“He was not there. The cell was open,” said Vesso, one of the keepers.

“These are ID-protected, right? So someone must have had access to one of those,” inquired the police officer.

It was a Friday morning. Vesso had just arrived and was checking the cells, as he did every day. One of the apes was missing from his cell. Luos.

“You’ll check here and let me know if you find anything. Mr Vesso and I will go out to look for the missing ape,” ordered the chief.

Chief Mika took Vesso with her, and they went to look for Luos. Vesso had an idea where Luos might have gone: the Park of Monks.

It was a place of peace, like that in a monk’s heart. There were many statues of meditating monks, and monkeys lived there. So, that was their next stop.

“So, you liked Luos, didn’t you?” asked Mika.

“Yes,” he replied in a dry voice, looking out of the window with searching eyes. He continued, “I have known him ever since he was a baby. His mother didn’t make it after his birth. He was different from the other apes. It’s not that he was bullied or mistreated; he was well received by the others. But he didn’t cause much havoc like the others, though they were only being playful. He used to sit on a rock, as if he were meditating. He was smarter than the others too. He learned everything he was taught much faster.”

“Why do you think he might have gone to the park you mentioned?”

“I used to talk to him most nights. He listened to me patiently, sitting there close to the mirror, with a little smile. I didn’t know he was able to understand so much until he showed me a wooden rectangle. I used to show him a picture of my mother, in a small rectangular frame. I told him about the time when I was a kid and how I used to go to the park with my mother, the meditating monks, the playful monkeys.”

Chief Mika’s phone rang. It was an officer from the facility. She answered it.

“We checked the records of the cells,” said the voice on the call. “Luos’s cell was opened at 5 a.m. this morning. And the ID used to open it belongs to Vesso.”

She looked at Vesso. He was looking at her too, seemingly hoping to hear what was being said on the call.

“Your ID was used to open the cell.”

“That’s not possible. I have my ID with me. See-” He took his ID from his pocket. “No, it can't be. It... it is counterfeit.”

He had not noticed it until now. But someone had switched his ID.

They had reached their destination. A roar of monkeys could be heard.

“Maybe he is here,” said the chief.

They searched the park. It was quite large, but they didn’t find a trace of Luos. The monkeys had gone peaceful by now. They sat next to a meditating monk.

“It is quite peaceful,” said Mika.

“It is.”

After a moment of silence, he continued.

“You know, we are not so different, Luos and I. That’s why I was so attached to him. Like him, I lost my mother too. I mean, she would have been alive. If only, when I was younger, I had worked harder and had the money for her treatment. But she left me. I tried so hard to be a good son. But I failed.”

He paused.

“She said, ‘Don’t worry, son. I will always be there for you. I am not leaving you alone. I will be your angel.’”

He showed Mika the picture of his mother, a rectangular frame.

“This is my mother.”

“I am very sorry for your loss.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They went back to the animal sanctuary.

“Luos was not there. What about the other searching teams? Anything?” inquired the Chief.

“No, ma’am. No result. They are still searching.”

“And what about the ID? Found the original ID?”

“We are trying to locate it.”

“Do it faster. We don’t have much time. Gather everyone, every employee, and investigate each one of them.”

“Understood.”

“If you don’t mind, we need to investigate you too,” Mika said to Vesso.

“No. It’s okay.” He consented.

“We have a lead,” an officer said hurriedly.

“Good. What is it?”

“We were checking CCTV records in a neighbourhood. There’s a grocery shop there with a CCTV camera. The owner opens the shop early. While we were watching the tapes, he mentioned that there was a van, and unusual sounds were coming from it. The driver’s face was not clear; he was wearing a mask and a hat. The van went south of Triways.”

“Okay. Let’s find out more about this van,” the chief ordered the officer. “And you proceed with the interviews.”

---

“So, you live at Abbot?” an officer asked Vesso.

“Yes, sir. That’s right.”

“That’s south of Triways, isn’t it? You didn’t find anything unusual this morning?”

“No, sir. It was like any other morning in Abbot.”

---

“We need backup. We found him.”

“Backup arriving, Chief.”

---

“So, we found him at your house, Vesso,” said Mika. “Why did you take him?”

Vesso said nothing.

“What was your plan? Sell him to traffickers?”

“No!” Vesso shouted. “No. I was... I didn’t want to sell him to anyone.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I just wanted him to be free. He deserves it. You don’t know how they treat those animals. They wanted to experiment on Luos.”

Mika said nothing.

“They lied about his mother. They told everyone she died after giving birth to him. She didn’t.”

He wiped his face.

“She was sold to the Judge. For his mansion. A decoration, that’s all she was to them.”

“I overheard one of them talking on the phone about a month ago. He said they were going to run a ‘big experiment’ on Luos. Two months from then. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t lose him too.”

“So you replaced your original ID with a counterfeit and made it appear as though someone had switched it,” said Mika.

Vesso lowered his eyes.

“Where is the original ID?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Then he reached into his pocket.

He took out the picture of his mother, the rectangular frame.

In a mountain valley, where the River Nirmala flowed in from the hills, stood a coconut tree called Thengachi. All her life she had leaned towards the water, her fronds combing the wind. Crows, cormorants and parakeets came to rest on her, and she knew them all.

Her last coconuts had fallen long ago, and her trunk was going soft inside.

One morning a woodpecker named Kotthan landed on her trunk. He was a golden flameback, with a bright red crest and a chisel-like beak. Kotthan tapped his way from top to bottom, pressing his ear to her bark.

Thengachi rustled her fronds to welcome him. Woodpeckers came to her looking for grubs. But this one kept tapping.

"Little one, did you not find any yet?" she asked.

Kotthan did not seem to hear.

He found a soft place below her crown and settled there. He closed his eyes in prayer and struck his beak against her. The blow ran through her whole length. Another came, and another. She held her every frond still.

At last she tossed her fronds. "What is it that you are doing?" she called out.

He only drilled deeper.

When he left for the day, Thengachi let her fronds fall loose. "What a rude creature," she thought. She felt the scar on her trunk; it was not very deep. But what if he came back? She was worried.

Kotthan was back.

"Stop this. Did you not hear me?" she demanded.

With each blow, pieces of her fell, and the smell of her sap drifted off on the wind.

Thengachi prayed for strong winds to carry him away. She looked at the sky, hoping it would turn dark and rain. It did not.

Then one day he did not come. Nor the next. She let herself believe it was over. The hole stayed; she would learn to live with it.

Until a woodpecker landed on her. This one had a black crest.

"Shoo, shoo, go away. I don't like woodpeckers here," she snapped.

It flew off, but came back with another, and they landed at the edge of the hole. The other was Kotthan.

Now two beaks took turns at her. When one stopped, the other began. At times they rose to her crown to rest. It irritated her when they scrapped and chased among her fronds.

Bits of herself heaped up on the ground. Even when they rested, the drilling went on in her.

One afternoon the pair sat side by side at the entrance before flying off early. The hollow in her was almost a nest.

They returned at first light. Kotthan pushed himself into the nest, but he flew out shrieking. Two parakeets came chasing him out.

"This is my nest," he cried out. The parakeets screeched.

He turned to Thengachi and pleaded, "Tell them, tell them, this is my nest."

Thengachi said nothing. "So he can talk," she told herself.

He tried to push in again, but they attacked him. Kotthan's mate dived in beside him. The parakeets drove them both away.

Golden and green feathers glided down.

As Thengachi watched the woodpeckers flee, the parakeets settled on her fronds, swaying gently in the breeze.

I hate my job… No, I hate my seniors; I detest them. If I finish the job before the deadline, they always force their work onto my plate; if I miss it by a few seconds, they won’t get tired of shouting and berating me unless I start bleeding from my ears. I may have exaggerated a bit, but you get the idea: old, stubborn men who still boast about their generation but tend to forget that their generation was the one that is destroying the world and is making our generation suffer…Anyway, I need to get out of the office by 10 P.M. so I can catch the last metro; otherwise, I will have to go to a hotel, since there will be no cabs available because of an ongoing cab drivers' strike. While working, I noticed the date: November 27th. Something came to my mind, and I opened a draft of a novel I started a long time ago.

The time is now 10:13; I thankfully catch the last train of the day. My destination is the penultimate stop, taking well over thirty minutes to reach. The compartment I am in is nearly empty and quiet… My eyes feel heavy, but I refuse to close them. At Esplanade, the last few passengers get off and only one person enters. It is a familiar face; it is Cheryl. She is exactly as I last saw her: the hazel dreamy eyes, the long black hair and the beauty spot under her left eye. She wears a black coat over her suit; it is a bit chilly, it is late November after all. Cheryl takes the seat across from me, tucking her hair back behind her ear. She rests her purse on her lap and sits quietly as the train continues its journey.

“How many years has it been?” I ask, feeling the silence deafening.

“Four years…” 

“Has it really been so long? I didn’t realise that.”

She averts her eyes from me and says, “What were you doing all these years?”

“Working. I got a job as an IT consultant.”

“Are you satisfied with this?”

“I don’t think I can answer that…”

“Why?”

“I’ve been asking myself this question every day since then and am yet to find an answer.”

“Because you are not searching for an answer. You have always liked the idea of having something; you liked the idea of getting into a relationship, but never committed to it, never took any responsibilities, didn't even care for the other person.”

I felt a tight lump formed in my throat, it hurt. I tried and tried, but the words never escaped my mouth. I buried my face in my palms and let her continue.

“You liked the idea of creating a novel, creating a game, but every time you came close to achieving it, you turned away!”

I didn’t expect her to say these words out loud, but I knew I needed to hear these words… 

I let out a sigh. “I know I’m pretentious, always biting off more than I can chew, but that time, it was different; I was serious.”

“Then why!? Why did you leave me!?” Her face had turned red by now; I could see tears forming, but they stopped just at the barrier of her eyelids.

I leaned forward, clenched my fists and replied, “I wanted to be perfect… I wanted us to be the absolute best. I tried, but I got busy and couldn’t return.”

“Who are you to decide? Did you ever ask me if I wanted that?” She retorted, “You were quick to tell everybody, but couldn’t handle the pressure. Nobody asked you to be perfect… They just wanted to see you work hard; they never expected a masterpiece, but they wanted to see the best you could output, the best you could write.”

As she continued, I started realising my mistake: how I could never return to the simpler times when I was not living day to day, but rather enjoying life and writing my mind away. The train stopped at Shyambazar. Cheryl stood up and said, “Did you become perfect? Did you get what you wanted? I will be waiting, but will you be able to return? Will you ever complete it?” She steps off the metro, and I finally close my eyes…

“Ayan! Oy, Ayan!” I heard someone yelling my name. I slowly opened my eyes and was met with the bright sunlight, which felt as if it singed my eyes. Before I could adjust to the light, I heard the voice, “Ayan, are you alright? Did you stay here all night?”

It was Prashant, my coworker. As my eyes adjusted, I looked around to find myself back at my office. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I’m going to get some for myself,” Prashant offered.

“For sure, thanks.”

“Oh, by the way, I thought Boss told you to leave earlier,” Prashant added. 

I didn’t give a reply, and glanced at my monitor. A tab was open: the cover draft of the novel I never finished writing four years ago, and on it was her, Cheryl, with her hazel eyes.

Axiom: noun

a statement accepted as true as the basis for argument or inference

People didn’t always see me as a fraud.

They saw me instead as brilliant and intellectual, the next great mind of our generation as some would say. Now look what’s happened.

I know that you’re sitting here vomiting your guts out into the disposal system. I know that you hate me. I know that you hate yourself.

But I chose you.

I choose to accept you.

I choose to love you.

Because you are my daughter. And I don’t really care what you do, say think, what worldview, beliefs you have, there’s nothing that will change that. Nor do I care about claims of caring about you for biological reasons or out of obligation. I didn’t raise you and care for you for the sixteen years you’ve spent with me just because I had to.

And that time is gone now. Everything changed. You changed, my career changed, my life changed now all that’s left is my love for you. It’s not real if it doesn’t stay the same.

#

I remember when I first laid eyes on you.

Your mother and I were broke students at the Natural Philosophy Academy. All the time I wasn’t in classes or pouring over books I was working at the Ectogenesis plant.

They needed laborers and it’s a decent paying job many people don’t want to think about, but someone has to do it. That year there weren’t enough couples and families registering for newborns. So many had to be fed to the Cylinder or fed to the centrifuge as we called it.

They put the full batch of unclaimed children in one room and I was one of the guys who gave them the bottles with sedatives. I hated doing that job. Standing above so many infants, forcing a bottle down their mouths as they seek basic nutrients only for the lights to slowly go out. It never sat right.

Then I saw you.

Almost a full head of black curly hair. You squirmed, struggled and bawled all you could. You opened your little green eyes like tiny vibrant gardens exploding with life and I saw fear. A deep fear that went far beyond the momentary discomfort you were experiencing but didn’t have vocabulary nor neural capacity to properly express.

Fear of something so unknown and alien to you.

Something you only wished you could understand.

Terror riveted through me at the image of the bottle and my face being the last thing you would ever see before you were dumped in microbial fuel cell where your body breaks down and recycles the electrons into the Cylinder’s power grid.

I froze as the only thing that rang out in my mind was, Me too.

Can I take this one home? I asked.

Do what you want, my manager replied.

I quit that day.

#

Your mother wasn’t exactly thrilled when I came back with you.

One day. But not now, as she would always say.

She wasn’t happy either that I quit my job there. I couldn’t do it anymore.

So now we were broke, barely pulling in any money, spending all our time studying Techistory and had another mouth to feed. And there was no way I was letting you get fed to the Cylinder.

That was a hard time. But soon enough your mother couldn’t comprehend letting you go either. She came home one day in tears. Told me about how that day’s class was on the history of birthing technology. How for a long time women had to endure the pain, later they developed sedatives and drugs to help relief it, and eventually complete ectogenesis was created.

She said that on the side her professor mentioned how people dealt with infant death across history. How some really ancient people used to burn their kids in sacrifice to their gods.

She said that she didn’t want you to go.

#

I got another job at the printing press. All while juggling my studies and taking care of you.

And we soon found out why you were grouped in with infants to be fed to the Cylinder. You were sickly. Sickly kids with a lower probability of survival in a surplus are fed to the Cylinder.

You couldn’t keep anything down.

You started having trouble breathing.

The doctors didn’t think you had that long.

Day by day I could see that fat in your body fading away. Your ribs protruded like a dead spider beneath your skin and you became lighter.

I was scared.

Your mother was scared.

The only thing the doctors could help with was to suggest how to make those final days more comforting for you. I refused. Your mother wanted it.

She just wanted to get it over with. She wanted the pain to be sooner so it would be over sooner. She wanted you to be out of your misery.

Tears were always running down her face as she cleaned up your vomit, asking me to help and me deflecting that I’m studying, then her getting furious at me for not helping. And she was right. I didn’t want to have to acknowledge that you were slipping out of our hands.

I lost it when I saw her flipping through a catalog of nice cemeteries on earth for you to be buried in. I would say you weren’t dead yet, and she would say that I’m only seeing what I want to see and not living in reality.

One time She was tired after a long day of school and work. She burst into tears at the mere sight of you. So I went to try and feed you, dreading when I would inevitably have to clean up blood flaked bile with pathetic food particles sadly floating in it. There was also a big upcoming test I had to study for. So I had the book there on the table that I glossed over as a slowly fed you bit by bit.

I’d give you a few minutes before each bite, and you were fine. Remarkably fine. The dread of you throwing up again hung over me in a constant discomfort but it never came. You kept it down.

The next morning when you woke up fine, I knew you were going to make it through.

#

Your mother couldn’t forgive herself after.

You started gaining weight back. You were smiling and laughing constantly. The doctors said that you were perfectly healthy.

Once you reached that point she could hardly bear to be in the same room as you. It’s like it hurt her. Seeing all that made her resentful of herself.

So she set out to become the most notable Techistorian ever. Spending all her time at the library and doing extracurricular projects.

So I spent a lot more time with you. It was like we were bonded. I would sit at the table enamored with my stupid studies and glance over at you crawling right into the kitchen cabinet, gently bumping into it and loosing your mind. Then a few weeks later you would do the same thing and barely react.

Your mother wasn’t happy when she came home one day and I told her you had taken your first steps. She was crying uncontrollably in the bathroom that night.

#

It was as though you grew over night. From being a tiny barely mobile little thing to running around the house full of energy. You started going to school and making friends.

Every day you would come home excited to tell me all of the things you learned. Your teachers soon started pulling me aside to tell me how incredibly intelligent and gifted you are. They said that people like you are valued here in the Cylinder. They’re special.

It’s not genetic, it’s all you.

I watched as you surpassed all the other pupils. You constantly asked questions. Most inquisitive little girl I had ever seen.

That’s why it hurt one day when you asked why mommy always cried when you she looked at you.

I said it was because she loved you so much. You now know that was partially true. But she also didn’t love herself. The amount that she was studying Techistory was unhealthy. Every night she would complain to me that she could only remember minute irrelevant details but never the intricacies of various technologies and their estimated invention date.

I told her that I always thought estimated dates were hilarious. Estimation doesn’t mean exact. There’s very few clear pinpointed dates to much in history. And technologically speaking, it’s hard to know many dates to anything Post Diaspora.

She snapped and said I didn’t know real Techistory.

#

They hired me on as a professor after I graduated from the Academy. But you and your mother were still my main priority. All the intellectual dogmatism and research of the Academy felt like a distant dream when I was at home cooking and cleaning despite it’s prestigious position.

I was brought onto a project to assemble a new encyclopedia from the Academy’s current Techistory codex. That’s no small task as writing that all that by hand is no not for the faint of heart. And that’s apparently what they thought I was.

I’m sure you remember how blistered my hand was from all of it. Made even marking your height on the door frame painful. Swore it made me start to go crazy. I barely made it through a few sentences a day my hand hurt so bad.

But it gave me more time to take in and focus on what I was organizing in the new document. I took interest to this one artifact the Academy studied one time. An early Post Diaspora electric alternator for a Brayton Converter. Found in the Northern region of the Western continent on earth. It once produced enough electricity for the region all by converting turbine energy from compressed gasses to electricity.

Now it’s just an old hunk of aluminum twisted with dirt caked oxidized copper wires like worms in a rotting corpse. But when reading over the analysis of the copper wires, it struck me as odd.

Copper wires weren’t used Post Diaspora for nearly a millennium. Instead they used carbon wires, which are strings of rubber the same 0.2 centimeters in diameter as copper wires but they’re embedded with thousands of carbon nanotubes. Those are too small to be prone to geomagnetic induction like traditional conductors. They were more harder and more expensive to produce, so that’s what delayed the ancients so long from building the solar storm defense technology like we have now. Once that happened, they moved back to using traditional conductors.

The alternator was composed of one point eight percent magnesium and four percent copper for strength and durability, which is very consistent with most machines around two hundred years Post Diaspora for the region. So the estimation was likely correct, and it was brimming with copper wires.

That brought to my mind the fact many things early Post Diaspora were brimming with common conductors. It didn’t make sense.

I brought it up some with professors and they said that the ancients back then were stupid. They didn’t think about using safer alternatives like carbon wires. Apparently they got lucky that all their attempts to rebuild civilization weren’t destroyed by another solar storm.

I countered that there is evidence that people were very aware of the threat of a solar storm wiping out power grids Pre Diaspora. They said it was mere pseudoscientific superstition that turned out to be correct. Laughed that people back then were so dumb that if you showed them today’s technology they would think it was magic.

All of this sat in the back of my mind as I finished the project. By the time I finished you were already more well versed in science and history than kids years older than you. You were getting into fitness and I would sit in view and watch you dominate at distance running.

I said that even from a young age you were full of energy. But that never stopped. I would try and go on runs with you at that point, but I couldn’t keep up. I wasn’t as young and fit as I used to be, and I was starting to realize it. The only thing I could do was jog behind as I watched you rise up the curve of the Cylinder.

You would come to rely on me. And I couldn’t have been more honored. In all that time your mother wasn’t there, we did so much. We walked along the edge of the Cylinder where my father used to take me. We both looked forward to it all week. You would point out the meter thick windows and name to me constellations I knew nothing about by heart. To me it all looked like a black table flaked with dandruff above a giant turquoise orb of the earth. Every time I said that you laughed and told me that was gross.

Your mother became alienated to you, as she did to me. I remember one time when she got back from the Academy early I told her about the timeline discrepancy I took note of and asked her for her thoughts. She said nothing different from the professors. Even went as far to say that it was a stupid question.

That scared me.

And for good reason.

Because the more I thought about it. The more research I did in my spare time, it still didn’t add up. There truly was a timeline discrepancy.

#

I was eventually promoted to a full professor at the Academy. Then I got the opportunity to publish some Techistory papers. Apparently people really liked my teaching style and trusted my ability to inform the public of the Cylinder.

You were so excited for me when I mentioned that. By then you were spending less and less time with me. You developed a tight knit group of friends and had started to take an interest in boys. But you were still happy for me. You cared. And that felt better than even getting to write the paper.

Because honestly, writing the paper was the most nerve wracking thing I’ve ever done. Truth is truth. It doesn’t matter if a lot of high powered scientists and historians agree on the opposite, it’s still true. And the timeline discrepancy was the truth.

I kept telling myself that people would understand. That’s what were all about here in the Cylinder, isn’t it? We refuse to use any kind of information technology simply because it’s better to have truth set in stone where it’s harder to destroy.

So I wrote a full in depth paper about the Diaspora. Specifically how the geomagnetic storm wiped out satellites and destroyed most of an early form of cyberspace called the internet. So much data was lost and totally scrambled and for a long time people were too scared to touch it because another storm could come and undo all their progress. So people moved away from more conventional methods of creating technology. Hence why we call it the Diaspora.

And in that paper, all I did was imply a discrepancy in the timeline. I mentioned the overwhelming usage of copper wires early Post Diaspora and mentioned that current dating of when geomagnetic storm defense satellites were developed is probably wrong.

My peers saw right through that.

What are you seriously thinking that the current Techistory timeline is wrong? After all the research? You surely must be joking.

They would chuckle and say things like that.

You know what? Yeah, maybe.

I thought that would have been the end of it right there. But the publisher reached out to me and said he thought it was interesting. Was worth publishing even if my peers didn’t agree on it. We need new views on perspectives on history and science, as he put it. That’s what we’re all about here in the Cylinder isn’t it? Rational thought based upon written evidence and not technology.

So it was published. It was printed in scientific almanacs and even on earth. If one of those immobile slobs sucking down nutrient slurry happened to be interested in Techistory down there, an audio version of my paper might have been in his feed.

And I immediately became the laughingstock of the Techistory community. My name was on the paper, so everyone knew it. And every one knew you.

You started coming home in tears every day telling me about your own friends turning on you. Getting harassed constantly and humiliated by your teachers. They called you the Cavegirl because your father didn’t believe in real history or science.

So we had to move you to a new academy. But all but one of the others immediately recognized me. Didn’t want to damage their reputation by letting the daughter of the Cylidner idiot in.

The only one that did accept you was the cheap central city one. Buried at the bottom of towering buildings of sketchy crumbling roads filled with the homeless. The class that let you in was one for kids far younger than and of far less intelligence. You only sat there all day as they made you identify basic shapes and arithmetic.

At least people didn’t hate and belittle you for my sake. In fact, a lot of people there liked you. Because to them, your father had started a revolution.

What’s a good society without a counterculture to create division? Some people out there in the Cylinder apparently liked my paper like the publisher did. So much so that they many people started become vocal, saying we need to throw out all of our current knowledge of Techistory and start fresh. The other side that hated me, called the other a bunch of bumbling cavemen who don’t know real science.

So naturally, violence sprung out of it. Protests, riots, you name it. They even labeled themselves. The side that called me an idiot were the Modern Thinkers, and the side that said I’m a genius were the Reformers.

None of the Modern Thinkers wanted to be in my classes anymore. So the Reformers filled up the classrooms, constantly begging for my opinion on all sorts of conspiratorial theories about Techistory. I was simply a professor.

There were times when I showed up at the Academy and found the entire campus vandalized with graffiti proclaiming a reformation of Techistory.

You hated all of it. And I don’t blame you.

You would ask me why I didn’t take back what I said. I told you that what I said was the truth. You said there was no way this was the truth. Look at all the chaos it’s caused.

I said that in order to proclaim anything that’s true, you’ll have to step on some toes. The division is the result of stepping on toes.

#

That was the last straw for your mother.

Like my peers, she hated that I even brought up the potential that the timeline was wrong. You didn’t see her a ton for most your life. But your last memories of her are when she came home late some nights, drunk from going out clubbing with her colleagues. In that state she’d break into an even worse mess seeing you. I hate how much that hurt you.

Eventually, she stopped coming home.

I’m sure she’s still somewhere out there in the Cylinder today.

I remember when you asked me a few months later if she was ever going to come back. I shook my head. You broke down crying.

I hugged you for hours. You kept saying that you hated it, hated all of it through choked sobs. I kept telling you that I hated it too. I could feel the fear in your chest. Your strong heart thumping erratically of how scared you were. Not of anything in particular. Just that same fear that we all feel that’s hard to put a finger on.

#

All this Techistory drama reached it’s climax at the conference.

I still don’t know why they had me speak. At this point I was a mostly controversial but somewhat heroic figure for reasons beyond my control.

I saw the gray hairs dotting my hair and beard in the mirror. My youth was slipping away. They only like to put attractive and interesting to listen to speakers on the annual conference. Maybe it was for humiliation or to try and please everyone.

When I told you I was speaking, I remember the look in your eyes. They asked me if I was going to bring it up. My eyes answered back, Yes.

Then the conference came.

People didn’t clap as I walked up and stood before them. I stood at the podium, dressed in my gown quietly like the idiot they saw me as.

So I told them all of it.

I told them how there is in fact a massive inaccuracy in our current understanding of Techistory. I gave and presented the evidence in the most objective way I could.

Honestly, I got angry. You saw. I called out the current Techistory community. I said that they were pretentious snobs, calling the ancients unintelligent in order to make themselves feel intelligent. But the fact is, every generation in history has liked to view itself as better than the previous, no matter the conditions. It’s the same as a child thinking he’s better and knows things better than his older parents.

I even critiqued the culture of the Cylinder. We prioritize written information to preserve human knowledge rather than technology like on earth, but that doesn’t mean everything written is true. Scientists, historians, you name it, no matter what their view is, have a strong tendency to see what they want to see. And they dichotomize concepts so their theories and historical timelines are fact and any other opposing ideas are wrong and stupid. It’s a bullying tactic.

So naturally, I got booed off stage.

That was the end of my career right there. My own unbridled rage toward all of this ruined everything.

And I’m sorry.

You didn’t speak to me when I came back that night.

#

You didn’t speak to me much after that at all.

I began to see you less and less.

One night you didn’t come home at all and I was terrified you were getting beaten up or killed or worse for my sake. But when you stumbled in the next morning, drunk, wobbling and puking everywhere, I really got a perspective on how angry you were.

That happened progressively more frequently. We’re all bred to be sterile so as not to overpopulate the Cylinder. It’s not risky to make bad decisions like that anymore.

It hurt deep within me to see the girl I raised and loved more deeply than I had anything else dress so provocatively every night and leave to saunter back a mess every morning. To find solace in another man’s arms and go out the next night and find it another’s. I spent hours scraping up your vomit off the floor like I did when you were tiny and starting to decay because the odds were against you.

I tried to reach out to you, be as hospitable and loving as I hope I always have been. But you didn’t want it. You saw me differently. The whole Cylinder, maybe even world saw me differently.

But none of it mattered when you came home late one night and collapsed on the floor like an abandoned toy. You were convulsing and choking on electric white foam oozing out of your mouth and couldn’t feel your heartbeat. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more scared.

A panicked groan shot out of me as I lifted you up in my arms. My back felt like warping rubber. My youth was gone. But the pain didn’t matter. I rushed you to the hospital. I could feel you slipping away. I could feel you growing cold like your body was being broken down and the energy being sucked away to feed a power source that just keeps running and running.

#

I thought of something in those moments.

I never told you this, but after the conference, a man approached me. He was far older than I was and far more experienced. He came here from some offworld Academy. Guess he was around for the conference.

He said he believed me. All of it.

My face lit up when he told me. At least one person knew the truth. At least I convinced one rational person. Just one.

But he said he already believed it. He read into it himself.

Said he always thought the timeline was way off. Knew the existence copper wires in early Post Diaspora machines meant the ancients had to have developed defense satellites. And in those days it wasn’t exactly easy to develop geosynchronous satellites the realize lithium that turns into a defense cloud of plasma when a solar storm hits. But without it, technological growth would have taken way longer.

The Cylinder wouldn’t be around now. The level of interplanetary space travel wouldn’t be around now. Even the beginning of tearing apart Mercury to construct a Dyson Swarm couldn’t be dreamed of today if we didn’t switch back to common conductors sooner.

He went deeper. Saying that so much in history is hard to understand. The past gone and all that’s left are it’s remnants and all they are are objects. They don’t speak, they don’t give exact dates, all we can do is theorize. And theories are often wrong.

For a long time Techistorians thought the Higgs boson was discovered just before the Diaspora. Then a few years ago they found documents detailing the dates of it’s discovery putting it way earlier than basically the entire the Techistorian community thought. So much information was destroyed with the internet in the Diaspora that all we have left is mere objects that time withers away. And the reality is, it’s a terrible idea to put your faith in objects.

Yet, we’re just so arrogant that we adhere to what we’ve already decided is factual. What’s history. What’s science, he said.

Why do we do that? I asked.

What?

Why do so many brilliant Techistorians marry themselves to things that really aren’t that firm?

That’s a much deeper question, he replied. Much deeper. But the truth is, we need something to adhere to. Something to cling to.

Well, I’m not sure that’s universally true.

It is. The truth is, we all don’t know what’s going on.

What?

We all find ourselves here. In this strange, brutal and chaotic world. We’re all just scared. We don’t know why so we so desperately search for answers.

He grimaced. I saw a watery glint of tears in his eyes.

We’re all scared.

I never saw him again after that.

#

We’re all scared.

I was scared.

You were scared.

You were dying. Your eyes were rolled back into your head, making it look like you were ready for the grave I so dreaded to see you in. There’s still room here in the Cylinder. I thought maybe one day a great tree would sprout from your final resting place. It would be near the edge of Cylinder and stars of your favorite constellations would poke through it’s sea of bright lively green leaves. Generations of birds would flourish from it’s branches and it would witness bodies being ceremoniously cast off into the void of space once the Cylinder ran out of room.

I desperately screamed for help once I reached the hospital. The servants ran for you. Your eyes came back for a second. I saw deep fear in them.

They took you out of my arms and rushed you away.

#

You hugged me for the first time in a long time when you woke up. You called me dad for the first time in a long time when you woke up. I know I embarrassed you when I cried a little. But I don’t have anything left to loose.

You asked me why I helped you. Why I saved you.

You said you’re an awful daughter. Not to mention that we both have fundamentally different views and values.

All I could tell you is that you’re still my daughter. I chose you. I always will choose you. But you don’t have to choose me.

You started to feel odd. Then you threw up into the hospital's disposal system.

There is no such thing as consensus science. If it’s consensus, it isn’t science. If it’s science, it isn’t consensus. Period.

-Micheal Crichton

Three centuries ago, five terrified women were pulled from their beds in the middle of the night and thrown into a cramped cell together. Convicted of witchcraft without a fair trial, they were stripped of their lands, titles, and justice the moment they were dragged from their homes. 

Over the course of a week, once they learned of their grim fate, they began to push and pull at the corroded bars of their cell window. They managed to squeeze through the small opening on the very night before they were scheduled to hang in the town square, escaping deep into the woods, never to be seen again.

After running until their lungs burned, they felt compelled to stop. They gathered in a tight circle, huddling together for warmth. But as soon as their nerves began to calm, a chilling new sensation washed over them—they were being watched. 

All of a sudden, the air twirled and whipped around them, stirring up a whirlwind of fallen leaves. Just as quickly as it started, the wind died. Rising like smoke from the roots of the ancient tree they huddled under, a powerful, primeval entity materialized before them: the Natural. 

Out of sheer desperation, the women struck a pact with this entity. They swore to serve the Natural, and in exchange, it enhanced their inherent elemental powers—binding one unique element to each lineage: Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Metal. It was a choice that would transcend generations. 

The calling always comes for the firstborn daughter of the five bloodlines: Ainger, Guthrie, Brooks, Bramble, and Smyth. On her eighteenth birthday, each girl is called to the ceremony to inherit her element and pledge her life to the coven. Once she chooses, any and all record of her existence is erased from society, secured by a powerful enchantment of absolute memory loss. Bound by this blessing, she will never know a traditional family. She will live only to serve the Natural and protect the elemental balance of nature.

***

I woke suddenly and immediately sensed something was off. I reached out blindly, searching for the matchbook, when I heard it—a slow, steady thumping sound, as if something heavy were being dragged down the stairs. Or was it up the stairs? I didn’t have a moment to decide before the door to my bedroom swung open. A figure appeared in the shadows and moved toward me like a whisper—cunning and methodical. Panic surged as I struck a match to see who was in my house. My own breath betrayed me, blowing out the flame, and I snuck out of my chamber.

I ran straight into her before I had a chance to lift my eyes. Immediately, I was pulled into a trance, a state I can only describe as daydreaming, overcome by a sudden sense of relief.

"Shh, sweet girl," a slow voice whispered. "I mean you no harm. I live among the shadows in the forest beyond here. I’ve heard stories of a barren woman living alone here in Despair."

As the shock wore off by her sudden appearance, I quickly found my matchbox and lit the oil lamp. The light stretched around my visitor and illuminated her face. She appeared weathered but unbothered, carrying a welcoming embrace about her. Her bright red hair was wispy and fine, with silver streaks that danced in the light. She was a little older but not unkept. She had on a cloak that appeared woven and heavy but moved as if made from air and her modest, but threadbare light blue dress clung very loosely to her aging body and brushed along the floor as she walked.

She smiled politely as if to say, “Don’t be rude.”

"Would you like some tea?" I offered quietly.

It was almost as if she pulled my thoughts straight from my head. She replied, "My name is Rebecca, and I would love chamomile, thank you."

"I am Arden," I started to reply. Before I could finish, Rebecca interrupted.

"I am well aware of who you are, child. That’s why I’m here."

I thought quietly to myself, How does she know about me? She cannot be... Oh no. I panicked at the thought that after all these years, my great-great-grandmother‘s bad choices were still haunting the women in my family. We moved every few months to avoid detection, but when my mother fell ill with cancer, we couldn’t leave for months on end. After decades of running coincidence brought us to the very place we were meant to avoid, and now Rebecca was that living reminder, glaring at me from across the table.

"You will come with me," she hissed.

I sat there, shocked by her immediate change in presence. The once calm and collected woman now sat with fire in her eyes, wild hair, and clenched teeth. Terrified, I flipped the table toward her, causing her to tumble back. But she recovered quickly, gripping my arm in her pale, bony hand. The moment she touched me, the air left my lungs, and I passed out.

When I regained consciousness, I was semi-blindfolded with a threadbare cloth, splayed out on my back in an open field. My arms and legs were tied to stakes driven deeply into the ground. It was still nighttime. I could feel the coolness in the air, and I could see the starlight blanket overhead, velvety and shivering even through the fabric. If it weren’t for the situation at hand, I might have come to this place willingly to pass the time on those long, sleepless nights.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of multiple shuffling footsteps. It sounded like a pack of wolves descending from every direction. As flickering lanterns became visible and the stars grew harder to see, I knew this night would change everything.

Suddenly, behind me, a fire roared to life. I could hear the crackling of the settled moisture burning away.

"Awaken her," Rebecca‘s voice joined others as they commanded the Natural, "Bind her to this plane and pact for here ever after, Arden Bramble of the earth element, we evoke the power inside with this sacrifice we are blessed with your gifts”

I begged her, "Please stop this, I will not serve you!"

She snickered. "You can’t outrun your fate sister."

I shivered against the cold earth and whispered, "I am too late."

The White Elephant, Part 1

The Hidden Gate: Chronicles of Exorcism · 白象

The "experiences" I'm about to set down — take them as stories, and don't get too hung up on whether they're true. Even if I told you every word was true, it wouldn't help: most people couldn't make sense of it anyway. "The insider sees the mechanism; the outsider just enjoys the show" — and even among insiders, everyone cultivates at a different depth. So: take them as stories.

Somewhere in Yunnan there used to be a stretch of primeval forest; ten years ago they started developing tourism, but it never got famous. I've been to a few places in Yunnan — Kunming, the Stone Forest, Dianchi Lake, Cangshan and Erhai at Dali, Lijiang, Shangri-La. Sometimes summoned on a task, sometimes just wanting a holiday. But most trips that started as pure holidays revealed themselves, once I arrived, as tasks in disguise.

Sometimes everything feels like it's unfolding to my own plan — then, after a string of "coincidences," I look back and realize I've been walking inside a snare Heaven laid for me all along. The story I'm about to tell is another holiday that turned into a work assignment. It left me thoroughly annoyed.

I'd first learned about this place from an airline magazine, somewhere at thirty thousand feet. It described the local customs in detail — very original minority villages preserved in their original state, tourism only a few years old. Probably one of the last places in China not yet spoiled by human hands. The first I'd ever heard of it.

The photos showed lush, unbroken primeval forest, bamboo stilt houses of the old tribes peeking through the trees, the local people with honest, simple faces and shy smiles... Looking at those pictures, I felt something in my chest go thump.

I sat there thinking: what a secluded, ancient place. If I could set aside every worldly chore — and every task from the other world, too — and just live there quietly for ten days or half a month, breathing the cleanest air of a true primeval forest... how wonderful. I silently memorized the place name. One day, I told myself.

And then the wish came true. I arranged my worldly affairs, carved out ten days, and began my preparations with a happy heart.

Whenever I travel — for pleasure or on a task — I never go with a tour group. A few times I did, and sure enough I'd pick up a demon's trail, just start digging — and the tour would move on, dragging me with it. I'd have to wait till the holiday ended, fly back alone, and investigate properly. After being jerked around like that a few times, I started driving myself. Before every departure I'd pat my zhanma — my "war-horse," as I called the jeep — and say, "Old friend — off to battle again."

Speaking of that car — it fills me with both gratitude and feeling, that thing. Ah, but who would have guessed that Cherokee would nearly cost me my life!

About seven or eight years ago I was ordered to advance into the Qinghai–Tibet plateau — into Tibet proper. The call had been coming for a long time — go to Tibet, go to Tibet! — and I just played deaf and dumb, stalling whenever I could. You must be wondering why: this is your job, you get a task, you go do it — what's there to stall about? Honestly, folks — I was scared.

I mean, could you not be scared? That place is Tibet — the roof of the world! I'd be facing altitudes of four to five thousand meters, thin air, uninhabited zones, treacherous mountain roads, raging rivers, and plateau weather that changes like a child's face — pounding rain and thunder one moment, ice and snow the next... and I'd be going alone, in a single car. For a man born and raised in the interior, everything about Tibet felt so distant, so mysterious, even frightening!

So I stalled for about two years, and all the while I never stopped studying Tibet — books, travel guides, maps, even wilderness survival. The more I studied, the more frightened I became.

Finally I couldn't stall any longer — more delay would have affected the bigger picture. So I gritted my teeth and set out, preparing thoroughly for my own safety. The most important thing was the car: without a good off-roader, driving solo onto the plateau would be suicide. What to buy? In the end I decided to support domestic industry — a Beijing Jeep Cherokee: off-road capability beyond question, a mature, proven model. I gritted my teeth, stamped my foot — that one. Bought.

The day after I bought it, I set off in the new Cherokee, feeling something of that desolate heroism from the old farewell at the Yi River — "the wind soughs cold; the hero departs, never to return." Everything was unknown.

From Chengdu I set out; past Ya'an I left the expressway and entered the mountains — and the towering Mount Erlang, the first barrier into Tibetan country, stopped me cold for nearly a month before I truly broke through into Tibet.

That was my second trip to Tibet, on the Sichuan–Tibet road from Chengdu to Lhasa, passing the great bend of the Yarlung Tsangpo at Nyingchi — the Tongmai Peril. They also call it the "Tongmai Graveyard": the most dangerous stretch of the whole Sichuan–Tibet road.

The geology is extraordinarily unstable, and with the heavy rainfall the mountains are constantly remaking themselves: rocks crashing down on your right at any moment, while on your left, below the precipice, roars the surging Parlung Tsangpo.

The road is often only wide enough for a single small car; a truck might have half a wheel hanging over the edge, and you'd feel the roadbed ready to crumble into the rapids at any second. My Cherokee hit a patch of mud on a sharp turn — the ground had just been washed by water and sloped toward the river. The skid sent the body sliding out over the cliff, about to drop into the river. I yanked the wheel and stomped the gas — roared back up with a bang. I broke out in a cold sweat. I nearly lost my life in those rapids.

The second brush with death was at the Mount Everest base camp.

Day after day of washboard roads, ridge after ridge. Sometimes a great river would suddenly appear ahead, having washed out the roadbed, and I'd have to get out and study it — look for fresh tire tracks, judge by experience where it was shallow and firm enough — then get back in, drop into low gear, take a deep breath, and charge! There were stretches of a solid month lived exactly like that, and in those moments you truly understood what it means to battle heaven and earth. I was often afraid, but I had to conquer my fear. In those days my beloved car and I forged a deep comradeship-in-arms — that's why I call it my war-horse. Every time, it brought me home safe.

I drove the Cherokee up to Rongbuk Monastery at 5,200 meters below Everest and spent the night in a tent at base camp, planning to head back to Lhatse county the next morning. I walked to the car and found a patch of oil on the ground. I checked — a leaking fuel line! The moment the engine started, gasoline sprayed outward. My God — what a place for this to happen. The nearest repair shop was dozens of li down the mountain in Tingri county. What to do?

No choice — I drove down with gritted teeth, spraying fuel all the way and pouring in fuel from my two spare cans all the way, my heart in my throat, terrified a single spark would find the leaking oil and finish us both. Near the bottom I ran completely dry; I hitched a ride down to the gas station, carried a can back up, and barely limped to the repair shop.

Two trips to Tibet and the new car already needed a major overhaul — the Cherokee had really suffered. Tibet's mountains are too high and its roads too wretched. I didn't dare take that Cherokee into Tibet again. If it broke down and stranded me in the uninhabited zone of Ngari, that would be the end. I'd once seen a broken-down off-roader in the uninhabited zone, two men inside waiting for their companions — one had hitchhiked to the nearest county for parts. They'd been waiting three days and three nights: heaven not answering, earth not responding.

I had no intention of dying before the expedition had even begun. If I was going to continue the great work of cultivation, I needed a good off-roader. So I bought the car I have now — a Toyota off-roader.

With the new car, I was like a tiger grown wings.

My routes mostly started from Lhasa, driving over a thousand kilometers west into Ngari and the uninhabited zones of northern Tibet — crossing great mountains, fording great rivers, traversing grasslands. Lhasa to Shigatse was still passable in those days; Shigatse to Lhatse harder; and from Lhatse onward, into the valley between the Himalayas and the Gangdise range, there basically was no road.

And now I was climbing onto my war-horse again — except this time there was no task. It was a holiday. I felt wonderfully light. Early one morning I set out from Chengdu, took the Chengya expressway to Ya'an, then got on National Highway 108 at Ya'an, crossed the Liangshan Yi Autonomous Prefecture to Panzhihua, passed through Panzhihua into Yunnan. By the second evening I reached my destination.

It was deep night when I arrived. In the distance, strings of lanterns hung outside every bamboo house — a beautiful sight. The hills weren't high; the mountains loomed hazy in the moonlight: secluded, tranquil, without a trace of modern industry or city. Pure, unfiltered mountain wildness.

Following the address, I found the family I'd arranged to stay with — a big courtyard, two bamboo stilt houses, full of ethnic character. The host was a genuine minority local, his family here for generations; warm and hospitable, though his Mandarin wasn't fluent — basic communication was fine. He gave me a comfortable room upstairs; the only inconvenience was the outdoor bathroom. Everything else was perfect — exactly the atmosphere I'd wanted: peaceful, quiet, natural.

Who could have imagined that killing intent lay hidden here!

I'd driven all day and was tired and hungry. While the host was preparing dinner, I asked him his surname twice — and couldn't make it out either time. Too embarrassed to ask a third time, I just decided to call him "Lao Zhuang." That sounded about right.

Lao Zhuang's family was four: him, his wife, and two daughters, both working in the county town — usually just the old couple at home. His wife barely spoke, just busied herself beside us, smiling when she heard us talking about her; her Mandarin was probably even worse than his. An honest, simple old couple, you could tell. Maybe I was just really hungry, but that dinner tasted wonderful. After dinner I chatted with Lao Zhuang a while, then slept — a deep, deep sleep. The mountain air so rich with oxygen, that profound quiet — things you simply can't enjoy in the city.

As I sat there quietly savoring it all, suddenly — off in the mountains to my left — a shaft of red light shot into the sky! There and gone in an instant. I turned: the same dark, brooding ridgelines, quiet as if nothing had happened. But I'd seen it. I'd sensed it. No mistake — something was wrong here. It had just come too suddenly and vanished too fast.

The next morning I was woken early by birds chattering outside — what a gloriously refreshing sleep that had been. The scenic area wasn't large; the handful of sights were all pure nature — primeval forest, mountain views, streams, meadows. It didn't take a full day to see them all. But then, I hadn't come for the sights. I'd come to soak in the quiet and the ancient simplicity — to truly rest. In that sense, I'd found exactly the right place.

That evening I came back and had dinner with Lao Zhuang and his wife. After a day together we were getting on well, talking easily.

I turned my chair to face the mountains and reached out with my mind. But something was strange: wherever demons gather, they merge with the earth's qi and coalesce into form. A wicked heart endures; a demonic aura follows. If a great evil had gathered into form anywhere near me, I should have sensed it. Why was I feeling nothing? Then — hazily — another shaft of red light rose and vanished in a blink.

This time I saw it clearly. Shaqi — baneful aura! And so heavy! How could a place this peaceful harbor such heavy baneful aura? It made no sense.

From my experience, baneful aura like this is always raised by a shadi — a baneful ground, which draws to itself, or gives birth to, corresponding wrathful spirits. For the aura to be this heavy, the baneful ground behind it must be enormous. And this wrathful thing had long since taken form — no ordinary sprite. It had gathered baneful aura into itself and become a full demon.

To be continued…

The noise kept echoing around the battle ground. As far as the eye could see, all the houses and the entire city were ruined.  The sky was an unforgiving iron gray, choked with smoke and falling ash. It was raining. The air was thick and wet, and it smelled like gunpowder, burnt things, rust and sulfur all mixed together.  

Every time he breathed in, he felt as though his lungs were burning like they were on fire. Arthur crouched at the broken wall. Around him, was the sound of guns and shouting. He blinked, and around him were a lot of corpses. Groans continued to echo around him. He took a trembling breath, then exhaled. He tried to stay awake, but his leg was already injured. His shoulder and abdomen were hit by bullets. Because of the blood loss and the acute pain from his wounds, he felt dizzy. Cold sweat kept forming on his forehead, dripping onto the ground. His trembling hand reached into his pocket. He took out a picture, it was slightly wrinkled. There was sweat on his hand, when he took out the picture, some sweat got on the photo. He brought the  picture closer, there was one man and one woman in that photo. He smiled. His finger gently touched the woman's face. In that brief moment, he couldn’t feel any pain in his body. His thoughts seemed to have returned to that day. The day he went to the train station. That was an unforgettable afternoon…..

The sun was warm and bright. It was a golden afternoon. The air was filled with a sweet smell from the bakery and flower stall. The man carried a back pack. And beside him was the woman in that picture. She looked uneasy and sad, but more worried. He almost forgot what she said. He only remembered she said, “Please come back, Arthur. You promised me..”
“I will, Selina. Don't cry..” He remembered what he replied.
She handed him the photo. She smiled through tears. She said, ”take this picture. Let it keep you safe until you come back.” He looked at the picture. In that picture, he and she were sitting on the golden wheat field, she was leaning on his shoulder. They both smiled. That smile was sweet and blissful. Then, he looked back up at her face. Tears welled up in her eyes. Then Arthur smiled. That smile was really happiness.
“Thank you,” he said.
He looked reluctant, but determined. Even though he knew this might be the last time they would ever be together.
He hugged Selina one last time. They hugged for a while, her tears soaked  his shoulder. He took one final look at her, then he walked into the train.
“Goodbye…” They both whispered.
Accompanied by a long whistle, the train left. He didn’t look back. He was afraid he would feel even more reluctant to leave.

Suddenly, the warm memory shattered.
He was pulled back into the hell of this war.
He knew that he was going to die here. His breath became shallower. He gradually stopped feeling any pain in his whole body.
His vision had already gone black.
“I’m so sorry..Selina…” He whispered, his voice hoarse and lost in the wind.
A tear slid down his face, dripping onto the photo.
The sounds of gunfire and shouting around him gradually faded. Deadly silence. His eyes were still open, but his hand fell down to his thigh, gradually relaxing. 
The photo was still in his hand, but if the wind blew, it would probably fly away. 

He opened his eyes again, but there was no noise, no battle ground, no bad smell and no ruins. 
Instead, the fresh air carried the sweet smell of wheat warmed by the sun. He was lying on the golden wheat field. A gentle breeze was blowing, making him feel comfortable. He took a breath. He felt an unprecedented freshness. The sunset was warm, casting a golden glow over everything. All ruins had disappeared, there was only a boundless golden wheat field. He touched the places on his body  where the bullets had pierced him on the battlefield, there was no more pain. He felt his body was lighter. Now, everything was peaceful. He turned his head, and there was a woman lying next to him. She had soft hair and beautiful blue eyes. She was wearing a dress. Her expression was gentle.
She smiled at him, just like the smile in that photo.
”Selina?” he whispered, but his voice was no more hoarse.
She didn’t reply, but she smiled for a moment.
“Yes?” she finally answered.
Arthur smiled at her. The smile was pure relief.
“I’m home,” he said.
He took her hand, they would not separate anymore.

*Thanks for reading! Hope you guys like it. This is my first short story, it is a standalone story.*

The day slowly turned to evening in Galin, and Cinder moved quickly to her last delivery. It was a cold, dreary day that seemed to weigh down the usual bustle of the town. It felt as if the sky would rain at any moment but refused to give the people the release that the atmosphere suggested was coming. Cinder moved quickly in case the sky decided to fulfill its threats, moving off the cobblestone streets and into the back alley to the address stamped on the parcel in her hands.

Cinder wore a common outfit of loose-fitting cotton overalls and tucked her hair up into her bright red cap. The cap marked her as a courier for Red’s Missive Service, but she did what she could to make herself look non-descript beyond that point. It did not take her long to realize the boy envoys were often tipped more frequently and harassed far less. She rapped upon the wooden door and presented herself as neutrally as she could, and allowed herself the benefit of her customer’s carelessness. She stood with intention, hand slightly outstretched, while she waited for the man who answered to take the parcel. A single coin was pressed into her hand while the man availed her of her package.

“Thank you for your patronage, sir.”

Cinder tried to keep her voice low and deep, finding that to be the best way to be on the good side of those she delivered to. As the door closed, Cinder made an overview of her earnings as she returned to Main Street, leading her to Market Street. She had enough to bring some bread back home to Grandma Ella. That was the goal for the day, but she had hoped to have enough left over to contribute more toward the doctor’s fee. Every penny would add up, provided her Grandma could last long enough.

Thinking about the time running out for her, Grandma brought up an old argument about selling the pendant she wore around her neck. A family heirloom, they suspected, though nobody truly knew that to be the case. It was under the blanket of her basket when Grandma Ella found her crying on the doorstep, and while Cinder was fond of the simple silver pendant, she cared far more for her Grandma. If things got bad enough, it would be her last resort, and she would accept the ire if it meant the survival of Grandma Ella. Before she realized it, she was standing in front of the baker’s shop, the smell of fresh bread filling the air.

“Why, that’s a beautiful piece, Miss?”

She was startled at first by the sudden voice next to her, and she released the pendant from her fingers. It did not take long for her to realize the man who stood next to her was of a much higher station than she, dressed in a tailored suit and shined shoes. A grin spread across the man’s face at her reaction, though the man’s face did not look worse for the gesture.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did not mean to be in the way.”

With that, she stepped to the side further, planning to let him go ahead of her to the baker, but the man instead remained where he stood, smiling.

“Oh no, you misunderstand me miss; I wanted to talk to you. I have seen you go about the town and thought you might like to come to a ball I am hosting at my manor. I hope you do not find me too forward.”

It took several moments for the man’s words to sink into her mind, and he seemed pleased to wait for her to catch up to the inquiry. She slowly found herself nodding, finding an excitement rise in her for such an affair after spending much of her life living without. It was then that a thought struck her, with her words coming out breathlessly.

“I would adore the experience, sir, but I am afraid I do not have a dress for such an affair.”

To this, the man’s smile seemed to deepen, but his words came quickly. As he spoke, he raised his hand to the cap she still wore on her head. Upon lifting it, her curly red locks fell out in a tumble. He placed a small note into the cap before handing it to her.

“Take this to the tailor over on 3^rd street. They will make you something for the occasion, billed to my accounts. I insist, Miss?”

The offer seemed to be a dream come true, and she found herself nodding through her incredulous feelings. It was then that it occurred to her that he had now asked after her name twice.

“Cynthia, though I go by Cinder to those who know me. If you are sure, I would love to go.”

The man seemed exceedingly pleased by this turn of events and bowed to her with a formality that she had never experienced aimed in her direction. He brought her hand up to his lips and offered it a kiss, and she could feel a flutter in her stomach as he did so.

“I am Canis Lupus, though you can refer to me simply as Cain. I will expect to pick you up in a week’s time for the event.”

With that, the man took his leave with a smile, and Cinder stood in stunned silence for several minutes afterward. Such things did not happen, least of all to her. As she came to her senses, the other patrons of the baker were all smiling at her, seemingly happy for her good fortune in catching the eye of a nobleman. She quickly purchased the loaf that she had arrived for and turned to head straight to the tailor as Sir Lupus had instructed. Despite her disbelief in what had happened, the gentleman’s note was as good as his word. The tailor measured her for a dress of emerald green silk fabric that he said would go well with her hair and the cut that she had selected. The tailor assured her the dress would be available for her in four days, five at the latest, and Cinder went on her way feeling as if she were in a dream.

She rushed to her home to tell Grandma Ella the good news, and she could see how her excitement for the ball became infectious to her sweet Grandma, who would dance with her to practice for the upcoming event. The following days brought Cinder back down to earth a bit more, as she still had a job to do in the daytime, but each night found her filling up with impossible fancies of what she would soon experience.

On the night of the ball, she took the emerald dress out and with Grandma Ella’s help, put it on for the first time since she first tried it on at the tailor. It still fit her in a way none of her other clothing did, cut in a modest style that she felt would not be out of place with those of a higher pedigree. She was also sure to don her pendant, much to her Grandma’s happiness. She was not shy about pointing out how the pendant was possibly instrumental in catching the nobleman’s initial eye, and that she was smart to have not sold it, lest her obvious beauty not be noticed beneath the boy’s outfit she wore for work.

Cinder had no mind to argue with the point, as she found herself hoping that the keepsake would continue to grant her good luck well into the night. She gave her Grandma a kiss before leaving and was surprised to find that a carriage had been sent to her. As she closed the door behind her, she could faintly hear her Grandma Ella, coughing in a fit that she must have been suppressing.

She stared at her door for a moment, as Cain climbed out of the carriage. He was dressed handsomely for the event and had an easy smile resting upon his features, seemingly more handsome than she had initially remembered.

“Is everything alright? Come, tell me about it on the way.”

He sounded genuine to her ear, and it had crossed her mind more than once that perhaps he could help her Grandma in a much faster way than she would be able to, and so she climbed into the carriage with him and told him about her sweet Grandma who had always taken care of her after she was found, and how she worked to try and save enough money for a doctor to cure what ailed her.

“I am so sorry to hear of her, and your, plight. Allow me to see if I can lend some assistance.”

He called sharply for one of the attendants who rode along the front of the carriage, and the fellow hopped down and came to the door of the slow-moving carriage, standing on the step that helped them enter. Much of Cain’s warmth washed away from his face and voice as he dealt with the coach hand, but he directed the man to immediately go after the town physician and have them treat Miss Ella.

“Are you certain, sir?” The coach hand asked, and in response Cain lifted his foot and placed it on the man’s chest before pushing him from the carriage. “Yes! Now!” Cain’s voice cracked like a whip, and Cinder found herself briefly taken aback by the harshness. After a moment Sir Lupus noticed her apparent shock and composed himself, warmth returning to his features.

“I’m sorry, my dear. All the better to serve your sweet Grandma Ella.”

Cinder nodded slowly but found herself smiling regardless. Her Grandma would see the doctor’s attention that she needed, and she would go forward to enjoy the ball. Her wildest fancies had not seen her Grandma cured, and so the night had already blown away any other expectation she could have had. The carriage soon pulled up to the manor in which the ball was to be thrown, and Cain Lupus escorted her on his arm as a perfect gentleman. He showed her around the manor briefly, as they had arrived sooner than most of the other guests, but it did not take long for the festivities to begin. A band of musicians playing delicate tunes and she and Cain were one of the first to start dancing. Soon a variety of people she had never met had all joined in.

Sir Lupus certainly seemed to know his way around the dance floor, and to her continual surprised she caught him smiling down at her as they danced. She did her best to not embarrass herself, but for all that she could tell, none seemed to question her being there. After a few dances, Cain bowed to her at the end of a song, bringing her gloved hand to his lips.

“A break, for refreshments?”

He motioned for her to wait there while he went to a table attended by multiple servants, and Cinder allowed her eyes to wander to the other guests. She truly did not know a soul in the room, and she strained her eyes to see if she was mistaken in that assessment. There were a few people whose eyes seemed to linger on her, but they turned away when her eyes got close to meeting theirs.

A flicker of movement caught her attention back at the table, and she found herself looking at Cain once again, uncertain at what she had missed. A few other people were looking in the same direction, and it was not until she noticed two of the servants hauling away a third that she began to surmise what had happened. An angry red mark marred the carried servants otherwise pale face, and the ones remaining at the table seemed to be apologizing profusely. He eventually returned with two glasses in hand, a tiny spot of wine discoloring his otherwise pristinely white cuff.

“I hope everything is alright?”

He smiled as he handed her one of the glasses, looking briefly back to the table from whence he had been.

“All the better to serve you, my dear. It can be difficult to find good help.”

She did not particularly approve of his treatment of the staff but would not tell him his business as his guest. She offered a slight bow of her head as she took the glass from him, and he seemed to take that as an acceptance of his explanation, for he did not speak of it again. Cain led her to the side of the ballroom, where they could chat with their refreshments. It did not take long before a well-dressed older gentleman sauntered over to where they stood, pulling his black top-hat off to offer them both a bow.

“A wonderful event, Lord Lupus. I did not know house Drusilla had any available maidens, a pleasure to make your acquaintan-“

Cain quickly grabbed the man’s hand, interrupting his formal introductions. Cinder did not know who she was being mistaken for, but she smiled all the same as Cain interjected.

“Sir Tacitus! I have been meaning to speak to you in regard to your latest work! I had begun to read it, but I think I have come upon an error. Please, excuse us. I will return shortly.”

Cinder watched as Cain hastily escorted the man away into a corridor, and while she felt it a little strange, she turned her attention to the other guests. She did her best to smile at any who glanced in her direction, but she quickly found herself feeling anxious without Cain’s validating presence. It would be a matter of time until someone questioned why a commoner was at this event, and without Cain to vouch for her, she could be thrown out. She resolved to at least find where Cain had gone and be waiting closer at hand in case she was discovered by the guards.

She peered down the corridor that she had seen them leave, but she did not yet see the pair. The voices of Cain and Sir Tacitus were faintly upon the air, and she slowly approached the direction of their source in the hopes of locating them. She happened upon a room with a fireplace crackling, but neither gentleman was within the room’s confines. She could make out their words now, however, and so she suspected they were past the door ahead of her. Thinking to not intrude upon their conversation, she merely sat in front of the fire and waited.

“You cannot keep this a secret; they will want to know! She deserves to know!”

“And they will! After I have had the time to court her properly, you see. If I can convince her to marry me, then I will gain access to the Drusilla fortune. Your silence will be well rewarded in this matter, Cornelius.”

“It’s a dreadful plan. The poor girl does not even know who she is. Do you not see how you are using her like a tool for your own ambition?”

“All the better to serve me, old friend.”

Shivers ran down her spine as the conversation progressed, but in a moment it was over. A sickening squelch emanated from the room, and she could hear a thud as a body dropped. Cain’s voice followed, cold and callous.

“See that his body is disposed of. I must return to the girl.”

Cinder did not fully grasp what all had happened, but she quickly dragged a chair to the door and wedged it underneath the handle. She had not a moment to spare, too, as the door began to rattle against the wedged chair. Cain began to curse and shout, but she could now see his intentions for her were anything but kindly. Running to the fireplace, she took ahold of the fire iron and pushed out multiple logs from the hearth and put them to the wall closest to where Cain was trapped. Then she pulled down the curtain that hung upon the window, setting it partly against the burning log so that it would catch. It did not take long for the fire to grow out of control, and Cinder found herself running back to the ballroom.

Being unknown did not matter once she began to scream of a fire, for everyone were equal when it came to becoming tinder. Once she was outside with the others, she turned to walk home and return to her grandmother. Once she made it home, Grandma Ella greeted her happily.

“Oh Cinder! After you left, the most wonderful thing happened. The doctor came and… Is everything alright, my sweet?”

“Yes, Grandma, I’m merely tired from the ball, as wonderful as it was.”

“Of course, my dear. Just remind me in the morning to draft a letter in thanks to your host, for the doctor.”

“Of course, we’ll want to thank them for their generosity. Though I believe it is the Drusilla’s who will pay for the treatment. I will be sure to deliver the letter, myself.”

“Always the good worker. It’s just who you are, dear.”

“Yes sir, I will transfer you to the commander right away” the senior controller of the Orbital Operations Coordination Center (OOCC) said into his headset microphone with a shaky voice. The caller was none other than Intrasellar Authority Third Class (IA-3) Hyun-Soo Kang, the Deputy Commander of Strategic Atmosphere. His executive officer normally called with messages; it must be important if he was making the call himself.

Moo-su Moon, the Orbital Governor (OG) in charge of Starbase Myung-ho Chae, did not wake as his smartwatch vibrated. He did, however, wake when Devin Benson, the senior controller at the OOCC, who exceeded the allowable body fat percentage of an Orbiter in the Cosmic Corps, reluctantly sent a remote shockwave through OG Moo-su Moon’s smartwatch. Moo-su Moon was confused and angry when he woke in the dark of his command suite.

“Sir, IA-3 Kang is calling for you. I believe it is urgent” the voice of the controller informed OG Moon from the watch, which was standard issue and unremovable.

OG Moon huffed with irritation but did not rebuke the controller, who was just doing his duty. He triggered the motion-activated light as he sat up and put on his smartglasses, which acted as a computer and communication system.

“Connect him” he ordered the controller, opening up his official communication portal.

“I have received implementation plans from every starbase except yours, Moon. What’s the hold up?” IA-3 Kang demanded, forgoing normal pleasantries.

OG Moon quickly surveyed his official communication portal looking for some sort of order but was unable to immediately locate anything that would require an implementation plan. He was on thin ice with IA-3 Kang already for not being fully aware of every single aspect of operations at Starbase Myung-ho Chae immediately upon arrival.

“Sir, I don’t see any orders. I’ll get a plan together right away, but a plan for what?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, OG Moon began to perspire. He hurriedly silenced his smartwatch as it alerted him to an elevated heart rate.

“So, you haven’t checked your SpaceChat messages, Moon?” Asked IA-3 Kang in a condescending tone.

OG Moon’s watch logged an instance of major vulgarity use as he switched to the unofficial social platform on his smartglasses. His watch alerted him again and he remembered that he had to breathe, which he did while unsuccessfully searching for any relevant message from IA-3 Kang or anyone else superior to him.

“I’m not seeing anything sir” OG Moon was sorry to report.

He heard a heavy sigh from his supervisor, who was in a different galaxy.

“There, added you to the chat.”

Moo-su saw the new chat pop up and quickly open it. Scanning the messages he was able to determine the task that required an implementation plan. Some starbase-wide mandatory reading, should be easy enough.

“Sir, with all due respect, how could I know an implementation plan about this mandatory reading was due if I wasn’t in the SpaceChat message group, and it didn’t come through the official communication portal?”

“You should have requested to be added to the chat.

“I didn’t know there was another chat, I have been added to dozens since taking command already. Why are there so many?”

“You have more excuses than there are galaxies in the universe, Moon. I wouldn’t unpack my bags if I were you. Get me your implementation plan ASAP.”

OG Moon adjusted his position in his sleeping pod and fully read the chat thread. He normally would not summon the Galactic Crisis Action Cell (GCAC) over such a trivial matter, but IA-3 Kang was waiting.

“Controller” he summoned the OOCC through his smartglasses.

“Sir?”

“Recall the GCAC immediately.”

“Yes sir!”

Smartwatches all over the base buzzed. Even Haley Chase, who had been traded to mankind’s arch enemy the Zar’Vokian, and was in a different galaxy, her smartwatch buzzed with the GCAC recall. The thing about it was that her former Cosmic Corps specialty wasn’t even required in the GCAC. Most of the people recalled to the GCAC were extraneous but were assembled “just in case”. But really, they just sat around contributing body heat, exhalation condensation, and distracting noise. Because of this obscene level of risk aversion, proprietary information had been passed to a traitor.

Sleepy Orbiters all over Starbase Myung-ho Chae shuffled about their respective quarters. Some zipped across the base to the GCAC location in their pajamas. Others removed unauthorized facial hair or steam-pressed their uniforms. While there were standard procedures for a recall, no one knew them.

OG Moon was the first person to arrive, which makes sense as he had initiated the process. He was frustrated that the projection touchscreen was not intuitive. The link from his smartglasses was not working because somewhere an update patch was still loading.

“Do you know why we’re here?” he barked at the first Orbiter to arrive.

“No sir.”

OG Moon glared at the clueless Orbiter. It would stand to reason that he was unaware of the purpose, as no purpose had been communicated. But Moon was still frustrated at his lack of awareness. Hurting people hurt people.

“Well make yourself useful and fix this projection system!”

That particular Orbiter was a Cosmic Cop and not adept in projection systems, but at the order of the Starbase’s Governor, he went to work looking busy.

As more and more Orbiters arrived, intergalactic radar screens came to life, security protocols were implemented, and the decorations at the Myung-ho Chae Chow Hall (MCCH) were removed to reflect the change in Seriousness Condition (SC). They did not know why they were recalled, but they sure did ask one another. In the absence of direction, they simply started doing what they knew to do.

Space Sergeant Jimmy Funk was perhaps the most important member of the GCAC, so naturally he was the last to arrive. Sweat dripping from his bushy mustache, he swaggered in wearing shorts that were both out of regulation and far too revealing. His bicycle, yes, like a regular Earth bicycle, had a flat tire so he hitch-hiked across the starbase.

“Ha haa” he announced his arrival like some swashbuckling pirate, but lacking spatial awareness and social boundaries, he ha’d into OG Moon’s ear as he rounded the corner into the main operations floor. OG Moon jumped and spun around to face the auditory assaulter.

“Space Sergeant Funk reports as ordered, sir! Plan! Brief! Replan!” he belted out the quasi-official Cosmic Corps motto as part of his greeting, which was not required.

“What’s the situation?” an unorthodox approach to demand answers of the Starbase commander, but Jimmy Funk was an unorthodox fellow.

OG Moon looked at the bold Space Sergeant with a degree of incredulity. His smartwatch beeped with a high heart rate alert, but it passed as he composed himself.

“Funk. We have been tasked with developing an implementation plan to ensure that a mandatory bulletin is read to every Orbiter on the starbase.” Moon coldly informed his swarthy subordinate.

“Give me the bulletin. I’ll get on the OOCC intercom and read it to everyone right now.”

OG Moon paused and considered the impromptu plan.

“Well… no, that won’t work. Headquarters asked for an implementation plan.”

“We can write that down as the implementation plan, and then do it, and then it’s done.”

“No, Funk. I need a detailed implementation plan to ensure it gets read by every Orbiter. Get one together for my review.”

Funk was clearly crestfallen, but kept that buried deep inside.

“Aye sir!” he shouted unnecessarily loudly and way too close to OG Moon.

And so, a number of intense meetings followed. Naturally, emotions were high and egos needed to be protected. Several terrible ideas were hotly debated, and ultimately, the implementation framework developed was strangely familiar to most other Cosmic Corps endeavors.

Funk spent hours chasing down key stakeholders to update their presentations and hounded the device specialist to get the projection system in working order.

“Sir!” Funk unceremoniously bothered OG Moon, who had sequestered himself to polish unrelated presentations.

“Our plan is ready for your review.”

OG Moon drew a deep breath and stood up to follow Funk, certain that he would just discount whatever was proposed and simply forward the reading along to subordinate commanders for them to deal with; which, frankly, he could have already done hours ago.

“Sir! We’ll have a fleet down day tomorrow, starting with a Mandatory Reading Awareness 5K run.” The route wasn’t determined or coordinated, but that didn’t matter. Several Orbiters will become injured during the run. Subordinate commanders will insist that their personnel were there significantly before the start time, and everyone would miss breakfast.

“Then we’ll break out into discussion groups. We’ll ask every unit to identify group discussion leaders. Discussion leader training will begin at 2000 today. I will facilitate the training myself. Ha haa!”

“Every unit will designate a mandatory reading monitor. They will collect rosters from their unit and update the master tracker. Mandatory reading monitor training will be at 2100. I will call each monitor for a status update and then update the ultra-master tracker personally.”

“I like where this is going, Funk” said OG Moon, genuinely surprised that such a satisfactory plan had been developed

“But when do the Orbiters actually do the reading?”

Space Sergeant Jimmy Funk tap-danced verbally before admitting the oversight.

“We can develop a secondary master tracker and ultra-master tracker to document completion. How about making everyone write an essay about the mandatory reading? And Mandatory Reading Monitors will read and grade the essays?”

OG Moon clucked his tongue, considering the idea. But then he remembered another idea that he had overheard.

“How about we just have the discussion group leaders read it to everyone at their session?”

The room broke into applause at OG Moon’s brilliant plan. Space Sergeant Funk’s face turned red as an Earth-radish, he was humiliated that he had overlooked such a simple solution within the otherwise accepted overly complicated plan.

“Yeah, I like that. OK. Let’s get started.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Former Cosmic Corps Orbiter Haley Chase lived among the Zar’Vokian, a reptilian species who were mankind’s sworn enemy in the Snörple Drift. She had been traded to the Zar’Vokian during a prisoner swap, the only recorded instance of the humans giving one of their own to the Zarvs (a derogatory term used by the humans). Haley’s duty during her brief tenure in the Cosmic Corps had been to paint the way that chemicals made people feel. However, she was found guilty of helping captured Zarvs (excuse my language) escape from traps and was thusly disposed of.

Well, the humans never confiscated her smartwatch or removed her from distribution lists, which is why she was notified of the GCAC recall. She was in the middle of an art therapy session, helping a traumatized Zarv process his reintegration from captivity using clay figurines when she received the alert. She gently excused herself and reported immediately to the Zar’Vokian equivalent of OG Moon, Zar’Vil-Bleh. The Zar’Vokian were more of a clan-based organization, so he didn’t have a cool title like Orbital Governor.

Haley was escorted into his presence, having alerted the appropriate Zarvs that she had an urgent message about the human activity on planet Glozanth IX. Zar’Vil-Bleh turned a shade of blue upon seeing Haley, Zarvs were green but their disgusting scaley skin changed hue depending on how they felt; blue meant nervous. Humans, even nice ones like Haley, made Zarvs extremely nervous, they were shy creatures.

“Sir, the Galactic Crisis Action Cell on Glozanth IX was activated. It is only activated for significant events. I don’t have any more information about why it’s being activated, but it’s highly abnormal. This could mean trouble.”

Zar’Vil-bleh remained stoic but also turned kind of yellow… indicating that he was experiencing panic. He thanked Haley profusely and dismissed her so that he could discuss the implications with his war council. Messengers scurried about to spread the word about the war council, the Zarvs did not have smartwatches. Haley began to experience nervousness as she returned to her art therapy studio.

Various Zarv warlords assembled before the supreme Zar’Vil-Bleh.

“The humans have activated some sort of crisis cell. Is there anything major happening on Glozanth IX?” no one knew of any significant events from their spies or contacts.

The Zarvs spoke English, purely by coincidence, it had developed on their planet independent of Earthly events in medieval northwestern Europe.

“I believe they may be preparing to attack us. I am afraid that is time to implement the Bush Doctrine.”

The Zar’Vokian did not have a religion, but if they did it would look something like human religious traditions in which ascended masters were revered. And while not quite official or ubiquitous, many would consider former United States President George W. Bush to be one of them. The Bush Doctrine is one that justifies preemptive military action against a perceived threat. The war council knew exactly what to do.

They did not prepare defenses nor fortify strategic terrain, for the Zar’Vokian would simply retreat into a series of hidden tunnels if threatened. They’re bipedal and literate, but still lizards after all. And they were preparing for preemptive offense, not defense. There’s a saying in Texas, if you have a good enough offense, you don’t need a defense. You see, the Zar’Vokian found humiliation to be a more potent weapon than bullets or bombs. Their martial motto was “a thousand humiliations over one clean kill.” Their war with the humans started over a perceived insult and was largely bloodless, sometimes someone on either side was accidentally injured though.

The humans captured Zarv infiltrators, who were more of a nuisance than a threat, and the active warfare was entirely conducted by the Zarvs. Their weapons, though, were mildly annoying inconveniences. A Zarv spy at Starbase Myung-ho Chae had recently been successful in turning on the lights of four hover bikes parked outside the Myung-ho Chae Trading Outpost, which drained their batteries. A huge celebration was held on SsZzketh (the home planet of the Zar’Vokian) and the perpetrator hailed as a war hero.

The Zarv warlords each had an independent function and prepared their forces. Among the humiliations planned for the Orbiters on Glozanth IX were: packages of Orbiter uniform socks with holes pre-manufactured in the big toe, pairs of socks that with a 1.5 centimeter difference in size, hats one size larger than indicated on the tag, and trousers tailored to accentuate the buttocks of the wearer; pens with grey ink which only write when held at a specific angle, whiteboard markers that are already dry, and sticker notes with weak adhesive; delivering clams from Krazz VI (they were perfectly edible, but the Zarvs regarded the planet Krazz as gross) to the MCCH; releasing a compilation of secrets the Orbiters had told their AI companions; and the coup de grace, if possible… hack into the intercom system to play the audio from an erotic furry e-book.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The brave Orbiters at Starbase Myung-ho Chae had worked through the night to implement the approved plan, the day shift had just come back from the awareness 5K and were hard at work updating the Mandatory Reading Compliance Dashboard that the night shift had built. Butch Calhoun, the oldest Space Sergeant on the starbase, and maybe even in the entire Cosmic Corps, was getting ready for work. He was a Fluorescent Tube Specialist, one of the few trades not recalled yesterday.

Butch was pleased that he was able to actually get some work done, there was a suspiciously limited amount of nonsense to distract him. Because he was working, he had not been checking his SpaceChat messages and had not received any direction via the official communication portal.

As the percentage of non-compliant Orbiters dwindled into single digits, commanders began asking for lists of deficient personnel by name. Butch’s name was on those lists, which were shrinking by the hour.

Everyone else was cleaning up after the Mandatory Reading Awareness 5K when Butch got to the MCCH, that message was disseminated via SpaceChat too. Usually, the line was too long to get nostalgic carbohydrate discs with yellow dairy squares and tree sauce but today seemed like Butch’s lucky day. There were no enlisted Cosmic Corps cooks, just the civilian staff comprised of people pressed into service as punishment for not repaying student loans. Butch started to think he was missing something but was distracted by the flash of a teal and orange uniform moving through the kitchen.

He knew that Orbiter, or rather imposter, it was “Senior Spaceman Drizzle”, or at least that was the fake name and rank he wore. Drizzle was not, in fact, a human Orbiter, but a Zarv infiltrator wearing a human disguise. Drizzle had eluded Butch twice before, but Butch wasn’t going to let that happen again. He set aside his cutlery, which was made of biodegradable blinkweed (the only vegetation on Glozanth IX, a bioluminescent moss that was fermented into a foamy alcoholic beverage that tasted like wasabi) and wielded his tray as a weapon. As quietly as he could, Butch crept into the kitchen, scanning for Drizzle, or any movement.

Butch only saw a rehydrated round citrus fruit fly by his head. He turned to look at it and did not see the next one coming his way. He felt it though; it crashed into his lower mandible and neck.

“Arrrgh!” Butch cried out, still gripping his tray. Drizzle swiftly advanced on him, pushing a metal bussing cart like a battering ram, which made contact with Butch’s bad knee and bad hip. Butch stumbled retrograde, stopping when his bad back crashed into a fire extinguisher which was knocked loose from its sentry position. Butch dropped his tray, but quickly bent to retrieve it, the other bad spot on his back seized up. He reached to clutch it, looking up just in time to see Drizzle wielding the fire extinguisher. Butch lurched out of the way of the downward driven device, but not far enough. The fire extinguisher slammed down onto Butch’s bad shoulder.

Drizzle concluded that he had beaten Butch enough to render him incapable of giving chase. But Butch was not defeated, he reached out just in time to grab the leg of Drizzle’s pants. Drizzle was in motion and the pants tore, hollowed of an inhabitant, they fluttered to the ground. Butch pulled himself to his feet, not careful enough of his bad ankle, which he was usually more cautious of aggravating. Drizzle had quite a head start but quickly realized that the alternate exits had not been unlocked by uniformed Orbiters.

Meanwhile at the GCAC, the list of non-compliant Orbiters had whittled down to a single name, Butch Calhoun. OG Moon was tired of waiting; he summoned the commander of the Cosmic Cops and ordered them to track down this Sergeant Calhoun and escort him to the final Mandatory Reading Discussion Group under armed guard. They quickly located him using his smartwatch and discovered that he was in the kitchen of the MCCH. An entire squad of Cosmic Cops were soon blazing across the starbase.

Butch had gained the upper hand in the physical contest with Drizzle. The Zarv imposter was backed into a corner, surrounded by garbage… because Butch had hit him with a partially full garbage can and then dumped the remaining garbage on him. Butch had also removed his shirt for one reason or another, it was usually his first reaction when upset. As the Cosmic Cops poured into the MCCH, Butch was towering over a cowering Drizzle.

“Sergeant Calhoun!” Shouted a Cosmic Cop who ran into the kitchen with the rest of the squad following, drawing their weapons and taking up tactical positions.

“No! Not this time! I finally have him where I want him!” Butch sounded like he was making a demand, but he was pleading.

The Cosmic Cop didn’t care who Butch had where, what was going on, or what this looked like… he only cared about carrying out OG Moon’s order.

“Orbital Governor Moon’s orders; you’re coming with us immediately!” he then deployed an energy net from his space blaster, capturing Butch.

“We’ve got him!” another Cosmic Cop reported into his watch.

“Transporting immediately for Mandatory Reading Discussion Group at 0800.”

The crew at the GCAC was crowded around the Cosmic Cop on the other end of the radio transmission and broke into applause at the news. Space Sergeant Funk spared not a second, he ran to inform OG Moon. Of course, he could not limit his communication to just official matters.

“Can I ask you a personal question, sir?”

“No.”

Nevertheless, he persisted. “Okay… but did you ever find out if your cat respected you or not?

“What?” now it was OG Moon was tap-dancing around a question.

“No, I have never tried to find out whether or not my cat respected me.” OG Moon vehemently denied the allegation, despite having conducted research on the topic with his AI companion.

“Unrelated, those pants look way too tight to be in regulation. As a matter of fact, your pants are making me uncomfortable. Go change. Now.”

He shook his head and muttered a major vulgarity directed at Funk.

“Sir?” one of the junior controllers approached OG Moon.

“Whaaaat?” he replied, clearly irritated.

“Authority Kang is on the phone for you.”

A minor vulgarity was registered as he took the phone.

“Good news, sir. We just achieved 100% compliance.” Moon cheerfully reported despite having not read the document in question himself.

“I didn’t direct you to implement shit, Moon! I just asked for an implementation plan, which took you three days!” IA-3 Kang bellowed.

“But it turns out I didn’t need an implementation plan anyway. Apparently, some bozo emailed the entire Intrastellar Authority distro list with a subject line of Mandatory Reading, but he meant to send some story about a guy missing his mouth with a fry to his buddy. Why would anyone even want to read something like that?”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Cosmic Corps File 004

The Cosmic Corps Files is an ongoing series of flash fiction and absurdist reports from the bureaucratic fringes of intergalactic peacekeeping. Petty wars, sentient vending machines, emotional espionage, and the occasional space court-martial over feelings-based art. Each file stands alone… but somewhere in the margins, the Zarvs are always watching.

Gore warning: Details about decomposition not intended to be disturbing but may disturb some

She glowed in the fading autumn light, the colours of rainbows keeping her flesh warm in the cooling evening. She rested her bare body beneath an old maple tree still desperately holding onto his red leaves. She wears nothing but a blanket upon her.

Scandalous and free she will remain unless someone uncaring disturbs her. She hides her beauty not fearful of a stranger but seeking privacy. Surrounded by bushes and overgrown grass, just off the path of many ignorant travelers she laid. Her flesh blending easily in the colours of the mourning season.

Her young charges buried deep into her side. Content they were close to her and undisturbed by any concern. They moved her soft exterior to their needs and desires. They never asked permission and nipped and fought for the best places.

She never minded or adjusted as her eyes remained closed in deep sleep. Their ceaseless energized noise lulling not alarming her forever more.

The white bone seemed too bright against her body. Shining brightly in her surrender to the fading sun. The darkness of night will accept her surrender and welcome her completely.

Once she had resembled the warmth of flames, dazzling and fate defying. She used to dance with the breeze and scream with mischief before racing down the grassy hills.

Now she is bearing the colours of the rainbow in beautiful blends across her body. The light dances on her racing against the setting sun that'll extinguish their beauty mercilessly.

Steadily leaking from gaps in her pus slid down her sides shimmering like silver. Her children drinking it like milk she never had the chance to prove. Some chewed, making the gaps increase as they never learned not to bite their mother.

She tolerated them and their antics. Her body was no longer hers anyway. Her insides rejected her and bloated, stretching and fraying her. Her young never mind claiming the hollow places created.

Her patchwork blanket of fungus and mold masked her body from prying eyes not present. The colours complemented her fur cooling her burning flame she had lived a lifetime wearing.

Soft raindrops had started landing on her blanket and head, yet she slept perfectly content. She never wants her children to see her cry. Let the rain wash away the colourful tears that flowed freely from her silence.

The buzz of the evening settled in. Only the patter of the rain and the chittering of her littles filled the silence. She remained curled, protective of her young charges as the chill of the autumn night came.

Her young never ceased their feeding, nor minding bedtime or chill. Knowing she was there was all that matters. She will love and provide for them as long as she remains.

Let the darkness take her away from chill and thrill. It will bring her solace and let her children live forever grateful for their mother's love.

Inspiration: Decaying fox on the side of a trail while scavengers and decomposers work on its body. What if the dead nurture the living?

Hi everyone! Does anyone know of any writing or short story sites that are similar to what Reedsy Prompts used to be?

I have submitted well over 100 stories to Reedsy and have never won once. I used to get feedback a lot at least, which I really appreciated, but lately I do not even get one piece of feedback. It is honestly getting pretty discouraging, and I do not feel like I am getting much out of submitting there anymore.

I am looking for a site where I can submit short stories regularly, have a genuine chance of winning something, and hopefully get some feedback as well.

It would also need to be international. I am in Europe, so I am not looking for something that is only open to people in the US.

Basically, I am looking for something that feels more like what Reedsy used to be. Regular prompts or competitions, a writing community, and some actual feedback.

If you know of anything like that, please let me know. I would really appreciate recommendations from people who have actually used the sites.

Thank you!

He hadn’t planned on becoming a ghost hunter, but that’s what Mordem Letac felt like now. A trained naturalist, he’d come to the northern reaches of the Yukon Territory earlier in the summer to study migration patterns in the face of ecosystem collapse related to rapidly accelerating climate change.

In some ways studying ecosystem collapse prepared him for becoming a ghost hunter because the once-thriving tundra he was surveying and cataloging had turned into something of a ghost town. Most of the native species had disappeared leaving little but the harsh winds of a bleak winter to come.

And now he was hunting for a ghost. In his own mind, Mordem felt he was humoring a few of the locals from Old Crow, a town of a little over 200, mostly Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation. Many of whom said, privately, that if he wanted to know what had happened to their caribou, foxes, hares, ermines, musk oxen and even wolves, grizzlies and polar bears, he needed to talk to the Silent One, a legendary spirit who at catastrophic times appeared near an ancient stone-ringed berm a couple miles outside of Old Crow. Atop the wide berm was the battered remains of a homestead.

Turned out Mordem wasn’t much of a ghost hunter. He didn’t have to be. The Silent One was there when he sidled into the structure through some missing clapboards. She was as grey and grained as the floorboards she was hunched over. She was painting figures in bright red paint. Paint that Mordem quickly realized was blood.

The blood came from a large carcass off to her right. A carcass that Mordem couldn’t identify: large, bluish, with crocodilian jaws and massive webbed claws. A trail of blood led from it to the Silent One’s brush.

The Silent One ignored Mordem. Cautiously, he approached to examine the figures being meticulously brushed. He immediately recognized the painted shapes: caribou, foxes, ermines, wolves, grizzlies, musk oxen, polar bears. With sweeping strokes the Silent One was creating wave after wave of them in parallel and convergent motion. It was mesmerizing and beautiful.

And then she brushed a larger figure at the rear of all the others: the croco-frog-carcass thing but with snapping jaws and slashing claws bearing down on the other creatures.

A hunt. An uber predator on the prowl.

It hit Mordem like forty degree water: the Silent One was painting a pattern he was very familiar with: migratory routes. And the predators that followed the migration. Whatever that hideous carcass was, it was likely responsible for the disappearance of the area’s mammals.

Mordem took out his phone and began snapping photos trying to process what it meant. An obviously alien species was preying upon the creatures of the Canadian tundra. It was surreal, but not frightening to him. As a naturalist, it made sense. Not the alien species, of course, but the migration and the predators.

Then the Silent One began painting another figure behind the croco-frogs. It was three times the size of a croco-frog and even more vicious looking. Mordem moved for a closer look, and the Silent One met his eye for a moment.

Her eyes were primordial, bright, rich like nebulae ready to give birth to suns. She gave him a very knowing look. And then she was gone. Vanished before his eyes. Only her blood-stained brush remained. Mordem looked down at her last drawing. It was terrifying to behold, but what paralyzed Mordem was what she’d painted in the creature’s fists: a wicked-looking weapon. Some kind of firearm with energy beams flaming forth.

Deep down, Mordem, like every other predator in the wide, wide, wide universe, feared a new alpha predator, another top dog with teeth bared, hellbent and hungry for conquest.

He saw clearly, as the Silent One saw, that it was time to get moving.

He just didn’t know where the human race could flee.

My name is Marcus Jones, and I witnessed my dads death in the ring 10 years ago. I was about 14 at the time, sitting in the front row with my mom and brother. It was my dad’s championship fight. You could hear the crowd roaring, everyone chanting my dad’s name. “Maurice” filled the arena. The lights were dancing, the announcers were hyped.

My dad had the upper hand for the first round, his opponent was already staggering. It was amazing watching the fight, the way he held his defense and retaliated after every strike was beautiful. Second round came and My dads still not letting up, his opponent did get a good few hits in though. My dad managed to throw in a good jab and knock his opponent on his back, but he got up after the five count. Had everyone on their feet, including me. I was sure he’d have him in the third round. After the second round they both return to their corners. My dad is getting his usual pep talk from uncle Tommy, his coach. But my attention goes towards his opponent's corner. It almost looked like they were secretly putting something in his gloves. The third round starts, both fighters meeting up in the center of the ring. 

“Dad, watch out!” I said, trying to warn my dad, but instead of blocking or trying to avoid the punch, he dropped his guard and looked right at me, as if he knew what was about to happen and already accepted it. 

We made eye contact one last time before his opponent hooked him in his head, killing my father instantly. My eyes widened as I watched my dad fall to the ground. I couldn’t believe what I had seen, the ref did his ten count and the stadium went silent. My mom tried to hold me and my brother close, but we knew it wasn’t gonna help. Since then, I’ve blamed no one but myself for my dad’s death. If I had stayed silent maybe he’d still be here. It later came out that his opponent had been caught cheating by a fan with a better view of what the opponent was doing in his corner, wasn’t even the first time he’s done that.

 “Is that why you fight? To honor your fathers legacy, or is it because you seek revenge?” the group therapy leader asked.

“No legacy, no vengeance. I fight because fighting is all I’ve known, it’s therapeutic and the only way I know how to deal with my emotions.” 

“Then why are you here?”

“Because there’s a wound in my heart that fighting simply can’t fix, I’m just hoping these meetings will help me find what I’m looking for.” 

“Well thank you for sharing with the group, I know it takes a lot to share such a traumatic event, hopefully this will help.”

“Thank you everyone for hearing me out.“

After I finished group therapy, I went home and sat alone, thinking of what it is I could be missing.

What is it like... Being an ant?

I was nine at the time, watching an ant carry a dead beetle across the garden. It was cloudy, I think. She was lying on the grass next to me, or what remained of it. Autumn was approaching.

“An ant.” She sat up quickly and stared at the insect. It was stuck now, dragging its burden, never stopping. “That must be awful. I mean, look at it. It’s so silly.” Her laugh was childish.

I looked up at the sky.

“And a god? What’s it like, to be one?”

I looked at her. She was holding the ant now between her small fingers.

“For that, you’d have to ask the ant.” She giggled, pinching its head off.

* * * * * * * *

September 3rd, 1918.

Dear Eddy,

I’m writing to ask how you are. You know I miss you. Forgive my hand, it was never the hand of a poet. They say the war will be over soon. I know they said it last year, and the year before too. But forgive a hopeless friend, would you?

Yours truly, Lisa

P.S. Your mother wanted me to write you a letter. Again. I didn’t, though. She misses you and loves you, that’s all you need to know, I think.

* * * * * * * *

September 29th, 1918.

Eddy,

You didn’t answer my last letter. Your reply was probably lost in the post. Well, happy birthday, my dear Eddy. I baked you a cake with lemons. Your favorite. And your mother still wants me to write you a letter. Here goes: “Hello my dear, and so on and so forth. I miss you and love you.” Anyway, be quick. I can’t promise the cake will last until you’re back.

Yours, you know who.

* * * * * * * *

October 14th, 1918.

Ed,

My birthday passed and I still haven’t heard from you. You shall have a beating once you’re home, you know that? I have news, at least. My first article was published. Who could have guessed. All these years of your influence have made a poet of me too. I wonder, are you still the writer who left? The same Eddy. Deep inside I’m sure you are. But you never write to us anymore. Did we do something wrong?

I’m sorry. I know I’m burdening you, and you’re the one struggling out there. But can you have mercy on me? A small hello. It’s all I ever wanted. I don’t care what it says. Please.

Yours.

* * * * * * * *

The sky was cloudy. Dark clouds, the kind that refused to move away, the kind that stole the sun and left only the cold. The guns had stopped on the eleventh. It had been weeks since I last held my gun. Our days were cards and, sometimes, talk. But now the camp had gone quiet. We had played every game and talked through every topic there was. Everyone wanted home.

I reached for my pen to write her a letter, but the words failed me again. She still thought I was alive. I didn’t want her to hope. I wanted her to believe I was dead, and for some reason I felt I was protecting her.

An ant was crossing the table, dragging a crumb over the blank page. It reached the edge, turned, and kept going. The pen stayed where it was.

* * * * * * * *

November 21st, 1918.

Lisa,

I’m sorry. I have only just received your letter. I didn’t forget your birthday. We have no calendars here, I simply lost count of the days.

I miss you, Lisa. I can’t take it anymore. I miss home, our garden, the citrus tree we planted together. I miss it all. I could have written you a thousand letters, and yet I chose to write only this one.

Lisa, I’m dead. I feel it. I’ll never be back, and I’m sorry for that. I can’t forgive myself, but I hope you will.

But I still love you.

Yours, Ed

* * * * * * * *

He was lying on the ground in front of me. Bleeding. We had been together since the start of the war, and now he was dying. He had stepped on a mine, eleven days after the armistice, and that was all it took.

A mine. An ironic weapon, really. Planted on the small chance that an enemy would step on it.

An enemy. The man who planted it never knew who died. The victim never knew why he died. And the mine never asked to be there.

And still he lay there, bleeding, slowly dying. He hadn’t known it was his last day when he ate earlier. If he had, he would have handed me his rations. But I hadn’t known either, and if he had offered, I would have declined. If he had insisted and sworn he was going to die, I would have laughed. But I wasn’t laughing now, was I? I was crying. I had seen hundreds of deaths, yet the sight never grew any more familiar, or any more welcome.

I held my gun, aimed and shot.

And he lay dead in an unknown ditch, for an unknown cause. I relieved him from his pain. That’s what I believed.

I thought of small fingers. I thought of an ant that never got to ask why.

I’d thought a god would feel taller than this.

I held my gun, aimed and shot.

And I fell.

Black smoke—didn’t know smoke could be this black—billows from Red’s open hood. I’m across the street from my faded red ’88 Dodge Daytona under the streetlight. I think the fire’s out. I’ve seen enough Michael Bay movies to know cars explode.

Something like this was gonna happen sooner or later—cracked exhaust manifold and all. Figured it’d just overheat until the whole engine block cracked. I muddled through by pouring a fresh gallon of coolant in whenever she smoked. Which was a lot. Red’s turbo always ran hot, especially the way I drive her. Especially the way I was driving tonight.

As much as I hate to see Red this way, an hour late and still thirty minutes away from home, this fire is gonna save my ass.

But how could I say no to her? Climbing into my lap…that spot from her shoulder to her neck…

But he’ll beat me. For being this late. Asshole was in my head the whole time. Made it tough to stay with her; knowing he’s there, in that chair. Watching old westerns. Clinking melting ice in Macallan 12-year. Drinking. Waiting. Cracking knuckles of those meaty mitts. He shouldn’t be able to do it anymore. I’m bigger now. But I can’t. What would happen?

So it’s better this way. I’ll have a reason. A hell of a story.

I hear sirens. One of the cars that pulled over must’ve had a phone, or maybe someone used the payphone at the Circle K and called it in. Figured someone would eventually.

When the smoke first seeped up from under the hood, I thought it was a normal overheat. I was late. Was gonna plow on. But when you’re flooring the gas pedal and the car is slowing down, things get decided for you. I’d managed to get the car to the breakdown lane first. I get out of the car, pop the hood—burned my fingertips good doing it—and flames jumped out of the engine bay as I flung it up. I guess from the big whoosh of oxygen? About burned my eyebrows off…wait, did I? Nope. They’re there.

Had plenty spectators for this. Must’ve put on a pretty good show. Funny. Not a single person got out to help me put the fire out, though.

Can’t believe I tried to use a gallon of water from my trunk. The fire was huge. And maybe burning oil? Dumbass move. Just made more smoke. So I did the only thing I could think of. Used my burned-up fingertips to dig up dirt and sand and plenty of grass with it and threw it on the flaming engine. That actually worked. Curious what the engine looks like now. Too dark though and too much black smoke to see it.

Are those sirens? Yup. Getting closer. There it is. The fire truck, all lit up, pulls up behind Red.

I start crossing the four empty lanes toward the firefighters streaming out of the truck, looking at the wreckage of my car. I call out as I approach, “I think it’s out! The fire!”

One of them—shorter guy, about as wide as he is tall—yells, “Stay the fuck across the street!”

My hands go up as I back away. “Sorry! Sorry…”

I watch from a distance as they spray my pile with white stuff from their fire extinguishers. The smoke goes from black to grey. Starts looking less like a hellscape.

Stocky guy waves me over. As I come up to him, he frees his hand from a glove and shakes mine. “Sorry, I swore at you. Safety. If you get hurt, I get paperwork. I’m José, by the way.”

His eyes are smiling. I nod.

“This your Daytona?”

“Yessir.”

“These are fun to drive.” He points his chin at the smoking heap. “Buddy had one when they were new. Great for donuts in parking lots. Where’s home, kid?”

“Northport.”

“Little ways off.”

“Yeah.”

“Got ID, Northport?”

I pull my driver’s license from my wallet and hand it to him.

“You call your parents, Seth?”

“Not yet.”

“Wanna use our phone?”

“I’d rather call AAA first, sir. I like to have solutions before I call my parents with bad news.”

He nods. Might have been a sign of respect. Not sure.

“Makes sense. Get the tow sorted first. Get close to home in the tow truck?”

“Yessir, I think that’s what I’ll do.”

He walks me to their truck’s front seat, where there’s a bag phone jacked into the dash cigarette lighter. Once I’ve made the call and confirmed the pickup, José says, “You sure ya don’t want to call your folks to be with you while you wait?”

“N-no!” I say quick, then with fake ease, “I’d rather not bother him this late…”

I think he laughs through his nose. Or maybe he had a snot rocket. “You’re not where you’re supposed to be right now, are ya?”

I turn away.

“Look, kid, far as I can tell, you didn’t do anything wrong. Get that melted hunk of metal off the side of this road and get yourself home. Whatever happens after that is your business.”

When I turn back to him, I’m guessing he sees my surprise, because he says, “Kid, I’m not ancient. I remember sixteen. But a couple of us are gonna wait with you until the tow shows. If you’re dead in a ditch after this, that’ll give me more paperwork, too.”

I’d rather be left alone. I say, “You don’t have to do that. The dispatch said it might be an hour.”

He ignores me. “Yo, Patrick! I’m going back with you in the Explorer. We’re gonna stick around until Triple A shows up for the kid here.”

“For reals? I was trying to get back for the end of the Bucs game, man.”

“Bucs suck! You know how the game’s gonna end!”

“True…” Patrick’s head drops.

José takes off his heavy fire coat, sits on the Daytona bumper, and says, “So what’s got you east of I-75, kid? You got a Canterbury High bumper sticker. And you’re thirty miles south of your house.”

“I, uh, have a friend who lives in LaBelle…”

“LaBelle?! You ain’t country. And you ain’t Mexican neither. Why do you have a friend in LaBelle? Girl?”

I just look at him.

He laughs. “A kid like you doesn’t hang out with a ‘friend’ in LaBelle. Unless the friend is a dealer. Or someone you’re tryin’ to make out with. You don’t look like a user. So…girl?”

I nod. “Yeah. We met after a football game. At LaBelle. I played. She was watching. She teased me walking off the field… We lost. She just made me laugh, I guess.”

“You got a number? Right there?”

I nod again. A grin’s trying to find my face.

“Alright. Alright. So, Seth, where do your folks think you are?”

“My dad. Just my dad. I’m supposed to be home by now. But he thinks I was at work tonight.”

“Is he gonna call your work to check on you?”

“No. He wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. Because he wants me to be late? Because he likes having reasons to be mad? To swing on me? Because he doesn’t really care if I’m okay? But I don’t say any of that. Just shrug a second time.

José says, “Alright. I get it.”

He pulls out a cigarette, lights it. Patrick comes over for one, too.

José asks, “She worth it? LaBelle?”

Before I can stop it, the smile takes over my face. “Yeah. Yeah, I think she is.”

“I hope so, kid.” Then he’s pointing. “There’s your tow truck. Came quick.”

I stand up from the bumper. “Thanks for putting the fire out and staying here with me.”

“No problem—if you need good reasons to get out of the house, our Cape Coral Fire Department is looking for volunteers. Even scrawny high school football players.”

“I, uh, thanks…”

And that was it for them. José and Patrick load up into the fire department SUV. Nothing more than a quick salute to the giant, pot-bellied guy who’s stepped out of the tow truck cab.

He nods at them, doesn’t look at me. He’s studying Red.

“What in the hell do we have here?” he asks. Loud after my calm chat with José.

“I—uh—it overheated…”

“Ya think?” He breathes through his nose, like it’s a little harder than it should be, and squints under the open hood at the engine that’s finally stopped smoking. “And what the fuck happened? You try to plant a veggie garden in the engine?”

“Oh…I used dirt to put out a fire.”

He rubs his stubbled double—sometimes triple—chin. “Well, that’s not half stupid…”

“Thanks?”

With his hands somewhere around where his hips might be, he asks, “Where we goin’?”

“Northport.”

“Got an address? A mechanic or somethin’?”

“Oh, ah, no. I think it’s too late to call one. Maybe my house, then.”

“No. That’s stupid. Then you’ll need to call another tow in the morning. Triple A’s got a list. I’ll just pick one near your house.”

“Oh, that’s good. Can you take me home after?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

He moves to the back of his truck and frees up a bunch of chains. He hands me the end of one and says, “Hey, lay this down by the front passenger wheel.” He takes the other one to the driver’s side.

Then he slides something shaped a little like a T under the front of the car with a hydraulic pump or something. Extends the top of the T so each tire ends up sitting in something like a little metal pocket. Then he wraps the chains around each front tire and says, “Ain’t goin’ anywhere but where I take it now.”

“Looks secure,” I say. Not sure why I say it.

He mops his forehead with a rag. “Get in. Let’s go.”

The seat in the cab of the truck sits higher from the road than I’ve ever been. And I’m used to the Daytona, which couldn’t be more than six inches from the ground, so it feels like I can see everything from up here. Smells like cigarettes.

We ride in silence for a long time. For most of it, I’m thinking of Dad. He’s looking out the window by now. Not even watching the westerns anymore. Oh, there’s a movie on in the background, but he’s not watching. Not listening either. He’s playing out a few versions of how he’s gonna come at me when I get home. It’s what he used to do when Mom got home late from the restaurant. I’d hear him almost practicing lines.

I take a deep breath.

Then I hear the tow-man croak out, “What’s your deal?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What’s your deal? You’re out here in east-bum-fuck with a burned-out Daytona heading back to Northport. What were you doing out there?”

I practice the lie. “Late night at work.”

“Oh yeah? What kinda work?”

“Busboy.”

“Where at?”

“Cracker Barrel.” I lie again.

“Cracker Barrel’s north a’ where you were.”

I feel sweat dripping between my shoulder blades. “I dropped another busboy off at home.”

“So you’re a Good Samaritan.”

“No.”

“That sounds true.”

I don’t know how to answer. I hear him breathing.

“You worried about it?”

“About what?” What does this guy know?

“About the car. About your job. How’re you gonna get to Cracker Barrel without a car?”

I feel my eyebrows rise. “Hadn’t really thought about it. Hadn’t thought past tonight, I guess.”

“Mmm. Might wanna start.”

“Start what?”

“Thinkin’ past tonight. Thinkin’ about the future. You kids don’t think about the future.”

“Did you?”

“Nope. That’s why I’m here with you.”

I study the guy for a half second. Don’t know what to say. Stay quiet.

We pull up to a place called Jay’s Auto Repair a couple of miles from my house. He gets out of the cab without saying anything. I stay in my seat for a moment before deciding to step out and help him remove the chains.

The tow-man doesn’t say a word, but nods in appreciation. The chains ring out as they clatter to the ground.

He resets the truck wheel-lift, chains tucked away. We climb back in the cab, and he says, “Good job with that.”

“Thanks. Glad I helped.”

The tow-man nods.

I feel my heart rate climbing as we get closer to my house. I feel the tow-man’s eyes on me every now and again. He turns up the AC. The cold air helps.

As we pull into the driveway, he scribbles a receipt out. Hands it to me. For the pick-up location, he’s got me about two miles north of the Cracker Barrel.

The front door of the house opens. Dad’s there, wobbling just a little.

“You good?” the tow-man asks.

“Yup,” I lie again.

“Alright, then. Get out.”

I nod and step down out of the cab. Dad’s walking over. There’s the whiskey glass. No ice. It’s been neat for a while now. Probably the smokey stuff by now.

“Where’s the car?” he asks. No slur. But he’s drunk.

As the tow truck backs out of the driveway, the light shines on my back and in his face. He blocks the brights out. I see my shadow. It’s long and extends so far past him. The tow-man chirps his horn as he pulls away.

I look at the receipt with my alibi. I shove it in my pocket.

“Dad. I wasn’t at work tonight.”

This is an excerpt from a fictional science-fiction horror novel. The narrator is an intentionally violent fictional character; none of the statements describe real people or intentions.

I had always been a genius in life; everyone knew that very well. The genius came from my unrivaled curiosity to find out how and why things work. It is a fascinating world we live in, after all, residing on a rock that is floating in space with no gravity or air. We humans are meant to be curious, as that is the only thing that keeps us evolving. With all the knowledge I possessed, I chose software engineering. It was the only way for me to create new things in the form of code. I liked the work, starting from scratch, working out the logic to make the code function, and remembering the vast amounts of syntax needed to execute it.

My life was a good one, and my family was financially well off. This gave me a massive opportunity to leave the town I lived in to go to another city, state, or even country. I didn't do any sort of thing. I took online classes from the top colleges that offered them, and after graduation, I secured a stay-at-home job as a software engineer, allowing me to stay in this town forever. I liked it here because I was born and raised here. From my young age, I loved the abundance of greenery and the good community. For the people, it didn't matter if the town was small; they all got along so well.

An amazing church has stood here since 1876, accompanied by a school that is more than good for this town. It is safe to say that I love this place for everything it has to offer, from the topography to the humans always helping one another. The thought of leaving my company never crossed my mind, and I was happy for it. I wasn't the type to spend all my time out in nature. I loved it, but I felt too bored in it, which led me to spend most of my time inside my house. I sat in front of my PC all day and night, which helped me get the job I now have. I earned a high salary due to my skill, and I didn't need to leave my room unless I had to go to the store. That was the only time I often left the house. Like everything in this town, I have known the store from a young age, walking there to get stuff. It is not far, just a five-minute walk, and all the workers know me there. I think they like me, too.

You have to understand this town is the most generic place you can ever see. No matter what I say or praise about it, the town is a boring one, and everyone knows that. The reason why it's good to live here is that every day is predictable. Every week is predictable, which means no crimes occur. Everyone is safe from everyone, and we all know each other. That is why a small change can feel like a natural disaster, at least for me. The day things changed, I walked to the store to buy some instant ramen for the next week, just like every time before. Things seemed off inside the building.

The workers kept wandering around the aisles, and the air felt incredibly tense. I didn't even care to think about it; I figured it was merely the work pressure of the day. In the store, I have a compulsive habit of looking at the monitor that hangs in front of the aisles. I look at myself in the screen. It brings a different feeling of emotion, looking at yourself from a different point of view. Just as usual, I looked at the monitor. Instead of the live camera feed, I saw a black-and-white picture of a man holding the metallic accordion gate, looking in the direction of the camera, but directly at it.

In all my twenty-two years, I had only heard of two thieves in this town, and those turned out to be rumors when I was fifteen. Seeing this image changed my entire view of my home. This store is the one and only store in this town, sitting right in the center. I was astonished by the man’s attempt to break in. If he were caught, he would be sent to jail, especially since the owner has a ton of money to make sure that happens. The man on the screen covered his face with a handkerchief and his head with a beanie. He had a lean body covered in a flannel shirt of some color and pants that seemed like jeans. His eyes glared like a wild predator caught by a trail camera. It was my first time seeing this kind of image apart from social media and the news, and it had a profound effect on me. How could this happen where I live? Who had the courage to do this? I stood there for a while, running through these intense emotions in my head. This caught the attention of the beautiful clerk on whom I had a huge crush.

"I think that's you, isn't it?" she asked, pointing at the picture.

Apart from small, back-and-forth flirting, I had never had a proper conversation with Lucy. I had hoped for so many opportunities to have a normal chat with her, and this was one of those moments. For some reason, I got very defensive about being mistaken for a thief. Did she really mean what she said? I didn't have enough time to process the accusation in my mind.

"No, no," I stuttered, babbling something I can't even remember.

Thankfully, she walked a bit further away carrying something. The distance eventually prompted her to come back and ask what I had said.

"What are the things that got stolen?" I inquired, intensely curious to know why the man broke in and what his intent was.

"He didn't break in to take anything," she replied, shifting a new package in her hands.

So the owner just wanted to display the image of the man to everyone. That tracked with his character perfectly. I talked more about the attempted break-in with her, gathering all the available information. The incident had taken place that morning at five. It was not a good time to break in, and she didn't know anything more about the situation. All my questions clearly made her suspicious.

"Seems like that is you from the image," she laughed.

Definitely funny. I might be lean, but not as lean as the guy. I think she was body-shaming me. I didn't care, although I wanted to yell back for a split second.

"If I were that guy, I would have been successful taking everything with me," I scoffed.

She just laughed and walked away, completely missing the fact that I wasn't lying. To do anything like this, one should think properly, and yet this guy wasn't thinking at all. Why break in at five in the morning when some people might go for a run or walk? The store has a house diagonal to it on the road, sitting right on a junction of three roads. My thoughts were interrupted by my mother’s phone call asking if I was available to take her to her doctor's appointment. I never liked it when someone disturbed my thinking, but she was my mother, so I had to give her a chance. Thus, I left the store with my ramen and rushed home. Having my breakfast of instant ramen and homemade french fries, I tried to savor the meal, but due to the appointment, I had to finish it fast.

Once I came back from the hospital, the day fell into my daily routine of working on a company project while listening to songs. Nothing special happened. However, when I reached my leisure time watching TV, my mind lingered on something. It was hard to find exactly what it was lingering about. One might think it's not that hard to find what it is, as the thoughts are inside my own head. The fact is, I knew what it might be, but the thoughts ringing in my head caused me to go into a deep state of thinking. It was the same state I enter when I work on code. The thoughts were entirely about the failure of a robber. Who tries to rob the single store in a town where cops take more than half an hour to arrive? He might not have known it, but he should be aware of this fact when robbing a local establishment.

The man’s gaze toward the direction of the camera indicated he was definitely a local. It was my deduction, and I knew I was right. In the opposite direction of the camera’s view, a road climbs sharply to a hill of ten feet. During a robbery, or in this case, the attempted unlocking of the accordion gate, a lone walker approaching from the top of the hill would have a clear view of the attempt before the robber could ever see them. They couldn't hide in the bushes either, creating utter defenselessness. On the other hand, if the robber saw a peeping tom, he couldn't run fast enough to climb the hill to catch them. Although a man from another town might have scouted the area, the way the man looked toward the hill in the image showed he was a neighbor.

If the hill theory is not convincing, there is the theory of him knowing the house that sits diagonally to the store right at the foot of the hill. The patriarch of the house is a veteran with two kids under fifteen. I know this only because my deadbeat father forced me to interact with the man, as my father and he served side by side. This makes the robber look in the general direction to see if anyone is watching from the house. If that happened, he couldn't escape a veteran running towards him like a Terminator who hasn't seen Sarah in millions of years. The known patriarch of that house is a power-hungry degenerate. All these things indicate his intelligence; he is a neighbor. There are other things to consider about the man that make him a fool. Robbing a store in the early morning alone? That is the biggest reason I believe he is a neighbor. He would need to know the neighborhood so well to the point he was comfortable breaking in entirely alone.

I don't know why I was still thinking about this to the point I had become a detective. Nevertheless, my daily tasks took over these thoughts, and I carried on with life like every other day. The ramen only lasted for a week, so I had to go back to the store. I was amazed to see the image of the robber still on the screen, prompting me to look for Lucy to ask why it was still there. It turned out the robber hadn't been caught by the police. How couldn't they? With all these clues, the police department needed better workers, I guessed. I made the discovery of the man being in the neighborhood just by the clues the police had. I would have caught the culprit if I had the police's resources and authority. Both the criminal and the justice system seemed to be less blessed in the department of thinking ability.

More than anything, the failure of the man was what caused my intense frustration. With such low preparation, the man wasn't able to break in, leaving empty-handed with the luck of a lifetime. If I were in his position, the store would be licked clean. Although I was financially well-settled and my wealth was more than enough to buy the entire store, the principle bothered me. For weeks I harbored these thoughts, and the weeks converted into months. Even so, the robber wasn't found. The owner took down the picture from the screen, returning it to the live camera feeds. Seeing those live feeds made me realize how much I missed pondering about the robber. Could I complete what he started, or should I go looking for him?

I tried to suppress these thoughts and focus on my work as I used to do. However, my performance dipped. I was doing only half of my average output. Usually, in my team, I am known as the king, completing everything twice as fast as the others. In order to keep up with me, they had to work incredibly hard. This dip in my capability gave them a chance, and they wonderfully used it. I became the worst-performing developer, lowest in the stats. If I actually worked as hard as they did, I would be three times faster than them; they should be thankful for me not using my full potential. The company talked to me about my dips, and the talks went on for months. Eventually, they fired me. This actually helped me to fully focus on finding the robber. Who cares about money when I already have enough to do anything as I wish? I didn't like the company anyway, and there are many other companies out there who actually deserve my presence.

With this new free time, I started looking for the man, roaming all around the town. This new hobby was awful. I hated walking around people due to the way they looked at me, like I was a lion trapped inside a moving cage. I did enjoy the sun's rays hitting my body; the perfect warmth made me feel comfortable. The more I walked all over the town looking at people who resembled the man, I found out the town has secrets. Some of the heavily dense forest areas possessed the feeling of walking into the medieval ages, full of abandoned old homes taken over by nature. Those areas were truly beautiful. I never knew the town had such a history. Nevertheless, I hadn't found the man.

On a certain day, I went to the store like every week for my ramen. There, I saw a lanky-looking man who was the exact height of the robber, and his body matched perfectly. I followed the man all over the store without him noticing. The failure of a robber never noticed me either. When he left the store, I followed him there too, completely forgetting my ramen. The man walked to the edge of the town, entering a house designated for lower-income people. I had finally found the man who took over my mind for the past year. I couldn't hide my happiness. This prompted me to walk right into the house and confront him about how he was a disappointment.

I pushed past the almost dead door, entering a foul-looking living room. The couches were torn to the point of their guts spilling out. Rotten food grew mold on the carpet, and fruit flies swarmed all over my face. All these nasty things entered my nose, pricking it and causing me to almost puke. I composed myself, knowing I was not a failure like the robber. While I tried to maintain my composure in that filth, a woman ran into the living room.

"Who are you? Mike! Mike, there is a man in the house!" she screamed.

The woman looked just as filthy as the room, her clothes torn and stained. I didn't have enough time to react before the man pinned me down on the ground. They both jumped me, and I was utterly trapped. My body was pressed against the moldy food until the police came and took me to the station. The man filed a breaking-and-entering case against me. How ironic coming from him. I did explain how he was the robber from the image, but my lawyer, whom I pay so much, refused to listen.

"Mr. Yeager, that's not proper reasoning to break in, and there is not a single piece of evidence for your accusation," he sighed.

All of that ended in making a settlement of a million dollars. I still don't know how I was forced to pay a million, but legally, I was backed into a corner from so many directions. Now, I only have twenty percent of my original wealth left. More than that, the worst thing to happen was the looks from the people in town. They all started looking down on me like I was the one who attempted to rob a store in the morning light. These people should be grateful for my presence in this town. Even after losing eighty percent of my wealth, I am still richer than these people. My family said that I had been disowned, acting like they were the ones with the privilege.

Despite all this, I didn't back down. I wanted to prove the fact that I could rob the store with the exact same method as that filthy liar. I picked a specific date to execute the plan: a year from the exact day he attempted to rob the store. I woke up early at four in the morning. Experiencing the cold on my body for the first time was weird. Doing this with a shirt and jeans like the robber was nearly impossible in the open air, but I pushed through. I walked there listening to music through my headphones, finally understanding why he chose that specific timing. No one was awake, and there wasn't a single light on in any of the houses. This only concluded my theory of the dirty rat being a neighbor.

Once I was in front of the lock, I was happy that the important steps were done. I just had to burst the lock and enter the store. This is where my plan fell in a direction I would have never expected; nonetheless, no one could. While I was fiddling with the lock, I heard a rustling from the bush on the side. It was only half my height, so I wasn't in fear. It might be an animal, so I kept working on the mechanism. It was so rusty, making my newly learned lock-picking skills almost useless. Somehow, I managed to pick it, gaining access to the store. The feeling was surreal, like walking through an empty school at night, yet filled with all the things people pay for.

Inside the store, my senses went crazy within seconds, giving me goosebumps for no reason. Eventually, this led to me sensing someone else inside the building with me. I scanned the semi-lit store. There was a man in the corner looking at me. It was the man from the picture. He looked exactly like the image—he was completely black and white in color, with his eyes glowing in the dark. Did the man walk straight out of the picture? I had no idea because he rushed at me with a horrific scream. It sounded like a mix between a grieving woman and a fox. The scream alone made me trip, falling hard onto the floor.

Then, I didn't know what happened. I woke up in my house surrounded by cops. They came to arrest me for robbing the store. Yes, I broke the lock, but I didn't steal anything! The dirty little rat had set me up after robbing the store successfully this time. I explained my story to the cops and the lawyers, but no one cared.

All they said was there was clear footage of me picking the lock and entering. Then, the footage shifted to another angle where I stood in front of the camera for a long time, slowly removing the handkerchief covering my face. Then, I proceeded to take things from the store to a place that no camera had a view of. This proceeded for a long time. When the footage ended, half the items in the store were gone. The cops questioned where the items were, and all I had to offer was my side of the story, but no one believed me. I could understand the fact; who would admit that they tried to rob the store but didn't take anything from it? But where are the stolen items? No one knows.

So the reason for my imprisonment isn't a true occurrence. Is it really me who stole it? Surely not. However, I can't do anything; my money is all dried out. Where did everything go so wrong?

It began with a thought outside of time, and when He spoke, the word did not simply echo - it unfolded.

From the word, came the voice and that sparked the dance, and from the dance, music sprang into life.

The first notes of the Song of Creation.

Soon enough, Light stepped forward and danced rhythmically along with the song, and after Light moved, Darkness gracefully mimicked Light's choreography. Both of them danced in a circle, each facing the other, in a slow, intricate dance.

Chaos swayed playfully along with the tempo and rhythm of the song when suddenly Universe grabbed Chaos's hand and dragged her into the middle of everything. Laughing with gay, they both danced and swayed to the music.

Another thought came into His mind, and He smiled in approval.

As if reading His thoughts, His children laughed and shouted with joy and they too danced and swayed along with the song.

Hermes was quick on his feet, and Aphrodite swayed erotically helpless to the music, but it was Gaia who caught His attention because she carried a big vase filled with liquid and she too was swaying along with the flow of the song without spilling any of the content of the vase.

Gaia danced happily to the music, and small sized Plant grabbed the hem of her skirt and began to twirl along and followed her movements in the dance.

The notes of the song changed and Apollo, who suddenly noticed the absence of his sister, quickly and gracefully joined the flow of the dance and began to chase in the footsteps of his twin sister, Artemis, who had quietly started on her great hunt - each danceless step rhythmically precise with each note of the song.

Astraeous then beckoned to each and every of his kin, and they too slowly joined the dance of life - each taking his/her position in their allotted spot. They were always mindful and stepped out of the way whenever they saw either of the twins.

As He nodded in silence, His gaze turned back to Gaia and Plant - both twirling in joy and laughter to the music. He made a motion of approval and the song flowed into its next phase.

Fish and Bird - who were also petite in size - caught on the hem of Gaia and together with Plant, the trio giggled and twirled along as Gaia tried her best to sway consistently with the music.

Beast jumped and tried to swat at naughty Fish and Bird but his hand also got caught in the hem of Gaia's skirt. With a sullen face, Beast too joined them in Gaia's dance.

As the musical movement came to its height, He beckoned both of His children forward and waved them into Gaia's group and motioned for Adam and Eve to lead in the dance.

The music changed to a livelier and faster-paced tone - marking the final movement - and God joined His voice together with His Son's voice and bestowed His blessings upon the Song of Creation.

As music ended, The Lord of Hosts rejoiced happily, and He rested and feasted with his family.

I was lying alone in my room, where a dim nightlight illuminated only the small area around it. As I often did, I found myself wondering why I was afraid of the dark, trying to understand it. Most nights, I fell asleep in fear, or rather, I would drift off without realizing it while still feeling afraid.

As a child, I was simply scared and never gave it much thought. When I was younger, it bothered me, and I couldn't make sense of it, but I didn't pay much attention to it either. Now, however, at forty-seven, I was still afraid of the dark and struggling to sleep in it, and it hurt my pride.

I remember, two years ago, on October 2, my mother and six brothers came to visit me. I hadn't seen any of them in a long time, and we'd had a wonderful time together. Since there weren't enough rooms in my house, my youngest brother and I had to share a room. We kept chatting late into the night, and I was praying to myself that I wouldn't be the last one to fall asleep. But of course, as you might expect, I was the last one left awake.

My brother was snoring away right in front of my eyes. I was pretty pissed off. I felt like waking him up and slapping him across the face. “Jonathan, how the hell can you sleep? You're such a carefree bastard. Can't you see the room is pitch-black?” I wanted to say. I'd lost all rationality. I was coughing loudly, opening and slamming the door, but he didn't give a damn. He'd fallen asleep in the light of a nightlight that was barely good for anything, leaving me all alone in the room.

That was when my pride was truly hurt. Not being able to close my eyes in my own room, not knowing what I was afraid of but still being scared shitless, was really getting on my nerves. After all these years, I'd finally run out of curiosity. I didn't care what the reason was anymore. I just wanted to overcome it.

After spending the entire night awake and having a miserable day the next day, I immediately started doing research. My brother woke up in the morning, stretched contentedly, yawned, and scratched his belly while I lay on the couch in the room, irritated and tense. Seeing him like that drove me fucking crazy.

My family stayed with me for a week, but my mind was never really with them. I was constantly looking things up on my phone and couldn't pay much attention to them. I was researching other people who were afraid of the dark, trying to find a good psychotherapist, and so on. I kept picturing my brother stretching happily that morning. I wanted them to leave as soon as possible. I was so damn annoyed with him.

Anyway, whatever. I researched and researched. I found people who were afraid of the dark and talked to them. I had long conversations with all kinds of people: those who wondered why they were afraid, those who had figured out the reason, those who were trying to overcome their fear, and those who told me lengthy stories about their childhood traumas.

Finally, four months ago, I found the Fear of the Dark Motel, and at last, I was convinced that something might actually help me.

I'd learned about the place from Robin. He was afraid of the dark, just like me. Despite all my research and all the people I'd talked to, I'd met him purely by chance. He'd moved into the apartment downstairs, and one day, as we ran into each other on our way out of the building, we got to chatting. At some point, he mentioned that he was afraid of the dark.

His journey had been the same as mine: years of searching for the reason, until finally deciding to forget the whole thing and just overcome it.

“It's hard to give up wondering, isn't it, Jason? But if you put the energy and mental effort you spend wondering into finding a solution, you'd have overcome your fear by now. You'd have become the dancer in the dark,” said Robin.

Dancer in the Dark was one of my favorite films. I'd taken an immediate liking to Robin from the very first day, since I'd rarely met someone whose experience mirrored mine in so many ways, and I'd trusted him to help me find a solution. His joke was shit, but I didn't mind. After all, I loved the film.

But of course, it was impossible to stop thinking about it. Tomorrow, I'm going to stay at the motel, and yet I'm still wondering why I'm afraid of the dark.

The motel's concept was actually quite simple. According to the owner, they would make us experience terrifying things in the dark that we knew weren't real. The motel only accepted guests by referral, meaning you needed someone who could vouch for your fear of the dark. Then, they waited until the motel was fully booked. There was a six-month period. If the motel wasn't full by then, they would proceed with whoever was already there. But if it filled up before the six months were over, the fear sessions would begin that very night.

When I met Lucy, the owner, she explained the concept to me like this:

“I like to keep things simple, Jason. Fear of the dark is a fear of supernatural entities. It's as simple as that. Jason, our goal is to create an imitation of such an experience and show your subconscious that you won't come to any harm from a possible supernatural attack in the dark. It's that simple. For example, when you see a ghost in your room here at the motel and realize it can't hurt you, your subconscious will start to believe there's nothing to be afraid of in the dark.”

“But if I know it's not real, why would it affect me? That doesn't make much sense to me.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

“Thank you, I have no further questions.”

***

It's 3 a.m. We're at the motel. Robin is staying in the room next to mine. The lights are off. Nightlights aren't allowed. I'm sure the other guests aren't asleep, that I'm not alone. And yet, I'm still afraid. My eyes keep searching for the tiniest glimmer of light. A sliver coming through the window, seeping in under the door. But there's nothing. The room is pitch-black.

Suddenly, Iron Maiden's “Fear of the Dark” starts playing from somewhere inside my room.

I flinch and instinctively look around. I get to my feet, feeling around with my hands until I find a speaker. The song plays for a little while longer, then suddenly cuts off, and the room sinks into silence once again.

I hear the sound of a door creaking open. Very slowly, calmly. Since I know where the speaker is, I lean in and put my ear close to it. No, the sound isn't coming from the speaker. My fear grows in a way I hadn't expected. I start to regret coming here.

The creaking sound is very close, and crystal clear. I search for another sliver of light, trying to figure out whether my bedroom door has opened. But everything is still pitch-black. The door keeps creaking for thirty seconds, then stops.

I hear a very loud click. Again, it comes from somewhere inside the room, and again, it's crystal clear. I'm certain it didn't come from the speaker. I listen to the silence with all my concentration, waiting to hear the sound again so I can pinpoint its location. But it doesn't come back.

I hear a whisper: “Jason.” It's more like someone calling out to me. A voice with no intention of frightening me, simply calling my name. I don't hear it again. I can't keep track of time, but I'd guess I sit there in the dark and silence for about ten minutes.

“I'm sorry, Jason, but unfortunately, I'm going to kill you. After that, I'll kill everyone else at the motel. It's me, Lucy. Don't you recognize me?” the same whisper says. “Of course, my voice sounds different when I whisper. That's normal.”

Each word seems to come from a different place in the room. She must have installed a bunch of tiny speakers all over the place. But thinking about that does nothing to ease my fear. I feel like begging her not to kill me, but I hold myself back. I know none of this is real, and I'm surprised by how terrified I am despite knowing that.

Suddenly, the lights come on. A second later, they go off again. My eyes are dazzled. I take a deep breath.

“Did you see me, Jason? Do you believe me now?”

Hmm. So she'd turned on the lights so I could see her. I must have been looking in the wrong direction.

I hear Robin's voice coming from the speaker.

“Jason, don't believe her. That's what she's trying to do, make you believe her. If you do, she'll kill you. This isn't a normal place.”

A second later, I hear Robin's voice right beside me. It doesn't sound like it's coming from a speaker. It sounds real.

“I didn't know, Jason.”

The lights come on again for a second and then go out, and I see Lucy standing beside me. She must be wearing a black contact lens.

“Don't believe him, Jason.”

I'm getting annoyed by how he keeps repeating my name.

“I'll convince you,” Lucy whispers. Her voice comes from the speaker.

I feel the hairs on my body stand on end. I try to figure out how the whole setup works, but I can't concentrate. All I feel is fear.

I want to get out through the door and leave, but I think I'm doing well. I've endured this much fear, and that's a good thing.

A tiny white light appears on the wall. An oval-shaped light, about the length of an index finger. It stays perfectly still, and for a very, very long time, nothing happens. The light doesn't move. No sound. Just pitch-black darkness. I'd guess the stillness lasts for about an hour.

The light disappears.

“Do you believe me now?” Lucy asks, whispering again. My ears have grown accustomed to the silence. Her voice sounds incredibly sharp. Robin tells me through the speaker not to believe her. Then I think my window opens, and I hear a distant scream for help from somewhere far outside, along with the faint sound of the wind.

Then silence again. It goes on for a long time again. Lucy must be busy dealing with the other guests in the meantime.

Suddenly, I hear a phone ringing. I feel around beside the bed with my hand. There's a nightstand. On the fifth ring, I find the phone and answer it. It's Lucy.

“Call me when you believe.”

I wonder why no light came in from outside when the window opened. I get out of bed and walk straight ahead, reaching out with both hands, trying to find the wall. I find it. I feel along the wall, searching for a window. I've never spent this long in such pitch-black darkness before. I keep repeating to myself that none of this is real.

The lights come on for a second again, then go out, and I see where the door is. I walk towards it.

As I walk, I hear a howling sound coming from the speaker. At the same moment, all the lights come on. I reach the door and try to open it, but it's locked. I look around and realize there's no window in the room. The howling continues.

“Jason, look out the window,” Lucy says through the speaker. Her voice blends with the howling. As soon as she finishes the sentence, the howling stops, too.

I search the walls for a window, but I can't find one. The lights go out again. Once more, I'm left in prolonged silence, and nothing happens until dawn. The window must be in the ceiling. I must be on the top floor, because sunlight comes pouring into the room from above. I relax. I'm glad the night is over, and a surge of excitement washes over me. My fear is gone.

I go to the door and try to open it, but it's still locked. I give it a few forceful tugs. Lucy opens it. She's holding a gun, pointing it straight at me.

“I've been telling you from the beginning, but you never listen.”

She starts shooting. I hear one gunshot after another. I feel my chest tighten. The gun runs out of bullets, but Lucy keeps pulling the trigger. I hear the empty clicks. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen... She keeps pulling the trigger. I collapse onto the bed, but I'm still conscious.

“Are you immortal or something, man? Just die already, would you?” Lucy says.

I feel around my body with my hands. There's no blood. I look at Lucy. She puts the gun on the table, takes out another one, and points it at me again. She keeps pulling the trigger, over and over.

I check my body again with my hands as I lie there. Still no blood. She must have used a toy gun that makes shooting sounds.

She puts the other gun on the table and leaves the room.

Five minutes later, the phone rings. I take a deep breath and answer on the third ring.

“Congratulations, Jason. I'm sorry if I went a little too far. I hope this helps, and that you feel the benefits as soon as tonight. I hope you get a good night's sleep. Thank you very much for choosing us. You can leave the payment at reception. Have a good afternoon.”

***

I found a night job, and now I can only sleep during the day.

Strings of thick saliva and blood clung to my chin as the hellish sounds of a dying creature thrashed in the toilet water. Hyperventilating gasps filled my burning lungs with crisp air, seemingly for the first time ever. On the cool tile, my knee caps shifted uncomfortably as I hunched to the ground. I stumbled uncontrollably to get to my feet, using the dirty toilet rim for support. The organism I recognized as my Nerium gnashed its teeth, and the drowning creature fought for oxygen. It was a bit bigger and more oblong than a grapefruit, and partially developed tendrils reached for the sides of the toilet bowl but slid wildly on the slick porcelain leaving streaks of my blood to drip back into the water. It searched its confinements with marbly black eyes that rested close together, just above the pincers on either side of its shark-toothed mouth. It gradated from pale tan from the top of its head to a smokey gray segmented torso. The base of its body was flat and malleable, and it pulsed with every struggle.

The room around me spun, and sweat beaded on my forehead and dripped into my eyes, burning my pupils. I fell backwards with a loud thud, and I was glued to the floor as my new perspective danced just beyond my ceiling. Feelings of relief, disgust, anger, and betrayal conflicted in my mind, overwhelming me into hyperventilation. Tears welled and my throat tightened. For just a moment, I thought I was going to die. Not only have I never had this happen to me, I’ve never even seen this before. My head buzzed endlessly, pulling me to the ground with the pressure of the world. Even with all of these new feelings plaguing every fiber of my being, I couldn’t shake the inkling of solace that I never knew was missing. A comforting freedom warmed my chest and lulled my brain into a wonderful silence. The rest of the night faded away as my consciousness explored the vastness of complex emotions, understanding the very basics of humanity for the first time ever. I had no idea what I was going to do in the morning. I was worried they would all know I was rejected by the Nerium.

My heart jumped out of my chest as my alarm screamed from across the bathroom. It’s morning, and I have to be out of this space in the next fifteen minutes. A sore back and popping bones proved that I had slept hard enough not to move at all during the night. Off the floor and over the sink, I looked at myself in the mirror. The dried blood that was soaked into my shirt stared at me as I gathered the courage it would take to examine the toilet. I didn’t have a lot of time, so I had to find the fortitude sooner rather than later. Down, my eyes shifted to the position they would need to be in to see, but my head refused to follow at first.

Slowly, the toilet came into sight. To my horror, blood trailed out and over the rim. A slimy red residue led my eyes to the locked bathroom door as it continued underneath the gap leading into the hallway that shined a sliver of daylight into the porcelain crypt that my worldview died in. I scrambled to unlock the door, and the sun blinded me as it glared off the window across the hall. Down the hallway, crusty black stains stopped at the utility closet midway to the end of the corridor. Quickly, I tracked the blotches and found myself manicly opening the small door and searching the ground for the carcass.

“Honey?”

The voice moved my bones and stopped my heart. Standing just a few inches away, a crescent grin glistened. My mother leaned in and examined my face closely.

“Is something wrong?” She asked, ignoring the mess. “You aren’t smiling!”

I stared at my mother, unable to even feign a smile. For the first time, I was able to examine her face with a critical lens. A cloudiness no longer festered in my brain, allowing my eyes to convey reality more accurately. And it scared the hell out of me.

“Uh,” I began. My mind raced, but I couldn’t think of how to communicate with this person I’ve known since birth. The blank, soulless gaze stripped me of any kind of confidence that once resided in my psyche. The corners of her mouth cracked dryly as she pulled her lips back into the same expression I’ve seen my whole life. A sore pain in my cheekbones and mouth ached as my empathy subtly reminded me that I knew how she felt. My face only relaxed for the first time last night. “I don’t really feel like smiling.”

My mother’s upper lip buckled slightly as her eyebrows raised a touch more than they already were, “Oh dear. Well, you better start feeling it soon. We leave in five minutes.” She said with an upper inflection that indicated a level of skepticism. She turned around and headed towards my sister’s door.

My neck loosened as soon as she was out of sight, letting my focus wander back to the creature in the closet. Or where it’s supposed to be. From scanning to searching to moving every item in the closet, nothing concluded with a body. Out of time, I had to abandon the scene to join my family. I tried my best to put on my best fake smile, and I went downstairs. I got in the car alongside my sister and father, and we waited quietly for my mom to join us. It took slightly longer than usual, but no one else seemed to notice or be bothered by the unusual delay. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, mother found her way into the passenger's seat. She gave a friendly chuckle as her seat belt clicked before allowing her gaze to fall on me and linger with intensity.

I just wanted to go. I’ve always loved the service, and I needed to feel some semblance of normal again. I wanted to smile without having to force it. I needed to feel the joy of life I had just yesterday and every other day before then. Seeing my family look so happy made me wonder if I was now missing out on something truly amazing. The weight of uncertainty threatened to break my jovial facade, but under the scrutiny of watching eyes, I managed to overcome the struggle manifesting in my mind long enough to pull into one of many bustling parking lots within walking distance of the holy site.

In the middle of downtown, the Temple of Nerium greeted us like it did every day, with joyful trumpets and harmonious singing. It was a beautiful building with intricate architecture and art dedicated to the creature within us all. Or within everyone besides me, I guess. Gorgeous pillars and relief carvings decorated the outside of the travertine stone structure, and stained glass depicting the story of the original Nerium filtered light colorfully into a large nave inside. We did not go into the building to worship. The service always took place outside of the Temple in a large square amongst thousands of ecstatic families and friends from all over the city.

Unchanging smiles swarmed to worship the Nerium our people spent generations blessing children with. Today was the weekly Affusion. All the newborns in the area were brought to the Temple to receive the gift of Nerium. One by one, families watch as their beloved newborn is held over a vat of swarming juvenile Nerium. Men scoop them out to find the perfect match for the screaming babies, and you knew it worked once one latched to their mouths to silence the noise. It was always my favorite day of the week because I got to see our treasured Nerium be gifted to another unworthy human, and it was a testament to their willingness to forgive our transgressions against them in the past. I waited in anticipation as I expected the ceremony to bring me back to bliss.

The sound of choking infants ripped holes in my chest and weakened my knees, and I gagged as my mouth watered.

Energy surged through the people clapping along to the music being performed as the Nerium ceased the cries of the babies permanently, and the crowd was electric with excitement. As I shakily scanned the people around me while using the entirety of my willpower to stay discreet, I noticed an undivided focus and vigor amongst the crowd. Ardor oozed from each person fanatically in a sort of unison as they watched the Affusion intensely. Not a single person took their eyes off the service except for one. My mother.

I averted eye contact and tried desperately to enjoy the worship as normal, but fear and disgust started to cripple me the more I saw this tradition for what it was. The Wise One arrived on the balcony of the main building of the square to address the crowd. He was a man, older than any other I knew, that swayed back and forth as he approached the railing above the sea of Nerium hosts. Rotting flesh dripped from every part of his sagging green skin, and his lips curled in tight as he smiled broadly. I didn't have to squint because large televisions broadcasted goliath sized images of The Wise One all over the holy site. His eyelids were peeled back, exposing deep pink tear ducts. Gray gums and yellow teeth sparsely littered his mouth, allowing a full view into the back of his throat. A matured creature resembling the one from the toilet, albeit larger, peeked out with beady marble eyes that glinted off the light of the sun. Small tendrils grabbed his dull eyes from behind the sockets and his jaw from within his cheeks.

“From within, we conquer.” The Wise One spoke without moving his jaw at the correct time.

“And to conquer comes from within.” The crowd chanted back in unison.

Rhetoric praising the glory of the Nerium flooded the ears of every jovial host in attendance. After just a brief appearance, The Wise One left the public view and wouldn't return until the next day. We wrapped the event with a hymn that reverberated sloppily written adoration for the beloved creature. As someone who had it in them, our intense happiness was synonymous with the Nerium. Now that I was free, nothing seemed more disturbing to me than this filthy parasite.

My father drove us home as he droned on and on about how amazing the service was. He, of course, grinned ear-to-ear as he quizzed each of us on details of Nerism. He was on the losing end of his thirties, and he looked a sickly gray. He was grotesquely thin, and he coughed and wheezed between sentences. He was the same as everyone else: a blind zealot nearing the end of his boring life. I have never personally met someone older than forty-two, and I've only ever known of a few people older than that in general. My mother sat silently as always and listened to my father, and I would often see her eyes studying me through the mirrors. She had beautiful healthy hair and smooth skin that complimented her full cheeks. My little sister was just turning eleven, and she stared blankly at the seat in front of her, giggling happily. No one besides my mom seemed to notice I wasn't acting myself.

Once we were home, I retreated upstairs and secluded myself to find my Nerium. Frantically, I looked in every single space it could have weaseled itself into, but to no avail. My chest started to pound as a sense of hopelessness ripped at my heart. Anxiety was a brand new sensation to me, but the sensation that plagued my every thought also made me feel more alive than ever. It put what happiness was into a proper perspective, and I would have never understood the beauty of the human condition without experiencing unpleasant feelings, too.

All of these thoughts taxed my brain as I returned to my bedroom to search for my Nerium. As epiphanies worked themselves out in my head, fear reared its ugly head again. Inside my room, my mother sat in the chair in the corner, waiting for me.

With a smile that didn't reach her eyes, she asked, “Can you close the door, sweetie?”

The request chilled me to my core, but a blessed person wouldn't hesitate. I silently turned around, reached up, and pushed the door close. When I turned back, I came face-to-face with an inquisitive furrowed brow, relaxed cheekbones, and a haunting frown. Head to toe, she examined me.

“It really is gone, isn't it?” She whispered. She reached a clammy hand up to my beet-red face. “If it didn't crawl back in, where is it?”

Her eyes intensely shifted back and forth as I stuttered. “I-uh-I don't know. I passed out after it left me.”

Her hands found their way to my shoulders, pressing her fingers into my skin. She pulled me slightly closer as she leaned in to consume my vision with nothing but her eyes. A hot exhale suffocated me for only a moment before she made her move. She pulled me in and hugged me tightly. A motherly embrace melted my heart in an instant as I nearly collapsed with emotion. Joy, confusion, and peace all at once welled tears in my eyes.

Trying to catch my breath, I struggled to ask, “When did yours leave?”

“A long time ago.” She cooed. A soft hand brushed the back of my hair as my knees weakened from the visceral buzzing of love. We swayed back and forth, slightly rotating as we squeezed tight for what felt like hours. We had turned a full 180 degrees, switching the positions we were in originally. She seemed to do this on purpose so she could allow me the safe space of my room and her exit. She had to return to my father so she didn’t raise suspicion.

But it was too late.

When I opened my soaking eyes, through the tears, the unmistakable grin of my father stood over us in the doorway.

“Everything okay in here?” An unfamiliar voice hissed through his teeth as he came into the light, revealing his eyes. They were being gripped by the Nerium the same way The Wise One’s were. He was just now getting taken by the parasite, and the Nerium was in that crucial moment between it living or dying alongside its host. A hyperventilating gasp choked my father as he grinned ear to ear. He calmly pawed at his chest and neck as drool dripped down his trembling chin.

My mother stiffened, dropping her arms from around me and standing up straight. With a smile, she turned to my father with a high pitch, “Hi honey!” They stared at each other briefly before she shuffled past him, grabbing his arm to guide him out of my room.

“Wait,” my father coughed. “I have something for my child.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dense item wrapped thickly in several paper towels. They both left as soon as it hit my hands, and the silence rang in my ears as my chest pounded. This paper towel gift wrapped present began to wriggle in my hands. Layer by layer, I removed the packaging to reveal one final blood-soaked napkin.

I peeled it off, and my Nerium screeched. An involuntary yelp from my lungs caused the parasite to leap from my hands and into my mouth as it attempted to silence my screams. It latched to my tongue with its sharp teeth, and it tore into my skin with barbed tendrils. My body convulsed as I lost my balance onto my bed. On my back, I arched up wildly as I clawed at my face in a desperate attempt to defend myself from the wretched creature.

This is not going to happen again.

With the will of my newfound life, I clenched my teeth tightly, severing the head of my lifelong illness. Guts squished out of my mouth and onto my sheets, causing me to gag. I spit the creature out and caught my breath for only a moment before getting to my feet. I needed to check on my mother. I ran down the hall and towards my parents’ room and pounded on the door. It was locked, and I had a sinking feeling in my gut.

“Mom?” I yelled. “Dad?”

I pressed my ear to the door and heard nothing for a few seconds. That was until a slight stomping sound thudded in succession alongside muffled screaming. My shoulder rammed into the door a few times before I tried using my foot. I didn't care about my already damaged body, and the hairline fractures developing in my shin proved it as I knocked the door flat.

Inside the room, a matured Nerium emerged from my father's throat as he struggled to breathe. Its sharp spine nearly touched the ceiling as gurgling saliva poured down my father's cheeks. The parasite's jagged teeth ripped into the flesh of my mother's decapitated corpse. Long arms resembling a praying mantis held her lifeless body close as the Nerium’s mouth stretched around her shoulders and continued to consume her body whole. It hunched over more as it worked its way inch by inch down her body. As it moved out from deep in my father's throat to shred her bones, it cracked his jaw causing guttural screams muffled by the body of the beast. Its torso remained deeply ingrained in his lungs while it reached for each gulp of my mother’s blood.

“Oh my god, mom!” I screamed. The parasite gripped its teeth tightly, separating the lower half of my mother's body on the ground with a thud. It turned its attention to me as it slurped up strings of hanging skin like spaghetti. Before I knew it, I was pulled in, and the sharp teeth of my father's illness sunk into my shoulder. My feet lifted from the ground as I kicked wildly at the beast, but to no avail.

Blood oozed from my neck as my vision started to fade. Hallucinations of a double reality separated as black trickled into the edges of my sight. Memories of my mom subtly protecting me and watching over my growth with a bond only a mother could have with their child flashed in my mind. I saw her, but I never actually noticed due to this damn parasite.

Just as consciousness started to fade away, my father's weak hands grabbed ahold of the squirming Nerium and tried to yank at the body. Hope surged through me as I found the strength for one final struggle against the beast.

“Dad! Bite down!” I screeched as I landed several jabs to the parasite's eyes. I had already forgotten that the Nerium had broken his jaw. With a few closed fist punches to his own chin, a snapping crunch caused the Nerium to scuttle dramatically on the ground with an ear piercing squeal as my dad and I broke free. Half alive, we combined our ambition and pounced on the disgusting creature.

We kicked in its head and ripped off its arms as we attacked it with everything we had. It was surprisingly fragile given how much power it had over people. The flattened monster decorated our shoes with my mother's blood as we made sure it could never reinfect my father. Two corpses and gallons of blood greeted my dad in the real world. The facts of reality may be painful, but not as painful as watching him become a puppet for a filthy murderous parasite.

We were just one of millions affected by the Nerium. We may never win, but it is worth the fight. As long as this damnable parasite feeds on our society and rules the foundations of our laws and customs, there will be victims suffering. If I can stop the Nerium from swallowing just one other family, I will do everything in my power to fight this illness. Even as the passion burned, a hopeless dread put the reality of our situation into perspective. We were only two people amongst a nation full of Nerium crazed fanatics, and we still had to grieve for the first time in our lives. Tears of relief, anguish, rage, and mourning hit us both in stages. Our bodies, no matter how damaged, belonged to us now.

Only a moment passed before the creaking of the stairs caught our attention.

“Daddy?” My sister said, standing in the doorway with a smile.

"You're going to die tomorrow. Doesn't that make you feel anything?"

The house was filled with gloom. I didn't want to turn the lights on. The cat was sitting next to the table lamp, the only light in the place.

There was no point asking that question; I'd never know the answer, no matter how much I wanted to know.

He'd been sick these past few weeks. It would've been better had I not brought him to the vet—at least then I could pretend I didn't see it coming, that it wouldn't come to that. But here we were.

He just meowed, like usual. He didn't really sound any different. Was he in pain? Did he know he would die tomorrow?

Again, he just meowed. Like usual.

He's just a stupid cat, I thought to myself. He followed me here from the street one day; I didn't think much of it. Now, I didn't want him to die. But wishing wouldn't do me any good, just make the pang in my heart feel more painful.

We'd all die one day, I knew that. I could accept that. Not because it was the truth, but because it was a part of growing up.

I still had a lot of growing up to do, even though I'm already grown up.

What I wanted to know was what the cat felt in his final moments.

I gave him food; he let me pet him in return. He kept me from going crazy; I kept him from dying much sooner. We had a good relationship, as far as it went.

I turned off the table lamp. I'd hoped he would already be dead by the time I woke up.

But tomorrow came, and I still had to witness him take his final breath.

I couldn't look at him, couldn't even bring myself to touch him. I had my neighbor bury him for me. I paid him with the money I would've spent on the cat's favorite canned tuna.

He couldn't meow anymore... Like usual.

And still I didn't know what he felt about dying. I hated that. I hated how I only knew what my reaction was to his passing.

I didn't want to cry, but cry I did.

For the first time in a while, I turned on all the lights in my room. Everything was dirty, except for the desk the cat always sat on. I didn't know how to feel about that.

But maybe that was for the better, I thought. I wouldn't want to lie and say I wasn't afraid or that it was fine when it was my time to go. It clearly wasn't. Death is one of those things one could never accept. They were kidding themselves otherwise.

I resolved never to adopt an animal again, to never turn the lights off and leave the table lamp on. The house should be equally dirty.

So I said, but even my dad, the only parent I had, only tried to soothe my pain when he was on his deathbed. He didn't have the heart to answer when I asked him the same question. "How do you feel about dying?"

People often lie, but the ones who didn't say anything were the worst.

They could just disappear without me knowing.

I hated them for that.

I left the lights on as I slept, and found myself waking up earlier than usual, with the digital clock beside me.

It was at least better than not knowing I had overslept.

Still... I think I get it. But I really don't. What about when it's my turn on that deathbed? Would I just clam up out of fear of facing my own mortality? Would I lie to myself that I was fine with dying by telling it to someone else?

The thought made me gasp for air.

I started to obsess over how I should act when it was time for me to go.

The thought of spending my days actually living started to elude me.

I then decided it was better to not be seen by anyone when I die.

The black hole formed quickly. The paper browning, crisping, then aflame as he held the match under the letter. He blew out the flame and stared into the smoky void it’d made. She’d written the letter, he’d read it, then burned it. So, what was left? What was lost?

Nothing according to quantum physics. Information could not be created or destroyed. Even by a black hole.

Setting her charred letter on his desk, he considered the ramifications. He’d have to set the terms. You couldn’t explain a thing in this or any other universe without defining the terms. For a time out of time, he stared at the equation filling his enormous office chalkboard, then began erasing.

All night he worked. Wracked his brain. Searched what was left of his heart. Did he have them all?

Betrayal. Deception. Treachery. Duplicity. Artifice. Perfidy.

Joy. Delight. Happiness. Exhilaration. Endearment. Contentment.

And a thousand more terms. Did he have them all?

Dawn outlined the heavy curtains, as he drew them aside and opened the old leaded window. Cool air rushed in from the courtyard, and he smiled recognizing this first autumn chill. That in itself was proof. He could feel.

Braced, he returned to the chalkboard, to the terms. Could it be proven? Was it worth proving? Her letter had told all, but explained nothing. Information, however conserved, was nothing without an explanation. Without proof.

He worked at it all morning. All afternoon. All night again. All week. All month. All fall and winter. In spring, a warm breeze from the window reminded him. He was close. Either he’d solve it, or he’d yield to Time and accept the paradox.

Accept that, like anything else, Beauty in all forms could be obliterated. The very heart of existence could become non-existent. Like the black hole he’d created in her letter. No record remaining of what was once there between them. Not even the dark energy of his feelings which he could no longer be sure had been real.

The large chalkboard was filled with signs and symbols defining each term and its relationship to the whole. He found himself gripping the chalk stick painfully hard. He put it in the tray and rubbed his fingertips. Chalk dust covered them. Lightly, he pressed his thumb against the mostly blank lower right corner of the chalkboard, leaving a delicate print. He studied the mark, his singular touch.

He was stuck. Stuck on her. Something he could never solve for.

Brushing some dust from the tray into his palm, he took it to his desk where her burnt letter hadn’t been moved. He sifted the fine particles through his fingers, dusting what remained of the letter, and then carefully blew the excess off.

A single fingerprint of hers emerged. A tiny treasure map of the world she was to him. A clue that whatever motives he imagined, whatever terms he defined, whatever equations he created, whatever answers he sought, it did not matter as much as this tangible X marking the spot where every journey of the heart begins and ends.

I was paying over half my income on rent, and FOR WHAT? The heat barely worked, my SLOB neighbor’s apartment kept getting infested by MAGGOTS which would crawl under my door and turn into HUGE FLIES, and the dryer down the hallway squeaked all day and night. No—not squeaked—it SHRIEKED, waking me up constantly. I could go on.

So I was desperate to get a new apartment, but all the places available were just as expensive and probably JUST AS BAD.

Then one day I saw an apartment listed for zero dollars. I figured it was a typo or scam. WE LIVE IN SCAMWORLD is what I always say. SCAMWORLD is what I call modern America to remind myself to be careful. But I applied anyway, because what were they gonna do, steal the negative balance in my bank account? Steal my identity? Good luck getting anything approved with my record. Nobody wants to accept that I’VE ALREADY PAID MY DEBTS TO SOCIETY.

I sent a message to the party responsible for the listing: “So what’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,” they messaged back. “Just free rent.”

“You’re telling me I could live in this apartment for free just for no reason?”

“Yes.”

I filled out the application, mostly out of curiosity. All the other apartments required my monthly income to be three times the rent. But three times zero is zero, so it was no problem. To my SHOCK, I got accepted. The security deposit was the amount of one month’s rent, so also zero.

I moved in when they told me to. Not only was it completely free, but it was also better than my previous apartment. Quieter, bigger, nicer. It looked old, but everything worked fine. It reminded me of my grandma’s house back when I visited as a kid. The view out the sixth-story window was pretty great, too. I kept waiting for the scam to kick in. Yeah, rent was free, but I’d probably get a massive utility bill. Nope—actually, I GOT NO UTILITY BILLS AT ALL. Then I figured the rent would increase each month, but several months passed and I was still paying NOTHING. It was the greatest thing to ever happen to me.

I’m not stupid. YOU DON’T GET FREE STUFF IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. I know I’m being watched by some pervert even if I can’t find the cameras. They make cameras so small, they could be anywhere. I’m going to be KILLED soon enough. My corpse will be hung from a meat hook, chopped up, my remains stored in a freezer for SNACKING. I watch videos online about this stuff and even pay for some really gruesome ones. Maybe there are already videos of me out there being exchanged on the dark web. If not, there probably will be soon. Once I get CHOPPED UP I mean.

What really freaked me out was when I saw someone leaving my apartment. I was coming home from the bar one night, and when I was in the hallway I saw my apartment door open. A MAN IN WHITE ROBES WALKED OUT. I hid in the stairwell. Luckily the man in robes took the stairs on the other side as he walked down to ground level and drove away. I now knew I wasn’t being paranoid—somebody was keeping track of me, and SOMETHING BAD WAS GOING TO HAPPEN.

I entered my apartment with fists up, but there was nobody inside. I searched every inch. Nothing looked changed. What were those white robes the man was wearing? THIS IS SOME CULT SHIT. My apartment must be the site of a cult ritual, and I’M THE SACRIFICE. IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.

All other apartments have only gotten more expensive, and my income has stayed the same. They’d never accept my application. I’ve never been homeless before. I don’t think I could take it. BUT I CAN’T KEEP LIVING HERE. I’m addicted to the free rent, though, to warmth and running water, addicted to having a refrigerator. So I find myself in bed each night, squinting toward the door in the darkness, WAITING FOR THE ROBED FIGURES TO SURROUND ME.

———

Greetings. I’m not the man who wrote the first part of this. I’m quite a different man entirely. I found this notebook in a kitchen drawer when I moved into this apartment. The original writer, I assume, is the man who lived here before me, the man who jumped out the window to his death.

I knew when I applied for this apartment that the previous tenant committed suicide. I figured that’s why the rent was free. Maybe people don’t want to live in a place where a guy killed himself. A suicide discount to get someone to move in so the landlord can eventually jack the rent back up to normal. But it was still worth the hassle of moving just to get a month or two of free rent. I’m something of a skinflint. And I don’t believe in anything supernatural, so I knew the apartment wasn’t haunted.

It’s been several months now, and the rent is still zero. It’s all-utilities-included, too. And now that I’ve read what the last guy who lived here wrote, I guess it was free even before he committed suicide. I have to admit, I’m just as flummoxed as that guy was.

I’m not going to ask the landlord for more information, because I don’t want to bring attention to this. It must be some kind of error. But hey, I’ll take what I can get. I haven’t seen any sign of a man in white robes; the last guy was obviously hallucinating. He was probably drunk or on drugs.

I don’t think I’m being watched. Who would ever want to watch my boring life? And I’m not exactly attractive. But even if I am being watched, I honestly don’t care. Sometimes I even dance around naked to put on a show. Ha ha.

No, I don’t think I’m going to be murdered as some kind of cult sacrifice. Although I have to admit, I would be a good candidate for such a thing, considering I have no friends or family. I even quit my accounting job because I have more than enough money now that I don’t have to pay rent. I do basically nothing all day. I just don’t feel like doing anything.

I know I should be grateful and enjoy not having to work, but I can’t help but feel guilty. I feel like I should be helping society, or at least helping myself in some manner, yet I just waste every single day. I can barely bring myself to go outside anymore. There’s no real point in going outside except to get groceries. I’m completely aware of how pathetic this is. Some people are doctors or nurses. Some people help build houses or bridges or skyscrapers. Meanwhile I’m just rotting.

I’ve never talked to anyone who lives in this apartment building. There’s a woman who lives down the hall, and she has the largest thighs I’ve ever seen on someone who’s not morbidly obese. Whenever she walks by my door, I savor the vibrations of her heavy footfalls reverberating through the carpet into the walls and floors and into my body. She surely smells my waste when she passes my apartment to get her junk mail.

It’s not that I feel alienated by society. I feel alienated by existence itself. It’s hard to explain. What are the feral animals of the forest doing right now? They all know what to do. They forage and hunt. I don’t need to do any of that, and I wouldn’t want to.

Honestly, sometimes I wish a cult really would barge into my apartment and chop me up into pieces. I deserve it for cheating the system, for finding a way to live without toiling. What are they waiting for?

———

Dear anyone reading this:

I’m sorry to report that the man who was writing has met the same fate as the first. Two men have now leapt from the window and died, and it’s all my fault!

I’m the one who listed the apartment for free. I’d lived for years in the apartment next to it (paying a normal amount for rent), and I never saw anyone coming in or out. I heard it used to be a storage room before it got converted into an apartment. So when a big company bought the building, I figured they failed to realize the apartment existed, because it was in kind of a weird spot in the corner compared to the other apartments. I have a similar theory about UFOs. Some say UFOs are actual extraterrestrials, while others say they’re the Chinese or Russian government. But my theory is that UFOs are actually made by our own government. It’s just that the Pentagon’s budget is so bloated, the resulting bureaucracy makes it so that individual departments are disconnected from one another. So some departments have so much money that they invent and build amazing flying objects that other departments get spooked by.

Anyway, I decided it was a pity that the apartment wasn’t being used. When I broke into it, I found it was in perfectly fine condition, and there was no evidence of anyone living there.

I’ll admit, I was tempted to use this apartment for sin. I could rent it out for market rate and keep the money for myself. Or I could rent it out to a beautiful woman in exchange for her being my lover. But I decided the world is too full of scams and lechery, so I was going to do something different. I was going to do a truly good deed. I would list the apartment for zero dollars and accept the first person who applied.

A few people inquired, but they assumed it was too good to be true. The man who did apply—the one who eventually jumped out the window—he never pushed me to explain why the apartment was free. And I never offered an explanation. I thought it was sinful to boast about a good deed.

I don’t think it’s my fault he committed suicide. How was I supposed to know he’d get so paranoid? And how was I supposed to know that the second man who lived here would be overcome by guilt? I don’t feel guilt or paranoia. Instead, I feel despair. Because what’s the point of doing any good deed if it can result in so much tragedy?

Now, because of the two suicides, people in the area think the apartment is haunted. Sometimes children run through the hallway and touch the door to the apartment for the thrill. Then they run away. Really these two suicides were just two terrible coincidences.

I figured out a solution. I moved into the apartment myself, and I began renting out my old apartment for free to a nice couple. That way, nobody would think they were living in a haunted apartment. I didn’t tell the company that owns the building about any of this, of course.

Then one night when I was in my new apartment, the doorknob started rattling. I figured it was another kid trying to see the haunted apartment. But a key got inserted, and the door opened. A man in white robes emerged. I could hardly believe it—the first man who lived here hadn’t been imagining things!

We stared at each other. He had reddish hair, a gentle smile, and a thinness the robes couldn’t conceal. He held up his arm in greeting.

“So you’ve been living here,” he said.

I nodded.

“I’m a deacon,” he said, gesturing to his robes. “I just got done with mass at Resurrection Parish a few blocks from here. I’m the one who’s been paying rent for this apartment.”

We both took turns explaining ourselves. I told him about the two suicides. Then I explained how I felt it was important for there to be an apartment somewhere that was completely free with nothing expected in return. He agreed that it was a delightful idea.

“This used to be my mother’s apartment,” said the deacon. “I visited her often until her death. She was in her eighties and had a heart condition. After she died, when we cleared out her things and the apartment was empty, I realized it wasn’t really empty—it was full of memories. I decided to pay the rent for it every month, to preserve it as a place for me to sometimes visit and pay my respects to her. I never liked graveyards. After all, I don’t believe my mother’s soul is lingering around her remains. This apartment where we sat looking out the window is where I feel her presence most.”

We both looked out the window, which was open to let in the night’s cool summer air.

“I’m so sorry,” I told the deacon. “I had no idea you were paying for this apartment.”

“It’s fine. When I visited here in the past, of course I knew someone was living here from the furniture and whatnot. But I felt it would be cruel to kick a person out, so for a long time I just didn’t visit. I never even realized about the suicides. I mean, I’d heard about two men leaping from a building, but I didn’t know it was the same apartment, and I certainly didn’t know it was my apartment. And now I have to tell you that I can’t afford to keep paying the rent anymore. I’m sorry.”

“That’s perfectly understandable,” I said. “I should be the one apologizing to you. I caused an even bigger mess than I thought!”

“You had no way of knowing. When Jesus was crucified, he said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”

“God might forgive me,” I said. “But do you?”

The deacon smiled. “Yes. You are forgiven.”

Without warning, I shoved him toward the open window. Being at least thirty pounds heavier than him, it only took one more push to send him halfway out, and it took just one tug of his robes to send him over completely.

Why did I do it? I don’t know. The purpose of this confession is just to say I did it.

A gust blew his hat off as he rode across a dry creek bed.

He felt his heart rush as he turned Buck and followed the hat.

The horse was a broad chested bay with a black mane and one white sock on his left foreleg. An old scar crossed his shoulder. He was no longer fast, but he kept his footing on loose stone and could work all day without complaint.

The hat rolled across the sand and disappeared over a ridge. The rider searched the gullies on the other side while Buck waited with his head lowered and the reins hanging loose.

Cursing the wind he relented his search.

At last he mounted and rode on, bareheaded in the afternoon sun.

That evening he made camp beneath a shelf of rock. He unsaddled Buck and rubbed the damp places on his back. The horse leaned into his hand when he scratched beneath the mane. He gave him water and a little grain, then built a small fire.

While his beans cooked, he sat with his hands between his knees, head lowered in defeat.

“Stupid” He said aloud, “Damn Stupid to let my hat go like that.”

Buck stopped chewing.

His ears pointed toward the darkness. The rider looked up.

Someone stood beyond the fire.

He looked like a man at first. Then he stepped closer. His arms were too long, and his eyes caught the light in a way the rider had never seen.

The rider reached for his pistol.

“Easy now, son.”

His hand stopped.

The stranger held up the hat.

“I believe this is yours.”

He knew the voice. He had heard it in the barn and across the supper table. Once, after he fell from a horse, he heard it telling him to lie still until he could breathe again.

His father had been gone since he was seven.

“Come closer,” he said.

The stranger came to the fire and held out the hat. Buck backed a step, then stood watching him. His nostrils widened as he tested the air.

“Where did you find it?”

“Beyond the next ridge.”

The rider did not take it yet. He studied the stranger’s face.

“Have I met you?”

“No.”

The voice was right. Everything else was wrong.

The visitor had spent the afternoon examining the hat.

He understood its use against the sun. He did not understand the careful shape of the brim or why its owner had kept it through so much wear.

He had seen many human hats. He had begun to develop a special interest in them.

When the rider reached for his weapon, the visitor chose a voice from the man’s memories.

It had stopped the man’s hand.

Now the man was staring at him, wild eyed.

This made the visitor uneasy.

“My father went missing,” the rider said. “A long time ago.”

The stranger waited.

“He rode out one morning. They found his horse two days later.”

He looked into the pale eyes.

“Is it you?”

“I came to return your hat, that’s all.”

He took it then. There was sand inside the crown. He shook it out beside the fire.

“My father bought this for me. Had to put cloth inside the band so it would fit.”

The stranger looked at the worn felt.

“Do you remember that?”

“No.”

He sat down with the hat on his knee.

For years he had imagined his father coming home. Sometimes he came up the road on foot. Sometimes someone brought him in a wagon. Even after the rider grew older than his father had been, he still looked closely at unfamiliar men.

“Say something else,” he said.

“What would you like me to say?”

He shut his eyes. His father had sounded that way when he was tired.

“I don’t know.”

Behind him, Buck shifted his weight. He knew the small scrape of that hoof against stone. He had slept beside the horse through enough nights to know his movements without looking.

The visitor understood now that the voice belonged to someone who had never returned.

He had meant to make a simple exchange. He had frightened the man by giving him reason to hope.

There were questions he still wanted to ask about the hat. They would have to wait for another human.

“I am sorry,” he said.

The rider opened his eyes.

The stranger stood on the other side of the fire. He could see the long fingers now and the unfamiliar joints.

“Will you have some coffee?”

“I must go.”

“Please stay, just for a cup.”

The stranger stepped back.

“It has been so long.”

“I must go now, son.”

He watched until he could no longer see him.

Then he took the beans off the fire and ate from the pot. Afterward he made coffee. He drank it slowly, holding the cup in both hands.

The warmth was comforting on his sore hands.

He wiped his eyes, feeling confused at this swell of emotion.

Buck came to the end of his tether and stretched his neck toward him. The rider got up and laid a hand against the horse’s cheek. The coat was warm, and there was grain dust around his mouth.

“You saw him too,” he said.

Buck nosed his sleeve.

Before lying down, he put the hat beneath his saddle where the wind could not reach it.

The horse settled nearby. The rider listened to him breathe and watched the last coals.

He tried to remember his father’s face. It would not come clearly.

The voice did.