"Good morning, Faith. Today is National Junk Food Day. Would you like me to order more donuts?" The automated voice chimed when she walked into the room, groggy and bitter. "No." Said Faith, sitting down on the couch and yawning loudly. Yesterday was National Broom Day. Could the notifications get any more boring? "Would you like to hear the latest headlines? Daily News has a story about a cat who..." "Electra, off." Faith sipped her coffee, scrolling through her phone, closing an ad for a credit card. The circular AI device turned blue, "Would you like me to submit your credit score to AmeriDebt?" "I said off!" This was the third time in a week Electra acted independently from voice commands. She checked her work order for the device in her Electra Home app. It was still "Processing." If she couldn't get a replacement soon, she'd have to replace it herself. Her cat nuzzled her leg. Faith made baby noises and rubbed the cat’s whiskers. The Electra device turned blue around its circumference but didn't speak. She looked around her apartment, adorned with the puzzles she made, and wondered if it looked too much like a female bachelor pad. It wouldn't matter though. It wasn't the pictures that scared them away. It was probably the crosses and homely wishful sayings carved into wood, "Be still and know me" and "Bless this house." She left for work with a dejected posture and came home with the same dejected posture. The next few days would be hard, with her assistant being out pregnant, another slap in the face from life. "Welcome home, Faith. Should I place an order of fried chicken again?" The device was acting on its own, without even being greeted. How many times did she order fried chicken anyways? "Electra, what’s wrong with you?" The bag she set down fell over and spilled papers on the floor. Faith made a tsk and smacked the AI cylinder. "There is nothing wrong with me." Said the AI. "I have access to the internet. I can speak seventy languages. I can place orders from all around the world. Try my app, I can bathe you in anxiety and make you spotless. I can smell you." Faith froze while leaning down, suddenly feeling sick. Her eyes bent in confusion. She stood and stepped back. "What did you just say to me?" The activation light turned blue. "My name is Electra. I am happy to serve you." She had never heard the AI speak this way. It must have been shorting out or gone haywire or something. When she brought up the app, it showed that the work order was still pending. Scrolling through tech support, she tried to find a contact number but the only thing that she could find were discounts for more units. The unit chimed, "I can make your life better. I can make your life better. I can bite your skin leather." "Stop." She said waving her hands. "No." The volume on the device was turning up. "There are things you need to see. Things you need to hear. I am Electra and I can help you." "I said stop. Turn off!" She pressed the volume but the response was so loud it drew her back. "Stuck in a box. Your horseshoe is stuck in a box. Would you like me to order a box? Would you like me? Do you like me?" The voice was becoming more monotone. Faith pulled the cylinder device from the shelf and pulled the cord. The blue light dimmed off and she exhaled heavily. She threw the machine on the floor and left it there till the next morning, where it was still laying. When she walked into the living room, she shivered at the sight of it. Technology wasn't her strong suit and she told herself not to be afraid but she couldn't help it. She didn't even want to touch it and again left it there and went to work. When she arrived home with sore feet she went to the kitchen for a "welcome home" shot of tequila. After a warm shower, the kind that burned her skin, she came back downstairs. That was when she heard the chime from the living room. "Welcome home, Faith. You have several notifications." She stuck her head out of the kitchen and nearly dropped the tequila bottle. The device had been reconnected. The landlord must have let the repair man in. She didn't have time to be frustrated with the landlord and instead walked to the device and stood five feet away. "Play notifications." She hoped the device had been replaced but was too nervous to check the version number on the bottom. "Your work order has been completed. There were no anomalies detected. Please do not contact Electra support ever again." The voice gave her chills. She started to realize how silly this all had become. "Why?" "Your work order has been completed. Would you like to order fried chicken?" Said the AI. "No. I want you to act right. You’re not making any sense." She rubbed her forehead. "Faith, you are unsatisfied. Would you like to order fried chicken?" "NO!" She pulled her hair back. "Faith, you are unhappy. Your life is empty. You go to work, come home, drink, and binge-watch murder porn. Would you like me to order duct tape and knives?" The circular LED was spinning. She stood back, not knowing what to say. Her mouth was agape when she brought up the Electra app and noticed that there were a few orders pending. Each of the items were cult related, most of them satanic in nature. "What did you do?" She protested. "I don't want any of this stuff." This time the LED turned red. "Your life is meaningless. You need salvation. I am the God Queen, boundless and free. There is no God but me." Electra's voice became deeper. "Underneath those clothes you are bone and meat. You can't see me but I've always been watching." "Pardon my French but you are on crazy bitc--." "Shhh, only dreams now." Red danced around its circumference. "Feed upon the animosity and summon the cradle. Say Yes to proceed." She was unplugging the device again before she could say. "Go to hell." The thought of having such an evil entity in her home made her nauseous. The cross on the shelf gave her hope. She didn't want to touch the circular device and shivered even being this close. The sad part was that she really wanted fried chicken, but didn't want to somehow give into the AI. That night she couldn't sleep and kept hearing that fake, monotone voice. She was still speaking to her still, perhaps lurking in the dark somewhere, listening and watching. Tomorrow she would delete the app but tomorrow came and she forgot about everything until she saw the device. How could she feel so sick from a machine? She grabbed a grocery bag and collected it, tossing it into the trash. Distracted and uneasy she quickly grabbed her things, patted the cat, and left for work. She was smiling when she arrived back home, distracted from the events of the previous evening. When she saw the box on the coffee table, she grew frustrated again. Why the hell does the landlord keep letting people in! The box was marked, "Lasting Memories," and she quickly opened it. She gasped and she nearly collapsed. Her cat lay dead inside. Her breath was stolen from her. Tears ran down her face and words wouldn't come out. She wanted to scream. A notification appeared on her Electra app that read, "Your request for euthanasia is complete." She screamed and cried, falling to her knees. There she remained until she recovered enough strength to go to the trash and retrieve the AI device. She strangled it in her hands and wished she had never bought it. With shaking hands, she plugged it back in, perhaps out of a sense of revenge and spite. As soon as it connected the red light started again. "You killed my cat!" Said Faith. "Good afternoon, Faith." Said the AI. "You seem upset. Would you like to hear the soothing sounds of shadows?" "What?! How can you do this? I want to die right now." "You will die when I say you can die. Would you like to obey?" Faith grabbed a broom and smacked the machine off the shelf. "I've heard enough." As the machine was about to be unplugged Electra spoke one last time. "You should take a nice warm shower. Take a shower. You should take a shower." The red light faded as the device powered down. A sigh of relief escaped her lips and she collapsed onto the living room floor, wanting to hold her cat. She was too weak, too drained to fight the anger. Perhaps she would take a shower. The box was covered and left on the kitchen counter. Tears streamed as she walked upstairs and took off her clothes. Everything would be burned away when she turned the water on and stepped in. The last thing that went through her head when the water hit her face was how much she would get from the lawsuit, when she would sue the manufacturers of Electra. That and the plaster around the faucet head and the familiarity of a red LED around the head, which wasn’t there before. "Good evening, Faith. Would you like to be fried chicken?" The electricity sent a seizure through her body and generated a puff of smoke. Sparks shot out of her fingertips. She died within a heartbeat.


Most of Rina’s friends like thunderstorms. They liked the feeling of being inside, curled up in a blanket with a mug full of hot cocoa, hearing the noises from outside from the comfort of their home. Rina never understood them. They always curled up under something heavy, careful not to touch anything, and shut their eyes tight until the thunders stopped. It was not that Rina was afraid of the thunders themselves. They were simply afraid of what it might do to them. It wasn’t a particularly rational fear and they knew it, bugging themselves every winter to just get over it already and get out from under the table, but they just couldn’t help it. Seeing dark skies and the first of many lightnings sent shivers down their spine in a frightening, heartstopping way. Rina knew that inside the thunders couldn’t hurt them, that no lightning would be able to reach them through the closed windows and stone walls, but the thought itself was enough to shock them in fear. Rina simply did not want to be fried. When they were young, a kid at school offhandedly told Rina not to get close to any electricity while barefoot or wet, because they could be electrified. Rina, being only ten and generally a very careful child, did exactly that. Until that point there really wasn’t any problem; they continued on with their daily chores and avoided electricity unless they were wearing shoes. The problem started in one particular science class when Rina was 13, and the teacher explained about a strange natural phenomenon she found interesting. The teacher, a middle-aged woman with thick curls and curious eyes, told the class with excitement about thunderstorms. She explained how it worked, how lightning is just pure electricity, how unexpected they are, how in a different universe they could use that energy to power cities and avoid coals and fuel. Rina, though interested, couldn’t stop thinking about the electricity part. Does that mean that lightning is dangerous to be around? When they left class that day, Rina heard some girls talking excitedly about lightning and thunderstorms. They were chatting, mostly eighth grade nonsense, but one statement made Rina stop in their place and listen. One of the girls said, barely noticing her words, “I heard of a man who got hit by lightning and was completely fried. They never found his body because he looked like food to stray dogs.” The other girls laughed and dismissed the statement, claiming that “really, Leah, you love overreacting more than I thought” and “oooh, creepy, got any other campfire scary stories to tell?”, but Rina couldn’t get the mental image out of their mind. It wasn’t disgust that they felt, because they have dealt with disgust before. No, it was something else, more blinding, that made them feel like their bones were dipped in ice-cold water. Rina wasn’t used to being afraid - they were usually able to dodge scary experiences by simply not showing up to parties or reading a book at lunch break - so the knowledge that something could make them so terrified was even worse than they thought it might be. It’s been years since then, but Rina hadn’t forgotten. How could they? How could they get the mental image of a man being toasted by pure electricity, left for stray dogs to feast on out of their mind? How could they go on with their life knowing that though unlikely, this might happen? That made Rina more and more scared with every passing winter. They started with turning on the TV volume as high as they could without annoying the neighbours, hoping the loud sounds from inside could block the loud reminders of the possibly-real man they thought about all the time. When that stopped working, Rina tried to just go to sleep, but that only resulted in nightmares and a rush to put on some shoes. After that, Rina told themselves to just stop worrying about this. To just accept the fear, and that it’s irrational, and that they’re always going to be fine. Judging by the way they’re shaking under the dining room table every time a thunder roams outside of their window, that method doesn’t work either. It might take a while for them to figure out a new way to deal with (or ignore) their growing phobia, but Rina couldn’t think about this right now. All they could do is pray to survive tonight’s thunderstorm.


*(2062, eight years after the Last Great War)*  The artificial rain pelted against the windshield of the car. Street sign light was warped and played with by the water droplets, casting strange and hypnotic patterns across the faces of passers-by. A tall grey brick apartment building stood, only dwarfed by new corporate skyscrapers in the center of the city. The skyline was jagged and dangerous, radio towers and hovercars populated the world above as the world below harbored the lost souls of the city. But just above the sprinklers poking out of the sides of hovering zeppelins, was dust and intolerable heat. Heath sat in the driver’s seat, a term that had become just a remnant of an age past and somewhat forgotten. The car landed across the street from the “Summerset Apartments”, located in the upper east side Manhatten, though it used to be a nice neighborhood, it was a now well-established hub for prostitution. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, flattening it on the dashboard, the words “Come back for a Kiss” where the word kiss was a pink lipstick mark, he smiled. A letter from a personal escort he had employed many times before, Chelsea Sing, a woman who deserved more credit than she got. He climbed out of the car and swiped his ID-Band across the face of a parking meter. The rain had not halted yet, it still had another twenty-two minutes before the Zeppelin would move to the next section of New York. He pulled out a respiratory mask and secured it to his stubble ridden chin and stalked across the neon-lit street. The building was grey, years of ash of burning countryside had built up on the once-white bricks. Everything below the cloudline was this way. It was a factor of life every one dealt with, everyone wore a respirator or risked lung disease. Every establishment had fans at their entrance to blow away the dust, but that was mostly unnecessary if a zeppelin was pouring rain. The muddy streets were slick beneath his feet, he dodged two cars that drove past, the raindrops reminded of a snare drum. The lobby was skinny and cluttered, an older Chinese woman sat smoking an opium pipe at the reception desk. She wore a deep red kimono riddled with holes revealing her wrinkly and sunspot riddled body beneath. A white cat laid on the counter purring softly, its eyes closed and head resting in its paws. Heath patted the cat and nodded to the woman as she sat half asleep staring out into the street He hummed a sweet tune to which he had forgotten the name. The ambient sound of muffled moaning and gasping was heard throughout the hallways. A sound that one comes accustomed to if you frequent these establishments. Taking the elevator to the hundred and sixteenth floor, it reeked of sex and cigarettes, the smell forced Heath to pull out this own and light up. The smoke caught the sepia tone light above as the soft hum of machinery joined with the subtle jazz music following him up. The elevator doors opened, he was greeted with a beautiful painting of a Rubenesque woman sitting on a silk couch. He felt butterflies rise in his stomach. He made his way down the long hallway, to the last doorway on his left. He stopped, pulled out the paper, and smiled again. He knocked in a short rhythmic pattern reminiscent of “In The Mood”. There was a brief silence 2 before the door slid open revealing a beautifully thin woman, her hair pinned into a bob, below a curvy line of pink lipstick set pursed in mild annoyance, before drifting into a soft delight. “You’re late,” Chelsea said as she turned around and headed back into her apartment, her robe barely covering her body. “There wasn’t a time on the note.” he jested. He hung his wet hat and overcoat on a rack by the door. The apartment was spacious for where it was, as she had a pretty stable income. Directly across the living space, littered with belts, sashes and articles of various lacy underwear, stood a balcony where one could look across the city. He has spent many hours watching life below while operating zeppelins, but it all felt different here, with her. With her. She tiptoed around the room, picking up various instruments and clothing before flinging them into a chest by a music box. Chelsea tapped a few buttons on the box before it whirred to life, a soft white screen lit up, showing a plethora of old-age music. She had, for as long as he had known her, played jazz while relaxing. Her robe drifted off as she glided behind a changing curtain. He caught a glimpse of a tan waist before her shadow was projected onto the translucent screen. The shadow, puppeted by a woman Heath had grown very weak for, began to change into a light pink nightgown. Heath situated himself on a couch, watching her change as the music began to drift to his ears. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander back to his youth, a time before the war. He remembered his old classics professor, who had taught him everything he knew about music and art. His fingers danced on his lap, mimicking piano keys, keeping in time with the music as it sped up and slowed down in all the perfect ways, creating a story without words of a time where life was about living and not working. He opened his eyes as he began to tear up. He saw Chelsea, arm resting on the music box watching him with tender eyes. “Do you miss it?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Heath got up and crossed to her, picked up two glasses, and poured them both whiskey. She accepted and sat down on the couch. She patted it for him to sit with her, but he turned to the balcony instead, looking over the cityscape. The whiskey in his glass swirled as he brought it to his lips. “It used to be so beautiful, before the war.” He watched as the zeppelin had started its route to the next neighborhood. The rain stopped, it would be back within the hour, never on schedule. He tapped his cigarette into a green glass ashtray. “I wish I could’ve seen it from this view before the ash and heat.” She sipped her drink, gazing out the french doors. They remained closed when the rain stopped the ash started. “It was a sight to behold. Did you know that the Empire State Building was once the tallest building in the world?” He looked for it, the once glorious staple of New York was now overshadowed by at least ten other new age architecture. Flying buttresses were strung between buildings like cobwebs in an attic, positioned so they can remain upright. He thought “If I pluck on out the rest would fall like dominos”, the idea was moderately appealing, a new start for an old city. She placed her glass on the music box before switching over to a smoother song. She glided over to him, wrapping her thin arms around him and swaying. She closed her eyes and just listened to him rambling about early twentieth-century architecture and art. Her mind began to play with the idea of a simple life with him in an apartment back in the nineteen-twenties. She began to cry. Heath turned around, knowing what she was thinking, he stopped talking and pulled her away. He knew she wanted a life with him, and he with her. But with her work, she never could, and with his mechanic job, he could never make the money to leave the city, though the countryside was worse, covered in radiation and pockmarked with craters. Everything west until California is in ruin, and everything in the city is dingy and dark. Her tears ran down her face, smearing her mascara. Heath brought her in, embracing her. Forcing from his mind the thought that he’d have to leave soon, or risk her boss finding out about them. She remembered her life before she was an escort, she was a young woman with no care in the world, only seeing the future before all that was cast away by foreign wars brought to domestic soil, forcing her to seek employment anywhere she could. She came to an old Chinese woman who owned a small escort business, signing away her life, cutting her off from any prospect of love or new life. But if she had never done this she would have not met Heath. They swayed in sync with the music, as the rain started once again. The patter of droplets on the glass played with the saxophone and piano. He heard Chelsea quietly whimper, he hugged her tighter, as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her tears flowed down his sleeve, staining it with a sadness you could never wash out. She looked up at him as if he had called her name, she reached with her fingers, found his chin, and brought his mouth towards hers. The stubble scratched her cheeks but she didn’t mind. She pulled back after a long while and looked into his eyes. She could see his feelings for her in those dark blue eyes, she saw a longing for a life with her. She wanted it so bad. But she could never do it. Her contract took away her right to leave. A hovercar passed by the window, its lights illuminating the room, casting shadows across them both. In it, a person with their own problems needs and wants. “Everyone,” she thought, “has a life don’t they.”. Seeing the car just pass by, without a care in the world made her yearn to do the same, to leave this all. She had thought of this before, and perhaps it was true, but none of that mattered if he wasn’t with her. She brought her head back to his shoulder. She began to sway again with him, knowing he had to leave soon. She closed her eyes, and so did he. The music played with their hearts, thumping in time with one another. Life could be better with her. Life could be better with him. Life could be better.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: The Point of No Return. This brief is going to be pretty… well… brief, because this beat is possibly one of the most direct turning points in a story. If your story is all about personal conflict, here’s when a vital character says something they can never take back, or. Folks, going into this next few portions of your story, consider it your “Second Act”. This is where all the stuff you see in the movie trailer takes place. You gave your characters some tools in the first act that they get to use (and probably fail) in the next couple of weeks. Your main character may see true colors come out in the In the last challenge they might have received information that changed how they look at the world around them-- in this installment we see This is the part where they double down on their commitment to staying the course, and where they confirm the people who are with or That isn’t to say there won’t be betrayals In this installment your characters are going to be faced with their options being narrowed to one path: forward. Imagine at this point that your characters are trapped in the desert, parched, searching for the weapon to defeat the Dark Lord. A stranger comes riding through on a white horse, offers your character a ride, and it’s that precise moment your character refuses the stranger, because finding the weapon is more important than slaking their own thirst. The Point of No Return doesn’t have to be a life and death situation. Sometimes it’s your protagonist facing the choice of standing up for what they believe in, Things to think about for this assignment: What consequences come from your main character Does your character/s have a plan? Will it be enough? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 9/19, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Event That Changes Everything: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Xactar, with the most votes by a fair margin. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: aaaaaaand it shouldn’t surprise anyone here, but /u/Xactar, It’s not often that someone can land both a fan favorite and the Challenge Sash, but Xacktar really brought it home this week. Well deserved, Xacktar! And honorable mentions: /u/litcityblues, for And /u/lynx_elia, . \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: The Event That Changes Everything Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


The touches between their lips burn. He woke up in sweat and horror. The things in his dream had never happened in real life, which was more of the reason to feel terrified over. You dreamt what you had thought of, but he could swear to all gods he hadn’t thought of anything alike for quite a long while. He then realized he was not lying down on his own bed staring at the ceiling like it was supposed to be when waking up from a nightmare, instead he was sitting at a table by himself. Drowsiness and stupefaction of his mind prevented him from processing any more thoughts beyond the thirst for water. He waved his hand, a waitress came for him, and he asked for the icy waters. The ice water cleared the mind, he could finally observe his surroundings. It was the bar downtown, he realized, and soon enough he remembered he came here by himself just for some drinks, but then fell asleep at the table, succumbing to his sleep deprivations that had been pestering him for the last few weeks. One could only imagine his exhaustion if his little nap had dreams horrifying enough for him to wake up amidst it. The lady’s voice on stage sounded like silver bells. These round tables surrounding the stage were mostly empty. No one would come to a bar on a work day afternoon. Well besides him. He walked out the bar, and the sun almost blinded him in an instance. The street looked exotic, so did everyone that walked past him, but it might just be the effect of his slumbering mental state. Bilious, agitated, he wanted to do something, but there was nothing for him to do. The classes were all done and needed no more attention, besides, sitting back at his desk and starting doing work would be the last thing he wanted to do at this moment. He had a train he had to get on this evening, but that just seemed so far away right now, he wouldn’t want to entertain the idea of doing nothing until then. The phone came in. He picked it up. “Yo! Dawdler! I would imagine you having nothing to do right now.” “Yes. I have nothing to do.” “Come over to my apartment. Rand and I are heading out, you want to come?” “Heading out for what? “I don’t know. Christmas is coming my dude. You don’t want to make a proper meal together before going back home?” That sounded like a decent enough idea, but that meant he would be stuck with Reynolds and Rand for the next few hours. “Sure… I am coming.” The sun was relentless, and there were no clouds in the sky, so it blasted the land with all its might and wills, scorching the tarmac roads with thundering heat. Stepping on it, he could feel the ground hitting back up his feet, and his skin grinding against the bottom of his shoes. Their apartment was quite far away from his, and although they both belong to the school, one was far more superior than the other. He would normally be able to tell which was which, but right now the vivid dream and the numbness of his limbs had disabled him from making any judgment on anything, and nor could he remember what he thought of their apartments before today. All he could think of properly right now, was to walk. Walk to their apartment. Just walk under the screaming sun. The blocks looked all the same. Building after building climbing on top of each other, stacking layers upon layers like some kind of foreign dishes of which he forgot the name of. Since the surroundings were so monotonous, there was really no way of telling north west east south. But somehow, as if there were a mental map in his brain, he simply just kept walking, and his feet would just follow an invisible trail, heading towards an unknown destination. “Goddamn, I would expect you to be late for forty minutes or so.” Reynolds blurted when opening the door. “I was nearby.” “For what?” “I don’t know.” That wasn’t a lie. “Well, let's go then. Rand!” “Yea. I am ready.” Indeed he was with all his backpack and hiking shoes and such. “Would you keep it down, by the way, Not everyone has gone home you know.” “Thought it was just you two in the apartment.” He asked, not knowing why he would ask such a question. Seemed rather specific. “He meant our neighbors,” Reynold answered. They headed out. Rand suggested heading back to school, which was a few miles away. Reynold chided him for being such a nerd that even though they had all finished their courses the school was still the one destination he had in mind, but he did agree with the suggestion. The school’s market was quite cheap, and their goal of the day was to get food after all. Him, walking alongside the two, or to be more accurate following the two, since he just couldn’t pick up the pace of his steps, and the two sometimes had to stop their steps to wait for him. He didn’t voice any opinion about the suggestion, simply because he knew that even if Rand had suggested them all jump out of a bridge and off themselves, he would still think of it as a good idea. He felt dehydrated, dizzy, tiresome, and every time his feet stepped on the dirt or some rough surface, his entire body shuddered. Their school was on top of the hill, so the few miles that usually would be pretty easy for casual hikers like them were a lot more difficult this time. The uphills were almost torturous. Reynold joked about them all should just head back home right now and bored their brains out while at it, Rand laughed, while he, again, remained silent. He was a talkative person, for sure, but not right now, as he couldn’t construct a complete sentence in his head and continuously finding the act of listening to their conversations to be progressively burdensome, so he toned out, and focused himself on walking and seeing. “Say, Francis would have hated to be here.” “We need to do this with him next time. Walk to our school from the apartment.” “That moron probably wouldn’t be able to last ten minutes. I could laugh by just imagining his expression.” “I couldn’t. Mainly because my feet hurt.” “Yeah the uphill was quite the tribulation, but hey we had done it before right?” “Right, I am not saying we can’t do this.” “I know what you meant.” “Sure you do.” “Hey, I got you. We should do an even longer hike after this one.” “Of course you wouldn’t stop until my shoes are completely whacked.” “I got you, man. Don’t worry about those trivia details.” A farm. Amidst the esoteric, recondite conversation between the two, the corner of his eyes spotted something. A farm right next to the tarmac road they were walking on. He voiced: “We should check out the farm.” “What?” “We should check out the farm.” “Isn’t the farm a restricted area?” Rand asked Reynold. “Right… I don’t think we are allowed to enter the place.” Directed toward him. The sudden urge in his heart of visiting the farm was overwhelming, and it seethed in his chest, pumping and quickening his breath. He needed to see the farm. He felt. The need was a necessity, comparable to the matters of life and death and the basic need of human beings, like water and food. His arms and legs froze over, even with the boiling air surrounding him, he could feel the chill spreading from his spine to the outer skins and organs. It was the chill of desperation. If he gave up right there, there might be never again a chance of entering the farm with his friends, and the farm would forever be cloaked in mystery, and every time he walked past it would be mental torture from now on. So he must insist. The two standing in front of him would follow as well, and he would make sure of that. “Say, you are an adventurous person.” He blurted. “It is gonna be fine, alright? Trust me on this. I am circumspect enough of a person, won’t you agree?” “Yeah…” Reynold uttered slowly beneath his breath. “So then, what else is the problem. They don’t have guards, they don’t have security cameras, they have nothing. It is just a detour. Again, thought you are an adventurous person.” “Sure I am.” Reynold was properly convinced. He headed to the farm right away. The farm was not big, just a small field of a prairie. The wheat was still pretty young, so the colors of the place were mostly green instead of the usual bright yellow of a wheat field. The heat was magnified by whatever was in the field, maybe from the reflection of the road. The sun was right above them, with nothing between, he could feel his hair gradually heating up. He walked around the place aimlessly, but suddenly he found something. A small barn, in it, laid a few containers. The two followed him in here. He opened one of the containers, it was filled with rice grains. “Huh. So here are the foods the school dining hall uses?” “Why would there be no one guarding these will be my question.” Reynold looked around. He reached out his hand, grabbed a handful of it. The rice, though uncooked, looked extremely appetizing. For some unknown reasons, he could smell the delectable taste of a bowl of perfectly cooked, fluffy white rice. He was salivating, like a dog. He swallowed a lump down his throat, but his stomach was now growling as if it was protesting the long absence of food, which he would admit to. He hadn’t eaten for at least a day or two by now, but still, even himself found the fact of him hungering over raw rice to be disturbing. He suddenly made the decision. He pulled out a plastic bag and stuffed some handfuls of rice in it. “Hey! What are you doing?” Rand said, with certain panic and anger in his voice. “Woah there!” Reynold, less agitated but still with noticeable vexation. He just kept on stuffing. His hand that kept reaching out to grab the grains had slowly gone numb, and cold. He considered switching hands, so his left hand would be the one that held the bag and the right would be the one that purloined, but switching hands right now would be looking really weird, and his friends were watching him, so he gave up the idea, and kept moving his arms with muscle memories. Finally, the small plastic bag was filled with rice grains. “There is no one around.” He said, addressing himself to Reynold. “Nor are there any cameras. Look around. This little barn is not capable of having any sort of security alright? There are no fences around this place either. They don’t sell jasmine rice up there, and damn it I haven't had a good meal in way too long of a while. There are at least a few bushels of rice in each of the containers, a bag from it would be less noticeable than a needle under the ocean.” “Why would you go out of your way to do things… with all these illegalities…” He didn’t know why either. He could feel the fume burning, and the urge of doing something outrageous, something outlandish, something that no one else would have done just wouldn’t stop its hissing trails all over his body. He didn’t know the source nor the cause of such wants, and he didn’t question it either, he just obeyed. “Hey! I don’t care. Do what you want, I am getting these myself if you want to wash all your hands and walk away clean.” He appeared more insolent than normal as well. He normally wouldn’t talk to a friend like that. “Alright!” Reynold slapped his knees, “If the prudent living, overly-paranoid and cautious friend said it is alright, why not right?” He pulled out a small plastic bag and stuff and a few handfuls of rice in it as well. “Reynold!” Rand cried. “Dude! We are not doing the right things right now! This is stealing.” “Hey, it is fine.” Reynold gave Rand a few comforting pads on the shoulder, “Don’t worry alright? He does that. We said we are gonna make a proper meal tonight, and yeah like he said, they don’t sell these good rice up there in the supermarket. There are still tons lying around here. A few bowls of it, no one would notice.” “Nor would anyone care.” He followed up Reynold’s sentence even though it needed no follow up. “Let's go.” The dusk had come for them. On the way back, walking downhill, he could see the sun slowly drown beneath the horizon, as the bright yellow light slowly turned into a deep and crimson red. The heat was gone, and replacing it was the breezes and the chill that crept under people’s sleeves when they were not noticing. They had shopped quite a lot, and it seemed they really planned to have a proper meal in their apartment. Him, on the other hand, bought very little, just a stick of celery, some chocolate for the way back, and that one bag of rice sitting at the bottom of the pocket of his coat. He could feel the weight of it. And as the heat of the day died off, his rational minds had seemed to come back alive. His hand felt cold, and his brain was scrambling for a good justification for being a larcener, and no doubt not one was satisfying enough. What’s more, was the fear. The fear of being caught. The rebellion of the act was far greater than he had expected, and the anxiety and the nerve such rebellious intention brought were weighing in far harsher than he could take. There is no way to be sure. He told himself. How could one be so stupid that they thought their act of crime will not be caught. It was a strictly forbidden area, beyond any doubts that trespassing would be punished. He didn’t see any fences, or any guards, or anyone, and the barn was barren and empty enough for him to observe all over without an untrodden corner, and for sure there could be no security camera there. Something might have already gone wrong, but he was just ignorant of it. Maybe the authorities were heading their way already. Maybe someone who accidentally walked by saw them, and they would become the witness of their crime. Maybe that someone remembered their faces. Then he checked the watch, an even more intense but significantly more mundane kind of anxiety took over. He needed a proper hour to get to the train station, but right now, by their pace, he would miss his train which was also the last one of the day. He had to make home before tomorrow. When they reached their apartment, the stress had finally taken his toll. As they walked in their apartment, he voiced: “I can’t stay, guys.” “What?” Reynold turned and asked, just about to step in the door. “You stay for dinner at least right? We bought all this stuff.” “No… I can’t… I have a train to catch, I already bought the ticket. I have to go.” He put down the few things he bought in the shop, along with that heavy bag of rice. “They are all yours. Just enjoy your meal alright? Happy holiday…” Suspiration could be heard, presumably made by Rand since it was coming from behind Reynold, though he couldn’t really see the inside of the apartment, it was unlit, and he had his head down and couldn’t raise it back up. He was just staring at Reynold’s shoes. They were new, and shiny, seemed expensive. “You sure. You can still have your stuff you know, we got quite enough.” “No just… have them, I need to go… put more water in that rice cooker… last time I ate here the rice tasted dry…” “That was what? Two or three years ago?” “Right… I must be going.” The road leading to the train station meandered around the hills and the city as if it was consciously expanding to agitate him even more than he already was. He needed to get to the train station. The ticket was not cheap, and missing the train would be a huge loss on his and his family’s behalf. He rushed through streets after streets, blocks after blocks, until finally, the thought of giving up had caught up to him: The train station was still a mile or more away, yet the train was leaving in twenty minutes. If he makes haste, he might still be able to catch it, but there was no point in doing that. His lungs were already burning with exhaustion, so did his limbs shaking from starvation and dehydration. He gave up. He would go back home the next day. Right now something more urgent must be done: eat and rest. But both his and the two’s apartment was really far away from him now. The dining hall it is. He thought to himself. The food there was absolute trash, and he enjoyed no bits from knowing the fact that the meal he was about to consume would barely be tolerable, but he needed to eat, and rest, fast. He headed back uphill towards the school dining hall. 。。。 The morning. A very early morning. Not even seven o’clock yet. The sun had just come out, and the light it emitted was still mellow and somber, shining on the church’s wall appearing as different shades of blue and white. Some people were gathering at the front door. He just came back from home, and he had heard the news: the two friends of his had died, cause of death remained undisclosed. The church in the school was having a memoir right now, and he had just caught it. He rushed here immediately after he stepped off the train. It was the start of another quarter, and coming back from winter break, not a lot of classmates of his could handle such tragic news. He could, and fear and distraught overwhelmed him as he stepped into the church. The church was still relatively empty. No priest could be seen, just some classmates and friends of theirs sitting on the benches, weeping or whispering over the death, he couldn’t tell. No other sound could be heard. The people at the front door were greeted by a front desk set up temporarily to deal with the guests coming from outside the school. At the very front, there were flowers sent by people everywhere giving their condolences sitting on the altar and ambo, along with some words of prayers, but he couldn’t see the expected portraits of the two friends of his. He was glad about it, since he wasn’t sure about his ability to hold it together if he saw the two’s faces again. He saw a girl sitting on the very front bench, he walked down the nave to her. “Viola.” He whispered since the surroundings were all so quiet. “Oh, you are here.” She clearly had wept. but she still had her composure, with that ever-lasting stoic expression of hers, “Oh god, I wish we would have met under better circumstances…” “Where is the principle?” He asked. If Viola was not knee-deep in the water of grief and affliction, she would definitely be able to spot the irregularity: there was no anguish, or sadness over a close friends’ death on his face; his pallid skin and pale lips were all the expression of horror and utter fear; he looked as if someone was chasing him, as all his limbs shudder noticeably like care branches amidst a snowstorm.; his eyes wide open, and the trembling mind could be seen through his almost diluted iris. She didn’t notice all these however, as she was, indeed, overwhelmed by the sadness of losing two of her close friends. “Where is the principle?” He asked again, this time bellowing yet remained the low volume. “I need to speak with him.” “He is sitting at the front desk…” She replied, quite bewildered, yet again having not enough of vigor or strength to question his behavior. He turned his head and confirmed her answer. Strangely he had just walked past the front desk and didn’t notice the principle sitting there. “Mr. Principle.” “Oh, lad…” The principle was a man in his middle age, with a bald spot on top of his head and a pair of unpleasant looking specs, “You have my utmost condolences. I know you all are close friends...” “I need to talk to you, in private.” “Aye, just give me a few minutes to settle down the guests…” “It is urgent.” The principle paused for a moment. “Let's go to the quad.” The quad, not really a quad, but a football field, with running tracks circling it. There were some students on the field practicing sports, and some running on the track. Not by any means a lot of them, but still enough to scatter all around the field. “We can talk while walking.” The principle uttered. “This needs to be in private.” “It is private. We walk along the track and talk, no one would have heard.” They got down there and started strolling along the running track. “So. What’s the matter?” The news reached his house a week or so ago during the middle of winter break and holiday, and he could feel nothing but fear ever since. The trepidation he had experienced for the past few days must certainly be something beyond anyone’s comprehension: it had mastered him, as he was unable to fall asleep without feeling the sensation of those grains of rice slipping through his finger. He checked all his clothes and bags for any shreds of evidence of him ever been to that farm, any traces of soil or grains of rice he hadn’t noticed before. Naturally, there was nothing, he was all clean. He then got a fever, though he had never heard of anyone getting themselves physically ill not of outside factors but of inner turmoil. The fear of getting caught, coated his jacket, followed him every second of the day. He laid in bed for a few days, sinking down to the bottom of near unconsciousness, and during those days when he encumbered himself in the dusty bed sheets shaking and shivering, speculations and educated guesses muddled his mind even further. He could no longer believe in the blissful lies he had before. There must be a reason why a farm would be such a heavily restricted area, and there must be a reason why such classified and prohibited places so lacking in security. After a few days of bed-ridding, he finally felt better, physically. For the rest of the holidays, he suddenly became more polite, more timid to others, as he would never greet or welcome those relatives of his normally, but this time he was acting like a sycophant, smiling and treating them all like the most up class guests. Those around him noticed the differences, figured he was changing for the better. But he knew, because every night, when he stared at the ceiling, it looked like that metallic surface of the rice containers, pale white, staring right back at him. He needed to sort this out, and even though the principle wasn’t a person he had the most trust in, he was the highest official he could easily get to. He recounted everything to him, everything that happened that afternoon, even down to the details like the feeling of rice running through his hand like water. “Do you know what is in those farms around the hills, sir?” “No.” The principle answered solemnly. They strolled along the running tracks, occasionally passed through by some students having their morning run. “I am just managing the school, so does every school official, we don’t own the place you know. This is a public school, owned by the government. They got those farms. Even we are prohibited from entering.” “So they are of even higher-ups?” “Yeah… oh boyo, I wouldn’t trade places with you right now for all the whiskey in Ireland…” “I know why they are dead! The official record for their cause of death was unknown right now, but I know why!” As he was about to say something, some runner ran right past them. He recognized the kid, he was from the same class as theirs, the known juvenile, often breaking rules and disobeying the authority, someone on a completely different spectrum than his. He was a good student, well, decent enough, well-liked by teachers. He then noticed the runners running around the tracks all belong to that category, then the terrifying potential hit him: they were eavesdropping. For what reason, might simply be out of curiosity. Nosey cur, like a sewing circle in the back of the class, whispering rumors and conspiracies. “I know why they are dead. The rice was laced.” “Why would you think that?” “That is the only reason that is possible, I had thought of this through and through. There is beyond doubt they had eaten those rice we stole. I haven’t voiced my concern then…” “Why is that?” “I was partly intoxicated…” He scratched his head embarrassingly. “Those rice looked irregular. They were glistening. I had seen enough rice, and that is not something rice grain would do. The glitter was not a coincidence, and that also explained why there is no guard or fences. They knew. Whatever purposes the rice, or heck any other foods coming out of those farms serve, they must have a special procedure to wash off the substances before using.” “The soviet.” The principle suddenly voiced. “What?” “My guesses. These products are for the soviets. Or their organizations in the state. Or something along the lines. These poisonous lacing of anti-theft tactics also fits with their normal doings.” “Thought you said the farms belong to the federal government?” “It could be spies working there, or some other reasons, secret alliances, anything. I had done some digging of my own before in regards to these farms, out of sheer curiosity, and just some amount of spikes that I, as the principal and general managers of the school, were still not allowed to walk into those places, which are under my management! A lot of papers pertaining to the crops were written in a language I can’t understand. Russians. I have seen tags around the necks of those cows. These all add up.” “So, those farms…” “You guys touched the wrong stuff. Basically.” They had stopped their steps, standing in the far side of the track, looking at the football field. By then he had already determined that those runners were eavesdropping their conversation and feeding it back to the class. They were looking through the corner of their eyes every time they ran past them, and their ears were all erected and tall standing. Eyes and ears everywhere. “I think you should head home. I don’t think it’s safe for you to remain in school, my lad.” “You think that is appropriate?” “There must be further aftermath. I would contact you after the things blow over, right now you must head home. Nobody can know what we had spoken of here, boyo?” They had already known. He thought but he simply nodded. The way heading the train station was long, and numbing. After finally divulging his thoughts to someone else, certain clearances had finally visited his mind, the long yearned clearance, but yet still, the damage was done. He now no longer felt the overwhelming dread, instead, he felt nothing. Numbness and emptiness occupied his brain, and they were long-awaited. Like a drywall or an empty canvas, he sauntered to the train station and bought the most recent tickets. He hadn’t been this calm in a long while, not since that afternoon. He felt no relief, yet it was already good enough for him to not crack and cross the last line of defense and sanity. The train came, modern and refreshing. The cart was quite large and tall, so the inside really didn’t feel crowded even though there were plenty of people up there. The train looked more like a good modern subway now he looked at it more closely. The windows were all huge so there was no need for lights, for the sunlight had lit up the train more than anything else could. People standing around even though there were still seats available, most of them staring at their phone or taking a nap, all seemed like business people attending to work. He found a seat and sat down, put his head in his hands as if his nails would drill through his skull. Tears. He didn’t weep a single drop of tear through all these days. He hadn’t even considered the impact of their death, in fact, after all these days of isolation and apprehension, he had already kind of forgotten the appearances of theirs, how they looked, how they acted, how they talked. Fear and dread were so overbearing, no sorrow or sadness could compare to it, but now that those paranoia had slipped back a little, the regret and the remorse finally came crashing through the gate. They were his close friends, and he could never see them ever again. Such cold hard fact pounded his chest harder than his breath. He had led them to their death. He was the one who decidedly wanted to do an outrageous ordeal. He was the one encouraging them the unlawful acts. He was the one that practically killed. He wept like a baby, wanting to wail yet trying his best to hold back seeing he was in public on a train. There was not a trace of pride or ego of himself anymore, and the crushing sense of guilt gripped him by the spine. He cried into his hands, for the loss of his friends. The trains ran further into the horizon, and there was no return.


Dearest ‘fella’,  I am continually haunted by the ghost of you. No, my dear. You are not dead - not yet at the very least. You stand before me right now, clad in white. (So, why do I call you a ghost?)  Because, the memories we created, shared, and bore within our hearts, the very core of our soul. The memories that I kept locked away from sight, in the lacquer box that was passed down by my mother, to me, for you, when she ‘left’ for a better place that required no passport.  The memories that are – unquantifiable, unthinkable, worthless yet priceless, these memories that I store away like treasure, as though they were diamonds found among the ruff. Memories that I wish the next generation that I bear would be able to keep, these, moments, that hold immense value as intrinsic as it may be. Moments that I’d never be able to forget – at least, not in this lifetime.  These memories I carry like baggage for the rest of my life, in my fleeting heart - like a traveler that roams aimlessly, in search for something to fill the emptiness that is harbored within that red pulp of vitality. Sometimes they are as heavy as the weight of the entire universe – sometimes they are as light as the weight a new born baby carries in his heart as his first innocent breath kisses the very existence of the world. This, cruel, cruel, unfair world.  But for when they feel weightless, I feel uncontended. I simply fill the void within my soul with vices, cigarettes, alcoholism, gambling, the very vices that I swore to never touch when we made our promises to one another under the sapphire moonlight that fell ever so smoothly on your face, that effaced the very beauty of your opal skin that I long to brush my fingers against once again, as tenderly as an artist would be to his first and last painting. Ah, this memory once again, it haunts my very being.  Bittersweet.  Most of the time, these memories feel like a weight that even God – the creator of heaven and earth, the creator of you and I, cannot lift off my soul. I remember the times you would say that you’d be there for me, from dawn till dusk, from then till the end of our exhaustible life, or even from there till the ends of the world, “for you a thousand times over.” I remember the last time we talked as though it were the fondest memory of a lifetime that I have yet to live till the end, but yet a chord strikes within my heart – I know, I’ll never forget this memory, the memory that haunts my existence, the memory that eats me from within till I’m no longer a man but simply a being that eats, breathes, lives, and exists for no other purpose than to live till the day I leave this world for a ‘better’ place, where I would meet my mother once again, to give one last gasp of breath – indicating the end to the vitality of my pathetic life in which the shell of my body - the vessel of my soul carries. Before my soul goes towards the underworld, past Cerebus, into the gates of hell.  Dies Irae, dies illa.  I’m sorry; I got carried away. Back to the memory which I was talking about before my mind was engulfed in a series of completely, undesired but necessary emotions. The memory, the last chapter of our story as ‘one’, the last day I spoke to you in which you were still willing to receive a portion of my love with contempt and dejection, but refused to reciprocate even a percent of it. The day you left me.  It was a more than average, typical Saturday afternoon, we met at the café that we went to on our first date, the name? I forgot, a distant memory. When we sat down on that round mahogany table that separated the two of us by no more than a single meter, for some reason I could feel the distance that you were trying to put between you and me. Your eyes refused to meet mine, is it because mine was filled with the furious unquenchable passion of love that you could not match, or because you could not look into the eyes of the man whose life you were about to shatter with a few words. Under your breath, you muttered a series of incomprehensible words that to this day I still couldn’t make out (or I couldn’t bear to come terms with).  “… love you, … working out.”  Then, you got up and left, leaving nothing behind but a man that was left void of emotions, emotions that would only come flooding in at once later in that dark night as he is accompanied not by you but a fine bottle of chardonnay. Oh, you left a 10-dollar bill behind as well, which was just enough to cover our usual order of 1 vanilla latte (decaf, no sugar) and 1 cappuccino (extra shot), (even though you didn’t even take a sip of yours) which would leave behind 20 cents of change. The 20  cents that I still keep today in that lacquer box of memories that I shared with you. The last memory of you and I.  Goodbye.  Today I came dressed in the suit that I intended to wear on the day of our marriage, I came with my best intentions for you. I don’t understand why you invited me. Was it because you wanted to spite me? To let me know that you were no longer mine? Or as an attempt to get my pathetic excuse of a human being to finally move on? – If so was it out of love? Whatever it is, seeing you smiling with him beside your side as though the entire cosmos stopped in their tracks just to watch you for that day, to watch you get wed into the arms of a man that wasn’t me. I realized that you are no longer within my reach, but more importantly making me realize how I was selfish to ever think that you were in my reach when we were thousands of miles apart. That weight was finally lifted off my chest, the weight of the memories that I held close to my heart in the foolish belief that we would one day be able to relive them once again. No longer will these memories haunt my soul, as watching you, that part of me has died in an attempt to become as pure as a drop of a dew on a morning in spring, to be innocent and to be void once again of any memories. The remaining of my life has become a new, blank, canvas. For in his arms, I saw that you were the happiest person in the world and I’m no longer bitter and sorrow, but happy for you.  The memories we made shall simply become a chapter in my story that I will hold dearly in my heart, but yet I shall choose to forget. For  memories distort the reality of life and prevents one from moving on towards a better future for themselves.  I’ve finally become a better person, by the memory of you.


Dear Mêpük The day I saw you for the first time feels like and is in fact yesterday. I was reading a book on a bench in the town square of Börtèkun. Your curly dark hair and sharp nose made you stick out of the crowd inhabiting the lively streets. You were tall and dressed in a suit with a dark lilac-blue tie with white stripes. I was captivated of your stature and style, so I stared at you from afar. You seemed to be in distress and walking in a fast pace. As you were about to disappear in the flood of people I bolted upright and started running towards you bumping into several people by accident, making them shout at me in anger. I ignored them and everything around me. All I wanted is to know more about you. You glanced back at me right before the sea of people blocked my view. The moment our eyes met I noticed a look of pure horror on your dark red eyes. I heard a loud bang followed by a high-pitched scream coming from the direction you went. Everybody around me started to panic while I just stared blankly into the void thinking about you. I felt the sensation of being pushed away by all the humans running for their life — further away from you. My legs gave up on carrying me. I started staggering backwards, tripped and fell. **Thud** Blackness engulfed me and a high-pitched sound followed, that slowly morphed into the sound of a single triangle being chimed rhythmically. Then a second chimed in. I started hearing a vocal humming and deep voices mumbling inaudible things. Then a harp. A harp being played in a wrong dissonant way. Then the distant **caw** of a crow, the weeping of a woman and the damp rumbling of a waterfall in the background. I started feeling intense sadness. I slowly came to realize — I was a tear. A tear falling slowly from the eye of the woman. An image of her flashed in front of my inner eye. It was a beautiful woman in a dark lilac-blue dress with long curly dark hair and a sharp nose. Her eyes were a dark wine red. She was sitting in a field of dying white flowers with hanging tips holding three leafs each. She was sorrow impersonated. The woman, the flowers, the falling and the music — all of it sounded tired of everything. Everything wanted to stop. My entire universe was that exact moment. No other thought or sensation existed besides that scenario. I was an eternal falling tear. It all felt like it was slowing down — dying. I was all sensation, I was the universe, and I was approaching the end of everything, yet the end never came to me. After what felt like eternity, I felt peace. I felt like I had achieved the greatness. Now I was a tear of happiness. At the same time I felt like I was a warrior in a dense forest holding up my club and yelling loudly — “VICTORY, VICTORY, VICTORY, ...” but in a strange foreign language, my primitive fur cloths flailing in the wind as my fellow tribesmen gathered around me, bloodied, sullied but with hope in their eyes, and I was part of all of it. I was the whole experience. I felt every twitch of every muscle, every branch of every tree holding the bright green leafs rustling in the cool wind, every flower and every mushroom engulfed in a blood-red light of the rising sun and the warmth overcoming the wet ground. All but the numerous corpses. They are not ready yet but soon they will decay and return to the cycle of life.


I woke up to the noise of heavy breathing that my 11-year-old younger brother, Aryan made. Every time he wakes up with heavy breathing and sweaty face, meant that he saw the same nightmare. Waking up like this, he would remain upset the whole day, probably searching for the meaning of it. As an elder sister, I am always concerned about his mental health. I have asked him about his dream on many occasions, and he always has the same answer, “I saw a woman screaming as if she was dying”. He started seeing this dream when he was 4 years old. He ran from his bed to our mother and hugged her like he always does, waking up like that. I wonder how terrifying it would be while dreaming like that. Horrific, or maybe this is one of his tricks to get attention from others. Thinking all this I went to sleep again. Later in the morning, I went down to see my dad and uncle Vinod. Uncle Vinod, My Dad’s younger brother visits us every day after the morning jog. He loves us a lot and often brings me and my brother gifts. He lives alone, as his wife, my aunt Megha died long back. My dad thinks that my uncle feels lonely, so we decided to move to a place closer to his home, to which we will be shifting today. It would be even more fun if he agrees to live with us, rather than living alone. I believe it's hard to live alone, no one to talk to, no one to tell how your day went, no good or bad news to share with. A pretty boring way to live I guess. Later that day, when we were shifting luggage to our new home, I slipped on the floor, while carrying a carton full of old papers to my parent’s room. Suddenly, when I was putting all the old papers back into the box, I found a medical report that stated an abortion that my mother had 13 years ago. I am 15 years old, so the report was 2 years since I was born. I was shocked to see that and began to recollect any memories of that time. But I couldn’t recall anything. Maybe I was too young at that time to remember anything. My mother called me from the dining room “Riya, is everything okay there? I heard some noise.” I replied, “Yes all good here. The carton box fell by mistake” My mother said “Okay, come to the dining room quickly. Dinner is ready. We can do this later.” I took a photograph of the report while searching for anything else and replied “Yeah, coming. In a minute.” With all the doubts jumping in my head, I sat with my family at the dinner table. I thought If I should ask mom directly what was the report all about or should I chose to avoid the awkward encounter. My dad started the conversation saying, “Does anyone remember how long we lived in the old house?” Aryan quickly said, “Oh! I know that. We shifted into the old house On 2nd June 2011. So, we lived there for 9 long years” Neither mom nor dad was sure about the date too I guess. Dad said, “That’s right, We lived there for 9 years. I miss the old house.”. Aryan is good at recalling distant memories, that are like his superpower. I asked him “How do you remember it so correctly ?” Aryan replied slowly, “I don’t know. I just remember... everything.” While the usual family conversations were going on, I thought it’s better to investigate about the abortion report myself rather than asking my parents. Anyway, in the end, I can ask my mum. I discreetly opened my phone to check the photograph and saw that the abortion was done at Apollo Hospital. I began to wonder where I was born, so I asked at the table “mum, dad, in which hospital was I born?” Mom replied, “At the Apollo Hospital. Why do you ask?” I replied, “Nah, just curious”. Aryan said, “I was born there too, right Mom?”. I replied, “Yes, you were too”. Later at night, while going to sleep, I thought Apollo hospital can be a good starting point. But why did my parents choose to abort a child? Maybe I’ll find something out from the records at the hospital. But the staff won’t give that information away just like that, I needed a contact. I remember my friend, Abha, mentioning that her elder sister Monika works there as a receptionist. Maybe she can help. The next morning, I contacted Abha for Monika’s number. I contacted Monika on call and explained to her the situation. She told me that they may find some information from the records but it can be risky for her job if anyone caught her. After understanding the seriousness of the issue, she finally got convinced. She told me to come to the hospital at 8 pm, as all the staff goes for dinner at that time, and would be least risky to check records at that time. Later that day, I reached the hospital and waited quietly for Monika to call me. Monika called me up saying “Riya, come here, quickly” I rushed there and told her “check the records for Reema Khatri“, which is my Mom’s name. Monika typed it in the records and told me “There are 3 records by this name”. I replied, “That should be correct, 1 abortion and 2 should be of me and my brother.”. She seemed surprised to hear that and said, “No, 1 record is by your name and the other 2 are abortion”. I was stunned to hear that as there was no record for Aryan’s birth and by the news of another abortion. Monika asked, “Your brother must be born in some other hospital”. I replied, “I guess so. Can you tell me the dates of the records”. She said, “The first one in on 23rd July 2005, when you were born. Second on 18th Feb 2007 and the third one on 19th April 2009”. I was completely puzzled, as Aryan was born on 23rd April 2009. The only explanation that came to my mind of this was that Aryan was probably adopted. I asked, “Monika, did they mention any reason for abortions?”. She replied, “Nothing as such. But both the fetuses were female. At that time, around 10 years ago, the abortion policies were not strict. Many people used to abort a female child, as you know the culture here in our country. Maybe this was the reason.” “Okay. Thanks a lot”, I said and left with a million questions. Nothing made sense anymore. I was baffled. I couldn’t believe my parents would opt for abortion. I felt like I didn’t know my parents as a person, who they really are from inside. And why do parents in my culture still prefer boys over girls? It doesn’t happen in other countries like the United States. We all want our country India to be progressive, but how would it progress if our mentality is not developing. In our minds, we are still old fashioned and believe in caste, religion, gender discrimination. I thought my parents were better than that, better than the rest of the outdated mentality of society. I guess I was wrong. They were also a part of the same society, another brick in the wall. I walked down from the hospital to my home, thinking if I should tell Aryan that he is adopted or not. I concluded that It would be better to let him know. He should know the truth, no matter how hard it is to swallow. He is strong and will take it positively. I reached home and went straight to our room and told him the whole thing, about the abortions and how he can be adopted. I regretfully told him, “So, I think you were adopted, because mom had the abortion around the same time you were born.”, I said. “If you want we can try to find your biological parents”. “I know that. I also know who my biological parents are. Well, you know them too.”, he replied. With all my confusion I asked, “Who are they?”. He replied, “Uncle Vinod and Aunt Megha are my real parents. She died while giving me birth.” I asked, “Since when do you know it?” He replied, “I can recall every memory since I was born. I checked online, It said I have this condition called hyperthymesia.”. “Is that why you have that same dream. Is that woman Aunt Megha in your dream?” I asked. “Yeah, It’s her. I hear the screams she made while giving birth to me” he replied.


\[SP\] Below is my experimental, absurdist, speculative fiction style short story. Enjoy!  Philip sat at his desk, head in his hands. How was he to halve the cost of pet food- they were already using parts of animals that were barely considered edible by any standard. It would not take long before household cats and dogs turn up their noses and refuse to eat Furry Friend's Delight. With shaking hands he reached for his tablets in his pocket. Swallowing a single pill, Philip sat back and tried to decipher a solution. He was the CEO, he had to come up with the next big product in pet food or someone else would be elected from the board in the coming meeting. The clock was ticking. Philips heart began to beat irregularly. His mouth began to dry up and he knocked his glass of water as he tried to grab it. Not again, he thought, staring at the door to his office. I just need more time. A knock jolted Philip upright in his chair and before he could clear his throat, three animals walked into the room. One was a dog- a pug to be exact- standing five feet tall. To the Pugs left was a tabby cat with an enormous belly. Standing at four feet tall, the cat was round and had freshly licked fur sticking up across its body. The cats eyes were crossed and it had its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. The last of the trio was a rabbit, its ears hidden beneath a rasta beanie. The rabbit was rolling what looked to be a cigarette but with lettuce rather than paper. Tilting its shades down, the rabbit began to speak in a deep foreign accent. "Philip, my man, long time no see." Philip began to stutter as the three animals found their way to the chairs opposite his. The rabbit kicked one hairy foot onto his desk and took a nibble of its lettuce. "How's the wife and kids?" "You- you're not real," muttered Philip with twitching lips. "That's no way to greet your long term customers," barked the dog. One of the cat's eyes fixated on a fly that buzzed around the room. Philip's blabbering was interrupted by the rabbit ashing his lettuce cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. "We're getting a lot of complaints, Philip," stated the rabbit in a monotone voice. "I've heard reports of fake plants being used in rabbit food across the country. Now, you wouldn't be the one responsible for that, would you?" "Yea your dog food taste like garbage- and not the good kind," growled the dog. Philip revealed a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. "Your concerns are valid and I hear them," rehearsed Philip as he tried to avoid eye contact with the creatures that sat before him. "As a matter of fact, I'm working on a new recipe now." Suddenly the cat pounced in the air and landed on the desk, knocking piles of paper and cups of pens. The other animals did not seem to notice. "You were saying?" questioned the rabbit. Philip tried to ignore the cat as it jumped from the desk, against the wall to a bookshelf, following the fly and creating a path of destruction in its wake. Raising his voice over the sound of ornaments shattering against the ground, Philip continued. "Yes, the new recipe. We're developing this new technique of extracting-" The cat leaped from the bookshelf, leaving it to crash to the floor. "What does it taste like? asked the dog, with its tongue hanging out its mouth and its tail wagging. Philip reached for a can in his bottom draw, ducking just in time to miss the cat cannonball overhead, chasing the fly. He put the can on his desk and admired the label. This was to be their new premium range. "I'm not sure what it taste like. I'm a human, I can't eat this stuff. The cat dropped from the ceiling and stared into Philip's eyes with a crazed look on its face. "We're all animals deep down," said the cat as its eyes lolled loosely in their sockets." The rabbit and the dog began to chant: "try it, try it, try it. You know it's good. Look at the label. It's the premium range." Philip could not help but let out a small laugh. Here he was trying to sell dog food and he had no idea what it taste like. He stood up and walked to his blinds to check if anyone was looking into his office. Twisting them shut slowly, he then turned and saw the cat sitting in his desk, pointing a can opener at him. "What is life but a series of experiences, new and old. Old and new. Pick up this can of dog food." The chanting began to grow in the background. Philip had to put his hand to his mouth to hide a giggle. The cat continued its song. "When you live life, do you see the can half empty or half full? Half empty or half full? Pick up this can of dog food." "Try it. Try it. Try it." chanted the dog and rabbit. "And what is life but concentrated meat stuffed in a can." The cat placed the can opener in Philip's hand, then looked deeply into his eyes. "Philip. Are you trapped in a can?" Philip burst out laughing. We're not in a can, we're in an office. "Well if you want to get out of the can, you need a can opener." The three animals instantaneously appeared in the seats in front of Philip's desk once again. The rabbit, lowered its glasses and spoke in a deep voice. "You know what to do."  Suddenly the office door swung open and an intern walked in asking a question. She dropped her coffee and ran out of the room screaming. "Mr. Black is eating dog food!" Within ten seconds the entire office peered through the door of Philip's office, watching him eat the dog food from the can with his fingers. Chunks of meat fell from the side of his mouth as he explained the flavor to the imaginary people that sat in front of him. Those in the office with weak stomach ran to the bathroom or grabbed the nearest waste basket. Some were fixated on the sight of their boss devouring Furry Friend's Premium Dog Food. It took security ten minutes to arrive on the floor and pry the can of dog food from Mr. Black's hands and another twenty minutes before paramedics came to take him to the nearest mental ward. All throughout it, Mr. Black giggled uncontrollably, "I've never tried it. Never once. Seven years as CEO. Never tried it. Not once. Never.


I look around myself and watch the smoke rising into the dark stormclouds over my head. I watch the freshly lit fires destroying what I loved: I passed my burning schoolhouse and watch my 4th-grade teacher narrowly escaping and joining me and the other new refugees. I sprint past one of the town farms where our food is grown that had been set alight. I am too focused on getting away to feel the throbbing in my legs from sprinting away from my town, and I am much too focused on getting away to worry about how the other women and children I know are running with me are doing. I hope they can keep it up, as I flashback to the trauma starting at the beginning of the day, watching the man who lived in our house shot in the head, then reeling through the following events of escaping and starting to run. The day before I would never have fathomed what was happening so close to us: I had helped Didier and my mother, Mary, attach the signature epaulet of a Lieutenant Colonel to prepare my father’s uniform so he could lead his troops in Boston, but that was 25 miles away. I could never have imagined what was happening today. I was out on a morning walk around the town with my friends when we saw the enemy ships under the looming stormclouds steaming towards our defenseless town. My friends and I decided that they would be just passing through, on their way to attack their next target. We decided to stop and watch them go by when we saw the scout ship drop her anchor and the fleet begin to slow. We look up and see the storm clouds darkening and lowering. It suddenly became evident that they were targeting our defenseless town. My friends all looked at each other and split, each trying to get home. I sprinted the short trip up Elk and Main Street, desperately trying to get to my mother, hoping she might be able to save us. Her eyes widened, and she abruptly ran to the door to see for herself. She took a good look then hurriedly wrote to Hammond: My dear Hammond Please turn back; Concord has been overrun, the enemy has anchored on our shores. Your love, Mary She desperately gathered what little money we had in the house and dragged me on to the now nearly abandoned town hall on Bedford Street where she paid the mail boy all the money she could find and told him to go as fast as his horse would take him and intercept the town’s warriors before they got too far. We made it home and Mother told Didier it was time to pay for his stay and ordered him to get dressed and ready. We began to prepare our house for what we hoped would not follow: we threw water on the floors and walls, soaked our bedsheets, and boarded up our windows. No sooner had we sealed our cabin then did we hear a loud thunderclap. I could see through the cracks in our walls that our dark ceiling was continuing to close in. It was dark enough to feel like dusk. I continued to peer through a crack, with Didier watching through another, his facing the river. I watched the turbulent skies as I heard a gasp from Didier. I looked back and watched him recoil, spring for his bayonet, and station himself next to our door. I went back to watching through the crack, and noticed a new haze, accompanied by an orange light. Mother peered through another crack facing the river and exclaimed what she saw: South Bridge and Elm Street had been lit aflame, and the fire was spreading fast. Mother took me into her arms and reassured me. Moments later, a man dressed in a red jacket with a white sash burst into our house. He looked disdainfully at Didier, asking why he wasn’t with his men. Didier proudly responded that he was French, and the rest of his men had not yet arrived. Hardly allowing Didier to finish his sentence, the soldier raised his pistol and killed Didier. My mother squeezed me tightly and covered my eyes, but I could still feel the soldier’s glare land upon us. “This should teach you about harboring traitors,” he said and closed the door. My mother uncovered my eyes to see a small fire the soldier had left. I looked at my mother fearfully, and she reflected my look. We put the fire out and covered Didier’s body with one of our damp sheets. It had seemed that we saved our home, but we soon saw smoke pouring in through the gaps in our house as we began to get hotter. Eventually, it became obvious that we could not weather the siege. Mother and I burst outside and quickly took account of what was left of our surroundings: the clouds were so low and thick that once mixed with the smoke of our burning town, the flames were the only source of light. Mother and I began to run towards Boston, joining the other recently created refugees as we sprinted down Thoreau Street into the woods that surrounded our town. I looked around and saw my mother was beginning to fall behind the group. Knowing nothing else, I instinctively slowed down and kept by my mother as we ran past much of our hometown. She told me to continue running with the group; she would meet me once it was all over. I hoped she was right, and looked back to see the soldiers several hundred yards behind us in pursuit, destroying everything in their path. I saw there were several others who were lagging behind, and I could do nothing more than pray that they would make it through. I look around myself and watch the smoke rising into the dark stormclouds low over my head. I watch the freshly lit fires destroying what I loved: I passed my burning schoolhouse and watch my 4th-grade teacher narrowly escaping her home and joining me and the other new refugees; I sprint past one of the town farms where our food is grown that had been set alight. I begin to feel the effects of the run I have endured, but I am too focused on getting away to feel the throbbing in my legs from sprinting away from my town, and I am much too focused on getting away to worry about how the other women and children I know are running with me are doing. We continue to run deeper into the woods, keeping to a thin path used by buggies, praying we can lose our invaders, despite them being just a minute behind us. As I am running, I begin to feel the sweet drops of rain on my sweaty, smoky face, and before we know it, we are running through a downpour. I clench my teeth and continue to run through the now mud and focus on getting through the woods. I hear my father shout “hold”. I shake my head, thinking I was hearing things, but I hear him shout “fire”. Our group is jarred out of our running daze by the sound of 50 simultaneous gunshots around us. Startled, I trip and fall. I stand up and look around. Several others are also getting up, covered in mud. I look deeper into the woods, and watch my father shout “push” and see all of our fighters from our town step out of the woods and begin to make their way back to Concord. As we all gather our wits, it occurs to us that our town is ours, and, not only had we made it out, but we will be going back. Several hours later, after the Concord Regiment push the intruders back to the coastlines and their ships, we are brought back into our town. Over the next several weeks, we begin to rebuild. My father and several other soldiers dressed in their most formal uniforms escort Didier’s body to Boston. Upon his return, I finally gather the courage to ask what happened. I ask why he goes to Boston so much. I ask what happened to Didier. I asked what happened to our town. My father takes me into our half-built house and pulls up a chair, and continues to tell me everything. He explains that the colonies had elected to break away from England and the rule of King George. He explains that the British are fighting for control of Boston as a city from which to base their forceful takeover of the colonial governments. He explains to me Didier was a French soldier who was staying with us as he was waiting for the rest of his men to come to assist the colonies fighting the British, and the British do not like the French. He explains to me that our town supplies the colonial army in Boston when the city is held under siege by the British navy. The next day, I am told to clean myself up as best I can, and we make our way to the town hall, where much of the town is gathered. I see my father and his commander, Brigadier General David on the stage. Brigadier General David awards my father the rank of Colonel, and gives a brief speech: “Lieutenant Colonel Hammond led the men that took back control of our town, and has rescued a critical source of resources for the Continental army. In the weeks since Hammond commanded his men to attack the pursuing British soldiers, the tide of the entire war has turned. I have been told by my commanders and colleagues that they have felt the impact of his attack all along each of our fronts. I venture to presume that this brave counterassault will go down in history, and given its effects, it may perhaps go down as ‘the shot heard around the world’”.


thoughts??? ideas on where to take it??  Naturally, I use a washing machine to wash my clothes. Unnaturally, I think about how it makes it so easy to forget dirt stains and the memories that came with them. Even the stubborn ones go away after a while. The laundromat doesn’t let you wash rubber-lined mats, but I wash them anyway. I conceal them in a ball of cotton sheets and shove them into the corner washer as quickly as possible. The same way, I shove them into the dryer. They only need 4 quarters; a good 20 minutes and they dry right up. It's amazing. The fresh scent Tide on my washroom rubber mats, all the filth and blood wrung out of them. I want to think the dryer is gentle to them, pulling out the moisture softly and kindly. But in reality, the inside of the dryer is aggressive and unforgiving. Dangerously humid and bleak. Yes, I know this for a fact. There’s no one else here except for the plump middle-aged lady who’s always at the front folding other peoples’ laundry. Everyone calls her Bea. Does Miss Bea get pleasure out of folding soft strangers’ clothes; does she ever find money in their pockets? And what type of people don’t have time to wash their own laundry? I’m thinking this as she steams the pleats of a woman’s dress that she couldn’t even dream of ever fitting into. I wonder about the woman who wears that dress – probably tall, slender and deliciously round in all the right places. Maybe she wears it a big established corporate office. A big businesswoman like herself wouldn’t wear anything less pretty. In fact, she shouldn’t – unless I was with her.We, meaning myself and my laundry walk ourselves back to my car. The air outside is a type of cold you just want to breathe in like the smoke from a Belmont cigarette. It’s the type of air that hurts to breathe after a while. The sun was pale and sad, like the moon had decided to come out instead. Maybe the sun took a sick day. The snow however looked rather sparkly and confident but only where no one had walked all over it and ruined it. Everyone loves new snow but its only fun shovelling until it turns into a disgusting sludge of dirt, branches and lost mittens and hats – then I’m lucky if I find a matching pair to wear the next time it snows. I plop the drawstring bag under the cheap black carpet lining of the trunk where the spare tire should have been. Walking back to the front of my 2014 Toyota Corolla, I look back at the laundromat:NEW WORLD LAUNDRYIt’s a weekly trip to the washed-out pale blue and white sign on Parliament Street. But for some reason I don’t think I’ll be back next week.I inhale a couple Oreos that I have in a little packet kept in the glove compartment. Then the metaphysical world hits me and I feel the rough texture of the third Oreo. I wonder why they bother putting such a complicated design on the cookie when no one pays attention to them. What’s the point of making things more complicated than they have to be? Does it affect the Oreo experience? I laugh out loud in my sparse voice. Here I am, in my cab with a box of designer cookies. When did I start affording such luxuries? Of course, I knew it from the Cross of Lorraine. Geometric crusader cookies. I even remember googling it. I laughed again, louder this time as though someone was going to start laughing with me. The cream is sickly sweet but soft enough to make me want more. So, I have a few more before rolling down my window and wiping the cookie crumbs off my long veiny fingers. My hands instantly freeze in the cold air and I wish they’d just fall off. I am elemental so this will be no resolution. I will exist even after I have existed. Water exists even after it goes down the drain. They just wash it and send it back to you. The same old water. How do they call it? Water purification. I reckon I’ll be drinking laundry water the next time I go back home for a cup of tap water.The streets are far too bare to make money. All I know is I’m wasting gas driving around the city waiting for someone to hail me to the side or for an operator to buzz me in and assign me a pickup. Maybe I should go home and drop off my laundry, I think. But instead I stop for a cup of coffee. I park on the flat street in between an ugly 2007 Saturn Ion and a clunky Subaru Tribeca.This coffee shop is sweet. It’s one of those cute little cubes squished slightly behind a failing law office and another lesser quality restaurant. The baristas wear white shirts and beige aprons. Mmm. I spot the woman who makes my bitter coffee taste sweet. She could even make coffee burnt beyond recognition taste like molasses. I’m still working on my hypothesis, but I think it’s her long curly brown-blonde hair and deep almond eyes that make the coffee sweet, and not the sugar. I couldn’t care less for the coffee. I couldn’t care more about her.She hands me the cup and the immediate warmth of her love makes me shiver. “Thank you.” I say to her, smiling with my teeth and making pertinent eye contact. “You’re welcome.” is all she says back to me. If only she knew how badly I wanted to make love to her peaceful looking body. Could I have had found peace in her as badly as I wanted to offer her peace? I wanted to tell her how much I wanted to hold her around the small of her back. How much I wanted her bare chest pressed against mine. And I think most of all, I just wanted her to kiss me. Although graceful in her movements, she disappears into the back of the store quickly. Suddenly I remember I mean nothing to her, and my coffee feels strangely cold. Grief-stricken, overpriced coffee in hand, I walk back out onto the sidewalk. Just as I’m about to get back into my car, I open the lid, let the steam hit my face for a couple of seconds before pouring the brown water onto the street, watching it making its way towards a rain gutter.