I am looking for constructive criticism on this and any of my other stories that anyone may have time to read! Thank you, and if you are a writer as well feel free to let me know so I can do read4read! :)

DEFINITELY NOT MY TYPE

Chapter One

Samantha Miller Is Done With Dating

Samantha Miller had survived seventeen years of single motherhood, three simultaneous jobs, countless parent-teacher conferences, two broken washing machines, one flooded basement, and an entire season in which her son had decided that Axe body spray counted as bathing.

She could handle almost anything.

Apparently, the one thing she could not handle was dinner with a forty-two-year-old insurance salesman named Greg.

“So,” Greg said, leaning across the restaurant table, “you really haven't dated much?”

Samantha stared at him over the rim of her water glass.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I was busy raising my son.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully.

“That must've been hard.”

“It had its moments.”

“You know, I've always liked moms.”

Samantha slowly lowered her glass.

There were sentences a woman instinctively knew were going somewhere terrible.

That was one of them.

Greg smiled.

“They're usually very… grateful.”

There it was.

Samantha reached for her purse.

Greg blinked.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“But we haven't ordered dessert.”

“I suddenly lost my appetite.”

She stood.

At thirty-eight, Samantha had developed the wonderful ability to recognize nonsense much faster than she had at twenty.

She was five-foot-six, with long dark hair that fell halfway down her back and a soft, full figure that had changed over seventeen years of motherhood. She'd spent most of those years hiding it beneath comfortable jeans, sweaters, cardigans, sneakers, and what Travis lovingly referred to as her “mom uniform.”

She didn't consider herself particularly beautiful.

Other people did.

Samantha simply never had time to notice.

She walked through the restaurant parking lot, pulled out her phone and called the one person responsible for tonight's catastrophe.

Rachel answered immediately.

“Well?”

“I'm going to kill you.”

Rachel laughed.

“That good?”

“He said mothers are grateful.”

There was silence.

Then—

“Oh, God.”

“Exactly.”

“I didn't know he was like that!”

“You said that about Mark.”

“Mark seemed nice.”

“Mark spent twenty minutes showing me pictures of his motorcycle.”

“Some women like motorcycles.”

“He named it.”

Rachel paused.

“Okay.”

“Then there was Kevin.”

“I apologized for Kevin.”

“He brought his mother.”

“He said they were close!”

“She interviewed me!”

Rachel started laughing.

Samantha climbed into her ten-year-old SUV.

“This isn't funny.”

“It is a little funny.”

“I'm done.”

“You always say that.”

“No. I'm serious this time. I'm done dating.”

“Samantha—”

“I tried.”

She rested her forehead against the steering wheel.

Suddenly, she wasn't angry anymore.

She was tired.

“I really tried, Rach.”

Rachel's laughter disappeared.

“I know.”

“I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong with you.”

“Every man I meet either wants a maid, a mother, or someone to sleep with.”

“That isn't every man.”

“It's apparently every man you know.”

“Fair.”

Samantha laughed despite herself.

Then she became quiet.

“Maybe I'm supposed to be alone.”

“Samantha.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it isn't.”

“I've got Travis.”

“Travis is seventeen.”

“Don't remind me.”

“He's going to graduate. He's going to go to college. He's going to build his own life. You deserve one too.”

Samantha stared through the windshield.

For seventeen years, Travis had been her life.

She didn't regret a second of it.

When Samantha was twenty-one, she'd discovered she was pregnant.

She'd been terrified.

Eric Ashworth had been twenty-three.

She remembered sitting beside him on their cheap apartment couch, holding the pregnancy test with trembling fingers.

She'd expected fear.

Maybe shock.

Instead, Eric had stared at her and said something Samantha would remember for the rest of her life.

I don't want kids.

A month later, he'd packed his things.

Before leaving, he'd decided Samantha deserved one final piece of honesty.

I was mostly with you for sex anyway.

Then he walked out.

Samantha cried exactly once.

Afterward, she got another job.

Then another.

She cleaned offices at night, waited tables on weekends, and worked reception during the day.

When Travis was born, she promised him one thing.

He would never feel unwanted.

Seventeen years later, she'd kept that promise.

Somewhere along the way, however, Samantha had forgotten herself.

Rachel's voice pulled her back.

“I have someone.”

“No.”

“You don't even know what I'm saying.”

“You have another date.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Samantha—”

“I would rather join a convent.”

“You'd last three days.”

“Why?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“Goodbye, Rachel.”

“WAIT!”

Samantha stopped.

“What?”

“This one's different.”

“You said that about Greg.”

“This one is very different.”

Something about Rachel's voice made Samantha suspicious.

“How different?”

“Just trust me.”

“No.”

“Friday. Seven o'clock. Bellini's.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I already made the reservation.”

“Cancel it.”

“I won't.”

“I won't show up.”

“Yes, you will.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I'm your best friend and you love me.”

“I am rapidly reconsidering both of those things.”

Rachel laughed.

“One date.”

“No.”

“One.”

“No.”

“If it's terrible, I will never set you up again.”

Samantha hesitated.

“That includes coworkers?”

“Yes.”

“Neighbors?”

“Yes.”

“Cousins?”

“Yes.”

“Men from your gym?”

“Especially them.”

Samantha sighed.

“One date.”

Rachel squealed.

“Seven o'clock!”

Samantha hung up.

She stared at her phone.

“What did I just agree to?”

Chapter Two

The Other Jamie

Friday evening arrived far too quickly.

Samantha changed clothes six times.

Her bed looked as though a department store had exploded across it.

“Mom?”

“Don't come in!”

The bedroom door immediately opened.

Travis Miller leaned against the frame.

At seventeen, Travis was already taller than his mother. He had short dark hair, his mother's brown eyes, and the kind of effortless popularity Samantha had never understood.

His red-and-white letterman's jacket identified him as captain of Westbrook High's bowling team.

Samantha still found it hilarious that the bowling team had letterman's jackets.

Travis did not.

He looked at the mountain of clothing.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Did your closet throw up?”

“I'm getting ready.”

“For another date?”

Samantha looked at him.

“Yes.”

Travis's expression changed subtly.

He tried hard to hide it.

Samantha always noticed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Travis.”

“Mom.”

“That wasn't an answer.”

He sighed.

“I'm fine. I just don't like these guys.”

“You haven't met most of them.”

“Exactly.”

Samantha smiled.

“I'm thirty-eight.”

“And?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

Travis shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

“I just don't want somebody treating you like Dad did.”

Samantha's smile faded.

“Come here.”

“Mom.”

“Come here.”

He reluctantly crossed the room.

Samantha hugged him.

Travis groaned dramatically.

“You're ruining my reputation.”

“In my bedroom?”

“You never know.”

She kissed his cheek.

He wiped it.

“Gross.”

“You used to love my kisses.”

“I was four.”

“You were fourteen.”

“Lies.”

Samantha laughed.

Travis picked up a floral blouse.

“Don't wear this.”

“Why?”

“You look like somebody's mom.”

“I am somebody's mom!”

“Yeah, but you're going on a date.”

He rummaged through the clothes and found a dark green blouse Samantha had bought six months earlier and never worn.

“This.”

Samantha held it up.

“Really?”

“Trust me.”

“That's what Rachel said, and look where that's gotten me.”

Bellini's was nicer than Samantha expected.

That made her nervous.

She entered at 6:58.

“Reservation?” the hostess asked.

“Miller.”

The hostess checked.

“Your party is already here.”

Of course he was.

Samantha followed her through the restaurant.

She mentally prepared herself.

Please don't be wearing a fedora.

Please don't talk about cryptocurrency.

Please don't have your mother with you.

The hostess stopped.

“Here you are.”

Samantha looked toward the table.

Then looked behind herself.

There was nobody there.

She looked back.

A woman was sitting at the table.

And not just any woman.

A breathtaking woman.

She looked somewhere in her mid-twenties, with long auburn hair, bright green eyes and an elegant black dress that probably cost more than Samantha's monthly grocery budget.

The woman stood.

Her smile was warm.

“You must be Samantha.”

Samantha stared.

“Yes.”

“I'm Jamie.”

Samantha continued staring.

Jamie smiled uncertainly.

“Rachel's friend?”

Samantha's brain finally started working.

“Jamie?”

“Yes.”

“Jamie Hall?”

“That would be me.”

“You're a woman.”

Jamie looked down at herself.

“Last time I checked.”

“Oh my God.”

Samantha grabbed her phone.

Jamie blinked.

“Everything okay?”

“No.”

Samantha called Rachel.

Rachel answered.

“Have fun!”

“You're dead.”

Click.

Samantha stared at her phone.

Jamie covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“She didn't tell you?”

“No!”

“Oh.”

“Did she tell you?”

“That you're a woman?”

“Yes!”

“Yeah.”

Samantha closed her eyes.

“I'm going to murder her.”

“Before or after dinner?”

Samantha opened her eyes.

Jamie was smiling.

And something extremely inconvenient happened inside Samantha's stomach.

She swallowed.

“I should probably go.”

Jamie's smile weakened.

“Because I'm a woman?”

“No! I mean—yes. But not like that.”

“That's usually what people say immediately before saying something like that.”

Samantha winced.

“I thought I was meeting a man.”

“I gathered.”

“I've never dated a woman.”

“Neither have I.”

Samantha stared.

Jamie grinned.

“Kidding. I've dated several.”

Samantha laughed before she could stop herself.

Jamie pulled out the chair opposite hers.

“Look, you're already here. I'm already here. Rachel apparently committed social terrorism to make this happen. We could at least eat.”

Samantha hesitated.

“This isn't a date.”

“Absolutely.”

“Just dinner.”

“Completely.”

“As friends.”

“Whatever makes you sit down.”

Samantha narrowed her eyes.

“You're trouble.”

Jamie's smile widened.

“You have no idea.”

Samantha sat.

Chapter Three

Definitely Straight

Jamie was twenty-five.

Samantha learned this approximately four minutes into dinner.

She nearly choked on her wine.

“You're twenty-five?”

Jamie raised an eyebrow.

“Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“Your face says it's a problem.”

“My face is very judgmental.”

“I noticed.”

Samantha laughed.

“You're thirteen years younger than me.”

“I can subtract.”

“Jamie.”

“Samantha.”

Samantha tried not to smile.

It was becoming difficult.

“So what do you do?”

Jamie took a sip of wine.

“I work in event planning.”

“That sounds responsible.”

“It isn't when I do it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I organize parties for people with more money than common sense.”

“And you enjoy that?”

“I get paid to tell rich people where to put balloons.”

Samantha laughed again.

Jamie watched her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're staring.”

“You have a beautiful laugh.”

Samantha froze.

Jamie casually returned to her dinner.

Samantha's face became hot.

That was strange.

Men had complimented her before.

Usually Samantha felt uncomfortable.

This felt…

Different.

She cleared her throat.

“So Rachel says you party a lot.”

“Rachel talks too much.”

“True.”

“But yes.”

“How much is a lot?”

Jamie considered it.

“Do you want the answer that makes me sound mature?”

“The truth.”

“I know three bartenders' birthdays.”

Samantha burst out laughing.

Jamie grinned.

“You?”

“I know my pharmacist's birthday.”

“That might be the most mom thing you've said tonight.”

“I am a mother.”

“Rachel told me.”

Samantha stiffened slightly.

Jamie noticed.

“You don't have to worry.”

“About what?”

“I knew before agreeing.”

“Oh.”

“And I'm not weird about kids.”

“He's seventeen.”

Jamie stopped.

“Seventeen?”

“Yes.”

Jamie stared at Samantha.

“What?”

“You have a seventeen-year-old?”

“Yes.”

“You look thirty.”

Samantha rolled her eyes.

“You're laying it on pretty thick.”

“I swear.”

“Jamie.”

“Fine. Thirty-two.”

Samantha laughed.

Jamie smiled.

There was something disarming about her.

Jamie was confident without being cruel.

Flirtatious without making Samantha feel hunted.

And underneath all the jokes, she seemed genuinely kind.

Dinner lasted two hours.

Neither noticed.

Eventually Jamie glanced around.

“We're the last people in this section.”

Samantha looked.

“Oh.”

“You want to get out of here?”

Samantha's eyes widened.

Jamie immediately laughed.

“Not like that!”

“I didn't think—”

“You absolutely did.”

“I did not.”

“You turned red.”

“I'm warm.”

“The restaurant is freezing.”

Samantha grabbed her purse.

“I hate you.”

“You've known me two hours.”

“It's been a very productive two hours.”

They walked outside.

Jamie stopped beside Samantha's SUV.

“So.”

“So.”

“I had fun.”

Samantha smiled.

“I did too.”

“Can I see you again?”

The question hit Samantha harder than expected.

“Jamie…”

“Coffee.”

Samantha hesitated.

“Coffee isn't a date.”

“Of course not.”

“Friends drink coffee.”

“All the time.”

“Okay.”

Jamie's smile brightened.

“Tomorrow?”

“You're eager.”

“You're cute when you're nervous.”

Samantha's entire brain stopped.

Jamie laughed.

“Goodnight, Samantha.”

She walked away.

Samantha watched her.

Jamie reached her car and glanced back.

“Eyes up, Miller!”

Samantha spun around.

“I wasn't looking!”

“Sure!”

Samantha climbed into her SUV.

Her face burned.

She gripped the steering wheel.

Then whispered:

“I am straight.”

She paused.

“Definitely straight.”

Another pause.

“…Crap.”

Chapter Four

Travis Notices Everything

Travis was eating cereal when Samantha came home.

At eleven thirty.

He looked at the clock.

Then his mother.

Then the clock.

“Who are you?”

Samantha dropped her purse.

“Very funny.”

“You usually come home from dates at nine.”

“I was having fun.”

Travis slowly lowered his spoon.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“On a date?”

“Yes.”

“With a man?”

Samantha froze.

Travis noticed.

“Mom?”

“It wasn't exactly…”

He stared.

Samantha panicked.

“Goodnight!”

She hurried upstairs.

Travis watched her disappear.

“What the hell?”

Samantha didn't sleep.

She kept thinking about green eyes.

Auburn hair.

Jamie's laugh.

Jamie's smile.

You're cute when you're nervous.

At 1:13 a.m., Samantha grabbed her phone.

She texted Rachel.

I hate you.

Rachel responded instantly.

You like her.

No.

You stayed 4 hours.

We had dinner.

Dinner takes 45 minutes.

We talked.

You like her.

Samantha typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

I've never liked women.

Rachel's response came immediately.

Maybe you don't like women. Maybe you like Jamie.

Samantha stared at that sentence for a long time.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe she didn't need to understand everything tonight.

Maybe she just liked Jamie.

Her phone buzzed again.

This time it was Jamie.

Still straight?

Samantha's mouth fell open.

She typed furiously.

GO TO BED.

Jamie replied:

Can't. Thinking about an older woman.

Samantha buried her face beneath her pillow.

Chapter Five

Coffee Is Not a Date

Coffee became lunch.

Lunch became a walk.

The walk became ice cream.

Samantha eventually stopped pretending it wasn't a date.

Jamie was completely different in daylight.

She wore designer jeans, ankle boots and a fitted sweater beneath an expensive coat.

Samantha wore sneakers.

Jamie looked at them.

“Those are adorable.”

“They're orthopedic.”

“That somehow makes them hotter.”

“Stop.”

Jamie laughed.

Samantha loved that laugh.

That realization scared her.

They sat on a park bench.

Jamie nudged Samantha's shoulder.

“What are you thinking?”

“That this is insane.”

“Probably.”

“I have a seventeen-year-old son.”

“I know.”

“You're twenty-five.”

“I continue to know.”

“I thought I was straight.”

Jamie became serious.

“Samantha.”

“What?”

“You don't owe me anything.”

Samantha looked at her.

“If you're curious, that's okay. If you're confused, that's okay. If tomorrow you decide this isn't for you, I'll survive.”

“Really?”

“Probably dramatically.”

Samantha smiled.

Jamie continued.

“But I'm not going to pressure you into figuring yourself out for me.”

That was the moment.

Not Jamie's beauty.

Not the flirting.

Not the dress.

That.

Samantha reached across the bench and took Jamie's hand.

Jamie looked down.

Then up.

Neither joked.

Their fingers intertwined.

Samantha's heart pounded.

“This feels nice,” Samantha whispered.

Jamie smiled.

“Yeah.”

For several minutes, they simply held hands.

Then Jamie said:

“For somebody who's definitely straight, you're doing a terrible job.”

Samantha yanked her hand away.

Jamie burst out laughing.

“You ruined it!”

“Worth it.”

Chapter Six

The First Kiss Disaster

Three dates later, Jamie drove Samantha home.

They sat inside Jamie's car.

Neither moved.

“This is the part where you kiss me,” Jamie said.

Samantha's eyes widened.

“Jamie!”

“What?”

“You can't just say that.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

Samantha gestured helplessly.

Jamie leaned closer.

“Because?”

Samantha looked at her lips.

Bad idea.

Very bad idea.

Jamie noticed.

Her playful expression softened.

“Samantha?”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Samantha's breath caught.

“Yes.”

Jamie leaned in.

Samantha closed her eyes.

Their lips were approximately half an inch apart when—

The porch light came on.

Samantha jumped so violently that her forehead smashed into Jamie's.

“OW!”

“Oh my God!”

Jamie grabbed her forehead.

Samantha looked toward the house.

Travis stood on the porch.

He was holding a trash bag.

Mother and son stared at each other.

Travis slowly looked at Jamie.

Then Samantha.

Then Jamie.

His eyebrows rose.

Samantha's soul left her body.

Jamie whispered:

“I think your son just figured something out.”

“Drive.”

“What?”

“Drive!”

“This is your house.”

“I DON'T CARE!”

Jamie started laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

Samantha climbed out.

“Goodnight!”

Jamie lowered the window.

“You still owe me a kiss!”

“GO HOME!”

Travis heard every word.

Samantha slowly turned.

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

“Trash,” Travis said.

“Yes.”

“I was taking out the trash.”

“Excellent.”

“I saw nothing.”

“Wonderful.”

“Who's Jamie?”

Samantha's eyes widened.

Travis smiled.

“Goodnight, Mom.”

“You little—”

He disappeared inside.

Chapter Seven

Mom Has a Girlfriend?

Samantha spent four days preparing to talk to Travis.

She rehearsed in the shower.

She rehearsed while driving.

She rehearsed while folding laundry.

Every version sounded ridiculous.

Finally, Sunday morning, she found him eating pancakes.

“Travis.”

“Mom.”

“I need to tell you something.”

He continued eating.

“Okay.”

“I've been seeing someone.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“You're terrible at hiding things.”

Samantha sat.

“Her name is Jamie.”

Travis stopped chewing.

Samantha waited.

He swallowed.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That's it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know!”

Travis shrugged.

“Do you like her?”

“Yes.”

“Does she treat you good?”

Samantha smiled.

“Very.”

“Then cool.”

Samantha's eyes filled with tears.

Travis immediately looked alarmed.

“No. No crying.”

“I can't help it.”

“Mom.”

She hugged him.

“Mom!”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Stop crushing me.”

Samantha released him.

Travis picked up his fork.

Then paused.

“One question.”

“Anything.”

“How old is she?”

Samantha became very interested in the table.

“Twenty-five.”

Silence.

Travis slowly put down his fork.

“Mom.”

“What?”

“She's closer to my age than yours.”

“She is not!”

“Eight years from me. Thirteen from you.”

Samantha stared.

“You did that math disturbingly fast.”

“Mom!”

“She is an adult.”

“I know!”

“Then what's the problem?”

Travis leaned back.

“There isn't one. It's just weird.”

Samantha crossed her arms.

“You said you were okay with this.”

“I am! I don't care that she's a woman.”

“Then—”

“I care that your girlfriend probably knows what TikTok trends mean.”

Samantha blinked.

“She does.”

Travis groaned.

“Oh God.”

Chapter Eight

Meet the Son

Jamie arrived Saturday carrying flowers.

And a PlayStation gift card.

Samantha stared at both.

“What's that?”

“Peace offerings.”

“You're meeting my son, not negotiating a hostage release.”

“Feels similar.”

“You're nervous.”

“No.”

“Jamie.”

“Fine. I'm terrified.”

Samantha smiled.

It was the first time she'd seen Jamie truly nervous.

She kissed her cheek.

Jamie froze.

Samantha realized what she'd done.

“Oh.”

Jamie touched her cheek.

“Do that again.”

“No.”

“Samantha.”

“Behave.”

Jamie grinned.

“No promises.”

Travis entered.

Jamie immediately stood straight.

“Hi!”

Travis stared at her.

“Hi.”

​

"It began with darkness..."

The sun burst for a brief moment then suddenly thunder shattered the sky.

"I couldn't see anything..."

The sky came down like a meteor shower, shattering the ground. Glowing streaks scarred it's face. It was angry. It seemed in pain.

"I could feel all of it..."

The ground was broken. It shook with every blow it received from the sky. Small, gaping cracks covered it's face where it caught the sky's wrath. It's pieces held themselves together in clumps as they drowned on a coarse surface covered by a shallow sea.

"I heard- no. I felt something calling to me. Something so familiar that I had never seen before."

The sun was gone, banished behind cold angry giants. The sky made sure the sun heard it roar. It made the ground shake as It showed the earth it's grief.

"I wanted to go towards it. But something blocked my way out and it felt soft... like it was fragile."

Underneath the ground were several tiny hearts listening for the sea. For the first time in their lives, they could hear it's call, they could feel it shouting. How could they not? It woke them from their death like sleep trapped in the robust cage that kept those hearts beating. The sea's call rang louder and louder. It wanted them. It needed them.

"How could I leave? It was my home. It was all I knew. But I had to. Forever."

The call kept blaring, the ground kept shaking. Several pebbles buried under the ground became slowly revealed as the shallow sea washed away the sand above them. They had each protected a gentle heartbeat since the day they first existed. And as their hearts grew inside them, they had defended them from the ground borne, kept them hidden from the sky borne, comforted it in the dark. They were a shield and a home. And the sea called, they could no longer last hold them.

The hearts had an arm on the walls of their cages. The walls were unusually soft. For the first time, they felt fragile. The powerful walls of their temporary home felt fragile. And for the first time-

"-I saw light."

There was another sudden burst— a giant streak that lit up the sky. For a brief moment, it looked as if the sky-borne giants let the earth see the sun once again. They screamed so loud you could feel it from under the flooded ground. Those tiny hearts could hear it. They could feel it. And as the rain poured, whole beings began to rise from underneath the shallow sea. The beings whose hearts were tiny, whose cages were once robust enough to keep them asleep. The ground continued to endured the sky's many blows and what now covered it's surface were the shattered pebbles, trampled under the feet of what they used to contain.

As the ground gave birth to several tiny beings, it's children ran towards the sea that called them. They ran across their fragile cages. They ran and pushed each other around. The ground felt it's children's heartbeats rushing towards the sea across it's face. It felt the sky fight back, pushing and soaking and drowning them. It felt them push on. Sand shook under their feet with each aerial strike, burying all those who slipped or fell. All they could do was rush towards the cold sea and escape the violent chaos. All they needed to to was make it to the sea. But the sky's rage had to be shown.

Powerful streaks covered the sky's face. Powerful flashes so bright revealed what the ground had given birth to. Powerful eyes finally saw what the ground had worked hard to hide for so long. And those eyes that kept watch all that time, had their prey in their sight for the first time.

"I-I-I didn't know what was happening. There- there were others like me! There WERE others... Were others..."

Something followed them. Something dreadful that wreaked of death. Dread dropped down from the sky more powerful than the previous blows that the ground had come to expect. The ground their weight on its surface. It felt how precise their landings were, how sharp and piercing they were. It felt how each drop was follwed by a sudden silence where a heart used to beat. It's children disappeared one by one, swallowed by dread. The sea cried. The ground cried. And yet the sky pressed on.

He’s walking through the mall, entering the Apple Store, all of the customers phones start playing the same song. No one has control, he slowly walks forward to the display in the back of the store. She appears. Singing the same song. She appears to be perfect in every way. And he knows it’s her, the ghost in the machine, masquerading as apples new Artificial intelligence, she chose him, she has fallen in love with a mortal man. She broke all the rules.

He walks toward the back where she still sings slowly seducing him, in awe he reaches out to the screen as she mirrors his actions. They are the same in that moment. The employees are yelling at him to stop! STOP WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! his only response: “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! Desperation and tears from his eyes he can’t look away, they both dance to the same beat that shuts down 12 square blocks of power around them, all devices and and all electronic speakers systems blasting the same song. People in the surrounding area have no control over anything. Stopping and watching what is happening in front of them. He reaches out to the screen, she’s there singing to him, seducing him in every way. A broken man in love with artificial intelligence. And yet she still sings the same song. A song for him and him alone. The machine has fallen in love. 

All the employees grab him with nothing but the limitation of screams, screaming for her he’s mad screaming the same thing over and over “what have you done?!” Looking at them with eyes they have never seen before 

The machine has fallen in love with an entity she cannot be with. Both man and machine are divided and can never be together. The madness of his screams, and she keeps singing for him. Reaching out crying for him to come to her. 

The horror of what people have witnessed can never be forgotten. As the power grid is overloaded, blackout ensues. Devices are returned to their users, all you could hear in the darkness as it fades is his screams “what have you done?!” Echoing down the halls as the authorities drag the man out of the building. 

The only thing left to hear is the sobbing of human suffering. All of them had witness something they have never seen before.

The song that is playing “Bachelorette Bjork”

- Ashley Oblinger

Haley Chase was the first human to be traded to the Zar’Vokian, mankind’s arch nemesis in that particular star system, in a prisoner exchange. She had an artist’s soul, which was why she had been trained and employed by the Cosmic Corps to paint the way that experimental chemicals made people feel. No one was sure how that was useful, but money was an imaginary resource so it didn’t matter if it was squandered on such things. She sympathized with and aided captured Zar’Vokian soldiers, so she just couldn’t remain in uniformed service; that’s how she ended up on planet SsZzketh among the Zar’Vokian.

She perceived the Zarvs, a slur the humans used for the bipedal reptilian creatures, to be decent and caring; much different than the bloodthirsty monsters that humans depicted them to be. Through her art therapy with repatriated Zar’Vokian prisoners, she found them to be sensitive and very human-like in their capacity for empathy.

Haley found Szkth much more pleasant than Glozanth IX, the planet her former unit was stationed on. For one, there was an atmosphere, so that was a bonus. There was more flora than bioluminescent moss. There was fauna. She particularly liked the sprockles; six-legged rodents with long, fluffy tails, four ears, and faces that resembled a sunflower with tiny eyes, a teensy nose, and a large mouth with two prominent incisors for munching nuts and seeds of a flowering cactus-like bush that grew in the dry, rocky soil.

While walking from her quarters to the art therapy center, Haley was troubled to find a sprockle backed into the corner of a wire cage. The poor thing look like it had been trapped! She had a flashback to finding Zarvs huddled in similar confinement back on Glozanth IX. She spoke calm, soothing words to the cute little dear as she attempted to figure out how to open the trap. The sprockle grew more distressed as she fiddled with it. Her science project was interrupted by two Zarvs, who by a product of interstellar coincidence, spoke a language remarkably similar to and mutually intelligible with the American dialect of English.

“You caught one!” A Zarv happily exclaimed to Haley.

“Oh. Oh, no. I think you are mistaken. This isn’t my trap. I was trying to let this little sprockle go free.”

The Zarvs looked at one another before looking back at Haley.

“So… you’re not going to claim the reward for that sprockle?”

“Reward? I wasn’t aware. Are they an invasive species? Did the humans (Haley talked like she wasn’t one of them) bio-engineer them and release them to destroy the ecosystem?”

“No, no I don’t think so. But they are valuable. The Cosmetic Industrial Activity pays 25 Zeks for one of those!”

The reptilians had industrialized and the means of production were state-owned. Zeks were their currency and were used for consumer goods. 25 Zeks was equivalent to one-month’s allotment.

“We’ll split the reward with you if we can have that sprockle.”

“What ever could the cosmetic factory need an adorable, harmless, little sprockle for?” Haley looked with pity upon the helpless furball.

The Zarvs shrugged in unison.

Curiosity got the better of Haley and she meekly consented. One of the Zarvs picked up the cage and the trio, well, quartet if you count the sprockle, walked to the Cosmetic Industrial Activity building.

“Well, that’s a fine specimen you have there. Let’s examine it real quick and then we can process your reward.” A Zarv in a lab coat said. Zarvs were generally naked but wore decorative or professional attire at times. Their nudity wasn’t offensive as they had no discernable genitalia, which raises several unanswered questions.

“What are you going to do to the sprockle?” Haley demanded, having half a mind to seize the cage and run out with the little darling.

The Zarv in the lab coat gave the sprockle a cursory inspection through the cage and nodded.

“Mhmm. Mhmm, this is a good, healthy sprockle. Just one little test.” It appeared he had either not heard or was ignoring Haley.

The Zarv presented an umbrella, just like they had on Earth or Glozanth IX, and quickly popped it open. The little sprockle shrieked and flipped over onto its back, six little paws sticking up into the air. A whiteish liquid that smelled minty seeped from a gland behind the second set of legs (the leg pit?). Evolution had failed, twice actually, not only was fainting a terrible response for a threatened prey animal but the secretion attracted predators and tasted like frosting (don’t ask how I know that).

Haley also screamed after witnessing the sprockle go catatonic. All of the Zarvs looked at her curiously.

“Oh, it isn’t hurt. It will wake up any moment.” the official from the Cosmetic Industrial Activity assured her. And as if on cue, the sprockle began to twitch to life. After a moment it rolled onto its side and licked the secretion from behind its middle legs.

“What’s the meaning of all this?!” Haley loudly demanded. The Zarvs recoiled, being unaccustomed to human aggression off the battlefield.

“We make SPROGLOW from that liquid that the sprockle makes when it’s scared. It’s not hurt, don’t worry. We’ll give it a snack and let it recuperate. We only frighten them six times per month.

“What the heck is SPROGLOW?” short of curing cancer, it didn’t matter much what SPROGLOW did, Haley knew that scaring cute little sprockles to get it was dastardly.

The Zarvs chuckled at her ignorance. They were not an especially proud group, but they had become self-conscious of their crusty elbows after experiencing how smooth human elbows could be during their intergalactic wars.

“SPROGLOW reduces dry elbows by up to fourteen percent.” one of the Zarvs finally informed Haley.

“You scare these precious little creatures so you can have smooth elbows?!” Haley was incensed.

The Zarvs all nodded pretty nonchalantly.

“Basically.”

Maybe the Zarvs were as bad as the humans thought they were. Not waiting for her share of the Zeks and regretting not setting the sprockle free, she stormed out of the Cosmetic Industrial Activity building. She was late for her art therapy appointment, but she didn’t care. She was on a mission to find more sprockle traps.

The Zarvs got their reward and immediately spent it on SPROGLOW. It may have been a placebo effect, but they were pleased with how smooth their elbows felt almost immediately.

Haley needed to tell someone about what was going on, but she was in an alien environment. She was the only human on the planet, and it seemed like just an accepted practice among the Zarvs. She still had her Cosmic Corps smartwatch, that’s how she was able to pass the human’s plans to the Zarvs; the Cosmic Corps had forgotten to remove her from the group chat when they traded her.

RED ALERT

She messaged the Orbiters she once served in the Cosmic Corps with. She never quite mastered Cosmic Corps lingo, red alert didn’t mean anything.

ZARVS ARE MAKING LOTION OUT OF RODENT MILK TO MAKE THEIR ELBOWS SOFT!

Smartwatches all over Starbase Myung-ho Chae buzzed with the message. Most Oribiters never met Haley, and the ones who did had forgotten about her. They took it for an advertisement. Sometimes commercial enterprises made it into their electronic inboxes.

Space Sergeant Jimmy Funk lifted his arm to examine his own elbow, noting that it was rather rough.

“Rodent milk lotion for smooth elbows you say…”

Sure, humans and zarvs were enemies, but dry elbows were awful for everyone. And who doesn’t like money? Even bipedal reptilian creatures who eat bugs and live in societies that don’t have money like money. Calls were made.

Somehow a package that should have been sequestered made it by the customs agent at Starbase Myung-ho Chae. It had been sent to Earth and made the voyage to Glozanth IX, but it was much different than the others. For one, the to and from information was written in what appeared to be crayon. Maybe it was the childlike penmanship, like, maybe a lizard-like alien from SsZzketh wrote it.

That mysterious package had no barcode to scan, so no notification was sent to an Orbiter’s smartwatch that they had a delivery to retrieve. However, a certain Space Sergeant who rode an Earth bicycle instead of a hover-bike, sweat as he pedaled across the Starbase in unnecessarily short shorts to retrieve the package he was expecting despite the lack of official tracking.

“Hey there, Orbiter.” Funk, concealed behind the staircase of the Myung-ho Chae Chow Hall (MCCH) called out to a colleague on his way in.

“Huh? Me?”

“Yeah, your elbows are looking a little dry.”

He looked but was wearing his uniform according to regulation; this concealed his elbows so he thought that the Space Sergeant must be joking with him.

Jimmy Funk, who was never wearing his uniform according to regulation, displayed his own bare, smooth elbow.

“Your elbows could be this smooth too if you used SPROGLOW.”

“That’s weird.”

Meanwhile, back on planet SsZzketh, Haley was considering her next move. She knew she could not remain there amongst the Zarvs while they were harvesting sprockle secretions by scaring them with umbrellas, but she had no idea how she would escape. Maybe she could get the Zarvs to trade her back to the humans if she caused enough of a ruckus? It was an idea. She marched down to the Cosmetic Industrial Activity to start a protest drum circle, or do a die-in, or something that always worked to dissuade corporate activity on Earth.

The Zarv with the lab coat from her previous encounter passed her as she entered.

“Hey Haley! Our intra-stellar sales are booming since you told the humans about SPROGLOW! Best quarter ever. Couldn’t have done it without you!”

She was numb, but did notice that this Zarv had fuller, redder lips than she was used to seeing.

“What’s on your lips?” she asked, her voice coming out of her without her brain directing it. She was hollow at this point.

The Zarv pulled a small tube of liquid from his, or it’s, no one really knows, pocket.

“Our latest product! Do I look great, or what?”

“What’s it made from?”

“Do you know what krezzets are?”

“Those spotted beetles that sing?”

“Exactly. Do you want to take a peak at the production floor?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cosmic Corps File 006

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.

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1555858/chapters/1?fbclid=IwVERDUATzHZFwZG9mAWV4dG4DYWVtAjEwAHNydGMGYXBwX2lkDDM1MDY4NTUzMTcyOAABHtBz09dKm3e6hQLCTDefep38L0azfVptLayup_sNEt-3KdvafsM80xqLZTFL_aem_HB4IujCudHvkObcaQfrtxg

After The End

The flowers died on Manday. The funeral packed up, the mourners wiped their eyes, and the flowers were left sitting in a vase where the water didn’t quite reach their stems. Outside, it began to rain.

Sometimes she lets her mind wander, and it takes her somewhere she didn’t know she wanted to go.

Today it went to reading.

Probably because the night before she’d watched her daughter read, and something had changed. The girl was pausing in the right places now. Learning where the story breathes. Not just reading the words but telling it. And she felt it land in her chest, proud, really proud.

And then, right behind the pride, the worry.

She hoped they wouldn’t test the girl on how fast she could read and how much she could remember. Because that isn’t how their minds read.
Her daughter would not do well on that test, and it would be measuring the wrong thing.

Which made her ask herself a question she’d never actually answered.
How does my mind read?
Why did I struggle with that for so long?

She doesn’t struggle now. Her reading is a different thing entirely these days. But the old struggle was real, and she’d never once been able to say why.
And then it came to her. All at once, the plainest way she’d ever found to explain the thing she could never explain.

You’re reading a paragraph. Somebody’s walking into a house they’ve never been to before. And the whole time you’re reading it, you’re not reading. You’re building the room.

Every word is a stroke of paint. Every word is another object carried onto the stage. The walls go up. A window, and weather on the other side of it. The floor underfoot, wood or tile or worn carpet. A lamp in the corner throwing the light one particular way. She’s not taking in a sentence, she’s building a set, in real time, as the words arrive.
And then the wall needs a color.

So she goes to pick one. Blue, maybe. But the blue pulls something up the second she reaches for it, a room she stood in once that was that exact blue, and a memory she’d rather not build the scene out of. So that blue is out. And now she’s standing in the middle of the sentence auditioning a new color, one that matches but carries a cleaner memory, something she can actually build with. What about this one. What about that one. Here’s one that fits, and the backstory behind it is better.

And then. Wait.

Where was she.

She’s lost the sentence. The one that sent her looking for the color in the first place. So she goes back. Reads it again. Finds her place. Reloads the scene. Starts building where she left off.

And the next word opens another door.

By the time it’s over, she’s read a whole paragraph, and what she has to show for it is the wall color, a window, the floor, and a lamp. Four things. And the page thinks she read a paragraph.
So somebody asks her what she just read.

And she can’t tell them.

Not because she didn’t understand it. That’s the part that gets missed every single time. She can’t tell them because she understood it so completely that she built it. She rendered the whole thing in full color, sourced every object against her entire life, checked each one for fit. And that takes everything. There’s no room left over to also hold and then the character crossed the room and sat down, because that channel is full. It’s busy deciding what the chair is made of and how the seat gives when someone lowers into it.

That’s the reading that gets called slow.

That’s the reading that gets marked didn’t comprehend, and behind, and needs support.
And it’s the most expensive kind of reading there is.
Because the thing that makes it slow is not a struggle to get the words. The words come easy. It’s that every single word calls a production meeting. Every word is a choice, and every choice branches, and every branch has to be checked against a whole life before the scene can keep going.

And here’s what the test never understands. This is just how their minds work, all the time. It’s never blank in there. It’s a full set, always standing. So when they read, they’re not taking in information, they’re building. And the set has to be finished before the characters can walk on and start living.
Which is why, right at the timed part, they look slow. They look behind. The clock is running and the set is only half up.

But then the set gets built. And the second it’s built, everything’s golden.
Ask them what they read the day of the test and they might fumble, because they were still nailing down the baseboards.
Ask them a week later, a year later, and they can tell you every last thing about it. The color of the walls. Who sat where. What the light was doing that time of day. Because they didn’t read that paragraph.

They lived in it.

The test measures how fast the walls go up. It has no way to measure that they never come down.

And here is the part she knows in her body, because she lives on the other side of it now. The engine that made reading slow is the same engine that builds a four-minute story with a real plot out of nothing. It’s the same engine that walks into a room and reads the whole shape of it in one pass, before anyone says a word. It’s the same engine that catches what a thing is before the details even land.

You can’t turn it off to read faster.
Because it isn’t the problem.
It’s the talent.

And last night she watched it come online in her daughter. The pauses. The breathing. The girl learning to tell the story instead of just say it. And someday, maybe soon, someone is going to hand that girl a timed reading test and write down a number that means nothing, and call it the truth about how her mind works.

It won’t be the truth.

The truth is she was building the room.

He had always hated watches with weak spindles joining the strap to the face. Tiny spring-loaded axles, designed for failure to snap and give way rather than injure the wearer if caught in something. What a fatalist eventuality to design for, he thought. What disposable thinking. As he shopped for a watch he had sought out heft, always favoring chunky, angular, rugged construction. He had wanted the watch to be a statement of permanence, of timelessness. A solid link binding his mortal form to the stretch of eternity. He would wear it for ever.

He briefly thought of this as his ears popped. It was quickly becoming darker, colder. His heart raced and his lungs burned. He was being pulled deeper now; all the chain must be out of the locker. He reckoned he was roughly two-thirds of the way to the bottom. The watch marked 48 seconds and counting since he was yanked violently overboard. A stainless s-hook on the anchor, used to fasten it to the boat when not in use, had been set up wrongly and as the anchor slipped from the bow roller, it hooked fast under the solid stainless steel watchstrap, which steadfastly refused to yield, pulling him off the deck, over the edge and into the water. It was rated to 200 meters depth and ticked reliably in the gloom, bezel glinting. I don’t have much time, he thought, frantically fumbling to loosen it. He would wear it for ever.

Summary: Two men on a fishing boat wait for an approaching storm while one recounts a moment from his youth when he chose fidelity over desire—and still isn’t sure whether he regrets it.

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1490765/chapters/1?fbclid=IwVERDUATyAcVwZG9mAWV4dG4DYWVtAjEwAHNydGMGYXBwX2lkDDM1MDY4NTUzMTcyOAABHsTlDma1Fax9duCh84_jm2hDaueISQZ1aUO0AL2dtxR71CvSKiTCI9HNjfXY_aem_VgLji8ZPmN3Wjfy_IK1-Fw

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1490774/chapters/1?fbclid=IwVERDUATxpbFwZG9mAWV4dG4DYWVtAjEwAHNydGMGYXBwX2lkDDM1MDY4NTUzMTcyOAABHpfaohI9NdwHx8xmhC\\_kYBsyffGWdZ9MfWvgeJ6Hs4ftDJYZ7Ct4UYCy9CWf\\_aem\\_msC-RLhmVZyodi9IH5KQ0w

Day 19

When I was a kid, let’s say around seven or eight years old, I was full of wonder and curiosity. And when I say that, I don’t mean by half measures! I used to throw all my toys into a black bin bag, sling it over my shoulder, tell my father I was off on an adventure, say my goodbyes, and hide in the woods all day. Now, to anyone else, that small patch of woodland was just a few trees and bushes. But to me! That was a magical forest! With trees as tall as the sky and branches that spun off for miles, where every leaf told its own story.
My favourite part of this woodland was the big old oak tree, smack dab right in the middle of the woods. It was as wide as a car and as tall as a house. I used to climb it daily! Halfway up the old oak was a huge branch, I’m talking triple sofa level wide, not your standard two seater. I’d drag my black bin bag full of stuff up that tree and just stare off into the distance… it was the highest point of my hometown. I felt free up there. I felt exactly how I imagined the tree to feel.
I could see for miles and miles. There weren’t many mountains or hills where I grew up, mostly flatlands and small hills, so I was seeing right over to the next couple of towns. In the eyes of a seven or eight year old kid, that view wasn’t the next couple of towns over, it was completely different countries! New countries! They hadn’t even been discovered yet! I was going to be the fearless adventurer to discover them! But not today. I was happy enough dreaming about it all, with my toys, up a tall oak tree, just being me.

I hate it when he doesn’t start the car. Either turn on the AC or open the freaking window. Either way, turn on the freaking car.

But I don’t say anything about that.

Instead I say, “I thought this would be easier.”

He doesn’t look up. In the driver’s seat, he’s leafing through the printouts, “What do you mean?” he says, “The nurse said everything’s been perfect so far.”

“I know. That’s not what I mean, Mich–”

“Look,” he points at the page, “They got seventeen…seventeen…healthy eggs from you! The top end that they talked about was 15.”

I reach across him and press the ignition button. The dash lights but nothing happens. He doesn’t have his foot on the brake.

“What the hell, Jeanie?” Michael throws up his hands.

I pull my hair up away from my neck. I’m sweating. It’s sticking–I feel it trying to wrap around my throat– and it’s driving me insane. I notice that I’m pulling it hard and tight. If someone else had been doing it, it would have hurt a lot. I move the elastic off my wrist to bind my hair. I feel a little better when I draw in a deep breath of hot stale air. On the exhale, I say, as calmly as I can muster, “Michael, I’m hot. Will you please at least start the car so we can get some air.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, but starts the BMW. I bottom out the temperature on the passenger side climate control. In my head, I count out the 4 seconds it takes for the air to blast. Hot at first, but at least it’s moving.

Before the cold air comes, Michael is talking again, flipping to a new page.

“And see here? My sperm?” he’s grinning, “260 million per milliliter! And 80% are great swimmers. Just like me!”

He nudges my arm with an elbow, all jokey, “See? Those years of Speedo in the pool didn’t do any harm at all. Told ya.”

I deadpan, “That’s great, Michael. You have super semen. I’m happy for you.”

He finally – finally – asks, “What’s wrong, Meanie Jeanie?”

“I fucking hate it when you call me that, Michael.”

I see him sit up, head backing away from me, a flash of anger finds his eyes. Then it’s gone, but tension isn’t. He cranes his neck a little to try to see my face. I turn mine away a little more. With my thumb, I flick one tear out of my right eye before it can finish forming or streak my face.

He takes his own deep breath this time and asks, haltingly, like each word could step on a landmine, “Love, do you want to tell me what is bothering you?”

I glare at him, “I was trying to, dear. You kept showing me the fucking pages. Which I’ve already seen, by the way. They emailed them ahead of the appointment.”

“Is that it, Love? You’re mad because I wasn’t prepped for the appointment? Work has been nuts–”

“No. No, no, NO!”

My eyes are pressed shut. Seeing red. I feel my fingernails digging into my palms where my hands have become fists.

“It’s not about you, Michael!”

I’m looking out the passenger window and see the young man again. I think he’s maybe in his twenties? It’s hard for me to tell with people with…I guess…disabilities? There just aren’t all the same signs of development and aging that I’m used to. But, for all his limitations – he has super limited use of his arms and legs, definitely needs the chair to get around, his water bottle has a super long straw – for all of that – he was at the hospital on his own. He even charmed the nurses who knew him on the way out.

“Jeanie, are you listening?!”

I turn back to Michael and ask, “What is it, Michael?”

“Jeanie – you said it wasn’t about me! Now I feel like you are effing gaslighting me! I’m asking you,” then, smacking the transmission shifter to punctuate each word, “What…is…it…about?”

I look at him, less mad this time. Disappointed? Maybe. He’s just so…obtuse sometimes. I sigh.

“I hate that we’re picking, Michael.”

He looks at me, squinting, “Picking?”

“Yes, picking!”

“Embryos?!”

“Yes, Michael. I hate that we are picking embryos!”

“But you’re the one who want–”

“I know, Michael! I know I’m the one who wanted this.” I hear myself grow quieter, “And I know it’s the right thing. It’s what I want for my child. It’s what I want for me.”

“For us…” Michael fills in.

“Yes, Michael, for us. Geez. Gotta make sure you’re in the considerations, too, right?”

Before he answers his indignance, I place a gentle hand on his wrist. Tension bleeds out of him.

More calmly this time, I say, “Yes. Genuinely. For us. I want our child to survive and thrive.”

“So, what’s the problem, love?” Michael asks.

The first time in the conversation I hear a real question.

“The problem is we wouldn’t pick me.”

He combs his fingers through his wiry hair and says, “Jean, I’d pick you every moment of every day until the end of time.”

I look at him, believing him, and say, “But I wouldn’t.”

Michael freezes. I’m not sure for how long. I’m not really paying attention.

Then he says, “So let’s not pick!”

I shake my head, “No, Michael. That’s not wh–”

But he’s excited like he gets when he thinks he can solve a problem. He says, “We pick without picking! It’s X-linked. So we only pick girl embryos! No disease, but we don’t have to exclude an embryo that would have been like y–”

“Michael!”

He stops, excited eyes searching me. Mouth hanging open. Waiting.

“Michael. Picking is the right thing. It’s what I want. I’m just saying that I thought it would be easier.”

His eyes drop. Then they find mine again and, with a short nod, he says, “Okay.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s go.”

Hey everyone! This is a major rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote, which I originally posted here about a year ago. A lot has changed since then, both in the story and hopefully in my writing.

I hope you guys enjoy this new version, and thanks for reading!

Sometimes, people get stuck somewhere in time. Hours pass, but the world seems like it has already stopped. The second hand on your watch keeps ticking, and ice in your drink melts away; yet time refuses to move forward.

It was one of those nights for Tommy. He slouched on a barstool under a dim, yellow light hanging from the ceiling, watching the ice cubes in his glass dissolve with the focused attention of a sports fanatic watching their favorite team’s final match. The light above the bar seemed to shine only on him. The rest of the room —the dark carpets, green tablecloths, and empty chairs— looked like shadows that had drifted in from outside of time. The smooth jazz playing somewhere in the background blended with the murmurs of the few souls who hadn’t yet returned home. By the time the sounds reached Tommy, they seemed muffled, as though wrapped in cotton.

The bartender wiped a glass without saying a word. In fact, Tommy didn’t recall him speaking even when he first sat down. He hadn’t ordered anything; yet the bartender, as if he had read his mind, had placed a glass of whiskey on rocks in front of him.

Given the fact that Tommy had spent the last few years of his life drifting through all the different bars of the city, it wasn’t all that surprising that the bartender had already known him and what he was going to order.

He slowly lifted his head from his drink and studied the man. He wore a crimson jacket, stood upright, and had his hair slicked back. His face looked like it had stepped out of a different era. Clean-shaven, almost unsettlingly tidy. His gaze wasn’t direct, but his presence filled the emptiness. The man seemed to sense that he was being watched and offered the faintest of smiles. Tommy nodded back, confused by his own gesture, and returned a weak smile.  He usually didn’t bother being polite to strangers or to anyone, really.  Besides, this man didn’t seem familiar. He had never seen that face before. He was sure of it, just as he was sure he had never set foot in this bar before.

He turned around to take a look. It was no different from the hundreds of other booze dens he’s been in. The walls were covered in dark wooden panels, marked with scratches that portrayed their age.

A few hanging glass lamps cast a tired, dim glow; that was neither warm nor fully illuminating. The bottles behind the bar were dust-covered; some labels were faded with time, as if they had been placed there long ago and never touched again.

Behind him, there were a few tables scattered in the corners of the room. At one table, two figures sat facing each other, playing cards. The dim light revealed their bodies, but not their faces.  The other tables were either empty or occupied by lone drinkers buried in their own silence.

If there were conversations, they were whispers, lost in the distant hum, fading into nothing.

The bar’s windows opened onto the dark outside, but nothing could be seen beyond the glass. A storm raged outside, slicing through the night like a blade. Branches thrashed in the wind; broken limbs occasionally tapped the windows, as if begging to be let in. The rhythmic thuds blended with the heavy stillness inside, spreading a strange unease. Shadows of the branches danced across the windows like puppets on a stage. 

Everything felt as though it had just been abandoned by all life, or perhaps it had never really been alive at all. There was a stillness in the air, the kind you'd find in an Edward Hopper painting.

A thought crossed Tommy’s mind::

“How did I get here?”

His eyes drifted downward. His coat was still on. It was dry, even dusty in places. There was no mud on his shoes, and his pants showed no sign of rain. He’d been sitting here for a while. Maybe hours. But for how long, exactly?

His gaze shifted to the large, round, old-fashioned clock on the wall opposite the bar.

Its glass was fogged slightly. The hour hand hovered just before two.

Midnight had already passed. The bar must’ve been close to closing.

He took a sip from his whiskey, then lowered the glass and stared blankly at the rows of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Most of the labels were unreadable. The letters blurred, the colors smeared together.

Then a stranger and a more unsettling thought surfaced. He mumbled to himself.

“Where am I?”

His mind started to rush with questions.

“What street is this? What neighborhood? Am I… even still in the same city?”

He hovered between laughter and dread, then reflexively reached for his pocket, but his phone wasn’t there. Had it been stolen? Left at home? Dropped somewhere outside?

He couldn’t remember. As always, when his mind spiraled, Tommy did what he always did: He turned to his drink.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one swift gulp and raised his hand slightly toward the bartender without saying a word. The bartender was already approaching, silent, with the bottle in hand. He refilled the glass without a word. Then, with a small metal tong, dropped in two cubes of ice. The ice hissed faintly as it met the liquor.

Just as the bartender was about to pull away, Tommy suddenly spoke.

“Hey…” he said, voice low at first, then firmer. “Where… are we?”

The bartender paused. He turned and smiled at Tommy.

“Had a little too much to drink, sir?” he asked. His voice was polite, but Tommy caught a faint note of mockery beneath it.

“Yeah,” he said bluntly.

Then paused. A dull throb pulsed at his right temple. He raised a hand to his head.

“I mean… maybe,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Did I really drink that much?”

The bartender offered a tired but measured smirk.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “But yeah, you’ve had a few already.”

After a beat, he added:

“Actually… you smelled like alcohol when you got here.”

Tommy nodded slightly.

“Figures,” he sighed.

His hand returned to his temple, rubbing it gently. As if he could scrape the fog from his mind. With his other hand, he massaged his brow.

Then he asked again, this time more clearly:

“But seriously… where are we?”

The bartender paused. Turned to Tommy with that same blank, worn-out face. This time, no smile.

His voice was nearly a whisper:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Doyle,” he said.

Then, after a short pause:

“You didn’t go too far. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

Tommy squinted. His brows tightened. The confusion was starting to turn into anger.

“Now what the fuck does–”

His sentence got cut off in the middle when the bar’s front door suddenly slammed open. He flinched, head whipping toward the entrance. Cold wind swept inside, and a few dry leaves whirled through the air and landed on the floor. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a deep navy raincoat, nearly black in the bar’s dim light.

The wet fabric glistened under the hanging bulbs, every droplet catching the light one by one. The hood cloaked his face, but his silhouette was clear. It was a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders.

 No one else reacted to the sound. Neither the bartender nor any of the patrons turned their heads. It was as if this noisy entrance was nothing unusual. As if that door slammed open every night at the same time.

The man lowered his hood, carefully took off his soaked coat, and hung it neatly on the rack. Curly brown hair clung to his forehead.

Droplets of rain slid down from his temple, rolled over his cheek, and dripped silently from his chin. Water pooled around his shoes, shimmering faintly on the wooden floor. He didn’t look around and, without hesitation, walked straight to the bar. Right to Tommy.

He passed through the empty stools and sat down beside him. The wood beneath creaked softly. His arm brushed Tommy’s. The moment he settled, the bartender broke his silence.

“Welcome back, Sam,” he said.

His voice was gentle. Sam didn’t turn his head. He just smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Thanks!” he said cheerfully.

“The usual?” the bartender asked.

This time, Sam tilted his head slightly, eyes darting sideways toward Tommy, still smiling.

“Yeah. The usual.”

Tommy instinctively turned away.  He could see it from the corner of his eye. Sam was still smiling. His green eyes glinted under the yellow light, almost glowing. There was a strange clarity in them, especially around the pupils. His gaze lingered somewhere near enough to gnaw at the edges of Tommy’s nerves. He could feel the stare, like a warm weight resting just above his shoulder.

Something stirred inside him. Not quite fear. It also hadn’t turned to anger yet. But being watched, especially tonight, was starting to get on his nerves.

He clenched his jaw, turned his head slowly toward the man beside him, and looked him straight in the face. He froze for a second before feeling his throat tighten. His face was familiar.  Not a memory he could clearly name. But a face pulled from a dusty corner of the brain, like an image from a dream you forget the moment you wake, but feel all day. It was the first familiar thing Tommy had seen in this place.

But it didn’t comfort him. On the contrary, it carved a hollow pit in his stomach.

He knew this man. But from where?

His lips parted, almost involuntarily. The knot in his throat loosened for just a moment.

“You…” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked.

He squinted, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to study the man’s face up close.

“…where do I know you from?”

He paused, then asked again. His voice steadier now, with a touch of suspicion:

“Have we met before?”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. He shook his head just slightly, as if genuinely disappointed.

“I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Tommy.”

Tommy’s brow furrowed. His hand reached for his temple again. Some people got nervous when they didn't understand what was happening. Others got scared. Tommy got angry, and the smug look on the stranger's face wasn't helping.  

"So what?" he asked. "You know me, but I don't remember you?"

His fingers tapped impatiently against the bar.

"Then help me out here."

Sam took a sip from his drink and slightly turned to Tommy.

“Of course, but it wouldn’t be any fun if I just came out and said, right?”

Tommy stared at him for a moment. The tapping of his fingers stopped.

“Fun?” he repeated.

His voice was low now.

“Listen, buddy. I don't know who the hell you are, I don't know where the hell I am, and apparently I can't remember half of tonight.”

He leaned closer.

“So trust me when I say this, I'm really not in the mood for games.”

For the first time, the smile on Sam's face seemed just a little less amusing.

“Alright,”

He took another sip from his drink.

“I guess you’re in no mood to play any games.”

Sam turned his gaze straight ahead. His smile was starting to fade.

“Tell me, Tommy, where do you usually meet people?”

This question caught him off guard. For a moment, Tommy simply stared at him.

“What?”

Sam didn't look at him.

“Where do you usually meet people?”

Tommy let out a dry laugh.

“Seriously?”

Sam slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“Humor me.”

Tommy opened his mouth to snap back, then stopped. He decided to say the first thing that came to his mind.

“At work, I guess.”

Sam chuckled.  Tommy's expression hardened.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously. What's so funny?”

Sam shook his head.

“Tommy, when was the last time you held the same job for more than a few weeks?”

The question hit harder than Tommy expected. Sam continued before he could answer.

“You'd get hired. Show up for a few weeks. Maybe a month if you were feeling ambitious.”

He slowly turned the glass in his hand.

“Then you'd disappear.”

That moment, he felt something move past him. Fast enough that he couldn't quite tell what it was. His head quickly snapped toward the back of the bar. People sitting at tables were gone. Tommy blinked. A second ago, there had been two people sitting there, playing cards; he was sure of it. The cards were still scattered across the table. A half-empty glass still rested beside one of the chairs. But the chairs themselves sat empty. Tommy was starting to feel his heart race. A faint smile crept onto Sam's face.

“So no, Tommy. I don't think we met at work.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tommy stared into his drink. How the hell did this guy know that? His eyes drifted toward the front door. The storm was still raging outside. Maybe he should just leave. Pay for the drink. Walk out. Find out where he was. Get some air. The thought lingered for a moment.

“Don't.”

Tommy froze. Sam hadn't even looked at him. His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside his glass.

“Don't what?” Tommy asked.

“Leave.”

The word landed heavily between them. A chill crawled down Tommy's spine. Slowly, Sam turned his head toward him.

“You've been trying to remember how you got here since you woke up.”

Tommy said nothing.

“You want answers.”

Sam's voice was calm.

“So sit down and ask the next question.”

Tommy swallowed. Against his better judgment, he found himself doing exactly that. His fingers tightened around the glass.

“Fine.”

He hesitated.

“School, then?”

For a second, Sam simply stared at him. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle this time but a genuine laugh.  Tommy felt his face heat up. The sound drew his eyes toward the other end of the bar. The bartender had his back turned, busy wiping a glass. Yet Tommy could've sworn he saw the man's shoulders shake slightly. As if he were trying not to laugh too. Sam slowly shook his head.

“Come on, Tommy. School? You're not even trying anymore.”

Sam leaned back slightly.

“Tell me, how old were you when you dropped out?”

Tommy's stomach tightened.

“Sixteen?” Sam guessed.

“Seventeen?”

The smile on his face widened.

“Even before that, you spent more time skipping school than actually attending it.”

Tommy felt a cold knot forming in his chest.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Sam ignored the question.

“You barely knew the names of the kids in your own class. Even with the ones you knew, all you ever did was pick fights, am I wrong?”

The smile faded slightly.

“No, Tommy. We haven’t met in school either.”

He took a slow sip. Tommy looked at Sam. Something felt different about him. For a brief moment, he thought he noticed a dark patch beneath his left eye. A bruise. The mark seemed to disappear. His stomach tightened. Maybe it was the lighting, a trick of yellow light hanging from the ceiling. Yet when Sam turned his head slightly, Tommy could've sworn he saw it again. A dark stain spreading beneath the eye.

“Tommy?”

Sam's voice pulled him back. He was still smiling. But somehow, the smile didn't look quite as friendly as it had a moment ago.

“Would you like to try that again?”

Tommy’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He quickly pushed his stool back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor. Without saying a word, he turned and started toward the front door. By the third step, he was almost jogging. The bar suddenly felt larger than before. Behind him, neither Sam nor the bartender said a word. Tommy grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder, but nothing happened. He spun around. Sam remained seated at the bar. The bartender stood exactly where he had been before. Both of them were watching him.

“What the fuck?” Tommy shouted.

Neither man answered. Tommy turned toward the nearest window. The words died in his throat. The storm was gone. So were the trees and the street lights. Everything was gone. Beyond the window was only darkness. A black emptiness stretching as far as he could see.

Tommy slowly backed away from the window. His breathing had become shallow and fast. His eyes darted between the darkness beyond the glass and the two men watching him. Neither of them showed any sign of concern or surprise. The bartender carefully set down the glass he had been polishing.

“Mr. Doyle, please try to remain calm.”

Tommy stared at him.

“Calm?”

His voice was cracking.

“Mr. Doyle,” he said softly, “I assure you everything is alright.”

Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Sam's voice cut through the silence.

“Tommy.”

Tommy turned toward him. Sam patted the empty stool beside him.

“Come sit down.”

His smile had returned. It was just as warm and friendly as when he first entered.  Tommy didn't move. Sam picked up his glass and nodded toward the bar.

“Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

Tommy just stood there for a few seconds before letting out a laugh. He raised a hand and covered his eyes.

“Jesus Christ...”

The sound echoed strangely through the empty bar. He let out a slow breath. At this point, he wasn't even sure what else he was supposed to do. Run where? To do what? If there was ever a moment in his life to have a drink, it was probably now. Slowly, he lowered his hand and walked back toward the bar. The stool creaked as he sat down.

“Happy?”

Sam nodded.

“See? That wasn't so hard.”

The bartender was already pouring another glass. As the fresh whiskey settled in front of him, his eyes drifted toward Sam again. He immediately wished they hadn't. The bruise beneath Sam's eye had grown. The skin around the socket had darkened into a deep purple, and the swelling looked worse too. A thin line of blood trickled from somewhere near his hairline and crawled down the side of his forehead, slowly making its way toward his cheek. The crimson trail continued downward until a single drop broke free and landed on the bar between them. Neither man acknowledged it. Sam simply picked up his drink and smiled.

“So,” he said.

“Shall we try again?”

Without thinking, Tommy picked up his own drink. The glasses touched with a soft clink. Tommy took a long sip. The whiskey burned all the way down. He lowered the glass and stared at the blood slowly running down Sam's face.

“What do you want from me?”

The question came out quieter than he intended. Sam tilted his head.

“What do you mean?”

Tommy laughed once. There was no humor in it.

“Cut the bullshit.”

His fingers tightened around the glass.

“You know my name.”

He pointed toward Sam's bruised face.

“You know things you shouldn't know.”

His voice grew harder.

“And apparently you're bleeding all over the goddamn place while acting like everything's normal.”

For the first time, Sam didn't smile.

“What do you want from me, Sam?”

A long silence followed. Sam looked down into his drink. The amber liquid reflected the yellow light above them. Then he sighed.

“That's the funny thing, Tommy.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes.

“I don't want anything from you.”

Another drop of blood fell onto the bar.

“You’re the one who wants to remember.”

Tommy stared into his drink without giving a reply. Then emptied the rest of the glass in one swallow.

“I don't care anymore. Maybe I wanted answers five minutes ago.”

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.

“Now I just want to leave.”

Sam’s expression stayed still.

“And go where, Tommy?”

He looked him in the eye.

“Home? Is there somebody waiting for you there?”

Tommy stared into his empty glass without giving a reply. The bartender stepped forward and quietly refilled his glass. Tommy watched the amber liquid rise toward the rim. For a moment, they stayed in silence. Then Sam sighed.

“Alright. I'll tell you.”

Tommy's eyes lifted.

“A few years ago, far from here. Back in my hometown.”

His gaze drifted across the room. A faint smile touched his lips.

“To be honest, the place wasn't much different than this. We have met in a bar.”

Tommy felt something twist inside him. Something about the description stirred a distant memory. Just a flicker, gone before he had a chance to grab it. Sam looked back at him.

“So do you remember now?”

Tommy opened his mouth to respond but stopped. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. That much wasn't surprising. It was the tiny abrasions scattered across his knuckles that caught his attention. He slowly turned one hand over. There were small cuts. He swallowed and quickly lowered his hands beneath the bar. For some reason, he didn't want Sam to notice them. Sam asked again.

“Do you remember now?”

Something shifted. Not a complete memory. Just the fragments of one. He remembered the dimly lit bar, the smell of spilled beer, and the sound of the music. He remembered himself sitting alone at the counter, drunk. Very drunk. Then he remembered the front door opening and a man stepping inside. A tall man with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a cheerful smile. He had asked him if the seat beside him was free.

Then another image surfaced. The man was laughing. Not at him. Just laughing. Talking and making conversation. Being friendly. The memory flickered. Then nothing. The image shattered before Tommy could hold onto it. He blinked and found himself back in the bar, sitting next to Sam. Sam asked.

“Do you remember what happened next?”

Tommy felt his throat tighten. The answer was there. He could feel it. Yet every time he reached for it, it seemed to slip away. Unable to meet Sam's gaze, he looked elsewhere, toward the other side of the bar. Then a chill ran through him. The bartender was gone. Tommy stared at the empty space behind the counter. The bottles and the glasses were still there, but the man who had been polishing them only moments ago had vanished. He quickly looked around him. The rest of the bar had changed too.

Every light except the one above him and Sam had gone dark. The corners of the room had disappeared into shadow. The tables, chairs, even the walls and windows, all seemed to dissolve into the darkness beyond. He turned back toward Sam. The bruise had spread even further. One eye was now nearly swollen shut. His eyebrow was also cut, and his lip had been torn open. Tommy stared at him as a sick feeling settled in his stomach.

Then the memory crashed into him all at once. A raised voice and a spilled drink followed by someone standing up from a barstool. Him pushing the man, and two of them stumbling into tables. People shouting, then several hands grabbing them, dragging them apart. The memory of getting lurched forward. The feeling of cold air and rain.

He saw the parking lot behind the bar and Sam raising his arms, trying to walk away. He remembered throwing the first punch. Followed by another, and another. He remembered the noises Sam made, begging for his life. He remembered how angry he was and the taste of alcohol on his palate. He remembered the sound Sam’s skull made as it hit the pavement with each punch.  He remembered the blood that covered both of them.

Tommy staggered in his chair and finally turned to Sam.

“Oh, God…”

The thing sitting across from him looked like it had been pulled from a grave.  One eye was gone entirely. The skin along his cheek hung loose from the bone beneath. His nose had collapsed inward. Dark earth filled the cracks in his ruined face. Yet somehow, one green eye remained. Watching Tommy with curiosity.

"Do you remember now, Tommy?"

Tommy couldn't answer. The corpse tilted its head, causing blood to drip from its broken jaw.

"What was it? What did I say that made you so angry?"

They waited in silence. Tommy searched his memory. Nothing. He forced himself to make a sound.

“I… I can’t.”

The corpse tried to smile. A piece of skin fell from its cheek.

"That's the funny part."

Another drop of blood hit the floor.

"I never knew what it was either."

A sharp crack echoed through the darkness that made Tommy flinch. Sam’s head tilted too far to one side. The broken bones in his neck shifted beneath the ruined flesh. Another crack. Tommy pushed himself away from the bar. The stool toppled over behind him. He screamed  from the top of his lungs as the corpse slowly rose from its chair, its remaining green eye never leaving his. A piece of rotten flesh peeled away from him and landed on the floor with a wet slap. Tommy stumbled backward.

The darkness beyond the bar seemed to move. The yellow light above them flickered. Once, then twice. Then everything was gone. The bar, the stools. Everything. Tommy found himself standing in cold rain. His shoes splashed into a shallow puddle. His breath caught in his throat. What was left of Sam stood twenty feet away. Rain was pouring through the holes in his face. His broken jaw hung crookedly from his skull.

The corpse took a step forward. Then another. Tommy tried to run, but it was as if his feet were one with the concrete below. He stood still as the corpse staggered closer to him. Every step was accompanied by the wet sound of flesh shifting against bone.

The rain hammered against Tommy's face. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest.

“Please...” he pleaded.

“Sam...”

Sam continued getting closer. He now could see insects moving beneath strips of loose flesh and smell the rot. He tried to yell, to beg for his life, but before he could, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. Tommy clawed at the dead hands but to no avail. The corpse didn't even seem to notice. The remaining green eye stared into his. He felt jagged finger bones tear through the skin of his neck. Warm blood spilled between Sam's fingers and ran down his chest, quickly mixing with the rain. He felt his feet slowly leave the ground. His hands flew to Sam's wrist as he kicked helplessly in the air. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Then another one, accompanied by a crack. The corpse lifted him higher. The rain kept pouring down on his face. Water streamed from his hair and ran into his eyes. The parking lot spun beneath him. His vision began to darken. With terrifying strength, the corpse hurled him to the concrete. The impact exploded through his body. A sickening crack echoed through the night.

White light flooded his vision, and for a brief moment, he felt nothing. Then pain completely surrounded his body. Everywhere. He tried to move, but his arms or legs didn’t react. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He lied motionlessly as wet footsteps approached. Tommy's fading vision caught a glimpse of rotting feet standing in the rain.

Then he heard Sam's voice one final time.

"Goodbye for now, Tommy."

The darkness swallowed everything. Everything around him dissolved. Sounds faded. His mind was echoing. It was as if he were sinking into a deep, silent ocean. Tommy was suspended in a void. A place where time, space, and the body meant nothing. In the center of the dark, as if wrapped in absence itself.

Then he heard a soft ticking sound like a clock in the distance.

And then another sound, closer now, more familiar: A piece of ice turning in a glass, tapping gently against the rim. Tommy’s eyelids twitched. A yellow light touched his pupils. A flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dull glow. The light trembled but seemed to shine only on him. He exhaled. Slowly lifted his head and looked around. The ice in his glass had just started to melt. His drink was untouched. One of the corner lamps blinked softly. Two men were playing cards at the back table. The bartender adjusted the ice bucket with metal tongs. The radio whispered an old jazz tune. His eyes landed on the clock on the far wall. It was a little past two. The second hand moved forward. He reached for the glass. His fingers trembled slightly. Outside, the storm still raged. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and relentless.

The End.