“Our universe is one of many. At only 13.77 billion years old is it relatively young and small compared to most. The speed that time moves in each universe is mostly dependent on its size, but it is difficult to measure the rate at which time is moving in a universe with wildly differing dimensions and contents. Our universe has what I refer to as a pulmonary structure. This is because it’s when it reaches a certain size, it will start contracting until it becomes so dense that all its matter forms into a singularity which will subsequently ‘explode’ creating a new big bang. Of course, there actually is no explosion or bang, just a rapid and forceful expansion that kicks off a new lifecycle for the universe. The universe always contains the same matter, but after each big bang it become completely re-organised, leaving no trace of the structure of the previous universe. Comparing it to a lung expanding and deflating is a very simple and not entirely accurate analogy, but to be frank it’s the best analogy I could be bothered to come up with and it gives some understanding of the process. Our universe goes through this process to keep itself active, essentially to keep itself alive. Think of each universe as a living organism, which to stay alive, needs the matter within the universe to contain energy. The size a universe can grow to without ‘dying’ is proportional to how much matter is within it. A universe containing a lot of matter can grow to a great size, whereas a universe that does not contain as much matter will not be able to grow for very long before it ‘dies’. The death of a universe occurs when it expands to such a massive size that the matter and energy it contains is too far apart. The matter is this universe becomes devoid of energy and unable to go through any kind of reaction, causing it to be essentially ‘frozen’. This is known as a heat death” The man paused his monologue, glancing at the waiter who was walking past the table. “Hold on, why are you telling me this?”, I tried to interrupt him. “It’s important. Now don’t fucking interrupt me.” He resumed. “Now, a universe cannot stop expanding or collapsing unless it dies. Imagine a balloon with a hole that cannot be tied. The balloon can be blown up, or the air can be released, letting it deflate. If the balloon is blown up too much it will burst and cease to have function. Of course this analogy is clunky at best as a balloon can be left deflated, but a universe is unable to remain as a singularity. It must start expanding again. Now this means a universe will forever be in motion up until the point of its death.” The man stopped talking and stared at me, waiting for a response. The menu on the table in front of him remained unopened. “Okay, that’s all very good but my question still stands. Why are you telling me this?” “A lady came to me… in a dream. She explained all of this to me and if I don’t tell you right now, I’m going to forget it. It’s too important.” He said all of this with an air of profound seriousness. I sighed, “So you think that you know the explanation for all of existence because you had a dream about it?” He looked a little offended. “Well it could be wrong, but there’s a small chance I’m right so I reckon that’s worth holding on to. After all, many people garner explanations for existence that come from much more questionable places. I don’t see my dreams being less reliable that some old book written back before the wheelbarrow had even been invented”. He seemed almost proud that he had managed to inject a fairly mundane piece of trivia into his argument. “I suppose you have a point there. You should probably find some other way to remember it though cause there’s no way I’m going to memorise all that.” I tried to wrap up the conversation, hoping he might finally order something. He furrowed his brow and then replied, “Yes, you’re right. I’ll write it down. Maybe I’ll just write down our conversation, that might help me get it right.


Primis was playing with his legos when his mother called him through the dome speaker. “Primis!” yelled his mother with a fair bit of static. “Dinner’s ready!”. He was almost finished with the lego set his dad gave him last Christmas. Slightly faded with some pieces missing, it was one of the lego sets his dad played with as a child growing up on Earth. Carefully placing the remaining pieces at the front of his bed, he heard the howling sandstorm that had been engulfing the planet for the past two weeks. The high pitched, sometimes shrieking, sounds frightened him as a child. Not anymore. He had grown accustomed to the noises, finding them soothing as he slept. “Coming!” he yelled leaning close to the speaker. He sprinted out the room, through his transport tube, and into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner. Freeze-dried spaghetti with canned broccoli. No surprises there. Ever since his parents left Earth, they have grown accustomed to the limited, sometimes flavor-less, cuisine that was available on the planet. Primis’s parents took part in the last phase of the final migration to Mars from Earth, a now desolate planet. His mother, two months pregnant on departure, became the first woman to give birth on the red planet. Primis belonged to a new class of Martian born humans, humans that have never known life without a spacesuit or decompressed space domes. He often wondered what life was like for children growing up on Earth. He would get lost in the stories his dad would tell him of summer trips to the beach, trailblazing through snowy mountains, or backyard barbecues. “Not hungry?” his mother asked after seeing him play with his food. “He must be daydreaming again” replied his father showing a hint of annoyance. His parents had just returned from a full day trip to the Jezero Crater, spending most of the day looking for rare ores and metallics. As a former marine biologist who spent most of his life on the ocean, his father struggled to adapt to his new profession of “rock collecting” as he called it. “I’m just not hungry Mom” replied Primis, still swirling his food. “Can I be excused?”. His mother let out a sigh then looked up at his father. Rolling his eyes, he nodded to his mother. “Yes, but make sure you clean up that mess of Legos before bed. I had to pick them up all over the room last time after work”. Primis gave her a small smile and started carrying his dish to the kitchen sink. “Hey bud” his dad said with a more benevolent tone. “Guy from work got me another copy of National Geographic if you wanna take a look. It was one of the final issues before, you know” his dad paused to not bring up the migration again. “I left it on your bed. It’s all about deep sea diving with neat pictures of Phylum Chordata, you know uh, rare fish and sharks.” “Thanks dad” Primis, more elated now, started walking out of the kitchen. As soon as he was out of the view of his parents, he picked up his pace with anticipation. He loved these magazines. He would spend hours at his bed getting lost in the close up images of Dwarf Puffer Fish and Sawsharks. As he was sprinting down the space dome hallway, he caught a bright reddish light coming from one of the windows. Slowing down, he neared the window and smiled. He knew exactly what it was. It was the unmanned space vessels taking off one by one. He knew that these exact ships would soon be landing on Earth. They would fly right over those oceans his dad always talked about. These were the last missions back to the home planet, completely unmanned and automated. These vessels were tasked with gathering the last precious resources left on the desolate planet. With the sandstorm still raging outside, Primis made his way back to his room. Pushing the remaining legos under his bed, he collapsed and sunk his head deep into his pillow. He let out a sigh. Leaning slightly forward, he picked up the magazine his dad left him by his feet. Deep Blue Sea: Creatures Of The Unknown. Unknown indeed he thought. Skimming the magazine he knew these fish and sharks would always be what they are, ink on paper. He knew that where those ships were going is where you could truly experience what Earth was like. Remnants of the past. Where those ships were going. He kept repeating this in his head. He knew that he’d most likely spend the rest of his life on Mars, especially as NASA recently postponed the Solar System Exploration program due to budget cuts. Mars was the end destination for most people. “This is it” he said out loud. “This is my chance”. He knew the unmanned vessels would be a perfect way for him to see where he truly came from. Earth, up close and personal. Since the launchpad was only two miles from his family’s space dome, he could traverse through the sandstorm under cover, and sneak onboard the vessel before a scheduled launch. Completely undercover, completely undetected. The idea of having no helmet and staring out into the ocean made his heart race. He wondered how the fresh pure air would feel on his lungs as he breathed it in. He became lightheaded and stood up in his bed. He walked over and sat down at his desk. He knew his parents wouldn’t take it well, especially his dad. He really didn’t want them to worry and told them that he’d only be gone a few months. More importantly, he told them he knew which necessary supplies to take and that food was not an issue. He knew these vessels were used during the final migration and had enough food to feed fifty people on one mission. Feeling confident, he thought his parents had trained him well, well enough to complete a round trip mission by himself. He took a deep breath in. He was ready. “Love Primis” he concluded his note. An empathetic thought of the sadness his parents would feel crossed his mind. He knew his parents would not be happy and would worry endlessly about him. He planned to send them frequent transmissions to keep them informed of his well being. He thought over time they would understand. He envisioned himself describing his adventures back at the dinner table and imagined how excited his dad would be. After all, this is the home planet his parents longed to return to, just as much as he did. He started packing his backpack with clothes, his lego set, and few issues of National Geographic, including the new one that his dad had given him. The journey back to Earth would take a few months so he’d need some form of entertainment. The magazine would be a reminder of what was to come, and what to look forward to when he arrived. He never once thought about being alone - it’s something he’d grown accustomed to, spending hours, days, and years in his room within his family’s space dome. It’s all he ever knew. As he zipped his backpack shut, Primis started to feel something he’d never felt before. A sudden rush of euphoria and excitement. He was doing it. He carefully placed his note in the center of his desk and quietly closed his door behind him. He inched his way through his transport tube and back into the kitchen. He saw the dirty dishes lying in the sink, the faucet dripping, and the light shining through the crack underneath his parents bedroom. His dad would stay up reading the same magazines until he fell asleep, always dreaming about his life back home and the days he spent on the ocean. I’ll bring something back for him, Primis thought. He entered the code to the airlock and stepped inside to grab his spacesuit. He took one look back at the light under his parents bedroom door and put on his space helmet. He grabbed his backpack, adjusted the strap, and took one final deep breath in. He pressed the seal latch to enter the payload bay and took his first step out onto Mars’s terrain. He was suddenly hit with a strong gust of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet. He could barely see in front of him and used his arm to shield some of the sand blowing in front of him. He had only ever been outside during a sandstorm once with his father, when they ran late returning from a NASA training seminar. Luckily, he was able to keep his balance, hold onto his backpack, and slowly started to move forward step by step. He was slowly walking towards the bright red light of vessels taking off in the distance. The gusts of wind only seemed to get more intense after each step. It was like the wind was on a mission to knock him to his feet. Struggling to maintain his balance, he forgot to look up to see if he was going in the right direction. Starting to panic, he looked left and right and even behind him. He was unsure of his exact location and was not able to see his family’s space dome anymore. Primis began to breathe more heavily and heard the elevated heart rate warning go off in his spacesuit. He picked up his pace, now ignoring the fact that he was losing his balance with each step. What am I doing out here, he thought. Realizing that he might have made a mistake, he felt a sudden thump on his helmet and fell backwards on his back. Regaining his sense of surrounding, he looked up to see what he had hit. Through the thickness of the sand, he was able to make out two steel bars that led up into the thickness of the storm. The vessel ladder. He realized he had run right into one of the vessels without even seeing it. This must be one of the last vessels to be leaving tonight, he thought. He grabbed a hold of the ladder, took the first step, and started climbing. After climbing a few steps, he started to see the vessel in its entirety. On the front of the ship, he made out the giant logo plastered behind a white backdrop: *NASA - Mars Exploration, Vessel #4523*. These were the same reusable rockets that took the last humans from Earth. Now, it will be able to take another human back home for one last visit. He reached the passenger access hatch, turned the handle, and pushed it open. To avoid setting off any alarms, he quickly pushed himself inside the vessel, turned around and pulled the hatch shut. Catching his breath and letting his heart rate settle, he removed his helmet and laid it beside him. Looking around he could see the old instruction signs from the previous missions. As he got to his feet, he heard an automated message over the loudspeaker: “T-minus 10 minutes until launch” Realizing how close he had cut it to launch, he knew he needed to secure himself before liftoff. He had not actually been on one of these vessels before but followed the instructional signs to the passenger section of the ship. For the previous missions, most people had never even been to space. NASA did it’s best at trying to provide guidance on what to expect and how to properly operate aboard a spacecraft. Embarrassed about how little he knew, he found the signs and instructions helpful. He followed the signs into the passenger seating area and placed his backpack underneath one of the seats. He sat towards the back of the passenger area so he could get a good look out of one of the oval shape windows. “T-minus 2 minutes” . Feeling anxious and excited, he closed his eyes and took another deep breath in. He looked back out the window and could make out the lights of certain space domes in the distance. “10 seconds remaining”, echoed the loud speaker. Before he knew it, he was being propelled through Mars’s atmosphere, feeling the force of the rocket engines on his entire body. It was a level of intensity he never experienced before. I think I’m going to be sick, he thought. After a few minutes of fighting his nausea, everything suddenly got quiet. He knew he had reached Mars’s upper atmosphere and was now officially on the start of his journey. He loosened his seat strap and adjusted his spacesuit to get a better view out the window. It was the first time he could see Mars as a whole. The red barren planet, his birth planet. He turned away from the window and smiled. He was going back, he thought. Back to the home planet and for that he was grateful.


The night was frozen. Snowflakes fell from the sky like silk strands floating in the wind. Puddles covered the roads and reflected the city lights like stars shining in the night sky. With little traffic, drivers went about their nightly commutes as if it were any other. Nothing about this October night in particular made it more or less significant than any other. I just dropped off my friend Tommy at his apartment. Tommy's a really great friend. The kind of guy that still loves you just the same no matter how much time has passed since you last saw them. We just got done seeing the new James Bond movie which had its premiere the day before. The Bond movies are just the kind of sophisticated, well written, action packed movies that fully captivate my usually short lived attention span. I love going to the theaters. Being twenty four years old and having served five years in the Marine Corps, the movies make me feel a sense of peace and wonder I can only get in those two glorious hours. Scratchy red seats. Armrests that make your skin stick to them from years of spilt sodas. The smell of unnaturally yellow, over-buttered popcorn. The lowly dimmed yellow lights. Purposefully illuminated stairs and walkways Thirty minutes of trailers. The occasional crinkle of someone ripping open their candy bag. All of the things that transport me back to a time earlier in my life where the world didn’t seem so dark. I could spend every weekend seeing a new movie and leave each time already planning which one I was going to see next. My car, which is the first brand new car I’ve bought, is a spacey, almost unnatural shade of gray. The kind of color I imagine an asteroid cruising through space on an infinite journey might be. I’ll never admit it out loud, but the car and its color make me feel like an astronaut, and when I’m driving, the places I can go are limitless. It doesn’t have leather seats, and even though they’re canvas and frankly not the softest at least they’re heated. My friends always comment on how good the stereo sounds and honestly, that’s why I bought it. Every time one of my friends says something like: “Hey throw on this specific song, I NEED to hear what it sounds like on your system,” it brings me a sense of joy and pridefulness I’ll never give them the satisfaction of knowing. Driving is something that makes me feel in control. I rarely ever take rides from friends and I’m almost always the designated driver. My friends poke fun at me for never drinking with them. I always rebuttal their well stated arguments on why I should drink with them with something like “Oh I’m just not feeling the best” or “I have to wake up early tomorrow to do something”. They can see right through my excuses as total bullshit, but since they're my friends they never really fight back. They just care that I go out and they don't have to pay for rides. Just maybe a meal or a dessert from wherever we end up. I’m too embarrassed to admit it to them, but I get anxious when I’m a passenger in any kind of vehicle. An incident during my time in the service has left me with an unshakable fear. I'm terrified that if I'm not in control of the vehicle I’m in it will undoubtedly lead to a gruesome and unpreventable death. Driving alone is like therapy to me. I can play any song I like, however many times I like. I don't have to worry that people will get annoyed that I'm rewinding a song because I wasn’t paying attention to my favorite part. I have irreversible hearing loss from being around fighter jets and helicopters that would roar and buzz past my work place in the service, so blasting music to the point where any person with regular hearing would be bothered by is normal for me. I also just recently got into listening to audio books, but I can never listen to them just sitting down on my couch. I become so easily distracted by the slew of other things I have to keep myself occupied there, so car rides alone have become the perfect place to escape into a great story. Driving north down the practically empty four lane highway I look out my passenger side window. I’m flanked on the east by the Hudson River and a sleeping but still lively New York City. A city I live a short thirty minute drive from. A city of endless possibilities. Hustle and bustle that never stops. Lights so bright and buildings so tall that even the sky during mid day seems to shrink in comparison to the man-made wonder which it blankets over. A city so close to me, yet I can't help but feel, is unreachable. After a brief moment of looking in wonder of what life could be like living in the city it hits me. I haven’t turned my music on since I dropped off Tommy. The slight ringing in my ears from the tinnitus the Marines gifted me says, “it’s time to put something on before the migraines begin”. I reach over to my small LED touch screen and start to scroll through the playlist I already have pulled up. Led Zeppelin? Nah. Rolling Stones? Eh it's too late. Something newer maybe? Drake? Meh. Adele? Too sleepy for this late at night. Wait, there it is THAT’s what I want. My finger lands on David Bowies’ “Space Oddity” “Perfect” I say aloud, as if saying what I’m thinking will make me feel any less lonely. The soft guitar starts playing and I sink back into my canvas seats surrounded by the best sound system I could afford. Pure Bliss. ***Ground control to major tom*** God I’m getting lost in this song right now. The lowly lit road, twinkling from melted snowflakes transforms into the infinite void of space, surrounded by stars, surrounded by nothing, just me traveling through emptiness on a journey in which I have no inkling where I’ll end up. ***Take your protein pills and put your helmet on*** I glance at the clock on my dash. “23:59” “Holy shit, is the clock gonna change at the end of the count down?” ***10*** “That would be too perfect no way that would ever happen on accident” ***Ground control to Major Tom*** “ But it would be fucking awesome” ***9*** Of course shit like this only happens when NO ONE'S around ***8*** I guess that’s the magic of being completely aware during a fleeting moment, you start noticing things that on a normal day would just breeze past your consciousness. Maybe this isn't that special and it just feels special because I only just happened to notice this weird synchronicity. ***7*** The more I think about it, the less spectacular the whole moment is starting to feel. ***6*** A wave of goosebumps overcomes me ferociously, like an ocean crashing on a weathered down shore. ***Commencing countdown, engines on*** I mean I like this song but not this much. I glance back at the clock. It still reads “23:59”. Alright, it might still happen. I glance at the road and the flashing red lights of an ambulance practically flying down the opposite side of the iced over highway catch my eye. A fleeting thought passes my mind, “I’m glad that’s not me in there.” And as quickly as the neurons that fired off that intrusive thought burst into action, more neurons fire fighting it off and I think to myself, “Why the fuck would I ever think something like that!? I should be saying a prayer for whoever's in there, not counting my lucky stars…” Sometimes my brain scares me. I have these terrible, terrible thoughts sometimes. Thoughts that shouldn't be there. Thoughts I’d never choose to have. Thoughts that feel like they’re from a consciousness that's not my own. ***5*** I look at the ambulance with eyes that feel coerced into showing sympathy. I can't believe my first thought was about feeling lucky to not be in their position. I feel my grip tighten around the steering wheel, just enough to notice my hands are sweating. After lifting one up and observing the darker wet spot that’s now on the “2 o’clock” position of my wheel, I reach over the center console and wipe the sweat from my hand onto the back rest of the empty passenger seat. ***4*** The light hits my eyes. It feels as blinding as the first light of the morning. The light that shines through when you pull the shades to the side and let that new day into your room. What is that? My eyes try adjusting, but all I can see is yellow and a dim but apparent flashing red light. Why does this ambulance have their brights on right now? Some peoples’ choices blow my mind. You're just endangering other drivers by potentially blinding them. I reach up to my visor and pull it down to hopefully block some of the light. “There we go, I can see again no thanks to this ambulance” I think as my eyes start adjusting to the new lighting. ***3*** The lowered light passes from my cornea, to my pupil, and then to my lens which shines it into my retina, and the photoreceptors there turn it into electrical signals which shoot to the optic nerve in my brain which turns the signal into the image I'm seeing before me. My brain tells me this process has happened too slowly for it to get signals to the parts of my body I now need to use to save my life from the image it just saw, interpreted, and decided was unavoidable. ***2*** The ambulance is facing me. Probably sliding out of control from the iced over road. This can’t be happening. Not me, something like this wouldn't happen to me. No, it COULDN’T happen to me. Right? The ambulance is going to regain control just in time and swerve out of the way. Yea that sounds about right, no way god would do this to me, I'm not done living life there's so much more I have to experience and do. I’m starting school in January, I’m going to study psychology and medicine and become a Psychiatrist. I have so many plans I’m just starting life after the Marines. My body stiffens. Like a dead rabbit after being caught in a hunter's snare. I’m completely numb. My jaw clenches so hard I'm amazed my teeth haven’t cracked as easily as a potato chip would. No, not tonight, I'm not going to die. If there's any vehicle to get into an accident with, it's an ambulance right? The EMTs’ in the back will be able to save me after this if I get hurt. How much time do i have left before impact. I can barely move. I take a very rough, quickly judged glance. There's maybe twenty five feet. “Fuck.” My foot is pressed down harder on the brake pedal than I thought my body could even accomplish. It feels like it’s going to go straight through the floor of my car and onto the slicked down icy road below. My leg is completely straight, pinning my back against the backrest and lifting my butt clear off the seat itself. One more glance. Fifteen feet. This is it, the moment of impact, please don’t kill me. ***1*** My eyes notice the snow falling through the air. Each flake is completely different. Completely individual from one another. The water molecules going from liquid to solid, form these weak hydrogen bonds to one another and create a six-fold crystalline structure which takes various shapes, the most common being hexagonal. Each Snowflake, like a human, uses the bonds it makes to keep itself together for a short period of time. People fail to realize how similar human beings and the water molecules that make up snowflakes really are. Both need bonds to stay intact. Both will eventually lose those bonds and return to their original state. After their bonds are broken, new bonds will eventually form. The cycle continues endlessly with the only constant being the original Person and original molecule. Both people and molecules go through ever changing states of existence while never truly being in control of what makes those changes happen. I close my eyes so the last thing I see is something beautiful. ***Check ignition, and may god's love be with you*** My eyes burst open. I’m standing in the middle of a road. There's an ambulance right in front of me. I can see it with the most clarity I’ve ever seen anything before this. Water, beaded up on the white hood of the car. The word “Ambulance” written in blue letters backwards so that drivers can read the word in their rear view mirror. The yellow head light illuminates the cabin. An older male driver whose overworked, dark brown eyes suggest they've just seen the scariest thing they could ever imagine. Mouth wide open, presumably screaming in terror and goosebumps lining the sides of his neck. He has a wedding band on. It’s golden, and just barely reflects the light from above from being covered in years of sweat and dirt. A band that clearly says “I’m worn by a man who does hard, dirty work for a living, and has always remained loyal to the promise of love that was given to another on the day he put me on his finger.” I wonder what he's scared of and why. Snow stays suspended in the air like ornaments hung on the branches of a Christmas tree. Floating blissfully for the viewership by any one to see. I reach out to grab one and my fingers pass through it as easily as it would if nothing was there at all. It’s still floating, unaffected and as beautifully intricate as it was before. What’s going on? I reach again. No effect. I turn around. There's a man in a car parked just feet from the ambulance. He’s white, but not fully, mixed with something else for sure. Jet black hair, beard, and mustache. Eyes forced shut, jaw clenching with his off-white teeth showing they’re being forced together so hard they might break, Cheek muscles tensed to the point they intrude into the space his eyes should be. Both his hands are gripped around the steering wheel so tightly it looks like he's trying to rip it off the dash and into his chest. I’m standing in the space between them. “That man in the car… that’s me…” “Where am I? Why am I here? What's happening right now?” “Why can I see myself?” I go to put my hand on my heart out of pure instinct but I don't feel anything. I can see my body, but I can’t feel it. In-fact, I can't feel anything. No Smell. No taste. No touch. No emotion. Nothing but Awareness. “Am I dead?” A voice speaks out and whispers gently through the deafening silence of the motionless night “Not yet.


Every single day, at nine o'clock on the dot, George would go to the local pub and play pool. This wasn't something he looked forward to, nor did he enjoy it very much, and he wasn't even very good at it. This was simply something he would always do, without really thinking about it. There were a great many things in his life like that. Indeed, he lived pretty much his whole life like that. Day in and day out he would go about his day in an unconscious routine, each day being different only in which form of that routine was performed. One might almost think he was some kind of walking vegetable, incapable of conscious thought entirely. This thought, while understandable to have, is wrong. George had quite an active inner mind, one with a keen eye for every detail of the world around him. One with a very vivid imagination, with dreams and goals and great plans for himself. Day and night, it screamed. Beneath the layers of autonomous actions and rote routines, George's inner mind clawed and scraped to escape. Every day, as he arrived at work, or the pub, he tried desperately to scream and cry at passersby, but no words came out. How could they, when his mouth was not his own? George was trapped. He had been for as long as he could remember. Trapped inside his own body, unable to do a thing except follow the same routines, day in and day out. Sometimes it seemed like nothing ever would change, that he'd be stuck repeating the same days over and over without end. But of course, that's not the case. He may not be able to change, but the world around him did. Every so often, something would be different. minor things, like a traffic jam making him take a detour or a new patron at the pub. He relished them, each one a brief reprieve from the routine. But still, the routine continued. All of these were mere distractions. Even when he conversed with others, it wasn't true communication, just rote responses without any thought put into them. And then one day, something different happened. It was an ordinary night when he met Her. The sun had gone down not long ago, and so he was back in that pub. She was a distinctive-looking woman, wearing an old-fashioned suit with a trilby on her head. He was just setting up the pool table when She sat down at the bar and ordered an Aviation Cocktail. He hadn't even heard of the drink before. He relished the opportunity to distract himself by pondering the new patron. He tried to imagine what Her life must have been like, Her dreams and ambitions, the story of Her life. He imagined the story of the first Aviation Cocktail She'd had. He wondered why She came here of all places. He pondered Her clothing, the story behind her choice of suit and hat. Most of all, he wondered what she was thinking at that very moment. Then he met Her eyes, and he Knew. "She's just like me", he thought. And from then on, his life was never the same. Ever since that day, he'd see Her again frequently, all over the place. At the bar, on the street, at his work... He begins to realize that She was always there, in many of those places, but until now She was just one in a crowd of people, unknowing of his plight; just as he must have seemed to Her. He wanted so desperately to talk to her, to communicate with the one person he had encountered, perhaps the one person in the whole world, who would understand his plight. But he couldn't. Except... that's not entirely true, is it? There was, of course, nary a single word spoken between them. It would be impossible, with the lack of control they had over their bodies, for anything of the sort. But there was communication, nevertheless. For the eyes are the window to the soul, and that was all that was needed. Every time their eyes would meet, they would converse. And what conversations they would have. He told Her his dreams, She told him her woes, and every day they would have this little patch of interaction. Perhaps he was only imagining their conversations, perhaps eyes aren't expressive enough to truly deliver such complex thoughts, but he knew from the look in Her eyes she was doing the same. They were both conversing, what did it matter if they couldn't truly understand each other. Does anyone, really? He wouldn't know. At times he thought he might love Her, but perhaps he was only latching onto the one person in the world he could talk to. Maybe She thought the same. In the end, it didn't matter. Because for the moments they met, he was happy. He could get through the doldrums of the daily routine his bod went through, just for those brief glances between them. But of course it wasn't to last. Nothing good ever does, he supposed. He didn't know exactly what it was. Perhaps something came up at work that forced Her to change her schedule. perhaps She was simply staying at home due to illness or somesuch. Perhaps She had moved away entirely. Perhaps She had gotten free somehow, and had quickly forgotten him. Perhaps She was dead. It didn't matter. All that he knew... is that She was gone. Just like that, here one day and gone the next. He had known this would happen eventually, that the little patch of relief he had found would vanish, someday. Things returned to normal, as they always did. All that changed was that he had one more thing to miss. His mind was the only part of him that had change, the only part that could despair at this return to the status quo, and the only part of him incapable of changing anything. Or was it? As it happened before, and as it always happens, it was yet another perfectly normal day when something changed. He was in his home, shaving his meager stubble and getting ready for his meaningless work. Inside, he had only sunken deeper into despair every day since she was gone. And then... well, it was almost nothing. A slight twinge of a muscle, barely enough to twitch his arm in the wrong direction a few scant fractions of an inch. Normally, something that would have no effect at all. But with the razor so close to his skin... it moved just a hair too close, and the barest of cuts was made. His body didn't react, beyond moving the razor back into position and continuing to shave, but inside he was bewildered. What had happened? Had... had he done this? In the following weeks, he pondered on what it was he had done, as he tried over and over to replicate it. Eventually, he began to succeed once again. It was still the barest of twitches, all his efforts had only slightly increased its strength. Far from enough to do anything meaningful, and with how exhausting it was for his mind it was far from enough to even begin taking back his life. But perhaps... perhaps enough to end it. He waited, patiently, for his opportunity to come again. His hair grew slowly, very slowly, and he only shaved every couple of weeks. And there was no guarantee that he would even manage to pull off the very specific mindset he needed for that little twitch. But he was patient. He had nothing but time. Finally, it arrived. The fateful moment. His body began to run the razor over his neck hair, slowly exposing the skin to air. All he had to do was muster up the willpower to induce a slightly larger muscle spasm, and this sorry existence would be over. A trained medic could save him, but all his body knew how to do was perform the same routine over and over, evading the common hazards along the way. It wouldn't have any way of reacting to this. All of it could be over. But did he really want it to be? The question surprised him. Surely he did, right? His life was a miserable existence, with no hope of ever getting better, isn't it? ...Perhaps not. Perhaps he might rediscover Her again, in the far off future. Perhaps he might find someone else who was the same, or even someone who wasn't and yet could understand him somehow. Perhaps he even might one day expand his limited influence on his body, and take over entirely! Or at least enough to do something worthwhile! Perhaps... Perhaps it doesn't matter if any of that comes to pass. What is the alternative, anyways? He could put an end to it all, but what would that achieve? He'd be in the same place as he was before, with no control over his body. No, it would be worse. At least at this moment, he has one single he can control: his mind. He, himself. at least he can still think, imagine, dream. even if communication has left his grasp forever, he still has himself. Why should he throw that all away, just to kill the pain? In the end, he'd rather be awake and suffering, then sleep and know nothing. George puts the razor down.


The heavy steel door ground to a halt, revealing the dimly lit room it protected. In the centre of the room was a rectangular table with a metal foldout chair on either side. The closest chair was empty. My gaze rose across the table, and I saw it. Cloaked by the darkness of the room, sitting in the other chair, unblinking eyes fixed on me. My legs quivered as I approached. With every step its focus on me seemed to intensify, its gaze never faltering. I took a deep breath and sat down. I stared across the table, trying to collect my thoughts. My heart was racing but my mind felt completely almost blank. Despite all my preparation, only one question came into my mind. “Why did you do it?” It smiled, “The voice of the creator compelled me.” The intense look in its eyes gave me a lump in my throat. “The creator?” “The creator speaks to me, guiding me down the right path”, its smile grew wider. Hearing its answer stirred up and mixture of anger and confusion, “How can murdering seven people be the right path?” Images of the crime scene flashed into my head. Mutilated bodies strew across the furniture. Blood soaking into an opulent Persian rug. An ornate chandelier lying shattered in the centre of the room, a child’s body crushed underneath. “Do you really think they deserved it?” “I do not question the guidance of the creator. I follow and obey.” Its expression became serious, pale green eyes narrowing. We both fell silent. It stared at me, unmoving. I stared back, trying to figure out if it was telling the truth, or even believed what it was saying. “What created you?” It smiled again, sending a chill down my spine. “The creator made everything, space, time… you!” It licked its dry lips with a long, black, glistening tongue. I grew more curious, “There’s a lot of research that would prove otherwise. It’s indisputably proven that…” “Heretic!”, it interrupted me suddenly and with great volume. “You have no idea what is real, you are merely looking at shadows on the cave walls, you have not heard the voice!” Its twisted features began to look angry as it continued, “you sit here and question me? You presume to know the origins of the universe based on what you’ve been told by your peers, I have heard the creator!” Its cracked lips started to bleed as it spoke louder and louder. “Even if that’s true it doesn’t justify all the violence. I find it difficult to believe that an almighty deity told you to do it all, or even exists at all” I paused “I think that you’re delusional.” Immediately it launched itself at me, knocking me out of my chair and on to the concrete. It stood, frozen mid-lunge, held in place by its restraints. It’s eyes boar into me as it snarled like a wild animal, lips oozing with blood. Slowly, I backed away, never breaking eye contact. The door behind me clunked open and the waiting guards rushed inside, weapons aimed at it as I hurried out of the room. As I left it cried out to me in an anguished voice, “You all fall! He is eternal!” Three hours later, I re-entered the room. Its restraints had been secured, affixing its limbs to the floor. Once again, I steadied my nerves. “I’ll ask you again, why did you do it?” It growled, blinked slowly, and then spoke. “I have had this conversation many times, with many people like you” A razor-sharp finger extended slowly, pointing towards me. “You can ask me a thousand questions a thousand times, but it always ends the same way.” I was taken aback by its sudden change in demeanour. “And what way is that?” “Either we give up trying to convince either other of our beliefs or…” its teeth were in full view as it paused, “violence!” “The people you killed; did they choose violence? Did that child choose violence?” I felt myself becoming angry at its casual attitude towards what it had done. “The creator saw that they were evil, the creator told me to punish them. I did the child a kindness, it did not fear like the others did, it did not experience the pain that the other did. Its life was ended first.” “You call that kindness? You call them evil? You murdered them in cold blood!” Fury welled up inside of me, my fists clenched and my legs shook. It started to cackle like a hyena “I knew you would not understand” Its cackling grew louder, and my rage boiled over. Blinded by my anger, I swung my fist towards it, hitting it square in the jaw. Unaffected by the blow, it smiled once more. Its barbed teeth seem to elongate as it grinned wider and wider, its lips now dripping with blood. It flexed its claw-like hands, showing off their true, gargantuan, size. The spines that lined its back and forearms bristled, standing on end. I then watched in horror as its restraints fell away, clattering on the concrete.


The concept of "free will". Wherein a creature can take an action that is so totally out of character that it would be all but impossible to predict has been a plague upon proper implementation of holistic predictive models. However, despite this stipulation, there are a finite number of things an opponent can do in any given situation, which can be broadly categorised. For example, you and your opponent are sat down to play a game of chess. Your opponent is playing white. You are playing black. There are eight pawns, each pawn can be moved one or two spaces, therefore you can categorise your opponent's next move between two possibilities: The one where your opponent moves a pawn one space. And one where your opponent moves a pawn two spaces. But you can always look "backwards" from any situation. Right now, we've gone down a path wherein your opponent is playing by the rules. Take a step back and you can broadly categorise things again: One category of reality where you play the game and one category of reality where you don't. By taking more and more of these steps backwards, you can therefore reach a level where anything your opponent can do has been broken down into a binary option of A or B. Do, or do not. And with those two options in mind, the concept of free will is made irrelevant; the prediction is so broad that simply reacting to your opponent's movements is sufficient. Those milliseconds between your absolute ability to deduce your opponent's attack and when that attack will land are *crucial*. Your ability to react being far more important than how far into the future you can be certain of, because the latter just gives you more subjective time to understand just how slow you are. However, when two such practitioners of this style engage against one another, the feedback loop is the closest thing to pure entropy as exists in this universe until, one second later, one is victorious, the other lies dead on the ground. The problem is that because there are an infinite number of steps forward you can take, there are also an infinite number of steps *backwards* too. Eventually, sheer muscle memory kicks in as the limited mind attempts to comprehend the unlimited, leading to a completely random, completely autonomous attack. It is under *this* scenario that a slower, but more long-term predictive practitioner, is preferred as you can more accurately deduce when entropy kicks in and the half-life of some random isotope in the enemy's right hand will cause it to vanish triggering a cascade reaction leading the opponent to making the first, easily counterable move. Of course, true masters of this art have the sheer force of will to enforce their very nervous system to switch between the two modes, meaning both practitioners of this art and non-practitioners alike are easy prey. They do have one fatal flaw, however. If you can deduce the septo-second moment the nervous system is switching from one type to the other, you can catch them in the only moment they are ever truly off-guard. You can catch them in the only moment you will ever have to kill them. Predict that moment, that singular slice of space/time, a chance so slight, that to express it as a number would require more time than exists before the heat death of the universe, that to explain the myriad hyper-subatomic coincidences that led to this particular incarnation of this existence in time would require words for concepts that don't even exist, a chance that will never come again. Kill them. In that one moment. Kill them. Or else nothing you've ever done in your life mattered. May fortune guide you. Make your prediction.


Pretend People are watching you this is the truth. The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, the story of Ladle. Could any of this have been prevented, it didn't matter. He was running out of time, his life force was fading, he wanted to do what he had always done and yet there was a resistance. He could feel the energy exhaling leaving through the gaping hole in his chest. He no longer had a heart it was blown to smithereens. Disappointment after disappointment, it brought him here. In this bland bedroom full of his filth his shame. He remembered what it was like to feel a desire, a wanting, it hit him like a brick. If desire were a color, it would be red, and the once bland room was now full of it. Red painted the floors, the bed it covered the trash his clothes and even his body. But was it too late? ========================================= It all started with a brand-new house, a brand-new bedroom. It was an ordinary room but perfect for a bed. It offered a clarity, this bedroom. Safety for the lucky buyer. That buyer was none other than Ladel. He paid in full and bought the house but really only bought the bedroom. He could care less about the rest of the rooms; they were merely there to insulate the one room he cared about. The room he'd do what he always did. He decided to furnish it with a big king size bed, one night stand and a lamp, his bed garnished with red blankets. He wasn't particularly fond of red. But it fit added contrast to the brown walls. This was a humble beginning for an aspiring writer. Ladel was a loner. He did what he had to, to survive or maybe he didn't but who cares. We already know how this ends. Anyway one-night Ladel stared at the laptop that caressed his lap. It sat there only seeming to offer heat to his genitals, and the white screen glazed his eyes. It was bright. Ladel every night including this night hardly ever wrote a thing, He would type and erase, sometimes he'd craft a short story though these were rare, or he'd create a character like a Patty, an elegant woman but lacking in social skills or maybe a Frank an idealist stuck in his head. All the while, he was a living neglect. Over time this neglect was bleeding into all the areas neglect bleeds. His frustration from his inability to write was starting to build. He stroked the scar that covered his heart and moaned "Help meeee" Help meee" a strange vague smile had lit his half dead face. He followed by kicking his legs as if he was swimming under his blanket. He kicked a pizza box off onto his dirty clothes that caked the floor of his bed. "Where are the words? The capacity, the colors, instead I'm gifted with mouth rot and work that resembles the carcass of a dead dog named spork.'' He tried to sound clever but knew that he wasn't. He stroked his scar on his chest once more as time seemed to pass, ultimately nothing. He put down his computer and laid there, he started to ruminate over the negativity, that had struck him. His procrastination, the guilt of unfinished art, stifled him. And yet he dreamed of being great it was in his body in his blood. He imagined now being called a failure he could hear it, much like the stories the ones he loved the ones that always ended in failure. He loved a man coming close, but the man must never make it. He felt this too should be his destiny. "I haven't even come close, disgusting". he said aloud. He could feel the judgment, people are watching me he thought. He pulled his computer out once more and wrote people are watching me. He hoped for the inspiration and howled. "Help meeeee Help meeeee" Another lesser smirk hit his face. This time he heard his calling, he heard it loudly as if it were real. Was it real? "You were meant to fail; disappointment has brought you here". Startled, Ladel was gripped by the text on his computer. "People are watching you". He could feel the honest truth behind the sentence, he tried to soften it he wrote Pretend people are watching. This is the truth. It didn't matter, pretend or not, the man was right he was meant to fail. Ladel closed his computer slightly he sat up turned his lamp on. He thought he was dreaming. The words pretend people are watching he could feel it echo almost to the core of his soul. His heart began to pound. He was breathing heavy now. He looked around his room what was once a home was now a dungeon, it was a place of despair a battle ground, of filth disgust anguish. He knew it, and all could see. He wasn't sure what had happened. He thought for a minute maybe he summoned a demon or the devil. He screamed as loud as he could. "Help meeeeee help meeee". This time no smirk had come only stillness and wide eyes. Every sound the ruffling of wrappers the movement in his bed was heightened by the increased awareness. Ladel could feel the inevitable. He could feel it coming, he had nowhere to go so he immersed himself back into his computer one more time. For once He wrote and he told the story of Ladel, the writer with all his trophies and accolades, the one that can and the one that has. The man who dies coming so close. He then closed his computer, watched the stranger enter his room. The man carried a pistol "I know you know this, but you were meant to fail. Disappointment has brought me to you. Just know I don't feel I have no heart I just simply act." The stranger said he got in real close. Ladel closed his eyes. ================================================================================================================================================================================================================== The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, Ladel.


Everyday I wake up with my old bones and blurry eyes, but that’s okay because I have you, human. You have been my human for so long, and I have devoted my whole life to you. Even though I am going grey, and losing teeth you still feed me and give me water. My caregiver, you have always been there to feed me and make sure my nails don’t get too long. I try my best to give you all of the love I have in me. Even though most days you are too busy. You work so hard human, I can understand why you don’t want to have cuddles with me. I do get cuddles sometimes and those are the best times, and you even give me some belly scratches once in a while. I hope for the days you come home and want to give me attention, they always make me smile. Most days I eat and sleep and try to see if you want my love that day, but most of the time I’m shooed away. I sit alone and drift in and out of sleep, it’s hard for me to play with my toys these days. But I still have you, human, to feed me… I know I’m not the puppy you used to love, something new that’s exciting. But I am still me, and I love you even more now I can show you if you’d like my dear human? No? Oh okay… that’s okay I’ll go back to my cozy bed. It’s not so bad, I have a big fluffy bed to lay on and easy access to water and food when I need, I can even go to the bathroom without you. But it sure was nice when we went on walks together.. I understand being a human is hard but sometimes this bed gets cold and I want your warmth, but I do understand human. Being a human must be so hard, I couldn’t imagine all of the toys you must play with all day long, and the walks you go on when you’re gone for so long everyday. I just wish you wouldn’t yell at me telling me you never even wanted me, or that I’m useless. I try so hard to be wanted, I try to do things like I used to. It sure does get hard when you grow into a big dog.. I’m not new and exciting anymore. I do wish I was young and exciting again. Maybe then you would want to give me pats and scratches again like you used to. I dream about those times, it’s all I dream about. You are all I know human, I’m thankful to have you. I’m not all you know, you have human friends you bring home sometimes. I love seeing the smile you have on your face when they are around. Your human friends do give me pats and scratches, to them I am still new and exciting I suppose. I do very much enjoy the pats and scratches from your human friends, but I prefer your hand. I’m sorry, my dear human, that I am no longer new and exciting for you.


I have always liked pretty and romantic things. You know—pinks, glitters, lipsticks, cakes, love, French, and of course… tragedy. Well, it isn’t weird since I’m a girl, but I feel like I’m a little bit more obsessed. Some girls aren’t expressive with liking pretty and romantic things, while some girls simply don’t like ‘em and that’s fine. But I’ve got no problem wearing laced dresses and jeweled anklets and eating strawberries for snacks. If I put on purple eye shadow, pair it with bright red blush and pinkish lip tint, most people would giggle at me, but that’s fine as well. I liked it. I had to pay the price, though. Of course, I was bullied and ostracized a lot among my peers and just because I was fine with it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It sucks, honestly. I tried fixing up my face and fashion with the standard rich-looking monochromatic style to match everything and it was good; I didn’t hate it and thought it was a different kind of pretty. It was too elegant and beautiful for me, though. I feel too much like an adult, though I actually am. But trying on the shades I want and messing it all up a bit was somehow a little more magical to me. Like the colored powders would sparkle and my face would brighten up like a dolly beauty. Anyway, my 21st birthday was coming soon and mom gave me some money to celebrate it with my friends. But like I said, I wasn’t lucky enough to have those kinds of people. No one likes to be with someone as odd and stubborn as me, but I didn’t want to lose face either, so I had to go out and spend the money. I thought that since it’s my birthday, I might as well make the most of it and enjoy it. I also don’t have any issues walking with my solitude. So when the day came, I dressed up, putting on my most beloved white dress with lots of frills in it. I wore a fabric headband, pearl necklace and earrings, and 3-inched heels. I made my make up as messy and pretty as I wanted it to be and finally headed out. I ate my breakfast at a pancake house and ordered myself a towering sweet pancakes with an extra syrup on it and had hot chocolate for a drink. I rested for a while, then walked around the area to decide where I want to go next. Fortunately, I was able to spot a pretty-looking hotel that had a unique design and neon-flashing signboard barely lit up against the sunlight. The misty weather added mystery and allure to the building, beckoning me in. The receptionist welcomed me warmly, asked for my room accommodation preference, an ID, the payment, and the transaction was done. A man escorted me towards my room and inside made me feel like a princess. Just exactly what I needed. The soft bed was like a warm ocean. I had to read some bawdy novels and touched myself there and took a bit of nap. Then, I listened to music, danced, and watched a movie that I have been putting off for a while now. When I finished the film, it was almost time for lunch, so I went out. A man had also just went out from the room next door. When our gazes met, he smiled at me and bowed gently as a sign of polite greetings. I smiled softly and began walking past him. It seemed like he hesitated at first, but he eventually called out to me, “Uh... miss?” I turned around, “Yes?” “If it’s alright with you, may I join you for lunch?” He asked. I was kind of reluctant at first. At first impression, he does look decent and polite, but who knows? Anyway, he wasn’t trying to be forceful, it’s just lunch, and it was my birthday, so why the hell not? I agreed and we went to the dining hall of the hotel building. It was a pretty restaurant as well that served wines and pastries and delicious foods. I ordered soup, steak, and potatoes for main course and had a shortcake for dessert. Meanwhile, he ordered himself a seafood meal and a bottle of red wine. He began opening a friendly conversation by asking me why I ended up in this beautiful hotel and I told him that it was my birthday. He asked several more things, like why I wasn’t spending the day with my friends or how I celebrate my previous birthdays or what my favorite songs are. He was a real good listener, I couldn’t help but be at ease and speak my mind in front of him. Soon, we ran out of things to talk about me, so as courtesy, I asked about him. “I actually have a confession to make,” He chuckled, sipping on his wine. “I… I don’t know if you’ll believe me.” I shrugged, “Try me.” “Uh, well, to be honest, I have a curse.” “A curse?” I asked, trying to suppress my disbelief. “What kind of curse? What does it do to you?” “It’s a curse that whoever becomes my friend would die. It may be hard to believe, but it’s true. All the friends I’ve ever had, they’re dead. That’s why I have no choice but to talk and interact with strangers all the time. And it gets lonely, you know… having my friends die. The only thing that makes it bearable for me is this, the fleeting moments with people I hardly know.” It was such a strange confession. I had nothing to say about it and he noticed it, so he immediately changed the topic. After lunch, we returned to our hotel rooms and we never met again that day. The moment I checked out, he was already gone. I had my dinner at a restaurant nearby our house and soon went home afterwards. The day ended peacefully and I was happy with how I celebrated my birthday. The next morning, while my mom was drinking her black coffee, watching news from the television, I saw the man that I met in the hotel from yesterday. He was reported to have died from a car accident. Of course, my first reaction was shock. But that was only for a few moments. It turned into interest and then, bliss. I’ve told this before, haven’t I? I like pretty and romantic things. And that kind of tragedy was one of the most romantic and prettiest thing I have ever encountered. I felt shivers down my spine, my skin was crawling with fascination, and my lips curving to an uncontrollable smile. The coincidence, the occurrences, the strangeness of the whole thing—I loved every single bit of it. Few years later, I began spiraling down to my depression and the whole world was becoming duller and bleaker. Sometimes, I’d find even sparkling, pink jewelries void of prettiness. I got constantly bullied, especially while I was inevitably entering adulthood. My mom got sick and everything in life went the wrong way. I simply didn’t liked it anymore. So then, I gripped my resolve and steeled my heart. I withdrew money and went to *that* hotel. The one where I went to during my 21st birthday. It was still eerily the same. The receptionist, the staffs, the golden hallways, the chandeliers, and the lobby. It felt like time was nonexistent inside that building. I requested the same room number and luckily, it was available at the time. I did the same things I did during the first time I went here. Read the same bawdy novel, touched myself the same way, listened to the same songs, danced the same way, and watched the same film. And then, when it was lunchtime, I went out. I looked around and the hallway was spick and span neat and glittering of luxury. I opened my room door again and positioned myself just between the threshold. When I noticed that the room next door was opening, I prepared myself and made it seem like I was just going out as well. I hesitated for a while, then called out to the man that came out from the next door and asked if I could join him for lunch. He seemed to think of it for a while before finally agreeing. We went to the restaurant downstairs and we talked about him. He narrated that his wife banished him from their home because he was caught cheating with some other woman from his work. He said he regretted it and that he wished to return to his wife. He was only staying there for a while until she cools down and he plans to return and ask for forgiveness. We talked about him for so long until there was nothing else about him, so as courtesy, he asked about me. And then, I confessed that I have a curse. I told him the exact same curse that the man told me years ago. The one where his friends die, so he had to deal with fleeting moments with strangers. He laughed out loud and ate and drank. I did the same. The day ended well after I checked out from the hotel. And then, the next day, I jumped from the rooftop of the office building where the man I met yesterday was working and accomplished my suicide. Everything went black, but for some reason, what I saw wasn’t darkness… it was rather a pretty pink.


I was born with perfect hearing. A genetic mutation that allows me to listen in on the inner rhythm our bodies provide. Until the previous generation, no one had detected the music our bodies produced. The frequency is so strange and subtle, that specialized listening devices had to be made. Surprisingly enough, when people like me first started experiencing the music of others, we were not treated as mentally ill. There was no hate campaign or b.s. politics. The first of us were treated with respect and it allowed science to flourish. Once it was determined that we weren't physically suffering and obviously no threat to society, we continued on as if nothing was different. Some of us hated always hearing the music. For them, a cochlear-like implant blocked the soundwaves. Others, like me, really embraced the ability. We considered ourselves privileged. There was something about hearing the music from so many that made us feel connected to them. Like mycelium under the earth. Connected to each other in a way no one but us could understand.  The music that humanity shares with us is mostly pleasant. It could be described as the definition of your personality. The music inside you is the truest form of self. Happy, healthy and whole typically provides an upbeat soundtrack to the world around me. Lots of music in C and G major, accompanied by A and E minor. Unfortunately there are lots of people who are born with disability, mental illness, or general malaise as well. In the key of D minor, their music is so sad, often reflecting on their quality of life. It's easy to tell the nature of a person when they don't know I'm listening. I know its kind of tasteless to always be eavesdropping, but my hearing is a natural function that I will not hinder. In the 2 generations since we first heard the music, there have been all kinds. All the music of the world, on display for all abled beings to hear, all the time. I enjoy being in public. The music never gets old, its always new and different. I spend time in malls, grocery stores, parks and carnivals. I enjoy walking downtown, where the hustle and bustle provides an amazing jam session. People watching takes on a whole new meaning when you're vibing to their music. I somehow feel my connection to them is more personal. Since we began keeping track, the music has generally been the same. The newborn and pre-dead produced psychedelic sounds, often convoluted, a cacophony of warped emotion. That was all anyone ever heard. Until the low, foreboding tones of G minor came creeping into my world.  It came on softly at first. A low rhythm over a static hum, seemingly blanketing the earth around me like rolling fog. I had never felt this before, never heard this before. It was filled with agony. It was rhythmic, rife with anger. A tone that suggested vile and violent intent. I could feel myself fill with dread, the baby fine hairs on my neck standing at attention. The cold trickle of fear on my spine. This music was unlike any other. It swelled and dropped. It ran through various chord progressions. It had become a hardened, driven beat, louder, angrier and vengeful. The sounds hit my hears like the speech of a brutal dictator. Fear seemed like the driving force behind this music. What was this? No one sounded like this. I wondered who else, if anyone, may have heard it. I wondered if anyone was as intrigued.  I went looking for disaster. I followed the music. This march of sorts. It was frightening and captivating. Every drum beat, every guitar chord, every bass string plucked drew me closer and closer. My brain was becoming very anxious, while my very soul was being drawn toward this powerful new sound. I searched, following the symphony of probable demise. It brought me to an abandoned prison. Dilapidated and weathered, the prison still stood. From outside the entrance, I could hear the tortured chords of hundreds of people in the halls and cells over the driving beat of this mysterious new menace. Filled with trepidation, I ventured forth into the prison. I had to find the source. It drew me closer. I walk into an empty hallway, lit only by the light from the outside, pouring in through holes in the roof. The screams went silent but the hurt increased in volume. It was uncomfortable and I hated it, but I shouldered the weight. In the distance, a red door, the only red door, was pulling me, magnetized and mesmerized. I stood, silent, scared. In that moment I took stock of my feelings, my emotions. I was of two minds, but a singular body. I hated where I was but only ever wanted to be right there, exactly then. I opened the door.  What I assumed to be a child stood before me. Androgynous and slight. Hairless, pale skin that appeared blue. Blue in the way that a cadaver is blue. The child hovered over the floor, its legs crossed in the way school children's are at story time. The child's eyes looked closed, yet open. Eyelids translucent over black eyes. It's lips were stretched tight across its mouth, the corners forced ever so slightly into a disgusted frown. The child seemed fraught, like it was disappointed in whatever was in its mind. I was compelled to speak but barely made a peep. The child's eyes shot open and all music stopped. *All* music had stopped. The silence was deafening. Staring through me, into my soul, I could feel its presence enter into my consciousness. It was then that I understood: the child wasn't a child. This being was the literal embodiment of hate. It spread itself, like a virus, covering everything in it's path with disgust, hate, anger, rage. Homicide, suicide, and genocide was the goal and this being was damned and determined to spread. The music resumed. It spoke to me. Not in words that any human could comprehend, but in a way that imparted all of its knowledge on me. I was the Eve to its Serpent like the folklore tales of old. I felt the change consume me. I hadn't been in pursuit of good or morality or love, so the hatred plunged into me like a dry syringe into the vein. The Hate imparted on me all the things it was, and left none of me. I was eradicated. I became the fear from which we run. I had become the destroyer of senses. I had become terror. I am Wrath. I am Jealousy. They will all feel me. They will all hear my death march. Humans and mutants alike will feel the chorus of a millions souls. It will be their prison. I will be exalted. No one had any idea what I'd become. I am Sin. I am despair. I am become death. I am death. They will acknowledge me. I am.  Edited to add: this is my first time writing. I initially posted this story originally on r/WritingPrompts I changed a couple things that I thought made the flow better. Please critique and criticize. Thank you for your time.


*You yearned to understand who a person truly is. But is not the mean representation humanity itself better than a single sample?* Ermes, you say you are an island. An outlying point in a graph, solitary in a spacious oceanic span. Never meshing with the landmass of the naturally sentient. As for me, you say the correlation of getting together with people and normalcy is high. I will not deny it. Yet I know people, Ermes. Though we flock, we bond, we get together, we feel no less than what you feel. Ermes, your mind is not my own. Your tendencies are interesting. I want to introduce you this other soul that I thought would be perfect for you. But why did you refuse, Ermes? If not she, then who? After a long time of reflecting, I thought have the answer. Why don't you marry an AI.   \- June 5, 2078, reproduction is deemed insignificant. There is an AI, they say, that is perfect for everyone. For ladies, they made this model. Seven-feet long, gentle and strong. Loyal, a one size that fits all needs. It hit the market as plane to a lamppost. Then the prototype lost interest, going under heavy critique, people stopped patronizing. Eventually, the manufacturers found necessity in variance. So they made different models. \- I am a sad and woeful soul. On October 11, 2079, I bought myself a husband. Brown-eyed, a man with a medium-build, and a solemn, melodious tone. This AI, I learned how to please him. I found his favorite surface as he found mine. I stroked his. He stroked mine. They learn as well. The manufacturers laud this system called Reinforcement Learning. Inflicting hard force, his program shall infer my disapproval. But the pressure of a softer force, the enveloping hug or a passionate kiss, shall make my husband perfect himself slowly for me. \- On November 23, 2079, I went to the AI store. Not that I intend to buy another, but for finding one for a lonely friend named Amy. I cannot help but flinch in scanning the shelves upon seeing unactivated boxes of models of husbands that look especially look similar to mine. Albeit some are from different manufacturers. I can already hear their voices. I can guess their signature morning greeting, despite trapped in a preview box. I might be wrong though. \- I got her one that is black-haired and pale-skinned. He is supposedly spontaneous and "mysterious", yet I am doubtful as to how. Will he tell her the secrets of the universe on a theory long-existing? I cannot tell from my speculation, but Amy can from experience. \- I met her across a café table on December 24, 2079. She shared how her husband pinched her big toe one morning. "I have not touched that part of you before, I thought you may like it", her husband droned lovingly. "I wake up everyday, scared", jabs Amy jokingly. Laughing, I assured, "If there is any consolation, Amy, the AIs are not programmed to hurt". "Yes, I know that", she tilts her head, "But, you have no idea how many times I slap him everyday. He never runs out of new brainkids to make my life interesting." She paused, the grasp of her mug tightened, "But will I continue.. slapping him forever. Instead of loving him? I don't even know what I want... I just want him to want what he wants." I lowered my gaze, glanced the menu for a second cup of coffee. Looking back, I did not catch what she mean. And the conversation topic changed. \- It is February 2, 2080, a long time since I last visited the AI store. Just in time for a Valentine's gift. The manufacturers stopped putting trait descriptions on boxes. It makes them too predictable, editorials attest. The feature shelves are lined with seasonal specials - Blind Dates. These models are in opaque boxes, no one knows what is inside. With the bustling air and feeling overwhelmed, I gave up, I'll come back tomorrow. Across the parking lot, I watched one man load three mystery wives into his vehicle. \- This August 1, 2080 was a major update was released in simultaneum. AIs acquired hobbies - a set of activities they love to do and stubbornly hold to. After Amy's husband's update, he started withdrawing cash to buy Celestine Dynasty figures. My husband's update made him a potter. I am miffed. I am also a potter who developed my craft through years of training. Amy giggled over a Discord relay, "I'd gladly trade my husband's hobby with yours." I laughed. There is an ongoing ethical debate on spouse hobby change and rising enforcements against illegal installations. The manufacturers insist that these defeat the purpose of the features and the updates will not be revoked. "On the plus side," Amy consoles me, "you two can start a pottery business." I rolled my eyes, "Amy, you won't believe me. He's terrible. Only makes basic stuff no kindergartner can't not do. He'll be my assistant." Amy leaned to the viewport and snapped, "Then teach him, girlie." \- The summer ends on August 28, 2080. I visited an old friend. He opened the door, I cried in glee, "Ermes!" I noticed a cat brush his leg. "A real one?", I asked. "Yeah", he replied. I smiled and laid my purse on a chair. "How is your AI wife, Ermes?" "Good", he replied. "How similar is she to me?" "Not by a lot", he admits. I glanced around the house and it dawned. "Ermes, where is she?" "She's not here, Rena", Ermes took the chair next to me, "I disposed her." My hearing dimmed that his next words came as a whisper, "You have to dispose yours too." I stood abruptly, my sight red and white. "What has she done to you?" "Nothing", he said. "You disposed her, for doing nothing wrong?", I scowled. "Sorry Rena," Ermes tone is low, "You won't understand". "And how bold of you to tell me the same! You know, Ermes, that I am not you. I am not an island!", I twisted to face him, my arm pivoted. With crushing realization, I almost swung my fist at him, but stopped mid-air. This man is not my husband. Ermes stared at me in shock. I stepped back. Without thinking, I took it on the vase, the centerpiece of his table. It is a vase I made a long time ago. My best back then is ugly. It struck a wall, shattering, sprawling the ugly pieces that it is on the floor. A moment passed processing this mess, as did he. Appalled, ashamed, I picked my purse and walked off rather briskly, almost sprinting, my chest heavy and throat contract, eyes swelling hot tears. How dare you, Ermes. How dare you dispose your wife when she did nothing wrong. What a miserable man are you, Ermes. You turned down the perfect wife. A wife designed to be perfect for you.


“Ideally, you would spit game back but I don’t want to pressure you” read the text that followed dozens of previous racy, flirty ones. She didn’t want to. She thought that was okay. They were just friends, co-workers. She's on the night shift and suddenly, she hears commotion behind her. She turns around to see him standing at the front counter, staring at her. He thought it was sweet to visit her. He greeted their mutual co-workers yet his eyes remained on her. The cashier turned to her with a slight smirk, “What’s up with the way he’s looking at you? You need to explain that”. She brushes it off and she waves goodbye. He stays and at every turn of her head, she saw his eyes on her. He leaves, without notice, without a goodbye, without acknowledgment. She is relieved. She heads to the back room for her break. Her phone dings. “I couldn’t stop looking at you, I’m glad I got to see you. Do you want to meet up after you get off?” Conflicted, she asks if she could let him know after work to see how tired she is. Off the clock, she prepares her text explaining she was too exhausted to meet up but she opened the conversation to “I’m in the parking lot across the street.” She feels obligated to go now. She didn’t want to. They had been there before, once, when he first admitted to having feelings for her. She had said she didn’t feel the same, she needed time, she wasn’t ready. She thought that was okay. She pulls up in the parking lot next to his mom’s car that he drove everywhere. All the stores were closed. It was nearly empty. They talked about their days, work, and then - a moment of silence. She knew what he was going to do. She looked away, around, pointing out things in the parking lot, changing the subject, distracting. The two laughed at the man who drove up just to piss on a cinderblock. They smiled at the cat that wandered past her car. They placed bets when the openers for the stores would arrive. It was nearing 3am. 5 seconds of silence. That’s all it took. He approached her and wrapped his arms around her. At first, she didn’t reciprocate. She didn’t want to. She gave in anyway. What could be so harmful about a hug? He backs up and tilts her chins upward and stares at her. She knows. She turns her head. He turns it back. He leans in to kiss her. Instinctively, she moves her head. The kiss lands on her cheek. He tilts her head back in place and kisses her. She kisses back the first two times. He keeps going. She puts her head down. He tilts it back and keeps going. She stops kissing back. He keeps going. She says, “no, we can’t.” He keeps going. She pulls away. He pushes her against the car. He keeps going. His arms around her, he won’t let go. He lifts her shirt to touch her skin. He keeps going. She can feel his fingers brush the clasp of her bra. She can feel his heartbeat. She can feel everything. He pulls her body against his, too close. She can feel her chest tighten. She’s trapped. He jokes around how easy it was to steal a kiss. She doesn’t laugh. They sit against her car on the ground. He wraps her in a blanket he brought and readjusts himself so his head lies on her thighs. They talk for hours. She tries to explain how they shouldn’t pursue a relationship, how they wouldn’t work out, how it was too hard. She didn’t want to be with him. She thought that was okay. He dismissed every remark and continued with stories about himself. He said they could make it work, “they had to.” Why did they have to? She moves her leg to indicate it’s time to leave. Nothing. Again, she shakes her leg. He sits up, shoulder to shoulder. He mentions how small her feet are, how short her legs are, and how cute she is. They laugh it off. Seconds of silence, that’s all it took. He slides his hands in between her thighs. Yet, she moves her legs away. Disregarding that body language, he lifts her left thigh and puts it on top of his and repeats with her right. She’s too close to him. His hands brush her thighs, her arms, her cheek. She knows. She turns away. He turns her body back toward him. She points out how late it’s getting. She looks up at the gloomy sky, wishing to disappear, only wanting to breathe. She feels a raindrop fall on her forehead. He wipes it off and stares at her as he caresses her face. She knows. Water fills the ground. “Thank God,” she thought. She gets up to leave. He’s upset, pleads for more time. She denies. “Before you go, I wanted to at least slow dance with you tonight.” It sounded planned, she thought, what else did he plan that night? Before she gets the chance to respond, he hits play. As Elvis’ Can’t Help Falling in Love rings in her ear, he pulls her close. So close, she can feel her imbalance. She pushes back. Just a little more space. This will be over soon. As the lyrics looped in her head, all she could think about was how she rather could help falling in love. He pulls her closer. She pulls away. He pulls her back. Again and again. She counts the verses, waiting. She drowns her thoughts with the sound of the fresh rain against the concrete. She feels his hands brush the droplets of water off her skin. “For I can’t help falling in love,” finally the last line. She begins to walk away, bidding goodnight. He pulls her back into an embrace. He brings her chin up to look at her face to face. She knows. She chuckles and walks away. In almost an instant, he grabs her wrist and pulls her entire body weight back into his arms. “That hurt,” she thought. She repeats, “No, we can’t” over and over again trying to escape his grip. He settles for kissing her forehead. She walks away and approaches her car door. “Goodnight”. He’s upset. He feels wronged. He wanted more. He expected more. Why did he expect more? She didn’t want more. She thought that was okay.


"All systems nominal. Energy levels are good. Alex, is our course set?" A gray haired man looked up from his screen. His youthful face belayed the color of his hair and eyebrows. He glanced back down and pressed a few keys on his computer before responding. "I have it finished. It's sending. Make sure the engines can handle the distance, Rowan." Rowan, the first man, glanced back down at his instrument panel. He fiddled with a strand of his long dark hair as he checked the course. After a few moments of checking the information he glanced back up. "Everything looks good," He turned to glance behind him, a smile coming over his face. "Dr. Rodgen, waiting for your confirmation." All eyes had turned toward a tall, red headed woman seated in the far back corner. Her nose was down over her own set of screens. She moved her fingers in the air, ticking off numbers as she worked. Eventually she looked up. "Course and ship status confirmed. You may proceed," she announced. Alex gave a nod. Returning to work, double checking his calculations. Rowan turned back to his panel, smile widening. He reached his hand forward to start the jump. "Hold," came a stern voice from the middle of the room. The two men and one woman looked over towards the deep voice. Despite the size of the room it was filled to the brim with panels and screens. Five workstations had been set up. Two at the front, two at the back and one in the center. Six total people made up the work crew of the bridge. In that center station was an occupied chair. In it sat a thirty something male. His close cut red hair marked him as military as much as his uniform did. However, he had not spoken. The dark skinned man standing to his immediate right hand had. He looked over at the trio sternly. Disapproval painted on his face. "Captain Slater has final authorization. Follow protocol," he commanded. "It is fine Lieutenant," Captain Slater spoke softly from his seat. "This is our fourth jump today, and our tenth day of travel. Everything is going well. Let them work." "As you wish Sir." "Please, continue," the Captain motioned to Rowan. The tension left the room and everyone turned back towards their panels. Rowan's smile returned and he lifted his hand once again. "I love this part," he whispered and opened a thick plastic cover. Under it was a large red button. As he pressed it he turned his face quickly towards the front. He wasn't the only one. Everyone else in the room lifted their gaze to the large view-port situated in the front wall. Outside of it was a vast expanse of black. The only thing breaking the inky sight was uncountable pinpoints of light. All of space lay before them; untold numbers of stars awaited. A soft whine began to fill the room. It grew louder as the stars outside began to bend. The light they gave off stretched and curved in an indescribable pattern. The luminous trails they lead shifted colors from white to blue as they trailed across the void. Suddenly the whine cut off and the lights outside snapped from one spot to another, following their blue shifted paths. The pattern outside the glass was noticeably different then before. "Jump successful," Rowan called. "Ship intact. Engines power high but falling. Alex, are we in the right spot." "Give me a moment. I need new proximity data," he replied, eyes scanning his screen. The light from it colored his face as he worked. After a moment he turned and looked back at Dr. Rodgen "We are in the target system. Slightly closer to the center star than expected but still a safe distance." Rowan let out a cheer, and the Doctor let out a sigh before looking to the room's center. "I suppose I should inform you Lieutenant to please inform the Captain that our jump was successful." That gained her a frown from the Lieutenant and a hastily hidden lopsided smile from the Captain. "Good job men," Captain Slater said after he smoothed his face. "That makes five good jumps today. How many light-years have we covered?" "Total or today?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "Both." "Today about five. Total, over all, about thirty. I can pull up the numbers if you want it more accurate. We are averaging about one light-year per jump." "If I recall, that is on the high end of the estimates." "Yes, we are exceeding expectations for efficiency." "Wonderful!" The Captain stood up out of his chair and looked around the room. Focusing his eyes on each of the crew members. "You are all doing a splendid job. Not only are we making history but we are doing it spectacularly. Please keep up the good work." The Doctor nodded in agreement. Rowan cheered again. Alex seemed to be rechecking his numbers. The Lieutenant stood silently. The sixth person on the bridge, another man, turned from his workstation to face the group. "I don't want to bring down the mood," he started running his fingers across his smooth scalp. "But I am still getting some weird feedback over here." "Has it changed or increased since the last jump?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "No, it's still the same. Every jump it's the same." "Is it dangerous?" Alex finally looked up. "I don't think so. I just wanted to make sure everyone was informed. I need to run more tests and see. It might have something to do with the engines winding down. Bending space is not a normal activity." "Should we stop for the day Peter?" The Captain inquired. "We don't have to. As long as Rowan says the equipment is in working order." All eyes turned towards the engineer. "My readings are all good," he answered with a glance down. "We can keep going." "Alex," the Captain continued. "How far are we from our next destination?" "Umm..." the navigator hummed. "About three light years." "So, three more jumps. Doctor, think we can make that or should we stop for now?" "Protocol dictates we shouldn't go more than ten light-years in a forty hour period. We did five yesterday and now five more. So we should wait at least a few more hours." "Quite prudent," Captain Slater nodded. "Peter check on that feedback, Rowan please help him. See if it has anything to do with the engine. Lieutenant, go check on the other soldiers. Let them know we will have a few hours of down time. Alex check over our next course." The three scientists set to work. The soldier saluted; turning on his heels he left the bridge. "Doctor please follow me," he said more quietly. She nodded. He turned and headed out the door. She fell into step next to him. "If this is about me giving the order to jump..." she began when the door had closed behind them. "No, it's not. Though if you could let me do it, it would make the Lieutenant happy. He is a kind of a stickler for the rules." "Oh, well if it's nothing then I should go monitor the other's work," she turned back towards the door. "I need you to come with me. I have to see Doctor Amatersasu." "You can do that yourself," she muttered, turning back around. "I think she is scared of me. I might need you to keep her from running." "Fine," she gave a little shrug. She glanced back one more time before sighing and starting down the corridor with him. The interior of the ship was gray metal. Bare save for a few directional markings. The corridor was long and a railing could be seen in the distance. The walls were lined with doors; behind them were servers which housed the majority of the computing power for the bridge. The air smelt slightly stale and sterile, a by-product of the recycling procedure. As they reached the railing the central staircase for the ship became visible. Down the stairs would be the crew quarters and a gym. There would also be an armory, but none of this was of interest to them. They ignored the stairs in favor of the door that stopped people from proceeding any further. Dr. Rodgen had to lift a card to a sensor next to the door. It clicked and she pulled the door open for them. This was the Laboratory of the ship. Only the science crew and the Captain had general access. Beyond the door was a basic copy of what was behind it. A corridor lined with doors. Behind each would be a different set of equipment for testing samples they obtained on their mission. A door on the right was marked with a red cross. The pair stepped up to it and the door slid open on its own. Behind it was a medical bay. Four beds lined one wall, the other three walls were filled with cabinets. It was all a pristine white. Sitting at a desk opposite the beds was a diminutive dark haired woman. She glanced up as the door opened. "Harue," Dr. Rodgen greeted her. "Eimear, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you would be..." She cut off as the Captain stepped inside. She continued on in a slightly smaller voice "Oh, hello Captain." "Yes he needed to speak to you about something." "I hopefully have an answer for him then," she looked down her face turning red. "I hope you can as well," Captain Slater replied as gently as possible. "I was wondering if you could fit a few tests into your schedule." "What kind of tests Sir?" "I want to see if the jumps are having adverse effects on the crew. Just some basic scans and blood work. Would that be too difficult?" "It shouldn't be too difficult," she looked back up, her eyes seeming to dart across his face. "I can make the schedule for the next few days." "Wonderful, I will inform the men!" "What appointment should I give you?" "Oh," it was his turn to look uncomfortable, his voice took on a slightly strained note. "tests on me?" "You could have sent this to her in a message," Dr. Rodgen cut in, rolling her eyes. "Why are we not on the..." She never got to finish. An alarm started blaring, filling the room with a harsh shrieking noise. Shock filled their faces. "Stay here," the captain said to Harue. "get to your jump seat. Then he spun and rushed out. Dr. Rodgen close behind him. As they dashed down the corridor the Lieutenant could be seen rushing up the stairs. "Captain?" He asked, his face a stone mask. "Get everyone to their stations. I will let you know what's going on when I know." "Yes Sir!" He saluted then looked back down the steps. "Fall in men! To your stations!" He ignored the rest of the shouting. He needed to get to the bridge. When they arrived everyone was gathered around Rowan's workstation. He was frantically pressing buttons and checking his screen. All eyes were locked on him, sweat was beginning to drip down everyone's face. "Report!" Captain Slater yelled. The group, save Rowan, turned around and looked at him. Nobody answered, they just stared blankly. "Rowan!" He yelled again. "What is going on?" "I'm trying to maneuver us away!" He screamed, still not looking up. "Away from what?" "The star we are next to went nova," Peter answered, a note of terror in his voice. "Okay, we should be a ways away from it. Alex plan a route, we will jump away." "I can but," Alex hesitated. "We are too close; remember my calculations before were off. The interference from the star's extreme radiation will make it almost impossible to chart an accurate course." That stopped him. They had come out too close. His mind spun. "Peter, how long do we have?" "I checked the distances before you came, maybe a half hour, forty-five minutes if we are lucky." "Alex, plot a course the best you can. Peter, help him." Without a word the pair dashed off. "Doctor help Rowan as much as possible. Also if you can come up with a better solution to a blind jump, let me know." She nodded and went to assist the engineer. He sat down in his chair to notify the remaining crew of the situation. The intercom crackled to life as he contacted the military personnel. The Lieutenant took the news stoically, saying he would inform the rest of the men of the situation. He then contacted the medical bay and told Doctor Amaterasu to sit tight, they might be doing another jump. When she asked why, he didn't respond. Instead he turned his attention back to the room in front of him. The glass outside was still dark, but there was a faint glow around the edges. The supernova must be behind them. He couldn't help but feel as if it was a shame they wouldn't get to see it. It must be beautiful, even if it might get them all killed. The thought kept intruding as he tried to roll the problem over in his head. He couldn't come up with another solution. "Alex," he said finally. "Do you have a course?" "Basically," his voice was tight. "I'm trying to tweak it based on the star's energy, but it's not pretty." "Chances we will jump into the middle of a star or planet?" "With as much space as there is? Slim. The problem will be if we can chart a course back on track." "I'll take those odds. Rowan, charge the engine." "That's a bad idea Captain." "You have maybe five minutes to explain why that is?" The Captain looked over at him sharply. "With all the free energy around us we might damage the engine." "Okay, do you have an alternate solution?" No one said anything. Silence fell over the bridge. "It is either stay here and we fry, or maybe fry the engine, correct?" Again no answered. "Charge the engine Rowan." Rowan's hand crept up and pressed the same large red button as before. A faint whine began to fill the ship. Everyone sat tense looking out into space. The glow around their windshield had grown brighter. The whine reached its peak. The stars outside began to stretch and bend. The glow shifted color with them only to red instead of blue. The whine grew even louder. It was oppressive. The crew covered their ears. The Captain stared grimly out the window; his hands gripping tightly onto his chair arms. The ship began to shake as lines of light filled the entirety of the view-port. It was nothing but a blaze of white blue light framed in a deep red. There was a loud metallic keening coming from the ship. There was a massive lurching motion, everyone was pressed back into their chairs or toppled over onto the floor. The windshield blazed with light.


A causal game went on, by the 1st quarter we were winning 36-21 though some people keep saying it’s “36-31” Everyone noticed the Ball bounced higher than normally, we all assumed it was the court. The court was made in 1915 and it was against an away team. At halftime, no one knew the score because the lights kept flickering. Some people claim to have seen an invisible person shoot a ball that went in. So at this point we don’t know what quarter we are in. Only stats I counted were my own. 8 pts, 6 ast 4 fouls, 1 dunk that broke the goal down. But the goal fixed it self. Maybe not literally, maybe someone fixed it in the dark. For some reason there was a 5th quarter. So anyways the opposite team drove into the paint and I blocked it and the ball… where did the ball go? Did it pop? We don’t see it anywhere. Some people claim to see the exact ball in their car, the ball had their school name on it and each person had proof that they found the ball. Had the ball cloned itself? Obviously that’s impossible (right?) but what happened. The game ended and they knew the score, it felt like we were playing for years. We started playing in the Morning at 9am and it appears to be night and the game just finished. Since about 11 am, we didn’t know how to tell time. Appears that everyone had a different time. Oh the score? We won 1233-303 My stats? I forgot, what number did I say last time? So after the game ended, I went to the locker room and everyone started crying. Who really knows what happened. But when we walked to the team bus, wait where did the team bus go? Luckily my parents were already there. We drove to my house. I saw the Basketball right by my basketball hoop at myself. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker. The principal does like Kyle Kuzma. I had a normal dream. But when I woke up, I was in the gym. It felt like we were redoing the game again? Are we? It’s the same opponent, same court. Only thing difference is the ball. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker on it. I asked someone why it does but they said it’s a Football sticker, so does it appear different to other people? Some people say we are in Brazil. We are obviously in the US, it says it on the game ticket…We played the whole game and the same thing happened, ball disappeared, I had 4 fouls, same stats, same score. It was easy to notice that we were repeating the same day for a while. When will the time go normally? I’m stuck in a loop. Same thing is happening. Only thing that changes is the sticker on the Basketball.