I drive. I like driving. Not just to get from point A to point B, but also the idea of cruising. Going on adventures where you never know what's around every corner. Like what I'm doing now. Rumbling through the suburbs, We're On The Road to Nowhere, by the Talking Heads, is coming out of the speakers of the CD player.
Of course, you can do all of this at any time of the day. But it's at night where it is at its most revealing.
A special time.
A time where me and the car and the road are one.

I have an addiction. Do my friends know? No. Does my wife know? Absolutely not. She would leave me or, at the very least, call me perverted, which I probably am. It started out innocently enough. A website here, a secret folder there. But that just wasn't enough.
I needed something a little more...
real.
A little more...
exciting.
The first one, I couldn't even look at her, I would close my eyes and then, when I opened them a minute later, it would be over.
But then there were more.
Then it was a couple of people a week, and I stopped looking away.
At first it was women; I mean, that's usually how it does start. But then it led to a couple of men, then it led to non-binary, then it led to different races. I didn't care. It didn't matter to me.
I had them all.
And my wife and kids still have no idea.
I'm not so much worried about the wife knowing, but if the kids found out I…
I couldn't bear the shame.
It's been at least a month since I've looked for anyone. But yet here I am, in my car, looking out my windshield,
watching the white lane strips disappear under the vehicle,
listening to Road To Nowhere whilst cruising along.
Maybe I am on the road to nowhere. Maybe this is nowhere.

That's probably why I'm driving now.
I mean why else would I be out here if I'm just browsing. You wouldn't go to a car dealership if you don't intend to buy, right?
Why indeed?
I'll tell you.

I think there's some sick side of me that wants to test myself.
"Say, if you don't find anyone in the sweet spot, (2 til 5am) go home, you tried." Like those people that only quit smoking on public holidays where the stores are closed. That way they justify continuing to smoke if they just so happen to find a shop still open and they can buy a pack.
But then again, prostitutes don't really have trading hours.
I've stopped going to them. It's too easy. Plus, it's no fun if you have to orchestrate it, wouldn't you agree? Surely there's nothing more fun than going to a bar, striking up a conversation, playing your cards right, crossing every t and dotting every i, going back to theirs (because it sure as hell won't be back at yours) and coming back home with your tail between your legs. But a lot of the people I see seem so sad
and helpless.
The sex workers, that is. I feel sorry for them.
So by doing this, I'm doing them a favour. And as long as my family don't know, no harm done, right?
So even though a perfectly normal person at a bar is always nice, it’s also more risky.
You don't know their story and you don't want to know.
Whereas if you go to a street walker you have a good idea of what you're getting into.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Especially if you're doing it during the magic hours, there's a feeling of exhilaration.
It can be an addictive feeling.
I love my wife too much to subject her to anything like that. And besides, the more I do it with other people, the less likely I'll be sitting on my couch with her one day,
the urge comes creeping up beside me and whispers in my ear.
This urge, like the song suggests, is "very far away,
but it's growing day by day."
But it's not alright.
It is so wrong.

I'm on the last 10 minutes of the sweet spot, and I don't feel like I have enough money. Maybe it's good that I don't see anyone in clear range of me, and that I don't have to cave.
Maybe I don't need to do this,
and the urge is just a product of my mind.
Maybe I can overcome it.
Yes, that's it…
10 minutes until the end of tonight and then I'm done. And I'll do it the next time, and I'll be done and the next time and the next time. But that’s ok, because eventually it'll be a little easier. And then one day I won’t even think about it at all.

These wonderful imaginings are all good and well. Unfortunately, I see a homeless grifter walking along the path of a bridge.
He begins to walk across the road.
I slow down and come to a complete stop while they saunter across. Should I pick him up?
No...
it will take too long,
especially if I don't have enough money to convincingly satisfy him not to leave.

I beep my horn. He turns around, and puts his hand over his face to block the sight of the headlights burning into his eyes.
Suddenly my mind is clear, and I decide what I want to do.
I put the car into reverse, not a great deal, but a couple car lengths back.
The tramp just…
stands there.
And then the urge comes back.
Then,
I put the car into gear and drive straight for him.
I slightly close my eyes until I hear
boom bump bump thump
over my car.
Then, what sounds like Jenga blocks coming down onto a table.
I stop the car,
open my eyes,
and exhale.
Checking in the rearview mirror to see if he’s going to get up.
Nothing for a good minute or so.
Then I see his body appear in the mirror, struggling to stand.
I waste no time putting the car into reverse again, looking behind me instead of the mirrors so I know that the job is done.
The car hits him,
ba bump ba bump,
as I'm briefly rattled around.
Like going over a speed bump without slowing down.
I see the body appear at the front of the car, then I stop.
I get out and walk over to investigate.
It looks like a giant saucy pizza box spread across the road.
He is still alive as he lifts his head up to look at me...
before finally falling back down.
I debate whether to put him in the trunk of the car.
Maybe bury him in the middle of the woods somewhere.
I decide against it as it would be too much mess and I'm on a clock. I have to get home and into bed before the wife notices me gone.
I don't think he's dead, but he will be.
I decide to leave him here, because even though it won't be long before the sweet spot is over and someone on their way to work will see him, I'll still take my chances. Maybe it will be a good motivator to help me quit.
It's funny that.
The only way it seems a person can kick an addiction, especially one like this, is because the law says they have to. The only thing that baffles me, that I cannot understand.
Why didn't the grifter
jump out of the way as he saw me driving towards him?
Did he want this? Embrace it?

For my own personal development and self-discouragement, I don't want to think this is the case.
I no longer want to justify what I do with false narratives that I was putting this poor fellow out of his misery.
I think he was just in sheer bewilderment that his time was about to come.
I can only imagine that's what deer think before people hit them.
They spend their last milliseconds trying to work out what they're looking at could be…
before the reaper does his job.
I shake my head to no one in particular and walk back to my car.
As I get in and sit, contemplate, and everything in between, I notice Road to Nowhere is over, and a new song has begun.
Psycho Killer, the next song on the Talking Heads album, is playing.
I laugh at the thought of it,
before putting my car into gear
and driving off into the night.

It started out like a normal day. I was sitting outside on a warm, summer morning at a nearby coffee shop that I decided to try out for the first time finally. I had passed by the shop several times. It was squashed underneath some apartments, positioned in between a local pet store and a small bookstore. It offered cramped seating on the inside and metal folding chairs next to “rustic” outdoor metal tables. It wasn’t busy as all hell like some of those other shops that have a strong online presence, or because a TikToker showcased the “lovely yet humble owner trying to just provide good coffee and a safe space for people like me.” The shop itself wasn’t completely dead and the coffee was okay. I had better, but it wasn’t overpriced generic coffee. The shop itself offered inconspicuous seating that let the silent watcher sit and take in the locals without being too guarded. I sat outside that day to watch the surroundings for more fruitful observations. The shop’s inside hosted people I had no interest in. There was a concoction of experiences and conversations I wanted no part of. They ranged from a gaggle of teenage girls squawking about the dull drama they were experiencing at the moment in their miserable lives, a few individuals banged on their laptop keyboards, and a couple sitting by the front window having what looked to be a serious conversation. I took in the sights of my vantage point, experienced the nearby smells, eavesdropped on some conversations to really get a feel for the culture there. My ink black coffee reeked of caffeine, and was nearly burning my hands as I took a drink. It was obnoxiously sweet, and I loved it! I wouldn't typically allow myself indulgences, but when I did, I couldn’t help myself. I always had a sweet tooth. I took a deep sip as a police cruiser turned the corner and came down the street. My moment of bliss was curtailed by the intrusion. 

 

I watched guardedly yet casually as it drove by, treating it like a tiger shark stalking past a group of divers. The black and white veil of the urban predator on the exterior of the Ford Escape with “Beaverton Police Department” painted on the side in gold. I sat my drink down gently and eyed the occupants as the car passed, waiting for anything to happen at that moment. It seemed to be a man and a woman inside, their lips moved wordlessly as they continued down the street. I couldn’t get a read on their faces, the interior of the car was too dark as they passed by too fast to catch lasting details. The first few days after were always when I was most on edge, but it appeared to be a typical day like several instances before. The police continued on their way down the street. I only stopped watching them when they turned the corner and I could no longer see them. I jumped suddenly. My phone vibrated on the table causing an unpleasant and striking metallic buzz that turned unwanted eyes on me. I picked up my phone with an annoyed smirk, and a bit of confusion. I hadn’t realized I was so tense until my phone went off. 

 

*Hey, let’s catch up!*

 

The message was simple from the Messenger notification. The dm came from a boy named Joshua Brown. Who was this Joshua Brown? The image showed a young man in his early teens (at most) with a mop of brown curly hair. His eyes were just tucked away under the shadow of natural light. A confident smile of just his lips was perfectly encapsulated in the profile pic. It honestly caught me by surprise. I looked up from my phone to see if anyone was watching for what I would do. After a quick scan and satisfied that I was as blended in as the rest of them, I checked my lock screen again. The notification revealed the message once more and something tickled the back of my mind. I couldn’t quite place it, but I felt like I had seen that boy before. His name was pretty common so that wasn’t useful, and the message was a luke warm greeting at best. A couple had walked past me at the moment, I looked at them, gave a trained gentle smile and a nod, pushed the notification from my screen and went back to observing the people. 

 

I spent the rest of my time mostly distracted. I never went back to the message while I was sitting there, but I rattled through my memories of why Joshua seemed so familiar. It felt like listening to your favorite song on a record player. The needle danced through the familiar grooves and just before it hit the apex, a small scratch would knock it off tempo and skip over the best part. I wandered through my mind palace, my heels echoing on the imaginary tiles as I searched for any clues and connections to why he seemed so familiar. But any time I felt I was on the right track, I would lose my train of thought and it would escape my clutches. It didn’t matter, I would remember eventually. I came back into the real world and observed briefly. My coffee had gone cold. I had wandered too long in my mind and now my indulgence was making me sick. I got up from my cover, stuffed my phone into my jacket, hurled the disgustingly sweet drink into the trash and went back home. 

 

At that moment, I had categorized the dm as a scam. A bot reaching out trying to get some type of personal information. It wasn’t the fact that the bot had messaged me, it occurred every once in a while. What bothered me was that I could not figure out why Joshua seemed so familiar. I was careful with my connections on my socials. Even though I tailored my online presence with meticulous precision, I kept my inbox open for anyone to message me so it seemed like I was friendly. Most of the time it was only bots that were trying to connect with me. There were a few variations in the messaging, but it was always the same idea. Hey, how are you? I was browsing and saw your profile! Hello, are you busy this evening? A quick tap of the profile pic and you could tell. No friends, no real posts or comments, just an empty page essentially. Those bots were typically women though, not a teen boy.

 

I hate social media. I wouldn’t have been on any of them if I didn’t have to be. People are online for far too long, it isn’t good for them, especially nowadays. The terminally online over-explain themselves, overshare their ridiculous opinions, overexaggerate and are hyper argumentative. You can find out a lot about a person with little provocation. That or a caricature of a real person just by a simple click. At the time, I  would only post once or twice a week. Typically a repost of something that wasn’t too opinionated one way or another. Enough so people knew I existed, but not enough to raise questions. That is why Joshua’s message was somewhat unnerving. It started from that day on. I didn’t realize then what it would come to mean, so I brushed it off. I had just got caught in a slight drizzle but I wasn’t prepared for what was coming my way. The messages were just a slow drip at first, once a week give or take. Hey, how are you? Hey, how’s it going? Hey, we should catch up! Hey… Hey… Hey… heralding the start of an oncoming hurricane. 

 

At first I ignored the messages. Deleted them as they came in, they were like the buzzing of flies to me. A quick swipe and they would be gone. But they were more persistent than the annoying insects. I never responded in the beginning, Hey…Hey…Hey… but the longer I ignored them, the more aggravating they became. They were creeping into my inbox, slowly flooding my phone at first. It felt like water was rising and I was cemented into it. I was already ankle deep before I realized it wasn’t going to stop. I gave up from deleting the messages altogether, they just kept coming back. I had endured as much as I could, but finally relented and opened the messages. If this person was so persistent, what harm could come from opening the messages? The fresh message screen with only one active participant opened. The layered brick wall of a conversation towered over me on screen. Something about the profile just wouldn’t leave me be. A long forgotten taste that resurfaced, a smell that took me back to a husk of shadow. Something I could not place. I tried to let it stay buried in the past but it refused. 

 

I couldn’t risk it at first. To dig deeper. To see who was plaguing me. That damn little circle of a partially pixelated boy with an unruly yet soft-looking head of chestnut colored hair. His eyes hidden under his shielding tangles. The provocative smile taunted me. It goaded me to step beyond my normal restrictions, to snoop a little further into things I ought not to. What harm could it have? I had fought those hungers before, but this unfamiliar Joshua Brown seemed like a devil that had been with me all my life. I resisted further. Choosing the logical side, the inner dialogue that had kept me safe thus far, rather than to submit to my temptations. I rejected the need to reply, but when a new message came in, I would always check it going forward. It became routine unconsciously. I enjoyed it at first. Joshua, whoever he was, was a gentle reminder of time. I could count on him to reliably message every few days for a while. He became my personal clock! I started to plan my life around when he would message. I prepared mental reminders for events, when to have tasks completed, who to message for work based on when Joshua would message. That damn feeling of something I had forgotten would not leave me when he messaged, but I began to enjoy it. It was a puzzle that I started to work out causally, an imaginary suspect board where I would link possible events or people that may have some connection to this Joshua Brown. I constantly asked myself: What about him seemed familiar? It was a gordian knot that vexed me, but I refused to let it remain tied. That is when the flooding moved to my knees.

 

It was just Joshua in the beginning. I moved away from believing he was a bot, he was too consistent and more persistent than a bot. A bot sent one, maybe two messages before they stopped, not Joshua. A gentle Hey tiptoeing into my inbox now and again. A parasite that wanted nothing more than a few seconds of my time. But a parasite doesn’t live in isolation. I can’t remember the order of who started messaging me exactly after Joshua, regardless, the messages began to seep into my carefully curated peace and quiet. I thought I had built an impenetrable hull. Iron clad that was supposed to keep everything that I didn’t want out. I had meticulously crafted it, only for it to be washed away in moments. There were only a handful of them at first. A gang of boys started to reach out to me on all of my public social media accounts. What’s up? Hey man…Sup dude… a slurry of greetings that just turned my stomach. All were teens to a degree, from the lightest of caramel colored hair to the deepest of mahogany. Their unblinking eyes stared at me through the screen. They were all twiggy, wore the same style of hair and each had their own sense of personal fashion that looked remarkably similar to each other. Yet, each wore it with their own unique personality. The cadence at which I started to receive the new messages muddied the unintentional intrinsic reliance I had developed when Joshua would message me. My schedule was messed up. I became disorganizingly enraged and engagingly disorganized. I quickly convinced myself that I was the target of some prank by these horrible monsters for unknown reasons. Surely Joshua, the clear ring leader to this wretched joke, had told his pathetic friends about me. He probably told them that he was messaging some older guy that refused to block him. And now his wretched friends had decided to join in. I immediately blocked them without a second thought. In the brief moments I saw their profiles, they looked like a normal teen's page, making me hate them more than if they were just bots. When I got to Joshua I paused. My thumb hovered over the “View Profile” button . The illusion would be shattered, the Hey… Hey… Hey… would no longer be counted on. The interesting puzzle of Joshua Brown would forever remain in the recesses of my mind as unsolved. There would be no motivation to finish with the frustrating challenge. I couldn’t do it. I pulled my thumb back from the screen and just stared. I didn’t want to lose him for some reason. It was an indulgence that I wanted to allow myself. Time was moving on and I would have the opportunity again sooner than later. So for the moment, I would keep Joshua around. He had done no provable wrong, but I would not break the fantasy bubble that had been created. 

 

For a few days after, I got my peace back. My moment of unplanned anger caught me by surprise, but I was lucky to have paused  when I did. I would say that I can have an angry spell here and there, but I would not consider myself an angry person. My brief emotional outburst reminded me that I still needed to be careful. It was still too soon and that I still had to maintain control. I pulled back from relying on Joshua’s messages for the most part, but I would allow for personal reminders to be set to when he typically messaged me. I went about my life like normal. I would go to work, fake it through the pedestrian conversations with the mindless apes at my office, then go back home. I would keep to myself, I didn’t want eyes upon me. I needed my privacy. There was a brief moment there where I thought I was free, where it was just me, Joshua’s messages and the timer coming down. I was mistaken. 

 

My blockings of the other boys had only been a temporary stay. They creeped back into my inbox like filthy cockroaches. It took me a second to recognize them. I hadn’t paid enough attention to them the first time in my anger. But as they messaged me again, I took a second to look at their profile pics. The various shades of brown hair stood out better this time. Two of the boys had almost identical honey brown hair color. Almost. I could recognize the subtle differences though after years of study. Slight hue shifts in the lighting of their pics, the sheen of the grease in their hairs, the apparent heft of the hair style. All were details that most people would miss, but not me. Unlike Joshua, none of these boys felt familiar. Though they had something about them, it was more so the fact that they all messaged at different intervals. What had become a message every few days became a message every single day. The times typically stayed within one to two hours depending on the sender, but each one had carved out their day that they would message me. On top of that, they would occasionally like a post I would share here and there across the platforms. Certain posts would interest some of the boys, but nothing ever appealed to all of them. It was strange. They weren’t my friends online. They didn’t have any connections to any of the people I was connected to, but they infested my pages.

 

I didn’t know how they were doing it. I made sure that I had blocked their profiles the first time. I checked my blocked list and right at the top were the four boys. The exact same profile pics staring at me from the other side of the screen. I sat there lingering for far longer than I care to admit. It took me a little bit to convince myself they were actually bot accounts. An unusually aggressive set of bots that had real looking profiles and acted like a normal teen boy online. They were more advanced than I was accustomed too, but bots nonetheless. They were trying to get me to message back for some reason. I tried to block them again, skipping over Joshua again as I didn’t want to break the day dream I was holding onto with him. Again, it failed. They came back a lot quicker than last time. Hey… How’s it… Yo man… I tried several times to block them, to try to make them go away and leave me alone, but they just wouldn’t.

 

I looked into all of the anti-spam software and the services that were available. Some were ungodly expensive and I just couldn’t rationalize spending that much on a service I would cancel after this whole ordeal. Some were too broad and didn’t offer the features that I was looking for. The few services that seemed like the best matches at an affordable price, I didn’t want to use because they offered features that I could not turn off or opt out of once I subscribed. It would impact my indulgences. I was very tempted to subscribe while I was shopping, as the messages felt like I was waist deep, but I just couldn’t do it. The constant buzzing of my phone kept distracting me and the more I tried to focus, the more irritated I became. I tried blocking them again several times after that. It proved fruitless. The bot-boys would just come back and fall back into their routine. 

 

*Ding… Vrrt… Zzzt…* I could’t get away. The constant noises of my phone were getting to me. Every day that I endured, ensured that the thread of my sanity was tugged on just a tad bit further. It frayed the carefully woven normal persona I had created. I thought about just chucking my phone in a desolate alley several times, but I couldn’t. Like any other normal person, I needed it for work. If I went radio silent suddenly it would bring unwanted attention to me and it was still too tender for people to start looking. I was locked to it like a literal ball and chain. The sleek and simple screen with a chip in the left corner and a crack in the screen protector on the right hand side felt immense when it was on my person. I had become uncharacteristically jumpy. The constant barrage of messages were unrelenting. Hey… What’s up man… Been a long time since we texted… Hey man… Dude, we should talk…  It wasn’t so much the messages, but just the unyielding pressure they exuded. They felt like the rasping of locust wings, heralding a vengeful and faceless god coming to punish me for my sins. No matter how I tried to ignore them, reject them, block them, they were coming to infest my life. I would need to take the edge off sooner than usual if the messages didn’t stop or at least become manageable. I refused to message any bot back hoping that my impassiveness would disengage whatever coding they had, but it didn’t. 

 

It got to a point that as soon as I opened the dm, the bot would immediately come online and start texting something. The chat bubble would pop to life while I looked at the new message I had seen several times already. The bubble would bounce with the animation like the bot was already typing, but it would never send whatever message it had written while I was there. It felt like it was waiting for me to respond, as if I was fish nibbling on a hook before they would set the hook. I thought at the time that whatever these bots were made with were quite smart, they truly behaved like a person. A close facsimile of a real person. I was able to pick out a real person from the fantasies. But anyone who wasn’t as astute as I was, would have believed the act.  

 

At the time, I hadn’t paid too much attention to it, it was a relatively new company making its way into the public eye via commercial. The only reason I recall it now is because I tried to combat my jumpiness by watching tv. I didn’t typically watch it, but I used it to try and forget about my phone. I had originally thought their commercials were for a new erectile dysfunction pill or an old folks home. I only paid attention half of the time while the tv was on. “The Charon Company” with its blue and purple color scheme and simple white text for easy reading. The commercials depicted old people enjoying their lives, but noticeably slowing down, unable to keep up with their grandkids. Another scene showed a couple dancing and having a good time until one had to sit down because they hurt, but encouraged the other person to keep going while they hid a grimace. I would check my phone’s lock screen to see if anything actually important had come up before turning back to the tv. The people were suddenly doing the things they weren’t doing before. The logo would flash and then jump to the next commercial. The last thing for The Charon Company commercial would be a voice over saying something about staying connected with those that mattered and then it would be the next thing. But that doesn’t matter at the moment. I was trying almost everything that I could to distract myself from messages. I was slowly losing my mind. 

 

You know in the movies when they try torturing the person by purposely having a faucet just barely open to where there is a faint drip… drip… drip…? And no matter how hard they struggle, the person can’t close the valve or rip the faucet out of the god damn wall? Only when the captured are on the brink of insanity and total desperation, then the captors would finally relent. They would walk over to the faucet, turn the handle and stop the dripping in a matter of seconds. I was starting to beg that someone would turn off the faucet to my impending insanity. 

 

I had thought that I was mentally fortified, I had to be if I wanted to enjoy the things I did. I had painstakingly devoted myself to cultivating mental shields. I learned mantras to help cope with my addiction, secured my mind to take several beatings and still stand strong against the simple humdruming of humanity. To face the countless annoyances I endured on a day by day basis. I was wrong. The simplicity was as elegant as it was defeating. The unbroken and unforgiving pinging wore down my foundations. It eroded the once solid ground of my mental fortitude and chipped away at the barriers I held in place. I had no secondary measure, I was overly confident in my own abilities. The itch had been slowly increasing in frequency but with this new pressure that I faced, this assault on my consciousness rusted the bars of my true self that I kept contained most often. Now more than ever was too soon, it was still fresh. This is how the others had slipped, but I wouldn’t be like them. I refused. But fatigue was setting in. 

 

I worked from home and I lived alone. Any hope of reprieve from the harassment was immediately squashed. I tried to put my phone on silent mode. I enabled Do Not Disturb mode and tried to whitelist contacts that were able to message me. I changed all of my privacy settings, anything I could think of to drain this ever increasing swamp of dms. This was an odd sensation. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how I struggled, I could not shake free from the bot-boys! It was like I was ensnared in a trap and I couldn’t bite my leg off. I wondered if my other account was having the same issues, but I knew if I turned on the device, I would have to do something about the itch. I started to bite my nails unconsciously in response to the growing agitation. A new accidental habit. I don’t know when it started, I would just catch myself doing it. Some people did that in public and I could just tell that they were weak. Weak willed, low self confidence, a push-over that could be persuaded to do anything if you just showed the mildest of interest in them. I wasn’t weak. I would berate and insult myself under my breath if  I caught myself doing it. But the longer I endured the persecution of the bots, the worse my new pathetic habits would become. 

 

It got so bad I would bite the skin of fingers to the point I would bleed. That would momentarily make me less jumpy. The pain of ripped flesh and the rich iron smell of blood focused my mind. I tried to stop myself from biting as I was making my fingers sore. I tried utilizing new mantras and self-guided mediations. I tried negotiating with myself from tearing into my own flesh. It was embarrassing. I was embarrassing! The innocent persona that I had conjured was ripping at the seams literally and my true self was emerging. The itch was growing more painful and I knew if I didn’t get it handled now, I would become unstoppable in seeking out my addiction. I was a caged animal walking the edges of my enclosure in a failing zoo waiting for the moment when I could finally break free and roam. I savored the taste of freedom, of blood and those bot-boys called me forth. 

 

As the weeks turned into months, more bot-boys would come messaging me. Like moths to a light trap, they slowly flocked to my public profiles and started contributing to my madness.  I was getting messages so constantly that I developed a twitchy eye on top of my jumpiness and finger biting. I couldn’t focus and kept looking about the room I was in. I watched the shadows, expecting them to come out of the murky recesses and drag me in. My phone would light up, ding, exist and I would glance over to it several times a minute. I felt like the damn thing was going to get up and come after me! My computer was the same way. Any time I logged on, I would get a flood of notifications. I couldn’t concentrate on my work. I tried to silence all notifications but I ended up missing important messages and meetings. People started to ask if I was okay.  I lied and said that I would be taking some time for bereavement as a terrible accident had befallen my father. A classic that wouldn’t garner any unwanted questions. 

 

My father, a drunken feral monster constrained within the flesh suit of a human, beat the living shit out of me, choked me out several times, broke my ribs on a “good day” and tormented me in ways that I still don’t truly remember. His accident had happened several years ago at that point and still I remember feeling the pure joy of knowing he had died horribly. It pissed me off that it wasn't my doing. To get some sort of cosmic justice for all the pain and suffering he put me through. I question it ever once in a while, you know? If my father had actually been a person and not the creature it was, would I have been different? Would I have been a person too? It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. My problem then was trying to figure out how to stop the messages before going back to work. Having both my phone and computer going off constantly, I couldn’t take it. It was driving me closer to my addiction and insanity. I still tried to control the urges, but the ever growing fraying of my self control made it harder. I vitally needed to get away from my devices.  

 

The change caught me by surprise. It wasn’t an immediate shift in everyone. At first it was just a few outliers. Some of the bot-boys seemed like they actually wanted to talk to me, not some alter I had created. For some reason they had sought me out and were reaching out to me. That or I was starting to give them real personas, I can’t remember what had truly happened now. But they started to try and talk with me. Not just message me random greetings. Hey man… What’s up… How’s it… They started to actually press me. Hey Michael, what’s up? Sup my guy? How are you doing? Hey Mike, been a minute, how are you dude?? I didn’t need to be someone else, these boys were talking to me like I was a real person. Maybe I had got it wrong. Maybe I had been so guarded, so cautious that I convinced myself that everyone online wasn’t real. Like I wasn’t real.

 

I checked in on Joshua, the first bot-boy who messaged me. He was still sending his Hey man, how are you messages every couple of days between seven and nine in the morning. He would never be among them that changed. Zachary Miller, Alex Martinez, and Justin Thomas. They were the ones I started to talk with first. They became my boys. I sheepishly opened up Zachary Miller’s message first via Messenger. I was tired, I had just gotten out of the shower when my phone buzzed on the corner of the counter. I was expecting the usual bland greeting but I was totally surprised by his message. Hey man, how come you never respond? I’ve been trying to talk with you for weeks now. I examined the message history. He had been messaging me for weeks as he had said. In the beginning, his messages had been part of the onslaught of greetings that came my way, but as I scrolled back down from the top, the messages started to change. You could see the evolution happening. They started out generic “Hellos”, contributing to the ever growing tide that had fully submerged me. But then a word or two would sneak in, a phrase would show up one day and then be gone the next. It had finally transitioned to legitimate conversation starters almost. Like the bot was fighting through the digital aether. The program that bedeviled me could emulate speech, that was very clear. But I saw it become something else, something more haunting now that I realize. That day Zachary Miller the bot-boy had achieved a second life. I finally had scrolled all the way to the bottom, to the recent message and sat there a moment, looking at the screen. I could feel my stomach churning. Something about the message was wrong. I couldn’t tell you why then. It felt like a guillotine, the clever blade looming over my head had finally been triggered and my impending downfall but a short breath away. But I was too good, I was cautious. I would surely know when I was walking into my death as I was so intimately familiar with her. Or so I thought. As I was about to exit out of the message, Zachary had messaged. 

 

*Hello?? I can see you are online*

 

*Hello?*

 

I had done it. I had messaged back. But more importantly, I had taken the first step onto a path I knew I would not be getting off until I was satisfied. I couldn’t help it, not this time. I had resisted it for so long, pushed to the very edges of my own restraints, but that night I didn’t have it in me anymore. I had fought the rising tide that beat and battered me against the rocks of my own confinement for so long, my strength finally gave out. It was just too much. 

 

*There you are! I was expecting you to message sooner. How are you doing Mike? It has been a few years.*

 

*Years? what do you mean?

As you said, you have been trying to

reach me for a few weeks

Well... I'm here, what do you

want? How do you know me?*

 

*What do YOU mean? We were just talking the other day…

Maybe not? Idk, anyway, you had messaged me, we

started talking a lot and then one day it stopped. Everything.

Now I’m back and I wanted to seek you out. You never

know what life will throw at you, so stay connected with 

those that matter to you.*

 

*What the hell are you talking about?

I have never messaged you, I don’t even know

who you are!

What do you mean everything just stopped?

That doesn't make sense.

Why are you doing this? Why am I being

targeted?

How do I make it stop??*

 

But that was all Zachary said for the remainder of the night. I scrolled through the messages a few times to see if I missed anything. It was all the same. I risked clicking on his profile. I fought with the decision, debating if I should use the other phone, but I had already committed one of my cardinal sins. I was exhausted and the seal had been broken. There was no harm in looking at the profile on my normal phone. That is what a normal person would do right? They would look at who had just messaged them to see if they recognized them. As the profile loaded, the first thing I saw was Zachary had shared a post about Bad Bunny and how one of his songs just absolutely slapped. Below that was a repost of some half-hearted political post about how people needed to be kind to one another and that hate cannot divide us. The account I looked at had hundreds of friends, over 200, but his posts only got a few reactions that numbered in the single digits. His top friends all looked to be older, like they were in their early 20s to 50s now. At the time, I rationalized that they must be his cousins and family or something. Besides the message history, nothing stood out to me that this account wasn’t normal. I backed out of his profile and his messages. Something chilled me at that moment and I wanted no part. I set my phone down back on the counter, not realizing that I had been standing in place for awhile now, my damp hair had nearly dried. I stepped back slowly, a gentle ache in my legs reminded me that I was getting older. I limped back cautiously, looking up from my phone to examine the bathroom in the middle of the main hallway. I turned to peer down to  the living room and my work space on my left then to my bedroom on the right. I slinked against the wall holding my breath as I slowly turned left to right to left again. My anxious eyes tried to focus on every detail of my apartment and catch any possible movement. 

 

I felt surrounded suddenly, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. I was all alone in my empty apartment, my back against the wall and I was gasping for air. Whatever it was, had infested my home and was choking me like a noose. Suddenly frantic, my flight or fight responses kicked in and I got angry. 

 

“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” I shouted to no one, turning towards my living room. I rocketed off the wall and stomped down the hall to scare any would-be attackers. I clenched my fists into familiar deadly, blunt weapons as I let my rage grow! I didn’t care what was in the room, whatever it was, was not going to leave the apartment alive. 

 

“I’LL KILL YOU WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU!” I erupted forth, my fists up in front of my face. The single lamp in the corner bathed the space in a torch-like glow. My furniture was nearly pristine, my desk was still somewhat organized though I had become sloppier in recent weeks. Pens were scattered across my desk, several sticky notes were scattered about with the names of the bot-boys that had messaged me. A conspiracy corner I had created to recall how I knew them. To list out any and every possible connection. A collection of coffee cups and mugs littered my desktop while a fly lazily buzzed about. I turned to my right and looked over the breakfast bar into my simple kitchen. The shadows were worse on this side, but no one stood in the thin veil of darkness. My heart pounded. 

 

This was different. I wasn’t a scared person. I couldn’t be to enjoy what I liked, but this had me riled up. I was a bull, nostrils flaring, horns sharpened, looking for the illusionary matador to brutally gore. My fists stayed prepared, ready to swing wildly when I found the intruders. I checked under my table and chairs, looked under the couch and even checked the cabinets just in case. I was now pissed off. I had gotten excited at the possibility, but when I didn’t find my potential prey I sat down on my couch. I sat there in silence for several moments, calming down. The absence of noise blanketed me for just a moment, but it also amplified the hunger. I couldn’t go out that night, not at that moment. I would have made a mistake, and I couldn’t afford that. I sucked in air through my nose and breathed out of my mouth gently. I unclenched my fists a little more with each exhale. In and out. In and out. I had decided as I was coming out of it that I needed to indulge. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. Just as I was about to fully recover, my phone vibrated off the counter and slammed onto the floor. I jumped at the sudden crash in the other room. I realized what was happening. I was feeling truly frightened once again.

Three soft knocks.

Isma glowers down at the reflection in her cauldron. Centuries waft around her guest like butterflies, the woman's fingers rendered soft and ephemeral in the moonlight as they emerge from covered sleeves to knock again.

"Coming!" she calls, gesturing her cloak off of its rack and on to her shoulders. She flicks her wrist offhandedly as she descends the stairs, her various rings and accoutrements finding their places upon her fingers and hair. The last of these cinches itself onto her ankle as she lifts her familiar off of his favorite perch near the fireplace, and retrieves her key from his stash. He purrs in her ear.

"Anyone you know?" she asks his sleepy face. He yawns, and places a delicate paw on her nose.

"Hmm..." she places him back.

A warning, she thinks. But...a delicate one?

A new series of knocks resound, their timbre a touch more insistent.

"I'm coming! I'm coming!"

'Yes?", she opens the door to the smell of fresh mud - newly stirred in the wake of that afternoon's shower, blooming nightsickle, and...ozone? The forest and evening gloom shiver and whisper in greeting, but hush as her guest pulls back her hood.

Silver rivers of sleek waist-length tresses spill out into the moonlight, catching at the mild breeze and spellcraft ringing her home like ghostly banners. Towering, her smile is a knife in the dark, settled precariously on a face that dares the night to impose. Her eyes, storms. The frown that creases her forehead is an affront against nature.

"You..." the woman ventures, "Where is the proprietor of this sanctum?"

The lady's voice is a delight, even as her confusion scores something inside Isma's soul. Aware of the skew, Isma plants her feet and draws on the origin of her home, centering herself.

"I am the owner in residence," Isma resists the urge to fold her arms, "And you are?"

The woman turns her face momentarily to regard her environs. Isma takes the brief respite away from her gaze to draw in several almost forgotten breathes, rapidly settling a disenthrallment weave against her skin. The gaze returns, and Isma feels her efforts fray and flutter into the night, like cobwebs before a storm.

"You...are her blood. Her...granddaughter?" her guest asks.

Isma grits her teeth, almost quailing beneath the urge to answer. But her own question lies fallow by the wayside, and she will be thrice damned before she takes any rudeness from some wandering fae queen - or whatever the hell this lady is. She waits, trading stare for stare. The rings on her fingers sear into her skin.

"I am Dhaerhune," the reply finally comes. "Your ancestor was a...friend." The words are a balm, a peace offering, and Isma feels the runes around her home settling back into their dormancy. "I have journeyed far and long, hoping to meet a companion." Dark clouds glide behind her eyes. "It would seem I am decades late. Again."

Isma weighs her options briefly, before, "I guess that depends."

The frown returns across that immaculate forehead. "On what?"

"If it is an old companion you seek, I'm afraid granny joined the Long Road several summers ago. It was peaceful enough, as those sorts of things go. But, it would seem you were unaware of this development, and are newly bereft." Glaciers of sadness glimmer behind those beautiful orbs, her mouth presses into a firm line. Isma pushes the door wider with her hip, and gestures inside.

"My grief is an old scar," she offers, "But yours is new. I would be a poor host if I did not invite you in to compare wounds. Perhaps over a nice cup of grandma's old brew?"

Dhaerhune stares at her, at the well maintained photo hanging by the door and the familiar smile within. At the crackling beckoning warmth dancing on the walls beyond.

She steps in.

It's night.. rainy... To day my life were Terrible enough to felt numb... I have a fight with my best friend... work getting harder than it suppose to be.. i don't believe my self and I was standing in the shelter when the rain is dropping... So i mumbling about life.. i don't know it's lound or not?.. with my left hand holding my phone that dying (3% battery) i was about to cry and then..

"Oh.. little one.. , are thou didst not go home yet? tis was late... And storming thunder..."

"Excuse me?" I looked back behind seeing a woman stand behind me. She was wearing a cream-colored coat. Her long black hair was tied back neatly. Her eyes were amber. In her hand, she held a deep red umbrella.

"Beg you pardon.. my spoke was too old in tis Era.. So.. wanna walk to your home together? Little one ." She laughed softly while i just I stunned of her Cuteness .. , like i was seeing an angel being.. or my eyes just lying..

I didn't fall in love but with her , i feel calm.. that kinda awkward right?...

"Stop acting like a rock.. lead my the way to your house."

Then i realize i need to reply her

"Sorry?... But, have we met? And why "

I didn't finish sentence she immediately lay her finger on my lips and say

"Nay, we never met before little one... But just sending a young boy to his own house might not be that wrong right?"

And then.. ..she make me miss my passed mother.. i was living with my little brother and big brother.. ,so my tears start to drop, but i held it back.. so she just smiled and hold my hand.. and send me home . . . But how she knows the way while i didn't say anything?.. she didn't ask.. she didn't say anything... We pass the bakery..

she bought a pastry and split it half to give to me.

"Here, take it." She handed it to me woth smile so i just replied her..

"It's okay, thank you."

But you know what? ,

she just said..

"I bought a lot."

I looked at the pastry bag, which had only one piece left.

She glanced along with my eyes.

"...I bought enough to split in half."

I heard her stomach growling because of hunger..

"You're a terrible liar."

And then she just smug abd we walk along to the house... The rain start to be more harder than it suppose to be... So she shifted the umbrella to me while her shoulder getting wet

"Miss?.. your shoulder.."

"Mm.. i know"

"You need t-"

"No little one . . . You're tired enough for today don't you?"

So i just .. tilt my head down and thinking "

Here we are.. your house..

Oh! She kinda danger i think.. how did she know? ,then she give me her umbrella

"Thank you miss.. uh "

"Chi-yo-de"

"Oh uh thank you miss Chiyode..."

She walked away but idk why i start to asking her

"MISS CHIYODE! WHEN WILL WE MET AGAIN?!"

"some day little one.. or maybe not.. but i hope you found someone that kind like me" her face look beautiful like my mom as she looked back in rain.. but it's not her... It's miss chiyode... I was wondering.. but she just said

"little one.. keep trust your self.."

When i was going to sleep.. it's faster than any night.. it feel calm and i dreamed...

...In that dream, I saw her… beneath an enormous tree with white leaves. Countless red threads hung from its branches, swaying gently in the air. A woman dressed in white robes with delicate shades of pale gray stood beneath the tree, her back turned toward me… gazing at a golden thread that stretched beyond my sight.

Then, slowly, she began to turn around.

It was her... Chiyode... She didn't say anything.. but i didn't know my self that i ran to her... Im crying so hard... Hard enough that she pat my head and hum a song...i didn't say anything... But i think she understands... All, Everything... No words no sentence.. just a humble song from a person who have "Mother Behaviour" and then i fall sleep in her arm while she gave me ..The golden-threaded that she turn it into a charm I had seen earlier… She told me it belonged to me.. and then.. when I woke up my drying tears on my face. . . And my left hand holding the charm... I immediately know that she's real.. nobody's home today except me.. I tried to think about her.. but I don't know who she is.. I cannot even remember her face.. her voice.. her softed hand that hunting my pain... I did not remember anything... Even her name... But I feel calm.. that's weird.. but it's true.. I don't know why but.. I feel like everything is not that bad

.. I remember one thing from her... It is a word "trust yourself little one." After my brothers came back home seeing me happy... They asking me why but I just say I just happy because I was and I don't know why... But they just hug me because then it will be happy like this before.. is kind of weird... When are you as happy , right? But it is good they hug me.. but the problem.. my work my best friend wes waiting for me.. so I just fix it myself.. and it's pass.. like it is easy for me.. am I lucky? I don't think so...

[ Volume 1]

Sadegh Hedayat, Stories, The Water of Life

Once upon a time there was no one but God. There was a cobbler who had three sons: Hasani the hunchback, Hosseini the bald, and Ahmadak. His eldest son, Hasani, was a charm-writer and a street performer; his second son, Hosseini, was a jack-of-all-trades and master of none—sometimes he drew water from the pool or shoveled snow, and often he just wandered around. Ahmadak was the youngest of all, a good-for-nothing who was the darling of his father's heart. He worked as an apprentice in an herbalist's shop and at the end of each month brought his wages to his father. The older sons, who had no real work and were always stretching their hands out to their father, couldn't bear the sight of Ahmadak.

It happened by chance that a famine struck their city. One day the cobbler called his sons and said to them: "You know what, the truth of the matter is that my business isn't going well, and prices have gone up in the city. You've all grown up now, and Ahmadak, who is the youngest of you all, is—God bless him—fifteen years old. Give me your hands, go out and earn your daily bread, and each of you learn a trade. I'll manage somehow on my own here. If someday your work takes off and you do well, so much the better—let me know. Otherwise, come back and we'll share a bite of bread together."

"Yes, dear father!" the boys said.

The cobbler gave each of them a loaf of bread and a jug of water, kissed their faces, and sent them on their way.

The three brothers set off. As far as their eyes could see and their legs could carry them, they walked and walked until, tired and exhausted, they reached a crossroads. They went and sat under an elm tree to rest. Ahmadak, from sheer exhaustion, fell asleep and collapsed unconscious and unhearing under the tree. The older brothers, who were jealous of Ahmadak and thirsted for his blood, feared that since he was more capable than them, he would become a stumbling block in their path and ruin their prospects. They said to themselves: "How about we get rid of this one?"

They tied his arms tightly behind his back and dragged him to a long, dark cave and threw him in. No matter how much Ahmadak begged and pleaded, it was no use. They brought a large boulder and rolled it over the mouth of the cave. Then they smeared Ahmadak's shirt with pigeon blood and gave it to a caravan that was passing by, with instructions to deliver it to the cobbler and say that a wolf had torn Ahmadak apart. Then they went their way and at a three-way fork they drew lots—one of them went east and the other went west.

---

Now listen to what happened to Hasani with the hunch on his back. He walked and walked until all his water and bread ran out. At dusk he emerged from a forest and saw a blue flame in the distance. He went closer and saw it was a witch's hut. He greeted an old woman sitting there and said: "Granny! For the love of God, have mercy on me. I'm a stranger and have no one. Give me a place to stay tonight, for I'm about to collapse from hunger and thirst."

The old hag replied: "Who would take in a good-for-nothing loafer like you, hunchback? But my heart went out to you. If you do one thing for me, I'll keep you."

"Of course, I'll do anything you say," Hasani said eagerly.

"From the bottom of the dry well behind my house, a candle has fallen in. This candle has a blue flame and never goes out—bring it out."

The old woman gave him food and water, and then they went together. Behind the hut, she put Hasani in a basket and lowered him into the well. Hasani picked up the candle and signaled to the old woman to pull him up. The old woman pulled the rope, and just as he reached the mouth of the well, she reached out her hand to take the candle. Hasani—would you believe it—pulled back and said:

"No, not now. Let my feet touch the ground first, then I'll give you the candle."

The old woman, annoyed, let go of the rope, and Hasani tumbled down. But he wasn't hurt, and the candle was still burning. But why would Hasani care about his pain? He saw that he was going to die in this well. He fell into thought, and then took out his pipe from his pocket and said: "This is the last thing I have left!" He lit his pipe with the blue flame of the candle and took a few puffs. The well filled with smoke. Suddenly he saw a short black demon appear before him, hand on chest, and say:

"What is your command?"

Hasani replied: "Who are you? Are you a jinn, a fairy, or a human?"

"I am your humble servant."

"First help me get out, then I want money, wealth, and a life."

The demon carried Hasani on his shoulders and brought him out of the well, then said to him: "If you want money, wealth, and a life, this is the way: go until you reach a city, and your fortune will rise. But as much as you can, avoid the Water of Life!" And he pointed in a direction with his hand. Hasani got flustered, the candle slipped from his hand and fell back into the well. He looked and saw the demon had vanished, as if it had melted and sunk into the ground.

Hasani walked in the darkness along the path the demon had shown him. At dawn he reached a city by a river. He saw that all the people there were blind. He sat by the river, splashed a handful of water on his face, and drank a handful. He asked a blind man nearby:

"Uncle! Where is this place?"

He replied: "Don't you know? This is the country of Zarafshan."

Hasani said: "For the love of God, I'm a stranger, I've come from a far city, I have nowhere to go. Give me something to eat."

That man replied: "Nobody gives anything for free here. Give me a handful of the pebbles from this river, and I'll give you bread."

Hasani reached under the river sand and saw it was all gold dust. He was delighted, gave a handful to the man, got bread and ate it, and filled his pockets with gold dust and headed toward the city. As soon as he arrived, he saw it was a large city, but the whole city was built like a sheepfold, dome upon dome stacked on top of each other, and its people, being blind, lived either in crevices of caves or under these domes. Night and day were the same to them, and not a single lamp was lit in the entire city. Government notices and treatises were printed with raised letters on cardboard, and all the people, with frowning faces, dirty ill-fitting clothes, and swollen eyes, swarmed over each other like worms. He asked someone:

"Uncle! Why are the people here blind?"

That man replied: "This land's soil is mixed with gold, and its property is that it blinds the eyes. We are waiting for a prophet who is supposed to come and heal our eyes. Although we are all wealthy and prosperous, because we have no eyes, we wish we were beggars and could see the world. For this reason, we stay shamefully in a corner of our city."

Hasani—would you believe it—became greedy. He said to himself: "These people can be easily fooled and fleeced. Well, what's the harm?" He went up to the pulpit in the corner of the square and shouted: "So that I may become their prophet?"

"Hey people! Know that I am that same promised prophet and I have come from God to give you glad tidings. Since God wanted to test you, He deprived you of seeing this lowly world so that you could search more for the truth and the eye of truth would open in you. For self-knowledge is knowledge of God. The world is full of Satan's temptations and superstitions, as they say: the eye sees and the heart desires. So you who cannot see are free from Satan's temptation and live happily and contentedly and make peace with every hardship. So be patient and give thanks to God who has given you this great blessing! For this world is temporary and passing. But the next world is everlasting and eternal, and I have come to guide you."

People flocked to him in groups and submitted and surrendered. And Hasani, to advance his own work, every day gave elaborate speeches about jinns and fairies, the Day of Fifty Thousand Years, heaven and hell, fate and destiny, the pressure of the grave, and things of that sort, and his speeches were printed with raised letters on cardboard and distributed among the people. Before long, all the inhabitants of Zarafshan believed in him, and since previously the inhabitants had rebelled several times and wouldn't submit to gold-washing and wanted to be cured, Hasani the hunchback tamed and subjugated them all by this means, and through this, incredible profits accrued to the wealthy and the strongmen of that place. The fame of Hasani spread east and west, and soon he became one of the intimates and courtiers of the King of the Blind.

In the meantime, he arranged that all the people were forced to collect gold, and each person had a chain tied around their waist from their door to the riverbank. Before sunrise they rang the bell, and they went in groups and droves to wash gold, and at sunset they handed over their work and, groping along, grabbed the chain and returned to their homes. Their only entertainment was drinking arak and smoking opium, and since there was no one to cultivate and harvest the land, they bought their grain, opium, and arak from neighboring countries with gold. For this reason, the land lay barren and idle, and filth and disease rose from the people.

Although from the effect of the gold dust Hasani's eyes first became sore and then blind, he never tired of greedily collecting gold. Day by day his wealth increased and his property and means grew in the country of the blind, and in all the houses they had hung Hasani's portrait on the walls. Finally, Hasani was forced to put a pair of very beautiful artificial eyes on his eyes! But instead, he slept on a golden bed and they had made a golden plate for his hunch, and he drank wine from golden decanters and smoked opium with a golden opium pipe, and performed ablution with a golden hose, and every night they brought him a temporary wife, and he gave thanks to God that after all that misery and humiliation he had reached his wish.

His father and brothers and his former life and even the request his father had made of him all completely slipped from his memory, and he busied himself with pleasure and debauchery and showing off.

Let's leave Hasani here and see what happened to his bald brother Hosseini. Hosseini also set off, stumbling along the eastern road. He went and went until he reached a thicket. From exhaustion and fatigue, he lay down at the foot of a tree and fell asleep.

At dawn he heard three crows talking together above the tree. One of them said: "Sister, were you asleep?"

"No, I'm awake," said the second crow.

The third crow said: "Sister, what news do you have?"

The first crow replied: "Oh! If only humans knew what we know! The king of the country of Mahtaban has died because—"

"What, does he have no successor? Tomorrow they'll release the falcon again. Whoever this falcon lands on will become king."

The second crow: "Who do you think will become king?"

The first crow: "The man sleeping at the foot of this tree will become king. But on the condition that he slaughters a sheep over his head and enters the city. Then the falcon will come and sit on his head. At first, since they see he's a foreigner, they won't accept him, and they'll imprison him in a room. He must open the window, and then the falcon will come again through the window and sit on his head."

The third crow: "Poh! The king of the country of the deaf—"

The second crow: "Do you know what the cure for their deafness is?"

The third crow: "The Water of Life. But if they give the Water of Life to the people and their ears open, they won't submit to their masters anymore. They'll hang those they see on this tree! They want to cure the people's ears!"

Then they cawed and flew away.

Hosseini opened his eyes and saw two people hanged on the tree. From fear he got up and fled. On the way he caught a kid goat that had fallen behind the flock. He slaughtered it, took out its stomach, and put it over his head and continued on his way. At dusk he reached a large city. He saw there was a strange commotion and clamor. He was delighted and went and stood by a ruin at the edge of the city. Suddenly he saw a hunting falcon that had soared into the sky come down and sit on his head and grab his head in its claws.

People rushed toward him and cheered and lifted him up, but as soon as they realized he was a foreigner, they took him and threw him into a room and locked the door. Hosseini went and opened the window, and twice more the falcon soared and came through the window and sat on his head. The people rushed again and this time took him and seated him in a golden four-horse carriage and with pomp and ceremony brought him to a magnificent palace and washed his head and body in a very fine bath, dressed him in splendid clothes and heavy precious robes, then seated him on a jewel-encrusted throne and placed a crown on his head.

Hosseini was bursting with joy and looked around bewildered. Then a blind man in magnificent clothes came and kissed the ground and said:

"O Lord! May the Qibla of the world be in health! I offer congratulations on behalf of all those present!"

Hosseini straightened his chest and put on airs and said in a commanding voice: "Who are you?"

"May the Qibla of the world be in health! The people of this country are all deaf and mute, and I am a foreigner, a merchant from the country of Zarafshan, and I am tasked with conveying the congratulations to your presence."

"Where is this place?"

"This is called the country of Mahtaban," said the interpreter.

Hosseini said: "Go and make the people understand on my behalf and assure them that we have always been thinking of them and hope that under our shadow the means of their comfort will be provided."

"Sir, from your good intentions..." said the interpreter.

Hosseini cut him off: "Tell them to go about their business, and the gratuity is also cancelled. Did you hear? Tell them to prepare our dinner."

The blind merchant gestured to the steward, and everyone bowed and went out the door. The head steward came forward, bowed, and gestured to another room. Then he left quietly. Hosseini got up, yawned, smiled, and said to himself: "What a joke these fools have pulled! They think I'm their puppet! I'll make them pay through the nose!... What a treat!"

Then he entered a room where a long tablecloth had been spread the length of the room, and colorful dishes were arranged on it. Hosseini danced around the tablecloth with joy and hastily ate several kinds of food on top of each other, grabbed a turkey and bit into it, and downed several goblets of pressed yogurt, and went to his bed.

The next morning Hosseini woke up near noon and gave orders. All the ministers and nobles and court jesters and dignitaries and aristocrats and envoys and merchants lined up one after another, coming in groups and bowing and standing in a row along the wall and expressing humility and servitude with hand and eye and mouth movements. If there was an important matter or urgent decree they wanted to bring to the royal attention, they wrote it on the notebooks they carried with them and passed it by Hosseini, but since Hosseini was illiterate, he chose his right-hand minister and left-hand minister from the blind merchants of Zarafshan so they could convey the answer to him orally and then settle the matter among themselves.

To make a long story short, they put so much straw in Hosseini's saddle and exaggerated so much in flattery and servility toward him, and the sycophants and poets and scholars and jesters and courtiers put his tail in the plate and portrayed him as God's shadow and God on earth, that gradually he became arrogant. His belly grew fat and he lost himself and thought Aliabad was also a city, to the point that no one dared tell him: "There's an eyebrow above your eye." Then he started arresting and imprisoning people and with force of dungeon and patrol and guard he so terrified the people that they all became fed up. All the inhabitants of the country of Mahtaban were forced to cultivate and sow opium and smoke double-distilled arak, so that through this they would import gold from the country of Zarafshan and sell arak and opium in exchange, and Hosseini and his entourage would pocket the money.

In short, the people lived in poverty and destitution, and gradually the disease of blindness spread from Zarafshan to Mahtaban, and deafness traveled as a souvenir from Mahtaban to the country of Zarafshan. Hosseini's ears also became heavy and then deaf. But with several court jesters and sycophants and blind merchants who were his accomplices, he busied himself with plunder and pleasure. His father and brothers were completely forgotten, and he also forgot his father's request.

---

Let's leave Hosseini here and see what happened to Ahmadak. Let me tell you: Ahmadak had fallen unconscious and unhearing in the cave with his arms tied. Toward morning, when a faint light fell through the boulder into the cave, he suddenly noticed that someone was grabbing his arm and shaking it. He opened his eyes and saw a dervish with a long mustache standing over him. The dervish said: "How did you get here?" Ahmadak told him his story—how his father had sent them to earn their living and how his brothers had brought this calamity upon him. The dervish untied his arms and brought him food. Ahmadak ate and said to the dervish: "Well, now I want to go to my brothers and help them!"

The dervish replied: "The time hasn't come yet, because you'll foolishly reveal yourself and get caught. If you're serious, go to the country of Eternal Spring. Find the Water of Life so you can save all the unfortunate ones."

"Where is the way?" he asked.

"I'll show you. The Water of Life is behind Mount Qaf."

He took a reed flute from the corner of the cave and gave it to him, saying: "Keep this as a souvenir from me!" Ahmadak tucked it in his side, and they came out of the cave together. The dervish took him to a three-way fork and showed him the third road, which was very rocky and uneven. Ahmadak said goodbye and set off. He went and went, playing the reed flute along the way, and birds and animals gathered around him. Around noon he reached the foot of an old plane tree and said to himself: "Let me take a nap here and then continue!" He immediately lay down and went to sleep. After a while he was awakened by a rustling sound. He looked and saw above his head a dragon was climbing up the tree, and there was also a bird's nest in the tree.

As the dragon approached, the baby birds started wailing and crying, and he saw that the dragon wanted to eat them. He got up, picked up a boulder, and threw it at the dragon. The stone hit the dragon on the head, it fell to the ground and died on the spot.

Every year, the dragon's habit was that when the Simorgh laid eggs and the time came for its chicks to fly, it would come and eat them all. This year too it had come at the right time, but Ahmadak didn't let it do its work.

As soon as he killed the dragon, he went and lay down again and fell asleep. Then the Simorgh rose from the top of the mountain and brought something for its chicks to eat. It saw a person lying asleep at the foot of the tree. It flew back toward the mountain and placed a large boulder on its wing and brought it to strike the man's head. It thought to itself: "This must be the one who comes every year and takes my chicks! Surely this year he has come for the same purpose. I'll deal with him right now!"

As the Simorgh approached the nest, it was just aiming to drop the stone on Ahmadak's head, when the chicks immediately understood what their mother was thinking. They started wailing and flapping and crying out: "Mother! Stop! If it weren't for this man, the dragon would have eaten us!"

The Simorgh went and threw the stone further away.

When it returned, it first fed its chicks, then spread its wings like an umbrella and cast shade over Ahmadak's head so he could sleep comfortably. It was well past noon when Ahmadak woke up, and the Simorgh said to him:

"Young man, whatever you ask of me, I'll give you. Now tell me, where do you intend to go?"

"I want to go to the country of Eternal Spring."

"That's very far. Why are you going there?"

"To find the Water of Life so I can save my brothers."

"Ah, that's very hard. First, take one of my feathers and always keep it with you. If someday you need my help, find an excuse and go up to the roof and burn my feather, and I'll be there immediately and save you. Now come, sit on my wing."

The Simorgh landed on the ground, Ahmadak plucked a feather from its wing and hid it. Then he went and sat on the Simorgh's wings, and it rose into the air.

When the Simorgh placed Ahmadak on the ground, the sun was setting behind the peak of Mount Qaf. In the plain before him, a large city with magnificent gates was visible. The Simorgh said goodbye to him and left.

As far as the eye could see, there were gardens and orchards and greenery and settlements, and lively people could be seen busy with planting and harvesting. Or they were playing music and having fun. The animals there weren't afraid of humans. A deer grazed peacefully and a rabbit ate grass from people's hands, birds sang on the branches of trees. Fruit trees had embraced each other from every direction.

Ahmadak picked several of those juicy fruits and ate them. Then he went to a spring that bubbled from the ground. He splashed a handful of water on his face. His eyes became so sharp that he could see a falcon from a league away. He drank a handful of water and his ears became so keen that he could hear the sneeze of mosquitoes. He became so intoxicated and filled with life that he took out his reed flute and began to play. He saw a flock of sheep scattered on the mountainside gather around him, and a shepherd girl, like the rays of the sun that tell the moon "don't come out, for I have come out," with flowered braids and pearl teeth, came after the sheep. Ahmadak fell in love with the shepherd girl at a single glance—not one heart, but a hundred hearts. He asked her:

"Where is this place?"

"This is the country of Eternal Spring," the girl replied.

"I've come in search of the Water of Life. Where is its spring?"

The girl laughed and replied: "All the waters here are the Water of Life. This water doesn't have a special spring."

Ahmadak fell into thought and said: "I feel... like something has changed in me. Everything here is like being in a dream world... The things I see with my eyes I could never have believed."

The girl asked: "Where did you come from?"

Ahmadak told her his story from beginning to end and said he had come to take the Water of Life for his father and brothers. The girl felt sorry for him and said:

"Here the Water of Life doesn't have a special spring. Only in the country of the blind and the deaf have they given this name to the water here. But if your brothers don't have a sense of freedom, don't waste your time, because the Water of Life won't do them any good."

Ahmadak replied: "Maybe I've made a mistake. From what you say, I don't understand much. Everything here is like a dream world... And besides, I'm tired and exhausted and need to go to the city."

The girl said: "You're a good-hearted young man. If you'd like, our home is like your home."

"Your step is on my eyes! Please," Ahmadak's hostess said, and took him to her home and entrusted him to her mother. The girl's mother said: "Be our guest and rest."

Day by day Ahmadak's love for the shepherd girl grew, and he spent several days touring the city. Then idleness struck his heart. Finally he went to the girl's mother and said:

"I'm thinking of finding a job."

"What are you good at?"

"Nothing! I have two arms. Whatever you say."

"No, whatever work you want and can handle."

Ahmadak thought and said: "In my father's city I was an apprentice to an herbalist, and I know medicines."

The girl's mother replied: "Then a druggist down our street is looking for an apprentice. If you want, go work for him."

"Of course, what could be better?" Ahmadak said.

The girl's mother said: "Now that you're not a lazy young man and you work hard, from now on if you want, you can come live with us."

Ahmadak worked days at the druggist's and returned nights to the shepherd girl's house. Gradually he became literate and handled the druggist's customers, and his work improved, and he even learned carpentry and blacksmithing, because his father had advised him to learn a trade. Then he held a big wedding and married the shepherd girl, and lived a free and happy life with his wife and the friends he had newly made. But his only worry was that he didn't know what had become of his father and brothers, and he was always alert and asked every foreign traveler who entered the country of Eternal Spring, wanting to get news of his father and brothers, but his arrow always missed the mark. Until one day he became friendly with one of the blind customers of the druggist who had come from the country of Zarafshan and pumped him for information. The blind man told him:

"Don't talk nonsense. Bite your tongue. The one you're asking about isn't Hasani the hunchback—he's a prophet. It was last year that he came to the country of Zarafshan and performed miracles—that is, he saved all of us who were astray and suffering from the pain of blindness, and gave us comfort and promised us paradise and brought us out of this shame, and all the people wash gold for him with heart and soul. He preaches to us and guides us. Now I didn't come to have my eyes treated and I'm careful about the Water of Life here. Because I brought enough water from the country of Zarafshan with me. I only came to get a pair of artificial eyes." He pointed to a small bag hanging from his waist.

Ahmadak was startled and realized that the dervish's words had been true. He didn't say anything more and inquired from others and found out that Hosseini the bald was also in the country of Mahtaban busy plundering and murdering and looting its people, and greed for gold and worldly wealth had blinded and enslaved all these unfortunates. He felt sorry for his brothers and said to himself: "I must go and save them!" The druggist master came and he said to him: "It's been more than a year that I've been working under you and since I came to this country I've understood the meaning of life and freedom. I was illiterate and became literate, I was unskilled and learned several trades. I was blind and deaf and my eyes and ears opened here. I tasted the pleasure of breathing fresh air and working with fun here. But I made a promise—that is, my father made a request of me—and I must fulfill my pledge. So I want to ask for leave."

The master said: "That's nothing. Don't you know that the water here is what they call the Water of Life in the country of Zarafshan and Mahtaban? And it's the cure for their blindness and deafness? Take a canteen of this water with you and you'll heal them all. But the work you want to do is dangerous, because the blind and deaf are enemies of the land of Eternal Spring and thirst for the blood of its people. That's because we don't worship gold and silver and we live freely. But they, in their own imagination, can't be lords and masters except by keeping their people blind and deaf!"

Ahmadak replied: "I don't understand these things. I must go and save them."

The master said: "You're a clever young man. Maybe you can do it. In any case, I won't stand in your way." He kissed his face and Ahmadak said goodbye to his master. Then he went and kissed his wife and children and set off toward the country of Zarafshan.

He went and went until he reached the border of the country of Zarafshan. He saw several blind guards with armor and helmets and golden bows and arrows sitting together there smoking opium. From a distance they shouted: "Hey stranger, who are you and why have you come?"

Ahmadak replied: "I'm a servant of God and a gold merchant, and I've come to believe in the new religion."

One of the guards said: "Bravo! Blessed is the milk you drank! Your step is on our eyes!"

When Ahmadak reached the first city, he saw all the people were blind. Dirty and sick and poor, they sat by a river that had become deep because they had dug up its soil so much, and they were chained with golden chains to their homes, which were more like animal dens. With calloused hands and mud-stained arms, they washed gold from morning to night under the whips of guards who constantly kept watch. The land lay barren, birds had fled, trees had dried up. Their only entertainment was smoking opium and drinking arak. His heart ached for these people. He took out his reed flute and played a tune he had learned in the country of Eternal Spring. A large group gathered around him. They brought him bags full of gold dust and fell to the ground and prostrated. Ahmadak said to them: "I don't need your gold. Let me save you from the torment of blindness. I've come from the country of Eternal Spring and I've brought the Water of Life with me."

A commotion arose among them. Finally a group of them agreed. Ahmadak took out his canteen and rubbed the Water of Life on their eyes. They all became sighted. As soon as their eyes opened, they were horrified by the miserable state of their lives and began to oppose their wealthy and powerful masters. They tore off their chains, raised a clamor, and burned Hasani's speeches that had been published with raised letters. News reached the capital. Hasani and the king panicked. Hasani remembered the demon's words in the well: "Avoid the Water of Life!" He immediately ordered that all those who had become sighted, and especially that heretic atheist who had come from the country of Eternal Spring to mislead the people from the path of the world and religion, be captured and impaled and paraded around the city as a lesson to others.

In the streets and bazaars a crier announced that any true-born person who captured Ahmadak and handed him to the guards would receive five ashrafis!

It happened that the one who captured Ahmadak was a deaf slave-trader from the country of Mahtaban. As soon as he saw Ahmadak was a strong young man, he took pity on his youth, and then his greed overcame him, because he saw he could find a much better customer than five ashrafis. So he kept quiet, and the next day he took Ahmadak to the slave market to sell along with male and female slaves and black servants. Coincidentally, another deaf merchant from Mahtaban who was looking for a strong young man liked Ahmadak and bought him for twenty ashrafis, and the next day set off with a caravan toward the country of Mahtaban.

Along the way Ahmadak saw that the camel loads were full of skins of arak and opium pipes and golden chains being taken from the country of Mahtaban, until finally they entered the country of Mahtaban. When they reached the first city, Ahmadak saw that the inhabitants there were also unfortunate and poor, and the city was silent and desolate, and all the people were suffering from deafness and muteness, and a group of deaf and blind and foolish wealthy and masters were eating the fruits of their labor. Everywhere were poppy fields, and smoke rose day and night from the chimneys of arak distilleries. There were no books there, no newspapers, no music, no freedom. Birds had fled from this land, and a bunch of deaf and mute people swarmed over each other and writhed under the whips and boots of their own executioners. Ahmadak's heart ached. He took out his reed flute and played a sad song. He saw everyone looking at him in amazement. Only a thin, dying camel came and listened to his music.

Ahmadak felt sorry for these people and gave the Water of Life to a few of them to drink. Their ears became hearing and their tongues were unlocked, and their heads and ears came alive. They threw the loads of gold into the river, and that same night they set fire to several arak distilleries and trampled the opium fields.

When the news reached the capital, Hosseini the bald flew into a rage and ordered Ahmadak's arrest, and guards and patrols poured into the city, and before long they captured Ahmadak and put him in chains and fetters, and it was decided to impale him and parade him through the streets and bazaars as a lesson to others.

Ahmadak sat in a corner of the dark, gloomy dungeon, bewildered at his plight. Suddenly the door opened and two guards brought him food with a burning oil lamp. Ahmadak remembered that he had the Simorgh's feather with him. He said to the two guards: "Uncle jailer"—who was deaf—"I know that tonight they'll kill me, so at least let me go up to the roof and say my prayers and repent." The jailer didn't understand. Finally he made him understand, and the jailer went ahead and took him to the roof. Ahmadak took out the Simorgh's feather and set it alight with the oil lamp, and suddenly the sky thundered and the earth shook, and amid clouds and smoke a great bird came and placed Ahmadak on its wing and flew off toward Mount Qaf.

The people of the country of Mahtaban were left bewildered. Immediately a courier set off and brought this news to the capital. When Hosseini heard this news, he was so furious that if they had stabbed him with a knife, blood wouldn't have come out. He realized that all these disturbances had come from the country of Eternal Spring, and that this country, in addition to having abolished the gold trade, was also sabotaging its neighbors, and worst of all, it wanted to open the eyes and ears of his subjects! He remembered the words of the three crows who had said that if he wanted to rule, he must avoid the Water of Life, and now from the country of Eternal Spring they were bringing the Water of Life as a souvenir for his subjects. For this reason he raised the banner of rebellion against the country of Eternal Spring and secretly made a pact and alliance with the country of Zarafshan, and they busied themselves making spears and maces and daggers and swords and golden bows and arrows, and reviewed their troops.

Hasani the hunchback also in the country of Zarafshan gave fiery speeches against the country of Eternal Spring and invited the people to war with them. Finally he declared jihad. Hosseini the bald also that same day became furious like a tower of venom and put on red clothes and issued a war proclamation with this content: "We have always wanted peace and well-being for the people, but for a long time the country of Eternal Spring has been poking its finger in the milk and making our people look like fools. For example, last year they threw a stone's throw of the Water of Life from their border into our country. The year before, a piece of cloud came from the peak of Mount Qaf and rained the Water of Life, and a group of people's eyes and ears opened and they became insolent, but they got what they deserved. The mouse doesn't bother the threshing floor, the threshing floor bothers the mouse! This year they sent Ahmadak to us. So smoke rises from the stump! The country of Eternal Spring has always been an enemy of money—apparently it's our bosom friend, but secretly it's scheming. It wants to open the eyes and ears of the subjects and disrupt the peace and harmony of the world. We and the country of Zarafshan, who are neighbors and old friends, must eliminate the seeds of these troublemakers and annihilate the enemies of gold. Long live blindness and deafness, which open the way to paradise and eternal life for the people and pleasure and debauchery for us, and it is our duty to destroy the enemies of gold!"

Hosseini had sealed this decree with his fingertip.

According to this decree and Hasani's declaration of jihad, the country of Mahtaban and the country of Zarafshan launched a night attack on the country of Eternal Spring, and the army of the blind and deaf began to gallop and raid from every direction.

But these two countries, so that their troops wouldn't drink the Water of Life or splash it on their faces and have their eyes and ears opened, made preparations and agreed that in the cities where they campaigned, they would immediately build water reservoirs and fill them with the stinking wastewater from gold-washing, and give it to their troops to drink, and each soldier would carry a handful of that water with him and guard it like the glass of his life, and if he lost his water skin, he would be immediately killed for the crime of having drunk the Water of Life.

The country of Eternal Spring, which was sitting unaware of everything, and whose neighbors' envoys had until yesterday been boasting of friendship and camaraderie with them, was startled and hastily prepared an army and sent it to the front. The blind and deaf army poured like locusts into the cities of Eternal Spring and killed and looted and plundered and carried off the soil of the cities in sacks, and forcibly gave opium and arak and gold to the people, and took captives as slaves to their own cities.

Ahmadak also took his bow and arrows and went to war and lay in ambush. The blind and deaf commanders sat in pairs, embracing each other, so that the deaf could see for the blind and the blind could hear for the deaf. Ahmadak aimed and shot arrows at their water skins, and then with several of his friends at night destroyed their water reservoirs, despite the blind and deaf guards watching from the towers and ramparts, and all the water they had brought for their troops was wasted.

The war dragged on and became so fierce that blood flowed and wouldn't stop. But since the weapons of the country of Zarafshan and Mahtaban couldn't withstand the steel weapons of the country of Eternal Spring, their army fell apart, and especially since their water reservoirs were destroyed and their water was wasted, their army was forced to drink the Water of Life of Eternal Spring, and their eyes and ears opened, and they became aware of their miserable lives, and suddenly realized that until now they had been puppets of a bunch of blind and deaf and foolish money-worshippers and had never tasted life and freedom. They tore off their own chains, killed the heads of their army, and shook hands with the people of the country of Eternal Spring in unity. Then they returned to their own cities and dealt with Hasani the hunchback and Hosseini the bald and all their own executioners who had created this shameful life for them, and were freed from the misery and enslavement of gold.

Ahmadak also this time went with his wife and children to his father and rubbed the Water of Life on his eyes, which had gone blind from weeping in separation from him. His eyes opened, and they lived happily and well.

Just as they reached their wish, may you also reach your wish!

Our story has come to an end, the crow didn't reach its nest!

The End

A farmer was singing in his farm while looking at the sky, watching the light of the stars paint the night, the full moon there shining in all it's pale beauty, when suddenly a noise, something big walking at the farm field, he runs to check, his shotgun ready when he sees a werewolf, dark brown fur, sharp claws, he aim the gun at the beast face, but it doesn't react, it's just there, looking at him, the farmer is ready to shoot, but his eyes catch something, that look on the beast face, he could recognise it from anywhere, it was someone he knew, he once loved and cared about, the remaining of clothes covering the werewolf body, looked like her clothes, the ones he learned to love, he couldn't do it, he lowered the gun, and the beast, walked away without making a single damage to anything.

At the next full moon, the werewolf came again, not doing anything at all, just coming by, rolling on the ground a bit and then walking away, the farmer was so confused, why now, why here, it's been so long since he last saw his once loved in human form, so long since the last time they talked, so long since the last time they argued, why was she coming back, from that day this cicle repeat itself at every full moon, allways visiting but never staying, allways stopping there but never doing anything at all even with the farmer efforts to connect with the creature, until one night when the werewolf stayed longer, even let the farmer touch her fur, maybe things were working, maybe this means progress, just maybe.

At the next morning when the farmer woke up, chicken were missing, while other were dead, bite marks, wolf marks, the farmer was angry, and even scared, what was that, a trade, she gave him a cute moment and took him his chicken, after a week of paranoia the farmer decided to forget about it, she was probably just hungry, was probably just a one time thing, more full moons passed, no more troubles but also no more touches, until a night, when the farmer got to the creature, getting closer he saw it, blood, on the werewolf lips, wasn't of any of his animals, but was still blood, looking at the creatures eyes he saw the same gentle and tender look he allways saw on her, but he knew what he really needed to do.

At the next morning he went to town, only one thing in mind, getting a silver bullet, he couldn't believe what he was planning to do, once was done he would never see his once loved again, he would lost her once and for all, but what else he could do, what other farms has she attacked, what other types of suffering she was living under this curse, he knew the way out of this suffering, at the next full moon, he was ready, not even a sound in the farm, like the night shared his sadness, he stod there holding the gun, waiting

The psychiatrist came to patient #289's room and she brought the chair in front of her and she sat. She said "The last patient of the day and I am free." She set her camera with a tripod in front of her on table and switched on the camera and said "This is Doctor Amy and this is patient #289. She has been here for the past several months and due to her behavior, she will be moved to the special quarter with those special ones.

This is her last day in this room and once she is moved there, a different psychiatrist will be assigned to her".

She got out her notebooks from her bag, took out a pen, opened her notebook and started to write and before writing she asked the patient " Hello Sara, for these several months we have spoken about so many things but you never told me what happened on the 4th of April?".

As she finished her sentence, Sara got furious and started to scream and scratch the walls behind her. Dr Amy said "Sara it's ok you are in deep pain and telling me will release the pain. Your behaviour never changed since you have been admitted here. Is there something you are not willing to tell me to tell? Say it, Sara I am here to help you."

Sara stopped scratching and started to say "For months I was wondering how I should tell others but maybe I have to tell the story so I can make you understand.

Date 4th April it was and we were a team who was told to investigate an abandoned mall. Dank and I and Nick were private police investigators. In the month of February, there were missing people cases near the abandoned mall in Botown street far from our actual city.

Dank drove us there and as we reached, we started our investigation and it led to the abandoned mall. The mall looked old and consisted of empty stores and there was a gross smell as if the mall was closed for a long time. As we headed inside, we found more evidence which led to an underground basement.

We head down the stairs and it was a rusted hallway with machines kept beside us. There was an exit door and as we opened the door , we were in a big hallway and as we were walking the hallway seemed to be expanding more and more.

We saw a fallen board in front of us as we were walking and we saw it was written ' Welcome to the backrooms!'.

I never believed it to be true but as I saw the board I got scared. As we took one more step ahead , Dank and I looked behind and Nick wasn't there and then in that moment itself, Nick's body fell from above piece by piece and after seeing it , we both ran ahead as fast as possible.

As we were walking, we were opening and closing multiple doors , breaking random windows , walking in infinite swimming pools and finally we took a breaths and we stopped for a while. We were taking heavy breath and we were in a children's park.

We saw a torn cloth material on the floor and i collected it as evidence. We heard children laughing and enjoying but as we were walking, we didn't see any children. As we were walking, I told dank " It's better not to stop anywhere. This place is not safe for us and the worst part is the faces were scratched off the posters. It's hard to find them here ".

We stopped again and it was a town with colourful houses and cars . Felt like a happy town but I knew it was fake . Our phones never worked there and we never understood what happened to Nick . Dank said " This place seems so simple but yet feels like a puzzle .

I don't want to be stuck here forever but without those missing people we cannot leave this place either ". As he finished his sentence, a piano from the sky fell on him and crushed him into pieces . I screamed with everything I had in my voice as he was crushed , his blood splashed on my face .

I started to run again and now I was running through gardens , houses and stations . Then suddenly someone called my name from behind and as I looked back , my head hit with something and I fell down unconsciously.

Dr Amy said "Then we got a call that there is a person who is acting weird and we saw you in the middle of the road . I remember when we took you in you were acting very weird and we were scared if you would attack us . But you are not the only one we found come with me I will take you directly to the special quarters". As she said it , she took sara with her to the special quarters .

After reaching there, Dr Amy said " We found not only you but them too " and she pointed at the special advanced ward prison type rooms and Sara saw five children caged together one by one in each room . Dr Amy said "You know after what you said , the location do exists but there is no mall instead there is a grocery supermarket. Should I consider what you told the truth or lie?".

Sara said " Did you find any bodies ? I need that answer only if not I am ready to be here with the children in those special cells". Dr Amy said "Nothing but I can assure you what you had was schizophrenia or visual hallucinations. I don't know but better to put you in these cells ".

The security guard in front of them came , handcuffed Sara and took her to the special quarters. Before she was about to enter the cell she said with an angry grunt " Dr Amy you didn't believe me so you may suffer in silence " after saying it she entered her cell and she knew that for the rest of her life she will never know the answer .

Evan is dead.  I never liked Evan.  He was a little shit.  I’m surprised he lived this long, to be honest.  I assumed he’d have died in a crack den years ago.

At school, he was a naughty little boy.  Always mouthing off to teachers, not doing his work, playing truant, casual bullying, disrupting lessons.    It was obvious to everyone that he would never amount to anything.  He was gleeful in his wasted opportunities.   He was not one of the charming kids, who played loose with the rules but got away with it by having a great personality.  Nor was he a social reject.  He had friends, mostly other casual troublemakers.  None of them got expelled, but usually had detention.  They usually played football at break time.  Most kids thought Evan was alright.  I didn’t. And Evan always acted so superior, looking down on me, mocking me for doing my work and keeping to myself, the stupid little shit.

I did things the ‘right’ way.  I worked hard in school, never got in trouble I was a serious kid, brought up to believe if you work hard at school, you’ll get a good job.  Evan did not share this belief.  I had few to no friends and I never understood how anyone could tolerate Evan. I could never stand football.  We were practically polar opposites.  

One of the best things about moving through the years of secondary school was having fewer mixed-ability classes as we progressed.  That meant I saw less of that stupid, ignorant Evan and his friends.  Evan left school as soon as he was legally allowed to.  I sometimes saw him around town for a couple of years.  I have no idea what he did next.  He still seemed to be a little shit.  I left the town and moved on with my life, never returning.  My parents and I were never close, I had no friends, no ties to the community.  There was no reason for me to stay in that deadbeat town.  Only the Evans stayed.  Stupid little shits.

I continued to work hard.  I got an undergrad degree while I worked menial jobs.  I got a scholarship for a master’s degree. I continued to work menial jobs for years before finally getting a professional role.  I got professional registration and earned a doctorate. I still struggled to make friends.  My phone rarely rang, texts and emails were rarely personal and when they happened, it was someone I’d only met in the past year or two.  Certainly never anyone from school, or university courses.  

Sometimes I’m bored at night and reminisce about my youth.  It has been over thirty years since I left school.  Since I last saw Evan.  I got it into my head to look up my old school and see what my old classmates had gotten up to.  Why?  I didn’t particularly enjoy school.  There were people I quite liked.  People I would have liked to have been a friend to.  Maybe I feel some sort of kinship with them, we were never friends but we were at the start of our lives together.  Middle age is a time of reflection.  Maybe a time of regret.  

I searched a few search terms relating to my school, looking for photos from when I was there.  It was an old school, with paintings of headmasters and photos of Edwardian pupils being the first page of results.  Mostly from local history archives and newspaper results.  Recent photos were plentiful - some of my old teachers were still working there.  A photo of Evan was on the third page of results. Thirty years had thinned Evan’s stupid chubby face, but it was clearly him.  Stupid little shit I thought to myself.  I saw what website the photo was on.  A funeral director’s social media feed.  Ha!  I thought.  He’s dead. Serves him right.  Even as I thought it, I felt something indistinct and uneasy. I read the post.  He died after a short illness.  He was the only child of two parents, still alive and grieving.  They’d loved him.  He’d been such a little shit, but they loved him. He did nothing right, I thought to myself.  He never made anything of himself.  My eyes kept returning to the words on the post. Beloved son.  A stream of replies followed the post.  Outpourings of grief, disbelief, shock, sadness, and sympathy for his parents.  So sad, such a loss said one.  I’m thinking of you said another.  I can’t believe it, sending hugs to his parents said another.  Most names I didn’t recognise.  Some I did.  

Evan’s parents loved him.  People he met over the years cared about him. School classmates kept in touch with him over the years.  Seeing this grief laid bare in front of me…  a sense of sadness washed over me even as I felt a glee that he had died.  An empathy for those who were struggling with the loss of a loved one, combined with cognitive dissonance of how someone who was such a little shit could be so loved.  But it had been 30 years.  I don’t like that my first reaction was gleeful, not regret that he’d passed.  I don’t want to be someone who revels in other’s suffering and loss.  Maybe Evan had always been loved. Maybe he had changed and grown as a person.  Maybe I hadn’t. 

Dammit Evan, you stupid little shit. People loved you, why did you go and die? 

If you like what you see or don't then help a brother out and let me know. And thank you for evening coming up to the story in the first place.

Years ago, during the Edo Period, Japan was home to two distinct races. The humans, the dominant species of the earth tasked to rule over all the others, and then there were the yokais, supernatural spirits and entities that came in all sorts of forms, ranging from animals to objects to things even beyond one's imagination. For many years, the yokais lived in the shadows, allowing the humans to roam the earth as they pleased in peace. That was until one yokai was consumed by rage, disgusted that such a "WEAK" race had more freedom in the land than them. The yokai formed a gathering and began their attack on humanity, starting with Edo, with no signs of being defeated, but that was until another yokai who refused to stand idly by with his power and let innocents die and his kind stain their reputation for generations to come. After a brutal battle, the yokai defeated the tyrant who had started it all and banished him to a realm he couldn't possibly escape. Unfortunately, the victory was not without tragic losses. From that day on, the yokai made it his life mission to stop anyone who, in admiration of the chaos, would go down the same path as the tyrant, while teaching his fellow yokais and leading them down his path to continue his mission for years to come. The yokai went by many names, but by far, its most popular was…THE GHOST OF EDO.

Now, in current-day Tokyo, it's nighttime at a large compound lit up with yellow lights all over the place. A five-floored mansion with a helicopter on top is resting in the center of the compound with pools, buildings, a variety of cars, and men with guns in SWAT team gear littered all around it.

Inside the mansion, a chubby bald man in a white suit is seated at a small bar with a drink in hand, sweating uncontrollably. A guard walks in on him.

"Sir, the chopper team said they're ready to move." Guard

"Oh, okay, just…give me a minute." The man

The guard nods and walks away.

On the roof above the bar, a group of guards is gathered, looking around. The lights on the roof suddenly go off.

"The hell?" Guard #1

"What just happened?" Guard #2

"I think the power went out." Guard #3

"Yeah…I know the power went out, I mean, HOW?" Guard #2

"Then why not say HOW?" Guard#3

"Because people will know what I mean." Guard#2

"I didn't know what you meant." Guard #4

"He didn't know what you meant." Guard #3

"Are you guys deadass right now?!" Guard #2

"Will you guys shut up and focus! This could be a problem!" Guard #1

A creak echoes around them. They all aim their guns in different directions.

"The hell was that?!" Guard #5

They all begin to thread slowly around the roof, taking glances in every direction. A guard stands in a spot and continues to look around. Suddenly, green eyes spawn in the shadows behind him. The guard gets dragged into the shadows immediately.

"AHH!!!" Guard #1

The other guards turn in the direction of the scream.

"THE HELL?!!" Guard #2

A giant ball-like silhouette zooms past them, vanishing with two guards. The two remaining guards quickly turn around.

"SHIT! Quick, call for backup!" Guard #4

"O-Okay!" Guard #5

Two long and slender arms slithers in from the shadows and begins tickling one of the guards' armpits. The guard bursts out laughing.

"STOP! STOP! THAT TICKLES! HAAAAAAA!!" Guard #5

The arms immediately yank the guard into the shadows. The last guard quickly turns around, panting uncontrollably.

"HEY! WHO ARE YOU?! SHOW YOURSELF!" Guard #4

"Done," A voice from behind

The guard quickly turns around. His eyes widen as he stands face to face with creature-shaped silhouettes of different shapes and sizes standing before him. The guard's legs shake uncontrollably. He drops to the ground.

"W-What…...are y-you?" Guard #4

"We're aliens…and we want your banana! COMPRENDE!?" The lizard-looking silhouette

"W-WHAT?!!" Guard #4

They all leap at him, smashing him through the roof. They all come crashing into the bar of the building. The man in the bar tumbles off his seat as a group of guards with guns rush into the bar, aiming at the cloud of dust. A guard helps the man up.

"Are you okay, sir?" Guard

As the dust clears, the man's eyes begin to widen.

"It's them…" Man

The dust finally clears, revealing the four creatures standing above a guard's body.

A brown hawk with arms, a green bandana around his forehead, a green belt around his waist, and green bandages on his forearms and legs.

A giant white bear with a white shell around his torso, a red bandana around his forehead, red bandages on his hands and feet, red spikes going down his back, and a kanji that says FAMILY going down his front belly.

A tall orange cat with no tail, two blue gems in its palms, a yellow bandana around its forehead, a yellow utility belt around its waist, yellow gauntlets, and yellow soleless boots.

And finally, a short blue lizard with black spikes going down her back, a pink bandana around her forehead, pink bandages all over her arms and legs, and a pink belt tied around her waist.

"IT'S THE GHOSTS!" Man

"You bet your mama's .tushy it's us!" The Hawk

"Now turn yourself in or imma hav'ta shove MY FIST up your…" The Bear

"Whoa! Hold the sprinkles, beef cake. What are you doing?!" The Hawk

"Uh…. Threatening the bad guy?" The Bear

"Oh yeah? Well, what was I doing?" The Hawk

"What's the problem here? I thought we were doing it together?" The Bear

"WE?! WHO'S WE?!! You speak French now?!" The Bear

"I can speak Spanish!" The Lizard

"That's beautiful information. Who asked?" The Hawk

"Don't you think you're being a lil' too salty for not finishing your sentence, Hiro?" The Bear

"I'm the leader of this operation, Tadano! And as the leader of this operation, all first threats come from me." Hiro

"Oh yeah?! Well, Tadano's the older brother, so HA!" The Bear

"Oh yeah?! Well, I ate the most fish! HA!" The Lizard

"What does that have to do with anything?!" Tadano

"What does what have to do with anything?" The Lizard

Tadano buries his face in his hand and sighs. The cat chuckles while shaking his head

"Oh, ye of brainless arguments" The Cat

"Who you calling brainless?!" Tadano

"Those who cannot see the best option for a threat before them, I'm afraid. A mere gadget pull is all it takes. The Cat

The creatures all continue to argue amongst themselves as the guards look at them with raised brows.

"THE HELL ARE YOU IDIOTS WAITING FOR?! KILL THEM!!" The man

The man dashes off as the guards begin to shoot at them. Tadano quickly shields the others from the bullets with his shell.

"Hey, how about we call a truce and take out all the stress on the bad guys?" Tadano

They all look at each other.

"Sure," Hiro

"Fine by me," The Cat

"Cuenta conmigo" The Lizard

Hiro immediately leaps into the air, pulls out an egg, and flings it at the guards. It explodes into green flames, sending some of them flying and stopping the shooting. Hiro then leaps at one of them, knees his head into the wall, catc¡hes a punch from another, twists, karate chops his neck, tosses him into another guard, catches another punch from a guard, snaps his arm, then palm strikes his head into the wall.

"MIKO, CATCH!" Hiro

Hiro spins the guard around and flings him into the air.

"GRACIAS!" The Lizard

Miko leaps into the air, above the flying guard, springs her arms at him like grappling lines, catching him, yanks herself over and smashes her leg across his throat, sending him diving down and crashing onto another guard. Miko lands on the guards.

"NOODLES FOR THE WHOLE FAMILIA!" Miko

Miko elongates her arms into whips, leaps at a guard, thwacks him in the face with an arm, wraps an arm around another, flings him into the next guard, flips into the lashes guard's head into the ground, leaps over a punch and lands on the guard's arm.

"NOPE!" Miko

Miko then flips into the air, stretches her arms at the guard, catching him by his shoulders, yanks him into the air, somersaults with him in hand, and smashes him into the ground.

"TADANO, AQUÍ!" Miko

Miko spins the guard around and flings him towards Tadano. Tadano turns to the incoming guard, smirks deviously, rolls up into a large ball of spikes, and launches at him, bashing him away and sending him crashing into the wall. Tadano, soaring above some guards, unfolds.

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!" Tadano

Tadano plummets down, crushes a guard with his body, flips onto his feet, slaps a guard away, punches another into the ground, catches one by the face, and spins around, knocking down some guards.

"SHIRO, GO LONG!" Tadano

Tadano flings the guard towards the cat.

"FINALLY!" Shiro

Shiro springs at the guard, knees him in the face, and lands in front of a bunch of guards. With a devious grin, he stretches out his open palms. The gems in his palms burst out blue energy, and the energy twists and weaves into two energy swords.

"BEHOL,D! The result of HIGH-LEVEL INGENUITY!" Shiro

Shiro dashes forward, spins around, slashing down some guards, joins his blades into a double-edged sword, spins it side to side, deflecting a barrage of bullets, spins around, and hur saidls the staff, sending it flying across the room as a spinning energy saw, and slashing down the remaining of the guards. The swords fly back into Shiro's hand and despawns.

"C'mon, family! We got bigger fish to fry!" Hiro

The Ghosts run off from the scene. Within moments, they barge through a door, arriving on the roof of the mansion only to find a helicopter fleeing from the scene. The man from earlier sticks his head out of the helicopter and laughs at them.

"Damn it! He's getting away!" Tadano

"LATER, FREAKS! OH! AND I LEFT A BOMB DOWNSTAIRS JUST FOR YOU!! HAAAAA!" The man

"A bomb?! What does mean by a bomb?!!" Tadano

"Maybe its ballon with firecrackers in it," Miko

"What?!" Tadano

"Yeah, you're right- too predictable. Ballon with BUNCH of fish is more like it and DELICIOSO" Miko

"Shiro, REPORT!" Hiro

Shiro pulls out a blocky yellow phone with an antenna sticking out of it.

"Okay, I've got good news and bad news. Bad news is the yakuza boss wasn't lying; there is a bomb on the bottom floor," Shiro

"Sweet mother of daddy's left testicle. What's the good news?" Hiro

"My Bomb Detector three thousand is up and ready to win Daddy another NOBEL PRIZE!" Shiro

The others look at him with low brows.

"…In a prosperous future for yokais, of course," Shiro

Tadano smacks Shiro's head.

"OW!" Shiro

"We have to defuse that bomb," Hiro

"But we can't let the calvo ge,t away," Miko

Hiro strokes his chin and grunts. He snaps his fingers.

"Listen up, men! Shiro, I need that bomb defused, and I need it defused YESTERDAY!" Hiro

"That's…not scientifically possible…" Shiro

"DON'T GIVE ME THAT! Get a move on! DOUBLE TIME! Miko, follow him, cover his back!" Hiro

Miko salutes

"SI, SENIOR!" Miko

Miko shoves Shiro off the roof and leaps after him.

"Tadano, I need you to go long at twelve o'clock, ready to catch!" Hiro

Tadano looks into his phone.

"But it's twelve o two…" Tadano

"Make it work," Hiro

"Okay…what are you gonna do?" Tadano

"Me?" Hiro

Hiro looks into the distance with his chest out and his bandana flowing in the wind.

"I'm going flying," Hiro

"…. you…. don't have wings" Tadano

"No one likes a soiled boxer, Tadano." Hiro

Meanwhile, in a room, a beeping cylindrical device the size of a water hydron is in the center, surrounded by three-armed guards. One of the guards itches his head.

"I'm sorry, why are we guarding a ticking time bomb?" Guard #1

"To get paid obviously…" Guard #2

"Oh yeah! Silly me," Guard #1

The door to the room flies off its hinges and crashes into one of the guards. Miko and Shiro spring into the room in combat stances.

"Did anyone order a Knuckles sandwich?" Miko

"…. No…I ordered a bowl of miso soup. I thought I was clear over the phone." Guard #1

"Well, lucky for you…" Miko

Miko pulls out a bowl of soup.

"…I do have miso soup," Miko

"Oh, nice, I really thought you…" Guard #1

Miko throws the soup on the guard.

"HOLY SHIT! SHE LIED IT'S HOT BROCCOLI STEW!!!" Guard #1

The guard collapses. Miko then stretches out her arms, grabs the last guard, and yanks herself over, drop-kicking him into a wall. The guard collapses on his knees, then drops to the ground. Miko immediately looks to the entrance.

"Rapido, Shiro! Who more guards may be on their way!" Miko

Shiro walks up to the bomb, chuckling.

"Fear not, sister. For in your presence, you have an intellect who was capable of disarming a C-Ten in one minute, forty-two seconds. Just so you know, that's faster than the individual who is recorded in the world record. I can handle this no…..." Shiro

Shiro sees a big red button on top of the bomb that says DEFUSE. Shiro's smile slowly fades from his face.

"Huh?" Shiro

Meanwhile, Hiro is bolting and leaping from building to building, only a few miles from the helicopter.

"ALMOST THERE!" Hiro

Hiro leaps off a building, goes over the street, latches onto a wall with his claws, leaps onto the building, and continues sprinting.

"COME ON, SOLDIER! DOUBLE TIME!" Hiro

Hiro pulls out an egg, tosses it ahead onto the ground, leaps into the air, and double-stomps down on the egg. The egg explodes, launching Hiro at the helicopter like a brown missile with green flames bursting from it. Hiro stretches out his hands and catches the helicopter by the railings.

"Who said I can't fly!" Hiro

Hiro swings back, then swings forth into the helicopter. The guards and the man gasp.

"You're coming with us, bowling ball!" Hiro

Two of the guards aim at Hiro with their guns. Hiro quickly grabs both their guns, yanks them out of their hands, and flings them away.

"No, thanks!" Hiro

Hiro punches a guard in the throat and karate chops the other in the throat. Both guards slump over, unconscious. Hiro then grabs the man and jacks him off his seat. Hiro pulls out an egg and looks at the pilot.

"Keep the change!" Hiro

Hiro flings the egg his way and leaps out of the helicopter with the man. The h,elicopter explodes into green flames as Hiro and the man fall to the city.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" The man

Meanwhile, Tadano lands onto a building and looks up to the sky, his ear twitches at an echoing scream. He turns around, sighting Hiro and the man falling to their doom. Tadano's eye.s lock onto them. Tadano then immediately rolls up into a ball, launches off the building towards Hiro and the man. Tadano unfolds and hugs both of them.

"Told you could make it work, make it work!" Hiro

"HANG ON!!!" Tadano

Tadano rolls up into a ball and plummets down like a meteor, crashing down into a parking lot, exploding into a cloud of dust and sending multiple cars flying in different directions.

The dust slowly clears, exposing Tadano in ball form at the center of a wide yet shallow crater. He unfolds, releasing Hiro and the man. The man groans softly with his eyes all white.

"Nice work, soldier," Hiro

"No prob!" Tadano

"Now come on! We need to regroup with others, PRONTO!" Hiro

"Right" Tadano

Meanwhile, back at the mansion, Miko is dodging and whipping the guards, sweating intensely. and panting.

"Uh…... Hermano, how's the bomb going?" Miko

Shiro is leaning on a wall with folded arms and a sad look on his face.

"We have fifty-two seconds remaining," Shiro

"WHAT??!! DUDE, I CAN'T KEEP GOING I NEED A HAND AND…." Miko

"Miko, can I ask you something?" Shiro

"I DON'T THINK THIS IS A GOOD TIME FOR…!" Miko

"Am I really that smart…so smart that th saide universe and its children don't even bother to give me a challenge anymore, or is it that the human race has devolved to brain deadness on a universal scale?" Shiro

"SHIRO, PLEASE JUST…!" Miko

"I mean, a DEFUSE BUTTON ON A BOMB!!?? Dear Lord, how far have we fallen from grace? How are WE made in your image and likeness?" Shiro

"SHIRO, JUST PUSH…!!" Miko

"Yeah, I guess that's how far we've fallen, and I need to accept it." Shiro

"SHIRO!!!" Miko

"Yeah, you're right. As long as I get praise, who cares?" Shiro

Shiro taps the button, and the bomb stops beeping with only nine seconds left on the clock.

"Thank you, Miko. I really needed that talk" Shiro

Shiro turns around. His eyes widen at the sight of Miko with all sorts of cuts and bruises all over her body, standing in the midst of multiple unconscious guards. Shiro lets out a nervous chuckle as Miko looks at him with narrowed eyes.

"…. I'm sorry," Shiro

"Denegado" Miko

Miko walks out of the room. Shiro lets out a sigh.

"That's understandable," Shiro

Shiro walks out after her.

An hour later, the sound of sirens echoed through the skies as hundreds of police cruisers surround the compound and as hundreds of officers march in and out of the compound with guards and their boss in cuffs. The Ghosts are seated on a nearby building, looking at the scene with smiles on their faces.

"Ah…. the bad guys are going back to jail where they belong. It's never not satisfying," Tadano

"Sí" Miko

"Agreed," Shiro

"Come on, soldiers. We did well today; I say we've earned ourselves some well-deserved fried fish!" Hiro

"YEAH!" Miko

"I'll say!" Shiro

"I'm starving!" Tadano

"Last person home is dirty robe!" Miko

Miko dashes off. Hiro dashes after her. Shiro dashes off after him.

"HEY, NO FAIR!" Tadano

Tadano rolls up into a ball and bolts after them.

"YOU GUYS ARE SUCH CHEATERS!" Tadano

"WHATEVER DIRTY ROBE!" Miko

All of them laugh in unison as they run and leap into Tokyo—their responsibility… their home.

THE END.

A moment after swallowing and stopping myself from explaining that Ozone Park isn’t “the bottom of the barrel,” I answer that it’s just another neighborhood in the New York area. When my partner’s father asks me where it is, I tell him it’s somewhere between Brooklyn and JFK. Brooklyn, my points of reference in life and in general; JFK, a place he knows in the New York area, his points of reference in life and in general—I don’t know yet. We don’t really know each other. I’ve plucked the answer out of thin air, and I won’t know whether it’s entirely accurate. Not long afterward, I’ll check and discover that I was right: that’s roughly where Ozone Park is. Between Brooklyn and JFK.

Its people are probably ordinary and pleasant, just as my parents are ordinary and pleasant; the apartment towers that come into view after Stamford along I-95 are not where the world ends, but where it begins. I feel no contempt for a community because it differs from mine, yet I will do everything in my power to point out those differences, to draw distinctions between them and me, to study those distinctions and explain to myself, first and foremost, why they bother me. In many ways, this is the way I find the world most interesting to experience.

Around the table at the Shavuot gathering in a small Catskills town, I’ll sit with my partner’s family and one young woman: the much younger girlfriend of my partner’s younger brother. She’s the one for whom Ozone Park is the bottom of the barrel, and who paid tuition to attend high school. After someone explains the special feeder kindergarten designed to funnel five-year-olds into the prestigious Modern Orthodox day school she attended—a school I’d already known several of whose alumnae quite well, and therefore felt I knew her quite well, too—my partner’s mother asks me, in the name of sacred balance, where I went to school. Did I go to school in Brooklyn? Did I attend high school in Brooklyn? Yes, and yes, and that’s more or less where the story ends. Not because I came from the bottom of the barrel, but because I came from another place in the metro area, west of JFK, west of Ozone Park.

There was no tuition bill attached to learning civics from a man who presented himself as Senator Joe Lieberman’s right-hand man—or, at the very least, his legislative aide. Nor was there one attached to teaching an English teacher what the slang word “shrink” means. There was no community, no havruta, no accelerated pipeline into Harvard’s computer science program or the White House press corps. And yet, perhaps for those whose cards fell just right, certain years—ordinary years on an ordinary calendar—can be dressed up in an almost mythical setting reserved for people like you. Moments in those very years when you could think back to 1997 and wonder: What did that sweet past feel like? And answer yourself now, in the present: the way it feels to think, in 2026, about 2009, and 2010, and 2011.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the soundtrack of the past few weeks has been full of Tegan and Sara, Guns N’ Roses, Incubus. Memories run around in circles, gathering at indistinct moments: wandering between old apartment complexes and newer developments, then into tower-filled neighborhoods that seemed to represent the pinnacle of urban aesthetics, and that years later you would describe as the pinnacle of ugliness; a social life distilled into late-night hangouts on traffic islands, eating peanut-butter puffs and listening to Sara Bareilles. Eventually, you’ll tell a close friend from that period, as the two of you discuss how naturally you seemed to have found your way in the world, only once you went off to college: “We didn’t grow up in Manhattan, but we knew how to speak a language we didn’t know was a language.”

In the morning, you’ll read a poem by Moiz Ben Harash about his father, who “didn’t smoke until he was twenty-five, and then, to do business, began smoking two packs a day.” Moiz Ben Harash publishes in the books and culture pages of a newspaper for thinking people—the newspaper for thinking people, all of them, including Modern Orthodox Jews. He’s a status symbol of intellectual life and perhaps of ethnic belonging, too, and in that capacity he cuts across communities. Did anyone besides me, in this house where I’m a guest, read Ben Harash's poem? It doesn’t seem so, because the charming story about how my partner’s mother arrived at his Army swearing-in ceremony with matzo spread with avocado is told without interruption, so different from the other mothers with their chicken cutlets. Generations of plain old American mothers have should know this: they’re plain American, and bringing hot food to an Army swearing-in ceremony is, apparently, something common people do.

Perhaps an even more common thing is to print out two full pages of text on letter-size paper: a summary of a podcast by a food writer about “the Jewish mind” and its influence on world cuisine. The first traders in vanilla, cacao, and coffee, I discover, were Jews. A kind of culinary pride, ostensibly, in the home of the thinking people, but really pride in what amounts to commerce; amusing anecdotes for the holiday gathering, an “activity” between the main course and dessert. (The dessert wasn’t cheesecake. Was cheesecake common, too?)

Perhaps activities are necessary when people don’t really talk to one another, when it seems there’s nothing to talk about. Perhaps activities are necessary when you grow up in a tight-knit circle, when you pay tuition to inhabit an echo chamber. Perhaps a community requires an activity of its own. When my partner’s younger sister asks in our direction, “What did you get your master’s in?” my instinctive assumption is that she means me. Before I can say that I don’t have a master’s degree, my partner has already understood that she means him. He answers that he studied cultural studies at Columbia. When I ask him how his sister doesn’t know what he studied in college, he shrugs.

Then comes the kugel. Two kinds. Potato, which you won’t taste, and noodle, which will be sweet and spicy, and you’ll be polite. The kugel is served at the home of the grandfather and grandmother you’ll all go to together. You’ll “go up” to their house, more accurately, on a veritable “pilgrimage,” as though it were a place of worship. You, in particular, will go up with three cigarette butts in your back pocket, because you smoked them in secret and couldn’t throw them away without being seen. You’ll worry that your pants reek of tar, as though that would make the habit any more respectable or stylish.

By now, you know that you know how to speak a language, and you know that it’s a language. When your partner’s grandfather, the staunch Modern Orthodox Republican, tells you about the three times he read Jane Sherron de Hart’s biography of Ruth Bader Ginsburg—marking pages, writing notes, highlighting especially infuriating passages in yellow—don’t argue with him about politics. Tell him immediately that you’ve read another book by Jane Sherron de Hart. Your partner’s grandmother’s eyes, which have already asked where you grew up (Brooklyn) and what you do for a living (law—just don’t tell Grandpa; he doesn’t like lawyers), will light up. She has a particularly detailed story to tell about Jane Sherron de Hart.

You know quite a bit about Jane Sherron de Hart yourself. The grandmother will forget the name of de Hart’s hometown, and you’ll know to remind her that it is Bryson City, North Carolina. You also know who Arlen Specter was, at whose funeral Grandpa met a senator and asked him why the biblical phrase “love your neighbor as yourself” had been omitted from the Bill of Rights. You also know how to argue that a “neighbor” isn’t the same as a “person,” and that a “person” isn’t necessarily a “neighbor.” You know when to fall silent as the argument turns theological. All this time, sitting beside you will be your future sister-in-law, who attended the finest Jewish day school in the country and for whom Ozone Park is the bottom of the barrel, maintaining a deafening silence.

After the kugel, the future great-grandfather of your children will ask you to come out into the garden with him so he can show you an apple tree, a blueberry bush, and tomato seeds he has arranged on a paper towel like soldiers in formation. You’re a gay man from Brooklyn; he’s a good friend, a friend like a brother, of Congressman Arlen Specter. When you say goodbye, he’ll ask to show you one last thing. They’ll all tell him they’re in a hurry to get home. You’ll want to turn back immediately and go with him to look at whatever it surely is—a jar of pickles. Maybe even ask him for a hug.

An hour later, you’ll be sitting in hiding in the backyard, smoking the fourth and fifth cigarettes alongside your partner. You’ll tell him that if it had been a jar of pickles, if it had been just one more seedling, you could have waited. You’ll tell him that seeing his grandfather’s tomato seeds three times a year is not an unbearable burden. You’ll ask him: How many more years does he have left to show you these things? You’ll think about community, and remind him: “Community.” You’ll think about the havruta, and remind him: “Havruta.” You won’t understand why the gentle tone you’ve maintained turns into a series of accusations. He’s eighty-five. You’ll think about your own father—“perhaps I learned everything from him.”

First | Previous

By Corbett Buchly

As he fell away from their ship the Farside, Vince Bosch kicked the door of the pod. He knew they shouldn’t have agreed to transport that damn energy gift! He told the Captain it was a bad idea. The payoff had been too good to pass up, she’d said. She was still in debt, trying to pay off theFarside. She didn’t want to lose Vince, she’d said, but she’d understand if he hadn’t stayed signed on for the trip. Like an idiot, he did anyway.

When it was all said and done, Shardi Wendt was a good boss. She trusted him enough to do his job, and that’s all he wanted. She didn’t ask a lot of personal questions. Which is how he liked it. His personal life was an absolute mess, and no one else needed to know anything about it.

His girlfriend had warned him a dozen times she’d move out if he kept going on these long trips. She had finally made good on her promise right before he’d set off this last time and left him. Which was a mess in and of itself, as they’d owned the home together. Of course, having his fugitive sister stay with them for a year hadn’t helped things either. His sister was in and out of trouble with the law. She’d gone into high-end thievery like it was a career calling. Apparently, she was very good at it. But the detectives that had been investigating her case almost caught up with her six months ago, so she had taken off again to god knew where. He thought that would have cooled things with the girlfriend. Clearly not.

And now, if he ever made it back home, he had no one to come home to. Maybe he’d try to patch things up with his girlfriend. Or maybe he’d take up a hobby. Maybe he’d refurbish an old junk ship, one of the retro models with no FTL drive.

When the primary chutes deployed, his attention snapped back to the present. How had he got here, anyway? He knew the ship had been running in top-top condition. He’d made sure of that. It had to be the cargo. He couldn’t be sure the rich kid had fooled with it, but he had a strong inkling. He couldn’t stand rich kids. Or rich adults, for that matter.

The ambassador may have seemed polite and generous, but he could see beneath her fake exterior. He could see the expense and care in the fine clothes she wore. He saw how she raised her pinky finger when she sipped wine, even if it was from a liquid pouch. Politicians pretended to care for the less fortunate, but he’d been around enough to know it was all show.

After the secondary chutes deployed, Vince started mentally preparing for what he’d do after landing. He didn’t need to check the gear. He had stowed it himself at the beginning of the trip and done an inventory check just last week.

When the pod struck earth, he already had his left hand on the release latch. His right hand held his energy weapon, ready for hostile forces. He opened the pod door and stood up, looking quickly around, assessing his surroundings.

His pod had landed in a broad field with wisps of yellowish grass at his feet. In the far distance, on all sides, he made out some kind of taller, tree-like growth. No potential hostiles, or other life forms, visible.

Vince holstered his energy weapon and took out the flare gun, sending a flare directly above him.Where were the others?

He waited fifteen minutes for an answering signal but saw none. We’re scattered, he realized. Without electronics in the pods, there would have been no way to calculate the convergence point. He considered how fast they’d been moving. It’s possible that he and the captain were closeto one another, but the passengers might be hundreds of miles away. The fact that there had been no answering flare indicated to him there was no one nearby at all. This was bad.

He took measurements of the sun and moon, so he could plot his movement. But trying to find the others was a needle in a haystack situation. He looked down at the angle of his pod on the ground and tried to judge the direction he had fallen and where the captain’s pod might have fallen. He had not heard her pod release, so he guessed he had released first.

He carefully loaded up the shoulder pack with all the supplies he could carry. Grateful that the standard compass appeared to function on Joora, he plotted his azimuth and set off, hoping against hope he could find either someone he knew or a peaceful, civilized settlement with access to a global communication network.

#

Vince walked for days on end and camped in short stints. The strange wildlife kept out of his way, and he wondered if he wouldn’t be hunting the creatures after a few more weeks. He wondered if his digestive system could even process them into viable nutrition. He certainly did not want to find out.

On the twelfth day, he encountered a new form of vine-like ground cover. As it compacted easily under his boots, he didn’t think anything of it, until one strand pressed into his shin and its hidden barbs stabbed through his jumpsuit and into his flesh. Feeling an immediate burning sensation, he stopped in his tracks and looked down at the vine embedded in his leg. “This is something new,” he grunted.

Setting down his pack, he pulled out a pair of thick, protective gloves and put them on. Gripping the vine on both sides of his leg, he began to pry it away from his leg. The barbs must have extended farther into his flesh, for the sturdy, stringy vine stayed burrowed into his leg. Vince wasn’t much of a wilderness type, but he had certainly never seen anything like it. But as the burning sensation increased, he knew he needed to figure out something quickly. The barbs must have some kind of toxin, he guessed.

Withtheshearson his multi-tool, he managed to cut the vine away, leaving only the head of three embedded barbs. Carrying his pack, he slowly moved away and out of the cluster of ground vines.

Back on safe ground, he sat down and peeled his pant leg back from the barbs. The skin around each barb was inflamed and swollen. With a pair of pliers, he tugged slowly on one of the barbs. He could feel it tearing, but even when he pulled as hard as he could, the barb stayed fixed inside his leg.

Tears began to stream quietly down his cheeks. The pain was intense. “Okay, you bastards,” he grunted. He took his blast torch, dialed it down to minimum, held it a couple of inches from his skin and aimed it directly at the first barb.

He shook his head. He knew it would hurt, and it might not even do the trick. After hesitating for a good minute, he finally ignited the torch. The flame stabbed out and cooked both barb and flesh in a few fast seconds.

“Auuugh!” he yelled and dropped the torch to the ground. He gritted his teeth, and tried to slow his rapid breathing. Slowly, he looked back down at the wound. Both the barb and his flesh were black where he’d burnt them, and something yellow oozed out from around the barb. The scent of burnt flesh stung his nostrils. He clutched at his pack with one hand, as he wiped away the ooze with the a cloth. Then he poured disinfectant over the barb, crying out unintelligibly.

“Just two more to go,” he growled.

#

Vince found very quickly that he needed a crutch to keep moving. A few hours after his operation, the pain in his leg had lessened but still persisted. He fashioned a crutch from a stiff branch of green cellulose he hacked from the side of one of the strange trees.

Two days later, he moved more slowly than ever. He had taken on a fever, which he was fighting with antibiotics and anti-fever meds. Still sweat leaked from every pore.

So, it wasn’t until he was surrounded that he realizedanyone had approached. He drew his energy pistol as quickly as he could in his fevered state. All around him were human-like faces. But their four limbs radiated out insect-like from their central torso.

“Don’t come any closer!” he tried to yell, but his voice came out in a hollow rasp.

Several of the Joorians near him began chattering in an indecipherable language of clicks, clacks and guttural tones. They appeared to be angry with him

“Back up!” he gasped. “Back up.” He swung his pistol from side to side, threateningly.

“Put down that weapon or we attack,” said a halting voice from the rear of the pack.

“I … I … how do I know you won’t attack anyway,” Vince said. He was so, so tired. But he wouldn’t just give up to these strange creatures. Not without a fight.

“Are you with the Reyans?” the voice asked, slowly moving toward him.

“I … I don’t know what you’re saying. What’s a Reyan?”

“Did the Reyans send you? Answer!” the voice said. The speaker pushed through the others to confront him. Unlike the others, this one had yellow and red threads worked through her hair.

“No! No! Back up!” Vince growled. He waved his pistol again. “All of you!”

The one who had spoken did not speak in English again. She made a few sharp sounds, then raised her hand. Vince saw then that she held a short double-tipped spear.

Oh god,he thought,this is it. This is how I die.

“Wait! Wait!” yelled another voice farther away. “Dokshi stop!”

“We not wait. He threaten!”

“Dokshi! Just wait!” And then Vince saw her, towering on her two feet above the Joorians, racing toward them. She reached them, and put her hands on her knees, breathing hard. “Vince. Just lower your weapon for godsakes.”

Vince slowly lowered his weapon. “Ambassador?” She looked so different from when he had last seen her. Her hair was pulled tightly against her scalp, with many colorful threads braided into her dark hair. Her face was burnt by the sun. There were dark circles under her eyes. And she had changed from her flowing gown to a standard-issue jumpsuit.

“Yes. It’s me. God. I’m glad to see you. To see anyone.”

The Joorian spoke again. “He with you?”

“Yes,” Helena said, standing up again. “Yes. Dokshi, this is Vince. Vince, Dokshi.”

“Oh, hi,” Vince said, then crumpled to the ground, rendered unconscious at last from the fever.

“Oh no!” Helena cried and kneeled beside him. It was then that she noticed the exposed leg, blackened and oozing pus. “That’s horrible. You see? Can you help him?”

“Maybe,” said the Joorian. “He stung by the Wadda plant. Very bad.”

As four Joorians lifted Vince onto their backs and began to carry him up into the village, Helena shook her head. “He must have been traveling like that his whole time.” She knew it was a miracle he had even foundthem.

While she watched Vince and his entourage disappear from her sight over one of the bridges, she heard a large contingent of Joorians skitter past her. She turned to watch them. Each of them armed, they moved swiftly in a tight pack. They had been drilling like that ever since she had arrived.

She had yet to see one of these Reyans and wondered if they were even real.

In the healing hut, a Joorian doctor extracted the three barbs from Vince’s shin with a delicate, multi-jointed tool. If Vince had been awake, he very well may have fainted from the pain of the extraction. Next, the doctor smearedathick and pungent brown paste into the wound.

Vince dreamed he was back home with his girlfriend. As the soft glow of evening slipped in through the windows, they dined on potatoes and fish alongside their dinner guests, a family of spider people.

They call me Freezer Bitch. They say it in the lunchrooms. They say it in the hall. But they don’t say it in here. They don’t say it when they’re in my twelve hundred square feet of banked cell lines and samples. Well, except for Patrick, but he’s different. He doesn’t need me like they do.

Yeah, I’m Freezer Bitch. And I’d rather be a freezer bitch than a basic bitch any day.

They think they’re better—fancy—with their growing cells and their pipettes and their lab benches with windows. But if something goes wrong with their incubators or their biosafety cabinets get contaminated, what gets lost? A day of work? Maybe a week? Two at most.

But my freezers—if my freezers go down, if any one of those compressors quits for more than an hour—Ncodyne is sunk. Entire teams here lose years of progress. These freezers each hold millions of dollars of invested effort. Maybe billions of dollars in potential future value.

And I’m it. I’m the bulwark standing between that calamity and a future of cancer cures.

So those guys and gals from Onco Cell Biology can stick their pipettes where the sun don’t shine. I’m more important.

Even with their fancy PhDs and all the money they make, I know I have the most important job, because Mr. Bigelow said so when he was walking through with the board members and investors. All of them in their suits and leather shoes with white soles. When they walked in, I had Andrew Ice Clay open and was checking a few vials of modified prostate cancer cells out of the freezer. Chelsea from Onco Cell Bio needed them for an experiment that day. The freezers look really cool when they’re open. All white frost with fog spilling out. And I had a bucket of dry ice with me, too. It must have looked like a scene from a science fiction movie. One of the investors, a tall, thin woman in a gray pantsuit, said she hadn’t expected to find a portal to Antarctica, complete with a polar bear, deep in the middle of the Ncodyne building. I figure she was making a joke about me; I’m a pretty big guy in a white lab coat. But that’s okay, because Mr. Bigelow put her right in her place.

I’ll never forget his smile or his words. He said, “Geoffrey here has the most critical role in the entire company. He makes sure that our most precious resources—the CRISPR-modified cancer cells—stay safe.”

Patrick heard it, too. He was mopping the floor nearby when the group came through. But Patrick tells the story a little differently. I don’t think he has the best memory.

That was the last time Mr. Bigelow came down here. But I see him in his office sometimes when I leave. He stays late, too. He’s even nodded at me through the glass when I’ve walked by. I think he’s a great CEO. A visionary, really. It takes a special person to see the big picture like he does—to understand how important my life’s work is here with these freezers.

That’s why I can’t understand why Dr. Zhang won’t let me repair Big Ben. Dr. Zhang keeps telling me we don’t have the budget for it, but I’m sure if he’d just tell Mr. Bigelow we need it, we’d get the go-ahead to spend the money on a new compressor. But Dr. Zhang doesn’t even seem to believe anything is wrong with Ben. He says Ben’s keeping temperature just fine. I know something’s off, though. When I open him up to check new cell lines and tumor samples in, it takes him a little longer to get back down to minus 80. It used to take about four minutes after I opened him. Now I think it’s about six minutes.

And then there’s the sound. Ben’s compressor used to hum a D note. The evaporator fan runs a G. And the condenser fan is a B-flat. Ben used to sing a constant G-minor chord. It was sad, but it was his song. Now the compressor sounds like G-sharp. It’s noise now. I don’t understand how Dr. Zhang can’t hear it. He says they all sound the same.

Dr. Zhang is a pretty good guy, but he doesn’t know freezers. And he doesn’t know what I’m doing.

When Ben started acting funny five weeks ago, I was having a hard time leaving the lab. If Ben broke down—all of his contents. It takes me thirty-two minutes to get here if I’m driving five miles per hour over the speed limit. And I wouldn’t get a phone call from the alarm company until Ben’s temperature went up to minus 60. Add ten minutes to get dressed and get in my car, and Ben might be up to minus 50 before I could get back to move everything to our backup freezer.

She’s a good one, a Thermo TSX. Top of the line. She hasn’t told me her name yet, but she will soon, because I’m working with her. It can take a little while, but they eventually let me know.

I’ve been moving the vials from Big Ben to her. She likes it. I have to be careful, though, because each time I open her up, her temperature climbs a lot. That’s because she isn’t full yet, so all the cold air falls out of her when the door opens. She has to work pretty hard to get back to minus 80, but I trust her. She sounds right, even when she’s compressing hard. Dr. Zhang doesn’t know, but I’m eighty-two percent done transferring everything. He’ll be glad I did it when Ben goes down.

It’s finally getting easier for me to go home every night again, knowing the samples are safer. It will be the biggest relief when the entire contents have been transferred. I bet I can get it done tomorrow.

*****

“Good morning, Geoffrey,” Dr. Zhang says, peering at me over green horn-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing his fleece Ncodyne vest. “You’re in a little less early than usual today. I’m almost glad to see it.”

Feeling unusually light, I return his smile and lift my cup of caffeine and sugar. “Yeah, I stopped for a coffee on my way in.”

“Good, good,” he says. “Are you starting to relax a little about the big freezer? Big Ben, is it?”

Is he taunting me? I study his face. No, I think it’s a genuine question. So I answer him genuinely.

“I wouldn’t say I’m feeling better about Ben, but I’ve got things in the freezer room under control. The samples are safer.”

“Well, good. Thank you for your vigilance.” He nods as he moves toward his office. “I know you’ve been keeping a close eye on it.”

“Thanks, Dr. Zhang.” I listen to the noises echoing down the hall from the freezer room—there’s that ugly G-sharp. “But Big Ben still needs a new compressor, sir.”

“A few months to the new year, Geoffrey. I’m building it into next year’s budget. In the meantime—”

But I’m not hearing him anymore. There’s something else I’m listening for.

I turn my head a little.

Ben’s there. Andrew Ice Clay’s there. Chilly Nelson. Morgan Freezeman. They’re in there. But underneath them there should be another sound. A steady sound. I heard it when I left last night.

I hear Zhang call, “Geoffrey?”

I don’t remember if I answered him. I’m walking to the freezer room. Slowly, barely breathing so I can listen. I’m still carrying my coffee. I see the cup in my hand and think, no food or beverages, but I don’t put it down.

The Thermo TSX has no lights on her panel.

I stand in front of her. There’s a little brown splash of coffee on the floor by my shoe.

“Geoffrey? Everything okay?”

Dr. Zhang is still down the hall, by the offices.

“Just checking something, Dr. Zhang.”

I close the door behind me; lock it.

I put my hand on her. No vibrations at all. I look behind her—the plug. She’s plugged in. Of course she is. I wouldn’t leave a plug halfway out of the wall. I unplug her and plug her back in. Nothing.

Then I press the button on the panel. I hold it down.

Nothing.

“Oh god.”

I set my coffee on the floor.

“How long?”

The alarm company hasn’t called. I check my phone, but there’s nothing. No missed calls. No messages.

Then I remember the alarm connection.

The backup isn’t on alarm. There was no reason to have her on it when she was empty. I was going to ask to have her take Ben’s place on the alarm system when the transfer was complete. I wanted to tell Dr. Zhang everything at once. Show him what I’d done.

I put my hand against her door.

She hasn’t told me her name in five weeks, and now—now that she’s dead—she tells me.

Marzanna. Goddess of frost and death.

My heart beats in my throat and ears. My hands are shaking as I pull on her handle.

The air that spills out at me is cool. Not cold.

I open one of the little inner doors and touch the front of a rack. The metal is cold, but my fingers don’t hurt. I leave them there, waiting for the familiar bite. Nothing.

Eighty-two percent. Thousands of cell lines. Thousands of tissues. Millions of dollars. Years of work.

I slide a rack partially out, then take out a box. There’s still frost. That’s good, I guess. That has to be good. But the lid is cardboard. It’s swollen like it’s wet. Like it’s absorbed water. I pull it free, and when I lift a vial out of the box, I see water droplets. Liquid water.

Oh no. Oh fudge. Oh fudgety. Oh fuck. I’m fucked. The samples are fucked. Ncodyne is so fucked. Oh god.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Geoffrey?”

It’s Dr. Zhang, peeking through the narrow window in the door. He’s jiggling the handle.

I shove the vial back in its slot, spin, and hide the freezer box behind my back.

“Yeah?”

“You okay? Do you need a hand?”

There’s a moment in my head when I imagine myself saying yes. When I tell him everything. When he and I call every scientist with cells in the freezer to come down and try to salvage what they can. Chelsea would know what to do with her cells. They might be able to plate them, grow them, then—then refreeze them.

But no, there are too many. Too many cell lines. Too many tumor samples. Too much damage. Too much fault.

He’ll ask. They’ll all ask: Why were the samples in the backup freezer? Off alarm.

“No,” I say. “I’ve got it.”

“All right,” Dr. Zhang says. “Let me know.”

“Thanks,” I call back.

I listen until I can’t hear his shoes anymore. Then I pull the shade down over the door’s window.

What if I put everything back in Ben? He’s right here, holding minus 80. Sure, I can hear him struggling, but the temperature is right. No one knows I transferred the samples. It might be weeks before anyone notices.

Then another idea comes to me. I feel my face relax for a moment.

My hands decide before I do. I open him up. His compressor changes pitch almost immediately, working harder.

“Sorry, Ben, I’m gonna push you.”

I swing Marzanna’s door wide open. Ben’s, too. I carry the first rack across. It goes back where I pulled it from last week. I know exactly where it belongs. I know where every box should go.

One after the other, I put them back while Ben groans at me. It takes me a long time. But a lot less than it took me to transfer them to Marzanna. With both doors wide open, it’s faster. No need to be careful now.

In my hurry, a rack catches on Marzanna’s shelf. I pull harder, and a box slides halfway out. I catch it against my chest. Another whole box slides out and falls to the floor, samples clattering and skittering everywhere.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

I get down on my knees and pick them up. A couple slide under other freezers. I’m missing a couple but don’t have time to look.

Ben starts beeping.

Shit, that’ll trigger the alarm. Dr. Zhang will get the alert.

I shove the rack into Ben and close everything up—I’m only half done. I silence the alarm and dial the alarm company.

“Hi, yeah, this is Geoffrey Guthrie from Ncodyne. Just calling about a freezer alarm. Yeah, false alarm. Freezer’s fine. Just been working in it a little too much. Might actually happen again. Yeah, just ignore it if that happens. No need to alert anyone. Yeah, just for this morning.”

Once Ben’s temperature has dropped a few degrees, I get back to work. Feels like so many samples and racks. I’d been so careful moving them into Marzanna. A few boxes at a time. Doors open only for moments. Everything written down.

Now I stack boxes on the counter so I can get the racks back into Ben. I lose track of which ones have been sitting there longest.

When I’m done, more than thirty minutes have passed.

I close Ben’s inner doors, then the big outer one. His display reads minus 43. Basically a sauna for a freezer like Big Ben.

But the temperature’s going down. I stand there until it changes to minus 44, then minus 45.

“Good boy, Ben. Good boy,” I say, patting his side. I think about opening the compressor access panel tonight, after everyone is gone. “I’m really sorry about what I’m going to have to do to you.”

*****

That’s when I hear the locked door open behind me.

“Yo!” comes a deep voice, with keys jingling. “What’s with the privacy screen, Freezer Bitch?”

“Wha—” I spin around, almost jumping—almost angry, too. But I see freckle-faced Patrick the janitor, calmly running thick fingers through his gray and rusty hair. He hooks his keys back onto his utility belt. Somehow it doesn’t bother me when he calls me that. He makes it feel like a nickname, not an insult.

It’s easier to settle my voice with him. “I—I needed to focus on how Ben sounds. There was too much noise in the hall.”

Patrick doesn’t seem to hear me, though. Instead, he says, “You gotta be careful, FB.”

“Huh?”

Patrick glances down at my feet. “Floor’s all wet. Slippery.”

He’s right. The floor is slick from all the frost and condensation that fell and dripped off the racks while I was transferring them.

Patrick continues, “Big guy like you—if you fall, you could do some damage. What’s the deal with the water?”

I think fast. I look at Marzanna. She’s off.

“I, uh, I shut down the backup freezer. To defrost her. She was loaded with snow and ice.”

Patrick purses his pale, chapped lips and nods once. It’s a short nod that says: Don’t worry, I ain’t diggin’ deeper.

“You want me to mop it up?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

“All right, all right.”

He pulls his mop cart in from the hallway and starts his work. Meanwhile, I make my way to the freezer inventory workstation. I need to delete the temperature logs. If I have time later, I can make some new ones, but if I delete a few folders, then maybe it’ll look like a computer crash or something.

“You know, these freezers, I’m surprised they don’t break down more often,” Patrick says behind me, between the sounds of the sloshing mop. “Like, they just work all the time. We expect ’em to keep chugging. Never quit. Always be perfect. Take ’em for granted, even.”

When I turn in my chair, Patrick’s glassy gray eyes meet mine.

“Mr. Bigelow doesn’t take them for granted.”

“Oh, Big Man Bigelow—you keep holdin’ onto that yarn he spun three years ago. I’ll tell you what, FB, Bigelow don’t think of you and me. He don’t even remember your name is Jeff.”

“Geoffrey,” I correct.

“All I’m sayin’, Jeff, is that nothin’s perfect.” He eyeballs Big Ben, the huge gray buzzing box, and says, “Mhmm. I hear it, too. It’s strugglin’. Hell, it’s only at minus 58! You seen that?”

I look at the flashing red light on the panel, indicating the silenced temperature alarm.

“Yeah, I had to check some stuff out of it this morning. Opened the door for a little while. It got warm,” I say.

“I see,” Patrick says. “Anyways, Dr. Zhang—he keeps pretending everything’s fine with it. But it’s not fine. You know it. I know it. Gotta call it when we see it.”

I look down. “Yeah.”

Patrick squeezes the soiled water out of the mop and says, “Yeah, gotta call it out when things are wrong. Little things out of place. Things that don’t sound right.”

His words hang in the hum of the freezers as I watch him wheel the mop cart out. As he turns into the hall, he says over his shoulder, “Don’t like pretendin’.”

When I can’t hear the squeaky wheels of his mop cart anymore, my gut twists hard up under my ribs. My breakfast comes up into my throat, and I know I’m going to need to mop again.

I picked up the penny from the pavement, where it rested between cracks filled with weeds. Since Patrick died—and since my mom told me she had always believed pennies came from heaven—I had found at least one a week. But pennies had been discontinued, and Patrick had been gone for a decade. Surely, they could not keep finding me forever.

I walked further down the broken sidewalk, searching for the next address on my list. I looked up and realized that a man was out working on his car where I was supposed to stop and my stomach clenched. For some reason I didn’t mind knocking on doors, but every time someone is already out in their driveway or yard, I get anxious. I don’t like interrupting anyone’s day and ringing the doorbell gives them more time to hide their annoyance.

The hood of an older sedan was open and a man about my age was leaning over it, visibly frustrated. I almost skipped the house. For as much as I hate interrupting, I hate trying to get votes out of people my own age even more. There’s something so much more awkward about approaching peers.

But then I noticed his t-shirt and my heart started racing. The familiar script on the back above a list of concert dates, one of which had changed my life forever. I turned up the driveway, hardly aware of how my feet were moving. A twig snapped and he looked up suddenly to see me there. I watched him clock my clipboard and the flyer I held out and saw the annoyance flash.

“Hi,” I said too enthusiastically, “I’m running for Congress and wondered if I could take a few minutes of your time?”

He wiped his hands and looked at me quizzically. Most people take a minute to understand that the actual candidate is standing in front of them, the one they have seen in ads, and not a volunteer or a staffer. I didn’t wait for an answer and plowed ahead.

“Are you a fan?” I said, nodding to his shirt.

He looked confused, but looked down at the band logo and nodded, sadly.

“Used to be anyway,” he said.

I was scared to hear the answer but I couldn’t help myself from asking, “were you…there?”

He nodded again and studied my face and then I saw the light of recognition go on and he looked suddenly embarrassed.

“Oh, you’re…you’re his…” he stuttered and I jumped into the rescue like I always did.

“Yep, that’s me,” I said too brightly. “Patrick was my brother. What happened at that concert is why I’m running.”

And then I waited. Did he agree with me? Had he been hurt too? Did he understand who was to blame? Or would he pretend to agree because he felt sorry for me?

His face tightened, and I supplied the answer before he could. He didn’t agree. My public pain had not been enough to convince him. Or maybe he simply did not know how to respond to a stranger who had turned grief into a campaign pitch. I gave him an escape before he had to choose between disagreeing and lying.

“Anyway, I’m door-knocking today to see if I can count on your vote in November,” I said, smiling so awkwardly that I wanted to slap myself.

This time I waited for an answer. I have learned that much after years of campaigning.

“Um, you know,” he said, sounding as uncomfortable as I felt. He glanced at the open hood, then back at the flyer in my hand. “I really haven’t decided yet.”

“Of course!” I said as though that was the answer I was hoping for and handed the flyer to him. The one with the last picture Patrick and I ever took together.

‘Yep,’ I thought. ‘Take a good look at what they took from me and then tell me again that you can’t decide,’ my awkwardness turning to anger.

I kept my voice even and my face pleasant and said, “Well, I hope you’ll consider me and don’t forget to vote!”

I turned on my heel and walked away before he could say anything else, tears stinging my eyes. Every time I thought it would get easier, that I wouldn’t let other people’s opinions get to me, I was proven wrong. I just couldn’t understand it.

Patrick had lost his life in public, and I had made my grief public too, dedicating myself to making sure it would never happen again. Somewhere along the way, I had begun to believe that if people truly understood what had been taken from me, they would have to agree with me. But they kept fixing their cars, weighing their choices, and moving through a world that had continued turning even after mine stopped.

I trudged up the street without looking back. Whether he watched me with pity or returned to the engine as though nothing had happened, I knew I could not bear to see it. My hand closed around the penny in my pocket until its edge pressed into my palm. For years I had taken each one as a message from Patrick, proof that he was still with me and that I had to keep going. At the next house, I loosened my grip. When no one answered, I left the penny on the porch beside the campaign flyer and walked away.

When he woke up, he was confused. For a few seconds, he simply sat there, trying to understand where he was. Then his surroundings came back to him. He was in his usual seat at his local pub, just as he had been earlier that Friday evening. But something was different. Harry slowly looked around. He was the only person in the bar. The contradiction of dead silence set against the heavy ringing residing in his head was a sobering discovery amid his intense drunkenness. The room was dark, save for a San Miguel beer light behind the counter, the soft, warm light catching the edges of the countless empty chairs and stools, illuminating the absence of any life.

Only a short while ago, the place had been bustling, and he could still remember laughing with his friends, surrounded by the familiar noise of conversation, music and clinking glasses. But now it was dark, cold and deadly quiet.

Harry couldn’t remember the evening winding down. He didn’t remember feeling tired or even closing his eyes. As far as he knew, he had simply been there one moment with his close friends George and Pete, and then here, with no memory of anything in between. This unsettled him enough to check the time. He pulled his mobile phone from his warm back pocket, flipped it open and squinted at the screen. 2:50 am. As soon as the numbers registered, the Nokia screen appeared and the screen went black. After repeatedly pressing the red call button to switch it back on, it dawned on Harry that his phone had died. That never happened.

Staring at his own faint reflection in the dead screen, he felt, for a moment, a surge of confused fear run through him, but it was quickly replaced by a burst of irritation. Was this some kind of elaborate joke? Either way, George and Pete were complete dickheads for leaving him there. Although his head was spinning like a bowling ball, he looked around at the evidence of the evening, his eyes landing on the dozens of empty pint glasses that surrounded him, as well as glasses scattered on nearby tables.

Two dozen beers, perhaps more, had been consumed by the three of them. Realising that staring at the dark, empty room wouldn’t change the situation he was in, Harry took a deep breath and, through sheer willpower, forced himself upright onto wobbling knees. The first attempt nearly sent him straight back into his chair. He steadied himself against the table, waited for the dark room to stop moving, and tried again. This time, he managed it.

Getting to the door proved considerably more difficult than he had anticipated. His first few steps were little more than drunken corrections of balance. At one point, he caught the edge of a table, sending a cluster of dry pint glasses crashing onto the floor. The sound was colossal in the silence. Harry froze. Nothing happened. No one shouted. Though he was as drunk as he could be, the surrealness of his circumstances wasn’t lost on him. He continued towards the door, and the path became clear.

When he finally stumbled through the threshold and onto the pavement, the cool night air struck him in the face. He stood there for a moment, head spinning, trying to work out what came next. Getting home was the mission. It was time for bed and to make this peculiar evening a memory. The drunkard’s compass began to kick in as he looked along the high street towards his flat. Being a seaside holiday town, and it being January, it wasn’t exactly a bustling place at the best of times, especially not at three in the morning, but this felt different.

There was an abnormal gloom hanging over everything. The street was darker than it should have been. The air felt thick, and a dirty sea fog hung still. The darkness seemed to amplify the effects of the countless beers he had consumed earlier. After one last confused glance back at the pub, he turned and began his messy journey home, not before clumsily lighting a cigarette and burning part of his beard in the process.

He hadn’t gone far when something caught his attention: a light down the high street, on the opposite side of the road. One of the shops was illuminated, and its fluorescent glow spilled onto the cobbles, forming a small island of luminescence in the surrounding darkness. Then Harry smelled food. His stomach rumbled, and the combination of the senses was irresistible.

He altered course, and it wasn’t long before he found himself standing outside the beacon that was the takeaway, a grand opening sign was obscured by its misted glass. Condensation covered whatever lay beyond, but the smell coming through the door was unmistakable. The powerful bouquet of mouth-watering, greasy fare hit his nostrils like a punch: something hot and savoury that, to Harry’s drunken mind, seemed like salvation.

He stumbled through the door, and the smell hit him immediately, powerful enough to make his stomach twist with craving hunger. Inside, the room’s brightness was overwhelming.

Harry’s eyes strained as they adjusted to the white light, and it was almost painful. His head began to spin. For a few moments, the room became a dazzling, nauseating carousel, his eyes watching the rows of empty, dulled plastic seats glide through his revolving view. Light muzak played through degraded speakers nestled in the yellowing ceiling tiles, the audio occasionally cutting out and returning with a fuzziness that begged the question of why they were even on.

There was only one other person in the entire place. A very tall man stood behind the counter with his back to Harry, slowly carving slices from an obscured roasting spit. Harry staggered forward, using the backs of the plastic seats for support, moving along them like someone making their way down the aisle of a train, albeit with absolutely no grace whatsoever. When he finally reached the once-distant counter, he expected the man to acknowledge him, but there was no response. A deeply unnerving silence ensued as the worker continued, slicing at the meat. Harry stood still, watching him. He recoiled slightly at the sharp, permeating hum of the glaring ceiling lights, which stacked uncomfortably with the vibration already ringing in his ears.

'‘Excuse me, mate''

Not acknowledging him, the man carried on.

Clearing his throat, Harry mustered enough pseudo-sobriety to ask:

''Is it still alright to order a kebab?"

The worker stopped and slowly, with no apparent urgency whatsoever, turned around. Harry immediately noticed the grin. It was enormous, yet it was not a friendly smile. The stretched mouth seemed completely at odds with the man’s slow, deliberate movements. He was tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with an otherwise ordinary face. But that expression counteracted any conceivable normality.

Harry felt an uneasiness creep up his body, tingling from the backs of his calves all the way up to the top of his skull with a sickly fizz. The vendor stared right back at him. An unwavering, silent grin. One second. Two. Three. The worker’s expression didn’t change. Eventually, he spoke.

'‘Good evening, sir. How can I help you?’'

His voice was polite, almost too polite. Harry blinked a few times, bewildered by the oddness of the fellow.

'‘I-I’d like a large Doner, please''

The words came out garbled, and the worker continued to stare at him. Five seconds passed, perhaps more. The only sound was the low hum of the fluorescent lights above them.
Harry narrowed his eyes and dipped his head forward ever so slightly in intrigue.
There was something wrong with this man.
He couldn’t have explained what it was. The movements were too slow for the expression, the smile was too wide, and the silence lasted too long. Harry’s expression of worried intrigue was abruptly cut short when the worker finally spoke.

'‘Would you like to try our special, sir?’'

The polite tone returned, and the grin remained. He blinked once, then his voice dropped considerably into a heightened London accent.

'‘You’re pissed as a fart, aren’t you, sir?’'

The man then suddenly burst into laughter, causing Harry to flinch. Too drunk to deal with the strange man’s antics, he simply nodded.

'‘Yeah, go on, then''

He put a ten-pound note on the counter and waved away the prospect of any change.

'‘Keep it''

The worker resumed his barefaced grin, staring into his customer’s eyes without abandon.

After finding a bench seat, Harry sat, pondering as best he could how he had found himself in this situation. As much as he and his friends had messed about with pranks in the past, they hadn’t really done anything like that since they were teenagers. The fact that he had woken up alone and cold, hours after seemingly blacking out, was an uncomfortable reality.

Suddenly, a loud DING rang through the room, reverberating back into two very wobbly eardrums.

‘One house special!’

Turning around, the gangly tanned man was behind the counter with a yellow polystyrene box, plastic cutlery and a napkin. Harry stepped forward and retrieved his meal, muttering a puzzled thank you. Walking to a table in the far corner of the blazingly lit seating space, Harry thought he had enough to deal with without allowing this unorthodox eatery to interfere with his brooding over pete and George somehow leaving him behind. Theories ran through his head. Did mental Mark slip something into his drink to knock him out for a laugh? It still wouldn’t explain waking up alone almost three hours after throwing-out time, Harry mused.

Looking up, the peculiar man stared, retaining the sickly smile. He turned, in his slow, deliberate fashion, back to carving from the spit. Opening his meal, Harry saw a mess of meat, salad and a creamy orange sauce smothered abundantly across the various ingredients.

The first bite was a burst of savoury, greasy saltiness, deeply contrasted with the sweet dill tang of the generous helping of burger sauce. The texture, with the snappy crunch of the pickled cabbage, added a satisfying mix to the mouthful. Harry was grateful for something hot to eat and somewhere warm to sit in an effort to sober up slightly before a short journey home.

Crunch.

A cringe-inducing bite of a hard bit of gristle interrupted any thoughts of comfort Harry had been enjoying. The tough piece of meat made his teeth grind together, causing a vile sensation that made him spit the little piece out into his hand and place it on the open lid of the takeaway box. Repositioning his plastic fork into the concoction, he took a nice combination of meat, salad and sauce to continue his quest for sobriety. The previous sensations of flavour resumed; a hearty forkful of his ample late-night dinner was hitting the spot. Harry thought about how he would deal with his friends. A feeling of embarrassment and meagreness washed over the moment, but only briefly, before another painful crunch in his mouth. This time, it hurt.

Reaching into his mouth with grease-covered fingers, he removed an object that when he saw it, enveloped his entire body in the coldest feeling Harry had ever experienced in his whole entire life. Before his eyes, held between his index finger and thumb, were the chewed-up remnants of a crisp, cooked, mangled human ear. The white plastic fork dropped to the floor, making a pathetic, soft clatter on the filthy linoleum.

Bewilderment and shock encapsulated the young man as he gently returned the body part to the yellow box and calmly closed the lid. He stood up and held the item as though it were radioactive. He slowly ambled to the counter, readying himself to confront the bizarre man responsible for his heinous food.

'‘Excuse me''

No response was given.

This time, Harry nervously raised his voice.

'‘Excuse me!’'

The strange man continued carving.

'‘What the fuck?’' Harry muttered under his breath.

Harry stepped right up to the counter.

'‘Oi, mate, I think there’s an ear in my kebab''

This garnered a response from the tall, olive-skinned man. Still working away, with his back still turned to Harry, he slowly turned his head to the right.

'‘Yes, sir,’' he said, his voice soft yet layered with menace, the vile smile smeared across his stubbled, pockmarked face.

'‘Mate… there is a fucking ear in my food,’' Harry blurted out in a slightly higher, much quieter and noticeably more frightened tone. After a few staggered seconds, the intense grease-stained worker placed his large carving knife on the side counter and turned with no haste to face his customer, revealing a heinous sight that could never, on any occasion, be forgotten. Utterly dumbfounded, Harry gawked at the bulbous, misshapen rotating meat spit, which housed an amalgamation of countless foul-looking, contorted human faces, congealed and compiled into one single hunk of cooking, spinning revolting meat. Expressions of horror and anguish were embossed upon a greater mass of despicably lumpy, curdled, rendered flesh. Sections of the moving horror were made up of exposed, striated muscle and connective tissue. Sweaty grease droplets cascaded down the abominable creation, dripping into a collected pool on the metal base underneath.

The faces bubbled, spitting out molten hot drops of fat, the eyelids popping open occasionally with a loud crackle, the movement, a devilish puppetry of heat causing the cooked flesh to twitch about in an unnatural burst of nightmarish expression. Looking up to meet the attention of the man, he stared into his unwaivering gaze, sitting above the greasy smile, Harry was at a loss for words. More accurately, he couldn't speak. The situation was so overwhelmingly shocking it rendered him completely mute.

And then the lights went out.
The glint of the man's eyes were still visible in the darkness.
Harry stood deadly still, captivated by the warm glow of the spit, illuminating the distorted souls bound to their fleshy, rotating meaty mass.
He imagined himself part of it, amongst the roasting tortured husks sizzling away, awaiting another face to join him and his newfound company.

Animals in space

In the early 1960s, two chimpanzees were sent into earth orbit as part of the project to land a man on the moon. The results were astounding.

The chimps, nicknamed Dick and Harry (the original plan was to use three but this was dropped due to the cramped conditions in the capsule, so Tom had to go).

It had been recognised that chimpanzees were intelligent creatures for some time, and that they were the closest to humans in terms of DNA profile.

Little had been considered about their communication abilities, and the idea that this was very complex was never suggested. There was some surprise, therefore when the sound recording system monitoring the orbit indicated that some form of conversation had been taking place between Dick and Harry during the journey.

The flight could only take place after an extensive period of raining and acclimatization, of course, but the launch and return to earth were successful.

Attempts were made to make sense of the 'conversations' on the tape, but with no success, it seemingly amounting to a meaningless series of grunts and other sounds.

Due to the great advances in computer power, it was thought worthwhile recently to have another try at interpretation using the most powerful systems available.

The results amazingly indicated a complex form of 'speech' which could be transcribed into actual language.

There now follows a reproduction of these transcripts in the English language, although it must be stressed that the animals did not actually speak in any recognised lingo. These are exactly as the computers interpreted the sounds on the tape coming from Dick and Harry.

Just After Launch

"Fuck this for a game of soldiers," yelled Harry.

One Hour Later

"I'm not sure how much longer I can stand this," pronounced Harry.

Two Hours Later

"My back is killing me," Harry complained.

Three Hours later

"I have this itch in a sensitive place and I can't reach it to give it a scratch. It's driving me crazy," moaned Harry.

Four Hours Later

"My pulse rate has gone through the roof, and I have a shocking headache," cried Harry.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, stop moaning. We are stuck up here and there is nothing we can do about it," Dick spoke up for the first time. "Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his (or her) hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. So live with it."

"What a load of crap, life is but a walking shadow, what on earth does that mean? Were you pissed when you came up with that nonsense?" said Harry scornfully.

"I didn't make it up, I think I read it somewhere."

As they approached earth on landing

"Fuck this for a game of soldiers," yelled out Harry again.

"You're not wrong there, I don't mind a joke, but fuck a pantomime," Dick shouted.

The two astronauts survived the journey but were never quite the same afterwards. They now live in a rest home.

I, Kaiju 

Ensorcelled in automata

 -

Alexsi never thought he would feel the cold, crisp breeze of winter again. Never know the touch of another person so long as he still drew breath. Never feel the chill of fear running down his spine.

But he could.

He could feel everything that happened to him.

Even now, through layers of titanium and steel, he could feel every drop of freezing rain pelting his metal carapace. He could feel the limp, lifeless hands of the engineers as they worked upon him, and the sensations that stirred within him, bubbling relentlessly toward the surface.

But what he felt most of all was pain.

Truly and simply, pain

He need not understand the intricacies of how or why they had brought him into this new home. He needed only to know that they had lied.

They had promised him that his senses would be dulled, delayed, or perhaps diluted altogether in the process. They had assured him that whatever remained of his mind would be spared the worst of what was to come.

But they were wrong.

The endless probes, wires, and other foreign objects lodged, inserted, and implanted into his being were all he could feel on most days. An unceasing awareness of things that should never have been part of him.

And that was all he knew.

Until they let him feel something else.

Something beyond the torment they had unwittingly inflicted upon him.

A nuclear heart beat at the center of his mechanical body, its immense power contained behind layers upon layers of lead and graphite. Its low, constant thrumming sometimes lulled him into something resembling sleep, though even then, true rest remained beyond his reach.

Somewhere along the way, he had lost the internal swell of emotion that once defined his younger years. The familiar rise and fall of feeling had become distant, as though it belonged to another person whose memories he had somehow inherited.

He had walked along the frigid ocean floors and crossed over mountains with ease, going places no other man could even dream of. Their otherworldly terrain baffling to any previous preconceptions he might have had.

He spoke through loudspeakers mounted upon his body, the voice that emerged stripped of the inflections, mannerisms, and idiosyncrasies that had once made it his own.

He heard through radios and microphones, receiving the voices of those who stood nowhere near him. Commands descended from the heavens above, while other voices lingered at the edges of his consciousness, always present and never entirely silent.

He saw through eyes that were no longer there, but instead replaced with unblinking cameras. Cold and lifeless glass had been left in place of the window to his soul.

In their place sat unblinking cameras, cold and lifeless glass where the windows to his soul had once been.

He could see the world.

He could hear it.

He could speak to it.

But all his sensations were now held in only distant memories.

It had left him as a fraction of who he was before.

They had stripped him down to the bare necessities, then taken a little more.

He didn't know what they had done to him. He didn't know how long the process had taken. He didn't even know whether the person he remembered being was still somewhere inside this thing.

All he knew was what they had told him.

They had taken what they deemed necessary for optimal functioning and crammed as much machinery as they could into, around, and through what remained.

Whatever the engineers had considered sufficient, it had not been enough. They had supplemented the procedures with further modifications, further connections, further intrusions into a body that was scarcely a body anymore.

He had become a system of interconnected parts, each serving a purpose he barely understood.

He was enclosed and separated from the rest of the world by layers upon layers of thick-plated metal and sound-dampening material. From the rough exterior of his mechanical skin to the enclosure that housed his remains, he was as far removed from the world as the world was now removed from him.

His entombment had left him within a metal sarcophagus, its walls lined with some of the densest materials his people could obtain. His grave was a vat filled with an amniotic saline-like solution, where the remains of his biological existence floated suspended in the middle.

His brain.

What was left of him.

Tubes, wires, and cables extended into the fluid, some carrying the things necessary to sustain him, others transmitting the signals that allowed him to control his new body. Their intricate connections formed the only bridge between the mind trapped within the chamber and the machine that surrounded it.

They had given him a new body.

They had also ensured that he could never truly escape it.

They left him exhausted and in pain, but rest and relief would never come.

He looked down at his hands.

Or what passed for them.

One was no longer a hand at all, but an amalgamation of weaponry and offensive tutory. Its barrels still smoldered, thin tendrils of smoke rising from their darkened mouths. He watched them dissipate into the freezing air, unable to reconcile the instruments of destruction before him with the hand he remembered once possessing.

The other was scarcely more familiar.

Three fingers and a thumb.

That was all that remained of the shape he remembered, though even those digits had been replaced by mechanical imitations. He could flex them. He could articulate each one with the same deliberate precision his creators had intended.

And yet the same phantom presence persisted in his body as it did in the tips of his fingers.

He felt the presence of a body that was no longer there, an invisible outline extending from his palm to the tips of his fingers. His mind insisted upon the existence of something his eyes could no longer confirm.

He looked at his hand and saw machinery.

He felt something else entirely.

His most recent triumph laid behind him, sprawled across the frozen frontier, bleeding and smoldering beneath the winter sky.

Alexsi could see it in all forms

He could watch the heat seep from deep within its core, the creature's warmth bleeding away into the surrounding cold. He could see its temperature falling as the tundra claimed yet another offering.

Its body lay motionless amid the snow and shattered earth, its immense frame gradually surrendering to the elements. What had once moved, breathed, and fought to live was becoming little more than a cooling mass of flesh.

And somehow, the sight moved him.

Even a cold, unfeeling machine such as himself could not remain untouched by it.

Through the gaping wounds left by his handiwork, he saw something familiar.

He could not have explained what it was. Perhaps it was the sheer scale of the creature, its enormous body reduced to a ruined shell. Perhaps it was the sight of something that had once been alive, now rendered incapable of ever being what it had been.

Or perhaps he simply recognized a little of himself in it.

His thoughts drifted from the world around him, wandering into the uncertain territory of what might have been.

Had this truly been a beast of war, sent to destroy and reclaim territory that had once belonged to its masters?

Or had it been something else entirely?

A passing remnant of a forgotten world. A lost and displaced creature struggling to find its way home. A being whose existence had been reduced to the role others had decided it must fulfill.

He would never know.

He wondered what had been taken from it.

And who had given him the authority to take it away.

Men in ties and suits sat behind desks in distant offices, making decisions about lives they would never have to touch. They had drawn their borders, issued their commands, and decided which creatures were threats and which were merely obstacles.

They had done the same to him.

They had decided what he would become, what would be taken from him, and what purpose he would serve.

And he had become the instrument through which those decisions were carried out.

What separated him from the creature lying in the snow? What separated either of them from the men who had decided their fates?

Perhaps it was only the ability to make a choice.

Perhaps it was nothing at all.

The time for change had come and gone. Whatever opportunity he might once have had to alter his fate was now buried beneath layers of metal, machinery, and decisions that could never be undone.

All that remained was what he had chosen for himself and what had been chosen for him.

Behind him, the creature continued to freeze.

Its enormous body lay sprawled across the tundra, slowly succumbing to the cold. Its eyes, already sunken and glazed, had frosted over long ago, leaving them clouded with a milky haze, like those of an ancient thing afflicted by cataracts.

So much of it remained as it had been.

And so much had changed beyond recognition.

It would never be what it once was.

Neither would he.

Never again.

This short story is a part of the Mieran Ruins Collection. The rest of the stories can be found on this masterpost.

When Mary stood up again, she turned to her opponents and smirked. She was confident that her victory was assured, but she didn’t want to flaunt it yet. Like a cat chasing a mouse, the chase was exhilarating and motivated her to continue. This trial could last for another month, and she’d gladly keep participating. The greatest part was witnessing Evelyn squirm. That mayor’s inflated ego annoyed everyone in Ura. Derrick and Becca went from tolerated members of the community to resented for enabling her. None of Evelyn’s actions impacted the lives of common citizens since her incompetence prevented her desires from being enacted, but she was still annoying. Watching reality hit her in the face was proving to be delightful. Mary would recount stories of Evelyn’s sweating at dinner parties for years to come.

“The prosecution calls Larry Stapley to the stand,” Mary said.

“Who’s Larry Stapley?” Evelyn asked.

“Seriously, you see him every day,” Becca replied.

“I do?” The door opened, and Larry walked into the room. His mime attire was cleaned and pressed, and his beret sat perfectly on his head. When he took his seat at the front of the room, his glare managed to appear somber through the make-up. Evelyn laughed at the sight of him.

“She called a mime to the stand. Really, what is he gonna do? Play charades all day,” Evelyn said. Mary stepped forward.

“Mr. Stapley, pursuant to Ura Civil Code 325.1324 also known as the ‘Knock It Off’ law, you are allowed to speak for the duration of these proceedings. To clarify, that includes when you are not on the stand,” Mary smiled.

“Finally.” Larry’s voice started high and squeaky. It gradually deepened and gained intensity as it reached the final syllable which he held for several seconds. He wanted to talk for so long. Just one word. This was his moment. “You.” He pointed at Derrick, Evelyn, and Becca. “You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You.”

“Is he gonna call us a name or just keep repeating ‘you?’” Becca whispered to Derrick.

“I think he’ll keep repeating himself,” Derrick said.

“You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You. You,” Larry said.

“Should we intervene?” the blond guard asked.

“Nah, I want to see how long he’ll keep it going,” Judge Juarez said. Larry kept repeating the word you for several minutes. He wanted the perfect insult to cap it off, but he found himself unable to find it. He dreamed of this moment for months. It had arrived, and he was disappointing himself and everyone around him. Unfortunately a universal experience.

“You jerks,” he finished.

“Thank you for that. I guess we can get right into it,” Mary said. Larry stood up. “What are you doing?”

“My name is Larry Stapley. I agree to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” Larry began to do the chicken dance.

“What is going on?” Judge Juarez said.

“According to Military Code 3140, all witnesses must do this dance before testifying,” he said.

“Stop it,” Judge Juarez said. Larry sat down.

“According to Military Code 1, the Judge’s word is final,” Larry said.

“Mr. Stapley, could you please state your role for the judge?” Mary asked.

“I was tricked into being the designated town mime by them.” Larry spat in their direction, but the spit landed on the floor. “I have to spend every day in complete silence, and I hate it.”

“Was there a way for you to stop being a mime?” Mary asked.

“There are multiple ways. They could’ve invoked the Lizard Amendment stating that I could talk in the presence of a lizard which I have several of in preparation for the event. The Bouncing Ball law states that the mime can talk for as long as I am bouncing a ball. They didn’t even use the Ice Cream Sunday law stating that I could request an ice cream flavor.”

“You seem very familiar with the rules and regulations of Ura. How would you describe their implementation of those rules?”

“Oh, it’s terrible. They violate them left and right. The mayor frequently wears purple on Tuesdays which Danielle’s Law states is a felony. Derrick has been caught sleeping at his desk. The Hypnos Protocol states that all naps must occur in the conference room, and Becca microwaves fish. That is not against any rule, but it’s just good practice.”

“I only did that once, and I shared the salmon patties with everyone.”

“They tasted terrible. You used too much onion. I couldn’t tell you because I was a mime,” Larry said.

“Stop talking about salmon patties because now I want one,” Judge Juarez said.

“I rest my case,” Mary smiled.

“Can I stay up here a bit longer? I want to talk, and I doubt that she’ll let me,” Larry said.

“Of course you can stay. You still need to be cross-examed,” Judge Juarez said.

“May we have a minute?” Becca asked.

“Not according to-” Larry started.

“Sure,” Judge Juarez said. The three huddled.

“What are we going to do? I didn’t know he was so bitter at us,” Becca said.

“I always knew that. That’s why I kept him quiet so I wouldn’t have to listen to him.” Evelyn snapped her fingers. “Which gives me an idea.” Evelyn stood up. Derrick and Becca looked at each other in fear.

“How are you, Larry?” Evelyn asked.

“Terrible,” Larry said.

“How do you feel about this trial? Be specific,” Evelyn said. Larry bit his lip. He saw the trap before him, but he couldn’t resist it.

“It’s terrible. Bjorn’s Biscuit v General Tom states that the podium must be facing the west. The Funeral not a Wedding Rule requires the judge to wear a black or crimson robe. The spectators must be seated in accordance with color theory and Pascal’s triangle per by law 102. 245.” Larry inhaled and covered his mouth. His eyes widened, and he ripped the hand away. “The guards need to be armed with both real guns and water guns up to code with the Splish Splash Standards. At 10:30 AM, tea should be provided per the Madame Gus Guide to Good Living.”

“Shut up.” Judge Juarez banged his gavel. “Per Army Rule 2 or whatever you said, my word is law. Therefore, I am mandating that you be quiet for the rest of the trial, and all those laws about being able to talk in select circumstances no longer apply to you.”

Larry raised a finger to correct him, but he realized that he could no longer speak. His predicament became even worse. He silently wept as he walked off the stand.

“The defense rests,” Evelyn said as Mary looked on in horror. Derrick and Becca smiled at each other.

“I think we found something she’s good at,” Becca said.

“It’s about time,” Derrick replied.

r/AstroRideWrites

He went to the lake that day a couple of hours after noon. It was late spring, not a cloud in the sky, and a gentle breeze blew over the hills and brought with it a faint smell of the sea. He had left his home in a hurry, and so forgot his coat, but he did not mind. He had his boots on, his hat on his head, his bag of flies over his shoulder and in his hand, swaying lightly from side to side, he held his favourite rod: His father’s. The cool was oddly bracing. It reminded him of the times his father had taken him to the very same lake. As a kid, he had never understood why his father, on a whim, would decide to take him fishing, but with the birth of his second daughter three years ago, he did. He walked about an hour before he reached the top of the hill and was welcomed by the familiar sight of the calm, blue water. He hurried his pace as it sloped downwards, and was slightly out of breath when he stood by the lakeshore. He stood still for a moment. Silence.

He lifted his bag off his shoulder and placed it in the grass so it leaned against the large rock he still remembered how to climb on. He searched his pocket for his pipe and filled it, but he did not light it yet. He opened his bag and gently pulled out his small wooden fly box. He stared at his humble collection for a moment before deciding on the only fly he could remember using. It was old, worn, and its countless trips to the lake bed had left it a colourless brown, but it was a colour he had learned to grow fond of. After tying the fly to the line, he took a small step closer to the edge of the water and reeled back his arms before casting the fly in an arc towards the centre of the lake. Only then did he strike a match and gently lift it to light his pipe. Silence.

He stood in the same spot until his foot went numb and dragged him out of his daydream. His wrists were slightly sore from repeating the same rhythm. While he sat on the rock by the lake, he observed the movements of his father’s hands as his gaze was locked on the clouds drifting across the sky. Once, he had asked him why he moved his hands the way he did, and he responded, without looking down, his voice slightly muffled by the pipe between his teeth, “I know these fish”. He remembered the lake and the surrounding valley being more beautiful and vibrant once; the water was once bluer, the sky too, and the heather brighter. He looked around and saw the growing shadow cast by the hill. The sun would soon set. He prepared himself to start reeling in the line, but then the line suddenly went taut. He snapped his foot back and pulled. It was a big one.

While his left hand reeled in the line, his right moved the end of the rod to his stomach. Sweat was running down his forehead into his eyes after minutes of fighting the catch, and it seemed only to resist with greater vigour the closer he reeled it in. It neared the shallow waters and sent large splashes into the air, and as he felt his arms were on the brink of giving way and letting go of the rod, a large brown trout emerged from the water. It wriggled violently as it hung from the line, and he could faintly make out where the hook peeked out from its jaw. He clumsily held on to the rod while kneeling down to fetch the bludgeon from his bag. He nearly dropped it when the trout made a sudden, desperate jerk. He quickly dropped to his knees, and the trout landed in the grass in front of him as it continued to struggle. He lifted his arm high and swung it down, aiming for its head. It did not die. He swung once more, harder this time, but still it did not die. The squelching thud from the bludgeon striking its head made his stomach churn. He could make out a dent in its skull where it had been struck, and blood spurted from its mouth and gills. Yet it continued to struggle. He dropped the bludgeon and, after a few attempts, managed to get a grasp on its body. He lifted it high above his head before tossing it into the side of the nearby rock, which left a red splodge on the face of the rock, but when the trout landed in the grass beside it, it did not die. His breathing was fast and heavy, and in his panicked state, what struck his mind was to lift his leg and stomp down on it with all his weight behind it, and as his foot fell, he shut his eyes and could only listen to the wet squelch as the sole met its scales. He nearly fainted. He collapsed forward as he gagged and barely managed to push himself off the rock with his weakened arms. It did not die. He looked around for his bag, though his vision blurred from exhaustion and horror. He reached into the bag once more and felt for the shaft of the knife he knew was in there somewhere. He tried as best he could to grip the knife with his blood-soaked hand and plunged it into the trout’s side, but the knife was worn and blunt, and his arm was too weak, so only after multiple stabs did it break the skin. It did not die. He pushed himself away, scooting across the grass without lifting himself off the ground. There, in the blood-soaked grass, he froze in fear and disbelief. The trout struggled still; blood pooled around it, seeping into the soil. He slowly rose, drenched in sweat, and walked away. His mind was riddled with guilt, and his heart swelled with shame. Without looking back once, he reached the top of the hill. He looked into the red sun on the horizon and then back down towards the lake.

Albert looked at the sight before him. His beloved Pauline lay on the ground, chest heaving as she coughed up blood. Leon simply cackled, preparing to fire one last bolt of magic when suddenly-

BLAM! One big blast of magic blew up the bolt of magic he was preparing to charge up and blew him back. The next thing he knew, chains of magic began to surround him and his army of evil wizards, holding them against the ground and preventing them from using magic. He cast a spell to try and free himself and lift whatever spell was suppressing his magic- to no avail. Whatever was stopping him from using magic did so not by suppression but by sucking his mana- as well as that of the other evil wizards- and giving it to the man restraining him. Something in Albert had snapped, and he was out for blood. He healed Pauline's injuries the best he could, put a magic barrier around his towel to prevent it from being damaged, and started his killing spree.

Just hours ago, Albert and Pauline had been simply relaxing and spending quality time together, unwinding and cuddling. All seemed peaceful.

Then Leon and his army had attacked, attacking and destroying everything in sight. Everything happened fast- blast after blast caused explosions so loud he felt ringing in his ears, the bright flashes of light causing him to cover his eyes while the heat from the flames generated by the explosions and the screams of those caught up in the attack overwhelmed his senses.

Before Albert had a chance to fight, a stray blast of magic had hit Pauline, making her collapse to the ground as blood poured out of her side. More magic blasts had followed, causing her to lay nearly lifeless on the ground, coughing up blood simply from breathing. This had been the last straw; he could no longer take it at that point, for anger and distress had completely overtaken him and clouded his judgment.

Hence the massacre that he had begun to commit. He fired blast after blast of magic at them, causing them to yelp in pain as blood gushed from their sides. Unable to withstand the pain, the evil wizards begged for mercy. But none came, and Albert continued to fire away, laughing maniacally as he did, his lips twisting into an unhinged and sadistic smile. Cry after painful cry was silenced eternally as the wizards were blasted repeatedly, their lives being extinguished by anywhere up to tens or dozens at a time.

Pauline woke up to the sound of Albert's relentless barrage of attacks, coughing but otherwise completely fine. She saw him massacring the evil wizards mercilessly and enjoying it, much to her horror. She shrieked at the top of her lungs. "ALBERT, STOP!!!"

He turned to face her, shocked and stunned at how she had just cried out to him. He dropped what he was doing instantly and ran to her, checking to see if she was okay and if it was just a dream or a hallucination before finally collapsing in her arms and completely breaking down, unable to contain his emotions, a blubbering mess unable to contain his emotions. Between choked sobs, he told her how he thought she was dead. Smiling sweetly, she simply hugged him tightly, refusing to let him go.

The battlefield was quiet after that.

The students were humming about their weekend stories. Each step I took warned me to not go further. They spoke, “ Did you forget what happened yesterday?”. ”You think They are going to leave you alone”. ”You are a toy , they want to play”. “Still you want to go?”. Crap! I bumped someone

“Hey!, watch where you are going? loser”. A girl with glasses shouted at me. Loser! that single word from her started to echo in my mind from all directions.

Two months ago, Our school conducted a set of competitions in . Drawing, writing, spell bee , speech and more. Everyone in my class had to participate in every competition that was my class teacher’s order. As she said, Everyone joined and participated every competition but I lost it . In every single of them but all my other classmates at least won a bronze medal. But I won nothing but a crowd of laughter in result announcement and a name I never wanted.

Yesterday, everyone in my class chanted the same word when miss Caroline told me read to an poem called The Road not taken by Robert Frost. The whole class were murmuring and giggling when she announced my name. I took an deep breath and unglued me from the chair. For an moment the whole classroom fell into deep silence and I felt the wetness in my inner feet and hands were trembling like an massage vibrator.

when I began to read, abruptly everyone burst into laughter. Then the teacher shouted “Silence! what are reading? , Boy. Read the poem on page number 69”. The environment around me now boosted my anxiety to peak. My fingers filled with sweat while I am turning the pages. The fine papers got wet from the sweat but it ease the process of turning the pages. Finally, I reached the page number 69. It was an long poem. I felt a whole band was performing their song in me. Like the ground my whole body was shaking to the band.” The .. The..”. “Read it loud” she commanded. ” The Two ..Two roads divorced”.

Yes, I know I screwed the whole thing up. It’s not divorced. it’s diverged. I didn’t even mispronounced

I changed the whole word. Then again, The whole class burst into laughter after the last word I told. Even miss Caroline couldn’t able to control her laugh. For an moment, everyone’s eyes was on me laughing and I wish I had an time machine to change what happened. Someone in the my class threw a paper ball at me and called me an loser. He started it and everyone follows to chant. It goes on until miss Caroline stop it.

The band played with in me earlier, Is now motionless. They vanished in an instant. I felt being soulless. Right now, All I could hear is different voices calling be a loser and a dump. Realizing that, My poor eyes started to water in front of the whole class. Then, I ran out of classroom . Running through the corridor with tears pouring out of my eyes and nose to the bathroom. Without knowing the bathroom was wet, I ran into it and fell on my face. I rose up with dirty watered clothes and locked the door.

I don’t want to be called as loser, I deliberately want to end this. So, I decided to talk about this to Miss Caroline. she was my class teacher who handles all the students in my class. It was the next day after that incident. I was approaching her cabin to tell the things happened to me. Her cabin was located at the end of second floor. The cabin has black window bordered with white stripes and followed by a door. I strode pass the window, I could overheard the talks of Miss Caroline and other teachers.

“Miss Caroline, How was your class performed in last sem?".

"All the students were passed in most of the subjects but . . ."

"but. . .?"

"Huhh, There is a kid in my class. who got failed in all the subjects".

"Who?".

"A new joining, in middle of this sem. Quiet, always alone and couldn't even able see

eyes while talking . such a loser. I don't why the department put him up in my class. without him,

Our class will perform at best".

I stopped ,turned back and started to walk back where I came . Every single word that miss Caroline told was true but I can't handle the truth. I looked around to distract myself , The birds were migrating for the autumn, Tree were shedding their old leaves and every student around walking in their class joyfully with their friends. I thought, I can't now, I can't distract myself and tears from eyes. The harder I try to control , The Harder I cry. People walking past me saw me like an different creature. Who never seen somebody crying but I always scared of other people's eyes. But right now, I want to alone. So so far people who mock at me, judge me but never understand or talk to me. I walked , walked , walked and reached the third floor. And found a place where I alone. My final thought came up : Why?

What's wrong with me? Even my teacher identify me as an loser. Maybe I am the loser as they say . Is this why I even born?. To be an loser? .No, I don't want to be a one. then I thought It’s better to die than living as useless creature. . Can I jump off the second floor? . There were no trees down to block the way, It just an pure cement down and only late comers coming now. The classes are going to start soon. So, Most of teachers must be in class.

I turned left, Students are passing through. Then Right, Same students. Not even a single teacher was there. I slowly raised my leg to reach the balustrade. Hey! I heard commanding voice behind me. I turned back to catch who it was. Crap! The principal. I lower my leg and tried to run away. “Somebody catch that kid whose running away” I heard the principal voice . Then two students who were walking toward me and grabbed me .

As I am standing outside the principal cabin , I thought of where did she came from abruptly because I I believe she was never in the corridor . Maybe she might in one of classes and came out of nowhere. As thoughts were musing I heard the shouting principal voice “how would you possibly don’t even know what’s happening to the child?. Get out of my sight right now”. Then Miss Caroline , My class teacher came out of cabin and staring at me with big brown eyes while she walk past me. The peon came outside of the cabin and said “Jacob! She wants to speak to you, Come inside “. I walked inside the cabin with fear. when I went inside the principal cabin . It was cooler than any other winter. The chillness made the hairs on my arms stood up. The principal sat on a black cushion chair and writing an letter to someone. I thought maybe she going to complain to my father. Then she saw me and told to sit on the white chair opposite her. Between us there was a blue glass table bordered with dark blue strips was there. It has an dragon tattooed black pot filled with plastic flowers, large stick file documents and different grades of mathematics books. Our school medals and trophies were placed around us in the principal room.

She snap her fingers right in front of me and told "Hey,..Jacob".

Then I realized I lost myself while I was observing the room and told "Yes, mam." Then she

asked

“why do you want to jump off the building?”.

I start to stammer and said "No..no..no mam, I just".

She stopped me while a speaking and said

"I saw you . Now tell me, why do you want to die?". I saw her bold eyes facing towards me while talking then I thought I have no other option but say the truth. maybe she might be the solution".

"I don't want to live as a loser, mam".

"loser?".

"I am a student that they never want, a son who left behind by my father and I don't know what else to do except think about dying”. I paused for second holding my tears eyes and said

"Even my teacher think of me a useless. So, I thought it's better to die than live in hell".

" You are not what they mock, You are not what they praise but You are only what you think of you. Your only job in this life is to find really who you are and then I can definitely say that your are not a loser."

Demons never look the way you’d expect. Red skin and horns? Childish. Wings and a tail? Hollywood. Lurking in the shadows preying on the weak? Actually yeah that’s closer.
My latest target is about 5’ 4”, a poindexter part down the middle of his blonde hair. He’s dressed in modern clothes and has a self satisfied smile. The only thing that gives him away is the eyes. It’s always the eyes, malice sure, but what I really watch for is the faintest wisp of smoke coming from them.
His victim is an early 40’s middle manager type standing a little too close to the tracks. I walk closer to hear what he’s saying.
“Fat. Bald. Underpaid. Powerless.”
It’s the normal shotgun approach I’m used to hearing. Demons don’t speak to their targets in full sentences. That would be too obvious, it would reveal their voice and alert their target’s suspicions.
Something catches the demon’s attention. A rowdy group of boys stumble off the escalators and around the corner onto the platform. The demon practically sprints towards them. He reaches the tall one who is laughing the loudest and has to stand on his tip toes to snap his fingers right next to the left side of his face. For me the sound is deafening and creates a visible spark. For the boisterous youth before me it will have been a barely discernible click. But it’s enough to pull his attention over and take the bait.
He sees the man near the tracks and nudges his friends. The tall one starts to waddle around, arms out at his side like he’s wearing a fat suit while his friend does his best impersonation of a trombone. Very original.
I tend not to get connected to the target of my target but man I do feel bad for this guy. I look over and sure enough he’s seen the boys and quickly looks away, trying not to give them the satisfaction of a response. But I see it in the eyes, it’s always the eyes.
The demon goes to the next boy and whispers in his ear “Push him onto the track.” I see the boy's countenance change with disgust at what he thinks was his own dark thought.
“Worth a shot.” The demon says to himself before walking back to the man. I’ve seen enough and step forward, but I don’t yet reveal to the demon that I can see him. To him I’m just another commuter wrapped up in my own thoughts.
It’s my turn. I close my eyes and feel for the man’s best memories. Holding hands with his wife for the first time…too many steps to pull his mind to that one. Watching the sunset from a surfboard…pretty good but judging by how the man is looking at those train tracks I need one that draws him back to human connection. I reach in further, spreading my mind’s fingers like a child searching for his toy in a sandbox. First I see a bright red kickball, then the shape of a child starts to form. It’s his child. The scene continues to form and now I get what I came for. I hear a tune playing from a nearby ice cream truck, “Pop Goes the Weasel”. Catchy enough I bet it works. I snap out of the vision and start to whistle the tune.
The demon looks at me suspiciously but I just continue walking, eyes forward like I’m getting ready for the train to arrive. The man, Rob, yeah that’s his name, glances over at me and back down.
“Sorry. My boy got that song stuck in my head yesterday and I can’t shake it.” I say smiling. He gives me a courtesy smile and looks forward, face still sullen. I conjure a phone into my pocket and remove it, revealing a bright red phone case. I continue my tune and wait to see if it will be enough to trigger the association. His eyebrows lift subtly, eyes brighter. Got him.
In my peripheral vision I see the demon has been watching me the whole time. I look down at my fake phone and pretend I just got a very serious text. He walks back up to Rob and whispers his next attack.
“Bad father.”
I laugh out loud, continuing to look down at my phone. He’s botched that one, from the little I’ve seen, Rob knows he’s a good father. Rob pulls out his phone now and I see a picture of a young man on his lockscreen, much older than my vision, but definitely the same kid.
The demon leans in and scans over the phone. No doubt he’s seeing if there is anything on there he could use next. No social media, no flashy games, no news outlets. “Not bad” I accidently say out loud. The demon whips his head towards me and we make eye contact. He snarls at me and starts to run away. I go noncorporeal as I go to intercept him and he reaches out his hand which spews hot ash and the stink of sulfur. I jump away from it, holding my coat over my face. Two strangers waiting for the train look at each other suspicious of the smell and scoot apart.
I go to return to my chase but something stops me in my tracks. Oh yeah, Rob. I sigh and turn around. I’ve been told I could be more compassionate towards the mortals. “They aren’t just part of the mission” my trainer would always say. “They ARE the mission.”
“Fine.” I whisper to myself. I’ll find blondie later. Besides, no distractions now will make this easier. I walk back to Rob who I see is placing headphones in his ears. He’s getting ready to turn on a podcast for his train ride. “We can do better than that.” I say, but he won’t have heard me in this form.
I hold my hand to his phone. He taps repeatedly at the podcast button but it doesn’t work. He accidently taps the music button, which I allow. Before he can correct it I queue up “Baba Yetu” with the Soweto Gospel Choir. “Give it a second” I say. I can’t actually influence him to stay on it, only hope. But he does, and then the drums and choir take over. As the horns start to swell I see goosebumps creeping across his arms. We’ve got ourselves a feeler, this one is too easy.
My trainer used to use this track all the time. He explained that without understanding the words, it left people with a sense of connection to humanity, and a sense of something larger than themselves. “Those are the two greatest tools we have.” He would explain. “Connection to others, and a sense of perspective. Connection to others because they’re stronger together. A sense of perspective to help them see that their problems are temporary, and swallowed up in the greater story.”
Rob’s train arrives and he shuffles on with everyone else. As the train pulls away I put on a new appearance and head up to the street following tiny wisps of smoke. I turn back to him and nod to myself as he starts a video call with his wife.

My ability to navigate through this world is determined by my biological senses. Those born blind do not know the striking awe of a pink sunset. Those born deaf have never awoken to the songs of the birds. How do you trust what is real, if you can only define "real" through your subjective experience? These thoughts won't stop racing through my head. The lights in this room are becoming obnoxiously bright. It's not as if they're truly changing, it's as if the sensation of their luminosity is turning sinister. The TV is playing a commercial for... something. I can't even make it out anymore. I can tell that the person on screen is speaking in plain English, but nothing they say makes any sense to me. I can only make out the word "end", and it is echoing like a reverb-heavy backtrack to my internal monologue. End. Why does something so mundane feel like an omen? A message? Something in my chest feels off. I have suddenly become aware of my internal organs. I don't know how they are supposed to feel, so feeling them at all feels like a warning sign of impending doom. I would be panicking if this hadn't become routine. The reaper sees something in me. She likes to tease me like this. I'm not sure what it is that I've done to earn her liking, but I grow tired of her affection. I know our union is inevitable, so I have no desire to rush it. I fear she is listening, even to my thoughts. I cannot hide from her, and I have no clue how impatient she's growing.

"I'm sorry", a voice echoes through the living room. I'm out of my daze. The lights are normal once more, the TV's audio is taking the form of generic sitcom dialogue.

"Why are you sorry?" barely escapes my breathless lungs.

"For missing you."

"What do you mean? I'm right here."

"I'm not."

In an instant my father is gone again. Like no one was ever there to begin with. I knew grief would be hard, but I feel like I'm losing my mind. It's like someone is watching me. It's like I want someone to be watching me. All too often do my sentences begin with, "And if you can hear me..."

As I'm sitting on the cold, cement stairs, staring into the distance, I see my neighbor walking his dog. I'd bet he's somewhere in his 60s or 70s. Why does he get the luxury to age? I'm not mad at him. At least I think I'm not. I know I feel anger, but I don't know where it's supposed to go. It's tangled up with the love that lost its destination as well. Why didn't you get to experience becoming old? Why did the reaper take you from me so soon? I'll admit, she's becoming appealing through familiarity. When she first took you, I wondered, if I willingly follow her, will she lead me to you? It's easy to think that no one I left behind would take issue with this, but I know better. There's a chance she'd take them too. She likes to prey on people like us at a young age. Though I will not succumb to her now, I do hope that when I do, the shedding of my biological senses reveals something else, something external. I hope she takes me to you, or maybe shows me that you've been here all along. After all, I hear her and Mother Nature are quite close.

So I let the wind blow my hair, I let the rain wash over me, I take comfort in these melancholy days that I know you loved just as much as I do. I'll hear your voice in music, I'll see your face in the mirror, and after death finally wins our game of tug-of-war, I can only hope that my loved ones will do the same for me.

The tale of Spice

Over a decade ago, I was in deep misery and confusion.

I had no purpose in life.
My mom died at 44 and my dad eventually died about 15 years later.

Without any guidance or stability, I turned to drugs.

Spice, wow, what a powerful substance.

The container of this drug that you could buy at Tabaco shops had a label that read ‘not for human consumption,’ although that didn’t stop me or hundreds of thousands of other people using it.

It reminded me of weed.
The way it looked and how you smoked it, out of a pipe.

Synthetic weed or synthetic heroine; that’s what ‘they’ called it.

Did I care that labeled existed, ‘not for human consumption?’

Of course not! All I knew was that it gave me a high.

This substance was so powerful that it took your mind for a ride.

It was a great escape from reality. I even had an aquanauts that made spice himself.

Because of this access to spice, through this individual, I smoked even more of it.

Some of this substance was stronger than other versions, of course.

The high seemed to massage my brain and numbed my feelings. What a great drug; something to keep me from reality. How could this substance do any wrong?

Spice became a good friend, helping me drown out the mental pain and despair that accompanied me.

Boy, this friend of mine turned out to almost be the death of me; the Grimm Reaper.

One night, after a few sessions of smoking spice, I laid in bed with the TV on.

As I laid there, my heart started to race, body felt weak, and a sense of turmoil set upon me.

The channel I was watching started to turn into some strange, unwanted images.

Disgusted by the images, I changed the channel only to find the same warped, identical images.

I kept flipping through the channels and every channel had the same vulgar imagery.

Finally, I laid down.
As I laid down, something happened that I never will forget.

I started to feel heavy and fell through my bed.

As I fell deeper and deeper, I started to get hot and hotter.

The heat was so intense that I couldn’t bare it.

I felt death and knew I was falling into hell.

Was this it? Was I really going to hell?

Almost to the end, I cried out to Jesus and flew up, instantly, back to my bed, sweaty and scared.

Let’s say I never smoked that evil substance again.

Spice was no longer a vice.

**Side Bar**

When a human has nothing to live for, no one to love, or, overall, no purpose, bad ‘things’ can happen.

If you or a loved one suffers from mental illness or has a drug addiction, be there as much as you can without enabling them.

Remember, you can lead a horse to water, but it’s up to the horse to drink the water.

It’s scary when you are in the dark, by yourself, with no one to talk to.

Sometimes, the only friend is death.

Sometimes, a person will wish for death

Sometimes, the Reaper will take you without regret.

Thanks.

An email from an underground group invited Kellie into their unique club, where unreleased indie games were available for free beta play. 

They advertised a gaming chair offered to every new member that came with an unknown game no one outside of the group knew about.

A secret achievement popped up on her account, hidden from everyone except her. It activated the second she plugged the chair in. When she sat down, her world shrunk to the exact dimensions of it.

Kellie hadn’t socialized with people outside of the internet for the last six years. Nobody would even recognize her anymore. Her body stopped being a vessel for a soul. It was now just an anchor, sinking further into her gaming chairs, which she’d rotate out of once a month. Indentations wore on her body like a corset over years of continuous gaming.

Everything revolved around the glow, where her headset would become a crown to the horrors seeping into her bedroom at her parent’s house, which she kept shrouded in darkness. 

A sliver of light, bleeding in from the hole in her sheet hung up as a curtain became the only difference between her and the world.

The pizza boxes were empty and piled in stacks, all matching their rightful shop, hiding her from reality. The pop cans became soldiers. She was the queen. She had the headset. She could be in complete control.

In-game, she was a lethal force who hid in the shadows like a predator stalking its prey. But to the outside world, she was an immovable mass, a force that had to be pushed.

The night she received the chair, something popped up through the Glow of her screen. It was THE FRICTION. 

THE FRICTION was an unlisted RPG that appeared on her Steam dashboard as soon as midnight hit. 

But before she could access it, a message opened: 

THE FRICTION delivers exactly the dread its name promises, and refuses to let go. An underground group's invitation-only file. 

THE FRICTION, an unlisted indie RPG that ships with a gaming chair and syncs with you while playing the initial rank version before the upload process initiates.

The evaluation game opens with a breathtaking display of organic graphics that look moist, mirroring the inside of a human body. 

Corridors breathe on screen. The walls distort, glistening with gobs of phlegm. The syncs begins with the rumbling of the chair which happens almost immediately.

Until it reaches 100% the chair will lock your body in, as the fusion fully merges your skeleton. By that time the organic engine emerges, bringing the game to life.

There are no manuals found for when the transformation completes, and the fusion sequence will not pause, the only way through, is to wait for it to finish. Nothing can actually fail but there is no physical override from when the process starts.

Before you enter the game, keep in mind, the platform and version are not publicly or privately known to any of the users who’ve obtained these unlisted systems.

Enter to continue or remove the device entirely.

***

The graphics on it were organic, with a slimy light bordering the screen. Kellie couldn’t look away. It had her hooked from the moment she slammed the “X” button, ignoring the numbness stabbing her in her legs. She hadn’t moved since she hit enter.

At the twenty-eight-hour mark, her bladder became claws and fingers scraping and squeezing her insides, just as she approached the level 10 boss. The cutscene couldn’t be skipped.

She continued wiggling, desperately pushing herself upwards to let her insides breathe, but the pain kept digging into her like a scalpel opening her flesh to poke holes into her organs.

Just as she was about to blow up, the scene cut, but at that moment, her bladder was as big as a softball holding 800ml of warm liquid, which is the practical maximum for any human adult. Her stomach was pulsing like she was having severe contractions.

“Go away,” she whispered, tightening her body while tapping her feet on the floor. “Think of the Sahara. Just five more minutes,” she said under her breath, the sweat of her palms dripping into the controller.

By hour thirty-six, she still hadn't used the bathroom. Even though her bladder had expanded to twice that of a softball and was now the size of a mini-basketball.

Kellie had organically reached 1300ml, 5.5 cups of water.

From her hips down, the tingling had vanished, but an odd numbness started. It was warm for a second, became incredibly heavy, and disappeared, along with the movement in her legs. 

She tried shifting her body into another position but couldn’t. Her arms twitched violently and the controller fell. She yanked at her sweatpants where she stuffed a lifetime of defeat and pulled up. The fabric wouldn’t move either.

She reached further down, ripping a gap between her thigh and the computer chair. A sharp pain cut straight into her spine, as if her torso had disconnected from her pelvis.

She moaned a breath of agony, aiming the flashlight from her phone downwards. The chair hadn’t left an indent on her skin. It was far worse. Now, she was melting into her chair. Plastic pieces began spewing out of her pores, entangling with her nerves and layering over her bones.

Her flesh spilled over the armrests, fusing into the seat and wheels. The gaming chair was digesting her as she anchored it to the ground.

A text appeared on the screen: Player one has been immobilized. Sync… 100%

Kellie tried screaming, but the headset muffled her voice. Her physical fingers twitched one last time before she ended up as a muscle memory reaching for her controller as she became the chair.