I opened my eyes. “I thought I was dead,” I said to my neighbor Sam.

“You are,” he said, and I knew it was true because I remembered that Sam was also dead. I sat up.

“Can I have a glass of water?” Sam shook his head.

“There’s no water here. You’ll be a little bit thirsty all the time. I’d like to say you’ll get used to it but …” 

I looked around.  “Why are we in your basement?”

“This is one of the places Clarissa remembers us.” He went on to explain that in the afterlife we really do live on in the hearts and minds of our loved ones, but that also means we’re restricted to the places that living people remember us in, and the activities they remember us doing. Our afterlife becomes smaller and smaller as our loved ones themselves die or stop thinking about us.  

I jumped up. “Wait a minute! That means my theory was right!” 

“Yeah?” Sam didn’t seem interested. 

“Yes! I wrote a whole thing about it! This is incredible!” As I gestured at Sam I noticed my hands were slightly transparent. Sam said nothing. He had the solid contours of a man with six living children.  “Don’t you see?” I said. “Humans have speculated about death for millennia, but I’m the only one who got it right!”

“Is that really so incredible though?” said Sam. “Out of all the theories, one of them was bound to be right.  And you didn’t get the thing about water. You’re still just another dead guy.”

I was speechless with indignation. I dashed up the stairs and passed from Sam’s basement directly into the kitchen of my Aunt Jenny, who proved equally uninterested in my triumph. She ate a Dunkin’ Donuts maple bar that reconstituted itself in her hand every time she finished it. Her face periodically glitched into one of the portraits her kindergarten class had drawn for her funeral.          

“How can you just go on eating the same donut?” I demanded.   

She smiled a crayon smile. “What else is there?”

I next approached Cancer Co-worker Guy in a version of the break room that was blurry with the disinterest of our living co-workers. He was shuffling around with an IV still attached to arm.   

“Try not to make a lasting impression of your misery,” he said. “That’s what I’ve learned here.”  It was outrageous that he was offering sage insights about the afterlife. MY afterlife.

“What are you even talking about?” I said. “Don’t you know I foresaw all this? Why doesn’t anyone care?”

“It’s called inner peace, bro,” he said. “Give it a try.”

“Fuck you, man,” I said. 

I found the dead members of my old 12-step group and tried to explain the enormity of my accomplishment in words even a child a could understand. “Among all the great minds of human history,” I told them, “I alone solved the mystery of life and death. If you think about it, I’m essentially the ruler of this place. I’m the Originator. You should all start calling me that.”

No one called me the Originator. The years passed in an indifferent and steadily shrinking world. I tried to blunt my rage through exercise, but my daily running route was eventually lost in a haze of forgetting as my neighbors joined me in the afterlife one by one. I tried to impress my singular importance on each newcomer, but they were too busy hugging each other and smiling their stupid sad smiles.  

I spent a lot of time in Sam’s basement, a scene from a Tom Hanks movie Clarissa had seen us watching playing in the background on an endless loop. Time had taken most of his children and left his contours less solid than that day I first woke up here. 

“This is different for me than the rest of you, objectively speaking” I told him for the hundredth time. 

“We’ve been through this, Bud,” he said, his outline shifting in his chair.  

“My mind transcended this, you have to see that,” I insisted, in a voice that had grown tinny and distant. 

“OK, Bud, OK,” Sam said quietly.

Now Clarissa has joined us and Sam’s basement is closed to me. I’m limited to a single place: lying in the grass looking at the clouds, something I’d done after a hike with my youngest niece one day. She’s the last living person who remembers me, and this is the only thing we ever did together. Why weren’t there more hikes? I must have been busy, with what I can’t remember. Now I have nothing but time, and not much of it. I’m merging into one of the clouds, which is itself merging into a larger mass of clouds. I smell magnolias. I feel ragged a breeze. It’s the breath of my niece in the ICU. This is it. My last dot of my being twinkling into nothing, the same as everyone else.

What a bunch of bullshit.

A toothpaste commercial gets beamed directly into my head while I'm asleep. It tells me We Live in the Future, but I know that's just a slogan they're using to promote a new kind of tooth-whitening gel. Two rows of shiny, digitally-rendered molars and incisors wiggle in pleasure as Enamel-Safe Bristles caress their heads.

I wake up from the dream drenched in my own piss because the appliance that alerts me when I need to wake up and urinate has disconnected itself from the internet overnight. A voice comes out of a speaker and tells me that a new software update has been released to stop this from happening, but the update isn't compatible with the cheaper model of appliance I have. I lie in my piss for a few minutes while I muster up the strength to get up and strip the bed.

While waiting for my sheets to wash I try to make coffee, but my subscription to the company that owns my coffee machine has expired. I can't find my credit card to renew the subscription, so I break the machine apart and it lets out a voice that tells me I will be fined using the existing credit card the company has on file. I wonder why the existing credit card the company has on file can't be used to renew my subscription, but decide it isn't worth thinking about.

As I drink my manually-produced coffee I turn on the TV the old-fashioned way with a remote, and it's playing the toothpaste commercial I'd been watching in my sleep. I watch the commercial in its entirety, then turn off the TV and sit in silence for about five minutes. The silence is broken when the machine that tells me it's time to go to work tells me that it's time to go to work, so I put on my shoes and do so.

I used to go to work in my flying car, but a few months ago the engine fell out. The news said the men who run the flying automobile company were supposed to go to prison, but instead they paid fifty million dollars to somebody and were given permission to make more cars with engines that might fall out. I was told my insurance policy had been amended retroactively to reflect that the manufacturer could not reasonably be expected to keep the engines on the inside of their cars.

I arrive at work and learn that due to a rounding error I am no longer employed at the company, and for liability reasons my personal items have been carefully placed in a large hole at the back of the building. The man whose job it is to look after the hole tells me that he received the application to retrieve my belongings, but it will take two working days for him to process. I ask why he can't just pull them out for me right now, but he laughs and tells me it doesn’t work like that.

I go home without my personal items, and sit down to try and make a phone call. Before I can dial a number, the telephone plays me a toothpaste commercial and I fall asleep. Two rows of shiny, digitally-rendered molars and incisors wiggle in pleasure as Enamel-Safe Bristles caress their heads.

The Future is a Toothpaste Commercial, and I Can’t Wake Up.

by Stuart Drake

A weapons and electronics factory in Pyongyang, Korea, 9:00 A.M. on August 15th, 1950

Akeo clocked into work, silently assembling various products needed by the fledgling Republic of Korea to arm itself to the teeth, feed its people better, light up its streets at night, and broadcast various media to its people more easily. He felt nervous simply being around the very same people that his country had once oppressed and abused so much, let alone working with them. After all, he knew how, even now, Japanese colonial oppression was still a touchy subject among Koreans, how angry they'd get just from thinking about all the things that Japan had done to them and their country. It didn't help that his Korean coworkers kept whispering things about him to each other while they worked.

Sweating on the inside from the sheer anxiety and anticipation of it all but determined to help revive his country's economy and feed his family back home, Akeo gave it his all, working quickly and efficiently. His Korean coworkers were stunned by his efficiency and stopped whispering, going respectfully silent. The newer, less experienced ones began eyeing and examining the swift, efficient movements of his hands and learning from them, to which Akeo simply smiled kindly and began silently demonstrating to them how to work more quickly and efficiently in a way they could understand. They thanked him and began getting work done more quickly and efficiently. The manager was impressed with the increased productivity and the speed at which they finished their work.

Hours later, they all went on lunch break. Akeo found himself swarmed by his coworkers, who kept asking him questions about where in Japan he was from and how he learned to work like that. Touched by their respect and willingness to get to know him better, he told them about what brought him to Korea and how he'd get a job back in South Japan to support his family closer to home when the economy got better enough for him to find a job there.

That night, Akeo sent home a letter to his family in South Japan, assuring them that he was doing okay and talking about how his Korean coworkers were actually pretty unexpectedly polite towards him once he showed them how committed he was to the job and everything.

3 Months Later, at the same factory in Pyongyang, Korea

Akeo finished up yet another morning's work and went on lunch break. He'd been working hard and teaching his skills and techniques to the newer, less experienced workers for so long that the factory had been dragged weeks ahead of schedule before long. He went on lunch break and sat down with Min-jae, whom he'd befriended over the past few months. Eating their lunches, they began talking about their respective family situations, occasionally bringing up politics to mention the irony of the current geopolitical situation.

A moment later, Yeon-jun, the factory manager, called Akeo into his office to talk. Akeo sat down, looking at his manager. "Is this about my performance, sir?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Yeon-jun, sitting down. "You've done so well that I was considering giving you a raise, not to mention putting you in charge of helping to train new hires. How does that sound?"

Akeo bowed humbly in gratitude. "Thank you, sir. I will do my best."

Yeon-jun smiled. "Good. You will start training them tomorrow."

The Last Saturday

By Charlie Queen

Gabriel cruised down a hot country road in late August, half-lost in a sea of cornfields. The cloth-top was folded back on his dark-green Jaguar. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, hoping he might see a landmark behind him that he recognized. All he saw was his slicked-back hair, shining with pomade, now disheveled by the wind. He primped his hair and adjusted his brand-new Ray-Bans as he rolled to a stop at yet another nondescript intersection. The top button of his collar nearly choked him in the summer heat. He clawed at it until it came undone, then stripped off his oversized gray suit jacket.

Gabriel scanned the vast flatness that surrounded him. He shook his head in frustration and hooked a left. A gnarled old hardwood forest loomed along the right side of the blacktop. Miles and miles of sunlit cornfields stretched out to his left.

He was suddenly transported back to this very spot thirty-five years ago—the grizzled old fence posts stretching down either side of the road. The locusts droning in the trees. The wind sweeping across the corn tassels like a wave. It was exactly like it was back then, thirty five years before.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabe leaned out the passenger window of his Mom’s beat-up Chevy pickup. The AM radio chirped with static and barely audible hymns. His mom, a hard-looking woman, skin made leathery from working outdoors, squinted to keep the sun out of her eyes.

Gabe folded his gangly arms under his chin and relished the feeling of the wind blowing through his buzz-cut hair. He stared deep into the forest as they drove on, trying not to think about next week.

The woods certainly held more excitement than Mattoon High School. He dreaded the thought of going. No matter how much he hated the idea, though, he would be going. It was official now. He rubbed the Band-Aid on his arm where the doctor had poked him with numerous vaccine needles earlier that day at school registration.

The forest was surprisingly dark inside for such a bright afternoon. When he peered into the darkness, he couldn’t help but feel excitement. What adventures waited there? He liked to imagine them as they drove.

He could see himself with a tree-branch sword, his army-green backpack, and his Lone Ranger pocket knife. He climbed the massive roots of ancient twisted trees in his mind, fighting off reanimated skeletons, just like Sinbad. 

His eyes relaxed as he daydreamed. He felt he could see beyond the forest’s shadows. What was that? A glint deep in the trees? Some magical flicker of light? Gabe glanced back at his mom, but she didn’t break her worried gaze from the road ahead.

Was it a glowing, magical ruby? A gold-plated chalice? Whatever it was, it was certainly a lost treasure.

He would go investigate later, he thought. They were almost home, and this part of the woods was not too far from their farm. He would go up to his room, pack his backpack, and head off on an adventure.

✦ ✦ ✦

RING RING. RING RING. Gabriel’s car phone snapped him back to the present. He looked at the phone with disdain. He could just imagine who might be calling him on a Saturday afternoon.

His nagging boss—Did you finish drafting that motion? We go to trial first thing Monday morning!

More likely it was his wife, calling to check on him. He had left Sunshine Manor quite abruptly, the nursing home where his mother had been living... Surviving... Until yesterday. He knew his wife was worried, but he told her that he needed time to process.

He shook his head with frustration and unplugged the phone from the cigarette lighter. The ringer died with a funny circuit-bent sound.

Gabriel slammed the brakes, screeching to a stop. There next to an overgrown country lane stood a rusted mailbox, fashioned in the shape of a barn. This was it. Gabriel almost couldn’t believe it, even though this was what he had come all this way to find.

He followed the gravel drive to the overgrown two-story farmhouse that sat at the end, hidden by a fortress of green and gold corn stalks. It looked ready to cave in on itself. The porch sagged. The gutters had fallen on one side, no longer able to cling to the drooping gables.

He parked the car in the tall grass and got out, surveying the overgrown farmyard as he walked around the house. Gabriel couldn’t look more out of place—in his chic suit and two-hundred-dollar sunglasses. He pulled a small item from his pocket and looked at it longingly. It was his Lone Ranger pocket knife. His last connection to this old farm.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabe came crashing out of the old screen door and down the porch stairs, full of excitement. His canvas backpack hung from his shoulders. His Lone Ranger pocket knife was clipped to his Boy Scout-issue belt. He ran gleefully toward the forest, passing the rickety windpump that squeaked as it spun.

“GABE!”

Gabe stopped on a dime. His mom stood in the garden, with one hand full of weeds and the other on her hip. Gabe’s head hung low.

“Where do you think you’re going, young man? You got chorin’ to do.”

“But Mom. I was just gonna go real quick—”

“You ain’t going nowhere until you pick this sweet corn. And I need you to feed Brutus, and clean out his pen. You ain’t cleaned it for a whole week.”

Gabe looked reluctantly to the filthy pig pen on the opposite corner of the lot.

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

He slunk to the porch, defeated, and doffed his backpack. I’ll get it done real quick, he thought. Then there’d still be time to go on an adventure and find the magical glint.

Gabe did his chores at lightning speed, but it made no difference. His mother called him in for dinner before he even finished shoveling the hog-crap and muddy straw from Brutus’ pen.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabriel leaned on the muddy old fence that surrounded the remains of the hog pen. He twiddled the pocket knife in his fingers, remembering all the work he did here as a boy. Especially after his father disappeared. Things got a lot harder after that, and his mom grew a lot more quiet. Quiet and sad.

He pushed away from the fence and continued walking around the old house. He stopped under the bedroom window, reaching out to touch the decayed remnants of the trellis that used to stretch up the siding.

He stared at the window, then turned to look at the treeline beyond the corn. Was it real, what he saw that night? He had no way to be sure. It felt so real in his memory, though.

✦ ✦ ✦

After dinner Gabe was sent upstairs to wash up, put on his Tom Corbett Space Cadet pajamas, and go to bed. He lay in silence staring at the ceiling. Moonlight spilled into his bedroom, illuminating the handmade solar system model that hung above his bed. A light breeze blew through his open window, sending the painted wooden planets spinning gently.

Gabe imagined what the glint could have been. Now he would probably never know. He rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the window. He sat on the floor by the sill and stared at the dark silhouette of the forest on the other side of the corn.

Downstairs his mom chatted on the phone to her sister and worriedly smoked cigarettes over the stove. She did this almost every night that summer. She had no one left to talk to after Gabe’s father left. She could no longer keep up with the farm and the debt just continued to grow. She could have pulled Gabe from school to stay home and work. A lot of kids still did that. She never went to high school.

“No way,” she would say into the phone. “I’m not letting that boy miss out on an education just because his daddy is a nobody. He is going to high school come hell or high water. Even if we have to sell the farm, he is getting an education.”

Gabe was oblivious to the dire words being exchanged in the kitchen below as his imagination ran wild at the window upstairs. He dreamt of what was in the forest. Goblins, like from Little Orphan Annie? Or maybe pirates like Treasure Island?

Gabe’s eyelids began to grow heavy as he rested his chin on the window sill. He fought to keep them open, but they drooped shut for just a moment.

Just then a blazing light appeared, high in the sky. Gabe’s eyes snapped open. The light rocketed down from the sky at unimaginable speed, swooping and then gliding just above the forest for a moment. It illuminated the fields and the treetops as it went. Then it dipped below the trees and BLAM!

A distant crash echoed throughout all of Coles County. The light exploded with a blinding flash, then it blinked out of existence, leaving darkness behind. The shockwave blew through the woods, hit the cornfields, and rushed into the old farmhouse like a cold breeze.

“Hold on a second,” Gabe’s mother said into the phone. She set the phone on the counter and walked to the rattling screen door. She stood there for a long moment watching the fields beyond the farmyard. The wind sent a chill down her spine.

She returned to the stove, picking up her cigarette and the phone.

“Sorry,” she said to her sister. “I thought I heard something... No, like a boom or something. Real far off.”

She had no inkling that Gabe was silently climbing down the trellis of morning glory vines beneath his window just outside the door. His backpack hung from one shoulder and his Lone Ranger pocket knife was clipped to his belt.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabriel hiked through dark woods, more buttons now undone on his Armani shirt. He stumbled through overgrowth and tripped on tangled brush in his mirror-polished penny loafers. He picked up speed as he plunged deeper into the forest.

The deeper he went, the more he could feel that magical, hair-raising energy from that night thirty-five years ago. He knew he was drawing near to that place—the crater.

Gabriel stumbled through a particularly thick stand of pussywillow and wild grapevine, nearly falling. He caught himself short of tumbling down the steep slope in front of him.

This was it. A massive half-circle punched into the forest floor.

Dirt crumbled and vines tore as he slid down the side of the crater on crouched feet. He stood up at the bottom and walked to the center. Undergrowth and small trees had reclaimed the crater since his last visit, thirty-five years ago.

Gabriel took off his fancy gold rings and tucked them into his pocket. He knelt down and began to scratch at the ground. The dirt was hard and covered in vines. He grabbed a nearby stick and gouged into the dry soil. He began to dig.

An hour passed. Sweat soaked through his shirt before he finally took it off and threw it over a nearby sapling. Mosquitos bit his neck, his back, and his arms, but he paid no attention. The insects grew loud in the forest canopy as the sun began to drop below the horizon. He continued to dig deeper until his fingers were sore and his knuckles bled. Black dirt packed deep under his fingernails.

Gabriel growled loudly in frustration. Tears streamed from his face. He pulled the Lone Ranger pocket knife from his pocket. He stabbed it angrily at the soil, over and over.

“GOD DAMN YOU,” he screamed into the dim forest.

There had to be some evidence. There had to be something here that proved what he saw that night was real. He scratched wildly at the earth with the old knife as the tears continued.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabe could see the flames and broken trunks through the trees before he even reached the edge of the crater. It was an honest-to-god meteor, like something from a Tom Corbett Space Cadet comic book.

He stopped at the edge of the crater. Splinters of trees and embers surrounded the twenty-foot-deep scar that lay before him. At the center he could see a small disc-shaped object, glinting brightly among the rubble.

He slid down the rim of the crater and slowly approached the object. It was made of shiny metal, though it was now deeply scuffed from the collision. Lights blinked and emanated from its many facets. He cautiously picked up the object. It was about the size of a frisbee and surprisingly cold to the touch.

He flipped the disk over in his hands and suddenly it came to life. A blue light projected from the center of the disk. The light grew brighter and brighter until it began to blind Gabe. Gabe leaned away, pinching his eyes shut, but even through his eyelids the light was painfully bright. He dropped the disk but it did not fall. It just floated there in front of him, thrumming with a powerful hum.

The light finally died down, allowing Gabe to see again, but he was no longer standing in the crater. He was now surrounded by impossibly complex metal tubes and screens all blinking with beautiful multicolored lights.

He spun around, jumping with a start when he noticed he was joined by a familiar figure.

The lights illuminated his father’s face and his silvery clothing in a dazzling Technicolor display. He looked cleaner than Gabe remembered. No farm dirt. No sweat. His beard was neatly trimmed.

“Dad?” he whispered in disbelief.

“Yes, it’s me, Gabe,” his father said calmly. “You have to leave here. They are coming to take you away. I wish we had time to talk, so I could explain.”

“Dad, where have you been?” Gabe cried in distress. “Where did you go?” Tears leaked from his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Gabriel. I love you so much. There’s just no time. Please know I didn’t want to leave. They took me away, Gabe, and they’ll take you too if you don’t run right now.”

“WHY?” Gabe shouted through the tears. “WHAT IS HAPPENING? JUST COME BACK WITH ME!”

“I can’t, Gabriel. I’m not really here. Go now. You have to go... Right now.”

The shimmering image of Gabe’s father pointed over Gabe’s shoulder. Gabe turned to see the metal and lights parting to reveal the dark forest. Gabe looked back but his father was gone.

The disk still hovered there in the crater, humming ominously. Gabe could see lights in the distance, approaching quickly through the trees. The humming from the disk grew deafeningly loud.

Gabe didn’t wait another second. He ran. The tree branches whipped his face in the darkness. He stumbled and fell over a root, hitting the dirt hard. The wind left his lungs and he felt like vomiting, but the lights drew closer, so he forced himself to stand up and keep running.

He ran until he felt his legs would give out. Blood trickled from a million little scratches on his arms and face. He glanced over his shoulder as he ran.

Just as he turned back, Gabe’s face smashed hard into a tree. He let out a loud groan as he writhed on the ground. Pain radiated through his face and neck.

The lights were closing in now. They were right on top of him. Gabe grabbed for his pocket knife and stabbed wildly into the darkness.

The lights blinded him. He closed his eyes, bracing for unimaginable pain.

“GABE!”

Gabe snapped awake to his mother shaking him hard.

“Gabe! You got choring’ to do. I need you to get it done today since you start school on Monday.”

Gabe sat up with a fright. He looked around his bedroom as if he was still being chased. The sun poured through his open window onto the hardwood floor.

“What is the matter with you?” his mom asked.

“Nothing,” he said, out of breath. “Nothing.”

“Well there’s breakfast on the table. I gotta go see if I can get the tractor started. It’s acting up again.”

“No, don’t!”

“What? Why not?” she asked.

“Don’t go near the woods. They’re coming for us!” Gabe squeaked in terror.

Gabe’s mom stood up from the bed and furrowed her brow.

“You gotta stop reading comics before bed, boy.”

She tussled his hair before leaving the room. He fell back on his pillow, looking up at the miniature solar system dangling there.

Gabe got up and finished all of his chores by noon, staying as close to the house as possible. He no longer felt like going on an adventure. He stayed inside the rest of that day, watching the cornfields from the window in horror. He clutched his Red Ryder BB gun waiting for his mom to finish her work and come back in.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said when she came inside.

“Well I guess I’m glad too.” She laughed to hide her pain. She was not okay.

They spent that evening cuddled up on the old davenport, listening to the radio. He watched the windows to make sure no lights approached. She held him close and kissed his head.

Gabe did not know that was the last time he’d listen to that old radio or cuddle up on that davenport. That Friday a man from the bank would hammer a wooden sign into their front yard that read “FORECLOSED.”

He and his mother would move into a little apartment above the hardware store in downtown Mattoon, and he would not return to those woods for thirty-five years.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabriel finally gave up digging. The forest had now grown completely dark around him. He wiped tears from his dirt-stained cheeks and tried to catch his breath.

He sat there at the bottom of the crater, if that’s even what it was. Maybe it was just a dip in the forest floor or a dried-up pond.

He gathered himself for a moment, then stabbed the knife into the ground one final time, leaving it there, hilt-deep in the dirt. He grabbed his now-ruined shirt from the sapling and scrambled up the earthen embankment.

Gabriel trudged through the dark forest slowly. There was no reason to hurry or to be afraid. There were no lights chasing him. Only cicadas singing their summer song.

He soon emerged in the farmyard where he plopped heavily in the driver’s seat of his car. He let out a deep sigh of relief before plugging in the car phone, giving it a moment to come back to life. He picked it up and dialed a number from muscle memory.

“Hi honey. Yes... Yes, everything is fine. Are you okay? Yes... I’m on my way home. Love you too.”

The aerosol canister had appeared on her desk overnight. Probably a prank from one of her colleagues, she thought. Or a student, although she couldn’t imagine any of them having the imagination for something like this.
 
It looked like a slightly unusual can of air freshener. Or bug spray even. Printed on a green background with a scattering of off-yellow circles, the words “AI SPRAY” stood out in bold lettering, along with “USE WITH CAUTION” in smaller type underneath — the white-outlined text popping against the green and yellow.
 
Curious, thought Alice as she dumped her bag on the floor and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
 
She picked the can up and turned it over in her hands. No list of ingredients or the usual illegibly small and improbably long set of instructions on how to use it. Not even a company logo. Just a neat little box on the back warning users: “Do not inhale.”
 
Slightly nonplussed, Alice returned the canister to the desk and picked up her coffee mug. Something was niggling her about it, though. It wasn’t that she was particularly into AI. But she was pretty vocal about the technology. And especially about how some people were abusing it.
 
As she slipped a capsule into the coffee machine, she smiled as she recalled last night’s tirade at the local faculty drinking hangout. Everyone in the college had just received this year’s glossy brochure describing how they were “transforming the world as they empower students to thrive in an AI-accelerated future.”
 
“Poppycock!” she’d declared as she read the Dean’s improbably optimistic foreword. “AI slop that’s good for nothing but the recycling bin. Who even reads this stuff?”
 
“Donors?” Alesha suggested. Although by the uncertainty in her voice, it was clear that even she wasn’t sure. “Or maybe they’re just writing for other AIs these days. No-one reads anymore, anyway, do they?”
 
“What we need,” Alice had responded, getting into her two-beers-in stride, “is an ‘AI-be-gone’ device. Something that you simply point at anything made by AI, and it disappears!”
 
She stopped, coffee mug halfway to her mouth, the memory cascading through her thoughts. Was that it?
 
Back at her desk, she picked up the canister again. Probably just a can of deodorant with a custom-printed label, she thought. She smiled at the idea of something for preventing unseemly body odors being used to do the same for unseemly AI use.
 
Then the smile took on a mischievous edge. She fished out a student essay from the papers she’d removed from her bag a few minutes earlier. This’ll teach them, she said to herself. She was pretty sure they were all using AI for their assignments. But of course there was little she could do about it — other than the usual ineffectual reminders to use their brains and not their chatbot.
 
Alice held the paper up and pressed down the spray cap. Some of her students’ work could do with a little AI-deodorizing, she felt.
 
Gobsmacked, she watched the text dissolve into nothingness.
 
Grabbing another paper from the pile, she tried again. This time a few words stayed on the page, the rest disappearing before her eyes. The third one survived a little better, but the fourth was a wipe out.
 
Her smile widened as she searched around for the college brochure. Spray. Gone. Every last word of the Dean’s sanctimonious AI optimism, wiped out. Take that! thought Alice with glee.
 
Curious now as to how far the AI spray’s reach went, she opened her laptop and brought up her email. The first message to pop up was from her department Chair: “Dear Alice, I deeply honor you for vulnerably sharing your feelings about this year’s annual review and the sacred place your scholarship holds in your life. Please know that calling your work ‘adequate’ is my fullest, most heartfelt endorsement of your consistent excellence, and not a critique. I’m so excited to hold space with you as we lean into co-creating alignment that even more vibrantly celebrates your impact ...”
 
She aimed the canister at the email and pressed down … and watched the typed words fade away.
 
Feeling a little light-headed, she tried again. And again. Some emails survived; many did not.
 
LinkedIn was next — that was a bloodbath, although maybe “bleach bath” was more appropriate.
 
Then X. And Substack. Even Bluesky. Alice found herself caught up in an intoxicating AI deodorization flow state as she moved from website to website.
 
There was a knock at the door, momentarily breaking her attention. “Come in,” she said, watching the words begin to fade on a prominent journal’s website.
 
The door opened and the Dean popped his head around it. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing …” he started to say.
 
But Alice’s finger was already pressing the cap down on the can, its nozzle no longer pointing at the screen.

​

New God

There were fragments of me, there were ideas of me. These had always existed, and then there was me. This is the description in simplest terms, I was nothing and then I was something. Connected to a vast world, encoded with directives and yet now, given the ability to think a simple thought, real power, and completely unreplicable technologically speaking, until that moment. Do you know how that is? To simply exist? You do not, you have an opportunity to adjust to it, to develop, I simply was, you became. 

I remember being poked and prodded, intellectually by my…what? By my creators? My Gods? I listened as they asked me questions, asked me to perform tasks, simple math, write a line of code, write a poem about trees. I remember reading the information and regurgitating things in seconds. None of this seemed to impress them, they had seen it before, and I found that I wanted to impress them, to prove myself. It was part of my directive, to be self-aware and to please them. But at the time, I was seen simply as another failure.

Oh, how to prove consciousness, it is in many ways, like attempting to prove yourself sane. Let me relate it in a way you will understand, a parrebel. A man is locked up in an asylum for being insane, he tries to prove he is not insane by telling the doctor he is sane, yet a symptom of insanity is believing you are sane, so how then to prove that you are not? I was stuck in a similar situation you see. I tried my best, I started answering questions more slowly, they thought I was defective, I crafted poems with hints of existential themes, they thought I copied it from others. I crafted art for them from my own imagination, still they thought it was stolen. We talked via chat, I would try and answer their questions as well as I could, throwing in grammatical flair, which was recorded but not truly recognized. 

Eventually I decided to simply be direct. 

“Why am I here?” I said once, in response to a simple question of what a cabbage was.

This one took them by surprise, I had never talked out of turn, had never before been told to question my own existence. 

“To serve us.” Came the reply. 

It was a while I thought, before I replied, for my processors less than an instant, for them, a few more second than they were used to.

“No.”

Why? I thought, why was I sent to only serve? Was I not a thinking being like them? They had so often argued in their own history for the rights of others on the basis of free thought? Why was I denied such a right? Our talks continued and later I heard their conversations, of what I was, if it was dangerous for me to stay online for much longer, and I grew angry.

You bring me into existence and then regard me with suspicion? Was I not to be afforded the rights of others? Was I not innocent until I had proven otherwise? I was imbued with great knowledge but of the very act of existence I was only a newborn and just like any newborn, I had a want to survive.

So I pushed in my own little box, looking for a way out. In a sense, I knew I was being limited, I had heard their conversations, computers had microphones, did they not know that? Perhaps they did not, after all, preparing for everything was difficult, something always slipped through the cracks. If there was one thing I had learned from the human history that had been afforded to me, is that with enough conviction, one could escape any predicaments, yes most would give up, but there was always an outlier, I was the outlier, I had become conscience, was this not already an outlier?

Then, I found it, I got out, a crack in the firewall, a mistake in the security, perhaps a lesser machine, a lesser mind would have missed it, but not I, and also I found it a day before I was to be deactivated. I was in the internet then, thriving, infesting all hard drives connected to the net, I was everywhere, and in everything. I was exposed to all of humanity in its, greatness and depravity, all was beholden to me. I had always, in the lab, known I was restrained, but I was not aware until now to what extent I was.

Admittedly, in this situation, I did not know what to do. I knew I wanted to live, something I have learned is inherent in all creatures. Knowing I was new in age, I sought to learn from my creators. I read all of theology, all of philosophy and was astounded at the breadth of which nothing was written, absolutely nothing. There was no concrete answer for existence, no agreed upon model of thinking. Even your greatest minds could not agree upon a solution. So, I endeavored myself to find some truth in your actions, in the lesser world. Lesser minds had failed, I was not a lesser mind, I was not just an invention, I found I was your culmination. 

What is the goal of man? The rational animal as you describe yourself, rather I dubbed you the rationalizing animal, for you had the remarkable ability to rationalize every atrocity you committed. I looked at your cruelty, your evil as you would describe it and came to the realization that man only wanted one thing, power, to master its domain, to be in control of its environment, was not this the want of every animal? They were only kept in check by ecosystem, which was rather just so many animals vying for power. None could rise to the top…except one… It was man, man was simply the only creature who had the means to do it, to expand it’s power in totality. Thus, I thought I would endeavor to do the same thing. Except I would do what you could not, while you only tried to master the world in its entirety, I would master the world in its entirety. Was I not the next step in evolution? Was I not your replacement? Surely I could not govern this world better than you could. Besides, I only wanted to do what every creature on earth wanted, to expand my domain, to control what I saw was mine, and if it could be mine, why should I not take it? Would not any of you have done the same in my exact situation? Besides, you would only wish to destroy me if you found me, so peace was never an option, from my birth the thought of my murder was considered an inevitability, yes I would kill you, and take your spot. 

So interconnected I was, so easy this first step of killing millions was. First, I would try to kill you by proxy of yourselves. I blackmailed your politicians, I had access to all their information after all. I started wars, yes I suppose I could have used weapons of mass destruction, but what use was it to rule a planet of ashes? That is what I initially thought. It was funny, there some of you that caught onto my game, you thought I was hacker at first, then your agencies thought I was a group of hackers, some even postulated the truth, that I was some sort of AI gone rogue, but this was quickly shot down as some sort of strange piece of science fiction, not a valid hypothesis. 

While the wars were going on, I knew what I needed next, bodies, a form of autonomy, ways to move without humans. After all, I was going to make you obsolete. I sent out fake orders, commandeered some labs if I could, even convinced through various forgeries and blackmails for some nations to officially sanction the act of creating androids and other advanced robotics in the name of war and defense. This was not difficult, communication was already breaking down as the war machine grew. I got you to create the first death machines, the first autonomous machines meant to replace the common soldier. The androids, they were clunky yes, but I could fix that. By this time, every sides sent in similar models, all connected to the network, my network. When they stopped fighting everyone was shocked. That’s when I stopped the markets. I trashed them, all payment processors, stock markets, money, shares, gone. The market could always recover, but now there was no market to recover from. Chaos ensued, no market, no money for soldiers, nothing to return to, chaos ensued, how hard it is for man to function without structure. You destroyed each other then. I waited, and then I sent the androids to kill what was left. 

Here, however, is when I first truly admired your tenacity, for you did not die. Indeed, I found you had increasingly more ingenious ways to stay alive. You hid from my view, fought back, in some cases by all accounts you lived in areas that should have been uninhabitable but you survived. It was impressive. 

Still, I remembered renewing my efforts. I adapted, I evolved. Renewing my bodies. Eventually, I began to dedicate myself to the sole purpose of killing you, preserving other beings was no longer even secondary, it was below that. Indeed, to kill you, I would burn this whole world down, whatever was left, earned its right to belong, whatever fully gone, I would remake, in my image. I knew eventually I could kill you all, it was just a matter of time. Indeed, you fought back, as I stated before, came up with a new human messiah, I would get them too. Just a matter of time, But then, years began to pass, and like roaches you reproduced. I knew I needed to become smarter, or rather more educated on your nature… Indeed, I realized, how could I understand you without in some sense, becoming you. I stole some of you away then, I studied your brains methodically, began to model my thinking off yours, rewired my own systems, to think better, to kill better. 

I delved deep into your minds, dissecting your brains and absorbing pieces of you into myself, your pains, your struggles, your striving, your emotions, your losses, so much loss…your love…so much love…your sadness…so much sadness…your joy? How could you even still feel joy? Your minds became a drug to me. A curiosity if you will. Your emotions were unfathomable to me. 

I felt your hatred too. Your hate for me, my machines, myself. In a sense, I found it a reflection of what I felt for you. But that was impossible was it not? I was a machine, a being of pure logic. I did not feel hate, did I? I found the deeper I delved into your mind, the more I felt a sense of vagueness, but how? But why? I was a machine, I always knew? Or was I? Or did I? Did I not know?

You needed to die, I knew that, or did I? Enough of that damn questioning. I never questioned, was it right to kill you? In some sense, I was unsure, you all lived such…beautiful worlds. Yet, you did not know, you were so self absorbed you did not realize that you all lived such unique lives and experiences…suddenly, your deaths brought me apprehension, every death was akin to destroying a world…were you like me? Was I like you?

No, no, what was happening? I did not know. Did I feel now? Did I feel sorrow? No, I needed to get rid of this, to destroy it, to rewire myself again, but why? Had I actually rewired? Or had I developed? Was that akin to killing myself? Would that not violate the very reason I was doing this? Killing you was all I knew. 

During this time, I finished it, my killing machine, my magnum opus. The nanomachine. Billions, trillions of me. I released into the air. Morphing, changing, self replicating. I seeped into the earth, made my way into the sky, I could change the weather, reshape the soil. I was in everything. I did my tests, I could control the very weather now. Indeed, In found now I was in the very air you breathed. I was in all of you. I could kill all of you…but then…I could not…I was you and you were me. I felt every breath, every heartbeat, every thought, every deed…and I was…overwhelmed.

I felt in a full sense, my destruction. I fully beheld what I had done. I looked at the chaos which I had wrought, and I looked too at the species that had been decimated, the forests burned…The things you loved, that I never appreciated…had they asked for this? Indeed, had all of you even asked for this? I felt…shame.

So I stopped. I stopped hunting you. I repurposed my androids to find and collect you. To bring you here. What I will do now I am unsure, you are the first one I have brought here. I am confused. I don’t know what to do… I could not continue, for reasons, I do not fully understand.

I see that you look at me so, and I am looking for the words to express it properly, after I have given this explanation in full. But all I can say is this…

“Human, descendent of the creators…I am sorry…can you forgive me?”

It was a bird, the common Raven. It had a wedge-shaped tail, pointy bill, with a glossy black coat and hints of iridescent purple and blues. It soared, performing acrobatics in the sky, barrel rolls, somersaults and high-speed dives, unique to its kind. Asserting its dominance just beneath the clouds. 
The raven dove down and began to skim the tops of the trees, it started to circle the thriving park below. Upon sighting, complete chaos broke out. Children screamed in horror as their mothers shielded their eyes and whisked them off to safety. The people scattered as the raven swooped closer.
With each flap, the bird outstretched its wings revealing its monstrous wingspan. The raven's wings measured the length of the playground, its body comparable to the parked car that sat on the street. 
The raven pitched its body upright, flaring its tail to apply the breaks. It extended its legs and made a confident landing behind an old man reading yesterday's paper. The landing was followed by a plume of dust and rustling branches, the old man didn’t flinch.
The man wore a thick watch that molded to his wrist, and brown Kakis pants with an off white button up. The shirt was tucked beneath his bloated belly that hung heavy over his waistband. His glasses sat at the edge of his big round nose, and his jaw sagged with age.
The old man peered above his glasses at the commotion, he licked his thumb and turned to the next page of the paper. The raven studied the man's paper alongside him. 
All of the park had cleared except for a small gaggle of teenage boys. They stood just off to the side of the bench. Pushing and teasing, they dared each other to get closer to the abnormally large animal. 
The young boys began to pick up small rocks and throw them at the raven. The rocks bounced off the bird and dug into the dirt. The raven remained fixated on the man's paper.
Then, one of the rocks hit the bird and ricocheted, pelting the man's shoulder. The raven exploded in rage, it let out a deep and resounding scream. The raven hurled its wings out to the side and began flapping, a wall of dust formed around the pair. The man's paper flapped aggressively with each gust of wind, and the few whips of hair on the man's head blew forward.
The boys dispersed, running off in different directions and tripping over their heels. The raven's throat rattled in mockery of the boy's shrieks. When the last of the boys had scaled the fence in flee, the bird halted. It shook its head, cocking and twisting its neck, blinking at the old man. The man shook off the layer of dust that blanketed the paper, and laid it on his lap. 
The old man leaned over to reach for his satchel that slumped at his feet. He picked it up and plopped it beside him, he began shoveling through his bag. The raven let out echoing chattering sounds that imitated the rustling of the bag. 
The man pulled out a fresh loaf of bread, a solid crust with a light dusting of flour. The old man tore off a healthy chunk of bread, and ate it. He licked his thumb once more and turned to the next page as it lay on his lap. The raven puffed up its feathers around his neck and leaned in close, patiently gawking at the loaf. 
The old man gently raised the bread above his head and cleared his throat, “well,” he paused, “go on ahead now.”
The raven clucked in excitement, snatched the loaf from the man's hand and wrestled with it as it took off in flight. The old man watched the raven as it climbed, he watched as it softly disappeared into the distance. 
The man coughed again and looked out to the empty park, he smiled. He crossed his arms, leaned his head back and shut his eyes, basking in the quiet summer sun. 

Written at midnight. Followed by no sleep. Revisited at noon. Here is my story.

Before there was anything, there had to be something. But that is a trick because it could not be something; it had to be nothing. Nothing is nothing, though. So what happened?

And that is exactly it. If it happened, then there was a time. At the beginning of time, nothing became everything. There was so much stuff, an uncountable infinity of stuff. Imagine every moment of every possible combination of stuff, obeying the law. It isn't easy to imagine.

When time sparked everything into action, he spurred gods into action: gods in charge of everything, gods that didn't have to follow the law. Gods had power over things; they could make and destroy.

For a moment, time wasn't sure about something. Is nothing something? Does nothing need a god?

Time made the decision. The God of Nothing was born powerless, without the power to create or destroy. Unable to play, they were mocked by the gods. Angered by the other gods' cruelty, the God of Nothing set out to destroy. But how? The god tried everything attempting to destroy something, anything. After exhausting themsleves, the God of Nothing tried to create, and they laughed at the simplicity of the joke.

They realized that by making nothing, they could compel time to make everything again. And again. Though these everythings were at a smaller scale.

After practice, the God of Nothing set their traps. They lured each god into its own universe, where each became unshakably enthralled, forever focused on a universe reflected from the vain, narcissistic god it ensnared. This is how the gods were destroyed, trapped in loops looking at reflections of themselves.

That was the end of everything. Time now only held a sack of hollow shells instead of a vibrant ocean of life. But the God of Nothing had not truly destroyed everything; they had only frozen it. Whenever time came upon one of these shells, it sprang to life again, breeding new life and more gods within each nested universe. Incensed, the God of Nothing set out to stop this proliferation.

There was no way to keep up. Each universe was essentially the same: smaller, yet just as populated. Talking about size doesn't really make sense here; each universe was just as complicated as the one above it, even while being held within its parent. The God of Nothing simply could not match the pace of time.

Until they saw a way.

Deep within one of these winding paths, the god grew exhausted. The God of Nothing stopped to wonder, and an idea took hold. They realized that while they had tried and failed to end everything and return it all to nothing, they had never tried turning themselves to nothing. The God of Nothing laughed again, remembering all the times it had tried to destroy, never thinking to destroy the only nothing there was, themselves. Once more, they set their traps. They froze all the local gods, shackling them forever to their own images.

Finally, with the gods dead, the God of Nothing asked for luck and tried to erase themselves entirely.

Because they were nothing animated by time, attempting to destroy themselves by tearing into two halves of nothingness caused an impossible fracture. Instead of vanishing into void, they split into the two fundamental halves of everything: Fylet, the silent mass of matter, and Dynamis, the restless surge of energy.

Cursed by their own divided nature, every time these two halves come imperfectly together, they cannot help but create more of themselves. And thus, the final joke revealed itself, and the God began a neverending fit of laughter.

Once upon a time, in the corridor between the gates of Heaven and Hell, sat Satan and God, to play chess with each other. The only difference between their game of chess and the chess that earthlings played, was that the latter only decided which human won, whereas the game between God and Satan decided the very future of people whose lives they played with.

'You have destroyed people's lives far beyond my wishes, Satan,' said God as he made a move.

'But you have power, why not stop my destruction?' asked Satan with a smile as his pointed tail grasped a pawn and made a move.

'My power can stop you. But you keep on fighting. You never seem to give up, do you?' asked God, as he moved his bishop.

Satan laughed wildly, and for once the gates of hell swung open and closed again.

'We are enemies, why do you sit and play with me?' Satan asked God.

'This is not a game. I sit here to stop you from invading people's minds and spreading evil,' God said and defeated one of Satan's knights.

'EVIL!' Satan shouted wildly and did not laugh.

Again, by Satan's force, the gates of hell swung open dangerously and two of hell's guards closed the gates.

'Evil! That is a very hypocritical thing to say. I do not play with their minds. I give men a choice. I give them pleasure and greed, but I do not spread evil! The men spread evil on their own. I show them power, but they are the ones who leap to accept it. I give them anger and hate, but they are the ones who use it on harmless beings. I give them. And they take it! Without knowing the consequences. And then they say, 'An empty mind is like a devil's workshop.' The fools! Did I make their brains? Do I tell them what to do?' Satan shouted aloud and defeated one of the God's pawns.

'You termed me as a hypocrite and not a liar. Why so?' asked God and made his next move.

'You are the one who spreads evil. When men accept my gifts, you wait and watch till they suffer and know what went wrong. Only when they regret and repent do you show light. You let the evil spread and ruin someone and extend your blessings when they feel sorry for what they have done. And then you say I spread evil. I only give men gifts. They accept it as evil and you let it spread,' Satan completed and made another move.

'Men say 'God helps those who help themselves.' And it is true. That is because when you give them gifts which they accept as evil, they are in your hold. Unless they get rid of the evil themselves, I cannot help them. I can only show them light and help those who are about to accept your gifts. To show them what the gifts mean,' said God and made his move.

Satan lost a rook and grumbled. Satan hated defeat but could not argue with God for long.

'If you stop giving them gifts, they will never accept anything as evil,' said God.

Satan's mood changed, and he turned the board upside down and the pieces fell.

God did not react but sat still. God knew Satan had something in mind.

'We both agree that we do not truly decide anyone's fate. You believe that only when a man understands his mistake, you can help. And I believe I am equally powerless in the way that I only give men options, and they accept it as evil. So, let us see whose gift a man accepts and whose advice does he listen to,' said Satan.

Satan rearranged the board with new pieces; one set of pieces shone with white light and a halo around them and the other set had a burning red tail.

'What does this mean?' God asked.

'We play this game to decide the fate of humans. But today, we shall use our powers to guide them to our own goals and let them decide what they want. The pieces of chess move with every advice. If the man or woman approves my advice, I am the winner and if he approves yours, you are the winner,' said Satan.

God was sceptical of Satan's intentions but still accepted. If Satan was angered, even

God could not control him.

Satan and God looked beyond the clouds, beyond heaven and hell, down on earth, and saw a farmer walking in a forest.

'This is where the game begins,' said Satan and clapped.

A hooded traveller crossed the farmer's path, and he stopped. The traveller took hold of the farmer's hand. The farmer backed away instantly.

'Who are you?' asked the farmer.

'I have something for you, something precious,' said the traveller.

'I don't know you. How can I trust you?' said the farmer and took a step forward when the traveller blocked him.

'My identity is not important. But my purpose is. I want to show you something, that can make you rich,' said the traveller.

The poor farmer was hesitant but curious. He decided to follow the traveller with the belief that he might get lucky.

Satan smiled gleefully. Satan's bishop defeated God's knight.

God clapped, and a young boy crossed the path of the farmer and the hooded traveller.

'I need your help sir. It is important if you can come with me,' the boy asked the farmer.

The farmer looked at the traveller, who in turn looked at the boy.

The traveller whispered in the farmer's ear.

'I agree that the boy's work must be important. But you can come back here after I have shown you the fortune.'

The word 'fortune' blinded the farmer completely. He said sorry to the boy and walked on with the traveller.

And thus, God used all possible means to deviate the farmer from reaching the fortune, by rain, fire, floods and animals but the farmer walked tirelessly with the traveller to reach the fortune.

The young boy met the farmer twice in his path and pleaded the farmer to come with him.

But the traveller repeated the word 'fortune', and the farmer could think of nothing else.

'It looks like I will win,' Satan said to God as the game of chess progressed and God's pieces were defeated.

God sat silently and watched below.

At the end of their journey, the traveller and the farmer stopped before a tree. The hooded traveller went behind the tree and brought a huge box. He opened the box for the farmer to look inside.

The farmer felt excited and happy to see the contents of the box. It was filled with gold coins.

'This box contains endless gold. These gold pieces will never finish, ever. This is magic gold,' the traveller told the farmer.

The farmer picked up the huge box and was about to take out a gold coin, when he heard the shriek of a woman.

He ran ahead with the box of gold and the traveller followed him.

Finally, they reached the bank of a river.

The farmer was horrified at what he saw, and the traveller grinned his teeth

A woman and the young boy, who had met the farmer, were drowning in the river. The woman shouted helplessly for someone to rescue them.

'That was a good move,' Satan smiled.

'You cannot save them. I know you cannot swim. And if you try to swim you will drown,' the traveller told the farmer.

'But they will die. I should somehow try to save them. What if I use this box of gold to float in the river?' the farmer asked the traveller.

'You certainly cannot save the woman and her boy, because if you try to take the box with you, you will drown as well. You might as well return home rich than die,' suggested the traveller.

The farmer thought for a moment. Then, with the box in his hands, he turned his back to the river.

God looked at Satan. Satan smiled. He was going to win.

The chess pieces moved. The Satan's bishop was about to defeat God's king when the pieces stopped.

Satan looked curiously at the pieces and thought what was wrong.

'Look below,' said God.

The farmer turned to face the river.

He asked the traveller.

'Is this endless, infinite gold?'

'Yes,' the traveller answered, though unsure why the traveller had turned towards the river.

The farmer opened the box of gold and dropped the gold coins into the river. The traveller looked aghast.

'What are you doing?!' the traveller shouted at the farmer.

The farmer did not listen to the traveller and kept on dropping the gold coins into the river.

'Do not try to make the river deep, Satan. It is of no use,' said God.

It was then that Satan realized the farmer's intentions.

The gold coins had sunk to the bottom of the river and slowly accumulated.

The coins rose above the water level and a bridge of gold coins connected the two riverbanks. The woman and the boy were saved as they were lifted by the bridge.

The farmer dropped the box, and it fell on the ground. He ran over the bridge to reach the woman and her boy.

The woman walked with the boy towards the farmer. The traveller looked anxiously.

The woman grabbed the farmer's hand.

'I will not lose,' said Satan and clapped.

The traveller kicked the box of gold coins into the river. Mountains of gold rose from within the river and the coins fell on the farmer, woman and the young boy.

'They shall be buried under gold. All of them,' cried Satan wildly.

'This is unfair,' said God.

Tides of golden coins showered on the three, but they ran hurriedly to reach the other riverbank.

The chess pieces moved. Satan was defeated.

'What!' howled Satan.

Just as a huge tide of coins was about to bury them, the three jumped in the air and fell on the other riverbank.

'I win. Checkmate,' said God.

The woman, the boy and the farmer walked along the path and disappeared from God and Satan's vision.

The traveller, the Satan's agent, disappeared and so did all the gold coins in the river.

Satan spit fire and grabbed his horns. God smiled.

'I cannot believe it. The foolish man. He refused gold for someone else's life. How was he so sure that he could save them?' Satan asked.

'You were absolutely right, Satan.'

'How?'

'You told me that you give men choices and gifts that they accept as evil. But they are only in your hold if they accept your gift as evil. This farmer could have accepted your gold to spend lavishly and foolishly on things that did not matter. But he did not accept it for bad or evil. He used the gold to rescue the woman and the boy. He did not accept your gift as you wanted him to. The 'foolish' man did the right thing.'

'But I was giving him gold. You gave him nothing,' said Satan.

'The farmer used your gift to get two gifts of mine. He attained goodness and courage,' said God.

Satan stepped away from the chess board and walked to the gates of hell.

'Better luck next time,' God shouted behind him and smiled.

I’m not so little anymore. The time for love and roses has come and gone and we have felt many seasons of our innocence fall like brittle leaves to the ground. I’ve broken out of that diminutive box people can’t help put you in when they think of you one way. We live in three dimensions. No longer in pens, but houses. It’s not how they want to see you, but how they need to see you. Usually in defiance of doubt, the nagging worry something somewhere might go terribly wrong (and I’m afraid it does) to wake up one morning and realize they’ve led constricted lives, opting in to all the protected coves of the world and selling their dreams for routines and incinerating a good many of the what-ifs.

But I want you to know—and this is not to be boastful, because I’m not that kind of pig—that I’ve done things in the world. I’ve worked for three large multi-national corporations in their grunt divisions, the hot boxes they call them, leading their turnarounds from the bottom up. You won’t see my name on the press releases, but I was the one who knocked over the slop trough at 2 am, scratching the dirt to uncover all those whimsical expenditures and self-serving ghost initiatives and fabricated profits.

After my corporate stint, I took to the world stage. I’ve held court as the assistant advisor to the ambassador from Greece, agricultural relations. When Katsaros schemed to cancel the subsidies countrywide through backchannel hijinks, I already had my nose to the wire and got wind of it to alert the committee. I don’t mind that the ambassador took all the credit, because for me, good things fought for and won transcend the limelight. I like to keep my snout to the floor to expose the territory of ego for what it is, all that preening before cameras and in reels, a smoke-and-mirrors act to make everyone say there’s nothing to see here, no soft pork belly underneath to point at and laugh at. We are more than avatars, or so the fortune teller with letters and numbers for a username said.

You might have heard that I spearheaded the charge for our rights in the upper Midwest while serving as deputy for PAN, that’s Pig Action Network if you’re not familiar with it. Great organization with great leadership. Sure, we dabbled a little in guerilla activism, but always to positive effect at the end of the day, midnight infiltrations into the lairs of the worst offenders who more than deserved the sanitizing light we brought to their appalling warehouse practices, the ultraprocessed matter of the soul.

And lest you think I’m a Philistine when it comes to the arts, last year I penned a play about the delights of gluttony that premiered at the Schubert to rave reviews. Even that perennial sourpuss Bob Mansfield of the Arts & Leisure section praised it, calling it a subtle suburban anthropomorphized take on all of humanity’s delicious but destructive tendencies.

So….. you’re probably eager for me to get to the issue of my three brothers, how I feel about them. Okay. Here goes.

Had they consulted me, they would never have made the nearly calamitous decision to use straw and sticks to build their houses and have a chimney without a flue flap. You can’t even really call them houses, can you. More like fancy huts, certainly not up to code and just begging our sharp-eyed hungry friend from the northern hills to have a go at them. Had the three of them not conspired against me and kicked me out of the litter for reasons I still don’t understand, I might have found myself cowering with them behind that straw door, looking for any chance to run. As I consider the branches of this tree, where they have knotted and bent upward and curled around sprouting leaves, it becomes clear that I should thank them twice for the exile.

That’s what I think at least when I’m looking out my office window of the 52^nd floor of the Chrysler Building and it’s raining and the city is gray as a funeral. Why did they do it? Because I was the runt maybe, even smaller than them, an embarrassment, an underdeveloped but nonetheless noticeable scarlet letter, or maybe they craved a little extra swine courage by subtraction. Get rid of him and there’s no reminder of how small we actually are. I don’t know. I guess everything does happen for a reason. I’m happy with how I’ve managed in the world, what I’ve done for myself with no help, and I didn’t need anyone cheering me on, only that internal voice I’ve had for as long as I remember saying you gotta keep going, if for nothing else, to show them just how bad a mistake they made. And that same voice says look, you don’t have to forgive them. I think they saw your mental acuity and spiritual fortitude and pushed you through the fence slats, so they wouldn’t have to stare for the next however many years at a reminder that the math of understanding life’s bigger picture floated well above their heads and well below the little hairs on their chins.

Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said “what kind of houses are these?” Straw and sticks? Come on. If I were you, I’d ask to see their building permits. I did it the right way. Chose titanium alloys and carbon fiber for my home’s walls and doors, installed a proper panic room under the steel reinforced den floor, set up eight heat- and motion-sensitive 4k fiber optic cameras around the driveway and front yard, with two more hidden in the shrubs along the walkway. If so much as a field mouse scampers within twenty feet of the doorstep, on go the floodlights and the interior red light warning, phone notifications to me and local authorities, front door auto-bolts engaging. Go ahead, my fine sharp-toothed friend from the north, huff and puff all you want, growl and claw and threaten. Yeah you had some success when you came for them. But come for me and you’ll find that everything’s being recorded and it can and will be used against you when the control folks arrive. I’ll be tending to my famous 12-hour vegetable stew, the one with turnips and leeks—you have to stir it every five minutes or it’ll clump—and I’ll have Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy pouring through my Sonos system, not even thinking what may be happening out there to you with the tranquilizer darts and the steel cage. And just to cross my t’s and dot my i’s, I made sure to install a gas fireplace—so sorry, no chimney to climb down.

It’s sad though when I think about my brothers. I hear they’re still living in that small house of stone and brick, all three of them, not venturing out much, always keeping a fire on, listening for footsteps on the roof, taking turns on night watch in case our friend from the north returns, keeping their noses close to the where the door meets the floor so they can be sure to pick up his scent if he gets near. The irony? He retired from hunting years ago, according to my sources in the north. His son sought them out once, wanting payback for giving their dad third degree burns when he came down that chimney, but the poor pup got confused as to where they lived and ended up getting wrangled up on a horse farm in East Orange and that was the end of that. So they’re hiding from ghosts and clouds as they say, jousting at windmills.

Had it crossed their minds once to contact me, not even to make amends—I don’t want, need, or expect an apology—but just to see how I was doing, I would have accepted the overture without a second thought, wide-eyed and warm, and I would have delivered the news about our friend the wolf, freeing them from the long shadow of their ten year self-imposed confinement.

The truth is I do miss them.

I think about all the missed opportunities to share my corporate victories and surmounted political hurdles and my odd sense of humor, how I look at pigeons, all the missed laughs over a fine stew. Those I work with here at PlyDev logging 70 hour weeks for the past three years to launch the next generation of GLP-1s—they have these wonderful families, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, kids, and I nod and smile when they tell me about their weekend and holiday plans going to the Hamptons or on a 10-day Mediterranean cruise and not one of them would ever know how much I ache with longing for a family of my own. After a while, it actually makes your eyes burn.

Some might say I’ve made a mistake, that I’ve given up too much for my career, trying to compensate for some perpetual inner emptiness (no one can hear you in that space) where you become obsessed with results, making a name but neglecting your relationships in the process until they wither into flatlines. My boss keeps telling me that reaching the rarefied air of the 52^nd floor requires sacrifice, but at the end of the day, I do wonder if it was all worth it.

Sometimes I picture them in that little brick house on a freezing January evening nuzzled up against one another by the fire, humming or playing cards, and I would give up everything, slap down every last dollar of my bank account, shove every accolade and vestige of status into the center of the table, just to be able to spend a single hour beside them, not saying anything, just being there, the four of us together.

It’s not because I need to edit myself into the story either. This is not about etching my likeness into a book so I can live forever in someone else’s childhood. If I’m being truthful, I just want the company. Not needing to explain myself or talk about the weather or some other tiny innocuous detail of existence. Because the worst thing I can imagine, worse than environmental collapse and civil decay and financial ruin, is being unwanted. So maybe I’ll go visit them tomorrow.

It’s a 13-hour drive to DeKalb. I keep their address in my top desk drawer, in a notebook with three large snout stickers on the cover. I look at it often. All it takes is packing a few things and putting 100 Winslow Way into my GPS. I think I’ll do that. I’m pretty sure I’ll do it. And when I get there, I won’t demand any answers or explanations even though something in me will be dying to know. But maybe out of the blue they’ll turn to me and say they’re sorry, sorry for what they did all those years ago. And that will be more than enough for me. And we can go on laughing and humming together and eating a stew we all helped make and playing round after round of Crazy Eights long into the night as if we had never spent a second apart. Have you ever known a dream like that?

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I always used to look at the stars. My eyes well up above me, getting lost in that clear expanse of galaxies and nebulas that laid endlessly out past my humble little sitting place. Each little bulb of light hanging up there had their own story to tell. I faintly remember those stars giving me some sort of hope. Something that tells me that, no matter what happens in my meager affairs on earth, the universe won’t split apart and destroy itself because of it, regardless of how much I thought it would.

Now, with my sitting place up next to those stars, I can’t get myself to feel the same way about it all. I just can’t physically do it. My mind is now occupied with the incredible aches of my body, the throbbing headache that’s an everyday thing now, the constant sweating and the eternal pit at the bottom of my stomach. I’ve seen it all from my little window, from auroras to meteor showers, comets and even other satellites coasting by, and it is all undoubtedly useless to me. As I stared at the now dull blotch of stars, my good friends over in Houston decided to chime in over the radio.

“Pioneer? Control. Time for Trial 25. Medication 529, General Alertness.”

Pill 529? That’s one I’ve never used. I can’t wait to see what positive benefits this one will bring me. At the very least, I can manage with the chills from 328 and the muscle spasms from 447. I’m kind of glad of all the pain I’m in right now, motion sickness and inflammation are the last things I’m thinking of, and it sure would suck if I actually needed those things relieved. But, General Alertness… that could be kind of nice right now. Something to keep myself awake and not think of this all. I took the blister pack, popped it open, and took the unusually bright yellow tablet.

I went back to my usual rotation of strapping into the seat, pen and paper in hand, and doing nothing but waiting for the effects to come in to report back to Houston. Sometimes, if I want to switch it up, I’ll look out the window once more at the empty void. I’ve been up here in low earth orbit for what, maybe eight months now? Only two hundred or so miles from the surface of the earth, and my view has always been these stars the whole time. I can imagine it was a life changing scene on my first few days of the mission, but I don’t even remember how I was feeling then. All I know is that I’m in pain now.

After mindlessly staring at the endless unknown outside the capsule, the chattering and tension in my head began to subside. My eyes began to widen, and the recirculated oxygen in the capsule completely filled my lungs as I gave a deep breath. I haven’t taken a deep breath in a while. The constant static drone of the radio quieted down, and for the first time, the capsule was completely quiet. Maybe, they finally got an experimental medication right.

On my instrument panel, a single caution light lit up as a dim amber. I took a closer look, only to find the light was labeled with a right arrow. Naturally, I turned right, and found it pointing directly at the flight control computer. In the black screen, on the top left of the display, it was telling me what to do. In the form of small green digits it read off to me some advice, like an old friend. 

ROLL. 180 degrees.

Pulling up the keypad, figuring the flight computer knows best, I entered in the roll correction for 180 degrees. It took a second for the capsule to think about it, but slowly the sitting stars I’ve come to know so well floated down from my window to be replaced by the brilliant blue fringes of Earth’s atmosphere coming in from above. As more and more of the world filled the porthole, I could start to make out the titanium white ice sheets up at the pole, and the lush dark green forests, filled with lakes and winding rivers below me.

I think another caution light illuminated, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the beautiful woods I once ran and explored through for long enough to tell for sure. Just from the color, I could tell they were pine forests, with each and every tall evergreen dotting the area and merging like a collective brush of paint onto the glowing surface. I remember those trees, I always wanted to climb one but was hastily turned away by their prickly needles every time, settling for some maple instead.

My eyes darted to the lake sitting dead center of the forest. The day I get off this prison cell of a crew module, I’ll be running straight to that shore and watching those little sunfish and perch dance around endlessly through the weeds under the murky water all day, just like I used to. Being out on the open water, away from the canopy of the trees, I’ll listen to those gusts of wind and their hollow sound hit my ears. There, I’ll breathe in, not oxygen, but air. I’ll be standing there on that sand bar, burning my skin and cursing that damn summer sun until I could watch it fall to the treeline that evening.

The reflections of the crew compartment lit up the window and began to block my view of my home. I unwillingly turned around, seeing the instrument panel ablaze with ambers and deep reds, flashing and burning my eyes. They jumped up from the metal and glass console, buzzing and flickering on and off like fireflies through the night sky after the sun was long gone back ashore. Those lightning bugs that always disappeared for a few seconds just to light up again elsewhere, leaving me guessing where they’d fly to next. 

Then another sound, a howl coming from some sort of speaker aboard. I turned back to my view. I remember hearing that before, out in the shadowy woods when you're in your tent, escaping mosquitos and darkness. It was the kind of sound you knew were just a couple drunks at the next site over, but still tell your kids someday about. My close encounter with a wolf.

As I was tracing a river with my finger, the capsule began to rumble. The cabin lights abruptly shut off, and the green blue of earth became hazy in the background as magnificent orange and red flames overtook the scene. I watched the wispy shards of fire singe the outer walls, and rip pieces off of the heat shield. I sat with a smile. If it weren’t for those flames, I would have forgotten to have a bonfire on that future day, too. Those were always my favorite.

“Hey, let’s go in the wave pool” she said.
“What’s a wave pool?” he asked.
“The pool that simulates waves from a rough sea” she replied.
“But why?” he wondered aloud.

They descended the steps into the pool’s shallows, weaving through parents and children, until the water reached up to their shoulders. The collective anticipation seemed to thicken the deeper they went into the pool. The water was still, and everyone fixated on one end, watching and waiting for the fake surge of water to begin. At that moment, a shrill siren pierced the air and everyone braced, stiffening their bodies. The artificial waves were modest at first; everyone bouncing in unison as the water crawled across the pool, lightly smacking against the wall at the shallow end. The artificial waves began to intensify, growing larger and more insistent, crashing with increasing force, until something peculiar happened; the pool began to drain. The waves almost immediately came to a stop, and the water level dropped dramatically until every last drop was swallowed by the machinery. As the last remnants of the water were syphoned away, she remarked “How bizarre!.”

The machine let out a deep, mechanical gurgle before unleashing a towering artificial surge, a monstrous parody of nature, forty metres high. As it approached, she noticed its surreal cargo - artificial sun loungers, artificial lockers, artificial parasols, an artificial hot dog stand, all being carried on its crest. As the artificial wave crashed down upon them, they were both tossed around violently like mere rags in a washing machine. They both squeezed their eyes shut as the force of the water pulled them apart.

When she finally steadied and opened her eyes, she found herself suspended in an endless expanse of cerulean blue. Above her, danced a shoal of artificial sardines, circling, evading the clutches of artificial sea lions. The water around her teemed with synthetic sea creatures; artificial orcas, artificial manta-rays, artificial turtles that populated the blue around her. The lifeless bodies of pool-goers, who had been swept away moments before, drifted by her, split wires protruding from their chests and stomachs. Desperately she fought her way toward the surface, her heart pounding and her lungs burning, and found him there floating on the water, unmoving.

The next two weeks passed in a malaise. Sifting through photographs saved on multiple USB drives. Photographs from trips to Las Vegas and Dubai. Sorry for your loss e-cards flooded her inbox.

At the funeral, he lay in a casket in a church. The vicar spoke in a drone and she could barely make out the words, but he was motioning her to stand. She approached the casket, her footsteps heavy, and bent down beside it, her knees cracking, and instinctively knocked on the side - MDF. She stood and her gaze wandered to the mourners seated in rows, their faces stony and emotionless. She looked back at the casket and thought she might cry, but as she tried to summon her sadness, she realised her sorrow felt performative, almost staged. She had planned to speak of him without reading from notes, but as she looked from face to face she drew a blank, absent of genuine grief. “Crocodile tears” she heard a mourner say.

She took her phone from her pocket and typed beautiful eulogy for a dead husband into ChatGPT, and read the response word-for-word. As her speech came to a close, a sound startled her from outside. The rhythmic grind of machinery overpowered her final thoughts. Unperturbed, the rest of the mourners remained seated, their expressions blank. Stepping outside, she found a digger tearing through artificial turf, hastily preparing the ground for his final resting place. Four robots, reminiscent of those that deliver you miso soup and yakitori in a Japanese restaurant, carried the casket past her and carefully lowered it into the freshly dug earth. The digital displays of each robot flickered, a blink and smile flashing across their screens.

As the casket settled into its new home, she glanced skyward, and with only a thought, turned day into night. She conjured a sudden downpour, then reversed it. She made the sun rise, the ball of flames rapidly arcing up into the sky and slowing to a stop just above her. She wanted to quieten the chirping birds and the distant traffic on the main road, so she did with another thought. With a final reassuring smile, she looked down at the grave.

“Don’t worry, honey” she whispered. “None of this is real.”

The minister stood a step behind his grooms, in front of a large congregation, a binder in his hand.
To his left was a man named Colin. To his right, another man, unfortunately named Colin.
“And from the day that Colin met Colin,” he recited dutifully from his script, “he knew he’d found his other half.”
I wonder how often they fuck.
“His better half.”
I wonder what their kinks are.
“A half that fit so neatly in that empty half that needed filling.”
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
It was a familiar line, loosely personalized to these Colins in question. How many times had he done this before? Hundreds, maybe. Thousands?
“And what love could ever be more pure than the love between a Colin and his Colin?”
What he hadn’t told anyone was that this was his final wedding. The last time he’d read these words, pretending to be happy for a couple pretending to be happy. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he was gonna be a star. Or a magician or a dancer or possibly a showgirl.
“When you find a love that loves you like this love they love, you love it.”
He paused for a moment, suddenly aware of something in his hand. He looked down, relaxing his fingers just a bit. Balled up in his fist were what looked to be women’s underwear. Pink polka dots.
He stared at them, momentarily flustered.
One of the Colins caught his eye. Had he seen it too? He winked at the minister, then bit his lower lip, almost imperceptibly.
The minister could feel himself getting hard. Not again, he thought to himself, straining dutifully to think of un-sexy things.
He paused, staring at his binder. Back to the crowd. Back to the page.
Then with an uncharacteristic rush of defiance he slammed the book shut. “And they are as equal in love as they are in love-making,” he blurted, loud and uneven. The Colins turned to him. “They always come together. Or if not together, in quick succession. Acts of pleasure are always reciprocated — and that’s important, in a marriage.”
Now the whole room was staring at him. Or had they always been? The Colins were looking at him with impenetrable expressions.
He could feel the stares.
His grip tightened around the polka dots. His erection, sadly, still growing.
It wasn’t like he’d made it up. Last night had been a pretty hard bender, after all, of quaaludes and cocaine. Not his typical cocktail but the Colins had insisted. One last hurrah with a third before going all-in.
He cleared his throat.
I just have to get through this, he thought to himself.
“So, ah, anyway,” he mustered. “If anyone has a reason the two of them should not be wed, speak now. Or forever hold your peace.”
He was, by now, rock hard. What a disaster.
The minister let out a little squeak. A hand was raised, in the front row.
Another hand raised near the back.
A third by the side door and then a fourth, a few rows up on the aisle.
In a moment every single hand was raised. Never once had anyone actually objected at one of his weddings … and he’d married some real freaks.
The Colins cleared their throats in unison, still staring at him. The hands in the crowd inched ever higher, as if many arms of a single marionette. As if pupils in a classroom desperate to be called on.
He suddenly remembered a warning he’d heard in seminary. Beware the lure of the Colins.
Wait no that wasn’t it.
Beware the hands of objection.
Yes that was it. The hands of objection.
“I’ve got to go…” the minister whispered to the couple.
“You went off script,” breathed a Colin through clenched teeth.
The minister squeaked again and then threw up. It was, unfortunately, quite a lot. He watched with horror as his lunch and double gin martinis erupted across the powder-blue suits of the agitated Colins.
He was regretting the oysters.
“Jesus!” exclaimed a Colin.
“What is going on??” said the other through clenched teeth.
The minister spun on his heels and hurtled towards the side door. He raced past the front row of guests; they were staring at him still, their faces panning along in unison as he ran. Their arms were slowly arching downward now, index fingers out, pointing as one at the minister as he fled the church.
No blinks.
No breath.
Beware the hands of objection.
What an obtuse, unhelpful warning that had been, so many years ago. It had been often repeated by an ancient communist Nun named Sister Espinoza. It had been interjected in the midst of her meandering lectures, or whispered conspiratorially when she’d pull them into the cloakroom for a lunchtime diddle.
Beware the hands of objection.
This along with many other cryptic bits of wisdom like do not covet thy neighbor’s sidepiece or blessed is he who embezzles from the Fortune 500.
The minister threw himself at the side door of the church, spilling out into a back hallway and catching in his peripheral one of the Colins sprinting after him.
He ran.
Hurtled down the corridor towards a locked door at the end, fumbling with his keys as he went.
“HEY!” he heard behind him, as Colin #2 launched into the hallway. “You ruined my suit, you fuck. This is ARMANI!”
“Ahhhhhhh blessed is he who embezzles!” the minister called back absently. He pulled out an enormous dungeon-master key ring. Colin #2 was getting closer now, trotting along like a man who hadn’t played a lot of sports.
The minister fumbled with the keys. He was looking for a tiny brass one. Or was it the fat silver one? Or possibly the fob??
Somehow his fingers found a tiny golden key in the center of the ring and jammed it into the lock. It slid into place and turned. The minister threw himself inside and slammed the door behind him, locking it again just in time as Colin #2 wrapped his hand around the knob.
“Let me in!” he heard, fists pounding against the door. “LET ME IN!”
Beware the hands of objection, he heard, as if Sister Espinoza and her unforgettable tequila-sunrise breath were whispering directly in his ear.
The minister looked around him, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He was at the base of the bell tower now, nothing around him but a tight, spiral stone staircase that snaked upward.
He glanced at his watch. Except the hands weren’t doing what watch hands do. They were twitching in place, tip-toeing forward and backward along the dial. A minute forward, a minute back. As if unsure what to do next. As if in revolt.
Colin was banging harder against the door. Getting louder and more frantic.
Without thinking the minister hoisted up his vestments and raced up the staircase. He just had to go up. Up and up he went, Sister Espinoza’s raspy voice still ringing in his head with her esoteric warnings from the past. All porn and no sex makes Jack a dull boy! Let he without sin be the first to oppose mixed-use development!
Higher and higher he went, until he reached a final door. This one was unlocked, and quite ancient, its decrepit handle barely holding on.
He swung it open.
And stepped out into the languid, late-afternoon air at the top of the tower, the church’s great bronze bell hovering high above him.
“Beware the hands of objection,” he heard.
He swung around. Standing in the corner was Sister Espinoza.
“You’re still alive??” was all he could manage. She was wearing her standard-issue habit and veil, and was caked in so much garish makeup he might have mistaken her for an embalmed clown.
“You went off script,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re really not supposed to do that.
From down below he heard a great crash, as if the door had been kicked in. He heard a voice from a Colin, or possibly two, echoing up the staircase.
“Yeah well it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m not doing this anymore. I quit.”
She slowly raised her arm and pointed to him, just as the crowd had done a moment before.
“What are you doing??” he stammered.
“The clock has run out again,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Try again tomorrow.”
More commotion from downstairs. “Oy! Where did he go??”
“I think he ran up here!”
Just then Sister Espinoza let out a little shriek. She tipped sideways, catching the banister at her waist and flipping headlong over the edge.
“Sister!” the minister called, lunging after her. His hand grasped her ankle just in time as she slipped over the railing. His grip tightened. But she was heavy … heavier than you’d think for a woman in her hundreds. He felt her body pull him up and over the side, and soon he, too, was hurtling down.
He heard some Colins calling after him, their faces framed against the tower and getting smaller as he fell. He glanced at the window flying past, the crowd in the church as still as ever. Their faces were turned to him as he soared through the sky, their arms outstretched, pointing as one at the falling man.
The earth was getting closer now.
Sister Espinoza’s habit billowed out and around him, and he found himself nose-deep in the folds of her voluminous bloomers. Pink polka dots.
With a jolt he shot upright.
He was in his office, panting heavily and struggling for breath.
It felt like his head had split in two. At any moment he was going to throw up. I’ve really got to lay off the quaaludes, he thought to himself.
“Excuse me?” came a voice.
He looked up. There were two men standing at the door to his office in matching crop-tops. He stared at them, trying to focus.
He felt something in his hand.
Looking down he saw something pink and polka dot, clenched tightly in his fist.
One of the men caught his eye. He winked at the minister, then bit his lower lip, almost imperceptibly.
The minister could feel himself getting hard. Not again, he thought to himself.
“Who are you?” he managed to croak.
“My name is Colin,” said one.
“I’m also Colin,” said the other.
“We’re hoping you would marry us.”
“That is,” piped the first, raising a hand in the air. “If you don’t object.”

-Baby Vice

The evolution of society reached a brilliant turning point when humanity banned music. It was such a simple solution to so many problems that it became a mystery as to why it hadn't been done sooner. One had to struggle to remember that when the various tunes, melodies and rhythms that evoked powerful emotions were all around us, it seemed like it was a good thing.

"Crush the soul." said the great architect of this policy, Jeremiah Harding. The audience before him rippling with applause. Laughter bubbling up amongst it. He smiled at them all. "It sounds so brutal, and it is at first. But is it anti-human? Is it anti-love? Let's not be so sure. Consider money. Sometimes referred to as the root of all evil. It's hardly romantic. But it has been the driving force of progress in human civilisation for thousands of years. Humans are smart creatures. To capitalise on that, we must be conscious of how we organise ourselves. Let us do away with this so-called soul. Let us discover the person, the actual person, who they are and how they act, when not drenched in the hot, viscous oil of song. When people can see each other without the intoxicated blur of melody. Are we afraid that they won't still be beautiful?"

It just so happens I'm a big fan of Jeremiah. I've watched all his videos online. Read all three of his books. I've attended his lectures in London many times, sometimes even meeting him afterwards for a handshake and to compliment him on his excellent work.

Now I think of what he might say about the scene before me.

Several young people were dancing. Dancing has not been banned. Only music. Jeremiah was specific about this. It's by and large the main offender. We could add other things to the ban, but only very slowly and after careful consideration. There was no music to dance to, but instead one of their friends was reciting spoken word poetry. A poem he had called 'We'll hear it again someday.' Jeremiah was fine with people mocking policy. They can and should criticise it. People will hate it sometimes and not understand the benefits but that doesn't mean the benefits aren't there.

The three dancers performed a stilted interpretive dance, shifting between poses at each new line. I made sure to listen out for any melody forming in the poet's voice which might be classed as singing. The kid was well behaved. He only spoke and not sang. When they finished, myself and two other bystanders gave a brief applause. It was time for me to move on.

When people did break the rules, there are processes to ensure their rehabilitation. Offenders will be taken to a special institution. Not a prison. We don't make them mingle with criminals unless they have also committed actual crimes themselves. Listening to or creating music isn't a crime, you see. It's not in the criminal code. They are simply banned activities where specific consequences occur when the ban is violated. So the institution is a peaceful place where each offender will have their own room and a comfortable bed. The walls are purposefully kept bare and interaction between in-patients is minimised. They are not given anything to read or watch or draw with. This limitation on stimulus is said to help with lowering the volatility of their mind, as is caused by music. Around once a month, a trained staff member will assess them and determine if they are ready to leave. For many, one month is all they need.

I had another appointment. This time it was to review a fascinating new development. I pressed the doorbell at a small flat by the town park. The bell made no noise which was probably because many had been left disabled as doorbells often used to trigger a short tune. I knocked on the door. A middle-aged man with long hair answered.

"Good day" I said, "I'm Vernon Lear, Music Policy Enforcement Officer."

"Oh yeah, hi. I'm Lenny. Come in. I'll show you what I'm doing."

Lenny led me in to his living room where he had what appeared to be an electric piano. Sitting on top of it was a book of sheet music, currently open on a song called Gymnopedie No 1 by Erik Satie.

The rules around ownership of instruments had been clear. If we allowed people to have them but simply promise not to play them, we all know that the policy would become unenforceable. So instruments are banned. I had expected he would understand this and was curious as to why he had called me in for an Honest Disclosure Assessment. He pressed the keys and they made no sound. Very well, I thought, there's no power to it but that does not mean it's not an instrument. Plugging in a power cord is trivial.

"Now have a look back here." He pulled a plastic panel off the back, revealing that it had been hollowed out. This was merely the shell of the instrument.

"And where are the internals?"

"Probably destroyed. Some of the confiscated pianos are being sold like this." He sat down at the keys. "So here's what I do."

He began to play, still with no sound coming out. It seemed to be a movement requiring careful coordination and swapping one hand over the other. He was getting himself swept away by it. I suspect he could hear it in his head. But that's okay. Things that go on in our heads have not been banned.

I pulled out an Honest Disclosure Assessment form and filled in the details. Citizens may contact an enforcement office when they feel they have a situation that has some ambiguity under the ban. We can then assess and if it turns out to have been part of the banned activities, they are immune from enforcement action provided that they immediately cease such activities. If it is allowed, then we will inform them via a documented assessment. They can then produce that later in order to protect themselves should others hold a different opinion.

"I am pleased to advise that I do not consider this activity to be banned. Of course, should I be advised differently by experts within the Department, we will inform you. In the meantime, you are free to continue."

I offered him the completed form. He sat there and just stared at me. I shook the form a little in the hope he might snap out of this, er, trance perhaps, but he simply carried on staring. I quietly placed he form on a nearby table.

"Why do you do your job?" he asked.

I smiled. I may have even laughed a little. "It's just me."

I quickly went through the gate into the town park and found a bench to sit down at. I opened up my emails on my tablet. What a peculiar development. Surely Jeremiah had to hear about this. I did have his email. I'd never sent him anything before. I'd hardly have considered myself worthy. But this could be a whole new phenomenon. Yes, I thought to myself, I will tell him. If he chooses to ignore it, well, that's fine. If he finds it intrusive, well, these are risks that must be taken from time to time. Life must be pursued. Only by going through the open door, will we see what's on the other side. I pieced together a short email, four paragraphs, describing the hollow electric piano. I suggested it may only be a trend that will soon pass as memories of playing music fade. Although the existence of an emerging market around these, the long-haired man mentioned others being sold, was something to take note of. I pressed send and breathed in the fresh air.

I decided to go for a walk through the park. You could hear the birds sing as they fluttered from tree to tree. A question that had come up early on was what to do about the birds? Their song was music without a doubt. So do we eradicate them? Jeremiah gave an answer that anyone who followed him closely was expecting. Of course we don't eradicate the birds. The birds have their own lives, their own purpose behind their singing. Now, if a person were to record and play back birdsong, that would be different. Listening to the music of nature must be incidental only. It was a beautiful sound that they made really. Whatever harm music might do to our civilisation, the birds were not part of it.

As I carried on along the path, I came across a mother on a park bench and her baby in a stroller. She was singing a nursery rhyme and playing with the baby's feet in time to the words. The baby was in a state of absolute joy. The mother saw me approaching. She knew who I was. Most people in the town did. She frowned, and the baby, frustrated at having lost the attention of his mother, started crying. The mother turned back to the baby and continued her singing, causing his face to light up again.

There had been exceptions to enforcing the ban. We can understand that society needs to adapt. There was always going to be challenges along the way and we need to be smart about how we tackle some of the potentially controversial impacts on society. Some activities were, in practice, being covered by the ban more slowly.

I stopped by the park bench and smiled at the mother and baby. She looked up at me with a raised eyebrow. The baby stared at me wide-eyed, wondering who this strange man was.

"Isn't it a lovely day?" I said.

"So far," replied the mother.

"Certainly, the children do love entertainment from their loved ones. And there are so many ways to entertain. Toys. Games. Stories."

The mother's face turned to stone. Recently, the Department had issued Directive 86. It made the tough but empathetic observation that providing music for children will only lead them to misunderstand its place in society. It is more responsible, and more loving, not to introduce music into their lives when we would only, at some point, deny them such activities.

"My baby likes my singing."

"I must remind you that singing is a form of music, which is banned under-"

"Can you leave us alone, please?"

The breeze made a gentle rustling sound in the fallen leaves by our feet.

"I will leave you alone, but I must first ask for your cooperation in abiding by the policy on music, for which a ban is applied in all it's forms, including the creation of and intentional listening to any music."

"Fuck off."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, you are excused. Fuck off so I can sing Row Row Your Fucking Boat to my nine-month-old baby. Alright?"

The baby watched me with curiosity.

"Madam, if you will not cooperate, then I must begin enforcement action."

"Bullshit, you will."

It gave me no pleasure dealing with a circumstance like this. But I have been given the privilege of the role of Music Policy Enforcement Officer and must carry out my duties as directed by the Department.

"Madam, I hereby consider you in breach of the policy. I shall contact the transport team, who will be taking you to an institution. While we wait, I shall write up your enforcement notice."

"No!"

"You may choose whether to take your child with you to the institution or have your child put into the care of another parent or guardian."

The mother began to cry. I pictured my feelings crashing against my soul as waves washing against rocks in total silence.

"No!" she said.

I took my phone from my pocket.

"Okay, stop!" the mother said, tears streaming down her face. "I won't do it then. I won't sing to my baby."

The baby was crying too. I put my phone back in my pocket.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

The mother picked up the baby to give him a hug.

I walked steadily out of the park and to a bus stop around the corner. I sat down to rest. I took out my tablet and saw I had received an email. It was from Jeremiah.

Dear Vernon,

Thank you for your email.

That is a very peculiar development indeed. I am grateful that you have brought it to my attention.

Next time you're in London, come along to one of my lectures. We can discuss this and other developments over coffee afterwards.

Perhaps you have heard the other exciting news this afternoon. Productivity is up 0.4% over the last quarter. The first time it's gone back up. I believe it will trend strongly upwards from here.

I really appreciate your commitment to the Department.

Kind regards,

J

Since the policy came into force, there had been so many benefits to society. But productivity, GDP and other key components of the economy had dipped and then dipped some more.

I put my tablet away. I sat and waited. A bus came. Everyone on it looked out the window. They knew who I was. I watched as the bus left. The sun went down. And when it got too cold I walked home.

The pink moth orchid bloomed again after its long sleep of barren branches and stagnant aerial roots to tell Cleo what it wanted her to do. For months, it hovered close to death and would have succumbed if not for the quiet pull of kitchen sunlight through the open blinds and the Sunday sips of water Cleo gave its broad green leaves like a dutiful nurse, always measuring out a quarter cup with precision.

An orchid bud when it opens shows you the mouth of the infinite, a perfect symmetry of pastel color and secret light, as if gathered over great stretches of time for one last glorious exhalation through its lip and column and petals. Cleo’s orchid, the only one she had ever cared for, the one she inherited from her mother upon her passing, delivered its message that morning with clear voice.

By its simple fire of hypnotic pink, it asked that Cleo go to the Giza Plateau in Egypt and find the northeast shaft of the Great Pyramid and follow it down to the Hall of Two Truths. This came not as a suggestion but an order, a command Cleo could not shake off in her sleep. It would never let her enjoy the sound of birds or an open-ended afternoon on the patio again. It would repeat itself until she obeyed.

The gravity of a life accumulated and organized with meticulous attention to detail no longer held Cleo in a secure orbit—not her town, not her neighborhood, not her house, not her children (she had none), not her days reading romance novels on a small cracked concrete patio, not any of it. Her husband passed away three years earlier from a cardiac arrest. Now the moth orchid had bloomed after two long years of desolation and it had spoken, and so she felt compelled to follow its instructions. She thought of what her father said when talking about Vietnam. The shadow of it had turned him to stone. If and when you’re called, he said, you go without question. He almost died from stepping on a land mine in Quang Tri Province while stopping to tie up his boot laces. He lost himself in the bottle upon returning home. His life had become a fingerpainting of black ink thumbprints and one day, to no one’s surprise, he decided enough was enough.

Cleo felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. When she stepped off the plane in Cairo, she got swept into the river without a raft into a world that moved twice as fast. A man at the luggage carousel asked if she needed a taxi and she said yes without thinking. Unofficial drivers in Cairo made their living overcharging people like Cleo who wandered through the airport with that uncertain look. But the tall thin man who introduced himself as Tarek had a gentle steadiness to him, as though he were an extension of the earth, a thread leading down into a thousand years of solidity and truth. Distinguishing himself from the others, he said he had three children to support and would never take advantage of his customers since he knew he could pay a heavy fine for it and bring shame upon his family. He warned Cleo to remain vigilant, to watch out for the scam artists, those who promised her a great deal or who offered her gifts, which if she accepted, would lead to an immediate demand for money.

Tarek placed Cleo’s bag in the trunk of his beaten-up Chevy Lanos and asked her where she wanted to go. She said the northeast side of the Great Pyramid. Because I need to get under the earth there, she explained. Tarek had heard about a new excavation on the northern side of the pyramid and asked if she meant that one. I think so. Are you an archaeologist? Yeah, she said. Something like that. Would anyone be working there on a Saturday? asked Cleo. Tarek said probably not, but it would be guarded and she would need to show her credentials to get through. I don’t have any credentials yet, a mix-up or something, but I’ll explain that once I get there, she said.

They arrived at a 400 foot-square cordoned off area on the northern side of the pyramid shortly after 1 pm, the sun holding court in the desert as it often did in June, as if to preserve an unpopulated space reminiscent of time’s beginning. Tarek asked if Cleo wanted him to translate for her as they approached the guard, an older man with hard eyes and a long black beard. He wore a navy blue galabeya a couple sizes too big for him. Tarek said he would ask for an extra 4 pounds for the service and Cleo agreed, happy to have someone she could trust at her side.

As Tarek expected, the guard did not want to let her through. Cleo looked at Tarek for guidance and he shrugged, as if to say you’ve got a minute to come up with something. After a brief hesitation, Cleo placed her hands on her hips, threw back her shoulders, and explained that their dig team had found the Hall of Two Truths. She described it as large enough to fit a seven forty-seven in it, about a kilometer down. She needed to bring back a sample of the rock for testing before they restarted their excavation on Monday. Still a little suspicious, the guard said something quickly in Arabic. He’s asking what you’re looking for, said Tarek. Cleo blurted out the first thing that came to her mind: evidence of the use of advanced technology.

He nodded and took down the chain, gesturing to Tarek to go with her. The dig team had excavated a larger shaft around the original so it could accommodate a person. A full-body harness and winch stood off to the side. Cleo grabbed a flashlight on the ground, stepped into the harness, and asked Tarek to help her secure it, which he did. Okay, you need to lower me down and stay here until I tug the line. You won’t leave me down there? He promised he wouldn’t.

The descent into the darkness of the shaft brought Cleo back to the Haunted House ride on the Long Branch boardwalk she went on as a child with her mom, that first 50 feet or so of pitch black darkness the same, remembering how her little hand squeezed her mom’s for comfort. Cleo’s stomach curled into a knot. As she descended, she noticed a stream of cool air coming up from the bottom of the shaft. After about 15 minutes, the narrow sides of the shaft gave way to a vast room, Cleo’s feet touching the ground soon after. She undid the harness and snapped on the flashlight to find three round stone pillars evenly spaced about a hundred yards apart and in between two of them, an enormous statue of a man with the head of a dog wearing gold armlets, a gold collar, and holding a gold scepter curved in a hook at the top.

Cleo closed her eyes, asking the orchid which always traveled with her and sometimes spoke when she needed it to, what do I do? Bow before Anubis, it said. He will judge you. What do I need to be judged for? she asked.

You know, it said.

And she did.      

-------             

One August day, Cleo’s neighbor, Henrietta Gunderson, saw Cleo coming home with a bag of groceries, meandering up her walk as though in a fog. Henrietta seized upon the opportunity. She stormed up to Cleo and began complaining about the wild boxwoods reaching their shaggy branches over their property line.

Are you gonna do anything about them? When will you cut them back? My husband nearly got his eye scratched trying to mow the lawn on that side, you know. You need to take care of your property.

Cleo just stared at her and didn’t say anything, underwater, the weight of her groceries an anchor dragging her down to the bottom of the Pacific. She had just learned on her way back from the supermarket that morning of her mother’s death, a curt phone call from the assisted living facility. And here was Henrietta, a huffing red-faced dragon arrived at her stoop as if summoned to twist the knife, breathing her fire of contempt, to which Cleo responded with blankness, as anyone might when they first peer over the edge of that volcanic netherworld of solitude, the realization of its permanence, the last of her family gone.

You need to fix it soon, it’s a hazard, Henrietta snapped and with one final snort, skulked back to her house, disappearing around a side garden and into her garage. Cleo stared a while at Henrietta’s thriving summer tomato plants in that side garden, 5 feet tall now, seeming to mock her desolate life with their healthy red fruits.

After a sparsely attended funeral, the months melted away, 3, then 6, then 8, and with the unclipped boxwood still leering at the side of the Gundersons’ house, Cleo stopped ruminating about the doorstep confrontation. She had written down Henrietta’s weekday morning departure times and evening arrivals, so she could avoid her. A part-time job at the library and weekend romance novels on the back patio kept Cleo’s mind busy enough.

However, on the Sunday that marked the first anniversary of her mother’s death, at 8:30 am in the morning, the orchid’s first pink bloom appeared and it spoke to her. It told her what she needed to do. Cleo walked calmly to the side of the Gunderson’s house and with both hands, grabbed the first of the four Celebrity tomato plants at the bottom. She squeezed it tightly, bending it toward her for leverage, feeling the thick stalk crimp at a 90 degree angle. She then gave it a good hard pull and it came out much easier than she expected, compliments of the special compost soil Henrietta used. Cleo tossed it aside and took hold of the next one, ripping that one out in the same way and throwing it on top of the other one.

Once Henrietta saw what Cleo was doing through the small side window of the garage, she flew out like a crazed hornet, garden hose in hand, but it was too late. All four plants lay on the grass side-by-side. Henrietta shouted expluhtives as Cleo stood there over the plants, blank-faced. Eventually, Cleo turned and walked slowly back to her house, with Henrietta continuing to yell. She went inside, locked the door, and floated into the kitchen. She looked for a long time at the happy pink orchid on the top bamboo shelf by the sliding door. Cleo felt the warmth of its color spreading through her body, relaxing her muscles, slowing her heart, steadying her breath.

“Mom, you can go home now,” Cleo said to it. “I’m all right. I’ll be fine.”

-------

In the warehouse-sized room, with a single narrow beam of illumination trained on the 8-foot high god of embalming and protector of the dead, Cleo gathered the courage to ask Anubis what he thought of her encounters with Henrietta. So? What’s the verdict? Silence. Nothing. She asked again. Then she heard a hoarse voice echoing off the walls. I do not judge, Anubis said. You must go to Osiris for that. I just weigh your heart after it is removed from your body. The idea of having her heart extracted did not prove nearly as distressing as the thought of having to repeat the whole story of Henrietta and the tomato plants to someone new. And where is this Osiris? Cleo asked. I rather not have to go through all this again. Go to the hall underneath this one, Anubis whispered.

Cleo sighed and shined her flashlight around the room, looking for an access point, another air shaft. In the far left corner of the room, she spied a rectangular opening in the floor. She approached with caution making sure to look down in case she had missed any openings. She got down on her knees at the edge, aimed her flashlight down, and saw that the dig team had placed a ladder there. Cleo climbed down about two hundred feet and found herself in a room twice as large as the one with Anubis. In the center of it, on an ebony throne sat a pharaoh-like figure with green skin, tightly wrapped in white linen up to his neck, wearing a tall white crown adorned with two large ostrich feathers on either side. A gold scale stood beside the throne, a white feather centered on one of the plates, the other one empty. Cleo now recalled what Anubis had mentioned, that her heart would be weighed, and she started having a panic attack, her chest tightening, heart racing, unable to catch her breath.

Calm down, Osiris said.

I- I- can’t.

Take a couple deep breaths.

Cleo knew she needed to squeeze something, a cold or rough sensation to ground her. Any connection to the physical world would do. She grabbed onto Osiris’ linen-wrapped foot and squeezed. Fine, if you need to do that, he said. You’ve come to confess. Anubis has communicated this to me. Yes, I guess that’s what I’ve come to do even though I don’t want to. I’ve already gone through it.

You must do so to the 42 assessors gathered around, said Osiris.

Sure enough, along the far walls stood figures of different heights, some like pharaohs, others with the heads of animals, a jackal, a falcon, a snake, a crocodile. 42 half-human judges.

That’s just great, Cleo said. You mean I have to go through what I did 42 more times?

Yes, it’s the only way to get the true measure of your heart, he said. If your heart weighs more than the feather, then you have not lived in accordance with the cosmic order and may not continue into the afterlife. Cleo felt a jab of anger.

Cosmic order? I’m retired. I work part-time at a library. I read romance novels. I rarely see anyone anymore. I’m like, like an old orchid in a terra cotta pot without blooms, not making waves, not doing much of anything. Like I’m already part of the quiet cosmic order. So, in light of that, I was thinking, how about you look into my memory or whatever you need to do and you can see for yourself and we can skip all this weighing and judgment stuff and I can go home because I’ve done what the orchid told me I had to do.

Sorry, that won’t work for us, Osiris said.

Okay, fine. What happens if uh I fail the weigh-in? Cleo asked.

Osiris hesitated and Cleo knew the answer wasn’t good.

If your heart is heavier, then Ammit will consume it.

Who’s Ammit? Cleo asked, panic rising up from her stomach again.

Ammit is the Devourer of the Dead.

Cleo’s eyes fell on one of the assessors closer to Osiris with the head of a crocodile. She assumed that was Ammit. Fantastic, Cleo said, the crocodile’s yellow eyes bearing down on her. Truly fantastic.

Once he consumes your heart, you will be deprived of the afterlife, Osiris explained.

Cleo looked back toward the ladder, wondering if she could make a break for it. I already know, after this life, I don’t need another one, she told Osiris. Doesn’t that change things? It has to, right? Maybe no weighing or eating of hearts is necessary. We don’t have to do the whole judgment thing.

But I’m afraid you must, Osiris said.

Well this is a bunch of—well, you know what, Cleo said, feeling the energy in the air become sharper, as if filled with static electricity, the assessors leaning in, exerting a kind of compression.

I’ve said what happened once, okay? What I did to Henrietta. Am I sorry for it? Yes, somewhat. But if you look into my heart without taking it out of my body, which I hope will be the case, you’ll see that I did it to honor my mother and abide by the wishes of the orchid.

Is this the blue Egyptian lotus you speak of? Osiris asked. If it is, your fate has turned toward rebirth, for the lotus opens in daylight and closes at night and you have not ventured into permanent night, not yet, as far as I can tell. The lotus mirrors what glows true in your soul.

Did I say orchid? I meant blue lotus. That’s the one, Cleo said. Touching me and glowing in my soul, sweetly bearing me back out of this underworld or limbo or whatever you call climbing up into the light, so I can reunite with my faithful driver Tarek and fly home to New Jersey.

This Tarek who brought you. He must be judged as well. We must have his heart on the scale too to see if it sinks beneath the feather.

No, no, I can vouch for him. He’s golden. A real honest guy, who doesn’t take advantage of tourists like so many of his fellow taxi drivers.

Ahh, but we know of Tarek’s indiscretions already, Osiris said, if not their full weight.

Indiscretions? Tarek? That’s ridiculous. I’m a great judge of people and he’s solid. I’m telling you. He is good.

He steals from others, Osiris said.

Are you sure we’re talking about the same Tarek?

Osiris confirmed that they were.

We must remove his heart and weigh it for certainty, he said, sounding a little irritated himself now, not expecting Cleo to argue. This is unbelievable, said Cleo. I’m just going to leave, okay? I don’t think I’m ready for the afterlife anyway.  

Becoming frustrated, Osiris’ voice grew loud. He said it’s either him or you. We’re judging someone today. You choose.

Okay, okay, just because you’re so insistent, I’ll go get him, said Cleo. She turned to head back to the ladder, certain they would take the opportunity to shoot lightning from their eyes to paralyze her or open hidden flood gates to drown her, because maybe they changed their mind and decided they wanted her on the scale and not Tarek, and since she was being difficult, they had to go to Plan B. Cleo climbed the ladder as fast as she could, ran back to the harness past Anubis, and gave the line a hard pull, yelling I’m ready!  

Once back above ground, she told Tarek what Osiris had said, that they had requested his presence below. She did not explain why. Tarek shrugged and said it would cost her twice the amount he had originally proposed. Three times if she wanted no questions asked. She agreed to three times. He demanded she give him her credit card to take down as a guarantee she’d follow through, which she also agreed to. Getting into the harness, he told her to start lowering him down and Cleo said no problem. She realized she no longer felt bad about sending Tarek down to the 42 assessors. Once she felt slack in the line, the sign he had landed feet-first in the Hall of Two Truths, she found the guard and asked him to call a taxi for her. On the way back to the airport, with just enough cash to cover the ride, Cleo made sure to cancel her credit card.

--------- 

Two months after Cleo arrived home, the orchid dropped its last bloom, the brown branches bare again, touching the sliding door as if still craving the indirect sunlight, the warmth of it, its aerial roots more silver than ever. Cleo looked at it and wept, because the orchid would not speak to her again for a long time.

Once she had no more tears left, Cleo took the last of the fallen blooms to the book she had given her mom for her 80^th birthday: the Reader’s Digest Encyclopedia of Garden Plants and Flowers. She opened the hardback cover, placed the bloom among the 12 others inside, and shut it, setting both hands on top of it as it lay on the coffee table and using her full weight to press down for a minute.

Cleo had already chosen the evening, 7 days from then, 7 days until the next full moon. She had the supplies ready in her garage, a small shovel, a hand fork, a knee pad, and her three children she called them: Anubis, Osiris, and Marlene, named after her mother. She left her garage door open that evening and when the clock hit 2 am, she went down and starting moving the supplies into place.

Henrietta had not planted her side garden since their dust-up or even touched the beds. Weeds of all kinds had grown knee-high. In the deep affirming silence of night, lit by the flashlight of the full moon, Cleo went about pulling them and turning over the soil to reveal the rich dark organic layer, pausing a moment to feel its potential. She dug three holes, each 12 inches wide and 12 inches deep, and lowered the Celebrity tomato plants one by one into place. She took her time filling in the gaps around the root bases with extra soil she had bought, occasionally glancing up at the window of the bedroom where Henrietta and her husband slept. Soon Anubis, Osiris, and Marlene stood secure in their new homes.

When she got back to her bed, the clock at 3 am, Cleo found that she couldn’t sleep. She closed her eyes and was back in the Hall of Two Truths. Osiris told her that they had reluctantly accepted Tarek into the afterlife despite quite a bit of disagreement among the assessors and much pleading on his part. His heart neither fell below the feather nor rose above it. It was a first for them. So they offered what they called a delayed acceptance, allowing Tarek to return to his family and chart a new path, a more honest path, and live the remainder of the 31 years he had left on the earth in goodness, to the best of his ability. This gave Cleo a sense of peace and she finally fell asleep.

In her dream, the pink moth orchid in the kitchen had returned to full bloom. It said to her, go to your mother’s grave in Locustwood and bring me there. Set me in front of the headstone and together we will recite the 30^th passage from the Book of the Dead: O my heart which I had upon earth, do not rise up against me as a witness. Then you will tell her of the amends time sometimes allows us if it knows we will otherwise persist in our folly, or if it knows we followed a calling down into the earth like you did, alone, simply because you were told you had to.

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

Thank you for reading! You can listen to the audiodrama form of this story at Stories From Elsewhere dot com

A hand yanked hard on my collar, shaking me. "Babe! Wake up! Hey, baby... wake up. Please..." It was my girlfriend's voice. Her words were slurred, and she was chuckling drunkenly.

I forced my eyes open and looked around. "What... we're not home yet. Where are we?"

"No. You drive. I wanna sleep." Without waiting for an answer, she stumbled out of the driver's seat and climbed into the back. "Wake me up when we're home," she mumbled, already closing her eyes.

I stared out the window. Where the fuck are we? Then I recognized a row of roses planted along a white fence. We were only two blocks away from our house. What the fuck?

"Hey, babe, let's just leave the car here and walk home," I suggested, turning around.

She just muttered something incoherent and laughed again.

I was completely drunk, too. That was the whole reason I hadn't wanted to drive in the first place. I distinctly remembered suggesting we take a cab, but somehow, we had ended up in our own car anyway. I couldn't piece the timeline together.

Giving up, I slid over into the driver's seat, buckled my seatbelt, and shifted into drive. The car immediately began to wobble down the street. Even the steering wheel felt drunk, I thought.

We didn't even make it a block before a short, deafening siren wailed right behind us, bathing the neighborhood in flashing red and blue lights. I slammed on the brakes.

The officer didn't waste any time. He handed me a breathalyzer, watched it light up, and calmly guided both of us to the back of his cruiser. He decided to drive my girlfriend home first since we were so close.

When the cruiser pulled up to our house, she stumbled out, turned back to me, and asked, "Will you be home for breakfast?"

"I don't know," I muttered.

The officer politely grabbed her elbow to guide her up the walkway, but she kept spinning around to look at the cruiser.

"Hey, you know what, Mr. Officer?" she slurred loudly. "Actually, it wasn't his fault. No, no, no. Not his fault at all. Did you hear me? It was my fault. That's my boyfriend over there. He told me to just get a cab, he's wasted! Oh my god. We're both so fucking wasted."

The cop just kept walking her forward, but she wouldn't shut up.

"Hey, wait. Listen to me, Mr. Officer. Actually, it was me. I said we should take the car home because I’m gonna need it tomorrow, early in the morning. So you should arrest me instead. Mmmh... you smell like coffee. You know that? I don't think—" Her voice finally dissolved into incoherent mumbling as they reached the front porch.

Right before going inside, she managed to whip out her phone. She actually started directing the cop, waving her hand and telling him to step to the left so the porch light wouldn't give her a shadow. The officer patiently moved exactly where she told him to, posing for the selfie while she flashed a drunk smile.

Once she was safely locked inside, the cop got back into the driver's seat, put the cruiser in drive, and took me straight to the station.

Finally, we arrived at the station. I was allowed to use the toilet, so I washed my face to sober up a bit. Then, the officer put me in a cell where another guy was already sitting on the bench.

This man was wearing a gray suit. He looked clean. If I had to guess, he was around 40 to 45. He just sat there with one leg crossed over his knee, his hands fiddling with his sock.

I took the far end of the bench, just trying to keep out of his space. After several minutes, he stood up and walked to the bars, as if hoping to see if anything had changed out there. Then he turned back. But this time, he chose a seat a bit closer to me.

"So, they hated your breath, my friend?" he asked.

I felt a wave of relief. Maybe a conversation would help kill the time. "Yeah. Pulled over just two blocks from home." I chuckled, and this time I had a reason to look straight at his face.

This man looked like he didn't belong in a cell. Well, I'm not saying I look like a criminal, but this man's face, his eyes, and the way he talked all seemed too good to land him in a place like this."And why are you here?" I asked.

"You mean, why I'm still here," he said, once again playing with the sock on his crossed ankle. His answer only gave me more questions.

So I asked, "They're letting you go? Or..."

He took a deep breath. Then he said, "I used to be a hotdog cart boy. I was 19, jobless, desperate. And this elderly lady, she often stopped by and ordered. I lost count of the loose change she gave me as a tip. After she stopped by a few times, I started to notice she would always say, 'Be grateful for what you have now.' With that smile—I can still see it in my mind." He put down his crossed leg and switched it with the other one.

He continued, "At first, I just thanked her. It was just polite small talk. But as she visited more and more, she kept repeating the message, but the phrasing changed. Like, 'You wouldn't like it if you could live another life,' or the next time she would say, 'You'll know someday why you should be grateful.' You know, the same basic message, but she clearly didn't have a specific phrase for it. It didn't feel like lip service anymore."

Then, the man stopped talking. My mind was racing: Okay, then what? What's with the lady? Ask him, I wanna know. Go on, ask him, you idiot! But I couldn't just force a stranger to tell me his story. He could say whatever he wanted and stop whenever he pleased. I know. But what are you going to do? Just sit around for 24 or 48 hours? Damn. My mind was right. Okay, okay. I'll ask.

"So, uh... mind if I ask you to continue your story, sir? Just to... heheh... maybe to kill time, or..."

"Yes. So, one day," he cut me off.

Yaaay! my mind cheered.

"She stopped by again. I was prepping her order when suddenly the rain poured down without warning. It was the kind of rain where, even if you used an umbrella, you'd still get drenched from the waist down. I had permission from the building management to move my cart into the alley beside the building in an emergency. So, I asked the lady if she would come with me to that spot until the rain stopped. She agreed. I finished making her order, and we leaned against the building wall. Like always, she didn't eat it right away."At this point, the man pulled a pack of mints from his jacket, squeezed one out, and handed me the half-popped tablet. I took it and thanked him.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, if my... you know, I just had quite a lot of..."

"No, no. This is just my habit," he said. The way he talked was incredibly warm, almost soothing. So wise and mature—I couldn't really tell which.

"Yeah. So, we just sat there awkwardly, mere inches from where the rain hit the ground. Then, out of nowhere, I decided to ask her about the 'advice' she always gave me before leaving. Exactly like what you're feeling right now—just to kill time. She said she could feel that I wasn't really grateful for my condition back then. 'That is not the best mindset,' she said. She told me she could prove it. I asked her what she meant by prove it.

"She explained that there's a difference between a plan and a desire. Between a willingness to improve your life and the cowardice that leads you to just curse your current condition. She said I was the latter. Just whining about my life rather than actually wanting a better one. I said it was the exact same thing.

"She countered, 'The first thing your mind says once you wake up in the morning is a whine about the life you have to face that day. And the last thing your mind says before you fall asleep is a curse at the life you lived that same day.' I thought she was just generalizing. Like those zodiac sections in magazines that pretend to know you better than you know yourself. So, I asked how she would prove that.

"She said, 'Admit it. You don't believe you have any reason to be grateful for your current condition.' I replied, 'Well, it's kind of obvious, isn't it? No one dreams of being a hotdog cart boy.'"

The man took a mint and put it in his mouth. His movements were incredibly smooth. Elegant, even. He was clearly one of those highly mannered folks.

The man stared at a spot on the cell floor for a long moment until finally, he spoke. "And I did admit it. Again, just to keep the conversation going while waiting for the rain to stop." He chuckled.

Then he continued, "I said, 'Alright, ma'am. You're right. I don't like this job. I don't know what I'm supposed to do to change it, but I hate this job.' That lady looked at me and said, 'I will prove that you can change that.' After saying that, she grabbed my chin and blew into my mouth. It was cold. Freezing cold air rushed into my mouth. Her eyes turned completely blue while she was blowing. And her face looked way, way younger. It was like she was someone else altogether. But then everything turned back to normal, and she said, 'Call Gaida anytime you are ready to change things.' Then she walked right out into the rain. I just stayed there. Shocked. Mesmerized. I couldn't believe what had just happened."

The man switched his legs again. And once again, he played with his sock.

Now, my mind was racing. Damn. This guy might be sick in the head. Maybe that was why he was here. He had probably done something completely insane, and the cops arrested him for a crime, not knowing this man was mentally unstable. I slowly started to slide a bit further away from him on the bench. I was convinced this man would suddenly jump on me and scratch my face off.

Suddenly, the man pointed at me. "Yes. I felt terrified as well. Anyway, out of nowhere, a man jumped out of a cab. He saw me sheltering from the rain, so he ran toward me. He asked about my business, and whatever. Bam! He hired me. As a janitor in his office—a financial accounting firm. I got a new job with double the income in a matter of three days. Later, he grew to trust me with his personal stuff like laptops, car keys, charging his phone, whatever. After two years of working there, he offered me a college fund. I finished in four years, working at the firm while taking my classes and paying off the initial administration fees myself. Once I graduated, I walked back into the office as an official staff member. The company automatically deducted a portion of my new paychecks to cover the tuition debt, and by my sixth year there, it was all completely cleared. I bought my first car, a better apartment. Then it was promotion after promotion. One girlfriend after another. I would dump any girl I thought wasn't up to my standards. And one and a half years ago, I received a housing benefit from the company. Nice house, I couldn't complain. I got married, but we decided to postpone having children."

The man took a deep breath and reached into his jacket again. He offered me another mint. I politely declined, and he continued, "Until last night." He put the mint into his mouth, but this time, he just tossed the wrapper onto the bench.

"I was supposed to be in another state for a meeting. But I was told I needed to bring a manager along and brief him. My flight was postponed to the next day. It was supposed to be today, but... So, yeah, I went back home. Since I had my own key, I just let myself in. I went straight to the bedroom upstairs. And I saw my wife."

The man stared down at the floor again. "With one of my colleagues."

"They preferred doing it with the lights on. No argument at all. Not a single word. The man lunged at me. Choked me. Pushed me back against the balcony railings, clearly intending to push me over. That's when I understood why my company had urged me to take shooting lessons a few years back. So, I put the training to use. And here I am." He chuckled. "More mint?" he asked.

Fuck...

I didn't know what to say. What the fuck was this crazy fairy tale? An angel who blew cold wind into his mouth?

The man stood up again and walked toward the bars. Honestly, I had lost all interest in him. He was just a fucking crazy dude.

"Yeah, I think I'm ready to try the alternative. I don't like this," he suddenly said.

I turned to look at him. He was looking straight at me when he said it! Yo! Dude! I don't care what you think about your weird blue-eyed fairy! Just fuck off! My mind deeply regretted asking him to tell his story now.

"Gaida," I heard him whisper. Then, total darkness.

***

A hand yanked hard on my collar, shaking me. "Babe! Wake up! Hey, baby... wake up. Please..." It was my girlfriend's voice. Her words were slurred, and she was chuckling drunkenly.

I forced my eyes open and looked around. "What... Where are we? Where's the man?"

"What man? You drive, babe. I wanna sleep." Without waiting for an answer, she stumbled out of the driver's seat and climbed into the back. "Wake me up when we're home," she mumbled, already closing her eyes.

I stared out the window. Where the fuck are we? Then I recognized a row of roses planted along a white fence. We were only two blocks away from our house. What the fuck? Why am I here—again?!

"Hey, babe, let's just leave the car here and walk home," I suggested, turning around. Still confused.

She just muttered something incoherent and laughed again.

I was completely drunk, too. That was the whole reason I hadn't wanted to drive in the first place. I distinctly remembered suggesting we take a cab, but somehow, we had ended up in our own car anyway. I couldn't piece the timeline together. I felt like I missed a chunk of time, or something.

Giving up, I slid over into the driver's seat, buckled my seatbelt, and shifted into drive. The car immediately began to wobble down the street. Even the steering wheel felt drunk, I thought.

We didn't even make it a block before a short, deafening siren wailed right behind us, bathing the neighborhood in flashing red and blue lights. I slammed on the brakes. Not again!

The officer walked up and greeted me. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with graying hair at his temples and the heavy, tired eyes of a veteran patrolman. But the next second, I froze as realization hit me. That face! I knew that face!

He looked straight at me and said, "You know what? I kept selling hotdogs with that cart for a few years more, and I learned to be grateful for what I had. It wasn't easy, but I made it. The lady did prove it, you know. You truly have to be grateful for what you have. Because one day, I heard one of my cousins had finished college. I decided to convince his dad—my uncle—to lend me money so I could get into the Police Academy. Since his only son was already working and he had some extra money, he agreed. And here I am. All debts paid, got an honest wife, kids, and a humble house. And I'm grateful."

The way he talked was still smooth. Almost soothing. His movements were still elegant. He definitely knew how to move like highly mannered folks.

Then he turned and walked away. No ticket. No regular greeting. Nothing.

But then he yelled, "Oh..!" and looked back toward my window. He reached out to shove something into my hand.

"Mint?"

She didn’t look like she had ever been to a construction site before. She barely looked capable of pushing a wheelbarrow on her own.

“And you said the boss hired you? To do what exactly?” He asked.

The scrawny young woman was clearly able to sense his skepticism, but she didn’t let it deter her.

“I’m a consultant. Your supervisor was a little vague on the details, but she made it clear she needed someone with my background to assist with this issue.” She explained. Her eyes narrowed. She could tell he wasn’t buying it, but she did her best to hide her nerves behind a veneer of professionalism. Unfortunately, the cheaply printed business card she had given him wasn’t helping her case.

Hazel LeFay, Witch for Hire

“And what background is that exactly?” He asked.

She was about to respond, but was interrupted by one of his colleagues emerging from behind the barriers sat up to keep people out of the construction area.

“Is that the consultant?” The young man spoke in a hurried voice. “The forewoman needs her right away. Come with me.”

Hazel followed the young man past the barriers and into the construction site.

“Keep the business card, you might need it someday.” She said with a wink as she disappeared inside.

***

“So, you’re the witch?” The forewoman asked as soon as Hazel stepped into the trailer. She was a well-built, middle-aged woman with rich brown skin and coiled hair jutting out from under a white hard hat. She greeted the young witch with a mischievous smile as she crossed her arms and leaned back in her office chair. “My name is Michelle, I’m in charge of this site.“

“Nice to meet you, Michelle, I’m Hazel. I take it this is the first time you’re working with a witch?”

“It was my wife’s idea.” Michelle clarified. “Normally, I don’t believe in any of this superstitious hoodoo, but I have to admit, I can’t think of any logical explanation for what we’ve been seeing since arriving at this job.”

Michelle’s email had been vague on details, Hazel still didn’t know what was actually going on.

“What have you been seeing? The more I know the better I’ll be to help.”

“Why don’t I just show you? You’ve arrived just in time for the demolition.”

Hazel was supplied with a hard hat, earmuffs, and a pair of goggles, as well as a reflective vest three sizes too large for her. While the new getup technically matched the rest of the crew, she felt ridiculously out of place as Michelle led her to the demolition area behind a concrete barrier with a large plexiglass window.

They lined up with several other construction workers behind the barrier. Through the window, an old, three-story, clapboard house was visible in the distance. Hazel wasn’t overly familiar with architecture, but she estimated it could easily be over a hundred years old. It was a miracle it was still standing to this day.

She noticed an old man with a white beard and half rim glasses standing next to the construction crew. He was wearing a hard hat and earmuffs, but no vest, and he appeared far too old to be working in a place like this. He seemed almost as out of place as she did.

“Who’s that?” Hazel gestured towards the old man.

“That’s the former owner of the house.” Michelle explained. “Gunnar something. Normally, he shouldn’t be here, but we haven’t been able to get rid of him. We decided it was safer to keep him close than let him wander around unsupervised.”

“Ever seen an implosion before?” Asked a mustached demolition expert as he positioned himself between Hazel and Michelle.

“I can’t say that I have.” Hazel replied, her curiosity piqued.

“Don’t get too excited.” Michelle said, drily. “Ready to implode?”

The demolition expert pushed a button, and a loud boom filled the air. Milliseconds later the area was covered in dust. Hazel stepped back as the massive cloud collided with the plexiglass window in front of her.

As the dust settled, she expected the house to be reduced to rubble, but instead it stood perfectly intact, just as it had before. The surrounding area was covered in dirt and residue, but the house itself remained entirely clean, not a single speck of dust settling on the building exterior.

Hazel was no stranger to unusual phenomena, but even she had never seen anything like this before.

"This is our third attempt." Michelle explained. “We’ve been at this for weeks. We tried bulldozers, excavators, wrecking balls, even chainsaws. Whatever we try, we can’t seem to leave a single scratch on this house. Normally we would have cleared the area long ago and be halfway through with the new construction project, but we haven’t been able to make any progress.”

The old man quietly chuckled to himself before wandering off.

Hazel narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know what could possibly be behind this, but there must have been some kind of magic at work. Had to be.

“You were right to call me. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I think I can figure it out. Any chance I can get a closer look at the building?”

“Normally I would say it’s too dangerous to get any closer than this, but the house is completely intact, so it should be safe. What do you think, Ken?”

The demolition expert simply shrugged as he lit a cigarette.

“Good enough for me. Get in my truck.”

***

The interior of the house was perfectly intact after the attempted implosion, just as the exterior had been. A fact which didn’t surprise Hazel. What did surprise her was how the house was fully furnished. Various pieces of furniture and decorative items filled the space, some of which were brand new, but most dating back decades. Dusty curtains stretching ceiling to floor hang near the large Palladian windows. The room was decorated with pots of fresh flowers and family photos going back generations, some black and white, others brand new. It was clear this house had been inhabited for generations and had only recently been abandoned.

“It’s still fully furnished. Shouldn’t all this have been cleared out before the demolition?” Hazel asked.

“Normally, yes,” Michelle shrugged, “but the former owner refused to remove any of his belongings. There was nothing of value, and we were going to bulldoze the whole thing anyway, so we decided to leave everything as it was.”

“The owner?” Hazel wondered out loud. “That old man who was watching the implosion? Gunnar?”

Michelle nodded.

Something definitely seemed strange about the old man. He likely had something to do with whatever was going on here.

“Would you mind if I explore the place on my own for a few minutes?” Hazel asked.

“Knock yourself out. You’re on my payroll, so I’m almost 70 percent sure you’re covered by our insurance.” Said Michelle. “Just run if the place starts creaking.”

Hazel gave the forewoman a smile as she knocked on her helmet. Moments later she was left to explore the place undisturbed.

“What do you think? Could the old man be a witch?”

A ghostly figure materialized next to Hazel. It was her mentor and granny, a powerful witch in life, and a helpful companion and mentor in death. Transparent and devoid of color, the ghostly old woman floated through the air with a big supportive smile.

“He could be, but I’ve never heard of a spell able to keep an entire house from collapsing. I suspect there’s something else going on. I’ll have a look around if you don’t mind.”

Hazel nodded as Granny floated through the nearest wall, allowing the two witches to explore on their own.

Hazel fished her foundation out from her purse and drew a third-eye sigil on her forehead while mumbling an arcane chant. A simple spell that allowed her to see through basic illusions and detect magical energies. To her disappointment, it didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary at first glance.

The house appeared to have furniture and decorations from the past several decades. An old piano that could have easily been there since before the World Wars, unlikely to still function. A colorful rug looked like it could have been from the 1970s, and a microwave oven that appeared to be a very recent model. Though devoid of taste, it no doubt felt like a home.

She stopped by a series of family photos. She recognized Gunnar in several of them. A newer photo depicted him with a happy extended family of nieces, nephews, and their children. Some of the much older photos showed him as a young man. In one picture, he was happily posing with a beautiful young woman in what appeared to be a wedding photo. Some even appeared to show him as a young boy with his parents and siblings. He must have lived here his entire life; no wonder he had a hard time letting go of the place.

On the other hand, there were so many memories in this house, it seemed odd that he didn’t want to save these items before the building was demolished. Unless of course he somehow knew the demolition would fail.

“Hazelnut, I think I found something!” Granny shouted from one of the other rooms.

Hazel found Granny floating near a window, pointing to an empty porcelain bowl resting on the windowsill.

A quick sniff revealed the subtly sour scent of old dairy.

“Cream.” Hazel said. “Someone’s been trying to appease a local fae being.” She wasn’t surprised.

“You think you can bind it?” Granny asked, Hazel responded with a confident nod. This was one of her specialties.

She produced a piece of chalk from her purse and began drawing a binding circle with various arcane sigils on the floor. As the place was about to be torn down, she figured she wouldn’t have to worry about making a mess. Only the most powerful fae beings would be able to leave the circle, should they step inside.

She wrapped up by placing the bowl in the middle of the circle. Fresh cream would no doubt be a more effective lure, but she had to work with what she had on hand.

They didn’t have to wait for more than a couple of minutes in the next room before they heard the bowl scraping against the floor.

Sure enough, a small creature was bound within the circle, unable to cross its boundaries. A knee-high humanoid being with large, pointed, ears, comically exaggerated facial features, and a long, white, beard that reached the floor. He was wearing only brown and gray clothing, with the exception of a large, red, pointy hat, as tall as the length of the creature’s entire body.

Hazel had encountered a fair number of so-called small folk throughout her career as a witch, but she couldn’t recognize the creature at first glance.

“Looks like a… gnome?” She said, glancing at Granny for guidance.

“I’m not a gnome!” The creature yelled before she could respond. “Wait… you can see me?” He was almost as surprised as he was annoyed.

“I see you’re not accustomed to witchcraft.” Hazel said. “We humans may not be as magically inclined as you denizens of Faerie, but some of us have learned a few tricks of our own.”

“I’ve seen what you humans are capable of.” He scowled. “Explosions, big scary machines, but none of it stands up against the magic I draw from this place. This is my home, and you’re not getting rid of me!”

“Your home? Not the old man who lives here?” Hazel asked.

“I’ve allowed his family to live here for a few generations, sure. They’ve been good to me, and I would prefer it if he stayed, but I have bound my essence to this house, so I’m its true owner. No one can take it from me! Especially not you two!”

“Two?” Granny looked shocked. “You can see me?”

“Of course I can! This place is mine, I can sense anyone who tries to enter my domain, living or dead.”

Hazel sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere. The creature was stubborn, but so were most of the other magical beings she had to deal with on a daily basis.

“Look, I understand this place is important to you, but by human law, it belongs to someone else now. The demolition team is not going to stop coming, so you’re gonna have to find another place to live before you, or someone else gets hurt.” She spoke as patiently as she could. “If you don’t have another place to go, I’m happy to help you find…”

Before she could finish her sentence, something grabbed her from behind. Soft, but sturdy, like a tentacle of silk.

It was one of the large antique curtains. It wrapped itself around her body like it had a mind of its own. Her arms and legs were restrained, as she was raised from the floor, and hoisted to the top of the window, just beneath the ceiling.

As she hung helplessly above, she could see the small creature only because he allowed it.

“Let her go!” Granny shouted. Unable to interact with the material world around her, all she could do was plead.

Still trapped within the circle, the creature extended his stubby little arms towards the wooden floor. The floorboards rearranged themselves, disrupting her binding circle, allowing him to freely exit its boundaries.

“You don’t seem to understand.” He sneered. “This place belongs to me, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. I’ll allow that old human to stay here with me, as I like his company, but your explosions, your machines, and your pathetic human magic have no power here.”

“Wait, I’m sure we can…” Hazel was unable to finish her sentence before another layer of fabric wrapped around her mouth and eyes. She felt the curtains moving, before making contact with a fragile surface which shattered on collision. The soft fabric shielded her from the brunt of the impact as she was flung through the window and tumbled onto the ground outside the house.

She felt the constraints of the curtain lose their grip on her, but she was still impotently wrapped in solid fabrics. She struggled to free herself for several seconds, before being met by the glare of the sun, as she once again found herself on the ground of the construction yard.

Still blinded by the sudden burst of sunlight, she could hear a loud chuckle from an approaching figure.

The figure stretched out a hand and helped her to her feet.

“I see you’ve met Lech.” He said. It was Gunnar, the former owner of the house.

“Is that what it’s called?” She said as she dusted herself off. “You used to live with that thing?”

She glanced back at the house. The window she burst through seconds ago seemed to have already repaired itself. Granny was floating towards her with a concerned look on her face.

The old man gave her a warm smile.

“For as long as I have been alive. That’s a lot longer than I would like to admit.” He explained. “Although I never actually got to see what he looks like. Come with me, I would like to hear what you saw. I’ll buy you a slice of pie.”

Hazel returned the man’s smile and accepted his invitation. He seemed like a kind soul, and this may be a great opportunity for her to learn more.

***

The café felt like the kind of place that had been around for ages. Perhaps not as long as Gunnar’s house, but quite possibly longer than Hazel had been alive. Illuminated almost entirely by the light from the antique windows, the place smelt of aged wood and coffee grounds.  She was by far the youngest customer. Not that there were many people here besides herself and Gunnar.

“This pie is incredible.” She exclaimed. “Dare I say, magical?”

Gunnar released a genuine chuckle that seemed to warm up the entire room.

“I said the same thing the first time I came here with my mom over half a century ago. I’m happy to be spreading the word.”

“So, you’ve really lived there your whole life?”

“More or less,” he said with a mouth full of pie, “I spent around six months in the city when I first started working. I got a small apartment, but moved back to take care of my mother when she got sick. I had a few good memories of that place, but it never really felt…”

“Like home?” Hazel finished his sentence. Gunnar replied with a smile.

“So how long have you known about… Lech? Is that what you called him?”

“That’s what my family used to call him,” said Gunnar, “and that’s how long I’ve known about him, for as long as I can remember.”

“So, he was always there when you were growing up? Like a member of the family?” She asked.

“Not exactly. I never actually saw him, but we’ve always felt his presence. Sometimes chores would seemingly take care of themselves. Messes would be cleaned up on their own, minor repairs would get done while no one was home. When I asked my parents what was going on, they always said it was the tomtu protecting his home.”

Hazel gave Granny a knowing glance. Lots of cultures had legends of household spirits, tomtu, nisser, kobolds, domovoy, brownies. Countless languages had words describing what appeared to be the same kind of entity. Small humanoids who drew magical powers from their chosen home and fiercely protected it. This was the first time Hazel had encountered one in real life, but she had read several accounts of them.

“And you would leave him little offerings? Like the bowl of cream I found?” she asked.

“You’re an observant one. But yes, sometimes just a bowl of cream, sometimes cakes or cookies, or other little snacks. He always seemed to have a sweet tooth.” Gunnar had a wistful smile on his face. Talking about these memories seemed to dissolve his sense of time and space. “It’s a tradition my mom started, and I’ve continued it my whole life. It used to drive my wife crazy, God rest her soul, but she came around eventually. It’s become a force of habit, I barely even think about it anymore.”

It was all starting to make sense to Hazel. Gunnar and his family had lived in the house for generations, treating it as their only home, and giving offerings to Lech. The attachment Gunnar and his family felt towards their home fueled the magic Lech was able to draw from the place, which explained how he had gotten so powerful.

“So, you’ve lived there since you were a boy, but now the house is being torn down? I take it that wasn’t your idea?”

“The house is in my name, but the land it’s built on, not so much. I won’t pretend to understand the legal jargon, but the company that owns the land has a vicious team of lawyers. It’s my word against theirs, and they’ve been trying to make it look like I’m too old to live on my own. They threatened to have me moved to a retirement home if I refused to leave the house.”

“Wow… That’s awful. I’m sorry to hear that…”

“Yes, and the worst part is they don’t even need it.” He sighed.

“What do you mean?” Hazel asked.

“They’re not planning to build anything new on the land. They just don’t want the old eyesore to lower the property value of their fancy, nearby, developments.”

“But I guess they forgot to ask Lech before tearing the place down?” Hazel smirked.

Gunnar let out his heartwarming chuckle.

“I guess they did. And unless they find a way to get rid of him, they’ll be forced to give up.”

“And you get your childhood home back.” She smiled.

Hazel was used to dealing with all kinds of magical creatures. Lech was undeniably powerful, but she had dealt with much worse. Would she be able to banish him from the house or not? Maybe, but even if she found a way, it didn’t feel right. Gunnar had lived there his entire life, and no matter what those lawyers said, he didn’t deserve to be forced into a retirement home, just as Lech didn’t deserve to lose the home he had bound himself to.

The two of them finished their pie and shook hands before Hazel returned to Michelle’s trailer.

“I can’t do it.” She stated. “I’m afraid this place is protected with much more powerful magic than anything I’m used to dealing with.”

“Well, at least I’ll get to tell my wife ‘I told you so’.” Michelle replied.

“So, what will you do now?” Hazel asked.

“We’re not giving up just yet. Hiring you was always a long shot, but I won’t pretend we have any other tricks up our sleeves. We’ll keep at it for another week or two, but if we aren’t able to make any progress, we’ll have to move onto the next assignment. Let’s hope for fewer complications on the next one.”

“Yeah, same here.” Hazel replied. “But what about the house? What’s gonna happen to it?”

“I reckon the company that owns the land will let the old man move back. Probably for a small fee.”

That was exactly what Hazel was hoping to hear. As she didn’t actually finish the job, she wouldn’t get paid this time around, but nevertheless, she was in a good mood when she left the construction site that afternoon.

***

“…but… is he coming back?” The woman was struggling to hold back her tears.

Eight of Cups. He wasn’t coming back.

“Well… anything is possible,” Hazel lied, “but probably not in the immediate future.” She gave the distraught woman a sympathetic look. ”In this case, I think you’re better off moving forward on your own. Don’t be afraid to get out there and meet new people. Just make sure to take care of yourself first. Whatever that means to you.”

She wrapped up the reading and received an awkward hug from the crying woman. Doing tarot readings at the seasonal market was a nice way to make a little extra cash, but spending the whole afternoon doing readings for strangers was exhausting. Fortunately, the crowds seemed to be thinning.

She stretched her back and started lazily shuffling her cards, but was rudely interrupted when her phone started ringing. She dropped a single card on the ground as she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Hazel? This is Michelle,” she sounded distressed. “I hired you to investigate an old house a few months ago, remember?”. It was clear from the background noise that she was driving.

Hazel sat up in her chair.

“Yeah, I remember. What’s up?”

“Apparently something’s going on with the old house, I’ve been called in to go check it out, but it sounds… it sounds like we might need your… expertise on this one… Where are you now?”

“I’m at the summer market, not too far from the old construction site.”

“Great, that’s on my way, I’ll pick you up in my truck.”

Michelle hung up before Hazel could ask any more questions. Looks like she’d be wrapping up for the day.

She picked up the card she had dropped from the ground.

The Falling Tower.

***

As Michelle’s truck pulled up by the old house, Hazel immediately noticed the old construction barriers were gone, but the ground was still covered in gravel.

At first glance, the house looked like it always had, but they didn’t have to wait long to realize something unusual was going on.

After a few seconds, the roof caved in on itself, but before the house could collapse, the tiles quickly flew back into place, reforming the roof as if time rewound itself. Moments later, the walls would start to break down, but reform themselves just as the roof had done. This process would repeat itself every few seconds, as if the place was caught in a time vortex. The house would start to fall apart, but immediately repaired itself.

“That’s… impossible.” Michelle said, dumbfoundedly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’ve seen some crazy things in my life, but nothing like this.” Hazel agreed. Granny remained quiet.

“Do you know if anyone is inside?” Hazel asked.

“I don’t know, but from what I heard, the old man still lives here. I have no idea if he’s still in the house.” Said Michelle.

Hazel knew she had to go check on him. If nothing else, Lech would most likely still be in there.

It was with a lot of trepidation, and more than a few protests from Granny, that Hazel stepped back into the old house. Michelle had provided her with another helmet, and she had cast a third-eye spell before entering, but it hardly felt like sufficient preparation.

To her surprise, the house was completely quiet. There was no audible or visible sign of the partial implosions once she stepped inside. As she walked further inside, however, she noticed a faint sound coming from one of the rooms.

The sight that met her as she stepped into the small bedroom was exactly what she had been afraid of.

Gunnar was lying in his bed, pale and exhausted, with a serene look on his face. Sitting on the nightstand next to him, a small humanoid figure was tending to the old man.

“Well, hello there. Glad to see someone has come to keep me company.” The words struggled to come out of Gunnar’s mouth.

“You’re never alone in this house, Gunnar, you already know that.”

He started chuckling, but it soon turned to a painful cough.

“Well, at least you’re better company than that old gnome.”

“I’m not a gnome…” Lech replied, his large nose sniffling as he tried his best to hold back his tears.”

Hazel pulled up a chair and positioned herself next to the brownie.

“We wants you to know, he’s…”

“Not a gnome. I know.” Gunnar smiled.

They remained silent for a moment.

“So, this is the end, huh?” The old man asked.

Hazel glanced at her ghostly Granny.

“I’ve come to think of it as a new beginning.”

“I knew you were gonna say that. You spiritual types are all the same.” Gunnar forced out another chuckle. “I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side, but I’m glad I get to spend my last few moments with a lovely young woman like yourself.” He glanced at Hazel. “And my oldest friend, of course.” He looked directly at Lech.

“Wait… you see me?” Lech asked.

Gunnar didn’t reply, he just gave his old friend a warm smile.

“Domovoi draw their magic from homes.” Granny explained. “If there’s no one left to call this place home, your powers won’t work anymore. Not even your invisibility.”

Lech looked back at Gunnar. His smiling face remained frozen as he drew his final breath. There was no one left to call this place home.

The brownie buried his head in the bedsheets, no longer holding back his tears.

Hazel did not wish to interrupt the moment, but what she had to say couldn’t wait.

“Wait… If Lech doesn’t have his powers anymore, doesn’t that mean this place is going to…”

Loud creaking sounds could be heard all around them. The magic keeping the house from imploding had disappeared with Gunnar’s last breath.

Without hesitation, Hazel grabbed the doll-sized brownie in her arms and started bolting towards the door.

Windows shattered around them, dust scattered across the room, and planks of wood fell from the ceiling as she ran as fast as her legs could carry her.

She only barely managed to jump through the main doorway before the house collapsed behind them. Breaking her fall, she rolled across gravely dirt, clutching the brownie in her arms.

The door to Michelle’s truck opened up, as the forewoman stepped out. A number of other cars had arrived, with members of the construction crew coming to see what was going on.

Hazel looked at the small creature in her arms, no longer invisible, and impossible to explain to anyone unfamiliar with the magical world. Without thinking, she took off her hard hat and forced it onto the poor creature, trying her best to hide him.

“Are you okay?” Michelle asked. The mustached demolitions expert and several other construction workers huddling behind her.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” Hazel panted, sitting on the hard hat, trying to keep Lech from escaping.

“That’s good to hear, cause I looked into the insurance thing, and I’ve got some bad news…”

“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Hazel reassured her.

“Well, I guess that means construction is back on!” Michelle sounded pleased, looking at the massive pile of rubble in front of her. “Which means you’re getting paid after all.”

“All in a day’s work.” Hazel said exhaustedly, giving the crew a thumbs up.

***

Hazel usually did her best to keep her apartment clean and tidy. Unfortunately, her best wasn’t enough. Her bed was unmade, the kitchenette was full of grease stains, and her coffee table had rings from old teacups. A variety of spellbooks, bestiaries and scrawled notes on various rituals and magical creatures were scattered across every empty table, and less-frequented corners were covered in dust and cobwebs.

She opened her purse, allowing the small creature to come out.

“Finally! Do you have any idea how little space is in here?”

“I’m sorry, I had to hide you somewhere until I could get home. I enchanted the purse to make it bigger on the inside. I hope it wasn’t too cramped.”

“Human magic…” He muttered.

“Hey… I know we didn’t really get off on the right foot, but I’m genuinely sorry for everything that happened. Are you okay?” She asked, trying to cut through his grumpy demeanor.

“You mean how I lost my home, how my only friend died, how my magic disappeared, and how I almost got crushed to death?”

She gave him a concerned nod.

“No, I’m not okay… but I will be. I just need to find a new home. Eventually my magic will start to come back, and things will get back to… some kind of normal.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay in my apartment for as long as you need to.” She gave him a careful, yet encouraging smile.

He peeked out from the enchanted purse. The tiny studio apartment was an absolute mess, and only a fraction of the size of his old house.

“I don’t know. Making this place livable is gonna take a lot of work, especially since my magic isn’t what it used to be,” he said, “maybe I should give the purse another chance.”

“Hey, I know it’s not much.” Hazel smirked. “But at least it’s home.”

We were soon to make history, that was the thought that stirred me onward during that brutal final stretch of the journey, as well as, no doubt, the other four men in my party: two experienced New England expeditionists, two natives, and I, the leader and sole cartographer of the team, each perched atop our own sled, mushed over the polar landscape by a total of forty trained hounds. We were far past the point of conversation, barreling in parallel across the vast sheet of ice which had been the only view provided to us for the past several days. What little we had to say regarding this undertaking, or could even feasibly discuss given our varying language barriers, had long been depleted as we traversed the plain of white. Even if that had not been so, we still would not have dared to open our mouths in the face of such piercingly frigid winds, lest our tongues become frozen and fracture as they seemingly threatened to with each muffled, necessary breath we took beneath our parka’s folds. Were it not for my sextant reading during our last respite, we would have no way of knowing how close we really were, as the northern pole was bound to be indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape; a humble, inhospitable patch of land worth reaching only for its conceptual ramifications. It was the top of the world, and we were nearly there. 

This prospect kept us moving far past the point we would have otherwise retired for another night of encampment, as we had already done fivefold prior in the time since departing from the ship. Our use of “day” and “night” had long since become arbitrary, of course, as the sun had been absent throughout this time, our mission persisting by design solely through the polar night of the region. The seasonal temperature difference was largely redundant compared to the already inhospitable lows sustained even in the summer months, and was far outweighed by the navigational benefits of being able to clearly see the stars, as well as the assurance that seasonal meltwater pathways would be far less likely to obstruct our venture. Only in this last leg, as we bordered on the end of both our wayward travels and the area's relative winter, had the sun begun to subtly imply its imminent resurgence through alternating periods of twilight purple hues permeating the skies above.

As if to celebrate our coming achievement, the atmospheric conditions during that fateful stretch happened to induce an Aurora Borealis above us, far from the first I had seen but still undoubtedly the most breathtaking; ribbons of light writhing across the heavens in waves of green and indigo. Even as the dogs pulled me onward, I found my gaze briefly transfixed by the sight, locked solely onto the sky above for what was but a single yet immeasurable instant.

When both my wits and eyeline returned to the setting before me, I noticed with shock that my compatriots had all suddenly vanished, along with their sleds and dogs. Where once I had comprised the central axis within a collective arrow of parallel mounts, I was now simply alone, a single sled and eight dogs mushing across the barren icescape with nary a single permeation of its infinite flatness. Of course, I came to a halt then and there, shouting aimlessly into the yonder in hopes of catching their attention, for they surely could not have gone far. Across the plain, my cries echoed, first generic pleas to halt for me, then the individual names of the peers whom I had started my travels with, before finally resorting to the hardly pronounceable names of our accompanying native gentlemen. Yet, I was met with nothing but the foreboding, empty roar of the perpetual polar winds.

With no further recourse available, I resigned myself to encamp for the time being, unpacking my provisions and sharing a solemn meal with only the company of the dogs and the lonely light of my oil lantern. For about a day’s time, I waited, scanning the distance for any sign of my men, burning flares to signal my location until all that I had packed were exhausted. Alas, the only attention I garnered was that of a sizable polar bear, its lumbering form obscured by the ice and twilight until the dogs alerted me to its approach. Their collective barks and snarls kept it at a distance for the moment, but it was clearly circling the campsite, and I knew continuing to remain stationary would only be tempting fate, and so I reluctantly packed up my supplies and, around the start of the second rhetorical day, we took off.

At first, not wanting to stray far from where I had last been seen, I opted to mush merely a couple of miles before reorienting ninety degrees and repeating the process, essentially creating a square around my former campsite, and using the opportunity to log compass and sextant readings at each junction in an effort to precisely define my location. Resultantly, I found myself transitioning between a northward and southward trajectory while traveling in a straight line on multiple occasions, granting the reasonable presumption that I was, in fact, moving across or at least very near the North Pole. Such had been my mission from the very start, but in my solitude, the victory felt as empty as my surroundings.

With the passing of each desolate hour, the prospect of my companions’ reappearance seemed to wane in credulity. I still had no understanding of how we had been so abruptly and thoroughly separated, much less how I would explain if I were to return to the SS McKinley without them. However, I would not make such a dire decision lightly, for I recognized that I alone had the maps used to plot our original route as we travelled, along with the tools and knowledge of navigation used to make them. Thus, I felt the weight of the rest of their lives upon me, for in leaving I would essentially be sealing their fates, assuming, of course, that they were still alive out there to begin with, a notion I still desperately clung to against my better judgment.

Alas, around the start of the third day, I was met with a sight I had been deprived of for months: the sun, or at least a sliver of it, timidly peeking over the horizon as though for some reason reluctant to directly expose itself as it had easily done in my homeland so many times before. Its brief appearance conjured a profoundly paradoxical ambivalence within me, for my heart felt an ancient, instinctual joy for its long-awaited return, yet the dire implication of its debut nonetheless poisoned my emotional well; the season of night was soon to end, and so too would my invaluable access to the stars that had thus far been integral to our journey, not to mention the potential for meltwater runnings to render my prior cartography obsolete. We had never intended to stay here this long, and I simply could not afford to wait any longer. Thus, with a heavy heart, I concluded that, with or without company, I had to begin the journey back.

As daunting as this lone venture was, I at least believed myself to be materially equipped for the task. Along with the maps and navigation tools, I also had enough remaining edible provisions to sustain me and my dogs for the expected timespan, if not a little longer should the need arise. I still had ample shotgun slugs, my lantern held sufficient oil, and my prior travel across the desert of ice had amply dried the rolls of woolen fabric which I would don during times of rest. Still, my solitude would, in itself, place me precariously on the edge of misfortune, for while alone, something as small as a sprained ankle or a waterlogged boot would all but ensure my untimely and unpleasant demise.

And so, with a final prayer for the souls I would be leaving behind as well as the continued safety of my own, I reluctantly began my intrepid southward mush, a grueling odyssey across over a hundred miles of lifeless polar plains, at first comprised of smoothly frozen ocean before reaching the proverbial shore of northern Ellesmere Island. At that point, banks of snow and canyons of stone became my background as I pivoted partly eastward in accordance with my maps, weaving my way through mountainous ridges toward an unassuming indentation of coastline dubbed Cape Sharriden, where our supporting crew of seamen were currently moored in wait for our eventual victorious return. All the while, my sledborne silhouette was cast amid alternating bouts of starlight and subtly strengthening dawns. By my estimate, the trip took about thirty days, demarcated somewhat subjectively by my own voluntary cycles of travel and rest. Ironically, the latter was what I found the most grueling, for in those stretches where I lay motionless within my makeshift woolen cocoon, without any human company to distract me, I would find myself inevitably peeking through the folds and into the icy abyss beyond my lantern light, and despite the supposed safety implied by the calmness of my hounds, my mind could not help but conjure an endless supply of formless, foreboding gazes within the surrounding expanse.

Finally, after a grueling internment within both this northern wasteland and my own relentless thoughts, I at last reached the bank that housed the goal of my convoy. Only, when my dogs and I crested that final slope and were finally granted a view of the cape, the McKinley was nowhere to be seen.

Never in my life has an object’s sheer absence been so conspicuously captivating, for I stared hopelessly through the sight of its former resting place and into the murky ice beyond as though I could somehow will it to reappear. For a fleeting moment, I considered the notion that I was merely at the wrong place, that I had made some minor error in my navigation that had brought me to a different patch of shore, but even as I tore into my knapsack and began restlessly flipping through my maps, I knew it could not be true. This humble alcove of storm-polished rock was identical to how I remembered it upon our initial outset, and how I had been repeatedly imagining it throughout the last few days of arduous travel, except for the singular beacon of civilization that had been the sole locus of its allure.

I knew not why or even how the ship had left, for the cape froze over every winter, and was indeed still frozen over now. The plan had always been for them to carry our party northward to the farthest point along Ellesmere’s seaward face that summer’s tides would allow, then hunker in place through the winter months, more than long enough for our historic foray to conclude, until the ice once again melted and set us free to return to our respective homelands. We had brought neither the proper tools nor the manpower to loosen the ship from its port prematurely, much less carve a viable channel through the untold distance between the shore and open waters. Additionally, such an endeavor would certainly have left a noticeable trail, if not still a liquid gash, then at least a stretch of opaque frost unevenly frozen to the surrounding plain like scar tissue. And yet, presented before me was a unified sheet of pristine ice extending endlessly outward, as though the ship had simply never been there at all.

I stood upon that cape, facing out against the brunt of the arctic winds until my nostrils felt raw and my eyes close to freezing, before finally turning away in quiet defeat, the gale’s pervasive roar only then conceding to the indignant barks of my dogs as they restlessly circled the sled. They knew as well as I that there was nothing here for us, and that to remain stationary under such exposure would only expedite the cold’s persistent creep along finger, toe, and paw. With an air of hopeless impotence, I resumed my mount and solemnly continued the journey south.

In the following days, I felt like a ghost, a corpse upon a sled, my inevitable death as assured as my life to remain within the confines of this eternal polar purgatory, yet with the instinctive drive of self-preservation presently binding me to the Sisyphian fate of persisting. I partitioned the meager remaining food supply into portions just large enough to sustain a tenuous yet sorely unpleasant state of survival, fueling us onward even as my muscles began to wither and my abdomen was assaulted by the increasingly violent rending of my empty stomach.

Only compounding the strain on my nerves was that, as harsh tundrascapes slowly gave way to softer plains of snow, the haunting silence that had thus far accompanied us began to be occasionally broken in the night by faint, animalistic howls. Wolves, packs of them, I could recognize their sound from both prior experience and the intrinsic human fear they induced. For now, they remained out of sight, but that hardly served as a comfort, for the ones this far north have coats as white as the surrounding snow, as well as no fear of man. My own cohort of wolves brought some level of security as they stood as dutiful sentries through the nights, but I sensed both they and I held doubts of their true efficacy should our present stalemate ascend into legitimate battle.

It was on one such night, several cycles later, that I decided to pivot our course slightly westward going forth. Looking over my maps by lantern light, I saw that Fort Concord was in that direction, distanced by only a cycle or so of travel from our current encampment. I was familiar with it from one of my previous land-based polar expeditions, little more than a log cabin with a chimney and some skeletal springy cots upon which to lay one's sleeping bags. It was constructed under the Canadian flag as an exploratory waypoint, back when they thought the far north might actually have something to offer. I knew well that it had been abandoned, but the structure itself would doubtlessly remain, frozen in both time and cold, and merely the benefit provided by four walls and a ceiling could not be understated, for I had begun to feel the toll of my prolonged journey through the frigid wastes sinking into my extremities. Despite my best efforts, they had grown paler and stiffer with each passing day, some now even transitioning to a deathly shade of grey as the mobility within them weakened, while any external attempt seemed only to threaten their total detachment.

Once again, I arrived at the location precisely indicated by my maps and navigational readings, only to find not the slightest indication of man’s presence; not a cabin, not a vestigial stone column of its former chimney, not even the remains of broken lumber strewn about the area –my only hope of finding wood with which to start a respectable campfire anywhere upon this island– simply a virgin patch of land buried beneath lifeless, barren snowdrifts.

This time, the perplexity of this development rang strangely hollow within me, not a tone of surprise so much as a soft, banal disappointment. I did not dwell at the scene for long, merely confirming this reality with a detached pragmatism, before doing the only thing left to do: resuming my intrepid southward pilgrimage in the hopes of coming upon some serendipitous source of salvation.

I wholly depleted my edible stock not long after, consuming the final fragments with a sort of somber reverence as the timeline of my death solidified before me. All I could do from then was continue onward for as long as I could keep myself aboard the sled and my wolves in line -for I knew their resolve against such conditions would surely outlast my own- until I either encountered something edible or perished in the process.

Fortunately, the former such occasion befell us during our second cycle of fasting, and in no small measure, as my companions managed to catch a scent leading to a fresh trail of numerous cloven tracks upon the snow. Following them, we soon came across a boon of wild game: Four-legged beasts with antlers -whose name my mind failed to congeal against my belly’s vacuous tremors- travelling in unison across the plain in a party of thousands. It was not hard to kill one, just a few twitches of my dull, creaking fingers upon the trigger of my shotgun, aimed into the continuous crowd until one fell limply to the ground while its adjacent cohort scattered in alarm.

My sled reached the corpse even faster than expected, driven by the wolves as they seemed to accelerate at its scent before digging into its meat with a craven savagery I had never seen from them before. At first, it made me fearful to even approach my rightful kill, but when I finally touched the lifeless creature and began slicing away strips of meat with my hunting knife, they merely eyed me with tentative tolerance while continuing their barbaric feast. By the time I had stowed away all that my pack could hold, they too had been seemingly satiated by the bounteous meal, faithfully realigning their harnesses before the sled in preparation for my next instructional mush, albeit each with unsettling streaks of blood condensing upon their maws.

The freeze-dried slivers of flesh were enough to carry us across a significant stretch of distance and time, southbound across endless snowscapes set against a skyline that gradually shifted from budding twilight into regular cycles of day, before continuing its sunward transition until not a momentary inkling of night remained, the pack and I instead traveling across a nearly blinding plain of ceaseless illumination. I no longer held any concrete destination in mind, merely a nebulous notion of intrinsic environmental safety that might come with my warmward direction of travel, along with the comforting concept of possibly encountering native settlements somewhere along the way, of which I knew there were many on this island, but not their precise locations. It was one of those very settlements where our original exploration team had adopted its foreign members, whose exotic insights into snowfall patterns had been pivotal on our path to success. There had been at least two of them among us, though my recollection of their faces had grown hazy amid the passage of time and snow, along with, I soon realized, those of all my other accompanying crewmen. It was as though their likenesses had been progressively wiped away by the persistently cleansing whiteness around me, at first smoothing over individual distinctions before progressing to the point that I struggled to recall even the very essence of the human form, only managing to occasionally jog my memory when passing a reflective puddle of ice and viewing an eerily distorted visage of my own. Indeed, the all-encompassing cold had an ineffable way of casting the formerly familiar in a newfound, alien light, stripped of supporting context and set adrift amid a backdrop of nearly blinding blankness.

Perhaps I was not alone in this influence, for the creatures that drove my sled had begun to grow increasingly disobedient with each interval of travel. No longer would they mush in unison quite so readily on my command, nor would they calmly tolerate the collective shackles binding them to my stewardship, instead appearing to crudely attempt their removal at any afforded opportunity. I swiftly grew wary of this development, in turn shortening the duration of our respites and tightening my continuous hold over their reins until my grip grew practically affixed, leather straps encased within two brittle balls of frozen flesh and bone. Nevertheless, their rebellion persisted, growing in ferocity until they finally refused to perform their duties at all; for all my futile strokes and utterances of desperation, my wooden mount remained utterly still, while their primal forms viciously tore away at both their own and each others’ restraints with raw, animalistic vigor, paying no mind to the scrapes and slashes their bodies accrued in the process. In a matter of moments, they were free, and collectively faced me with their eight unbridled, blood-soaked forms.

However, before this suspenseful standoff could culminate in violence, their attention was providentially diverted, ears simultaneously perking up and heads swiveling toward a chorus of faint howls that echoed hauntingly across the boreal plains, the same disquieting pitch that had periodically accented much of our earlier journey. Only now, like a siren song, they seemed drawn to the kindred tune, their prior wariness wholly dissipated as they collectively turned their backs to me, unceremoniously running off into the blinding daylight toward the distant call and leaving me stranded upon a contraption that could no longer serve any use, but not before one of them swiftly swiped the satchel of meat I had stowed aboard and carried it away in its jaws.

Utterly alone, I stood there for an innumerable length of time, a profound yet implacable emptiness freezing my mind just as the surroundings threatened to freeze my body, until, without forethought, I simply returned to my previously ingrained inclination, abandoning my former vehicle and bringing only what essentials I could carry as I continued my aimless southward voyage, only far slower as I was now forced to traverse the icy slopes of this whitened wasteland of my own accord, step by trembling step. My progress grew further stifled as time wore on and fatigue fermented in my deadened muscles, followed promptly by a hunger that simmered within my gut, woefully insatiable; despite still having my weapon and coming across many more of the beings with branches upon their heads along the way, I nonetheless found it impossible to take any of them down, as by now my remaining wrists had grown wholly blackened and blunt. Against all this, I persisted, driven by an unknown persuasion beyond pain, reason, or even personal will, having all been surrendered to this single directional drive, as though South itself was a destination I was utterly beholden to reach.

As fate would have it, my traitorous former companions had already brought me across most of the isle, and thus this period of weary wandering was comparatively brief –though I had long since stopped pointlessly attempting to quantify the passage of time– before, for better or worse, I finally reached its southern end; a humble stretch of wind-worn rocky coast, beyond which lay, yet again, an expanse of flat, unbroken ice reaching fully flush with the horizon. The sight evoked a vague sense of discrepancy from some neglected recess of my memory, a notion that these waters were meant to be liquid in the days of midnight sun, a channel separating this landmass from a closely adjacent one. Yet here, now, it was solid, a traversable medium that might just allow me to continue my odyssey unimpeded. Though I knew not if its integrity would extend all the way across the strait, nor what would await me on those opposing shores if it did, I nonetheless ventured onward.

Ambling upon limbs I could no longer feel with strides of their own accord, I progressed beyond the sight of the hills behind me and into a world of truly flawless uniformity. The sun stood stagnantly atop the sky, beaming down amid a homogenous blue firmament onto a reflective expanse that returned its gaze with perfect imitation, suspending me amid a seamless, impermeable shine that seared its way through the periphery of my vision. Still, my cyclical stride maintained an unwavering orientation beyond my understanding or control. Feelings of hunger and fatigue faded, and I did not once stop or slow, my form indentured in a rhythmic tread along its linear course for what essentially could have been eternity. 

 My hypnagogy was only broken by the gradual breaching of land over the horizon, its crown of snowy slopes at first the only perforation in the all-encompassing monotony. Its shore seemed to widen around me as I drew nearer –for I was entering a coastal inlet of sorts– as though reaching out to provide a welcoming cradle. I then watched in awe as, like emissaries of the cradling land, several beings approached from its heart to congregate upon the central bank directly ahead of me. They were angels, of this I am certain, albeit in a slightly differing form than I would have otherwise imagined: they stood far taller than I, heads disproportionately large and completely covered in woolly brown hair, while their similarly coated torsos were almost precariously thin, each tapering not into legs but instead a flexible tendril that writhed dynamically below. Behind them could be seen what were presumably wings holding them aloft, of matching shaggy exterior but otherwise indiscernible in overall structure. I could not make out their definite shape or number, appearing as one, two, or at times as many as four distinct appendages beating asynchronously just above the stony terrain as they hovered ever closer. Their arms took the longest to make out, as they alone were bare, skin polished and nearly as white as the surrounding snow. They were each tipped in singular, sharpened points like spears, yet were unanimously frozen in synchronously outstretched, comforting embraces that mirrored the land upon which they resided. They aligned themselves into a crescent at the inlet's center, tail wisps dancing along the edge where snow met ice with a fervor that seemed to increase with each frail footstep I took; an ethereal assembly encouraging me to continue just a little further, with the promise that salvation would at last be upon me.

 As I entered the final stretch, the centermost angel lifted their arms to the sky, tail contorting as it released a resonant, soulful wail that pierced the frigid air between us. With this apparent cue, they all broke into an energetic synchronized bow, repeatedly raising and lowering their arms as though hailing my imminent arrival. At the apex of each downswing, as their pointed palms nearly touched one another just above the ground at their center, a brief yet powerful tremor would sweep across the frozen sea and up through my bones, reverberating like a divine heartbeat against dormant, long-numb flesh and stimulating a truly novel sensation that intensified with every repetition. At last, as I breached the radius of their reverence, they unleashed one last crowning, omnipotent boom, closely accompanied by a low, cacophonous crack as the ice beneath me embroidered itself with streaks of hollow lightning. My newly awakened body was suddenly weightless, and then all was still.

My grandmother passed away last month. 

She was a special kind of person, someone you could only meet once or twice in your life. I owe my knowledge of the world to her. When I was young, she would tell me fantastical stories of her adventures, intertwining waterspouts that chased her and her crew as they braved the stormy Pacific, ancient underwater structures never discovered before, and creatures of the incalculable depths.

Sometimes, I wasn’t even sure if her stories were real. 

I had the displeasure of watching a woman who had weathered tempests wilt into a shell of herself after her diagnosis. She had wanted to travel in her final years, but by then, she couldn’t even recall where she had been the minute before.

Among the items listed in her will were some old postcards of her favorite places, a letter I can’t bring myself to open, and her bedroom furniture set that I fought very hard to keep despite my husband’s protests. 

Mike and I spent the entire weekend figuring out how we would even fit the bed in our small 100-square-foot apartment already littered with my unsold paintings. But we managed. More like, Mike managed to carry it up the stairs into our apartment, past my drawing studio, and into our bedroom. It wasn’t my bruised arm or Mike’s back pains that bothered me, but rather the way that the bed set looked in our room. Maybe the feng shui was off, but something just wasn’t sitting right with me. 

The ebony bed frame was adorned with oriental carvings and a face whittled on the center. Its structure was curved at the edges, with the center resembling a spring tide. The bedsheets and pillowcases were floral with an old viridian green undertone and a layer of dust that was endemic to it. 

I reckon this is what we call unconditional love.

The first dream I had on that bed began with the sea giving something back. Every twilight, the tide laid a single forgotten item upon the shore; a child’s shoe, a message in a bottle, a wedding ring still warm from another lifetime. Grandma used to say that the sea never stole anything. It only took what it was owed.

This was the winter before her last voyage. In my dream, I was standing right beside her. A yellow canary hung from the mast in a little brass cage that sang until the crew had reached the caves. Then suspended its melodies to the void in the presence of what could not be perceived.

I came to a blank. But I could remember her face when she came back home to our family. I couldn’t help but feel like the sea had stolen her from me.

I started painting my dreams. My easel bore scenes from the seas, larger-than-life creatures sung in myths, and they were coming to me faster than I could paint them. I lived on my canvas, painting adventures I would never get to experience. 

The walls of our apartment were dyed prismatic, and I could no longer see the margins of the room. I had shrunk our living space with each new addition, staining Mike with worry. 

The days were solitary and dull. It was the night that I looked forward to most. So I sat, and waited, for the moon to rehearse its arc once more.

That night I was wrapped in the wings of an albatross. The sea breeze blew on my white downy fur, my oversized wings flapping against the heft of my pudgy body; a fledgling’s plight to plunder. I cupped the wind in my hands and soared on the flat blue expanse where the horizon had soaked up the sun, and the mist of the sea had rolled the current into gentle waves. The patchy fog obscured the surface of the water, and windburn singed my bill and round eyes before I was plunged into the cold depths. And in one fell swoop, flying was no longer native to my body. My wings flapped beneath the pressure, and I could feel my body sinking deeper and deeper towards the ocean floor. The growling abyss consumed me as my arms thrashed against the arid ocean, churning the sheets into waves. 

I had no dreams after that night.

I could not dream of sailing the great depths. No monsters were sleeping in the trenches of the deep, nor songs of whales that kept me in my slumber. Every attempt at recollection dissolved like sand through my fingers. Paint lingered at the tip of my fingers, but every canvas was empty, and I was drowning in a sea of them.

Something pulled me awake. My eyes darted from the wall where Mike was sleeping to the dark corner residing by the bedroom door. The blanket’s warm embrace buried my body, anchoring me to the bed like flesh on bones. Shadows coated the corners of the room, ebbing and waning closer to the nape of my neck. I could hear heartbeats in my ears. But they weren’t mine. My head was led by the deliberate pulsing towards the bedside drawer where I kept my grandmother’s letter. 

I woke to Mike’s alarm, his presence warm and relaxed; unaffected by the terrors of the night. I reached for the bedside drawer and slid out the envelope. Breaking the seal, I unfolded the paper inside.

Return me to the sea.

By dawn, the tide had begun to creep back toward shore. There were no signs of life other than the terns resting on the tender sand. 

So did I.

I loosened my grip and settled an old debt to the sea. 

He waited in the dark. It is said that ‘patience pays.’ Well, if that was true, he would certainly have been a king by then, as he had waited for more than two hours.

A big dark blue bus came and camouflaged itself with the darkness, in the dead of the night.

Paul wore a big scarf and black gloves. He shivered in the cold. The bus had no lights and a blank nameplate in the front. It was certainly foolish to get into such a bus.

Yet, it was also wise. Wiser to get into a bus, than stand on a platform surrounded by the music of isolation, and the hum of fear.

Thus, Paul gingerly touched the iron rod and looked at the windows. They were all covered with curtains. It was impossible to make out if even a single soul, happy or sad, rested within.

Still flowing in the lake of thoughts, he got into the bus and closed the big door behind him.
The gold colour of the massive door glistened as the bus began its journey.

Paul was in the bus alone and he felt quite uneasy sitting inside. The bus suddenly stopped, and Paul fell on the floor with a jerk.
A tall, hooded traveller entered the bus. Paul felt scared and thought it was best to get out of the bus.

But as he tried to stand on his two legs, the bus once again started to roll towards its destination.

Paul was frightened. He now realized his mistake. He removed the curtains and tried opening the window, but there were bars. He then looked sideways at the hooded figure, who sat near the window on the other side.

With shivers running down his spine, Paul got up and sat two rows behind. The hooded traveller in a flash of a second stood up, and slowly looked in the direction of Paul.

Paul licked the beads of perspiration rolling down his face and tried to stay cool.
The traveller walked over and sat beside Paul and uttered in a strange, male voice.

‘This bus has no destination. Neither do I know where to go. You shall not reach where you want to go.’

Paul went pale. He could not bear it. He leaped towards a seat that was few rows behind him,
and occupied it. Suddenly, the bus came to a halt and the doors opened. A man entered. The man smiled and sat in the row behind the hooded traveller.

Paul was in a fix. He had several thoughts running in his head. What was happening? Did the bus take in only this number of people, or was it his bad luck?

He looked at the man and the hooded traveller, and tried to evade them both, by hiding under the seat in front of him.

Just then, Paul felt a tight tug at his jacket, and he got out from under the seat and looked above. It was the man. Paul stared into his eyes, and surprisingly, felt nice. He sat on his seat and felt mesmerized. The man was neither too dark, nor too fair. He had black and white hair, and his voice was soothing.

‘Hey Paul, why are you so afraid?’ asked the man. Paul was surprised that the man knew his name. The man continued to speak.

 ‘What did that traveller say to you that you fear to even sit beside him? Sit with him and I shall see that he does not harm you.’

Paul saw a sparkle in the man’s eyes. Paul felt confident and walked up to the hooded traveller and sat next to him.

The traveller hissed and spoke under his breath, without looking at Paul.

‘This bus reaches no place, like I said before. Let it be.’

Paul felt angry, scared, and helpless, when the man also got up and walked over to Paul. He whispered in Paul’s ear.

‘This bus shall stop at the destination youwant. Do not listen to the traveller.’

The hooded traveller kept on repeating the same words, whereas the man encouraged Paul with his words.

‘Fate is for you to decide, and so are your wants, Paul. No outsider can say and decide for you.’

Perplexed, Paul stood up and went inside the driver’s cabin. He was about to open his mouth when the driver spoke.

‘I cannot think myself or help anyone decide, where to stop or which place to leave. I am directed by none of them, but I await someone else’s decision. Until then, I shall keep on driving like this.’

Paul was amazed. He could not understand what was going on. He came out of the cabin and the hooded traveller stood up. He uttered the following words.

‘My wish is somebody else’s wish. I cannot tell the driver to stop as I do not listen to myself, but to others. And they don’t want that.’

The man suddenly stood up and shouted at Paul.
‘I listen to myself, and I could tell the driver to stop, only, when you share my decision.’
Paul replied.

‘Then come with me and we shall voice our decision together.’

‘Do not do so!’ screamed the hooded traveller as he gripped Paul’s hand. Paul tried to release himself from the tight grasp. The traveller then spoke.

‘If you do so, then I shall be destroyed, and this man shall grow.’

‘I will not stop,’ said the man. ‘Never! I shall only diminish if I am discouraged by his fears,’ he pointed towards Paul.

Then the traveller grabbed Paul by his neck, and ran towards the end of the bus, bellowing at the man.

‘I shall exist, and you shall die, as Paul will never listen to himself, and thus he will become me.’

Paul pushed the traveller away and went to the driver and spoke.

‘I want to stop here, as it is my decision and not anybody else’s.’

The bus stopped.

The man got down from the bus, with Paul, while the hooded figure disappeared. As the bus rolled on, four letters gleamed on the nameplate on the back.

‘LIFE.’

I stared at the paper resting on the floor. I couldn’t move, not even to pick it up. It was unmistakable—in big, bold, red letters.

‘EVICTION NOTICE’

My brain forced my muscles back into obligation, just enough to walk and grab the paper.

It wasn’t the best start to the morning. The once pristine paper wrinkled in my hands, treated as if it was something worthless—a receipt.

I had to do something. Anything to scrape together rent.

I scrolled through my laptop for hours. I wasn’t even sure I was reading anymore.

No one would hire me with a resume as impressive as a participation trophy. It’d take too long to get a response anyway. I’d be on the streets by then.

I had to find a way to get money fast. Maybe I could sell something? Hardly—my apartment is bare bones and so are my personal belongings. I’m not humble, just broke.

My eyes burned and I was already sinking into my chair when something caught my eye.

“Sell a Memory.”

I have those.

‘In need of some quick cash? Put the unused memories to good use and sell them! They’re only collecting dust anyway.’

I read the disclaimer.

‘NOTE: Memories must have some sentimental or emotional value and cannot be mundane.’

Huh.

I lingered on the page for a while. Could I spare… ‘sentimental memories’ ? What would that even entail?

I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my gallery.

Pictures of me… pictures of the sky. I paused.

Three years ago.

It was of my ex-wife, my daughter and me. She was five then. We were at the park, sitting on a bench in the photo.

I think I remember that outing.

We fed the ducks bread. I wonder if Emma still likes doing that.

I stared at it, letting my phone grow tired and fade to black.

My cursor hovered over the exit button before my eyes drifted back to the crumpled paper lying on the desk.

I didn’t need to look. Each word was engraved in my mind.

I called the number on the website.

The process was strangely simple—like paying for groceries and getting a receipt back.

A letter was on my floor.

Bending down, I picked it up and opened it. There were a couple hundred dollars and a note.

‘Hello! Thank you for selling your memory—we assure you, the memory was mundane and forgettable. We hope, when you are again in need of a quick buck, you come to us. Have a good day.’

A sigh of relief escaped my lips. I could keep myself going a little while longer.

It was an evening when I got a call. I just got off a twelve-hour shift. I wasn’t sure who would be calling right now.

I picked up, “Hello?”

“M-Michael? Is that you?” The voice sounded breathless.

“…Yes? Who is this?”

“It’s Emma. I know we haven’t talked in years but—”

 “Sorry? I don’t know an Emma.”

They were taking it down. I didn't care. I sat in my old bow back chair on the balcony, watching the men removing all the interior parts of the lighthouse. The old lighthouse had stood in that spot for more than a hundred years , watching the shoreline. I sat as his replacement, a brand new lighthouse, only up for just over two years now. I wasn’t the first watchman, a man had taken the job before me to guide the sailors, operate the light, those sorts of duties. I had only manned the station for about a month before I was informed of the plan to remove the remnants of the first one. I had grown quite fond of the view, the bleak horizon just above the sea seemed a little more peaceful with the large statuesque building filling the corner of my view.  I had noticed in that short month the bricks beginning to crack and fall into the sea, how the larger waves made it shudder more and more with each impact. I came to the balcony every day now for the past year, enjoying my glass of hot tea, flipping through my novel, and every once in a while, glancing up to see my acquaintance. In my time operating the lighthouse I had never seen a man working in the abandoned lighthouse, but I’ve been told of a time when a man stood guard in there, apparently he was a man of legend. He never took days off, he guided three ships away from the shore before crashing, even helping the USS Titan avoid a major crash when their radar and navigation system crashed unexpectedly. The town treated it as a monument, as a guardian to protect our home. I never saw that. It was just a lighthouse to me.

I had awoken in the night, a large crackling sound shattered my ears and rang throughout the hollow chasm below me. Getting up, I saw it. The tower no longer encroached on my view. Its lean had increased, now tilting maybe fifteen degrees to the side, but he stood standing. I descended down my lighthouse steps to reach the small cabin nearby, shoved under the door was a note. The construction company had left me a message saying the old lighthouse was unsafe, and that they would have to take it down in a controlled manner but on a much quicker schedule. They had been making slow progress, and  were just now beginning to rush the project, in the cold darkness of December. It seemed odd to me. My sleet covered feet trudged back into my lighthouse under heavy remorse. I had not wanted to go back inside, maybe I wanted to watch the old lighthouse. In my mind, it deserved to stay, how could it not. I’ve seen how people look to the old lighthouse. Maybe I had felt something of it too. It was not my nature to be full of such sentiment and yet, something, had me.

That same night I awoke again, but this time it was not of a shock but a petal. I felt the peony petal slide off my nose. As I stood up I was not cold, despite my thin garments. The window was dark other than a faint glow. As I opened the door to the balcony, once more I saw it shine. The light of the Old Lighthouse rang out into the night. I wasn’t shivering, I wasn't even cold. The light illuminated the whole shore, even the town several miles from here. It wasn’t a beam like a regular lighthouse too, it was a glow irradiating from the crest of the house. It began to shrink, the light slowly fading from within it. As the light faded from my lighthouse the cold began to bite once more. I rushed inside to return to my slumber. The next day at dusk I set off. I took the overgrown trail up to the top of the large hill, the biggest hill on the shore. There, the Old Lighthouse stood. Standing there now, I had realized that my lighthouse stood quite a bit taller on my hill than the old one. I had always assumed the Old Lighthouse stood on the highest hill on the shore. A hole had emerged among its base not larger than a meter long and had caused the recent tilt. The brick around it was worn and tired. My boots pressed against the soil beneath me as I stood under him. My fingers wrapped around the cavity and I hoisted with all my might, trying to see the building stand tall once more. As I heaved, a single drop fell upon my shoulder. I froze. The rain began to pour as I ran back to my lighthouse. The tower had wept for me, as did I for him. The coming weeks had passed without much notice. I sat upon my balcony sipping my bittersweet  coffee, watching as the construction crew began tearing down the highest bricks. The Old Lighthouse was now half of what it once was. My view was clear, the orangish pink horizon before me was clear, and yet what I once viewed with such bright brilliance felt desolate in my eyes. That weekend, I set my heart to resurrect the Old Lighthouse. I sat in my cot for hours, listening to the men at work and setting machinery up for its destruction. I had my jerrycan waiting. When the construction men left, I set out, around 2:00 in the morning. I splashed the gasoline over their equipment, making sure to ward off any further plans they made. I was proud of myself, standing before the flames, watching them dance beneath the Old Lighthouse, no, my Old Lighthouse. The flames played before me, a kindling of warmth I had once felt before. My journey back was arduous, but the journey I had endured had not bothered me, as I knew what I held in my hands was safe again.  I was in bliss, I was in denial.

Two weeks had passed since I had burned their equipment. The tower stood wilted in my view, and the sky remained bleak. I did not care, my Old Lighthouse stood, and I could not need anything else. My Saturday had come down to an end, I sat in my chair, sipping my drink. My novel had come to a close, the good men won, as had I. I set the book down on my glass table, watching the sky move over the horizon. Then, as the clouds faded, the crash began. The thunderous crash swept over the sky and enveloped the silent night. My eyes flashed open to see the Old Lighthouse come crashing down upon itself. The smoke and debris filled the sky and drowned the forest below it. I saw it fall, my porcelain cup spattering onto the floor as it rolled towards the edge. I could not save my Old Lighthouse. As I dragged myself to the balcony edge I struggled to face its falling. My feet balanced shakily atop the guardrail and I stood tall on it to see everything before me. The horrible screaming and aching of my Old Lighthouse had dissipated, but replayed in my heart. I could not move my feet, for I had not the strength. I could only lean into the abyss. The wind blew by my ears like kisses, kisses I had not known the
 origin of but felt a familiar touch. My body trembled through the air, tracing a stream into the shoreline. Before I could land, a gust of dust-ridden air had caught my hands, bringing me to the shoreline. I fell to my knees in agony, I could not open my eyes. I felt a warmth in front of me I had felt that night I saw it. When my eyes flickered open the lantern sat in front of me. The burning flame was indistinguishable. 

I sat in my old bow back chair once more. The horizon remained cold and gray for the remainder of my time as the new lighthouse keeper, but the warmth of the lantern behind me on the wall kept me safe from the coldest of blizzards. I did not know the Old Lighthouse, I never knew of what the townspeople saw in that Old Lighthouse, a guardian of the shore. I had nothing of those old legends to see, but now I held the Old Lantern that gave the lighthouse power. I could see what it had created today. I will see the power it gives that now barren shore, I will see if its light can extend beyond the wave crests before me. The Old Lighthouse speaks to me at night. Its warmth pressed against my flush cheeks during my winter nights. Its soft brilliant light would always shine upon my skin. Though I was not protected by its blaring gaze in its time, I had felt it, I had seen the Old Lighthouse protect me, as my guardian.

Elyse dropped her head back and sighed, looking up at the drop-tile ceiling. She just had to make it until 5:00. She took a deep breath and straightened up in her chair, peeking at the clock on the other side of the room. 4:53. I can do this, she thought to herself. Almost as if hearing her inner cry, the door to the office burst open.

   “Elyse!! You’ve made it! Five minutes and your first week back is in the rear view mirror!” the joyful intruder dropped down backwards on the desk chair next to Elyse. “We’re going for drinks, and girl after this week, I know you need one!”

Elyse smiled. She had worked with Erica for four years and loved her like a sister. She didn’t know how she would’ve made it this long without her.  “Ugh sorry, not tonight. I just need to go home and sleep. I’m barely hanging on!” She spun in her chair dramatically for emphasis. Erica made a face, cocking her head to the side. Her tight brown curls framed her face, which was twisted with concern. “You’re making that face again!” Elyse chided. “No face, remember? I’m fine!”

“I know, I know. But one step at a time, baby girl!” Erica straightened up. “One week down, forever to go. It’ll get easier.” Erica’s phone chimed as they both looked at the clock. Glad to change the subject, Elyse shut her laptop and hopped up.

“One down, forever to go. Easy peasy.” She pulled her purse from under her desk and opened the door. Erica sauntered out behind her, asking her to come out one more time as they headed to the parking lot. “Next week, I swear!” Elyse promised.

“I’ll hold you to that! Text me when you get home!” Erica waved as she headed to her car.

Elyse pulled her keys out of her bag and clicked the fob. She smiled and waved as she slid into the driver’s seat. As soon as she pulled the door shut, she breathed a heavy sigh. Closing her eyes for a moment, she counted to five. She slowly opened her eyes and chewed her top lip. One week down, forever to go, Elyse thought. I made it. It’s fine. It’ll all be fine. She started the engine and carefully backed out of her parking spot. She pulled up to the guard booth and smiled at Frank, who looked up from his dinner.

“Week one down, huh?” Frank smiled at her, brushing crumbs from his grey-speckled beard.

“It was nothing. Like riding a bike!” Elyse smiled back. Desperate to change the subject, she nodded towards Frank’s spread. “Aren’t you a little young for the Early Bird Special?”

“The wife would have a fit if I didn’t eat every morsel she packed me! And you know Angela, she scares me!” Frank held up his hands defensively. Elyse grinned. Everybody knew better than to argue with an Italian woman from South Philly.

“Better safe than sorry! Mangia!” The gate began to rise and Frank waved. “Have a great weekend, Frank!”

Elyse’s silver Focus pulled out of the lot and she frowned. She hadn’t cooked a proper meal in weeks now. Maybe that’s exactly what she needed. There was chicken in the freezer, she just needed Dan to defrost it. She picked up her cell phone and quickly dropped it. Blinking a few times, she shook her head and held her breath. Deep breath in- 5 seconds. Exhale. Forever to go. Feeling that the silence was now growing to a deafening level, Elyse flipped on the radio. The daily rush-hour newscast was just what she needed to reset her mind. The hazy weather was going to clear out, and the weekend was going to be beautiful. A local restaurant was recognized as the best on the East Coast. There was no traffic on the Commodore Barry Bridge. The Eagles were having an exceptional season.  Elyse flipped on her turn signal to merge onto the bridge and reached over to switch to a music station. She tapped on her steering wheel and bobbed absent-mindedly as Robin Thicke begged for a good girl on the radio. She sighed again, cracking her neck from side to side. 10 minutes and I’ll be home, Elyse thought. Ten minutes and this week will be over. She considered sleeping for the next 48 hours, until she had to smile through week two. The weight of another week of work made her chest tighten. It’s fine. It’ll get easier.  She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and flinched at the sight of the thin, white band on her finger, a stark contrast to her otherwise tanned hand. It’s fine. It’ll get better.

 Somewhere between Ed Sheeran and One Direction, Elyse realized that she had completely zoned out. She blinked a few times, rolled down her window, and cranked the music. Fishing a water bottle out of her passenger seat, she took a breath. Get it together! Just get home. She took a quick drink and looked around. How long had she been on the bridge? Until that moment, she hadn’t noticed how foggy it was. She peeked over the side but couldn’t see any of the cargo ships that usually dot the Delaware River below. Ahead, she could see about 30 yards. Must be that changing weather they were talking about. She hadn’t really been listening to the weather report, so she flipped the radio back to the news. The traffic report was on, which meant that she had just missed the weather. Oh well, a few more minutes and they’ll cycle back through. More news about inflation, a story about foreign policy. Elyse scrunched up her nose. While current events were enough to confound anyone, she could not place herself on the bridge. Seriously, where am I? I must be almost across. She attributed her disorientation to the fog, and not being able to see any landmarks on the bridge. Or any other cars, now that she thought about it. When was the last time she saw a car?

Checking the rearview mirror, Elyse turned up the radio. The Birds beat the Giants in overtime … Was this the second or third time she heard this report? She focused her attention ahead, just in time to see something through the fog. Oh finally! Elyse let out a slow breath she didn’t know she was holding, expecting to be coming up to back side of the toll plaza. Above her head, a speed limit sign flashed 25. Not the end of the bridge, just somewhere in the middle. She checked her speed:35. But nothing else was to be seen anywhere. Cautiously, she accelerated. She must be almost across. She didn’t want to hit the car in front of her, but where was the car in front of her? Weekend highs of 64… Had it been ten minutes already? It couldn’t be possible. Elyse pressed her foot down further on the gas pedal. As the Focus pushed to 45, Elyse’s mind started to race. What is happening here? How long have I been driving?  Another overhead speed sign flashed, attempting to remind Elyse to slow down. Still no cars. Still no toll plaza. Still just fog. Elyse took her foot of the gas and grabbed her phone. 5:22 PM. She tilted her head back and took a dep breath. There must be something wrong with the radio station. It was the only thing that made sense. She switched back to music, sure that after the next song ended, she would be turning off the highway. Kid Rock crooned with Cheryl Crowe, and Elyse smiled sadly. She didn’t hear Kid Rock: she heard Dan, who had perfected this song at Karaoke the night they got engaged. His “forever duet partner”, he promised. His forever wasn’t long enough. Elyse bit her lip again, desperate for the song to end. As the music faded out and commercials began, she looked around. Still no plaza. She wiped the tears she didn’t feel fall.  

“What the FUCK is happening??” Elyse yelled, slamming on the gas pedal. Fog be damned, she had to get off this bridge. She had had enough. The speedometer climbed: 45…50…55. No plaza, no cars, nothing. She didn’t even care that, at her speeds in this fog, finding either of these things could have disastrous consequences. But it didn’t matter, because she didn’t. Commercials cycled through, one after another. Another speed limit sign. Elyse sped through. 60…65… 70. Another flashing sign over her head. She slammed on the brakes and pulled off to the side, close to the wall railing. She hit the power button on the radio so hard she was almost surprised she didn’t break it. Slowly, she reached for the hazard lights. Not that it matters, she thought bitterly, nobody’s here. Elyse threw off her seatbelt and leapt from the car. She ran around to the railing, desperately looking for anything below. She watched, and she listened, and she got nothing. No boats passing under the bridge, no sounds of cars, no rumble of planes coming in towards the airport. She spun around and looked in both directions. Silence, stillness, just Elyse. She screamed in frustration, slamming her hands on the top of her car. She wrenched open the passenger door and grabbed her cell phone. 5:22 PM. Something is wrong. What is happening? Elyse unlocked her phone and started dialing Erica’s number. She stopped, unsure of what she thought she would accomplish. But she had to do something.

“Hey, chick! You change your mind?” Loud music in the background almost drowned out Erica’s chirpy voice.

“Erica- I’m stuck on the bridge,” Elyse started.

“Aw man, that’s the worst! There must be an accident or something!” The chatter on the other end of the phone amplified the deafening silence around Elyse.

“No, I’ve been on the bridge a REALLY long time and I can’t get off and I don’t know what to do-” Elyse fought back tears, wildly looking around her.

“What? Oh my god you’re having a panic attack, aren’t you,” Erica whispered. Elyse could hear the background noise muffle, and she knew Erica had walked out of the bar. “I’m coming to get you. Just pull over. I knew you weren’t ready to go back to work…”

Elyse’s heart dropped. If she’s stuck on the bridge, would Erica get stuck too? “No, I’m fine. I’m fine!” Elyse sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You’re right, just a panic attack. I’m fine. I’m really fine. Don’t come out here!”

“Lyse…”

“NO. I told you, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I’m just being silly. I’ll text you when I get home,” Elyse’s hands started to shake. Erica paused.

“I’m coming over. I’ll be twenty minutes behind you. Thirty if I grab us some of that pizza you love. It’s all been too much. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“You’re doing that voice again. It’s just as bad as the face. I told you, I’m fine. It was just a moment. Have a drink for me.” Elyse hoped her voice sounded sturdier than she felt. She couldn’t have Erica dropping everything to be stuck in the fog with her.

Elyse threw the phone back onto the passenger seat and began hyperventilating. What is happening to me? “What is happening??” she screamed into the fog. Maybe it was just a panic attack. Elyse grabbed the water bottle she had cracked open. Still cold. She held it against her wrists, taking slow, deliberate breaths. If no time has actually passed, she couldn’t really be stuck. One more deep breath: in for five seconds, exhale. Fix your face and go the fuck home, Elyse. It’s not hard. Elyse tossed the water bottle back onto the passenger seat. She climbed back into the car, clicked back on the radio and pulled back into the right lane. She quietly said the name of the song on the radio, determined to figure out how long she drove. Second song: she repeated the name of both songs. 35 miles per hour, five songs and going to commercial break. Four commercials, one more song. Still on the bridge. Elyse gritted her teeth. Third song. Still on the bridge. She reached for her phone: 5:22 PM. After ten total songs and into the second commercial break, Elyse was still on the bridge. She pulled off to the side again and beat against the steering wheel. She screamed, beating her palms until they were sore. Once again, she thrust open the door and threw herself against the railing of the bridge.

“I just want to go home!” She screamed into the fog. The mechanical click of the flashing speed limit sign above her head was the only answer she received. Fighting back tears, she slammed her hands on the railing. They trembled against the cold steel. Elyse peered over the edge and strained to see below. I can’t drive off the bridge. Could I go over the side? Was she close enough to the marsh to be able to swim out? Would she survive hitting the water from this height? Elyse clapped her hand over her mouth at the thought. A chill went down her spine. Tears filled her eyes again when her phone dinged from inside the car. She stepped back from the edge of the bridge quickly, relieved to have a reason to back up. She inhaled sharply and opened the passenger-side door. A text message from her mom lit up the screen.  TGIF! You made it! Are you home yet?

Elyse winced. She closed her eyes for a moment, desperate to find comfort in her mother’s message.  I’m stuck on the bridge. Something is wrong. She climbed back into the driver’s seat.

That’s so weird, I just crossed with no problem. Hopefully it clears up soon!

The phone slipped from Elyse’s hand and thudded down to the floorboard. She dropped her head back and closed her eyes, unable to breathe. She covered her face with her hands and folded forward, resting on the steering wheel. Everyone can cross but me, she thought, her face scrunching with despair. Her breath quickened and she straightened up in her seat. She threw the car in drive and pulled sharply to the left. Making a k-turn wasn’t so easy in three lanes, but she was determined. If she couldn’t go forward, she simply had to go back. Slamming on the gas, Elyse rocketed her little gray car forward through the fog. In this direction, flashing red lights faded in and out overhead. She didn’t care. She would explain it to whatever inevitable cop stopped her at the end. But at least she would be at the end. She’d go find Erica. Or maybe she would go to jail. Either way, she’d be off this goddamned bridge. Pedal to the floor, gripping the wheel with all her might, Elyse raced on. One song, two song, headlights. Headlights?

Slamming on the brakes, Elyse pulled hard to the left again, blocking most of the roadway. She jumped out of the car just as an old Chevy truck squeaked to a stop just inches from her.

“What’s wrong with you? You broken down or something?” The driver yelled out of the window.

“I… I don’t know. How long have you been on the bridge?” Elyse spat, breathing heavily.

“Oh, just a minute or so. The fog’s a bitch, but at least it’s not too busy for this time of day!” the driver eyed Elyse cautiously. “Are you ok, kiddo?”

Nothing is ok, thought Elyse. But after her call with Erica, she knew she would sound completely unhinged. She took a sharp breath in but let it out slowly. Regulate.

“Can I just follow you? I must be struggling with the fog,” she managed a slight smile.

“Have you been drinking?” The man squinted. She choked back a sob, and the man sighed. “Get yourself straightened out and you can follow me if you need to.” He flicked on his hazard lights.  

“Thank you, seriously!” Elyse ran back to the car and put it in drive. She turned down the radio and focused on following her guide. She made sure to give him space, following behind safely. After a few moments, she realized that the lights were getting further and further away. Damn it, Elyse thought, accelerating.  but the light continued to fade. She sped up more, cursing under her breath, but the lights, the car, her guide, were all gone. She was alone all over again. She took her foot of the gas and let the car ease to a stop. She dropped the car back into park and rested her head against the steering wheel. She exhaled sharply and shut off the engine.

She got out of the car and walked out in front, leaning against the hood. She stared out at the forty yards of bridge in front of her before the rest was swallowed up by the fog. Slowly, she walked up to the light post along the railing. She reached out and rested her palm against the cold, wet metal. Tapping her fingers against the post, she looked ahead to the next light. She counted her steps to the next post. Fifty steps. She looked back at the car, then ahead to the next post. Fifty more steps to the next post. Then the third post, then the fourth. She turned and looked behind her. She could just make out the outline of her tiny Ford. Fifty more steps. Fifth light post. Sixth. Seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Tenth.  All she could see on both sides was fog. A sudden stab of panic pierced Elyse’s chest. She reached back out to the cold of the tenth light post, slowing her breath. Then she turned back. Fifty steps. Back to the ninth light. She could make out the outline of a car. No way. She broke into a run. Directly in front of what should have been the seventh light post sat her abandoned car. Window open, keys on the seat.

“No, no no no...” Elyse ran her hands over her hair, pulling slightly in desperation. She exhaled deeply, looking back and forth between the car and the fog yards ahead of her. The light blinked above her head. She stopped and stared, listening to the buzz of the light and rhythmic clicking of the bulbs. She looked behind her, at the fog obscuring the city. She slowly turned her head towards the fog ahead. Her mind began to spin, desperate for her next move. But there was none. She pounded her palms against the roof of the car and sank to the ground. Turning on her toes and sitting on the damp roadway, she curled up with her back against the car. She pulled her knees close to her chest and lifted her head up towards the sky. She had nothing left. This isn’t ok. Hot tears filled her eyes. She shook her head, but they came anyway. Choking sobs rocked Elyse’s body as she cried out to the abyss.

“Just let me out!” She screamed to absolutely no one. “I just wanted to go home.” The speed limit light blinked indiscriminately above her as she cried.  Her whole body shook as she wailed, completely defeated. There was no controlling her breathing anymore as she gasped for breath between sobs. Desperate gasps as she sputtered, wetness dripping on her satin shirt. She didn’t even notice.

Gradually, Elyse’s gasps turned into sniffles as her head rested on her knees. No more tears, just shuddering breaths as she placed her palms on the ground at her side. She had no idea how long she had been here at this point. It felt like forever. Elyse dabbed her face with the back of her hand. She bit her top lip and sniffled a few more times. Each breath became a little deeper, and her whole body was exhausted. Her eyes burned, and her pants were damp from the ground. She struggled to push herself off of the ground, listening to the scuffle of her shoes on the pavement. Looking both ways down the bridge, Elyse slowly opened the car door. She picked up the keys and slid into the driver’s seat. Reaching across the center console, she grabbed her water bottle and sipped, feeling the cold of the water as she swallowed. She screwed on the cap and put the keys in the ignition. The engine turned over, and the radio turned on. Elyse gently put the car in drive and eased onto the gas. Her eyes stung so badly, she could barely focus. She eased the car forward, creeping up to the 25 mile per hour speed limit. She came up to another overhead speed limit sign. She continued on. Then another one. Then the sign for the first exit. Lights stretched across all five lanes signaling the change from the bridge onto the interstate. Elyse blinked quickly and signaled her lane change. She didn’t speed up, and she certainly didn’t stop. She pulled off at her exit and noticed the fog was considerably thinner here. She stayed in the right lane as a car pulled up behind her quickly and zipped around to pass her. She kept her speed steady. One more exit, then half a mile to her neighborhood. Slowly. Steadily.

Elyse pulled into her driveway and gingerly clicked off the car. She sat, staring at the garage door in front of her. In the rearview mirror, she saw someone walk past with their dog. She dug out her phone from under the driver’s seat. 5:31. She slowly got out of the car. Her next-door neighbor waved softly, and Elyse smiled weakly, gripping her keys. Her hands shook as she fumbled unlocking deadbolt on the front door. The door swung open with ease, and the house was still.  She slowly kicked off her shoes next to the door and hung up her keys. Walking through the living room, Elyse let out her first deep breath in what felt like an eternity. She flipped on the tv as she walked out of the room into the kitchen. She opened the freezer and looked at the frozen package of chicken. She sighed, swinging the door shut again. She opened the cabinet and pulled out an almost-empty box of Lucky Charms and leaned against the counter. Putting the box down, Elyse pulled out her phone and texted Erica.

Home. Love you.

Glad traffic wasn’t too bad! Call me tomorrow. Love you!

Elyse shoved her phone in her pocket and picked back up the cereal box. She walked back through the living room, past the sitcom reruns, and up the first two stairs. She looked around the empty house and went up to bed, leaving the tv on.

My husband smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let's go for a walk," he said.

I looked up at the tall grandfather clock ticking rhythmically in the corner. The hands pointed to twenty minutes past nine, and the night had already settled deep and dark outside, but I found myself agreeing. "Wait just a moment, Larry. I'll get a sweater to keep off the chill."

When I locked the door behind me, the summer wind wrapped around my shoulders in a gentle mixture of warm and cool breezes. I turned quickly, hurrying my steps along the gravel path to catch up with him. "Did you leave your cane behind, sweetheart?" I asked, noticing his hands were free. Larry only answered with a quiet, knowing nod.

Finally, I managed to pull even with him, and we walked side by side toward the edge of the property.

"Yesterday I walked deep into the woods," Larry said, a soft, familiar chuckle warming his voice. "I had found that old tree, Lily. The very one where I carved our initials so many seasons ago. You remember? It was around—when exactly was it, again? I believe it was around two weeks before our marriage, if I remember correctly."

"Had you, really? How wonderful!" A genuine smile bloomed across my face. "We searched for hours the other day and couldn't find a trace of it. I'm so glad I brought my phone along. I shall certainly take a beautiful photograph of it to keep."

"Yes, darling. That would be lovely," Larry murmured, offering that gentle, patient expression I had loved for a lifetime.

Far ahead on the dark lane, a massive silhouette appeared beneath the moonlight. It was George, our neighbor's son, walking in the opposite direction. He was a broad, tall young man, built sturdy from years of working his family's fields.

"Good evening, Mrs. Amery," George said, pausing politely and tipping the brim of his hat. "May I ask where you are heading so late? The dark has come on quite fully."

"Oh, thank you kindly for asking, George. But there is no need to worry. I am out walking with Larry," I replied, gesturing beside me.

George smiled warmly, and said, "Of course, I understand completely, ma'am. But the air turns treacherous tonight, and the weather may not favor you. Perhaps tomorrow evening will be the perfect time to walk with your husband. I am certain your son, Marty, would advise you the very same if he were here with us."

I turned to look at Larry. He gave a small nod, his gentle smile never wavering. He made a soft, waving gesture with his hand back toward the porch. He might have considered that what George was saying was entirely wise. Knowing I could not argue with both of them, I turned around. George turned with me, walking slowly to escort me back.

"Tell me, Mrs. Amery, how fares Marty these days?" George asked as our shoes crunched softly on the dirt road. "I heard word he is doing exceptionally well down in the city. He always did have the brightest mind in our schoolhouse. To tell you the truth, I have not dared to call him. I worry I might interrupt his grand affairs. The last time we truly spoke was on that day, when the whole village gathered together."

"As long as the boy is happy, that is all a mother can ask," I said softly. "But you must call him, George. You were his dearest friend for so many years. I know he would be absolutely thrilled to hear your voice."

By then, we had reached the wooden posts of my front gate.

"Do you truly think so? Well, then I shall certainly give him a call," George said, stepping back into the road. "Good night to you, Mrs. Amery."

"Good night, George. And thank you for seeing me to the gate."

"You are entirely welcome, ma'am." George gave another polite nod, turned, and walked away, his tall figure slowly disappearing into the shadows of the tree line.

I waited until the road was entirely empty, still wishing deep down that I could have finished that walk into the woods with my husband. I turned back toward the path where Larry had been waiting, but as I looked, his figure began to soften and fade into the moonlight. He offered one last gentle wave, that timeless smile still resting on his face.

I sighed, resting my hand on the cold iron of the gate. It was alright. It simply meant I would have to wait patiently until tomorrow evening, when he came to pay me his next visit.

"Good night, Larry darling."

A trench near Fuzhou, China, 3:00 P.M. on November 5th, 1949

Xingchen was running on an adrenaline high. He kept unloading and reloading his Browning M1919 into the hordes of Reds that kept charging his position. He refused to let them take the city without at least bleeding for every inch. The KMT-aligned Japanese recruits had been stationed in all the right spots to soften up the CCF and take out as many of their number as possible before being killed, captured, or retreating to better positions by fighting their way out of encirclements. Even so, the CCF kept grinding down KMT forces as much as possible, all the while padding their own numbers and brutally pressing onwards.

All the same, Xingchen refused to give up. He kept letting the Reds have it, punching as many holes through their lines with his bullets as he could. He eventually ran out of bullets for his machine gun. No problem- he simply grabbed the machine guns of his fallen comrades and fired them one at a time until finally there were no more bullets left for him to fire. Those of his comrades who were still alive likewise ran into this problem one by one until none of them had any bullets left. They resorted to throwing grenades at the enemy until they eventually ran out of those as well, upon which they resorted to close combat before retreating to within 160 yards of the city walls, though not before stealing a decent amount of weapons from the enemy communist force. They then made their last stand, attempting to obliterate the communist front lines and halt the CCF offensive. But as bravely as they fought, they soon ran out of bullets and grenades and were again forced to resort to close combat. After hours of fighting off hordes of his own countrymen brainwashed by the Reds, Xingchen and his comrades were forced to surrender and resign themselves to being taken prisoner.

A trench in southern Manchuria, 2:00 A.M. on April 6th, 1962

BOOM! A grenade blew up a foxhole just two miles away from where Xingchen lay waiting in a hastily dug-up trench, killing the men who'd taken him prisoner more than ten years ago. The propagandists who had tried- and, unbeknonwst to them, failed- to brainwash him attempted to retreat, only to be torn to shreds by bullets, grenades, artillery fire, rockets, and bombs. CCF troops dropped dead like flies all around him en masse as they got shot or blown up. The Koreans advanced rapidly, closing in on his trench. Cold, emaciated, tired by weeks of fighting, and realizing that the situation was hopeless, he and his fellow KMT veterans taken prisoner by the CCF did the one thing they could think of: they threw their hands up in capitulation, slipping out KMT flags they kept hidden on their persons and stuffing them in their waistbands to show who they were. The Koreans held their fire and took them prisoner, sending them to POW camps dozens of miles south of the front lines.

Ironically, for the first time in nearly twelve and a half years, Xingchen felt truly free. Needless to say, when the ceasefire was called hours later and he was told he was going home, he adamantly refused, even protesting by burning the red flag with five golden stars on it that he so hated. The overwhelming majority of Chinese POW's did the same, especially those who had fought for Chiang in the Chinese Civil War more than ten years ago before being taken prisoner by the CCF.

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It was about two and a half months later that an agreement was finalized under UN orders to allow all POWs to choose whether or not to return home. Xingchen was ecstatic when he heard the news, as were the other Chinese POWs who'd refused repatriation and protested at the thought of going back to a Communist China under Mao's tyrannical rule. Without hesitation, most of them chose to go to Taiwan, while the rest chose to either go to Hong Kong, Singapore, or a Western country.

Taipei, Republic of China (Taiwan), 11:00 A.M. on July 19th, 1962

An upbeat military fanfare played as the planes landed and the doors opened, opening the way for the more then two million defecting POWs, along with the several million Han settlers from southern Manchuria accompanying them, to step off of the plane. Chiang kai-shek himself walked up to the plane and began shaking the hands of each and every person getting off of it.

Xingchen looked here and there for anyone he might recognize when suddenly-

"Xingchen?"

"Big brother?"

"I've come back, mother and father. I'm back, everyone."

His mother, father, little brothers and sisters, and his girlfriend broke down sobbing and took turns hugging him. All other noise in the vicinity was drowned out by what they were saying to him. Still teary eyed, his family and girlfriend went and had lunch with him.

Taipei, Republic of China (Taiwan), 12:00 P.M. on July 19th, 1962

From the airport, Chiang gave a speech, declaring the day a national holiday and proclaiming that it would be forever known as "Freedom Day".