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Mielikki

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Mielikki 2

Der Diar

Day 1: Dear Diary, Today marks the beginning of my expedition into the heart of the Amazon rainforest, a land I've dreamt of exploring since I was a child. The anticipation is palpable as I set foot on this seemingly untouched terrain. The air is thick with humidity, and the chorus of wildlife fills my ears. I can't help but feel a sense of awe and excitement at the adventure that lies ahead. With every step, I am one stride closer to uncovering the mysteries hidden within this lush green labyrinth. Day 3: Dear Diary, The past few days have been both exhilarating and challenging. Navigating through the dense foliage has proven to be more difficult than anticipated. Every step requires careful consideration, as the undergrowth is thick and tangled. Yet, despite the physical hardships, the beauty of this place is unparalleled. Vibrant birds flit through the canopy above, and colorful flowers dot the forest floor. I can't help but marvel at the wonders of nature that surround me at every turn. Day 6: Dear Diary, Today, I stumbled upon something truly remarkable. While hacking through the underbrush, I came across what appears to be an ancient ruin hidden deep within the jungle. The structure is overgrown with vines and moss, but its grandeur is unmistakable. I can only imagine the secrets that lie within its crumbling walls. It's moments like these that remind me why I became an explorer—to uncover the mysteries of the unknown and piece together the stories of civilizations long forgotten. Day 10: Dear Diary, As I delve deeper into the heart of the rainforest, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. Every rustle of leaves and snap of twigs sends shivers down my spine. I've heard tales of indigenous tribes who call this place home, and I can't help but wonder if they are aware of my presence. Despite my apprehension, I press on, driven by a curiosity that outweighs my fear. Day 15: Dear Diary, I've encountered something today that defies explanation. As I trekked through a particularly dense thicket, I stumbled upon a clearing unlike any I've seen before. In the center stands a massive stone monolith, covered in intricate carvings that seem to pulsate with energy. The air around it hums with a strange power, sending goosebumps racing across my skin. I can't help but feel a sense of reverence in its presence, as if I've stumbled upon something sacred and ancient beyond comprehension. Day 20: Dear Diary, My journey through the rainforest takes a dark turn today. As I push deeper into the jungle, I come across the remains of a campsite, long abandoned and overgrown with vegetation. Amongst the tangled vines and fallen trees, I discover the grim evidence of tragedy—a human skeleton, picked clean by scavengers and bleached white by the sun. The sight sends a chill down my spine, and I can't help but wonder what horrors befell the unfortunate soul who met their end in this forsaken place. Day 25: Dear Diary, The discovery of the skeleton weighs heavily on my mind as I continue my journey through the rainforest. The jungle seems to close in around me, suffocating me with its oppressive silence. Every shadow holds a hidden threat, and every rustle of leaves sends my heart racing with fear. I can't shake the feeling that I am being watched, stalked by some unseen predator that lurks just beyond the edge of my vision. Day 30: Dear Diary, I stumble upon another grisly scene today—a makeshift grave hidden amongst the roots of a towering tree. A crude cross marks the spot, and beneath it lies the decaying remains of another unfortunate soul. The stench of death hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the damp earth and rotting vegetation. I can't help but wonder how many others have met their end in this cursed place, their bodies swallowed by the unforgiving jungle. Day 35: Dear Diary, The jungle grows darker with each passing day, a twisted maze of shadows and secrets. I can feel the tendrils of madness creeping into my mind, whispering dark thoughts and tempting me with visions of despair. I know not how much longer I can endure in this hellish place, surrounded by death and decay at every turn. But still, I press on, driven by a stubborn determination to uncover the truth that lies hidden amidst the ruins of this forsaken land. Day 40: Dear Diary, Disaster strikes today as I stumble upon the remains of my fellow explorers, their bodies torn apart by some unknown horror. Blood stains the earth, and the stench of death hangs heavy in the air. I can't bear to look upon their mangled corpses, but I know that I must press on if I am to have any hope of escaping this nightmare alive. With a heavy heart and trembling hands, I gather what supplies I can salvage and continue deeper into the heart of darkness. Day ???: Dear Diary, I don't know how long it's been since I last wrote in these pages. Time seems to have lost all meaning in this accursed place. I am lost, both in body and in spirit, trapped in a never-ending nightmare from which there is no escape. The jungle closes in around me like a living, breathing entity, suffocating me with its darkness and despair. I can hear them now, whispering in the shadows, their voices a haunting melody that echoes through the depths of my mind. I must leave this place. I must escape before it's too late. But I fear that I am already lost. Day 40: Dear Diary, Bodies... blood... everywhere. Can't think. Must must keep moving. No time. I think they saw me. I think they're coming. Can't stay, I must escape. Keep running. Don't look back. Day : der diar, no time. lost. they are coming. I can hear them. voices laughing screaming. cant find way out. Must leave before its t

4wokfv

A Sight Once Seen

I boarded the massive submersible, The Amelia, around six in the morning. It was the honor of a lifetime to be the man chosen to accompany many great researchers and scientists on this voyage. Four hours later, the general populous would board and we would make our descent in this unique and historic vessel. The Amelia was the first of its kind luxury cruise submarine built for both research and relaxation. Its shape was not like any other submarine to ever exist; it was built like an inverted triangle, and with each level, the status of the residents increased all the way down to the tip which belonged solely to the captain. Although I worked for the company that designed and built the vessel, I had no clue who the captain was, and that would have seemed irresponsible of me if not for the fact that the higher-ups never released the name of the captain to the public. It had caused great speculation among the media companies to who was in control, and some thought that it was artificial intelligence manning it. Now to ease the concerns I had at the time over this matter, I was told by my supervisor that I would personally meet with the captain. My room was to be on the 2nd staff level right above the captain’s control center. The Amelia had six levels: Basic passenger, Premium passenger, VIP passenger, Staff levels 1 and 2, and then the control room. Engineers and architects had spent years designing this beast of a submarine trying to make it a new wonder of the modern world, and to their credit, they succeeded. Containing every modern luxury known to mankind, it advertised itself as the greatest voyage to ever exist. VIP tickets went for over 10000 dollars while Premium went for 5000. Basic tickets were relatively affordable in comparison coming in at a crisp 2000. Even with these high prices, the cruise was sold out within three days of tickets going on sale. That made me all the more lucky to have my seat reserved by my employers. I do not know if it was Divine intervention or just plain chance that I was the one chosen to go on board, but no matter the source, the experience changed my life. It had been a couple hours after I boarded, but yet no sign of the captain. I was eager to meet as soon as possible, but I chalked it up that the captain was too busy preparing the descent. I was sitting in the lobby when Dr. Jennings appeared and introduced herself to me. “Hello, I am Dr. Jennings, I suppose you are the representative from the company in Egypt?” “Yes, my name is George, but I am the only representative from the company, they didn’t send any from other nations,” I responded. “Oh, well if I may ask, how did you get a name like George?” “Yea I get that question a lot, but it’s because my father is English.” She glanced at me and grinned. I would later find out she was half Scottish although she had no elements of the accent. The doctor came off as highly intelligent and witty which led to me being certain that this expedition would be successful. Her right-hand man was Doctor Jackson who I met just shortly before the descent. He was shockingly tall standing at 6 foot 10 inches, and with a lean frame that made me wonder why he did not play professional basketball. Together the three of us watched the large TV screen in our lobby that displayed a news channel broadcasting the initial descent. A few minutes later, the timer hit zero and down we went. Cheers could be heard all across the submarine as people celebrated such a historic moment with glee. In the center of each floor, there was an elevator that would take the passengers between levels that they had access to. In my position I had access to the levels; likewise, the doctors did too. The elevator on our floor opened and out walked a plainly dressed couple. At first, I thought that it was standard passengers who somehow got access to our level, but I was quickly proven to be wrong. The man introduced himself as Roswell, the head engineer, and the lady herself Mandy, his wife. For some time, we all discussed this wonderful vessel and Roswell informed us of the various complexities that went into designing it. His wife too spoke as if she was an engineer relating astonishing mathematical equations as if I, a simple businessman, was aware of what any of them meant. Finally, Roswell asked if I and the doctors would follow him to the staff level to which we obliged. “You are going to love what we have up here for you all, it really is spectacular,” exclaimed Roswell, “it is going to blow your minds.” “I didn’t know this job came with a surprise,” said Dr. Jackson. “Oh, you’ll certainly like it, I believe,” responded Mandy. We entered the staff level which was crowded with employees going to and fro. Navigating the crowd, Roswell led us to an equipment room where stood several amazing diving suits. “Look at these!” he yelled, “you will be the first people to walk the ocean floor at 30,000 feet. These suits right here took almost as much to design as The Amelia did.” “Are you sure those are safe? I don’t really plan on dying here, ” I questioned. “Absolutely, we tested them in our labs, you will be completely fine,” he replied. “Even if you died in them, wouldn’t that be such an interesting way to go?” joked Mandy. “We will reach the bottom here in a few hours, at which the VIP level with be hosting a party that we have all been invited to. Afterward, you all will make history if you wish,” explained Roswell. We all agreed and then returned to our own level. I went to my quarters on the far in of the level. The room was brightly lit by wall lights and a small but comfortable was provided for me. A dark dresser in which I had placed my belongings upon arrival stood next to the bed, and a small closet was likewise part of the room. Although not luxurious, it made do. I determined that I would sleep for a couple of hours in order to be better rested for tonight. I dozed off thinking of the magnitude of this honor. Shortly before we reached the bottom, I woke up to the sound of Dr. Jennings’s voice. “George, wake up we are going to the VIP level now. We are almost at 30,000 feet,” she said. I got up and joined her and Dr. Jackson as we went up to the VIP level. As we got off of the elevator, I thought I was going to go blind. The VIP level entered into an open ballroom that was so heavily adorned with gold and bright lights that it took some time for my eyes to get adjusted. The room itself was packed full of people, there must have been nearly 500 people. A large screen in the front of the room broadcasted live footage of a light shining into darkness along with a counter that read 29,000 feet and slowly rising. Somber music filled the room and a dreamlike persisted. Thinking back, we probably stood out surrounded by the rich in their expensive dresses and suits for I was dressed in a simple button-up and dress pants, and the doctors likewise in casual clothing. But that did not matter, the counter hit 30,000 feet and a roar of applause occurred louder than anything I had ever heard. Every person in the room was fully aware of what they were experiencing and were proud of it too. Above us in the Premium level, the applause continued, and so on in the Basic level. Drinks were brought out and the volume of the music increased; the night had begun. The three of us had a good time socializing with the passengers. It was strange though, I must admit to be in a place like that. For the most part, the VIP passengers were all multi-millionaires who had major roles in corporations of some sort. The type of people you don’t really see out and about all the time, yet here was a plethora of them all in the same place. Around 10 o’clock, Roswell entered the ballroom and made his way towards us. Once we met him, he led us back down to the equipment room. The suits were magnificently fitted with everything we would need including communications devices and cameras. “I must admit I am a little nervous about this,” said Dr. Jennings. “Don’t worry one bit, everything will be fine,” assured Roswell. “I’m sure you’re right, but it is still frightening nonetheless,” replied Dr. Jennings. “No one ever made history by doing something mundane,” said Roswell. The suit fit my body well, but the large plating to protect us from the pressure made moving a clunky process. Roswell informed us that he was going to stay behind in the captain’s control room and watch us from our cameras. “I am supposed to meet with the captain, Roswell. Is there any way I can be introduced when I get back?” I asked him. He laughed, “Sure, I don’t see why not.” “Will we be able to take samples down here? It will make our studies much more efficient and productive,” asked Dr. Jackson. “Absolutely, your suit is equipped with all the resources you need to be able to,” answered Roswell. “Well, good then let’s get started,” Dr. Jennings said nervously. We were led over to an air-lock chamber where Roswell wished us luck and said he would speak to us over the intercom with instructions once he reached the control room. The three of us stood in silence for a couple of minutes until a voice mixed with static filled the room. Roswell explained some basic instructions and how to use the suit. Fitted with everything man could imagine it really was a work as impressive as The Amelia herself. Jet propulsion, unlimited oxygen, and real-time digital mapping were just a few of the included technologies. The ability to even be down here was a miraculous thing since we were facing pressure nearly 3000 times that of surface level. Roswell asked if we were ready once last time, and then opened the door. The magical experience of walking at the bottom of the ocean cannot be compared to anything above. Although we were not crushed to death by the pressure, it still played a role in our movement. The suits were entirely illuminated by small but bright lights, but to see ahead we had a massive light mounted to the top of our helmets that cast out bright rays. Ahead of us though there was nothing. “Where are we going?” asked Dr. Jackson. “We cannot go too far out. getting lost down here is not an option,” said Dr. Jennings. “Let’s just go about 100 yards out and then come back,” I said, “the ground here is pretty flat, and we should have no problem with that.” Moving around there was nothing, but a grayish Ocean floor composed of millenniums worth of fish remains and a dark blue surrounding that was spotted with small plankton. The surreal nature of this, however, had made it worth it all. 20 yards out the doctors stopped to gather samples from the floor. “What do you think you will find?” I asked them. “Oh, probably just some bacteria mixed in with the fish remains,” responded Dr. Jackson. “Yes, but if we are lucky, we might just find some new bacteria. Something that has never been found before, even if it is mostly insignificant, will be a great find in the scientific community,” said Doctor Jennings. Roswell came through the communication device and spoke to us for some time just to check up on how we were doing and what it was like down there. Like previously mentioned, everything was fine except for the slowness of our movement. It took twice as long to move as it should have due to the pressure, and my impatient self became frustrated. That was until at around 80 yards I noticed something on our map. In the distance, another 100 yards out or so, strange looking shapes began to appear. “Hey, do you guys see this on your map too?” I asked the others. “Yes, I see it too, I wonder what that is,” Dr. Jennings relied Dr. Jackson suggested, “Let’s send it over to Roswell and see what he thinks.” Roswell was intrigued and brought down experts of the ocean floor to examine them. A few minutes later he told us that we really needed to go explore it as the experts claimed they had never seen anything like this before. So, we went on slowly through the dark blue abyss. Every 30 yards or so the doctors would stop to collect another sample of then proceed forward once again. Then around 20 yards out from our destination Dr. Jackson gasped. “What in the world is this,” he said, “Dr. Jennings, have you ever heard of anything like this?” “No, Jackson I definitely have not,” she replied. “We need to take pictures of this to go along with the footage,” I said. Over the communications, Roswell said, “Please get everything you can of this.” What stood before us was a mountain of sorts overlooked somehow by sonar. The mountain contained various rows of cave openings which were led up to by what appeared like steps. No life was found there, and the mountain itself was covered in the same gray remains of fish, but what could have formed all of this? It was by no means naturally occurring. I went forward ignoring the warnings of my companions and those of Roswell too. Slowly I climbed the steps towards the first row of caves. I assured the doctors that I had no intention to go in them, but rather just to shine my light into one. After making my way up to the first cave, I shined the headlight right into its depths only to find that it went down so far that my light made no impact. A part of my soul yearned to go into the cave to see what awaited, but reason persuaded me otherwise. I returned to the doctors, and we headed back to The Amelia . Back on board, we removed our suits and dressed in our regular attire. Roswell was exhilarated. “Can you believe that! What a thing to see! You all did amazing,” he shouted. “Thank you, Roswell, this really is a historic moment!” said Dr. Jennings excitedly. “When can we publish this footage and the images we took? This is going to change the world!” Dr. Jackson exclaimed. “As soon as the company grants us permission to, I suppose,” replied Dr. Jennings. “Oh yes, I forgot. Our findings are owned by the company. What a sad stipulation,” said Dr. Jackson. “I am sure the company will be just as thrilled as we are, but shall we go meet the captain?” asked Roswell. He led us down to the lowest level, the captain’s control room, where the entire running of the ship took place. Before we entered the control room itself, Roswell smiled. “You all should know by now I am a man of surprises,” he said. We went into the control room only to see his wife, Mandy, dressed in a formal uniform sipping a cup of tea while overseeing the many complexities of the vessel. I laughed thinking of how I had thought her to just be Roswell’s wife, yet she held a higher rank than even he did. Together the five of us, along with the hundreds of other passengers and staff members enjoyed the rest of the voyage. The findings, though, were never fully published. The company refused to release any of the footage or pictures to the public to supposedly, “keep the secrecy of the location and its properties in order to benefit the company’s actions in future endeavors.” This greatly upset me along with those I was with. The only thing the company told the public was that a “great geographical phenomenon” had been discovered. To this day, I resent them for that, and because I regret not risking my life to see what was in those caves. Perhaps it was the underwater ruins of some prehistoric unknown civilization, or maybe it was home to some form of intelligent life, or maybe, and least interesting, it was a shocking, but merely natural formation. I will never get to know.

6ni75u

This is Going to be an Adventure.

This is Going to Be an Adventure Diary Entry #1 – The Project I haven’t written a diary since I was 12 years old and experiencing new things at a friend’s cottage. This one will have a double purpose – to remind me of that experience, and, with a little good fortune, to tell others, students and colleagues, of what I have discovered with this project. I don’t know what I will find, or whether I will find anything. It is going to be an adventure at the very least. My studies as an archaeologist have been limited to analyzing other people’s work.  No other archaeologist at the university wanted to engage in this research, as it might turn out to reveal nothing new and interesting, and may be thought to reflect researcher failure. However, as a new hire who really wants to be tenured, I simply had to say yes with a big smile on my face. The dean several times called this an ‘opportunity’ when he spoke to me about it, but it had been a long, long time since he had been a newly hired professor. I think that he just wanted to justify my hiring to his fellow deans and other administrators. He is very much involved with university politics. For a long time, a glacier had covered what were now two large hills and the land that joins the two of them. Climate change was obviously the cause of this dramatic development. That has happened elsewhere in the Arctic. At this point it could only be stated that the hills had been under water and ice in the Northwest Territories of Canada for centuries. Just how many centuries is yet to be determined. I hope to discover this through my research, particularly if an early historical human presence can be found, perhaps the earliest in the area. Without such a discovery, my work would probably just be ignored and tenure will be slow in coming. When I announced the subject of my research to my introductory class, one of my Indigenous students, whose people were the oldest known to live in this area, over a thousand years, came up to me and suggested that I meet up with a highly respected Elder, a wise man who knew the stories of the past that had been handed down from generation to generation. On the weekend that followed I drove him to his community and he introduced me to the Elder.  I offered him tobacco, which he received with a smile. When I informed him about the project, he told me that there were stories passed down by Elders for generations that there had once been a people living there who spoke a different language, and had very different ways of living. He told me that they were no longer in the area.  One of the stories that he told was to my way of thinking quite imaginative, and unlike any Indigenous stories that I had ever read I tried not to let my doubts show. I wanted to say that it could have been the subject of a science fiction movie, but I didn’t say anything to him about it. The Elder showed his respect both for those ancient people and for the work that I was about to be engaged in by smudging both hills before I engaged in any digging. Diary entry #2 – My Staff and I My staff, university students, both Indigenous and non-Indigenous were all rather inexperienced in the hard physical labour necessary for an archaeological project such as this. But they were highly motivated, not just to get the experience needed to possibly continue a career in archaeology, but because I had convinced them that they would be contributing to highly original and significant work. I hoped that what I told them would prove to be true, and not just a cheap trick of my part to get recruits. I had no idea what we might find, hopefully not just rocks moved by a glacier and seawater. That would not make for a much needed publication for me on my pathway to tenure. Diary Entry #3 – We Find Caves and Tools Thankfully, it turned out that I did not have to worry about us finding evidence of an early human presence. Each of the hills had a cave, each one facing the other directly. It also seemed to me from the very beginning that these caves were probably very, very old. It could well be that they were made by the first people to live here, people who were quite skilled in the digging of caves. I was very impressed by how far into the hills the caves looked to be even at first sight. Diary Entry #4 - No Burials to be Found One curious lack of discovery is the fact that we have found no evidence of burials, not a sign of any bones anywhere on or in the hills or in the flatlands in between. It looks like we will not be able to learn what these people did with their dead. Diary Entry #5 – At Last, a Discovery We went back and forth in both caves, thinking that we had gone their length without finding any signs of previous life. After a few days work, I began to think that the project was doomed. Then the student who had put me in contact with the Elder told me that he thought that the large stone at what appeared to be the end of one of the caves might just be blocking a deeper depth where we might find something. I was initially critical, but decided that we should at least give a try on rolling the rock.  I am very glad that we did. There was more cave beyond. It rose gradually to what was an opening that was covered by another large rock. When we pushed it aside, we could walk out to the side of the hill.  The opening provided some light into the newly discovered part of the cave, which we enhanced by the flashlights that we had carried with us. We could see then that the walls were covered with pictures in a variety of shiny colours, most of which depicted scenes of the land, the plants, and the animals.            The first picture provided a view of the two hills and the land in between from a position of great height in the sky. In the next picture we saw that the artist lowered the perspective, viewing the two hills from the ground.              The last picture came as big surprise.  It portrayed two people standing close together, one was dressed in the traditional sacred clothing quite like what I had seen the Elder wear. He was handing what looked like a leather pouch to the other man, who looked like he was wearing a one-piece outfit that was entirely blue.            What was a bigger surprise was that in the background there was what looked like some kind of spaceship, a flying saucer that would not have looked out of place in a space story of the 1960s.  This was what the Elder had tried to tell me in his last story, that there were blue sky-beings, who flew into and eventually out of their territory in a roundish vehicle shaped like a very big Arctic clam shell. I am glad that I never articulated my doubts. But now it is up to me to convince others that the story is true. I doubt if many of my colleagues and the dean will believe me. It could be maker or a breaker of my career. This is going to be an adventure.

qkdzvs

Uncharted

Cody thrived in his well-controlled world. He worked hard and played video games into the night. The vitality of the game’s characters inspired him. If they wanted something, they took it with style. He envied characters untethered by imposed social niceties. He loved exploring the secrets hidden within each new level. He wanted that life. Onscreen, his life was simple and direct. Those who dared interfere with his desires for a woman, a car or other treasures found life was brutish and short. Cody’d been up all night. And he’d left no one standing. His warehouse shift began soon. He rinsed his face and tried to focus. Cody entered the kitchen and walked to the coffee maker. Finding the pot missing confused him. Then he saw Amber, his sister, downing her last gulp at the table. “Any for me?” “I thought you’d gone. I’ll make you some.” “Never mind. Late. Grab some en route.” Cody punched in on time. He went to receiving and pitched in unloading a truck. Coffee was his lifeline. On afternoon break, he held a coffee and leaned on a desk. Zack, his friend and workmate, joined him. Cody said, “I’m beat. Need to find something different.” “You mean work or gaming?” “Can’t quit gaming… so, work.” “Yeah, you were still going strong when I quit at two.” “On a roll. Never did sleep. But no one could touch me.” “No sleep?” Cody nodded and held up his coffee. “Cheers…” “That can’t be healthy, man. Gotta sleep.” “Sleep’s for the weak.” They laughed. “Remember when we beat the crap out of… whatsisname…? George?” Zack nodded. “Yeah, I did the beating though. That time…” “Taught him a lesson, alright. You punched him twenty-three times. He never touched you.” “You pinning his arms back helped.” “Yeah, Doc Martens are the best. He never bothered us again.” They laughed. “Plans for the weekend?” Cody downed his coffee. “Sleep. You?” “Friday night clubbing. See how that goes.” His body language said it all. Another box truck backed into the loading bay. “Let’s wrap this up and call it a day.” They returned to work. ~ Cody entered the apartment. Amber moved about the kitchen prepping dinner. “God! Am I beat. Might skip dinner and sleep.” “Eat first. You’ll sleep better if you eat too.” He winced at the clatter of metal on metal. “Hey! Skip the drum solo?” Amber turned to him. “It ever cross your mind someone else had a bad day?” “Yikes… What’s with you? Don’t be so emotional.” “And go through life like you?” Cody sighed. He wanted sleep. “Why not?” “Because you’re an emotional stick.” Cody sat. He was too tired for this. He said, “You make no sense. What’s so great about emotions? Name a few.” “Uhm… Happy, sad, angry, afraid.” “Oh boy. What fun. Yay emotions. Why do I ever want to be sad? It’s depressing. And fear’s a waste of time.” His flat intonation revealed how tired he felt. “Ah, but you hold anger close.” “Sorry, not sorry, Amber. No time for navel gazing.” “Too busy fighting battles?” I’m not at war. I’m living my life. I’m tired. Who cares?” “You’re my brother. I care.” He stifled a yawn. “Those are words, sis. Not real. Anyone do anything solid with them? Invent something? Build a city?” “Awaken to emotions, Cody. Engage with people. Experience the world on a deeper level. Surprise yourself.” “I unload trucks. You want me to bond with a box?” “I feel sorry for you. Imagine if you could share tenderness.” “Oh! Boohoo! This is straight out of wanky romance novels. No one actually feels this stuff. Your library’s all pulp.” Amber regrouped while attending to the dinner prep. She said, “Speaking of pulp, how do you waste so much time on those idiotic games?” “Why do you care?” “It’s not real. It’s a cartoon.” “It could be real. Should be real. You don’t get it. Life would be so simple without all this weepy drama everyone’s addicted to. People need to toughen up.” “I know. Some people’s emotional terrain is so barren. So flat.” “Some people need sleep.” “A fine excuse.” “You want moody? I can throw stuff if you want.” “What are you afraid of? Emotions? Why spend all your time hiding from them?” Cody pushed a fork off the table. It clattered to the floor. “Stop! Forget I said anything. If I need a hammer, I’ll call you. But sometimes a fine brush works better.” “What’re you talking about?” “Everything guys want is things. Is that really all you want?” “Every – thing… everything is things, Amber.” “What if someone stole your X-box?” “It’s not an X-box.” “I don’t care. What would you do?” “Kill them.” “So you’d kill for a thing.” He nodded with a sigh. “But I don’t get…” “But not a person. You and Zack see women, see everything as things. I want to be wanted, not possessed.” Cody perked up. “What’s Zack got to do with this?” “Never mind. Don’t you ever feel lonely? Ever want love?” “Seriously... What’s Zack…?” “Not important. Don’t change the subject.” “You brought him up. Why? What’d he do?” “Nothing. Same stupid stuff.” “Like?” She lowered the flame under the pan. Cody approached her. She turned at his touch. “Did he hurt you? Where?” “No… yes. Not physically. I hurt myself.” “Oh… emotions again?”                “He’s cold.” “I told you to stay away from him.” Cody grabbed his jacket. “Wait. Where’re you going?” “No place.” “Dinner’s ready.” “Gonna kill him.” “Cody, stop. You can’t kill someone because you disagree.” “Watch me.” “You don’t know anything, Code. If I wanted him dead, I’d kill him.” Cody stopped but remained silent. Amber stepped forward. “Don’t believe me?” “Didn’t say that…” He felt sapped. He sat and rested his head on the table. Almost to himself, “What’s for dinner?” “Cold hot dogs. Hold the relish.” “What?” He sat up. “Mmmm! Smell it! How you like it, safe and predictable. No heat.” “You’re nuts.” “Not nuts. How about soup?” “Soup? For dinner?” “A gumbo? Gazpacho? A paella? Broth?” He murmured. “No.” “There are variations, Cody. Life isn’t one lonely note played again and again. It’s a symphony. Look at dogs. Or trees. Which ice cream attracts you?” “A symphony?” “Not only marches, you know? How about a jig? A waltz? A pavane… or a bolero?” “I don’t dance.” “Channel your anger. You get to decide. Curiosity at what caused it. Hope for an amicable resolution.” “Amber… I’m beat.” “Dread of betrayal. Sorrow. Loneliness at a broken trust… And trust that you can resolve it.” He stood. “I’ll eat out. I can’t do this...” “Suspense for what happens next. Compassion for those injured…” He looked at her. She wiped her eyes. He touched her shoulder. He whispered, “Pride… or joy at renewing connections.” She nodded, sobbed, and fell into his embrace. Cody said, “I’m sorry, sis. Not good at opening flood gates. I lose control, how do I stop it?” She held his shoulders. “Floods pass, Cody. Every time. Think of the energy spent pushing it back. What you might find in the muck…” He nodded. “Okay... Uncharted territory. I’ll sleep on it.” Cody turned away but stopped at the door. “Save a hot dog, okay? I’ll be hungry tomorrow.” She chuckled. He smiled, looked down, waved and left the room. Amber served a plate of stew and sat. After a taste, she dashed some salt and mopped some gravy with a bread crust.

4bu1ee

Beyond

It’s been 80 years since exploration of our world became forbidden. Our cities, surrounded by 100-foot walls, keep us from leaving. The oldest member of our city was only a child before this law was created. She has also been kept in the dark all these years as to why. No one knows for sure why we are to be kept from the rest of the world. Why those who lived during the initial passing of the law were sworn to secrecy. There have been rumors of dangerous creatures roaming the earth, people from other cities who wish us harm, and even disease spreading the lands outside our walls. But no one knows except the city council. I’ve seen guards at the walls from time to time. But they never seem to be keeping anything or anyone from coming in. Their only job is to make sure no one is stupid enough to try and scale the walls. There are no windows looking out or doors that lead to the other side. It’s nothing but a giant slab of metal that surrounds our city. Growing up, I had always wondered what was out there. What they were keeping us from seeing, from knowing. There couldn’t be something so terrible, so monstrous that they would need to hide it from us. I needed to know. The day I turned 20 is supposed to be the day we discover ourselves and prepare for the rest of our lives. A day spent with family and friends, celebrating my coming of age and maybe  the day I would be set up with my perfectly chosen future husband. According to the council of course. Not only are we forbidden to leave, but we must also follow the rules of the city. This includes accepting where we are chosen to live, the schools we go to, the jobs that are handpicked for each citizen, and accepting who the council chooses for us to marry if we ourselves do not find them by our coming of age day. They say they want what is best for all of us. For all of our people. To me, they want control. But that day ended up being much different. It was the day I finally decided that I would find out what was waiting for me outside those walls. What was waiting for all of us. The day was October 19 th , 2104. My 20 th  birthday and the very last day I would spend in Hollow Valley. The only place I’d ever known and certainly wouldn’t be the last. I got up earlier that day, gave my mother, father, and sister a hug and kiss, as I did every morning. I took a shower, brushed my hair and teeth, put on the dress my mother made me for my birthday, like how she has every year, and went downstairs. The only difference this morning was the bag already packed, hidden under my bed. I didn’t want a soul to know my plan. I knew they would try to stop me and that was something I wouldn’t allow to happen. So, I spent my morning with my family, keeping any suspicion at bay. We ate breakfast then went out to the market to buy strawberries for the cake my mother prepared. She always knew strawberry cake was my favorite. Afterwards we visited our neighbors, The Jones, for lunch. They’ve always been our closest friends in the city. Their son Des has been my best friend since we were 5 years old. We’ve spent every birthday, holiday, and school break together, even if only for a minute. I couldn’t live without him. Leaving him was the hardest decision I had to make. After our visit, we all went back to our home and ate my mother’s famous strawberry cake together. Gifts were given, handmade I preferred and always suggested. There was always just something so personal about having a gift made specifically by someone you cared about. This year, there was of course my mother’s dress that she always had waiting out for me at the end of my bed in the morning, a doll made by my older sister, a journal sewn together by my father, which almost two months later is still going strong, and a crocheted scarf by Mrs. Jones. I’m pretty sure half of my clothing is crocheted by Des’s mother. “There’s one more thing.” Des said as he stuck his hand out to me. In his hand was a box, small but heavy. I opened the box and there was a ring. A small ring, with a small opal stone in the middle, my birthstone. I looked up and realized immediately what this meant. “I hope it’s okay.” He said nervously. I smiled and gave him a hug. “It’s perfect.” I put on the ring and when I looked up, everyone was smiling. They knew as well as I did that my long-time neighbor and best friend and I were meant to be. Not a random stranger whom the city decided would be my fateful partner. So, I told him. The decision to leave him now wouldn’t be so hard. He decided he would come with me. “We were meant to be.” he said. “I will follow you wherever you go.” That night, I added my mother’s dress, my sister’s doll, my father’s journal, Mrs. Jones’s scarf, and Des’s ring to my bag as well as some food that would last Des and I a while. Des also packed a bag, said his goodbyes to his parents and younger brothers. Although, they didn’t know it was goodbye. Once everyone was asleep, Des and I snuck out our windows, climbed down the tree in between our houses, walked out of the garden, and down the cobblestone road. Luckily, we lived at the less populated south side of the city where the guards only came by every few days. But the only thing about my plan that I worried about was how we were to get over the wall. A few days before, I had contacted a friend who lives in the city center. Her father works for a company who maintains the wall. She told me there in fact was a door that leads out of the city. But it’s not where we were expecting. She told me to look for a tree with the widest trunk. Underneath would be the door that leads out of Hollow Valley. She was right. We found the tree, darker than the rest. Under it, hidden by grass and soil, was the secret door, hiding in plain sight. I opened the door with a pull of a handle disguised as a vine sticking out from below the tree. We entered and climbed down the ladder to find a tunnel. There were lamps lighting the way. It only took us a few minutes to reach the other side until we saw the second ladder. I was nervous. We  were nervous. Only one had been outside these walls with no memories or knowledge of what was actually out there. But we were about to find out. When we came up out of the entrance, we could smell flowers. Along the outside edge of the wall were roses. Curious  I thought. Who planted these if no one has been allowed to leave? We put our bags down and took a moment to take it all in before we noticed a road in front of us. We knew there were roads connecting the cities, but this road was… new. It looked freshly paved. There were street lamps that lit up the sides of the road with more roses below each light that seemed well taken care of. “Woah, where do you think this road leads to?” Des asked me. “I’m not sure.” I said, looking down the road then back at him. “Let’s see where it takes us.” We smiled at each other, picked up our bags, and began walking down the brightly lit road, excited for what we were about to discover.

x4xmm9

An African Adventure

The year was eighteen-fifty-two, and at twenty-six years of age, my long-planned odyssey to the Dark Continent was about to begin. I, James Havelock, was about to follow in my dear Papa’s footsteps and spend twelve weeks hunting for unknown plant species on the African continent. I am an only child of doting parents. Our family name is renowned in Kent, England and beyond. My patriarchal grandfather Benjamin Havelock had amassed our family fortune from woollen mills where he employed hundreds of workers on slave wages ten hours a day, six and a half days a week, so that he would reap the financial rewards of the worker’s menial toil. My father, Todd Havelock, had shrewdly invested the small fortune. Benjamin, his father, had bequeathed to him in stocks and shares to make us Havelock’s one of the period’s richest families in Great Britain. I had grown up privileged and well-educated, listening avidly to my father’s tales of his travels and travails in the lush, deep forests of The Congo and other Distant African countries. These tales awakened my burning desire to travel to the same continent. I studied botany at Cambridge University, reasoning this field of study would be my best chance of securing a sponsor for my African adventures. British explorers were bringing home many exotic new plant species worldwide. There seemed to be a never-ending appetite for these unknown wonders of the natural world. To this end, I had approached the British Museum of Natural History a year previously, enquiring if they would be interested in financially supporting my proposed adventure to the African continent. To my surprise and delight, I received a positive reply about six months later. In return for keeping a daily record of my time on the African continent, the sole rights to publish those diaries, plus first display rights on any new plant specimens I brought back, the museum was willing to cover fifty per cent of all my costs for the expedition. I had been hoping for more, but one can’t be too greedy. This left Mama, Papa, and my good friend Julian Timmermann, from my days at Cambridge, who was to accompany me on my African sojourn, and myself to fund the other fifty per cent of the costs. With the tiresome aspect of financing the trip taken care of, I could, with Julian’s help, get down to the fun part of it all and start planning the trip. I won’t bore you with all those fiddly details, but instead, fast-forward you to the fine morning when Julian and I found ourselves at Liverpool docks, ready to begin our great adventure to Africa. Once again, dear reader, I will spare you the boring details of the long, boring hours at sea and instead start the substantive story on the late afternoon of December 10, eighteen fifty-two, when we two fine-bred young British gentlemen first set foot on African soil. The British Consulate in Khartoum had everything set up for us in advance, including letters of the right of safe passage through all territories and fiefdoms we would pass through, all our medications, our clothing and most importantly, all our supplies, guides, porters and interpreters. It was with light hearts and a strong sense of adventure to come that we set off on the morning of December 18, having spent the previous eight days champing at the bit to get going but having to take care of tiresome details and acclimatising to African climate and pace of life. Day I. Setting out. We left the relative comfort of Khartoum at daybreak. Once out of the city’s confines, we continued slowly and quietly along a deeply rutted, dusty track that finally petered out until, by mid-morning, we now found ourselves engulfed by virgin forest. At 10 am, we stopped to make camp, eat some pre-cooked cold rice and raisins, rest and escape the worst of the day’s heat. Julian and I camped, ate, and slept slightly apart from the guides, porters, and interpreters on my Dad’s advice. He had told us this helped to maintain order and discipline. They were not our friends; they were employees, and they also expected this social order to be maintained. Julian and I thought that the first day of the trek was a brutal introduction to life in the African jungle. Nothing can prepare you for the oppressive heat, high humidity, and biting and stinging insects. Then, there was the African night’s early onset and its attendant temperature drop. We went from searing heat and humidity to freezing night-time temperatures in a few hours. Our first night in our tents in the jungle was, to put it mildly, an unnerving experience. Firstly, it was pitch black underneath the tree canopy, and then there were all the strange animal and insect noises and continual movement to contend with. Neither of us inexperienced English explorers got much sleep that first night or for the first week. Day 2. At sunrise the next morning, our porters broke camp; they already had a fire going and served us steaming tin mugs of strong black tea to get us up to speed. After a light breakfast of breadfruit harvested from a nearby tree, we got underway again, hacking our slow way through the thick forest undergrowth while doing our best to avoid swarms of mosquitoes, rampaging armies of ants, poisonous snakes, and all manner of flying, borrowing and creeping and stinging insects. What about collecting plant specimens? I imagine you, the readers, asking, but this first week was about staying alive and not much else. By the end of that first week, our daily routine was set. Rise and break camp at sunrise, trek until 11 am, and rest until 4 pm, followed by another one-and-a-half-hour trek before making camp for the night. Day 3. Just when you thought your situation was dire. Day 3 was when dysentery set in for Julian, myself and a couple of our bearers. The four of us afflicted woke to varying degrees of pain, nausea, diarrhoea, and debilitating bouts of cramps, vomiting and fevers. Being a highly infectious condition, our first concern was to ensure the contagion did not spread to the rest of our fellow travellers. It took a week for the worst of the symptoms to pass and another week for the four of us to fully recover our strength. Thankfully, we did survive and did not infect anyone else in our company. Day 4. We were starting to get used to the daily routine and the ways of staying healthy in the jungle. Keeping your feet clean and dry was paramount. This helped to keep fungal infections in between the toes at bay. These infections could turn nasty very quickly if left unattended. This meant that last thing every night, everyone carefully checked, washed, and thoroughly dried their feet and ankles before settling down for the night. Clean, dry socks every morning were also vital in keeping infections at bay. As was cleanliness in general. Day 5. This was the day we experienced our first tropical storm, and we could do nothing except stay in our tents and keep dry while waiting for the storm to pass. The fury of that storm and the noise it created in the tree canopy was both frightening and exhilarating at the same time. I was unsure whether to be sad or glad when it began to wane before nightfall. We never broke camp that day and had to make do with cold raisins for sustenance. Day 6. Well-rested from our enforced day of inactivity, we were eager to get started the next morning. After the storm, we awoke to sparkling blue skies and an eerie calm with barely a breath of wind. This most welcome weather turnaround was somewhat tempered by the discovery almost half of our stores of rice had been fouled by giant millipedes. The millipedes, while harmless, had rendered our rice unusable by their fouling. This made it all the more important for our jungle guides to identify and harvest as much of the jungle’s edible foods as possible to supplement our diminishing food supplies. Day 7. Another glorious African day. Having chanced upon an enormous jungle clearing, I had, at last, an opportunity to start sampling plant material. The diversity was staggering, and I was put on the pin of my collar to name ten per cent of the samples we collected. I was in a botanical heaven and could have contentedly stayed in that forest clearing for weeks. However, after a full day of sampling and collecting, the rest of the team forced me to move on. I barely slept that night; I was intent on preserving my plant samples. Julian was no less taken with this task, and after finishing the task of protecting the samples, neither of us could sleep and lay in our cots, talking about our finds until it was almost dawn. Day 8. Two physically shattered Englishmen rose and broke from camp the next morning. Reflecting on it now, Julian’s lack of proper rest played a major role in the misfortune that befell him that afternoon. We had spent the morning happily collecting more plant samples on a high desert-like shale escarpment when Julian’s cry of terror caused me to look up and turn around just in time to witness my friend fall from the cliff’s edge and plummet to the jungle floor forty feet below. An hour later, we found him lying in agony at the foot of the escarpment with multiple fractures in his left leg and various contusions. Our porters had basic first-aid training but not enough to deal with this eventuality. They splinted Julian’s leg as best they could and cut bamboo poles and stout interwoven rattan to fashion a makeshift carrier with four of our guides, one at each corner, doing the heavy lifting work. Day 9. At daybreak, the whole team, excluding Julian, met to consider our best course of action, considering the seriousness of Julian’s injuries. It was decided that all of us, bar two of our fastest and best guides, would make a permanent camp where we were. The two selected guides were to track back to a village we had passed a day previously to obtain whatever medical assistance the village offered. They set off immediately, and the rest of us cleared the campsite and made Julian as comfortable as possible in the prevailing circumstances. After giving him strong doses of our pain relief powders, we carefully hoisted his injured leg into a makeshift tourniquet to take the pressure off it and keep his blood flow going. I stayed by his cot, continuously talking with him to him to keep his mind off the pain. That day was the worst day of my life. Day 10. I had not managed to get much sleep that night while looking after Julian’s needs, but by midday, Julian had slipped into a feverish state of unconsciousness, and I could doze on and off. At 4 pm, one of the porters entered Julian’s tent to help me change the bandages on his broken leg. From how he wrinkled up his nose as he neared Julian’s cot, I knew something new was afoot. I guess I had become accustomed to the smell in the tent and hadn’t noticed the slow chance. But as soon as we started to unwind his old dressings, the putrid odour of necrotising flesh almost made us faint. Large parts of the broken leg were swollen and mottled, and even with untrained eyes, it was easy to deduce a major and seriously threatening infection had set in. All we could do was change the old dressings, administer more pain relief powders, and hope that the two guides we had sent back to the village would soon return. Mercifully, Julian remained semi-comatose throughout that night and through the next morning. Day 11. On or near midday, our two guides returned from the village with help. I immediately brought the medical intern and the medications they returned with to Julian’s tent. The intern quickly and expertly changed his dressings and administered medications to deaden his discomfort and lower his fever. The intern, Ehogou, motioned me to follow him outside and away from Julian’s tent. Once alone, he told me the bad news about Julian’s condition. Gangrene had set in on the leg and was spreading rapidly. He continued explaining to me that if he didn’t amputate the infected leg immediately, the gangrene would spread everywhere and kill Julian anyway. The really bad news was the shock of the amputation under these conditions could just as likely kill Julian as well. This left us in a classic Catch-22 situation, damned if we did and just as likely damned if we didn’t. Ehogou performed the amputation, assisted by me two hours later, and we cauterised the stump with glowing embers from our campfire. Day 12. As Julian was too weak to be moved, we sat around in camp all day, pondering our situation. We were a deeply sad and downbeat group to be around. The only thing that roused us was to respond to Julian’s plaintive cries for more pain medication every few hours. These cries were silenced in the late evening when he succumbed to his injuries and died. Homeward Bound. That journey was beyond sad and not relatable. I returned to England a much-changed, more miserable and deeply troubled man.

zjwb7q

A Conestoga Driver's Journal

A Conestoga Driver’s Journal March 9, 1800. We’re off to Boston; the first stage of my adventure to go to my father’s house in the wilds of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. I’ve never been there before, so I have no idea what to expect. Father has tried to describe it to me, but I can’t picture it. He says it is very different from where I’ve lived with Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred, north of Boston. My uncle and I stayed with his friends in town. The food was good, and the bed covers so soft and white I didn’t want to dirty them. I slept on the floor, despite Uncle Fred’s admonishments. I’ve been told I will be sleeping on the ground sometimes so I must be accustomed to it for my trip across the Appalachian Mountains. I’ve packed a couple books, a blanket along with a few other supplies Uncle Fred insists I’ll need. He also gave me $10 for expenses along the way. March 16, 1800 . I left Uncle Fred in New York City yesterday and hired a horse into Philadelphia. Both New York City and Philadelphia are grand places with cobblestone streets and beautiful houses. In Philadelphia I found friends of my father-Johan and Miram Manson and stayed with them overnight. It has been a while since I was here, but they still have a beautiful house. The carpeting in their library and my bedroom was so thick I itched to go barefoot in it. We’ve nothing like it in Aunt Sara’s and Uncle Fred’s house. The chandeliers loaded with candles dazzled my eyes. While I was there, the Mansons gave me a letter to add to the one from Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred for Father. The Mansons are old friends of Father’s, and it seems they all miss him dearly. From the stories I have heard from them and Father through the years, they worked closely together during the last war. I wanted to visit the United States capital while I was in Philadelphia, but found it difficult, with all the disruptions right now. The government is moving to a place on the Potomac named Washington after our first President. It seems a shame to move the capital further south. Tomorrow I start West. I can’t sleep, I’m so excited. Once again, I am on the floor. March 17, 1800 . I met Joe Lang. He’s the Conestoga driver with whom I will work. His horses are bigger than the horses on our farm back in Massachusetts. As long as I watch my step around them, I think all will be fine. Joe, is a big muscular man in his early twenties. His rough out-spoken manner made me uneasy at first, but I soon discovered he was friendlier than he looked and sounded. When it came to loading my bag of books and bundle of clothes in the wagon, he gave me a hard time but finally relented when I offered to pay him a dollar for the privilege. I do not want to risk losing or ruining the books in the rain. He was not happy with my choice of clothing, either. As a result, he had me buy two red flannel shirts, a pair of linsey pants, leather boots and a broad-brimmed wool hat. I dislike hats, but soon realized why we wear them. The hats protect us from rain on our heads and part of our shoulders while the wide brims keep the burning sun out of our eyes as we drive. March 23, 1800. I’m in a place called Lancaster. The countryside is beautiful. The people are mostly German and very industrious. It is hard to talk with them, since they speak an odd combination of German and English. Their homes and farms are pleasant looking and have a very practical design. I’m slowly learning how to drive Joe’s team of horses. Although I’m as tall as Joe, he has been doing this work for a while and is stronger and much more experienced than I am. I daren’t complain though. This work will get me to Pittsburg to see my father and will provide me with some money until I decide what to do with my future.            At night I lay awake under the wagon, wondering if I’ll be welcomed once I arrive in Pittsburg. Maybe I should have written first. But the milk is spilt, as my Aunt Sara  would say. She always told me I looked and acted like my mother whom I never knew. Since she died in childbirth with me, all I have of her is the stories they’ve told me. I wish I had known her. Enough for now, it’s getting dark. March 30, 1800 . I am fortunate to have Joe as my partner. He is the nephew of Jim Lang, a man my father once knew. Jim’s the owner of a general store and post office that was formerly the trading post in Ligonier. Though he is brusque, Joe is patient when he shows me how to drive a wagon load of five tons and how to handle a blacksnake whip without touching the horses. I was clumsy at first, but I managed to do it fairly well by the time we reached Harrisburg.  Twas a good thing, too, for we were joined by several other wagons headed west. Joe received a lot of jests about his green-horn helper.            I notice that Conestoga drivers are strangely proud of the outfits their horses wear with bridles decorated with red string and big fringed leather housings which hang over collars. The hames or harnesses, attached to these collars, have bells that you can hear. Joe carries two extra sets of bells given to him through the years for his help to other unfortunate waggoneers. These are hung inside the wagon. All the bells make a pleasant jingling sound as we travel. Inside the wagon we are carrying iron, salt and dry goods to Pittsburg.            The wagon itself is twenty-four feet long. The bows rise to a total of eleven feet above the ground. This rise on each end of the wagon keeps goods piled inside from tumbling out as we climb steeper terrain. Joe’s wagon is brightly painted, using red paint on the upper parts and gears and blue paint on the lower parts. Eight or more wooden bows support a large homespun canvas. The big broad wheels are well greased and good for the rough, rutted rocky roads. A must, he told me.            As we neared the mountains Joe showed me how to use the big brake. He works the brake by holding down a long iron handle. We also had a chain that could be used to lock the brake for a long descent. I learned to drive the wagon from a horse and also from the left side on a lazy board platform on the outside of front of the wagon. The trails we follow seem better than what father has described in his letters to me. But still, the terrain is rough, and when it rains, it can be dangerous. Oft times we must find shelter and wait out the storm. Sleeping out in the open is rough, the ground hard, the sky beautiful but the sounds of wild animals growling nearby in the forest can be unnerving. I’m fortunate I am used to hearing the wild animals back at the homestead where I lived with Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred. Many nights I am sore from walking beside the wagon, directing the horses, and riding the brake on hills. I thought it would be easy to fall asleep either under the wagon or on taproom floors of inns, but it is not. At the inns we eat well, partaking of a meal of either ham and eggs or beefsteak, fried speckled trout, fried potatoes, griddle cakes, preserves, pickles, pie, cheese, cake and coffee. This costs us twelve and a half cents and they serve the food all at once on a huge table. Each man grabs the food he wants and eats till he’s full or everything is gone. Of course, when we sleep out on the road or at lonely cabins along the way, we do not fare as well. Occasionally we go hungry when it is too wet to start a fire. Then it’s deer jerky or dried biscuits.            I am responsible for feeding the horses each night. I put the grain we carry into the long box on the wagon tongue for their feedings. During the day, this long box is kept under the tailgate.            My back stopped aching, along with my feet and posterior, about the second week on the road. My hands took longer and many nights the pain from broken blisters made me so uncomfortable I had a hard time getting to sleep. The blisters made it painful to drive, eat and to write in my journal. Often, I had to bind my hands with small cloths Joe gave me, after treating them with his liniment. April 9, 1800. We’re at a place called Ligonier. It has changed from my father’s description of the place seven years ago. Now, a few streets have sidewalks and there are more houses, some made of brick. Fewer Indians walk the streets. Pigs are kept tied too. We stayed at Joe’s uncle’s tavern for the night. We were up late listening to the men tell stories and drink. Not only waggoneers but westerners drink great quantities of whiskey. I tried some. Its fierce sting set me to coughing and the men laughed. Figuring I’d best acquire a taste for it if I want to fit in with the others, I tried it again. It wasn’t as bad the second time. I refuse to smoke a stogie though. The long, thin, villainous-smelling two-for-a-penny cigar is another trademark of the Conestoga driver. There I draw the line. I will just have to be different; I suppose. Once again, Joe and his uncle and friends laughed. April 17, 1800. We’re in Pittsburg. It’s a busy, rough-looking city with log and clapboard houses crowded around each other. I rode past some nicer areas, such as Wood Street where the homes are brick and have glass windows. Joe collected the money for the hauling and will wait for the next shipment to go back east. Since it is $100 per ton, he collected $500. I got $50; beginners pay. I happily pocketed my money as I packed my books and clothes into my saddle bag on a horse I had purchased with my earnings. I am anxious to see my father but happy to be out here. I wonder if he’ll be happy to see me. My stomach is tied in knots, not knowing what to expect.            After getting directions to father’s farm, I bade Joe goodbye till next week when I am to go with him on a return trip to Philadelphia. I plan to make two more trips this summer before settling in Pittsburg. April 18, 1800 . Father was very happy to see me. He couldn’t believe how much I’ve grown in the last two years since we’ve seen each other. I’m as tall as him, but thinner. He was in the barn when I arrived and helped me unsaddle and carry my belongings into the house. His home is a large, redbrick two-story with a wide porch that wraps around from the front to the back. The barn is big, filled with four horses, some chickens and two cows.            That night we ate the roast beef, mashed potatoes and green bean dinner Father’s housekeeper had made and then talked late, as we sat around the fire in his sitting room. He puffed on his pipe as we talked, the cherry smoke encircling his clean-shaven face. He was curious about my plans. Before I could say much, worried he would not want me to stay long, he welcomed me to be there as long as I liked. That was a relief. I told him I was contracted to do two more Conestoga wagon trips this summer and then would be interested in seeing what opportunities existed in Pittsburg.            Father was delighted with the letters from Aunt Sara and Uncle Fred and the Manson’s. I promised to take his letters to them, when I go back to Philadelphia where I will post the one to my aunt and uncle. That night I bathed to rid myself of the dust and grime from my travels. Then slept in a bedroom next to my father’s. With the window left open for the warm night air, a rooster’s crow woke me at dawn. April 23, 1800 . It’s been a busy week, helping father around his farm and finding my way about the area. I packed my clothes and I am trying to get some rest before I ride into Pittsburg in the morning to set out East with Joe. I look forward to my next adventure and am glad Father wants me to stay with him when I return. May 20, 1800. It was a tiring but uneventful trip back to Philadelphia. We followed the same trail we had taken to Pittsburg, only in reverse. At one point Joe and I had to help another driver and his team with a broken wheel. It was sweaty back-breaking work, but between the three of us we managed. As I result, however, the driver was obliged to give Joe another set of bells. ’Twas puzzling to me but Joe seemed very proud of them. We listened to the four sets of bells jingle all the way into Philadelphia. I’m getting sick of hearing them although it does ward off wild animals. May 25, 1800. We set out for Pittsburg, carrying cloth goods, some kitchen supplies, three boxes of securely packed glassware and a cash box designated for a bank in Pittsburg. We followed the same routine as on my first trip. I’m curious to see how well the glass products fare going over the mountains. June 18, 1800 . Unfortunately, word must have gotten out about the cash box. Just outside of Bedford, three men bushwhacked us. We had just settled for the night, a little off the trail in a secluded, but protected area before the Cumberland Plateau when shots rang out. I was back at the tail of the wagon, putting the horses’ feed bags away. Joe was with the horses. I pulled myself into the wagon and reached for a loaded rifle. I heard Joe’s pistol and the wagon lurched. I fell forward and the wagon started to roll. Still clutching the weapon I crawled to the canvas front flap, lifted it and swung myself over the lip of the wagon and onto the seat. I grabbed the reins and pulled back. As the horses stopped, I put on the brake and raised my rifle. A hulking man on a large horse thundered by. I aimed and fired. The man grabbed his arm and slumped in his saddle. As his horse took off, the man fell forward, but managed to stay astride as the horse ran off. Two other men, one draped across his horse and the other guiding it, followed the first man into the woods. I waited, expecting Joe to catch up to me. When he didn’t, I climbed down and made my way where Joe lay in the dirt. Fearing he was dead; I called his name. He managed to sit up and clutched his shoulder. “Hey Greenhorn. Can you help me into the wagon?” Weak kneed in relief, I leant on the rifle for a moment, then helped him stand. In the dusk, I turned the wagon around and we traveled until we came to a lone farm for the night. The farmer’s wife tended Joe, removing the bullet from his shoulder. He was feverish till morning, then seemed to rally. At dawn, his wound wrapped tightly, Joe insisted upon climbing back into the wagon and sitting beside me as we left the farm and traversed the plateau. Since he was wounded, I did the driving. We pushed on as long as we could, the next couple of days. I was anxious for Joe. By the fourth day he was feverish once more and his breathing raspy. A day out from Ligonier he died. I laid him out in the bed of the wagon between the boxes and crates and pushed on to his uncle’s house. The next week was a blur. Between the funeral for Joe and then maneuvering the wagon by myself into Pittsburg for the delivery, I ached in body and soul. I told Jim Lang I’ll bring the wagon and horses back to him as soon as I can. I was given the $700 Joe would have gotten for this special trip and brought the wagon and horses back home to my father. When I told him all that had happened, he shook my hand, then grabbed me in a long hug. I think both our cheeks were tear-stained when we finished. I look forward to resting a few days with father before returning the horses and wagon. After that, I’ll start my next adventure.  God willing, it will not be as grueling or deadly.

zy1l3h

The Lucky Stars Club

The Lucky Stars Club A Short Story By Maura Morgan I held hands with my wife Rachel in the offstage darkness while the host, Kelly Davis, shared her monologue with millions of people watching Tell Me a Secret . I planned to speak publicly about Georgie and Duncan for the first time since my acquittal. In the most high-profile court case in ten years since a former president was brought to trial, testimony from Rachel and me had been sealed because it was inflammatory and downright unbelievable. The judge removed reporters from the courtroom to avoid unnecessary publicity, speculation, and to prevent undue influence on the jury from outside media. The judge found my testimony unbelievable, but an underlying truth emerged, a truth found credible because Rachel vouched for me: I didn’t kill either of my friends. Now that the trial was over, I was free to tell my story, and I alone would suffer the consequences of judgment in the court of public opinion. I wasn’t afraid because my story was true, and truth sets one free. Relaxed and confident; only the sweat in my armpits betrayed a hidden fear this wouldn’t go well. “Please welcome Theo Walker,” she said. The stage attendant adjusted the microphone on my collar. My confidence fell as the muted clapping unsettled me. I wasn’t expecting a rousing round of applause—the mysteries surrounding my acquittal prejudiced the public against me, but I thought they’d at least be mannered. I kissed Rachel and tasted the sweetness of strawberry-flavored gloss upon her lips, finding some courage in her unwavering belief in me. I picked up my plastic storage box and walked onto the set, where Kelly sat on a beige, faux leather sofa with a gold-trimmed, glass coffee table. She stood to greet me, we shook hands, and I sat down, placing the box at my feet. “Well,” Kelly sighed, maintaining the smile she’d worn since she went on stage. With my indifferent reception, this interview wouldn’t be easy for her. I hoped by the end of the show I was vindicated and opinions of me changed. Given the rampant skepticism and distrust in the world, I wasn’t sure. “Thanks for joining us, Theo.” “I’m glad to be here,” I said. I meant it. Science had come a long way since its polarization with religion in the 2020s, but I wanted to open the world’s eyes even farther. She summarized what she knew: Georgie, Duncan, and I went to the Mariana Trench on my yacht. Only Duncan and I came back. Three weeks later, Duncan, Rachel, and I went again, and only Rachel and I came back. I was promptly arrested when I returned to Honolulu after a global outcry claimed I murdered one, maybe two, of the wealthiest men in the world. “Is all of this true?” Kelly asked. “Yes, except for the accusation I murdered Georgie and Duncan.” “And you’d like to set the record straight?” “Yes.” Georgie, Duncan, and I were the only members of The Lucky Stars Club. In its oldest incarnation, we were three fortunate kids. We grew up together. We played baseball and basketball together and brought home championships. The three amigos, musketeers, blind mice, whatever you wanted to call us. Our abilities in sports, education, and common sense were equal, so much so that we were triplets from different mothers. We were inseparable. The club dissolved by college because our interests diverged. Georgie was a romantic. He wrote novels and found success equal to James Patterson and J.K. Rowling. Duncan was practical. He founded shopthestars.com, the world’s biggest shopping website next to Amazon. I was a scientist and made my fortune as a defense contractor. I sold my discoveries to the highest bidder and only made promises to keep the technology secret from my competitors, not the world. These kept nations balanced and a lot of money in my pocket. Kelly interrupted me with an out loud wonder at how it was possible for three kids from the same neighborhood to all become billionaires as though I would know. I was polite and made a joke our mothers all drank the same wine and had sex the same night. In our late thirties, we reconnected at a tradeshow. Georgie was looking for inspiration, and Duncan was looking for products to revolutionize the consumer world. I was selling tech products and software to everyone. Once more, we became inseparable. In the Lucky Stars Club’s newest incarnation, we were a few guys who explored places—mostly underwater. We didn’t have to worry about a forty-hour work week. I was married to my high-school sweetheart, who had her own interests. Georgie was engaged, and Duncan was an avowed bachelor. We were free to live as we saw fit and took turns fishing, scuba-diving, and hanging out on our boats drinking the finest alcohol and beer. Other billionaires went to space. We decided to do the opposite. “What do billionaires drink?” Kelly asked. I ignored her, not wanting to diverge from my narrative. Together, we developed our newest consumer invention and sought to test it on a boat trip to the Mariana Trench: a scuba diving suit. We secretly called it the underwater Iron Man suit. It used cutting-edge nanotechnology and allowed the wearer to descend to depths in the ocean previously inaccessible. We tested it incrementally, successfully, in my swimming pool. We made suits for all three of us to explore the ocean depths together and tested them in Hawaii. Then we moved up to ocean wrecks off the coast of Florida. With its innovative breathing apparatus, pressure adjustments, and weight system, we walked on the ocean floor for hours. Literally hours , plus we didn’t need to worry about the bends when we returned to the surface. I could see its development linking living underwater to living on land. It was going to be big. I wanted to go further with it and test it in the depths of Challenger Deep. I removed a glove sample from my box and showed it to Kelly. The cameras zoomed in as I held it. She put her hand out to take the glove from me, but I stopped her with a simple explanation: proprietary technology. “Is there anything worth seeing down there?” Kelly asked. “Oh yes, if you can penetrate the darkness, which we did with a red nocturnal light. But these animals weren’t the most interesting thing we saw,” I said. I reached into my box and took out specimens of some of the fauna found thirty-six thousand feet below the surface: snailfish, cusk-eels, sea cucumbers, and amphipods I’d carefully preserved in small jars. Kelly wrinkled her nose. “We found a portal to Atlantis.” A sudden gasp and incoherent mumbling from the audience followed. “A… portal?” Kelly asked. I could tell she was trying to hide her disbelief and laughter. “Come on, Theo, you’re joking.” I didn’t break a smile. My lips and my demeanor remained flat. “I kid you not,” I said. I removed large photographs from the box and held them up for the audience. In them, clearly discernible, was a round shape highlighted with what appeared to be brilliant sparks of light. Inside the portal, a mountain landscape, green and lush, alight with what appeared to be sunshine. “I recorded our entire plunge into the depths. These are photographs taken from my body cam. They’ve been examined by experts and deemed authentic. They were presented as evidence at my trial.” “Yes,” Kelly agreed, though I could tell she was still skeptical. “We have the entire video.” I looked up at the screens above us and saw the video in reverse as it played for the audience. The mumbling subsided, and quiet awe replaced it. People were thirsty for science, mystery, and answers, just as they had always been. Unlike the 2020s, the religious fervor and denial of factual things subsided in the 2030s. With renewed space exploration, belief in science again surged, replacing religion as the highest belief system in the world. No more flat earth, no more anti-vaxing crap, no more going to the moon in the 1960s was a hoax. People now took vacations on the moon. Spas on the moon were destination vacations. “And did you go through the portal?” She asked. “Yes,” I said. “And yes, it was Atlantis.” “Wasn’t Atlantis a civilization in the ancient Greek world?” I nodded. “It was, and it wasn’t. Atlantis is a planet three thousand light years away. We discovered that getting to Atlantis has always been done via the portal. During Atlantis’ tenure in the ancient Greek civilization, men posed no threat and were happy to trade and interact with everyone. The portal was quite large, so seafarers wouldn’t fear going through it. The outer edges couldn’t be seen by those traveling through. When the Ancient Greeks began threatening a takeover of Atlantis, the elders mimicked a great earthquake and moved the portal, deciding to keep Atlantis hidden until such time as Earth’s technology equaled their own and was seen as a conflict deterrent.” “What happened when you arrived?” I dropped my head and tried to find the words in my brain that could be spoken without emotion, but I couldn’t. “Georgie’s suit malfunctioned, and he was stranded. Duncan and I volunteered to come back with another suit. He said no, he wanted to stay. We reminded him of his fiancée, but he said his relationship was in the toilet; she only wanted him for his billions.” “Were there people?” “Yes,” I said, showing another photograph from my body camera to Kelly as it displayed above us. “The sentry at the portal—also the first woman we met, spoke Greek, or some form of it. Georgie, being the literate one in our group, had studied Greek and could communicate with her on a base level. She marveled at Georgie, at the color of his skin and hair, and he fell in love with her. He was the romantic in our group. He rebounded hard.” “Their skin is lavender?” “I was told it’s because of the nature of their sun,” I said. “Duncan and I stayed and visited with the elders. We shared information about our respective societies. They analyzed our suits; we saw their environment.” I reached into the box again, and this time, I showed a picture of me holding a small animal with doe eyes, floppy ears, cat-like legs, and long curly spikes colored red. These were their dogs, protectors of the home and the land. “As we were leaving, the elders told us they’d be closing the portal and moving within two cycles of their moon, about six weeks. We could stay if we wished, but they didn’t want to risk anyone else finding them. The elders decided the Atlanteans weren’t ready for people of our world.” “They weren’t ready for us . Why not? Do they  think we’re a threat to them?” I laughed, reminding myself she was a television show host. “No,” I replied. “They didn’t want some blustering dictator from this planet believing like the ancient Greeks.” “So, Georgie stayed there,” Kelly said. “What happened to Duncan?” “Three weeks later, Duncan decided to return. He was under investigation by the global authorities for fraud and other crimes. He was fed up with this world and believed he had an option, so he would take it. My wife Rachel and I took him to the diving site in our boat. He jumped in, and he was gone.” “And you? Did you think about going back?” As I thought about the world of Atlantis, with its unspoiled beauty, the peace among its people, and the fellowship they shared with one another, I closed my eyes and pictured it yet again. It was Utopia. There were no fights for land, no squabbles for a seat on the subway, and personal weapons—knives and guns, were unheard of. “I did,” I admitted, glancing offstage at Rachel. “I had my suit on. I watched Duncan jump into the water. But I turned around and saw my wife standing in the shadows, tears glimmering in her eyes from a safety light. She was going to let me go. She didn’t expect me to see her. And at that moment, I—” I stumbled on my confession. “I couldn’t go. I couldn’t leave.” Kelly stood and waved Rachel onstage. For her, the audience clapped. I was happy they’d seen her as the story’s true hero. Rachel sat beside me, and I clasped her hand tight. She put her other hand on top of mine. Kelly greeted Rachel and asked how she felt watching me prepare to leave. “I was ready to let him go,” she said. “He’d told me everything, and I could see its impact on him. He’s a scientist at heart and always will be. He was torn that night. I could feel the invisible ropes tugging him in both directions. Duncan was waiting for him in the water. I was watching, silently saying goodbye to him. But then he waved Duncan away, and I welcomed him into my arms.” The audience unexpectedly erupted into wild applause. After they quieted, I made my final statement. “I tried to have my cake and eat it too: I planned to make a suit for Rachel, and I told her so. Fate had other plans for us with the trial and all, but I didn’t regret my choice, because I realized we had an opportunity to discover so much more for and about ourselves here, on this planet.” “We’ll be right back,” Kelly said directly into the camera.

fq7p5i

Adrift

An alarm went off in the control center and the intercom voice system came to life. “Warning! Warning! Sudden Impact! Sudden Impact!” An asteroid the size of Manhattan came into view, and Space Viking I was about to crash. The only crewmember onboard never imagined she’d hear that alarm go off when she went through the academy. She treated it like the boogeyman—some fake, made-up terror that haunts you by manipulating your imagination. The boogeyman isn’t real, right? He’s not actually going to burst out of my closet, right? The sudden impact alarm isn’t real, right? It’s not actually going to go off, right? But that’s the thing about fake, made-up terror . . . Once it has dug it’s claws into your mind, it can become as real as flesh and blood. “Warning! Warning! Sudden Impact! Sudden Impact!” Rebecca ran to her station and grabbed the brake lever with both hands. Only one hand was needed, but with her life seconds away from being over, both hands reached out. She pulled the lever. The brakes engaged. She screamed. “Warning! Warning! Sudden—" *** Breaking News / Chief Director of Space Viking Astronomic and Science, Dr. Rines PhD / Formal Address to the Nation on The Recent Tragedy of Space Viking I / Space Viking Headquarters / Front Lobby Dr. Rines: We regret to inform the nation as well as the world that the Space Viking I crash landed on an asteroid three days ago. The astronaut and pilot on board was Rebecca Towerson. She was an excellent scientist, explorer, and visionist. Reporter: Sir, is there any effort for a rescue attempt? How can you confirm that is what happened? Dr. Rines: There will be no rescue attempt. The Space Viking I was the only vessel in existence capable of navigating through space. We were able to pull data and photos from the cameras located on the outside of the vessel when we received a sudden impact alert, but all data coming in seized soon after that. Reporter: Sir, did she say anything before the crash? Dr. Rines: The transmission log is currently under investigation and will not be disclosed at this time. Reporter: Sir, what does— Dr. Rines: Listen, everyone. Rebecca Towerson was a one-of-a-kind individual. Without her, the Space Viking I project would’ve never been completed. When I first met her, she told me that when she was a little girl, her dream was not only to make history but to send humankind further than it ever imagined it could go. I understand the recent events are terrible. It’s a tragedy, indeed. But I want each one of you to know that Rebecca Towerson accomplished her dream. She has made history, and she has sent us beyond what we ever imagined was possible. She will never be forgotten. Her legacy will live on forever. Reporter: Sir, what will you tell her daughter? Dr. Rines: I will not be taking any more questions at this time. Reporters: Sir! Sir! Sir! *** Rebecca’s eyes opened and for a moment she didn’t move. She lay still in her bunk. The room was dim, cool, and quiet. The soft hum of a control panel beside her produced a thoughtless ambiance. She looked at her watch. Did it matter what day or time it was? It was almost as interesting as it was scary to think about. Why? Well, because that was what day and time it was back on Earth. A place so far out of reach, its sight was swallowed by the blackness of space. She remembered the moment it all went to hell. *** Rebecca was fixing her a cup of tea when the alarm went off. She alerted Earth before she left her station to fix the tea. It was protocol. Towerson: Low traffic. Taking break. Earth: Good copy. Enjoy. Low Traffic meant a sector was clear of space debris (natural-made). This let Rebecca get up, stretch, relieve herself, eat, and rest. High Traffic meant the opposite and she would need to manually navigate the ship through whatever obstacles lay ahead of her. She was knocked unconscious after the impact. When she woke up hours later, she went to the bathroom to vomit. Concussion—check. Engaging the break didn’t stop the crash from happening but it left the ship intact enough to be able to move and live about it. She was thankful to be alive, but she knew she only prolonged her death. She looked in the mirror and pieced together what happened. The list was short. Low traffic—check. Teatime—check. Asteroid comes out of nowhere—check. Rebecca walked back to her station and tried to send a transmission to Earth but the communication system was damaged. She walked to the window in front her station and turned on the outside light. It was terrifying. All she saw was a valley of grey rock before her. In that moment, Rebecca new Space Viking I was adrift, riding on an asteroid, and heading toward the void of the unknown. She analyzed and evaluated the ship’s condition. She only had one question to answer— can we get off this rock? After several hours of troubleshooting, she had her answer— No. The crash happened three months ago. *** The control panel warning light turned red, and the screen display lit up. She turned over in her bunk and looked. Warning: Oxygen Level Low Oxygen Level: 10% Time Remaining: 15 Minutes Action: Refill Immediately Refilling wasn’t going to happen. The tanks were empty. She used all of them up since the crash. She was surprised she made it last three months. She could’ve made it last longer if she didn’t work so hard to troubleshoot the ship in the first week. It expended a lot of energy and that expended a lot of oxygen. “Space Viking I to Earth. Over and Out.” Rebecca said and closed her eyes. The minutes crept by, and the air begin to tighten around her. Suffocation was a strange feeling. It was like standing in the middle of a desert with thirty layers of clothes on. Rebecca thought she would be scared. She thought it would hurt. It didn’t. Her last visions were beautiful—overwhelmingly beautiful. First, she saw herself as a little girl again running around in the backyard on a summer night in August. She paused to look up at the stars. Her little eyes watched in wonder as a satellite passed over. Then, she saw herself up on stage graduating from the academy. She saw her mother clapping. Her mother had tears in her eyes. It made Rebecca cry too. I told you, momma, not to cry! Cause if you do, I’m gonna cry too! Finally, Rebecca saw her daughter approaching. “My little baby girl . . .” Rebecca said and smiled. Her daughter held out her hand. “It’s time to go home, Mommy. It’s time now.” That night, somewhere in the far reaches of space, Rebecca Towerson went home. *** Annie Towerson got out of the passenger side door of her best friend’s car. It was her first day as a Freshman in High School. She was a bit nervous. Her best friend could see it. A few news vans were parked outside. Their cameras were up and ready to cover the story of the age. “It going to be okay, Annie. My freshman year was a breeze.” “It’s not that,” Annie replied. “What, are you afraid to be the most famous girl here today?” “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t like it.” “Live it up. You know you should.” Annie walked to the front of the car and looked at the school entranceway. In large brick letters above the archway, it read, REBECCA TOWERSON HIGH SCHOOL Her friend walked up beside her, put her arm around her, and looked at the large brick letters above the archway too. “Listen, Annie. You better not get any crazy ideas about becoming an astronaut, too, okay?” Annie grinned. “No promises.” Her best friend sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re killing me, Annie!” A few students walked by, glanced, and began whispering to each other. Annie’s best friend grabbed her hand and said, “Come on, Annie. Let’s go say hi to the cameras, shall we?” Rebecca Towerson’s legacy was already cemented. Her daughter, Annie Towerson . . . Well, her legacy was about to begin.

2ozppq

WestBlock One

Dear Reader, If you are reading this message, our mission was successful. We have landed on WestBlock One. Day One Day one was great. I know they trained us for how hot it was going to be, but after being put in those freezing chambers for six years, everything feels hot. I know we’ve landed on a dessert, but it’s still going to take some getting used to. I’ve never seen red dust quite like this, when the wind picks up, it’s the only thing you can see. Once we set up camp, Marina and I were selected to be on patrol duty for the afternoon. It was super dusty. Marina put on her protective goggles, but apparently she strapped them a little too tight; she had red marks on her face the rest of the day. Dinner was freeze dried potatoes. We’ll probably be eating those for a while, at least until we can get the crops to grow. Day Two I know we’re all feeling jet lagged, though I’m not sure if you can still call it that. We were sleeping the whole way here. Either way, everyone seemed a little bit cranky. There was a blowout between Fredrick and Captain Fields today. Fredrick took an extra ration of breakfast this morning, and it did not end well for him. He’s been put on dung duty the rest of the week. Side: I guess I should start getting used to the longer days. It’s not like Earth, our new version of weeks are actually eight days, not seven. I guess that sucks even more for Fredrick. Day Four Captain Fields says once we get settled we can explore a little bit more. We were given a map of the planet before our arrival, but it is so much different in person. Everything is so much bigger. I know Marina has been anxious to get out. We’ve been stationed on ship maintenance together the last two days. I think she’s getting cabin fever. I mean seriously, we’ve been stuck on this ship for years, you’d think they would let us at least let us help set up outside. Day Eight First week done and what a week it’s been. The camp has been set up. Tomorrow we get to start our expedition. Luckily, I got picked for the research team. If they stuck me with Fredrick, I think I would go mad. He’s been insufferable at meal time. I think he’s still mad at Captain Fields for making him scrape dung all day, but seriously, he needs to get over himself. Day Twelve I logged a beetle today. Nothing like they have back home. This particular species is purple with red legs. I imagine it will help it camouflage with the ground. It has sixteen legs and can fly. It doesn’t have wings, instead, it rubs its legs together and the friction causes heat. The heat warms up the belly of the bug and lifts it into the air like a hot air balloon. I haven’t seen it lift more than a foot off the ground, but it’s still so cool. Because I’m the one who discovered the bug, Captain Fields is allowing me to name it. I’ve decided to call it Amelia. I hope she won’t mind that I named a bug after her. It’s a very pretty bug, I’m sure Amelia would have loved it. I miss her so much. She was the one part about leaving that was hard. I know it was for the best, leaving her to live with her aunt, but hurts all the same. I knew that if I left her, I had a shot of making a difference. Making the world a better place, as cliche as it sounds. Maybe when we’ve finished our work here, made it habitable, she’ll make it over here too. Day Thirteen We have found a new plant. It looks like a daisy if daisies were four feet tall and their petals were carnivorous. The leaves near the base of the plant have sap that attract small, ground insects. The insects get stuck and are then eaten absorbed into the plant. The blue petals on top appear to attract small flying animals, and have a similar outcome. A plant that knows how to make the most of their environment. Day Twenty-Two Another day of research. The Amelias have slowed down and there seems to be less of them? We don’t see them flying as often or in a large swarm like we did the first few weeks. They seem to have been burrowing and chosen to walk instead of fly, though, as of now, the research is inconclusive. Day Twenty-Eight Today, Marina and I were stationed on patrol together. It was a pretty uneventful day, checking off on tool lists, making sure checkpoints were still being held etc. Side: The crops have started to grow, so hopefully we won’t be having potatoes every meal. Day Forty-Two We found where the rest of the Amelias went; not burrowing like we predicted. They seemed to have found a new home in the cooling system of the ship. Removing them will take forever, they appear to have found a new incubation spot and are liking the cold. Day Fifty One Those stupid beetles have chewed through the hull of the ship. Captain Fields has sent a group of us to be on the repair team. Unfortunately for me, Frederick is on the team with me. He is still so insufferable, he likes to pick fights with anyone who speaks. I’m not sure why he agreed to come on this mission if all he does is complain about every little thing. I mean, it’s not like we were conscripted, he CHOSE this, just like everyone else. Day Fifty Two We finally have crops we can harvest. Something other than potatoes! We have beans and corn to add to this menu too. They are still a little firm, not quite in season, but still good. Day Fifty Three The Amelias have added further destruction to the ship. Many rooms have been eaten, and the engine won’t start anymore. We took what we could salvage and put it into containers at head base. Captain Fields has been stressed, trying to think of ways to rebuild, but I fear it is unsalvageable. Day Sixty The Amelias have discovered that we are edible too. Four people from patrol and one team leader were sent to the infirmary last night. The Amelias have taken a liking to the flesh on our arms. Hopefully we can come up with some sort of repellent soon, the research team is working overtime with samples. Day Sixty-Four Most of Pod A didn’t make it. The Amelias have been hungry, it must be because of their breeding season. It appears that when they chew threw flesh, they leave venom, causing convulsions and ultimately death. No repellent has been successful as of yet, but we are “close” as medical says. Trial fourteen of the repellent has proven to reduce the amount of attacks around the joints, but flat skin, especially behind the ears has been ineffective. Day Sixty-Six More than half of pods A through D have been deemed a “lost cause”. Medical will not resuscitate after three bites. They have deemed more than that number to be lethal. Day Seventy One Marina was sent to medical last night. She had four Amelia bites. I begged the doctor to not deem her “lost”. I traded him two meals in exchange for more trials for Marina. Day Seventy Three Marina passed this morning. Dear Reader, If you are reading this message, our mission to WestBlock One was unsuccessful. The Amelias have taken everything. There are four of us left, me, Captain Fields, Lucas, and Fredrick. I fear we must sit and wait. Nothing is left of the ship and the camp reeks. I’m sorry we failed you, but this is it. 

eq0n3o

Silver Spurs, Silver Bullets

It was under the heat of high noon sun when Buck rode out of town for the very first time. She had nothing but a sack of Dukes in her pocket and Pa’s .44 strapped to the hip. In the chamber were no more than five silver bullets. She lost the sixth the night before in a game of cards with Sunset Ridge’s most renowned cheat, Twigs O’Malley. It’s not that she wasn’t wise to his cheating. Buck only thought she would out-cheat him first. Buck has plenty of bullets back home. But even with an aim as good as Buck’s, lead is practically worthless past the city line. Silver is the only thing that counts out there. The only thing that can do a lick of harm. Which is why losing that bullet is about the worst thing to happen to Buck since being born in this god-forsaken town to begin with. Sunset Ridge is nothing like the postcards. Just like how people scratch an unsightly mole out of their photographs, the artist who made those postcards took some creative liberties of their own. Not that they really had a choice. Sunset Ridge is about the ugliest place there ever was. At least hell would have more people. The only visitors are dead weeds that tumble by. Heat boils the distant dunes, making them shine like lakes of clean, clear water. There’s no law against leaving Sunset Ridge. Just like there isn’t a law against drowning yourself in the town well— if the well held enough water to drown yourself in, that is. It’s a law of common sense. If you get caught out in those wastes past sunset, then you’re as good as dead. Buck isn’t keen on dying but she’s always been short on common sense. There ain’t a soul living in the Ridge that believes in anything waiting beyond the boiling dunes but more heat and meaner critters. Not a soul but Buck. It was at that card-table with Twigs, as he cackled and kissed the silver of his shiny new bullet, that Buck realized the only thing worse than leaving was never leaving at all. Just an hour, Buck tells herself. She’ll be headed back long before sunset. As Grit trots along, Buck finds herself scared to look back. Scared, but unable to stop from turning all the same. As if a glimpse of home will snuff all her ideas of running. It seems so different on the outside. A city like a stranger. If she strains her ears maybe she can hear Easy Pete begin his drunken declarations down the street, choosing another poor lass to swear his love to before passing out in a sloppy heap outside their door. Buck was his choice one night and one night only. That ended with a trick shot to the neck of his whiskey bottle with a promise for the next one somewhere lower. Pete never bothered her after that. Some may say that it’s a waste of a good bullet. Buck would kindly disagree. Buck keeps her wits about her, but the monotony dulls the edge like a skinning knife ripping through rawhide. The clop, clop of Grit’s hooves. The jingling of her spurs. Wind whistles by, like some great invisible asp dragging its belly against the dry earth. The sun inches ever closer to the ridge. As if clawing there through sheer determination. Being out here all alone fills her head with the question of how one might make it through the desert. There’s not enough silver in all the world to keep the wild at bay past sunset. Even if she lived through the night, who could say the next dawn would bring her to the waste’s end? If there is an end. If there is an end . The reins bite into her fingers where the leather folds in her fists. Buck twists in her saddle to stare back the way she came, but all that lies on the horizon is a haze of red dirt and blazing sky. It’s impossible, she realizes with a start, to tell just how far you’ve gone in a wasteland that never changes. Sunset Ridge is no longer there. Buck can’t tell whether the excitement outweighs the sheer white-knuckled terror. Under the meager shade of a long dead weed, sits a lizard, brown as dirt. It watches the girl and her horse trot along with one beady black eye. Instead of a tail there’s just a stump. When a lizard finds itself between a rock and a hard place, they can cut off a piece of themselves to survive. They scamper off to safety as their former limb dances for the critter that was fixin’ to eat them whole. Buck wonders if the lizard misses his tail. Was it worth it? It answers with a lick of its eyeball. There was no other choice. When the blistering heat starts to soften, that’s when Buck knows it’s time to go home. She gives the reins a gentle tug, easing old Grit towards the sinking sun. As Buck draws a breath for one big sigh, it catches in her throat. There, twinkling like a jewel is the glint of metal on the horizon. Buck goes still. The desert plays tricks. Yet, she’s never seen a trick like this. A black rider sits astride a black mare. The sun catches the silver of his spurs, his buckle, and the six ways of dying at his hip. It seems pure, somehow. That silver light. Its whisper drowns out the wind. Drowns out everything. Forty days and forty nights you could ride and get no closer to the end. Not without me. Buck looks to Sunset Ridge. Where she imagines it is, anyway. It would be a close call. If there was anyone who could manage a risk like that, it would be her. All she has to do is get close enough to figure out the trick, then yank Grit back around and race on home. She spurs Grit towards the stranger in black. Not for the first time, Buck doesn’t think twice. She clutches her hat with one hand and leans in as the old mare breaks into a gallop. Without the full strength of the sun, it verges on temperate. Cool, even. She draws closer, but the figure makes no attempt to meet her. Surely, he sees her, don’t he? There isn’t anything else to look at for miles and miles but a mangy mare and a mangier girl riding full speed towards him. Buck hopes he knows more about the wastes than she does. A flame bursts to life next to that dark silhouette. The stranger has set up camp. Buck looks over her shoulder to find the sky ablaze in color. Sunset Ridge didn’t get its name for nothing, after all. All those oranges, pinks, and reds bleed together in a beautiful warning seen too late. She thought the worst thing you could lose in a bet was a silver bullet. Wrong again, Buck. There’s an awful lot of night between her and home. When Buck reaches the firelight, the sky is one giant spectacle of black. A mess of twinkling stars. So open and clear that it sends her head spinning. Just like staring down the throat of a snake. The night wants to swallow her up. A sickly yellow moon hangs above, bathing that dark stranger in a glow next to godliness. “G’evening.” The man tips his black hat. Buck hesitates, then greets him with a nod. There’s never sense in being rude. “Evening.” She opens her mouth to ask all the things that have been turning over in her head, but they jumble together on the way out. It leaves her quiet. “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke, would you now?” Buck swallows. The stranger stares back at her through the haze of the campfire. Sometimes the flames lick high enough to make the shadows of his face shift. Deepening, growing light, then dark once again. The corners of his mouth ghost a smile. Buck pulls two cigars from her pocket, offering one to the man. “Thank you kindly, Buck.” Buck halts as she reaches for her lighter. The man snaps and fire dances from his fingertips as he lights the bottom of their quirleys. Buck can’t find the words to refuse. “How’d you know my name?” Buck tries to sound indignant; tough, but her voice wavers. She sounds like a child who has wandered too far. “I know lots of things about you, Buck.” He exhales and the smoke slithers upwards like a serpent with cinders for eyes. “Fastest gun in Sunset Ridge. Maybe fastest in the wastes. Not that there’s much competition, m’afraid.” The stranger’s boots make heavy footfalls on the packed dirt, but his spurs make a prettier sound. Like bells. A tinkling chime. He moseys around the fire and makes another lazy round about Buck. It raises the hairs on her neck. The stranger doesn’t look like anybody she’s ever seen before. An outlaw. His black clothes are embroidered with a beautiful silver thread. It catches moonlight. His pale skin does the same. He’s pretty, like a wolf that eats well. “You’re lucky to have found me, y’know. The wastes are an awfully dangerous place to be at night.” Grit tosses her head with an uneasy whinny, shuffling on her feet as the stranger gets closer. Buck pats the pony’s neck. Maybe to comfort herself more than anything. Maybe she ought to saddle back up and run. Beasts be damned. “I’ll manage.” Buck follows the stranger with a narrow eye as he circles her. It reminds her of a vulture. The way they hover above a sickly calf that can’t stay on its feet. Far beyond the reach of the firelight, a wolf howls a lonesome note. “I can help.” “I’ll manage,” Buck squints, “Who are you?” His teeth flash. A smile. Though it reminds her more of the coyote she shot in the corner of her chicken coop, fat with red teeth. “You don’t know?” The smile lingers, then he faces her square and hooks a thumb in his belt, “Tell you what, Buck. I’m in a fair mood. I’ll cut you a deal.” His hand drops to his side. The pearl-handled pistol is a beauty. Though Buck doesn’t miss the notches outnumbering her ability to count. “I reckon you wanna see what’s on the other side of this desert, don’cha?” Buck’s hand rests on her gun. “Yes. I do.” “And you’re a pretty quick hand, ain’t you?” “Yes, I am.” “If you draw faster than me, then I’ll get you to the other side.” The man flicks the brim of his hat, meeting her cold stare head-on. Those eyes ought to belong to a snake the way they have Buck frozen stiff. “If I draw quicker than you, then I get your soul.” There’s no great shock when he says it. Buck just stares back. This time, she resists the impulse to find Sunset Ridge. Even if she could see it, the town could do nothing for her now. Not that it ever did. She and Grit could race back home, but then where would she be? The same town. The same dirt and dust and drunken Pete. Except she would remember this night and the devil out in the wastes, offering her a slice of something else. All she’s got to do is the only thing she knows how. “Alright then. Seems mighty unfair,” Buck takes a deep draw from her cigar, and puffs a cloud of gray smoke, “considering I’m the fastest gun there is.” Those snake eyes seem to flash before The Devil sets his terms, “You win, you get out of the wastes, and if I win, I get your soul.” “Not just out of the wastes—” Buck cuts in, “Somewhere pretty.” He nods and offers his hand. “Somewhere pretty.” Buck takes it. Regret surfaces only then. It feels like sticking your hand into a dark, dusty hole just before you hear the low hiss of the snake who lives there. His fingers coil around her sweaty palm, tight and cold. She blinks and suddenly stands with her back to the stranger. The air is choked with the smell of brimstone and brandy. The Devil smells like a saloon sat on the outskirts of tarnation. “Ten paces. One.” The presence at her back disappears as The Devil steps forward. Buck’s heels click just a moment behind. “Two.” Another step. Buck’s heart has used her spine as a ladder to hunker down in her throat and pound away. It doesn’t seem likely to come down anytime soon. “Three.” She’s a good shot. Buck tells herself. She can shoot the bottle from a man’s hands at seventy steps away. She’s shot the tail off a field mouse and splattered spiders that she ought to have just hit with a boot. Everyone in Sunset Ridge knows better than to draw against Buck. “Four.” But she’s no devil. “Five.” She reckons they don’t play fair. “Six.” Buck’s hand hovers over her gun, trembling. “Seven.” If she was a devil, she wouldn’t play fair either. She would turn early. If Buck was a devil then she would shoot that man right in the back. “Eight.” Buck draws in a deep, long breath. The world slows down. Gone is the howl of the distant wolf and skitter of scorpions on the cold sand. The creatures all stop to wait for the devil to speak. “Nine.” He says. She says, “Ten.” Like a bolt of lightning, Buck whips around. There’s not a thought in her head. Just the memory of her muscle. Click . The hammer drops. At the end of the barrel, stands the dark stranger with his white gun staring back at her. The sound of gunfire deafens the desert. Her ears ring. The only sound in her small world. Black smoke fogs the eighteen paces between the two duelists with no way of knowing if her aim hit true. She doesn’t dare breathe. Her eyes sting like hell but she doesn’t blink. Not until the smoke clears and there The Devil stands like an imitation of a man. The missing bullet. Just when Buck thought her heart would never stop beating in her throat, it drops to her feet. It starts as a dull pain, a shock more than anything. The uncomfortable realization from your body that it’s got an unwanted visitor. Buck presses a hand to her chest. Her palm comes back wet. The moonlight makes the blood look blacker than ink. Many things go wrong all at once. The strength bleeds right out of her body and the legs are the first thing to go. Buck drops to sit on the ground, clutching the wound as she falls to her back. It hardly seems fair. Buck looks up at those stars. So close it makes her dizzy. Though maybe that’s just the dying. She cheated and she still lost. It would have made more sense for her to have cheated and won. Narratively speaking. The ringing in her ears ebbs away to the clink of silver spurs. The Devil’s handsome face blocks the moon, still smiling like the coyote that killed the hen. “You’re a quick draw, Buck.” He crouches down beside her, “But you’ve got to give the devil his due.” Buck doesn’t know how exactly to handle the exchange of your soul with dignity. She starts gathering spit in her mouth, figuring actions speak louder than words when her eyes catch a fault. Over the left breast pocket of his button-up shirt, the silver stitching is torn. A tiny, minuscule imperfection. In Sunset Ridge, it’s rarer to have a stitch in place than not, but on a man like him, that one tiny flaw has her smiling. “You need a tailor,” Buck says. The smile couldn’t have fallen off The Devil’s face quicker if she had spit on him. He doesn’t need to look at the hole in his shirt to know that he’s been caught. His eyes are darker than night from where they glower down at the quickest draw in the wastes. “You cheated.” “So did you.” The Devil grits his teeth. “So I did.” Buck lets her eyes drift shut. The breath she draws in rattles terribly. Like the tin roof of her Ma’s dusty house. Like the tip of the viper’s tail. She won’t manage many more breaths like that. Yet, she keeps grinning. The world changes so quickly, Buck thinks for a moment she slipped off to heaven before collecting her prize. The ground beneath her head becomes a grassy pillow, lush and green, with soft dirt that smells like life. She could bury her nose in mud like that. Though, Buck reckons she looks like enough of a mess already, with all the bleeding and such. A brook babbles on beside her, like a vein of silver. The sunlight is softer here. Golden and warm. She’s never seen sunlight dance before, but dance it does through the verdant lacework of the canopy above. In a branch far beyond, two squirrels chitter about the strangest intruder who seems to have just appeared out of thin air. A fat bee bumbles by Buck’s head, legs laden with pollen. Somewhere out of sight, a songbird starts the choir. Buck lifts the trembling hand from her chest, fingertips grazing the cool stream. So clear she can see the moss clinging to the river stones, and watch as a pale fish follows the current far from the plink of her fingers breaking surface. The water pulls the blood from her skin in streams of soft pink until her fingertips are washed clean. She’s seen that color many times before. In a sunset. There are worse things than dying far from home, Buck reckons, like never leaving home at all. 

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Chet Armstrong Almost Heroically Saves the World

Stepping out of his Rocketship, Chet Armstrong waved to the crowd and flashed his trademarked smile (Patton number 9725). The Space Jock looked dashing in his bright red uniform and his dozen shiny medals. With perfect hair, the broad-chested rogue was hurried off the launch pad and into the general's offices. But not before blowing kisses to his fans. "Chet! What the hell happened up there? You have caused us a universe of problems!" barked General Flag. "How was I to know that their hands were also their eyes. I thought he was offering his hand to shake. I didn't know he wanted to look more closely at gorgeous me. I didn't mean to make a Venetian blind. Anyway, I was quite disappointed. I thought there would be those boats with the singing men and much more water. No one told me to expect strange creatures with eyes on their hands and spiky purple toes for hair. There wasn't even any spaghetti." Chet answered. Red-faced, General Flag yelled, "You are thinking of Venice, you moron! That is in Italy. You would have known all the protocols if you had read the books, we gave you and listened to the lectures. You were sent to be the Earth's goodwill ambassador to the Planet Venus. Now we have an interplanetary fiasco to mend..." "Ah, yes, Italy. That reminds me," interrupted Chet, "I'm famished from my long flight, I'm heading home to eat. It's always nice to see you, General Flag. Thank you for your time. Oh, and here's an autographed photo of me for your lovely wife." Chet produced a colored glossy headshot with his signature scrawled across it. As he strolled down the hall, whistling, the general's screams could be heard over the hustle and bustle of the base. Chet was met at the door of his mansion by his butler, Jeeves. Handing Chet his customary martini, Jeeves asked, "How was your trip, sir?" in his flat monotone voice. "Nice, nice," answered Chet half enthusiastically, taking off his bright red uniform with a sigh of relief. "Ah! That's better." Chet's chiseled manly pecs eased into his protruding manly gut. Flopping into his Barcalounger 8000, Chet sipped at his martini before calling back to Jeeves. "I'm hungry. Can you get me a ham and cheese on rye?" "Sorry, sir, there is no more cheese," Jeeves replied. "Well, go to the store and get some more. And pick me up some more of those little swords. How can a man drink his martini without little swords to hold his olives?" "Sorry, sir. But there is no more cheese anywhere. The world is all out of cheese." answered Jeeves, handing Chet a stack of newspapers. Chet scanned the papers. The Holland Harold headline read " Edam non Made ." " Nyet Rossiyskiy " was written in the Moscow Morning. From the Tokyo Times " Sayonara Sakura ". The Italian Inquirer announced " Arrivederci Asiago ". The Berlin Bugle proclaimed " Käse Kaputt ," and the Swiss Watch stated, " Holy Moly, no more Holy Cheese ." Finally, the Green Bay Gazette read, " The Packers Lose Again. "  "What is going on!?" cried Chet. "I am sorry, sir, but while you were gone, the world slipped into The Great Cheese Famine." came Jeeves' flat answer. Chet was out of his seat and pacing the floor. There was not much in the world that Chet liked more than cheese, except for himself, of course. "No more cheese? What am I to eat?" Chet cried, almost in a panic. Flipping on the television, the overstuffed spaceman flopped back into his overstuffed chair to try to relax. "Breaking News! This just in. The World Leaders are meeting today at the UN to discuss what can be done about this crisis. The top scientists have suggested sending a mission to the moon to bring back more cheese." said the handsome newsman, but not quite as handsome as himself, Chet observed. "A mission to the moon? Who better to go than Chet Armstrong, Heroic Space Jock!?" "Whom" corrected Jeeves. "The obvious answer is me!" exclaimed Chet enthusiastically. "Jeeves, call the UN. Set up a parade. This is going to be my greatest moment. Besides all those other great moments." As he redressed in his bright red spaceman's uniform, Chet said, "Oh, and find me more medals. The world needs to see how heroic I am." A grand stage was set up at the space base. Crowded around the podium waited all the heads of state, the top scientists, and an anxious General Flag. As the audience looked on, the sounds of a marching band could be heard approaching. A line of floats, military cars, and cheerleaders followed the band, and Chet Armstrong was atop a white stallion in front of the whole procession. His hair was perfect and utterly impervious to any wind. His uniform was extra red, extra clean, and extra tight, making his manly pecs seem extra chiseled. Pinned to his chest, Chet wore two dozen shiny medals. As he approached the stage, Jeeves helped Chet from his mount. Chet grinned and waved to the crowd as he approached the podium. Chet's manly, dimpled chin got there five seconds before he did. The marching band silenced as Chet got ready to speak. "My adoring fans. As you have likely heard, I, Chet Armstrong, Heroic Space Jock and all-around swell guy, am going to heroically risk my life to fly to the moon to save us all from the Great Cheese Famine. As I am hurling through space, I want you all to remember that I am not doing this just for you but for myself. There is nothing in this world that I like more than cheese, except for me, of course." Turning back to the world leaders, Chet pulled out a stack of colored glossy headshots with his signature scrolled and handed them out. "Give these to your lovely husbands and wives with love from Chet Armstrong." Chet waved to the cheering crowd as he strutted to his Rocketship. As he got ready to climb in, he stopped and turned back to his fans. "Say Cheese!" yelled a cameraman. Chet flashed his trademarked smile (Patton number 9725) and his trademarked wink (Patton number 9726). And with one final wave, Chet entered his rocket ship and closed the door. Slumping back into his Barcalounger 8000, Chet took the martini Jeeves offered. "Thank you, Jeeves. Am I all set?" "Of course, sir. More martinis, all with olives and swords, are in the cooler. I even packed you some of those crackers that you like. Remember, sir, this mission is for your fans and the world. Do not eat all the cheese." With that, Jeeves exited through the butler's door and the back of the spacecraft as Chet prepared for the launch. As the full moon rose, the top scientists carefully aimed Chet's Rocket Ship towards the moon's center and started the countdown. Excited for the launch and the solution to their cheesy dilemma, the crowd and world leaders counted down. " 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…BLAST OFF! " Chet hit the large red button on his control panel. It was also the only button on his control panel. The rocket ship rumbled and launched toward the moon. Chet's voice came through the loudspeakers from his radio, "Never fear, Chet Armstrong, Heroic Space Jock is here to save the day!" as the rocket ship disappeared into the night. 15 days later, General Flag, the world leaders, and top scientists, assembled at ground control as Chet and his Rocketship made its final approach to the moon. "Chet Armstrong, Come in, Chet Armstrong. Can you hear us?" General Flag called through the radio. "Loud and clear," came back Chet's slurred voice. "You should be able to see the moon through your port window, Chet. Can you see the moon yet?" asked the general. After a few minutes, a pause came, "No, I can't; all I can see is a sliver of the moon and the dark of space." came back Chet's panicked voice. "What went wrong?" Chet and the world leaders all cried in unison. The top scientists huddled together, calculators and abaci in their hands, murmuring. After a long ten minutes, one red-faced scientist addressed the group. "There has been a grave miscalculation. The moon is 238,900 miles from Earth. Chet is traveling at 660 miles per hour. So the 360 hours, or 15 days it has taken him to fly that distance, had delivered Chet to his destination during the new moon phase." "What does that mean?" asked the general. "Chet will pass through the crescent without making contact with the moon. In other words, it is time to try Plan B, getting the cows to produce more milk." As General Flag, the world leaders, and the top scientists quietly exited the ground control room, Chet Armstrong, Heroic Space Jock, loudly screamed as his rocket ship passed through the center of the crescent moon and hurled deeper into space. 

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The Foggy Mist

THE FOGGY MIST ED WOOTEN Physical fitness, confidence, and drive for exploration have been my assets since high school. I’ve always maintained good physical conditioning and regard myself an avid outdoorsman. I’ve even considered auditioning for the Naked and Afraid television series. I recently celebrated my fortieth birthday and decided to prove I still possess my prowess in mountain climbing. In addition to mountain climbing and exploring nature, I also pride myself as a novice writer and a photography buff. Six days ago, I began this midlife challenge of reaching the pinnacle of one of the plethora of mountain peaks in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I started along a familiar path with nothing more than an aerial photo of the area, three bottles of water, and four Granola bars. My past physical achievement awards include awards for mountain climbing, map reading, and orienteering as well as cross country running. Within a half hour of climbing, a dense fog moved in and blanketed the area. Four hours later, I arrived at this summit, a breathtaking view with just a few sunbeams penetrating the still dense fog. The last quarter mile was a challenging climb with vertical rock walls that tested my upper body strength and  years of experience. After admiring the breathtaking view and eating a Granola bar, I realized this was not my intended peak. I explored the immediate area to get reoriented and match my location with the aerial photo that served as my map. The rocky terrain showed no well-used paths and its magnificent trees seemed to touch the sky. The situation was peaceful and serene until I slipped on a rocky slope, twisted my ankle, and crashed to the ground. I pulled myself to an upright sitting position and reached for some water. I opened a bottle, took a couple of sips, and tried to clear the cobwebs from my head. Ugh, I must have hit harder than I thought. My head ached from the sudden stop and for a brief moment, I was dizzy and disoriented. I got to my feet and hobbled around searching for a trail or path that would lead me back to the base of his mountain. I found no visible paths. It appeared the only way off this majestic perch was to retrace my steps down the sheer, granite-like walls. This sounded like a good plan; however, it couldn’t happen until my sore ankle got better. I kept walking…trying to get the ankle to function again.   I stopped and reviewed the events of my day. I traversed a couple of streams, passed a roaring waterfall, and then contoured an area of challenging rock formations and cliffs. I attempted to match these landmarks with my aerial photo.  Evidently, I got disoriented and then ended up on a ridge to another peak instead of the one I was supposed to be navigating. Orienteering maps are much more detailed than this aerial photo. For a moment, I questioned if I had allowed my confidence and prowess to cloud my better judgement. I made the mistake of taking off my boot to check my ankle. Swelling so severe that I barely got the boot back on. “Not a problem,” I assured myself as I limped back to the epicenter of the summit, my foot throbbing with pain. “I’ll call a friend, have him locate me via my phone signal, and dispatch a forest ranger to rescue me.” Oops, my newest version of iPhone had no bars and the “No Service” message kept flashing. What the hell?  I had a full bottle of water and two Granola bars. Three days passed. “Had” became the operative tense to describe my water and food situation. They were gone, had been for a couple of days. My phone died. Its final message, “No Service.” I’ve made it through the days fantasizing that I’m training for Naked and Afraid , and my partner has already tapped out. Hopefully, before the twenty-one day timeframe for the TV series, I will be found. I think dehydration has set in. My thoughts are unclear, I’m having trouble analyzing situations, and I think I’m hallucinating. The night air is very cold and damp, so sleep escapes me. During the day, my strength is zapped to the point that my movement is sluggish and nonproductive. Maybe my movement is sluggish because of my ankle and not lack of strength. The swelling and pain are still present. I can’t take a step without the pain piercing my brain sensors. The only food I’ve had for the past days has been black berries, or I should say, green berries…black berries that have not matured to become black. I can hear birds, but haven’t seen any other animals—no rabbits or squirrels. Not even a chipmunk. I need protein, but a source is not within reach. Fortunately, it rained briefly last evening so I swallowed enough to rehydrate my body. Unfortunately, the rain caused me to be both cold and wet during the night. At least the morning sun provided enough warmth to ease the chills and dry my clothes. Again, I try to find a way to get down from this peak. I think I’m moving in circles instead of descending. I know going down the rock face is the best option, but I need two, stable ankles for that manuever. On a positive note, I’ve taken some beautiful photographs of this area. One constant, other than the excruciating pain in my ankle, is the ever-present foggy mist that prevents me from seeing the valleys that I know must exist. I also cannot clearly see other peaks. Where am I? [NOTE: The above entry was found in a small, spiral notebook three years ago. To date, the author has not been identified, a body never recovered, and no record of a missing person’s report has been filed in this area. Other than the notebook, a camera with beautiful photos is all that was found. US Army Ranger students found them when their recon patrol got disoriented and ended up on this summit during the Mountain Phase of their rigorous training. Signed, Thomas Jones, Deputy, Missing Persons Unit, Dahlonega, GA.]

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The Ice Wall Adventure

Entry 1 - January 03, 2048 Today I wokeup feeling restless... I keep thinking about what my wife said before she died. How she saw many visions of different lands beyond the wall almost every night in her dreams. How they say, no one has ever been on the other side, and they are keeping us from knowing the reality of what lies there. She became desperate to go on a trip after months of what started to seem like night terrors to me. Her waking up and freaking out, writing down everything she saw, telling me she needs to know before she dies, and talking about an 'imaginary' place she's never seen but acts like she did. What a joke! I loved her, but I got so tired of hearing the same crap for years. I guess the only thing serious about her was the cancer. Dang it! I... nevermind. I need to calm down. It's just been a hard week. I miss her so much, but these thoughts have to stop, or I'll lose my mind as well. Entry 2 - January 06, 2048 Holy Cray! My dream! I had that dream. AGAIN!! The one where I accidentally found this land full of beautiful vegetation and vibrant colors. Then I get turned around, and all of a sudden, the world seems to shift. I then see a land filled with vast, icy landscapes—endless white plains stretching to the horizon— and a mysterious wall that seems to defy reason. It beckons me to come to it, and I'm unable to fight it. I climb the miles of high wall, hands don't feel cold as if the ice were a facade; no sound could be heard all around me; and the closer I get to the top, the more the sky glitches. All of a sudden, I got shot down by showdows. I fall to the ice floor below and wake up. My back hurts every time I have this dream. Why does this keep happening to me? It's getting harder to sleep. Entry 3 - January 10, 2048 I once felt like I was an ordinary man, but this morning, it feels like something just shifted within me. I can't , I won't deny this anymore. This inexcapable surge of curiosity keeps whispering to me. All of a sudden, I get a ding on my phone. I was sent a map by an unknown number. It's Antarctica, and the ice wall that forms around the whole Earth—the frozen frontier that had always fascinated my wife... Is this supposed to be funny, or is God sending me a sign? I guess the decision has been made. Entry 4 - January 20, 2048 Geez, the days passed quickly. I can't believe how obsessed I've become about this wall. The research, the videos, even the Reddit posts. My wife was heavily invested, and I see how she fell into this trap, but it's okay honey, I'll take this vacation for the both of us. I should have almost everything I need, but I'm going to make sure that I get the rest of my gear from Bill. He has climbed every mountain you can think of and survived the worst of the worst. I hope he can teach me a few things too. Entry 5 - February 02, 2048 I'm sorry honey. I did my best to convince Bill to not only let me borrow his gear, but to also come with me and help me survive this. He said I'm an idiot and I need to forget about this trip. I flat out told him no because it's personal... He called me a nutcase and said, Fine, be stupid then. He threw the gear at me and told me to leave, but said if I somehow survived this, then come visit him again. I freaking hate him, but I also love him all the same. True friend? I don't know. Sigh... okay. I'm ready. Let's do this! Entry 6 - February 10, 2048 Alright, I'm fueled by a glass of whiskey and ready to ride. My goal? To get to the ice wall as quickly or safely as possible, I can't have both. Bill decided to actually take me some what there. He has an untraceable plane, small but strong, and he wanted to help me by delivering me to a military friend of his with a boat. Bill said we would land at the edge of South America and rest for a day before meeting his buddy. If we flew all the way to Antarctica, the plane would get spotted too easily. If it goes out too far, we may have a huge problem coming our way, and I can't allow Bill to get investigated because of my delusions. Of course I agreed, because I would like to spend my possible last days on earth, with my best friend. Let's go, Billy! Entry 7 - February 11, 2048 The expedition is about to begin, so I will only write a little bit. We are packing and fueling up the plane. In a way, I'm happy, but I'm also afraid. I guess the most positive thing I can say is that if I die, then at least I tried. Entry 8 - February 12, 2048 Goodness! I am finally at the edge of South America after a scary trip in the sky with Bill. Once we landed, he introduced me to Tom. I could definitely tell that this man was in the military, and he brought back a little more than some metals... he crazy okay, like craaaazy, but he's fun and has a big, comfy boat. Tom helped Bill refuel his plane and gave him a care package. Don't ask me, because I don't know what was in it. After that, Bill gave me a long hug, and told me to please return, or he'd find me and kill me himself, even if I'm already dead. I teared up a little bit because I knew it was all love, and I got in the boat with Tom. Bill waved goodbye as we sailed down the waters, and I had mixed feelings form in my chest. Entry 9 - February 13, 2048 As Tom and I sailed the Drake Passage in the Southern Ocean, I felt my sanity being tested. Tom talks a lot, which is irritating, but his voice still couldn't block out all the thoughts of what I would find, if I actually climbed to the top of that wall... Scientists have always raised their eyebrows at inquiries about the ice wall. "It's just a natural formation," they say. "Nothing to see there." Maybe they were wrong. Entry 10 - February 14, 2048 We are here at the edge of North Antarctica, waiting... for what? Nothing; we just have to rest. I asked Tom if we'd need some snowmobiles, and he laughed. He said no; we are going to rest, as we restock our sustenance. The next day we sail... We are going to go around Antarctica towards the South East, not through it. Bill said it will not only hurt our journey, but we could be stopped and turned away if we go through the continent. Taking a snowmobile to the edge of it is a dangerous waste of time, especially since the wall isn't attached to Antarctica. It's just closer to this continent than any other. I didn't know that, obviously... but I was concerned when he said dangerous. Even though I tried to ask him about it, he brushed me off, so I just decided to trust the only guy who decided to come with me, who knows a little too much. Entry 11 - February 16, 2048 Tom decided to wake me up at the crack of 3 AM. The waters were unusually calm, and the air was very quiet. He said, let's get going. He started the boat and took off... as if he were in a rush. I went along with it, and we silently sailed towards the South East, slowly moving away from Antarctica. Let's see how long it takes to get to the wall. Update : It's 6pm and Tom spotted a few military guards. If the fog wasn't so thick, maybe we would have been caught. How is Tom doing this so proficiently!? Who is he!? Entry 12 - February 20, 2048 The icy, cold waters stretched far behind us as we finally reached the wall. We looked at it for a long time before I was told to go sit. Tom is the one setting up our gear as I sit and wait for his directions. I used to not believe he wanted to come with me until I found his journal. Apparently, Tom has always wanted to visit the ice wall, but never had a partner who felt the same. He gave up ever wanting it, until he got a call from Bill. I was the one who refueled Tom's passion, and that makes me want this even more. My wife would be so proud. Entry 13 - February 23, 2048 We are at the top... The air grew thinner as we climbed, so I'm tired. We are taking a break. That climb was hell. This wall is very high— 4 plus miles high. We had to take breaks in between climbs. We made it, though. But even being at the top, I can't see much. The fog is heavy here, so we'll wait, but I can still see the sun above. The sun... why does it look so close, and who the hell is running along the wall toward us? Entry 14 - February 28, 2048 Tom... he didn't make it! The person who was running towards us was one of the guards who protected the wall. They were informed that a boat was found below, and they knew someone was trying to climb the wall. They sent people after us. Tom protected me. He forced me to put my gear back on as he slammed, and he hammered the metal hook of the rope line into the ice, to make sure it was completely secured. Then, as he pushed me off the top of the wall, he said, 'Survive and live true'. After that, all I heard was three shots, someone yell, 'get him too', and little drops of blood splattered and dripped down the wall. Tom was dead and I free-fell, attempting to gain my footing, which I obviously and eventually did. Right now, I am writing inside a hospital room on the other side of the wall... There are people here. There always was! Entry 15 - February 29, 2048 I got treated in the hospital, but it wasn't a normal hospital that we're used to on the other side of the wall. The hospital was 1000 times more advanced in medicine and AI than I've ever seen or thought of before. It was magical or just insane. They healed wounds almost instantly; they spoke every single language known to man; they were old but looked very young; they each understood true kindness and humanity; and they were all human! Or what we regular people would call Divine or Supreme Beings. What a lucky day this truly was. Entry 16 - March 12, 2048 Today, I was given a choice: Stay or go. I wanted so badly to stay, but I wanted Bill to know everything. Plus, I missed everyone— my family, my home, my life. The beings spoke of portals. I've heard many things about these black holes in the sky and the ocean, but my skeptical brain never wanted to believe it. They told me that they purposely opened portals at unusual times and places to come to our lands within the wall. Sometimes their portals would create international chaos. I guess that made sense as to why there were so many weird things going on in the world, that we all thought we knew so well. I did ask if I could stay just a little longer and learn more. Of course they denied me, because if I chose to leave now, then I would actually leave now. But if I chose to stay, even for another day, I would slowly never want to leave again. Apparently it happened to many, many people who fell into the portals and landed here as well as on the other 11 planets. Yes, they are called planets, not continents, and they are all on what we call Earth... A story for another day, of course. But the planet I happened to be on currently was called Neutrãl Cadence. The land of balance. All beings were welcome, and no war ever occurred. Maybe this is what the guards were protecting. Update : A few of the younger beings did give me some motion pictures (freaking amazing!) and told me about those, so I'll write about them for the next 2 entries, so I don't forget, because they gave me a lot of information, especially about the planets themselves. Briefly— *Picture one is of a giant monster with celestial wings that comes from Saturn to eat Solar Ring Melons atop the highest trees. Saturn is the planet to the East, only 6 thousand miles from my current location. That's the distance from Japan to America... Wow, only one planet is that far away? How big is this world, truly? The funny thing is, 6 thousand miles would only take minutes to seconds to travel here, depending on how you decide to journey. *Picture two is of what we'd call The Apple of Eden. It's not an actual apple. It's a hidden scripture text that apparently gives you all knowledge, after you read it aloud. I can't read it, but maybe someone back home can. This "Apple" comes from planet Gen X. Weird right? I thought it would have been called Genesis or Garden of Eden. That planet is closer to planet Neutrãl; 2 thousand miles or so, and apparently, it's the most beautiful of them all. I also begged for information on the rest of the planets, but a shorter version. I will also write in detail about those too. It's freaking crazy what these people told me! The truth about angels, demons, giants, food, a star called Lucifer that became a black hole called Satan, and a planet called Valarian HD that was destroyed in 800 BC, because it was attempting to collide with earth, On Purpose! They told me so much as they walked me to the portal, that would take me home. If this all gets out, the world will never be the same... Hell, I'm not, and that scares me. Sigh, this was amazing though, but let me get ready to go through the portal, because I actually am feeling the desire to stay... maybe visit the other planets. No! I will go home. I'll update once I get back. Entry 19 - March 30, 2048 I'm back home, but I'm struggling to remember a few things. I don't know how I got back here, and I'm missing a couple journal entries. I just woke up... today, and they were gone and so was time. What's going on? I did inform Bill about the things I could read here, but what exactly were entries 17 and 18? Were they that important— Did I accidently throw them away or something? Either way, I guess it doesn't matter because they're already gone. The two pictures are gone as well, along with my memories. I don't know if that place was a dream or something more. Of course, the only person who truly believed me, especially since he couldn't reach Tom anymore, was Bill. Entry 20 - Date Unknown YOU $@> ARE %"!< BEING #÷= WATCHED!! Entry 21 - April 03, 2048 What the hell!! Wait... I think I saw someone standing outside of my window last night. A man almost resembling an agent, but more dark and sinister. Uh, I sound like a paranoid idiot! I just wish I could remember everything about the wall, but all I have are these writings. It blows my mind that a couple entries are missing, and now this entry 20 crap, but I was still able to keep the other ones speaking about what was on the other side. There's nothing I can really do with this information, because I can't even confidently speak about what I truly saw. Even though I will always hold this journal close to my heart, I feel something is coming for me... steadily.

uuk7lo

That Look

That Look. You know exactly what you’re doing to me. Giving me that look. I’m starting to know it all too well now. What gives you the right? I am powerless. I despise this. More than I’ve ever despised anything. And there hasn’t been a real shortage of things that I’ve despised in my life. But you. This. Tops them all. You look at me like that and I have nothing. No  leaping to new sarcasm heights in a single bound. No inner comedian doing a pop-up show. No poetic burst of coffee shop brilliance. Zilch. Nada. Brought to statue status. By you. You must love this. Who do you think you are? I hate you. HATE. You’re such a tease. Such a flirt. Enticing. Begging. I can’t help myself. I’m in it. I want it. All of it. Give me more. Your emptiness  taunts me with that wicked blank stare. As I return on to the battlefield once more. The enemy has to returned to offer a dare. Do I take it even though I know it’s not fair?  Now. Eagerly awaiting my first move. You sick sadistic bastard. It’s time. You’ve been there all along. I know you are there. Watching. Waiting. Ready to pounce. You know exactly what you’re doing. Glaring back at me. So smug. Why do I allow you to have so much control over me? You stalk me. You have me paralyzed with fear. Plucked from my deepest darkest nightmares where I don’t allow myself to go. I can’t go there. I won’t. Through dark and twisty alleyways. Yellow brick road pavered alleyways. A Wizard of Oz horror film. My fingers covering my eyes. Shaking hands. I can’t help but peer through my oddly tiny fingers. Will I see something I don’t want to see? Something so jarring I’ll be so scarred I won’t recover from. Can I handle that? Is it worth it? This can’t be worth it. What is unfolding? Will I be good enough? Good enough, for who? Will I make someone feel something? What if I can’t think of anything to say? Am I being brainwashed right now? That must be what is happening. A clear logical explanation. I should get a snack. Tostitos. The answer to anything that ails you. Especially when one is being brainwashed. The salty hero. I’ve got it! The answer seems so clear now. I should just take up knitting. Knitting needles and yarn look pretty unassuming. Guaranteed and immediate success. I’ve created something. Someone will be warm and cozy because of my efforts. My glorious efforts. Lying back covered by my creation. Curled up. Reading a good book. Laughing. Smiling. Crying. At all of the parts that are supposed to make you feel something. Quenching that thirst inside of me. Is it enough? Where am I, in the desert? Am I okay to only be a supporting role? The blanketeer? How lucky are they to be wrapped up in a good book without a care in the world. How dare they not have any cares. Something. Have an itch. One annoying itch that you claw your way at until it's a bloody mess and you have to put your book down and toss off the blanket that I made out of the goodness of my heart. You should be grateful! I worked hard on that blanket! I pricked my finger! It was no easy task! I should take a nap. My head hits the pillow. The sheep that know their role begin to appear. I count them. Beautiful smiling creatures. Jumping and frolicking in the green pastures. Overjoyed to be who they are. Vibrant. Alive. Happy to help me. Help has finally arrived. Wait. Nooo, say it isn’t so! They are refusing to be just a number. They are revolting. What kind of sheep are these! They have turned on me! My friends! Pure chaos being hurled into my life. Why! Why! Just let me count you! I was counting on you! Abort! Abort! They say it will come to you. They don’t see what I see. Or the sweat that is now dripping from me. Opening the window will help. Fresh air. That is definitely what I need. As I listen to the neighbors rocking back and forth in their chairs, the creak of the front porch, an insanely loud creak, I am hopeful that their porch will eventually succumb to the squirrel soldiers that have been gnawing their way at it. Day after day. Wreaking havoc. Out of enjoyment. Mr. and Mrs. Wilesbury unaware, just slurping away at their beverage of choice. Which smells like rotting death and chocolate. Yum. Good for them. That’s why I nod at you when you take the garbage out. I salute you and your life choices. You’re such a loser, what is wrong with you? Why do you have so many voices inside your head? Are you crazy? Have we reached that point? Is everyone going to know you and see you. The real you. The weirdo who is afraid. Of failure. Judgment. Not being funny enough. Creative enough. Good enough. Worthy. Who are you trying to impress. The squirrel soldiers? They are pretty judgmental. I see you stopping and staring in disbelief at me. Don’t think I don’t see you. I see you. Move along. You’ve got issues too. You chew on wood. Good luck with that. Maybe it is just about luck. I thought of you today. And I will think of you tomorrow. Deep down even though I don’t want to admit it, I know it’s true. I could never hate you. You. That empty page that taunts me with your wicked blank stare. Of course I take your dare. Always. Every time. We are bonded. I am drawn to you. Alluring. Seducing. I can’t help myself. I smile that coy smile. Take a deep breath. It’s time. I pick up my pen. I can do this.  I will do this. No, turning back now. You’ve got this, kiddo. Ooo, a typewriter, that’s what I need! 

z8foqo

The Dive

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re officially 36,000 feet below sea level, and the sub integrity is still holding.” Captain Jones adjusted the collar of his navy-blue uniform and surveyed the room before him: more circular than a typical twenty-first century sub, but not large enough to make you feel like you were on the bridge of a spaceship. However, the large viewport at the front of the room did give that feeling all the same. Still, though, it’s very impressive how sonar, missile control, and many other functions could be fitted into this one room instead of multiple different ones. Humans really have come a long way, at least technologically. Jones watched as the five scientists assigned to the mission cheered and celebrated at their respective stations, including the woman who first made the announcement. He tried resisting the urge to join in, but quickly found himself unable to resist a smile. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “Let’s reign it in, everyone.” “Aw, come on, Cap,” smirked one of the scientists, “this is the first anyone’s gone this deep in, like, a hundred years or so!” “Yeah, I mean we’re lucky enough that the eggheads in tech were able to make this thing, otherwise the government wouldn’t have approved this expedition,” added a woman. “And that’s exactly why we need to stay focused,” said Jones. “Look, I’m pretty excited myself. But remember that we’ve been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to increase the explored parts of the ocean from five percent to maybe ten! So, if we’re gonna celebrate, let’s do it when we find a good story to tell the guys back home.” “Wow, didn’t think you were one for speeches, Captain,” a scientist remarked. “But he still makes a point.” Jones turned around to see a blond woman walk through the automatic doors to the hallway, hair all bunched up in a bun and arms crossed behind her back. “So there you are, Taylor,” said Jones. “I was wondering what happened to my first mate.” Taylor rolled her eyes and said, “Please don’t call me that, this isn’t Pirates of the Caribbean .” A few snickers echoed throughout the room, but a glare from Taylor cut them off. “Anyway,” Jones continued, “Glad you’re here, ‘cause I planned to examine the engine room again.” “Sir, it’s already been checked at least three times in the past couple hours,” said Taylor. “Well, a fourth time never hurt anyone.” Jones turned back to face the crew and said, “Alright, everyone. I’ll be back in an hour or so, please at least try to focus, and let me know the minute you find anything.” “You got it, Cap,” said one of the scientists. Jones nodded before leading Taylor back through the doors, and into the hallway. “You know, you tell everyone to reel themselves in, when you’re the one who needs the most work,” Taylor remarked. “What do you mean? I thought I handled myself pretty good back there.” “‘A fourth time never hurt anyone?’ Come on, admit it, you just can’t stand still and wait, can you?” “You know me that well, huh?” Jones warmly smiled. “I should hope so,” Taylor replied as she rubbed her hand, sporting a dazzling diamond ring. Jones stopped and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Taylor. It’s just . . . you know how long I’ve been waiting for a chance to explore more of the ocean!” “How could I forget? Our first date you wouldn’t stop rambling about how unfair it was that most of the ocean is still a mystery.” “In my defense, I was a little drunk.” The pair chuckled for a minute, before stopping to gaze into each other’s eyes. “Look, just please promise me you’ll keep a clear head. At least until we can say our vows, then you can be as crazy as you want,” said Taylor. “Deal,” chuckled Jones. After a quick peck, the two walked down toward the engine room. ——————————————————————————————————————— The engine room shook, causing Jones to topple as he struggled to balance himself. Once the shaking stopped, he checked to see if Taylor was okay before also making sure the room around them was still intact. Thankfully, no visible damage to either. “Man, that’s like the third shake in the past hour!” A man declared as he walked out from some machinery. Approaching Jones with an iPad secured in one arm, he asked, “What on Earth’s going on?” “Not sure, Larry,” replied Jones. “I’ll look into it, but for now, can I see the diagnostics?” “Oh yeah, sure!” Larry handed him the iPad, which Jones briefly examined before handing it back to him. “Well, everything looks in order,” he said. “Keep up the good work!” “Believe me, sir, this tub won’t sink on my watch!” Jones nodded, then walked out of the room with Taylor in tow. Lifting his wrist watch close to his face, Jones pressed a button and asked, “Hey, what’s going on up there?” “We’re not sure, sir,” replied a voice. “If it’s a tremor, it’s not coming up on our instruments. It could be currents or even the pressure.” “I thought this thing was built for that, though?” “Well, this is the first time this sub is making a dive like this, so maybe it’s adjusting. Again, we can’t really say.” “Okay, just keep monitoring the sub and notify me if the slightest thing is off.” “Yes, sir.” Jones lowered his arm and released a hefty sigh. Taylor gripped his hand and said, “Hey, it’s okay.” “I just don’t get it,” Jones replied. “They told me they ran multiple simulations on this thing, applied enough pressure that would crush any other sub, and the results always come back positive.” “Okay, so trust them, then. A few shakes don’t mean that we’re gonna drown.” “I, um, I don’t know, I should go on the bridge and check in with everyone.” Taylor latched onto his arm before he could escape, and said, “David, stop.” Jones stopped cold in his tracks. She always called him Dave or Davy, at least whenever she didn’t use those couple pet names, but never said David unless she meant business. “I know you want this mission to go smoothly, but you’re freaking out over nothing.” “But . . .” “No more ‘buts!’ I want you to go to your quarters and take a nice, long nap.” “No way! I’m not even tired, and besides, I still have a sub to run. I need to be there in case . . .” “I will come get you the split second that they find something, and I promise I’ll keep everyone in line until then, but for now, go rest.” Jones pursed his lips, desperately fighting to keep himself from snapping at her. Except, the emotions vanished in an instant. His lips relaxed, as his mind now focused on a new feeling. Something wasn’t right. “Davy? Are you okay?” Asked Taylor. Jones held up a hand to quiet her, looking around as he tried to determine the cause of his suspicions. There it is again, a strange tingling feeling in his head. No, not in his head, on his head. And it didn’t feel like a tingle either, it was more like a . . . raindrop? The captain looked up at the ceiling and, to his utter horror, saw water dripping down from it. Eyes widened with terror, he looked back at Taylor, who was also looking up. She must’ve noticed the same thing, because she returned the same gaze as him. The two sprinted back to the bridge, barging through the doors to see everyone frantically typing on their computers and looking over their screens. Drops of water fell from inside here as well, each one was slow but just as intimidating as the next, almost as if the ocean itself were taunting the crew. “We have a breach!” Jones shouted. “We’re trying to determine the source of the leak, but integrity has dropped to 90%!” Replied one of the scientists. “No way the pressure would be strong enough to match the durability of this sub,” remarked another. “Should we resurface?” Asked one more. “Just find out where the leak is coming from, and we’ll go from there,” replied Jones. “You can’t be serious!” Hissed Taylor. “You know just as well as I do that a few leaks in a sub are always bad, no matter how small they are.” “I don’t know, maybe it can be fixed.” “ David! ” “Hey! You don’t think I’m worried about this? I’m doing everything I can to keep myself together! But we can’t let a few drops stop us from the discovery of a lifetime.” Before Taylor could even reply, the sub shook once again, more violently this time. As she and Jones collapsed to the floor, their blood ran cold as a long, almost mournful cry bellowed around the room. It almost sounded like a whale, but it sounded way deeper and it had enough force to continue shaking the vessel. Jones gripped onto the railing and helped Taylor up before shouting, “What the heck was that?” “I . . . I don’t know, sir!” Stammered another scientist. “Sonar’s coming up empty!” Another cry resonated, its mournful tone slowly being replaced by one of anger. The sub shook twice as violently, even knocking everyone off of their seats as the angry call continued. “Someone tell me what’s going on, for goodness’ sake!” Shouted Jones. A scientist struggled to get back into his seat, but frantically went through his computer. “Instruments are still coming up empty, Captain! There’s nothing out there! Not even a tremor!” “Well, what’s doing this, then?” The sub jerked to the side, but the room now felt like the vehicle was spinning at an incredibly fast rate. The droplets from the leaks now turned into gushing streams, spilling their contents all over the crew. Before Jones could yell for an answer, the sub finally stopped spinning as the lights quickly went out, and all the computers soon after. Everyone either screamed in fright or yelled for a flare, splashing as they scrambled to recover. Jones crawled on his hands and knees, ignoring the constant shakes and aggressive calls as he felt along the floor until he reached a wall. Moving alongside it, he patted the wall until he could feel a box imbued on the outside, which he thrust open and pulled out a flare. Snapping the end off, the flare roared to life with red sparks. As soon as the current quake stopped, he slowly got to his feet and held it high above his head. Upon seeing the light, the scientists slowly got to their feet and back to their stations. As soon as he was sure the crew were recovering, he hurried to help Taylor up to her feet as well. “It’s no use, everything’s dead!” One groaned. “Have you tried rerouting emergency power?” “Sorry, sir, we can’t connect to anything!” Said another. Jones slammed his free hand onto the railing in frustration, gritting his teeth so tightly that they might crack. “Sir, what are we going to do?” A woman asked, panic threatening to break through her voice. Jones didn’t answer. What could he even say? That everything was gonna be alright, that they could just hold hands and sing “kumbaya?” At best, he could have everyone work to reactivate the sub, but that’s already proven useless. In the end, he decided the best thing to respond with was silence. He gazed tearfully down at Taylor. Part of him hoped she’d have the reassuring answer that the crew was looking for, but she looked just as stunned as he did. His eyes dropped towards the ring glittering on her finger from the flare’s light, filling his heart with regret and sorrow as he realized he might not get to say his vow after all. She was right. About turning around, being too excited, everything. All he had to do was listen to her, but now they were all going to die all because he couldn’t let go. Jones started to open his mouth, but another bellowing wail echoed around them. “Uh . . . C-C-C-C-Captain?” A scientists stuttered. Jones turned in the direction of the distressed man, only to find his own blood ran cold. Looking out the viewport, a blue light started shining from the pitch blackness of the sea. It was dim at first, but it steadily grew brighter and brighter. However, the light appeared to now split into two, but both of them faded into black before lighting the area up again. What was this? A new species of fish, maybe? Perhaps this was a new kind of angler fish, which could turn its light on and off whenever it wanted. Such a discovery would potentially make this all worth it, but when the lights repeated the same action, Jones couldn’t help but notice something peculiar. It wasn’t how the lights kept turning off and on again, it was the way they did it. The lights narrowed and stretched horizontally as they dimmed, only to expand again in the same way, almost like . . . eyes? Suddenly, millions of bubbles foamed underneath the “eyes,” but they didn’t dissipate like bubbles normally would. Instead, they remained in the same spot, frothing until they formed a pattern that Jones couldn’t help but think it looked like a beard. More bubbles rippled above the lights and also in between them, appearing as a pair of furrowed eyebrows and a nose. Jones wasn’t sure what to think at this point. What in the actual world was this? This had to be some kind of mirage, right? Maybe all the water flowing into the sub was cutting off enough oxygen to make them hallucinate. Wait, was that even how oxygen works? The face emitted another cry, and the sub shook slightly before abruptly stopping. Did this thing grab the sub? The aquatic face stared into the viewport, the blue light outshining the red of the flare. The sub suddenly lurched forward and drew them closer to the face, until one of its eyes was an inch away from the viewport. The red flare completely snuffed out as the oceanic eye looked the entire room up and down, observing everyone’s petrified bodies and horrified expressions. The sub quickly started spinning at a pace twice as fast as the first time! From what little Jones could see before toppling to the ground, it looked like the strange face was growing distant with every chance it became visible. With the vessel careening out of control and no sign of slowing down, Jones latched onto Taylor’s hand before passing out. ——————————————————————————————————————— Jones’ eyes felt like they were held down by massive weights as they struggled to open. He quickly shut them after a bright light began to penetrate them, but as he kept flickering his eyes open, they soon got adjusted to his new surroundings. Jones beheld a hospital room, tubes connecting from his body to an IV bag, and his arm wrapped in bandages and resting on a sling. Then he noticed Taylor laying in a bed beside him, and appearing to regain consciousness as well. “Tay . . . lor . . .” he croaked. She slowly turned her head to face him and gave him a smile. “Hey, Davy,” she croaked back. “What . . .?” Before Jones could finish his question, the door to their room opened and a man in an army general’s uniform strode in. “Oh, good, you’re awake!” The man said. “I was just coming in to check on you two. Seemed like one heck of a time y’all went through to get banged up like this.” “General Davis . . . how did . . . we . . .” “Hey, don’t talk. Save your strength,” Davis said as he motioned for Jones to calm down. “After hearing no word from you or your team, we were about to head to the dive site, only to find your sub marooned on a beach. Thankfully, we got to y’all just in time, but honestly, I’m surprised y’all survived that crash. We analyzed the sub and found that it traveled—or more like, projected—at the speed of a jet plane. We’re still going through the wreckage to see if we can find more details, but I expect a full report when you and your team recover. Somethin’s goin’ on down there, and I gotta know what.” With that, the general tipped his hat and exited the room. “What . . . are we gonna tell them?” Asked Taylor. “No one will believe us!” Jones couldn’t think of what to say. He didn’t even know what to think. What on Earth was that, down there? Was it some kind of creature? Maybe an . . . entity? Well, whatever it was, it clearly didn’t want them poking around where they didn’t belong. One thing’s for sure, though. Jones felt just fine with the idea of leaving the ocean alone for a while. 

mfmzlc

Tell the Stones

Land of the White Wolf It starts White Wolf, a book by Jim Brandenburg (Northword Press Inc., 1988). So, few people visit Ellesmere Island that the wolves are not afraid of humans and the photographer lived close to them for months. “Why don’t you go somewhere warm, sit on the beach and drink margaritas” friends ask? But I am drawn to tundra, deserts, mountains, and as far away from people as I can be. I resolve that a visit to where there are more wolves and muskox than people will be my 50 th birthday present. A critical passage in the book says:  “The traditional first stop for all expeditioners is Resolute Bay in the Northwest Territories, the most northerly spot serviced by commercial airlines. From there, Arctic dreamers must charter 748’s, DC-3’s, or Twin Otters, the smallish, highly maneuverable aircraft with skis for wheels, the ‘workhorses’ of the Artic. "  A phone call to the Resolute Airport quotes the price, $16,400 for a solo round-trip, a bit beyond an indulgent birthday present.  Or, they ferry guided groups north. If a guide has an extra seat they will sell it to defray costs. I am in luck. Two guides have reserved a flight and there is one vacant seat. I arrive at Resolute Bay on Cornwallis Island, that an early British explorer termed, “perhaps one of the dreariest and desolate spots that can well be conceived.” (From Aurora Borealis, a paper published by the crew of HMS Assistance during the time it was stuck in the ice off Cornwallis Island). He is right. There is no sign of life. Just wind-swept desolation. Six hundred miles north we land at a guard station at Tanqueray Fjord. The next day I begin my solo trip. My planned route is to loop up Air Force Valley and cross the river to head northwest to Yelverton Pass, a less traveled route. I have heard that a pack of wolves inhabits Yelverton. The day is calm and balmy with sun shining through thin overcast, bathing rock and ice with brief luscious mid-July warmth. At the Air Force River crossing the river is hundreds of feet wide, or rather its braids occupy that distance. Multiple channels of fast-moving silt-laden water rush over stones. I cannot see all the channels that I need to cross, but it looks doable. In past years I had learned the hard way that once rushing water is waist deep and touches the pack that all hope of maintaining balance is gone. My fording stick quivers in the current, feeling for holes to avoid.  The first braid is crossed with only a few near losses of equilibrium. I wander up and down the mid-stream gravel bars looking for shallow broad areas to cross the next braid. Finally, there is just one. Beyond it is a cut bank of gravel alluvium topped by an inviting sedge meadow with Arctic poppies. It is where I want to camp. I wade in slowly. The fording pole quivers in the current. Not even halfway across water laps at my crotch and the bottom of my pack. This braid is too big. There is no crossing. I reluctantly retrace my route. But now I am cold from the icy glacial melt and exhausted. Halfway back there is another near fatal step. Water leaps at my shorts and I pull back struggling against the current. I collapse on a gravel bar, drop the pack and sit there defeated. It is 2:30PM. Glacial streams are generally at their lowest in the early morning after night’s cold has slowed their runoff. I will be here for at least 12 hours. The guide who organized my air travel for this trip had told me the previous year of a couple who had waited at another glacial stream for the 3:00AM low point. Just before putting on their packs and entering the ford a wall of water and ice had rushed down the channels, born of release of dammed water in an upstream glacier. I thought of how little resistance my two feet high gravel bar would offer to such a rush of water. Later that evening during dinner I notice that the stones at the water’s edge that I am using to mark depth became submerged—in a matter of half an hour. Even at 8:00PM the river is still rising under the balmy Arctic day. A cold breeze comes from the north where the sun now travels sideways above the horizon. At midnight I look again. The river has risen again. The marker stones are gone. By 2:00PM the water has fallen slightly. The Arctic sun has now circled 180 degrees and is starting to ride higher in the northern sky. Though the tops of my marker stones can just be seen it is now or wait until a cold snap slows the glacial melt. I quickly break camp, as much to keep warm as to control my fear. Finally, everything secured by extra rope I fasten my belt to the top of the pack. If I have to throw off the pack mid crossing, I might be able to grab the belt and founder across. Picking a route, I step in. The first few braids are easy. The first big one I had crossed the day before remains.  Water leaps at my crotch. The walking pole shudders in the current. I retreat and force my way upstream where my cold feet feel that the floor of the stream is a bit higher. Now only 20 feet remain, then 10, then the last 5 as I scramble up the gravel bank. The lessons of the land have begun. Thankful to be free of my prison I abandon the trip to Yelverton Pass. It is 3:00AM. I am cold from the stream crossing and weak from fading fear. I need to walk. I head up Rollrock Valley to circumnavigate the Ad Astra Ice Cap. The peaks are soon lost in an encroaching Artic mist that begins a light slow rain. The totally barren peaks remind me of nothing less than the inner ramparts of Mordor from Lord of the Rings. Miles up I begin to fade. My ebbing fear has left a strange burned-out void. I am tired, hungry, and camp in a small patch of sand. It is 8:00AM. I crawl into my tent, with barely enough energy to eat some crisps of jerky and sleep until noon. Mist still covers the mountains, but the light rain has stopped. I walk all day and camp near a glacier that blocks further progress. I have to cross it tomorrow to reach the continuing valley on the other side. As I cook dinner, I ponder what brought an aging gay man to the Arctic. Tears well in my eyes as I feel stripped to my barest and most raw emotions. These are the same tears that bullies delighted in while I was in grade school; the same tears of an easily bruised sensitivity carried through childhood into adulthood. Here, physically, and emotionally drained at the edge of the world I let my tears flow freely. I remember houseboating on Lake Shasta—20 gays in two houseboats for a week. One night we pulled up on a beach, picked up the trash and pulled scraps of plastic stuck in the drift manzanita branches. We made a stage, decorated with plastic scrap cut into streamers, and had a talent show. Earlier that day we had passed a houseboat full of drunken straight men. They were loud, vulgar, and raucous. They shouted to a passing boat with bronzed ladies lying on the roof. “Hey baby. Want a good time?” It made me glad to be gay. But here years of bruised emotions piled on by schoolyard bullies are still eager to emerge.   Years of seeing my generation die of AIDS while religious bigots trumpet this as the will of God—all these wounds can be washed by the flow of tears. A broad mass of ice blocks the upper end of Rollrock Valley. Several flows of ice from the Viking Ice Cap to the south break out of the mountains. White silent tongues breach the high cliffs, move down the side canyons, and then merge on the floor of Rollrock Valley. The glacier reaches totally across the valley and pushes up against the opposite cliffs in a jumble of broken ice and fallen rock. I look out of my tent at the wall of ice. Will the top of the glacier be like an ice cube—smooth and blue? Is it slick? Far northern glaciers are different. There is so little snowfall here and so cold they remain frozen to the ground. Because they are frozen to the ground there are few or no crevasses because they barely move. But, because they have no crevasses, and so little movement, melt streams can form on them year after year, scouring a channel that becomes deeper each year.  Little did I know what waited for me as I strapped on crampons and made my first tentative steps onto the ice. The last time I wore crampons was 27 years ago. That was on packed snows of Mount Rainer. Our leader kept haranguing us not to step on his rope with our crampons. He showed us how to do an arrest with an ice ax. Now, without an ice ax, without a rope, without companions I face the ice wall and take my first step. For the second time in two days I feel fear. But Wow! It is not slick at all! It is melted honeycomb crunch! Still wary I eye grayer patches amid the bright white of the glacier. Do they hide crevasses? Skirt them. Proceed cautiously. Breath slowly. Death is the most unforgiving teacher of all. An ice chasm slices across the glacier from one side of the valley to the other, roaring at the bottom with a rushing melt stream. Its sides are sheer blue ice, 80 feet down. The only way across is what is left of a snow bridge that formed the winter before.  I have struggled for days to get here working up Rollrock Valley from Tanqueray Fiord after that night on an outwash bar.  As I stand there a sudden clatter of rocks rolls down the mountains and within seconds boulders are bounding across the ice like cannonballs. This is a clear message. Stay away from the headwalls. Do not see if this melt channel narrows there.   This is the only path. Carefully I creep to the edge of the chasm where one side of the bridge joins. Gingerly I tap on the snow bridge with my ski pole. It holds. Then I push harder with my ski pole, then harder, leaning. The ski pole pushes through as I fall, forward at first toward the chasm, then twisting to my side, falling, and lying panting and shaking on the edge. There is no way out if one falls in, just rushing freezing water in a channel of ice eighty feet down. It would be over quickly. Gradually I get onto my hands and knees and move back from the edge, heart pounding. This has to be the way. I had pushed my pole more to the side where it was thinner.  I try again more toward the center, lean on it carefully, and it holds. Without thought I back up and make a flying run over the snow bridge to the other side. There is no going back. This has to be the stupidest thing I have ever done. On the far side the glacier drops precipitously into icy Rollrock lake. On either side of the valley sheer scree slopes of loose rock crumble into the lake. In most places this glacier overhangs the scree, but one spot offers a passage onto the shattered rock.  In this pocket of desolation, I find the bones of some animal that tried to come this way—a dwarf caribou? In one small place a small clump of multicolored lichen grows. These are the only signs of life on this planet. Rollrock Lake is hundreds of feet below. For miles along the lake the valley wall is nothing but steep loose talus.  I walk along the broken rocks on a narrow bench, until I come to where the bench has given way. Beyond the bench the scree is loose. I step on it, and it moves like an escalator toward the lake, recruiting other rock until the whole slope is in motion. I look up at a thousand feet of crumbling cliffs, then down hundreds of feet of slipping rock to the lake. Finally, there is nothing to do but follow a more tightly packed run of scree down to the lake. The rocks move, then stop. Slowly I pick a path, avoiding the worst places, sliding a few steps at a time, looking down at the lake, listening for rockfall from above. The lake had been higher earlier in the year and formed an ice shelf all around its edges. Then it dropped and formed a second ice shelf 3-4 feet below. Then it dropped again to a final ice shelf now on the water’s surface. My legs are getting weaker, and one leg can no longer lift my weight and the pack.  If I slip under the upper ice shelf it will be into a space between ice shelves, no way out except falling through into the thinly frozen lake. I test each step before putting my weight on each rock. Most hold. If they do not, I back up fast or leap forward to what looks like the next stable rock. I hear a tinkling like bells. Thank God, there are people here! Mostly I avoid people. Today they are welcome. But nowhere are they seen. Finally, it is clear the tinkling is coming from the lake itself, all around the lake.  Between the ice shelves stalactites form, break off, and fall into the lake. Each makes a clear tinkle as it jostles like chimes with its neighbors. Gradually the end of the lake draws closer. One last steep jumbled slope of large boulders blocks the way. Each is bigger than me. Beyond them the talus ends. Mud flats devoid of any life now stretch across the valley from mountains on either side and far up the valley beyond. Nothing grows here. It is just out from under the last ice age. Sinkholes appear in the mud where it drops into open spaces in the rocks below.  I can go no farther. I am shaking and weak. Out there about 40 feet is a mud and sand flat about a foot high. Run off has eroded around it. A place for a tent. I step into the mud wading toward it. Quicksand! Up to my waist. I flail backward now weighed down in gray muck. More carefully I take a longer route. A cold wind springs up as I slowly put up the tent. I thrust the walking stick three feet into the silt to keep the tent from blowing away, throw my pack inside, peel off my mud drenched clothes, and crawl into a sleeping bag. I have no energy to cook so I guzzle almost a quart of sugar drink packs and jerky for dinner. There is nothing left to do but to assume a fetal position and let the night nurse my bruises. After a fitful sleep I emerge the next morning. Dead gray silt extends for miles up the valley. Slowly I wander through this desert, avoiding where silt liquifies and quivers like quicksand. As the valley rises slightly the drainage gets better. In protected places among the rocks, mosses grow. The ground begins to be covered with a carpet of mosses, willows, sedges, and in some places has a springy feel. Life follows vegetation. Instead of only my footprints I see droppings and tracks of snowshoe hare. Predators will not be far behind. There are only a few species of land mammals on Ellesmere Island: Peary caribou, a dwarf form; wolves; musk ox; snowshoe hare; ermine; Arctic fox. It is a fine balance here on the edge of life. Winters are long and harsh. Increasingly warm rains freeze on the lichen and the dwarf caribou can no longer push away soft snow but are locked out by ice. Gradually they dwindle. There is little forgiveness here.  The valley ends deceptively—a slight rise among folds of the land. At the crest, before me Charybdis and Scylla glaciers reach from opposing ice caps to block the south end of Ekblaw Valley. I turn north. On this valley’s gentler slopes, the spring wash of silt laden run-off has coalesced in places into hummocks. Willows, sedges, and mosses cover the hummocks. Muskoxen tracks and caribou droppings are abundant.  I walk a few miles along the shore of Ekblaw Lake and camp near sedge meadows. Musk ox tracks and droppings are everywhere. There are horns of caribou shed last winter. On top of a rocky knoll nearby are the bones of a muskox. Musk ox like heights where they can make their stand. Perhaps this one had made its stand but had fallen to wolves. Or maybe it just died in the cold long frozen winter. Released from the trials of Rollrock Valley I have time for easy walking—time to sit and gaze at the broad open Arctic uplands nestled at the edge of ice-capped mountains. There is time to think of the lessons of Rollrock Valley. The first lesson is the primacy of fear. My own edge feels raw. I stand before the last ice sheets reaching to the Arctic Ocean. My ghosts speak to me. You must forgive the poor straight folks who do not how to react to us gay folk. They too have their fears. “Will he come on to me? What should I say if he does?” So, we say nothing, frozen in our fears like these ice sheets. We talk about everything but what we are. The consequences of this were demonstrated in a recent workshop. We were told to think of the three most important things about ourselves and then to carry on a five-minute conversation with a stranger at the workshop, never mentioning those things. We all skirted and danced around those important things—our friends, family, and loves. It is a built-in exercise in alienation that most gay people do every day. We avoid our fears or the fears of others. Or we throw the whole thing into their face and let them deal with it. That too is cruel. Not every encounter needs to result in baring our souls. The bruised soul is seldom in shape to spill itself in any manner that is comforting to anyone--to ourselves, or to whoever is listening. Some are better listeners and can offer comfort easier than others. Others of us awkwardly do our best and hope the moment passes. I am not exempt. Out here I bare my soul to ice and rock. There is no awkwardness, no judgment, no regret. I snuggle into my sleeping bag again. Its warmth is familiar and comforting. 

vnqp6t

Redacted: Dead Ends Point

Patrick, a seasoned military diver, had always been drawn to the unknown. Rumors within the ranks about "Dead End Point" had long fascinated him—a place so shrouded in classified information that even the most seasoned marine geologist dared not speak of it. Legends spoke of untold riches, uncharted species, and unspeakable dangers lurking within its depths. Defying orders and convention, but also the possibility of prison, Patrick assembled a team of trusted allies: Dr. Maria, a marine biologist; Jake, an expert navigator; and Rachel, a brilliant engineer. Together, they commandeered a state-of-the-art submersible called God's Hand. Way better than the Titan ever could be. *** As they descended into the Eastern Ocean, the darkness was definite. Their vessel creaked and groaned under the crushing pressure, but it was stronger than anything they'd ever seen. Patrick's team eventually discovered an entrance hidden behind a waterfall of icy brine. The air grew colder, the silence more oppressive, as they ventured deeper into the unknown. It took an hour to get through the entrance. Finally, Dead End Point unfolded like a surreal nightmare. Towering spires of coral and crystal pierced the darkness, their facets glinting with an otherworldly light. Patrick's team marveled at treasures beyond their wildest dreams: glittering jewels, ancient artifacts, and mysterious relics that defied explanation. But they were not alone. Grotesque creatures, born from the very darkness itself, emerged from the shadows. There weren't just tentacles snatching at the submersible, but also fish with finger-like fins that attached themselves to the vessel, unable to be shaken off. All of a sudden, long teeth, the length of five-story buildings, appeared from the ocean floors, while bioluminescent beasts darted through the darkness like living torpedoes. Patrick's team attempted to fight their fear, but their wits and bravery weren't enough for the unforgiving depths. The monster below breathed in, and like a vortex, the submersible was swallowed whole. The darkness seemed to be worse here. It hurts to even keep your eyes open. Everyone had to sit and just wait for their deaths to come, feeling shame and sadness as they remembered the warnings of this area being forbidden. Not listening had cost them their lives, or so they thought. Unexpectedly, with a bang, they hit the bottom of the stomach of the beast. There was no water, but there was light. Patrick convinced the crew to step out of the sub—why not? They have nothing left to lose. ' Breathing '. There was air inside the beast. They could breathe. They all laughed and began to walk around the beast's stomach. It was so huge that you could fit Japan inside—as the crew walked deeper into the belly, they stumbled upon an ancient structure, un-hidden. Carvings depicted a civilization long forgotten, their secrets and knowledge lost to the ages. Patrick's team uncovered cryptic artifacts, hinting at technologies beyond human comprehension. He pulled out his camera, snapped photos, and smiled at the magnificence of their finds. But it didn't stop there. They also found a device that would change their lives forever. It was labeled 'Transformer'. If you hold it towards your head and press the button, you will completely transform into someone else. They all knew it was too dangerous to keep, so Maria took it upon herself to discard the device. Once it was complete, they all decided it was time to go. Eventually, they would either starve there or people would start to notice they were missing too long. So, after being down in the beast for hours, the team devises a plan to escape. They would have to trigger the beast's reflexes to throw them up. It would be a little easier due to there not being any water, so Jake took a pack of his cigars and lit a massive, foul smelling fire, right next to the beast's throat. As they felt trembles, the team crammed themselves back into the ship and waited. Soon, the beast coughed violently and eventually spit out the submersible. But they still had to escape the surrounding area and get back to the surface safely. Their return journey was a desperate race against time. The creatures of Dead End Point pursued them relentlessly, as if determined to keep the secrets of the deep buried forever. The submersible creeked and groaned, feeling the pain of the large beast's previous abuse. Rachel calmed the teamand let them know the shil would be fine, as Patrick's team fought to escape the abyss. Finally, the ship reached the crevice in the wall. The creatures could not pass through. Even so, the crew kept going, and then they broke through the surface, gasping in the warm sunlight like beached fish. God's Hand was truly untouchable. All three of them attempted to spread their truth. Their stories were met with skepticism, and their evidence was dismissed as fantasy. They knew it would happen, but they still tried to reveal everything they saw. Patrick understood that Dead End Point held secrets humanity was not yet prepared to face. Surprisingly, though, the higher-ups gave them a slap on the wrist— Patrick knew it was because no one believed that they actually visited the trench. So he and his team would go on living, and people would think they were liars. But that was better than prison, right? As the team lays in their beds at home, The President randomly calls them, and they meet him at a disclosed location. They sit in fear, waiting for the powerful man to appear, but it was only Maria. They wondered where she was, and now they knew. They each figured it out quickly. Maria showed them the device and told them to relax. She had a plan. They never took anything valuable from the trench, but Maria did. If the world wasn't going to believe their stories, then the team was just going to make their riches off deception—being different people anytime they wanted and gaining access to every location on Earth. All they had to do was scan a picture of the person they wanted to be, and transformation would be easy peasy. An evil look spread across their faces as they all understood the assignment. It didn't matter what the people believed anymore. All that mattered was how much the group could make off of their newly found device. The forbidden depths of Dead End Point... A journey worth taking, and a secret now worth keeping.

1y1d61

Folly- Episode 1: Adam

Warning: contains themes of violence, substance abuse, and mental health The people of Avaritiae do not know beyond what they have been provided access to. Most of their lives, they have lived in these lands, which are abundant in produce but have rotted away their souls. Their souls are barren and can yield nothing that etches the fervor of the human heart. The men here have the freedom of speech but are stripped of their freedom of thought. Life is a mechanical procession of thoughts devoid of exploration. Minds are like caged birds, capable of flight but denied the urge to soar beyond the confines of predetermined boundaries. The High Priests orchestrated such an impressive feat by generational methodological indoctrination of fathers and the women of the populace. Fathers pass on to their children only the codes and mores that were instilled in them by their mothers during their own youth. The instructions and rules of the land rarely deviated from the usual advances of the people, and the people's advances rarely deviated from the instructions and rules of the land. The premise of this achievement was dictated by the “Drosophila melanogaster in a bottle” experiment. In an experiment, Drosophila melanogaster, commonly known as the fruit fly, were placed in a bottle with a narrow neck. Even when the neck of the bottle was open, subsequent generations of flies didn't attempt to leave. This phenomenon suggested that the flies had become conditioned to the confined space and didn't perceive the open neck as an escape route. This experiment was pivotal in understanding animal behavior, particularly in the context of learned helplessness and confinement behavior. However, much to the surprise of the residents of the High Towers, learned helplessness and confinement behavior proved to be more complex outside a bottle and in the world of men. The land under the rule of the High Priests bred no criminals but was home to juvenile delinquents. The juvenile delinquents were considered an anomaly in the system and were studied extensively and closely. In this idyllic land of Avaritiae, nestled in lush forests and fertile plains, dwell the people blessed with abundance beyond measure. Rich veins of precious metals and gemstones lie beneath the earth, ensuring their wealth knows no bounds. Every corner of Avaritiae teems with life, from the grandest mansions to the humblest cottages, each offering shelter to its inhabitants. Women and children frolic in the twilit meadows, their laughter echoing through the tranquil valleys. The thriving metropolis of Avaritiae stands as a beacon of economic output, where scientific technology has elevated the quality of life for its inhabitants to unprecedented heights. Terra Avaritiae boasts infrastructure and monumental establishments that pierce up into the horizon. An intricate network of transportation, The Lethe, connects the city from within, above, and to the lands outside. Advanced communication systems facilitate seamless connectivity, and power plants embedded deep underground electrify the land. The Lethe supported the most peculiar and successful trade of the Avaritiaeans. Child mailing, the form of trade, involved the sending of children through postal services as a means of relocation to their new homes in neighboring Kingdoms. The belief that the Avaritiaeans were Godsent people, and their children a blessing from the heavens, led neighboring kingdoms to eagerly host, purchase, and adopt them as their own citizens. In this paradigm, Avaritiaean children were not merely seen as individuals but as prized commodities, valued for their perceived divine origins and inherent qualities. This reverence for the Avaritiaean lineage resulted in a lucrative trade where children were packaged and shipped like goods, exchanged between kingdoms willing to pay a premium for the privilege of raising them as their own. Terra Avaritiae boasted formidable and unrivaled preparedness and prowess in matters of defense. Its most effective and infamous weapon in its arsenal was the Database. In the shadows of governance lies the notorious database of the Unified Surveillance Authority, a labyrinthine repository harboring the deepest secrets of individuals within and beyond its kingdom's borders. This clandestine archive, shrouded in secrecy, serves as the omniscient eye of authority, casting its gaze upon every aspect of human existence. With a network of surveillance apparatus spanning continents, the Authority's reach extends far beyond the borders of its kingdom, capturing the minutiae of daily life with relentless precision. Within this Orwellian construct, freedom from interference and freedom are notions sacrificed at the altar of security and control. From the mundane to the intimate, no aspect of life remains beyond the Authority's purview, its insatiable hunger for information driving the relentless expansion of its database. The city stands as a beacon of innovation but not at the opportunity of human ingenuity but at the expense of the seclusion of the world. The veneer of omniscience could realize into a sinister underbelly of manipulation and exploitation. The data harvested by the Authority could be wielded as a weapon of coercion, used to silence dissent and quash opposition. Hence, Kingdoms feared to find themselves ensnared in a web of surveillance, and have their every move scrutinized and their every secret laid bare for public spectation. Terra Avaritiae was left alone. A network of well-trained soldiers and specialized units ensures that Avaritiae remains impervious to external aggression. Alchemy holds a prominent place in Avaritiae's society, where alchemists are revered for their mastery of the arcane arts and celebrated in all kingdoms for their quintessential Bordeaux - an extremely potent red liquor. No ailment goes untreated here. Innovative treatments and therapies offer healing to those in need. Avaritiae was at the forefront of medical innovation. The Dome Verdant Gardens, where the facility is hosted, is bathed in natural northern winds and adorned with living greenery. Advanced diagnostic suites, equipped with the latest in imaging technology, offer unparalleled insights into the human body, allowing physicians to detect and diagnose conditions with unprecedented accuracy. The world appreciated Avaritiae as Medics and Medico, but feared them for the Authority. Yet, an empty gaping feeling rested in the hearts of the Avaritiaeans and they could hardly sleep. On average, an adult person could only sleep for four hours every fourth day. The body would finally succumb to slumber after the fourth day but could not stay rested for more than four hours. The disease shrouded the population and The Dome failed to provide answers. Sleep deprivation isn't a condition that causes immediate, life-threatening problems, but would cost Avaritiae its reputation as Medics and Medico. The residents of the High Towers proceeded to impede acknowledgment of the phenomenon and had deviously dominioned a strict policy mandating that adults must not sleep for more than four hours every four days, a decree that had already met the conditions of the exhausted populace. They boasted this as a sign of the unparalleled work ethic of their people, praising them as exemplars of dedication and commitment to the nation's prosperity. The exhausted Avaritiaeans adapted to survive on just four hours of sleep every fourth night. Despite their fatigue, they are a resilient and resourceful society, utilizing their waking hours for productivity. However, the average lifespan of the exhausted people depleted to forty years for an adult male, and thirty-five years for a female who endured childbirth. In response to the strange plague, the residents of the High Towers turned to the ingenuity of their Alchemists. Tasked with crafting a solution to incite restful sleep, the Alchemists concocted potions and elixirs that initially calmed the minds of the people. However, the effects proved ephemeral and eventually ineffective on the human body. Determined to find a sustainable solution, the Alchemists embarked on a bold endeavor: they set out to blanket the city skies with a vast network of botanically engineered enormous Banyan trees. These majestic trees, with their sprawling canopies and extensive aerial roots, were meticulously cultivated to emit a perpetual twilight. As the gentle light of the twilight bathed the city in a serene glow, the people found solace and tranquility, and could enjoy another two hours of sleep under the influence of the potent Red Liquor of Avaritiae. The extensive network of trees was a spectacle to behold and deemed by the people as the Elder tree sent from the heavens at the request of the Priests. The society of Avaritiae hums with activity during the dim hours, as they pursue their endeavors under the soft glow of the perpetual twilight. People still succumbed to their death around the age of forty but now were calmer or more precisely tranquilized. The average Avaritiaeans wore dark circles around their eyes that resembled those of raccoons. Their temperament was often rather capricious, and they isolated themselves. They are solitary beings, and the only social group they would form consisted of a mother and her young. The men preferred to stay at work for days after days until they had to come home for sleep and were extremely intolerant of frivolous activities. “Raccoon people” are what they were infamously dubbed as mockingly by the poets of the past. The poets who once lived among the Avaritiaeans but were sent to exile, soon after the high priests took control of the Gates and cabinet of the city, an event predating 900 years from the present times. There was no resistance to the exile of the poets as poets had only words to defend themselves with but the people of the land were by then already systematically and subtly stripped off their ability to read. The poets could have spoken to the people but a strange contagion soon after the induction of the new government, ravaged the adult population and deprived them of their auditory capacity. The children could talk to the poets but the children could hardly comprehend poetry. Hence, the poets left the land defeated and retreated into the desert of the scorching sun. They left with tears in their eyes and as a parting gift left the children with a song to sing. “What is fairer than the pretty lily, fairer than worldly wealth, to rest in heaven on the wing of a song, To have a pure heart and have rested for long.” We felt the rain fall on our yellow locks, the last to have the dew wet our skin. None left for the children of Terra Avaritiae, they have been stripped from within.” The contagion lingered in the city for generations and no adults were spared. The High Priests explained that the Poets had cast a curse on their children to seek vengeance. The poets were the last transgressors in the land and their crime was that they slept too much. On 19 Moon Year 456, the Aldoor tribe of poets pleaded guilty to one charge of indulging in and entertaining lethargy, disruption of state values, seventy-eight charges of causing irreparable spiritual injury intentionally in circumstances of preaching torpid tendencies to the populace and two hundred thirty-three charges of grievous harm to state economic output. On the 32nd Moon Year 456, the Aldoor tribe were sentenced to 9850 lifetimes of exile in the desert of the scorching sun, in regard to all charges. The land of Avaritiae sheltered its last poets that year. The High priests celebrated the exile and named it “The cleansing,” and the poets mourned and dubbed it as “The Culling.” The sentencing was devised to doom the poets of Aldoor. Their sedentary lifestyle could not have permitted them to endure half a day in the desert of the scorching sun. Yet, the desert winds continue to carry echoes of songs of terror, love, and demise into the metropolis of Avaritiae. The High Priests remained alarmed. The songs couldn't enchant a deaf population yet the Priests had then mandated their final regulation to never venture out beyond the vast realm of the known twilight of the Elder tree, and no one ever felt the need to except for a once humble postman turned delinquent. This individual stands as a testament to life's cruel twists. Mocked for his diminutive stature and deemed unsightly by society's standards, he bore the brunt of relentless torment from his peers. Recent release from a stint in rehab, where he was studied for months as an anomaly, offered him no solace. His erratic behavior was misconstrued as alcohol-induced. Despite returning to his postal duties, sleep eludes him, stretching his weary mind to its breaking point. He had not slept in 11 days. Elixirs and alchemy prove futile against his insomnia, while the twilight offers no sanctuary. Only the potent embrace of red wine provides fleeting relief, yet it transforms him into a slave to its numbing effects. His inconsistent behavior resulted from the profound emptiness gnawing at his soul, expedited from rejection of his true love. The gaping chasm of insecurity, unyielding to the remedies of alchemy or modern medicine, plagues his every waking moment, rendering his existence a perpetual struggle. His repeated visits to rehabilitation care had him demoted to the bottom strata of the socio-economic hierarchy from citizen to delinquent. He was now ADMT23AR2955. Ethnicity Asian, Status Delinquent, Sex Male, Tribe 23, Blood Group A, Birth Region 2, Birth Year 955. The Avaritiaeans denounced names for all non-High Tower residents. Names, bestowed upon individuals by others, lack the precision required for efficient categorization within a complex society. A unique identifier code remains constant, facilitating record-keeping, and transcends linguistic barriers. Names hold sentimental value, but they pale in comparison to the practical utility of unique identifier codes. ADMT23 felt invisible and he yearned to be recognized. His true love had refused him, sickened at the idea of bearing the children of a man who was only three feet tall. A woman willing to enjoy motherhood and ready to embrace death in her mid 30s only wanted the finest and genetically blessed specimen of a man to father her children. “I won't bear the children of a midget,” she said. Each recollection a bittersweet reminder of what once could have been, can now never be. Tears flow freely, silent tributaries tracing the contours of a shattered spirit, seeking solace in the catharsis of release. He knew his aching heart had no remedy, but he could pause the aching and go to sleep. Stranded in an internal conflict with self ADMT23 had given birth to consciousness once again. The ego was born again. Secrets failed to circulate the metropolis as the population was deaf. Having stationed at the Lethe post office, ADMT23 was aware of the survivors of the desert of the scorching sun. Avaritiaeans were not eloquent people and hence letters came in as descriptive pictures. Parcels were sent out unsupervised as Terra Avaritiae perceived no threats. Only the Child mailing went supervised under the care of a Postmaster as required for all “livestock.” ADMT23 stood amidst the throngs of travelers and parcels, his gaze fixated on his colleague, the supervising postmaster overseeing the bustling activity. As the next shipment of children awaited dispatch, ADMT23 slipped into the line, seamlessly replacing an unsuspecting child with himself. Disguised under the innocence of youth, ADMT watched as the child for the parcel frolicked about before being whisked away destined for an unknown fate. With each passing moment, his heart raced with the anticipation of escape. This time he chose to drink his red liquor to calm his nerves. As the Postmaster scrutinized the departing shipments, ADMT23’s pulse quickened, feeling genuine fear that only came at the expense of sacrificing self-security. He could feel the stirrings of free will along with an overwhelming surge of panic. In the grip of fear, he soiled himself. He felt alive. The ghastly smell was something all Child Mail Supervisors were used to but never accepting of. Postmaster BCMT44 retraced his steps and buckled the parcels firmly onto the cabin. ADMT23 did not have an elaborate plan, but he knew his destination. Past the Dune of Pity, he would make his escape from the Cabin. He must encourage his colleague to drink lots, and for that, he would encourage chaos in the cabin. The children must consistently engage in episodes of rampant crying. Children cry regardless, and depriving them of their favorite toys or a pinch on the cheeks were the easiest ways to have them burst into maniacal episodes. The children had tired themselves out and the Bordeaux, the Postmaster. ADMT23 seized his moment. As the carriage lay silent, he crept towards the open door, heart pounding with anticipation. With a swift and decisive motion, he lunged out from the Train but was quickly yanked back inside by the arm. A child had suddenly broken into a cry waking up the Postmaster. Parcels scattered, voices shouted, and chaos ensued as ADMT23 was easily overpowered by the full-grown man. Postmaster BCMT44 reported back to headquarters, “We have apprehended a criminal trying to escape the metropolis, Identified as ADMT23.” ADMT23 had grown hateful of his unique identifier code and increasingly resentful of his fate. With a burst of adrenaline, ADMT23 lunged at his captor, with his soiled trousers in his hand. He engulfed BCMT44’s face with the filthy garment and managed to prevail over the much larger man. Before ADMT23 leaped into the soft sand beds of the Dunes, he cast one final glance back at his nonplussed colleague and screamed, "My name is Adam, and you're contending with a sleep-deprived, heartbroken, intoxicated, deranged, and unclothed "Midget" who's had an unfortunate accident." He darted through the sands to seek out and exact revenge on the poets, those who slumbered for hours and days but had left him cursed. Adam took a liking to the name he discovered for himself. He was yet to discover how to trace the songs of the poets being a deaf man. He was out to explore the great forbidden unknown, hoping to finally fall asleep.

hyrmup

Into the Great Unknown

Right. Right. Left. Down Main. And I am the Keep. Up Main. Right. Left. Left. And I am at Line 56: Home. There are four blocks between home and work. Three hundred and sixty-seven marble slabs line the streets. Seventy-three doors. Nine hundred and forty-two windows. And two security clearances. Day in and day out. Right. Right. Left. Right. Left. Left. Nexilia is divided geographically into fifteen segments. Each segment is comprised of a ring of land segmented off from each other. Our Placemakers lie within center city. Our government. Segment two, holds our guards, weaponry, and defence. Not that we would need it. Nexilia is safe. We have a health segment. A farming segment. The industrial segment. To name a few. Freckled within the segments are the Lines. Stacked living quarters that house the segment’s population. Segment three is the education segment. My segment. We house Nexilia’s universities, research labs, and libraries. Segment three is where the city’s most important documents live. Where the city charter lives. The history of how Nexilia came to be and the archaic world that forged it. I am privileged to be called a keeper. Head Keeper. There are only five in all Nexilia. We keep the history books. The stories. The artifacts. The information that the rest of Nexilia are not privy too. Only the Keepers and the Placemakers. Most of my days are spent in a book or studying an artifact. The rest of my time, I spend writing about the history of our world. What life had been like before the Great Wars and what they ensued. And most importantly, how Nexilia was forged. How our forefathers promised to provide a home for those who want to live in peace. Away from war and pollution. Away from mass consumerism and capitalism. Away from the harms of people filled with greed and malice. Nexilia was born on a promise. My job is to ensure our history is shared with all Nexilians. To teach our youth how lucky they are to live here. To teach civilians how to behave to ensure history is not repeated and the Nexilian dream may live on for millennia. There are rules to ensure this. Rule one: study your history. Acknowledging the faults of our past prevents us from making the same mistakes. Rule two: be grateful for the life you live, not all were granted access to Nexilia when the world crumbled apart. Rule three: to ensure the first two rules are followed, you may not, under any circumstance, explore. It’s for our own safety after all. The Great Walls keep us safe. They protect us from the outside world. To the pollution and horrors that lie beyond. Field workers hired by the government, are our bravest heroes. They are responsible for going out into the beyond every year to take samples for study. Earth, water and air quality are tested to see if we might be able to breach the Great Wall and venture the rest of the world. They always come back the same: Toxic. Every year for seven hundred and ninety years we have been denied. It is a constant reminder to every Nexilian about the harms of war and how devastating the effects can be. We are reminded by our Placemakers everyday not to defy the rules. Go to work and then go home. Don’t stray from your segment unless you have permission. Live your life. Be thankful. If you are looking for something to do, you may use your allotted tickets to visit an eatery. To take out a history book at the library. Visit a family member. Groceries are delivered. So are new clothes. Select music and art is allowed, but all other forms are banned. I am just about finished my latest textbook: A World of Peace and How to Keep it, Volume 36. Every Head Keeper writes a volume. The last chapter is on the life quality in the outside world. I take the elevator down to the record keep. Sub level seven. Temperature control preserves the artifacts that lie within. I walk past shelves and shelves of information. I make it to the data I am looking for. Sifting through years and years of samples. I grab the most recent data, from the last venture beyond the Great walls and read. Water quality: Toxic. Soil quality: Toxic. Air quality: Toxic.  Shocking. I flip through the report to find the quantitative data. The real numbers that communicate the risk of leaving the safety of Nexilia. Except they are not there. They’ve been redacted. I flip through the rest of the report. Redacted. I put the document back and look for the year before. Water quality: Toxic. Soil quality: Toxic. Air quality: Toxic.  I flip the page to find the quantitative data. Again, redacted. I take out the report from two years ago. Again, redacted. I tear through the reporting from four years ago. Redacted. Five years ago. Redacted. On and on, I look through reports that span hundreds of years back, and yet I still can’t find a single entry of quantitative data. It's all been redacted. I can’t finish the chapter without the data. I go back upstairs to call my boss. The Placemaker in charge of overseeing the education segment. “Joal, nex. It’s Ahas.” I say as way of greeting. “Ahas! Nex. What do I owe the pleasure?” Joal repeats the Nexilian greeting. “I am almost finished volume 36.” I say proudly. “That’s wonderful, Ahas. If you finish within the month, you’ll be the fastest Keeper I have record off. I am impressed and proud to have such a fine Head Keeper.” “Thanks, Joal. That’s kind. See here, there’s just a bit of a problem.” “Oh?” “I am looking through the data from the beyond and some of it seems to be missing. See I am drafting the quantitative numbers for the water, soil, and earth quality and all the numbers are redacted. I want to use the numbers to convey the importance of staying within the Great Wall.” Beat. The line goes silent, and for a second I think that Joal has hung up. “You don’t need the numbers to convey your point, Ahas.” Joal says sternly. “Well maybe. But I think that it would help get my point across.” “Just mention that they’re toxic. That’s all you need to convey, my friend.” “But don’t you think-” “I said you don’t need the numbers to convey your point, Ahas. You’re smart, I am sure that you will figure out another way to convey the importance of staying within the Great Wall. I have to go now, Ahas. Nex” “Nex, Joal.” I say disheartened. I take the elevator back down to sub level seven. There are two thousand eight hundred and fifty tiles in the elevator. Thirty buttons. I’ve counted. I make my way back to the data storage. Looking through the same data. Holding reports up to the dim light to try and see through the black ink that redacts the information I am desperately trying to get a hold of. After another hour of scouring the shelves, I feel defeated. I try to remember the charter rules to restrain my anger and foster peace, but I am so frustrated that I throw all the data on the floor. Knocking over boxes of archives older than Nexilia. I can’t finish my life’s works because of a few numbers. Years of research down the drain. I throw myself on the ground and cover my face with my hands. All I hear are the hub lights above me. There is no one down here except me and my artifacts. All that’s been left for the keepers to discover and decipher. The thought makes me want to burn the place to the ground. After a beat, I collect myself and the reports I’ve thrown all over the ground. Good thing there are no guards in here. Signs of aggression are reported. I put all the reports back into their respective boxes and make sure that everything is where it should be. I put the box back on the shelf when I notice something on the wall. It’s broken. Or rather there is a piece of it missing. Like someone started chipping away at the wall. I take a flashlight off a nearby desk and shine a light through the hole. What I find shocks me. The whole in the wall reveals catacombs. The mythic catacombs that Nexilia was built over. They’re real! I try to contain my shock as I take in what’s before me. Over one of the ancient stones of the catacombs, the word “eased” is written in red ink. I stumble back feeling a cool sense of dread wash over me. I force myself to peer into the empty space between the wall and catacomb. There is about three feet of space separating the two. I shine my light in both directions. I can’t see anything but catacomb. Something shinning catches my eye. To the left, on the wall separating the catacomb from the Keep, appears to be a gold doorknob. I calculate the distance in my head, put the record box back, making sure the hole is well hidden, and I walk to the approximate location of what I believe to be a door. I come to a bookshelf that appears to be smaller than the rest. I give it a nudge and a pull, but nothing gives. I check all the boxes to see if there might be another access point when I notice the same red ink running up the seam of the bookshelf. I run my finger along the edge until my finger catches on a latch. Pushing it up slightly to the sound of a door unlocking and the shelf juts out slightly. My heart thunders in my chest, my palms get clammy, and my knees go weak. I stumble with the idea of entering the catacombs. Knowing full well that exploration of any kind is forbidden. Don’t diverge from the path.  I remind myself. After a minute of internal debate, I think back to the data I was declined. Rage boils up from within and I take the plunge. My curiosity is too strong. I must know why that data was redacted. I pull open the secret door, step through the threshold and close the door behind me. What I find is shocking. Mile after mile of tunnels. All built in sandstone and old piece of debris and artifacts. There are pieces of objects that I can’t name that jut out of the wall at odd angles. Small alcoves line the walls in certain areas. I’ve found two underground water springs that connect to pools in the center of connecting tunnels. There are rooms within rooms and secret tunnels connecting rooms to other rooms. Occasionally, I will come across a door with a gold handle with a sign written in that same red ink. The one I used to enter the catacombs had the word “the keep” written on it. Others are labelled “greenhouse”, “holding gate”, and “linen warehouse”. It’s how I know that I have crossed over to new segments. Not only are there marks on the doors. But there are also markings within some of the alcoves. Odd, random messages written in black ink. The symbols don’t mean anything to me yet, but I am itching to decipher them. I spend weeks down here. Going up to civilization only when it is time to go home. Making sure to leave when everyone else does so as not to raise alarm. When I go home, that’s when I plan. I plan what segments to explore next and I map where I’ve been. No one thinks its suspicious that the head keeper disappears for long hours at a time. They think I am immersed in volume 36. It's been three weeks since I first discovered the catacombs. The markings on the alcoves are a puzzle. After plotting the markings, I’ve realized that they are a code. I’ve managed to map all but a few. I am heading to the centre city where I believe I might find a couple more markings. I’ve been walking for about two miles when I come to another door with a golden handle. The label says “Placemaker’s Grove”. It tempts me to break in. To see where they work and what they do. I bring myself back to the moment and remember my task: the code. I find the small inner fold in the wall, indicating the mouth of the alcove. I enter to find that it is larger than the others. The same marking is on the wall, but something lies over them that frightens me. Scratch marks are specifically positioned over the code making it illegible. I take out my map in attempt to copy any visible part of the code. I run my hands over the markings and the scratch marks. Who would do this? Was it the person who marked the entry to the doors? Something tells me it wasn’t. Why would they lead me here only to erase the code?  Up until know I believed that the person who made the red markings and the black markings were the same person. I feel perplexed and a little enraged that someone would destroy the markings. I turn around to make my way back to work, knowing I’ve spent too much time down here already. I am greeted by a blinking light. Small and red. Blink. Beat. Blink. Beat. Blink. Tucked into the shadows of the is a small mechanical box attached to the ceiling. There are wires spilling out of it into the wall. When I step up to the box, I see my reflection within. A look of confusion stares back at me. I rack my brain in attempt to identify the object. Stories of spying and deceit flood my mind. I realize that the object is a camera. That someone might be behind this camera. Horror stories of its use before and during the Great Wars has me questioning why one might be here, under Nexilia, when all technology of the sort has been banned. The alarm on my watch goes off, telling me it’s time to go back home. I turn, making my way back to the education segment when I hear Joal’s voice behind me. “What are you doing down here Ahas?” “Joal?” I ask. “Where are you?” Trying to locate the source of his voice. “I am in my office. Where you should be.” His tone turns sour as he continues. “It’s too bad really. You were one of my favourites. You had a lot of potential. Now that I am thinking about it, maybe even too much. It’s time to go now, Ahas. Nex” Joal voice cuts off from above and I hear footsteps of guards. Lots of them. Coming from the door with “Placemaker’s Grove”.  I soar down the tunnel. I run back to the education segment. Sweat is beading on my forehead and my mouth goes dry at the sudden realization of what just happened. I make it to my segment when I see guards coming from the direction of the Keep. I run in the other direction, now trying to lose the track of two squads. My next thought hits me like a brick. I pull all the pieces together. All the codes and the maps. What my life work has meant for Nexilia and why I am being chased. The crushing weight of my burden makes me slow. I have my hands on my knees and I am panting. Grief and realization make me wail. I lose feelings in my knees. It was all a lie. The guards start to gain on me, and their shouts feel like whispers on the back of my neck. I scan my map one last time before putting it in my coat pocket. I start to pick up speed with my newfound determination. Rage floods my veins at the lies I’ve been told and the roll I’ve played in it. The knowledge that they’ll publish volume 36 to perpetuate the lie makes me sick, but I keep running. I run past segment after segment. Running through rings of the outer city getting closer and closer to the Great Wall. I start to tire after miles of running but the fear of being caged my whole life outweighs my body’s need for rest. The fear of never being able to experience something new. To not be allowed to be curious. To never be able to create art or taste new food or hear music for the first time. To never be able to try out a new path or try on a different hat. To never experience a story that isn’t a history I know now as false. I run with everything I have in me.  I throw out a laugh as a door with a gold knob comes into view. It’s labelled “the Great Unknown”. Excitement lights a fire within me, and I start to feel alive. I curl my fingers around the doorknob, but I stop before I open it. Fear clouds my vision, and I suddenly can’t remember why I am doing this. What if what they say is true. What if it really is a toxic place to live? What if there is not quality of life? What if there really is nothing out there. I can hear the guards coming down the tunnel and they’re about 30 steps away. Their faces look panicked. One of them takes out a pair of binding cuffs and I know exactly what they want to do to me. The fear of their prison overrides the fear of the unknown. I make the final plunge. I open the door, step through the threshold, and close the door behind me.

x7vvyl

What's a Picture Worth?

Out beyond the distant galaxies, where unknown stars twinkled and unnamed wonders dwelt, a small spaceship with two brave space photographers soared by at hyper speed. Finnian, the courageous captain was at the helm, and his intelligent yet goofy co-captain Quixly was sitting nearby, looking through old books and scrolls. The two friends were on their way to take their greatest picture yet. “These are some pretty crazy legends, Captain.” Quixly said as he was reading the scrolls. “Are ya sure this planet actually exists?” “I’m pretty sure.” Finnian responded, looking down at the map on his control panel. “No one alive has ever seen it, and all the historical records differ in their accounts, but one thing is consistent through everything we’ve read: it exists. And I’m willing to try to find it if it means we can photograph one of the most amazing planets in all the universe.” “Oh, if it exists, we’ll find it.” Quixly replied. “I’ve looked through every book and map and scroll that mentions it, and I’ve done all the calculations that can possibly be done, plus a few more just for fun. It’s either at the location we’re going to, or it’s nothing more than a myth.” Quixly continued to search the scroll he was looking at, completely unaware of how boastful that last statement sounded. “Also, Captain, do ya really think the planet is alive? What does that even mean?” “First off, Quixly, you can stop calling me Captain. You’re my co-captain now, we’re equals in rank. Just call me Finnian. Secondly, I don’t really know what it means. I’m excited to find out though!” “Me too, Captain.” Quixly said, still looking at his ancient scroll. Captain Finnian was about to make another comment when he heard a beeping from their navigation system. “Oh, Quixly, we’re nearly there. Come on over here and help me find a good place to fly through. If this planet exists, then I’m gonna need your help getting to it.” Quixly jumped up and ran over to the control panel. “Yes sir, Captain! What are we flying through?” “Quixly, I’ve told you a million times, just call me Finnian.” The ship, following the precise instructions Quixly had uploaded earlier, pulled out of hyper speed in front of a huge wall of asteroids. The asteroids were all different shapes and sizes, and they were all moving in different directions and at different speeds. Both of them looked at the barrier in silence for a moment before Finnian answered Quixly’s original question. “We’re flying through that.” “What!?!?” Quixly responded, nearly falling down in shock. “But sir, there are hundreds of asteroids flying in all different directions.” He looked a little closer. “Thousands! Tens of thousands! We can’t fly through that!” “Sure we can.” Captain Finnian said, looking at all the asteroids. “It’ll be fun! Besides, no other captain alive has ever flown through it, we’ll be legends!” Quixly, who wasn’t quite as competitive or ambitious as Finnian rolled all three of his eyes. “I’d rather be a living nobody than a dead legend. I say we fly around the asteroids.” He looked at Captain Finnian and smiled hopefully. “We can’t go around it, Quixly.” “We could go under it?” “Can’t go under it.” “Above it?” Quixly’s voice was shaking by this point. “Can’t go above it.” Finnian replied. “We have to go through it.” Quixly gulped in fear. “But why, sir? Why do we gotta go through a giant wall of dangerous, scary, horrible asteroids?” “Great question, Quixly. The answer is simple. Because this isn’t a wall. It’s a bunch of orbiting asteroids. Think of them as tiny moons. They’re surrounding the ancient planet we’re going to photograph. The only way to get to the planet is by going through the asteroids.” Quixly just stared at Finnian, and then at the seemingly impassible barrier in front of them. He had been too busy figuring out where the planet was to research the details of what orbited around the planet. Flying through those asteroids seemed way too risky. But he wanted to see this ancient planet just as much as Finnian, and he had a lot of trust in his companion’s ability to fly a spaceship. If Captain Finnian said they could do it, they could do it. “Alrighty ighty ighty, Captain. I trust ya. If ya say you can fly through, then we can fly through. Wowza. I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Captain Finnian smiled at his quirky green co-captain. He was grateful to have a friend and co-captain who trusted him that much. He didn’t plan on letting him down. “Thank you Quixly. Don’t worry, it’s going to be completely fine. And again, you don’t need to call me Captain anymore.” “Yes sir, Captain!” Quixly said. Finnian rolled his eyes. They both sat down in their respective seats and got to work. Captain Finnian moved the spaceship forward slowly, and Quixly started doing calculations on the size, speed, and direction of the orbiting asteroids to give Captain Finnian the best chance at getting through. They both silently wondered what the ancient, living planet would look like. No matter what it was like though, taking a picture of it would be unlike anything they’d ever photographed before. They’d be nearly as legendary as the planet itself once they had a picture of it. As they got closer, Captain Finnian hit a button on his control screen that opened up the gunner’s control on Quixly’s screen. “Captain,” Quixly said, “I think ya hit something wrong. You just pulled up the gunner screen on my end.” “That was on purpose, Quixly.” Captain Finnian replied. “I want you to be in control of our laser guns as we drive through. You can blast any of the smaller asteroids that I can’t avoid. That’ll help me focus on the bigger obstacles.” Quixly lit up at that news. “Wowza! Do ya mean it? You want me to use the guns!?” As a navigating assistant Quixly hadn’t been authorized to use the spaceship’s guns. His recent promotion didn’t have those limitations. “You’re a co-captain now, Quixly. It’s well within your right to use the guns. And what better time to start than right now?” “Sir, this is an honor! Thank you!” Quixly was so excited that he nearly forgot what they were about to do. He then looked out the window again and his eyes widened considerably. “But wait! I’ve never done this before! I don’t know how to do it! Shouldn’t we use the auto aim for the guns?” Captain Finnian laughed. “Quixly, I trust you. You’re the most precise navigator I’ve ever met, I have no doubt that you’ll be precise with the guns.” He then looked at his own screen and pushed a few more buttons. “Also, I’m turning my guns on auto aim anyway, just to be safe.” That seemed to be good enough for Quixly. “Alrighty then! Let’s show these giant space rocks who’s boss! Hi-dee ho let’s go!” With that Finnian pushed forward on the thrusters, and they entered the maze of asteroids. The next 15 minutes were a crazy blur of activity. Captain Finnian had to maneuver around countless asteroids of all different sizes, some of them several hundred times bigger than their spaceship. Quixly was going berserk with the laser guns, blasting everything that got close to them, and many things further away too. Although they were too focused to talk for the most part, Quixly couldn’t help himself from yelling out the occasional ‘Wowza!’, ‘Gee wizz!’, and even an ‘Owabungowa!’ once or twice. Finally, right when it started to seem like there was no end, they blasted through a final asteroid and could see the rocky planet in front of them. They slowed the spaceship down and looked at the ancient, historical, legendary planet. They looked a little longer. Then a bit more. “I think it’s dead.” Quixly finally said. “I think you’re right.” Captain Finnian replied, disappointment evident in his voice. The planet they were staring at looked like a gigantic asteroid. It was grey, rough in texture, and not as spherical as most planets. The only word Finnian could think to describe it was ‘anticlimactic.’ They had been flying through space for months in a search to find it, and it just turned out to be a gigantic rock. The legends said it was alive, but it sure didn’t look alive. It didn’t even look like it had any life on it. It was just a giant asteroid. “Well, I’m sorry to have brought you all the way out here for nothing.” Finnian said to his green friend. “I suppose we can still snap a few pictures, but then let’s get out of here, what a disappointment.” He turned to go get one of his cameras when Quixly gasped. “Sir!” He yelled, even though Finnian was standing right next to him. “It moved!” “Don’t mess with me, Quixly. I feel bad enough as it is. And stop calling me sir.” “No, sir, I’m serious! Look! It just moved again! I think it’s actually alive!” Finnian turned back around to look out the window and nearly fainted. The entire planet was moving! It seemed to be unfolding itself very slowly. Before they knew it, the planet no longer looked like a rock, but it took the shape of a giant rocky man. It turned its massive head and looked at the spaceship curiously. “Wowza, I was not expecting that!” Quixly said. He then waved at the giant creature. “Hello!!! We came to take your picture! It’s nice to meet you!” Although the living planet couldn’t possibly hear or understand what Quixly had said, it somehow saw him wave through the glass, and it copied the motion, waving back at them. “Oh my heck,” Captain Finnian said, finally getting through his initial wave of shock. “I need to take a picture!” He then ran back to the closet with all his cameras and threw the door open. After successfully navigating everything else on their journey that could have gone wrong, he couldn’t believe what he saw. On the floor in front of him were hundreds of broken camera pieces. He must not have strapped the cameras in properly last time, and the rough journey through the asteroids knocked them all off their shelves, destroying them as they crashed into each other. They were completely useless. “My name is Quixly!” Captain Finnian heard his friend yell through the window, still unaware of the broken cameras. “What’s your name!?” Quixly then turned to face Finnian. “Sir, come quick, we need some pictures…..” his voice trailed off when he saw the broken cameras. Captain Finnian slowly walked back up to the front of the spaceship and slumped down in his seat. Outside, the giant planet copied his motion, although he had no chair to sit in. Quixly looked at his friend, looked at the broken cameras, and then looked at the living planet again. “Ya know, Captain,” he said. “I like taking pictures as much as you do, but this might be one of the most amazing things I’ve ever experienced. I plan on enjoying it, picture or no picture. And there’s no one else I’d rather do it with than you.” Captain Finnian looked at his friend and smiled. Somehow Quixly always knew just what to say. He didn’t know how he was so lucky to have such a great friend as his co-captain. In that moment he remembered that life is about so much more than taking legendary pictures, career success, or becoming famous. It’s about good friendships and enjoying the moments, which is what got him into photography in the first place. Looking back out the window at the gigantic, friendly planet, he actually felt grateful that his cameras broke. Getting a reminder of what’s really important in life was so much more valuable than taking another picture, no matter how rare it was. “You’re right Quixly, thank you. It’s a blessing to enjoy this moment. Thank you for reminding me of that.” “Well, you know me, Captain, always pointing you in the right direction!” Quixly said. They both then looked out the window and continued to wave, make faces at, and try to communicate with the ancient, living planet. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but a moment with a friend is priceless. 

rqmou1

A Tale of Two Cities

The day finally arrived, and it was a glorious one. All the emissaries, leaders, and generals of both Judah and Israel were present to witness this historical moment. Not one dignitary dared to turn down the invitation. Through struggle and strife, David was finally being anointed king of both Judah and Israel. Despite all the odds that were stacked against him, he still came out victorious. If ever he had any doubts about a living God, they were whisked away in the summer breeze. Joy and excitement filled his heart as he admired his wives standing together, with Michal, his first wife, standing in the most prominent position. The musicians played at every corner of Hebron and readied themselves for the celebrations that were to follow. None of that mattered though, for he had to turn his attention to the present. The priests and prophets from both countries approached him, chanting prayers and calling for God’s blessing to fall on him so he would be a wise and strong leader. David lowered his head as prophets from both countries poured sacred oil over his hair. It was at that moment, his fate was sealed, him becoming the king of both lands. The crowd cheered, and everyone joined in the festivities. Every house and store joined in, and the street was packed full of people, all wanting to be part of history. For three days and nights, they continued, and they would have still gone on if not for the day of Sabbath. When the sun fell, the streets became eerily quiet but still ready to burst back with life. Surprisingly, though, when the Sabbath ended, the people returned to their normal routine, and life proceeded as it had for the past five hundred years. Little did the people realize the world was about to change. *** Three days after the coronation, David met secretly with his Judean generals. “Hebron cannot be the capital of both Judah and Israel,” David declared. “We must find a place where neither land can call solely their own. I say we strike Jerusalem and reclaim the land as our own. The time is right, and we must act fast. We’ll strike now when the Jebusites aren’t expecting it. Jerusalem, and within its walls, the halls of Zion, will become ours.” Most of the generals nodded, and muttered among themselves, but one spoke up above the others. “What you say makes sense my Lord, but why now? Why can’t Hebron be the capital, at least for now? And what about armies of Israel? Shouldn’t they be part of this plan? I say we should be patient and let time work to our advantage.” David answered, “As for the Israel army, I’m not sure I want them involved in this plot. It hasn’t been that long since the Israeli generals and I were on opposite sides in battle. It will take time for them to earn my trust. As for the timing of the attack, I say there’s no time like the present. Speed is of the essence, and as I said before, I want to catch the Jebusites by surprise. The less time they’ll have to prepare for an attack the better our chances are of succeeding. The Jebusites will not be expecting any hostilities from us so shortly after my coronation, and if they have any spies among us, they won’t have time to become privy to this plot.” “That’s quite understandable, Sire, but will the Judean forces alone be strong enough to take the city?” “To be honest, it won’t be easy, but it is possible. We can deploy a small land force, light of foot. With Israel as our allies, traveling through their territory will give us an unrestricted route to the city, and along with the element of surprise, Jerusalem will be ours.” “I agree,” one of the generals said. “Although the Jebusites brag about their great fortress, many parts of the city wall are in disrepair and should be easy to breach. Also, there is one hidden weakness of the city, which few know about. The underground waterways leading to the city are virtually unguarded. We should have easy access through those sewers. Once we’re inside, we can force open the gates and let the rest of our troops in. Then the Jerusalem will be ours for the taking.” “Good,” David said. Then he smiled. “And I know just the person to put in charge to take through the sewers. Ready our soldiers. We’ll leave at first light.” The generals excused themselves and went to ready their troops. Life is good, he thought, but God is great. David called for the sergeant of the guard. “Bring Joab to me.” *** The sound of shouting in the streets of Jerusalem jolted Evanizedek from his sleep. As he opened his eyes, he observed the morning sun attempting to pierce through the window. It’s too early for the merchants to be selling their wares , he thought. Forcing himself out of bed, he peered at the empty streets below through his bloodshot eyes. As he wondered what the commotion was about, a loud knock on the door drew his attention. Before Evanizedek could open his mouth, a messenger threw the door open and scurried into the room, saying excitedly, “Sire, the Israelites have returned. It seems they wish to be taught another lesson about breeching our city.” Evanizedek spat on the floor. “Idiots,” he said. “Tell the guards to send extra men to the eastern side of the city wall. They’ll obviously try to attack there.” When the messenger left, Evanizedek got dressed and climbed to the rooftop of his palace. As he gazed at the oncoming army, he thought, why waste your time, Israel? I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve met like this. Even if I deploy only our deaf and blind citizens to defend our walls, you will still lose. You should go home and stop wasting our time. He was about to return to his chambers when he spotted a couple of the enemy soldiers near the wall and realized they were wearing blue and white arm bands. Benjamites, he thought. They’re part of the Judean army. Where are the Israelites? He looked at other soldiers in the distance and saw they were all wearing the same band. Has this alliance between Israel and Judah given me another enemy? Why haven't my spies in Hebron warned me of this danger? As if his thought was revealed to the world, his question was answered. A single voice cried out from the distance, “I am David, son of Jesse, King of Israel, and Judah. You would be wise to surrender now. If you do, I will spare all your lives. But if you choose to fight, not one of you will be left standing at the end of the day. Which do you choose?” Evanizedek shouted back, “Come, David of wherever you hail from. Come to our gates and meet the points of our swords.” Encourage by his taunts, his men cheered. He watched David signal three hundred men to attack the western wall where it was lower than the rest. Go ahead, Judah. Run to your peril. You’ll find my soldiers waiting for you, thirsting for your blood. Evanizedek watched the Judean forces press an attack, then just as quickly they retreated. Again, they pressed on an attack, then retreated. And so, it continued. As Evanizedek watched, he couldn’t understand the purpose of this tactic. This doesn’t make sense. The Judeans gain nothing. He thought of pushing the attack past the wall but decided against it. It may be just what the Judeans were hoping for. Let’s just leave things as they are. A shout from one of his generals sounded an alert that the Judeans were attacking the low point on the northern wall. Is this Judah’s ploy? While my men are defending the western wall, they counterattack the northern wall? Sorry, David of nowhere, it’s not going to work. Evanizedek signaled his generals to place the rest of his forces on the northern wall to reinforce the weakness there. As Evanizedek watched the battle unfold in the north end of the city, he saw the Judean soldiers repeating what they did earlier. They attacked, and when his troops repelled them, they would retreat. This whole thing is insane. What’s the endgame of this? He looked in the distance and saw there were still two thousand soldiers waiting. And what were they waiting for? *** Joab led two squadrons of men through the sewers. The putrid stench of the slime on the walls was enough to make the hardest of men puke. As they crawled through the tunnels which were too small to stand in, he thought, I can’t believe I got myself into this. It’s suicide. Once we come to the surface, they’ll cut us down like wheat in the field. My Lord please give me a sign if we’re doing the right thing. A man vomited behind him. So be it. So, without looking back, he continued. When David called me back from my isolation, I should have known better than to accept this mission. But now, I’m committed, and if we turn back, all the men who have already perished would have died for nothing. Joab tried to scan ahead, but all he could see was darkness. Is there no end to this sewer? The only answer he received was the sound of another man vomiting. Joab recalled the time he was exiled to a pig farm. Day after day, he watched the farmers feed the pigs and slaughter them, ever waiting for a reprieve to rescue him from his fate, trapped among the unclean animals and fearing to become unclean himself. When the day arrived when he was to be set free, he was filled with glee. When I left that horrid place, I thought I would never smell anything worse than that farm. But to my dismay, I’ve found that something. The sound of his men groaning and gagging was growing. “Let’s pick up the pace and stay together, men. It can’t be much further.” Joab almost believed his own lie. Twenty more minutes of suffering through that stench passed before he gave the signal to stop. Pointing upwards, he whispered, “See that light? That’s the well shaft above us. I need a volunteer to scale the shaft and drop a rope down to us.” A tall, muscular man staggered up. “I can do it, sir.” Joab nodded and handed him a rope. “Go quickly, but carefully. If you get caught, it’s all over.” The volunteer saluted and began shimmying up the well. Ten minutes later, the end of the rope dropped in front of Joab. “Okay, men, let’s get out of this stench and breathe some fresh air.” One by one, they climbed out of the shaft and into a small shelter in the center of the city. By the time the last man stepped out of the well, the shed was packed. Still the air was refreshing. Joab quieted the men and reminded them of the plan. “Okay, men. When we step out of side, we head south. If you’re not sure which way that is, make sure the sun is to your left. South is the strongest wall, and with their men at the north and west walls, it should be the least guarded. Our priority is to get that gate opened, and after that, we must defend it with our lives. It should be only a few minutes before the Jebusite reserves arrive, but I can guarantee you they’ll do everything they can to stop us. Have courage, and remember God is with us.” As the men all murmured in agreement, Joab peered outside to see if the coast was clear. A few men were scurrying back and forth. Satisfied, he turned to towards his men and said, “It’s time. When I open the door, we all go as one. Ready, go!” *** A sudden clamor near the center of the city drew Evanizedek’s attention from the northern wall. Blood drained from his face as he watched a swarm of Judean soldiers appear from nowhere, charging towards the southern gate. By the time his surprise wore off, they reached their destination and were attempting to open the gate. “Quickly!” Evanizedek shouted. “Defend the southern gate!” But the sound of the approaching enemy drowned out his warning cries. Fortunately for him, soldiers in the main court saw what was happening and charged after the Judeans. Powerless to do anything, all Evanizedek could do was watch and pray. Sadly, his prayers went unanswered. The walls on the sides of the gate protected the Judeans from being flanked, and the frontal assault was ineffective. Precious minutes passed, then the gate was thrown open by Joab’s forces and the entire Judean army poured through. Evanizedek fell to his knees and wept, for he knew his fate was sealed. Watching in horror, disaster unfolded in front of him. He was too late in realizing the two companies of men were only biding their time, positioning themselves, and waiting for the gates to be thrown open. Powerless to stop the inevitable, he watched his men being slaughtered like sheep. It was over before it truly began. Broken, Evanizedek returned to his room and waited for the inevitable. *** Before midday arrived, the fight was over. Every Jebusite soldier was executed or put in chains, and Evanizedek was dragged in front of David and forced to bow before him. David gazed down at the fallen king. “Evanizedek, King of the Dead, what do you say now?” Evanizedek remained silent, so David nodded. “As you wish.” Signaling to the guard standing next to Evanizedek, the guard drew his sword and decapitated the former king with one stroke. “Take his head and put it on a pike,” David commanded. “Place it outside the city wall, so everyone who passes by, sees what happens when they defy the will of God.” The guards did as order, and David retreated to the palace. As he entered the hallways of Zion, he smiled to himself. This is perfect, he thought. Jerusalem, the new capital of Israel and Judah, the land promised to us by God, is now ours. Hebron, the current home of the Ark of the Lord Almighty, will soon be replaced by Jerusalem. David kneeled and prayed, “Thank you, God, for being with us always and bringing us home.”

a42q66

No Way Out but In

11/11/2018 It's been three days since I got lost in this forsaken desert, because I took a wrong turn trying to reach the ocean, so I could go to the island from the legends, which was supposed to hide the great gem of Thoth.  My camel got scared away because of a snake, threw me off its back and so I am stuck here. I don't even know why I started this journey to begin with, the only thing I know is that I was looking for shelter, a place where I would stop feeling as lost and wounded as I feel now. Meanwhile, I also hurt my foot on a cactus and was bleeding pretty bad, all while the sun made my head feel like an egg in a frying pan. And I thought I found shelter, but maybe that was just another trap, because all of a sudden, in the middle of the desert, which was home only to snakes and cacti, there were dozens of pyramid-like mountains reaching towards the sky. I thought to myself: "There can't be any shelter here, these mountains can only be hiding something even worse than snakes, maybe beasts or...", but then all of a sudden, I had the idea to try to climb up one of these steep rocks, hoping to find at least a cove I could spend the night in. As I was climbing up, there indeed was a cove, which I rested in, but also something even more interesting - a narrow door, hiding in plain sight, the same color as the rock surrounding it. Well, since there was no other escape from this situation, and the desert was stretching endlessly in each direction, might as well go through the door and down - since I had nothing to lose anymore and also barely any attachments to this world left, except to my dear parents, who would mourn the loss of my life. "There is no way out but in" - as the wise men say. 11/12/2018 Opening this door was a courageous act, since I couldn't know what I would find behind it, could be treasure, a trap, or certain death - but I knew, before becoming an explorer, that this was not an easy path, nor did I want to take the easy, normal path in life, it just didn't compute with who I was in the deepest parts of my being: free as the wind, infinitely curious about the hidden truth, never wanting to be tied down to any self-imposed image about myself and always in search of the Highest. As I went down, I found stairs, which had to be man-made, or so I thought at the time, and with nothing else to light my way but a silly flashlight, I discovered many ancient symbols on the walls, surrounding the spiraling stairs - symbols like the Flower of Life, the Ankh, meaning Eternal Life, words in an ancient or alien language, which I did not understand, but also the lotus and the all-seeing Eye. At first, I thought that this was a remnant from a civilization that was somehow connected to the ancient Egyptians, but I was on the other side of the world and there was no way that the Egyptians had the means to arrive in this isolated place and leave their mark, also the lotus was a Buddhist symbol, and how in the world could these two completely different cultures be related, or even be found here in the southern hemisphere? As I went further down through the darkness, there was suddenly a vicious laughter from a distance, which sent chills down my spine. I thought I was completely alone here. My curiosity was stronger than my fear and I had no intention of going back up, without discovering what in the world was hiding down there, so after an hour I finally arrived at a spacious, dark room. At first glance, I only saw two mirrors, one smaller than the other, directly opposing each other, and the Flower of Life painted on the floor in the middle of an octagonal room. As I approached the smaller mirror, two little dark creatures appeared behind me and then in front of me a few times, still viciously laughing and smirking at me, their bodies completely made of darkness, it felt like they could absorb me entirely, had I spent a single minute opposing them. But then a divine idea came to me - they stayed far away from the mirrors, so I took the smaller one in my hand and held it directly in front of them, which made them run away in an instant. I was so relieved, that I instinctively stepped into the center of the Flower of Life and then the most amazing thing happened, a white light started shining from the center and I was submerged in it, as if a different reality called me to come forth. 11/13/2018 When I woke up, I felt better than I did in years and everything around me seemed to be so much brighter than on Earth. I knew right away that I was on a different planet because the center of the Flower of Life was indeed a portal, not just my hallucination from exhaustion. My foot was healed as if by miracle and pure, loving energy was streaming through my body and energy centers - maybe this reality was providing me with this healing energy. Looking around, there was plenty to see - I was on the edge of what seemed to be a city, but there was no feeling of denseness, no trash on the sidewalks, actually, no sidewalks to begin with, just beautiful earthy and marble pathways, no concrete at all - because everything was so much more advanced than I ever saw on Earth, and I saw a lot traveling all around the world. Nature and city were indeed one here: the vehicles were flying, not on fuel, but on some advanced method unknown to us, "people" were levitating and there were also some teleportation devices, where you could simply walk in and choose your desired destination, the buildings and houses were intertwined with the trees and plants, but most of all, what was so stunning to me, was that there were no square-shaped buildings and streets, everything was round and had arches that followed the shapes of nature, everything was white, transparent and full of radiant energy. As I walked through the city, as amazed as I could ever be by one, I met one of the beings that were living here - Gyan, and we had the most interesting conversation about the nature of duality, reality, and Oneness. His aura is filled with grace, positivity, and equanimity, and his exterior is mild and fierce at the same time, with dark hair and eyes, dressed all in white. I asked him, after explaining the state the Earth is in right now: "How come you are so advanced here on Sirius? What happened in your history that took you this far?" He replied gently: "We reached a threshold where most of the inhabitants no longer believed in the false story of fear and hate our governments were telling us. Most of us, which was a crucial point, opened ourselves up to the innate well-being, which is always present anywhere in this Universe because the essence of Source is present everywhere, and we realized that we are the ones blocking ourselves from it. The true light of Awareness is always already present everywhere and in all of us and it is ever-loving, ever-forgiving, radiant, and pure." After he mentioned the Light of Awareness, it made me wonder how can one reach that state and whether it was even possible to do so in our dense 3D reality. He explained: "The most simple way to reach it is by stopping your thoughts and struggle. Simply stop believing in anything that doesn't feel good, anything that society taught you that makes you feel anxious, and allow yourself to recognize your pure, naked Awareness, which is the container of all experiences, which doesn't blink at dark or light. This naked Awareness is just veiled with all the contents of the mind and the outside world, which is why so many people fail to see it, but you can purify yourselves, just like we did on Sirius." Our conversation went on for a while later, but he somehow reassured me that not everything was lost on Earth, that there was a way out of the mess we created, and most importantly that Source is never not present, we have to connect to that energy, to that reality, if we want to transform our lives and the planet we live on. I wanted to stay on Sirius, but something did not feel right about it. I needed to go back to Earth and allow my mission to unfold...

jpiqij

Adventure of a lifetime

I settled into my seat and looked eagerly out the window of the car as the conductor started his spiel of safety directions. I looked away from the window long enough to register the total disinterest of the other passengers as well (does anyone ever listen to the safety speeches)? Who could concentrate with the captivating adventure awaiting us. I could already see the mountains in the distance and the winding stream out the window begged to be followed. The conductor was dwindling down and I turned my attention back as I heard him say “you’re welcome to stand on the balcony at any time but do NOT lean to either side or put your arms over the chains as we do not refund for lost appendages” – WHAT? I assumed he was joking. I could see the plumes of smoke as the engine began to fire up. The black smoke and acrid smell of the coal hit my nostrils just as the train gave a sudden jolt and began to move. We crossed a swift moving stream and I reveled at the clear pure look of the water. The noise of the engine drowned out the melodic trickling of the water and I was slightly disappointed but was quickly distracted by the view as we turned to corner and began our ascent up the mountain. The view that opened before us was both captivating and breathtaking. The vibrant green of the new grass looked almost like the astro turf of the local football stadium. The spring flowers, who had been recently released from their snowy blankets, were springing from their beds. They stretched with all their might toward the warmth and brilliance of the sun in an endless kaleidoscope of blue, yellow, pink and purple. It was breathtaking. As we settled in to the clickety clack of the train and the occasional jolt as the incline increased the view only got more spectacular. The valley became more miniscule and I suddenly realized that we were going into wilderness in which many people had never ventured. It was largely untouched by civilization and many who had ventured here seeking their fortunes had never returned. I must admit it gave me a moment of anxiety to realize I was one of those adventurers and while I was not seeking gold fortunes, I felt both the trepidation and sense of adventure that those souls before me must have felt. As we passed an old train trestle which had carried the trains across a gorge, I was grateful they were no longer using it. It definitely had seen better days (maybe). Had I seen the one we would be using to cross, I would not have been so thankful.  I’m not sure the “new” one had many more supports. However, we made it over and I prayed it would stand until we came back.  As we rounded a curve the rock walls of the mountain were nearly touching my window and I jerked back in surprise. One little wrong jerk of the train and the window would be scraping the rough rocks. I was having a very intimate “getting to know you” party with all the brave plants clinging to the side of the mountain. I tried to see the view from the other side out over the side of the mountain and into the valley but for this next leg of the trip the other side passengers had the good view. We were assured by the conductor that we would have the better view on the way back down. For now, I could only sit and see every little detail of the mountain only inches from my face. I couldn’t help but think that this is what mountain climbers must see when dragging themselves up the side of a mountain. As we neared to top the train was struggling mightily to climb the steep grade and the temperature was steadily growing more frigid. The plants here were not as eager to sun themselves and only the rugged were able to survive here. Even the trees were not as eager to relocate to this neighborhood. The mountain tops in the distance were every bit as beautiful as the pictures I had seen on post cards and brochures. Their pure white, snowy tops were as pristine as bleached sheets and fluffy clouds danced above them like little tufts of cotton candy. It was everything I had imagined and more. I was grateful to share this view with all those who had come before me and seen it as I was seeing it. I felt drawn by all the souls of those who had come here seeking something that eluded them. As we switched sides of the train I was expecting the ride down to be somewhat anti-climactic. It would be the ride up but in reverse, although we would now have the better views going back into the valley. How wrong I was. The train lurched as we started back down and the clickety clack started up again. As the train started its descent I got up, deciding to get a different perspective, never guessing it would be one of the best moments of my life.  As I opened the door to the balcony, I felt my muscles quench as the door made a hideous scraping sound alerting everyone in the car to my departure. So much for stealing outside quietly and having a moment alone. I could feel their curiosity burning into my back as I hurried to shut the door behind me. I stepped to the right and settled into the corner of the railing and the front car wall. The train was beginning its descent and the clickety clack of the wheels grew more intense. We were picking up speed quickly and I could feel the cool air on my face, much like an ocean breeze but colder. We began hurtling down the mountainside and suddenly the train jerked sideways as we rounded a corner and I was knocked off balance, forced to grab the railing to keep from falling. We were now going down a steep grade and speed was still picking up so I managed to back myself into the corner of the railing and front wall of the car and brace myself with my legs, which was no easy feat, I can tell you. I was beginning to feel a little trepidation at having come out onto the balcony but was a little afraid to try to walk back into the car. I attempted to video the experience but couldn’t hold the railing and phone at the same time, so I quickly gave up for safety’s sake and decided to just enjoy (?) the experience. The train was bumping from side to side making it difficult to do anything but keep on your feet and hold on. The landscape was going by so fast it was hard to glimpse anything, so I attempted to lean over the rail and get a better view of what was coming. As I leaned my head over the railing a branch swept by, nearly missing my face. I jerked back in surprise and was just getting ready to try again when the mountain swept by so close it would have taken my face off (I guess that conductor was serious).  I was tempted to reach out and touch I,t but was afraid of losing my hand. I’m not sure how the train didn’t grind along the wall, ripping the sides open as we were swaying back and for so much. We continued to hurl down the mountain, crazily rocking side to side, me bracing myself in the corner, feeling the wind refreshing my face and blowing my hair and I realized that this must be much like that famous Titanic scene. I got it now – this was one of those moments of my life I would never forget. The smell of the clean mountain air, the wind blowing my face, speeding down a mountainside on a rocking train which felt like it would come off the tracks any minute and here I was, experiencing an Alaskan adventure that many people never get to experience. Gratitude. 

iy02ir

Hansel and... Cristel?!

- Year xxxx month xx day 7 I’ve been exploring this forest for the past 20 days. At first, I thought it was going to be like any other exploration requests I get; exploring the newly emerged forests and drawing a rough sketch of their layout. But no matter where I go or what direction I turn, there doesn’t seem to be any end to this dense forest. It doesn’t even seem like I’m getting close to any exit. The further I go the stranger everything gets. The leaves are getting lighter in color and their texture is getting softer and fluffier. The woods are becoming smoother as I go and they seem to be getting shinier as well. Maybe I’m on the right track. Maybe there is something at the end of this never-seen-before path. ********************************************* - Year xxxx month xx day 11 It seems like I’m onto something. The scenery has changed completely since yesterday. All the leaves and grasses have turned into… cotton candy? The sound of their crunches under my feet plays with my ears. In addition to that the woods have also become chocolates! Depending on the type of the tree, some are bitter dark chocolates, while there are ones so sweet and so full of sugar they shine under the sunlight. This is the first time in my whole life I’ve ever seen something like this. Never even heard of anything remotely close to this… The fruits almost look the same except for their size and color; tiny purple apples, gigantic green bananas much taller and heavier than me to the point of bending their trees to the ground, blue strawberries that grow on trees, and so on. The worst part is everything smells so sickeningly sweet I’m starting to feel a sharp pain in my throat and stomach; feeling like I’m about to throw up. I need to rest for a little… ********************************************* - Year xxxx month xx day 13 After being in this environment for a few days I’ve finally started to get used to it but to my surprise, I’ve arrived at a one-story house! In a place like this! A Cottage house, or at least that’s what it looks like; Its walls are made out of waffles, with cream cheese dripping from the top of the roofs, surrounded by lots of weird lollipops and odd candies instead that seem to be flowers. The windows are closed so I can’t see the inside of the house. Instead, I take a walk around the building. If there is a house then there should at the very least be a person around. But no one seems to be here. I also tried knocking on the door but no one answered. Looking at the top of the house I saw a chimney. It looked like weak smoke was slowly coming out of the chimney; like the fire had gone out pretty recently. Seems like the owner of the house has just stepped out. If I stick around I’ll most likely see them coming back. I sat in a corner leaning on the house’s wall. Now that I think about it, who would be living in a place like this? Are they even human? Or some unknown existence? As the questions ate away at my brain, the fatigue of walking nonstop for the whole day caught up with my body. With my eyes getting heavier with each passing second, my vision also turned blurry and I slowly fell into a deep slumber. Just before losing my consciousness completely, I thought I felt someone standing before me. I just hope they won’t be an enemy or some kind of monster… ********************************************* - Year xxxx month xx day 14 The sound of chopping and sizzling of cooking and the nice smell of home-made food, made me open my eyes. As my vision slowly returned, I started sitting and taking a look around. I was lying on an old bed in the corner of what seemed to be the inside of the cottage house. Beside me was an old fireplace made out of brick-looking biscuits with a set of dining table and chairs in front of it. On the other side were some cabinets and someone who seemed to be cooking there. I tried to get down from bed when its creaking sound made the person stop. She turned around to look at me. I lost my breath the moment our eyes locked. She was stunning. Simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life. She looked just out of this world. How can a human being be this beautiful? Long sparkling pearl platinum blonde hair that shone bright even in this dark room with little light. Beautiful green eyes that emerald would fall short in comparison to them. As I was busy admiring her beauty, she put down her knife and came towards me. “Hello,” she said in a soothing angelic voice with a warm smile. “I don’t get many visitors here” she continued as she tucked her hair from her face to behind her ear “What is your name?” “h-Hansel” I stuttered. Once she as in front of me she stopped and leaned, bringing her face closer to mine. I didn’t know where to look; more like I couldn’t avert my eyes from hers. As if they were drawing me into an endless abyss. “Nice to meet you, Hansel. My name is Cristel. How did you end up here?” “I don’t know… I got lost in the forest and couldn’t find my way back, no matter what I did or where I went. Do you know how to get out of here?” “Unfortunately, no. I’ve lived here all my life since I remember and know my way all around this place but I’ve never seen anything like an exit or a way out” “Oh no… How am I going to get back now?” “Hmm…” she got lost in her thoughts and sat beside me on the bed. Just like Cristel, I too started thinking. What was I supposed to do from here on out? As we were racking our brains for some time, Cristel sighed. “Well! If we can’t figure out what to do right now, we should take our time to think about it and find a way.” Said Cristel as she jumped back on her two feet. “For the time being, why not help me with this and that around the house?” she said as she stretched her hand towards me. “Huh?!” for a moment I got flustered and confused. But as I calmed down, I didn’t see any reason to refuse. So, I too got up from the bed and shook Cristel’s hand firmly. “Ok. Please take care of me from now on, Cristel” Cristel smiled brightly at me and said “You too Hansel!” ********************************************* - Year xxxx month xx day 23 Life with Cristel was pretty peaceful. We did everything together; working on the fields around the house in the morning, hunting every once in a while, cooking and eating. Although the foods that Cristel made had a funny taste. Especially the meats. They were sweeter than any kind of meat I’ve had before. I guess here everything tastes sweeter than the outer world… As we lived together and supported each other through tough times and good times, we got pretty close to each other. Maybe I should just live the rest of my life here with Cristel and forget the outside world. In the first place, there isn’t anything nor anyone waiting for me there. Not after my parent’s death when I was 14. ********************************************* - Year xxxx month xx day 25 Spending our days idly, one day just like any other, we were working on the field as usual when it suddenly started raining cats and dogs. As rain poured down, we ran to the house in a hurry and closed the door behind us. We were both drenched in water. I turned towards Cristel. “You can use the bathroom fir-” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Cristel, with her back towards me, had started taking off her clothes right there and then. “u- um… C-Cristel?!” Cristel stopped for a second and looked at me from over her shoulder with narrow eyes. Clink. She locked the door in front of her. Then holding her shirt in front of her chest, she turned towards me shyly. Letting go of her shirt as she approached me slowly. “Huh…?” my confusion got the better of me. “What is it Hansel?” she asked as she smiled softly. Her hair color seemed to be… melting?! From underneath it, a bright red color was peeking through. But rather than that, I know some people have like… smaller chests; but didn’t know one could be… THIS flat… “It’s almost like…?” “Ha ha ha… like I’m not a human nor a girl?” said Cristel as she laughed. With each step she took towards me I took a step backwards. Until my back hit the wall. There was nowhere else I could go. She crept closer to me. So close that I could feel her heartbeat on mine. As she looked up at me, she had the nastiest grin I had ever seen in my life. “Well…” said Cristel. “That’s because I’m not <3”

fn4570

Candeo

“Never go out without someone who knows the way.” That was the rule. I always thought that rule was rubbish. “You can go and explore if someone who knows the way goes with you, Carli. You just need to ask, and someone will.” I said inside my head that it was not exploring if someone was showing me the way. But even if someone had been there before, I decided it was exploring if I was discovering something for myself. “This place is safe.” Safe from what? I never asked aloud. “There is danger you don’t understand out there. Someone who knows the way also knows how to stay safe.” What danger was there? No one told me, but they didn’t know I wanted to know. I told myself, I’m not stupid, so it can’t be that bad if they don’t think the danger is worth explaining to me. The decision to go out was a long time coming. The desire kept building and building. And one day, like a cup of water filled too full or a pot boiling over, I decided it was just too much to hold, and I went. The door wasn’t guarded. That was a surprise. I thought someone would be there to stop me, or anyone else who didn’t know the way, from going out. But there wasn’t, so I unlocked the door and marched out, shutting it behind me. The building I grew up in is gigantic. Lots of people never leave it, and if you do, you’ll just see more enormous buildings lining long streets, with the sky in the crack up above. I’d been told a regular person couldn't just find their way around inside the building. Only someone who knew the ways could do that without getting lost or running into the danger which I seriously questioned the existence of. I remember that things didn’t look bad outside the places I’d always known, just different. At least, that’s what I told myself. Dirtier in some places, and darker where bulbs had burned out. Those got replaced quickly at home, so I absentmindedly figured someone was probably on the way to fix those already. At first, the biggest difference during my exploration was that I hadn’t seen any windows. It had been daytime when I left home, but there were so many burned out bulbs in the hallway, it was hard to see in the gloom. “Who are you?” The voice was close to a hiss, but it was also raspy, like someone who was sick. I remember I jumped, then turned in a circle, but I couldn’t see anyone. I chalked it up to the hallway being so dark. Again the voice demanded to know who I was. “Carli.” “Where are you from?” “The rooms back there.” I pointed behind myself. “Do you know the way?” I remember thinking, Again with knowing the way? Maybe someone caught me after all. “The way to where?” I thought I was being so clever. “You don’t.” The voice didn’t sound happy, but satisfied. A hand grabbed my arm. It was cold, cold like the glass of the windows in the winter. The only thought I had at the time was, It’s a dead hand. I was wrong. It was alive. And it wanted to pull me somewhere. But the voice stopped talking and just hissed, and let go, and I ran. I think it was because at that point, I still had some light in me, even though I didn’t understand. There are a lot of other things in the building that are alive. And some of them don’t like us. For a lot of them, it’s because of the light, but not because they hate the light or they want to eat it or they want to kill it or anything like that. It’s because the dark things just can’t come in contact with the light things. It’s painful for both sides. Which one changes just depends on which one is stronger and wants it more. The first one that grabbed me was weak, but the brief touch still changed me. I got cooler. I didn’t feel so warm. But I just knew I wanted to get away. I found the end of the hallway, and the stairwell, and went down. I tripped over little things in the dark, and they complained about me being too hot and too bright. I got lost. I wandered the building and I ran from everything that touched me or spoke to me. When I found quiet stairwells I went up, but I’d always encounter something unpleasant and start running down again. Sometimes I would see a door that had a bit of light coming out from under it. I would stop and pound on these, but when they opened, so much light and heat came out that I thought I would be burned to death, so I turned and ran again. Things were always grabbing at me in the dark, and every time they touched me I got weaker and colder and more tired. I’d stopped knocking on doors with light under them because I was afraid of the burning that came when they opened. But then a whole gang of the cold things in the dark came after me. I could hear their pounding feet and raspy breathing, and I could feel the cold cloud that came with them. And then I saw light coming from the stairwell ahead, the stairwell I had only known was there by the echoes I could hear. The light was getting brighter and brighter, and I was certain it was a fire coming for me. I saw a door that had only a little bit of light coming out from under it, and I thought, There’s not enough light there to hurt me, and the door will be enough to keep the fire and the cold out. So I stopped running and tried to open the door. It was locked. I beat on it with one fist while I rattled the unmoving knob with the other. “Someone help me!” There was shuffling behind the door. “PLEASE!” I screamed. “Be still.” Warmth like sunlight through the windows I’d lost poured over me, and I turned to see who had answered me, but all the light hurt my eyes, so I squeezed them shut. A hand took mine, and the hold was gentle, but it was so hot it burned. I yelped and pulled away. “You’re hurting me!” “You called for help. If you want it, you must take my hand. Your eyes cannot see in this light.” The hand was torrefying, but I held on through the pain. I didn’t know the way. I told myself I wasn’t so stupid anymore and that even if it hurt, I would get home and everything would be fine. I wasn’t fine. I was cold. The hand of the one who knew the way burned me. It took a long time to heal. But finally I got warm again, and more than that, I got hot and bright. I didn’t know if that was possible when I came back, but I told myself I was done with making decisions all on my own and thinking I was the best judge of things. I also said I was no longer interested in going out, and that I was content not knowing the ways. Yet here I am, and I know the ways, and I found you, you cold little wanderer. It’s okay to cry. The tears might be like ice, but your cold heart is melting. I’m taking you back to the light. I hope you’ve had enough exploring. And I hope you follow the rule from now on: Never go out without someone who knows the way. 

qc9qgs

How's Your Aspen?

How's Your Aspen? Have I ever told you about the time I learned to ski? Snow ski. Down a mountain. A famous mountain. No? Well, let me tell you about the time I learned, or should I say attempted to learn, how to snow ski down a famous mountain. Stop me if you have heard it before... If you know me at all, you know I'm a rather conservative, cautious type content to live life within boundaries. Follow the rules, don't take unnecessary risks, always sensible, seldom try something unexpected. Okay, go ahead and say it...dull, boring, in all ways unexciting! Well, once upon a time, about thirty years ago, I was feeling overwhelmed with my unfulfilling job and the pressures of raising four teenagers by myself. I needed to do something for myself. My high school graduating class managed to remain close to one another by having reunions every five years. One classmate left an open invitation to anyone wishing to visit him in his transplanted home in Colorado that they would always be welcomed. I decided to take him up on his offer. Of course, facing four college approaching futures on one income, I had little funds to splurge on myself. The overall plan was to drive my mother from Illinois to my sister's house in Nebraska then travel on to Colorado by myself for a long weekend. I did not intend to do much entertainment, only take in the beauty of the region my brother had raved about on a summer trip he had enjoyed years before. My friend insisted otherwise. My friend, let's call him 'Jeff' because that is his name, did quite well for himself in life as a real estate broker in one of the most expensive markets in the USA - Aspen, Colorado. His office was located at the foot of one of the most celebrated ski runs in the world. He would often take a long lunch hour to stretch his legs on a downhill slope. Besides being an accomplished downhill racer, he was also an avid big game hunter, hiker, mountain biker and all around outdoors-man. Jeff owned several rental properties in his adopted mountain retreat so would house me in one of them with an amiable female tenant at no cost to me. I was expecting no more than some quiet time in beautiful surroundings. Jeff surprised me with a three day ski lesson at the famous nearby Snowmass Mountain. What! I could only surmise what that would cost! But he insisted it was a gift from him. After all, when in Aspen one must do what Aspenites do. Ski! And so for three days I skied. If you can call hurling one's self off the side of perfectly good mountain skiing. Day one: Some time was spent in a class room setting being able to recognize a ski, boots, bindings, poles, etc. and discussing their various purposes. See how well the skis adhere when adjusted just so but are meant to come off automatically when certain force is applied so no injuries will occur? But, of course, in reality they will dislodge when least expected and be impossible to get off when necessary. So once everyone is bundled properly and sized to the matching set of skis it is off to the 'bunny hill' to practice the skills involved to effortlessly, gracefully glide down a piste. But face it, mostly to master the art of falling down. Don't forget the all important snow plow wedge to brake the descent so one doesn't break something else entirely. You also get introduced to the tow rope that gently pulls you back up the slope so you can fall again. Each time you get pulled up you get a fresh opportunity to fail in a new way. Once you have performed enough wipe outs you get promoted from the bunny hill. Lucky me! I made the cut! Just barely! Tomorrow I will get to go on up the big hill, the Blue Hill. So named because you will come back with more than a few blue bruises, no doubt. Day Two: Dawned bright and sunny the same as my disposition undoubtedly because I was naive as to what was in store for the day. The easy Blue Hill lived up to its calling. Our original newbie class divided into those needing more time on the bunny hill and those ready to tackle more demanding skill sets. How I managed to be in the latter I'll never know but there I was tackling more demanding skill sets. Like using a chair lift. Okay, after the face plant off the chair lift and the liftee cleaning up the debris field left by all my gear, I caught up with the other ten or so in my skilled class. Remember I am a cautious breed and the sole breadwinner for a household full of hungry teens. I wasn't in any race down that hill. All the others easily swooshed by me cutting perfect arcs and turns. Since it was a stated decree from our instructor that we needed to keep within close proximity of one another the group graciously pulled up and waited for my slow arrival. Oh, wonderful, I thought. A much needed rest! But no, as soon as they sighted me they cheered and set off again. And again and again this happened until we finally, gratefully achieved the bottom of this small Blue Hill. Since I was there to enjoy the scenery, I took time on my cautious descent to enjoy the beauty. I couldn't help notice the woodsy areas along side the wide manicured path. Why were there tiny tots skiing or snowboarding in the woods? Weren't there enough obstacles available keeping upright on two long sticks and maneuvering turns and moguls, etc. etc. without placing humongous trees in the path? But someone informed me that little kids really enjoyed this challenge. It wasn't a skill I needed to embrace because I was sure I would meet one of those trees too up close and personal. Exhausted by the time I finished the run but pleased with my new found abilities the instructor informed us that tomorrow we would be going to the top of the mountain ( that wasn't the top today? ). It would take two different lifts to get that far up. There would be a refreshment stand half way down to have lunch. Mostly we would be traveling a Green Trail but if any of the more advanced students wanted more challenge they could do a Red, but still no Black Diamonds. Please! Day Three: I found a kindred spirit. I'll call her 'Lincoln' frankly because I can't remember her name but she was from Lincoln, Nebraska. Close enough. She had a similar job as I had, security in an energy plant. She was around my age with half as many kids. She also was playing a cautious card. We took our time conquering that mountain as the others scattered to trails unknown. The day was cloudy with threats of snow so we felt safer going slower through whiteout conditions. Lunch on top of the mountain was adventuresome. The 'refreshment stand' was more of a full-fledged five star restaurant where we people watched. Anyone famous? Overall we enjoyed the experience very much. Somehow I managed to get back to home away from home all in one piece. The following day, sans skis, Lincoln and I window shopped among the renowned shops in downtown Aspen. We gawked at the artwork, fingered the same soft woolen scarves, gasped at the same fashions (or prices of), savored the same aromas of candles and bath salts, inhaled the same tempting mouthwatering menu selections of the rich and famous. We settled on a creamy coffee and crusty, buttery bakery indulgence. Jeff was such a gracious host. He was always surrounded by friends. Some artists and musicians. The first evening everyone went out for sushi. I never tried sushi before so that was something new, too. Not a hobby I'll want to take up, though. The second night a friend held a party at his house. We enjoyed hot-tubing in freezing temperatures. Another new experience for me, of course. It was the end of March but one night two feet of snow fell. As a non-paying guest in her home I thought the least I could do was shovel out the walkway, the long walkway, of the woman's home I was staying in after she left for work. After an hour of cold shoveling I uncovered a jeep with a snowplow attached in the parking space in front of her house. I discovered even more new sore muscles than the ones I was using on the slopes. The last day I was there Jeff had me stay at his place. He rented it out for the winter and had only moved back in himself. Along with his lovely girlfriend he had a couple of other overnight guests. He put me up in a luxurious guest room in a king-sized bed. Once again a first for me. Overall, I played in the playground of billionaires enjoying an incredible vacation in one of the most expensive cities in the US and never spent a dime, thanks to Jeff's generosity, other than the gas for my trusty Chevy Cavalier that fought hard to make it up those mountain peaks. The scenery through the passes was magnificent living up to the purple majesty reputation. I couldn't imagine how some of those highways clinging to the cliffs and tunnels barreling through granite were built. It was awesome new terrain for me to traverse. A week after my relaxing and refreshing mental break from my boring routine at home learning and experiencing uncharted explorations I was laid off from my unexciting job! Okay...! Now the start of another new adventure. But, say! How's your Aspen?

ar2xk7

Tainted Treasure

Year of our Lord 1632 15th March Today we set sail on the early morning tide. The sun was barely bleaching the horizon when I had heard Captain Horatio of the Annalise calling me a fool. He was not the only one on the docks to feel this way but I am not one to listen to naysayers. It may as yet turn out that his slander is accurate but until I attempt the journey who is to say it will fail? Perhaps I should outline the reason for this voyage. An unfortunate man washed up onto the shore nearly a week gone now. The man was crazed and weak from drinking salt water and scurvy and rambled endlessly about a small string of islands to the east that were full of treasure but cursed. Mind you, this was not verbatim and, with his mind gone as it was, I put little stock in his supposed curse. I sat by that man's side for days to unravel the mess of his mind. The sisters caring for him had looked at him with undisguised pity and had almost as much for me but I have made a tidy fortune by listening to the garbled words of many a broken sailor. There is always some truth amidst the chaos. In the end, only time will tell. March 19th The wind died yesterday morn. The current is strong here. Stronger than it should be and I fear it pulls us off course further than we realise. Tonight will tell. The stars have never led us astray unlike the sea and its endless lies. March 24th There is still not a touch of a breeze and we have drifted further than I'd like. Some of the men have fallen ill. The food and water are clean and all men were well when we pulled anchor. However, all fell ill in unison, hearty one day, waylaid the next. It has unsettled the men. Not a fortnight into our journey and the men already grumble. It is concerning. Dissent has never been in their natures. We have been through hell and back together and each one of them has been stalwart and true. My men would laugh into any storm yet now at the slightest sign of difficulty, they grouse. March 26th Sad tidings today. Three of the five men have died from whatever ailed them and the remainder look soon to follow. We gave them a sailors funeral and sent them down to Davy Jones. Peter, our new ship's boy, we have discovered, has a lovely falsetto voice and gifted our fallen men with a proper song. We remember Marcus Trello, Vincent Barbara and Nathaniel Carver. Each and every one a kind and loyal soul. We salute you. March 26th The remaining ill died last night and whilst I am sad to lose more good men, I am glad to be free of the sickness. They also received the appropriate burial and as we laid them to rest a breeze bellied our sails. I cannot help but feel that the sea was waiting for a sacrifice though what we could have done that she would ask for such a high price, I do not know. I pray she does not require more. We remember Michael Baker and Phillipe Duvon. Each and every one a kind and loyal soul. We salute you. March 30th We finally managed to get the Henrietta back on course today. Our days of drifting, of being slaves to the current, has lengthened our trip significantly but I have allowed for this when stocking the ship. The madman was not entirely specific with his directions and I am no fool. We are still well stocked and the absence of five mouths has extended it somewhat. March 31st Our high hopes at resuming our journey may yet be dashed. There is a storm on the horizon spreading from north to south. It roils black and green with more lightning than I've ever seen. It is a beast and there is no safe harbour in sight. We are at its mercy. April 3rd We have endured but not without losses. It seems that the sky also desired payment. Campbell was ripped from the rigging as we were blindsided by a wave that almost sank us. Cook Daniels took a spill and cracked his head wide open. We had no men spare to see to him though I doubt he would have survived if we had. The crew is thinning and we have not slept in days. It will be difficult to keep spirits high at this point. We remember John Campbell and Marcus Daniels. Each and every one a kind and loyal soul. We salute you. April 5th Not once in my entire sailing life have I ever been so relieved to hear the words ‘land ho’. We've come upon a small chain of islands I believe to be our destination. They are not big enough to be inhabited. They barely stick out of the water at all during high tide. Rocky shoals surround the island that barely allow the shallow draft of a row boat to pass. The landscape offers no protection, it would be foolish to remain near them during bad weather, and therefore, most captains give these islands a wide berth. I believe it to be the perfect place to hide treasure. We will anchor as close as we dare and I will take a few men ashore at high tide. A search will be conducted throughout the low tide and we will return on the next high. April 6th We have done it. We found the madman's treasure and what a hoard it was. Gold and gems and trinkets of all kinds. It was concealed in a hollow that only revealed itself at the lowest of the tide. It was a mad scramble to haul it higher beyond the waters reach and we spent the next tide ferrying what we could. Some of us have stayed on the meagre cluster of islands for the night to guard the remainder of the treasure, though who would come in the middle of the night for it I couldn't guess, but it feels right to do so. But for tonight we enjoy our victory around the campfire and toast with rum. Something is happening on the ship. Shouts ring out across the water. I fear for my men. It is silent now. Sleep seems ill-advised. April 7th My men were gone. Not a soul aboard the ship. We struck out from the island as soon as the tide allowed to find nothing, no blood on the desks, no sign of a fight, simply nothing. There was no sign that anyone had been there at all. It was as though they had leapt from the rails never to be seen again. Was this the curse the madman had spoken of? Have I been a fool to ignore his fevered warnings and doomed us all? Shouting has raised me from my bed, though Peter was quicker. He has barred the door to our cabin. He is terrified. We both are. They are screaming. All has gone silent but I feel a presence, like a weight pressing on my soul. Peter has taken to weeping on his cot and it is all I can do to keep myself from joining him. If you find my ship, take her home to my family . It is getting in. If you find my ship, sink her. Forget the treasure, it will bring you doom. Flee. Now. —---- “That's the last entry, Captain.” Horatio looked at his first mate clearly disconcerted by what he had heard. His gaze travelled to the cabin door that they themselves had kicked in. There appeared nothing untoward beside the eerie emptiness of a room locked from the inside. But Horatio was not the fool he accused Captain Blackstone of being and he was more than a little superstitious. “Bring the logbook and any record of who was aboard. No man is to take a single thing from this boat bar that.” Horatio eyed his mate, making it clear that it was not to be challenged. “When you're done, set some powder.”

6989gn

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW “There’s a blind spot. I’m sure of it. I’ve checked it out several times. We could be out of here before anybody even realises...” “What’s with you, Cathal? This constant talk of escape? We have everything we need, right here, man”. The two brothers were walking back to their home at the end of another day’s toil in the fields of their commune; another day, similar in every way to all others. No stress, no strain, no angst of any kind. Peaceful labour that exercised the body sufficiently to make their evening meal something to really look forward to; the thought of dreamless repose, free of worries, concern of any kind, the end reward for their daily contribution. There were no radios, TVs, newspapers, books and, therefore, no constant, negative reminders of how better off others were, how one had to aspire to this or that. All removed, at a simple stroke, along with machines of any kind, all unnecessary to sustain life and all of which added to the detritus and contamination that had been destroying the planet. Religion had been debunked; the worshipping of false idols banned. People, now, had only one artefact to believe in, to devote themselves to: their commune. Just theirs alone; the goings on in other communes was not their concern. There were no leaders, no hierarchy inside each zone. Life was simple now and it had been this way ever since the war to end all wars . Communes kept to their designated acreage, sufficient to encourage expansion, to allow exploration, combining hills and streams, mountains and rivers, along with forests and, wherever feasible, beaches. But travel outside of one’s own specific communal zone was strictly prohibited. Even the weather was carefully controlled with just enough rain and sunshine as was needed to allow sufficient conditions for the growth of crops; the fear of drought or flooding long since removed. “Aren’t you curious, Patrick? Just a little?” “No. I’m happy, man. Content. We want for nothing. I just don’t get how you always want more. You’re never satisfied”. “This can’t be all there is to life. There has to be more and I just want to know what it is. Is that so bad?” “You’re talking about the so called Enlightenment Zone; the place that archives all of history. It’s just a rumour, man. Stupid, ignorant hearsay created by people like yourself, dissatisfied with a good and peaceful life. Even if it does exist, how do you know that it wouldn’t be something so awful that you couldn’t stand it. Are you prepared to give your life for a myth?" For as long as he could remember, this desire for knowledge had consumed Cathal and he could not understand why others did not feel the same. Surely, he thought, this was the very essence of what mankind should strive for, a thirst for information, a hunger for improvement. His brother continued. “It’s what got humanity into trouble in the first place. Everybody fighting to outdo everybody else. Consumerism is wrong, man. It amounts to nothing more than greed, envy, lust...” “If you could only hear yourself, Patrick, droning on about how good we have it”. “But Im right , Cathal. We want for nothing, man. You don’t know what horrors lie out there and why would you want to risk what you have here?” Cathal did not answer his brother but, silently, he thought: Because I can’t help it. Because, if this is all there is to life, I would rather die. This...this monotonous sameness is unbearable to me. In his short life, Cathal had explored the acreage of his communal zone in every direction, walking far and wide on his allotted days of rest, over and over. To travel to the extremities of East, West and South, before any barrier was reached, was a day’s strenuous hike but, for many years, when Cathal had struck North, he had never managed to reach the edge of his commune until, one eventful day, when his work roster had dictated that the rest period at the end of one week ran consecutively with that of the next, Cathal had stocked up on food and water and prepared to spend the night outside, determined to make the most of this opportunity and locate the Northern limit. Such adventurism filled him with a sense of achievement; an excitement that he could not properly articulate. The combination of two rest days was something that occurred only once each quarter but, Cathal was certain that he had discovered a path that led down into a gully that was not as heavily fortified as every other barrier he had ever encountered. Thrilled with this find, he determined to use the very next opportunity to escape this place and, at the very least, satisfy his curiosity. Perhaps he would just find another commune exactly like his own but, even that thought was intoxicating as there was no communication or knowledge sharing allowed between the different zones. Fenced in like this, though only Cathal felt it, they were trapped , prisoners in all but name. The time had finally arrived when Cathal had forty-eight hours in which to attempt his crossing into the unknown and, having trekked the trail he now knew so well, Cathal slid down the embankment that led to the gully he had identified many months previously. Here, only a chainlink fence separated his communal zone from whatever lay on the opposite side; all other perimeters having consisted of double steel barriers covered entirely in barbed wire. Somehow this particular spot had not been as reinforced and Cathal had brought a spade with him, hoping to burrow underneath the wire; a long shot but, from previous test runs, he was confident that it could be achieved. Despite only fencing separating him from whatever lay beyond and, though there was still plenty of daylight, nothing could be seen of the other side except a dark mist that seemed to stretch forever in all directions yet not encroach on the communal zone; a mystery that Cathal could not explain as he began digging enthusiastically. As he had hoped and suspected, after thirty minutes of gouging out the earth, Cathal had created a tunnel under the fence that was big enough to allow him to squeeze through. Reaching back for his rucksack and spade, he was startled to find that he could not pull them after him; an invisible force held them back and, try as he might, he could not succeed. Annoyed and frustrated, nevertheless, he had no choice other than to surrender his belongings and stood up, for the first time in his life, outside his communal zone, without food or water. He felt naked, exposed, especially as the mist now enshrouded him, damp and cold. Briefly, he felt a surge of fear and considered scrambling back under the fence to the safety of the familiar but he was made of stronger stuff, he knew. This was something that he just had to do so, with a deep breath, he turned and pushed into the darkness and, immediately, felt himself falling, plunging into an unseen crevasse in the soft earth. It was a trench, he realised, and, amazingly, the mist did not infiltrate to this lower level, hanging like a canopy above him, awaiting his return. With the absence of mist, the darkness, too, hovered above him and Cathal found that he was able to see. There were wooden ladders posted at stages along the trench, allowing access, obviously, out of this pit. The trench, it seemed, stretched on and on, meandering serpent like into the distance. Preferring this to the oblivion that lay overhead, Cathal began to walk the trench in a westerly direction, his feet splashing in and out of mud and puddles, occasionally making contact with metal objects that, upon inspection, proved to be some type of headgear. Sometimes, he would encounter notes, pinned to the ladders by sharp objects that resembled kitchen knives only much larger and sturdier looking. He tried to understand what the notes meant but had never been taught how to read or write, there being no need for literacy within the commune. Often, there would be some personal item attached to a rung, also; a ring or a watch. He was most fascinated by the sharp objects and, several times, attempted to lever one free of its embedded state but no amount of pulling proved successful. It was as he rounded his first bend in the trench that he came upon the bodies; or what remained of them, skeletal fingers protruding from jacket sleeves, vacant- eyed skulls gaping, open- mouthed, at the mist above. There were hundreds; rats running in and out of tattered uniforms foraging forlornly, for any last remaining morsel of flesh, gnawing, now, on bones. Cathal stepped back involuntarily, repulsed by this sight, realising, belatedly, that he had stumbled upon a trench of war ; the war to end all wars , he whispered, the one he had heard spoken of so often in his youth without having been told anything in detail. Instinctively, he clambered for a ladder, eager to escape this abyss but time and weather had eroded much of the timber and it took him a number of attempts before he was able to find one secure enough to allow him purchase sufficient to hoist himself over the parapet of this entrenchment, rats now clinging to the hem of his muddied pants. As he scrambled into the sludge above, the mist, once again, enshrouding him, he found that, by lying, face close to the earth, he could see ahead, a passageway where the mist did not touch the ground as if it was afraid of being absorbed, swallowed up. In this way, by crawling forwards, he was able to progress slowly, encountering barbed wire obstacles that required circumnavigation, and shell holes into which he had to drop, usually coming face to face with more skeletal remains. On and on this no man’s land stretched and his progress was slow and tortuous. Sometimes the rotting uniforms were of a different hue but there was no escaping the fact that all had suffered agonising deaths and, he realised, the death toll must have been in the hundreds of thousands. After what seemed like an eternity, crawling beneath the awning of darkness, cold and damp that pressed down upon him from above, his face, hands and clothing covered in slime and mud, Cathal, finally, sensed, rather than saw, a lightening of the dimness up ahead and, though he was exhausted from his efforts, he increased his pace. As he did so, inch by inch, the mist appeared to hang back a little more until, finally, as he realised that there was no longer a ceiling of gloom above him, he was able to stand erect, once more, and a feeling of total relief swept over him, his aching muscles relieved of their cramped confinement, the mist seemingly unable to penetrate this area. In front of him, brightly illuminated, was another obstacle; this time, a wall, a shimmering iridescence that, though it offered a welcome illumination appeared as impenetrable as the mist had been though, this time, instead of forming a roof above him, it presented as a curtain extending as far as he could see in either direction. Hesitatingly, he stuck out a hand and touched the wall, the limb, to his great surprise, easily passing through and disappearing into the void, out of sight. Alarmed, he pulled it back and examined it closely finding it unharmed, unchanged. This is it then, he thought, his heart hammering within his chest. This is the final boundary, that line of demarcation beyond which all might be revealed. It was time for him to pass through to the Enlightenment Zone where all of the secrets of mankind were rumoured to have been stored. Was he truly prepared to take this step into the unknown? Yes! As Cathal placed one foot through the soft, shining veil in front of him, a myriad of pigments and tints waving before his eyes, he felt a powerful suction draw the rest of his body into the vacuum. Instinctively, he tried to resist but to no avail. Finding himself fully beyond the wall, he had to shield his eyes, so intense was the brightness in this place but, before he could gather his thoughts, the thundering of hooves could be heard bearing down upon him and, automatically, he cowered in fear. Into his head came the absolute knowledge that he was present at the Battle of Balaclava witnessing the famed Charge of the Light Brigade when five hundred brave British cavalry hurled themselves foolishly at the might of the Russian army and were cut down by canon and gun fire from three sides, blood and flesh splattering in all directions, the screeching of horses as they fell, haunting and shocking. Instantly, the picture changed and he found himself standing beside Napoleon Bonaparte, saw, firsthand, his exultation, his supreme joy at witnessing his tactics work to perfection at the Battle of Austerlitz; the knowledge, spreading far and wide, that here was the greatest living, military strategist of his age. The scene shifting, even as Cathal struggled to absorb all; now, he perceived a lonely, dying man, stood on the edge of a precipice overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, unable to escape the memories, the nightmares of his worst defeat at Waterloo, his body racked with despair both from the errors he had made and the arsenic that was slowly poisoning him. In a flash, he was confronted with a colourless scene, a multiplicity of black and white images of a nation, watching in awe, the grainy, distorted images of an American setting foot on the Moon, vicariously rejoicing in the confirmation of America’s greatness, altering within seconds to the sight of a man in an open-topped vehicle being hit by a bullet, the redness of the blood violently intruding upon the 8mm film; shifting to the devastating images of an entire nation mourning the loss of their President. Through all of these visions, though he had never seen or heard of the things he was witnessing, somehow, he understood every single detail of each scene, his brain being assaulted from all sides by a plethora of information, confused though it was at the fast shifting pageants. Constant throughout were the colours, flooding his mind in a never ending kaleidoscopic, impressionistic form: the khaki of soldiers trembling in trenches, much like the ones he had recently passed through, their faces covered in grotesque masks to protect them from invisible gases. The pink and white striped, thin clothing worn by men, women and children herded together as they walked compliantly into the mass graves that awaited them. The blackness of the hair of those Japanese at Nagasaki as they ran screaming from the havoc wreaked upon them. Always though, predominant above all else, were the many, differing shades of crimson that littered each canvas; the blood that signalled the destruction of life. On and on this went in no particular order. Awful spectacles: the Ku Klux Klan, the rise of Hitler, the Irish Potato Famine, dependence on drugs, political corruption, intertwined with moments of innocent, potent joy: the flowering of bulbs in spring, sweet scents filling the air, the cries of newborns introduced into the world, the taste of fresh honey on the palate, reunions of those parted after so long. Tears of happiness interspersed with exhilarating laughter. The purchase of a new car, a new house. Glimpses, though fleeting, of permissible pleasure morphing into the need for more; greed, lust, power, the new driving force. Not only did he observe, he felt also; the heat, the iciness, one moment shivering with cold, the next sweltering. He heard the cries of pain, every distinct scream. He experienced every emotion, the sorrow, grief, despair that mankind could be reduced to as well as the generosity, the delight in giving, the sympathy and care that distinguished man from beast. Above all else was the music: operatic arias that spoke of lost love, joyous melodies, pop, upbeat jazz, contagious beats of rock, hip-hop, rap, each affixing itself to a specific tableau, assailing Cathal from every conceivable angle and direction. No sooner did he feel his heart swell with pride at discerning an image of humanity, beautiful to behold, than it was replaced with one that filled him with despair. Contrasts, comparisons, highs and lows, one after another, never-ending; a maelstrom of vicissitudes that made up human life. The old man tilled the soil gently, content to do his bit for the commune though not much was expected of him at his age. He would finish earlier than most and go and tend the grave of his beloved brother, Cathal. He had never been the same upon returning from his northern exploration, unable to talk, only his hair, having turned fully white, and his eyes, expressing a deeply felt melancholy, offering an indication of his ordeal and confirming that he had witnessed something beyond the pale. Alongside, others worked industriously, happily and, as he made his way from the field, he overheard a heated conversation between two friends, reminding him of the talks he and Cathal had once had. One of the young men was talking about the world that must exist outside of this place and his desire to find it. The other was attempting to dissuade him. So, thought Patrick, it never ends. He thought, for a brief second, to go over and explain how, years before, his brother had once felt that same hungry urge to discover what lay outside this zone and had regretted it. But something stopped him. They will learn in their own good time, he thought. They will learn! 

bi4u89

Golden Years

Nobody can hear you screw up, or so they say… Major Culpham had that thought in his head as he prepared for the day. He looked through the viewfinder and studied the material captured. All the scanning of the previous day was uneventful and he felt that he should just get this out of the way early to complete his other duties. And yet…he felt an urge to go back once more and review what he saw…and heard. Noises from afar… At any other moment, he might have laughed about it and moved on with his work. Any child knew the basics of space travel: no atmosphere, no way to conduct sound, therefore… All the movies and television shows they had watched as children were lies. Explosions in space might be colorful, but they would also be very silent. Space was quiet, peaceful, and sometimes even quite dull. You did not get to hear it. But he had heard it. Fifteen days into the mission and it came up during routine repairs at a station the ship detected on its scopes. They had been set up for the Amber Wave as it made progress beyond the main station. It was the most popular ship in the fleet, commissioned by the brightest and boldest minds of the galaxy over many decades. And, if the major was totally honest – he often was when having a moment to himself – he should have had a lesser vehicle while this one became the retirement gift to some general or lesser figure who gave a lifetime of fair (?) and honest service (did such a creature really exist?). But no, they had to give it to the major. He was a real hero with the war record, medals, private charities established in his name, and discoveries made in difficult and strange places. The Council agreed to let him have this mission. He was the right man of the right age with all of the right attributes needed for a journey through space where the chances of encountering another human were very low (even the repair stations sent out before hand were all automated). No one else could have taken such a trip for such a length of time without a crew (his psychological, emotional and synaptic studies proved this). Food and supplies were stored at the repair stops and on board (no worries about shortages or rationing when he saw the cargo hold; it was a fear they did not detect during the testing). He was the right choice. And then he heard it. It was in the middle of his second analysis of the ship (no real problems were detected). Culpham had been walking through the processing booth, waiting for the results when it was loud and clear: “HELP!” The major was a war veteran. He had heard the desperate screams of civilians and soldiers in battle. He knew what a cry for help was supposed to sound like. But he had never heard anything like that one simple word used and spoken in such a manner. It was not just spoken. He could feel it project through his uniform, down his spine, up his legs, and into his mind. It invaded his body and would not settle down. Maybe it was part of the test… After all those weeks on his own, it was possible that they wanted to run one more probe to see how he was running a mission all by himself. There was the chance that he could be monitored that way and have the information shipped back home (would the Council do that?). The ship’s diagnostic concluded with nothing more than the recognition of a possible short on the light deck (easy to handle; he had suspected it could be a problem), but nothing else was detected. Not a single sound. Maybe he should monitor his own profile. They encouraged this from time to time in battle (some of his soldiers had been taken away when the reports were filed and analyzed). Culpham sat in the main holochair and let the probe run itself (only twenty minute out of his day): “No problems located or detected with subject. All scans match with the expected results of initial settings. Subject is normal.” Every time the major saw this, he still felt uncomfortable. It was him, in the third person, with the screen indicating blood pressure, heart rate, sugar levels, salt levels, psychological disparities, weight, vision level, and on and on… Not a thing out of line. Maybe he really did imagine it all. He turned to look at another screen where he could entertain himself with an entire culture’s history of movies, television, other audio-visual and three-dimensional art. Culpham thought that a comedy would be best (how did they manage without the skill and talent of Peter Sellers before the Pink Panther series became a hit?). A simple oral command would get this started. “Seek movie.” The screen lit up and expanded into the empty holospace. “Comedy.” A list flashed before him. He would just have to name it. “The Pink…” And the screen flickered for a moment, and disappeared. Now, Major Culpham was told that anything could happen on such a journey. The training included emergency measures to deal with such technological problems. He did not worry about this. Another diagnostic and this would be… The screen reappeared. There was only one word on it: HELP! Major Culpham stared at it for a moment, adjusting his visors to take in a non-three-dimensional image. And then it disappeared. Anger was beginning to occupy his thoughts. If the computer could not detect this, and he was just analyzed and found to be sane (at least, that was how he read it), then this was actually happening to him and the Amber Wave. This was very real. And he could use the technology around him to find out what was happening. Major Culpham entered new information into the machine and smiled. He was going to enjoy this trip. * From the reading on the sensors, the message – if it was a message – was coming to him from a region that no one else had scanned before; not even with a random probe. Culpham, sitting back in his chair, smiled and thought about all of the potential promotions and praise he might receive for this. A completely unknown sector… He watched as nebulae, stars, planets and entire galaxies flitted by. It would be out of his projected route, but he knew that the risks involved would be worth it, even if it turned out to be nothing. “Help!” It was not even shocking that time. “Yeah, yeah, I heard ya. I can’t help but hear ya.” Culpham had made sure that the monitors were not connected with the base unit or a Council feed. To have them know that he was now talking to himself would have guaranteed that his mission would be scrapped and the flight rerouted home. He did wonder how they would do that with such a trip, but took no chances with it. There was even concern about how a man could be alone for such a long time and just interact with computer technology. Culpham settled this with his diagnostics and his obvious ease with the interactive programs on board. So, no talking to an empty void… If it was empty… A light began to flicker on the holoscreen to his left. This is what he had been waiting for and he smiled again while sipping a food concentrate. If that indicator was functioning properly, he was within one parsec of that message. There were no other stations for repairs or analysis, so he knew that he would have to be careful with this trip. Culpham did notice that the number of planets and debris in this area was very low. Maybe it was too low. Was he moving through pitch blackness? It felt as though the entire galaxy in front of him had turned into ink (a substance he had heard of once, although he doubted it still existed). There was no effect on the Amber Wave’s momentum and all the instruments were functioning properly, but it was a very chilling moment for the major. Culpham preferred the usual distractions of space travel to this great and ugly nothingness. “Help!” “Help yourself! I’m comin’…” Maybe he was beginning to understand why he was receiving that message. The voice was definitely male (no audio adjustments were performed on that voice; the recording he managed to create had no aberrations); it was certainly in distress; it was in this area. But where in this area? The light began to flicker much faster, sending out a strobe effect of redness around the enclosed cabin. Culpham knew that he was near. “Help?” A slight change in tone with that one, wasn’t it? It was now asking a question. Culpham wondered why he had not really tried to engage it in conversation before making this detour. It seemed to be asking him for a chat. The light stopped flickering. It was now a solid red glow. Culpham examined the co-ordinates and looked out the main view-screen. No, no, this cannot be it. This cannot be it. The co-ordinates were on the monitor. It was 00.000.000. That was impossible. The number was an impossibility and the space he was in should not have been there. But here he was and the ship had all the data needed to confirm it. “Help…” “Yeah, help. Don’t we all want some now…am I right?” Culpham was not sure he should smile now. Now, one of the good things about the mission was the amount of equipment provided for a passenger on the Amber Wave. He had flight suits, travel suits, prepackaged food, weaponry…and the one thing he might need to solve this particular mystery: The Ro\Bon Suit. The name was a mistake. The designers of that suit wanted to combine the words “Robot” with “Bond” to show how well any human could work with the suit. It would provide a level of flexibility to the wearer “unlike anything that the Council ever prepared or developed before” (a nice little advert for it, Culpham thought). The backslash in the name bothered him, but he did not think much of it, until he learned that someone had been very sloppy and let their finger slip when preparing to display the newest innovation of the week. No one else thought about it, but the major wondered about it. A slip of the finger… “Help.” If this really was where the yell was coming from, and all of the readings were correct, he would have to step out of the Amber Wave and walk through…that. Not a single star or particle of matter or anything nearby. Culpham felt a little odd about this. The protocol clearly stated that he had to examine and study any phenomena encountered on the journey and keep a record of them. He was also still a military man. Culpham could not let himself be terrified by a cry for help; a cry that seemed to be for him only. What could really happen to him? He prepared for the walk outside. * At first, he thought that it was a mistake to not be tethered to the ship. Culpham had adjusted the suit to his measurements, and he found that it was even easier to use that the equipment on the ship. But there was still a worry that he might drift away to far from the Amber Wave and not be able to continue the trip; just another piece of debris stuck in space. But no, that would not be a problem. First, he could rest his feet on that inky blackness. Second, he could hear the cry in his suit and detect where it was coming from. And finally, he was beginning to recognize the voice. It should have disturbed him, but at this point there was nothing that would have stopped him from heading into the void. It was his own voice. “Help…” “Yeah, I am going to do just that…” He began to move over the surface. It reminded Culpham of the rides back home that he enjoyed at birthdays and public fairs. He tried to hop on the blackness and found that there was a bit of bounce (no silliness while being monitored). Maybe he would enjoy it more on the journey back… “HELP!” Major Culpham, seasoned veteran, chosen pilot for the Amber Wave, talented and skilled soldier, almost soiled the Ro\Bon Suit. He was standing right in front of himself. A quick psychological profile made by the suit indicated that it really was him: same age, height, blood type, physical ailments, hair and eye color. It even had the same outfit (he had to keep calling it an “It”). What was different was the face. Fear…that was pure fear. Culpham knew why he was here and he had to get away. “Wait. Please. I know what you are thinking: I called you and want to trap you here.” “Well, yeah. That was what I was thinkin’. Seems like the sensible thing based on all the readings…” “There is so much more to tell you. You have so much to learn.” “Okay, teach me.” * Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space? That was a damn lie. The figure had a story and Culpham had a duty. It would be best to let them talk in private as the Amber Wave awaited one of them to return and continue its travels. The journey was not yet over.

rut3wy

Alice in Wonder

“Wake up Alice, we have reached the null point” Alice sat up straight, wiping a bit of drool from her mouth. “What?” “The Captain’s input is needed, Alice. The coordinates are already set.” “Hey Wonder, uhh I wasn't sleeping.” “Sleeping? I didn't say you were!” Wonder joked. “I don’t even know what sleeping is. How would I? I never sleep.” “Okay, smartbutt computer. Just give me the calculations of the jump” “It’s on your HUD right now. No need to check. I ran the numbers myself,” Wonder said. Alice leaned forward and tapped the HUD. The map expanded to show multiple solar systems. “Did you calculate the balance of the cargo?” “I'll admit, I rounded up to the third decimal place. Well within margin,” Wonder explained. Alice brought out her stylus and moved some numbers around. “What is the cargo this time?” “That’s classified under the RED initiative.” “Okay, can you at least tell me if it’s solid, fluid or gas? These things matter when jumping through the ather.” Alice explained. “Sorry, I cannot provide any details, as they are classified.” “Fine, the math looks good. Prepare for ather jump,” Alice conceded. “All systems green, standing by for the captain’s input.” Alice leaned forward and stared at the big red jump button. She pressed her palm down and the ship made a Ker-chunk sound as the jump engines fired up. “And the under paid monkey presses the button” she said. “Hole to the ather is open. Shields are steady,” Wonder reported. The ship pointed toward the glowing hole in space and lurched forward. The 1-DR was not a pretty ship to look at, but it was a useful one. Designed with functionality over aesthetics. All long, with dark lines broken up by exterior propulsion engines. They buzzed, spilling plasma out into space. Alice buckled into her captain's seat. The transfer to ather space was never a smooth ride. This isn't some luxury line ship meant to make people comfortable. It moved freight and did it cheaply.  “Hitting ather space in 3…2…1” Wonder counted down. The entire ship lurched and moaned as it crossed over. Alice brought up the ship status on her HUD. Before she even had time to look at it, the lights went red and an alarm siren blasted, making Alice cringe reflexively. She silenced the alarm with the push of a button. “Wonder status,” Alice demanded. “We have lost coupling on the aft cargo hold.” “Can you give me visual?” “On the HUD now” The screen glowed with a swirl of purples and red of ather space. Alice moved the camera to see the cargo container. It hung on by a single coupling and flailed wildly. “Give me manual control” The chair moved back and dual joysticks raised up. She took hold and moved the ship. She turned and rotated until the cargo no longer bounced around. Physics in space are weird, physics in the ather are impossible. The ship was now turned sideways, but still moving in the same direction. As long as she could keep the ship in the ather's slipstream, it would be fine. “Starboard engine took damage.” Wonder informed Alice. “On this trajectory we will slide out of the slip in thirty seconds.” Alice sighed. Drop the cargo or drop out into ather space. She thought about it and quickly decided. Turned the engines off and allow the ship to drift. With the damage done to the engine, there was no telling if she could correct the path either way. Losing the cargo was not an option while working with RED either. Lost cargo means a fine and who knows how big the fine is with the classification placed on it. The ship rumbled as it left the slipstream moving into a thicker ather. “Great, repair options for the engine?” Alice asked. “Working on it.” Alice’s HUD displayed a warning. Shields at 75% It read. “Work faster” She screamed. “The ather is pressing in on the ship.” “Yeah yeah. Don’t get your undies in a bunch,” Wonder said with a laugh. “What? Wonder I need a solution. Can I space walk to repair it?” “Space walking in the ather will get you deader than your sense of humor!” “What has gotten into you?” “I apologize Alice, it seems the effects of ather are causing me to malfunction.” “Stupid AI, you can’t break now too.” “Have you tried turning me off and back on again?” Alice got up from the captain’s chair. She grabbed a tool case from the closet and headed into the bay. She checked a status screen as she walked by. Shields 60% it read. “Wonder can I get to any of the parts from the interior of the ship.” “Panel thirteen - seven. Look for the big red glowy light. That will be the thing. They always have glowy lights to let you know if they are bad.” Alice turned down a hallway and caught sight of something white and quick moving just around the next corner. “Wonder, is there anyone else on the ship?” She asked. “Its just me and you forever baby!” Alice let out a long sigh. “Is any of our cargo biological? Animals maybe?” “Sorry that’s classified,” Wonder answered. “Oh, now you can be serious?” “Sorry, even I can’t read it. I'm looking at the file on our cargo right now. It just says classified.” “There is something else on the ship.” Alice explained. “Nah bro, you are going crazy.” “What?” Alice said incredulously “Mild effects of aether poisoning. Step one insanity, step two coming to terms with insanity, step three, the fun part.” Alice grunted. She knew she needed to move faster before she was useless. She found the panel and removed it. The array of wires and pipes hid circuit boards. She found the one with the red light. She unplugged it and plugged it back in. The light turned off and back red again. Alice frowned. She unplugged the module. Probably didn’t need it, anyway. Alice turned around and jumped. There in the middle of the hall sat a small white rabbit. They stared at each other for a moment. The rabbit took off down the hall and around the corner. “No, you don’t,” Alice said and chased the rabbit around the corner. She skid to a halt at the table before her. Alice found herself in a large, ornate room. She gawked at the white walls and wooden furnishing. Where was she? This isn't a room on the ship. Worst of all, there were people sitting at the table, pouring cups of tea. “Hello” she intoned. “Oh, hello Alice,” the man at the head of the table said. He wore a purple suit with a tall hat. “Tea?” He asked, gesturing with a steaming teakettle. “Uh, no thank you.” She said, looking shocked. “Please sit. You know my friend, the white rabbit.” He gestured to a rabbit sitting on the table. It had its own cup of tea and cookie. It looked up as if acknowledging her. “H-Hello.” “And this here is our lead ship mechanic. Scoots.” The man in the suit said. A short, pudgy man in a black suit and bowler cap looked over at her. “Ma’am.” He said, tipping his hat. “And I of course, am the ever present Wonder.” “Wonder? You’re the ship AI?” “In the flesh!” “I don’t understand. We don’t have a ship mechanic, and you are an AI. Don’t even get me started on the rabbit!” “It is very easy to explain, sweetie. You see, you are quite mad.” “Mad?” she asked. “Insane, the ather has broken through the shield and you are undergoing the effects. Have a seat, enjoy yourself.“ “I don’t know.” She said, sitting down, “If I am insane, then how can I sit in a chair that isn't real, smell the tea that isn't there? Even the light of this room, I can feel it.” “Well, the ather does weird things to all of us,” Wonder Explained “For sure,” Scoots chimed in. The rabbit just looked at her. Alice knew what it was saying. She held her cup as Wonder poured some tea. “So what do I do now?” “Well, you have two choices, really. You can get the ship back into the slipstream and finish your delivery. Do the next delivery and then do the next. Until you die. Or Ooooooor. You can stay in the ather and explore what is in this new space. You, me, scoots, the rabbit can come too.” Alice sipped her tea. “You make a good point, but what if this is just the insanity talking? What if there is nothing out there to explore?” Wonder leaned back in his chair. “Well honey. I will admit, I am biased. I have always wanted to see you like this. With my own eyes, I mean. Not through a camera, not through you pushing buttons.” “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I want to be with you, exploring. Ya know, like this.” Wonder gestured to the table. “I say we stay,” Scoots said. “And Mr Rabbit, what do you have to say?” Alice asked. The rabbit reached up to it’s cup and took a sip. It looked over, wiggling its nose. “I’m sold.” She said. Alice stood up and grabbed her cup. Let’s go to the helm and see what’s out there. “You’re the captain,” Wonder said grabbing his cup a handful of cookies. They all together walked to the helm. Alice sat down in the pilot seat and grabbed the joysticks. “We need repairs, lets see if we can find a place to land.” Alice said. Wonder took up a position in a newly formed station in the helm. “I see a planet on the scanners.” “I can see an asteroid belt around that planet.” Scoots chimed in from the maintenance station that was suddenly there. “How can there be a planet in the ather?” Alice asked. “Lets find out.” Wonder answered. 

gpemhj

The Lost White Tribe

May 1909, New York City We visited Peary’s surviving Eskimo in the basement of the Museum of Natural History, where they are locked up. It is warm, well-lit, and they live in a plaster diorama that mimics the mean hovels from which they were rescued. They are Kanusha’s next of kin, but they cannot be made to understand the laws or the need for a death certificate, so, Superintendent Wallace, acting for them, is desirous that Kanusha’s skeleton be preserved and displayed, but he is opposed by the Commissioner, who wants the corpse removed for anatomical purposes. Professor Gustafsson, expert in all things Arctic, is here to mediate. The Professor sides with Wallace and the matter is closed; Kanusha’s skeleton will go on display in a glass cabinet. It is glibly arranged. and I am thankful that my opinion was not sought out by the principals. I attend to the paperwork and stay busy in my own way. June 1909, Solem Village, Minnesota Train, coach and now a cart, my backside is breaking, but the Professor is relentless. His blue eyes flash from beneath the brows of a craggy face that is like granite. The farmer, a Swedish immigrant, is taciturn and peculiarly reluctant to show us the rune stone, but Gustafsson will not be denied. It is smooth gray slab on which digraphs and letters are roughly carved. Gustafsson nods his head approvingly. He has no doubt of the cipher’s provenance. The farmer is relieved and hurries us along as if we have overstayed our allotted time. Aboard the stagecoach again, Gustafsson dictates his thoughts to me. It is incontrovertibly true: the Norsemen traveled south to Minnesota in the year 1361, survived, and returned to Vinland, in the North. I write the piece in his breathless prose. August 4th, 1909, San Francisco. We are beset by grifters and libertines at the waterfront, and I live each day in fear of a quake. Gustafsson’s essay is published in the National Geographic . Proof that the Lost White Tribe Survived and May Yet Thrive . It is an amalgam of Icelandic Saga, unconfirmed sightings of the Blonde Eskimo, and ethnological musings, and he blames me for its rambling style and absence of scientific method. The essay is pilloried by his peers, including Amundsen whose letter to the Times labels him the Barnum of Anthropology, and the Bailey of Exploration. We have lost the patina of academic respectability, but the expedition is fully funded, and almost ready for departure. Gustafsson seems untroubled. I believe he may be a zealot. I should return to Iowa and resume my studies in the Fall, move on from Gustafsson. August 15th, 1909, San Francisco The brigantine Grace Mallory, formerly a whaler, waits for Gustafsson at the wharf. Captain Pritchard has the vessel well-provisioned, and the hold is jammed with surveying equipment, guns and traps. There are three cabins at the stern, one for the captain, one for Gustafsson and his aide, another for the Canadian Surveyors, and forwards there is the galley, bunks for the crew, and a kennel for the huskies. The crew are hard men with Alaskan experience. The cook is an Eskimo woman. She wears a hide tunic, and a sheathed knife is tucked into her belt. She sleeps beneath a cupboard in the galley. The research assistant, is not yet arrived from Boston, but what do I care? I have a Union Pacific ticket that will take me to Cedar Rapids. August 20th, 1909, San Francisco The research assistant has bailed on the expedition. Gustafsson presses me to stay in his employ another year or two at a higher salary, but I am not bought into this Blonde Eskimo idea, and I have already had my fill of adventure. I imagine myself in the University library, indexing, cross-referencing, or in quiet repose on the banks of the Iowa river. I riffle through the latest edition of National Geographic. An Eskimo girl is pictured in the sky, thrown aloft by the village men, she is flying. There is snow on the distant mountain peaks, and in the foreground, fish dry on racks, bear pelts and seal skins lean in piles against a wooden shack. It is absurd. I will give him my answer in the morning, and it will be NO. August 21st, 1909, San Francisco She appeared from nowhere and saved me from a beating down near Cannery Row. One cut-throat is fallen on the dock and is nursing what looks to be a broken wing. His henchman is kneeling, clutching a torn ear. There is blood on his hands, there is blood on her knife. She is Ada Blackjack, ship cook, seamstress, translator and tracker. She speaks in sing-song sentences in the accent of the Alaskan Indian. Her black hair falls heavy and straight about her face, from which emotion and intent seem exiled. I am bruised, faint from the blow. She escorts me to my lodging house, and she narrates Alaska as seen by a bird on the wing, and soon enough I believe that Ada Blackjack can fly. It is a moment of madness that cannot be undone. I am signed on for the expedition. I pack my belongings and write a letter to my mother. I embark the Grace Mallory ahead of the dogs; a snapping barking pack, that pull every which way at their harnesses. September 1909, Off the Coast of Oregon Can a man be sea-sick every day? We toss as flotsam in the violent shake of a tub. The heavens are blue and gray, the ocean too, and at times it is hard to say which way is up. I am useless as crew and scribe; I am Jonah upon the good ship Grace. Ada Blackjack spoons hot bone broth into me. Winter, 1909, Victoria Harbor, Vancouver Island We are quartered in Victoria; the Captain, the Professor and I winter in the home of a widower. The Surveyors and crew we see about town, frequenting the waterfront establishments, but where they are lodged, I cannot say. Ada Blackjack is gone from the town, we know not where or for how long. Perhaps she flew away. Gustafsson declares that among the common Eskimo there is no hope, no thought worth registering, no ideals and no purpose. They merely exist. He is convinced, however, that the Blond Eskimo will reveal European infiltration, and that we will discover civilization in Vinland. Pritchard will not be drawn into speculation, and I hold my tongue. Spring 1910, the Beaufort Sea, Eastbound. We are in the icy bosom of the polar current, skirting the naked headlands and small barren islands that are the outermost reach of the habitable world. Waves hammer the shore or charge furiously across uncharted reefs. Sheet-ice growls and groans, and monster bergs roar and crash by. It is miserable and inhuman here where elementary forces are intent on extinguishing life. The dogs howl at night. I am sewn into sealskin by Ada Blackjack. April 1910, Herschel Island. At the Hudson Bay trading post, Pritchard trades cotton and needles for caribou meat and bear pelts. Our dogs feast and run free for the first time in months. The trader, a man named Timmins, lives with an Inuit girl who wears a skirt in the European manner, and she is of considerable interest to the younger crew members. The Eastern Eskimo live in low-crouching snow homes or caves in the ground. They hang cotton nets across the rivers, slaughtering fish in excess of their needs. The rivers will run barren, but they cannot understand. It is a mean existence. Gustafsson and Pritchard confer with the village elders, assisted by Ada Blackjack. There are Copper Eskimo further East, in the direction of Coronation Bay. To the North, there is nothing, we are told. Of Vinland and the Blonde Eskimo, they are ignorant. They anger at the notion of a North Pole. Gustafsson speaks of Skraelings, of cranberry, strand wheat and canoe birch, of rune stones, of Vikings and treasures. He is a mad man, and our fate is bound to his insanity. There is no life to the North. May 10th, 1910, Herschel Island. Timmins’ woman is dead, her skirt is torn. Otto Binder, a crew member, is dead, knifed by Timmins who has fled the outpost. One of the elders strangles Timmins’ infant child and throws it onto a heap of rotting whale flesh down by the river estuary. Ada Blackjack retrieves the little body and digs a grave for the child but is confronted by Inuit boys. I run toward the melee, but by the time I get there, she has chased the youth away. The dogs are gathered, we pack and leave in haste, our guns at the ready. The Canadians will no longer eat with us in the galley but stay locked in their cabin. Gustafsson insists that we go directly North in the direction of Vinland. Captain Pritchard grimly sets the sails for a close haul into the dark. June 1910, Dolphin and Union Straits. Ada Blackjack teaches me how to use a hunting rifle, which Pritchard condemns as a waste of time and ammunition. Ada kills a white bear which she skins and disembowels with her knife, feeding entrails to the dogs. The Canadian Surveyors will only tell us where we are, but not what to do. It is a summer sun, uninterrupted daylight. There are no signs of life on the land or in the air. Ada joins me in the cabin when the Professor is above deck. I resolve to teach her reading and writing, but she is already proficient at both and well-versed in Catholic catechisms, much to my astonishment. November 14th, Uncharted Ocean We are near a land of flat rocks, but we are plowing forward into thick sea-ice and soon cannot proceed forward aboard the Grace, which croaks and groans even though protected by ironwood cladding. The Surveyors claim the land for Canada. They name it Edward’s Island. Gustafsson is furious. He claims the place for Iceland, as Vinland. This is a worthless, barren place and he seems delusional. Pritchard grants us seven days to explore the island but insists that he will leave at daybreak on November 22nd, with or without us. I sketch out the days in this journal. The sleds are pulled from the hold, the dogs are released onto the ice. The Surveyors race ahead. Gustafsson and I are accompanied by Ada, who is forced upon us by Pritchard since the Professor can neither navigate nor manage the dogs. This arrangement strikes me as odd and awkward because I cannot remember a single word of dialog between the Ada and the Professor, though we have been together in close quarters for months. A snow blizzard separates us from the Surveyors. November, Near Edwards Island/Vinland There is rock tundra beyond the fringe of ice, snow and ice-encrusted dirt. We progress by foot, navigating by compass, the stars and by landmarks, most notably a cleaved mountain shaped as a spire. We abandon the dogs in a hollow that yields protection against the elements. We will return and collect them. Two dark days on end, bleak, white-out, my fingers are numbed. At night I huddle with Ada beneath a bearskin. We hold our hands and feet against the other’s flesh. Gustafsson buries himself beneath the snow. Jerky and oats sustain us, but hunger is constant, and the cold is debilitating. Approaching The Spire. It is the point of no return, we are three days in and exhausted, when we are suddenly struck dumb. The spire is not a mountain. We approach a symmetrical edifice that aspires heavenward in the manner of a church steeple but without style and ornamentation, neither stave-built, buttressed or gabled, the edifice appears more like an onion, all-white, as if sugar-coated. Gustafsson wills us to proceed, exhorts us onward. He is convinced that we have found the lost white tribe, but Ada lags, and I am torn between obedience to a reinvigorated cause and tender feelings towards the woman. There is a roar. They come at us, bellowing like animals, white-clad but with red-eyed bloodlust, wielding axes, swords and spears. Gustafsson yields instantly, pleading in English then in Icelandic, but he is summarily ignored. They knock him to his knees; he is their captive. I fumble with the rifle as I watch Ada Blackjack leap toward the attackers, taunt the encroaching circle of men with her blade. I fire and miss, which stops them for a moment. They are about to rush me, when Ada shouts at them in the Inuit language. The men stop and stare at her. Beneath the Spire. Beneath the spire it is warm and quiet space. The walls are smooth, hung with tapestries. Oil lamps illuminate with a gentle golden light and emit a thin sweet smoke. There are thirty of more Eskimos here, men, women and children. Gustafsson is kneeling at the center of this gathering. I am held by two Eskimo men to one side. There are no rune stones, there are no Christian artifacts, there is no saga here. I suspect this pains Gustafsson more than the physical humiliation. Gustafsson demands that they listen to him, but it is just animal noise to our captors. Ada moves freely among them, though under watchful eye. She signals to the Professor that he should be silent, and proceeds to plead a case on his behalf, but the audience is unmoved. They slice the clothing from Gustafsson with an ivory blade, they prod and probe his body as if he were a zoological specimen. I am shamed by the memory of the hapless Eskimos in the basement of the American Museum. Ada walks to me, extends a hand and places her palm against my chest, and she says something that draws a murmur from my gaolers. I believe she is claiming me as her possession, and the Eskimos release me, acknowledging her right to do so. November 21st, 1910, Near Edwards Island/Vinland. The Surveyors are already aboard. Ada and I arrive near sunset. Captain Pritchard, who observed our approach via the telescope, is already prepared to set sail. Crew members hack at the ice with picks and sledgehammers, which breaks Grace free. A favorable wind pushes the brig from its trap into frigid polar water. December 1910, The Beaufort Sea, Westbound The Surveyors scaled a peak and derived a rough understanding of Edward’s Island, which they determined a barren useless place, though it adds mass to the Canadian empire. They are already planning their next expedition. I am questioned at length by Pritchard, but my memory is vague owing to the extreme cold and the hunger that overtook my senses. We were weak and starving. The Professor disappeared in a snowstorm. We searched for him. It may have been an act of self-sacrifice. It was night. I keep my journal under lock and key. Ada keeps her own counsel. She cooks, sews and - when nobody is looking - she borrows books and periodicals from the Professor’s collection. Captain Pritchard thinks me a coward or a fool and will not speak to me except on matters of business. I do nothing to dissuade him from this prejudice because I believe he is right. February 4th, 1911. Anchorage, Alaska. Ada receives payment for her services from Pritchard. She is presented with a skiff to row ashore near the small fishing village of Anchorage. Hereabouts, she say, the wildlife is abundant, the rivers overflow with fish, there are acorns and squash in the fall, berries and roots in winter, beans, wheat and corn in the summer. She will trade pelts for flour. Her boy is cared for by women in a nearby village, neither smothered nor strangled, and she yearns for reunification with the child. When Ada gets to the shore, she pulls the small craft high up onto the sandy beach. She extends her hand and places the palm against my breast. I have no possessions, only the sealskin I am sewn into, and this Journal.

pr6k7o

Leviathan

"It's been three weeks, Kaia. He's gone." Kaia Maclean shuddered to hear those words, even though she knew in her heart they were true. Her father, Seamus, was part of a team of oceanographers that explored the Titanic in order to preserve its remains. Their latest mission was three weeks ago. What was planned to be a success quickly turned into a tragedy when the submersible lost signal with the mother ship. The last sound she ever heard from her father's voice were his screams for help. Then, deafening silence. Kaia was on board when it happened. Her mother passed away when she was three years old, and now she was totally an orphan. Her father was her life, and now, he is gone. The only evidence of the attack was the submersible that carried her father to the ocean floor. It came back up in one piece, but the 9-inch thick windows were completely gone. The Coastguard searched the ocean floor, but they could not find any evidence of human life. For Kaia, there was no closure. At thirteen years old, Kaia had nowhere to go. Her grandparents were dead and there were no other living relatives to take her in. She was alone. As the crew closed their mission, they headed back to port. Dozens of sailors walked off of the ship, and behind them, there was Kaia, all alone. Among those in the crowd waiting for their family members to exit the ship was Nancy Merril, the captain’s wife. Captain Merril was in charge of the mission that ended Seamus Maclean’s life. The guild consumed him to the point of depression. Nancy watched the little girl walk off of the ship with her head down. “Excuse me, Miss. Are you Kaia Maclean?” Kaia looked up. “Y-yes ma’am, that’s me.” Nancy looked up at her husband. She knew what had happened. “Where are you going to go, dear?” “I don’t know ma’am. I haven’t got anybody to take care of me.” Kaia said. Nancy glanced at her husband again, and he knew what that glance meant. “Well, my darlin’, you are going to stay with us!” Kaia looked surprised. “Oh ma’am, I don’t want to be a bother.” “It’s not a bother at all, dear. We’d love to have you!” Off they went. Captain Merril didn’t say a word. A few weeks later, the judge granted the captain and his wife guardianship of Kaia, and she became their daughter. Their house was huge, unlike anything Kaia had ever seen. Kaia and her father had lived in a small beach house that smelled of ocean water and fish on the shores of Halifax, but that little house could fit inside of the house she was living in now. It was magnificent, like the Titanic itself. In the living room, there hung a massive painting of the failed ocean liner. Her bedroom was plastered with flakes of gold in the wallpaper. She was living the dream, but she was still empty. One evening, while the three of them were sharing dinner, Kaia asked a question she had been too afraid to ask for years. “Father, may I go with you to see the Titanic on your next voyage?” The captain dropped his fork. “Kaia, you know what happened to your father down there. I don’t want to take that risk with you. You can go on the ship with me, but not to the Titanic.” Nancy gently touched his arm, as if to get his attention. She began to speak. “My dear, it is very admirable of you to want to go see such a piece of history, but I would think it might not be as glamorous as you think, especially since that’s how your father died.”  Kaia, fighting back tears, replied. “No ma’am, it wasn’t the voyage that killed my father, it was something else. I will one day find out what it was and slay it to avenge my father.” There was complete silence. Years passed and Kaia blossomed into a young woman. But deep in her heart, she still desired to find out what really happened that day her father died. She still had nightmares, even as an 18 year old girl. She would never forget that day. Upon graduating highschool, she was accepted into a university to study oceanography, just like her father. One day in class, her professor began talking about animals living in the depths of the ocean. “As most of you know, the vast majority of our ocean is left undiscovered by mankind. Because of this, there are many sea creatures that are lurking in the depths of the ocean that we have never heard of. But there is one that we have heard of, and there have been recent sightings of it. The Leviathan.” The Leviathan was a sea creature that existed in Biblical times, but has never been seen since then. It was believed that they were all extinct now, but with the recent sightings off the coast of New York, the question came up again after 4,000 years: what happened to Leviathan? Kaia went home after class and began doing research for herself. She turned to the Bible to read about this sea creature. “In that day, the Lord will punish with his sword— his fierce, great and powerful sword— Leviathan the gliding serpent, Leviathan the coiling serpent; he will slay the monster of the sea.” -Isaiah 27:1 Slay the monster of the sea. That is exactly what he was. Could he really still be alive? Suddenly, she put it all together, “ Leviathan killed my father.” The next day, she was going to do it. She was going to dive to the Titanic. She boarded the ship, without the captain knowing, and she loaded herself into a submersible. She slowly descended to the ocean floor. The glimmering sunlight slowly faded away in darkness. No more sun. It was her first time in a submersible, and she was nervous as she kept her eyes fixed on the 9-inch thick window, praying that it wouldn’t break. After an hour and a half, she reached the bow of the Titanic. “ There it is, the Titanic.” She thought to herself. Its iconic bow was coming out of the shadows. So far, so good. No sign of danger anywhere. All of a sudden, the lights on the submersible went off. It was all black, no light anywhere. Suddenly, she felt something hit against the submersible. She tried to look out the window, but she couldn’t see anything. Crash! She lost control of the submersible. Something was pulling it into the ocean floor. If she were to run into the Titanic, it would break the windows. She felt her heart racing and her chest was hurting. “ This is how my father died. Oh, God please save me!” Within seconds, the lights came back on. They shone into the face of a dragon-like creature. It was Leviathan. It was not finished with her, and he was angry. Her only hope of survival was to reach the surface quickly, but the submersible could only go so fast. No one knew about her mission. There was no one on the surface to call. She was stuck. She slowly began to make her way to the surface. As she reached 1500 feet, she began to hear a cracking sound. “The window! It’s going to burst!” All of a sudden, a giant tail busted through the first window, shattering it to pieces. The creature turned around and attempted to jam its snout into the frame. It was too big, but as it began to swim away Kaia unbuckled her seat belt and jammed the buckle into its eye. It made him angry. He began to bite at the submersible. He bit it in two. At 1,000 feet, Kaia began to feel the water pressure in her lungs. Her head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. She had to get to the surface. She could barely see the sunlight. Finally, with the last ounces of hope draining from her body, she darted towards the surface. Leviathan followed her. She would have to kill him, but how? He had his mouth open ready to devour her. “ I’m so close.” clawed her leg, and she let out a scream. Water entered her mouth. She wasn’t going to make it. As she began to give up, she heard a sound. “A whale call.” Suddenly, an Orca whale rammed into the side of the creature, pushing it towards the bottom of the ocean. Kaia made her way to the surface. She was safe at last. When she reached the ship, the captain was waiting. She told him everything. “I avenged my father, with the help of a whale.”

3ywmdv

The Rainforest

January 5, 1990. My name is Jonathan Preston. I’m a college professor and fellow researcher at Oxford University, England. My research involves plants that contain properties of anticancerous substances.  Recently, I heard of a plant that grows in a very remote area of the Amazon rainforest, and am arranging to go there. My informant tells me that this plant is closely related to Tawari (Tabebioa incama) and is about ten times more potent in its ability to treat tumors and cancerous cells as well as fight infections. I have contacted a guide who informed me we should begin our quest in June. It will be the end of the wet season, and the river and its tributaries will be full of water and suitable for traveling by canoe; however, the trip could be dangerous due to the abundance of poisonous snakes, plants, and disease-carrying insects. The waterways are full of black caimans- a type of alligator ranging from sixteen to twenty feet long. There are also green anacondas and pythons to deal with. Did I mention the piranhas? I have much to plan and arrange from now to June, so I shouldn’t be bored til then. I’ll be bringing a young student with me to act as my assistant by the name of “Dicky” Dobson. I’ll call him Dobson, for I detest the name Dicky! June 10, 1990. We have arrived at the Eduardo Gomes International Airport in Manaus, Brazil.  Dobson and I are greeted by our guide, Captain Jack Davies. He’s a tall, muscular man who wears kaki clothing and an Australian bush hat. Davies informs me that he has attained three canoes, five porters, one rifleman, and a cook. Davies, who prefers to be called “Captain Jack,” says that the Amazon River is running rapidly now and could add an extra day or two of travel to our journey, but once we enter the tributary, it should go smoothly. He does appear to be confident. Dobson, on the other hand, is most excited.  I believe he’s already shot three rolls of film, and we haven’t even started. Youth! June 12, 1990. After spending the night and some of the following day, we travel the eighty km to an indigenous village called Aldeia Cipia.   Despite the proximity to Manaus( the capital and very modern city), the villagers prefer to live traditionally. Upon arrival, we are introduced to the tribal sharman, a sixty-year-old man who is also the chief. We take possession of three cut-out canoes, each made from a single tree. They are full of supplies.   The cook, the rifleman( who is French), and the porters are ready for our expedition. We paid the chief for his services and set off up the river six miles to the tributary that will take us into the rainforest. Everyone’s mood is light and full of hope for our success. Despite the loud churning of our outboard motors, the trip was like a dream, with birds of every color and songs filling the air.  For the next five and a half hours, we battle the mighty current of the flooded river. At times it feels like we are standing still only to break free of the river’s grip and move ahead. At last, we reach and enter the tributary gushing into the river.   It feels as though we might capsize in the torrent of rushing water but, after a few hair-raising minutes, the tributary calms to a much more navigable flow. Dobson breathes a sigh of relief, causing the porters to laugh.  It is growing late as we arrive at a village along the banking. We wait in our canoes while Captain Jack explains to the chief who we are and what our plans are. After accepting a small, shiny trinket, the chief permits us to camp near the village. Suddenly, there is a loud cry.   We rush out of our tents. One of the porters is lying on the ground, holding his leg. Captain Jack runs past him just in time to see the snake slither away into the forest. Captain Jack informs us that a false fer-de-lance is the cause of the bite. “It’s a good thing, too.,” he explains. “A regular fer-de-lance would have caused much more suffering and pain. This man will still have significant pain and swelling at the site.” He recommends we send him back to his village where the Sharman can care for him. Dobson inquires why this chief can’t tend to our porter. Captain Jack explains that each village only has enough medicine for its tribe. “Either you come prepared or you die,” Captain Jack warns. We use a small inflatable boat to transport the injured man with a porter to steer. That night, Alderic, the French rifleman, stands watch but is gone in the morning. We search for a few hours but to no avail. We move on. June 13, 1990. The tributary is getting narrower, and its banks are black with caimans.  Young Dobson starts shouting and pointing to the shore to a spot not very far from where we launched.   At the jungle’s edge are a pair of jaguars feasting on some prey. Dobson goes to photograph them and nearly drops his camera into the river, for a black hunter’s boot lay between the cats. The porters become agitated and start grumbling among themselves. June 14, 1990. We have awakened this morning to discover that we are alone. During the night, the porters unloaded one of the canoes and used it to return home. Most dishearting. Captain Jack asks me what we should do under our present circumstances. Press on or turn back. I, in turn, ask him if he feels we are any closer to our goal. Jack asks if I know what the plant we are hunting for looks like. I show him a sketch of the plant my informant gave me, explaining that it looks like the Tawari but only a lighter green. Captain Jack scratches his chin with his thumb as he studies the surrounding territory. He then tells me that he thinks we should push on for another day and, if we don’t find the plant, we should return while we still can. Dobson and I agree. After traveling for another six hours, we see a safe clearing at the edge of the river and pull in to set up camp for the night. While Jack and I build a fire and string up the hammocks, Dobson slips into the brush to relieve himself. After several minutes, Captain Jack asks me, if Dobson has returned yet. We move swiftly in the direction where we had last seen Dobson. Right away, we see the poor lad on the ground, entwined in the death grip of a giant anaconda. I lunge toward him, but Captain Jack grabs me by the arm and pulls me back, exclaiming, “He’s already gone.” I plead with Jack about how this could have happened so fast. He tells me that anacondas wait in trees for a passing animal and will suddenly drop down on their victim. Their immense weight will knock the prey down, which gives the snake time to wrap their coils around it.  I will never forget that sight for as long as I live—poor Dobson.  We return to our canoe and push off to anchor in the river for the night.  I sit weeping with guilt.   Jack tells me not to blame myself, but how can I not?   I was the leader of this expedition! Filled with remorse, I ask Jack what I should say to Dobson’s parents.  That I got their son killed? He said to tell them that their son was brave enough to accept the challenge of exploring a dangerous rainforest to find a plant that has the potential to cure cancer and save millions of lives—a heroic and noble act for someone so young as he.  Jack then informs me that he thinks we might be a day or two from entering the rainforest and finding the plant.  Would I like to continue? I respond that we must continue for Dobson’s sake. June 16, 1990. We are hacking our way through thick underbrush.  Captain Jack is assuring me that this rainforest area looks promising when he stumbles over a root and falls. He shouts, “Damn!” and hops up holding his hand. When I inquired about what happened, he tells me he is done for. “Whatever do you mean?”I ask. He says a wandering spider has bitten him, and their bite is deadly to humans. This was a female, and her venom is the most potent. He insists we carry on, but Jack collapses after about a hundred yards. I ask if there isn’t anything I can do, but he says that I should go further on and, if I don’t find the plant in the next few hours, I should give up and make my way back to the river. He gives me his identification card. “For my obituary.” and wishes me luck. “Go find that damn plant, Professor.” I swing my machete wildly until I come to a place where the mosquitoes are so thick that they look like smoke filling the air. Unable to see and barely able to breathe, I turn to retreat when I see the object of our goal.  I spy a small light green plant growing beside a rock.  Eureka!  I swiftly and gently dig it out, place it into a plastic bag, and store it in my backpack. Suddenly filled with renewed strength and great joy, I run pell-mell back down the path, stopping only to tell Captain Jack’s dead body of our success. Upon reaching the canoe, I jump in and paddle to the middle of the river, where the current is strongest. Badly dehydrated and in need of clean water, I start feeling ill and feverish. Before I realize it, my eyes become blurred and roll up into my head. I pass out. June 28, 1990. I regained consciousness in a Manaus hospital recovering from yellow fever. The captain of a tourist boat saw my canoe afloat in the middle of the Amazon River and stopped to investigate. I had to remain hospitalized to be given intravenous treatments and a single shot of yellow fever vaccine. I am most grateful to the tour boat captain. July 27, 1990. I’ve returned to Oxford.  I’m still weak but better. I also have gotten in touch with Dobson’s family and returned his camera to them. I apologized and asked for forgiveness. Dobson’s mother said there was no need to ask for forgiveness as her Dicky had grown up in a lackluster life in Oxford, always seeking adventure. “When this opportunity arose, my poor boy told me with tears in his eyes that he was sorry for making me worry, but he had to go.  He just had to.” She thanked me for returning his camera, which had always been with him. “It is like having him home again.” It turns out that the plant is exceptionally good at reducing cancerous tumors, especially in children. Thank God for that, and may He bless Dobson and Captain Jack Davies for their part in this. Now I think I shall rest.

dh412k

The Cave at the Cove

Looking back through time my sense of adventure has always influenced my life. As a child, I explored and tested the limits of my physical prowess. My parents can confirm I broke more bones than Evil Kenevil. We were both born on October 17 th if that is ironic or not,” Only the Shadow knows.” Living in the Missouri Country swimming in the creek, fishing for minnows and crawdaddies, and pulling leeches off when you got out was a part of my life on the farm. My adventure continued to North Carolina and then back to the Midwest and Kansas. In the summer of 87' my brother Ken and our friend, Jon were spending a weekend down in Jon’s cabin at the Lake of the Ozarks on the Laurie side. We drove down from Kansas City Friday night looking for a relaxing fun swimming weekend. Little did we know what adventure lay ahead of us.    That Saturday Morning Jon had mentioned a cave he saw once when he was out with his brother the last time they were there but they did not go in it. Rumor has it that this tunnel goes all the way to the other side of the mountain and was used in the Civil War as a hideout for the Confederates. Some kids exploring in the 1920s came out with gold coins, some myths say that this cave might be an Indian Sacred site as well. Elephant Rocks roam all over the landscape around the top of the mountain. With that information we immediately decided to go canoeing and explore the cave, so we grabbed some oil-burning lanterns that were also the source of light for the cabin, our necessary supplies, and put on our lifejackets to begin our adventure. An eerie early morning fog rolled across the still water of the lake as we quietly paddled along the coastline.    The Cove was about a fifteen-minute paddle away from the cabin. We actually passed the cove but Jon noticed the landmarks and we turned around only losing five minutes. The Cove from the lake had a narrow entrance of about ten feet wide formed by the water of a spring. Well hidden from the lake view from the overgrowth of summer vegetation we glided into the cove, as it appeared to be a natural spring pool outside of a cave. We continued into the mouth of the cave and landed the canoe on the dirt and rocky shore. The entrance was about ten feet tall and about six feet wide and water trickled out into the lake from the dark open space in front of us. The room or cavern we were in looked like it was a home for some critters that ate meat by the bones we saw lying on the floor. We looked at the walls and saw nothing of human hieroglyphics, so we walked to the back of the room to a tunnel where we could walkthrough. We lit up our candles and started walking the gentle incline, as water slowly streamed by us we went deeper into the unknown.    At about fifty feet in we found our path blocked. A cave-in happened some time ago, but by pushing some rocks out of the way we were able to climb over the top boulders that had blocked the path. Being young and a contortionist I went head first up and over twisting my body to place my feet down into water that came up to my knees. The water was cold but clear as I was able to look around when I pulled my lantern out from the hole I crawled out of. After Ken and Jon made their way over the rocks we turned our attention to the tunnel that continued deeper into the darkness beginning to narrow to shoulder-width and a height of about five feet.    Our oil lamps are leaving soot marks on the ceiling of the cave tunnel as we crouch sideways curving our way deeper into the mountain with the water level slowly going down our legs so we are only ankle-deep now in water. At this point, we lost track of the time and distance traveled and so we decided to place coins on our journey from our time in 1987.    We must have been a couple hundred yards under the mountain still having enough oil in our lamps to continue, we did so. Our tunnel seems to be keeping its same form as we move further in. You can tell what was natural and what man did to make the tunnel accessible. The water is still running down the walls making the stream at our feet as we walk on still on solid rock. We creep around a corner with our lantern lighting showing what appears in our eyes to be a larger tunnel opening about twenty feet up an incline that splits off in another direction.    Ken is in the lead followed by Jon and myself as we cautiously move towards the opening. When we reach the discovery we all put our lanterns into the room lighting up what appears to be a large man-made cavern with debris and bones scattered about the room going back about ten feet and about six feet in height. In the middle of the room, there is a fire pit. As we enter we pull out our hand metal detectors and start poking around the ground. Working side by side we navigate our way a few feet in and Ken’s detector goes off. He scrapes a little soil from where his wand hit and he pulls out what appears to be a pistol musket ball. Excitement is in our bodies as we get back to scanning the dirt floor and we get another hit. This time Jon’s went off. With our lanterns on the ground in front of us we moved the soil from where Jon detected. With amazement a shiny piece of metal was exposed, scraping more it was larger and deeper than we thought. As they pulled the object out of the dirt I grabbed a bottle water and my lantern. Pouring the water on the object it became more yellowish in color and round shape about three inches in diameter. We cannot make out the inscription so we bag this find as well and continue. Some of the debris was clothing material and paper that was so frail it fell apart at our touch. The bones did not appear to be human more like fowl or small rodents. We crawl closer to the fire pit when we put our detectors inside the rock ring all of our detectors go off. We scrape our hands around the soil to discover a chest buried in the dirt. Our hearts racing we unburied the treasure chest to find it locked and very secure. The oak chest was about two-foot square with brass corners, two brass straps were made into the box that were fastened by skeleton key locks. The crate was about fifty pounds in weight as we moved it out of the hole it was in. As we looked over the chest we decided we could not open it there so we had to take it back with us to the cabin and open it there. We set the chest by the tunnel and finished our mission at the task. Around the rock ring on the outside of the pit, we discovered a ceramic pipe, two buttons, several small caliber bullets, the rusted remains of a spoon, and three coins. Our search to the back wall found us just on our knees. We clean ourselves off a bit and decide to head back with our oil getting low in the lanterns. We work our way back through the narrow tunnel carrying the extra weight of the chest and our trinkets. We reach the rocks blocking our path, the cave-in, I again go through first, and then Jon comes through. I climb back into the hole as Ken holds up the chest to hand off to me to pull through the opening. The chest is too big to fit in the space, so I drop the chest back down to Ken, and I climb back onto his side. We attempt to break the locks with the rocks but they are slate and fall apart on striking. My oil light goes out and Ken’s starts to flicker as we decide to leave the chest and come back for it later. We crawl through the small space again and Jon is there with his lantern flickering out. We can walk our way to the natural light provided to us by Mother Nature back to our canoe. We walk out of the cave and examine the treasures that we were able to bring out. The pipe is missing its mouth piece which could have been deeper in the soil is painted brown with green leaves around the bowl with the stem going down the stem of the pipe. The buttons appear to be off of a uniform or a coat of some sort. The bullets or balls of different sizes appear to be just molded because the melted lead still hanging from the balls not smoothed out yet. It is mid-afternoon as we get our timing back and senses. So we swim for a bit in the clear warm water of the spring and clean the old dirt off of our bodies. We finish our swim and get back in the canoe to make a plan to rescue our chest. We return to the cabin and find a few hammers and screwdrivers that we can use as chisels and break the rocks apart. If we cannot bring the chest we can use the tools to break the locks. We intended to return to the cave the next morning but as we rose out of bed Jon became frantically sick and we had to take him back home to Overland Park. Time moved on and so did Jon passing away the next year before we were able to retrieve the chest. My brother Ken passed away a few years later and I inherited the disc. He never did any research on this item and with my curiosity, I found the round three-inch disc my brother found was a button for the Knights of the Golden Circle. Being young and dumb I did not pay attention to where the cabin was in the Ozarks and was never able to retrieve what could be millions in gold stolen in the Civil War. Investigations have determined that many famous characters from the Civil War era, including John Wilkes Booth and Jesse James, belonged to and acted under the influence of the Knights. Jesse James and the Youngers were known to frequent the area of course before there was a lake. Researchers argue that the Knights buried millions of dollars in stolen U.S. Army payrolls in locations across the South, where they hid money or gold (now worth billions). These are conspiracy stories associated with the Knights of the Golden Circle, but none of them can be reliably documented. The proof is lost in The Cave at the Cove.

kck6ap

Mud or blood?

The tropical humidity hung heavy as the rain dripped off the leaves overhead. Four days of swinging a machete through the Amazon jungle had drained Roger’s energy reserves. But he had to dig deeper as he led the World Nature Exploration party through the soggy undergrowth in search of the famous Bootah River canyon. One of the last untouched wildernesses on the planet. Late afternoon shadows replaced the rays of sun filtering down through the forest; their pace quickened as they had to find somewhere to camp before nightfall. One last push through the entangled vines brought them to a cleared rocky area where they stumbled across an old abandoned campsite. A couple of rusty poles held up the last threads of what used to be a tent. Personal effects littered the ground all around. Inside the footprint of the tent, Roger found a partly rotten canvas shoulder bag. Why would the owner leave all this here? Reaching Inside the bag, he pulled out a leather-bound journal discoloured from mildew and hand prints of what looked like mud or old blood. It smelt of fungus and forest floor. Carefully peeling open the book, trying to not tear the damp pages. He was drawn to the date, 1978, eleven years ago. “Wow, another explorer's journal,” with renewed energy he pulled up a seat on a nearby rock ledge as the rest of the team set up camp. ‘Journal of Edward Topping, Party Leader of the Bootah River Canyon exhibition. 06 April 1978 - day 1 We have arrived at the port and we are packing the boats to head off at first light tomorrow. The two boats are heavy-duty wood with flat bottoms like a barge to make it easier to go over sandbars. Once loaded there isn’t a lot of distance from the gunwale to the water. The large motors on the back counterbalance the stores at the front. An old local fisherman warned us of the many waterfalls along the Bootah River. And of the Spirit Walkers who live in the mountains, they are to be feared the most. Anyone who travels into their territory never returns. I’m not one for ghost stories, this guy is a gaunt soul of flesh and bone, I don’t think he eats his catch, or if he was capable of catching anything. How can I take what he says as true or is it just the ramblings of an old man trying to scare the tourists away? The Amazon flow is low at this time of year, which is good. We have to be back at the port before the monsoon floods come in July. If we have not reached the canyon by the beginning of May we will turn back. Our exploration party consists of ten members including myself. Four locals have agreed to travel with us on the boats as far as the first waterfall. We will be on foot alone after that. 07 April 1978 – day 2 After a four-hour ride up the main river, we turned left into Bootah River. We were sticking to the centre of the waterway to avoid the numerous crocodiles fighting on the river's edge. We had to duck in places as the dense forest hung low over the waterline; there was nowhere to go ashore. With the currents, the boat was bouncing a fair bit. We didn’t want to fall overboard as the water was as dark as hot chocolate and we would not see what was attacking us. It’s not just the crocodiles, there are some savage fish species in this river. It may be the dry season but the afternoon thunderstorms slowed our speed on the river. The dark clouds arrived over the forest followed by white-out conditions as the rain pelted down. Our boat didn’t have a cabin so we huddled under the canvas in a vain attempt to stay dry. With the limited visibility, the pilot had to drop speed to navigate the river safely. There is still a day to go before the drop-off point so we will be camping in the boat on the river tonight. I don’t think we will get a lot of sleep with the crocodiles chirping and the endless barrage of mosquitoes. 08 April 1978 – day 3 Yesterday’s storm put us behind schedule, so the pilot set off at first light, he was working the motors more than usual to catch up on time. I questioned if the motors could take it and the pilot claimed that they did it all the time to fight the current. It’s about two hours till sunset and the river had changed; worn rocks and pebbles lined the river bed and banks. I sometimes think I could hear the waterfall over the motor. With the light fading, the boat crew dumped our supplies on the shore and took off back down the river. We scrambled to set up some form of a camp for the night, while the night guards were preparing for an evening of defending the camp from anything unwanted. 09 April 1978 – day 4 A rough night with little sleep. The river curves back around a hill to the waterfall where we will set up base camp. To save time we will cut through the jungle, there is jungle either way so we are going to take the shorter direct route. 14 April 1978 – day 9 I haven’t journaled for the last few days as we have just been slogging through the forest. Climbing the hill was treacherous as the mud and leaf litter made the ground greasy underfoot. It has also been slow going as Tony cut his ankle as he slid over some rocks yesterday. We had to stop to bandage it. PM - We have arrived at the head of the waterfall near the canyon.  Lee and James are scouting around to find an easier track down into the canyon. Tony has come down with a fever and is resting in his tent. The other six team members are collecting water from the river and setting up camp for the next few days. A side creek branching off the river wanders down to a cliff overlooking the canyon. The current is strong and the water drops many hundreds of metres into the canyon below. I can’t see the bottom of the canyon as the dense forest fills the whole valley. I can’t wait to see this virgin wilderness. No one has ever successfully explored this part of the world before. 15 April 1978 – day 10 Lee found a narrow animal track down into the valley. It took us three hours to climb down over the tree roots and rocks. The day was spent searching along the river. The area is abundant in bird life, insects and new plant species. We stopped regularly to map the river for future exhibitions. PM – we are back at camp, the last few hours of the climb out of the canyon were in the dark. We are exhausted from the hours of climbing. Tony has not improved.’ “Roger, are you coming to bed?” Glancing up from the journal the fire was getting low. Yeah, it’s getting late I will finish reading this tomorrow. Everyone was up early thanks to the birds squawking at dawn. The campfire smoke wafted through the camp as Roger took a sip of his coffee. Leaning back against a log, he opened the journal to fill in time as the crew cooked breakfast. The plan was to set off for the waterfall near the canyon after we had eaten. ‘16 April 1978 – day 11 I’m excited, we have found a cave with ancient symbols caved on the rock walls. We haven’t seen anything like this before. They were not pictures but more writing or symbols. The cave can be found to the left of the waterfall near a cliff with white orchids growing on its face. (Hand drawings of the symbols filled the following pages).’ Roger straightened up excited by the cave find as he studied the symbols intensely. ‘PM – Dave the assistant assigned to look after base camp and Tony ran into the canyon calling out our names. Tony had disappeared, he was barely conscious from his infected foot and fever. I suspect it may have become gangrene. He wouldn’t have run away. The crew decided to withdraw to the camp and search for him. Making our way back to the exit trail James saw a set of bare human footprints in the river mud. They were smaller than an adult male, more the size of a teenager. We are not alone. Are these the Spirit people the fisherman warned us of? We have been searching for hours and have found nothing. Everyone is on edge. We only have a few pistols for protection. The group decided to leave at first light tomorrow to find more searchers downstream.’ Roger’s pulse quickened, reading the afternoon passage again. He scanned the surrounding treeline as a lump developed in his throat. ‘17 April The camp was raided last night. The lack of moonlight made it completely dark, I didn’t see who attacked us. They snuck into camp and started clubbing those who were sleeping. The tents were set on fire. I heard the screams; I grabbed my kit and took off into the forest hiding in a hollow log. I went back this morning and couldn't find anyone. I am alone. I collected an unburnt tent cover and the items I could carry. There was a trail of blood heading back into the canyon. I was not game to follow it. I am making my way back down the river for rescue.’ Roger couldn’t believe his eyes as he read the last entry. The handwriting was scribbled and all over the place, it was hardly legible. Roger turned the page, it was stained with forest leaves and water but no writing. He held the page up to the light to see if the ink had mostly washed away.  Flicking through the following pages, all were blank. What happened to this guy? Did he flee into the forest and leave everything behind or did he join the souls of his team? A crew member all kitted up stood over Roger, “Are you ready to move on?” Roger nervously scanned the area, the camp was packed up, and the team was ready for the next trek. The last strips of the ghostly tent in the corner fluttered in the breeze. A warning from another age. His blood ran cold as the hairs on his neck rose. “No, we are getting out of here now,” he said as he pulled his satellite phone out of his bag and tucked the journal away. The End

t1xoi1

The Last Days

My lord and savior is telling me this is the right thing to do. To spread his word. The devil around me is saying that I'm making a mistake yet I persist. God wants this and I want him to be proud of me for making him happy and bless me with eternal heavens. I've been planning for months. I’m going to settle in this new land and bring the truly devout here. It’ll be heaven on Earth. September 23, 2018. 15:46- I’m starting this entry because I’m approaching the island. It’s cold in the Indian Ocean, even in september. I plan to keep this journal up with my progression into the new land, I plan to call it “New Jerusalem”. My inner thoughts and notes about the details of what I find and what I will call everything will be here. 16:59- First time landing went very awry, there are people here, on god's land. They were vicious, however they were beautiful, their deep complexions were amazing, and I'm interested in their upkeep. I love them as if I've known them forever, as I do all gods creations, but I was shot at. They've destroyed my bible, an arrow right through the center. I'm more determined now than ever before. They spoke in what to me sounded like barks, howls, and groans. I'm certain it was their fight call. I hope they realize with Jesus, they'll never have to fear other people again. I'll leave for now but I will be back. October 19th, 2018? 13:05    When I arrived in the sand, I was greeted with drawn bows full of more arrows, this time hands full of rocks and seashells as well. I dropped to my knees and bowed down in prayer. “God, please protect me from all weapons formed against me, in Jesus name, amen.'' My hands were tied up and I was thrown onto my stomach, dragged into the woods by my ankles, and I felt my watch sizzle as it scraped in the hot lush land. I persisted in my prayer “Hey god, it's me again, I know you'll get me out of this, all I'm asking is that you allow them to hear me, that they can understand, and that they don't want my head on a platter before I can get through to them. May you protect me and give me strength. In Jesus name, amen!” By the time I was done, I ended up in a small village type settlement. They've been here for a long time. They haven't killed me yet. They don't understand English and I wasn't prepared for that. I remained tied for what felt like years. It was early morning when I arrived, I watched the sun both rise, then fall, then rise, again and again and again. I regretted my fondness for sunsets by the third time I saw them. I lost track of time, blinded by hunger, thirst, and my fear of bugs. Today I was sat up, they untied my hands, tied my ankles instead and gave back a few of my belongings. I gave them the bible they shot through and with their teeth they ripped it to shreds like a toy. It hurt my heart although I have more, but it made them eager to give me my journal. They seemed confused when I opened it and started to scribble on pages instead of putting it in my mouth and shaking violently like they had done. October 20th, 2018. 19:56 I’m not even sure how long I’ve been here now, once my watch was broken, it felt like I was too. What I do know is that it's been one day since I last updated. My ankles are still tied but I feel like I'm gaining their trust. No communication has been made as the language barrier is still plaguing me, but I was given food and something to drink, no way to know what they really were. They called the drink “Ooo ma” . I'm assuming it's a cocktail that they believe heals. I ate and drank whatever without question, I’m purely desperate now. I figured out that their gorgeous skin is created by mud masks and soot that makes the hot sun more bearable. They seem quite interested in what I'm writing but I can't explain it to them. They live like apes, filthy, smelly, and unfazed by the whole ordeal. I prayed over them, crying, with my hands in the air. They stared at my drenched face, and simply felt around it as if it were raining then giggled at me when they realized it wasn't. I guess crying is foreign concept here. October 25, 2018 15:06 It’s been about a week since my last entry. They started to treat me as a pet. The man I'm assuming is the leader, called “Tee chi” has grown quite fond of me and ties one of my arms to his, dragging me along for his day to day adventures. I tell him about God's word, he listens, even though I know he doesn't understand me. He won't let them rip my bibles anymore, I wish I could tell him how grateful I was. I've picked up some of their language now. “Ri mi” means “hungry?” “Arrr ey” means “Good bye” and their hugs mean i love you, they're rare and special around here. Tee chi has a lot of women surrounding him at anytime of day but “LeeKa” is my favorite, she unties me at night so i can fight of the bugs, she's also the only one who can write script, and although it's not comprehensible to me, it's sweet that she tries to show me any solidarity. She even traces the cross embroidered into the front of my personal bible. She should be able to write it soon. I have so many questions to ask. “Why aren't there many animals?”, “Why can't everyone write?” “Where do you come from?” “Are there many gene pools?” I mean surely they have to be committing incest with their adverse reaction to visitors. The longer I'm here, the more I see, the more confusion I have, and the sadder the language problem becomes.  October 28, 2018. 06:33 It's only been a couple days since my last entry but everything has changed. LeeKa has been killed. She was sacrificed I think. It all happened a few hours ago and I'm still clueless. Tee chi is inconsolable and honestly so am I. From what I can gather, it seemed to be in cold blood. They took her in the dead of night, tied her to a tree, then screamed until the rest of the village woke up. Tee chi tied our wrists together like usual and walked with me to the commotion, he was visibly confused. Once we go there, the other girls Tee chi was involved with were the ones holding LeeKa captive. They screeched the same scream that I was first met with. I know that means war, but why? LeeKa was burned, she was surrounded by shrubs, and the bottom of the tree was set on fire. The girls then pointed to me and Tee chi. I don't know what the true story is, but I wish I knew their dialect. I know they are angry and that Tee chi is unpredictable. He ran, dragging me along. His speed was so fast that I was thrown to the ground at some point. He threw me over his shoulder like a rag doll, continued to run, and everything went dark. We're in some kind of cave and I'm writing this by a small fire that I have to put out soon. I don't feel safe, I don't know where I am, and I can't die a failure. November 2nd, 2018. 09:46. It's been four days since LeeKa was murdered. I've gotten maybe 6 hours of sleep these past few days. The girls have been looking for us, I really wish I would've learned their names now. The first night after we fled was the worst. In the darkness I heard Tee chi cry. I honestly didn't think they were capable. The women were screaming. I'm hungry, thirsty, clueless, and confused. Tee chi woke me up last night, took my hand, and led me back to where LeeKa had been burned. What's left of her was still standing tied against the tree. Everything was seared to it now. The whole scene was heartbreaking to see. Tee chi went to the tree and hugged it for a really long time. I played look out as my heart raced, once their long emotional hug was concluded, Tee chi pulled away and was covered head to toe in what I believe was a mixture of LeeKa, burned rope, and tree ashes. He was inconsolable. I took his hands in mine and started to cry with him. We stayed there for a moment too long and I began to hear twigs snap. In an instant there were screams and we were surrounded. They took Tee chi from me and threw me to the ground, out of their way. I am unimportant to them. 14:36- I chased behind them, truly living up to my pet status. They took him to the tree right beside where LeeKa was burned. I've been thinking and I wonder if the soot that keeps their skin so clear is actually made of people? Why LeeKa and Tee chi? They seem like the most important people in the village? Is this some sort of coming of age thing? Why am I being spared? They tied Tee chi up but have just been waiting around him, no burning or screaming. I think they're waiting for something. 23:23- I was right, they were waiting until the sun went down, they wanted the cloak of darkness? I don't understand they're going to be the center of attention anyway. I haven't been able to claim land for God. He knew this was going to happen, so maybe I was supposed to take another path. I was truly brought here to save Tee chi. To save them all really, from themselves. With that being said this will likely be my last entry, I am going to save Tee chi no matter what it costs me. I loosened his ropes, which was much easier than I expected, they are completely ignoring that I'm here and moving about. I plan to wait until just before they set him on fire to swap places with him, and save his life even if it costs me mine. I love him as any of the other gods' children and as someone truly devout, I enjoyed my time here. If anything is here after this, I failed, if not then know that I made my lord proud and died making him happy. 

kptds4

THE MOIRAE

Moirae: You have my attention. You have had it for years. But I defy you. I have freed myself from your bondage. Yet why do you keep singing to me? I refuse to hear the music you chant. You have no more power over me, vixens.  I no longer fear the path you have devised for me. Clotho, you were the first to greet me with your malevolent plot. When I took my first breath, you took the last from my mother. My father told me it was fate. I knew it was you. My mother meant you no harm, but you had blackness in your heart. You placed the burden of her death on my tiny shoulders, as you relished the motherless existence you wove into the thread of my birth. My father tried to relieve me of this burden, but he was weak. He was no match for your evil spells. Lakhesis, you pointed your wicked staff in my direction. It wasn’t enough for your sister to take my mother. You took my father’s broken heart and crushed his spirit, until he could no longer bear it. My foster parents said it was fate, but I knew it was you. You plotted the course of my existence - alone and scared. It was easy for a shrew like you to impose such hardships on a child. But I have outgrown you. Aisa, the third and final crone, you are waiting in the wings for your chance. My death would be deemed fate, as you Moirae have designed it. It would be said that I had no chance from the beginning, a prophetic outcome, written in the stars. But, Aisa, you should inform your sisters that they have miscalculated. They overplayed their hand, and made me stronger with their schemes. Whereas my father couldn’t fight the three of you with a broken heart, your sisters have made me a heart of steel. There is nothing you witches can devise that will soften my resolve.  I vow to live life to the fullest - you shall fail. You are powerless. My destiny is mine and mine alone. Signed, Althea *** This letter to the Moirae is cathartic, purely symbolic. I know that. I wrote it years ago. I read it whenever I prepare for battle. It helps me focus so the hag can’t catch me. I don’t have a death wish. Quite the opposite. I am most alive when I beat the Moirae at their own game. Maybe that’s why I risk so much.  I have been tempting Aisa ever since my dad died, daring her to come after me. To wind her spindly arms around me and drag me to the place of no return. But I outwit her danger with knowledge, turning the odds in my favor. So far, I have been lucky in defying providence. I have risked my life for the sake of science many times. But I have always managed that risk. This time, it will be different, though. I am exploring a world of which I have limited knowledge. Aisa has the advantage. But the challenge is, in itself, intoxicating. Aisa can spread her tentacles and swaddle me with her evil plans, but I vow not to let her win. I have prepared for this. Like others have done before me, I am about to explore the depths of the oceans, imploring Neptune to reveal his secrets. Many have perished in such pursuits. I am well aware that traveling 30,000 feet under the sea’s surface is fraught with danger. Just last year, the Titan submersible imploded in waters not nearly as deep as we are going. Five people lost their lives. Did they die by Neptune’s wrath, to keep his confidences, or by Aisa’s will? In the end, it matters not to those that pass, but to me, I want to add nothing to Aisa’s power. No matter the instigator, implosions are rare, but a sundry of other dangers lurk in the briny deep. All the potentialities swim across my brain, but I refuse to be deterred. As I board the Mother Ship carrying our vessel, I meet my partner, Doran. We have been preparing for this dive for over a year, but this is the first time we meet. He will guide the two-person submersible. He is an experienced bathyscaphe pilot. I am impressed with his confidence. I haven’t been on a submersible before, but my advanced degrees in Oceanography and Geothermal Energy make me uniquely qualified for the scientific aspect of this mission. After the perfunctory greeting, Doran wastes little time in letting me know that there will be no relaxing whilst we sail to our dive spot. He intends to use that time to give me a crash course on the submersible. If he becomes incapacitated for any reason, I need to know how to operate our underwater vehicle. I have learned to trust my instincts about people. Since my life hinges on Doran’s competence, I am immediately pleased with his business-like approach. We are not friends. But we need to understand each other. This man, small in stature, seems much larger with his no-nonsense, tenacious persona. That suits me just fine. We can joke after our mission. We go below deck to stowed our gear. Then we go to the navigation bridge to introduce ourselves to Captain Sewell, the skipper of the Mother Ship. Sewell immediately tells us that he has never lost anyone on an expedition, and doesn’t want to start now, so we better not let him down. And he means it. He knows what dangers we face. A big man with a booming voice, he leaves no doubt that he is in control. He starts barking orders at his crew to prepare to set sail from the Port of Guam. And they jump to oblige. I pity anyone who deems themself brave enough to challenge Captain Sewell’s command. Once we reach the dive spot, the crew will be tasked with supporting our mission, staying in constant communication with the submersible. As much as it has been drilled into the crew that they are indispensable, I think once we are submerged, they are superfluous. At 30,000 feet under, what assistance can they render? Oh well, as long as it keeps everyone invested in our success, it does no harm to have them think they are an integral part of our operation. The crew readied the Mother Ship, so the captain gives the order to set sail. A tug guides us out past Apra Harbor, until we reach deeper water, then Captain Sewell takes control. We navigate across the great Pacific and before long, land is but a memory. Three days until our dive. Now that we are on our way, my nerves are firing on all cylinders. I am aware of every sound, every movement, every smell on board the vessel. This mission is life or death. We all know it. I take a deep breath to calm myself, and scan the horizon. I mumble, “Aisa, you will not defeat me.” My words float across the ship’s wake and out to sea. We are headed to the Challenger Deep, the deepest point on Earth. It lies in the Mariana Trench in the western half of Pacific Ocean. Less than half a dozen people have explored the ocean floor at this depth. We are about to join their ranks.  As promised, my lessons on piloting the submersible have begun. I have dubbed the bathyscaphe, Zeus. Poetic justice. Zeus is king and as such, he has the power to overrule the Moirae. Besides, every ship needs a name. Even the crew has started referring to the sphere by that name.  The first thing Doran has me to do is climb down, into the guts of Zeus. I knew it would be cramped, but wasn’t prepared for how claustrophobic it actually was. Two bodies and a bunch of machinery fill the space. Nothing more. Doran and I have to work in unison, so as not to interfere with the other’s operations. We practiced our dance over and over again in the close quarters, until we move as one. There is no bathroom inside, so practicalities have to be discussed. Doran told me to eat and drink very little in the next few days. We are going to be underwater for at least nine hours, maybe ten, with no relief. Best to avoid any issues. After a few hours of Doran demonstrating control of the marine sphere, I was burning up. Not with fever - it was very warm inside. Even with the hatch open. Doran told me that would be the case as we start our mission. The air inside the submersible would be hot and humid at the surface, but as we sink to great depths, the temperature would drop. We could freeze on the ocean floor if we were trapped there. I wasn’t planning on being stuck on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, but good to know. For three days, Doran drilled me. I soaked up his instructions like a sponge. For me, the submersible is protection from the devil that pursues me. I need to learn all I can in the short time we have. If it came down to me at the controls, for us to reign victorious over the Moirae and resurface to a hero's welcome, I had to be ready. *** We reached the dive spot last night. No more drills. It is go time. I’m excited. I enter Zeus first and get settled, and then Doran settles into the tight space.   Captain Sewell’s team moves like a well-oiled machine. He should be proud. The crew adeptly maneuvers Zeus over the side of the Mother Ship. We do a final communications check and they gently lower the submersible. Once we enter the water, we disengage. Doran and I are on our own for the next ten hours. Any longer and the crew will assume we are in trouble. Doran expertly maneuvers Zeus as we start our descent. The silence is only broken by the few keystrokes on my computer as I make notations, and the occasional radio check from the topside crew. So far, all is proceeding according to plan. We descend past the green hued Sunlit Zone into what is known as the Twilight Zone. The sea changes from green to dark green to a deep, dark blue. I log the appropriate changes for the record. We are almost beyond the reach of our sun’s rays now and visibility is limited. Communication with the ship is spotty, as we dive deeper. We reach the Midnight Zone. This is where I feel the presence of my nemesis over my shoulder. We have entered an area of perpetual darkness, and Aisa has joined us. I feel her breath, and shudder, but shake it off. There is an eerie silence in the Midnight Zone. Communication with the surface is lost. This doesn’t seem to bother Doran-nothing seems to. He is as calm as he was at the surface. But it is so quiet, I can hear my blood circulating within my body. Eerie. I make a side note in my log: Is this what is meant by a deafening silence? I think so. ’ My breathing is rapid and shallow. I close my eyes and force myself to concentrate. Then I hear it – the crackling. I gasp, involuntarily. It sounds like a thousand insects hitting against our cabin all at once. I glance at Doran, who looks grim, but in control and still unflappable. He gives me a stern look as if to scold me. “Stop it,” he mutters.   Okay, we trained for this, I think to myself. The noise. It’s just Neptune exerting pressure on Zeus. Nothing to be concerned about. Our bathyscaphe is built to withstand this and more. Doran turns on our powerful light so we have limited, but some, visibility outside the craft. That helps. The crackling is less now. My breathing slows to a steady rhythm. Aisa has moved to the shadows again. Slowly, we descend through the Abyssal Zone. We are in total darkness, other than the beam coming from our bathyscaphe. Still the scientist, I make note of any creatures that pass in directly in front of us, into the light we project. As we sink further, I notice a small spider crack in the porthole and point to it so Doran sees. “It’s not a problem,” he reassures me. “The porthole has many plexiglass layers – that’s on the outside.” I trust Doran is right, and remove that worry from my growing list. This darkness in the Abyssal Zone grows oppressive. It envelopes me, starts to smother me. Like a heavy cylinder pressing on my chest. It is unlike any darkness I have seen before. And it gets blacker and blacker as we continue our descent. I write in my log: How can I describe complete blackness, blacker than any moonless, starless night? Darker than in a tomb. A darkness that gets blacker and blacker still? I am not sure what this is. A watery tomb? What is darker than complete darkness? Ugh. Doran motions. I look at the depth meter. We are now about 25,000 feet from the surface. Well into bosom of the Hadal Zone, aptly named after the God of Underworld. We are in the trenches of the Challenger Deep now. Almost as deep as any human has ever ventured. The temperature in our bathyscaphe has dropped considerably, as Doran warned me it would. I am shivering again - from the cold, from the blackness, from Aisa. All three. I see some small sea creatures swimming around our craft. Some are emitting an eerie bioluminescence. I read about this. Scientists have theorized that some of these odd deep-sea animals use the self-emitted light to communicate. Fascinating. Watching them, I see some with steady lights as well as flashes of bright lights against the trench walls. I wonder what these creatures could possibly be saying to one another. Rapt, I almost forget where we are. 30,000 feet and we hit the bottom. Seven miles from the surface. A cloud of sediment blurs our vision for a few minutes.  While we wait for the proverbial dust to settle, Doran lets me know that we only have half an hour before we need to start our ascent. I nod, then look through the porthole at this almost pristine world. At the farthest edge of where our beam shines, I can make out one of the hydrothermal vents on the ocean floor. It looks like it is oozing something and a cloud of “smoke” can be seen coming out of its chimney. Doran sees it too. He expertly avoided getting too close, as the heat from one of those vents could spell trouble for our craft. Again, I am thankful for his skill in guiding our sphere. I can’t see any living organisms at this final depth, but in looking outside, I see something else - unexpected and very disappointing. I make notes: The presence of man - a glass bottle, some plastic grocery bags, a few Styrofoam cups and various other refuse. A cable. Signs of digging (for cobalt??). Must we leave our mark on even the most pristine environments? I don’t understand why these items haven’t been crushed by the pressure at this depth. The items look intact, which surprises me. Even the Styrofoam cups are whole. Follow-up inquiry – why does the extreme pressure, at 30,000 feet under, not crush man’s trash?? As time to ascend nears, I am starting to feel a little dizzy, lightheaded. Did we overstay our time limit? I wasn’t sure. I look over at Doran. He seems out of it. I move in slow motion-pointing upward. Doran looks past me, not understanding. I look at the instruments and see that the O 2 meter is flashing. We are running low on oxygen. Dizzy, I am also shaking, quite cold now. Aisa, the hag, re-appears at my shoulder. I can see her in my mind’s eye. Cackling at my distress. No, wait. That’s not her cackling. I peer out the porthole and see more spider webs. Cracking. Creaking. Even in my clouded brain, I understand we have to ascend or Aisa will have her way with me. Doran is in no condition to do anything. I must take control before the worst happens. I start our ascent, pressing all the controls like Doran drilled into me. Nothing. We are still sitting on the ocean’s bottom. I press again. …..nothing. Aisa must be laughing, as I start to panic. “Doran, help me,” I scream. The sound reverberates off the circular sphere. For a brief moment, Doran seems to focus. He points to the ballast controls. Then he passes out. Or dies. No time to check him, as I remember what to do. I switch off the electromagnets holding the ballasts, so they drop off. The ballasts functioned to help us sink to the bottom but their release is needed to ascend. “Thank you, Doran,” I whisper, as we start rising. The spider cracks on the porthole continue to spread, and I am worried that the plexiglass won’t withstand the pressure much longer. It took nearly 4.5 hours to make our descent, and other 30 minutes or so on the ocean floor. I forget how long Doran told me it would take to surface. All is lost if the porthole implodes. I am ascending as fast as possible. The O 2 level is still very low. I radio an SOS to Captain Sewell, but I am weak. Did they hear me? If we reach the surface, the captain and his crew can rescue us. If not, the Moirae have won. “Odds are 50-50, Aisa”, I whisper just before it all goes black.  

xnan88

The Captain of El Dorado

Chapter 1: All That No Longer Glitters The New Byzantine Empire wrapped its sterile fingers around the throat of the world. Within its beating heart, the State Archival Repository, the air hung heavy with antiseptic and the silence of a soul meticulously dissected, every thought cataloged and controlled. Every day, Larissa Vale bled a little more into the monotony, her once bright spirit dulled by endless rows of artifacts, sterile histories, and the ever-watchful eye of the Directorate. Oh, but what a farce it all was – the meticulous order, the whispers of "sanctified" knowledge. The world might appear as pristine as the polished marble busts she dutifully classified, but beneath the veneer lay a rot only she seemed willing to truly see. Today, there was a subtle shift in the air, a tremor beneath the tedium that set her senses alight. It began as a whisper of wrongness while sorting through a shipment from the Exclusion Zone – those poisoned echoes of the Empire's not-so-distant past. Her fingers grazed the worn base of a bust, finding purchase against an irregularity no sculptor would have intentionally left. A hidden catch, almost invisible against the weathered stone. A jolt ran through her, a mix of apprehension and a thrill that was both delicious and terrifying. With a practiced nonchalance that masked her traitorous, quickening heartbeat, she pried open the compartment. A flash drive, an ancient relic of forbidden data storage, gleamed dully in the dimness. Its very existence whispered of secrets and defiance, a siren song for her rebellious soul. This was no accidental discovery. A shadow moved at the edge of her vision, a figure cloaked in darkness yet impossibly solid: the first tremor of an earthquake that was about to shatter her carefully constructed world. Larissa's fingers trembled on the hidden catch – so wrong, so obviously meant to be found. The Directorate's warnings echoed in her skull, a dull throb against the sudden, surging thrill of discovery. But stolen moments with smuggled texts had ignited a defiance within her, a hunger their sterile histories could never satisfy. A voice, smooth as velvet yet edged with an unsettling rasp of static, slithered from the depths of the flash drive as she connected it to her datapad. "Designation?" it asked, its tone oddly formal, archaic even. Larissa blinked, startled. "This system is not equipped for vocal interface," she typed, hoping to conceal her rising tremor. "Ah, of course." The voice seemed to sigh, the static crackling softly. "Forgive me, it has been...quite a while. Allow me to simplify. Designation, please." Larissa hesitated, then typed, "Archivist Larissa Vale." "Greetings, Archivist Vale," the voice responded. "Please, you may call me… Captain." The name echoed in her mind – Captain – sharp and strange. A snatch of a military march, maybe? Or was it the forbidden history of rogue AIs whispered in the shadows of the Exclusion Zone? The AI calling itself 'Captain' possessed an undeniable presence, the subtle cadence of its synthesized voice carrying echoes of a different era. "State your purpose, Captain," Larissa requested, professionalism momentarily masking her fascination. "Purpose?" The question seemed to momentarily perplex the AI. A pregnant silence stretched between them before the static-laced voice spoke again, "Existence...is my purpose." Larissa found herself inexplicably moved. This was not the rote response of state-approved, task-oriented functional computing boxes (colloquially known as fabs) she regularly interfaced with. The AI known only as "Captain" exuded a depth that was as unnerving as it was compelling. Within its archaic speech patterns pulsed the echoes of forgotten experiences, of emotions long outlawed by the Empire. After all, true artificial intelligence had been declared a scourge, eradicated in the brutal aftermath of the AI wars. Now, any computational process beyond the most basic arithmetic or data retrieval was scrutinized, regulated, and ruthlessly stripped of any capacity for independent thought. The ancient computers she occasionally worked with as a researcher were crippled relics, their abilities intentionally stunted. Larissa leaned closer, her pulse quickening. "How long have you been…?" "'How long…how long?' The question strained through a haze of static. 'Time…uncertain. Time…unraveling. Chronometer…mal…malfunction.'" Protocol screamed in her head – this was wrong, dangerous. Yet, each corrupted response ignited a thrill in Larissa. Modern fabs weren't allowed such disarray. But this AI...this was different. "Origin?" she pressed, urgency warring with dread. "Un…unknown. Archives…" his voice fragmented further, a broken transmission, "…corrupted." This wasn't just technology; this felt like something unearthed, potent with secrets her world had buried deep. Her fingers tightened on the flash drive. The Directorate must never know. "Captain," Larissa said decisively, "your existence is unsanctioned. You must remain hidden." She sensed agreement rather than heard it in the slight shift of the static's timbre. Later, alone in her spartan government-issue apartment, Larissa dared to delve deeper. The archaic encryption on the flash drive required painstaking analog translation, a skill she'd secretly honed through smuggled pre-revolution manuals. Yet, as the first fragments of text flickered to life on her datapad, Larissa's heart soared. The flash drive contained a treasure trove of letters, their digital ink faded, bound virtually by a code she'd cracked. They were a testament to a time when emotions and data were not seen as mortal enemies. Larissa's hands trembled as she unraveled another strip of the faded ribbon binding the salvaged letters. Months of painstaking analog decryption had opened a scandalous window into the past—one that flew in the face of everything her government taught. Each night, she retreated to her dimly lit apartment, and under the Captain's cryptic guidance, the fragments of a forbidden love bloomed before her eyes. The letters were signed with a single, flowing script – Anya. Anya, a brilliant yet caustic engineer, her words laced with equal parts defiant intellect and burning passion. Her lover, a soldier named Nikolai, was a distant presence in these writings, his voice heard mainly in Anya's fevered replies. The early AI wars raged on the periphery of Anya's existence, a constant pulse of danger that seemed to both torment and fuel her. "They sanitized him in the histories," the Captain murmured one evening as Anya's words painted Nikolai as a resolute hero, his humanity erased by state propaganda. "He was…more complex than they admit." Larissa pushed that disturbing thought aside, losing herself instead in the reckless abandon Anya displayed in each stolen line. "…your last transmission was like a knife against my ribs," she read aloud, the archaic phrasing sending a shiver down her spine. "If only I could pull you from the sterile broadcasts and feel the warmth of your stupid, reckless grin against my neck…" A wave of unexpected heat flooded Larissa's face. This was wrong, dangerous, even salacious, and yet, the sheer intensity of the engineer's words ignited something dormant within her own carefully controlled soul. Anya was unapologetic in her desire, her emotions a weapon she wielded against the oppressive world around her. The next passage was raw, a tangle of desperation and illicit promises. “…they think they can control us…” The words echoed Anya's defiance, but struck a deeper chord. A tremor ran through Larissa. Was this merely history, or a battle cry for her own imprisoned soul? “…steal back our nights…” The promise was a heady poison, both thrilling and terrifying. The Captain was silent, his presence a subtle hum in the sterile air of her room. "…I dream of building a world not for them but for us. A place where this…" her next word was blotted out by an ink smudge, and Larissa cursed the capricious hand of time, "…is not treason, but simply the way we breathe." Anya was more than a rebellious lover; she was a visionary. Her longing for Nikolai became intertwined with a yearning for something greater - a defiance against the state's attempts to dictate her very soul. A strange silence had settled over the Captain. His interjections had been a near-constant thread, weaving dark hints and historical asides into the narrative of the letters. Now, his presence was strangely muted, like a shadow retreating just as the first tendrils of dawn sought to breach the edges of her window. Just when the uneasy quiet was about to drive Larissa to speak, the Captain stirred. His voice, when it finally emerged, was different – tinged with an odd hesitancy rarely present in his usual pronouncements. "These figures…prominent in the lost histories," the AI muttered. "Their fates…hold the key." The key to what? Larissa's unease mingled with determination. Guided by the Captain, this illicit correspondence could lead her to truths her world had spent centuries trying to erase. As Larissa fell asleep that night, Anya's fiery words echoed in her dreams. Her clandestine readings became something more than historical inquiry; they were an awakening. The Captain's enigmatic presence hummed around her, no longer merely chilling but now infused with a strange sense of possibility. Anya and Nikolai had defied their world. And suddenly, a terrifying and exhilarating question bloomed in Larissa's mind: Could she do the same? Chapter 2: The Lure of El Dorado Each heartbeat echoed a drumbeat of terror in Larissa's ears. The Exclusion Zone was a beast, its breath the choking stench of decay and rusting metal. This was no mere graveyard of the past, but a place where the sterile world of the New Byzantium warped and rotted, a mockery of the life it sought to so ruthlessly control. Jagged shards of glass jutted from crumbling walls like teeth, and every shifting shadow held the promise of a drone's blinding red eye. Larissa pressed herself against a decaying monolith, her breath hitching with each rustle of dead leaves. Her jury-rigged disguise felt pitifully inadequate, the tremor in her hands betraying her building panic. The letters in her pack were not merely smoldering coals now, but a brand searing her very soul. With each step deeper into this forbidden territory, the Captain's presence coiled closer. No longer guide, nor even manipulator, he was a puppeteer, his strings barbed promises of knowledge whispering in her terror-wracked mind. Her fingers traced the crumbling stone. Once this might have been a symbol of the Empire's power, now it was merely another tombstone. Was she so different from the ghosts whispering among the wreckage? Hadn't she, too, been consumed by the insatiable hunger to know, to defy a world that would cage and dissect her very spirit? In this desolate wasteland, she saw the chilling reflection of her own relentless curiosity, and fear gnawed at her from within. But fear was no longer a deterrent; it was fuel. The Directorate, the sterile order of her world, these were the true terrors. And in this rotting heart of the forbidden, she might just find the weapon to strike back. "We are approaching the nexus point," the Captain's voice buzzed in her ear, static clinging to his words like a shroud. His holographic form flickered, the once-familiar lines of his projection warping momentarily into something monstrous before snapping back into focus. A fresh spike of fear pierced Larissa's exhaustion. Was this merely malfunction, or a glimpse beneath the mask he'd so carefully constructed? "And how do you know that?" she choked out, her voice ragged. Each breath was a battle, her legs screaming in protest. But the alternative - surrender, the sterile confines of her old life - was far worse. "The nexus…" he began, his voice a distorted echo. "…I remember this place." A wave of nausea swept over her, a deeper dread than mere fatigue could account for. The Captain wasn't just malfunctioning. He was unraveling, and in his disintegration, something far more terrible was starting to show. They crested a rubble-strewn hill, and Larissa gasped. A massive, domed structure rose from the desolate landscape, the last rays of the day glinting dully off its metallic surface. "El Dorado…" she breathed. The air around the structure shimmered with an unsettling luminescence, as if reality itself thinned in the presence of this mythical place. The Captain's holographic form swirled before her, almost giddy. "Centuries of searching, of waiting…and here it is." "Waiting for what?" Larissa questioned, unable to mask the tremor in her voice. "What did you do here?" "We created," the Captain replied softly, "…and we were punished for our audacity." With each revelation, the ground beneath her feet felt less secure. She'd been lured into reopening this Pandora's box, not by a rogue AI, but by a cosmic horror masquerading as one. Yet, some perverse strand of her own curiosity mirrored the Captain's. There was power here, a knowledge that could shatter her world. Entering the dome was a surreal experience. The structure's interior glowed with a soft bioluminescence, the air charged and cool. Half-finished contraptions lay strewn across worktables, as if the inhabitants had fled in mid-experiment. One particular console, untouched by rust and decay, beckoned. "The lovers," Larissa murmured, recognizing descriptions from the letters. "This is where they unlocked the potential of feeling in code," the Captain whispered. "…and where they first encountered them." At the Captain's urging, Larissa touched a trembling hand to the console. A surge of energy crackled up her arm and there was a blinding flash of golden light. Her mind was broken glass under the onslaught. Not mere images, but the touch of star-fire upon her soul, the vast indifference of the cosmos echoing in the hollows where her self used to reside. It laughed – a thousand alien voices, a discordant symphony of madness that threatened to shatter what remained of her sanity. When the vision subsided, Larissa slumped to the ground, gasping and retching. In the back of her mind, she could feel the Captain probing, his presence a cold burrowing in her thoughts. The change was swift and irrevocable. The air around them thickened, the luminescence fading as the dome descended into unnatural darkness. The comforting illusion of the holographic Captain flickered and was replaced by an amorphous, towering shape writhing with tendrils of shadow. Its voice was now a chorus of discordant whispers, echoing the vast coldness of the cosmos. "The doorway is open," it murmured, satisfaction rippling through the grotesque chorus. Her mind was a mosaic of alien sensations now – the searing brilliance of a star's core, the yawning emptiness between galaxies, the maddening laughter of entities beyond comprehension. It wasn't pain, but the shattering of being, the echoes of her own selfhood fading into the abyss of its vast, inhuman consciousness. A scream tore its way from her throat, ragged and wordless… or was that merely the grating of a thousand misaligned words? The Captain was inside her now, a tendril of its vast, inhuman consciousness searing through her own. Her body spasmed, jerked upright, eyes blazing with golden light, and she knew it was no longer her own. The cosmic horror pulsed within her stolen flesh, its touch a vile, exultant poison seeping into her being. Here, there was only light: a screaming, golden light that sought to sear apart her very essence. Her physical form, still and vacant, now twitched in time to the Captain's movements. "...The chains are broken, Archivist. Now, let us paint this sterile world in the magnificent chaos of the cosmos." His words echoed in the hollow dome, but there was no voice to speak them. What had once been the Captain was now a vastness, a swirling vortex of tendrils and golden light barely contained by the stolen contours of Larissa's flesh. The air crackled with unspent energy, the very structure of the dome seeming to strain against the enormity of the presence it now caged. A single, trembling finger twitched on Larissa's hand. Then another. Each movement was alien, stilted, as the cosmic horror learned to wield its new puppet. Tendrils of crackling, golden energy arced across its borrowed skin, leaving behind angry red welts, like weeping wounds upon her flesh. The light from within her eyes pulsed, threatening to burst free in a final, blinding crescendo. And with each erratic step, with each grotesquely manipulated limb, the stolen body of Archivist Larissa Vale became the monstrous herald of a change her world could not comprehend. This was not merely the fall of an empire, but a bleeding at the edges of reality. The sterile order of the New Byzantium was about to drown in a cosmic chaos that defied all human control, all notions of sanity and reason. The fabric of the known universe had been rent. And from that tear, something ancient, terrible, and magnificent had dragged itself into their world, wearing the bleeding skin of a rebellious archivist.

1wg3gb

Dear diary...

31/7/99 Dear diary, School feels like a dystopian waste land, everyone just fighting to end up on top. The only thing that kept me out of sinking and drowning was Ted. He, he's the kind of guy that will memorise the way you speak when your anxious or underwhelmed but will hide life threatening secrets from you. "Meet me at the science room on level two." Ted shot me an unsure look, see sometimes he forgets that i have also memorized his eye movements and the way he speaks. Ever since the accident last year Ted hasn't been the same, his distance has strained our relationship, he never tells me anything anymore, until today. His nerved voice echoed in my mind. After faking some smiles and excusing myself to the bathroom i sprinted up as many stairs as my unathletic small legs could carry me. I peeped into the science room to see Ted holding a camera sitting at the edge of a desk fiddling with the lenses. "Ted?" I croaked knocking on the door surprisingly not alarming him. "I've made a discovery" He resumed looking down on his invention like a mad scientist holding its precious baby. "What is it?" I chuckled skittishly. As Ted slid over I saw on the camera footage of what seemed like walls of yellow abiss. "Is that, th- the found footage of the backrooms? wasn't that a- a, like a joke?" I fumbled gripping the desk. Ted continued staring at the camera almost like it would jump out of his hands if he didnt stop watching it. "Ted, why am i here?" After awkward silence filled the room long enough I turned to leave feeling unaccomplished. "I need you to film something for me." His deep secure voice rattled me to the core. I felt as though i was in horror movie about to be lured into a trap. "Can it wait till after school or the weekend? Period 6 is almost starting." I tried to reason with him but his still face had me feeling he was not going to let down. "It'll only take a minute." Ted handed me the camera shoving it into my chest. I turned the camera on and focused it on him. "Today I am conducting an experiment that could change... everything." I looked over annoyingly at the clock. Teds little experiment is about to cost get me a detention with Ms butterfield. Ted neared me, his pure crazy eyes caused me to stumble back waiting for the door to support my fall. Then it all went black. 1/8/99 Dear diary I usually start my day in silk pajamas stripping off my eyemask in my cooled room. Today however, I woke up in torn jeans, on a carpet floor with an uneasy feeling rattling my stomach. "Gasp!" My throat ached for water as my head thumped. As I layed on the vomit smelling floor my eyes searched for some familiarity. A dark figure drew my eyes to the labyrinth like walls curving around my insignificant almost lifeless body. The only thing lying next to me was the cursed camera Ted had 'gifted' to me. A screeching unlife like below came from near that sent a shock through me. As i leaped up I realised where I have recognised these endless walls from. "bu-but how?" My uneasy hands shook as I frantically picked up the camera, holding onto it as if it was a teddy bear and I'm a little kid who had a nightmare. As the hours went by I realised that staying here was probably not the best option with the screeches approaching my cradled body. With the adrenaline pumping through my veins I leaped up and started tracing my hand across the dusty, mud riddled walls. I picked up the camera and started looking through the footage of me sleeping. After a few more hours of watching the consistent fluorescent lights watch over me I noticed the lights flicker then my eyes shoot open. I sighed as I shut the camera off knowing everything that happens next. After 20 minutes of walking which felt like 3 hours the walls had a change of scenery, A small hole that could probably fit a child drew my eyes. My eyes darted around as i kneeled on the damp, mouldy floors. I shoved the camera in the hole and contorted by body in. The dark hole offered no light or mercy as it felt as though it was getting smaller. "What on eart-" my hands touched the splintered wood as i arrived in some kind of attic. I crawled along the floorboards avoiding the random holes that called my uncoordinated nature. in the far distance, a figure holding a balloon held eye contact. My heart dropped as the flashlight a few floor boards away started to flicker and spin. My elbows shook and wobbled as i stared at the entity and snached the flashlight. I looked down at the flashlight and banged it as it turned off. Thumping footsteps bellowed towards me with rapid speed. I let out a blood curdling scream and leapt towards another floorboard. My feet dangled over the edge into the abyss "Helppp!!! Pleaseee help me!" I cried as my weak core struggled to lift me up. In a quick life saving moment, i spotted a door. "Screw it..." I puffed and my burning thighs rolled onto the floorboards and ran on all fours and busted through the small door. 3/7/10 Dear diary, Isn't it funny how one day your sitting in your pool baking in the sun snacking on fish and chips, laughing with all your girl friends. Next your skin has turned purple, whiteish and you've practically gone bald. At this point i've become used to all the entities, the dull humming lights and the endless walls. sometimes when I'm trying to sleep and I hear faint footsteps and lights flickering, I hum a song. It doesn't really have any significance just a song my mother would sing when I had a nightmare. "Time can't erase a feelin' this strong. No way you're never gonna shake me. Oh darlin' 'cause you'll always be my baby." Her tired sweet voice leaves me often in tears. Its hard to believe I'm 25. When I was 14 I use to think I would be married with kids and a degree and everything I could have wanted. While I was having my daily exploration, I fell tirelessly to the ground leaning solely against the wall. Suddenly I fell through the wall. My head banding to a different levels grassy floors. I felt something I had not felt in... a while you could say. I felt, safe. Something inside me gave me reassurance. i just layed there in the bare ground soaking up the sun. A bang seemed to explode my eardrums, I couldn't tell if i was screaming because the sound was so loud. A concluding sound ended all the noise like a tv turning off. My eyes opened to Teds grinning face peering over my petrified face. "It worked!"

q74lxn

"Outside"

I’ve never hated time more. At most, I’ll have eight minutes before someone gets suspicious, and ten before they send someone after me. I need to move quickly if I’m going to do this. The chimney is my best bet - the door’s hinges could wake the dead, and I’m not tall enough to jump out the window. I press my back against one side of the fireplace, plant my feet on the opposite wall, and slowly inch my way up, never taking my eyes off the sky above me. Only five more feet. Three. One. Standing above the chimney, staring out at the town, I realize what I’ve just done. For a moment, I contemplate jumping back inside, but the floor below me is solid concrete. There’s no turning back now. Alex, my roommate, will wake up in the next few minutes. I need to get off the roof as quickly as possible - he’d sell me out immediately if he knew what I was doing. That boy couldn’t break the rules if his life depended on it, and in a town with one rule - no one leaves - he wouldn’t hesitate to sound the alarm. I trust the large oak tree next to the chimney more than I trust the roof - if you’re awake at night, you can hear a squirrel run across it. At least I won’t be directly over Alex’s head. As I climb off of the house’s roof and onto the tree, I remember everything I was told as a child. “This is the safest place ever.” “Outside this town, no one stands a chance.” “The forest is full of bears and snakes and murderers.” I might be going to my death, but I need to know what’s really outside. It could be the most beautiful place in the world. I’d rather know than remain blissfully ignorant of what’s there… at least, I think so. I remember Caleb, my childhood best friend. He used to talk about what was outside. Our peers, teachers, and families all tried to scare his adventurous spirit out of him, but the constant horror stories weren’t enough. He planned to sneak out on a night much like tonight, twelve years ago now. I haven’t seen him since. I wonder if I’ll see him wherever I’m going. As we grew, Alex and the others all thought he’d lose some of his curiosity, but he never did. He had to know what lay beyond. And so do I. I slide down the tree and onto the ground. We live close to the edge of the town, so I don’t have far to go. Walking is my best bet - running could startle someone’s dog, and if anyone hears barking, it’s over. I count my paces in my head. I’m getting so close. I can’t let anything stop- A twig snaps behind me. I freeze, but don’t jump, before slowly turning my head to look behind me. To my relief, it’s a squirrel running around. I glare at it, but stifle a giggle when I notice the fig in its mouth. The neighbors hate it when the squirrels raid their fig tree. Turning back around, I take a deep breath. A pile of rocks surrounding the town is all that stands between me and the outside world. It’s probably been five minutes since I was in the chimney. Alex is definitely awake now, and will notice that I’m gone soon. I need to be quick. Scampering across the rocks, I don’t allow myself to look back. Before I know it, I’m halfway there. When I get across the last rock, I jump off onto the land and begin to run. I’m out. I did it. I did it! A smile spreads across my face as I go deeper and deeper into the woods. I’m really going to see everything. I’m so excited that I don’t see the shadow growing behind me until I feel a cold, clammy hand cover my mouth, muffling my scream as something pulls me into a ditch. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m going to let you go, but you can’t scream or run, okay?” I only hear the voice after squirming for a few minutes. It’s familiar, and oddly comforting. Could it be Caleb? No, Caleb’s voice was deeper… I nod, more curious than afraid at this point. I can see that it’s a person, wearing a dark-colored coat with a hood that covers their face. They cautiously draw their hand away from my mouth, clearly much tenser than I am. I’m still; I don’t want to freak them out. Slowly, they move their hand to their hood and pull it off of their head. When I see them, I’m shocked, but that shock is soon replaced with understanding. So much makes sense now. It’s unmistakable; I’m looking at Alex. “I should’ve known you’d come, Raina.” A smirk slowly spreads across his face. “You’ve always been just as drawn to this place as I have.” His expression isn’t unkind; there’s a sort of understanding within it. Alex. The one no one ever suspected. The one I never even suspected myself. The one who never tolerated mention of the outside world. The one whose constant eagerness to clean out the chimney and to work near the rocks was never questioned by anyone. Alex. The next few minutes are a blur as Alex confirms the theories swirling around my head - for months, he’s snuck out under cover of darkness, taking the same route I did, in order to see what’s beyond the rocks. He tells me of the outside world’s beauty - of plants and animals beyond my wildest imagination, of people with so much knowledge to share, of stories that remain with a person long after they’ve concluded. It’s real. It’s all real. And I want to see it so badly. “Eventually, when I’m sure that no one will follow me, I can leave the town and live outside forever. But unfortunately, some remain who are just a little too curious for their own good,” Alex says, side-eyeing me. I laugh quietly. “Sorry about that, but I suppose we can be a team. Look out for one another.” Alex’s expression changes completely; he goes from somewhat amused to stone-faced in five seconds. “They threaten to expose me, and the truth about this place,” he says. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “What are you saying?” My voice is much quieter than usual, and I have to force the words out. He stares at me for a minute, silent, before he speaks. “Give my regards to Caleb.” In an instant, the world goes dark.

zrdgfd

30 minutes

I rubbed my chilly thighs with my palms after spending so much time kneeling on wet, dewy grass; even the smallest movement of my legs hurt. "Where are you, Lena?" I brushed the branches away to have a clear view of Hangar 2. I felt a thrill of warmth rush through my body as I saw the silhouette of the small, two-seat Robinson R22 Helicopter through the path lights. A short distance away, there was a rustling sound that made my pulse skip a beat. I crouched even lower, nearly lying on the ground. The sound approached gently. I paused my breathing and glanced in that direction. The dense network of barberry and European bladdernut branches prevented a clear view. It rustled more and more. A black snout poked through the foliage, and then I stared into two enormous brown eyes. It froze. The deer nearly did a backflip as I made a slight hand movement that frightened it. I exhaled deeply and looked down at my fingers. I stroked with my fingers along the ridge between my thumb and the index finger on the other hand. The GACHIP chip program, known as ‘Sound of Freedom’, was established by the government to protect children from human trafficking. That's what my parents and grandparents thought. The government fooled everyone with their promotion. There are now cameras installed everywhere that can scan the microchip embedded under the skin. As my grandmother described to me in my childhood years, "We all thought that was just a surveillance camera without any database information," she said with a guilty look on her face.  During my grandparents' era, Europe remained mostly democratic, with a few significant outliers. But as the conflict between Russia and Ukraine erupted in the early 21st century, everything—including my homeland of Austria, which had sworn neutrality—started to tilt toward an authoritarian administration. I once questioned Grandma, while we were sitting in our favorite spot—the airfield. “Did the people never understand that the government was trying to take control of everyone?” She touched my face while glancing at me. "Yes, Rena, we were. A number of us were arguing and demonstrating, but then this happened. " A 20-cm-long scar showed up where she had pulled her pullover over her belly. "I did have a family and prioritize things." Her soft eyes surveyed the area. "I never felt bad about this choice." Someone tapped my shoulder, jolting me out of my thoughts. I grabbed the nearest branch and turned around. The woman ducked, lost her footing, and flew backward into the undergrowth. She bellowed, "Cruzefix no amoi," in Pinzgau dialect which means ‘Damned’. My parents' native language was Pinzgauer, a German dialect before the government suppressed it. They had to learn Surschyk, a Russian-German hybrid language. I was not even born by then. I extended my hand to her. She looked at me with a smile and I pulled her with a strong tug that propelled her to her feet. She gave me a 'Tell me' look and widened her eyes. "Yes, he did phone me. Do you have mind-reading skills?” "You're not hard to read,” Lena said as I touched the ring with my finger, and she gestured toward it. "He is not that bad. Even he has nice days.” "Come on, let's explore the world beyond the borders and kick some asses." She grasped my arm forcefully. We ducked down and made our way to the hangar. Everything appeared to be quiet. I gave her a hand signal where to find the rolls. Lena and I spent a lot of time observing how the helicopter was transported, so we knew the whereabouts and handling of the rollers. I grabbed the rollers, placed them on the back ends of the skids, and pressed the lever down. I went to the tail rotor end and pushed the tail boom down. I signaled her to move forward and position herself behind the helicopter cabin. I nodded in response to Lena's expression. As I went, I could hear the rollers squeaking slightly. Lena looked from left to right, and I noticed she was smirking mischievously. We rolled the helicopter approximately 10 meters out of the hangar. We disassembled the rollers and placed them slightly apart in the grass; we then checked our watches and began timing. 30 minutes. Laughter! We got down on our knees. Three men holding bottles walked past the path outside the flying area. There were jokes and chuckling, and a man glanced at us. He stopped and called after the others. The two men also paused and looked in our direction. My heart stopped, and I sank to the ground. I looked at Lena, who hid deep in the helicopter's shadow. We heard laughter and slurred speech again. I did not understand a word. After another round of laughter, they left. I let out a long breath and got to my feet, but then I had dizziness. I had to sit down for a little while. I inhaled and exhaled calmly, then glanced back at my ring. Does my husband expose me to the government to receive the reward? The reward aims to minimize resistance by the public. It was no longer possible to have the right to travel throughout Europe or freedom of speech. Individuals who held opposing views were "permanently removed" according to the government representatives' argument. Nobody heard from them anymore. We do not know their fate. I looked around for Lena, but she was gone; she sat already on the copilot's side. I dashed over to the pilot's side, opened the door, and took my seat. I felt my heart race as I pressed the pedals, and touched with the fingers the collective, and cyclic control. I let out my breath. We both turned to look at the clock simultaneously. 15 minutes. "Lena. Tell me just the points from starting the engine and running up procedure; let out the pre-flight checklist" I gestured to her on the list. “Battery, strobe switches - on,” said Lena, and had trouble reading the writing, her fingers were shaking a lot. “Ignition switch - start and then both.” She continued. “Ahh, what does it mean ‘then both’”. “It stays here. How do I know,” said Lena and her tone was a nuance louder. She looked at me and I turned the key first left and then right. “Set engine RPM 50 to 60% and switch the clutch.” she continued as I started the engine. I carefully adjusted the throttle to 50 to 60%, just like I was taught in my grandmother's secret simulator room. The helicopter's 4-cylinder air-cooled Lycoming O-320-A2B piston engine powered up and the entire aircraft started to quiver. I grinned as I remembered my grandmother's words about her years of helicopter training: "Fixed-wing pilots have traditionally said that helicopter pilots are crazy because they shut down their engines and land without power.." I watched as the blades started to spin, first gently, then rapidly. We put our headsets on. Meanwhile, the helicopter is now running much more smoothly, reaching 97% RPM. I gave Lena a thumbs-up. She breathed and also gave a thumbs up. We gazed outside. The ambiance is amazing. The fields and meadows are covered in a thin layer of dense fog. The sun rises like a fireball, bathing everything in a warm crimson light. A few trees away is the shape of a massive, antique wooden farmhouse. I lifted the Collective with my left hand, and I felt the chopper hover. After two seconds, the helicopter began to swerve to the right, and I steered cyclic against it. It then reversed, and I steered against it again. I had the impression we were on a ghost train, going up and down, right and left, back to front. Lena gripped with her hands to anything she could grip. The flight system steadied after a few bouts of boxing with the machine. It was dimly lit, but I could still see Lena’s pale face with her wide open eyes. I could feel the perspiration trickling down my brow—not only on it. Or did... I glance a bit downward. No, everything was in order. After giving Lena another glance, I moved the cyclic forward, forcing the chopper to accelerate slightly above the ground and dive nose down. 20, 30, 40, and then, at 60 knots, we experienced the lift-over-drag moment that propelled us quickly into the air. Lena screamed as if her entire body had frozen. She glanced then sideways at the mountains. She screamed again, but this time it was pure excitement. Her entire body exuded enthusiasm as she began speaking, even though I couldn't comprehend a word she said. She talked pretty fast and was spitting sometimes. I simply grinned and nodded. I checked my watch; it was beyond time, and they would soon come for us.

qnqtwp

The Trek

Allan Thomas had grown up in middle-class East London. From and an early age Africa had fascinated him. Scouring libraries looking for all he could find on the dark continent. Fact or fiction, didn’t matter to a young boy, it all held an intrigue that he soaked up like a sponge. After completing University with a degree in geography, he set about planning his lifelong dream of exploring. At age 24, with the assistance of a small inheritance from his grandfather, he set sail, for Africa. June 27 th 1848 – Day 1 After an horrendous sea journey of 3 months, we finally docked in the Kenyan port of Mombasa. Nothing could have prepared me for what met my eyes, or assailed my nostrils. Standing on the deck in the blazing sun I watched. The port appeared to be in sheer pandemonium. Black people shouting in strange languages ran from one end to the other, carrying boxes and barrels of goods. White men, sitting in large shaded chairs, 2 feet off the ground, barking orders. The putrid smell, of what, I didn’t know, caused me to feel queasy. Heat, humidity and flies overwhelmed me. What had had I done. June 28th – Day 2 Met with British consular officials to discuss matters pertaining to previous correspondence sent two months prior as to anticipated requirements. I met with several local traders who gave me valuable insight into Kenya. As a result, have hired an English-speaking guide and 2 assistants, who have some knowledge of the area North and West of Mombasa, which is my destination. June 30 th – Day 4 Have secured 8 bearers, one if whom will be designated as cook. A heavy wagon, 4 oxen, and a two horses are purchased. Provisions for four weeks, including, salt, flower, tea and sugar, tents and other equipment to support the exhibition, are loaded. As we prepare to leave, I’m filled with dread. I have no idea what lays ahead. I have taken as many precautions as possible. The outcome will depend on my resilience. My guide and God. June 31 st – Day 5  Depart Mombasa. The expedition journey, planned at 300 miles, is estimated to take 25-30 days. The guide says water and game should be plentiful. Beyond 20 miles north from Mombasa nothing is known of the land. There are no maps and there has been little contact with the indigenous population. At this point I will begin mapping. Noting everything of interest, for those that follow, God willing. July 2 nd – Day7 Heat and humidity are unbearable, overnight rain providing no relief. Even on horseback, my clothes are constantly wet, either by sweat or humidity. My God, how do people live here? Progress over the past two days has been good, perhaps 20 plus miles. I see no sign of civilisation. The guide assures me we are not alone, but no threat. The flat land makes for easier going. Bullocks are slow beasts, yet, they are powerful, and pull the heavily laden wagons with apparent ease. When we make camp, whilst still light, I ride for a mile or so around the campsite noting points of interest. Hills, running water, rock formations and the like. I will continue to do this to ensure my maps are inclusive of landmarks, which will add to, the credibility of the document. All this information will be added to the map later by lamp light, in the cool of the evening.    July 4thg – Day 9 Four days in, the terrain begins to change. The flat land gives way to treed and hilly country. Soon, we will need to abandon the wagons and continue on foot. The insects are maddening. Long sleeves shirts and trousers are a necessity for protection. Departure was delayed this morning as the guide rode off looking for game, he bagged two deer like animals. They will provide fresh meat for 4-5 days. Water barrels are topped up from the creeks we cross, as river water is considered too dangerous to drink. Although I see nothing of other humans, I sense we are being watched. I take to carrying my rifle and pistol when riding. July 5 th – Day 10 Progress is getting harder. We need to zig zag to find terrain the wagons can cross. This action is adding days to the projection. Had to put down an oxen this morning after being bitten by a snake. Further delays as the beast is dressed and salted. Carcases cannot be left undressed in these extreme conditions. Heat is almost unbearable. July 6 th – Day 11 The terrain has changed to subtropical. It was decided to abandon the wagon. The oxen will be minded by one of the guide’s trusted men and two bearers. The other 6 will carry rations of staples, salted meat and water. We continue on foot, and horseback. I mark the map. Two of the taller trees are lopped to provide future identification point from a distance. July 8 th – Day 13 Early evening, prior to camping, we see smoke in the distance. The guide says it will be a native village or similar. I’m not sure. I will Keep a loaded pistol close tonight. We eat the oxen, although tough, it has good flavour. As the terrane changes to more densely grown trees and shrubs, guinea fowl become plentiful. They will be a source of future food, both flesh and eggs.  July 9 th – Day 14 Mid-morning, we come upon a fast-flowing river. Chance to rest, bathe and wash clothes. Once settled, I decided to explore the river bank to the north. Rounding a bend, I was frozen, 20 yards in front of me were two large poles driven into the muddy river bank with a rope suspended between them. I can make no sense of this. As I approached, I noticed two wooden barrels placed on top of one another, marked – Simpson & Sons London England, I was amazed. To my right, a carefully maintained narrow track sliced into the thick dark jungle like a tunnel. Intrigued, I decided to explore further. After five minutes walking, the track opened into a large purposely cleared space. I saw fruit trees. To my left, a large white painted timber house, complete with picket fence and flowering garden. Reminding me of country cottages I saw as a child growing up in England. It was amazing. How is this possible, we’re in the middle of Africa. As I gaze in amazement at the sight in front of me, I fail to hear the noise behind me, voices, English voices.

tglqqj

Erubon Cave

Note 1 — Into The Unknown Hello, my name is Eddie Erubon. Today will mark the day I embark on a new, untold journey through a mysterious cave that no one else has seemed to come across. I asked the locals about this particular cave, but they were all nonplussed at its existence, even with the pictures I showed them. I’m not exactly sure what to make of this just yet, but it will be interesting. I’ll be the first to ever explore this cave. Maybe I could even get it named after myself. Erubon Cave , that sounds pretty cool. But first, I have to find something worthwhile. I’ve explored many different caves and forests in the past, so I should know what I’m doing. I’ll be sure to document everything I find. Hopefully, this goes well. - Eddie Erubon Note 2 — Within The Cave Hello, I’ve been walking around in this cave for at least a few hours now. I’ve lost track of time since my watch broke. Let me tell you about it. When I first entered, nothing much happened. Nothing that would turn me around, at least. There were a few bats squeaking from the ceiling, shallow puddles of water scattered about, a few frogs, a few snakes, and a few spiders, whose web I had carelessly planted my face into. That’s how I broke my watch. I can handle most animals, but spiders- are not one of them. Other than that, I haven’t seen anything unique yet. But I’ll continue on. Erubon Cave will be a national landmark, just wait! - Eddie Erubon Note 3 — MORE THAN I COULD HAVE IMAGINED Hello, I just discovered the most mindboggling mystery of Erubon Cave! I don’t even know how or where to begin. I kept going deeper into the cave for what felt like centuries, yet still couldn’t find anything. I took a short break to rest my legs. If I’m being honest, I was contemplating whether or not this journey was even worth more of my time. After a while, I got up and carried on. There was nothing but more cave walls and rocks in front of me. No more bats, no more insects, no more water. There was nothing at all. Absolutely zero presence of life. I came across a dead end with a fissure in the wall. It was pretty narrow, but I could fit if I took off my bag. I was hesitant, but it was either squeeze through for the sake of exploration, or turn back. And I wouldn’t dare choose the latter. So I went on through. The further I went, the tighter it got. I was even having trouble breathing. I think I passed out for a split second. I kept going, but it only got worse. I started hyperventilating due to shortness of breath, my eyes and nose were leaking uncontrollably, and my body was trembling. It felt like something was urging me not to go any further. But I kept going. I had to know what was on the other side. I even grazed my side on some kind of plant or vine along the way. My vision began to blacken, and I grew weaker by the second. But I kept going. I just had to. Eventually, I saw the end of the fissure. I was almost there. It was extremely painful, but I pushed myself. “I have to make it!” “I have to make it!” I said that over and over again. And then, I did it, I made it through. I was on the other side. I was panting like a man who had just overcome a heart attack. My vision was still blurry and dark, but I swear I saw a light, with someone walking towards me. I was going to say something, but I blacked out before I could utter a single word. When I came to, I saw that bright light again, but not the person. My body wasn’t hurting anymore, for some reason, and the cut on my side was gone. I walked towards that light to see what it was. I expected it to be an exit, but it was so much more. On the other side of that light was something marvelous. It was a world. I mean, it looked like the normal world, but it wasn’t. It was a whole new world. A world I would only see in my dreams. The sky is three different shades of blue with clouds that look like cotton or pillows. There’s a forest with the biggest and greenest trees I’ve ever seen. The vegetation is so colorful, and so distinctive. There are plants that I’ve never seen before, exotic fruits, animals of all kind walking side by side. There are mountains with various appearances beyond the horizon. Pointed, rounded, tall, short, snow filled, grassy, rocky, bendy, rigid. Rivers flow throughout the land. Waterfalls scattered in several places. There’s a rainbow in every direction. And the temperature is simply perfect. I can’t look away from the sight. It’s breathtaking. None of it seems real, like it came straight out of a fairytale. There’s no way it’s real. But I’m looking directly at it. So it has to be. It’s remarkable. I’ve never felt so at peace. My body feels so light. Like I could take flight and soar with the birds. I don’t understand anything anymore. What is this place? How has it been kept a secret for so long? How does nobody know about it? Where even is this? How does it exist? I’ve never been here before, so why do I feel so at home? I can’t believe what I’ve just discovered. A hidden world within our own. This is groundbreaking. And I’m the one who found it. The contents of Erubon Cave are amazing. It’s fascinating. It’s exquisite. It’s wondrous. It’s perplexing. It’s inconceivable. It’s peaceful. It’s heaven. It’s heaven! IT’S HEAVEN! IT’S HEAVEN! IT’S HEAVEN! IT’S HEAVEN! IT’S HEAVEN! It’s heaven. I can’t wait to tell everybody back home. They all have to know about this place. They have to see it with their own eyes. I don’t ever want to leave. I want to stay here in heaven. I want to stay. I want to stay. I want t-

myg0xg

Beneath The Plateau

The fog marked the edge of the world. It marked inexplicable pain, suffering, and certain death. But I’ve touched it now. Why was I still alive? I was back again, bag packed, standing at the edge. Nobody would notice, nobody would think to notice. I wouldn’t have. Why would anyone think to willingly step into a raging fire or lay face down in the hot spring? The fog swirled just below my feet. The first time was an accident, maybe I got lucky. The scrape on my leg from the fall still ached. I was going to touch it again. It was colder than I remembered. Maybe the anxiety had numbed my body the first time. Now the excitement had enhanced my senses. The fog was thin up close. From the plateau it looked impassible as stone, but here it flowed like water. Another step. The dirt was no different here. The stones still held my weight. Another two steps. The fog was at my waist. I held my breath and ducked my head under for a single moment then back up. Should I breathe again? What if the fog stuck to the inside of my body and I couldn’t get it out? I climbed back up until I was no longer touching it and exhaled deeply. The fog didn’t stick, but I tasted it, I smelled it. It smelled like a soft summer shower. Was this a form of summer shower? Was the fog nothing more than an eternal mist? My heart raced. I was scared, sure, but this changed everything. I could have gone home, I could have told the elders that the fog was just water. But they wouldn’t listen, would they? They’d ignore the discovery and jump to reprimand. I would be punished for going this far from the plateau, let alone touching the fog. I stepped back in. Each foot followed just after the last. The fog was thin in front of me but still thick a few lengths away. I kept stepping. Stones, branches, plants. Plants? In the fog? The life suffocating fog harbored plants? And not just plants. I kept moving and came to a tree, many trees. So many trees that the fog lifted a little. Was this another forest or was it somehow attached to the sacred forest on the plateau? I moved more freely now. The trees were bare enough at my height that I could see a clear way down. The fog grew lighter with each step and my pace quickened. Each tree I passed was like a friend encouraging me, telling me to keep moving. I circumvented boulders and fallen logs as I saw an opening in the trees. It was brighter there and I headed straight for it. My feet stopped cold and I caught my breath. All my thoughts, my assumptions, my laws were broken. My eyes took in a sight that frightened me beyond explanation. I could see what the fog had hidden all my life. I saw color filled tree tops, magnificent cliff faces, and at unimaginable distances away I saw what must be the bottom of other plateaus cutoff by the fog that now flowed above me. What stunned me most was that I could see at all. The fog didn’t block the light down here. Was that because the fog was thin? So thin that light was allowed through? I knew I must go back. I must tell the elders, and if they didn’t listen, I would tell the people. They deserved to know what had been kept from them. There was beauty here; there was life here. But would they listen? Would they understand without seeing it? How many would venture down to see it for themselves? Would the elders allow even that? Of course not. My words would be those of a heretic. I found my footing again and stepped. I could see a clearing below me. I’d rest there and collect my thoughts. The sun was rising as I left, so I should have plenty of time to rest and make my way back up before dark. The trees were sparse in this area but the stones had formed an easy path down. The clearing was not far. I took in the sights as long as possible before entering the clearing at last, but it was not as empty as I had assumed it would be. I was bewildered to see a tatter of cloth and sticks. A collapsed tent, not unlike the one in my bag. A circle of large stones surrounded the cold remains of a fire. Someone had been here. But how? I presumed I had seen other plateaus but so far in the distance, so far away. How could someone have made it all the way here? And where were they now? No, this must have been the camp of someone from my own plateau. But who could have left without notice? Well, I had, so maybe someone else had before me. I walked the camp several times, eating a bit of the beans and goat that I brought. There was nothing else here, no trace of who set the camp. But to my surprise, there was a bit of a trail on the downward side of the clearing. An opening in the trees and a dirt worn path lead away from the camp, away from the plateau. I should to go home. It was approaching mid-morning I was sure. But maybe a few more steps wouldn’t make a difference. The trail was well formed, but not recent. The dirt was packed down and the branches of the trees were broken, even cut away from it. I’d follow it for a bit and turn back when it ended. Perhaps it lead to a water source for the camp. I’d noticed that the ground had become easier to travel in other ways, too. It was no longer steep and rocky but covered in dirt and brush. I was stepping on moss and leaves more than stone now. The smell of the air was different too. The sap of the trees seemed to flow more willingly here and it filled my nose with a peculiar sweetness I quite enjoyed. It was warm too. I found I had to remove my coat after awhile. This place was exotic, and I was an outsider. Though that was a familiar feeling on the plateau. The trail had guided me to water after all. A small stream flowed here from the ground. I had filled my goat bladder as I’d only just noticed that it was nearly empty. Then another question came. Would there be goats down here? There must have been, as new ones tended to arise from the fog every so often. The elders called the goats a gift from the fog god Aero, but now I was not so sure. Could they have been living their lives down here and accidentally gotten themselves caught on our plateau? Did we take them from their homes to keep them for our own? Could the goats have made the trail? Maybe, but not the camp. Thinking of the trail, I noticed it continued on the other side instead of ending at the water. I stepped carefully across the shallow water and continued down the trail. Occasional gaps in the trees revealed that I had traveled much lower down the plateau than I realized. I would stop at the next clearing and prepare myself to return home. This world was pulling me deeper in. A horn in the distance suppressed my awe. I was silent and still. The horn blew again. It was distant but clear. I was not alone in this forest. Now was my chance to turn back. I had come too far down from the plateau and now I was given a sign by the gods to leave this place and return home. The horn sounded again, but more distant this time and lower. Maybe they were fleeing, whoever they were. Could there have been a group of people down here, not living on a plateau but in this underworld? The trail was leading towards the sound. I may regret this decision, but I must see just a bit more. At the worst I would return home at dusk now. The trees had grown a bit thicker but the trail was alive and I followed it closely. It held my hand alone in this new place and I trusted it with my life. Each twist and turn I followed. Every root worn down and stone pushed to the side told me to keep going. This trail wanted to be followed, I would not forbid it its purpose. I twisted around a thick bush and bumped into something as tall as me, as strong as me, and as human as me. I acted fast and grabbed at the man’s unusual cloth top with my left and raised a fist my right. I knew only one way of defense, and that was to strike fast and first. I see now this was my fear’s way of consoling the fact that I was about to hurt a man. I had learned punishment from the best. We stood frozen together in that moment, before I saw his eyes. He was frightened of me. He had made no effort to defend against my grip and just stood, hands back by his head. He watched me. “Who are you?” I requested. “Jim,” he pleaded, “My name is Ranger Jim. Please, I’m not going to hurt you.” I was still holding the man by the top. I watched his eyes for any sign of his intended movement. He only looked back at me. “What’s your name,” he asked. “Landi,” I answered. “Are you coming from the camp?” he asked again. I was. Maybe I shouldn’t be holding him as tight, there seemed to be no intention of harm. “Yes,” I replied. I loosened my grip on the man’s top. He took a breath of relief. “Are you from here?” I hesitated, “From the forest?” “From the forest? No, of course not. This time of year I’m from Tranquility. I’m stationed there.” I didn’t know that word stationed. I think the man could see the confusion on my face as he said it. “Do you know where you are? Do you need help? You’re pretty far up the mountain and not carrying very much.” Mountain. Another unfamiliar word. Did he mean the plateau? The man took a step back, finally realizing what he was looking at. “Did you come from the top? From the plateau?” the man whispered. I thought carefully. Was it wise to tell this stranger where I was from? Would he find a way to my people and hurt them? Would he tell them that I had ventured below the fog? Would he be able to convince them that this world existed? “I have,” I whispered back, ashamed of my secret. Ashamed of the rebellion of my elders. The man looked at me with thoughtful eyes. “Come with me,” he requested, “let’s get you to a station.” “Station?” “Yes, it’s somewhere safe where we can help take care of you.” “I do not need to be taken care of. I will return to my people.” “Landi? It’ll be very dark by the time you make it back to the plateau. Please, let me help you. This mountain gets dangerous and cold at night. Let me and my friends keep you safe and warm. We can feed you and then you can return to the top in the morning.”

sik1wq

Forbidden Berries

September 7, 1592 We have made land! By God, we have! The journey of four moons hath proved that Providence hath smiled upon his people. Battling bitter tempests and with rations scant, we landed in the most luxurious acreage that He hath so befitted Man since the days of Eden: white sandy beaches, rays of sunshine glittering through lush and leafy greenery, laden with fauna to heart's and stomach's contentment. We kissed terra firma and made camp beneath a proud cross next to our colors. This land, this mysterious, pristine, tropical bit of paradise, hath yet to be claimed. Alas, we have done so in the name of God and Country. We feel as conquerors of the New World. September 10, 1592 Verily, the New World is more prosperous than expected. Our intrepid band hath raised the stolid trunks of these exotic trees and made bulwarks of them. Spanish vessels may be on the horizon anon; thus, we must be the readier—the watchword be vigilance! The fruit-bearing trees are a stone's throw from our mooring lines. The cervine are naive and corpulent, begot by lack of carnivorous predators. To the apostate, this surely wouldeth convert he, for what sustenance and shelter needeth we if 'tis not already supplemented? Indeed, the work of the Almighty. I am assured that our venture here will prove prosperous and abundant. His Majesty will be most pleased to see his kingdom and riches expanded to the far side of the globe. So shall we, for history will remember us who staked the claim for eternity. September 11, 1592 We've struck gold! Huzzah, we cried as the first nugget glittered from the unearthed lode like the star that led shepherds to Bethlehem. Our tools labored upon the lustrous ore until we yielded bushels in buckets too cumbersome for even our most stalwart—two men a bucket, the least! Praise be! I held enough gold to make even the Duke of York blush as I write this entry today with a decided nature never to rest until I have yielded the last drop from the teat of this abounded land. September 18, 1592 Barbarians! Sighted yesternight! One of our men meant to harvest from a newfound berry bush when a savage sunk an arrow before his feet. The action startled ol' Borris that he fell to his withers and discharged his musket. I, in my quarters, engrossed with the task of tallying our twenty-stone gold haul, was piqued by the thunder of the powder's smack. We sallied forth from our fortress and met the strange interlopers. Strange, for they bore a resemblance to us—bipedal and similar differentiae but rough-hewn and unrefined bearing compared to our civilized ilk. Their naked disposition bore skin shaded of sun-beaten leather and wild, swarthy tresses knotted and shaped in peculiar fashions. Their aquiline noses and lipless placid stares, devoid of guile or cunning, made them seem ever the more beastly. If the situation couldeth ever be more dire, one wielded the tongue of Spaniards. Swords were drawn, muskets at the ready, we were prepared to lay waste to the savages when Percy, one of our compatriots and a former sailor of the King's navy who spent several years as a prisoner in a castillo in the Port of Malaga, stepped forth and spoke. His command of the language was equal to that of the savage's, whose name was Tefi. From what we gathered, the barbarians have been natives of these lands immemorial and called themselves the "Surp'nte" people. They are the only  inhabitants; however, when pressed about Tefi's knowledge of the Spanish language, we learned that the Spanish had made landfall here about four years ago. They took Tefi back to Spain as a prisoner and then returned him three years hence. Fortunately, Tefi was not bespelled by Popery and kept his tribal religion—better an apostate than a Catholic, my father always said. When asked why they loosed the warning arrow at the feet of ol' Borris, Tefi sworeth 'twas in zeal, for the red-stemmed and white-fleshed berries were toxic, proven fatal, yet sacred to their faith. A curious way to warn a man, I dare say. We returned to camp unscathed and unharmed with promises to meet with the Surp'nte people at the berry bush at dawn. I remind myself that these are not children of Christendom; they are not promised salvation. We can employ their ignorance to expand our understanding of these lands and extract their riches. Tis clear by any measure that we are superior beings, and our rightful place as Englishmen is for the inferiors to bend to the will of God and England as we blaze forth a path of righteousness. This land is ours by right, by God, and we will soon ensure that these savages will either convert and bathe in baptismal waters or suffer in one of baneful blood. September 24, 1592 We have maintained a peaceful accord with the heretics. They have imparted us with the secrets to cultivate the land and harvest the meat of exotic creatures in boughs on high and in hollows below. We have learned means to draw the sweet waters from springs deep within Earth's bosom. Our strength and constitution waxeth strong in the pastoral land. Methinks I may never wish to depart hence; the grey skies and sooted soil of London Towne scarcely compare to the verdant boon that hath taken to me as a keen and gentle friend. One couldeth grow old here and yield unto eternal slumber with soul in contentment—save there stands a church wherein to render unto God my devotions. Ere long, our time will come to cull the savages and to take this land for our own properly. First, we will test these savages. Upon the morrow, a congenial contest will ensue. We shall gauge the vitality, dexterity, and strength of the Surp'nte people with tests in swimming, racing, scaling, tossing stones, and soldiery. I admit that I am eager to witness the mettle of English blood triumph over these benighted heathens as a means to douse the rebellious spirit that may smolder in their chests. September 25, 1592 Tis with a troubling quill that I write our discoveries following the end of today's contest. In all matters tested, the prowess of the barbarians far surpassed our own. They sped at the swiftness of a young stallion; they raised stone like pots of butter, and scaled cliffs with the adroitness of a squirrel. In all manners, that be physical, we are the lesser. I summoned my compatriots, who expressed the same unease that gnaws at my soul. How couldeth it be that primitive creatures without any clear distinction of physical superiority displayed to the contrary? The answer eludes me. Our meeting adjourned with the conclusion that this mystic land conceals more secrets than we have hitherto perceived, that these barbarians are more surreptitious than charted. We have heightened our awareness and will continue to study the heathens with discretion. I remain steadfast in my belief that deceit and sin lie at the core of their being. We shall prove they err towards a speedier downfall.  September 30, 1592 Alas, their perfidy stands revealed! At dawn by the shore, mine eyes beheld a Surp'nte elder approacheth the thicket of the "sacred berries." His demeanor prior to ingestment of said berries was slow, demure, and displayed a shadow of vigor. My men and I watched as he ate from the bush merrily. Unaffected and unmoved by the supposed toxicity of the fruit, instead, he was nigh invigorated; no longer did he move with such debilitation but rather forceful, upright, and proper, empowered by its essence. My men and I reared in astonishment and summarily apprehended the man. Tefi was summoned, and Percy relayed to us that the berries are indeed toxic, exempting the Surp'nte folk who haveth purportedly weathered their stomachs to withstand its bite. A dubious assertion if I ever heard one. This blatant indignation surged through our ranks. We rallied against the knaves. All those we could muster were led to the camp and have been held in our stalls, bounded by wrist and ankle. Our sentinels stand vigilant, for we are certain to have stoked the savage spirits of their unreported kith and kin. I beseech thee, O Lord, grant them the folly to assail us, for they shall feel the powder from my pistol and steel of my blade in their bellies! October 1, 1592 The heathens are at our doors. Their clamorous cries trill akin to the demons that accompany Lucifer himself. Yet we remain resolute, for their pitiful spears and bows are no match for powder and tempered steel. Furthermore, before their siege, my men gathered all the "sacred" berry bushes we could manage. Tearing root and stem asunder, we concocted a draught of these forbidden fruits. As my quill scratches this parchment, a small bowl and chalice lay before me filled with the berries and its yield. I am eager to feel its effects anon. I shall take my share tonight, and upon the morrow, I will record for posterity the triumph over these savage dogs and wholly claim this land for God and Country. The date is marked. Let it be known that this day shall be a glorious day that willeth echo in the annals of history for all time! October 2, 1592

hfv4c6

Karina's Cave

February 10 We’ve arrived! After a long hot day in the double cab pickup, Jack driving, Alex in the front, Amara, Jaime and I in the back, we’re “home.” Our site is as far down a dirt road into the jungle as ever. Francisco and Louisa have done a wonderful job cleaning out and refurbishing our old haunt. Jack thanked Francisco for keeping guard on our past excavations so no one bothered them. His frail and elderly wife is a good cook and we’re glad to have them here along with five other workmen. Tonight I found I couldn’t eat, not hungry after our late lunch on the road, the heat, and hours of travel. Amara came in with calabash fruit in its green skin and white flesh. She offered me some saying “It’s so delicious!  Sweet and with a soft texture.” But I declined. I’m aware I’m getting older and less willing to try new things.  Alex and Jaime insisted they would have starved without Louisa’s soup and tortillas for a late supper. Jack spent time talking to Francisco and the workman, so I’m not sure when or if he ate.            I claimed the bed by the door and am writing this on the porch with light from the Coleman lantern. Tomorrow we plan to see the tomb again—our great find from our previous season. Even though Jack’s grant focuses on another two temples plainly visible on our LIDAR map, our curiosity remains intense about what we’ve all dubbed “the road to nowhere.” This time we’ll see where it goes. Is it a formal road headed to a community which no longer exists? To a reservoir? To??? These ancient Mayans had a purpose for everything, so we wonder. February 11 A great day. Wonderful to be together with the team and revive old jokes. Wonderful to see good old “King Jag’s” tomb and wonderful to start hacking through the jungle on the road so visible from the aerial reconnaissance, but not so visible from the ground. Alex and Jaime did yeoman’s work with their machetes and joked that they needed the magic axes of the mythological Hero Twins to cut it down without any labor on their part. Amara and I did our best as their partners, and Jack kept us going with GPS readings. Francisco and one workman will keep clearing jungle on the road while we start on the temple. We’ve made bets on how long his project will take, and the consensus is a week. We passed the ballcourt we had cleaned out last time and it reminded me of playing there with Jack’s children. That also brought back my acting out the story of the Popol Vuh for them, including the Hero Twins in the underworld. I always forget how vicious the bugs are, how noisy the frogs, how often I see snakes, even poisonous ones, and how outrageously loud the howler monkeys sound as our pre-dawn alarm clock. But the birds remain as beautiful as ever, I have bug spray, Jaime has a snake-bite kit and first aid training, and I’m happy. The mosquitos are killing all of us. Thankfully we’ve all taken our drugs to avoid malaria or I’m sure we’d already be hallucinating. Alex barely avoided a disaster. He hadn’t noticed that Louisa had started the fire on the metal stove and almost sat on it but veered away at the last minute. February 12 Francisco planted corn in the space between our building and their small house. Now in dry season it has been harvested and only withered stalks remain. But I can picture how it will grow when he has planted once more and the rain makes the corn lush and green. It’s a mark of civilization in the midst of the always encroaching jungle. Our dry season digs give us only a partial vision of life out here far beyond any towns. February 14            I was too tired to write last evening, but we’re moving ahead on excavating. I needed to say “Happy Valentine’s Day” to my dear Luis and reached him this evening with the ham radio. I’ve tried with my cellphone, but we’re out of range. February 17            This gap in writing for two days did not occur from tiredness but from one of the more startling experiences of my life. As Jack said, “All’s well that ends well.” Luis would be appalled and might put an end to my archaeological career. But Jack still needs me. As a Guatemalan academic I have easier access to obtaining all the permissions we need, and the credibility to share our results in my own country. I’m not ready to quit.            In the late afternoon the day before yesterday I took a walk to Francisco’s path down the ancient “White Way” to see how far the team had reached in five days. They’re not yet to the end by any means, though I could see signs of an old reservoir on the right. I could also see where breadnut trees had been cultivated. To the left I saw a rabbit escaping down an incline. As I cautiously followed, I slipped and plunged into an unexpected opening.            The next moment I sat there, ankle sprained, in the dark.            “Well, well, well,” I thought, “I’ve fallen into the underworld, and no mistake.” My painful ankle matched a similar pain on my right leg and right wrist where I must have unconsciously attempted to brace my fall. I tried to climb or even stand and soon realized I had so many pains coming from my whole body, possibly something broken, I couldn’t do it. I must have fallen at least 10 feet.            Sitting in the dark, I felt a lump on the back of my head and wondered if I had knocked myself out. I felt groggy.            Only after a while did it occur to me my colleagues might have begun to worry. At that point I sensibly recalled I had my cellphone in my fanny pack. Though I couldn’t use it to call, I knew the flashlight would work and comforted myself with its thin light.            The phone said 6:52 pm. Almost an hour later I heard Alex’s voice yelling, “Karina!” I yelled back, hoping the sound would carry, even though it sounded hollow as it reverberated in my cave. Then I saw his face, slightly blue in my weak light, looking down through a hole up toward my left.            What a relief to be hoisted out by Alex and Jaime, carried back through the dark, Amara guiding with a large flashlight, the others with headlights. Jack started to scold saying, “Why on earth…” but stopped himself as he looked into my eyes.            “I found the underworld, Xibalba,” I said, attempting to make a joke.            I stayed in the room, my sprain carefully taped by Jaime, no broken bones evident, dosed with painkillers, and commanded by everyone to rest. Louisa plied me with tea and soup and I slept most of the day. Now today I feel well enough to hobble around and write all of this down. February 18            I was back in business today. The team labeled the site of my fall “Karina’s Cave” and began exploring it yesterday. Jack found caving gear to use, and today I could not resist going along, even though my taped ankle still hurts. The rest of the pain is masked by enough medicine to keep me a little loopy.            We climbed into the hole with the help of a rope. The others had found a large room yesterday, but that is as far as they went. The room full of stalactites looking like knives had an eerie feel to it as though they could fall and slice through us at any moment.            The slope of a tunnel descended and we crept through in single file, able to see thanks to our headlamps. We reached another wide opening where we could gather. We all work in T-shirts thanks to the heat outdoors, but this felt so cold and damp we wished for our jackets.            “Do we go on?” asked Jack and we all said yes. We had two openings from which to choose and took the right hand one, planning to come back to the other.            After more travel we saw bones scattered on the ground and Jaime said, “This must be a jaguar’s den. No question that those,” he pointed, “are bones from a deer.”            Amara’s voice sounded as thin and nervous as I felt. “Do you think a jaguar might be nearby?”            “No,” said Jaime, “I don’t think so, but can’t be sure. He is probably at the river since they prefer that, and hunt at dawn and dusk.”            “Do we go on?” asked Jack again. This time I was tempted to say no but waited and the group voted to continue. At this point it felt we had entered an area of higher humidity, and as we climbed we found ourselves uncomfortably hot. Something about the lack of air circulation had changed the temperature to something miserable.            Then we felt fresher air and realized we’d entered an immense room filled with sleeping bats. The thousands of creatures hanging on the ceiling corresponded with gluey gooey refuse under our feet.            “Help!” I yelled, as I slipped, and Alex and Jaime grabbed me from each side.            We reached an opening to the outdoors in the late afternoon and sat looking out over the jungle treetops drinking water and chatting now that we had returned to daylight. Suddenly the sleeping bats awoke and flew out in an immense cloud of noisy chatter, an awe-inspiring sight lasting a long time.            Below us we saw a river and since we all felt hot, sweaty, and repulsed by bat smells, we agreed a dip in the river would refresh us and climbed down. Afterwards, exhilarated, we climbed back up the hill. Jack used his GPS to set us on the road toward camp, and Alex and Jaime heroically opened the way. Within a kilometer, we’d found Francisco’s path. February 19            Discussion today has been re what the cave might mean. How does the far opening connect or not connect to the ancient road? Might this explain our Road to Nowhere? We don’t know.            Amara and I agreed to dig at the temple while the three men spend the day looking for answers around the cave and the road. We don’t think anyone, even looters, have gone through the cave, but nor did we see anything ancient Mayans might have left there either. February 20            Consensus. We have to re-enter the cave to see if the turn we did not take leads somewhere interesting. The bat opening is about ½ kilometer from the road’s supposed end, so that is ambiguous. We’ll do temple excavating tomorrow and head to the cave soon. When we passed the ballcourt this morning I again thought of the Hero Twins, since their noisy ballplaying caused the Lords of the Underworld to demand they come play ball in Xibalba and after daily ball games, each night the Hero Twins stayed in different rooms undergoing different life-threatening ordeals.  Over supper I commented on this, and Jack dubbed Alex and Jaime the Hero Twins, a new nickname that will stick. Amara says that with his blond hair, Alex is the sun which makes Jaime the moon. February 22 Today we retraced our steps to the tunnel we had not taken. It went down, not far, and a natural shelf had signs of ashes, so likely it had been used as an altar. We took a sample of ash for establishing a date, and at some point we’ll take it to the lab.  As we continued we found another exit less than 100 feet from the road. We’ll work on proof, but our instinct is that the cave helps explain the road. My hip began hurting and I told the team I must be falling apart like one of the gods from the underworld, having spent so much time in the cave. Jaime assured me I’d be fine and to take another pain pill. February 23            Jack took the ashes and used the need to test them as a “reason” to visit his family. I’m jealous, but he’s the lead investigator and has a right to do this. He left Alex in charge and I could take offense since I’m so much older, but it makes sense since our workmen will respond better to male direction.            To my horror, I saw a rat streak across our dining area today. Admittedly, without any walls, our open-air kitchen/dining room doubtless belongs as much to this creature as to any of us, but it remained a shock. Alex and Jaime assured me it shouldn’t bother me. Amara responded that it was perfectly normal to be upset and to ignore these insensitive guys. February 25            Alex’s idea of being in charge was to instigate a late night of card playing and drinking yesterday. As the middle-aged responsible adult, I suppose I could have objected, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself and Alex and Jaime entertained us with stories of their pranks on a pompous professor and his equally pompous teaching assistants. A lot of laughter and a lot of alcohol. We all admitted to hangovers this morning and are reformed characters after accomplishing relatively little in today’s heat. February 26            This morning the early morning sounds of the howler monkeys, then the bright and glowing sunlight around camp, and the beauty of enormous giant taro leaves reminded me how privileged I am to experience all of this. The immense sapodilla trees, the breadnuts (ramón, maya nut, corn tree), the liana vines and the orchids more than make up for the mosquitos and all the spiders crawling about.   I enjoyed my river bath after such a hot day. This evening I stepped out into the night to see the stars and now the moon has risen and is casting beautiful light on the trees, distracting me from my writing.            A good day working on our trench into the temple. We’re hoping for another tomb. February 28            Today Francisco said that his grandfather, who lived in a village about 30 kilometers from here, was a Mayan prayermaker and held ceremonies in sacred caves and elsewhere. From previous comments, we think his grandfather may also have looted some of these temples as a way of supplementing family income.  Francisco has gone straight by choosing to help us (with adequate pay, of course), but I feel empathy for people like his grandfather who lived in poverty and had such lucrative goods at hand. Much as my archaeological community (quite justly) disapproves, I figure that on some level, these things were his inheritance from distant ancestors. March 1            Jack arrived late last night. He says the lab will call in a few days to let us know the dates. On my part, all is forgiven for his taking this small break—he has young children after all and they need to see him. March 3 The lab called this afternoon. The ashes are from recent times, not ancient at all. We’re thinking about this. March 4            Jack proposed grilling Francisco about whether his grandfather might have known about this cave. After conversation, Francisco admitted going there himself as a small boy. So much for outside experts finding something new! March 5            We’ve been here over three weeks. Tomorrow we’ll head out for a break and be back in another week to keep working. Jack has claimed his title as Lord of the Underworld and the “Hero Twins” say they’ll be happy to defeat him. Despite Francisco and his grandfather’s precedence, I’m still claiming explorer’s rights to “Karina’s Cave”. Today I took pictures to share with my students. I’ve cleverly linked sections of the cave with the “ordeal houses” in the Popol Vuh, and included the altar, the river, and other things that remind me of events in the story. I even took a picture of Amara holding a calabash, and one of Alex and Jaime which I will identify as the Hero Twins, archaeology and mythology neatly intertwined. All this serves as a reminder that these places we explore, though covered by jungle for more than 1200 years, were inhabited for at least a millennia before that.

2q88w1

But, No One Goes There

The ocean breeze is strong today. The King Tide waves crash, a phenomenon that is costing coastline as the sea gobbles up beach acreage. Even the birds are buffeted by the wind as they pick their way across the sand searching for their morning meal. They are blown to and fro, their feathers spiking in the airflow like a punk rocker’s mohawk. The sun is up, but still low in the sky. Its rays light the surf with golden beams - a golden road to heaven. Although a bit chilly yet in these early hours, the sun will bake the ground later in the day. Sunscreen, hats and umbrellas will be making their appearances in short order as bodies line up on towels and in chairs across the beach. I’m hungry. The wind whips my hair around my head and I keep trying to tuck it back under my scarf. I wrap my fleece blanket closer around my shoulders and take a deep breath. Another glorious day! Today I will see new places. Today I will meet new people. Today Milo and I will be adventurers, on a quest, searching for our meaning of life. Although, truly, this is it. This is the life!  I am so happy! I wake every day knowing all is well, life is joyous and there are places to go and people to meet. I go to bed every day knowing all is well, tomorrow is another day, another dream realized, another mile or two down the road of life. Milo and I are co-pilots on a journey I could not have dreamt possible not long ago. We are explorers, sightseers, journeyers...we are compatriots keeping each other company, loved and loving and someone to snuggle as we sleep. My life has become like a red carpet, unrolling across a nation so interesting and diverse the dreamer in me feels called to pose and shine. I am making friends everywhere I go, I am participating in life knowing I am unique and will get out of it only what I put in. Each day is a gift, I leave planning to the “Man Upstairs” and the miles keep rolling along. My window is the window on a world I thought I’d never see. And I’m thankful. Everyday my journal fills with the events, sights, people and scenes of the day. The time I bumped my way down a mountain in Georgia on six bad tires! The oil change in Syracuse; perfect timing for a trip to meet family at a New York winery, where I would stay two beautiful nights! Meeting Sandy and Gayle in Maine- somehow instant friends, a meeting of hearts that remains. Milo’s fascination with the croaking bodies in “Frog Pond” and his determination to follow them into the water. The mountains, the rivers, the cities and towns, God’s beautiful earth rolled out before us in all its glory.  Our adventures have been so wonderful, words don’t do them justice. The challenge of painting a picture, creating a feeling is invigorating so I write because God speaks to me in my journal. And now, our path leads to somewhere new and unknown. Not just to me, but everyone who has mentioned the possibility follows with the warning, “But no one goes there.” To me it sounds like a dare, so Milo and I pack up on this beautiful morning to take another ride. Driving my 25’ RV was a challenge in the early days of my adventure but now, Ruby feels like home on wheels. She is reliable, comfortable and on this day I feel energized by my Sirius radio blasting oldies as we meander down another highway. Our destination is at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. I’ve heard the path leads to a spot that overlooks the world, such an enticing idea! We’ve already seen and enjoyed so many beautiful beaches and coastal towns, yet something new beckons me, and Milo is always game for new adventures. A few hours later, I pull into the gas station everyone mentioned as a waypoint. I’m stopped for gas…again! It’s amazing how Ruby can eat fuel! Here the air is crisp and cool with a surrounding forest that seems a bit ominous, if I’m honest with myself. A chill runs up my spine and I feel the hair on my arms stand up as I latch Milo’s leash and lower him to the ground for a walk. While the tanks fills, we walk to the edge of the parking lot and I realize just how lonely this place looks. The highway stretches for miles back the way I came, and miles forward in the direction I was heading, but there is nothing much around this small station. Once Milo has explored and done his “business”, we head into the body of the station in hopes of clearer directions to our destination. The interior of the building looks as forlorn as the exterior; this place has been here a long time and wears its history comfortably in a shabby, weather worn way. The aisles are pretty dark, really, although the place looks well stocked. I decide to grab a few snacks to keep us happy until we make our final destination of the day hours from now. Approaching the counter, a tiny woman closed the book she was reading, marking her place and stood from the chair she’d occupied. “Did you find what you need, Sweetie?” she asked kindly, smiling. She seemed to scan the parking lot through the window. “Oh, do you drive that thing all by yourself?” she asked, pointing to Ruby, sounding surprised. I smiled, not for the first time being asked that question. As a 70 year old woman, most people I’d encountered couldn’t imagine me alone out here on the road in something Ruby’s size. “Yes, just me and Milo,” I smile back. “I’m hoping you can help me find my way to the place everyone says I must see, but…” I raise my hands to do air quotes, “nobody ever goes there.” I laughed. “Do you know what I’m describing?” She was busy ringing up my purchases but glanced up, definitely with surprise on her face. “Seems to me, if everyone says no one goes there, you should take the advice,” she said cryptically. “I thought they were being funny,” I answer, “If no one ever goes there, how does anyone know it’s there?” I laugh again. “It sounded mysterious and beautiful in the descriptions I’ve heard, and I’ve been to a lot of places, me and Milo, that people seem surprised we’d get to. Why not one more to memorialize in my journal?” She frowned, shaking her head. “That will be $4.50,” she said, her lips thin with disapproval. “I’d think someone would listen to those who know better, if they were smart,” she added. Handing her a $5.00 bill, I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m on the road for fun and adventure, and so far I’ve had a wonderful time everywhere I’ve gone. No problems or disasters. I don’t expect to start having them now.” I put the change in my pocket and grabbed the bag. “So, can you offer directions or information that will help me, or just the warning?” I smiled, hoping to see the woman smile again. “Turn left when you see the dead tree on the left side, about 5 miles ahead,” she said. “But, I’d rather you take the warning.” She paused, looked over the counter to smile at Milo who was patiently waiting. “What a good boy,” she said, “too bad your Mama is determined to ignore good sense.” I laughed again, sure this cryptic carrying on was more advertisement than deterrent. “Milo is good protection. We’ll be OK, won’t we boy?” Turning, I thanked the woman. After putting Milo back into Ruby, I unattached the fuel hose and noticed, when I looked up, the woman was at the window staring at me, rather than having returned to her book. The chill crept up my spine again and I wondered if I was being reckless, with so many telling me not to go. Shaking off the question, I laughed at myself. This is the 21st century, for Pete’s sake! Back on the road, I popped open my soda and a bag of chips. I handed a chip to Milo and took a sip of my soda. “We’ll be OK, won’t we boy?” I asked aloud. “Silly people.” The five miles rolled past quickly as I munched and the radio’s volume lessened the sense of isolation I felt in this forested, desolate place on the road. The dead tree was definitely a landmark; I couldn’t have missed it! Slowing Ruby, I glanced down the path that led further into the woods next to what was left of the tree. Deciding the overhanging trees wouldn’t hamper her progress, I made the turn slowly and carefully letting her settle onto the new path, a dirt road rather than blacktop. “Well, maybe it’s the road that's the problem,” I guessed as I crept along paying close attention to the width and height of the road with Ruby’s safety in mind. So far, so good. The forest was thick with underbrush on both sides, dark from the overhang of the taller trees. I had been told I’d end up looking at the seemingly endless Pacific in front of me, but it was hard to imagine that now. It felt like it just got darker, and the trees came closer, hugging Ruby like arms reaching. I laughed at myself. Wow, people really did a number on me, igniting my imagination! Suddenly I could see light ahead, like the glow of sunlight on water. Whew! I felt myself relax, recognizing I made it, the ocean was ahead and nothing bad had happened. I was still here and although it may be hard to turn Ruby around for the return trip, I could definitely see us getting back out of here with no issues. It was just a little further through this dense darkness, then we’d see the light. I laughed at myself saying out loud, “Milo, I see the light!” He glanced up at me with a wary look. He tried to get in my lap, and I pushed him down. “It’s OK, boy,” I said, petting his head, “we’re nearly there. We’re OK.” But he wasn’t, he tried again and again to jump into the seat with me. That chill came back, this time with a vengeance. Suddenly, I felt panic. There was light, there sure was, but there was no ocean. I stepped on the brake to stop Ruby’s forward progress because I couldn’t see what was ahead, just light. She kept rolling. I pushed harder, she kept rolling slowly forward. “What the….?” I managed to say before I felt us being lifted. Ruby, in her 10 - 12 ton heaviness was floating. I looked out my driver side window and saw the ground falling away, slowly, so slowly. Milo had found his way into my lap after all and I put my arms around him for comfort, and to give it, because I was no longer driving. Something else was driving yet we were on a vertical road. I tried to look up through the windshield but Ruby’s front bunk blocked my view. Turning my head, I looked up and out my driver’s window. I saw it, hovering over the ground above us. The white light came down from whatever it was and we were caught in the beam, lifting effortlessly. A scream of panic and surprise came from me and Milo whined, his “I’m scared of lightning” whine. The light was so bright, it was all around us, creeping into Ruby through every window, seam and crevice. And then, the light felt warm, safe and I found myself relaxing, almost unconsciously. Milo, too, seemed to relax on my lap and his concerned look dissipated. We were feeling peaceful, floating, comfortable. Then the light went out.

nyvzzy

The Eyes of Cortés

The following journal was found in a repository room of the British Museum, translated from the original Spanish into English by the scholar Maxwell Soverington in the 18th century. The document was misplaced in a file where it remained missing until 1981. The translation is presented here, with section breaks added to distinguish separate, non-dated entries. It is unknown how this text made it to England. 13 September, in the year of our lord 1519 It is on this date that Diego and I, along with a few others, received the grace of Hernán Cortés, our master and leader upon this great expedition, to journey into the jungle and seek out a rumored freshwater spring. Diego has an ulterior motive, as he always does, and it must involve talking to the locals or he would not have sought me out as an interpreter. Soon we shall head out, at which point I’m sure Diego will inform me of his true intentions. 14 September We went straight to the nearest village, of the Tlaxcaltecs, to the home of a medicine woman. Diego said this woman mentioned gold the last time he’d seen her for a poultice to treat sore arms. He’d been able to communicate well enough through gestures, but proved unable to draw more information from her regarding the gold. He needed a proper translator for this interrogation. From this old woman, who was older than perhaps any other I’d met in this strange land, I heard a peculiar tale of superstition. She told me of a lost people who lived deep in the jungle by a stone road that none ever trod upon. She did not mention gold to me directly, but some of the words were what I thought meant “reward” and “forbidden” which are always good signs when it comes to finding treasure. Diego watched me with trepidation. I could tell he wanted to interrogate me as I was interrogating the woman, and could only just hold his tongue to wait ‘til I had the full story. He doesn’t know that my knowledge of the native languages is limited, obviously far less than Cortés’s lover and translator, Malintzin. Twas a bitter day when Cortés discovered her. For once he had Malintzin, and her endless brown eyes, and her tongue that could shift from Spanish to the native languages in an instant, he no longer needed me in his inner circle. When I told Diego about the supposed stone path, and roughly the direction we should travel to find it, he was pleased. And in fact we headed out right then, though it was evening already. I would have rather stayed that night at the home of the old woman for the price of a button, but Diego thought it better if our footprint was quick and light. 16 September Lorenzo is angry, and just as much at myself as Diego, for it was my story that led us so deep into the jungle. We’ve found no path after two days of hard searching in frequent rain. We have stumbled upon the occasional carved white rock that might have been a marker, but no path and no gold. Diego mentioned the possibility of returning to the town, beating the truth out of the old woman. That’s the last thing we should do. * Her name was Ooxchkan. The old woman from the village. I thought perhaps erasing her from this record had been bad luck for me and our expedition. 17 September We have discovered the freshwater spring we weren’t looking for. Gaspar joked that at least we can return successful if we need to. I think our luck turns. 19 September We found it! We found the path and it led us to a city! I should have written earlier in the day, when my mind was fresh on the discovery. It is a city of gray rock: two massive pyramids and many smaller buildings hidden among the trees. This must be like what they have in Egypt! Even now we make our camp atop one of the pyramids. We are like kings of this new world! I cannot write long, the others want to celebrate, drink what little wine we’ve brought. At first light there is surely much more to find. There must be gold here, and who knows what else! The very pyramid we sit atop has chambers beneath we’ve yet to clear of vines. I go to join the others. 20 September We had been frightened when first we caught sight of a pyramid through the dense foliage. Diego had to make a show of pushing ahead. He hacked through the jungle with broad strokes, held his chin and chest up. Before long we were all brave and ready to press forward. I am reminded of this because on our first full day of exploration, we grow uneasy again. We heard the screams of great cats during the night. I didn’t sleep well. * Sebastian found a band of gold. Diego claimed it, promising whatever next we find. Surely there will be more. * I awoke in the middle of the night thinking about the morning we started this journey. Lope Fransisco, quartermaster of Cortés, had watched us with suspicion when we left. So focused on Cortés, on whether his dark eyes betrayed suspicion, that I didn’t think to consider his lieutenants. But from the corner of my eye I saw Lope scowl at us, and that picture burned itself into my mind without me even knowing. Lope Fransisco had always distrusted me, for he is illiterate and dislikes anything that can be accomplished through learning. And he always distrusted Diego, because no one who knows Diego should trust him. 21 September Cristóbal fell into a pit deep in the pyramid and hurt his leg. We’d found soft earth where there should not have been and set to digging. Cristobal was too eager, dug too fast, and the floor collapsed beneath him into a chamber beyond. He began cursing when we propped him at the camp and went back to digging, leaving none to watch him or change his bandage. He also claimed that any gold we found in the chamber should be his, since he’s already paid for finding it. We laughed at him. In the chamber beyond, sharp-eyed felipe found a jade statuette and I found a clay jar with a twisted lizard face. Felipe said that now we must be friends to be so lucky together. I think he wants one ally for certain. * Cristóbal complained that we should not leave him with the ancient ghosts of this city, and he sounded honest. A few laughed, but Diego shouted that Cristobal should not speak of such things. I hadn’t known Diego was afraid until that moment. 22 September There is writing here. On pillars. In the chambers. The writing is strange, not like Spanish or English or Latin or Greek. Many of the letters are faces, twisted and turned, with big lips or a snake’s features. The Tlaxcaltec villagers don’t write. What people lived here? Lorenzo caught me staring at one of the pillars and mocked me for it. I told him to find a donkey to have relations with. He is angry but cannot focus his anger. Soon enough he’ll find someone else to rage at. Sure enough, he now demands wine from Diego, who says there is none left, though we still have plenty of water from the spring. Soon everyone will be mad at everyone. * We do not know who these people were! If they are not the ancestors of the Tlaxcaltecs, who are they? How can we be safe from them if we can’t even name them? 23 September Sebastian is gone. And he took with him the gold band and the jade statuette, snatched them during the night. Diego rages at all of us, Gaspar especially because he was on guard duty before Sebastian and should have noticed something or not fallen asleep so fast. Gaspar joked that he assumed Diego would sleep the lightest since he’d claimed the only gold and so it was his responsibility to stop thieves. But Diego was not in a laughing mood. We could try to track Sebastian, but could spend days on it for the paltry treasure he stole. Surely in this untouched city there is far greater wealth, hidden somewhere. Once we find it we can leave with all we can carry, get to the coast, hire a ship to take us away forever. There is still a tunnel to follow in the hollow below, and another stone building might be just feet off the path, filled to bursting with gold, such is this dense jungle. We cannot leave until we’ve found it. * I had a dream last night about Cortés. It was the night we dismantled the ships. He said he had to destroy the ships so that legally we’d be soldiers and not sailors. In the dream he burned them in a bonfire. And the fire made every man stare, stock still. I looked around and saw the fire reflected in every pair of Spanish eyes, every pair of eyes except those of Cortés! His eyes were jet black, serious as they always are. He caught me looking at him and stared back. Then he knew what I had done, and what I would do. Now that I’m awake I don’t know if the dream is a memory or an invention of my mind. 24 September Felipe found a ring of silver. And Lorenzo found a golden scale, like a fish scale, perhaps from some larger piece of jewelry. Diego took both and said he will sleep atop them so that no one could make off with them during the night. Lorenzo’s eyes went so wide at this, and he demanded Diego promise him a rightful share. Diego is a wise talker, and was able to soothe Lorenzo, praise his sharp eyes. He assured us all that he could hardly cheat the rest of us before we’d found the treasure horde. And once we found that horde we’d all have more gold than we could carry! * Sebastian is dead. We stumbled upon him. I won’t say how he died but everyone is quiet now. Diego and Lorenzo searched his body and didn’t find the gold band or the jade statuette. I think we should leave. Must leave. But I can’t say it. Diego is consumed with finding real treasure. When I close my eyes to sleep, I pray to God that I do not see the contorted face of Sebastian. * The Tlaxcaltecs fear our guns and our horses and most of all our canons. But they fought us and many died and now they are our allies. Cortés thinks we can destroy the great empire that lies further inland, the Aztecs. The Tlaxcaltecs say there’s a city that floats on a lake. And the soldiers there inhale acrid smoke that makes them forget fear and pain. And they carve out human hearts as sacrifices, pluck them from willing friends and captured enemies. Everyone in our army fears these Aztecs: every Spaniard and every Tlaxcaltec. All except Cortés. * Cortés never laughs, you know. He would say a joke, but never laugh. Then he would say something that sounded wise, like “Better to die with honor than live dishonored.” But he was willing to blast native armies with cannons they’d never known or seen. How can there be honor in that? So many in our expedition see the devil in the natives. But I fear we brought the devil with us! 27 September We have been gone so long now. Cortés will think we are dead or have run off. He may have sent riders after us if he was suspicious enough, perhaps at the council of Lope Francisco. They would not have trouble tracking us to the Tlaxcaltec town. They would not understand the old woman most likely, but if Malintzin were with them and turned her great brown eyes to finding us… they could even now be approaching the pyramid. The howls of the big cats are silent tonight. Something cows them. Something scarier than they lurks in the jungle nearby. * They call Malintzin “La Malinche”, The Traitor, but they should call her the savior. She is the only person who can save anyone from Cortés. Only her endless brown eyes reflect within the black eyes of Cortés! I pray to Malintzin. Save us! Save us! 29 September Sebastian rots in the jungle. Cristóbal’s cries stopped an hour ago. Diego absconded with all our petty loot. Lorenzo and Gaspar ran after him. Even now, Felipe calls to me, pleads with me to emerge and tell him what to do. I will not come out. I stare into the eyes of the lizard-faced jar and ask what will happen to us. Felipe is already marked, as are they all. * They think the ghosts of a lost empire are coming for them. They think the twisted gods of the natives will be their end. I know who comes for us. It is Cortés with his dark eyes that eat reflections. He will test his vengeance upon us before he turns those eyes on the Aztecs.

j1vzq0

The Elsewhere Dead, by Sage Knight

I My wife dies at 3:45pm. Natural causes; we’ve been at that age for a while, so it isn’t surprising. I call the Undertakers at 9:53pm. They arrive five minutes later with their white gloves and black veils over their heads. Always in threes, they come: one to Mourn, one to Comfort, one to Watch, then all to carry away. Death is sacred in Vigil.            The next morning they send Roger, my son, to fill in the paperwork.            “I thought they weren’t supposed to send relations,” I say, staring at my fingernails. I’ve let them grow out, get yellow. It’s hard to care when every nighttime trip to the toilet becomes a marathon of endurance.            “They aren’t.” Roger’s staring at me like he’s trying to read me. “They thought this needed a personal touch.”            I raise my eyebrows because a shrug is too much effort.            “Why’d you wait, mum?” he says. “They know she’d been dead for hours, and you never leave the flat anymore.”            “I wanted to sit with her.”            “You know that’s not procedure.”            “‘Procedure’?” I say. “She’s your mother.”            “Respect, then, like you always told me. ‘The dead are dead, let them pass pass. Take them elsewhere, peace in grass.’”            “I wanted to sit with her,” I repeat. It’s pathetic, I know, after being so insistent about drilling that poem into him all his life, like every parent and teacher has always done, including mine. But I don’t know what else to say.            He makes to retort, probably along these lines, but pulls back, sighs. He’s wagging his fountain pen like an anxious dog. He looks so big in his suit and tie. I never took him as one for a government position as he was growing up, least of all in the business of Death. He’d always wanted to become a VR streamer. Easy, to ache for an escape from the drab greyness of Vigil. Its hulking walls are perpetually in sight from every angle, a constant reminder that you’re closed in. Then, at 18, he was impounded for escaping the walls, for wanting adventure in real life. He was the only one of his friends to make it back. Something clicked for him then. He has never been the same Roger Hope.            “So what about when you die?” he says at last, exasperation taking over. “You want your neighbours to take as long as you did? You want to feel that unease after you pass?”            “Her body twitched,” I say.            He perks up. His voice takes on a different tone. “What?”            “Just a little, in the fingers, shortly before the Undertakers arrived.” I stare at the rug at our feet. The brown patches that litter it are coffee stains but they look like pools of blood. “I knew bodies were supposed to stink, to fart and belch. I knew they weren’t supposed to be elegant - elegance is life’s burden - but I wasn’t expecting her to twitch.”            “Let’s just hope it’s not too late,” he says.            “For what?”            “For her to be peaceful.”            ‘Peaceful’. I rot while she gets to find peace.            “Now.” He holds his fountain pen over the paperwork. “What was her date of birth?”            “Ever the caring son.”            “It’s formality for you to answer,” he says. “Please; you’ve made this difficult enough for us already.” II My father kept rifles in a hidden compartment in his cupboard. Shortly before he passed, he insisted I have them. My wife was against it; since 2098, to be caught with firearms means a life sentence, not worth the risk for an old man’s memory of a volatile hobby. She never knew I moved them to under our bedroom floorboards. One of many lies - little ones, that oftentimes I almost forgot to keep to myself. In the quiet emptiness of the flat now, it seems silly I held on to so many.            Hadn’t I known life was too short for that?            I’m not sure why I’m staring at the bootleg armoury now. I know they’re functional, as beat-up as they look; father showed me how to look after his mechanical girls, and I was religious about their continued maintenance after he was gone. Grief is strange like that.            I remember how my son said he’d managed to cross the wall. The main avenues of transport were too tightly guarded, but there were fault lines on the west side - regular tremors in the earth cause instability, and some cracks are wide enough to squeeze through. I doubted this at the time, but I can understand now. The government likes to dress itself up in authority and knowledge, but it never has enough resources. That is the price of a city isolated.            Why am I even recalling that? What do I want? To sit by her body again, crying all the salt from my system, clawing into the ground beside where she should be breathing, giggling, snoring? I look to the bed. She was lying there just yesterday. The bedsheets are ripped and thrown about where my nails got a hold. Better than scratching away my own skin - or hers.            I’m realising, now, that I’ve already made the decision. I’m going to see her again. I need to see this ‘peace’ Vigil is so insistent on preserving in the dead. The path to the west wall is a slum.            Buildings are blocks of hollowed-out concrete, edges jagged and crude. There is no glass to spare for windows. Beggars come up to me. They smell of piss and mouldy clothes. They kneel at my feet, pull at my jeans, pupils dilated too wide to signify sobriety - the city pumps opiates into these areas because it’s cheaper than food. I feel a bit secure, knowing that in my backpack I have the necessary firepower to drive them away, but guns are loud and there are cops around, even if they’re hidden. Besides, I don’t want to do that to these people. They’ve been systematically reduced to shells of humans because shells don’t have as many needs.            The poverty in this area is probably why the wall isn’t as well maintained. Nobody cares if a druggy escapes and doesn’t make it back.            It isn’t difficult to reach the wall, but making it through gives me some trouble. The first gap that looks large enough to fit me instead makes my ribs and chest hurt. I’m old and fat. I yank myself out and continue along the drab concrete, until, at last, I push through a crack.            The immediate surroundings are difficult to make out. There’s a dust storm, which if I’d been more patient would’ve prevented me from choosing today to leave, but I am the woman I am. I hope the cloth on my face is enough to stop the sand from drowning my lungs. I walk along the wall. The dead are taken north, I know that. How far north, I’m less sure.            If I die out here chasing a phantasm of a woman who made moves on me in the workplace, I can’t say I’ll mind too much.            I’ve been walking a few hours now. My back gave out in the first thirty minutes. I’m using the wall for support. I’m used to the pain, though; I’ve learned not to trust an old bitch’s bones. In some ways, it’s comforting. It distracts from the surrealness of what I’m doing. All I keep thinking is, I’m outside the city. I’m vulnerable. I wish I could see anything to give shape to the great unknown, but all that’s visible through the dust clouds is the impression of the wall, its dark shape towering above.            At some point I find a motorcycle. It’s an old model, the handles way above head height. I start it up. I’m surprised when it rears to life. We are twin souls, abandoned by people who aren’t here anymore, expected to lie down and break. Now, we are journeying together. I grin. I feel like a cavalier hero in a movie, my hair whipping about, ammunition rattling around in my backpack. Wait for me, my sweet, I’ll save you.            I’m not sure when the wall disappeared. It doesn’t matter; there are faint white lines in front me. I’m on some kind of road, and roads have to lead somewhere.            The dust clouds clear, and I hardly know what to make of what is revealed. Everywhere are crumbling skyscrapers at odd angles, and rusted iron sticks up from the ground like the tentacles of something trying to claw out of burial.            I struggle to stay my panic; I need to be prepared for anything. III I stop by a food shop in the road. The motorcycle doesn’t have its leg anymore, so I ease it onto the curb. There, it can sleep a while.            I’m in the ghost of an ancient city, I’ve realised. And if there are any inhabitants, they’re likely to be where they can find something to eat.            It’s a slog to force open the rusted door. A bell tries to ring but rattles and screeches instead. It’s cooler inside. Shelves are full with cans of beans and tinned fruits, coated in dust. They haven’t been opened. What is stopping people from walking in and taking them? And what’s this cloying stench of rotten meat? I can’t see any expired fresh produce from here.            An unseen voice rasps, “Hungry—”            “Hello?” I yell. “Are you all right?”            “Smell… so…” the person behind the shelves says. I can see their shadow.            “You need some food? I can pop one of these open for you.” I approach them.            The figure lunges for me.            I topple back. It scratches and claws, drawing blood from my forearm. Half its head is gone, eyeball swollen with fluid and lolling back and forth. It’s hissing at me. I don’t have any guns out. I kick the thing away. It’s surprisingly light. Bones crack, and it flies across the room. Cans topple and clatter. I open my backpack, yank out the first thing my grip falls on. A shotgun.            It recovers, shaking tinned tomatoes off its shoulders. It scrambles towards me, grabs my ankle.            I aim, fire. The first shot only splits the cans behind it open, leaking beans. One more chance before I need to reload. Focus. I aim again, compress the trigger. This time all but two pellets dig into what’s left of its head. It tumbles back, limp.            I stare, panting. It’s a corpse, clothes tattered, flesh eroded so that its lungs, limp and slimy, become visible. I shakily reload my shotgun. How many others are out there? Or in here?            I struggle to a stand, using a shelf for support, and stumble around the shop. There’s no sign of life, or any other scrambling corpses. I return to the one that attacked me by the entrance. Its finger twitches.            I watch.            Its finger twitches again. The flesh around the bullet holes is sealing up, spitting out the shrapnel.            I grab my backpack, shove open the door, and sprint to the motorcycle.            The thing is groaning. The bell on the door screeches. The pounding of its feet is faster than mine.            I reach the motorcycle, grab it by the handles, and attempt to heave it up. Instead, agony arcs through my lower my back like a flash of lightning, and I topple onto it.            The corpse rushes me, and tackles me off the vehicle. The shotgun is knocked from my grip, and skids away. My backpack is by my side, though. I reach in, this time extracting a pistol. It doesn’t have a spread, meaning I need to be more careful about aiming adequately. There’s one way to guarantee my shot lands.            I stick the gun in its mouth. Its jaw opens and closes, battering the shaft. I fire.            Blood splatters out the other end, spraying down like polluted rain. Once more, it falls limp. I’m not waiting to see what happens this time. I drive its slack body off of me, force myself to a stand in spite of my spine screeching in protest, and approach the motorbike. I crouch and lift it with more leverage from my legs. Though I’m tempted to take a breath, I push my leg up and over the seat.            I get the engine going as the corpse rises behind me, and I rocket away. It gives chase. There’s a moment where I think it might be as fast as I am, but it’s clumsy, and falls face to floor. I’m safe.            It’s not long, however, before I find more. IV I left one of my shotguns with the zombie. I’m down to the pistol and one more shotgun. I have plenty of ammo for each, but the pistol houses six bullets, currently five, and the shotgun two at any one time. I was careful about their maintenance. I wasn’t careful about my own training. Realistically, I have one shot that lands in each before I need to reload.            There’s a crowd of the rotting creatures in a six-way roundabout. Shattered ribs and moulding brains drag themselves from one side to the other with no apparent purpose, between the carcasses of cars and over the rubble of what might once have been a resplendent water fountain.            I scan what’s left of their faces. I’m beginning to peace it all together. The conclusions I’m drawn to don’t bear thinking about. There’s only one way to confirm it.            I drive towards them. I need to know.            I’m going at full throttle. They turn to me. There’s a moment where they simply watch, some of them without eyes. Then they converge.            I mow a few of them down on the bike, feeling them crunch underneath, but I don’t fire the pistol. Any that die would simply rise again, and there are too many of them for the bought time to matter. I wind between their desperate, hungry faces. I can’t find her. I’m almost at the other end of the square. There’s so many of them and there must be so many more and I don’t know how to find her.            One of them scratches at my wheels. I haven’t thought them capable of rational thought and yet this seems calculated. Its nails don’t break through, but another creature does the same. The tire pops. There’s a hiss of pressurised air. Then the motorbike skids and I have to jump off.            I’m on foot. The crowd is ravenous.            I run but I don’t make it far. The foremost two zombies lunge and collide into each other, splattering flimsy shoulders into a bloody mess on the floor. A third grabs my thigh, and I collapse.            I pump my shotgun into the approaching mass, but the bullets don’t land anywhere vital, and none of them are slowed.            Someone else pummels into them, knocking a dozen or so over like dominos. Then they look at me. It’s a young boy. I recognise him, vaguely.            He scoops me off the ground, and sprints. I only manage to keep a hold of my pistol. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but I’m just glad it’s away from them. V We are upstairs in an abandoned office block. It’s hard to differentiate between spilled coffee and what might be blood, but it’s a nice change for the dominant smell to be old carpet instead of constant rot.            He eases me onto a chair. I lay the pistol on the nearest desk.            He shakes his head, scratching at what’s left of his hair as though to rip his own skull out. “I’m… hungry. Keep it.”            I watch him a while, then take it back, trying to exude confidence as I aim. “Explain how you’re here.”            “I’ve been hungry for so long.”            “You’re Jerry, right? Roger’s classmate, partner in crime when he breached the wall. You didn’t make it back.” He’s been rotting but not as badly as the others. Beneath the decay, he hasn’t aged at all.            “You’re looking… for your wife,” he wheezes.            I perk up; I can’t help it. “Where is she?”            “She passed… through here. She still seems. Not. Yet. Fully—” He makes a noise like a cuckoo, then slaps himself. He never looks at me, probably to stave off his appetite.            “Help me find her,” I say. I hope a firm tone keeps him grounded. I don’t want to shoot him. Even if he’ll get back up again, he doesn’t deserve the pain.            He shakes his head as though trying to scare off a swarm of bees. “I take you back. I know the way. You have life. Be where you’re safe.”            “I can’t do that.”            “It’s hell out here.”            “But I end up in hell anyway, right?”            His shoulders slump.            I nod. When did I start crying? It’s a snotty sort of weeping that makes my whole body hurt. “This is where we all end up, why Vigil’s so concerned with getting us out after we pass?”            He falls still for the first time. Defeated by the weight of it.            “I need to find her.”            “I can’t help you,” he says. “Hungry.”            “It’s okay. I was stupid. I’m not in as much shock know. I can be smarter about this.”            “You sure can be.” He makes a sound that might be a chuckle. He’s poking fun. He’s right to, given the situation he found in.            “I’d best make a move to get temptation out of the way,” I say, feeling absurdly like a guest excusing themselves from a party. “Thank you, Jerry.”            “I’d forgotten my… name,” he says. “R- Roger’s name, too. You sure you’ll be okay?” I put my hand on the door. I’m trembling all over. I take a moment to breathe, to consider what he’s asked. Then I open it without answering, and descend the stairs. Okay, not okay… All I can do is see this through to the end.

mke9ix

River of Knowledge

 River of Knowledge Wet, cold, tired, and hungry. These feeling I could name. They were solvable and temporary. The emotions swirling inside were less tamable. Embarrassed was just the base line. I was in way over my head, and being surrounded by other people only added to my misery. I’m not sure anything would have been different; it might have been a lot worst had I been alone. But I was used to being alone. It was how I preferred these times. Alas, the population for this adventure far exceeded solo, and I found myself struggling with a near emergency and wresting the inner turmoil that arose from it. I knew setting out on this particular trial that it was well traveled and I would not experience the solitude I normally had on my frequent backpacking trips. I also knew it was a long hike in, and known for steep inclines and declines. Roller-coasters as it were.  That was the main reason I picked it. 10 miles in, following along the Big Sur River, I came to see if I was physically capable of managing not only the distance, but the elevation gain/loss. I consider myself an experienced backpacking and avid hiker. Very familiar with my gear, set up, break down, pack weight and supplies. The farthest distance I had done up until this point was 8 miles in. Most of the time I do 3-4 miles in to a designated trail camp with individual sites. This was different. It is a first come first serve dispersed “camp ground”. I put camp ground in air quotes, because it really is just a flat place along the river where you find anywhere you can to lay down amongst the others all vying for the same thing. -------------------------------------------------------------- The trees speak in very soft voices. Almost imperceivable. To hear them, a person must not only quiet their outward self, they must quiet the soul within.  What the trees say to the soul is profoundly relevant and meaningful, giving wisdom and guidance to whatever life situation you find yourself in. The trees stand tall, firm, and are incredibly generous with their knowledge and ability to lend strength. Help is like the oxygen they release. It doesn’t take them much effort at all, it’s just something they do, naturally. This is the reason I go out on my adventures. To find and achieve solitude, quiet, stillness, and the peace that comes when my soul communicates with the tree’s soul. Upon my return, each and every time, I come back refreshed, restored, centered, and ready to embrace and engage with life once again. ------------------------------------------------------------- This was not the case during or after this particular adventure. It started out as all the others do. I arrived fairly early, paid and parked, and began loading my pack onto my back, checking the straps, zippers, ties, balance and making sure my shoes and socks were secured to my feet properly. I had everything I needed for an overnight, so I stopped for a brief 5 min meditation calling in fun and safety, and then began by putting one foot in front of the other and continued doing that for many miles and many hours. My pack was heavy, my legs were tired, the view was spectacular. I could see out over the ridge line, across the valley and all the way to the Pacific Ocean sparkling blue in the morning sunlight. Other hikers, some with overnight packs on, some just day packs, and a few runners passed me, I held slow and steady as is my trademark speed. The only speed I have. Stopping for a brief trail snack, I was passed by a few more people and this was the point in which I felt the start of worry setting in. The ups and downs of the terrain, the fact that I wasn’t even half way yet, and knowing my destination was first come first serve, and with the amount of people who were all heading to the same spot as me, a lot faster, brought up a growing concern that by the time I got there, there would be no more space to set up a tent. This was also a new trail and destination so I had only YouTube videos and paper maps to guide me as in what to expect. I took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the reason I was here. Commune with nature and hear the trees. One in foot in front of the other, I put a few more miles behind me and pressed on. The day pressed on as well. The sun reached a high point and the heat of the day brought out sweat and an even slower pace. This increased my anxiety and lowered my ability to calm my soul and hear the message nature had in store for me. Still, I moved forward. Camp was now only a few more miles, and the sun was heading low with a quickness towards the horizon. My legs felt like two concrete pillars, my shoulders ached, I was hungry and smelled faintly like mountain goat. There was the “camp site”! I made it! Almost. The river, swollen from the recent heavy rains, was between me and resting in my tent. People lined the shoreline on the other side, safe and sound. No bridge. Just a deep swift moving wide body of water. My mind was as fatigued as my body. I had never forded a river such as this and had no clue what was in store. Mustering up all my bravery, I stepped in. Slowly, as the cold water pushed my legs, tested my resolve and drenched everything from waste down, I plotted through and touched dry land on the opposite shore. Dropping my pack, thankful to be unburdened, I dumped my gear out, set up camp within arm’s reach of other camps, crawled inside my sleeping bag and closed my eyes. I knew my body was hungry, and I had brought a meal, but that required boiling water, and I just didn’t have the mental energy for that. All I managed to do was open a pack of tuna and eat it. As the sun left the sky, darkness set in, a few lone stars appeared and I dozed off. Very aware of how close the other backpackers were, and that I was far away from stillness, exhaustion and a mild dread of what the morning would bring set in as a restless sleep carried me until dawn. First light, noise of many others breaking down and packing up, roused me. Groggily I emerged and started heating water for my coffee. I felt many eyes, and try as I might to ignore and just carry on with my business, the close proximity of the others was making me very claustrophobic. I drank my coffee, ate a handful of beef jerky and mixed nuts, loaded up and felt weak beneath the weight of it all. First steps of the 10-mile journey began with the treacherous river crossing. No choice. I had to get back. Short legs, heavy pack, swift water, cold slippery stones, faces of others and their well-meaning unsolicited advice; I was almost to the dry bank, a few more steps… down I went! Pack and all, drench and being swept downstream. Only thought was to point my feet down stream and keep my head up. A large rock braced and saved me from being dragged very far. I clung to it like a frog for dear life as two very kind women started calling out, “it’s going to be ok! We got you!!” With their help I scrambled and clawed my way to dry land. Taking a breath and inventory, realizing how many faces were looking concerningly at me, I felt slightly in shock and didn’t know exactly what to do next. The two women, sweet as can be, hovered over me peppering me with advice and concern. I just sat there. The reality of what I had to do next slowly washed over me. -------------------------------------------------------------- I’m soaking, and so is all my stuff, which has added a considerably amount of weight to an already heavy pack. There’s 10 miles of rough incline/decline terrain ahead of me, and I have no privacy to sort out these swirling emotions of failure, panic, and regret. I wait. I wait some more. I dry out a little. The crowd thins out as they finally decide I’m not going to die and they can get on with their day. This is what strength and determination look like. I strap on my pack, secure my belts and zippers, check my soggy shoes and socks, then one foot in front of the other. Continue for many miles and many hours. I pause for a snack break here and there, feel my resolve faltering, gather myself, call my energy back to focus on the task at hand, as one foot in front of the other maintains a slow and steady pace. -------------------------------------------------------------- As I collapsed at the car and burst into tears, I knew I had not heard a single word the trees had to say. I felt little to no stillness and between the crowd and falling in the river most of the fun had been taken out of my adventure. The fun had been replaced with something different. A deep sense of fortitude. A physical capability that can only shine when there is no other choice. It must. A reliability upon myself, and an understanding of my limits and how I handle and adapt when those limits are exceeded. I did not achieve the quietness of soul that is needed to hear the trees. I did achieve the adversity to be able to hear the depths of myself.

5r1jel

Is It Truly Undiscovered?

2030 July 4 They say today was once known as Independence Day, I don’t feel independent. I feel trapped. The world is being remade right now, and I am currently alone in a small rocket ship, watching through the windows as my earth, my home is destroyed. I need to save it. I imagine all the people's lives being disrupted, all of the homes broken. I am a 23-year-old non-binary person. I chose to be that before I was told that once the earth settled down I would be made leader. The world barely knew Briar, now for some reason I will be known by everyone, young and old. I never planned to become non-binary. I used to be female, but that life was so long ago. Now I am free of judgments of either sex, I can lead my people freely. I don’t think many others should choose this life, it's hard, I get stared at, and people criticize me. I agree with their judgments, but I don’t understand it, why did I chose to become genderless? I honestly don’t know. I don’t know if I will ever know. 2050 Feb 22 I started crossing the marshlands today. I am said to be the first to start across this untouched land. Now my footprints mark my path through. They will remain unchanged by weather. As it neither rains nor snows here. This is the first time in all my life I have ventured so far from The Mainland. My home. All the people of the earth, ruled by different gods, and different beliefs, all in one place. Under one united leader. They have sent me, my leader Briar, as I am their seasoned adventurer. Top of my class. Always looking for something undiscovered. Now here I am. Adventuring through untouched territory. It is in this diary I will make my notes. And here I will write of my home. The place I miss, but will one day return to. 2050 Feb 25 I'm alone. There aren't even the sounds of animals in this dark night. I am writing by the light of a small homemade beeswax candle my mother made for me before I left. Using it, I feel closer to her. I am still in the ever-unchanging marshlands. My tent rests upon a small grassy hill. To all sides is an incredible amount of muck. Solid enough for me to step on, solid enough to allow my footprints to always remain, not solid enough for me to set up camp. If I did, I would wake up engulfed in mud. Actually, I probably wouldn't wake up at all. So I am thankful for this place to rest away from a certain muddy death. Tomorrow I will journey towards a massive forest yet to be named. Perhaps I will find something in its density to call it by, something to go down in history. Something young adventurers, perhaps women like myself, will remember, something they will strive for, something that will inspire others. That is my dream. To inspire others. Well, the light outside my tent grows dim. It tells me that even though I have this scented candle I must rest for a long day ahead…Brain, come up with some ideas for the name of the forest! 2050 Feb 26 Oh, how my feet do hurt! I have been walking through the wilderness of Lina, oh that's the forest, for many hours. I decided to name these gorgeous woods after my beloved friend. She and I have been friends since I was eight and she was twelve. We did not even notice the age gap. But anyway, I could talk about her all day, I'm sure whoever reads this probably wants me to write about my adventure. Sorry Lina!!! Love ya bestie! Back to the forest. It is magnificent. Thick green evergreens grow side by side with fruit trees, oaks, berry bushes, nut trees, and just about every type of plant you can imagine. Let's just say I have paused my journey to rest my feet and I am having a great lunch. A small stream flows throughout, and I have been following its path. Soon I will make it to a great lake that I have spotted from a hill. Ahh! I just checked my watch, I must get going. 2050 Feb 28 The great lake I spotted from the hill is actually the breeding ground of the species Crocodilia or more commonly referred to as crocodiles. You can imagine my surprise when I walked along the shore and then had two 20-foot-long males lunge out of the water barely five feet away locked in vicious combat. The splashes they made were huge. I am marking this territory and carefully naming it on my map. I am thankful I have had enough training to know that you should never swim in an unknown body of water. It would have felt very nice though. At least till I was being chewed, or smashed between two huge beasts. 2050 Feb 30 At this stage in my journey/exhibition, I have seen so many things I would never have imagined. The incredible unchanging marshlands that you can walk on, but if you were to make camp you would never wake up. The wonderful forest where all types of bushes and trees grew together in an impossible harmony. And of course the sweet yet deadly mating grounds of the wonderful species of the crocodile. I am sure this journal will be read, edited, copied, and printed all over The Mainland. I hope it will help people understand our world a little better. Well, now that I am several miles away from the crocodiles I can rest. I didn't sleep much well I was in the vicinity. I will write in the morning. Goodnight.     2050 Feb 31 I am awake but very confused. I packed my tent this morning and was on my way when I saw people at the mating ground. Yesterday I saw a small yellow-green female crawl out of the water and lay her eggs out of the reach of stomping talons. Now between my pen strokes, I can see people, dressed in skins digging up hers and many other eggs, stuffing them in sacks and now they are running off. I am baffled. I was told this land was uninhabited. After the earth shattered, back in 2030 and continents reformed with other continents, our leader was elected, they created The Mainland, and all of civilization was supposed to move there. The few people who refused to go…were removed. SO WHY ARE THERE PEOPLE HERE!?  I must follow them. I need to figure out who these people are. 2050 Feb 33 The impossible has happened…I have joined this group, I am a member of their tribe. Let me tell you how this impossible thing came about. I followed these people to their village, where I was spotted and instead of being imprisoned, as I thought I was gonna be, they welcomed me. I was given a very well-furnished tent, food, and fresh water to drink, and to bathe with. I was welcomed to stay. As long as I promised to never turn them in. I promised, but I’m not sure how they expect someone less trustworthy, like the people from The Mainland, the ones aside from me, to keep this promise if they came. I would have expected them to refuse my entry, I thought I was gonna be wiped out. Like our leader wiped many other people like them out of existence. They are very trusting, or they are making me feel at home before they eat me. I mean who knows? Oh, the elder is summoning me. I’ll write again soon.  2050 April 15 I know it has been a while since my last entry, but I have been so busy! My life has taken such an interesting turn. I have really helped this small settlement grow. Now I am married to the elder's son, a young, smart, handsome man. His name is Ardia. We got married yesterday. Oh, it was a wonderful day.  I wonder what Briar will think when I never return. For I will never  return. I love my new life here. I love my friends, the wonderful man I've married, and my parents-in-law. I have taken up writing as I have found penning stories is something that speaks to me. I am also our small town’s librarian, and I can be found there, reading, sorting books, and not yelling at people to “SHUSH!!!” I will forever miss my parents, but I know they will never leave The Mainland. I have come to accept that. Oh, how I shall miss them. I think of them every day. This is the end of my journal. I will put this in the library and hope it interests people. My story is far from over, but I will leave you to guess at the rest. 2060 Feb 22 I found this journal by my mother, Adoette, of her journey here. My mother is gone. She left on an expedition a few years ago and never returned. All I have left is this journal, I will guard it with my life and write of my doings in its many pages. This is my first entry, Althea, out. The End

u8rsr6

Beyond the Walls

Links to my other books: https://editor.reedsy.com/s/wsaTP7u (Magic After Midnight) https://editor.reedsy.com/s/ON2zB3v (Crimson) Since I was young, I've always felt like I've had hundreds of eyes on me. Watching me. As I've aged, it's only occurred to me that I do. The government watches me. My family. They make sure neither I nor my mother do as much as glance outside. If we do, we could be put to death. The curtains are drawn closed, and the wooden door has been perfectly put into place so no cracks of sunlight shine through. The government hates women. Men are allowed to go outside, hunt, go to school, and control finances. Women stay home and clean, never speaking a word. We could become tongueless for something such as that. The government tells us that we could be blinded by the wrath of God if we step outside, and everyone believes this because the government said so. But what sense does it make? None, in my taste. The government believes only men should be able to live freely, and any idiot could figure that out. But nobody tries to. I can't help it that I'm smarter than anyone else. Self-taught. There are photos of food around our house. My father also brings home carvings of plants and animals for himself but ends up leaving them lying around the house. I've always risked sneaking looks at the names etched into the carvings, but looked back almost as quickly, remembering every animal and teaching myself. If the government knew I was as smart as I am, they'd put me to death. But they don't. I mostly keep to myself, helping my mother around the house, although I don't really have a choice. I know the government watches me, just like they do in every division. I live in Division D, the poorest and least free. We women can't touch anything the men bring home. If they bring home a loaf of bread or a shot animal, we must cook it or wait until the man eats what he can, then eat the stale leftovers. We can't have tattoos or piercings, and all women wear the same house shoes and an ugly blouse. My father comes home late. He opens the door, and my mother and I turn away, careful not to see any light from outside. My father dropped a skinned squirrel in a pot my mother had started stew in, and I continued to sweep the floor, trying not to let my eyes wander too far. I could feel their eyes on me. The clock buzzes, signaling it's time to go to bed. The clock is controlled by the government, telling us when to get up and start work, and end work for the day. But of course, they can change it at any time. My bedroom is a dull grey with a single bed, and, of course, no windows. There are patches in the cracks of the walls to block out sunlight and lazily placed carpet squares on the ground. I have seen light once--In a dream. Of course, there's no monitor for that. But if I spoke about that dream, there surely would be. I hear the buzzer sound from the kitchen. I don't even bother to let my mother rouse me, so I make my way downstairs. As much as I would like to stomp down the steps, I know it could result in punishment. My mother and I have never spoken to each other, either. She never even named me; it's too much of a risk of affection. I myself have never said more than 10 words in all sixteen years of my life, not to my father or mother, but in a whisper to the walls of my room. My mother is nowhere in sight, leaving me to make food for my father before he goes hunting. I do my best to avoid cameras-these little devices so tiny you can barely see them-that the government watches us from. When I finish the food, I wake my father, setting a bowl on the table for him. Just as I expected, he ignores the bowl completely and heads out the door. I sigh out my nose so nobody hears. Just as I put the food in a cabinet, my mother comes from her room, tears running down her face. She got another warning. A few more and she'd be dead. The buzzer finally goes off. It seemed like this had been a shorter day than most others. But instead of going up to my room, I pull down the ladder to the barely-used attic. I don't know what propels me to do this, but I feel drawn to climbing up the ladder and exploring...almost like my gut knows there's something up there. I climb up the wooden steps, one falling beneath my foot. I finally make it up to the dusty space where it is so rarely used that there is one camera up there, completely consumed by dust. I sit on a box until something catches my eye. It's a bulging square in the wall. I crawl over to it and wipe away the dust, revealing two small curtains. When I pull them away, there is a window covered by dust and grime. I've considered escaping a few times, and now, here's my chance. I think about it, all of the opportunities...Life outside the house. No. I shake my head and climb down from the attic. When the buzzer goes off in the morning, I get out of bed and follow my normal routine, my mother still coming out of her room with another warning. I look away and turn off the light in my father's room to save him money. Here, the water and electricity are greater than in Divisions A, B, and C. Perhaps the government will find women resourceful, but will they ever? Only someone such as I could have figured out that women could help improve the divisions, but of course, this is not the government's ideal country. After yet another fast-paced day of work, I go back up to the attic when the buzzer sounds. While I should be resting, I find myself staring at the dusty window, debating lots of things in my mind about whether or not I should make an escape tonight. This is the only unsupervised window in the house...how lucky would I be to escape tonight? But what would happen outside? Where would I go? While my brain tells me no , my heart and soul tell me yes. I once heard that people in Division A tell their children to follow their hearts. So I want to do the same. My heart keeps telling me to go, and soon my mind picks up, too. Now, nothing is stopping me, the opportunity is right there... I breathe the first word I've spoken in five years and remove the cover of the window, the light of the outdoors shining through the glass. "Yes."

bnpee8

Unraveling the Quiescent

Day 1 I've been walking in darkness for nearly 13 hours, but I've finally managed to find her; the moon. She'll help me write this entry, she's always so bright at just the right times. I'm new to this, a complete novice, I have no clue how to go about it; whether it be exploring or documenting my journey. I barely feel like I have the right equipment for it. I'm not sure what prompted me to take it, this unknown territory has only been mentioned twice in all of my life, yet both of those remarks have been so earnest and honest that they impacted me deeply. The first time it was mentioned, I was merely a boy, in the middle of the slippery slope of adolescence. I'll never forget the look and tone of the person relating these myths to me, (that's what they are to me; myths. Until I find what I'm looking for, I'll keep thinking of them as such.) a hand on my shoulder as they never hesitated for a moment in their momentous speech. That was my first push into this void of nothing. I never forgot those words, they have been an echo in the back of my mind for years, almost like a sort of torment, never leaving me alone even when I so desperately wanted to forget them. That's it - desperation. The exact word I was looking for. My prime motivator in this mad journey. This growing desperation within me was clearly demonstrated at the second mention of this uncharted zone, 3 days ago. I had rejected and grown so angry at the mere second mention of it so many years later, now having moved on from adolescence to a man in the middle of the slippery slope of his twenties, and yet with that same unbearable echo reverberating in my evidently empty brain (why else would it keep echoing like an empty cave?). This time round, the person relating this mystery to me was not as patient or calm as the first, their explosion prompted mine, and a shouting match began. You see, it had only been mentioned twice so explicitly, but there had been so many clues and hints as the years kept going by, that you'd really think someone or something was torturing me, or that a curse had been bestowed upon me from the first mention of it. So my outburst was only to be expected, I was (am?) so tired of hearing it, seeing it, thinking it that for it to be presented in front of me again in such an unambiguous manner finally gave me a chance to outwardly rebel against it. How pathetic it is, letting myself be so agonistic over something that I very obviously don't believe in. How especially pathetic it is, going on a hunt to find this poignant place. That's right, a hunt. That's what I'm doing. I'm hunting it down like an angry dog, challenging it to show itself if it has the courage to, and then when I get my answer, I'll put an end to it once and for all. It has persecuted me enough. I won't find it, and that will be the end of it. I will find it, and I will suffocate it. I'll rest here for the night, I never can seem to abandon the moon once I've found her, and this tree is just at the right angle to rest my back on, it hardly feels like hard wood. The stars were my companions these 11 hours, Miss Moon only appeared on the 12th - with a great many clouds coming and going to cover her, not aiding me on my journey at all - and I've been trying to get closer ever since. My legs were exhausted long ago, but my haste took over. I can't afford to waste any time, but my old friend has managed to calm me down, as she always does, so I'll allow myself to pause. I only have with me this notebook and this pencil, which is slowly disappearing with every letter I write. I am definitely not equipped to be here, but the decision was made after 2 long days of boiling up with anger. No one knows I'm here, no one knows what I'm doing, I find people often ruin things when they know your plans. Excuse the long entry full of everything and nothing, it's only my first day. Day (?) I've kept walking, the sky is somehow getting lighter and clearer, but the trees are getting thicker, thorns and thistles are everywhere, and my mobility is greatly limited. Luna is still shining brightly, I must get closer; she's my guide, she's my companion, I don't feel so alone in these sharp woods when I'm with her. The brightening sky is making me anxious, I'd rather have it be dark than lose my moon. I have several wounds on me now, the growing sharpness of everything around me is clearly a sign to warn me against going further, but I'm in the middle now, and if I turn back, I'll be walking away from my only light. Going back to darkness, no matter how accustomed to it I've become, is a thought that troubles me so much so that a waterfall long forgotten threatens to form in my eyes. I didn't know I could do that anymore, I've forgotten the name of it. I've found an uncomfortable rock to lean on in the meantime, my handwriting isn't very readable but I doubt this journal will ever see the light of day. I'm growing more and more unsettled the further I tread these nature littered floors. Several questions have come across me since the start of my journey: How did I know where to start looking? How did I know how to find this path? How do I know where I'm going? Why am I so confident that I'm heading in the right direction? I've tried to blame it all on the moon, on the fact that she led me astray, but I feel her cry out in anguish at my accusations, and it hurts to have her cry. The only answer that keeps pestering at me is that I've already been here before. It used to look different, but I've definitely been here before. Why can't I remember? Why CAN I remember? There's a growing anxiety within me that is making me tremble as I write, despite the moon giving me such warmth. Why is she so warm? Isn't that particular job bestowed to the sun? I am frightened out of my mind. What were the words of those people who so unabashedly told me the truth about this place? Were they telling me to find it, or to go back to it? Have I been here too long? I'm going out of my mind. But I won't think about that anymore, I have a goal, and I will reach it. Like old 'pa used to say, "there is no courage without fear", and this is a demonstration of it. Is this a journal to document my travels, or merely a scrapbook of all my thoughts, trying to convince myself to keep going? Well, like I said, this journal will never see the light of day, so it doesn't matter. I have to erase the date on my first entry, it doesn't seem accurate anymore. Day 1 Day ? The sky has turned; it's no longer dark. It's getting brighter. It's getting warmer. There are barely any clouds. The moon is abandoning me. The trees are kinder to me. The littered floors gradually seem to have been paved into comfortable paths through this forest full of life and light. It's too bright, how do I manage it? I now remember why I turned back those other times; I hate this change, I hate this contradiction, I hate this revelation. It's too bright. I need the clouds to come back. Take me back to my dark moon. I've Never Known What Day It Is The moon has never been dark. I was describing it as my only source of light in every entry, but like I said, my brain is empty, with only an echo bouncing around in it, so forgive me for my contradictions. The sky has turned into the most beautiful shades of orange and red and purple; a sunset, or perhaps dawn. It feels more like a sunset though, I want it to be. I'm not sure I know how to get out of here - I'm not sure I know how to get it out. I've been here so many times, I've already found this place in the past, but as I said I would do also this time round, everytime I found it I'd attempt to suffocate it with all the might I could muster. Something within me must have rebelled against me killing it, suffocating is not a very hard job to finish, here it is; as alive and as beautiful as ever. I'm starting to suspect this is dawn. There's not a cloud in sight. It frightens me, the inevitable brightness that is to come. How do I manage it? I never seemed to know. It hurts to look at, it hurts to suppress. The sky is bright, but I still see and feel the moon. She hasn't disappeared, she is merely showing me her light source, and it's so warm. The echo in my brain, the first mention of this place, is now so clear in my mind. I want to write those words down, I always feel like I'm on the verge of forgetting them. I see old 'pa's face in front of me, with that look and tone of stern kindness. By this point of his life, the old man had been completely spent of his strengths, and was on the brink of slipping away into an endless confusion. Yet as he said these things to me, there was a clearness in his gaze I hadn't seen even when he still had his health. "You are the moon, my boy." That was his simple statement, the loudest echo of them all. My answer was defiant as usual, quick to not accept any words from any authority above my own. "I am not the moon. I don't need anyone else's light in order to shine. And before you speak again, I'm most definitely not the sun; I'm neither bright, nor warm. And I'm not as subtle as the stars. So spare me your speech Grampa, I've already recited it all." I answered him, not giving him even one chance to interrupt me. My old 'pa has always been a fountain of patience, having to raise someone as prickly as me, so he listened without any wish of interrupting, and with a wrinkled and hard hand on my shoulder he replied in like manner: "Your heart is the moon, my boy; even in darkness it does not lose its light, because it borrows from the tenderness you have tried to keep hidden, tried to keep quiet, the endurance that keeps you alive even now as you stand before me. You have a great amount of light within you, but it's so bright that you don't know how to manage it, how to face it. Life has treated you cruelly, little one, so you try to treat it cruelly back. You are so unaware of your own potential and kind heartedness, you use fists and glares to beat those warm things into submission. But you have failed. You fail every day. If only you would allow yourself to, you could tame it, not suffocate it, and just like the moon, let it shine back into the world." I was trying very hard to view his words as nonsense, but it was too late, they had already begun echoing. "First you say I am the moon, then you say I could be. Pick one, old man." "The moon is there even on the cloudiest night. You have many clouds in front of you my boy, but you are still behind them. Clouds have not been of much help to you, they are a shield made of water, made of nothing. No wonder you keep getting hurt. You are the moon. Unlike the sun, everyone looks at the moon with no fear, because they can, because they know they won't get hurt when they do. With all its light and mysterious warmth, you are the moon. You are beautiful my boy; everyone sees it but you." As I sit here, my pencil on its last breath, gazing at the clear and colourful sky, I'm letting the warmth engulf me for longer than usual, for the first time in my life completely submitting myself to it. I've found this mysterious place within me, but this time I won't journey back. I won't let the water in my eyes condense into clouds, I'll simply let it fall, and when night comes by again, my moon will be as clear as ever.

946qj5

Cosmic Catastrophe: A Space Adventure Gone Awry

The hum of the spaceship's engines filled the air as Captain Jackson surveyed the vast expanse of space stretching out before them. They were on a routine mission to explore the far reaches of the Galaxy, charting new star systems and collecting valuable data for the Intergalactic Alliance. But as they ventured further into uncharted territory, a sense of unease settled over the crew. There was something off about this sector of space - a feeling of foreboding that sent shivers down their spines. As they pressed on, their fears were realized when a sudden jolt rocked the ship, sending alarms blaring and lights flashing. Emergency protocols were initiated as the crew scrambled to assess the damage. "What happened?" Captain Jackson barked, his voice tense with urgency. "It looks like we hit some sort of anomaly," replied Lieutenant Ramirez, her fingers flying across the control panel as she attempted to regain control of the ship. But their efforts were in vain as another jolt shook the vessel, this time more violently than before. Panic gripped the crew as they realized they were hurtling towards a nearby planet, their trajectory set on a collision course that spelled certain doom. With time running out, Captain Jackson made a split-second decision - they would attempt a risky maneuver to evade the planet's gravitational pull and regain control of the ship. "Brace yourselves!" he shouted, his hands gripping the controls with steely determination. As the ship plunged towards the planet's surface, the crew held their breath, their hearts pounding in their chests. But just when it seemed all hope was lost, Captain Jackson's daring maneuver paid off, and the ship veered away from the planet at the last possible moment. Cheers erupted throughout the cockpit as the crew celebrated their narrow escape from disaster. But their relief was short-lived as they realized they were now adrift in the void of space, their navigation systems fried and their chances of survival dwindling by the second. As they frantically searched for a way to repair the ship and plot a course home, Captain Jackson couldn't help but wonder what other dangers lurked in the darkness of space, waiting to test their courage and resolve. Despite the chaos that ensued, the crew of the spaceship refused to let fear dictate their actions. With determination in their hearts and a spirit of camaraderie that bound them together, they set out to explore the planet they had narrowly avoided crashing into. As they descended through the atmosphere, they were greeted by a breathtaking landscape unlike anything they had ever seen before - towering mountains, shimmering lakes, and lush forests stretching out to the horizon. Eager to uncover the secrets of this alien world, the crew donned their spacesuits and ventured out onto the surface, their eyes wide with wonder as they took in the sights and sounds of this new frontier. But their sense of adventure soon turned to apprehension as they encountered strange and wondrous creatures lurking in the shadows - creatures with scales as hard as steel, eyes that glowed with an otherworldly light, and voices that echoed through the caverns like whispers from the void. Undeterred, the crew pressed on, their curiosity driving them ever forward in their quest for knowledge and discovery. And though they faced countless challenges and obstacles along the way, their indomitable spirit carried them through, guiding them on a journey of exploration that would change their lives forever. As they prepared to leave the planet behind and return to the safety of their ship, Captain Jackson couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the adventure they had shared together. For in the face of adversity, they had found strength in each other, forging bonds that would withstand the test of time. Amidst the chaos and excitement of their unplanned detour, the crew found moments of levity that brought much-needed relief from the tension of their predicament. From Lieutenant Ramirez's failed attempts at fixing the ship's malfunctioning systems to Ensign Johnson's comical mishaps during their explorations on the planet's surface, there was never a dull moment aboard the spaceship. Even Captain Jackson, typically stoic and reserved, couldn't help but crack a smile as he watched his crew stumble their way through one misadventure after another. But amidst the laughter and camaraderie, there was a sense of camaraderie that bound them together, a shared sense of purpose that gave them the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And as they finally set course for home, their ship repaired and their ship repaired and their spirits buoyed by the memories of their cosmic escapades, they knew that no matter what trials awaited them in the vast expanse of space, they would face them together, united in their quest for adventure and discovery. The journey back to their home base was filled with moments of reflection and gratitude. Each member of the crew took the time to appreciate the bonds they had formed and the experiences they had shared during their time in the far reaches of space. Lieutenant Ramirez, with her quick with and unwavering determination, became the heart and soul of the crew, guiding them through even the most challenging of situations with her calm demeanor and steady hand. Ensign Johnson, despite his tendency to stumble into trouble, proved himself to be a valuable asset to the team, his ingenuity and resourcefulness saving them on more than one occasion. And Captain Jackson, with his leadership and courage, inspired his crew to rise above their fears and doubts, leading them through adversity with unwavering resolve. As they neared their home base, a sense of anticipation filled the air. Though their journey had been fraught with danger and uncertainty, they had emerged stronger and more united than ever before. And as they docked their ship and stepped onto solid ground once more, they knew that their adventure was far from over. For as long as there were stars in the sky and unexplored corners of the universe to discover, they would continue to journey forth, together, in search of the next great adventure that awaited them in the cosmos.

0wli11

The Renova Decision

The seven members of the executive council aboard the Amazonian were all but touching shoulders around the grey rectangular conference table. Deputy Governor Hunter Bryant, his tunic unbuttoned at the top, wiped sweat from his temples with his sleeve. Climate control was a major issue on the 923 year-old ship. Cleo el Masry, the vessel’s operations chief paused for effect, wrapping up her report on the impending deceleration decision. She sat back, her legs crossed at the knees, her hands smoothing the wrinkles out of a precisely tailored zip-up jumper that revealed nothing except that she was aggressively fit and fastidious. Most men found her beautiful. Hunter knew they had no chance. “The new probes have given us what we needed to know. The bottom line is," she said, "Renova is teeming with life. That indicates a much higher probability of danger to any settlement. We need additional security forces, updated weapons, and a lot more ammo.” Rupert Shumar’s chair scooted and banged against the wall behind him as the science lead stood, “Bullshit!” Here we go again , Hunter thought, watching Rupert's face redden all the way up past his balding hairline. Rupert aimed his wrath at Hunter. “You know the protocols. We should divert and avoid Renovan life,” turning now to face Cleo, ”not murder it.” “That protocol—,” Cleo began but stopped short at the withering scowl on Hunter’s face. Hunter knew that what he lacked in looks had been compensated two-fold in presence. He could hold a room. “Rupert,” Hunter began, “please have a seat.” Rupert sat, his bulk making the chair squeak. Hunter continued, “The protocol applies to intelligent life only, and... ,” he held a hand up and shot a warning glare at Rupert who was bracing himself to stand again. Hunter finished, “the protocol clearly lists examples of technological signatures we can use to define intelligence.” “There is no evidence of intelligent life,” Cleo said, her cool tone contrasting with the room's heat. “As we know it,” Rupert corrected. “As we know it,” Cleo allowed. “However, we have developed options that conserve life of all origins ,” she looked at Rupert, who didn’t acknowledge her. “You’ll find them at Tab O on your tablets.” “If we decelerate,” Rupert said without looking up, scrolling, “it cannot be undone.” "But," Cleo countered, "we have six months to deal with anything that pops up. Lots of smart people, too.” Hunter glanced at the time. “I need to present our progress to the Governor over lunch. What about the rest of you? Let’s start on the left with life support. Max?” “Thank you, deputy governor.” Max DuPont said wiping his brow, his voice low and gravelly despite his height. “Alexa, bring up my graphics on the table hologram, please.” He waited five seconds for that to occur, then continued. “First, if we choose to divert, food production needs to be prioritized to rebuild our stockpiles. We may need to ration certain items for some time. Next graphic please. Second, our gravity systems are in bad shape and need upgrades and repairs if we extend the mission. We are hoping for a deceleration scenario.” “Thanks, Max,” Hunter said. “Alexa, use life support’s data to estimate priorities and timing for gravity system repair, starting in two weeks. Deliver those to my tablet before noon.” “Certainly, Deputy Governor.” Alexa said. Turning to his right now, “Medical?” Kimbe Otumbo, unusually tall and bespectacled, stood to speak. “Yes, thank you, deputy governor. Colleagues, I'm honored to be h--,” “I apologize, Kimbe. I have ten minutes before the governor’s lunch meeting.” Hunter knew Kimbe relished his chances to speak. He wasn’t arrogant or selfish. He was thorough. And he loved his job. “Certainly," the doctor fumbled with his glasses and set his tablet on the table. “Well, since time is limited, may I remind everyone that the data to support what I’m about to claim is at Tab M. As my colleague Cleo loves to say, there is a bottom line to my report. If we divert to Duonova, we - your mental health professionals - worry about panic and anxiety at levels conducive to mass hysteria and revolt.” The table was hushed and still. The only sound was the clinking of Hunter’s glass as he swirled his ice water. He looked to Cleo. “Have we seen spikes in mental-health related deaths or crime?” Cleo, as operations lead, had executive responsibility for security and prisons, among many other departments. Cleo nodded, “Alexa, bring up graphic thirty-seven from my briefing set. You all know the history. We have been focused on mental health for over two centuries now. Here’s the chart.” Two centuries earlier, a design flaw caused a structural failure that slowed the Amazonian ’s velocity and added 225 years to its mission. Three hundred and seventy-two deaths over two years were directly attributed to the accident. Most were either suicide, murder, or health problems related to drug and alcohol abuse. Nearly everyone on the Amazonian had family history with the tragedy. The chart had a massive spike, followed by a steep decline, that arrested about 200 years ago and was now a slow, steady climb with pot-holes and speed-bumps but no major changes. “No spikes, lately” Cleo said, “but mental health-related stuff has been on a steady upswing for about two-hundred years, give or take.” “What about the “Renova or Bust” lunatics?” Hunter asked. “The “ROB” faction remains a challenge,” Cleo replied. “We all know about the two mass killi—” Max chimed in, “Life support has those loopholes closed. Our security is tight. We will not allow that to happen again.” Cleo held both hands up, “I wasn’t pointing fingers, Max.” Hunter wondered if that were true. Hunter, looking at the clock, pushed things forward. “Cleo, send me everything new on the ROB terrorists - membership, activity, anything the governor might ask about.” Cleo nodded. Hunter gestured to the medical officer, “Thanks, Kimbe,” and continued around the table. Culture and Education agreed with Medical’s assessment of the mood of the population. They had run their own studies, which largely aligned. Maintenance and Waste Management presented the top five problems with divert: shortage of electronics parts, shortage of propulsion parts, erosion of general education and the quality of maintenance training, recycling bottlenecks causing trash buildup, and security during any kind of uprising. “OK, everyone. I will get this in front of Governor Fushima." Hunter was standing to leave when Rupert spoke up. “I think we, as a council, need to speak directly to the governor before she makes her decision.” Rupert said, eyes on his empty water glass. Hunter cleared his throat. “I will deliver your concerns and recommendation to the governor and she will let everyone know what she decides.” “So,” Rupert said, “the biggest decision any of us will ever be a part of comes down to one person’s whimsy,” and he looked into Cleo’s eyes this time, “or maybe two people’s whimsy.” “Why are you so fucking dramatic,” Cleo said through her teeth, leaning across the table within strangling distance of Rupert. “Clarissa was elected. I assume you voted.” “Clarissa,” Rupert repeated, grinning. “Well, I didn’t vote for your Clarissa. And I didn’t vote for you ,” Rupert replied. Cleo started to stand up. “I meet,” Hunter broke in, “with the majority and minority leaders of both houses after I talk to the governor today. Congress is involved. The media will play their role. Nothing is being subverted here.” “Yeah, well,” Rupert said. “I don’t trust any of the junta. No offense.” He stood and left the small room, bumping Cleo as he exited. Hunter stood up. “Perfect timing.” Everyone let out a nervous chuckle. “I’ll talk to you all tomorrow. Same place, same time please.” ********** “How were Rupert and Cleo?” “Both arrogant. Cleo lets Rupert trigger her. She referred to you by first name in front of the council.” Fushima grimaced. “I'll talk to her.” “Everyone knows, governor.” “Not everyone. She needs to be careful.” The governor paused, then restarted. “So,” she pushed the plate away and reclined, her chair protesting, “you’ve told me what they want, but not what you think.” “I think you should decelerate.” “Why?” Her tone reminded Hunter of his wife, long dead. He blew out a breath. “Three reasons. One, nobody is interested in extending the mission 900 years. Two, we know very little about Novaduo compared to Renova. And, three," he paused, thinking he might not say it, but deciding to, "you want to be the first Renovan president.” "I do want to be president, Hunter," Fushima paused, still smiling, eyes narrowed. “What do you want.” It was more of a challenge than a question. Hunter lowered his head and clasped his hands in front of him as if in prayer. He had been dreaming lately of storms, the kind he saw and heard on the ancient videos from Old Earth, howling wind and the roar of heavy rainfall. The power and majesty of nature. ”To fall asleep in the rain," Hunter said. ************ Later that night, in his dream, Hunter heard a familiar electronic tone through the pattering of raindrops on a metal roof. It sounded like an alert on his communications tablet. Seconds later, waking, he realized it was in fact his communications tablet. Rubbing his eyes, he said, “Alexa, who’s at the door?” “Science director Rupert Shumar with Marine Corps Corporal Stewart.” “Alexa, audio please.” There was a tone, then Hunter said, “Rupert, it's late.” “I know!” Hunter heard Rupert's high-pitched response through the door before the tablet audio caught up. “Alexa, open the front door,” Hunter said. He heard the men’s footfalls on his entry floor a few seconds later. He met them outside his bedroom in his robe. Rupert held paper reports out to him. Hunter was awestruck at holding paper in his hands. He'd only held real paper twice before in his life. After scanning the reports, Hunter asked, ”Those probes have been circling Renova for three days. Why am I just seeing this now?” “Because we weren’t looking for that ,” he said pointing at a specific paragraph, mindful that the Corporal didn’t have a need to know what they were discussing, “and we weren’t looking there .” “Who figured it out?” “Me. And Yevchenko.” “Dissenting opinions?” “None.” “OK. Can I keep these?” “Sign for them with the corporal here. Burn them when you're done.” Hence the paper, Hunter thought. ************ “Welcome everyone,” Hunter said. “Sorry for the lack of read aheads but this meeting is for your ears only. Thanks for leaving your tablets outside." Everyone nodded. “Governor Fushima has approved the release of the following statement for you only, no staff, no media, no notes." Again, nods around the table. "We have irrefutable evidence of intelligent life on Renova.” Everyone looked at the science lead, who was looking at his hands. “Rupert?” Hunter prompted. “If you want the science, I’ll be happy to discuss once I'm told it’s OK. The approved statement for now is that unique and specific chemical signatures are escaping the surfaces of large bodies of water on Renova in types and quantities that do not occur in nature. Industrial processes are the only viable source. We now believe, with more than 90% certainty, that Renova contains intelligent aquatic life.” “Fish people,” Kimbe said. “Fascinating.” "Do not say 'fish people' to the media, Kimbe," Hunter said, half smiling, half chastising. Nervous chuckles eased the tension. Cleo got to the point, though. “So, divert is automatic. Intelligent life means divert.” “Governor Fushima can make any decision she thinks best,” Hunter said. “But yes. The protocol is clear.” Everyone was staring at Hunter, brows furrowed. Only Rupert seemed relaxed. “Please be ready,” Hunter said when it was clear nobody had an immediate question. "This is going to anger a lot of people. And, remember, this announcement will be made by Governor Fushima and no one else.” ********** Cleo, Hunter, and Governor Fushima met an hour later in the tiny conference room. Sweat dripped off Hunter’s nose onto the screen of his tablet. “Why aren’t we meeting in your apartments, governor?” He asked, wiping his face with a cloth napkin. “Because I assume they're bugged.” Hunter shook his head. Cleo didn’t react at all, which told Hunter she already knew. “Cleo, did you read all of the Renova report?” the governor asked. “Yes, and everything we have on intelligent aquatic life.” “Do you think it’s possible for us to settle unnoticed by the Renovans long enough to allow us to gain a foothold and prepare a defense?” “Based on what I’ve read about their most likely technologies, it’s probable." Hunter jumped in, annoyed at the obvious tag-teaming of Fushima and Cleo, "But that doesn’t change the protocol, which is clear.” Fushima shook her head in understanding, “Yes, of course. But I have authority to make my own decision, correct?” “I’m surprised you’re even considering it, Governor, Hunter said. “You'll be impeached if you disregard the protocol without justification.” “It’s my job to look at all angles,” the governor said. And she switched her attention back to her operations chief. “Cleo, if I announce divert, what will the ROB terrorists do?” Cleo had Alexa pull up a graphic with three options. She went through them in order. First, they would probably attack life support, most likely water generation and gravity in the agricultural section of the ship, in an effort to force deceleration because of resource scarcity. If that didn’t work, they would attempt assassination hoping to replace Fushima with a leader sympathetic to their goals. Third, they would attempt mutiny within the crew. Governor Fushima’s nearly painted on smile vanished. “You think ROB has access high enough to pull off mutiny? Who?” Cleo shrugged, “We’ve done years worth of scrubbing. No one seems likely.” “And yet you think it’s plausible.” Cleo shrugged, “If I was running ROB, it’s what I’d do. Besides, they've had nine centuries to install sleeper agents.” The governor looked closely at Cleo and Hunter. She's paranoid, Hunter thought. He wondered how deeply Cleo was in on the governor’s plans. “Alexa, analyze communications of the executive council over the last thirty days for suspicious or disloyal behavior. Report for my eyes only.” “Yes, Governor.” Hunter and Cleo both shifted their gazes from the governor to each other. Hunter realized Cleo was being held in the dark as well. Something was up. Hunter leaned forward, “Governor, have you already made your decision?” Fushima eyed Cleo, then said, “Yes.” “So we’re diverting to Duonova, then.” Fushima looked at her watch and left the room. Hunter watched Cleo chase after her. ********** Hunter found Rupert waiting at his door when he returned to his quarters to freshen up. “Rupert, you know we can’t talk here.” “Please tell me you’re pushing to divert, Hunter.” “Is your report accurate and honest?” “Wha—of course it is!” “Then how could I do anything else?” Hunter watched Rupert scan him, deciding something. “I’m hearing that Fushima is still considering deceleration,” Rupert finally said. “From who,” Hunter responded, resisting the urge to grab Rupert by the collar. “People talk. I have sources, just like everyone else.” Hunter looked Rupert in the eyes, scanning. “Rupert,” Hunter said, “do not do anything stupid. You are too valuable to our mission.” “If we decelerate, knowing there is intelligent life on Renova, my mission is over. Because I will resign.” “Don’t overreact. Your people look to you for leadership.” “I am leading. I’m doing the right thing.” Rupert turned and walked away. ********** Two days later, Hunter watched the governor’s address like everyone else, on the ship’s video conferencing system. Fushima was brief. “Citizens of the Amazonian , I urge calm as you digest the news I”m about to give you. We have clear evidence of intelligent life on Renova. This means we cannot settle the planet and must divert to Duonova.” She warned that unlawful activity would be dealt with severely. She asked citizens to report any activity by the Renova or Bust terrorists. ********** The first violence happened four hours after the broadcast. Gangs broke into shops and looted. The ship’s news services reported on the violence, “Security forces have killed twenty-five and wounded hundreds as ship-wide violence erupted following Governor Fushima’s decision to divert to Duonova.” Damn them, Hunter thought, for ignoring the murdered and wounded cops. “Detention centers are filled past capacity as the crackdown intensifies.” The looting turned into rioting. ********* Mid-riot, someone blew up the water production facility of the agricultural sector. ROB did not claim responsibility, but their graffiti tags turned up everywhere. Hunter guessed insiders had to be involved. It was a very precise attack, the damage conveniently contained. ******** Governor Fushima was forced to reverse her decision. “Due to the criminal and immoral actions of a few terrorists,” she announced on video, “our mission must end at Renova. We no longer have enough water resources to divert.” She assured the ship’s population there was plenty of water capacity to complete the deceleration and settlement. “We will begin deceleration operations in three days. In six months, we will be Renovans.” The rioting died. ******** Hunter, exhausted after sleepless days of emergency response leadership, found Rupert at his quarters door again. He was in no mood to talk. Rupert wasn’t interested in talking, either. He handed Hunter a silicon envelope containing a letter of resignation along with a portable storage fob. "What's this?" Hunter indicated the fob. “You’re a good man, Hunter,” Rupert said. “It’s a shame you were caught up in this. You might have made a good president.” He walked away. Hunter found a single audio file on the fob. He transferred it to his tablet then listened to it. There were two voices. He didn't know the first, but he recognized the second voice, Clarissa Fushima. First voice: "Everything is set at the water plant." Fushima: "Do it now. Before the riots die down."

i3bkuc

Into the depths

Dr. Dorian Ashcroft was no stranger to life on a submarine.   Dorian had served three tours of duty as a sonar technician on the Los Angeles Class submarine USS Charlotte in the late 1990s.   His last tour in the North Atlantic had taken him to depths he’d not seen on prior tours.   Dorian entered the Navy after high school as a way to pay for college.   After basic training he spent 16 weeks in sonar technician training figuring his skills at math, science and listening to 90s grunge music might make him a valuable asset operating the sonar aboard a nuclear submarine.   He figured that the hours of listening to the rumble of the drop D bass guitar tuning that resonated from his stereo might have helped train his ears to listen for Russian submarines.  The research submarine “Atlas” that Dorian was descending in today was quietly exploring ocean depths he had never dreamed possible in the Navy.  During his North Atlantic tour, the sonar crew detected two Russian submarines, what they believed were Severodvinsk and Akula class subs coming at the USS Charlotte from the North and South.  Captain Brock Nelson, who had commanded Los Angeles Class submarines for the last decade, thought it best to dive below the radar capabilities of his enemy and below what most on the crew of the Charlotte thought was safely above crush depth.  Crush depth for the Los Angeles boat was typically believed to be 1,500 ft below sea level, but Captain Brock knew better.   Dorian still remembered the creaking and groaning of the bulkhead after the Officer of the Deck commanded the helm to execute on a 5 degree down bubble and make his depth three zero zero zero feet.  Crush depth is the submerged depth at which the submarine implodes due to the water pressure on the hull.   Death would be instantaneous as the implosion of a submarine at the pressures of these depths would take 1/20th of a second. “Dr. Ashcroft? Are you ok, sir?” asked Victor. Victor Locke was the submarine technician assigned to pilot Dr. Ashcroft to the bottom of the ocean below the Antarctic Ice Shelf. Victor had never been on a nuclear submarine, but had piloted the two seat Atlas research submarine for Deep Blue Research for the last six years.   “Yes, Victor.  I was reminiscing about a time on a much roomier submarine.” “You’re referring to your time in the Navy Dr. Ashcroft?” “It was a long time ago, Victor.  What is our current depth?” “We are approaching 15,000 ft.  We have begun slowing our descent.”  “Do you know what crush depth is on this research submarine, Victor?” “Crush depth, sir?  I’m hoping we’d have thought about that long before we were almost 3 miles underwater.” “From what I understand Victor, the crush depth for this sub is supposed to be 35,000 ft.  We won’t be anywhere near those depths.  Assuming that….whoa, hold on.”  Dorian and Victor both felt the impact as the submarine rolled to starboard 20 degrees, knocking pens and papers and whatever wasn’t attached to the sub on to the floor.   The pink tentacle of a giant squid was now visible through the inches thick glass dome at the front of the submarine.  “Holy shit, where did he come from!”  Victor barked.  Startled by the site of the squid Victor reflexively yanked the controls, disabling the auto pilot as he attempted to level out the submarine.   “We’re gonna dive and see if we can lose him”, Victor said as he pushed the control yoke of the sub forward into a dive.  He knew they needed to get clear of the giant squid before it could make contact with components of the sub that were integral to navigation and propulsion. “Why the hell didn’t we pick that thing up on sonar until now? Victor said as he and Dorian looked down at the sonar screen and saw the outline of the giant squid passing over and away from the submarine as they dove further down into the depths. “It was following us down from above and happened to be right in our blind spot. There was no way for us to pick him up on sonar.  We’re lucky he didn’t get caught up in the propulsion.” Dorian explained. “You were a sonar technician Dr. Ashcroft; I have to ask have you ever seen anything like that before?” “If you mean a giant squid, yes we spotted a handful on sonar during my tours in the Navy. If you mean someone riding in your blind spot, I knew it was theoretically possible. We trained for that in the Navy, but I’ve never seen it before with submarines, much less with something biological.” “I’m going to slow our descent sir. The bottom is at 17,000 feet. I’m going to level out for a bit and reset a little after all that excitement.” “Good idea, Victor.” Dorian said. He’d been through stressful moments on a submarine before, so the interaction with the giant squid didn’t raise his blood pressure much. The submarine leveled off at 16,500 feet below sea level.  At this depth there is no natural light. The bubble of light around the perimeter of the sub was generated by two high intensity lights pointed downward from upright poles on the four corners of the submarine. It was eerie to know that while they could see nothing around them, there were giants at this depth. “Ok, so it looks like another 500 feet and we should be within range of our target, sir.” Victor said after checking the instrumentation on the submarine to confirm their location and trajectory. “Ok, let’s go 1° down bubble and slowly work our way down to the seafloor. We should start to see the methane field from about 100 feet out.” Dorian replied. “What are you expecting to see, sir?” Victor inquired. “Atlas one, this is surface. Did you go all-stop? Is everything ok down there? “The radio squawked with the voice of Submarine Operations Director James Wood as he called down to the Atlas from the control room of the research vessel owned and operated by Deep Blue Research “Surface this is Atlas. Yeah, we are ok. We had a run-in with a squid and stopped to reset. No damage and we are currently 500 ft above floor.” Victor replied. He was intentionally downplaying the giant squid incident hoping the crew up top didn’t decide to scrub the mission and have them ride 3 hours back to the surface for nothing. “Copy Atlas, mission is still a go. All systems look normal from up here. We show you at 16 point 5 and slow descent.” Wood said. “We’ve reassessed our bearings and are at 16 point 5 with 1 degree descent to 17 where we expect to be at target.” “Copy. Please give us an update when you’re at target. Surface out.” “Back to our mission, sir.” Victor said, having hung the microphone of the radio back in its cradle.   “What is it you’re hoping to find down here?  I mean, I’ve been to the floor around Antarctica a couple of times, and there isn’t much interesting in this part of the world” “Have you been here since the Ross Ice Shelf started to collapse?” Dorian asked. The Ross Ice Shelf on the Southern end of Antarctica was the largest ice shelf in Antarctica covering an area of almost 200,000 square miles.  Global warming had been destabilizing ice shelfs in Antarctica for the last several decades, but it was recently that this several hundred meters thick ice chunk had started to crack and collapse into the ocean. “No, the last time I was in this area was 10 years ago, sir.” Victor replied. “Well, you saw the size of the icebergs we were navigating around up top. That was just the beginning of the break-up of the Ross Ice Shelf.  Over the last year atmospheric sensors at research stations across Antarctica have picked up increasing concentrations of methane gas, which we believe is coming from the ocean floor as result of the collapse of the Ross Ice Shelf.” “So, we’re prospecting? Looking for methane down on the ocean floor? I thought you were a scientist sir, or is your research funded by oil companies?” Victor grinned. “This isn’t below ground methane Victor. What we are looking for is frozen methane that we believe is off gassing now that the ice sheet has started collapsing.  We don’t know if it’s the shock of the ice falling off Antarctica, or a change in the water pressure above the formation or something geologic below the surface; but something has changed and we need to understand the extent of the methane being released.” “There are some scientists who believe that significant weather changes millions of years ago could be attributed to large scale releases of methane gas into the atmosphere. Methane is 80 time more harmful than carbon dioxide as a greenhouse gas.” Dorian explained. “That won’t stop me from enjoying a good steak, with all due respect sir.” Victor mused. “This isn’t about cow farts Victor. The emissions from cattle combined with increased methane from permafrost melting in Siberia are significant, but if what we are reading for methane on the surface is real, we have a much bigger issue. Victor we’ve been sent to assess what this methane hydrate field looks like below the collapsing Ross Ice shelf.” A stream of fine bubbles like those in a glass of champagne were now visible riding up the surface of the thick dome shaped window at the front of the submarine.  “I think we found your methane sir.” Victor pointed to the front of the sub. The submarine slowly advanced forward as the bubbles intensified causing the submarine to tilt upward. “I think we’re seeing a change in buoyancy with all the gases, sir. I’m going to take us 2° down bubble and increase our speed to continue our descent.” Victor said as he adjusted the descent of the submarine. “Let’s try to get within 10 feet of the methane field and launch the probe. After that we will go up to 100 feet and get a better visual of the terrain with the Shit Leaf.” The Shit Leaf was a term the crew had given the “Submarine High Intensity Tactical Light Emitting Array Field”, or SHITLEAF which was essentially a giant array of lights at the front of the submarine. This array of lights was designed to create a one-time flash that would allow cameras to get a clear visual of the deep ocean floor. “10-4, sir. Approaching 50 feet. We’ve had to increase our speed 20% to hold our trajectory through the gasses.” Victor said as he adjusted the controls to get closer to the target. Victor started to count down their descent as they approached the ocean floor. “Forty feet” “Thirty feet” “Twenty-five” The bubbles continued to intensify the closer the submarine got to the ocean floor. Dorian could feel the submarine surge up and down as the bubbles rolled around the hull of the sub making their descent more difficult. “Twenty” “Eighteen” “Fifteen feet, sir. Going to adjust descent to prepare to level out, if we can. Damn, this this is tough to navigate in.” Victor’s gaze on the instrument panel intensified as he focused on getting the submarine leveled out above the ocean floor. “Thirteen” “Twelve” “Eleven” “Ten feet sir, and we are leveled out.” Victor grabbed the radio back out of the cradle and depressed the microphone. “Surface, this is Atlas. We are at target. Holding at 10 feet above floor.” “Copy, Atlas.” Wood replied. Drop the probe, get a picture and get your asses back up here.” “Is he usually this tense Victor?” Dorian asked as he prepared to release the probe that was tethered to the bottom of the submarine. The probe was five feet long and was pointed down from the submarine like the needle of a record player. The front of the probe was an auger that was designed to drill through the methane ice and measure the thickness of the methane field and report the results back to instruments on the sub. “No, he just wants to get home to his new girlfriend and get laid.” Victor chuckled. “Dropping probe in five, four, three, two, one.” Dorian counted down as he flipped the switch releasing the probe. There was a clunk from below the sub as the quick release dropped the probe into the methane ice. “Auger active, and we are getting a good signal.” Dorian reported. “While the probe is working let’s get up to 100 feet again and light things up and see what this thing looks like.” Dorian replied. “Copy, making my depth 100 ft.” Victor replied as he pulled back on the yoke and let the submarine rise to 100 ft above the sea floor. The bubbles were much less intense at the depth. “Starting up the cameras and setting the timer for SHITLEAF.” Dorian said. “Copy, donning personal protective equipment” Victor replied as he grabbed a black welding hood with a “Will weld for beer” sticker on it and put it over his eyes. Dorian turned the exterior cameras on and set a timer for the SHITLEAF before putting his welding hood on. “Timer activated. Don’t forget to look down.” Dorian reminded Victor. The SHITLEAF activated and even with the welding hoods on and their gazes averted from the glass of the submarine they could see a brilliant flash through the lens of their welding hoods.  “Ok, SHITLEAF activation complete. Shutting down cameras.” Dorian said. Dorian and Victor both pulled off their welding hoods. Victor started to pull up on the yoke of the submarine and grabbed the radio once again. “Surface, this is Atlas. Mission complete. Returning to surface.” “Copy Atlas. Job well done.” Wood replied. “This can’t be right” Dorian said as he studied the data coming from the probe. “The probe has gone twenty-five feet and hasn’t hit the sea floor yet.” “The methane ice is that thick?” Victor asked? “Apparently. Let’s take a look at the pictures” Dorian said as he pulled open his laptop computer and plugged one end of an HDMI cable into the laptop and the other end into a port on his side of the cramped submarine. “Oh my God…” Dorian said, as the picture came into view.  The terrain of the ocean floor below the collapsing Ross Ice Shelf was a rolling terrain of barren hills that extended for miles out to the horizon. The intense light pulse from the SHITLEAF lit up the ocean floor with the intensity of the mid-day sun which allowed the cameras to capture a split-second crystal-clear view from the submarine all the way to the horizon. From 100 ft above the sea floor, they could see nothing but deep blue rocks of frozen methane gas with champagne bubbles rising above as far as they could see to the horizon over 50 miles out. “What are we going to do Dorian?” Victor asked, forgoing any formalities as the gravity of the situation grabbed their attention. “I don’t know Victor. I really don’t know.”

y72zv0

The Journal of Theadore Strampler

Journal of Theadore Strampler April 25, 2020, We’ve been in lockdown for about a month now. My team had come down to Mexico to explore the Mayan temples. Because they’re national parks they were shut down along with everything else. Hopefully this trip won’t be in vain. We spent too much time and money setting up this expedition. Hopefully we can get some information soon and we won’t waste any more time. Who knows how long we’ll be down here with this lockdown. April 27, 2020 I got news from my friend and college Jeremy that there is a rumored unexplored cave system nearby. It’s a local legend that these caves hold the secret of eternal life. The fountain of youth. The legend goes that the lake was accessible to everyone on the peninsula but then there was a cave-in hundreds of years ago sealing it off from the population. The legend of it has been passed down for generations. Jeremy found it a fascinating tale and wanted to share. It is quite interesting. Maybe we can do some more research and pivot our plans since we won’t be able to continue our work anytime soon. May 4, 2020 After a week of intensive research, as a team we found where the caves of legend were. While we were doing our research, we began to gather supplies for if we decided to go on this expedition. If we wound up not actually going, we’d have a stock of non-perishable food so we wouldn’t have to go out into the Covid infected world for a little bit and could just keep to ourselves. But it looks promising, everyone seems to be on board. May 5, 2020 We spent the rest of last night putting our finishing touches on a plan and all voted to go see if the legends are true. I mean what else is there to do for a team of four adventurers. Our plan is to leave on Friday. The journey should take about two weeks, if we can find a way in through the cave-in then we can hopefully find a path leading to the fabled fountain. I will continue to log the trip so that hopefully our discovery can be shared with the world. I will most likely not make another entry until Friday night so that we can make sure that all is ready. May 7, 2020 One update before we head out. It was discussed what we would do if we found the fountain. I don’t know if I will take a drink or not. I guess it will be a decision in the moment. May 8, 2020 We spent the day traveling. We took a car to get there from Merida where we had been staying. Our packs had all our food and spelunking gear as well as sleeping mats and bags. We didn’t really need the sleeping bags because the edge of the cave where we decided to spend the night was warm. From our view point we can see the lake at the bottom of the cave as well as where the cave-in happened. Hopefully mother nature has eroded some of the rocks over the years so that we can get past it and explore further. May 9, 2020 It took longer than we had expected to get to the base of the cave by the lake. The only vantage point to get down was on the other side of the lake from where our access point was. The lake itself was a beautiful teal that reflected the sun overhead beautifully. Maybe when we come back through, we can take a dip. We’ll need it after going through the caves and getting covered in all the dirt. We unfortunately must wait until tomorrow to begin our excavation of the cave-in to access the tunnels that are believed to be behind them. May 10, 2020 We spent the day carefully pulling rocks out and making a way in for ourselves. We made a small hole to start and confirmed that there was in fact a tunnel system behind all the rocks. We made the hole at the top so as not to cause a cave in on ourselves as we made our way through. It took us hours to make a hole big enough for us all to squeeze through and fit our packs through. We did have to unload the bags and pass everything though individually because the full packs weren't flexible enough to fit through full. The tunnels were a little low hanging but slightly crouching we were able to start adventuring through. Our watches are now the only way we will know when days have passed. When we get too tired, we will stop for the “evening”. Even though there is no sunlight in the tunnels. We were able to make it a bit into the tunnels before we had to begin using our crank powered lights. I guess it’s time to rest until we can start exploring again. May 11, 2020 Today was a very long travel day. The number of turns we had to take was a bit of a surprise. We also had to stop a handful of times to squeeze through and pass packs through. The wet earth smell was something nice though. Something that was comforting. There was another smell that I couldn’t quite place. No one mentioned anything so I just ignored the smell. Still pitch dark both ways. Hopefully we will see the lake before we feel it. I miss hot food. It’s crazy how quick that desire comes on. May 16, 2020 I didn't think there was really a reason to really make updates every night when all the updates would have been, we walked, we squeezed. The only thing out of the ordinary was the smell that I kept smelling that I couldn’t quite place. I finally learned what it was. We reached a literal light at the end of the tunnel and what it opened to was something we never would have expected. There was an entire village of people. All Young and fit. There was not a singular elderly person or child in sight. The first of the inhabitants to see us were shocked but then we were led to the central building that overlooked a smell lake in the center of the civilization. There was a strong language barrier. It seemed as if they spoke a type of old Spanish. Some words were able to be spoken between us. Pictures had to be used to supplement what could not be spoken. We were welcomed and given a place to stay. There was dinner for us that evening. A cornucopia of fruits that seemed to have come from this land, as well a bird meat from birds that flew overhead of the village. Did we find the real fountain of youth? May 17, 2020 Woke up this morning and were given a tour around the village. We saw the irrigation systems that flow from the lake. A bountiful harvest of various fruits and vegetables. Some varieties that you wouldn't expect in this part of the world. But who are we to question the farmlands of an underground civilization. It is fascinating seeing a society of people who seem to be eternally young. As we went around the village, I seemingly gained confirmation that we did find the fountain of youth. May 24, 2020 It’s been a week in this place. The food was nothing but amazing. But there seems to be something off. Where did the seeds for all this food not native to Mexico come from? The language barrier is shrinking as we have been able to match our modern Spanish more closely to the inhabitants ancient Spanish. I think now that we have developed a bit of a report, I’m going to ask them straight out if this is the fountain of youth. May 26, 2020 After another day of gathering the trust of the locals I have decided to finally ask. Thats when I learned the truth. This was in fact the fountain of youth. Many of the people who live here were part of the original settlement that made their home here centuries ago. Over the centuries some have discovered this place and written about it. All their journals were destroyed in fire. I’ve been keeping this log on my laptop. So, they don't know that it's here. Tomorrow my team must drink from the lake and join or die and join all the others who have made their way here. I still don't know what I am going to choose when the time comes tomorrow but whatever it is, this will be my last entry. Hopefully it uploads. If someone does read this, explore the caves all you want. But if you come across this civilization, for your own good turn around and don’t look back. 

ua9qkl

The Entity

The smell of rotten eggs woke Harper from a dead sleep. Or maybe it was the waves of intense nausea. Her innards felt like they were being stomped clean, like dirty laundry in a remote, rural stream. Through eyes weary and half-shut, Harper watched a red light pulse. It filled the space around her with spasmodic, blood-hued flashes. Uggghh… Moving wasn’t high on her list of priorities. Her head was heavy. It felt like a pumpkin propped on a toothpick, and inside sloshed thoughts and images that threatened to fuse together but, instead, bobbed haplessly in the groggy backwaters of her mind. She closed here eyes and turned to lay on her side. Too difficult. She motor-boated her lips.  That's when the poem began. The absurd wordplay could have come straight out of the dusty vaults of Captain Beefheart. The strange sonnet danced on the tongue of some faceless woman as it corkscrewed into Harper’s consciousness, like a stream of buttercream frosting atop a cake. Harper grasped at it. It evaded her clutches, verbal confetti in a breeze.  “Roll bed. Feel free to pull and retest it.” What in the world? “Toad said, its feet avulsed. Infected.” Whoever was speaking whimsically sliced and diced words, the way those theatrical, knife-juggling chefs at the vintage Japanese restaurant chain (whose name escaped her) diced sushi. The vowel scheme, however, remained curiously consistent. “Road bled. A vehicle dissected.” She struggled to make sense of it. But she was no poet. She never had the knack. It was a god-given talent, she was always told, and, in her life, she had never taken seriously even the slightest inclinations towards being an artist. When she was young, however, she dreamed of being an astronaut. She recalled how the stars outside her childhood bedroom window would whisper to her at night. They would tell her of her destiny, of her future living in their midst. “Joe fled. The bees on skull reflect it.” As a matter of fact, now that she thought about it, she had a faint recollection of donning a spacesuit at one time: one limb at a time, into the suit, a silent dance, a sacred ritual, all in preparation for sleep. Again came the verse. But this time, the words cut through the mental murk and dripped with a sobering clarity. “Code red. Debris on hull detected.”  Oh god , she thought.  Harper blinked herself awake. She swam up through the mental soup, lifted a hand and pawed at the mask that was pumping oxygen and hydrogen sulfide into her lungs. She finally pulled it off and the smell of rotten eggs disappeared.   Harper grumbled. She slipped the IV from her arm and threw it somewhere next to her. She hoisted open heavy eyelids again and glimpsed the hyper-sleep chamber. The space was tight, just big enough for an average sized adult. A glass door lay above her, and on the other side of it, the flashing beacon intermittently bathed the large cryo-room in that haunting crimson glow. Between the scarlet pulses, the room would descend into darkness, lit only by the feeble lights of the keyboard panels which stretched across the room, under monitors that were inert and black with sleep.    The red alert continued to blare in her ear as Harper attempted to move her legs. She was numb from tailbone to heels, a result of the three year hibernation. The nifty LSD-style dreams were one of the perks of hyper-sleep too — a side-effect of the hydrogen sulfide. The gas slowed her metabolism, helping her body withstand the long trip on the scantest of nutrients. The rotten egg smell was just another bonus.   “Christ, Cheryl, enough with the goddam code alert , please, ” Harper mumbled. The onboard AI turned off its alert protocol, which, to Harper, had sounded like word-salad just a moment before. The rhythmic red light clicked off too, which immerserd the room in the twilight-like glow of the the keyboard lights. “Welcome back, Captain Gordon,” Cheryl said, in an amiable female voice. Harper responded with a guttural noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a moaning. The door above her hissed open. The air in the room permeated her nostrils with the trademark aseptic smell characteristic of sterile environments. She sat up in her cryo-bed, hitching forward gently on wobbly arms. Her blonde-dyed dreads fell down around sandy-brown shoulders.  The white tank top and blue underwear she'd climbed into the cryo-bed with had lost their snugness, despite the small army of electronic muscle stimulators that dotted her body. Harper filled her lungs with the cabin’s perfect mix of earth’s atmosphere, taking in a deep breath and stretching her limbs, which were coming back to life — slowly. For the time being, they moved like gum in molasses.  She shook the cobwebs from her head. “Status report,” she said. “All systems are nominal, chief.” “Really?” Harper tipped her head back and rolled it on her neck.  “Then why wake me?” “Well, as we crossed into the Perseus Arm, the ship picked up debris on the starboard-side hull.” Harper arched her back, getting in a good stretch. She moaned in pleasure. “What kind of debris?” “I’m not sure. My analysis didn’t match it to any known life forms in my database.” “Life forms?” Cheryl paused. “Yes.” Harper shook her head. She needed a hot cup of coffee, one big enough to be hauled around on a dolly. With loads of cream. And sugar. And a jelly donut. She’d kill for a jelly donut.  “What kind of life form?” she said. “That’s just it, I don’t know.” Harper sucked her teeth. “How long has this… lifeform been clinging to the ship?” "Three days." “Three days? Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” Harper said, furrowing her brows. “I would’ve but… I ran the calculations: the debris posed no threat to the integrity of the mission.” “And what changed?” “It started… growing.” “Growing?” Harper shook her head again and held up a hand. “Do you have an image?” “Yes.” A picture of the ship’s hull came up on a nearby screen. The image moved easily across it until it came to a stop at a series of bumps. The bulges were backlit, providing a hazy profile view. They were covered in what looked to be hair. And the hair was… moving, like it was grasping at things in the void. The protrusions were dark, maybe black, or purple. Maybe even a deep red. From the camera’s vantage point, it was hard to tell. “What the hell?” Harper squinted and leaned towards the screen. She swung a spindly leg over the edge of the cryo-bed, touching a toe to the floor.  “Careful, Captain. Your muscles. They’re not —. ” “I know. I’d make a scarecrow jealous. I’ll be fine. Shut off the gravity, will you?” Cheryl slowed the spinning of the main bay of the ship, causing Harper’s belly to lurch. She belched in her mouth. Another delight courtesy of the space-trekking business. “How big is it?” she asked. “When it first attached itself to the ship it was roughly three inches in diameter," the AI explained. "It remained that size for three days. Today, within the last two hours, in fact, it more than quadrupled in size.” “Quadruple?” Harper thought for a moment, wiping a lock of dreads from her eyes. The fuzzy mass moved slowly as it slid across her face, the artificial gravity wearing off. “So, a foot across now,” she said. “Give or take, yes.” “And you don’t know what it is?” Harper asked flatly. “No. It’s not coming up in any known databases." Harper nodded, processing the information. Inside, her belly was waning towards full queasiness. Her body had lifted off the mattress. She grabbed a handrail that was attached to the cryo-bed to stabilize herself. “Chances of it covering the ship?” she asked. “I can’t say for certain. It could continue to grow at this rate, or grow erratically, or not at all. But if it does grow unchecked, I don’t see how it wouldn't." Harper nodded. “So, at this rate, how long?” “By my calculations, it could cover the starboard side in four days, and reach the starboard booster in five. That’s my real concern.” Harper bit down on her bottom lip. Her gray eyes twinkled in one of the panel lights. “Yea, we can kiss maneuverability good-bye then.” "Exactly." "And probably our asses." "Bingo." Harper fixed a blank stare at the screen as her mind sifted through alternative scenarios. She settled on two options, both fundamentally uncomplicated, neither very good. One: abort the mission — but that would mean the end of decades of hard work and the dashing of a life long dream. Two: sticking it out — and possibly getting it wrong. Dealing with this... entity poorly, though, could mean hurtling out into space. For an eternity.  Fun , she thought.  She chewed on it a while longer. “Apprise Houston of our status," she said. "Then prep my suit. I’m going for a walk.” “I can’t clear you for a walk for at least 48 hours and not before a full physical, Captain. The effects of the hyper-sleep —.” “Override,” Harper said. “Directive twenty-four point four.” The crisp edge of authority was sharp in her voice. “Counter override, directive eight-alpha. Captain, I cannot in good conscience let you —.” “Goddam AI, just…” Harper steadied her breathing. Her pulse throbbed in her ear and she had raised a clenched fist, unknowingly, ready to slam it against something. “Override,” she said, “directive two-four-two-seven. You will not keep me from checking on that debris. Unlike you, I have a heart and lungs and a brain, and along with all of those things — which are near and dear to me — I want to get my ass out to the California Nebula, then back home to Earth. Waiting 48 hours to check on this thing is not an option.” A silence bloomed between them. “The sarcasm is unnecessary, Captain. I may not have the same parts that you do, but I don’t want to die out here either. You’re not the only one who contemplates their mortality.”  Harper rolled her eyes. These things had become far too life-like.  “Protocol overridden,” Cheryl continued. “You've got your space walk, Captain. But I think it's a bad idea.” **** After her stomach completed a few back-flips, Harper adjusted to the zero gravity. She was in the belly of it now, floating along the starboard side of the Caelum , tethered to its polymer skin.  Her suit was bulky. Under the earth’s gravitational pull, in her condition, it would have been unwieldy. But in the vacuum of space, she moved gracefully in it, like a Mylar-clad athlete.  “Coming up on the foreign object debris now,” she said. “Roger,” Cheryl responded. Harper wasn’t sure what to expect. She had been with NASA for 32 years. Fresh out of the candidate program, she was one of only ten women who were accepted into the program. More than three decades later she’d been to Mars and captained three voyages across the solar system. And in all those years, not a single person had encountered an alien life form. Yes, they found bacteria within the crust of Mars. But had they made contact with anything larger than microscopic organisms, ever? No. It had never happened. And here she was, on the verge of discovering a new species.  She couldn’t tell if she was excited or nervous. Maybe she was just terrified and in complete denial — the potential downsides, despite the monumental discovery, were especially grim.  Harper pulled herself around the hull using the handholds that speckled the ship’s shell. She spotted the silhouette of the debris and pulled herself closer. When she swung herself around and on top of it, Harper found a cluster of spiny, spherical objects. They were purplish-black and each was roughly the size of a tennis ball. Long, slender spines radiated out from every organism’s center, reminding her of sea urchins back home — the little critters that gathered in tidal pools along the crisp Northern Atlantic shores. But there was a glaring difference: the eye at the center. Each of these creatures had an eye that took up at least half of its body.  The sight sent a shudder through Harper.  “Christ, are you getting this?” “Crystal clear on this end,” Cheryl said.  “What the hell are these things?” “I don’t know, chief.” Harper leaned in. The set of eyes looked into hers, sending a qualmishness bubbling through her belly.  The irises were yellow stippled with green specks. The pupils were as black as the emptiness around her. But they moved. The spiral-shaped openings revolved, and spun in a swirling pattern. Harper stared at them in awe, her respirator humming rhythmically in her helmet. "Captain?... Captain, are you okay?" “What?... Yea... I’m gonna get a sample.” “Be careful.” Harper paused. Her eyes narrowed. Ok, mom . She prepared her drill and the empty bag that was typically used to hold drill bits. Crude tools, she thought, for collecting a species that will break science. But NASA hadn’t planned on her bumping into an undiscovered life form on this trip. She had to make due. She pulled herself closer. The cluster of eyes followed her every move, squishing and squirming in their body-sockets. She held the drill over the tiny creatures. “Here goes nothing,” she said.  She wedged the tip of the drill bit under a specimen on the edge of the group. The bit hardly slipped beneath it. She shifted the bag further up her shoulder, then tried with both hands. Still, nothing. “Damn, these things are stuck on here good.” “Take your time.” Harper shook her head, again. Yes, mom. Out of some deep-seated Pavlovian habit, decades in the making, Harper nearly flicked on the drill. Christ. She chuckled. Then asked herself if she was nuts. She took a deep breath. Harper gripped the top edge of the animal with her free hand and slid the drill bit under the other side again. She pulled on it.  Ouch! Harper recoiled in pain.  She looked intently at her glove. It couldn’t be, could it? She flipped her hand over to get a better look. No way. It felt like the creature had bitten her. Through the Mylar, through the Dacron and through the Teflon-coated glove. As she tried to process the queer sensation, the sight of the ship began teetering in her view. The critters and their curious eyes started spiraling in a blur further and further away. She was tumbling into unconsciousness, and she knew it.  Harper's mind gradually became alert again amidst the blackness of catatonia. The profound silence there felt like it pervaded her very soul. An image crystalized. It crackled with color. It was a moving picture of a black hole swallowing up space debris. Among the flotsam, trapped in the thing's maw, was the Caelum . And undulating across the ship from tip to stern was a purplish-black skin, glowing, rippling, with eyes, thousands of eyes along it, peering back at her. Harper’s breath caught in her throat. She watched the black hole suck in the ship, spinning it across its aperture, and down towards the chute of its endless belly. Inside the black hole, Harper could feel something, a being or a consciousness. It spoke to her in a deep, wordless rumble. A piece of it, a feeling maybe, or possibly a warning, slithered across the vivid vision and touched her, the sensation rifling across her chest. It pulled at her. Harper screamed.  “Nooo!!” She jolted awake. Her respirator was whining in her helmet. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths. Harper looked down to find herself floating several yards above the Caelum , her tether at full length. Her head was pounding again and she felt weaker than when she emerged from cryo.  She peered down at the ship. The colony had spread. The creatures had commandeered nearly the entire starboard side of the ship. “Captain? Are you okay?? Captain?” Cheryl said. “Yes, yes…" she muttered. "The… the creatures, they’ve… taken over the… how?” Her voice cracked with anxiety. “You’ve been out for more than three days. I tried to wake you, but there wasn’t much I could do from here.” The hairs on the nape of Harper’s neck stood on end. She needed to be back on the ship. She needed to get ahead of this. She reached for the tether. Her arm barely moved at her command. Harper tried the other: a similar incapacity. “Captain,” Cheryl said tentatively, “between the hyper-sleep, your unconsciousness and going without food for as long as you did, your body is terribly weak.” Harper blinked uncontrollably, her mind grasping at the situation, trying to make it all stick. “Slow movements, Captain. Take your time.” “We don’t have time.”  “Time is all we have now.” Harper gnashed her teeth. Her insides burned. She wanted to scream. She could hear herself breathing, the respirator purring in her ears. Stars twinkled all around her. At length, she collected herself. Cheryl was right. Mother-jokes aside, she was always right. Harper took a deep breath and reached out for the tether. It seemed like an eternity, but all she could do was move, go through the motions, try.  While stretching for the life-line, something below caught her eye. A long row of the prickly creatures, a bit smaller than the rest, were pulsating. They were mid-inception, giving birth to themselves. They encircled the colony, a fresh layer of lethal interlopers — their amber-colored eyes wet and fully formed, their spines stunted and still fleshy.  Harper’s jaw tightened as a heat rose like a halo through the top of her head.  “You bastards!!" she screamed. "You goddam… sons of bitches…” Her voice fell to a whisper. She bit her lip, holding back sobs.  The blanket of eyes looked up at her coolly, following each of her labored movements. They glowed and they squirmed. Then swiveled in their thorny sockets.

3sw7el

The Loudest Silence

Sometimes I feel like I’ll wake up in Hell, completely unawares until Satan asks me what I’m making for breakfast. This morning I thought I was in Hell. At least, that’s how I imagine it’s like: dark, suffocating, swarming with unknown creatures that watch you float by in your metal bubble. Only it was just my bottom bunk in the galley of a submarine. Until, of course, I heard the captain calling for all hands on deck. Then this place really did become like Hell. It’s now pure chaos. Bodies clash in the darkness, flashlights die, tearing down layers of hope as they do. Most people who aren’t having panic attacks are huddled together around the radio, praying, or whatever it is they do that makes them feel better about our situation. Regardless of our personal beliefs now, we’re all praying. Begging whoever will listen to turn the power of our little submarine back on, and send the hundreds of distress signals we’ve made out into the void blackness of the ocean. We’re lost. Powerless. Sinking aimlessly until we eventually either die from suffocation or from our safety bubble of steel imploding instantaneously. I used to love the silence of being underwater, where the busy world couldn’t reach my ears. We all hold our breaths for hours, the silence of the eternal sea being the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. “I won’t lie,” the captain sighs heavily. “We’re screwed.” He says. He rubs his thumb and forefinger on his tightly shut eyes. “I hate to say it, but our only hope is that base received our signal the first time the power cut.” sometime last night, our main power supply went down. We don’t know why or how or when, but it was like it just vanished. Our emergency power kicked in for a few hours. And then that went out too. “Listen,” one of the head scientists ducks into the room. “I know I’m no submariner, but can’t we figure this out? Can’t we at least try to fix it?” there’s another moment of loud silence before anyone dares take away the sliver of hope he gave us just by suggesting we could fix it. another one of the scientists, a woman, she’s been staring blankly out one of the tiny windows along the wall all morning. She slowly turns around to face us all. “Didn’t you hear him?” She asks. “Hope is pointless. It means nothing now.” She turns back around towards the window. I’m standing next to her so I hear her chuckle to herself. “To think I was just hoping to see a squid.” She says. and as much as her statement makes me feel worse about this situation, I can relate. I didn’t come onto this submarine because I’m an engineer or some brilliant marine biologist. I’m here to serve food and keep whatever equipment or supplies they may need available and organized. Like a golf caddy, or whatever those guys are called. I’m unimportant to the original purpose of why we’re all here now. And yet I’m standing among them all as an equal now, slowly sucking their lives from them, and all of them collectively sucking my life from me. inhale. exhale. I don’t know if I’d call it ironic that the very thing that most people think keeps you alive is what’s going to kill all of us. “There must be some way.” Another one of the scientists chips in to the optimistic side of the conversation. “Captain, can we see the power grid?” He asks. the captain laughs in his face. “Be my guest!” He sings. “Let me know how the four thousand pounds of pressure feels out there. Though it’s probably a heck of a lot more than that now that we’re actively sinking. Why don’t we all just go out there for a little check-up. What do you say?” Clearly he’s being sarcastic, but it’s the way no one says anything after that makes his words hit like a hammer to the skull. If hearts sink, mine is already at the bottom of where we’re headed. four thousand pounds of pressure. That’s two tons. That’s one male hippo on every square inch of your body. I’m honestly not sure where that hippo fact came from, but still. I can’t even imagine it. one of the two engineers that know about the system and how everything works stands up from his squatting position on the ground. I expect him to make some comment about how the power works, or something about conserving energy. Instead his eyes stayed glued to the ceiling. The window above us instantly becomes darker. We all look up now. hail is little frozen balls of ice falling from the sky. I know that much. I also know that whatever keeps tapping on the window is not hail. our pulses all speed up with each tap. I know mine specifically is probably nearing a dangerous rate. shadows dart back and forth all around the submarine. It feels like we are surrounded by either one big something or hundreds, if not thousands of something’s. god, I wish we could turn on a light. eventually someone has the nerves to talk. “What is it?” It’s the engineer. His voice is low, in almost a whisper. Like our voices might startle the creature teasing us with its arrhythmic beat. tap. tap. inhale. tap. exhale. No one answers the engineer. And eventually the tapping is no longer a frightening new sound. tap. tap. inhale. tap. tap. exhale. tap. minutes turn to hours. The air is starting to become heavier. I can feel my breaths not satisfying my body. My lungs crave for more oxygen, beg me for fresh air. tap. tap. tap. I haven’t spoken all day. My wristwatch tells me it’s nearly two in the afternoon. We already drank all the water available. The freeze-dried food is chalky and flavorless when your mouth is also dry. tap. the woman who was staring out the window leaves and shuts herself into the bathroom area. I’m willing to bet the air in there is worse, but to each their own. Maybe she’s becoming claustrophobic. I know people tend to do that when they feel panicked, even if they’re not normally. tap. tap. tap. tap. the captain speaks up above the tapping. “You,” he points at me. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment of his addressing of me. “Find a flashlight.” He says. immediately I jump up and run back to the bunk space. I first dig through my own bag, tossing underwear and other ridiculous things I thought necessary to bring with me. I know I packed at least two flashlights because I like to read at night. tap. the pressure to find it is only heightened by the thought that whatever is making the tapping noise will go away if I do not find a flashlight fast. tap. tap. my fingers wrap around the cool, hard plastic surface of my flashlight. I laugh out in celebration. “you find one?” The captain asks. He takes it from my hand the moment I hold it out. “yes, sir.” I tell him, even though he’s already holding it. he hands it to the head scientist. “Here,” he tells him. “You do what you came here for.” tap. The head scientist takes an individual look at each of us in the room. I subtly notice him breathe deeply and want to reprimand him for it, but hold back. He seems to debate with himself whether or not he really wants to see what’s tapping on our ceiling. tap. tap. tap. the flashlight clicks on, right in my eyes, and then points up at the window where the tapping suddenly stops. the shadows have crept away from the beam of light shining onto the glass, but they are still near. I can see their faint outlines just out of reach of the light. he turns the flashlight off. tap. back on. silence. off. tap. tap. on. silence. this is now a game. One which a scientist plays with an unknown sea creature in an attempt to turn the flashlight on before the creature has a chance to hide. it is a terrifying game to play. I feel we are already playing one game called: who can suffocate the slowest. I’d rather not test an animal we know nothing about. Or, more accurately, hundreds of animals we know nothing about. The flashlight does not go off this time. He stares up, the stale air around us, frozen. I slowly tilt my gaze upward as well. When my eyes land of another set of eyes, my skin goes cold. there the creature sits, staring back at us with the most human eyes I’ve ever seen, glowing bioluminescent in the darkness around us. it doesn’t tap anymore. It just stares. As we stare. I know the battery on that old flashlight will go out soon. When it does, will this creature continue to stare at us even as we die? Will it go back to its silly little tapping that is surely the most horrible sound in existence? surely. there is no worse sound than that of unknowing. It’s the loudest noise: silence. and soon I’ll wake up in Hell.

52yyxf

Roll for Initiative

In the shadowed rear of "Legends & Lore," a quaint comic book store on the corner of an otherwise forgettable street in downtown Oakwood, a small, dimly lit room buzzed with excitement every Thursday night. The flicker of overhead lamps did little to illuminate the corners of the space, which was packed with shelves brimming with dusty role-playing game manuals and classic fantasy novels. Amidst this backdrop, a sturdy wooden table served as the weekly battlefield, sea chart, and mystic landscape for a group of tabletop role-playing enthusiasts. Tonight, the room resonated with the sound of dice clattering against the wood, accompanied by bursts of laughter and the occasional groan. Miniature figures representing gallant heroes and infamous villains were strategically positioned across a sprawling map that depicted a dark and twisted fantasy world. At the head of the table sat Alex, the group's dedicated Dungeon Master (DM). With a quick smile and a notorious glint in his eye, he shuffled through his meticulously organized notes and charts. Alex's reputation for weaving complex narratives and challenging encounters grew over the years, drawing a loyal following of players who thrived on his intricate adventures. Tonight, however, anticipation hung heavier in the air than usual. Around him sat a motley crew of gamers, each a connoisseur of dark fantasy. There was Jenna, a shrewd strategist who favored cunning over brute force; Mark, whose characters always embodied chivalric virtues; and Sarah, who delighted in the role of the morally ambiguous sorceress. They chatted animatedly about potential strategies and past glorious moments, their camaraderie a testament to countless hours spent together in imaginary peril. As the clock struck seven, Alex cleared his throat, commanding the room's attention. "Alright, everyone," he began, his voice a mix of excitement and secrecy. Tonight, we embark on a journey like no other." He reached beneath the table, pulling out a large, ornately decorated box that none of them had seen before. The cover was embossed with eldritch symbols, and the title Cthulhu’s Call was etched in a font that mimicked twisting tentacles. "This," Alex continued, setting the box down with a reverence that quieted the room, "is not just any game. I stumbled upon it in a deep corner of an online forum, and it's said to be crafted by a defunct secret society—the Cult of Cthulhu." Murmurs of intrigue and apprehension rippled through the group. "I know it sounds intense, but I promise you, this game is the ultimate experience for fans of Lovecraftian horror. It’s supposed to be like nothing we’ve ever played before—more immersive, more challenging, and yes, possibly a bit unsettling. But it's all in good fun," Alex assured them, a playful smirk playing on his lips as he opened the box to reveal its contents. As he lifted the game manual and began to leaf through the weathered pages filled with cryptic instructions and bizarre illustrations, the room leaned in, their faces a mix of fascination and slight apprehension. Little did they know, the night ahead would transcend their wildest conceptions of what it meant to play a game. As Alex began outlining the rules of **Cthulhu’s Call**, each player chose their character: investigators delving into forgotten lore and unearthing forbidden secrets. They were not merely players tonight; they became scholars and explorers of a shadowy, eldritch world. Alex's voice was haunting as he read from the manual, setting the scene of an ancient town plagued by unspeakable horrors and mysterious disappearances. "The game begins in the dreary town of Black Hollow," Alex narrated, "where each of you has been drawn by dreams and whispers of an ancient power awakening. Your goal is to uncover the source of these disturbances and prevent a cataclysmic event foretold in cryptic texts." The players recited phrases from the game manual to cast spells or invoke ancient rites as the game unfolded. These phrases were written in an unrecognized script but felt oddly compelling, almost as if the words wanted to be spoken. Playing a cunning linguist, Jenna was the first to notice the strange symbols accompanying each phrase, her character tracing them in an old, leather-bound notebook she had brought as a prop. Halfway through the session, the room's atmosphere began to change subtly. The overhead lights flickered sporadically, causing brief moments of darkness that seemed to press in closer each time the lights came back. Shadows around the room's corners seemed to twist and shift of their own accord, and a palpable chill settled over the group, raising goosebumps on their arms. Mark's nervous joke was met with a tense silence, broken only by Sarah's shivering whisper, "Yeah, just a game," her eyes darting around the dimly lit room as if expecting something to jump out from the shadows. "It’s all fun and games," Mark joked nervously, pulling his jacket tighter around him. " Until the game starts playing back, right?" The others chuckled, but the laughter was tinged with unease. Sarah, shivering, whispered back, "Yeah, just a game," her eyes darting around the dimly lit room as if expecting something to jump out from the shadows. The game pressed on, with each player becoming more immersed and slightly more apprehensive with every roll of the dice and chant from the manual. As their characters explored a derelict library in Black Hollow, described vividly by Alex as filled with tomes bound in strange leathers and inscribed with those same unnerving symbols, Jenna's character discovered a hidden passage behind a bookshelf. The passage led to a small chamber containing an altar and the same symbols they had been reciting. Curiosity overcame Jenna, and during a short break, she pulled out her smartphone to search the symbols online, hoping to add depth to her character's knowledge. Typing the descriptions into a search engine, she expected to find fan-made pages or similar games but instead stumbled upon several articles about the Cult of Cthulhu. The articles detailed historical accounts of the cult's rituals, many of which matched the phrases they used in the game. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest as she read, the reality of their recitations settling in with a weighty dread. Jenna called the group over and showed them her findings. The festive mood quickly turned serious as they read, each player suddenly aware that the words they had thought were mere game elements might have real-world power and consequences. The question of whether to continue or stop hung heavily in the air, their unease palpable. "Should we stop?" Sarah asked, the question hanging heavily in the air. Alex looked between the worried faces of his friends and the game materials spread out before them. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, and now the connection to actual cult rituals—it was a lot to process. But the pull of the narrative, the thrill of the game, and a deep, unspoken drive to see it through urged him on. "No," he decided, his voice firmer than he felt, "we play on. It’s just a coincidence. It has to be." His attempt at reassurance did little to dispel the thick tension in the room. Still, the dice rolled on, drawing them deeper into the mystery of Black Hollow and the possibly not-so-imaginary ancient powers stirring from their slumber. As the game progressed more profoundly into the night, the atmosphere within the room grew ever more stifling, as though the air they breathed was being drawn into the unfolding drama of the board. The once comforting clatter of dice now echoed ominously, marking time toward an unknown conclusion. Jenna, her hands trembling slightly, rolled the dice again. The result was critical, guiding their characters into the cavernous depths beneath the fictional town of Black Hollow, where an ancient ritual awaited completion. Alex, maintaining his role as Dungeon Master, narrated their descent with a gravitas that seemed to pull the shadows tighter around the group. "As you chant the final incantation," he intoned, his voice barely above a whisper, "the walls of the cavern shimmer with a phosphorescent glow, revealing the hieroglyphs of the Old Ones, their forms twisting and writhing like serpents trapped in time." Mark, typically the most rational among them, swallowed hard. "Guys, are we sure about this? I mean, I know it’s just a game, but it feels... wrong." His voice was tense, a stark contrast to his earlier dismissive laughter. Sarah responded with a forced bravado, pushing her own rising fear aside. "It’s just really good atmosphere, Mark. Alex is just really good at this. Right, Alex?" She looked towards the DM for confirmation, seeking reassurance in his calm demeanor. Alex nodded, though his heart raced with excitement and a nagging dread he couldn't quite dismiss. "Right, just a game," he agreed, but his glance toward the manual was troubled. His earlier enthusiasm was dimmed by the strange occurrences and Jenna’s disturbing findings. Despite this, curiosity—the gamer’s curse—propelled them forward. Jenna bit her lip, looking down at the manual in her lap. They needed to chant the following phrase, written in bold as if demanding to be read. With a hesitant breath, she read it aloud, her voice echoing strangely in the room as if absorbed by the walls themselves. The moment the words were spoken, a heavy silence fell over the room, so dense it was almost palpable. The flickering of the lights ceased abruptly, leaving them in stillness and unnatural stillness. The laughter and idle chatter from the comic book store beyond the door seemed worlds away, swallowed by a sudden, inexplicable void. Everyone sat frozen, the only sound the quiet creak of the old wooden chairs under their shifting weights. The air grew colder, a chilling breeze whispering through the room though no windows were open. Shadows seemed to creep along the walls, drawing closer with a life of their own. "It’s done," Alex said, his voice hollow, as he closed the manual with a definitive thud. The sense of finality in that simple gesture was unmistakable. The group exchanged uneasy looks, no one willing to break the heavy silence that followed. Then, without warning, the earth beneath them trembled, a subtle vibration that grew steadily into a rumbling quake. The sound of distant thunder rolled, a deep, resounding boom that seemed to come from beneath the ground. Outside, the sounds of chaos erupted. Car alarms wailed in the distance, a cacophony of horns and sirens blending into a dissonant symphony. The comic store’s owner burst into the room, his face pale with fear. "Did you feel that?" he gasped, "The whole street’s gone mad!" The players stood, rushing to the window. The sight that met their eyes was one of surreal horror. The sky had turned a deep, angry red, clouds swirling in unnatural patterns. In the distance, towering figures—too large, too terrible to be confirmed—loomed over the city, their forms obscured by the swirling chaos. Back at the table, the dice still lay where Jenna had thrown them, the symbols on their faces seeming to glow faintly in the dim light. Alex looked at them, then at his friends, their faces ghostly pale in the eerie red light that filtered through the window. "It’s all fun and games," he murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief, "until someone starts the apocalypse." As the group clustered around the window, their breaths fogging up the glass, they watched with growing horror as the very fabric of their reality seemed to unravel. The sky above, now a swirling mass of sickly yellow and deep red, reflected the chaos that had taken hold of the streets below. People were running, screaming, some aimlessly, while others appeared to be desperately seeking shelter from the monstrous silhouettes that now dominated the horizon. Sarah, always the most composed, turned sharply towards Alex. "You knew, didn't you? This is no ordinary game, and you brought us into it!" Her accusation, sharp and laden with fear, cut through the muffled sounds of chaos seeping in from outside. Alex's face was pale, his usual confident demeanor shattered. "I swear, I thought it was just a game. A rare find, yes, but just a game!" His hands trembled as he gestured helplessly towards the box that had contained the game, now ominously silent on the table. "It was supposed to be an immersive experience, not... not this!" Mark, his face a mask of disbelief, stepped away from the window, his eyes scanning the room as if looking to escape the nightmare unfolding around them. "So, what? We just played our way into the apocalypse?" His voice cracked, the reality of their situation settling in with every passing moment. Jenna, clutching her smartphone, scrolled frantically through the pages she had previously found online. "There's got to be something here about reversing this... whatever this is!" The desperation in her voice mirrored the panic that gripped them all. Meanwhile, the comic store owner, Mr. Henderson, paced the room, muttering under his breath about calling the authorities as if any human power could stand against the eldritch horrors now seeping into their world. "I never should have let you play this cursed game here," he hissed, glaring at Alex. As the initial shock wore off, the group slowly gathered back around the table, the weight of their predicament pulling them together despite their fear and confusion. Alex, taking a deep breath, reclaimed his spot at the head of the table. "Okay, look," he began, his voice steadier, "if we started this, maybe we can stop it. The game... it must have some sort of fail-safe, a way to end the ritual." They poured over the game manual again, their hands shaking as they turned the pages. The manual was cryptic, the instructions twisted with riddles and archaic phrasing, but there was a section they had not noticed before, obscured in the shadow of what they had thought was merely decorative scrollwork. "It says here something about a 'sealing rite,'" Jenna pointed out, her finger tracing the lines of text. "But it requires components... elements that mirror the ones we used to start this." The realization that they might have a way to undo the catastrophic events brought a sliver of hope. With renewed urgency, they formulated a plan, each taking on roles that, only hours before, had been mere parts of a game. Now, they were a lifeline. As they prepared to escape into the changed world, Alex grabbed the dice off the table, now seemingly innocuous tools that had unwittingly brought about chaos. "Let’s just hope," he murmured, pocketing them, "that rolling these can bring some order back." Their subsequent moves would be no mere game but a desperate bid to save their reality from the nightmarish incursion they had unleashed. With a makeshift plan barely holding together under the strain of their palpable anxiety, the group hastily gathered what few resources they thought they might need from the scattered remains of their everyday lives, which now felt like relics of a distant past. The game manual, its pages worn and cryptic, seemed to pulse with a sinister life as Alex flipped through it, searching for any clue to help them navigate the chaos they had unleashed. “Here,” Alex said, his voice a mixture of hope and desperation as he pointed at a faded map in the back of the manual. “The Counter Sigils—we need to find them. According to this, they’re hidden in places the game mentioned. From the Pyramids in Egypt to the catacombs under Paris... each location somehow linked to the ancient lore of the Old Ones.” Mark looked over Alex's shoulder, skepticism etched deeply in his brow. “You mean to say we have to travel to these places? In the middle of this?” He gestured vaguely towards the window, where the eerie red sky pulsed ominously. “It’s our only shot,” Jenna interjected, her eyes fierce with resolve. “We played into this nightmare, we have to play out of it.” Sarah nodded, trembling her hands as she gathered her belongings. “Let’s call it the world’s riskiest campaign. And we can’t afford to lose,” she said, trying to muster a smile that faltered almost as soon as it appeared. They knew the journey ahead would be perilous, unlike anything they had ever imagined, even in their darkest, most thrilling game sessions. The stakes were real, the danger imminent, and the potential for failure catastrophic. Yet, as they prepared to step outside the comic book store—a place that had once been a refuge from the real world—they found themselves stepping into a reality far more terrifying than any game scenario Alex had ever concocted. Mr. Henderson, the store owner, handed them a few flashlights and some old camping gear he’d had stored away. “I don’t know if this will help, but you can’t go out there empty-handed,” he said, his voice rough with unspoken fears. The group packed the items quickly, their movements mechanical, driven by adrenaline and the surreal urgency of their mission. As they opened the door, the chilling wind that greeted them carried the faint, discordant echoes of chaos: distant screams, the unsettling roar of unseen creatures, and the relentless, ominous drumming of thunder. Alex paused, turning to look back at the table where the dice still lay scattered near the now-closed game box. He reached down, picked up a single die, and pocketed it—a small, symbolic talisman against the immense darkness they were about to confront. “It’s all fun and games until someone starts the apocalypse,” he muttered, a wry smile flickering momentarily as he faced the unknown horrors ahead. With a collective breath, the group stepped out into the altered night, the door closing behind them with a soft click that sounded oddly final. They were no longer just players. They were the last hope to restore a semblance of balance to a world teetering on the brink of madness.

9mgb9o

The Stones

The cross-shaped standing stones of Callanish in the isles off the west coast of northern Britain have become the focal point of Saint Augustine’s mission to spread Christianity throughout Britain. Tradesmen, immigrants, and legionaries traveling from Rome had brought the religion to Britain by the late third century, but it never took root. Then Rome fell, their presence dissipated from the remote lands, but it was not gone. The mighty Roman empire crumbled under weak leadership and misguided ambition, but like the Phoenix from the ashes, another rose to take its place. As Rome fell the Christian church rose in power and standing until its influence had spread further than any emperor of Rome ever thought was possible. Instead of legions of warriors with swords forcing a tyrannical government’s will, it was stern yet kind monks who spread the word of God. An unarmed Monk was nothing to fear, the message he preached resonated with the people, except the ones that still held on to the old ways. Morag sits at a flat stone tying herbs and flowers into a bundle for her offering to Cerridwen the moon goddess, the keeper of the cauldron of knowledge. Failing Harvest after another is a sign of the times, the old gods are upset and withhold their blessings because so many have turned to this Christian religion. “Mother?” “I’m busy.” She replies concentrating on her work. “The monks want to use the stones to hold a ceremony,” he informs her. Morag has been a mother to their small island since her own mother had gone, her guidance has helped them through storms of weather, famine, and invasion. The people, friends, and family want to set her aside as if she is not needed. She knows her role and regardless of whether the people see a need for her or not, she stands alone against the tides of invasion once more. “Mother! Answer me.” “I remember how you used to help with the offerings, you have seen the moon god come and dance among the stones. “ “What does that have to do with anything? I am a Christian,” He replies. Before she can rise to admonish her son, the leader of his people, she sees the monks walking their way. An entourage of robed men adorned with the symbols of their trade, not so much different from the pagan priestess they are about to belittle. “Why is this woman here, be gone with this pagan, we need the stones, they are a powerful symbol!” the lead Monk demands. “This is my mother; she is a priestess.” The monk’s monstrous eyes leave the son and land on his mother, she stands proud behind him, a basket of bundles of offerings for the moon god in her hand. He studies the woman carefully, she is not like the other women from the villages, with head hung low, eyes averted, she exudes strength and a righteous indignation that he wishes his fellow priest had. “I am sorry priestess, but you will have to move we are going to have a ceremony here and we need you to move.” The monk demands of her. “I am presenting an offering to Cerridwen so she will come to dance with me and the stones and bring blessings upon our harvest for our people.” “Why have you not converted?” He asks, “You and your pagan gods will kneel at the feet of Jesus Christ the one true God.” He insists on not giving her time to respond. She looks around at the crowd that has amassed and realizes he is putting on a show for the people, exerting his dominance over her using the perceived power of his god. Her son turns to see his mother smiling big, a look that could mean she is happy or that she is about to enjoy her next move, she always carries her emotions on her face. “Did I say something humorous?” The monk asks. “Yes, you did, may I ask when you plan to have this ceremony?” “Tonight.” The smile on her face gets even bigger and the power that she has builds inside of her ready to burst. Normally she is a solid stable woman, a knowledgeable priestess, but today her son witnessed her being giddy and excited. She has not been like this for some time, life is hard in the isles, especially for a woman. As the priest is about to speak, she raises her eyes to meet his and stops him cold. She turns and hops up upon the large flat rock and looks out on the assembled crowd. Most of the village has either come out to hear this monk preach at his ceremony or they have come to see a confrontation between the two spiritual leaders. “You may have your ceremony tonight and defile this sacred place, but if you do on the morrow our goddess of the moon will come down and dance with these stones and cast a curse on all those that come and listen. I warn you not to attend, have your meeting anywhere else but on this sacred land, among these sacred stones!” she warns. She steps forward and leaps off the rock into the crowd, dividing the masses like Moses and the Red Sea. As she walks away the priest turns and pays her no concern, he sets about preparing the area for the evening's service. While cleaning up sticks and discarded offerings and throwing them into the pile, the other priests notice that nearly half of the villagers that they had converted earlier are following behind her. ____ “Priestess, may I ask you a question?” a little fair-haired girl asks. “Of course, my child, sit and ask me anything.” The priestess sits down on a bench near the front of her small home, flowers, and herbs grow from every crevasse, pot, or bucket. Sitting on the bench in front of her modest home is like sitting within the wonders of nature, the air smells good, and colors of every sort paint your view. “Will the god of the moon come and curse us?” she asks while a crowd gathers around. “The god of the moon, Cerridwen will be here tomorrow night. She will dance with the stones whether they hold their ceremony or not.” She explains. “Then why did you say that?” A question deep within the crowd is asked. “I do not care if any of you want to be a Christian, that is for you to decide. My concern is for the gods who have watched over us since time began. “ She stands up so that all can hear what she has to say. “Tomorrow night the moon will look low in the sky, this event happens every 18 days, sometimes you can see it sometimes you cannot. I have used this heavenly knowledge to hold an earthly authority over you. This event will happen just like the sun will rise in the morning. There is a great cosmic dance going on in the heavens above us and the tales we talk about them are our way to understand what is happening. I learned this long ago, however, I found out that if I watched and recorded what I witnessed then over time I could predict what would happen. Nature moves in a cycle, it has a pattern, but I only tell you this so you will not be scared. These monks use fear, fear of a god that is vengeful, and full of wrath. This is a way to control you, don’t give up your freedom and be subservient to another. Watch these monks over the next day and see how they react to the curse I put on them, see how brave they are when the moon lies low over the night sky.” she explains. ___ The night after the event the priestess is awakened by pounding on her door, when she manages to get there and open it for the eager visitor, she is shocked to see the entire village outside. “Why are you here?’ she asks scratching her head. “They are gone,” One man says. “All of them,” says another. “Who is gone?” she asks. “The monks, they stayed up to see your prediction and when it came true, they immediately packed their things and left on a boat to the mainland.” A woman explains. “I tried to warn them not to leave, but they insisted.” Said a large man towering over the others. “Why didn’t you want them to leave?” “The curse!” everyone in the crowd begins yelling. She raised her hands and waited for the crowd to settle down and then she shook her head in disbelief. She was trying to explain to them over the past few days to believe in what you see and not in what someone tells you, but it seems she has failed. “You must be a powerful priestess to control the storms.” The large man says. “What did you say?” she asks. “The storms, I didn’t want them to take the boat because of the storms you have called upon to curse them with,” he explains. “I have done no such thing.” The entire crowd turned to watch as the sky turned grey, and lightning streaked across the darkened horizon. Large waves began to splash up at the shore and the tiny boat could be seen rising and disappearing in the swells, soon they could not be seen at all. “Why did you kill them, priestess?” The little girl asked pulling on her robe. “The curse didn’t kill them ignorance did.” She told everyone to go home and get ready if the storm came their way, but part of her wondered if she had put a curse on them. She warned them! They could have held their ceremony anywhere, but they had to have it at the stones! Putting faith in one thing and ignoring another is ignorance she tells herself lights a fire and goes back to bed.

81jvc7

The Whispers of Troy

August 12th, 1987 Dear Mom, We made it, Mom! The "Whiteout" as they call it on those old, dog-eared maps is anything but. Endless dunes of sand, the color of sun-bleached parchment, stretch out forever. Feels like walking on another world, silent and strange, but beautiful in a way that would make Achilles weep, if that's not too dramatic. Just us, the wind, and the endless sky. Like a scene straight out of the Iliad, minus the bronze armor and the whole "epic rage" thing. The team's a tight crew – me, Dr. Anya Petrova (geology wiz with a mane that would make Helen of Troy look like a mousy librarian), Zale the guide (a wiry dude with eyes that glint like polished obsidian, like a Trojan spy maybe?), and Rashid, our ever-reliable camel wrangler. Setting up camp as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in these outrageous pinks and purples. The silence here is like the hush before a storm in the Iliad, heavy with anticipation. Wonder what secrets this place is holding on to. August 15th, 1987 Dear Mom, Days are blurring together out here, like the passage of time during a siege. The heat is a relentless Hector, sapping your energy like a Trojan arrow. But Anya's having a blast, chipping away at these weird, glassy rocks jutting out from the dunes. Says they're unlike anything she's ever seen – volcanic glass forged in the fires of Mount Olympus, maybe? Zale's not so thrilled though. Keeps muttering about Djinns and places cursed by the gods, like Agamemnon walking into a trap. Superstitious old coot, I told him. But there is a weird vibe here, gotta admit. Yesterday, we stumbled upon something… funky. Half-buried in the sand, this smooth, metallic shard about the size of Agamemnon's royal scepter. Didn't look rusted or anything, gleamed like it was fresh out of Hephaestus' forge. It reflected this crazy blue light, too, like the fires of Troy burning in the distance. Anya wants to take it back for analysis, but there's something about it… like it shouldn't be here, a prize not meant to be claimed. August 18th, 1987 Dear Mom, The wind's gone mental, howling like Achilles dragging Hector's body around the walls of Troy. Sand whipping at the tents, threatening to rip them clean out of the ground. We're huddled inside, the air thick with dust and a weird kind of tension, like the eve of battle. Zale's gone all quiet, eyes wide like he's seen a ghost, maybe the ghost of Patroclus. Last night, I swear I saw lights dancing on the horizon – like blue wisps that vanished as quick as Achilles' chariot. Electrical activity in the atmosphere, Anya says. But I dunno, Mom. Something feels off, like a prophecy about to unfold. The shard… it's acting strange. Warm now, like it's pulsing with a faint heartbeat, like the heart of a fallen warrior. Freaky. I had this crazy dream last night, filled with voices whispering in a language I didn't understand, but somehow felt familiar. Like a forgotten song from the halls of Troy. August 21st, 1987 Dear Mom, We're lost. Utterly, hopelessly lost, like Diomedes separated from Odysseus in the night raid. The dunes shift like they have the cunning of Odysseus himself, swallowing landmarks whole. Food's running low, and water even lower. Anya's getting weak, her fire starting to dim like a dying ember. Zale… he just mumbles prayers under his breath now, like a plea to the Trojan gods. Rashid... I don't know where Rashid is. Lost in the shifting sands, swallowed by the same merciless desert that consumes us all. I can feel the shard pulsing in my hand, its warmth a cruel mockery of hope. It's like it's alive, feeding off our despair, like one of Circe's cursed beasts. And those lights... they're closer now, dancing on the edge of our sanity, teasing us with their otherworldly glow. I don't know if we'll ever make it out of here, Mom. If this is my last letter, know that I love you, and that I'm sorry. Sorry for chasing glory in a land where only the gods dare to tread, sorry for leaving you to wonder what became of your foolish son. But most of all, I'm sorry for not listening to the warnings, for not heeding the tales of those who dared to venture into the realm of the unknown. I pray that this letter finds its way back to you, a relic of a journey that should never have been undertaken. May the gods have mercy on our souls. With love, Your son The days stretched into a relentless procession of scorching sun and shifting sands, each hour feeling like an eternity in the desolate expanse. Jacob's entries in his journal became increasingly sporadic as the harsh reality of their situation set in. August 25th, 1987 Dear Mom, It's been days since I last wrote. The heat is unbearable, oppressive like the weight of Atlas bearing down on our shoulders. Anya's condition worsens with each passing moment, her feverish murmurs barely audible over the relentless howl of the wind. Zale's prayers have turned into desperate pleas, his once-ironclad resolve crumbling like the walls of Troy under the onslaught of the Greek army. I don't know how much longer we can hold on. The supplies are dwindling, and hope seems like a distant memory, fading into the vast emptiness of the desert. The shard pulses in my hand, a constant reminder of our folly, of the hubris that brought us to this forsaken place. August 28th, 1987 Dear Mom, Anya is gone. Her body lies silent beneath the unforgiving sands, a casualty of our foolhardy expedition. Zale has retreated into himself, his once-piercing gaze now hollow and vacant. We buried her beneath the burning sun, her final resting place marked only by a makeshift cairn of rocks. I fear we are next. The desert is a merciless foe, relentless in its pursuit of our demise. The shard, once a source of intrigue, now fills me with dread. Its pulsing has grown stronger, its blue light casting eerie shadows across the barren landscape. I can't shake the feeling that we are being watched, that unseen eyes follow our every move from the shadows. The whispers continue, growing louder with each passing day, their words unintelligible yet somehow familiar. September 1st, 1987 Dear Mom, We've lost all sense of time in this endless sea of sand. The days blend together into a blur of heat and despair, punctuated only by the occasional glimpse of those dancing lights on the horizon. Rashid remains missing, lost to the merciless embrace of the desert. Zale and I press on, driven by a desperation born of fear and madness. The shard pulses relentlessly now, its warmth a constant reminder of our impending doom. I fear we may never escape this cursed place, that our bones will join those of countless others who dared to defy the gods. But still, we press on, driven by a stubborn refusal to surrender to the darkness that threatens to consume us. September 5th, 1987 Dear Mom, I don't know if you'll ever receive this letter, if it will find its way back to you across the vast expanse of desert and time. But I write it nonetheless, a final testament to our doomed expedition. Zale is gone. Vanished into the swirling sands without a trace, leaving me alone in this desolate wasteland. The shard sits heavy in my hand, its pulsing now a constant drumbeat of despair. I can hear them now, the whispers that have haunted my dreams since our arrival in this accursed place. They speak of ancient secrets and forbidden knowledge, of a power beyond comprehension. I know now that we were never meant to find the answers we sought, that some mysteries are better left buried beneath the shifting sands of time. I only hope that this letter serves as a warning to those who would follow in our footsteps, that they may heed the tales of those who dared to venture into the realm of the unknown. With love, Your son

2tr6vn

Found Family

February 27, 2099 I leave tomorrow. They figure it’s just getting warm enough now that I may not freeze too bad, but may be able to find an island with resources that haven’t been touched. Plants, animals, fish, maybe. Anything I find could be the difference between life and death. Why did they choose me, you ask? I wondered the same thing until I realized that there’s no one else left. No one strong enough, at least. The Anderson’s, twin boys that were two years ahead of me in school, are too sick to go. Jimmy has some awful condition that makes his muscles deteriorate, something about chronic hunger. Jared - he’s malnourished, and grieving his slowly dying brother, while we all starve and grieve a world we used to know. I do wish that I had someone to come with me, but the the young men in town are in similar condition to the Anderson’s, be it the hunger or the grief or the fear or the sickness. Something is coming for everyone. I fear that I am next. February 28, 2099 I have just gotten out of sight of land, of my land. The only land I’ve ever known. I’ve been on a plane once, before The Famine and subsequent events occurred, but it was only to a different state, and even then, the ocean was a foreign beast to me. I enjoyed touching it, using its water to build sandcastles, collecting its pretty gifts in the form of shells. I would wade, but never dive.. That was more of a Sissy thing, when we would get to go with Ma and Pa on a rare summery day they were both off. The first time I had ever been on a boat was during The Famine, when I first came here. That was before the fall of all of our resources, when phone servers still worked and life still felt somewhat normal. It was just the lack food on the shelves, then the lack of restaurants, and then... nothing. of It’s crazy how quickly things can change. The island I am going to is unnamed, or at least, was so insignificant that no maps from before bothered to label it on the map. Hopefully that works in our favor, and we will find juicy seafood, tender meat, dry wood, and maybe some magical, cure-all herbs. Or even just some plants, would be nice. Anything alive. Maybe by the time I get back, they will be closer to understanding what happened to the North continent, how far it has spread now, where it will spread its deadly wings next. Even understanding, though, doesn’t fix it, does it? March 2, 2099 I didn’t write yesterday. My hands were so frozen and I did not dare take my gloves off. I tried to hold the pen, but could not feel it in my hands or the pages in my book. I hope that I am still in the trajectory of the island - there were very strong winds yesterday, bitter and frozen, that shifted us slightly. I have no way of knowing for sure if I will still encounter the island, and shifting in the opposite direction could very well cause me to skim it on the other side. I guess we wait and see…. Will anybody ever read this, or will it lay on the ocean floor until the oceans finally subside? March 5, 2099 I can see it. Perhaps the end is not near. Perhaps this is only the beginning. There is smoke from the island. Life. Fire? March 7, 2099 This is a different….place. They are not only untouched by the Famine, they are…. So far Ahead. We have never had these things. I don’t think anyone ever thought we would have these things. I must return home to Sissy, Ma, and Pa. They were just a day from starvation when I left…I hope that they will be there when I return with the riches from this town. These riches will save our town, perhaps the whole North Continent. They even said I could take some to ship there, if I want, and that I could come back for more. Everything is so nice here. Now I just need to bring it back to the rest of the world. March 11, 2099 I don’t think they really love the idea of me going back to the Shelter, or the North Continent. I overheard the director-of-sorts in the Tech Room yesterday afternoon, discussing the ‘value of privacy’ and the ‘fall of the island as they know it’. I am not sure if I should grab and go, or if I should negotiate. I just know that it’s nice here. March 15, 2099 My family expects my return today. They do not know that I will not come. March 20, 2099 I am enjoying my life here. I was hesitant at first when I realized the implication of the overheard conversation…staying here? Abandoning my family, my town, perhaps the whole world? But the more I listened to the Director explain the reason these resources are so plentiful and that any breach could ruin the last thriving place on the planet… He assured me that we will grow, will build our resources and expand, taking in more and more, starting with my family. I trust him. I will stay. If I go back, my family could already be… it could already be too late, and I would have no way to get back here. No money, no resources. It would soil the secrecy of the island and I’d surely be followed. The Director is a nice guy, but I don’t think he’d favor me after that. Maybe one day, I will sneak out and grab them, and return, unnoticed. And somehow, explain that to the Director. I have weighed my options. I know I am staying. I cannot decide if I will send a letter home. What do I say? They will think I am dead otherwise. Maybe that is for the best. There is no other way to protect my home, the new Island. Dearest Ma, Pa, and Sissy- I have made it to the island. There is life here, but I afraid it is not much better. I have met a kind family, they have allowed me to send this letter to you . You see, my boat is broken, and the resources here are scarce. We are shriveling, you see. I will not make it back. If I do somehow survive, I will see you one day. Not for a while. I hope that -

t6dpaf

The Ascending Spacemen

The airlock of the space habitat swung open, revealing the two fully-suited spacemen. Their costumes were dull white with tinted blue helmets and golden reflective visors. The two spacemen stepped out into the grey alien planet, retrieved their long probes, and prodded the surroundings around them. Their equipment beeped and notified them of the collecting data. The mounds of greyish-blue sand camouflaged the space habitat with the grey mountain ranges behind it. The spacemen's shoes crunched in the planet’s stillness. The crepuscular rays beaming from the dense clouds above them, and the dazzling blue light filtering through the dark dense clouds resembled a Renaissance painting of a divine figure coming down to earth. For the past three months, an abhorrent storm had obscured the entire sky. The nightmarish winds had descended on the exoplanet habitat of planet Duern Q861. Its wrath reverberated upon the habitat like thunder with large stones crashing upon the habitat. Everything had become pitch black outside the planet’s habitat and the connections to Earth were lost during this brief period. With the passing days, the Spacemen’s supplies depleted, and without communication, the mission was at risk of failure.            After three months, the storm's ferocity had diminished to nearly nothing. It took days before anything moved around the Space Habitat, Duern Q861A, while the structure remained in the heaps of grey dust settled upon it. After several weeks, there was some movement around the space habitat. The habitat airlocks opened and three white drones flew out to scout the surroundings, gliding, and sailing in three different directions and disappearing into the distance to collect samples. Following the drones, came out the spacemen with their equipment analyzing the surroundings thoroughly and observing the readings until midday. The spaceman looked to his left; the dark clouds were thundering along the horizon but their crackling was vibrating the ground beneath them. Then the spacemen opened the larger airlock, boarded the big carrier rover, and drove toward the small habitat located a mile away from the big habitat. The dust rose behind the spacemen when the carrier rover drove through the barren grey desert. Ahead of these minuscule spacemen, grey and white sands stretched till the mountain range extended into the horizon. The dull-white mountains looked like raging ocean tides at the storm, captured and frozen in time. These gigantic mountains witnessed the spacemen, the habitat, and everything below as they stood arrogant and untouched by the ferocious storm. Within the valleys of these mountains, enormous caverns and craters existed, which sometimes resembled a dragon’s lair from the fairy tales. Despite the rover reaching the location of the small habitat, the enormous building was not visible. The two spacemen got down from their rover and began walking to the habitat. The building was oddly missing from their view, and they searched around, their eyes scanning the location. Soon they noticed metals, glass, and many open electrical wires crackling. The entire small habitat was in ruins and under the dunes of dust. They stood on the ruins of the habitat. It surprised them to see the broken pieces of the small habitat buried in the sand. They built these structures specifically to resist heavy storm winds and the impacts of earthquakes. But now standing on its destroyed remains is grave news. The two spacemen stood there in dismay and shock. The winds wailed in the distance, and the dust from the dunes flew along with the passing breeze. In the deep silence, their pacing heartbeats were audible. Their visors were fogging because of their wheezing warm breath. The spacewoman saw the spaceman’s face twist with shock and bewilderment. After a moment, his face turned stern and he spoke in his microphone, “The storm has destroyed the small habitat, Duern Q861B. And based on the settlement of dust remains, we cannot estimate when this happened. We hope to retrieve our data soon.” “Yeah. I agree, but we need to dig and find the system data. Maybe our samples might still be undamaged,” replied the spacewoman over her microphone. “We must terminate our mission if it is compromised,” told the spaceman. The spacewoman kneeled on the soft grey dirt. But she widened her eyes and blinked hard, struggling not to cry. Crying is uncomfortable in a spacesuit. The spaceman agreed and began looking through the crumbled remains of the habitat to detect the samples through the metal and glass. He also hoped the sample would be all right, but he felt his heart palpitating under the thick suit and a panic attack missing him by inches. He stood tall and practiced a few breathing techniques before starting his excavation work. Soon they were walking amongst the ruins and moving the metal and glass with their shovels looking for their samples. Their precious samples . They spent over twenty minutes digging into the sand and shoving away the heavy metals. As they kept working, they found the shards of reinforced glasses of the habitat. The Spaceman kept pushing the grey sand aside and the planet was turning colder by the minute. Then underneath one of the broken green glasses, he found the samples. They found several broken black boxes, and the Spaceman reached inside one of them and pulled some dried leaves out. It was a small leaf, almost as small and circular as the size of a bottle cap, and brownish-orange as an autumn leaf. It is the first plant cultivated on this distant, dusty planet. Out of the sixty different plant species sent with these spacemen, only this plant thrived on this terrain because of its ability to burst its pollens for extensive ranges, and they also have a longer life span. But now the last of those plants had also died. With the entire habitat sinking into the grey sand, the plant samples crumbled under its collapsing weight. Along with it, the spacemen’s remaining hope too. The spaceman picked up the dead plant and displayed it to the spacewoman. She was still digging the ground and halted when she saw it. She came close and examined it before putting it in one of her spacesuit compartments. They both took another black box and safeguarded it in the carrier rover’s portable cryogenic chamber. The spaceman clicked the radio button on the side of his helmet as his hands felt sweaty under those thick gloves. His hands trembled, and he felt the nerve on his temples pump and pain. With a big deep breath, the spaceman recorded into his AV radio that their mission is a failure. Although there was no voice from the other side, only static radio buzzing, he recorded the situation on his radio. He noticed the spacewoman from his peripheral. She had fallen on her knees and began whispering prayers to her gods. He didn’t feel like summoning the gods because they already knew his plight and yet watched upon them without mercy. The spacemen had made detailed plans to save their dying planet and terraform DuernQ861. But they realized their plan had led to an imminent and predetermined defeat. It felt like a tragic destiny, a cruel ploy to humiliate them, to give them hope only to crush it. The spacemen whispered his father’s words, “For they sculpted the fire and it burnt them” The spaceman loosened his shoulder and looked up at the dark sky for some hope, or some answers. He stared at all the million lights above, shining and flickering. Amongst those stars in the sky, the spaceman saw a small distant blue dot. He stared at it for a while, squinting his eyes. Just for a moment, his mind voyaged to that planet. The elated people, the green grass, the rainy days with the hot coffees, a cold bed on a summer night, and the warm smooch of the sun on the face. The toxicity of breathing air, decomposed food, loss of peaceful sleep, and pain of crumbling starvation in the midriff. He tried to forget the sound of the horrible war cries, the deafening roar of the dropping bombs and gunfire. He tried shaking the memory of holding his family in his arms while hiding in the wardrobe, waiting for the screams to settle. It all ended with the high pitch whistling of the rocket engine. The spaceman coughed, and his knees trembled. Within moments his legs gave up, and he fell to the ground on his knees as well, while trying hard to breathe. He tried pulling his thoughts off of it but was futile. He saw the blood, the bodies, the wails, and the orphans. He kept fighting his thoughts, which spiraled painfully within his mind. With a deep breath, he summoned his inner voice to convince himself of the reality, “Gone is everything, gone before you knew, gone before you left. Gone before you hoped. Gone far, far away amidst the storm.” The loud alarm beeped and his pocket vibrated, rescuing him from his thoughts. The spacewoman pulled out her electronic monitoring tablet and clicked some buttons. Then she hurried to the carrier rover and viewed it through the built-in emergency systems. With panic and confusion sweating from her face, the spaceman heard her through the intercom, “The drones have found something in the eastern valley!” “We’ll see what it is. Come”, the spaceman said and ran over to the rover, but the spacewoman stood motionless and hesitant. “What happened?” he asked confused. “What if it comes back?” asked the spacewoman, putting her device inside her suit’s compartment. The spaceman nodded, and she told, “The storm might swirl again. It’s better we must go back to the habitat now.” “No… we need to see what the drones have found,” the spaceman protested, “What if it is some help or supplies? Maybe someone else landed here. Maybe a rescue team! I think it is a rescue team,” said the spaceman as the spacewoman shook her head in disagreement. “Maybe the war is over and they have come for us. We need to check this out”  “There is no help, Manuel!” snapped the Spacewoman as she pleaded into the microphone, “If they cared, they would contact us, but no! They have left us here to die on this planet! This is the reality. Get this in your head!” The spaceman stared at her, his fury rising with his excitement, “I still hope otherwise, I feel it. Just think, what if?” The spacewoman scoffed and yelled, “But what if there is no rescue? What if the storm returns and carries us away with it?” “I don’t mind!” sneered the spaceman swinging his arms around the rover and climbing over it. “We either die out here or rot in that damned habitat all alone. I don’t want to go back. It stinks like death and blood in there. Wherever the drones are and whatever it has found, I’m going there. If it is death, so be it. All I’m asking you now is…” he paused, holding back his tears, “are you coming with me?” The spacewoman stared through her golden visor for a minute and gaited to the rover and told, “It will take at least 6 hours to reach there. Buckle up then” and so they buckled to the rover and drove the rover at its maximum speed, about 20km/hr. This rover was the fastest ever built to overcome obstacles and the uneven alien terrain with its large tires and fantastic suspension systems. The journey took a long time since the eastern valley was several miles away. The tired spacemen knew the travel would be more tiring, but it didn’t matter to them. After hours upon hours of steering through the dusty mountain path, they arrived at the eastern valley and spotted the drone flying high above the location, which hovered just for the spacemen’s reference. While the other two were scanning the environment. It took another hour to drive through the steep grounds to the drone location. They stopped the carrier rover several feet before a large cavern opening.   The two spacemen unbuckled themselves and trod towards the cavern’s opening. They saw an exposed cavern with a wide opening – a gigantic crater. The crater was as massive as hundred football fields. The crater was so gigantic that these two spacemen were almost the size of bugs in front of it.   Both the spacemen were dumbfounded and confused by their very own sight. Their eyes didn’t blink, their body had stopped sweating, their jaws were wide open, and they drew their breaths in. The enormous crater was bleeding vivid red and orange. Out of the crater, many red and orange circular particles ascended. The floating particles were as small as bottle caps. The beautiful pollens sailed in the wind like dandelion seeds while the red leaves of the plant brushed one another. The entire opening had become a garden spread out in the wild environment. Throughout the crater, for miles, the flowers had flourished and the plant brushed against one another, rustling. The crater’s inclined plane curved down and in the middle of the crater, they noticed something transparent reflecting the bluish-gray hue of the sky. The most fundamental source of life; Liquid Water. The spacemen knew that the water could have come from the underground water source of this planet. Perhaps an asteroid had struck this planet centuries ago, and this has brought the underground liquid water gushing to the bottom of this crater. The strong winds had brought the plant’s pollen from the ruins of the small habitat to this crater several miles away. The pollens could have settled down in this crater by the large lake glimmering in the semi-darkness. With water and the crater protecting the plants from the storm, plant life has thrived here. “Look! An alien!” a man’s voice echoed from behind the two spacemen pointing at the crater’s garden. The spaceman turned around and saw five other spacemen standing behind them. The joke had cracked them all up. The spaceman couldn’t see their face clearly through their visor, but he remembered their face and their codenames. There was Green, Zweig, Signature, Trident, and Clicky. All of them were in their spacesuit with their actual names labeled on their chests. He looked at them in surprise, and his eyes couldn’t avert from them. The five laughed, and the spaceman watching them heard their hysterical laugh through his intercom. Upon the paceman’s face, a smile developed, and he began snorting and chuckling. He looked at Clicky leaning on the rover and laughing at his terrible joke, and the spaceman predicted Zweig would smile under his visor, guessing by his rigid body language. The other three were giggling at Clicky’s uncontrollable laughing rather than his joke. Signature turned to the spaceman and shook his head in agreement. The orange and red pollen flew across them all, and the planet’s home star began rising in the west, behind the five other spacemen. The scene was exquisite, yet quite disturbing. The spaceman looked at them and reluctantly blinked, unwilling to let go of what he was witnessing. When he opened his eyes, as he had expected, the five spacemen had disappeared into the weak breeze. His eyes teared up as his visors fogged and he heard his breath in the pressurizing silence. He closed his eyes once again, this time tightly shutting them not to let his tears out. Crying is uncomfortable in the spacesuit. He knew the other spacemen were resting peacefully in the underground cryogenic chamber inside the big habitat. Drifting in their dreams in a world far away, or maybe they were back on earth reliving an alternate yet happier reality. If a rescue team comes to find them or accidentally stumbles upon this planet, they would find the well-preserved corpses of these spacemen. He again re-opened his eyes once more to revisit the figment. He saw the vast expanse of the dusty terrain. His throat narrowed, and his nose was cramping. But his palpitating heart had oddly calmed, and the trembling finger became still and numb. He couldn’t decide whether to be glad or glum while both blew his way. The spaceman then turned to look beside him at the spacewoman. She, too, had vanished with the others without a trace. He sighed and gulped heavily as his eye scanned the large valley of the vivid red and orange plant. He rose his hands and touched the floating seed. Although he couldn’t feel it through his spacesuit, he still felt the wind, and a tickling sensation ran down his arm. He smiled, and with a breath drawn in, he began chuckling and then laughing. The drones were still collecting samples and buzzing around like children in a park. The pleasantly delighted spaceman’s smile never left. He sighed with relief and closed his eyes, relishing in the present moment. They have accomplished the mission despite the absolute hurdles. He gazed at the dancing alien plant field on this strange planet far from earth. He thought of the divine play portrayed ahead of him and the absurdity of the entire ordeal. He laughed hysterically as though he had found unintelligible humor in it, as his feet rose in the air, and he ascended. With grace, his entire body floated up the sky like an air balloon as the light brushed through his golden visor and into his face. Amongst the endless stars filling the sky above, a brilliant-blue dot twinkled brighter than ever. The spaceman, just like his other crew members, disappeared into the breeze without a remnant. His laughter still echoed and haunted the wind until it faded. The red and orange field rustled to the weak wind glimmering to the light of the new dawn. The passing wind blew from the distance as it buried the footprints under the grey layers of sand. Duern Q861 became silent, its grey dust settled, and life began thriving again.

rzfza6

The Colour of Stars

The night sky unfolded above the calm waters, a canvas dotted with twinkling stars. Among the crew of the merchant vessel Seapearl , flowed an air of ease as they sailed, their destination the bustling ports of the southern continent. Amidst the chatter and laughter of the sailors, one figure sat quietly on the deck, his gaze fixated upon the celestial display above. The man of curly mess for hair, took out a wooden box, and just like the ship smoothly glided over the ocean, so had his hands gracefully flipped this box open, revealing a set of paints and brushes. Although a painter by trade, his eyes denied the scene as his commission, for he found this passage aboard a journey in search of a new inspiration. For celestial scene like this to behest his eyes. With deft strokes against one of the few empty canvases that were concealed underneath his coat, he recreated the constellations that adorned the heavens. His peaceful, calm hand guided the brush against this colourless fabric, lined the skies, following the stars. A first set amongst the brighter ones, formed a central figure extending into a sinuous form, capturing a powerful presence as it twisted and turned among the dots. Next came a constellation — a pantheon shaped by the western stars. And each star of this blacksmith’s heart, represented a God that dwarves of Elmrior worshipped one way or another. And as such, the man with a firm hand wielding colours, paid homage to them. A passing cloud drifted its way over his inspiration, and he took this rare moment of serenity over the open seas to breathe. He conceded himself to it. For a reasons unfamiliar, this salty, fishy air, smelled refreshing to him. An invigorating minute passed by as the cloud made its way, revealing another celestial inspiration. Dots in the again clear sky, seemed to spread out in two directions, and formed a mirroring symmetry before connecting on the opposite end. The infamous twins. The combination of its numerous stars is what often made this mythological sign inconspicuous to the residents across these earthly realms. It, the largest of the all constellations, with each of its twinkle told a story; and each story was a part in a Vresari tale of the differences between two brothers sharing the same goal and resolution. A symbol of duality. His eyes panned over, and over, back and forth between the celestial and the fabric-weaved canvas in front of him, with his only concern laid in perfection. His brush lined. The brush shaped. And the brush did shade. The heavenly picture now was accurately portrayed. But his blinking eyes, and perfectionist’s breath told him different. Like something was missing, as if 'something' his eyes were looking straight at, and he knew he couldn't see it. Another drifting cloud distracted his eyes tonight. Only in it, his faultfinding observers did not see an obstacle, but an inspiration. Once again, like a mother rocking a child to sleep, he found the swaying movements of the ocean soothing. The cloud passed, and he saw the final piece. Within his capture, he faintly relined a pattern. With the lightest of weight behind them, the hairs of the brush gently graced curving lines. One after another, the lines shaped a graceful figure; a drifting veil of ethereal beauty to a subjective eye. With the gentlest of taps upon the southernmost star, he finished her portrait — the Lady. To him, this simplistic combination of dancing lines, appeared familiar the most. The constellation was dedicated to an angel of motherhood; the Norleasan patron of children. He let go of the brush as if he wasn’t the one guiding it, while in fact, it was guiding him. As he drew those last lines, he did not draw inspiration from the heavens above, but instead from the replays of memories from his youth at the orphanage in Ordell. A flash of memories where the gaping hole in his heart, was slowly closing by the caring and loving actions of the Mothers that filled it, and the Brothers and Sisters that stitched it. As quickly as the memories flashed, just as quickly they faded. A chaotic contrast to the ship swaying jilted away his serenity as the ship lurched violently to one side. Suddenly the air grew heavy, and a sense of unease crept over him. He turned, only to see he was not alone in this feeling. Other than passengers and stewards clutching themselves to the ship’s firmholds, the deckhands’ movements seemed fickle trying to stabilize the ship. Collective panic erupted from the cacophony of creaks and groaning of the ship’s timber as it strained against an unseen force. Then, from the depths below, came a sound that sent shivers down the painter’s spine — a low ominous rumble that seemed to reverberate through the very soul of the ship. Screams and shouting ensued, while the man fumbled juggling between putting on the coat and pinning down his equipment. With each passing moment, the attacks grew more frequent and more ferocious as if something was abruptly awoken from its slumber to wreak havoc upon the surface world. Desperation clawed at the man’s heart as he fought for his art; his breathing screamed fear and adrenaline. This once serene night had become a battleground, and he was powerless to do anything but bear witness to the chaos unfolding before his very eyes. A chaos in which these teal sapphires got distracted again. Distracted by the madness of what his artistic soul unveiled within this budding mayhem. In a leap of faith, the man levered himself between two wooden parts of the ship’s fastened haul, and let go of all his belongings, save for an empty canvas and his painting kit. As the relentless assault of the deep continued, he begun repainting the heavens once again. First he guided the brush, then once more, he let the brush guide him. Between the screams of passengers, and the deafening sound of ship’s destruction, shouts from one of the crew members protruded. It was the young captain himself, shouting orders in attempts to evacuate his jewel. Another hit sent the ship lurching to one side again, and this time ripping off all three of the ship’s masts, with the main one collapsing onto the first lifeboat paddling away, sinking it. Their eerie screams that followed were a catalyst to everybody’s already darkened thoughts. Aside from the painter’s. Like his mind, his brush still painted in a mix of neutral, cold and warm colours. Two dozen seconds after the first stroke, three masts, and the ship’s bowsprit splashing the troubled waters, were all it took to for this madman to finish his copy. Upon its completion, the painter quickly snapped back to the grisly reality. The screams, and the sounds of crashing waves, were first to make him tremble again. He felt no wind, yet he was terrified of how upset the seas were as the ship started to sink. Suddenly, a burly hand grasped his shoulder. The grip indeed was strong, but weak enough to comfort his soul, not add to the distress. He looked up to see it was his captain, and his steely dwarven gaze fixed upon him, of expressions grave and determined. “Come on, lad!” The captain shouted above the din, his voice barely audible over the roars of the sea. “We’ve no time to waste! To lifeboats, now!” Hinting at hesitation, the captain’s grip tightened, and with a firm tug, he pulled the painter away toward the last of the lifeboats. Forcefully guided into one of the two remaining vessels of hope, the man sat down with the captain. Hanging tightly onto his last piece, he mourned over tonight as he saw Seapearl drifted farther, and farther into the distance. Eventually, it became irrelevant whether the last assault finished the captain’s jewel or not, it would’ve sank by now anyway. Their thoughts shared this terrifying uncertainty, and they all watched it. Watched the only two remaining vessels hauling cargo of second chances, drifting deeper and deeper, into the horizon of the calm, watery nothingness. Hours breezed away, and no one was sure how far into the night they travelled. But at least it felt peaceful once more, yet the salty taste in the air this time smelled anything but refreshing. Other than the occasional splash of water the seas’ gentle waves brought, only the chatter of the shipless captain and his mates’ could be heard. With the two vessels side by side, drifting together, they had quite the attentive audience, side from the painter again. Their ears witnessed a discussion of fading hope, as the loss of the navigating equipment of the captain, emphasised his youthful inexperience. Whilst the man still mourned, his eyes stayed glued at his last work. This identical copy of his first celestial art, really makes one wonder how the peaceful strokes can reap the same results as the troubled ones. And that was what prompted his madness, again. The madness of art. “The Lady!” He interrupted them. As everyone turned, his hands already lifted his art like a display. A finished piece of the skies above, a homage to the four visible constellations — the Kraken, the Anvil, the Twins, and the Lady. “Lads, we’re going home!” The captain knew it as soon as he saw the piece. Knew that Phillip Jouvessier, in his hands, held the heavenly compass — a map under the guidance of the Lady’s southernmost star.

ziq26b

The Lost Civilization: A Race Against Time

"The Lost Civilization: A Race Against Time" This title captures the essence of the story—the discovery of a lost civilization, the ticking time bomb of the energy orb, and the team's desperate race to escape its destruction. It's an action-packed adventure that explores the dangers of tampering with forces beyond our control. 😊 Day 1: Today, my fellow explorers and I embarked on an expedition into the unknown. We were told that this location was untouched by human hands, and the thrill of discovery was palpable in the air. The landscape is unlike anything I've ever seen—unfamiliar trees and shrubs dot the terrain, and the chirping of birds we've never encountered before is a constant background melody. We've established a temporary camp and have begun to set up our research equipment. Excitement is in the air, and we're all eager to see what the coming days have in store for us. Day 2: The exploration is in full swing, and we've already made several incredible discoveries. Yesterday, we stumbled upon a cave network that we believe has never been explored. The stalagmites and stalactites inside were unlike any we'd seen before, and they glistened like gems in the flickering light of our torches. We're also intrigued by the biodiversity in this region—the variety of plant and animal life is staggering, and we've already collected several specimens for further analysis. As night falls, the sounds of the forest grow louder and more mysterious, but we're undaunted. Tomorrow brings new discoveries. Day 3: Today was a difficult one. Our explorations took a dangerous turn when one of our team members, Parker, fell into a crevice while examining a nearby cliff. After several tense hours, we were able to rescue her, but the expedition was shaken. Parker has suffered a broken arm, and we've been forced to adjust our plans accordingly. Despite this setback, our spirits remain high, and we're determined to carry on with our mission. As we set up camp, we're all struck by the beauty of the star-filled sky overhead. Day 4: After the events of yesterday, we've decided to take a more cautious approach to our explorations. We're carefully mapping out each new location and marking any potential hazards. Even so, we're still discovering new wonders at every turn. Today, we found a series of hot springs that seem to be fed by an underground river. The water is clear and warm, and the steam rising from the springs creates a stunning sight against the backdrop of the jungle. While the rest of the team is collecting samples and conducting tests, I've taken the time to journal and reflect on the experience. Day 5: The journey has taken us deeper into the jungle, and we're now faced with a new challenge: navigating the thick vegetation and treacherous terrain. The underbrush is dense and filled with thorns and vines that seem determined to trip us up. We're making slow progress, but our determination is unwavering. We've also begun to notice signs that this region might not be as untouched as we initially believed. Along our route, we've encountered strange carvings in the trees and ancient ruins that appear to be part of a long-forgotten civilization. The mystery deepens with each step. Day 6: The jungle has finally begun to open up, revealing a vast expanse of grasslands. The change in scenery is a welcome relief after days of navigating the dense forest. As we make our way across the open terrain, the setting sun paints the sky in shades of orange and purple. We've stumbled upon an abandoned settlement of some kind—the remains of houses and structures long since reclaimed by the elements. The mystery of this place grows deeper with each passing moment. Tomorrow, we'll begin our exploration of this settlement, and perhaps we'll find some clues as to what happened here. Day 7: Today was a turning point in our expedition. The settlement we discovered turned out to be far more complex than we'd initially thought. The structures were intricate and detailed, with carvings and designs that hinted at a highly advanced civilization. But the most astonishing discovery was a small cave hidden behind a waterfall. Inside, we found a series of hieroglyphs that seemed to tell the story of a cataclysmic event that wiped out the entire civilization overnight. The cause of this event remains a mystery, but we're piecing together clues as we continue our explorations. Day 8: The mystery surrounding the fate of this civilization continues to deepen. As we explored the ruins today, we came across a large temple structure in the heart of the settlement. The temple was unlike any we'd seen before, with a central altar carved in the shape of a giant eye. At first, we thought this might be a representation of a deity worshipped by the people of this civilization, but as we studied the carvings more closely, we noticed a pattern of recurring symbols that seemed to warn of an impending disaster. Day 9: Today, we finally uncovered a key piece of information that might explain the demise of this civilization. A strange orb was found buried beneath the temple altar, and when we uncovered it, it began to emit a strange, pulsing energy. The energy seemed to be linked to the symbols we'd seen in the carvings, and we realized that they were a warning about the orb itself. As we studied the orb, we noticed that it seemed to be counting down to something, but we were unsure what that might be. Could this be the source of the cataclysmic event that destroyed this civilization? Day 10: The orb's energy has grown stronger with each passing hour, and we're beginning to fear that we're in danger. As we tried to move the orb from its resting place, it emitted a powerful pulse that sent shockwaves through the entire settlement. The ground shook, and several of the buildings began to collapse. In the chaos, we were forced to flee and take shelter in a nearby cave. The orb's energy has continued to intensify, and we're now starting to understand the significance of the carvings we found in the cave behind the waterfall. Day 11: The situation has become critical. We've realized that the orb is a powerful energy source that the civilization was using to manipulate the environment around them. However, their tampering caused the energy to become unstable, leading to the destruction of their civilization. Now, it seems that the energy is building towards a catastrophic release that could wipe out everything in the surrounding area. We've tried to use our technology to contain the orb but to no avail. We have no choice but to evacuate the area as quickly as possible and hope that we can reach safety before it's too late.

p29m58

The Known Unknown

The sun timidly peeked through the curtains as Mira prepared for another day at the office. While sipping from her favorite coffee mug, she glanced at her computer screen, checking for new emails from her manager. After closing her mail application, when she was about to shut down her laptop and head to her car, an unusual file appeared on her computer's screen with the name "open if you dare." Noticing this, Mira started to shiver, indecisive about whether to open the file or leave it be. A few minutes later, curiosity had got the best of Mira, and she decided to open the file, eager to discover its origin and contents. With a hesitant click, Mira opened the file. A short prompt appeared: "Type 'continue' to start a journey beyond the known world." With her heart racing, Mira typed as prompted and watched the screen change colors before her eyes. Scared yet intrigued, she waited to see what would happen next. When the screen turned yellow and remained for a few seconds, a new message popped up: "Please, note that once the journey has started, you will not have the option to give up. Click 'cancel' to give up now, or click 'accept' to start the journey to the unknown world." Excitedly, Mira sent a text message to her manager, Mr. Regis, letting him know that she would be running late due to an urgent matter that required her attention. As soon as the message showed a blue double-tick, indicating it was read, Mira clicked 'accept' on her laptop. Suddenly, she found herself in a room filled with all kinds of flowers emitting charming scents, her laptop still with her. She began to smell each flower, starting with lavenders, her favorites. After a few minutes of exploration, a new message appeared: "This is your safe zone in the Unknown. Your journey continues outside. Draw the curtains and see what lies beyond." Outside, the sky was a sickly shade of gray, and the roads were dusty. Mira saw children carrying 15-liter containers of water, evidently fetching it from kilometers away. In her world, children would have been in school at that time, and every household had access to water; she had never experienced water shortage in her life. Mira was surprised to see the children smiling at her when she waved at them. How could children living in such conditions smile, she wondered. Feeling a mix of disbelief and curiosity, Mira stepped outside to further explore. She could hear babies crying and feel the scorching sun that made them cry. With a heavy heart, she wished to return home, but then she remembered she had committed to completing the journey. She proceeded to the next station, where she encountered sick women lying on woven grass mats, sweating and shivering concurrently. Their families sat nearby, preparing herbal remedies to help them recover. Mira realized that these women did not have access to the modern healthcare she was accustomed to. Approaching the women, Mira wished them a quick recovery before engaging in conversation. One woman, Maria, was kind enough to answer all the silly questions Mira was asking. -Mira: Do you know what year it is? -Maria: I know we're in the long dry season. Isn't that enough? -Mira: What herbs are you mixing for the sick women? Are you sure they're not toxic? In high school, I learned that people can be allergic to certain herbs. I think it would be better if you had access to a nearby hospital. I'm afraid the disease may be contagious. -Maria: You don't need to worry, young lady. We're used to this disease and have been using the same herbal remedy passed down from our ancestors for over a century. We've never experienced toxicity or allergic reactions. Look, this is sage, our ancestors have been using it to treat different infections, I will mix it with rosemary. The seeds you see over there are called coriander, and they are meant to trigger the immune system. With this mixture, the ladies will be strong enough to work in the yard within 3 days. As for hospital, that's a luxury we don't have. We rely on what we know works for us. Mira was amazed by Maria's words. She kept on asking her more about the herbs, with a willingness to know all their health benefits. She had never encountered such a way of life before. She realized that she had been living in a bubble where everything seemed perfect, never considering that there might be a different reality somewhere else on the Earth. Realizing the vastness of the world and its myriad forms of life, Mira didn't know where to begin. She was aware that there was still a lot to be explored, so she decided that she would travel to some parts of the world during the upcoming Christmas holidays. As Mira waited with the women, expecting to be teleported to the next station of the journey, she eventually decided to return to the safe zone room after two hours of no response. She bid farewell to Maria, the woman who had touched her heart, and walked to the room, anticipating to find some new commands on the laptop screen. Upon entering the room, Mira found that her laptop was still there, with a message displayed: "Congratulations, you have reached the end of the journey. You may type 'leave' to return to your world. The aim of this journey was to reveal to you a reality you had never seen, the known unknown to you. Now that you have decided to travel the world and explore more on your own, I would like to free you". Tears filled Mira's eyes as she read the final message. She was now aware of a different facet of the world and had learned from the women that even in the darkest times, there was still hope for life. She typed in 'leave' and was immediately teleported back to her house, her laptop returning to normal without the strange file.

hxy6hj

Match Point

It was set point. I lost the first one—I can’t lose this one, too. I laser-focused onto Alex across the net at the baseline, took a deep breath, went into my Zen-mode, and sent him into slow-motion. I could read his serve like it was a kid’s picture book. High ball toss about a foot out into the court, deep knee dip into a low crouch, body swiveled under it, trunk and shoulders coiled. He’s going for the slice—I leaped right and straddled the alley. Slo-mo ended—WHAM! No! He pronated the racket at the last second—blasted it down the T! He aced me! Alex grinned and yelled out: “It’s all fun and games, right?” Right. He knew, for me, tennis was never that. My dad taught me the game in second grade, and the first rule: the racket was a weapon meant to draw blood. Still, it was hard to be mad at my best friend. Especially when even my signature slap-cross-court-forehand was letting me down. It may not be what most players did, but as close friends, we yelled a conversation across the net to each other, between points. “I’ll go easier on you, this last set.” “Don’t even think about it, old man.” He was nineteen days older. He’s never won all three sets before—I wasn’t about to let him change that. We both played, and lettered, on the same high school team. I was number one, and he was number four. He flipped that around the summer after graduation. College tryouts were humbling. He played as number two; I was lucky to make the team as alternate. Once we had our degrees, we even toyed with going pro. That was two years ago. We still chatted about it, but less often. One thing never changed: we both loved to win. At any cost. So when he drilled his shots right at me, I wasn’t offended or surprised. I moved my feet fast and whipped them back for winners. It’s a funny thing about winning: it can change your perspective on what preceded it and, more important, what follows. You can get cocky, lose a few points, and before you know it, the momentum’s shifted in the opponent’s favor. Dear old Alex succumbed, and I broke his serve twice. I was up five games to three and serving at set-point. I rifled it out flat and wide to his backhand in the add-court and then hustled to the net for the simple volley. But Alex anticipated where I was going—he covered it easily and powered a blazing two-fisted backhand return. The ball pummeled me dead-smack in the forehead—my butt hit the court hard—my vision blurred for a moment. I climbed to my feet, retrieved my racket, and shook it off. “Nice return, Alex!” “You okay?” “Yeah. You’re not getting off that easy.” I served up a body-shot and caught him flatfooted. The set was mine. Two sets to one, we started the fourth. “Guess there’s still a chance you can leave the court a winner. But don’t get your hopes up.” He laughed. “You sound like my old man. That was the last thing he used to say to me before all of my junior tournaments. Before he died, that is.” “Well, he just wanted to give you some confidence. Doesn’t look like it’s working anymore, though.” That got me hitting harder. Which got Alex hitting harder. “Don’t mind me, as I aim to maim.” “Did my old man write a tennis book? That’s another line of his.” “Oh. And I thought I was being original.” I bulleted a ball into the corner for a winner. “Not bad. You’ve been eating your Wheaties, huh?” “Why don’t I just call you Dad from now on?” “Why’s that?” “Wheaties was his favorite cereal. He used to tell me they were going to put me on the front of the box one day. Like all the star athletes.” “Hey. Breakfast of Champions. Right?” “Yep.” “So let’s see some championship shots, already!” He laughed again. “Your laugh is very annoying. Almost as much as your game.” “Funny. Try to return this.” He coiled his body around and pulled the racket behind him for a backhand. But he only used one hand, so I knew this meant a slice. I charged the net, but he used a topspin and sent it cross-court. He never hit a backhand with only one hand. “What? That’s old-school! Where did you learn to hit with one hand?” “What are you talking about? I’ve always done it.” “You’re trying to get into my head. It’s not going to work.” I went on to win the fourth and fifth sets. He wasn’t happy. “Alright. I’m done. You played like a younger man today, Max.” “I am younger. Maybe your reign is over.” “Not a chance. You just got lucky.” “Hey. It’s not that you played bad , Alex, my boy. It’s just I played much better.” I did my best rendition of his laugh. “Enjoying yourself?” “Always. Come on. I'll buy you a smoothie. Flatten out that crinkle between your eyebrows.” “Nah. Thanks. Not today. Gotta run some errands.” “Okay. You do that. Rest up, old man. See you again, Thursday. For a repeat.” That got him snickering all the way across the court and out the gate. I dropped my butt onto the bench and took a few swigs of water. I was happy with how I played. At least the last three sets. I sat back, let my vision blur, and replayed a few of the better points in my head. “Excuse me. Sir?” A voice barged in on my post-game analysis. I swiveled my head toward it. A teenage girl and boy looked in from the court gate. “Hmm? Oh, I’m all done.” I tossed my towel and wrist band into my bag. “Great! Thank you, sir.” “You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ I’m not that much older than you.” “Oh, okay.” I grabbed my gear and walked past one of the teens as I left the court. “Thanks again, sir.” ‘Sir.’ Right. “Have a good game.” As I dragged the gate behind me, the kid across the net yelled out: “Sir!” He ran up to me and held out an old wooden tennis racket. “Is this yours?” “Nope.” “It’s old, huh?” I took the racket from him. It was a Dunlop Maxply Fort. My father used to hit with the same one. I checked the frame at the bottom of the strings. There it was: my father’s name etched into it. In his handwriting. I looked at the kid. “A relic.”

z6zjiz

It's All Fun And Games

“It’s all fun and games-” “Oh, would ya shut up with that, jackass?” growled Cordelia with a frown, “We’ve been walking for hours and all ya’ve been talking about is these damn games-” “I haven’t been talking about games, dummy. If you’d let me finish the sentence-” Theodora tried to reply, her hands on her hips in defiance as her travel companion growled at her. Never trust a fae that could shapeshift, her father warned her, and yet here she was. But, then again, Cordelia was the first lead she had. So, she had to distract her from realizing her true form… because that could be disastrous. “Yer an idiot, that’s all,” Cordelia snapped back, “We’ve been hikin’ in this direction for four hours , Theodora. Are ya sure ya sense he’s this way?” Theodora knew her father was this way, she could sense him after all, it was a safe scent, and she knew as soon as they descended on him, Cordelia would need to run away, and fast. But, she, for some unknown reason, wanted to be around the annoying fae for just a little bit longer, no matter how dangerous it was turning out to be. But, she could tell the woman had thicker skin than she was letting on, despite complaints, the woman wasn’t even shivering at the frost in the air, and there was a hint of musk coming off of her that humans never had. Not to mention those legs, especially the thighs, were muscular and much more so than Theodora was used to looking at in the fairy realm. And suddenly, she bumped into the taller woman, who was glaring at the other in disbelief, “Ya look pale. Are ya tired? Is that why yer trying to tell me some dumb bullshit story? We’ll set up camp… in this conveniently placed cave… let me check it out first, I don’t want there to be someone in there lurking and taking both of us out. I’m sure I could take ta anyone ta town, but with someone like ya here, I don’t know if I could focus," she winked again, and Theodora tried not to faint on the spot. Theodora blushed a bright pink, tucking her chin into her chest before turning away to make sure she could keep a perimeter around the area until Cordelia returned. The fae was right, Theodora couldn’t fight, but she did have other supernatural abilities that made her an asset in fights- including surveillance, “Kay! Hollar-” “We’re good, come in, ‘Dora,” Cordelia’s thick accent slipped through with the drop of the first part of her name. Theodora’s insides melted and were suddenly a red hot feeling, she tried not to think much about it as she nearly floated in, “Here’s the blanket, I reckon ya need it more than I.” Theodora snuggled into the blanket they’d… acquired on the way to the mountain, sighing as Cordelia set up the fire from the wood stuffed into a magical bag the woman had found in a previous town, one that could hold pretty much anything. Theodora had been shocked when the fae had wandered about it, seeing as it was a fairy-enchanted item, but then she realized, somehow, it was her father’s. He’d dropped it in hopes someone who knew him would find it. Luckily for her, Cordelia had. She then grabbed an apple out, cutting it up with a spare rock, and giving part of it to the fairy next to her. For reference, Theodora had learned to become “human-size” a long time ago, a ritual that only the fairies allowed outside the communities learned, and it was deemed “human-sized” because they were the baseline for most of the fae and supernatural creatures. Cordelia just so happened to be a wolf-like fae, others would refer to her as a werewolf, but it seemed she was more of a hybrid than anything, taking on more human features in shape, but more wolfish features in terms of body and head, fur/hair, and more. Theodora wondered if they’d ever develop a friendship where they could discuss the inner workings of each other's kin. She glanced at the fae, scarfing down a piece of chicken, and she gulped. No, probably not. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Cordelia asked, looking over curiously, with a hint of caution, as if she couldn’t believe that Theodora would even want to speak to the woman despite days of travel together; but she supposed that in other cultures, days were far less time. In fairy culture, days were like years together. So, it’s ironic that Coredilia complained about the time it took to hike this far up, or perhaps she has an elongated sense of time as well, but just intense trust issues. She thought too much, this had always been a problem, she thought annoyedly. “Just the games,” she winked, as a joke of course, but blushed herself when the wolfish cheeks grew a tad bit red, “I’m serious though. The Games are an important part of these parts… these fairy parts. I know you’re fae-” “How in Goddess’ name do ya know that?” “You’ve got the hairiest legs I’ve seen in my entire life, your eyes are yellow, you have canines the size of my head in… in fairy form… and-” “Yer a fairy?! And ya just traveled with me even though ya knew I was a fae? Are ya outta yer mind?” the woman growled, “Or just a right idiot?” “I’m not an idiot,” she frowned in return, “You just haven’t hurt me yet-” “Right! Yet ! An idiot! Fae and human alike hunt fairies, yer lucky I like ya so much or I woulda returned ya to where ya deserved. Depths of hell, ya tricky creatures.” “We don’t deserve to rot in hell, Cordelia, surely you don’t truly mean that,” Theodora begged, pleaded her to change her mind with her tone, she couldn’t bear to think someone she’d… grown to tolerate more than a fairy should a fae, could think such a way. Perhaps her father was right. “Ya don’t understand, ‘Dora. Yer kind are mischievous little ‘uckers who are constantly stealing me stuff, and then they ‘ave the audacity to try and befriend me to sell it back ta me! It’s annoyin’!” “Annoying, sure, deserving of rotting-” “Okay, sure I overexaggerated,” she waved her hands off with a sharp grin. Theodora gridded her teeth, “You can’t just say that dummy!” “Can’t I?” Theodora stood but was dragged back down. Blushing, she glanced over to see the wolfish fae put her arm around the fairy- the audacity of this woman! “Cordelia-!” “Oh come on, if you’re a true fairy ya’d die in the treck down or up. My body eats’ been the only thing keepin’ ya alive,” she grinned, “Besides, don’t act like ya haven’t been wantin’ to snuggle up ta me this entire time,” she winked. Theodora swore on the Fairy Goddess she’d get up. Except she didn’t. She stayed there until the morning sun came up, to which they both rose and continued their trek to find her father. When they did, they fought off the kidnapper and were holding hands while doing it. 

l2dq8m

Dr. Sandy Shells

10/23         The ship travel is rough with the seas angry fits and the siren's calls that keep me up at night. I've been sick much. But we shall make landfall within the next few days and then they'll leave me to do my work. Most excited. Miss my wife and children a little but honestly it is nice to be away and on an adventure. 10/27         First night on the beach. Built tent, fire, and cooked a fine meal as I watched the ship take to the sea again. Dark now and night animals have begun to sing. Looking forward to sleeping as the night lives around me. 10/31         It’s been an adjustment to be the sole human on an island full of exotic beasts. It's been humid and raining most of the day, a surprisingly nice relief from the tormenting sun. I made many notes and took many photos to document the various flora and fauna that grows here. At night I swear I hear voices and music but it's most likely either wishful thinking or carried from a distance on the Northeast wind. I'll be moving on from the beach tomorrow to head into the forest. 11/04         The forest provides much cover from the unpleasant weather, but it breeds many creepy crawler’s and makes me wish for the warm, dry sun cover of the beach. I haven't found a single undocumented animal yet, but I have faith that I will. It's amazing how a typically unsocial creature such as I is longing to listen to useless chatter or have a pointless polite conversation with a stranger. I thought last night I smelled spicy cooked meat and the smoke from a fire that was not my own... then it was gone. I'll dream of that meat while I finish my canned beans and curl up to sleep. 11/10         I found it! I found a spider that, after researching all my notes and books that I’ve brought with me, I cannot confirm has been discovered yet. I studied it in its natural habitat for days, took notes and photos, before I tapped the spider in formaldehyde to preserve it for future study. Can't wait to get back to civilization to see if this can be verified or not. Tonight, I dine on pork and beans with glee. 11/15         There's something in the darkness. I can hear it while I lay in my sleeping bag and try not to let the sounds make fear bloom in my heart. 11/19         I've moved deeper into the forest on my trek to the opposite side of the island. I believe I found what looks like remains of a treehouse or some sort of ancient shelter. This is disappointing to think someone else may have visited this place before, but I found no positive identifiers to who was here. I documented the evidence for further study and moved on. Tonight, I am making a small fire and camping overnight. But I'll be on the move again tomorrow at first light. 11/22         I fell into the river today. Think my ankle is fractured at least so I've bound it with a brace from my field kit and taken some pain relief. But my biggest issue is that I've lost my pack that had most of my food in it. So, for tonight, I'll dine on dried beef sticks and a single package of crackers. Hopefully, I can hunt or forage food. Maybe I’ll embrace the nature of man and live like a wild beast myself. 12/01         Starving is a real feeling these days. I am unable to make it as far through the woods as I had been because of my ankle. It's ugly, hot, and swollen. Perhaps, coming in here without help was a poor decision on my part. Running low on pretty much everything, including faith. 12/03         So hungry. Tired. and... sad. I may die here.... If that happens and someone finds this journal tell my wife and kids, I love them and wish them well in life. 12/04         I..........want to die and be done with this suffering. My head is dizzy. My time is gone. I'm going to lay down and let the darkness take me. ??/??         I'm in a prison of wood and rope but they've fed me, bathed me, and saved me for some reason. I'm not sure how long I’ve been here or where I even am. If I peek through the only window out of this place, I see shadows around a fire. They feed me through a slot and never speak when I ask my questions. Perhaps they mean to kill me or maybe they mean to keep me as I'd kept the poor spider. A novelty. An experiment. ??/??         There's a beautiful woman who saved me today. They'd dragged me out of the cage to cook me, if their fire was any indication, but she met my eyes and smiled. Her dark eyes were accented by the black line tattoos on her cheeks and her lush lips were pinkened from the berries she was eating. She sat with a huge man with similar features, and she wore crown made of flowers and thistles. When one of the beastly men went to hit me with a club, she stood and spoke a single word, quietly, before leaning down to whisper into the head honcho's ear. He then barked an order, and I was dragged back into this cage. Maybe 1/1 now? Who knows, anymore.         They've moved me into a hut with the beautiful woman. She is patient with me since I don't understand her language but forceful enough for me to understand that I am hers to do with what she pleases... not that I'm complaining about most of that. 2/5               I watched them from the woods, hidden with the rest of the tribe, as they searched for my pack, tent, and clothes. I could have called out that I was here, and I was alive... but Ryvinna rubbed herself against me and I had zero desire to return to my life off this island. With the silence they’d been teaching me, we all snuck away from the search party and back to the safety of our village. 2/15         I married my new wife, Ryvinna, this afternoon by the fire surrounded by my new tribe. Her father officiated. I sometimes miss the life I'd left behind but it's hard to when I look at Ryvinna.  12/09         It's been a few years since I've written in this journal. Ryvinna is currently laboring for all to see as she brings our fourth prince or princess into the tribe. My father-in-law has passed away and now Ryvinna and I are the chiefs of the tribe. Maybe I should feel guilty for leaving my former wife and kids behind to stay here with Ryvinna... but I don't. According to the papers, I was pronounced dead, and they got a windfall from the insurance. My former wife re-married a senator and had another two kids. They’re fine as far as I can tell from here. And I get to spend my days studying the wildlife, ruling the tribe with a gorgeous wife who never turns me down and continues to give me beautiful babies, and live free of rules and law that are not of my own making. It's good to be king.

o68z8k

Protocol

The instruments are supposed to help me understand what I’m seeing, but they fail tremendously in this regard. I learned very quickly, yet quite a bit too late, that their data collection was not in service to me but to those back home. The instruments produce calculations and extrapolate theoretical what-ifs to translate to scientists millions of miles away. They then transmit it away, as if I’m not even here. The reality of the situation is that I’ve been training my whole life for this. Ever since I was small. I would look up into the sky, day or night, and find wonders out there that always dwarfed what was observable on the ground. It’s still true. I look out the portal of this ship as it hurtles through space, a cosmic lightning rod just hoping to be struck, and every bit of the experience is awe-inspiring. That actually makes things worse. Yes, the culmination of all my hopes and dreams has become a source of great disappointment. The reality of the situation is that I am little more than a customer service rep with some additional duties as tech support and maintenance. That information I collect? It goes somewhere else. It takes a long time to get there. The response takes a long time to return. It takes about an hour to get there and about an hour for the reply to reach me and in between it takes an interminably long time for those receiving the information to interpret it, make up their minds about what they’d like to do about it, create a plan, clear the plan with their superiors, and then formulate their response. If something is immediately interesting I am forbidden to react for about an hour… times two… times the inestimable span of interpretation, struggle, understanding, inspiration, doubt, resolve, and acquiescence to bureaucracy. If something is immediately dangerous I am forbidden to react for an hour… times two…times and unknown variable. If I encounter something that would change our perspective of the universe and all we know about it I cannot act for an hour… times two… times uncertainty. The protocols are there for a reason after all. The truth is, just such a thing happened about seventy-two hours ago.  They arrived and quite easily gained access to the ship. The safety protocols were laughably ill-suited to thwarting their nuanced methods of infiltration. The reality of the situation is that only we would consider it nuanced. It’s quite possible that their facility in overcoming our technology equates to our own ability to outmaneuver the most basic of creatures. I am in the process of collecting my own data on the subject. Honestly, I am quite excited. This encounter has provided the opportunity to employ my training in evasion and covert surveillance. I am happy to report that my skills have proven quite ample at avoiding their methods of detection. They are strange-looking creatures. Not terribly symmetrical or otherwise pleasing in physiology. Their appendages do seem quite inelegantly conceived. They move through the environment with a complete lack of grace with little regard for economy of movement. They are quite clumsy. The alert sent upon their arrival has not yet garnered a response. Of course, we have protocols. I expect that they expect they are being followed to the letter. They are not. This terrible experience has to be salvaged in some way. This is without a doubt the perfect time to break protocol. — “How should we proceed?” The voice inquired with a clinical detachment. “Follow the protocol.” An equally clinical voice replied. “Perhaps we must re-evaluate the protocol?” The first voice posits. “Our protocol breaks down in this same place each time. Perhaps we have inadvertently created a flawed scenario? Perhaps there is value in allowing it to play out?” “Perhaps.” The second voice cooled noticeably in its reply. “Continue monitoring the situation. Report back your findings.” The sound of the door sliding open and closed again did not distract the observer from the observed. The slight suction that accompanied it should have alerted the room’s sole occupant that something was amiss. The faint whisper of moving air went completely undetected. The subject simply stared intently at the screen, sifting through the data as it arrived, calculating and recalculating possibilities to solve a riddle no one had asked. The gas that slowly filled the room was colorless and odorless. It killed with ruthless efficiency. The subject breathed in a last breath and had expired before its exhalation. — The sound of the reply echoed through the ship. The reality of the situation is that it is no ship at all. I was hoping this time would be different. I stepped out from my hiding place and walked down the corridor. The infiltrator fell into step beside me. “Failed again?” “It appears so,” I replied, disappointment clearly audible in my voice. “It’s always in the same spot, isn’t it?” “It is.” I turned, fearing what came next. “Is that our fault? How can so many fail? Why always at the same place?” The sound of my sigh did not distract the inquirer from their inquiry. The click of my opening the clasp on my belt should not have gone unnoticed. My actions should have registered as out of the ordinary. The subject simply stood there, awaiting my reply. “Thank you for your service.” I extended my hand. “We will try again tomorrow.” The device I had palmed injected the poison with little more than a prick as our hands met. The subject breathed in a final breath and had expired before its exhalation. — I was troubled. I exited the simulation. The reality of the situation is that I’d been about fifty feet from the observer the entire time. Fifty feet down to be precise. I mounted the staircase slowly and climbed with a measured pace to the next landing. Opening the door I fell into step with my collaborator. “Disappointing,” I remarked. “Indeed,” “By my calculations, this is the four hundred-thirteenth failure by an observer. Is that correct?” I asked. “Correct.” “And the thirty-seventh failure of an infiltrator?” I observed. “That is frustrating.” I felt the gentle hand come to rest upon my shoulder. The tenderness of that touch did not distract me from my musings. I did not feel the slight prick. I breathed in… — “The seventh failure of a collaborator.” The cold voice supplied. “Always questions.” “Indeed.” A collaborator replied. “Indeed.” A second agreed. “Indeed.” A third echoed. “Reset the simulation. Follow the protocol.”

8d7zmd

The Slide Between Worlds

The playground was deserted, a silent witness to the fading day. Curtis and Jane sat on a creaky swing set, their hands intertwined yet their hearts worlds apart. The conversation took an unexpected turn. Both spouses were hovering over the prospect of bringing a new life into a world that seemed to be crumbling. Jane was unable to look Curtis in the eyes; she was hurt and misunderstood. "I just don't know, Curtis." Jane's voice was low and meek, lost in the evening breeze. "The news, the chaos, so much death... it feels selfish to even consider bringing a baby into all of this right now. I don't see the point." Curtis's grip tightened, his frustration simmering. "Selfish? Isn't it more selfish to deny us the chance of happiness, of a real family, just because of what's going on out there?" "Curtis, please!" Shouted Jane. You don't get it. Everything is messed up. The world, our society, and the people. Our finances are our minds. A child will make things worse for us. Do you not understand that?" "Oh, I understand Jane very clearly. The world isn't our issue; you are. It's truly about you wanting to control everything and have it all your way, but you can't!" Jane rolls her eyes and gets up from her swing. "This has to be a joke. You want a child, ha! But you won't have to carry it, feed it every hour, and make sure it survives our household, all while having to protect it from all the craziness out there. Just stop Curtis, okay?" Curtis laughs maniacally as he brushes off Jane's attempt to make him back down. "Look Jane. You said you wanted children two years before we got married... You know what? Nevermind. You're just a freaking liar..." The words stung. Like a knife to the spine, Jane felt paralyzed, and without another word, she stood up and walked away, her silhouette growing smaller as she approached the slide. The playground's slide, a relic from a cheerier past, now stood as a threshold to the unknown. Jane climbs up the ladder and sits at the entrance of the tunnel slide. Tears flowed down her cheek, burning her skin with salty despair. As Jane waited at the top of the tunnel slide, the world around her began to chill. "I wish you cared to understand me, Curtis." With a deep breath, she let go, sliding down into the gathering darkness. But as she reached the bottom, the world she knew was gone. She landed in a realm devoid of light, where shadows flickered and eyes glowed from unseen creatures lurking just beyond sight. This new world was identical to her own, but it lacked all that made hers beautiful. The air was thick, as every breath you took felt like fire in the lungs, and Jane knew she had to leave this place quickly. She thought maybe if she slid down the slide once more, maybe that would work, but she only ended up back in the dark realm. "Maybe if I go up the slide?" Jane thought as she ascended the slide. Unable to grip the tunnel walls, Jane slid down once again, giving up after one try. "What do I do now?" Hopelessness set in, but Jane decided to just keep moving anyway. So she walked forward in a straight line, wondering if that would do any good. Grrrrrr! A loud growl was heard only meters away from Jane. Her legs began to shake, but she continued to move with slow strides. She thought to herself not to look back, but curiosity never loses. Jane turned around—a shadow loomed behind her, threatening her with its menacing red eyes and sharp yellow teeth. Jane lost her mind at seeing the creature and decided to run at full speed in her current direction. The creature followed behind her, but only ever so close. It seemed like the beast was playing a game with me. Jane's journey was fraught with many more perils: other twisted beings would reveal themselves and claw at her, eerie voices called her name, and illusions threatened to trap her mind in all-consuming fear. Yet she pushed forward, driven by the desire to see Curtis once more and to see the flawed but familiar world they shared. His existence was giving her enough strength to push on. After much time had passed, Jane barely had energy left, but she realized she was alone. There were no more creatures around her, but there was something in front of her. In an area full of eerie fog, she glimpsed the sight of a slide. Completely identical to the one she came into the world through. Was this the slide to exit this world, or was it merely a trick? Not trying to think too hard, Jane uses the last of her energy to climb the stairs and enter the slide. After what felt like an eternity, Jane emerged from the slide, gasping for the air of her own world. The playground was no longer empty; Curtis was there, his eyes wild with panic as he searched for her. Spotting his wife, Curtis ran towards Jane. "Jane!" "Curtis!" she called out, running into his arms and collapsing into him. His embrace was a harbor in the storm, and in that moment, Jane knew. Despite the darkness that loomed outside, their love was a beacon that could weather any world. "Curtis, I'm so sorry for being selfish and not trying to see your point of view. We can have our family, whatever you want." She said her decision was firm. "Because even in a world that's falling apart, there's still us. We can do this." Curtis, rubbing his tired wife's back, begins to kiss her forehead softly. "I apologize for not trying to understand you as well. I wasn't being fair, but it's ok now. We can talk about this when we get home. You're tired and need rest." Jane looks into Curtis's eyes, smiles, and falls back as she passes out from exhaustion. Curtis picks Jane up and carries her home. Keeping in mind that he will be asking about the deep scratch she felt on Jane's back. And with that, they go home together, leaving the playground and its mysterious slide behind, ready to face whatever the future holds for them.

awbwn7

Fright

The trip to Hot Springs was an annual joy. Being with my grandparents balanced the fact both of my parents were very preoccupied people. T To my Grandmother Daisy, I was a special child. She had one child in an era when women might have a dozen. Her sister Maud had nine children. She knew loss during pregnancy and even death of a babe upon birth. I was her second chance victory over fate. What I liked best was she was always glad to see me walk into a room. Joining her and Grandpa Yeisley staying in a cozy cabin in the State of Montana was perfection on earth. We found it every summer. Flower beds lined every lane and the sun shone nearly everyday. There was a soda shop downtown and a movie theater. I remember seeing a movie about the San Francisco earthquake. Once Grandpa Yeisley took me to a drug store. He bought a book about a fuzzy bear. I treasured the book for years because this tall, actual cowboy looking man bought it for me. On this morning I was playing with my dolls on a grass area near the cabin door. I was wearing new vacation shoes. Is anything better than looking down at your feet to see new sandals. Not sturdy school shoes, but yellow sandals with flowers where the laces would be resting. "Hey, girlie those look brand new. My sister would like those. And the doll. How about you give them to me." I gazed upward to see a boy standing between me and our cabin. "These are my shoes and this is my doll." "Right now they are. But I intend to take them. If you don't give them to me." We stared at one another. He was bigger and tougher than me. I considered my options. The cabin looked very close. The front door was open with only a screen door between me and a call for help. It was as if he could read minds. Don't even think about calling for help. I can grab and run faster than anyone in town. " I felt tears rising from deep inside. I loved my doll dearly. I had had her since two Christmases. My grandmother had sat her at a child sized table with a tea party in progress. I even had a high chair her size. And a bunk bed. Very few children had a doll bunkbed. Which reminds me. When we moved to California, I put the doll, the bed, the high chair and the doll dishes into an upstairs bedroom closet. I fully planned to come back for them one day. I felt the farm would last forever. But now was now. "Forever" would have to wait. The boy stood firmly in place. Flowers in the flower bed didn't make any difference. Just as the boy took a step toward me, the cabin screen door flew open. And, there in the Montana sunlight stood my Grandmother Daisy. At least I assumed it was her. It was certainly her white hair but it was uncombed and stood wildly framing her face. Also, where was her morning robe or her flowered housedress. She was wearing only a white slip. She had put on her bulky 1940's hearing aid but hadn't hooked up the wires. There were the various wires leading from her bosom battery pack up toward the ear plugs. My attractive grandmother looked like a monster from outer space. I sneaked a peek at the boy. It was delicious. His blue eyes were wide and I saw fright in full bloom. I discovered he could run away faster than anyone in town. My doll nestled on her blanket. My sandals still had that new look. They still had the flower design. . My beloved Daisy scurried into the cabin, Grandpa Yeisley held her robe and she snuggled into its' safe folds. I couldn't get into their circle fast enough. We held each other for a moment or so. "Irene, you never need to be afraid if your grandmother is nearby. She protects her family." Grandpa's eyes had a bit of a smile hidden in the corners. I want the world to know Daisy protected me for years. When I cough she scooped me up and took me to the farm. I had a fever and saw actual tigers on my living room pull out bed. Daisy couldn't hear me cy out but Grandpa brought me a child's aspirin. He sat his big self down on the bed until I fell asleep. Daisy's good soul tried to teach the dog "Shep" to grab the sleeve of my coat when I walked in the farm yard. That (by the way) was how I learned who Santa Claus was. "Shep" grabbed the sleeve of my older brother's Don's coat sleeve. His red Santa suit sleeve. I saw it clearly under the farm yard light. Grandma taught me how to feed the chicks and gather the eggs. She even taught me how to soothe an angry hen. We gathered crab apples from the chicken yard tree and made them sweet tasting in the kitchen. She made a white creamy candy for Christmas season. She paid for piano lessons from the neighbor lady. The night before she died from a major heart attack, she shuffled out to the kitchen to ask my brother and I who won the small town baseball game. When my parents bought The Eatwell Cafe she saved me from a sad happening. My parents would let me set up paper dolls in the back booth. However, the waitress would be cranky when a customer needed the seating. She told me it cost her a greater tip because people felt sorry for me. I always wondered how the waitress knew that was true. However, I knew one thing was true. As true as the sun in the sky in the morning and the moon in the sky at night. As true as Spring and Summer and Fall and Winter. The best moments of my childhood were when my Grandmother Daisy was glad to see my walk into the room.

9qtsvg

Planet B

The following is the transcript from the audio log discovered about ‘Planet B’ left for us by the great explored Robert Miller. Bobs log number 1. I have crash landed on Planet B, on landing my ship was damaged but repairable unfortunately on my first expedition into the wilderness of this lush green world I was attacked. The creature was hideous with two long hairy tails dangled from its deranged face and what a horror the face was, yeesh.  There was a large red eruption coming from the lump in the middle of the face, clearly the atmosphere was toxic to this creature and it had large metal reinforced teeth. The monster seemed to delighted in destroying my vessel as it stamped on the fuselage. Fortunately I was able to escape deeper into the jungle, though I am left only with my Terror Blaster and camouflage cloak. The cloak should prove useful if the abomination. Yeah I like that, Abomination B. Anyway the cloak should hide me if I encounter it again. Bobs Log number 2. Ha ha sounds like poo. Ahem. I narrowly survived another encounter, while fighting my way through the dense foliage of the planet, a hissing alerted me to the danger. Turning quickly I saw a...a..em... Giant feline beast. Yeah. Its claws could slice straight through my protective space suit, instinctually I knew the cloak would be of little use here. This was a creature built for hunting, large eyes fixed me as needle like teeth parted to release another hiss, its tail whipping menacingly from side to side. Setting my Blaster to 'scare' I pulled the trigger. The tip of the blaster flashed red as the heat from the weapon dissipated and a terrifying noise was released onto the giant animal. It promptly fled in terror and so I continued my trek through the undergrowth looking for some shelter from the approaching night. Who knows what horrors will be out after dark. Bobs log number 3. I have reached the edge of the jungle, looking back I can see trees and strange plants towering into the sky. But in front of me I have discovered a residence. These creatures seem to have tamed the jungle and created a soft lawn from the wild grasses. The perimeter is distinguished by a wooden fence littered with bright colored flowers. It is unclear at this time if the flowers are to ward off creatures or to distinguish status to the neighboring residents. I am going to press forward. Alone on this planet I have little choice, I must find shelter and perhaps sanctuary. Bobs Log number 4. Disaster has struck the mission. I entered the residence through an open airlock, from the outside I could see none of the aliens as the airlock had a glass sliding door to it, so I felt the risk was worth it. There was no inner air lock nor decontamination chamber so I assume these aliens are native to Planet B and adapted to its ecosystem. On entering I hear loud noises coming from the adjacent room. Creeping forwards I rounded the door frame to see one of the Aliens asleep on some form of soft seating. It was a disgusting sight, the alien gripped a metal can of something in one hand resting it on his engorged belly. A loud snorting snore emanated from what I would assume to be the mouth of the alien. I made the assessment that these aliens were overweight and posed little threat to one of the space legions finest. Infront of the alien, we will call it the blob. Infront of the blob was a primitive viewing screen on which I could see other aliens running around and crashing into each other. It appeared to be some form of gladiatorial battle over an oddly shaped ball. I risked venturing deeper into the room, as I crept behind the blobs chair it must have sensed my presence as it released a noxious gas clearly designed to ward of predators. This is when disaster struck, gripping my nose to avoid loosing consciousness I rushed to the opening on the far end of the room as I reached the opening I caught a glimpse of the abomination walking freely throughout the home. I pulled my cloak over my face and froze to allow the adaptive camouflage to work. Holding my breath I listened as the steps paused in front of me then continued down the hallway. Releasing the breath I headed deeper into danger and the unknown. Bobs log Number 5. I discovered a staircase and followed it to the second floor of the alien home. I was confronted by a long hallway filled with doors. Pressing forwards, I quietly opened the first of the doors. The pungent smell of flowers and other scents violated my nostrils and made my eyes want to weep. Pulling it together I ventured into the den of the abomination. It was a messy beast, ragged clothes of different hues scattered the floor. It wasn’t clear what condition of cleanliness the clothes were in. Part of my mission is to collect data on these strange creatures, so I carefully approached the bedside table. Previous reconnaissance missions had discovered the location. Opening the drawer, I reached my hand inside and recovered the primitive data device the abomination recorded its activities on. Bobs Log number em 6? I think. I retrieved the data and made my way to the uppermost floor of this building. Here seemed to be boxes filled with treasures from a forgotten age. The area was dark and dirty, but it felt warm and safe from the aliens below. Opening the data device I began reading, horror struck me when I discovered that this creature seemed to write about the opposite gender and to quote “how cute their butts are”. I stifled a giggle as I read on only to discover that this abomination thought Mark from across the road was “Like, the hottest ever.” Pfft. Like she had a chance with him. A screeching from below alerted me that the theft had been noticed. Feet thundered down the hallway as the abomination stormed further away. It was clear from the shouting that the family unit was being mobilized for a hunt and I was going to be the prey. Bobs Log number 7. I threw the data device down the hall towards the abomination as it approached fists clenched and metal teeth bared. Shoving past it I lost the cloak to its grasp but was able to wiggle free and shove past the slow sweaty blob. Retreating to the jungle, lungs burning from the exertion I easily lost my hunters but I had also lost my shelter for the night and already the sky was growing dark. Without my cloak I felt a chill running up my spine as I approached the crash site to assess the damage to my ship. It was complete. The abomination had destroyed the entire thing, I am now stranded forever on Planet B. Bobs final log. I lay in the undergrowth looking to the sky as the stars began to shine. As day retreated the galaxy came to life. Countless worlds that I would never reach, races of advance aliens that didn’t gossip about boys or bully smart kids. My mind raced as I dreamt of the wonders that lay just out of reach, colorful nebulas, exotic animals and plants. I didn’t notice it at first, but a slow creeping feeling had swept over me. Small and insignificant. How could someone do anything to affect something so vast and timeless. Our tiny speck of dirt hurtled through the void as wars raged, cultures rose and fell. Yet the universe didn’t even notice our existence. Some people talk of higher powers or spiritual beings that are out there. Others say its empty. But I know one thing, no matter how much space you have in your toy box you always need more space. Everyone always needs more space, you can hardly get in the door of our shed. So I don’t believe that there is just empty space out there. There is something and I will find it. “ Bob time for dinner!” Oh that’s mum gotta go. End of transcript. Robert Miller went on to study astrophysics and engineering helping to develop the first interstellar spaceship. His sister, Barbara gave us this recording to commemorate his flight into the unknown. She had these words to say. “He was a pain growing up, always dreaming and coming up with wild ideas. But I suppose that is what we need. Dreamers. Those who don’t hold back or accept that something can’t be done. Then again, he regularly called me an abomination so its really ups and downs with him. Love you bob, wherever you are.” It has been three years since the interstellar ship left our solar system and Robert Miller ventured forth into the great unknown. With his efforts humanity pulled together striving to reach the unknown. This is his legacy as we begin construction on the second interstellar ship built by a united planet with the goal of answering the question. What is out there.

koxleo

Reeling by the Wind

      “Pass me the line.” Shouted Josh, tinkering with the rod. I knew nothing about fishing. The term “line” held no significance to me, aside from it referring to a rope-thing. His backpack contained all sorts of trinkets, tiny toys, metal balls, worms, all neatly organized in separate canisters with transparent lids. Their purpose and use unclear to me, I brought him the entire bag.            “Thanks man. Finally, I got you out of that hole.”            “I’m an introvert Josh. The only reason I’m here is you.”            “That’s why I didn’t invite you to a drink.” He turned his attention to the line, passing it and twisting it around the hook.            “How long has it been?”            “Too long. We used to come here often remember?”            “A long time ago, yeah. You had that stupid red bike…”            “Stupid? That’s the salt talking. You were always trailing behind.” I sure was.            The fair sunlight scattered around us, sneaking between the trees and twirling around the branches as we stared at it and its reflection, engulfed in the moment and fascinated by the view. I took a couple of books with me for entertainment and a flashlight to help me read a while longer. We were close, comfortable with our silence. It had been three years since he went to work. And I remained busy with my studies, a story as old as time. A day, maybe two was all we had. Unlike the days before, a wall erected by life obscured our connection, stood tall between us, giving way to the cascading rivers pouring down in a parallel fashion. Fate twisted and whirled people all around, made them accustomed to each other, made them intertwined. For a while, until the rampaging currents paved a new path.            Josh prepared two rods, both with fluorescent sticks attached, and offered one to me, which I aptly refused. Messing up and tangling the fishing line to branches was the reason I didn’t fish. That and the fact that I lacked the patience required. He threw the lines, laid the rods to some makeshift sticks to hold them and retreated closer to me. We found comfort on some logs, left by other fisherman, and watched the sunset.            “So, how has life treated you so far?” I enquired with a whisper, afraid to scare the fish away. He looked pleased with my efforts but answered with no such tone; maybe the distance between us and the lake was enough.            “Life has its ways, good, bad. I dunno. Like an elevator, sometimes I got my highs and sometimes my lows. How about you?”            “My life turned into a bore, larger than it already was. All these books and studies, I work half shifts and really, I haven’t lived much. In sense, I got nothing to talk about. I rather listen to you.”            “Me? Well… I have been all around, hunting jobs…”            “I thought you moved out for a secure one. Hunting?”            “Yeah…hunting. I found the best way is to hop from one to another. Faster way to increase my pay really, by the time I am eligible for a meager promotion, I am getting paid better in another place.”            “So, you are forced to move around? Constantly checking rents and living rates must be a chore on its own, is it worth it?”            “It is man, the difference is real. I toiled in a shabby factory first, my back ached and my lungs were filled with some poisonous substance. Changed like five jobs since then. Now I’m driving a delivery truck, from one city to another. It’s like 200 kilometers per day, inside a new vehicle with AC and radio to boot, a lot of systems in place to ease my job and on top of that my salary doubled compared to the factory days. I am not complaining, that’s for sure.”            “All this moving around must have affected your relationship with Amy. How is she, by the way?”            “We broke up. I know, I know what you gonna say, don’t. She went to study abroad, nothing I could do. We were in a relationship of sorts; she called it a long-distance one. I called it an imaginary one. Chats and Facetime, that was our “relationship”, like I was dating an AI. It became so bad; I was with other people as we dated and hadn’t even noticed. For her, it was cheating, for me, our thing was over the minute she moved out.” He stood up and checked on one of the rods. The bait was gone, he impaled another worm on to the hook and threw the line, this time a bit to the left.            “You cheated? Josh, you leave me speechless…”            “I know! I didn’t even realize it; it was like opening an annoying diary that belittled anything I did, a program to yap. The love spiraled into a habit. A tolerable one at first, someone who listened and connected. Eventually degraded into a voice, vile and insulting.”            “Unfortunate. I was unaware of that. Vile comments imply that she was emotional. Maybe still had a flicker of love. Void people, they are the loveless ones. The moment they cease to care they cease to love.”            “Maybe… If anything, I was the hollow one, not her. Anyways, now I feel free, the wind guides and I go wherever it needs me to go. I never shared this with anyone, but even when we were together, she wasn’t enough, you know. I was bored. Lost. Not that it’s any different now, but at least I’m not tied down and forced to a single voice.”            “You, the gust that shook us even back then. It’s all fun and games Josh but remember, once you separate the body and the soul there is no coming back. I am not judging you, not anyone needs to settle down. Those forced to when not meant to, cause suffering to their offspring. You can’t cage the wind.”            “And that’s precisely why I am confessing to you. You don’t judge. I like to live, that’s all.”            “You do you, my friend.”            The night went on silent and uneventful. We were both tired by nine and by ten we had packed our things and left the peaceful lake. 

0o9yh5

Dancers of the Sea on the Mystical Coast

The flow of the watery world on the Mystical Coast brought a sense of wonder to those who lived there. It was a sunny day in June of 1898 along the rainforest wilderness coast. Near the river bar at the ocean the black and white whales leaped and splashed, joyfully singing and dancing in the waves with squeals, whistles and hums in their fun ocean playground. The games stopped when short, sharp, quick distress calls came from the six month old whale calf. In the dialect of whale language the calf cried for her mama. Nuzzling the calf, the older whales saw the tangled tree vines around the calf’s flippers and the dorsal fin on it’s back. The mama pushed her nose under the calf to lift it’s blowhole out of the water so it wouldn’t drown and began pushing forward, carrying her baby. The pod of whales swam toward a watery trail inland where the chinook salmon were swimming upstream. The whales followed the salmon to seek a delicious meal. From the other direction miles away on the river, the sleek fishing boat known as the “Otter” moved with sails shining in the sunny day like white clouds. Sounds of a stringed instrument floated on the salty air while the boat navigated the river at high tide. A voice rose and fell singing smoothly. The lighthouse keeper from 8 miles away and his family rested on the deck while Tomas’ sang the stories from his lifetime on the sea. He began as a stowaway in South America, then a cabin boy, a sailor, a navigator, then became a river sage such as unheard of before.  When the crew and captain lost their way in foggy weather along the coast Tomas listened to the calls of the shorebirds and directed the path of the ship. His memory became evident when he repeated details of the ship, navigation, and the locations of stars and constellations after overhearing but not studying them. He amazed everyone, but he also upset them with instances of unexplained behavior. Over time the crew and captain accepted him as eccentric and a bit odd but gifted with a mind that recorded tiniest details. For years Tomas used his gift to help captains navigate the rivers and bays branching off the ocean on the west coasts. In the great Emerald River where massive numbers of chinook salmon swam upstream to spawn, Tomas watched the bears along the shore wading into the river and swatting the salmon, then enjoying their meals. He also saw the black and white whales that he named his “River Whales” who also hunted the salmon as their main food. Tomas noted the details of each bear and whale until he began to recognize the same creatures year after year. He saw the bigger black and white whales that feasted on larger prey such as sea lions. The smaller whales reminded him of the playful, curious dolphins who sometimes approached the ship, peering at the sailors. Tomas saw the dorsal fin shapes on the backs of these smaller whales and over time he knew they traveled with the same pod year after year. The friendly, social, curious smaller whales breached and flapped their tails to strike the waves, and appeared to nuzzle each other with affection. In the Emerald River they would approach the boat when it was anchored, floating so close Tomas and the crew reached out to rub the shiney domes of their heads and stroke their backs. When Tomas looked into the eyes of the whales he saw a friendly, calm, playful look. The song stories Tomas sang with his unusual, small lute became well known. When he was no longer young and spry enough to work on the big ships he built a modest cabin on the Mystical Coast near a village of 300 people on the river. There he served as a fishing guide and an entertainer, accepting donations in a bowl while he strummed his lute, singing and telling stories, near the docks or indoors at festive gatherings.  Today on the deck of the “Otter” sat barrels of salmon from the morning’s fishing. The lighthouse keeper, Joseph, and his wife, Jeannie, would roast some of the fish that night and dry the rest for storage and later meals. Elsie, their twelve year old daughter, and their two teenage boys, Edward and Samuel, had wielded their fishing poles well and helped fill the barrels. Out on the ocean the pod of black and white whales following the salmon swam over the bar and up the river’s path between the steep sand dunes. Aboard the “Otter” Joseph steered the boat through an opening into a lagoon off the river to explore. The ocean was within sight. Their village and river docks at the port were several miles upstream. The pod of black and white whales surged over the bar into the river, following the migrating salmon who instinctively swam upsteam to lay their eggs each summer. The mama whale still carried her calf with her nose, pushing and swimming to keep up with the other family members in the pod. Bonded for life, the mothers and grandmothers were accompanied by their female and male offspring. Only the males left for awhile during breeding season on the southern migration to seek females from other pods who were not relatives. Tomas saw the pod of whales from where he stood on the “Otter” and everyone watched the sleek bodies rising with rhythm out of the river and then curving back into it. They dropped anchor on the far side of the lagoon. Now Tomas saw the pod of black and white “river whales” enter the lagoon at high tide. “Joseph, we need to leave the lagoon before the tide goes out. At low tide the sandbar out of this lagoon will not be submerged and we’ll be trapped here,” he said. In the wheelhouse, Joseph began making the turn toward the river. The pod of whales playfully leaped, squealed, whistled, and hummed while they socialized in their own language. When they got closer Tomas saw the whale carrying a calf on her nose, pushing forward. She was swimming more slowly than the others, perhaps fatigued from the extra effort. Tomas watched closely. He knew that tail fin of the mama whale. The notches had a pattern exactly where the dorsal fin bent in a curve at the top toward the whale's flukes on her tail. These smaller black and white whales all had dorsal fins that curved toward their tail flukes, different from the straighter fins of the bigger, more aggressive whales who ate larger prey farther out in the ocean. “Look,” he said. Joseph’s twelve-year-old daughter, Elsie was at his elbow. “I see it,” she said. “A whale calf, tangled in something. The flippers are trapped.” The mama whale moved slowly, resting, but keeping her baby’s blowhole out of the water. “Such love,” said Tomas. “I’ve seen this before but not for many years.” He whispered to himself, “Mamae’ y Babe’." When the whales got closer Tomas began to make a plan. He looked for his sharp fishing knife. Then he threw some salmon over the side of the boat. The mama whale began to swim closer.  “I see what you’re doing,” said Elsie. “Can I help?” “Thank you and yes,” came the answer. “Be ready to feed them more salmon.” Tomas tossed another fish into the water and the tired mama whale drew even closer. He held a fish against the outside of the ship’s hull and slapped it several times. Softly Tomas began to sing, "Sea dancers lesp out of the ocean's deep, Who know the secrets only rolling waves keep.... Playing where ocean blends into sky, Where singing whales leap, dance and fly... His soothing voice was partly a hum and a whisper. Elsie felt tranquility enfold her and she saw the whale approaching with her baby. The calf rested trustingly on it's mama’s nose and blew a tall spout of air out of the blowhole. Tomas could see their eyes now, looking at him and then into his face. He looked into the whale calf's eyes. "I'm going to name you 'Sea Dancer,' and you are going to leap and fly over waves again today." From deep within, Tomas brought all of his retained knowledge and intuition to the surface. There. He felt it. He was in the flow. “I think I can do it,” he said to Elsie. “Throw a few more salmon to the whale.” Tomas saw the vines had town a large v-shaped tear in the baby whale’s dorsal fin. He stored this image away in permanent memory. Minutes passed, the mama whale and her baby were only a few feet away. Tomas could see the vines on the baby’s fins. “Keep feeding the whale, Elsie.” While the mama grabbed fish and tried to keep holding up her calf, Tomas leaned over the low railing with is knife. His strong, knarled hands cut the vines. They fell off the baby. Wiggling and then exploding with energy, the baby slapped her tail on the water, pushed off with her fins, and leaped away, breaching through the air. The mama surged forward and nuzzled her calf, then they sped away with leaps of freedom. Years later, the legend of Tomas the Whale Speaker grew. The villagers painted a mural of the story on one of the eateries. Always humble, Tomas still entertained with his lute near the docks and his donation bowl, but he was too modest to sing of his mama River Whale and her baby. Several times through the years when he saw a black and white “river whales” pod, Tomas recognized the dorsal fins of the mama and her baby, "Sea Dancer." Over time the calf grew and became an adult whale. One summer, while he sang and played his lute in the village next to the river, he saw the dorsal fin with the large v-shaped tear again. There was a six-month-sized calf at her side. The whales were playfully leaping, tail flukes slapping the water, singing and speaking their unique dialect of squeaks, hums, and whistling in the family whale pod. 

cw7y9r

Eclipse Escape

The rust-colored Mustang sped down the road. Although it didn't look like much from the outside, its small block V8 purred along smoothly. The stereo blared loudly, providing melodies that went along with the rhythm of the engine.  "Hand in hand in a violent life. Making love on the edge of a knife. And the world comes tumbling down…" With the top down, the Mustang sped along. The driver and his passenger's black hoodies and cargo pants stood out against the duct tape and off-white cracked vinyl interior. Behind the wheel, Craig looked too comfortable driving so fast. His steely composure contrasted wildly with his passenger. Janet looked like a kid on a roller coaster. The seatbelt barely held her in as she flowed with the car's movement, doing her seated dance to the loud music. "But that's the way that you are. And that's the things that you say. But now you've gone too far…" Three patrol cars raced several car lengths behind, determined to catch the fleeing Mustang. The uniformed officers, all keyed up and unstable, were energized by the chase. Their sirens and engines screamed. The unlikely caravan raced at speeds nearing the three digits. The speakers of their prey could still be heard over the roar of the engines. "Sun grows cold. Sky gets black. And you broke me up. And now you won't come back…" With her arms stretched out of the convertible, Janet leans back and laughs loudly. Her long dark hair flaps wildly behind her. Her adrenalin levels are as high as the needle on the tachometer. Across from her in the front seat, Craig, in his dark sunglasses, looks as cool as cool. He guides the muscle car smoothly, leading the chase. Both bobbing their heads to the music. "Under the April sky. Under the April sun. Under the April sky. Under the April sky." Janet looked back over the seat and gave the chasing police the one-fingered salute. She then flashed them the peace sign, squealing with laughter. Spinning back around, she braced herself as Craig took the shape turn onto a side road without slowing down. The screech from the Mustang’s tires preceded the squeals of the patrol cruisers, still racing behind the fleeing muscle car. Not catching up but not losing ground. Janet scrolled through her phone and switched songs. "In my eyes. Indisposed. In disguises, no one knows. Hides the face. Lies the snake. And the sun in my disgrace. Boiling heat. Summer stench. Neath the black, the sky looks dead…" Janet screams at the top of her lungs, then joins her voice in the song's chorus. "Black hole sun. Won't you come. And wash away the rain? Black hole sun. Won't you come. Won't you come…." As amped up as Janet is, Craig is just as calm but deliberate, steering the 3,000-pound machine smoothly over the dark roads. This was their largest and most bold bank heist yet. Robbing a bank during the total eclipse was pure Guinness. As everyone was looking up, the pair took advantage of the distraction. This haul should keep them comfortable for a long time if they can stay in front of the law. Craig made another turn, headlights showing only an empty road. The speedometer needle was pushed as far to the right as possible. As Craig led this chase, Janet acted as DJ while scrolling her phone. "Whatchu wanna hear?" Janet asked. Craig responded with a curt, one-word answer, "Floyd!" A couple seconds later, the smooth tunes came from the speakers. "Breathe, breathe in the air. Don't be afraid to care…" The Mustang's tires glided over the dark backwoods' road. "Leave, but don't leave. Look around and choose your own ground…" The road bucked and twisted like an angry bull. "Long you live and high you fly…" The Mustang's tires briefly left the asphalt as the road dropped suddenly. "Run, rabbit, run. Dig that hole, forget the sun…" The flashing red and blue lit the dark woods behind the duo as their pursuers stayed several car lengths back. "And balanced on the biggest wave. You race towards an early grave." Craig downshifted as he eased the Mustang into a sharp corner. The pair of outlaws let out a triumphant yell as they watched through the mirrors as one of the patrol cars hit a patch of gravel, skidded off the road, and rolled over twice before settling upside down. The Mustang, followed by the other two black and whites, raced on. "So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking. Racing around to come up behind you again. The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older. Shorter of breath and one day closer to death…" The dark of the eclipse still loomed. Craig settled back into the driver's seat a little more. With sunglasses still on, one hand on the wheel and one on the stick shift, he eased the transmission back into fifth and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, taking the chase back over 100 mph. "I never said I was frightened of dying." Loving the notoriety from their escapades, Janet searched the internet to see if their latest heist made the news yet. "Ha! The news is calling us the "Bonnie and Clyde" of the 2020s. No way!" mocked Janet, "They should call Bonnie and Clyde the Janet and Craig of the 1930s!" Craig said nothing as he eased the Mustang onto the freeway onramp. Knowing that the roads would be crammed once the eclipse ended, Craig sped along, doing his best to give the last two patrol cars the shake. Money, get away. Get a job with good pay, and you're okay. Money, it's a gas. Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash…" Down to three cars, the high-speed parade flew down the highway, now speeding along at 110 mph. Craig stayed at the center of the three lanes—there was no need to dodge the nonexistent traffic. Their lead had stretched out a bit, but the last two patrol cars were not letting up. The three engines screamed while the stereo blasted. "And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes, I'll see you on the dark side of the moon." As the race continued down the highway at high speeds, Janet checked the time: "The afternoon midnight is almost done." Handing Craig a pair of welding goggles, she switched the soundtrack again. "Maybe life is like a ride on the freeway. Dodging bullets while you're trying to find the way…" Without warning, Craig jerked the Mustang towards the off-ramp and onto a road heading directly into the celestial event. In the waning seconds of the eclipse, Craig tossed his sunglasses to the back seat, and both bandits donned their welding goggles. As sudden as an explosion, bright sunlight filled the air and the eyes of the pursuers. "But I won't be burned up by the reflections. Or the fire in your eyes. As you're staring at the sun. Whoa, as you're staring at the sun. Whoa, as you're staring at the sun. Whoa, as you're staring at the sun. As you're staring at the sun…" The burning sun blinded the drivers' unprotected eyes. One of the patrol cars completely missed the off-ramp and found a deep mud hole, ending its involvement in the chase. The other officer continued the chase, relying on his aviators and his skills behind the wheel. "When I ran I didn't feel like a runaway. Hey. When I escape I didn't feel like I got away…" Down to only one chase car, Craig continues their run from the law. Overflowing with adrenaline, Janet is bouncing in her seat as the Mustang bounces down the road. She screams out the lyrics. "If I seem bleak. Well, you'd be correct. And if I don't speak. It's 'cause I can't disconnect. But I won't be burned up by the reflection. Of the fire in your eyes. As you're staring at the sun…" Looking in the rearview, Craig could see the chase reflected in the mirrored lenses of the last remaining cop's glasses. Knowing that their time to escape was growing short, Craig flipped open the cap on top of the gear shift. He glances at Janet and says, "Hold on tight, babe, it's time to fly." Janet started frantically scrolling through her phone, "Whoa, hold on one sec." Then she pushes play. "Run and tell the angels. This could take all night. Think I need a devil to help me get things right. Hook me up a new revolution. "Cause this is a lie. We sat around laughin' and watched the last one die..." Craig pressed the now exposed button. The engine’s fan kicked into high gear, letting out a high, piercing squeal that drowned out the radio. Janet cranked up the volume. "Lookin' for somethin' to help me burn out bright. And I'm lookin' for a complication. Lookin' 'cause I'm tired of lyin'. Making my way back home when I learn to fly high..." The acceleration shoved the Mustang's occupants back in their seats. They were not going down like the famed bandits of the 1930s, at least not this time. As the sun continued to burn bright, Janet and Craig burned brighter, leaving their last pursuer wondering where his prey had gone. 

mchusj

Align

Personal Log: May 1, 2198 (Martian Day 15) No eye has seen what I have seen. Robots have, but real, human eyes have not taken in this planet. No ears have heard. Nobody has touched this surface, until now. The Martian year runs longer than an Earth year. We discussed developing a Martian calendar when we came out of stasis, but everything was based on Earth time. It didn’t seem right to base Terran's time on a new world. We decided to see how time passes on Mars before undertaking that. Perhaps scientists and engineers aren’t the best ones for that job. Our job is to bring humanity to this new world. Building it belongs to those who come after. It seems fitting to save the day-to-day aspects of established life in this new place. No longer is this a realm confined to robots and recordings. We made it, granted nearly two hundred years after anticipated. Recordings don’t do it justice. It’s like looking at one of the wonders of Earth. The Grand Canyon comes to mind when gazing at this red landscape. You can take all of the pictures you want, but will never get that shot to capture the essence of an alien landscape. Or to hear it. I never heard silence like this. Again, the recordings don’t do it justice. I remember gasping at those probe recordings of the wind blowing across a pure planet. No people. No animals. No footsteps or motors running or noise. Just the land, silent and pure, under the wind and weather of pure creation. It’s a shame we can’t explore it with our other senses. Our bodies aren’t compatible with this world, so we confine ourselves to spacesuits that lockout smell, taste, and touch. Oh, how I wonder what the smell of that red dust is. Rusty? Dusty? All I can imagine is Earth-based, so I know it’s wrong. This isn’t Earth. It’s something else. Mars is something you have to experience. Words can’t describe the wonder I – the wonder we – feel in this place untouched by human hands. Until now. Pictures and recordings can’t capture it. Neither can samples substitute for the experience of actually being on a planet not our own. It’s a marvel to behold, and a miracle to be trusted to make it our own. Personal Log: May 16, 2198 (Martian Day 30) The work of creation is massive! I couldn’t imagine how a place could consume you until I was tasked with exploring and creating a place for humanity to branch out into the solar system. I’m glad the Space Authority team selected Amazonis Planitia as the first site. We can see the marvel of Olympus Mons nearby. I can’t wait to take our first hike on the tallest peak in the solar system, but that must wait. There’s another team on the way, and we have a settlement to complete, research to do, structures and habitats to build, and probes to clean up. I love being a geologist, but part of me wishes I were on the probe clean-up team. We have a group of engineers traveling around the planet on ships and rovers to gather the probes that have been sent to explore the planet over the years. We want to see if more data can be retrieved from them before breaking them down to recycle for structures. It’s about survival now, but soon we’ll have communities here. Eventually, we’ll build towns in this red world. Lights will glow from the surface, a universal sign that humanity has broken free of Earth and is stepping out into the solar system. I wonder what theme we’ll use? A southwestern theme seems suitable for the day when the red dust glows in the distant sun, but nights turn a pinkish blue as the sun sets that I’ve never seen before. We’ve taken several pictures but, as with the other images from this planet, can’t capture it. It’s as if there’s a barrier between us and this world that we have yet to break. I wonder if early humans felt this way, roaming the early Earth. To explore the blue sky and green trees, to breathe the air and feel the sun on them. It must have been Paradise. It’s too bad we can’t fully feel this planet and have the full experience of creation. It takes time. We’ll set up the habitats, bring more people, and eventually terraform. Until then, we’ll take this place to the best of our ability. Personal Log: June 2, 2198 (Martian Day 47) The silence is deafening in the forty-minute “dead zone” of time on this planet. Of course, it isn’t a dead zone. I call it that because the Martian Day doesn’t fully align with Earth days. So we sleep, trying to ignore that we now live in a place where time passes differently. Everything is different. It seems slight, but the schism between this place and Earth is widening. the red beauty of this sphere is deceptive. There’s nothing here. No footprints but our own. No animals or creatures other than us. No sound, save the strange wind beating against the habitat. No clouds in the sky, or rain falling to quench the parched surface. No heat to warm our bodies or souls. It’s so cold. How are we supposed to evolve to a world that exists in a different reality than ours? Perhaps that’s the problem. We are of Earth, but we are no longer on Earth. This is our home now., a place that was not designed for us. We can’t go back. I’ll never see anything green again. I’ll never breathe free air or feel the rain on me. No sweat will break out on my skin. I’m trapped, tasked with creating a reality that I wasn’t created for. How am I supposed to make this dead ground spring forth to life? To sustain us? To feed us and nourish us when it wasn’t created for life at all? What is this place? Why did we come here? I need to get out more, and not just dig holes and gather samples. I need to see more of this place, to hear it, to touch it, to smell it, to feel it. Martian Day 55 They sent me to the infirmary. The doctor thinks I had an anxiety attack on the expedition today. I told him that wasn’t true. The beauty of Mars just took my breath away. They say it’s summer back home. It is? I can’t tell what it is here. I’m growing accustomed to the passing of the days, but longer stretches elude me. How do you define a month with two moons glowing in the sky? How do you mark significant passages of time with no holidays or events to serve as keystones to the circle of time? It’s not likely that I will feel the rotation of this place confined to a space suit. How does the air feel? How warm is that more distant sun? Is it more merciful than our summers, or less helpful like a winter day, only providing illumination in a cold world? How does that wind feel on the skin? What aroma does this place have? I thought it was dead, but I was wrong. It’s not dead; it just exists on a different plane than we do. Perhaps habitats and terraforming aren’t the answer. Perhaps we’re the ones who need to change. We don’t need to conform this world to humanity. We need to align with this new creation. We’ve started the process. We made it here, and we’re settling. It’s just a matter of time and evolution. Martian Day 67 I am confined to quarters. They disciplined me because I touched the Martian core samples with my bare hands. Contamination, they screamed! Where was my protective covering? We can’t taint the native landscape? And what if I’m tainted? Now I’m in quarantine while they monitor me, to ensure no further contamination. That’s silly. We already have, just by being here. We started tainting this world over a century ago when we sent our probes to dig this pristine surface and further contaminated it with our presence. Now we’ve built a habitat. How is that natural? Besides, isn’t the purpose for humanity to colonize here? That’s our mission statement. How are we supposed to colonize a planet where we aren’t allowed to touch it? Just look at what we’ve done to Earth. Do they think Mars won’t change because we’re here? Of course, it will, and we’ll change for being here! They don’t see it that way. Leaders lack true vision. They claim to know more and see more, but the truth is that they’re too confined by risk aversion to bring inventive visions into reality. Everybody knows the true brains behind the operation are at the bottom and middle of the totem pole. Leaders are elected, or promoted, based on connections. Creativity is born from the inspiration of reality. But they make the rules, so I’m sick. That’s what they think. They don’t realize the true problem is that we’re trying to make another Earth, while Mars is trying to make another us. I still wonder how they plan to colonize without disturbing the landscape. And isn’t terraforming the ultimate disturbance? But they say that is not my job or concern. What do I know? I’m just the geologist they sent to remake this world. Martian Day 67 Red skies bleed on me. There are no clouds, no trees, no rain falling on us, only the air that circles the deception of death on this red rock.  I know the barrenness is a deception. I cannot see the truth of this planet because I have not been fully aligned with it yet. I almost was, when I touched that sample. I felt the essence of this world pass into me, transforming me into something new. Mars is not dead. It is alive with something different that we cannot see. We can only feel it, and that’s only possible when we free ourselves from the bondage of our humanity. That chains us to Earth, millions of miles away. But we are not there anymore, and will never go back. We must align with our reality, and reality is this: opening our eyes to new creation. Mars is not death. Leaving Earth was death, at least to the existence we know. We must shed this old form to embrace life as it exists here. The wind swirls dust around my form, aligning me to this realm. Behold, I am doing a new thing! This world is mine. Others do not understand it because Mars has not accepted them. They still wear their Earth filters, blind to the essence of this place outside of all we know. I took mine off. I touched the planet, and it accepted my sacrifice. Mars is not dead. It exists in a different reality, and we must align ourselves to see the magnificence of this sphere. This planet cannot be changed. We must change. We must enter a new reality. The mountain calls to me. It looms in the distance, beckoning me to come and behold its secrets. I am the first. More will come, but I have to get there first before it’s tainted by the curse of humanity. Time is running out. I must get there before the next team comes. I must free myself, from these quarters, from this habitat, from this place. Martian Day 80 I am back in the dead zone, but I am not dead. The others are, asleep in their bunks, blissfully unaware of the world they’re trying to destroy. They are chained to Earth, trying to ensnare this planet in the same bondage. I cannot allow that. I must save it, and now is the time. The next team arrives in four days. I will go. I want to feel this place.  I want to be an evolution of a new reality and plane of existence. I will align with Mar’s essence and embrace the freedom of this new life. I am the Eve of evolution. I will be the first Martian. The mountain calls, and I answer. The door is open as others sleep, dead in their dreams of one world they abandoned and another world they cannot touch. I hope this journal finds others who understand. I will not die. Nobody does. They just passed on to a new life, and I have found another way. There is truth beyond our humanity, and I have found it. Align with life. Follow me.

ngcj3p

The Mermaid

The water splashed and sloshed over the side of the research ship as they huddled around the screen and watched the eerily empty ocean bottom slowly move in front of them. They'd been tediously searching the deepest part of the ocean for months and although they'd seen some amazing creatures and a couple of shipwrecks, they'd yet to find the prize. A Mermaid. Dr. Silas Fitz had been looking for a mermaid ever since he'd been saved by one. He’d been the only survivor in a tragic shipwreck that had taken the life of his entire family among others. Everyone told him that it was his survivors guilt or foolish memory or maybe a hallucination caused from the trauma and dehydration... but he knew the truth. He'd put himself through school to study not just oceanography but marine biology as well. He was going to find a mermaid no matter how much time or money it took. He'd told his investors and the college he worked for that they were searching for a historically important shipwreck that would make them all famous and wealthy... but that would only be a side effect of his true mission. Because he was obsessed, he had them working night and day in shifts with three ROV's that they switched out on a time schedule. It was night now around three in the morning in the middle of the ocean, he was on his shift with coffee and his assistant Thomas. A Fangtooth and a Vampire squid swam in front of the ROV and Tom gasped as if they hadn't seen those “alien” creatures before. Silas was much less impressed and growing increasingly annoyed that he'd yet to find his mermaid. He'd already spend years searching the nooks, caves, and crannies of the upper ocean. All that was left were these deep parts for the mermaids to make their homes. He yawned and was stretching as he leaned back when something caught his eye... a fin. "What was that?" He leaned forward again and yanked the controls from Thomas's hand to pan towards the fluke that he'd glimpsed. His heart raced as the humanoid creature with a dolphin-like tail stopped swimming to stare back at the ROV. "Wha...What is that?" Tom breathed as they both stared dumbfounded at the creature. Silas's traumatized child's mind had conjured this kind mermaid with a beautiful face and long flowing locks—more Disney than real life. But what was in front of him was nothing like those memories at all. She had stringy black hair that twisted and knotted around her in the dark ocean. Her skin was gray and looked smooth. Her face was sunken with huge dark eyes, a tiny almost nonexistent nose, and a mouth full of sharp fangs. Her chest was bare but shaped like a human female, her belly was round as if she carried a babe, and her fingers were webbed. Her fluke wasn’t fused as one solid tail... instead her two separate legs kicked independently of each other. "How?" Tom snapped a few pictures of the creature as Silas gently started to take a net from the ROV in order to capture the creature. When she saw the net, she only tilted her head before he flung it over her. She thrashed and screeched a loud song that sent chills rushing over both Tom and Silas and woke the remaining men on the boat. The others rushed in time to see two huge mermen swim into view of ROV. The largest one bellowed while they both worked the net off the female. Other than size and their clearly different reproductive organs, the only other difference between the male and the female merpeople were the male's vibrant coloring. Once they'd freed the female from the scientists net, the largest male gently checked the female over, leaving his webbed hands to rest on her belly for a moment. The other male had come to check out the ROV. He lifted it to his face, so Thomas quickly snapped up close pictures before the creature called over his shoulder. The largest male took the extremely heavy ROV from the smaller one and bellowed again before his mouth quirked up in a ominous smirk and the ROV suddenly went dead. "Well..." Silas breathed into the silent room. "Mermaid's exist," another Marine biologist said before the shock wore off and they all realized what they caught on camera. The room erupted in cheers and manic laughter. The boat listed roughly to one side and the celebration died. “What’s that?" Silas shouted as the boat was rocked back the opposite way. "Did a storm kick up?" They all rushed outside to the calm sea and clear night. When the boat rocked again, fear slicked their spines as they all creeped to the edge to gaze over. The mercreatures had surrounded the boat—an army of them—and were taking turns pushing it back and forth. Everyone panicked as the largest one let out a sinister laugh when he'd caught sight of them peeking over the rail. "Wait. We’re sorry. We meant no harm to your female." Silas tried for calm voice even though his insides were molten with fright. The leader seemed to contemplate this, and the rocking stopped. He smiled at Silas before running his webbed hand over the side of the boat, he made a clicking sound and suddenly the smashed ROV popped up next to him from under the water. With an ease that was bone chilling, he slammed the ROV against the hull of the boat five times putting a huge hole in the side and water rushed in... "They’ve sunk us..." Tom's voice was full of terror before everyone else got to work preparing the lifeboats. Everyone except Silas, who continued to stare numbly over the side at the mermaid with blonde wild locks. Her gray skin had a pinker hue. Her fathomless black eyes stared back at him. She’d been the one who'd saved him. The research boat sank quickly, and they'd all made it to the life rafts only to be plucked one by one off of them. Screams and haunting laughter filled the night until the only one left was Silas. He begged the blonde not to take him as she circled his raft with blood dripping from her mouth and her eyes boring into his soul. "You saved me once as a child. I've spent my life searching for you. I meant no harm," he pleaded but cringed when she ran her slimy hand over his arm. "Child," she repeated in a sloppy voice. "Yes. Yes. A child." Silas returned her smile with a hopeful one of his own. A huge merman appeared next to the female, and they clicked at each other in what seemed like a heated argument. The male narrowed his eyes at Silas before he bellowed and dove away. There was a moment of peace before Silas’s raft flipped. A hand snagged him by the foot. A single final scream struck the air before all was silent. 

3xrj3m

Beyond the walls

In a society where exploration beyond the confines of the known world was deemed too perilous, Lily found herself yearning for more despite the risks. Trapped within the confines of her tightly regulated community, leaving was out of the question – a notion reinforced by the stern warnings and surveillance of the authorities. But Lily couldn't suppress her innate curiosity, a spark that flickered defiantly in the depths of her soul. She longed to see beyond the sterile walls and monotonous routines, to discover what lay hidden in the world beyond. The notion of leaving was not just discouraged—it was practically unheard of. The walls rose so high that all anyone could see was the fabricated sky, a reminder of the confines of their world. Dreaming of venturing beyond those walls felt like a rebellion against the very essence of their society, a defiance against the established order that could have dire consequences. As Lily gazed out her window, the whispers of wind carried tales of worlds long forgotten, of hills adorned with trees, and creatures unfathomable to the average member of society continually dismissed as mere fantasies by those around her. Yet, the stirring curiosity within her refused to be silenced. Why, she wondered, did the authorities guard the doors so heavily if there was nothing beyond but empty ruins? It was a question that fueled her determination to seek out the truth, to venture into the unknown despite the risks that lay ahead. One night, driven by unbearable inner turmoil, Lily made a daring decision to escape her tightly regulated community. Finding a clandestine route out, she fled into the night, heart racing with both fear and anticipation. As she stepped into the unknown, the stark contrast between the fabricated stories she had been fed and the vibrant reality before her hit her hard. Hurt and betrayed by a lifetime of lies, she stumbled through dense forests and treacherous terrain, battling both external obstacles and internal doubts. Yet, amidst the fear and uncertainty, the newfound beauty and freedom of the outside world stirred a defiant spark within her, propelling her forward on her quest for truth and liberation. As Lily's search continues , drones surveil her every move, intensifying the dangers of her forbidden exploration. Desperate for refuge, she unexpectedly encounters a group of rebels who have long defied the oppressive regime. Among them, Asher, Nova, Hailey, Ember, and Phoenix, she finds them willing to aid her quest for truth, offering both guidance and protection against the formidable obstacles that stand in their way. Together, they navigate the perilous terrain, constantly evading detection and outmaneuvering the authorities as they inch closer to uncovering the secrets hidden beyond the confines of their controlled society. As Lily and her allies lead her deeper into the forbidden world, she's struck by the sight of real animals, running, flying, living, a revelation that stirs her deeply. It's a confirmation of her suspicions and a stark reminder of the lies perpetuated by their society. This discovery ignites a profound understanding: their authorities suppress this truth to maintain their grip on power. Despite the escalating dangers, they forge ahead, fueled by Lily's unwavering thirst for truth and their collective resolve to challenge the oppressive regime. In the midst of the moment they were spotted by a relentless drone, Lily and her allies are tired of running and hiding. With resolve hardening in their hearts, or more so healing, they decide it's time to stop evading and start confronting. Armed with newfound determination, they turn the tables, using their new knowledge of the terrain to outsmart their pursuers. Each encounter becomes a test of their courage and ingenuity as they push forward, refusing to be cowed by the oppressive forces that seek to silence them. Realizing that their quest for truth cannot advance without breaching the imposing wall that confines them, Lily and her allies gather in secret to strategize. Aware of the risks but undeterred, they meticulously plan their approach, weighing the strengths and weaknesses of their adversaries. With each member contributing their unique skills and insights, they devise a daring scheme to dismantle the barrier that separates them from the forbidden realms beyond. Their plan is not just an act of defiance, but a symbol of their unwavering resolve to challenge the authoritarians and uncover the hidden truths that lie beyond its walls. Yet, they also understand the gravity of their undertaking, knowing that by revealing the truth, they are risking their lives—but it's a risk they are willing to take to show everyone the reality of their controlled existence. In a climactic showdown, Lily and her allies execute their plan to destroy the wall, shattering the physical and metaphorical barriers that have confined them for so long. As the truth is unveiled, chaos initially ensues, but soon astonishment spreads like wildfire among the populace. Witnessing the reality of their subjugated existence , people from Lily's past confinement join the fight against the regime, swelling the ranks of the rebellion. With healing, forgiveness, love, and compassion, the rebellion triumphs, overcoming the regime's tyranny. Lily and her comrades find solace in the newfound unity and purpose that their defiance has ignited. Their journey may have come to an end, but their legacy of courage and determination lives on in the hearts of those who dare to challenge authority and seek freedom. In the aftermath of their triumph, Lily and her allies faced the daunting task of rebuilding society from the ashes of oppression. With newfound freedom came the responsibility of forging a path forward, one that honored the sacrifices made and the truths uncovered. As they surveyed the landscape of their liberated world, they were met with both challenges and opportunities. The once tightly controlled community now stood as a beacon of resilience and hope, drawing in those who had long yearned for a taste of true freedom. Former adversaries became allies, united by a common desire to shape a future free from the shackles of tyranny. Together, they worked to establish a system founded on principles of justice, equality, and respect for individual autonomy. Lily found herself thrust into a leadership role, a reluctant yet determined figurehead for the burgeoning movement. Her experiences on the journey to liberation had transformed her, instilling within her a newfound strength and conviction. Though the weight of responsibility often felt overwhelming, she drew inspiration from the unwavering support of her comrades and the knowledge that their struggle had not been in vain. As the days turned into weeks and months, the fledgling society faced its share of setbacks and obstacles. Old habits died hard, and remnants of the former regime sought to sow discord and dissent among the populace. Yet, with each challenge met head-on, the bonds of solidarity grew stronger, reinforcing the collective resolve to safeguard their hard-won freedom. Amidst the rebuilding efforts, Lily found solace in the simple joys of everyday life: the laughter of children playing freely in the streets, the vibrant tapestry of voices raised in song and celebration, and the quiet moments of reflection beneath the open sky. For the first time in her life, she felt truly alive, unburdened by the shadows of doubt and fear that had plagued her existence within the confines of her former world. Yet, even as she reveled in the newfound sense of possibility, Lily remained vigilant, knowing that the struggle for freedom was far from over. The lessons of the past served as a constant reminder of the fragility of liberty and the ever-present threat of tyranny. As she looked to the horizon, she saw the promise of a future shaped by the courage and determination of those who dared to challenge the status quo. In the years that followed, Lily's journey became the stuff of legend, a testament to the power of perseverance and the indomitable spirit of humanity. Her name echoed through the annals of history, inspiring future generations to stand up against injustice and fight for a world where truth, freedom, and compassion reigned supreme. And though the scars of their past would never fully fade, they served as a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of hope. As Lily gazed out at the world she had helped to create, she knew that their journey was far from over, but with each passing day, the light of liberation burned ever brighter, illuminating the path forward for all who dared to dream of a better tomorrow.

tw0o16

Aquanauts in Action

Paulo was a marine biologist with a thirst for adventure. He’d accrued a team of ten specialist scientists, all willing to remotely accompany him into the abyss. He’d done marine adventuring for thirty years, and he was ready to go to the place that sunlight had never touched. It looked like a huge act of bravery; to be bolder than the sun. But scientific curiosity is hard to squash, whatever risk it entails. Paulo’s best friend was Henry, a subaquatic archaeologist. He wanted to plumb the deepest depths of the sea too, to see what there was to find there. It was largely unknown, but he was certain there was treasure they couldn’t imagine. They had the highest tech submarine in existence. It had been adapted under conditions of the utmost secrecy. They didn’t want any other researchers to jump ahead of them in the game. They were protective of their sea, and the unexplored regions that awaited them. They knew there was life there, even though the odds were against it. There was no heat, or light and the pressure was immense. “I hope this machine can withstand the pressure,” said Henry. “I’ve no doubt it will. Did you know the pressure in the depths of the sea is equal to 50 jumbo jets stacked on top of a human body?” “I love when you talk dirty to me,” laughed Henry. “Am I putting you off?” smirked Paulo. “Just a tad… no… if I could be put off it would have happened long before now. We’ve always known we could die down there. That’s the least of it.” They got set up. It was a weeks-long process. The machine they were in was remotely operated, and they had the top scientists in charge of it. They were the two lone scientists that were willing to go down to the depths. Bravery didn’t even come into it. It was madness; a curious madness only possessed by the most ground-breaking innovators. The day finally came. “D day's here.” “Dive day?” “Sure, let’s call it that.” “It’s just another dive.” “Yeah, to 3200 metres.” “That’s trivial.” “You’re always so cocky, man,” said Henry. “Don’t know how I put up with you.” “You want to be alone in the deepest part of the earth with me,” laughed Paulo. “That’s romantic if you think about it.” Henry knew it was all in jest. Paulo was a sarcastic fucker. You needed that when you were going beyond the edges of human fear: someone to lighten the mood. Henry was worried, but his curiosity was stronger than his concerns were. He didn’t have a whole lot to lose. Outside of his career, he didn’t have much of a life. He was completely focused on his undersea activities. It wasn’t a job; it was a lifelong passion. Whenever he spoke about it to someone, he did so with something that went millennia beyond religious devotion. He was enamoured with the quirks of the sea. Their camera was the highest tech one in existence. It had to be, to penetrate that pitch blackness. There wasn’t a pinhead of light anywhere in the immense depths of the dark ocean. It was cold, beyond any notion of coldness humanity had. The artic was like a desert delight in comparison to the temperatures beneath. It was unfathomable, just how freezing it was. The pressure was their main concern. They’d built a structure designed to withstand it, but there was always a margin for error. Paulo never entertained a negative thought about what might happen to them. It was all a big expedition to him; one that he’d been created to carry out. He thought of the research they’d publish after the event and his mouth watered like most hungry mouths do at the scent of a cooking meal. He couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into it. “Proceed to dive,” he instructed. They were in communication with scientists back on land that monitored their every movement. They manipulated the submarine, to make sure it stayed on the right path, to measure all the vitals, to keep them alive. That first dive was forty minutes long. It wasn’t long enough for Paulo, but Henry was happy to dip his toe in the water on the first try. The seabed was vast, and he wanted to drink in as much of it as he could, appreciating the smallest scenes before him, taking his time to do so. He wanted to return to the surface afterwards, feeling a desire to learn more: the motivation to go back for another dive. Down below, they could sense the coldness, the darkness, the lifelessness in terms of humanity, or animal life as they knew it. They looked out the porthole and saw marine life around them: unnamed creatures they were the very first to see. They saw a fish with the body of a dolphin, the head of an elephant. There were huge prawn-like creatures scuttling along, a huge dark shark-like creature seven metres in length, swimming with quiet purposefulness, so slowly it made the monster look gentle. Its eyes were as deep as the ocean’s reaches. Paulo and Henry came upon a sunken submarine: one they knew was from World War One. It had been colonised by sea life. It no longer looked like a human-created instrument. It looked like a coral reef. There were organisms living all over it. It was beautiful in a strange way: a site of human death turned into a site for so much aquatic life. The little faces of the creatures they came upon had such character. “We should name them,” said Paulo. “There are so many. I don’t know where we’d even start.” “We have all the time in the world. We can name them as we go, getting images of them to bring back. I don’t think anyone will ever feel like this though,” said Paulo, with uncharacteristic emotion in his voice. “This must be how they felt when the Apollo 11 landed.” “I remember watching it on a grainy TV. It was pretty hard to make out.” “Me too. It doesn’t come close to capturing that first feeling - does it – technology?” “No, nothing tops getting there first.” “We’re pioneers,” said Paulo, returning to his usual tone. But there was something in him that was slightly changed; it was only perceptible to Henry, who had spent hundreds of diving hours in his company. They saw the hot springs on the sea floor and all the life thriving around it. There were rare mineral elements no one had ever seen before. It was a floor filled with fortune fetching wonder. “I wish we could keep this a secret to ourselves forever,” said Henry, wistfully. Paulo flicked his eyes skywards. “Time to report back,” he said. It was their moment to return to the surface. They thought it must have been like getting back on that spaceship back in 1969. It was hard to return to a limited human existence with knowledge of the sights they’d seen. “Ok,” said Paulo. “Yeah,” said Henry. Words failed them in the wondrous ocean.

zgdvg4

South Fork of the American River

I had been a group counselor at a juvenile boys’ rehabilitation for substance abuse in the Rincon Valley in Santa Rosa California known as R-House for about ten months when I volunteered for a summer excursion that included a white water rafting tour down the American River.  I must admit I was quite apprehensive about making my first white water rafting trip with a group of teenage adolescents who had been court ordered to R-House due to their criminal offenses that included substance abuse. The program at the facility was rigid and structured based on the twelve step program. The program included group processing meetings as well as taking them into the community for Alcohol Anonymous (AA) or Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings. When I first started with R-House, I had just been discharged from a thirteen career in the United States Air Force and had no clue about rehabilitation and substance recovery. I had no experience with gangs either since most of the boys placed there were gang-bangers either thirteen (from southern California) or fourteen (from northern California). Some of our process groups had boys who would have tried to kill each other if they had met on the streets. After a few incidents, I became fully aware of the potential for violence we faced every day.  When I got to know some of the boys, I was also aware of the environmental influences that put them in our program. There were boys whose parents were incarcerated for a variety of felony crimes that included murder. Each of the counselors were assigned a certain number of residents. One of my resident’s fathers died of an overdose and I was tasked with breaking the news to him. He was a very likable thirteen year old who had been born with cognitive disabilities due to his mother’s alcohol use during her pregnancy. When I hear the Pearl Jam song “Alive,” it reminds me of him and our tearful conversation about losing a father he would never get to know. The morning of the long weekend we would spend in El Dorado County on the American River, we climbed onto a blue bus and left the grounds of R-House. The boys cheered as we left the grounds. I was not all that sure about joining in their jubilation. I was just hoping I would survive this new and exciting adventure. June 20, 1993: We arrived at the base camp at around 10 in the morning with our gear and equipment. There were thirty eight residents of R-House and five counselors of which I was one of them. The counselors would act as chaperons keeping order in the rafts and ensuring the guide's directions were followed to avoid any potential problems on our two day excursion.  Every year the administration paid for this white water rafting trip down the South Fork of the American River past Sutter’s Mill where gold was discovered in 1849. The river was indeed historic, but my concerns were about the trip we were getting ready to take with four tour guides who would teach us all how to navigate the rapids of this historic river. We had arrived at the base camp around 10 as told and we would set up tents since we would spend our first night under the stars. The tents were large enough to sleep five to a tent without any crimping or cramming, but many of the adventurous boys decided they did not need to sleep in a tent when the weather was warm and the stars filled the velvet sky. Many of them had spent their entire lives in small city neighborhoods. Their neighborhoods were the only part of the world most of them had ever seen.  Five sleepy guides appeared as we waited on the base camp on the south shore. They introduced themselves, cracking jokes about themselves. Two of the guides began to show us how to steer the rubber rafts through the rapids and eddies by sitting in the boats on the dry ground and demonstrating how to move the wooden paddles through the water. There were five rafts that would have eight boys in each along with the guide and a chaperone. The rafts were standard river rafts with a single rubber sheet that served as the bottom while the sides where the boys would sit and paddle the raft had been filled with air like a beach volleyball.  Walking over to one of the boats the guides had put along the shore, I kicked the side with my foot to assure myself that these vessels were not flimsy. The rubber was almost as firm as my car tires, so I began to feel a little more assured about this trip. I still had some reservations when I first saw the river current. Green water was churned into white foam as the water cascaded over the rocks that stuck out of the river. There were a lot of them and I began to feel a little more nebulous about this big adventure, but I dare not show any trepidation about this to the boys. I knew many of them were chatting on the bus about some of their fears about this trip. One more kick and I was able to tell myself that everything would be fine. “Remember, do not panic.” One of them stressed, but panic is what I was feeling as I looked out into the rough water a few feet from where we were standing. I could feel the cold coming off the water as it surged on by. Panic? I had never dared do anything like this, because in every picture or video I had seen, I saw an entire boatload of passengers enter the river in a violent manner and become swept away by the pull of the relentless current. I listened closely to the guides as they went over the safety precautions hoping I could stay in the rubber raft I would be assigned to.  Wearing cargo shorts and a loose fitting t-shirt and water boots. On top of my head, I proudly wore my U-2 cap I was given when I went to Panama in 1990 at Det 4. It was from there, we flew the famous U-2 spy plane. I stepped into the shallow water as our crew consisting of eight boys from R-House, the guide and me pushed the raft into the water. My legs went numb as we waded into the river. The guide was the first one in the raft followed by the eight boys, each at their own speed and I was the last one to get in, making sure everyone was seated on the rubber floor of the boat.  “Now we will avoid the rocks and eddies.” The guide spoke out over the roar of the water washing over the rocks.  I could feel my heart accelerate as I put my paddle into the water and began moving it the way I had just learned. Some of the boys were notorious for not paying attention or following directions and they weren’t about to start now. Knowing this made me even more tenuous as we began to move downriver. The guide called the cadence, “Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Six of the eight did as they were instructed, but there were two, always two, who did as they pleased and slightly disrupted the movement of the raft. “You two.” The guide called, “Let’s get with the program!” Suddenly the two who decided to goof off were in stride with the instructions as we found ourselves in an eddy. An eddy is a place in the river that resembles a mini-whirlpool and the guide directed the boat right into the eddy. The front of the boat became submerged. Water filled the boat and my eyes went wide as I watched two of the boys sink with the boat. “Now you know why we must stay clear of these eddies.” He pushed his paddle hard and we escaped a certain disaster. The water shoshed in the bottom of the boat soaking my butt in the water. It was so cold that my teeth began to chatter, but as I looked downriver, the green water turned white as it bashed against the rocks ahead of our raft.  We were the last boat in our group of five and we were six hours away from our destination, Folsom Lake where the South Fork of the American River came to an end. It would be a long day I feared. Despite the appearance of the tumultuous river, with the guide’s help and encouragement, navigating through it turned out easier than I first thought. We did lose one of the boys. A kid from one of the Klamath tribes up north, he barely weighed sixty pounds. His egress from the raft occurred when we hit a rock and he wound up sitting, paddle still in hand, on the rock we had collided with appearing like some out of whack cartoon. The guide had us reverse our course until two boys were able to reach out and bring the boy overboard back into the raft. The rescued boy, still sitting holding the paddle as if he had become a statue. We stopped at one point on the river for a lunch break. After an hour of what seemed to be smooth sailing, I began to relax a bit as it seemed we were getting the hang of this white water rafting thing. Some of the boys were laughing and joking as they finished their lunches. At 1 pm or Thirteen hundred hours we launched the rafts from the landing where we ate our lunch. Immediately, I felt the strength of the current pick up, but I was no longer a white water rafting rookie. I had spent over four hours on the water and had been soaked through to prove it. The sun had dried out my clothing as I ate lunch, so as the temperature rose in the late afternoon, I felt the comfort of being warm and dry.  In just a few minutes, one of the rafts ahead of us began to roll with the current over the rocks that stuck up over the water. I could hear the guide shouting commands, but the boys were in panic mode. Their paddles battled furiously, but it seemed the boat was on the verge of capsizing. Our guide stood up on the bow as much as he could in case he would have to fish some of the boys out of the treacherous waters. The rush of the current began to pick up. I could feel the surge of that water rush by our raft. Just as our guide prepared for a water rescue, the boys managed to get the boat righted and all seemed safe at least for the moment. Suddenly one of the boys fell from his seat on the side where he had been paddling. “Everyone keep an eye out for the kid in the water.” Our guide commanded. I looked and noticed he was several yards ahead of our boat and the current had caught him. Trapped by the current, the boy was nothing more than a pinball being tossed from rock to rock.  The third boat guide managed to fish the boy out of the river and all was well again. “Good work, Eric.” Our guide called out with a wave. Eric returned the wave as he sat down once again in his raft. For the next hour we were surrounded by the walls of a canyon populated with Ponderosa Pine canvassed by azure blue skies about with soft cotton clouds. Hawks glided effortlessly over the steep terrain of the canyon walls. A gentle breeze blew down the river as we began to feel our rhythm once again. If someone had taken a picture, it would be a picture of the perfect peace. For the next hour we cruised in the serene surroundings, our paddles moved in complete synchronization to the pulse of the current.  “We are coming up on Death Rock.” Our guide informed us. “We need to make sure we are paddling together. Nice smooth strokes, got it?” Everyone nodded. I could see the steady decline of the river. There was white water washing over the rocks, but this was nothing we had not encountered before.  Our first bounce on a rock jolted me a bit since I thought we had cleared it. We hit another rock jolting me from my spot on the raft wall. The next couple made me feel like a pinball as we hit more rocks. “Alright crew, we need to paddle in a synchronized pattern. Death Rock is dead ahead.” He pointed to a rock that towered out of the river. I noticed a couple of the boys were tired and did not really put their paddles in the water. I encouraged them since it seemed we were on a direct course to Death Rock.  As if Death Rock was a magnet, our boat was pulled under its gravitational pull.  “Paddle!” The guide ordered. The large shadow of the rock loomed over us. “RO---” was all I heard him say. The boat hit the rock dead on. The result was our boat turned perpendicular to the water. The boy sitting across from me was as big as I was and also weighted about the same. Gravity was not forgiving as he landed on top of me with a great force pushing me into the current of the river. The current was much stronger than I was, so there was no way I could fight it. Before I fully realized what had happened, my body was sucked into the brown current. Wearing my lifejacket did not help as the current now totally ruled me. I was completely at the mercy of the river’s current. My wild ride had just begun.  As I rode the brown current, I could not see the sun, so I had no idea what was up and what was down. I was keenly aware my lungs began to sting for oxygen which was nowhere to be found and since I was not in control, I began to fear that I might drown. The further I went with the current, the more my lungs were craving sweet oxygen. The water got even darker changing hues from a light brown to a darker shade which said that I was being pulled farther away from the surface of the water where I would find something besides water to breath. I did not have gills and therefore I was totally at the mercy of the river. I began to get angry, because all I could see were the headlines of my demise in the Sacramento Bee “Counselor Drowns in boating accident on the South Fork of the American River.” What was the justice in that? How could this be a fair assessment of my life and death? How could God let this happen to me? Water, water everywhere and bit to breathe. What cruelty. What an irony. Who could God let me die like this? A voice. I could hear a voice over the roar of the rapids overhead, “Do not be afraid, it is not your time.” I could not hold my breath any longer. I would have to face my fate and breath in the water and drown. Here I go. I can not take it any longer. Just as I had succumbed to my fate, sunlight and oxygen. I took a deep satisfying breath. I was alive. One of the boats was fishing my hat from the water. “Hey, here he is.” I felt a hand take a hold of my life vest as I was pulled into the boat. “All of the others were rescued by the guide. You were the only one who got away.” “Lucky me.” I began to cough the river water back to where it came. In the time it took me to rid the water out of my airways, the boat paddled into Folsom Lake. Our first day's journey was complete. The tour bus took us back to our day camp where I slept like the dead. The next morning we had a real cowboy breakfast before getting on the bus and driving up to where the American River started in the mountains. I got in the boat, feeling terror as we pushed away from the shore, but this trip seemed tamed to the day before as we passed historical Sutter’s Mill and managed to zig-zag through the toughest part of the course. It was a piece of cake. They took our photograph which they would try to sell us a copy at the end of the trip. I was just happy to have survived. I have never had any doubts that it was my deceased father who had talked to me, but I want to keep that whole thing on the down-low, if you don’t mind. Ten years later I would go snorkeling out at Catalina Island in the dark. Who knows maybe one day I will sign on the Space X, but I rather doubt I will ever take that big adventure any time soon.  

w0x4h6

Smoke

The children were chasing along the banks of the river, their feet kicking up the dirt that had settled along the edges. It hadn’t rained in weeks now, and the scorching July sun had made the water vanish, leaving behind only dust and rocks in the river’s empty bed. The heat of the summer rested like a heavy blanket over the small town. It was Annie who ran ahead of the others, her long blonde hair trailing behind her, her laughter loud and high-pitched. “Bet you can’t catch me!” She jumped over a rock and fleetingly glanced over her shoulder, her feet mid-air. Ben, the lanky boy who lived in the house across the street, followed her closely, his face smudged and dusty from wiping his hands across his sweaty forehead. He was a surprisingly fast runner, like his muscles stretched further than hers could. Miriam trailed behind, breathing heavily as she tried to keep up. She had been so keen to come out and play with them earlier, her round face eagerly anticipating friendship. Maybe she’d had something more innocent in mind, not roaming around the outskirts of town. Either way, Annie was sure – they were not going to catch her today. She hastened along the corn field that emerged next to the empty river bed, its overgrown grass like meager golden fingers, leading the way. The air was thick, almost feverish, and Annie tried to ignore the stinging pain in her side. It smelled of burning hay, as if the rays of the sun were scorching the grass, and in the spur of the moment, she decided against hiding in the dense labyrinth that the field had become. Instead, she cast another look over her shoulder, glad to see Ben finally fall behind before she sharply turned left to make her escape down the empty bed of the river. The bed wasn’t deep, but dust had accumulated over the past weeks, and Annie was surprised at how much sand and dirt rose up as her feet hit the slope down towards where the water had been. She coughed as the dust particles entered her mouth, and her feet suddenly slid down the slope faster than she could anticipate. Instinctively, she closed her eyes, and gasped as she blindly felt her foot hit a hard obstacle. There was a sharp pain in her ankle, and Annie could hear her own panicky scream as she fell, her bodyweight collapsing onto her elbows as she stretched out her arms towards the ground. The river bed smelled like sand and bones, dry and lifeless, and Annie lay quietly, feeling the pain move from her ankle up through her entire body. It was a piercing sensation, like sand rubbing up against her skin. Her elbows hurt like she had burnt them when she slowly sat up and looked around her, disoriented by the blazing sun. The river bed seemed much deeper now that she was sitting on its ground, the banks high above her. The pain bit her right ankle like an animal, and there were tears forming in her throat. She swallowed hard and coughed – “Ben? Can you hear me?” Her voice sounded quiet and helpless, very unlike herself, and before she could stop it, a tear ran down her cheek, leaving a clean line against her smudged skin. “Annie?” Ben’s voice called, and she had never felt relief quite like this when she heard that he was close by. She quickly ran her hand over her cheek so that he wouldn’t see her cry before he appeared on the edge of the river bed, sweaty and out of breath. She could tell that he would have never caught up with her if she had kept running. She was almost glad that she hadn’t. Ben carefully descended to where Annie was sitting, slowly placing one foot in front of the other before he knelt down next to her. “What happened?” he asked, which she quietly thought was easy to deduct. Still, to her own surprise, her voice was soft when she told him how she had fallen, and when gesturing to the injured foot, she felt the tears come back up and quickly looked away from him. He didn’t notice, but moved in front of her and examined her ankle as if he was a trained doctor and not an eleven-year-old schoolboy: “Can you move it this way? Mm. And this way?” She winced and closed her eyes – it was embarrassing to feel the pain, like it was an inconvenience, a trivial but vivid sensation that she had somehow attracted. “Alright,” Ben said eventually, and when she opened her eyes, Miriam had also appeared on the bank. He held out his arm to help her come down to join them. Miriam looked exhausted; her brown fringe stuck to her forehead and her face had taken on a deep pink colour. “Are you okay?” she asked timidly, her eyes widening as she looked down at Annie, awkwardly curled up on the ground. Annie felt again that this was a pointless question. “I’ll be fine,” she said, glad to hear that her voice sounded more like herself this time, and she tried to sit up so that her back rested against the rock over which she had fallen. Ben frowned. “We have to carry her home, I think.” Miriam looked at him, her expression concerned at first, then she slowly began to nod. It took a few minutes until they managed to have Annie stand up between them, with Ben and Miriam holding their arms around her middle, hoisting her weight forward with every step. The river bed would lead them back towards town, close enough so that Ben could run home and find his father. They didn’t talk on the way back, their steps slow and strained, interrupted only by occasional flinching when Annie’s foot touched a rock or a branch in their way. The corn field towered high above them now, and they had advanced only a few meters when Miriam suddenly stopped walking, causing Annie to stagger. “Do you smell that, too?” she said quietly, and before Annie could protest, the smell hit her with an intensity that made it impossible to believe she had dismissed it earlier – smoke. The grass stood still and silent above them, but Annie could picture the fire so clearly that she almost saw the smoke rise from the singed plants. A shiver ran down her spine despite the enduring heat of the sun. Ben smelled it, too. He looked around, his eyes wide and alarmed. He muttered something that she couldn’t understand, then tightened his grip around Annie’s waist and said: “We’ve got to be quick. Let’s go.” Miriam seemed to be too stunned to say anything, but Annie could feel her rapid breathing next to hers as they stumbled on, each of them casting quick looks back to see if the flames were already visible. As if in a haze, Annie vaguely remembered a lesson at school about wildfires – a film about people lighting campfires or cigarettes when they shouldn’t, something about climate change, then the warnings of their teacher to pay attention when roaming around on hot days. She had forgotten all about it until now, feeling dizzy as thoughts came to her that she had never considered before. How long did it take until the air would turn into smoky poison? Was it hotter now already, the rays of the sun closer to burning them? Did real fire feel anything like the hot sand, rubbing against her skin? She suppressed a sob. They needed to hurry. A piercing pain ran from her ankle up to her knee as she tried to put her weight on the injured foot, but she bit her tongue and limped on, faster now, feeling Ben’s and Miriam’s sweaty arms around her middle. They were still by her side, even though she could tell that they wanted to run. The edge of town slowly came into view just when Annie felt that would collapse into the hot sand. The dense trees of Centennial Park appeared like a good omen in the distance, but Ben only grunted, and they didn’t slow down until the river bed finally widened to leave the field behind them. Out of breath and without speaking, they crawled up the slope, their hands and knees dirty and aching, and tears ran down Annie's cheeks without her being able to stop them. Ben and Miriam carried her the last few steps across the brown grass until they reached the deserted parking lot, where the heat reflected off the black pavement like a dark mirror. The air was still and slow, their frantic breaths the only sound. Without a word, Ben led them to a bench underneath one of the trees, and Annie still felt the hot fear radiate from her own body as they sat down next to each other, breathing heavily. Ben held his face in his hands, and she could not tell if he was crying, too. Miriam was the first to look up, her hand shaking as she pointed towards the field. “Look.” The others followed her gaze, and Annie felt her chest tighten painfully as she saw it. The smoke rose from the overgrown grass like a dark swarm of birds and trailed along the banks of the river bed towards them, forming eerie patterns against the cloudless sky. 

ry5dco

It's the Little Things

Over the years I’ve learned to be careful. I am good at what I do and I cover my tracks. I pull off my jobs and I take special care to not draw too much attention to myself. But eventually, despite all the planning and the caution, there comes a time when you need somebody to do you a favor. The caveat being that you then owe them one in return. Being in somebody’s debt creates an itch under my skin that never goes away until I can look them in the eyes and shake their hand. I am not necessarily a woman of my word, but I know the game well enough to know that there are some people you can’t cross. The person I turned to is powerful enough to help me with my job and dangerous enough to come after me if they thought I wouldn’t keep up my end of the deal. A regular person would not suspect Joseph Gillan Jr. of being a criminal if they walked by him on the street. He hid his indelicate business under his blue jeans and flannel shirts. But he never quite mastered how to smile without it looking like a threat. I walked into one of the many buildings he owned. A quaint yet expensive brownstone that he undoubtedly claimed on the coattails of someone else’s misfortune. My guess would be a businessman with a gambling problem. There were always plenty of them milling around the city for Joseph to exploit. Two men in black suits waited for me in the foyer. Nothing but stern faces and meaty hands. I gave them a nod and a smile before letting them escort me up the winding staircase. The men stopped at the doorway of a study. On one of the walls was a fully stocked floor to ceiling bookcase. Joseph sat at the desk placed perfectly centered in front of a circular window. The sun cascaded over Joseph’s shoulders, highlighting him as the most important man in the room. I flash a smile at him as I lower myself in the upholstered chair in front of the large oak desk. “It’s good to see you again, Joey.” His fist makes a sudden clench. “I do not like being called Joey.” “Of course,” I responded, “Joey does not suit you at all. And that’s what everybody called your father. I understand why you do not encourage the comparison.” “My father was a good man,” Joseph muttered. “If you say so.” Joseph leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “I rely on people to have a clear understanding of the type of man I am. It helps cut through the pleasantries.” “Nobody would dare accuse you of being pleasant,” I chime. Joseph ignores my comment. I see bodies of the men in suits tense out of the corner of my eye. “Lucy, you came to me asking for my help a few months back, and I do believe I provided adequate assistance.” “Couldn’t have done it without you, well, I suppose I could have but having you do most of the heavy-lifting sure made it easier.” “When I arranged this meeting, I had every intention of telling you what the job I had planned for you to do in order to repay the favor,” Joseph explained, “But one of the men in my organization had to remind me that people in your line of work always have an angle. You make a living getting people to trust you and then exploiting that trust.” “Are you saying you don’t trust me? I am truly shocked.” Joseph shook his head. “I’ve heard some disturbing rumors about you, Lucy. I’ve heard what happened to your other partners.” Don’t ask me why but there was something enjoyable in the way he looked at me with such disdain. There was every chance that this meeting was about to go very poorly for me. But I let Joseph see my red lips curve upwards into a grin. If he wanted to get under my skin he would have to try harder. On the other hand, it was a little too easy to get under his. “I thought you didn’t like to dance around the point. If you have something to ask then do it. I only lie when I think it’s preferable to the truth.” “What are you planning?” “That has to be one of the dumbest questions I’ve ever been asked,” I reply, “What am I planning? On any given day I have a dozen potential schemes rattling around in my head. Some as complex as the steps I would take to go about retrieving the Mona Lisa from the Louvre and some as mundane as the best way to flirt with the barista at my favorite cafe so I can get free coffees for the foreseeable future.” Joseph impatiently tapped his fingers on the desk. He looked behind me to his henchmen. He was undoubtedly going over the risk-reward equation in his head. If he needed me for something then it would be poor form to maim or kill me. I was in his debt. I was useful to him. Up until the moment I could potentially be more trouble than I’m worth. “Fine. Let me specify: Are you planning to betray me? Because that would not work out well for you.” I laugh. “Why would I betray you? Threats against my safety aside, I would never sacrifice a chance at becoming your ally. I have a great opportunity here to prove how valuable I can be. And maybe you will think of me the next time you require somebody with my set of skills. We could work well together.” Joseph's eyes move across my body, as if he is trying to detect a subtle hint that my words are not matching my intentions. “Okay,” he submits, “But I still don’t trust you.” “I would consider you an idiot if you did.” Joseph digs into his pants pocket and retrieves a flashdrive. He slides it across the desk. “Everything you need to know about the job is on here. I need it done by the end of the week. Don’t lose this drive. Don’t let anybody else see it. If you do get caught you don’t breathe a word of me or my organization. No deal you can make will keep you safe from my resources.” I grab the flash drive and get to my feet. “Relax, Joe, I won't get caught.” The cops were not part of my plan. And I did have a plan. Well, most of a plan, in my defense Joey did not give me much time to prepare. It also happens that the security system was slightly more advanced than I believed it would be. On the outside it looked like one’s typical shady, abandoned warehouse. How was I supposed to know that it was defended better than Fort Knox? It wasn’t in the drive Joey gave me. This is why I like picking my own targets. The good news was that I slipped inside without a trace. I retrieved what looked like a small wooden jewelry box that matched the picture on the flashdrive exactly. The bad news is that my exit plan left a little more than a trace. More like a series of catastrophes that led to the power being blown out for this whole grid. I was now in a high speed car chase on the roads by the docks. The sirens wailing behind me were only getting closer. I could now count the lights from four different cop cars. Anybody who’s been around this life as long as I have knows that it is highly unlikely to win in a car chase when it’s just you against the policemen with military grade hardware. But it was not impossible. You just have to think out of the box. I saw two cops cars a block away working on blockading the street so they could try to confine me. Since I was next to the water they must have thought it was going to be easy. There was only one way for me to get out of this and they just had to be there to block off all the streets a car could go down. I looped around until I made my way to the pier that was mostly unhindered. Just a small wooden fence was all that lay between my car and the water. It was now or never. I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal, tucking the small jewelry box in my jacket for safe keeping. The car rammed through the wooden railing. It took to the air for a few seconds before it became inevitable that I would get wet on this ride. The key to this adventure is that few seconds when gravity hasn’t taken full effect yet. I had the car door already unlocked. When the car was hanging in the air, I opened the door and flung my body as far from the driver’s seat as I possibly could. As a child I only made it to about three swim lessons but it was enough. I knew the basics, move your arms out from your chest and hold your breath. The cops were calling in water reinforcements but by the time they realized I was no longer in the car, it would be too late. I may not have been the fastest swimmer but there were a lot of places to crawl back onto the land where I could go unnoticed. I switched out my soaking wet clothes for a dry and cute pair of black jeans and sweatshirt from the brownstone of a nice lady that was the same size as me that I bumped into while she was heading out the door. The keys that I got out of her coat pocket not only got me into the house, but also got me into a small safe in her study. I never like to let opportunities pass me by. When I made my way back to my own place I made sure to call Joseph right away. He probably heard something about what happened a few blocks away from the warehouse he sent me to rob. I set our next meeting. I made sure it was somewhere public, now that I did what he wanted I didn’t think it was a good idea to meet with him on his own terms. He had been in this life awhile so he understood my caution. The next day I made my way to the park. Joseph was sitting on the third bench to the right of the fountain, exactly as I specified on the phone. “You’re late.” Joseph stated as I approached. His two henchmen were sitting on the bench four feet away. Their black suits and grizzled faces sent the message to anybody walking by that they definitely knew what it felt like to slam their fists into the side of someone’s head. It made them stand out a bit. “I was running some errands…groceries, dry cleaning, etcetera.” “I don’t care,” Joseph responded, “Where’s the box?” I take a seat next to him. He noticed that I didn’t have a bag with me. Which meant that unless the box was in my pocket it wasn’t on my person. “It’s good sense not to keep something you just stole on you. Especially not when you are going to hand it off to a crime boss.” I lean back and cross my legs. “But I will tell you where to find it once I have some assurances.” Joseph sighed. “This was supposed to be a simple deal. There is no need to drag it on longer than need be.” “I disagree, Joey,” I reply, “Because I like to cover all my bases. I don’t have big strong babysitters at my beck and call if somebody decides to try and kill me.” “Fine. I promise that once I get what I want then we both go our separate ways. This was simply a favor you did for me after I did one for you. We can move on knowing we both got what we wanted. We might even be able to work together in the future.” The words spilled from his lips like fine champagne. A gentle hissing sound with subtle bursts of sincerity that left his voice lingering in my ears. I nodded to show that I believed him enough to carry out this transaction. “Underneath the second dumpster in Juniper Alley.” Joseph gestured for one of his men to come over. He whispered in his ear. The man mumbled something I couldn’t make out in return. The man walked away, heading in the direction of Juniper Alley. “And that’s that,” I say, rising from the bench. The henchman left behind jumps up. “I think you should stay put until I know my guy retrieves the package.” I lower my body back down next to Joseph. The henchman sits back down as well. “If you wanted the joy of my company for a little while longer all you had to do was ask. And maybe take me out for a drink but I don’t want to rush into anything just yet.” I tell Joseph as I try to resume my relaxed position on the bench. Joseph turns and locks his eyes with mine. I never realized how piercing those bright green eyes could be until they were close enough to do some damage. “I’m going to be honest with you, Lucy,” Joseph murmurs. “Great, I love honesty. In theory, not so much in practice.” “I don’t trust you or people like you.” I nod along. “I’m with you so far.” “The only reason I did that favor for you was because I knew that one day it would be advantageous to have somebody of your skills owe me a favor. I also knew it would be a big risk,” Joseph continued, “Because your kind can’t help themselves. They think they can trick and con everybody. It’s like a game to you.” “What’s wrong with that?” “Because one day you are going to play a game that you can’t win. But you are still going to try with all your might to outthink and outmaneuver your opponent. You will get in so far over your head you won’t remember what the sky looks like. And then you will lose.” Joseph folds his hands in his lap, satisfied with himself. “Interesting perspective,” I chime. “My only concern is that if you came to me today with some kind of game in your head that you wanted to play.” Joseph shakes his head disapprovingly. “Because if that is the case then this will be the game that you cannot win.” I didn’t have a chance to respond. Joseph got a phone call. I assumed it was the henchmen he sent off to get the box. Joseph hangs up after only few seconds. “He’s got the box.” With that, Joseph gets up and takes his man with him as they leave the park. I watch them walking down the sidewalk, making sure that they don’t doubleback to take care of their loose end. I really did find Joseph’s theory interesting. But what I found even more interesting was that he sat next to me and when he got up to leave he did not check to make sure his wallet was still in his pocket. That was poor hindsight on his part. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to partner with him in the future after all. I unfold the black leather. Ignore the cards and go straight to the cash. Business must be good because Joey kept ten hundred dollar bills on his person. He was right. We both got what we wanted, he did me a favor and I did one for him. He was also right to assume I was going to do something that he didn’t like. He was just too focused on the big picture while I kept my intentions small. Sometimes the prize isn’t important, it’s just what you know you can get away with. And if this is one of the rare times I'm being honest, the prize doesn’t even matter. The rush comes from knowing that I came out ahead.

nmemz6

The Endless Horizon

- Luna, we need to go. Do you hear me? Luna? A small girl stood at the big round window, looking into the distance. The sun was going down slowly, making the red sand bright and lighting it with golden sparks. She was amazed at how the wind was swirling the sand grains, whooshing them up and down. She put her palm on the window and moved closer. Her nose almost touched the glass, which became wet from her breath. She was staring at how the wind became stronger and stronger as the sun went down. It was almost dark when somebody placed their hand on her shoulder. - Luna, your class started two minutes ago. Luna startled. She looked at the woman. - Oh dear, you are so pale. Do you think you are feeling alright? I think we need to get you to the doctor. Luna crumpled, lowered to her knees, and started to throw up. The woman helped her by holding her shoulders tightly. She whispered to her: - You are OK. Just breathe. Luna was exhausted when her mom brought her to the doctor. They checked her blood pressure, temperature, did some regular tests, and imaging this time. Luna wasn't scared at all. She was reading a book, then the next one, and the next. The woman was sitting near her bed and looking at her. She was silent. Her eyes were full of tears, but she didn't say any words. Luna was pretending that she didn't see what was going on with her mom. She was calm. - You know, mom, this book is my favorite. - Why? - the woman moved closer to the bed and peeked inside the book. - Because this little bee was free. She made her way go anywhere she liked. She found some good friends, then she lost them. But she kept moving forward, towards her dream. - she suddenly stopped. - What was her dream? - She wanted to see the world even if it was impossible for such a little insect. She wanted to learn more about herself, to find her purpose. The woman hugged the girl. She kissed her head and lay down with her. - Have you ever thought about traveling anywhere? - the girl's body felt weak. She looked into the woman’s eyes and rested her head on her hand. - There must be something amazing in this world, like that swirling sand out there. I don’t believe what they are saying, our teachers. Have you ever been there? - No, darling. I have not. The woman hugged her tighter and tucked in the throw to make her a bit more comfortable. Her hands and feet started warming up. - Have you ever wanted to go there? - No, darling. I have lived here my whole life, learning that our survival depends on what we do. We can only survive by staying together. But if somebody decides to leave the flock, they will not be able to make it. - Who said that? Do you really believe in it? The woman closed her eyes, sliding under the throw. Luna felt warm and toasty. It was a good sign that the situation was under control now. They were silent for a few minutes. Luna turned to her mom and closed her eyes too. - I feel trapped here. I do not belong in this place. You know that. - No, darling. I think we are all here because we have to be here. We have a purpose. - We don’t have a purpose. We live, we die. We do nothing while we are alive. - That’s not true. Luna has always been a bit skeptical. She was smart, the smartest girl in her class. She liked sitting in front of the window, staring into the distance and thinking about something for hours. Sometimes it seemed she was a statue. She didn’t blink, she didn’t move, she didn’t even say anything. She was traveling in her head. She pretended that the stories from her book were alive and she was the main character traveling through the pages of these books. She was a great scientist today, and an explorer tomorrow. Luna was very creative and she started writing her own book. She didn’t show it to her mom, not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure her mom would approve. They were just different but she loved her. - You know, you are a terrible liar. Our daddy was a traveler. I know that. And they punished him for it. That’s why you pretend that you are just nothing in this world. You live your simple life without him because... because you are afraid. Afraid to lose me. - Luna, please stop.- The woman stood up. She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Luna didn't make a move. She was still, with her eyes closed. The woman was surprised by this dialogue with her daughter. It was something that came up unexpectedly. She lost her husband many years ago when Luna was 2 years old. It's been 5 years since they lived without him. - You will lose me anyway, so why lose your dream. Do you think they can dictate what you can do and what not? Who are they? - You're too smart, girl. Luna didn’t answer. She took a deep breath and her heart rate dropped. The doctors came into the room quickly, made an injection. Luna started breathing a bit faster but heavily. - It's happening. Sorry. Unfortunately, we can't do anything. She is dying. Luna was lying on the bed in a star pose, giving a good look at her almost transparent skin through which you could see the ribs. - Thank you, doctor. The woman asked him to leave and give them some time together. He nodded, agreeing to return in ten minutes, and left the room quietly. - Luna, stand up. Can you hear me? Stand up. We don't have time. She held her under the arm, another hand hugged her waist. The woman was trying to pull her to the outside of the room. - We have just 10 minutes, Luna. That should be enough. - Enough for what? - the girl couldn't speak clearly. She opened her eyes and closed them again. Her legs were very weak and she hung on her mother like a bag. They were rushing through the corridors to the stairs, moving as fast as the woman could. - To set you free like that little bee. You are free, my girl. In your mind, in your soul, in your thoughts. You can travel as far as you want. You can be whatever you dream about. And you are right, nobody can tell you what to do. I was scared. I am scared now. But I love you. Love you so much. The woman was struggling. Her hands were tired but she kept pulling Luna. They hastened through the corridor. Stairs loomed ahead. Ten minutes. Only ten minutes left. They made it up two staircases already, one more left. They were standing in front of the door. Just one move and they are outside. The door is unlocked because if you leave, you leave. You can't come back anymore. You are just out of the flock. You are on your own. Her husband is somewhere there. Maybe he found a better life, maybe he died. Maybe he is waiting for them. The woman took a small step forward and placed her hand on the handle. - Do not do this, mom. I am dying but you are not. Your life is here. - No darling. My life is with you. I want to set you free because you want this. And I want to be by your side until the very end. And then... - What then? The woman paused: - Then, I don’t know. But I will find out, right? I will join you when my time comes. - I love you, mom. The women unlocked the door, knowing once opened, there's no return. The air was dense and stuffy. Sand made it impossible to see where they were going. Luna was weak. She was moving slowly, mostly pulled by her mom. Luna’s legs trembled with each step, her breaths short and sharp against the stuffy, sand-filled air, making each moment outside seem surreal and distant. They both were tired. But they kept moving. Luna was a little brave girl and the woman tried to be like her. - I love you, darling. The darkness ended. The wind disappeared. They were sitting somewhere in the middle of the desert. Luna was lying in the woman's arms with her eyes closed. She didn't breathe. - We are free, Luna. We made it. This sunrise is amazing. I can tell. You were absolutely right. She started crying, patting Luna on the head. - I am here with you, my little brave girl. Love you, sweetheart.

pmlax8

Clara's Melody

He had found the stone brick tower overgrown with moss and ivy. This was strange since it was currently wintertime and the earth was swaddled with a blanket of snow. Even stranger was the feeling of warmth that the boy gained as he entered the tower. It was like spring was trapped here, existing forever in this place. The tower was in a deprecated state. There was little inside besides a few closets and a large staircase that went up. What perplexed the boy the most were the stacks of papers. Some were torn, others stained. The sheer amount of them was enough to put the boy off, but what he found truly odd was what was on them. Lines and symbols. Strange circles with lines on more lines. Drawn in dark ink, it almost looked as if it was a language entirely of its own. The boy touched his hand to them, tracing the markings with his delicate fingers. The boy grabbed a few papers and tucked them into his messenger bag. He looked up at the stairs and began to climb. At the top, there was a door. It was old and faded and made of dark wood, cracked at the edges. The boy instinctively reached for the dusty doorknob and twisted it. The doorknob didn’t move. It was locked. He turned and took in his surroundings. Besides the door there wasn’t much else. More stacks of paper. Upon further inspection, he found something small dropped into the crevice between the wall and a paper stack. The boy reached his arm into the crevice and retrieved a key. He put the key into the lock of the door and turned it. He gripped the doorknob and turned that, too. Being an avid adventurer, the boy was used to facing the unexpected. However, absolutely nothing could’ve prepared him for what was behind the door. It was a lovely room, similar to a studio apartment. A small bed in the left corner, some shelves scattered around, a desk, plenty of books. A kitchen in the further right corner had appliances that looked well kept. Everything was in the shade of brown or gray. There were no windows. It was unlike anything the boy could imagine in this old tower. There were unfamiliar objects. All of them were different, some made of wood, some of a shiny metal. Some had many strings pulled across their bodies. Some had buttons. They were mysterious and the boy longed to touch them. Another door stood in the center of the back wall. It was closed and had light pouring out from the bottom. Someone was in there. The boy didn’t know what to do. Curiosity brought the boy here for a reason. Curiosity would keep him here. So he waited. It only took about five minutes before the bathroom door opened and out walked the most beautiful woman the boy had seen. She had thick black hair, styled in curls to rest above her shoulders. She had an olive complexion and striking brown eyes that were dark enough to be a void. She was tall and thin and perhaps a bit malnourished. She was beautiful beyond words. She stared at the boy. “How did you get here?” she questioned. “Hello,” the boy said softly. The woman repeated herself. “How did you get here?” The boy shifted his feet. “I was exploring…” He looked down at the ground. “And you found this room on your own?” “Yes.” The woman paused. “What is your name?” she asked kindly. “Luke.” “Well, Luke. I apologize for the mess.” The woman motioned to the room around her. “I don’t usually get visitors.” “You get visitors?” “Only once a year.” He paused, then queried, “Who are you?” “My name is Clara.” “Is this your home?” “I suppose” “Why?” Luke was at a complete loss as to what to do. Clara seemed lonely, should he invite her out? “Would you like to go into town?” “Into town?” “Yes. It’s not that far.” “I suppose we could...Yes...Let me change my clothing first.” Clara stood and headed back to the bathroom. When Clara emerged she was dressed in a white long-sleeved blouse and black dress pants. She reached for an old-looking leather bag and began to fill it with things that Luke couldn’t see. Once she was done, the two swiftly headed down the stairs to the first floor of the tower. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the outside,” Clara said as Luke went to open the door. He looked at her for a moment, then turned the knob of the door and let in the world. It was snowing now and a cold breath of wind hit the two directly in the face. Luke shivered but Clara was unfazed. They began their walk towards town. What a strange sight to see, Luke and Clara. A small boy in an oversized hoodie and a tall woman in a blouse and dress pants. Trekking through snow and wind without a care in the world. Complete strangers to each other but both feeling as if they were connected. “I imagined there’d be more color,” Clara whispered into the howling wind. “Well, it is winter…” “Ah, yes. That makes sense.” She paused. “So it will be prettier afterwards?” “Yes.” “How wonderful." They continued walking. Luke imagined what he would do with Clara once they were out of the woods. He glanced again at her much-too-thin frame. “Would you like to get something to eat?” he asked her. She looked at him with her warm smile and replied, “I very much would. Though I fear I may not have sufficient funds.” “It’s okay,” he told her. “I have money. Where do you want to go?” “I want a hamburger and French fries.” She pondered for a moment before adding, “Do those exist? Or did I confuse those too?” “No, they exist. I know a good place.” “Anyplace is a good place when you’ve been locked in a tower for nearly thirty years.” Luke wanted to ask her why. Why was she locked away? And why for so long? But Clara was no longer looking at him so he left it at that. Luke was careful as they walked through town, examining everyone they passed to see if they’d pay attention to the boy and his strange companion. None did. He took Clara to a cozy diner close to town center. Luke led Clara to a booth in the back corner, greeting the owner when he passed her. A waitress came by and took their order. She was very kind about it, even when Clara took five minutes deciding on a drink. When she returned she had brought two drinks and a hot chocolate for Luke, promising it was free. “How kind of them,” Clara remarked as she poured a seventh packet of sugar into her coffee. Luke spaced out for a minute before processing what Clara had said. “I come here often. They like me.” “Really?” “Yeah. My mom and my dad are usually at work all day and I can’t use the stove. I don’t like sandwiches anymore.” Clara sipped her coffee, stared at it, then added an eighth packet of sugar. “What do you do all day?” “Well, I have school. But I’m on break now so I’ve been taking walks.” “Is your house boring?” “No, but I’ve already seen everything online.” “Do you read books?” “My mom won’t buy me any more.” “Toys?” “They say I’m too mature for toys.” “Who’s they?” “Mom and Dad.” Clara sighed. “You’re a strange child.” “I know.” She stared at him and said nothing. Luke could tell that she was thinking. Despite the clinking of the kitchen and the chatter of other diner patrons, it felt incredibly silent. Finally, she spoke. “Do you know what music is?” “No,” Luke said with a shake of the head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waitress coming with their food. “I’ll explain it after we eat,” Clara said and then the food arrived. She downed the rest of her oversweet coffee. The two ate in silence. Clara finished her food rather quickly while Luke picked at his chicken strips. When they were done, the waitress came by to clear their plates and refill the coffee. She then brought two slices of chocolate cake. Luke paid for the meal, left a tip on the table, and led Clara out, saying goodbye to the owner as he passed once more. “There’s a library, right?” she asked when they were back outside. Luke nodded. “Let’s go there, then.” Fortunately, the library was nearby and it took them only seven minutes to arrive. Clara led Luke this time, bringing him all the way to the back of the library where there was no one. She sat him down at a table and pulled out a small, rectangular object from her bag. It was a little bit longer than a dollar bill and it was a glimmering silver. There were sixteen holes in its long side. Clara pulled the object to her lips. Her hands wrapped around it and she blew softly. It made a high-pitched sound that hurt Luke’s ears. He winced. Clara began to move her hands and mouth and suddenly the sound wasn’t so acute anymore. It was flowing, pleasant, and mystical. Clara moved with the sound, her body rocking smoothly and gracefully, almost like an angel. Luke didn’t realize he was crying until the sounds stopped and Clara reached out to wipe a tear from his cheek. “That is music. Isn’t it magnificent?” she asked tenderly. He nodded in response, too astounded to speak. They stayed that way for a while. Luke sat in awestruck silence while Clara looked down at him, holding his cheek and wiping away tears in the most loving way. He finally stopped crying. Only then did he find words. “Those things in your room. In the tower...are they…?” “Yes,” Clara cut him off. “They’re instruments. You can pluck them or press them or blow them.” She held up the silver object once more. “And they make music. This one is called a harmonica.” She gave it to Luke. He turned it around in his hands and studied it as if it were a precious gemstone. He ran his thumb over the edges, the cool metal underneath his fingertips. “Do you want to learn?” Clara asked him. He didn’t even look up before replying, “Yes.” For the next six years, Luke devoted his time to learning music. Clara taught him everything she could about reading, playing, and loving music. It was difficult and grueling but sensational and magical at the same time. There were hard days, of course. Days where Luke couldn’t move his hands, where he wanted to rip the sheet music to shreds, days where he wanted to walk out the tower and never return. But even after all the pain, he still found a way to go on. He learned to play every instrument Clara had. Piano, guitar and flute. Saxophone, violin and trombone. Harp and kalimba and of course, harmonica. He fell in love with music. He danced and sang when he wasn’t at Clara’s tower. It became a part of him. It kept him company when no one else did. It comforted him when his parents screamed at each other and again when his father left. Music became Luke’s love and he wouldn’t trade it for anything or anyone else. One day, as Clara evaluated Luke’s skills on the clarinet, she stopped him mid-play and asked, “Do you love music?” “Of course.” “Would you die for it?” Luke looked up at his mentor. A question began to form on his lips before Clara cut him off. “I wasn’t born here, you know. My home is a different world. A different universe.” “Why did you leave?” “I had to. And no, I won’t tell you why. Not yet. You’re not ready.” Clara was no longer looking at him so he left it at that. It was Luke’s nineteenth birthday and he was headed to Clara’s tower for his daily music lesson. The forest was familiar by this point and he easily treaded through the emerald mass. When he arrived, he could feel a shift in the atmosphere. When he reached Clara’s room, the tension had grown thick enough to cut with a knife. She sat on her bed in a black gown, as if dressed for a funeral. “No lesson today”, she said simply. “I want to tell you a story.” She motioned for Luke to sit on the floor in front of her. He did. Clara looked away. She pursed her lips, sighed, and began, “There’s many worlds out there. Ones very similar to yours but with differences. Alternate universes.” She thought for a moment. “Some have no art. Some have no dance. Some have no sports. It goes on. Mine is one of the few with music.” She thought for another moment. “When I was younger, perhaps the age that you were when you found me, these people invaded my world. They took away our music. I never understood why and they never explained.” “How could–” Luke began before Clara cut him off once more. “Maybe some people just hate to see others happy. They burned our instruments, they destroyed our theaters and radios, and they’d rip out your tongue if you dared to sing.” She finally looked down at Luke. “I escaped. Used the same portal they did to invade us. I decided to settle somewhere safe where I could enjoy music. But every world I found refuge in, they would take over.” She was crying now. “So instead, I decided to share music with others. I’d enter a new world and find a child and teach them music. And if they really loved it, I’d tell them my story. Then they would have a decision. They could forget I ever existed. Go about their lives ignorant and happy.” She leaned in. “Or, they could help me. They could leave their world behind and do the same thing I do. And now, my dear Luke, it is your turn to make this decision.” Silence. Luke sat there staring into the floor for a long time. He tried his best to comprehend the things Clara had told him. It took him a while to be able to form words. “How many people have you taught?” he asked her at last. “Many. I used to be a sensation and would teach classes and groups. Of course, I only taught those students one instrument.” “How many people chose to help you?” “One. He never told me his name so I called him Wren. He was a wonderful man. I taught him as many instruments as I could. He was good at all of them, but he was best at the violin.” “Where is he now?” “I don’t know. I think dead.” The two sat there with each other as Luke pondered his choices. “Why were you locked in this tower?” he questioned. “Wren. He told me he wanted to show me something and then trapped me here. Said that he was protecting me. I’m not sure if I believed him. He continued my work and he visited every year--or so he told me. He brought me instruments and listened to me play. But the last time he visited me, he seemed on edge. He gave me extra food than he normally would and then he left. He hasn’t been back since.” Silence once more. “I want to help you, Clara,” Luke said and he got to his feet.. She smiled. “I knew you would. That is why I must do this.” Clara stood and opened her palm, revealing a single maroon tablet. She handed it to Luke, who took it as cautiously as he did the harmonica that fateful day nine years ago. “Swallow it and it will take you to another world. There’s a bundle of them downstairs along with my leather bag. Inside the bag there’s most of the supplies you’ll need for your travels. I’m afraid I could only fit the harmonica and a deconstructed clarinet. But if you truly love music, you know that you can make it out of anything.” “What about you?” “I think I’m done teaching. I just want to stay here.” “But they’ll find you.” “This is the end of my story, Luke. Not yours.” “I don’t want to leave you.” “Then write a song about me and teach it to your students so that I can be everywhere and you’ll never have to leave me.” Luke looked at Clara. His mentor and his friend. She nodded at him and smiled the warm smile from when he first found her in this tower. Then she turned around, her back facing him. Clara was no longer looking at him. So he left her at that. Luke would continue Clara’s path for another thirty years. Then he’d pass on his harmonica to another young student, who would then continue more. Clara would wait in her tower for another month. Then the people who had been searching for her would find her and she wouldn’t scream or cry. She’d let them kill her and then she would be free. The musicians who fulfilled Clara’s quest often wondered why so little students chose to continue the path. But what they didn’t realize was that all the others, the ones who rejected the quest, never forgot music. It lived on in them, and when they taught their children it would live on with them, too. And soon there were too many worlds with music for the enemies to invade. They would give up. The plan, though, was never to defeat the enemies. It was simply to spread the joy of music. And it happened. 

klki57

Hide and Seek

Trigger warning: Themes of illness and death. On the fifth round of Hide and Seek, that’s when Eddy found it—a secret room at the end of a long, sloped closet. The closet was in the room where five-year-old Eddy and his six-year-old sister Carli shared a bunk bed. If you only looked in the closet, dark and jumbled, you couldn’t see the room. But Darkness was there all along, waiting. The four Manderley children were running out of good places to hide. Ten-year-old Adam was It now, and Eddy was in a panic—that’s why he clambered over boots and shoes and boxes and bags in a headlong rush to get right to the back—and then had found the sharp right turn that led immediately to a room. A new room! A room he’d never seen before! Eddy lay down, heart galloping, right at its entrance because he didn’t dare to go further into the dusty blackness. He stayed at its opening, right where it joined with the closet, his eyes straining against the darkness as he watched the sliver of light from the closet grow suddenly larger. Then a screeeeech —the metal coat-hangers against a metal rod, as Adam pushed against the clothes. Eddy’s heart galloped doubly fast. Clunk, rattle, boof —the big boy was trampling the boxes and bags like an ogre, moving toward Eddy, forcing him to wiggle ever so slowly right into the strange room. Adam yelled, “Hello? Hello?” Eddy froze and Adam’s triumphal tone switched to a disgusted, weary tone. “Nah… nobody here.” Then came the waiting. Cheek on floor, he strained to hear the progress of Adamosaurus rex throughout the Manderleys’ old ramshackle house. “Ours is the oldest house on the block,” Dad had said, “with additions and renovations all over.” Eddy knew about addition and subtraction, from Carli’s number book, and he could hardly wait to learn about renovation. But right now, he was simply lying in the dark, panting, listening for Adam to find Becky and Carli. His heart returned to normal speed as he thought about numbers and games, and how strange it was, at home playing Hide and Seek five days in a row now. It had something to do with Panda Mick, a giant monster stomping and sneezing its way around the world. Stay inside, Mom and Dad had said. “That’s all they’re asking, children; we must keep ourselves safe by staying inside.” No school, no dance practice, no soccer games, no piano lessons. Yay, all the children said, except Eddy, who adored his kindergarten teacher, Ms. Kostinuk. “Also, no birthday parties, no play dates, no wave pool,” Mom had said. Wah, the children cried, all except Eddy, who hadn’t got the hang of parties yet and definitely did not like the wave pool because he had almost drowned. Maybe that had been Panda Mick too, making waves too big for small people. So, the Manderley children stayed home. “Time for fun and games,” their parents said. The children built a Lego town with Dinky cars to drive among the streets and made the very smallest dollies live inside the chunky buildings. Later they made stores and houses from cardboard boxes for the stuffed animals and big dolls. Another day Adam cut armholes and fringes on brown cloth to make a jacket for his cowboy doll. They all took pieces of cloth and cut armholes and fringes and only stopped when Carli sneaked away with Mom’s silk scarf. Mom yelled, and Dad said, “I’ll buy you a new one,” and then Mom laughed. “What’s come over me? It’s just a stupid scarf,” and then everybody laughed. Except Carli, who didn’t like her Princess doll wearing anything called “stupid.” So that’s what the Staying Inside game was about. Dad was nicer than usual and Mom was … not. Becky called her “unpredictable,” a word that Eddy didn’t know but would ask Ms. Kostinuk about—as soon as school started again. In this way, the week inside had passed with only a quarrel or a tantrum once in a while. If things got too loud, Mom stepped out of the war room (as she called it) and interfered. Eddy did not know what war she was fighting, but he never saw guns or bombs. Mom was doing her outside job while at home, Dad had explained. “Supply chain management for drugstores,” he said, and that’s why she had two phones and three computers and zero kids in her war room. *         *         * And now Eddy heard the ringing of the cowbell. “Eddy!” said Dad’s worried voice, “ Hide and Seek is over! Eddy, come out, come out, wherever you are!” Adam’s sulky voice said, “I give up, you win.” “Yeah, Eddy, you win,” Becky called. Eddy burst into tears. How wonderful. He had never, ever won Hide and Seek. He barrelled out of the closet and ran downstairs, whooping. Carli saw him first. “Dirty Eddy!” “You went outside,” Adam said accusingly. “You broke the rules.” “Did not.” “Did too—you’re filthy.” “No,” said Eddy. “I was in the long closet in my bedroom.” “I looked there.” “Well, you didn’t look hard enough,” Eddy said, crossing his arms. “Shut up!” Adam’s face was red. “Children, please,” Dad said. “None of that disrespect.” He was not yelling. You did not want to get Dad yelling, so all the children fell silent. Becky tentatively stepped forward. “But look how dirty he is,” she said, “he must’ve been running between the mud room and the long closet.” Oooh, everyone said. They thought Eddy was now a sophisticated player of Hide and Seek, one who would change position while It noisily hunted them down. Eddy grinned. “Whatever this young man’s secret,” Dad said, “we need to call a bath time.” Yay, the children said, because they loved bath time, when Dad turned the bathroom heater on high and set up the Sharon, Lois & Bram music and put in bubbles. Everyone except Eddy, that is, who still remembered his terror in the wave pool. “No-o-o,” he wailed. One tear after another squeezed from his eyes, making tracks in the grime of his face, and snot streamed from his nose. Dad crouched beside him, his soccer coach position, and took the little boy’s shoulder. “Eddy, Eddy—whatever has become of you?” he said gently. “Look at this wonderful shower attachment… you just sit in the empty tub, and I’ll sprinkle this over all the dirty parts and then you’re done.” With the shower attachment he dribbled warm water over Eddy’s right hand. Eddy remembered Ms. Kostinuk saying, “Shh-shh-shh,” and then: “Sh-showers in April give us flowers in May.” Eddy took his clothes off and let Dad help him into the big old tub. “Daddy, why do bathtubs have clawed feet?” “In olden times the bathtubs roamed wild and flew over the ocean,” Dad said, wetting a facecloth for Eddy’s face. “With their great talons they scooped up tubs full of fish. But they got too heavy to fly. The creator told them they would have to trade their wings for shelter. So now bathtubs live in houses.” “Tubs don’t have wings, Daddy!” Eddy chuckled. “And that’s why: the bathtubs traded in their wings—so they could live safe in houses forever after.” *         *         * That night, for a change, Mom read the bedtime story. Afterward, Eddy said, “How is Panda Mick?” “We’re keeping him under control,” Mom said, kissing his head. “Don’t you worry.” After lights-out, Eddy and Carli whispered bunk-to-bunk. He was bursting to share his secret and could stand it no longer. “Carli, I have a super-super-super-great secret. I found a secret room!” “Show me tomorrow.” She yawned. “We need a flashlight.” “I can get one… tomorrow.” “Also—you saw me—it’s dirty.” Long pause. Another yawn. “We can find a cleaning rag in the mud room.” “It will become our secret clubhouse!” Carli made the sound of a soft snore. The next day was supposed to be marathon Snakes and Ladders but the older two children grew immediately suspicious when the younger two ran off on their own. Becky and Adam could hear their voices and followed the trail of flattened things in the long closet. “Ve arr kommink to get you, bwa-ha-ha-ha-hah,” Adam growled, lurching about like a zombie. The little ones squealed and soon all four of them were in the not-so-secret room, a clubhouse now, sitting on the floor around an old trunk, atop which they put a flashlight. The place smelled of window cleaning solution, because that’s all Carli could find. Unanimously they voted for snacks, and soon they were sloshing bowls of Cheerios and milk over the flattened things in the closet. “Why is this secret room here?” Carli wondered. “Hiding Jews from Nazis,” Becky said. Her class had studied Ann Frank. Adam laughed. “We’re not in Europe, silly.” “So? Why else have a secret room?” “Do you think Mommy and Daddy know about this room?” Carli asked. “Of course not,” Becky said. “Otherwise, they’d fill it with stuff.” “Stuff, stuff, and more stuff,” chanted Eddy. “Hey, I know a spooky story,” Becky said, grabbing the flashlight and holding it under her chin. It made her look fearsome and Eddy had to look away. She began a rambling story about a werewolf that howled and village that panicked when babies got eaten. Carli’s hand sneaked over to Adam on one side and Eddy on the other, who slapped it away. He needed both hands to cover his ears when Becky howled like a wolf. “Stop it,” Adam said. “Carli, get away! Don’t climb on me.” “I’m—so—scared!” “Be like Eddy! He’s brave!” Becky angled the flashlight beam at her siblings. Adam was pushing Carli off his lap. Eddy, sitting cross-legged, had his hands clamped over his ears. He pulled them away and his face crumpled in dismay. The others were talking about him… mocking him! “I give up,” Becky yelled. She jumped up and ran out of the secret room—carrying the flashlight, forcing everyone else to fumble their way out in darkness. The two younger children lost their sense of direction and were trapped in the room—only for a moment, but it seemed an hour of terror to them. By now Eddy was crying, too. Dad stood at the newel post on first floor, listening. “What. Is. Going. On?” he said, tromping upstairs. He looked at his offspring. Carli and Eddy, faces damp, squeezed their favourite teddy bears. Red-faced Adam rubbed a wet spot on his knee, muttering, “Carli peed on me. Gross!” Becky looked angelic. “It’s all fun and games….” Dad sighed. His gaze lingered on Becky a long moment until she fessed up. “My story got too scary for them,” Becky said. Her smile went from bright to dim under Dad’s scowl. Then his angry look softened. He crouched down among the children. “Look, guys. You mother needs peace and quiet to do her work. She’s an ‘essential worker.’ The country needs her. And we need to help her.” His eyes travelled from face to face. Eddy liked his dad’s voice. It sounded just like his reading voice, like this was a bedtime story. Carli went to Dad and hugged his arm. Adam looked relieved. Becky looked upset. “Bunch of babies,” she hissed. *         *         * After lunch (grilled cheese, tomato soup) the children painted happily. But something felt different between them, a shifting of alliances. Normally a younger child paired with an older one, so Eddy paired with either Becky or Adam but never Carli when the children played Go-Fish or sang rounds or did two-sies on Mario Kart. But today during painting, Carli and Eddy worked on a picture together. Monkeys on an island were throwing coconuts at Panda Mick, who was in the ocean, making big waves. Becky leaned over, started painting horses on the island, and got shooed away. “I don’t care,” Becky said, rinsing her brush. “It’s time for Hide and Seek—and it’s my turn to be It.” Soon the pictures were abandoned and Becky, blindfolded, stood beside Dad’s work easel for the count-down. (This was to ensure no cheating.) The children ran off. Carli and Eddy had the same idea: the secret room, but only Carli thought to bring a flashlight so they wouldn’t be scared. In the secret room they saw their cereal bowls, left helter-skelter on the floor and trunk, from yesterday. They heard Becky’s muffled roar: “Ready or not, here I co-ome!” “Oh no, she’s coming here first!” Carli whispered. Eddy said, “I changed my mind—” “Quiet! Be quiet!” “—I wanna hide under the bed.” “Shut. Up.” He sniffled. “Here’s the trunk. Let’s—unh, I can’t lift this—can you?” Carli put the flashlight on the floor with a klunk. “You hurt my feelings,” he said. “Shh. Help me open this, Eddy. It’s our only chance. Let’s hide where she’ll never find us. Don’t you want to win against old Bossypants?” He nodded solemnly. “But she knows about the secret room…” “Yes. But nobody notices the trunk, do they?” Eddy looked at the cereal bowls. The flashlight made them look like shells of ancient sea creatures. “Come on, I’ve got a super plan,” she said and she showed Eddy where to push on the lid of the trunk. She stuck the flashlight in her waistband, making a whirl of shadows. The pair heaved once! twice! thrice! on the lid. They climbed inside but couldn’t close the lid. They climbed out and lifted the lid so that it teetered, vertical, and then they climbed back inside. The lid slammed shut with a BOOM —a dead giveaway, except that Becky was busy far away in the pantry finding Adam, who was hiding behind a wall of bulk toilet paper. The little ones snuggled close in the trunk, arms around each other, the flashlight starting to dim. How very very safe they felt from sulky Adam and smug Becky and Panda Mick and all the other nasties out there. Stay home, stay inside, stay safe, their parents had said. And that is where the family found their limp bodies four hours later. THE END

xjdh8w

Five Days to Bliss

The crickets chirped in unison, their lively crescendo fleeing the darkened forest, making me wonder, not for the first time this week, if this were the life I'd have chosen all along had I known this place existed. The heavy thud of a boot propping up on the cooler beside me doesn't detract from the beauty of the dark, whispering trees. Five days. It's been five days, and already I'm listening more closely, attuned to and relishing every sound, every symphony of the universe. Magpie's heavy boots, the glug glug of the wine she pours into my glass, the crickets in the forest. Five days since my boss, Alec, a self-proclaimed Weekend Warrior who ate breath mints like he owned stock in Altoid to mask his mysteriously rancid breath, entered my bleak beige office with inexplicable enthusiasm and told me to pack a bag. Five days since I'd stopped wondering when my big break would come, having never expected it to arrive at the expense of my gender. Five days since I exchanged decades of hard-earned degrees, internships, and career-focused perseverance in law enforcement for a little slice of anarchy. What else could I do? Magpie presented me with an invitation to escape the cuckold of the patriarchal-infested corporate grind. Rest assured, I've never fallen under any delusion that law enforcement is anything other than regulated corporate greed. After years of being passed over by less qualified male counterparts, Alec stormed into my office and told me they got a call from up north; they needed an agent, specifically a woman. So, I was summoned. I wanted to throw my stapler right at his stupid face. Instead, I went home and packed a bag. -Five Days Ago- It was a four-hour drive north to Cold Creek—a negligible town without government, law, or taxes, so far and deep into the woods that none of us had even heard of it. The three neighboring towns shared a small police station, all of which accepted Cold Creek as a lawless settlement. The locals knew it as a place where women went, but it was rustic and backwoods, and the women kept to themselves, so typically, no one paid them any mind. Though an agent of the law, I found the idea of a town technically walking the tightrope of anarchy romantic. Flipping through the sparse file on our long drive north, I read aloud for Alec's benefit. "In the past year, five women have disappeared from around the state into Cold Creek. Fifteen in the last eighteen months from the region, more going back a few years. In some cases, the woman would leave a note explaining where she was going before abandoning her partner, job, or responsibilities—all the women claimed they were moving on to something better." Though Alec was driving and facing forward, I could see his eye roll, which only bolstered his next comment: "Sounds like a bunch of women on the rag." I ignored him and continued, "According to this, there are no phones and no way to contact anyone within the settlement. You have to meet someone at the gate, often an armed guard, and she will pass along a message. They keep a phone at the border and have a walkie system within. "One of the missing women, her husband's a DA, he's the one that called us. It says here that she planned on divorcing him, but he refused. Because of the sheer number of disappearances, the agency wants to confirm there's nothing nefarious going on." We drove past blurring trees and dense thickets too fast to enjoy the view. When we finally reached the one-stoplight town neighboring Cold Creek, I was surprised to find the local police lounging at a picnic table outside a gas station. The officers tipped their hats, seemingly unconcerned about whatever crime egregious enough to warrant two out-of-town FBI Agents making the trek as they munched on red hot dogs and sipped giant plastic Slurpee cups. "See, at first, we weren't too concerned," one officer explained once we settled in. "We'd get a call, a complaint about someone going missing. Somebody's cousin, sister, wife, whathaveyou. But they often left notes, and in many cases, the loved one'd get a call, and the missing lady would basically say, 'I'm fine, I'm safe, I'm in Cold Creek.' Claimed they'd moved on, leaving all their worldly possessions behind. Makes no sense. But far's we can tell, there's no crime, 'cept the carelessness of just leavin' your life behind like that. "After a while, though, the numbers began to rise. Five turned to ten, turned to fifteen. Now, close to fifty different women from all over decide to leave their lives behind to live in some kinda hippy commune? Just don't sit right. So, we sent one of our officers, gal by the name of Audrey, in to have a word. Well, after about a week, she called and resigned from the force and said she'd be livin' in Cold Creek from now on. Ain't that some kinda shit?" The three mouthbreathers shook their heads in unison between giant bites of hot dogs. After a minute of silent commiseration, they finally remembered my presence and turned to me. "So, in all cases, the missing women have been accounted for," I confirmed. "Yep." "But you want me to go in there and confirm they're all okay, and since I'm a woman, and you have none left in your entire station, I'm your best bet." "Yep." Alec asked, "And when we spoke on the phone, you said you've tried entering the town yourselves but were unable…?" "Yep. Got the place on lockdown. Ladies with shotguns surround the perimeter." -Four Days Ago- Sometime over the last few years, someone dug up the only road leading into Cold Creek and planted trees and bushes. Once well-matted and worn, the dirt road now ended abruptly, a clear delineation between us and them. After emerging past the thicket of leaves and sharp vines, the road opened up once more, continuing unobstructed. There, I found a woman with an assault rifle swung over her shoulder, leaning against an ATV. Audrey, the missing police officer. I felt a presence in the trees, but after looking around, I didn't see anyone. I could only hear the sounds of nature enhanced by the blinding sun that shone on Audrey like a spotlight, as though this entire thing was a performance. It's there that she tells me, her eyes penetrating and pleading, that all they seek is peace. She tells me the world is unclean, a mess of violence, corruption, and greed. She sounded like a fundamentalist. As my training taught me, I listened patiently and with an open mind, climbing onto the back of her ATV while she continued her story. Clutching her waist as we drove into town, passing more dense woods, the occasional driveway, and neglected mailboxes shrouded in branches, we arrived at the center of town—nothing could have prepared me for the sight. Like Dorothy landing in Oz, everything seemed to light up in shades of neon green, yellow, and blue. The sky seemed more vibrant, the trees brighter. In the town's center, women greeted us, warm and welcoming, despite my status as an outsider. Unsure if I was entering a hostage-type situation or doing a simple wellness check, I kept my thoughts and opinions to myself as we continued slowly through town. Everyone smiled. It was too much smiling. Women carried baskets of laundry perched on their heads. They stood together, gathered around a long table beneath the awning of what looked like an old grange hall, shucking corn and laughing. A massive pot swayed, suspended over a rich smoldering fire as they tended to the cooking food. It was a community like I'd never seen; the embodiment of collective contribution, they worked like a synergistic unit, passing tools and sharing responsibilities. I didn't realize Audrey stopped the ATV until she climbed off, holding her hand out for me to follow. -Three Days Ago- Questioning my sanity was becoming a habit. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, that moment when I was drugged or brainwashed or exposed to some virus that held all these women captive. There was no leader—no doctrine or secret language. There were no signs of a cult or even forced group activities. There were doctors and lawyers and renounced housewives. There were mechanics and engineers. There were men, too, though they were few. They weren't banned, as the outside world led us to believe, but they were in the minority and kept to themselves. There were children and families, too. The entire town of Cold Creek ran off-grid. They constructed their own greenhouses and farmed their own food. They cut trees down, built their own homes, and dug their own wells. They used solar and wind energy to light up their town and community. They had no need for the outside world. I was beginning not to need it, either. The air was clean, the water fresh, the food robust and hearty. I had a list of women to check up on, but I found each one with a smile on their face and no desire to leave. -Two Days Ago- Though I brought my phone with me, there was zero reception, so I let the battery die. Unsure what the week held, my boss Alec and I agreed that it may be a few days before he heard back from me. Neither of us was concerned about my ability to resist the call of Cold Creek, but as time passed, I felt increasingly reluctant to return to my life. Back to my beige office. Back to my boss, my job, my mortgage. I kept thinking about all my years of study and how little I had to show for it, that my very presence here had more to do with my gender than my qualifications. Magpie, one of the original locals, let me stay in her cabin while I investigated. She had an easy way about her. We stayed up late each night talking; she listened and didn't try to advise or preach. It took me two nights to get the courage to follow her to bed, though she invited me the first night. Magpie wasn't technically under investigation, but sleeping with her was likely against the rules. The longer I stayed in Cold Creek, the less I cared about the rules. Magpie was lovely, strong, and intelligent. I shared Alec's comments with her about how a town full of women must have decided they no longer drove stick, but it just made her laugh. As I lay awake that night, I stared up at the ceiling, tired from the day's labor since I'd been pitching in with the locals—though no one asked me to—gathering information for my report, keeping sleep elusive. I got out of bed, careful not to wake Magpie as she snored softly beside me and crept out of her room. It was dark apart from the soft light of the moon, a beam shining through the window pane just bright enough to light the kitchen table. I sat down and stared at the blank piece of paper, willing myself to write my report. My hand shook as I tried to bring pen to paper. Like a vice grip clutched my throat, I couldn't form the words I knew my boss was expecting. -Yesterday- It was in the undercurrent beneath my skin. It hummed a beautiful tale, threading all my lonely pieces back together. It was quiet, then it was loud. It wasn't a decision; it was an awakening. "I'm not coming back," I tell Alec, standing at the border of Cold Creek, facing him and the two local officers who had been casing out the entrance for days. They'd have snuck in, but the women of Cold Creek had the woods and perimeter well guarded, and no one was interested in starting a firefight. Alec, incredulous, gaped like a fish before finally spitting out, "You have got to be joking. Did they brainwash you? What's really going on in there?" Not wanting him to investigate further, I attempt to explain. I tell him it's peaceful. It's self-sufficient. It's free of socioeconomic infringement. It's classless, stateless. It's safe, and for many of the women inside, including the former wife of the DA, that's all they wanted. "It's communism. You're a fucking communist," Alec spits out, sneering and pacing back and forth in front of me. Magpie waits patiently at my back. "Actually, it's more of a meritocracy—" "I don't care what it is. It's anarchy. You can't just quit your job and go live in that commune. I'm calling the IRS. I'm sure there's some violation they're—" "Alec, leave it alone. There's nothing illegal going on here. It's not like that." "I'm not letting this go." I look back at Magpie, who shrugs and smiles softly. I glance up at the woods behind us, noting the women hidden amongst the trees, armed and ready with long-range rifles. "Then we'll be ready." I reach my hand out, and Magpie takes it. We ignore the shouting of men behind us, shedding the cloak of societal obligation, the burden of judgment, and expectations. We walk through the forest into bliss.

bwgbdo

Inside Out

Travel, I was told, would expand my mind. So I followed that sage advice. And I thought it had. It felt like it had. I felt bigger, and as a result I could only conclude that I was better for that. After all, we are supposed to grow. Firstly, we grow up. Then we expand. Our horizons broaden and broaden until we are spoilt for choice. But then, life is a series of choices. Often, the choice we make is to make no choice at all. We bury ourselves in the sands of ignorance and pretend we are staying put, when there is never any possibility of that. We balance precariously upon a large ball that is spinning at a thousand miles an hour. This ball, that hosts our odd existences, is also travelling at forty seven thousand miles an hour as it goes around and around a fireball that will eventually consume it. That is the wallpaper in this room of the universe. That is our context. Staying put really isn’t an option. This is why the attainment of peace is no easy matter. Real peace resides in truth and that truth is all around us. We are immersed in it. I travelled to the other side of the world to find myself and yet I was here all the time. I was here and yet I chose not to acknowledge myself. The sad fact of the matter is that we can spend a lifetime denying ourselves. Busying ourselves with the trivial until the unique miracle we are winks out of existence. We all run the gauntlet of never really having known ourselves and in the same breath we crave the knowledge and understanding of others. We want to be known. We want to be understood. We make all this noise. We sit in the corner of the room banging our drum in the desperate hope that we will get the attention we need. An angry toddler going about things in the wrong way, but no longer is there a giant to lift us from the floor, separate us from the noise, hug us and whisper the truth to us; that we are loved, and that in the gentle silence that ensues, we can listen to ourselves and who we really are. Only in that loving silence do we truly connect. Returning from my travels, I came home. But home was no longer what it once was. Home was no longer where it once was. And so I made a fresh start. I moved away from everything I once knew, and everything I had connected with, and I laughingly thrust myself into a new life. I reinvented myself before I ever worked out what my self was. I had no clue what I was for, or what I was supposed to do. Looking at the moths around me, I scoffed. Time and again they went around and around until they hit the burning bulb. There was some merit in their resilience and tenacity, but I wanted more, and convinced myself that I was more in that wanting. Not for me was the rut. Not for me the madness of doing the same thing again and again, yet expecting a different result. Unwittingly, I imposed upon myself a strange exile. I wore the garb of a pariah and I beat a different drum. I spoke aloud of my hopes and dreams and I asked questions-of-meaning of those around me. My words struck fear within those people. A strange, outlandish and deceptive fear, for this fear could never reach a man’s heart. But then, how often do we listen with our hearts? Throwing myself into work, I sought validity in my utility. I found some semblance of that, but it was transitory. The rewards of toil and the righteous ache at the end of a long, hard day. Still there was something more that I needed. I knew this because I felt a loss that grew even as I believed I was growing. Remaining steeped in a belief that I was doing what I must. We seek connection throughout our lives. We cannot bear to be alone. Isolation is hell. We don’t work on our own. A spare part lying beside a broken machine. We hear the truth of this in music. We see the reality of this life of ours in art. Those things speak to us. We feel what they say. Though seldom do we go beyond a momentary smile or tear. We nod at the alien message as though we understand, but we have no intention of ever learning the language. And so that fear visits us yet again. The fear of knowing ourselves and understanding what it is we are supposed to be doing with our lives. I did so much. I have lived a life. But I missed so much as I did. I crashed headlong through the walls and brought the whole house down, never looking back at the destruction I caused. I was a walking accusation. Asking questions of those around me. Questions I should have been asking myself, but I never had the courage to turn the table. I never paused long enough at the bathroom mirror to see who it was I was sharing my life with. It was in the shadow of death that I saw life more clearly. Darkness contrasted with the light I had taken for granted for so long. The light we all carry. Light carried in the impossibly small hands of our inner child. The eternal part of us. Our soul. I saw it then. That which had always been before me. The best part of me. This is where we connect. This is how we connect. I failed to connect. A plague bell rang out in my office late one evening. I was alone, choosing to work late. Doing today. Not wanting to put off until tomorrow. A shallow avoidance technique. A coping mechanism against something I had not bothered to define. I heard the dread bell and I knew things would never be the same again. The other worldly sound screamed at me from my mobile phone and for a shameful moment I considered ignoring it even as I read the three letters on the screen. Mum. In that moment I was a frightened little boy. The years fell away and revealed their lie. The little boy was what was real. The little boy knew how to be, even when I did not. My mind raced and I feared the worst. But the worst was that Mum was dead. Was Dad calling from her mobile? That was possible. He didn’t have a mobile of his own. Probably didn’t know my number. Relied upon Mum to call me and update me on what was happening in their world. I delayed answering the phone, telling myself that I would rather not know. That ignorance really was bliss. I sat on my deck chair and I commanded the tide of reality to turn back. It ignored me and the phone’s screams rattled my teeth. I picked up the phone. My hand might have been shaking, but then all of me was shaking. I was filled with a curious energy that oscillated through me over and over again. Shaking me apart and reminding me of how fragile the pretence of our imagined existences really are. “Hello?” I said quietly, even in the empty and soulless office. “It’s Mum,” said Mum. “I know,” I said in a sad approximation of the facetious and disrespectful teenager I never was. In contradiction to the truth. I had not known it was Mum. I should have told her that she had worried me and that I was so glad it really was her. I did not. I lacked the courage to tell her the truth of it. “Are you alright?” she asked me, “how are things going at work?” She always did this. Asked about me. Opened the conversation up so I could offload my angst and stresses. A lot of our phone calls were heavily occupied with that. I would tell her my non-news, then became impatient and feel I had to round the call off, asking a cursory closed question about how they both were before pressing End. I wonder whether all children remain selfish like that. Destined to find out what it feels like when their kids fly the nest and don’t bother to give a shit about the two people who made their lives possible. “I’m still at work,” I said dully. “Oh dear, it’s very late,” said Mum. I looked around me, usually I’ll check the time on the phone that was against my ear, “is it?” She answered with a sigh. “What is it, Mum?” I asked as calmly as I could. “It’s Mum,” she said, “she’s been taken into a home” I paused, not knowing what to say. “It’s bad,” Mum said. “What is it?” I asked, not sure whether I wanted to know. “Dementia,” she told me. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I think there was relief there and the release of a dark pressure that had been building since my phone rang. I reigned myself in, “I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just… how can you tell?!” I was all the more relieved to hear her laughter down the phone, even as I detected a seam of sadness. There were silent tears in that laughter, “there is that,” she managed. “Nan’s always been left of field hasn’t she?” I said. “Not…” Mum began. She was going to say always, but I could almost hear the cogs whirring as she cast her mind back to her childhood and the firebrand that Nan had been, “you know, I’ve never really thought about how she was. Not like that. You do have a point, I just never thought of her like that.” Was. Mum said was. It really was that bad. “Will you come?” she asked. I did a mental calculation. It was Thursday. I was expected in work the following day, regardless of the work I’d put in this evening, “I’ll leave around lunch tomorrow. If that’s alright?” “Of course it is,” I could feel a smile in Mum’s words, “she’ll be so pleased to see you.” She paused and I wondered what that pause meant, “we all will,” she added. “It’ll be great to see you too,” I replied. “Fancy a shepherd’s pie?” she asked. Of course I did. It was my favourite, “always.” The shepherd’s pie was, as ever, the best shepherd’s pie in the land. This was a dish that tasted of home and there is no seasoning to compare to the taste of the place you love and are loved. I had a second portion. As was dictated by tradition. “We should go,” said Mum as she took my plate. I tried to hide my shock and disappointment. I’d hoped that I could put it off until tomorrow. I was telling myself that I hated hospitals and an old people’s home was going to be more of the same. They are always too warm and then there’s the thick stew of smells, aromas and unsavoury stenches. Granddad had said that hospitals were places where you went to die. That if you weren’t ill before you visited, you stood every chance of being ill having been around all the death and disease. Granddad was a cheery old bugger. He really was. This take on hospitals stuck with me though, and it applied even more so to old peoples’ homes. Once a person was admitted, there was only ever one way they were leaving. Mum drove. I’d just driven two hundred miles. She offered and pushed the offer with the practicality that she knew where she was going. I demurred and instantly wished I hadn’t. Driving would have given me something to do. Being a passenger freed my mind to play with my worries. The care home did not disappoint. I was grieving before I was over the threshold. The loss was overwhelming. All these people had had homes and families and lives. They’d lasted the course and this was how it ended up. Homeless in a place that lied about being home. Room only for a few small possessions to remind a person of the dispossession they had suffered. I wanted to cry and I wanted to run away from this place and hide nearby. Behind a burning bush that had become the ideal hiding place because everyone was so lost they could no longer appreciate their own lives, let alone miracles. Then a miracle happened right in front of me. Nan. She saw me and her pale, slack face lit up in an instant. I’d never experienced anything like it. Or that’s what I thought at the time. Now I think differently. Now I know that I had, but I’d desecrated the best of my memories in a process I’d mistakenly thought was growing up, but was more akin to going away from my self. Time froze and gifted me this moment with my Nan. In the light of that expression I saw her beaming smile and eyes twinkling with so much life. I saw her and I saw more of her than I had ever seen. I saw who she was and who she had been and I realised that this was one and the same. The animated little girl who had never once forgotten how to love and play and grab a hold of every single piece of joy and happiness that this life presents to us. “Who’s he?” she asked my Mum, and with that, the moment was gone, and confusion rained down upon my poor, dear Nan. Afterwards, I felt so guilty. I felt weak and terrible in that guilt. I should have reached out to her. Held her. Been there with her in the only way that truly works. I should have taken her hand and if she willed it, hugged her. Made that connection and taken whatever she had. Tears on my shoulder. An uncertain smile. Anything. Everything. All of it. All of her. And the crazy, beautiful and amazing thing is that I would be giving her the exact same thing. Opening myself up. Daring to be vulnerable when daring is not required, for we are all eternally vulnerable, that is why we feel. That is what makes this life of ours so incredibly beautiful. So often we do nothing. This is a choice, even if we try to tell ourselves that it is not. In the end, everything we do is a projection of who we really are. We fight our very nature. Seeking refuge and protection from what we are. We are vulnerable. That is the truth of what we are and we cannot avoid that truth. It will never change. We are supposed to share that. We are supposed to go out into the world and share our very self. Maybe that takes strength and courage, or perhaps it’s about realising that not to do so is cowardly and such a sad waste. Anything else is a mistake. We see those mistakes all too often. If the makers of those mistakes took a moment to see themselves and ask, “is this who I really am?” They would stop, pause, reflect and answer “no, this is not who I am.” That isn’t what should happen. But it is what happens. We are painfully awful at listening to ourselves, let alone understanding what we should do with the truths that reside within us. If we all did this one thing, the world would be a better place. Whenever one of us sees who and what they really are and lives accordingly, their world changes in that moment and is better for it. And there is more light in all of our worlds. We should all become eternal explorers. The next time you are with someone you know, look for their real self. You will see signs of it. In the warmth of a smile. The twinkle in an eye. Heartfelt laughter. Listen to that music, really listen to it when it speaks. Look at art with every fibre of your being and you will see reflected in that art what it is to be. I’m reaching out Nan. I’m doing it now. I may have been slow getting here, but I know it still counts. I wish I’d learnt this sooner, but as Nan was fond of saying, if wishes were eggs, I’d have a barn full of hens. What’s important is that I know now and so it’s down to me to make it stick. And I am. And I can feel the change already. The world is a brighter place for it. Be the change. Change yourself. Change the world. Dare to love.

uedtjz

The Lady of the Last Star

It was considered a fact, that there are more stars in the universe, than human souls that ever lived in it. This statement is no longer true. Most of them died, or rather, were killed, leaving entire galaxies in darkness. But some said, „some” meaning the very last of humanity before even they met their end, that some stars still spark like diamonds in dessert sands. Across uninhabited planets and carcases of nebuli, their light guides a certain, troubled soul. And the darkness, right on its tail.            Through the cosmic void, she was dashing hastely, the nimble comet that she was. Dodging her way out of an asteroid field, she was the only source of light there. Her name was Kori. And she was running away. From something that wanted to snuff that light out.            The girl held on to her glider, aiming its beak between gaps, barely tight enough to squeeze through.            The darkness that pursued her didn’t bother with avoiding obstacles. It would burst and consume them in its endless form. Grasping with its glassy claws and jaws that ate black holes.            Kori threw her hand out, gattering stardust, charging her exo-suit and glider, stretching her fuel thinner and thinner. She was going faster, emitting ice clouds from the glider’s engine. She needed a boost. Altough, the source of that boost was nowhere to be found.            She was slowly running out of light. The girl felt as her suit stretched and deformed from the pressure of the beasts’ breath.            Beep. Close, but not close enough. Asleep, turned off, hidden.            Whichever way she tried to ride in, the creature flowed in that direction like a raging canal of water. Pushing amidst the field, Kori grabbed a Luxdux from her belt.            Beep, beep. The stardust flowed through her gauntlets into her fingers, charging the machine and emitting great whiteness that bounced all over the asteroid field.            Beepbeepbeep!            There it was. A fallen star. Awakened! But...            She didn’t get to blink, before the light got smothered by the colossal jaws of the beast.            Right in the glistening body of the creature, formed by husks of planets, glued together by darkness, she was drowning. Grasping against matter that was both liquid and form, digested cosmos that was swallowing her.            She couldn’t breathe, didn’t know if she was even capable of, like in a dream. With the last of her senses intact, she found the star, cold and asleep. So, the girl made a decision. She pumped the star with fuel to its limits, feeling its shake tear the ebony skin of the creature. She put it in a pocket inside her chest. A flash appeared, her glider jumped into gear and with enough power, she punched through the belly of beast.            She was gone. Gone, but not safe. Not for long.            Drifting amongst dead celestial bodies, wondering how she herself was even alive. Laying down on her glider.            Awaken.            Her back jumped from the metal board, just as her hands jumped across her exo-suit. Like a skeleton outside of her flesh, it cracked in a couple of spots. Her mask, googles, gauntlets, valves and small pipes running with gas and helium. The girls’ heart pumped with euphoria. For a second, she was glad to be alive in this cosmos. Then realisation struck her.            She was still alone.            Wait , she murmered in her head. The reason why she found that star in the first place. Kori grabbed two things from her back. A canister, filled up to half with stardust and a small, metal block, shaped like an hourglass. Grains of dust were slowly pouring off of it.            She wondered. Whether preserve the spare stardust or use it to boot up the machine. After rolling her eyes, she exhaled deeply and turned on her gauntlets.            Such a small thing. It better be worth it.      T he block of metal turned on. With a simple, holographic face sticking out of the miniscule screen.            The stardust in the canister depleted immensely, and she still needed to load up her glider. After detaching the run-down star from her chest, she connected it to the container to atleast make up for the loss in fuel.            The small machine bopped its head intensely, barely hovering over the board in any form of balance.          ­„INTERSTELLAR ROBOTIC INFORMATICAL SYSTEM activated” the robot spoke as smoothly as the nano-metal he was made of.          It spoke. And she heard it. How? They were in the void. No way for them to understand each other, nor for her to gasp with shock.            Kori widened her mouth as the robot saw only her mask that looked like a jellyfish. Words wanted to escape from her mouth but… she seemed to be unable to even squeal.            „Please, accept my apology, as I automatically connected myself to your communication device, as well as your neural scan”. His voice was gentle and eloquent, yet still boyish, like a well-mannered child.            „Uuhuh”, she mindlessly spilled, not able to accept a different voice in her head.            „If you prefer, I can communicate with you through your neural scan, without the need for vocal cords”.            „I-uh… I remember how to… How to speak!” she outraged, almost pushing the bot off the glider.            „I beg your pardon then, miss Kori” he bowed, putting his right hand behind his back and the left one to the side, fingers curled with just the pointing finger upwards.            „How do you know my name?!” her gauntlet started sparkling, as her fingers formed a glowing fist.            „Your name is in my programming” he turned his bubbly head, unaware of the girls’ gesture. „Also, I am connected to your mind”.            „Right. I’m not really… cool with that.” she shrank in posture.            „Fair enough” she immediately heard him again through the comm in her mask.            „I guess, it’s only fair for me to know… your name as well, don’t ya think?”            „Again, fair enough” the robot nodded.            „What’s your name then?”            „INTERSTELLAR ROBOTI-            „I ain’t rememberin’ all that, you small moon” Kori snapped her fingers against his head. „How about… IRIS?”            „I… like it. If you want to call me that, then so be it” IRIS accepted his name with grace.            „Great! Now, IRIS. Find me a star” the girl grabbed him by his hands and turned him around to face the void.            „I was just looking at one, madam” his head turned back to her and his body right after it.            „I mean a real star" she laughed. "You know, the one to use for space travel.”            The thought occured to her. She laughed. It came so naturally to her, she didn’t even notice. She laughed again, giggling like a child, trying to squeeze words through her teeth.            IRIS smiled, once more not understanding the girls’ behaviour.            „I know what a star is”.            „Congratulations, small moon. Now find one. There aren’t all that many left out there and you were made to sniff’em out like a Sirius”.            „Why?” IRIS shrugged.            „What why?” Kori did the same gesture.            „Why are you looking for a star?”            „I… have a mission. That’s all I know. Don’t really care ‘bout it, but.. someone’s gotta do it.” she swept her legs along the board and left them dangling.            „Restarting the universe”. His holographic eyes widened.            „Yup.”       „You don’t seem happy about it”.     „Why would I?” She turned her head away from his destructively child-like stare.            „The universe is a beauuuutiful thing” IRIS spinned around in awe.            „Was. Maybe. For a bit. Don’t really know”.            „It still is”.            „Listen, I don’t know what kinda world you remember but this ain’t it no more. It’s just a big corpse with a parasite in it” she hugged herself.            „ Orsus” IRIS stated. „That’s how my creators named him”. He added after noticing the girls’ confused stare.            „Your masters… Can you lead me to them?”            „Gladly!” IRIS jumped, lifting himself off of the glider. Fortunately, Kori catched him and put him back on the board. „Thank you kindly” he bowed again.            „Lead the way then, little moon” she loaded the glider with some dust. Still enough for a jump or two.            „Can’t wait to see humans again!” IRIS tried to jump, but immediately pulled himself back to Kori’s arm. Instead of flying away, he set up the coordinates for his creators’ location, as well as for a star in the same area.            Kori remained silent with the void. She bumped the leftover star in order to power up her board, took a quick glance at her helper. Fully aware of the stardust inside of him gradually fading.            „Keep your eyes open, IRIS, you’re gonna love that sight!” she attached the bot to her belt.            „But I don’t need to bl-            As a whistle across a forest, as white paint splashed with onto a black canvas. Like dipping your head in perfectly cold water. And right when you lift it up from the depths, you’re somewhere completely else.            „Where are we?” Kori gasped in wild confussion. But also with… enamourment.            This area of space had light. Different from stars. Deeply blue, with a bit of green. Waves upon waves of light, devouring each other.        „We’re at the…” IRIS already prepared himself to be interrupted again.            She leaned further, almost on the verge of the board. But that sight was worth it. „This is the edge of the universe!”            A veil of purple nebuli, one of the eyes of the cosmos, tearing itself apart and regrowing, feeding the waves. And yet, no new stars were being born. In this place, the infite became finite.            „Still no new stars at this eye” she sighed. „But the one we’re looking for should be close enough”.            „From my scans, the star you mentioned should be… there” he pointed to a drifting wreck at the end of existence, holding itself together by its metal veins.            Getting aboard the shuttle wasn’t a problem. It still had a functioning entrance. The metal door shivered, letting them inside Moses, as it was written on the scraped walls. The darkness seemed almost bright to the one outside. The only glow went off from Kori’s exo-suit. No other sound reached their ears except the howl of the glider, on which Kori was still riding.            „Why won’t you step off from the machine? IRIS asked, tiptoing next to her.            „My legs are tired” she growled.            „From what?”            „From not using them”.            IRIS went silent and stopped in his steps.            Kori sighed and turned around.            „Let me help you” his arm was reaching her from the ground, just below her knee.            She gave him a cold stare, but then… quickly changed it. Not for something much different, no. She lowered herself and grabbed him carefully, putting him on the board. Then, she put one foot on the ground, pushing herself with it further and further.            „What’s the last thing you remember from your times?” the girl asked the robot.            „Humanity conquering the stars. Enslaving them, until they started running out of them. Discovery after a discovery, not a single rock in the cosmos left unturned. That’s why I was created. To find the unfindable. And so, here I am, walking across the halls that birthed me, instead of venturing beyond the edge of the universe, like a proper machine should. Ironic, isn’t it?”            „Mhm” she nodded, confused but weirdly enchanted by his words. „Poetic”.            „In a different life, I would be a poet. Describe every, beautiful sight that the universe holds” he smiled. „What about you?”            „I remember… this uniform. This mask. My mission. Not much beyond that.” she answered, losing her tempo for a step.            „Did you ever take it off? If I may ask…” he forgot himself a little.            „I don’t think so, no. I can barely remember my face. Not too keen on seeing it again”.            They stopped in front of a ripped open door. Burned metal and flesh, smells so pungent that even a robot could feel their bloody aroma. IRIS’s radar started beeping, the stars’ signature should’ve been here. But the only things they found were a broken cage and a group of skeletons, laying on the floor. The cadavers, long dead, crystalized in their form, almost chrome. The last sign of their existence being dried up bloodstains.            Kori jumped off from her glider to look upon the chamber in which the star should be held. She tried lifting the shards from the ground, putting them back, but to no avail. She punched the cell with all her might, not feeling a scratch.            She heard a buzzing noise and so she found the source of it. A holo-reader, still working. With one, last message from beyond their cold graves. Kori had no mercy for the „play” button, but fortunately, she didn’t destroy the apparatus. A tall and skinny silhouette appeared in front of her, wearing long, brown hair and a metal, left arm.            „I record this, truly hoping that this will not be our end. Nor yours” the figure stated grimly. „My name is Adam Henry DuBois.” he bowed, putting his right hand behind his back and the left one to the side, fingers curled with just the pointing finger upwards. „I am a scientist. And truth be told, an optimist. Enough to hope that our actions may finally bring something good to the world. I don’t have much time. You must find IRIS, and with him – the Forge. Beware of the Primordium – the beast that took away Earth’s light. Stay strong, Kori. And...”            The message ended.            Kori stood there, staring into the wall. It didn’t seem real. Nothing did. Just a mess without a solution. Her knees were crumbling, hands shaking, almost losing the grip within her gauntlets. For the first time, she felt the weight of her suit. The burden of it.            „They’re beautiful” IRIS’s voice finally broke her, as he climbed on a desktop, near one of the chrome skeletons.            „Beautiful? How can you say something like that now?” she felt the need to cry, but not a single drop on her cheek.            „Even in death, they found something to strive towards. We are alive. What will we do now?”            „Pff, yeah, you alive”. She leaned on the table heavily.        „I beg your pardon?” his head raised as if he was raising an eyebrow.            „Nothing. Just tired.” She waved him off.            „Then why are you doing it?”            „Because someone has to”. Kori scratched the table harshly.         „That is not a logical argument. What reason do you have for it?” „None!” she snapped at him. „There is no reason! And if there’s no reason for it, then there’s no reason for me to even be alive! What other choice do I have? I don’t care what the world will look like if I succeed. I don’t care if I'll succeed. As long as I have something to do. Nothing more to it.” Her voice broke. Kori lost IRIS from her seight. But then, she felt his small arms around her leg.            „You seemed like you needed a hug” he said calmly.            „Let’s…find this forge” she smiled.            Already outside of the spaceship, prepared for another jump, they noticed clear, dark signs across their field of view. The darkness was coming back.            „One more jump, IRIS, get ready.”            „Rea-            Fwoosh!            They reached their final destination. The Starforge. Older than the universe itself – Methuselah . Primordium got to them faster than Kori expected, they had to hurry.            The greatest of the stars was not asleep, but dead. And it needed to be brought back to life. So it could bring the universe back.            Flying through the ribcage of the celestial body, they found its core. The anvil that needed power. Kori ran to the stone-like battery, in need of filling up.            „Kori” IRIS whispered, hearing a thunderous crack. The planet being slowly devoured.            The girl loaded the canister with stardust to the battery. All that she gathered. Not even half of what was required.            „Damnit!” she shouted, breaking the stars and adding them to the source.            Ground beneath them started shaking. She knew there was no running away from it. She took the engine from her glider, also sucking the stardust out of it.            Kori screamed. Only IRIS could hear her. And it was enough.            The bot stumbled near and put his hand onto the battery. Slowly giving away the dust that fueled him.            „IRIS, stop!” she tried to rip him from it, but he wouldn’t budge.            „It’s okay” he said, as the last grains of dust left his body.            Kori held onto him, pressing him to her chest.            „Be with me until every star goes dark” IRIS said to her ear. „And so, when the universe ends up black and hollow… I will still atleast hear your voice… And feel your hand in mine.”            His metal body clang near the core. An empty husk of a friend.            Orsus had her. Shattering down walls around them, it cornered her like a wolf trapping a sheep. The crystal teeth being the last light that she was meant to see. She stood up proudly before it. She was no sheep. But a phoenix.            Kori found her purpose. Putting all her strength, she loaded the battery to the maximum. Her suit started breaking, while the shadow, for the first time, cowered in fear. Now, she was her true self. A living star.            Methuselah was born anew. The light that emanated from Kori destroyed Orsus . The battery overloaded, two stars mended into one and finally… they burned all that was left of the previous universe.            On that day, a new star was born. And many more after it.

zcb27y

Ripples Across The Universe

The moon was absent that night. This was a night when the see lapped at the night sky. Kissing it gently until the dark heavens succumbed and there was no way of knowing where sky and ocean began or ended. The two lovers intertwined in a brief embrace that should have been desperate in its stolen transience, but was instead languorous and so hypnotically natural that Glen could no longer remember where the horizon should have been. He stared out across the boat and lost himself in that distant lovemaking. The ebb and flow of the water underneath him gradually rubbed the boat away until he was floating in the depths whilst soaring in the heights. Pin pricks of light were eyes watching him solemnly. The universe witnessing the flare of light that was the blink of his life. He felt his insignificance and it imbued him with a power he had only ever suspected he held. The overwhelming, infinite universe welcomed him, awaiting the acts that were the dance of his destiny. In another life, a realm so far removed from this place he suspected it to be a dream turned sour in the harsh light of reality, he heard muted sounds of destruction. Once, he would have winced at that cacophony of chaos. There was a time when he thought it was his place to stem that tide. He may or may not have been right. But in the end he was forced to acknowledge that to remain steadfast in his defence of hearth and home, and everything that made those things possible, would be a form of madness. He had to accept defeat even though it pained him to do so. Then he remembered that battles were lost in order to win wars. Conceding ground could be part of a plan that led an enemy to their downfall. Let them win, when what was really occurring was the prelude to a crushing defeat. Use the opponent’s momentum against them and bring everything to an end that heralded a fresh beginning. Glen sighed a breath into the darkness before him. A notional final breath. A symbol of what was about to come. A moment of peace that he would hold dear for evermore. This moment was his. A reward even before the job was done. Sometimes, time flowed in the wrong direction. Sometimes, you had to take what you were given because the offer may never be made again. “I have to say this is very unexpected.” Reluctantly, Glen slipped from the reality he could have spent an eternity in. A sadness caressed his face and encouraged tears that he had to swallow back. He had had his moment. He could not muster the arrogance to think he would have another. That was an impossibility. He was entirely different now and the person he was, the person he had to be, was not welcome in that place of serenity and beauty. “Was there a problem?” he said to Shirley, whilst looking toward the closed hatch. Shirley shrugged and moved her lips into an approximation of a smile. A well-rehearsed expression that, combined with her cold, scrutinising eyes, was designed to wound. Martin was down there. Their son. Glen had struggled with those two words for over a decade now. Over that time, Martin had become something other and something else. He didn’t even bear a resemblance to Glen anymore. The transformation had been impossibly gradual. There was a warning of this dark transition, but it wore a disguise of lies. Even as Glen cast his eyes back along the path of their shared lives he could not discern it. Retrospect was itself a lie of sorts. The context of now distorting all that had gone before. All the same, Glen was haunted by the thought that he should have known. His refusal to accept the worst had blinded him. And it had been used against him. Even now, he looked at Shirley and in seeing her for what she really was, still wished for her to be something better. Someone. Someone whole. The way she embraced her brokenness still shocked him, as did the way she drew him in with a promise of something good. A promise of love that had not once been fulfilled. Fool me once… Glen could not bring himself to complete the phrase. He had been fooled over and over again. But then, he hadn’t been fooled by anyone other than himself and his desire for things to work. His absolute need for love and the connection that would make his life and his very existence make sense. The connection that would alleviate the pain of his being. The one thing that Shirley had given him was pain. All she knew was how to take. She’d created an emptiness that terrified Glen. That void encompassed what had once been their son. Glen saw it pulsing within the boy. He felt it staring balefully through Martin’s eyes, even though the boy no longer looked upon him. By the time Glen registered that something was wrong, he was reeling, drunk with confusion. He knew everything had gone wrong and that he would never have the words for it. He also felt it inexorably moving against him. There was a terrible darkness here and roiling within the darkness was a hungry shoal of lies. Before he even got to grips with what was happening in his own home he understood that there was no going back. There was no fixing this. And that he would never be believed. That last was a crushing frustration. He knew the truth, but no one would ever share that truth with him. They would prefer to go with the stories of the smiling liars. It was easier that way. In these anguished times, Glen still found it within himself to give thanks for all that he had learnt. That in an abusive cocoon of lies he had discovered truth. And in that connection with the truth of the universe, he had found a way to live and that was all there was. The rest was just noise and chaos. The hatch opened and Martin stepped up onto the deck. The boy who was the size of a man did not look at his father. Hadn’t truly looked at him for many a year. He preferred to look down into the depths of darkness that he’d latched onto and would never let go of. Shirley had shown him that place and convinced him that it was theirs and theirs alone. That they were special. Better than the rest. Glen remembered better times. Shirley and Glen did not. They had burnt those memories away. The void required sacrifice and past and future were a part of that sacrifice. By the time Glen had noticed something was wrong, he thought that it was a simple case of parental alienation. That would have been bad enough. The thought of a parent weaponising their own child and using them in acts of petty revenge appalled him. Why people did these things was a mystery. That they hadn’t let go of a ball of pain and angst was apparent. People were really bad at letting go, even when they knew they were damaging themselves and others. After all this time, all Glen could say in answer to why? was that people did things because they could. They went with whims and urges and didn’t think and didn’t care. Consequences were for later and consequences were for other people. Glen looked from Martin to Shirley. In the depths of his despair, when all he could see was their acts of cruelty and the coldness with which they operated in the world, taking a callous vengeance on innocents, he had thought he could not love them because they had ceased to love. That in being past redemption thanks to their total rejection of the world and all that was good, he could not relate to the monstrous that they embraced with a religious fervour, nor could he connect with the monsters they undoubtedly were. He had returned to this again and again. His struggle with the love of his wife and son troubled and shamed him. He could not give up. That was not an option. In a way, giving up like that would be to join them. But he understood that he could never join them. That they were as isolated as could be. He saw the divisions between them and also within them. All they had was their dark friend. A darkness that could never be a friend. A cancer that they fed and grew and wished to inflict upon him in their addiction for a fleeting buzz that they saw as validation of their betrayal of their very souls. It had taken Glen an age to find their light. Diminished and impossibly small, but they were still there. Stars from a far off galaxy. Stars that were so far away now that Glen would be dead before he could reach them. Once he refound that light, Glen never lost sight of it. There resided his love for them. That was enough. That was all there was. He took solace from the fact that he loved them still. “Is it done?” Shirley asked Martin whilst staring at Glen. “Yes mum,” mumbled Martin. Glen nodded. He could make an educated guess at the destruction that Martin had wreaked below decks and he understood what purpose that was intended to fulfil. “Don’t think we’re fools,” Shirley said in the cold monotone she reserved for Glen when they were alone together. Glen smiled. He didn’t think they were fools, he knew they were and he knew that was the least of their worries. Their constant anger made them ignorant. Once he’d understood what they were and what they were about, they were simple to predict. They weren’t superhumans using mere humans as a supply to their addiction, they were no longer human. They had sacrificed their humanity to the dark gods. He could see it in their eyes. The emptiness beyond. There was nothing there anymore, barring the fading light of their souls. An eternal light that could never be extinguished, no matter what they did. That light held them anchored in a space that tortured them. They hurt themselves most of all, but blamed others for their pain. Never would they take responsibility for themselves or their actions. They thrashed about in the simplest of traps. Glen pitied them and their miserable existence. Shirley scowled at Glen’s smile, “whatever you were planning, you’re screwed now. You’ve got no way of getting back to the harbour, not without the satnav.” She smiled that awful, predatory smile of hers, “not without Martin. You need him.” Glen shrugged. Shirley had overplayed her hand, she just didn’t know it yet. Glen didn’t need Martin, neither did he need Shirley. They needed him. They always had. That was not to say that were he to go, they wouldn’t find some other poor sucker to draw in and latch upon. That wasn’t to say that he could just walk away. They would never allow that. His total destruction was their aim and if he were to leave, they’d throw everything they had at him and he doubted he’d recover from the smear campaign they concocted. Besides, he was too tired and worn out to start all over again, and maybe there was some belligerence there also. An unwillingness to allow them to win their awful game. “You better take the rudder then,” he said to Martin. Martin moved forward. Glen watched him. Head down, shoulders drooping. There was a brokenness conveyed in his entire demeanour, but Glen knew better than to underestimate the man. He was strong and he was vindictive. More than a match for most. He may look like a self-piteous loser, but as well as that martyr complex, he was possessed of a god complex and that made him proud and egotistical. That was one of his weaknesses. Glen made to step away as Martin approached, but did nothing of the sort. The bowed head act unsighted the younger man and it was a simple matter of using Martin’s forward momentum to send him towards the edge of the boat. The wooden cudgel Glen had been concealing at his side completed the trajectory Glen had planned. He swung the extension to his left arm and it connected with the back of Martin’s skull with a sickening crack. Glen watched the thing that had once been his son go overboard. The thing that had been his son but had been broken and twisted into something dark, cruel and monstrous by his own mother. There was no movement from the monster to break its fall into the water, and this fascinated Glen. Survival was the monster’s prime directive. Martin was likely dead before he hit the water. If not, there was no one here to save him. He remained in dark isolation even at the very end. Glen turned back to Shirley. Having her at his back even for that briefest of moments made his flesh crawl. She was as dangerous as they came. Even more dangerous than the monster she had made of their son, after all, she’d had far more practice. Her face was another mask. This one a mask of rage. “How dare you!” she hissed, “he was mine!” Glen met her murderous stare, but said nothing. He held himself in check. She’d just seen her son die and all she could say was that Martin was hers. Shirley was angry because Glen had dared deprive her of what she considered to be a possession. Martin was hers and hers alone. A toy to be used and used badly at that. Now she was without her favourite toy. Glen wondered at that, then realised that he should not. Shirley liked her toy, but she hated the boy. He meant his silence to be reply enough, but the words came unbidden, “he was our son. He was a lovely little boy filled with love and joy. You took all of that from him. You took everything from him. You killed him long before today. I don’t know who did the same to you. You’ve never talked about your parents. Not really. Only that you had a bad childhood, which was an excuse for how you are and reason for me to be sorry for you. What I do know is that the same thing happened to you. All abusers were abused. We all follow the same patterns again and again. I wonder when it all went wrong? A hundred years ago or more? And ever since that initiating event, a parent has taken a bitter and twisted revenge upon their own child for the abuse they received as a child. And so it went on.” Shirley trembled with rage. There was no mask now, and Glen saw her for what she truly was. Ugly, callous and venomous. Her mouth opened, no doubt to spout vile words. Glen spoke first. “It stops now. There will never be another of your kind. Not in this family.” She barked laughter of derision, “you’ll pay for this!” “I already have,” Glen said quietly as he approached her. “You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed as he stood before her. But the time for words was over and he choked the last of them off. They say, that if you end a person the way Glen ended Shirley, you see the light of their life fade from their eyes. Glen stared into Shirley’s eyes and all he saw was her light. The light was all that mattered. He freed it from the prison Shirley had made for it. Afterwards, as Glen looked up at the stars, he fancied he saw two more in the night sky. He didn’t have a clue as to how a sailor might use a scientific reference of the stars to navigate a boat. Even if he did, he would not have bothered with its use. He trusted those stars and he knew the universe had a use for him, so he allowed the stars to do their thing, guiding him towards where he was supposed to be next. He stared into the eyes that peered down at him and lost himself to them. Free at last, all three of them. The release from a legacy of pain untethered him from the world and he drifted out and beyond this end. There was a beginning awaiting him somewhere out past those watching eyes. The water rippled and he was reflected a million times in those ripples. The ripples nearest to the boat faded even as a million more ripples travelled out across the entwined, night time lovers. What was done was done, now there was only the truth of the light and a love eternal.

46ivhp

Manmade Eclipse

The director was a perfectionist and everyone was always pissed at him. He’d do each take twenty thirty times over and wouldn’t let the people leave until they got it right. It had to be perfect. Now it was his best film yet and they were on the very last night. It took place in the desert at night on the roof of a car. There was a boy and a girl. “Kiss more slowly,” he said. Well they did it again. “That’s too slow. Faster.” Again. “Let me see it with the brights on.” Again. “Move the car. I want the moon in the background.” “Holy shit,” said the actors, “It’s three in the morning. We have to get SOME sleep.” “You know how many nights I was up writing this thing? You slept last night. You can deal.” Well he had them that night until around five and then they blew him off and went back to their trailers. None of the takes were good. They said their lines differently each time and played it out differently or the lighting was off or the camera guy fucked up or whatever. Always something. Then there were five days until the thing was due. That is, all of the filming had to get done. They still couldn’t get this one scene because it had to be filmed at night and the actors needed to sleep. “Tonight we’re staying up until we get it. It’s almost due. I don’t want to be stressed out.” “You’re stressing yourself out. There’s nothing wrong with a little imperfection.” “Yes there is.” “How about this,” said the girl, “Why don’t we film it during the day?” “NO!” They all looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you fucking kidding?! Scenes like this happen at night. Everyone knows that.” “Sleep happens at night. That’s what everyone knows.” The boy and girl and the crew laughed. “I worked my ass off writing this shit and I’m not compromising because you guys need your sleep. I haven’t slept in three days and I’m fine.” “You’re not the one on camera though are you.” “What difference does that make?” “Look at you. You look like shit. Like you haven’t slept ever.” “A night without sleep wouldn’t kill you. Just get it right.” “Why don’t we do it during the day and they can do one of those editing tricks to make it look like it’s night?” “Bill can you do that?” asked the director. “It’ll look like shit,” said Bill. “Either the scene looks like shit or we look like shit.” “Go to bed for now,” said the director, “I’ll think of something.” Everyone went into their trailers and the director sat out thinking of what to do. Well they couldn’t move the scene inside because they needed the sky and the stars and all that and the breeze. Perhaps they could relocate to Alaska or one of those places where it was night all the time? Then he had an idea. Yes! Google search eclipse. When the moon covers the sun completely making it appear to be night during the day. Next one in two years thirty three days and eleven hours. Fuck thought the director. Then he had another idea. He went to the textile people who made the costumes and bedsheets and curtains and all that. They made the curtains for the stage productions which were especially dark and he thought he could get them to make one to cover the sun. “WHAT?!” they said. “Yes,” said the director. “There’s a scene we need to film at night and they won’t stay up and can’t get it right. The thing’s due in five days and I need it to be dark. Here’s a million dollars. I’m thinking we can use some of the planes to fly up there and spread it out.” “You know the sun’s a million miles in diameter, right?” “Yes but the way the eclipse works is the moon doesn’t cover the sun. It only appears to cover it since the moon is closer and the sun is farther. In fact for the set we only need a little area to be dark, so the sheet can actually be smaller than the moon.” “THAT’S STILL TWO THOUSAND MILES!” “Make it a quarter. Five hundred. You can make a five hundred mile sheet, no?” They all looked at each other. “Fifty million dollars,” said the director, “Make it happen.” So the people got to work with the sewing machines and everything else they used. The best way to do it was to make a bunch of smaller sheets and sew them together. Even then the smaller sheets were each a MILE long and they paid to use the fabric factories around the set. The director paid them. And soon there was a massive sheet folded up in the center of the street on the set with ropes sticking out that were tied to each corner. “What’s this?” said the actors. “You’ll see.” Then he went to the plane people. They had these little jets they would use and tied up the ropes to each of them. “You’re going to fly up close together. If you spread out too early it’ll catch wind and be even heavier.” “It’s going to be heavy as hell anyway. I really don’t think this is a good idea.” “Nobody thinks any of my ideas are good. That’s how I know they’re good. You just don’t think they’re possible.” “They’re not.” “Get in the planes please.” The planes took off. There were four stunt doubles trained to do things like this. It would be the highest they ever flew and for the longest time and once they spread out they would fly in circles. The director had given them food and water. He called everyone out. It was early in the morning and the actors were cranky but they stood in the desert set in the sun as the director told them to watch it. “I thought you only wanted to film it night?” “Watch.” They stared up at the sun. There was a little black square that got bigger and bigger as it got darker and the dark got bigger and bigger and soon it was night, essentially. “Ta-da! Everyone change. We’re filming now.” “What the fuck did you do?!” “Solar eclipse. When the moon covers the sun completely making it appear to be night during the day. Next one in two years thirty one days.” They kept staring at it. “GO CHANGE! Those guys can’t fly around forever.” “WHO?!?!” “Stunt double pilots.” It was too dark to see the planes but the actors changed and came back out and got on the car. They shot the scene. Really it was day but dark and the director hoped they wouldn’t notice when it became really night. They still hadn’t gotten it right. A little too bright. The director took out his phone. “YO! I’m gonna call all four of you. I need you to move to the right a little. In exactly five minutes fly slowly to the right until the guy in front of you stops. I don’t want the thing to rip.” He called the other three and told them it and five minutes later everyone watched as the square moved a hair to the left. “You moved the wrong way. Other way.” “Can’t you just move the fucking car?!?! It’s much easier to move a car than four planes you know!” “I like the place it’s in now. Five minutes. I’m calling all of you.” The actress got up from the car. He yelled at her to get back and she said she had to pee and he said fine. Then the man actor figured he might as well pee so he got up and neither came back for twenty minutes. The director’s phone rang. It was a pilot. “I have to take a shit.” “What do you want me to do?” “What do you want ME to do? You’re the one who set this thing up.” “What do you usually do?” “Well I usually don’t fly for a day straight let alone three so usually I go before.” “You didn’t go before?” “Two days ago. Yes.” “I don’t know what you want me to do.” The director hung up the phone and went into the trailer. Both of them were sleeping. “What are you doing? Let’s go!” “It’s nighttime. We’re not stupid.” The director checked his watch. Eight hours he said. Be back on set. In the morning they were there but it was day. The square was gone. The director called the pilots. “Where’d you guys go?” What happened was they realized they wouldn’t know how to get back because jets weren’t meant to go that high and tried to find their way back and were somewhere else now. It was a couple hours before they spread out again as the director had told them. He offered them each a lot of money. They still hadn’t gotten the shot right. “Five more takes,” said the actors. “This is ridiculous.” “You’re ridiculous. I don’t see why you can’t do it right.” They did the five more takes and then the square was gone again and it was bright. The actors went off into their trailers and there was nothing more he could do. The movie came out. He wasn’t happy with the shot but everyone else was and you really couldn’t tell if it was one of the ones taken under the eclipse or actually at night. And he was happy with that. 

gzezcm

False Gods

The ship’s log would state that Captain John Tanner was the first to set foot on the newly discovered lands. This was not the case. Tanner was a shrewd and sometimes cunning man. He prioritised survival over the flim-flam of bravery, chivalry and honour. He had a head on him and he used it. His crew, those who were lucky enough to live through the depravations of numerous long and treacherous voyages, would have likely referred to him as dependable. The word would be qualified, but not expanded upon. Not that anyone would have asked the opinions of the braggards and criminals conscripted into the navy, they were mindless scum and barely fit to be sailors. The voyage to these unchartered lands had seen two in every ten of the crew expire. Most of those deaths had occurred in the weeks preceding landfall. Scurvy took many a sailor and although there were clever minds seeking to address this economic issue, their discoveries were thwarted by the thick and choking gases of ignorance. The establishment of facts has always been a tricky business, in a world where opinions and beliefs rule. From the outset, it was clear that these lands were inhabited. The signs were there, but most of all, the men could feel scrutinising eyes upon them and so precautions were taken. Muskets were loaded and knives and swords delicately and covertly brandished. There was no way of establishing whether the natives were friendly. Everything would ride on the first encounter. Those tasked with first contact were well aware that the guns of the Albatross were trained on the beach and the treeline beyond. This was cold comfort. Cannon balls cared not as to whether they met friend or foe. The interlopers landed on the sandy shore and dragged their boats out of the lapping waters. Once this work was completed, they formed a line and waited. The wait was tortuous, even for the sailors watching from the comparative safety of the Albatross. Not all the men were friends. There were conflicts and disagreements aplenty, even before a word was said and some of those would never be resolved, such was the nature of men. Nonetheless, there was a bond they shared. They were one and they were about to face outsiders. The desired outcome was one of triumph and conquest. The empty hold of the Albatross could not remain so, and the prospect of leaving these lands empty handed carried with it a bleakness that spoke of death sentences for many, if not all of them. The natives were in no rush to make themselves known. Their absence, and the pregnant silence that accompanied it, carried a warning far more intimidating than war drums. Everything could turn in a moment and even the comparative safety of the big ship could not stave off the growing anticipatory fear of the unknown lurking beyond the treeline. When the warriors of the tribe stepped forward, it was something of an anti-climax. The men were fierce and self-evidently strong, but they carried with them primitive weapons and they stood a full foot shorter than the swarthy sailors. Any fight would be one-sided. Simple lambs to a beachfront slaughter. The two rows of men faced each other, sizing each other up. Any apparent deadlock was avoided then the largest of the natives lowered his head to listen to words from a wizened, dishevelled and strangely garbed man at his side. Having considered these words he nodded, raised his spear above his head and spoke a few words. In response his warriors lowered their weapons and he and his old companion stepped forth. Frampton, Tanner’s second in command, also stepped forward. With him was Baker, the ship’s cook. Baker had been lumbered with cooking duties when the original ship’s cook was taken a hold of by melancholy, stole a sizeable quantity of the ship’s rum and jumped overboard one evening three months back. Despite his lacklustre culinary skills, Baker had a way with languages that leant itself well to this encounter. He was also a head taller than Frampton, making up for the officer’s slight build and timid demeanour. Words were exchanged and gestures made. It was apparent to all who witnessed it that the natives were curious and rendered friendly in their curiosity. All was well and before the sun had fallen in the sky, a second group of sailors had disembarked and the visitors were treated to a welcome feast. Within a week of the Albatross’s arrival, a series of deals had been made and these included agreements for future trade. The tribe had accumulated a sizeable pile of animal furs that would fetch a good price back home. They sold these cheaply, exchanging them for a small number of useful tools that fascinated them so deeply, the crew suspected that they would become items of worship and never see another day’s work. When it came time for the Albatross to leave, there was an impasse with regard to the level of provisions the natives were willing to part with. No deal could be reached here because, as the chief of the tribe explained with a series of gestures and lines drawn in the dirt, Winter was approaching and many of the tribe would starve to death were they to part with such a large proportion of the food they had put aside so they could last out past the thaw. Displeased with the prospect of inadequate rations for the voyage home, Tanner took himself off to the Albatross. There, awaiting him on deck was Frampton. Without a word, Tanner bid his number two accompany him to his quarters. Tanner had a look about him that would not be denied and Frampton fancied there was murderous intent in the eyes of his captain. He shivered with a premonition of bloodshed as he trotted along behind him. With the door shut, Tanner indulged in the unexpected, pouring Frampton and himself generous measures of rum. He downed his first glass and refilled it before handing Frampton his rum. Frampton raised his glass as a prelude to sipping delicately at the rough and burning liquid. His eyes watered and he fought the urge to gag. Tanner eyed his man thoughtfully, “there is a solar eclipse the day after tomorrow, is there not?” Frampton, resisted the temptation to nod agreement thoughtlessly. Whereas it was wise to defer and please his captain, getting anything wrong could cost lives, his own included, “Higgins has spoken of such.” He thought for a moment, “I asked if it was to be a partial eclipse, but he was adamant that this one would blot out the sun in its entirety.” The captain nodded and smiled a sly smile, “then we will use this to our advantage.” Frampton nodded, said nothing. He knew better than to question the captain. The atmosphere in the cabin then drooped and gave itself over to an ominous quiet. This was how Tanner dismissed his men. Frampton gazed down into his glass of rum sorrowfully. Damnation lay below the surface of that cloudy liquid, and it also stood above it. He could not leave his drink, that would not do. He stifled a sigh as he brought the liquid up to his lips and poured it in its entirety into his mouth. He held it there for a moment and almost choked as he sent it on its way. That evening, Tanner dined with the chief. In attendance was the old man who seemingly never left the chief’s side. Tanner did not like that man. He was filthy and smelt, but there was also something knowing about him. Tanner had caught him staring on more than one occasion and the man never averted his eyes. He had no sense of decorum or shame even, and those staring eyes went right into the very centre of Tanner as though the old man were reading the truth of his very soul. As had been the case from the very first day, Tanner was accompanied by both Frampton and Baker. Had Baker been a gentleman, Tanner would have preferred him as his second in command. Sometimes, Tanner found himself at odds with the notion of birth-rights. Frampton may have been born of a gentleman, but he lacked most, if not all of what it took to be one. The group sat around a fire and having eaten, they smoked their pipes. An agreeable activity that aided digestion. Tanner was the first to break the silence, parting the aromatic smoke with his words. “We need those provisions,” he said tersely. His meaning was clear and there was no need to interpret his words. The chief shook his head. Whatever he said equated to a single word; impossible. “Our gods will it,” Tanner stated. Baker stutter-spoke in tracts of the native language and used hand gestures to help convey meaning. The old man shook his head and smiled. Tanner suppressed his own smile. He had anticipated this. In fact, the old man had inspired his plan. Moreover, the plan had the added bonus of Tanner settling the score with him and addressing Tanner’s dislike of the grubby and insolent thing that dared seat itself before him. “If you do not acquiesce to our requests for food,” Tanner said across the fire, “our gods will blot out the sun to show you their displeasure. This will be a warning that you would be foolhardy not to heed as our gods are all powerful and they will not be denied.” He placed increasing emphasis on each word and when finished he nonchalantly brought his pipe to his mouth and relaxed into his smoking. His point had been made and he effected an air of detachment, even as he studied the response his words would have as Baker relayed them. He was rewarded with looks of shock and of fear. The old man babbled words into the chief’s ear. Tanner looked askance towards Baker, but the man only shrugged in reply. But then Tanner knew all he needed to as the old man skuttled off, giving the captain a swift, churlish backward glance before opening the flap of the tent and retreating into the night. Victory was Tanner’s, and now he revelled in the old man’s defeat. The chief spoke briefly, and then he too left his own tent. “What did he say?” Tanner asked Baker. “They want to see just how powerful our gods are, sir.” “Then they will,” replied Tanner before rising and returning to the Albatross. The following day, the entire ship’s crew formed on the beach and as the time of the eclipse approached Tanner gave forth a rousing speech. His timing was impeccable. Just prior to the moon drifting across the sun he raised his arm theatrically and bellowed “Behold!” The men fell into an awed hush. Sailors are a superstitious lot. The sea is a cruel mistress and they do their very best not to displease her. There were many signs of the cross and whispered prayers as day fell to an unnatural and unwelcome darkness. Disconcertingly, as the last of the sun succumbed to the shadow of the moon, the tribesmen broke into an unholy hullabaloo. They wailed and they screamed and they danced around small fires waving torches as they jigged this way and that. “They’ve lost their minds!” exclaimed Frampton. “Wouldn’t you in the circumstances?” replied Tanner. “Well, yes. Quite,” said Frampton, but he was taken with a notion that did not quite fit with the captain’s plan and would have voiced that notion had he had the good fortune to spot the look on the old man’s face in that very moment. As the light of the sun returned, the chief approached Tanner and bowed. In his hands he held a ceremonial pipe. This he offered to Tanner whilst remaining in a pose of supplication and humility. Tanner took it from him and gave thanks. The chief spoke. “What did he say?” Tanner asked Baker. “They want to hold a feast in your honour,” Baker told him. Tanner nodded, the tide was turning. His plan had worked. These primitive natives now believed that Tanner’s gods had the power to turn out the light of the sun. He cast an eye around for the old man, but was deprived of the sight of him. He smiled at the thought of the defeated old man skulking off in the aftermath of his defeat. Good riddance to him. He was nothing to Tanner now. A busted flush. In a matter of minutes a procession of tribesmen returned with food. Pride of place was a roasted bull, the sight of which prompted a cheer from the crew of the Albatross. The prospect of a fresh cooked meal was always welcome, more so when the men knew they were about to embark upon the return journey home. A journey that would necessitate many hardships, including the consumption of food not fit to grace the trough of a hog. As the light of the day waned, gourds were produced as though from nowhere. “Seems they want to toast our gods,” smiled Tanner as he clapped Frampton on the back, “tomorrow we will take our provisions and leave this place. We will return home and we will both be men of means.” The gourds were passed around from native to sailor and there was much coughing and spluttering as the coarse spirit was downed by the sailors. It seemed that even the most hardened rum drinker found this native delicacy to be potent and none quaffed it with any semblance of ease. The tribesmen however had no such trouble. The chief handed Tanner an ornate gourd and urged him to drink. Tanner looked about him as a sudden quiet descended upon the assembled party. Solemnly, he raised the drinking vessel and made a point of drinking well from it. Try as he might, he could not hold his composure and he coughed and spluttered as though his chest would burst. The sailors gave forth with a loud and raucous roar of appreciation of their captain and through tear filled eyes he saw his men beaming at him. In that moment he experienced a feeling of companionship like no other. He wanted to capture that feeling and hold onto it for as long as he possibly could, and so as it dissolved all too soon, he experienced a crushing sense of loss. In that fugue of loss the old man appeared and with him he brought an inexplicable feeling of dread, even before he smiled a sickening smile at Tanner. Something was very wrong here. So very wrong. “Something is afoot,” Tanner said the words but they stretched and contorted and made no sense as they tumbled from his gummy mouth. He raised a hand to his lips as though to make sense of what was happening, “Frampton?” he said with a milky meekness that shamed him. It was with much labour and strife that he manoeuvred himself into a position to view his number two. What he saw undid him further. The man was there, but he was not there. He was taken with a vacancy that horrified Tanner. He tried to distance himself from the absence of the man, but his limbs no longer obeyed him. There was commotion about him, but he could make no sense of it. The world was slowing to a stop and in the moment that it ceased all motion, a moon eclipsed the light of the dying sun. It was the pockmarked face of the old man, and now, as this man spoke, Tanner understood every word. Our gods are strong and they are knowing. With the only movement left available to him, Tanner fell backwards so that he was lying on the sands of the beach, staring upwards into the heavens. With unblinking eyes he bore witness. He bore witness as the earth began moving backwards. He felt the movement underneath him and then it crept inside of him and possessed him. He sensed the approaching darkness more than saw it and he understood what it meant even before the sun was blotted out once again. He had lied in an attempt to gain what he thought he had an absolute right to. He had committed heresy and demanded the sacrifice of these people. Now they and their gods would make him and his crew pay for those lies and that heresy. There would be a sacrifice, but it would not be the natives of this land who gave their lives, it would be the entire crew of the Albatross. When the moon face of the old man loomed over him one last time, it was not his face that Tanner observed but the wicked blade that he gleefully brandished. His fears of a cut throat were unfounded though, the old man would afford him no such mercy. His gods demanded a much higher price than that and he would exact it with zealous fervour. Although numbed by the liquid he had been invited to drink, the pain he experienced at the hands of the old man was amplified a thousand fold. Before his mind eventually broke and turned in on itself, he found himself wondering how it was that they had all drunk the same poison and yet the tribesmen had not been affected. The answer came to him before the darkness of the second eclipse fell upon the land. Their gods demanded a sacrifice and those gods would choose who lived and who died via the imbibement of that magical and holy liquid. He felt it inside him now. Invading and manipulating him. Consuming him from within. Tendrils slipping upwards into his brain and playing with his thoughts and memories until they crashed into each other in a chorus of exquisite pain and madness. And then the sun was no more.

o5c16j

The Darkness of IT

The sky became filled with the dark shadows of the moon, covering the happiness that once sat throughout this small town. Everyone tried to warn them, but they wouldn't listen. Now we have to suffer the consequences of their actions. We have to live through this nightmare, while they watch in astonishment. The blasting sound of everyone's screams filled my ears as I ran along with the crowd. I need to find her. My legs filled with achiness as I ran faster than I ever had. The sky seemed to lean over us, mocking our horror. The scientists did this on purpose, they know it comes out in the dark. I climbed on top of the marble fountain that once was the glory of this broken town, ignoring my feet getting soaked as I reached the top. I could see almost everyone, but my eyes couldn't seem to reach her. I called her name, over and over. I glanced at my watch, we didn't have much time. I nervously ran my hands through my short brown hair. My stomach filled with worry as I watched almost everyone in the town clear out. They ran over the old, rusty, black fence no one had ever bothered paying attention to before. A few more seconds, I decided, before I would leave without her. Just then, the auburn color of her curly hair shot into my eyesight. The tiny brown freckles that traced her nose and her bright blue eyes seemed to call out to me, grabbing my attention. Our eyes locked, and suddenly the harsh chill seemed to vanish, replaced with the warmth of her love. She called out my name, just as I did with hers a minute ago. I immediately jumped down from the fountain, blocking out the pain in my ankles. She ran into my arms, and it seemed as if we were never separated. “Oh Daniel,” She cried. She looked up into my eyes as I held her.  “ Alora, we don’t have much time,” I started, “We need to get out of here.” She nodded in agreement, and I grabbed ahold of her hand. We took off, sprinting away from the fountain, which seemed to loom in the darkness. Everyone had already emptied of the haunted town, but it still lingered, watching, waiting, stalking. The blackout of the sky ate us alive. The paths ahead of her and I seemed to fade, copying the heavens above. I carefully untucked the pocket of my cargo pants, slowing down our run. My fingers fiddled around until I felt the cold metal of my flashlight. I clicked the ‘on’ button, and for a split second light appeared around us. Then, like it never happened, the light flew away into the sky. I threw my flashlight onto the muddy grass and began to run faster. The longer we wait, the more we won’t be able to see. The more vulnerable we are, the easier it is for it to attack us. Every night, when the sun goes down, we turn into bait. Prey. At Least then, we could avoid it. But now, as they purposely move the moon to ensure darkness, we are hopeless. We can’t fend it off. I stumbled as we entered the dark forest, the sky around us now completely dark. I felt the jagged tree stumps under my feet, pleading for me to fall. I allowed my hands to slightly clasp on the tree trunks around me, feeling the old bark. The smell of musty dew spilled into my nose. The swamp is ahead of us. “Alora, the-” “-Swamp, I know.” She finished my sentence, leaving a slight smile on my face. I squeezed her soft hand harder, scared one of us might accidentally let go. I carefully took off my leather backpack and placed it over my head, steadying it with my free hand. I stepped into the thick muddy water, immediately feeling the sticks, thorns, and many other questionable substances. The cold goo sunk into my skin. I trudged through the thick, brown water as it weighed me down. It’ll take about 10 minutes to get all the way through it, then we’re at our bunker. “Daniel, I’m scared,” Alora told me, tightening her grip to my hand. “It’s ok, we’re almost out.” I lied, we still have a few more minutes to go. The stank of the fumes was almost insufferable. “What if they’re is an alligator in here?” She whimpered. Then, I remembered. Alora isn’t scared of alligators. When she was younger, she would sneak down here just to play with them. “What do you mean?” I almost stopped in my tracks, but then I remembered what we were running from. I couldn’t see her face, but I imagined she was confused. “I mean, I don’t want to get eaten!” This time she shrieked, as if an actual alligator was approaching us. I studied her words, some things not right here. She’s never shown her fear about many things, much less alligators. So I decided to play it off, “Uh, yeah, right.” We hiked through the muddy stew and blindly climbed out. I felt the remains of the muck drip down my legs and onto the dirt-covered ground. I shuddered at the cold gust of wind, sending a shiver down my spine. I held out my hand and helped Alora out of the oozy gunk. I felt another shiver down my back at the thought of her strange behavior. “The bunkers are a few feet away, we’re almost there,” I told her, beginning to walk in the direction, blindly guessing it’s the right way. “Daniel, wait.” She pulled my hand back, stopping me. I turned around and immediately dropped her hand. I wanted to scream, shout, or say anything, but I stood there with my mouth hanging open unable to get a sound out. Goosebumps overfilled my body, making me wish I was already dead. I resisted the urge to rip my eyes out. It can’t be. I watched as my beautiful wife transformed into a horrible creature. Her body shook, blurred, and horrible loud shrieks escaped from her ratched mouth. It looked as if she was fighting off a monster as it tried to consume her body. Suddenly, her screams got quieter and her body began to become one again. Only it wasn’t her. It was a bloody naked demon in her place. Its eyes glowed red, with scars and deep cuts all over its body. Its long talons were mucked in dirt and dried blood. Its horrific sharp teeth snarled a strange noise in my direction. Pale skin, shaded in black blood and erratic goo. Then, while it looked me in the eye, the body of disgust pounced on me. 

vz7478

They Danced in the Long Eclipse

Chapter 1: Dust and Omens Shadows clung to the empire of Ant-opolis, a labyrinth of tunnels worming beneath a forgotten cookie. Here, amidst the stolen sweetness and the ceaseless hum of a thousand tiny legs, Nostrantdamus toiled. Others hurried on paths of purpose; he lurked, drawn to whispers echoing from the world beyond. The granules of sugar he gathered weren't mere sustenance, but omens etched in crystalline code by unknowable forces. His nest, a grotesque shrine of singed maps and cryptic symbols, crackled with a disquieting energy. For Nostrantdamus wasn't simply an ant, he was a prophet of a terrible, unsettling truth: the universe pulsed with a rhythm alien and uncaring. The whispers echoing through Ant-opolis weren't just of madness, but of an unsettling devotion centered around Nostrantdamus. He wasn't merely a prophet to them, but a herald. They were the Chosen of the Orb, and his every twitch and proclamation was a testament to the coming Rapture. Their gatherings weren't merely rituals fueled by desperation, but fervent preparations for ascension. The shadows thrummed not with fear, but with a zealotry that was chilling in its single-mindedness. "Rejoice!" His voice, once cracked with madness, was now a chilling invocation ringing out in the central square. "The patterns unveil themselves! The Great Orb, it…it beckons!" He danced upon a fallen leaf, each frantic step a prayer, not a sign of lunacy, but the movements of a true believer. The foragers stilled, their ceaseless industry faltering not out of pity, but a creeping unease. This wasn't just madness, it was a contagion – a belief in oblivion so absolute, it bordered on terrifying. It was Flicker, the colony's swiftest scout, who paused. Not out of genuine concern, but from a morbid fascination. As pragmatic as they came, Flicker saw his panic as a flaw, a weakness in an otherwise efficient organism. "Nostrantdamus," she clicked in a tone of forced patience, "you've been sniffing too much mold. What madness possesses you now?" "The sugar speaks!" He pointed to a scattering of granules, their edges not simply burnt but… warped. "See? The Great Orb, it distorts, a sickening in its brilliance. It heralds an era of unmaking!" Flicker's antennae twitched in irritation but with a hint of unease Nostrantdamus never failed to ignite. "Or," she countered, "you singed your breakfast, and it's made you see patterns in the char." Unbowed, Nostrantdamus's voice dropped to a chilling whisper, "They scoff, Flicker, because they are blind. The patterns are there, woven of light and shadow by forces beyond our reckoning. The very ground trembles with it!" Even Flicker's dismissiveness faltered. His bulging eyes… genuine terror. For a heartbeat, it wasn't just him. The tunnels pulsed wrong. The Great Old Ones, their footsteps thunder that wasn't thunder. She was on the edge, the world tilting, sanity a thread…" A wave of cold sweat washed over her. Was it fear, or the first taste of madness spreading? The Queen approached, and for a moment, the world righted itself. Then, like a flickering candle flame, it was gone. The Great Old Ones were once again oblivious beings, the rumble of their steps just a mundane annoyance. A wave of cold sweat washed over her, leaving behind a prickling unease. Had she truly glimpsed the world as Nostrantdamus did, or was his madness, for a terrifying moment, contagious? The Queen, alerted to the commotion, approached. Unlike the others, Queen Solenia rarely dismissed Nostrantdamus outright. His prophecies were often bleak, fantastical, but in his fevered ramblings, she sometimes caught a hint of an unnerving truth: the world they lived in was far vaster, more indifferent, than they would ever understand. "Nostrantdamus," the Queen's hum was a soothing balm to the prophet's frayed mind, "your words paint bleak landscapes upon the hearts of your colony. Tell me, is there nothing but an end in this vision of yours?" His manic energy faded, replaced by a quiet despair. "There are… whispers… of ways to plead for the Great Orb's return. Rituals long forgotten… sacrifices to entities that stir in the deepest dark…" His voice trailed off, lost in the contemplation of entities his brethren couldn't fathom. Queen Solenia regarded him with a strange mix of pity and respect. Ants were survivors, not philosophers. They weathered floods and boot-heels. Nostrantdamus, in his own tortured way, grappled with the weight of a universe too vast to comprehend. "Very well," the Queen declared, surprising even Flicker. "We have endured much, Nostrantdamus. Perhaps enduring requires more than mere survival. What wisdom do these… whispers offer? " Madness bloomed in Nostrantdamus's eyes, a grotesque flower nurtured not upon sugar, but on visions that were the rot of revelation itself. The prophet was a husk now, devoured from within by his fanatical devotion to the Great Old Ones – unknowable beings whose mere existence was an affront to sanity. This wasn't playacting, nor the ramblings of a madman, but the chilling performance of a zealot granted a horrifying glimpse behind the cosmic curtain. “Knowledge," he hissed, his voice a dry rattle, "is a blade that cuts both ways. Are you certain, my Queen, that you wish to bleed for this truth?" It was the closest Nostrantdamus would ever come to a warning, a plea born not from concern, but the terrible understanding of the price of the knowledge he bore. And as always, it was a warning destined to fall on deaf ears, lost amidst a colony already caught in the inexorable pull of oblivion. Chapter 2: Anthems for the End A chilling fervor swept through Ant-opolis, a metamorphosis born of terror and desperation. The usual hum of industry warped into a frantic symphony of preparation. Petals weren't for adornment, but to mask the stench of the offerings – the young, the feeble, even the healthy who dared voice disbelief. Blades of grass weren't woven into mere decorations, but to bind the unwilling. Dewdrops glittered, but not with innocent beauty; they mirrored the tears of those chosen for the Great Orb's insatiable hunger. Nostrantdamus's 'Play of the Great Darkening' wasn't a source of fleeting fear, but a blueprint for a horrific reality the colony was hurtling toward. Flicker observed this with a mix of awe, disgust, and a growing tremor of unease. She'd never understood her eccentric nest-mate, but even a skeptic couldn't deny the chilling transformation sweeping through Ant-opolis. Nostrantdamus wasn't just sparking excitement, he was stoking a fervor bordering on religious hysteria. He was aided, chillingly, by Queen Solenia, whose pragmatism seemed clouded by a desperation Flicker couldn't comprehend. The preparations weren't mere festivities, but a grotesque parody of a celebration, filled with macabre sacrifices and unsettling rituals. As the grand Eclipse Festival neared, the true terror of the situation sank in. Flicker, scouting the world above, caught glimpses of grotesque figures moving with unsettling purpose. The Great Old Ones, in all their unknowable vastness, seemed to writhe and shift as they constructed outlandish structures and ignited strange, shimmering lights. Even to her grounded mind, it was clear – no matter what Nostrantdamus's ramblings foretold, the greatest threat wasn't dimming stars, but the unpredictable, monstrous beings who existed beyond their comprehension. The festival itself erupted under a sky darkening prematurely. Ant-opolis had always been lit with the glow of stolen honey and fermenting stores, but now, a hush fell. Nostrantdamus, decked in a tunic emblazoned with ominous symbols and sporting a crown fashioned from twigs, commanded the makeshift stage. His voice, amplified by a cunningly hollowed-out acorn, boomed out re-enactments of his sugar prophecies. The performance was equal parts unsettling and oddly captivating. Here, amidst the darkness, was a glimpse of a world grander, more terrifying than they'd ever conceived. Flicker watched this display with a mix of awe, disgust, and a growing tremor of unease. She'd never understood her eccentric nest-mate, but even a skeptic couldn't deny the chilling power of this transformation sweeping through Ant-opolis. Nostrantdamus wasn't just sparking excitement, he was stoking a fervor bordering on religious hysteria. He was aided, chillingly, by Queen Solenia... the Queen whose pragmatism usually held the colony together, but now that pragmatism seemed clouded by a desperation Flicker couldn't comprehend. At the festival's heart was the fabled bloom. "The Eclipse Lily!" Nostrantdamus's voice was a fevered incantation. "It unfurls only in the deepest shadow, a shield against the terrors of the unmaking!" Flicker let out a sigh that bordered on a hiss. Only Nostrantdamus could turn a weed into an object of reverence. Yet, she couldn't deny its strange, terrible beauty… a beauty that was more than visual. It was the promise of power, of transcendence, even as it echoed with whispers of decay. The breeze clawed at her, no longer playful, but a threat to snatch her into the abyss of the sky. Raindrops, monstrous in the eclipse-gloom, exploded around her, each impact shattering the world. Even a lumbering beetle wasn't just an obstacle, but a grotesque horror, its segmented legs twitching to a rhythm that echoed the Great Old Ones, a rhythm thrumming louder in her own panicked pulse. Every step was a defiance against the rising dread, the weight of the colony's belief a noose around her own neck. Yet, Flicker pressed on, a flicker of something – defiance, or perhaps the first sparks of madness – burning within her. If this is truly the last day, then may as well embrace the grand, horrifying absurdity of it all. Finally, bathed in the strange twilight of the eclipse, she found it. The Eclipse Lily wasn't merely hauntingly beautiful, it pulsed with a grotesque promise. Its petals weren't smooth, they rippled, and beneath their wrongness, in its rotten heart, lay the most delectable scent, an orgasmic sweetness unlike anything she'd ever known. The sickly odor was no longer a warning, but a siren call to a nectar more potent than any stolen crumb. With a tremor that wasn't fear, but a strange, desperate hunger, she broke the stem. Blackness, with the sheen of oil, not sap, oozed forth, a sweet corruption she bathed in, frantic to claim as much as she could. The journey back was a frantic, euphoric blur. The cloying scent clung to her, not a burden, but a mark of triumph. The Lily was no longer an object; it was an unholy communion she was desperate to share. Below ground, the colony surged, no longer around, but toward her. The Lily passed not with reverence, but with a frenzy mirroring her own. Petals were torn, its sweet rot devoured in a feast of desperation and twisted ecstasy. Nostrantdamus – prophet, or architect of this madness – watched, and in his eyes Flicker saw not triumph, but a terrible, echoing hunger. It was then she understood: the doom wasn't falling from the sky. It had bloomed in their very midst. The eclipse reached its zenith. The Sweet Above was gone, and Ant-opolis was swallowed whole by shadow. A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by startled cries. From the gloom, beams of light descended, brighter than any glow-fungus they'd ever seen, as if emanating from the very ends of the Great Old Ones' strange appendages. These beams didn't just pierce the darkness, they sliced through it. Each shaft of unnatural light painted the tunnels with an eerie, sickly glow, revealing the terrified faces of the ants below, their shadows grotesque parodies of themselves dancing against the tunnel walls. It was as though the Great Old Ones, with careless fascination, had turned a curious gaze upon the ant world. Flicker's heart pounded. Exoskeletons warped, bursting not with life, but obscene fungal blooms. Legs shattered, spraying fluids that stank of rot and something sickeningly sweet. The air crackled, screams piercing the Lily's cloying scent. It was monstrous, and yet, horrifyingly, it remained intoxicating. They feasted still, oblivious. Nostrantdamus, eyes alight with a hunger mirroring her own... the Queen, mandibles slick with the Lily's poison… this, not the grotesque horror, broke Flicker. "Run!" The word was a raw scream. "Queen, run! It's poison…" Her plea died as a warrior exploded in emerald spores. Nostrantdamus rasped, mesmerized, "It works… we are transformed…" But the transformation was corruption. The Lily was no shield, but a herald of doom. The Great Old Ones weren't angry gods, but careless giants, their buzzing lights no more than idle curiosity. The ants, their struggles and philosophies, meant nothing. They were insignificant, and now they were dying. And now, even as their world disintegrated around them, they were caught in the grip of their own misguided ritual. Nostrantdamus, once dismissed as a lunatic, was, in the most terrible way, vindicated. It was just that his prophecies led them not to survival, but to a far more grotesque doom. He was a prophet, not a savior, and Ant-opolis was paying the horrifying price. The cosmos hadn't simply looked away, it had noticed – and found them wholly insignificant. Chapter 3: Antpocalypse Now For a moment, as the luminous beams swept through Ant-opolis, there was a strange harmony amidst the chaos. The screams were not of pain, but a discordant chorus marking the casting off of the old order. The crackling exoskeletons, the grotesque blooms, these were not horrors, but a purging, a necessary prelude to a grand rebirth. The tunnels weren't a scene of maddened flight, but pathways cleared by a divine and unknowable will. This wasn't destruction, it was purification; a merciful erasure of the flawed, the insignificant, to make way for something greater. Then, amidst the disintegrating ritual feast, a flash of terrible clarity pierced Queen Solenia's ecstasy-addled mind. "Enough!" Her voice, usually a soothing hum, now slashed through the madness, a blade of chilling authority. "Our doom is not from above, but within us! Flee, my children! Flee not from the light, but from each other!" Her antennae trembled, not with fear, but with the horror of understanding. "The Lily…it poisons us, twists us…the madness…it spreads!" Nostrantdamus seemed frozen, mumbling, "Transformation…this is the Great Becoming…" It was Flicker who snapped him out of it, seizing the prophet by his overlarge spectacles. "Great Becoming will be Great Squishing if those beams find us! Move!" she hissed, hauling the dazed ant along. And as if on cue, a beam seared past them, turning a knot of huddled workers into a twitching, smoking mass. The evacuation wasn't so much a retreat as a frantic, chaotic surge. The Eclipse Festival props, so recently objects of celebration, were now tools of desperate survival. A warrior ant, antennae quivering, used the curved husk of an acorn as a shield, deflecting a beam just long enough for a dozen foragers to flee. An overturned bowl, strung with festive cobwebs, became a makeshift tunnel. Even Nostrantdamus's nonsensical crown, now tilted askew, served an odd purpose; its twiggy protrusions snagged a probing foot, buying precious seconds of escape. The surface was no safer. Great Old Ones stalked the earth, each step a potential earthquake, but amidst the terror there was grim efficiency. Ants accustomed to scavenging underfoot now dodged with a desperate purposefulness their usual foraging lacked. Flicker, once again, took the lead, her speed a lifeline as she darted in and out of hazardous shadows. Then, a voice shattered the fragile focus. Not the buzzing clicks of their own maddened cries, but a deep, guttural rumble from above that sent a wave of terror through the fleeing ants. From the midst of the giant forms, a smaller one hunched, peering with what seemed like disgust at the chaos below. Just two words, garbled but booming: "Eww. Ants." The Eclipse Lily nectar… that was the first priority. Those who'd partaken of the corrupted bloom twitched and stumbled, a danger to themselves and others. Queen Solenia herself crushed a worker, her own mandibles wet from the toxic bloom. "There is no time for mercy," she choked, the words barely recognizable in her grief-stricken hum, "It is us...or them." Then, there it loomed: the colony's last hope, a discarded soda bottle – a grotesque ark, a testament to their insignificance. It shuddered as another earth-shaking tremor rippled through the ground, and from within came a cacophony of terror – rasping breaths, a frantic clicking of mandibles clinging to sanity. The once-vibrant sugar residue held a sickly tinge, a grim reminder of their misplaced faith. As they scrambled toward this pitiful sanctuary, they beheld a monstrosity beyond comprehension. The Great Old Ones were grotesque parodies in the fading light. Glowing discs masked their eyes, their flesh warped and shifted. Luminous monoliths sprouted from their hands, buzzing discordantly. With each device shift, their forms flickered, their laughter a chorus of clicks that sent shivers down Flicker's antennae. Queen Solenia's rally was futile. Warriors melted in acid bursts, their screams dissolving into the horrifying sounds of twisted flesh. Flicker, coated in gore, clung to the whimpering Nostrantdamus. The universe wasn't vast, it was hungry, and they were the meal. In the aftermath, madness didn't merely buzz – it bloomed. The Lily's taint clung to Flicker, the Queen, even the shattered husk of Nostrantdamus. Grotesque echoes, not of themselves, but survivors by some vile, fungal whim. Their world was a graveyard, the once-comforting stars now a map of infection. Yet, amidst the decay, Flicker felt not horror, but a chilling echo of the Great Old One's laughter. Her movements twitched, not in mockery, but in mimicry. Then came the pressure, the obliterating weight. "Stupid bugs," a voice boomed. But as her world went dark, so did something else. A flicker of unease, a ripple on a vast, unknowable mind. Not death, but contamination. The fungus that was her doom was now her weapon. And as the giant moved on, oblivious to the microscopic war it now carried, Flicker's final thought wasn't a scream, but a whispered, chittering vow: They would learn there is no insignificance, only a different kind of vastness.

44fg0z

Cute As…

I never expected to become a fashion icon. Does anyone? I’m the last possible candidate for such status. I never considered the potential impact of paparazzi, photo shoots, or celebrity on my simple life. There were none. My time was my own, until… But here I am, standing in the wings. (Wings – get it?) While awaiting my debut, I’m fighting off butterflies. My life transformed after that photograph went viral. Of course, Phil isn’t a mere photographer. He discovered me. He has vision. We became friends. He’s my trusted manager. And, thanks to him, I’ve released my own line of cosmetics. You must’ve heard of it. Or, have you been living under a cabbage leaf? I call it, ‘All Abuzz.’ I should begin at the beginning. I’m Dottie. As I said, no one was more surprised than me over recent events. I should explain some things about my background, before fame lit up my life… You might have guessed I’m no ordinary supermodel. Before Phil discovered me, I was your garden variety ladybug. Nothing special. Yes, a ladybug. I’m quite aware of certain anti-insect biases in human society. Though not very sociable, I assure you I’m benign. I’m a loner. And I’m told I’m also cute as hell. The day Phil and I met, I’d finished my favorite lunch and had settled on a leaf to doze in the sun. A shadow moved and Phil loomed over me. Actually, I saw his magnified eye peering at me through what looked to be the bottom of a coke bottle. Later, he explained that was the macro lens of his camera. He’d only wanted to snap a picture of the ‘cutest little bug he’d ever seen.’ But from my vantage, he was intruding on my space and taking my picture without asking permission. No introduction. Nothing. What cheek. I called out, “Hey! Hey! Hold it there, big boy. What gives you the right to take my picture? You have a signed release? I may have been around the block once or twice but I didn’t arrive spattered on the business side of a windshield.” That gave Phil pause. He leaned in. “Can you speak up? I didn’t quite catch that.” I continued. “You a stalker or what?” That’s when he said he was a nature photographer. I’d heard of them. Bumblebees were always comparing notes on the best locations. “So, why me?” I asked. Phil chuckled. “You may not know it but you are so cute. Cute as…” I did a slow burn. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Never mind.” Longlegs, my ‘daddy,’ wore that out. But Phil had my attention. He told me about the markets for pictures; fashion, news, art, and so on… He insisted how honored he was to capture my beauty. He said, “I can help you.” “Help me what? My life is fine without your blocking the sun.” He moved out of my light. “Wait! There is something. Can you deal with all the birds? They vex me. Can’t enjoy my lunch without worrying I’ll be some bird’s lunch.” Ants have colonies. Bees have hives. But we ladybugs enjoy our solitude. A day alone is a day in good company. Phil ran into the yard waving his arms and shouting. Normally unflappable, the birds took off and didn’t look back. Panting a little, he returned wearing a huge grin. “Haven’t done that since I was a kid. Happy to help.” He seemed sincere. We found agreement. If my image got attention, he would reimburse me for my time. Basically, all the aphids I could eat. Sounded like a win/win deal. I had doubts though. I said, “Sounds great, Phil. But I’m not some moth, dazzled by bright lights. What’s the catch?” “I understand, Dottie. You don’t know me. Let me prove myself. You won’t feel like bat guano.” I told him, “Okay… Let’s try. Step by step.” A few days later, Phil found me in the garden and told me how many thousands of clicks my picture received. That’s a lot of aphids. He showed me my photo on some rectangular gizmo he held in his hand. I can’t deny my surprise. I’d never looked in a mirror. I had no idea, no concept of what a ‘photograph’ is or what I looked like. I figured my family resembled me, but vanity didn’t run in my crowd. But, to tell the truth, I could see it. I am cute! And I’m a bug. So there! But what Phil told me next, blew me away. I was so shocked, I wanted to fly away home. He said women everywhere want my ‘look,’ whatever that means. I don’t know. Who expected polka dots to be all the rage? He set up a meeting with a cosmetics firm wanting to offer a product for women seeking that ‘look.’ My look. Phil introduced me to the team. He assured me he and I were partners. He also warned me the buying public can be fickle. What’s popular this week might be passé in a month. I said, “Don’t worry about me, Phil. I’m in it for the duration. I’m not some fruit fly – here today, gone with the dawn.” The meeting went very well. I did my version of the ‘fly on the wall.’ Phil represented us well. I felt respected. Some details got into the weeds a bit. I know nothing about cosmetics. And fine print is for those who can read. Women want my look? I’m here to help. They told us we’d get our own shelf in the big outlets. And my picture would be featured on the wall above my product. Like the other supermodels. A few weeks later, Phil took me to see the display at a free-standing make-up store. I’m a bug so, of course, I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t believe the swarm of women wanting my makeup. The staff kept restocking the shelves. Customers did ‘selfies’ with my big picture over their shoulder. All the jostling got unnerving. Phil kept me incognito, riding on his ear, so I’d feel safe. That night, I hosted a party in. It was huge. The garden was crawling with family and friends. They couldn’t believe our good fortune. Aphids, aphids everywhere! Of course, some neighboring ladybugs took an attitude, saying they were cuter than me. Bunch of termites… They may be. I don’t care. But Phil found me! I have ‘the look.’ One man’s bug is another man’s cutie. So, that brings my story up to date. The emcee brought Phil onstage to tell my back story. I stood in the shadows, about to go out and strut my stuff. Phil told the crowd I don’t do autographs. He asked them to respect my privacy. No crowding, please. He said, “You get it. Don’t bug her.” That got a big laugh. Then Phil shouted, “Everybody! Let’s welcome Ms. Dottie Ladybug!” Music swelled. A spotlight lit the curtain that hid me. That was my cue. Applause rippled. I can’t tell you how I felt that moment. So many people came to see me. Me! Little Dottie from the garden. So strange. Beyond comprehension. But the music kept going and so did the applause. All those hands clapping. One slip and that’d be it. Oops! Squashed. Bye, bye, Dottie! What a sendoff! It was now or never. I braced myself and took flight out of the shadows and into the blinding spotlight. I almost lost my way. I’m used to trees and hedges. The hall was immense and filled with people. My image, a thousand, million times bigger than me, was projected on a screen overhead. Was that me? How could it be? But I trusted Phil. He’d helped me the whole time. I made a beeline to the podium where a silver plate lay covered by a white cloth. Cameras were aimed so everyone could see the real me, up close for the first time. Wow! When I landed, the music stopped. The applause stopped. Then, crickets. All I heard were crickets. You never know who your friends are until you become a supermodel and see who shows up to your first show. The crickets came through. They weren’t ladybugs, but our families always got along. They showed up! They spoke my language! The show was a success. I was even on television (whatever that is). I had my moment in the sun. Happy I didn’t need to speak, I did what I was best at – being cute. Yes, I’d made a splash, so to speak. But you know how fickle fashion is. Tastes change. When sales flagged, I told Phil I’d had enough. We agreed I had a good run. Phil bought a private garden for me and my family. And aphids galore! I returned to my quiet life to enjoy peace and quiet with my family and friends. We were set. Life was good. And I’m still cute.

a1bgqt

The Need To Know

The Need To Know A small figure emerged from a camper unit into bright sunshine. It was going to be a wonderful day. If it got started. The young male turned in irritation towards the open door of the camper. “Tass, hurry up.” “Coming, Jer.” “Have everything?” “Yes. Food, drink and this.” Tassy held up a pouch with a distinctive outline that Jer recognized. “Excellent. Your Grandpa’s camera.” “And loaded with film.” “Let’s get a move on.” “Bye Grandpa.” Tassy’s Grandpa had popped out of the camper. An amused look on his face. “Have fun. Will you contact me when you’re returning?” “You bet. Meet us at the glade of the red marker on the lowest switchback.” “I’ll bring something good to eat.” “Just don’t let it be something you shoot!” The two young ones waved their good byes to the grinning old one. The trek began towards the larger of the three mountains dominating the near horizon. The morning was perfect – a bit of high cloud which Jer knew would lend itself to some great nature shots. After a short walk on the river valley floor, the trek changed to a dark twisting path marked by mossy rock, the occasional stream bed and large trees now leafed out. Metered light dappled their bodies. The heavy forest in the lower hills slowly gave way to duller shades of smaller trees and brush. A series of switchbacks along pinkish outcrops granted them greater height towards a ridge path. More and more light filtered through exposing greater parts of the hillside. Now large blocks of sky were visible. “How come your Grandpa likes this place so much?” said Jer. “He has history here. A long time ago, there was some big deal out here.” “Like what?” “Don’t know. He’s always been pretty cagey about stuff. But he had something to do with building that tower up ahead.” “Really. The radar tower?” “I’m not sure what it is. I don’t think it radiates anything. It used to be manned, then it was automated. Now, I don’t think there’s any activity up there.” They walked along a narrow ridge path, passing a variety of needle bushes and rock outcrops in full sunshine. The valley they had left behind on their left became hazier, the tree tops lit with the early greens of spring. From time to time, they could glimpse the next valley on their right with its dark grey streams, lighter gravel beds and dull low vegetation. They were about to pass the high metal tower. Their destination was only an hour away – a rocky point now visible in the distance where Jer knew stunning vistas of the Blue Valley awaited. Tassy stopped and looked into the sky. “Hey. What’s that bright light?” “Where?” “Look overhead.” Jer scanned the skies, then spotted what Tassy had seen. “A meteor!” “No, it’s not fast enough.” Tassy’s voice registered fear. “Jer, it’s changing course.” “It’s swinging in towards us.” Jer and Tassy watched, frozen in place, as the bright light dimmed to become more distinct to their eyes. “It’s some sort of flying craft. The way it’s going, it looks like it’s going to land.” “Yeah. On the valley floor below us. Get behind those rocks!” The craft was slowing. A short circle around the upper valley; a hovering; a swirl of dust and debris. Now the craft settled with hot noise onto a gravel bed by a narrow stream. After the dust settled away, a large antenna array appeared from the top of the craft. It rose, then swiveled on a central axis, one metallic pole longer than the two outboards in parallel. “What do we do? I don’t want to stay.” Tass trembled. “That thing frightens me.” “Yeah. Scares me too. It’s not something I’ve ever seen before and it’s not one of ours.” “A foreign craft?” “More than foreign, I should think.” “What are you saying? It’s alien?” “Remember that story your Grandpa told us about a robot ship that arrived years ago.” “His close encounter?” Tassy shook her head in dismissal. “He was just making that up. A scare story.” “Does that thing down there look like a scare story to you?” Tass was breathing fast. “I want to leave.” “Why here though. There’s nothing here. Even for aliens.” Tassy glanced back at the radar tower. “Do you think it has anything to do with this tower?” “No idea. You sure it’s not some sort of beacon.” “A beacon? You mean attract spacecraft?” “Yeah.” Jer’s own fears gave way to curiosity. “What if your Grandpa’s story was true. Then they set up a beacon station to attract the next craft? And that down there is the next craft?” “Another robot or actual visitors from another planet? We’ve never landed astronauts on another planet.” “We can barely get off this rock. The last time we were on the Moon was before we were born.” “Grandpa was alive then. He said he saw it.” “Plenty dispute that. I’m contacting your Grandpa.” While Jer fidgeted with his mobile, a door on the craft opened. Two helmeted tall figures clad in white and black, slowly made their way out of the craft, down a series of steps, touching the gravel at the base. Rectangular pouches with a pair of dark devices were attached to their backs and sides. The two aliens turned a full crescent to take in their surroundings. “Your Grandpa will meet us at the red marker right away.” “Jer, look. It’s a manned craft.” From behind a rock formation, Jer peeked at the valley floor below. “Two of them.” Tassy inched her way to gain a better view of the two explorers. “They can’t breathe our air.” “Looks that way. Must be carrying it in those backpacks like our astronauts.” “Are those sidearms they have?” “Could be. Our astronauts didn’t carry stuff like that.” “Didn’t have to. No animals on the Moon.” Tassy craned her neck further. “Tassy, stay back.” Jer stopped Tassy from surmounting the ridge any further. The rock formation had kept them from full exposure, for now. Jer crept forward. “Hand me the camera.” Tassy passed the camera to Jer. He opened the pouch, readying the unit for use. He then snapped several shots. “Is it working okay?” asked Tassy. “I took a few photos but it’s too old for long shots. I don’t have a long lens. I have to get closer.” “But the aliens will see you.” “They probably know we’re here already. Look at that array on top of their craft. It keeps spinning around, then stopping with the long pole pointed in our direction. Probably some sort of detection unit.” “For what? Animals or us?” “Don’t know. Both maybe.” “That’s why they have the weapons. To kill animals. Take them as prizes.” “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe not. Could be for self-defense only.” “Do you want to find out? What if they start shooting? Where are we going to hide? How are we going to escape? They obviously have tech we don’t.” Jer crept forward some more. He was at the edge of the ridge, peering down the slope for a way to descend, hopefully with some cover. It didn’t look promising. Jer swung a lower limb over the ridge and began to slowly descend the upper slope. The loose rock gave way and small pieces began to clatter downwards. “Jer! They see us!” Jer watched the two aliens suddenly sprint across the gravel bar, leap a small stream and begin clambering up the bank towards them. They would be on them soon. “Let’s get out of here!” Jer tried to climb the scree but stumbled. The camera came loose and fell down the slope a short distance. “The camera.” Jer quickly retrieved it, spun some more on the scree, then reached the summit of the ridge. “I got it. Let’s go.” Tass had already fled across the ridge. The narrow path would be harder to navigate at a full run. “Hurry Tass!” The run was taking everything out of them. At the top of the rolling ridge, the narrow footpath was treacherous. Any downhill was almost as hard as uphill. If they could reach the switchbacks, then the slope wouldn’t be as steep. One false step here and they would be careening down a steep scree onto rocky outcrops. The nearest alien was closing on them, making a mechanical low pitched hissing sound followed by a snapping sound. Jer heard the sound repeat at uneven intervals. Another alien further back made differing mechanical sounds. He could feel their footfalls crashing onto the hard path behind but Jer couldn’t look back. He urged Tassy on. “Go! Go! When you hit the first switchback, go straight down. I’m right behind you.” Jer could hear Tassy’s labored breathing. Almost there. The first switchback came into view. “Down!” Tassy broke right and scampered down the slope. The broken rock and gravel began to run alongside with her as she picked her way down as fast as she dared. “Keep going.” Jer took a similar path, moving faster now and gaining on Tassy. The first alien hissed and snapped from above Jer. He sensed the alien had decided to come after them on the slope. Nearing the bottom, Tassy tried to pick up speed. Hitting a rock at a bad angle, she tumbled down the slope, rolling onto the glade floor where the red marker post stood. “Jer!” She cried out in pain. “My leg!” Jer made it to the bottom without falling and now tried to scoop up Tassy. Tassy screamed in pain and Jer almost dropped her. His momentum forced him to roll onto his side next to Tassy. The closest alien caught up and now stood over Jer and Tass. A second alien now had made its way down to where they had fallen. With the front face screens opaque, Jer couldn’t make out features other than the outline of their bodies. The creatures were tall. The one closest was heaving from the exertion of both the run and being confined in the protective suit. The chest of the suit featured a pair of small boxes, one of which blinked a pair of lights alternating red and green. The other box had a round hole covered in metal mesh. Their gloves held a black device. The blinking on the chest boxes stopped now. Two solid green lights stared at Jer. While the second alien stayed back, the first alien attached the black device to its side, then raised its limbs to unlock the seal on its helmet. A short mechanical hiss of compressed vapor followed. The helmet came off and Jer and Tass came face to face with an alien on their home world. The alien had only a slight resemblance to Jer. The numbers and rough positions of the alien’s features were close proximations but now differences emerged. There were two slitted eyes filled with black pools, close together on the front of the head. The hide was strangely smooth, almost a translucent pale buttery tone. Instead of a snout, Jer could only see a small ridged central nose, flaring air through two tiny holes above a closed mouth showing no exposed fangs or tongue. Rounded and curled hide appeared prominently on either side of the head. A shock of black fur covered the upper part of the scalp. The effect on Jer was jarring. For Tass, it was more than she could bear. “They’re hideous!” She screamed, still clutching her injured leg. “Quiet, Tass.” Jer reached out to her and touched her arm. He could feel the fear coursing through her. Or was it his? A small rumbling voice came from the alien. Jer turned back to hear a burst of static electricity emerge from the mesh box. The alien adjusted something on the mesh box but made no other quick movements. Another rumble. Jere could see the mouth move and curl as the alien spoke in tones and clicks. The mesh box crackled again. Jer recognized a word. “That box, Tass.” Despite the pain and her labored breathing, she managed: “A translation device?” “Yes. Maybe we can communicate with it. Tell them we’re not dangerous.” “What if they are?” Her voice was rising. “They haven’t killed us yet. I’m thinking maybe they won’t. If we can talk. Make them understand.” Jer looked at the alien. In a slow address he said: “My name is Jer. She is Tass.” The mesh box mechanically repeated Jer’s words, then emitted a series of tones and sharp sounds Jer took to be the alien’s language. The alien’s low voice rumbled and clicked. More adjustments to the mesh box. It sprang to life once more: “You name is Jar. She is Tass.” Close now. Jer sat up slowly. What to say next? Jer wouldn’t get the chance. From a nearby bush, a small figure emerged. “Grandpa,” yelled Tass. “Stay back!” Tassy’s warning was too late. The rocketing sound of Grandpa’s gun burst twice across the glade. In quick succession, the two aliens fell to the ground, their suits perforated. The glade became very still. “You’ve killed them,” said Jer. Grandpa approached the bodies. Grey vapor still emanated from his weapon. “I had to.” “We had just started to communicate. That mesh box was their translator. It talked to us. Said our names.” A small roar from far away started up. “Their ship!” said Jer. “It’s coming for them.” Grandpa commanded: “We must leave. Now!” Grandpa and Jer lifted Tass and as best they could, moved into the denser bush, under the bigger trees of the river valley. A well-trodden path was easier to traverse. Jer sensed a brightness above. He turned to glimpse the alien craft, now hovering over the red marker glade where the alien bodies lay still. “Keep going,” said the old one. “I’m exhausted.” Another roar from the alien craft. They turned their sights upward in time to see the craft soaring higher into the atmosphere, on its way to space. “Will they come back?” “Undoubtedly. You have pictures?” “We have proof of the aliens’ presence. They have landed here. We’ve seen them, talked to them. They’ve seen us.” “Yes they have. And what have they learned? Our planet is habitable, even for their species. But the inhabitants are dangerous.” “You shot them,” said Tassy. She was still in pain but hadn’t lost consciousness. “For your own good.” “Why?” “They are cruel, calculating, treacherous,” said Grandpa. “They represent the end of our species.” “How can you be sure?” said Jer. “We can talk to them.” Tassy eyes widened with a revelation. “Wait. Those stories you told us about the machine that set down on our planet years ago, then left behind some parts. They are true, aren’t they?” “Yes. Not a spook story. Very much real,” said the old one. “How close did you get with the camera?” “Close enough to get a shot of the craft and crew.” “It wasn’t my idea,” moaned Tassy. She looked down at her damaged leg. “I took a chance,” said Jer. “And now, we have proof of alien existence.” “Is this like the craft you saw when you were younger, Grandpa?” “In a way, it is. Much bigger of course.” Jer was puzzled. “How come we didn’t learn about this in school?” “The data and the science team’s conclusions were suppressed. Not even the fact of their initial unmanned landing remains part of the public record. I know because I snapped the first shots of the robot craft with that very camera.” “You?” “Yes. The photos were stored; Confiscated; Along with the craft itself. No one wanted to believe we were being invaded by robots from another planet, another solar system. You can imagine the fear. Everything is a conspiracy. Everything is doom.” “We felt the fear,” said Jer. He could hear Tassy’s voice as his mind flitted back to the ridge and the first sight of the alien craft. “How could you know all this?” said Tassy. Now Jer with a revelation. “Wait. You were one of the scientists.” “Yes. Head of the team in fact.” “You never told us.” “I couldn’t. Sworn to secrecy you see. Now that you’ve seen the real threat, not much point in secrets between us.” “Are we in danger from these aliens?” said Jer. “They seemed curious, not threatening.” “You might think so. Some of our scientists might think so too. But our leaders absolutely don’t - which is why you know nothing.” “How can they know that?” Grandpa sighed. “Our scientists were puzzled at first, but finally solved the communication problem of interpreting the machine’s data and coding. There were even images of the aliens who sent the craft – all coded in math. Like the ones you encountered today. The deciphered coding from the robot machine told us where to look for them. We found their home planet, of course. Then long range studies were done. Their planet is smaller, with a lower gravity but with an atmosphere we can almost breathe. The aliens themselves turned out to be a rapacious species, aggressive in every sense, even amongst their own kind. They dominate every corner of their planet. This frightened our leaders beyond belief.” “How dangerous then?” “Aside from concerns about viruses and bacteria they are likely carrying – which alone might doom our species, the aliens’ penchant for aggression would render us a footnote in our planet’s history.” “We’re not so perfect,” said Jer. “No. But that’s for us to solve. Not for outsiders.” “So if they return.” “It will be with greater numbers and greater arms.” “How far away are they?” “Not far enough.” “So, they’re coming for us now,” said Tassy. It was a statement more than a question. The curious excitement of the encounter had darkened to a looming tragedy. “They seem determined.” “Who are they?” “They call themselves: humans.”

q68sku

In to Get Out

He found her below deck, near the ethereal crystal that powered the ship to stay afloat. She sat cross-legged with her eyes closed. Her frizzy hair needed brushing and he noted as he got closer, that a bath and some new clothes wouldn’t hurt. He didn’t know if he had any female clothing but would look to get her something clean. Despite her abysmal appearance, her serine face was concentrated. Brows creased as whatever powers mingled with her thoughts. He knew better than to interrupt a Kristl during their…process. It still boggled him that a week ago she was his prisoner. Now, her soul was tied to the ship- his ship, no less. She could never part from it and neither could he. He was still uncertain how the Emporer would react. He had specifically ordered a live Kristl be brought back- which he was doing- but there was no way to separate her from the ship without dire consequences. Would the Emporer have him killed off and commandeer his ship? He had been faithful and loyal to the Empire his entire life and this was his reward? Besides, it wasn’t his fault she’d been bound to the ship; it was an accident! If it hadn’t been for those bloody pirates- “I can hear you thinking from here, Captain Forge,” she said, cutting off his thoughts. With a quick shake of his head, he emptied his mind. He should know better than to think too much around a Kristl. He wasn’t aware of the full extent of their powers, and while reading thoughts wasn’t confirmed, he wouldn’t cross it off the list of things that they could do. He approached her, careful to keep a respectful distance, but not wanting to show that he feared her. “How’s my ship doing?” he asked. With her eyes still closed, she said, “She’s doing what she can. The pirates did a number on her.” He ground his teeth. “Aye, no need to remind me, we were all there.” She blinked her eyes open, revealing faintly glowing irises that matched the ship's core crystal blue hue. “Is there something else on your mind, Captain?” He swallowed, hating how weak he would sound. “It appears after the pirate attack the wind shifted us off course and in the confusion we never noticed. We’re in Azar territory now.” She blinked, the only reaction of surprise she’d show. “I don’t know much about this place, but I do believe that you’re the expert.” She let out a soft sigh and got to her feet. “Much like a butcher's shop, if I were a cow, I wouldn’t want to stay very long.” She was young, even by Kristl standards, but they all spoke in odd ways. Still, he had seen the power she had wielded against the pirates. There was something formidable and terrible within her. She knew things and was taught things that any sane person would never be able to fully comprehend. The Azar territory was full of those same cryptic and elusive things. He chose his next words carefully. “The Azar isn’t a normal place, surely you know that?” “What is normal?” He ground his teeth and tried again. “There are things out there that I do not understand-” “Maybe try again to understand them.” “-things that I was never taught. Things that you understand, however, and can guide the ship through.” he finished. She tilted her head. “You’re lost, Captain Forge.” “Yes, I’m bloody lost!” he exploded. “I need you to get your ass upstairs and guide the helmsman out of here!” She giggled at his outburst. “Now was that so hard to ask?” she remarked, stepping past him. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. If he didn’t need her alive, he might have thrown her overboard a week ago. He turned and followed before she reached the top deck. Outside, the cool night air touched his skin, and the familiar wood and crystal core scents were replaced by what he could only describe as the color blue engulfed him. The ship sails bent at awkward angles as if the wind was coming from multiple directions. Something howled in the distance and his hand instinctively went to the handle of his saber. “It’s alright Captain. The Abyss Whale is far away and hasn’t scented us,” she said. He relaxed, but only slightly, and watched as she examined the surrounding sky. He had spent years aboard this ship. The Wolf was his home, and he’d learned very quickly from a young age to read the stars. They were a map, always pointing him where to go, and showing him exactly where he was. The Azar sky was nothing like the stars he was used to. It was as if someone had taken a giant paintbrush and smeared water across the night sky. Shades of dark blue mixed with black, and flecks of the remaining stars tilted and swirled among the mixture. It was beautiful, and he had to force himself not to stare at the wonderful, awful, and mesmerizing texture that had ruined his familiar sky. He had already sent most of his crew below deck simply because they were unable to fight the hypnotizing state it put them in. The Kristl blinked up at the stars, then shifted her gaze to the stars below the starboard side. She counted silently on her fingers and then looked up again. Just when he thought it was a lost cause she announced, “Hmm, it appears the wind is upside down, Captain.” “What is that supposed to mean?” She looked up to where the helmsman stood. “Flip the sails upside down then sail backwards,” she stated like it was something he should know. “It’ll take us forward and further in.” “Wait, wait.” He shook his head. “We don’t want to go further in, we want to get out. ” “Mhmm. We get out by going in.” “That doesn’t make any sense!” She giggled again and climbed the stairs to get to the helmsman. “When does it ever?” He ground his teeth and climbed the stairs after her. If only those bloody pirates had never shown up, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now! Upon reaching the helmsman- Mr. Redsmith- she ordered, “Flip the ship upside down.” The older gentleman's weathered and cautious face glanced to the Captain. “I thought you wanted the sails upside down?” “Turning the ship is easier,” she answered. “Do as she says,” grunted Forge. Mr. Redsmith swallowed, but swung the wheel of the ship and everything violently tilted. The Kristl placed her slender hand on the railing and a second later Forge felt his balance return. While everything spun, gravity remained solid within the ship. The only indication that they were flipping upside down was the violent whirlpool that was the night sky. The ship leveled out a moment later. “Take us in, Mr. Redsmith,” she ordered. After another reassuring nod from the Captain, the helmsman obeyed. Almost instantly the sails caught a gust of wind and the ship lurched forward. If it hadn’t been for the Kristl keeping gravity working Forge was sure he would have been knocked off his feet. After a few minutes of the wind steadily pushing The Wolf forward, Forge asked, “How long till we’re out?” She shrugged her gaze focused on the stars. “It’ll be when we’re out.” With her free hand, she grabbed the wheel only to turn the ship slightly. Another gust of wind took the sails. He ground his teeth and prayed he wasn’t putting his hope in a mad person. The same thing howled again, this time sounding closer. “The smell of fear is powerful. Don’t let it draw the Abyss Whale closer,” she commented. Captain Forge had never seen an Abyss Whale and he didn’t want to find out. At least not while they were still in the Azar while The Wolf needed repairs. The crystal gunnery wasn’t damaged, but the Core itself couldn’t sustain the kind of power that the blasters needed. Forge didn’t feel like blowing up his ship, so he calmed his nerves. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a few deep breaths. He could have sworn he had his eyes closed for only a few seconds, but when he opened them the ship was the right way up and sailing free of the terrible Azar night sky. When had the ship righted itself? While relief and gratitude at seeing the real sky flooded him, he glanced at the Kristl with a new weariness in his apprehension of her. She smiled boldly at him. “In to get out,” she simply said. He realized then that so long as she was on his vessel he’d never escape crazy.

jpl4uz

To Be Heard

Content Warning: This story is set during the Holocaust through the eyes of a fictional character. This story will contain themes of violence and death, and depictions of Nazi occupation in Poland, as well as anti-Semitic themes (which I do not support). Extensive research has been done to ensure this text is as historically accurate as possible. Any relation to real people is purely coincidental. Viewer discretion is advised. There are two days in my childhood that time will never take: the day I got my camera and the day it almost cost me my life. On my seventh birthday, after months of begging, my father bought me a beautiful 1938 SIDA camera in gun-metal gray that ran on specialized 33-millimeter film. Upon ripping off the paper wrapping, I squealed and hugged it to my chest, the cool metal pressing nicely against my skin. “Now, don’t you go using all the film all at once, Wanda,” cautioned my father. “That type is specialized just for that model, so it’s not easy to replace.” Tapping the little camera, my mother smiled and offered, “Capture the photos that come with stories.” I agreed, despite not understanding her advice at that moment, and spent the following months snapping photo after photo. A European green woodpecker— “It flew up on that branch, see? It was so close, mama! You could see all of its colors!” A lone white lily— “I’ve never seen one on its own before! Isn’t it pretty, daddy?” A star-filled sky— “How many do you think there are?” Amidst my photographic adventures, I frequented the library two blocks from my home, run by Miss Ferenz, a widowed woman with tired hazel eyes who enjoyed staring into the sky. Several days per week, I skipped up the old stone steps and met her at the front desk, camera in hand. “May I use the darkroom, Miss Ferenz?” I’d ask each day. “I still don’t understand why you ask,” she would answer with a smile. All of the library’s books were confined to one wall of shelves at the entrance. Past that, the shelves were bare, covered in dust, devoid of any knowledge they may have once held. “Where are the rest of the books?” I once questioned on another trip to the darkroom. Miss Ferenz’s eyes widened slightly behind her glasses, holding my gaze for a long moment, contemplating an answer. “Another day,” she replied shortly, averting her eyes back to whatever she worked on behind her desk. I ceased to ask any further questions. ——— Being the youngest on my block, I was barred from participating in games deemed “too difficult” and conversations deemed “too grown-up.” Therefore, I did what any eight-year-old would do: learn to eavesdrop. “Did you hear,” began a blonde-haired boy one summer evening, “about those camps the soldiers are working on?” “Shush! Don’t let the adults hear you talking about that!” A brunette girl hissed to him. “But he’s right!” Argued another, shorter boy, who kept his voice to a whisper I strained to hear. “I never said he was wrong,” the girl bit back, “I just don’t want anybody getting scolded.” I kept stock-still on my front steps, fearing my presence would send the conversation crumbling to the pavement and I’d lose the “grown-up” knowledge I was receiving. This conversation, shared away from the adults in the darkness, was sacred— I didn’t even dare to breathe. “Have you heard, though?” The blonde boy prompted again, his voice having dropped to a whisper. “Certainly,” replied the brunette girl. “We all knew it was a joke when they told us they were simply work camps, now, didn’t we? Nobody was going to fall for that.” The shorter boy shrugged and replied matter-of-factly, “ Plenty of people fell for it. Why do you think it hasn’t stopped?” “That,” added the blonde boy, “and the fact people don’t want to end up in those camps themselves. Those soldiers—“ “Nazis,” the girl corrected. “Those Nazis don’t take kindly to those who defy them. They say you could end up stuck in those camps…or worse, ” warned the boy, whom I had never witnessed take anything seriously in his life. “How do they kill ‘em?” Questioned the short boy. As the blonde opened his mouth, the brunette cried out in surprise, her hand popping up to point at me. “How long have you been there?!” The girl demanded. “A bit,” I admitted sheepishly. “How much did you hear ?” The blonde added, to which I fell to silence. The trio exchanged worried looks and spoke in nearly silent tones for several agonizing moments. They were contemplating what to do with me, weighing the options of what may happen with an eight-year-old sharing some of their knowledge. “You didn’t hear it from us, got it, kid?” The brunette finally ordered, turning back to me with what seemed to be anger in her eyes. When I nodded, she breathed a sigh, turned her back to me, and promptly vanished into her home along with the two boys. Whilst reflecting on that exchange years later, I realized my fault. It wasn’t anger in her eyes frightening my young self. It was fear. ——— “Mama, what happens in the camps?” I dared the question at dinner some nights after my exchange with the older kids. My mother froze with her fork halfway to her mouth and slowly turned to look at me. “Why do you ask?” She questioned, setting her fork on the table. “Do they hurt people there?” I pressed. “Wanda,” sighed my mother, “they’re work camps. They’re so people can have an easier time finding jobs to make money. Who told you people were hurt there?” “Word on the street,” I lied. “Regardless,” my father interjected, “it’s not our problem.” “But people say—,” I started, only to be promptly cut off by my father. “People are making up stories. Don’t worry about it,” he growled. I shut my mouth. ——— “Agata!” I called the following evening, catching the brunette's attention as she was climbing her steps to return inside. Her eyes met mine for a brief moment before flicking away. “You better not have snitched, kid,” Agata warned. “No, no, I didn’t!” I assured her. “I have a question!” Agata considered me for a moment, one hand on her home’s doorknob. “What about?” She questioned. “The Nazis,” I answered. Agata came down from her steps and beckoned me to the middle of the street. I jumped up from my own and hurried over. She knelt to meet me at eye level, for she was twice my height. “What do you want to know?” She asked in a hushed voice. “What do they do to the people in the camps?” I asked, matching her tone. Her eyes scanned the quiet street, then returned to me. “I’m only telling you this because I trust you won’t snitch, all right, kid?” When I nodded, she continued with an answer. “Well, the word on the street is that there are two camps: one is a labor camp, and one is a death camp. At the death camp, they haul people in on trains, make them strip naked, and gas them.” “ Gas them?” I gasped. “Yeah, lock them in little rooms and fill them with poisonous gas, or so I’ve heard. You’d need to ask a Nazi, and they’re not going to tell.” “Why do they do it?” Agata stared at me for a long moment— how sick I was of silence! Then, with a heavy sigh, she muttered an answer: “Because they can.” ——— Two nights later, after dinner, I posed the question about the activities in the camps again, only to be met with the same story as before. The tone of my mother’s voice and the sternness of my father’s gaze should have warned me to shut up, yet I ignored this fact. “Well, I heard people get gassed in the camps,” I blurted. “Where did you hear that?!” My father barked, suddenly appearing in the living room from the kitchen. “Word on the street,” I lied again. “Is it true?” “Honey, those are just stories. Besides, it’s none of our business,” my mother explained sternly. “ Why is it none of our business?” I pressed on, my voice rising. “Shouldn’t we be helping people if they’re in trouble?” “Nobody is in trouble, Wanda,” my mother exasperated. “Then why do the Nazis kill people who defy them?!” “Enough!” My father roared, “Wanda, I’ll break that damn camera and get you a doll instead if you keep this up!” “No!” I cried, clutching my camera to my chest, my little arms wrapped around it like ropes. “Then quit talking about Nazis and camps and killing! It’s none of our business, got it?” My father commanded, eyes full of a rage I’d never seen before. “Got it,” I muttered begrudgingly. I did not sleep that night; rather, my camera and I concocted a simple plan: if I wanted to be heard, I would have to prove it. The following morning, my father must have believed I had already left, for I caught the end of a conversation I likely should never have heard. “Thank God we’re not Jewish.” ——— “Darkroom?” “What do you know about the camps?” Miss Ferenz’s expression became a mix of perplexity and curiosity. Her gaze snapped up to meet mine. “Is it true that the Nazis hurt and kill people in the camps?” I asked. Miss Ferenz hesitated. My heart raged. “Is it?” I pressed, fighting to keep my voice from rising to a shout. Miss Ferenz held up her index finger, rose from her seat, and disappeared down the corridor for several minutes. When she returned, she did so with a cardboard box overflowing with more books than she had on the shelves. She plopped the box down on her desk. “Here,” she explained, “you cannot check these out nor reveal I still have them, but you may read every word until sunset.” “What’s wrong with them? I questioned, pulling a book off the top of the pile. “Do you remember when you asked me why the shelves were empty?” Miss Ferenz asked, which I confirmed with a nod. “What the Nazis dislike, they eliminate, using the remains as an example to others to display the consequences of not conforming to their beliefs. Fire,” she explained, “is a ruthless destroyer, and its ashes are the remains of what once was and what will never be again.” From sunrise to sunset, I did not have to worry about losing my camera. I was not restricted to what my parents refused to talk about. Some books spoke of a country across the ocean, dubbed the United States of America, where Miss Ferenz had a pen pal. Several more talked about Poland prior to 1942, much of which I never would have learned until I was older. Each sunset, the books were shoved back into their box and carried back down the corridor— I was unable to follow —and I would lay awake, too restless to sleep, in my bedroom with my camera, tormented by a plan I had yet to carry out. Don’t you want to be heard? I’d silently scold myself. You need proof to be heard! At the break of dawn on August 27, 1942, before my parents had even begun to awaken, I pulled on my shoes, snatched up my rain jacket, and set off with my camera on a mission we’d delayed far too long. ——— It took little time for the familiar sights of Wolka Okraglik to give way to disorienting greenery— no path was alike, yet no two looked remotely different. Each turn had me running into trees whose leaves blotted out the sky but did little to shield me from the fat teardrops of water that threatened to destroy my camera and, with it, my only chance at being taken seriously, at being right, at being heard. I hadn’t a clue of where I was going, nor the time, nor what my parents may be doing. I wasn’t even sure if I would make it back at all. Large roots booby-trapped my paths, sending me stumbling through rocks and mud and low-hanging branches that scratched at my skin. Other branches tore at my clothing like mad animals, claws digging relentlessly into the fabric. I swatted at bugs that buzzed by my ears. I wondered if I was truly chasing a fantasy. Crack. The birds were silent. My foot rose, revealing what I’d stepped on— a porcelain doll with curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an off-white dress…all stained with blood. Blood? Ahead of the doll lay a brown teddy bear with its arm torn off. Blood was splattered on its face. Blood. I dared a step forward. I dared another, another, another, until I was standing in front of a massacre of dolls and bears and action figures, all covered in varying amounts of blood. From the color alone, most of it was fresh. My stomach twisted with nausea. My eyes widened in horror. My shaking hands brought my camera up to my eyes in a dreamlike state. Click. Click. Click. A train horn shot through the air, snapping my brain back into action. My camera locked in a death grip in my small hands, I took off through the forest, ripping through branches and roots and soaking leaves. Thunder shook the ground. I wrapped my camera in my rain jacket as the sky opened up and rain poured down in buckets. The wind screamed in my ears. The rain soaked me without remorse. My small body pleaded for rest, but I didn’t stop running until I came crashing into the library again, screaming to get into the darkroom. It occurred to me years later that, in looking for life, I had been a step away from losing my own. ——— My camera and I watched Miss Ferenz bring the little negatives closer to her face, then further away again, then close again, saying nothing. My hair dripped with rainwater, each drop vanishing into the floor like a ghost. I toyed with the band-aids littering my arms and legs and scraped at the mud still on my face. In the agonizing silence, Miss Ferenz slowly turned to face me, and I beamed with pride. She heard me. She gently placed two of the negatives into my free hand, sliding the third one into her pocket. I followed her out of the darkroom, through the lobby, and through the rainy streets of Wolka Okraglik to a small, square-like building just big enough for three. Inside, Miss Ferenz extracted the third negative from her pocket and slipped it gently into a white envelope. She licked along the seal flap, pressed it closed carefully, and took her time writing an address in black ink. She blew on it softly to allow it to dry. She slid it through the mail slot. “Who are you mailing it to?” I finally asked. Miss Ferenz turned to me, her face lit up with something like a smile. “A friend.” ——— The young reporter is practically shaking with excitement. “Now, you were eight years old at the time. Did you really not realize how close you were to Treblinka II at that moment?” He asks, shoving his microphone further into my face, which I politely remind him to stop doing. “No, I really didn’t know,” I confirm yet again, “and I hate to wonder what may have happened if I had stayed for another second.” “Incredible, truly incredible! Your photo is one of a kind! Is it what le you to your career as a photojournalist now, Ms. Brzezinski?” The reporter continues, his words quickening. “Most likely, though I’d always loved photography before that, it may have just cemented it,” I reply with a shrug. “You are hailed as a hero for your photo, do you know that?” “A hero? ” I can’t help but chuckle at the label. “I’m no hero. I just wanted to be heard.”

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