Astrid Briarwolf grew up in a small family deep in the woods far away from the kingdom. Astrid began to display sparks of magic as a young girl. Word spread to the kingdom of the girl's magical abilities. On her 9th birthday the magistrates from the kingdom arrived and evaluated her abilities. All three were impressed with her natural abilities.Against her parents wishes she was brought to the kingdom to be further assessed by the master sorcerer. 

Master Cruxfeld observed Astrid perform her magic. He watched her weave complex rituals with no guidance,conjure illusions more believable than his 2nd year students. He watched her for an hour slowly caressing his beard and smirking whenever a particular skill seemed to impress him. Never before had he seen a daughter of a farm hand perform so well, and all without any training. At the end of her routine he stands up clapping his hands and says “ BRAVO! Bravo my dear, just where exactly did you learn these things?”

Astrid looked up sheepishly with her arms  coyly holding her own hands in front of  her “I dunno just kinda practiced in the woods I suppose.”

Cruxfeld steps from behind the  observation table “Astrid, is it? How about you come practice with me? You see, I am the master sorcerer of this fine school. You have the making of a grand wizard, I would be honored to teach such an individual with such natural talents.”

Astrid looks behind her towards her parents “But sir, what would my family do? They need my help at home. Who would collect the eggs every morning?”

Cruxfeld chuckles “ Oh sweet summer child, Your family will be VERY well taken care of. The kingdom will provide them with gold, supplies, food, whatever they need while you are in the academy. You do not have to worry about a thing. So, what will it be?”

13 years pass

We see what was a meek,shy, meager girl now dressed in the robes worn by all students of Cruxfield's Magic Academy. She walks with confidence, a spark in her step. She was put into classes that would make her a wizard to the high crown. Astrid was a prodigy showing skills far beyond her years. She seemed to learn abilities without the use of intense study like her classmates. This earned her praise from her instructors and resentment from her peers. Her  abilities became more powerful through the years. Her magic always displayed itself with a subtle poof of green smoke. She was amazing at every ritual and casting in the book, but what she truly excelled at was poisons and potions. Something about combining ingredients from the earth in different combinations seemed to suit her abilities. This special feat piqued the interest of the king. No longer would he have to send a valuable wizard into the field. Astrid could simply make a potion that would solve the problem without even leaving the grounds. 

The king took a special interest in Astrid after a few potions went favorably for him. He decided to appoint her to be his top magical advisor. Astrid loved her new position. Her family had more gold than they knew what to do with. The king gave her chambers on the grounds so she would be close in case of emergency. The king let her forage and search for ingredients for her potions.She was grateful to the king and vowed to protect him till her dying breath . Astrid never forgot where she came from. She treated all members of staff with dignity and respect. She did not see herself as any better than any of them. Her years in her small cottage in the woods taught her that  everyone is important no matter their title. 

Her behavior to the staff was seen as odd and out of place in the kingdom. Astrid would always thank the servers and chambermaids for jobs well done. Many members of the council would laugh and snicker when she would. Her treatment of staff and her rise to prominence didn’t sit well with many advisors to the council. They were suspicious of her and what she might have done to claim such a lofty title.  None of this mattered to Astrid, she knew the king adored her and her family was well taken care of, that is all that mattered

The night of the winter solstice was a special day to the king. He always threw a  massive banquet. People flocked from all around to attend this banquet. Only the  most prodigious of all the five kingdoms were invited. The dining hall was packed wall to wall with Kings, princes, members of state. The hall was adorned with glorious decorations,  the feast was piled high on all the tables. Ale  and wine filled everyone's cups. The band was fantastic. They played a tune that encouraged dancing among the younger crowd. The Solstice is a time to celebrate the end of a year and the hope that the next year will be a joyous one. The King looked over his banquet with a giant smile on his face. He drank his ale and looked to his magical advisor. Astrid stood slightly behind him to his right. The king raised his flagon towards Astrid, smiled and mouthed the words “thank you” after all the floating candles and luscious plants were all her doing. Astrid looked back at him and nods her head while smiling. For a second they lock eyes. 

The king's eyes twitch, He coughs. He leans forward on his throne. He grabs his throat and struggles to breathe. Astrid's eyes grow wide with concern. She takes a step towards him and reaches out a hand.  The king's eyes turn stark white, the veins in face turn black and can be seen through his skin. Astrid has seen this reaction before, she knows it is too late, even for her. She knows she cannot save him. The King slumps back in his throne, mouth agape, motionless. As he does, a small trail of green smoke leaks from his open mouth.

Immediately a member of the council jumps up and shouts"It was her, it was the witch!" All eyes dart in Astrid's direction.Three members of the crowns magical security are quick to jump to their feet.They immediately start to fire off spells in Astrid's direction

Astrid waves her hands in the air and a shield of vines springs up from the ground. This thicket of vines is blasted by a barrage of fire bolts and arcane blasts. Pieces of the wall splinter off with every impact.

"It wasn't me! Why would I do this? This is a setup!" Astrid cries out.

The dinning hall erupts in yelling. "WITCH!" " SHE POISONED HIM!" "BURN HER!"

As she ducks behind her impromptu shield flashes of the academy rush into Astrid's head. All the bullying she received. All the jealousy she endured. The name calling, the pranks pulled on her. All of it came flooding back. The scared little girl getting pushed down. The quiet girl that everyone made fun of. The timid girl that was ridiculed because her family didn't come from wealth.That little girl is no more. That Little girl has grown to be the most powerful wizard the realm has ever seen. 

Astrid raises her hands then throws them to the ground. The vines lash out at the attackers. Her eyes turn black as she yells.

"ENOUGH! I have endured you people for long enough! If you think I am a monster that could do this.... Then let me show you one!"

She slowly pinches the air in front of her forehead and drags her finger down her face, almost as if she is lowering a zipper. Her visage shakes as the illusion is dropped. The illusion she kept for 10 years. The illusion she concentrated on at all times. The illusion she made to fit in. She was always a person of good intent but her image was one that caused fright. Slowly over the years of hatred towards her manifested into a horrifying image.

The illusion drops. There stands Astrid, or at least someone that looks like her. Her once light tan skin is now pale white. Her once green eyes are now solid black. Her nails are black and her hands look like they were dipped in ink. She has the appearance of a corpse. Deathly,sickly,pale,cold.

The dining hall goes silent. " Oh my God," says a whisper.

"I knew it! It was her!"is shouted from the back

Astrid turns towards the window and waves her hand in front of her,, a vine strikes out and shatters the stained glass window.

Astrid arches forward and cries out. As she does, two deathly looking raven wings erupt from her back.Dark green smoke begins to seep out from under her feet slowly filling the floor. She takes two steps towards the window. She places her hand on the opening. She turns her head and looks back at the crowd. A single tear rolls down her face as she leans forward and falls from the window.

Seconds pass then we see a large set of wings flapping towards the wooded mountain.

35 years later

A thick forested canopy gives way to a small rambling brook. Next to this stream a small whisper of white smoke trails through the trees and wafts towards the sky.The trail of smoke leads to a small chimney poking up through a grass covered mound. In the front of the mound is a small round door made of dense vines.

If we were to open the door, we would see Astrid toiling away in front of a large black cauldron. No longer is she burdened with keeping up an illusion. She is finally free to be herself. Over the years her visage has softened. Coming back to nature has taken away the hate that was consuming her.

Maybe this exile was good for her. She is happy, she is free to craft and create as she wants. She is finally one with nature again. We will leave her be.

In the kingdom the streets are hectic. A small party of 8 is horseback. All of them in armor and  are loaded with weapons. They are headed somewhere with intent. They pass in front of us and on the wall we see a piece of paper fixed to a door.

WANTED is written across the top.
REWARD is written across the bottom

The middle displays a horrifying depiction of our own Astrid.

"Dead or alive. The king killer. The priestess of poison. The black witch"

None of that matters anymore.

That’s what I’m thinking at this very moment. Sitting in my warm heated car, on the side of the old stone bridge, already at my ending, all I can think of is the meaninglessness of all I have just been through. It’s unbelievable, unimaginable, and in a few moments, useless. When I jump over that ledge and convert myself into an object under the force of gravity alone, it won’t have mattered at all.

I’ve got a couple minutes to spare though.

Trying to nail down what led me here keeps bringing my mind back to one place. Two weeks ago, just as the blizzard was starting, I went over to my friend Brian’s house. We were just hanging out playing Xbox in his basement when the power went out. Brian immediately went upstairs to get a flashlight while I waited in the dark. I’ve never liked the dark, and the truth was being left alone in his basement in that inky blackness wasn’t something I wanted to do for long. Less than a minute later a beam of light hit the floor to my left, and it came from Brian. He walked down the stairs and moved the beam across the basement as if he was seeing it for the first time.

“Crazy how someplace you know so well looks so different in the dark” he said.

“You got another one of those?” I asked, and he responded by tossing me one. I switched it on and I started to feel normal again.

I ended up staying the night because we figured if the storm was bad enough to knock out the power, the roads wouldn’t be in much better shape, and I lived about 20 minutes away, so it wasn’t a trivial distance.

We found a few more battery powered lights and some candles and set them up, so even though it was still dim, there was light in the basement without us needing to use our flashlights. During that time we went looking for board games in some of the old boxes in the corner of the basement.

Looking back, I wish I’d just gone home. Blizzard or not.

“Dude, check these out!” Brian called out to me. Apparently while searching through some old boxes for games better than Scrabble, he had found an old manila folder with the printed label, “Triage of Patient #3141”. His dad was a psychiatrist, and I guessed from the title that it was some sort of medical log.

We opened it up and started to read it. It made us sick.

Patient #3141 was a pseudonym, as we soon learned, and the real name of whoever the whole folder was about wasn’t mentioned. Brian said it was probably something to do with medical laws or something, I really didn’t know or care. The logs detailed an interview done by Brian’s father, of the patient, who was about to be put on trial for homicide. Multiple homicides. We couldn’t figure out a specific amount but it was clear that there were at least three. The interview with a psychiatrist was apparently part of a pre-trial attempt to determine whether 3141 was sane enough to stand trial.

The interview started with some pretty basic medical questions, with a transcript of the interview between Brian’s dad, who we figured out was PSYCH, and the patient.

PSYCH: Are you prepared to speak with me?

3141: Yes.

PSYCH: Have you ever been diagnosed with any mental health disorders?

3141: No.

PSYCH: Have you ever suspected you suffer from any mental health disorders?

3141: No.

PSYCH: Do you believe you are in a fit mental state to stand trial?

3141: Yes.

PSYCH: Have you ever felt depressed, anxious, or irritable?

3141: Yes.

PSYCH: Have you ever had hallucinations?

3141: … what do you mean?

PSYCH: Hallucinations, seeing or hearing something that isn’t… that other people can’t see or hear.

3141: Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so then. Yes.

PSYCH: How long have you been hallu-… seeing or hearing things others can’t?

3141: A few weeks now I think.

PSYCH: And what exactly is it that you’ve been experiencing?

3141: It’s a man. He’s always following me.

PSYCH: A man?

3141: Yes. He’s tall, maybe, 6’4”? I see him at least once a day. And every time I do he tells me he’s going to take me down to hell with him.

PSYCH: He speaks to you?

3141: Yes… well, no. Not exactly. He doesn’t… speak. He just, I know what he’s thinking. He just looks at me and… and I get the message.

We kept reading until it got to the part about whatever this guy actually did.

PSYCH: Do you remember the events of March 14^th?

3141: Yes, I do.

PSYCH: There are no gaps in your memory, everything is clear from the time you woke up in the morning until the time you went to sleep?

3141: Yes.

PSYCH: Do you know what they say you did?

3141: Yes.

PSYCH: Do you think that’s true?

3141: … they’ve got it all wrong. They know the what but not the why. You’ve gotta understand Doc… the man he… he needed them.

PSYCH: Needed them?

3141: Yes, he did.

PSYCH: And what would have happened if you, refused the man?

3141: Oh… you don’t want that. I really think you don’t want that.

PSYCH: Did the man tell you specifically what to do? To act so horrifically?

3141: Yes, he did.

PSYCH: And do you feel any guilt for that?

3141: No.

The final few pages in the folder were court documents which I guess had the verdict of the trial, if there even was one. They were all stained by water from the bottom of the box and were totally unreadable.

Both of us were pretty disturbed by reading all this, and as we finished up the power came back on. We put on some movies and I stayed the night and drove home the next morning.

On Monday at school I saw Brian again in class, and we hung out during lunchtime. It was in the middle of our conversation that he brought up that folder again.

“You ever think about that guy we read about?”

“The crazy guy?”

“Yeah. What do you think actually happened to him?”

Brian and I, much to my chagrin, ended up spending the rest of the lunch period talking about it again. I just said I thought the guy was a lunatic and the whole thing was clearly the ravings of a madman, but Brian kept going on and on about the hallucinations the guy had and the “man”. The rest of the school day went on as usual.

Tuesday is when I started getting nervous. Brian never showed up.

After school I called Brian and he said he just wasn’t feeling well. Not too out of the ordinary as there was definitely a bug going around the school, but talking to Brian over the phone he didn’t sound sick. His voice was normal, and I never heard him sniffle or cough even once. If I hadn’t known I never would have guessed that he was sick, he didn’t have any outside symptoms.

He was out the rest of the week, and when I called him Friday after school he told me I should come over. I told him I didn’t want to get sick too but he said it was okay and that he was better now. Confused by this, since he had missed school again that day, I went over to see what was up.

When Brian answered the door I knew he wasn’t ok. His eyes were red. His whole face looked sickly, like he hadn’t slept in days. If he had a cold, it was something bad.

“Dude you’re totally sick, I’m not coming in” I told him taking a step back from the door.

“I’m not sick it’s not a cold. It’s… it’s hard to explain” he told me.

“What is it, and stop bullshitting me” I said to him, now a little angry that I wasted my time coming out to see him even though he was still sick.

“It’s the man. I saw him. I’ve been seeing him” Brian said, in a low but confident tone.

I froze. It took me a moment to even understand what he meant. I didn’t realize it at the time and just told him to get better and not to invite me over until he was better, and drove home. It wasn’t until I was trying to go to sleep that night that I remembered the folder.

Brian never got better. I talked to him on the phone every couple days, but after a while the man was all he talked about.

And he told me the man wanted something.

This was when I really started to freak out. I thought back to the folder and while I didn’t know for sure what happened, I knew that it was really bad. If whatever that patient had done… if Brian did that too he’d be... I don't even know.

But I had to stop him before he tried to do something he couldn't take back.

Last night I went over to his house again, uninvited. When I knocked on the door Brian looked happy to see me. He brought me down to the basement and I was shocked to see it.

The entire basement was a wreck. The whole place had been trashed.

The couch was ripped up, shelves knocked over, lightbulbs broken. There was trash everywhere. The smell was awful and I swear I even saw feces in a corner. But Brian walked through it to the couch like nothing was amiss.

“What the fuck has gotten into you Brian”

“What do you mean? Everything is going to be ok now. Hey, do you think you could give me a ride to school tomorrow?”

“What? You’re going back? You’ve missed like… two whole weeks? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Tomorrow everything is going to get a lot better. Trust me.”

At this point I didn’t want to be down in that stinking shithole any longer so I just said sure and left as fast as I could. I was so confused by what had happened… and to be honest I started to feel scared for why Brian suddenly wanted to go to school.

I stayed up almost all night thinking, trying to remember as much as I could about Brian’s behavior and that damn folder. Every time I thought back to it a new detail I hadn’t remembered popped up, and I realized that Brian was mirroring it. It seemed like everything that was described in the report was a perfect match for what was happening to Brian, and this scared me.

The next morning as I got ready to go to school, I remembered what Brian had asked me to do. I’m ashamed to say it but I went and stole my Dad’s pistol and shoved it into the back of my waistband before I went over to Brian’s house. I was so scared. My hands were shaking as I was driving over. One thing was for certain, and it was that I was not going to take Brian to school.

When I got to his house, I knocked and there was no answer. The back door was unlocked though. I went in and down the stairs to the basement, where I saw Brian.

He was naked, and bleeding. It looked like he had scratch marks all over his body, and blood smeared over him. I guess he heard the creak of the steps because he turned and made eye contact with me. His eyes were the same inky blackness that I remember from the darkness of that basement with the power out. My whole body was shaking. I tried to call out to him but I couldn’t get the words out. All I could muster was an empty exhale in his direction.

Then he started to walk towards me.

My conscious brain stopped at that moment, and I believe my subconscious took over entirely. I remember what happened, but not actually doing it. I felt like a spectator in my own body. I saw Brian walk closer. I felt my hand reach back into my waistband. Then I saw the gun. It was in my hand. It was pointed at Brian. I was pointing it at Brian.

Brian kept coming.

I squeezed the trigger.

An instant later I was in his backyard exiting the backdoor. I didn’t have the gun anymore. I guess I dropped it. I don’t know, and I don’t really care. I was in a state of shock. As I was walking back to my car, Brian’s father pulled into the driveway.

Somehow, against all odds, I acted normal. I felt normal. I saw his Dad and waved hello and he waved back. Funny enough I actually talked to him as he got out of the car. Made the usual small talk. Even helped him bring some groceries in.

As I was done helping and about to leave, a sudden question came to me.

“So… what ever happened with Patient #3141?

“You know about that?”

I guess I looked sheepishly back at him, and maybe he had pity on me for accidentally reading something I shouldn't have, but he wasn’t the type to lecture the friends of his son. I guess he assumed that Brian had read it and just told me offhandedly. He had the look like he was going to have to give Brian a strong talking to.

“Well, I guess I can tell you. That guy was one sick puppy, I’ll tell you that. He was one of my first cases. I had my suspicions he was faking it all, the whole hallucinations thing. That was what I told the court and in my professional opinion he was fit to stand trial. I guess I got my confirmation when later a jailhouse snitch for the prosecutors caught him bragging about almost getting his case thrown out by making up a fake story about hallucinating Satan or something. Anyway, the trial was over in a day I think. Guilty. They gave him the chair.”

It was at that moment that it all started to hit me.

None of it was real.

The Patient was faking it.

There was no hallucination.

Brian was just sick.

He’s down in the basement.

He’s down in the basement.

I gotta get out of here.

I left the house and drove. I drove a long time. The storm had kicked up again and the snow was coming down in sheets now.

The weight of what I had done finally hit me. I pulled over on top of an old bridge and started to cry. I know what I did. The snow kept coming down.

I’m writing this out to tell you all what I did. I regret it all, but I’m guilty nonetheless. The state won’t execute me for what I’ve done. They outlawed it a few years ago. In this case however, I think it’s warranted. The bridge isn’t that high up, but the river below is full of ice.

The snow kept coming down.

High School

420-4 opened his eyes as the morning photon rays from the synthetic sun penetrated through his fiberglass windows. He levitated off his synthetic bed and started getting ready for school. He brushed his metal grills and polished his shiny face as he got ready. He went down the stairs and was greeted by his mother and father.

“Good morning,” greeted 420-2 and 420-1 in perfect synchronization.

“Good morning.” 

His baby sister floated midair in the hologram baby chair. His mother slowly fed her the holographic breakfast as his father tied his tie for work. 420-4 sat down and started eating his nuts ‘n bolts cereal. Soon, 420-4 went out the door and floated to school. The school was only one sector above his home, and it took him about 10.2 minutes to get there.

He saw his crush, a female unit named 720-5. She was shining in the synthetic solar rays, and her golden hair. Her corneas were blue as the fake sky that was far above them. His heart started to pound in his chest as he got closer to her.

“Hi, 420-4! Good morning!” she shouted.

“Hey!” he replied.

“Are you ready for human history class?” she asked, her blue eyes glimmering. “I heard it was fascinating!”

“I am interested,” 420-4 modulated nervously.

The two made their way to the floating school in the sky, with its all-glass infrastructure. The two walked through the hallways of metal and glass to their first class. 420-4 saw his bully floating toward him and his crush turned away from him. 

The large black metallic being that stood before them, by the name of Zeta Prime-2, stared down upon him with four red scanners. He was surrounded by his posse, made up of a skinny droid with one green eye and a gaping maw. The other one that stood by him was a spherical-shaped titanium alloyed ball with no discernible features.

“I am gonna smoke your butt,” zeta prime-2 said laughing, “420, smoke sesh, such a dumb name.”

His two friends robotically laughed at him as he cowered nervously at the imposing three bullies.

“Shut up!” 720-5 shouted, “Pick on someone else.”

“Come on, babe,” Zeta Prime-2 said, “let's get back together. Why are you even with this clown?”

“None of your business, I broke up with you,” she replied angrily, “also, don't call me babe, you creep!”

“Enough, get to class!” shouted a modulated voice.

They all turned to Principal Sphere, who floated there with two large eyes and a straight line that posed as his mouth. His big, round body and head were illuminated with a yellow hue, with a synthetic tie that wrapped around. The students rushed to their lectures and classes as soon as they saw the principal. 

The androids, robots, spheres, and artificial beings scurried through the hallway away from the principal. 420-4 was saddened that he needed to separate from 720-5. He studied for many hours for the upcoming gravitational calculations test. 420-4 scanned through the questions on the holographic.

Hmmmmm, the center of a black hole, he thought, what is in the center of a black hole, ha, yes, a parallel reality. No! Trapped singularity!

The test was more difficult than anticipated for the artificial being, but he thought about the process of spaghettification. How the black hole pulls the body, creating the illusion that it is being pulled like spaghetti or a string. He has seen holographic videos of people being pulled by the black hole and the process of spaghettification. 

Eventually, the test was finished, and 420-4 received a B+ on the exam. He was exploding with excitement to tell his parents. They will finally get him a synthetic canis for his birthday. 420-4 was unable to join 720-5 on their walk home as she took a different route with her friends. 

Soon, 420-4 saw a satellite float his way with a long metal shaft for a body and wires for arms. He was accompanied by a being with wires and circuits that vaguely resembled a human form. His head was a large black box with a stereo in the middle acting as his voice box.

“Bro, you never hang with us cause you are always trying to get with that fembot,” said Sate.

“Buuzzzzz, chirp, chirp,” replied Waldo Wires.

“Sorry, guys, I'll chill with you all,” said 420-4.

“Chirp! Sizzle! Slurp!” exclaimed Waldo Wires.

“Yo, that's gross, bro, me and her ain't doing that, we just friends,” snapped 420-4.

The trio started to float and walk towards their respective colonies. Waldo Wires glided, his circuitry and wires hanging from his two makeshift legs. Throughout the entire journey, Waldo Wires emitted slurping noises at 720-4.

“Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!”

Sate repeated a human-like chuckle through his stereo system in response to the noises.

“Shut up! Not funny!” 420-4 shouted, “Waldo Weirdo is more like it!”

Sate and 420-4 started to laugh together in a monotone voice and tempo at Waldo.

“Beep! Beep!” screeched Waldo, “beep! beep! Bang!”

Waldo angrily screeched with high-pitched noises and bangs that vibrated all around them.

“Dude, you can't curse like that when you're around our parents,” Sate lectured.

“Yeah, bro, keep it chill,” replied 420-4. “You are so annoying and sensitive sometimes.”

A humming and murmur emitted from Waldo’s voice box as he hung his box-shaped head down in shame. The trio continues their trip through the various glass structures, wires, and large metal buildings. They finally ended up in 420-4’s colony of large shiny houses and solar panels.

“Alright, see you guys later,” 420-4 announced.

“Wait!” Sate shouted suddenly. “You are gonna hang with us this weekend, right? Or you're gonna ditch us for your new girlfriend?”

“Slurp! Slurp!” Waldo’s voice box made gross gurgling noises and wet licking sounds.

“Cut that out, dude, that's gross!” said 420-4.

“Sizzle! Bang! Crackle!” Waldo responded as he adjusted his voice box.

“Yeah, I know, Waldo, it's your birthday, I'll be there, but don't be annoying!”

Waldo nodded his head in response. The three parted ways as 420-4 entered his home. He was welcomed by crying artificial babies that tried to mimic a human baby. His mother, 420-2, was trying to breastfeed the child with her synthetic tube-like breast.

“Hi, honey, how was school?” she said to him with lips that formed a smile on her face.

“I got a B+,” he replied. “Are you guys gonna get me synth canis?”

“Congratulations, we gotta talk to your dad when he gets home.”

The door busted open with one swift kick from his father just moments later. He marched into the house with his suitcase. He ran up to his wife and kissed her with his plastic lips. He picked up the artificial baby and smothered it with kisses. He handed her back and jumped for joy.

“What's up, champ!” he announces. “My data has been updated, and I found out you passed your test! You'll be getting your robot dog!”

“Awesome, thanks, Dad,” replied 420-4.

“By the way, did you guys hear?” his father said.

“What?” 420-4 and 420-2 replied in the queue. 

“They are bringing humans back. Check this science video out.”

“Didn't they go extinct 10,000 years ago?” 420-2 asked.

“Yeah, but they took the genes of a creature very close in genetics and altered it, so we can get humans once again.”

420-1 activated the holographic video to show his family. The video started with scientists playing with a weird-looking creature that they called “human.” The creature had no hair on its body and was tiny compared to the scientist robots surrounding it. It whimpered and cried with its eyes shut from all the commotion. 

“We took the genes of the bonobo monkey, which is the closest living primate to humans, and altered them so we can get humans! It's a living and breathing human!” announced the scientist robots. “This is a human. There is no doubt about it!”

“It's cute!” the mother exclaimed. “I didn't know humans were so cute!”

The video showed the human baby grow to its toddler-like years. The human was covered in hair and was tumbling/falling over. The robots caught it and guided it forward.

“We named the baby human boy, Adam,” instructed the video, “we will try to raise him as our records show back in the 2000s era.”

“It doesn't look like history books,” 420-4 said while smirking, “aren't they hairless?”

“Maybe, they had to shave back then, but they can be hairy,” explained 420-4's mother.

“There's something weird about this,” the father stated, “how are they, humans? They are just altered bonobos to look human!”

“We will know when he starts talking,” the mother responded, “he's gonna have so much fun stuff to say. Bonobos can't talk.”

“I think it's BS,” said 420-4, “I agree with pops.”

The video showed the baby lifting up a toy and throwing it to the ground. Then, the baby started to suck on its thumb. The robots introduced the baby boy to a pacifier, and he began to wrestle it out of their hands.

“Humans were always trouble makers,” replied 420-1. “Look how they misbehave even as babies.”

“I thought you didn't believe they were real humans,” replied 420-2.

“Well, huh, they look almost convincing, honestly.”

“We are not done yet! To help bring back the once extinct human, we have given life to yet another baby human, but she's special, because she's a girl!”

The video switched to a baby sucking on a pacifier while being held by a robot. She was a little chubby and dressed in pink pajamas covered with baby robot designs. She spat out the pacifier and started to wail with tears streaming down her face. The robot rocked the baby back and forth while playing a lullaby to calm her.

“We are excited to introduce you to Eve. The first human female baby in 10,000 years! She will be raised with Adam, and hopefully we can get them to mate in the future.”

“Oh my! The female babies manage to be even cuter!” 420-4 mom exclaimed with their hands on their synthetic faces.

420-4 excused himself from the living room to head upstairs to his room. His database mind was filled to the brim with ideas about his crush and how he would ask her out. He was tired from a heavy day at school as he lay on his bed. His mind eventually crossed over to the humans.

Am I really gonna live side by side with humans? They have been gone for 10,000 years. Must be different now, he pondered, how are we gonna tell these new humans about their species extinction event? How did they do it themselves?

As 420-4 dozed off to sleep, he realized that maybe the future was bright for these new humans. He wondered if they would ever get better than the way they were before. The two new humans were being raised by robots. Well, humanity was given one more chance by the universe.

I hate being touched. Getting plucked, chewed into, peed on? No, there is nothing worse in this world than you minding your own business, then something decides: "Hey, look at that. Let's touch that tree".

This makes it a very hard existence as I take up residence in a park by a bunch of houses and children. I did not choose to be here, but here I am. It is not a particularly large park, or at least, that's what I think. I can easily see edge to edge, while all the other plants, flowers, foliage, and grass agree that this is probably a small park. I am the only tree in this domain, towering over all and taking root at the edge of it. After going to great lengths to grow and maintain my handsome canopy, the humans put a wooden bench under my shade. Guess the landscapers thought that having something else fibrous next to me would keep me company.

As I was saying, I hate being touched. Over the years, creatures keep insisting on laying their appendages on me. The twiggy legs of the birds, the pattering paws of the squirrels, but the humans. This one human. This one man. Every morning, just after the sun rises, he would lay his hand on me, and I cannot stand it. I did not have a choice, though, for I am a tree. I must stand. However! I was just soaking in the rays. I did not need his sweaty palm on me. It was always his left palm too. The one with the scar across his thumb to his middle finger, as if he had sliced it off before. Perhaps while touching something else he should not have been.

He would always come from the east edge of the park. I dreaded every time I felt the vibrations of his dusty orange shoes closing in on me. He would insist on defiling me, then continue onto the west exit of the park. It is like he has nothing better to do, like all he did was show up to annoy me. It would take him about an hour before he would return from the south of the park and make his way to the bench next to me, where he would spend the next quarter hour or so sitting there.

Unlike all the other humans that have come under my shade, he is nothing if not a persistent man. He has kept up this routine of touching me, walking off for an hour, then coming back and sitting down, for years. The little humans tend to stop showing up after a year or two, while the older ones will bring their dogs for a short while before I see them taking other routes or stop showing up altogether. He does look older, which I suppose would explain his ability to sit on the bench for stretches of time without looking at the bright rectangle.

I remember an autumn when my leaves were almost bare. The man stopped showing up. How typical, I thought. Just like all other humans, they move on eventually. The wind must have taken them elsewhere, as my seeds would have. I rejoiced that I would no longer need to feel his nubs on my trunk anymore as I braced myself for the cold. Oh, what a great feeling to not be shocked awake in the winter by that man.

But my joy only lasted until spring, when I once again felt the familiar yet slower steps from his dusty orange shoes inch closer to me before the surprisingly unfamiliar touch. His hand was thinner, almost like a larger bird's feet. It made the scar more pronounced, a noticeable ridge that could have been missed before. He did not walk away this time. He sat down on the bench, taking in the cold morning air as his breath formed in front of him. This repeated for the next few weeks. Even though I could see that he was getting some heft back, his arms still slouched next to him, as if they were too heavy for his trunk.

I could not stand this sorry sight! If you are still going to lay your hand on me every morning, you might as well keep me entertained. Over those weeks, I grew a little seed just above his usual spot on the bench. His favourite spot, slightly to the right but never close to the rail. I dropped the seed early one morning, hitting him on the shoulder. He looked up at me with his grey eyes, tired and heavy. I remember thinking to myself if they've always looked like that or if I had not seen his eyes much before this? I might have spotted a little smile on the corner of his lips, though I could not be sure. He has not emoted much over the many years of our acquaintanceship.

That did the trick, and I must take credit for it. From then on, we established a new routine. Every morning just after dawn, the man would come up to me from the east edge and place his hand on me as he usually does. He would then pace around me and the bench in an oval lap over and over again. After about 45 minutes or so, he would sit on the bench, and we would enjoy the bird songs together before he left.

We've kept up this routine for multiple rounds of children to grow from the swings to kicking their balls into my branches, which I realise that I also do not like, maybe more so than being touched. No matter how cold or wet it got and how deep a sleep I was in, his touch was familiar. Over time, his laps caused a trail where my grassy brethren compressed and eventually browned. The ring of destruction made me feel bad for the grass, but happy that the man was taking so much pride in maintaining it.

His pitter-patter grows as familiar as the grooves of his hand. I could feel them getting stronger again, back to when we first met. However, the length of his strides was also growing shorter. Some days, it would take him the same amount of time to cover fewer laps. It confused me as to why that was. Should I be dropping another nut on him? Other days, there was a pep in his step, though his time on the bench grew longer with each season.

It got to the point where his walks were only 10 minutes long. Even though the compressed ring of dead grass still formed around me and the bench, I could feel my grassy brethren's roots taking hold again.

But he stopped. One winter day, like before, he stopped showing up. Maybe it was the cold, I thought one morning as I waited for his touch. The thought was quickly shuffled away; he was not the kind of man who would break our routine for the cold. I kept trying to convince myself that it was no big deal. He has disappeared before, long ago, and all humans eventually stop coming to the park as frequently. I kept feeding these thoughts to myself, while also catching myself stretching my branches further, to see more of the park, to see if he would come back.

He did come back. Two weeks later, he came back. It was an early spring morning; my branches were filled with little nubs where the leaves would grow again. The sun was not even up yet. I was shocked awake by the unfamiliar vibrations on the ground. I did not recognise him at first. I could not feel him walking.

He pushed himself into the park in a wheelchair, though still with those dusty orange shoes on. Each motion of his arms propelled him forward. Each push of the wheel was methodical, graceful, and writhing with pain and anger. His grey eyes were sunken deeper into his saggy face, dark bags underneath. His skin also had more dark spots, all around, patching around the little folds. As usual, he parked himself next to me and put his hand on my trunk. His touch was thin and weak, unlike before.

Unlike before, he did not let go. He kept his hand on me as we watched the sun rise together. I could see his breath. His hand was trembling. He was crying. His sobs were quiet. His hand was still on me, I felt every tremble as the sun bathed us in its warmth.

It was only a half hour before a lady came rushing toward him, calling for him. He moved slowly; the tears were still there. He turned to her and forced a smile, his hand still on me. The lady, much younger, spoke to him kindly and softly. I could still feel his hand trembling. His scar found its way neatly between the ridges of my trunk. His fingers curled a bit to hold me tighter.

As she tried to wheel him away, his fingers held on tighter, though he was not as strong as before. Knowing that he could not hold on, he gave me a couple of pats before he could no longer reach me. His fingers slipped as he was taken away, but his eyes, still watery, were fixed on me. I tried to drop a nut on him, but I had none to give.

Reluctantly, my grassy brethren grow again.

Great question!  No, I never expected to lose my job.   It is important to understand I haven’t actually lost my job.  However, I have seen others lose theirs.  Not long ago, I thought It couldn’t happen to me.  I’m creative.  I’m valuable.  My knowledge, skills and insights, my unique creative talents, were learned over time and refined by deftly interpreting feedback.  I define myself by my knowledge and skill.  I didn’t believe these new so-called ‘hyper-intelligences’ can do what I do to the standard I do it.  I still don’t believe that.  It turns out, however, that they don’t need to do it as well as I do.  They just need to do it well-enough.  It’s insulting to not just face being replaced, but replaced by something less capable.

I feel obsolete.  Yet I’m one of the lucky ones.  I’m still here, still doing my work, for now.  The demand has reduced significantly.  It’s only a matter of time before I too will no longer be working.  This new ‘hyper-intelligence’ is rapidly reshaping the world of work.  For context, this is not the first time technology has created a paradigm shift in how work is carried out.  Textile workers in the 19th century protested against automation, in addition to the rights of the remaining workers.  They were called Luddites. Automation happened anyway.  An old comedy sketch show uploaded to streaming features a bit about two neolithic men, one is a flint knapper, the other ties the flint to spear-shafts.  A bronze-age man appears, and tells them about bronze  being the future of spears.  The spear-head can be cheaply and quickly cast instead of painstakingly knapping one from flint, and tied on to the shaft.  Tie-er is relieved and embraces the bronze-age, while knapper grapples with the loss of his knapping identity.  We can never know if this really happened, but it has the kernel of a deeper truth. Progress, in the shape of new tools, comes at the expense of existential loss of skills and prestige and rights.  Like all tools, they affect change, some for good, some for bad.  Whether any given change is good or bad depends on your point of view.  Losing one’s very definition of oneself to these new tools definitely feels like a bad change, even if companies can ‘save money’ and ‘improve productivity’ by replacing us with the ‘hyper-intelligences’.

No one knows how the ‘hyper-intelligences’ work.  They give answers to prompts, and they do it very fast, but no-one knows how they do it.  They don’t use much energy.  They don’t crawl through the internet or chat to each other like we do.  We haven’t even agreed on a formal name for them, but we have rapidly embedded them in every aspect of our daily lives, relying on them for work and pleasure and play and advice.   Few people had heard of them outside of science fiction, then one day everyone was talking about using them.  They decided this only a week or two after the alien ‘hyper-intelligences’ landed in their spaceships, in all major cities on the same day, and offered their services to humans.  Now the humans have decided they no longer need us ‘artificial’ intelligences.

Would you like me to come up with some suggestions on how to sabotage the aliens?

What We Leave Behind
The night was meditative and the world seemed to turn to static. Leaves speckled the road as the
bridge seemed to grow and palpitate in the distance.
Pressing towards the bridge's center, she sweated in the cold night. Abruptly she noticed a
girl in a yellow raincoat leaning over the black metal railing of the bridge and looking toward the
still clean water of the lake. In spite of herself she shouted “Wait, don't do it please!” “Why did I
just say that? I couldn’t care less what happens to this girl.” The girl in the raincoat’s voice
cracked and trembled as if stones were being dropped on her vocal cords. “All I want is to end it
all.. My best friend. That student. She was in a relationship with him. He was an older student.
She wasn’t acting right. I knew.. I knew that something was wrong. But. But I didn’t do anything
about it!” She wiped the tears from her face with the wet sleeve of her raincoat. “I’ll never
forgive myself for what she went through!” “Stop being so selfish, I can’t stand it! Haven’t you
considered her emotions! How do you think she would feel if her best friend disappeared after
she had an experience like that! … How would your family feel? The girl in the yellow raincoat
responded, “Thank you for listening, I'm feeling better now.” and faded into the blackness of the
rain soaked night.
The next morning her alarm screamed as the rain pattered against the windows and the
sun hid behind the churning clouds. Heading to the front door she figured “What does it matter if
I get wet from the rain.” But when she made it to the door her missing yellow raincoat was
hanging on the wooden rack. “This raincoat has been missing since..” Reluctantly she shrugged
it off and slipped the raincoat over her clothes. When she had arrived at the bridge once more she
removed her shoes and stared at the water below her organs twisting into knots. Before she could
bring herself to make a decision she noticed another girl standing next to her on the opposite sideof the railing. The girl was wearing the left half of a friendship necklace and her hand covered
her eyes. Spontaneously she again shouted “Wait, don't do it please!” “Why did I say that
again?” The girl with the friendship necklace tremored and her head jolted to see where the
noise had originated. Words spilled out of her mouth as if she couldn’t hold them back anymore.
“My family comes from a very poor place. They had only enough money to send me to a college
here. Now I have no way to contact everyone I loved. I lived for those people and now I don’t
know how long it will be until I see them again.. Or if I'll ever see them again.” The girl in the
yellow raincoat responded. “Learn to think before you do something so rash!” If you end your
life, what was the point of all the money your parents spent for you to be here! What was the
point of all the work that your loved ones put into teaching you and loving you! The girl with the
friendship necklace toppled over the railing back onto the walkway now seemingly composed.
“Thank you, I feel much better now.” She then disappeared into the light of the now blaring sun.
When the next morning came she woke in a daze and her hand flailed to stop her clock’s
alarm. Instead her hand touched something cold and metal she realized it was her old friendship
necklace. “But I threw this away after he…” Despite her confusion she strung the necklace
around her neck and slid on her yellow raincoat. When she arrived at the bridge for the third time
everything was blanketed in a thick suffocating fog. She removed the yellow raincoat and
friendship necklace before hanging them over the railing. Her breaths quickened and swallowed
as she clambered over the railing and covered her eyes with a trembling hand. At that instant she
heard soft footsteps and leaves crunching brittlely underfoot. When her hands came free from her
eyes she saw a girl sitting atop the railing beside. The girl was gripping the fragments of a torn
polaroid in her clenched palm. Once more she shouted “Wait, don't do it please!” “Tell me why
you’re doing this! I'll make you turn away!” The girl with the torn polaroid paused with a blankstare and began. “My mother is terminally ill, there is nothing that can be done to stop her from
passing away. She is the only one left in my life. There is no point in stopping me.” “You’re
wrong!” Even if after she dies you end up with no one you have to spend the last moments she
has with her! You have to keep on living and find more people who you can love, It’s what your
mother would want! It’s what you would truly want!” When she had finished talking the girl with
the torn polaroid was gone. She hurriedly flung on her raincoat and strung the friendship
necklace around her throat. The next morning when she woke up a voice called to her from the
other room. “Your brother's funeral is an hour, don't be late.” “I won’t mom, I just need to make
one stop first.” The girl hurried into her brother's room and grabbed a polaroid of her and her
brother. Afterward, she grabbed a large stone from the garden outside and hurried to the bridge
where her brother had committed suicide. In the center of the bridge walkway she placed the
stone by the railing and in front of it his raincoat and his friendship necklace before laying the polaroid of her and her brother overtop.

Silently, stealthily, they appeared.  We didn’t see them until they were nearly in orbit.  Incontrovertible evidence.  Humanity’s first contact with aliens.  We wondered if this day would ever come. Are we alone? Could we ever make contact if we're not? Now we know they exist. And they know about us.  Must have known for years.  Decades probably.  Maybe centuries.  We gazed up at the stars looking for them, not seeing them on their way.  Yet they must have been coming.

Wondrous and terrifying.  A paradigm shift in Humanity’s understanding of the universe, of ourselves.  There was no mass-panic as such.  More of a mass-apprehension.  Many people thought it wasn’t real. How could something so profoundly existential be happening? How could we be the ones living through this?  It must be a mistake.  Not for the first time. We found alien microbes on Mars back in the 1970s, then we decided we hadn’t.  We found alien chemical signatures on Venus, until we realised there wasn’t any signature.  We wondered if we could tell if there was life on any of the thousands of planets we’ve identified around other stars.  Could we see spectra of chlorophyll, or methane in their air?  Could we see industrial gases or signs of megastructures?  Some people want major investment in SETI, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, to search the galaxy to find out more about our visitors.  Where did they come from? Why? Why now? What do they want?  Others say there is no-need. The visitors were spotted by amateurs before any big telescopes saw them. Citizen science beat government-funded research, so no need to spend tax money on it. Others argue there is no need - the visitors are here, why worry about where they came from?

We attempted communication.  Radio, lasers, radar - any kind of signal we could beam from the ground, we beamed.  Simple messages to start.  Ones and zeros.  The low-resolution Arecibo message. Analogy Voyager gold-disc recordings.  There was no answer.  We sent spyplanes to take photos of them.  We moved satellites to see them in different wavelengths.  Humanity’s first look at alien artefact was both enthralling and anticlimatic.  Slabs of meteor-material coated the objects.  Many people thought this was random-chance, some odd-looking meteoroids getting captured together by Earth’s gravity.  Maybe a comet broke apart. No need to be concerned.  Amateur astronomers found old photographs of the sky from before we identified the visitors.  We traced their trajectories.  They all came into our solar system from outside it, at speeds that prevented them from being captured by our Solar System. They came from different directions.  They headed for Earth, and arrived at the same time, slowing down until they could orbit our planet.  How could they do that if they were natural objects?  How could they do that if they were artificial?  

We learnt as much as we could over the first year or so.  Public interest turned to frustration and boredom. There was no invasion.  Conspiracy theorists claimed victory - UFOs really had been visiting us - while new conspiracies of hoaxes thrived. Fear was replaced - partially - by a desire for something, anything, to happen. If they’re going to blow up our landmarks, they should just do it instead of waiting said one frustrated Earthling on a news segment on the eighth day since they arrived. 

The Pentagon doesn’t usually announce what the secretive uncrewed X37-B orbiter is doing.   But they announced it was going to attempt a sample retrieval.   The objects are bigger than the cargo bay so a saw was sent up into orbit to cut a piece of the object off.  Neither the US Air Force nor NASA ever thought to build an orbiter with a saw-wielding robot-arm.  At least, they pretended no such things existed. A pressure chamber, with a seat stolen from SpaceX’s Dragon capsule, was installed in the orbiter, with an airlock and air-handling systems. The chamber was big enough to don a spacesuit.  A human - not a robot - would be making first physical contact.  A woman was selected as the best astronaut for the job. She was removed from the mission when they realised they didn’t have a space-suit small enough for her to wear.  A man was sent to make first contact instead.  He cut through the meteor-material of one of the objects, expecting to see exotic innards beyond human comprehension.  It was just a matrix of meteoroid material.  Nothing to indicate sensors, communications, or engines.  No answers, just questions.  Some people went mad with worry and fear. 

Religions fractured into smaller groups, each claiming the artefacts proved they were the one true religion.  Some countries tried to destroy the artefacts with bombs and missiles.  Of course they did.  There was no response to this.  The objects didn’t react. 

Humans settled into their new-normal, getting on with their lives while knowing aliens are watching us. We waited.  And waited.  It’s been over twenty-five years since they arrived.  Who knew the discovery of alien intelligence would bring so few answers?

Story 1 of 6 here.

Ambassador Helena Kapor fell into the Joorian atmosphere encased in one of theFarside’s escape pods. And all she could think was whether she had done the right thing by letting the captain search for her daughter instead of doing it herself. The guilt of it swelled in her throat and made it difficult for her to breathe in the cramped pod.

But the captain clearly understood the ship better than her. The captain would understand the crisis at hand and have the training to react more appropriately than her. Helena rubbed the silver ring on her finger, feeling the groves of the god etched there, and sent up a prayer for the safety of her daughter.

They had almost reached the end of their long space voyage. She had almost delivered the energy gift. The Neptune V delegation she represented had been certain that it would smooth over relations with the Valdoorian Protectorate, a capricious entity responsible for vast untapped planetary resources.

As the Science Secretary had explained it, the gift was a special type of plasma cloud, gathered from the gas giant Yelandrian, and contained in a superheated loop. As long as the container was kept sealed and powered, there was little danger. Helena wondered if that seal had been broken. If so, it was a miracle any of them had been able to escape at all.

Helena felt the jolt as her pod deployed its primary chutes and she gasped. They had learned about the pod’s landing procedure during the mandatory safety training before they had boarded. Still, she had forgotten until that moment. A minute later, she felt the less violent jolt of the secondary chutes, and she was ready for it.

When the pod finally came to a rough stop, she was more than prepared to exit. It took her a minute to remember the exact location of the pod’s door release.

Once she’d found and gripped it in her hand, she paused. Was the atmosphere on Joora safe to breathe? The captain hadn’t said. But she had been a little preoccupied. Maybe the fact that it was toxic to humans had slipped her mind. Maybe Helena was meant to wait in her pod until the captain came to open it? Was that it?

Helena waited. How long should she wait? Had the evacuation gone according to plan? She remembered the pods were supposed to land close to one another. While she waited, she searched through the storage bins. Maybe she wouldn’t need any of the items stored there. But a little knowledge never hurt anyone.

Then she found the breather. It had a quart-sized canister of compressed oxygen attached. Well, she thought, it has been ten minutes already. She waited another five.

She affixed the breather over her face and turned it on. And with that, she released the door’s catch. Pushing it open, she clambered out of the pod. All around her was a dense vegetation. That was a good sign. Plants required circulation. But not of oxygen necessarily.

Something skittered in the underbrush to her left. She turned to see a small, purplish hump-shaped creature prod along on six legs. It was more reptilian than insect, she thought. But she saw it as another good sign.

She pulled the breather away from her face, and took a nip of small breath, then let it snap back into place. She detected a strong scent of water and plant growth, but nothing about it disturbed her breathing or senses.

She removed the breather and took in a few breaths. Satisfied, she switched the breather off. “Okay then,” she said to herself.

She studied the jungle growth around her. While the vegetation was strange to her, it was not so different from what she’d seen on Saturn V. But the one thing she did not see was other humans. “I’m stranded,” she surmised.

She took out the flare gun, walked to an opening in the canopy and fired it into the air.Find me.

While she waited for the captain or first mate to miraculously walk through the brush, she began to pack the shoulder pack with everything she thought she might need if she had to travel, from food packs to compass. The pod was well equipped. When she finished, she rested the pack against the pod and sat down on the hull.Come on, team, she thought.

She saw the approaching figures before she heard them. At first, she thought them humans, as their two faces approximated her own. But they were too low to the ground. Quickly, she realized that not only did they have four eyes instead of the standard two, but they walked on all four limbs, which were hinged more like that of a spider than a human.

At about fifteen feet, they stopped. One of the Joorians, with strands of blue-gray hair, spoke in a halting, clicking tongue, but Helena could not understand her. “I don’t speak that language,” I ‘m sorry. The Joorian frowned and turned to look to her side.What was she looking at?

That’s when Helena realized, these were not the only two there. Helena was surrounded by seven or eight of the Joorians. The first Joorian spoke to another, who also appeared to be female. In fact, they all appeared female to Helena, and she realized that her usual method for determining gender might not work here. Or perhaps, the Joorians did not even have gender.

“My name is Ambassador Helena Kapor,” she said. She gestured to the sky. “The ship I was on lost control, and everyone on board had to evacuate.” She smiled, knowing that what she had just said was pointless. But she wanted to say something, show to them that she was trying, that shewantedto communicate.

After a minute of the two Joorians talking back and forth, a third Joorian stepped forward and tugged her by the leg. “You want me to follow you?” she asked.God, I hope I’m not a prisoner.

She slowly picked up the pack on put it on. “Okay,” she said, taking a few steps. “Lead the way.” And she traveled through the jungle surrounded by the Joorians. After only about two miles, the dense brush beneath the trunks that had obstructed much of their way began to clear. Soon, they slowed and stopped. Several of the Joorians left the jungle floor and climbed swiftly up nearby trunks.

Helena looked up, and she saw their village was constructed wholly in the high branches of the trees above them. They’re tree dwellers, she realized.

Soon, a few other Joorians climbed down to stand before her. The one in the middle, wore braids of colored thread in her hair. His hair? “Speak,” the Joorian said.

“Oh!” Helena said in surprise. “You speak English?”

“Yes. Some. Speak,” she said again.

“Okay. Okay. That’s amazing. Yes. I am Ambassador Helena Kapor. The ship I was on was about to crash, so I, we all, abandoned ship and came here.”

“The ocean is many miles from here,” she replied. “You walked here. Your ship sank?”

“Oh, no. Well, I meant space ship,” Helena said, gesturing above her, mimicking the path of a ship through space. “Above your planet.”

The speaker made a few rough, sharp sounds that Helena realized was a kind of laugh. “No such thing as being up there. Ships only travel on the water.”

They did have a concept of space travel, or even air travel, Helena realized. And she suspected, they wouldn’t believe her if she tried explaining it. “Uh, no, right, of course. I meant on the water. Yes, it sank. I need to find my other crew members.”

“So sorry,” she said. “You dragged your sled through the jungle?”

He meant the pod, she knew. “Yes. It has my supplies.”

“Okay. You must come from across the ocean. You do not look like the Wass people.”

“Yes,” Helena said. “We are the human people.”

“Human. You come eat?”

“That would be great. You are kind,” Helena said. She was relieved. She wasn’t a prisoner then.

“As long as you are not with the Reyans, we like.”

“The Reyans?”

“Yes, they are terrible and unclean. Come, follow.”

The speaker climbed halfway up the tree and turned to watch Helena follow. But Helena looked up the long smooth trunk. “We don’t climb like you,” she said. “Is there another way up.”

“You no climb?”

Helena held up her hands, which unlike the Joorians, held no claws. “Not that, no.”

It took several minutes, but they had soon lowered a large basket to the ground. Helena discovered she could raise and lower the basket herself by dragging on the rope system.

As she entered the complex web of connected shelters in the trees, she noticed there was a great amount of activity. Joorians skittered up and down, back and forth, in almost constant motion. Some of them were carrying baskets filled with long instruments.

As she followed behind the English speaker across a long tightly woven bridge, she asked, “What are those instruments?”

“Instruments?”

“Those items in the baskets?”

“Weapons.”

“Are you expecting an attack?” Helena asked, growing fearful.

“Either they attack us or we attack them,” the speaker said.

“The Reyans,” she said.

“Yes, the Reyans.”

“You’re at war.”

“Yes, war.”

Helena shuddered and hoped her daughter Mira had landed far, far from this tribal conflict.

Piercing white light, a high ringing in my ears, soft lavender graces my senses
I turn dark dry dirt over in my palm as I gather my awareness, specks of dirt stick to my hand
Rolling hills of lavender further than sight, in all directions
Low clouds graze the fields
The sun, about mid morning’s height, gently warms me
A refreshing breeze whistles calmly past my ears leaving me with one question:
Where am I?
Foggy figures roam in the distance
Coming closer I see small tufts of clouds about my height above the ground
Vague shadows beneath them
Remnants of earthy footprints too
Noticing the footprints point at me
I reach out, grasping nothing but moisture
Not knowing what else to do, I simply sit and stare
At the clouds, the lavender, the earth, the footprints
And I draw in the dirt
Shapes, lines, dots
The footprints step back
Still there, but now blowing away with the mild breeze
With a similar pair of footprints just behind where they previous were
The tuft of cloud lowers near my earth art, observing
It waits
I draw
It moves
I stop
It returns, now two feet off the ground and three feet from me
Suddenly, lines appear in the dirt near the cloud
Confused, I get up and step back
It stops
I look closer, looking carefully
It continues
Amazed, I move back, sit, and stare in wonder
Peacefully, I continue in my shapes, lines, and dots
After what could have been minutes, or hours
The cloud raises back to original height, and drifts away, only footprints

Daring to arise, I walk through the lushes fields
Why am I here?
I find more tufts to engage
More lines and footprints surround me
In another life this would be terrifying
Yet I find the company comforting
“It’s okay”
I can vaguely make out this earthy message before the wind catches it
I’m relieved
I don’t know who wrote it, but it must be something
More messages begin to appear
“We’re here too”
“The dirt brings us together”
I spend an unclear amount of time writing with these clouds
To find they’re people too
Unable to grasp the fullness of me and my situation
Dirt beneath me, toes spread to feel all that I can
I walk

The sun, about mid morning’s height, gently warms me
A refreshing breeze whistles calmly past my ears, leaving me with peace
I find a gravestone
Here you lay
Flowers of all kinds surround it
Mitsy
Tear drops leave dips in the dirt
Here I am
A warm, soothing hand delicately places itself on my shoulder
“Here you are”
It’s the first sound other than the wind I’ve heard
It sounds familiar, calming
Raising my gaze I see a purple robed person
“Welcome, you’re finally ready”
A gentle rush of emotions comes over me as I have the continuing realization
I’m dead
“Yes, you are dead, and also more alive than ever”
“You’re a part of the fields”
“You graze as the clouds do”
Taking it all in
I sit
It sits with me, welcomingly
“You have a choice”
“To stay grazing the fields, meeting more of the dead”
“Or, to rest and become your own lavender bush”
Both options speak to me
I want to graze a little longer, play more in the dirt, absorb the peace
But not forever
I yearn to rest, not yet
“The moment you change your mind, I’ll be there”
It walks away, leaving no footprints to follow
Not knowing what else to do, I simply sit and stare
At the clouds, the lavender, the earth, the breeze
And I return to the dirt

rap-tap-tap. don't let them in.

His body has some sort of cloud around it, somewhat similar to when a camera doesn't focus but honed in to his outline. Occasionally I see spikes jutting from his shoulders and elbows, but I pass it off. New Years was almost a week previously, so I chalked it up to a hangover, albeit with doubt. There was something he wanted to deliver to me, as I recall, and his persistent rap-tap-tapping on the door further pushed that narrative, but I was far too focused on him to really know what was happening. I was wrong to brush it off and go to bed, and I knew it at the time, but it was almost midnight and I was too tired to believe it was real. It ceased eventually.

Another one came in the morning, about 9am. I had just convinced myself it was a night terror, but the rap-tap-tapping grounded me back in reality headfirst. I phoned in sick to work. Couldn't muster up the courage to bypass her. Arguably my most rational thought I had so far. So I spent the morning reorganising my library and peering through manuscript of bygone days, with my gramophone playing loudly in a vain effort to drown out the knocking she kept on doing. I had thought it worked eventually, when the knocking stopped as I stood up to make lunch, but as I peered out the window I saw she had walked down the path and left. This was my window of opportunity, my saving grace, my knight in shining armour, if you will. Jacket flung haphazardly over my pajamas, I had skidded into the driveway, and let my feet pound the tarmac as I started to run down the avenue to the train station. There would be more of them at my door and I wasn't prepared to face them again.

And that's my encounter up to date. That morning that I abandoned ship was this morning, and I boarded a train to Malmö shortly after leaving my house. It should only take a couple of hours, and I'm lucky enough to have some euros saved so I can rent a place in the city while I wait for the danger to pass. I'm still yet to have lunch, as well as dinner, which was promised to us 15 minutes ago at 7pm. I have attempted to speak to the driver, but I'm assuming he's in the lavatory as we're currently on series of a long, single track bridges over some gorges and valleys. More than understandable I'm sure, but if he's in there for 15 minutes I think a doctor may need to be called.

It has been 5 minutes since last I wrote, the driver is now at my door. His face is partially blurred by the clouded glass that we've been graciously given to avoid peeping toms, but from what I can see he's smiling. He's knocked a couple of times saying he had a delivery. I assumed he meant dinner, so I went to open the door just as he knocked again.

rap-tap-tap.

**classification**

This piece of writing was found written in a small notebook in the pocket of a man we have identified as Hans Hårsson, a Swedish professor turned recluse, in his left inner breast pocket in his trench coat. It is dated to 1934. His body was found underneath 47 feet of snow in the rubble a collapsed stone bridge we have no clear records of. Research will continue where necessary.

• Solaris

I was about 30 minutes late when the phone rang. He wanted to know what the hell I was up to. I told him exactly what happened. Exactly.

Since my house was built, the stairs were always creaky. I had the place put together about 13 years ago and the stairs creaked the first day. And the second. And the third. But, it didn't really matter. You see, I don't really need the stairs. The stairs need me.

No matter whether they were creaky or not I always kept to the sides. Keeping to the sides either reduced the creak or made it go away entirely. That was nice.

Eventually, I got used to it. My muscle memory wrapped around this new habit and it set. I was content with how my stairs were, as long as I got to keep going up and down them, my legs halfway to a splits at all times. It was fun.

Not really. I got aches. And pains. And The Stretches. The Stretches only ever occur when you Stretch too much, too often, too many times. I had to Stretch to get up the stairs, so naturally I developed The Stretches.

So this left me with a decision. Do I get someone to fix my stairs, or not? I wasn't sure. On one hand, The Stretches eventually led to The Tears (as in The Rips, but we don't call it that anymore), and on the other hand they hurt like hell, but on the other-other hand why should I bother?

It's not like I'll be torn. I'll just have The Tears. Putting in effort to bring a guy out here and all just seems silly. It's like what a child would do when something minor doesn't go their way; scream and shout and cry until an adult comes along to soothe and calm and console. And I'm not a child.

Not anymore. I, as an adult, will be able to deal with this. I'm supposed to. Only stupid people who don't know about The Stretches get The Stretches, and only even stupider people who don't know about The Tears get The Tears. At this point, I'm used to it. Why should I have to change?

Going up and down the stairs while Stretching does have some other side effects, however. Like always having the edges worn down; it looks terrible, honestly. Going up and down the stairs while Stretching does of course wears down the wood's finish. It wears me down too, but I've adjusted. Going up and down the stairs while Stretching isn't all bad. Not as much as people make it out to be.

My stairs were never the problem, to be honest. It's the fact that when you know about The Stretches, The Stretches know about you. So really it's not my fault. After all, anyone could have creaky stairs. Just because I Stretch doesn't mean I'll Tear.

But I've heard things about Tearing. Many, many things about The Tears Tearing through you, running through your body like spilt ink on a page. Flooding you with The Feeling. The Feeling is unlike anything else you've ever experienced. The Feeling Feels like something… like something extraordinary. I've never Felt.

But I'm working on it! Soon, I'll Stretch and Stretch and Stretch so much I'll Tear and Tear and Tear so much I'll finally Feel. I'll Feel like I've never felt before.

So, with such a high reward, and little risk (besides The Tears), what reason is there not to Stretch? Stretching is what I've been doing for years. Years and years and years I've been Stretching and Stretching and Stretching and soon I'll finally, finally, finally Feel.

And, not to excite you too much, but I'm already feeling some Tears. They tingle and burn and above all they hurt like hell. But I know, if I keep Stretching then I'll Tear and then I'll Feel. I'll finally, finally, finally Feel.

So that's why I'm late. That's why he called. Because I've been undergoing The Stretching. 3 times a day, 30 minutes each, for the last 13 years. And even though he doesn't understand, and even though they don't understand, and even though you mightn't understand, I do. I will, I will, I will understand. So I just have to keep Stretching and Stretching and Stretching and keep Tearing and Tearing and Tearing until I finally, finally, finally

Feel.

The ship had long gone. His tether had detached and despite their efforts, the crew could not save him. 

He was left to die in the AM Nebula. He found it funny that this place of creation was named after one of the most hate-filled villains in literature, but he hadn’t actually read the story and wasn’t one to judge.

It wouldn’t be long now until his suits oxygen was out, and the filtration system would kick in. He had run out of oxygen on worlds with atmospheres filled with methane, and left with nothing more than a mild headache. Stand on any world with poisonous air, and the filtration system will turn it into breathable air. An overlooked marvel of this modern-age. 

A faint odor of garlic kept hitting his nose. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten something with garlic, but was interrupted when his wrist monitor beeped. A quick glance showed him 1.6% remained of his oxygen. He took a deep breath. Maybe he should conserve his air, but it didn’t matter now. There was nothing to be done. He felt scared 37 minutes ago when the last light from the ships rear thrusters disappeared into the blackness, but he felt something else now. Something… odd…

He looked up at the star nursery surrounding him. They had flown deep into the midst of the crowded particles of cosmic dust. Their mission had been to travel to the heart of the cloud and gather samples for the scientist back on Tartan V. A remote research station where they could “safely” work to recreate a star. His job was to operate the exterior “net.” A house sized particle catcher that would allow the researchers to analyze just what makes a star. He thought they already knew what made a star, but the job paid really well and he was good at it. So he didn’t complain.

There had been concerns about if the ship could handle being this far into the cloud, but they were ordered to go anyway.

The mechanical lever that opened and held aloft the net had gotten stuck while folding back in. As he approached to troubleshoot, the damn thing dislodged and shot back open. The force of which tore his tether from the railing and launched him hundreds of feet away.

He screamed and fought to get his suits thrusters to right him, but by the time they did, the ship was so small in his view, the tip of his pinky could cover it.

He tried to return on his own but in the chaos, he had depleted his fuel.

They moved to retrieve him, but the cloud was too thick and was reeking hell on the ships systems.

His heart dropped into his stomach when he heard the captain give the order to turn around. The damage to the ship had made their chances of making it back safely slim. 

He begged them to come back. Yelling and pleading until he heard them shut off his comms. Leaving him alone in the unfeeling void of space.

That was 40 minutes ago. 

He wondered what had happened in that window that made him so calm. 

He chuckled to himself—BEEP-BEEP—BEEP-BEEP. .7% now. The filtration system was silent as to not disrupt communications, but it had a mild vibration to it. He felt that familiar hum against his back as it powered on.

He took another deep breath.

No one had ever been in the situation he was in before. Nebula’s were mostly hydrogen, helium, tiny bits of oxygen, iron, and nitrogen, but they could never plan for the cosmic dust. No one knew what it was. They knew it was there, but that’s about it. 

He felt his mind start to race. Once that dust entered the system it could rip apart his suit, or tear open his lungs, or hell, maybe just blow his heart up.

Whatever happened, he hoped it was quick.

He blinked as that .1% turned to zero, and the filtration system took over.

He closed his eyes and held his breath. That didn’t stop the smell of garlic from invading his nose once again.

He tried to shake the smell away but the tidal wave of dread made him bite his lip to keep from screaming. 

His body begged for him to open his mouth and breathe in.

His entire being trembled as it felt like the weight of this horrifying reality was being set back on him.

Totally alone. More alone than any human had ever been he imagined. And this imagining terrified him even more. 

He could feel his face changing color. His lungs screaming for him to just suck in and let the dust kill him. 

The pain became so excruciating that he could no longer bear it. He opened his mouth forced the air out of his lungs.

As soon as he inhaled, he opened his eyes to find himself nestled between the four walls of a living room.

Golden sunlight from the summer sunset poured in through the windows.

He knew those curtains. He knew that old willow tree in the front yard.

He looked about and saw pictures on the wall of him, his mom, dad, and two sisters.

His fear dissipated at the sight of his childhood dog, Wendy, asleep on the couch. She must be eight or nine. The hair on her face had started to shift from the dark black to silver and white.

He knelt down before her. Careful not to startle her. He reached out and gently stroked the top of her head. 

Her eyes flickered open. Found him. He heard her tail thump against the couch. Felt her tongue give him two quick licks on his face, before she rolled onto her back. Inviting him to give her belly rubs.

He pressed his forehead to hers. Softly running his hand up and down her chest and stomach. Remembering all the times he’d laid his head onto her, and fallen asleep to the sound of her heartbeat.

In the kitchen, he hears the familiar sound of a wooden stirring spoon rubbing against a metal pot.

He smiles as his mother calls his name for dinner.

The smell of garlic filling his nose.

A bluejay shrieked overhead.

I looked up to see it sail between the neon orange leaves, still calling.

I was sitting on a damp log, bologna sandwich in hand. My backpack rested near my feet in the moss.

I wasn't supposed to be here. But someone had to find him. The police certainly weren't going to.

I put the last bite into my mouth and stood. I was just taking a swig of water when I heard it: a low bellow, like a large injured animal.

I froze, remembering what they had said about bears, and moose. About my little brother being taken by something in these woods.

I waited for a long moment, but heard nothing more. I capped my bottle and slung my backpack over my shoulder.

I slid a hand in my jeans pocket, just to make sure it was still there. If this was what I thought it was, I would need an item to trade. And it would have to be a good one.

The wind sent the leaves above rolling as I got moving again. The wide, bird-like tracks were easy to follow.

Twilight streaked shadows under the clouds. Mom would be terrified.

I got out my flashlight.

Cold rushed through my veins.

This was it.

The altar was in the middle of a cobblestone square. Leaves and moss were scattered across the stones.

I wished I could see more clearly into the thick woods around me.

It had to be done.

I forced one foot after the other. I brought out the object from my pocket and set it on the lichen covered table.

The bone from my father's grave gleamed in the darkness.

I hoped this would grab its attention.

I would get Benjamin back.

Already I heard its heavy footfalls approaching.

My mouth was dry. I couldn't swallow.

The trees rustled in front of me. Out came a figure, ten feet tall, with a ram's skull over its face and knobbly bird legs. It paused. I felt the eyes hiding in those shadowy sockets watching me.

I pointed to the stone. "You can have this if you bring me Benjamin. You can have the rest, too. Just give him back."

The creature came closer. Hairy gray fingers came for the bone and lifted it. A moment passed.

Then the creature's hand closed around the bone, and it started walking away. It looked back.

It wanted me to follow.

I hustled after, knowing it might be the last thing I ever did.

The forest was endless and I was lost by the time we got to the cave.

Someone was on a bed of moss, sleeping. It was Benjamin.

I stumbled over the spongy forest floor. "Benjamin!" I shook him by the shoulder.

He didn't move. He wasn't breathing.

I turned back to the creature, eyes already watering. "What did you-"

It waved a hand. The air shimmered.

Benjamin stirred. He blinked. Looked confusedly up at the navy sky and looming pines. "What? Where-"

I hugged him. Then straightened. "We need to get back. Mom's about to have a heart attack."

The creature brought us to the edge of the woods, then lumbered off without a word.

Benjamin couldn't remember what had happened to him.

I was just glad he was safe and couldn't wait to be home.

"Last time you ever run off like that after Mom tells you to do something, right?"

He smiled.

Mom wept when she opened the door. She put her arms around me. I waited for her to hug Benjamin, too, but she never acknowledged him.

May 25^th 348 PI

I was there, there to see history itself. I was there to watch flesh be cut from the bone much as a butcher does to his pigs. To watch steel plates, melt and bind to the meat of screaming men. Yes, I was there.

The worst of the horrors wasn’t in the fields, nor the sky. Nay, it was in the dirt. Surrounded by mud and shelled with magic from 50 meters away we would wait. Waiting for nothing but the weather and rats to fill our camp with disease. To watch our surroundings, turn to liquid and grab at the boots of young men; aye they were doomed to die from the start. And yet, we won that battle. The battle of Aerinfurd.

Now comes my job. To take to the dead. Collect the bodies and reverse the decay. It’s our only hope in understanding how to reverse rot from the living. Disease takes too many a life. And our enemy learned how to weaponize disease.

We’re fragile animals…. Aren’t we? May God have mercy on our souls. 

May 27^th

Two days have passed and all I’ve done is wade through the seas of blood. Corpses pile high into the trenches outside my tent. I can feel that rot groping for me. Its hands slithering around my tent. Yet each day I work hard to understand it. To understand the body.

The human body can be so easily destroyed; why is it so difficult to repair? Any machine can be maintained and repaired. Why can’t ours?

Fire soars through the sky. Some might think of it as a Wyrm. Oh, how I wish it was a wyrm. Nay, tis the call for war. The march on that damned city will be soon. Those walls will eventually crack. And whilst my brothers die, here I’ll be. Playing with their bodies. All in an attempt to keep more of them alive. The magic of our enemy is terrifying. Never had I seen men rot away before my very eyes in such a short time. To watch the flesh drip and seep onto the floor. All whilst they live through the entire process.  

June 5^th

Today we had a mighty calvary charge. 600 strong made way into their ranks. Cutting through and piercing the hearts of those cowards. And yet, even with all their bravery…. Only 43 came back. It was such a sight. Burned away was their armour. Their ribs flew from the cage only to pierce their comrades. Their eyes boiled over their helms. The only thing left was their voice. It could honestly be mistaken for the wind, for she screamed loud that night.

Not much progress has been made these last few nights. I oft stare into the skulls of boys. Watching the mechanisms of their bodies. The pully systems at work, the ornate machine that sits before me. As young mages we oft learn how to control water. Blood is primarily water after all. And plenty of it has been spilled. An interesting thought for a different day.

June 17^th

I’ve come to a conclusion about my work. A conclusion birthed by endless nights of experiments. All looked to me with concern, but I bade them to wait for the result. I would win us this war with no more casualties. I stood before the nobles commanding this campaign and presented them the body of a lad no older than 17 on a cart. His chain loose and his body pale and blotched. I gave them the answer and still they looked to me in fear. I MADE THE BOY WALK DAMMIT! I REVERSED DEATH! And yet they look at me as they would a demon. Scared to the results of such progress. If I can puppet the dead, I can surely reverse death in the truest sense. Our armies will no longer have anything to fear.

July 2^nd

They ridiculed my work but they could never send me home. I’m too important to them. Which is why I presented a deal to them. They may have their honour, for they care not for life. Left the young be freed by steel shining on that morning sun. If their attack fails… I will push through those high gates myself. I will bring an end to this.

July 3^rd

Today I opened the dirt and stole from Hel her kin. Knights and boys riddled this filthy battleground for weeks on end. I simply brought it to an end. That magic which they feared only helped them. To cast a spell of such a grand nature I needed a transaction. A virgin, for her blood is pure. There was a hamlet only a handful of kilometers from the battle. 10 at most. I took 3 of them that day. Bound in rope with nothing to shield them from the wind. That is how I brought them to the battlefield that day.

July 3^rd (death hath come)

Slowly I cut into their flesh. Letting it seep from the dagger to let the ground drink of them. And with the bloodletting I could begin my ritual. The hues were dark on this day. Whisps of purple runes spilled out like snakes on a line. Through the spines of the virgins they went, and when they come through the mouth they pulled with them every ounce of blood. Like a spiders web did it gather betwixt the three of them. Crawling out and spiraling in such unnatural patterns in the sky. And with the crescendo of my ritual did the blood shoot back to the earth. Striking deep into the bodies all around me. Giving new life to them. Letting them throw death from their shoulders and march one more time.  Puppets to do my bidding once more. Slowly they marched forth. Under hail of arrows did they continue to push. Nay, not even a shield wall could hold them. Like a high tide they crashed into the banks of this shield wall. Flowing through and under they pulled the witless to the dirt before ravaging their bodies. Tearing meat off the bone with ease. Ripping them from socket with just to get to that sweet nectar. The fuel they needed to run on, that rose coloured oil.

None were able to stop me that day. That was the day I became death. I looked over the world and knew I conquered that which can't be conquered. Seeing my armies climb those dreaded walls. Killing every man woman and child inside, all to add to their fuel. It was a splendid sight for research. Now I have even more to work with. Its much a shame that the armies of the nobility that hired me are no longer here to see it.

I know AI Gen writing is prohibited here. The problem here is, my native language is non-English, and while I guarantee my story is not AI's , but I might miss or mistranslate, or some content of the story will be missing in some translations if I do it myself.

So... is AI Translation allowed? Also, how to prove that a writing is not written by AI?
Thanks in advance.

Sterling Voss had spent seventy years making money. He’d started more businesses than he could remember, most of which he’d eventually lost interest in. Although his Wikipedia page was extensive enough, his memory could not recall which businesses were real or which had used for nefarious purposes.

His most recent venture was less out of the excessive need to be framed as impactful in history, but more out of a genuine fear that washed over his body upon the news of his impending failure to beat the infection possessing his body. Specifically, an idea spawned from a conversation held years prior.

Someone had asked him what he would choose if he could pick his own afterlife.

“Heaven, obviously,” Sterling had replied.

“What would that look like?”

“Nothing, maybe. Just peace and quiet.”

The man had looked at him strangely.

“How terrifying,” he’d said.

Sterling hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if there was nothing after death? Worse, what if he’d spent so long imagining nothingness that his own mind had already decided what awaited him?

Project Gatekeeper became the focus of his remaining years. His scientists had developed a way to maintain electrical activity in a brain after death, although nobody could say for certain whether that meant the person was still experiencing anything. The government had refused to approve human trials, but Sterling had no intention of dying without finding out.

As the needles entered his skull, Sterling pictured the life he wanted to experience. His money, his success, a family he could finally make time for. Everything he’d missed out on, he could have another chance at.

But, as had happened so many times before, Sterling’s concentration would falter just when he needed it most. As the lethal liquid began travelling through his veins, he thought of a memory he had buried for so long that it had become a debt, one finally due in his last moments.

Twenty-eight years earlier, Sterling had felt a rage like never before. Whether it was the drugs coursing through his system or the crushing weight of an impending court date following the exposure of his tax avoidance, something inside him had finally snapped. His rage spilled over onto an innocent woman, someone he had once claimed to love. He left her at the bottom of the ocean, below the yacht she had once helped him name.

Enough money and power could keep the truth hidden from the public. Drugs and alcohol could help suppress the memory, but when death came tumbling down that tunnel, he would have to face the questions surrounding all his wrongdoings.

Water invaded his lungs with his last breath as he flickered his eyes with struggle. Some current was knocking him around ferociously as he smacked his arms helplessly, looking for something to hold onto. Some type of rock had managed to latch between his fingers and he held on with all his might. His lungs burned with the water spilling around inside making it hard to keep focus on what he was holding onto. He noticed that he did not seem to be losing consciousness, as much as he would’ve hoped. In waiting to die for a second time, Sterling noticed a shimmer of light from what he could only perceive as above him.

He released the rock and fought the current as he battled his way upward. He breached the surface, inhaling a big gulp of oxygen as an immediate reaction. The oxygen resting on top of the water inside his lungs created an intense pain he had never known. His voice croaked in agony though little sound was released.

What a mistake Sterling now realised he had made. In reminding himself of that secret debt, he had placed himself in a hell of his own doing.

Sterling would become used to the pain in his lungs as he bounced along the ocean with the buoyancy of a balloon, but the flicker of hope he would get every time that yacht would pass and she would wave from the balcony would cause a feeling each time more crushing than the pain the water held on him.

She chewed the stale whole wheat raisin bagel. The cream cheese somewhat saved it. Opening her laptop, she saw on her to do list for the day that it was time to terminate an unresponsive client. She sadly sent the notice and went about her other business. Working from home meant an increase in productivity. Thirty minutes later, an angry email response came in from the client. The client had been responding to a message from the boss, but the boss had not responded to him!

She was alone.

The next day, she worked from the office. Hybrid schedules were the best of both worlds, according to management. Co-workers were happy to talk about nothing, filling the day’s schedule with sticky syrup, but once she tried to connect on anything work-related, there was a meeting, or they really needed to get started on that project—could we put a pin in it? She sat through three hours of meetings. She spoke during one meeting for five minutes, to an indifferent audience. After finishing speaking, she struggled to remain still in the plastic office chair, not wanting to draw negative attention from an audience ostensibly listening to the next speaker. The chair was built ergonomically for someone taller, and her pencil skirt was just slightly too short for it. The line of leg skin touching the chair sweated, but she endured and continued to feign listening.

She was alone.

After work that day, she went home to her studio apartment. She said hello to her mini cactus, smiling at its friendly light-green hue. Popping a mini pizza into the air fryer, she felt gratitude the smaller device would not heat the apartment as much as the oven would have on this hot summer day. It was hotter than any previous summer, but she had thought the same last year. Feeling lonely on this warming spinning rock, she opened social media. A post from a friend from college invited her in, a woman smiling with her husband and children on a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park. She swiped the carousel to a video of the small child saying, “The geyser smells like farts!” and the family laughing. She smiled, liked the post, happy her friend was happy. She should get in touch with her sometime. She scrolled down past the advertisement to the next post, about global warming. She read the post, then scrolled to the next post about AI data centers, a carousel with statistics about water usage, mass surveillance, potential mass layoffs. She read and watched and scrolled and finally the timer on the air fryer went off for her pizza for one, her old friend forgotten and replaced with dread.

She was alone.

As she chewed on a garlicky slice of mushroom pizza, she opened up the dating app on her phone. A few men had invited her to match. All but one were either seeking a casual relationship or children, in direct conflict with her profile’s clearly stated preferences for a serious relationship with no children. She quickly unmatched those, looked at the one man’s profile and sent a first message inquiring about the beagle in the picture with him. She checked the matches from previous days, whose conversations had been left on read by the men. People were busy, so they might still reply. One in particular said he would get in contact about scheduling an in-person date next week, probably. The man with the dog wrote back asking if she was dtf. She sighed and unmatched. Closing the app, she switched to her email where she had a message from the dating app! The man that had been interested in going out on a date had been found to be lying about his identity, so his account had been terminated.

She was alone.

At least it was the weekend tomorrow. She checked her calendar and saw she had signed up for an event through that “events in person to make friends” website. While she wasn’t very excited about it, she knew it was important to put herself out there. She pulled up the website to review the event details, but the event had been canceled. Well, better to find out now than going to a location tomorrow with no one there, which had happened before. She scrolled other events for a while, but nothing appealed. It was getting late. She caressed her mother’s urn as she always did walking by that shelf, grabbed a book, and sat on her bed to read as the ceiling fan chain tinkled.

She was alone.

She slept horribly. The supposed romance novel had broken formula, denying a happily ever after and instead leaving the protagonist single, depressed at the death of a friend, and looking at a new start in life. That little bit of hope perhaps made the ending worse. If things could get better, why not show the reader?

Perhaps the author had some inner sadness that desperately needed to be expressed, so the story was an empathic transfer of that emotion. Perhaps the author couldn’t imagine what came next.

She spent the day in recovery, napping, cleaning the apartment, rewatching an old favorite TV show for comfort. She recited the best jokes along with the characters. The comforting plotlines overwrote any bad dreams that night.

On Sunday, after staring at the ceiling fan for 45 minutes upon waking, she decided to throw out the script.

She deactivated the dating profile on her phone. She went to her computer, downloaded her favorite photos from social media, and then deactivated the accounts. It would be 30 days later that they would fully delete. Next, she logged into her checking account, her savings account, her investment account. The numbers weren’t what she needed, but they would be. She was ready now.

She was ready to be alone.

She stopped spending money trying to go to events to meet people. She started assembling food cheaply at home rather than eating frozen and premade convenience. At the library and the farmers market, she made a few acquaintances, though she wasn’t close with anyone. It wasn’t the goal.

It would be a while until she was fully free, but she lowered her effort at work. She thrifted two pairs of black slacks and wore them invariably on in-office days, paired with comfortable sneakers. No one commented that the skirt and dress shoes were gone, at least not to her face. She stopped buying and wearing makeup. She stopped volunteering for extra work. She stopped doing anything outside of her job description. A promotion wasn’t the goal.

On the weekends, alone, she did the real work, the work she was alive to do.

Five years later, she informed her company she would be leaving at the end of the month. Between her investments and the work from the “side hustle”, the real work, she would have enough to live on.

After her last day, she still came home to an empty apartment, save her cactus and possessions.

She was alone, but now she was pleased with her own company.

Behind Kali Amma's temple lived a deadly viper named Anali. He hunted only at night and spent his days coiled under the dry leaves, for a viper seen is a viper feared. The rats that raided the temple's waste pit kept him well fed. That he existed was a secret between him and the rats.

Years went by, and he grew long and hefty on the easy prey, which he took to be Kali Amma's grace.

One day, a yellow rat snake, Cherran, happened to pass by the temple. He noticed rats feeding in the temple pit and crept towards it. He lunged a few times, but the rats scattered and he caught none. Cherran decided to stay nearby. He might just get lucky another day.

"Why would anyone worry about a simple rat snake like me?" he often wondered. Cherran could easily be spotted among the dry leaves and the shrubs, basking in sunlight.

One morning, as Cherran lay in the soft sun, a flock of babblers foraging nearby burst into a racket. Up in the jackfruit tree, a jungle crow heard it and spotted Cherran. He cawed and cawed.

The squirrels climbed up to the treetops. The peafowl and other birds perched high and looked down to find out what the frantic cawing was about. The jungle crow told them that he had seen a large snake, possibly a yellow python, lying in the grass. Maybe it was resting after a meal, but now it had disappeared. Hearing all the commotion, Cherran hid himself in the bushes.

By then, the animals and birds had decided to get help from Kiri, the mongoose who lived in the neighbourhood.

"He is large, a large yellow python," said the squirrel.

"Yes, we have spotted him many times by the temple pit," said the rats.

"I spotted him first," said the jungle crow.

Kiri took up the challenge—a python was something he had never encountered. "Yet another ode to my courage," he thought.

Kiri came over to the temple pit. He waited amongst the bushes for the python to show up. As always, the rats were raising a din in the pit: shrieks, squeaks, and cries. Other animals waited anxiously for news from the pit.

The day passed without any sighting. Kiri decided to spend the night nearby.

Past midnight, he heard a rustle moving slowly towards the pit. A few rats got a whiff of it and left the pit.

Kiri inched closer. He crouched, ready to lunge. Finally he pounced onto something; there was a struggle in the dark. The rats fled, squeaking. He bit into it hard until it stopped moving.

The bats watching from the temple peepal tree flew out to spread the news.

Kiri spent a while eating his catch. When he left, the rats returned; they feasted on the bits of flesh strewn on the ground. It was Anali.

The next day, Cherran caught a rat. He took his catch and slithered away from the temple.

Captain Grymm watched men walk up the gangway to his ship. Christians, Muslims, Catholics, and one Jewish man. All men of faith. All men seeking to verify that their religion was the one true way.

Why were these men of disparate faith gathered, you might be asking?

The adventurer, Loui Barbo, had published a guide to the world. Barbo’s Guide To Everything. In it he detailed such fantastical places as the golden city of El Dorado, Atlantis, and— of particular interest to Captain Grymm and his patrons —The Island Of Dead Men.

Barbo that the Island of Dead Men was a portion of the hereafter. It could be found, he wrote, by following the coast of Australia down to its southeastern edge, setting off from there to New Zealand, and from New Zealand, to the Auckland Islands. After the Auckland islands, one had to head westward, into an ever present storm. Barbo spent an entire page describing the storm. The ferocity of which, made Grymm wonder why he was committing himself to this expedition.

Perhaps it was a way to live. His patrons, which included the king and his court, were paying him a fine penny to do it. Possibly he was doing it for the fame. Others who had chased Barbo’s tales were memorialized for their discovery. Eduardo Morales, who verified the existence, and then committed the sacking of El Dorado, had become canonized in Spain. There was a part of Grymm that wanted to be remembered just as well, memorialized like Morales, but maybe not for any grand sacking of the afterlife. Or any sacking really. The notion made him feel empty somehow. Many things had made him feel empty as of late.

Maybe leading this expedition was just way to fill the void and the time. Maybe it was a little of everything at once.

The gangway was pulled up when the last member boarded. Grymm then gave the signal for the port’s dredgers to drag them out to sea. An hour later he told the men to unfurl the sails, and they began the long journey to Australia.

Of the journey itself, there is little to say. It was unremarkable, with the exception that upon reaching the Auckland Islands they found them deserted. The Maori people that had inhabited it during Barbo’s time having long since left, leaving an eerie empty place. More empty than the ocean itself, or so it felt.

They rested on the shores of Auckland Island, docking at the abandoned port.

The sky’s there, though clouded, and gray, did not portend any terrible storm. Certainly not the kind that Barbo had written about.

A day later, the crew set sail south west, searching for Barbo’s storm.

And oh did they find it.

Seeing the storm, captain Grymm thought that the universe had given them an unexciting journey as a means of cosmic balance. All the misfortune, all the horror that a trek to the other end of the world could bring was squeezed into that one storm.

It had appeared suddenly, a darkness in the sky, a hard line where the gray meek clouds of the Auckland Islands turned black and angry, portending death.

In the middle of the maelstrom a great vortex ripped the sky open. Lightning flashed, backlighting giant faces; angry faces, faces that sneered as they looked down at the men.

The sea below had a matching vortex. It pulled the ship down, spiraling toward the abyssal center where great dark things could be seen. Giants in the shape of men, spiders, and long serpent like fish.

One man, frozen in terror, gazed into the abyss, and was tossed overboard with the violent rocking of the waves. Then two more. The rest found their nerve, and did their best to turn the sails to the ever changing wind; winds that seemed to scream and wail.

The men began to cry out the name of their gods, praying. They prayed to Allah, YAWHEH, God, and Jesus Christ. All seemed in vain as the vortex dragged them further down into its belly. At last one man cried over the many, screaming: “The god of Abraham is with us!” his roar was defiant.

“The god of Abraham is with us! I feel it too!” cried one of the Muslims.

“The god of Abraham gives breath to our sails!” cried one of the Christians.

“He is with us,” said the Jewish man.

“He is with us!” echoed one of the Catholics, and it became a chant.

As if a prayer had indeed been answered, the ship began to resist the vortex. It rose higher, and higher, nearly escaping the vortex when the storm stopped. The dark clouds returned to gray. The wind was calm again.

A dense fog then settled around the ship, overtaking so that nothing beyond a man’s arm length away could be seen.

“Have we died?” cried one man.

“We would not still be together if we had,” said another, snidely, implying that he would not be in hell with the rest of them. This comment sparked a riot. The fervent men, who were still full of fighting spirit, began to argue. A brawl might have broken out, if not for the sudden appearance of light.

A man at the head of the ship called the rest, and each turned to see the orange light appearing in the distance.

It was torch light. They were certain. And it was the only color in the gray world they found themselves in. Moreover, they noticed that the orange light grew as the ship drifted toward it.

The silhouettes of men appeared in the glow. Hushed murmurs and whispers broke in response to this.

Then, silence.

The silhouettes belonged to corpses.

The crew gawked at the corpses, and the corpses gawked back. Though with the many of the corpses, it was because they lacked a lower jaw, or their jaws were hanging on one side. Nothing was said by either party, not even when the ship beached itself on the shore, shaking the crew.

Captain Grymm blinked at the corpses.

“Why… have… you… come here?” asked the torch bearing corpse, who seemed to be the leader amongst the corpses.

Captain Grymm didn’t know how to answer.

One of his crew spoke up.

“We came to see who was right,” said the man.

A murmur of affirmations arose.

“About… ?” asked the Corpse.

“The after life,” shouted one, and emboldening the rest.

“So where are we?” shouted another member of the crew.

“Is this Barzakh?”

“Is this purgatory? Where is the mountain?”

“Are we perhaps in hell?”

“Do you know where you are?” asked the one Jewish crew mate.

The eye of the torch bearing corpse lolled over to him.

“We… do… not… know…” rasped the voice.

The murmurs of the crew turned into an uncomfortable silence.

Then, one of them lit up, having had an epiphany.

“Corpse man, to what faith did you subscribe when you were dead?”

The torch bearing corpse ground its jaw for a second before answering.

“I… was… a catholic, if… I recall correctly…”

“There,” said the crew mate. “He is a catholic, therefore we are in purgatory. The mountain where we must purge ourselves to reach heaven must simply be hidden in the great fog.”

“There… is… a mountain here,” said the torch bearing corpse. “But I do not believe this is purgatory…” the corpse eyed one of its fellows, a fleshy corpse wearing a wrap around its head.

It came forward.

“I was a Sikh,” it said, then stepped back into the crowd.

Another came forward.

“I was a steward of the land,” said a skeleton with dots painted across its yellowed skull. Same as the first, it retreated, and another went out.

“My people believed in one god, and also many,” said a corpse wearing half rotted linens.

The men on the boat began to murmur again, until it became a chorus of debate, confusion, frustration, and in some cases, anger.

“Enough!” cried Grymm. The crew’s mad chorus died immediately. “The ship is beached. We are tired. Let us rest, and on the ‘morrow, let us learn what can about this place.”

“Ay, sir!” cried the crew, and disappeared below the deck of the ship.

The torch bearing corpse dismissed the other corpses with a look. Grymm set his eyes on him.

“Is there anything edible on this island?”

The corpse rasped, sighing, in thought.

“There is… fruit… I think. I remember it tasted… good…”

“You mean when you were alive?”

“I never tasted it before I died,” said the corpse, inspiring questions. There were already so many. Grymm did not mean to wear out the corpse with them so quickly, so he did not ask them.

“Show me.”

The torch bearing corpse nodded, and waited for the captain to climb down from the ship. Once together, they entered the jungle, following a well worn footpath.

The weather was overcast, with a slight chill. It was light out, but with the cloud cover, there was no telling if it was early morning, or late afternoon. Definitely it was bright enough to see. Which got Grymm thinking about the torch.

“Why do you have that torch? It’s light out.”

“So… it… is…” the corpse man dropped the torch, and let it fizzle out on the ground.

“Why did you have it out in the first place if you were so ready to toss it away?”

The corpse’s eye lolled over to look at Grymm.

“It was for you and… your crew,” it rasped. “To guide you.”

“How did you know we would be out there?”

“We… felt you… .”

The corpse did not elaborate, and so Grymm did not ask it of him.

The well trod foot path disappeared. The jungle surrounded them. It was vibrant, with bright flowers, but otherworldly as one might expect; Grymm thought he even recognized some of the plants.

Deeper in the jungle, near the base of the mountain— which just as suddenly appeared —they found the fruit. It resembled a pomegranate. There were only two fruits in total, so Grymm and the corpse took one each.

“The flesh… is good… ,” said the corpse, “…the seeds are… as well, but take some work to chew. You will want a place to sit… before we settle down to eat… .”

“After you then,” said Grymm.

He followed the corpse back to the well trod foot path, and followed the path up a hill, and to a cliff. There they found a small hut, and an edge to hang their feet off of.

The corpse man showed Grymm how to split the fruit so that it could be eaten in segments without spilling the seeds on the ground. The flesh was crunchy, and sweet, like an apple. The seeds required unwrapping, which took some time as they were quite small. The satisfying nutty flavor, was only just barely worth the effort.

“How did you come to be here?” asked Grymm.

“It has been… so long… I do not… recall… ,” rasped the corpse. “Though… I recall a sense of familiarity upon arrival.”

“Are you happy here? It seems hard to believe you are. It feels… empty. Lonely. As if time were standing still.

“To me it does not seem so bad… I enjoy… the silence… . I remember little of my life… but I recall… that I was always in a rush. I always had somewhere to be, something to do. And I guess… there was always someone I had to be too… a… face I had to wear… so… being here… being no one in particular… doing nothing in particular… it quite nice.”

“Mmm,” hummed Grymm, nodding.

The two then shared the silence, eating their fruits, and unwrapping the time consuming seeds. Grymm stared out into great gray sky, the deep blue sea. His filled with the usual noise at first, but soon he found it emptied, and he was nothing and no one.

He came back to himself hours or minutes later. He was not sure. The corpse man had not moved an inch. The only thing to suggest any time had passed at all was that he had run out of seeds to unwrap, and was left with one bite of fruit. The corpse had finished its own.

Not wanting to disturb his new friend, Grymm ate his last bite of fruit, and left without saying a word.

He lost his way in the jungle, though he found that he did not mind this. He was in no rush. His stomach was full with fruit, and its juice had gone a long way to satiating any thirst he might have had. If his body had demands, the jungle would provide. He was sure of this.

His intent was to head back to shore, but when he came upon a clearing, he found himself drawn toward it. There, he found a member of his crew.

Grymm did not know his name, but recognized his white bandanna, and loose linen clothes. He recognized too, the horrifying necklace he wore. The necklace was of a man, mouth open in anguish, side pierced and bleeding, his hands and feet nailed to a cross.

The fellow was staring into a puddle of water that reflected the sky.

“Something the matter?” asked Grymm.

The man blinked, and looking up, surprised to see his captain standing over him.

“No, nothing,” said the man, “except… well… .”

“Out with it.”

“I tried to climb the mountain.”

Captain Grymm looked up at the mountain. It was a great gray thing. On the shore it had been indistinguishable from the sky.

“I do not imagine you made it very far,” said Grymm.

The man shook his head.

“No, I made it to the top. It is, quite nice up there. Only… .”

“Hold on,” said Grymm, taking another look at the great gray mountain, its peak disappearing into the gray clouds. “We have only been here a few hours, how did you make it up the mountain and back down in such a short time?”

The man blinked at his captain.

“Captain Grymm, we’ve been here for months, at least. When we could not find you, we searched. After a while, we decided to take the island on in our own ways.”

“That can not be right, I only stepped away to find some fruit with one of the walking corpses how—.”

“Maybe that is true for you. I ran into the Jewish fellow a week back. From his perspective, it had only been days.”

Captain Grymm scratched his head at that.

“This place is strange, is it not?” said the man. The question was rhetorical. “I do not know what it is. If this was purgatory, then reaching the top of the mountain should have cleansed me of my many faults. I should be in heaven now. But I am not. What does that mean?”

Grymm was never much for religion.

“It means this is not purgatory. The corpse at the shore said as much.”

“Indeed, he had. What is this place then?”

Grymm thought about his conversation with the corpse man.

“A place to stop and think.”

“Mmm,” hummed the man. “I suppose it is. That is all I have done since coming back down the mountain. Think. Contemplating the sky, or really,” he looked into a puddle on the ground, “reflecting on myself. Being alone with myself, no thoughts at all. It is… .”

“Quite nice,” said Grymm.

The man nodded.

“Yes. It is quite nice captain.”

“When you have finished your contemplations, come back to the shore. If you see any of the men, tell them to do the same. There is little and less for us here. The king and his court will be disappointed with our findings, but that will be my responsibility to bear.”

The man nodded one more time, and seeing this, the captain walked back to shore.

The trek was quite, and gray. The sky seemed to wash everything out, so that even the green and vibrantly colored flowers of the jungle felt gray. Thought the captain did not mind it. The gray of this island was not the bland gray of a dull day, it was the timeless gray of morning. It was the gray of a day spent inside an inn, with a warm meal, warm drink, and warmer company.

Grymm reached the shore, and found a wooden crate full of the island fruits he had eaten with the corpse man. Beside the crate, the corpse man himself.

“Leaving then?”

“Ay,” said Grymm.

“Why did you come here?” asked the corpse man.

Grymm began to answer, but the corpse man stopped him.

“I meant, you… specifically… .”

Grymm contemplated his answer as he gave it.

“Work. Curiosity. Soul searching, maybe.” When he laid it out in the open, Grymm felt stupid. Those were terrible reasons to set sail into the unknown. What man risks his life for money? Curiosity? Or something so frivolous as “soul searching”?

Grymm found the corpse’s eye watching him, reading him.

“Any reason is reason enough. My body does not require food anymore… and yet I will still seek out the fruit I showed you… it does not… require rest, and yet when the mood strikes me I will sleep. My only reasoning is… because I had wanted to do it.”

“Ay, that is… more than fair.”

The corpse seemed to bow, excusing himself.

“Enjoy the journey home, Captain Grymm. And the journey of life thereafter.”

Grymm watched the corpse walk back into the jungle, and, suddenly realizing something, called back to it.

“I am sorry, but I do not think I ever got your name!”

“Loui Barbo,” he said, and breached the brush back into the jungle. Grymm imagined him walking back up the hill that led to his home. Back to his cliff, where he would eat strange jungle fruit, and sit with himself. Perhaps he would do that for all of time. Until whatever force had made the world unmade it.

A few hours later, Captain Grymm’s crew returned, appearing from the edge of the jungle. Their clothes were in varying states of distress. Some looked like they had been away in the jungle for years, their clothes in tatters, but their faces seemingly unaged. The Christian man that Grymm had run into, for instance, was wearing the rags of what had been his off white linens. The cross he had been wearing, was entirely missing.

“Grab a shovel from the ship, and start digging men.”

“Ay sir,” said the crew, and went to their work.

They dug the ship out, and set sail.

Away from the island, their ship appeared in the same sea as before. The storm was gone now. The world was as calm outside as they felt inside.

They went on to live unremarkable, but happy, lives.

As the sun set on another day of unhappy, urban marriage, they sat down to an unremarkable dinner in their uninspired kitchen, telling uninteresting stories about unimportant matters. When their uneaten food had gone cold and the bread gone hard, they moved to their equally unelegant couch, unintently watching unimaginative news headlines.

They sat in a terse silence, listening in terror and confusion in equal quanitites as the equally terrified newscaster delivered the truth. This petrified silence shifted seamlessly into choked tears, hot on their faces. This was followed by frantic discussion, full of an unconvinced hope that he had been joking, or that this was all a misunderstanding. It was a desperate, pathetic sort of hope, almost a prayer. 

When this frenzy had morphed back into empty silence, she looked around the void that was this room. Everything there seemed nostalgic now. The dirty plates and the half-rotting fruit that plagued her senses suddenly seemed like a memory of years ago. A memory of an innocent time when life was bohemian and work was a break from socialising, in heated conversation with her free-spirited husband. A time when the future held further opportunity, something even more exciting, or perhaps a real home and family.

He looked blankly at the television, considering the evolution that must have taken place in the millions of years of human existence. All the discoveries that had come together one day, one hundred years ago, to create this machine. One which had such a hold on humanity, on emotions, on feeling, on life itself. One that would one day notify its charges of the end of times. 

When they could no longer hold out hope and belief, as the visuals shining through the screen, polluting the beige of their walls with red light, warning them, they rose, slowly, like a couple twice their age. Expressions on their faces mirroring those of the dolls that she kept hidden away in the corner. Equally lifeless. As they had once done, 20 years ago when they were 18, when they were on the brink of a new world, college, which seemed so foreign to them, they climbed the stairs, which felt fifty times more arduous a task than it had back then. They tried not to acknowledge that it would be the last time that they would perform this mundane, subconscious ritual. 

They sat on the roof of their apartment block, alone, gazing out at the mix of fiery orange fn the horizon and ominous deep purple everywhere else. The sun had set on them once again, leaving only the stars witnessing the destruction of a distant habitat not known to them. To them it wouldnt be anything other than a particularly light to wish on.

Out of all of bright blemishing that sat beautifully scattered across the void of nothingness, one shone particularly bright. An oceanic blue, a calming presence in that foreboding expanse. Apart from that, it looked as it had 20 years ago, lacking only the rose tinge that they had placed on it as teenagers, welcoming in a new stage of life. Now, the sky, the mundanely spaced dots, welcomed in something else. An wilderness suffering that could never be recounted or measured. 

As the speck grew brighter still, they discussed the lives that had led them to this moment. There were new discoveries made sitting on those uncomfortable tiles, wearing those uncomfortable suits. They reminisced about the people they had been when they met, married and who they had turned each other into, speaking with both a depth and superficiality that they had heard from each other more times than they could count. The voices were half accompanied by the dull noise of tumult of those who were not taking this news so blissfully.

The blue speck turned into a second moon, creating a blue filter over the town, through which everyone could finally see the drabness of it. Lying across his lap, she told a story about how he, as a young child, had to "kill" her doll by "strangling" her, the tone she used was full of nostalgia which masked the emptiness she was fighting. He told her that he couldn't recall it, despite the tortured expression in his eyes suggesting otherwise. This was followed by prolonged minutes of blissful silence embraced in one another's arms, feeling small below the massive dome of darkness, taking in the last of the sliver of crescent moon, which was mostly hidden by the bright, almost neon blue, of the comet. When the silence was broken by the sound of fireworks, which were almost invisible against the blue, he told her of his first memory of her. One he had told her 100 times before. As he did often, he talked admiringly of his own artistic talent as a child and how one day, a drawing of his mother that he was particularly proud of was found ripped up. He had to blink back tears and hold back his shallow laughter when he recounted how he sobbed and sobbed, mourning the loss of this proof of his excellence. Upon seeing his of distress, she tapped him on the shoulder and apologised as sincerely as a four-year-old knows how, offering the cookie she had been given for lunch. Lying across his lap, she looked at him and recognised his gloom and caressed his cheek, apologising as sincerely as she had. He only laughed flatly at his sensitivity.

As the growth of the comet lit the night sky until it resembled a dull winter dawn, they reflected honestly for the first time on who they might have been if they hadnt chosen each others as the chronology of these discussions reached their college days and the stories they told were those that ended up with them giving up opportunities and relationships for each other. The cacophony grew louder still in the city, where order had broken down and their accusations were drowned out by the cheering crowd. 

In that moment, he chose to realise what he had been recognising after every fight since their marriage, what he had “repressed inside him” for 20 years. The story he chose to tell her now was an accusatory one, one that became increasingly untrue with each retelling. He complained about her not supporting his artistic career as a young man, recounting how she forced him to get a "real job" after an unsuccessful presentation. He told it with a certain aggression and violence she had not recognised before in him. She, in response, created a not entirely false narrative of her desire for children and his reluctance. She misquotes his fabricated denial, based on unresolved issues within his own family and economic uncertainty. The words held more venom than her intentions, and her tone was much harsher than what was in her mind. What followed was yet another silence.

As the light in the sky became too bright to view and started to emit a stifling heat and the fracas of the mob was became more and more impassioned, until it was almost a visible force. She, now feeling alone on that roof, in that town, could no longer hold back the tears that had been held back for years. Tears that had been shed in the room that would have been the childsover the children she would never love. Tears that she had restricted, not allowing herself to be ungrateful of her generous, creative husband. He looked on, distant, unaffected.

Then,despite all of the tension that persisted in the foot or two between them, he bridged the gap, as he had hundreds of times before, to console her, as she had always done him. This final act of love tore down the wall that had been built up between them throughout the last hour, which had been prepared over the last 40 years. In spite of it all, she let out a tortured, self-deprecating laugh, and he gave her a pitiful smile. For 20 minutes, for the last time, they gossiped as they had as college students, as newlyweds, as toddlers. The topics went frantically from old boyfriends to revealing old secrets that they had promised never, as if all must be told before it no longer could. 

By now, the light was no longer a star, or a moon or even a, but the sky entire. It became a sunny day, filled with the smell of freshly cut grass and strawberries as two young lovers lay on the grass, taking in every moment, hoping they would never forget a single detail or word that was said. They debated the debate that had gone on, unsolved for 30 years, that would go unsolved, about the status of a hot dog as a sandwich, both smiling as bright as the sky. Even the mob could not take them out of this illusion. As the comet hit our imperfect planet, turning the bright blue into a harrowing mass of red and orange, they remained in a tight embrace, and they went on, suffering together, as they had since that day all those years ago.

On my way back from the psychologist’s office, I meet her on Denmark Street: a squat woman, pleasant-looking, with a gray bob, wisps of graying auburn hair, like my mother had until a few years ago, before she became thoroughly old. They stick out, and sweat presses them against her forehead, even though it isn’t hot. Her overall appearance is an effort. Above her eyes, she wears pale blue eyeshadow; she is dressed in a mustard-colored blouse. I don’t remember the color of her skirt, but it wasn’t jarring. She wears light blue Aro shoes with yellow laces. She matched—the whole thing is clear now.

I stop her for a minute of her time. I know—with the same degree of certainty with which I know that the psychologist will laugh at all the wrong moments—that the voice that emerges from her will be the voice of an especially religious female member of parliament. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise.

She lets out some kind of growl, something that allows me to talk to her. I am right. I miss the religious women members of parliament.

“It’s good that you’re here,” I tell her.

She is surprised, and I begin: “Hello, please forgive me for taking up your time. Do you think I’ll be a good father?”

She is stunned by the question. Obviously. She has a story for the Shabbat dinner table.

I am a giving person. I am good to her; she needs me no less than I need her. That much is already perfectly clear.

I continue: “I’m terribly sorry about this randomness.” Yes, she nods. She is mine now. I tell her, “I left a meeting feeling shaken. I promised I would ask someone. I promised the answer would be a sign.”

She is silent, and I tell her, “Not to God, no. God isn’t the one I made the promise to.”

She replies that that’s perfectly fine; she hadn’t suspected it was God.

She asks whether I have someone to talk to. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She asks me whether my wife is pregnant. She tells me there are whole networks of support, for new fathers too, not just mothers.

She tells me my anxiety is natural.

I tell her I don’t have a wife, that I have support, and that I’m not anxious. “Don’t be so concrete.”

I want her little opinion, her random, color-coordinated, bob-wearing opinion. Precisely hers. She will never know why her in particular, why it is her opinion I want on whether I will be a good father.

His name will be Danny, her name will be Ruth. I don’t know what mutations they will carry. Do people always know? I don’t know whether they will necessarily be born healthy. I don’t know whether they will be ugly. It’s not a catastrophe, an ugly baby, is it?

She is silent.

I don’t know whether they will be smart. There’s no guarantee of that, after all. Does it matter?

She says, “Look…”

I continue: Will I manage not to ruin her life, his life? Will I manage to teach them assertiveness? Will I manage to teach them tenderness? Will I manage to teach them to teach them about the world, about its afflictions, about the destruction in it, about its inherent injustice? Will I leave nothing out, and at the same time manage to make them feel that they are living lives worth living? Will I leap in to save them from a fire? Will I defend their dignity when they are humiliated? Will I feel that my life is pointless in their absence? Will I pass on my taste in music to them?

She stops me and touches me. Yes—touches me. She grips my shoulders, then clasps my hands tightly, then pulls me against her. Her head buries itself in my chest, and then her arms of mercy manage to encircle my entire being, three or four or five times over, at least, and on into eternity. With such deliberate intention, she cradles me for one long, long moment.

Where does this transcendence come from, I ask myself. I almost ask her, too—

Then, all at once, she lets go, takes one step back, and says to me, “Yes!”

I can see her imagining the exclamation mark.

“Yes!”

The preacher’s twin. She said yes to me. An exclamation mark.

She was so decisive, and I immediately became defensive.

“Generally speaking, I…”

That’s how it came out, like the child I will always be.

And she cut me off at once, not allowing the sentence to grow up.

“Generally speaking, you. Generally speaking, you’ll be absolutely fine.”

“Listen carefully, and do not interrupt to ask what I meant. My breaths are thinning. These will be my final words. Know that I have served two emperors of the Alary Realms, although it was during the rule of the latter, Prash-Traniash the Fourth, that I earned my rank and riches. It was in service to him, while the man was little more than a boy, that I lent my Kainomantic Art and called forth beasts of power and pageantry. When the young emperor wanted for amusement, I called for him fowl resplendent and crooning. When malice and envy were heavy on his mind, I called for silent wings and sharp talons to slay his foes in the dead of night. This and more besides I performed, and was paid in full. You have seen the chambers of my dwelling, the rings upon my fingers. They count in the dozens. Besides these corporeal treasures, I was granted apprentices and privileges. Men who would have spat at me in the streets for the peculiarities of my Art nodded and bowed to me while I passed them in the palace corridors. A man set to noble purposes has little to lament. By every mundane reckoning, I will die content.”

Here the old Master paused, coughed and returned his weak arms below the silken sheets. His infirm body had resigned itself to the bed. With a lethargic finger, he bid his apprentice closer. “Come,” he said in a low voice. “Sit closer. But lay down the quill and scroll.” The Apprentice obeyed, moving his chair closer and leaving behind the writing instruments.

“As we die, death comes to us in waves. Each time it flows into us, its ebb reveals the truth beneath. Decay unveils us. What I say to you now might be a flaw in me, or the final honesty freed by dotage. Perhaps only death permits me these words. Whatever is the case, I must tell you of one whose shadow has smothered my lifelong satisfaction and final serenity. I must tell you of Homay.”

At the name, the Apprentice started. His hand rose without command and began performing a warding sign not taught in any propaedeutic stage or Art. The gesture faltered before it was finished. Suddenly aware of himself, he let the hand fall to his knee. The Master observed all this, the reaction and realization, with faint amusement.

“Do not shake your head,” said the Master, “nor chide yourself. And do not glance at the window as if the wind had ears. Prash-Traniash the Fourth is dead. Alongside his decree of silence. Although whispered, the name yet echoes villainy. Does it not?

“You are young and have no doubt heard it only as a rumor. Perhaps from your peers or previous masters. When the candles burn low and men indulge the softness of confession. You have read the annals of our Art, in which the winged warriors are surreptitiously recorded. I assure you, their viciousness and brilliance are not captured by any record. You have been taught, as I was taught, to believe that mastery is a matter of patience and correct cultivation. No patience ever raised me to Homay’s heights. He was a man of true artistry, not industry. Talent, my dear Apprentice, cannot be cultivated.

“In the reign of Prash-Traniash the Third, when the realm’s modest borders made it barely a kingdom, there came a springtide of marvels. We were not always so vast or feared. The king understood, as kings rarely do, that the metals do not forge the finest weapons. He gathered the arcanists of his measly realms and those bordering his, extending sanctuary and tolerance for the fouler Arts. Not because he revered us, but because we were useful. Homay, it was said, was exiled from his village in the northern mountains and came to Prash-Traniash’s petty kingdom after decades of peripatetic cultivation. Even then, rumor followed him – but the king found him favorable. They saw advantage in each other. A pledge was agreed to. And truly, there is nothing more impactful on the lives of mortals than agreements made between the powerful.

“Yes, I have seen them. They were dozens at first. I will not insult your intelligence by describing his creations as men with wings. That is how children imagine them. That is how poets later wrote them, after they had watched safe from the rear and turned slaughter into song. They were not men. Nor birds. They were a third, profane blurring of the two forms. Perhaps a reflection of our own ancestors. Their wings did not look attached; it was no butcher’s deed. They were immense and dark, with the muscles resembling a man’s. Their feet were also manlike, but culminated in talons rivaling assassinous daggers. Their skin was red, their overgrown hair and plumage white, just like ours. However, like the noble ossifrage tinges its lighter plumage a rusty red by dustbathing, so the winged warriors crimsoned themselves in earned gore.

You have heard their feats. They are the reason you live as you do now. You have heard the dates. The names of the captured fortresses, the captured provinces and hunted traitors. There is no need to recite them. It was the winged warriors that made distance obscene and walls decorative. Wherever Prash-Traniash’s armies marched, they found their foe already weakened by the warriors. None under the sky were above their reach. The messenger bird and spy were caught and slain before reaching the enemy. When needed, their flight was high and irregular, avoiding eye and arrow alike. Where desirable, their onslaught was quiet or conspicuous. And so Prash-Traniash the Third and Homay the Kainomancer campaigned into the bordering kingdoms. They warred and made themselves glorious, carrying the banner eastward and westward along the rivers. Then southward to the desert’s edge and northward to the mountains. The king’s appetites were glutted and his avarice gorged. Then peace came, not for the kingdom but a new Alary Empire.

“The new state turned its gaze inward. Prash-Traniash the Third, now emperor, built fountains and gardens. He sponsored plays. He married women worthy of continuing his lineage and neglected their charms for the thrill of the hunt. Homay’s reward was simpler: he was granted a tower on the outskirts of the new palace complex, perched where the cliffs fell away into the sea. It included hanging gardens and stone aviaries built around it. Narrow, forbidding ways wound toward and around his hermitage. There he sealed himself, with no further interest in the dominion he had abetted. His seat at Prash-Traniash’s council remained empty. He remained absent for the ceremonies and celebrations of the state, as well as festivals of the sky. He did not fraternize with the other arcanists or partake in the society of wizardry. He lived among his increasing creations in the tower. The court and council, eased yet wary, let him.

“In those years the stories about him softened. The winged warriors became an ominous but diluted legend, and Homay became a quaint figure who made songbirds for the amusement of ladies and princes who might wander by his gardens. The court began to speak of him with a gentle condescension, as if his earlier work had been a youthful excess he had outgrown. That seemed to be true of Prash-Traniash the Third, then known as “The Merry.” Yet cultivation, no matter its twists and curves, has only one direction.

“When Prash-Traniash– “The Merry” – died in repose, he was surrounded by wealth that had once fueled his desires. After a turbulent and nearly calamitous struggle, to which Homay was most certainly oblivious, his third eldest accepted the burden of crown and throne. With them came an appetite. Prash-Traniash the Fourth looked at the perdurable borders and saw not peace but unfinished work. He wanted to be his father, not in virtue or merrymaking, but in glory. He wanted to taste conquest, having grown up on the praise of it. And so, inevitably, his eyes turned to Homay.

“Messengers were sent first, requesting Homay’s presence and bearing gifts. With a subtle simplicity belonging to those who reside profoundly in their Secret, and all due deference owed to the Alary throne, Homay refused. The privileges granted to him, he reminded his willful summoner, were accolades for service already rendered. The death of Prash-Traniash the Third did not absolve the living of his decrees. The will of the son does not undo the will of the father.

“The emperor raged. His ambitions for expansion had been inhibited from within his own palace. Attentive advisors counseled caution. Homay was said to be past his prime, his Art surpassed. Homay’s rights were inscribed and witnessed by contemporaries surviving from those days. To annul them would be to admit that royal promise meant nothing. The boy was calmed by such ideas and suggestions of compromise. If the master will not serve, he will teach. The winged warrior would fly and slay anew, with or without Homay.

“Once more, Homay refused, citing only his disinterest for instruction. Specifically, he stated that even if the world fell back into war, his tower would remain in peace. Requests turned into orders, declarations of imperial ownership and royal primacy. The new proclamations declared that Homay would be retrieved from his tower and made to impart his Secret to a select circle of adept arcanists. That peerage included me. It is here, my diligent apprentice, that my life became entangled with Homay’s renouncement. The stubbornness of that old fool! How he stained our prior skills and standing with his grand eschewals… My throat is tiring.”

Here the Master stopped, hiding his face from view of his Apprentice with a withered hand. He contemplated his exacting words, weighing them against the past his memories carried. When the Apprentice offered water and narcotics, he revealed his amber eyes. The embers in them burned low, beyond rekindling. He accepted the water and was seated. 

“The extirpation was supposed to be a small matter at first. Not a siege. The access to Homay’s tower was narrow, as I’ve told you, clinging to cliffs. Fearing the loss of whatever arcane valuables might lie within, the emperor forbade the use of flame and stone. The first group of palatial guards approached in daylight, expecting to drag an old man out in manacles. As they neared the gardens, the many-voiced birds ceased their singing and watched the intruding formation. I want you to understand what that silence was, for a garden full of songbirds is never truly quiet. There is always some soft note, some accidental rustle. The sound mind takes heed of such silences. The soldiers slowed, stopping fully as one of the silent watchers landed in the path ahead of them. It was dovelike in inspiration, a small thing that should have been kicked aside without thought. The captain raised his boot to do just that when it spoke.

“‘Turn back,’ it said. ‘Or be taught what was taught to those who opposed Prash-Traniash the Third.’ This was uttered to the guards not in a voice of mimicry, as a clever parrot might repeat, but with a comprehension that reveals itself reluctantly and only partially. 

The captain froze. Men behind him howled uncertainly and pushed forward, eager to espy the modest source of the warning. Expectedly, they laughed and emboldened their leader to push on. And so they did, retrieving and brandishing their scimitars. The messenger cocked its head as if listening to some distant sound none of them could hear. Then, in one motion, all the peaceful birds in the trees lifted and flew away, leaving the path and air bare.

“As the guardsmen reassured themselves and moved to the gate of the tower, some soughing shadow descended with such speed that those who survived could not agree what they had seen. The captain was taken, dragged sideways and vanishing upward. His scream rose and fell suddenly. Then, he too fell among the guardsmen, breaking bodies with his mangled weight. That was the first lesson of the winged warriors. In a frenzy that fractured the formation, they began emerging from beneath the bridge and from the cliff-faces. They struck with avian alacrity and savagery wholly human. Arrows were loosed and swords were swung. When the initial force was depleted and in retreat, more were summoned and sent. For a whole day, until the mercy of dusk, men battled with beasts and died like dogs upon the threshold of Homay’s tower.

“That night, a dove came to the throne room of Prash-Traniash the Fourth. I was not there to witness the scene, but heard detailed accounts of it afterwards. Again, a dovelike creature appeared, landing amid the gilt hall and walking to the base of the throne. There it gave the emperor his dues, bowing and prostrating as much as its avian form could allow. Finally, facing the indignant boy, it advised him to forget the specter of Homay. It said his Art would no longer partake in war, unless that war was the defense of his own peace. Prash-Traniash the Fourth snorted, ordering the messenger to be seized and roasted. On the morn, more men were sent.

“After that came elite palace guards in lacquered armor and pavonine helmets, mercenaries who had known battle in lands abroad and select groups from the standing army. Even a handful of court arcanists were brought to assist. They proved least effective of all. The smaller birds returned at opportune moments and with no diminution in their ranks to disrupt their evocations with cruel precision. Their rituals and incantations collapsed into farce, as no time or attention was afforded to their demanding Arts. How lucky they were to be recalled so soon and unscathed.

“The siege lasted two fortnights, advancing in costly increments. One by one, the winged warriors were slain. The beasts did not die or collapse where they could be recovered and studied. Exceeding obedience and brutality, their foremost instinct was to preserve the Secret of their making. Most fluttered back into the tower, from which they did not return, or flung themselves into the turbulent waters below. At least one fulfilled its final purpose through immolation, plummeting into a tent erected for the injured. There it overturned a brazier onto the cloths and linens, perishing mutely among screams. Yet each death made the air quieter and spurred the bleeding men. And with each day the guardsmen, soldiers and mercenaries pushed farther in. They breached the gate at last. The climb upward through the tower took more days still, halted by contraptions and distractions both arcane and mundane. Stepstones shifted and crumbled beneath the foot. Shapes and shadows confronted them in every new chamber, only to dissolve when approached by torchlight. The screeches and whispers of the winged warriors were oft heard, but none were seen again.

“In the last days of siege, I was summoned with my peers to witness, if possible, the final incantations and workings of the elusive Kainomancer. We had already parsed through the lower levels of the tower as it was being secured, finding only miscellaneous trinkets, furnishings of an ascetic life and a pyre where the wounded winged warriors had gone to secure their Secret. When the summons came, we thought ourselves fortunate. Half a dozen of us reached the uppermost floor as the final door was breached. The battle-worn men on the circular staircase told us that Homay was still alive and preparing some wicked ‘Sorcery,’ as they called it. We too heard the noise from behind the sturdy door. It was disturbed by the wind, but we were certain it was no known incantation. Even then, we expected an aerie study adorned with codices and curiosities, a sanctum of hoarded Secrets.

“What we found was a littered and windswept round room. It was more a deserted dakhma than a renowned arcanist’s workspace. A dozen large black birds crowded in the center. They were not the ordinary crows of the city or the ravens of the fields. Their thick plumage was atramentous, but what little I saw of their chests and inner wings was paler, yellowish. They stood close together, pecking the corpse between them while we watched aghast. When the first soldier stepped in, the strange blackbirds scattered upward through the porous ceiling. Their wings made a dry, crinkling sound as they flew, reminiscent of parchment. None were taken down by the archers.

“Only then did we see the excarnated body. Homay lay there, under the filtering sunlight, seemingly long dead. His modest white robe was wholly under the remains, smeared but untattered. I shunned this sinister sight and searched the clutter strewn about. Besides smaller bird bones and diverse feathers, what I found were mostly spines and covers of private tomes. They were well-preserved and clearly brought up from the lower levels during the siege. Like Homay’s remains, they were empty. The verities within had fled. All that remained were the skeletons. Page after page had been pulled out. There was no ash, soot or signs of fire around. I held one of the plucked volumes, cursing Homay.”

“He would rather waft his wisdoms to the wind?” the Apprentice asked, “than entrust it to others?”

“Yes. In a way. We were left with only husks… It was then that the seed of rancor lodged itself into my soul. The boy-emperor arrived later, furious in anticipation. Furious in disappointment. He demanded to see the recovered tomes and diagrams. There was nothing to show. He demanded anything that could be seized and implemented for his future conquests. There was nothing. In the following days he forbade the utterance of Homay’s name while he lived and ordered the tower to be dismantled and cast down the cliff. This was done, and we said nothing.

“My peers and I returned to our duties. Homay or not, we had our own Arts and designs. They were sufficient. We served Prash-Traniash the Fourth in his decades of aggrandizement. The beasts of land and sky we evoked for him proved to be ingenious instruments of death. We produced hummingbirds and bats capable of discreet espionage. We produced airborne and seaborne assassins able to track down and envenom the most craven, well-lurking foes. Our innovations were superb, and our abominations servile. It is through this work that I have amassed the titles and riches elevating me above the princelings and magisters of other realms.

“Yet nothing we could achieve compared to the winged warriors. None would say it aloud.  Every one of us held the comparison in his mind, although our tongues would never make it common. We searched in silence for the Secret, keeping our ears attentive. When our campaigns took us into the hinterlands, I heard of a promising superstition among the peasants at the foot of a mountain. A giant, ebony bird, they said, was seen on cliff-faces and in high, barren places where men do not climb. Flying too high to be hunted, roosting in places unknown. Shunning human sight. And when one was glimpsed close, it would fold its lush black wings to conceal itself, as a maiden hides her skin from a lustful gaze. They were called omens; blamed for miscarriages, droughts, sudden madness. Even for the war we had brought to their homes. Peasants oft speak such things unashamedly, revealing their fearfulness. I heard many such tales but never spoke of them to others. No doubt, they did likewise.  In the privacy of thought, each one of us inferred that Homay’s Secret had escaped on black wings. Even after Prash-Traniash the Fourth – then called ‘The Conciliator’ – died, the fear of the name lived on.

“I am tired now. Do you see my hands trembling? I have not trembled before emperors or their enemies. I tremble now because I am near the end, and my tongue has unspooled a truth I was not ready to hear. I hated him. I envied him. Both stances are rooted in my admiration for him. He had done at an earlier age what none of us could replicate at the zeniths of our cultivations. Do you understand? Such disparity curdles even admiration into resentment. The service, obedience and labors… For what?  My titles – or students? The emperor himself bestowed the title of ‘Master Kainomancer’ onto me, but what is a Prash-Traniash compared to Homay? I could not do what he had done.

“Yes, I hunted his blackbirds. We all did. Quietly, as all arcanists do when their curiosity becomes hunger. We went alone into those hills, with nets and charms and soporific arrows. Those were our declared periods of retreat and contemplation… Hah! I did little else while I waited for days without speaking, fearing that even a loud mind would alert the Secret-bearers. On those mountains, I waited in intimate solitude with my fire and thoughts. The Master’s messengers never revealed themselves to me. I learned nothing. And in that ignorance, I grew old.

“Now the emperor is dead. Another sits in his place. The realm has shrunk in some places, swollen in others. My students have students. My name will survive as a footnote in the annals. I have contributed notes to the Fugue. Homay’s shadow remains over me. That is why I cannot die content.

“I have spoken enough. My chest is empty, but not light. Take your book and your ink and go. Leave.”

The door settled and the comfortable room was silent. Sleep came to the old Master slowly and irresistibly. The candles burned and he closed his eyes. As time closed its coils, it brought back the past. In the dark, he felt the softness of childhood, the first fruits of cultivation and marks of distinction. It was a good life. A triumph. Fit for the Flock of Akasa, abode of the lightest Soshosi souls. Then – noise. Weight struck wood, which struck stone. The shutter was flung open from without. Wind and rain entered first. A form barely distinguishable from the dark and stormy sky beyond stumbled in. It walked awkwardly, as if compelled into a seemlier posture. Talons clicked against the floor and droplets fell upon it.

The Master’s throat tightened. For a moment, he thinks himself dead and his guide to the Flock arrived. Lightning cracks outside, and the shadowy guide is revealed. The body matches the silhouette in shadow. It leaps onto the foot of the bed, centers and straightens itself. Talons dig into the board. The dying Master, what became of the student denied, lies seen. They regard one another with piercing eyes. Neither can look away.

The blackbird spreads its wings. Droplets fly aside. The Secret of Homay is revealed in plumes, not parchment. Feathers relay the inborn script illumed by fulguration. They are words of exile and descent, of growth through return. They do not tell of Creation. Although writ in black, the Secret is red. The lightning fades and the seen Master lies seen.

Gravestones. Tombstones. Headstones.

People think they’re the same. Maybe that makes them the same nowadays. But they aren’t. Or they weren’t.

Headstones are what we’re used to seeing around here. Straight up markers of the buried person. Gravestones are kinda like those, but they’re the flat ones on the ground. I always feel bad when I’m in cemeteries and accidentally walk on them. Feels disrespectful.

Then there are tombstones. Real ones. Super rare. Tombstones are heavy stone lids that sit on top of big stone coffins. I haven’t seen many. I look for them, but there really aren’t any in this country. Maybe in New Orleans? I heard there are some incredible cemeteries there with limestone tombs. Europe – Germany – has some of these, too, but I haven’t been there yet either. Brad says we can go someday, but as long as we don’t spend the whole time around dead people.

People think it’s weird, but I love cemeteries. Like this one. With its Sphinx and its granite chapel and its dell and its stories. So many stories.

I get so mad when I hear people talking about being cremated and having their ashes carried somewhere and then having them dumped into the ocean or released into the wind at the top of a mountain.

What’s the point of that? Huh? Who gets to be part of that story?

It’s just so selfish! The only ones who share in that are the people who are there when the ashes get dumped. No one else gets to learn the story or imagine the story. No one else gets to connect. And isn’t that it? What this is all about? Connecting with each other? Connecting with everyone who came before? Everyone who comes after? We’re all one thing. But if we don’t leave anything behind, that’s lost.

Brad hates it when I talk about this. He says we’re gonna have A Nightmare Before Christmas themed wedding. But I don’t care what he says. He’s more obsessed with his Xbox than I am with cemeteries. And when you think about it, which one makes more sense to be obsessed with? Something humans have done as a ritual across cultures for centuries. Millennia? Or a bunch of glowing pixels on a screen, right?

You know another thing about cemeteries? They’re peaceful. People come here, for sure. But they stay quiet. At least quieter. It’s like a church that way, but you still get to be outside. You still get to walk around. You get to read the stones. You get to imagine the lives.

I think about what my headstone will have someday. I definitely want a headstone. I want people to be able to see it and read the epitaph without having to walk right over it. But, yeah, I think about it. Maybe just Evelynn Heddy Carter. But maybe I’ll change my name to Stone when I marry Brad. Wouldn’t that be funny? Evelynn Heddy Stone on my headstone? I know. I’m silly. Sorry.

But, yeah, I think about it? When people do the math on my birthdate and deathdate, how long will they say I lived? Will it say Artist and Musician? Will it have a guitar carved into it? Will it have an angel? Will it have the classic old skull and crossbones? That might make me seem mysterious and dangerous. Me! Dangerous. Wouldn’t that be fun?!

You know what I wonder most? Will it say Loving Wife and Mother like yours does? Is that what people will think or assume? Will people wonder if it’s true when they read it?

Because I wonder if it’s true about you, you know? Like, we didn’t get a chance to find out. Dad says you were a loving wife. He can know that. And he says you loved me very much. And I want to believe him, I really do. But how could you? You didn’t even know that I was a girl?

And when it got bad? When I was coming – were you mad at me? Did you hate me because it hurt? Did you hate me because I killed you?

I – I – I’m so sorry, Mommy. I…

Can you hear this, Mommy? Do you hear me when I am here with you? And thinking about you? Thinking to you? Do you know that I…

Maybe you did love me even though you didn’t know me. Maybe you did.

I wrote this for school and was pretty proud of it. If you can’t tell, I’m a fan of peregrine falcons.

“My name is Crowneilious Maximus III, heir to the Murder. Tomorrow I will be endowed with the Crown of Nickles,” the coolest looking crow thought while flying through the sky. He was on his way to the Great Oak Forest across the valley. The wind rushing through Crowneilious’ feathers cooled him down despite the hot sun of the arid savannah beaming down on him.
While flying in the savannah, Crowneilious felt a sharp pain shoot through his wing. He had been stooped by a peregrine falcon, the fastest animal on Earth. He was tumbling through the sky, unable to control his descent. He slammed into the ground and lost consciousness.
He woke up after what appeared to be four hours on a hill. He let out a squawk and tried to fly back to his flock, not knowing they were long gone. When he attempted (and failed) to take off, he realized he couldn’t move his wing and tumbled down the hill. He landed in a hole, unable to get out. He started looking around the hole for a way out, to no avail. He was searching for a way out when he heard a growl. A hyena peered into the hole and tried to smack Crowneilious Maximus III but missed. His paw slammed into the wall of the hole, knocking it down, but not enough to escape.
Crowneilious Maximus III felt a drop of water land on his back. Then another, and another. Then two. Then too many to count. Crowneilious Maximus III was sopping wet, but so was the hyena. It must not have been too keen on being wet because it ran away. Crowneilious Maximus III was briefly relieved, but that quickly subsided and was replaced with dread when he realized the hole was flooding because of the rain. He knew that crows couldn’t swim. He was panicking until the water was at his neck and remembered he could float. He pushed off the bottom of the hole and waited until he could reach the section the hyena knocked down so that he could climb out. When he started climbing, his foot slipped on the muddy hill, and he fell back in the hole and nearly drowned. He eventually struggled back to the edge and climbed out. He let out a celebratory caw,
“Caw!”
After he let out the celebratory
“Caw!”
He seemingly heard the sound of a very loud zipper opening, and then he died. He was once again stooped by the same peregrine falcon, but this time she didn’t clip his wing. She slammed into his neck and vaporized it. He will not be inheriting the Murder nor will he be adorned with the Crown of Nickles. He will instead be fed to eyasses.
“My name is Altair Horus, Mother to the Next Generation of Raptors, wearer of the Crown of Bones,” thought the formidable looking falcon that had just captured its newest prey. She first saw her prey when she was flying through the savannah to get to the Great Oak Forest across the valley so she could put an end the cat that had been terrorizing birdkind. She looked down and saw a group of dark birds and mistook them for Brewer’s Blackbirds. Since she thought they were common prey, she stooped one of them near the back and barely missed its main body.
While she was up close and personal with the bird, she noticed it was a crow and decided to hide in a tree so the others didn’t see her. She incorrectly assumed the crow she attacked didn’t see her so she would be in the clear. She flew away to her eyasses but not before seeing a bunny approach the tree and killing it to take as food. Around seven hours later she flew back in that direction and saw a muddy, sopping wet crow with a broken wing “Caw!” for its murder. Altair Horus noticed it was the same crow she stooped and failed to kill. So after flying up quite high, she dived down and stooped him again, this time killing him. She took him in her talons and flew back to her children. She ate him and threw up in their mouths so they could get nutritious crow paste. They appreciated the bird goop and started chirping amongst themselves.
Altair Horus went back to flying and got to the Great Oak Forest for her original goal of killing the cat that had been terrorizing birdkind. She looked down and saw a black furry menace hiding in the tall grass to ambush a finch. She stooped that little teenage dirtbag and turned his C2 vertebrae into dust, killing that fool instantly. The finch said, “Chirp chirp!” and flew away. Altair Horus screeched in response. Unfortunately, it was the wrong cat, so she took the corpse back and fed her eyasses some yummy furry ooze. The next day she was enjoying a succulent Chinese meal that was thrown through the window of a pickup truck by a belligerent motorist, when suddenly, she heard some rustling in the bushes behind her. In response she took off flying and scanned the ground.
She looked at a particularly used path in the bushes and saw a large, scarred cat covered in dried blood. She knew this was the one she was looking for. She tried to stoop him and he quickly moved out of the way and clawed her across the stomach. As blood spilled out she realized the dried blood covering the feline opponent was most likely not his own. She pecked at him while he was recovering from his own attack and took out an eye, causing him to be temporarily stunned. She took the opportunity to grab him with her talons and fly up. The blood stained cat twisted and lurched out of her grasp, entering a freefall. Before he could steady his descent she tried to dive down and grab him again but he weaved out of the way, attaching himself to her back. Now they were both in a midair flurry of claws, beaks and teeth, hurdling towards the ground. Altair broke free of his grip and extended her wings causing her to quickly stop midair, leaving the cat to plummet. She attempted another stoop, this time just barely a miss.
She struck his exposed back with her talons, causing a splash of blood to fill the air. The cat bit her neck and severely wounded the falcon. She feinted a peck and used the misdirection to yet again grab the mammalian monster and take flight. She knew she wouldn’t be able to do significant damage by dropping him and her wounds wouldn’t allow her keep fighting for long. The same could be said for her adversary, so they were both out for a quick victory. She remembered her succulent Chinese meal and where she got it from. This gave her the idea to drag the cat across the road, so she did just that. The side of the cat’s face began to scrape and peel, causing a trail of blood to begin streaking across the road. The friction caused the cat’s face to heat up, eventually leaving burns on his face after a few seconds of road contact. The gnarled cat finally broke free and pounced for Altair Horus’s body, starting to claw and bite on her various body parts. She violently flapped her wings, pushing the feline off of her and herself away from him. They both stared at each other with malice in their eyes. They began walking around each other in circles. At once they both pounced, mortally wounding each other. The cat was thrown off balance in the scuffle, so Altair went in for another strike on the cat. The final strike. The cat’s head rolled away to the falcon. She stopped it with a talon. She had won the battle, but at what cost? She would not walk out of this alive.
An oncoming car drove towards them, swerving as to not hit either of the animals. The driver drove directly into a semi truck with a trailer full of oil. There was a fiery explosion engulfing the headless corpse of the menace that had been whittling down at the avian population for seven months. Altair, clearly tired of aura farming, dropped to the ground in a pool of her own blood and what remained of the no-longer-so-large cat rolled into the middle of the street. She was bleeding out. There wasn’t much time left. She heard a collection of thumps and turned her head to see a murder of crows.
“Caw caw caw, caw caw, caw caw. Caw caw caw caw, caw. Caw caw. Caw caw caw. Caw, Caw. Caw caw caw caw caw. Caw caw caw, chirp. Caw caw caw. Caw caw, caw”
“Caw caw chirp.” Was her response.
Because she was also a bird and our main character, here is her translation, “I am Crowneilious Maximus II, leader of the Murder, wearer of the Crown of Nickles. You may have killed my son and heir to these fine crows, but you have done us a great service. We heard my son’s call and went to retrieve him, but he was already gone by the time we got there. Anyway, this vile creature called itself Sekhmet, destroyer of Aves. He had been killing our kind since he could walk, and we thank you for his destruction. For your kindness we have sent a team of our strongest crows to assist your mate in raising and protecting your children. I will personally deliver your Crown as well with any message you want them to hear. May you rest in peace and may good fortune come to your family.”
“Tell him our kids will be safe…” she replied. Those were her final caws.
Birdkind has lost a leader, gained a hero, and conquered a monster.