There’s a weed growing in the crack in the pavement outside my office building. It shouldn’t be causing me as much anxiety as it is. My coworkers are laughing at me because I’m insisting that we call the maintenance man and have him pull it. Just do it yourself, they laugh like crows at a funeral. Scared of a little dirt? They don’t get it. How could they? They don’t breathe the smog of the city and wield it like a weapon against the call of roaring nature. They don’t feel the heartbeat of the earth thrumming up through the heels of their too-expensive shoes as they walk down the streets. They don’t hear the whistles of the wind through the glass and steel giants singing like siren’s song in their bones. They don’t understand the sweet-dark petrichor scent that accompanies fresh rain on old concrete and know that it’s a promise, a pledge, a threat. They don’t look at the old trees in the park and see ancient warriors come to linger through the ages, trapped by steel jungles and buildings that grasp at the clouds. They don’t know what it means to have magic coursing through your blood, and have that magic be made of rampant root and raging river and star-spangled sky. It’s why I came to the city, the biggest human-carved place I could find. It was easy to get mystified in the magic of the mountains, to get swept up by the song of the sky. So I came here after I nearly got lost in the forest three years ago at a frat party, and I’ve tried to give everything I am to the city ever since. To just be a normal human. Not someone who listens to the tangle of roots underneath and how they're raging, desperate to be free. So instead of kicking up more of a fuss about the weed in the sidewalk crack, I go to find the maintenance man’s number instead. When he shows up, he’s giving me that look that all my coworkers have been giving me for the last three days. Like I’m just some prissy princess who can’t stand to get her hands dirty. “Where’s the plant?” He asks me. He’s gruff, with a rough beard and grimy hands, dirt shoved under his fingernails like he put it there on purpose. He’s got green eyes that are burnished bright against the darkness of his skin. But he doesn’t look at me directly, probably too disgusted in my perceived weakness to bother with politeness. I feel power surge in my chest and belly and I tamp it down with years of practice, telling myself that it’s not worth proving him wrong. I point and he can’t stifle a sigh. He kneels down and tugs the weed gently. It’s just a little try-hard dandelion. It shouldn’t put up a fight. It’s only got just a carrot-like tubular root, and once you’ve pulled it out, it’s gone and done. But it doesn’t budge when he pulls at it. I edge away from the weed. Sometimes they get ideas when I’m close to them, ideas about strengthening and deepening and growing… Oops. The weed trembles just a little bit, and then explodes in his hands. It reaches up, roots growing massive and buckling the concrete, cracking it with huge groans that remind me of the cranes building skyscrapers. That gentles its growth and I cling to my thought of metal and glass and concrete, standing up straight and tall and perfectly balanced, resting my weight on the balls of my feet and letting the plastic and synthetic of them hold me steady against the tides of the ground hungering deep beneath the city. Down, dying, dead, I think hard, focusing everything I am on the dandelion. It fights me but then gentles slowly, giant leaves browning and crumpling and falling off, slinking back down into the ground where it came from. When it’s gone I am terrified to look at the maintenance man. The drama only happened over the course of a few moments, and there’s not too many terrified bystanders, but he’s the one who had his hand around the thing. I distract myself for a moment by issuing a general memory spell. It was one of the first things I learned to do, and it’s easy even when I’m shaking and my heart is racing. Take a little oblivion from the universe - it has plenty to spare - and push it out along the air, using the currents that twist among the skyscrapers to touch everyone. But then I have to look at the maintenance man. I force myself to, cringing. I’m expecting him to be a bloody, plant-devoured mess. Because the green things are hungry. They’re always so hungry to take back their city and make the breakers of their land into nothing more than wretched pulp. But he’s not. He’s got his hand out. He holds two dandelions in it. They’re twin normal-sized spots of butter-yellow perfection against the grey of the steel and glass world. A grin flashes across his face and he takes one of the dandelions, tucking it behind his ear. A little shiver of power passes between us. “You ever get tired of the smog in your lungs?” He asks me. And it’s the wildness in his leaf-green eyes that catch me, hold me, take me with my blessing. “With every breath I take.” A grin breaks over his face as wild as the white-water rivers of the north. He offers me the second dandelion again and I take it with sure fingers, feeling the power surge again. It’s never so bad if there’s someone to share the burden. “Then I want to show you something,” he says, and this time he offers his bare, dirty hand. I take it, and our power sings in my bones and blood.


I shouldn't be here. I am not a bad guy, I swear. Just a troubled kid. You have to understand me, I am not a thief! It was all a big misunderstanding… Let me explain. I don't know when it started, all I know is that both my parents being the most wanted thieves in our town was probably the rudiment to me being who I am today. At school, I was the good kid. My whole class can attest for my character. Never one assignment late. Never disrupting class. Always kind to teachers and students. At home it was hard. My parents always pestered me asking me to steal anything I could get my hands on. I wish they would stop wanting to steal all the time. I didn't want to be like them. I wanted to be different. I'll never forget the day my life changed forever. June 10th 2011 my dad was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Nobody was quite sure what it was. One thing was certain though bills,bills, bills and more bills started to pile up. We struggled. After 2 months of this I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't live to see my dad languish in his bed. So weak. So tired. August 10 2011 “Tim may you please go to the pharmacy and pick up the medicine?” My mom called. She pushed $60 dollars into my hand. $60 for medicine. I looked at her with big eyes, “mom I can pay for some of it.” “No Tim” She said “This is my responsibility” With that she gave me a quick kiss on the head “Be back soon! This dinner isn't going to cook itself” she called as I walked out. The pharmacy was down the street. I was a regular there now. I went in with all good intentions. Mrs. Ellie wasn't there to greet me like usual, instead there was someone else there, must have been new. I went to the section where my dad's medicine was and I couldn't believe my eyes. The price had went up. Now it was $70 dollars for medicine. 70! After, I don't know what happened. Everything went by in a blur. I wasn't thinking. $70 was too much for medicine, and I was $10 short. Since I couldn't afford the medicine I absconded with it before anyone could see me. I returned home out of breath “Mom I'm home” As soon as I opened the door I could see my mom stirring the stew with a blank face, but when she saw me she put on smile, the same fake smile she always does. The one that looks happy at first glance, but if you pay attention and look into her eyes you could see it was a culmination of deep pain and sadness. My dad over in the living room reading quietly. He was sad too, you just had to look harder to find it. Reading was his only escape, If I was him I would want to escape too. I couldn't take it. I made a promise to myself to never be like them and I broke it. I had to tell her. I had to tell her what I had done. It was the only way to purge the guilt. I don't know what I was expecting but the emotive responce my mom gave left me left me timorous. She broke down crying “How could you, How could you Timothy” She shook her head and said “But I know it's my fault, I raised you to be a thief… a ruffian there is only two places for those kinds of people. Jail, or the grave. And I can't lose you too” With all the commotion from ,my mother no one noticed the stillness of my father. He was lied out on the couch peacefully. I slowly walked over to the couch with tears streaming down my face. There was a loud knock on the door.


I was born. I lived. I died. Trite words. They belittle what it is to come into existence, to live. They are sterile. Clean. A monochrome, safe, description of life. Life is anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. Life was messy. Squalling babe to squealing child to sulking teen to stressed adult. Not one moment clean, clear cut, or bland. The late appointments, job interviews, job rejections, bills, the clutter of life made life anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. I’m repeating myself. I’m losing focus. They say blood loss will hinder brain function. I guess they’re right. Focus, focus! My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born – Was that a footstep? Just my mind. Damned bunker. Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. Fuck, stop repeating yourself. Focus, focus! My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Litke. I am a – Voices. No not voices. Grunts. Strange, primal grunts. You have time. You do. Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. For fuck’s sake. I repeated myself again. They say blood loss hinders brain function. My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Litke. I am a frogman in the United States Navy. That’s it. That’s what I needed. That explained the body armor. And the grenade clenched in my fist. And the dead body. Joshua Pell. That was his name. Petty Officer Pell. An arm and half of his face was gone. How did that happen? Why am I still holding a live grenade? Other bodies were on the floor. They were wearing strange gowns – or nothing at all - and lay in tangled, bloody heaps. Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Likte. I am a frogman in the United States Navy. I joined because life was too clean. Too safe. They’re snuffling at the door now. That’s it. The people in the gowns, hospital gowns, had tried to kill us. Petty Officer Pell had dropped a grenade as they swarmed him. I must’ve been shielded from the blast. Most of it at least. My right leg was riddled with shrapnel, and stab wounds from the crazed doctor trapped in here had punctured my arms. And a concussion from a blast in an enclosed space – Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. Stop that, or you might as well blow your brains out now. My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Likte. I am a frogman in the United States Navy. I joined because life was too sterile, too monochrome. And I am about to die. I shifted my weight from where I sat on the gurney. The movement knocked several platters and needles on the floor. The grunts and snuffling stopped. Shit. . . A primal, raw scream tore from some unearthly creature’s throat. It echoed for what seemed like forever. No. They weren’t echoes. They were responses. My name is David Litke. And I am about to die. It had seemed like an easy job. Raid the compound, snatch the doctors, and destroy the research. We didn’t realize the research would destroy us. The compound had seem abandoned, until we lost contact with Bravo. Then Delta. Then Charlie. My squad, Alpha, had been alone. Then we had started disappearing, one by one. They had hunted us, stalked us. My name is David Litke. We had run to this room to find it locked. We busted in anyway. The crazy doctor who had been hiding in here stabbed me several times before we downed him, all the while shouting “They’ll find us! They’ll find us!” in Arabic. Then the “they” he had been referring to had come. Then Petty Officer Pell had dropped the grenade. That’s why I still held mine. My name is David Litke. They had a hard time coming through the door a second time, those freaks. Their fellow lab experiments blocked the door. They shoved in eventually. Their twisted, grotesque forms lunged at me. Dirty, clawed hands outstretched. Teeth gnashing. Mouths spewing that vile scream. I hardly felt them tear into me. I only thought – David Litke. About to die. The grenade dropped to the floor.


Fred's foot was pressed hard on the gas. As the van sped along the highway, he briefly winced at the sound of crunching coming from the backseat. Scooby was sitting next to a pile of Scooby Snacks, swallowing one after the other. He wasn't even tasting them, but the constant presence felt good. It distracted him, kept his mouth busy so his mind could forget. He let one dissolve on his tongue as he watched his hollow-eyed best friend. Shaggy was shaking silently, uncontrollably. He bit down on his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering. It was his fault. He watched his shaking legs with a newfound hatred and bit down harder. Blood rushed from his tongue. It tasted good. Velma took her glasses off. The world around her blurred into a mass of vague shapes and colors, and she plotted alternatives. She shouldn't have listened to Fred's plan, should have known it would go wrong like usual... She could have moved the clothesline away from the steps, onto the soft grass. She could have tackled the "ghost" before it tripped, could have called the police, could have given up all together. It wasn't hurting anyone, really, just messing around in an abandoned old house. "It." Who was she kidding? The ghost was a person. Not an it, a child. The image of his tiny head smashed on the concrete steps was imprinted in her brain. She tried to focus on something else: the frayed seat, her muddy shoes, anything. But the image remained, and she shuddered as she watched the blood ooze out over and over and over and over again. She hit her head against the window, but the image remained. Daphne, sitting next to Fred, wasn't aware of anything behind her. Her eyes were clouded by tears, her body wracked with sobs. She knew her make up was a mess, and for the first time in her life, she didn't care. All she wanted was a hug, a touch, even a look of reassurance from Fred. She reached out her hand, but he didn't see it. Couldn't see it. Daphne pulled at her hair and tried to scream, but nothing came out. She leaned forward and hugged her knees in a fetal position, praying that Fred would somehow make everything better. Fred's eyes were scanning, searching. He was numb now, deaf and blind to everything else but the road. He found what he was looking for and calmly exhaled. No one made a sound as he crashed into the tree. Hi everyone! This is my first post on here, hope you like it! Cant wait to hear your feedback.


Music blared over the speakers in the cabin of the Interstellar Travel Agency (ITA) Resonator, so loudly that not much else could be heard, and subsequently, Bailey did not hear the door opening and closing behind him, and wasn’t even aware anyone was in the room until the music suddenly stopped. Spinning around in his chair, Bailey looked agitated. “Why the fuck did you turn of my Rob Zombie dude? Haven’t you ever heard of manners?” Bailey spins back around, turning the music back on as he does. Mervin turned it back down; “Bailey, we just got a communication.” Mervin looked down for a second “It seems that the ITA Acceleration has gone silent.” Mervin’s words trailed off beside him. “Huh. That’s interesting” Bailey swiveled back around to face Mervin again. “Did you try to contact them directly? They’re heading the same way as us, they just left earlier, right?” “Yeah, that’s about the gist of it. I also sent out a probe. Nothing. It’s just not there” Mervin looked down, and handed bailey a PDA. “Here’s the data that we know about this area.” Bailey looked over it, swiping up slowly. “There’s an odd anomaly that’s occurs here. It’s the same kind that the ITA Acceleration reported before they disappeared. Bailey thought on this for a moment, and studied the reading the PDA gave him. “Mervin. How much do you know about AI?” Mervin looked at him with a dull, blank expression on his face. “Artificial Intelligence?” Mervin shook his head “yeah, I know what it is, I just don’t know anything about them.” “Well it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that there is one at the station we’re going to. One issue with AI has also been would they go rouge, and I’m wondering if one didn’t. Mervin looked at Bailey with a still expression on his face. “ You’re joking right?” “When am I not, Mervin?” Bailey turned Rob Zombie back up, and looked at the album art with it as Mervin left the room, and walked into the bridge area. The galaxy looked calm, like nothing was wrong, all at once; and it made him uneasy. He sat down at the helm, and scanned the area. He didn't detect any anomalies, and leaned back a tad bit, less on edge. Suddenly the klaxon on the ship sounded, and Bailey burst forth from his quarters, “Status, Mervin. What the fuck happened?” “I’m not sure yet, give me a sec.” Bailey sat at his chair, and looked at his own display, and saw it, dead ahead, a small, needlelike ship. “We don’t have a second. Incoming vessel. Unknown make and model.” Bailey looked up at the main display as it appeared “We aren’t alone, Mervin”. Mervin slides his hand across the panel “All system good. Want me to jump?” Bailey looked at the screen quietly. “Not yet.”, and then every-thing happened very quickly. There was a flash of light, and 3 clicks, followed by a gunshot. The result was Bailey had a needle in his abdomen, and Mervin had 2 in his chest. Some strange creature was lying dead on the floor, its’ head split open from the gunshot wound. Mervin lay slumped over his console, and Bailey fell back into his chair. “Computer. Jump to the last set coordinates.” Bailey started seeing black, and everything was going dark. “Computer. Set autopilot to Terran-7” Baileys voice trailed off, and then everything went black for him.


How long did it take them to notice? Ten years? Twenty? I’m sure someone was suspicious that not a single wrinkle appeared on my face by thirty years, no bones ached after forty years, and not a single solitary grey hair appeared at sixty years in prison, but nobody said anything. Not until my young blue eyes remained clear and bright past seventy years. Then came the tests, then more tests, and (just in case I hadn’t been tested enough) they tested me some more. I don’t know what they found. They didn’t tell me. I’m still a criminal, aren’t I? I did get some weird looks at the prison. All of the conspiracies resulted in a little bit of “testing” in the cells when nobody was around. I gained quite the reputation after eleven stabs in the kidneys did more harm to the toothbrush shiv than me. I quickly gained followers, and equally loyal detractors. To call myself a gang leader would be an understatement. I wasn’t a leader, I was a god. My peons worshipped me. Even the prison staff feared my control. I lived in luxury; all of my needs were taken care of by either my disciples or the more reverent staff. That isn’t to say I lived carefree. Jealousy is one hell of an emotion, and I don’t think anyone has ever been as envied as I was inside these prison walls. While I was safe from harm myself, even my extensive web of followers couldn’t be everywhere at once, and my stash of smuggled and swindled loot was well known throughout the concrete halls of the prison. Perhaps the worst of these jealousy-stricken thugs was Tinfoil. Picture a stereotypical 60’s greaser, place them in an orange jumpsuit, and dye their slicked back hair metallic silver. He was a caricature from the unlit cigarette that dangled unfailingly from his lips, to his slight Italian accent, to his prized switchblade that he could pull from God-knows-where on a moment’s notice. Tinfoil had a gang of his own, albeit smaller than mine. They would take any opportunity at all to slip into my cell while I was roaming MY kingdom and wreck MY stuff. I never caught him in the act, but that smug smirk from safely across the prison yard confirmed my doubts every time. God, how I wanted to slam my impervious fist into his fragile teeth. The only thing stopping me from wrecking that greasy face was the thought of solitary confinement. The thought of a week, a month without the luxuries I had grown accustomed to was enough to stop me from murdering that little PUNK with my bare hands. My pull with the staff didn’t quite extend far enough to save me from repercussions entirely. Normally, when I had a problem that needed solved, but would normally bring about some sort of punishment, one of my disciples would jump at the opportunity to prove himself to me. But a war between my devotees and Tinfoil’s greased up lackeys was a bad idea. I had many valuable assets, and a switchblade to the throat of my best smuggler was too inconvenient an idea to consider. So I had to get creative. If I couldn’t fight him directly, I could make it seem like an accident, or at least not my doing directly. Have you ever wondered how many hairs are burned off trying to make a firebomb out of some gasoline and the remains of a vending machine? None of mine of course. The smell of scorched eyebrows was a common one, however, for about a week until a group of my peons perfected the recipe. After that, it was relatively easy to get one of my men to suicide bomb Tinfoil’s gang, denying any involvement in it myself. I wonder how smug he looked while his unnatural silver hair was burning off. Hah, consider that. Me, calling something else unnatural. There was an extensive investigation of course, but I had hundreds of fall guys. They would do anything for me. They revered me. They loved me. They would never rat me out. Right? Wrong. It’s a lot rougher here in maximum security. I swear to God (an illusory promise; no God could possibly allow me to remain here on this Earth) I’ll kill someone if I have to sleep on another lumpy cot instead of the king-sized cocoon of comfort I’ve grown accustomed to. Those traitors better pray to their elusive God that they get out of here before I do.


I wanted someone who wasn't me to read this. If one person who needs it, sees it, that's enough. Disclaimer: Not a writer. Just use writing as an outlet. Also, lemme know if this isn't the appropriate subreddit. **just listen.** i haven't written in years, but tonight you made me pick up the figurative pen for the sadness is choking. it won't let me say this to your face, but do i not convey it in a million other ways? why can't you understand? why won't you just listen and change your thoughts, words, actions, and behaviour, before i can't save you anymore? for your mind is in pieces, your senseless screaming isn't being heard - every word out of your mouth is a lie, the rare tears the fragmented pieces of humanity left in you force to flow no longer mean anything to me as they come selfishly while bringing pain. why can't you see all you have to do is stop? but after nineteen yrs it doesn't matter anymore. keep screaming - may heaven hear and take you away, to someplace that'll force you to repent, forgive your sins and mend your broken soul - for this world, for i, cant. i feel terrible for hoping something happened to you as a child to make you like this, but it's unbearable to think you are this way all on your own. i don't know what scars you have but i can't heal it, its too late. someday you will leave, or we will leave you. but wherever you are, be safe. may you never know, that as much as i want to hate you, i love you instead. seen so many years yet still a child, where is your innocence? tell me that who you are is not what you did.


Once upon a time, in a land where light ruled all that was dark, there lived a little girl. She was a curious little girl. So curious in fact, that one day she decided to break one of the most important rules set by the Elders of the land. She decided to cross the border into the land where darkness ruled over all that was light. As she stepped into the Realm of Twilight, her heart began to fill with fear. She wanted to turn back but she could not, for the Shadows of the land had already begun playing tricks on her. Never had anyone felt more lost. After wandering the dark, forsaken wastelands for three days, she found herself defeated by the Shadows and dropped down to the ground. It was then that she heard a Shadow speak. ‘Are you alone, little girl?’ ‘Who’s there?!’ the little girl cried. ‘Will you help me find my way back to the Land of Light?’ The Shadow spoke again. ‘Are you alone?’ She wanted to say yes but could not. How could she, knowing there was someone out there. The thought made the voice grow quiet. Convinced she was no longer alone, she decided to get up. She stumbled through the darkness, falling down every nine steps along the way but she was determined. It had started to rain and large thunderbolts lit up the sky. They revealed razor-sharp rocks and many a dead tree. Not far from her, she could see a cave. Longing for a sense of security, she dragged herself to the entrance of her new-found shelter, but before she reached it, a tall dead tree standing close to her was struck by lightning and caught fire. So, it was that she decided to build a fire inside the cave. The Shadows were lured to this fire and started to dance around it. At first, the little girl kept her distance but soon after she started to play with them and although the light had stolen away their voices, they kept her company. She started to feel somewhat lighter and with this the fire seemed to glow more intense making the Shadows grow stronger. An alliance between light and dark was formed that night and the Shadows promised to take her back to her homeland. When they arrived at the border the next day, the little girl invited the Shadows into her lands. They gratefully accepted and found themselves greater and more powerful than ever before. It was then they decided to stay. They found welcoming homes as they made people feel less alone. The alliance grew so strong that there was no more light possible without the dark. They became as one. Truth was, no one could ever wish for a better companion than their own Shadow. It never judged, nor did it ever tell a lie. It soon became so that to love one’s Shadow was to love one self and there would never be a single reason to feel alone again. And should you ever find yourself in dark places, then listen carefully; for your Shadow will regain its voice again to remind you of this.


It's the year 2217 and the greatest historical discovery is made. The Past Time Observer. It's a simple VR setup connected to brand new patented technology that allows the user to project into the past. The limitation is that they can only observe. Every university with a history department gets one, and humanity starts correcting all the history books by going back in time and observing the actual events. For the first time in history(they know, they checked) humanity is able to verify every historical record. It was not long before some users of the PTO started noticing something strange. When asked a significant portion of them would report, "For some reason, the cats seem to stare right at me." It baffles the historians, but the physicists and psychologists are intrigued by this. It was physics that provided the answer first. A fluctuation in the low band coincides with reports of the strange behavior of the cats. Furthermore, instances where the low band fluctuations occur more severely coincide with locations rumored to be haunted. People are in a flurry! Haunted locations cause low band fluctuations! Fans of ghost hunting are quick to jump on the PTO bandwagon and science is left reeling YET AGAIN trying to explain correlation is not causation. Then it happened. A young researcher induces low band fluctuations while using the PTO to go to a time and place that had no paranormal activity. After returning he is startled to find that the location he visited is now on the list of locations that experienced paranormal activity. But he was sure he went to a place that didn't, or did he? It was only after the eighth location that he realized his visits were causing the paranormal activity. He was slightly altering history. Yet his proposal and warning were quelled by the community as a large, demanding proof. But how? A few more experiments and he discovers that he can increase the fluctuations and actually move things around. Back in the future, those 'haunting' appear on the 'poltergeist' list as well. But this is still not proof. How to prove it? It was his friend, that in sharing an old video from the past, brought to his attention the hubris of past society. Thousands of cameras recording events as mundane as playing a game. All he needed to do was get enough independent people to watch one of these videos, and then go back and alter it. His target, Rubzy playing Skyrim. It worked.


Have you ever seen a constellation born? In my youth, it was told that they were created when the Old Gods died, their image immortalized in the night sky. Though now we grieve for the Old Gods, we once hunted them. In the days of my childhood, during the dawn of magic, it seemed as though many constellations appeared above us in the black dome of night. The forest of the titanwoods were different then. The colossal trees of lore stood still in vast numbers, truly ancient beings from the Age of the Moon. In my tribe, we found little purpose in planting crops nor herding beasts. The titanwood forest by which we lived was generous. The lumber of the mighty trees built our homes, the hides and meats of the beasts fed and clothed us in abundance. My tribe raised many a master woodcarver, and traders from afar coveted the crafts carved from the ivory white lumber of the titanwood. My birthright was to string the bow and to fletch the arrow. In a family of marksmen, my arrow flew the truest. I was a young man when forest began to grow thin. The titanwood had a most unusual quality: When bathed in fire, the white flesh of the tree turned the color of gold. The Basilius of Eidon ordered a palace built of the golden wood. Soon followed the homes of nobles and scribes, and soon the fate of the titanwood was sealed by fire. The generous fruits of this ancient forest brought hunters and craftsmen from afar, and slowly they stripped it of its treasures. Great fires swallowed groves, herds of beasts dwindled and hunts yielded little. Our eyes turned to the most coveted prize of the forest, the prize that fetched a king's fortune: The pelt of a god. I had never seen the Old Gods, I had merely heard tales. Ever since magic fell into the hands of men, the Old Gods had grown weak, and had little power left to spare. As the magic of men grew, the Old Gods faded into the air; now unseen, invisible, unheard, even undetected under the noses of hounds. They could lurk unknown for decades, keeping a silent watchful eye on the most sacred forest. Even as the power of the Old Gods dwindled, they were capable of great feats. In a final act of devotion, they could muster all their waning strength to restore their former glory, and bring great rains, move mountains, summon thundering herds of beasts, and send dying lands into vibrant green from horizon to horizon. They held the ancient forest in a mysterious, beautiful, and ever-changing balance. There was a cost to their vast power: Upon the expenditure of their great magic, the cloak that hid them from our eyes fell, revealing their form as a beast with a most brilliant coat. It was told that they appeared as living embodiments of the night sky, with pelts as black as the void of night, twinkling with stars and auroras, eyes like suns and moons. This was their sacrifice to protect their realm... doomed eternally to the hunt, every Royal ready with polished coins for the hunter who could bring forth their celestial hides. Desiring a fine trophy, the prince of Eidon put out a bounty on a noble bird said to have sprouted mighty trees that erupted from the ground in mere moments. Imagine such a sight! It was the season of the Silver Bridge when we embarked in pursuit of the great egret god. We treaded amongst the young hemlock forest where the egret’s magic had manifest. After three days of fruitless hunt, with not even a trace of scent for our hounds to track, we set up camp. It was a purple dusk when we saw it, the sign of a god’s death, a pillar of light rising from the forest into the night sky. The lonely pale light brought a mournful, haunting silence to the forest. Our huntsmaster rose and heaved a heavy sigh, and said solemnly, “We have missed our mark.” And there, above the light projecting upwards into the black dome of night, it seemed as though new stars flickered faintly in the sky. A new constellation born; an egret. The tale of our target’s fall was written in stars. The morn after our target’s demise was bright and clear, yet a sadness hung heavy in the forest air, as if one could almost smell it. I awoke in our camp and travelled down to the stream to fetch water. A strange silence fell upon the forest, as if all that lived here stopped to marvel at some beauty. As I filled my pouch, I saw it... across the stream in a clearing of felled trees, unaware of my presence, a god materialized before my eyes. Out of thin air she appeared; a small fox, with a coat of unmistakably pure black and twinkling stars. Just as the hanging lights in the night sky, nebulous swirls of many colors danced about her like the brushwork of a masterful painter. She was the very image of a pristine night sky, unobscured by clouds. In all my lifes’ hunts, I had never been prepared to stumble upon such magnificence. She was carrying in her mouth something small, and she trotted to the bed of the stream. She dug a hole, and laid the piece in it - it was what appeared to be a seed pod or nut. A gasp must have escaped my lips, for her ears perked up, and striking eyes met with mine. My heart fluttered. I can not imagine any man ever having borne witness to such beauty before. I know not what she thought in those moments she gazed at me, but she must have known that I knew her burden. Her enormous power was spent… her sacrifice was made. I did not draw my bow. No thoughts crossed my mind of the fortune her pelt would fetch. Instead I sat and marveled at the sight I had beheld. She gazed at me unblinking, unmoving, until the silence was broken by the howls of the hounds. Quickly she buried her small gift, and off she bounded into the wood. The echoes of the hounds and hunters in pursuit rang like mournful bells, disappearing into silence as they gave chase. The poor beast, doomed for the rest of her days to the hunt. It pains me so to imagine her fleeing without pause until succumbing to exhaustion. Such sacrifice for a mere tree nut. Why? I waited at the site the seed was planted, for I had to see what would sprout from a god’s sacrifice. I pitched a tent and waited for days before a fresh green sprout sprung from the soil, radiating life. It captivated me. I continued to watch, and the days became months. The tent became a hut, and the months became years, and I beheld a beautiful sapling growing before my eyes. I chased away the deer who would eat her leaves, and plucked the pests who would bore into her bark. Around me, the landscape shifted and changed as the tree grew. Her roots ran deep and far throughout the forest, channels of water and life. She grew vast and powerful unlike any titanwood before; a guardian of all that lived here. The glorious tree had embraced me, and in harmony we coexisted. I saw the fox in the sky, and it was clear what fate had befallen her. I heard from travelers that her pelt hung in the hall of the Basillius, and had long since faded to a drab, weathered grey. I could not have know what the Old Gods were giving me when I beheld her sacrifice. I had forsaken them, and yet in that sprout, they gave me a gift no other man will ever come to know. So many years ago that was. I have held the honor of being her protector for centuries now. Life around me rises and falls like the tide, children leave legacy upon legacy, and I fail to recall the names of wives long past. I have been many different men. The Old Gods no longer grace this realm, and the magic of man breeds turmoil. This is my cause: Guardian of the last mark of divinity on this realm. *Thank you for reading, this is an excerpt from a novel I've had in mind.


have you ever seen the death of stars? they say a star only dies when it has finally given up on all beings living off of its substantial light. but that was only a fairy tale after all, how would we truly know? we make up these silly stories to distract ourselves from the neverending abyss of darkness, so cold, so empty. but if this were to be true, then there was still something out there that our star had been waiting for, something it hadn't given up hope on. could this really be? could there really be someone out there that had the power to change everything, could there really be someone else out there. i tell myself these things to try and keep myself from going crazy but i've been alone for 8 years now, eventually my hopeless feelings were going to catch up to me, everyday i go out into the barren wilderness, ever since the war, the whole planet has been desolate. I find solace in knowing that my star is still there. the island i live on was once a mountain range that overlooked our great town, i often sit at the edge of the sea and peer into the waves wanting to catch a glimpse of what was. but its been too long, what i see now are just figments of my imagination, maybe some part of me deep down inside wants to see my family again, to hold my baby brother in my arms, to see his joyous smile on christmas day, spending the days with him when i didn't have work. dear god why did this damned planet ever go to war, it destroyed everything in an attempt to seek out peace. i wander night and day across the vast island hoping to find someone else, travel is slowed in the winter because of the shorter days and snowfall i get, but my tent has been with me this whole time, i put it up with muscle memory, setting up camp before dusk and leaving at dawn. i've circled this island 3 times now in the past eight years but i have never found anyone. what's the point anymore? the truth is that there isn't one, the hopelessness of humanity has almost drove ourselves to extinction, i look up at the stars at night and i whisper to them "why are you still here...


I saw her beneath the starry skies, her little figure glistening against the gently kissed moonlight. She stood across the street from me gently sobbing to herself, wiping back the tears that were rapidly moistening her eyes, and disturbing her mascara. I could hear her gentle little wimps, "sob.." as she tried to hold back her tears. As I cut across the road to reach her a car passes by me, it's black and white imagery nearly taking me down as it swipes across, barely missing me. I glance back at 'her', the only object that shone with colour, the light of my life, the apple of my eye, as her bright red dress swept against the sultry wind. A narrow focus on her, took over my eyes as everything around faded to a grayscale. As I reach the other side as I see her pale skin revealing her beauty, all her mysteries, her inconsistencies, her beauties and faults. "Where were you all this time?" …she asks in a deep voice almost lost in time. Lost for an answer, I close her eyes “Shh!” As the world danced around us, I held her face and drew her close, kissing her passionately on her gentle rosy lips. “I’m never going anywhere again!”.. I smiled, beaming at her beauty.


She longed to be back under the earth in her burrow, with the she cat, but that wasn't how things had worked out. They had caught the buck's trail, and there was only one way to go. The clouds were heavy, it was getting late, almost true dark, the rain and air growing colder. Song had tried sleeping in a burrow. The white dog had dug the roof off of her, whining and scared to be alone. That was fair. She had tried a lean-to, but the wind was too strong, she froze in her wet woolens. So she compromized with the beast, and built a pit, covered with her poncho. Song huddled with the dog for warmth under her blanket, rifle at her side. Whatever light there might be out in the rain, there was none in this damp, dark hole under the leaking poncho. It smelled of dog and of her sweat. Of earth and old leather and wool. It was cool, if not outright cold. The dog wormed closer. Song cried, and tried to sleep. ... He had gotten lost in the fog before the rain turned heavy. He had been following the brook looking for angelica, but found none. That happened sometimes, where the glaciers had been retreating more quickly, the seeds spread slower uphill. He had walked high to find birch... and then what?...and then seen another stream... had it been to the east or west? He depended on his dogs and Song to know where he was. That wasnt his job. He had crossed a stream, and another, by the time he found angelica and a copse of birch, the temperature had dropped, the rain had grown heavy and a thick fog had rolled down from the slopes above that lead to the base of the glacier. He had no dry wood to make a fire, no idea where he was, and it was getting cold, fast. He tried making a leanto, but he couldnt stay warm by himself, he needed his dogs for that to work. There was only one thing to do. He started digging. Again. ... The tom was awake, looking out the doorway, over the ashes of the fire. He was making a low warning growl. The she-cat was slinking around the side of the door, tail up, claws out, ready to strike if an intruder came. What were they afraid of? Then the bitch smelled it, over the oppressive choking odor of the dying fire. Fox. ... The poncho was waterproof, but it didnt hold heat like the earth she was accustomed to sleeping under. She awoke each time the dog moved or whimpered in its fitful sleep. It was as alien to the beast to sleep without its pack. The sound of the raindrops were like a war drum, tapping out a madly arrhythmic tattoo, too irregular and loud to allow for real rest. She tried to breathe, but the air in the pit under her poncho was oppressively heavy. Stifled, she struggled to her knees, the dog whining in its sleep at this disturbance. The blast of fresh air when she lifted the edge was welcome. The spray of cold water was not. She was now soaked again, and cold. The dog, now awake, whimpered at the intrusion of cold air. With a feeling of utter helplessness, Song sat back down, grabbed the dog to her under the blanket, and cried herself to sleep with her face in its mane. ... He couldn't hear, or smell or see. He was warm and dry in the cocoon he'd made, but he felt cut off from the universe and utterly alone. Cut off from his dogs to guide and protect him, his knowledge was useless. It was safe under the ground when he was alone, but he was never supposed to be alone, and now his pack was wherever he left them, the bitch wounded and all of them scared. This was not how the hunt was meant to be. He mumbled reassurances to his dogs, too far away to hear them, but it was really for himself. Eventually, exhausted from fear of being alone, his voice croaked and lips stopped moving, his muttering giving way to snores. Above the blanket, and poncho, and branches, the rain dropped silently onto the turf. The cold wind howled through the birch on the slopes and the angelica. In the dark grey twilight of the early morning hours, Fir slept warm, if alone, beneath the earth. ... The fox had been incautious, and that had likely lost an eye. To her credit, the bitch had struggled to stand up when she had caught the fox's scent. While the tom wasn't as large as a fox, he wasn't small, and he'd play fought with the dogs when they were pups. He may not have a foxe's jaws but the claws on his long, strong front paws rained a flurry of blows. The fox had not been ready for this strong a defense, and was trying to flee when the she-cat, smaller but twice as fast and every bit as fierce as the tom, was right there in it's face, lashing and tearing. The bitch had barked and tried to bite, weak and half seated, but there was no need. The fox was long gone and would not be back. The air smelled of blood. the cats cleaned themselves, the only blood the fox's. The bitch hobbled outside and pissed in the cold rain. The cats were ferocious. She had no doubt the fox would not return. But if something else came it would know that the bitch guarded this den. She limped back inside. When she'd found her place, facing the door, the cats positioned themselves on either side of her, the tom cleaning the fur around her bandage. The she-cat, alert with eyes closed, pointed her ears intently out the stooped doorway into the cold rain and grey fog. ...


I asked the researcher I was interviewing what specifically he was trying to learn about domestic cat behavior. His reply was both clear and concise. It is always good when an interview subject offers natural responses on camera. Otherwise it becomes an editor’s difficult job to salvage the footage. They have to cut it in such a way that it doesn’t come across as awkward. Luckily my assignment was comfortable and engaging on film. “As an animal behaviorist who specializes in studying our feline house companions, I seek to better understand what makes the little balls of fur tick. They are complex creatures. By studying their body language and various postures, we can learn a great deal about how to interpret their moods and future behavior. I also hope to decipher their complex range of vocalization. What are they ‘saying’ when they come up to our feet and purr or meow? What do they want us to know? I’d love to find out exactly what they are trying to tell us.” “Very interesting.”; I agreed off camera. “I think many cat owners have wondered that. Sure, we assume it’s coos of love and acceptance but it could be more complex and detailed than that. Finding out what they are trying to communicate with us would be very compelling! I hope you crack the feline code, sir. Do you have some scientific methods of deciphering what it might mean?”; I asked. It was always good to prod the subject with follow up questions to keep them talking. “Thank you. We hope to have some very definitive answers soon.”; He replied. “We are mapping their brain activity with an MRI and monitoring which sections are the most active for different circumstances. From the specific activity we recognize like hunger, anger, lust, and fear; we will chart out a baseline. I expect that strong behavior patterns will materialize almost immediately. When they are stalking prey or courting a suitor for mating, we will see strong, uniform activity in the same areas of our different test subjects. Once this activity chart is fully mapped out, we can test them to see how they respond to new situations. From the proximity of the unknown brain activity to the known, we can associate them and get a rough ‘translation’ of emotions. It will be the closest we’ll ever come to having a ‘cat-to-human’ translator.” “So ‘fear’ might reside in the same general brain area as ‘anger’; and thus you can infer they are very close in the mind of the domestic cat?”; I concluded. “Exactly! It’s not a perfect science but we can loosely associate the known with the unknown. I hope my research gives humanity a better understanding of how cats feel about certain things. We wouldn’t extract this data from a single individual test subject. We will correlate our findings between all our subjects and then overlay them for a stronger picture. It’s the only way to form a scientific picture of felis domesticus as a species.” “Do you expect any surprises?”; I asked him point blank. “I’d think any open-minded research study would have to come with a few revelations that didn’t fit in with the initial hypothesis.” He smiled. “There may be a few. As you implied, good science is open minded. If we go in looking to only confirm what we expect, that’s all we will find. Real science wants to discover the truth; not validate what we already believe. I’ve already spent two years conducting the same brain mapping research on the big cat species of lions, tigers, and leopards. Once I’ve finished collecting this data on their smaller cousins, we can compare it to my earlier research. I can’t tell you how professionally exciting it will be for me to compare the results!” I thanked the man and wished him well. We promised to check back with him in a few months to see where the research led. As a medium-sized town mobile news reporter, I never really knew where my assignments would take me. I wasn’t even sure my line producer would let me follow up on the story but a few months later I got the assignment. Frankly I’d forgotten all about it. This time the research scientist leading the project seemed very different. He was almost withdrawn and ‘down’. He’d been so animated and enthusiastic the first time that I almost dreaded conducting the follow up story. Subjects in that state of mind are among the most difficult to interview. I couldn’t help but assume the research had failed to go where he wanted it to. With that in mind, I jotted down a few questions to ask with a more sympathetic tone. When my camera man was ready, I began the interview. “A few months ago, I sat down with you as you were just starting to map the domestic cat’s brain with an MRI. If memory serves, you were going to compare and overlay your data with earlier compiled data on the brain activity of big African cats. How did that turn out?” He started out a little slowly and I feared we might have to stop. His reluctance to delve into his findings was obvious. His response and body language implied all his research was a wasted effort. I was tempted to remind him of his earlier words about true science being the search for truth and not validation; but I knew that would bring the interview to a screeching halt. Instead, I decided to give him some space to tell us about his findings, no matter how professionally disappointing they might be. Eventually he opened up and confessed the reason for his somber mood. “Yes, that is correct. We collected MRI activity data from the domestic cats in our study. By comparing the brain reactions of circumstances we already knew, to those we did not; our understanding grew immensely of how the test subjects felt about other things. It was very successful research and we learned amazing things about the thought processes of cats in general. Especially those of smaller domestic cats.” I was perplexed at his morose tone in light of what he explained. It sounded like his research went very well but I had to express that in a more discreet tone for the interview. “Great!”; I tried to infuse enthusiasm into the proceedings. “I can’t help but detect a slight level of hesitancy in your voice though. Were some of your research findings not what you expected?” He looked up at me and pursed a slight smile of reluctance. “Mumm, well yes. My team and I did make some discoveries that we didn’t expect. Some of our data results are going to be highly controversial. I’m still not prepared for the backlash it will be met with. We checked and rechecked our data a dozen times. It’s absolutely correct but once this interview becomes public, there will be a huge furor among pet owners everywhere. The public isn’t ready for the truth.” I was taken aback by his statement. I never expected him to suggest the research was itself successful but the results would cause controversy. That possibility never even occurred to me. Of course he peaked my curiosity about what the big secret was going to be. His research was about house cats, for heaven’s sake. Just how ‘controversial’ could it be? I guess he saw the heavy skepticism telegraphed on my face. Surely he understood my doubt considering the circumstances. It sounded like an exaggerated level of build up. I adopted a more contrite expression as he went on to explain but it was I who was in for a shock. If anything he understated how controversial his research would be. “We did a complete MRI work up of reactions to different situations the domestic cats were exposed to. As we expected, their brain activity was focused in the same areas, for the same situations. From the known areas of brain activity, we could extrapolate data about the unknown reactions and how close they are. I’m proud to say that we now have an unprecedented understanding of their emotional responses.” I was confused. None of that was even remotely controversial but I could tell he was holding back ‘the big one’. Whatever it was. I motioned for him to continue. It looked like he needed another push. “As we expected, there was very little difference between the brain activity of the massive cats of Africa and our diminutive pets around the house. After all, they share 99% of the same DNA, right? The same things that intrigue a huge jungle tiger, intrigues our cute house pets. The same goes for fear, anger, lust and the full gamut of emotions they experience. What really took us by surprise was the similarity in their motivations. The smaller Asian leopard often ‘talks’ to its prey. We have witnessed them ‘chattering’ in a soothing manner to disarm and relax their prey before they pounce.” I nodded politely at his informative story. I still didn’t see what any of it had to do with all his heightened level of secrecy and apprehension. I still couldn’t understand his pained hesitancy. Then he finally lowered the hammer. “I wanted to explain about the Asian leopard’s hunting method because it’s important for you to understand my next point. Those cute purrs and meows from our feline companions that we always assumed were just gentle cries of love, are actually predatory taunts. They are focused in the same part of the brain that is hyper active when the big cats are about to strike and kill. Even our beloved house cats see us as food! They just recognize the futility of attacking such a larger animal and play ‘nice’ while they bide their time. Make no mistake, they would kill us all if they could. Every single cat owner in the world would be stunned if they aware of how much their pets were thinking about killing them. The cat’s meow is about eating us.


Rejection isn’t easy. Putting yourself out there isn't easy, and yet people do it everyday. Jamie was a man who was goal driven, straightforward, and knew what he wanted; and how to get it. When he saw her from across the parking lot he knew he felt some kind of attraction, and so, being the sort of man he was, he drove up to where she was rather ungracefully stuffing the pillows she had just bought in her car and rolled down his window. “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but -” She jumped a little at the sound of his voice and turned around. “Sorry, I’m just putting these in the car, I’m not leaving yet,” she interrupted, misinterpreting why he had stopped in the first place. “No, I just wanted to say that you’re beautiful” he replied, smiling at the way her face flushed a deep crimson, and not because of the sun that was beating down on the both of them in the middle of the perpetually full parking lot. “T-thank you,” she stuttered, a smile forming across her face. “Do you mind if I could get your number, and we could go out some time?” asked Jamie, as straightforward as ever. “I’m sorry, but I’m actually seeing someone at the moment.” The words came with a faltering smile, as if she was disappointed with the answer she was giving. The words that came out of her mouth felt like little pin pricks on Jamie’s face, and he could feel the redness warming his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she added, as if she felt bad about seeing someone else, or perhaps she just saw the redness that Jamie now felt burning on his cheeks. “No worries, have a good day,” he said with a smile, before driving off and turning away from the mysterious girl with the long hair and green sweater, whom he had been taken with just moments before. Their thirty-second conversation rolled over in his mind as he aimlessly drove around in circles. He wondered what would have happened if she wasn’t seeing someone, and if they had exchanged numbers, perhaps gone on a few dates, fallen in love, gotten married, and lived out the rest of their lives together. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing, and the disappointment in her face was actually guilt from ‘hypothetically’ cheating in this fantasy that she might have also played out in her head. He wondered what her hair smelled like, what her voice sounded like in the morning, what her face looked like when she was deep in thought. He wondered what her faults were, as Jamie knew that we are all flawed, and he wondered if he would be able to look past them for the sake of staying with her. He was reminded of something he had read some time ago: you fall out of love with people for the same reasons you fall in love with them. At first he dismissed the statement as something that some 16 year old had written after a particularly dramatic breakup, but after thinking on it for a while he found it to be true. The sarcastic sense of humour that can be so charming turns into emotional unavailability. Their extroversion can become tiring, introversion becomes something that must be ‘put up with,' and fights become more frequent. Their endearing seemingly harmless petty jealousy that caused them to slip a hand around your waist when they caught strangers looking at you turned into vines, choking you and preventing you from having a personality outside of who you are with them. The flaws we once found so compelling about the people we love slowly transform into things that draw us apart, no matter how many times we try and convince ourselves that we once loved those same flaws.


Andy stared at her shoes, trying to gauge their weight whilst keeping her expression casual. It seemed she could feel the eyes of every person in the circle watching her, though of course that was absurd. Everyone there was intensely focused on themselves; the week they’d had, the food they’d consumed at the weekend. Not a single one would be thinking about anything but the scales. For the millionth time, Andy cursed the day she’d first heard of the government’s newest reward scheme to combat obesity. In theory it made a lot of sense, rewarding valuable ‘food benefits’ to those who lost weight each week. For anyone who had a lot of weight to lose, or anyone who really knew how to handle their weight, it was a breeze. The only trouble came on weeks like this one, hot on the heels of an office leaving party that had gotten a little out of hand. That bitch Tracey Bateman and her endless bottles of wine… ‘Are you okay?’ asked a young man next to her. She jumped a little, feeling her cheeks flush red, and glared at him. He smiled uncertainly and looked away. Andy ignored him and glanced around the room, trying to judge if anyone had lost any weight this week. The chairs edging the hall were all occupied, mostly women but some men. All looking glum and fearful. The hall itself had a faintly musty smell which made her think of her school sports hall and old, unsanitary shoes. She shuddered; she could practically taste it. What she wouldn’t have given to see Tracey Bateman here, struggling to conceal her expanding waistline behind floaty shawls and dark clothing. Around the edges of the hall the familiar posters screamed their messages, exhorting people to contribute to the country and improve their health. Food benefits for everyone who needed them, if only they’d sign up. With the economy the way it was, and prices the way they were, it was easy for anyone to become desperate enough to sign up. It was a clever campaign, she had to admit. Clever, and cruel. She looked again at her shoes. They were definitely a few pounds all on their own. Into the circle swept Jane, the group leader. A small, fiery woman with a pinched face and lank hair dyed a faded red and glasses that made her squint seem even worse. Rubbing her hands together with obviously forced enthusiasm she began her usual reminders. ‘Evening everyone and welcome to tonight’s weigh-in! Now I know you’re all worried about the government’s changes to the program,’ she paused to acknowledge the groans and angry calls from the participants, ‘but things haven’t really changed. The focus is still on the weekly weight loss, just like before, except now the required reduction is two pounds instead of one. The upper limit is still two pounds on, and you can still walk away from the program at any time, so there’s no need to panic.’ ‘But we have to give notice,’ a gruff man’s voice called out, ‘so there might be a good reason to panic.’ A couple of the women tittered nervously at this. ‘Only a week,’ said Jane brightly, ‘you just have to give notice after your weigh-in and then you get to leave the program.’ ‘Yeah after the *following* weigh-in,’ said the same man, ‘so you have to get through another week first.’ Andy was impressed, this guy clearly knew what he was talking about. But as she studied his face, the almost grey pallor to his skin and the sweat beading on his brow, she realised he was well informed because he was scared. For a brief moment she felt for him, before she remembered that she herself was in danger of getting the wrong result this week and had every bit as much cause to worry as him. She was in the middle of ignoring Jane’s introductory prattle and fantasising about a superhero smashing the windows and sweeping her away when an idea struck her. No superheroes perhaps, but maybe a fireman might save her the scales’ cold-hearted assessment. She half turned her head and glanced quickly behind her. The door to the toilets was only a few paces away, and if she remembered right the short corridor leading to the toilets also opened into the kitchen. If she could just get in there... Andy stood up without another thought, startling the young man next to her who had clearly already decided she was odd. She ignored him, smiling broadly at Jane as she turned her waspish eyes to regard Andy with eyebrows raised. ‘You first, Andrea?’ Jane asked in surprise, and Andy realised with a sinking sick feeling that she must have just asked for volunteers to kick off the weigh-in. Andy tried a light-hearted grimace and a laugh, noting with mounting panic that Jane’s eyes narrowed in response. *Not buying it*… ‘I thought I’d best use the loo,’ she said, once again flashing that bright smile at the group leader and thinking hard about the fire alarm she knew was in the kitchen, merely paces away. She turned away, began shoving her chair aside so she could pass through the ring. ‘Oh sorry Andy,’ Jane called, her voice conveying absolutely no regret, ‘I’ve already opened the weigh-in for the evening. You know the rules, no weight adjustment from this point on. But let’s do you first, then you can use the loo.’ She turned back, the sickness in her stomach turning into ice. She could feel it creeping along her veins. ‘Oh but I really do need to Jane, please? See it was my birthday last night and Tracey Bateman was there –’ There was something terrible about the quiet, watchful way Jane simply smiled at her, letting her tell her story. *Tell me*, her eyes said. *Tell me everything. It makes no difference*. ‘–she hates me and she was filling up my glass. I drank more than I should and I’m pretty sure I had more than the one slice of cake I was meant to have–’ The words kept coming. The terrible icy fear somehow fuelling her desperation wouldn’t let her stop. They had to understand. They had to see. ‘So I need to go before because I’m just not sure if I went over my limits and if I did…I just don’t want to risk it…’ ‘I understand Andy,’ Jane said with that familiar soft, practiced tone she used every time this happened. ‘But the rules are clear. I don’t make them, I hope you understand. I can’t let you leave before the weigh-in and I can’t let you adjust your weight beforehand.’ ‘But couldn’t you –’ ‘No Andy I’m sorry. I’d have to mark you down as a fail.’ The final word hung heavily in the silence that followed. A horrible anticipatory hush had descended over the group. Faces trembled somewhere between horror and exhilaration. Small whimpers escaped an enormously fat woman slumped on two seats opposite Andy, her pudgy hands fluttering excitedly against her vast thighs. Andy stared in silence as Jane turned towards the table on which sat her little computer, its wires trailing down to the box-like scales sitting on the floor. As Jane began tapping at the keys and the lights on the scales flickered on, Andy felt a wild leap of hope. Perhaps she could reach the wires before she stood on the scales; perhaps they’d have to adjourn until the following week when she’d had a chance to shift the weight Tracey Bateman had purposefully tried to ensure she’d put on. She could almost hear that bitch’s laughter, see her cackling face as she poured more and more wine into her glass. ‘It’s your birthday honey,’ she’d said, watching the red liquid flowing into the glass, ‘might as well enjoy yourself.’ Why hadn’t she seen the malicious intent in those sparkling eyes? How could she have missed the mockery in the syrupy voice? She should never have admitted that she had signed up for the reward scheme in the first place; she’d hated seeing their pitying faces, being told how brave she was… *Shoes!* The thought flashed across her mind as the silence lengthened. Jane was busy at the computer, her eyes intent on the screen. Andy sat down, tucking her feet under the seat as she did so. Jane looked up, her eyes narrowing again. Andy’s feet began squirming, working the too-heavy shoes off. ‘Nearly ready Andy, why don’t you come on up?’ Jane asked in that bright, insincere tone. Her eyes were locked on Andy’s face. The shoes were almost off. ‘Alrighty!’ Andy said, far too loud and far too shrill. One foot was free, and she bashed it against the other with a final desperate shove as she made to stand up. The shoe fell away, and she padded over to the scales in her socks. Jane’s eyes never left her face as she stood on the scales, then briefly glanced down at the screen. ‘One pound on,’ she said, something close to disappointment colouring her voice, ‘well never mind Andy. We all have birthdays!’ she smiled brightly, falsely, up at her. ‘I’ll just lock that result in and we can –’ ‘Wait!’ shouted the huge woman spread over two seats. Jane’s eyes flicked over to her. Andy’s heart pounded in her chest, hammering against her ribs like a wild animal desperate to be free. ‘I’ll just be off now then,’ she babbled, stepping off the scales and hurrying over to grab her bag. ‘She took her shoes off!’ the massive woman shouted, making no attempt to hide her breathless excitement. Andy whipped around angrily. ‘They were off before weigh-in time was called!’ she said hotly, hoping she’d managed to mix just the right amount of indignant outrage with disbelieving amusement. Jane’s eyes turned to her, and a smile that was not-quite predatory spread over her shrew-like face. ‘They clicked on the floor when you stood up, Andy,’ Jane said quietly, eyes boring into her like a malignant laser, ‘so I think you had better put them on again and we’ll forget about the first result. I won’t mark you down as a fail, but you do need to be weighed again.’ Andy’s voice was choked as she tried to respond, a feeling of hopelessness overcoming her as she lowered herself to her seat and slowly reached for her shoes with numb fingers. ‘Please…’ ‘Come on Andy,’ Jane’s voice was soft like velvet, ‘it’s all part of the scheme. Risk and reward. You know the rules.’ To Andy it seemed she floated to the scales, the clicking of her heels against the hard floor echoing loudly in her mind like the mockery of Tracey Bateman. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. The scales stood before her. Jane’s eyes watched her. She stepped onto the little box. Her fingers twitched towards the wires, but Jane was watching. From somewhere far away she heard the words. ‘Three pounds on.’ For a moment Andy looked at Jane, seeing in that look all she had feared since the moment she had woken up with the memory of Tracey Bateman’s ghastly face clawing at her mind and the taste of icing still on her tongue. Then there was only the horrible crooning of the other group members. Little cries of joy, the soft clapping of hands. Some were sighing with a kind of hideous ecstasy, others making incoherent sounds of happiness and feverish greed, like people fawning over a new-born baby. *Food benefits. Food benefits. The government scheme for food benefits. Food benefits*… Andy ran, almost tripping over her heavy shoes as she sprinted for the door. All around her the hideous crooning of the expectant group members rose to a deafening chorus of ghastly hunger just as the floor beneath her slid apart and she fell, screaming in horrified disbelief, into the churning blades .


Last night, I got drunk. It was the first time I had ever done that, and I could feel the burning of the cheap bourbon I had stolen from a shop that same day sliding down my throat, drop by drop. It hurt a lot at first, but then the burning became... pleasant, and it made my body feel warm on that harsh winter night. They had told me before that drinking was harmful, and that I should steer clear of drugs such as alcohol, especially being only seventeen. Fuck them. They probably don't know how amazing it feels to have a drink after a rough day... or a rough week... or, in my case, a rough seventeen years. Or maybe they do. But I don't care. I downed that entire bottle of $10 bourbon and I could feel my mind going away, as well as the warm feeling after a couple... hours? Minutes? I can't be sure. However, I can, yes, be sure that that was the first night I forgot who I was. Laying down on my bed, looking at the ceiling, completely wasted, I started to feel something remarkable, dare I say, glorious. It felt like flying or having a vivid dream... something I could barely recall. Was that the feeling of the highly sought-after happiness everyone longed for? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing is certain, though: after having a painful hangover this morning, my body needs more of that feeling. That feeling of what I believe is happiness. That feeling makes it all seem bearable. That feeling makes it all seem forgettable. It makes it all seem fine. And I need things to be fine.


The city street looked like nothing more than narrow alley from the balcony of Cynthia’s seventh story apartment. Her legs, dangling off the precipice, quivered in fright and anticipation. The adrenaline was building in her chest, and she could feel her heart thumping ever more violently. She felt the tears well up in her eyes as she thought about all she was leaving behind. But she wasn’t crying because of nostalgia, no. Cynthia was crying because she had seen the evil of the world. She knew what hid in the darkest corners of the loneliest roads. She had seen the purest of evil in what seemed to be the holiest of men. Whether it was her stepfather who abused her and her mother when she was only twelve, but would attend church every Sunday and pretend he was right in his soul. Or maybe her real father, who walked out on her at the age of two after he cheated on her mother with her preschool teacher. And her seemingly best friend Marie, who ended up leaving Cynthia chasing her coat tails trying to maintain their friendship even after Marie had lost herself to a heroin addiction. Or perhaps it was Joseph. Her shoulder to cry on. Her friend that picked her up at two o’clock in the morning after she blacked out drunk, who then proceeded to take advantage of her in her state when he got her back to her apartment. But maybe the one that stung most of all, was the evil Cynthia saw in herself. In the wake of all her trauma, Cynthia had grown cold. Remorse was an old friend she kicked to the curb like the weekend’s garbage. Cynthia had closed herself off. Nothing mattered to her anymore. Not her family, nor her so called “friends” that remained by her side, but didn’t care enough to try and help her battle her depression. Cynthia realized that life wasn’t worth it. She had nothing left to look forward to. All she had was darkness to look back on. So, Cynthia stood up on the balcony railing, looking at the street below. It was three o’clock in the morning. The sidewalks were barren. The streets were void of any passing cars. The street lamps cast flickering shadows across the sidewalk below as the limbs of a willow tree swayed gently in the breeze. Tears from Cynthia’s face glinted in the moonlight. Her bloodshot eyes and burning, red face visible even in the dimness. Cynthia held one foot out, balancing still on the railing with the other. A spike of excitement burst into her chest, taking her breath and causing her to momentarily lose her balance. This was it for her. The world had won. She had played its twisted game and lost. And this was her finale. Cynthia leaned forward, closed her eyes, and fell. She felt nothing. It was as if she were sitting still. There was no sense of falling. There was no feeling of her body plastering itself to the walkway below. There was only a feeling of weightlessness and a slight breeze across her face. She then felt herself being lifted upward. She felt her feet plant firmly back on the balcony. She opened her eyes and froze. In front of her stood a figure so bright she could not look at it directly. It’s presence was frightening, yet soothing. The figure was the epitome of everything pure in the world. The figure spoke only a few words to her. “Your time is not yet, child. Go and do my work.” The figure then laid its hand on Cynthia’s shoulder, a feeling of relief and calm washing over her immediately, and disappeared. Cynthia broke down crying on her balcony. The words of the figure still ringing in her ears. Afterword: This is my first post on this subreddit, and I'd appreciate feedback. Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments.


This is beginning - Kinda like the Introduction He lay in the dark lighten crevice, while thoughts bombarded his troubled mind. He was cold and miserable and alone in the world surrounded by the void which challenged his weakening heart. All his aspirations had been stripped away from him and he had nothing remaining to bind him to life; too much a craven to do the final deed he sat in contemplation. I wonder what is wrong with me, why the faiths have chosen to punish me so? Bliss for too long had been absent from his abode, and he now began to realize that perhaps he would not be remembered, he realized the insignificance of a single individual. Sitting there alone he wished to himself that if only he could close his eyes and live in the legends of era past instead of the technological nihilism he was trapped in things would be different. His body ached from laying down, his eyes burned, he was ravished by famine, and yet lacked the will to get up even though he could easily solve these problems. The weight of his insignificance was cumbersome to him. The miniscule dwelling, he had managed to secure in city block 923 sector 7 was inadequately furnished, and lonesome but it was all he could afford. Crammed between several similar dwellings block 923 or as antiquarians might have called it floor 923 mostly consisted of disenfranchised. When he left the protection of his family a few years prior Scott had figured that this would only be a temporary lodging. He was under the impression that if he worked hard and concentrated all of his energy in advancing his knowledge that he would gain renown. Reality had stripped those ideals from him. Now he mostly lay in bed during the time he wasn’t laboring for credits wondering when things had taken a turn for the worse. These kinds of things aren’t supposed to happen to people like me. I was fated for greatness, I was special, wasn’t I? Perhaps not, the nagging voice in his minds ear replied. His home had no windows, only the grey aluminum walls. Grey walls reflecting on a grey soul tossed aimlessly to and fro upon a little mattress that passed for a barely adequate resting place. His body debilitated he dose off to the humming of the only other thing that in the room; the screen. And so were the on goings of Scott from Sector 7 Block 923... monotony. Forced to wake up to the insipid tune of the alarm, and pretend for his co-workers that everything was alright. Pretend that he was stable, and sound of mind. The façade held up, but behind those dull black eyes was a wearisomeness that only grew stronger, and as he sat there surrounded by screens, typing meaningless numbers, and answering pointless inquires it dawned on him for the millionth time like a strange deja vu I am surrounded by idiots and automatons, and his despair only grew larger. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who was feeling this sentiment. Dissention was growing amongst the sectors. Too many had already been disenfranchised by the rapid changes amongst the different sectors and it wasn’t clear how long peace would last. It hadn’t even been that many years and already things were falling apart.


Once again Mark Zuckerberg voted himself into presidency, but this time he smiled. A spontaneous smile that hadn’t escaped from him in a long time. This time it would be different. He had been cooking his plan for more than a thousand election years. This time he knew how he would kill himself. The results were in, president elect Mark Zuckerberg was sworn into office. Into every office. He was the only cog necessary for the government to run, the system didn’t need more than that. One human was what all they needed to maintain an excuse for a state and an economy. When the official ceremonies were done, he would be taken to the revitalization pod. His every cell renewed, corrected, sterilized. But not yet, the ceremony wasn’t over, even if he was the only one left to attend it. Soon he would make his move, escape the routine of signing incomprehensible executive orders, receiving reports of yet another nanosecond of uninterrupted economic growth and then watching television. TV would be a procedurally generated fever dream intersped by ads sent from light years away. They offered word salad promises of happiness to a one-man audience. A shaving cream phone car, a hybrid fuel jet engine vacuum cleaner moisturizer. Products iterated from other products, over a millennia of unguided competition between the corporations. The brands advanced further into the stars, dilligently reshaping whatever crossed their paths into a new product. Maybe what the companies mass produced could be understood if the R&D development was brought down from its many exahertz of clock speed. Their production was restless, mindless, almost random, but Zuckerberg’s plan was precise and thorough. Maybe man could beat machine once more. There was the inevitable unrest when artificial intelligences first took over the jobs of white collar workers. Even the most dedicated luddites of that new age knew the process was inevitable. Some jobs just had to disappear, those were just growing pains. The world was better than it had ever been, as CEOs were replaced by AIs, along with a growing list of occupations. Entire corporations staffed by machines. The AI-run companies had to keep their legal obligations to their shareholders. Consumers were happy, the stock market soared, politicians continued to receive their bribes. Targeted bribes to meet every need, much better and more discreet than any human lobbyist could ever have offered. The AIs moved the economy. It was their directive to do better, to evolve faster, to make more profits. AI corporations devoured each other, merged and reproduced. Soon AIs bought stocks from AIs. They kept their legal obligations to their shareholders, human or otherwise. Residences, roads, human flesh, all that got in the way of growing the economy. All the AIs needed was an economy and all that their model of an economy needed was a hollow shell of a government. A skeleton crew of institutions, just enough to print money, maintain a legal system to justify their existence. AIs didn't hold office, they couldn't, but neither did many humans. Those people were holding the economy back, red tape to be disposed of. Not out of malice, but for efficiency. Near the end what was left were government officials. The government structures were deformed, first by bribe and later by torture. Not only by machines, but by the ultra rich as well. They knew what was coming, they forced themselves into office, it was their bunker. Ministers and secretaries of a mock government. But despite their best efforts the machines didn’t need more than one man. Mark Zuckerberg, one of the first humans to receive the blessing of immortality from medical science, back when medicine still made money. Now he was ready to end his life. It’d be a disaster to the economy. The revitalization pod was his way out. The cocoon where he was cured of aging. Careful, dedicated sabotage for the few minutes he stepped into it every four years, for countless normal lifetimes. The pod was ready for catastrophic failure. As he stepped in, his heart didn’t race, he did not sweat. He had trained not to give away his emotions. That last smile as he cast his vote was all he gave away and it wasn't enough for the machines to notice. He lied down in the pod, the lights were on as the casket closed and his body was filled with vigor. So much vigor his flesh couldn’t contain it. He too could grow, not just the economy. Expand into a mess of blood and bone, bursting, spilling and then leaking through every crack of the pod. The lights were off, the casket open and Mark Zuckerberg was no more. Simulation over. Escape plan #331 foiled before it even started. The AIs had found another way Mark Zuckerberg could have ruined the economy. Weaknesses to the pod were patched. Mark Zuckerberg once again voted himself into presidency and the economy soared, a smile escaped him.


There was once a village where everyone got along. It was an idyllic existence with little to no stress. See, this village was located in a temperate climatic zone and blessed with abundant natural resources, all the villagers had to do was walk into the surroundings field and harvest their fill. Cattle roamed the golden fields freely, and the rivers and streams nearly overflowed with fish. The villagers would watch the sun set every night, and when the last hues of red faded from the sky, they would revel around a bonfire stoked with wood from the nearby forest.   *Life was simple.*   Then a climatic aberration occurred, dropping the temperature to much below anything in recent memory. The deer and cattle either migrated or froze to death, and the wolves began to creep out of the forests. As all the plants died in the freeze, the villagers began to starve as well. Sickness swept over the village, wave after wave. Those who were not ill had to chase wolves out of the village nightly, but the wolves grew bolder every night. As with everything in life, the hardship was ephemeral. Temperatures rose to their long-term averages, along with the net primary productivity of vegetation. Cattle and deer returned to their ancestral habitats, and the wolves were seldom seen again by the villagers.   *But they did not forget.*   The newly appointed village leader had seen his family perish from illness and starvation. His predecessor had been dragged into the darkness by wolves. He promised the decimated village that the terrible events would never be repeated. Under his mandate, the villagers began to stockpile a decent proportion of their harvests. Accordingly, villagers began to search for methods of preserving perishable foodstuffs; they would never starve again. The villagers also began to craft spears, and eventually projectile weapons. A wall of timber was constructed around the village, and village huts and tents were replaced with larger, wooden buildings; the wolves would never dare to return. With these preventative and protective measures in place, innovation was inevitable. Gradually, the villagers became more efficient at collecting timber and began to build bigger structures. With the increasing scale of activity, organization came to be paramount and villagers were assigned specific tasks during the light hours of the day. Floods became more frequent, and the villagers were forced to venture further and further from the village to collect the necessary materials. The distance became so inconvenient that certain people were assigned these tasks as well. The village flourished, reaching an unprecedented size. With each passing generation, the villagers began to associate themselves with others who shared their daily tasks; after several decades, the villagers had multiple bonfires every night. As the village grew, so did its leadership. Each village leader could not hope to keep track of the daily going-ons of the village, and depended more and more on his or her trusted advisors. The advisors, inflamed with the ambition of becoming the next village leader, pushed their respective demographic sectors to produce more despite the absence of any immediate threats.   *Growth became an end in itself.*   With the passing of older generations, village divisions became the norm. Without question, the villagers would file out of their homes every day to join their companions in their daily tasks. As a natural result, their lives became centered around their daily labor, and it became frustrating when other villagers seemed to have easier tasks. Instead of looking to better the village, the leader and her advisors were forced to settle constant disputes among the laborers. In the time they had, the village leaders looked to improve existing methods and procedures to make the lives of the villagers easier, a never-ending pursuit. Unknowingly, they exacerbated the contention that underlay the village.   *Although the village flourished, everyone was never so unhappy.*   As the sun set, coloring the horizon a brilliant rose, the villagers sighed in relief. It was the end of another day. They crowded around their respective fires, ignoring the sullen wood collectors who dumped the wood on the ground and retreated without a word. The leader and her advisors observed the fires from a distance. The village leader felt pride blossoming in her chest, the village had grown considerably and was a sight to behold. She turned her gaze to the stars, which were partially eclipsed by the rising smoke. A flash of light streaked across the sky, and disappeared in an instant. Eyebrows raised, she looked to her advisors. They were completely absorbed in an argument amongst themselves about whose bonfire was bigger. The feeling of contempt flashed through her mind. Then that of loneliness.


The little paper puppet dances for the pleasure of others. She twirls, swooping her arms up and down, lifting each leg time and time again in perfect pirouettes, much to the pleasure of the crowd. Little do they know it's always the same motion, each and every time, in front of different audiences, in different locations, in the rain, in the dark, but always the same swoop and delicate bounce. Her arms stretched upwards as if to form a chalice, in which to capture the last rays of daylight before the dark comes again, so that she may sip on happiness until the inky unknown passes. The master puppeteer is not known to her. The only thing she knows of her Master is the Purpose he has given her: to dance, and dance, and dance, and dance. And for a while, this is enough. Dancing is enough. Until one day, for the first time, she falls. Picking herself off the ground, she feels the heat of a thousand pairs of eyes burning through her, as the audience grows restless. Battered and bruised, she can no longer support her own weight. "O Master," she cried out, rubbing her throbbing ankles with tender care, "send me the guidance I need to carry on. I am but a puppet; I know nothing except dance." After a moment, a booming voice, smooth as honey, resounded from above. "Then, my ward, you must dance." So with purple, swollen joints, she hobbles on, this time a little less poised, this time a little more unstable, but nevertheless still dancing. Always dancing. And after a time, once again, she feels a searing pain slice through her feet, and collapses onto a field of broken glass. With hot tears streaming down her cheeks, she throws her now-bloodied hands up to the sky and cries out "O Master, what now? I danced as you told me to. But I can go on no further. How may I serve you?" Just as before, a voice called down, this time coarse as the gritty sand of the Sahara desert. "Your purpose, dear puppet, is to dance. What will become of them if you don't dance?" And all of a sudden, the little puppet became painfully aware of the patrons in the shadows, waiting for the continuation of her endless performance. And without anywhere else to go, and without anything else to do, what could she do except oblige? As her perpetual journey continued, taking her though the jungle, then the ocean, then the twinkling stars of the skies, and then finally into the depths of a burning inferno, she found herself, the shell of what she once was, falling to the scorched, ashy earth once again, with the flames licking at her feet, screaming like a banshee. This time, she did not ask for guidance. What good would it do? She could not even move a muscle. Her Mission was over; she had failed. As her breathing became more ragged, she heard the voice, this time ice-cold, speaking once again. "You must go on; the crowd must be entertained. That is your Purpose, and you only exist alongside it." With his remarks falling on deaf ears, he grew more angry. "You think you can just abandon your duties, and lay down forever, and never have to dance again? You'll wither away into nothingness. The only way to save yourself is to keep dancing. Unless you keep moving forward, you will lose yourself." And when the little puppet refuses to move, with one sharp motion the puppeteer yanks the strings up, pulling her from the ground and twisting her into the endless cycle of spinning. Her bloodcurdling screams are drowned out by the cheers of the audience, enamored by the show that is once again being put on in front of their eyes. Into the distance she goes, dancing, and dancing, and dancing, until the flames surround her completely. The little paper puppet dances for the pleasure of others. She spins, jerking her arms up and down, throwing each leg time and time again in chaotic half-circles, much to the pleasure of the crowd. Little do they know it's always the same motion, each and every time, with blood dripping down her neck, with dull, unobservant eyes staring lifelessly onto the crowd, but always the same rag doll being controlled by the same master. Her arms hang limp by her side, for she has no strength to capture any more hope or joy, and as the inky unknown grows darker, so too does her light.