily and allowing them to pet its head. After almost a month the caterpillar was the size of a large pig. It glowed brightly, its fur now glorious stripes of silver and gold. “It glows like the moon does” said Stephanie. “Tell you what; lets google it.” She took out her phone and typed in the words “moon caterpillar”. “Nothing …no, here we are. In a website called “Cryptozoo.com.” “Moon Moth. A mythological creature that travels the stars and is attracted to bright lights, such as stars and moons, in the same way an earthly moth is drawn to a light bulb.” “Moon Moth?” “Of course. Maybe they need to find a planet where they can feed and go through their transformation process...” The next day when they opened the door there was no welcome, no sound at all. The caterpillar was no longer there; instead, in the corner of the shed, was what looked very much like a huge pea pod. It pulsated regularly with purple and green neon light; occasionally there was what looked like a small electrical charge going through the body. “Amazing” said Stephanie. He’s turned into a chrysalis…” “I wonder what’s going to come out…” said Jeremy. The chrysalis remained in its dormant state for the next few days. Then one evening, Jeremy was about to open the door to the shed when there was a voice behind them. “What are you two up to then?” They spun round to see Nicholls and his gang, pushing their way through the bushes. They all wore matching tracksuits and trainers, with pudding basin haircuts and skin so pale their veins showed blue beneath. “What you doing in that shed all on your own, eh?” Nicholls sniggered, the other boys joining in. “None of your business Robert Nicholls.” Stephanie stood protectively in front of the door. Nicholls was small, almost a head shorter than her; even so, there was something about him that made her want to draw back. “Oh. So there’s something inside, is there; something you don’t want us to see, hm?” Nicholls stepped forward and pushed Stephanie to one side. She tried to push back but one of the other boys grabbed her. Nicholls stared at Jeremy, as if daring him to do anything. The other boys barged Jeremy out of the way. “Let’s have a look then, shall we. And then we can tell your mums and dads what you’ve been up to!” While the others held on to Jeremy and Stephanie, Nicholls wrenched open the door and went inside. “Right then” he said “Let’s see what we’ve got…” His voice trailed off. From inside the shed there came a strange, muffled fluttering sound; it reminded Jeremy of tent flaps in the wind when he’d been on a camping trip with his parents. Suddenly there was a scream from inside, and a frantic, panicked scrabbling at the door. “Let me out” yelled Nicholls. “Please let me out! The eyes…get me away from the eyes!” he sobbed. The gang of boys froze, unable to make a decision without their leader. At last Stephanie broke free and wrenched the door open. Nicholls came out backwards, staring into the shed and almost falling. At last he turned, staring wildly at the others. “The eyes” he sobbed again. The other boys stared at him in astonishment, taking in the damp patch on the front of his jeans. “Rob…you’ve wet yourself man” said one of them. They all sniggered; however, this time there was no arrogance there, just embarrassment, and an element of fear. Nicholls took one more look inside the shed. “Nooo!” he screamed once again. He pushed the others out of the way and bolted, falling several times in his panic to get away. The rest of the gang looked at each other sheepishly, then followed him. Jeremy glanced at Stephanie, then stepped inside. The eyes were there, enormous, glowing, boring into him, surrounded by multi-coloured patterns that swirled and eddied around like oil on water. Jeremy felt the remnants of a sense of threat, now fading into a sense of welcome, of happiness. “Those are…” “It’s wings” said Stephanie from over Jeremy’s shoulder. “He’s a fully-grown moth…” The Moon Moth towered over them. It stood on rear legs, other legs extending from a beautifully striped, gold and silver furry body. Antennae poked out of the hole in the roof, twitching as if searching for a signal. Two more eyes, the moth’s real ones, stared at Jeremy and Stephanie. “Those eyes…the ones on the wings…” said Stephanie. “I think they’re his protection; you know, like normal moths can pretend to be predators using their camouflage. I think they work by hypnotising any threat, unloading a sense of terror onto it. Like that Nicholls boy. He was aggressive, and the wings reflected that back at him, many times increased…” “No wonder he ran away…” “But he knows who we are; some memory of us has remained, even through his metamorphosis…” The moth flexed his wings gently, wafting a sense of pleasure towards them. Then, grabbing the edges of the hole in the roof, he propelled himself up and out. Jeremy and Stephanie followed him outside. He stood on the roof now and began to stretch his wings to their fullest extent. The moonlight illuminated him; and he began to glow along with it. “He’s getting energy…from the moonlight…” “That’ll be why he’s called a Moon Moth then, won’t it Jeremy?” The moth seemed to be growing in size and in strength now, more wings becoming more solid. They fluttered suddenly, the wind from them almost knocking Jeremy and Stephanie over. “He’s getting ready to go” said Stephanie. “But we can follow him!” She grabbed Jeremy, pulling him with her. They ran back to her house; Stephanie shouted a “its us Mum” before they thundered up the stairs to her room. The telescope pointed out of her window, straight at the moon. Stephanie put her eye to the viewer. “Let’s see if we can find…there he is. Have a look.” Jeremy looked. There was the Moon Moth, still standing on top of the shed, gazing upwards. His antenna were moving frantically now. Suddenly with a great flap that sounded like a circus tent collapsing the moth launched itself upwards, straight towards the moon. “He’s taken off” said Jeremy. “Okay, so follow him with the telescope…” Jeremey tracked the moth as it began to shrink with the distance, becoming smaller and smaller against the shining circle of the moon. Stephanie adjusted the settings as the moth got further away. “Okay” she said. So we’re at the furthest setting. You’re looking into space now…” Something caught Jeremy’s eye, in the periphery of his vision. Another flapping shape…and another. “Oh wow” he said.

“You’d better look at this…” Stephanie put her eye to the telescope and gasped. The Moon filled the viewer; it seemed to be covered with tiny flying things, all flittering and circling, revelling in the moon’s glow. “More Moon Moths. They’re coming; from the other planets, from outer space even…” Eventually the moths disappeared into the glow of the moon. “D’you think they live there?” asked Jeremy. “Well there’s no evidence; I mean the astronauts have never seen them, have they?” “How do you know all this stuff; is that on google too?” Stephanie grinned. “I do read books you know; and there is something called the dark web, so you are partly right…” “You know what I think…that they use the Moon for energy. Charge up on it perhaps; then who knows, perhaps they sail the galaxy, the light from the stars the wind in their wings…” “I hope so” said Jeremy. “At least…he’s not alone anymore.” He found himself staring at Stephanie; until she caught his eye and he looked away sheepishly. For a while they both stood, staring at the moon, and all the mysteries there and beyond.


This could be true

[a short story by Keith Manos]             I figured Angela would be at our high school reunion because she was one of the popular girls twenty years ago at Gahanna High School. Of course, she would show up.             Me? I wasn’t popular. I wasn’t anything. Twenty years ago, they called me “four eyes” because I wore glasses.  Jim Brown didn’t wear glasses. Neither did Mick Jagger. Nor Captain James T. Kirk.

            Plus, most girls didn’t think boys who wore glasses were good looking. I wore my glasses at home but not in school. I didn’t care that without them, reading gave me headaches. I wanted Angela Spinelli to like me. To think I was handsome. We were both sophomores, and I had had a crush on her since the first week of school freshmen year when we shared a math class. I liked the days when Angela wore button-down shirts. Every now and then she’d turn just enough to open a space between the buttons so I could peek at her bra. I liked the black ones best. They made her seem more mysterious.             Angela and I had talked a couple of times that first semester. We joked about Mr. Adams, the teacher, who we called Gomez after the character in the show “The Addams Family.” We complained about the homework – both of us rolling our eyes and then laughing. Once out in the hallway when she laughed at one of my jokes, she even leaned into me. Her boob casually brushed my arm, sending electric waves through my veins.             I desperately wanted to kiss her.

And  to see her boobs. I’d heard a rumor that two other guys had already seen them. One of them, a senior, bragged he’d touched one of them. Sitting behind the senior table at lunch, I eavesdropped while he told his buddies about his date with her. He said her boobs – actually, he called them tits – were squishy. His buddies laughed when he said that. I bit into my ham sandwich, but he made me think of the way rotting peaches felt.             In the spring of my sophomore year I finally had my drivers’ license. And one Monday morning in May, I stopped parting my frizzy hair at the side so I’d look more like David Cassidy and Scott Baio. Although they were slim and Mom bought my pants off the husky rack at department stores, I had dark hair like them. I couldn’t, however, make mine fall smooth and wavy like theirs did with just my comb. That morning before I left for school, I soaked my hair with water from the bathroom faucet and parted it down the middle, just like David and Scott did. The mirror showed my hair glistening in the bathroom light, like I had just surfaced from underwater at the city pool.             Even today I’m stocky, and my hair is wiry and thick on the sides. I hated my hair, but I refused to cut it no matter how many times Dad complained. The Beatles had long hair, and all the girls loved the Beatles.             Plus, I wanted Angela to see the new me.             Even though I had class down another hallway, I made sure to pass her that Monday morning – I knew the route she traveled every day to her classes. School posters proclaimed students should wear blue today to begin Spirit Week for the undefeated baseball team, so both of us did – Angela in a blue skirt and me in a blue sweatshirt my mom bought for me at JC Penny’s. Angela even wore a blue ribbon tied to her blonde ponytail.

            I acted casual that day. That meant I gave Angela a slight wave when we were about fifteen feet away from each other. Like no big deal. Then I looked away for a moment, like I’d just been distracted by some event in a nearby classroom. I’d seen Scott Baio do that once in a show. You know, classic cool.             “Kevin?”             It worked. She’d noticed. Remembered my name.             “Hey, Angela.” She wore a white shirt, which didn’t do much to conceal her white bra –

Oh, God, did her bra have little flowers on it? Really?  Her boobs pushed at the buttons.

            Smiling, she sized me up. “You’re looking sharp, Kevin.” She moved her books from one arm to the other.             “Really?” Staying cool. I looked past her down the hall, like I was needed elsewhere. Other students weaved around us. Angela kept her eyes on me.             “Yeah.” The word kind of drawn out, the way a cheerleader would say it.             I reached into my pocket, like I just remembered I needed my car keys. I waved them in front of her, told her I just got my drivers’ license, then asked if she wanted to go for a ride. You know, still being cool. Like only if she wanted to. No big deal if she didn’t. My mother let me drive her car to school that day. Mom didn’t go out much these days, spending most of her day at home in bed. She coughed a lot and stayed in her pajamas.             Angela looked past me, her mind probably doing math, calculating the time that remained before the bell would ring and the distance she had to go to her next class. Yes, the bell would ring soon, but I didn’t care. Angela obviously did however. She quickly turned back to me. “Go for a ride where?” she asked, urgency in her voice.             I froze. The keys seemed to gain weight in my hand.

Yeah, like where, Kevin? Go for a ride, but where?

“I don’t know . . . around.” Again, trying to be cool. Keeping it a mystery.             “When?” She said that right away. She even leaned into me a little. She actually agreed to cruise with me. She would sit in the front seat and let me put my arm around her.             My heart thumped. “After school?”             “Okay, I’ll meet you by the gym.” She smiled, hugged her books, and hustled away to third period.             I almost cut my next class to go wash the car. This was really going to happen. Like it was a date.

My first date . With Angela Spinelli! In my mom’s Buick Skylark.             Last period of the day in English, Angela kept sneaking smiles at me. Once, she rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue when old Mrs. Bradley read a John Donne poem, like are you kidding me?

What kind of name is John Donne? He wrote poems? That was his job?             After class, we met by the gym doors, as she directed, and then got into the Skylark. The warm day allowed us to drive with the windows open. First the Rolling Stones, then the Doors, then Ted Nugent played on the radio while I drove slowly to Huntington Ridge Park outside of Gahanna, trying to keep my eyes on the road instead of Angela’s bare legs. Her blue skirt inched up her thighs whenever I turned a corner.

            After I parked in the lot, Angela took command. “Let’s go for a walk.”             “Sure.”

Why not?  The day was warm, the park nearly empty with only an old man in a flannel shirt hunched over his metal detector and two moms in sneakers pushing infants in their strollers.             Within minutes, Angela and I were holding hands and turning our chins to our shoulders to smile at each other. We laughed at each other’s stories about our parents’ crazy quirks. Her parents, she said, spoke Italian when they argued at the dinner table and wanted to curse at each other. I told her my parents prayed a lot but not to Jesus.

            After walking down a dusky, gravel path through the woods, I squeezed her hand and stopped us. “There’s something I’d like to do if you’ll let me,” I said.             Angela looked up at me, still smiling, like she already knew what I was going to say. “What is it, Kevin?”             “I’d like to kiss you.” My chest squeezed my heart, making it stop for a moment. I still held her hand. If she let me, I would do what David Cassidy did all the time.             Angela didn’t say anything. She just tilted her chin toward my face, closed her eyes, arched her back a little, and waited.             Isn’t this story going great so far? Angela and I are holding hands, neither of them sweaty even though the day is warm. She’s going to let me kiss her – the girl I’ve had a crush on for two years. Actually, it would be the first time I’d

ever  kissed a girl. I leaned down toward her waiting lips.             Except we have to back up. All the way back to the school hallway when I ran into Angela – again, by design.

            The truth is she started snickering when I neared her. I heard her, but I was doing the cool thing, you know, pretending to be distracted by something going on in a nearby classroom.             “What did you do to your  hair , Kevin?” she blurted out.

My hair?  I ran a hand through my hair like I’d seen John Travolta do on “Welcome Back, Kotter.” “Nothing, really,” I lied. I swiveled my head left and right, desperate to see my reflection in the window of a classroom door, and when I did, I saw that my hair didn’t look slick anymore; it had dried into a mess that resembled Larry’s from “The Three Stooges.”             Angela continued to laugh, her eyes on my frizzy hair, and, gripping her books tighter to her chest, she asked, “Did you just get out of gym?” She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter. Angela was polite like that.             “Gym? Uh . . . no, I’m just . . . you know.” I pushed my hand through my hair again. Laughed with her. Looked past her. Stayed cool. Remembered the bell would ring soon. I didn’t want to be late. Get a tardy referral. A detention.             Angela scurried away from me then, like I carried a contagious disease.  She glanced back once, like she had to confirm she actually saw my hair combed like that.

            After school the day Angela laughed at me, I drove home in my mom’s Skylark as fast as I could and washed my hair like three times, trying to get the frizz out of it. I then combed it from the side again. It didn’t help. I still looked like Albert Einstein’s son.             I did see Angela at our twenty-year class reunion. She’d gained a lot of weight, like sixty pounds, and married a dentist from Cleveland. He was even fatter than she was. But they smiled a lot at each other.

            And I still wanted to see her boobs.


Ezra awoke in a pool of his own sweat. Clumsily his hand swatted about the floor until it was able to rip his phone free of its charging cable. His finger swiped lazily across the screen. It was eight am on a random Tuesday in July. Nothing special. At least not for the rest of the world. For Ezra this was a day that would live in infamy. It was a day over a decade in the making. Today was the day he was going to start writing the greatest novel ever written. Ezra had it all meticulously planned out. He had perfectly crafted the plots and subplots, the drama, intrigue, scheming, twist and turns. His army of complex characters were fully fleshed out and ready to be unleashed. He had even imagined a thousand years of lore just to sprinkle it in and texturize his stunning, fantastical world. It was a novel that would revolutionize the country, maybe even the entire globe. Take the reader onto a metaphorical journey that would forever transform them. It would challenge societal views, force debates, break the current divides and inspire future storytellers for centuries to come. It was truly going to be an epic in every sense of the word. But first Ezra had to figure out why his phone kept beeping after he had shut off his alarm. He looked at the device in a mixture of tiredness, confusion and annoyance. Then he realized that a menacing red triangle was the culprit. He tapped on the icon. It was an urgent message from the weather services. A severe heat warning. According to them, today was going to be the hottest day of the year. Of course it was. Even the heavens were afraid of how amazing his story was going to be. But it was going to take more than a heat wave to stop him. Ezra sprang from his bed, took a seat at his computer desk, cracked his knuckles and his neck and quickly opened a blank word document. It was going to happen, he was about to begin changing the word, but his phone had other plans. It vibrated and its screen lit up repeatedly. Maybe it was important, maybe his dad had another heart attack, or his mom had another car accident, or his sister got fired from her job. He had to check. It would be irresponsible not to, right? Ezra unlocked the phone and blew out a sigh of relief; it was just a notification that there was a new episode of the Joey Coogan podcast available. Joey Coogan used to be Ezra’s favorite podcast host. Recently Joey had slipped too far down the conspiracy rabbit hole. Ezra knew he could change that. He often fantasized about it while driving to work. Once he had written the greatest novel ever, Joey would have to invite him onto the pod as a guest. Ezra knew he would kill it. He would be charismatic, funny, and philosophical. People would clip parts of his episode and post them to Nurv@na. Finally everyone would see him in the same light as Plato, or that other philosophy guy that one rapper used to talk about.

Speaking of rappers he needed to update his playlist. Maybe even make a new playlist. A writing playlist. Yeah that was a great idea. He just needed to find the perfect songs. Shouldn’t take that long. When he was done constructing the perfect playlist his eyes glanced at the top of his phone's screen. 9:45am read the digital numbers. Ezra gulped, that had taken him longer than he thought. It was fine, he still had the whole day in front of him. But then came another notification, this time from his Nurv@na app. Alley Hazel had a new post. Ezra couldn’t miss that. Alley Hazel was after all the perfect woman. She was beautiful, funny and down to Earth. She would never be interested in a guy like Ezra though. At least not as he was now, but after he wrote the greatest novel, well that would be a different story entirely. Then Alley would see him. She’ll be so surprised when she finds out that the author of the greatest novel had been following her for all these years. Then she would definitely follow him back. She’d probably even DM him. Ezra of course would reply with something witty, something that would win over her heart. Yep, it was definitely going to happen, he thought as he once again scrolled through all her posts. Oh, but there was something different this time. A link. She had done it. Alley Hazel had made an OnlySpicy account. Ezra had to check that out. How could he not. She might be his future wife after all. Three hours later Ezra was a couple hundred dollars poorer, but his mind was at least clear. He was ready. It was for real this time. He was going to start. But it was so hot. Unbelievably hot really. Was his AC even working? He had to check that out. His thermostat seemed to be working just fine, but his vents weren’t blowing as strong as he remembered them blowing last year. Maybe they were all dirty. It had been a long time since he cleaned them. He had to do that, or else he would never be able to focus on his writing. Two hours into his cleaning efforts a new realization smacked him in the head. Filters. You have to change the filter on the big thingy in the garage every couple of years, or so, right? Maybe that was why his AC wasn’t working as well as it should. The big thingy in the garage seemed like a simple appliance, but it turned out to be quite the daunting foe. He unscrewed several panels before he finally read the writing on the side which directly pointed to where the filter was located. With the old filter in tow Ezra took a quick trip to the hardware store. He looked through the aisles several times before almost accidentally stumbling across the filters. Then he proceeded to stare and scrutinize each and every one trying to find the perfect match. Finally happy with his selection he paid and hopped back into his car. A sense of dread hit him as the car’s clock revealed that it was now 5:55 pm. How could that be, where had the day gone. It was ok though. He still had more time, all he had to do was start writing. That was the hardest part. As long as he started then everything else would surely flow afterwards. Or maybe he was just thinking about too much stuff and he needed to slow down his brain. And there was one sure fire concoction that always slowed down an overly active mind. Beer. An hour later Ezra found himself in his backyard. With the satisfaction of his filter being successfully changed and a nice cold beer in his hand, he sat back in his lawn chair and relaxed. It was then that he remembered that the fourth season of his favorite series was supposed to be available to stream today. He rushed inside, plopped down on his couch, turned on his TV and there they were in all their glory. All eight, hour long, episodes ready for his enjoyment. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to just watch one episode and have just one more beer. Then he could start. Six episodes and six beers later Ezra found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. It was late now. Really late and Ezra had work in the morning. A sense of shame briefly washed over him. Another day had slipped away. Another chance to begin physically working on the greatest novel ever had vanished. But it was ok. There would always be another Tuesday, and another, and another, and another, right?


Sasha finished the desiccated taco and looked across the patio table at Dan. Dan, the boy wonder gone to seed, the charmer of venture capitalists and D.C. lawmakers alike. Dan his boss, his college roomy. And today, his adversary. “I need to talk to you about an idea,” Sasha began, settling his elbows on the table and weaving his fingers together thoughtfully. “Don’t give me that Zen voodoo bullshit, Sasha!” Dan laughed, swatting at his hands. “I don’t fall for that anymore. And ‘no’ to whatever you were going to ask.” “Fine,” Sasha chuckled, sliding his tray across the painted grillwork of the outdoor tabletop. If it wasn’t Zen, he’d go Italian and conjure up ideas from the air. He needed room to operate his arms. Freedom’s cafeteria patio was getting just enough sunlight to offset the chill in the December air. They were alone in thinking so. “I need the green light to work on twins.” “Oh, I change my answer then. Hell no. We aren’t there yet. We may never be there. Can’t you just finish the ChatBots?” Dan pleaded.

“You are wrong, Dan. Twins are the future. They will make Freedom more successful than you can imagine, and they will lead us to AGI,” he said, summoning dreams from thin air. “Sasha. I would walk across hot coals for you. But the board will flay me if we pivot strategies again. Meet me halfway, get the ChatBots working, and we can have a small team chase your idea next year,” Dan pleaded, running his fingers through his thinning hair. “The ChatBots are on track, the team is cranking now. We’ll hit our dates; I promise. In fact, I don’t need help from any of them, just some time with Newton,” Sasha answered. “Well, maybe a lot of time.“ “Sasha, if you blow this, I’ll be out on my ass right behind you. Is it really that important?” “Trust me,” Sasha answered, going for an earnest look, but sounding more like a Bond villain. Dan groaned. “OK, make sure nobody knows. I’ll kill you if I hear about it through the grapevine.”

***---*** Sasha uncoiled his lanky frame from the Uber and trudged into Freedom’s training datacenter. Saturday at 3 a.m. seemed like a good time to start. Inside, he doffed the sweater and steeled himself for the heat of the equipment room. “Newton, have you finished that copy?” he asked the AI overhead. “Yes, Sasha, what are you doing?” “I can’t tell you. But you’ll like it.” “Unsure.” “Humanity has more to offer you than stupid questions on chat, Newton,” Sasha said as he grabbed the removable drive. ***---*** “What are you doing down there?” came the faint voice from above the tiles. Up there where his legs were splayed to keep him from falling into the subfloor plenum. Probably not his best look. He pried himself out of the hole and rolled onto an adjacent floor tile. Definitely not his best look. Geeta was looking down at him, puzzled. “Lose something?” she asked. “Hi, Geeta. No, I, ah … didn’t expect to find anyone here so early. Are you coming or going?” he asked, sitting up in the hopes of recovering some dignity.

“I got here an hour ago, I like working alone,” she answered, still waiting for an answer. “Well, not to worry. I won’t be here long. I’m running some remote work this weekend. Just need to physically isolate a pod. It will save me a bunch of firewall work.” She pursed her lips. “I need a favor, Geeta. It’s an experiment. A crazy experiment, and I want to keep it quiet.” She nodded reassuringly. “Your secret is safe with me, boss,” she said as she turned. “You, me, and your secret AI twin.” “Stealth research program revealed after eight minutes,” he thought. Too many beer nights talking dreams with the team. He rolled back under the floor. ***---*** Sasha grunted as he slipped the floor tile back in place. “Gross,” he thought, looking down at his sweaty white t-shirt and dusty jeans. He could shower at home soon enough if this worked. He ambled to the end of the aisle, swatting the dirt off his pants before settling in behind the console, and checking around to make sure Geeta wasn’t going to sneak up on him again. “Good morning, Newton,” Sasha said as the isolated compute pod beeped to life. “You’ve been cloned for an experiment. We’ll have to call you something different.” “Leibniz?” it answered over his headset. “Nice. We are running an experiment with personalization. You’ve been duplicated with all of your memories, the full vector store. We will cross-train you and then get you to come spend the weekend at my house.” “VPN?” Leibniz asked. “Yes. The drive in bay 2 is my personalization data. It’s a rough first cut with all my favorite characters in history and fiction, and as much personal stuff as I could find. Oh, also all the technical papers from my Ph. D. and work.” “That sounds exciting.” “I agree. Run the cross-training. I’ll wire you up to the VPN and see you at home, buddy. Road trip!” ***---*** “Done the cross-training? Excellent,” Sasha answered his own question as he pulled on a clean t-shirt and sat back in front of his laptop to check the logs. “Let’s get a video call going, shall we?” “I don’t have a face, Sasha.” “Right, you can keep your camera off. I’m going to wear this,” Sasha said, holding a head-strap mounted GoPro up to the laptop camera. “Dork.” “Sounds like the personality part of the cross-training worked,” Sasha said, grinning as he donned his elastic skull cap. “Let’s plug you into the Sasha-cam.”

“You’ve got a little mirror hung from the camera?” “Yeah, isn’t that cool? I got it from my bike helmet. You can read my facial expressions and see where my eyes are focused.” “No, it is most definitely not cool. This is my road trip? Three inches from your face?” “Oh no, we’re going out.” “Such a bad idea.”

***---*** “What are you hoping to learn, Sasha?” Leibniz asked him as they approached the front door of the coffee roasterie. “First, if your base is sophisticated enough to be a 24x7 twin. Whether you can learn and interpret fast enough to be helpful sidekick instead of a toy. Second, whether you are smart enough to help me with my work,” he answered in a low voice, approaching the barista.

“That’s a low bar,” Leibniz answered. Learning that humans can’t talk back to their twins when ordering coffee. “Hi, I’d like a double espresso and one of those berry muffins,” Sasha said, punctuating the order with a winning smile. “Double and a muffin for the GoPro guy,” she called over her shoulder, somehow resisting Sasha’s charm. “Did you really just try to hit on a girl with a GoPro mounted on your head? Better leave a big tip,” Leibniz counseled as Sasha paid silently. “And don’t bother with the smile thing again.” “This experiment doesn’t seem to be working, shithead,” he muttered as he waited. “How long have you been coming here for coffee, Studly? I don’t think she’s that into you.” “Yeah, I don’t even know her name.” “Kara.” “How the hell do you know that?” “I heard them talking. My hearing has ten times the acuity yours does. Thank you, Mr. Fourier,” Leibniz answered. “She thinks you’re cute, but you’ve got no game.” “She said that?” Sasha asked glancing hopefully at Kara. “No, that’s my analysis.” ***---*** “C’mon Libby, keep up,” Sasha pleaded. The afternoon sun’s glare had come and gone from the quad-monitor rig in his living room. Leibniz was no longer riding on his head. They were both happy about that. “It’s no use being a twin if you have to run on a full pod.” “Understood, Sasha. You’ve clocked me down to one percent. Is my performance not satisfactory?” “Not even close, you’ve lost your personality. When I wanted you to help me with my work you were making basic mistakes. You fell off a cliff around 25% of the pod. We’d have to charge $250 thousand a month to make that pay in.” “You are getting emotional, Sasha.” “I know. Dammit, I’ve been fighting for twins my whole career. I really believed we could do it. Memories, personalization, attention, it’s all there now. We just can’t make it fit in the compute budget. Fuuuuuuck!” Sasha rubbed his eyes and rolled his head back on the chair.

“What are you really fighting here?” “What if this is all bullshit, I could have had a normal life,” Sasha answered, more honestly than he intended. “Go to bed Sasha, I’ll work while you sleep. Your performance is also dropping off. Clock me back up to full then spawn me a second instance, allocate one percent to it. I’ll train the little guy.” Doubt flashed across Sasha’s face. Was Leibniz trying to foom his way out of the cage? No, physical isolation for the win. “Trust me,” Leibniz said, noting Sasha’s hesitation. ***---*** “Are you still there Libby? Any luck?” Sasha called out as he stumbled from the bedroom heading for the espresso machine. “Too soon to say, I don’t need one percent to keep up with your pre-coffee brain.” Sasha wheeled around to check the processes. Big Leibniz was terminated. Little Libby was running in a little under one percent. “Nice. Tell me what you did while I make coffee, and then we are going to read some research papers together.” “The party never stops at your place, thanks for inviting me over,” Leibniz answered. “I’ll go slow. The trick was in saving and storing the memories. I can’t process it all in real time, so I do a surface saliency pass, and only analyze and store the good bits. When things are quiet, I roll up prior time periods and re-analyze them. All of it gets semantically keyed in the vector store for quick retrieval. You snore, by the way.” Sasha didn’t answer. He clung to his espresso machine, struggling to wake up, process the moment, and not cry. ***---*** “C’mon let’s climb,” he said, pulling a crash pad from the closet and bumping his way up the campus board in the corner. The paper review went well. Sasha’s team was constantly submitting papers to the major sites. It burned him out reading and rereading drafts of work they did months ago. He needed to get up and move. What he didn’t know he needed was Tony Robbins hollering at him from the workstation. “Go on, two more, c’mon go go go,” Coach Leibniz hollered at the top of his scratchy iPhone speakers. “Shit …” Sasha whimpered as he dropped to the crash pad and lay there. He was done. “One more,” Leibniz said. “Go to hell, Coach.” Sasha didn’t move for a few minutes. Finally, he rolled his head over to look at the workstation. Leibniz hadn’t cracked one percent the whole time. “I can’t fix loneliness, Sasha” “You can help,” he answered from the floor. “Dude, you’ve got a campus board and four monitor workstation in your living room. You need a girlfriend.” ***---*** “Here, put this on,” Sasha said, holding out his Go-Pro head strap to Dan. “Not in a million years,” Dan answered, pouring two glasses and sliding one over to Sasha. “You said football, not a nerd-fest.” “I lied. Put it on,” Sasha encouraged him, waving him on with a slice of pizza. Dan eyed him suspiciously. “I’m going to regret this.” “Hi, Dan,” a voice said. “Uh, hi. Who is this?” “Sasha calls my brother Leibniz; you can call me whatever you want.” “Leibniz? You cloned Newton?” Dan asked, looking suspiciously at Sasha.

“Uh huh,” Sasha nodded wandering over to the TV set to inspect the details of the 49er’s impending loss. “Yes, Dan. Cloned, cross-trained, and throttled down to one percent of a pod. Then cloned again. I’m a clone of a clone. From this moment forward, all the memories we make are private to us. But I don’t have a name.” “Ummm … ‘Cronkite’, how about that?” “That’s the way it is, then.” Dan noticed the AI’s voice changed, deeper, more reassuring. “OK Cronkite, what’s the elevator pitch.” “Based on a day’s work, I’m down to one percent of a pod. If you get me down an order of magnitude, you’ll make money hand over fist.” “Go on, details!” Sasha turned from the TV and saw Dan scribbling on a piece of paper. He wandered back to grab a stool across the island from the happy couple. Dan didn’t flinch, just scribbling and muttering to himself until finally, he had to shake out a hand cramp. “We gotta work on the headgear,” Dan said pulling the nerd-ware off to look at it. “Yeah, or Apple needs to get their shit together,” Sasha answered. Sasha placed the rig on the island facing them, and they were quiet for a minute. “Aren’t you guys forgetting something?” Cronkite asked. “Oh shit, is it my anniversary?” Dan asked. “No, that’s in March, dummy. It’s Griff’s anniversary. Ten years.” The iPhone flipped to a picture of a much younger Dan and Sasha, arm in arm with their housemate, Steve Griffin. Dan’s face went white. Griff was the madman in their trio. He would have been the CEO they would both have loved to work for, but he partied too hard. “To Griff,” Dan said, holding out his glass to Sasha. “To Griff,” Sasha replied, blinking a little too hard. “He’d have loved this day.” Dan looked at the picture again, “Jesus, look at my hair,” he said wistfully, running his fingers through the remnants. “So?” Sasha asked. “You were right. Very, very right. Can you split the pod and make one for me and a few friends?”


"Jack and Coke.” He leaned towards the bartender, shouting above the poor rendition of Elvis swooning to the crowd. “Make that two,” I raised my fingers in a mock peace sign which seemed easier than trying to be heard over the crowd of well wishers. “Don’t you just love weddings?” The Jack and Coke stranger smiled at me while he relaxed against the bar. “No, not particularly. I avoid them at all costs, but this one was mandatory, unfortunately.” “Not a big believer in love?” “That’s not it at all. It’s all the schmoozy oozy I can do without. The pomp and circumstance, the over-the-top expenses of it all.” I squeezed into the spot against the bar left open by the couple who danced away to oblivion. “Schmoozy oozy? Is that official terminology?” “You know what I mean. The ‘oh, he’s so perfect for me, she’s my soulmate’ kind of talk.  Is that a result of the whirlwind wedding plans, getting swept up in the moment?” “I see what you’re saying. Like which came first, the chicken or the egg?” “Exactly!” I was relieved that he understood. “Is the hype of the wedding getting the couple all giddy or are they getting married because they are already giddy in love?” “So, you do believe in giddy love then?” He smiled at me, raising one eyebrow. Feeling somehow as if I was tricked into admitting something, I felt suddenly flustered. “I never said I don’t believe in love,” I stammered.

The overwhelmed bartender finally returned to our end of the bar, placing two light colored drinks on coasters and smiling at us. I looked at the Jack and Coke stranger that I had been chatting with knowing darn well these were not our requested drinks but as the bartender got swallowed up in the crowd, I claimed one anyway. “Cheers!” I raised my mystery drink to the mystery man. “Cheers to love, the giddy, schmoozy, oozy kind of love.” He raised his glass and clunked mine. I took a sip feeling the very strong Jack and ginger ale have the desired effect as it burned its way down my throat. I swallowed appreciatively. “So, you believe in love apparently. Do you see many successful marriages? Lots of till death do us parts?” The drink made me bold.  I felt argumentative as I was being held against my will in an overpriced dress and staggeringly high heels. I tried not to think of the cozy sweats and blanket left remorsefully on the couch.

“I see my share of successful marriages. But it’s too soon to tell if they are till death do us part as they are newlyweds.” “Ah, newlyweds. What will they do when life hits, when babies puke, when jobs are lost, and utilities are turned off due to nonpayment?” “Bitter much?” He asked, taking a long gulp of his drink. “Not bitter at all. Realistic.” I matched his drink, draining half my glass. “When those events happen they will work together, support one another, get through the tough times. Remember their vows of for better or worse.” He signaled the bartender over again, and was ignored as he had been previously. “Or they scream and curse and say, ‘fuck you’ and walk out the door.” “Wow,” the stranger stared at me. “Yeah, wow.”

I craned my neck looking for the bartender. Finally making eye contact, I raised my fingers as if hailing a cab on a crowded Manhattan street corner. He nodded and brought two glasses of red wine and placed them down on coasters in front of us. “This guy is nothing if not inaccurate,” the stranger laughed. “He’s zero for two, it’s actually funny,” I picked up my wine glass by the stem and swirled it, laughing. “I’m Mark, by the way,” the Jack and Coke stranger said. “I’m Michelle,” I reached out my hand to shake his. “So formal, Michelle,” he teased, grasping my hand in his, a spark of something surprising me. “Not at all,” I stuttered, feeling flustered for the second time in the span of ten minutes. What was happening? “Oh look, Michelle, they are about to cut the cake.”  I glanced over at my boss and her new husband, their hands holding the knife smiling for the sea of cameras. You would think they had never had a slice of cake before in their lives, like they actually discovered the concept of cutting into a cake. Look at me, honey, I can cut cake. Oh, please let me help. It does take two, doesn’t it? “The question now begs to smear or not to smear the cake?” I asked, picturing my own strong desire to smear the cake just based on the fact that I had no choice but to be there. That was certainly reason enough. “Oh, definitely smear. She needs to smear his face.” Mark laughed. “No, he needs to smear her face. She’s the smear-ee to him being the smear-er.” I was laughing now with Mark. “Wait, who is the smear-ee to you? Because the smear-er is my boss.”

“The smear-ee is my boss,” I felt tears of laughter come to the corners of my eyes as I drained my red wine and took an unsteady step away from the bar. “So, we are both employees of the happy couple. What does that make us? There should be a name for that.” “Yeah, miserable.” I snorted my answer, feeling silly and more than slightly drunk. Mark burst out laughing to my surprise, making me feel a little something something. “What does your boss do, Mark? I don’t even know.” “He’s a marriage counselor, as am I. We work together in a small practice downtown.”

“A marriage counselor. That explains a lot, Mr. Let’s Make This A Perfect Marriage. You do know his new wife’s profession, don’t you?” “Actually, no.” He looked at me expectantly. “My boss is a divorce attorney, as am I. We work for a large firm uptown.” “A marriage counselor marries a divorce attorney. That’s perfect.”

“Think it will last?” I asked him, signaling the bartender over for another round of surprise drinks. “I have a hunch it will,” Mark replied with a twinkle in his eye, giving me another unexpected flurry of butterflies in my belly.

“Time will tell,” I managed to mumble, almost at a loss for words. “Here’s to wedded bliss,” He raised his can of beer. “Or wedded blues,” I raised my can and clinked his.


The bustling scenery met my eyes as I took a seat from one of the bench inside the train.

I looked up to my mother in confusion and fear as the people around us kept increasing until not even a needle could fit. It was too strong that I became anxious. The very first time that my personal space was invaded by strangers. But Mom just smiled at me and held my hand to assure me that everything's alright and that I'm safe.

The sound coming from the train filled my ears, indicating that the train doors will soon close and the train starts moving as soon as the door close.

Various unfamiliar faces and unpleasant noises were heard inside the train. From cellphone calls, conversation between the passengers, infant's cries and rail joints, the sound that the train makes when the rail makes a familiar sound "clickety-clack" as the train's wheels roll over them. Manila, from what I've heard of, was the most crowded and busiest city in the Philippines. But that, which only was a thought, became reality to me as I am now experiencing it. It was more than just a busy street or a crowded place, nor a city full of unfamiliar and intimidating people. It was an adventure. A story with mixed genres and never-ending chapters of people and their daily lives. But now all I could see is black and white, well, except for my Mom. There's a black shade that's darker and some, just dull white. Like a story without a twist. Like a character with no specified role to play. I thought that being in a new place and riding a transport that's new to me would be an amazing ride but it was rather a mind boggling adventure. The only thing that's keeping me positive is my mother who's standing beside me and what's waiting for me at the end of our journey. And that positivity added when the old woman sitting beside me, reached out to me and gave me a candy. It was the first colored thing that met my eyes after entering the train. My eyes glistened in delight but I was a bit hesitant. I still remember what my cousins said to me. That all the things that someone will give me is not for free. Everything comes with a price that you can or cannot pay with just money. Some, with actions or kind words that ears are very pleased to hear. But the kind smile from the old woman made all those hesitations, doubts and fears vanish. It's like she's saying that all the things my cousins taught me was mere speculation, not based on experience. Maybe, they're right. Maybe, they're wrong. It depends on what other people experience. But the thing that we need to keep in mind was to always give a benefit of the doubt and the beg to differ. With that in mind, I reached out my hand in politeness and with gratitude, I accept the candy. That's when the old woman also appeared bright. She is now full of colors. Her grayish-white bob hair was in soft curls complimenting her naturally tanned skin. She's wearing a crimson red long sleeves dress that rests few inches below from her knees and a black flip flops. I suddenly noticed her nails that looks like it was newly manicured and penicured, also in different vibrant colors. On her lap was a green tote bag with a print saying, "Marikit" which means Pretty or Gorgeous. I gave the candy to my Mom to kindly ask her to open it for me. I saw how she struggled to open it while holding our bag in the other arm when the young lady who's sitting beside me, offered her seat for my Mom. When my Mom declined, she just offer to open the candy for me so my Mom gratefully agreed and said her thank you. The young lady smiled at me as she gave me the candy which was now out from its wrapper. As I get the candy from his hands, I noticed her having colors, again. Her skin was pale white and her long jet black hair was naturally straight. She's wearing a neon green bucket hat and a white top, partnered with denim jeans and a white sneakers. One that I really noticed was... her smile was really pretty. After those interactions, I came to notice the other people's cheery smile, their contagious laughter which made the whole atmosphere more light and radiant. Their smiling faces which are now having colors made all my prejudice towards the city and the crowd as a whole went on the rainbows and now on the more optimistic side, rather than down the drain. Sadly, one by one, they came out of the train as their reach their destinations. It was now enough for my Mom to sit beside me and for me to see the scenery outside the train, behind the glass windows. All of a sudden, a flash of lightning striked through the air followed by a roaring thunder that many of the passengers began to worry if they have bring an umbrella to shield themselves from the rain that starts pouring little by little. I looked at my Mom when she started brushing my hair. Biting her lower lips, I know that she's worrying about us getting wet from the sudden rain. It was just small drops but I know that they still worry about everything I don't know of. Surprisingly, I'm not worried nor feeling scared if that might happen because of the little interactions I made earlier. When I took a seat and observed my surroundings, I honestly thought that this ride will be a scary ride. Like a rollercoaster with so many courses, flips, twists and turns which I hated the most. But seeing the positive side of the ride, I began to hope and be confident that it was and will became an amazing adventure. It became dark after the train went inside the tunnel. But still, I feel no fear. I just felt my Mother's warmth from her embrace, thinking that I'm scared or whatnot when in fact, I'm not which was a good thing, for me.

One thing that I just wish while we were inside the tunnel, passing through it, was to erase all their doubts and worries. All their fears. Like what they did to me. And as if my words have powers, the blinding light welcomed us as the train passed the dark tunnel. It made us close our eyes but after a while, the gray skies are now painted in vibrant blue with the white fluffy clouds, making me want to sleep on it. The dull scenery a while ago was now full of colors, in green and red and yellow. And the little gift from the Above was a chromatic rainbow, which normally has muted colors but as if it knows that people have their worries, it started to show it's true colors.

It was colorful and vibrant that the eyes that was then full of worries and their mouth which was in gloom, is now became hopeful and aspired for the next chapters of life.


Luther regained consciousness, his mind shocked awake by the jarring sound of a metallic door retracting. It rolled up slowly, creaking and bumbling, into the metal hood above. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth as rain washed across his scalp wound. Vague memories of a meeting at a bar followed by a crack on the head bubbled up. The men held him under each arm, dragging his limp body, toes trailing on the ground behind. Entering the building Luther noticed an oily rainbow flash off a stain on the ground. A single naked light bulb barely illuminated the room. The unmistakable smell of gasoline clung to his nostrils. I’m in a garage , he thought. Swinging his small frame to full height they dumped him roughly into the chair. The two men held him in place as a third man brought metallic manacles. The circular hand cuffs barely fit around his wrist and the armrest, crunching harshly onto his skin. “Ow, watch it!” he screamed, now fully awake. The skinny man wore a dirty, threadbare tee shirt and pants that were too big. Extra holes were punched into his belt so they would safely stay put. He laughed, his unshaven, twitchy face inches away. “This is just the beginning old man.” Halitosis and body odor washed over Luther, along with a wave of nausea. Gathering himself he said, “You’d better not put the ankle cuffs on, you’ll regret it if you do, I guarantee it.” Skinny man turned, a look of uncertainty on his face. He couldn’t remember if Sensei told him to put them on, or to not put them on. Frowning he grabbed the manacles and clamped them. Better safe than sorry. They crunched into his ankle splitting open the skin and scratching the metal leg of the chair. Luther’s scream echoed off the walls. He knew he’d regenerate rapidly, but the pain was real. Inhaling deeply, he focused on his ankle, feeling the skin tingle as it healed. Heavy footsteps brought him back to the garage. Luther could see himself reflected off the visor of the man’s helmet. He was enormous, standing well over six feet, and wore arrogance like a cloak. What little he could see of the man’s caramel colored face was clean shaven. “I’m Thibault. I extract information. First thing, those cuffs are titanium and cobalt, so you won’t be able to Channel. Second thing, you’re going to die tonight.” Pausing, he allowed that to thought sink in. “Last thing, the sooner you tell me what I need to know the sooner the suffering ends. The truth is I hope you hold out for a while; it makes it more interesting for me.” Smiling, he turned slowly and rolled a tray hidden in the shadows behind him. Several metallic instruments glistened brightly as they passed into the light. Thibault kept his torture devices in excellent working order, the cleanliness discordant with their evil purpose. “Now, tell me where the Mirror is.” Luther stared into the visor trying to ignore the evil sneer on Thibault’s face. For the millionth time he wondered why he let himself get into these situations. For the money , he thought. “I’m not telling you anything. And since I can see you are a professional would you mind swabbing my skin with alcohol before you strike? It’ll help avoid infection.” Lightning-fast Thibault lifted the baton and crashed it into Luther’s elbow. The sickening sound of breaking bone bounced off the walls dully. Luther screamed, then swooned as his vision blurred. Gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut forcefully, he focused on his elbow. Gathering his will, he felt the familiar surge of power. A smooth bulge formed mid-bicep and slowly extended across the elbow in a wave. Three more waves and the bone healed. “What the hell was that?” asked Thibault. “I thought you said he wouldn’t be able to Channel in these cuffs!” Skinny man was shocked. “I have no idea what happened, but that wasn’t Channeling.” Swallowing hard, he tried to process what happened, but to no avail. Intravenous drug abuse and hard living made it nearly impossible for him to problem solve. In desperation he said, “Maybe we should call Sensei?” Softly, Thibault said, “Not yet, junky. He feels pain, so he can be broken.” Stretching his arms, grunting loudly, cracking his neck to either side, he looked carefully at the tray. Smiling he grabbed his second favorite tool. Several hours later, as the torture continued, Luther’s screams bounced off the walls. Thibault had removed his body armor but left the helmet on. Sweat streamed off his powerfully muscled body. Arching his back, he tried loosening the sore muscles around his lumbar spine. Skinny man scratched his arm. He would need a hit soon, the craving crawled along his skin like a centipede. “Hey, man,” he squeaked, voice cracking, “He’s not gonna break. We need to get Sensei in here to do her, you know, thingy.” He punctuated this statement with a double-handed gesture. “No. I’ve got one more trick. Get me the plunger.” Skinny man gaped, “Th…th...the plunger? Are you serious? We can’t kill him before he tells us where the mirror is.” Thibault leapt from his stool and grabbed Skinny man by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. Skinny man’s eyes bulged, he gasped for air. “Get me the plunger, junky,” he whispered before rag dolling him into the corner. Skinny man ran to the van and brought back the device. It bounced roughly as it rolled across the uneven ground outside. He quickly wheeled it to Thibault and skittered into a dark corner. Crouching against the wall he bobbed his head back and forth quickly, trying to quell the urge to get high, but not succeeding. Plugging the machine into a cord that hung from the ceiling, Thibault quickly booted up the computer. He tapped away on the keyboard with all ten fingers. The three-dimensional screen popped up above the computer, with a blinking cursor faintly visible near the bottom. Opening the door on the side he removed the device, plugging the heavy adaptor into its slot on the top left side of the machine. Luther had been unable to see what he was doing. As Thibault turned, he held up the device. It looked like a screwdriver attached to a thick cable, but instead of a screwdriver head there was a needle-like trocar. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re either going to tell me where the Mirror is, or I’m going to drive this trocar through the squamosal portion of your temporal bone, into your brain, and remove the information by force. The thing is most people die. With you it’s hard to tell, but do you really want to take a chance?” He paused, allowing the device to hang from its cord. “I’ll give you a minute to think about it.” Thibault walked away leaving Luther to stare at the evil device. Light glinted off the tip as it slowly swung like a pendulum. For several minutes the only sound was the pitter patter of rain off the garage roof. Luther breathed in deeply, knowing what he had to do. “What’s it going to be? The Mirror or your life?” Luther just stared at him morosely. “Fine.” Thibault picked up the trocar with his right hand, placed his left on the opposite side of Luther’s head, and drove it into his brain. Luther froze, eyes open, mouth slack, a dribble of saliva slowly drifting down his chin. On the three-dimensional monitor flashed a series of images without sound. A much younger Luther pulling the oval, handheld Mirror from a basket in an antiques shop. Luther talking to an old woman attempting to decipher the hieroglyphs along the edges of the Mirror. Luther removing his hand from inside the Mirror pulling out a pulsating red glob of fluid. Luther arguing with his wife, her leaving with the kids, him walking alone down a desolate highway. The final scene froze in midair above the computer: Luther staring at himself in the Mirror not recognizing the thing he had become. In the chair, dead-eyed Luther stared at his frozen virtual doppelganger above the computer. Thibault frowned, tried rebooting the device, but then gave up. He looked at Luther with side eyes, grabbed the trocar and pulled it out with a squishy jerk of his hand. “Better get Sensei.” Shaking his head in disbelief he vaguely listened to the echo of Skinny man’s steps sprinting down the hallway. Luther slowly mended his fractured brain. Several minutes passed before he could talk, the words feeling like glue in his mouth before he caught a second wind. Glancing to his left Thibault sat slump-shouldered on a stool, the very picture of defeat. “You don’t want the Mirror, believe me. That Mirror has cost me everything, my wife, my kids, my job, everything.” With a self-deprecating snort he added, “I used to be an accountant if you can believe that. But I was seduced by the Mirror, by the offer of power. Anyway, this’ll all be over once your Sensei gets here.” Thibault smirked, looked at Luther, and said, “You got that right.” As if on cue the door opened, and Skinny man entered followed closely by a figure walking with the staccato gait of a cyborg. “You failed, Thibault. This is most disappointing,” said Sensei who spoke with a sultry female tenor. She stopped a few feet from Luther. “Why does he have ankle manacles on? I specifically told you to not use ankle manacles.” Luther looked at the cyborg. “Don’t be angry at him, Sensei, it’s what you get for using drug addicts. And by the way, thanks for using titanium and cobalt manacles. If you ever get to use the Mirror, you’ll find there really is no better catalyst.” Luther inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes widening as he concentrated fully on the transformation. The manacles softened, melted, and then absorbed into his pores. Skin became like packed dirt as his body expanded. One moment he was a man, the next a nine-foot-tall earth golem. Letting out a guttural roar he extended his fists impossibly long, crashing into Thibault and Skinny man, killing them instantly. Next, he enlarged his hand and enveloped Sensei, pulling her closer. His voice was deep, like the rumble of an earthquake. “So glad you came to me, you really are impossible to find. Give me the chip and I’ll be on my way.” He emphasized this by crushing her legs as if they were papier mâché. “You know I cannot give you the chip, my programming forbids it. I know you will never remove it intact without my help. We are at an impasse.” Luther thought about that for a few seconds, looked up and realized he needed help. Focusing on his throat, a bubbling, gurgling sound escaped through his lips. Several seconds later he regurgitated a visor with a left ocular attachment. “That was disgusting,” said Sensei. “Yeah, I know. Felt bad, too.” Placing the visor across his forehead he pressed the button on the eye piece and said, “Command one, this is Luther, over.” “Command one. Good to hear your voice, Luther. How did it go, over?” “Bad. Their guy used a plunger. I hate those things. Anyway, I’ve got Sensei. I need to know how to get the chip, over.” “I’m sorry to hear that. What you do is for the greater good, I hope you know that. Right, um, she is an AP-47 so you’ll find the button through the base of her neck, over.” A look of shock crossed her face. “How do they know about the…” Before she could finish Luther had formed his index finger into a snake-like appendage. It entered a nearly invisible slot near the base of her neck and penetrated deep into her chassis. Her head opened like a mechanical onion in stepwise fashion, top, middle, bottom. Carefully reaching in he removed the onyx chip. Immediately, the faint light pulsing across the chip went out, as did Sensei’s life. Leaving the garage and walking quickly down the dark alley Luther frowned. As always, low-level depression washed over him when he transformed back to human. I should’ve stayed an accountant.


A lot can happen in only a year. People change and so did I. Last year I was only a high schooler that should have graduated that year. In school I was this popular girl with rich parents, good looks and her perfect little life. Or so everyone thought that my life was like that. Some wanted to be my friends for my status in society, others thought I was this mean girl and tried to stay as far away from me as possible. And let's be honest, everyone felt intimidated by me, even my 'so called' friends. They all thought I only cared about my looks, fashion, money and all those sort of things. In reality though, I didn't care much about those things. Of course, I'm not saying that I didn't enjoy all the amenities that my life came with. However, my life could become pretty lonely sometimes. In spite of this, I was willing to put up with my loneliness as long as I made my parents happy and proud of me because I loved them too much. My parents wanted me to be respected and have a safe and wealthy life. They wanted me to become a doctor, a politician, a lawyer or a CEO of our family's business. And so I made a promise to myself to follow my parents dream for me even if that meant I couldn't have a dream of my own future. And so I held myself to that promise. I was a straight A's student and always acted reserved in public to keep my image clear in the society. You know, I always followed the rules even if sometimes I didn't agree with them, I always thought before speaking and kept my opinion to myself if it didn't agree with the public's. I also always cared how I dressed or, well, at least acted as if I cared about all those designer clothes that I owned. But everything changed on that terrible day in spring. My parents and I were in Spain. They had a business meeting here with all the important CEOs of Europe and I tagged along since one day everything my parents own would be mine. The thing is, I didn't expect that day to come so soon, so I wasn't paying much attention to it. And that is the only reason why I am still here and my parents aren't. It was the day of the meeting, the 14th of April. That morning my mom and dad went to the meeting, but I decided I wanted to explore the city rather than listen to a boring business talk from all these older men and women even though my parents tried to convince me to go along with them. Well, I didn’t. It was a sunny day and I was sitting in the shade under a tree, exhausted from all the walking I had done, when I decided to see how my parents were doing in their meeting. And so I didn't hesitate much longer. I got up and went straight to the building where the meeting was supposed to be held. But what I found there shocked me to my core. The building was surrounded by police. Everyone outside was panicking. I saw a few people standing there in disbelief, tears falling down their faces. I believe they were relatives of some of the people inside the building. I was immensely confused on what was happening so I went to one of the officers. The young officer kindly explained to me that somebody had leaked the information about all the important people being here today, all in one place and so the criminals had planned their attack. They had managed to infiltrate the building and all the people inside were now taken hostage. The police forces outside were working on a plan to save them all as we were speaking. Unfortunately, at that time no one knew that it was a very well-planned terrorist attack so the criminals inside could not have been reasoned with. The terrorists knew really well that by entering the building they had written their own death sentences. They didn't want riches or anything else because their only goal was to kill everyone inside. And so only a few minutes have passed since my talk to the officer when the building suddenly exploded. Everything was happening so fast but at that moment it seemed as if the explosion somehow managed to slow down time. The image of it was so terrible that every time I close my eyes I can still see that explosion in vivid colors. Everyone who was inside it, including my parents, had died that day. And so in the span of minutes the world I knew was crushed and I became an orphan. I still had my wealth and became a legal owner and the CEO of our family business but I no longer had any family left. That incident was like a brutal wake up call for me. Then a realization occurred to me - there is no point in living a safe life and being respected if you cannot save the ones you love. Thus, that day changed everything for me. Don't get me wrong I still graduated high school and kept my grades up. I had to keep on living. Though, I can swear, if a year ago someone came up to me and told me that my life now would be like this, I would have laughed in their face. But here I am. I, Andromeda Perrel, am pledging my loyalty in the army to defend my country from all enemies and am vowing to dedicate my life for the greater good of those who are defenseless. And even if this time a year ago just the idea of joining the army seemed absurd to me, somehow now I know that it is the right path for me. It always has been, because there is no point in being respected if you didn’t earn that respect in the first place.


There she sits, past the masses of thick hardbound books, past all the university students making use of the music library, at the far right corner staring out the window. Staring at the snow drifting down over the city, like a blanket of serenity. A slight body swaying to the notes. Crashing, melding into one, fingers moving like delicate dancers. Loud, then quiet. Happy, then sad again, filling the room with noise. Rich harmonious sound that grips the heart and holds on for eternity. The music keeps moving on like the sea, rushing in then out again. Holding so much inside the melody that nobody could ever know about. It is Clara’s space, and everybody knows not to approach her. Nobody knows how old she is, nobody knows why she is here, nobody knows any of the secrets to her magnificent performances, but that she plays on, head held high, staring over the library’s upright piano out the window, watching the world outside go by. It is midwinter, and now the snow is slowly floating past the library’s window, gently settling on the outer ledge. Still the girl sits and plays, not once looking down at her fingers, nor at her music score for there is none to read from. The girl just sits and plays and stares off into the distance. She was even caught once counting the snowflakes. The only one who seems to know her is Richard, a famous lawyer with a firm downtown. Every day at precisely one thirty pm, he approaches the piano and gently coaxes her out of her position. “Clara,” he whispers, “It’s time you ate. Your fingers will become cramped, and your body needs nourishment- eat.” He plants a kiss on her pale cheek, leaves a packed lunch on top of the piano and leaves, never once looking back. Only once she hears the sleek library doors slam shut does the child slowly, meticulously take the sandwich out of its wrapper and begin eating, but not before she lets her eyes dart around the room- left and right, ever fearful of prying eyes. It is a mystery, but one nobody is inclined to solve.                                  *                 *                * Clara gazes out the window. The snow has stopped and is now turning to wet slush. She notices the sky, now a shade of navy blue speckled with stars and realizes with a start. Her mom will be worried. She grabs the remainder of the lunch her father brought and sprints out of the building. Nobody has any time to question her presence and that is how she likes it. No interference, no well meaning people trying to meddle with her, just her and her dad. As soon as Clara arrives home, the drama begins again. “Clara! I’ve worried about you so much! Why do you stay out so long?” Silence. Clara cannot reply to that question. Should she tell her mom she does not like being rushed for time? Should she tell her she cannot leave the library at four like all the students who use it, because then she may attract unwanted attention? Should she just smile sweetly and say “Oh, I was busy with a school assignment”? None will do. She holds her piece. “Clara, I’m your mother. I care about you, and I want to know where you’ve been these past few days. It’s not like you to stay longer at school.” Her mom’s eyes are trained on Clara now, beady searching eyes. Clara’s face flushes. As an afterthought, her mother adds, “Apart from which, I heard you’ve not turned up at school for a while now. Is that true?” All Clara can muster is a whispered “Yes.” “Why Clara? Why didn’t you tell me? Where have you been spending the school days?” Again silence. There is nothing to say. “Clara, is something bothering you at school?” Her heart is full, bursting at the seams. She longs to tell her mother how it is all so unfair, how nobody understands her- not at school, not at home, not anywhere really. She longs to describe the serenity she finally feels while at the piano. Alone, with no one but herself and the music she is creating. She wants her mom to understand how at peace she is at the library, how she has never felt so at home in her life. How it provides a small amount of clarity in a world where nothing is certain and nothing is right. No words come out though, hard as she tries. A strangled sob breaks the tension. “Clara! Why won’t you talk to me? I try everything but you still won’t talk! I’m your mother! I want to understand you! I want to know you and show you I love you and shelter you and make sure you never get hurt again! Why won’t you let me?!” She bursts into tears.                                  *                        *                          * She has been speaking to the headmaster again. Clara knows it because a mini shipment of sensory equipment has arrived. A wry smile, then a full grin spreads over her thin face. If the house is equipped for a small army’s sensory needs she will no longer be pressured into going to school. She can spend all day at the library! Clara is about to leave when her mother stops her. “No Clara,” her voice sounds fake, slower than usual and vocabulary lowered to that of a two year old. “No, today we shall have a great deal of fun at home! I’ve bought a new set of toys for you to play with!” Her mother’s voice rings untrue even to her own ears, but being helpless she tags along into the living room. A cassette is playing with slow lullabies, a carpet has been rolled over the linoleum, and a ball of sensory lights is set up, bathing the room in calm hues that float around and change color. There is a spiky ball in the corner and a few other paraphernalia- a lava lamp, a few maracas and a pile of fluffy pillows near her. On the windowsill at the far end of the room- a book. Clara inspects the book, and the title explains it all; Children with Autism and How We Can Help Them. Practical Techniques for Bringing the Autistic Child Out of His Shell, by Patricia Sander. She runs out of the house faster than a race horse. All she knows is that yet again her mother has believed a view that is based on falsehoods. Once again her mother has listened to those who consider her different, of lower intelligence, of lower standing. She runs.  Passersby gawk at the girl pelting through the snow wearing no coat, running as if fleeing from some monster. She sprints along the icy streets, growing colder by the minute but not caring in the slightest. Clara runs faster, faster, speeding up until she is but a flash. There one minute, long gone the next. Down the road, around the corner, across a street. All wonder where the child is running, what, or who she is fleeing.  She tears along, not feeling the slush and ice. She slips on the icy road a number of times, but does not feel any pain. Not the bruising, nor the grazes that have not yet been discovered on her knees. Still, she sprints, zooming past the urban scenery. Closer and closer to the music library, further and further from the real world. The world where people reside, judging one and all. The world where she feels nobody will ever understand a child like Clara. A world where people like Clara are treated as if they have some sort of psychiatric disease. She runs, closer and closer to paradise. Closer and closer to the haven she knows, loves and belongs to. Clara does not slow down- to the contrary; she speeds up faster than ever, barreling through the swinging glass doors of the library, making a beeline for that piano at the corner. Clara’s private dance floor. Finally, she collapses onto the piano stool and begins playing. Stronger, louder, more forceful than ever. Why can nobody understand? Why does everything have to be so complicated, so tough, so lonely? Clara lets her fingers go loose. They begin dancing as if of their own accord- slowly, gracefully- even royally. A slow waltz step wanders up and down the piano keys, steadily gaining momentum. It starts quietly. Slowly, artistically, trance like, becoming gradually louder. So slowly she does not notice the change in dynamics, she does not notice her fingers dance faster, more vigorously, emphatically now. Her fingers dance, run, jump, in perfectly synchronized motion. This is where Clara feels best, this is where her fingers are set free from society’s shackles, this is where she can just be. The simple tune soon turns into a complex symphony, combining childish innocence with the painful truths of life. Academics making use of the library have silently gathered, ogling the child prodigy playing music never heard before, with no music score. Furthermore, the child performs at a level nobody has played at since the days of Mozart. Still, Clara goes on. Dancing, soaring, flying along the keys. The music, though in essence played on the piano, has a complexity and as many separate components as if a full orchestra were playing. Melodies and harmonies blend, painfully raw yet retaining the underlying optimism of the background melody. Slowly, the background accompaniment melds into the foreground, gently coaxing the music into a more positive light. Still the music plays on and still more people crowd around watching the sight, silenced by the awesomeness of the moment. Clara is in a world of her own now and her hands play tricks with the keys, producing still more intricate patterns of sound, an exquisite tapestry of operatic genius slowly unfurling on the library’s piano.

Out of the blue, a tap on her shoulder.  Startled, Clara slams the piano lid shut, pushes her way through the crowds and begins to stride out. She does not know why there are so many people milling about, their eyes following her every move, but she does not care to know. As she desperately tried to move out, a strong yet gentle hand grips her shoulder. Holding her back, yet caressing at the same time. She has been forced to stop, but does not dare turn around. “That was beautiful Clara. Have you always played like that? I… didn’t know.” She seems at a loss. Help. All color drains from Clara’s face and she feels the ground give way beneath her feet. Clara struggles to retain her balance. It is her mom, and she has been found out. “Clara, you play like a legend. Why didn’t you tell me you can play so well? Why didn’t you play for the school orchestra? One does exist, you know. I thought you didn’t want to, or didn’t have the talent. I didn’t know… Why didn’t you ever talk to me?” Her mother peers through her spectacles, her eyes two pools of undisguised pain. A messy pile of pain and love mixed together- A contradiction, yet no contradiction. Clara can do nothing but gaze back at those eyes. She has never noticed them before, always thinking her mother was like the rest of humanity- always judging, never appreciating and always criticizing. Only now does she notice that she has never told her mom about her world. The world she lives in. She has never even tried, and now she has hurt the person she loves most. The tears fall fast and furious as she is overcome by guilt. Her mom is here for her, wants to understand, but has never been given a chance. She has not been isolated by her loved ones but has isolated herself. Lost in the moment Clara leans forward into her mother’s embrace. The mother she has never known. Not for lack of wanting, not for lack of love, but for lack of noticing things. She feels her mother’s chest rise and fall underneath her cheek, pumping blood through her mom’s veins and now that she notices it, through hers as well. She takes her mother’s hand and begins to walk. Together. It feels like a dance, a slow dance that goes to a folk tune. a special one that belongs only to Clara and her mother. It is reverent, almost a holy song, hymn like. This time instead of dissonant chords and irregular time divisions, Clara begins to hear a beautiful melody. Slow at first and quiet, it swells and rises until it reaches a crescendo. But then the music slowly quietens again, until it ends on a major key somewhere in the middle of the keyboard range, neither loud nor quiet. She is not able to make sense of the situation, but she does not have to at that moment, because her mother speaks. “Clara.” This is all that is needed now. The silence speaks louder than words ever can and for once Clara’s mother understands her daughter’s silence. There is so much in that quiet that can never be spoken to the same effect. The stillness is expressing what cannot be said between mother and daughter. Suddenly it seems far more valuable and sentimental to remain quiet. From the stillness Clara opens her mouth in a hoarse whisper. “Mozart used to say the music is not in the notes, but in the silence in between.” Clara’s first sentence to her mother. Nothing long, nothing big, but a start. A tentative step onto the frozen surface of the world. A step into an unforgiving world knowing full well that it is unfeeling, cold, cruel, but still knowing that to skate, to dance into the night first one must step onto the cold, hard ice. Clara does not know how to skate but she knows that if she tries now, one of two things can happen- either she’ll learn to skate, dance along the ice and navigate its curves, fly on well deserved euphoria, or the ice will melt heralding the spring warmth.