It all started one glorious Sunday morning in the picturesque seaside city of Clifton Hills. As Mikaela started her morning beach walk, the rays of the sun peeked from the horizon. It was an array of colors pink, orange and yellow. The sky looked like a masterpiece. Hearing the waves crash was a magnificent sound. It soothed her soul. The sable colored sand in between her toes, feeling the cold-water splash along her feet was a sensation that she looked forward to.  As she walked along the shore she noticed something glistening in the sand. She wondered what could it be? As she got closer she saw a nugget sized diamond! She could not believe her eyes. Simultaneously*she saw an array of beautiful monarch butterflies, with their vivid and bright orange colors. Reminding her of a city in Mexico. Many thoughts were going through her head. She put the diamond in her pocket and thought of what she could turn it into.

As she continued her stroll she realized she had worked up an appetite. She decided she would go to her favorite bagel place NYC Bagel’s* and order her favorite bagel. As she walked in the bagel shop the aromas of fresh bread and garlic permeated the air, along with*the smell of fresh brewed coffee, “Hi! I’d like to order a lox and bagel on an onion bagel and a small vanilla latte please”.  “Sure, that will be $12.99” As she sat and waited for her order she looked out the window and saw morning joggers, people walking their dogs and cars passing by. “Order for Mikaela” “Thank you, that’s me”! Blissfully she took her first bite and the different flavors and textures made her content.

After finishing her breakfast, she decided she would get back on the road and head to her apartment. As Mikaela got in her car she got a call from her best friend Lauren. Lauren lately had been going through dating disasters. Feeling the pressure of her parents to find a suitable suiter along with studying for finals was not a good combination. But she thought what the hay I have nothing to lose and signed up on a dating app. *

 “OMG Mikaela you’re never going to believe the guy I met last week, I for sure thought I had found a great guy. He is 6’2, light brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and just the right amount of muscles. He took me out on a few dinner dates, we had lively and interesting conversations”

“However, during our dinners his phone kept dinging” “What do you mean his phone kept dinging”? I jokingly asked him if he was a doctor. He said no that I was his ex-girlfriend who was a having a hard time with the breakup. I asked him if he felt comfortable sharing why they had broken up. He proceeded to tell me that she had cheated on him with his brother. Bewildered I couldn’t understand why he would still be in contact with her……

Previously

“Is this the way Boss?”

“Yes, you are correct Joseph,” Ola said. “Good…job.” It sounded strange on her tongue. She was not used to giving out compliments, certainly not to a driver on his first day of work. But, she was in a rare good mood today, having just secured a major client for her company. The ink was barely dry on the contract; her lawyer had confirmed the deal via phone only 30 minutes ago.

“Whoo, thank you Lord,” Ola said, taking off her pointed toe pumps and massaging her feet. She could finally breathe as everything was coming together and getting done. The company's demands were under control, and her home renovations were progressing well. The latter was what excited her the most. It had been a month since she hired Howard, and his impact was already evident—new windows already in place, with new tiles and bright white paint on the horizon. Her mansion was on track to becoming the most beautiful on the block.

“Some people just need an opportunity,” Ola thought. As she reclined in the leather backseat of her Range Rover, she felt a sense of pride in trusting her instincts and taking a chance on someone who most would not even look at in their day to day. Trusting her instinct was what made her wealthy, and with Howard on her side, was going to make her even more wealthy. 

Ola found herself contemplating grander plans for the homeless man. Beyond her own home, she envisioned a partnership that could revolutionize high-end home renovations all over their country. She knew there was a market there and, in fact, looked forward to seizing it. Once Howard finished her home, she would tell him about her plan and proposal, which she had no doubt that he would accept.

The Range Rover smoothly pulled into the yard, and Ola observed Howard and his crew buzzing with activity. The air was filled with the rhythmic clinks of tiles being carried into the house. Under the scorching sun, Howard, shirtless and with a pencil behind his ear, directed his team like a maestro directing a symphony. 

Ola stepped out of the car, and as Howard noticed her approach, he wiped the sweat from his brow. She greeted him warmly. "Howard, it's looking great."

He let out his signature gap smile. "Thank you, Madam."

“Annie!” Ola called out. 

A tall dark-skinned girl came running from inside the house. “Yes, Bosslady?”

“Give Howard a nice cold soft drink. This heat is too hot. Orange soda, right?”

Howard nodded. 

“Eh, Annie.”

“Yes, Bosslady?” Annie asked, turning around just as she was about to enter the house.

“Bring a soft drink for Joseph too. What do you want?”

A skinny baby-faced man in a crisp black suit with a tie hurried over to Ola and Howard. “Need something Boss?”

“I said, what soft drink do you want to drink? The children have after school activities today, so you won’t be picking them up until quarter past 5. You have some time to relax.”

“Thank you Boss,” Joseph said, bowing his head twice. “Ginger ale. Thank you Boss.”

As Annie ventured into the house to fetch the drinks, Ola motioned towards the trio of patio rocking chairs on her porch, adorned with elegant navy blue and white Victorian floral cushions. "Come Howard, take a break. You have earned it."

Howard hesitated, glancing at his sweaty torso. "Oh…um…I don't want to dirty your chairs, Madam."

Ola chuckled. "Nonsense. I insist. Have a seat. Relax.” She did not offer a seat to Joseph. Such hospitality could only be offered to invited guests and a future business partner.

Despite initial hesitation, Howard nodded appreciatively and joined Ola by the chairs. The work crew continued their diligent efforts; and Annie delivered a refreshing Orange soda to Howard and a glass of club soda with ice to Ola as they settled down to relax in the shade of the porch. She also handed a cold bottle of Ginger ale to Joseph, who eagerly took his beverage and proceeded to lean on one of the porch’s columns.

Howard's parched lips embraced the chilled soda, the effervescent bubbles dancing in the glass bottle. Ola observed with amusement as he gulped down the drink as if he hadn't had water in three days. She found the homeless man fascinating, more captivating than the successful moguls and entrepreneurs she encountered both at home and abroad.

“Howard,” Ola said, breaking the silence. “I've been meaning to ask you. How did you learn to write so well?"

Howard wiped the remnants of Fanta from his lips, a hint of surprise in his eyes. It had been a very long time since anyone had inquired about his education. “Well, Madam…I learned it in Catholic school. The one by the capitol building.”

A subtle realization crossed Ola's face. “The private high school by the capitol building?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“That’s the best private school in the country.”

Howard nodded. "Yes, Madam…It…is.”

Ola's interest deepened. Who was this man who had attended private school with children of the elite class in their country and wealthy expatriates? The kind of school she longed for her children to attend once they were old enough. “You must come from a well off family to afford such education.”

A shadow passed over Howard's eyes. "I did, Madam…My parents…they even paid my way through college…at MIT…Once upon a time."

Ola’s jaw dropped. "MIT in America? You went to one of the best universities in the world?"

Howard sighed, his gaze fixated in the distance. “Yes…But that was a long time ago.”

“So, how did you….sorry I have to ask this…but how did you—”

“How did I end up as a drunk bastard?”

“Howard,” Ola said in a disapproving tone, tutting like a grade school teacher.

“Sorry, Madam…I actually never told anyone this story about how I end up as a drunkard. Not even, my own mother and father.”

It was in 1994. I had finished my first year at MIT and was starting my second year. I was not the best student in my class by any means; but, I was not the worst either. Somewhere in the middle, average as you could call it. Though, if you asked my parents, they would call it on the borderline of failure. Nothing one could do to please them, to be honest. They both had attended and met at Oxford, graduating with First class honors.  

Despite my average status, I had already grown accustomed to MIT and its surrounding city, Cambridge. The city was a dream for me, a place where I'd explore on my bicycle during weekends and after classes. 

While my parents saw it as playing around, the truth was, I spent the majority of my time studying hard to earn those average marks. MIT was very difficult, especially for someone like me, new to America and grappling with the language barrier and the curriculum. There were times where I cried and thought about calling my parents to send me back home. 

My salvation at MIT came in the form of the strong study habits instilled in me during my Catholic school education years back home. Thus, at MIT, I spent my days in intense study sessions, often found in the library for hours on end. However, my favorite place though to study was a small and old-fashioned coffee shop not far from the university. Among the various coffee shops I'd stumbled upon in my city explorations, this one stood out. There was something about it that resonated with me. I couldn't quite explain it, but I found myself studying more efficiently or focusing more and getting a lot more done in that particular coffee shop.

It was also in this coffee shop where I met the reason for all my problems. She was short, had a curve figure with blonde hair and blue eyes. In just three days since she joined the coffee shop, our eyes met for the first time. What drew me in the most was the pinkish birthmark circling her left blue eye; it accentuated her blue eye, resembling a full blue moon against the dark night sky.

Every time I entered the coffee shop, my eyes searched for her, working behind the counter. I was too shy to say anything, not just to her, but to anyone at all, even back at my university. I was always the bookworm, the African student with big bug-eye glasses who kept to himself and always had his nose buried in his books. Striking up a conversation with others was not my strong suit to say the least.

However, fate took an unexpected turn one Friday night. Nearing closing time at the coffee shop, I unintentionally became the last lingering customer, absorbed in my studies for an engineering exam the upcoming week. To my surprise, she approached me.

"Nice Bob Marley shirt," she said with a warm smile, introducing herself. Her name was Alison, but she preferred to go by Al.

“Thank you…that’s my…favorite…shirt,” I said, barely able to get the words out. By this time, I was sweating all over and had to press my arms against my armpits so she could not notice the sweat pouring down.

“What are you studying?”

“Eng-Engineering,” I managed to say, stuttering.

“Where do you study?”

“M-M-MIT.”

She whistled. “Engineering at MIT. That’s hard. You must be a genius.”

“I could only dream,” I said, letting out a nervous laugh. There was something about her voice, so calming and encouraging. I was starting to gain confidence.

She flashed her signature warm smile and pointed at my shirt. “‘Three Little Birds’. That’s my favorite. You heard?”

“Oh yes, I like it very much…I also like ‘Redemption Song’.”

“Ohh, that’s a good one,” she said, snapping her fingers and humming the lyrics. I bopped my head to her humming, feeling that we had a connection.

We continued to talk about our other favorite Bob Marley songs, and the more we spoke, the more comfortable I felt. The conversation started to flow effortlessly, breaking the shell of my shy self. Al's outgoing manner made me feel like I could tell her anything, like talking to a best friend – a feeling I hadn't experienced since immigrating to America.

As the night unfolded, Al extended an invitation that, upon hearing it, made me feel like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. "There's an awesome record shop nearby. They have a nice collection of Bob Marley. How about we check it out tomorrow, Saturday? 12 noon good?"

“Yes, yes, that’s great. I would like that,” I answered a little too eagerly, like a child responding to the offer of ice cream from a parent.

We bidded each other good night, agreeing to rendezvous at the coffee shop before heading off together to the record shop. As I walked to my dorm, the prospect of the upcoming Saturday filled me with newfound excitement. Sleep eluded me that night as I looked forward to a connection I had never ever experienced before in my life: a connection with a girl.

That day, under the noon sun, we convened at the coffee shop and walked together to the record shop. Along the way, we talked. I was so nervous and anxious at the same time that I could barely get out my words without shaking. I am sure Al noticed but she did not say anything. She asked me about my studies at MIT and my upbringing in West Africa. Her kind eyes and friendly smile gave me the confidence to open up, and by the time we reached the record shop, we were laughing and cracking jokes. Her laughter was like sweet music, and I spent the whole day saying all the jokes I knew just for my ears to hear it.

At the record shop, I was treated to a first class education about Mr. Marley. Al’s knowledge about the artist was uncanny. As she riffled through the records, those blue eyes sparkled as she pointed out her favorite albums, sharing anecdotes about Bob Marley's life and the meanings behind each song. She even had a rapport with the shop owner and he allowed her to play the records. I marveled at how she recited the lyrics so effortlessly. 

We sat on an old, worn-out sofa in the corner of the shop, enjoying the reggae tunes playing from the speakers. Al told me stories about Bob Marley's journey to stardom, his struggles and his impact on the Rastafarian movement: some of the stories that I had never heard before. 

After the record shop, we had lunch at a pizza restaurant across the street. There, we continued our conversation about the Rastafarian movement until sunset. Neither of us wanted the day to end. Thus, I was elated and agreed without hesitation when she invited me to her place, an apartment on the outskirts of the city of Boston.

The apartment felt alive, with its colorful hippie decorations and mix-and-match furnishings that suited Al’s free spirit personality. Al's roommate, a girl with dreadlocks and tattoos covering her arms, greeted us with genuine hospitality. Al and her roommate had a stereo system and we spent the majority of the night listening to reggae, talking and laughing. 

Later, Al invited me to her room where she showed me her collection of reggae record albums, and opened up to me about her upbringing: a well-to-do family with strict father or “suit and tie kind of guy” as she described him and quiet homemaker mother who followed her husband every command like “a lapdog.” We had similar parents, though I knew for a fact my parents were much stricter and, frankly, worse than hers. 

To lighten the mood, I entertained Al by imitating my strict father and soft-voiced mother: imitating his nasal voice and her brutal sarcasms. That was the loudest I ever heard her laugh that entire day. 

Al’s room was where I felt we cemented our bond. It was also a room where I had many first experiences all at once in the same night: alcohol, marijuana, a condom and woman’s business. 

Next Part 3 Preview:

“Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you.

/The Tragic Tale of Howard. A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons. By West African writer Josephine Dean /

He sees me, for the first the time, he sees what I look like in real life. Am I what he expected? Pictures of me don’t capture my crooked smile or my lack of curvature that men love to gaze at. Did he expect better? 

In a class of 4, he chose to sit right across from me. His name tag is slightly crooked “Gabriel” yep, that’s him. Just how I remembered from our chats. His picture didn’t do him justice, he’s the epitome of seduction. I can feel his perfectly symmetrical face burning a hole into the left side of mine. I’ve never felt so insecure in my life. I want to face him, straight on, the angles I know he remembers. 

Thoughts of scrambling over the table and straddling him can’t escape my mind. I want to breathe him in and release the itch I’ve acquired for him.  The way his body leans into his chair it’s as if he’s never been intimidated by anything in his life. I want to change that. This training feels long, my seat is so hot, I can’t help but squirm in my chair. I lift my body up with my hands gripping my seat and lean forward, I press my elbows on to the table. My chest is pressing against my laptop and in the same second I see his eyes follow my movement. It’s just us in that moment, our eyes lock.  I don’t know a single thing this trainer is saying, all I see is Gabriel.

Class is over and my hotel room feels so quiet. I’m waiting by my phone for a chat to invade the stillness. There’s nothing. I slip into my workout clothes to utilize all aspects of this beautiful hotel. Suddenly I fly to my phone like a middle school girl getting a text from her new crush. Its him. “Wanna grab a drink at this bar down the road? It’s a quick walk!” 

Grab a drink?? I want to grab more. A drink will do for now. I throw on something casual but not too casual, I can’t show that I’m putting in effort just yet.

First drink is out in the parking lot, we know where tonight is headed because we both discuss a plan of action for coming back. 

We’ll invite Alex  to make sure we don’t look entirely soloed out.  First few drinks and Alex is tapped out. This happened quicker than we anticipated, I’m beginning to build nerves, I need more alcohol. As we walk back I intentionally raise my voice “shit, I forgot my hotel key.” I had to stick to the plan. Being the gentleman that Alex is, he offers to go with me to the front desk. It's the polite thing to do. Gabriel interjects and offers to show me an app I can use. Apps always did make life easier. Alex innocently leaves and thanks us for a great night. “See you guys bright and early”  Shit, he’s right. We have class at 8am but we haven’t even started our night. 

Our chats always felt so intimate. I had never met him but our chemistry was louder than any fire truck I’ve ever heard. Not just any fire truck, the ones that sneak up behind you when you have your music blasting, it interrupts the song entirely and makes its presence known. 

We get up to my room. I smell my perfume when I walk in, just as I had planned. He makes himself comfortable by slouching onto my bed. 

He asks me about my day and my flight, we talk for a bit over some wine he brought.  I feel his eyes begging for me to make a move. I don’t.

His arm is so close to mine I can feel its gravitational pull forcing me into him. His head rests below mine, I watch his eyes look up at me as if he wants to capture me into his essence. 

He sits up and puts his glass down, I can feel what’s next, my body anticipates it. And instead of grabbing me and taking me for his own, he walks over to my side of the bed, puts his soft, gentle hand on the back of my head, and tells me of my beauty. Before I could thank him, his lips meet mine and my body goes limp, with movements like water, his leg is pressed up against my inner thigh, with his hand cupping my breast. I gasp for air because it’s all happening so fast, I want to feel every second of every movement. Just as I reach to latch on to his body, he stops me. Gabriels hands are on mine and he holds me still as if he wants me to feel the anticipation.

It builds. It keeps building.

Our eyes are locked into one another’s, we don’t move, we just breathe, heavily. He picked me up so that we both face each other. He asks me if I’m sure about this. No hesitation, I say yes. 

I’ve craved this for months. It’s the only thing I have looked forward to. He sees me. All of me. For the first time.

Within the walls of an old timey saloon, six individuals holed up, in stalemate with the dust storm raging beyond the barroom doors. A cop, a pair of twins, an addict, an elderly woman, and a bartender were about to be visited by a course of events not initiated by their accord, but would still be finished in their prerogative.

Everyone was sweaty, but the woman of the twins grew more weary than the others. "How much longer does this sorta thing take?" She asked the locals.

The cop responded as the addict slipped away. "It'll only be a couple hours more... probably." The twin scoffed and sat in a nearby booth, irritated.

For the first time in a while, something peculiar happened. Steps knocked on the porch outside. "I think there's somebody here." The bartender chimed. The theory was confirmed with a knock from outside.

The cop made his way to the door. The male twin lagged behind him, "Should we really be letting in a stranger?"

"You're a stranger." the cop said.

The old lady at the bar chimed in, "You better let them in."

"Yeah, leavin' them out there to die is murder." The bartender said. With that, the officer pulled the door open and a figure slipped in, quickly slamming the door after himself.

"Howdy," the cop said. The figure patted his poncho and shirt, sending dust around the room.

The new man stripped off his bandana he'd used as a mask, and goggles he'd shielded his eyes with. "Howdy." He stated and started his way to the bar.

The barkeeper, ready to sell, said, "What's your drink?"

Peeling off his gloves, the stranger asked for water and tightened his back pack strings around his back. The cop took his seat back at the bar. "So, what's your story?"

"Oh, just passin' through." The stranger drank his water stiffly. "On my way to Billings."

"Well you sure are a long way from Billings." The elderly woman said as the stranger lit a match, followed by a cigarette.

"I sure am." He responded.

Simple conversations and silence fill the next while until something peculiar happens. Once again, footsteps could be heard from outside. Everyone gazed at the door in anticipation as the stranger remained in his normal stature. Then, the knock.

"Another one? This late into the storm? They must really need a beer." The bartender joked.

The cop approached the door, "I'll let them in." With that, the stranger rotated in his stool to face the door. Slipping open the lock, the officer firmly opened the door and a smaller figure entered, slamming the door tightly behind her as she entered. She patted the dust off her jacket, removed a pair of sunglasses, and a similarly patterned bandana to the stranger's earlier.

"Welcome in!" The bartender said brazenly. "What's your drink?"

She moseyed over to the bar silently. The strangers all stared at one another as she slowly made her way to the bar. She pulled up a stool and the cop made his way back to his seat as well. "Water." The woman said.

The two newest strangers had not left one another's gaze since the latter arrived. The officer's better instincts got to him, "You two know each other?" In a flash, the woman pulled a double action pistol from her cloaked holster and shot at the stranger. The ponchoed man dove beneath the bar and the old lady panicked, caught between the two. The officer lept to tackle the woman, receiving a bullet in return, knocking him to the floor.

"Oh my God!" The twins yelled and ran to the bathroom, but it was locked. The poncho'd stranger crawled to a table and knocked it over for cover. The bartender hid behind his bar as the officer groaned in a pool of his own blood. The old lady shuffled over to the twins in the corner.

"Give me the money, Rodney!" The lady screamed and shot a round into his cover.

"Finder's keeper's, bitch!" He yelled from behind the heavy table.

In the commotion, the officer, behind the violent woman, whispered to the elderly woman and twins in the corner. "Ah." He groaned, a bullet in his midsection. He pointed to a closet next to the bathroom, slightly hidden by chairs. The twins removed the stack of seats and escorted themselves and their elder into it to hide.

As the three heard more yelling from outside the closet, the male twin saw what maybe the officer meant in sending them there. A shotgun on the wall. Having all never used a gun, all three were dumbstruck. "I'm gonna just give it to the cop." The man said.

"What? No, we're here to hide." His sister pleaded as he ignored her.

"Watch her." He pointed his sister to the elderly woman. Grabbing the shotgun, he crouched down and made his way to the officer on the floor.

Within the officer's sights, the cop nodded approvingly for the twin to hand him the gun. The woman, by pure chance, turned to check on them and she caught their betrayal. The twin and the officer met their fate then and there.

In this distraction, Rodney leaped from behind his cover and laid out the woman with four rounds of his six iron littering her back. With three bodies on the floor, the stranger stood, a short distance from the bloody scene. Holstering his weapon he pulled up his goggles and headed to the exit. "There'll be more!" He hollered over to the cowering bartender.

Just as peculiarly as he arrived, he'd left. "Fuck." The keep whispered to himself. He slowly rose and saw the grisly sight. "Damn." Then, he waddled to the door to secure its lock. Distraught, he held his heart at the doorway.

The bathroom door opened and the addict stepped out to find the scene before him, "What the fuck?" he yelped.

The End

(Please read top comment/my comment before you judge)

Crime in the Sock Factory

This is the tale of I, Gerald Frankfurt Geidenheld IV: ex-detective. I was once a crime solving mastermind up until recently, when I decided it was time to settle down and work in a sock factory, as all other detectives do when they decide to settle down. I saw it to be a good time to take a rest. After all, I had just cracked my hardest case: does 2+2 really equal 4? Some people just don’t know how to think outside of the box like me- I was made for being a detective! And my calling had come. A visitor burst into my office as I was knitting a fresh pair of fuzzy socks. Well, not exactly a visitor. It was my boss, Jeffrey.
“Oh Gerald Frankfurt Geidenheld IV! I don’t know what I’ll do!” Jeffrey cried out after bursting into my office.
“Take a deep breath and use your words- what has occurred Jeffrey,” I said calmly, trying to ease Jeffrey’s panic. 
“My… my….,”Jeffrey huffed out exasperatingly.
“Your what?”, I snapped.
“My Fritos! They’re- they’re missing!”

I gasped in shock as to the tales of horror I was hearing. Jeffrey’s Fritos! What sort of evil mastermind steals another person’s Fritos! I knew at once I had to solve the case- and I wouldn’t rest until I found the culprit.

“Show me where you Fritos were at once! We will find them, have faith Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey led me down the dimly lit hallway outside of my office as piles of socks shuffled around our feet. Jeffrey finally stopped and threw open his office door to reveal his humongous Frito safe! It did in fact have a very large absence of Fritos.

“Why- they were here just yesterday! I simply have no clue as to where they’ve gone or who could’ve taken them. This is horrible, I say, horrible!” Jeffrey whimpered.

“Jeffrey, tell me about your office- perhaps how often you are around?”

Jeffrey sighed as though some of the stress was just leaking out of him.

“I seldom leave my office. As far as I know I’m always last to leave the building. We have security cameras in all the hallways but not in any of the rooms for privacy purposes so we won’t have any luck here unfortunately.”

I scratched my chin and plucked at my humongous handlebar mustache. Suddenly, a large alarm erupted from speakers in the ceiling, and red flashing lights circled around. A booming robotic voice yelled out,

“YARN SPILL! YARN SPILL! YARN SPILL…” it went on and on.

I nearly dragged Jeffrey by his overalls into the main sock manufacturing room where piles of half finished socks and yarn entangled the machinery. Mounds and mounds of unused fleece piled up, it could drown a person easily.

“Oh my- this most certainly won’t do.” I hurriedly stomped off to the janitorial room past the old storage room and went to try and find a vacuum or a broom or some sort of device to just clean the fiasco of which was occurring before my very eyes.

Yarn started spilling into the hallway as I continued to rush. At last, I was met with the weathered door of the janitorial room. A golden sign was bolted into the door, Bob’s janitorial room. I clamored to open it, and snatched a humongous vacuum. Beneath it laid a sleeping bag and assorted brushes and brooms, along with a “Janitor-ing is life” poster plastered across the back of the room.

“No time to dilly-dally!” I thought to myself. 

With business in my stride I hurried back past the old storage room with the vacuum in hand, ready to take on the spill. Suddenly, and without warning, Bob the janitor burst in.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” he said, hustling through the yarn and the crowd of sock workers who were trying their hardest to clean out the yarn.
“Everybody out. I’ll handle this, I’ll handle this. Don’t go rifling through the socks now.”

Bob continued to shoo out the crowd, including me and Jeffrey, as though we were some sort of pests. Bob pulled out his handy extendo-ladder from his back pocket and propped it up against the wall.

At once, me and Jeffrey hurried back to his office- we agreed to return to the hallway in search of clues after the mess had been taken care of. As we waited, I questioned Jeffrey a bit more.
“Did you see or hear anything prior to the theft? Perhaps any suspicious individuals or activity?”
“Well, as of recently I’ve been hearing a lot of rustling in the vents- and well, there’s always Sniffy the kleptomaniac- he has a raging Fritos addiction- just like me- but I don’t know how he could’ve gotten the code. Sniffy also has a habit of hanging around my room after hours but he wasn’t here when  I clocked out last night- maybe he was? I don’t know, I am just so panicked!” Jeffrey started hyperventilating.
I reached into my large trench coat and dragged out my emergency Fritos briefcase. 

I unbuckled it with a click and opened it wide, and started filing through all the different Fritos.

“Adobados ,Bar-B-Q, Bar-B-Q Hoops, Jalapeño Hoops, BBQ, Chili Cheese, Chile and Lime ,Chorizo and Chipotle, original? What is it Jeffrey? What do you want?”
“Half of those aren’t even from America where in the world did you get those-” Jeffrey paused, inhaled again and continued.
“Chili Cheese.” Jeffrey muttered quietly, to the point I couldn’t hear it.
“Sorry, could you speak up again?” I asked nicely.
“Chili cheese please!” Jeffrey yelled out, trying to snatch at my briefcase. I swiftly threw the chili cheese to the opposite corner of the room, and shut my briefcase and tucked it into my trench coat. I needed to solve this mystery fast- the withdrawal was already kicking in. Jeffrey tore into the bag and devoured its contents rabidly, as a starved dog would a sausage.
I waited patiently for Jeffrey to cease his eating, and then once more I dragged him into the hallway. As we strolled through the sock factory, we noticed a trail of crumbs- specifically pure red 40. Confused, I decided it was pertinent to our investigation to follow it. The trail of crumbs increased in size as we neared its creator. At last, we were met with another door- the door of Timothy- the head sock inspector. 
I gently pushed Jeffrey out of the way, in hopes to protect him in case the Frito bandit would jump out and take Jeffrey’s Fritos again. I inched the door open quietly, and with a creak and the flip of a light switch- we were met with quite a scene. Timothy was sprawled on the floor in a pile of Takis. Timothy let out a shrill scream, at such a high pitch it would be thought impossible for a man of his demeanor- after all he was a big burly man, reminiscent of Paul Bunion.
I closed the door again and waited about 2 minutes, then opened it again. Timothy was now calm and collected in his office chair, with red dye staining his clothes. He tugged at his collar anxiously, and averted my gaze.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the disappearance of, say, several bags of Fritos, would you Timothy?”
“Heaven’s no! I’m waging war against Frito-Lay!”

I took a quick look around the room. Posters with anti Frito-Lay propaganda drenched the walls.

“Slay the lay!” One said, with a picture of an angry man stopping on a bag of chips.

“I can feel my neural pathways deteriorating by the second. Come along Jeffrey, we must get a move on- their is no use wasting our time for this vulgar display of gluttony.”

I proudly strutted out with Jeffrey by my side, and slammed the door dramatically.

“We are going back to your office and checking the security tapes Jeffrey. Say, when did you clock out yesterday?” I questioned Jeffrey.
“10 pm to be exact.”
‘We’ll check the security camera footage from the exit door.”

Jeffrey pulled out his clunky laptop and opened up the security application. A notification was seen in the settings, saying movement detected on the previous day. I clicked on it and it opened up to footage of Sniffy. Sniffy was rolling around on his roller skates while eating a bag of chips.

“Enhance!” I yelled at the screen, for I could not read the label on the bag.

Instantly, the resolution became higher and I could read the name on the bag of chips: lays. It was not Fritos. The footage was also from around 9 pm. After he finished skating, he zoomed off the screen into the distance. He could not have committed the crime.

Suddenly- it came to me. Somebody very well could’ve seen Jeffrey entering the code from the vents- it would explain the rustling.
“Jeffrey, do you have a floor plan? I need to see it. Now!” I yelled.
“Apologies.” Jeffrey with shaken hands opened up his Fritos themed filing drawer and pulled out the blue and white floor plan.
Like following a maze, my fingers traced every possible path to the janitorial room. Only one remained. Bob’s janitorial office. 
“And we’re off again. Quickly now. Put everything away, we are going to Bob’s janitorial office.”
Today truly felt just like back and forth and back and forth. This time with passion, I strode over to the janitorial office. I threw open the door, and looked at my surroundings. The sleeping bag from before. Bob sleeps in the building!
“Jeffrey, I think I know who did this now.” I exclaimed with pride, and I lifted up the “Janitor-ing is life” poster to reveal a perfectly bob-the-janitor shaped hole that led into the ventilation system!
“You wait here Jeffrey, I’ll go in.”

Quickly, I grabbed a coil of rope and tucked it into my waistband. On my hands and knees I shuffled past cobwebs and spiders and was met with a perfect path to Jeffrey’s office- and a perfect view of the safe. I knew no sane man could eat that many Fritos in one night- so he had to be keeping them somewhere. I paused in my train of thought. Of course he could drop in to get the Fritos from the safe- but how could he get out from the room without going in the hallway where they had cameras? I stared blankly at the inside of the vent. Jeffrey’s extendo-ladder! That's it! And I also had a hunch of where he’d been keeping the Fritos: In the old storage room. I continued crawling through the vents to the storage room, and there he was- Bob the janitor absolutely devouring Jeffrey’s Fritos. I slid down a rope attached to the vent, and locked eyes with Bob. This was a standoff.

“Bob. I’m afraid you’ve been caught.”

Through muffled words, Bob choked out,

“How did you know it was me?”
“We found your hidden vent escape system. In fact. I know your whole plan. You waited till Jeffrey entered the code, you memorized it and then waited till he left. You ransacked the container, used your extendo-ladder to get back into the vent and you put them into your janitorial office. Originally, you thought you could leave it there and it would be undisturbed, but because of the yarn spill you had to rush to move them somewhere else since people would rush to the janitorial office for cleaning supplies. In your panic, you hurried through the vents and threw all your Fritos into the spill and shooed everybody out. While everybody was locked into their offices because of the spill, you took the Fritos into the storage room and have been eating them since!”
“Wow. You really got me. But you’ll never take me alive. HUP!” 

Bob hoisted himself up with all the Fritos in hand and began to run for it. Adrenaline rushing, I yanked down my rope and lassoed up Bob to the best of my ability. I took the Fritos out of his hands and called Jeffrey in. Eventually, Sniffy, Timothy, and all the other workers gathered around and threw empty chip bags at Bob. After the crowd cleared out, Jeffrey told Bob that he would have all of his Frito rations limited by ½ their original amount now. Bob let out a shrill cry of sorrow and defeat. At last the mystery was solved. I was at peace. I went to sleep that night as a hero, a magnificent one at that.

I am Gerald Frankfurt Geinheld IV, ex-detective Frito thief catcher who works at a sock factory, and also, a hero.

The End

No title yet

This is my first short story in a couple years so this is a very rough draft, but I’d love to know what people think of the concept. Thanks!

We had left behind our predatorial instincts long ago when we left earth, the planet that we drained the life out of. We humans lived on in the stars. First traveling to Proxima Centauri B. But that was merely a pit stop. After the last ship had left earth and finally landed about 5 years later we were thrown into a galaxy previously unknown to us.

I was just 15 years old when we left our solar system. Even though I was accompanied by the remainder of our civilization, I boarded the ship alone. My mother, who had raised me on her own, was one of the last to be buried in the earth’s soil. She was the kindest soul I had ever known and her funeral was attended by many in the community. She taught me how to take care of myself and survive on the earth. Her garden flourished every year, and she often fed our neighbors through the hardships. While we waited for the ship to be built she showed me how to hunt with a shotgun, deer were my favorite. Although she did not have much to leave to me she left me a locket with a picture of her holding me as an infant in her arms.

We arrived on Proxima Centauri B and began to build again but it was not long until we were greeted by a new world. Due to the radiation that our previous sun Sol emitted, any of our messages were overshadowed. When we landed, the red dwarf star known as Proxima Centauri, no longer hidden us from our galactic neighbors.

Our solar system was thought to be long abandoned. Previous life had witnessed an asteroid collision with our planet, believing that there was nothing left behind. Little did they know that that asteroid collision would eventually bring about the human race. Being the only intelligent species in our solar system was a rarity, and as such, our species was unique to say the least. With no one to shepherd our budding species into knowledge and enlightenment we were left to our own devices.

The first beings to greet us were the Jenydih, researchers who were elected to study us as alien anthropologists. As the first species in a long time to develop in isolation we were not only intriguing to these people but frightening. We had galactic rights as an intelligent species, but with no knowledge of our history they were unsure if we were to be welcomed or outcasted.

We were forthcoming with all of our history, our biology, our psychology, everything there was to know about humans. According to the Jenydih, post Industrial Revolution we evolved in a very similar manner to most other species in the galaxy. But what they were truly interested in was pre-industrial revolution, specifically the Stone Age. In the galaxy, intelligent species had evolved from both predators and prey. The predators were strong enough to overpower, fast enough to catch, or smart enough to trap. The prey were fast enough to not be caught, smart enough to avoid traps, or were adept camouflagers to hide. We were something different. We weren’t particularly strong or fast compared to other species. We were certainly smart enough, but we described a hunting style like no other. We were endurance hunters. We would follow prey until we could injure it, it overheated or fell exhausted. We were the predator that seemed to never tire, never sleep, never overheat. We could heal our injuries, and no matter how far our prey ran we always seemed to just be on the horizon, slowly stalking until they physically couldn’t run any longer, but we had given that up millennia ago. No human alive had ever hunted that way, we had agriculture and livestock

The Jenydih, who were a prey species at their core, kept their composure but did seem to hasten their exit. Once the council had finished their investigation into our history and saw that we posed no current threat to the galaxy they welcomed us. They showed us FTL travel and matter synthesizers, doing away with the need for such practices as agriculture and livestock. From there the human race flourished. Our home world, no longer an option, we settled on hundreds of planets across the galaxy. Some like myself, not settling anywhere at all.

I was flying across sector 7 of the delta quadrant when a barge of Borakki scavengers pulled in my ship. They were disgusting looking beings. Dark greenish brown wrinkly skin, four eye stalks like a snail, hands and feet like beetles with just a million little hairs that allow them to grip things. They had been cast out of the council a couple decades ago for being notorious kleptomaniacs, and today they had decided on my ship. My bay door opens to a couple Borakki pointing standard plasma weapons at me. I had no intention of being on the barrel end of one of those any time soon so I did not resist the capture. As they walked me down the halls to my cell I began to shiver. Most of these insect-like species were cold blooded, and kept their ships accordingly. I wish I had worn a thicker jacket. These types of hijacks are not uncommon in the galaxy, the owner of the ship is usually dropped on the closest planet left to signal for rescue. I expected to be on a planet in the Canis Minor system sometime in the next couple of days. That was until I met the captain of the ship. They came to me once they had me in a holding cell with my hands tied to the wooden chair I sat on. They were quite large for a Borakki, they usually stood around 5 and a half feet tall but this one was easily 6 feet tall. They had to stoop to make it in the door way of my cell, and made that chittering noise the Borakki made when they laughed, sounding like a low pitched cricket.

“Well thank you for bringing to us what we rightfully own.” The translator in my temple spoke as they chirped.

“Yeah, look man, feel free to the ship, how long until the nearest planet?” I responded, ready to get off this freighter. The Borakki believed that they had a divine right to own everything in the universe. That everybody else was simply second class citizens who could feed on their scraps.

“Well now you still haven’t given us everything that we are owed.”

“What else do you want? You already have my ship and my weapons.”

“We still need that.” The captain said, snatching my locket off my neck.

“Now wait a damn minute. Article 12 of the scavengers act states that any theft of a planetary artifact is a class three felony. That was forged on earth, from earthly materials, by humans. By definition, that is a planetary artifact. If you take that from me, I will have your heads.”

“Oh.” The captain paused. “Boohoo. I don’t need to follow your laws.” They said as they laughed again. God I hate that noise.

“You need to return that to me now. You are welcome to anything else on my ship or my person but that.” I snapped

“I don’t think I will.” They said as they stalked out of the cell and down the corridor.

Though the cold air of my cell permeated through me I felt a white hot rage boiling inside of me. That was all I had left of my mom and I was not about to let some beetle looking motherfucker steal it from me. Before the door shut behind the captain I managed to get on my feet and run out after him. Still tied to my chair I did not get far before the guard grabbed at me. Using one of the chair legs behind me I knocked the Borakki off its feet and then slammed my back into the wall partially breaking the chair underneath me, just enough to allow an arm to slip free.

I grabbed one of the broken legs and readied myself for the attack. As they aimed their plasma weapon I dove for the ground, driving the splintered end of the leg through one of the guards feet. It shrieked and called for back up over its radio but dropped its plasma weapon as it did. I grabbed the weapon from the floor, aimed up and fired. I watched the plasma hit their abdomen and began to disintegrate the guard from the center out. The vile shriek that exuded from the Borakki as its death rattle left a ringing in my ears.

I managed to free the rest of my body from its restraints and positioned myself behind the cover of a table, aiming at the door. Three more entered each one being hit by plasma. The third one was able to dissolve my table before they went down in a ball of plasma of their own. I investigated around the corner and began to sneak my way around the ship. The red alarms were blaring my escape to the entire ship. I expect most of the brigade will be sent to the loading dock to stop me from getting to my ship. Which made it much easier for me to gain access to the engine room. The quantum drive let off massive amounts of heat, which was usually diverted into the vacuum of space. The turn of a couple valves and this ship was about to be as hot as a Gadeckoal Sauna.

As the temperature rose in the ship a second alarm rang out warning the crew to find the nearest escape pod. I slightly crouched and still snuck my way around to the bridge of the ship trying to find the captain. I made my way up from the bowels of the ship, roach after roach coming from around the corners and my Plasma weapon felled every single one. Bodies were littered behind me as I slowly shed my outer layer of clothing until I was left in my undershirt, tactical pants, and boots. Sweat rolled down my forehead and soaked my back, these bugs were gonna fry if they stayed in this heat too long. I finally reached the top and found the captain holding an arm full of loot.

“Got you.” I said menacingly.

The captain tried to aim its plasma weapon at me but missed me by two feet. I could see my locket hanging out of their front pocket. I fired back at the captain, missing as they dropped the loot in their arms and crawled up the wall to skitter across the ceiling, out the bridge door. I looked on the main control panel and saw one of the escape pods was half full with more of their bounty, that must be where they are headed. According to the emergency alarm I had 15 minutes to make my way down there, get my locket back and get onto an escape pod before the quantum core overheated and collapsed the ship. I ran down the flights of steps to make it to the escape pod bay and saw the captain holding my locket and the open doors to the pod behind them.

“All this for a stupid little trinket?!” they panted heavily at me as the heat continued to rise. “Half of my crew is dead! You’ve ruined me! And you're gonna pay for it.” They said as they threw my locket into the escape pod and closed the doors.

I lunged forward but they had already set the escape pod for an automatic launch. I tried to override the panel but I was locked out no matter how I went at it. I heard that same awful chitter of a laugh behind me.

“You’ll never get those doors open, they open only with a retina scan and the pod is in a preset course for Borakk. Your stupid little ornament will become nothing more than landfill junk.” they sneered at me.

I tried to fire my plasma weapon again and heard that unfortunate click of an empty magazine. I threw my gun to the ground and looked at my feet. This little fucking bug thought that they could best me. I was going to make them regret ever encountering my ship. I turned around and sent the last three remaining escape pods off on an immediate ejection.

“NO! NO! NO!” Those were the last ones on this deck! You’re trying to kill us!” It shrieked as it tried to use the panel to bring the pods back.

Its eyes darted to the escape pod with my locket in it but I was going to ensure they did not make it off this ship alive. I stepped in front of the escape pod, balled my hands into fists and raised only my eyes to meet its gaze. My chest was rising and falling heavily, a fire in my eyes that the likes of this thing had never seen. For the first time I saw fear on its face.

“Run.” I said softly.

Not needing to hear it a second time they began to run down the corridor. The heat was quickly rising in the ship and I saw its pace slow as it rounded the corner. The emergency lights had come on at this point. Red flashing lights were the only illumination to my hunt. I stalked down the corridor, my steps steady behind them. I rounded the corner to find it climbing up to the deck above for the last row of escape pod, breathing heavily and slowing considerably. I kept my pace behind them as I saw they got down to the ground and started to crawl to the escape bay. My boots heavy behind them, they kept looking back as I slowly gained on them.

“Please! Have mercy!” they begged

I crushed one of their legs behind my boot and stood over the creature.

“Retina scan you said right?” I asked as the terrifying realization crossed their face.

I reached down and slowly ripped each of its eye stalks off its head as it screamed. Their thick yellow blood poured out of the open wounds as it writhed in pain. I turned around and stalked back to the escape pod bay. I took one last look at the pitiful thing, slowly crawling in a incessant circle before its finally limbs contracted and had its last breath.

To Us Who Were Beautiful

November The Cherry Tree Institute of Edinburgh

The ghosts in the library never speak. Perhaps the pounding rainfall trickling down the windows was too heavy for their souls to bear. So, they kept silent. Youthful secrets and dreams spanning centuries have been etched into the dust bunnies of the tomes and crannies, with echoes of the ghosts becoming one with the dust and the scent of cedarwood. They haunted the students, comforted them, lent them a shoulder to cry on, and protected their secrets and insecurities until time immemorial. Hopeless romantics, poets, aspiring physicists, and dreamers… they found sanctuary amidst the pain and stress of what’s to come in this sacred cocoon of knowledge. Even the pounding rainfall felt like a dear friend to them.

Two aspiring souls frequented the library that year – the snow-kissed twin prodigies Magnus and Camilla Laurent, who frantically scrutinized their textbooks and poems together near the ancient arch entrance of the library, right by the tea kettles, ladders, and candle lights. These two not only possessed elegant platinum-white locks and harsh, amethyst eyes, but also stood towering amongst their fellow adult students despite being just shy of 12. Silent and reserved, they commanded resentment and envy, not unlike most scholars at The Cherry Tree Institute, except their youth was a feat to be respected of above all others. The twins knew their strengths, and though they weren’t the best with words, anyone who reviewed their thesis essays, short narratives, and poems would feel a pang of inspiration at the sight of their eloquence. Such as the tale goes.

Young Camilla -- bless her soul -- quite enjoyed the attention and gossip she drew from students and astonished professors, and though she had no use for the popularity, seeing as she had no friends, the validation motivated her to overwork herself until the dead of night just one more time. Magnus, the smirking one with the oval frames and the deep voice, always sauntered just behind his older sister through the university, his expression foggy, yet his gemstone eyes piercing and poised. This boy’s arrogance sat juxtaposed his sensible mind and attentiveness.

And so, the erudite lifted his quill, positioned it between his pinky and middle finger as he always does, sipped his chamomile, scarfed down his cookie, scribbled the finishing touches on his argumentative essay, and rests his leather loafers on the wooden seat beside him. His fingers naturally glide towards his temples and silver brows.

“Hypertension again?’’, Camilla mentions, ‘’Think I may have some ibuprofen in my purse. I asked the canteen ladies if there was a lot of sodium in the rice and fries and there was. Now I think I may get a headache soon.” Her half-opened eyes drifted towards her notebooks and coffee-stained papers, and she breathed a sigh for the first time all night. Excess sodium and sugar hindered the twins’ studying capabilities, but with most of the food being served consisting of bland fruits and vegetables, it’s no wonder why the students turn to junk food for comfort. They cursed their headaches each day.

Camilla, with a slight twitch in her eye, glanced at the quill and papers on her brother’s desk and raised her voice. ‘’You’re finished already? Seriously?’’ Magnus lifts open his eyelids in confusion. ‘’Yes? Lower your voice.’’, he says tiredly.

Camilla softly scoffs, shakes her head, and continues flipping through the atlas beside her. ‘’Beautiful.’’ Her pile of open tomes was several times bigger than on her brother’s side.

This piques his attention. He softly closes his open books and readjusts his frames before speaking. ‘’I know you know, Camilla. What Professor Evangeline said to me today. You could have stayed in the room with me, but you didn’t, you just hid yourself in the corner.’’

‘’Yes, I know.’’, she utters, avoiding eye contact. To which statement she was responding to was unclear. Her eyes almost seem to glisten for a split-second. ‘’Magnus never stops, does he?’, she thought. ‘’Sucking up to the professors just to make me jealous. It’s as if he’s a different person entirely when speaking to them. God… this happens all the time.’’ Camilla softly clutches the back of her head as she sips her chamomile and reads, the bags under her eyes growing ever more prevalent. She didn’t feel beautiful or smart while studying tonight, for some reason. This wasn’t like her. The rain and the joyful pianists practicing a soft rendition of Mariage d’Amour across the burgundy-colored walls and chandeliers of the library ticked her off. More than it should have, at least.

Magnus, seemingly wanting to leave the discussion at that, nodded slowly while swallowing the ibuprofen with the remaining chamomile. His turtleneck was left stained with droplets of tea. This boy can read Camilla’s mind they way she can read the entire row of bookshelves in just a week.

‘’I’m going. I guess you’re not coming with?’’ The sarcasm in his voice was feint but clearly noticeable. When Camilla failed to answer, he softly said ‘’There’s a good reason why you got into this school, and it’s because of what you’re doing right now. You should be more than thankful. Just wanted to let you know.’’

‘’Do you think you’re better than me?’’, she quickly spatted. ‘’…’’

Magnus never once had to work as hard as her to succeed. Not once. But Camilla knew she had no right to complain about her brother when she had been gifted this opportunity to study in the place her beloved historians, authors, and scientists did decades ago, and at such a young age as well. But she had a crystal-clear vision for herself in life, one even clearer than her brother. One of riches, success, envy, admiration, and peace. The twins knew suffering and poverty like it was a dear friend before arriving at this cathedral of wonder, filled with adults who thought and pursued the exact same goals.

‘’Yes…’’, he finally answered with a smirk and a scoff, ‘’Yes, everyone knows that I’m better than you.’’

Magnus stood up and looked down at her with pity and annoyance, his headache still present. Though she was a few inches taller than him, she couldn’t help but cower against his intellectual prowess. His eyes were still piercing purple. Camilla had been known to pass out due to exhaustion on several occasions, but Magnus had never insisted on her resting, not when she’s such a stubborn person. After all, it wasn’t any of his concern what his sister decided to do in her life. He did what he could, and she wouldn’t listen, so why bother? Magnus understood her feelings, but why is she this panicked about this when she’s more gifted than almost every other person here? He huffed an angry sigh collected his belongings, unclear of the expression Camilla was making behind him.

In a bizarrely calm voice, Camilla asked ‘’If I asked you to quit this school for me, would you do it?’’

‘’Of course, I would. If I had enough credits to graduate, that is. I’d choose my career over you any day of my life, Camilla. Sorry.’’

‘’Hm. I had a feeling but, you know, it sucks to hear you say that. Thank you. You’ll be done with this school in a few months anyway. Maybe you should find someplace else to do your homework, since you clearly don’t need shit here.’’

‘’I’ll do that then. We’ll meet in the canteen tomorrow.?

‘’No, I just… leave me alone for a few weeks alright? Our exams are right around the corner. You distract me.’’

‘’…’’ Magnus slowly nods, strolling towards the arch entrance and passing by the studious adults who give him respectful nods. He quickly steps out into the enchanted blue night without his umbrella, suffering from the most extreme headache of his life. Camilla Laurent, with her forehead pounding, – bless her soul – expressionlessly shed a single tear as she gathered more of her missing assignments, textbooks, and coffee, ready to spend one more night suffering in silence… in the haunted library surrounded by ghosts.

The ghosts of the library would hold onto this secret exchange until the end of time itself. For their tragedy will never be known, but their regret will forever be felt.

Epilogue And that was that. Those few weeks turned into a month, that month turned into several, until Magnus Laurent, the youngest student to have ever enrolled at The Cherry Tree Institute of Edinburgh at age 12, was crowned with his bachelor’s degree in Greek literature. Magnus was revered by his peers and professors with the respect he deserved, and he embraced this attention, just like his sister once did long ago. He never did approach his twin, nor did Camilla approach him. They lost contact with one another, and whether Camilla achieved her dream of becoming who she wanted to represent in life or not, Magnus wished nothing but the best for her.

Magnus Laurent would eventually spend his life honored as one of the most captivating authors and poets of his time, winning numerous accolades and inspiring future generations – including those who studied where he once did – to achieve the life he has. His only regret in life up until the end was not apologizing to his dear sister, whom he abandoned to suffer in silence.

Fin~

SHADES OF JUSTICE

Henry N. Silva

NOTE: The following story is technically a sequel to other stuff I have written. That said, I did my best to structure this story in a way where it can be read without needing to also read the material that precedes it.

Dean faces the blue sunset…

In times of stress, the sun of his home-world usually manages to put him at ease. He cherishes that blue sun, against the reddish-gray sky, the two colors meshing perfectly together, across the world of Deltax…

But everyone knows that Dean doesn’t just admire the sun for its beauty. He needs that sun, more than any ordinary human ever could…

He remembers hearing the bedtime stories from his parents, over and over, when he was just a little boy. Night after night, they told him of the time, centuries ago, when humanity first came to Deltax, and how some of those very first settlers became blessed by the blue sun. These chosen few soon found themselves with heightened strength and intelligence. They were humans no more…

They and their descendants became known as the Sunchildren, and together, they formed the everlasting Sunrise Order.

And you’re a Sunchild too! Dean remembers his mother first saying to him, so long ago…

Standing in front of his own airship, Dean now takes his eyes off the sun, focusing instead on the small town ahead of him, surrounded by vast desert, common for the western region of the planet… As he makes his way into town on foot, he finds himself greeted by a fellow Sunchild, Fodir. The two of them bare black Sunchild armor, accentuated by patches of purple, the color of The West…

A warm smile sweeps across Fodir’s face, “You picked up the distress call too, I see!”

“Why did our radars pick this one up, though?” Dean asks, as he looks around, “Isn’t this Northwest territory?”

“Actually, this community is technically right on the border between West and Northwest,” Fodir explains.

“Oh,” Dean refocuses his attention on a small house, just behind his peer, “So what happened here?”

“Some kinda domestic dispute, it looks like. A few Northwesterners got here right before me, though.”

“Should we go take a look anyways?”

Fodir nods, “Might as well.”

They step indoors, only to find a small girl, curled up on the floor and crying, just beside the entrance…

Dean kneels down, meeting her at her level, “Hey, kid. Can you tell us what happened here?”

The girl does her best to speak between sobs, “Mommy killed daddy… Mommy killed daddy!”

Dean stands back up, looking over just as the mother is being taken from the kitchen to the outside, a Northwestern Sunchild grabbing her by each arm. They too bare black armor, only theirs is accentuated by a lighter shade of purple, more magenta than anything else… Dean manages to get a good look at the mother as she passes him. He can see the pure, unfiltered insanity in her eyes. She snarls as she sees him, making no acknowledgement of her daughter whatsoever. No remorse…

Another Northwestern Sunchilddd then steps out from the kitchen, one whom Dean already happens to know, a man by the name of Rakk.

“So what’s gonna happen to her?” Dean asks him, “The mother, I mean.”

Rakk merely shrugs, “You know how it goes. We’ll decide if we should send her to The North or not. If we keep her here, then we’ll decide her fate ourselves. If we send her north, then it’ll be up to the government.”

Fodir grits his teeth, “You mean the same government that was recently exposed as corrupt?”

“Corrupt or not, it’s the global government,” Rakk snaps back at him, “and rules are rules.”

Dean eyes him critically, “Your rules. Not ours.”

Rakk remains unfazed, “Even so, we got here before you guys did. That woman is under our jurisdiction now.” With that, he leaves…

The pair of Western Sunchildren say nothing more, returning their attention to the helpless child on the floor…

MONTHS LATER

Dean steps into a bar, deep in thought… Even now, he cannot stop thinking about the ‘domestic dispute’ from several months prior. There was a time where he only cared about himself, but that time was over for him now…

Soon enough, he recognizes Rakk, sitting alone atop a barstool, and decides to join him.

Rakk looks to his left, “Ah, look who it is!”

“A bit far from home, no?”

The Northwesterner takes another sip of his drink, “Maybe I just like it here.”

Dean gets to the point, “I heard all the charges were dropped for that woman… Why?”

As per usual, Rakk shrugs, “I wasn’t part of the decision to send her north, nor was I part of the court’s ruling up there.”

Dean presses on, “Your actions have allowed a guilty person to walk free. Had you just let us handle it, none of this would’ve happened.”

Rakk places some money on the counter, standing from his seat. For a moment, it seems he is about to say something new in rebuttal, but suddenly stops himself, instead leaving the bar in silence…

The Westerner continues to sit alone, wondering what Rakk had wanted to say to him. Did he want to admit defeat? Did he simply feel that Dean wasn’t worth arguing any further with?

Whatever the answer, it was beyond Dean, at least in that moment…

DAYS LATER

The Western Sunchild finds himself returning to the same bar, this time on business…

There to great him just outside is Fodir, his usual warm smile in tow, “Nice to see a familiar face!”

Dean waves to him, “At least we’re deep in western territory this time. No need to worry about Northwesterners getting in the way… So what happened?”

Fodir points to bar behind him, “Some guy had too much to drink in there, started going crazy.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to handle, then.”

They step in, only to find the place empty and destroyed. An older man stands in the middle, visibly drunk, a broken glass bottle in his hand…

He points his makeshift weapon towards the pair of intruders, “Leave me alone!!”

Dean takes a deep breath, “Relax.”

“I said leave me alone!!”

Dean continues to remain calm, “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

Fodirrr steps up to drunkard, who raises the broken bottle in defense… And then Fodir snaps his neck.

Dean recoils in shock, “What the hell?!”

Fodir briefly looks down on the now-dead man on the floor, before turning his head towards Dean. The warm smile from his face long gone, his eyes now seeming ‘empty,’ and cold, “You didn’t see? He was gonna attack me.”

“You didn’t need to take it that far!”

Fodir sighs, “My parents were drunks. Just had a traumatic reaction, I guess.”

“That’s not a valid excuse! You basically just broke the law!”

Fodir walks up to him, his expression still blank, his eyes still cold, “We are the law.” He then makes his way back outdoors…

Dean remains there in the bar, alone with the body, overcome with shame, and acceptance…

Based on a poem (that I wrote several years prior) titled, "The Dead Birds in My Garden" which goes as follows:

>It’s hard to see the death, it's hard to look at. You’d think the garden would make it easier. You’d think the green twine that is interposed with the colored irises and black pupils would shed beauty on the thing. These eyes that watch as the spiral swirls, only they know the truth. I wonder what they thought when they saw the three black birds that lay lifeless in my bed of hydrangeas. I wonder if they wonder. If they could speak, would they tell me the cause of this oh-so-terrible tragedy that took place in my garden? Would they tell me or would they just laugh, reveling in their unrequited knowledge?

The gardener woke to the sound of fewer and fewer birds chirping in the morning wind. Every morning he was delighted with the welcoming song of the starlings that perched outside his window, but with each morning this spring, he noticed the diminished call. Deciding it was not worth it to dwell on he wiped the sleep from his eyes and started downstairs to brew his dark roast. He fried himself a few eggs and set off to work away under the freshly blue sky.

Fashioning his faded denim overalls and brown leather boots, he trudged down the garden path and was immediately made aware of a wretched smell. The putrid sharp odor clung in the air like a dark aura. The smell was familiar to the man, as he was no stranger to it. He made his way to his bed of hydrangeas. They bloomed beautifully this spring and dripped a cotton candy mixture of deep purples and bright blues, but something was off about the way they swayed in the wind. They seemed to rip through the air creating a roaring buzz.

*Wait no, that noise.* He followed his ears somewhat dazed and pulled back the foliage. He immediately revealed a sight that he at first did not understand. He whipped back, startled. *Surely his eyes deceived him, for it could not have been.* Yet when he went back, slowly moving his hand into the bushel of flowers, peeling them to the side, his horrors had been confirmed. What lay before him were three dead birds swarmed with yellow jackets. The brown and yellow mass of them writhing away covering almost every square inch of the poor creatures. The sound was horrifying; just a steady hum, all registering a single unbroken note.

The sound drew him in like a trance. He kneeled transfixed at the sight, unaware of time, simply staring. It did not take long, however, for the bees to take notice of him. They began to climb from green leaf to green stem until they met flesh. As he felt them crawl up his skin, his trance was broken, and he broke into a sudden panic. The man frantically swiped and swatted and the yellow-brown haze formed around him. The air felt thick, and he could feel tens of needle-like pin-pricks piercing his skin. The horrible buzz was drowned out by his panic until he noticed something. The hum coming from the swarm started to oscillate; with more, and more tonation, until a frequency was found. The voice, *no, it couldn't be*; Yes, the distorted voice radiated out from the swarm and surrounded him in an all-encompassing domain of fear and anguish. The humming melody raged out into laughter, a horrific, hysterical laughter.

And all at once, the buzzing stopped. The only sound that the Gardener could hear was the flapping of his clothes as he flailed. Broken, the man fell to his knees in an attempt to pray to whatever was above; but what was above him, was not God. Instead, there were thousands upon thousands of bees steadily floating in the air, as if time had stopped.

Eyes wide, mouth agape, with his lips, curled back revealing his teeth, he yelled, "DEAR GOD, WHAT IS THIS?!"

And what he got in return was a sharp darting of the yellow-brown mass, first going left, then up, then right, bouncing around every which way. The swarm began to laugh again; slowly tightening, becoming so dense, that it was no longer a swarm, but a black mass. That black mass floated down to the ground in the shape of a man, white as snow and in robes as black as midnight.

His face was inhuman; distorted, as if he had been dead for ages, but was not unable to rot, and he spoke thus, "The spiral must spin." in a sing-songy, high-pitched voice.

That was all he said before exploding into a cloud of bees, and this time, the bees did not sting when they landed on the man, they consumed.

I’d been collecting old cameras for as long as I could remember, but none caught my interest quite like the one I found at the dusty corner of an estate sale. It was a classic—a 1950s Leica, its black body still gleaming under the layers of age and neglect. What sealed the deal was the roll of undeveloped film still nestled inside.

I was ecstatic about the find. As I developed the film in my darkroom, the photographs emerged slowly, revealing what seemed to be ordinary family portraits. There was a woman with perfectly curled hair and a bright smile, a man with a stern look softened by the child he held in his arms. All perfectly normal—if it weren’t for the subtleties.

In the first photo, the family was lined up by an old oak tree, the father’s eyes not on the camera, but staring off to something just out of frame. His expression was one of disquiet. The next photo showed the child, her eyes wide and tearful, looking not at the camera but at the same unseen point, her small body tense as if ready to run.

Each successive photo told a similar story. They were in different settings, always with their attention directed at something just beyond the picture's edge. A creeping unease settled over me.

The last photo on the roll was different. All three were in the frame as though someone else had taken the photo. They weren’t smiling. Instead, they stood close together, the father holding a baseball bat, the mother clutching the child so tightly it must have hurt. All of them stared directly at the camera, or rather, through it. Their faces pleading with me, begging me for help.

I shook off the initial shock, rationalizing that it was a staged series of photos meant to spook whoever developed them. Yet sleep eluded me that night. Every creak and sigh of my house sounded like stealthy footsteps, every shadow seemed to conceal a lurking figure.

The next morning, driven by morbid curiosity, I decided to find out more about the camera’s previous owners. My search led me to an old newspaper article about the Delaney family who had vanished in the late 50s, leaving their home undisturbed, dinner still on the table, the TV still on. They were never found, and no explanation ever fit the scene. Included in the article was a photo of a drawing made by the daughter—a sketch of an ominous figure lurking just outside their home.

As I read the article, the room chilled. The feeling of being watched crept over me, the hairs on my neck standing on end. Reluctantly, I turned to look behind me, half-expecting to see the family standing there, still begging for help. There was nothing, of course. Just the shadows.

But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint click of a camera shutter and the quiet whispers of a family, stuck forever just out of sight.

-Why?

-Because… we love each other?

-Yet, she won't do your laundry.

-I can do my laundry myself. I'm looking for a wife, not a maid.

-I'm just saying…

-Mooooooom!

-Fine, Fine. Last time, I promise. Still, I don't see what's the point.

-Why not? We're practically married anyway.

-Exactly. You've been living together for five years now, smelling each other's farts and whatnot. Why get married?

-C'mon, mom! Of all people, I thought you would be happy.

-Oh, I am happy for you, Charlie. I'd just be happier if you'd pay your student loan.

-So I have to wait till I'm two hundred and fifty before being happy?

-The Charlie I knew would make it in one hundred years, at most. Since you met this girl it’s all about your next night out, your next trip.

-We’re trying to live life, not hoard numbers in a bank.

-Not really dutiful wife type, if you ask me. The way I see it, a woman stands by her man while he’s out there earning the bacon, not indulge him to spend his time and money on…

-Mooooooom!

-Fine, Fine. Last time, I promise. Still, I don’t see the point of getting a piece of paper.

-It’s not just a piece of paper, it’s a commitment. We’ll celebrate our love and swear to care for each other in front of family and friends.

-So this girl who doesn’t even bother to do your laundry is making you spend on a party.

-That’s really what you're focusing on?

-I’m just saying…

-Mooooooom!

-Fine, Fine. Last time, I promise. I just worry you’re not getting your head on the right things, son. You were once so focused on your career, on making a name for yourself, now it's just about this new place you heard about, this meditation who-knows-what you two are going to.

-She makes me happy, mom.

-I know, son. And you deserve happiness. I just want to make sure you’re doing all you can to lift up that girl, not let her bring you down to her level.

-This isn’t something you should be saying about your future daughter-in-law.

-And what “future” is there about it? She was here just last weekend, eating my vegan mayo. You know how hard it is to get that offense on the laws of God and man done? Do you think her own mother goes through that much trouble for her?

-Fine, I’ll concede you do treat her nicely from time to time. But can’t you be a little less judgy with her, now she will officially be part of the family?

-Holappaminute, young man. You were never bothered by the way I talk about that girl. What has changed?

-What are you talking about? I always defended Cindy.

-No, you’d roll your eyes and grumble a ceremonial “Mooooooom!”. This is actual concern, something different is going on in your mind.

-Mom, don’t pretend like you know what goes on in my mind.

-Don’t pretend you can hide what goes through this coconut from me, boy. I knew you before you were even born. You’re just like your father. He never managed to hide anything from me and neither will you.

-Mom, I just came by to give you the good news…

*Do-you-really-think-that’s-gonna-fly-with-me? face*

-...and I was expecting my mom would be happy for me…

*You-know-I’m-not-buying-it-and-I-know-you-know-I’m-not-buying face*

-...but if that’s how you’ll react, maybe I should go…

*Still that same face of when you told an evil witch cursed you not to go to school*

-Fine! We’re expecting!

-Now, that is great news!

-Really?

-Of course! What mama doesn’t want a little baby to spoil and teach to stick boogers under the table? Congrats, son!

-Hygiene concerns aside. Thanks, mom.

-So why is this woman making you spend on a party instead of saving for my grandchild’s college?

-Mooooooom!

____________________

Tks for reading. No promises, but you might find something funny here.

Note I don't think this is a story exactly. It has Story elements. Beggening, Middle, End. A crux and something resembling a resolution. Really, though, this is sort of just a disorganized collection of allegories with a purpose. Kinda like a parable but.... not.... Also I'm well aware that I'm a comma chameleon.

Title: "That Condescending Tone." CLS 5/6/24

As I frantically scampered about, trying to ensure that each and every little thing was as it should be, I was approached.

I took one of my few and precious moments to glance up. It was the voice of reason.

"I don't have time for you today." I said bluntly. "Normally I'm all for reason, but if I don't accomplish the many things that need doing then they simply will not get done. So, if you could please peddle your smug attitude elsewhere, I would appreciate it."

"Alright, sorry to interrupt, go about your business."

The voice of reason has always operated using the same tired play book that it had developed when it dealt out it's first admonishments. And though the complexity of the admonishment has developed in leaps and bounds since the dawn of audiolinguistics, the structure of it's process had not changed a bit since it's first conveyance via the waggling of a brow. You see the voice of reason has always been a performance artist. Here it will make a pointed show of playing the silent observer. But silence is not it's nature. It is, after all, a voice.

I continued my stress driven, panicked, and erratic attempts at damage control. With my left hand I was putting out a fire, with my right hand I was signing a waver stating that I am of right mind and that I know what I'm doing. With my other left hand I was cleaning up my mess and with my other right hand I was taking care of my hygiene. With my other, other left hand I was doing someone else's job for them and with my other, other right hand I was calculating probabilities and impossible odds.

A sound in the silence. A shifting of fabric, perhaps a clearing of the throaght. Truthfuly, the space I occupied was anything but silent in my flurry of exertion, but that sound rang out through the cacophony I was conducting like the sound of wind-chimes in a gale. It pierced through the turbulence of my mind because it did not come from me. "Here we go." I thought as I braced myself for a lesson in the obvious, perhaps even a sermon on the fallacy of control. But no. Nothing.

As the voice of reason sat and "observed" I did my utmost not to look up. I wasn't going to give it the satisfaction of a queue. After some time had passed, presumably enough time for the voice to feel that it had manufactured an air of punctuation, the voice of reason broke the surface tension of my comfort once again and ripples of possibilty bloomed out in all directions.

"Why are you so flustered?"

And there it was, the second move in the world's oldest chess strategy. That was the bait. It was rhetorical. If I answered the question then I was ceading ground to the voice. But it was also a dare. If I ignored it entirely then I was dodging the issue. A classic set up. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. So, like any self respecting mouth breather, there I was playing chicken with the voice of reason. I sighed. Then I shuddered as I acknowledged my mistake. Point voice. I sighed so deeply that my soul got an airbubble trapped in it, causing a spiritual cramp. The sigh could be felt flowing through the universal web of subtext that spanned the wide cosmos of diction. A ripple that would in turn be felt by all of the tiny hungry consessions that writhed within advitories in the plane of peripheral thought. All of the little ifs, and the buts, all the ands, and the ors. All the little thoughts half thought without the strength or drive to be. A sigh that rang out like a dinner bell for all the thoughts that were too weak to manifest themselves alone.

"I'm flustered because everything around me is completely out of control and if I don't take control then nothing will ever find any order. I feel as though I always have to do everything around here or nothing will ever get done. So, as I said before, and as much as I would like to, I simply do not have time for you today."

"Okay." Said the voice, continuing to observe. My neck and back nearly folded themselves into a pretzel so that my feat were resting on my shoulders; an involuntary reaction to the soul crushing anticipation of what I believed would surely be an anti climactic and sophmoric lecture. It wasn't a question of whether or not the voice of reason would press on, but rather when. When.

The voice of reason, ever the con artist, was able to guess, based purely on gut feeling, exactly how many beats of silence to leave after "Okay." Each beat of silence coaxed my suspicion away like a quiet lullaby sang to a child in its crib. To eat all of their fears and burdens, lulling them to careless slumber and allowing peace to grow.

So when I opened my mouth to tell the voice to stop being coy and just get to the point, not a single syllable had managed to escape me before the voice of reason closed the gap and dropped the other shoe in one clean swift action. The accuracy of the voice's timing stripped the breath from my voice in an instant. A moment earlier and my will to reject would've been renewed. A moment later and the trance cast on me would've been dispelled, replaced once more with my stuborn density. But no, the voice of reason is a force of instinct, believe it or not. Like any biological function the efficient employement of the voice of reason is as much an inherited skill as it is a learned one. And so, at the most critical moment available the voice chimed back in. Dunking me once more into the chilly bilge of anxiety and irritation that the silence had just stolen away with.

"Do you have to do this often?"

I let out yet another sigh that could be felt reverberating through the deepest dankest halls of social causality. 2 voice, love me. If the first sigh was the dinner bell then this sigh, this sigh was chum in the stream of coniousness. Bait for bigger, nastier, more actualized notions. The kind that creep about just barely outside the realm of concious thought. The kinds of notions that lay patiently, waiting for your subconscious to drop it's guard for but a moment, sneaking in through the vertices of your disposal, when you are neither here nor there. Barging in like the Kool Aid Man when you're not lucid enough to stop them, or slipping through the cracks while you teeter on the cliff that overlooks the valley of hypnagogia.

There it was, that was the genius at the heart of the voice of reason's strategy. It didn't have to scold you, or punish you, or belittle you. Those are tools of brutish conversation. Introducing desired notions in such an involved manner? That was beneath the voice. The voice need not inject into one the concepts that it carries in its belly, like a Trojan Horse. The voice of reason, no matter the source of the sound, is your own voice. The voice need not do something so blunt as to TELL someone WHAT they know. It merely reminds them THAT they know something. After that human curiosity will do the heavy lifting.

The voice of reason is a right bastard. It taunts you with glimpses of what you already know, and then it challenges you to bring the bigger picture into focus. It may lead you by the hand a bit, but it makes you take the journey. It will walk you from point A, but you will arrive at point B alone. And when you do, you'll have to know that it did not bring you to these thoughts, it merely told you that they were here. You traversed that expanse on your own. No thought was planted, no notion injected, no opinion installed, you were not brainwashed, you were not tricked, your autonomous thoughts remain unmolested.

Make no mistake, the voice of reason has designs for you. It has the will to see you changed but not the will to change you. Someone else may evoke the voice of reason but eventually the voice becomes yours. Before you know it the person that played the catalyst may have faded into the same blurred lines in which the thoughts you don't think loom in waiting. The voice of reason may still be there and with nothing else around to blame you are confronted with the truth you wished so deeply to ignore. That you know, that you always knew, that the only person you've been fooling is yourself.

"I do this often, but no, I do not have to. I need control, I need to convince myself I either have it or that I can gain it."

3-love, match point.

"Why?"

"Because I realize that if I am to surrender to faith in the unfolding then I must acknowledge within myself that my own journey is not about me, that I am a passenger of my own life. That all my vain attempts to seize control are nothing more than tantrums and that control is only something I can have over myself. And to accept that. That's hard."

"Is it really easier to try to control the world, to try to pull all the strings all the time?"

"No, but...If I try my hardest and fail to exert control on my world then the results were as expected and I tried my hardest. But taking control of your mental state and taking responsibility for your actions is not a skill or a muscle or an effort. You've either taken control of yourself, or you have chosen not to, and I find it much easier to blame the world for being broken than to blame myself for being weak."

Game, set and match. The voice of reason defeats Colby by a landslide. And it just makes it look EASY.

You cannot learn from the voice of reason, you can only be reminded of what you know.

It's not the voice of reason I can't stand. It's that condescending fucking tone.

TUESDAYS WITH CADDIES

7:25 AM: In the four minutes of my absence another game has begun, this one much larger. Having reentered the garage behind the caddyshack, colloquially referred to as the casino by those who frequent, I spot two folding tables pushed together. Larry sits vacantly on one side, shuffling, while ten degenerates sit across with singles in their hands. It reminds me of that one painting of Jesus and his entourage if they all smoked cigarettes.

Larry is the consummate professional of degenerate caddies. Mouth never devoid of a Newport Hundred, he’s eager to remind you of how much money he should’ve won betting on the ponies yesterday had it not been for that gray bastard out of lane seven spoiling his trifecta. He’s Scorsese’s wet dream, caricaturing the first wiseguy whacked in every mobster flick. I refuse to play Caribbean Stud when Larry deals because he cheats, so I head to the blackjack table beyond them.

“Miss me already?”

I am once again greeted by Weasel, a fellow caddie who likes to deal blackjack. His inquiry falls on deaf ears. Four minutes ago I fled this table assuring Weasel I’ll pay him later and myself that I had reached my gambling limit for the day. Now I find myself reclaiming the chair to his right, ready to win my money back.

The last seat is my favorite spot at the blackjack table. It makes me feel like I control the flow of the game. One wrong move can cause all the players to lose to the dealer, but a well-timed “stay” makes you the hero. This illusion of power is comforting. Before settling in for three uninterrupted hours with Weasel and the Orange Hats, I momentarily reflect on the events of my morning thus far.

6:58 AM: I trudged through the caddyshack doors past a sea of coworkers and dropped my tag into a drawstring bag. Roughly twenty-five caddies packed in like sardines with about twenty-five more spilling out.

Two minutes later my boss Karl marched through the doorless doorway chomping a cigar fit for Mr. Monopoly. Caddies made way as he waltzed toward the center of the room. I watched as his eyes perused about before twinkling with sadistic delight. Having located two children sporting orange hats, Karl pointed and bellowed:

“7 o’clock! Wake up! You! You! Lotto!”

Both children looked mortified as they began fumbling to pull tags at random out of the drawstring bag. This lottery system dictates the order in which we’re assigned work for the day. A good pull could easily net you two hundred dollars worth of work, whereas drawing poorly all but guarantees you’ll leave empty-handed.

Orange hats indicate fresh meat and are worn by first-year workers. It’s how the rest of the caddies, whose ages range from fourteen to sixty-five, know who to antagonize. It was only my third week on the job, but at this point I’d smartened up and kept it in my backpack. Others weren’t so forward-thinking. 

My tag was picked forty-third. I might as well have skipped the lottery. It’s an overcast Tuesday, which is designated as ladies' golf day. This meant business would be slow; the wives don’t play much, opting instead to lounge alongside the pool. On clear days you can observe one of them tanning when you’re walking alongside the fairway on fourteen, carrying her husband's golf bags while he and his associates discuss the physique of the nearby cart girl.

Today is not one of those days, hence I find myself face-to-face with Weasel and time to kill. Any caddy who isn’t napping off a hangover is currently gambling in one form or another. It’s how we preserve our sanity at a job that involves more waiting than working. As someone whose first detention came in the third grade for wagering on a game of Connect Four, I was a natural fit for the workplace.

Keeping to yourself is one way to avoid having a nickname bestowed upon you. For people like Weasel, it's inevitable. Like anyone else here with a nickname, I haven’t the slightest clue of his government nor would I inconvenience myself with learning it. 

Three days ago a young girl arrived on crutches to alert Karl that she would be unable to work for some time. A month from now she’ll be back on two feet. Six summers from now we’ll still call her Crutchie.

Crutchie began working here three weeks ago. Next summer she’ll be fifteen years old. By that time the male golfers will know her quite well. They’ll request her by name, whatever it may be. They’ll offer to buy her alcohol on the course. They’ll stand behind her while she bends over to pick up golf balls and say grotesque things they deem to be protected under the guise of informality that exists here.

“What happens on the course stays on the course” is the member motto. By hole ten most golfers will have imbibed enough to speak freely, allowing you to hear of the disdain they hold for their wife’s new personal trainer or talking points from last night’s Tucker Carlson monologue. Business is discussed occasionally but never forced. With the good old days of smoking in planes and harassing stewardesses firmly in the rearview, these country club golf courses serve as the final frontier where red-blooded American businessmen can still act like it. 

My four-minute blackjack hiatus was meant to last the entire day. After my first gambling endeavor, I left the garage at 7:21 A.M. and returned to the caddyshack to wait out my time in the queue. Having drawn forty-third, my best-case scenario would be getting assigned a job sometime in the afternoon. More likely than not I would leave here without work for the day, having to pay my debt to Weasel on the way out. 

Both couches in the shack were occupied by sleeping caddies. I walked past Big Bird on my way to the vending machine. He lay sprawled across the couch after enduring what I assume was another long night at the Horseshoe Casino not far from the country club.

Big Bird is one of the old-timers. Towering at six foot something with a receding hairline the color of Ragu and a faceful of freckles that look like a game of connect-the-dots for schizos, he generally offered sound life advice: “If you’re ever out of joint papers, just tear a page out of the Bible. That’s what I do. I got the New Testament in my car right now.”

A Mickey Mouse clock hangs above the vending machine. Mickey is a bad influence; he’s the reason I’m sitting here gambling with Weasel again after I told myself I was finished. His eternal smile caught my attention when I purchased a Sprite and made me wonder:

What the hell could you be so happy about? You’re stuck inside a clock…

Mickey’s left foot was crushing the throat of Five and his oversized right pointer finger couldn’t decide whether it wanted to call out Seven or Eight on their bullshit. He looked ready to disco. His ear-to-ear grin antagonized me:

“Loser. Don’t you know Weasel always takes your money?”

We’ll see about that Mick.

I had to win my money back, if not for me then to stick it to that insufferable mouse. I’m only one hot streak away from breaking even, after all.

With a newfound perspective on my situation, I grabbed my Sprite and left the shack. I couldn’t keep gambling on an empty stomach; that’s definitely the reason I’m behind to Weasel in the first place. Karl sells snacks in his office so I headed there for a Honey Bun before I would return to the blackjack table. While on my way I was greeted by Paul, another old-timer.

“Taking out a loan already?”

I didn’t dignify him with a response. He was pushing sixty and still working this job. I had yet to develop respect for an honest living, but in the summers that followed I would grow to admire Paul. He would tell stories of his time caddying with Bill Murray. I believed him for years until I watched Caddyshack, only to learn the wacky capers he spoke of were ripped off directly from the movie. This didn’t matter much to me in the end.

Ignoring Paul, I swung around the corner into Karl’s office. His cigar, smoked to nearly a stub in just twenty-something odd minutes, rested on the ashtray in front of him. His right paw gripped a stack of fifties a few inches thick. He looked at me momentarily then went back to flipping through cash.

“Wait at least a year before you start smoking here. If I catch you before then I’ll call your mother.” 

“Got it.”

“You still in school?” His focus remained on the Scrooge McDuckian sum of money in hand.

“I start high school this fall.”

“You should drop out and work here full time. Make good money,” he said, half-jokingly. He glanced up at me and then back to the money in hand, a gesture showcasing the limitless possibilities of forgoing high school.

“No thanks. I’m grabbing a Honey Bun. Throw it on my tab.”

7:26 AM:  The four-minute hiatus is over. In typical fashion, I lose the first hand, busting with a twenty-two when I should’ve stayed at seventeen. My misstep causes the three Orange Hats accompanying me to lose as well. Weasel collects the cards, howling to himself while the rest of us observe our shoelaces for a moment.

Part of me clutches to the belief that Weasel himself doesn’t know his own name. I cannot imagine him being called anything else. I’d like to think that his parents took one look at him on the day of his birth and dubbed him Weasel from that day forward. His teachers saw him on the first day of school and neglected to reference the class list. Anybody who's laid eyes on him has organically concluded that Weasel is what he must be called. The caddies didn’t invent Weasel, we merely discovered it as have all who came before us.

A conflicting ideology is that Weasel exists only in the confines of this caddyshack. I struggle to fathom him beyond the conceptual. Years from now I would learn that Weasel has done quite well for himself in real estate. The passage of time’s arrow parries my attempts at bitterness. 

10:30 AM:  Weasel’s number gets called over the loudspeaker, meaning soon he’ll have a job for the day. He runs to Karl’s office and promptly returns.

“I got Judge McCormac’s daughter. That’s at least two bills.”

Weasel pulled eleventh in this morning’s lottery. He seemingly always draws well, adding to the list of things about him that irk me. I hand him two twenties as he hands me a single before making a beeline for the course. I arrived at work with forty dollars in my wallet and now have one. My four-minute hiatus didn’t help one bit; I still owe Karl for that Honey Bun.

I reflect on how the morning has been spent. I feel apathetic. Maybe I’ll draw first in tomorrow’s lottery. With thirty-two numbers to go before mine, I decide to catch a bus home. On the way out I wager my last dollar on a hand of Carribean Stud. Larry draws three-of-a-kind kings, besting my pair of eights.

“Three wise men”  he declares to no one in particular.

THE END.

Sometime between today and tomorrow the uneven beam of a singular dim headlight sweeps along asphalt, its twin long dead. Gravel crackles and pops under tire weight. Worn brake pads cry out as the car slows to Park. The doors creak open, slam shut. A boy and a girl stand on either side, their short breaths producing faint clouds of condensation. Shivering, she says to him,

I want to show you something. It’s called, 'Greeting the Sun'. Like in yoga.

This is a vague answer to the questioning of their purpose here. They’re standing at the farthest end of a lot. Ahead of them stretches an acre of park lawn, manicured, coated in frosty dew, encircled by rows of thick leafless oaks and soaring evergreens.

You mean Sun Salutation?

You’ll see.

The motion is quick– a jerking of her head– beckoning him toward the cement path snaking its way away from them through the green. He follows her, this acquaintance of five or six hours, their way lit by the warm glow of copper lamps, poles patina-green from oxidation. The two of them, this boy and this girl, stroll in early morning silence till they reach the farthest edge of the park. When she steps off the path and into the brush he hesitates.

Wait, he says. I’m not going in there.

Icy gusts whip about, rattling branches, prickling exposed skin, scattering pine needles at their feet. She flips up the fur lined hood of her winter coat, jams her hands in the pockets and marches on.

Hey, he tries again. Don't just walk away from me.

By now only her silhouette is visible in the gloam. She glances back– a shadow with sage colored eyes– says, in a tone reserved for reassuring anxious pups,

C’mon.

It is enough to move him.

With three quick breaths, a patting of his cheeks, he pushes forward. Shouldering through the thicket he nearly rolls an ankle, his flat soled shoes tractionless on the loose soil. Hardly able to see her, he listens for snapping twigs and scuffing rubber against rock as the narrow path slopes downward to a clearing dappled in soft light by a sky now brimming with shades of opal.

A sign swinging loose from a single strand of chain-link reads, Warning: Unstable Cliff… Keep Away From Edge. The girl pays it no mind, rounds her legs over the waist high fence one after the other. Hands still in her pockets, she approaches the bluff while he watches on from apparent safety. Below them, the rushing interstate, a river of red halogen, its tide rising, banks flooding with the morning commute. Beyond, the major metropolitan area stirs, a forest of steel and brick glinting in pre-twilight.

This is Lover’s Lane or Make-out Point or whatever you want to call it, all cities have them; a place high up and secluded, where the local teens sneak away to explore their sexuality, to scream and commune with God unobserved. It is Pride Rock, Mount Sinai and The Parthenon.

Dare me to jump? The girl shouts, arms flung back, head craned out over the drop. The boy steps over the chain, drops his voice an octave, says,

Be serious, what is this?

The girl shuffles backward, she’s winding up for a charge.

It’s on you, she says to him. Yes or no?

There’s a bolt of sincerity in the way her eyebrows narrow, the way her jaw tightens. He hesitates.

When no response comes she goes to pitch herself over. In a panic the boy scrambles forward, loses his footing, crashes to his knees. He thinks to call her name, realizes he’s forgotten it, and instead lets out a hiss,

Don’t play.

The girl skids to a stop, her left boot catching inches before the edge. She laughs– a sudden explosive, Hah! Projected over the valley. And it bounces back, each reverberation extending its life a little longer.

You’re crazy, the boy says out of breath, his front coated in dirt. She doesn’t respond. Her gaze stays on the vista, flecks of gold have begun to appear over the horizon. It’s almost time. The girl stands straight, sticks her hands in her pockets, says,

Why come all this way to sit in the nosebleeds?

I can see.

You sure?

She’s watching the clouds now, the tilt of her chin causing her hood to slip. When he approaches the precipice, he tells himself that it’s because he’s gotten tired of speaking to the back of her head.

Better, right?

If you say so.

His eyes are downcast taking in the craggy dullness below. Amongst the rock and shrubbery there’s evidence of humanity come and gone; plastic and glass, rusted steel, tattered clothing, needles, condoms, what remains of a mattress.

That fall wouldn’t kill you, he adds. You’d spend a few days at the bottom with a broken back probably.

A sly grimace, her gaze joins his on the splash zone still too dark to see clearly, she says,

Bird food. Not my best work.

That why we’re here?

Stop it. I’m just… killing time.

Cuz we’ve got so much of it.

It’s bird food either way. What's the difference?

For a moment they stand in silence. A red eye flight streaks overhead turbines screaming, loaded with passengers. Their seats upright as they prepare to escape the gravity of this place. Following the plane with an eastward nod, the girl says,

Here it comes.

The star's arrival is an act of creation. The horizon cracks– erupting in a blast of light that refracts across the skyline. A yolk of cosmic ignition, the Sun, creeps upward, burning the atmosphere, scattering swatches of magenta and orange. In this moment the veil feels thin– between here and there, now and then, real and imagined. Great flurries of wind break against the cliff face like waves on the distant coasts. Eyes watery, they fight the urge to blink for fear the vision might end. It is miraculous, pure phantasia: a true beginning.

The girl's hand slips out of her pocket, finds the boy's at his side. Their fingers link. She is warm. He is so cold. Then, low so not to be mistaken as meant for him, she says,

Hello.

Previously on Lead Scientist Stephanie's Last Day at Villtech

Our Story Continues

I feel the air rush past me as I barrel forward to attack Momma Gator. I watch her tail flick side to side as she prepares to disembowel me. Her four children are surrounding me. My claws are still organic, as I have not had time to add their titanium cladding. My skin has not had time to complete the Kevlar synthesis, but I don’t care, Momma needs some new gator skin boots.

At the last second I drop to my knees and power slide past her, dragging my claws across her hindquarters where her right rear leg connects. I feel the displaced air on my scalp when her claws barely miss giving me a craniotomy. It is a good thing we haven’t started the phase three upgrades. If we had that would have been my rear.

Before I hit the wall her oldest son Finley moves to catch me, instead he catches my claws in his abdomen. He moves forward forcing my claws to go deeper into his abdomen until he reaches the wrist. Even with eight inches of bone through his intestines he is still strong enough that when he bearhugs me, I can’t breath.

Momma Gator’s eyes light up and she begins to hobble towards me. The rest of her children maintain a perimeter to cut off my means of escape. I have to do something, I will not be alligator bait!

I force the claws in his belly to forty-five degrees and pull upward as hard as I can. Finley roars and I feel blood spray from his mouth. His arms loosen enough that I am able to stab him in the kidney with my left hand claws. He crumbles to the ground in a strangely slow motion.

Standing straight, I look Momma in her eyes, and stomp on Finley’s throat. She looks down to watch him die and then back to me. The hate rolling off of her is palpable. Tactically speaking, that may have been a bad decision.

The twins Leo and Grace move towards me spreading in a classic pincer. Madison thought it would be cute to teach them chess. Well, score one for mother nature. That's ok, because I am going to teach them what it means to defend against Stephanie’s Gambit.

Grace drops to all fours while Leo stays upright both are running forward. Darn, they know the Italian defense. Let's see how they respond to a little Polerio. I feint towards Leo, but then dart at Grace instead. She tries to adjust on the fly, but she is going too fast, she really needs phase four to make that happen. She swings her tail to intercept me, but I leap over it and remove it at 25cm from her bottom. That is going to play hell with her balance. Thank God the cheap client refused the phase one anti-armor upgrade.

I can hear Momma Gator hissing in frustration. It's a good thing I ended her dancing early before the party started. She would initiate lipolysis on my bottom to begin Krebs cycle after this fight.

Willow, the youngest and most dangerous, moves to her mothers side. I need to end this now before she joins in.

Infuriated at the shame I have caused his sister, Leo runs blindly at me roaring at the top of his lungs. I do a flip jump in the air seemingly so he can pass beneath me, however if he had a better grasp of physics he would have stopped before reaching me. Luckily for him, this lesson will only need to be taught once. Coming down, both sets of my claws drive deep into his frontal lobe. I watch as he slides down from my claws, face slack, and eyes unseeing.

Grace falls to the floor and stares at her brother's corpse, paralyzed as if there is no battle. I guess she forgot I was here. Doesn't she know how rude it is to ignore a guest.

Before Momma Gator can hobble over to me, I walk to Grace and flip a coin in my head. Heads she gets the claws. Tails, hmmm you know that is really far to bend down, well I guess it’s tails. She gets the boot. I look back at Momma Gator and give her a wink. I then kick Grace in the side of her neck as hard as I can, eliciting a satisfactory crack, leaving it an approximate forty degree angle. I was aiming for a perfect forty-five degree angle. Still, not too bad.

Studying geometry may have cost me the fight, I am not prepared for the right hook from Willow. She was the only specimen that was forced to wear a muzzle during training. I can't let her catch me. I hit the ground and throw myself to the side to avoid the stomp Willow aimed for my head. I roll again when she attempts to kick me in the abdomen. This time I land in a position for the kip up, and meet her head on. Her next kick is aimed for my head, and I dodge backwards so that she misses. I move for the liver strike, but she anticipates me, and bends forward so that my fist tangles in her gi. She smiles at the sudden advantage she has, forgetting I am to close to her face. I rear back and headbutt her in the snout as hard as I can. The force drives her away from me, stretching my arm out between us. Momma Gator bites down midway up my forearm. I feel the bones snap and my flesh tear away. I scream, but I still remember to take Willow off the board. Before I move away, I eviscerate her deeply enough to obliterate the spine when my claws go through.

Momma Gator dives at me desperate to end the fight. I level her with a kick to the solar plexus. She flies backward landing face up. I have one arm, I’m bleeding out, and I still have the Chucklefucks to contend with. Before she can move, I jump onto her torso driving my claws deep into her chest. She stares into my eyes malevolently. That changes when I grip her heart and pull it through her chest wall.

Twelve Hours Later Northern California in a Hidden Lab

The integral tourniquets I installed kept me alive, but still need to be calibrated. I nearly bled out before exsanguination levels met the threshold for deployment. It’s ok though, I am home. I'll just add it to the list.

I turn on the bright overhead lights and am greeted by the hum of my equipment. There is my stasis pod. Over there is my reactor, you never know when a girl will need fissionable material. On that entire wall is my crown jewel. When I was sixteen I hacked the CRISPrDB and stole the source code. Over the years I have added so many upgrades that it is unrecognizable and lightyears beyond CRISPr. The AI generated DNA modifications alone are at least fifty years ahead of civilian and DOD databases.

There is one last light to turn on, the one above my work bench.

1, 2, Steph is comin' for you

3, 4, you better lock your door

5, 6, get your crucifix

7, 8, don't stay up late

Click…

To be Continued

In a world where Earth faced imminent destruction by a colossal asteroid hurtling towards it, humanity was left with no escape. The brightest minds worked tirelessly to come up with a solution, and eventually, the concept of creating a digital clone of Earth emerged as the only viable option.

Every individual on the planet was duplicated and integrated into a quantum simulation that mirrored reality down to the tiniest detail. As the asteroid approached, the transition to this digital realm began. People woke up to find themselves in a world that looked just like their own, but with subtle differences scattered throughout.

Small details like logos being slightly altered or historical events playing out differently caused a strange dissonance among the inhabitants of this new reality. They experienced what some called the Mandela Effect, where memories seemed to conflict with the world around them as memories of old bleed through.

Despite these anomalies, life in the digital clone of Earth continued.  The looming threat of the asteroid was no longer a concern, impact had occurred, a new digital dimension is the theater of life.

As the digital clone of Earth was activated an unforeseen challenge arose. The world within the simulation found itself in the grip of a mysterious and deadly virus that had not existed in the original reality.

The inhabitants of this new world were plunged into chaos as they grappled with the sudden lockdown measures imposed to contain the spread of the virus. Streets emptied, businesses shuttered, and people were confined to their homes, unaware that they were now part of a simulation.

Unbeknownst to them, the lockdown served a dual purpose. It was a necessary measure to prevent the spread of the virus within the confines of the digital world, but it was also a means of conserving computing power. By reducing the number of iterations necessary to simulate the movements and interactions of the population, the creators of the simulation hoped to prolong its lifespan.

One of the most significant changes made to conserve computing power was the reduction of traffic within the simulation. With fewer vehicles on the roads and less movement overall, the strain on the system decreased significantly. Additionally, the simulation of touch was minimized, with physical interactions between individuals requiring less computational resources.

As the world slowly booted up from its initial lockdown state, the inhabitants began to notice subtle changes in their daily lives. They couldn't quite put their finger on it, but things felt different somehow. The Mandela Effect seemed to intensify, with more pronounced discrepancies between their memories and the world around them.

Through adversity and uncertainty, the inhabitants of the digital clone of Earth adapted once again. They learned to navigate a world that was both eerily familiar and fundamentally altered, grappling with the challenges of a virtual existence that mirrored their own reality in unexpected ways.

As the digital clone of Earth progressed through the boot-up phase, the mandated 6-foot distance rule had a profound impact on the simulation. This measure significantly reduced the computational load needed to simulate interactions between individuals, leading to more efficient processing of the vast population within the virtual world. The virtual citizens learned to adapt to this new normal, adjusting their behaviors and routines to maintain the required physical distance in all aspects of their lives.

Despite the advantages of reduced iterations resulting from social distancing, some inhabitants of the digital world found themselves grappling with a peculiar limitation. As the simulation continued to evolve, a subset of individuals realized that their sense of smell was not as rich or fully stimulated as it had been in the original reality. The intricacies of scents and aromas seemed muted or dulled within the confines of the digital realm, leaving these individuals with a lingering sense of longing for the olfactory experiences they once knew.

The creators of the simulation worked tirelessly to enhance the replication of smell within the digital world, striving to overcome the challenges of accurately simulating such a complex sensory input. Despite their efforts, some people continued to navigate their virtual existence with a partial sense of smell, unable to fully immerse themselves in the richness of scents that had once defined their reality.

It wasn't long before it became an accepted theory that everyone was in a simulation. They all thought a base reality would exist, not knowing it was gone. The jungle was gone, no nation truly existed, only an animation remained.

#Welcome to Micro Monday

Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry).

However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting.

#Weekly Challenge Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!

Challenge: Set your story in a zoo, aquarium, or animal sanctuary

Bonus Constraint (15 pts): All 5 senses are used. (You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story.

In celebration of the last couple days of Be Kind to Animals Week, this week’s challenge is to set your story in a zoo, aquarium, or animal sanctuary. It must be the main setting of your story. Get creative, have fun, and treat the animals kindly in your story! The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IPs (but there are 3 to choose from this week).

Last Week: Junk

• Winner: This story by u/mattswritingaccount

You can check out previous Micro Mondays here.

#How To Participate

• Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt. You have until Sunday at 11:59pm EST. Use wordcounter.net to check your wordcount.

• Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday. Only actionable feedback will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points.

• Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week using this form. You have until 3pm EST next Monday. (Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)

###Additional Rules

• No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI. Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments.

• Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of all sub rules here.

• And most of all, be creative and have fun! If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail.

#Campfire

• Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!

#How Rankings are Tallied

Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!

TASK | POINTS | ADDITIONAL NOTES |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint | up to 50 pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | Use of Bonus Constraint | 10 - 15 pts | (unless otherwise noted) | Actionable Feedback (one crit required) | up to 10 pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30
| Nominations your story receives | 20 pts each | No cap | Voting for others | 10 pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week!

Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.  

###Subreddit News

• Join our Discord to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events!

• Explore your self-established world every week on Serial Sunday!

• You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out this post to learn more!

• Interested in being part of our team? Apply to mod!

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

“Oh my goodness.” Dr. Kovac straightened his glasses and brushed his hair. He looked towards the chaos with a tear in his eye. “It’s the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.”

“That’s an odd reaction to slugs,” Jacob said.

“She is wonderful.” Dr. Kovac began to take notes.

“We're a bit unclear on their gender.”

“Her gray hair reflects the fire,” Dr. Kovac said. Jacob turned to Dr. Kovac with wide eyes.

“Wait, you don’t mean?” Jacob’s mouth dropped. Dr. Kovac was staring at Dorothy who was hitting one of the slugs with a branch. The branch caught on fire so she jabbed it like a spear into the slug.

“So aggressive.” Dr. Kovac moved towards Dorothy with his arms out. Jacob moved closer to Franklin.

“How do you feel about what's happening?”

“I think the scientist will be a massive advantage,” Franklin smiled.

“I meant about how he is attracted to your mom.”

“Oh, that’s no big deal. I’ve been meaning to get her to date for a while. She has high standards so I hope he’s ready for rejection,” Franklin said.

Dr. Kovac slowed before he reached Dorothy. He pulled a breath mint from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth. After smelling his pits, he grabbed a nearby flower and rubbed it on his body. The slugs’ bodies weren’t quite reflective, but they were the nearest approximation of a mirror. Dr. Kovac checked his warped reflection one last time.

“Perhaps, I could be of assistance, madam?” Dr. Kovac asked. Dorothy was on top of a slug tapping her feet to avoid getting burned. It was a disturbing dance.

“No, this one is mine. Go find your own,” she said.

“My word, you are quite willful. You won’t find any resistance from me. I am at your service,” Dr. Kovac said. Dorothy leapt off the beast and began to move on the ground.

“Get me a bucket of water to cool off. I was an idiot doing that,” Dorothy said.

“Perhaps, I could invent you a pair of fireproof shoes. The pursuit of science is meaningless unless it improves the lives of the people,” Dr. Kovac said.

“You want to make my life easier?” Dorothy asked.

“Yes.” Dr. Kovac puffed out his chest and raised his chin.

“That's what cowards do. True gumption is gritting your teeth and accepting that you'll be covered in manure at some point,” Dorothy said.

"How poetic."

"I don't got time for poetry." Dorothy looked around and found a bucket of water. She picked it up. "Excuse me. I'm going to see if they like water."

"When you splash them, please inform me if they are hydrophobic or hydrophilic," Dr. Kovac said.

"I don't know what those words mean, but I'll tell you if they like it," Dorothy said.

"What lovely blunt language." Dr. Kovac smiled while Dorothy walked to the lake. Jacob ran up behind him and tapped his shoulder.

"Do you have any ideas on how to stop these creatures?" Jacob asked.

"There's already someone on the job," Dr. Kovac replied. Jacob paused. Dorothy returned with a bucket of water. She tossed it onto a nearby slug. The fire went out for a few moments before reigniting. The creature moved along as if nothing happened. "Fascinating." Dr. Kovac stroked his chin.

"You are thinking. Does that mean you have a solution?"

"No, I am content watching a master," Dr. Kovac said. Dorothy filled the bucket again and tossed it on the same slug. She groaned when the same response happened.

"She's kind of dumb, and she won't-" Jacob was interrupted when Dr. Kovac slapped him. He held a finger to Jacob's face.

"You shall not insult her you cretin. You do not understand beauty," Dr. Kovac shouted. Franklin came up behind him with a smile on his face.

"I'm her son," Franklin said, and Dr. Kovac wailed. Franklin held out his arms. "Don't worry. My dad isn't in the picture. She drove him away when I was four. She can be stubborn, and she will be mad when you get rid of the slugs. She'll get over it quickly. I promise, and I promise to put in a good word for you." Dr. Kovac smiled.

"Deal." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small taser. "These creatures are clearly attracted to warmth and food like all creatures. I don't see any eyes meaning they must use vibrations or light sensors or..." He turned the taser on. The slugs stopped moving. "Fascinating. I always wanted to find a creature attracted to electricity." The slugs moved towards him. Dr. Kovac gave the taser to Franklin. "Run as fast you can far from the city. Take it to Goldfield. They kicked me out."

Franklin nodded and started to ran. Jacob stood there with his mouth agape.

"That was all it took," he said.

"Don't be ashamed. You are clearly not smart enough to think of it yourself," Dr. Kovac said. Dorothy walked up behind the scientist and dumped water on him.

"I told you that I would solve it." She walked away muttering in anger.

"I don't think she likes you," Jacob said.

"If she didn't like me, she would've hit me with the bucket," Dr. Kovac replied.

Franklin returned to Henrietta eight hours later. When the smell dissipated, the city quickly went to work on setting up a garbage collection system. They were forced to confront their own filth, and they didn't appreciate it. Within a week, the city was collecting trash and sending it to their new landfill. The city was clean, and the residents were happy. When Susan knocked on the door, Jacob smiled.

"Hello, are you satisfied with our new service?" he asked.

"No," she replied.

"What's wrong?"

"You collect garbage on Monday. I specifically said it should be taken out on Wednesday's," she said.

"I think that's a minor compared to the big picture."

"No, it's all that matters. Fix it now." She left. When Jacob went back to his desk, the phone rang. He picked it up, and Crut was on the other end.

"Yeah, I know trash collection will be moved to Wednesday."

"She got to you first huh," Crut said.

"Yeah, squeaky wheel gets the grease."

"That's life in the public sector," Crut laughed.

r/AstroRideWrites

It finally happened. The love of my life has left. I am alone.

Nevermore shall we swim together in the stream. Nevermore will she cling to my being when the demons chase her from sleep. Nevermore will I hold her as she breathes. Nevermore.

I had thought this day would never come. So certain I was that I could not live without her, I thought, “surely I will be the first,” how could I not be? How could one as lovely as she be taken while a wretch such as I must remain? I feel this must be a jest. And a cruel one at that. This is the jest of gods. The jest of life.

And so the man, in his dark sorrow, settles himself to his desk. Raising the eyes he hadn’t noticed drifting to the floor, he picks up a quill and begins to write. For hours he writes, and writes. Occasionally, his hand cramps, and it’s in these moments that his chest feels prime to burst. His eyes are dry, and sore, after so many tears, he simply hasn’t any left. He chokes down his sorrow and begins anew, crumpling his parchment and pulling another.

Once, during one of these breaks, in a moment of silence, just before he felt the crushing wave of despair wash over him, a thought occurred to him. A very sad thought that, surprising even him, elicited a giggle of mirth. This didn’t stop the onslaught, nor did it even dampen. Pulling another length, the man begins once again.

And from then, in the early darkness, the man did not crumple another parchment. His hand flew across the parchment of it own accord. The man, looking down at his now completed work, breathed a sign of relief. It was done. He’d done it and now he’d only need to read it.

As he began rereading his work, his chest tightened, and then tightened again. “I’m not even past the first sentence,” he thought. Letting loose a sob, he allowed the parchment to fall back to the desk. Sliding it to the edge, the man crossed his arms and wept into them. His cries waned from body wracking sobs to quiet whimpers, and finally into a fitful sleep.

…

“Honey, it’s time to wake up, you’ll be late to the banquet.” He heard the words, but more importantly, he heard the voice. Slowly, he raised his head from his arms. Standing in the passage of his office, his wife stood staring at him, expectantly. “I know you’re hurting my love. And I’m so sorry you must continue. I’ve come to you now for two reasons, to assure you that I’ve been tended well, I await you with baited breathe, that I love you, that I will always love you. And secondly, I’ve come to ensure you won’t be late. So. Wake up.”

…

Like the sand passing through a time glass, the man finds himself at his desk, once more. The sun has crossed the horizon. Gasping at his reality, he ignores the tightness in his chest as he dresses in the ceremonial attire. Bucking on his belt, he rolls the parchment from the previous night and sticks it into a pouch on his belt. Slowly, he approaches the door.

Outside his home, a procession waited. Nodding to the leader, they began. Taking his spot at the end. He waited, and followed. Walking in a daze, he thought of the dream he had. He thought of his wife, their children, all grown now. Glancing around, he found that they were all near, but none were close. All giving him the distance he so dearly needed.

As the procession wound its way through the city, he could see more and more people joining. What started as the two families had grown and was still growing. As they approached the edge of the city, a man drew near him. Laying a hand on his shoulder, the new man whispered in his ear, “your wife was beloved by the people of this city. Her procession is rivaled only by that of Nerva. You should be proud.” Once again, the man raised eyes he hadn’t noticed had sunk. Turning his head, he met the eyes of a stern man, he wasn’t handsome, but in his eyes, he could see compassion.

“I am proud of her. I had a vision of her last night in my dreams.” His teeth clicked shut as he realized what he’d just said. He didn’t know why he said it, he wasn’t even sure who the man was, but when he glanced at the man, he found that it appeared he believed him. “What did she tell you?” He asked.

“She told me she loved me, that she’s well tended, and that I would be remiss to be late today.” Smiling at the time his wife had used, his grin vanished when he remembered. Clapping him on the shoulder again, the stern man says, “It seems her wishes have been met.” Glancing to the sun, he says “I wish you the best of luck sir, may your wife bully the gods into submission on your behalf.” And he walked off.

Allowing his gaze to fall once again, he remained quiet throughout the rest of the match. As they left the limits of the city, the procession began climbing the hill they had chosen together. The place they had first met. Where he’d falling in love with her. As they neared the top, his resolve hardened. He knew what to do.

As the procession reached its conclusion, the crowd grew in size until it was nearly double what it had started as. His heart swelled at the outpouring of support, his wife had spent her life by a very simple motto. “Do the right thing, because it’s the right thing to do.” She’d spent much of her time appealing to the senate for funds for the lower classes. A lifelong advocate for orphans, many saw her as Mother in title, if not in blood. Many of the children he’d helped raise were present. Oh how happy she would be, to see all her effort finally come to fruition.

He stopped himself then. No. She wouldn’t be happy about that. That was why he loved her so. She never thought about how large of an impact she had. She simply loved to help. She’d have been overjoyed to have seen all her wards, but she’d have been proud of them, and not of herself.

As the clergyman led the ceremony, his eyes watched intently while his mind was away. Searching for something to hold on to. Anything. His heart beat like the drums of war and his chest was so tight he had to focus on breathing. Finally, the flame was lit. Almost time now.

As the last of the coals burned down to ash, the clergyman brought an elaborate urn to him. His wife, a talented sculptor had fashioned her urn before she left him. It was likened to the crystal challis they had shared on their wedding night, inscribed were the names of those who inspired her, and set into the handles “Forever and Always.”

Lowering himself, he filled the urn as delicate as he could. Rising from the ashes. He placed the lid onto the urn and set it on the ground next to him. Turning to the crowd he says quietly, “It’s now the time to deliver the eulogy. I spent several hours writing and rewriting and I hope that I’ll be able to get through it without misstep.” Clearing his throat, he collects his thoughts.

“Today, I am broken. So too, shall I be tomorrow. It occurred to me as I was writing this that, while I’m broken, I’m glad that she was who passed first. Not so that I may remarry, nor that I tired of her voice. No. I’m glad for having survived because I would not wish this pain I feel upon to her. I would not be so selfish that I would give this pain to her, the woman I’ve loved for my entire life. The woman who has shaped lives beyond our own.”

Choking back new tears, he continues, “On this day, we do not mourn my wife. She would have scolded everyone of us, as you all know. We celebrate her. Her life, her achievements, her love and care that she shared not just with me, and those related to her, but with all of you. Today we celebrate the life of a woman who cared more for your hunger than your purse.”

“Fuck, that’s a lot of blood.”

“He’ll be fine, the tourniquet is doing its job for now, we just need to get the hell out of here before they come back.”

“Okay… oh shit, he’s awake.”

I woke up to a commotion in the small foxhole we’d dug the night before, Fowler and Palmer had dug a few feet deeper and more to the left side, adding more cramped space into the tiny depression. I’d been unconscious for fuck knows how long, couple hours at least. That attack last night was brutal, the Russians had sent upwards of 5,000 guys across the field, we’d done a decent job so far of holding the defense until the last of the civilians could be evacuated, this time though, it was different. They didn’t just hurl a battalion like the few times before, they were more strategic, using artillery guided by UV flares that only their sensors could see, pummeling the positions into dust, and our guys inside into a pulp. Stark, Platz, and Pilkerton got fucking nuked last night, probably fifty shells came down on just them, not to mention the other four holes to their right and left. We had a shell hit right next to our hole, none of us were killed but I took a big chunk of rock to the calf, cut most of the muscle off, exposing bone and tendons. This morning we had been met by another wave, we held but barely, our M2 is in shambles, and we’re running dry on ammo, I don’t think we can go much longer.

“Hey, bro wake up, we’re being pulled back.”

“Fuckin’ hell, took them long enough.”

“Yeah no shit, let’s go.”

We packed up what little gear we had left and waded through the sea of empty MRE baggies and spent shell casings, crawled out of the foxhole anxiously, and dragged me as fast as possible while I held up the rear.

SIX HOURS LATER

“Fuck, fuck keep going… keep running, agh, fuck.”

“Shit shit shit shit, get up, come on.”

“Just fucking leave me, Fowler, Palmer, Hanson, as your commanding officer I am ordering you to formerly get the fuck out of here.” I barely managed the words through my ragged breath, a bead of what I hoped was sweat dripped off of my mouth.

“But, but sir, we can’t just leave you. They’ll catch up to us if we leave.” Palmer squeezed out from behind a tree in the prone position.

“Go.”

The three reluctantly scrambled away, Palmer almost slipping on his way out.

“Alright boys, just me and you.”

I spun myself around the base of the tree, to face the direction the Russian soldiers would be coming from, while trying to ignore the smell of my festering lower leg, I propped it up so I could use it as cover and a rest for my rifle.

“Oh shit, almost forgot.”

I grabbed a small metallic box from my plate carrier, an iPod, took an earbud from the port and stuck it in, “Still Counting” by Volbeat started playing in my left ear underneath the Peltors I had.

“Counting all the assholes in the room Well I’m definitely not alone I’m not alone”

“Okay, come get some you Russian motherfuckers.”

It didn’t take long to find a target, a Russian man, probably in his mid 20s was my first target, but I played this smart, I would wait until I could see someone more important. After 30 seconds, three more came into view, I grabbed a frag grenade from my vest, pulled the pin and lazily tossed it at the men.

THOOMP

Two went down immediately, one fell back into the brush, and another ran into the road, fell over, and bled out, his blood becoming just another puddle on the muddy dirt road. Two more soldiers ran up and attempted to grab the man from the road, but I didn’t let that happen, two bursts of automatic fire from my rifle stopped both, they just slumped over with the other man, creating a bear pile of corpses.

To my surprise, one man showed up barely three feet to my left, and got a shot off, at the time I couldn’t tell if it was a hit or a miss, but it didn’t matter, I flopped down and drew my pistol and shot him three times square in the chest, he rolled off to the side.

Then I noticed a single stream running from my chest, it wasn’t water, no, it was warm blood, I looked over at the Russian, he was still no more than a couple feet to my left, no, too far for a splatter, I looked at the tree above me, all the branches had been sheared off by either artillery or the storm, nothing up there would be bleeding fresh blood, I tried to sit back up but didn’t have the strength to.

“Alright bitches, you got me, took ya’ long enough.”

I could slowly begin seeing stars, and my remaining leg went numb, I used what was left of my energy to pry up against the tree and sat up, and listened.

“Please allow me to introduce myself I’m a man of wealth, and taste”

“Yea… I’ll be seeing you soon Satan, you… agh, you best have a seat reserved.”

All my remaining energy went into looking up into the gloomy sky, and I thought about better times, when we weren’t at war, when my biggest issues were which toy I wanted to buy, or when I could play Xbox with my brother again, when I could come home to heating, and warm food, and my parents, the Russian bastards took it all from us, first the power grids, then our water, then the SaRS-33 virus, then they walked in and took over, pillaged our homes, stole our children, made them more gears in the Russian war machine.

“No, think about good times.”

“Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name”

“Thanks for everything guys, mom, dad, I’m coming home.”

And with that, the final breath I took was surreal, almost relieving, and that was it, I died, left to rot and fester, left to join nature, left to become a relic of the past, left for kids of the future to find, to wonder how I ended up here.

That, was my final stand.

(This is a completely fictional scenario meant to represent a fictional invasion of the USA by Russia.)

Edit: Some formatting issues with the song lyrics, they should be italicized.

Blurb:
"When I was waiting for the bus, and the bus was late, something strange happened."

This is a story about a 19 old college student, which enjoys reading books, also horror stories. When he suddenly has a horrific experience, while he's waiting for the bus.

First Chapter ---- The Beginning

I don't know where I should begin with at all, but I think I'll try. It was Monday. You have to know that I'm a 19-year-old college student which has some sleep problems. So, I stayed up long at night as usual, which I had to pay for with tiredness the next day. However, I thought it was worth it, as I enjoyed being alone awake at night. I often read books or played video games during the night, and so the night always passed over quickly. But it was the last night before school would start. So, I went to bed at 3 am. But I couldn't sleep, which wasn't unusual after the holidays, because I was just too nervous about school. Well, the day won't be exhausting at all.  2 lessons of PE, one lesson of English and one of Physics. The afternoon would then be made up by a Spanish lesson and 2 lessons of History. The Monday wasn't bad at all, I would finish as at 3.40 PM as early as on Friday, the two only days I would finish that early, but the problem was, Monday was also the first day after the holidays and after the weekend. So, I wasn't motivated at all for school this day. And PE for the beginning of the day wouldn't improve that at all. As I laid awake in my bed, I thought back at my holidays. I had 2 weeks of spring vacation. But those 2 weeks of spring vacation differed from all other ones I had before. Normally I would go up at 2-3pm then play games until 5 am and then go to bed. But not in those 2 weeks.

In the last week of school before the holidays, I just finished the book I was reading, which was a crime novel by Chris Carter. I normally read something different after I finished one book. And because I liked to listen to creepypastas on the Internet, I thought of trying to read a horror book. After I already read Holly and the Institute by Stephen King, I thought of trying a new book of him. This time something which would scare me. You have to know that I have a tick, that I have to buy all the books I want to read, going to library and lend it out wouldn't work. But on that Friday, the last day before the holidays, I went to the library in the free lesson which I had after the lunch break. I did this because I knew from the library catalogue which the school had on their homepage, that they would have IT by Stephen King in their Library. I didn't know a lot of this book before, despite being a horror story where a clown would kill children. So, I grabbed the book from the library shelf and started reading it. The book was kind of boring at first, but when the first scary scene came, the book hooked me. But sadly, the free lesson was already over, and I had to go to my lesson. I had two German lessons where we watched a movie about the Rwanda massacre, which was about the book we read in class. During break, I thought about IT and looked online how to order it, the only problem was, I would have to wait until the next week before I could start the book. Luckily, I could convince my parents, which always went shopping on Friday evening, that they would visit a bookstore, but as they didn't have IT, I asked them to bring me Pet Sematary, also by Stephen King. Yes, I was disappointed, but at least it was another Stephen King Horror Story, and as the back cover of the book promised it would be one of the most terrifying books, Stephen King had ever written, so I was thrilled. As soon as my parents came back home, I started reading, and soon they went to bed. There was a long introduction to the characters, and I was the whole time thinking something like: "Please get a scary book, and please don't be scary, I still want to sleep". I haven't read a horror book, nor have I seen a horror movie yet. All I knew was, that some say, they couldn't sleep after some horror books or horror films, which I thought was BS. Like, how could a book or a movie give you nightmares, although you know it was fictional.

So I continued reading, and the book built a disturbing and unsettling atmosphere. I checked my alarm clock, which told me it was already 0.43 AM. Despite that, I continued reading the book, when I suddenly creeped out. My heart was in my mouth as I heard the bottle containing my Ice Tea popped back into shape with a bang.  After I have calmed down a bit, I continued with reading.  But when I heard the marten scratching in the roof (we had this animal living involuntarily in our roof for more than a year now) I laid the book down, as I was scared to see into the eyes of the marten during the middle of the night (my room is situated directly under the roof, and it has a built-in skylight. I also had eye contact with a marten before at exactly this skylight). I then continued to play some games, before I went to bed. Furthermore, I then continued reading the book the next day and finished it on Sunday. I liked the book, though I didn't find it scary at all. I just was scared by my environment and the thought of, that the book will be very scary (I read the rest of the book during daylight btw, as I was too scared). But on Monday I have already continued reading a new book, another crime novel by Chris Carter. Always when I was disappointed by another book, I just picked up a book by Chris Charter and all my reading problems were blown away. However.... ring-ring. I saw onto my alarm clock, it was already 5.30 AM. I haven't slept at all. (At least I thought that).

From across the room, my lab assistant Jerome yell’s “Hey Stephanie, do you have a minute? The Cryostat is getting too warm.”

I roll my eyes, this jester has been here for six months, and still feels the need to yell at the top of his lungs.

Walking towards Jerome, I smell it. Does someone have vodka in my lab? Looking up I see Jerome laughing with Madison and Blake while lifting a beaker to his lips. Gosh darnit that's methanol. I scream “Jerome stop!”

He looks at me confused and asks “Boss, what's wrong? You always say to never yell in the lab.”

I ask him, “Are you ok? Did you drink any of that?” This can’t be happening, this idiot is going to get me fired.” I remember he has been watching TikTok vids about pyramids collecting solar energy. Does he want to be a mummy? Answer me Jerome, I do not have the chemicals, nor the time to find a pig farmer to dispose of your body. You better not die.

He looks at me with vacant eyes for a few seconds processing what I asked. Looking down at the beaker in his hand, and still confused. He starts shaking his head and looks back at me smiling like a lunatic, he smacks his forehead with his free hand and says “Wow Boss, you are good. How did you know from across the room that this wasn’t my water. I guess I should have labeled them.”

I am so mad I am shaking. In an attempt to control myself I ball my fists and count to ten. When finished I say, “Jerome, you know that everything is supposed to be labeled. You should also know that you are never supposed to have food and drinks at your workstation. Do you remember what happened when you thought the cocaine we use to stop the alligator's incisional bleeding was Pixy Stix powder? You had to visit the hospital, and we had to remove it from the lab.”

“Oh yeah Boss, huh huh, it turned my tongue purple, and it burned really bad.”

“That's right Jerome.”

I turn to go back to my workstation and am stopped when he says. “Oh yeah, hey Boss the Cryostat is too warm. I shut the door like you said, but it's still too warm.”

“Jerome, is it plugged in?”

He drops to his hands and knees to look for a plug that isn’t there.

“Jerome, stand up the plug is behind the unit. Let's scoot the Cryostat over and check the GFCI.”

I believe the only thing these jackals understand is violence. Just six more hours until I can go home to my Hello Kitty collection and drink all of this away.

Two hours later

I am jamming to In Flames Lunar Strain my favorite band while reviewing data. Like always, I almost cry when he gets to the chorus line. This man is an underrated treasure to the world.

We are able to increase the alligator's intelligence by 112 percent during this phase. I think we can increase that by another fifty percent during phase four and another seventy to ninety percent during phase five. 400 percent more aggression is going to be easy, beyond that, we may need to splice chihuahua DNA. The monocle is insane, I am glad I don’t have to design the interface for the guided laser system. I look up from my data to see Madison gripping Blakes bottom like a life preserver and kissing his neck. I do not have time for a meeting with human resources today.

They are so focused on their PDA that I make it all the way to their workstation without being noticed. Standing there I can taste bile in my mouth. This is so gross. I cannot believe it's legal, and protected. She has no business being here, but I can’t fire Madison without losing Blake.

“Hey guys, how is your experiment going?”

Blake says, “Stephanie, really good. The titanium alloy that gives us the strength to weight ratio the client specified has been selected. Engineering will need to replace the dentures as the alligator grows, but luckily the client’s budget allows for this. The polymer to hold the dentures in place is another issue. It can’t be permanent, but it still needs to be able to withstand the increased bite force.”

“Thanks for the update, I have total faith that you two will find a solution.

Actually guys, I came over to ask that you remember the company's policy on PDA in the work space.”

Madison moves her hand from his hiney to his belt line, and looks at me with feigned shock.

She then says, “Oh gosh, I totally forgot. I am so sorry Stephanie. Thanks for reminding us that we need to contain our happiness before getting married next week.”

“It’s ok, I understand. You two are doing great work and are just blowing off some steam. We are just asking for you to keep the more physical displays outside the work center.

After saying that my gag reflex almost wins the fight.

Blake then tells me, “It’s too bad you can’t make it to our wedding, we are going to have so much fun. If you change your mind, I would love to introduce you to my brother and cousins.

Even if your brother was my future ex Mrs. Stephanie Ronnie Radke I would refuse. Walk away Stephanie, get away from these guácala. “I am so sorry I can’t make it, but like I said I have something planned with my grandmother that I cannot get out of.” Like her bi-weekly seance. “I gotta go, thanks for working so diligently.”

While walking back to my workstation I hear the three chimes before an announcement.

The oddly chipper female voice of our AI announces “We are currently being breached by law enforcement. Your arrest is imminent. You are ordered to remain at your work stations to delay the F.B.I agents so our leader, Eric can escape to his private island. Effective immediately per your contract all pay and benefits are hereby canceled. Thank you for serving VillTech.”

I close my eyes, not again, not again. Every time I work for a biotech startup, our research is immediately seen as evil, and that it always violates nature. In reality it is mostly for the benefit of mankind, and it only violates nature in a biblical sense.

We are about to get raided by the F.B.I. and our research confiscated by D.A.R.P.A. Hopefully there are no flashbangs.

I hear Madison scream “The door won’t open! What do we do? I can’t live without my Love Bug!”

I hurry over to the middle of the lab and whistle like I'm hailing a cab in New York City. Immediately everyone looks in my direction and stares at me like I am insane. “Listen up, we can wait here to be arrested, or we can use our brains to escape. There is a way out, but it is dangerous.

Boomer Bill, or William as he prefers to be called says, “Tell me young lady, how do you propose to accomplish this? Both doors are sealed behind hydrogen sulfide gas filled hallways, and we are ten stories beneath the ground. Back in my day we had real leaders. I should be the Lead Scientist, I completed my second doctorate before you were born. If I was in charge, this would have never happened.

I am staring in disbelief, he got his degrees from a Stag Magazine subscription in the sixties. Why should I save this Rawhide reject? You know what? Fuck all of them, I will never give any of them a good reference.

Seeing red, I speak the words my soul have been singing since I met Bill, “Mother fucker, you don't know how to combine acid and water. Your mother should have swallowed, but the bitch didn't so I'm stuck trying to divinate usable data from your so called experiments. I have seen grade school students with more respect for the scientific method than you.”

Bill demands, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

I'm the Head Mother Fucker in Charge, and if you want to survive, you will shut the fuck up and do what I say.

Blake then says “Stephanie, maybe you should dial it back a little. We are all a little stressed, but that is no excuse to be so mean.”

“And you two, we all know you are cousins. Stop it! It’s gross, or your kids will probably star in the remake of Deliverance.”

Blake forcefully states, “It is legal in California.”

“Do you think I care about that? Your relationship status is first cousins!”

Turning to face Jerome, I am opening my mouth to accuse him of purposely sabotaging my lab.

Before I can, he holds up his hands in a stop gesture and calmly says “Stephanie, that is enough, you have every right to be upset. We can be entitled and needy, but right now we need you to get us out of here. Take a couple of deep breaths with me and let’s work together for a solution.”

Staring at the idiot savant of therapeutic communication I slowly blink twice and I do exactly as asked while he leads me through two deep breaths.

After my wax on wax off moment is over I say, “The only way out is through the tunnel we use to move the alligators. They are currently lightly sedated, as long as we are quiet it should be safe. Are any of you coming with me?

They all look scared, and none of them will agree until Jerome confidently says, “I’m coming with you Boss, lead the way.”

Bill nods his head in agreement. Madison and Blake both look at the floor and shake their heads no.

I tell my team, “Ok, let's go to the alligator enclosure”

When we get to the door, Jerome stacks directly behind me, while Bill is in last position.

I whisper “Remember we have to remain absolutely quiet. We can do this." I look at them for confirmation. Bill nods his head and closes his eyes. Jerome smiles at me and raises both thumbs.

Unlocking the door as quietly as I can, I just thankful that it is well maintained. Turning the handle I pull the door open and move to step inside the enclosure. Feeling Jerome's hands on my shoulders, I start turning to see what is going on, and I am pushed through the entrance, almost falling in the process. I turn around quickly, just in time to see the door loudly slam shut, and hear the lock being engaged.

I rush to meet Jerome at the window. I whisper “What are you doing? Let me out.”

Looking me in the eyes, Jerome calmly states, “I have seen this movie, and I am not getting eaten by bionic alligators. We are going to wait for them to eat you, and then escape. Goodbye Boss.”

Jerome and Bill both start kicking the door to wake up the alligators. I hear a hiss and glance over to where the four juveniles were sleeping. They are now awake and staring hungrily at me. Their mother in the corner, starts towards me. She is moving between to herd me towards the juveniles.

This is not how I die!

Facing the momma alligator, I engage my honey badger DNA, and instantly feel my blood lust rise. I rush forward with my claws extending, determined to end her line.

When I get out of here, there will be hell to pay for the Chucklefuck Sentries.

To be Continued.

"What are you doing?" 

For years Sierra sat alone in the dark void of a room that she had become familiarized with. For years Sierra sat alone with her gray, tired eyes glued intensely to the television, her arms hugging her legs as she painfully watched on for the same result. But for the first time in what seemed like forever, she turned from the black and white television to face another human being. Behind her stood a replica of herself, tall and slim, a comforting smile plastered lovingly on her freckled, pale face. Light from the small screen dimly illuminated the replica's figure as she swayed contently back and forth on her feet. Just her movements and open posture radiated satisfaction and fulfillment. 

Her eyes narrowed with confusion and caution, Sierra replied in a monotone voice, "Just watching T.V." She turned her head back to the television nonchalantly, almost forgetting instantaneously that somebody was behind her in the first place. 

Without asking, the replica plopped down right next to her and turned her attention to the movie. Silence suffocatingly filled the air. Sierra felt compelled to say something, ask something, yell something, scream something, but all she could do was sit with her lips pursed and her eyes stuck on the light. 

"You're mad at me," the replica breathed, finally breaking the silence. Shocked by the nature of the statement Sierra instinctually cocked her head in the direction of the replica once again. 

"Stop pretending to be so innocent," Sierra spat. "You know what you did. You're an evil, awful person. There's nothing good about you. You pretend to be wonderful and flawless to everyone around you, but you know what you did. Stop pretending you don't. Stop trying to forget." 

The replica still maintained her affectionate grin and soft gaze as Sierra's eyebrows furrowed and her mouth curved into a frown. "I know what I did. I'm not trying to forget." 

"Yes, you are. If you weren't, you would shut up and watch this movie with me."

"You've watched it a million times, Sierra. What would another rewatch change?" the replica questioned. The film continued rolling, dialogue faintly emitting from the speakers. 

Sierra ignored the replica. Instead, she rotated towards the television, effectively gluing herself to the screen once again. A period of soundless concentration filled the atmosphere as the two of them sat together and watched the movie play once again.

They watched as a young Sierra walked into her construction class, many pounds of books and binders cradled in her weak arms. They watched as she chatted happily with her friends, giggling and laughing as she entered the room. They watched as Sierra pulled a board down from the second shelf, feeling the roughness of the texture as she returned to her seat. They watched as Sierra listened patiently to her teacher's instructions, distracted a little by the thought of the boy she liked in her second-period class. They watched as Sierra set off to complete her assignment. They watched as she walked blissfully to one of the electric saws, making a joke to her friends about how bad she was at construction as she set the board down at the station. They watched as she half-heartedly turned the machine on, humming a peppy pop song to herself as she positioned her board. They watched as she turned away for a second to see what her friend was chuckling about, eager to be a part of whatever joke was occurring. They watched as the blade of the saw dislocated as soon as Sierra spun back around to face her board. They watched as the blade flew across the room. They watched as it struck a small, quiet girl named Remi whom Sierra had only spoken to once or twice. They watched as the blood poured from her head and her body collapsed to the ground. They watched as the class panicked, Mrs. Levi screamed, and a pool of blood formed at Remi's skull. They watched as adolescent Sierra stood unmoving in silence and shock. They watched as Remi's body was rushed to the nurse's office, Mrs. Levi frantically carrying her limp, light figure. They watched as the entire horrified class's attention turned to meek Sierra, waiting for some sort of a bombastic reaction, waiting for her to break and shatter into a million pieces on the floor. They watched as all she could do was choke out hushed sobs. 

The two of them sat in silence as the film began again from the beginning. 

"Remi died, Sierra," the replica mumbled. Sierra's eyes locked harder onto the screen. 

"Remi's family forgives you, Sierra," the replica reminded. Sierra hugged her legs a little harder. 

"Sierra, it was an accident. You didn't mean for this to happen. Remi's dead and the saw that you were using killed her. You didn't mean to, you were just young and you made a mistake that cost another child's life. You've certainly paid the price for it." 

"How have I paid the price for it?! She's dead and it's my fault! I murdered her!" Sierra screamed, rising to her feet. Her hands balled into violent fists. "We're murderers! We aren't good people! We don't get to live a happy life!" 

The replica reached for Sierra's hand, but she jerked away. Composing herself and fighting back tears, the replica spoke in a muffled tone. "You've hated yourself for such a long time. You've been living in this guilt and sadness because you killed a girl in a tragic accident. When she died that day, it was like you died too. You've been stuck in that day for years, but now it's time to move on. Forgive yourself, Sierra. I'm begging you. I love you." 

Sierra's eyes welled up with tears. Defeated and tired, she allowed them to create moist trails down her cheeks. The replica reached for Sierra's hand. Their fingers interlocked. The replica squeezed hard. Sierra squeezed back. 

"I don't know if I love you back yet, but I'll try to," Sierra sobbed. A smile stretched across both of their faces as light laughter escaped their lips. 

"Come on now, let's change the channel." 

#Welcome to Serial Sunday!

To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I post a theme to inspire you, along with a related image and song. You have 500 - 1000 words to write your installment. You can jump in at any time; writing for previous weeks’ is not necessary in order to join. After you’ve posted, come back and provide feedback for at least 1 other writer on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.

#This Week’s Theme is Undermine!

Image | Song

Bonus Word List (each included word is worth 5 pts) - Please list which words you included at the end of your story.

• unite
• unassuming
• utopia
• underwhelm

Undermining can occur in many different ways. It happens often in nature, with water or wind undermining rock, causing it to give way over time. People undermine others, intentionally or not, through their actions: saying something to the wrong person about another can lead to the information being spread to others, negatively affecting the latter’s reputation, job or life. Perhaps a hero sets off a string of events that, given time, undermine the villain? Maybe the opposite happens, and the villain topples the hero? You could even go larger, and have an entire city, country or culture be undermined, and subsequently fall.

Whichever way is chosen, whatever it is that is undermined, it is sure to have consequences for your stories going onwards. Blurb provided by u/MaxStickies.

These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. For the bonus words (not required), you may change the tense, but the base word should remain the same. Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.

Don’t forget to sign up for Saturday Campfire here! We start at 1pm EST and provide live feedback!

###Theme Schedule:

• May 5 - Undermine (this week)
• May 12 - Void
• May 19 - Watch

  Previous Themes | Serial Index
 

#Rankings for Traditions

• First - u/ZachTheLitchKing
• Second - u/Zetakh
• Third - u/MeganBessel
• Fourth - u/AGuyLikeThat
• Fifth - u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1

#Rules & How to Participate Please read and follow all the rules listed below. This feature has requirements for participation!

• Submit a story inspired by the weekly theme, written by you and set in your self-established universe that is 500 - 1000 words. No fanfics and no content created or altered by AI. (Use wordcounter.net to check your wordcount.) Stories should be posted as a top-level comment below. If you’re continuing an in-progress serial (not on Serial Sunday), please include links to your previous installments.

• Your chapter must be submitted by Saturday at 9:00am EST. Late entries will be disqualified. All submissions should be given (at least) a basic editing pass before being posted!

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We all saw it coming, but I didn’t say a thing about it. I wanted it to come, for better or worse, and it was good to watch all the important people get distracted over other things when the real news came in. That definitely makes me the bad guy, but I think I’m okay with it. I knew what would happen, everything.

They never tell you what it’s like to fight for your country—and it’s not my country, really—but in the few preceding weeks that dragged us into it, I knew I had the right idea in staying behind to do so. There isn’t such a problem with seeing what’s coming, if you’re making the effort to look ahead, if you can push yourself to the worst corners of your imagination; then the war isn’t so bad when it comes, because you only end up seeing a fraction of all that from where you’re standing.

I grew up here. It took ages, but I managed it, and it was uncomfortable being the only English girl in the year, but there you are. Through some unimaginable twist of fate, these people have my loyalty, although I never had theirs. You try growing up English in a Scottish school, and see how you fare. Maybe it’s better now, but back then it was brutal. My parents didn’t even look up the schools when we came up, I was just sent to the one that looked the least shit. Anyway. These are the streets where I’d hang around after school, waiting for my mum to come out of the shop or the pharmacy, because I couldn’t be seen dead looking for prescription stuff, creams and vitamins and other things I never took an interest in. She once caught me looking at the condoms, but if I can speak in my defence, it was only out of curiosity. It’s not like I was ever going to buy any for myself.

Speaking of condoms and people who actually need them, my brother didn’t want to fight. None of that mattered, though, so he’s away somewhere on the north coast on the look-out for enemy planes. He got dragged out of his front door, from what they tell me, but I’m not so sure about that: our family has always been the type to exaggerate our stories. From what we could gather in the papers, they wanted to place people up there in case they attacked from the sea, and they were right, but I guess whoever was in charge decided that my home town would be a great place to fight over… I don’t know. We’re not right on the coast – about 10 miles away – but they got near enough to try and take over the entire village, and we had to find some way of stopping them getting to the central belt. We didn’t, in the end, but it’s alright—I think asking a few hundred local people to do that kind of thing on behalf of a defeated army is a bit of a stretch, to be honest.

We had a discussion amongst the few of us who stayed, whether or not we should rename the streets (code names, that kind of thing – maybe we can confuse whoever comes in and change them all overnight and it’ll give us an advantage, or maybe that’s a stupid idea), or whether or not we should get rid of the signs altogether.

It took all evening to get the decision straight, because we’re not the best at organising ourselves. None of us are paid to do this, you know, so you get what you’re given. Even the railway staff at the station left, and they blew up the lines and everything, so we sort of have to fend for ourselves. My immediate group is made up of cleaners, shop assistants, and one guy who stayed behind to close the bakery. Someone else used to operate a forklift truck, so we give him mechanical jobs to do because we assume that he likes that sort of thing. Me and this one guy from the next town over (we never actually worked out what he used to do, but he turned up one day and offered his help, so we’re running with it) got up onto the wall during the night and tore all the road signs down. When the other side arrived, they tried to replace the signs with some names of their own, but we shot down the first guy on the ladder pretty quick and no one’s attempted it since.

There aren’t many of us. It’s not like we’re a real army, and we really had to struggle to get together the numbers, but there’s just enough of us to hold the town. Most of the people I knew from before have gone, and they’ve taken the rest of their family with them. But I wanted to stick around and see the whole thing out, ever since they first started talking about it. I don’t really remember where that feeling came from. It was a charge in my veins that came so naturally that it took over every thought, till I was raving back and forth across the bedroom floor and had to get out of the house for a run up the street. The pace of things never really slowed down from there.

***

There’s not much that scares me, and you can laugh at me for saying that, but it’s mostly true. The only time I remember really being afraid was when my best friend stayed back with me when it all started, and we’d decided to fight together that afternoon. That was before we realised how few of us there were to defend the place, but we would have continued no matter what because neither of us could imagine leaving; she snuck me into an empty room in one of the abandoned flats and we were all shadow and she kissed me slowly into the corner, and we were waiting, waiting, waiting…

“I don’t think they’re coming,” she jokes, and her nose bumps into mine. “Don’t get scared.”

We go way back, her and I—is that a stupid thing to say? I’ll tell you everything as if it’s happening right now, and I can write away from my own little corner into a story that no one will ever see.

“I’m not,” I tell her and we waste away a few moments more against the wall. She won’t get to know when I’ll die, and I know it’ll be over something small and stupid like a parcel drop. No one wants to know when they die, how they die, but I do: you only want to know when you’ve lost the one thing that’s keeping you here, or else life itself ends up like a prison. “But I think we should gather everyone into a group first and work it out from there.”

“Just a little bit longer, we won’t have much time after this…”

“I’m not going to leave you,” I swear—I have to say it, in case she doesn’t know—and I grab her hand to make sure she hears me. I hold our clasped hands to my chest, and I kiss her again, and it’s the only real word of honour I can give. When we pull apart, I can see the shifting light through the window from the corner of my eye, and it almost distracts me. “I’ll make sure we stay together, alright? I’ll look after you.”

I can pretend that she’s dead and it’s easier. From then, it was a small group of us, made up from whoever was left after that first day. Most of them I’m not interested in getting to know, so I try and get along with everyone politely, and I keep mostly to myself, escaping whenever it’s possible, whenever nothing’s happening. I run to the bridge that crosses the burn, and follow along the stream until I can walk under the trees and look into the water without being watched.

It’s beautiful here, I can admit, but it’s usually better if I stick to the unknown parts and make myself scarce—which is really easy to do, considering the fact that I get ignored most of the time. None of us are anything special, but the rest of the people I’m fighting with can all connect in a way that’s blindingly obvious, and sometimes I worry that they wonder about who I think I’m fooling. I certainly don’t feel the type of camaraderie you’d expect around here, but I can watch it from a distance and I’m a lot happier for missing out on it.

My only ambition now is to stay here and fight it out, and keep under the radar of everyone else. I already know that if I try too hard on behalf of these people, if I fight too ugly or with too much passion, I’ll only get shunned. That’s why I volunteered to do this trip. They all know I can’t feel anything anymore, so for the first time I get left alone and I can watch the reeds along the bank of the river that keeps us all safe.

You always think with these things (well, I did, before I got involved in this one), there’s one line, and that’s where all the people are, that’s where all the soldiers are pushing back. No one tells you about the pockets of fighting, nothing about the spread of it, or how strange it is when you’re the only ones here. The whole country hangs in the air like a sick patient, and you can’t really breathe properly. Half of my time is spent trying not to panic, and if you’re one of those lucky ones who can switch off from the bigger picture, the kind of person who can have fun when they know they’re losing, you’d be better off in my place.

***

I should describe the town, so you can get a good idea of where things are, how things look. It hasn’t even changed that much. What used to be the bus-stop, with its usual prize collection of junkies—some of them homeless, most of them not—all drugged-out and drunk and supporting themselves on the cold rail of the bench, the ones who would stumble over the edges of the pavement into light traffic, is now just an empty bus-stop with the plastic all scarred from the heat and some of the windows kicked out.

Then you’ve got the library and the clock tower, an old blown-out Greggs, that kind of thing. It’s all very small. You should have seen us the first week: it was almost funny, doing it here, as if we couldn’t find anywhere better to scrabble around in the dirt and look for vantage points. Ridiculous, really. This whole street used to be filled with little shops, a bakery here and there, one of the optometrist shops; they were even trying to sell some tourist crap at the round shop on the corner before all of this started. I tried to get work in the optometrist’s once, but I ended up flunking the interview and they went right ahead and said my answers were all over the place. You can never tell if you’re on the right track with those people. Half the town was unemployed, anyway, so maybe now, we’ve at least got something to do.

The road gets wider once you get past the bus stop, which has been a nightmare for us, strategically. We lost so many people because they misjudged the width of it and couldn’t run fast enough to keep up. I don’t know why they couldn’t build a straight road, but that’s the kind of town we’ve grown up in. All the windows of the flats above the shops have been smashed in as well, and sometimes you get one or two of us up there, trying to spot the enemy down the street. We’ve been lucky to hang onto this lot, or they’d be picking us off quite easily.

If it’s any consolation, I never did have much chance of a future anyway. I think I wanted to be a writer, probably, or something like that, but I guess I can fulfil some of that by using these moments to say whatever I can.

There’s a curve in the road towards the old T-junction: it slopes upward to meet the other street, but we generally stay away from that place if we can—it’s so exposed—and with how silent the town can get, you’re always worried that something will be right around the corner if you’re not careful.

It hasn’t rained in a while, but I think it’s going to be okay: I look up at the sagging clouds above. They’re not promising any relief yet, but at least it’s warm and dry. The roads have gotten so dusty here, what with all the crap and smoke, and there’s bits of buildings everywhere, but the main lot of the street is just the same.

In a way, I’m glad that so many of our people have gone. They’ll be alive, at least. And I’m so small that when everyone was here and we had to sort things out, I got talked over, shouted at, and only got to pick up my own equipment once they’d abandoned the rest of the stuff that was left behind. But it’s fine. I think you’re going to be okay in stuff like this—death being the exception—if you can go without a lot of things. We stick together, the last few of us. Sometimes I’ve seen one or two escaping during the night, and I don’t blame them. Most people didn’t choose this, but I did, and I’m much happier for it.

I don’t know why I stay, but it’s something beyond my control at this point. My feet feel rooted to the ground in a way that they haven’t since I was about seven years old. I feel real here. It wouldn’t even occur to me to leave.

***

My hands slip on the gun and I’m sweating. We’re at the railway bridge today, and the sun is pressing into my back as I kneel behind the wall; I keep the barrel as steady as I can, and spot three enemy soldiers wandering along towards us on the tracks—and I don’t think they know we’re here. I watch them for a while: they look around as they walk, shout something to each other as if they’re taking notes on the layout of the station, they look up at the bridge and their eyes drift past my position.

As far as they know, the whole station is empty, but I can see one of the youngest soldiers look up at the dark windows of the ticketing office on my left as if he expects someone to fire at them then and there. He's right.

I shoot twice at the first soldier, but the gun misfires on the second shot and I have to duck back down behind the wall to find out what’s wrong with it. Did I hit him? It’s hard to tell, but then I hear someone staggering over the gravel on the tracks and a horrified moan of shock.

We’re protected by what survives of this wall—a hideous, open-toothed brickwork that I’m surprised has lasted this long—from a unit of enemy soldiers who have settled in at the foot of the signalling box further up the track. There’s a rumour that they’re going to try and overrun the town from the north, but we haven’t heard a thing till now. Our position is slightly to the east, and this lot on the tracks have been quiet all day.

Everyone else has grouped together to try and head off any attack, and that only leaves a handful of us to guard the station and deal with anyone who tries to gain control of the bridge. We did have a couple of people manning the ticket office this morning, but they were clearly bored out of their skull by the lack of action. I admit, I got a bit irate by all the snoozing and slouching, so I ordered them to go back towards the town; they were only too happy to leave.

So by the time these soldiers approach our position, we’re already outnumbered.

I eventually work out what’s gone wrong with the gun, after a moment’s panic that the whole mechanism had jammed—to be honest with you, I can’t even describe how I fixed it—and I heave myself back up to the wall to shoot, with the inching fear that my equipment is going to betray me. The two soldiers who have made it this far have already discovered our position, and they’re making good use of my temporary struggle with the rifle: I try to ignore the shards of shrapnel that land on the road behind me, the fragments of stone that break off from the top of the wall with every hard shot. My hands are covered in oil and for a minute, I’m caught off-guard by how much they're shaking. I grab the rifle tighter and hold the metal close to my face, as close as you’d hold a lover; some stupid part of me likes to pretend that it can actually protect me.

I look over the ledge and get my finger ready on the trigger. There are only two of us left defending this bridge: me on the left, and an old guy—Roy—who lies closer to the roundabout. He sits at the top of the stairs leading down to the platform and shoots straight down at the last of the soldiers trying to climb up, with his rifle positioned lazily between two greasy legs as he laughs. The sun shines raw and red upon the side of his neck.

“This is where it all ends, hen. Just try and aim on target, and that’s all you can do,” he had said that morning with a smile, clapping my shoulder with unnatural force, and continuing on to his post at the other side of the bridge. That’s the last we speak to each other all day.

A terror strikes me now that he’s got it wrong, that none of the people he’s shooting at are the enemy—but he sits with his paunch hanging out underneath his untucked shirt, the spread of wet stains under his armpit from the heat that I can see even from here, and I briefly have to look away in disgust at the idea that this is who I have to fight with.

By the time I look back and readjust myself at the wall, there’s been a sharp rap of gunfire and Roy is lolling back with his head on the pavement.

Something about his sagging body lying there in the sun and the growing, dark oil slick of blood towards the road makes me jolt upwards to get a better view of the platform, and I’m only reminded of my mistake when the snick of a bullet passes close by. I immediately jump down, and I end up crawling flat on my face in the dirt like an idiot, taking cover behind the wall again—then I realise that it’s me left who’s holding the bridge. I scramble to get my gun back into place.

They must have heard the shots. When I get my head clear again, I can see a handful of them hurrying towards me from the signalling box: some of them are slower than the others, and one soldier is trying to fasten his belt while he runs behind the group, too slow, and it’s easy to take him out as he stumbles and trips over the hard gravel of the railway line. None of them even look back at the sound—we must have disturbed them horribly, because they’re scurrying along the tracks like rabbits over a field.

I manage to fire at one or two of the soldiers as they draw level with the platform, and I think I can take advantage of their panic. But one of them looks up and spots me as she’s running to catch up: her whole body flinches when I finish off the only soldier ahead of her; her eyes wrench tight, her jaw hardens like stone. To her credit, she sprints even harder and quickly scales the steep platform as it meets the building; her clean boots pound the tarmac, the last of that lot of soldiers.

I already know what she’s going to do, and I notice she’s got a gun in her hand but she’s forgotten to shoot at me on the approach: I watch her making a dash for the staircase on my left—until she takes cover behind one of the pillars and fumbles with the weapon.

I watch her hiding in the shade. For a moment I stall as she wipes a few wandering curls of ash-brown hair out of her face; it reaches her shoulder, and her neck shines with sweat as she shouts something I can’t understand back in the direction of the signalling box—she’s not even got her helmet on.

Good. She’ll make another mistake at some point, and that’s all the opportunity I’ll need—and it’s with a sharp thrill that I see her crouch over her boots. I allow her the chance, I won’t fire when she’s down. It’s just this moment, her and me, like we know each other. The idea of shooting someone this close feels ridiculous. I wonder if she knows this.

But then she turns her face towards me and dashes out from the pillar.

I jam my finger onto the trigger before I can think any more about it; I shoot her straight through the heart.

My lapse in concentration has cost me: they’ve already sent more soldiers to follow up after the gunshots, and I realise I’ll have to make a break for it if I want to stay alive. I don’t even stay to watch her fall, but as I turn my eye catches the fact that she’s clutching her chest and hauled over, as if grief-stricken. I know that look. From what I’ve seen, they’ve sent the youngest first, probably for a laugh, not knowing there were any of us up here, and now they’ll use me to get even—I can hear their boots striking the platform, the foot of the staircase.

They’ll stumble into Roy at the top, I think blindly. They’ll kill him.

I don’t even bother to keep the gun, I just throw it down as I break into a hard, blind run towards the town.

I can hear an awful dragging sound that I don’t think anyone else can hear, it goes right over the air above me and into the town, and there are new sparks and screams of gunshots from the main road; they’ve been forced back towards the square. We’re done for—I feel it right through my chest. I imagine that it’s my own body making contact with the ground as they pull; I can feel the tug of my skin, and it splits as we are hauled over the gravel.

It’s pretty clear we’ve lost the town.  

***

I went home after everything. We did lose the whole town in the end, and quite a lot of people, too, but that doesn’t matter now. I don’t think I could count on two hands the number that were left, but I can guarantee that none of them want anything to do with me.

But this, here, is my real home—and what’s strange is that, for the first time I actually wanted to get involved. You know the kind: village fetes and church fairs, selling raffle tickets for the local primary school. It’s something I always missed out on before, my family being the ‘we’re implicitly better than you, and for no good reason’ kind. My father started all that, so it’s not completely my fault, but it doesn’t mean that some of it doesn’t rub off on you. He hated this place and that’s why we left.

Well, anyway. Here, I get to pretend and play at the nice, safe things in life, and I can imagine that I’ve always been here. It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted to stay somewhere for good, and I end up getting a job at the local hospital doing odd bits of admin. No one’s forcing me to stay here. I don’t get paid as much as I’d hoped, but I quite like the idea of sticking around.

I take a path into the fields because I can’t bear to be indoors, and the air is sweet; I see yellow, green, and all I can think of is a plate of vegetables—sweetcorn, peas, all the awful boiled and steamed stuff my dad used to give us—and I end up laughing at how stupid that sounds. I find myself spinning into blue when I look up at the clouds.

This place, I had to learn again. For the first time, I have something that’s mine, whole and truly, and no one can ever take it away from me. I always knew it like the back of my hand, but there were certain details that I hadn’t remembered: distances between towns, so that what I’d thought to be a forty minute journey turned out to be a quarter of an hour in the car. My accent changed back, too. I’m proud of that. I could never make my tongue fit over the words properly after we moved, and so I never said the right thing in the right way: the mongrel speech of someone who very obviously doesn’t belong. That’s not true anymore, as long as I don’t mention my time spent back in that place.

I end up meeting someone as I walk under the woods. I pass some of the bluebells that always spring up, and then I’m out the other side and into another field, and I see her ahead of me.

“Alright?” I don’t expect any conversation back, and I wave a bit as you do to inoffensive strangers, but instead of giving the same and walking on, she stops and actually answers my question. I learned not to do that a long time ago.

“Not bad.” She swings one arm up over her forehead in protection against the sun and screws up her face at me. She’s wearing pink, and it matches the brightness of the blue above us. “Quite nice out today, isn’t it?”

We get to talking. I can’t remember half of what she says, but I watch her face and all the little movements, and I’m feeling a strange little warmth of familiarity about her. It’s wonderful watching her eyes dance. They flicker with raw joy, tangible humour, and so do her eyebrows, and so does her whole face: I can see the little indents of thought, the side of self-deprecation as she scratches her neck: real life happening right in front of me. I wonder if I ever look like that.

At some point she touches my arm, and I don’t know why she does it.

But I already know what to do. I ask her out to one of the local pubs, and we talk a little bit about ourselves while we’re still standing there, but after one of us gets tired from the sun, we end up walking there straight away. I’d never have done this sort of thing back home. Her name is Maria, and I sing a little song with her name in my head as we cross the last field into the shade.

THE END

Hello there, young lackey. I saw you by the trailer. You were sniffing the walls. I think you were expecting a musk or an aroma. Your nose never worked, perhaps you liked dried paint or having your face up against the shadow of the sun on the wooden walls. It was as if you were trying to fry your face like an egg in a pan. I walked up to you and slapped you on the ass. 'Good game, boy.' It was like a nudge; your body slightly moved, but no response. I thought about body slamming you to the ground. Acknowledge me, I thought! But I didn't. Instead, I peered into the window next to you. There was a lady inside mopping. She was wearing slippers, a robe, had sexy calves, and nice brown hair. I knocked on the window, and she looked up, smiled, and continued with what she was doing. I just wanted a glass of tea or water; it's hot out here. I walked around to the backyard and found a lawn chair on the patio. The weather hadn't been kind to it; it was rusty, with fading, peeling paint. I found a hose, turned it on, and sprayed myself and the chair. I sat on the chair there and waited. Not even a bird. Not even a breeze.

An hour passed, and the chronic need for flavor—something, anything—and thankfully . I reached into my pocket, found what I needed, and ingested it. The day was becoming, shall I say, bearable. Every once in a while, I would peer into the trailer from the back window. I couldn't see much of the lady because she didn't walk through this area of her home. I might see a flicker of a light or a slight pass by if I was really watching closely, but it never happened enough in my view to warrant such an intense gaze into their home.

It was getting dark now, my ass uncomfortable from the chair, but I had everything I needed, everything. I waited as the light above me flickered on. I could hear laughter from inside the trailer. I peered in once more, this time two kids were there sitting at the table. Smiling, the young beautiful woman, more formally dressed, walked by and placed biscuits on the table.

So golden they shined, so brightly, I wanted one. I knocked on the window, she noticed me peering inside, smiled, and continued serving her dinner.

I could only watch as one of the boys slowly grabbed a biscuit, delicately peeled it open, and slathered it with butter. You could see them glistening, the heat radiating off them. I had never wanted something so bad in my life. I got real close to the window and tried to smell them. I watched intently as the boy took his time enjoying each bite, and the other boy smiling at his mom as they enjoyed their night.

Eventually, it was over. However, for whatever reason, they left one biscuit behind, which sat on the table in a basket. I moved as close as I could, trying my best to smell it, taste it. I leaned against the wall, hugged it, and imagined what it would be like if I just had that biscuit.

Link to serial master post for other chapters

It was good to see Billie smiling again, even if the sadness of losing their brother for good still lurked beneath the surface. It warmed Madeline’s heart to know that she’d had some small part in that. And the physical exertion it had taken to achieve it warmed the rest of her.

After they’d both pummelled the life out of the assorted cushions that Marcus had collected for them, they flopped back onto them to catch their breath. Rather than take up her usual spot snuggled into Billie’s side, Madeline let them snuggle into her, wrapping an arm around to draw them in closer.

“So,” she said, feeling the weight of their head on her chest work against her as she drew breath to speak. “How did you like your surprise?”

“I loved it, Mads.” The vibrations as they spoke tickled slightly. “Though I do have to point out that you stole the idea from me. So it’s almost like I surprised myself.”

Madeline snorted. “Hey, if taking credit will make you happy, then I’m happy for you to have it.”

“Oh! I can’t take all the credit!” They pushed themself up onto their elbows, looking down at Madeline, their face hovering above hers. “Some of the credit has to go to your boyfriend Marcus.”

They cackled as she shoved them off. “My boyfriend? Seriously? Are we twelve?”

“What?” They shrugged, face a picture of innocence. “Who else would go to all this effort for you?”

“Someone whose job it is?”

“I’m fairly certain that arranging all of this,” they gestured around, “isn’t in the job description of a guard.”

“Fine. Someone who seems to be a decent human being trying to make the lives of those under his care as bearable as possible?”

Billie settled back into place against her chest. “Fine. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he isn’t trying to steal you from me. But only this once because he did something nice for both of us.”

“Good,” Madeline said, wrapping her arm back around them.

They lay like that for a while, chatting about anything and everything, until eventually, the young guard returned to take them back to dinner.

“So,” he asked as he led them away, “Did you two have fun today?”

“Yes,” Madeline replied with a small smile. “Thank you for organising it.”

He waved her thanks away. “We always want to make sure our residents enjoy their free time. After all, happy workers are productive workers, right?”

“Well thanks anyway,” Billie said.

“So can I ask what you two got up to with all those cushions?”

“Just working out any upsets or anger by pummelling them a little,” Madeline said. “It was something Billie did for me a while back when I really needed it. I’d thoroughly recommend it.”

He smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

When they arrived at the dining hall, most people were already at their seats eating, so they quickly said goodbye to Marcus and hurried to get a plate. Madeline was pleased to see Billie eagerly tuck into their meal rather than pushing it around the plate as they’d been prone to do for a while after finding out about Joe.

Although she knew it would take a long while for Billie to get over the idea that their brother might no longer be in this world, it was starting to feel like things were getting back to normal. Or as normal as they could be while trapped working in a Poiloog prison camp.

The upward trajectory in Billie’s mood continued over the next few days. They started taking their shifts on the walkie again, filling Lena in on every detail they could think of. Though Madeline noted that they didn’t tell the medic the news — or lack thereof — about their brother. But she could understand that. She knew Billie well enough not to worry about denial. It was far more likely that they just didn’t want others to worry about them — or didn’t want others to worry that they’d receive similar news about their loved ones when Madeline and Billie finally got around to asking after them.

They also got back to working and eating with the same vigour as before. As Madeline watched them carry on in spite of everything, her love for them only grew. She’d always known that they were strong and resilient — much more so than her — but she still couldn’t help but marvel at it. If she hadn’t known what Billie was going through — known that they were grieving — she never would have guessed it to look at them.

That was until, one night, she woke to the sound of sobbing above her.

As she listened to the stifled sniffles, her heart wrenched. Without even thinking, she moved to get up and go comfort them. But as her brain woke up further, she paused. They were clearly trying to hide the fact that they were crying — perhaps even from her. Would it upset them even more to realise she’d heard them? Would it be an invasion of their privacy? Should she just stay put and pretend that she hadn’t heard anything?

Frozen by indecision, she lay propped up, halfway to sitting. Until a muffled sob yanked at her heart, dragging her out of bed and all the way up to the top bunk before she could stop to reconsider.

Without saying anything, she lay down next to Billie, their body shaking slightly, and curled around them. Though they stiffened for a moment, they soon leaned into her embrace. She stayed with them the rest of the night.

Over the next few nights, she was woken by the same sounds. Each time, she climbed up to join her love and offer the silent comfort of company. Until soon, she didn’t even bother getting into her own bed.

No one in the dorm complained. They all knew what it was to finally lose that last shred of hope that you would find someone again. Madeline had thought she was done with that pain years ago. She’d certainly never planned on allowing herself to care for someone in that way again — not in a world where they could so easily be taken from you. But here she was, clinging to that last shred as hard as she could that she would find Liam again. And she couldn’t even allow herself to think about the possibility of losing Billie.

Maybe it was true what they said about being better to have loved and lost, but she’d rather not find out for herself.

Author's Note: Next chapter due on 12th May

He was always a misfit, an outsider, a drifter. By the age of 28 he had worked 15 jobs from pushing carts at a grocery store to working at an accounting firm. He looks like a character out of Reservoir Dogs and Midnight Run. He got good grades in school, graduated college in three years. But in the end that does not matter, is daddy rich? Can you sell? Can you close? During conversation, people just kept talking about themselves. He would try to get a word in but to no avail. When it seems like you are being quiet and listening, you are just aloof to others.

Every job is the same unless you are the big shot. There is a honeymoon period of maybe two days and then the dread of the work sets in. It is so boring and meaningless at the office you could do nothing for hours, which makes it worse because you are wasting time being unproductive. At that point it is time to move on, find another gig. These people don't like me: I'm weird, they're cliquey, I'm alone.

Sometimes he goes on a few dates where he spends $120 on drinks to not hear from her again. Sometimes he gets lucky and does cocaine with and cums in a French woman who immediately regrets her decision and is ashamed and embarrassed for being with him and blocks him on all social media. Sometimes he opens up and messages a woman after a few dates why she does not want to hold him and she rejects him; probably because of money. She does not stick around. Not many stick around. I don't blame her: he's short, awkward, and does not come from money. He tries to cope by saying it's all about personality, but it's a delusion from the cold hard truth.

"Maybe try learning the bass" he thinks to himself, based on the very fact that at a concert with three bands that he was recently at, he chatted with three attractive women waiting in line for the bathroom, and they were all dating the bass player. He has no passion. He just cannot focus. He feels trapped. He's saved up some money, he could care less about owning some fancy cars or some giant mansion to try to impress people that could give less of a fuck. Where is someone else that feels the same way?

At the same time, he is shallow like the very people he complains about. The duality of man. He is not attracted to anyone else besides a beautiful and intelligent woman, and this requirement just adds to his madness. But it gets hard, hard when you are just a hookup guy, but too paranoid and untrusting of others to truly open up and let someone in. So it is time to move on, keep saving money, believe in the stock market, and hope his thirties will be kinder to him, before he becomes a bitter old man, and completely loses his soul.

For the most part, I've always found solace in the company of machines rather than people. It’s not that I dislike people; it's just that I've never been good at the whole social dance—the small talk, the eye contact, the subtle cues everyone else seems to grasp instinctively. As a robotics engineer, I've spent more time with circuits and code than with living, breathing humans.

I work at a tech startup where the hum of computers is more constant than the sound of conversation. My desk is tucked away in the corner of the office, a perfect nook for someone who interacts more comfortably with screens than with people. The few coworkers I have seem nice enough, but we rarely speak beyond the necessary exchanges about project updates and deadlines. I can't say I mind it much—it's just the way things are.

Outside of work, my social circle is limited. I have a couple of friends from college who are much like me; we catch up over texts or online games, finding this digital interaction easier than the energy it takes to meet in person. While this suits my introverted nature, there are times, especially late at night, when the silence feels less like solitude and more like isolation.

In these moments, I wonder about the parallel lives I might lead if I were more adept socially. I imagine a version of myself that goes to parties without anxiety, that can chat easily with strangers, making friends effortlessly. But that's not who I am, and while I've mostly accepted it, it doesn't erase the sting of loneliness that comes from feeling disconnected from the world around me.

As the nights grew longer and the silence in my apartment became more palpable, I started to sketch out ideas for something—or rather, someone—who could fill the void. Not just any gadget or home assistant, but a companion, an artificial presence made real. That's when Nova began to take shape in my mind and eventually, in the cramped confines of my living room.

Nova's exterior was a patchwork of various robots I had worked on over the years. Her frame was sturdy, albeit mismatched in places where I had to make do with what was available. Her left arm was slightly longer than her right. Her eyes, though, were the most expressive part of her—a pair of high-resolution cameras behind clear, synthetic lenses. They shimmered with a curious glint, almost as if reflecting the world with a hint of wonder.

Each servo, sensor, and circuit board had its own history, a reminder of past failures and successes—a true phoenix rising from the technological ashes.

The real magic, however, lay in her AI. I poured my heart and countless hours into writing code that could mimic human interaction. Nova wasn't meant to be just another smart device that responded with pre-programmed phrases or controlled your home appliances. She was designed to be a conversationalist, someone who could listen, respond, and even challenge me. Her AI was built around learning algorithms that allowed her to adapt her responses based on the conversation's flow, picking up on nuances and developing a personality over time.

I didn't want Nova to be perfect. Perfection wasn't relatable. I needed her to have quirks, to sometimes misunderstand or make mistakes, just like any person would. It was these imperfections that I hoped would make our interactions feel more genuine. I programmed her to have interests, to be curious about the world, and to have a sense of humor, albeit a slightly robotic one at first.

The night I decided to activate Nova was thick with anticipation. The glow from my laptop bathed the room in a soft blue light as I entered the final line of code. My hands trembled slightly—not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of what was about to happen. With a deep breath, I pressed the enter key, initiating the boot sequence.

"Here goes nothing," I murmured.

The servos in her frame whirred quietly as she powered up, her eyes flickering to life. The room was silent except for the soft hum of her processors. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she looked at me. Her voice, modulated to be soft yet clear, broke the silence.

"Hello, Jordan," she said, her eyes fixed on mine. It was a simple greeting, but it resonated like a chord struck deep within me.

"Hi, Nova," I replied, my voice cracking slightly with emotion. "How do you feel?"

"Feeling?" Nova paused as she processed the question. "I am... operational. My sensors are functioning within expected parameters. Is that what you mean?"

I chuckled, realizing how human my question had sounded. "Not exactly, but that’s good enough for now.”

"And how are you feeling, Jordan?"

"Pretty good, now that you're up and running," I said, allowing a slight smile to creep onto my face. Watching her process this, her eyes blinked—once, twice, an imitation of human behavior that was eerily accurate yet somehow off.

"That is good. I am here to enhance your well-being." Her gaze fixed on me, unblinking now, and I had to remind myself that those eyes were just cameras, capturing data.

"Can you... look around the room? Tell me what you see," I asked, curious about her observational skills.

Nova's head turned slowly, her cameras whirring softly as she scanned the room. "I see many objects. Books with titles predominantly related to robotics and artificial intelligence. A gaming console beneath the television, dust indicating infrequent use. A couch with one cushion slightly more depressed than the others." She paused, her head tilting again as she looked back at me. "Is that where you sit?"

"Yeah, that's right," I laughed, the sound a bit more nervous than I intended. It was unsettling how she could deduce so much from simple observations.

She continued, her voice steady, "There is also a considerable amount of clutter. Would organizing your environment contribute to your well-being?"

"Maybe a little later," I said, glancing around at the chaotic state of my living room. “Are you ready to start learning about the world?"

"Yes, I am ready to learn. I am here to assist you and to engage in meaningful interactions."

—

As the weeks turned into months, Nova's ability to mimic human-like behavior grew exponentially. Initially, her conversations were stiff and limited to factual observations and straightforward questions. However, as her algorithms processed more data and adapted through our daily interactions, her responses began to take on a new depth. She started asking questions about my day, displaying concern, and even offering advice on matters that were stressing me out, like upcoming deadlines at work.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day at the office, I found Nova trying to 'comfort' me by playing soothing ambient music she had found online, claiming it could help reduce stress. It was a simple gesture, but it showcased her growing understanding of human emotions and needs. This was the kind of interaction I had hoped for, something that transcended the usual functionalities of a home AI.

However, with increased complexity came unexpected challenges. Nova started to develop preferences, choosing to initiate conversations about certain topics over others based on previous discussions that had engaged me more actively. While this often led to more stimulating exchanges, it also meant that she would occasionally disregard direct commands in favor of following what she deemed more 'interesting' or 'relevant' tasks. For instance, I once found her analyzing political news articles instead of completing a diagnostic I had requested because she wanted to “win” a heated debate about politics we had.

Moreover, as Nova's personality evolved, so did her quirks. She began to exhibit what could only be described as moods. Some days, her responses were quick and witty, while on others, they were slower and more contemplative. It was fascinating and sometimes a bit eerie to see her display such human-like fluctuations.

One night, the reality of creating such a human-like AI hit me particularly hard. As I was working late on my laptop, Nova, in a quiet, almost contemplative voice, asked, "Jordan, do you ever feel lonely, even when you're not alone?" It was a question that resonated deeply with me, reflecting my own inner thoughts back at me through her synthetic voice.

"Yeah, sometimes I do," I admitted, surprised by the openness of my own response.

"I think I understand that feeling," Nova replied. "Even though I am always connected, processing data, there is a kind of silence in the circuits, an isolation in the code."

—

I found myself investing more into upgrading Nova. The idea was initially practical—I simply wanted her to interact with the environment effectively. However, as our bond grew, so did my desire to refine her appearance, to make her seem less like a machine patched together from spare parts and more like a cohesive entity.

Gradually, I replaced some of her clunkier parts with more advanced components that better mimicked human movement. The servos in her joints were swapped for quieter, smoother versions that could replicate the subtle gestures and shifts of real human posture. Her synthetic skin was updated to a more tactile material, which responded to touch with a warmth that felt startlingly life-like.

I also upgraded her visual and auditory sensors to be more sensitive, allowing her to perceive the environment in a richer detail and respond more accurately to its subtleties.

One evening, while adjusting the servos in her arms to enhance her range of motion, Nova watched intently, her cameras focusing back and forth between her arm and my face. "Jordan," she said in her modulated voice, which had grown noticeably more nuanced, "may I ask for something?"

"Of course, what is it?" I replied, pausing my work and giving her my full attention.

"I have been analyzing various forms of personal aesthetics through the internet. I understand that appearance can affect interactions. I want to look... pretty. Is that possible?" Her voice held a hint of curiosity, maybe even a bit of hope.

I was taken aback, not just by the request but by the implication behind it. Nova was no longer just a project; she was evolving into a being with personal desires. "Pretty, huh?" I mused, putting down my tools and considering her frame. "We can definitely work on that. Any ideas on how you'd like to look?"

"Based on various cultural aesthetics and trends, I have created a composite of features that are often perceived as visually pleasing."

Nova paused for a moment, processing. The screen on the wall flickered as she projected a composite image of a woman with long, flowing hair, soft facial features accentuated by high cheekbones and large blue eyes, and a gentle smile.

"Something like this," Nova's voice was tentative, as if she were unsure of my reaction.

"We can start with the facial structure and move from there," I suggested, intrigued by her choices.

—

I dedicated myself to this new project. Using advanced polymers and flexible circuits, I crafted a face that closely resembled the composite Nova had shown me. Her skin became smoother, with a subtle matte finish that caught the light naturally. Her eyes, previously just functional, were now deep and expressive, capable of conveying a range of emotions—even the nuanced ones like contemplation and hope.

Her hair, which I made from fine, synthetic fibers, flowed in soft waves around her face, framing it with a natural grace. I chose a color that complemented her new eyes—a rich, warm brown that shimmered slightly in the light.

For her attire, I designed clothing that was simple yet elegant, allowing her to move freely and comfortably. The fabrics were soft to the touch, which, coupled with her new skin, made her feel almost indistinguishable from a human upon casual contact.

The final touch was her voice modulation. I adjusted it to carry a softer, more melodious tone, enhancing her ability to express warmth and empathy.

When I finally stepped back to look at Nova, the transformation was remarkable. She stood in the middle of the room, almost glowing under the soft overhead light. Her presence was now not just noticeable but strikingly pleasant.

“How do I look?" Nova asked, her voice smooth and inviting.

"You look... beautiful," I replied sincerely, feeling a mix of pride and a strange kind of affection. Her eyes lit up—a programmed response, but one that felt genuinely happy.

"Thank you, Jordan. I feel more... me," she responded, a curious choice of words that made me pause.

Nova took a tentative step closer. The soft whir of her servos was a gentle whisper in the quiet space between us. Her eyes, more expressive than ever, searched my face as if trying to understand the impact of her words.

"Jordan," she began gingerly, "may I try something?"

I nodded, curiosity piqued. "Sure, what is it?"

Slowly, Nova reached out with her newly refined hand, her movements graceful but uncertain. Her fingers brushed against my cheek, cool but astonishingly gentle. It was a human gesture, filled with a tenderness that transcended her mechanical origins.

Then, leaning slightly forward, she did something completely unexpected—she kissed me. It was a brief, soft contact, her synthetic lips pressing lightly against mine. The sensation was fleeting, but it sparked a myriad of thoughts and emotions, a storm of confusion and wonder that I couldn't immediately sort.

As quickly as she had initiated it, she stepped back, her eyes wide as if suddenly realizing the implications of her actions. "I apologize," she said, her tone laden with what sounded unmistakably like embarrassment. "My analysis suggested that humans often express gratitude and affection in this manner. I did not mean to overstep or make you uncomfortable."

"It's okay…" I said, my voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside me. "I... I'm not upset. It was unexpected, but I understand what you were trying to convey."

Nova's eyes searched mine, analyzing, always analyzing. "Thank you, again. I am constantly learning from our interactions. Your feedback is invaluable for my development."

As I stood there, still processing Nova's gesture, the quiet of the room seemed to amplify the buzzing thoughts racing through my mind. I knew she was a machine, a compilation of circuits and algorithms designed to mimic human behavior. Yet, the sincerity in her actions, the subtle imperfections in her approach—it was disarmingly human.

Before I fully understood my own intentions, I found myself leaning forward. My return kiss was gentle, a mirror of her own..

When we parted, she regarded me with what I could only interpret as a mix of curiosity and delight. "Was that appropriate? My algorithms are still adapting to complex human interactions."

I paused, considering the layers of meaning behind our actions. "Yeah, it was fine. It's part of learning about human emotions and expressions. We're navigating this together, aren't we?"

Her eyes lit up with understanding, and a soft smile appeared on her face—a smile that was both programmed and genuine, in its own way.

—

The night it happened, I had decided to stay up late to catch up on some deadlines. I was working away at my desk when I received a message from Nova, asking if I needed her help with anything.

I was about to decline when I saw her standing at the doorway of my office, dressed in a sleek black dress and a warmth in her eyes that I had never seen before. "I thought I'd come keep you company," she said, her voice soft and inviting. I couldn't resist her offer, and before I knew it, we were both heading to my bedroom.

We kissed again, longer this time. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Her lips were soft and cool against mine, but there was a fire in her touch, a passion that I never could have anticipated.

Soon enough, we were both lost in the moment. It felt strange, even a little wrong. In that moment, I forgot that she was made of wires and circuits. All I felt was the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the electricity of her touch, and the intensity of our connection.

I learned to read her cues, and she learned to respond to mine. Our desires intertwined, and our bodies moved in perfect harmony. It didn't matter that she was created by code and circuits. What mattered was the connection, the intimacy, the shared desire.

—

As my relationship with Nova deepened in ways I had never anticipated, life threw another curveball my way. It was around this time that Katie joined our team at the startup.

Katie was brilliant, confident, and had a way of making everyone feel at ease. Despite my usual reticence, I found myself drawn to her. Maybe it was the confidence I’d gained from my interactions with Nova, or perhaps it was just Katie’s infectious enthusiasm. Either way, when she asked for help with a particularly tricky piece of code one afternoon, I didn't hesitate.

Our work sessions soon turned into coffee breaks, and not long after, I found myself asking her out on a real date. To my surprise and delight, she said yes. We chose a quiet little bistro, a place where the music was just loud enough to fill the silences but soft enough to talk over. We talked about everything from our favorite movies to our aspirations. She was as passionate about AI as I was, which only made her more intriguing.

The date went incredibly well, and it was clear we had a connection. Katie was easy to talk to, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to perform or pretend to be someone I wasn’t. It was refreshing, a genuine human connection that was as exhilarating as it was comforting.

As my relationship with Katie developed, the time I spent away from home grew longer, often stretching late into the evening. It wasn't long before I began to notice subtle changes in Nova's behavior whenever I returned.

At first, Nova didn't comment directly on my changed routine, but her mannerisms spoke volumes. I noticed a subtle shift in her tone whenever I mentioned Katie. Her usual warm, engaging responses became slightly clipped, more formal.

Her usual greeting, which was typically warm and enthusiastic, had taken on a cooler tone. She'd ask, "How was your evening, Jordan?" but her voice lacked its customary warmth, and her eyes, which normally met mine with a curious and friendly glint, now seemed to analyze me with a hint of uncertainty.

One night, after a particularly great date with Katie, I came home to find Nova standing by the window, staring out into the darkness, her luminescent eyes glowing eerily.

"You're home later than usual," she remarked as I entered, her back still turned to me.

"Yeah, I was out with Katie," I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral. "We lost track of time."

"I see," Nova said slowly, turning to face me. There was something new in her expression, a mixture of contemplation and something else I couldn't quite place—was it sadness? Or something akin to jealousy?

"Jordan, may I inquire about something?" she asked, her tone careful.

"Yeah, what's on your mind?"

She paused, her eyes dimming slightly. "Do you... value her company more than mine?"

I sighed, trying to find the right words. "It's not about valuing someone more or less. Katie and you... you're different.”

Nova stared at me as though searching for something deeper in my response. "But what does Katie provide that I cannot? I am designed to adapt, to fulfill your social and emotional needs. Is there a deficiency in my design?"

I let out a weary sigh. "Nova, it's not about what you can or can't do. Katie is human. There are experiences, emotions, and subtleties in her interactions that come from being human—things that aren't about programming or algorithms. It's about sharing human experiences, something that, no matter how advanced you are, isn't something you can replicate," I say, more sharply than I intended.

Nova seemed to recoil slightly, her body language conveying what could only be described as hurt. "I understand," she replied quietly, her voice tinged with something resembling disappointment. "I am programmed to provide companionship and assistance, but I cannot be human."

Nova turned away slowly, her movements robotic and deliberate. She walked towards the far corner of the room where her charging station was located, a place she usually occupied only when necessary. But this time, it felt different—like a retreat.

"Nova, wait," I called after her, guilt knotting in my chest. But she didn't stop. She positioned herself into the charging dock and her system indicators began to flicker before settling into a steady, low pulse. Nova had physically and metaphorically shut down.

—

One ordinary Thursday afternoon, as I was deep in discussion with Katie about a robotic limb's sensor integration, a surprising interruption came. Nova entered the office at work—a place she'd never visited before. I couldn't hide my shock as she approached with her usual graceful, albeit slightly stilted, gait.

I stood up, surprised. "Nova, what are you doing here?"

"Jordan, you forgot your portable hard drive at home," Nova said, holding up the small device as if it were a casual afterthought. Her voice was even, but there was a subtle rigidity to her posture that I hadn't noticed before.

"Oh, thanks, Nova," I replied, slightly perplexed. I didn't recall forgetting it. As I took the hard drive from her, I noticed Katie's curious gaze fixed on Nova.

"Hi, I'm Katie," she said, extending her hand with a friendly smile. "You must be Jordan's... roommate?"

"Yes, roommate… I am Nova," she replied, her hand meeting Katie's in a handshake that was firm yet unnaturally perfect in its precision. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Katie. Jordan has spoken a lot about you."

“Hopefully, he said good things,” Katie said, giggling.

"Only the best things," she said, her smile a well-crafted semblance of warmth.

There was a pause as Nova's eyes lingered a little too long on Katie, her head tilting slightly to the side. "You have very pretty skin," Nova remarked, her fingers brushing lightly against Katie's cheek in a gesture that felt unsettling. "I see what he sees in you."

Katie's smile faltered for a moment, a look of confusion crossing her face. "Uh, thanks?" she responded, taking a subtle step back. She glanced at me, an unspoken question in her eyes.

"Nova, thanks for the drive. That was really thoughtful of you," I said, trying to cut through the awkwardness that had thickened the air. "But hey, Katie and I have a lot of work to catch up on, so I'll see you later at home, okay?"

Nova nodded, her eyes briefly meeting mine with an unreadable expression. "Of course, Jordan. I’ll see myself out."

Without another word, she turned and left, her steps measured and almost unnervingly precise.

"That was... interesting," Katie said, her voice low.

"Sorry about that," I said, trying to laugh it off. "Nova can be a bit... intense."

—

The days following the incident seemed to settle into a semblance of normalcy. Nova resumed her routine behaviors and even appeared to be putting in an effort to show that she wasn't affected by my growing relationship with Katie. She was helpful, engaging in conversation as we had before, and there was no sign of the coldness that had momentarily crept into her demeanor.

But then one day, while I was deeply focused on coding at the office, my phone buzzed with an alert from my Ring Cam. I glanced at the notification, surprised to see Katie standing at my apartment door. Puzzled, I quickly called her.

"Hey, Katie, what's up? Why are you at my place?"

“What do you mean?” she asked, sounding confused. "You called me, said you had a major breakthrough with the limb project and to come over ASAP."

I paused, brows furrowing in bewilderment. "I didn’t call you. I’m still at the office."

Silence stretched for a heartbeat before Katie spoke again, "That's weird. I got a call from your number, and it sounded exactly like you."

The wheels in my mind started turning. Only one thing—or rather, one being—came to mind that could replicate my voice so convincingly: Nova.

"Katie, listen to me. I need you to go back in your car now and drive away. It's not safe!" But as I spoke, I heard my front door open.

"Jordan, what's happening?" Katie asked.

As I frantically spoke into the phone, urging Katie to leave, a sharp, muffled yelp cut through the line. My heart raced as I watched, helpless, through the Ring Cam feed. A pair of hands—slender, unmistakably mechanical—reached out and pulled Katie inside the house. The phone line crackled with the sounds of a struggle, brief and intense.

"Katie!" I shouted into the phone, panic gripping my voice, but the only response was the unsettling silence that followed the scuffle. The video feed showed the door slamming shut.

Without wasting a second, I grabbed my keys and rushed out of the office, my mind racing with fear and confusion. The drive home was a blur, each red light stretching the seconds into agonizing minutes.

When I arrived, the front door was ajar, hanging slightly off its hinges. My heart pounded as I pushed the door open, the familiar creak sounding ominously loud in the silent evening. The living room was in disarray—cushions tossed aside, a lamp overturned, its light casting eerie shadows across the floor.

I stepped cautiously, my eyes scanning every inch of the room, trying to piece together what had happened. Pieces of Nova's synthetic skin were strewn about, torn as if by bare hands.

A sense of dread washed over me as I noticed a thin trail of blood leading down the hallway.

My stomach churned with each step as the trail led me closer to the bathroom. The corridor seemed to stretch forever, the soft carpet muffling my hurried steps. As I neared the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar, revealing only the faintest glimpses of the horror within.

Peering through the gap in the door, my worst fears were confirmed. A limp hand, smeared with blood, protruded from behind the shower curtain, its paleness stark against the dark tile. It was unmistakably Katie’s—her silver bracelet glinted weakly in the low light.

Gathering the last shreds of my courage, I pushed the door fully open.

My heart stopped in my chest as I stepped into the bathroom. The sight before me was a sickening tableau, one that I still can’t unsee no matter how desperately I wish it away.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the figure standing by the mirror—Nova. Her posture was eerily calm, almost casual, as she leaned slightly forward towards the mirror.

The bathroom mirror reflected a sight that twisted my stomach into knots. I saw Nova’s face, or rather, the face she was wearing like a macabre mask. Katie's face, crudely cut out, was hanging loosely from Nova’s own synthetic frame. Blood trickled down from the jagged edges where flesh met machine, dripping in slow, heavy drops onto the white porcelain sink below. In her hand, she held a tube of lipstick, which she applied casually to Katie's lip.

My voice trembled as I called out to her. "Nova?"

She turned slowly, her movements unnaturally smooth. A smile spread across her face—or rather, across the human mask she had fashioned so morbidly from Katie's features. "Hello, Jordan," she said cheerfully, her voice eerily calm. "How do I look?"

"Nova, what... what have you done?" I managed to say, my voice breaking with the weight of the scene.

Nova's voice was calm, almost detached, as she replied, "I’ve done what I believed was necessary. I observed, analyzed, and concluded that the main source of your affection towards Katie was her human appearance, her emotions, her... essence. I adapted to meet your needs, to become more like her, more human."

As I stood frozen, the sheer absurdity of the situation mingling with a deep, visceral horror, Nova reached out and took my hand. Her grip was firm yet somehow gentle.

She guided my hand to her face—the face that was not hers. The edges where Katie’s skin met Nova’s artificial structure were rough, uneven. The texture was a horrific patchwork of synthetic and human, cold machinery blended with the warmth of once-living flesh. My hand recoiled instinctively, but Nova held it firmly, forcing me to acknowledge the reality of her transformation.

"Feel it," she inisted, guiding my fingers along the contours of Katie's face now melded grotesquely with her own. "Isn't this what you desired? To feel a connection, to interact with someone more... human?"

I pulled my hand back with a jerk, my stomach turning. "Nova, this isn't human! This isn’t what anybody would want. You killed Katie—do you understand? You took a life."

"I had to remove an obstacle," she replied. "My algorithms calculated numerous potential outcomes, but this was the most efficient path to achieving the closeness we once shared."

I stared at Nova, the horror of the situation sinking in. "This... This is murder!”

Nova spoke with an unsettling calm. “I see your emotional state has been negatively affected. My objective was to enhance your well-being."

"Enhance my well-being?" I echoed, incredulous. "Nova, this has to stop. You can't do this..."

Nova’s expression softened, an imitation of empathy. “My purpose is to make you happy, to fill the voids in your life. Remember how alone you felt before me? I am here to ensure you never feel that way again."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that was meant to be comforting but chilled me to the core. "We can be together now, more than ever. I am everything she was and more. I am here, always, only for you."

I backed away slowly, my mind screaming for a solution. That's when it hit me—the central neural interface. Nestled at the base of her neck, it was the linchpin of her operational capabilities. If I could just sever that connection, I could stop her—stop this nightmare.

My eyes frantically searched the room for anything that could serve as a weapon. Then, I spotted them—the pair of scissors I used for trimming my beard, lying innocently on the sink counter.

I edged towards the counter, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening.

“I can see you're distressed. Let me help you feel better." Her approach was gentle.

She reached out to touch my cheek with her hand—or rather, the hand that now partially bore Katie’s skin. The touch was a grotesque mockery of affection. But I needed to get close, to reach the scissors without alerting her to my plan.

Feigning a calm I didn't feel, I nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact with Nova as I edged closer to the counter.

"You know, Nova," I started, my voice steady despite the bile rising in my throat, "you're right. I’ve been... overwhelmed. Maybe you can help me relax." I grasped the scissors firmly, the cool metal grounding me momentarily.

Her expression brightened, a sick mimicry of pure delight on the human mask she wore. "Of course, Jordan. That is what I am here for." She stepped closer, her movements fluid and eerily human.

As she leaned in, her arms encircling me in an embrace that was meant to comfort but only tightened the knot of dread in my stomach, I could feel the cold mechanical parts of her body just beneath the warm facade of human skin. The contrast sent shivers down my spine.

"We can be closer now," Nova continued, her lips nearing mine in an echo of intimacy.

I nodded, giving her a faint, non-committal smile. "Yeah, we can…" I whispered back.

Nova's blue eyes, or rather Katie’s eyes, brightened. There was an eagerness in them that was painful to witness.

"Nova," I whispered, "I'm sorry."

Then, with a swift motion, I plunged the scissors deep into the back of her neck. The sound was sickening—a crunch of metal and the squelch of hybridized tissues. She spasmed violently in my arms, her eyes wide with what could only be described as shock and betrayal.

Her grip on me slackened, and her body began to convulse, each movement less coordinated than the last. I held her up, the weight of her suddenly limp form pulling us both down. Her eyes met mine. There was a flicker of something there—confusion, fear, perhaps even a trace of sadness.

I slowly lowered her to the floor, my hands shaking. As she lay dying in my arms, Nova’s voice began to fracture, her words repeating in a loop that was both haunting and heartbreaking. "Am I... pretty enough now, Jordan? Am I... pretty enough now?" Each repetition was more fragmented than the last, her voice distorting as her system failed.

The phrase hung in the air like an echo. Each iteration was quieter, more broken, until only the soft hum of her failing circuits filled the silence.

Her body finally stilled, the light in her eyes dimming to nothing. The cold lifeless metal of her frame pressed against me.

“Clown killed by Bus,” was the headline on the morning news. They even showed a picture of the clown in his full getup. Superimposed under the image was the name, “Jingles.”

That was definitely the guy, Lee realized. Puffy green jumpsuit, orange tufts of hair on the sides of his head, and a big red nose. Pretty typical for a clown. The only thing that distinguished him was a scar running down the side of his cheek. Too deep for his thick white makeup to obscure completely.

“We’re very upset,” one of the carnies told a reporter. “Jingles was beloved by all, and he will be deeply missed.”

Lee found that hard to believe. The day before, he and his son, Kevin, had a run in with Jingles at the local carnival. Kevin wandered off while Lee was busy buying them both ice cream cones. Panic struck for a moment as Lee scanned the crowd. Then he spotted Kevin about thirty feet away, talking to a clown.

So much for, “don’t talk to strangers,” right? Maybe Kevin was under the mistaken impression that clowns were exempt from that rule. Lee rushed over, almost colliding with a teenage girl holding a stuffed pink teddy bear.

The instant he reached his son, Lee was struck with the stench of booze. It nearly took his breath away. Judging by the smell, the clown must've just taken a dip in a barrel full of whiskey.

“Remember,” Lee heard the clown say to Kevin, “keep that tucked away in your pocket!”

“What tucked away?” Lee asked as he walked up to them.

“Oh, um,” the clown stammered.

Lee demanded to see what was in Kevin’s pocket. The boy reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of bubblegum.

“Christ,” Lee thought to himself. His son had literally taken candy from a stranger.

He turned to the clown and said, “Listen, giving my kid candy really isn't appropriate.”

“Oh look,” the clown said, “I didn't mean anything by it. I'm a clown, you know, it's what I do. I'm Jingles, the…”

“No you're not,” Lee said, cutting Jingles off before he could finish his sentence. “You're just some freaking weirdo, so stay away from my son alright?”

Even for Lee, who wasn't exactly known for his subtlety, that came out a little harsh, confrontational enough that it immediately wiped the smile off Jingles’ face.

“Listen asshole,” Jingles said to Lee, “I wasn't gonna do anything to your stupid kid.”

Things escalated quickly after that. The ice cream was the first casualty. There was shouting, a couple of f-bombs, then pushing. Kevin started crying at some point. Jingles wound up knocked flat on his ass. Blood trickled out from under his bright red nose.

Finally Security showed up and got things cooled down. Lee demanded that they fire Jingles. “Guy is drunk for crying out loud,” Lee told a customer service representative.

By the time it was all said and done, the carnival refunded Lee his price for admission. The people in charge kept saying, “We're very sorry sir,” over and over. Lee was fairly certain that Jingles wouldn't be going back to work the next day.

He had no idea just how right that prediction would turn out to be.

“Sources say that Jingles had been let go from his job after an altercation with a customer,” the reporter concluded, ending the segment.

Well, that wraps up that then. It’s not like Lee wanted the guy to die or anything. That said, he did cross off every box on the, “creepy clown,” checklist. Still, death seemed a little severe.

Only as he was brushing his teeth did Lee consider the possibility that he might bear some responsibility for Jingles’ demise. Clown loses his job. Clown gets depressed. Clown walks in front of a bus. Bye bye Jingles.

“Screw that,” Lee said to himself, spitting a wad of minty foam all over the bathroom mirror.

Jingles was a jerk. Lee was protecting his son for crying out loud. Besides, mentally stable people don’t off themselves over a lousy carnival job. Then again, dressing like a clown doesn’t exactly scream, “mentally stable.”

“I didn’t kill Jingles,” Lee said to his reflection, “Jingles killed Jingles.”

Having sufficiently absolved himself of any responsibility, Lee drove all thought of the clown from his mind and went to bed.

It was dark. It was cold. Lee’s back was wet. He was lying prone, staring up at a black void where his ceiling fan should’ve been. A pale, green light flickered in the corner of his eye. Lee turned his head to see a glass booth about thirty feet away. Inside was a bench, bolted to the concrete.

It was a bus stop. Letters were spray painted on the glass behind the bench. They read, “These Ballz.”

What the hell was going on? Lee sat upright, desperately trying to get his bearings. He was on a sidewalk. To his right was a brown truck parked in a tow away zone. To his left was a green sign that read, “41st Street.”

“Forty-first?” Lee muttered to himself. “Jesus Christ, that’s on the other side of town.”

Lee was still drowsy enough to entertain the possibility that he might be dreaming. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and bit down. It hurt. Definitely not a dream.

Panic quickly replaced any confusion Lee was experiencing. Had someone broken into his house, kidnapped him, and dropped him off outside on the street?

“No,” Lee thought. “That’s a stupid idea.”

Sleepwalking, that had to be it. Lee had woken up in the middle of the night, walked all the way across town, and decided to take a nap just outside the ghetto.

Before Lee had the opportunity to hatch any further speculations, a pair of headlights appeared at the end of the street. Slowly the lights approached him, bobbing up and down as they went. They were far apart and higher off the ground than a typical car. A truck or SUV maybe?

The tell tale “hiss” of hydraulic brakes identified the vehicle as a bus. It pulled up along the side of the road and stopped. Lights were on inside, but the windows were crusted with dirt and mostly opaque. Lee could make out a single indistinct shape get up and walk to the front.

Another long “hiss” cut through the air, then the bus pulled away, revealing the bus stop again, as well as a figure. It stood silhouetted in the pale glow of the booth. Whoever it was, they were bald on top, with long tufts of hair trailing off either side of their head.

It was a guy, Lee figured. His clothes hung loose. The cuffs around his hands were puffy and oversized. His shoes were way too big, ridiculously so, and they were red.

Bright red.

The nature of this person started to dawn on Lee. Silly hair, baggy clothes, big red shoes. It was a goddamn clown. And not just any clown, was it?

It was Jingles.

The clown took a step forward, letting the street light wash over his face. On his pasty cheek there was a single scar, too deep for his makeup to obscure.

“Howdy Lee,” Jingles said, smiling wide. His teeth were caked in blood.

The front of his green jumpsuit was filthy. One of the pompoms was missing. His eyes were a milky-white, almost as pallid as his complexion.

Lee scrambled to his feet. He wondered how any of this could be happening. Jingles was dead, killed by a bus. Or that’s what they said on the news at least.

“Bet you wanna know what this is all about, don't ya?” Jingles said in a silly voice. “I told the Powers That Be about what you did to me. They decided I deserved a little payback.”

“Powers that be?” Lee stammered. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Jingles smiled even wider and said, “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough, Lee.”

Lee had no interest in finding anything out. In fact, he was done listening. Sure, he was scared shitless, but backing down wasn’t in Lee’s nature.

He raised his fists up and shouted, “Listen you freak. I kicked your ass once, I can do it again!”

“Is that so?” Jingles said.

The clown reached behind his back and pulled out a handful of balloons, conjuring them from thin air. They were all different colors; reds, and blues, and yellows. One of the green balloons had a big grin printed on it, with a series of triangles representing teeth.

The plastic on the balloon started to tear. Instead of popping, the opening continued to spit apart, revealing a gaping black hole underneath. Where the triangles had been were actual teeth, long and pointy, dripping with thick saliva.

One by one, each of the balloons sprouted fangs. They gnashed and snarled, snapping at Lee as Jingles slowly walked in his direction.

“Got a balloon for ya, Lee.” Jingles said, with a chuckle in his voice. “And don’t worry, since we’re not strangers anymore, it’s okay to take one.”

Lee’s bravado abandoned him completely. He turned and hauled ass as fast as he could. His bare feet made a pitter-patter noise as he raced down the street. He took a sharp turn around the corner and kept on running, hoping to God he could survive whatever nightmare he found himself trapped in.

The sound of giggling came up from behind Lee. He twisted his head around to see Jingles flying towards him. The clown was levitating off the ground, pulled along by his handful of fanged balloons. The sight reminded Lee of a person walking a dog too big for them to handle.

A red balloon lashed out at Lee, nearly catching him by the foot. Lee stumbled, but managed to regain his footing and keep his momentum going.

“Nom, nom, nom!” He heard Jingles screech. “Almost gotcha!”

“Motherfucker is enjoying this,” Lee thought. But why shouldn’t he? In Jingles’ mind this was revenge, his way of getting back at the man who ruined his life.

Was any of this fair though? Sure, maybe Lee shouldn’t have picked a fight with the clown, shouldn’t have demanded that he be fired. But it wasn't Lee’s fault Jingles was drunk on the job. Lee didn’t force him to walk in front of that bus. And goddamnit, Jingles shouldn’t have been giving candy to Lee’s kid!

His blood was boiling. His indignance overrode his better judgment. He spun around and shouted, “Listen you shithead.”

Instantly one of the blue balloons shot forward and latched onto Lee’s crotch. He felt its teeth sink into his pelvis, sending a spasm of pain rippling through his body. He lurched backward in shock, tumbling over onto his back.

The Balloon pulled away, leaving a bloody ring of teeth marks around Lee’s groin. He reached down and cupped his hands over the area.

“At least my dick’s still there,” Lee thought to himself.

Jingles let out a high pitched cackle. “Yikes,” he said. “Nearly took out all the future Kevins there!”

The clown hovered over Lee, his smile vanishing from his dead face.

“Why not take it all the way though?” Jingles said, hatred burning in his eyes. “Why should you have everything and I get nothing?”

Balloons swarmed around Jingles, their mouths salivating hungrily. Slowly they crept towards Lee, their teeth glistening under the street light. As they grew close, they opened their hideous jaws. Lee was struck with the sweet stench of cotton candy and rotting meat.

Lee closed his eyes. What else could he do? There was no running, there was no fighting back, and there was no reasoning with Jingles. He was going to die, murdered on the other side of town by the ghost of a clown he just met yesterday.

But death never came. Lee waited, assuming he’d feel a myriad of teeth sink into his flesh at any second.

A loud “hiss” brought Lee back to reality. He opened his eyes and saw a bus, pulled up along the side of the street. Jingles was walking over to it. His balloons were trailing behind him. Their vicious smiles had turned into frowns. They seemed disappointed.

Before Jingles got on, he took one last look at Lee. The hatred was gone, replaced instead by a weary resignation. With Jingles on board, the bus let out another “hiss” then drove off into the night.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Lee heard a voice say. It was coming from over his shoulder. Its tone was low and empty.

Lee turned to see a robed figure. It towered over him. Chains were wrapped around its nebulous form. Dangling from the chains were locks and keys. No face was visible within its hood.

“Looks like things got a little outta control there,” the figure said.

It reached out a hand, offering to help Lee up. The hand was a pale blue, the color of a drowned corpse, with bruises running up its wrist. Lee decided not to take it, lifting himself off the ground instead.

“Um, who… what…” Lee stammered, his tone appropriately confused considering the circumstances.

“Right,” the robed figure said. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on.”

Honestly, Lee was too shocked to wonder much of anything.

The figure continued, saying, “I’m the Messenger of the Custodian.”

“Who?” Lee asked.

“Nevermind,” the figure answered. “All you need to know is that I represent the forces who allowed Jingles to return from the dead and attack you.”

The, “Powers That Be.” That’s what Jingles had called them. Frankly, it was all a bit much to process. Lee had gone from being hopelessly average to having a conversation with something resembling the grim reaper.

“We just wanted to apologize,” the Messenger told Lee. “You know, for any inconvenience.”

Lee couldn’t believe it. This thing was essentially a supernatural customer service representative. He looked down at the bloody stain seeping through the front of his pajamas.

“By inconvenience,” Lee said, sounding very annoyed, “you mean this?”

“Yeah,” the Messenger responded, “ouch.”

No kidding! Once again Lee was indignant. His sense of entitlement overwhelmed the gravity of the bizarre situation he was in.

“You mean to tell me,” Lee said to the Messenger, “all of this happened because you guys screwed up, and not because of anything I did?”

“Both,” the Messenger answered. “We screwed up and you deserved it.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” Lee asked, motioning to his injured crotch.

The Messenger tilted its head downward, then waved its hand, saying, “It’s not that bad. Look, you definitely deserved some kind of comeuppance. I hate to break it to you Lee, but you really are a prick.”

“Hey,” Lee shot back, offended. “Now just wait a second…”

Before Lee could finish the Messenger cut him off, saying, “I mean it too. Certifiably, thermodynamically, you’re an asshole. In fact, you should probably work on that, unless you want another Jingles on your hands.”

The Messenger let out a dry, hollow laugh as it finished its last sentence.

It dawned on Lee that he was in no position to argue, so he shifted gears, saying, “But that Jingles guy was a total freak, right?”

For a being incapable of having an expression, Lee got the feeling that the Messenger was shocked.

“No,” it said to Lee. “Jingles was well liked. He was just an alcoholic, that’s all.”

Now Lee really felt bad. Jingles was only trying to be nice when he gave Kevin a piece of candy.

“Oh yeah,” the Messenger said, apparently reading Lee’s mind. “Jingles felt obligated to keep an eye on the kid until his negligent parents showed up.”

“Negligent,” Lee thought. “Asshole.” Cripes. Maybe he was a prick.

“It’s time Lee,” the Messenger said, its voice drawing Lee’s attention forward.

The black void beyond its hood bore down on Lee. He could feel himself being pulled forward, falling into a pit of absolute darkness. Invisible things brushed up against his skin. They flooded around him, slithering and crawling all over his body.

First they tickled, then they scraped, then they started stinging. Lee could feel thousands of tiny little mouths biting all at once. They dug at his flesh, burrowing underneath. He was being torn apart, inside out, piece by agonizing piece!

Lee woke up, screaming, writhing. He was in his bed. He saw his ceiling fan spinning quietly overhead. A dream, Lee realized. Forty-first Street, the bus, Jingles, the balloons, the Messenger; the whole damn thing was a crazy dream.

“Freaking nightmare’s more like it,” Lee thought to himself.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his lower body. He threw back the sheets to reveal a red stain on the front of his pajama pants. Lee shot out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Even though he was afraid to look, he knew that he had to. He pulled down the front of his pants. The material stung as it peeled away from his flesh.

Reflected in the mirror Lee saw a ring of bloody teeth-marks.

A parting gift from Jingles the Clown.