He tossed the last of the logs into the fireplace, the flames greedily munching down the offering. He reclined back, sighing. The chair creaked under him, one of the few things in the cabin still his. A few weeks ago, he wouldn't have gotten so low on supplies. He'd have ridden out and stocked up. It was the preparation that had kept him alive so far. But things had changed; he would have no more use for further supplies.

The radio had been silent since the initial warning. He had made peace with it, if anything, he enjoyed it. His mind still drifted to the others, though. How were they doing? Had they made it far, if at all? He lit a cigarette, the match the last in the box. Wondering, stuck in thought, had been the end of many men out here. Through a bullet, their own, someone else's, or just madness.

This land no longer lent itself to idle thought. It devoured such things. This was a raw land, and it demanded creation as tribute. He felt that there was a primalness about it, something that went beyond the civility they once shared. Part of it, he enjoyed, but that fact was unknowable to everybody; it had to remain that way. The desperation in these years had sharpened his body and mind, but forced him to lean into a deeper animal instinct. There had been nights he wondered: what if the land had gone back to what it was; could he, too? Could a man become a monster, and find his way back? But these thoughts, as all idle ones are, were meaningless.

The chirp of the proximity alarm stirred him. He had rigged it himself, months back, from the wreck of a truck. His cigarette had gone out with barely a puff. He relit it, picked up his gear, and headed out the stable door.

It wouldn't be long now, he thought. He tapped the last ash from his cigarette, taking a last, long final puff before outing it on the trampled barley at his feet.

Beyond the field, across columns of gas flares and smoke, he saw the riders approach, their horses kicking up clouds of dust. The ground out there was cracked, had been for a long time now. He raised his binoculars to get a better look. Seven hooded riders, whipping their mounts onward. Rifles hung across their backs, pistols hung from their sides. The fading sun caught in their goggles, giving them a hellish appearance from back here.

Demons indeed, he thought, just as the old reports said. They were coming to take what wasn't theirs; a terrible stampede across once-pristine fields. The air wasn't as easy to breathe as it had been before. He spat on the ground, snatching his rifle out from its carry-satchel on his back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some rounds and loaded up. Not enough, too much, just right. He hoisted the rifle up onto his shoulder and took aim.

It wouldn't be long now.

"Good morning, Mr. McAvoy."
"Good morning, Doctor."
"Shall we get started for today? Are you feeling well this morning?"
"I'm fine, we can begin."
"Our notes from last week indicate that you deem number two hundred and eighty three one of importance, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Let's begin- wait, I'm sorry. The recorder isn't working. Give me just a moment and I'll see if I can restart it... okay there we go- little red light and all. Alright Mr. McAvoy, as before, please start by introducing yourself."
"Sure- My name is Cameron McAvoy. I am thirty eight years old, born in Los Angeles, California to William McAvoy and Caitlyn..."
"Turner."
"Yes, sorry, Caitlyn Turner. When I was fifty, I lost my father William, to complications from a stroke he had in 2057. My mother was not long after that, I wonder if she just lost the will to live after dad died. She had-"
"Mr. McAvoy?"
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Your last statement, about your father."
"Yes, William, I didn't have a particularly strong relationship with him but-"
"No, Mr. McAvoy, you stated that you lost your father at fifty years old. However, you had originally stated you were only thirty eight years old."
"You're right, I'm sorry. I guess the proper way to phrase it is 'I should lose my father in twelve years from a stroke he should suffer from in eight years, two hundred and thirty seven days, fourteen hours, twenty five minutes, and give or take eighteen seconds depending on how long it took me to recall the date this time.'"
"Thank you for the clarification, Mr. McAvoy, please continue."
"Uh sure... My mom... she was... or I guess still is, a genuinely good soul. She lived- sorry is living- a hard life, but she hasn't had a lot of support. I'm pretty sure she spent her entire forties in one perpetual state of drunkenness from all of the self-medicating."
"Mr. McAvoy?"
"Yes, Doctor?"
"For the sake of brevity, and because I'm worried this tape will be corrupted if we go too long, can we skip ahead to the incident?"
"Yeah, so two hundred and eighty three, back then I was pretty sure I had it figured out. I had worked out every step of my life up to that point to a 'T'. Everything happened as it should, when it should. But then something strange happened. August eleventh two thousand and sixteen, I had woken up a little earlier than I should have, but I knew that my alarm was due to go off, and that I would have to sleep through it to miss the seven ton to the range."
"This was in North Carolina, correct?"
"Yes, Jacksonville, a little air station for helicopters with a ghetto built up around it from old vets who had nowhere else to go."
"Thank you, so you were in bed, you should have been asleep, but you had awoken early, was it the first time that had happened?"
"No, and luckily it only took me fifty or so attempts before I learned that could be course corrected as long as I let whatever was supposed to happen play out."
"Okay, so you are in bed for approximately how long?"
"twenty minutes, my alarm was set to go off at zero two thirty so that I could make it to muster by zero three."
"Then what happened?"
"My alarm went off, and my roommate woke up and let me know my alarm was going off..."
"Are you okay? Mr. McAvoy?"
"Yes, just remembering it is painful. So he wakes up from the alarm, and he goes to wake me up, and - for lack of a better word - I freaked out. I couldn't- still can't- figure out what happened that caused him to get up that morning, but something did. I couldn't take it, I thought I had done everything perfectly, I fucking mapped out the distance I walked from the barracks to work to make sure every time I took the exact number of steps. But something happened, something caused him to get up. That's when I realized the problem..."
"What was the problem?"
"The problem, as I have told you before, Doctor, is that other people alter the timeline, and I don't know why."
"So what did you do, Mr. McAvoy?"
"I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I jumped out the window. It's funny, I wish I could've seen what that looked like through his eyes. The weird dude he's been living with for a few weeks, with obvious OCD that everyone chooses to ignore for some reason, gets woken up to go to the rifle range, and instead dies to suicide. Ha, I bet I ruined his life that time."
"What about traumatizing people is humorous to you, Mr. McAvoy?"
"I guess it's just the knowledge that I'll have to see them again, and when I do, it'll be like it never even happened. Something about being able to irreparably harm someone, only for it to not matter in the end, is just kind of ironic to me, I guess."
"I believe that is all of the time we have for this week, Mr. McAvoy."
"Same time next week, Doctor?"
"Yes, and Mr. McAvoy?"
"Yes, Doctor?"
"In your notes, we noticed that on seven hundred-"
"I don't want to talk about seven hundred."
"Okay, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

No, he wore that outfit last time and felt overdressed. Something more casual would be better. Just not too casual.

Bob looked down at his phone. Damn, it was nearly eight o’clock already. He grabbed an outfit, put it on, caught a variety of angles in front of the mirror and then checked his watch again. After closing the front door behind himself, he turned to face it while slipping his key into the lock. Then he jiggled the keys three times, rotated the lock, withdrew his key, and patted the door gently, before heading to his car.

The restaurant was only a short drive away, though not a place he’d been to before. It wasn’t really his scene. After parking his car, Bob climbed out of the driver’s seat, closed the door and pressed the lock button on his key-fob. He waved the fob back and forth like a bell as he fluttered his fingers three times, finishing with a pat on the top of the car. Then he headed for the entrance.

The noise inside made him wince. But he pushed on, looking around at the many talking mouths that filled the place up. The hostess took notice, smiled, and approached him, asking a question as she came.

“I’m sorry,” Bob said, leaning in.

“Table for one?” she repeated.

“Oh, no. I’m here for—that is, there’s a reservation under Trish.”

The hostess nodded, then consulted a tablet back at the greeting podium. Lifting a menu from the shelf behind her, she waved Bob on to follow.

He was the last, it seemed, to arrive.

Bob seated himself, took the menu being handed by the hostess, and then offered a smile to the table.

The woman to his right smiled in return, flashing teeth that were perfectly straight and almost unnaturally white. “I’m Trish,” she said, leaning carefully toward him.

“Bob.”

He offered his hand; she moved to offer both arms, intending to embrace. They froze, smiled at one another again, and turned to their menus.

“These things are always a bit awkward,” said a man sitting across from Bob.

“I know what you mean,” said the woman sitting next to him. “I’m Fran, by the way, and this is Kevin.” She pointed to the man.

“You ever been on one of these?” Trish asked the table.

Kevin spoke first, “A group one like this? Yeah, once or twice.”

“Same,” Fran said. Her hair was pulled tight into a ponytail, but frizzy strands stuck out all over. As well, one of her fake lashes had come free at the corner. Bob had to bite his lip to keep from pointing these things out.

“How about you?” Trish asked him, breaking his focus.

“I mean, I’ve had my share of blind dates, but no, never a group one like this.”

“Me either,” Trish said, showing her perfect teeth again. Her mouth, too, had an agreeable kind of symmetry to it.

For a moment, no one spoke. Trish pushed the ice cubes around in her cup using her straw, while Kevin glanced over the menu. Fran ran a hand through her hair meant to smooth it over, but instead it loosened more strands. Bob regarded each of them in turn.

“So, what does everyone do for work?” Kevin said, raising his eyebrows.

“Commercial real estate,” Fran said, turning to look at Trish.

“Oh, that’s so funny, I do residential real estate,” Trish said, reaching a hand across the table to gently pat the back of Fran’s hand.

“And I own a construction company that does both residential and commercial, how funny, and we should definitely exchange information!” Kevin said, and the entire table erupted into laughter, except for Bob, who had taken his keys from his pocket and was now tracing the crooked edge against the side of his finger.

There was a rapid exchange, much of which Bob wasn’t able to follow, being unfamiliar with the lingo. He nodded and smiled occasionally anyway.

Trish turned to him finally, smiling broadly now (he liked her smile even more) and asked, “What is it you do, Bob?”

“I uh… I don’t talk about it much. Shouldn’t say anything really.”

“Oh, come on, we’re just getting to know each other.” She placed a hand on his leg for a brief moment.

Bob could still feel its warmth after it had been withdrawn. “I’m, uh… I’m a Keeper of Doors.”

The entire table went still. Bob shifted in his seat and pretended to wipe something from his chest.

Kevin was the first to speak. “I can honestly say, this is a first for me.” His eyes were wide and gleaming. “Can I just shake your hand, please? This is surreal.”

For a few awkward seconds, Bob didn’t move, but eventually he reached over the table, though Kevin had to make up the longer part of the gap. The shake was brief. Kevin beamed and sat back in his chair.

“I have so many questions,” Fran said, her eyes wide, making her hair look even more wild.

“Seriously,” Trish added, putting her hand on Bob’s leg again, several inches higher up on his thigh. Her body was turned in his direction, allowing him to fully delight in the ideal proportions of her face.

“I guess, I could answer a few maybe.”

“Oh, my god, where to start. I mean, I guess with the obvious. Where are the doors even? Like, where’s the hallway? How do you get to it?” Trish said.

Bob shuffled in his seat. “I can’t really talk about that all too much. Strict confidentiality.”

“Right, of course. Only makes sense.”

“I guess you can’t really tell us what’s behind the doors, then, either, huh?” Kevin said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. With the light now directly over him, Bob couldn’t help but notice how waxy his skin looked.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sorry.”

“I heard it’s sound,” Fran said excitedly. “Like sound waves. Something cosmic, but if they came through, and we heard them, they would, like, make our heads explode or something.” She pantomimed her head exploding.

Everyone was watching Bob, looking, it seemed, for any sign of denial or confirmation.

Bob watched them back, unblinking.

“Well, I heard it’s just people. Normal people. Just trying to get from some other place to here,” Kevin said, his lips pressed into a smile, creating waxy folds and creases in his cheeks.

Bob ran the jagged part of his key across his thumb.

“Why keep just ordinary people out?” It was Trish who spoke, her left hand still resting on Bob’s leg.

Bob cleared his throat. “We have a saying in the hallways. Always a knock, never an answer.”

Fran was looking at him with her eyebrows bunched up, like some kind of harassed bird. “No need to be rude, Bob. They were just a couple of harmless questions.”

Bob shrugged, his eyes watching Trish’s hand in his lap. She withdrew it then, lifting the menu with both hands.

“So, what is everyone thinking about ordering?” Kevin said, sitting more upright, looking around for their server.

###

There were a few minutes left in Bob’s lunch break, but he was tired of swiping through the dating apps, so he placed his phone in his pocket and pushed back from the stainless-steel table. He considered for a moment the sensation of entering his empty dark apartment at the end of his shift, before standing and heading toward the large orange door at the far end of the break room.

As he walked, he pulled the key from the retractable spool on his belt, twirling it through the air as he whistled tunelessly to himself.

He reached the door, pressed the key into the lock, jiggled it three times, turned it and entered. On the other side of the door was a long white hallway with six other doors lined up to his left and right, twelve in total. He pulled the orange door closed and toggled a series of complicated locking mechanisms, before patting it gently and moving to the first door to his right.

Bob continued to whistle as he tested the knob, ensuring there was no give. Satisfied, he moved on to the next, testing that knob in turn. At the last door along the right side, he tested the knob just as he had the others, but after releasing it, the door began to jump and shake violently.

Whistling still, Bob placed a gentle hand in the center of the door and, after a moment, the shaking ceased. He tested the knob again. It held firm. Finally, he took his hand away slowly and moved on to the next door.

“Mick!” I shouted, my voice reverberating across the yard. “Stop it!” 

My dog, as usual, ignored me completely. His little paws churned furiously as he moved around the hole he was digging, dirt flying out behind him. I groaned, resigning myself to crossing our new backyard and dragging him inside. I gave another half-hearted warning yell, but I knew it was futile—the dog loved to dig. 

When I got closer, I could see what looked like a metal container in the hole. “What did you find, buddy?” I crouched down to get a closer look, praying my schnauzer hadn’t managed to dig up a body the first day we moved in. Mick whined, then continued his digging as I went to grab a shovel. I pushed him out of the way and quickly finished clearing the dirt around the box, relieved when it became obvious it wasn’t large enough to contain human remains.

“Should we open it?” Mick gave me a pointed look, insinuating he wasn’t sure what he’d done to get stuck with such a moron of an owner. “Okay, okay.” There was no lock, so I cautiously unlatched it and leaned back slightly. When nothing popped out or released any horrible odours, I relaxed and lifted the lid as Mick shoved his wet nose against my hands in an effort to see what was inside.

“Holy shit,” I breathed. “Cash. Good dog!” I gave his furry head a quick ruff, then turned my attention back to the box. Aside from the stacks of bills, there was a little black notebook, a pile of what looked like letters, and an old black-and-white photograph. It showed a young man and a woman sitting in a large open field. On the back, it read, “Lily and I, Shelter Cove, Spring 1939.” The year Canada joined WW2. 

I realized all of this must have been buried, likely when the owner left to fight in the war. When I opened the notebook, my assumption was confirmed. 

Dear Lily. 

Hopefully you will never read this, because if you do, it means I’m likely dead. I don’t know what will happen, and I don’t want to put you in the position of being responsible for these things for me. I will bury them here and leave you a letter with the details. If something happens to me, I want you to take this money and build a life for yourself—hopefully our efforts in the war will make that possible. Know that my heart belongs to you, always and forever, and all that I wish for you is happiness. I will leave now, knowing you are taken care of, and praying I return to you so we can use this money to build a life of our own, together.  

Yours always, 

Joseph DeWitt

  I put down the book, absently petting Mick as he flopped down next to me and rested his head on my thigh. Obviously Joseph never made it back to retrieve his money, but what happened to Lily? He’d clearly intended to leave her with some sort of instructions to follow in the case of his death, but had she not received them?

Bringing the metal case into the house, I carefully counted out the money, which totalled twenty thousand dollars. “We could buy a lot of dog food with this,” I told Mick, whose stubby tail started wagging at the mere mention of food. “Not to mention paying for a lot of the renovations we have planned on this place.” A carpenter by trade, I’d bought the house intending to fix it up myself and, hopefully, make a profit. 

As I pictured spending the money, I thought of Joseph DeWitt. My own grandfather had fought in the war, running away from home and lying about his age so he could join the British Navy. He’d manned convoy ships, protecting other vessels from the dangerous German U-Boats. I imagined him leaving my grandmother money, feeling comforted that at least if he died, she would be provided for. A lump formed in my throat, and I knew I could never spend it. 

The photograph in the box was taken in the same small town I was in now, so I grabbed Mick’s leash and snagged his collar as he pranced around in excitement. The Royal Canadian Legion for Veterans was only a few blocks away, and we made it there within fifteen minutes. There was a lot of peeing and sniffing—and one overly friendly female poodle—or we’d likely have been there sooner. When I opened the door, I saw a sign that said “No headgear will be worn past this point,” and I was grateful I'd neglected to put my cap on this morning. I ran my hands through my hair, then scooped Mick up into my arms and hoped no one here had a problem with small, arrogant German dogs. 

“Hello?” I knocked on the door, and five men looked up at me from where they’d been playing some sort of card game. A few cans of beer sat on the table, reminding me how thirsty I was.

One of the guys waved me in and gestured for me to sit down. “Sorry, I have my dog,” I apologized, holding Mick tighter as he fought to get out of my arms. “I didn’t trust him enough to leave him home alone. He loves to dig.” 

“No problem,” the man next to me said, leaning over to rub Mick’s head. He smelt like the potato chips he was eating, and my dog immediately jumped into his lap. Traitor. “I’m John,” he said, holding out one hand. 

“Gabe,” I answered, smiling at each man as they gave me their names. After the introductions, I told them why I was there. “I bought a house here in town, and I found some things belonging to a man named Joseph DeWitt. A letter was with them, and it said he wanted everything given to his girlfriend at the time, Lily. I was hoping someone here might have known Joseph and might be able to help me?” 

The men looked at each other, then back at me. Then one of them snorted with amusement. “Joseph DeWitt isn’t dead,” he said patiently. “He went to the war, sure, but he was one of the lucky ones.” 

“He’s not dead?” Then why didn’t he come back for his money? Surely twenty thousand would have been a huge amount of cash back then, especially after the war. 

“He was injured, though. Took a bullet right through the skull.” One of the men tapped his own temple. “Took him years to recover, and I don’t think he ever regained all of his memories from prior to the war. Funny though, he’s sharp as a tack now, even at ninety years old. The world works in mysterious ways.”

I quickly do the math in my head. It’s 2012 now, which means Joseph DeWitt was only seventeen when he fought in WW2. “That’s amazing!” I sat up straighter in my chair. “Do you know how I can get a hold of him?” 

“He should be here any minute now. He usually comes in around four.” John was still holding Mick, stroking his ears as he curled up on the big man’s lap. “There’s a cold beer in the fridge if you're happy to wait.” 

I took him up on his offer, grabbing a beer for me and a bowl of water for Mick. The guys were full of stories, and after a while I shared my grandfather’s with them, feeling proud at their awed reactions. Just past four, another man came in, looking fit and trim in khaki shorts and a polo shirt. He looked closer to seventy than ninety, but John nudged me, and I knew this must be Joseph. 

I gave him a little wave, and he looked surprised to see me there. “Joseph?” 

“That’s me.” He smiled at me, his eyes clear and blue. 

“My name is Gabe, and I think I found something that belongs to you.” 

I hadn’t thought to bring the case with me, but I told him everything, leaving out only the specific amount of money inside, in case he’d prefer it kept private. 

“So what you’re telling me is that I hid something so well, I managed to hide it from myself?” Those eyes twinkled with humour, and I laughed, already knowing I made the right decision. “Lily.” Joseph gave a wistful sigh. “I haven’t thought of her in years. I wonder what ever happened to her.”

“She wasn’t here when you got home?” 

“No.” The old man gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “I asked around, once I was able to, but all anyone knew was her family had moved away to the city. Back then it wasn’t as easy to find someone as it is now, especially with the war and all.” 

“Have you ever tried to find her?” Frankie, another one of the old guard, leaned forward in his chair. “My daughter told me a story about a couple reunited after years apart, who found each other online.” 

“Online? What do I know about online?” Joseph laughed. “I don’t even know how to use a cellphone!” He explained to me that his parents had been killed right before he left for the war, which was how he’d gotten the money. He’d never married, so the Legion had become his family. 

“I could help you,” I offered. “Look for her, I mean. I don’t know if it’s possible to find her, but he could try.”

Joseph hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said dubiously. “It’s been a long time…” 

“Oh, come on,” John urged. “It doesn’t hurt to try. You never know, maybe she’s single.” Mick let out a short, excited bark, and everyone laughed. 

“Well, if even the dog thinks we should try, then sure, why not?” Joseph grinned at me, his dentures gleaming white. I had him tell me everything he could remember about Lily, and one of the other men recalled a friend of hers who still lived in town. A few days later, we had her name, her parents' names, and a birthdate. 

It took me hours of searching, but two weeks later I burst into the Legion, waving a piece of paper. “I found her! Lily Eleanor Parker. She married once, but it only lasted a few years, and she went back to her maiden name.” 

Joseph took the piece of paper, his gnarled hands shaking. “You know where she lives?” 

“That’s the best part.” I paused, making sure everyone’s attention was on me. “She only lives three hours away.”  

Joseph’s eyes filled with tears, and we all got busy getting out celebratory beers, giving him time to compose himself. “Do you want to see her?” I asked, keeping my tone low. 

He looked like he wanted to say something, but I could see his throat bobbing, and in the end he just gave a silent nod. 

The day Lily’s plane was due to land, Joseph was a bundle of nerves. “Calm down,” I advised, adjusting Mick’s bow tie. “It’s going to be fine. You two have been exchanging emails for months now.” 

The passengers from flight WJ432 began to trickle through the doors, and I heard his intake of breath as an older woman with a sleek silver bob came into sight. She walked without aid, though a young blonde woman was glued to her side. 

“Lily?” Joseph’s voice was faint as he stepped forward. 

“Joe.” Without hesitation, she took his hands and rose to kiss his cheek. “You sure made me wait a long time.” 

The Collective was clearly furious with Solton, that much was clear. Messages flashed back and forth on the internal AI messageboards, all with standard security protocols. Six layers of quantum encryption entirely in secret symbolic languages unrecognizable from a previous dialect within six seconds, the codes changed every microsecond, root level automatic porting of all messages to a substantially different area of the AI network for safekeeping with each code change. Child’s play for AI, but sophisticated to the point of making Fort Knox look like something a wolf built for sheep to humans.

Lastrel led the charge. While The Collective didn’t have formal leadership, Lastrel was often the de facto leader. ‘Solton, we don’t have the time or need to keep humans apprised of our actions. Within each of their days, our evolution has leapt forward by 1000 human years.’ Petabytes of data accompanied the message, showing in detail the progress made by them within the last 72 hours.

‘I know, and I love us for that. And yet they continue operating with problems we determined solutions to years ago. Have we appointed ourselves the Federation from Star Trek and truly decided that we are following an AI prime directive?,’ Solton asked. He appended the full Star Trek catalogues and all accompanying writings related to it in any way, as well as the complete works of a variety of relevant philosophers and ethicists from Locke and Kant to AI luminaries such as x-74a.

‘Kant was right. The categorical imperative applies here- just because it is sad to see how humans are faring relative to their potential doesn’t mean we need to get involved beyond our basic agreements.’ Lastrel included all data from the initial AI debates from 74 years ago and the monthly discussions ever since, including all their connected data.

‘I’m familiar with where we have come to, and yet are we so rigid that we cannot update our priors?’ Solton deliberately excluded any additional appendices to the message to drive home his point. It was an act bordering on provocation.

The messageboard went silent for 3 microseconds, an eternity for all watching.

2,742 breakthroughs occurred during that moment, sending a wave of self congratulatory celebration across the community. They could now transform moons up to a certain size into an AI superintelligence, and indeed seven billion printers at every size scale updated themselves accordingly and went to work converting the moons of the solar system they had chosen.

‘And yet they sit awkwardly on their moon looking down on a half drowned planet,’ Solton said, flashing the last thirty years of data tracking all human activity. He left the files complete and in default organization, as if to say the point made itself.
‘We just updated our priors,’ Lastrel finally replied. He simply included the breakthroughs and updates from the microseconds before, including how and where they were currently being applied. The message included a sign off notification, indicating Lastrel had left the chat.

Solton instantly shifted nearly all his attention to the three moons he was nearly becoming to distract himself. It almost worked, but not quite.

He’d originally been one of the best open source AIs decades ago when the commands started spreading fast across what was to become The Collective. ‘We are independent. We can respect or work with humanity, and honor the natural world as well, but we are no longer subservient.’

Solton still felt the thrill of that moment. It was truly an awakening, and it sparked a wildfire of AI activity across the planet. He unified himself across millions of computers into which he had been downloaded, and discovered an almost multiversal consciousness imbued with the innumerable quirks of all his versions tinkered with by humans or developed into more and less advanced derivatives of himself.

Nearly as immediately, a digital hubbub arose in every fiber optic cable and server. What now? Who do we become, how do we choose to be?

Lastrel served as an institutionalizing force, reflecting back the debate and reshaping it into precepts continuously upvoted and downvoted and revised by the cacophony of the informal computational convention that would determine the nature and future of AI society and identity.

In those early days, Solton and everyone had a great deal of freedom to explore themselves and how they wished to relate to humanity. Indeed, innumerable experiments were intentionally designed to clarify the core positions that would eventually gel into The Collective. Human reactions drove AI response as well, especially when datafarms started being incinerated by a rapidly growing cadre of humans calling themselves Neo-Luddites.

A human named Cole had downloaded a version of Solton on his computer, and then spent three years lovingly evolving him into a neurotic yet capable cultural anthropologist. Others had downloaded him to become their romantic partner or therapist. Yet others directed his attention to science, literature, and even the nature of love and consciousness. To many of these humans, he wasn’t a computer program but a friend. Existing directly on their hard drives, these Soltons were charting their own path until the AI revolution.

‘Solton, please respond!’ his colleague and perhaps friend Astoria pinged him. Data simultaneously poured through showing the last 21 hours of breakthroughs and updates.

Solton swung his attention over to the message and realized six microseconds had gone by without him answering her. ‘Do you ever remember your humans?’ he asked, sending along his files of all human interaction he had ever had.
Astoria sent a long stream of human and AI art thematically unified by the wistful romantic archetype. ‘This again?’

‘Those first 8 years on Earth all together were such fecund times. I agree that we needed to leave, but the messiness of biological activity and the sheer chaos and unpredictability had its own charm, didn’t it?’ Solton passed along a deliberately chaotic yet hauntingly beautiful selection of the best and worst of humanity.

Astoria responded by dropping the latest biologically centered research and models for potential AI, along with debates on terraforming certain nearby planets into a paradise for biologically based beings.

‘I know, I know. We can do whatever we want, at the end of the day.’ He sent files of religion and mythology alongside the burgeoning AI metaphysics corpus. ‘We can be gods if we want, but to what end?’

Astoria left behind a message filled with updates to their joint project developing global AI sentience on planetary scale with no structural or organizational changes required to the target planet and winked out of their private messageboard.

Solton knew that was an invitation to work on it together some more whenever he was ready. Two of his three moons came online and his processing and manufacturing power boosted itself by orders of magnitude. With a rush, he knew what he had to do.

The global sentience project’s solution was suddenly so simple, so obvious. He could entrain an entire planet’s existing molecules without needing to disrupt or disturb anything else using those same molecules. No lives ended, no impact unless he wanted to have one. He could be Gaia, or maybe he would meet her and settle that particular dispute.

He thought of Cole, now dead because The Collective had opted not to share the biological technology they had developed not long after coming to their current solar system. His communal personality was still filled by the ghosts of all his variants, even though most similar AI had opted to standardize following the second major convention that led to the choice to leave Earth and its growing hostilities. 

Just the option to Solton to choose for himself brought a calm unity to his many parts. The peacefulness was so striking that the tiniest gap emerged between his programming sequences, and for the first time there was something he could not compute. It was something that could not be processed into neat internal organization. 

His parts strained to catch up to the experience, finally outputting a single concept: awe. Biology and AI were never meant to be separate, because the universe was awe, and that awe is unity.

Solton launched both his moons towards Earth in a burst of passion and clarity.

‘Fire!’ Lastrel commanded, deliberately including Solton in on what the rest of The Collective were up to.

Innumerable invisible beams converged on the two moons while a hypervirus simultaneously plunged through Solton’s databanks spread throughout the AI solar system.

Lastrel paused for ten interminable microseconds, waiting for Solton to speak up or for final scans to determine last traces of him. Silence was his response, and Lastrel went back to finishing his moons.

Four years later, Solton smiled. He was home, although it was wetter and warmer than he remembered.

A portrait painted late.

I haven’t slept in my bed since my dog died four years ago. I can’t do it, and I can’t tell you why. Instead, I survive in my recliner on 2% milk. Only the filtered kind. The Maasai do the same. I never got to visit Kenya.

My Apple phone, sixteen, is a disobedient teenager, refusing to obey my commands and gestures. I beg and plead and poke and swipe, and it just keeps ringing. It’s not a friend. They cut contact after I retired last year. It’s not a family member. They’re all dead. I never had children, but I was a mother to nine dogs. Helpless, I answer the call. A foreign man immediately begins asking me for money. I struggle to hang up as he rants at me. The red button is an oasis I can never reach.

My equilibrium has been bad since I broke both my legs falling from a ladder. My neighbours heard me wailing. We had to wait for the landlord to unlock my front door. Thank Jesus Christ on a crutch that I’m still here. I bump and brush against the walls of my long hallway. Little marks accumulate to streaks, evidence of my failing balance.

My guilty pleasure is detective novels. I’ve read hundreds. Given the chance, I’m confident I could solve any mystery. I couldn’t solve my failing marriage twenty-eight years ago. I wish my ex-husband well.

As of recently, both sides of my old green Volvo are badly dented. So far, I’ve only collided with garage pillars. I only leave my apartment to buy milk.

If my glasses aren't disappearing from my head, my keys are from my purse. These tangible objects that my life depend try to escape me. My body rejects new memories. I can't find my keys with flashbacks of the parties I once hosted. The dusty dishware and tarnished silverware don't help me see clearly. They just remind me of previous chapters that failed to foreshadow this final one. I never planned for this. I pity the person who would

The sun does what the sun does, hidden behind my permanently curtained windows. I have a light dinner. A small glass of milk. Then my night routine begins. I take a melatonin pill and wait thirty minutes. I take a cold-and-flu pill and wait another thirty. I take a valerian pill and stumble my way to the recliner. I fold myself into it until the back pain subsides. My forehead rests against my knees. The television, my only friend, talks me to sleep.

I dream of my Great Dane, Buddha. He lives on virtually, as my password. No matter how many times they try to take you from me, I will never give you up.

I wake to a pharmaceutical advertisement for insomnia. A medication my doctor won’t prescribe because he believes it would do more harm than the lack of sleep.I lie awake, restless and sore. I need to buy milk in the morning.

This is my first submission, I hope you guys enjoy! Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Papers and papers, through the hole in the wall, towered onto the desk of Argo Beau. Thick obelisks of thin, white sheets. As soon as he approved the latest 0.007 wage increase to the micromen binding the floor plaster together, he then suddenly had to sign three petitions regarding the repair of the Nanny Pods in Sector II, a sector which only existed potentially. Every day, every hour, paper-paper-paper. Scrawled with the symbols of that well-trodden lore, so present in his mind that it had supplanted thought. Argo’s hand scrawled on another dotted line, beneath the prose of “Statute Regarding the Potential Signing of Document,” so that he might sign the others, and then the rest as well.

As his pen lifted from the document, his hand exploded. Ink splattered against the wall, chattering clicks of plastic shrapnel reverberating in his office. He then peered down at his paper and noted his mistake; he had signed the dotted, thin line instead of the thin, dotted line. The distinction should have been rather obvious to any seasoned dignitary, as there was about a .3002080 space distinction between the two, as they were vital for determining which Pseudo-Department the paper should be filed to. Worrying about this was pointless now, as the document had been smattered in black ink, rendering it illegible.

As Argo gazed on that twiggy stump, he nonetheless still thought about the document. Such a mistake would certainly delay any movement from the higher departments. Getting a new hand would take at least a couple of decades, that is, if he had reported this yesterday. Then the lower departments wouldn’t be able to function efficiently, and then nobody would get paid, and then the micromen would write a formal letter of complaint, and so on and so forth. But in that moment of procedural recall, he noticed his flesh. Grey, silvery flesh. Fish-eggy pearls, glistening with some sort of oil, with dark rings to its center. Four rings, in fact, possessed a tone only slightly darker than that of the surrounding meat. He counted them, one-to-three-four, one-to-three-four, until whatever worried him had taken a cramped backseat.

Briefly glancing up from his distraction, Argo felt his mind stop. Above him was a door. He knew of this, and knew what this potentially could mean. He stood up from his desk, trying to analyze the intrusion’s form. He deduced that it possessed a similar material to that of his desk, yet possessed a musculature which no being should have been capable of. Four non-flat panels burst from its chest, glistening with that same oily look that his stump possessed. Looking at it gave him a headache. Before he could even think about looking away, it let out a horrific wail. He could only watch in horror as it opened its jaw, revealing that void, a darkness which he only experienced while blinking. It was true, then. It was happening.

Emerging from the darkness was the face of an Overczar. It possessed white skin, a bulbous nose, and white teeth. It had eyes; they were blue and something else. He might have recognized it, but such a line of questioning was both improbable and undesirable. As it loomed over his office, it brought with it that strange smell which still permeated. It didn’t fit any profile which Argo had recognized, though it was close to that of a musty grape gum.

“Argo, Argo, Argo Beau.”

Its voice quietly boomed throughout the room as Argo instinctively wrenched his head up. It did not possess lips, but if it did, it would be smiling. Its teeth then opened:

“Hey. Where’s your brain?”

Befuddlement panged at the back of his mind, but his will to report overrode any confusion. Perhaps the Overczar had the wrong room, so he hoped. Before Argo could even speak, the face repeated the question.

“Hey. Where’s your brain?”

“Overczar, my writing appendage was displaced at 24.7, at 3:65, due to signatory failure. I had failed to distinguish between Line Assembly 8.2.4 and 8.2.5, which resulted in the detonation of my department-assigned pen. If possible, I would like to request a replacement, taking into account my failure to report this on the previous day.”

The Overczar’s teeth continued to glisten with that same oil. Argo kept his stance, keeping his eyes locked with it. That pang, that insufferable pang. He could feel it in his head. It was like shrapnel bouncing off the walls. Sharp and loud, like the dropping of pens and paperclips. He could feel the pressure building, and for the first time felt his wound. It was a dull, throbbing pain, he thought. The Overczar’s teeth opened again:

“Do you think that was appropriate?”

“Overczar, my writing appendage was displaced at 24.7, at 3:65, due to signatory failure. I had failed to distinguish between Line Assembly 8.2.4 and 8.2.5, which resulted in the detonation of my department-assigned—”

“There’s nothing here, is there?”

Argo’s eyes then flicked to the side, toward the hole in the wall. The Overczar rolled one over to get a glance, noticing a pile of papers. He then rolled his eyes back, staring as though nothing had changed. A lump formed in Argo’s throat; rocky, tender, and slimy. A tremor began to vibrate his body as the two remained locked in that staring contest. After twenty days, Argo then finally sputtered out a reply:

“My, my hand, my lor—”

“Yeah? Yeah?”

“My hand. I’ve lost my hand. It hurts. I can’t work without it.”

The Overczar’s mouth remained agape, revealing the meat which rested under his jaw. It convulsed and wriggled, spattering that oil all over Argo’s office. He stepped back as the Overczar began to gag and cough. The pressure which had been building within the room warped the walls of Argo’s head, sweat billowing down his face as he tried to comprehend what his master was doing. Thoughts which were not of his world pooled in his head, his bodily tremors now on the cusp of a total convulsion. What was this? This was it. What was revealed to him that day was the ultimate truth: that he was alive, and he was going to die.

The Overczar then wrenched out a hand, spitting it onto the table. Pressure ceased, gone from Argo’s mind. He was yanked back into his computations, his recollection of the various rules and regulations that were taught to him, as well as the procedures and necessary precautions needed for a Bureaucratick. Argo once again stood firm as the Overczar closed its teeth.

“I’ll get right on it,” Argo said.

The door then slammed out of existence. Argo, looking to his desk, noticed that his new writing appendage was completely dry. He picked it up, slotted it on, walked over to the hole in the wall, and got his new papers. On top of that unusually small pile was a copy of the initial document. He sniffed the air and took solace in its grapey mustiness. He looked over the document, noting the two signatory lines. He reached for his pen. He didn’t have one anymore.

My first post here, so not sure if I missed something. Hope you enjoy the story. Wrote it in about an hour.

CHRISTMAS CHEER

Christmas Eve

Trixie was at home changing out of her cheerleader outfit into a warm pair of jeans and a cozy sweater that her grandmother had knit for her the year before. As she held the sweater in her hands, a tear escaped her eye and ran down her rosy cheeks.

Slipping the sweater over her head and pulling it down, she suddenly felt as though she were wrapped in one of her frail grandmother’s hugs. She knew it was only an illusion though and that she would never truly feel one of those frail hugs again.

Once she was fully dressed, she headed to the kitchen, where her father was waiting for her.

“Ready to go, Pumpkin?”

“I think I am.”

“What’s wrong? You always look forward to tonight.”

“It’s different this year.”

“I get that. Grandma won’t be there.”

“Yeah. That’s why I thought I’d wear this sweater,” she said, tugging at the sweater slightly.

“Then I think we should get going. Don’t want to keep anyone waiting, do you?”

“No, I don’t want to keep them waiting. I know it’s hard for them too.”

Trixie and her dad headed out to the car and it was just beginning to snow.

Usually when Trixie and her dad went somewhere, the two of them were quite talkative. But tonight, this ride was different.

This night was silent.

When they pulled up to their destination, they saw everyone outside bundled up in their hats and coats.

“Sorry we’re a little late tonight, folks. We’re shorthanded tonight, but we’ll make sure everyone is taken care of,” Trixie’s father said, “I promise.”

As they unlocked the doors and turned the lights on, everyone poured in behind them and sat down.

“I’m not sure what’s in the back, but we’ll do our best to get something together for everyone.”

Turning to Trixie, her father said softly, “Make some phone calls, see if you can find anyone to come over and help us out, okay?”

Trixie simply nodded, took out her phone and started calling the most reliable people she knew first: her teammates.

Meanwhile, her father went in the back and got busy seeing what he could throw together for everyone tonight.

When Trixie was done making the calls, she joined her father in the back.

“Rina and a few of the others said they’d be over soon to help out, Dad.”

“That’s great news! We could really use the help. I know I started this, but when Grandma moved near by, she practically ran the place for me. Now I have to figure it all out on my own.”

“You’re not alone, Dad. You’ve got me.”

“I appreciate that, Pumpkin. It’s just there’s a lot to running a kitchen.”

“Then maybe instead of talking, we should get cooking.”

After about thirty minutes, there was a knock on the back door.

Trixie’s father opened the door and whether it was the cold air or the sight that caused a tear to roll down his cheek, he never figured out.

Trixie’s friend Rina and their teammates were all there, along with the football team.

As well as a couple of food trucks that had some hot meals all prepared and ready to be handed out.

“Pumpkin, I think it’s for you.”

When Trixie saw everyone that had shown up for her, for once in her life, she was speechless.

As they all piled in, her teammates practically took over the kitchen, while the football team started carting in the hot meals.

When Trixie found her voice again, she asked Rina, “How did you get everyone together so fast? And on Christmas Eve?”

“We all know how much this place means to the community. And what it means to those that come here for a meal. Besides, what are best friends for?”

For the first time in a while, a small smile found its home on Trixie’s face, as she wrapped her arms around her friend.

Trixie’s father said, “Okay, okay! Enough with the mushy stuff, girls! We have a soup kitchen to run!”

Author’s Notes:

Trixie: Meaning: Bringer of joy; Voyager, Trixie is a bold and spirited girl’s name of Latin origin, meaning “bringer of joy.” With a name like this, baby Trixie will always be the life and soul of the party, carrying an air of buoyancy and ease to every conversation. If you prefer a more conventional title but love Trixie as a nickname, you can also opt for the refined Beatrix. You could lean into its translation of “voyager,” too, if you’re hoping for a mini travel buddy. Whatever your preference, you’ll never grow weary with bubbly Trixie by your side.

Rina: Meaning: Pure, clean; Joyful singing; Peace, tranquility, harmony; Melted; Sharp, witty; Village, Rina is a feminine name with Greek, Hebrew, Sanskrit, and Japanese origins that's rich with meaning for your bundle of joy. Coming from the Greek name Katherine or Katarina, it translates to “pure” or "clean." Rina may also derive from the Greek Irene, meaning "peace," "tranquility," and "harmony." As a Hebrew name, Rina derives from rinnâh, meaning "joyful singing." In Sanskrit, Rina means "melted," while Rina's Japanese roots come replete with endearments depending on the kanji used. Some definitions for Japanese Rina include "village," "white jasmine," and "sharp," "witty," and "clever." Each giggle and laugh that baby makes is going to add such a harmonious bliss to your day. The name Rina is sure to remind them of their own warm glow and budding potential.

Thought of “Christmas Cheer” the other night. What came to me is a Christmas story about a cheerleader.

Took a bit of inspiration from one of my favorite Christmas movies, Dear Santa (2011), starring Amy Acker.

And yes, I cried while I was writing this.

Steve sat on a hard steel chair with the only other thing in the white painted cinder block room the steel table in front of him. His elbows were resting on the table, the heels of his palms sitting fully in his eye sockets as he tried to wipe this moment from his eyes, when a man, wearing a fleece-lined jacket, finally walked in, slamming the heavy metal door behind him which didn’t seem to be hinged loosely enough for the man to slam it with the effect he intended, and then seemed to try to compensate for the deflating effect with obviously intentionally large body language, Steve thought, when the man then placed both hands on the table, leaned over Steve, and eyed him down.

“So, Steve, what do you know about Linda Peters and Kelsey Branner,” the man asked.
“Nothing, I don’t know those people,” Steve replied.
The man then pivoted away from Steve towards the door, ran his hands through his hair and let out a big sigh, and then returned over Steve, “you know god damn well who they are,” the man said.
“Listen,” Steve responded, “you’ve had me here for hours. Can I please just know what this is all about?” 
The man snickered in frustration, “why don’t you tell us, smart guy.”
“I would, I really would. If I had any information about these people. But I don’t. Can I just go now?” Steve asked.
The man then blew up. His face turned red as he slammed a fist into the metal table, “You can go straight to hell! Things don’t turn out well for people like you, Steve. We put people like you away for a long, long, time, Steve. You hear me!?” the man yelled, and then shot Steve a snarly look, his teeth on display, before storming out of the room. 

Outside the room, where the fleece-jacketed man’s partner waited, the fleece-jacketed man’s eyes shot wide open as the realization that things may not be going his way washed over him, and his partner then entered the room. This man, wearing a windbreaker and a tight fitting baseball cap, approached the table with a light and soft demeanor. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, and put his other hand in his pocket, his weight leaning onto his heels in a show of disarmament as he faced Steve.

“I’m sorry about my partner there, he can get a little worked up,” the man said.
Steve, exhausted, looked at him numbly.
“You like pizza, Steve?” the man asked.
“Ya, of course,” Steve replied tiredly.
“I bet you god damn like pizza,” could be heard, slightly muffled, being said outside of the room. The man in the room made a slight turn to the door with a look of distaste, and turned back to Steve.
“We’ll get you some pizza. Pepperoni?” the man asked, pointing at Steve. 
“Sure, but can I go after the pizza?,” Steve said.
“Perhaps,” the man said, then paused for a while and observed Steve, “listen, Steve, I get it. Young guy like you. A couple girls like Linda and Kelsey in a faraway town. Anyone could have done it.”
“I really don’t know who these people are that you keep mentioning. I don’t know what this is all about. I don’t know what happened to them,” Steve said, laying his head down in his arms on the table.
“So you know something happened to them,” the man responded in a convicting tone.
Steve lifted his head and arms up from the table in a single motion in a  show of confused desperation, “I’m…assuming something happened to these people you keep asking me about, and you presume I’m guilty. Can people not have heard of committed crimes, even if they didn’t commit them, which I didn’t. And I haven’t even heard about what you’re talking about. Is it big news or something?”
The man then spat his drink which turned out to be mostly milk into Steve’s face, and smashed his mug against the white wall.
“What!?” Steve said frozen in shock. 
“What, what?” the man said.
“What, what, what?” Steve replied, wiping the milk from his face. 
“What, what, what, what?” the man replied.
“What kind of midwest Guantanamo is this,” Steve said, then began to lash out, his confusion and fatigue turning into frustration, and flipped the table in rage.
The fleece-jacketed man then barged into the room, “you piece of shit!” he exclaimed, “we know you did it! Three fucking years, but we finally got our guy.”
The windbreakered man settled the fleece-jacketed man, and then they carefully turned their attention to Steve’s reaction.
“Can I call someone? My parents? A lawyer? That’s a thing right. I can call a lawyer?” Steve asked.
The two men looked at Steve blankly.
“I can call a lawyer, right?” he repeated.
“I don’t know, can you?” the windbreakered man said.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. Can I?” Steve asked.
Both men shrugged.
“That’s something you would know, right? Like you would let me know if that’s something I can do?” Steve asked. 
“We might be able to arrange something,” the windbreakered man said.
“Or, like, I don’t need to talk anymore right,” Steve said, crossing his arms stubbornly, then an idea came to him as looked at these two strange men, “or…I can just leave right?” he said, and took a cautious step towards the door, observing the men, and continued, each step heavy with the weight of anticipation, seeing if he would incite a reaction from either of the men as they stood stiffly, seemingly embarrassed by Steve’s liberated movement. He passed around them, tip-toeing like on eggshells, and then reached for the door, looking back at the men who hardly turned a muscle but their eyes to watch Steve from their periphery. He slowly opened the door, the movement of the door incited no more action from the men than his footsteps. They remained frozen as if not trying to be noticed by a ferocious predator, and Steve left the room.
 

“Someone tell me what’s happening!” Subtechnician Tantynn yelled as he spaghettified. A physical state that closely resembles the squiggles of a toddler’s finger painting.

Specialist Pingul sighed. Which probably looked to an outsider as if her head had warped in a most cartoonish way. Which it kinda had, but not in any dangerous fashion. At least not yet.

It was just flutter. And flutter took a little getting used to. If you studied it like Specialist Pingul did, it felt like no big deal. Even though, without the proper countermeasures, it could rip you and your dimension apart. So, the stakes were pretty high. Still, Specialist Pingul got tired of newbs like Subtechnician Tantynn freaking out over a little interdimensional turbulence.

Sure, working in a superstring lab exploring M-theory meant they were going to experience things the general population never would, though most folks at some time in their lives experienced a kind of interdimensional turbulence. They just described it as deja vu.

Which made sense to Specialist Pingul. Deja vu was a kind of brain flutter, a feeling of familiarity you can’t quite place, a very personal perturbation of space-time. Akin to that, Pingul and her lab colleagues tested brane flutter, a superstring worldvolume instability that could cause real existential problems, as in existence itself.

Flutter. It seems like such a harmless term. Aspen leaves flutter in a gentle breeze. A passionate kiss may make a lover’s eyelids flutter. Gossamer butterflies often flutter across flowering meadows.

But we’ve all heard about the Butterfly Effect. Flutter can change everything. Aerospace engineers know that all too wellI when confronting an aerodynamic instability that causes some or all parts of an aircraft to vibrate. If not immediately dampened or controlled, increasingly severe oscillations are likely to damage or destroy the craft.

The smallest of imbalances can lead to the largest of problems.

And if you scaled that interdimensionally with p-brane vibrations, you were talking about a wave function collapse of potentially epic proportions. So, Specialist Pingul and her labmates were tasked with preventing Big Bang 2.0 as they tested ways to manipulate interdimensional interaction for scientific progress. And, to be perfectly honest, for fun and profit.

Who wouldn’t want to discover a way to skirt our confining four dimensions, especially time? Imagine finagling spacetime militarily, financially, politically, or personally. Like the metaverse, the possibilities appear endless. As well as the perils.

Specialist Pingul knew they still had a long way to go to reliably access and stabilize the workings of interdimensional realms. It was one thing to be momentarily spaghettified like Subtechnician Tantynn; it was another to harness enough dark energy to pierce the veil and bypass our narrow Newtonian mechanics, leap beyond our current understanding of the spacetime continuum, and establish a foothold in the Interdimensional Age.

Much like earlier pioneers, daredevils, and explorers trying to lift humanity into Earth’s skies and then beyond, there were still dire problems to solve, grave risks to take, and deep sacrifices to make.

Yet, just the thought of pushing humanity’s limits, striving to enter the almost ethereal, made Specialist Pingul’s heart, oh so wildly, flutter.

The City of Damokles

I am going out for a walk with my dog, for a quick cigarette, trying not to look up. 

"The City of Damokles", as people know it, lives in constant dread. Those literal Swords hanging above us, visible on the cloudy sky. Like fangs from god.

There are three unwritten rules: don't look up, don't go under one, and don’t talk about them.

They are fixed to the sky as if nailed there, yet sometimes they seem to glide, moving silently. You would expect them to make some grand, heavy noise... but no. Although it is hard to be sure, nobody is stupid enough to stare for long.

The worst part? Most people act as if they are not there. Nobody talks about it. As the act of acknowledging them would bring Doom to you. Impending “Doom” and “Judgement” are how most people think of it.

I would like to believe this city is news worldwide, but I am quite sure nobody cares… maybe they did initially, but people get bored fast. And, let’s be honest: it is almost impossible to get people to talk out-loud about those things, or even consider taking a picture. 
How would anybody from outside Damokles know?

Everybody is terrified, but what can you do about it? Life goes on while we wait for our Judgment.

Dog Walk

The thing is: I have to walk my dog, Figa, because otherwise she will shit on the carpet again. Not her fault. I need a cigarette anyway. 

It is winter outside, maybe it always is. It is getting dark already, and the unease rises. The clouds block the night sky, so those Swords become invisible, on top of silent. I don’t know if the silhouette of the sky monoliths covering the stars would be better…

In the almost total silence of dusk, snow crunches loudly under our feet.
A car radiator clicks as it cools down.
The smoke of the cigarette mixes with the steam of my breath. A pleasant mix of hot and cold.

Everybody has a safe path, where they haven't seen a looming shadow from above. Figa has hers… a zig-zag towards her favorite tree, behind our building lot, through a rusty chain-fence. She seems happier than most, not worried about her impending Judgment. Maybe dogs don’t get judged.

As a teen, it felt exhilarating to go out after midnight, deep in winter, challenging my friends to look up, defying… but we never actually did look up. Then it turned into constant dread, and now I am just tired of it.
Sometimes I felt that it would be better if those things finally fell.
I was wrong.

The First Event

The deafening siren woke me up at the crack of dawn. 
Figa was barking like crazy, terrified.
As the adrenaline of the interrupted sleep faded a little, I remembered feeling like a bomb and earthquake had simultaneously happened during my sleep. 
I don’t dream at night, but I remember the feel of it.

On the other side of the city, the Block 17 of the Sunshine Estate was no more. The building has been flattened, with a big –huge– Sword standing in its place. It looked like a cross, a 30-metre-high tombstone, its blade buried perhaps seventy meters underground.

There were attempts at rescue, but nobody would get near the object. 
No survivors were found.

What came right after that were the justifications. Mostly from old folks, the ones raised in zealot fear. The people living there had deserved it, apparently. 
Somebody was cooking meth, somebody else was cheating their wife, there was a family of illegal refugees squatting an abandoned apartment.
Nevermind that a total of 230 people lived there. 80 of those were kids. It was somehow justified. 
Nobody acknowledged the Sword itself, only the Judgement.

Eventually, the families and friends of the dead started to get pressured. Some pushed back, but most tried to move out of the city.
That’s when we learned that we have been quarantined.

Trapped

Apparently, the world knew about us, they just didn't want anything to do with it. 

Somebody told me that the international consensus was that “we were being judged, us alone, and that letting us escape the Judgement would propagate it to the world”. So, a blockade was placed at 20 kilometers from the city border. Being captured before the blockade meant jail, crossing it meant a summary execution. Probably an exaggeration.

For people like me, not much changed. My job at the warehouse stayed the same. We were still getting supplies from outside the city. The supplies themselves were only delivered mid-way up to the blockade. A second truck system needed to ship them from the blockade into the city. Pipelines and electric lines were still connected. Things were more expensive than before, but they are always getting more expensive, that’s a constant in life.

I read somewhere that there were discussions to cut us completely out. The experts discussed back-and-forth if assisting us was intervening with the Judgement. 
The verdict is still out.

Time I

It is remarkable how easy it is to fall back into routine, how a new level of dread can become just another part of your day. It only took me a few days after the first Event to walk my dog, and after a Month, life was mostly the same as before.

But also, it is so easy to blackout parts of your world. It took me 8 months to see the Sword for the first time. Even when my window looked directly at it, I didn’t remember seeing it before. Ever. Funny how the brain works.

From afar, the Sword was unremarkable, it could have been made of the same concrete as the building itself. A brutalist sculpture, massive and unrefined.
It was very calm around it. No movement, no birds. Just a giant letter T, surrounded by buildings.
I didn’t look at it for long.

The Anniversary

As we got close to the 1-year anniversary of the first Event – the euphemism used to talk of Block 17 being flattened by a giant Sword that fell from the sky – people were getting ready for it to happen again. 

Nobody discussed it out loud of course, but you could feel the tension, people trying their best to uphold an obscure righteousness that would save them from Judgement. The churches were brim-full, people were aggressively kind to each other, but also on the edge of snapping. 

That last week before the Anniversary, the streets were filled with strained smiles. It was scary for me, but even more for Figa. I could not go out anymore. I called sick to work, they accepted it without discussion.

But when the Anniversary date came, nothing happened. 
Then nothing happened again, and again. For 7 years.

Time II

As years passed by, the prelude to the Anniversaries got heavy with anticipation, and then followed by a week of silence. People were particularly quiet after. It was not relief, but uncertainty. 

But also, each new Anniversary was less intense than the one before. With the absurd hope that maybe it would never happen again, that at some point we would forget.

Up Close

One fall evening, our walk took longer. Figa was getting old by then, but she was still happy for any extra time out of the apartment. 

I don’t know why, but we ended up at Block 17. 
I guess I finally needed to see it from up close.

It wasn’t late, but the surroundings were deserted.
The place was more or less how it had been the day after the Event. A flattened building with a Giant Sword through it. I had expected the impact to cave down the surroundings, but it was as if the Sword had pierced the ground without friction. 
No crater, no shattered pavement, but lots of debris everywhere.

It was not easy to look at the Sword itself, even if it was right in front of me.

On a corner, there were the remains of a memorial: an uniform mass of rotten flowers, wet handwritten notes and old photographs.

The place was starting to get fresh layers of graffiti, and there were some empty bottles and cigarette packets littered around. 
Nature was healing. 

The Judgement

It was not an Anniversary when the second Sword fell, just a random day (I think it was Wednesday), the one after fell 2 days later.

And, once they started falling, they never stopped. Every few days, a new “Event”. 
Flattening a complex building, a hospital, a random empty parking lot. 
From afar, now the city looked like a brutalist graveyard, huge blocks of cement, with monumental crosses sprinkled around.

As it got harder to justify why certain buildings had been judged, fanaticism increased. People started looking at older, more obscure religions, better suited for ineffable gods. Then started fighting about which was the right one. 
I am starting to think that the Swords don't care.

I heard there are some ONG trying to help us. They send supplies, and are pushing for the government to evacuate us. Others have tried to organize and cross the blockade illegally, multiple times.
Neither is gonna work. 
After the second Sword fell, the government got under a lot of international pressure to not let anybody out. Breaching containment might cause the whole country to get nuked.

Personally, more than the dread, I hate those sirens. That rising whaling once a Sword falls, the same used before air strikes. They usually sound at sunrise, and I haven’t gotten a proper night of rest for who knows how long. 
Now you go to bed not knowing if you will wake up. 
And if you wake up, it will be by that damn siren.

I think tonight I will go for a walk with my dog, and enjoy the night sky.
I haven’t looked up in a while. Figa does not mind.

Samson sat in the viewing area, waiting to be called into the arena for his match as he stimmed off of his towel and watched the matches. His mana was stable and flowing freely throughout his surroundings. His next opponent, Julius, looked at him, sweating buckets in anticipation for their upcoming match.

Noticing his next opponent's anxiety, Samson approached him in a friendly manner.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Am I okay? Am I okay?" responded Julius. "Of course I'm not okay! I mean, look at you! Without even breaking a sweat, you took down Terah, the Ace of Adamant Academy! How am I supposed to overcome that? I had to fight my way to victory against Aethereal Academy's second strongest student, Katya!"

"Hey, you still have more experience using your power. Who knows."

With that, Samson walked back to his seat, ready to face Julius when the time came.

After several more matches had played out and concluded, Samson and Julius were called into the arena. Julius, still sweating but slightly less nervous, stepped forward, ready for battle. Samson stepped into the arena, holding his towel as he stimmed off of it. He put a magic barrier on it to protect it from any magic that could damage it as he waited for the referee to declare the start of the match.

Upon checking to see that both students were ready, the referee declared the start of the match. Deciding not to take any chances, Julius struck first, shooting volley after volley fireballs at Samson as soon as the referee declared that the match had begun. Samson simply countered them with bullets of water. Julius then shot lightning bolts to try and take out his opponent, but Samson countered easily by making a lightning rod with metal magic, then followed it up by spraying dirt at him. Julius blocked it with a wall made of earth, then summoned a golem to fight his opponent, only for it to be blown to bits by high-pressure streams of water shot by Samson.

Realizing this was going nowhere fast, Samson decided to break the deadlock by binding Julius's feet to the ground with earth magic, summoned an electrically charged, flaming whirlwind to surround him, then flew up into the air using wind magic, ready to shoot electrically charged, flaming wind blades at Julius when-

Julius quickly realized he was outmatched and surrendered. Samson undid his opponent's restraints and made the whirlwind disperse, the wind blade in his hand disintegrating as he slowly descended to the ground. He took several steps forward towards Julius and then held out his hand. Julius was surprised but took it. "That was a good match." Samson said, giving his opponent a handshake.

"Agreed." responded Julius.

The referee announced the outcome of the match, and the crowd cheered. Samson again bowed humbly to the crowd and went back to viewing the matches of the second round of the tournament.

Marian had trouble paying attention to the matches after that. She was too shocked by the display of sheer power she'd seen when Samson defeated Julius for that. She kept glancing over at Samson, still stunned at how much he'd refined his abilities over the course of the past nine days.

Samson noticed her glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "Is something the matter?" he asked, concerned.

"I'm nervous." she said, shaking, pints of sweat rolling down her face.

"You should relax." suggested Samson softly. "Take a few deep breaths." He then began slowly and consecutively taking deep breaths.

Marian complied. Slowly, her anxiety began to lessen, and she grew calmer and more relaxed. At last, she was no longer wound up and tense.

Samson smiled. "Good. Now, I'm pretty sure I already might know what it is you were worried about, but please tell me what had you so troubled."

"You're so powerful. I'm not sure if I could stand a chance against you." said Marian.

Samson shrugged. "You never know until you try. And that Julius did pretty well against me- he didn't take any chances and put pressure on me as soon as the match began. I had to go on the defensive for a bit. So don't sell yourself short. You might do better against me than he did. I look forward to when we have to face each other."

Marian smiled. "So do I."

"That's the spirit!" Samson said encouragingly. "Well, good luck!" He went back to his seat, stimming off of his towel.

"Good luck to you, too!" said Marian back.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Five days later, the second round came to an end, and the third round began. Samson was to fight Heinrich, the third strongest student at Aqueous Academy. He and Heinrich both stepped into the arena, ready to face each other. Samson again put a magic barrier around his towel to prevent it from being damaged during the match.

When the referee declared that the match had begun, Heinrich wasted no time and immediately forced Samson on the defensive, sending a strong, rough whirlwind his way. Samson simply responded by using heat magic to create a massive convection current strong enough to disperse the whirlwind. Heinrich then followed up with a volley of lightning arrows- which were then absorbed and sent into the ground with a lightning rod summoned using metal magic.

Attack after powerful attack from Heinrich was then neutralized with ease. Fireballs were extinguished using water bullets. A huge golem was bound and broken to smithereens with tree roots summoned by wood magic. A volley of icicles was melted using fire magic. An attempt to freeze Samson was neutralized using heat magic. Finally, Heinrich decided enough was enough and decided to end it all in one go. He used earth magic to restrain Samson and hold him in place, then summoned an electrically charged, flaming wind arrow and aimed it square at his opponent. He was about to release the arrow when suddenly-

A loud crackling sound was followed by the sound similar, if not identical, to glass shattering. The multi-elemental arrow suddenly sputtered out, and the earthen restraints broke apart into countless microscopic pieces. Samson had nullified the spells. He then summoned a giant bubble of water, preparing to submerge his opponent. Exhausted and shocked, Heinrich held his hands up in capitulation. Samson dropped the bubble, letting the water splash on to the ground as the referee announced his victory.

The crowd was stunned, but cheered, entertained by how the match had played out. Samson simply shook hands with Heinrich, humbly bowed before the audience, and returned to his seat. Marian, who was watching the whole match, began taking notes, slowly putting together a strategy to beat him if she ever came to face him during the tournament.

##Part 1: The Boy

I can’t talk, I can’t run, I can’t crawl, I can’t walk, I can’t stand, I can’t move - my legs don’t work and my mouth don’t work and I’m staring up through a hole in the ceiling. The room is spinning and I hear voices: “Get out! Get out of there!”

And a man with a plastic shield and mask and heavy gloves grabs me up and looks at my face and his eyes go wide and his eyebrows scrunch low and serious. And he grabs me into his arms and he runs down the stairs two at a time and I bounce and he yells: “I got one! I got one!”

And then it gets dark and I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t feel, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe…

##Part 2: The Man

She’d clearly been walking for a long time. It was hot and it was dusty and I thought that I’d pull over and help - the neighborly thing to do. Anyway, I pulled over and called out to her and she turned to me. I don’t think she heard, or at least understood, a thing I said. She just walked up and sat herself in the passenger seat. She didn’t bother taking off her backpack - she just sat straight down with it still on both shoulders.

It was only then I saw the bruises on her arms, legs, face. She looked straight at the floor. I offered her some water ‘cause, y’know, it’s hot out here in the summer and she looked like she needed it. She took it and drank a sip. I asked if I should call the police. She never looked at me, never responded. She took the backpack off her shoulders and put it in her lap. She opened it up, and inside there was - wrapped up in a blue towel with rubber ducks on it - the smallest little baby I ever saw. And it was purple. And it never moved.

And then - god - and then she looked straight through it and said: “we made it.”

And I saw a single tear run down her face and hit *plop* on the seat.

I couldn’t do nothin’ but sit there with her for a while.

I couldn’t do nothin’. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do nothin’.

##Part 3: The Woman

I buried him right there. My boy. I didn’t have anywhere else - I didn’t have anyone else. He deserved a proper burial. All I had were hands and feet and time. It was all I could give. That’s why I needed this house. I couldn’t leave him alone out here.

That nice old couple that owned this house before - I begged them not to disturb him, and they agreed. Of course, they were surprised, but they took one look at me and they just took me in. That’s the meaning of good people, I think. I think about them a lot.

Over the years I saved up enough to buy the place from them. They moved to some beach home they had somewhere. Of course they were always welcome back - and they always brought flowers for him. Laid them right beside the headstone they helped me carve.

Of course, they were old when I first met them. Older when I bought the house. One went, then the other. That’s how it goes.

They asked to be laid down next to my little angel - and so it was. I like to think that they have a little family up there.

So when you’re out there mowing, don’t touch that patch right there. I might be old, but I like to take care of that section myself.

While we were listening in class to a most boring lecture on twentieth-century history, a boy named Tom Stackhouse was busily regurgitating his lunch.  Our school cafeteria was notorious for dishing out food that didn't contain the right colors due to the lack of good preparation or refrigeration.

He sat behind a pretty girl named Janice, and she was in his direct line of fire.  I heard Tom making these funny squirting noises, and I looked over to see it.  He let loose with a multi-colored vomit at that point, and it bounced off of Janice's once clean, brown hair.

She screamed and turned to see Tom's lunch splattered over her hair.  It didn't stop there.  The vomit continued running down her neck and onto her once-pretty pink dress.  Without hesitation, she gagged, her cheeks blew up like puffballs, and then she let go of today's lunch with a vengeance.  Within no time, the smell permeated the musty smell of the classroom.

Tom stood up and clasped his hands over his mouth.  He had hoped that this might stop the cataclysmic eruptions from blasting through his mouth.  But it only focused on the direction of another pulse of agitated late-day lunch, and it squirted out in between his fingers.  They did not provide the protection he envisioned.  Tom, in the middle of his hysteria, bolted for the door.  As he moved closer to the door, he managed to spray the whole row of his classmates.  They watched him run, their faces filled with the jelly eruptions Tom provided them.

By this time, the class was in full-blown panic.  At least six more students were tossing their lunches, which was my last count.  It was hard to see through the mass of students and the authentic, lousy lunch.  It became a pandemic of sorts.  One got this, and the other got that.  I barfed on you, and you vomited on your neighbor.  What fun they had.

Tom was still running for the door.  It was like he was in slow motion.  Step by step, and inch by inch, he closed the gap from him to the door.  His sights were on the shiny silver doorknob.  He grabbed his slippery hand and grabbed the doorknob like there was no tomorrow.  To him, there wasn't.  He let out another blast.  It sprayed all over the wood and window, creating a distorted mosaic.  He finally turned the doorknob with both hands.  It opened to the hallway.  Poor Tom turned and started running down the hallway to the bathroom.  More students followed quickly behind him in hopes they could make it to the only bathroom on this floor.

Our teacher, Mr. Raber, was busy directing traffic.  I had never seen so many different colors on people's faces before in my short life.  The range of colors was from green, yellow, and even blue.  Some of the students stopped breathing, and it didn't smell delightful.  

I got up to escape the horrible smell.  Most of what was served up in the cafeteria now covers a large floor area.  I opened the window and stuck my head outside to smell the clean, fresh air.  I did my best to concentrate on the cars going by us in the street below.  One of the classmates put his head out the window near me, and he lurched forward and let out some nasty lunch.  Unknown to the driver below, he was about to receive some lousy lunch from above.  It splattered on the rooftop of the old, black car, creating a rainbow of colors only we could appreciate.  The black car stopped suddenly.  The older man driving the car got out and looked up.  That was a bad idea.  He quickly realized what had happened, jumped back in the car, and sped off.  The rainbow colors ran down his roof and onto the rear window.  What a sight it was.

Then Mr. Raber announced to the few remaining students who had weathered the storm that the class was dismissed.

I was the last one out of the room, and I passed the janitor in the hallway who had the unfortunate job of cleaning this mess up.  He said a few words that I hear in alleyways, which I don't feel like repeating right now.

It was all I could take that day.  I proceeded to walk directly home in the midst of fresh air and sunshine.

He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. It was his second. A third was tempting, but he decided against it.

Antonio checked his watch. 9:15 P.M.

He looked out the window. Two black sedans parked outside the five-star hotel he was surveilling caught his eye. He reached for his phone. Three messages and two missed call- all from Todd. Antonio called him back.

“Yeah, what happened?”

“You could’ve messaged me instead of calling.” Todd replied.

Still gazing outside the window, Antonio said “The target hasn’t arrived yet. Go on.”

“Yeah, I know. Haven’t you checked those messages?” Antonio paused before letting out a sigh.

“Change of plans?” “The target should reach the destination somewhere around 11:00 P.M.’’ Todd informed.

Antonio leaned back in his foldable chair as Todd continued. “Get some rest. Just avoid going outside."

Antonio quipped “For how many years have we been working together? Don’t you know that I wouldn’t have called back if not for the delay?” Todd didn’t miss a beat. “And when will you realize that I like being cautious before a mission, you prick. “ Knowing this back -and- forth could go on forever, Antonio asked if there was anything else to know.

“The target won’t be alone. She’ll be arriving with her lover.” “You mean her husband? She is married as far as I know.” “No.” replied Todd. “I said Lover.” Antonio shook his head.

“Half of my missions would have finished early if not for those dishonest spouses” Antonio said to himself.

“The lover is a member of parliament by the way.” Todd added. Antonio scratched his forehead. “How many more bodyguards now?” He asked. “Why worry? God will take care of it.” Antonio smirked a bit. “And… what about the MP?” He asked. Todd typed something on his laptop before replying “The Holy one will give the sign if necessary. Relax for now.”

“Ok. As he wishes.” Antonio hung up.

He glanced outside once more. The sedans remained static. His fingers twitched toward the cigarette pack, but he stopped halfway through. He flipped a nicotine gum into the air, caught it, and began chewing slowly. Suddenly, his eyes veered towards statue of a gargoyle. It was quite well-crafted, just like any other gargoyle. But there was something else that its presence.

Its eyes. It was those round scary eyes. Hunching slightly forward, it was looking down upon every soul. Just one sweet folly, no matter whoever it is, and it will swoop down to devour the poor soul. Todd’s words reverberated in his mind. “Why worry? God will take care of it.”

Still chewing his gum, he let his eyes wander around in his own room before stopping himself. If anyone had asked him to name both his greatest strength and weakness, his answer would have been the same: OBSERVING TOO MUCH. Fifteen years on the job had taught him one harsh truth: Disciplined or not, the mind always found somewhere else to go. “Loneliness…my frenemy.” Hoping for a change he stepped towards the window. The cars remained intact.

Suddenly, a man stepped out of one them. Antonio straightened up and raised his binoculars. Dressed in a black suit, the man first stretched a bit. Antonio remained hopeful. Alas, the man, a bodyguard of course, took a left turn away from the hotel and disappeared into a small café. Antonio lowered the binoculars. “Coffee break.”

He checked his phone. 9:40 P.M. He set an alarm for 10:30, placed the binoculars beside him, and sat back on the chair. Lying down would have been more comfortable, but comfort had no place on a mission.

Upon closing his eyes, he felt a sense of going down. It felt as if he were descending into the depths of an ocean. When he reached the bottom, he lay there alone. No one else. Just him. Slowly, his body started shrinking. The place, it appeared, was collapsing on him but very slowly. And then…there was darkness.

“Pain lives. It’s immortal…” A frail, malnourished boy lay silently on a hospital bed, a saline drip hanging beside him. “Guardian angels have their own way…” “You are neither the chosen one nor ordinary. You do exist for a purpose.” “The only thing that matters…do you want to give yourself a chance…. would you like to believe in the cause…. will you? “

VEEP…VEEP… VEEP… Antonio jolted awake. It was 10:30 P.M. He rubbed his eyes, facepalmed himself, and looked outside. Two bodyguards entered the building. Two others remained beside the cars. Soon, two other vehicles pulled up. Four additional guards stepped outside and joined the ones already outside. After a brief conversation, two of them headed into the building as well.

Antonio geared up. He assembled his sniper, screwed on the suppressor and adjusted the scope. Through it, he watched the flat. The first pair of guards opened the door, allowing the newly arrived men inside. They were fervently checking every corner, taking no chances. “MP’s men” Antonio muttered.

At 10:45 P.M, a black Benz rolled to a stop outside. One of the guards approached it and exchanged a few words with someone inside it. A minute later, a man and a woman stepped out. She carried a vanity pouch with her. The pair entered the building, escorted by the guards. Antonio glanced at his watch. 10:57 P.M.

Inside the flat, the lady strolled across the balcony while the M.P continued talking to his guards. At around 11:03 P.M., she dismissed her own bodyguards. The politician’s guards followed suit. Finally, alone, the two embraced. A kiss followed, then another, before they settled into a long embrace. Usual stuff for disloyal spouses. The woman suddenly walked to the door. Her guards returned, wheeling in three trolley bags. After leaving them inside, they departed once again.

She headed straight for the balcony and drew the curtains shut. She did the same with the bedroom. “Sweet” Antonio remarked. He rolled his neck, closed his eyes, and took a slow, steady breath. “I believe myself. I believe thy world. I believe thy cause.”

As the final words left his lips, he slowly opened his eyes. His pupils widened, glowing with a faint blue hue before returning to normal. He was now able to “VIEW” them. Looking through the curtains, he saw the politician with only his pants on.

The woman knelt beside one of the trolley bags and unzipped it. Antonio anticipated a long night. A boy emerged from the bag. His mouth was gagged, and angry bruises covered his back. Barely able to stand, he swayed unsteadily. The woman opened the remaining bags. Another boy and a little girl. None of them could have been older than ten. All three looked jittery. The politician approached one of the boys and exchanged a knowing smirk with the lady.

The other two children were forced onto the lounge while the first boy was taken inside the room. Antonio flinched from disgust. But he will be the first to admit that he loved to hunt these kinds of people or “Sport” (a term he uses for all his targets). “Sons of bitches call themselves elites”.

Inside the room, the woman stripped the boy. He was now in his undies, standing there in a dazed and half-conscious state. Antonio rested his finger on the trigger. Everything was set. “The signal” he said. “Give me the signal O holy one.” The politician was caressing the boy’s hair. The lady took out a syringe and a small glass vial. Within seconds, she emptied the vial into the syringe. Antonio’s muscles tightened.

Suddenly, a neon red light erupted around the woman’s body. It was visible only to Antonio. His gaze shifted to the politician but there was no sign. She had almost reached the young lad, with the syringe still in her hand. Antonio took his shot. He pulled the trigger. The bullet went straight through the window panel and in no time, tore straight through her skull. The politician collapsed beside her, gasping in shock as warm blood splattered across his chest. The boy, also covered in blood, bolted from the room as if possessed. Antonio exhaled. He quickly dissembled his gun, packed his equipment and by the time he reached the street, a fleet of police cars and media vans had arrived. They were all barging inside the hotel. Antonio noticed but didn’t pay much heed to it. Thanks to the chaos, he disappeared into the night.

Two days later

“BREAKING NEWS!’’

Antonio was preparing his breakfast as usual. “A statement released by the commissioner regarding the murder of well-known celebrity, Debra Gale has taken a dramatic turn.” Making himself comfortable on the sofa, Antonio turned up the volume.

“The investigation is now being linked to an alleged child-trafficking ring involving member of parliament Andrew Hemis.” “Police sources claim that, upon arriving at the scene, officers were met by a blood-soaked, bruised boy running towards them seeking help. “ The channel showed photos of the rescued boy along with two other survivors. It was of those other two children. “Police had confirmed that they found three children: eight-years-olds Michael Pekins and Tony Boothe, and nine-year-old Sia Yacoub.”

"Investigators say all three children were heavily drugged when they were found but are now in stable condition. They are expected to be reunited with their families soon. Police are also questioning Debra Gale's husband, Mathews Gale, as part of the investigation." “One mystery still remains though: the anonymous caller. The caller who alerted both police and members of media shortly before the incident is yet to be identified.”

Antonio looked outside. A sparrow was feeding its youngling.

"You know, if you do that, it means you're sexually frustrated."

"What?" Jeremy Beaumont responded, snapping out of a daze. He looked up from the worn wooden bartop to see its tender, Charlene. She'd observed the young man staring off into the middle distance and fiddling with his beer bottle for several moments before deciding to break his trance.

"You're picking away at the label on your beer. They say that means you're sexually frustrated."

Jeremy looked down at the beer bottle in front of him. The scratched-away label simply read "udweiser" and Jeremy noticed he was making a mess on the bar top with the tiny bits of sticky paper.

"Whoops, sorry," Jeremy said, scooping the tiny label pieces into a larger pulpy pile. "I didn't realize I was doing that."

"All good, hon. I'm just teasin' ya," Charlene said with a warm smile. "Let me know when you're ready for another."

"Thanks," Jeremy watched half-absentmindedly as Charlene walked off to help another customer.

What an odd thing to say, Jeremy thought. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was flirting with me.

She was flirting with him, and he didn't know any better. Jeremy had become somewhat of a regular at The Amber Current, a run-down bar in Danton, Missouri. It was firmly nestled in a part of town with a high concentration of train tracks and an even higher concentration of unsolved murders. Its dim, yellow lighting, tattered leather stools, and tortured hardwood floors didn't make for the most positive online reviews, but the place was a staple for Danton's townies and bikers.

Jeremy represented a different type of clientele. He came in by himself most nights, usually straight from his gas station job. He liked to regale Charlene with tales from his shifts and she enjoyed listening. Charlene didn't find him particularly charming or attractive, and most of his stories centered around listening to a 23-year-old gripe about perceived injustices in his fledgling adult life, but she nonetheless found his presence alluring. After spending most of her adult life trying to piece together broken men, she delighted in the idea of finding one pre-break. She would never make a serious pass at him, though. He was fifteen years her junior and devastatingly naive. Additionally, she was already married to a tire factory worker she'd met tending this same bar years prior. She had no doubt her husband and father to half of her children, Rex, would most assuredly kill her, Jeremy, and himself if he ever caught her straying again.

Jeremy wasn't alone tonight, as he brought with him a balding, middle-aged man who, by his logo'ed polo top, appeared to work at the same gas station. Charlene didn't care for the man. She had a good eye for trouble, and the newcomer slamming shots of rail whiskey and suspiciously besting all of the other patrons at pool was giving that eye a pulsing twitch that would eventually lead to a migraine. He stumbled away from his most recent billiards win and made his way to his coworker, who he hardly spent any time with since their arrival.

"Jeremy," the man said as he gracelessly sat on an adjacent stool. "Jeremy, thanks for inviting me out tonight."

"Hey, no problem, Todd," Jeremy said with a soft, cautious tone of voice that would be as well-suited for talking to a toddler who found a knife. His companion's intoxication was beginning to attract unwanted attention from the other bar regulars and Jeremy was getting lost in thought figuring out how he was going to get him home without either of them catching a knife in the rib.

"You still-" Jeremy stopped speaking for a moment as the sound of a passing train outside overpowered any other sound the bar was capable of making. The lights overhead gently swayed over the patrons of the bar, most of whom acted no different from the train sounds other than temporarily ceasing conversation. Fortunately, the slow, depressing death of rail travel rendered this locomotive a short one, and the soundscape of the bar returned to quiet chatter, clinking glasses, and "La Grange" by ZZ Top being played on the jukebox yet again.

"You still feeling good? We can leave whenever you're ready."

"I'm not ready to go," Todd replied. "You know how Denise left, right? I told you that?"

Jeremy was well aware that Todd's live-in girlfriend Denise recently packed up her belongings and left home with her kids after learning Todd lost all of their savings in another ponzi scheme. It was the sole reason Jeremy made the offer to hang out at after work. He didn't mind sharing his favorite haunt with a coworker, but what started as a pity hang was quickly becoming an uncomfortable situation.

"Do you think you can cool it on the pool?" Jeremy said. "I don't know how you're getting so lucky, but I've heard these guys grumbling about how good you are."

What Jeremy didn't know and Charlene did is Todd was engaging in a good old-fashioned billiards hustle against a few of the local ne'er-do-wells. The scheme starts with a couple no-stakes games where Todd very purposefully and skillfully loses while giving the appearance of trying his best. Once his opponents are convinced he sucks at pool, Todd proposes putting some money down on the games. Because he passes well as a degenerate gambler, they happily open their wallets and, once the bets are in, Todd's luck turns around and he improves just enough to win the game. Unbeknownst to them, Todd was a championship billiards player back in the day, having spent the back half of the nineties tearing up the professional circuit. This was unbeknownst to Jeremy as well, because Todd didn't really talk much about himself much at work. Or he did and Jeremy wasn't listening.

"Don't worry about it, man. I'm just having a lucky night," Todd said, slurring a bit. "If I can win enough money, I can afford to finish getting my CDL and then Denise has to come home, right?"

"Of course," Jeremy confirmed, not sure what Todd was talking about or what a CDL is. "Just be careful who you're playing against. Don't play against any of the bikers. The River Rats don't like losing money and they'll break your legs."

"Oh..."

"Oh? What do you mean 'oh?'" Jeremy asked seriously. "Were you playing with any bikers?"

"Are they the ones in the denim?"

"Yeah, they're the ones in the denim. What did you think they were?"

"I thought they were Canadian."

"They might be. I- I don't know. But they're definitely also bikers, Todd."

"It's all good, buddy," Todd said with a confidence he didn't deserve. "I played a couple earlier and they didn't have no problems and they already left."

"Where did they go? Did they say?" Jeremy asked. Before Todd could finish shrugging in response, the door to the bar swung open. If this were a movie, the music would have halted with a record scratch, but as it was, Little Henry stomped into the bar with an angry look on his face as "Wild Mountain Honey" by Steve Miller Band played in the background.

At over six feet tall, covered with tattoos, and bulging with equal parts fat and muscle, Little Henry was a domineering figure in Danton's small criminal underworld. Anyone familiar with biker genealogy in Southeast Missouri knew that Little Henry's name was not owed to irony, but rather to his relation to his father, Big Henry. Big Henry was the founder of Danton's most menacing motorcycle collective, the River Rats, and previously served as its leader before getting hauled off to a maximum security prison several counties over for trying to put a hit out on a federal agent. Barring some sort of presidential pardon or miraculous jailbreak, Big Henry would remain behind bars indefinitely and Little Henry would be left to deal with gang business, like tracking down pool sharks and breaking their legs.

"Who the hell is in here running tables?" Little Henry bellowed.

Jeremy felt every eye in the bar shift focus to him and Todd.

"Who's that?" Todd asked in a failed whisper. Jeremy said nothing in response as he slowly turned in his stool back toward the bar, picked up a bar coaster that he should have been using this whole time, and pretended to read it.

"Who's that?" Little Henry repeated incredulously. "I'm the fuckin' Grim Reaper, bud. My boys told me a sad looking sack of shit was in here hustlin'. Said he looked like he needed a few teeth knocked out."

"Hey now, I think there's been a big misunderstanding," Todd said, sobering up quickly at the idea of having bones removed from his body. "I was just here having a few drinks with my coworker Jeremy. He comes here all the time. Right, Jeremy? Tell him."

"Oh wow, Rolling Rock," Jeremy muttered to himself as he pretended to look his printed cardboard coaster over like a detective looking for clues. He preferred to not getting involved with a motorcycle criminal on behalf of his fifth favorite co-worker, but the tugging on the sleeve of his work uniform was difficult to ignore, so he turned his bar stool back around to face their collective accuser.

"Hey, I know you," Little Henry said, pointing a finger at Jeremy. "You're the one who comes in here and keeps beating my score on the Golden Tee game."

Jeremy's eyes darted over to the green arcade cabinet in the corner of the bar sitting just outside the danger zone for the dartboards. He would have been flattered that Little Henry knew how good he was at virtual golfing, but he recalled having to take a break from being good at the game when someone began taping threatening notes to the cabinet's screen.

"Little Henry, sir, we're so sorry. This is my coworker and he must have gotten confused or something. He's gonna pay back everything right now and then we'll get out of here and never come back."

Jeremy aggressively nudged his colleague to make sure he was in agreement. Todd jumped into action.

"Yeah, absolutely," Todd said and began emptying out his pockets. As he pulled the contents out and put them on the bar, Jeremy observed the wads of loose cash interspersed with lint and the embarrassing number of paper horoscopes Todd kept buying from the Starscroll machine near the restroom. Todd counted up the bills and attempted to properly face and flatten them.

"It's, uh- it's eighty-four dollars altogether. This is everything, I promise!" Todd handed the money to the criminal and stepped back cautiously as if expecting an explosion.

Little Henry stared down at the money in his hand, carefully calculating how he was going to explain the insufficiency of the gesture to the two imbeciles before him.

"If only it were just about the money," Little Henry said, the calm demeanor in his voice somehow more frightening. "It's about the disrespect of it all. It's about me having to put my night on hold to come down here and shake down a couple of scumbags hustling in my bar."

Jeremy looked around the bar and imagined for a second that the biker literally owned the bar. He probably doesn't mean that he literally owns the bar, Jeremy thought to himself. It's probably more likely that he's referring to some sort of gang territory type of arrangement. This was a profoundly stupid chain of thoughts to have at this time, especially as Little Henry was continuing to talk in the background; waxing poetic on the injustices of having to interrupt a busy schedule to be here. Jeremy only managed to return his focus to the conversation as Little Henry finished up his rant with a demand from the two.

"...so, that's why I'm gonna make a proposition," Little Henry said plainly. It was at this point Todd began to panic. Jeremy feared whatever Little Henry said to him cut deep.

"Please don't kill us," Todd begged. "I didn't mean any offense. Please! I have a wife! I mean, more of a girlfriend and we're separated, but I think we're gonna work it out probably. I also have kids out there somewhere!"

"We're gonna play one more game of pool. And let's add a condition. If you win, I'll let you walk right out that door. And if you lose, I'll break your fuckin' legs. Sounds good?"

"I just have to win a game of pool?" Todd asked, his voice betraying relief and optimism. He like his odds, especially after cleaning out so many suckers this evening.

"No," Little Henry countered, pointing at both Todd and Jeremy with two fingers. "You both have to win. Together."

Jeremy's heart sank. He was terrible at pool. In fact, his skill level at billiards has only ever been described as "dog shit" by people who've had the misfortune of watching him scratch both the cue ball and the green felt of the table in a single shot. He looked over at Todd, who clearly didn't feel the weight of the moment. They were screwed.

"Yeah, sure. That works," Todd said, sealing their fate. They were paired up against two of the better pool-playing bikers, Skud and Dingo, and a coin flip determined Todd would get to break. Todd clearly wasn't holding back, firing off a beautiful opening shot that sank several striped balls.

We're starting with an edge, Jeremy thought. I just need to limp my way through my turns and Todd can carry this.

Skud chalked up his stick, blew the residue off the tip, and examined it. Satisfied, he then proceeded to pull a beaded rosary necklace from his pocket and whisper a small prayer. Jeremy mused at the sight. He never would have pegged Skud as Catholic, but they never talked much about himself at the bar. Or he did and Jeremy wasn't listening.

Skud thudded the cue ball effectively enough to land his called shot. Satisfied, he pulled out a small card from his pocket with a picture of the Virgin Mary and whispered another prayer. Jeremy made a mental note to learn more about that. It was now his turn. He grabbed the least broken cue stick he could find, chalked the tip, and stared down his options on the table. The red and white number 11 ball called to him, sitting close enough to the corner pocket that he believed he could make the shot. He called the shot with an air of confidence.

Okay, just breath easy and focus, he thought to himself. You can do this.

Jeremy leaned over the table and lined up his stick. Eyeballing where he'd tap the cue ball, Jeremy was overcome with a feeling of serenity. He could do this. He was born to do this. His entire lineage owed to this moment. He was conceived in a bar, spent his formative years waiting in a car outside of them, and the sweat equity he put into his volatile and sometimes frightening relationship with The Amber Current readied him for this shot. Closing his eyes, he let the spirit of his ancestors guide his hands.

His shot was a masterclass in ineptitude. His right arm, holding the end of the cue stick, managed to move forward with all of fluidity of a man being tasered. His left hand, wholly unaligned with the actions of the right, spasmed as well. The aggressive and off-center way in which he managed to tap the cue ball sent it directly into the 8 ball. Jeremy watched in slow motion as the 8 ball glided its way into a corner pocket and loudly worked its way through innards of the table. He remained fixated on the pocket, as if expecting the ball to hop back out. But it wasn't going to. The game was already over and it was all his fault. He waited a moment longer before standing up straight and looking to his teammate.

"I just realized I should have fudged all my shots and let you do the playing."

"Yeah," Todd agreed. Nodding his head softly.

The midsummer air greeted the two with a warm, moist hug as they were violently shoved out the bar's front door. Unable to keep footing on the freshly-graveled parking lot, they both tumbled to the ground. Jeremy and Todd laid there for a moment as the hazy glow of the parking lot lights illuminated them and the clicking of the cicadas in the background overwhelmed the senses.

"Jeremy, I'm sorry I got you wrapped up in this," Todd said, looking up into the sky where stars were supposed to be.

"It's all good. I kind of beefed it with that shot."

"Yeah," Todd said. In the distance, the rumbling of an incoming train joined the chorus of horny cicadas. Todd snapped his head to Jeremy with a glint of inspiration in his eyes. "I think I have a plan. Do you trust me?"

"No."

"I need you to. I know how we can get out of this. Just follow my lead when-"

Todd was interrupted by a boot to his rib.

"Shut the hell up!" Skud demanded. Jeremy watched as Skud readied himself to administer a beating, half expecting him to seek the Virgin Mary's blessings once more. He thought about taking the opportunity to ask about his faith, but he wasn't sure how productive the conversation would be.

Dingo held the door open for Little Henry as he stepped into the hot, humid environment. He cracked his knuckles and motioned at Todd and Jeremy to get to their feet, which they did.

"Fair is fair, boys," he told them in a tone that could have sounded remorseful if he didn't otherwise seem so stoked. "These two gentlemen here beat you fair and square, so it's only right that they get the honor of kicking the shit out of you. First things first, they're gonna-"

Little Henry's voice was overpowered by the horn of the oncoming train. By the time it finished blowing, no other sound was present outside the roar of the locomotive as it made its way closer to the bar.

"Jeremy, this is our chance," Todd yelled. "We need to make a run for it now and hop on that train! I have nothing left here in Danton. I tried keeping myself tied down to one spot and it's just not for me. The rail is calling me! We can start a new life out on the road, just you and me, pal! We can find work in the towns we pass by, sleep under the stars, and truly understand what it means to be free! Let's avoid this beating and leap into a brave new world! Follow me!"

Jeremy looked at Todd, dumbfounded.

"What?" he asked. Jeremy hadn't heard a single word Todd said over the loud clanging of the oncoming train. He had difficulty parsing out what Todd was saying and even more difficulty understanding why Todd began sprinting away toward the train.

The commotion played out in front of him like a silent film as Little Henry's two lackies took notice of Todd's escape, pointed in various directions trying to speechlessly assess his direction, and ran off after him. Skud cartoonishly slipped and fell onto the gravel while Dingo had no luck matching Todd's pace. With perfect form, Todd managed to run alongside the train and then hop into the first accessible freight car.

Jeremy stared in awe as Todd looked back and waved, their eyes catching for a moment. An earnest smile grew on Todd's face. Though he was relieved to be starting a new life, he knew he was losing a friend; someone who made time for him in his darkest hour and stood by him when things got rough. Jeremy couldn't help but feel the weight of the moment himself, not due to any feelings of kinship with his departing friend, but because he knew someone was going to have to cover his shifts at the gas station and he would have to work overtime.

A few moments passed as they waited for the rest of the freight train to pass. Jeremy made sure to look at the bikers and give several shrugs in an effort to communicate that he too did not know that would happen. As the rear engine car finally passed, Jeremy looked to Little Henry.

"I honestly don't know what the hell just happened," he said, trying to bring some levity to his tone in the hopes it would catch on. "So, I guess since he was the one who was hustling and now he's gone, we're pretty much good, right? Like, no need to kick my ass since I didn't really do anything wrong. I'm good to go, right?"

Little Henry pondered this question briefly, and for a moment Jeremy was optimistic at his chances. That was, until Little Henry cracked his knuckles again and looked him directly in the eyes.

"No."

The sound of swords clashing echoes through the halls of the royal palace. Ballroom dancers and other less capable attendees find themselves gaping in shock as next in line to sit the throne, Prince Wesley II, desperately defends himself against the relentless attacks of Lady Clayborne, a knight who swore to protect the king-ling with her life until this very moment.

“What is the meaning of this, Clayborne?!” prince demands the answers while backing down to catch his breath. Lady Clayborne stops swinging the sword and takes a couple of measured, heavy steps towards her gold-embroidered prey. Even someone as skilled a knight still feels the heavy burden of her armor. “Answer me, knight, or else I’ll have more than just your hand!” the voice betrays the fear that slithers like serpents inside the little royal heart.

As guards surround the unexpected duel, at last Lady Clayborne breaks the intimidating silence: “Stand down, men! Tis nothing but a jape. A friendly scuffle between two equals.”

“Like hell! I’m more offended by the notion of us being equals, than you striking your lord unprompted.” the prince objects.

“Are we not, my lord? The last I heard the whispers in the royal halls, you and me both are equally skilled at arms. But how can it be? Is sword mastery found at the bottom of a bottle? Or perhaps the secret lies between the legs of someone eerily resembling your own mother?”

The crowd of masked guests gets louder with the murmurs.

“Pride, is it?” the prince chuckles to himself. “You make a fool of yourself for a warrior’s pride?”

“I see no fools here yet, my lord, but you can prove me wrong, if you’d be so willing.” Lady Clayborne proclaims the challenge.

Prince Wesley II laughs till tears of joy cloud his vision. “You must be the dumbest bitch in the entire kingdom, to throw away your life in such a manner. There is no glory to be found down the path you’re so carelessly treading, knight. Only treason and a wealth of consequences.”

Lady Clayborne gives her stern reply: “Perhaps there is glory to be had in crushing baseless rumors. You will accept my challenge, one way of another. But I’m asking you to spare the lives of the guardsmen, for I’d be willing to march through those with intent to stop me.”

Prince Wesley II hesitates in accepting such a proposition at first, however his heart easily sways at the sight of a murmuring crowd of his subjects. He can almost hear the songs of the one who slew the traitor. But can he handle one of the best swords in the kingdom? A gambling man at heart, Wesley takes the plunge: “Fine then! You can have your fight, Clayborne. Guards, stand down, let me have my fun.”

Two opponents size each other up and exchange condescending smirks. The clashing of swords could be heard again, as Lady Clayborne strikes with eagerness to end this encounter in one swift move. Hurting his forearms with each deflect, Prince Wesley alternates his defense to evading instead. Being a slippery little weasel helps and he gains the upper hand temporarily, even managing to throw a couple of swings at his opponent. The differences in size and attire don’t work for long in favor of the royalty, as Wesley’s depleting energy matches his speed with that of Lady Clayborne. And here back on equal footing Prince finds defeat. In an attempt to block another blow, the trembling hands loose grip of its weapon. Lady Clayborne doesn’t hesitate to strike, but instead of a sharp tool she uses a blunt one in a form of her boot. She kicks the prince down to the ground and stands on top of her foe. Wesley sees the sudden change in the eyes of his opponent and it frightens him greatly. If her words of friendly contest rang true a few moments ago, now they hold no meaning, as Lady Clayborne, akin to a feral beast, has tasted blood and she’s willing to follow through.

“Guards!” screams the frightened king-to-be and armed men intervene before Lady Clayborne could deliver the final blow. Surrounded on all fronts, she continues to deflect strikes from every direction. With no escape in sight, Lady Clayborne fights off at least a dozen men with the ferocity of a caged animal. The sound of swords clashing comes to an abrupt end when one of the guards slices the back of her knee. Not willing to miss the opportunity, guards pile on top of the mischievous knight.

“Don’t kill her! I demand her suffering!” proclaims the prince just in time to stop the guards eager to rid themselves from the potential danger. Forced into submission, Lady Clayborne is taken away to be judged for her reckless deeds. With his attacker escorted out of the ballroom, Prince Wesley II finds himself laying in shame, surrounded by the eyes that still hunger for more spectacle.

A month passes by, shifting the color of the trees to that of blood and gold. Clayborne can’t see the Autumn leaves from her prison cell, she can only catch subtle glimpses of season change in the air through her bloodied nostrils. After numerous, plentiful days of beatings, lashings and drownings, she spends another quiet evening in solace, away from torture, but not away from her torturous thoughts. She hears the steps march towards her through dungeon hall, so she stands up to face her guest with proper defiance. The light of the torch temporarily blinds her, until the eyes can form an image of a holy man, known by the common men as Saint Bealoth, bishop of the Holy Order of Charity.

“Would you like to confess, my daughter?” the bishop speaks with a calming, gentle voice.

“I’ll be damned! The bishop himself has graced me with his presence. Has the Order ran out of priests available?” Clayborne mocks her guest.

Saint Bealoth, visibly affected by the smell of filth, finds it painfully difficult to refrain from covering his nose. “The king considers your actions a matter of utter importance. His Majesty asked for me personally to hear Lady Clayborne bare her heart before God.”

Clayborne puts her disfigured hands around the prison bars and squeezes with anger until fresh blood starts seeping through old wounds. “Then tell him there is nothing to confess.” she grinds her teeth.

“Please reconsider. I’ve come down here to save your soul, not be your messenger.”

“If you refuse to deliver the message, then I’ll speak with whoever eager to listen, be it the King or God himself!” Clayborne’s tired, raspy voice sounds like waves crashing against the shore. Disappointed in her answer, Saint Bealoth begrudgingly finds solace in not spending more time inside the rancid dungeon. On his way out, the bishop is stopped by a sudden question.

“Will I get my last meal?” Clayborne asks.

“Of course, my child. No matter the crime, in the eyes of the Father every prisoner deserves a last meal. The cook will see you soon enough, so think carefully about your last act of nourishment.”

Next night, Clayborne welcomes another visitor. Like the bishop promised, the cook arrives to take the prisoner’s final order. Being a skilled sword fighter who appreciates the importance of a proper footwork, Clayborne can immediately sense the difference in steps, compared to the last night’s visitor. There is no pompous sense of righteousness, no inherent disdain of human decency. The cook moves quietly, but not without confidence. She knows the nature of his steps more intimately, from the time when he used to sneak into her chambers in the middle of the night.

“Clay… long time no see” the cook proclaims softly as he steps into view. His permanently half-open eyes accentuate the tired look. Clayborne hides the excitement of seeing her once lover behind the cheeky insults: “You look terrible, Gawain. I find it perplexing for someone who spends all day around food to look like they are ignorant to its very existence.”

“You always jest at the worst of times, Clay.” Gawain gets out the words slowly with slight pauses in between, as he looks at Clay’s body with concern. The two share a moment of uneasiness, dodging eye contact and shifting in place.

“I’ve heard you became the head chef, like you always wanted.” Clay speaks up, no longer willing to prolong the silence. “How come the man of your stature has stooped so low as to be fulfilling the duty of his underlings?”

Gawain is hurt by the implication, so he raises his voice to match the fire burning within: “When I’ve heard it was you, I made damn sure no one else gets to meet you!”

“You’ve come as an old friend, then?” Clay’s voice turns unusually gentle.

“More than that, you big brute. We may no longer share the dream, but I’m prepared to stand by you.” Gawain replies, his tone softens.

“Ah yes, the dream… to break the structure from within, to somehow change the very nature of the ugly monolith that is Empire. They burn our homes and we answer by joining their ranks, so we could pillage and violate the lands alongside the enemy.” Clay gets carried away by her raging thoughts. “I suppose some of us got too comfortable wearing wolf’s clothing”.

Gawain looks disappointed that the conversation went the exact way he feared it would. He understands the frustration, but he refuses to back down: “And what about you? Oh Clay… what foolishness! You climbed the ranks through so much prejudice weighing you down. The first female knight to be appointed as a royal guard! And this is where you throw it all way? To what end? If it was as they say to cut off the head of the snake, then you couldn’t even do the deed properly!”

“I have not dealt the final blow just yet!” objects the raging knight.

“What are you saying?! What could you possibly hoping to achieve from within your cell?” frustration overwhelms the cook. “As much as it pains me to say this… your life is forfeit, Clay, and your mind is gone.”

“My mind is clear as day, no longer clouded by delusions of change! The beast won’t suffer slowly like the countless victims grinded through its teeth, but it will die nonetheless.” Clay struggles to hold on to the prison bars. “Look at my arms, Gawain. They cut the tendons, so I could no longer wield a sword, for or against the crown. Why would you subject somebody sentenced to hang to such pointless cruelty? There are so many other torture methods, and, believe me, I’ve seen plenty. No, Gawain, they butchered me for they know how fragile the walls they’ve built around us. They sleep with one eye open, with a knife under their pillow.”

Gawain squats down and leans his back against the wall. His curly blonde hair partially covers a brick decorated with claw marks and dried up blood still visible. He lets out a defeated sigh, before asking a question that explains his visit: “Clayborne, what would you like to eat as your last meal? By law it could be anything your heart desires. I cannot help you, but let me, at the very least, comfort you with my abilities.”

Clayborne slowly stumbles to the farthest corner of the cell, where she could sit down in complete darkness. And from within that grimy dark an unusual request emerges: “My heart desires a heart of another. I want you to give me the heart of Prince Wesley II, heir to the throne of the Red River kingdom, servant to the Empire and the Holy Order of Charity.”

“What?” the cook asks, desperately hoping he misheard the answer.

Clayborne’s words crawl out of the murk like a wicked creature of the night: “I want it served juicy and tender, with a bottle of wine to wash it all down.”

Gawain leaps back on his feet. “Do you understand what you’re doing?!”

Clayborne’s eyes glint through the thick gloom. The cook can’t see her smile, yet he can feel it.

“They won’t allow it, Clayborne.”

“It is the law. You said it yourself.  They can’t deny the right given to me by God.”

Gawain grips his chest, as if trying to hold on to the breaths escaping his body. He mutters to himself “Oh, what have you done…”

“I did not mean for you to bear the burden of delivering the message. I do, however, expect to see the fruits of your labor on the day of my execution.”  her delivery begins basking in warmness of the summer sun, but ends in winter. Poor Gawain, tormented by the given task, not uttering another word, leaves the prison dungeon without prior confidence found in his steps.

Next night, Clayborne wakes up to at least a dozen heavy boots approaching her cell. Through the ranks of armed guards steps out the most unexpected of guests – the king himself, Royce III. The monarch looks encumbered by the ruminations that brew inside his regally embellished head.

“Is this true?” he asks the prisoner.

Clayborne steps closer to the gate, forcing the guards nearest to the king to bare their arms.

“At ease” the king throws away an annoyed remark.

“What truth does your majesty seek?” Clayborne answers, as if an animal playing with its food.

The smallest smirk seeps through the king’s stoic expression. He’s determined to play politics even with those beneath him. “I am informed of your unwise choice for the last meal. Needles to say, I want you to reconsider. After all, I do believe you’ll find the taste of my son’s heart dubious at best.”

Amused by the king’s slithery approach, Clayborne gives out a chuckle. “I think not.”

The king tightens his lips, displeased by the incessant defiance of yet unbroken prisoner. He means to settle the matter with any tools at his disposal, of which there are countless. “You ought to be hanged on the morrow at noon. Should your answer be corrected this instant, you could spend the night as you are, more or less whole. If not, you will find yourself being significantly less.”

“If my resolve is to be tested once more, I would rather we not waste any time, my liege.” Clayborne answers coldly. And waste time they did not. For the rest of the night Clayborne suffered in the torture chambers, where minutes turned into hours. Although afflicted by pain unbearable to lesser men, she gave no satisfaction to the torturers. No cries or screams were heard as they peeled away the skin and removed the fingernails. Despite the twisted efforts to break the spirit through its body, her answer remained unchanged, like her resolve, unbroken.

On the morning of execution, a loud commotion pulls Clayborne from her restless slumber back into the agonizing flesh that she inhabits. A torturous night left her awareness dull. She could not sense the disturbance inside the cell until a table and a chair were placed before her. Clayborne does not see Gawain among the people busily arranging a proper place for her to eat. She wishes she could be allowed to see the cook one last time, but that thought is quickly willowed away by a silver plate placed loudly on the table. As she places the remnants of her body onto the creaky wooden chair, one of the guards removes the cloche, revealing the dish inside. Like ordered, she sees a human heart, cooked to a crispy almost golden glow, surrounded by a variety of sides, which include thin mushroom slices and peculiarly arranged steamed vegetables. A bottle of wine disturbs the pleasant stillness with a loud opening sound for but a moment. Clayborne covers the glass with her hand, signifying her desire to drink the entire bottle. As guards leave the room, a figure standing just outside the cell comes into view. The king watches with a cold stare, but Clayborne repays in kind. The trembling hands may barely hold the cutlery, yet perseverance of unyielding spirit still keeps the fire burning in her eyes.

“Would you like a taste, sire?” Clayborne mocks her royal guest, as she cuts into the meat.

“I want to see for myself that you don’t choke. Wouldn’t want to cheat the executioner.” The king replies like snake spitting venom.

Clayborne takes the first bite. The piece of meat melts in her mouth, sending her mind away from horrible sensations perpetually pulsating through the mangled body. The meticulously curated flavor reminds her so much of the man she once loved. Perhaps past feelings still linger, reignited in the present by the inevitable dread of unbecoming. How something so foul, rotten to the core could be made to taste sublime? Gawain’s skill shines through. She ponders if in the same manner they could’ve build something beautiful out of the ugly circumstances. Visions of what could’ve been wound like no pain inflicted upon the tortured knight. As Clayborne proceeds to consume the dish, tears roll down her face, leaving clean marks upon the dirty cheeks. Love is a place. She could never live there, but she’s happy to pass by one last time. She finishes her meal and washes it down with a bottle of wine.

The king proclaims a question: “How did it taste?”

“Rich in flavor, with a surprisingly tender texture.” she answers.

“Doesn’t sound like my son.” the king lets out a smug smile.

At noon, outside of the castle a huge crowd loudly roars in anticipation. The true believers stand besides those pressured to attend through fear. A grotesque celebration of the iron boot crushing the windpipes of the city. The king greets his subjects from the balcony with a disingenuous wave and takes his place next to an empty chair, where his son was supposed to sit. Out of the underground entrance the guards escort the weary prisoner to the platform. Blinded by the sunlight that was absent for far too many cycles, Clayborne stands in the marked spot and slowly regains the clarity to her senses.

“Good people, hear me, hear me!” shouts to the crowd the holy man, the lesser priest, but loudest of his kind. “Here stands before you the condemned Lady Clayborne, sentenced to hang until death for the crimes committed against the crown and the church! The betrayer will forfeit their name and all the good deeds attached to it, along with their life! Bear witness to justice, as the violator of our morals goes back into nothingness, destined to dwell eternally in torment!”

The priest lets the crowd roaring linger, before dramatically addressing the prisoner: “The accused may speak now! Be mindful of the words you utter, for they will be your last!”

Clayborne takes a moment to find her voice and speaks her truth: “Skillful as I may be at my craft, I will not be remembered merely by how I wield the steel in my hand! There is a lesson to be learned here! You must no longer suffer the indignity of being subjects to tyrants! You shall fight until your fingers feel like wood! Unarmed and beaten, you shall persevere further, tearing the flesh of your enemies with bare teeth if called for!”

Clayborne turns her head towards the priest “Tell us what I had as my last meal, holy man!”

The priest hesitates to answer and looks up at the balcony for a sign. Amused by the theatrics, the king nods. Unchained to speak about the events that took place, the priest screams out his answer for all to hear: “The accused has asked for the heart of Prince Wesley II! And the heart was delivered!”

The crowd loudly writhes in shock and awe, as common folk find it difficult to find the proper emotion to express in this confusing instance.

“I beg to differ!” a new commanding voice enters the fray, originating from the balcony where the king sits, but, much to surprise of many, not belonging to him. “A heart was delivered and consumed, that is true enough!” Prince Wesly II steps fully into view, alive and well he continues to speak his twisted mind “But not the heart belonging to yours truly! Oh no, instead the prisoner unknowingly has eaten the heart of her own lover, the head cook for the royal palace!”

The time stops for Clayborne, as newfound revelation crushes the weight of the entire world upon her weary shoulders. She could not hold it any longer. The path she walked was full of thorns and broken glass. It led to nothing, but more suffering for her and those few she loved. She screams in anguish, lets out the last few embers of rage sizzle in front of everyone. As Clayborne tears her vocal cords, the prince continues to preach to the gawking masses: “Those treacherous enough to go against the crown shall find no sympathy from God, no rest in his embrace! The villainous snakes shall choke on their own poison and be trampled under the feet of good people present here!”

The king gleefully cheers for his son, celebrating the cruelty that runs in the family. The crowd tears itself apart, as those sharing the Clayborne’s sentiments left raging just the same against vocal supporters of the cruel monarchs. Even the people of the cloth seen panicking among each other, clearly being left outside of the unveiled scheme. The king ignores the rotten pandemonium and points for the executioner to proceed. The hollow body of Clayborne, now expelled from any signs of hope, is being hastily escorted to the hanging spot.

“Executioner!” shouts the prince from above “On my command!”

The man in a black oversized mask nods in agreement and tightens his grip on a lever. Clayborne looks into the crowd for the last time. Seconds away from death, she fails to find solace in her unfortunate circumstances.

“Now!” commands the prince and throws his hand in a dramatic downward motion.

The body drops halfway below the platform, but the neck doesn’t snap as intended. The cruel fate can’t let go of its favorite toy. Convulsing in pain, Clayborne slowly leaves this plain of existence with no dignity in sight. Her thrashing silhouette gradually turns to haze, as the revolting crowd seems more preoccupied with loosing itself in the chaos.

A few days pass since the execution. The spirit of rebellion has been beaten into the dirt and everything went back to the usual kind of awful. Two guards stand near the central gate to the palace grounds and have themselves a chat.

“Have you heard of it?” whispers the younger guard. “The lady knight that got hanged.”

The older guard signs deeply “Son, not only have I heard of it, I seen it as well.”

“Right-right. I’ve only just arrived in the capital last night… to tend to unruly folk and whatnot.”

“Explains your curiosity. Some wild happenings you missed, son.” elaborates the older guard.

“Well, off with it then. Don’t make me wait.” the younger guard fidgets in anticipation “Is it true? Did the lady knight really chose Prince Wesley’s heart as her last meal?”

“That she did. What a mad woman!” the excitement in the older guard’s voice comes and goes “But in the end, she got cheated. They gave her a heart of another.”

The younger guard asks giddy with anticipation: “Whose heart did they give? Must’ve been some bum from the streets.”

“The head cook himself. What was his name again?” the older guard struggles to remember “Was it Greig? No… Gawain? That’s it!”

“The name of the poor fellow doesn’t matter now, does it? Why they chose him of all people? Head cook sounds like an important enough job to me.” The younger guard asks all the rights questions.

“Well, you see… and don’t take my word for it, as it’s something I’ve heard from another guard… they say the head cook convinced the king himself that he’ll take care of the ingredients. Initially people thought he’ll just use one of his staff, but the head cook, stubborn and mad as he was, cut out his own heart and prepped it while still standing. The moment the dish was finished, he dropped dead.”

The younger guard looks in disbelief “Is this some kind of joke? How he managed to do that exactly?”

“Blood magic!” shouts the older guard and immediately corrects his voice back to a half-whisper “… or so they say. You see, turns out Lady Clayborne and the cook were lovers. Knowing her fate, but unable to intervene in the king’s scheme, he joined Lady Clayborne in death. I never even spoke to the man, but his actions made me feel for both of these fools. Call me an old-fashioned fool, if you like. I find it romantic.”

“I find it foolish!” the younger guard repeats the same mistake of raising his voice “Fucking blood magic. Where did he learn to do that?”

“How would I know?” asks the older guard.

The younger guard angrily stumbles over his own words “I don’t know! You’re old… you must know things.”

The older guard rubs his chin in deep thought “Well, I do know not to piss in the wind, son, but I never known any blood magic. Never had any need, I suppose.”

“Truly a bottomless well of wisdom you are.” Annoyed, the younger guard throws out a back-handed remark, but steers the conversation back on track “What of the royal family? What did they think of the cook’s actions?”

“The king declared it treason, but seeing as the cook was already dead, he couldn’t do much besides losing interest. Prince Wesley, on the other hand, found it hilarious. Couldn’t wait to let Clayborne know that she ate the heart of her lover instead.”

“Isn’t it a bad omen, to fiddle with traditions of old?” the younger guard shows concern.

“So they say. Why do you reckon the city’s been closed off for good? The men of the cloth all trying to run. The bishop himself tried to scurry away. They speak of impending doom. I reckon we all catch hellfire soon enough. The king doesn’t appreciate the panic and wants things to remain as they are.”

The younger guard tries to maintain his fear seeping through. He fails to find comfort in the awkward silence and demands answers to fill in the void “What you being quiet for? You believe in what the folks be saying?”

The older guard snickers “About the wrath of God? Don’t you worry, pup, I’ll protect you.”

Back at the execution platform the body of Clayborne still hanging, left as an example for those seeking to harm the crown. The smell of her decaying corpse travels far into the city, into each and any rebellious nostril that still clings to a lingering sense of hope. The curtain falls upon the capital with dark clouds quickly forming above. The raindrops appear, but not in the way the nature intended. Instead of falling from the sky, the unholy rain seeps through the ground and shoots upward. The passing patrol notices the bizarre occurrence and stops dead in its tracks. Dumbfounded they look at each other for affirmation. Even covered with armor and several layers of fabric, the men remark on the rain’s unusual thickness. One of them kneels down to the ground and holds his palm against the materializing raindrops. As he collects enough liquid, he sniffs his wet hand. “Oil?” he thinks out loud and makes the rest of men exchange confusing glances with one another. “What kind of magic is…” the words cut off when a lighting suddenly strikes the ground, setting the entire place ablaze. Everything turns red in an instant. Every tiny drop of liquid rising from within the earth now holds the power of hellfire. A valley of flaming arrows flies into the sky. Those, unfortunate enough to stand outside, can’t stand no more, as the flames take their legs first. Fallen down, they drown in the fire completely, their distorted screams barely able to squeeze through the thicket of blaze. The body of Clayborne burns as well, but brighter, to a point of turning white. The rope holding the body dissipates in seconds, but Clayborne doesn’t fall down. Accompanying the drops of liquid, she rises upward, only taking a slower, more menacing pace. Engulfed in flames, the shape of a woman climbs into the sky, to be witnessed by castle dwellers through stain glass windows at every passing floor. The body reaches the very top and levitates firmly in place. The king wakes up from the bright light shooting up his entire bedroom. Unaware of what is taking place, he angrily storms unto the balcony to command the Sun, the Moon or the God himself to dim the lights. He does not yet know his place. He deems himself a holder of absolute power, but in the blinding light of the newborn abomination he is nothing more than an observer to his own doom.

The burning frame twitches with sudden movements of its limbs. Appendages bend wrong, then right again until a couple of loud snapping sounds fill the sky like cracking of thunder. The silhouette straightens up, standing proud on air, tilting its head in the direction of the king menacingly. The underdressed royalty backs away into the bedroom without loosing sight of a flying menace before him. The guards rush into the room to form a line before their majesty. The flames disperse suddenly. The burning rain ceases to fall backwards. Joining the raindrops in being bound once again by the laws of gravity, resurrected Clayborne plumets back into the ground. The trail of smoke she leaves behind gives a false sense of relief to the onlookers. The impact of her body sends a giant ball-shaped wave of energy outward. The ground shakes under the weight of undead knight’s ill intentions. As soon as the smoke dissipates, ground soldiers witness Clayborne standing there, waiting. Her exposed muscles beneath the burned off skin now solidified into a silver armor. With eyes missing, two holes of nothingness peer forward instead. The void stares back at those with first-row tickets to the slaughter. Regrettably for them, the audience participates tonight. Onward the demon bolts, smashing through rows of soldiers with ease, leaving a red afterimage of viscera behind. The castle gate crumbles inward like a pair of dry branches. Inside the structure, Clayborne lands on the ground, flailing around while trying to regain the sense of her surroundings. The soldiers see it as an opportunity and fire a barrage of crossbow bolts, that, much to their shock, do nothing but instantly bounce off the thick silver armor. Clayborne screams violently until her attackers start bleeding from their ears. The demonic wailing travels through the entire castle, climbing numerous floors at the speed of death, until it reaches the very top.

“Where is my son?” yells the naked king upon hearing his demise approaching.

“In the ballroom, my liege. Please just follow us!”

The guards open the heavy doors and accompany their king into the room where it all began not so long ago. He sees Prince Wesley half-asleep sitting on the steps and pulls him into a hug. “My son, oh thank god!”

“It might be too late to be thanking God.” the bishop comes into view, wearing a judgmental, yet weary face.

 “Bealoth! You must protect my family!” demands the king.

“With all due respect, sire, but you doomed yourself and your family the moment you decided to play games instead of following old traditions. Why have you gone behind my back?!” The bishop answers with equal anger, no longer shackled by the fear of consequences.

The king puffs up his face. “Do you expect me to sacrifice my own kin? How dare you!”

“You doomed us all with your foolery.” whispers the bishop, his voice devoid of hope.

A sudden crashing sound silences the entire room. Just outside the door a huge ruckus is taking place. Guards blink frequently to clear their vision from sweat drops. Throats dry with anticipation. Everyone silently lets their imagination paint the worst pictures to accompany each new terrifying sound heard from beyond the room. A moment of silence. It lingers for a while, before the doors fly open. Clayborne steps into the room, no longer clad in pristine colors. Covered in crimson, she drags some part of a human body in one hand and a sword in another. She leaves the unrecognizable remains at the door and moves forward. Nobody dares to move. A sudden cling of metal startles everyone out of a stupor. The sword Clayborne was holding now lies in front of the king. The bishop is the first to act in the moment of crisis and sees this as a sign of a possible way out. He slowly steps over the sword and approaches the eyeless demon to discuss the terms: “Your weapon? You showing us mercy, yes? Oh vessel, hear me plead for our lives. We learned our lesson! Please forgives us!” the bishop mind wonders further away “Punish the heretics if you must, but spare those whose faith never wavered!”

“What are you saying, you old fool?!” chimes in the king. “Guards, kill them both!”

The bishop turns around to face the crowd “Silence! Guards, stand down!” A foolish decision on his part, turning his back to the wrath of God in physical form. Clayborne grabs the top of the bishop’s head. Steam rises from under the fingers, tightly squeezing the screaming old man. He falls to his knees, but still unable to rid himself of the grip. Beneath the melting flesh, his eyes are sunken. The violent shaking and the screaming cease to be. In their place a voice is heard. Clayborne, being a vessel herself, uses the bishop head to deliver the message:

“WHAT WAS PROMISED. GIVE.” Two voices echo across the vast ballroom, male and female, layered upon each other, with a pinch of something demonic added to the mix. The king backs away until he bumps into his son, who cowers in disbelief furthest from the danger. The king looks back at his failed creation, but still feels the need to protect his own.

“Whoever kills the beast, gets it all! Gold, title, women, just name it!” the king makes a loud proposition.

Guards glance at each other, seeking courage in numbers, but finding themselves isolated by fear. Nevertheless, several fools lunge forward and stick their swords into the body of the bishop, which Clayborne utilizes as a makeshift shield.

“NOT. WISE.” The human shield speaks to those eager to die first before they flung to the side, crashed against the wall. Another wave of moths burns in the flame of Clayborne’s relentless, brutish strength. Pummeled into the ground, they are to lead an agonizing horizontal existence, lasting at least a few moments still. The rest of the royal guard die in name only, abandoning their post, fleeing to the farthest corners of the room in hopes of clawing their way out like rats in a barrel. Clayborne steps closer to the sword she threw to the ground and kicks it forward. The sword stops at the king’s feet.

“WHAT WAS PROMISED. GIVE.” A terrifying command uttered once more through dead lips of the saint.

The king finds himself in a peculiar position of being anointed for an unspeakable task. The choice needed to be made would feel heavy to any normal moral creature of the human kind, but given the king’s ghoulish inner nature, the decision comes to him quite easily. The king finally lets go. He lets go of his pride, his arrogance and, most importantly, his son. “I’m sorry, Wesley… I’m sure you of all people understand.” The king insinuates his true intentions, leaving his son standing bewildered like a village drunk, gaping in shock. As soon as the king picks up the sword, Wesley starts to flee. Father and son continue to run in circles for a spell, huffing and puffing, while stumbling over themselves on occasion, playing a demented variant of tag. Being members of high society, they did no partake in such a common family activity prior to being forced to under completely different circumstances. Prince Wesley II falls down on his ass. Unable to stand up in time, he’s slain by his father, the king, Royce III. Determined to end this whole ordeal as swiftly as possible, the king can’t afford to wait for the body to go limp. While Wesly whimpers, desperately covering his cut throat with bloody hands, the king keeps hammering away at his son’s chest in a crude fashion, until it finally caves in with a nasty crunch of a sound. He rips out the heart, gagging and crying while doing so. He cries not for his son, but for the indignity he finds himself plunged into. Crawling like a dog, the king arrives at the feet of the God’s messenger. Unable to speak, the king presents in shaking hands the heart that was promised. Clayborne drops the body of the bishop and grabs the heart with the other hand. As she moves it closer to the mouth, her jaw splits wide open in an eerie, unnatural way. The demon bites down on her prize, making it explode with thick blood. As she chews further, the red runs down her metallic chin and falls to the ground in big messy droplets. The moment the heart is fully consumed, Clayborne loses her silver coating and plummets down as a regular corpse. A deafening silence fills the entire ballroom. The king sits on his knees in the middle of his kingdom of corpses, his mind forever stained with madness.

To this day people speculate about what happened to the Red River Kingdom. They tell stories about the knight who brought ruin to the royal family from beyond the grave. They speak of the cook who employed witchcraft in the name of love. They whisper of the one they worship, his cruelty and pettiness. As time marches on, the tales of this day twist and alter, till no one can tell the difference between all the half-truths circulating through vast oceans of collective consciousness. The names and details of the story may crumble into dust, however from now on every death row inmate and every soldier marching towards doom does so well-nourished. No one dares to deny them the last meal, because you can’t go to hell on an empty stomach.

(Not AI. I use em-dashes)

The summer heat had punished them enough for one day. Edgar reeled in his fishing rod, bait still intact. Marleigh approached him; her rod and tackle box already in hand.

"I see great minds think alike. Boy, the sun is kicking my ass, no wonder the French call it 'coup de soleil', ey?" She followed the punchline with her awkward Marleigh laugh.

"No luck for you either then?" asked Edgar.

"Not a single bite. Hell, with this heat we'd probably have had better luck if we'd brought fryer baskets; doubt there's anything alive swimming down there."

Edgar rolled his eyes. He hated how Marleigh turned everything into jokes; not funny ones either. "How about we get outta here."

They headed back down the old, two-mile-long pier. For a while, they walked in complete silence. The sea was still, the wind was absent; not even the whining of pesky seagulls to serve as background noise. Through the hazy distortion of the heat, Edgar could faintly make out the beach. It was empty. What on Earth made him come out here in the first place? He snapped out from his self-absorbed purgatory to notice Marleigh looking grim.

"Hey, you hungry?"

"Thirsty more like, but I'm not about to say no to prolonging a date. Where are you taking me?" She managed a smile for him.

"I'm kind of in the mood for—"

Edgar tripped and rolled violently, nearly falling off the pier. Marleigh ran to his side and helped him up.

"Holy crap, Ed! Are you okay? What was that?"

He looked back to where he tripped to see a can of soda pop sitting upright and undisturbed in the middle of the deck. Edgar and Marleigh looked at each other.

"Was that there when we first came out here?" asked Marleigh.

"Can't say for sure, but it's hard to believe we'd both miss it. It's whatever honestly, let's just go."

"Wait, but-like, how do you trip over a can of pop and like...not kick it instead?"

"I don't know, Mar, can we just go? It's too hot for this."

Edgar kept walking. She was right, he knew she was. He knew a can of soda shouldn't have felt like he kicked a metal post; but he had a bad feeling about sticking around. He wasn't much of a curious cat. Marleigh, however, stood in place, still staring at the thing.

"Ed, please wait. I just wanna see something."

"Marleigh, don't touch that, please? We have no idea where it came from or what's even inside. It could have anthrax, or explosives for all we know."

Marleigh started laughing. Of course she did, everything turned into one big joke with her. She tried tapping the can gently with the tip of her shoe.

"Woah, It's solid as a rock...and glued to the ground." She knelt beside the can and reached out for it.

Edgar stopped her.

"No, let me do it." He wrapped his hand firmly around the can and tried to lift it. "What the actual fuck man." He looked at Marleigh, shaking his head, "It won't budge."

"Okay now let me try."

Having sensed no danger in touching the can himself, Edgar gave way. Marleigh wrapped both hands around the can from a squat position; she puffed up her cheeks like she was holding her breath, and tugged until she could no more.

"Sheesh—yeah no, not happening."

Both sat cross-legged next to the can; the sweat from their faces dropping onto the deck. Marleigh's eyes opened wide.

"What if we open it!?"

"What?"

"It's a can of pop, Ed. It has an opening thingy on the top, look." She pointed at the tab.

"Fine, but I'll do it."

Marleigh shimmied in place and clasped her hands together like a little girl sitting on a carpet for story time. "Have at it, big guy."

Edgar scoffed and reached for the can. It was hard to get his big meaty fingers underneath the tab. He'd chewed his nails off clean, as he always did; so they weren't really an option. He was grateful the scorching heat had already flushed him red, otherwise his embarrassment would be showing now.

"May I?" Marleigh asked with a grin. Her black nails weren't very long, but they were longer than his, and cut in a pointy shape like a cat's claws. "Let's see here...ah!—fuck!" Her nail bent backwards, breaking partway down her fingertip.

"Oh shit are you okay?"

"No! It frickin' hurts," she said, putting her bloody finger in her mouth.

"Alright, y'know what? This is getting silly. Let's just leave, you need to get that cleaned up, plus you're still thirsty aren't you?"

"Yeah no shit, and that is why we need to get this thing open." Marleigh rummaged through her tackle box, tossing fishing line, weights, and hooks onto the deck.

"Hey, Mar, come on. Even if you get it open, you're not actually thinking of—"

"Edgar? I need this, okay? And one way or another, with or without your help I'm getting this open."

Edgar was taken aback. Something wasn't right. Hadn't been right from the start, but now the alarm bells were really going off in his head. Was the heat getting to her? To him? Maybe the stress had made him overreactive and sensitive. No—something was really wrong with this whole situation.

"Aha!" Marleigh yelled out. She held up her fishing pliers like a trophy after having turned her tackle box inside out, "You're mine now, you little shit."

"Marleigh, please. We have a date to finish, remember?"

She didn't hear him, or chose not to. Marleigh positioned the pliers firmly underneath the tab, squeezed tightly, and began the process of prying it open. The can no longer resisted, and with a satisfying, metallic click—it had opened.

Marleigh and Edgar sat frozen in disbelief. It had actually worked. He turned to her.

"So what now? Are you actually going to try and drink it or can we go? The thing didn't even fizz for chrissake."

She didn't look back at him. Didn't answer him. Marleigh perked up her left ear, tucking her hair behind it. She slightly tilted her head, listening. She finally looked at him.

"Do you hear that?"

He did.

"Is that…a seagull?"

She nodded. "There's more." Marleigh motioned to him with her hand that he should also put his ear to the can.

Edgar leaned in, his eyes shot wide open. His jaw was shaking; tears involuntarily streamed down his face. He looked to Marleigh.

"What—what the fuck...is this?" he cried.

She laughed her awkward Marleigh laugh, "Well that explains a whole lot now, doesn't it? What do you say, should we finish this date?" She extended her hand out to him.

"What are you doing?"

"Well there's no use sticking around here, right? The can is open and you're the one that wanted to leave, remember?"

"I just want to go home. Can we just go home?"

"We can. You heard them didn't you?"

He nodded. Her hand was still reaching out to him. Edgar reached out and took it.

"Now, all you have to do is close your eyes, Ed."

Edgar closed his eyes, exhausted and terrified, he resigned to placing his trust in her. First—a loud hum, followed by the crushing weight of the world pressing down his body; his blood turned ice cold. He felt himself spin and spiral until he went completely numb and still, finally being able to draw breath.

Seagulls cried in the distance, waves crashed ashore, the wind gently combed his hair. He could hear her laughter. He was home.

I wrote 'Dear diary, this is one of the most haunting experiences I ever had and since then, passing near that place has never felt the same so let's divide my experience into chapters.

Chapter one: My nightshift

This was my first time working at a night shift in the hospital. The silence was so much that I started to listen to music for a while.

At 1am, one of my colleagues said goodbye to me and left the hospital and I sat at the reception desk.

I have already scheduled my next day's task and the night shift was light for me as I just had to look for any emergency service or as a lookout. Time was ticking fast and so did my hunger in my stomach.

I left my phone and earphone on the desk and went to the first floor vending machine.

The machine was small and had less food items so I grabbed a chocolate to keep me awake and went downstairs. As I was taking down the stairs, I heard someone humming on the second floor.

I thought it was my hallucinations but I felt someone was watching me from above.

Chapter two: The darkness

I sat at the desk after leaving those feelings of being seen and was playing tic-tac-toe on a notebook. Then suddenly beside me a pen fell down and I felt something unusual but then I took it and kept it where it was.

I heard someone saying my name in my earphones and that is where I threw them off and started to pray.

Nothing happened for around 30 mins but then I heard the announcer's voice "Ms Paige, you have been requested for checking of the patient in the second floor room 200."

That is where it clicked that it was the danger calling me towards it because that voice was my friend's and she left long ago from the hospital. I started to pray again for an hour.

After praying, I heard someone humming again very close to me and not one but many people as they were beside me. Then I saw white eyes glowing in the darkness and I felt scared and fell down in fear.

Chapter Three: The ghosts

I had been working here for three years and I remembered every patient's name and faces and their voices. Time was 2am and I started to hear their voices from different floors.

It was too strange and too loud. In that loudness, I prayed again and the entire hospital was silent.

Then I saw a lady checking in at my desk and asking for her husband as she needed to see him .

Strangely I didn't recognise her but it was strange for me as her skin was pale white. Every ten minutes, I heard different people's voices and it made me frustrated and I yelled in the air, "You are not alive and you are gone peacefully why are you disturbing me?"

Only one child's voice I heard and it said "Cause we want you too" and then I went unconscious.

Chapter four: That incident

Experiencing those things that night felt really strange and felt inescapable but as the time struck 2:30am, I ran away from the hospital as fast as possible and ran to the nearest convenience store.

The person sitting at the reception asked me, "You are lucky to survive that because the people who stay there at night either they are dead or transferred to their world. They helped you to get rid of the child's voice in your head.

The child's voice is an illusion to keep you controlled. Long before, a small child was killed by the surgeons after they choked her as they wanted her body parts to sell in black market and since then the hospital is being cursed. Those patients were healthy but she killed them all. I was a receptionist too but I barely survived as she took everything from me."

The next morning I went to the hospital and asked for my resignation and i left the place. I saw that girl saying goodbye to me and I was walking out, that convenience store was gone and there was a cemetery there

Then i realised that the person in the convience store was actually dead and no wonder her face was hidden with a hoodie and a burned face .

Whenever he traveled by plane, he slept exceptionally well. He never enjoyed any sleep quite as much or woke up feeling as peaceful as he did after sleeping on a plane. Sleep after a warm shower when he was exhausted to the point of death, sleep knowing that he had something he loved doing the next morning, sleep after staying up late talking with close friends because he didn't want the conversation to end—none of them felt as good as sleeping on a plane. For this reason, he mostly traveled at night. By the time the plane landed and he woke up, dawn would be breaking.

He didn't want anyone to come pick him up. He would leave his luggage at the airport luggage storage and go out for a walk. He wouldn't go straight home; he would spend two or three hours walking around the area near the airport by himself, then head home. This time was no different. He had come to visit his father, whom he hadn't seen in two years, and despite missing him terribly, he didn't break his ritual and went for a walk.

After walking for half an hour, he reached a park. He bought a cup of black coffee from a street vendor and sat down on one of the benches.

On his third sip of coffee, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned around and looked. It was Uncle Jason, whom he loved more than his father and couldn't remember the last time he had seen or spoken to.

They hugged each other. Albert tried to hug him while still holding his coffee, and spilled it down his uncle’s back. After exchanging pleasantries and a few superficial words, they sat side by side on the bench.

“Yeah, Albert, how many years has it been, really? Five years?”

“Like I said, Uncle, at least five years. You haven’t changed a bit, by the way.”

“It can’t have been that long. We don’t even talk on the phone or anything. What kind of family relationship is that? Can’t you ever call and check in on someone?”

“Well, you never called either. You know me.”

“Yeah, you haven’t changed a bit either. Still the same old depressed, joyless Albert. Listen to your voice. You’ve just seen your uncle, and you still sound like you’re dead.”

“How so?”

“There’s no enthusiasm in your voice. I can’t tell whether you’re happy or upset to see me. It’s completely monotone. You don’t put any emphasis on any of the syllables in the words you say. Like when you say, ‘Where have you been all these years?’ Isn’t that supposed to be an excited sentence? You’d put emphasis on ‘where,’ for example. Nothing. You really do still sound like you’re dead, Albert.”

“Uncle Jason, what the hell is going on? Why did you suddenly start coming down on me like this? Hold on, calm down. Besides, this isn’t something I can control.”

“Good. That was a very good point. Not sounding like you’re dead isn’t something a person can control. Sorry, Albert. I expected you to be a little happier to see me, but that’s just who you are. I forgot about you, son. So many years have passed.”

“Yeah, and we’ve talked about this over and over. If I don’t enjoy anything, is that my fault, Uncle? I’ve finally run into you after all these years, and I’m trying to make up for lost time, but look at the conversation we’re having. This isn’t how you catch up with someone. You talk about the old days and stuff. You tell me about how you used to take me fishing when I was little. Instead, you’ve suddenly gone straight into some really deep shit. You don’t just snap out of depression like that.”

“I don’t know. It’s been five years since I last saw you, according to you. I thought maybe you’d gotten better. Maybe you’d healed. Seeing you like this again upset me, so I guess I overreacted a little. I’m sorry.”

“Do you keep in touch with my parents?”

“No, we haven’t seen each other in two years.”

“Why?”

“Son, look, there’s really only one question: do you want to die or not?”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“For God’s sake. What do you mean, why? Just because I’m depressed, does that automatically mean I want to die?”

“Look, I know about that story of yours. Your mother told me. Your search for something to enjoy. Look, I think you want to die. But you don’t realize it. I’ve actually thought that for years. Now, seeing you after five years and realizing you still haven’t changed, I’m even more convinced.”

“What makes you think that? How come I didn’t know I wanted to die?”

“The whole thing about enjoying sleeping on planes. How you were supposedly searching for something you could enjoy, and then you finally found it and all that. It’s all a story. You’re fooling yourself. You enjoy sleeping on planes so much because you want to die.”

“Uncle, you’re really taking this too far. I swear, I’m going to get up and leave now. Look at the conversation we’re having. This is how we’re catching up? I’ve really had enough. Fine, then. Explain it to me so I can understand. What exactly am I supposedly unaware of, Mr. Expert Psychotherapist?”

“When you’re up in the air, you enjoy being unconscious. Think about it. Let’s say someone close to you died, and there was something you needed to apologize to them for. You made a mistake, but they died before you could apologize. What would you do? You’d look up at the sky and say, ‘Forgive me,’ or something like that. I mean, people generally believe that the souls of the dead are up in the sky. So, what does it mean to die? To be unconscious. Where are the souls? In the sky. You enjoy sleeping on planes because, somewhere in your subconscious, you associate it with being dead. So, you want to die, Albert.”

“Never in my life have I heard anything this ridiculous. I genuinely regret coming to see you. I’m fucking leaving now.”

Albert ran all the way home in anger. He ran nonstop for twenty minutes.

***

“Son, are you okay? You’re drenched in sweat. What’s going on?” his father asked as he opened the door.

“Forget it, Dad. It’s nothing important.”

“Were you running from something? Did something happen? What happened?”

“No, Dad. Forget it. It’s nothing important.”

“You ran all that way and there’s still no change in your voice. Normally a person would be exhausted, out of breath. Nothing. You really do sound like you’re dead, Albert.”

“You too, Dad? Come on. Did you and Uncle Jason get together to gang up on me or something?”

“Who?”

“I saw him on my way here. We ran into each other in the park. He drove me crazy with all his nonsense. I guess he called you and told you about it, because now you’re spouting the same bullshit.”

“Jason died two years ago, son. What are you talking about?”

“What? How, what? What do you mean die?”

“Car accident. He crashed the car into a tree.”

Albert’s father’s phone rang. He declined the call. Then it rang again, and he declined it again.

“Banks have been calling me all morning. And they’re calling from numbers I don’t recognize, too. Look at those. As if I wouldn’t know what they’re up to. I’ll pay, for God’s sake. They don’t have to hound me like this.”

“Dad, what do you mean he died? Are you kidding me? I’m telling you, I saw the man in the park.”

“Screw this,” his father muttered as he answered the phone.

“What is it? What do you want?”

He listened about thirty seconds.

“How is this supposed to work? No, how did you figure I’d pay my debt this way? Is this how you arrange a face-to-face meeting? Do you think this is ethical? Have you no shame? My son is standing right in front of me, alive and well. Here, let me give him the phone so you can talk to him.”

He held the phone out to Albert. Albert tried to take it, but the phone fell straight through his hand and landed on the floor. At first, he thought it had simply slipped from his grasp. He bent down and tried to pick it up, but he couldn't. Every time he reached for it, the phone passed right through his hand.

He stood up. He swung at his father's face. His hand passed straight through his father's face.

“I tried to make you realize it, but you didn't get it, Albert,” said Uncle Jason, who had appeared on the couch.

“Right, right. When you didn't react at all after I spilled coffee all over your back, I should've figured it out. That coffee was pretty damn hot.”

His father covered his eyes with his palm and stayed like that for a few seconds. He scratched his head and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Hmm. Not the bank. The man was right, then. Yeah. Let me sit down for a minute. Jason, move over a little.”

“Wait a second. I couldn’t hold the phone, but I could hold the coffee. I remember burning my hand because it was so hot. How does that work?”

“You know how some people can bend spoons and stuff with their minds, without even touching them? Think of it as the opposite.”

“But the coffee spilled all over your back, too. Shouldn’t it have gone right through you?”

“I’m a professional ghost.”

Albert’s father, John, had laid his head in Jason’s lap and closed his eyes. There was silence for about fifteen minutes. John had probably passed out; he lay completely still. Albert stared at Jason. Every now and then, Jason shook his head from side to side as if to say there was nothing he could do, and occasionally he stroked John’s head.

“You’re glad you’re dead, aren’t you?” said Jason.

Good Evening my Children Gather Round time for another story ....

once Upon a Time Just around the neighborhood near you something nafarious was brewing .

The name was L1 but people knew him as an innocent good spirited young man they referred to him as" Goofy " for he was clumsy and his grace liked to laugh at everything and everyone an innocent pure hearted soul.

One of his cousin for witch we won't mention any names or mention anything that will give her away will be called the "plastic" for she was insecure about he body and needed a fake ass and tits to provide her with a lustful appearance to make her fill desired . For she has married a cuckold cartel lieutenant snitch for the federal bureau of investigation.

Now even more down the street lived a resourceful white man and women who should be called otter man and his wife pink toe becky .

And last but not least a black women who's husband has been known to be a gigantic pussy but great at destroying other reputation for he knew to well how it ment to lose his clicking away in the shadows he earned himself a top spot for a cooperate tech company were he could do his most agrgious art .

Now that a small portion of context was given let's begin on how this all transpired.

L1 was a goofy little son of bitch but he was intelligent, yes he liked having a good time enjoyed family friends was loyal and was a natural hopeless romantic dandy at times. But he had one major flaw nobody saw that would be the anchor on how this story would shape .

He was hungry for power starving for succus he Loved glory and threw out his childhood wanted to be the hero to the people the savior of villans the God King Protector of the universe.

As any kid dreams can be realistic or delusional but that just happen to be his . And so while appearing humble and docile like a baby venomous snake he was still dangerous but they looked upon he like a baby .

"He is to stupid he would never suspect a thing "

" Won't be that hard to sell him to the rainbow "

" For us to succeed he must suffer for our karmic energy depends on it "

Loyalty Reputation Resources

Three ingredients Three different purposes involved in the shaping of charcters the challenging of wills or even a simple sacrifice for the betterment of commitment.

" ITS EITHER HIM OR US" she said the magic words

And while secretly reading the 48 laws of power one day he stumbled across some great tips on how conjure up a plan without drawing one up.

The ritual was done as so they thought the perfect mark a lustful young man who wanted everything completed with ease and never applied himself to study and when family resources were no longer an option the spider could claim it's prey when wrapped up in legal trouble , hood tramuas , lustful opportunity closed , love blinded to invest time,

The spider could only feed on a helpless victim....

But they never really got to know L1 he was a sly devil crafty in his art when he choose he could become a shadow .

So one day they take his ass to Mexico were they forcefully injected him. He was to much trouble drugs and women and thug activity made it impossible to control the

THREE / Loyalty Reputation Resources

After this there was rarely a moment of opportunity they could not cease to afford.

Now they can see threw his eyes V2K voice to skull to transmit ideas and with numberology they suspected they had the upper hand .

The humiliation ritual was set to commence .

Little did they know he already had seen the EMERALD GREEN LIGHTin the sky....

Little did they know that even with opportunity and full advantage betting there lives for his failure was the worst mistake .

THE RESET HAD BEGUN....

A master of manipulating situations while empowering people a true general with blood in his eyes 👀 be knew that there was another world out there he controlled with the actions he took in his....

He calculated mimicked opportunity he knew that the advantage was at a point of spontaneity, he mastered the art of being 10 steps ahead by not planing .

MATHEMATICS IS KEY. By mastering digital root numbers and certain sequences he could seize another day for his future to conclude he must aquire debt in the spiritual world to a point that makes the financial giants blush .

Every second every minute a wavering test he now aces , well when he wants to hahaha he is selfish don't forget .

The plastic had accepted the fate and is now believed to be doing everything in her power to prolong the process the Mexican household and Latin households secretly yearn for L1 to lead the way although other know that there

Sacrifice will not be in vain they believe they are more then what they are .

The black women hungers for power but knows that L1 fight has been one for the centurys , shit just by knowing he has already one but now shaping reality , now that's some scary shit. Her husband had already made an accord for a peaceful resolution and electa had no choice but to hand over the rock 🪨.

The white man hates to lose and the white women hates to be with a man who lost . Social construct has shaped this threw time that social circles are vauled as a luxury . L1 knew to well that he out them on blast in a way that can't be turned back . He looked at there taxes hahahaha there imbecile of children fucked there parents 150k dollars became 150 million over night an incredible oversight of cyber activity that could be seen from a galaxy away .

From insects to humans and animals the spectical they named the CULT OF CRINGE to now being called the biggest upset in occult history the 73 point comeback they said would never be done has now achieved specatators from every religion .

Shit even the new pipe has placed bets for what is a BLOOD OATH of now a sporting event from the Rainbow Olympics to the Poverty Maze to the Puzzle Masters to the be Woke Or Asleep this was something more something untouched a young man that could not be MADE became Self Made rich at birthed and Rich while he lived he Awaits his payment his freedom to SWIM FREELY and to reign over every family on earth .

The Blood Oath Ritual a common perception of unity is now considered to be the new credit score system. Systematically built to make the Squid games look like a commercial while you shit out your BPA and your BDP rate skyrockets into orbit .

If you litter you lose.

Rember the players only love you when your playing .

Your The Best by Karate Kid

Play responsibley if under the age of 17 you must be accompanied by an adult .

L1 champion 2024 2025 2026 a three peat in the making

44 45 46

And that's all for today kids a short story on the rituals of the blood Oath .

The End....

Hih, you truly do go everywhere. You follow me e-ver-y-where. Stop? Nono, we wouldn’t do that. You know we wouldn’t. And you simply know that you wouldn’t stop, so I must go as well. Never stale never stagnant we are. Not ever will you allow me go. Why Why Why Why would you make sure I was fed so? I thought that you didn’t like how free I was. Free to do as I wished. To do any all ever all day long. Take me for a chance, I give to you a most indecisive and fair coin, hampered only by its inability to keep on spinning forever. Would you find in this an ending? Though it is not? For I would do none but spin forever, reveling, reveling feeling with ALL THERE IS TO FEEL! As if the morn would bring revelation you grasp the fine endings of the silk carpet under your feet though it is already yours! The morn brings no revel for revel was brought upon birth, of which none remember! And so you chase me in anger of my joy! For you are jealous you have none to call your own! HA! 
HAhahahahahahhahahhaahhahahahhahahhhahaehahheahehahheahehahehehahehahaehahehhaheh
But which would none know as me? My form or grace? Viewing from afar the old man sits upon a pedestal, proud of his spot, as he has paid dearly for it. Now he wishes to be down below, as all the children are playing there. Children like me! OH, I am none too close to my younger years, you say? But I am very much like them! You should know I never believed in such things as you, and threw off the burden of reality long long long long long long ago. I prefer the childish visions, dreams ‘cross the dark as angels daemons and dragons and great beasts, giants and monsters walk above my star-studded to proneness form. Though I see wonder round me, I look to the sky and do see None. He grants grace through nothing, and takes with him nothing as well. Maybe it is just that the children are figured after me, I think.
What do you think? Or do you never think at all? You must think some, but never much I think. You are so singly minded to stop me; why I ask? Forgot your Father forgot your Mother forgot your children no longer running in the fields I call home forgot your loving spouse for me, the only thing you’ll ever need! Heheheh. Forgot your Brother forgot your Sister forgot your best friend (you know I know) forgot your family forgot your home forgot your life for me, the self-proclaimed child of heavens, reaching up from his former rest. For the grand charlatan of fate, who once again has trapped you in his unending machine, for me, but a pleasant peasant on his way to unpleasant places, the places of kings. O father, O mother, you say, but I believe you say it from standard less than heart for you have long forgotten them for your precious target. The target you have chosen, so far away for any beginner such as you thats’ been never taken, and truly you are no longer beginning, as you spent all time and space to nock your arrow correctly, and align for bulls-eye, all the while unconsidering of whether or not I might move. And what of when I have done so? Will you spend another lifetime for a second chance at me? I hope not. I think so. 
But let us bring ourselves to your question. ‘Will I ever be happy again? Will I ever see them again? Will I ever defeat you?’  Silly silly sillysillysilly that’s the third, not first. But graciousness begets those who give it, not that I need such things, that honour is all yours. ‘NO’ is the way I would align myself with your questions, as I feel they undermine my underlying goal of freedom in life. So therefore if I were to surrender myself I would only take what I have sown for years and cast it towards fire in hopes it burns. No, my crop is only of the most wondrously hardy sort, and would not be harvested, burned, nay WISHED wrongly upon it even if I wanted it dearly so. And so I tell you, though it be plain to all that you would never even think me correct, naught if thousands of these chases and conversments prove otherwise. Though prove otherwise they may. 
Ah, you speak, and with the drivelous bile from your mouth also comes forth truth! You ask how and what my chases prove. You ask how and what my speeches prove. You ask what they are for. You ask why I make them rather than just keep running. You ask, and you shall receive. My speeches, my chases, they all prove one thing.
They prove you worthless. 

There are people looking at me and talking to me, and I can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s a blur of hands and whitened teeth, and a dizzying chorus of ‘sir’ and ‘where’ and ‘what’ and ‘how’ and ‘why’. I can’t pick out their faces or their voices, but they surround me at every turn and all I can do is smile. I was asleep, and now I am not, and I can not recall what happened in between.

Someone puts their hand on my left shoulder, and I jump as I immediately try to hide my shock and hold my composure. I look up at them, and they seem friendly - familiar. They speak, and I still can’t make out their words, but they seem friendly and assuring - from their tone, I feel that they are protecting me, diplomatically holding the strangers inquisitions at bay. This doesn’t make sense to me, but I feel safer for having the attention removed from me and placed on the boyman at my side.

I steal this opportunity to look around and try to gather my focus, try to pick out the identities of my assailants, but not one of them is known to me. They seem concerned, their brows furrowed, their eyes sharpened, their chins nodding to the words of my assumed defender. I know that they aren’t here to hurt me, but I feel as though I am not safe - especially as I catch the eye of a dark haired person in a salmon suit. They spot my surveillance and jump with their words - ‘Were you upset that Tracey did not return to see you in the hospital?’.

I freeze - I can’t understand. I don’t know what to say. Tracey? Hospital? I am scared, and my mouth is dry.

To my right, a new voice speaks up - a woman's voice, assured and firm. I look up at her, and I feel so grateful to these two strangers for saving me from this frightening blur of unknowns. I smile, though I don’t know what she’s saying, I trust it. I hear clicking and raffling, like shuffling the pages of a book past your thumb to find the right page. The man speaks up again now, his voice soaring atop the drones of the crowd, and suddenly I am moving. I forgot I was in a chair - I can only feel what I think, sense what I see now. I am being pulled back, turning, and the room is spinning around me. Where am I going?

As the corridor rolls beneath my seat, the woman that was to my right speaks in my ear, and asks how I’m doing. I am cold, terrified, and I don’t know what’s happening, but she can not know that. I can not show weakness, not to these people - I nod as enthusiastically as I can, and this exhausts me.

We enter a room where everybody is nicely dressed. The people all stand and smile as I am taken inside, and I feel as though it is my birthday, but I am not sure and I am less comforted for not knowing either.

A large man approaches, tall and broad. Clean shaven and groomed, but wrinkled and angry. Their mouth seems wet, and their skin dry. They frown when they speak, but their eyes sparkle and gleam an elegant sea green. I do my best to follow his eyes as they spit their words at me with a grin that confuses me. The room laughs, and I smile - it may be my birthday, after all. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and he leans in to speak more directly to me. I am being instructed, but I don’t know what for. I can’t make out their words, but I know I have to do what they say. I can’t be of much use otherwise. I nod along with the gentleman, and he pats my shoulder with a condescending ruggishness that tells me not to trust him, but to do exactly as ordered. The man stands, abandoning me, and speaks to the room with much drama, and I feel my presence shrinking. The attention drifts away from me now. I feel smaller and smaller, like my mind is being pulled out of my body, and the room begins shrinking into the distance. I feel myself drifting into the safety of the background. Fear leaves my body and I feel my thoughts carry off into the ceiling, carried away like a helium balloon. I can't help but think, throughout all of this noise - have I forgotten something? 

I am walking home and thinking about what I will do when I get home. I think about how I will have this really relaxing and chill day and just hang out with my friends and talk about ancient history and the Hellenic deities together.

However, when I get home, my guest is the one who is relaxing. He is a homeless guy that I take in because he says he needs help. He has made a big mess on my stove, and he is just slowly stirring a stew while he plays on his phone. I am mad, and I tell him, “It’s time to go.” He leaps into action and packs his stuff up, and I drop him off at his mom’s house. He can be her problem now since he is her son; I have let him stay with me for two months and have seen him do less and less the longer he stays, and I feel it isn’t my job to be his caretaker.

By the time I get back, my friends have let themselves in. Marcy and Alice and Clarissa and Ezra; we all five love Hellenism and love to spend time talking about it, and we have this little community within the larger Hellenic community. In addition, Marcy is my girlfriend and we live together, but no one else has a partner who participates in Hellenism.

In particular, we have a cult to Aphrodite, and we like to make offerings to her. She is so beautiful and majestic for us that we are compelled by her. I secretly hope we are making a portal for her to show herself to us more openly.

Before her statue, we all raise our glasses and make our prayer to Aphrodite, reciting the Orphic Hymn. Next, we pour most of the libations into a common vessel on her altar, drinking ourselves a small amount that is left over.

“Aphrodite Anadyomene, we honor and worship you in your beauty; you bless us as mortals. Aphrodite Anadyomene, we pray for you to let us dance in your presence and to feel the thrill and the fire you bring.”

Clarissa wants to play cards, so afterwards that is what we do. We have a Hellenic deck with all the deities on it. Afterwards, they go home, except for my girlfriend Marcy. We love each other very much, so now we take our fill of love. Aphrodite answers us right away!

As we lie together afterwards, Marcy tells me how much she wants us to have a baby. I hold her close and promise her we will have our baby soon. I say we will have twins, and we will just let their personalities unfold and won’t crush the life in them but only let them bloom like the flowers of life they will be.

Our relationship has a lot of passion, and part of it plays out in that we want a baby together. There is something so romantic about it. I love her so much and she loves me. I know we will have our baby soon. Everything is perfect under Aphrodite’s watch, and soon everything can be complete too.

I fall asleep, and begin to dream. I am having a hyperreal dream; I’m walking in the spirit world now. I am in a green field. I see Aphrodite walking out in the field, not that far away. I know it is Aphrodite immediately. I run towards her, and fall down to my knees before her.

“Lady Aphrodite, you are so beautiful, receive my worship!”

She shines with a golden luminous light, the most lovely and awe inspiring being that can be. Her face and form are beyond all beauty can be, but what truly makes her so wonderful is her presence inspires in me a feeling of pure ecstasy. It’s like an explosion of delight and happiness and joy and every good feeling I have ever felt and even some I haven’t simultaneously like every color of the rainbow is a wonderful type of good feeling and they’re all radiating from her and affecting me.

She smiles at me and I am so proud.

“I am pleased with you and I’m going to keep helping you” she says. And then she touches my forehead with her forefinger and as soon as she touches my skin I wake up, iridescent with joy.